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diff --git a/old/brkpt10.txt b/old/brkpt10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfac5c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/brkpt10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14559 @@ +*The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Breaking Point, by Rinehart* +#6 in our series by Mary Roberts Rinehart + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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His larynx, which gave him somewhat the effect of +having swallowed a crab-apple and got it only part way down, +protruded above his low collar. + +"Heaven and earth," sang the bass, Mr. Edwin Goodno, of the meat +market and the Boy Scouts. "Heaven and earth, are full--" His +chin, large and fleshy, buried itself deep; his eyes were glued on +the music sheet in his hand. + +"Are full, are full, are full," sang the soprano, Clare Rossiter, +of the yellow colonial house on the Ridgely Road. She sang with +her eyes turned up, and as she reached G flat she lifted herself +on her toes. "Of the majesty, of Thy glory." + +"Ready," barked the choir master. "Full now, and all together." + +The choir room in the parish house resounded to the twenty voices +of the choir. The choir master at the piano kept time with his +head. Earnest and intent, they filled the building with the +Festival Te Deum of Dudley Buck, Opus 63, No.1. + +Elizabeth Wheeler liked choir practice. She liked the way in +which, after the different parts had been run through, the voices +finally blended into harmony and beauty. She liked the small +sense of achievement it gave her, and of being a part, on Sundays, +of the service. She liked the feeling, when she put on the black +cassock and white surplice and the small round velvet cap of +having placed in her locker the things of this world, such as a +rose-colored hat and a blue georgette frock, and of being stripped, +as it were, for aspirations. + +At such times she had vague dreams of renunciation. She saw +herself cloistered in some quiet spot, withdrawn from the world; a +place where there were long vistas of pillars and Gothic arches, +after a photograph in the living room at home, and a great organ +somewhere, playing. + +She would go home from church, however, clad in the rose-colored +hat and the blue georgette frock, and eat a healthy Sunday luncheon; +and by two o'clock in the afternoon, when the family slept and Jim +had gone to the country club, her dreams were quite likely to be +entirely different. Generally speaking, they had to do with love. +Romantic, unclouded young love dramatic only because it was love, +and very happy. + +Sometime, perhaps, some one would come and say he loved her. That +was all. That was at once the beginning and the end. Her dreams +led up to that and stopped. Not by so much as a hand clasp did +they pass that wall. + +So she sat in the choir room and awaited her turn. + +"Altos a little stronger, please." + +"Of the majesty, of the majesty, of the majesty, of Thy gl-o-o-ry," +sang Elizabeth. And was at once a nun and a principal in a +sentimental dream of two. + +What appeared to the eye was a small and rather ethereal figure +with sleek brown hair and wistful eyes; nice eyes, of no particular +color. Pretty with the beauty of youth, sensitive and thoughtful, +infinitely loyal and capable of suffering and not otherwise +extraordinary was Elizabeth Wheeler in her plain wooden chair. A +figure suggestive of no drama and certainly of no tragedy, its +attitude expectant and waiting, with that alternate hope and fear +which is youth at twenty, when all of life lies ahead and every +to-morrow may hold some great adventure. + +Clare Rossiter walked home that night with Elizabeth. She was a +tall blonde girl, lithe and graceful, and with a calculated coquetry +in her clothes. + +"Do you mind going around the block?" she asked. "By Station +Street?" There was something furtive and yet candid in her voice, +and Elizabeth glanced at her. + +"All right. But it's out of your way, isn't it?" + +"Yes. I--You're so funny, Elizabeth. It's hard to talk to you. +But I've got to talk to somebody. I go around by Station Street +every chance I get." + +"By Station Street? Why?" + +"I should think you could guess why." + +She saw that Clare desired to be questioned, and at the same time +she felt a great distaste for the threatened confidence. She +loathed arm-in-arm confidences, the indecency of dragging up and +exposing, in whispers, things that should have been buried deep +in reticence. She hesitated, and Clare slipped an arm through hers. + +"You don't know, then, do you? Sometimes I think every one must +know. And I don't care. I've reached that point." + +Her confession, naive and shameless, and yet somehow not without a +certain dignity, flowed on. She was mad about Doctor Dick +Livingstone. Goodness knew why, for he never looked at her. She +might be the dirt under his feet for all he knew. She trembled +when she met him in the street, and sometimes he looked past her +and never saw her. She didn't sleep well any more. + +Elizabeth listened in great discomfort. She did not see in Clare's +hopeless passion the joy of the flagellant, or the self-dramatization +of a neurotic girl. She saw herself unwillingly forced to peer into +the sentimental windows of Clare's soul, and there to see Doctor +Dick Livingstone, an unconscious occupant. But she had a certain +fugitive sense of guilt, also. Formless as her dreams had been, +vague and shy, they had nevertheless centered about some one who +should be tall, like Dick Livingstone, and alternately grave, which +was his professional manner, and gay, which was his manner when it +turned out to be only a cold, and he could take a few minutes to be +himself. Generally speaking, they centered about some one who +resembled Dick Livingstone, but who did not, as did Doctor +Livingstone, assume at times an air of frightful maturity and +pretend that in years gone by he had dandled her on his knee. + +"Sometimes I think he positively avoids me," Clare wailed. "There's +the house, Elizabeth. Do you mind stopping a moment? He must be +in his office now. The light's burning." + +"I wish you wouldn't, Clare. He'd hate it if he knew." + +She moved on and Clare slowly followed her. The Rossiter girl's +flow of talk had suddenly stopped. She was thoughtful and +impulsively suspicious. + +"Look here, Elizabeth, I believe you care for him yourself." + +"I? What is the matter with you to-night, Clare?" + +"I'm just thinking. Your voice was so queer." + +They walked on in silence. The flow of Clare's confidences had +ceased, and her eyes were calculating and a trifle hard. + +"There's a good bit of talk about him," she jerked out finally. +"I suppose you've heard it." + +"What sort of talk?" + +"Oh, gossip. You'll hear it. Everybody's talking about it. It's +doing him a lot of harm." + +"I don't believe it," Elizabeth flared. "This town hasn't anything +else to do, and so it talks. It makes me sick." + +She did not attempt to analyze the twisted motives that made Clare +belittle what she professed to love. And she did not ask what the +gossip was. Half way up Palmer Lane she turned in at the cement +path between borders of early perennials which led to the white +Wheeler house. She was flushed and angry, hating Clare for her +unsolicited confidence and her malice, hating even Haverly, that +smiling, tree-shaded suburb which "talked." + +She opened the door quietly and went in. Micky, the Irish terrier, +lay asleep at the foot of the stairs, and her father's voice, +reading aloud, came pleasantly from the living room. Suddenly her +sense of resentment died. With the closing of the front door the +peace of the house enveloped her. What did it matter if, beyond +that door, there were unrequited love and petty gossip, and even +tragedy? Not that she put all that into conscious thought; she had +merely a sensation of sanctuary and peace. Here, within these four +walls, were all that one should need, love and security and quiet +happiness. Walter Wheeler, pausing to turn a page, heard her singing +as she went up the stairs. In the moment of the turning he too had +a flash of content. Twenty-five years of married life and all well; +Nina married, Jim out of college, Elizabeth singing her way up the +stairs, and here by the lamp his wife quietly knitting while he read +to her. He was reading Paradise Lost: "The mind is its own place, +and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." + +He did a certain amount of serious reading every year. + +On Sunday mornings, during the service, Elizabeth earnestly tried +to banish all worldly thoughts. In spite of this resolve, however, +she was always conscious of a certain regret that the choir seats +necessitated turning her profile to the congregation. At the age +of twelve she had decided that her nose was too short, and nothing +had happened since to change her conviction. She seldom so much +as glanced at the congregation. During her slow progress up and +down the main aisle behind the Courtney boy, who was still a +soprano and who carried the great gold cross, she always looked +straight ahead. Or rather, although she was unconscious of this, +slightly up. She always looked up when she sang, for she had +commenced to take singing lessons when the piano music rack was +high above her head. + +So she still lifted her eyes as she went up the aisle, and was +extremely serious over the whole thing. Because it is a solemn +matter to take a number of people who have been up to that moment +engrossed in thoughts of food or golf or servants or business, and +in the twinkling of an eye, as the prayer book said about death, +turn their minds to worship. + +Nevertheless, although she never looked at the pews, she was always +conscious of two of them. The one near the pulpit was the Sayres' +and it was the social calendar of the town. When Mrs. Sayre was in +it, it was the social season. One never knew when Mrs. Sayre's +butler would call up and say: + +"I am speaking for Mrs. Sayre. Mrs. Sayre would like to have the +pleasure of Miss Wheeler's company on Thursday to luncheon, at +one-thirty." + +When the Sayre pew was empty, the town knew, if it happened to be +winter, that the Florida or Santa Barbara season was on; or in +summer the Maine coast. + +The other pew was at the back of the church. Always it had one +occupant; sometimes it had three. But the behavior of this pew +was very erratic. Sometimes an elderly and portly gentleman with +white hair and fierce eyebrows would come in when the sermon was +almost over. Again, a hand would reach through the grill behind +it, and a tall young man who had had his eyes fixed in the proper +direction, but not always on the rector, would reach for his hat, +get up and slip out. On these occasions, however, he would first +identify the owner of the hand and then bend over the one permanent +occupant of the pew, a little old lady. His speech was as Yea, yea, +or Nay, nay, for he either said, "I'll be back for dinner," or "Don't +look for me until you see me." + +And Mrs. Crosby, without taking her eyes from the sermon, would +nod. + +Of late years, Doctor David Livingstone had been taking less and +less of the "Don't-look-for-me-until-you-see-me" cases, and Doctor +Dick had acquired a car, which would not freeze when left outside +all night like a forgotten dog, and a sense of philosophy about +sleep. That is, that eleven o'clock P.M. was bed-time to some +people, but was just eleven o'clock for him. + +When he went to church he listened to the sermon, but rather often +he looked at Elizabeth Wheeler. When his eyes wandered, as the most +faithful eyes will now and then, they were apt to rest on the flag +that had hung, ever since the war, beside the altar. He had fought +for his country in a sea of mud, never nearer than two hundred miles +to the battle line, fought with a surgical kit instead of a gun, but +he was content. Not to all the high adventure. + +Had he been asked, suddenly, the name of the tall blonde girl who +sang among the sopranos, he could not have told it. + +The Sunday morning following Clare Rossiter's sentimental confession, +Elizabeth tried very hard to banish all worldly thoughts, as usual, +and to see the kneeling, rising and sitting congregation as there +for worship. But for the first time she wondered. Some of the faces +were blank, as though behind the steady gaze the mind had wandered +far afield, or slept. Some were intent, some even devout. But for +the first time she began to feel that people in the mass might be +cruel, too. How many of them, for instance, would sometime during +the day pass on, behind their hands, the gossip Clare had mentioned? + +She changed her position, and glanced quickly over the church. The +Livingstone pew was fully occupied, and well up toward the front, +Wallie Sayre was steadfastly regarding her. She looked away quickly. + +Came the end of the service. Came down the aisle the Courtney boy, +clean and shining and carrying high his glowing symbol. Came the +choir, two by two, the women first, sopranos, altos and Elizabeth. +Came the men, bass and tenor, neatly shaved for Sunday morning. +Came the rector, Mr. Oglethorpe, a trifle wistful, because always +he fell so far below the mark he had set. Came the benediction. +Came the slow rising from its knees of the congregation and its +cheerful bustle of dispersal. + +Doctor Dick Livingstone stood up and helped Doctor David into his +new spring overcoat. He was very content. It was May, and the sun +was shining. It was Sunday, and he would have an hour or two of +leisure. And he had made a resolution about a matter that had been +in his mind for some time. He was very content. + +He looked around the church with what was almost a possessive eye. +These people were his friends. He knew them all, and they knew him. +They had, against his protest, put his name on the bronze tablet set +in the wall on the roll of honor. Small as it was, this was his +world. + +Half smiling, he glanced about. He did not realize that behind +their bows and greetings there was something new that day, something +not so much unkind as questioning. + +Outside in the street he tucked his aunt, Mrs. Crosby, against the +spring wind, and waited at the wheel of the car while David entered +with the deliberation of a man accustomed to the sagging of his old +side-bar buggy under his weight. Long ago Dick had dropped the +titular "uncle," and as David he now addressed him. + +"You're going to play some golf this afternoon, David," he said +firmly. "Mike had me out this morning to look at your buggy springs." + +David chuckled. He still stuck to his old horse, and to the ancient +vehicle which had been the signal of distress before so many doors +for forty years. "I can trust old Nettie," he would say. "She +doesn't freeze her radiator on cold nights, she doesn't skid, and +if I drop asleep she'll take me home and into my own barn, which is +more than any automobile would do." + +"I'm going to sleep," he said comfortably. "Get Wallie Sayre--I +see he's back from some place again--or ask a nice girl. Ask +Elizabeth Wheeler. I don't think Lucy here expects to be the only +woman in your life." + +Dick stared into the windshield. + +"I've been wondering about that, David," he said, "just how much +right--" + +"Balderdash!" David snorted. "Don't get any fool notion in your +head." + +Followed a short silence with Dick driving automatically and +thinking. Finally he drew a long breath. + +"All right," he said, "how about that golf--you need exercise. +You're putting on weight, and you know it. And you smoke too much. +It's either less tobacco or more walking, and you ought to know it." + +David grunted, but he turned to Lucy Crosby, in the rear seat: + +"Lucy, d'you know where my clubs are?" + +"You loaned them to Jim Wheeler last fall. If you get three of +them back you're lucky." Mrs. Crosby's voice was faintly tart. +Long ago she had learned that her brother's belongings were his +only by right of purchase, and were by way of being community +property. When, early in her widowhood and her return to his home, +she had found that her protests resulted only in a sort of +clandestine giving or lending, she had exacted a promise from him. +"I ask only one thing, David," she had said. "Tell me where the +things go. There wasn't a blanket for the guest-room bed at the +time of the Diocesan Convention." + +"I'll run around to the Wheelers' and get them," Dick observed, in +a carefully casual voice. "I'll see the Carter baby, too, David, +and that clears the afternoon. Any message?" + +Lucy glanced at him, but David moved toward the house. + +"Give Elizabeth a kiss for me," he called over his shoulder, and +went chuckling up the path. + + + + +II + +Mrs. Crosby stood on the pavement, gazing after the car as it moved +off. She had not her brother's simplicity nor his optimism. Her +married years had taken her away from the environment which had +enabled him to live his busy, uncomplicated life; where, the only +medical man in a growing community, he had learned to form his own +sturdy decisions and then to abide by them. + +Black and white, right and wrong, the proper course and the improper +course--he lived in a sort of two-dimensional ethical world. But +to Lucy Crosby, between black and white there was a gray no-man's +land of doubt and indecision; a half-way house of compromise, and +sometimes David frightened her. He was so sure. + +She passed the open door into the waiting-room, where sat two or +three patient and silent figures, and went back to the kitchen. +Minnie, the elderly servant, sat by the table reading, amid the odor +of roasting chicken; outside the door on the kitchen porch was the +freezer containing the dinner ice-cream. An orderly Sunday peace +was in the air, a gesture of homely comfort, order and security. + +Minnie got up. + +"I'll unpin your veil for you," she offered, obligingly. "You've +got time to lie down about ten minutes. Mrs. Morgan said she's got +to have her ears treated." + +"I hope she doesn't sit and talk for an hour." + +"She'll talk, all right," Minnie observed, her mouth full of pins. +"She'd be talking to me yet if I'd stood there. She's got her nerve, +too, that woman." + +"I don't like to hear you speak so of the patients who come to the +house, Minnie." + +"Well, I don't like their asking me questions about the family +either," said Minnie, truculently. "She wanted to know who was +Doctor Dick's mother. Said she had had a woman here from Wyoming, +and she thought she'd known his people." + +Mrs. Crosby stood very still. + +"I think she should bring her questions to the family," she said, +after a silence. "Thank you, Minnie." + +Bonnet in hand, she moved toward the stairs, climbed them and went +into her room. Recently life had been growing increasingly calm +and less beset with doubts. For the first time, with Dick's coming +to live with them ten years before, a boy of twenty-two, she had +found a vicarious maternity and gloried in it. Recently she had +been very happy. The war was over and he was safely back; again +she could sew on his buttons and darn his socks, and turn down his +bed at night. He filled the old house with cheer and with vitality. +And, as David gave up more and more of the work, he took it on his +broad shoulders, efficient, tireless, and increasingly popular. + +She put her bonnet away in its box, and suddenly there rose in her +frail old body a fierce and unexpected resentment against David. +He had chosen a course and abided by it. He had even now no doubt +or falterings. Just as in the first anxious days there had been +no doubt in him as to the essential rightness of what he was doing. +And now--This was what came of taking a life and moulding it in +accordance with a predetermined plan. That was for God to do, not +man. + +She sat down near her window and rocked slowly, to calm herself. +Outside the Sunday movement of the little suburban town went by: +the older Wheeler girl, Nina, who had recently married Leslie Ward, +in her smart little car; Harrison Miller, the cynical bachelor who +lived next door, on his way to the station news stand for the New +York papers; young couples taking small babies for the air in a +perambulator; younger couples, their eyes on each other and on the +future. + +That, too, she reflected bitterly! Dick was in love. She had not +watched him for that very thing for so long without being fairly +sure now. She had caught, as simple David with his celibate heart +could never have caught, the tone in Dick's voice when he mentioned +the Wheelers. She had watched him for the past few months in +church on Sunday mornings, and she knew that as she watched him, +so he looked at Elizabeth. + +And David was so sure! So sure. + +The office door closed and Mrs. Morgan went out, a knitted scarf +wrapping her ears against the wind, and following her exit came the +slow ascent of David as he climbed the stairs to wash for dinner. + +She stopped rocking. + +"David!" she called sharply. + +He opened the door and came in, a bulky figure, still faintly +aromatic of drugs, cheerful and serene. + +"D'you call me?" he inquired. + +"Yes. Shut the door and come in. I want to talk to you." He +closed the door and went to the hearth-rug. There was a photograph +of Dick on the mantel, taken in his uniform, and he looked at it +for a moment. Then he turned. "All right, my dear. Let's have it." + +"Did Mrs. Morgan have anything to say?" He stared at her. + +"She usually has," he said. "I never knew you considered it worth +repeating. No. Nothing in particular." + +The very fact that Mrs. Morgan had limited her inquiry to Minnie +confirmed her suspicions. But somehow, face to face with David, +she could not see his contentment turned to anxiety. + +"I want to talk to you about Dick." + +"Yes?" + +"I think he's in love, David." + +David's heavy body straightened, but his face remained serene. + +"We had to expect that, Lucy. Is it Elizabeth Wheeler, do you +think?" + +"Yes." + +For a moment there was silence. The canary in its cage hopped +about, a beady inquisitive eye now on one, now on the other of them. + +"She's a good girl, Lucy." + +"That's not the point, is it?" + +"Do you think she cares for him?" + +"I don't know. There's some talk of Wallie Sayre. He's there a +good bit." + +"Wallie Sayre!" snorted David. "He's never done a day's work in +his life and never will." He reflected on that with growing +indignation. "He doesn't hold a candle to Dick. Of course, if +the girl's a fool--" + +Hands thrust deep into his pockets David took a turn about the room. +Lucy watched him. At last: + +"You're evading the real issue, David, aren't you?" + +"Perhaps I am," he admitted. "I'd better talk to him. I think he's +got an idea he shouldn't marry. That's nonsense." + +"I don't mean that, exactly," Lucy persisted. "I mean, won't he +want a good many things cleared up before he marries? Isn't he +likely to want to go back to Norada?" + +Some of the ruddy color left David's face. He stood still, staring +at her and silent. + +"You know he meant to go three years ago, but the war came, and--" + +Her voice trailed off. She could not even now easily recall those +days when Dick was drilling on the golf links, and that later +period of separation. + +"If he does go back--" + +"Donaldson is dead," David broke in, almost roughly. + +"Maggie Donaldson is still living." + +"What if she is? She's loyal to the core, in the first place. In +the second, she's criminally liable. As liable as I am." + +"There is one thing, David, I ought to know. What has become of +the Carlysle girl?" + +"She left the stage. There was a sort of general conviction she +was implicated and--I don't know, Lucy. Sometimes I think she was." +He sighed. "I read something about her coming back, some months ago, +in 'The Valley.' That was the thing she was playing the spring +before it happened." He turned on her. "Don't get that in your +head with the rest." + +"I wonder, sometimes." + +"I know it." + +Outside the slamming of an automobile door announced Dick's return, +and almost immediately Minnie rang the old fashioned gong which +hung in the lower hall. Mrs. Crosby got up and placed a leaf of +lettuce between the bars of the bird cage. + +"Dinner time, Caruso," she said absently. Caruso was the name Dick +had given the bird. And to David: "She must be in her thirties now." + +"Probably." Then his anger and anxiety burst out. "What difference +can it make about her? About Donaldson's wife? About any hang-over +from that rotten time? They're gone, all of them. He's here. He's +safe and happy. He's strong and fine. That's gone." + +In the lower hall Dick was taking off his overcoat. + +"Smell's like chicken, Minnie," he said, into the dining room. + +"Chicken and biscuits, Mr. Dick." + +"Hi, up there!" he called lustily. "Come and feed a starving man. +I'm going to muffle the door-bell!" + +He stood smiling up at them, very tidy in his Sunday suit, very +boyish, for all his thirty-two years. His face, smilingly tender +as he watched them, was strong rather than handsome, quietly +dependable and faintly humorous. + +"In the language of our great ally," he said, "Madame et Monsieur, +le diner est servi." + +In his eyes there was not only tenderness but a somewhat emphasized +affection, as though he meant to demonstrate, not only to them but +to himself, that this new thing that had come to him did not touch +their old relationship. For the new thing had come. He was still +slightly dazed with the knowledge of it, and considerably anxious. +Because he had just taken a glance at himself in the mirror of the +walnut hat-rack, and had seen nothing there particularly to inspire +--well, to inspire what he wanted to inspire. + +At the foot of the stairs he drew Lucy's arm through his, and held +her hand. She seemed very small and frail beside him. + +"Some day," he said, "a strong wind will come along and carry off +Mrs. Lucy Crosby, and the Doctors Livingstone will be obliged +hurriedly to rent aeroplanes, and to search for her at various +elevations!" + +David sat down and picked up the old fashioned carving knife. + +"Get the clubs?" he inquired. + +Dick looked almost stricken. + +"I forgot them, David," he said guiltily. "Jim Wheeler went out +to look them up, and I--I'll go back after dinner." + +It was sometime later in the meal that Dick looked up from his plate +and said: + +"I'd like to cut office hours on Wednesday night, David. I've asked +Elizabeth Wheeler to go into town to the theater." + +"What about the baby at the Homer place?" + +"Not due until Sunday. I'll leave my seat number at the box office, +anyhow." + +"What are you going to see, Dick?" Mrs. Crosby asked. "Will you +have some dumplings?" + + +"I will, but David shouldn't. Too much starch. Why, it's 'The +Valley,' I think. An actress named Carlysle, Beverly Carlysle, is +starring in it." + +He ate on, his mind not on his food, but back in the white house +on Palmer Lane, and a girl. Lucy Crosby, fork in air, stared at +him, and then glanced at David. + +But David did not look up from his plate. + + + + +III + + +The Wheeler house was good, modern and commonplace. Walter Wheeler +and his wife were like the house. Just as here and there among the +furniture there was a fine thing, an antique highboy, a Sheraton +sideboard or some old cut glass, so they had, with a certain +mediocrity their own outstanding virtues. They liked music, believed +in the home as the unit of the nation, put happiness before undue +ambition, and had devoted their lives to their children. + +For many years their lives had centered about the children. For +years they had held anxious conclave about whooping cough, about +small early disobediences, later about Sunday tennis. They stood +united to protect the children against disease, trouble and eternity. + +Now that the children were no longer children, they were sometimes +lonely and still apprehensive. They feared motor car accidents, +and Walter Wheeler had withstood the appeals of Jim for a half dozen +years. They feared trains for them, and journeys, and unhappy +marriages, and hid their fears from each other. Their nightly +prayers were "to keep them safe and happy." + +But they saw life reaching out and taking them, one by one. They +saw them still as children, but as children determined to bear their +own burdens. Jim stayed out late sometimes, and considered his +manhood in question if interrogated. Nina was married and out of +the home, but there loomed before them the possibility of maternity +and its dangers for her. There remained only Elizabeth, and on her +they lavished the care formerly divided among the three. + +It was their intention and determination that she should never know +trouble. She was tenderer than the others, more docile and gentle. +They saw her, not as a healthy, normal girl, but as something fragile +and very precious. + +Nina was different. They had always worried a little about Nina, +although they had never put their anxiety to each other. Nina had +always overrun her dress allowance, although she had never failed +to be sweetly penitent about it, and Nina had always placed an undue +emphasis on things. Her bedroom before her marriage was cluttered +with odds and ends, cotillion favors and photographs, college +pennants and small unwise purchases--trophies of the gayety and +conquest which were her life. + +And Nina had "come out." It had cost a great deal, and it was not +so much to introduce her to society as to put a family recognition +on a fact already accomplished, for Nina had brought herself out +unofficially at sixteen. There had been the club ballroom, and a +great many flowers which withered before they could be got to the +hospital; and new clothing for all the family, and a caterer and +orchestra. After that, for a cold and tumultuous winter Mrs. Wheeler +had sat up with the dowagers night after night until all hours, and +the next morning had let Nina sleep, while she went about her +household duties. She had aged, rather, and her determined smile +had grown a little fixed. + +She was a good woman, and she wanted her children's happiness more +than anything in the world, but she had a faint and sternly repressed +feeling of relief when Nina announced her engagement. Nina did it +with characteristic sangfroid, at dinner one night. + +"Don't ring for Annie for a minute, mother," she said. "I want to +tell you all something. I'm going to marry Leslie Ward." + +There had been a momentary pause. Then her father said: + +"Just a minute. Is that Will Ward's boy?" + +"Yes. He's not a boy." + +"Well, he'll come around to see me before there's any engagement. +Has that occurred to either of you?" + +"Oh, he'll be around. He'd have come to-night, but Howard Moore +is having his bachelor dinner. I hope he doesn't look shot to +pieces to-morrow. These bachelor things--! We'd better have a +dinner or something, mother, and announce it." + +There had been the dinner, with a silver loving cup bought for the +occasion, and thereafter to sit out its useless days on the Sheraton +sideboard. And there had been a trousseau and a wedding so expensive +that a small frown of anxiety had developed between Walter Wheeler's +eyebrows and stayed there. + +For Nina's passion for things was inherent, persisting after her +marriage. She discounted her birthday and Christmases in advance, +coming around to his office a couple of months before the winter +holidays and needing something badly. + +"It's like this, daddy," she would say. "You're going to give me a +check for Christmas anyhow, aren't you? And it would do me more +good now. I simply can't go to another ball." + +"Where's your trousseau?" + +"It's worn out-danced to rags. And out of date, too." + +"I don't understand it, Nina. You and Leslie have a good income. +Your mother and I--" + +"You didn't have any social demands. And wedding presents! If one +more friend of mine is married--" + +He would get out his checkbook and write a check slowly and +thoughtfully. And tearing it off would say: + +"Now remember, Nina, this is for Christmas. Don't feel aggrieved +when the time comes and you have no gift from us." + +But he knew that when the time came Margaret, his wife, would hold +out almost to the end, and then slip into a jeweler's and buy Nina +something she simply couldn't do without. + +It wasn't quite fair, he felt. It wasn't fair to Jim or to +Elizabeth. Particularly to Elizabeth. + +Sometimes he looked at Elizabeth with a little prayer in his heart, +never articulate, that life would be good to her; that she might +keep her illusions and her dreams; that the soundness and +wholesomeness of her might keep her from unhappiness. Sometimes, +as she sat reading or sewing, with the light behind her shining +through her soft hair, he saw in her a purity that was almost +radiant. + +He was in arms at once a night or two before Dick had invited +Elizabeth to go to the theater when Margaret Wheeler said: + +"The house was gayer when Nina was at home." + +"Yes. And you were pretty sick of it. Full of roistering young +idiots. Piano and phonograph going at once, pairs of gigglers in +the pantry at the refrigerator, pairs on the stairs and on the +verandah, cigar-ashes--my cigars--and cigarettes over everything, +and more infernal spooning going on than I've ever seen in my life." + +He had resumed his newspaper, to put it down almost at once. + +"What's that Sayre boy hanging around for?" + +"I think he's in love with her, Walter." + +"Love? Any of the Sayre tribe? Jim Sayre drank himself to death, +and this boy is like him. And Jim Sayre wasn't faithful to his wife. +This boy is--well, he's an heir. That's why he was begotten." + +Margaret Wheeler stared at him. + +"Why, Walter!" she said. "He's a nice boy, and he's a gentleman." + +"Why? Because he gets up when you come into the room? Why in +heaven's name don't you encourage real men to come here? There's +Dick Livingstone. He's a man." + +Margaret hesitated. + +"Walter, have you ever thought there was anything queer about Dick +Livingstone's coming here?" + +"Darned good for the town that he did come." + +"But--nobody ever dreamed that David and Lucy had a nephew. Then +he turns up, and they send him to medical college, and all that." + +"I've got some relations I haven't notified the town I possess," +he said grimly. + +"Well, there's something odd. I don't believe Henry Livingstone, +the Wyoming brother, ever had a son." + +"What possible foundation have you for a statement like that?" + +"Mrs. Cook Morgan's sister-in-law has been visiting her lately. +She says she knew Henry Livingstone well years ago in the West, and +she never heard he was married. She says positively he was not +married." + +"And trust the Morgan woman to spread the good news," he said with +angry sarcasm. "Well, suppose that's true? Suppose Dick is an +illegitimate child? That's the worst that's implied, I daresay. +That's nothing against Dick himself. I'll tell the world there's +good blood on the Livingstone side, anyhow." + +"You were very particular about Wallie Sayre's heredity, Walter." + +"That's different," he retorted, and retired into gloomy silence +behind his newspaper. Drat these women anyhow. It was like some +fool female to come there and rake up some old and defunct scandal. +He'd stand up for Dick, if it ever came to a show-down. He liked +Dick. What the devil did his mother matter, anyhow? If this town +hadn't had enough evidence of Dick Livingstone's quality the last +few years he'd better go elsewhere. He-- + +He got up and whistled for the dog. + +"I'm going to take a walk," he said briefly, and went out. He +always took a walk when things disturbed him. + +On the Sunday afternoon after Dick had gone Elizabeth was alone in +her room upstairs. On the bed lay the sort of gown Nina would have +called a dinner dress, and to which Elizabeth referred as her dark +blue. Seen thus, in the room which was her own expression, there +was a certain nobility about her very simplicity, a steadiness about +her eyes that was almost disconcerting. + +"She's the saintly-looking sort that would go on the rocks for some +man," Nina had said once, rather flippantly, "and never know she +was shipwrecked. No man in the world could do that to me." + +But just then Elizabeth looked totally unlike shipwreck. Nothing +seemed more like a safe harbor than the Wheeler house that afternoon, +or all the afternoons. Life went on, the comfortable life of an +upper middle-class household. Candles and flowers on the table and +a neat waitress to serve; little carefully planned shopping +expeditions; fine hand-sewing on dainty undergarments for rainy days; +small tributes of books and candy; invitations and consultations as +to what to wear; choir practice, a class in the Sunday school, a +little work among the poor; the volcano which had been Nina +overflowing elsewhere in a smart little house with a butler out on +the Ridgely Road. + +She looked what she was, faithful and quietly loyal, steady--and +serene; not asking greatly but hoping much; full of small +unvisualized dreams and little inarticulate prayers; waiting, without +knowing that she was waiting. + +Sometimes she worried. She thought she ought to "do something." A +good many of the girls she knew wanted to do something, but they were +vague as to what. She felt at those times that she was not being +very useful, and she had gone so far as to lay the matter before her +father a couple of years before, when she was just eighteen. + +"Just what do you think of doing?" he had inquired. + +"That's it," she had said despondently. "I don't know. I haven't +any particular talent, you know. But I don't think I ought to go on +having you support me in idleness all my life." + +"Well, I don't think it likely that I'll have to," he had observed, +dryly. "But here's the point, and I think it's important. I don't +intend to work without some compensation, and my family is my +compensation. You just hang around and make me happy, as you do, +and you're fulfilling your economic place in the nation. Don't you +forget it, either." + +That had comforted her. She had determined then never to marry but +to hang around, as he suggested, for the rest of her life. She was +quite earnest about it, and resolved. + +She picked up the blue dress and standing before her mirror, held +it up before her. It looked rather shabby, she thought, but the +theater was not like a dance, and anyhow it would look better at +night. She had been thinking about next Wednesday evening ever +since Dick Livingstone had gone. It seemed, better somehow, +frightfully important. It was frightfully important. For the first +time she acknowledged to herself that she had been fond of him, as +she put it, for a long time. She had an odd sense, too, of being +young and immature, and as though he had stooped to her from some +height: such as thirty-two years and being in the war, and having +to decide about life and death, and so on. + +She hoped he did not think she was only a child. + +She heard Nina coming up the stairs. At the click of her high heels +on the hard wood she placed the dress on the bed again, and went to +the window. Her father was on the path below, clearly headed for a +walk. She knew then that Nina had been asking for something. + +Nina came in and closed the door. She was smaller than Elizabeth +and very pretty. Her eyebrows had been drawn to a tidy line, and +from the top of her shining head to her brown suede pumps she was +exquisite with the hours of careful tending and careful dressing +she gave her young body. Exquisitely pretty, too. + +She sat down on Elizabeth's bed with a sigh. + +"I really don't know what to do with father," she said. "He flies +off at a tangent over the smallest things. Elizabeth dear, can you +lend me twenty dollars? I'll get my allowance on Tuesday." + +"I can give you ten." + +"Well, ask mother for the rest, won't you? You needn't say it's +for me. I'll give it to you Tuesday." + +"I'm not going to mother, Nina. She has had a lot of expenses this +month." + +"Then I'll borrow it from Wallie Sayre," Nina said, accepting her +defeat cheerfully. "If it was an ordinary bill it could wait, but +I lost it at bridge last night and it's got to be paid." + +"You oughtn't to play bridge for money," Elizabeth said, a bit +primly. "And if Leslie knew you borrowed from Wallace Sayre--" + +"I forgot! Wallie's downstairs, Elizabeth. Really, if he wasn't +so funny, he'd be tragic." + +"Why tragic? He has everything in the world." + +"If you use a little bit of sense, you can have it too." + +"I don't want + +"Pooh! That's what you think now. Wallie's a nice person. Lots +of girls are mad about him. And he has about all the money there +is." Getting no response from Elizabeth, she went on: "I was +thinking it over last night. You'll have to marry sometime, and +it isn't as though Wallie was dissipated, or anything like that. +I suppose he knows his way about, but then they all do." + +She got up. + +"Be nice to him, anyhow," she said. "He's crazy about you, and +when I think of you in that house! It's a wonderful house, +Elizabeth. She's got a suite waiting for Wallie to be married +before she furnishes it." + +Elizabeth looked around her virginal little room, with its painted +dressing table, its chintz, and its white bed with the blue dress +on it. + +"I'm very well satisfied as I am," she said. + +While she smoothed her hair before the mirror Nina surveyed the +room and her eyes lighted on the frock. + +"Are you still wearing that shabby old thing?" she demanded. "I do +wish you'd get some proper clothes. Are you going somewhere?" + +"I'm going to the theater on Wednesday night." + +"Who with?" Nina in her family was highly colloquial. + +"With Doctor Livingstone." + +"Are you joking?" Nina demanded. + +"Joking? Of course not." + +Nina sat down again on the bed, her eyes on her sister, curious and +not a little apprehensive. + +"It's the first time it's ever happened, to my knowledge," she +declared. "I know he's avoided me like poison. I thought he hated +women. You know Clare Rossiter is--" + +Elizabeth turned suddenly. + +"Clare is ridiculous," she said. "She hasn't any reserve, or dignity, +or anything else. And I don't see what my going to the theater with +Dick Livingstone has to do with her anyhow." + +Nina raised her carefully plucked eyebrows. + +"Really!" she said. "You needn't jump down my throat, you know." +She considered, her eyes on her sister. "Don't go and throw yourself +away on Dick Livingstone, Sis. You're too good-looking, and he +hasn't a cent. A suburban practice, out all night, that tumble-down +old house and two old people hung around your necks, for Doctor David +is letting go pretty fast. It just won't do. Besides, there's a +story going the rounds about him, that--" + +"I don't want to hear it, if you don't mind." + +She went to the door and opened it. + +"I've hardly spoken a dozen words to him in my life. But just +remember this. When I do find the man I want to marry, I shall make +up my own mind. As you did," she added as a parting shot. + +She was rather sorry as she went down the stairs. She had begun to +suspect what the family had never guessed, that Nina was not very +happy. More and more she saw in Nina's passion for clothes and +gaiety, for small possessions, an attempt to substitute them for +real things. She even suspected that sometimes Nina was a little +lonely. + +Wallie Sayre rose from a deep chair as she entered the living-room. + +"Hello," he said, "I was on the point of asking Central to give me +this number so I could get you on the upstairs telephone." + +"Nina and I were talking. I'm sorry." + +Wallie, in spite of Walter Wheeler's opinion of him, was an engaging +youth with a wide smile, an air of careless well-being, and an +obstinate jaw. What he wanted he went after and generally secured, +and Elizabeth, enlightened by Nina, began to have a small anxious +feeling that afternoon that what he wanted just now happened to be +herself. + +"Nina coming down?" he asked. + +"I suppose so. Why?" + +"You couldn't pass the word along that you are going to be engaged +for the next half hour?" + +"I might, but I certainly don't intend to." + +"You are as hard to isolate as a--as a germ," he complained. "I +gave up a perfectly good golf game to see you, and as your father +generally calls the dog the moment I appear and goes for a walk, I +thought I might see you alone." + +"You're seeing me alone now, you know." + +Suddenly he leaned over and catching up her hand, kissed it. + +"You're so cool and sweet," he said. "I--I wish you liked me a +little." He smiled up at her, rather wistfully. "I never knew any +one quite like you." + +She drew her hand away. Something Nina had said, that he knew his +way about, came into her mind, and made her uncomfortable. Back of +him, suddenly, was that strange and mysterious region where men of +his sort lived their furtive man-life, where they knew their way +about. She had no curiosity and no interest, but the mere fact of +its existence as revealed by Nina repelled her. + +"There are plenty like me," she said. "Don't be silly, Wallie. I +hate having my hand kissed." + +"I wonder," he observed shrewdly, "whether that's really true, or +whether you just hate having me do it?" + +When Nina came in he was drawing a rough sketch of his new power +boat, being built in Florida. + +Nina's delay was explained by the appearance, a few minutes later, +of a rather sullen Annie with a tea tray. Afternoon tea was not a +Wheeler institution, but was notoriously a Sayre one. And Nina +believed in putting one's best foot foremost, even when that resulted +in a state of unstable domestic equilibrium. + +"Put in a word for me, Nina," Wallie begged. "I intend to ask +Elizabeth to go to the theater this week, and I think she is going +to refuse." + +"What's the play?" Nina inquired negligently. She was privately +determining that her mother needed a tea cart and a new tea service. +There were some in old Georgian silver-- + +"'The Valley.' Not that the play matters. It's Beverly Carlysle." + +"I thought she was dead, or something." + +"Or something is right. She retired years ago, at the top of her +success. She was a howling beauty, I'm told. I never saw her. +There was some queer story. I've forgotten it. I was a kid then. +How about it, Elizabeth?" + +"I'm sorry. I'm going Wednesday night." + +He looked downcast over that, and he was curious, too. But he made +no comment save: + +"Well, better luck next time." + +"Just imagine," said Nina. "She's going with Dick Livingstone. Can +you imagine it?" + +But Wallace Sayre could and did. He had rather a stricken moment, +too. Of course, there might be nothing to it; but on the other hand, +there very well might. And Livingstone was the sort to attract the +feminine woman; he had gravity and responsibility. He was older too, +and that flattered a girl. + +"He's not a bit attractive," Nina was saying. "Quiet, and--well, I +don't suppose he knows what he's got on." + +Wallie was watching Elizabeth. + +"Oh, I don't know," he said, with masculine fairness. "He's a good +sort, and he's pretty much of a man." + +He was quite sure that the look Elizabeth gave him was grateful. + +He went soon after that, keeping up an appearance of gaiety to the +end, and very careful to hope that Elizabeth would enjoy the play. + +"She's a wonder, they say," he said from the doorway. "Take two +hankies along, for it's got more tears than 'East Lynne' and 'The +Old Homestead' put together." + +He went out, holding himself very erect and looking very cheerful +until he reached the corner. There however he slumped, and it was +a rather despondent young man who stood sometime later, on the +center of the deserted bridge over the small river, and surveyed +the water with moody eyes. + +In the dusky living-room Nina was speaking her mind. + +"You treat him like a dog," she said. "Oh, I know you're civil to +him, but if any man looked at me the way Wallie looks at you--I +don't know, though," she added, thoughtfully. "It may be that that +is why he is so keen. It may be good tactics. Most girls fall for +him with a crash." + +But when she glanced at Elizabeth she saw that she had not heard. +Her eyes were fixed on something on the street beyond the window. +Nina looked out. With a considerable rattle of loose joints and +four extraordinarily worn tires the Livingstone car was going by. + + + +IV + +David did not sleep well that night. He had not had his golf after +all, for the Homer baby had sent out his advance notice early in the +afternoon, and had himself arrived on Sunday evening, at the hour +when Minnie was winding her clock and preparing to retire early for +the Monday washing, and the Sayre butler was announcing dinner. +Dick had come in at ten o'clock weary and triumphant, to announce +that Richard Livingstone Homer, sex male, color white, weight nine +pounds, had been safely delivered into this vale of tears. + +David lay in the great walnut bed which had been his mother's, and +read his prayer book by the light of his evening lamp. He read the +Evening Prayer and the Litany, and then at last he resorted to the +thirty-nine articles, which usually had a soporific effect on him. +But it was no good. + +He got up and took to pacing his room, a portly, solid old figure +in striped pajamas and the pair of knitted bedroom slippers which +were always Mrs. Morgan's Christmas offering. "To Doctor David, +with love and a merry Xmas, from Angeline Morgan." + +At last he got his keys from his trousers pocket and padded softly +down the stairs and into his office, where he drew the shade and +turned on the lights. Around him was the accumulated professional +impedimenta of many years; the old-fashioned surgical chair; the +corner closet which had been designed for china, and which held his +instruments; the bookcase; his framed diplomas on the wall, their +signatures faded, their seals a little dingy; his desk, from which +Dick had removed the old ledger which had held those erratic records +from which, when he needed money, he had been wont--and reluctant +--to make out his bills. + +Through an open door was Dick's office, a neat place of shining +linoleum and small glass stands, highly modern and business-like. +Beyond the office and opening from it was his laboratory, which +had been the fruit closet once, and into which Dick on occasion +retired to fuss with slides and tubes and stains and a microscope. + +Sometimes he called David in, and talked at length and with +enthusiasm about such human interest things as the Staphylococcus +pyogenes aureus, and the Friedlander bacillus. The older man would +listen, but his eyes were oftener on Dick than on the microscope or +the slide. + +David went to the bookcase and got down a large book, much worn, +and carried it to his desk. + +An hour or so later he heard footsteps in the hall and closed the +book hastily. It was Lucy, a wadded dressing gown over her +nightdress and a glass of hot milk in her hand. + +"You drink this and come to bed, David," she said peremptorily. +"I've been lying upstairs waiting for you to come up, and I need +some sleep." + +He had no sort of hope that she would not notice the book. + +"I just got to thinking things over, Lucy," he explained, his tone +apologetic. "There's no use pretending I'm not worried. I am." + +"Well, it's in God's hands," she said, quite simply. "Take this up +and drink it slowly. If you gulp it down it makes a lump in your +stomach." + +She stood by while he replaced the book in the bookcase and put out +the lights. Then in the darkness she preceded him up the stairs. + +"You'd better take the milk yourself, Lucy," he said. "You're not +sleeping either." + +"I've had some. Good-night." + +He went in and sitting on the side of his bed sipped at his milk. +Lucy was right. It was not in their hands. He had the feeling all +at once of having relinquished a great burden. He crawled into bed +and was almost instantly asleep. + +So sometime after midnight found David sleeping, and Lucy on her +knees. It found Elizabeth dreamlessly unconscious in her white bed, +and Dick Livingstone asleep also, but in his clothing, and in a +chair by the window. In the light from a street lamp his face +showed lines of fatigue and nervous stress, lines only revealed +when during sleep a man casts off the mask with which he protects +his soul against even friendly eyes. + +But midnight found others awake. It found Nina, for instance, in +her draped French bed, consulting her jeweled watch and listening +for Leslie's return from the country club. An angry and rather +heart-sick Nina. And it found the night editor of one of the +morning papers drinking a cup of coffee that a boy had brought in, +and running through a mass of copy on his desk. He picked up +several sheets of paper, with a photograph clamped to them, and +ran through them quickly. A man in a soft hat, sitting on the desk, +watched him idly. + +"Beverly Carlysle," commented the night editor. "Back with bells +on!" He took up the photograph. "Doesn't look much older, does she? +It's a queer world." + +Louis Bassett, star reporter and feature writer of the Times- +Republican, smiled reminiscently. + +"She was a wonder," he said. "I interviewed her once, and I was +crazy about her. She had the stage set for me, all right. The +papers had been full of the incident of Jud Clark and the night he +lined up fifteen Johnnies in the lobby, each with a bouquet as big +as a tub, all of them in top hats and Inverness coats, and standing +in a row. So she played up the heavy domestic for me; knitting or +sewing, I forget." + +"Fell for her, did you?" + +"Did I? That was ten years ago, and I'm not sure I'm over it yet." + +"Probably that's the reason," said the city editor, drily. "Go and +see her, and get over it. Get her views on the flapper and bobbed +hair, for next Sunday. Smith would be crazy about it." + +He finished his coffee. + +"You might ask, too, what she thinks has become of Judson Clark," +he added. "I have an idea she knows, if any one does." Bassett +stared at him. + +"You're joking, aren't you?" + +"Yes. But it would make a darned good story." + + + + +V + +When he finished medical college Dick Livingstone had found, like +other men, that the two paths of ambition and duty were parallel +and did not meet. Along one lay his desire to focus all his energy +in one direction, to follow disease into the laboratory instead of +the sick room, and there to fight its unsung battles. And win. +He felt that he would win. + +Along the other lay David. + +It was not until he had completed his course and had come home that +he had realized that David was growing old. Even then he might have +felt that, by the time David was compelled to relinquish his hold on +his practice, he himself would be sufficiently established in his +specialty to take over the support of the household. But here there +was interposed a new element, one he had not counted on. David +was fiercely jealous of his practice; the thought that it might +pass into new and alien hands was bitter to him. To hand it down +to his adopted son was one thing; to pass it over to "some young +whipper-snapper" was another. + +Nor were David's motives selfish or unworthy. His patients were +his friends. He had a sense of responsibility to them, and very +little faith in the new modern methods. He thought there was a +great deal of tomfoolery about them, and he viewed the gradual loss +of faith in drugs with alarm. When Dick wore rubber gloves during +their first obstetric case together he snorted. + +"I've delivered about half the population of this town," he said, +"and slapped 'em to make 'em breathe with my own bare hands. And +I'm still here and so are they." + +For by that time Dick had made his decision. He could not abandon +David. For him then and hereafter the routine of a general practice +in a suburban town, the long hours, the varied responsibilities, the +feeling he had sometimes that by doing many things passably he was +doing none of them well. But for compensation he had old David's +content and greater leisure, and Lucy Crosby's gratitude and love. + +Now and then he chafed a little when he read some article in a +medical journal by one of his fellow enthusiasts, or when, in France, +he saw men younger than himself obtaining an experience in their +several specialties that would enable them to reach wide fields at +home. But mostly he was content, or at least resigned. He was +building up the Livingstone practice, and his one anxiety was lest +the time should come when more patients asked for Doctor Dick than +for Doctor David. He did not want David hurt. + +After ten years the strangeness of his situation had ceased to be +strange. Always he meant some time to go back to Norada, and there +to clear up certain things, but it was a long journey, and he had +very little time. And, as the years went on, the past seemed +unimportant compared with the present. He gave little thought to +the future. + +Then, suddenly, his entire attention became focused on the future. + +Just when he had fallen in love with Elizabeth Wheeler he did not +know. He had gone away to the war, leaving her a little girl, +apparently, and he had come back to find her, a woman. He did not +even know he was in love, at first. It was when, one day, he found +himself driving past the Wheeler house without occasion that he +began to grow uneasy. + +The future at once became extraordinarily important and so also, +but somewhat less vitally, the past. Had he the right to marry, if +he could make her care for him? + +He sat in his chair by the window the night after the Homer baby's +arrival, and faced his situation. Marriage meant many things. It +meant love and companionship, but it also meant, should mean, +children. Had he the right to go ahead and live his life fully and +happily? Was there any chance that, out of the years behind him, +there would come some forgotten thing, some taint or incident, to +spoil the carefully woven fabric of his life? + +Not his life. Hers. + +On the Monday night after he had asked Elizabeth to go to the theater +he went into David's office and closed the door. Lucy, alive to +every movement in the old house, heard him go in and, rocking in her +chair overhead, her hands idle in her lap, waited in tense anxiety +for the interview to end. She thought she knew what Dick would ask, +and what David would answer. And, in a way, David would be right. +Dick, fine, lovable, upstanding Dick, had a right to the things other +men had, to love and a home of his own, to children, to his own full +life. + +But suppose Dick insisted on clearing everything up before he +married? For to Lucy it was unthinkable that any girl in her senses +would refuse him. Suppose he went back to Norada? He had not +changed greatly in ten years. He had been well known there, a +conspicuous figure. + +Her mind began to turn on the possibility of keeping him away from +Norada. + +Some time later she heard the office door open and then close with +Dick's characteristic slam. He came up the stairs, two at a time +as was his custom, and knocked at her door. When he came in she +saw what David's answer had been, and she closed her eyes for an +instant. + +"Put on your things," he said gayly, "and we'll take a ride on the +hill-tops. I've arranged for a moon." + +And when she hesitated: + +"It makes you sleep, you know. I'm going, if I have to ride alone +and talk to an imaginary lady beside me." + +She rather imagined that that had been his first idea, +modified by his thought of her. She went over and put a wrinkled +hand on his arm. + +"You look happy, Dick," she said wistfully. + +"I am happy, Aunt Lucy," he replied, and bending over, kissed her. + +On Wednesday he was in a state of alternating high spirits and +periods of silence. Even Minnie noticed it. + +"Mr. Dick's that queer I hardly know how to take him." she said to +Lucy. "He came back and asked for noodle soup, and he put about all +the hardware in the kitchen on him and said he was a knight in armor. +And when I took the soup in he didn't eat it." + +It was when he was ready to go out that Lucy's fears were realized. +He came in, as always when anything unusual was afoot, to let her +look him over. He knew that she waited for him, to give his tie a +final pat, to inspect the laundering of his shirt bosom, to pick +imaginary threads off his dinner coat. + +"Well?" he said, standing before her, "how's this? Art can do no +more, Mrs. Crosby." + +"I'll brush your back," she said, and brought the brush. He stooped +to her, according to the little ceremony she had established, and she +made little dabs at his speckless back. "There, that's better." + +He straightened. + +"How do you think Uncle David is?" he asked, unexpectedly. + +"Better than he has been in years. Why?" + +"Because I'm thinking of taking a little trip. Only ten days," he +added, seeing her face. "You could house-clean my office while I'm +away. You know you've been wanting to." + +She dropped the brush, and he stooped to pick it up. That gave her +a moment. + +"'Where?" she managed. + +"To Dry River, by way of Norada." + +"Why should you go back there?" she asked, in a carefully suppressed +voice. "Why don't you go East? You've wanted to go back to Johns +Hopkins for months?" + +"On the other hand, why shouldn't I go back to Norada?" he asked, +with an affectation of lightness. Then he put his hand on her +shoulders. "Why shouldn't I go back and clear things up in my own +mind? Why shouldn't I find out, for instance, that I am a free man?" + +"You are free." + +"I've got to know," he said, almost doggedly. "I can't take a +chance. I believe I am. I believe David, of course. But anyhow +I'd like to see the ranch. I want to see Maggie Donaldson." + +"She's not at the ranch. Her husband died, you know." + +"I have an idea I can find her," he said. "I'll make a good try, +anyhow." + +When he had gone she got her salts bottle and lay down on her bed. +Her heart was hammering wildly. + +Elizabeth was waiting for him in the living-room, in the midst of +her family. She looked absurdly young and very pretty, and he had +a momentary misgiving that he was old to her, and that--Heaven save +the mark!--that she looked up to him. He considered the blue dress +the height of fashion and the mold of form, and having taken off +his overcoat in the hall, tried to put on Mr. Wheeler's instead in +his excitement. Also, becoming very dignified after the overcoat +incident, and making an exit which should conceal his wild +exultation and show only polite pleasure, he stumbled over Micky, +so that they finally departed to a series of staccato yelps. + +He felt very hot and slightly ridiculous as he tucked Elizabeth into +the little car, being very particular about her feet, and starting +with extreme care, so as not to jar her. He had the feeling of +being entrusted temporarily with something infinitely precious, and +very, very dear. Something that must never suffer or be hurt. + + + + + +VI + + +On Wednesday morning David was in an office in the city. He sat +forward on the edge of his chair, and from time to time he took out +his handkerchief and wiped his face or polished his glasses, quite +unconscious of either action. He was in his best suit, with the tie +Lucy had given him for Christmas. + +Across from him, barricaded behind a great mahogany desk, sat a +small man with keen eyes and a neat brown beard. On the desk were +a spotless blotter, an inkstand of silver and a pen. Nothing else. +The terrible order of the place had at first rather oppressed David. + +The small man was answering a question. + +"Rather on the contrary, I should say. The stronger the character +the greater the smash." + +David pondered this. + +"I've read all you've written on the subject," he said finally. +"Especially since the war." + +The psycho-analyst put his finger tips together, judicially. "Yes. +The war bore me out," he observed with a certain complacence. "It +added a great deal to our literature, too, although some of the +positions are not well taken. Van Alston, for instance--" + +"You have said, I think, that every man has a breaking point." + +"Absolutely. All of us. We can go just so far. Where the mind is +strong and very sound we can go further than when it is not. Some +men, for instance, lead lives that would break you or me. Was there +--was there such a history in this case?" + +"Yes." Doctor David's voice was reluctant. + +"The mind is a strange thing," went on the little man, musingly. +"It has its censors, that go off duty during sleep. Our sternest +and often unconscious repressions pass them then, and emerge in the +form of dreams. But of course you know all that. Dream symbolism. +Does the person in this case dream? That would be interesting, +perhaps important." + +"I don't know," David said unhappily. + +"The walling off, you say, followed a shock?" + +"Shock and serious illness." + +"Was there fear with the shock?" + +David hesitated. "Yes," he said finally. "Very great fear, I +believe." + +Doctor Lauler glanced quickly at David and then looked away. + +"I see," he nodded. "Of course the walling off of a part of the +past--you said a part--?" + +"Practically all of it. I'll tell you about that later. What +about the walling off?" + +"It is generally the result of what we call the protective mechanism +of fear. Back of most of these cases lies fear. Not cowardice, but +perhaps we might say the limit of endurance. Fear is a complex, of +course. Dislike, in a small way, has the same reaction. We are apt +to forget the names of persons we dislike. But if you have been +reading on the subject--" + +"I've been studying it for ten years." + +"Ten years! Do you mean that this condition has persisted for ten +years?" + +David moistened his dry lips. "Yes," he admitted. "It might not +have done so, but the--the person who made this experiment used +suggestion. The patient was very ill, and weak. It was desirable +that he should not identify himself with his past. The loss of +memory of the period immediately preceding was complete, but of +course, gradually, the cloud began to lift over the earlier periods. +It was there that suggestion was used, so that such memories as came +back were,--well, the patient adapted them to fit what he was told." + +Again Doctor Lauler shot a swift glance at David, and looked away. + +"An interesting experiment," he commented. "It must have taken +courage." + +"A justifiable experiment," David affirmed stoutly. "And it took +courage. Yes." + +David got up and reached for his hat. Then he braced himself for the +real purpose of his visit. + +"What I have been wondering about," he said, very carefully, "is this: +this mechanism of fear, this wall--how strong is it?" + +"Strong?" + +"It's like a dam, I take it. It holds back certain memories, like +a floodgate. Is anything likely to break it down?" + +"Possibly something intimately connected with the forgotten period +might do it. I don't know, Livingstone. We've only commenced to +dig into the mind, and we have many theories and a few established +facts. For instance, the primal instincts--" + +He talked on, with David nodding now and then in apparent +understanding, but with his thoughts far away. He knew the theories; +a good many of them he considered poppycock. Dreams might come from +the subconscious mind, but a good many of them came from the stomach. +They might be safety valves for the mind, but also they might be +rarebit. He didn't want dreams; what he wanted was facts. Facts +and hope. + +The office attendant came in. She was as tidy as the desk, as +obsessed by order, as wooden. She placed a pad before the small +man and withdrew. He rose. + +"Let me know if I can be of any further assistance, Doctor," he said. +"And I'll be glad to see your patient at any time. I'd like the +record for my files." + +"Thank you," David said. He stood fingering his hat. + +"I suppose there's nothing to do? The dam will either break, or it +won't." + +"That's about it. Of course since the conditions that produced the +setting up of the defensive machinery were unhappy, I'd say that +happiness will play a large part in the situation. That happiness +and a normal occupation will do a great deal to maintain the status +quo. Of course I would advise no return to the unhappy environment, +and no shocks. Nothing, in other words, to break down the wall." + +Outside, in the corridor, David remembered to put on his hat. +Happiness and a normal occupation, yes. But no shock. + +Nevertheless, he felt vaguely comforted, and as though it had helped +to bring the situation out into the open and discuss it. He had +carried his burden alone for ten years, or with only the additional +weight of Lucy's apprehensions. He wandered out into the city +streets, and found himself, some time later, at the railway station, +without remembering how he got there. + +Across from the station was a large billboard, and on it the name +of Beverly Carlysle and her play, "The Valley." He stood for some +time and looked at it, before he went in to buy his ticket. Not +until he was in the train did he realize that he had forgotten to +get his lunch. + +He attended to his work that evening as usual, but he felt very +tired, and Lucy, going in at nine o'clock, found him dozing in his +chair, his collar half choking him and his face deeply suffused. +She wakened him and then, sitting down across from him, joined him +in the vigil that was to last until they heard the car outside. + +She had brought in her sewing, and David pretended to read. Now +and then he looked at his watch. + +At midnight they heard the car go in, and the slamming of the +stable door, followed by Dick's footsteps on the walk outside. +Lucy was very pale, and the hands that held her sewing twitched +nervously. Suddenly she stood up and put a hand on David's shoulder. + +Dick was whistling on the kitchen porch. + + + + +VII + +Louis Bassett was standing at the back of the theater, talking to +the publicity man of The Valley company, Fred Gregory. Bassett was +calm and only slightly interested. By the end of the first act he +had realized that the star was giving a fine performance, that she +had even grown in power, and that his sentimental memory of her was +considerably dearer than the reality. + +"Going like a house afire," he said, as the curtain fell. + +Beside his robust physique, Gregory, the publicity man, sank into +insignificance. Even his pale spats, at which Bassett had shot a +contemptuous glance, his highly expensive tailoring, failed to make +him appear more than he was, a little, dapper man, with a pale cold +eye and a rather too frequent smile. "She's the best there is," was +his comment. He hesitated, then added: "She's my sister, you know. +Naturally, for business reasons, I don't publish the relationship." + +Bassett glanced at him. + +"That so? Well, I'm glad she decided to come back. She's too good +to bury." + +But if he expected Gregory to follow the lead he was disappointed. +His eyes, blank and expressionless, were wandering over the house +as the lights flashed up. + +"This whole tour has been a triumph. She's the best there is," +Gregory repeated, "and they know it." + +"Does she know it?" Bassett inquired. + +"She doesn't throw any temperament, if that's what you mean. She--" + +He checked himself suddenly, and stood, clutching the railing, bent +forward and staring into the audience. Bassett watched him, +considerably surprised. It took a great deal to startle a theatrical +publicity man, yet here was one who looked as though he had seen a +ghost. + +After a time Gregory straightened and moistened his dry lips. + +"There's a man sitting down there--see here, the sixth row, next +the aisle; there's a girl in a blue dress beside him. See him? Do +you know who he is?" + +"Never saw him before." + +For perhaps two minutes Gregory continued to stare. Then he moved +over to the side of the house and braced against the wall continued +his close and anxious inspection. After a time he turned away and, +passing behind the boxes, made his way into the wings. Bassett's +curiosity was aroused, especially when, shortly after, Gregory +reappeared, bringing with him a small man in an untidy suit who was +probably, Bassett surmised, the stage manager. + +He saw the small man stare, nod, stand watching, and finally +disappear, and Gregory resume his former position and attitude +against the side wall. Throughout the last act Gregory did not +once look at the stage. He continued his steady, unwavering study +of the man in the sixth row seat next the aisle, and Bassett +continued his study of the little man. + +His long training made him quick to scent a story. He was not sure, +of course, but the situation appeared to him at least suggestive. +With the end of the play he wandered out with the crowd, edging his +way close to the man and girl who had focused Gregory's attention, +and following them into the street. He saw only a tall man with a +certain quiet distinction of bearing, and a young and pretty girl, +still flushed and excited, who went up the street a short distance +and got into a small and shabby car. Bassett noted, carefully, the +license number of the car. + +Then, still curious and extremely interested, he walked briskly +around to the stage entrance, nodded to the doorkeeper, and went in. + +Gregory was not in sight, but the stage manager was there, directing +the striking of the last set. + +"I'm waiting for Gregory," Bassett said. "Hasn't fainted, has he?" + +"What d'you mean, fainted?" inquired the stage manager, with a touch +of hostility. + +"I was with him when he thought he recognized somebody. You know +who. You can tell him I got his automobile number." + +The stage manager's hostility faded, and he fell into the trap. +"You know about it, then?" + +"I was with him when he saw him. Unfortunately I couldn't help him +out." + +"It's just possible it's a chance resemblance. I'm darned if I +know. Look at the facts! He's supposed to be dead. Ten years +dead. His money's been split up a dozen ways from the ace. Then +--I knew him, you know--I don't think even he would have the +courage to come here and sit through a performance. Although," +he added reflectively, "Jud Clark had the nerve for anything." + +Bassett gave him a cigar and went out into the alley way that led +to the street. Once there, he stood still and softly whistled. +Jud Clark! If that was Judson Clark, he had the story of a lifetime. + +For some time he walked the deserted streets of the city, thinking +and puzzling over the possibility of Gregory's being right. +Sometime after midnight he went back to the office and to the +filing room. There, for two hours, he sat reading closely old +files of the paper, going through them methodically and making +occasional brief notes in a memorandum. Then, at two o'clock he +put away the files, and sitting back, lighted a cigar. + +It was all there; the enormous Clark fortune inherited by a boy who +had gone mad about this same Beverly Carlysle; her marriage to her +leading man, Howard Lucas; the subsequent killing of Lucas by Clark +at his Wyoming ranch, and Clark's escape into the mountains. The +sensational details of Clark's infatuation, the drama of a crime +and Clark's subsequent escape, and the later certainty of his death +in a mountain storm had filled the newspapers of the time for weeks. +Judson Clark had been famous, notorious, infamous and dead, all in +less than two years. A shameful and somehow a pitiful story. + +But if Judson Clark had died, the story still lived. Every so often +it came up again. Three years before he had been declared legally +dead, and his vast estates, as provided by the will of old Elihu +Clark, had gone to universities and hospitals. But now and then +came a rumor. Jud Clark was living in India; he had a cattle ranch +in Venezuela; he had been seen on the streets of New Orleans. + +Bassett ran over the situation in his mind. + +First then, grant that Clark was still living and had been in the +theater that night. It became necessary to grant other things. +To grant, for instance, that Clark was capable of sitting, with a +girl beside him, through a performance by the woman for whom he had +wrecked his life, of a play he had once known from the opening line +to the tag. To grant that he could laugh and applaud, and at the +drop of the curtain go calmly away, with such memories behind him +as must be his. To grant, too, that he had survived miraculously +his sensational disappearance, found a new identity and a new place +for himself; even, witness the girl, possible new ties. + +At half past two Bassett closed his memorandum book, stuffed it +into his pocket, and started for home. As he passed the Ardmore +Hotel he looked up at its windows. Gregory would have told her, +probably. He wondered, half amused, whether the stage manager had +told him of his inquiries, and whether in that case they might not +fear him more than Clark himself. After all, they had nothing to +fear from Clark, if this were Clark. + +No. What they might see and dread, knowing he had had a hint of a +possible situation, was the revival of the old story she had tried +so hard to live down. She was ambitious, and a new and rigid +morality was sweeping the country. What once might have been an +asset stood now to be a bitter liability. + +He slowed down, absorbed in deep thought. It was a queer story. +It might be even more queer than it seemed. Gregory had been +frightened rather than startled. The man had even gone pale. + +Motive, motive, that was the word. What motive lay behind action. +Conscious and unconscious, every volitional act was the result of +motive. + +He wondered what she had done when Gregory had told her. + +As a matter of fact, Beverly Carlysle had shown less anxiety than +her brother. Still pale and shocked, he had gone directly to her +dressing-room when the curtain was rung down, had tapped and gone +in. She was sitting wearily in a chair, a cigarette between her +fingers. Around was the usual litter of a stage dressing-room after +the play, the long shelf beneath the mirror crowded with powders, +rouge and pencils, a bunch of roses in the corner washstand basin, +a wardrobe trunk, and a maid covering with cheese-cloth bags the +evening's costumes. + +"It went all right, I think, Fred." + +"Yes," he said absently. "Go on out, Alice. I'll let you come back +in a few minutes." + +He waited until the door closed. + +"What's the matter?" she asked rather indifferently. "If it's more +quarreling in the company I don't want to hear it. I'm tired." +Then she took a full look at him, and sat up. + +"Fred! What is it?" + +He gave her the truth, brutally and at once. + +"I think Judson Clark was in the house to-night." + +"I don't believe it." + +"Neither would I, if somebody told me," he agreed sullenly. "I saw +him. Don't you suppose I know him? And if you don't believe me, +call Saunders. I got him out front. He knows." + +"You called Saunders!" + +"Why not? I tell you, Bev, I was nearly crazy. I'm nearly crazy +now." + +"What did Saunders say?" + +"If he didn't know Clark was dead, he'd say it was Clark." + +She was worried by that time, but far more collected than he was. +She sat, absently tapping the shelf with a nail file, and reflecting. + +"All right," she said. "Suppose he was? What then? He has been +in hiding for ten years. Why shouldn't he continue to hide? What +would bring him out now? Unless he needed money. Was he shabby?" + +"No," he said sulkily. "He was with a girl. He was dressed all +right." + +"You didn't say anything, except to Saunders?" + +"No I'm not crazy." + +"I'd better see Joe," she reflected. "Go and get him, Fred. And +tell Alice she needn't wait." + +She got up and moved about the room, putting things away and finding +relief in movement, a still beautiful woman, with rather accentuated +features and an easy carriage. Without her make-up the stage +illusion of her youth was gone, and she showed past suffering and +present strain. Just then she was uneasy and resentful, startled +but not particularly alarmed. Her reason told her that Judson Clark, +even if he still lived and had been there that night, meant to leave +the dead past to care for itself, and wished no more than she to +revive it. She was surprised to find, as she moved about, that she +was trembling. + +Her brother came back, and she turned to meet him. To her surprise +he was standing inside the door, white to the lips and staring at +her with wild eyes. + +"Saunders!" he said chokingly, "Saunders, the damned fool! He's +given it away." + +He staggered to a chair, and ran a handkerchief across his shaking +lips. + +"He told Bassett, of the Times-Republican," he managed to say. +"Do you--do you know what that means? And Bassett got Clark's +automobile number. He said so." + +He looked up at her, his face twitching. "They're hound dogs on a +scent, Bev. They'll get the story, and blow it wide open." + +"You know I'm prepared for that. I have been for ten years." + +"I know." He was suddenly emotional. He reached out and took her +hand. "Poor old Bev!" he said. "After the way you've come back, +too. It's a damned shame." + +She was calmer than he was, less convinced for one thing, and better +balanced always. She let him stroke her hand, standing near him +with her eyes absent and a little hard. + +"I'd better make sure that was Jud first," he offered, after a time, +"and then warn him." + +"Why?" + +"Bassett will be after him." + +"No!" she commanded sharply. "No, Fred. You let the thing alone. +You've built up an imaginary situation, and you're not thinking +straight. Plenty of things might happen. What probably has happened +is that this Bassett is at home and in bed." + +She sent him out for a taxi soon after, and they went back to the +hotel. But, alone later on in her suite in the Ardmore she did not +immediately go to bed. She put on a dressing gown and stood for a +long time by her window, looking out. Instead of the city lights, +however, she saw a range of snow-capped mountains, and sheltered at +their foot the Clark ranch house, built by the old millionaire as +a place of occasional refuge from the pressure of his life. There +he had raised his fine horses, and trained them for the track. +There, when late in life he married, he had taken his wife for their +honeymoon and two years later, for the birth of their son. And +there, when she died, he had returned with the child, himself broken +and prematurely aged, to be killed by one of his own stallions when +the boy was fifteen. + +Six years his own master, Judson had been twenty-one to her twenty, +when she first met him. Going the usual pace, too, and throwing +money right and left. He had financed her as a star, ransacking +Europe for her stage properties, and then he fell in love with her. +She shivered as she remembered it. It had been desperate and +terrible, because she had cared for some one else. + +Standing by the window, she wondered as she had done over and over +again for ten years, what would have happened if, instead of marrying +Howard, she had married Judson Clark? Would he have settled down? +She had felt sometimes that in his wildest moments he was only +playing a game that amused him; that the hard-headed part of him +inherited from his father sometimes stood off and watched, with a +sort of interested detachment, the follies of the other. That he +played his wild game with his tongue in his cheek. + +She left the window, turned out the lights and got into her bed. +She was depressed and lonely, and she cried a little. After a time +she remembered that she had not put any cream on her face. She +crawled out again and went through the familiar motions in the dark. + + + + +VIII + +Dick rose the next morning with a sense of lightness and content +that sent him singing into his shower. In the old stable which +now housed both Nettie and the little car Mike was washing them +both with indiscriminate wavings of the hose nozzle, his old pipe +clutched in his teeth. From below there came up the odors of +frying sausages and of strong hot coffee. + +The world was a good place. A fine old place. It had work and +play and love. It had office hours and visits and the golf links, +and it had soft feminine eyes and small tender figures to be always +cared for and looked after. + +She liked him. She did not think he was old. She thought his +profession was the finest in the world. She had wondered if he +would have time to come and see her, some day. Time! He considered +very seriously, as he shaved before the slightly distorted mirror +in the bathroom, whether it would be too soon to run in that +afternoon, just to see if she was tired, or had caught cold or +anything? Perhaps to-morrow would look better. No, hang it all, +to-day was to-day. + +On his way from the bathroom to his bedroom he leaned over the +staircase. + +"Aunt Lucy!" he called. + +"Yes, Dick?" + +"The top of the morning to you. D'you think Minnie would have time +to press my blue trousers this morning?" + +There was the sound of her chair being pushed back in the +dining-room, of a colloquy in the kitchen, and Minnie herself +appeared below him. + +"Just throw them down, Doctor Dick," she said. "I've got an iron +hot now." + +"Some day, Minnie," he announced, "you will wear a halo and with +the angels sing." + +This mood of unreasoning happiness continued all morning. He went +from house to house, properly grave and responsible but with a small +song in his heart, and about eleven o'clock he found time to stop +at the village haberdasher's and to select a new tie, which he had +wrapped and stuffed in his pocket. And which, inspected in broad day +later on a country road, gave him uneasy qualms as to its brilliance. + +At the luncheon table he was almost hilarious, and David played up +to him, albeit rather heavily. But Lucy was thoughtful and quiet. +She had a sense of things somehow closing down on them, of hands +reaching out from the past, and clutching; Mrs. Morgan, Beverly +Carlysle, Dick in love and possibly going back to Norada. Unlike +David, who was content that one emergency had passed, she looked +ahead and saw their common life a series of such chances, with +their anxieties and their dangers. + +She could not eat. + +Nevertheless when she herself admitted a new patient for Dick that +afternoon, she had no premonition of trouble. She sent him into +the waiting-room, a tall, robust and youngish man, perhaps in his +late thirties, and went quietly on her way to her sitting-room, +and to her weekly mending. + +On the other hand, Louis Bassett was feeling more or less +uncomfortable. There was an air of peace and quiet respectability +about the old house, a domestic odor of baking cake, a quietness and +stability that somehow made his errand appear absurd. To connect +it with Judson Clark and his tumultuous past seemed ridiculous. + +His errand, on the surface, was a neuralgic headache. + +When, hat in hand, he walked into Dick's consulting room, he had +made up his mind that he would pay the price of an overactive +imagination for a prescription, walk out again, and try to forget +that he had let a chance resemblance carry him off his feet. + +But, as he watched the man who sat across from him, tilted back in +his swivel chair, he was not so sure. Here was the same tall +figure, the heavy brown hair, the features and boyish smile of the +photograph he had seen the night before. As Judson Clark might +have looked at thirty-two this man looked. + +He made his explanation easily. Was in town for the day. Subject +to these headaches. Worse over the right eye. No, he didn't wear +glasses; perhaps he should. + +It wasn't Clark. It couldn't be. Jud Clark sitting there tilted +back in an old chair and asking questions as to the nature of his +fictitious pain! Impossible. Nevertheless he was of a mind to +clear the slate and get some sleep that night, and having taken his +prescription and paid for it, he sat back and commenced an +apparently casual interrogation. + +"Two names on your sign, I see. Father and son, I suppose?" + +"Doctor David Livingstone is my uncle." + +"I should think you'd be in the city. Limitations to this sort of +thing, aren't there?" + +"I like it," said Dick, with an eye on the office clock. + +"Patients are your friends, of course. Born and raised here, I +suppose?" + +"Not exactly. I was raised on a ranch in Wyoming. My father had +a ranch out there." + +Bassett shot a glance at him, but Dick was calm and faintly smiling. + +"Wyoming!" the reporter commented. "That's a long way from here. +Anywhere near the new oil fields?" + +"Not far from Norada. That's the oil center," Dick offered, +good-naturedly. He rose, and glanced again at the clock. "If those +headaches continue you'd better have your eyes examined." + +Bassett was puzzled. It seemed to him that there had been a shade +of evasion in the other man's manner, slightly less frankness in +his eyes. But he showed no excitement, nothing furtive or alarmed. +And the open and unsolicited statement as to Norada baffled him. +He had to admit to himself either that a man strongly resembling +Judson Clark had come from the same neighborhood, or-- + +"Norada?" he said. "That's where the big Clark ranch was located, +wasn't it? Ever happen to meet Judson Clark?" + +"Our place was very isolated." + +Bassett found himself being politely ushered out, considerably more +at sea than when he went in and slightly irritated. His annoyance +was not decreased by the calm voice behind him which said: + +"Better drink considerable water when you take that stuff. Some +stomachs don't tolerate it very well." + +The door closed. The reporter stood in the waiting-room for a +moment. Then he clapped on his hat. + +"Well, I'm a damned fool," he muttered, and went out into the street. + +He was disappointed and a trifle sheepish. Life was full of queer +chances, that was all. No resemblance on earth, no coincidence of +birthplace, could make him believe that Judson Clark, waster, +profligate and fugitive from the law was now sitting up at night +with sick children, or delivering babies. + +After a time he remembered the prescription in his hand, and was +about to destroy it. He stopped and examined it, and then carefully +placed it in his pocket-book. After all, there were things that +looked queer. The fellow had certainly evaded that last question +of his. + +He made his way, head bent, toward the station. + +He had ten minutes to wait, and he wandered to the newsstand. He +made a casual inspection of its display, bought a newspaper and +was turning away, when he stopped and gazed after a man who had +just passed him from an out-bound train. + +The reporter looked after him with amused interest. Gregory, too! +The Livingstone chap had certainly started something. But it was +odd, too. How had Gregory traced him? Wasn't there something more +in Gregory's presence there than met the eye? Gregory's visit might +be, like his own, the desire to satisfy himself that the man was or +was not Clark. Or it might be the result of a conviction that it +was Clark, and a warning against himself. But if he had traced him, +didn't that indicate that Clark himself had got into communication +with him? In other words, that the chap was Clark, after all? +Gregory, having made an inquiry of a hackman, had started along the +street, and, after a moment's thought, Bassett fell into line behind +him. He was extremely interested and increasingly cheerful. He +remained well behind, and with his newspaper rolled in his hand +assumed the easy yet brisk walk of the commuters around him, bound +for home and their early suburban dinners. + +Half way along Station Street Gregory stopped before the Livingstone +house, read the sign, and rang the doorbell. The reporter slowed +down, to give him time for admission, and then slowly passed. In +front of Harrison Miller's house, however, he stopped and waited. +He lighted a cigarette and made a careful survey of the old place. +Strange, if this were to prove the haven where Judson Clark had taken +refuge, this old brick two-story dwelling, with its ramshackle stable +in the rear, its small vegetable garden, its casual beds of simple +garden flowers set in a half acre or so of ground. + +A doctor. A pill shooter. Jud Clark! + + + + +IX + +Elizabeth had gone about all day with a smile on her lips and a sort +of exaltation in her eyes. She had, girl fashion, gone over and +over the totally uneventful evening they had spent together, +remembering small speeches and gestures; what he had said and she +had answered. + +She had, for instance, mentioned Clare Rossiter, very casually. Oh +very, very casually. And he had said: "Clare Rossiter? Oh, yes, +the tall blonde girl, isn't she?" + +She was very happy. He had not seemed to find her too young or +particularly immature. He had asked her opinion on quite important +things, and listened carefully when she replied. She felt, though, +that she knew about one-tenth as much as he did, and she determined +to read very seriously from that time on. Her mother, missing +her that afternoon, found her curled up in the library, beginning +the first volume of Gibbon's "Rome" with an air of determined +concentration, and wearing her best summer frock. + +She did not intend to depend purely on Gibbon's "Rome," evidently. + +"Are you expecting any one, Elizabeth?" she asked, with the frank +directness characteristic of mothers, and Elizabeth, fixing a date +in her mind with terrible firmness, looked up absently and said: + +"No one in particular." + +At three o'clock, with a slight headache from concentration, she +went upstairs and put up her hair again; rather high this time to +make her feel taller. Of course, it was not likely he would come. +He was very busy. So many people depended on him. It must be +wonderful to be like that, to have people needing one, and looking +out of the door and saying: "I think I see him coming now." + +Nevertheless when the postman rang her heart gave a small leap and +then stood quite still. When Annie slowly mounted the stairs she +was already on her feet, but it was only a card announcing: "Mrs. +Sayre, Wednesday, May fifteenth, luncheon at one-thirty." + +However, at half past four the bell rang again, and a masculine +voice informed Annie, a moment later, that it would put its overcoat +here, because lately a dog had eaten a piece out of it and got most +awful indigestion. + +The time it took Annie to get up the stairs again gave her a moment +so that she could breathe more naturally, and she went down very +deliberately and so dreadfully poised that at first he thought she +was not glad to see him. + +"I came, you see," he said. "I intended to wait until to-morrow, +but I had a little time. But if you're doing anything--" + +"I was reading Gibbon's 'Rome,'" she informed him. "I think every +one should know it. Don't you?" + +"Good heavens, what for?" he inquired. + +"I don't know." They looked at each other, and suddenly they laughed. + +"I wanted to improve my mind," she explained. "I felt, last night, +that you-that you know so many things, and that I was frightfully +stupid." + +"Do you mean to say," he asked, aghast, "that I--! Great Scott!" + +Settled in the living-room, they got back rather quickly to their +status of the night before, and he was moved to confession. + +"I didn't really intend to wait until to-morrow," he said. "I got +up with the full intention of coming here to-day, if I did it over +the wreck of my practice. At eleven o'clock this morning I held up +a consultation ten minutes to go to Yardsleys and buy a tie, for +this express purpose. Perhaps you have noticed it already." + +"I have indeed. It's a wonderful tie." + +"Neat but not gaudy, eh?" He grinned at her, happily. "You know, +you might steer me a bit about my ties. I have the taste of an +African savage. I nearly bought a purple one, with red stripes. +And Aunt Lucy thinks I should wear white lawn, like David!" + +They talked, those small, highly significant nothings which are +only the barrier behind which go on the eager questionings and +unspoken answers of youth and love. They had known each other for +years, had exchanged the same give and take of neighborhood talk +when they met as now. To-day nothing was changed, and everything. + +Then, out of a clear sky, he said: + +"I may be going away before long, Elizabeth." + +He was watching her intently. She had a singular feeling that +behind this, as behind everything that afternoon, was something not +spoken. Something that related to her. Perhaps it was because of +his tone. + +"You don't mean-not to stay?" + +"No. I want to go back to Wyoming. Where I was born. Only for a +few weeks." + +And in that "only for a few weeks" there lay some of the unspoken +things. That he would miss her and come back quickly to her. That +she would miss him, and that subconsciously he knew it. And behind +that, too, a promise. He would come back to her. + +"Only for a few weeks," he repeated. "I thought perhaps, if you +wouldn't mind my writing to you, now and then--I write a rotten +hand, you know. Most medical men do." + +"I should like it very much," she said, primly. + +She felt suddenly very lonely, as though he had already gone, and +slightly resentful, not at him but at the way things happened. And +then, too, everyone knew that once a Westerner always a Westerner. +The West always called its children. Not that she put it that way. +But she had a sort of vision, gained from the moving pictures, of a +country of wide spaces and tall mountains, where men wore quaint +clothing and the women rode wild horses and had the dash she knew +she lacked. She was stirred by vague jealousy. + +"You may never come back," she said, casually. "After all, you +were born there, and we must seem very quiet to you." + +"Quiet!" he exclaimed. "You are heavenly restful and comforting. +You--" he checked himself and got up. "Then I'm to write, and you +are to make out as much of my scrawl as you can and answer. Is +that right?" + +"I'll write you all the town gossip." + +"If you do--!" he threatened her. "You're to write me what you're +doing, and all about yourself. Remember, I'll be counting on you." + +And, if their voices were light, there was in both of them the sense +of a pact made, of a bond that was to hold them, like clasped hands, +against their coming separation. It was rather anti-climacteric +after that to have him acknowledge that he didn't know exactly when +he could get away! + +She went with him to the door and stood there, her soft hair blowing, +as he got into the car. When he looked back, as he turned the corner, +she was still there. He felt very happy affable, and he picked up +an elderly village woman with her and went considerably out of his +way to take her home. + +He got back to the office at half past six to find a red-eyed +Minnie in the hall. + + + + +X + +AT half past five that afternoon David had let himself into the +house with his latch key, hung up his overcoat on the old walnut +hat rack, and went into his office. The strain of the days before +had told on him, and he felt weary and not entirely well. He had +fallen asleep in his buggy, and had wakened to find old Nettie +drawing him slowly down the main street of the town, pursuing an +erratic but homeward course, while the people on the pavements +watched and smiled. + +He went into his office, closed the door, and then, on the old +leather couch with its sagging springs he stretched himself out to +finish his nap. + +Almost immediately, however, the doorbell rang, and a moment later +Minnie opened his door. + +"Gentleman to see you, Doctor David." + +He got up clumsily and settled his collar. Then he opened the door +into his waiting-room. + +"Come in," he said resignedly. + +A small, dapper man, in precisely the type of clothes David most +abominated, and wearing light-colored spats, rose from his chair +and looked at him with evident surprise. + +"I'm afraid I've made a mistake. A Doctor Livingstone left his seat +number for calls at the box office of the Annex Theater last night +--the Happy Valley company--but he was a younger man. I--" + +David stiffened, but he surveyed his visitor impassively from under +his shaggy white eyebrows. + +"I haven't been in a theater for a dozen years, sir." + +Gregory was convinced that he had made a mistake. Like Louis +Bassett, the very unlikeliness of Jud Clark being connected with +the domestic atmosphere and quiet respectability of the old house +made him feel intrusive and absurd. He was about to apologize and +turn away, when he thought of something. + +"There are two names on your sign. The other one, was he by any +chance at the theater last night?" + +"I think I shall have to have a reason for these inquiries," David +said slowly. + +He was trying to place Gregory, to fit him into the situation; +straining back over ten years of security, racking his memory, +without result. + +"Just what have you come to find out?" he asked, as Gregory turned +and looked around the room. + +"The other Doctor Livingstone is your brother?" + +"My nephew." + +Gregory shot a sharp glance at him, but all he saw was an elderly +man, with heavy white hair and fierce shaggy eyebrows, a portly and +dignified elderly gentleman, rather resentfully courteous. + +"Sorry to trouble you," he said. "I suppose I've made a mistake. +I--is your nephew at home?" + +"No." + +"May I see a picture of him, if you have one?" + +David's wild impulse was to smash Gregory to the earth, to +annihilate him. His collar felt tight, and he pulled it away from +his throat. + +"Not unless I know why you want to see it." + +"He is tall, rather spare? And he took a young lady to the theater +last night?" Gregory persisted. + +"He answers that description. What of it?" + +"And he is your nephew?" + +"My brother's son," David said steadily. + +Somehow it began to dawn on him that there was nothing inimical in +this strange visitor, that he was anxious and ill at ease. There +was, indeed, something almost beseeching in Gregory's eyes, as +though he stood ready to give confidence for confidence. And, more +than that, a sort of not unfriendly stubbornness, as though he had +come to do something he meant to do. + +"Sit down," he said, relaxing somewhat. "Certainly my nephew is +making no secret of the fact that he went to the theater last night. +If you'll tell me who you are--" + +But Gregory did not sit down. He stood where he was, and continued +to eye David intently. + +"I don't know just what it conveys to you, Doctor, but I am Beverly +Carlysle's brother." + +David lowered himself into his chair. His knees were suddenly weak +under him. But he was able to control his voice. + +"I see," he said. And waited. + +"Something happened last night at the theater. It may be important. +I'd have to see your nephew, in order to find out if it is. I can't +afford to make a mistake." + +David's ruddy color had faded. He opened a drawer of his desk and +produced a copy of the photograph of Dick in his uniform. "Maybe +this will help you." + +Gregory studied it carefully, carrying it to the window to do so. +When he confronted David again he was certain of himself and his +errand for the first time, and his manner had changed. + +"Yes," he said, significantly. "It does." + +He placed the photograph on the desk, and sitting down, drew his +chair close to David's. "I'll not use any names, Doctor. I think +you know what I'm talking about. I was sure enough last night. +I'm certain now." + +David nodded. "Go on." + +"We'll start like this. God knows I don't want to make any trouble. +But I'll put a hypothetical case. Suppose that a man when drunk +commits a crime and then disappears; suppose he leaves behind him +a bad record and an enormous fortune; suppose then he reforms and +becomes a useful citizen, and everything is buried." + +Doctor David listened stonily. Gregory lowered his voice. + +"Suppose there's a woman mixed up in that situation. Not guiltily, +but there's a lot of talk. And suppose she lives it down, for ten +years, and then goes back to her profession, in a play the families +take the children to see, and makes good. It isn't hard to suppose +that neither of those two people wants the thing revived, is it?" + +David cleared his throat. + +"You mean, then, that there is danger of such a revival?" + +"I think there is," Gregory said bitterly. "I recognized this man +last night, and called a fellow who knew him in the old days, +Saunders, our stage manager. And a newspaper man named Bassett +wormed it out of Saunders. You know what that means." + +David heard him clearly, but as though from a great distance. + +"You can see how it appears to Bassett. If he's found it, it's the +big story of a lifetime. I thought he'd better be warned." + +When David said nothing, but sat holding tight to the arms of his +old chair, Gregory reached for his hat and got up. + +"The thing for him to do," he said, "is to leave town for a while. +This Bassett is a hound-hog on a scent. They all are. He is +Bassett of the Times-Republican. And he took Jud--he took your +nephew's automobile license number." + +Still David sat silent, and Gregory moved to the door. + +"Get him away, to-night if you can." + +"Thank you," David said. His voice was thick. "I appreciate your +coming." + +He got up dizzily, as Gregory said, "Good-evening" and went out. +The room seemed very dark and unsteady, and not familiar. So this +was what had happened, after all the safe years! A man could work +and build and pray, but if his house was built on the sand-- + +As the outer door closed David fell to the floor with a crash. + + + + +XI + +Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was Harrison +Miller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. +And as he waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, +behind the neatly curtained windows of the old brick house. + +He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgotten +something, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather +high order; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly +sure to be drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again +his interested survey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort +of haven for Clark, if it were Clark, had shown considerable +shrewdness. The town fairly smelt of respectability; the tree-shaded +streets, the children in socks and small crisp-laundered garments, +the houses set back, each in its square of shaved lawn, all peaceful, +middle class and unexciting. The last town in the world for Judson +Clark, the last profession, the last house, this shabby old brick +before him. + +He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been +right in his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that +moment, very possibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would +know his type, that he never let go. He drew himself up a little. + +The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the +station. Bassett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm. + +"Well?" he said cheerfully. "It was, wasn't it?" + +Gregory stopped dead and stared at him. Then: + +"Old dog Tray!" he said sneeringly. "If your brain was as good +as your nose, Bassett, you'd be a whale of a newspaper man." + +"Don't bother about my brain. It's working fine to-day, anyhow. +Well, what had he to say for himself?" + +Gregory's mind was busy, and he had had a moment to pull himself +together. + +"We both get off together," he said, more amiably. "That fellow +isn't Jud Clark and never was. He's a doctor, and the nephew of +the old doctor there. They're in practice together." + +"Did you see them both?" + +"Yes." + +Bassett eyed him. Either Gregory was a good actor, or the whole +trail ended there after all. He himself had felt, after his +interview, with Dick, that the scent was false. And there was +this to be said: Gregory had been in the house scarcely ten +minutes. Long enough to acknowledge a mistake, but hardly long +enough for any dramatic identification. He was keenly disappointed, +but he had had long experience of disappointment, and after a +moment he only said: + +"Well, that's that. He certainly looked like Clark to me." + +"I'll say he did." + +"Rather surprised him, didn't you?" + +"Oh, he was all right," Gregory said. "I didn't tell him anything, +of course." + +Bassett looked at his watch. + +"I was after you, all right," he said, cheerfully. "But if I was +barking up the wrong tree, I'm done. I don't have to be hit on the +head to make me stop. Come and have a soda-water on me," he +finished amiably. "There's no train until seven." + +But Gregory refused. + +"No, thanks. I'll wander on down to the station and get a paper." + +The reporter smiled. Gregory was holding a grudge against him, for +a bad night and a bad day. + +"All right," he said affably. "I'll see you at the train. I'll +walk about a bit." + +He turned and started back up the street again, walking idly. His +chagrin was very real. He hated to be fooled, and fooled he had +been. Gregory was not the only one who had lost a night's sleep. +Then, unexpectedly, he was hailed from the curbstone, and he saw +with amazement that it was Dick Livingstone. + +"Take you anywhere?" Dick asked. "How's the headache?" + +"Better, thanks." Bassett stared at him. "No, I'm just walking +around until train-time. Are you starting out or going home, +at this hour?" + +"Going home. Well, glad the head's better." + +He drove on, leaving the reporter gazing after him. So Gregory had +been lying. He hadn't seen this chap at all. Then why--? He +walked on, turning this new phase of the situation over in his mind. +Why this elaborate fiction, if Gregory had merely gone in, waited +for ten minutes, and come out again? + +It wasn't reasonable. It wasn't logical. Something had happened +inside the house to convince Gregory that he was right. He had +seen somebody, or something. He hadn't needed to lie. He could +have said frankly that he had seen no one. But no, he had built +up a fabric carefully calculated to throw Bassett off the scent. + +He saw Dick stop in front of the house, get out and enter. And +coming to a decision, he followed him and rang the doorbell. For a +long time no one answered. Then the maid of the afternoon opened +the door, her eyes red with crying, and looked at him with hostility. + +"Doctor Richard Livingstone?" + +"You can't see him." + +"It's important." + +"Well, you can't see him. Doctor David has just had a stroke. He's +in the office now, on the floor." + +She closed the door on him, and he turned and went away. It was +all clear to him; Gregory had seen, not Clark, but the older man; +had told him and gone away. And under the shock the older man had +collapsed. That was sad. It was very sad. But it was also +extremely convincing. + +He sat up late that night again, running over the entries in his +notebook. The old story, as he pieced it out, ran like this: + +It had been twelve years ago, when, according to the old files, +Clark had financed Beverly Carlysle's first starring venture. He +had, apparently, started out in the beginning only to give her the +publicity she needed. In devising it, however, he had shown a sort +of boyish recklessness and ingenuity that had caught the interest +of the press, and set newspaper men to chuckling wherever they got +together. + +He had got together a dozen or so of young men like himself, wealthy, +idle and reckless with youth, and, headed by him, they had made the +exploitation of the young star an occupation. The newspapers +referred to the star and her constellation as Beverly Carlysle and +her Broadway Beauties. It had been unvicious, young, and highly +entertaining, and it had cost Judson Clark his membership in his +father's conservative old clubs. + +For a time it livened the theatrical world with escapades that were +harmless enough, if sensational. Then, after a time, newspaper row +began to whisper that young Clark was in love with the girl. The +Broadway Beauties broke up, after a wild farewell dinner. The +audiences ceased to expect a row of a dozen youths, all dressed +alike with gardenias in their buttonholes and perhaps red neckties +with their evening suits, to rise in their boxes on the star's +appearance and solemnly bow. And the star herself lost a little +of the anxious look she frequently wore. + +The story went, after a while, that Judson Clark had been refused, +and was taking his refusal badly. Reporters saw him, carelessly +dressed, outside the stage door waiting, and the story went that +the girl had thrown him over, money and all, for her leading man. +One thing was clear; Clark, not a drinker before, had taken to +drinking hard, and after a time, and some unpleasant scenes probably, +she refused to see him any more. + +When the play closed, in June, 1911, she married Howard Lucas, her +leading man; his third wife. Lucas had been not a bad chap, a +good-looking, rather negligible man, given to all-day Sunday poker, +carefully valeted, not very keen mentally, but amiable. They had +bought a house on East Fifty-sixth Street, and were looking for a +new play with Lucas as co-star, when he unaccountably went to pieces +nervously, stopped sleeping, and developed a slight twitching of +his handsome, rather vacuous face. + +Judson Clark had taken his yacht and gone to Europe, and was +reported from here and there not too favorably. But when he came +back, in early September, he had apparently recovered from his +infatuation, was his old, carefully dressed self again, and when +interviewed declared his intention of spending the winter on his +Wyoming ranch. + +Of course he must have heard of Lucas's breakdown, and equally, of +course, he must have seen them both. What happened at that +interview, by what casual attitude he allayed Lucas's probable +jealousy and the girl's own nervousness, Bassett had no way of +discovering. It was clear that he convinced them both of his good +faith, for the next note in the reporter's book was simply a date, +September 12, 1911. + +That was the day they had all started West together, traveling in +Clark's private car, with Lucas, twitching slightly, smiling and +waving farewell from a window. + +The big smash did not come until the middle of October. + +Bassett sat back and considered. He had a fairly clear idea of the +conditions at the ranch; daily riding, some little reading, and a +great deal too much of each other. A sick man, too, unhappy in his +exile, chafing against his restrictions, lonely and irritable. The +girl, early seeing her mistake, and Clark's jealousy of her husband. +The door into their apartment closing, the thousand and one +unconscious intimacies between man and wife, the breakfast for two +going up the stairs, and below that hot-eyed boy, agonized and +passionately jealous, yet meeting them and looking after them, their +host and a gentleman. + +Lucas took to drinking, after a time, to allay his sheer boredom. +And Jud Clark drank with him. At the end of three weeks they were +both drinking heavily, and were politely quarrelsome. Bassett +could fill that in also. He could see the girl protesting, watching, +increasingly anxious as she saw that Clark's jealousy was matched +by her husband's. + +A queer picture, he reflected, the three of them shut away on the +great ranch, and every day some new tension, some new strain. + +Then, one night at dinner, they quarreled, and Beverly left the +table. She was going to pack her things and go back to New York. +She had felt, probably, that something was bound to snap. And while +she was upstairs Clark had shot and killed Howard Lucas, and himself +disappeared. + +He had run, testimony at the inquest revealed, to the corral, and +saddled a horse. Although it was only October, it was snowing hard, +but in spite of that he had turned his horse toward the mountains. +By midnight a posse from Norada had started out, and another up the +Dry River Canyon, but the storm turned into a blizzard in the +mountains, and they were obliged to turn back. A few inches more +snow, and they could not have got their horses out. A week or so +later, with a crust of ice over it, a few of them began again, with +no expectation, however, of finding Clark alive. They came across +his horse on the second day, but they did not find him, and there +were some among them who felt that, after all, old Elihu Clark's +boy had chosen the better way. + +Bassett closed his notebook and lighted a cigar. + +There was a big story to be had for the seeking, a whale of a story. +He could go to the office, give them a hint, draw expense money and +start for Norada the next night. He knew well enough that he would +have to begin there, and that it would not be easy. Witnesses of +the affair at the ranch would be missing now, or when found the +first accuracy of their statements would either be dulled by time or +have been added to with the passing years. The ranch itself might +have passed into other hands. To reconstruct the events of ten +years ago might be impossible, or nearly so. But that was not his +problem. He would have to connect Norada with Haverly, Clark with +Livingstone. One thing only was simple. If he found Livingstone's +story was correct, that he had lived on a ranch near Norada before +the crime and as Livingstone, then he would acknowledge that two men +could look precisely alike and come from the same place, and yet not +be the same. If not-- + +But, after he had turned out his light and got into bed, he began +to feel a certain distaste for his self-appointed task. If +Livingstone were Clark, if after years of effort he had pulled +himself up by his own boot-straps, had made himself a man out of +the reckless boy he had been, a decent and useful citizen, why pull +him down? After all, the world hadn't lost much in Lucas; a sleek, +not over-intelligent big animal, that had been Howard Lucas. + +He decided to sleep over it, and by morning he found himself not +only disinclined to the business, but firmly resolved to let it drop. +Things were well enough as they were. The woman in the case was +making good. Jud was making good. And nothing would restore Howard +Lucas to that small theatrical world of his which had waved him +good-bye at the station so long ago. + +He shaved and dressed, his resolution still holding. He had indeed +almost a conscious glow of virtue, for he was making one of those +inglorious and unsung sacrifices which ought to bring a man credit +in the next world, because they certainly got him nowhere in this. +He was quite affable to the colored waiter who served his breakfasts +in the bachelor apartment house, and increased his weekly tip to a +dollar and a half. Then he sat down and opened the Times-Republican, +skimming over it after his habit for his own space, and frowning over +a row of exclamation and interrogation points unwittingly set behind +the name of the mayor. + +On the second page, however, he stopped, coffee cup in air. "Is +Judson Clark alive? Wife of former ranch manager makes confession." + +A woman named Margaret Donaldson, it appeared, fatally injured by +an automobile near the town of Norada, Wyoming, had made a confession +on her deathbed. In it she stated that, afraid to die without +shriving her soul, she had sent for the sheriff of Dallas County and +had made the following confession: + +That following the tragedy at the Clark ranch her husband, John +Donaldson, since dead, had immediately following the inquest, where +he testified, started out into the mountains in the hope of finding +Clark alive, as he knew of a deserted ranger's cabin where Clark +sometimes camped when hunting. It was his intention to search for +Clark at this cabin and effect his escape. He carried with him food +and brandy. + +That, owing to the blizzard, he was very nearly frozen; that he was +obliged to abandon his horse, shooting it before he did so, and that, +close to death himself, he finally reached the cabin and there found +Judson Clark, the fugitive, who was very ill. + +She further testified that her husband cared for Clark for four days, +Clark being delirious at the time, and that on the fifth day he +started back on foot for the Clark ranch, having left Clark locked +in the cabin, and that on the following night he took three horses, +two saddled, and one packed with food and supplies. That accompanied +by herself they went back to the cabin in the mountains and that she +remained there to care for Clark, while her husband returned to the +ranch, to prevent suspicion. + +That, a day or so later, looking out of her window, she had +perceived a man outside in the snow coming toward the cabin, and +that she had thought it one of the searching party. That her first +instinct had been to lock him outside, but that she had finally +admitted him, and that thereafter he had remained and had helped +her to care for the sick man. + +Unfortunately for the rest of the narrative it appeared that the +injured woman had here lapsed into a coma, and had subsequently +died, carrying her further knowledge with her. + +But, the article went on, the story opened a field of infinite +surmise. In all probability Judson Clark was still alive, living +under some assumed identity, free of punishment, outwardly +respectable. Three years before he had been adjudged legally +dead, and the estate divided, under bond of the legatees. + +Close to a hundred million dollars had gone to charities, and +Judson Clark, wherever he was, would be dependent on his own efforts +for existence. He could have summoned all the legal talent in the +country to his defense, but instead he had chosen to disappear. + +The whole situation turned on the deposition of Mrs. Donaldson, now +dead. The local authorities at Norada maintained that the woman +had not been sane for several years. On the other hand, the cabin +to which she referred was well known, and no search of it had been +made at the time. Clark's horse had been found not ten miles from +the town, and the cabin was buried in snow twenty miles further away. +If Clark had made that journey on foot he had accomplished the +impossible. + +Certain facts, according to the local correspondent, bore out +Margaret Donaldson's confession. Inquiry showed that she was +supposed to have spent the winter following Judson Clark's crime +with relatives in Omaha. She had returned to the ranch the +following spring. + +A detailed description of Judson Clark, and a photograph of him +accompanied the story. Bassett re-read the article carefully, and +swore a little, under his breath. If he had needed confirmation of +his suspicions, it lay to his hand. But the situation had changed +over night. There would be a search for Clark now, as wide as the +knowledge of his disappearance. Local police authorities would +turn him up in every city from Maine to the Pacific coast. Even +Europe would be on the lookout and South America. + +But it was not the police he feared so much as the press. Not all +of the papers, but some of them, would go after that story, and send +their best men on it. It offered not so much a chance of solution +as an opportunity to revive the old dramatic story. He could see, +when he closed his eyes, the local photographers climbing to that +cabin and later sending its pictures broadcast, and divers gentlemen +of the press, eager to pit their wits against ten years of time and +the ability of a once conspicuous man to hide from the law, packing +their suitcases for Norada. + +No, he couldn't stop now. He would go on, like the others, and with +this advantage, that he was morally certain he could lay his hands +on Clark at any time. But he would have to prove his case, connect +it. Who, for instance, was the other man in the cabin? He must +have known who the boy was who lay in that rough bunk, delirious. +Must have suspected anyhow. That made him, like the Donaldsons, +accessory after the fact, and criminally liable. Small chance of +him coming out with any confession. Yet he was the connecting link. +Must be. + +On his third reading the reporter began to visualize the human +elements of the fight to save the boy; he saw moving before him the +whole pitiful struggle; the indomitable ranch manager, his +heart-breaking struggle with the blizzard, the shooting of his horse, +the careful disarming of suspicion, and later the intrepid woman, +daring that night ride through snow that had sent the posse back +to its firesides to the boy, locked in the cabin and raving. + +His mind was busy as he packed his suitcase. Already he had +forgotten his compunctions of the early morning; he moved about +methodically, calculating roughly what expense money he would need, +and the line of attack, if any, required at the office. Between +Norada and that old brick house at Haverly lay his story. Ten +years of it. He was closing his bag when he remembered the little +girl in the blue dress, at the theater. He straightened and scowled. +After a moment he snapped the bag shut. Damn it all, if Clark had +chosen to He up with a girl, that was on Clark's conscience, not his. + +But he was vaguely uncomfortable. + +"It's a queer world, Joe," he observed to the waiter, who had come +in for the breakfast dishes. + + +"Yes, sir. It is that," said Joe. + + + + +XII + +DURING all the long night Dick sat by David's bedside. Earlier in +the evening there had been a consultation; David had suffered a light +stroke, but there was no paralysis, and the prognosis was good. +For this time, at least, David had escaped, but there must be no +other time. He was to be kept quiet and free from worry, his diet +was to be carefully regulated, and with care he still had long years +before him. + +David slept, his breathing heavy and slow. In the morning there +would be a nurse, but that night Dick, having sent Lucy to bed, +himself kept watch. On the walnut bed lay Doctor David's portly +figure, dimly outlined by the shaded lamp, and on a chair drawn +close sat Dick. + +He was wide-awake and very anxious, but as time went on and no +untoward symptoms appeared, as David's sleep seemed to grow easier +and more natural, Dick's thoughts wandered. They went to Elizabeth +first, and then on and on from that starting point, through the +years ahead. He saw the old house with Elizabeth waiting in it for +his return; he saw both their lives united and flowing on together, +with children, with small cares, with the routine of daily living, +and behind it all the two of them, hand in hand. + +Then his mind turned on himself. How often in the past ten years +it had done that! He had sat off, with a sort of professional +detachment, and studied his own case. With the entrance into his +world of the new science of psycho-analysis he had made now and +then small, not very sincere, attempts to penetrate the veil of his +own unconscious devising. Not very sincere, for with the increase +of his own knowledge of the mind he had learned that behind such +conditions as his lay generally, deeply hidden, the desire to +forget. And that behind that there lay, acknowledged or not, fear. + +"But to forget what?" he used to say to David, when the first +text-books on the new science appeared, and he and David were +learning the new terminology, Dick eagerly and David with +contemptuous snorts of derision. "To forget what?" + +"You had plenty to forget," David would say, stolidly. "I think +this man's a fool, but at that--you'd had your father's death, for +one thing. And you'd gone pretty close to the edge of eternity +yourself. You'd fought single-handed the worst storm of ten years, +you came out of it with double pneumonia, and you lay alone in that +cabin about fifty-six hours. Forget! You had plenty to forget." + +It had never occurred to Dick to doubt David's story. It did not, +even now. He had accepted it unquestioningly from the first, +supplemented the shadowy childish memories that remained to him with +it, and gradually co-ordinating the two had built out of them his +house of the past. + +Thus, the elderly man whom he dimly remembered was not only his +father; he was David's brother. And he had died. It was the shock +of that death, according to David, that had sent him into the +mountains, where David had followed and nursed him back to health. + +It was quite simple, and even explicable by the new psychology. +Not that he had worried about the new psychology in those early days. +He had been profoundly lethargic, passive and incurious. It had +been too much trouble even to think. + +True, he had brought over from those lost years certain instincts +and a few mental pictures. He had had a certain impatience at first +over the restrictions of comparative poverty; he had had to learn +the value of money. And the pictures he retained had had a certain +opulence which the facts appeared to contradict. Thus he remembered +a large ranch house, and innumerable horses, grazing in meadows or +milling in a corral. But David had warned him early that there was +no estate; that his future depended entirely on his own efforts. + +Then the new life had caught and held him. For the first time he +had mothering and love. Lucy was his mother, and David the pattern +to which he meant to conform. He was happy and contented. + +Now and then, in the early days, he had been conscious of a desire +to go back and try to reconstruct his past again. Later on he knew +that if he were ever to fill up the gap in his life, it would be +easier in that environment of once familiar things. But in the +first days he had been totally dependent on David, and money was +none too plentiful. Later on, as the new life took hold, as he +went to medical college and worked at odd clerical jobs in +vacations to help pay his way, there had been no chance. Then the +war came, and on his return there had been the practice, and his +knowledge that David's health was not what it should have been. + +But as time went on he was more and more aware that there was in +him a peculiar shrinking from going back, an almost apprehension. +He knew more of the mind than he had before, and he knew that not +physical hardship, but mental stress, caused such lapses as his. +But what mental stress had been great enough for such a smash? +His father's death? + +Strain and fear, said the new psychology. Fear? He had never found +himself lacking in courage. Certainly he would have fought a man +who called him a coward. But there was cowardice behind all such +conditions as his; a refusal of the mind to face reality. It was +weak. Weak. He hated himself for that past failure of his to face +reality. + +But that night, sitting by David's bed, he faced reality with a +vengeance. He was in love, and he wanted the things that love +should bring to a normal man. He felt normal. He felt, +strengthened by love, that he could face whatever life had to bring, +so long as also it brought Elizabeth. + +Painfully he went back over his talk with David the preceding +Sunday night. + +"Don't be a fool," David had said. "Go ahead and take her, if +she'll have you. And don't be too long about it. I'm not as young +as I used to be." + +"What I feel," he had replied, "is this: I don't know, of course, +if she cares." David had grunted. "I do know I'm going to try to +make her care, if it--if it's humanly possible. But I'd like to +go back to the ranch again, David, before things go any further." + +"Why?" + +"I'd like to fill the gap. Attempt it anyhow." + +What he was thinking about, as he sat by David's bedside, was +David's attitude toward that threatened return of his. For David +had opposed it, offering a dozen trivial, almost puerile reasons. +Had shown indeed, a dogged obstinacy and an irritability that were +somehow oddly like fear. David afraid! David, whose life and +heart were open books! David, whose eyes never wavered, nor his +courage! + +"You let well enough alone, Dick," he had finished. "You've got +everything you want. And a medical man can't afford to go gadding +about. When people want him they want him." + +But he had noticed that David had been different, since. He had +taken to following him with his faded old eyes, had even spoken +once of retiring and turning all the work over to him. Was it +possible that David did not want him to go back to Norada? + +He bent over and felt the sick man's pulse. It was stronger, not +so rapid. The mechanical act took him back to his first memory of +David. + +He had been lying in a rough bunk in the mountain cabin, and David, +beside him on a wooden box, had been bending forward and feeling +his pulse. He had felt weak and utterly inert, and he knew now +that he had been very ill. The cabin had been a small and lonely +one, with snow-peaks not far above it, and it had been very cold. +During the day a woman kept up the fire. Her name was Maggie, and +she moved about the cabin like a thin ghost. At night she slept +in a lean-to shed and David kept the fire going. A man who seemed +to know him well--John Donaldson, he learned, was his name--was +Maggie's husband, and every so often he came, about dawn, and +brought food and supplies. + +After a long time, as he grew stronger, Maggie had gone away, and +David had fried the bacon and heated the canned tomatoes or the +beans. Before she left she had written out a recipe for biscuits, +and David would study over it painstakingly, and then produce a +panfull of burned and blackened lumps, over which he would groan +and agonize. + +He himself had been totally incurious. He had lived a sort of +animal life of food and sleep, and later on of small tentative +excursions around the room on legs that shook when he walked. The +snows came and almost covered the cabin, and David had read a great +deal, and talked at intervals. David had tried to fill up the gap +in his mind. That was how he learned that David was his father's +brother, and that his father had recently died. + +Going over it all now, it had certain elements that were not clear. +They had, for instance, never gone back to the ranch at all. With +the first clearing of the snow in the spring John Donaldson had +appeared again, leading two saddled horses and driving a pack animal, +and they had started off, leaving him standing in the clearing and +gazing after them. But they had not followed Donaldson's trail. +They had started West, over the mountains, and David did not know +the country. Once they were lost for three days. + +He looked at the figure on the bed. Only ten years, and yet at +that time David had been vigorous, seemed almost young. He had +aged in that ten years. On the bed he was an old man, a tired old +man at that. On that long ride he had been tireless. He had taken +the burden of the nightly camps, and had hacked a trail with his +hatchet across snow fields while Dick, still weak but furiously +protesting, had been compelled to stand and watch. + +Now, with the perspective of time behind him, and with the clearly +defined issue of David's protest against his return to the West, he +went again over the details of that winter and spring. Why had they +not taken Donaldson's trail? Or gone back to the ranch? Why, since +Donaldson could make it, had not other visitors come? Another +doctor, the night he almost died, and David sat under the lamp +behind the close-screened windows, and read the very pocket +prayer-book that now lay on the stand beside the bed? Why had they +burned his clothes, and Donaldson brought a new outfit? Why did +Donaldson, for all his requests, never bring a razor, so that when +they struck the railroad, miles from anywhere, they were both full +bearded? + +He brought himself up sharply. He had allowed his imagination to +run away with him. He had been depicting a flight and no one who +knew David could imagine him in flight. + +Nevertheless he was conscious of a new uneasiness and anxiety. +When David recovered sufficiently he would go to Norada, as he had +told Elizabeth, and there he would find the Donaldsons, and clear +up the things that bothered him. After that-- + +He thought of Elizabeth, of her sweetness and sanity. He remembered +her at the theater the evening before, lost in its fictitious +emotions, its counterfeit drama. He had felt moved to comfort her, +when he found her on the verge of tears. + +"Just remember, they're only acting," he had said. + +"Yes. But life does do things like that to people." + +"Not often. The theater deals in the dramatic exceptions to life. +You and I, plain bread and butter people, come to see these things +because we get a sort of vicarious thrill out of them." + +"Doesn't anything ever happen to the plain bread and butter people?" + +"A little jam, sometimes. Or perhaps they drop it, butter side +down, on the carpet." + +"But that is tragedy, isn't it?" + +He had had to acknowledge that it might be. But he had been quite +emphatic over the fact that most people didn't drop it. + +After a long time he slept in his chair. The spring wind came in +through the opened window, and fluttered the leaves of the old +prayer-book on the stand. + + + + +XIII + +The week that followed was an anxious one. David's physical +condition slowly improved. The slight thickness was gone from his +speech, and he sipped resignedly at the broths Lucy or the nurse +brought at regular intervals. Over the entire house there hung all +day the odor of stewing chicken or of beef tea in the making, and +above the doorbell was a white card which said: "Don't ring. +Walk in." + +As it happened, no one in the old house had seen Maggie Donaldson's +confession in the newspaper. Lucy was saved that anxiety, at least. +Appearing, as it did, the morning after David's stroke, it came in +with the morning milk, lay about unnoticed, and passed out again, +to start a fire or line a pantry shelf. Harrison Miller, next door, +read it over his coffee. Walter Wheeler in the eight-thirty train +glanced at it and glanced away. Nina Ward read it in bed. And +that was all. + +There came to the house a steady procession of inquirers and bearers +of small tribute, flowers and jellies mostly, but other things also. +A table in David's room held a steadily growing number of bedroom +slippers, and Mrs. Morgan had been seen buying soles for still +others. David, propped up in his bed, would cheer a little at these +votive offerings, and then relapse again into the heavy troubled +silence that worried Dick and frightened Lucy Crosby. Something had +happened, she was sure. Something connected with Dick. She watched +David when Dick was in the room, and she saw that his eyes followed +the younger man with something very like terror. + +And for the first time since he had walked into the house that night +so long ago, followed by the tall young man for whose coming a +letter had prepared her, she felt that David had withdrawn himself +from her. She went about her daily tasks a little hurt, and waited +for him to choose his own time. But, as the days went on, she saw +that whatever this new thing might be, he meant to fight it out +alone, and that the fighting it out alone was bad for him. He +improved very slowly. + +She wondered, sometimes, if it was after all because of Dick's +growing interest in Elizabeth Wheeler. She knew that he was seeing +her daily, although he was too busy now for more than a hasty call. +She felt that she could even tell when he had seen her; he would +come in, glowing and almost exalted, and, as if to make up for the +moments stolen from David, would leap up the stairs two at a time +and burst into the invalid's room like a cheerful cyclone. Wasn't +it possible that David had begun to feel as she did, that the girl +was entitled to a clean slate before she pledged herself to Dick? +And the slate--poor Dick!--could never be cleaned. + +Then, one day, David astonished them both. He was propped up in +his bed, and he had demanded a cigar, and been very gently but +firmly refused. He had been rather sulky about it, and Dick had +been attempting to rally him into better humor when he said suddenly: + +"I've had time to think things over, Dick. I haven't been fair to +you. You're thrown away here. Besides--" he hesitated. Then: +"We might as well face it. The day of the general practitioner +has gone." + +"I don't believe it," Dick said stoutly. "Maybe we are only +signposts to point the way to the other fellows, but the world will +always need signposts." + +"What I've been thinking of," David pursued his own train of thought, +"is this: I want you to go to Johns Hopkins and take up the special +work you've been wanting to do. I'll be up soon and--" + +"Call the nurse, Aunt Lucy," said Dick. "He's raving." + +"Not at all," David retorted testily. "I've told you. This whole +town only comes here now to be told what specialist to go to, and +you know it." + +"I don't know anything of the sort." + +"If you don't, it's because you won't face the facts." Dick +chuckled, and threw an arm over David's shoulder, "You old +hypocrite!" he said. "You're trying to get rid of me, for some +reason. Don't tell me you're going to get married!" + +But David did not smile. Lucy, watching him from her post by the +window, saw his face and felt a spasm of fear. At the most, she +had feared a mental conflict in David. Now she saw that it might +be something infinitely worse, something impending and immediate. +She could hardly reply when Dick appealed to her. + +"Are you going to let him get rid of me like this, Aunt Lucy?" he +demanded. "Sentenced to Johns Hopkins, like Napoleon to St. Helena! +Are you with me, or forninst me?" + +"I don't know, Dick," she said, with her eyes on David. "If it's +for your good--" + +She went out after a time, leaving them at it hammer and tongs. +David was vanquished in the end, but Dick, going down to the office +later on, was puzzled. Somehow it was borne in on him that behind +David's insistence was a reason, unspoken but urgent, and the only +reason that occurred to him as possible was that David did not, +after all, want him to marry Elizabeth Wheeler. He put the matter +to the test that night, wandering in in dressing-gown and slippers, +as was his custom before going to bed, for a brief chat. The nurse +was downstairs, and Dick moved about the room restlessly. Then he +stopped and stood by the bed, looking down. + +"A few nights ago, David, I asked you if you thought it would be +right for me to marry; if my situation justified it, and if to your +knowledge there was any other reason why I could not or should not. +You said there was not." + +"There is no reason, of course. If she'll have you." + +"I don't know that. I know that whether she will or not is a pretty +vital matter to me, David." + +David nodded, silently. + +"But now you want me to go away. To leave her. You're rather +urgent about it. And I feel-well I begin to think you have a reason +for it." + +David clenched his hands under the bed-clothing, but he returned +Dick's gaze steadily. + +"She's a good girl," he said. "But she's entitled to more than +you can give her, the way things are." + +"That is presupposing that she cares for me. I haven't an idea +that she does. That she may, in time-- Then, that's the reason +for this Johns Hopkins thing, is it?" + +"That's the reason," David said stoutly. "She would wait for you. +She's that sort. I've known her all her life. She's as steady +as a rock. But she's been brought up to have a lot of things. +Walter Wheeler is well off. You do as I want you to; pack your +things and go to Baltimore. Bring Reynolds down here to look +after the work until I'm around again." + +But Dick evaded the direct issue thus opened and followed another +line of thought. + +"Of course you understand," he observed, after a renewal of his +restless pacing, "that I've got to tell her my situation first. I +don't need to tell you that I funk doing it, but it's got to be done." + +"Don't be a fool," David said querulously. "You'll set a lot of +women cackling, and what they don't know they'll invent. I know + 'em." + +"Only herself and her family." + +"Why?" + +"Because they have a right to know it." + +But when he saw David formulating a further protest he dropped the +subject. + +"I'll not do it until we've gone into it together," he promised. +"There's plenty of time. You settle down now and get ready for +sleep." + +When the nurse came in at eleven o'clock she found Dick gone and +David, very still, with his face to the wall. + +It was the end of May before David began to move about his upper +room. The trees along the shaded streets had burst into full leaf +by that time, and Mike was enjoying that gardener's interval of +paradise when flowers grow faster than the weeds among them. +Harrison Miller, having rolled his lawn through all of April, was +heard abroad in the early mornings with the lawn mower or hoe in +hand was to be seen behind his house in his vegetable patch. + +Cars rolled through the streets, the rear seats laden with blossoming +loot from the country lanes, and the Wheeler dog was again burying +bones in the soft warm ground under the hedge. + +Elizabeth Wheeler was very happy. Her look of expectant waiting, +once vague, had crystallized now into definite form. She was +waiting, timidly and shyly but with infinite content. In time, +everything would come. And in the meantime there was to-day, and +some time to-day a shabby car would stop at the door, and there +would be five minutes, or ten. And then Dick would have to hurry +to work, or back to David. After that, of course, to-day was over, +but there would always be to-morrow. + +Now and then, at choir practice or at service, she saw Clare +Rossiter. But Clare was very cool to her, and never on any account +sought her, or spoke to her alone. She was rather unhappy about +Clare, when she remembered her. Because it must be so terrible to +care for a man who only said, when one spoke of Clare, "Oh, the tall +blonde girl?" + +Once or twice, too, she had found Clare's eyes on her, and they +were hostile eyes. It was almost as though they said: +"I hate you because you know. But don't dare to pity me." + +Yet, somehow, Elizabeth found herself not entirely believing that +Clare's passion was real. Because the real thing you hid with all +your might, at least until you were sure it was wanted. After that, +of course, you could be so proud of it that you might become utterly +shameless. She was afraid sometimes that she was the sort to be +utterly shameless. Yet, for all her halcyon hours, there were +little things that worried her. Wallie Sayre, for instance, always +having to be kept from saying things she didn't want to hear. And +Nina. She wasn't sure that Nina was entirely happy. And, of +course, there was Jim. + +Jim was difficult. Sometimes he was a man, and then again he was +a boy, and one never knew just which he was going to be. He was +too old for discipline and too young to manage himself. He was +spending almost all his evenings away from home now, and her mother +always drew an inaudible sigh when he was spoken of. + +Elizabeth had waited up for him one night, only a short time before, +and beckoning him into her room, had talked to him severely. + +"You ought to be ashamed, Jim," she said. "You're simply worrying +mother sick." + +"Well, why?" he demanded defiantly. "I'm old enough to take care +of myself." + +"You ought to be taking care of her, too." + +He had looked rather crestfallen at that, and before he went out +he offered a half-sheepish explanation. + +"I'd tell them where I go," he said, "but you'd think a pool room +was on the direct road to hell. Take to-night, now. I can't tell +them about it, but it was all right. I met Wallie Sayre and Leslie +at the club before dinner, and we got a fourth and played bridge. +Only half a cent a point. I swear we were going on playing, but +somebody brought in a chap named Gregory for a cocktail. He turned +out to be a brother of Beverly Carlysle, the actress, and he took +us around to the theater and gave us a box. Not a thing wrong with +it, was there?" + +"Where did you go from there?" she persisted inexorably. "It's +half past one." + +"Went around and met her. She's wonderful, Elizabeth. But do you +know what would happen if I told them? They'd have a fit." + +She felt rather helpless, because she knew he was right from his +own standpoint. + +"I know. I'm surprised at Les, Jim." + +"Oh, Les! He just trailed along. He's all right." + +She kissed him and he went out, leaving her to lie awake for a long +time. She would have had all her world happy those days, and all +her world good. She didn't want anybody's bread and butter spilled +on the carpet. + +So the days went on, and the web slowly wove itself into its +complicated pattern: Bassett speeding West, and David in his quiet +room; Jim and Leslie Ward seeking amusement, and finding it in the +littered dressing-room of a woman star at a local theater; Clare +Rossiter brooding, and the little question being whispered behind +hands, figuratively, of course--the village was entirely well-bred; +Gregory calling round to see Bassett, and turning away with the +information that he had gone away for an indefinite time; and Maggie +Donaldson, lying in the cemetery at the foot of the mountains +outside Norada, having shriven her soul to the limit of her strength +so that she might face her Maker. + +Out of all of them it was Clare Rossiter who made the first conscious +move of the shuttle; Clare, affronted and not a little malicious, but +perhaps still dramatizing herself, this time as the friend who feels +forced to carry bad tidings. Behind even that, however, was an +unconscious desire to see Dick again, and this time so to impress +herself on him that never again could he pass her in the street +unnoticed. + +On the day, then, that David first sat up in bed Clare went to the +house and took her place in the waiting-room. She was dressed with +extreme care, and she carried a parasol. With it, while she waited, +she drilled small nervous indentations in the old office carpet, +and formulated her line of action. + +Nevertheless she found it hard to begin. + +"I don't want to keep you, if you're busy," she said, avoiding his +eyes. "If you are in a hurry--" + +"This is my business," he said patiently. And waited. + +"I wonder if you are going to understand me, when I do begin?" + +"You sound alarmingly ominous." He smiled at her, and she had a +moment of panic. "You don't look like a young lady with anything +eating at her damask cheek, or however it goes." + +"Doctor Livingstone," she said suddenly, "people are saying something +about you that you ought to know." + +He stared at her, amazed and incredulous. + +"About me? What can they say? That's absurd." + +"I felt you ought to know. Of course I don't believe it. Not for +a moment. But you know what this town is." + +"I know it's a very good town," he said steadily. "However, let's +have it. I daresay it is not very serious." + +She was uneasy enough by that time, and rather frightened when she +had finished. For he sat, quiet and rather pale, not looking at +her at all, but gazing fixedly at an old daguerreotype of David +that stood on his desk. One that Lucy had shown him one day and +which he had preempted; David at the age of eight, in a small black +velvet suit and with very thin legs. + +"I thought you ought to know," she justified herself, nervously. + +Dick got up. + +"Yes," he said. "I ought to know, of course. Thank you." + +When she had gone he went back and stood before the picture again. +From Clare's first words he had had a stricken conviction that the +thing was true; that, as Mrs. Cook Morgan's visitor from Wyoming +had insisted, Henry Livingstone had never married, never had a son. +He stood and gazed at the picture. His world had collapsed about +him, but he was steady and very erect. + +"David, David!" he thought. "Why did you do it? And what am I? +And who?" + +Characteristically his first thought after that was of David himself. +Whatever David had done, his motive had been right. He would have +to start with that. If David had built for him a false identity it +was because there was a necessity for it. Something shameful, +something he was to be taken away from. Wasn't it probable that +David had heard the gossip, and had then collapsed? Wasn't the fear +that he himself would hear it behind David's insistence that he go +to Baltimore? + +His thoughts flew to Elizabeth. Everything was changed now, as to +Elizabeth. He would have to be very certain of that past of his +before he could tell her that he loved her, and he had a sense of +immediate helplessness. He could not go to David, as things were. +To Lucy? + +Probably he would have gone to Lucy at once, but the telephone rang. +He answered it, got his hat and bag and went out to the car. Years +with David had made automatic the subordination of self to the +demands of the practice. + +At half past six Lucy heard him come in and go into his office. +When he did not immediately reappear and take his flying run up +the stairs to David's room, she stood outside the office door and +listened. She had a premonition of something wrong, something of +the truth, perhaps. Anyhow, she tapped at the door and opened it, +to find him sitting very quietly at his desk with his head in his +hands. + +"Dick!" she exclaimed. "Is anything wrong?" + +"I have a headache," he said. He looked at his watch and got up. +"I'll take a look at David, and then we'll have dinner. I didn't +know it was so late." + +But when she had gone out he did not immediately move. He had been +going over again, painfully and carefully, the things that puzzled +him, that he had accepted before without dispute. David and Lucy's +reluctance to discuss his father; the long days in the cabin, with +David helping him to reconstruct his past; the spring, and that slow +progress which now he felt, somehow, had been an escape. + +He ate very little dinner, and Lucy's sense of dread increased. +When, after the meal, she took refuge in her sitting-room on the +lower floor and picked up her knitting, it was with a conviction +that it was only a temporary reprieve. She did not know from what. + +She heard him, some time later, coming down from David's room. But +he did not turn into his office. Instead, he came on to her door, +stood for a moment like a man undecided, then came in. She did not +look up, even when very gently he took her knitting from her and +laid it on the table. + +"Aunt Lucy." + +"Yes, Dick." + +"Don't you think we'd better have a talk?" + +"What about?" she asked, with her heart hammering. + +"About me." He stood above her, and looked down, still with the +tenderness with which he always regarded her, but with resolution +in his very attitude. "First of all, I'll tell you something. +Then I'll ask you to tell me all you can." + +She yearned over him as he told her, for all her terror. His voice, +for all its steadiness, was strained. + +"I have felt for some time," he finished, "that you and David were +keeping something from me. I think, now, that this is what it was. +Of course, you realize that I shall have to know." + +"Dick! Dick!" was all she could say. + +"I was about," he went on, with his almost terrible steadiness, "to +ask a girl to take my name. I want to know if I have a name to +offer her. I have, you see, only two alternatives to believe about +myself. Either I am Henry Livingstone's illegitimate son, and in +that case I have no right to my name, or to offer it to any one, or +I am--" + +He made a despairing gesture. + +"--or I am some one else, some one who was smuggled out of the +mountains and given an identity that makes him a living lie." + +Always she had known that this might come some time, but always +too she had seen David bearing the brunt of it. He should bear it. +It was not of her doing or of her approving. For years the danger +of discovery had hung over her like a cloud. + +"Do you know which?" he persisted. + +"Yes, Dick." + +"Would you have the unbelievable cruelty not to tell me?" + +She got up, a taut little figure with a dignity born of her fear +and of her love for him. + +"I shall not betray David's confidence," she said. "Long ago I +warned him that this time would come. I was never in favor of +keeping you in ignorance. But it is David's problem, and I cannot +take the responsibility of telling you." + +He knew her determination and her obstinate loyalty. But he was +fairly desperate. + +"You know that if you don't tell me, I shall go to David?" + +"If you go now you will kill him." + +"It's as bad as that, is it?" he asked grimly. "Then there is +something shameful behind it, is there?" + +"No, no, Dick. Not that. And I want you, always, to remember this. +What David did was out of love for you. He has made many sacrifices +for you. First he saved your life, and then he made you what you +are. And he has had a great pride in it. Don't destroy his work +of years." + +Her voice broke and she turned to go out, her chin quivering, but +half way to the door he called to her. + +"Aunt Lucy--" he said gently. + +She heard him behind her, felt his strong arms as he turned her +about. He drew her to him and stooping, kissed her cheek. + +"You're right," he said. "Always right. I'll not worry him with it. +My word of honor. When the time comes he'll tell me, and until it +comes, I'll wait. And I love you both. Don't ever forget that." + +He kissed her again and let her go. + +But long after David had put down his prayer-book that night, and +after the nurse had rustled down the stairs to the night supper on +the dining-room table, Lucy lay awake and listened to Dick's slow +pacing of his bedroom floor. + +He was very gentle with David from that time on, and tried to return +to his old light-hearted ways. On the day David was to have his +first broiled sweetbread he caught the nurse outside, borrowed her +cap and apron and carried in the tray himself. + +"I hope your food is to your taste, Doctor David," he said, in a +high falsetto which set the nurse giggling in the hall. "I may not +be much of a nurse, but I can cook." + +Even Lucy was deceived at times. He went his customary round, sent +out the monthly bills, opened and answered David's mail, bore the +double burden of David's work and his own ungrudgingly, but off +guard he was grave and abstracted. He began to look very thin, too, +and Lucy often heard him pacing the floor at night. She thought +that he seldom or never went to the Wheelers'. + +And so passed the tenth day of David's illness, with the smile on +Elizabeth's face growing a trifle fixed as three days went by +without the shabby car rattling to the door; with "The Valley" +playing its second and final week before going into New York; and +with Leslie Ward unconsciously taking up the shuttle Clare had +dropped, and carrying the pattern one degree further toward +completion. + + + + +XIV + +JUST how Leslie Ward had drifted into his innocuous affair with the +star of "The Valley" he was not certain himself. Innocuous it +certainly was. Afterwards, looking back, he was to wonder sometimes +if it had not been precisely for the purpose it served. But that +was long months after. Not until the pattern was completed and he +was able to recognize his own work in it. + +The truth was that he was not too happy at home. Nina's smart +little house on the Ridgely Road had at first kept her busy. She +had spent unlimited time with decorators, had studied and rejected +innumerable water-color sketches of interiors, had haunted auction +rooms and bid recklessly on things she felt at the moment she could +not do without, later on to have to wheedle Leslie into +straightening her bank balance. Thought, too, and considerable +energy had gone into training and outfitting her servants, and still +more into inducing them to wear the expensive uniforms and livery +she provided. + +But what she made, so successfully, was a house rather than a home. +There were times, indeed, when Leslie began to feel that it was not +even a house, but a small hotel. They almost never dined alone, +and when they did Nina would explain that everybody was tied up. +Then, after dinner, restlessness would seize her, and she would want +to run in to the theater, or to make a call. If he refused, she +nursed a grievance all evening. + +And he did not like her friends. Things came to a point where, when +he knew one of the gay evenings was on, he would stay in town, +playing billiards at his club, or occasionally wandering into a +theater, where he stood or sat at the back of the house and watched +the play with cynical, discontented eyes. + +The casual meeting with Gregory and the introduction to his sister +brought a new interest. Perhaps the very novelty was what first +attracted him, the oddity of feeling that he was on terms of +friendship, for it amounted to that with surprising quickness, +with a famous woman, whose face smiled out at him from his morning +paper or, huge and shockingly colored, from the sheets on the bill +boards. + +He formed the habit of calling on her in the afternoons at her hotel, +and he saw that she liked it. It was often lonely, she explained. +He sent her flowers and cigarettes, and he found her poised and +restful, and sometimes, when she was off guard, with the lines of +old suffering in her face. + +She sat still. She didn't fidget, as Nina did. She listened, too. +She was not as beautiful as she appeared on the stage, but she was +attractive, and he stilled his conscience with the knowledge that +she placed no undue emphasis on his visits. In her world men came +and went, brought or sent small tribute, and she was pleased and +grateful. No more. The next week, or the week after, and other +men in other places would be doing the same things. + +But he wondered about her, sometimes. Did she ever think of Judson +Clark, and the wreck he had made of her life? What of resentment +and sorrow lay behind her quiet face, or the voice with its careful +intonations which was so unlike Nina's? + +Now and then he saw her brother. He neither liked nor disliked +Gregory, but he suspected him of rather bullying Beverly. On the +rare occasions when he saw them together there was a sort of nervous +tension in the air, and although Leslie was not subtle he sensed +some hidden difference between them. A small incident one day +almost brought this concealed dissension to a head. He said to +Gregory: + +"By the way, I saw you in Haverly yesterday afternoon." + +"Must have seen somebody else. Haverly? Where's Haverly?" + +Leslie Ward had been rather annoyed. There had been no mistake +about the recognition. But he passed it off with that curious sense +of sex loyalty that will actuate a man even toward his enemies. + +"Funny," he said. "Chap looked like you. Maybe a little heavier." + +Nevertheless he had a conviction that he had said something better +left unsaid, and that Beverly Carlysle's glance at her brother was +almost hostile. He had that instantaneous picture of the two of +them, the man defiant and somehow frightened, and the woman's eyes +anxious and yet slightly contemptuous. Then, in a flash, it was +gone. + +He had meant to go home that evening, would have, probably, for he +was not ignorant of where he was drifting. But when he went back +to the office Nina was on the wire, with the news that they were +to go with a party to a country inn. + +"For chicken and waffles, Les," she said. "It will be oceans of +fun. And I've promised the cocktails." + +"I'm tired," he replied, sulkily. "And why don't you let some of +the other fellows come over with the drinks? It seems to me I'm +always the goat." + +"Oh, if that's the way you feel!" Nina said, and hung up the +receiver. + +He did not go home. He went to the theater and stood at the back, +with his sense of guilt deadened by the knowledge that Nina was +having what she would call a heavenly time. After all, it would +soon be over. He counted the days. "The Valley" had only four +more before it moved on. + +He had already played his small part in the drama that involved +Dick Livingstone, but he was unaware of it. He went home that +night, to find Nina settled in bed and very sulky, and he retired +himself in no pleasant frame of mind. But he took a firmer hold +of himself that night before he slept. He didn't want a smash, +and yet they might be headed that way. He wouldn't see Beverly +Carlysle again. + +He lived up to his resolve the next day, bought his flowers as +usual, but this time for Nina and took them with him. And went +home with the orchids which were really an offering to his own +conscience. + +But Nina was not at home. The butler reported that she was dining +at the Wheelers', and he thought the man eyed him with restrained +commiseration. + +"Did she say I am expected there?" he asked. + +"She ordered dinner for you here, sir." + +Even for Nina that sounded odd. He took his coat and went out +again to the car; after a moment's hesitation he went back and +got the orchids. + +Dick Livingstone's machine was at the curb before the Wheeler house, +and in the living-room he found Walter Wheeler, pacing the floor. +Mr. Wheeler glanced at him and looked away. + +"Anybody sick?" Leslie asked, his feeling of apprehension growing. + +"Nina is having hysterics upstairs," Mr. Wheeler said, and continued +his pacing. + +"Nina! Hysterics?" + +"That's what I said," replied Mr. Wheeler, suddenly savage. +"You've made a nice mess of things, haven't you?" + +Leslie placed the box of orchids on the table and drew off his +gloves. His mind was running over many possibilities. + +"You'd better tell me about it, hadn't you?" + +"Oh, I will. Don't worry. I've seen this coming for months. I'm +not taking her part. God knows I know her, and she has as much +idea of making a home as--as"--he looked about--"as that poker +has. But that's the worst you can say of her. As to you--" + +"Well?" + +Mr. Wheeler's anxiety was greater than his anger. He lowered his +voice. + +"She got a bill to-day for two or three boxes of flowers, sent to +some actress." And when Leslie said nothing, "I'm not condoning it, +mind you. You'd no business to do it. But," he added fretfully, +"why the devil, if you've got to act the fool, don't you have your +bills sent to your office?" + +"I suppose I don't need to tell you that's all there was to it? +Flowers, I mean." + +"I'm taking that for granted. But she says she won't go back." + +Leslie was aghast and frightened. Not at the threat; she would go +back, of course. But she would always hold it against him. She +cherished small grudges faithfully. And he knew she would never +understand, never see her own contribution to his mild defection, +nor comprehend the actual innocence of those afternoons of tea +and talk. + +There was no sound from upstairs. Mr. Wheeler got his hat and went +out, calling to the dog. Jim came in whistling, looked in and said: +"Hello, Les," and disappeared. He sat in the growing twilight and +cursed himself for a fool. After all, where had he been heading? +A man couldn't eat his cake and have it. But he was resentful, too; +he stressed rather hard his own innocence, and chose to ignore the +less innocent impulse that lay behind it. + +After a half hour or so he heard some one descending and Dick +Livingstone appeared in the hall. He called to him, and Dick entered +the room. Before he sat down he lighted a cigarette and in the +flare of the match Leslie got an impression of fatigue and of +something new, of trouble. But his own anxieties obsessed him. + +"She's told you about it, I suppose?" + +"I was a fool, of course. But it was only a matter of a few +flowers and some afternoon calls. She's a fine woman, Livingstone, +and she is lonely. The women have given her a pretty cold deal +since the Clark story. They copy her clothes and her walk, but +they don't ask her into their homes." + +"Isn't the trouble more fundamental than that, Ward? I was +thinking about it upstairs. Nina was pretty frank. She says you've +had your good time and want to settle down, and that she is young +and now is her only chance. Later on there may be children, you +know. She blames herself, too, but she has a fairly clear idea of +how it happened." + +"Do you think she'll go back home?" + +"She promised she would." + +They sat smoking in silence. In the dining-room Annie was laying +the table for dinner, and a most untragic odor of new garden peas +began to steal along the hall. Dick suddenly stirred and threw away +his cigarette. + +"I was going to talk to you about something else," he said, "but +this is hardly the time. I'll get on home." He rose. "She'll be +all right. Only I'd advise very tactful handling and--the +fullest explanation you can make." + +"What is it? I'd be glad to have something to keep my mind +occupied. It's eating itself up just now." + +"It's a personal matter." + +Ward glanced up at him quickly. + +"Yes?" + +"Have you happened to hear a story that I believe is going round? +One that concerns me?" + +"Well, I have," Leslie admitted. "I didn't pay much attention. +Nobody is taking it very seriously." + +"That's not the point," Dick persisted. "I don't mind idle gossip. +I don't give a damn about it. It's the statement itself." + +"I should say that you are the only person who knows anything +about it." + +Dick made a restless, impatient gesture. + +"I want to know one thing more," he said. "Nina told you, I suppose. +Does--I suppose Elizabeth knows it, too?" + +"I rather think she does." + +Dick turned abruptly and went out of the room, and a moment later +Leslie heard the front door slam. Elizabeth, standing at the head +of the stairs, heard it also, and turned away, with a new droop to +her usually valiant shoulders. Her world, too, had gone awry, that +safe world of protection and cheer and kindliness. First had come +Nina, white-lipped and shaken, and Elizabeth had had to face the +fact that there were such things as treachery and the queer hidden +things that men did, and that came to light and brought horrible +suffering. + +And that afternoon she had had to acknowledge that there was +something wrong with Dick. No. Between Dick and herself. There +was a formality in his speech to her, an aloofness that seemed to +ignore utterly their new intimacy. He was there, but he was miles +away from her. She tried hard to feel indignant, but she was only +hurt. + +Peace seemed definitely to have abandoned the Wheeler house. Then +late in the evening a measure of it was restored when Nina and Leslie +effected a reconciliation. It followed several bad hours when Nina +had locked her door against them all, but at ten o'clock she sent for +Leslie and faced him with desperate calmness. + +To Elizabeth, putting cold cloths on her mother's head as she lay +on the bed, there came a growing conviction that the relation +between men and women was a complicated and baffling thing, and +that love and hate were sometimes close together. + +Love, and habit perhaps, triumphed in Nina's case, however, for at +eleven o'clock they heard Leslie going down the stairs and later +on moving about the kitchen and pantry while whistling softly. The +servants had gone, and the air was filled with the odor of burning +bread. Some time later Mrs. Wheeler, waiting uneasily in the upper +hall, beheld her son-in-law coming up and carrying proudly a tray +on which was toast of an incredible blackness, and a pot which +smelled feebly of tea. + +"The next time you're out of a cook just send for me," he said +cheerfully. + +Mrs. Wheeler, full and overflowing with indignation and the piece +of her mind she had meant to deliver, retired vanquished to her +bedroom. + +Late that night when Nina had finally forgiven him and had settled +down for sleep, Leslie went downstairs for a cigar, to find Elizabeth +sitting there alone, a book on her knee, face down, and her eyes +wistful and with a question in them. + +"Sitting and thinking, or just sitting?" he inquired. + +"I was thinking." + +"Air-castles, eh? Well, be sure you put the right man into them!" +He felt more or less a fool for having said that, for it was +extremely likely that Nina's family was feeling some doubt about +Nina's choice. + +"What I mean is," he added hastily, "don't be a fool and take Wallie +Sayre. Take a man, while you're about it." + +"I would, if I could do the taking." + +"That's piffle, Elizabeth." He sat down on the arm of a chair and +looked at her. "Look here, what about this story the Rossiter +girl and a few others are handing around about Dick Livingstone? +You're not worrying about it, are you?" + +"I don't believe it's true, and it wouldn't matter to me, anyhow." + +"Good for you," he said heartily, and got up. "You'd better go to +bed, young lady. It's almost midnight." + +But although she rose she made no further move to go. + +"What I am worrying about is this, Leslie. He may hear it." + +"He has heard it, honey." + +He had expected her to look alarmed, but instead she showed relief. + +"I'll tell you the truth, Les," she said. "I was worrying. I'm +terribly fond of him. It just came all at once, and I couldn't help +it. And I thought he liked me, too, that way." She stopped and +looked up at him to see if he understood, and he nodded gravely. +"Then to-day, when he came to see Nina, he avoided me. He--I was +waiting in the hall upstairs, and he just said a word or two and +went on down." + +"Poor devil!" Leslie said. "You see, he's in an unpleasant +position, to say the least. But here's a thought to go to sleep +on. If you ask me, he's keeping out of your way, not because he +cares too little, but because he cares too much." + +Long after a repentant and chastened Leslie had gone to sleep, his +arm over Nina's unconscious shoulder, Elizabeth stood wide-eyed on +the tiny balcony outside her room. From it in daylight she could +see the Livingstone house. Now it was invisible, but an upper +window was outlined in the light. Very shyly she kissed her finger +tips to it. + +"Good-night, dear," she whispered. + + + + +XV + +Louis Bassett had left for Norada the day after David's sudden +illness, but ten days later found him only as far as Chicago, and +laid up in his hotel with a sprained knee. It was not until the +day Nina went back to the little house in the Ridgely Road, having +learned the first lesson of married life, that men must not only be +captured but also held, that he was able to resume his journey. + +He had chafed wretchedly under the delay. It was true that +nothing in the way of a story had broken yet. The Tribune had +carried a photograph of the cabin where Clark had according to the +Donaldson woman spent the winter following the murder, and there +were the usual reports that he had been seen recently in spots as +diverse as Seattle and New Orleans. But when the following Sunday +brought nothing further he surmised that the pack, having lost the +scent, had been called off. + +He confirmed this before starting West by visiting some of the +offices of the leading papers and looking up old friends. The +Clark story was dead for the time. They had run a lot of pictures +of him, however, and some one might turn him up eventually, but a +scent was pretty cold in ten years. The place had changed, too. +Oil had been discovered five years ago, and the old settlers had, +a good many of them, cashed in and moved away. The town had grown +like all oil towns. + +Bassett was fairly content. He took the night train out of Chicago +and spent the next day crossing Nebraska, fertile, rich and +interesting. On the afternoon of the second day he left the train +and took a branch line toward the mountains and Norada, and from +that time on he became an urbane, interested and generally +cigar-smoking interrogation point. + +"Railroad been here long?" he asked the conductor. + +"Four years." + +"Norada must have been pretty isolated before that." + +"Thirty miles in a coach or a Ford car." + +"I was reading the other day," said Bassett, "about the Judson +Clark case. Have a cigar? Got time to sit down?" + +"You a newspaper man?" + +"Oil well supplies," said Bassett easily. "Well, in this article +it seemed some woman or other had made a confession. It sounded +fishy to me." + +"Well, I'll tell you about that." The conductor sat down and bit +off the end of his cigar. "I knew the Donaldsons well, and Maggie +Donaldson was an honest woman. But I'll tell you how I explain the +thing. Donaldson died, and that left her pretty much alone. The +executors of the Clark estate kept her on the ranch, but when the +estate was settled three years ago she had to move. That broke her +all up. She's always said he wasn't dead. She kept the house just +as it was, and my wife says she had his clothes all ready and +everything." + +"That rather sounds as though the story is true, doesn't it?" + +"Not necessarily. It's my idea she got from hoping to moping, so +to speak. She went in to town regular for letters for ten years, +and the postmaster says she never got any. She was hurt in front +of the post office. The talk around here is that she's been off +her head for the last year or two." + +"But they found the cabin." + +"Sure they did," said the conductor equably. "The cabin was no +secret. It was an old fire station before they put the new one on +Goat Mountain. I spent a month in it myself, once, with a dude who +wanted to take pictures of bear. We found a bear, but it charged +the camera and I'd be running yet if I hadn't come to civilization." + +When he had gone Bassett fell into deep thought. So Maggie +Donaldson had gone to the post office for ten years. He tried to +visualize those faithful, wearisome journeys, through spring mud +and winter snow, always futile and always hopeful. He did not for +a moment believe that she had "gone off her head." She had been +faithful to the end, as some women were, and in the end, too, as +had happened before, her faith had killed her. + +And again he wondered at the curious ability of some men to secure +loyalty. They might go through life, tearing down ideals and +destroying illusions to the last, but always there was some +faithful hand to rebuild, some faithful soul to worship. + +He was somewhat daunted at the size and bustling activity of Norada. +Its streets were paved and well-lighted, there were a park and a +public library, and the clerk at the Commercial Hotel asked him if +he wished a private bath! But the development was helpful in one +way. In the old Norada a newcomer might have been subjected to a +friendly but inquisitive interest. In this grown-up and +self-centered community a man might come and go unnoticed. + +And he had other advantages. The pack, as he cynically thought of +them, would have started at the Clark ranch and the cabin. He would +get to them, of course, but he meant to start on the outside of the +circle and work in. + +"Been here long?" he asked the clerk at the desk, after a leisurely +meal. + +The clerk grinned. + +"I came here two years ago. I never saw Jud Clark. To get to the +Clark place take the road north out of the town and keep straight +about eight miles. The road's good now. You fellows have worn it +smooth." + +"Must have written that down and learned it off," Bassett said +admiringly. "What the devil's the Clark place? And why should I +go there? Unless," he added, "they serve a decent meal." + +"Sorry." The clerk looked at him sharply, was satisfied, and picked +up a pen. "You'll hear the story if you stay around here any time. +Anything I can do for you?" + +"Yes. Fire the cook," Bassett said, and moved away. + +He spent the evening in going over his notes and outlining a +campaign, and the next day he stumbled on a bit of luck. His +elderly chambermaid had lived in and around the town for years. + +"Ever hear of any Livingstones in these parts?" he asked. + +"Why, yes. There used to be a Livingstone ranch at Dry River," she +said, pausing with her carpet sweeper, and looking at him. "It +wasn't much of a place. Although you can't tell these days. I +sold sixty acres eight years ago for two thousand dollars, and the +folks that bought it are getting a thousand a day out of it." + +She sighed. She had touched the hem of fortune's garment and passed +on; for some opportunity knocked but faintly, and for others it +burst open the door and forced its way in. + +"I'd be a millionaire now if I'd held on," she said somberly. That +day Bassett engaged a car by the day, he to drive it himself and +return it in good condition, the garage to furnish tires. + +"I'd just like to say one thing," the owner said, as he tried the +gears. "I don't know where you're going, and it's not exactly my +business. Here in the oil country, where they're cutting each +other's throats for new leases, we let a man alone. But if you've +any idea of taking that car by the back road to the old fire station +where Jud Clark's supposed to have spent the winter, I'll just say +this: we've had two stuck up there for a week, and the only way I +see to get them back is a cyclone." + +"I'm going to Dry River," Bassett said shortly. + +"Dry River's right, if you're looking for oil! Go easy on the +brakes, old man. We need 'em in our business." + +Dry River was a small settlement away from the railroad. It +consisted of two intersecting unpaved streets, a dozen or so +houses, a closed and empty saloon and two general stores. He chose +one at random and found that the old Livingstone place had been +sold ten years ago, on the death of its owner, Henry Livingstone. + +"His brother from the East inherited it," said the storekeeper. +"He came and sold out, lock, stock and barrel. Not that there was +much. A few cattle and horses, and the stuff in the ranch house, +which wasn't valuable. There were a lot of books, and the brother +gave them for a library, but we haven't any building. The railroad +isn't built this far yet, and unless we get oil here it won't be." + +"The brother inherited it, eh? Do you know the brother's name?" + +"David, I think. He was a doctor back East somewhere." + +"Then this Henry Livingstone wasn't married? Or at least had no +children?" + +"He wasn't married. He was a sort of hermit. He'd been dead two +days before any one knew it. My wife went out when they found him +and got him ready for the funeral. He was buried before the +brother got here." He glanced at Bassett shrewdly. "The place has +been prospected for oil, and there's a dry hole on the next ranch. +I tell my wife nature's like the railroad. It quit before it got +this far." + +Bassett's last scruple had fled. The story was there, ready for +the gathering. So ready, indeed, that he was almost suspicious of +his luck. + +And that conviction, that things were coming too easy, persisted +through his interview with the storekeeper's wife, in the small +house behind the store. She was a talkative woman, eager to +discuss the one drama in a drab life, and she showed no curiosity +as to the reason for his question. + +"Henry Livingstone!" she said. "Well, I should say so. I went +out right away when we got the word he was dead, and there I stayed +until it was all over. I guess I know as much about him as any one +around here does, for I had to go over his papers to find out who +his people were." + +The papers, it seemed, had not been very interesting; canceled +checks and receipted bills, and a large bundle of letters, all of +them from a brother named David and a sister who signed herself Lucy. +There had been a sealed one, too, addressed to David Livingstone, +and to be opened after his death. She had had her husband wire +to "David" and he had come out, too late for the funeral. + +"Do you remember when that was?" + +"Let me see. Henry Livingstone died about a month before the murder +at the Clark ranch. We date most things around here from that time." + +"How long did 'David' stay?" Bassett had tried to keep his tone +carefully conversational, but he saw that it was not necessary. +She was glad of a chance to talk. + +"Well, I'd say about three or four weeks. He hadn't seen his brother +for years, and I guess there was no love lost. He sold everything +as quick as he could, and went back East." She glanced at the clock. +"My husband will be in soon for dinner. I'd be glad to have you stay +and take a meal with us." + +The reporter thanked her and declined. + +"It's an interesting story," he said. "I didn't tell your husband, +for I wasn't sure I was on the right trail. But the David and Lucy +business eliminates this man. There's a piece of property waiting +in the East for a Henry Livingstone who came to this state in the +80's, or for his heirs. You can say positively that this man was +not married?" + +"No. He didn't like women. Never had one on the place. Two ranch +hands that are still at the Wassons' and himself, that was all. +The Wassons are the folks who bought the ranch." + +No housekeeper then, and no son born out of wedlock, so far as any +evidence went. All that glib lying in the doctor's office, all that +apparent openness and frankness, gone by the board! The man in the +cabin, reported by Maggie Donaldson, had been David Livingstone. +Somehow, some way, he had got Judson Clark out of the country and +spirited him East. Not that the how mattered just yet. The +essential fact was there, that David Livingstone had been in this +part of the country at the time Maggie Donaldson had been nursing +Judson Clark in the mountains. + +Bassett sat back and chewed the end of his cigar thoughtfully. The +sheer boldness of the scheme which had saved Judson Clark compelled +his admiration, but the failure to cover the trail, the ease with +which he had picked it up, made him suspicious. + +He rose and threw away his cigar. + +"You say this David went East, when he had sold out the place. Do +you remember where he lived?" + +"Some town in eastern Pennsylvania. I've forgotten the name." + +"I've got to be sure I'm wrong, and then go ahead," he said, as he +got his hat. "I'll see those men at the ranch, I guess, and then +be on my way. How far is it?" + +It was about ten miles, along a bad road which kept him too much +occupied for any connected thought. But his sense of exultation +persisted. He had found Judson Clark. + + + + +XVI + +Dick's decision to cut himself off from Elizabeth was born of his +certainty that he could not see her and keep his head. He was +resolutely determined to keep his head, until he knew what he had +to offer her. But he was very unhappy. He worked sturdily all +day and slept at night out of sheer fatigue, only to rouse in the +early morning to a conviction of something wrong before he was +fully awake. Then would come the uncertainty and pain of full +consciousness, and he would lie with his arms under his head, gazing +unblinkingly at the ceiling and preparing to face another day. + +There was no prospect of early relief, although David had not again +referred to his going away. David was very feeble. The look of him +sometimes sent an almost physical pain through Dick's heart. But +there were times when he roused to something like his old spirit, +shouted for tobacco, frowned over his diet tray, and fought Harrison +Miller when he came in to play cribbage in much his old tumultuous +manner. + +Then, one afternoon late in May, when for four days Dick had not +seen Elizabeth, suddenly he found the decision as to their relation +taken out of his hands, and by Elizabeth herself. + +He opened the door one afternoon to find her sitting alone in the +waiting-room, clearly very frightened and almost inarticulate. He +could not speak at all at first, and when he did his voice, to his +dismay, was distinctly husky. + +"Is anything wrong?" he asked, in a tone which was fairly sepulchral. + +"That's what I want to know, Dick." + +Suddenly he found himself violently angry. Not at her, of course. +At everything. + +"Wrong?" he said, savagely. "Yes. Everything is wrong!" + +Then he was angry! She went rather pale. + +"What have I done, Dick?" + +As suddenly as he had been fierce he was abject and ashamed. +Startled, too. + +"You?" he said. "What have you done? You're the only thing that's +right in a wrong world. You--" + +He checked himself, put down his bag--he had just come in--and +closed the door into the hall. Then he stood at a safe distance +from her, and folded his arms in order to be able to keep his head +-which shows how strange the English language is. + +"Elizabeth," he said gravely. "I've been a self-centered fool. I +stayed away because I've been in trouble. I'm still in trouble, +for that matter. But it hasn't anything to do with you. Not +directly, anyhow." + +"Don't you think it's possible that I know what it is?" + +"You do know." + +He was too absorbed to notice the new maturity in her face, the +brooding maternity born of a profound passion. To Elizabeth just +then he was not a man, her man, daily deciding matters of life and +death, but a worried boy, magnifying a trifle into importance. + +"There is always gossip," she said, "and the only thing one can do +is to forget it at once. You ought to be too big for that sort of +thing." + +"But--suppose it is true?" + +"What difference would it make?" + +He made a quick movement toward her. + +"There may be more than that. I don't know, Elizabeth," he said, +his eyes on hers. "I have always thought--I can't go to David +now." + +He was moved to go on. To tell her of his lost youth, of that +strange trick by which his mind had shut off those hidden years. +But he could not. He had a perfectly human fear of being abnormal +in her eyes, precisely but greatly magnified the same instinct +which had made him inspect his new tie in daylight for fear it was +too brilliant. But greater than that was his new fear that +something neither happy nor right lay behind him under lock and key +in his memory. + +"I want you to know this, Dick," she said. "That nothing, no gossip +or anything, can make any difference to me. And I've been terribly +hurt. We've been such friends. You--I've been lying awake at +night, worrying." + +That went to his heart first, and then to his head. This might be +all, all he was ever to have. This hour, and this precious and +tender child, so brave in her declaration, so simple and direct; +all his world in that imitation mahogany chair. + +"You're all I've got," he said. "The one real thing in a world +that's going to smash. I think I love you more than God." + +The same mood, of accepting what he had without question and of +refusing to look ahead, actuated him for the next few days. He was +incredibly happy. + +He went about his work with his customary care and thoroughness, +for long practice had made it possible for him to go on as though +nothing had happened, to listen to querulous complaints and long +lists of symptoms, and to write without error those scrawled +prescriptions which were, so hopefully, to cure. Not that Dick +himself believed greatly in those empirical doses, but he considered +that the expectation of relief was half the battle. But that was +the mind of him, which went about clothed in flesh, of course, and +did its daily and nightly work, and put up a very fair imitation +of Doctor Richard Livingstone. But hidden away was a heart that +behaved in a highly unprofessional manner, and sang and dreamed, +and jumped at the sight of a certain small figure on the street, +and generally played hob with systole and diastole, and the vagus +and accelerator nerves. Which are all any doctor really knows about +the heart, until he falls in love. + +He even began to wonder if he had read into the situation something +that was not there, and in this his consciousness of David's +essential rectitude helped him. David could not do a wrong thing, +or an unworthy one. He wished he were more like David. + +The new humility extended to his love for Elizabeth. Sometimes, in +his room or shaving before the bathroom mirror, he wondered what +she could see in him to care about. He shaved twice a day now, and +his face was so sore that he had to put cream on it at night, to +his secret humiliation. When he was dressed in the morning he found +himself once or twice taking a final survey of the ensemble, and at +those times he wished very earnestly that he had some outstanding +quality of appearance that she might admire. + +He refused to think. He was content for a time simply to feel, to +be supremely happy, to live each day as it came and not to look +ahead. And the old house seemed to brighten with him. Never had +Lucy's window boxes been so bright, or Minnie's bread so light; the +sun poured into David's sick room and turned the nurse so dazzling +white in her uniform that David declared he was suffering from +snow-blindness. + +And David himself was improving rapidly. With the passage of each +day he felt more secure. The reporter from the Times-Republican +--if he were really on the trail of Dick he would have come to see +him, would have told him the story. No. That bridge was safely +crossed. And Dick was happy. David, lying in his bed, would listen +and smile faintly when Dick came whistling into the house or leaped +up the stairs two at a time; when he sang in his shower, or +tormented the nurse with high-spirited nonsense. The boy was very +happy. He would marry Elizabeth Wheeler, and things would be as +they should be; there would be the fullness of life, young voices +in the house, toys on the lawn. He himself would pass on, in the +fullness of time, but Dick-- + +On Decoration Day they got him out of bed, making a great ceremony +of it, and when he was settled by the window in his big chair with +a blanket over his knees, Dick came in with a great box. Unwrapping +it he disclosed a mass of paper and a small box, and within that +still another. + +"What fol-de-rol is all this?" David demanded fiercely, with a +childish look of expectation in his eyes. "Give me that box. +Some more slippers, probably!" + +He worked eagerly, and at last he came to the small core of the +mass. It was a cigar! + +It was somewhat later, when the peace of good tobacco had relaxed +him into a sort of benignant drowsiness, and when Dick had started +for his late afternoon calls, that Lucy came into the room. + +"Elizabeth Wheeler's downstairs," she said. "I told her you wanted +to see her. She's brought some chicken jelly, too." + +She gathered up the tissue paper that surrounded him, and gave the +room a critical survey. She often felt that the nurse was not as +tidy as she might be. Then she went over to him and put a hand on +his shoulder. + +"I don't want to worry you, David. Not now. But if he's going to +marry her--" + +"Well, why shouldn't he?" he demanded truculently. "A good woman +would be one more anchor to windward." + +She found that she could not go on. David was always +incomprehensible to her when it came to Dick. Had been +incomprehensible from the first. But she could not proceed without +telling him that the village knew something, and what that +something was; that already she felt a change in the local attitude +toward Dick. He was, for one thing, not quite so busy as he had been. + +She went out of the room, and sent Elizabeth to David. + +In her love for Dick, Elizabeth now included everything that +pertained to him, his shabby coats, his rattling car, and his people. +She had an inarticulate desire for their endorsement, to be liked +by them and wanted by them. Not that there could be any words, +because both she and Dick were content just then with love, and +were holding it very secret between them. + +"Well, well!" said David. "And here we are reversed and I'm the +patient and you're the doctor! And good medicine you are, my dear." + +He looked her over with approval, and with speculation, too. She +was a small and fragile vessel on which to embark all the hopes +that, out of his own celibate and unfulfilled life, he had dreamed +for Dick. She was even more than that. If Lucy was right, from +now on she was a part of that experiment in a human soul which he +had begun with only a professional interest, but which had ended +by becoming a vital part of his own life. + +She was a little shy with him, he saw; rather fluttered and nervous, +yet radiantly happy. The combination of these mixed emotions, plus +her best sick-room manner, made her slightly prim at first. But +soon she was telling him the small news of the village, although +David rather suspected her of listening for Dick's car all the while. +When she got up to go and held out her hand he kept it, between +both of his. + +"I haven't been studying symptoms for all these years for nothing, +my dear," he said. "And it seems to me somebody is very happy." + +"I am, Doctor David." + +He patted her hand. + +"Mind you," he said, "I don't know anything and I'm not asking any +questions. But if the Board of Trade, or the Chief of Police, had +come to me and said, 'Who is the best wife for--well, for a young +man who is an important part of this community?' I'd have said in +reply, 'Gentlemen, there is a Miss Elizabeth Wheeler who--'" + +Suddenly she bent down and kissed him. + +"Oh, do you think so?" she asked, breathlessly. "I love him so +much, Doctor David. And I feel so unworthy." + +"So you are," he said. "So's he. So are all of us, when it comes +to a great love, child. That is, we are never quite what the other +fellow thinks we are. It's when we don't allow for what the +scientist folk call a margin of error that we come our croppers. +I wonder"--he watched her closely--"if you young people ever +allow for a margin of error?" + +"I only know this," she said steadily. "I can't imagine ever +caring any less. I've never thought about myself very much, but I +do know that. You see, I think I've cared for a long time." + +When she had gone he sat in his chair staring ahead of him and +thinking. Yes. She would stick. She had loyalty, loyalty and +patience and a rare humility. It was up to Dick then. And again +he faced the possibility of an opening door into the past, of +crowding memories, of confusion and despair and even actual danger. +And out of that, what? + +Habit. That was all he had to depend on. The brain was a thing +of habits, like the body; right could be a habit, and so could +evil. As a man thought, so he was. For all of his childhood, and +for the last ten years, Dick's mental habits had been right; his +environment had been love, his teaching responsibility. Even if +the door opened, then, there was only the evil thinking of two or +three reckless years to combat, and the door might never open. +Happiness, Lauler had said, would keep it closed, and Dick was happy. + +When at five o'clock the nurse came in with a thermometer he was +asleep in his chair, his mouth slightly open, and snoring valiantly. +Hearing Dick in the lower hall, she went to the head of the stairs, +her finger to her lips. + +Dick nodded and went into the office. The afternoon mail was lying +there, and he began mechanically to open it. His thoughts were +elsewhere. + +Now that he had taken the step he had so firmly determined not to +take, certain things, such as Clare Rossiter's story, David's +uneasiness, his own doubts, no longer involved himself alone, nor +even Elizabeth and himself. They had become of vital importance +to her family. + +There was no evading the issue. What had once been only his own +misfortune, mischance, whatever it was, had now become of vital +importance to an entire group of hitherto disinterested people. He +would have to put his situation clearly before them and let them +judge. And he would have to clarify that situation for them and +for himself. + +He had had a weak moment or two. He knew that some men, many men, +went to marriage with certain reticences, meaning to wipe the +slate clean and begin again. He had a man's understanding of +such concealments. But he did not for a moment compare his +situation with theirs, even when the temptation to seize his +happiness was strongest. No mere misconduct, but something hidden +and perhaps terrible lay behind David's strange new attitude. +Lay, too, behind the break in his memory which he tried to analyze +with professional detachment. The mind in such cases set up its +defensive machinery of forgetfulness, not against the trivial but +against the unbearable. + +For the last day or two he had faced the fact that, not only must +he use every endeavor to revive his past, but that such revival +threatened with cruelty and finality to separate him from the +present. + +With an open and unread letter in his hand he stared about the +office. This place was his; he had fought for it, worked for it. +He had an almost physical sense of unseen hands reaching out to +drag him away from it; from David and Lucy, and from Elizabeth. +And of himself holding desperately to them all, and to the +believed commonplaceness of his surroundings. + +He shook himself and began to read the letter. + +"Dear Doctor: I have tried to see you, but understand you are +laid up. Burn this as soon as you've read it. Louis Bassett has +started for Norada, and I advise your getting the person we +discussed out of town as soon as possible. Bassett is up to +mischief. I'm not signing this fully, for obvious reasons. G." + + + +XVII + +The Sayre house stood on the hill behind the town, a long, rather +low white house on Italian lines. In summer, until the family +exodus to the Maine Coast, the brilliant canopy which extended out +over the terrace indicated, as Harrison Miller put it, that the +family was "in residence." Originally designed as a summer home, +Mrs. Sayre now used it the year round. There was nothing there, +as there was in the town house, to remind her of the bitter days +before her widowhood. + +She was a short, heavy woman, of fine taste in her house and of no +taste whatever in her clothing. + +"I never know," said Harrison Miller, "when I look up at the Sayre +place, whether I'm seeing Ann Sayre or an awning." + +She was not a shrewd woman, nor a clever one, but she was kindly in +the main, tolerant and maternal. She liked young people, gave gay +little parties to which she wore her outlandish clothes of all +colors and all cuts, lavished gifts on the girls she liked, and +was anxious to see Wallie married to a good steady girl and settled +down. Between her son and herself was a quiet but undemonstrative +affection. She viewed him through eyes that had lost their illusion +about all men years ago, and she had no delusions about him. She +had no idea that she knew all that he did with his time, and no +desire to penetrate the veil of his private life. + +"He spends a great deal of money," she said one day to her lawyer. +"I suppose in the usual ways. But he is not quite like his father. +He has real affections, which his father hadn't. If he marries the +right girl she can make him almost anything." + +She had her first inkling that he was interested in Elizabeth +Wheeler one day when the head gardener reported that Mr. Wallace +had ordered certain roses cut and sent to the Wheeler house. She +was angry at first, for the roses were being saved for a dinner +party. Then she considered. + +"Very well, Phelps," she said. "Do it. And I'll select a plant +also, to go to Mrs. Wheeler." + +After all, why not the Wheeler girl? She had been carefully reared, +if the Wheeler house was rather awful in spots, and she was a gentle +little thing; very attractive, too, especially in church. And +certainly Wallie had been seeing a great deal of her. + +She went to the greenhouses, and from there upstairs and into the +rooms that she had planned for Wallie and his bride, when the time +came. She was more content than she had been for a long time. She +was a lonely woman, isolated by her very grandeur from the +neighborliness she craved; when she wanted society she had to ask +for it, by invitation. Standing inside the door of the boudoir, +her thoughts already at work on draperies and furniture, she had a +vague dream of new young life stirring in the big house, of no more +lonely evenings, of the bustle and activity of a family again. + +She wanted Wallie to settle down. She was tired of paying his +bills at his clubs and at various hotels, tired and weary of the +days he lay in bed all morning while his valet concocted various +things to enable him to pull himself together. He had been four +years sowing his wild oats, and now at twenty-five she felt he +should be through with them. + +The south room could be the nursery. + +On Decoration Day, as usual, she did her dutiful best by the +community, sent flowers to the cemetery and even stood through a +chilly hour there while services were read and taps sounded over +the graves of those who had died in three wars. She felt very +grateful that Wallie had come back safely, and that if only now he +would marry and settle down all would be well. + +The service left her emotionally untouched. She was one of those +women who saw in war, politics, even religion, only their reaction +on herself and her affairs. She had taken the German deluge as a +personal affliction. And she stood only stoically enduring while +the village soprano sang "The Star Spangled Banner." By the end +of the service she had decided that Elizabeth Wheeler was the answer +to her problem. + +Rather under pressure, Wallie lunched with her at the country club, +but she found him evasive and not particularly happy. + +"You're twenty-five, you know," she said, toward the end of a +discussion. "By thirty you'll be too set in your habits, too hard +to please." + +"I'm not going to marry for the sake of getting married, mother." + +"Of course not. But you have a good bit of money. You'll have +much more when I'm gone. And money carries responsibility with it." + +He glanced at her, looked away, rapped a fork on the table cloth. + +"It takes two to make a marriage, mother." + +He closed up after that, but she had learned what she wanted. + +At three o'clock that afternoon the Sayre limousine stopped in front +of Nina's house, and Mrs. Sayre, in brilliant pink and a purple hat, +got out. Leslie, lounging in a window, made the announcement. + +"Here's the Queen of Sheba," he said. "I'll go upstairs and have a +headache, if you don't mind." + +He kissed Nina and departed hastily. He was feeling extremely +gentle toward Nina those days and rather smugly virtuous. He +considered that his conscience had brought him back and not a very +bad fright, which was the fact, and he fairly exuded righteousness. + +It was the great lady's first call, and Nina was considerably +uplifted. It was for such moments as this one trained servants +and put Irish lace on their aprons, and had decorators who stood +off with their heads a little awry and devised backgrounds for +one's personality. + +"What a delightful room!" said Mrs. Sayre. "And how do you keep +a maid as trim as that?" + +"I must have service," Nina replied. "The butler's marching in a +parade or something. How nice of you to come and see our little +place. It's a band-box, of course." + +Mrs. Sayre sat down, a gross disharmony in the room, but a solid +and not unkindly woman for all that. + +"My dear," she said, "I am not paying a call. Or not only that. I +came to talk to you about something. About Wallace and your sister." + +Nina was gratified and not a little triumphant. + +"I see," she said. "Do you mean that they are fond of one another?" + +"Wallace is. Of course, this talk is between ourselves, but--I'm +going to be frank, Nina. I want Wallie to marry, and I want him to +marry soon. You and I know that the life of an unattached man about +town is full of temptations. I want him to settle down. I'm lonely, +too, but that's not so important." + +Nina hesitated. + +"I don't know about Elizabeth. She's fond of Wallie, as who isn't? +But lately--" + +"Yes?" + +"Well, for the last few days I have been wondering. She doesn't +talk, you know. But she has been seeing something of Dick +Livingstone." + +"Doctor Livingstone! She'd be throwing herself away!" + +"Yes, but she's like that. I mean, she isn't ambitious. We've +always expected her to throw herself away; at least I have." + +A half hour later Leslie, upstairs, leaned over the railing to see +if there were any indications of departure. The door was open, and +Mrs. Sayre evidently about to take her leave. She was saying: + +"It's very close to my heart, Nina dear, and I know you will be +tactful. I haven't stressed the material advantages, but you might +point them out to her." + +A few moments later Leslie came downstairs. Nina was sitting alone, +thinking, with a not entirely pleasant look of calculation on her face. + +"Well?" he said. "What were you two plotting?" + +"Plotting? Nothing, of course." + +He looked down at her. "Now see here, old girl," he said, "you +keep your hands off Elizabeth's affairs. If I know anything she's +making a damn good choice, and don't you forget it." + + + + +XVIII + +Dick stood with the letter in his hand, staring at it. Who was +Bassett? Who was "G"? What had the departure of whoever Bassett +might be for Norada to do with David? And who was the person who +was to be got out of town? + +He did not go upstairs. He took the letter into his private office, +closed the door, and sitting down at his desk turned his reading +lamp on it, as though that physical act might bring some mental light. + +Reread, the cryptic sentences began to take on meaning. An unknown +named Bassett, whoever he might be, was going to Norada bent on +"mischief," and another unknown who signed himself "G" was warning +David of that fact. But the mischief was designed, not against +David, but against a third unknown, some one who was to be got out +of town. + +David had been trying to get him out of town.--The warning referred +to himself. + +His first impulse was to go to David, and months later he was to +wonder what would have happened had he done so. How far could +Bassett have gone? What would have been his own decision when he +learned the truth? + +For a little while, then, the shuttle was in Dick's own hand. He +went up to David's room, and with his hand on the letter in his +pocket, carried on behind his casual talk the debate that was so +vital. But David had a headache and a slightly faster pulse, and +that portion of the pattern was never woven. + +The association between anxiety and David's illness had always been +apparent in Dick's mind, but now he began to surmise a concrete +shock, a person, a telegram, or a telephone call. And after dinner +that night he went back to the kitchen. + +"Minnie," he inquired, "do you remember the afternoon Doctor David +was taken sick?" + +"I'll never forget it." + +"Did he receive a telegram that day?" + +"Not that I know of. He often answers the bell himself." + +"Do you know whether he had a visitor, just before you heard him +fall?" + +"He had a patient, yes. A man." + +"Who was it?" + +"I don't know. He was a stranger to me." + +"Do you remember what he looked like?" + +Minnie reflected. + +"He was a smallish man, maybe thirty-five or so," she said. "I think +he had gaiters over his shoes, or maybe light tops. He was a nice +appearing person." + +"How soon after that did you hear Doctor David fall?" + +"Right away. First the door slammed, and then he dropped." + +Poor old David! Dick had not the slightest doubt now that David had +received some unfortunate news, and that up there in his bedroom +ever since, alone and helpless, he had been struggling with some +secret dread he could not share with any one. Not even with Lucy, +probably. + +Nevertheless, Dick made a try with Lucy that evening. + +"Aunt Lucy," he said, "do you know of anything that could have +caused David's collapse?" + +"What sort of thing?" she asked guardedly. + +"A letter, we'll say, or a visitor?" + +When he saw that she was only puzzled and thinking back, he knew +she could not help him. + +"Never mind," he said. "I was feeling about for some cause. +That's all." + +He was satisfied that Lucy knew no more than he did of David's +visitor, and that David had kept his own counsel ever since. But +the sense of impending disaster that had come with the letter did +not leave him. He went through his evening office hours almost +mechanically, with a part of his mind busy on the puzzle. How did +it affect the course of action he had marked out? Wasn't it even +more necessary than ever now to go to Walter Wheeler and tell him +how things stood? He hated mystery. He liked to walk in the +middle of the road in the sunlight. But even stronger than that +was a growing feeling that he needed a sane and normal judgment on +his situation; a fresh viewpoint and some unprejudiced advice. + +He visited David before he left, and he was very gentle with him. +In view of this new development he saw David from a different angle, +facing and dreading something imminent, and it came to him with a +shock that he might have to clear things up to save David. The +burden, whatever it was, was breaking him. + +He had telephoned, and Mr. Wheeler was waiting for him. Walter +Wheeler thought he knew what was coming, and he had well in mind +what he was going to say. He had thought it over, pacing the floor +alone, with the dog at his heels. He would say: + +"I like and respect you, Livingstone. If you're worrying about what +these damned gossips say, let's call it a day and forget it. I +know a man when I see one, and if it's all right with Elizabeth +it's all right with me." + +Things, however, did not turn out just that way. Dick came in, +grave and clearly preoccupied, and the first thing he said was: + +"I have a story to tell you, Mr. Wheeler. After you've heard it, +and given me your opinion on it, I'll come to a matter that--well, +that I can't talk about now." + +"If it's the silly talk that I daresay you've heard--" + +"No. I don't give a damn for talk. But there is something else. +Something I haven't told Elizabeth, and that I'll have to tell you." + +Walter Wheeler drew himself up rather stiffly. Leslie's defection +was still in his mind. + +"Don't tell me you're tangled up with another woman." + +"No. At least I think not. I don't know." + +It is doubtful if Walter Wheeler grasped many of the technicalities +that followed. Dick talked and he listened, nodding now and then, +and endeavoring very hard to get the gist of the matter. It seemed +to him curious rather than serious. Certainly the mind was a +strange thing. He must read up on it. Now and then he stopped +Dick with a question, and Dick would break in on his narrative to +reply. Thus, once: + +"You've said nothing to Elizabeth at all? About the walling off, +as you call it?" + +"No. At first I was simply ashamed of it. I didn't want her to +get the idea that I wasn't normal." + +"I see." + +"Now, as I tell you, I begin to think-- I've told you that this +walling off is an unconscious desire to forget something too +painful to remember. It's practically always that. I can't go to +her with just that, can I? I've got to know first what it is." + +"I'd begun to think there was an understanding between you." + +Dick faced him squarely. + +"There is. I didn't intend it. In fact, I was trying to keep away +from her. I didn't mean to speak to her until I'd cleared things +up. But it happened anyhow; I suppose the way those things always +happen." + +It was Walter Wheeler's own decision, finally, that he go to +Norada with Dick as soon as David could be safely left. It was the +letter which influenced him. Up to that he had viewed the +situation with a certain detachment; now he saw that it threatened +the peace of two households. + +"It's a warning, all right." + +"Yes. Undoubtedly." + +"You don't recognize the name Bassett?" + +"No. I've tried, of course." + +The result of some indecision was finally that Elizabeth should not +be told anything until they were ready to tell it all. And in the +end a certain resentment that she had become involved in an unhappy +situation died in Walter Wheeler before Dick's white face and +sunken eyes. + +At ten o'clock the house-door opened and closed, and Walter +Wheeler got up and went out into the hall. + +"Go on upstairs, Margaret," he said to his wife. "I've got a +visitor." He did not look at Elizabeth. "You settle down and be +comfortable," he added, "and I'll be up before long. Where's Jim?" + +"I don't know. He didn't go to Nina's." + +"He started with you, didn't he?" + +"Yes. But he left us at the corner." + +They exchanged glances. Jim had been worrying them lately. Strange +how a man could go along for years, his only worries those of +business, his track a single one through comfortable fields where +he reaped only what he sowed. And then his family grew up, and +involved him without warning in new perplexities and new troubles. +Nina first, then Jim, and now this strange story which so inevitably +involved Elizabeth. + +He put his arm around his wife and held her to him. + +"Don't worry about Jim, mother," he said. "He's all right +fundamentally. He's going through the bad time between being a boy +and being a man. He's a good boy." + +He watched her moving up the stairs, his eyes tender and solicitous. +To him she was just "mother." He had never thought of another woman +in all their twenty-four years together. + +Elizabeth waited near him, her eyes on his face. + +"Is it Dick?" she asked in a low tone. + +"Yes." + +"You don't mind, daddy, do you?" + +"I only want you to be happy," he said rather hoarsely. "You know +that, don't you?" + +She nodded, and turned up her face to be kissed. He knew that she +had no doubt whatever that this interview was to seal her to Dick +Livingstone for ever and ever. She fairly radiated happiness and +confidence. He left her standing there going back to the +living-room closed the door. + + + + +XIX + +Louis Bassett, when he started to the old Livingstone ranch, now +the Wasson place, was carefully turning over in his mind David's +participation in the escape of Judson Clark. Certain phases of it +were quite clear, provided one accepted the fact that, following a +heavy snowfall, an Easterner and a tenderfoot had gone into the +mountains alone, under conditions which had caused the posse after +Judson Clark to turn back and give him up for dead. + +Had Donaldson sent him there, knowing he was a medical man? If he +had, would Maggie Donaldson not have said so? She had said "a man +outside that she had at first thought was a member of the searching +party." Evidently, then, Donaldson had not prepared her to expect +medical assistance. + +Take the other angle. Say David Livingstone had not been sent for. +Say he knew nothing of the cabin or its occupants until he stumbled +on them. He had sold the ranch, distributed his brother's books, +and apparently the townspeople at Dry River believed that he had +gone back home. Then what had taken him, clearly alone and having +certainly given the impression of a departure for the East, into +the mountains? To hunt? To hunt what, that he went about it +secretly and alone? + +Bassett was inclined to the Donaldson theory, finally. John +Donaldson would have been wanting a doctor, and not wanting one +from Norada. He might have heard of this Eastern medical man at +Dry River, have gone to him with his story, even have taken him +part of the way. The situation was one that would have a certain +appeal. It was possible, anyhow: + +But instead of clarifying the situation Bassett's visit at the +Wasson place brought forward new elements which fitted neither of +the hypotheses in his mind. + +To Wasson himself, whom he met on horseback on the road into the +ranch, he gave the same explanation he had given to the store-keeper's +wife. Wasson was a tall man in chaps and a Stetson, and he was +courteously interested. + +"Bill and Jake are still here," he said. "They're probably in for +dinner now, and I'll see you get a chance to talk to them. I took +them over with the ranch. Property, you say? Well, I hope it's +better land than he had here." + +He turned his horse and rode beside the car to the house. + +"Comes a little late to do Henry Livingstone much good," he said. +"He's been lying in the Dry River graveyard for about ten years. +Not much mourned either. He was about as close-mouthed and +uncompanionable as they make them." + +The description Wasson had applied to Henry Livingstone, Bassett +himself applied to the two ranch hands later on, during their +interview. It could hardly have been called an interview at all, +indeed, and after a time Bassett realized that behind their +taciturnity was suspicion. They were watching him, undoubtedly; +he rather thought, when he looked away, that once or twice they +exchanged glances. He was certain, too, that Wasson himself was +puzzled. + +"Speak up, Jake," he said once, irritably. "This gentleman has +come a long way. It's a matter of some property." + +"What sort of property?" Jake demanded. Jake was the spokesman of +the two. + +"That's not important," Bassett observed, easily. "What we want to +know is if Henry Livingstone had any family." + +"He had a brother." + +"No one else?" + +"Then it's up to me to trail the brother," Bassett observed. +"Either of you remember where he lived?" + +"Somewhere in the East." + +Bassett laughed. + +"That's a trifle vague," he commented good-humoredly. "Didn't you +boys ever mail any letters for him?" + +He was certain again that they exchanged glances, but they +continued to present an unbroken front of ignorance. Wasson was +divided between irritation and amusement. + +"What'd I tell you?" he asked. "Like master like man. I've been +here ten years, and I've never got a word about the Livingstones +out of either of them." + +"I'm a patient man." Bassett grinned. "I suppose you'll admit that +one of you drove David Livingstone to the train, and that you had a +fair idea then of where he was going?" + +He looked directly at Jake, but Jake's face was a solid mask. He +made no reply whatever. + +From that moment on Bassett was certain that David had not been +driven away from the ranch at all. What he did not know, and was +in no way to find out, was whether the two ranch hands knew that +he had gone into the mountains, or why. He surmised back of their +taciturnity a small mystery of their own, and perhaps a fear. +Possibly David's going was as much a puzzle to them as to him. +Conceivably, during the hours together on the range, or during the +winter snows, for ten years they had wrangled and argued over a +disappearance as mysterious in its way as Judson Clark's. + +He gave up at last, having learned certain unimportant facts: that +the recluse had led a lonely life; that he had never tried to make +the place more than carry itself; that he was a student, and that +he had no other peculiarities. + +"Did he ever say anything that would lead you to believe that he had +any family, outside of his brother and sister? That is, any direct +heir?" Bassett asked. + +"He never talked about himself," said Jake. "If that's all, Mr. +Wasson, I've got a steer bogged down in the north pasture and I'll +be going." + +On the Wassons' invitation he remained to lunch, and when the ranch +owner excused himself and rode away after the meal he sat for some +time on the verandah, with Mrs. Wasson sewing and his own eyes fixed +speculatively on the mountain range, close, bleak and mysterious. + +"Strange thing," he commented. "Here's a man, a book-lover and +student, who comes out here, not to make living and be a useful +member of the community, but apparently to bury himself alive. +I wonder, why." + +"A great many come out here to get away from something, Mr. Bassett." + +"Yes, to start again. But this man never started again. He +apparently just quit." + +Mrs. Wasson put down her sewing and looked at him thoughtfully. + +"Did the boys tell you anything about the young man who visited +Henry Livingstone now and then?" + +"No. They were not very communicative." + +"I suppose they wouldn't tell. Yet I don't see, unless--" She +stopped, lost in some field of speculation where he could not follow +her. "You know, we haven't much excitement here, and when this boy +was first seen around the place--he was here mostly in the summer +--we decided that he was a relative. I don't know why we considered +him mysterious, unless it was because he was hardly ever seen. I +don't even know that that was deliberate. For that matter Mr. +Livingstone wasn't much more than a name to us." + +"You mean, a son?" + +"Nobody knew. He was here only now and then." + +Bassett moved in his chair and looked at her. + +"How old do you suppose this boy was?" he asked. + +"He was here at different times. When Mr. Livingstone died I +suppose he was in his twenties. The thing that makes it seem odd +to me is that the men didn't mention him to you." + +"I didn't ask about him, of course." + +She went on with her sewing, apparently intending to drop the +matter; but the reporter felt that now and then she was subjecting +him to a sharp scrutiny, and that, in some shrewd woman-fashion, +she was trying to place him. + +"You said it was a matter of some property?" + +"Yes." + +"But it's rather late, isn't it? Ten years?" + +"That's what makes it difficult." + +There was another silence, during which she evidently made her +decision. + +"I have never said this before, except to Mr. Wasson. But I believe +he was here when Henry Livingstone died." + +Her tone was mysterious, and Bassett stared at her. + +"You don't think Livingstone was murdered!" + +"No. He died of heart failure. There was an autopsy. But he had +a bad cut on his head. Of course, he may have fallen--Bill and +Jake were away. They'd driven some cattle out on the range. It +was two days before he was found, and it would have been longer if +Mr. Wasson hadn't ridden out to talk to him about buying. He found +him dead in his bed, but there was blood on the floor in the next +room. I washed it up myself." + +"Of course," she added, when Bassett maintained a puzzled silence, +"I may be all wrong. He might have fallen in the next room and +dragged himself to bed. But he was very neatly covered up." + +"It's your idea, then, that this boy put him into the bed?" + +"I don't know. He wasn't seen about the place. He's never been +here since. But the posse found a horse with the Livingstone +brand, saddled, dead in Dry River Canyon when it was looking for +Judson Clark. Of course, that was a month later. The men here, +Bill and Jake, claimed it had wandered off, but I've often wondered." + +After a time Bassett got up and took his leave. He was confused +and irritated. Here, whether creditably or not, was Dick +Livingstone accounted for. There was a story there, probably, but +not the story he was after. This unknown had been at the ranch +when Henry Livingstone died, had perhaps been indirectly responsible +for his death. He had, witness the horse, fled after the thing +happened. Later on, then, David Livingstone had taken him into his +family. That was all. + +Except for that identification of Gregory's, and for the photograph +of Judson Clark.... For a moment he wondered if the two, Jud Clark +and the unknown, could be the same. But Dry River would have known +Clark. That couldn't be. + +He almost ditched the car on his way back to Norada, so deeply was +he engrossed in thought. + + + + +XX + +On the seventh of June David and Lucy went to the seashore, went +by the order of various professional gentlemen who had differed +violently during the course of David's illness, but who now suddenly +agreed with an almost startling unanimity. Which unanimity was the +result of careful coaching by Dick. + +He saw in David's absence his only possible chance to go back to +Norada without worry to the sick man, and he felt, too, that a +change, getting away from the surcharged atmosphere of the old +house, would be good for both David and Lucy. + +For days before they started Lucy went about in a frenzy of nervous +energy, writing out menus for Minnie for a month ahead, counting +and recounting David's collars and handkerchiefs, cleaning and +pressing his neckties. In the harness room in the stable Mike +polished boots until his arms ached, and at the last moment with +trunks already bulging, came three gift dressing-gowns for David, +none of which he would leave behind. + +"I declare," Lucy protested to Dick, "I don't know what's come over +him. Every present he's had since he was sick he's taking along. +You'd think he was going to be shut up on a desert island." + +But Dick thought he understood. In David's life his friends had +had to take the place of wife and children; he clung to them now, +in his age and weakness, and Dick knew that he had a sense of +deserting them, of abandoning them after many faithful years. + +So David carried with him the calendars and slippers, dressing-gowns +and bed-socks which were at once the tangible evidence of their +friendliness and Lucy's despair. + +Watching him, Dick was certain nothing further had come to +threaten his recovery. Dick carefully inspected the mail, but no +suspicious letter had arrived, and as the days went on David's peace +seemed finally re-established. He made no more references to Johns +Hopkins, slept like a child, and railed almost pettishly at his +restricted diet. + +"When we get away from Dick, Lucy," he would say, "we'll have beef +again, and roast pork and sausage." + +Lucy would smile absently and shake her head. + +"You'll stick to your diet, David," she would say. "David, it's +the strangest thing about your winter underwear. I'm sure you had +five suits, and now there are only three." + +Or it was socks she missed, or night-clothing. And David, inwardly +chuckling, would wonder with her, knowing all the while that they +had clothed some needy body. + +On the night before the departure David went out for his first short +walk alone, and brought Elizabeth back with him. + +"I found a rose walking up the street, Lucy," he bellowed up the +stairs, "and I brought it home for the dinner table." + +Lucy came down, flushed from her final effort over the trunks, but +gently hospitable. + +"It's fish night, Elizabeth," she said. "You know Minnie's a +Catholic, so we always have fish on Friday. I hope you eat it." +She put her hand on Elizabeth's arm and gently patted it, and thus +was Elizabeth taken into the old brick house as one of its own. + +Elizabeth was finding this period of her tacit engagement rather +puzzling. Her people puzzled her. Even Dick did, at times. And +nobody seemed anxious to make plans for the future, or even to +discuss the wedding. She was a little hurt about that, remembering +the excitement over Nina's. + +But what chiefly bewildered her was the seeming necessity for +secrecy. Even Nina had not been told, nor Jim. She did not resent +that, although it bewildered her. Her own inclination was to shout +it from the house-tops. Her father had simply said: "I've told your +mother, honey, and we'd better let it go at that, for a while. +There's no hurry. And I don't want to lose you yet." + +But there were other things. Dick himself varied. He was always +gentle and very tender, but there were times when he seemed to +hold himself away from her, would seem aloof and remote, but all +the time watching her almost fiercely. But after that, as though +he had tried an experiment in separation and failed with it, he +would catch her to him savagely and hold her there. She tried, +very meekly, to meet his mood; was submissive to his passion and +acquiescent to those intervals when he withdrew himself and sat or +stood near her, not touching her but watching her intently. + +She thought men in love were very queer and quite incomprehensible. +Because he varied in other ways, too. He was boyish and gay +sometimes, and again silent and almost brooding. She thought at +those times that perhaps he was tired, what with David's work and +his own, and sometimes she wondered if he were still worrying about +that silly story. But once or twice, after he had gone, she went +upstairs and looked carefully into her mirror. Perhaps she had not +looked her best that day. Girl-like, she set great value on looks +in love. She wanted frightfully to be beautiful to him. She wished +she could look like Beverly Carlysle, for instance. + +Two days before David and Lucy's departure he had brought her her +engagement ring, a square-cut diamond set in platinum. He kissed +it first and then her finger, and slipped it into place. It became +a rite, done as he did it, and she had a sense of something done that +could never be undone. When she looked up at him he was very pale. + +"Forsaking all others, so long as we both shall live," he said, +unsteadily. + +"So long as we both shall live," she repeated. + +However she had to take it off later, for Mrs. Wheeler, it developed, +had very pronounced ideas of engagement rings. They were put on the +day the notices were sent to the newspapers, and not before. So +Elizabeth wore her ring around her neck on a white ribbon, inside +her camisole, until such time as her father would consent to announce +that he was about to lose her. + +Thus Elizabeth found her engagement full of unexpected turns and +twists, and nothing precisely as she had expected. But she accepted +things as they came, being of the type around which the dramas of +life are enacted, while remaining totally undramatic herself. She +lived her quiet days, worried about Jim on occasion, hemmed table +napkins for her linen chest, and slept at night with her ring on +her finger and a sense of being wrapped in protecting love that was +no longer limited to the white Wheeler house, but now extended two +blocks away and around the corner to a shabby old brick building +in a more or less shabby yard. + +They were very gay in the old brick house that night before the +departure, very noisy over the fish and David's broiled lamb chop. +Dick demanded a bottle of Lucy's home-made wine, and even David +got a little of it. They toasted the seashore, and the departed +nurse, and David quoted Robert Burns at some length and in a horrible +Scotch accent. Then Dick had a trick by which one read the date on +one of three pennies while he was not looking, and he could tell +without failing which one it was. It was most mysterious. And +after dinner Dick took her into his laboratory, and while she +squinted one eye and looked into the finder of his microscope he +kissed the white nape of her neck. + +When they left the laboratory there were patients in the +waiting-room, but he held her in his arms in the office for a +moment or two, very quietly, and because the door was thin they made +a sort of game of it, and pretended she was a patient. + +"How did you sleep last night?" he said, in a highly professional +and very distinct voice. Then he kissed her. + +"Very badly, doctor," she said, also very clearly, and whispered, +"I lay awake and thought about you, dear." + +"I'd better give you this sleeping powder." Oh, frightfully +professional, but the powder turned out to be another kiss. It +was a wonderful game. + +When she slipped out into the hall she had to stop and smooth her +hair, before she went to Lucy's tidy sitting-room. + + + + +XXI + +It was Jim Wheeler's turn to take up the shuttle. A girl met in +some casual fashion; his own youth and the urge of it, perhaps the +unconscious family indulgence of an only son--and Jim wove his +bit and passed on. + +There had been mild contention in the Wheeler family during all the +spring. Looking out from his quiet windows Walter Wheeler saw the +young world going by a-wheel, and going fast. Much that legitimately +belonged to it, and much that did not in the laxness of the new code, +he laid to the automobile. And doggedly he refused to buy one. + +"We can always get a taxicab," was his imperturbable answer to Jim. +"I pay pretty good-sized taxi bills without unpleasant discussion. +I know you pretty well too, Jim. Better than you know yourself. +And if you had a car, you'd try your best to break your neck in it." + +Now and then Jim got a car, however. Sometimes he rented one, +sometimes he cajoled Nina into lending him hers. + +"A fellow looks a fool without one," he would say to her. "Girls +expect to be taken out. It's part of the game." + +And Nina, always reached by that argument of how things looked, now +and then reluctantly acquiesced. But a night or two after David +and Lucy had started for the seashore Nina came in like a whirlwind, +and routed the family peace immediately. + +"Father," she said, "you just must speak to Jim. He's taken our +car twice at night without asking for it, and last night he broke +a spring. Les is simply crazy." + +"Taken your car!" Mrs. Wheeler exclaimed. + +"Yes. I hate telling on him, but I spoke to him after the first +time, and he did it anyhow." + +Mrs. Wheeler glanced at her husband uneasily. She often felt he +was too severe with Jim. + +"Don't worry," he said grimly. "He'll not do it again." + +"If we only had a car of our own--" Mrs. Wheeler protested. + +"You know what I think about that, mother. I'm not going to have +him joy-riding over the country, breaking his neck and getting into +trouble. I've seen him driving Wallace Sayre's car, and he drives +like a fool or a madman." + +It was an old dispute and a bitter one. Mr. Wheeler got up, +whistled for the dog, and went out. His wife turned on Nina. + +"I wish you wouldn't bring these things to your father, Nina," she +said. "He's been very nervous lately, and he isn't always fair to +Jim." + +"Well, it's time Jim was fair to Leslie," Nina said, with family +frankness. "I'll tell you something, mother. Jim has a girl +somewhere, in town probably. He takes her driving. I found a glove +in the car. And he must be crazy about her, or he'd never do what +he's done." + +"Do you know who it is?" + +"No. Somebody's he's ashamed of, probably, or he wouldn't be so +clandestine about it." + +"Nina!" + +"Well, it looks like it. Jim's a man, mother. He's not a little +boy. He'll go through his shady period, like the rest." + +That night it was Mrs. Wheeler's turn to lie awake. Again and again +she went over Nina's words, and her troubled mind found a basis in +fact for them. Jim had been getting money from her, to supplement +his small salary; he had been going out a great deal at night, and +returning very late; once or twice, in the morning, he had looked +ill and his eyes had been bloodshot, as though he had been drinking. + +Anxiety gripped her. There were so many temptations for young men, +so many who waited to waylay them. A girl. Not a good girl, perhaps. + +She raised herself on her elbow and looked at her sleeping husband. +Men were like that; they begot children and then forgot them. They +never looked ahead or worried. They were taken up with business, +and always they forgot that once they too had been young and liable +to temptation. + +She got up, some time later, and tiptoed to the door of Jim's room. +Inside she could hear his heavy, regular breathing. Her boy. Her +only son. + +She went back and crawled carefully into the bed. + +There was an acrimonious argument between Jim and his father the +next morning, and Jim slammed out of the house, leaving chaos +behind him. It was then that Elizabeth learned that her father was +going away. He said: + +"Maybe I'm wrong, mother. I don't know. Perhaps, when I come back, +I'll look around for a car. I don't want him driven to doing +underhand things." + +"Are you going away?" Elizabeth asked, surprised. + +It appeared that he was. More than that, that he was going West +with Dick. It was all arranged and nobody had told her anything +about it. + +She was hurt and a trifle offended, and she cried a little about it. +Yet, as Dick explained to her later that day, it was simple enough. +Her father needed a rest, and besides, it was right that he should +know all about Dick's life before he came to Haverly. + +"He's going to make me a present of something highly valuable, +you know." + +"But it looks as though he didn't trust you!" + +"He's being very polite about it; but, of course, in his eyes I'm +a common thief, stealing--" + +She would not let him go on. + +A certain immaturity, the blind confidence of youth in those it +loves, explains Elizabeth's docility at that time. But underneath +her submission that day was a growing uneasiness, fiercely +suppressed. Buried deep, the battle between absolute trust and +fear was beginning, a battle which was so rapidly to mature her. + +Nina, shrewd and suspicious, sensed something of nervous strain +in her when she came in, later that day, to borrow a hat. + +"Look here, Elizabeth," she began, "I want to talk to you. Are +you going to live in this--this hole all your life?" + +"Hole nothing," Elizabeth said, hotly. "Really, Nina, I do think +you might be more careful of what you say." + +"Oh, it's a dear old hole," Nina said negligently. "But hole it +is, nevertheless. Why in the world mother don't manage her servants +--but no matter about that now. Elizabeth, there's a lot of talk +about you and Dick Livingstone, and it makes me furious. When I +think that you can have Wallie Sayre by lifting your finger--" + +"And that I don't intend to lift my finger," Elizabeth interrupted. + +"Then you're a fool. And it is Dick Livingstone!" + +"It is, Nina." + +Nina's ambitious soul was harrowed. + +"That stodgy old house," she said, "and two old people! A general +house-work girl, and you cooking on her Thursdays out! I wish you +joy of it." + +"I wonder," Elizabeth said calmly, "whether it ever occurs to you +that I may put love above houses and servants? Or that my life is +my own, to live exactly as I please? Because that is what I intend +to do." + +Nina rose angrily. + +"Thanks," she said. "I wish you joy of it." And went out, +slamming the door behind her. + +Then, with only a day or so remaining before Dick's departure, and +Jim's hand already reaching for the shuttle, Elizabeth found +herself the object of certain unmistakable advances from Mrs. Sayre +herself, and that at a rose luncheon at the house on the hill. + +The talk about Dick and Elizabeth had been slow in reaching the +house on the hill. When it came, via a little group on the terrace +after the luncheon, Mrs. Sayre was upset and angry and inclined to +blame Wallie. Everything that he wanted had come to him, all his +life, and he did not know how to go after things. He had sat by, +and let this shabby-genteel doctor, years older than the girl, walk +away with her. + +Not that she gave up entirely. She knew the town, and its tendency +toward over-statement. And so she made a desperate attempt, that +afternoon, to tempt Elizabeth. She took her through the greenhouses, +and then through the upper floors of the house. She showed her +pictures of their boat at Miami, and of the house at Marblehead. +Elizabeth was politely interested and completely unresponsive. + +"When you think," Mrs. Sayre said at last, "that Wallie will have +to assume a great many burdens one of these days, you can understand +how anxious I am to have him marry the right sort of girl." + +She thought Elizabeth flushed slightly. + +"I am sure he will, Mrs. Sayre." + +Mrs. Sayre tried a new direction. + +"He will have all I have, my dear, and it is a great responsibility. +Used properly, money can be an agent of great good. Wallie's wife +can be a power, if she so chooses. She can look after the poor. I +have a long list of pensioners, but I am too old to add personal +service." + +"That would be wonderful," Elizabeth said gravely. For a moment +she wished Dick were rich. There was so much to be done with money, +and how well he would know how to do it. She was thoughtful on the +way downstairs, and Mrs. Sayre felt some small satisfaction. Now if +Wallie would only do his part-- + +It was that night that Jim brought the tragedy on the Wheeler house +that was to lie heavy on it for many a day. + +There had been a little dinner, one of those small informal affairs +where Mrs. Wheeler, having found in the market the first of the +broiling chickens and some fine green peas, bought them first and +then sat down to the telephone to invite her friends. Mr. Oglethorpe, +the clergyman, and his wife accepted cheerfully; Harrison Miller, +resignedly. Then Mrs. Wheeler drew a long, resolute breath and +invited Mrs. Sayre. When that lady accepted with alacrity Mrs. +Wheeler hastily revised her menu, telephoned the florist for flowers, +and spent a long half-hour with Annie over plates and finger bowls. + +Jim was not coming home, and Elizabeth was dining with Nina. Mrs. +Wheeler bustled about the house contentedly. Everything was going +well, after all. Before long there would be a car, and Jim would +spend more time at home. Nina and Leslie were happy again. And +Elizabeth--not a good match, perhaps, but a marriage for love, if +ever there was one. + +She sat at the foot of her table that night, rather too watchful +of Annie, but supremely content. She had herself scoured the +loving cup to the last degree of brightness and it stood, full of +flowers, in the center of the cloth. + +At Nina's was a smaller but similar group. All over the village +at that time in the evening were similar groups, gathered around +flowers and candles; neatly served, cheerful and undramatic groups, +with the house doors closed and dogs waiting patiently outside in +the long spring twilight. + +Elizabeth was watching Nina. Just so, she was deciding, would she +some day preside at her own board. Perhaps before so very long, +too. A little separation, letters to watch for and answer, and +then-- + +The telephone rang, and Leslie answered it. He did not come back; +instead they heard the house door close, and soon after the rumble +of the car as it left the garage. It stopped at the door, and +Leslie came in. + +"I'm sorry," he said, "but I guess Elizabeth will have to go home. +You'd better come along, Nina." + +"What is it? Is somebody sick?" Elizabeth gasped. + +"Jim's been in an automobile accident. Steady now, Elizabeth! He's +hurt, but he's going to be all right." + +The Wheeler house, when they got there, was brightly lighted. +Annie was crying in the hall, and in the living-room Mrs. Sayre +stood alone, a strange figure in a gaudy dress, but with her face +strong and calm. + +"They've gone to the hospital in my car," she said. "They'll be +there now any minute, and Mr. Oglethorpe will telephone at once. +You are to wait before starting in." + +They all knew what that meant. It might be too late to start in. +Nina was crying hysterically, but Elizabeth could not cry. She +stood dry-eyed by the telephone, listening to Mrs. Sayre and +Leslie, but hardly hearing them. They had got Dick Livingstone +and he had gone on in. Mrs. Sayre was afraid it had been one of +Wallie's cars. She had begged Wallie to tell Jim to be careful in +it. It had too much speed. + +The telephone rang and Leslie took the receiver and pushed Elizabeth +gently aside. He listened for a moment. + +"Very well," he said. Then he hung up and stood still before he +turned around: + +"It isn't very good news," he said. "I wish I could--Elizabeth!" + +Elizabeth had crumpled up in a small heap on the floor. + +All through the long night that followed, with the movement of feet +through the halls, with her mother's door closing and the ghastly +silence that followed it, with the dawn that came through the +windows, the dawn that to Jim meant not a new day, but a new life +beyond their living touch, all through the night Elizabeth was aware +of two figures that came and went. One was Dick, quiet, tender and +watchful. And one was of a heavy woman in a gaudy dress, her face +old and weary in the morning light, who tended her with gentle hands. + +She fell asleep as the light was brightening in the East, with Dick +holding her hands and kneeling on the floor beside her bed. + +It was not until the next day that they knew that Jim had not been +alone. A girl who was with him had been pinned under the car and +had died instantly. + +Jim had woven his bit in the pattern and passed on. The girl was +negligible; she was, she had been. That was all. But Jim's death +added the last element to the impending catastrophe. It sent Dick +West alone. + + + + +XXII + +For several days after his visit to the Livingstone ranch Louis +Bassett made no move to go to the cabin. He wandered around the +town, made promiscuous acquaintances and led up, in careful +conversations with such older residents as he could find, to the +Clark and Livingstone families. Of the latter he learned nothing; +of the former not much that he had not known before. + +One day he happened on a short, heavy-set man, the sheriff, who had +lost his office on the strength of Jud Clark's escape, and had now +recovered it. Bassett had brought some whisky with him, and on the +promise of a drink lured Wilkins to his room. Over his glass the +sheriff talked. + +"All this newspaper stuff lately about Jud Clark being alive is +dead wrong," he declared, irritably. "Maggie Donaldson was crazy. +You can ask the people here about her. They all know it. Those +newspaper fellows descended on us here with a tooth-brush apiece +and a suitcase full of liquor, and thought they'd get something. +Seemed to think we'd hold out on them unless we got our skins full. +But there isn't anything to hold out. Jud Clark's dead. That's all." + +"Sure he's dead," Bassett agreed, amiably. "You found his horse, +didn't you?" + +"Yes. Dead. And when you find a man's horse dead in the mountains +in a blizzard, you don't need any more evidence. It was five months +before you could see a trail up the Goat that winter." + +Bassett nodded, rose and poured out another drink. + +"I suppose," he observed casually, "that even if Clark turned up +now, it would be hard to convict him, wouldn't it?" + +The sheriff considered that, holding up his glass. + +"Well, yes and no," he said. "It was circumstantial evidence, +mostly. Nobody saw it done. The worst thing against him was his +running off." + +"How about witnesses?" + +"Nobody actually saw it done. John Donaldson came the nearest, and +he's dead. Lucas's wife was still alive, the last I heard, and I +reckon the valet is floating around somewhere." + +"I suppose if he did turn up you'd make a try for it." Bassett +stared at the end of his cigar. + +"We'd make a try for it, all right," Wilkins said somberly. "There +are some folks in this county still giving me the laugh over that +case." + +The next day Bassett hired a quiet horse, rolled in his raincoat +two days' supply of food, strapped it to the cantle of his saddle, +and rode into the mountains. He had not ridden for years, and at +the end of the first hour he began to realize that he was in for a +bad time. By noon he was so sore that he could hardly get out of +the saddle, and so stiff that once out, he could barely get back +again. All morning the horse had climbed, twisting back and forth +on a narrow canyon trail, grunting occasionally, as is the way of +a horse on a steep grade. All morning they had followed a roaring +mountain stream, descending in small cataracts from the ice fields +far above. And all morning Bassett had been mentally following +that trail as it had been ridden ten years ago by a boy maddened +with fear and drink, who drove his horse forward through the night +and the blizzard, with no objective and no hope. + +He found it practically impossible to connect this frenzied fugitive +with the quiet man in his office chair at Haverly, the man who was +or was not Judson Clark. He lay on a bank at noon and faced the +situation squarely, while his horse, hobbled, grazed with grotesque +little forward jumps in an upland meadow. Either Dick Livingstone +was Clark, or he was the unknown occasional visitor at the +Livingstone Ranch. If he were Clark, and if that could be proved, +there were two courses open to Bassett. He could denounce him to +the authorities and then spring the big story of his career. Or he +could let things stand. From a professional standpoint the first +course attracted him, as a man he began to hate it. The last few +days had shed a new light on Judson Clark. He had been immensely +popular; there were men in the town who told about trying to save +him from himself. He had been extravagant, but he had also been +generous. He had been "a good kid," until liberty and money got +hold of him. There had been more than one man in the sheriff's +posse who hadn't wanted to find him. + +He was tempted to turn back. The mountains surrounded him, somber +and majestically still. They made him feel infinitely small and +rather impertinent, as though he had come to penetrate the secrets +they never yielded. He had almost to fight a conviction that they +were hostile. + +After an hour or so he determined to go on. Let them throw him +over a gorge if they so determined. He got up, grunting, and +leading the horse beside a boulder, climbed painfully into the +saddle. To relieve his depression he addressed the horse: + +"It would be easier on both of us if you were two feet narrower in +the beam, old dear," he said. + +Nevertheless, he made good time. By six o'clock he knew that he +must have made thirty odd miles, and that he must be near the cabin. +Also that it was going to be bitterly cold that night, under the +snow fields, and that he had brought no wood axe. The deep valley +was purple with twilight by seven, and he could scarcely see the +rough-drawn trail map he had been following. And the trail grew +increasingly bad. For the last mile or two the horse took its +own way. + +It wandered on, through fords and out of them, under the low-growing +branches of scrub pine, brushing his bruised legs against rocks. +He had definitely decided that he had missed the cabin when the +horse turned off the trail, and he saw it. + +It was built of rough logs, the chinks once closed with mud which +had fallen away. The door stood open, and his entrance into its +darkness was followed by the scurrying of many little feet. +Bassett unstrapped his raincoat from the saddle with fingers numb +with cold, and flung it to the ground. He uncinched and removed +the heavy saddle, hobbled his horse and removed the bridle, and +turned him loose with a slap on the flank. + +"For the love of Mike, don't go far, old man," he besought him. +And was startled by the sound of his own voice. + +By the light of his candle lantern the prospects were extremely +poor. The fir branches in the double-berthed bunk were dry and +useless, the floor was crumbling under his feet, and the roof of the +lean-to had fallen in and crushed the rusty stove. In the cabin +itself some one had recently placed a large flat stone in a corner +for a fireplace, with two slabs to back it, and above it had broken +out a corner of the roof as a chimney. Bassett thought he saw the +handwork of some enterprising journalist, and smiled grimly. + +He set to work with the resource of a man who had learned to take +what came, threw the dry bedding onto the slab and set a match to +it, brought in portions of the lean-to roof for further supply for +the fire, opened a can of tomatoes and set it on the edge of the +hearth to heat, and sliced bacon into his diminutive frying-pan. + +It was too late for any examination that night. He ate his supper +from the rough table, drawing up to it a broken chair, and +afterwards brought in more wood for his fire. Then, with a lighted +cigar, and with his boots steaming on the hearth, he sat in front +of the blaze and fell into deep study. + +He was aching in every muscle when he finally stretched out on the +bare boards of the lower bunk. While he slept small furry noses +appeared in the openings in the broken floor, to be followed by +little bodies that moved cautiously out into the open. He roused +once and peered over the edge of the bunk. Several field mice were +basking in front of the dying embers of the fire, and two were +sitting on his boots. He grinned at them and lay back again, but +he found himself fully awake and very uncomfortable. He lay there, +contemplating his own folly, and demanding of himself almost +fiercely what he had expected to get out of all this effort and +misery. For ten years or so men had come here. Wilkins had come, +for one, and there had been others. And had found nothing, and had +gone away. And now he was there, the end of the procession, to +look for God knows what. + +He pulled the raincoat up around his shoulders, and lay back stiffly. +Then--he was not an imaginative man--he began to feel that eyes +were staring at him, furtive, hidden eyes, intently watching him. + +Without moving he began to rake the cabin with his eyes, wall to +wall, corner to corner. He turned, cautiously, and glanced at the +door into the lean-to. It gaped, cavernous and empty. But the +sense of being watched persisted, and when he looked at the floor +the field mice had disappeared. + +He began gradually to see more clearly as his eyes grew accustomed +to the semi-darkness, and he felt, too, that he could almost locate +the direction of the menace. For as a menace he found himself +considering it. It was the broken, windowless East wall, opposite +the bunk. + +After a time the thing became intolerable. He reached for his +revolver, and getting quickly out of the bunk, ran to the doorway +and threw open the door, to find himself peering into a blackness +like a wall, and to hear a hasty crunching of the underbrush that +sounded like some animal in full flight. + +With the sounds, and his own movement, the terror died. The cold +night air on his face, the feel of the pine needles under his +stockinged feet, brought him back to sense and normality. Some +creature of the wilderness, a deer or a bear, perhaps, had been +moving stealthily outside the cabin, and it was sound he had heard, +not a gaze he had felt. He was rather cynically amused at himself. +He went back into the cabin, closed the door, and stooped to turn +his boots over before the fire. + +It was while he was stooping that he heard a horse galloping off +along the trail. + +He did not go to sleep again. Now and then he considered the +possibility of its having been his own animal, somehow freed of +the rope and frightened by the same thing that had frightened him. +But when with the first light he went outside, his horse, securely +hobbled, was grazing on the scant pasture not far away. + +Before he cooked his breakfast he made a minute examination of the +ground beneath the East wall, but the earth was hard, and a broken +branch or two might have been caused by his horse. He had no skill +in woodcraft, and in the broad day his alarm seemed almost absurd. +Some free horse on the range had probably wandered into the vicinity +of the cabin, and had made off again on a trot. Nevertheless, he +made up his mind not to remain over another night, but to look about +after breakfast, and then to start down again. + +He worked on his boots, dry and hard after yesterday's wetting, +fried his bacon and dropped some crackers into the sizzling fat, +and ate quickly. After that he went out to the trail and inspected +it. He had an idea that range horses were mostly unshod, and that +perhaps the trail would reveal something. But it was unused and +overgrown. Not until he had gone some distance did he find anything. +Then in a small bare spot he found in the dust the imprints of a +horse's shoes, turned down the trail up which he had come. + +Even then he was slow to read into the incident anything that +related to himself or to his errand. He went over the various +contingencies of the trail: a ranger, on his way to town; a forest +fire somewhere; a belated hound from the newspaper pack. He was +convinced now that human eyes had watched him for some time through +the log wall the night before, but he could not connect them with +the business in hand. + +He set resolutely about his business, which was to turn up, somehow, +some way, a proof of the truth of Maggie Donaldson's dying statement. +To begin with then he accepted that statement, to find where it would +lead him, and it led him, eventually, to the broken-down stove under +the fallen roof of the lean-to. + +He deliberately set himself to work, at first, to reconstruct the +life in the cabin. Jud would have had the lower bunk, David the +upper. The skeleton of a cot bed in the lean-to would have been +Maggie's. But none of them yielded anything. + +Very well. Having accepted that they lived here, it was from here +that the escape was made. They would have started the moment the +snow was melted enough to let them get out, and they would have +taken, not the trail toward the town, but some other and circuitous +route toward the railroad. But there had been things to do before +they left. They would have cleared the cabin of every trace of +occupancy; the tin cans, Clark's clothing, such bedding as they +could not carry. The cans must have been a problem; the clothes, +of course, could have been burned. But there were things, like +buttons, that did not burn easily. Clark's watch, if he wore one, +his cuff links. Buried? + +It occurred to him that they might have disposed of some of the +unburnable articles under the floor, and he lifted a rough board or +two. But to pursue the search systematically he would have needed +a pickaxe, and reluctantly he gave it up and turned his attention +to the lean-to and the buried stove. + +The stove lay in a shallow pit, filled with ancient ashes and +crumbled bits of wood from the roof. It lay on its side, its +sheet-iron sides collapsed, its long chimney disintegrated. He +was in a heavy sweat before he had uncovered it and was able to +remove it from its bed of ashes and pine needles. This done, he +brought his candle-lantern and settled himself cross-legged on the +ground. + +His first casual inspection of the ashes revealed nothing. He set +to work more carefully then, picking them up by handfuls, examining +and discarding. Within ten minutes he had in a pile beside him +some burned and blackened metal buttons, the eyelets and a piece +of leather from a shoe, and the almost unrecognizable nib of a +fountain pen. + +He sat with them in the palm of his hand. Taken alone, each one +was insignificant, proved nothing whatever. Taken all together, +they assumed vast proportions, became convincing, became evidence. + +Late that night he descended stiffly at the livery stable, and +turned his weary horse over to a stableman. + +"Looks dead beat," said the stableman, eyeing the animal. + +"He's got nothing on me," Bassett responded cheerfully. "Better +give him a hot bath and put him to bed. That's what I'm going to do." + +He walked back to the hotel, glad to stretch his aching muscles. +The lobby was empty, and behind the desk the night clerk was waiting +for the midnight train. Bassett was wide awake by that time, and he +went back to the desk and lounged against it. + +"You look as though you'd struck oil," said the night clerk. + +"Oil! I'll tell you what I have struck. I've struck a livery stable +saddle two million times in the last two days." + +The clerk grinned, and Bassett idly pulled the register toward him. + +"J. Smith, Minneapolis," he read. Then he stopped and stared. +Richard Livingstone was registered on the next line above. + + + + +XXIII + +Dick had found it hard to leave Elizabeth, for she clung to him in +her grief with childish wistfulness. He found, too, that her family +depended on him rather than on Leslie Ward for moral support. It +was to him that Walter Wheeler looked for assurance that the father +had had no indirect responsibility for the son's death; it was to +him that Jim's mother, lying gray-faced and listless in her bed or +on her couch, brought her anxious questionings. Had Jim suffered? +Could they have avoided it? And an insistent demand to know who and +what had been the girl who was with him. + +In spite of his own feeling that he would have to go to Norada +quickly, before David became impatient over his exile, Dick took a +few hours to find the answer to that question. But when he found +it he could not tell them. The girl had been a dweller in the shady +byways of life, had played her small unmoral part and gone on, +perhaps to some place where men were kinder and less urgent. Dick +did not judge her. He saw her, as her kind had been through all +time, storm centers of the social world, passively and unconsciously +blighting, at once the hunters and the prey. + +He secured her former address from the police, a three-story brick +rooming-house in the local tenderloin, and waited rather +uncomfortably for the mistress of the place to see him. She came +at last, a big woman, vast and shapeless and with an amiable loose +smile, and she came in with the light step of the overfleshed, only +to pause in the doorway and to stare at him. + +"My God!" she said. "I thought you were dead!" + +"I'm afraid you're mistaking me for some one else, aren't you?" + +She looked at him carefully. + +"I'd have sworn--" she muttered, and turning to the button inside +the door she switched on the light. Then she surveyed him again. + +"What's your name?" + +"Livingstone. Doctor Livingstone. I called--" + +"Is that for me, or for the police?" + +"Now see here," he said pleasantly. "I don't know who you are +mistaking me for, and I'm not hiding from the police. Here's my +card, and I have come from the family of a young man named Wheeler, +who was killed recently in an automobile accident." + +She took the card and read it, and then resumed her intent scrutiny +of him. + +"Well, you fooled me all right," she said at last. "I thought you +were--well, never mind that. What about this Wheeler family? Are +they going to settle with the undertaker? Because I tell you flat, +I can't and won't. She owed me a month's rent, and her clothes +won't bring over seventy-five or a hundred dollars." + +As he left he was aware that she stood in the doorway looking after +him. He drove home slowly in the car, and on the way he made up a +kindly story to tell the family. He could not let them know that +Jim had been seeking love in the byways of life. And that night he +mailed a check in payment of the undertaker's bill, carefully +leaving the stub empty. + +On the third day after Jim's funeral he started for Norada. An +interne from a local hospital, having newly finished his service +there, had agreed to take over his work for a time. But Dick was +faintly jealous when he installed Doctor Reynolds in his office, +and turned him over to a mystified Minnie to look after. + +"Is he going to sleep in your bed?" she demanded belligerently. + +She was only partially mollified when she found Doctor Reynolds +was to have the spare room. She did not like the way things were +going, she confided to Mike. Why wasn't she to let on to Mrs. +Crosby that Doctor Dick had gone away? Or to the old doctor? Both +of them away, and that little upstart in the office ready to steal +their patients and hang out his own sign the moment they got back! + +Unused to duplicity as he was, Dick found himself floundering along +an extremely crooked path. He wrote a half dozen pleasant, +non-committal letters to David and Lucy, spending an inordinate time +on them, and gave them to Walter Wheeler to mail at stated intervals. +But his chief difficulty was with Elizabeth. Perhaps he would have +told her; there were times when he had to fight his desire to have +her share his anxiety as well as know the truth about him. But she +was already carrying the burden of Jim's tragedy, and her father, +too, was insistent that she be kept in ignorance. + +"Until she can have the whole thing," he said, with the new +heaviness which had crept into his voice. + +Beside that real trouble Dick's looked dim and nebulous. Other +things could be set right; there was always a fighting chance. It +was only death that was final. + +Elizabeth went to the station to see him off, a small slim thing +in a black frock, with eyes that persistently sought his face, +and a determined smile. He pulled her arm through his, so he +might hold her hand, and when he found that she was wearing her +ring he drew her even closer, with a wave of passionate possession. + +"You are mine. My little girl." + +"I am yours. For ever and ever." + +But they assumed a certain lightness after that, each to cheer the +other. As when she asserted that she was sure she would always +know the moment he stopped thinking about her, and he stopped, with +any number of people about, and said: + +"That's simply terrible! Suppose, when we are married, my mind +turns on such a mundane thing as beefsteak and onions? Will you +simply walk out on me?" + +He stood on the lowest step of the train until her figure was lost +in the darkness, and the porter expostulated. He was, that night, +a little drunk with love, and he did not read the note she had +thrust into his hand at the last moment until he was safely in his +berth, his long figure stretched diagonally to find the length it +needed. + +"Darling, darling Dick," she had written. "I wonder so often how +you can care for me, or what I have done to deserve you. And I +cannot write how I feel, just as I cannot say it. But, Dick dear, +I have such a terrible fear of losing you, and you are my life now. +You will be careful and not run any risks, won't you? And just +remember this always. Wherever you are and wherever I am, I am +thinking of you and waiting for you." + +He read it three times, until he knew it by heart, and he slept +with it in the pocket of his pajama coat. + +Three days later he reached Norada, and registered at the Commercial +Hotel. The town itself conveyed nothing to him. He found it +totally unfamiliar, and for its part the town passed him by without +a glance. A new field had come in, twenty miles from the old one, +and had brought with it a fresh influx of prospectors, riggers, +and lease buyers. The hotel was crowded. + +That was his first disappointment. He had been nursing the hope +that surroundings which he must once have known well would assist +him in finding himself. That was the theory, he knew. He stood at +the window of his hotel room, with its angular furniture and the +Gideon Bible, and for the first time he realized the difficulty +of what he had set out to do. Had he been able to take David into +his confidence he would have had the names of one or two men to go +to, but as things were he had nothing. + +The almost morbid shrinking he felt from exposing his condition +was increased, rather than diminished, in the new surroundings. +He would, of course, go to the ranch at Dry River, and begin his +inquiries from there, but not until now had he realized what that +would mean; his recognition by people he could not remember, the +questions he could not answer. + +He knew the letter to David from beginning to end, but he got it +out and read it again. Who was this Bassett, and what mischief +was he up to? Why should he himself be got out of town quickly +and the warning burned? Who was "G"? And why wouldn't the simplest +thing be to locate this Bassett himself? + +The more he considered that the more obvious it seemed as a solution, +provided of course he could locate the man. Whether Bassett were +friendly or inimical, he was convinced that he knew or was finding +out something concerning himself which David was keeping from him. + +He was relieved when he went down to the desk to find that his man +was registered there, although the clerk reported him out of town. +But the very fact that only a few hours or days separated him from +a solution of the mystery heartened him. + +He ate his dinner alone, unnoticed, and after dinner, in the writing +room, with its mission furniture and its traveling men copying +orders, he wrote a letter to Elizabeth. Into it he put some of the +things that lay too deep for speech when he was with her, and +because he had so much to say and therefore wrote extremely fast, +a considerable portion of it was practically illegible. Then, as +though he could hurry the trains East, he put a special delivery +stamp on it. + +With that off his mind, and the need of exercise after the trip +insistent, he took his hat and wandered out into the town. The +main street was crowded; moving picture theaters were summoning +their evening audiences with bright lights and colored posters, +and automobiles lined the curb. But here and there an Indian with +braids and a Stetson hat, or a cowpuncher from a ranch in boots +and spurs reminded him that after all this was the West, the horse +and cattle country. It was still twilight, and when he had left +the main street behind him he began to have a sense of the familiar. +Surely he had stood here before, had seen the court-house on its +low hill, the row of frame houses in small gardens just across the +street. It seemed infinitely long ago, but very real. He even +remembered dimly an open place at the other side of the building +where the ranchmen tied their horses. To test himself he walked +around. Yes, it was there, but no horses stood there now, heads +drooping, bridle reins thrown loosely over the rail. Only a muddy +automobile, without lights, and a dog on guard beside it. + +He spoke to the dog, and it came and sniffed at him. Then it +squatted in front of him, looking up into his face. + +"Lonely, old chap, aren't you?" he said. "Well, you've got +nothing on me." + +He felt a little cheered as he turned back toward the hotel. A few +encounters with the things of his youth, and perhaps the cloud +would clear away. Already the court-house had stirred some +memories. And on turning back down the hill he had another swift +vision, photographically distinct but unrelated to anything that +had preceded or followed it. It was like a few feet cut from a +moving picture film. + +He was riding down that street at night on a small horse, and his +father was beside him on a tall one. He looked up at his father, +and he seemed very large. The largest man in the world. And the +most important. + +It began and stopped there, and his endeavor to follow it further +resulted in its ultimately leaving him. It faded, became less real, +until he wondered if he had not himself conjured it. But that +experience taught him something. Things out of the past would come +or they would not come, but they could not be forced. One could not +will to revive them. + +He stood at a window facing north that night, under the impression +it was east, and sent his love and an inarticulate sort of prayer +to Elizabeth, for her safety and happiness, in the general direction +of the Arctic Circle. + +Bassett had not returned in the morning, and he found himself with +a day on his hands. He decided to try the experiment of visiting +the Livingstone ranch, or at least of viewing it from a safe +distance, with the hope of a repetition of last night's experience. +Of all his childish memories the ranch house, next to his father, +was most distinct. When he had at various times tried to analyze +what things he recalled he had found that what they lacked of normal +memory was connection. They stood out, like the one the night +before, each complete in itself, brief, and having no apparent +relation to what had gone before or what came after. + +But the ranch house had been different. The pictures were mostly +superimposed on it; it was their background. Himself standing on +the mountain looking down at it, and his father pointing to it; +the tutor who was afraid of horses, sitting at a big table in a +great wood-ceiled and wood-paneled room; a long gallery or porch +along one side of the building and rooms added on to the house so +that one had to go along the gallery to reach them; a gun-room +full of guns. + +When, much later, Dick was able calmly to review that day, he found +his recollection of it confused by the events that followed, but one +thing stood out as clearly as his later knowledge of the almost +incredible fact that for one entire day and for the evening of +another, he had openly appeared in Norada and had not been +recognized. That fact was his discovery that the Livingstone ranch +house had no place in his memory whatever. + +He had hired a car and a driver, a driver who asserted that this +was the old Livingstone ranch house. And it bore no resemblance, +not the faintest, to the building he remembered. It did not lie +where it should have lain. The mountains were too far behind it. +It was not the house. The fields were not the proper fields. It +was wrong, all wrong. + +He went no closer than the highway, because it was not necessary. +He ordered the car to turn and go back, and for the first and only +time he was filled with bitter resentment against David. David had +fooled him. He sat beside the driver, his face glowering and his +eyes hot, and let his indignation burn in him like a flame. + +Hours afterwards he had, of course, found excuses for David. +Accepted them, rather, as a part of the mystery which wrapped him +about. But they had no effect on the decision he made during that +miserable ride back to Norada, when he determined to see the man +Bassett and get the truth out of him if he had to choke it out. + + + +XXIV + +Bassett was astounded when he saw Dick's signature on the hotel +register. It destroyed, in one line, every theory he held. That +Judson Clark should return to Norada after his flight was +incredible. Ten years was only ten years after all. It was not +a lifetime. There were men in the town who had known Clark well. + +Nevertheless for a time he held to his earlier conviction, even +fought for it. He went so far as to wonder if Clark had come back +for a tardy surrender. Men had done that before this, had carried +a burden for years, had reached the breaking point, had broken. +But he dismissed that. There had been no evidence of breaking in +the young man in the office chair. He found himself thrown back, +finally, on the story of the Wasson woman, and wondering if he +would have to accept it after all. + +The reaction from his certainty in the cabin to uncertainty again +made him fretful and sleepless. It was almost morning before he +relaxed on his hard hotel bed enough to sleep. + +He wakened late, and telephoned down for breakfast. His confusion +had not decreased with the night, and while he got painfully out +of bed and prepared to shave and dress, his thoughts were busy. +There was no doubt in his mind that, in spite of the growth of the +town, the newcomer would be under arrest almost as soon as he made +his appearance. A resemblance that could deceive Beverly Carlysle's +brother could deceive others, and would. That he had escaped so +long amazed him. + +By the time he had bathed he had developed a sort of philosophic +acceptance of the new situation. There would be no exclusive story +now, no scoop. The events of the next few hours were for every man +to read. He shrugged his shoulders as, partially dressed, he +carried his shaving materials into the better light of his bedroom. + +With his face partially lathered he heard a knock at the door, and +sang out a not uncheerful "Come in." It happened, then, that it +was in his mirror that he learned that his visitor was not the +waiter, but Livingstone himself. He had an instant of stunned +amazement before he turned. + +"I beg your pardon," Dick said. "I was afraid you'd get out before +I saw you. My name's Livingstone, and I want to talk to you, if +you don't mind. If you like I'll come back later." + +Bassett perceived two things simultaneously; that owing probably to +the lather on his face he had not been recognized, and that the +face of the man inside the door was haggard and strained. + +"That's all right. Come in and sit down. I'll get this stuff off +my face and be with you in a jiffy." + +But he was very deliberate in the bathroom. His astonishment grew, +rather than decreased. Clearly Livingstone had not known him. How, +then, had he known that he was in Norada? And when he recognized +him, as he would in a moment, what then? He put on his collar and +tied his tie slowly. Gregory might be the key. Gregory might have +found out that he had started for Norada and warned him. Then, if +that were true, this man was Clark after all. But if he were Clark +he wouldn't be there. It was like a kitten after its tail. It +whirled in a circle and got nowhere. + +The waiter had laid his breakfast and gone when he emerged from the +bathroom, and Dick was standing by the window looking out. He +turned. + +"I'm here, Mr. Bassett, on rather a peculiar--" He stopped +and looked at Bassett. "I see. You were in my office about a +month ago, weren't you?" + +"For a headache, yes." Bassett was very wary and watchful, but there +was no particular unfriendliness in his visitor's eyes. + +"It never occurred to me that you might be Bassett," Dick said +gravely. "Never mind about that. Eat your breakfast. Do you mind +if I talk while you do it?" + +"Will you have some coffee? I can get a glass from the bathroom. +It takes a week to get a waiter here." + +"Thanks. Yes." + +The feeling of unreality grew in the reporter's mind. It increased +still further when they sat opposite each other, the small table +with its Bible on the lower shelf between them, while he made a +pretense at breakfasting. + +"First of all," Dick said, at last, "I was not sure I had found the +right man. You are the only Bassett in the place, however, and +you're registered from my town. So I took a chance. I suppose +that headache was not genuine." + +Bassett hesitated. + +"No" he said at last. + +"What you really wanted to do was to see me, then?" + +"In a way, yes." + +"I'll ask you one more question. It may clear the air. Does this +mean anything to you? I'll tell you now that it doesn't, to me." + +From his pocketbook he took the note addressed to David, and passed +it over the table. Bassett looked at him quickly and took it. + +"Before you read it, I'll explain something. It was not sent to me. +It was sent to my--to Doctor David Livingstone. It happened to +fall into my hands. I've come a long way to find out what it means." + +He paused, and looked the reporter straight in the eyes. "I am +laying my cards on the table, Bassett. This 'G,' whoever he is, +is clearly warning my uncle against you. I want to know what he is +warning him about." + +Bassett read the note carefully, and looked up. + +"I suppose you know who 'G' is?" + +"I do not. Do you?" + +"I'll give you another name, and maybe you'll get it. A name that +I think will mean something to you. Beverly Carlysle." + +"The actress?" + +Bassett had an extraordinary feeling of unreality, followed by one +of doubt. Either the fellow was a very good actor, or-- + +"Sorry," Dick said slowly. "I don't seem to get it. I don't know +that 'G' is as important as his warning. That note's a warning." + +"Yes. It's a warning. And I don't think you need me to tell you +what about." + +"Concerning my uncle, or myself?" + +"Are you trying to put it over on me that you don't know?" + +"That's what I'm trying to do," Dick said, with a sort of grave +patience. + +The reporter liked courage when he saw it, and he was compelled to +a sort of reluctant admiration. + +"You've got your courage with you," he observed. "How long do you +suppose it will be after you set foot on the streets of this town +before you're arrested? How do you know I won't send for the +police myself?" + +"I know damned well you won't," Dick said grimly. "Not before I'm +through with you. You've chosen to interest yourself in me. I +suppose you don't deny the imputation in that letter. You'll grant +that I have a right to know who and what you are, and just what you +are interested in." + +"Right-o," the reporter said cheerfully, glad to get to grips; and +to stop a fencing that was getting nowhere. "I'm connected with +the Times-Republican, in your own fair city. I was in the theater +the night Gregory recognized you. Verbum sap." + +"This Gregory is the 'G'?" + +"Oh, quit it, Clark," Bassett said, suddenly impatient. "That +letter's the last proof I needed. Gregory wrote it after he'd seen +David Livingstone. He wouldn't have written it if he and the old +man hadn't come to an understanding. I've been to the cabin. My +God, man, I've even got the parts of your clothing that wouldn't +burn! You can thank Maggie Donaldson for that." + +"Donaldson," Dick repeated. "That was it. I couldn't remember her +name. The woman in the cabin. Maggie. And Jack. Jack Donaldson." + +He got up, and was apparently dizzy, for he caught at the table. + +"Look here," Bassett said, "let me give you a drink. You look +all in." + +But Dick shook his head. + +"No, thanks just the same. I'll ask you to be plain with me, +Bassett. I am--I have become engaged to a girl, and--well, I +want the story. That's all." + +And, when Bassett only continued to stare at him: + +"I suppose I've begun wrong end first. I forgot about how it must +seem to you. I dropped a block out of my life about ten years ago. +Can't remember it. I'm not proud of it, but it's the fact. What +I'm trying to do now is to fill in the gap. But I've got to, +somehow. I owe it to the girl." + +When Bassett could apparently find nothing to say he went on: + +"You say I may be arrested if I go out on the street. And you +rather more than intimate that a woman named Beverly Carlysle is +mixed up in it somehow. I take it that I knew her." + +"Yes. You knew her," Bassett said slowly. At the intimation in +his tone Dick surveyed him for a moment without speaking. His face, +pale before, took on a grayish tinge. + +"I wasn't--married to her?" + +"No. You didn't marry her. See here, Clark, this is straight goods, +is it? You're not trying to put something over on me? Because if + you are, you needn't. I'd about made up my mind to follow the +story through for my own satisfaction, and then quit cold on it. +When a man's pulled himself out of the mud as you have it's not my +business to pull him down. But I don't want you to pull any bunk." + +Dick winced. + +"Out of the mud!" he said. "No. I'm telling you the truth, Bassett. +I have some fragmentary memories, places and people, but no names, +and all of them, I imagine from my childhood. I pick up at a cabin +in the mountains, with snow around, and David Livingstone feeding me +soup with a tin spoon." He tried to smile and failed. His face +twitched. "I could stand it for myself," he said, "but I've tied +another life to mine, like a cursed fool, and now you speak of a +woman, and of arrest. Arrest! For what?" + +"Suppose," Bassett said after a moment, "suppose you let that go +just now, and tell me more about this--this gap. You're a medical +man. You've probably gone into your own case pretty thoroughly. +I'm accepting your statement, you see. As a matter of fact it must +be true, or you wouldn't be here. But I've got to know what I'm +doing before I lay my cards on the table. Make it simple, if you +can. I don't know your medical jargon." + +Dick did his best. The mind closed down now and then, mainly from +a shock. No, there was no injury required. He didn't think he had +had an injury. A mental shock would do it, if it were strong enough. +And fear. It was generally fear. He had never considered himself +braver than the other fellow, but no man liked to think that he had +a cowardly mind. Even if things hadn't broken as they had, he'd +have come back before he went to the length of marriage, to find +out what it was he had been afraid of. He paused then, to give +Bassett a chance to tell him, but the reporter only said: "Go on. +you put your cards on the table, and then I'll lay mine out." + +Dick went on. He didn't blame Bassett. If there was something that +was in his line of work, he understood. At the same time he wanted +to save David anything unpleasant. (The word "unpleasant" startled +Bassett, by its very inadequacy.) He knew now that David had built +up for him an identity that probably did not exist, but he wanted +Bassett to know that there could never be doubt of David's high +purpose and his essential fineness. + +"Whatever I was before." he finished simply, "and I'll get that +from you now, if I am any sort of a man at all it is his work." + +He stood up and braced himself. It had been clear to Bassett for +ten minutes that Dick was talking against time, against the period +of revelation. He would have it, but he was mentally bracing +himself against it. + +"I think," he said, "I'll have that whisky now." + +Bassett poured him a small drink, and took a turn about the room +while he drank it. He was perplexed and apprehensive. Strange +as the story was, he was convinced that he had heard the truth. +He had, now and then, run across men who came back after a brief +disappearance, with a cock and bull story of forgetting who they +were, and because nearly always these men vanished at the peak of +some crisis they had always been open to suspicion. Perhaps, poor +devils, they had been telling the truth after all. So the mind +shut down, eh? Closed like a grave over the unbearable! + +His own part in the threatening catastrophe began to obsess him. +Without the warning from Gregory there would have been no return to +Norada, no arrest. It had all been dead and buried, until he +himself had revived it. And a girl, too! The girl in the blue +dress at the theater, of course. + +Dick put down the glass. + +"I'm ready, if you are." + +"Does the name of Clark recall anything to you?" + +"Nothing." + +"Judson Clark? Jud Clark?" + +Dick passed his hand over his forehead wearily. + +"I'm not sure," he said. "It sounds familiar, and then it doesn't. +It doesn't mean anything to me, if you get that. If it's a key, +it doesn't unlock. That's all. Am I Judson Clark?" + +Oddly enough, Bassett found himself now seeking for hope of escape +in the very situation that had previously irritated him, in the +story he had heard at Wasson's. He considered, and said, almost +violently: + +"Look here, I may have made a mistake. I came out here pretty well +convinced I'd found the solution to an old mystery, and for that +matter I think I have. But there's a twist in it that isn't clear, +and until it is clear I'm not going to saddle you with an identity +that may not belong to you. You are one of two men. One of them +is Judson Clark, and I'll be honest with you; I'm pretty sure you're +Clark. The other I don't know, but I have reason to believe that +he spent part of his time with Henry Livingstone at Dry River." + +"I went to the Livingstone ranch yesterday. I remember my early +home. That wasn't it. Which one of these two men will be arrested +if he is recognized?" + +"Clark." + +"For what?" + +"I'm coming to that. I suppose you'll have to know. Another +drink? No? All right. About ten years ago, or a little less, a +young chap called Judson Clark got into trouble here, and headed +into the mountains in a blizzard. He was supposed to have frozen +to death. But recently a woman named Donaldson made a confession +on her deathbed. She said that she had helped to nurse Clark in a +mountain cabin, and that with the aid of some one unnamed he had +got away." + +"Then I'm Clark. I remember her, and the cabin." + +There was a short silence following that admission. To Dick, it +was filled with the thought of Elizabeth, and of her relation to +what he was about to hear. Again he braced himself for what was +coming. + +"I suppose," he said at last, "that if I ran away I was in pretty +serious trouble. What was it?" + +"We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You +don't know, and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane +before she died. I've told you there's a chance you are the other +man." + +"All right. What had Clark done?" + +"He had shot a man." + +The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, +he was ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair. + +"Not--murder?" he asked, with stiff lips. + +"No," Bassett said quickly. "Not at all. See here, you've had +about all you can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are +Clark. All I said was--" + +"I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?" + +"Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for +that, I think." + +Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. +For a long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines +of cars in front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian +woman with a child in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, +looked up at Dick and extended a beaded belt. With it still +extended she continued to stare at his white face. + +"The man died, of course?" he asked at last, without turning. + +"Yes. I knew him. He wasn't any great loss. It was at the Clark +ranch. I don't believe a conviction would be possible, although +they would try for one. It was circumstantial evidence." + +"And I ran away?" + +"Clark ran away," Bassett corrected him. "As I've told you, the +authorities here believe he is dead." + +After an even longer silence Dick turned. + +"I told you there was a girl. I'd like to think out some way to +keep the thing from her, before I surrender myself. If I can +protect her, and David--" + +"I tell you, you don't even know you are Clark." + +"All right. If I'm not, they'll know. If I am--I tell you I'm +not going through the rest of my life with a thing like that +hanging over me. Maggie Donaldson was sane enough. Why, when I +look back, I know our leaving the cabin was a flight. I'm not +Henry Livingstone's son, because he never had a son. I can tell +you what the Clark ranch house looks like." And after a pause: +"Can you imagine the reverse of a dream when you've dreamed you are +guilty of something and wake up to find you are innocent? Who was +the man?" + +Bassett watched him narrowly. + +"His name was Lucas. Howard Lucas." + +"All right. Now we have that, where does Beverly Carlysle come in?" + +"Clark was infatuated with her. The man he shot was the man she +had married." + + + + +XXV + +Shortly after that Dick said he would go to his room. He was still +pale, but his eyes looked bright and feverish, and Bassett went +with him, uneasily conscious that something was not quite right. +Dick spoke only once on the way. + +"My head aches like the mischief," he said, and his voice was dull +and lifeless. + +He did not want Bassett to go with him, but Bassett went, +nevertheless. Dick's statement, that he meant to surrender himself, +had filled him with uneasiness. He determined, following him along +the hall, to keep a close guard on him for the next few hours, but +beyond that, just then, he did not try to go. If it were humanly +possible he meant to smuggle him out of the town and take him East. +But he had an uneasy conviction that Dick was going to be ill. +The mind did strange things with the body. + +Dick sat down on the edge of the bed. + +"My head aches like the mischief," he repeated. "Look in that grip +and find me some tablets, will you? I'm dizzy." + +He made an effort and stretched out on the bed. "Good Lord," he +muttered, "I haven't had such a headache since--" + +His voice trailed off. Bassett, bending over the army kit bag in +the corner, straightened and looked around. Dick was suddenly +asleep and breathing heavily. + +For a long time the reporter sat by the side of the bed, watching +him and trying to plan some course of action. He was overcome by +his own responsibility, and by the prospect of tragedy that +threatened. That Livingstone was Clark, and that he would insist +on surrendering himself when he wakened, he could no longer doubt. +His mind wandered back to that day when he had visited the old house +as a patient, and from that along the strange road they had both +come since then. He reflected, not exactly in those terms, that +life, any man's life, was only one thread in a pattern woven of an +infinite number of threads, and that to tangle the one thread was +to interfere with all the others. David Livingstone, the girl in +the blue dress, the man twitching uneasily on the bed, Wilkins the +sheriff, himself, who could tell how many others, all threads. + +He swore in a whisper. + +The maid tapped at the door. He opened it an inch or so and sent +her off. In view of his new determination even the maid had become +a danger. She was the same elderly woman who looked after his own +bedroom, and she might have known Clark. Just what Providence had +kept him from recognition before this he did not know, but it could +not go on indefinitely. + +After an hour or so Bassett locked the door behind him and went +down to lunch. He was not hungry, but he wanted to get out of the +room, to think without that quiet figure before him. Over the +pretence of food he faced the situation. Lying ready to his hand +was the biggest story of his career, but he could not carry it +through. It was characteristic of him that, before abandoning it, +he should follow through to the end the result of its publication. +He did not believe, for instance, that either Dick's voluntary +surrender or his own disclosure of the situation necessarily meant +a conviction for murder. To convict a man of a crime he did not +know he had committed would be difficult. But, with his customary +thoroughness he followed that through also. Livingstone acquitted +was once again Clark, would be known to the world as Clark. The +new place he had so painfully made for himself would be gone. The +story would follow him, never to be lived down. And in his +particular profession confidence and respect were half the game. +All that would be gone. + +Thus by gradual stages he got back to David, and he struggled for +the motive which lay behind every decisive human act. A man who +followed a course by which he had nothing to gain and everything +to lose was either a fool or was actuated by some profound +unselfishness. To save a life? But with all the resources Clark +could have commanded, added to his personal popularity, a first +degree sentence would have been unlikely. Not a life, then, but +perhaps something greater than a life. A man's soul. + +It came to him, then, in a great light of comprehension, the thing +David had tried to do; to take this waster and fugitive, the slate +of his mind wiped clean by shock and illness, only his childish +memories remaining, and on it to lead him to write a new record. +To take the body he had found, and the always untouched soul, and +from them to make a man. + +And with that comprehension came the conviction, too, that David +had succeeded. He had indeed made a man. + +He ate absently, consulting his railroad schedule and formulating +the arguments he meant to use against Dick's determination to give +himself up. He foresaw a struggle there, but he himself held one +or two strong cards--the ruthless undoing of David's work, the +involving of David for conspiring against the law. And Dick's own +obligation to the girl at home. + +He was more at ease in the practical arrangements. An express went +through on the main line at midnight, and there was a local on the +branch line at eight. But the local train, the railway station, +too, were full of possible dangers. After some thought he decided +to get a car, drive down to the main line with Dick, and then send +the car back. + +He went out at once and made an arrangement for a car, and on +returning notified the clerk that he was going to leave, and asked +to have his bill made out. After some hesitation he said: "I'll +pay three-twenty too, while I'm at it. Friend of mine there, going +with me. Yes, up to to-night." + +As he turned away he saw the short, heavy figure of Wilkins coming +in. He stood back and watched. The sheriff went to the desk, +pulled the register toward him and ran over several pages of it. +Then he shoved it away, turned and saw him. + +"Been away, haven't you?" he asked. + +"Yes. I took a little horseback trip into the mountains. My knees +are still not on speaking terms." + +The sheriff chuckled. Then he sobered. + +"Come and sit down," he said. "I'm going to watch who goes in and +out of here for a while." + +Bassett followed him unwillingly to two chairs that faced the desk +and the lobby. He had the key of Dick's room in his pocket, but he +knew that if he wakened he could easily telephone and have his door +unlocked. But that was not his only anxiety. He had a sudden +conviction that the sheriff's watch was connected with Dick himself. +Wilkins, from a friendly and gregarious fellow-being, had suddenly +grown to sinister proportions in his mind. + +And, as the minutes went by, with the sheriff sitting forward and +watching the lobby and staircase with intent, unblinking eyes, +Bassett's anxiety turned to fear. He found his heart leaping when +the room bells rang, and the clerk, with a glance at the annunciator, +sent boys hurrying off. His hands shook, and he felt them cold and +moist. And all the time Wilkins was holding him with a flow of +unimportant chatter. + +"Watching for any one in particular?" he managed, after five +minutes or so. + +"Yes. I'll tell you about it as soon as--Bill! Is Alex outside?" + +Bill stopped in front of them, and nodded. + +"All right. Now get this--I want everything decent and in order. +No excitement. I'll come out behind him, and you and Bill stand by. +Outside I'll speak to him, and when we walk off, just fall in behind. +But keep close." + +Bill wandered off, to take up a stand of extreme nonchalance inside +the entrance. When Wilkins turned to him again Bassett had had a +moment to adjust himself, and more or less to plan his own campaign. + +"Somebody's out of luck," he commented. "And speaking of being out +of luck, I've got a sick man on my hands. Friend of mine from home. +We've got to catch the midnight, too." + +"Too bad," Wilkins commented rather absently. Then, perhaps feeling +that he had not shown proper interest, "Tell you what I'll do. I've +got some business on hand now, but it'll be cleared up one way or +another pretty soon. I'll bring my car around and take him to the +station. These hacks are the limit to ride in." + +The disaster to his plans thus threatened steadied the reporter, +and he managed to keep his face impassive. + +"Thanks," he said. "I'll let you know if he's able to travel. Is +this--is this business you're on confidential?" + +"Well, it is and it isn't. I've talked some to you, and as you're +leaving anyhow--it's the Jud Clark case again." + +"Sort of hysteria, I suppose. He'll be seen all over the country +for the next six months." + +"Yes. But I never saw a hysterical Indian. Well, a little while +ago an Indian woman named Lizzie Lazarus blew into my office. She's +a smart woman. Her husband was a breed, dairy hand on the Clark +ranch for years. Lizzie was the first Indian woman in these parts +to go to school, and besides being smart, she's got Indian sight. +You know these Indians. When they aren't blind with trachoma they +can see further and better than a telescope." + +Bassett made an effort. + +"What's that got to do with Jud Clark?" he asked. + +"Well, she blew in. You know there was a reward out for him, and +I guess it still stands. I'll have to look it up, for if Maggie +Donaldson wasn't crazy some one will turn him up some day, probably. +Well, Lizzie blew in, and she said she'd seen Jud Clark. Saw him +standing at a second story window of this hotel. Can you beat that?" + +"Not for pure invention. Hardly." + +"That's what I said at first. But I don't know. In some ways it +would be like him. He wouldn't mind coming back and giving us the +laugh, if he thought he could get away with it. He didn't know fear. +Only time he ever showed funk was when he beat it after the shooting, +and then he was full of hootch, and on the edge of D.T.'s." + +"A man doesn't play jokes with the hangman's rope," Bassett +commented, dryly. He looked at his watch and rose. "It's a good +story, but I wouldn't wear out any trouser-seats sitting here +watching for him. If he's living he's taken pretty good care for +ten years not to put his head in the noose; and I'd remember this, +too. Wherever he is, if he is anywhere, he's probably so changed +his appearance that Telescope Lizzie wouldn't know him. Or you +either." + +"Probably," the sheriff said, comfortably. "Still I'm not taking +any chances. I'm up for reelection this fall, and that Donaldson +woman's story nearly queered me. I've got a fellow at the railroad +station, just for luck." + +Bassett went up the stairs and along the corridor, deep in dejected +thought. The trap of his own making was closing, and his active +mind was busy with schemes for getting Dick away before it shut +entirely. + +It might be better, in one way, to keep Livingstone there in his +room until the alarm blew over. On the other hand, Livingstone +himself had to be dealt with, and that he would remain quiescent +under the circumstances was unlikely. The motor to the main line +seemed to be the best thing. True, he would have first to get +Livingstone to agree to go. That done, and he did not +underestimate its difficulty, there was the question of getting +him out of the hotel, now that the alarm had been given. + +When he found Dick still sleeping he made a careful survey of the +second floor. There was a second staircase, but investigation +showed that it led into the kitchens. He decided finally on a +fire-escape from a rear hall window, which led into a courtyard +littered with the untidy rubbish of an overcrowded and undermanned +hotel, and where now two or three saddled horses waited while their +riders ate within. + +When he had made certain that he was not observed he unlocked and +opened the window, and removed the wire screen. There was a red +fire-exit lamp in the ceiling nearby, but he could not reach it, +nor could he find any wall switch. Nevertheless he knew by that +time that through the window lay Dick's only chance of escape. He +cleared the grating of a broken box and an empty flower pot, stood +the screen outside the wall, and then, still unobserved, made his +way back to his own bedroom and packed his belongings. + +Dick was still sleeping, stretched on his bed, when he returned +to three-twenty. And here Bassett's careful plans began to go awry, +for Dick's body was twitching, and his face was pale and covered +with a cold sweat. From wondering how they could get away, Bassett +began to wonder whether they would get away at all. The sleep was +more like a stupor than sleep. He sat down by the bed, closer to +sheer fright than he had ever been before, and wretched with the +miserable knowledge of his own responsibility. + +As the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly evident that +somehow or other he must get a doctor. He turned the subject over +in his mind, pro and con. If he could get a new man, one who did +not remember Jud Clark, it might do. But he hesitated until, at +seven, Dick opened his eyes and clearly did not know him. Then +he knew that the matter was out of his hands, and that from now +on whatever it was that controlled the affairs of men, David's God +or his own vague Providence, was in charge. + +He got his hat and went out, and down the stairs again. Wilkins +had disappeared, but Bill still stood by the entrance, watching the +crowd that drifted in and out. In his state of tension he felt +that the hotel clerk's eyes were suspicious as he retained the two +rooms for another day, and that Bill watched him out with more than +casual interest. Even the matter of cancelling the order for the +car loomed large and suspicion-breeding before him, but he +accomplished it, and then set out to find medical assistance. + +There, however, chance favored him. The first doctor's sign led +him to a young man, new to the town, and obviously at leisure. Not +that he found that out at once. He invented a condition for +himself, as he had done once before, got a prescription and paid +for it, learned what he wanted, and then mentioned Dick. He was +careful to emphasize his name and profession, and his standing +"back home." + +"I'll admit he's got me worried," he finished. "He saw me registered +and came to my room this morning to see me, and got sick there. That +is, he said he had a violent headache and was dizzy. I got him to +his room and on the bed, and he's been sleeping ever since. He looks +pretty sick to me." + +He was conscious of Bill's eyes on him as they went through the +lobby again, but he realized now that they were unsuspicious. +Bassett himself was in a hot sweat. He stopped outside the room +and mopped his face. + +"Look kind of shot up yourself," the doctor commented. "Watch this +sun out here. Because it's dry here you Eastern people don't +notice the heat until it plays the deuce with you." + +He made a careful examination of the sleeping man, while Bassett +watched his face. + +"Been a drinking man? Or do you know?" + +"No. But I think not. I gave him a small drink this morning, when +he seemed to need it." + +"Been like this all day?" + +"Since noon. Yes." + +Once more the medical man stooped. When he straightened it was to +deliver Bassett a body blow. + +"I don't like his condition, or that twitching. If these were the +good old days in Wyoming I'd say he is on the verge of delirium +tremens. But that's only snap judgment. He might be on the verge +of a good many things. Anyhow, he'd better be moved to the +hospital. This is no place for him." + +And against this common-sense suggestion Bassett had nothing to +offer. If the doctor had been looking he would have seen him make +a gesture of despair. + +"I suppose so," he said, dully. "Is it near? I'll go myself and +get a room." + +"That's my advice. I'll look in later, and if the stupor continues +I'll have in a consultant." He picked up his bag and stood looking +down at the bed. "Big fine-looking chap, isn't he?" he commented. +"Married?" + +"No." + +"Well, we'll get the ambulance, and later on we'll go over him +properly. I'd call a maid to sit with him, if I were you." In the +grip of a situation that was too much for him, Bassett rang the +bell. It was answered by the elderly maid who took care of his +own bedroom. + +Months later, puzzling over the situation, Bassett was to wonder, +and not to know, whether chance or design brought the Thorwald +woman to the door that night. At the time, and for weeks, he laid +it to tragic chance, the same chance which had placed in Dick's +hand the warning letter that had brought him West. But as months +went on, the part played in the tragedy by that faded woman with +her tired dispirited voice and her ash colored hair streaked with +gray, assumed other proportions, loomed large and mysterious. + +There were times when he wished that some prescience of danger had +made him throttle her then and there, so she could not have raised +her shrill, alarming voice! But he had no warning. All he saw was +a woman in a washed-out blue calico dress and a fresh white apron, +raising incurious eyes to his. + +"I suppose it's all right if she sits in the hall?" Bassett +inquired, still fighting his losing fight. "She can go in if he +stirs." + +"Right-o," said the doctor, who had been to France and had brought +home some British phrases. + +Bassett walked back from the hospital alone. The game was up and +he knew it. Sooner or later-- In a way he tried to defend himself +to himself. He had done his best. Two or three days ago he would +have been exultant over the developments. After all, mince things +as one would, Clark was a murderer. Other men killed and paid the +penalty. And the game was not up entirely, at that. The providence +which had watched over him for so long might continue to. The +hospital was new. (It was, ironically enough, the Clark Memorial +hospital.) There was still a chance. + +He was conscious of something strange as he entered the lobby. +The constable was gone, and there was no clerk behind the desk. +At the foot of the stairs stood a group of guests and loungers, +looking up, while a bell-boy barred the way. + +Even then Bassett's first thought was of fire. He elbowed his way +to the foot of the stairs, and demanded to be allowed to go up, but +he was refused. + +"In a few minutes," said the boy. "No need of excitement." + +"Is it a fire?" + +"I don't know myself. I've got my orders. That's all." Wilkins +came hurrying in. The crowd, silent and respectful before the law, +opened to let him through and closed behind him. + +Bassett stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up. + + + + +XXVI + +To Elizabeth the first days of Dick's absence were unbelievably +dreary. She seemed to live only from one visit of the postman to +the next. She felt sometimes that only part of her was at home +in the Wheeler house, slept at night in her white bed, donned its +black frocks and took them off, and made those sad daily +pilgrimages to the cemetery above the town, where her mother tidied +with tender hands the long narrow mound, so fearfully remindful of +Jim's tall slim body. + +That part of her grieved sorely, and spent itself in small +comforting actions and little caressing touches on bowed heads and +grief-stooped shoulders. It put away Jim's clothing, and kept +immaculate the room where now her mother spent most of her waking +hours. It sent her on her knees at night to pray for Jim's +happiness in some young-man heaven which would please him. But the +other part of her was not there at all. It was off with Dick in some +mysterious place of mountains and vast distance called Wyoming. + +And because of this division in herself, because she felt that her +loyalty to her people had wavered, because she knew that already +she had forsaken her father and her mother and would follow her +love through the rest of her life, she was touchingly anxious to +comfort and to please them. + +"She's taking Dick's absence very hard," Mrs. Wheeler said one +night, when she had kissed them and gone upstairs to bed. "She +worries me sometimes." + +Mr. Wheeler sighed. Why was it that a man could not tell his +children what he had learned,--that nothing was so great as one +expected; that love was worth living for, but not dying for. The +impatience of youth for life! It had killed Jim. It was hurting +Nina. It would all come, all come, in God's good time. The young +did not live to-day, but always to-morrow. There seemed no time +to live to-day, for any one. First one looked ahead and said, "I +will be so happy." And before one knew it one was looking back and +saying: "I was so happy." + +"She'll be all right," he said aloud. + +He got up and whistled for the dog. + +"I'll take him around the block before I lock up," he said heavily. +He bent over and kissed his wife. She was a sad figure to him in +her black dress. He did not say to her what he thought sometimes; +that Jim had been saved a great deal. That to live on, and to lose +the things one loved, one by one, was harder than to go quickly, +from a joyous youth. + +He had not told her what he knew about Jim's companion that night. +She would never have understood. In her simple and child-like +faith she knew that her boy sat that day among the blessed company +of heaven. He himself believed that Jim had gone forgiven into +whatever lay behind the veil we call death, had gone shriven and +clean before the Judge who knew the urge of youth and life. He +did not fear for Jim. He only missed him. + +He walked around the block that night, a stooped commonplace figure, +the dog at his heels. Now and then he spoke to him, for +companionship. At the corner he stopped and looked along the side +street toward the Livingstone house. And as he looked he sighed. +Jim and Nina, and now Elizabeth. Jim and Nina were beyond his care +now. He could do no more. But what could he do for Elizabeth? +That, too, wasn't that beyond him? He stood still, facing the +tragedy of his helplessness, beset by vague apprehensions. Then +he went on doggedly, his hands clasped behind him, his head sunk +on his breast. + +He lay awake for a long time that night, wondering whether he and +Dick had been quite fair to Elizabeth. She should, he thought, +have been told. Then, if Dick's apprehensions were justified, she +would have had some preparation. As it was-- Suppose something +turned up out there, something that would break her heart? + +He had thought Margaret was sleeping, but after a time she moved +and slipped her hand into his. It comforted him. That, too, was +life. Very soon now they would be alone together again, as in the +early days before the children came. All the years and the +struggle, and then back where they started. But still, thank God, +hand in hand. + +Ever since the night of Jim's death Mrs. Sayre had been a constant +visitor to the house. She came in, solid, practical, and with an +everyday manner neither forcedly cheerful nor too decorously +mournful, which made her very welcome. After the three first days, +when she had practically lived at the house, there was no necessity +for small pretensions with her. She knew the china closet and the +pantry, and the kitchen. She had even penetrated to Mr. Wheeler's +shabby old den on the second floor, and had slept a part of the +first night there on the leather couch with broken springs which +he kept because it fitted his body. + +She was a kindly woman, and she had ached with pity. And, because +of her usual detachment from the town and its affairs, the feeling +that she was being of service gave her a little glow of content. +She liked the family, too, and particularly she liked Elizabeth. +But after she had seen Dick and Elizabeth together once or twice +she felt that no plan she might make for Wallace could possibly +succeed. Lying on the old leather couch that first night, between +her frequent excursions among the waking family, she had thought +that out and abandoned it. + +But, during the days that followed the funeral, she was increasingly +anxious about Wallace. She knew that rumors of the engagement had +reached him, for he was restless and irritable. He did not care to +go out, but wandered about the house or until late at night sat +smoking alone on the terrace, looking down at the town with sunken, +unhappy eyes. Once or twice in the evening he had taken his car +and started out, and lying awake in her French bed she would hear +him coming hours later. In the mornings his eyes were suffused and +his color bad, and she knew that he was drinking in order to get +to sleep. + +On the third day after Dick's departure for the West she got up +when she heard him coming in, and putting on her dressing gown and +slippers, knocked at his door. + +"Come in," he called ungraciously. + +She found him with his coat off, standing half defiantly with a +glass of whisky and soda in his hand. She went up to him and +took it from him. + +"We've had enough of that in the family, Wallie," she said. "And +it's a pretty poor resource in time of trouble." + +"I'll have that back, if you don't mind." + +"Nonsense," she said briskly, and flung it, glass and all, out of +the window. She was rather impressive when she turned. + +"I've been a fairly indulgent mother," she said. "I've let you +alone, because it's a Sayre trait to run away when they feel a +pull on the bit. But there's a limit to my patience, and it is +reached when my son drinks to forget a girl." + +He flushed and glowered at her in somber silence, but she moved +about the room calmly, giving it a housekeeper's critical +inspection, and apparently unconscious of his anger. + +"I don't believe you ever cared for any one in all your life," he +said roughly. "If you had, you would know." + +She was straightening a picture over the mantel, and she completed +her work before she turned. + +"I care for you." + +"That's different." + +"Very well, then. I cared for your father. I cared terribly. And +he killed my love." + +She padded out of the room, her heavy square body in its blazing +kimono a trifle rigid, but her face still and calm. He remained +staring at the door when she had closed it, and for some time after. +He knew what message for him had lain behind that emotionless +speech of hers, not only understanding, but a warning. She had +cared terribly, and his father had killed that love. He had drunk +and played through his gay young life, and then he had died, and +no one had greatly mourned him. + +She had left the decanter on its stand, and he made a movement +toward it. Then, with a half smile, he picked it up and walked to +the window with it. He was still smiling, half boyishly, as he put +out his light and got into bed. It had occurred to him that the +milkman's flivver, driving in at the break of dawn, would encounter +considerable glass. + +By morning, after a bad night, he had made a sort of double-headed +resolution, that he was through with booze, as he termed it, and +that he would find out how he stood with Elizabeth. But for a day +or two no opportunity presented itself. When he called there was +always present some grave-faced sympathizing visitor, dark clad +and low of voice, and over the drawing-room would hang the +indescribable hush of a house in mourning. It seemed to touch +Elizabeth, too, making her remote and beyond earthly things. He +would go in, burning with impatience, hungry for the mere sight of +her, fairly overcharged with emotion, only to face that strange new +spirituality that made him ashamed of the fleshly urge in him. + +Once he found Clare Rossiter there, and was aware of something +electric in the air. After a time he identified it. Behind the +Rossiter girl's soft voice and sympathetic words, there was a +veiled hostility. She was watching Elizabeth, was overconscious +of her. And she was, for some reason, playing up to himself. He +thought he saw a faint look of relief on Elizabeth's face when +Clare at last rose to go. + +"I'm on my way to see the man Dick Livingstone left in his place," +Clare said, adjusting her veil at the mirror. "I've got a cold. +Isn't it queer, the way the whole Livingstone connection is +broken up?" + +"Hardly queer. And it's only temporary." + +"Possibly. But if you ask me, I don't believe Dick will come back. +Mind, I don't defend the town, but it doesn't like to be fooled. +And he's fooled it for years. I know a lot of people who'd quit +going to him." She turned to Wallie. + +"He isn't David's nephew, you know. The question is, who is he? +Of course I don't say it, but a good many are saying that when a +man takes a false identity he has something to hide." + +She gave them no chance to reply, but sauntered out with her +sex-conscious, half-sensuous walk. Outside the door her smile +faded, and her face was hard and bitter. She might forget Dick +Livingstone, but never would she forgive herself for her confession +to Elizabeth, nor Elizabeth for having heard it. + +Wallie turned to Elizabeth when she had gone, slightly bewildered. + +"What's got into her?" he inquired. And then, seeing Elizabeth's +white face, rather shrewdly: "That was one for him and two for +you, was it?" + +"I don't know. Probably." + +"I wonder if you would look like that if any one attacked me!" + +"No one attacks you, Wallie." + +"That's not an answer. You wouldn't, would you? It's different, +isn't it?" + +"Yes. A little." + +He straightened, and looked past her, unseeing, at the wall. "I +guess I've known it for quite a while," he said at last. "I didn't +want to believe it, so I wouldn't. Are you engaged to him?" + +"Yes. It's not to be known just yet, Wallie." + +"He's a good fellow," he said, after rather a long silence. "Not +that that makes it easier," he added with a twisted smile. Then, +boyishly and unexpectedly he said, "Oh, my God!" + +He sat down, and when the dog came and placed a head on his knee +he patted it absently. He wanted to go, but he had a queer feeling +that when he went he went for good. + +"I've cared for you for years," he said. "I've been a poor lot, +but I'd have been a good bit worse, except for you." + +And again: + +"Only last night I made up my mind that if you'd have me, I'd make +something out of myself. I suppose a man's pretty weak when he +puts a responsibility like that on a girl." + +She yearned over him, rather. She made little tentative overtures +of friendship and affection. But he scarcely seemed to hear them, +wrapped as he was in the selfish absorption of his disappointment. +When she heard the postman outside and went to the door for the +mail, she thought he had not noticed her going. But when she +returned he was watching her with jealous, almost tragic eyes. + +"I suppose you hear from him by every mail." + +"There has been nothing to-day." + +Something in her voice or her face made him look at her closely. + +"Has he written at all?" + +"The first day he got there. Not since." + +He went away soon, and not after all with the feeling of going for +good. In his sceptical young mind, fed by Clare's malice, was +growing a comforting doubt of Dick's good faith. + + + + +XXVII + +When Wilkins had disappeared around the angle of the staircase +Bassett went to a chair and sat down. He felt sick, and his knees +were trembling. Something had happened, a search for Clark room +by room perhaps, and the discovery had been made. + +He was totally unable to think or to plan. With Dick well they +could perhaps have made a run for it. The fire-escape stood ready. +But as things were-- The murmuring among the crowd at the foot of +the stairs ceased, and he looked up. Wilkins was on the staircase, +searching the lobby with his eyes. When he saw Bassett he came +quickly down and confronted him, his face angry and suspicious. + +"You're mixed up in this somehow," he said sharply. "You might as +well come over with the story. We'll get him. He can't get out +of this town." + +With the words, and the knowledge that in some incredible fashion +Dick had made his escape, Bassett's mind reacted instantly. + +"What's eating you, Wilkins?" he demanded. "Who got away? I +couldn't get that tongue-tied bell-hop to tell me. Thought it +was a fire." + +"Don't stall, Bassett. You've had Jud Clark hidden upstairs in +three-twenty all day." + +Bassett got up and towered angrily over the sheriff. The crowd had +turned and was watching. + +"In three-twenty?" he said. "You're crazy. Jud Clark! Let me +tell you something. I don't know what you've got in your head, but +three-twenty is a Doctor Livingstone from near my home town. Well +known and highly respected, too. What's more, he's a sick man, and +if he's got away, as you say, it's because he is delirious. I had +a doctor in to see him an hour ago. I've just arranged for a room +at the hospital for him. Does that look as though I've been +hiding him?" + +The positiveness of his identification and his indignation resulted +in a change in Wilkins' manner. + +"I'll ask you to stay here until I come back." His tone was +official, but less suspicious. "We'll have him in a half hour. +It's Clark all right. I'm not saying you knew it was Clark, but I +want to ask you some questions." + +He went out, and Bassett heard him shouting an order in the street. +He went to the street door, and realized that a search was going on, +both by the police and by unofficial volunteers. Men on horseback +clattered by to guard the borders of the town, and in the vicinity +of the hotel searchers were investigating yards and alleyways. + +Bassett himself was helpless. He stood by, watching the fire of +his own igniting, conscious of the curious scrutiny of the few hotel +loungers who remained, and expecting momentarily to hear of Dick's +capture. It must come eventually, he felt sure. As to how Dick +had been identified, or by what means he had escaped, he was in +complete ignorance; and an endeavor to learn by establishing the +former entente cordiale between the room clerk and himself was met +by a suspicious glance and what amounted to a snub. He went back +to his chair against the wall and sat there, waiting for the end. + +It was an hour before the sheriff returned, and he came in scowling. + +"I'll see you now," he said briefly, and led the way back to the +hotel office behind the desk. Bassett's last hope died when he saw +sitting there, pale but composed, the elderly maid. The sheriff +lost no time. + +"Now I'll tell you what we know about your connection with this +case, Bassett," he said. "You engaged a car to take you both to +the main line to-night. You paid off Clark's room as well as your +own this afternoon. When you found he was sick you canceled your +going. That's true, isn't it?" + +"It is. I've told you I knew him at home, but not as Clark." + +"I'll let that go. You intended to take the midnight on the main +line, but you ordered a car instead of using the branch road." + +"Livingstone was sick. I thought it would be easier. That's all." +His voice sharpened. "You can't drag me into this, Sheriff. In +the first place I don't believe it was Clark, or he wouldn't have +come here, of all places on the earth. I didn't even know he was +here, until he came into my room this morning." + +"Why did he come into your room?" + +"He had seen that I was registered. He said he felt sick. I took +him back and put him to bed. To-night I got a doctor." + +The sheriff felt in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. +Bassett's morale was almost destroyed when he saw that it was +Gregory's letter to David. + +"I'll ask you to explain this. It was on Clark's bed." + +Bassett took it and read it slowly. He was thinking hard. + +"I see," he said. "Well, that explains why he came here. He was +too sick to talk when I saw him. You see, this is not addressed +to him, but to his uncle, David Livingstone. David Livingstone is +a brother of Henry Livingstone, who died some years ago at Dry +River. This refers to a personal matter connected with the +Livingstone estate." + +The sheriff took the letter and reread it. He was puzzled. + +"You're a good talker," he acknowledged grudgingly. He turned to +the maid. + +"All right, Hattie," he said. "We'll have that story again. But +just a minute." He turned to the reporter. "Mrs. Thorwald here +hasn't seen Lizzie Lazarus, the squaw. Lizzie has been sitting in +my office ever since noon. Now, Hattie." + +Hattie moistened her dry lips. + +"It was Jud Clark, all right," she said. "I knew him all his life, +off and on. But I wish I hadn't screamed. I don't believe he killed +Lucas, and I never will. I hope he gets away." + +She eyed the sheriff vindictively, but he only smiled grimly. + +"What did I tell you?" he said to Bassett. "Hell with the women +--that was Jud Clark. And we'll get him, Hattie. Don't worry. +Go on." + +She looked at Bassett. + +"When you left me, I sat outside the door, as you said. Then I +heard him moving, and I went in. The room was not very light, and +I didn't know him at first. He sat up in bed and looked at me, and +he said, 'Why, hello, Hattie Thorwald.' That's my name. I married +a Swede. Then he looked again, and he said, 'Excuse me, I thought +you were a Mrs. Thorwald, but I see now you're older.' I recognized +him then, and I thought I was going to faint. I knew he'd be +arrested the moment it was known he was here. I said, 'Lie down, +Mr. Jud. You're not very well.' And I closed the door and locked +it. I was scared." + +Her voice broke; she fumbled for a handkerchief. The sheriff +glanced at Bassett. + +"Now where's your Livingstone story?" he demanded. "All right, +Hattie. Let's have it." + +"I said, 'For God's sake, Mr. Jud, lie still, until I think what +to do. The sheriff's likely downstairs this very minute.' And then +he went queer and wild. He jumped off the bed and stood listening +and staring, and shaking all over. 'I've got to get away,' he said, +very loud. 'I won't let them take me. I'll kill myself first!' +When I put my hand on his arm he threw it off, and he made for the +door. I saw then that he was delirious with fever, and I stood in +front of the door and begged him not to go out. But he threw me +away so hard that that I fell, and I screamed." + +"And then what?" + +"That's all. If I hadn't been almost out of my mind I'd never have +told that it was Jud Clark. That'll hang on me dying day." + +An hour or so later Bassett went back to his room in a state of +mental and nervous exhaustion. He knew that from that time on he +would be under suspicion and probably under espionage, and he +proceeded methodically, his door locked, to go over his papers. +His notebook and the cuttings from old files relative to the Clark +case he burned in his wash basin and then carefully washed the +basin. That done, his attendance on a sick man, and the letter +found on the bed was all the positive evidence they had to connect +him with the case. He had had some thought of slipping out by the +fire-escape and making a search for Dick on his own account, but +his lack of familiarity with his surroundings made that practically +useless. + +At midnight he stretched out on his bed without undressing, and +went over the situation carefully. He knew nothing of the various +neuroses which affect the human mind, but he had a vague impression +that memory when lost did eventually return, and Dick's recognition +of the chambermaid pointed to such a return. He wondered what a +man would feel under such conditions, what he would think. He +could not do it. He abandoned the effort finally, and lay frowning +at the ceiling while he considered his own part in the catastrophe. +He saw himself, following his training and his instinct, leading +the inevitable march toward this night's tragedy, planning, scheming, +searching, and now that it had come, lying helpless on his bed while +the procession of events went on past him and beyond his control. + +When an automobile engine back-fired in the street below he went +sick with fear. + +He made the resolution then that was to be the guiding motive for +his life for the next few months, to fight the thing of his own +creating to a finish. But with the resolution newly made he saw +the futility of it. He might fight, would fight, but nothing could +restore to Dick Livingstone the place he had made for himself in +the world. He might be saved from his past, but he could not be +given a future. + +All at once he was aware that some one was working stealthily at +the lock of the door which communicated with a room beyond. He +slid cautiously off the bed and went to the light switch, standing +with a hand on it, and waited. The wild thought that it might be +Livingstone was uppermost in his mind, and when the door creaked +open and closed again, that was the word he breathed into the +darkness. + +"No," said a woman's voice in a whisper. "It's the maid, Hattie. +Be careful. There's a guard at the top of the stairs." + +He heard her moving to his outer door, and he knew that she stood +there, listening, her head against the panel. When she was +satisfied she slipped, with the swiftness of familiarity with her +surroundings, to the stand beside his bed, and turned on the lamp. +In the shaded light he saw that she wore a dark cape, with its +hood drawn over her head. In some strange fashion the maid, even +the woman, was lost, and she stood, strange, mysterious, and +dramatic in the little room. + +"If you found Jud Clark, what would you do with him?" she demanded. +From beneath the hood her eyes searched his face. "Turn him over +to Wilkins and his outfit?" + +"I think you know better than that." + +"Have you got any plan?" + +"Plan? No. They've got every outlet closed, haven't they? Do +you know where he is?" + +"I know where he isn't, or they'd have him by now. And I know Jud +Clark. He'd take to the mountains, same as he did before. He's +got a good horse." + +"A horse!" + +"Listen. I haven't told this, and I don't mean to. They'll learn +it in a couple of hours, anyhow. He got out by a back fire-escape +--they know that. But they don't know he took Ed Rickett's black +mare. They think he's on foot. I've been down there now, and she's +gone. Ed's shut up in a room on the top floor, playing poker. They +won't break up until about three o'clock and he'll miss his horse +then. That's two hours yet." + +Bassett tried to see her face in the shadow of the hood. He was +puzzled and suspicious at her change of front, more than half +afraid of a trap. + +"How do I know you are not working with Wilkins?" he demanded. "You +could have saved the situation to-night by saying you weren't sure." + +"I was upset. I've had time to think since." + +He was forced to trust her, eventually, although the sense of some +hidden motive, some urge greater than compassion, persisted in him. + +"You've got some sort of plan for me, then? I can't follow him +haphazard into the mountains at night, and expect to find him." + +"Yes. He was delirious when he left. That thing about the sheriff +being after him--he wasn't after him then. Not until I gave the +alarm. He's delirious, and he thinks he's back to the night he +--you know. Wouldn't he do the same thing again, and make for the +mountains and the cabin? He went to the cabin before." + +Bassett looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. + +"Even if I could get a horse I couldn't get out of the town." + +"You might, on foot. They'll be trailing Rickett's horse by dawn. +And if you can get out of town I can get you a horse. I can get +you out, too, I think. I know every foot of the place." + +A feeling of theatrical unreality was Bassett's chief emotion +during the trying time that followed. The cloaked and shrouded +figure of the woman ahead, the passage through two dark and empty +rooms by pass key to an unguarded corridor in the rear, the descent +of the fire-escape, where they stood flattened against the wall +while a man, possibly one of the posse, rode in, tied his horse and +stamped in high heeled boots into the building, and always just +ahead the sure movement and silent tread of the woman, kept his +nerves taut and increased his feeling of the unreal. + +At the foot of the fire-escape the woman slid out of sight +noiselessly, but under Bassett's feet a tin can rolled and +clattered. Then a horse snorted close to his shoulder, and he was +frozen with fright. After that she gave him her hand, and led him +through an empty outbuilding and another yard into a street. + +At two o'clock that morning Bassett, waiting in a lonely road near +what he judged to be the camp of a drilling crew, heard a horse +coming toward him and snorting nervously as it came and drew back +into the shadows until he recognized the shrouded silhouette +leading him. + +"It belongs to my son," she said. "I'll fix it with him to-morrow. +But if you're caught you'll have to say you came out and took him, +or you'll get us all in trouble." + +She gave him careful instructions as to how to find the trail, and +urged him to haste. + +"If you get him," she advised, "better keep right on over the range." + +He paused, with his foot in the stirrup. + +"You seem pretty certain he's taken to the mountains." + +"It's your only chance. They'll get him anywhere else." + +He mounted and prepared to ride off. He would have shaken hands +with her, but the horse was still terrified at her shrouded figure +and veered and snorted when she approached. "However it turns out," +he said, "you've done your best, and I'm grateful." + +The horse moved off and left her standing there, her cowl drawn +forward and her hands crossed on her breast. She stood for a +moment, facing toward the mountains, oddly monkish in outline and +posture. Then she turned back toward the town. + + + + +XXVIII + +Dick had picked up life again where he had left it off so long +before. Gone was David's house built on the sands of forgetfulness. +Gone was David himself, and Lucy. Gone not even born into his +consciousness was Elizabeth. The war, his work, his new place in +the world, were all obliterated, drowned in the flood of memories +revived by the shock of Bassett's revelations. + +Not that the breaking point had revealed itself as such at once. +There was confusion first, then stupor and unconsciousness, and out +of that, sharply and clearly, came memory. It was not ten years +ago, but an hour ago, a minute ago, that he had stood staring at +Howard Lucas on the floor of the billiard room, and had seen +Beverly run in through the door. + +"Bev!" he was saying. "Bev! Don't look like that!" + +He moved and found he was in bed. It had been a dream. He drew a +long breath, looked about the room, saw the woman and greeted her. +But already he knew he had not been dreaming. Things were +sharpening in his mind. He shuddered and looked at the floor, but +nobody lay there. Only the horror in his mind, and the instinct +to get away from it. He was not thinking at all, but rising in him +was not only the need for flight, but the sense of pursuit. They +were after him. They would get him. They must never get him alive. + +Instinct and will took the place of thought, and whatever closed +chamber in his brain had opened, it clearly influenced his physical +condition. He bore all the stigmata of prolonged and heavy +drinking; his nerves were gone; he twitched and shook. When he +got down the fire-escape his legs would scarcely hold him. + +The discovery of Ed Rickett's horse in the courtyard, saddled and +ready, fitted in with the brain pattern of the past. + +Like one who enters a room for the first time, to find it already +familiar, for a moment he felt that this thing that he was doing +he had done before. Only for a moment. Then partial memory ceased, +and he climbed into the saddle, rode out and turned toward the +mountains and the cabin. By that strange quality of the brain which +is called habit, although the habit be of only one emphatic +precedent, he followed the route he had taken ten years before. +How closely will never be known. Did he stop at this turn to look +back, as he had once before? Did he let his horse breathe there? +Not the latter, probably, for as, following the blind course that +he had followed ten years before, he left the town and went up the +canyon trail, he was riding as though all the devils of hell were +behind him. + +One thing is certain. The reproduction of the conditions of the +earlier flight, the familiar associations of the trail, must have +helped rather than hindered his fixation in the past. Again he +was Judson Clark, who had killed a man, and was flying from himself +and from pursuit. + +Before long his horse was in acute distress, but he did not notice +it. At the top of the long climb the animal stopped, but he kicked +him on recklessly. He was as unaware of his own fatigue, or that +he was swaying in the saddle, until galloping across a meadow the +horse stumbled and threw him. + +He lay still for some time; not hurt but apparently lacking the +initiative to get up again. He had at that period the alternating +lucidity and mental torpor of the half drunken man. But struggling +up through layers of blackness at last there came again the +instinct for flight, and he got on the horse and set off. + +The torpor again overcame him and he slept in the saddle. When the +horse stopped he roused and kicked it on. Once he came up through +the blackness to the accompaniment of a great roaring, and found +that the animal was saddle deep in a ford, and floundering badly +among the rocks. He turned its head upstream, and got it out safely. + +Toward dawn some of the confusion was gone, but he firmly fixed in +the past. The horse wandered on, head down, occasionally stopping +to seize a leaf as it passed, and once to drink deeply at a spring. +Dick was still not thinking--there was something that forbade him +to think-but he was weak and emotional. He muttered: + +"Poor Bev! Poor old Bev!" + +A great wave of tenderness and memory swept over him. Poor Bev! +He had made life hell for her, all right. He had an almost +uncontrollable impulse to turn the horse around, go back and see +her once more. He was gone anyhow. They would get him. And he +wanted her to know that he would have died rather than do what +he had done. + +The flight impulse died; he felt sick and very cold, and now and +then he shook violently. He began to watch the trail behind him +for the pursuit, but without fear. He seemed to have been wandering +for a thousand black nights through deep gorges and over peaks as +high as the stars, and now he wanted to rest, to stop somewhere and +sleep, to be warm again. Let them come and take him, anywhere out +of this nightmare. + +With the dawn still gray he heard a horse behind and below him on +the trail up the cliff face. He stopped and sat waiting, twisted +about in his saddle, his expression ugly and defiant, and yet +touchingly helpless, the look of a boy in trouble and at bay. +The horseman came into sight on the trail below, riding hard, a +middle-aged man in a dark sack suit and a straw hat, an oddly +incongruous figure and manifestly weary. He rode bent forward, +and now and again he raised his eyes from the trail and searched +the wall above with bloodshot, anxious eyes. + +On the turn below Dick, Bassett saw him for the first time, and +spoke to him in a quiet voice. + +"Hello, old man," he said. "I began to think I was going to miss +you after all." + +His scrutiny of Dick's face had rather reassured him. The delirium +had passed, apparently. Dishevelled although he was, covered with +dust and with sweat from the horse, Livingstone's eyes were steady +enough. As he rode up to him, however, he was not so certain. He +found himself surveyed with a sort of cool malignity that startled +him. + +"Miss me!" Livingstone sneered bitterly. "With every damned hill +covered by this time with your outfit! I'll tell you this. If I'd +had a gun you'd never have got me alive." + +Bassett was puzzled and slightly ruffled. + +"My outfit! I'll tell you this, son, I've risked my neck half the +night to get you out of this mess." + +"God Almighty couldn't get me out of this mess," Dick said somberly. + +It was then that Bassett saw something not quite normal in his face, +and he rode closer. + +"See here, Livingstone," he said, in a soothing tone, "nobody's +going to get you. I'm here to keep them from getting you. We've +got a good start, but we'll have to keep moving." + +Dick sat obstinately still, his horse turned across the trail, and +his eyes still suspicious and unfriendly. + +"I don't know you," he said doggedly. "And I've done all the +running away I'm going to do. You go back and tell Wilkins I'm +here and to come and get me. The sooner the better." The sneer +faded, and he turned on Bassett with a depth of tragedy in his eyes +that frightened the reporter. "My God," he said, "I killed a man +last night! I can't go through life with that on me. I'm done, I +tell you." + +"Last night!" Some faint comprehension began to dawn in Bassett's +mind, a suspicion of the truth. But there was no time to verify +it. He turned and carefully inspected the trail to where it came +into sight at the opposite rim of the valley. When he was satisfied +that the pursuit was still well behind them he spoke again. + +"Pull yourself together, Livingstone," he said, rather sharply. +"Think a bit. You didn't kill anybody last night. Now listen," +he added impressively. "You are Livingstone, Doctor Richard +Livingstone. You stick to that, and think about it." + +But Dick was not listening, save to some bitter inner voice, for +suddenly he turned his horse around on the trail. "Get out of +the way," he said, "I'm going back to give myself up." + +He would have done it, probably, would have crowded past Bassett +on the narrow trail and headed back toward capture, but for his +horse. It balked and whirled on the ledge, but it would not pass +Bassett. Dick swore and kicked it, his face ugly and determined, +but it refused sullenly. He slid out of the saddle then and tried +to drag it on, but he was suddenly weak and sick. He staggered. +Bassett was off his horse in a moment and caught him. He eased +him onto a boulder, and he sat there, his shoulders sagging and +his whole body twitching. + +"Been drinking my head off," he said at last. "If I had a drink +now I'd straighten out." He tried to sit up. "That's what's the +matter with me. I'm funking, of course, but that's not all. I'd +give my soul for some whisky."' + +"I can get you a drink, if you'll come on about a mile," Bassett +coaxed. "At the cabin you and I talked about yesterday." + +"Now you're talking." Dick made an effort and got to his feet, +shaking off Bassett's assisting arm. "For God's sake keep your +hands off me," he said irritably. "I've got a hangover, that's all." + +He got into his saddle without assistance and started off up the +trail. Bassett once more searched the valley, but it was empty +save for a deer drinking at the stream far below. He turned and +followed. + +He was fairly hopeless by that time, what with Dick's unexpected +resistance and the change in the man himself. He was dealing with +something he did not understand, and the hypothesis of delirium +did not hold. There was a sort of desperate sanity in Dick's eyes. +That statement, now, about drinking his head off--he hadn't looked +yesterday like a drinking man. But now he did. He was twitching, +his hands shook. On the rock his face had been covered with a cold +sweat. What was that the doctor yesterday had said about delirium +tremens? Suppose he collapsed? That meant capture. + +He did not need to guide Dick to the cabin. He turned off the +trail himself, and Bassett, following, saw him dismount and survey +the ruin with a puzzled face. But he said nothing. Bassett waiting +outside to tie the horses came in to find him sitting on one of the +dilapidated chairs, staring around, but all he said was: + +"Get me that drink, won't you? I'm going to pieces." Bassett found +his tin cup where he had left it on a shelf and poured out a small +amount of whisky from his flask. + +"This is all we have," he explained. "We'll have to go slow +with it." + +It had an almost immediate effect. The twitching grew less, and a +faint color came into Dick's face. He stood up and stretched +himself. "That's better," he said. "I was all in. I must have +been riding that infernal horse for years." + +He wandered about while the reporter made a fire and set the coffee +pot to boil. Bassett, glancing up once, saw him surveying the +ruined lean-to from the doorway, with an expression he could not +understand. But he did not say anything, nor did he speak again +until Bassett called him to get some food. Even then he was +laconic, and he seemed to be listening and waiting. + +Once something startled the horses outside, and he sat up and +listened. + +"They're here!" he said. + +"I don't think so," Bassett replied, and went to the doorway. "No," +he called back over his shoulder, "you go on and finish. I'll watch." + +"Come back and eat," Dick said surlily. + +He ate very little, but drank of the coffee. Bassett too ate almost +nothing. He was pulling himself together for the struggle that was +to come, marshaling his arguments for flight, and trying to fathom +the extent of the change in the man across the small table. + +Dick put down his tin cup and got up. He was strong again, and the +nightmare confusion of the night had passed away. Instead of it +there was a desperate lucidity and a courage born of desperation. +He remembered it all distinctly; he had killed Howard Lucas the +night before. Before long Wilkins or some of his outfit would ride +up to the door, and take him back to Norada. He was not afraid of +that. They would always think he had run away because he was afraid +of capture, but it was not that. He had run away from Bev's face. +Only he had not got away from it. It had been with him all night, +and it was with him now. + +But he would have to go back. He couldn't be caught like a rat in +a trap. The Clarks didn't run away. They were fighters. Only the +Clarks didn't kill. They fought, but they didn't murder. + +He picked up his hat and went to the door. + +"Well, you've been mighty kind, old man," he said. "But I've got +to go back. I ran last night like a scared kid, but I'm through +with that sort of foolishness." + +"I'd give a good bit," Bassett said, watching him, "to know what +made you run last night. You were safe where you were." + +"I don't know what you are talking about," Dick said drearily. "I +didn't run from them. I ran to get away from something." He turned +away irritably. "You wouldn't understand. Say I was drunk. I +was, for that matter. I'm not over it yet." + +Bassett watched him. + +"I see," he said quietly. "It was last night, was it, that this +thing happened?" + +"You know it, don't you?" + +"And, after it happened, do you remember what followed?" + +"I've been riding all night. I didn't care what happened. I knew +I'd run into a whale of a blizzard, but I--" + +He stopped and stared outside, to where the horses grazed in the +upland meadow, knee deep in mountain flowers. Bassett, watching +him, saw the incredulity in his eyes, and spoke very gently. + +"My dear fellow," he said, "you are right. Try to understand what +I am saying, and take it easy. You rode into a blizzard, right +enough. But that was not last night. It was ten years ago." + + + + +XXIX + +Had Bassett had some wider knowledge of Dick's condition he might +have succeeded better during that bad hour that followed. +Certainly, if he had hoped that the mere statement of fact and its +proof would bring results, he failed. And the need for haste, the +fear of the pursuit behind them, made him nervous and incoherent. + +He had first to accept the incredible, himself--that Dick +Livingstone no longer existed, that he had died and was buried deep +in some chamber of an unconscious mind. He made every effort to +revive him, to restore him into the field of consciousness, but +without result. And his struggle was increased in difficulty by +the fact that he knew so little of Dick's life. David's name meant +nothing, apparently, and it was the only name he knew. He described +the Livingstone house; he described Elizabeth as he had seen her +that night at the theater. Even Minnie. But Dick only shook his +head. And until he had aroused some instinct, some desire to live, +he could not combat Dick's intention to return and surrender. + +"I understand what you are saying," Dick would say. "I'm trying to +get it. But it doesn't mean anything to me." + +He even tried the war. + +"War? What war?" Dick asked. And when he heard about it he groaned. + +"A war!" he said. "And I've missed it!" + +But soon after that he got up, and moved to the door. + +"I'm going back," he said. + +"Why?" + +"They're after me, aren't they?" + +"You're forgetting again. Why should they be after you now, after +ten years?" + +"I see. I can't get it, you know. I keep listening for them." + +Bassett too was listening, but he kept his fears to himself. + +"Why did you do it?" he asked finally. + +"I was drunk, and I hated him. He married a girl I was crazy about." + +Bassett tried new tactics. He stressed the absurdity of surrendering +for a crime committed ten years before and forgotten. + +"They won't convict you anyhow," he urged. "It was a quarrel, wasn't +it? I mean, you didn't deliberately shoot him?" + +"I don't remember. We quarreled. Yes. I don't remember shooting him." + +"What do you remember?" + +Dick made an effort, although he was white to the lips. + +"I saw him on the floor," he said slowly, and staggered a little. + +"Then you don't even know you did it." + +"I hated him." + +But Bassett saw that his determination to surrender himself was +weakening. Bassett fought it with every argument he could summon, +and at last he brought forward the one he felt might be conclusive. + +"You see, you've not only made a man's place in the world, Clark, +as I've told you. You've formed associations you can't get away +from. You've got to think of the Livingstones, and you told me +yesterday a shock would kill the old man. But it's more than that. +There's a girl back in your town. I think you were engaged to her." + +But if he had hoped to pierce the veil with that statement he +failed. Dick's face flushed, and he went to the door of the cabin, +much as he had gone to the window the day before. He did not look +around when he spoke. + +"Then I'm an unconscionable cad," he said. "I've only cared for +one woman in my life. And I've shipwrecked her for good." + +"You mean--" + +"You know who I mean." + +Sometime later Bassett got on his horse and rode out to a ledge +which commanded a long stretch of trail in the valley below. Far +away horsemen were riding along it, one behind the other, small +dots that moved on slowly but steadily. He turned and went back +to the cabin. + +"We'd better be moving," he said, "and it's up to you to say where. +You've got two choices. You can go back to Norada and run the +chance of arrest. You know what that means. Without much chance +of a conviction you will stand trial and bring wretchedness to the +people who stood by you before and who care for you now. Or you +can go on over the mountains with me and strike the railroad +somewhere to the West. You'll have time to think things over, +anyhow. They've waited ten years. They can wait longer." + +To his relief Dick acquiesced. He had become oddly passive; he +seemed indeed not greatly interested. He did not even notice the +haste with which Bassett removed the evidences of their meal, or +extinguished the dying fire and scattered the ashes. Nor, when +they were mounted, the care with which they avoided the trail. He +gave, when asked, information as to the direction of the railroad +at the foot of the western slope of the range, and at the same +instigation found a trail for them some miles beyond their starting +point. But mostly he merely followed, in a dead silence. + +They made slow progress. Both horses were weary and hungry, and +the going was often rough and even dangerous. But for Dick's +knowledge of the country they would have been hopelessly lost. +Bassett, however, although tortured with muscular soreness, felt +his spirits rising as the miles were covered, and there was no sign +of the pursuit. + +By mid-afternoon they were obliged to rest their horses and let +them graze, and the necessity of food for themselves became +insistent. Dick stretched out and was immediately asleep, but the +reporter could not rest. The magnitude of his undertaking obsessed +him. They had covered perhaps twenty miles since leaving the +cabin, and the railroad was still sixty miles away. With fresh +horses they could have made it by dawn of the next morning, but he +did not believe their jaded animals could go much farther. The +country grew worse instead of better. A pass ahead, which they +must cross, was full of snow. + +He was anxious, too, as to Dick's physical condition. The +twitching was gone, but he was very pale and he slept like a man +exhausted and at his physical limit. But the necessity of crossing +the pass before nightfall or of waiting until dawn to do it drove +Bassett back from an anxious reconnoitering of the trail at five +o'clock, to rouse the sleeping man and start on again. + +Near the pass, however, Dick roused himself and took the lead. + +"Let me ahead, Bassett," he said peremptorily. "And give your +horse his head. He'll take care of you if you give him a chance." + +Bassett was glad to fall back. He was exhausted and nervous. The +trail frightened him. It clung to the side of a rocky wall, +twisting and turning on itself; it ran under milky waterfalls of +glacial water, and higher up it led over an ice field which was a +glassy bridge over a rushing stream beneath. To add to their +wretchedness mosquitoes hung about them in voracious clouds, and +tiny black gnats which got into their eyes and their nostrils and +set the horses frantic. + +Once across the ice field Dick's horse fell and for a time could +not get up again. He lay, making ineffectual efforts to rise, his +sides heaving, his eyes rolling in distress. They gave up then, +and prepared to make such camp as they could. + +With the setting of the sun it had grown bitterly cold, and Bassett +was forced to light a fire. He did it under the protection of the +mountain wall, and Dick, after unsaddling his fallen horse, built +a rough shelter of rocks against the wind. After a time the +exhausted horse got up, but there was no forage, and the two +animals stood disconsolate, or made small hopeless excursions, +noses to the ground, among the moss and scrub pines. + +Before turning in Bassett divided the remaining contents of the +flask between them, and his last cigarettes. Dick did not talk. +He sat, his back to the shelter, facing the fire, his mind busy +with what Bassett knew were bitter and conflicting thoughts. Once, +however, as the reporter was dozing off, Dick spoke. + +"You said I told you there was a girl," he said. "Did I tell you +her name?" + +"No." + +"All right. Go to sleep. I thought if I heard it it might help." + +Bassett lay back and watched him. + +"Better get some sleep, old man," he said. + +He dozed, to waken again cold and shivering. The fire had burned +low, and Dick was sitting near it, unheeding, and in a deep study. +He looked up, and Bassett was shocked at the quiet tragedy in his face. + +"Where is Beverly Carlysle now?" he asked. "Or do you know?" + +"Yes. I saw her not long ago." + +"Is she married again?" + +"No. She's revived 'The Valley,' and she's in New York with it." + +Dick slept for only an hour or so that night, but as he slept he +dreamed. In his dream he was at peace and happy, and there was a +girl in a black frock who seemed to be a part of that peace. When +he roused, however, still with the warmth of his dream on him, he +could not summon her. She had slipped away among the shadows of +the night. + +He sat by the fire in the grip of a great despair. He had lost ten +years out of his life, his best years. And he could not go back to +where he had left off. There was nothing to go back to but shame and +remorse. He looked at Bassett, lying by the fire, and tried to fit +him into the situation. Who was he, and why was he here? Why had +he ridden out at night alone, into unknown mountains, to find him? + +As though his intent gaze had roused the sleeper, Bassett opened +his eyes, at first drowsily, then wide awake. He raised himself +on his elbow and listened, as though for some far-off sound, and +his face was strained and anxious. But the night was silent, and +he relaxed and slept again. + +Something that had been forming itself in Dick's mind suddenly +crystallized into conviction. He rose and walked to the edge of +the mountain wall and stood there listening. When he went back to +the fire he felt in his pockets, found a small pad and pencil, and +bending forward to catch the light, commenced to write... +At dawn Bassett wakened. He was stiff and wretched, and he grunted +as he moved. He turned over and surveyed the small plateau. It +was empty, except for his horse, making its continuous, hopeless +search for grass. + + + + +XXX + +David was enjoying his holiday. He lay in bed most of the morning, +making the most of his one after-breakfast cigar and surrounded by +newspaper and magazines. He had made friends of the waiter who +brought his breakfast, and of the little chambermaid who looked +after his room, and such conversations as this would follow: + +"Well, Nellie," he would say, "and did you go to the dance on the +pier last night?" + +"Oh, yes, doctor." + +"Your gentleman friend showed up all right, then?" + +"Oh, yes. He didn't telephone because he was on a job out of town." + +Here perhaps David would lower his voice, for Lucy was never far +away. + +"Did you wear the flowers?" + +"Yes, violets. I put one away to remember you by. It was funny +at first. I wouldn't tell him who gave them to me." + +David would chuckle delightedly. + +"That's right," he would say. "Keep him guessing, the young rascal. +We men are kittle cattle, Nellie, kittle cattle!" + +Even the valet unbent to him, and inquired if the doctor needed a +man at home to look after him and his clothes. David was +enormously tickled. + +"Well," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "I'll tell you how I +manage now, and then you'll see. When I want my trousers pressed I +send them downstairs and then I wait in my bathrobe until they come +back. I'm a trifle better off for boots, but you'd have to knock +Mike, my hired man, unconscious before he'd let you touch them." + +The valet grinned understandingly. + +"Of course, there's my nephew," David went on, a little note of +pride in his voice. "He's become engaged recently, and I notice +he's bought some clothes. But still I don't think even he will +want anybody to hold his trousers while he gets into them." + +David chuckled over that for a long time after the valet had gone. + +He was quite happy and contented. He spent all afternoon in a +roller chair, conversing affably with the man who pushed him, and +now and then when Lucy was out of sight getting out and stretching +his legs. He picked up lost children and lonely dogs, and tried +his eye in a shooting gallery, and had hard work keeping off the +roller coasters and out of the sea. + +Then, one day, when he had been gone some time, he was astonished +on entering his hotel to find Harrison Miller sitting in the lobby. +David beamed with surprise and pleasure. + +"You old humbug!" he said. "Off on a jaunt after all! And the +contempt of you when I was shipped here!" + +Harrison Miller was constrained and uncomfortable. He had meant +to see Lucy first. She was a sensible woman, and she would know +just what David could stand, or could not. But David did not +notice his constraint; took him to his room, made him admire the +ocean view, gave him a cigar, and then sat down across from him, +beaming and hospitable. + +"Suffering Crimus, Miller," he said. "I didn't know I was homesick +until I saw you. Well, how's everything? Dick's letters haven't +been much, and we haven't had any for several days." + +Harrison Miller cleared his throat. He knew that David had not +been told of Jim Wheeler's death, but that Lucy knew. He knew too +from Walter Wheeler that David did not know that Dick had gone west. +Did Lucy know that, or not? Probably yes. But he considered the +entire benevolent conspiracy an absurdity and a mistake. It was +making him uncomfortable, and most of his life had been devoted to +being comfortable. + +He decided to temporize. + +"Things are about the same," he said. "They're going to pave +Chisholm Street. And your Mike knocked down the night watchman +last week. I got him off with a fine." + +"I hope he hasn't been in my cellar. He's got a weakness, but +then--How's Dick? Not overworking?" + +"No. He's all right." + +But David was no man's fool. He began to see something strange in +Harrison's manner, and he bent forward in his chair. + +"Look here, Harrison," he said, "there's something the matter with +you. You've got something on your mind." + +"Well, I have and I haven't. I'd like to see Lucy, David, if she's +about." + +"Lucy's gadding. You can tell me if you can her. What is it? Is +it about Dick?" + +"In a way, yes." + +"He's not sick?" + +"No. He's all right, as far as I know. I guess I'd better tell +you, David. Walter Wheeler has got some sort of bee in his bonnet, +and he got me to come on. Dick was pretty tired and--well, one or +two things happened to worry him. One was that Jim Wheeler--you'll +get this sooner or later--was in an automobile accident, and it +did for him." + +David had lost some of his ruddy color. It was a moment before he +spoke. + +"Poor Jim," he said hoarsely. "He was a good boy, only full of +life. It will be hard on the family." + +"Yes," Harrison Miller said simply. + +But David was resentful, too. When his friends were in trouble he +wanted to know about it. He was somewhat indignant and not a little +hurt. But he soon reverted to Dick. + +"I'll go back and send him off for a rest," he said. "I'm as good +as I'll ever be, and the boy's tired. What's the bee in Wheeler's +bonnet?" + +"Look here, David, you know your own business best, and Wheeler +didn't feel at liberty to tell me very much. But he seemed to +think you were the only one who could tell us certain things. He'd +have come himself, but it's not easy for him to leave the family +just now. Dick went away just after Jim's funeral. He left a young +chap named Reynolds in his place, and, I believe, in order not to +worry you, some letters to be mailed at intervals." + +"Went where?" David asked, in a terrible voice. + +"To a town called Norada, in Wyoming. Near his old home somewhere. +And the Wheelers haven't heard anything from him since the day he +got there. That's three weeks ago. He wrote Elizabeth the night +he got there, and wired her at the same time. There's been nothing +since." + +David was gripping the arms of his chair with both hands, but he +forced himself to calmness. + +"I'll go to Norada at once," he said. "Get a time-table, Harrison, +and ring for the valet." + +"Not on your life you won't. I'm here to do that, when I've got +something to go on. Wheeler thought you might have heard from him. +If you hadn't, I was to get all the information I could and then +start. Elizabeth's almost crazy. We wired the chief of police +of Norada yesterday." + +"Yes!" David said thickly. "Trust your friends to make every +damned mistake possible! You've set the whole pack on his trail." +And then he fell back in his chair, and gasped, "Open the window!" + +When Lucy came in, a half hour later, she found David on his bed +with the hotel doctor beside him, and Harrison Miller in the room. +David was fighting for breath, but he was conscious and very calm. +He looked up at her and spoke slowly and distinctly. + +"They've got Dick, Lucy," he said. + +He looked aged and pinched, and entirely hopeless. Even after his +heart had quieted down and he lay still among his pillows, he gave +no evidence of his old fighting spirit. He lay with his eyes shut, +relaxed and passive. He had done his best, and he had failed. It +was out of his hands now, and in the hands of God. Once, as he lay +there, he prayed. He said that he had failed, and that now he was +too old and weak to fight. That God would have to take it on, and +do the best He could. But he added that if God did not save Dick +and bring him back to happiness, that he, David, was through. + +Toward morning he wakened from a light sleep. The door into Lucy's +room was open and a dim light was burning beyond it. David called +her, and by her immediate response he knew she had not been sleeping. + +"Yes, David," she said, and came padding in in her bedroom slippers +and wadded dressing-gown, a tragic figure of apprehension, +determinedly smiling. "What do you want?" + +"Sit down, Lucy." + +When she had done so he put out his hand, fumbling for hers. She +was touched and alarmed, for it was a long while since there had +been any open demonstration of affection between them. David was +silent for a time, absorbed in thought. Then: + +"I'm not in very good shape, Lucy. I suppose you know that. This +old pump of mine has sprung a leak or something. I don't want you +to worry if anything happens. I've come to the time when I've got +a good many over there, and it will be like going home." + +Lucy nodded. Her chin quivered. She smoothed his hand, with its +high twisted veins. + +"I know, David," she said. "Mother and father, and Henry, and a +good many friends. But I need you, too. You're all I have, now +that Dick--" + +"That's why I called you. If I can get out there, I'll go. And +I'll put up a fight that will make them wish they'd never started +anything. But if I can't, if I--" She felt his fingers tighten +on her hand. "If Hattie Thorwald is still living, we'll put her +on the stand. If I can't go, for any reason, I want you to see +that she is called. And you know where Henry's statement is?" + +"In your box, isn't it?" + +"Yes. Have the statement read first, and then have her called to +corroborate it. Tell the story I have told you--or no, I'll +dictate it to you in the morning, and sign it before witnesses. +Jake and Bill will testify too." + +He felt easier in his mind after that. He had marshalled his forces +and begun his preparations for battle. He felt less apprehension +now in case he fell asleep, to waken among those he had loved long +since and lost awhile. After a few moments his eyes closed, and +Lucy went back to her bed and crawled into it. + +It was, however, Harrison Miller who took the statement that morning. +Lucy's cramped old hand wrote too slowly for David's impatience. +Harrison Miller took it, on hotel stationery, covering the carefully +numbered pages with his neat, copper-plate writing. He wrote with +an impassive face, but with intense interest, for by that time he +knew Dick's story. + +Never, in his orderly bachelor life, of daily papers and a flower +garden and political economy at night, had he been so close to the +passions of men to love and hate and the disorder they brought +with them. + + + + +XXXI + +"My brother, Henry Livingstone, was not a strong man," David +dictated. "He had the same heart condition I have, but it +developed earlier. After he left college he went to Arizona and +bought a ranch, and there he met and chummed with Elihu Clark, +who had bought an old mine and was reworking it. Henry loaned +him a small amount of money at that time, and a number of years +later in return for that, when Henry's health failed, Clark, who +had grown wealthy, bought him a ranch in Wyoming at Dry River, not +far from Clark's own property. + +"Henry had been teaching in an Eastern university, and then taken +up tutoring. We saw little of him. He was a student, and he +became almost a recluse. I saw less of him than ever after Clark +gave him the ranch. + +"In the spring of 1910 Henry wrote me that he was not well, and I +went out to see him. He seemed worried and was in bad shape +physically. Elihu Clark had died five years before, and left him +a fair sum of money, fifty thousand dollars, but he was living in +a way which made me think he was not using it. The ranch buildings +were dilapidated, and there was nothing but the barest necessities +in the house. + +"I taxed Henry with miserliness, and he then told me that the money +was not his, but left to him to be used for an illegitimate son of +Clark's, born before his marriage, the child of a small rancher's +daughter named Hattie Burgess. The Burgess girl had gone to Omaha +for its birth, and the story was not known. In early years Clark +had paid the child's board through his lawyer to an Omaha woman +named Hines, and had later sent him to college. The Burgess girl +married a Swede named Thorwald. The boy was eight years older than +Judson, Clark's legitimate son. + +"After the death of his wife Elihu Clark began to think about the +child, especially after Judson became a fair-sized boy. He had +the older boy, who went by the name of Hines, sent to college, and +in summer he stayed at Henry's tutoring school. Henry said the boy +was like the Burgess family, blonde and excitable and rather +commonplace. He did not get on well at college, and did not +graduate. So far as he knew, Clark never saw him. + +"The boy himself believed that he was an orphan, and that the Hines +woman had adopted him as a foundling. But on the death of the +woman he found that she had no estate, and that a firm of New York +attorneys had been paying his college bills. + +"He had spent considerable time with Henry, one way and another, +and he began to think that Henry knew who he was. He thought at +first that Henry was his father, and there was some trouble. In +order to end it Henry finally acknowledged that he knew who the +father was, and after that he had no peace. Clifton--his name +was Clifton Hines--attacked Henry once, and if it had not been +for the two men on the place he would have hurt him. + +"Henry began to give him money. Clark had left the fifty thousand +for the boy with the idea that Henry should start him in business +with it. But he only turned up wild-cat schemes that Henry would +not listen to. He did not know how Henry got the money, or from +where. He thought for a long time that Henry had saved it. + +"I'd better say here that Henry was fond of Clifton, although he +didn't approve of him. He'd never married, and the boy was like a +son to him for a good many years. He didn't have him at the +ranch much, however, for he was a Burgess through and through and +looked like them. And he was always afraid that somehow the story +would get out. + +"Then Clifton learned, somehow or other, of Clark's legacy to +Henry, and he put two and two together. There was a bad time, but +Henry denied it and they went upstairs to bed. That night Clifton +broke into Henry's desk and found some letters from Elihu Clark +that told the story. + +"He almost went crazy. He took the papers up to Henry's and +wakened him, standing over Henry with them in hand, and shaking +all over. I think they had a struggle, too. All Henry told me +was that he took them from him and threw them in the fire. + +"That was a year before Henry died, and at the time young Jud +Clark's name was in all the newspapers. He had left college after +a wild career there, and although Elihu had tied up the property +until Jud was twenty-one, Jud had his mother's estate and a big +allowance. Then, too, he borrowed on his prospects, and he lost +a hundred thousand dollars at Monte Carlo within six weeks after +he graduated. + +"One way and another he was always in the newspapers, and when he +saw how Jud was throwing money away Clifton went wild. + +"As Henry had burned the letters he had no proofs. He didn't know +who his mother was, but he set to work to find out. He ferreted +into Elihu's past life, and he learned something about Hattie +Burgess, or Thorwald. She was married by that time, and lived on +a little ranch near Norada. He went to see her, and he accused +her downright of being his mother. It must have been a bad time +for her, for after all he was her son, and she had to disclaim him. +She had a husband and a boy by that husband, however, by that time, +and she was desperate. She threw him off the track somehow, lied +and talked him down, and then went to bed in collapse. She sent +for Henry later and told him. + +"The queer thing was that as soon as she saw him she wanted him. +He was her son. She went to Henry one night, and said she had +perjured her soul, and that she wanted him back. She wasn't in +love with Thorwald. I think she'd always cared for Clark. She +went away finally, however, after promising Henry she would keep +Clark's secret. But I have a suspicion that later on she +acknowledged the truth to the boy. + +"What he wanted, of course, was a share of the Clark estate. Of +course he hadn't a chance in law, but he saw a chance to blackmail +young Jud Clark and he tried it. Not personally, for he hadn't any +real courage, but by mail. Clark's attorneys wrote back saying +they would jail him if he tried it again, and he went back to Dry +River and after Henry again. + +"That was in the spring of 1911. Henry was uneasy, for Clifton was +not like himself. He had spells of brooding, and he took to making +long trips on his horse into the mountains, and coming in with the +animal run to death. Henry thought, too, that he was seeing the +Thorwald woman, the mother. Thorwald had died, and she was living +with the son on their ranch and trying to sell it. He thought +Hines was trying to have her make a confession which would give him +a hold on Jud Clark. + +"Henry was not well, and in the early fall he knew he hadn't long +to live. He wrote out the story and left it in his desk for me to +read after he had gone, and as he added to it from time to time, +when I got it it was almost up to date. + +"Judson came back to the Clark ranch in September, bringing along +an actress named Beverly Carlysle, and her husband, Howard Lucas. +There was considerable talk, because it was known Jud had been +infatuated with the woman. But no one saw much of the party, +outside of the ranch. The Carlysle woman seemed to be a lady, but +the story was that both men were drinking a good bit, especially Jud. + +"Henry wrote that Hines had been in the East for some months at +that time, and that he had not heard from him. But he felt that +it was only a truce, and that he would turn up again, hell bent +for trouble. He made a will and left the money to me, with +instructions to turn it over to Hines. It is still in the bank, +and amounts to about thirty-five thousand dollars. It is not mine, +and I will not touch it. But I have never located Clifton Hines. + +"In the last entry in his record I call attention to my brother's +statement that he did not regard Clifton Hines as entirely sane on +this one matter, and to his conviction that the hatred Hines then +bore him, amounting to a delusion of persecution, might on his +death turn against Judson Clark. He instructed me to go to Clark, +tell him the story, and put him on his guard. + +"Clark and his party had been at the ranch only a day or two when +one night Hines turned up at Dry River. He wanted the fifty +thousand, or what was left of it, and when he failed to move Henry +he attacked him. The two men on the place heard the noise and ran +in, but Hines got away. Henry swore them to secrecy, and told them +the story. He felt he might need help. + +"From what the two men at the ranch told me when I got there, I +think Hines stayed somewhere in the mountains for the next day or +two, and that he came down for food the night Henry died. + +"Just what he contributed to Henry's death I do not know. Henry +fell in one room, and was found in bed in another when the hands +had been taking the cattle to the winter range, and he'd been alone +in the house. + +"When I got there the funeral was over. I read the letter he had +left, and then I talked to the two hands, Bill Ardary and Jake +Mazetti. They would not talk at first, but I showed them Henry's +record and then they were free enough. The autopsy had shown that +Henry died from heart disease, but he had a cut on his head also, +and they believed that Hines had come back, had quarreled with him +again, and had knocked him down. + +"As Henry had in a way handed over to me his responsibility for the +boy, and as I wanted to transfer the money, I waited for three +weeks at the ranch, hoping he would turn up again. I saw the +Thorwald woman, but she protested that she did not know where he +was. And I made two attempts to see and warn Jud Clark, but failed +both times. Then one night the Thorwald woman came in, looking +like a ghost, and admitted that Hines had been hiding in the +mountains since Henry's death, that he insisted he had killed him, +and that he blamed Jud Clark for that, and for all the rest of his +troubles. She was afraid he would kill Clark. The three of us, +the two men at the ranch and myself, prepared to go into the +mountains and hunt for him, before he got snowed in. + +"Then came the shooting at the Clark place, and I rode over that +night in a howling storm and helped the coroner and a Norada doctor +in the examination. All the evidence was against Clark, especially +his running away. But I happened on Hattie Thorwald outside on a +verandah--she'd been working at the house--and I didn't need any +conversation to tell me what she thought. All she said was: + +"He didn't do it, doctor. He's still in the mountains." + +"He's been here to-night, Hattie, and you know it. He shot the +wrong man." + +"But she swore he hadn't been, and at the end I didn't know. I'll +say right now that I don't know. But I'll say, too, that I believe +that is what happened, and that Hines probably stayed hidden that +night on Hattie Thorwald's place. I went there the next day, but +she denied it all, and said he was still in the mountains. She +carried on about the blizzard and his being frozen to death, until +I began to think she was telling the truth. + +"The next day I did what only a tenderfoot would do, started into +the mountains alone. Bill and Jake were out with a posse after +Clark, and I packed up some food and started. I'll not go into the +details of that trip. I went in from the Dry River Canyon, and I +guess I faced death a dozen times the first day. I had a map, but +I lost myself in six hours. I had food and blankets and an axe +along, and I built a shelter and stayed there overnight. I had to +cut up one of my blankets the next morning and tie up the horse's +feet, so he wouldn't sink too deep in the snow. But it stayed +cold and the snow hardened, and we got along better after that. + +"I'd have turned back more than once, but I thought I'd meet up +with some of the sheriff's party. I didn't do that, but I stumbled +on a trail on the third day, toward evening. It was the trail made +by John Donaldson, as I learned later. I followed it, but I +concluded after a while that whoever made it was lost, too. It +seemed to be going in a circle. I was in bad shape and had frozen +a part of my right hand, when I saw a cabin, and there was smoke +coming out of the chimney." + +From that time on David's statement dealt with the situation in the +cabin; with Jud Clark and the Donaldsons, and with the snow storm, +which began again and lasted for days. He spoke at length of his +discovery of Clark's identity, and of the fact that the boy had +lost all memory of what had happened, and even of who he was. He +went into that in detail; the peculiar effect of fear and mental +shock on a high-strung nature, especially where the physical +condition was lowered by excess and wrong-living; his early attempts, +as the boy improved, to pierce the veil, and then his slow-growing +conviction that it were an act of mercy not to do so. The +Donaldsons' faithfulness, the cessation of the search under the +conviction that Clark was dead, both were there, and also David's +growing liking for Judson himself. But David's own psychology was +interesting and clearly put. + +"First of all," he dictated, in his careful old voice, "it must be +remembered that I was not certain that the boy had committed the +crime. I believed, and I still believe, that Lucas was shot by +Clifton Hines, probably through an open window. There were no +powder marks on the body. I believed, too, and still believe, that +Hines had fled after the crime, either to Hattie Thorwald's house +or to the mountains. In one case he had escaped and could not be +brought to justice, and in the other he was dead, and beyond +conviction. + +"But there is another element which I urge, not in defense but in +explanation. The boy Judson Clark was a new slate to write on. +He had never had a chance. He had had too much money, too much +liberty, too little responsibility. His errors had been wiped +away by the loss of his memory, and he had, I felt, a chance for a +new and useful life. + +"I did not come to my decision quickly. It was a long fight for +his life, for he had contracted pneumonia, and he had the drinker's +heart. But in the long days of his convalescence while Maggie +worked in the lean-to, I had time to see what might be done. If +in making an experiment with a man's soul I usurped the authority +of my Lord and Master, I am sorry. But he knows that I did it for +the best. + +"I deliberately built up for Judson Clark a new identity. He was +my nephew, my brother Henry's son. He had the traditions of an +honorable family to carry on, and those traditions were honor, +integrity, clean living and work. I did not stress love, for that I +felt must be experienced, not talked about. But love was to be the +foundation on which I built. The boy had had no love in his life. + +"It has worked out. I may not live to see it at its fullest, but +I defy the world to produce today a finer or more honorable +gentleman, a more useful member of the community. And it will last. +The time may come when Judson Clark will again be Judson Clark. I +have expected it for many years. But he will never again be the +Judson Clark of ten years ago. He may even will to return to the +old reckless ways, but as I lie here, perhaps never to see him, I +say this: he cannot go back. His character and habits of thought +are established. + +"To convict Judson Clark of the murder of Howard Lucas is to convict +a probably or at least possibly innocent man. To convict Richard +Livingstone of that crime is to convict a different man, innocent +of the crime, innocent of its memory, innocent of any single impulse +to lift his hand against a law of God or the state." + + + + +XXXII + +For a month Haverly had buzzed with whispered conjectures. It knew +nothing, and yet somehow it knew everything. Doctor David was ill +at the seashore, and Dick was not with him. Harrison Miller, who +was never known to depart farther from his comfortable hearth than +the railway station in one direction and the Sayre house in the +other, had made a trip East and was now in the far West. Doctor +Reynolds, who might or might not know something, had joined the +country club and sent for his golf bag. + +And Elizabeth Wheeler was going around with a drawn white face and +a determined smile that faded the moment one looked away. + +The village was hurt and suspicious. It resented its lack of +knowledge, and turned cynical where, had it been taken into +confidence, it would have been solicitous. It believed that +Elizabeth had been jilted, for it knew, via Annie and the +Oglethorpe's laundress, that no letters came from Dick. And +against Dick its indignation was directed, in a hot flame of +mainly feminine anger. + +But it sensed a mystery, too, and if it hated a jilt it loved a +mystery. + +Nina had taken to going about with her small pointed chin held +high, and angrily she demanded that Elizabeth do the same. + +"You know what they are saying, and yet you go about looking crushed." + +"I can't act, Nina. I do go about." + +And Nina had a softened moment. + +"Don't think about him," she said. "He isn't sick, or he would +have had some one wire or write, and he isn't dead, or they'd have +found his papers and let us know." + +"Then he's in some sort of trouble. I want to go out there. I +want to go out there!" + +That, indeed, had been her constant cry for the last two weeks. +She would have done it probably, packed her bag and slipped away, +but she had no money of her own, and even Leslie, to whom she +appealed, had refused her when he knew her purpose. + +"We're following him up, little sister," he said. "Harrison Miller +has gone out, and there's enough talk as it is." + +She thought, lying in her bed at night, that they were all too +afraid of what people might say. It seemed so unimportant to her. +And she could not understand the conspiracy of silence. Other men +went away and were not heard from, and the police were notified and +the papers told. It seemed to her, too, that every one, her father +and Nina and Leslie and even Harrison Miller, knew more than she did. + +There had been that long conference behind closed doors, when +Harrison Miller came back from seeing David, and before he went +west. Leslie had been there, and even Doctor Reynolds, but they +had shut her out. And her father had not been the same since. + +He seemed, sometimes, to be burning with a sort of inner anger. +Not at her, however. He was very gentle with her. + +And here was a curious thing. She had always felt that she knew +when Dick was thinking of her. All at once, and without any warning, +there would come a glow of happiness and warmth, and a sort of +surrounding and encircling sense of protection. Rather like what +she had felt as a little girl when she had run home through the +terrors of twilight, and closed the house door behind her. She was +in the warm and lighted house, safe and cared for. + +That was completely gone. It was as though the warm and lighted +house of her love had turned her out and locked the door, and she +was alone outside, cold and frightened. + +She avoided the village, and from a sense of delicacy it left her +alone. The small gaieties of the summer were on, dinners, dances +and picnics, but her mourning made her absence inconspicuous. She +could not, however, avoid Mrs. Sayre. She tried to, at first, but +that lady's insistence and her own apathy made it easier to accept +than to refuse. Then, after a time, she found the house rather a +refuge. She seldom saw Wallie, and she found her hostess tactful, +kindly and uninquisitive. + +"Take the scissors and a basket, child, and cut your mother some +roses," she would say. Or they would loot the green houses and, +going in the car to the cemetery, make of Jim's grave a thing of +beauty and remembrance. + +Now and then, of course, she saw Wallie, but he never reverted to +the day she had told him of her engagement. Mother and son, she +began to feel that only with them could she be herself. For the +village, her chin high as Nina had said. At home, assumed +cheerfulness. Only at the house on the hill could she drop her pose. + +She waited with a sort of desperate courage for word from Harrison +Miller. What she wanted that word to be she did not know. There +were, of course, times when she had to face the possibility that +Dick had deliberately cut himself off from her. After all, there +had never been any real reason why he should care for her. She was +not clever and not beautiful. Perhaps he had been disappointed in +her, and this was the thing they were concealing. Perhaps he had +gone back to Wyoming and had there found some one more worthy of +im, some one who understood when he talked about the things he did +in his laboratory, and did not just sit and listen with loving, +rather bewildered eyes. + +Then, one night at dinner, a telegram was brought in, and she knew +it was the expected word. She felt her mother's eyes on her, and +she sat very still with her hands clenched in her lap. But her +father did not read it at the table; he got up and went out, and +some time later he came to the door. The telegram was not in sight. + +"That was from Harrison Miller," he said. "He has traced Dick to +a hotel at Norada, but he had left the hotel, and he hasn't got in +touch with him yet." + +He went away then, and they heard the house door close. + +Then, some days later, she learned that Harrison Miller was coming +home, and that David was being brought back. She saw that telegram +from Mr. Miller, and read into it failure and discouragement, and +something more ominous than either. + +"Reach home Tuesday night. Nothing definite. Think safe." + +"Think safe?" she asked, breathlessly. "Then he has been in danger? +What are you keeping from me?" And when no one spoke: "Oh, don't +you see how cruel it is? You are all trying to protect me, and you +are killing me instead." + +"Not danger," her father said, slowly. "So far as we know, he is +well. Is all right." And seeing her face: "It is nothing that +affects his feeling for you, dear. He is thinking of you and loving +you, wherever he is. Only, we don't know where he is." + +But when he came back on Tuesday, after seeing Harrison Miller, he +was discouraged and sick at heart. He went directly upstairs to +his wife, and shut the bedroom door. + +"Not a trace," he said, in reply to the question in her eyes. "The +situation is as he outlined it in the letter. He elaborated, of +course. The fact is, and David will have to see it, that that +statement of his doesn't help at all, unless he can prove there is +a Clifton Hines. And even then it's all supposition. There's a +strong sentiment out there that Dick either killed himself or met +with an accident and died in the mountains. The horse wandered +into town last week. I'll have to tell her." + +Over this possibility they faced each other, a tragic middle-aged +pair, helpless as is the way of middle-age before the attacks of +life on their young. + +"It will kill her, Walter." + +"She's young," he said sturdily. "She'll get over it." + +But he did not think so, and she knew it. + +"There is a rather queer element in it," he observed, after a time. +"Another man, named Bassett, disappeared the same night. His stuff +is at the hotel, but no papers to identify him. He had looked after +Dick that day when he was sick, and he simply vanished. He didn't +take the train. He was under suspicion for being with Dick, and +the station was being watched." But she was not interested in +Bassett. The name meant nothing to her. She harked back to the +question that had been in both their minds since they had read, in +stupefied amazement, David's statement. + +"In a way, Walter, it would be better, if he..." + +"Why?" + +"My little girl, and--Judson Clark!" + +But he fought that sturdily. They had ten years of knowledge and +respect to build on. The past was past. All he prayed for was +Dick's return, an end to this long waiting. There would be no +reservations in his welcome, if only-- + +Some time later he went downstairs, to where Elizabeth sat waiting +in the library. He went like a man to his execution, and his +resolution nearly gave way when he saw her, small in her big chair +and pathetically patient. He told her the story as guardedly as +he could. He began with Dick's story to him, about his forgotten +youth, and went on carefully to Dick's own feeling that he must +clear up that past before he married. She followed him carefully, +bewildered a little and very tense. + +"But why didn't he tell me?" + +"He saw it as a sort of weakness. He meant to when he came back." + +He fought Dick's fight for him valiantly, stressing certain points +that were to prepare her for others to come. He plunged, indeed, +rather recklessly into the psychology of the situation, and only +got out of the unconscious mind with an effort. But behind it all +was his overwhelming desire to save her pain. + +"You must remember," he said, "that Dick's life before this +happened, and since, are two different things. Whatever he did +then should not count against him now." + +"Of course not," she said. "Then he--had done something?" + +"Yes. Something that brought him into conflict with the authorities." + +She did not shrink from that, and he was encouraged to go on. + +"He was young then, remember. Only twenty-one or so. And there +was a quarrel with another man. The other man was shot." + +"You mean Dick shot him?" + +"Yes. You understand, don't you," he added anxiously, "that he +doesn't remember doing it?" + +In spite of his anxiety he was forced to marvel at the sublime +faith with which she made her comment, through lips that had +gone white. + +"Then it was either an accident, or he deserved shooting," she said. +But she inquired, he thought with difficulty, "Did he die?" + +He could not lie to her. "Yes," he said. + +She closed her eyes, but a moment later she was fighting her valiant +fight again for Dick. + +"But they let him go," she protested. "Men do shoot in the West, +don't they? There must have been a reason for it. You know Dick +as well as I do. He couldn't do a wrong thing." + +He let that pass. "Nothing was done about it at the time," he said. +"And Dick came here and lived his useful life among us. He wouldn't +have known the man's name if he heard it. But do you see, +sweetheart, where this is taking us? He went back, and they tried +to get him, for a thing he didn't remember doing." + +"Father!" she said, and went very white. "Is that where he is? +In prison?" + +He tried to steady his voice. + +"No, dear. He escaped into the mountains. But you can understand +his silence. You can understand, too, that he may feel he cannot +come back to us, with this thing hanging over him. What we have to +do now is to find him, and to tell him that it makes no difference. +That he has his place in the world waiting for him, and that we are +waiting too." + +When it was all over, her questions and his sometimes stumbling +replies, he saw that out of it all the one thing that mattered +vitally to her was that Dick was only a fugitive, and not dead. +But she said, just before they went, arm in arm, up the stairs: + +"It is queer in one way, father. It isn't like him to run away." + +He told Margaret, later, and she listened carefully. + +"Then you didn't tell her about the woman in the case?" + +"Certainly not. Why should I?" + +Mrs. Wheeler looked at him, with the eternal surprise of woman at +the lack of masculine understanding. + +"Because, whether you think it or not, she will resent and hate +that as she hates nothing else. Murder will be nothing, to that. +And she will have to know it some time." + +He pondered her flat statement unhappily, standing by the window +and looking out into the shaded street, and a man who had been +standing, cigar in mouth, on a pavement across withdrew into the +shadow of a tree box. + +"It's all a puzzle to me," he said, at last. "God alone knows how +it will turn out. Harrison Miller seems to think this Bassett, +whoever he is, could tell us something. I don't know." + +He drew the shade and wound his watch. "I don't know," he repeated. + +Outside, on the street, the man with the cigar struck a match and +looked at his watch. Then he walked briskly toward the railway +station. A half hour later he walked into the offices of the +Times-Republican and to the night editor's desk. + +"Hello, Bassett," said that gentleman. "We thought you were dead. +Well, how about the sister in California? It was the Clark story, +wasn't it?" + +"Yes," said Bassett, noncommittally. + +"And it blew up on you! Well, there were others who were fooled, +too. You had a holiday, anyhow." + +"Yes, I had a holiday," said Bassett, and going over to his own +desk began to sort his vast accumulation of mail. Sometime later +he found the night editor at his elbow. + +"Did you get anything on the Clark business at all?" he asked. +"Williams thinks there's a page in it for Sunday, anyhow. You've +been on the ground, and there's a human interest element in it. The +last man who talked to Clark; the ranch to-day. That sort of thing." + +Bassett went on doggedly sorting his mail. + +"You take it from me," he said, "the story's dead, and so is Clark. +The Donaldson woman was crazy. That's all." + + + + +XXXIII + +David was brought home the next day, a shrivelled and aged David, +but with a fighting fire in his eyes and a careful smile at the +station for the group of friends who met him. + +David had decided on a course and meant to follow it. That course +was to protect Dick's name, and to keep the place he had made in +the world open for him. Not even to Lucy had he yet breathed the +terror that was with him day and night, that Dick had reached the +breaking point and had gone back. But he knew it was possible. +Lauler had warned him against shocks and trouble, and looking back +David could see the gradually accumulating pressure against that +mental wall of Dick's subconscious building; overwork and David's +illness, his love affair and Jim Wheeler's tragedy, and coming on +top of that, in some way he had not yet learned, the knowledge that +he was Judson Clark and a fugitive from the law. The work of ten +years perhaps undone. + +Both David and Lucy found the home-coming painful. Harrison Miller +rode up with them from the station, and between him and Doctor +Reynolds David walked into his house and was assisted up the stairs. +At the door of Dick's room he stopped and looked in, and then went +on, his face set and rigid. He would not go to bed, but sat in his +chair while about him went on the bustle of the return, the bringing +up of trunks and bags; but the careful smile was gone, and his +throat, now so much too thin for his collar, worked convulsively. + +He had got Harrison Miller's narrative from him on the way from the +station, and it had only confirmed his suspicions. + +"He had been in a stupor all day," Miller related, "and was being +cared for by a man named Bassett. I daresay that's the man Gregory +had referred to. He may have become suspicious of Bassett. I don't +know. But a chambermaid recognized him as he was making his escape, +and raised an alarm. He got a horse out of the courtyard of the +hotel, and not a sign of him has been found since." + +"It wasn't Bassett who raised the alarm?" + +"No, apparently not. The odd thing is that this Bassett disappeared, +too, the same night. I called up his paper yesterday, but he hasn't +shown up." + +And with some small amplifications, that is all there was to it. + +Before Harrison Miller and Doctor Reynolds left him to rest, David +called Lucy in, and put his plea to all of them. + +"It is my hope," he said, "to carry on exactly as though Dick might +walk in to-morrow and take his place again. As I hold to my belief +in God, so I hold to my conviction that he will come back, and that +before I--before long. But our friends will be asking where he is +and what he is doing, and we would better agree on that beforehand. +What we'd better say is simply that Dick was called away on business +connected with some property in the West. They may not believe it, +but they'll hardly disprove it." + +So the benevolent conspiracy to protect Dick Livingstone's name was +arranged, and from that time on the four of them who were a party +to it turned to the outside world an unbroken front of loyalty and +courage. Even to Minnie, anxious and red-eyed in her kitchen, Lucy +gave the same explanation while she arranged David's tray. + +"He has been detained in the West on business," Lucy said. + +"He might have sent me a postcard. And he hasn't written Doctor +Reynolds at all." + +"He has been very busy. Get the sugar bowl, Minnie. He'll be back +soon, I'm sure." + +But Minnie did not immediately move. + +"He'd better come soon if he wants to see Doctor David," she said, +with twitching lips. "And I'll just say this, Mrs. Crosby. The +talk that's going on in this town is something awful." + +"I don't want to hear it," Lucy said firmly. + +She ate alone, painfully remembering that last gay little feast +before they started away. But before she sat down she did a touching +thing. She rang the bell and called Minnie. + +"After this, Minnie," she said, "we will always set Doctor Richard's +place. Then, when he comes--" + +Her voice broke and Minnie, scenting a tragedy but ignorant of it, +went back to her kitchen to cry into the roller towel. Her world +was gone to pieces. By years of service to the one family she had +no other world, no home, no ties. She was with the Livingstones, but +not one of them. Alone in her kitchen she felt lonely and cut off. +She thought that David, had he not been ill, would have told her. + +Lucy found David moving about upstairs some time later, and when +she went up she found him sitting in Dick's room, on a stiff chair +inside the door. She stood beside him and put her hand on his +shoulder, but he did not say anything, and she went away. + +That night David had a caller. All evening the bell had been +ringing, and the little card tray on the hatrack was filled with +visiting cards. There were gifts, too, flowers and jellies and +some squab from Mrs. Sayre. Lucy had seen no one, excusing +herself on the ground of fatigue, but the man who came at nine +o'clock was not inclined to be turned away. + +"You take this card up to Doctor Livingstone, anyhow," he said. +"I'll wait." + +He wrote in pencil on the card, placing it against the door post to +do so, and passed it to Minnie. She calmly read it, and rather +defiantly carried it off. But she came down quickly, touched by +some contagion of expectation from the room upstairs. + +"Hang your hat on the rack and go on up." + +So it was that David and the reporter met, for the first time, in +David's old fashioned chamber, with its walnut bed and the dresser +with the marble top, and Dick's picture in his uniform on the mantle. + +Bassett was shocked at the sight of David, shocked and alarmed. He +was uncertain at first as to the wisdom of telling his startling +story to an obviously sick man, but David's first words reassured him. + +"Come in," he said. "You are the Bassett who was with Doctor +Livingstone at Norada?" + +"Yes. I see you know about it." + +"We know something, not everything." Suddenly David's pose deserted +him. He got up and stood very straight, searching eyes on his +visitor. "Is he living?" he asked, in a low voice. + +"I think so. I'm not certain." + +"Then you don't know where he is?" + +"No. He got away--but you know that. Sit down, doctor. I've got +a long story to tell." + +"I'll get you to call my sister first," David said. "And tell her +to get Harrison Miller. Mr. Miller is our neighbor, and he very +kindly went west when my health did not permit me to go." + +While they waited David asked only one question. + +"The report we have had is that he was in a stupor in the hotel, +and the doctor who saw him--you got him, I think--said he appeared +to have been drinking heavily. Is that true? He was not a +drinking man." + +"I am quite sure he had not." + +There was another question in David's mind, but he did not put it. +He sat, with the patience of his age and his new infirmity, waiting +for Lucy to bring Harrison Miller, and had it not been for the +trembling of his hands Bassett would have thought him calm and even +placid. + +During the recital that followed somewhat later David did not move. +He sat silent, his eyes closed, his face set. + +"That's about all," Bassett finished. "He had been perfectly clear +in his head all day, and it took headwork to get over the pass. But, +as I say, he had simply dropped ten years, and was back to the Lucas +trouble. I tried everything I knew, used your name and would have +used the young lady's, because sometimes that sort of thing strikes +pretty deep, but I didn't know it. He was convinced after a while, +but he was dazed, of course. He knew it, that is, but he couldn't +comprehend it. + +"I was done up, and I've cursed myself for it since, but I must +have slept like the dead. I wakened once, early in the night, and +he was still sitting by the fire, staring at it. I've forgotten +to say that he had been determined all day to go back and give +himself up, and the only way I prevented it was by telling him +what a blow it would be to you and to the girl. I wakened once +and said to him, 'Better get some sleep, old man.' He did not +answer at once, and then he said, 'All right.' I was dozing off +when he spoke again. He said, 'Where is Beverly Carlysle now? +Has she married again?' 'She's revived "The Valley," and she's +in New York with it,' I told him. + +"When I wakened in the morning he was gone, but he'd left a piece +of paper in a cleft stick beside me, with directions for reaching +the railroad, and--well, here it is." + +Bassett took from his pocket-book a note, and passed it over to +David, who got out his spectacles with shaking hands and read it. +It was on Dick's prescription paper, with his name at the top and +the familiar Rx below it. David read it aloud, his voice husky. + +"Many thanks for everything, Bassett," he read. "I don't like to +leave you, but you'll get out all right if you follow the map on +the back of this. I've had all night to think things out, and I'm +leaving you because you are safer without me. I realize now what +you've known all day and kept from me. That woman at the hotel +recognized me, and they are after me. + +"I can't make up my mind what to do. Ultimately I think I'll go +back and give myself up. I am a dead man, anyhow, to all who might +have cared, but I've got to do one or two things first, and I want +to think things over. One thing you've got a right to know. I +hated Lucas, but it never entered my head to kill him. How it +happened God only knows. I don't." + +It was signed "J. C." + +Bassett broke the silence that followed the reading. + +"I made every effort to find him. I had to work alone, you +understand, and from the west side of the range, not to arouse +suspicion. They were after me, too, you know. His horse, I heard, +worked its way back a few days ago. It's a forsaken country, and +if he lost his horse he was in it on foot and without food. Of +course there's a chance--" + +His voice trailed off. In the stillness David sat, touching with +tender tremulous fingers what might be Dick's last message, and +gazing at the picture of Dick in his uniform. He knew what they +all thought, that Dick was dead and that he held his final words +in his hands, but his militant old spirit refused to accept that +silent verdict. Dick might be dead to them, but he was living. +He looked around the room defiantly, resentfully. Of all of them +he was the only one to have faith, and he was bound to a chair. +He knew them. They would sit down supinely and grieve, while time +passed and Dick fought his battle alone. + +No, by God, he would not be bound to a chair. He raised himself +and stood, swaying on his shaking legs. + +"You've given up," he said scornfully. "You make a few days' +search, and then you quit. It's easy to say he's dead, and so you +say he's dead. I'm going out there myself, and I'll make a search--" + +He collapsed into the chair again, and looked at them with shamed, +appealing eyes. Bassett was the first to break the silence, speaking +in a carefully emotionless tone. + +"I haven't given up for a minute. I've given up the search, because +he's beyond finding just now. Either he's got away, or he is--well, +beyond help. We have to go on the hypothesis that he got away, and +in that case sooner or later you'll hear from him. He's bound to +remember you in time. The worst thing is this charge against him." + +"He never killed Howard Lucas," David said, in a tone of conviction. +"Harrison, read Mr. Bassett my statement to you." + +Bassett took the statement home with him that night, and studied it +carefully. It explained a great deal that had puzzled him before; +Mrs. Wasson's story and David's arrival at the mountain cabin. But +most of all it explained why the Thorwald woman had sent him after +Dick. She knew then, in spite of her protests to David, that Jud +Clark had not killed Lucas. + +He paced the floor for an hour or two, sunk in thought, and then +unlocked a desk drawer and took out his bankbook. He had saved a +little money. Not much, but it would carry him over if he couldn't +get another leave of absence. He thought, as he put the book away +and prepared for bed, that it was a small price to pay for finding +Clifton Hines and saving his own soul. + + + + +XXXIV + +Dick had written his note, and placed it where Bassett would be +certain to see it. Then he found his horse and led him for the +first half mile or so of level ground before the trail began to +descend. He mounted there, for he knew the animal could find its +way in the darkness where he could not. + +He felt no weariness and no hunger, although he had neither slept +nor eaten for thirty-odd hours, and as contrasted with the night +before his head was clear. He was able to start a train of thought +and to follow it through consecutively for the first time in hours. +Thought, however, was easier than realization, and to add to his +perplexity, he struggled to place Bassett and failed entirely. He +remained a mysterious and incomprehensible figure, beginning and +ending with the trail. + +Then he had an odd thought, that brought him up standing. He had +only Bassett's word for the story. Perhaps Bassett was lying to +him, or mad. He rode on after a moment, considering that, but +there was something, not in Bassett's circumstantial narrative but +in himself, that refused to accept that loophole of escape. He +could not have told what it was. + +And, with his increasing clarity, he began to make out the case for +Bassett and against himself; the unfamiliar clothing he wore, the +pad with the name of Livingstone on it and the sign Rx, the other +contents of his pockets. + +He tried to orient himself in Bassett's story. A doctor. The +devil's irony of it! Some poor hack, losing sleep and bringing +babies. Peddling pills. Leading what Bassett had called a life +of usefulness! That was a career for you, a pill peddler. God! + +But underlying all his surface thinking was still the need of +flight, and he was continually confusing it with the earlier one. +One moment he was looking about for the snow of that earlier escape, +and the next he would remember, and the sense of panic would leave +him. After all he meant to surrender eventually. It did not matter +if they caught him. + +But, like the sense of flight, there was something else in his mind, +something that he fought down and would not face. When it came up +he thrust it back fiercely. That something was the figure of Beverly +Carlysle, stooping over her husband's body. He would have died to +save her pain, and yet last night--no, it wasn't last night. It was +years and years ago, and all this time she had hated him. + +It was unbearable that she had gone on hating him, all this time. + +He was very thirsty, and water did not satisfy him. He wanted a +real drink. He wanted alcohol. Suddenly he wanted all the liquor +in the world. The craving came on at dawn, and after that he kicked +his weary horse on recklessly, so that it rocked and stumbled down +the trail. He had only one thought after the frenzy seized him, +and that was to get to civilization and whisky. It was as though +he saw in drunkenness his only escape from the unbearable. In all +probability he would have killed both his horse and himself in the +grip of that sudden madness, but deliverance came in the shape of a +casual rider, a stranger who for a moment took up the shuttle, wove +his bit of the pattern and passed on, to use his blow-pipe, his +spirit lamp and his chemicals in some prospector's paradise among +the mountains. + +When Dick heard somewhere ahead the creaking of saddle leather and +the rattle of harness he drew aside on the trail and waited. He +had lost all caution in the grip of his craving, and all fear. A +line of loaded burros rounded a point ahead and came toward him, +picking their way delicately with small deliberate feet and walking +on the outer edge of the trail, after the way of pack animals the +world over. Behind them was a horseman, rifle in the scabbard on +his saddle and spurs jingling. Dick watched him with thirsty, +feverish eyes as he drew near. He could hardly wait to put his +question. + +"Happen to have a drink about you, partner?" he called. + +The man stopped his horse and grinned. + +"Pretty early in the morning for a drink, isn't it?" he inquired. +Then he saw Dick's eyes, and reached reluctantly into his saddle +bag. "I've got a quart here," he said. "I've traveled forty miles +and spent nine dollars to get it, but I guess you need some." + +"You wouldn't care to sell it, I suppose?" + +"The bottle? Not on your life." + +He untied a tin cup from his saddle and carefully poured a fair +amount into it, steadying the horse the while. + +"Here," he said, and passed it over. "But you'd better cut it out +after this. It's bad medicine. You've got two good drinks there. +Be careful." + +Dick took the cup and looked at the liquor. The odor assailed him, +and for a queer moment he felt a sudden distaste for it. He had a +revulsion that almost shook him. But he drank it down and passed +the cup back. + +"You've traveled a long way for it," he said, "and I needed it, I +guess. If you'll let me pay for it--" + +"Forget it," said the man amiably, and started his horse. "But +better cut it out, first chance you get. It's bad medicine." + +He rode on after his vanishing pack, and Dick took up the trail +again. But before long he began to feel sick and dizzy. The +aftertaste of the liquor in his mouth nauseated him. The craving +had been mental habit, not physical need, and his body fought the +poison rebelliously. After a time the sickness passed, and he +slept in the saddle. He roused once, enough to know that the horse +had left the trail and was grazing in a green meadow. Still +overcome with his first real sleep he tumbled out of the saddle and +stretched himself out on the ground. He slept all day, lying out +in the burning sun, his face upturned to the sky. + +When he wakened it was twilight, and the horse had disappeared. +His face burned from the sun, and his head ached violently. He +was weak, too, from hunger, and the morning's dizziness persisted. +Connected thought was impossible, beyond the fact that if he did +not get out soon, he would be too weak to travel. Exhausted and +on the verge of sunstroke, he set out on foot to find the trail. + +He traveled all night, and the dawn found him still moving, a mere +automaton of a man, haggard and shambling, no longer willing his +progress, but somehow incredibly advancing. He found water and +drank it, fell, got up, and still, right foot, left foot, he went +on. Some time during that advance he had found a trail, and he +kept to it automatically. He felt no surprise and no relief when +he saw a cabin in a clearing and a woman in the doorway, watching +him with curious eyes. He pulled himself together and made a final +effort, but without much interest in the result. + +"I wonder if you could give me some food?" he said. "I have lost +my horse and I've been wandering all night." + +"I guess I can," she replied, not unamiably. "You look as though +you need it, and a wash, too. There's a basin and a pail of water +on that bench." + +But when she came out later to call him to breakfast she found +him sitting on the bench and the pail overturned on the ground. + +"I'm sorry," he said, dully, "I tried to lift it, but I'm about +all in." + +"You'd better come in. I've made some coffee." + +He could not rise. He could not even raise his hands. + +She called her husband from where he was chopping wood off in the +trees, and together they got him into the house. It was days +before he so much as spoke again. + +So it happened that the search went on. Wilkins from the east of +the range, and Bassett from the west, hunted at first with furious +energy, then spasmodically, then not at all, while Dick lay in a +mountain cabin, on the bed made of young trees, and for the second +time in his life watched a woman moving in a lean-to kitchen, and +was fed by a woman's hand. + +He forced himself to think of this small panorama of life that +moved before him, rather than of himself. The woman was young, and +pretty in a slovenly way. The man was much older, and silent. He +was of better class than the woman, and underlying his assumption +of crudity there were occasional outcroppings of some cultural +background. Not then, nor at any subsequent time, did he learn the +story, if story there was. He began to see them, however, not so +much pioneers as refugees. The cabin was, he thought, a haven to +the man and a prison to the woman. + +But they were uniformly kind to him, and for weeks he stayed there, +slowly readjusting. In his early convalescence he would sit paring +potatoes or watching a cooking pot for her. As he gained in +strength he cut a little firewood. Always he sought something to +keep him from thinking. + +Two incidents always stood out afterwards in his memory of the +cabin. One was the first time he saw himself in a mirror. He +knew by that time that Bassett's story had been true, and that he +was ten years older than he remembered himself to be. He thought +he was in a measure prepared. But he saw in the glass a man whose +face was lined and whose hair was streaked with gray. The fact +that his beard had grown added to the terrible maturity of the +reflection he saw, and he sent the mirror clattering to the ground. + +The other incident was later, and when he was fairly strong again. +The man was caught under a tree he was felling, and badly hurt. +During the hour or so that followed, getting the tree cut away, +and moving the injured man to the cabin on a wood sledge, Dick +had the feeling of helplessness of any layman in an accident. He +was solicitous but clumsy. But when they had got the patient into +his bed, quite automatically he found himself making an +investigation and pronouncing a verdict. + +Later he was to realize that this was the first peak of submerged +memory, rising above the flood. At the time all he felt was a great +certainty. He must act quickly or the man would not live. And +that night, with such instruments as he could extemporize, he +operated. There was no time to send to a town. + +All night, after the operation, Dick watched by the bedside, the +woman moving back and forth restlessly. He got his only knowledge +of the story, such as it was, then when she said once: + +"I deserved this, but he didn't. I took him away from his wife." + +He had to stay on after that, for the woman could not be left +alone. And he was glad of the respite, willing to drift until he +got his bearings. Certain things had come back, more as pictures +than realities. Thus he saw David clearly, Lucy dimly, Elizabeth +not at all. But David came first; David in the buggy with the +sagging springs, David's loud voice and portly figure, David, steady +and upright and gentle as a woman. But there was something wrong +about David. He puzzled over that, but he was learning not to try +to force things, to let them come to the surface themselves. + +It was two or three days later that he remembered that David was +ill, and was filled with a sickening remorse and anxiety. For the +first time he made plans to get away, for whatever happened after +that he knew he must see David again. But all his thought led him +to an impasse at that time, and that impasse was the feeling that +he was a criminal and a fugitive, and that he had no right to tie +up innocent lives with his. Even a letter to David might +incriminate him. + +Coupled with his determination to surrender, the idea of atonement +was strong in him. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. +That had been his father's belief, and well he remembered it. But +during the drifting period he thrust it back, into that painful +niche where he held Beverly, and the thing he would not face. + +That phase of his readjustment, then, when he reached it, was +painful and confused. There was the necessity for atonement, +which involved surrender, and there was the call of David, and the +insistent desire to see Beverly again, which was the thing he +would not face. Of the three, the last, mixed up as it was with +the murder and its expiation, was the strongest. For by the very +freshness of his released memories, it was the days before his +flight from the ranch that seemed most recent, and his life with +David that was long ago, and blurred in its details as by the +passing of infinite time. + +When Elizabeth finally came back to him it was as something very +gentle and remote, out of the long-forgotten past. Even his image +of her was blurred and shadowy. He could not hear the tones of her +voice, or remember anything she had said. He could never bring her +at will, as he could David, for instance. She only came clearly +at night, while he slept. Then the guard was down, and there crept +into his dreams a small figure, infinitely loving and tender; but +as he roused from sleep she changed gradually into Beverly. It +was Beverly's arms he felt around his neck. Nevertheless he held +to Elizabeth more completely than he knew, for the one thing that +emerged from his misty recollection of her was that she cared for +him. In a world of hate and bitterness she cared. + +But she was never real to him, as the other woman was real. And +he knew that she was lost to him, as David was lost. He could +never go back to either of them. + +As time went on he reached the point of making practical plans. +He had lost his pocketbook somewhere, probably during his +wanderings afoot, and he had no money. He knew that the obvious +course was to go to the nearest settlement and surrender himself +and he played with the thought, but even as he did so he knew that +he would not do it. Surrender he would, eventually, but before he +did that he would satisfy a craving that was in some ways like his +desire for liquor that morning on the trail. A reckless, mad, and +irresistible impulse to see Beverly Lucas again. + +In August he started for the railroad, going on foot and without +money, his immediate destination the harvest fields of some distant +ranch, his object to earn his train fare to New York. + + + + +XXXV + +The summer passed slowly. To David and Elizabeth it was a long +waiting, but with this difference, that David was kept alive by +hope, and that Elizabeth felt sometimes that hope was killing her. +To David each day was a new day, and might hold Dick. To Elizabeth, +after a time, each day was but one more of separation. + +Doctor Reynolds had become a fixture in the old house, but he was +not like Dick. He was a heavy, silent young man, shy of intruding +into the family life and already engrossed in a budding affair with +the Rossiter girl. David tolerated him, but with a sort of +smouldering jealousy increased by the fact that he had introduced +innovations David resented; had for instance moved Dick's desk +nearer the window, and instead of doing his own laboratory work +had what David considered a damnably lazy fashion of sending his +little tubes, carefully closed with cotton, to a hospital in town. + +David found the days very long and infinitely sad. He wakened +each morning to renewed hope, watched for the postman from his +upper window, and for Lucy's step on the stairs with the mail. +His first glimpse of her always told him the story. At the +beginning he had insisted on talking about Dick, but he saw that +it hurt her, and of late they had fallen into the habit of long +silences. + +The determination to live on until that return which he never ceased +to expect only carried him so far, however. He felt no incentive to +activity. There were times when he tried Lucy sorely, when she felt +that if he would only move about, go downstairs and attend to his +office practice, get out into the sun and air, he would grow +stronger. But there were times, too, when she felt that only the +will to live was carrying him on. + +Nothing further had developed, so far as they knew. The search had +been abandoned. Lucy was no longer so sure as she had been that +the house was under surveillance, against Dick's possible return. +Often she lay in her bed and faced the conviction that Dick was +dead. She had never understood the talk that at first had gone on +about her, when Bassett and Harrison Miller, and once or twice the +psycho-analyst David had consulted in town, had got together in +David's bedroom. The mind was the mind, and Dick was Dick. This +thing about habit, over which David pored at night when he should +have been sleeping, or brought her in to listen to, with an air of +triumphant vindication, meant nothing to her. + +A man properly trained in right habits of thinking and of action +could not think wrong and go wrong, David argued. He even went +further. He said that love was a habit, and that love would bring +Dick back to him. That he could not forget them. + +She believed that, of course, if he still lived. But hadn't Mr. +Bassett, who seemed so curiously mixed in the affair, been out +again to Norada without result? No, it was all over, and she felt +that it would be a comfort to know where he lay, and to bring him +back to some well-loved and tended grave. + +Elizabeth came often to see them. She looked much the same as ever, +although she was very slender and her smile rather strained, and +she and David would have long talks together. She always felt +rather like an empty vessel when she went in, but David filled her +with hope and sent her away cheered and visibly brighter to her +long waiting. She rather avoided Lucy, for Lucy's fears lay in her +face and were like a shadow over her spirit. She came across her +one day putting Dick's clothing away in camphor, and the act took +on an air of finality that almost crushed her. + +So far they had kept from her Dick's real identity, but certain +things they had told her. She knew that he had gone back, in some +strange way, to the years before he came to Haverly, and that he +had temporarily forgotten everything since. But they had told her +too, and seemed to believe themselves, that it was only temporary. + +At first the thought had been more than she could bear. But she +had to live her life, and in such a way as to hide her fears. +Perhaps it was good for her, the necessity of putting up a bold +front, to join the conspiracy that was to hold Dick's place in the +world against the hope of his return. And she still went to the +Sayre house, sure that there at least there would be no curious +glances, no too casual questions. She could not be sure of that +even at home, for Nina was constantly conjecturing. + +"I sometimes wonder-" Nina began one day, and stopped. + +"Wonder what?" + +"Oh, well, I suppose I might as well go on. Do you ever think that +if Dick had gone back, as they say he has, that there might be +somebody else?" + +"Another girl, you mean?" + +"Yes. Some one he knew before." + +Nina was watching her. Sometimes she almost burst with the drama +she was suppressing. She had been a small girl when Judson Clark +had disappeared, but even at twelve she had known something of the +story. She wanted frantically to go about the village and say to +them: "Do you know who has been living here, whom you used to +patronize? Judson Clark, one of the richest men in the world!" +She built day dreams on that foundation. He would come back, for +of course he would be found and acquitted, and buy the Sayre place +perhaps, or build a much larger one, and they would all go to +Europe in his yacht. But she knew now that the woman Leslie had +sent his flowers to had loomed large in Dick's past, and she both +hated and feared her. Not content with having given her, Nina, +some bad hours, she saw the woman now possibly blocking her +ambitions for Elizabeth. + +"What I'm getting at is this," she said, examining her polished +nails critically. "If it does turn out that there was somebody, +you'd have to remember that it was all years and years ago, and +be sensible." + +"I only want him back," Elizabeth said. "I don't care how he comes, +so he comes." + +Louis Bassett had become a familiar figure in the village life by +that time. David depended on him with a sort of wistful confidence +that set him to grinding his teeth occasionally in a fury at his +own helplessness. And, as the extent of the disaster developed, +as he saw David failing and Lucy ageing, and when in time he met +Elizabeth, the feeling of his own guilt was intensified. + +He spent hours studying the case, and he was chiefly instrumental +in sending Harrison Miller back to Norada in September. He had +struck up a friendship with Miller over their common cause, and +the night he was to depart that small inner group which was fighting +David's battle for him formed a board of strategy in Harrison's +tidy living-room; Walter Wheeler and Bassett, Miller and, tardily +taken into their confidence, Doctor Reynolds. + +The same group met him on his return, sat around with expectant +faces while he got out his tobacco and laid a sheaf of papers on +the table, and waited while their envoy, laying Bassett's map on +the table, proceeded carefully to draw in a continuation of the +trail beyond the pass, some sketchy mountains, and a small square. + +"I've got something," he said at last. "Not much, but enough to +work on. Here's where you lost him, Bassett." He pointed with his +pencil. "He went on for a while on the horse. Then somehow he must +have lost the horse, for he turned up on foot, date unknown, in a +state of exhaustion at a cabin that lies here. I got lost myself, +or I'd never have found the place. He was sick there for weeks, and +he seems to have stayed on quite a while after he recovered, as +though he couldn't decide what to do next." + +Walter Wheeler stirred and looked up. + +"What sort of condition was he in when he left?" + +"Very good, they said." + +"You're sure it was Livingstone?" + +"The man there had a tree fall on him. He operated. I guess that's +the answer." + +He considered the situation. + +"It's the answer to more than that," Reynolds said slowly. "It +shows he had come back to himself. If he hadn't he couldn't have +done it." + +"And after that?" some one asked. + +"I lost him. He left to hike to the railroad, and he said nothing +of his plans. If I'd been able to make open inquiries I might +have turned up something, but I couldn't. It's a hard proposition. +I had trouble finding Hattie Thorwald, too. She'd left the hotel, +and is living with her son. She swears she doesn't know where +Clifton Hines is, and hasn't seen him for years." + +Bassett had been listening intently, his head dropped forward. + +"I suppose the son doesn't know about Hines?" + +"No. She warned me. He was surly and suspicious. The sheriff had +sent for him and questioned him about how you got his horse, and I +gathered that he thought I was a detective. When I told him I was +a friend of yours, he sent you a message. You may be able to make +something out of it. I can't. He said: `You can tell him I didn't +say anything about the other time.'" + +Bassett sat forward. + +"The other time?" + +"He is under the impression that his mother got the horse for you +once before, about ten days before Clark escaped. At night, also." + +"Not for me," Bassett said decisively. "Ten days before that I +was--" he got out his notebook and consulted it. "I was on my way +to the cabin in the mountains, where the Donaldsons had hidden Jud +Clark. I hired a horse at a livery stable." + +"Could the Thorwald woman have followed you?" + +"Why the devil should she do that?" he asked irritably. "She didn't +know who I was. She hadn't a chance at my papers, for I kept them +on me. If she did suspect I was on the case, a dozen fellows had +preceded me, and half of them had gone to the cabin." + +"Nevertheless," he finished, "I believe she did. She or Hines +himself. There was some one on a horse outside the cabin that night." + +There was silence in the room, Harrison Miller thoughtfully drawing +at random on the map before him. Each man was seeing the situation +from his own angle; to Reynolds, its medical interest, and the +possibility of his permanency in the town; to Walter Wheeler, +Elizabeth's spoiled young life; to Harrison Miller, David; and to +the reporter a conviction that the clues he now held should lead +him somewhere, and did not. + +Before the meeting broke up Miller took a folded manuscript from +the table and passed it to Bassett. + +"Copy of the Coroner's inquiry, after the murder," he said. "Thought +it might interest you..." + +Then, for a time, that was all. Bassett, poring at home over the +inquest records, and finding them of engrossing interest, saw the +futility of saving a man who could not be found. And even Nina's +faith, that the fabulously rich could not die obscurely, began to +fade as the summer waned. She restored some of her favor to Wallie +Sayre, and even listened again to his alternating hopes and fears. + +And by the end of September he felt that he had gained real headway +with Elizabeth. He had come to a point where she needed him more +than she realized, where the call in her of youth for youth, even +in trouble, was insistent. In return he felt his responsibility +and responded to it. In the vernacular of the town he had "settled +down," and the general trend of opinion, which had previously +disapproved him, was now that Elizabeth might do worse. + +On a crisp night early in October he had brought her home from +Nina's, and because the moon was full they sat for a time on the +steps of the veranda, Wallie below her, stirring the dead leaves +on the walk with his stick, and looking up at her with boyish +adoring eyes when she spoke. He was never very articulate with +her, and her trouble had given her a strange new aloofness that +almost frightened him. But that night, when she shivered a little, +he reached up and touched her hand. + +"You're cold," he said almost roughly. He was sometimes rather +savage, for fear he might be tender. + +"I'm not cold. I think it's the dead leaves." + +"Dead leaves?" he repeated, puzzled. "You're a queer girl, +Elizabeth. Why dead leaves?" + +"I hate the fall. It's the death of the year." + +"Nonsense. It's going to bed for a long winter's nap. That's all. +I'll bring you a wrap." + +He went in, and came out in a moment with her father's overcoat. + +"Here," he said peremptorily, "put this on. I'm not going to be +called on the carpet for giving you a sniffle." + +She stood up obediently and he put the big coat around her. Then, +obeying an irresistible impulse, he caught her to him. He released +her immediately, however, and stepped back. + +"I love you so," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I'll not do it again." + +She was startled, but not angry. + +"I don't like it," was all she said. And because she did not want +him to think she was angry, she sat down again. But the boy was +shaken. He got out a cigarette and lighted it, his hands trembling. +He could not think of anything to say. It was as though by that +one act he had cut a bridge behind him and on the other side lay +all the platitudes, the small give and take of their hours together. +What to her was a regrettable incident was to him a great dramatic +climax. Boylike, he refused to recognize its unimportance to her. +He wanted to talk about it. + +"When you said just now that you didn't like what I did just then, +do you mean you didn't like me to do it? Or that you don't care for +that sort of thing? Of course I know," he added hastily, "you're +not that kind of girl. I--" + +He turned and looked at her. + +"You know I'm still in love with you, don't you, Elizabeth?" + +She returned his gaze frankly. + +"I don't see how you can be when you know what you do know." + +"I know how you feel now. But I know that people don't go on +loving hopelessly all their lives. You're young. You've got" +--he figured quickly--"you've got about fifty-odd years to live +yet, and some of these days you'll be--not forgetting," he +changed, when he saw her quick movement. "I know you'll not forget +him. But remembering and loving are different." + +"I wonder," she said, her eyes on the moon, and full of young +tragedy. "If they are, if one can remember without loving, then +couldn't one love without remembering?" + +He stared at her. + +"You're too deep for me sometimes," he said. "I'm not subtle, +Elizabeth. I daresay I'm stupid in lots of things. But I'm not +stupid about this. I'm not trying to get a promise, you know. +I only want you to know how things are. I don't want to know why +he went away, or why he doesn't come back. I only want you to face +the facts. I'd be good to you," he finished, in a low tone. "I'd +spend my life thinking of ways to make you happy." + +She was touched. She reached down and put her hand on his shoulder. + +"You deserve the best, Wallie. And you're asking for a second best. +Even that--I'm just not made that way, I suppose. Fifty years or +a hundred, it would be all the same." + +"You'd always care for him, you mean?" + +"Yes. I'm afraid so." + +When he looked at her her eyes had again that faraway and yet +flaming look which he had come to associate with her thoughts of +Dick. She seemed infinitely removed from him, traveling her lonely +road past loving outstretched hands and facing ahead toward--well, +toward fifty years of spinsterhood. The sheer waste of it made +him shudder. + +"You're cold, too, Wallie," she said gently. "You'd better go home." + +He was about to repudiate the idea scornfully, when he sneezed! +She got up at once and held out her hand. + +"You are very dear to feel about me the way you do" she said, rather +rapidly. "I appreciate your telling me. And if you're chilly when +you get home, you'd better take some camphor." + +He saw her in, hat in hand, and then turned and stalked up the +street. Camphor, indeed! But so stubborn was hope in his young +heart that before he had climbed the hill he was finding comfort +in her thought for him. + +Mrs. Sayre had been away for a week, visiting in Michigan, and he +had not expected her for a day or so. To his surprise he found +her on the terrace, wrapped in furs, and evidently waiting for him. + +"I wasn't enjoying it," she explained, when he had kissed her. +"It's a summer place, not heated to amount to anything, and when +it turned cold--where have you been to-night?" + +"Dined at the Wards', and then took Elizabeth home." + +"How is she?" + +"She's all right." + +"And there's no news?" + +He knew her very well, and he saw then that she was laboring under +suppressed excitement. + +"What's the matter, mother? You're worried about something, aren't +you?" + +"I have something to tell you. We'd better go inside." He followed +her in, unexcited and half smiling. Her world was a small one, of +minor domestic difficulties, of not unfriendly gossip, of occasional +money problems, investments and what not. He had seen her hands +tremble over a matter of a poorly served dinner. So he went into +the house, closed the terrace window and followed her to the library. +When she closed the door he recognized her old tactics when the +servants were in question. + +"Well?" he inquired. "I suppose--" Then he saw her face. +"Sorry, mother. What's the trouble?" + +"Wallie, I saw Dick Livingstone in Chicago." + + + + +XXXVI + +During August Dick had labored in the alfalfa fields of Central +Washington, a harvest hand or "working stiff" among other migratory +agricultural workers. Among them, but not entirely of them. +Recruited from the lowest levels as men grade, gathered in at a +slave market on the coast, herded in bunk houses alive with vermin, +fully but badly fed, overflowing with blasphemy and filled with +sullen hate for those above them in the social scale, the "stiffs" +regarded him with distrust from the start. + +In the beginning he accepted their sneers with a degree of +philosophy. His physical condition was poor. At night he ached +intolerably, collapsing into his wooden bunk to sleep the +dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. There were times when he +felt that it would be better to return at once to Norada and +surrender, for that he must do so eventually he never doubted. +It was as well perhaps that he had no time for brooding, but he +gained sleep at the cost of superhuman exertion all day. + +A feeling of unreality began to obsess him, so that at times he +felt like a ghost walking among sweating men, like a resurrection +into life, but without life. And more than once he tried to sink +down to the level of the others, to unite himself again with the +crowd, to feel again the touch of elbows, the sensation of +fellowship. The primal instinct of the herd asserted itself, the +need of human companionship of any sort. + +But he failed miserably, as Jud Clark could never have failed. He +could not drink with them. He could not sink to their level of +degradation. Their oaths and obscenity sickened and disgusted him, +and their talk of women drove him into the fresh air. + +The fact that he could no longer drink himself into a stupor puzzled +him. Bad whiskey circulated freely among the hay stacks and bunk +houses where the harvest hands were quartered, and at ruinous +prices. The men clubbed together to buy it, and he put in his +share, only to find that it not only sickened him, but that he had +a mental inhibition against it. + +They called him the "Dude," and put into it gradually all the class +hatred of their wretched sullen lives. He had to fight them, more +than once, and had they united against him he might have been killed. +But they never united. Their own personal animosities and angers +kept them apart, as their misery held them together. And as time +went on and his muscles hardened he was able to give a better +account of himself. The time came when they let him alone, and +when one day a big shocker fell off a stack and broke his leg and +Dick set it, he gained their respect. They asked no questions, for +their law was that the past was the past. They did not like him, +but in the queer twisted ethics of the camp they judged the secret +behind him by the height from which he had fallen, and began slowly +to accept him as of the brotherhood of derelicts. + +With his improvement in his physical condition there came, toward +the end of the summer, a more rapid subsidence of the flood of the +long past. He had slept out one night in the fields, where the +uncut alfalfa was belled with purple flowers and yellow buttercups +rose and nodded above him. With the first touch of dawn on the +mountains he wakened to a clarity of mind like that of the morning. +He felt almost an exaltation. He stood up and threw out his arms. + +It was all his again, never to lose, the old house, and David and +Lucy; the little laboratory; the church on Sunday mornings. Mike, +whistling in the stable. A wave of love warmed him, a great +surging tenderness. He would go back to them. They were his and +he was theirs. It was at first only a great emotion; a tingling +joyousness, a vast relief, as of one who sees, from a far distance, +the lights in the windows of home. Save for the gap between the +drunken revel at the ranch and his awakening to David's face +bending over him in the cabin, everything was clear. Still by an +effort, but successfully, he could unite now the two portions of +his life with only a scar between them. + +Not that he formulated it. It was rather a mood, an impulse of +unreasoning happiness. The last cloud had gone, the last bit of +mist from the valley. He saw Haverly, and the children who played +in its shaded streets; Mike washing the old car, and the ice cream +freezer on Sundays, wrapped in sacking on the kitchen porch. Jim +Wheeler came back to him, the weight of his coffin dragging at his +right hand as he helped to carry it; he was kneeling beside +Elizabeth's bed, and putting his hand over her staring eyes so +she would go to sleep. + +The glow died away, and he began to suffer intensely. They were +all lost to him, along with the life they represented. And already +he began to look back on his period of forgetfulness with regret. +At least then he had not known what he had lost. + +He wondered again what they knew. What did they think? If they +believed him dead, was that not kinder than the truth? Outside of +David and Lucy, and of course Bassett, the sole foundation on which +any search for him had rested had been the semi-hysterical +recognition of Hattie Thorwald. But he wondered how far that +search had gone. + +Had it extended far enough to involve David? Had the hue and cry +died away, or were the police still searching for him? Could he +even write to David, without involving him in his own trouble? For +David, fine, wonderful old David--David had deliberately obstructed +the course of justice, and was an accessory after the fact. + +Up to that time he had drifted, unable to set a course in the fog, +but now he could see the way, and it led him back to Norada. He +would not communicate with David. He would go out of the lives at +the old house as he had gone in, under a lie. When he surrendered +it would be as Judson Clark, with his lips shut tight on the years +since his escape. Let them think, if they would, that the curtain +that had closed down over his memory had not lifted, and that he +had picked up life again where he had laid it down. The police +would get nothing from him to incriminate David. + +But he had a moment, too, when surrender seemed to him not strength +but weakness; where its sheer supineness, its easy solution to his +problem revolted him, where he clenched his fist and looked at it, +and longed for the right to fight his way out. + +When smoke began to issue from the cook-house chimney he stirred, +rose and went back. He ate no breakfast, and the men, seeing his +squared jaw and set face, let him alone. He worked with the strength +of three men that day, but that night, when the foreman offered him +a job as pacer, with double wages, he refused it. + +"Give it to somebody else, Joe," he said. "I'm quitting." + +"The hell you are! When?" + +"I'd like to check out to-night." + +His going was without comment. They had never fully accepted him, +and comings and goings without notice in the camp were common. He +rolled up his bedding, his change of under-garments inside it, and +took the road that night. + +The railroad was ten miles away, and he made the distance easily. +He walked between wire fences, behind which horses moved restlessly +as he passed and cattle slept around a water hole, and as he walked +he faced a situation which all day he had labored like three men +to evade. + +He was going out of life. It did not much matter whether it was +to be behind bars or to pay the ultimate price. The shadow that +lay over him was that he was leaving forever David and all that he +stood for, and a woman. And the woman was not Elizabeth. + +He cursed himself in the dark for a fool and a madman; he cursed +the infatuation which rose like a demoniac possession from his +early life. When that failed he tried to kill it by remembering +the passage of time, the loathing she must have nursed all these +years. He summoned the image of Elizabeth to his aid, to find it +eclipsed by something infinitely more real and vital. Beverly in +her dressing-room, grotesque and yet lovely in her make-up; Beverly +on the mountain-trail, in her boyish riding clothes. Beverly. + +Probably at that stage of his recovery his mind had reacted more +quickly than his emotions. And by that strange faculty by which +an idea often becomes stronger in memory than in its original +production he found himself in the grip of a passion infinitely +more terrible than his earlier one for her. It wiped out the +memory, even the thought, of Elizabeth, and left him a victim of +its associated emotions. Bitter jealousy racked him, remorse and +profound grief. The ten miles of road to the railroad became ten +miles of torture, of increasing domination of the impulse to go to +her, and of final surrender. + +In Spokane he outfitted himself, for his clothes were ragged, and +with the remainder of his money bought a ticket to Chicago. Beyond +Chicago he had no thought save one. Some way, somehow, he must get +to New York. Yet all the time he was fighting. He tried again and +again to break away from the emotional associations from which his +memory of her was erected; when that failed he struggled to face +reality; the lapse of time, the certainty of his disappointment, at +the best the inevitable parting when he went back to Norada. But +always in the end he found his face turned toward the East, and her. + +He had no fear of starving. If he had learned the cost of a dollar +in blood and muscle, he had the blood and the muscle. There was a +time, in Chicago, when the necessity of thinking about money +irritated him, for the memory of his old opulent days was very +clear. Times when his temper was uncertain, and he turned surly. +Times when his helplessness brought to his lips the old familiar +blasphemies of his youth, which sounded strange and revolting to +his ears. + +He had no fear, then, but a great impatience, as though, having +lost so much time, he must advance with every minute. And +Chicago drove him frantic. There came a time there when he made a +deliberate attempt to sink to the very depths, to seek forgetfulness +by burying one wretchedness under another. He attempted to find +work and failed, and he tried to let go and sink. The total result +of the experiment was that he wakened one morning in his +lodging-house ill and with his money gone, save for some small +silver. He thought ironically, lying on his untidy bed, that even +the resources of the depths were closed to him. + +He never tried that experiment again. He hated himself for it. + +For days he haunted the West Madison Street employment agencies. +But the agencies and sidewalks were filled with men who wandered +aimlessly with the objectless shuffle of the unemployed. Beds had +gone up in the lodging-houses to thirty-five cents a night, and the +food in the cheap restaurants was almost uneatable. There came a +day when the free morning coffee at a Bible Rescue Home, and its +soup and potatoes and carrots at night was all he ate. + +For the first time his courage began to fail him. He went to the +lakeside that night and stood looking at the water. He meant to +fight that impulse of cowardice at the source. + +Up to that time he had given no thought whatever to his estate, +beyond the fact that he had been undoubtedly adjudged legally dead +and his property divided. But that day as he turned away from the +lake front, he began to wonder about it. After all, since he meant +to surrender himself before long, why not telegraph collect to the +old offices of the estate in New York and have them wire him money? +But even granting that they were still in existence, he knew with +what lengthy caution, following stunned surprise, they would go +about investigating the message. And there were leaks in the +telegraph. He would have a pack of newspaper hounds at his heels +within a few hours. The police, too. No, it wouldn't do. + +The next day he got a job as a taxicab driver, and that night and +every night thereafter he went back to West Madison Street and +picked up one or more of the derelicts there and bought them food. +He developed quite a system about it. He waited until he saw a +man stop outside an eating-house look in and then pass on. But +one night he got rather a shock. For the young fellow he accosted +looked at him first with suspicion, which was not unusual, and +later with amazement. + +"Captain Livingstone!" he said, and checked his hand as it was +about to rise to the salute. His face broke into a smile, and he +whipped off his cap. "You've forgotten me, sir," he said. "But +I've got your visiting card on the top of my head all right. Can +you see it?" + +He bent his head and waited, but on no immediate reply being +forthcoming, for Dick was hastily determining on a course of action, +he looked up. It was then that he saw Dick's cheap and shabby +clothes, and his grin faded. + +"I say," he said. "You are Livingstone, aren't you? I'd have +known--" + +"I think you've made a mistake, old man," Dick said, feeling for +his words carefully. "That's not my name, anyhow. I thought, when +I saw you staring in at that window--How about it?" + +The boy looked at him again, and then glanced away. + +"I was looking, all right," he said. "I've been having a run of +hard luck." + +It had been Dick's custom to eat with his finds, and thus remove +from the meal the quality of detached charity. Men who would not +take money would join him in a meal. But he could not face the +lights with this keen-eyed youngster. He offered him money instead. + +"Just a lift," he said, awkwardly, when the boy hesitated. "I've +been there myself, lately." + +But when at last he had prevailed and turned away he was conscious +that the doughboy was staring after him, puzzled and unconvinced. + +He had a bad night after that. The encounter had brought back his +hard-working, care-free days in the army. It had brought back, +too, the things he had put behind him, his profession and his joy +in it, the struggles and the aspirations that constitute a man's +life. With them there came, too, a more real Elizabeth, and a +wave of tenderness for her, and of regret. He turned on his +sagging bed, and deliberately put her away from him. Even if this +other ghost were laid, he had no right to her. + +Then, one day, he met Mrs. Sayre, and saw that she knew him. + + + + +XXXVII + +Wallie stared at his mother. His mind was at once protesting the +fact and accepting it, with its consequences to himself. There +was a perceptible pause before he spoke. He stood, if anything, +somewhat straighter, but that was all. + +"Are you sure it was Livingstone?" + +"Positive. I talked to him. I wasn't sure myself, at first. He +looked shabby and thin, as though he'd been ill, and he had the +audacity to pretend at first he didn't know me. He closed the +door on me and--" + +"Wait a minute, mother. What door?" + +"He was driving a taxicab." + +He looked at her incredulously. + +"I don't believe it," he said slowly. "I think you've made a +mistake, that's all." + +"Nonsense. I know him as well as I know you." + +"Did he acknowledge his identity?" + +"Not in so many words," she admitted. "He said I had made a mistake, +and he stuck to it. Then he shut the door and drove me to the +station. The only other chance I had was at the station, and there +was a line of cabs behind us, so I had only a second. I saw he +didn't intend to admit anything, so I said: 'I can see you don't +mean to recognize me, Doctor Livingstone, but I must know whether +I am to say at home that I've seen you.' He was making change for +me at the time--I'd have known his hands, I think, if I hadn't +seen anything else-and when he looked up his face was shocking. +He said, 'Are they all right?' 'David is very ill,' I said. +The cars behind were waiting and making a terrific din, and +a traffic man ran up then and made him move on. He gave me the +strangest look as he went. I stood and waited, thinking he would +turn and come back again at the end of the line, but he didn't. +I almost missed my train." + +Wallie's first reaction to the news was one of burning anger and +condemnation. + +"The blackguard!" he said. "The insufferable cad! To have run +away as he did, and then to let them believe him dead! For that's +what they do believe. It is killing David Livingstone, and as for +Elizabeth-- She'll have to be told, mother. He's alive. He's +well. And he has deliberately deserted them all. He ought to +be shot." + +"You didn't see him, Wallie. I did. He's been through something, +I don't know what. I didn't sleep last night for thinking of his +face. It had despair in it." + +"All right," he said, angrily pausing before her. "What do you +intend to do? Let them go on as they are, hoping and waiting; +lauding him to the skies as a sort of superman? The thing to do +is to tell the truth." + +"But we don't know the truth, Wallie. There's something behind it +all." + +"Nothing very creditable, be sure of that," he pronounced. "Do you +think it is fair to Elizabeth to let her waste her life on the +memory of a man who's deserted her?" + +"It would be cruel to tell her." + +"You've got to be cruel to be kind, sometimes," he said oracularly. +"Why, the man may be married. May be anything. A taxi driver! +Doesn't that in itself show that he's hiding from something?" + +She sat, a small obese figure made larger by her furs, and stared +at him with troubled eyes. + +"I don't know, Wallie," she said helplessly. "In a way, it might +be better to tell her. She could put him out of her mind, then. +But I hate to do it. It's like stabbing a baby." + +He understood her, and nodded. When, after taking a turn or two +about the room he again stopped in front of her his angry flush +had subsided. + +"It's the devil of a mess," he commented. "I suppose the square +thing to do is to tell Doctor David, and let him decide. I've got +too much at stake to be a judge of what to do." + +He went upstairs soon after that, leaving her still in her chair, +swathed in furs, her round anxious face bent forward in thought. +He had rarely seen her so troubled, so uncertain of her next move, +and he surmised, knowing her, that her emotions were a complex of +anxiety for himself with Elizabeth, of pity for David, and of the +memory of Dick Livingstone's haggard face. + +She sat alone for some time and then went reluctantly up the +stairs to her bedroom. She felt, like Wallie, that she had too +much at stake to decide easily what to do. + +In the end she decided to ask Doctor Reynolds' advice, and in the +morning she proceeded to do it. Reynolds was interested, even a +little excited, she thought, but he thought it better not to tell +David. He would himself go to Harrison Miller with it. + +"You say he knew you?" he inquired, watching her. "I suppose +there is no doubt of that?" + +"Certainly not. He's known me for years. And he asked about David." + +"I see." He fell into profound thought, while she sat in her chair +a trifle annoyed with him. He was wondering how all this would +affect him and his prospects, and through them his right to marry. +He had walked into a good thing, and into a very considerable content. + +"I see," he repeated, and got up. "I'll tell Miller, and we'll get +to work. We are all very grateful to you, Mrs. Sayre--" + +As a result of that visit Harrison Miller and Bassett went that +night to Chicago. They left it to Doctor Reynolds' medical judgment +whether David should be told or not, and Reynolds himself did not +know. In the end he passed the shuttle the next evening to Clare +Rossiter. + +"Something's troubling you," she said. "You're not a bit like +yourself, old dear." + +He looked at her. To him she was all that was fine and good and +sane of judgment. + +"I've got something to settle," he said. "I was wondering while +you were singing, dear, whether you could help me out." + +"When I sing you're supposed to listen. Well? What is it?" She +perched herself on the arm of his chair, and ran her fingers over +his hair. She was very fond of him, and she meant to be a good +wife. If she ever thought of Dick Livingstone now it was in +connection with her own reckless confession to Elizabeth. She +had hated Elizabeth ever since. + +"I'll take a hypothetical case. If you guess, you needn't say. +Of course it's a great secret." + +She listened, nodding now and then. He used no names, and he said +nothing of any crime. + +"The point is this," he finished. "Is it better to believe the +man is dead, or to know that he is alive, but has cut himself off?" + +"There's no mistake about the recognition?" + +"Somebody from the village saw him in Chicago within day or two, +and talked to him." + +She had the whole picture in a moment. She knew that Mrs. Sayre +had been in Chicago, that she had seen Dick there and talked to him. +She turned the matter over in her mind, shrewdly calculating, +planning her small revenge on Elizabeth even as she talked. + +"I'd wait," she advised him. "He may come back with them, and in +that case David will know soon enough. Or he may refuse to, and +that would kill him. He'd rather think him dead than that." + +She slept quietly that night, and spent rather more time than usual +in dressing that morning. Then she took her way to the Wheeler +house. She saw in what she was doing no particularly culpable +thing. She had no great revenge in mind; all that she intended +was an evening of the score between them. "He preferred you to me, +when you knew I cared. But he has deserted you." And perhaps, +too, a small present jealousy, for she was to live in the old +brick Livingstone house, or in one like it, while all the village +expected ultimately to see Elizabeth installed in the house on +the hill. + +She kept her message to the end of her visit, and delivered her +blow standing. + +"I have something I ought to tell you, Elizabeth. But I don't know +how you'll take it." + +"Maybe it's something I won't want to hear." + +"I'll tell you, if you won't say where you heard it." + +But Elizabeth made a small, impatient gesture. "I don't like +secrets, Clare. I can't keep them, for one thing. You'd better +not tell me." + +Clare was nearly balked of her revenge, but not entirely. + +"All right," she said, and prepared to depart. "I won't. But you +might just find out from your friend Mrs. Sayre who it was she saw +in Chicago this week." + +It was in this manner, bit by bit and each bit trivial, that the +case against Dick was built up for Elizabeth. Mrs. Sayre, helpless +before her quiet questioning, had to acknowledge one damning thing +after another. He had known her; he had not asked for Elizabeth, +but only for David; he looked tired and thin, but well. She stood +at the window watching Elizabeth go down the hill, with a feeling +that she had just seen something die before her. + + + + +XXXVIII + +On the night Bassett and Harrison Miller were to return from +Chicago Lucy sat downstairs in her sitting-room waiting for news. + +At ten o'clock, according to her custom, she went up to see that +David was comfortable for the night, and to read him that prayer +for the absent with which he always closed his day of waiting. +But before she went she stopped before the old mirror in the hall, +to see if she wore any visible sign of tension. + +The door into Dick's office was open, and on his once neat desk +there lay a litter of papers and letters. She sighed and went +up the stairs. + +David lay propped up in his walnut bed. An incredibly wasted and +old David; the hands on the log-cabin quilt which their mother had +made were old hands, and tired. Sometimes Lucy, with a frightened +gasp, would fear that David's waiting now was not all for Dick. +That he was waiting for peace. + +There had been something new in David lately. She thought it was +fear. Always he had been so sure of himself; he had made his +experiment in a man's soul, and whatever the result he had been +ready to face his Creator with it. But he had lost courage. He +had tampered with the things that were to be and not he, but Dick, +was paying for that awful audacity. + +Once, picking up his prayer-book to read evening prayer as was her +custom now, it had opened at a verse marked with an uneven line: + +"I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father, +I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy +to be called Thy son." + +That had frightened her + +David's eyes followed her about the room. + +"I've got an idea you're keeping something from me, Lucy." + +"I? Why should I do that?" + +"Then where's Harrison?" he demanded, querulously. + +She told him one of the few white lies of her life when she said: +"He hasn't been well. He'll be over to-morrow." She sat down and +picked up the prayer-book, only to find him lifting himself in the +bed and listening. + +"Somebody closed the hall door, Lucy. If it's Reynolds, I want to +see him." + +She got up and went to the head of the stairs. The light was low +in the hall beneath, and she saw a man standing there. But she +still wore her reading glasses, and she saw at first hardly more +than a figure. + +"Is that you, Doctor Reynolds?" she asked, in her high old voice. + +Then she put her hand to her throat and stood rigid, staring down. +For the man had whipped off his cap and stood with his arms wide, +looking up. + +Holding to the stair-rail, her knees trembling under her, Lucy went +down, and not until Dick's arms were around her was she sure that +it was Dick, and not his shabby, weary ghost. She clung to him, +tears streaming down her face, still in that cautious silence which +governed them both; she held him off and looked at him, and then +strained herself to him again, as though the sense of unreality +were too strong, and only the contact of his rough clothing made +him real to her. + +It was not until they were in her sitting-room with the door closed +that either of them dared to speak. Or perhaps, could speak. Even +then she kept hold of him. + +"Dick!" she said. "Dick!" + +And that, over and over. + +"How is he?" he was able to ask finally. + +"He has been very ill. I began to think--Dick, I'm afraid to tell +him. I'm afraid he'll die of joy." + +He winced at that. There could not be much joy in the farewell that +was coming. Winced, and almost staggered. He had walked all the +way from the city, and he had had no food that day. + +"We'll have to break it to him very gently," he said. "And he +mustn't see me like this. If you can find some of my clothes and +Reynolds' razor, I'll--" He caught suddenly to the back of a +chair and held on to it. "I haven't taken time to eat much to-day," +he said, smiling at her. "I guess I need food, Aunt Lucy." + +For the first time then she saw his clothes, his shabbiness and +his pallor, and perhaps she guessed the truth. She got up, her +face twitching, and pushed him into a chair. + +"You sit here," she said, "and leave the door closed. The nurse +is out for a walk, and she'll be in soon. I'll bring some milk and +cookies now, and start the fire. I've got some chops in the house." + +When she came back almost immediately, with the familiar tray and +the familiar food, he was sitting where she had left him. He had +spent the entire time, had she known it, in impressing on his mind +the familiar details of the room, to carry away with him. + +She stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, to see that he drank +the milk slowly. + +"I've got the fire going," she said. "And I'll run up now and get +your clothes. I--had put them away." Her voice broke a little. +"You see, we-- You can change in your laboratory. Richard, can't +you? If you go upstairs he'll hear you." + +He reached up and caught her hand. That touch, too, of the nearest +to a mother's hand that he had known, he meant to carry away with +him. He could not speak. + +She bustled away, into her bright kitchen first, and then with +happy stealth to the store-room. Her very heart was singing within +her. She neither thought nor reasoned. Dick was back, and all +would be well. If she had any subconscious anxieties they were +quieted, also subconsciously, by confidence in the men who were +fighting his battle for him, by Walter Wheeler and Bassett and +Harrison Miller. That Dick himself would present any difficulty +lay beyond her worst fears. + +She had been out of the room only twenty minutes when she returned +to David and prepared to break her great news. At first she thought +he was asleep. He was lying back with his eyes closed and his hands +crossed on the prayer-book. But he looked up at her, and was +instantly roused to full attention by her face. + +"You've had some news," he said. + +"Yes, David. There's a little news. Don't count too much on it. +Don't sit up. David, I have heard something that makes me think he +is alive. Alive and well." + +He made a desperate effort and controlled himself. + +"Where is he?" + +She sat down beside him and took his hand between hers. + +"David," she said slowly, "God has been very good to us. I want to +tell you something, and I want you to prepare yourself. We have +heard from Dick. He is all right. He loves us, as he always did. +And--he is downstairs, David." + +He lay very still and without speaking. She was frightened at +first, afraid to go on with her further news. But suddenly David +sat up in bed and in a full, firm voice began the Te Deum Laudamus. +"We praise thee, O God: we acknowledge thee to be the Lord. All +the earth doth worship thee, the Father everlasting." + +He repeated it in its entirety. At the end, however, his voice broke. + +"O Lord, in thee have I trusted--I doubted Him, Lucy," he said. + +Dick, waiting at the foot of the stairs, heard that triumphant paean +of thanksgiving and praise and closed his eyes. + +It was a few minutes later that Lucy came down the stairs again. + +"You heard him?" she asked. "Oh, Dick, he had frightened me. It +was more than a question of himself and you. He was making it one +of himself and God." + +She let him go up alone and waited below, straining her ears, but +she heard nothing beyond David's first hoarse cry, and after a +little she went into her sitting-room and shut the door. + +Whatever lay underneath, there was no surface drama in the meeting. +The determination to ignore any tragedy in the situation was strong +in them both, and if David's eyes were blurred and his hands +trembling, if Dick's first words were rather choked, they hid their +emotion carefully. + +"Well, here I am, like a bad penny!" said Dick huskily from the +doorway. + +"And a long time you've been about it," grumbled David. "You young +rascal!" + +He held out his hand, and Dick crushed it between both of his. He +was startled at the change in David. For a moment he could only +stand there, holding his hand, and trying to keep his apprehension +out of his face. + +"Sit down," David said awkwardly, and blew his nose with a terrific +blast. "I've been laid up for a while, but I'm all right now. I'll +fool them all yet," he boasted, out of his happiness and content. +"Business has been going to the dogs, Dick. Reynolds is a fool." + +"Of course you'll fool them." There was still a band around Dick's +throat. It hurt him to look at David, so thin and feeble, so sunken +from his former portliness. And David saw his eyes, and knew. + +"I've dropped a little flesh, eh, Dick?" he inquired. "Old bulge +is gone, you see. The nurse makes up the bed when I'm in it, flat +as when I'm out." + +Suddenly his composure broke. He was a feeble and apprehensive old +man, shaken with the tearless sobbing of weakness and age. Dick put +an arm across his shoulders, and they sat without speech until +David was quiet again. + +"I'm a crying old woman, Dick," David said at last. "That's what +comes of never feeling a pair of pants on your legs and being +coddled like a baby." He sat up and stared around him ferociously. +"They sprinkle violet water on my pillows, Dick! Can you beat that?" + +Warned by Lucy, the nurse went to her room and did not disturb them. +But she sat for a time in her rocking-chair, before she changed +into the nightgown and kimono in which she slept on the couch in +David's room. She knew the story, and her kindly heart ached +within her. What good would it do after all, this home-coming? +Dick could not stay. It was even dangerous. Reynolds had confided +to her that he suspected a watch on the house by the police, and +that the mail was being opened. What good was it? + +Across the hall she could hear Lucy moving briskly about in Dick's +room, changing the bedding, throwing up the windows, opening and +closing bureau drawers. After a time Lucy tapped at her door and +she opened it. + +"I put a cake of scented soap among your handkerchiefs," she said, +rather breathlessly. "Will you let me have it for Doctor Dick's +room?" + +She got the soap and gave it to her. + +"He is going to stay, then?" + +"Certainly he is going to stay," Lucy said, surprised. "This is +his home. Where else should he go?" + +But David knew. He lay, listening with avid interest to Dick's +story, asking a question now and then, nodding over Dick's halting +attempt to reconstruct the period of his confusion, but all the +time one part of him, a keen and relentless inner voice, was saying: +"Look at him well. Hold him close. Listen to his voice. Because +this hour is yours, and perhaps only this hour." + +"Then the Sayre woman doesn't know about your coming?" he asked, +when Dick had finished. + +"Still, she mustn't talk about having seen you. I'll send Reynolds +up in the morning." + +He was eager to hear of what had occurred in the long interval +between them, and good, bad and indifferent Dick told him. But he +limited himself to events, and did not touch on his mental battles, +and David saw and noted it. The real story, he knew, lay there, +but it was not time for it. After a while he raised himself in +his bed. + +"Call Lucy, Dick." + +When she had come, a strangely younger Lucy, her withered cheeks +flushed with exercise and excitement, he said: + +"Bring me the copy of the statement I made to Harrison Miller, Lucy." + +She brought it, patted Dick's shoulder, and went away. David held +out the paper. + +"Read it slowly, boy," he said. "It is my justification, and God +willing, it may help you. The letter is from my brother, Henry. +Read that, too." + +Lucy, having got Dick's room in readiness, sat down in it to await +his coming. Downstairs, in the warming oven, was his supper. His +bed, with the best blankets, was turned down and ready. His +dressing-gown and slippers were in their old accustomed place. She +drew a long breath. + +Below, Doctor Reynolds came in quietly and stood listening. The +house was very still, and he decided that his news, which was after +all no news, could wait. He went into the office and got out a +sheet of note-paper, with his name at the top, and began his nightly +letter to Clare Rossiter. + +"My darling," it commenced. + +Above, David lay in his bed and Dick read the papers in his hand. +And as he read them David watched him. Not once, since Dick's +entrance, had he mentioned Elizabeth. David lay still and pondered +that. There was something wrong about it. This was Dick, their +own Dick; no shadowy ghost of the past, but Dick himself. True, an +older Dick, strangely haggard and with gray running in the brown of +his hair, but still Dick; the Dick whose eyes had lighted at the +sight of a girl, who had shamelessly persisted in holding her hand +at that last dinner, who had almost idolatrously loved her. + +And he had not mentioned her name. + +When he had finished the reading Dick sat for a moment with the +papers in his hand, thinking. + +"I see," he said finally. "Of course, it's possible. Good God, if +I could only think it." + +"It's the answer," David said stubbornly. "He was prowling around, +and fired through the window. Donaldson made the statement at the +inquest that some one had been seen on the place, and that he +notified you that night after dinner. He'd put guards around the +place." + +"It gives me a fighting chance, anyhow." Dick got up and threw +back his shoulders. "That's all I want. A chance to fight. I +know this. I hated Lucas--he was a poor thing and you know what +he did to me. But I never thought of killing him. That wouldn't +have helped matters. It was too late." + +"What about--that?" David asked, not looking at him. When Dick +did not immediately reply David glanced at him, to find his face +set and pained. + +"Perhaps we'd better not go into that now," David said hastily. +"It's natural that the readjustments will take time." + +"We'll have to go into it. It's the hardest thing I have to face." + +"It's not dead, then?" + +"No," Dick said slowly. "It's not dead, David. And I'd better +bring it into the open. I've fought it to the limit by myself. +It's the one thing that seems to have survived the shipwreck. I +can't argue it down or think it down." + +"Maybe, if you see Elizabeth--" + +"I'd break her heart, that's all." + +He tried to make David understand. He told in its sordid details +his failure to kill it, his attempts to sink memory and conscience +in Chicago and their failure, the continued remoteness of Elizabeth +and what seemed to him the flesh and blood reality of the other +woman. That she was yesterday, and Elizabeth was long ago. + +"I can't argue it down," he finished. "I've tried to, desperately. +It's a--I think it's a wicked thing, in a way. And God knows all +she ever got out of it was suffering. She must loathe the thought +of me." + +David was compelled to let it rest there. He found that Dick was +doggedly determined to see Beverly Carlysle. After that, he didn't +know. No man wanted to surrender himself for trial, unless he was +sure himself of whether he was innocent or guilty. If there was a +reasonable doubt--but what did it matter one way or the other? +His place was gone, as he'd made it, gone if he was cleared, gone +if he was convicted. + +"I can't come back, David. They wouldn't have me." + +After a silence he asked: + +"How much is known here? What does Elizabeth know?" + +"The town knows nothing. She knows a part of it. She cares a great +deal, Dick. It's a tragedy for her." + +"Shall you tell her I have been here?" + +"Not unless you intend to see her." + +But Dick shook his head. + +"Even if other things were the same I haven't a right to see her, +until I've got a clean slate." + +"That's sheer evasion," David said, almost with irritation. + +"Yes," Dick acknowledged gravely. "It is sheer evasion." + +"What about the police?" he inquired after a silence. "I was +registered at Norada. I suppose they traced me?" + +"Yes. The house was watched for a while; I understand they've +given it up now." + +In response to questions about his own condition David was almost +querulous. He was all right. He would get well if they'd let him, +and stop coddling him. He would get up now, in spite of them. He +was good for one more fight before he died, and he intended to make +it, in a court if necessary. + +"They can't prove it, Dick," he said triumphantly. "I've been over +it every day for months. There is no case. There never was a case, +for that matter. They're a lot of pin-headed fools, and we'll show +them up, boy. We'll show them up." + +But for all his excitement fatigue was telling on him. Lucy tapped +at the door and came in. + +"You'd better have your supper before it spoils," she said. "And +David needs a rest. Doctor Reynolds is in the office. I haven't +told him yet." + +The two men exchanged glances. + +"Time for that later," David said. "I can't keep him out of my +office, but I can out of my family affairs for an hour or so." + + +So it happened that Dick followed Lucy down the back stairs and ate +his meal stealthily in the kitchen. + +"I don't like you to eat here," she protested. + +"I've eaten in worse places," he said, smiling at her. "And +sometimes not at all." He was immediately sorry for that, for +the tears came to her eyes. + +He broke as gently as he could the news that he could not stay, but +it was a great blow to her. Her sagging chin quivered piteously, +and it took all the cheerfulness he could summon and all the +promises of return he could make to soften the shock. + +"You haven't even seen Elizabeth," she said at last. + +"That will have to wait until things are cleared up, Aunt Lucy." + +"Won't you write her something then, Richard? She looks like a +ghost these days." + +Her eyes were on him, puzzled and wistful. He met them gravely. + +"I haven't the right to see her, or to write to her." + +And the finality in his tone closed the discussion, that and +something very close to despair in his face. + +For all his earlier hunger he ate very little, and soon after he +tiptoed up the stairs again to David's room. When he came down to +the kitchen later on he found her still there, at the table where +he had left her, her arms across it and her face buried in them. +On a chair was the suitcase she had hastily packed for him, and a +roll of bills lay on the table. + +"You must take it," she insisted. "It breaks my heart to think-- +Dick, I have the feeling that I am seeing you for the last time." +Then for fear she had hurt him she forced a determined smile. "Don't +pay any attention to me. David will tell you that I have said, over +and over, that I'd never see you again. And here you are!" + +He was going. He had said good-bye to David and was going at once. +She accepted it with a stoicism born of many years of hail and +farewell, kissed him tenderly, let her hand linger for a moment on +the rough sleeve of his coat, and then let him out by the kitchen +door into the yard. But long after he had gone she stood in the +doorway, staring out... + +In the office Doctor Reynolds was finishing a long and carefully +written letter. + +"I am not good at putting myself on paper, as you know, dear heart. +But this I do know. I do not believe that real love dies. We may +bury it, so deep that it seems to be entirely dead, but some day it +sends up a shoot, and it either lives, or the business of killing +it has to be begun all over again. So when we quarrel, I always +know--" + + + + +XXXIX + +The evening had shaken Dick profoundly. David's appearance and Lucy's +grief and premonition, most of all the talk of Elizabeth, had +depressed and unnerved him. Even the possibility of his own +innocence was subordinated to an overwhelming yearning for the old +house and the old life. + +Through a side window as he went toward the street he could see +Reynolds at his desk in the office, and he was possessed by a +fierce jealousy and resentment at his presence there. The +laboratory window was dark, and he stood outside and looked at it. +He would have given his hope of immortality just then to have been +inside it once more, working over his tubes and his cultures, his +slides and microscope. Even the memory of certain dearly-bought +extravagances in apparatus revived in him, and sent the blood to +his head in a wave of unreasoning anger and bitterness. + +He had a wild desire to go in at the front door, confront Reynolds +in his smug complacency and drive him out; to demand his place in +the world and take it. He could hardly tear himself away. + +Under a street lamp he looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock, +and he had a half hour to spare before train-time. Following an +impulse he did not analyze he turned toward the Wheeler house. Just +so months ago had he turned in that direction, but with this +difference, that then he went with a sort of hurried expectancy, +and that now he loitered on the way. Yet that it somehow drew him +he knew. Not with the yearning he had felt toward the old brick +house, but with the poignancy of a long past happiness. He did not +love, but he remembered. + +Yet, for a man who did not love, he was oddly angry at the sight +of two young figures on the doorstep. Their clear voices came to +him across the quiet street, vibrant and full of youth. It was +the Sayre boy and Elizabeth. + +He half stopped, and looked across. They were quite oblivious of +him, intent and self-absorbed. As he had viewed Reynolds' +unconscious figure with jealous dislike, so he viewed Wallace Sayre. +Here, everywhere, his place was filled. He was angry with an +unreasoning, inexplicable anger, angry at Elizabeth, angry at the +boy, and at himself. + +He had but to cross the street and take his place there. He could +drive that beardless youngster away with a word. The furious +possessive jealousy of the male animal, which had nothing to do +with love, made him stop and draw himself up as he stared across. + +Then he smiled wryly and went on. He could do it, but he did not +want to. He would never do it. Let them live their lives, and let +him live his. But he knew that there, across the street, so near +that he might have raised his voice and summoned her, he was leaving +the best thing that had come into his life; the one fine and good +thing, outside of David and Lucy. That against its loss he had +nothing but an infatuation that had ruined three lives already, and +was not yet finished. + +He stopped and, turning, looked back. He saw the girl bend down +and put a hand on Wallie Sayre's shoulder, and the boy's face +upturned and looking into hers. He shook himself and went on. +After all, that was best. He felt no anger now. She deserved +better than to be used to help a man work out his salvation. She +deserved youth, and joyousness, and the forgetfulness that comes +with time. She was already forgetting. + +He smiled again as he went on up the street, but his hands as he +buttoned his overcoat were shaking. + +It was shortly after that that he met the rector, Mr. Oglethorpe. +He passed him quickly, but he was conscious that the clergyman had +stopped and was staring after him. Half an hour later, sitting in +the empty smoker of the train, he wondered if he had not missed +something there. Perhaps the church could have helped him, a good +man's simple belief in right and wrong. He was wandering in a +gray no-man's land, without faith or compass. + +David had given him the location of Bassett's apartment house, and +he found it quickly. He was in a state of nervous irritability by +that time, for the sense of being a fugitive was constantly +stressed in the familiar streets by the danger of recognition. It +was in vain that he argued with himself that only the police were +interested in his movements, and the casual roundsman not at all. +He found himself shying away from them like a nervous horse. + +But if he expected any surprise from Bassett he was disappointed. +He greeted him as if he had seen him yesterday, and explained his +lack of amazement in his first words. + +"Doctor Livingstone telephoned me. Sit down, man, and let me look +at you. You've given me more trouble than any human being on earth." + +"Sorry," Dick said awkwardly, "I seem to have a faculty of involving +other people in my difficulties." + +"Want a drink?" + +"No, thanks. I'll smoke, if you have any tobacco. I've been afraid +to risk a shop." + +Bassett talked cheerfully as he found cigarettes and matches. "The +old boy had a different ring to his voice to-night. He was going +down pretty fast, Livingstone; was giving up the fight. But I fancy +you've given him a new grip on the earth." When they were seated, +however, a sort of awkwardness developed. To Dick, Bassett had been +a more or less shadowy memory, clouded over with the details and +miseries of the flight. And Bassett found Dick greatly altered. He +was older than he remembered him. The sort of boyishness which had +come with the resurrection of his early identity had gone, and the +man who sat before him was grave, weary, and much older. But his +gaze was clear and direct. + +"Well, a good bit of water has gone over the dam since we met," +Bassett said. "I nearly broke a leg going down that infernal +mountain again. And I don't mind telling you that I came within +an ace of landing in the Norada jail. They knew I'd helped you get +away. But they couldn't prove it." + +"I got out, because I didn't see any need of dragging you down with +me. I was a good bit of a mess just then, but I could reason that +out, anyhow. It wasn't entirely unselfish, either. I had a better +chance without you. Or thought I did." + +Bassett was watching him intently. + +"Has it all come back?" he inquired. + +"Practically all. Not much between the thing that happened at the +ranch and David Livingstone's picking me up at the cabin." + +"Did it ever occur to you to wonder just how I got in on your +secret?" + +"I suppose you read Maggie Donaldson's confession." + +"I came to see you before that came out." + +"Then I don't know, I'm afraid." + +"I suppose you would stake your life on the fact that Beverly +Carlysle knows nothing of what happened that night at the ranch?" + +Dick's face twitched, but he returned Bassett's gaze steadily. + +"She has no criminal knowledge, if that is what you mean." + +"I am not so sure of it." + +"I think you'd better explain that." + +At the cold anger in Dick's voice Bassett stared at him. So that +was how the wind lay. Poor devil! And out of the smug complacence +of his bachelor peace Bassett thanked his stars for no women in his +life. + +"I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Livingstone," he said easily. +"I don't think that she shot Lucas. But I don't think she has ever +told all she knows. I've got the coroner's inquest here, and we'll +go over it later. I'll tell you how I got onto your trail. Do you +remember taking Elizabeth Wheeler to see 'The Valley?'" + +"I had forgotten it. I remember now." + +"Well, Gregory, the brother, saw you and recognized you. I was +with him. He tried to deny you later, but I was on. Of course he +told her, and I think she sent him to warn David Livingstone. They +knew I was on the trail of a big story. Then I think Gregory +stayed here to watch me when the company made its next jump. He +knew I'd started, for he sent David Livingstone the letter you got. +By the way, that letter nearly got me jailed in Norada." + +"I'm not hiding behind her skirts," Dick said shortly. "And there's +nothing incriminating in what you say. She saw me as a fugitive, +and she sent me a warning. That's all." + +"Easy, easy, old man. I'm not pinning anything on her. But I want, +if you don't mind, to carry this through. I have every reason to +believe that, some time before you got to Norada, the Thorwald woman +was on my trail. I know that I was followed to the cabin the night +I stayed there, and that she got a saddle horse from her son that +night, her son by Thorwald, either for herself or some one else." + +"All right. I accept that, tentatively." + +"That means that she knew I was coming to Norada. Think a minute; +I'd kept my movements quiet, but Beverly Carlysle knew, and her +brother. When they warned David they warned her." + +"I don't believe it." + +"If you had killed Lucas," Bassett asserted positively, "the +Thorwald woman would have let the sheriff get you, and be damned +to you. She had no reason to love you. You'd kept her son out of +what she felt was his birthright." + +He got up and opened a table drawer. + +"I've got a copy of the coroner's inquest here. It will bear +going over. And it may help you to remember, too. We needn't +read it all. There's a lot that isn't pertinent." + +He got out a long envelope, and took from it a number of typed +pages, backed with a base of heavy paper. + +"'Inquest in the Coroner's office on the body of Howard Lucas,'" +he read. "'October 10th, 1911.' That was the second day after. +'Examination of witnesses by Coroner Samuel J. Burkhardt. Mrs. +Lucas called and sworn.'" He glanced at Dick and hesitated. "I +don't know about this to-night, Livingstone. You look pretty well +shot to pieces." + +"I didn't sleep last night. I'm all right. Go on." + +During the reading that followed he sat back in his deep chair, his +eyes closed. Except that once or twice he clenched his hands he +made no movement whatever. + +Q. "What is your name?" + +A. "Anne Elizabeth Lucas. My stage name is Beverly Carlysle." + +Q. "Where do you live, Mrs. Lucas?" + +A. "At 26 East 56th Street, New York City." + +Q. "I shall have to ask you some questions that are necessarily + painful at this time. I shall be as brief as possible. + Perhaps it will be easier for you to tell so much as you know + of what happened the night before last at the Clark ranch." + +A. "I cannot tell very much. I am confused, too. I was given + a sleeping powder last night. I can only say that I heard a + shot, and thought at first that it was fired from outside. + I ran down the stairs, and back to the billiard room. As I + entered the room Mr. Donaldson came in through a window. My + husband was lying on the floor. That is all." + +Q. "Where was Judson Clark?" + +A. "He was leaning on the roulette table, staring at the--at + my husband." + +Q. "Did you see him leave the room?" + +A. "No. I was on my knees beside Mr. Lucas. I think when I got + up he was gone. I didn't notice." + +Q. "Did you see a revolver?" + +A. "No. I didn't look for one." + +Q. "Now I shall ask you one more question, and that is all. Had + there been any quarrel between Mr. Lucas and Mr. Clark that + evening in your presence?" + +A. "No. But I had quarreled with them both. They were drinking + too much. I had gone to my room to pack and go home. I was + packing when I heard the shot." + + +Witness excused and Mr. John Donaldson called. + +Q. "What is your name?" + +A. "John Donaldson." + +Q. "Where do you live?" + +A. "At the Clark ranch." + +Q. "What is your business?" + +A. "You know all about me. I'm foreman of the ranch." + +Q. "I want you to tell what you know, Jack, about last night. + Begin with where you were when you heard the shot." + +A. "I was on the side porch. The billiard room opens on to it. + I'd been told by the corral boss earlier in the evening that + he'd seen a man skulking around the house. There'd been a + report like that once or twice before, and I set a watch. I + put Ben Haggerty at the kitchen wing with a gun, and I took + up a stand on the porch. Before I did that I told Judson, + but I don't think he took it in. He'd been lit up like a + house afire all evening. I asked for his gun, but he said + he didn't know where it was, and I went back to my house and + got my own. Along about eight o'clock I thought I saw some + one in the shrubbery, and I went out as quietly as I could. + But it was a woman, Hattie Thorwald, who was working at the + ranch. + + "When I left the men were playing roulette. I looked in as + I went back, and Judson had a gun in his hand. He said; 'I + found it, Jack.' I saw he was very drunk, and I told him to + put it up, I'd got mine. It had occurred to me that I'd + better warn Haggerty to be careful, and I started along the + verandah to tell him not to shoot except to scare. I had + only gone a few steps when I heard a shot, and ran back. Mr. + Lucas was on the floor dead, and Judson was as the lady said. + He must have gone out while I was bending over the body." + +Q. "Did you see the revolver in his hand?" + +A. "No." + +Q. "How long between your warning Mr. Clark and the shot?" + +A. "I suppose I'd gone a dozen yards." + +Q. "Were you present when the revolver was found?" + +A. "No, sir." + +Q. "Did you see Judson Clark again?" + +A. "No, sir. From what I gather he went straight to the corral + and got his horse." + +Q. "You entered the room as Mrs. Lucas came in the door?" + +A. "Well, she's wrong about that. She was there a little ahead + of me. She'd reached the body before I got in. She was + stooping over it." + +Bassett looked up from his reading. + +"I want you to get this, Livingstone," he said. "How did she reach +the billiard room? Where was it in the house?" + +"Off the end of the living-room." + +"A large living-room?" + +"Forty or forty-five feet, about." + +"Will you draw it for me, roughly?" + +He passed over a pad and pencil, and Dick made a hasty outline. +Bassett watched with growing satisfaction. + +"Here's the point," he said, when Dick had finished. "She was there +before Donaldson, or at the same time," as Dick made an impatient +movement. "But he had only a dozen yards to go. She was in her +room, upstairs. To get down in that time she had to leave her room, +descend a staircase, cross a hall and run the length of the +living-room, forty-five feet. If the case had ever gone to trial +she'd have had to do some explaining." + +"She or Donaldson," Dick said obstinately. + +Bassett read on: + +Jean Melis called and sworn. + +Q. "Your name?" + +A. "Jean Melis." + +Q. "Have you an American residence, Mr. Melis?" + +A. "Only where I am employed. I am now living at the Clark + ranch." + +Q. "What is your business?" + +A. "I am Mr. Clark's valet." + +Q. "It was you who found Mr. Clark's revolver?" + +A. "Yes." + +Q. "Tell about how and where you found it." + +A. "I made a search early in the evening. I will not hide from +you that I meant to conceal it if I discovered it. A man who is +drunk is not guilty of what he does. I did not find it. I went +back that night, when the people had gone, and found it beneath +the carved woodbox, by the fireplace. I did not know that the +sheriff had placed a man outside the window." + +"Get that, too," Bassett said, putting down the paper. "The +Frenchman was fond of you, and he was doing his blundering best. +But the sheriff expected you back and had had the place watched, +so they caught him. But that's not the point. A billiard room +is a hard place to hide things in. I take it yours was like the +average." + +Dick nodded. + +"All right. This poor boob of a valet made a search and didn't +find it. Later he found it. Why did he search? Wasn't it the +likely thing that you'd carried it away with you? Do you suppose +for a moment that with Donaldson and the woman in the room you hid +it there, and then went back and stood behind the roulette table, +leaning on it with both hands, and staring? Not at all. Listen to +this: + +Q. "You recognize this revolver as the one you found?" + +A. "Yes." + +Q. "You are familiar with it?" + +A. "Yes. It is Mr. Clark's." + +Q. "You made the second search because you had not examined the + woodbox earlier?" + +A. "No. I had examined the woodbox. I had a theory that--" + +Q. "The Jury cannot listen to any theories. This is an inquiry + into facts." + +"I'm going to find Melis," the reporter said thoughtfully, as he +folded up the papers. "The fact is, I mailed an advertisement to +the New York papers to-day. I want to get that theory of his. It's +the servants in the house who know what is going on. I've got an +idea that he'd stumbled onto something. He'd searched for the +revolver, and it wasn't there. He went back and it was. All that +conflicting evidence, and against it, what? That you'd run away!" + +But he saw that Dick was very tired, and even a little indifferent. +He would be glad to know that his hands were clean, but against the +intimation that Beverly Carlysle had known more than she had +disclosed he presented a dogged front of opposition. After a time +Bassett put the papers away and essayed more general conversation, +and there he found himself met half way and more. He began to get +Dick as a man, for the first time, and as a strong man. He watched +his quiet, lined face, and surmised behind it depths of tenderness +and gentleness. No wonder the little Wheeler girl had worshipped him. + +It was settled that Dick was to spend the night there, and such +plans as he had Bassett left until morning. But while he was +unfolding the bed-lounge on which Dick was to sleep, Dick opened a +line of discussion that cost the reporter an hour or two's sleep +before he could suppress his irritation. + +"I must have caused you considerable outlay, one way and another," +he said. "I want to defray that, Bassett, as soon as I've figured +out some way to get at my bank account." + +Bassett jerked out a pillow and thumped it. + +"Forget it." Then he grinned. "You can fix that when you get your +estate, old man. Buy a newspaper and let me run it!" + +He bent over the davenport and put the pillow in place. "All you'll +have to do is to establish your identity. The institutions that got +it had to give bond. I hope you're not too long for this bed." + +But he looked up at Dick's silence, to see him looking at him with a +faint air of amusement over his pipe. + +"They're going to keep the money, Bassett." + +Bassett straightened and stared at him. + +"Don't be a damned fool," he protested. "It's your money. Don't +tell me you're going to give it to suffering humanity. That sort +of drivel makes me sick. Take it, give it away if you like, but +for God's sake don't shirk your job." + +Dick got up and took a turn or two around the room. Then, after +an old habit, he went to the window and stood looking out, but +seeing nothing. + +"It's not that, Bassett. I'm afraid of the accursed thing. I +might talk a lot of rot about wanting to work with my hands. I +wouldn't if I didn't have to, any more than the next fellow. I +might fool myself, too, with thinking I could work better without +any money worries. But I've got to remember this. It took work +to make a man of me before, and it will take work to keep me going +the way I intend to go, if I get my freedom." + +Sometime during the night Bassett saw that the light was still +burning by the davenport, and went in. Dick was asleep with a +volume of Whitman open on his chest, and Bassett saw what he had +been reading. + +"You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you short-lived ennuis; +Ah, think not you shall finally triumph, my real self has yet to come forth. +It shall march forth over-mastering, till all lie beneath me, +It shall stand up, the soldier of unquestioned victory." + +Bassett took the book away and stood rereading the paragraph. For +the first time he sensed the struggle going on at that time behind +Dick's quiet face, and he wondered. Unquestioned victory, eh? +That was a pretty large order. + + + + +XL + +Leslie Ward had found the autumn extremely tedious. His old +passion for Nina now and then flamed up in him, but her occasional +coquetries no longer deceived him. They had their source only in +her vanity. She exacted his embraces only as tribute to her own +charm, her youth, her fresh young body. + +And Nina out of her setting of gaiety, of a thumping piano, of +chattering, giggling crowds, of dancing and bridge and theater +boxes, was a queen dethroned. She did not read or think. She +spent the leisure of her mourning period in long hours before her +mirror fussing with her hair, in trimming and retrimming hats, or +in the fastidious care of her hands and body. + +He was ashamed sometimes of his pitilessly clear analysis of her. +She was not discontented, save at the enforced somberness of their +lives. She had found in marriage what she wanted; a good house, +daintily served; a man to respond to her attractions as a woman, +and to provide for her needs as a wife; dignity and an established +place in the world; liberty and privilege. + +But she was restless. She chafed at the quiet evenings they spent +at home, and resented the reading in which he took refuge from her +uneasy fidgeting. + +"For Heaven's sake, Nina, sit down and read or sew, or do something. +You've been at that window a dozen times." + +"I'm not bothering you. Go on and read." + +When nobody dropped in she would go upstairs and spend the hour or +so before bedtime in the rites of cold cream, massage, and in +placing the little combs of what Leslie had learned was called a +water-wave. + +But her judgment was as clear as his, and even more pitiless; the +difference between them lay in the fact that while he rebelled, she +accepted the situation. She was cleverer than he was; her mind +worked more quickly, and she had the adaptability he lacked. If +there were times when she wearied him, there were others when he +sickened her. Across from her at the table he ate slowly and +enormously. He splashed her dainty bathroom with his loud, gasping +cold baths. He flung his soiled clothing anywhere. He drank +whisky at night and crawled into the lavender-scented sheets +redolent of it, to drop into a heavy sleep and snore until she +wanted to scream. But she played the game to the limit of her +ability. + +Then, seeing that they might go on the rocks, he made a valiant +effort, and since she recognized it as an effort, she tried to meet +him half way. They played two-handed card games. He read aloud to +her, poetry which she loathed, and she to him, short stories he +hated. He suggested country walks and she agreed, to limp back +after a half mile or so in her high-heeled pumps. + +He concealed his boredom from her, but there were nights when he +lay awake long after she was asleep and looked ahead into a future +of unnumbered blank evenings. He had formerly taken an occasional +evening at his club, but on his suggesting it now Nina's eyes would +fill with suspicion, and he knew that although she never mentioned +Beverly Carlysle, she would neither forget nor entirely trust him +again. And in his inner secret soul he knew that she was right. + +He had thought that he had buried that brief madness, but there +were times when he knew he lied to himself. One fiction, however, +he persisted in; he had not been infatuated with Beverly. It was +only that she gave him during those few days something he had not +found at home, companionship and quiet intelligent talk. She had +been restful. Nina was never restful. + +He bought a New York paper daily, and read it in the train. "The +Valley" had opened to success in New York, and had settled for a +long run. The reviews of her work had been extraordinary, and +when now and then she gave an interview he studied the photographs +accompanying it. But he never carried the paper home. + +He began, however, to play with the thought of going to New York. +He would not go to see her at her house, but he would like to see +her before a metropolitan audience, to add his mite to her triumph. +There were times when he fully determined to go, when he sat at his +desk with his hand on the telephone, prepared to lay the foundations +of the excursion by some manipulation of business interests. For +months, however, he never went further than the preliminary movement. + +But by October he began to delude himself with a real excuse for +going, and this was the knowledge that by a strange chain of +circumstance this woman who so dominated his secret thoughts was +connected with Elizabeth's life through Judson Clark. The +discovery, communicated to him by Walter Wheeler, that Dick was +Clark had roused in him a totally different feeling from Nina's. +He saw no glamour of great wealth. On the contrary, he saw in +Clark the author of a great unhappiness to a woman who had not +deserved it. And Nina, judging him with deadly accuracy, surmised +even that. + +That he was jealous of Judson Clark, and of his part in the past, +he denied to himself absolutely. But his resentment took the form +of violent protest to the family, against even allowing Elizabeth +to have anything to do with Dick if he turned up. + +"He'll buy his freedom, if he isn't dead," he said to Nina, "and +he'll come snivelling back here, with that lost memory bunk, and +they're just fool enough to fall for it." + +"I've fallen for it, and I'm at least as intelligent as you are." + +Before her appraising eyes his own fell. + +"Suppose I did something I shouldn't and turned up here with such +a story, would you believe it?" + +"No. When you want to do something you shouldn't you don't appear +to need any excuse." + +But, on the whole, they managed to live together comfortably enough. +They each had their reservations, but especially after Jim's death +they tacitly agreed to stop bickering and to make their mutual +concessions. What Nina never suspected was that he corresponded +with Beverly Carlysle. Not that the correspondence amounted to much. +He had sent her flowers the night of the New York opening, with the +name of his club on his card, and she wrote there in acknowledgment. +Then, later, twice he sent her books, one a biography, which was a +compromise with his conscience, and later a volume of exotic love +verse, which was not. As he replied to her notes of thanks a +desultory correspondence had sprung up, letters which the world +might have read, and yet which had to him the savor and interest +of the clandestine. + +He did not know that that, and not infatuation, was behind his +desire to see Beverly again; never reasoned that he was +demonstrating to himself that his adventurous love life was not +necessarily ended; never acknowledged that the instinct of the +hunter was as alive in him as in the days before his marriage. +Partly, then, a desire for adventure, partly a hope that romance +was not over but might still be waiting around the next corner, +was behind his desire to see her again. + +Probably Nina knew that, as she knew so many things; why he had +taken to reading poetry, for instance. Certain it is that when he +began, early in October, to throw out small tentative remarks about +the necessity of a business trip before long to New York, she +narrowed her eyes. She was determined to go with him, if he went +at all, and he was equally determined that she should not. + +It became, in a way, a sort of watchful waiting on both sides. +Then there came a time when some slight excuse offered, and Leslie +took up the shuttle for forty-eight hours, and wove his bit in the +pattern. It happened to be on the same evening as Dick's return +to the old house. + +He was a little too confident, a trifle too easy to Nina. + +"Has the handle of my suitcase been repaired yet?" he asked. He +was lighting a cigarette at the time. + +"Yes. Why?" + +"I'll have to run over to New York to-morrow. I wanted Joe to go +alone, but he thinks he needs me." Joe was his partner. "Oh. So +Joe's going?" + +"That's what I said." + +She was silent. Joe's going was clever of him. It gave authenticity +to his business, and it kept her at home. + +"How long shall you be gone?" + +"Only a day or two." He could not entirely keep the relief out of +his voice. It had been easy, incredibly easy. He might have done +it a month ago. And he had told the truth; Joe was going. + +"I'll pack to-night, and take my suitcase in with me in the morning." + +"If you'll get your things out I'll pack them." She was still +thinking, but her tone was indifferent. "You won't want your dress +clothes, of course." + +"I'd better have a dinner suit." + +She looked at him then, with a half contemptuous smile. "Yes," she +said slowly. "I suppose you will. You'll be going to the theater." + +He glanced away. + +"Possibly. But we'll be rushing to get through. There's a lot to +do. Amazing how business piles up when you find you're going +anywhere. There won't be much time to play." + +She sat before the mirror in her small dressing-room that night, +ostensibly preparing for bed but actually taking stock of her +situation. She had done all she could, had been faithful and loyal, +had made his home attractive, had catered to his tastes and tried +to like his friends, had met his needs and responded to them. And +now, this. She was bewildered and frightened. How did women hold +their husbands? + +She found him in bed and unmistakably asleep when she went into the +bedroom. Man-like, having got his way, he was not troubled by +doubts or introspection. It was done. + +He was lying on his back, with his mouth open. She felt a sudden +and violent repugnance to getting into the bed beside him. Sometime +in the night he would turn over and throwing his arm about her, hold +her close in his sleep; and it would be purely automatic, the +mechanical result of habit. + +She lay on the edge of the bed and thought things over. + +He had his good qualities. He was kind and affectionate to her +family. He had been wonderful when Jim died, and he loved Elizabeth +dearly. He was generous and open-handed. He was handsome, too, in +a big, heavy way. + +She began to find excuses for him. Men were always a child-like +prey to some women. They were vain, and especially they were +sex-vain; good looking men were a target for every sort of advance. +She transferred her loathing of him to the woman she suspected of +luring him away from her, and lay for hours hating her. + +She saw Leslie off in the morning with a perfunctory good-bye while +cold anger and suspicion seethed in her. And later she put on her +hat and went home to lay the situation before her mother. Mrs. +Wheeler was out, however, and she found only Elizabeth sewing by +her window. + +Nina threw her hat on the bed and sat down dispiritedly. + +"I suppose there's no news?" she asked. + +Nina watched her. She was out of patience with Elizabeth, +exasperated with the world. + +"Are you going to go on like this all your life?" she demanded. +"Sitting by a window, waiting? For a man who ran away from you?" + +"That's not true, and you know it." + +"They're all alike," Nina declared recklessly. "They go along well +enough, and they are all for virtue and for the home and fireside +stuff, until some woman comes their way. I ought to know." + +Elizabeth looked up quickly. + +"Why, Nina!" she said. "You don't mean--" + +"He went to New York this morning. He pretended to be going on +business, but he's actually gone to see that actress. He's been +mad about her for months." + +"I don't believe it." + +"Oh, wake up," Nina said impatiently. "The world isn't made up of +good, kind, virtuous people. It's rotten. And men are all alike. +Dick Livingstone and Les and all the rest--tarred with the same +stick. As long as there are women like this Carlysle creature +they'll fall for them. And you and I can sit at home and chew our +nails and plan to keep them by us. And we can't do it." + +In spite of herself a little question of doubt crept that day into +Elizabeth's mind. She had always known that they had not told her +all the truth; that the benevolent conspiracy to protect Dick +extended even to her. But she had never thought that it might +include a woman. Once there, the very humility of her love for Dick +was an element in favor of the idea. She had never been good enough, +or wise or clever enough, for him. She was too small and unimportant +to be really vital. + +Dismissing the thought did no good. It came back. But because she +was a healthy-minded and practical person she took the one course +she could think of, and put the question that night to her father, +when he came back from seeing David. + +David had sent for him early in the evening. All day he had thought +over the situation between Dick and Elizabeth, with growing pain and +uneasiness. He had not spoken of it to Lucy, or to Harrison Miller; +he knew that they would not understand, and that Lucy would suffer. +She was bewildered enough by Dick's departure. + +At noon he had insisted on getting up and being helped into his +trousers. So clad he felt more of a man and better able to cope +with things, although his satisfaction in them was somewhat modified +by the knowledge of two safety-pins at the sides, to take up their +superfluous girth at the waistband. + +But even the sense of being clothed as a man again did not make it +easier to say to Walter Wheeler what must be said. + +Walter took the news of Dick's return with a visible brightening. +It was as though, out of the wreckage of his middle years, he saw +that there was now some salvage, but he was grave and inarticulate +over it, wrung David's hand and only said: + +"Thank God for it, David." And after a pause: "Was he all right? +He remembered everything?" + +But something strange in the situation began to obtrude itself into +his mind. Dick had come back twenty-four hours ago. Last night. +And all this time-- + +"Where is he now?" + +"He's not here, Walter." + +"He has gone away again, without seeing Elizabeth?" + +David cleared his throat. + +"He is still a fugitive. He doesn't himself know he isn't guilty. +I think he feels that he ought not to see her until--" + +"Come, come," Walter Wheeler said impatiently. "Don't try to find +excuses for him. Let's have the truth, David. I guess I can +stand it." + +Poor David, divided between his love for Dick and his native honesty, +threw out his hands. + +"I don't understand it, Wheeler," he said. "You and I wouldn't, I +suppose. We are not the sort to lose the world for a woman. The +plain truth is that there is not a trace of Judson Clark in him +to-day, save one. That's the woman." + +When Wheeler said nothing, but sat twisting his hat in his hands, +David went on. It might be only a phase. As its impression on +Dick's youth had been deeper than others, so its effect was more +lasting. It might gradually disappear. He was confident, indeed, +that it would. He had been reading on the subject all day. + +Walter Wheeler hardly heard him. He was facing the incredible fact, +and struggling with his own problem. After a time he got up, shook +hands with David and went home, the dog at his heels. + +During the evening that followed he made his resolution, not to tell +her, never to let her suspect the truth. But he began to wonder if +she had heard something, for he found her eyes on him more than once, +and when Margaret had gone up to bed she came over and sat on the +arm of his chair. She said an odd thing then, and one that made it +impossible to lie to her later. + +"I come to you, a good bit as I would go to God, if he were a +person," she said. "I have got to know something, and you can tell +me." + +He put his arm around her and held her close. + +"Go ahead, honey." + +"Daddy, do you realize that I am a woman now?" + +"I try to. But it seems about six months since I was feeding you +hot water for colic." + +She sat still for a moment, stroking his hair and being very careful +not to spoil his neat parting. + +"You have never told me all about Dick, daddy. You have always +kept something back. That's true, isn't it?" + +"There were details," he said uncomfortably. "It wasn't necessary--" + +"Here's what I want to know. If he has gone back to the time--you +know, wouldn't he go back to caring for the people he loved then?" +Then, suddenly, her childish appeal ceased, and she slid from the +chair and stood before him. "I must know, father. I can bear it. +The thing you have been keeping from me was another woman, wasn't it?" + +"It was so long ago," he temporized. "Think of it, Elizabeth. A +boy of twenty-one or so." + +"Then there was?" + +"I believe so, at one time. But I know positively that he hadn't +seen or heard from her in ten years." + +"What sort of woman?" + +"I wouldn't think about it, honey. It's all so long ago." + +"Did she live in Wyoming?" + +"She was an actress," he said, hard driven by her persistence. + +"Do you know her name?" + +"Only her stage name, honey." + +"But you know she was an actress!" + +He sighed. + +"All right, dear," he said. "I'll tell you all I know. She was +an actress, and she married another man. That's all there is to it. +She's not young now. She must be thirty now--if she's living," he +added, as an afterthought. + +It was some time before she spoke again. + +"I suppose she was beautiful," she said slowly. + +"I don't know. Most of them aren't, off the stage. Anyhow, what +does it matter now?" + +"Only that I know he has gone back to her. And you know it too." + +He heard her going quietly out of the room. + +Long after, he closed the house and went cautiously upstairs. She +was waiting for him in the doorway of her room, in her nightgown. + +"I know it all now," she said steadily. "It was because of her he +shot the other man, wasn't it?" + +She saw her answer in his startled face, and closed her door quickly. +He stood outside, and then he tapped lightly. + +"Let me in, honey," he said. "I want to finish it. You've got a +wrong idea about it." + +When she did not answer he tried the door, but it was locked. He +turned and went downstairs again... + +When he came home the next afternoon Margaret met him in the hall. + +"She knows it, Walter." + +"Knows what?" + +"Knows he was back here and didn't see her. Annie blurted it out; +she'd got it from the Oglethorpe's laundress. Mr. Oglethorpe saw +him on the street." + +It took him some time to drag a coherent story from her. Annie had +told Elizabeth in her room, and then had told Margaret. She had +gone to Elizabeth at once, to see what she could do, but Elizabeth +had been in her closet, digging among her clothes. She had got out +her best frock and put it on, while her mother sat on the bed not +even daring to broach the matter in her mind, and had gone out. +There was a sort of cold determination in her that frightened +Margaret. She had laughed a good bit, for one thing. + +"She's terribly proud," she finished. "She'll do something reckless, +I'm sure. It wouldn't surprise me to see her come back engaged to +Wallie Sayre. I think that's where she went." + +But apparently she had not, or if she had she said nothing about it. +From that time on they saw a change in her; she was as loving as +ever, but she affected a sort of painful brightness that was a +little hard. As though she had clad herself in armor against +further suffering. + + + + +XLI + +For months Beverly Carlysle had remained a remote and +semi-mysterious figure. She had been in some hearts and in many +minds, but to most of them she was a name only. She had been the +motive behind events she never heard of, the quiet center in a +tornado of emotions that circled about without touching her. + +On the whole she found her life, with the settling down of the +piece to a successful, run, one of prosperous monotony. She had +re-opened and was living in the 56th Street house, keeping a simple +establishment of cook, butler and maid, and in the early fall she +added a town car and a driver. After that she drove out every +afternoon except on matinee days, almost always alone, but sometimes +with a young girl from the company. + +She was very lonely. The kaleidoscope that is theatrical New York +had altered since she left it. Only one or two of her former +friends remained, and she found them uninteresting and narrow with +the narrowness of their own absorbing world. She had forgotten that +the theater was like an island, cut off from the rest of the world, +having its own politics, its own society divided by caste, almost +its own religion. Out of its insularity it made occasional +excursions to dinners and week-ends; even into marriage, now and +then with an outlander. But almost always it went back, eager for +its home of dressing-room and footlights, of stage entrances up +dirty alleys, of door-keepers and managers and parts and costumes. + +Occasionally she had callers, men she had met or who were brought to +see her. She saw them over a tea-table, judged them remorselessly, +and eliminated gradually all but one or two. She watched her dignity +and her reputation with the care of an ambitious woman trying to live +down the past, and she succeeded measurably well. Now and then a +critic spoke of her as a second Maude Adams, and those notices she +kept and treasured. + +But she was always uneasy. Never since the night he had seen Judson +Clark in the theater had they rung up without her brother having +carefully combed the house with his eyes. She knew her limitations; +they would have to ring down if she ever saw him over the footlights. +And the season had brought its incidents, to connect her with the +past. One night Gregory had come back and told her Jean Melis was +in the balcony. + +The valet was older and heavier, but he had recognized him. + +"Did he see you?" was her first question. + +"Yes. What about it? He never saw me but once, and that was +at night and out of doors." + +"Sometimes I think I can't stand it, Fred. The eternal suspense, +the waiting for something to happen." + +"If anything was going to happen it would have happened months ago. +Bassett has given it up. And Jud's dead. Even Wilkins knows that." + +She turned on him angrily. + +"You haven't a heart, have you? You're glad he's dead." + +"Not at all. As long as he kept under cover he was all right. But +if he is, I don't see why you should fool yourself into thinking +you're sorry. It's the best solution to a number of things." + +"What do you suppose brought Jean Melis here?" + +"What? To see the best play in New York. Besides, why not allow +the man a healthy curiosity? He was pretty closely connected with +a hectic part of your life, my dear. Now buck up, and for the +Lord's sake forget the Frenchman. He's got nothing." + +"He saw me that night, on the stairs. He never took his eyes off +me at the inquest." + +She gave, however, an excellent performance that night, and nothing +more was heard of the valet. + +There were other alarms, all of them without foundation. She went +on her way, rejected an offer or two of marriage, spent her mornings +in bed and her afternoons driving or in the hands of her hair-dresser +and manicure, cared for the flowers that came in long casket-like +boxes, and began to feel a sense of security again. She did not +intend to marry, or to become interested in any one man. + +She had hardly given a thought to Leslie Ward. He had come and +gone, one of that steady procession of men, mostly married, who +battered their heads now and then like night beetles outside a +window, against the hard glass of her ambition. Because her +business was to charm, she had been charming to him. And could not +always remember his name! + +As the months went by she began to accept Fred's verdict that +nothing was going to happen. Bassett was back and at work. Either +dead or a fugitive somewhere was Judson Clark, but that thought she +had to keep out of her mind. Sometimes, as the play went on, and +she was able to make her solid investments out of it, she wondered +if her ten years of retirement had been all the price she was to +pay for his ruin; but she put that thought away too, although she +never minimized her responsibility when she faced it. + +But her price had been heavy at that. She was childless and alone, +lavishing her aborted maternity on a brother who was living his +prosperous, cheerful and not too moral life at her expense. Fred +was, she knew, slightly drunk with success; he attended to his +minimum of labor with the least possible effort, had an expensive +apartment on the Drive, and neglected her except, when he needed +money. She began to see, as other women had seen before her, that +her success had, by taking away the necessity for initiative, been +extremely bad for him. + +That was the situation when, one night late in October, the trap of +Bassett's devising began to close in. It had been raining, but in +spite of that they had sold standing room to the fire limit. Having +got the treasurer's report on the night's business and sent it to +Beverly's dressing-room, Gregory wandered into his small, low-ceiled +office under the balcony staircase, and closing the door sat down. +It was the interval after the second act, and above the hum of +voices outside the sound of the orchestra penetrated faintly. + +He was entirely serene. He had a supper engagement after the show, +he had a neat car waiting outside to take him to it, and the night's +business had been extraordinary. He consulted his watch and then +picked up an evening paper. A few moments later he found himself +reading over and over a small notice inserted among the personals. + +"Personal: Jean Melis, who was in Norada, Wyoming, during the +early fall of 1911 please communicate with L 22, this office." + +The orchestra was still playing outside; the silly, giggling crowds +were moving back to their seats, and somewhere Jean Melis, or the +friends of Jean Melis, who would tell him of it, were reading that +message. + +He got his hat and went out, forgetful of the neat car at the curb, +of the supper engagement, of the night's business, and wandered +down the street through the rain. But his first uneasiness passed +quickly. He saw Bassett in the affair, and probably Clark himself, +still living and tardily determined to clear his name. But if the +worst came to the worst, what could they do? They could go only so +far, and then they would have to quit. + +It would be better, however, if they did not see Melis. Much +better; there was no use involving a simple situation. And Bev +could be kept out of it altogether, until it was over. Ashamed of +his panic he went back to the theater, got a railway schedule and +looked up trains. He should have done it long before, he recognized, +have gone to Bassett in the spring. But how could he have known +then that Bassett was going to make a life-work of the case? + +He had only one uncertainty. Suppose that Bassett had learned about +Clifton Hines? + +By the time the curtain rang down on the last act he was his dapper, +debonair self again, made his supper engagement, danced half the +night, and even dozed a little on the way home. But he slept badly +and was up early, struggling with the necessity for keeping Jean +Melis out of the way. + +He wondered through what formalities L 22, for instance, would have +to go in order to secure a letter addressed to him? Whether he had +to present a card or whether he walked in demanded his mail and went +away. That thought brought another with it. Wasn't it probable +that Bassett was in New York, and would call for his mail himself? + +He determined finally to take the chance, claim to be L 22, and if +Melis had seen the advertisement and replied, get the letter. It +would be easy to square it with the valet, by saying that he had +recognized him in the theater and that Miss Carlysle wished to send +him a box. + +He had small hope of a letter at his first call, unless the Frenchman +had himself seen the notice, but his anxiety drove him early to the +office. There was nothing there, but he learned one thing. He had +to go through with no formalities. The clerk merely looked in a box, +said "Nothing here," and went on about his business. At eleven +o'clock he went back again, and after a careful scrutiny of the +crowd presented himself once more. + +"L 22? Here you are." + +He had the letter in his hand. He had glanced at it and had thrust +it deep in his pocket, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He +wheeled and faced Bassett. + +"I thought I recognized that back," said the reporter, cheerfully. +"Come over here, old man. I want to talk to you." + +But he held to Gregory's shoulder. In a corner Bassett dropped the +friendliness he had assumed for the clerk's benefit, and faced him +with cold anger. + +"I'll have that letter now, Gregory," he said. "And I've got a +damned good notion to lodge an information against you." + +"I don't know what you're talking about." + +"Forget it. I was behind you when you asked for that letter. Give +it here. I want to show you something." + +Suddenly, with the letter in his hand, Bassett laughed and then tore +it open. There was only a sheet of blank paper inside. + +"I wasn't sure you'd see it, and I didn't think you'd fall for it +if you did," he observed. "But I was pretty sure you didn't want +me to see Melis. Now I know it." + +"Well, I didn't," Gregory said sullenly. + +"Just the same, I expect to see him. The day's early yet, and +that's not a common name. But I'll take darned good care you don't +get any more letters from here." + +"What do you think Melis can tell you, that you don't know?" + +"I'll explain that to you some day," Bassett said cheerfully. "Some +day when you are in a more receptive mood than you are now. The +point at this moment seems to me to be, what does Melis know that +you don't want me to know? I suppose you don't intend to tell me." + +"Not here. You may believe it or not, Bassett, but I was going to +your town to-night to see you." + +"Well," Bassett said sceptically, "I've got your word for it. And +I've got nothing to do all day but to listen to you." + +To his proposition that they go to his hotel Gregory assented +sullenly, and they moved out to find a taxicab. On the pavement, +however, he held back. + +"I've got a right to know something," he said, "considering what +he's done to me and mine. Clark's alive, I suppose?" + +"He's alive all right." + +"Then I'll trade you, Bassett. I'll come over with what I know, if +you'll tell me one thing. What sent him into hiding for ten years, +and makes him turn up now, yelling for help?" + +Bassett reflected. The offer of a statement from Gregory was +valuable, but, on the other hand, he was anxious not to influence +his narrative. And Gregory saw his uncertainty. He planted +himself firmly on the pavement. + +"How about it?" he demanded. + +"I'll tell you this much, Gregory. He never meant to bring the +thing up again. In a way, it's me you're up against. Not Clark. +And you can be pretty sure I know what I'm doing. I've got Clark, +and I've got the report of the coroner's inquest, and I'll get +Melis. I'm going to get to the bottom of this if I have to dig a +hole that buries me." + +In a taxicab Gregory sat tense and erect, gnawing at his blond +mustache. After a time he said: + +"What are you after, in all this? The story, I suppose. And the +money. I daresay you're not doing it for love." + +Bassett surveyed him appraisingly. + +"You wouldn't understand my motives if I told you. As a matter of +fact, he doesn't want the money." + +Gregory sneered. + +"Don't kid yourself," he said. "However, as a matter of fact I +don't think he'll take it. It might cost too much. Where is he? +Shooting pills again?" + +"You'll see him in about five minutes." + +If the news was a surprise Gregory gave no evidence of it, except +to comment: + +"You're a capable person, aren't you? I'll bet you could tune a +piano if you were put to it." + +He carried the situation well, the reporter had to admit; the only +evidence he gave of strain was that the hands with which he lighted +a cigarette were unsteady. He surveyed the obscure hotel at which +the cab stopped with a sneering smile, and settled his collar as he +looked it over. + +"Not advertising to the world that you're in town, I see." + +"We'll do that, just as soon as we're ready. Don't worry." + +The laugh he gave at that struck unpleasantly on Bassett's ears. +But inside the building he lost some of his jauntiness. "Queer +place to find Judson Clark," he said once. + +And again: + +"You'd better watch him when I go in. He may bite me." + +To which Bassett grimly returned: "He's probably rather particular +what he bites." + +He was uneasily conscious that Gregory, while nervous and tense, +was carrying the situation with a certain assurance. If he was +acting it was very good acting. And that opinion was strengthened +when he threw open the door and Gregory advanced into the room. + +"Well, Clark," he said, coolly. "I guess you didn't expect to see +me, did you?" + +He made no offer to shake hands as Dick turned from the window, nor +did Dick make any overtures. But there was no enmity at first in +either face; Gregory was easy and assured, Dick grave, and, Bassett +thought, slightly impatient. From that night in his apartment the +reporter had realized that he was constantly fighting a sort of +passive resistance in Dick, a determination not at any cost to +involve Beverly. Behind that, too, he felt that still another +battle was going on, one at which he could only guess, but which +made Dick somber at times and grimly quiet always. + +"I meant to look you up," was his reply to Gregory's nonchalant +greeting. + +"Well, your friend here did that for you," Gregory said, and smiled +across at Bassett. "He has his own methods, and I'll say they're +effectual." + +He took off his overcoat and flung it on the bed, and threw a swift, +appraising glance at Dick. It was on Dick that he was banking, not +on Bassett. He hated and feared Bassett. He hated Dick, but he was +not afraid of him. He lighted a cigarette and faced Dick with a +malicious smile. + +"So here we are, again, Jud!" he said. "But with this change, that +now it's you who are the respectable member of the community, and +I'm the--well, we'll call it the butterfly." + +There was unmistakable insult in his tone, and Dick caught it. + +"Then I take it you're still living off your sister?" + +The contempt in Dick's voice whipped the color to Gregory's face +and clenched his fist. But he relaxed in a moment and laughed. + +"Don't worry, Bassett," he said, his eyes on Dick. "We haven't any +reason to like each other, but he's bigger than I am. I won't hit +him." Then he hardened his voice. "But I'll remind you, Clark, that +personally I don't give a God-damn whether you swing or not. Also +that I can keep my mouth shut, walk out of here, and have you in +quod in the next hour, if I decide to." + +"But you won't," Bassett said smoothly. "You won't, any more than +you did it last spring, when you sent that little letter of yours +to David Livingstone." + +"No. You're right. I won't. But if I tell you what I came here +to say, Bassett, get this straight. It's not because I'm afraid of +you, or of him. Donaldson's dead. What value would Melis's +testimony have after ten years, if you put him on the stand? It's +not that. It's because you'll put your blundering foot into it and +ruin Bev's career, unless I tell you the truth." + +It was to Bassett then that he told his story, he and Bassett +sitting, Dick standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece, tall and +weary and almost detached. + +"I've got to make my own position plain in this," he said. "I +didn't like Clark, and I kept her from marrying him. There was one +time, before she met Lucas, when she almost did it. I was away +when she decided on that fool trip to the Clark ranch. We couldn't +get a New York theater until November, and she had some time, so +they went. I've got her story of what happened there. You can +check it up with what you know." + +He turned to Dick for a moment. + +"You were drinking pretty hard that night, but you may remember +this: She had quarreled with Lucas at dinner that night and with +you. That's true, isn't it?" + +"Yes." + +"She went to her room and began to pack her things. Then she +thought it over, and she decided to try to persuade Lucas to go +too. Things had begun all right, but they were getting strained +and unpleasant. She went down the stairs, and Melis saw her, the +valet. The living-room was dark, but there was a light coming +through the billiard room door, and against it she saw the figure +of a man in the doorway. He had his back to her, and he had a +revolver in his hand. She ran across the room when he heard her +and when he turned she saw it was Lucas. Do you remember, Jud, +having a revolver and Lucas taking it from you?" + +"No. Donaldson testified I'd had a revolver." + +"Well, that's how we figure he'd got the gun. She thought at once +that Lucas and you had quarreled, and that he was going to shoot. +She tried to take it from him, but he was drunk and stubborn. It +went off and killed him." + +Bassett leaned forward. + +"That's straight, is it?" + +"I'm telling you." + +"Then why in God's name didn't she say that at the inquest?" + +"She was afraid it wouldn't be believed. Look at the facts. She'd +quarreled with Lucas. There had been a notorious situation with +regard to Clark. And remember this. She had done it. I know her +well enough, however, to say that she would have confessed, +eventually, but Clark had beaten it. It was reasonably sure that +he was lost in the blizzard. You've got to allow for that." + +Bassett said nothing. After a silence Dick spoke: + +"What about the revolver?" + +"She had it in her hand. She dropped it and stood still, too +stunned to scream. Lucas, she says, took a step or two forward, +and fell through the doorway. Donaldson came running in, and +you know the rest." + +Bassett was the first to break the silence. + +"She will be willing to testify to that now, of course?" + +"And stand trial?" + +"Not necessarily. Clark would be on trial. He's been indicted. +He has to be tried." + +"Why does he have to be tried? He's free now. He's been free for +ten years. And I tell you as an honest opinion that the thing +would kill her. Accident and all, she did it. And there would be +some who'd never believe she hadn't tired of Lucas, and wanted the +Clark money." + +"That's a chance she'll have to take," Bassett said doggedly. "The +only living witness who could be called would be the valet. And +remember this: for ten years he has believed that she did it. He'll +have built up a story by this time, perhaps unconsciously, that +might damn her." + +Dick moved. + +"There's only one thing to do. You're right, Gregory. I'll +never expose her to that." + +"You're crazy," Bassett said angrily. + +"Not at all. I told you I wouldn't hide behind a woman. As a +matter of fact, I've learned what I wanted. Lucas wasn't murdered. +I didn't shoot him. That's what really matters. I'm no worse off +than I was before; considerably better, in fact. And I don't see +what's to be gained by going any further." + +In spite of his protests, Bassett was compelled finally to agree. +He was sulky and dispirited. He saw the profound anticlimax to all +his effort of Dick wandering out again, legally dead and legally +guilty, and he swore roundly under his breath. + +"All right," he grunted at last. "I guess that's the last word, +Gregory. But you tell her from me that if she doesn't reopen the +matter of her own accord, she'll have a man's life on her +conscience." + +"I'll not tell her anything about it. I'm not only her brother; +I'm her manager now. And I'm not kicking any hole in the boat that +floats me." + +He was self-confident and slightly insolent; the hands with which +he lighted a fresh cigarette no longer trembled, and the glance +he threw at Dick was triumphant and hostile. + +"As a man sows, Clark!" he said. "You sowed hell for a number of +people once." + +Bassett had to restrain an impulse to kick him out of the door. +When he had gone Bassett turned to Dick with assumed lightness. + +"Well," he said, "here we are, all dressed up and nowhere to go!" + +He wandered around the room, restless and disappointed. He knew, +and Dick knew, that they had come to the end of the road, and that +nothing lay beyond. In his own unpleasant way Fred Gregory had +made a case for his sister that tied their hands, and the crux of +the matter had lain in his final gibe: "As a man sows, Clark, so +shall he reap." The moral issue was there. + + +"I suppose the Hines story goes by the board, eh?" he commented +after a pause. + +"Yes. Except that I wish I'd known about him when I could have +done something. He's my half-brother, any way you look at it, +and he had a rotten deal. Sometimes a man sows," he added, with +a wry smile, "and the other fellow reaps." + +Bassett went out after that, going to the office on the chance of +a letter from Melis, but there was none. When he came back he +found Dick standing over a partially packed suitcase, and knew that +they had come to the end of the road indeed. + +"What's the next step?" he asked bluntly. + +"I'll have to leave here. It's too expensive." + +"And after that, what?" + +"I'll get a job. I suppose a man is as well hidden here as anywhere. +I can grow a beard-that's the usual thing, isn't it?" + +Bassett made an impatient gesture, and fell to pacing the floor. +"It's incredible," he said. "It's monstrous. It's a joke. Here +you are, without a thing against you, and hung like Mahomet's +coffin between heaven and earth. It makes me sick." + +He went home that night, leaving word to have any letters for L 22 +forwarded, but without much hope. His last clutch of Dick's hand +had a sort of desperate finality in it, and he carried with him +most of the way home the tall, worn and rather shabby figure that +saw him off with a smile. + +By the next afternoon's mail he received a note from New York, with +a few words of comment penciled on it in Dick's writing. "This +came this evening. I sent back the money. D." The note was from +Gregory and had evidently enclosed a one-hundred dollar bill. It +began without superscription: "Enclosed find a hundred dollars, +as I imagine funds may be short. If I were you I'd get out of here. +There has been considerable excitement, and you know too many people +in this burg." + +Bassett sat back in his chair and studied the note. + +"Now why the devil did he do that?" he reflected. He sat for some +time, thinking deeply, and he came to one important conclusion. +The story Gregory had told was the one which was absolutely +calculated to shut off all further inquiry. They had had ten years; +ten years to plan, eliminate and construct; ten years to prepare +their defense, in case Clark turned up. Wasn't that why Gregory +had been so assured? But he had not been content to let well enough +alone; he had perhaps overreached himself. + +Then what was the answer? She had killed Lucas, but was it an +accident? And there must have been a witness, or they would have +had nothing to fear. He wrote out on a bit of paper three names, +and sat looking at them: + +Hattie Thorwald +Jean Melis +Clifton Hines. + + + + +XLI + +Elizabeth had quite definitely put Dick out of her heart. On the +evening of the day she learned he had come back and had not seen +her, she deliberately killed her love and decently interred it. +She burned her notes and his one letter and put away her ring, +performing the rites not as rites but as a shameful business to be +done with quickly. She tore his photograph into bits and threw them +into her waste basket, and having thus housecleaned her room set to +work to houseclean her heart. + +She found very little to do. She was numb and totally without +feeling. The little painful constriction in her chest which had so +often come lately with her thoughts of him was gone. She felt +extraordinarily empty, but not light, and her feet dragged about +the room. + +She felt no sense of Dick's unworthiness, but simply that she was +up against something she could not fight, and no longer wanted to +fight. She was beaten, but the strange thing was that she did not +care. Only, she would not be pitied. As the days went on she +resented the pity that had kept her in ignorance for so long, and +had let her wear her heart on her sleeve; and she even wondered +sometimes whether the story of Dick's loss of memory had not been +false, evolved out of that pity and the desire to save her pain. + +David sent for her, but she wrote him a little note, formal and +restrained. She would come in a day or two, but now she must get +her bearings. He was, to know that she was not angry, and felt it +all for the best, and she was very lovingly his, Elizabeth. + +She knew now that she would eventually marry Wallie Sayre if only +to get away from pity. He would have to know the truth about her, +that she did not love any one; not even her father and her mother. +She pretended to care for fear of hurting them, but she was actually +frozen quite hard. She did not believe in love. It was a terrible +thing, to be avoided by any one who wanted to get along, and this +avoiding was really quite simple. One simply stopped feeling. + +On the Sunday after she had come to this comfortable knowledge she +sat in the church as usual, in the choir stalls, and suddenly she +hated the church. She hated the way the larynx of Henry Wallace, +the tenor, stuck out like a crabapple over his low collar. She +hated the fat double chin of the bass. She hated the talk about +love and the certain rewards of virtue, and the faces of the +congregation, smug and sure of salvation. + +She went to the choir master after the service to hand in her +resignation. And did not, because it had occurred to her that it +might look, to use Nina's word, as though she were crushed. +Crushed! That was funny. + +Wallie Sayre was waiting for her outside, and she went up with him +to lunch, and afterwards they played golf. They had rather an +amusing game, and once she had to sit down on a bunker and laugh +until she was weak, while he fought his way out of a pit. Crushed, +indeed! + +So the weaving went on, almost completed now. With Wallie Sayre +biding his time, but fairly sure of the result. With Jean Melis +happening on a two-days' old paper, and reading over and over a +notice addressed to him. With Leslie Ward, neither better nor +worse than his kind, seeking adventure in a bypath, which was East +56th Street. And with Dick wandering the streets of New York after +twilight, and standing once with his coat collar turned up against +the rain outside of the Metropolitan Club, where the great painting +of his father hung over a mantelpiece. + +Now that he was near Beverly, Dick hesitated to see her. He felt +no resentment at her long silence, nor at his exile which had +resulted from it. He made excuses for her, recognized his own +contribution to the catastrophe, knew, too, that nothing was to be +gained by seeing her again. But he determined finally to see her +once more, and then to go away, leaving her to peace and to success. + +She would know now that she had nothing to fear from him. All he +wanted was to satisfy the hunger that was in him by seeing her, and +then to go away. + +Curiously, that hunger to see her had been in abeyance while Bassett +was with him. It was only when he was alone again that it came up; +and although he knew that, he was unconscious of another fact, that +every word, every picture of her on the great boardings which walled +in every empty lot, everything, indeed, which brought her into the +reality of the present, loosened by so much her hold on him out of +the past. + +When he finally went to the 56th Street house it was on impulse. +He had meant to pass it, but he found himself stopping, and half +angrily made his determination. He would follow the cursed thing +through now and get it over. Perhaps he had discounted it too much +in advance, waited too long, hoped too much. Perhaps it was simply +that that last phase was already passing. But he felt no thrill, +no expectancy, as he rang the bell and was admitted to the familiar +hall. + +It was peopled with ghosts, for him. Upstairs, in the drawing-room +that extended across the front of the house, she had told him of +her engagement to Howard Lucas. Later on, coming back from Europe, +he had gone back there to find Lucas installed in the house, his +cigars on the table, his photographs on the piano, his books +scattered about. And Lucas himself, smiling, handsome and +triumphant on the hearth rug, dressed for dinner except for a +brocaded dressing-gown, putting his hand familiarly on Beverly's +shoulder, and calling her "old girl." + +He wandered into the small room to the right of the hall, where in +other days he had waited to be taken upstairs, and stood looking +out of the window. He heard some one, a caller, come down, get +into his overcoat in the hall and go out, but he was not interested. +He did not know that Leslie Ward had stood outside the door for a +minute, had seen and recognized him, and had then slammed out. + +He was quite steady as the butler preceded him up the stairs. He +even noticed certain changes in the house, the door at the landing +converted into an arch, leaded glass in the dining-room windows +beyond it. But he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and +saw himself a shabby contrast to the former days. + +He faced her, still with that unexpected composure, and he saw her +very little changed. Even the movement with which she came toward +him with both hands out was familiar. + +"Jud!" she said. "Oh, my dear!" + +He saw that she was profoundly moved, and suddenly he was sorry for +her. Sorry for the years behind them both, for the burden she had +carried, for the tears in her eyes. + +"Dear old Bev!" he said. + +She put her head against his shoulder, and cried unrestrainedly; +and he held her there, saying small, gentle, soothing things, +smoothing her hair. But all the time he knew that life had been +playing him another trick; he felt a great tenderness for her and +profound pity, but he did not love her, or want her. He saw that +after all the suffering and waiting, the death and exile, he was +left at the end with nothing. Nothing at all. + +When she was restored to a sort of tense composure he found to his +discomfort that woman-like she intended to abase herself thoroughly +and completely. She implored his forgiveness for his long exile, +gazing at him humbly, and when he said in a matter-of-fact tone +that he had been happy, giving him a look which showed that she +thought he was lying to save her unhappiness. + +"You are trying to make it easier for me. But I know, Jud." + +"I'm telling you the truth," he said, patiently. "There's one +point I didn't think necessary to tell your brother. For a good +while I didn't remember anything about it. If it hadn't been for +that-well, I don't know. Anyhow, don't look at me as though I +willfully saved you. I didn't." + +She sat still, pondering that, and twisting a ring on her finger. + +"What do you mean to do?" she asked, after a pause. + +"I don't know. I'll find something." + +"You won't go back to your work?" + +"I don't see how I can. I'm in hiding, in a sort of casual fashion." + +To his intense discomfiture she began to cry again. She couldn't +go through with it. She would go back to Norada and tell the whole +thing. She had let Fred influence her, but she saw now she couldn't +do it. But for the first time he felt that in this one thing she +was not sincere. Her grief and abasement had been real enough, but +now he felt she was acting. + +"Suppose we don't go into that now," he said gently. "You've had +about all you can stand." He got up awkwardly. "I suppose you are +playing to-night?" + +She nodded, looking up at him dumbly. + +"Better lie down, then, and--forget me." He smiled down at her. + +"I've never forgotten you, Jud. And now, seeing you again--I--" + +Her face worked. She continued to look up at him, piteously. The +appalling truth came to him then, and that part of him which had +remained detached and aloof, watching, almost smiled at the irony. +She cared for him. Out of her memories she had built up something +to care for, something no more himself than she was the woman of +his dreams; but with this difference, that she was clinging, +woman-fashion, to the thing she had built, and he had watched it +crumble before his eyes. + +"Will you promise to go and rest?" + +"Yes. If you say so." + +She was acquiescent and humble. Her eyes were soft, faithful, +childlike. + +"I've suffered so, Jud." + +"I know." + +"You don't hate me, do you?" + +"Why should I? Just remember this: while you were carrying this +burden, I was happier than I'd ever been. I'll tell you about it +some time." + +She got up, and he perceived that she expected him again to take +her in his arms. He felt ridiculous and resentful, and rather as +though he was expected to kiss the hand that had beaten him, but +when she came close to him he put an arm around her shoulders. + +"Poor Bev!" he said. "We've made pretty much a mess of it, haven't +we?" + +He patted her and let her go, and her eyes followed him as he left +the room. The elder brotherliness of that embrace had told her the +truth as he could never have hurt her in words. She went back to +the chair where he had sat, and leaned her cheek against it. + +After a time she went slowly upstairs and into her room. When her +maid came in she found her before the mirror of her dressing-table, +staring at her reflection with hard, appraising eyes. + +Leslie's partner, wandering into the hotel at six o'clock, found +from the disordered condition of the room that Leslie had been back, +had apparently bathed, shaved and made a careful toilet, and gone +out again. Joe found himself unexpectedly at a loose end. Filled, +with suppressed indignation he commenced to dress, getting out a +shirt, hunting his evening studs, and lining up what he meant to +say to Leslie over his defection. + +Then, at a quarter to seven, Leslie came in, top-hatted and +morning-coated, with a yellowing gardenia in his buttonhole and his +shoes covered with dust. + +"Hello, Les," Joe said, glancing up from a laborious struggle with +a stud. "Been to a wedding?" + +"Why?" + +"You look like it." + +"I made a call, and since then I've been walking." + +"Some walk, I'd say," Joe observed, looking at him shrewdly. +"What's wrong, Les? Fair one turn you down?" + +"Go to hell," Leslie said irritably. + +He flung off his coat and jerked at his tie. Then, with it hanging +loose, he turned to Joe. + +"I'm going to tell you something. I know it's safe with you, and +I need some advice. I called on a woman this afternoon. You know +who she is. Beverly Carlysle." + +Joe whistled softly. + +"That's not the point," Leslie declaimed, in a truculent voice. +"I'm not defending myself. She's a friend; I've got a right to +call there if I want to." + +"Sure you have," soothed Joe. + +"Well, you know the situation at home, and who Livingstone actually +is. The point is that, while that poor kid at home is sitting +around killing herself with grief, Clark's gone back to her. To +Beverly Carlysle." + +"How do you know?" + +"Know? I saw him this afternoon, at her house." + +He sat still, moodily reviewing the situation. His thoughts were +a chaotic and unpleasant mixture of jealousy, fear of Nina, anxiety +over Elizabeth, and the sense of a lost romantic adventure. After +a while he got up. + +"She's a nice kid," he said. "I'm fond of her. And I don't know +what to do." + +Suddenly Joe grinned. + +"I see," he said. "And you can't tell her, or the family, where +you saw him!" + +"Not without raising the deuce of a row." + +He began, automatically, to dress for dinner. Joe moved around +the room, rang for a waiter, ordered orange juice and ice, and +produced a bottle of gin from his bag. Leslie did not hear him, nor +the later preparation of the cocktails. He was reflecting bitterly +on the fact that a man who married built himself a wall against +romance, a wall, compounded of his own new sense of responsibility, +of family ties, and fear. + +Joe brought him a cocktail. + +"Drink it, old dear," he said. "And when it's down I'll tell you +a few little things about playing around with ladies who have a +past. Here's to forgetting 'em." + +Leslie took the glass. + +"Right-o," he said. + +He went home the following day, leaving Joe to finish the business +in New York. His going rather resembled a flight. Tossing +sleepless the night before, he had found what many a man had +discovered before him, that his love of clandestine adventure was +not as strong as his caution. He had had a shock. True, his affair +with Beverly had been a formless thing, a matter of imagination and +a desire to assure himself that romance, for him, was not yet dead. +True, too, that he had nothing to fear from Dick Livingstone. But +the encounter had brought home to him the danger of this old-new +game he was playing. He was running like a frightened child. + +He thought of various plans. One of them was to tell Nina the +truth, take his medicine of tears and coldness, and then go to Mr. +Wheeler. One was to go to Mr. Wheeler, without Nina, and make his +humiliating admission. But Walter Wheeler had his own rigid ideas, +was uncompromising in rectitude, and would understand as only a +man could that while so far he had been only mentally unfaithful, +he had been actuated by at least subconscious desire. + +His own awareness of that fact made him more cautious than he need +have been, perhaps more self-conscious. And he genuinely cared for +Elizabeth. It was, on the whole, a generous and kindly impulse that +lay behind his ultimate resolution to tell her that her desertion +was both wilful and cruel. + +Yet, when the time came, he found it hard to tell her. He took her +for a drive one evening soon after his return, forcibly driving off +Wallie Sayre to do so, and eying surreptitiously now and then her +pale, rather set face. He found a quiet lane and stopped the car +there, and then turned and faced her. + +"How've you been, little sister, while I've been wandering the gay +white way?" he asked. + +"I've been all right, Leslie." + +"Not quite all right, I think. Have you ever thought, Elizabeth, +that no man on earth is worth what you've been going through?" + +"I'm all right, I tell you," she said impatiently. "I'm not +grieving any more. That's the truth, Les. I know now that he +doesn't intend to come back, and I don't care. I never even think +about him, now." + +"I see," he said. "Well, that's that." + +But he had not counted on her intuition, and was startled to hear +her say: + +"Well? Go on." + +"What do you mean, go on?" + +"You brought me out here to tell me something." + +"Not at all. I simply--" + +"Where is he? You've seen him." + +He tried to meet her eyes, failed, cursed himself for a fool. "He's +alive and well, Elizabeth. I saw him in New York." It was a full +minute before she spoke again, and then her lips were stiff and her +voice strained. + +"Has he gone back to her? To the actress he used to care for?" + +He hesitated, but he knew he would have to go on. + +"I'm going to tell you something, Elizabeth. It's not very +creditable to me, but I'll have to trust you. I don't want to see +you wasting your life. You've got plenty of courage and a lot of +spirit. And you've got to forget him." + +He told her, and then he took her home. He was a little frightened, +for there was something not like her in the way she had taken it, a +sort of immobility that might, he thought, cover heartbreak. But +she smiled when she thanked him, and went very calmly into the house. + +That night she accepted Wallie Sayre. + + + + +XLIII + +Bassett was having a visitor. He sat in his chair while that visitor +ranged excitedly up and down the room, a short stout man, well dressed +and with a mixture of servility and importance. The valet's first +words, as he stood inside the door, had been significant. + +"I should like to know, first, if I am talking to the police." + +"No--and yes," Bassett said genially. "Come and sit down, man. +What I mean is this. I am a friend of Judson Clark's, and this may +or may not be a police matter. I don't know yet." + +"You are a friend of Mr. Clark's? Then the report was correct. +He is still alive, sir?" + +"Yes." + +The valet got out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He was +clearly moved. + +"I am glad of that. Very glad. I saw some months ago, in a +newspaper--where is he?" + +"In New York. Now Melis, I've an idea that you know something about +the crime Judson Clark was accused of. You intimated that at the +inquest." + +"Mrs. Lucas killed him." + +"So she says," Bassett said easily. + +The valet jumped and stared. + +"She admits it, as the result of an accident. She also admits +hiding the revolver where you found it." + +"Then you do not need me." + +"I'm not so sure of that." + +The valet was puzzled. + +"I want you to think back, Melis. You saw her go down the stairs, +sometime before the shot. Later you were confident she had hidden +the revolver, and you made a second search for it. Why? You hadn't +heard her testimony at the inquest then. Clark had run away. Why +didn't you think Clark had done it?" + +"Because I thought she was having an affair with another man. I +have always thought she did it." + +Bassett nodded. + +"I thought so. What made you think that?" + +"I'll tell you. She went West without a maid, and Mr. Clark got +a Swedish woman from a ranch near to look after her, a woman named +Thorwald. She lived at her own place and came over every day. One +night, after Mrs. Thorwald had started home, I came across her down +the road near the irrigator's house, and there was a man with her. +They didn't hear me behind them, and he was giving her a note for +some one in the house." + +"Why not for one of the servants?" + +"That's what I thought then, sir. It wasn't my business. But I +saw the same man later on, hanging about the place at night, and +once I saw her with him--Mrs. Lucas, I mean. That was in the +early evening. The gentlemen were out riding, and I'd gone with +one of the maids to a hill to watch the moon rise. They were on +some rocks, below in the canyon." + +"Did you see him?" + +"I think it was the same man, if that's what you mean. I knew +something queer was going on, after that, and I watched her. She +went out at night more than once. Then I told Donaldson there was +somebody hanging round the place, and he set a watch." + +"Fine. Now we'll go to the night Lucas was shot. Was the Thorwald +woman there?" + +"She had started home." + +"Leaving Mrs. Lucas packing alone?" + +"Yes. I hadn't thought of that. The Thorwald woman heard the shot +and came back. I remember that, because she fainted upstairs and I +had to carry her to a bed." + +"I see. Now about the revolver." + +"I located it the first time I looked for it. Donaldson and the +others had searched the billiard room. So I tried the big room. +It was under a chair. I left it there, and concealed myself in +the room. She, Mrs. Lucas, came down late that night and hunted +for it. Then she hid it where I got it later." + +"I wish I knew, Melis, why you didn't bring those facts out at +the inquest." + +"You must remember this, sir. I had been with Mr. Clark for a +long time. I knew the situation. And I thought that he had gone +away that night to throw suspicion from her to himself. I was not +certain what to do. I would have told it all in court, but it +never came to trial." + +Bassett was satisfied and fairly content. After the Frenchman's +departure he sat for some time, making careful notes and studying +them. Supposing the man Melis had seen to be Clifton Hines, a +good many things would be cleared up. Some new element he had to +have, if Gregory's story were to be disproved, some new and +different motive. Suppose, for instance... + +He got up and paced the floor back and forward, forward and back. +There was just one possibility, and just one way of verifying it. +He sat down and wrote out a long telegram and then got his hat +and carried it to the telegraph office himself. He had made his +last throw. + +He received a reply the following day, and in a state of +exhilaration bordering on madness packed his bag, and as he packed +it addressed it, after the fashion of lonely men the world over. + +"Just one more trip, friend cowhide," he said, "and then you and +I are going to settle down again to work. But it's some trip, +old arm-breaker." + +He put in his pajamas and handkerchiefs, his clean socks and +collars, and then he got his revolver from a drawer and added it. +Just twenty-four hours later he knocked at Dick's door in a +boarding-house on West Ninth Street, found it unlocked, and went +in. Dick was asleep, and Bassett stood looking down at him with +an odd sort of paternal affection. Finally he bent down and touched +his shoulder. + +"Wake up, old top," he said. "Wake up. I have some news for you." + + + + +XLIV + +To Dick the last day or two had been nightmares of loneliness. He +threw caution to the winds and walked hour after hour, only to find +that the street crowds, people who had left a home or were going to +one, depressed him and emphasized his isolation. He had deliberately +put away from him the anchor that had been Elizabeth and had followed +a treacherous memory, and now he was adrift. He told himself that +he did not want much. Only peace, work and a place. But he had not +one of them. + +He was homesick for David, for Lucy, and, with a tightening of the +heart he admitted it, for Elizabeth. And he had no home. He thought +of Reynolds, bent over the desk in his office; he saw the quiet +tree-shaded streets of the town, and Reynolds, passing from house +to house in the little town, doing his work, usurping his place in +the confidence and friendship of the people; he saw the very +children named for him asking: "Who was I named for, mother?" He +saw David and Lucy gone, and the old house abandoned, or perhaps +echoing to the laughter of Reynolds' children. + +He had moments when he wondered what would happen if he took Beverly +at her word. Suppose she made her confession, re-opened the thing, +to fill the papers with great headlines, "Judson Clark Not Guilty. +A Strange Story." + +He saw himself going back to the curious glances of the town, never +to be to them the same as before. To face them and look them down, +to hear whispers behind his back, to feel himself watched and +judged, on that far past of his. Suppose even that it could be kept +out of the papers; Wilkins amiable and acquiescent, Beverly's +confession hidden in the ruck of legal documents; and he stealing +back, to go on as best he could, covering his absence with lies, +and taking up his work again. But even that uneasy road was closed +to him. He saw David and Lucy stooping to new and strange +hypocrisies, watching with anxious old eyes the faces of their +neighbors, growing defiant and hard as time went on and suspicion +still followed him. + +And there was Elizabeth. + +He tried not to think of her, save as of some fine and tender thing +he had once brushed as he passed by. Even if she still cared for +him, he could, even less than David and Lucy, ask her to walk the +uneasy road with him. She was young. She would forget him and +marry Wallace Sayre. She would have luxury and gaiety, and the +things that belong to youth. + +He was not particularly bitter about that. He knew now that he had +given her real love, something very different from that early +madness of his, but he knew it too late... + +He looked up at Bassett and then sat up. + +"What sort of news?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. + +"Get up and put some cold water on your head. I want you to get +this." + +He obeyed, but without enthusiasm. Some new clue, some hope +revived only to die again, what did it matter? But he stopped by +Bassett and put a hand on his shoulder. + +"Why do you do it?" he asked. "Why don't you let me go to the +devil in my own way?" + +"I started this, and by Heaven I've finished it," was Bassett's +exultant reply. + +He sat down and produced a bundle of papers. "I'm going to read +you something," he said. "And when I'm through you're going to put +your clothes on and we'll go to the Biltmore. The Biltmore. Do +you get it?" + +Then he began to read. + +"I, the undersigned, being of sound mind, do hereby make the +following statement. I make the statement of my own free will, and +swear before Almighty God that it is the truth. I am an illegitimate +son of Elihu Clark. My mother, Harriet Burgess, has since married +and is now known as Hattie Thorwald. She will confirm the statements +herein contained. + +"I was adopted by a woman named Hines, of the city of Omaha, whose +name I took. Some years later this woman married and had a +daughter, of whom I shall speak later. + +"I attended preparatory school in the East, and was sent during +vacations to a tutoring school, owned by Mr. Henry Livingstone. +When I went to college Mr. Livingstone bought a ranch at Dry River, +Wyoming, and I spent some time there now and then. + +"I learned that I was being supported and sent to college from +funds furnished by a firm of New York lawyers, and that aroused +my suspicion. I knew that Mrs. Hines was not my mother. I finally +learned that I was the son of Elihu Clark and Harriet Burgess. + +"I felt that I should have some part of the estate, and I +developed a hatred of Judson Clark, whom I knew. I made one attempt +to get money from him by mail, threatening to expose his father's +story, but I did not succeed. + +"I visited my mother, Hattie Thorwald, and threatened to kill Clark. +I also threatened Henry Livingstone, and his death came during a +dispute over the matter, but I did not kill him. He fell down and +hit his head. He had a weak heart. + +"My foster-sister had gone on the stage, and Clark was infatuated +with her. I saw him a number of times, but he did not connect me +with the letter I had sent. My foster-sister's stage name is +Beverly Carlysle. + +"She married Howard Lucas and they visited the Clark ranch at +Norada, Wyoming, in the fall of 1911. I saw my sister there +several times, and as she knew the way I felt she was frightened. +My mother, Hattie Thorwald, was a sort of maid to her, and together +they tried to get me to go away." + +Bassett looked up. + +"Up to that point," he said, "I wrote it myself before I saw him." +There was a note of triumph in his voice. "The rest is his." + +"On the night Lucas was killed I was to go away. Bev had agreed +to give me some money, for the piece had quit in June and I was +hard up. She was going to borrow it from Jud Clark, and that set +me crazy. I felt it ought to be mine, or a part of it anyhow. + +"I was to meet my mother in the grounds, but I missed her, and I +went to the house. I wasn't responsible for what I did. I was +crazy, I guess. I saw Donaldson on the side porch, and beyond him +were Lucas and Clark, playing roulette. It made me wild. I +couldn't have played roulette that night for pennies. + +"I went around the house and in the front door. What I meant to do +was to walk into that room and tell Clark who I was. He knew me, +and all I meant to do was to call Bev down, and mother, and make +him sit up and take notice. I hadn't a gun on me. + +"I swear I wasn't thinking of killing him then. I hated him like +poison, but that was all. But I went into the living-room, and I +heard Clark say he'd lost a thousand dollars. Maybe you don't get +that. A thousand dollars thrown around like that, and me living +on what Bev could borrow from him. + +"That sent me wild. Lucas took a gun from him, just after that, +and said he was going to put it in the other room. He did it, too. +He put it on a table and started back. I got it and pointed it at +Clark. I'd have shot him, too, but Bev came into the room. + +"I want to exonerate Bev. She has been better than most sisters +to me, and she has lied to try to save me. She came up behind me +and grabbed my arm. Lucas had heard her, and he turned. I must +have closed my hand on the trigger, for it went off and hit him. + +"I was in the living-room when Donaldson ran in. I hid there until +they were all gathered around Lucas and had quit running in, and +then I got away. I saw my mother in the grounds later. I told her +where the revolver was and that they'd better put it in the billiard +room. I was afraid they'd suspect Bev. + +"I have read the above statement and it is correct. I was legally +adopted by Mrs. Alice Ford Hines, of Omaha, and use that signature. +I generally use the name of Frederick Gregory, which I took when I +was on the stage for a short time. + +"(Signed) Clifton HINES." + + +Bassett folded up the papers and put them in the envelope. "I got +that," he said, "at the point of a gun, my friend. And our friend +Hines departed for the Mexican border on the evening train. I +don't mind saying that I saw him off. He held out for a get-away, +and I guess it's just as well." + +He glanced at Dick, lying still and rigid on the bed. + +"And now," he said. "I think a little drink won't do us any harm." + +Dick refused to drink. He was endeavoring to comprehend the +situation; to realize that Gregory, who had faced him with such +sneering hate a day or so before, was his half-brother. + +"Poor devil!" he said at last. "I wish to God I'd known. He was +right, you know. No wonder--" + +Sometime later he roused from deep study and looked at Bassett. + +"How did you get the connection?" + +"I saw Melis, and learned that Hines was in it somehow. He was the +connecting link between Beverly Carlysle and the Thorwald woman. +But I couldn't connect him with Beverly herself, except by a chance. +I wired a man I knew in Omaha, and he turned up the second marriage, +and a daughter known on the stage as Beverly Carlysle." + +Bassett was in high spirits. He moved about the room immensely +pleased with himself, slightly boastful. + +"Some little stroke, Dick!" he said. "What price Mr. Judson Clark +to-night, eh? It will be worth a million dollars to see Wilkins' +face when he reads that thing." + +"There's no mention of me as Livingstone in it, is there?" + +"It wasn't necessary to go into that. I didn't know-- Look here," +he exploded, "you're not going to be a damned fool, are you?" + +"I'm not going to revive Judson Clark, Bassett. I don't owe him +anything. Let him die a decent death and stay dead." + +"Oh, piffle!" Bassett groaned. "Don't start that all over again. +Don't pull any Enoch Arden stuff on me, looking in at a lighted +window and wandering off to drive a taxicab." + +Suddenly Dick laughed. Bassett watched him, puzzled and angry, +with a sort of savage tenderness. + +"You're crazy," he said morosely. "Darned if I understand you. +Here I've got everything fixed as slick as a whistle, and it took +work, believe me. And now you say you're going to chuck the whole +thing." + +"Not at all," Dick replied, with a new ring in his voice. "You're +right. I've been ten sorts of a fool, but I know now what I'm +going to do. Take your paper, old friend, and for my sake go out +and clear Jud Clark. Put up a headstone to him, if you like, a +good one. I'll buy it." + +"And what will you be doing in the meantime?" + +Dick stretched and threw out his arms. + +"Me?" he said. "What should I be doing, old man? I'm going home." + + + + +XLV + +Lucy Crosby was dead. One moment she was of the quick, moving +about the house, glancing in at David, having Minnie in the kitchen +pin and unpin her veil; and the next she was still and infinitely +mysterious, on her white bed. She had fallen outside the door of +David's room, and lay there, her arms still full of fresh bath +towels, and a fixed and intense look in her eyes, as though, outside +the door, she had come face to face with a messenger who bore +surprising news. Doctor Reynolds, running up the stairs, found her +there dead, and closed the door into David's room. + +But David knew before they told him. He waited until they had +placed her on her bed, had closed her eyes and drawn a white +coverlet over her, and then he went in alone, and sat down beside +her, and put a hand over her chilling one. + +"If you are still here, Lucy," he said, "and have not yet gone on, +I want you to carry this with you. We are all right, here. +Everybody is all right. You are not to worry." + +After a time he went back to his room and got his prayer-book. +He could hear Harrison Miller's voice soothing Minnie in the lower +hall, and Reynolds at the telephone. He went back into the quiet +chamber, and opening the prayer-book, began to read aloud. + +"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits +of them that slept--" + +His voice tightened. He put his head down on the side of the bed. + +He was very docile that day. He moved obediently from his room for +the awful aftermath of a death, for the sweeping and dusting and +clean curtains, and sat in Dick's room, not reading, not even +praying, a lonely yet indomitable old figure. When his friends +came, elderly men who creaked in and tried to reduce their robust +voices to a decorous whisper, he shook hands with them and made +brief, courteous replies. Then he lapsed into silence. They felt +shut off and uncomfortable, and creaked out again. + +Only once did he seem shaken. That was when Elizabeth came swiftly +in and put her arms around him as he sat. He held her close to him, +saying nothing for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath. + +"I was feeling mighty lonely, my dear," he said. + +He was the better for her visit. He insisted on dressing that +evening, and on being helped down the stairs. The town, which +had seemed inimical for so long, appeared to him suddenly to be +holding out friendly hands. More than friendly hands. Loving, +tender hands, offering service and affection and old-time +friendship. It moved about sedately, in dark clothes, and came +down the stairs red-eyed and using pocket-hand-kerchiefs, and it +surrounded him with love and loving kindness. + +When they had all gone Harrison Miller helped him up the stairs to +where his tidy bed stood ready, and the nurse had placed his hot +milk on a stand. But Harrison did not go at once. + +"What about word to Dick, David?" he inquired awkwardly, "I've +called up Bassett, but he's away. And I don't know that Dick ought +to come back anyhow. If the police are on the job at all they'll +be on the lookout now. They'll know he may try to come." + +David looked away. Just how much he wanted Dick, to tide him over +these bad hours, only David knew. But he could not have him. He +stared at the glass of hot milk. + +"I guess I can fight this out alone, Harrison," he said. "And Lucy +will understand." + +He did not sleep much that night. Once or twice he got up and +tip-toed across the hall into Lucy's room and looked at her. She +was as white as her pillow, and quite serene. Her hands, always a +little rough and twisted with service, were smooth and rested. + +"You know why he can't come, Lucy," he said once. "It doesn't +mean that he doesn't care. You have to remember that." His +sublime faith that she heard and understood, not the Lucy on the +bed but the Lucy who had not yet gone on to the blessed company +of heaven, carried him back to his bed, comforted and reassured. + +He was up and about his room early. The odor of baking muffins +and frying ham came up the stair-well, and the sound of Mike +vigorously polishing the floor in the hall. Mixed with the odor +of cooking and of floor wax was the scent of flowers from Lucy's +room, and Mrs. Sayre's machine stopped at the door while the +chauffeur delivered a great mass of roses. + +David went carefully down the stairs and into his office, and there, +at his long deserted desk, commenced a letter to Dick. + +He was sitting there when Dick came up the street... + +The thought that he was going home had upheld Dick through the days +that followed Bassett's departure for the West. He knew that it +would be a fight, that not easily does a man step out of life and +into it again, but after his days of inaction he stood ready to +fight. For David, for Lucy, and, if it was not too late, for +Elizabeth. When Bassett's wire came from Norada, "All clear," he +set out for Haverly, more nearly happy than for months. The very +rhythm of the train sang: "Going home; going home." + +At the Haverly station the agent stopped, stared at him and then +nodded gravely. There was something restrained in his greeting, +like the voices in the old house the night before, and Dick felt +a chill of apprehension. He never thought of Lucy, but David... +The flowers and ribbon at the door were his first intimation, and +still it was David he thought of. He went cold and bitter, standing +on the freshly washed pavement, staring at them. It was all too +late. David! David! + +He went into the house slowly, and the heavy scent of flowers +greeted him. The hall was empty, and automatically he pushed open +the door to David's office and went in. David was at the desk +writing. David was alive. Thank God and thank God, David was alive. + +"David!" he said brokenly. "Dear old David!" And was suddenly +shaken with dry, terrible sobbing. + +There was a great deal to do, and Dick was grateful for it. But +first, like David, he went in and sat by Lucy's bed alone and talked +to her. Not aloud, as David did, but still with that same queer +conviction that she heard. He told her he was free, and that she +need not worry about David, that he was there now to look after him; +and he asked her, if she could, to help him with Elizabeth. Then +he kissed her and went out. + +He met Elizabeth that day. She had come to the house, and after +her custom now went up, unwarned, to David's room. She found David +there and Harrison Miller, and--it was a moment before she realized +it--Dick by the mantel. He was greatly changed. She saw that. +But she had no feeling of pity, nor even of undue surprise. She +felt nothing at all. It gave her a curious, almost hard little +sense of triumph to see that he had gone pale. She marched up to +him and held out her hand, mindful of the eyes on her. + +"I'm so very sorry, Dick," she said. "You have a sad home-coming." + +Then she withdrew her hand, still calm, and turned to David. + +"Mother sent over some things. I'll give them to Minnie," she said, +her voice clear and steady. She went out, and they heard her +descending the stairs. + +She was puzzled to find out that her knees almost gave way on the +staircase, for she felt calm and without any emotion whatever. +And she finished her errand, so collected and poised that the two +or three women who had come in to help stared after her as she +departed. + +"Do you suppose she's seen him?" + +"She was in David's room. She must have." + +Mindful of Mike, they withdrew into Lucy's sitting-room and closed +the door, there to surmise and to wonder. Did he know she was +engaged to Wallie Sayre? Would she break her engagement now or not? +Did Dick for a moment think that he could do as he had done, go away +and jilt a girl, and come back to be received as though nothing had +happened? Because, if he did... + +To Dick Elizabeth's greeting had been a distinct shock. He had not +known just what he had expected; certainly he had not hoped to pick +things up where he had dropped them. But there was a hard +friendliness in it that was like a slap in the face. He had meant +at least to fight to win back with her, but he saw now that there +would not even be a fight. She was not angry or hurt. The barrier +was more hopeless than that. + +David, watching him, waited until Harrison had gone, and went +directly to the subject. + +"Have you ever stopped to think what these last months have meant +to Elizabeth? Her own worries, and always this infernal town, +talking, talking. The child's pride's been hurt, as well as her +heart." + +"I thought I'd better not go into that until after--until later," he +explained. "The other thing was wrong. I knew it the moment I saw +Beverly and I didn't go back again. What was the use? But--you +saw her face, David. I think she doesn't even care enough to hate me." + +"She's cared enough to engage herself to Wallace Sayre!" + +After one astounded glance Dick laughed bitterly. + +"That looks as though she cared!" he said. He had gone very white. +After a time, as David sat silent and thoughtful, he said: "After +all, what right had I to expect anything else? When you think that, +a few days ago, I was actually shaken at the thought of seeing +another woman, you can hardly blame her." + +"She waited a long time." + +Later Dick made what was a difficult confession under the +circumstances. + +"I know now--I think I knew all along, but the other thing was +like that craving for liquor I told you about--I know now that +she has always been the one woman. You'll understand that, perhaps, +but she wouldn't. I would crawl on my knees to make her believe it, +but it's too late. Everything's too late," he added. + +Before the hour for the services he went in again and sat by Lucy's +bed, but she who had given him wise counsel so many times before +lay in her majestic peace, surrounded by flowers and infinitely +removed. Yet she gave him something. Something of her own peace. +Once more, as on the night she had stood at the kitchen door and +watched him disappear in the darkness, there came the tug of the +old familiar things, the home sense. Not only David now, but the +house. The faded carpet on the stairs, the old self-rocker Lucy +had loved, the creaking faucets in the bathroom, Mike and Minnie, +the laboratory,--united in their shabby strength, they were home +to him. They had come back, never to be lost again. Home. + +Then, little by little, they carried their claim further. They +were not only home. They were the setting of a dream, long +forgotten but now vivid in his mind, and a refuge from the dreary +present. That dream had seen Elizabeth enshrined among the old +familiar things; the old house was to be a sanctuary for her and +for him. From it and from her in the dream he was to go out in +the morning; to it and to her he was to come home at night, after +he had done a man's work. + +The dream faded. Before him rose her face of the morning, +impassive and cool; her eyes, not hostile but indifferent. She +had taken herself out of his life, had turned her youth to youth, +and forgotten him. He understood and accepted it. He saw himself +as he must have looked to her, old and worn, scarred from the last +months, infinitely changed. And she was young. Heavens, how +young she was!... + +Lucy was buried the next afternoon. It was raining, and the quiet +procession followed Dick and the others who carried her light body +under grotesquely bobbing umbrellas. Then he and David, and Minnie +and Mike, went back to the house, quiet with that strange emptiness +that follows a death, the unconscious listening for a voice that +will not speak again, for a familiar footfall. David had not gone +upstairs. He sat in Lucy's sitting-room, in his old frock coat and +black tie, with a knitted afghan across his knees. His throat +looked withered in his loose collar. And there for the first time +they discussed the future. + +"You're giving up a great deal, Dick," David said. "I'm proud of +you, and like you I think the money's best where it is. But this +is a prejudiced town, and they think you've treated Elizabeth badly. +If you don't intend to tell the story--" + +"Never," Dick announced, firmly. "Judson Clark is dead." He smiled +at David with something of his old humor. "I told Bassett to put up +a monument if he wanted to. But you're right about one thing. +They're not ready to take me back. I've seen it a dozen times in +the last two days." + +"I never gave up a fight yet." David's voice was grim. + +"On the other hand, I don't want to make it uncomfortable for her. +We are bound to meet. I'm putting my own feeling aside. It doesn't +matter--except of course to me. What I thought was-- We might go +into the city. Reynolds would buy the house. He's going to be +married." + +But he found himself up against the stone wall of David's opposition. +He was too old to be uprooted. He liked to be able to find his way +around in the dark. He was almost childish about it, and perhaps a +trifle terrified. But it was his final argument that won Dick over. + +"I thought you'd found out there's nothing in running away from +trouble." + +Dick straightened. + +"You're right," he said. "We'll stay here and fight it out together." + +He helped David up the stairs to where the nurse stood waiting, +and then went on into his own bedroom. He surveyed it for the +first time since his return with a sense of permanency and intimacy. +Here, from now on, was to center his life. From this bed he would +rise in the morning, to go back to it at night. From this room he +would go out to fight for place again, and for the old faith in him, +for confiding eyes and the clasp of friendly hands. + +He sat down by the window and with the feeling of dismissing them +forever retraced slowly and painfully the last few months; the +night on the mountains, and Bassett asleep by the fire; the man +from the cabin caught under the tree, with his face looking up, +strangely twisted, from among the branches; dawn in the alfalfa +field, and the long night tramp; the boy who had recognized him +in Chicago; David in his old walnut bed, shrivelled and dauntless; +and his own going out into the night, with Lucy in the kitchen +doorway, Elizabeth and Wallace Sayre on the verandah, and himself +across the street under the trees; Beverly, and the illumination +of his freedom from the old bonds; Gregory, glib and debonair, +telling his lying story, and later on, flying to safety. +His half-brother! + +All that, and now this quiet room, with David asleep beyond the +wall and Minnie moving heavily in the kitchen below, setting her +bread to rise. It was anti-climacteric, ridiculous, wonderful. + +Then he thought of Elizabeth, and it became terrible. + +After Reynolds came up he put on a dressing-gown and went down the +stairs. The office was changed and looked strange and unfamiliar. +But when he opened the door and went into the laboratory nothing +had been altered there. It was as though he had left it yesterday; +the microscope screwed to its stand, the sterilizer gleaming and +ready. It was as though it had waited for him. + +He was content. He would fight and he would work. That was all +a man needed, a good fight, and work for his hands and brain. A +man could live without love if he had work. + + +He sat down on the stool and groaned. + + + + +XLVI + +One thing Dick knew must be done and got over with. He would have +to see Elizabeth and tell her the story. He knew it would do no +good, but she had a right to the fullest explanation he could give +her. She did not love him, but it was intolerable that she should +hate him. + +He meant, however, to make no case for himself. He would have to +stand on the facts. This thing had happened to him; the storm had +come, wrought its havoc and passed; he was back, to start again as +nearly as he could where he had left off. That was all. + +He went to the Wheeler house the next night, passing the door twice +before he turned in and rang the bell, in order that his voice might +be calm and his demeanor unshaken. But the fact that Micky, waiting +on the porch, knew him and broke into yelps of happiness and ecstatic +wriggling almost lost him his self-control. + +Walter Wheeler opened the door and admitted him. + +"I thought you might come," he said. "Come in." + +There was no particular warmth in his voice, but no unfriendliness. +He stood by gravely while Dick took off his overcoat, and then led +the way into the library. + +"I'd better tell you at once," he said, "that I have advised +Elizabeth to see you, but that she refuses. I'd much prefer--" +He busied himself at the fire for a moment. "I'd much prefer to +have her see you, Livingstone. But--I'll tell you frankly--I +don't think it would do much good." + +He sat down and stared at the fire. Dick remained standing. "She +doesn't intend to see me at all?" he asked, unsteadily. + +"That's rather out of the question, if you intend to remain here. +Do you?" + +"Yes." + +An unexpected feeling of sympathy for the tall young man on the +hearth rug stirred in Walter Wheeler's breast. + +"I'm sorry, Dick. She apparently reached the breaking point a week +or two ago. She knew you had been here and hadn't seen her, for +one thing." He hesitated. "You've heard of her engagement?" + +"Yes." + +"I didn't want it," her father said drearily. "I suppose she knows +her own business, but the thing's done. She sent you a message," he +added after a pause. "She's glad it's cleared up and I believe you +are not to allow her to drive you away. She thinks David needs you." + +"Thank you. I'll have to stay, as she says." + +There was another uncomfortable silence. Then Walter Wheeler burst +out: + +"Confound it, Dick, I'm sorry. I've fought your battles for months, +not here, but everywhere. But here's a battle I can't fight. She +isn't angry. You'll have to get her angle of it. I think it's +something like this. She had built you up into a sort of superman. +And she's--well, I suppose purity is the word. She's the essence +of purity. Then, Leslie told me this to-night, she learned from +him that you were back with the woman in the case, in New York." + +And, as Dick made a gesture: + +"There's no use going to him. He was off the beaten track, and he +knows it. He took a chance, to tell her for her own good. He's +fond of her. I suppose that was the last straw." + +He sat still, a troubled figure, middle-aged and unhandsome, and +very weary. + +"It's a bad business, Dick," he said. + +After a time Dick stirred. + +"When I first began to remember," he said, "I wanted whisky. I +would have stolen it, if I couldn't have got it any other way. +Then, when I got it, I didn't want it. It sickened me. This other +was the same sort of thing. It's done with." + +Wheeler nodded. + +"I understand. But she wouldn't, Dick." + +"No. I don't suppose she would." + +He went away soon after that, back to the quiet house and to David. +Automatically he turned in at his office, but Reynolds was writing +there. He went slowly up the stairs. + +Ann Sayre was frankly puzzled during the next few days. She had +had a week or so of serenity and anticipation, and although things +were not quite as she would have had them, Elizabeth too impassive +and even Wallie rather restrained in his happiness, she was +satisfied. But Dick Livingstone's return had somehow changed +everything. + +It had changed Wallie, too. He was suddenly a man, and not, she +suspected, a very happy man. He came back one day, for instance, +to say that he had taken a partnership in a brokerage office, and +gave as his reason that he was sick of "playing round." She rather +thought it was to take his mind off something. + +A few days after the funeral she sent for Doctor Reynolds. "I +caught cold at the cemetery," she said, when he had arrived and +was seated opposite her in her boudoir. "I really did," she +protested, as she caught his eye. "I suppose everybody is sending +for you, to have a chance to talk." + +"Just about." + +"You can't blame us. Particularly, you can't blame me. I've got +to know something, doctor. Is he going to stay?" + +"I think so. Yes." + +"Isn't he going to explain anything? He can't expect just to walk +back into his practise after all these months, and the talk that's +been going on, and do nothing about it." + +"I don't see what his going away has to do with it. He's a good +doctor, and a hard worker. When I'm gone--" + +"You're going, are you?" + +"Yes. I may live here, and have an office in the city. I don't +care for general practise; there's no future in it. I may take a +special course in nose and throat." + +But she was not interested in his plans. + +"I want to know something, and only you can tell me. I'm not +curious like the rest; I think I have a right to know. Has he +seen Elizabeth Wheeler yet? Talked to her, I mean?" + +"I don't know. I'm inclined to think not," he added cautiously. + +"You mean that he hasn't?" + +"Look here, Mrs. Sayre. You've confided in me, and I know it's +important to you. I don't know a thing. I'm to stay on until the +end of the week, and then he intends to take hold. I'm in and out, +see him at meals, and we've had a little desultory talk. There is +no trouble between the two families. Mr. Wheeler comes and goes. +If you ask me, I think Livingstone has simply accepted the situation +as he found it." + +"He isn't going to explain anything? He'll have to, I think, if he +expects to practise here. There have been all sorts of stories." + +"I don't know, Mrs. Sayre." + +"How is Doctor David?" she asked, after a pause. + +"Better. It wouldn't surprise me now to see him mend rapidly." + +He met Elizabeth on his way down the hill, a strange, bright-eyed +Elizabeth, carrying her head high and a bit too jauntily, and with +a sort of hot defiance in her eyes. He drove on, thoughtfully. +All this turmoil and trouble, anxiety and fear, and all that was +left a crushed and tragic figure of a girl, and two men in an old +house, preparing to fight that one of them might regain the place +he had lost. + +It would be a fight. Reynolds saw the village already divided into +two camps, a small militant minority, aligned with Dick and David, +and a waiting, not particularly hostile but intensely curious +majority, who would demand certain things before Dick's +reinstatement in their confidence. + +Elizabeth Wheeler was an unconscious party to the division. It was, +in a way, her battle they were fighting. And Elizabeth had gone +over to the enemy. + +Late that afternoon Ann Sayre had her first real talk with Wallie +since Dick's return. She led him out onto the terrace, her +shoulders militant and her head high, and faced him there. + +"I can see you are not going to talk to me," she said. "So I'll +talk to you. Has Dick Livingstone's return made any change between +Elizabeth and you?" + +"No." + +"She's just the same to you? You must tell me, Wallace. I've been +building so much." + +She realized the change in him then more fully than ever for he +faced her squarely and without evasion. + +"There's no change in her, mother, but I think you and I will both +have to get used to this: she's not in love with me. She doesn't +pretend to be." + +"Don't tell me it's still that man!" + +"I don't know." He took a turn or two about the terrace. "I don't +think it is, mother. I don't think she cares for anybody, that way, +certainly not for me. And that's the trouble." He faced her again. +"If marrying me isn't going to make her happy, I won't hold her to +it. You'll have to support me in that, mother. I'm a pretty weak +sister sometimes." + +That appeal touched her as nothing had done for a long time. "I'll +help all I can, if the need comes," she said, and turned and went +heavily into the house. + + + + +XLVII + +David was satisfied. The great love of his life had been given to +Dick, and now Dick was his again. He grieved for Lucy, but he +knew that the parting was not for long, and that from whatever +high place she looked down she would know that. He was satisfied. +He looked on his work and found it good. There was no trace of +weakness nor of vacillation in the man who sat across from him at +the table, or slammed in and out of the house after his old fashion. + +But he was not content. At first it was enough to have Dick there, +to stop in the doorway of his room and see him within, occupied +with the prosaic business of getting into his clothes or out of +them, now and then to put a hand on his shoulder, to hear him +fussing in the laboratory again, and to be called to examine divers +and sundry smears to which Dick attached impressive importance and +more impressive names. But behind Dick's surface cheerfulness he +knew that he was eating his heart out. + +And there was nothing to be done. Nothing. Secretly David watched +the papers for the announcement of Elizabeth's engagement, and each +day drew a breath of relief when it did not come. And he had done +another thing secretly, too; he did not tell Dick when her ring came +back. Annie had brought the box, without a letter, and the +incredible cruelty of the thing made David furious. He stamped into +his office and locked it in a drawer, with the definite intention of +saving Dick that one additional pang at a time when he already had +enough to hear. + +For things were going very badly. The fight was on. + +It was a battle without action. Each side was dug in and entrenched, +and waiting. It was an engagement where the principals met +occasionally the neutral ground of the streets, bowed to each other +and passed on. + +The town was sorry for David and still fond of him, but it resented +his stiff-necked attitude. It said, in effect, that when he ceased +to make Dick's enemies his it was willing to be friends. But it +said also, to each other and behind its hands, that Dick's absence +was discreditable or it would be explained, and that he had behaved +abominably to Elizabeth. It would be hanged if it would be friends +with him. + +It looked away, but it watched. Dick knew that when he passed by +on the streets it peered at him from behind its curtains, and +whispered behind his back. Now and then he saw, on his evening +walks, that line of cars drawn up before houses he had known and +frequented which indicated a party, but he was never asked. He +never told David. + +It was only when the taboo touched David that Dick was resentful, +and then he was inclined to question the wisdom of his return. +It hurt him, for instance, to see David give up his church, and +reading morning prayer alone at home on Sunday mornings, and to +see his grim silence when some of his old friends were mentioned. + +Yet on the surface things were much as they had been. David rose +early, and as he improved in health, read his morning paper in his +office while he waited for breakfast. Doctor Reynolds had gone, +and the desk in Dick's office was back where it belonged. In the +mornings Mike oiled the car in the stable and washed it, his old +pipe clutched in his teeth, while from the kitchen came the sounds +of pans and dishes, and the odor of frying sausages. And Dick +splashed in the shower, and shaved by the mirror with the cracked +glass in the bathroom. But he did not sing. + +The house was very quiet. Now and then the front door opened, and +a patient came in, but there was no longer the crowded waiting-room, +the incessant jangle of the telephone, the odor of pungent drugs +and antiseptics. + +When, shortly before Christmas, Dick looked at the books containing +the last quarter's accounts, he began to wonder how long they could +fight their losing battle. He did not mind for himself, but it was +unthinkable that David should do without, one by one, the small +luxuries of his old age, his cigars, his long and now errandless +rambles behind Nettie. + +He began then to think of his property, his for the claiming, and +to question whether he had not bought his peace at too great a +cost to David. He knew by that time that it was not fear, but +pride, which had sent him back empty-handed, the pride of making +his own way. And now and then, too, he felt a perfectly human +desire to let Bassett publish the story as his vindication and +then snatch David away from them all, to some luxurious haven +where--that was the point at which he always stopped--where David +could pine away in homesickness for them! + +There was an irony in it that made him laugh hopelessly. + +He occupied himself then with ways and means, and sold the car. +Reynolds, about to be married and busily furnishing a city office, +bought it, had it repainted a bright blue, and signified to the +world at large that he was at the Rossiter house every night by +leaving it at the curb. Sometimes, on long country tramps, Dick +saw it outside a farmhouse, and knew that the boycott was not +limited to the town. + +By Christmas, however, he realized that the question of meeting +their expenses necessitated further economies, and reluctantly at +last they decided to let Mike go. Dick went out to the stable with +a distinct sinking of the heart, while David sat in the house, +unhappily waiting for the thing to be done. But Mike refused to +be discharged. + +"And is it discharging me you are?" he asked, putting down one of +David's boots in his angry astonishment. "Well, then, I'm telling +you you're not." + +"We can't pay you any longer, Mike. And now that the car's gone--" + +"I'm not thinking about pay. I'm not going, and that's flat. +Who'd be after doing his boots and all?" + +David called him in that night and dismissed him again, this time +very firmly. Mike said nothing and went out, but the next morning +he was scrubbing the sidewalk as usual, and after that they gave +it up. + +Now and then Dick and Elizabeth met on the street, and she bowed +to him and went on. At those times it seemed incredible that once +he had held her in his arms, and that she had looked up at him with +loving, faithful eyes. He suffered so from those occasional +meetings that he took to watching for her, so as to avoid her. +Sometimes he wished she would marry Wallace quickly, so he would +be obliged to accept what now he knew he had not accepted at all. + +He had occasional spells of violent anger at her, and of resentment, +but they died when he checked up, one after the other, the inevitable +series of events that had led to the catastrophe. But it was all +nonsense to say that love never died. She had loved him, and there +was never anything so dead as that love of hers. + +He had been saved one thing, however; he had never seen her with +Wallie Sayre. Then, one day in the country while he trudged afoot +to make one of his rare professional visits, they went past together +in Wallie's bright roadster. The sheer shock of it sent him against +a fence, staring after them with an anger that shook him. + +Late in November Elizabeth went away for a visit, and it gave him +a breathing spell. But the strain was telling on him, and Bassett, +stopping on his way to dinner at the Wheelers', told him so bluntly. + +"You look pretty rotten," he said. "It's no time to go to pieces +now, when you've put up your fight and won it." + +"I'm all right. I haven't been sleeping. That's all." + +"How about the business? People coming to their senses?" + +"Not very fast," Dick admitted. "Of course it's a little soon." + +After dinner at the Wheelers', when Walter Wheeler had gone to a +vestry meeting, Bassett delivered himself to Margaret of a highly +indignant harangue on the situation in general. + +"That's how I see it," he finished. "He's done a fine thing. A +finer thing by a damned sight than I'd do, or any of this town. +He's given up money enough to pay the national debt--or nearly. +If he'd come back with it, as Judson Clark, they wouldn't have +cared a hang for the past. They'd have licked his boots. It +makes me sick." + +He turned on her. + +"You too, I think, Mrs. Wheeler. I'm not attacking you on that +score; it's human nature. But it's the truth." + +"Perhaps. I don't know." + +"They'll drive him to doing it yet. He came back to make a place +for himself again, like a man. Not what he had, but what he was. +But they'll drive him away, mark my words." + +Later on, but more gently, he introduced the subject of Elizabeth. + +"You can't get away from this, Mrs. Wheeler. So long as she stands +off, and you behind her, the town is going to take her side. She +doesn't know it, but that's how it stands. It all hangs on her. +If he wasn't the man he is, I'd say his salvation hangs on her. I +don't mean she ought to take him back; it's too late for that, if +she's engaged. But a little friendliness and kindness wouldn't do +any harm. You too. Do you ever have him here?" + +"How can I, as things are?" + +"Well, be friendly, anyhow," he argued. "That's not asking much. +I suppose he'd cut my throat if he knew, but I'm a +straight-to-the-mark sort of person, and I know this: what this +house does the town will do." + +"I'll talk to Mr. Wheeler. I don't know. I'll say this, Mr. +Bassett. I won't make her unhappy. She has borne a great deal, +and sometimes I think her life is spoiled. She is very different." + +"If she is suffering, isn't it possible she cares for him?" + +But Margaret did not think so. She was so very calm. She was so +calm that sometimes it was alarming. + +"He gave her a ring, and the other day I found it, tossed into a +drawer full of odds and ends. I haven't seen it lately; she may +have sent it back." + +Elizabeth came home shortly before Christmas, undeniably glad to +be back and very gentle with them all. She set to work almost +immediately on the gifts, wrapping them and tying them with +methodical exactness, sticking a tiny sprig of holly through +the ribbon bow, and writing cards with neatness and care. She +hung up wreaths and decorated the house, and when she was through +with her work she went to her room and sat with her hands folded, +not thinking. She did not think any more. + +Wallie had sent her a flexible diamond bracelet as a Christmas gift +and it lay on her table in its box. She was very grateful, but +she had not put it on. + +On the morning before Christmas Nina came in, her arms full of +packages, and her eyes shining and a little frightened. She had +some news for them. She hadn't been so keen about it, at first, +but Leslie was like a madman. He was so pleased that he was +ordering her that sable cape she had wanted so. He was like a +different man. And it would be July. + +Elizabeth kissed her. It seemed very unreal, like everything else. +She wondered why Leslie should be so excited, or her mother crying. +She wondered if there was something strange about her, that it +should see so small and unimportant. But then, what was important? +That one got up in the morning, and ate at intervals, and went to +bed at night? That children came, and had to be fed and washed +and tended, and cried a great deal, and were sick now and then? + +She wished she could feel something, could think it vital whether +Nina should choose pink or blue for her layette, and how far she +should walk each day, and if the chauffeur drove the car carefully +enough. She wished she cared whether it was going to rain to-morrow +or not, or whether some one was coming, or not coming. And she +wished terribly that she could care for Wallie, or get over the +feeling that she had saved her pride at a cost to him she would not +contemplate. + +After a time she went upstairs and put on the bracelet. And late +in the afternoon she went out and bought some wool, to make an +afghan. It eased her conscience toward Nina. She commenced it +that evening while she waited for Wallie, and she wondered if +some time she would be making an afghan for a coming child of her +own. Hers and Wallace Sayre's. + +Suddenly she knew she would never marry him. She faced the future, +with all that it implied, and she knew she could not do it. It was +horrible that she had even contemplated it. It would be terrible +to tell Wallie, but not as terrible as the other thing. She saw +herself then with the same clearness with which she had judged Dick. +She too, leaving her havoc of wrecked lives behind her; she too +going along her headstrong way, raising hopes not to be fulfilled, +and passing on. She too. + +That evening, Christmas eve, she told Wallie she would not marry +him. Told him very gently, and just after an attempt of his to +embrace her. She would not let him do it. + +"I don't know what's come over you," he said morosely. "But I'll +let you alone, if that's the way you feel." + +"I'm sorry, Wallie. It--it makes me shiver." + +In a way he was prepared for it but nevertheless he begged for +time, for a less unequivocal rejection. But he found her, for the +first time, impatient with his pleadings. + +"I don't want to go over and over it, Wallie. I'll take the blame. +I should have done it long ago." + +She was gentle, almost tender with him, but when he said she had +spoiled his life for him she smiled faintly. + +"You think that now. And don't believe I'm not sorry. I am. I +hate not playing the game, as you say. But I don't think for a +moment that you'll go on caring when you know I don't. That doesn't +happen. That's all." + +"Do you know what I think?" he burst out. "I think you're still +mad about Livingstone. I think you are so mad about him that you +don't know it yourself." + +But she only smiled her cool smile and went on with her knitting. +After that he got himself in hand, and--perhaps he still had some +hope. It was certain that she had not flinched at Dick's name +--told her very earnestly that he only wanted her happiness. He +didn't want her unless she wanted him. He would always love her. + +"Not always," she said, with tragically cold certainty. "Men are +not like women; they forget." + +She wondered, after he had gone, what had made her say that. + +She did not tell the family that night. They were full of their +own concerns, Nina's coming maternity, the wrapping of packages +behind closed doors, the final trimming of the tree in the library. +Leslie had started the phonograph, and it was playing "Stille Nacht, +heilige Nacht." + +Still night, holy night, and only in her was there a stillness that +was not holy. + +They hung up their stockings valiantly as usual, making a little +ceremony of it, and being careful not to think about Jim's missing +one. Indeed, they made rather a function of it, and Leslie +demanded one of Nina's baby socks and pinned it up. + +"I'm starting a bank account for the little beggar," he said, and +dropped a gold piece into the toe. "Next year, old girl" + +He put his arm around Nina. It seemed to him that life was doing +considerably better than he deserved by him, and he felt very +humble and contrite. He felt in his pocket for the square jeweler's +box that lay there. + +After that they left Walter Wheeler there, to play his usual part +at such times, and went upstairs. He filled the stockings bravely, +an orange in each toe, a box of candy, a toy for old time's sake, +and then the little knickknacks he had been gathering for days and +hiding in his desk. After all, there were no fewer stockings this +year than last. Instead of Jim's there was the tiny one for Nina's +baby. That was the way things went. He took away, but also He gave. + +He sat back in his deep chair, and looked up at the stockings, +ludicrously bulging. After all, if he believed that He gave and +took away, then he must believe that Jim was where he had tried to +think him, filling a joyous, active place in some boyish heaven. + +After a while he got up and went to his desk, and getting pen and +paper wrote carefully. + +"Dearest: You will find this in your stocking in the morning, when +you get up for the early service. And I want you to think over it +in the church. It is filled with tenderness and with anxiety. +Life is not so very long, little daughter, and it has no time to +waste in anger or in bitterness. A little work, a little sleep, a +little love, and it is all over. + +"Will you think of this to-day?" + +He locked up the house, and went slowly up to bed. Elizabeth found +the letter the next morning. She stood in the bleak room, with the +ashes of last night's fire still smoking, and the stockings +overhead not festive in the gray light, but looking forlorn and +abandoned. Suddenly her eyes, dry and fiercely burning for so long, +were wet with tears. It was true. It was true. A little work, a +little sleep, a little love. Not the great love, perhaps, not the +only love of a man's life. Not the love of yesterday, but of +to-day and to-morrow. + +All the fierce repression of the last weeks was gone. She began +to suffer. She saw Dick coming home, perhaps high with hope that +whatever she knew she would understand and forgive. And she saw +herself failing him, cold and shut away, not big enough nor woman +enough to meet him half way. She saw him fighting his losing +battle alone, protecting David but never himself; carrying Lucy +to her quiet grave; sitting alone in his office, while the village +walked by and stared at the windows; she saw him, gaining harbor +after storm, and finding no anchorage there. + +She turned and went, half blindly, into the empty street. + +She thought he was at the early service. She did not see him, but +she had once again the thing that had seemed lost forever, the +warm sense of his thought of her. + +He was there, in the shadowy back pew, with the grill behind it +through which once insistent hands had reached to summon him. He +was there, with Lucy's prayer-book in his hand, and none of the +peace of the day in his heart. He knelt and rose with the others. + +"O God, who makest us glad with the yearly remembrance of the birth +of Thy Son--" + + + + +XLVIII + +David was beaten; most tragic defeat of all, beaten by those he +had loved and faithfully served. + +He did not rise on Christmas morning, and Dick, visiting him after +an almost untasted breakfast, found him still in his bed and +questioned him anxiously. + +"I'm all right," he asserted. "I'm tired, Dick, that's all. Tired +of fighting. You're young. You can carry it on, and win. But I'll +never see it. They're stronger than we are." + +Later he elaborated on that. He had kept the faith. He had run +with courage the race that was set before him. He had stayed up +at night and fought for them. But he couldn't fight against them. + +Dick went downstairs again and shutting himself in his office fell +to pacing the floor. David was right, the thing was breaking him. +Very seriously now he contemplated abandoning the town, taking +David with him, and claiming his estate. They could travel then; +he could get consultants in Europe; there were baths there, and +treatments-- + +The doorbell rang. He heard Minnie's voice in the hail, not too +friendly, and her tap at the door. + +"Some one in the waiting-room," she called. + +When he opened the connecting door he found Elizabeth beyond it, +a pale and frightened Elizabeth, breathless and very still. It +was a perceptible moment before he could control his voice to speak. +Then: + +"I suppose you want to see David. I'm sorry, but he isn't well +to-day. He is still in bed." + +"I didn't come to see David, Dick." + +"I cannot think you want to see me, Elizabeth." + +"I do, if you don't mind." + +He stood aside then and let her pass him into the rear office. + +But he was not fooled at all. Not he. He had been enough. He +knew why she had come, in the kindness of heart. (She was so +little. Good heavens, a man could crush her to nothing!) She had +come because she was sorry for him, and she had brought forgiveness. +It was like her. It was fine. It was damnable. + +His voice hardened, for fear it might be soft. + +"Is this a professional visit, or a Christmas call, Elizabeth? Or +perhaps I shouldn't call you that." + +"A Christmas call?" + +"You know what I mean. The day of peace. The day--what do you +think I'm made of, Elizabeth? To have you here, gentle and good +and kind--" + +He got up and stood over her, tall and almost threatening. + +"You've been to church, and you've been thinking things over, I +know. I was there. I heard it all, peace on earth, goodwill to +men. Bosh. Peace, when there is no peace. Good will! I don't +want your peace and good will." + +She looked up at him timidly. + +"You don't want to be friends, then?" + +"No. A thousand times, no," he said violently. Then, more gently: +"I'm making a fool of myself. I want your peace and good will, +Elizabeth. God knows I need them." + +"You frighten me, Dick," she said, slowly. "I didn't come to bring +forgiveness, if that is what you mean. I came--" + +"Don't tell me you came to ask it. That would be more than I can +bear." + +"Will you listen to me for a moment, Dick? I am not good at +explaining things, and I'm nervous. I suppose you can see that." +She tried to smile at him. "A--a little work, a sleep, a little +love, that's life, isn't it?" + +He was watching her intently. + +"Work and trouble, and a long sleep at the end for which let us be +duly thankful--that's life, too. Love? Not every one gets love." + +Hopelessness and despair overwhelmed her. He was making it hard +for her. Impossible. She could not go on. + +"I did not come with peace," she said tremulously, "but if you don't +want it--" She rose. "I must say this, though, before I go. I +blame myself. I don't blame you. You are wrong if you think I came +to forgive you." + +She was stumbling toward the door. + +"Elizabeth, what did bring you?" + +She turned to him, with her hand on the door knob. "I came because +I wanted to see you again." + +He strode after her and catching her by the arm, turned her until +he faced her. + +"And why did you want to see me again? You can't still care for me. +You know the story. You know I was here and didn't see you. You've +seen Leslie Ward. You know my past. What you don't know--" + +He looked down into her eyes. "A little work, a little sleep, a +little love," he repeated. "What did you mean by that?" + +"Just that," she said simply. "Only not a little love, Dick. Maybe +you don't want me now. I don't know. I have suffered so much that +I'm not sure of anything." + +"Want you!" he said. "More than anything on this earth." + +Bassett was at his desk in the office. It was late, and the night +editor, seeing him reading the early edition, his feet on his desk, +carried over his coffee and doughnuts and joined him. + +"Sometime," he said, "I'm going to get that Clark story out of you. +If it wasn't you who turned up the confession, I'll eat it." + +Bassett yawned. + +"Have it your own way," he said indifferently. "You were shielding +somebody, weren't you? No? What's the answer?" + +Bassett made no reply. He picked up the paper and pointed to an +item with the end of his pencil. + +"Seen this?" + +The night editor read it with bewilderment. He glanced up. + +"What's that got to do with the Clark case?" + +"Nothing. Nice people, though. Know them both." + +When the night editor walked away, rather affronted, Bassett took +up the paper and reread the paragraph. + +"Mr. and Mrs. Walter Wheeler, of Haverly, announce the engagement +of their daughter, Elizabeth, to Doctor Richard Livingstone." + +He sat for a long time staring at it. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Breaking Point, by Rinehart + |