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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16585-8.txt b/16585-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97a1a3b --- /dev/null +++ b/16585-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7202 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Charred Wood, by Myles Muredach + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Charred Wood + +Author: Myles Muredach + +Illustrator: J. Clinton Shepherd + +Release Date: August 23, 2005 [EBook #16585] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED WOOD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +CHARRED WOOD + +BY + +MYLES MUREDACH + + + + "_O, Designer Infinite, must Thou + then Char the wood before Thou + canst limn with it?_" + + + + + +ILLUSTRATED BY + +J. CLINTON SHEPHERD + + + + + + +GROSSET & DUNLAP + +PUBLISHERS --- NEW YORK + + + +Made in the United States of America + + + + +Copyright, 1917 + +by + +The Reilly & Britten Co. + + +Published October 17, 1917 + +Reprinted December 10, 1917 + +Reprinted October 11, 1918. + + + + + +Charred Wood + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I THE LADY OF THE TREE + II MONSIGNORE + III UNDER SUSPICION + IV KILLIMAGA + V WITH EMPTY HANDS + VI WHO IS RUTH? + VII BITTER BREAD + VIII FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET + IX THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION + X AT THE MYSTERY TREE + XI THIN ICE + XII HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS + XIII THE ABDUCTION + XIV THE INEXPLICABLE + XV "I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" + XVI HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED + XVII THE OPEN DOOR + XVIII SAUNDERS SCORES + XIX CAPITULATION + XX THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES + XXI THE BECKONING HAND + XXII RUTH'S CONFESSION + XXIII CHARRED WOOD + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +On Killimaga's Cliff. . . . . _Frontispiece_ + +Something white swished quickly past him and he stared, +bewildered . . . She had stepped out of nowhere. + +Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he +announced. + +"God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark; +"it is not Ruth!" + + + +[Transcriber's note: The Frontispiece and the "Something white..." +illustration were missing from the book.] + + + + +Charred Wood + +CHAPTER I + +THE LADY OF THE TREE + +The man lay in the tall grass. Behind him the wall of the Killimaga +estate, from its beginning some fifty yards to his left, stretched away +to his right for over a thousand feet. Along the road which ran almost +parallel with the wall was the remnant of what had once been a great +woods; yearly the county authorities determined to cut away its thick +undergrowth--and yearly left it alone. On the left the road was bare +for some distance along the bluff; then, bending, it again sought the +shelter of the trees and meandered along until it lost itself in the +main street of Sihasset, a village large enough to support three banks +and, after a fashion, eight small churches. In front, had the lounger +cared to look, he would have seen the huge rocks topping the bluff +against which the ocean dashed itself into angry foam. But the man +didn't care to look--for in the little clearing between the wall of +Killimaga and the bluff road was peace too profound to be wantonly +disturbed by motion. And so he lay there lazily smoking his cigar, his +long length concealed by the tall grass. + +Hearing a slight click behind him and to his right, the man slowly, +even languidly, turned his head to peer through the grass. But his +energy was unrewarded, for he saw nothing he had not seen before--a +long wall, its rough stones half hidden by creeping vines, at its base +a rank growth of shrubs and wild hedge; behind it, in the near +distance, the towers of a house that, in another land, perched amid +jutting crags, would have inspired visions of far-off days of romance. +Even in its New England setting the great house held a rugged charm, +heightened by the big trees which gave it a setting of rich green. +Some of the trees had daringly advanced almost to the wall itself, +while one--a veritable giant--had seemingly been caught while just +stepping through. + +With a bored sigh, as if even so slight an effort were too great, the +smoker settled himself more comfortably and resumed his indolent +musing. Then he heard the sound again. This time he did not trouble +to look around. Something white swished quickly past him and he +stared, bewildered. It was a woman, young, if her figure were to be +trusted. His cigar dropped in the grass, and there he let it lie. His +gaze never left her as she walked on; and he could scarcely be blamed, +for he was still under thirty-five and feminine early twenties has an +interest to masculine full youth. He had never seen anyone quite so +charming. And so he watched the lady as she walked to the edge of the +bluff overlooking the sea, and turned to the left to go along the +pathway toward the village. + +Five hundred yards away she was met by a tall man wearing a long black +coat. Was it the priest he had noticed that morning at the door of the +Catholic church in the village? Yes, there was no doubt about that; it +was the priest. He had just lifted his hat to the lady and was now +turning to walk back with her by the way he had come. They evidently +knew each other well; and the man watching them almost laughed at +himself when he realized that he was slightly piqued at the clergyman's +daring to know her while he did not. He watched the pair until they +disappeared around the bend of the bluff path. Then he settled back to +look for his cigar. But he did not find it, for other matters quickly +absorbed his attention. + +From out a clump of bushes on his left, where they evidently had been +hiding, two men appeared. He recognized them both. One was a book +agent who was stopping at the hotel in the village; the other was the +local constable. The book agent had a paper in his hand. + +"That her?" he asked. + +"Yaas, sir!"--the constable was surely a native New Englander--"I seed +her face plain." + +"I didn't," said the agent, with annoyance. "I have never seen her +without that confounded veil. This is the first time she's had it +thrown back. But the description is right? Look at it." + +He showed the paper to the constable, tapping it as he read. + +"'Brown hair, blue eyes'--did you see her eyes?" + +"I sure did," answered the constable; "and they wuz blue." + +"All right, then. 'Blue eyes, regular features'--how about that?" + +"Reg'lar enough," said the constable. "She'd no pug nose, I kin tell +ya that." + +"'Regular features,' then, is right. 'Five feet four inches +tall'--that's right. 'Small hands and feet'--that's right. 'About +twenty-three years old; good figure.'" + +"She sure hez all them," vouchsafed the wearer of the star. "I knowed +her right away, and I've seed her often. She's been in Sihasset well +nigh on a month." + +"But where--" the agent turned to look at the unbroken wall--"where in +thunder did she come from?" + +The constable, pushing back his helmet, scratched his head. + +"Damfino," he said. "That's the rub. There's no gate on this side of +Killimaga." + +"Killimaga?" + +"A rich old Irishman built it and put a wall around it, too. We folks +of Sihasset don't like that; it shuts off the view of the house and +lawn. Lawn's what makes things purty. He wuz a queer old mug--wanted +to shut hisself up." + +"But how did she get out?" insisted the agent, coming back to the issue. + +"Search me," offered the constable. He looked toward the top of the +wall. "Clumb the fence, mebbe." + +"With her dress looking as it does?" + +"There's no other way. I dunno." + +The agent was puzzled. "I want a closer inspection of that wall. +We'll walk along this side." + +Both agent and constable started off, keeping well behind the wild +hedge along the wall so that they might not be seen from the bluff road. + +The man lying in the grass was more puzzled than the agent. Why a book +agent and a constable should be so anxious about a lady who was--well, +just charming--but who had herself stepped out of nowhere to join a +priest in his walk, was a problem for some study. He got up and walked +to the wall. Then he laughed. Close examination showed him marks in +the giant tree, the vertical cuts being cleverly covered by the bark, +while the horizontal ones had creepers festooned over them. A door was +well concealed. But the tree? It was large, yet there could not be +room in it for more than one person, who would have to stand upright +and in a most uncomfortable position. The man himself had been before +it over an hour. How long had the lady been in the tree? He forgot +his lost cigar in trying to figure the problem out. + +Mark Griffin had never liked problems. That was one reason why he +found himself now located in a stuffy New England inn just at the end +of the summer season when all the "boarders" had gone except himself +and the book agent. + +Griffin himself, though the younger son of an Irish peer, had been born +in England. The home ties were not strong and when his brother +succeeded to the title and estates in Ireland Mark, who had inherited a +fortune from his mother, went to live with his powerful English +relatives. For a while he thought of going into the army, but he knew +he was a dunce in mathematics, so he soon gave up the idea. He tried +Oxford, but failed there for the same reason. Then he just drifted. +Now, still on the sunny side of thirty-five, he was knocking about, +sick of things, just existing, and fearfully bored. He had dropped +into Sihasset through sheer curiosity--just to see a typical New +England summer resort where the Yankee type had not yet entirely +disappeared. Now that the season was over he simply did not care to +pull out for New York and continue his trip to--nowhere. He was +"seeing" America. It might take months and it might take years. He +did not care. Then England again by way of Japan and Siberia--perhaps. +He never wanted to lose sight of that "perhaps," which was, after all, +his only guarantee of independence. + +Siberia suited Mark Griffin's present mood, which was to be alone. He +had never married, never even been in love, at least, not since +boyhood. Of course, that had been mere puppy love. Still, it was +something to look back to and sigh over. He liked to think that he +could still feel a sort of consoling sadness at the thought of it. He, +a timid, dreaming boy, had loved a timid, dreaming girl. Her brother +broke up the romance by taunting Mark who, with boyish bashfulness, +avoided her after that. Then her parents moved to London and Mark was +sent to school. After school he had traveled. For the last ten years +England had been merely a place to think of as home. He had been in +India, and South America, and Canada--up on the Yukon. He would have +stayed there, but somebody suggested that he might be a remittance man. +Ye gods! a remittance man with ten thousand pounds a year! And who +could have had much more, for Mark Griffin was a master with his pen. +His imagination glowed, and his travels had fanned it into flame. +Every day he wrote, but burned the product next morning. What was the +use? He had plenty to live on. Why write another man out of a job? +And who could be a writer with an income of ten thousand pounds a year? +But, just the same, it added to Mark Griffin's self-hatred to think +that it was the income that made him useless. Yet he had only one real +failure checked against him--the one at Oxford. But he knew--and he +did not deceive himself--why there had been no others. He had never +tried. + +But there was one thing in Mark's favor, too. In spite of his +wandering, in spite of the men and women of all kinds he had met, he +was clean. There was a something in the memory of his mother--and in +the memory, too, of that puppy love of his--that had made him a fighter +against himself. + +"The great courage that is worth while before God," his mother used to +say, "is the courage to run away from the temptation to be unclean. It +is the only time you have the right to be a coward. That sort of +cowardice is _true courage_." + +Besides her sweet face, that advice was the great shining memory he had +of his mother, and when he began to wander and meet temptations, he +found himself treasuring it as his best and dearest memory of her. +True, he had missed her religion--had lost what little he had had of +it--but he had kept her talisman to a clean life. + +His lack of religion worried him, though he had really never known much +about his family's form of it. For that his mother's death, early +boarding school, and his father's worse than indifference, were +responsible. But as he grew older he felt vaguely that he had missed +something the quality of which he had but tasted through the one +admonition of his mother that he had treasured. His nature was full of +reverence. His soul burned to respond to the call of faith, but +something rebelled. He had read everything, and was humble enough to +acknowledge that he knew little. He had given up the struggle to +believe. Nothing seemed satisfactory. It worried him to think that he +had reached such a conclusion, but he was consoled by the thought that +many men had been of his way of thinking. He hoped this would prove +excuse enough, but found it was not excuse enough for him. Here he +was, rich, noble, with the English scales of caste off his eyes, doing +nothing, indolent, loving only a memory, indifferent but still seeing a +saving something of his mother and his child love in every woman to +whom he spoke. + +Now something else, yet something not so very different, had suddenly +stepped into his life, and he knew it. The something was dressed in +white and had stepped out of a tree. It was almost laughable. This +woman had come into his dreams. The very sight of her attracted +him--or was it the manner of her coming? She was just like an ideal he +had often made for himself. Few men meet even the one who looks like +the ideal, but he had seen the reality--coming out of a tree. He kept +on wondering how long she had been there. He himself had been dreaming +in front of the tree an hour before he saw her. Had she seen him +before she came out? She had given no sign; but if she had seen him, +she had trusted him with a secret. Mark looked at the tree. It was +half embedded in the wall. Then he understood. The tree masked a +secret entrance to Killimaga. + +He was still smiling over his discovery when he heard the voices of the +agent and constable. They were coming back, so he dropped into his +hiding place in the tall grass. + +"Well, Brown," the agent was saying, "I am going to tackle her. I've +got to see that face. It's the only way! If I saw it once, I'd know +for sure from the photograph they sent me." + +"Ye'd better not," advised the constable. "She might be a-scared +before--" + +"But I've got to be sure," interrupted the agent. + +"Aw, ye're sure enough, ain't ye? There's the photygraft, and I seed +her." + +"But she slipped me in Boston, and I nearly lost the trail. I can't +take chances on this job--it's too important--and I've got to report +something pretty soon. That damn veil! She always has it on." + +"Yep, she had it when she come down here, too, and when she tuk the +house. All right, see her if ye can! Ye're the jedge. She's coming +around the bend of the road now." The constable was peering out from +his hiding place among the bushes. + +"Is the priest with her?" asked the agent. + +"He's gone back to the village. She didn't go that far--she seldom +does. But he goes to see her; and she goes to his church on Sundays." + +"I wonder if he knows anything?" + +"Trust that gent to know most everything, I guess." The constable was +very positive. "Father Murray's nobody's fool," he added, "and she +won't talk to nobody else. I'll bet a yearlin' heifer he's on; but +nobody could drag nothing out of him." + +"I know that," said the agent. "I've been up there a dozen times, and +I've talked with him by the hour--but always about books; I couldn't +get him to talk about anything else. Here she is! Go on back." + +The constable disappeared behind the bushes, and his companion stood +out in the little clearing to wait. + +The woman saw him; Mark, watching from the long grass, thought she +hesitated. Then she dropped her veil and came on. The agent stepped +forward, and the woman seemed distressed. What the agent intended to +do Mark could not guess, but he made up his mind at once as to what he +would do himself. He arose and, just as the agent met the lady, Mark's +arm went through his and he--not of his own volition--turned to face +the ocean. + +"Hello, Saunders!" Mark said heartily. "Who'd expect to see you here, +with no one near to buy rare editions?" + +Saunders looked at him with annoyance, but Mark was friendly. He +slipped his arm out of the agent's and slapped him on the shoulder. + +"Look out at that sea, you old money-grabber. There's a sight for your +soul. Did you ever think of the beauty of it? Such a day!--no wonder +you're loafing. Oh! I beg your pardon, Madam. I am in your way." + +Keeping Saunders' back to the lady, Mark stepped aside to let her pass. +Saunders could not even look back, as she walked quickly behind them. +The agent stammered a reply to Mark's unwelcome greeting before he +turned. But it was too late, for Mark heard the click that told him +that the tree had closed. He looked for the constable, to see if he +had been watching her and had discovered the secret door; but the +constable was leisurely walking toward the village. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +MONSIGNORE + +As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build, +offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With his +gray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English than +Irish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle--but in vain, for +the Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdained +artifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly, +out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tanned +face with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquiline +nose, the chin slightly squared--the face of one who would seek and +find. + +He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of +blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted +Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A +man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look +from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in +feature, bespoke strong determination. + +Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against +each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhand +which would be the victor. + +The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he +had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing? +Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a +detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How had +she disappeared so quickly? + +Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in +the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him +with friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companion +were a fool, or someone "on the inside." He wished that Mark would +stop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. But +Mark went right on. + +"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren't +you working?" + +Saunders had to think quickly. + +"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know." + +"Of course. Any success this morning?" + +"One order. Took me a month to get it--from the Padre." + +"Ah!" + +Mark gave the word the English sound, which convinced the detective +that the speaker really was a fool who had stumbled into an affair he +knew nothing about. But Mark kept up his questioning. + +"Did you get to talk much with the Padre? You know, he interests me. +By the way, why do you call him by that Spanish name?" + +"Oh, I got into the habit in the Philippines; that's what they call a +priest there. I was a soldier, you know. Did you ever meet him?" + +"No; but I'd like to." + +"Perhaps I could introduce you." They were walking through the village +now, and Saunders glanced toward the rectory. "There he is." + +The chance to get away attracted Saunders; and nothing suited Mark +better than to meet the priest at that very time. + +"Certainly," he said; "I'd be glad if you introduced me. I'll stop +only a moment, and then go on to the hotel with you." + +But this did _not_ suit Saunders. + +"Oh, no; you must talk to the Padre. He's your kind. You'll like him. +I can't wait, though, so I'll have to leave you there." + +"By the way," Mark went on with his questioning, "isn't the Padre +rather--well, old--to be in such a small and out-of-the-way place? You +know I rather thought that, in his church, priests as old as he were in +the larger parishes." + +"Why, you couldn't have been listening much to gossip since you came +down here--not very much," said Saunders. "The Padre is here by +choice--but only partially by choice." + +"By choice, but only partially by choice?" Mark was curious by this +time. "I don't quite understand." + +Saunders smiled knowingly, and dropped his voice. + +"It's like this," he whispered. "The Padre was a big man in the city +six months ago. He was what they call a vicar general--next job to the +bishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who died +three months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came--" + +"'Who knew not Joseph'?" + +But the Scripture was lost on the agent. + +"His name is not Joseph," he answered solemnly, "but Donald, Donald +Murray. I read it on the book order I got." + +"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic," commented Mark. "It sounds +Presbyterian." + +"That's what it is," said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert to +the Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job as +vicar general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest on +the train once--a young fellow--who told me, with a funny sort of laugh +that sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried." + +"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But +the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?" + +"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's +jolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that little +house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of +the kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and the +like." + +They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling +among the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almost +hidden by a heavy growth of ampelopsis. In front of the house, a +stretch of well-kept lawn was divided from the public walk by a +hawthorn hedge, and, cutting through its velvety green, a wide graveled +pathway swept up to the steps whose sharp angle with the veranda was +softened by a mass of low-growing, flowering shrubs. To the side, +extending towards the church, the hedge was tripled, with a space of +some six feet between. The lower branches of the evergreens forming +the second row were scarcely higher than the hawthorn in front; while, +in their turn, the evergreens were barely topped by the silver maples +behind. That triple hedge had been the loving care of the successive +priests for fifty years and served as an effectual bar to the curiosity +of the casual passer-by. In the little yard behind its shelter the +priest could read or doze, free from the intrusive gaze of the village. + +Father Murray, who was comfortably reading on the veranda, arose as his +two visitors approached. + +Saunders spoke quickly. "Don't worry, Padre. I ain't goin' to get +after you again to sell you another set. I just thought I'd like to +have you meet my friend, Mr. Griffin. I know you'll like him. He's +bookish, too, and an Englishman. Then, I'm off." Suiting the action +to the word, the agent, raising his hat, walked down the graveled path +and down toward the hotel. + +Father Murray took Mark's hand with a friendly grip quite different +from the bone-crushing handshake he so often met in America. Mark +gazed thoughtfully at his host. With his thin but kindly face and +commanding presence, the priest seemed almost foreign. What Mark saw +was a tall--he was six feet at least of bone and muscle--and +good-looking man, with an ascetic nose and mouth; with hair, once +black, but now showing traces of white, falling in thick waves over a +broad brow. Mark noticed that his cassock was old and faded, but that +reddish buttons down its front distinguished it from the cassocks of +other village priests he had seen on his travels. + +"You are welcome, Mr. Griffin--very welcome." Mark found Father +Murray's voice pleasing. "Sit down right over there. That chair is +more comfortable than it looks. I call it 'Old Hickory' because, +though it isn't hickory, yet it began life in this old house and has +outlived three pastors. Smoke?" + +"Thanks, I do--but a pipe, you know. I'm hopelessly British." Mark +pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. + +Turning to the wicker table beside him, the priest dug down into an old +cigar box filled with the odds and ends that smokers accumulate. He +found a pipe and filled it from Mark's extended tobacco pouch. + +"It's poor hospitality, Mr. Griffin, to take your tobacco; but I +offered you a cigar. You know, this cigar habit has so grown into me +that it's a rare occasion that brings me back to old times and my +pipe." Father Murray pressed the tobacco down into the bowl. "How +long are you to be with us, Mr. Griffin?" + +Mark was dropping into a lazy mood again; it was very comfortable on +the veranda. "I haven't fixed a time for going on. I beg your pardon, +but aren't those buttons significant? I once spent six months in Rome. +Aren't you what they call a _Monsignore_?" + +"Don't tell them so here, or I'll lose my standing. Yes, I am a +prelate, a Domestic Prelate to His Holiness. I am afraid it is the +domesticity of the title that sticks here in Sihasset, rather than the +prelacy. My people are poor--mostly mill workers. I have never shown +them the purple. It might frighten them out of saying 'Father.'" + +"But surely--" Mark hesitated. + +"Oh, yes, I know what you are thinking. I did like it at first, but I +was younger then, and more ambitious. You know, Mr. Griffin, I find +that the priesthood is something like a river. The farther you go from +the source the deeper and wider it gets; and it's at its best as it +nears the ocean. Even when it empties into the wider waters, it isn't +quite lost. It's in the beginning that you notice the flowers on the +bank. Coming toward the end, it's--well, different." + +"You are not beginning to think you are old?" + +"No." Father Murray was very positive. "I am not old yet; but I'm +getting there, for I'm forty-five. Only five years until I strike the +half-century mark. But why talk about priests and the priesthood? You +are not a Catholic?" + +"I don't know," said Mark. "The difference between us religiously, +Monsignore, is that I was and am not; you were not and behold you are." + +Father Murray looked interested. + +"Yes, yes," he said; "I am a convert. It was long ago, though. I was +a young Presbyterian minister, and it's odd how it came about. Newman +didn't get me, though he shook his own tree into the Pope's lap; I +wasn't on the tree. It was Brownson--a Presbyterian like myself--who +did the business. You don't know him? Pity! He's worth knowing. I +got to reading him, and he made it so plain that I had to drop. I +didn't want to, either--but here I am. Now, Mr. Griffin, how did you +happen to go the other way?" + +"I didn't go--that is, not deliberately. I just drifted. Mother died, +and father didn't care, in fact rather opposed; so I just didn't last. +Later on, I studied the church and I could not see." + +"Studied the church? You mean the Catholic Church?" Father Murray's +mouth hid the ghost of a smile. + +"No, it wasn't the Catholic Church in particular. When we worldlings +say 'the church,' we mean religion in general, perhaps all Christianity +in general and all Christians in particular." + +"I know." The priest's voice held a touch of sorrow now. "I hope you +will pardon me, Mr. Griffin, if I say one thing that may sound +controversial--it's just an observation. I have noticed the tendency +you speak of; but isn't it strange that when people go looking into the +question of religion they can deliberately close their eyes to a 'City +set upon a Mountain'?" + +"I don't quite--" + +"Get me?" Father Murray laughed. "I know that you wanted to use that +particular expressive bit of our particularly expressive slang. What I +mean is this: People study religion nowadays--that is, English-speaking +people--with the Catholic Church left out. Yet she claims the +allegiance of over three hundred million people. Without her, +Christianity would be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on her +foundation. She alone has something really definite to offer. She has +the achievements of twenty centuries by which to judge her. She has +borne, during all those centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-day +she is loved, too--loved better than anything else on earth. She has +hugged the worst of her children to her breast, has borne their shame +that she might save them, because she is a mother; yet she has saints +to show by the thousands. She has never been afraid to speak--always +has spoken; but the ages have not trapped her. She is the biggest, +most wonderful, most mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, as +you say, those who study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I have +been through the mill." + +Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her," he said, "but I +am just a little bit afraid of her." + +"Ah, yes." The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem to +emphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin, +and so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that I +have never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. I +struggled, and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She was +leading me where I did not want to go. But when I came she put her +arms around me; and when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spite +of many things; and now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I pay +always. Yet I am glad to pay. I am glad to pay--even here--in +Sihasset." + +Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder," he said softly, "if +you are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch upon +something raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higher +than you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?" + +"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but it +doesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Church +takes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with a +smile, she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowing +that it is best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and the +whips sting, but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark, +_if you have learned_. But pardon me, here's a parishioner--" A +woman, old and bent, was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary. +How is the good man?" + +The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark a +keen thrill of sympathy. + +"He's gone, Father," she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he had +you with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden." + +"God rest him. I'm sorry--" + +"Don't be sorry, Father," she answered, as he opened the door to let +her go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and to +John and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he died +right. I'm happy to do God's will." + +She passed into the house. The priest looked over to where Mark was +standing hat in hand. + +"Don't go, Mr. Griffin, unless you really have to. I'll be away only a +few minutes." + +Mark sat down again and thought. The priest had said nothing about the +lady of the tree, and Mark really wanted him to mention her; but Father +Murray had given him something else that made him thoughtful and +brought back memories. Mark did not have long to wait, for the door +opened in five minutes and the priest came out alone. + +"Mrs. O'Leary came to arrange for the funeral herself--brave, wasn't +it?" he said. "I left her with Ann, my housekeeper, a good soul whose +specialty is one in which the Irish excel--sympathy. Ann keeps it in +stock and, though she is eternally drawing on it, the stock never +diminishes. Mrs. O'Leary's troubles are even now growing less." + +"Sympathy and loyalty," said Mark, "are chief virtues of the Irish I +knew at home." + +"Ann has both," said Father Murray, hunting for his pipe. "But the +latter to an embarrassing degree. She would even run the parish if she +could, to see that it was run to save me labor. Ann has been a +priest's housekeeper for twenty-five years. She has condoled with +hundreds; she loves the poor but has no patience with shams. We have a +chronic sick man here who is her particular _bête noir_. And, as for +organists, she would cheerfully drown them all. But Mrs. O'Leary is +safe with Ann." + +"Poor woman!" said Mark. + +"That reminds me," said Father Murray. "I had a convert priest here a +little while ago. His Bishop had sent him for his initial 'breaking +in' to one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned a +little the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met +the priest--who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like +myself--I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people. +'Charming people,' he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too--Mrs. +O'Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski--' 'You speak of them,' I +said, 'as if they were society ladies.' 'Better--better still,' he +answered. 'They're the real thing--fewer faults, more faith, more +devotion.' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such as +these." + +"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy," ventured the +visitor. + +"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary. She +wouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine. +It isn't philosophy, though," he added, slowly; "rather, it's something +bigger. It's real religion." + +"She needs it!" + +"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I +had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest +sighed as he hunted for his pipe. + +The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up the +walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both +the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and +gloves. + +"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore." + +Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please, please." + +"Well, _Father_, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor +man is dead. Can I do anything?" + +"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?" + +"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting +to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest +understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady +bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed +timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the +gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice +faltered for an instant as she addressed him. + +"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she +ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service." + +Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the +drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown +hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He +was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was +English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a +certain old park of boyhood's days. + +"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more +astonished. + +"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and is +unhesitating in action. He saw someone about to--make himself, let us +say, unpleasant--and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance to +thank him." + +Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue, +under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasy +under the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet to +stay; but he knew that it was proper to go. + +Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn. + +"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Atheson +referred, Mr. Griffin?" he said. "No one offered insult?" He was +plainly anxious. + +"Not at all," answered Mark. "I think the man only wanted to stare. I +gave him a chance to stare at me--and at the water. That is all." + +Father Murray looked relieved as he clasped Mark's hand. + +"Good-bye," he said. "Come to see me again. I am usually alone. Come +often. The latch-string is where you can reach it." + +In the street Mark met Saunders, but this time it was the agent who +wanted to talk. + +"How did you like the Padre?" he began. + +"Splendid. Thank you for the meeting." + +"Did you see the lady who went in?" + +"Yes; I was introduced." + +"Introduced? Never!" + +"Why not?" + +"Well," the agent was confused, "I don't see why not after all. Did +you see her face?" + +"She had on a veil." + +"Of course; she always has. She was the woman who passed us on the +bluff road." + +"You saw her, then?" + +"Yes, I saw her; but not close enough to know whether--" + +"What?" + +"I think she is someone I know. Are you coming back to the hotel?" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +UNDER SUSPICION + +That night, tossing in bed, Mark Griffin found the lady of the tree +occupying the center of his thoughts. He had to acknowledge to himself +the simple truth, that she interested him more than any other woman he +had ever seen; and he had a vague idea that he had met her before--but +where? He was wise enough to know where such interest would ultimately +lead him. The more he worried about it, the more a cause for worry it +became. The very idea was foolish. He had seen her twice, had spoken +to her once. Yes, she was charming; but he had known others almost as +charming and he had not even been interested. Now he might go +deeper--and what of the risks? + +Saunders was certainly shadowing the woman. The town constable was +constantly with him, seemingly ready to make an arrest the moment the +detective was sure of his ground. It was easy to figure that out. +Worse than all, the woman was afraid--or why the veil? Why the secret +door through a tree? Why her embarrassment when she faced the danger +of having the detective see her face? + +On the other hand, she was a friend of the priest, and Mark had formed +a very favorable opinion of Father Murray. Then she had referred to +the incident on the bluff road very openly and without embarrassment +These things were in her favor, but--well, the rest looked bad. Above +all was the danger of falling in love with her. + +Mark thought of his people in England and of his brother the Irish +peer. He knew their prejudices. What would they say if the heir +presumptive to the barony came home with an American wife? Yet why +should he care? + +The worry about Saunders came back. He was undoubtedly a detective, +and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of good +social standing? Mark knew there was something wrong. He knew there +was danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decided +that he had better go away at once. Then the face he had seen as she +stepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voice +that had in it so much gratitude when she thanked him for his little +service. + +"Damn it, man," he said to himself, "you can't be a coward! She needs +help; stay to give it." That was Mark's first and last struggle over +his long-delayed moving problem. + +He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning. The detective must have +been thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion. +Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance of +the look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely to +conceal his own feelings. He tried--but too late--and was foolish +enough to think he had not betrayed himself. + +Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion. + +"Good morning, Saunders. You are thinking of the lady in the veil?" + +But Saunders was already back in his shell. He looked puzzled. "Veil? +Lady? Oh, yes. Sure I am. It would be very ungallant to forget her. +She's too pretty." + +"How do you know? You didn't see her face." + +"I was just guessing. We Yankees are good at guessing. Don't you +English concede that?" + +"Guessing and wooden nutmegs," said Mark, "both go with the Yankee +character." + +"Guessing, wooden nutmegs, and a little taste of Brandywine thrown in +for flavor." + +"Very unkind of you to throw our defeats in our teeth--and especially +into mine; for you know that I am half Irish, and we Irish helped you." + +Saunders laughed as they approached the desk together. + +"Letter for you, Mr. Griffin," said the clerk, throwing a square +envelope on the desk. + +Saunders just glanced at it before Mark himself saw that the letter was +without a stamp; it had come by messenger. The detective turned his +back to hide a smile, then walked to the reading table and picked up a +paper. + +Mark opened his letter. It was from the lady of the tree--only a few +lines--an invitation to tea that afternoon at the house behind the +great wall. Twice he read it over. + + +"Dear Mr. Griffin: Monsignore is coming to tea at four o'clock to-day. +Won't you come with him? He likes you--that I know--and he always +looks lonesome when he comes alone, with only two women to talk to. + Sincerely, + Ruth Atheson." + + +That was all. The letter went into Mark's pocket as he saw Saunders +looking over the top of his paper. + +"Getting acquainted in Sihasset pretty quickly, eh?" ventured the +detective. + +"Yes," replied Mark, "bad pays get acquainted fast." The reply was +obviously inadequate, but Mark wanted the detective to know. Saunders +took the bait, hook and all. + +"Sihasset's getting up in the world," he commented. "Square, tinted +envelopes for bills were just coming in at New York two weeks ago." + +Both gentlemen were evidently quite pleased with themselves. Saunders +took the cigar Mark offered, and they sat talking over first editions +until ten. + +"Going out?" Saunders asked, as Mark threw away his cigar and rose. +Something in his tone made Mark think he wanted him to go. Why? + +"Just for a little while. Want to go?" + +"No, I'm going to write letters. I'll go out later." + +Mark understood. Saunders suspected him to be an accomplice of the +woman and intended to search his room. Mark thought quickly. +Immediate action was necessary; there were important papers in his +room, and he didn't care to have his identity known just now. Then he +smiled cheerfully, for his whole plan of action was suddenly clear. +Not only would he guard his papers, but he'd keep the detective +guessing--guessing _hard_. He walked to the desk and addressed the +clerk: + +"Has any of the town banks a safety deposit vault for the public?" + +"Yes, sir. The National has one and its terms are very reasonable." + +Mark went to his room, and carefully gathered every scrap of paper. +The useless went into the old stove which had stood all summer waiting +the winter's need; the others he carefully placed in his pocket. Then +he went out. At the bank he rented a box and left the papers he didn't +want Saunders to see. He felt satisfied that nothing Saunders found +would relieve him of suspicion. The burning of the papers would make +the detective all the more certain that Mark ought to be watched. That +would help Miss Atheson by keeping the detective on the wrong scent. + +At noon Mark went to his room to wash before lunch. Saunders had not +been very clever. There was a tell-tale smudge on the stove--a smudge +made by a hand that had blackened itself by diving down into the ashes +to search among the burned papers. Mark knew that Saunders had lost no +time in searching his room, and he was happy to be still under +suspicion. + +But Mark was not so happy in contemplating the rest of the situation. +He was getting deeper into a game he knew nothing about. What was the +reason for the suspicion against the girl? Could she be a thief--or +worse? Mark had heard of pretty criminals before, and he knew that +beauty without is no guarantee of virtue within. But he had resolved +to go through with the adventure, and he would not change his mind. He +argued, too, that it was not entirely the beauty of Ruth Atheson that +interested him. There was an indefinable "something else." Anyhow, +innocent or guilty, he made up his mind to stand by her. + +At lunch he met Saunders again and found him overly friendly, even +anxious to talk. The detective opened the conversation. + +"Going to see the Padre again?" + +"I have an engagement with him this afternoon. I rather like the +Padre!" + +"Sure you do," said the detective. "Everybody does. The Padre's a +wonder, and the last man one might expect to find in a little parish +like this." + +Mark wanted to learn more on that score. + +"True enough," he said. "In the Anglican Church they would make such a +man a bishop, or at least a dean." + +"Well, they didn't do that with the Padre." The detective shook his +head as if to express his regret that something of the kind had not +been done. "He was the right hand man of the old Bishop of the +diocese; but the new Bishop had to have new counselors. That's one way +of the world that the church fellows have gotten into. Some say that +it broke the Padre's heart, but he doesn't look it. Must have hurt him +a little, though. Human nature is human nature--and after all he did +for the Church, too." + +"Did he do so much?" questioned Mark. + +"Sure he did! You saw the Cathedral, didn't you, when you passed +through the city? Well, the Padre built that, and the big college, +too, the one you see from the train. He was president of the college. +He was the life and soul of the Catholic Church in this section." + +"Why was he dropped?" + +"Search me," offered the detective. "No one knows that except the +Bishop, I guess. Padre came here six months ago. Some of the young +priests used to come to see him, but seldom any of the older ones. I +got all I know from one of those young chaps--the one I told you I met +on the train. He almost cried over the affair." + +"It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it," said Mark; "but +somehow it makes the man seem bigger to me." + +"True." Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. "They say he had +the best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics--big +salary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman. +Went to school, by gosh!--dead game! But when they made him a priest +he jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college he +built. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know, +Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, I +honestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's a +power here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimaga +work." + +It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again. + +"She's a stranger, isn't she?" he asked. + +The detective half closed his eyes. "How do you know?" + +"You told me so." + +Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring. + +"I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her about +the time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and his +family went over to your country to buy a title for their only +daughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate; +and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens are +a wonder. Ever see them?" + +"No." + +"Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herself +on the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the mill +people. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I passed her just now +going into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and died +yesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family all +winter. Where she gets the money is beyond me." + +"You Americans are all rich," said Mark. "You English think we are, +but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side every +summer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but I +know that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Atheson +family she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and her +money and her veil." + +"Why," said Mark, "every woman wears a veil--the sun, you know." + +"Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and _every_ kind of +weather!" + +The detective's face was betraying him again. But the luncheon was +over, and Mark would not be probed. He had made up his mind to go +early to the rectory, so he left Saunders with a parting shot: + +"You'd better go on with the book sales. You've loafed all day. +That's bad business policy for a Yankee. What would your wooden nutmeg +ancestors say to that?" + +Saunders grinned. + +"They wouldn't like it," he answered. "They're not like ancestors who +wouldn't have been able to sell even a real nutmeg." + +Mark acknowledged that in repartee Saunders scored, then went out to +make his way toward the rectory. As he passed the First National Bank +he saw the constable talking to the cashier. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +KILLIMAGA + +Father Murray was sitting in his favorite chair on the rectory veranda +when Mark came up the lawn. He rose with a welcome. + +"You must pardon me, Father," began Mark, "for coming so soon after your +noon meal--" Mark hesitated about saying "luncheon," not knowing the +habits of the rectory--"but, frankly, I wanted to talk to you before--" + +"Before we go to Killimaga," supplied Father Murray as Mark paused. +"Yes, I know that you are invited. Sit down and open up. I am always +glad to talk--and to listen, too. What is it?" + +Again Mark hesitated. "It's to ask about Miss Atheson." + +Father Murray's eyes smiled. "I thought so," he said. "What do you want +to know?" + +Mark hesitated. "I know that the lady is very charitable and kind, but +especially so to anyone whom you suggest. You must, therefore, be +interested in anything that concerns her." + +"I am," said Father Murray. "Very much interested." + +Mark thought he noticed a new and half-suspicious note in the priest's +voice, and was distressed. He felt like blaming himself for having +mentioned the subject. He feared he had lost ground with his new-made +friend; but, having started the discussion, Mark was determined to go +through with it. + +"It's just this way, Father," he said. "I think you ought to know that +there is someone besides yourself interested in Miss Atheson. The +incident she mentioned yesterday seemed a small one, but--well, I had to +move pretty quick to keep that man from making himself obnoxious. He had +a photograph in his hand and was determined to see her face in order to +make comparisons. Incidentally, the constable was with him." + +Mark, watching closely to note the effect of his words, saw the face +before him whiten. + +"The constable with him?" + +"And I am confident that the other man is a detective. I feel sure he +thinks Miss Atheson is someone he has been commissioned to find. And +they evidently think that I am in the matter to defend the lady. This +morning I left some papers in the safety deposit vault at the First +National, and as I passed the bank a little while ago I saw the constable +talking to the cashier--about me, judging from their confusion as they +acknowledged my greeting through the window. My room was searched this +morning. They didn't find anything, though." Mark laughed as he thought +how disappointed Saunders must have been. + +"I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Griffin," said Father Murray, "if I +confine myself for the present to asking questions. Have you ever +noticed the camp of Slavic laborers about a mile east of Killimaga--along +the line of the new railway?" + +"I have passed it several times." + +"Did you by chance notice," Father Murray went on, "whether this +detective looked like a Slav?" + +"On the contrary, he is--" Mark half paused, then hurried on--"an +American." It was not necessary that he mention Saunders' name--not now, +at least. + +Father Murray seemed puzzled. "There are two or three educated men in +that camp," he said, "who have been hanging around Killimaga a great deal +of late; and they have been worrying an old parishioner of mine--a +retired farmer who finds plenty of time to worry about everybody else, +since he has no worries of his own. He thinks that these well-dressed +'bosses' are strange residents for a railroad construction camp. He +tells me that he has often been in such camps, but that he had never seen +what he calls 'gintlemen' living in them before." + +Mark laughed. "Your old parishioner is a discerning man." + +"Uncle Mac," replied Father Murray, "is the kind of man who believes that +virtue stands in the middle. When I first came here he called to see me +to ask about my politics. Uncle Mac is a lifelong Democrat, and when I +told him that I usually voted the Republican ticket he became suspicious. +Just before the election I preached on 'Citizenship'--careful always to +avoid any reference to partisanship. Uncle Mac came in after Mass and +said: 'I think ye were preachin' Republican sintiments this morning +Father.' I said, 'Not at all, Uncle Mac. I made no reference to either +party.' 'No,' said he, 'but yer sintiments were awful highfalutin'.'" + +Mark laughed his appreciation. "Wasn't that rather a compliment to the +Republicans?" he asked. + +"I took it so," said Father Murray. "But Uncle Mac does not like the +'highfalutin'.' One day he said to me, when he saw all my books, 'The +man who was here before you, Father, wasn't smart enough; but you're too +dom smart. Now, I don't like a priest who isn't smart enough, but I'm +afeerd of one who's too dom smart. If you'd only half as many books, I'd +feel betther about ye.'" + +The Padre paused a moment; then the anxious look returned and he spoke +slowly as if he were trying to solve the puzzle even while he spoke. + +"Uncle Mac told me yesterday that there was a very 'highfalutin' +gintleman' in the camp the night before last. He came there in a long, +rakish automobile. Uncle Mac said that 'he parted his whiskers in the +middle, so he did,' and that 'he looked like a governor or somethin' of +the sort.' I was just wondering if that detective of yours has anything +to do with that camp, and if these strange visitors are not in some way +connected with his interest in Miss Atheson. But perhaps that's making +too much of a mystery of it." + +"As to that," said Mark, "of course I cannot say. I merely wanted you to +know, Father Murray, just what was going on; to tell you that while you +don't know me, nevertheless I hope you will permit me to be of assistance +if these people are annoying Miss Atheson. If you wish to know more +about me, I shall be glad to bring you the papers I left in the vault +this morning." + +"I do not need to see your papers, Mr. Griffin," Father Murray answered. +"I am satisfied with you, especially since Miss Atheson owes something to +you. Will you mind if I do not discuss the matter with you further now?" + +"Not at all, Father Murray. I do not ask for information that you feel +you should not give." + +"Perhaps," said Father Murray, "I shall give it to you later on; but for +the present let matters stand as they are. You know the detective, and I +don't. The principal thing is to find out whether there is any +connection between that camp, the 'highfalutin' gintleman' of Uncle Mac, +and the detective. I have reason to think there may be. This much I +will say to you: You need have no fear whatever for Miss Atheson. I can +assure you that there is no good reason in the world why a detective +should be watching her. Miss Atheson is everything that she looks." + +"I am confident of that," said Mark. "Otherwise I should not have spoken +to you." + +"Then," said the priest, "suppose we go now to our engagement at +Killimaga." + +The two passed across the lawn, then down the street and along the road +toward the great house whose towers looked out over the trees. Neither +Mark nor the priest said a word until the town was well behind them. +Then Father Murray turned to his companion. + +"You will find Miss Atheson a remarkable woman, Mr. Griffin. There is a +reason, perhaps, why I might not be a competent judge--why I might be +prejudiced--but still I think that you, too, will see it. She has not +been here long, but she is already loved. She receives no one but me. +But she seems to like you, and I didn't hurt you any in her estimation by +my own rather sudden attraction." + +"I am grateful for your appreciation," replied Mark, "even though I may +not deserve it. And more grateful for your confidence." + +Walking slowly, and chatting in friendly fashion, they reached Killimaga. +As the great gates swung open their attention was arrested by the purring +of a motor. Father Murray uttered a low "Ah!" while Mark stared after +the swiftly vanishing machine. He, too, had seen its passenger, a heavy, +dark man with a short beard combed from the center to the sides. The +flashing eyes had seemed to look everywhere at once, yet the man in the +car had continued to smoke in quiet nonchalance as if he had not noticed +the two standing by the gates. Uncle Mac had described the man well. He +was 'highfalutin'' without a doubt. + +"Sihasset is greatly honored," Father Murray remarked softly. + +"Do you know him?" + +"I have seen him before. He comes from a foreign state, but he is no +stranger to America--nor to England, for that matter. Have you any +acquaintance with the diplomats in London?" + +"I have attended balls at which some of them were present." + +"Does your memory recall one of that type?" persisted the priest. + +"No, it does not." + +"Mine does," said Father Murray. "I once had occasion to offer a prayer +at an important banquet at which that gentleman was the guest of honor. +He sat near me, and when I asked him where he had acquired such a mastery +of English, he told me that he had been for five years minister at the +Court of St. James. He is now accredited to Washington. Do you see why +I suggest that Sihasset is greatly honored to-day?" + +Mark could not conceal his astonishment. + +"But why under heaven," he said, "should a foreign diplomat be mixed up +in a camp of Slavic laborers?" + +"There are strange things in diplomacy," said Father Murray. "And +stranger things in Sihasset when the town constable has so much interest +in your taking of tea at Killimaga. If you had turned around a moment +ago, you would have seen our constable's coattails disappearing behind +the bushes on our right." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WITH EMPTY HANDS + +In the long after years Mark Griffin used to wonder at the strange way +in which love for Ruth Atheson entered his life. Mark always owned +that, somehow, this love seemed sent for his salvation. It filled his +life, but only as the air fills a vacuum; so it was, consequently, +nothing that prevented other interests from living with it. It aroused +him to greater ambition. The long-neglected creative power moved +without Mark's knowing why. His pen wrote down his thoughts, and he no +longer destroyed what he committed to paper. It now seemed a crime to +destroy what had cost him only a pleasure to produce. The world had +suddenly become beautiful. No longer did Japan and Siberia call to +him. He had no new plans, but he knew that they were forming, slowly, +but with finality and authority. + +Yet Mark's love was never spoken. It was just understood. Many times +he had determined to speak, and just as many times did it seem quite +unnecessary. He felt that Ruth understood, for one day, when an avowal +trembled on his lips, she had broken it off unspoken by gently calling +him "Mark," her face suffused the while with an oddly tender light that +was in itself an answer. After that it was always "Ruth" and "Mark." +Father Murray also seemed to understand; with him, too, it was "Ruth" +and "Mark." After one week of that glorious September, Mark was at +Killimaga daily; and when October came and had almost passed, without a +word of affection being spoken between them, Ruth and Mark came to know +that some day it would be spoken, quite as naturally as she had uttered +his Christian name for the first time. When Mark thought of his love, +he thought also of his mother. He seemed to see her smile as if it +quite pleased her; and he rejoiced that he could believe she knew, and +saw that it was good. + +"I love many things in men," said Father Murray one day as he and Mark +watched the waves dashing against the bluff. "I love generosity and +strength, truthfulness and mercy; but, most of all, I love cleanness. +The world is losing it, and the world will die from the loss. The +chief aid to my faith is the clean hearts I see in my poor." + +"Uncle Mac again?" ventured Mark. + +"Uncle Mac, and Uncles Mac--many of them. They have a heritage of +cleanness. It is the best thing they brought to this new world, and +_we_ were the losers when they left us." + +"_We_? But you are English, are you not?" asked Mark courteously. + +"Ah! So you caught me then, did you? Yes, I am English, or rather +British. But don't question me about that; I am real Yankee now. Even +my tongue has lost its ancestral rights." + +Mark was persistent. "Perhaps you, too, have a little of the 'blessed +drop' that makes the Uncle Macs what they are? I really think, Father, +that you have it." + +"Not even a little of the 'blessed drop.' I am really not English, +though born in England. Both father and mother were Scotch. So I am +kin to the 'blessed drop.'" + +"And you drifted here--" + +"Not exactly 'drifted,' Mark. I came because I wanted to come. I came +for opportunity. I was ambitious, and then there was another +reason--but that is at present forbidden ground. Here is your +constable friend again." + +The constable passed with a respectful touch of his helmet. _He_ at +least was of the soil. Every line of his face spoke of New England. + +"He is a character worth studying," remarked Father Murray. "Have you +ever talked with him?" + +"No. I have had no chance." + +"Then find one, and put him in a book. He was once rich for Sihasset. +That was in the lumber days. But he lost his money, and he thinks that +the town owes him a living. That is the Methodist minister to whom he +is speaking now. He, too, is worth your attention." + +"Do you get along well with the Protestant clergy of the town?" asked +Mark. + +"Splendidly," said Father Murray; "especially with the Universalist. +There is a lot of humor in the Universalist. I suspect the 'blessed +drop' in him. One day I happened to call him a Unitarian, and he +corrected me. 'But what,' I asked, 'is the difference between the +Universalists and the Unitarians?' The little man smiled and said: +'One of my professors put it like this: "The Unitarians believe that +God is too good to damn them, and the Universalists believe they are +too good to be damned."'" + +"Still, it cannot be an easy life," said Mark, "to be one of seven or +eight Protestant pastors in such a small town." + +"It certainly is hard sledding," replied Father Murray. "But these men +take it very philosophically and with a great deal of self-effacement. +The country clergyman has trials that his city brother knows nothing +about. He has to figure on the pennies that rarely grow to dollars." + +The two friends walked on, Mark's mind reverting to his own lack of +faith and contrasting his dubiety with the sincerity of men who firmly +believe--foremost among them the man who walked by his side. Ah, if +he, too, could only _know_! He broke the silence. + +"Father." He spoke hurriedly, as if fearing he might not have courage +to continue what he had so boldly begun. "Father, I can't forget your +words regarding those who claim to have studied religion and yet who +deliberately leave out of the reckoning the greatest part of religion. +I believe I did that very thing. I was once a believer, at least so I +thought. I let my belief get away from me; it seemed no longer to +merit consideration. I thought I had studied and discarded it; I see +now that I simply cast it away. Afterwards, I gave consideration to +other religions, but they were cold, lacking in the higher appeal. I +turned at last to Theosophy, to Confucianism, but remained always +unsatisfied. I never thought to look again into the religion I had +inherited." + +Father Murray's face was serious. "I am deeply interested," he said, +"deeply, although it was only as I thought. But tell me. What led you +to do this? There must have been a reason formed in your mind." + +"I never thought of a reason at all; I just did it. But now it seems +to me that the reason was there, and that it was not a very worthy one. +I think I wanted to get away. My social interest and comfort, my +independence, all seemed threatened by my faith. You will acknowledge, +Father, that it is an interfering sort of a thing? It hampers one's +actions, and it has a bad habit of getting dictatorial. Don't you see +what I mean?" + +"I do," said the priest; and paused as if to gauge the sincerity of his +companion. "In fact, I went through a similar experience." + +"Then you can tell me what you think of my position." + +"I have already told you," said the priest earnestly. "You are the one +to do the thinking now. All I can do is to point out the road by which +you may best retrace your way. You have told me just what I expected +to hear; I admire your honesty in telling it--not to me, but to +yourself. Don't you see that your reason for deserting your Faith was +but a reason for greater loyalty? The oldest idea of religion in the +world, after that of the existence and providence of God, is the idea +of sacrifice. Even pagans never lost that idea. Nothing in this world +is worth having but must be paid for. Its cost is summed up in +sacrifice. Now, religion demands the same. If it calls for right +living, it calls for the sacrifice that right living demands. An +athlete gets his muscle and strength, not by coddling his body, but by +restraining its passions and curbing its indolence, by working its +softness into force and power. A river is bound between banks, and +only thus bound is it anything but a menace. If a church claims to +have the Truth, she forfeits her first claim to a hearing if she asks +for no sacrifice. That your Church asked many sacrifices was no cause +for your throwing her over, but a sign that she claimed the just right +to put religion in positive form, and to give precepts of sacrifice, +without the giving of which she would have no right to exist at all. +Am I clear?" + +"You are clear, Father, and I know you are right. I have never been +able to leave my own Faith entirely out of the reckoning. I am not +trying to excuse myself. I could not ignore it, for it intruded itself +and forced attention. In fact, it has been forcing itself upon me most +uncomfortably, especially of late years." + +"Again," said Father Murray, "a reason why you should have attended to +it. If there is a divine revelation confided to the care of a church, +that revelation is for the sake of men and not for the sake of the +church. A church has no right to existence for its own sake. He was a +wise Pope who called himself 'Servant of the Servants of God.' The +position of your Church--for I must look upon you as a Catholic--is, +that a divine revelation has been made. If it has been made it must be +conserved. Reason tells us that something then must have been +established to conserve it. That _something_ will last as long as the +revelation needs conserving, which is to the end of the world. Now, +only the Catholic Church claims that she has the care of that +revelation--that she is the conserving force; which means that she +is--as I have told you before--a 'City set upon a Mountain.' She can't +help making herself seen. She _must_ intrude on your thoughts. She +_must_ speak consistently through your life. She can permit no one to +ignore her. She _won't_ let anyone ignore her. Kick her out one door, +and she will come in another. She is in your art, your music, your +literature, your laws, your customs, your very vices as well as your +virtues--as she was destined to be. It is her destiny--her manifest +destiny--and she can't change it if she would." + +Mark drew in a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. "I suppose, +Father," he said, "I could argue with you and dispute with you; under +other circumstances perhaps I should. I hate to think that I may have +to give up my liberty; yet I am not going to argue, and I am not going +to dispute. I wanted information, and I got it. The questions I asked +were only for the purpose of drawing you out. But here is another: Why +should any institution come between a man and his God? Is that +necessary?" + +The priest's eyes held a far-away look. It was some little while +before he spoke, and then very slowly, as if carefully weighing his +words. + +"There is nothing," said the priest, "between the trees and the flowers +and their God--but they are only trees and flowers; they live, but they +neither think nor feel. There is nothing between the lower animals and +their God; but, though they live and feel, they have none of the higher +power of thought. If God had wanted man thus, why should he have given +him something more than the lower animals? Man cannot live and feel +only and still be a man. He must feed not only his body but his heart +and soul and intellect. The men who have nothing between themselves +and their God are mostly confined in lunatic asylums. The gift of +intelligence demands action by the intellect; and there must be a +foundation upon which to base action. When the foundation is in place, +there never can be any limit to the desire for building upon it. Now, +God willed all that. He created the condition and is, therefore, +obliged to satisfy the desires of that condition. Some day He must +satisfy the desires to the full; but now He is obliged only to keep +them fed, or to give them the means to keep fed. Of course, He could +do that by a direct revelation to each individual; but that He has not +done so is proved by the fact that, while there can be but one Truth, +yet each individual who 'goes it alone' has a different conception of +it. The idea of private religious inspiration has produced public +religious anarchy. Now, God could not will religious anarchy--He loves +truth too much. So reason tells us that He _must_ have done the thing +that His very nature would force Him to do. He _must_ have confided +His revelation to His Church in order to preserve it, to teach it, to +keep it for men. That is not putting any man or institution between +Himself and His creatures. Would you call the hand which drags you +over a danger an interference with your liberty? Liberty, my dear +Mark, is not the right to be blind, but the privilege of seeing. The +light that shows things to your eyes is not an interference between +those things and your eyes. The road you take to your destination is +not an obstacle to your reaching it." + +The priest was silent for a moment, but Mark knew that he had not quite +finished. + +"The rich young man of the Scriptures went to Christ and asked what he +should do to be saved. He got his answer. Was Christ in his way? Was +the answer a restraint upon his liberty?" + +"No," answered Mark, breaking in, "it was not a restraint upon his +liberty. But you say that Christ is God, so the young man had nothing +between himself and his God." + +"Oh, yes, he had," said the priest. "He had the command or counsel +that Christ gave him. It was against the command or counsel that he +rebelled. Now have not I, and you, and all the world, the same right +to get an answer as that young man had? Since we are all equal in the +sight of God, and since Christ came for all men, have we not the right +to an answer now as clear as His was then?" + +"It seems logical," admitted Mark. + +"Then," said Father Murray, "the unerring Voice must still be here. +Where is it?" + +"Yes," retorted Mark, "that is my cry. Where is it? I think it's the +cry of many other men. What is the answer?" + +"It is the thing that you threw over--or believed you had thrown +over--and that you can't get away from thinking about. It waits to +answer you." + +A silence settled between the two men. It lasted for over a minute. +Finally Mark broke it. + +"You told me, Father," he said, "that what I called 'Mrs. O'Leary's +philosophy' was religion. I now know better what you meant, for I have +been gossiping about you. The best point you make is--yourself. I +know what you have been, what you have done, and how sadly you have +suffered. Doesn't your religion demand too much--resignation? Does a +God of Justice demand that we tamely submit to injustice? I am not +saying this to be personal, or to pain you, but everyone seems to +wonder at your resignation to injustice. Why should such a fault be in +the Church you think so perfect?" + +The priest looked at Mark with kindly and almost merry eyes. "I can +answer you better, my friend, by sticking to my own case. I have never +talked of it before; but, if it helps you, I can't very well refuse to +talk of it now. I came to the Church with empty hands, having passed +through the crisis that seems to be upon you. She filled those empty +hands, for she honored me and gave me power. She set me in high +places, and I honestly tried to be worthy. I worked for her, and I +seemed to succeed. Then--and very suddenly and quietly--she pulled me +down, and tore my robe of honor from me. My fellow priests, my old +friends, criticised me and judged me harshly. They came no more to see +me, though I had been generous with them. In the college I built and +directed, one of my old friends sits in my place and forgets who put +him there. Another is the Bishop who disgraced me. Now, have I a +right to feel angry and rebel?" + +"To me," said Mark, "it seems as if you have." + +"I have not," and the priest spoke very earnestly. "I have no such +right. I never knew--for I did not ask--the reason of my disgrace. +But one thing I did know; I knew it was for my good. I knew that, +though it was a trial given me by men, there was in it, too, something +given by God. You judge as I should have judged ten years ago--by the +standards of the world. I judge now by other standards. It took +adversity to open my eyes. We are not here, my dear Mark, for the +little, but for the big things. I had the little and I thought they +were big. My fall from a place of honor has taught me that they were +really little, and that it is only now that I have the big. What is +religion for but to enlighten and to save--enlighten here that the +future may hold salvation? What were my purple, power and title? +Nothing, unless I could make them help to enlighten and to save myself +and others. I ought to have fought them, but I was not big enough to +see that they hindered where I could have made them help. Like a bolt +out of the sunlight came the stripping. My shame was the best offering +I have made during all the days of my life. In my misery I went to God +as naturally as the poor prodigal son went to his father when he was +reduced to eating husks from the trough of the swine. I asked nothing +as to the cause of my fall. I knew that, according to man's +standard--even according to the laws that she herself had made--that +the Church had been unjust; but I did not ask to know anything about +it, for the acceptance of the injustice was worth more to my soul than +was the great cathedral I had been instrumental in building. I was +grieved that my friends had left me, but I knew at last that I had +cultivated them at the expense of greater friends--sacrifice and +humility. Shorn of my honors, in the rags and tatters left of my +greatness, I lay before my Master--and I gained more in peace than I +had ever known was in life." + +"God!" Mark's very soul seemed to be speaking, and the single word +held the solemnity of a prayer. "This, then, is religion! Was it this +that I lost?" + +"No one has lost, Mark, what he sincerely wishes to find." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHO IS RUTH? + +Leaving Father Murray at the rectory, Mark went on to the hotel. +Entering the lobby, he gave vent to a savage objurgation as he +recognized the man speaking to the clerk. Mark's thoughts were no +longer of holy things, for the man was no other than Saunders, from +whom, for the past two weeks, Sihasset had been most pleasantly free. + +"Damn!" he muttered. "I might have known he'd return to spoil it all." +Then, mustering what grace he could, Mark shook hands with the +detective, greeting him with a fair amount of cordiality, for, +personally, he rather liked the man. "You here!" he exclaimed. "I +scarcely expected ever to see you again." + +Saunders grinned pleasantly, but still suspiciously, as he answered. +"I can't say the same of you, Mr. Griffin. I knew you would be here +when I returned; fact is, I came back to see you." + +"Me? How could I cart books all over the world with me? What do you +want to see me for? No, no. I am bad material for you to work on. +Better go back to the Padre. He's what you call an 'easy mark,' isn't +he?" + +"Oh, he's not so easy as you think, Griffin. By the way, have you +lunched?" + +"No." + +"You will join me then?" + +"Thanks; I will." + +"We can get into a corner and talk undisturbed." + +But lunch was disposed of before Saunders began. When he did, it was +right in the middle of things. + +"Griffin," he said, leaning over the table and looking straight at +Mark, "Griffin, what's your game? Let's have this thing out." + +"I am afraid, Saunders," replied Mark, "that I must take refuge again +in the picturesque slang which the Padre thinks so expressive: I really +don't get you." + +"Oh, yes, you do. What are you doing here?" + +"Honestly, my good fellow," Mark began to show a little pique, "you +have remarkable curiosity about what isn't your business." + +"But it _is_ my business, Griffin. I am not a book agent, and never +was." + +It was Mark's turn to smile. + +"Which fact," he said, "is not information to me. I knew it long ago. +You are a detective." + +"I am. Does that tell you nothing?" + +"Nothing," replied Mark, "except that you make up splendidly as a +really decent sort of fellow." + +"Perhaps I am a decent sort, decent enough, anyhow; and perhaps I don't +particularly like my business, but it _is_ my business. Now, look +here, Griffin, I want you to help instead of hindering me. I have to +ask this question of you: What do you know about Ruth Atheson? You see +her every day." + +"So," said Mark, annoyed, "the constable has not been around for +nothing." + +"You have seen him then?" + +"Everywhere." + +"Which proves he is a reliable constable, even if he is not a good +detective." Saunders looked pleased. "But what about Ruth Atheson?" + +But Mark would have his innings now. He knew well how to keep Saunders +anxious. + +"I am quite--well, interested in Miss Atheson." + +"What!" Saunders half arose. + +"Sit down, Saunders," said Mark quietly, "sit down. What's so +astonishing about that?" + +"You--you--are engaged to Miss Atheson? You can't mean it!" + +"I didn't say _that_." + +Saunders sat down again. "You know nothing about her," he gasped. + +"The Padre's friends are good enough to appeal to me." + +"But does the Padre know?" + +Mark's eyes began to steel and glitter. He fixed them on Saunders, and +his voice came very steady and quiet. + +"Know what, Saunders? Know what?" + +"Know what? Why, that Ruth Atheson is _not_ Ruth Atheson." + +"Then who _is_ she?" + +Saunders drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Mark for what seemed a +long time to both. The detective broke the tension. + +"Griffin," he almost shouted, "either I am a fool, and ought to be +given a job as town crier, or you are the cleverest I've ever gone up +against, or--" + +"Or," Mark's voice was still quiet, "I may be entirely lacking in the +knowledge which you possess. Get it off your mind, man--better do it +soon, for you will _have to_ later on, you know. I have _quite_ made +up my mind on that." + +"Yes," Saunders seemed half satisfied, "yes, you may not know--it +really looks as if you didn't. Are you the simon-pure Mark Griffin, +brother of Baron Griffin of the Irish peerage?" + +"Yes. Where did you get that last bit of information?" + +Saunders ignored the query. + +"Did you really drop in here as a traveler, aiming at nothing in +particular?" + +"Yes." + +"Did you never know Ruth--" + +"Miss--" + +"Miss Ruth Atheson before?" + +"No." + +"Ever hear of her?" + +"No." + +"Are you really--interested in her?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you intend to stay interested?" + +"Yes." + +"I _was_ mistaken. You don't know, and I guess it's my duty to tell +you the truth. This girl is a _runaway_." + +"What?" Mark was rising. + +Saunders put out his hand. "Easy now, Griffin, easy now. Just wait. +I am going to tell you something. I see that you really know nothing, +and it's up to me to enlighten you. As I said, Ruth Atheson is _not_ +Ruth Atheson. She's the daughter of a grand duke. I can't tell you +the name of the Grand Duchy, but I'll say this: it isn't very far from +a certain Big Kingdom we hear a great deal about now--in fact the Duchy +is a dependency of the Big Kingdom--more than that, the so-called Ruth +Atheson is heiress presumptive to the throne. She'll some day be the +Grand Duchess." + +Mark sat stunned. It was with difficulty that he could speak. He saw +a tragedy that Saunders could not see. Then he broke out: + +"But you? How do you know?" + +"It's my business to know--the business you don't like. I was +instructed to watch her. She got out of Europe before certain people +could reach her--" + +"But," objected Mark, "how do I know you are telling the truth?" + +Saunders dug into his pocket and pulled out a postal card. "This will +tell you--or the photograph on it will." + +The picture was a foreign one, bearing the strange characters of a +Slavic language, such a card as is sold in every country with portraits +of reigning or distinguished personages. The facsimile signature, in a +bold feminine hand across the lower part of the picture, was "Carlotta." + +"Do you believe me now, Griffin?" asked Saunders, with some sympathy +showing on his face, which fact alone saved Mark from smashing it. + +"I am afraid I must, Saunders. You had better tell me the whole of +this." + +"I will; for, as I have sized up the situation, it is best that I +should. The Duchess ran away. She was supposed to be at San Sebastian +with a trusted attendant. The attendant was evidently _not_ to be +trusted, for _she_ disappeared, too. They were traced to London, then +to Madeira, then to a North German Lloyd liner which stopped at the +island on its way to America. Then to Boston. Then to Sihasset." + +"This attendant you spoke of--what was she like?" + +Saunders gave the description: "Dark, fairly stout, white hair, bad +English, piercing black eyes, sixty years old, upper lip showing a +growth of hair, slight wart on the right side of the nose." + +"Madam Neuville!" + +"So she's here with her, is she? I suspected that, but I have never +seen the old lady." + +"She doesn't go out much." + +"Are you satisfied now, Mr. Griffin?" + +"As to identity, yes. Now, I will ask the questions. I have a right, +haven't I, Saunders?" + +Saunders nodded. + +"Why did the Duchess run away?" + +Saunders hesitated before he answered. "I hate to tell you that. +Don't ask." + +"But I _do_ ask." + +"Well, you may have a right to know. There was a man, that's why." + +Mark wondered at his own self-control. + +"Who was he?" + +"An army officer, attached to the Italian embassy at her father's +court. But, look here, Griffin, there was no scandal about it. She +just fell in love with him, that's all. I was here watching for _him_. +I thought, for a while, that _you_ might be the man, though the +descriptions did not tally. I was taking no chances. If I saw him, my +business was to telegraph to a certain Ministry at Washington; that was +all." + +"And they would--" + +"I don't know. Those fellows have ways I can't fathom. I don't know +what they would do. They probably have their plans laid. It's evident +that they don't want her to meet him. I can't arrest her, and neither +can they; but they certainly could do for him if they wanted to. It +would be easier to bring her back, then, without scandal or publicity. +Now you've got all I know. What are you going to do?" + +"I'm afraid," Mark spoke with an effort, "I'm afraid that I don't know +just what to do, Saunders. You see, I happen to love her." + +"But what about the other man?" + +"Well, Saunders, I find it very hard to believe that." + +"Griffin," said Saunders, "I've told you a lot, because I know you are +a gentleman, and because you have a right to know. I make only one +request of you: please don't speak of this." + +"I appreciate the confidence, Saunders. My word is given." + +"Think this thing over, Griffin. You're the right stuff. I don't +blame you for wanting her. You know better than I if she's right, and +if you ever can have her." + +Mark went back to his room. On his table lay a note. He opened it and +read: + + +"My dear Mark: The Bishop is coming this morning to confirm the little +class of tots who received their First Holy Communion last Sunday. His +Lordship is a charming man. I'm sure you would like to meet him. Come +up and take dinner with us at noon. He leaves on the three o'clock +train. Better be at the rectory at eleven thirty. + Sincerely, + Donald Murray." + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +BITTER BREAD + +When Mark arrived at the church, which stood quite close to the little +rectory, he heard the choir singing the _Veni Creator_, and remembered +enough of former visits to church services to know that the sermon was +about to begin. Early for dinner, he decided to pass the time +listening to what the Bishop might have to say. There were no vacant +seats near the door of the church, so he had to go quite close to the +sanctuary before he found a place. Only two seats ahead of him was the +group of twenty little girls about to be confirmed, and directly across +the aisle from them were fifteen little boys. + +Mark had vivid recollections of the day of his own First Communion, but +he had never been confirmed. Things looked just as they did on the day +he so well remembered. The girls were dressed in white, and each small +head was covered by a veil which fell in soft long folds to the bottom +of the short skirts. The boys were in black, each with a white ribbon +around his right arm. These boys all had serious faces, and had +evidently been prepared well for the reception of the Sacrament. Mark +found himself wondering how the pastor could possibly have succeeded in +taming some of the lads, in whom he recognized certain mischievous +youngsters he had seen about the hotel; but tamed they certainly were. + +Mark had scarcely sat down before the Bishop turned to the congregation +and began to speak. His words were addressed entirely to the children. +He told them in simple language, which Mark found himself admiring, the +meaning and importance of the ceremony, sketching the apostolic origin +of Confirmation, and dwelling upon its strengthening spiritual effects. + +The Bishop was young, too young, Mark thought, since he was not yet +forty. His hair was still black, and his cheeks ruddy. He was quite a +contrast to Father Murray who sat near by. Mark noticed that the +pastor did not wear the manteletta of a prelate, but only the surplice +of a simple priest. There were two other priests in the sanctuary, +both young, one probably the Bishop's secretary. + +The Bishop allowed his gaze to wander over the congregation as he spoke +with a rich, clear voice, and with growing eloquence. The children had +fixed their wondering eyes on his impressive figure, as he stood before +them, crozier in hand and mitre on head. Mark found that he was +growing more attentive, and liking the Bishop even better as the sermon +went on. More than that, he found himself interested in the doctrine +of Confirmation, a ceremony which but a few months before he would have +thought quite meaningless. He watched the Bishop and listened as +closely as did the children. + +In the very midst of a sentence Mark saw a startled look on the face of +the preacher, a quickly suppressed look that told of great surprise. +The Bishop saved himself from breaking the current of his speech, but +so plainly did Mark notice the instance that his mind jumped at once to +the conclusion that the Bishop had seen in the congregation somebody he +had not expected in that place and at that time. Instinctively Mark's +gaze followed the Bishop's. Across the aisle, and in a direct line +with himself, sat Ruth, veiled as usual, and Madame Neuville. For an +instant only the Bishop's glance rested on the veiled girl; then he +turned again to the children. But the sermon had been spoiled for +Mark. The uneasiness was coming over him again. What did the Bishop +know? Mark could not help thinking that somehow the incident was a +proof that the detective had told the truth. + +The sermon over, the Bishop's attendant came up to him, while Father +Murray went to marshal his little charges up to the foot of the altar. +As the Bishop was about to sit down on the faldstool, Mark saw him +whisper to the young priest beside him, the one Mark thought to be the +secretary. He was a well trained secretary, for he made no sign; but +Mark watched him as he calmly turned around to face the congregation. +His searching glance swept the church until it rested upon the girl +with the veil. He, too, seemed startled, but gave scarcely a sign as +he turned quickly away. When the ceremony had ended Mark left his pew, +looking straight at Ruth as he turned to face the door. He imagined +that her eyes looked directly into his; but if they did they looked at +him as a stranger. He could have seen a smile under the veil if it had +been there, but there was none. Still more worried, he left the +church. The girl remained behind, until there was no one but herself +and Madame Neuville left. In his anxiety for the girl, Mark returned +and looked at her from the rear of the church. Her face was buried in +her hands. The sacristy door opened slightly and the young secretary +looked out. The girl, not seeing the door open, lifted the veil for an +instant to wipe away her tears. The secretary closed the door softly +as soon as he had seen her. + +Mark went directly to the rectory. The old housekeeper met him at the +door before he could ring. + +"Come right in, Mr. Griffin," she said. "I'm going to take ye into the +dining room, sir, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. +He'd be wantin' to do that himself, I know; and sure I have the Bishop +in the front room, so ye'll stay here please." + +Mark stepped into the little dining room, where the table was already +set, and waited for the priest. Ann went back to her cooking. Mark +could hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuing +orders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most important +personage in the parish on this occasion and had to show it. It was +seldom she had such authority over others. Why not make the most of it? + +There was only a folding door between the dining room where Mark waited +and, the room in which the Bishop sat Mark heard the Bishop arise +impatiently from his chair and pace the room, a fact which caused him +no little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervous +temperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunching the springs +of the chair, and again jump up, to continue his nervous pacing. Then +the door from the hallway into the parlor opened and Mark heard the +Bishop's voice: + +"Is she the woman?" + +A young voice, which Mark was sure belonged to the secretary, answered: + +"I am sorry to say, Bishop, that she is." + +"My God!" said the Bishop. There was deep distress in his tones. +"Father, are you perfectly sure?" + +"I could not be mistaken, Bishop. I stayed in the sacristy until all +had left the church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, +and she threw back the veil to use her handkerchief. Then I saw her +face quite plainly. She is the woman." + +"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature, +poor creature--and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here after +all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted telling +him the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay." + +Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened so +quickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not help +hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face +was bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, he +paused long enough to hear the secretary say: + +"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quite +beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing +like this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up." + +"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?" +asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we could +catch the train at his station." + +"I will try." + +By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through +the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty +toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done under +other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage +about love and war. + +"At once, please," he heard the young priest say over the telephone. +Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the +dining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from the +sacristy. + +"Welcome, Mr. Griffin," he said cordially. "Come, you must meet His +Lordship. He's in here," and he threw open the folding-doors. The +Bishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. The +Bishop's face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that. He was +like a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him. + +"Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to Your +Lordship--or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to stay +to break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him." + +"I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin," said the Bishop. "I saw you +in the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not to +have the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better. I am not--" + +But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation. + +"His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once. The automobile is +even now, I think, coming around the corner. It has become necessary +for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back to +the city. He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes before +taking the train at the next station." + +Father Murray almost gasped. + +"But, My Lord," he cried, "our meal is prepared. We have been looking +forward to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never be +able to--" and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dear +Bishop, you will surely stay?" + +Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones. + +"I am sorry, Monsignore," and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke +very quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one +regrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if it +were expedient, but unfortunately it is not." + +"The auto is waiting, Bishop," said the secretary, who by this time had +the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packed +in the hall, as they had come from the church. + +The Bishop put out his hand to Mark. + +"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin," he said. "I hope we may meet at another time." + +He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into a +chair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For an +instant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for he +made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. +Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned +abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go +down the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then he +heard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grew +fainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved. + +Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of her +assistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark. + +"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of +the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the +silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, +and rushed over to the inert priest. + +"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?" + +But Father Murray did not answer. + +"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark. + +"Gone." + +"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he +wouldn't eat here--again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The +dirty--but God forgive me--he's the Bishop--I can't judge him--" + +Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more. + +"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come +outside, Mark." + +The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily +into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that +he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. +His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as though +he needed him and knew he could count upon him. + +"My friend, have you ever read Thomas à Kempis?" + +"No, Father, I have not." + +"It is a pity, indeed; there is so much of consolation in him when we +need it. Listen to this quotation that I have learned by heart: 'If +thou thinkest rightly and considerest things in truth, thou oughtest +never to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but rather +to rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subject +of joy, that afflicting thee with sorrows I do not spare thee.' It is +Christ speaking, and the quotation is from His _Imitation_." Then +Father Murray made a gesture as though he were trying to throw it all +off. + +"Come in, Mark. The other guests did not intend to stay. The Bishop +has never broken bread with me since--but let that pass. Come in and +eat. It is bitter bread, my friend, bitter bread; but, alas, I must +eat it." + +And Mark thought of his own bitter bread, too, as he reentered the +rectory. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET + +Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on +her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always +quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her +thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love +of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long +experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of +approaching a subject too abruptly. + +"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence." + +"Yes? What was it this time?" + +"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's +drinkin' ag'in." + +"And she wants me to--" + +"Give him the pledge." + +"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?" + +"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him +wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges +on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin +years." + +Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, +but not quite enough yet. + +"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the +priest, looking down longingly at his work. + +But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted." + +Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?" + +"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted." + +"Who insulted her?" + +"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation." + +"But I did." + +"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy." + +"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson +anything. I'll see her to-day." + +"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped +all the time, the painted thing!" + +"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard +feelings." + +"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the +Bishop--" + +"Ann!" + +"I _will_ say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago? +An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this--" + +"Please, Ann." + +"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could +tell him things if I had me tongue on him--" + +But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her +tongue. + +"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. +The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and +neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word." + +The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't +say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope +ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and +faithfully." + +"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't +cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me." + +"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence." + +"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled +dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled." + +"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray +could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his +slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral." + +"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?" + +"McCarthy's sick ag'in." + +"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning." + +Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on +the chronically dying McCarthy. + +"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil +anointin' that omadhan four times already." + +The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice. + +"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my +hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's." + +Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information. + +"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on +yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?" + +"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there +are plenty of servants at Killimaga." + +He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke +forgotten. + +"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his +pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the +remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her +ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who +was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows +how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer +the Bishop, bad scran to him, is." + +There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the +eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, +without knowing why--and loves and protects too--still without knowing, +or asking, a reason. + +In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He +often dropped in for a chat. + +"Where's the Father?" he asked. + +"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased +anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the +parish's chronic hypochondriac. + +But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off +temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he +had just heard a wonderful story. + +Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?" + +"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the _Weekly +Herald_. Ye know him?" + +"I know no good av him." + +"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. +Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited +about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be +rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and +he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear." + +"The omadhan!" + +"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have +axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to +be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to +mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan +glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he." + +Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected. + +"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld +Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog +does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the +other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin' +Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, +and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he +ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to +the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The +dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin +shoot a human dog, too.'" + +"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that? +He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!" + +"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor +ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to +commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the +whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake." + +"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's +Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it." + +Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked +quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A +man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed. + +"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled. + +"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to +shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the +town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for +he was a well-to-do business man. + +"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He +fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read +it aloud: + + + JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS + Justice of the Peace + + The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate. + + Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and + eloquently. + + _Fees Moderate_. _Osculation extra_. + + Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no + connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill. + + _P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure + the most delicate complexion_. + + +"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, +Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you +didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see +it on your face." + +"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit +and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you +know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?" + +"I know him only slightly." + +"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.' +He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that +lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told +it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it +that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he +gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him." + +Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you +kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from +annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by +apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty." + +"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the +joke himself in to-day's _Herald_." + +When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the +rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed +story was safely in his pocket. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION + +"How do you do, Mr. Griffin. I am delighted to see you again, and so +soon after our first meeting." + +Two days had elapsed since the unpleasant incident at the rectory, and +Mark, engrossed in thoughts by no means in harmony with the peaceful +country through which he wandered, was taken unawares. He turned +sharply. A big automobile had stopped near him and from it leaned the +young Bishop, hand outstretched. + +Mark hurried forward. "I am glad to see Your Lordship again. You are +still traveling?" He had retained no pleasant recollections of the +dignitary, and, as he shook the extended hand, was rather surprised to +realize that he felt not a little pleased by the unexpected encounter. + +"I am still traveling--Confirmation tours all this season. Are you +going far, Mr. Griffin?" + +"I am merely walking, without goal." + +"Then come in with me. I am on my way to a little parish ten miles +farther on. I want to chat. My secretary went on ahead by train, to +'prepare the way,' as it were. I will send the car back with you. +Won't you come?" The tone of the Bishop's voice indicated an earnest +desire that the invitation be accepted. + +Mark hesitated but a moment. "I thank Your Lordship. I will gladly go +with you on such pleasant terms." He entered the car and, sinking into +its soft cushions, suddenly awakened to the fact that he had tramped +far, and was tired. + +The Bishop took up the conversation. + +"You are thoroughly British, Mr. Griffin, or you would not have said +'Your Lordship.' The bishops in England are all addressed in that way, +are they not?" + +"Of course, and here also. Did I not hear Father Murray--" + +"Oh, Father Murray is quite different. He is a convert, and rather +inclined to be punctilious. Then, too, he is from England. In America +the best we get as a rule is just plain 'Bishop.' One of your own kind +of Bishops--an Episcopalian--I knew him well and a charming man he +was--told me that in England he was 'My Lorded' and 'Your Lordshiped' +everywhere, until he had gotten quite used to the dignity of it. But +when he stepped on the dock at New York, one of his lay intimates took +all the pomposity out of him by a sound slap on the back and the +greeting, 'Hello, Bish, home again?'" + +"It was very American, that," said Mark. "We wouldn't understand it." + +"But _we_ do. I wouldn't want anyone to go quite that far, of course. +I have nerves. But I confess I rather like the possibility of it--so +long as it stays a possibility only. We Yankees are a friendly lot, +but not at all irreverent. A bishop has to be 'right' on the manhood +side as well as on the side of his office. That's the way we look at +it." + +A wicked thought went through Mark's head. He let it slide out in +words before he weighed the words or the thought. An instant after, he +could have bitten his tongue with chagrin. + +"But don't you take the manhood into account in dealing with your +clergy?" + +To Mark's surprise the Bishop was not offended by the plain reference +to the unpleasant scene in the rectory at Sihasset. + +"Thank you; thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin, for giving me such an +excellent opening. I really wanted you to say something like that. If +you hadn't, I should certainly have been nonplussed about finding the +opening for what I desire to say to you. You are now referring to my +seemingly unchristian treatment of Monsignore Murray? Eh, what?" It +seemed to please the Bishop to lay emphasis on the English "Eh, what?" +He said it with a comic intonation that relieved Mark's chagrin. + +"Your Lordship is a diplomat. I was wrong to ask the question. The +affair is simply none of my business." + +"But it is, Mr. Griffin. I would not want you, a stranger--perhaps not +even a Catholic--to keep in your mind the idea that a Catholic bishop +is cold and heartless in his dealings with his flock, and particularly +with his under-shepherds." + +Mark did not know what to answer, but he wanted to help the Bishop +understand his own feelings. + +"I like Father Murray very much, my dear Lord--or rather my dear +Bishop." + +It was the Bishop's turn to smile. "You are getting our ways fast, Mr. +Griffin. When we part, I suppose you'll slap me on the back and say +'Bish.'" + +"The Lord forbid." + +"For my back's sake," the Bishop was looking at Mark's strong +shoulders, "for my back's sake I hope the Lord does forbid. But to +your question. I must get at the answer in a round-about way. Father +Murray, or Monsignore Murray, for he is a prelate, was one of my +dearest friends. For no man had I a greater regard. He was the soul +of generosity, earnest, zealous, kind, and--I believed then--a saint." + +"_Then_?" + +"_Then_. I am going to confide in you, and for a good purpose. You +like him. His people in Sihasset adore him, as did his curates and his +people at the Cathedral. I expected, as did others, that he would be +in the place I occupy to-day." The Bishop broke off to look fixedly at +Mark for a moment. "Mr. Griffin, may I trust you to do your friend a +service?" + +"Yes, Bishop, you may." + +"Then I will. I have no other way to do this thing. I cannot do it +through another priest. They are all of one mind except a few of the +younger ones who might make matters worse. You can help Monsignore +Murray, if you will. Now, listen well. You heard the conversation +between my secretary and myself at the rectory, did you not? You were +in the next room, I know." + +"Yes; I could not help hearing it, and there was no way of escape." + +"I know there was no escape. You heard it all?" + +"All." + +"That decides me to tell you more. It may be providential that you +heard. A woman's name was mentioned?" + +"No name, only a reference to a woman, but I think I know who was +meant." + +"Exactly." The Bishop's voice took on even a graver tone. "What I am +going to say to you is given into your confidence for a stronger reason +than to have you think more charitably of a bishop in his dealings with +his priests. I am taking you into my confidence chiefly for Monsignore +Murray's sake. He is a _different_ sort of man from the ordinary type. +He has few intimate friends because his charity is very wide. You seem +to be one of the rare beings he regards with special favor. You like +him in return. The combination is excellent for my purpose. I do not +know when this woman first came into Monsignore Murray's life, but he +has seen her quite frequently during the last few years. No one knows +where she came from or who she is, except that she calls herself 'Miss +Atheson.'" + +"That is her name, if you are thinking of the lady I have in mind--Ruth +Atheson." + +"Exactly. The old Bishop, my predecessor, seemed oblivious to the +situation. I soon learned, after my appointment, that Monsignore +Murray and Miss Atheson were together almost daily, either at the +rectory or at her hotel. But I said nothing to Monsignore and had +every confidence in him until--well, until one day a member of the +Cathedral clergy, unexpectedly entering the rectory library, saw Miss +Atheson sitting on the arm of the priest's chair, with her head close +to his and her arm across his shoulders. They were reading from a +letter, and did not see the visitor, who withdrew silently. His visit +was never known to Monsignore Murray. You understand?" + +Mark was too much surprised to answer. + +"Don't look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin. The thing might have an +explanation, but no one asked it. It looked too unexplainable of +course. The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray was +avoided. Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear old +saint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like his +fullest confidence about Miss Atheson. He avoided the subject. Still +I was loath to believe. I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, +but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset." + +Mark found his voice. + +"That was the reason? And he never knew?" + +"That was the reason. I thought he would ask for it, and that I would +then have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing. The scene +when he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that I +would willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go through +with it again." + +"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?" + +"That's it, that's it. There was no _scene_, and yet there was. I +told you how I loved him. We first met at college, in Rome. In years +the difference between us was not so very great, but in experience he +was far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both father +and friend to me. When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must have +felt when he condemned his sons to death. Only it was worse. It was a +son condemning his father to disgrace. But I hoped to save him." + +"And you did not?" + +"No, that was harder yet. I thought I had--until I went to Sihasset +and saw her in the church. Poor creature! She must have followed him." + +"But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he--" + +"Yes, I know. But facts are facts. What could I do? Look here, Mr. +Griffin. Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know. +And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard. I shall +have to tell him and then-- If there _is_ an explanation, how can I +forgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Sihasset will notice +and talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then . . . . My God! +I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end. Do you know +what it means to be an unfrocked priest?" + +"Yes." Mark had no other answer. His distress was too deep. His mind +was working fast, however. + +"Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him--point out the +danger of his position--without hurting him? He is very sensitive. +Don't tell him all you know--only intimate gently that there may be +some misunderstanding of this kind. He surely will guess the rest. +You may save him if you can do this and--if you will do it." + +It was on Mark's tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at the +Bishop's face. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. + +"Don't mind my weakness, Mr. Griffin. It is a weakness in me thus to +take a stranger into my confidence in such a matter. But I feel that +you alone have his confidence. You can't realize what this thing has +cost me, in peace. He was the last I should have suspected. I must +save him. Help me do it. The Church is supposed to be hard-hearted, +but she is forgiving--too forgiving sometimes. My duty is to be stern, +and a judge; but I cannot judge him with sternness. I would give my +life to think that this was all a bad dream. Don't you see that he is +the man I always thought would be my own bishop? How can I go to +him--and hurt him?" + +If Mark Griffin had had any misgivings about the character of the +Bishop, they had vanished. He saw no bishop beside him, but only a man +who in his heart of hearts had for years treasured a friendship and, in +spite of everything, could not pluck it out. Now he had opened that +heart to an utter stranger, trusting him as if snatching at every +chance to save his sacred ideals, shrinking from inflicting pain +himself as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father. +Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him. + +But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while. +He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling face +of Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she, +this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchess +pledged to another man? A priest's--God! that was too much. Mark +clenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of Father +Murray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, a +priest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And he +hesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still, +Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him. + +"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteen +minutes." The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help. + +"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannot +tell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you. +In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fully +justify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that I +will try." + +So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone. + +The Bishop prayed longer--much longer--than usual before he left the +little church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory after +the ceremony. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +AT THE MYSTERY TREE + +All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had +returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy +between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a +friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was +an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to +which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the +coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was +not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So +he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a +dull pain in both head and heart. + +All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding +Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted +to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles. +It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he +had not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how to +approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop. + +To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it +chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that +made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever +having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his +heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment. + +With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring +of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his +life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought, +had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal +a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to +overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted +on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her; +rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were +concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The +blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with +ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be +permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take +care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway +girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have +blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a +beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be. + +Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little +of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the +officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him. + +It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road +where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he +flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he +first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter +regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past. + +The gray ocean seemed trying---and the thought consoled him a +little--to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to +remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his +sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for +himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even +as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must +flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but +he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger +brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some +disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided. + +How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to +know. A step aroused him from his stupor. + +He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was +tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a +little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, +with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his +eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's +resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave +back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute +the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the +doorway in the tree was flung open. + +Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He +heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two +met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as +he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back +into her life. She spoke in French and--was it because of the language +used or of the unusual excitement?--her voice took on a strange elusive +quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, +yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again +would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of +escape, so he steeled his heart to listen. + +"You have come, my beloved," he heard her say. + +"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. When +you wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I did +not delay one minute." + +"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you." + +"I think they do not know I am here," he answered. "I have seen no one +watching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?" + +"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not have +called you. But I wanted you so much." + +"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could I +live?" + +"You love me, then, so much?" + +"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I not +looked?" + +"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you." + +They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees that +lined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It had +been hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must go +away, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as an +honorable man, to do. + +Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slipping +into the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, but +they were far away on the other side. For a long time there was no +other visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows; +but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and the +crackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found his +man? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her? +He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it was +not the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but bearded +and grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, for +now he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gaze +off that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared to +spring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barrel +dropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that it +was the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing would +be done while she was there. + +The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye. + +"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously. + +"I will come when you call, my beloved." + +"But if they find you?" + +"They will not find me." + +"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I have +my jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people. +We could be just alone together." + +"But would you be happy, Carlotta?" + +"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay for +being a duchess, to lose all I want in life." + +"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such a +sacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it." + +"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy to +give. I will tell you when to come." + +With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree and +closed the door. + +The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action, +and jumped for the other side--but too late. There was no sound, but +powder burned Mark's hand--powder from the muffled gun barrel which he +had tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyes +wide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant. +Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground. +There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice was +raised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark looked +up as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body of +the murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came up +to where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electric +glow lamp from his pocket. + +"Let me look at him, Griffin," he said. He looked long and earnestly +at the man's face, then snapped off the light. + +"He's the man," he announced. + +[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's +the man!" he announced.] + +"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly. + +"The man I told you about--the man I took you for--the man for whose +sake the Duchess ran away--the chap I was watching for." + +"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still lay +unconscious. + +"Oh, he doesn't matter." Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out of +it. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here to +watch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning." + +Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined the +face and clothing of the murderer. + +"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of the +foreigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was out +hunting--shooting squirrels--anything." + +"He can't say that," put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. I +tried to stop him." + +Saunders turned quickly to Mark. + +"Forget it, Griffin," he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep out +of it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. But +this is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up in +it. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties. +Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger down +here inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew who +were behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let this +fellow tell his story." He pointed to the man who was now coming to +his senses. "He has it all prepared." + +"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can't +expect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's only +wounded." + +The detective smiled grimly. + +"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who would +miss? Come, look at him." + +Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for the +pulse, and looked into the face. + +"Come, Saunders," he said, "we can do nothing for him." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THIN ICE + +"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin," Saunders' voice had quite +an uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger." + +The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was striking +midnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together from +the bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since. + +"I think I do," Mark answered, "but I don't very much care." + +"Then," said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!" + +"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, +and the Irish have 'some nerves.' But I am really hit very hard. I +suppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it." + +Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out of +his mouth. + +"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but in +the singular number." + +"Beg pardon?" + +"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly +neglected. I mean to say that they have _nerve_, not nerves." + +"By which you mean--?" + +"Something that you will need very soon--grit." + +"I--I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?" + +The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted both +of them was no chimera. + +"Look here, Griffin," he broke out, "that murderer did this thing under +orders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, +or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanation +must be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All was +certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you may +wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far +away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, +too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. The +question is, what story will this fellow tell?" + +"You can--ah--search me, Saunders," retorted Mark. + +Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful. + +"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you,' eh? That is just exactly +what the police probably will do." + +"Why?" + +"Why? Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the whole +tragedy. I think it quite upset their calculations. Your hand is +marked with powder from the gun fire. Everyone will see that +to-morrow. The principal will know something of it from the murderer. +In fact, he probably knows now. To-morrow they will be searching for +the man with the powder mark. The murderer himself can swear that he +saw someone fire at the man who was killed. He may charge robbery. +Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do. If +they have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, +for they intend putting it on you. Unless I am mistaken, his pockets +are inside out right now. The powder marks alone are enough to fasten +suspicion on you. Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainly +must have seen you on the bluff road. Above all, you love Ruth +Atheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals. My detective +intuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of being +charged with murder." + +"Well," said Mark, "I have an excellent witness for the defense, in one +James Saunders, detective." + +"You have," answered Saunders, "but not at the inquest; for if James +Saunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testify +at the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might be +useful." + +"You mean that they would--" + +"Just so," Saunders nodded wisely; "that's just what they would do. On +the other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, +that they had fixed up for him. It looks reasonable to me that he +would be instructed to do that. He may come forward when the body is +found, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, or +some other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of his +bullets must have killed the man. That looks like the easiest way out +of it." + +"That sounds all right, Saunders," answered Mark, "but I incline to the +other theory. I think they'll accuse me. Their first plan would have +been best if nobody had seen the deed. But since they know someone did +see it, they'll probably try to be on the safe side. Fortunately, they +don't know there were two of us, which leaves me better off." + +"If they find there was another," said the detective, "you'll be safer +in jail. Lives count nothing in the games of princes, and they'll get +us both if they can." + +"Then you're in danger yourself, Saunders." + +"Not yet. As you remarked, they don't know there was another. You +see, it was dark among the trees, and I caught the fellow in the rear +as he ran away. He would naturally think that the man who caught him +was the one who jumped as he fired." + +Mark smoked thoughtfully before he spoke. + +"You're right, Saunders. My complacency is not so great that I do not +recognize the danger. I merely am indifferent to danger under the +present circumstances. It's no use running away from it, and we can't +help it now. Let's go to bed." + +"Well, those English-Irish nerves get me," Saunders answered, as he +arose and walked toward the door. "I suppose they're a good thing to +have; but, Griffin, take it from me, you're the worst lump of ice I +ever saw. Aren't you even just a little afraid?" + +"Oh, yes," answered Mark, "I'm afraid all right, old man; I really am +afraid. But there is somebody I am more afraid for than myself. I am +worried about the lady." + +Mark thought of what he had seen as he lay near the tree. Walking over +to the window, he thoughtfully pulled down the blind before he turned +again to Saunders. "I shall always love her, no matter what happens. +Of course, I can't marry a grand duchess, especially one who is watched +day and night; but I rather welcome the chance to stay near and protect +her good name if the story does come out. That is why I won't go to +jail for safety, not if I can prevent it." + +Saunders closed the half-opened door and walked back into the room. + +"Protect her? I don't understand," he said. Clearly bewildered, he +sat down, carelessly swinging one leg over an arm of the big chair, and +stared at his host. + +Mark looked up. He spoke haughtily, with a slight shrug of the +shoulders. + +"There is a British Ambassador in Washington. You have a free country, +so I can always talk to him, even if I am a prisoner or on bail. I +happen to be brother to a baron; that fact may prove useful, for the +first time in my life. One word that involves her name in scandal, +even as Ruth Atheson, brings the story out. And Great Britain does not +particularly care about your certain Big Kingdom. I am presuming, of +course, that I have rightly guessed what Big Kingdom is looking after +the interests of your Grand Duchy." + +"You're right, Griffin; the Ministry could never let her name be +mentioned." + +"As the grand duchess, no. But they could mention the name of Ruth +Atheson, the Padre's friend, the Lady Bountiful of his poor, the girl I +love. The Padre has had trouble enough, too, without that scandal in +his little flock." + +"I don't see how you can avoid it." + +"Oh, I can avoid it very simply. I can send word to the Ministry in +question that I know who the lady really is, and that I am almost ready +to talk for the public." + +"That's right, Griffin, you could. Gee, what a detective you would +have made! You're sure right." He arose, stretched lazily, and walked +to the door, where he turned, his hand on the knob. "If it's any +consolation for you to know, Griffin, they won't arrest--they'll just +stick a knife into you. Good night, and pleasant dreams." + +"Good night, Saunders, and thanks for your cheerful assurances." + +But Mark had no dreams at all for, left alone, he smoked and worried +over his problem until morning. + +Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocket +so that he could register it in person. It was addressed to the +British Ambassador. + +As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave him +a note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin." + +"Yes, rather." Mark looked at his hand as though noticing its +condition for the first time. Then he spoke consolingly. "But it was +the only one I had to put on this morning. Pleasant outside, isn't it?" + +But the clerk had suddenly discovered that his attention was needed +elsewhere, and Mark proceeded to his breakfast. + +Sitting down, he gave his order, then opened the letter. It was from +Ruth. "I am sorry you were not feeling well yesterday, and hope you +are all right now. If so, come to Killimaga to-day, quite early. +Somehow I am always lonesome now. Ruth." + +It was rather strange--or was it?--that, in spite of what Mark knew, he +watched his chance and, when the waiter turned his back, kissed the +sheet of scented paper. + +Saunders was in the hotel office when Mark came out of the dining room. +The constable was with him. With little difficulty Saunders got rid of +the officer and walked over to Mark. + +"Come outside," he said. "I have some news." + +They left the hotel and moved down the street. When out of anyone's +hearing, Saunders touched Mark's arm. + +"I routed out the constable early this morning--at daybreak, in +fact--and sent him on a wild-goose chase along the bluff road. I +wanted him to stumble onto that body, and get things going quickly. +The sooner the cards are on the table, the better. His errand would +keep him close to the Killamaga wall, on the roadside. He saw nothing; +if he had I should have known it. What do you think it means?" + +"Means?" echoed Mark. "Why, it means that someone else has been there." + +"It looks that way," admitted Saunders. "But why hasn't it been +reported?" + +"I think, Saunders," Mark said thoughtfully, "that we had better take a +walk near the wall ourselves." + +"I was going to suggest that very thing." + +The morning was not beautiful. The chill wind of autumn had come up, +and the pleasant weather that Mark had taken the trouble to praise was +vanishing. The clouds were dark and gloomy, threatening a storm. When +the men reached the bluff road, they saw that the ocean was disturbed, +and that great white-capped waves were beating upon the beach below. +Their own thoughts kept both of them in tune with the elements. +Neither spoke a word as they rapidly covered the distance between the +town and the spot of the tragedy. But instinctively, as if caught by +the same aversion, both slackened pace as they neared the wall of +Killimaga. Going slowly now they turned out of the road and approached +the tree, looking fearfully down at the grass. They reached the spot +whereon they had left the body the evening before. There was no body +there. + +They searched the bushes and the long grass, but there was no sign of +anything out of the ordinary. Closely they examined the ground; but +not a trace of blood was to be seen, nor any evidence of conflict. +Saunders was stupefied, and Mark showed signs of growing wonder. + +"It isn't here," half whispered Saunders. "And it isn't in the bushes. +What do you make of it, Griffin?" + +Mark answered hesitatingly and half-nervously. + +"I can't make anything out of it, unless they have decided to hush the +whole thing up, figuring that the men who interfered will never tell. +They disposed of the body overnight and covered all their traces. +Unless I am mistaken, no one will ever find it or know that the murder +took place at all." + +"Then," said Saunders emphatically, "they certainly had one of the big +fellows here to see that it was properly done." + +"It looks probable," replied Mark; "for a common murderer would not +have planned so well. An expert was on this crime. The body is +disposed of finally." + +Saunders looked around nervously. + +"We had better go back, Griffin. There's nothing left for us to do, +and they may be watching." + +Both men left the spot and returned to town; but they were no longer +silent. Mark was decidedly anxious, and Saunders voiced his worry in +tones that shook. + +"I have more fear than ever for your sake, Griffin, and I'm beginning +to have some for my own. Those fellows know how to act quickly and +surely. Their principal is in Washington. He has had word already by +cipher as to what has happened. He won't rest until he finds the +witness, and then--" + +"And then?" + +"I'm afraid they will try another murder. They won't trust a living +soul to hold his peace under the circumstances." + +"But how are they to know I saw the thing?" + +"By your hand. In fact, I think they know already." + +"Already?" + +"Yes. There was somebody about when we were there, and he was +evidently hiding." + +"You heard him?" + +"Yes. I didn't want to alarm you. I have reason now to be alarmed for +myself. They know I am in it. We've got to think quickly and act +quickly. The minute that orders come they will try to get us. As long +as we stay in public places we are safe. But we must not go out alone +any more." + +The two went on to the hotel. Saunders glanced back as they were +entering the town. His eyes covered the hedge. + +"I thought so," he said. "That chap has been dodging in and out of the +trees and keeping watch on us. From this point he can see right along +the street to the hotel door. It's no use trying to conceal anything +now. Our only safety lies in keeping in public places; but they won't +strike till they get their orders." + +As the two entered the hotel, a messenger boy came up carrying two +telegrams. The clerk nodded to the boy, who went over to Mark and +Saunders. + +"Which is Mr. Saunders?" he asked. The detective reached out his hand +and the boy gave him one of the messages. "The other one," he said, +"is for Mr. Griffin. + +"Sign here, please." The boy extended his book. Both men signed and +the boy went out. Sitting down in a corner of the writing room, Mark +and Saunders looked at one another, then at the yellow envelopes. + +"Why don't you open your telegram, Saunders?" asked Mark. + +"Because I know pretty well what's in it. I guessed it would be +coming. I am ordered off this case, for the men who employed our +agency have no use for me after last night. They have found everything +out for themselves, and have settled it in their own way. Why don't +you open yours?" + +"For opposite reasons to yours, old chap: because I don't know what's +in it, and, whatever it is, I don't think I shall like it. I have not +had many messages of this kind. None but my solicitors would send one, +and that means trouble. But here goes!" + +Mark tore off the end of the envelope, opened the message and read. +Saunders did the same with his. One glance was enough for each. + +"I told you so," said Saunders. "Here's my message: 'Central +disconnected.'" + +Mark looked up with surprise. + +"'Central disconnected'? What's that, Saunders? More United States?" + +"It's our code," replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the central +office at once. Our connection with the case is at an end.'" + +There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegram +over for Saunders to read. It was from New York: + + +"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you and +say that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once." + + +"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry." There was real sympathy in Saunders' +voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. +Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, it +would be better for you to go." + +"You're wrong, Saunders." Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "My +disappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. +Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite a +personage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He had +no children. I can fight better here--as Baron Griffin." + +"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, you _are_ Baron +Griffin now!" + +"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother's +death. What are you going to do, Saunders?" + +The detective looked embarrassed. + +"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throw +up my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out." + +"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can you +afford it?" + +"Frankly, I can't; but I'm going to do it just the same." + +"Saunders," said Mark, "I think I need the services of a sort of +detective." + +"You mean a protective bodyguard." + +"Put it as you like--any way that will let me pay you for your time. +You say you are going to stay on the case. I want to have you on it. +You may not need me badly, but I'm sure that I need you." + +"Then you want me to apply for the job?" + +"I'd employ you if you would take it, old chap." + +"Then I apply. I never asked for a job before, but I want this one. +Shake!" + +The men shook hands and started to go upstairs. When they were out of +hearing, the clerk called up a number on the telephone. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS + +In an upstairs room of a Washington Ministry three men sat in +conference. One, a stout, bearded man, was seated behind a flat-top +desk on which he constantly thrummed with nervous fingers; the others +sat facing him. The man at the desk was the Minister of a Kingdom, and +looked it. His eyes were half closed, as if in languid indifference, +effectually veiling their keenness. The expression of his mouth was +lost in the dark moustache, and in the beard combed from the center. +The visible part of his face would have made a gambler's fortune; and, +save for its warm color, it might have been carved out of ice. Without +ever a hint of harshness or loudness, his voice was one to command +attention; though it came out soft and velvety, it was with the half +assurance that it could ring like steel if the occasion arose. The +occasion never arose. The hands, whose fingers thrummed on the +glass-topped desk, were soft, warm-looking, and always moist, with a +dampness that on contact made you feel vaguely that you had touched +oil--and you had. + +Both of the other men were beardless, but one had the ghost of a +moustache on his upper lip. He was dapper, clean and deferential. The +other was short and somewhat ungainly in build, and his face showed +evidence of the recent shaving off of a heavy beard. He had no graces, +and evidently no thoughts but of service--service of any kind, so long +as he recognized the authority demanding it. His clothes did not suit +him; they were rich enough, but they were not his kind. A soldier of +the ranks, a sailor before the mast, a laborer on Sunday, could have +exchanged clothes with this man and profited in values, while the other +would certainly have profited in looks. + +"You did not see the other, then, Ivan?" the fat man asked, +interrupting the story of his awkward guest. + +"I did not, Excellency. He came at me too quickly, and I had no idea +there was anyone there besides myself and--and the person who--" + +"Yes, yes. The person who is now without a name. Go on." + +"I was in the shrubs, near a great large tree that seemed to form part +of a wall, when the two, the person and a lady, came back together. +She--" + +"Did they act as if they knew one another?" + +The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one another +quite well. They embraced." + +"_That_ you did _not_ see, Ivan?" + +"No, Excellency, of course, I did not see _that_." + +"Proceed, Ivan." + +"After they--parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went into +it." + +"_Opened the tree_?" The nervous fingers were stilled. + +"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door." + +"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?" + +The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual in +America." + +"Proceed, Ivan." The Minister resumed his thrumming. + +"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the--ah--person--turned to +go past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency--" + +"You are forgetting again, Ivan." The half-closed eyes opened for an +instant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone. + +"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of." + +"Oh, yes--Maxim's." + +"My gun exploded--but noiselessly, Excellency, because of the +silencer--just as the strange man jumped at me. The--ah--person fell, +and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but he +knew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the--person--who +had, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I came +back and--" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav--"he +came with me." + +The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took up +the story. + +"We thought it better to dispose of the--person, Excellency, and +avoid--" + +"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to your +duties." + +The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him. + +"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?--the man who +struck you?" + +"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire, +Excellency." + +"Thank you, Ivan." + +The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent, +gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly now +as though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up. + +"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night, +Wratslav?" + +"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew not +at all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman--the same +who visits the lady." + +"H-m, h-mmmm." The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellency +was silent, considering what this new development might mean. The +fingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivory +paper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he did +so slowly, carefully, weighing each word. + +"Have you seen him--the Englishman--since?" + +"No, Excellency--" + +"No?" The word came with cold emphasis. + +"The hotel clerk, who is friendly--for a consideration--telephoned me +that the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that his +hand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks." + +"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?" + +"Not a word, so far as I have heard." + +"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?" + +"He might think that he would be suspected." + +"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a little +too much, does he not?" + +"A great deal too much, Excellency." + +"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is." + +"He goes to see her, Excellency." + +The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers, +then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately. + +"It would be well if he did not go again--did not speak to her again +for that matter--" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as His +Excellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as though +to emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voice +continued, "if it could be arranged." + +"It can be arranged, Excellency." + +"I thought so." Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back in +his chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest more +comfortably on the desk. + +"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety. + +"Yes?" + +"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his +own country." + +"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?" + +"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron +Griffin." + +The fingers tightened around the ivory knife. + +"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, +"_that_ is unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid +down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I +think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad--and +you also--while the excellent shooting continues near--ah--the camp. +It seems best." + +The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the +receiver. + +"Yes, someone will come down." + +He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav. + +"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here. +Hurry." + +The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which he +handed to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. The +ivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly at +the pieces, but never a line of his face moved. + +"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must think +again." He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read: + + +"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, and +begs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sent +under seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be opened +or its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the sudden +demise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders." + + +Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. The +slow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk, +and his hand strayed to the papers on it. + +"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for some +time yet, Wratslav." + +"Yes, Excellency." + +The silence lasted a full minute. + +"About the lady, Wratslav--" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be a +great honor were she to visit the Ministry soon." + +"Would she come, Excellency?" + +The question was ignored. + +"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quite +comfortable, I think." + +"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger--and of +gossip also." + +"That, too, might be arranged." + +"But if she proves--" + +"She will not--not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, that +her arrival is momentarily expected--traveling incognito, you see--no +fuss or receptions--but a short visit before sailing back to Europe. +Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they know +nothing outside the court. The King is anxious." There was another +flashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well," +spoken with meaning emphasis. + +Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency." + +"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav." + +"I will do it, Excellency." + +"That is better." + +So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and the +rough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whose +limousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little as +possible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored with +provisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of the +workers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things--or +indeed ever saw the interior of the car at all. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE ABDUCTION + +Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr. +Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down. + +"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I +should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to +break in upon you after--" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having +almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I--I--" + +But Father Murray smiled indulgently. + +"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours +with my _Imitation_ heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know +its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day. +Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires +nothing on earth?'" + +"Fine--but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark. +"Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor +the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the +sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?" + +"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the +religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our à Kempis had +more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into +self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the +virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty +from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.' +It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty." + +"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left +you free for the more important things." + +Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making +excuses, my dear Mark. You _are_ forgiven, so far as I am concerned. +But I am not the only one who has been neglected." + +"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to +speak about a matter of importance." + +So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward +the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he +could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the +point: + +"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?" + +"Yes." + +"You approve?" + +"Decidedly." + +"But I am not of her faith." + +"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay +long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark." + +"And you would trust me?" + +"Absolutely." + +"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, +after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I +think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?" + +"I have no such recollection." + +"Did you know some people named Meechamp?" + +"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of +mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic." + +"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon. +I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong +impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of +mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were +sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see +you that morning." + +"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to +see me?" + +"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this: +the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite +directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come +quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in +a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he +crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.' +She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her +tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make +good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked. +'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others +only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of +course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your +church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the +door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her +hand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know I +have met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a +picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together. +Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and +the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand +now?" + +"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if +Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman' +when I came out of the study to take her home." + +"Then you knew her family well?" + +"Her mother was my sister." + +"Your sister!" + +"Exactly. You are surprised?" + +Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised. + +"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered. + +"Please be explicit." + +"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself +figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his +activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself +saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss +Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are +confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several +things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced +Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have +myself seen, if she is really your niece." + +"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray +anxiously. + +"Certainly, Father." + +"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait." + +The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then +all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. +Here was his chance. + +"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related +the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. +"You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your +reputation will be cleared now." + +Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became +grave again. + +"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew +there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of +that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to +keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--" +Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary +days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some +decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no +explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a +test, Mark?" + +Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet +as he took it. + +Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. +Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray +stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the +deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak. + +"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here." + +"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got +them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer." + +Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, +the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, +screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was +trickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of a +blow. + +"_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth +is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. _Mon Dieu_, Father! +Come--come at once!" + +The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had +surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga. +Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the +road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called +it. + +"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them. +They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out. +I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to +fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind. +_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! Let me die!" + +"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the +weeping woman. "What were those men like?" + +"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark +and short, but he was very large of the shoulders." + +Mark turned to Father Murray. + +"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is +the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy +horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady +is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they +find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come +to Washington with me?" + +"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter +to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father +Murray. "Let us go." + +Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped +back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE INEXPLICABLE + +Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel +lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective +vigorously. + +"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is +there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray +wants to catch that." + +Saunders was alert in an instant. + +"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at +the Junction--have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though. +What's up?" + +"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay +the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the +rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot." +Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the +train." + +In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the +station platform, grips in hand. + +"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?" + +Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the +detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information +which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning +effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship +to Ruth Atheson. + +"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that +these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from +Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer." + +"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only +answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his +companions. + +Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached. +Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective. + +"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how +long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here +to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin +with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our +effects?" + +"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The +Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph +for sleeper reservations." + +Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was +said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less +so. + +"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as +they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I +suppose it has to be done." + +The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There +was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to +surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial. + +"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to +Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended. +The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of +absence, and send someone to take my place?" + +The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with +a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the +message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request. + +"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday, +and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime." + +Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes +were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering: + +"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I +think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore." + +At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he +announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they +were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I +have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best +possible, so late." + +When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father +Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious +for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down +and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case. + +"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He +pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous. + +"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar +about this whole business." + +"Yes, I know that very well." + +"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of +the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I +expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to +have taken would probably look the best way to them." + +"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?" + +"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and +Ruth Atheson at the same time." + +"Decidedly not." + +"She is one or the other." + +"Well?" + +"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson." + +"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know +is good. Then, look at his distress." + +"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till +my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he +should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is _not_ the Duchess?" + +"N-no." + +"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the +abduction?" + +"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily. + +"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?" + +"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness +gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. +What is it now?" + +"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the +mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it." +He paused. + +"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly. + +"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible +bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced +into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the +second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a +clear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone became +impressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the +other was--your lady of the tree." + +Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back. + +"Don't do that; there may be others to notice." + +"Ruth? You saw Ruth?" + +"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and +the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree +is on this train." + +It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. +Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular +breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they +dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all +their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new +development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently +to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal +it from him altogether. + +Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was +greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold +and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand +Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better +than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there +could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed +book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she +loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he +knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage +between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to +other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to +the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it? +There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by +the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her +identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that +this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There +was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the +girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the +sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. +He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never +love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly +abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by +her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did +the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could +only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train +kept saying: + +"You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knew +that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end. + +Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the +terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to +remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke. +He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole +car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end +of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he +was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There +were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with +frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and +his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated: + +"Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise +outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers +rushed out, all white with fear. + +Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried. + +"In his berth; he may be hurt." + +They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end +of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted +him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid +him down in the air. He opened his eyes. + +"What--what is it?" he asked. + +"Wreck--there was a collision," answered Saunders. + +Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, +if it is forward--where the people are--maybe dying." + +Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he +knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his +battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him +to silence. + +"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a +preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's +ways." + +So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were +being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by +some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and +splintered freight cars of the other train. + +"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the +frightened conductor. + +The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered. + +The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it. + +"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to +them." + +A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark +tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes +opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest +bent low to catch the words. + +"Father--don't--risk--trying--to get me--out--before you hear--my +confession." + +"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated +Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly." + +"The only--chance--I want--is my--confession. Quick--Father." + +With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. +The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile +of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution. + +"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out." + +The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The +blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there +lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and +unexpected contentment. + +Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked +freight, lying beside the tracks--both dead. Then they went to the +lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent +form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For +others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But +sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand +in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul. + +Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. +Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for +the same face. It was not there. Yet _she_ had been in the wrecked +coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight +track, as Mark turned to a brakeman. + +"Are there any others?" + +"Yes; two--across the track." + +Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending +over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole +world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville +were lying there--both dead. + +The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They +stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see +through his tears--but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found +that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within +pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her +now in but one setting--a great empty church at the end of springtime, +crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a +little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. +He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her +cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man +within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's +sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears. + +Saunders aroused him. + +"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet. +He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it." + +Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said +something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from +the wrecked car, just as the priest came up. + +"Are there others?" the priest asked. + +Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent. + +"No, Father, no others." + +"But these--" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies. + +"They are--already dead, Father." + +"God rest them. I can do no more." + +The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang to +support him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted, +with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses. + +"It's all right, Father," said Father Murray to his confrere. "I found +them all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There are +many of your people, too," he said, turning to the Protestant +clergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show--" + +He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious. +The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to look +at him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no cause +for alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow. +In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watching +closely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the face +of Ruth Atheson. + +When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Mark +put his hand on the priest's arm. + +"Don't, please, Father. She is dead--one of the two you saw lying on +the other side when you came over." + +"Yes, I know. But I should like to see." Father Murray started to +raise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him. + +"Please do not look, Father." + +The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him with +widely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at the +covered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drew +near to catch him. But he did not fall. + +"I think--Mark--that I will look. I can drink of the chalice--if it +must be--I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw the +blanket back." + +But Mark could not. + +Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the covering +reverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the face +stood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched the +features for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. The +priest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Thee +for sparing me, Lord." + +He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face. +Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders. + +"God rest her. It is not Ruth." + +[Illustration: "God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an +age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"] + +Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by the +blow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what was +going on in Mark's mind. + +"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous--" + +"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in his +voice. + +"Yes, my friend--likeness. I--" the priest hesitated--"I knew her +well. It is not Ruth." + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" + +A long, low-built limousine kept passing and repassing the Ministry, +and taking excursions to the parks, in an evident effort to kill time. +At last, the street being well clear of pedestrians and vehicles, the +car drew up in front of the house, the door of which was quickly thrown +open. The chauffeur descended and opened the door of the car, but said +nothing. A man stepped out backward. + +"We have arrived, Your Highness," he said to someone within. "Will you +walk across the path to the door, or will you force us again to be +disrespectful in carrying out our orders?" + +From within a girl's voice answered: + +"You need not fear; I shall make no outcry." + +"The word of Your Highness is given. It would be painful for us to be +disrespectful again. Come." + +The girl who stepped out of the car was unmistakably Ruth Atheson. +Behind her came a raw-boned, muscular woman, and a powerful-looking man. + +As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cement +walk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but her +eyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter was +set some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by an +ornamental stone wall. Distinguishing the house from its neighbors was +a narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, its +slender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged with +stone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor. To +one side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whose +foliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze. + +Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry; +the door was closed quickly, and Ruth's companions stood respectfully +aside. His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met her +at the foot of the stairs. Bowing low, he kissed the white hand before +Ruth could prevent. + +"We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness." + +With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs. +His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conference +regarding her had been held only a few days before. + +"Your Highness--" he began. + +But Ruth interrupted him. "I do not understand your language." + +The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreign +language, said, "I am surprised that Your Highness should have +forgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America." + +Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily. + +"I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are--and also why I am +here. Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder. I +am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta." + +The Minister smiled again, and started to speak. But Ruth again +interrupted him. + +"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, I +must again request that you speak a language I can understand. I have +already told you that I do not understand what you say." + +The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but this +time he spoke in English. + +"It shall be as Your Highness wishes. It is your privilege to choose +the language of conversation. We will speak in English, although your +own tongue would perhaps be better." + +"My own tongue," said Ruth, "is the language that I am using; and again +I must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess. You +have simply been guilty of abduction. You have taken the wrong person." + +For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up a +portrait, which he extended toward the girl. + +"I know," said Ruth, "I know. Many times in Europe I have been +subjected to annoyance because of the resemblance. I know the Grand +Duchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson." + +The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister. + +"Your Highness shall have it as you wish. I am satisfied with the +resemblance. Since you left San Sebastian there has been scarcely a +minute that you have not been under surveillance. It is true that you +were lost for a little while in Boston, but not completely. We traced +you to Sihasset. We traced _him_ there also finally--unfortunately for +the poor fellow." + +Ruth started: "You have not--" + +The Minister looked sad. "Alas! Highness," he said, "he is no +more---an unfortunate accident. We do not even know where his body is. +I fear he may have been drowned, or something worse. At any rate he +will trouble you no more." + +The face of the girl showed keen distress. "Poor child!" was all she +could say. + +"He was not, Highness, exactly a child, you know," suggested the +Minister. + +"I was not referring to _him_." + +The Minister's smile returned. + +"Then, Highness, perhaps you were referring to the Grand Duchess." + +"I was referring to the Grand Duchess." + +All this time His Excellency never lost his air of respect, but now a +somewhat more familiar tone crept into his voice. + +"Highness," he said, "you will pardon me, I know, if I issue orders in +your regard. All is being done by your father's commands, given to me +through His Majesty. You know as well as I do that your marriage to +this Italian adventurer was impossible. You know that you are next in +line of succession, but you do not know something else. You do not +know that your father is even now dangerously ill. Your escapade has +been hushed up to avoid scandal, for you may be sitting on the throne +within a month. You must return to Ecknor, and you must return at +once. The easiest way, and the best way, would be to notify the +Washington papers that you have arrived on a visit to America +_incognito_, and that you are now a guest at the Ministry. Though it +is already midnight, I have prepared such a statement. Here is it." +The Minister pointed to a number of sealed envelopes on the desk. "If +you consent to be reasonable, I shall have these dispatched by +messenger at once, and to-morrow make arrangements for your +entertainment. We shall send you to see some of the cities of the +United States before you leave again for Europe. In this way your +presence in America is explained. Nothing need ever be said about this +unfortunate matter, and I can promise you that nothing will be said +about it when you return home." + +It was Ruth's turn to smile. + +"You are overlooking one thing, Excellency, and that the most +important. I am not the Grand Duchess." + +"Of course, Highness. You have explained that before. It would not +become me to contradict you, and yet you cannot blame me for carrying +out my orders. If you do not agree to the plan I have suggested, I +must put you under restraint. No one will be permitted to see you, and +proper arrangements will be made to have you transferred secretly to +one of our warships, which will be making a cruise--for your especial +benefit--to America in the course of a month. A month, Highness, is a +long time to wait in restraint, but you must see that there is nothing +else for me to do." + +Ruth was obliged to smile in spite of herself at the mixture of +firmness and respect in the suave Minister's tones. He was encouraged +by the smile. + +"Ah," he said, "I see that Your Highness will be reasonable." + +Ruth looked him straight in the eye. + +"But what if I should convince Your Excellency that you have made a +mistake, that I am telling you the truth when I say I am not the Grand +Duchess Carlotta?" + +The Minister bowed. "It would be easy to convince me, Highness, if you +could produce for me one who is more likely to be the Grand Duchess +than yourself. But, alas! could there be two such faces in the world?" +Admiration shone out of the little man's eyes. + +"There is no doubt, Excellency," said Ruth, still smiling, "that His +Majesty was wise in appointing you a diplomat. We shall be good +friends even though I have to stay. You are making a mistake, and I am +afraid you will have to pay for it. I shall, however, be a model +boarder, and possibly even enjoy my trip on the warship. But I +certainly shall not receive your friends at a reception, nor will I +permit you to give me the honors due the Grand Duchess. Neither can I +produce her. She is probably far away by this time. I will tell you +my story, and you may judge for yourself." + +His Excellency bowed profoundly. + +"Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "Will you permit me to be +seated?" + +"Certainly, Your Excellency." + +The Minister drew up a chair and sat down, with a low bow, before his +desk; but not before he had placed Ruth in a chair where the light +would shine full on her face. He seemed now to be a changed +man--almost a judge; and the fingers thrummed on the glass as they had +done during the conference with Wratslav and Ivan. + +With a half-amused smile, Ruth began. + +"Excellency, my name is Ruth Atheson. You may easily verify that by +sending for my uncle, Monsignore Murray, of Sihasset, with whom I made +my home until he went to college in Rome to study for the priesthood. +I was left in Europe to receive my education. Afterward I came to +America to be near my uncle, but I made frequent trips to Europe to +visit friends. It was during one of these visits that I first met the +Grand Duchess Carlotta, four years ago, at San Sebastian. The +remarkable likeness between us caused me, as I have already told you, a +great deal of annoyance. Her Highness heard of it and asked to meet me. + +"We became close friends, so close that in her trouble she turned to +me. I was with relatives in England at the time. She wrote asking me +to receive her there, telling me that she intended to give up her claim +to the throne and marry Luigi del Farno, whom she sincerely loved. I +sent her a long letter warning her against the step--for I knew what it +meant--and advising her that I was even then preparing to leave for +America. Unfortunately, she knew my address and followed me to +Sihasset, directing her lover to wait until she sent for him. + +"I knew that the best means of concealing her would be to play upon the +likeness between us, and never go out together. For extra precaution, +when either of us went out, a veil was worn. She was taken for Ruth +Atheson; and Ruth Atheson, by your detectives, was taken for the Grand +Duchess Carlotta. Indeed," and here Ruth smiled, "she was very much +taken--in an auto, and as far as Washington. You propose now to take +her still farther. The Grand Duchess would know, ten minutes after it +happened, of my abduction, and she would guess who was responsible. So +you may be certain that she is no longer at Sihasset. The picture you +have, Your Excellency, is the picture of the Grand Duchess, not of me. +It happened that, as I was walking outside the gates of my home, your +friends appeared. The mistake was quite natural." + +The Minister had listened respectfully while Ruth spoke, but he was not +convinced. + +"It would be discourteous in me, Highness," he said, "to doubt your +word. But it would be worse than discourteous were I to accept it. I +am sorry; but you must offer me more than statements. My men could +scarcely have been deceived. They followed you each time you came out. +Two people do not look so much alike--especially outside of families--" + +His Excellency's eyes opened as he flashed a keen look at Ruth. The +name "Atheson" had suddenly commenced to bother him. What was it he +should have remembered--and couldn't? The intentness of his gaze +disconcerted Ruth. The Minister changed it to look down at his +thrumming fingers, and continued in his suavest tones, following that +scarcely perceptible pause. + +"--as to deceive men trained in the art of spying. I can only repeat +what I have already said: there are two courses open, and it is for you +to determine which you prefer." + +"You may be sure, then, Your Excellency," said Ruth, "that I shall not +select the course that would put me in a false light before all the +world. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta, and I must refuse to be +taken for her. My uncle will not be long in deciding who is +responsible for my abduction, and I can assure you that you will have +explanations to make before your warship arrives." + +The Minister arose promptly as Ruth stood up, her hand resting lightly +on the desk. + +"I am tired, Your Excellency," she continued, "and--since you insist on +my being the guest of your government--I will ask to be conducted to my +apartments." + +The Minister bowed. "If Your Highness will permit." He touched a +bell. The raw-boned woman was in the room so quickly that Ruth +wondered if she had been all the time just outside the door. At a +signal from His Excellency, the woman picked up Ruth's wrap and gloves. +His Excellency meanwhile, with a low bow, had opened the door. Ruth +passed into the broad corridor and, accompanied by the Minister, +proceeded to a handsome suite of rooms. + +The Minister turned to Ruth. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but I have +strict instructions in the event of your refusal to comply with my +suggestion, that you are to remain in strict seclusion. I cannot +permit you to see or speak to anyone outside, so I hope you will not +embarrass me by making any such request." He pointed toward the +windows. "You will notice, Highness, that there is a balcony in front +of your apartments. In the next room, which also opens upon the +balcony, is a guard. There will be a guard also at your door and +another on the lawn below. Your windows will be under constant +surveillance, though you will never see the guards unless you venture +forth. Your guards will be changed constantly, and it will be--" the +minister's pause was significant, the tone of his voice even more so +"--unwise--to attempt to gain their friendship. They might find +it--disastrous." Again the smooth significance of the voice. He +paused for a moment, then spoke more lightly. + +"If Your Highness will permit, Madam, my wife, will call on you and be +at your disposal at any time, as also my daughters. Since you have no +maid with you, Madame Helda," His Excellency called the raw-boned woman +from the next room as he spoke, "will wait upon you. Everything to +make your stay pleasant and comfortable has been arranged. But you are +an important personage and if we are firm, Your Highness, it is not +because we wish to be, but only because of duty to your country, and to +yourself. If you decide, at any time, that you should like to see +America, you have only to summon me. Your Highness will permit me to +retire?" + +"Certainly, Your Excellency, and thank you." + +With a profound bow His Excellency left the room. Ruth examined her +apartments with a pleased smile of gratification--for they looked +anything but a prison. The Minister knew how to make rooms pleasant. + +The diplomat went slowly downstairs. He had lost his smile, and his +face was contracted with worry. The girl's story had impressed him +more than he had cared to own, and there was much of the human in him, +in spite of the diplomat's veneer. Then the name "Atheson" sounded +insistently in his ears and, momentarily, he felt that he was almost +grasping the clue as he strove to remember. + +As he entered the library, his secretary stood up, a yellow paper in +his hands. + +"I have been waiting to hand this to you personally, Excellency." + +The Minister took the paper. It was a cablegram translated from code, +which read: + + +"The Duke is dead. If Her Highness has arrived do everything possible +to bring her to understand that there must be no scandal. Be +absolutely firm and have her return at any risk without delay. The +_Caspian_ has been dispatched from the coast of France and should +arrive in ten days. We have given out that the Duchess is traveling +incognito, but has been notified to return." + + +The worry on the Minister's face deepened. + +"This complicates matters, Wratslav," he said, "and makes it more +imperative that Her Highness be kept most strictly secluded. Go to bed +now. We shall have enough to keep us awake for the next ten days." + +Wratslav left, but the Minister sat down at his desk. Morning found +him there asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED + +At eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Minister was handed a card which +read: + + "RIGHT REV. DONALD MURRAY, D.D." + +Touching a bell, His Excellency summoned Wratslav. + +"There is a clergyman," he said, "who calls on me. I do not know him, +and of course I cannot guess his business. Perhaps you will see him." + +The secretary bowed and went out. As he entered the reception room, +Father Murray arose. Before the priest could speak, the secretary +began: + +"You desire to see His Excellency?" + +Father Murray bowed. + +"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requested +me to ascertain the nature of your business." + +"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business." Father +Murray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself." + +"Then," answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receive +you. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Could +you not give me some inkling as to what you desire?" + +"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you might +say to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference to +Miss Ruth Atheson--" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He will +understand." + +The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message at +once," he said. + +In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray. + +"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as my +secretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Atheson +and, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think I +would know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would see +you personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name. +Perhaps she wishes a _visé_ for a passport?" + +"That might explain it," answered Father Murray; "but I think she +desires a passport without the _visé_. I have reason to believe that +Your Excellency knows something of her--rather--unexpected departure +from her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point is +quite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, a +visitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desired +is your permission for her to return to her friends." + +The Minister's face expressed blankness. + +"You have been misinformed," he answered. "I know nothing of Miss +Atheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if you +think it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be of +service to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me." + +"The facts are very easily stated," said the priest. "First, the young +lady is my niece." + +It was the Minister's boast--privately, understand--that he could +always tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, and +now--past master in the art of diplomacy though he was--he found it +hard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl's +story. + +"You say she left her home unexpectedly?" + +"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, Your +Excellency." + +"And this happened where?" + +"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, and +will probably remember it." + +The half-closed eyes almost smiled. + +"Had your niece lived there long?" + +"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor." + +Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the cold +exterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more--all. + +"Before that--?" + +"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives." + +"She was educated there perhaps?" + +"She received her education principally in Europe." + +"She has traveled much, then?" + +"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but she +has many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits them +quite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian." + +"Ah!" + +"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?" + +"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, and +regret that I can see no way of assisting you." + +Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with. +He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of his +knowledge. + +"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mention +another name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your Great +Kingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes, +and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency to +understand?" + +The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatly +worried. + +"It does not, Reverend Sir," he answered, "unless you might possibly be +able to introduce me to a grand duchess _in America_. I am always +interested in my countrymen--and women. If a grand duchess were +brought here--that is," he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "if +a grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place my +entire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of. +Perhaps your Reverence understands?" + +"Thoroughly," said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand. +But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call on +you, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead." + +At last the Minister lost his _sang froid_. His face was colorless. + +"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?" + +"I think Your Excellency already knows." + +"How did she die, and when?" + +"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident." + +"Where?" + +"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper--which you +possibly have neglected to read--you will see a list of those killed in +a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a +Washington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and the +pictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue in +Baltimore awaiting identification." + +The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers +had been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. On +the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side--taken at +the morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features, +the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an +unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, he +turned to the priest. + +"How do I know," he asked, "that this--" pointing to the picture--"is +not Ruth Atheson?" + +"I think," said the priest, "that you will have to take my word for +it--unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit +to the morgue. The body is still unburied." + +"I shall send to the morgue." + +"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Before +going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your +custody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is +taking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is now +in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until +to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will afford +ample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us by +ten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the +hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department--with +all the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard +Hotel." + +The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent +hammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase, +"all the details," bore an almost sinister significance. + +His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson--Atheson." His voice was +tense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?" + +It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along. +Forgotten for years--yes. But where was the diplomat who did not have +the information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as he +answered. + +"Edgar Atheson." + +"Etkar--" + +But the priest raised his hand. + +"_Edgar Atheson_--if you _please_." + +The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of--" + +"Alice Murray," the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of +dignified hauteur. + +His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued. + +"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the young +Italian officer is known to others beside myself. It would make +unfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be made +public. I wish Your Excellency good morning." + +He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door. + +"One moment," he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request your +Reverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. I +cannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public. +State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and--" he +continued coldly--"you are now on the territory of my royal master." + +But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid. + +"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency," he said quietly. "I +mentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Nor +need you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquainted +with state complications to know when silence is best. We shall not +speak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall not +hesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shall +insist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you nor +His Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly stand +aside." + +But His Excellency still barred the way. + +"Your Reverence," he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on one +condition: that you will again give me your word that you will keep +silence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in the +meantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and Baron +Griffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. There +may be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position. +I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficult +circumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harm +shall come to her. Have I your word?" + +"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act, +we shall keep silence." + +"Then," said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you good +morning." + +Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at the +corner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon their +footsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledge +of the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twenty +minutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the New +Willard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the next +morning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St. +Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass. + +When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslav +was in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information. +For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years His +Excellency was nonplussed. + +"If she is dead, Wratslav," he said, "what will be said of us, and what +new trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?" + +"The Duchy," said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother." + +"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then, +that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunate +complication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the whole +world. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what's +going to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth." + +"But," objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot take +the risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The Grand +Duchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would be +easy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. You +cannot let her go until you are sure." + +The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed. + +"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go to +Baltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming. +Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish. +Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bring +me half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face on +every side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have about +her; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. See +also if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrow +morning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches until +then." + +His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE OPEN DOOR + +That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room at +the New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the more +cheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark looked +broken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth had +not been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, but +he could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation. +Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds. + +"My dear Mark," he said, "you don't understand the kind of a country +you are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and an +elected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive at +it. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but a +Minister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be sure +that our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quite +sufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, and +ultimately force him to yield." + +"I could wish him," said Mark, "a _more_ painful state of _suspense_." + +Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope, +Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering. +The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellency +looked very much perturbed--for a diplomat--before I was done with him. +There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger in +Baltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able to +identify the body. Then they must free Ruth." + +"I wish, Father," Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look at +things as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious are +the games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have." + +"I question a little," replied Father Murray, "if that last statement +is true--that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning to +think you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who think +that they have very much could learn how to make what is really their +very little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned upon +me to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious people +never make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure in +that career." + +"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at least +partly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like a +daughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her." + +"Yes," answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter to +me. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have--that he has +someone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priest +is constituted the same as other men, long training and experience have +made his life and mental attitude different from those of men of more +worldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely than +is any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him. +That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talented +he may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had to +unfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey left +a heritage that at best is of doubtful value--not because he was a +priest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor he +so often forgot that he was a priest. There are many great +priest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest in +politics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't his +place. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest in +the inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little less +worthy of the former--rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendel +was a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; and +how many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office? +Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbé. A priest as a priest can +be nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatness +in anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, my +dear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges from +the exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service from +a man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is the +sternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-hearted +service or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but I +am not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else take +the responsibility from off my shoulders." + +"But," said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with a +priest's duties to his flock?" + +"The church does not let them interfere," answered Father Murray. "She +holds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must +'cleave to his wife.' How could a priestly husband do that and yet +fulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wife +would come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has for +his children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, the +priest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man who +offers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, must +be supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared to +sacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives up +his life for his sheep.' In practice, no one expects that except of +the priest; but from him everyone expects it." + +"Do you really think," asked Mark, "that those outside the Church +expect such a sacrifice?" + +Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer. + +"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterian +minister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never liked +priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my +personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic +Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and +fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a +failure--His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I +knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would +fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ +turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist, +every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a +priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the +representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not +hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed +me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of +enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their +enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position +increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a +scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my +own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief +the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had +forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction +was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not +be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest +greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I +judged--and, judging, condemned--I knew that I was measuring him by his +own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of +honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never +to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever; +it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall +should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to +God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles--no +return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant +criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants, +demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a +sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it +yourself--you know you do." + +For a moment Mark did not answer. + +"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered if +others felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotions +and thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it for +years. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one of +them before you now." + +"Go on," said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off the +worry." + +"You remember, Father," said Mark, "the day I met you in your study +that eventful Sunday in London?" + +The priest nodded. + +"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get away +from my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clear +conscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one and +that that was why I sought you out--not to give up, but to defy you, +and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I could +justify myself before such a man as you it would set things at rest +within me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself. +Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholic +churches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minute +I seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is in +front of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a hand +beckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand--my +mother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it--and I can't +understand why." + +Father Murray's eyes were serious. + +"Why, my dear Mark," he answered, "you ought to know that you can't get +away. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you suppose +any man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Then +how is it possible for you to get away from that which first told you +of God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew about +Him? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makes +those who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes those +who have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is an +influence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it draws +_everything_. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to be +no middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, it +cannot be ignored. It has had its chain around _you_, Mark, and you +are only now realizing that you can't cast it off." + +Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchanged +between the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at his +friend, said good night and left the room. + +A minute later he returned. + +"Father," he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying to +share your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost to +me, will you--heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be, +whichever you are pleased to call me--will you still be a friend and, +should she accept me, join our hands?" + +Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders. + +"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course I +will marry you--that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlooker +to give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me, +not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as Mother +Church can make it and as binding as eternity." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +SAUNDERS SCORES + +It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when the +card of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. The +priest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room, +and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same moment +and were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' own +request, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in the +meantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and its +interior--"for emergencies," he explained to Mark. + +The secretary proceeded to business without delay. + +"I have come on behalf of His Excellency," he said, "and to express his +regrets." + +"I scarcely expected regrets," answered the priest; "for at ten o'clock +I was to have a definite answer." + +"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bade +me offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long be +delayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore--a +situation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by His +Excellency." + +"I cannot imagine," Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what that +situation could be." + +"Let me explain then." The secretary talked as one sure of his ground. +"I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, would +be at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?" + +"Not particularly," answered the priest. + +"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely your +niece. The other--" + +"At the Ministry--" Mark put in. + +"Wherever she is," parried the secretary. "The other is the Grand +Duchess." + +"Perhaps, Mr. Secretary," quietly suggested Father Murray, "you will +admit that I ought to know my own niece?" + +"There is a great resemblance, Reverend Sir, between the two ladies. I +have seen the dead girl, and have examined her belongings. Her apparel +was made, it is true, in Paris; but your niece has recently been there. +Her bag bears the initials, 'R.A.' The mesh bag is plainly marked in +gold cut initials with the same letters. The dressing case is also +marked 'R.A.' Even the handkerchiefs are thus marked." + +"As she was a guest of my niece, and of course left Killimaga very +hurriedly after the abduction," said Father Murray, "it is quite +probable that the Grand Duchess took the first clothes and other +effects that came to hand. She may even have purposely used things +belonging to Miss Atheson in order not to have anything in her +possession that might betray her identity." + +"True, that is possible," the secretary admitted; "but it is not +probable enough to satisfy His Excellency. Without a doubt, he ought +to satisfy himself. In the meantime, while the doubt remains, it is +clear that your answer cannot be given." + +"Suppose we place this matter, then," said the priest, "where the +answer will come in response to a demand? There is still the British +Embassy and the Department of State." + +"It will be plain to you, Reverend Sir," said the secretary, "that such +a course would not be of assistance. Frankly, we do not want +publicity; but, certainly, neither does your Department of State. In +fact, I think that this affair might offer considerable embarrassment +to the President himself at this time. And you? Would you wish the +reporters to hear of it and have it published with all possible +embellishments and sent broadcast? A few days will not be long in +passing. I can vouch for the fact that the lady is quite comfortable. +Why not see it from His Excellency's point of view?" + +"Just what is that point of view?" + +"I will be frank. You gentlemen know the situation. His Excellency's +entire career is at stake. If this lady is the Grand Duchess and she +does not go back to her throne--" + +"Her throne?" Mark broke out in astonishment. + +"Her father is dead. She is the reigning Grand Duchess, though she +does not know it yet. You see the situation? His Excellency must be +sure." + +"But how does he mean to arrive at certainty?" asked Father Murray. + +"That will be our task." + +"And in the meantime?" + +"She is safe." + +"And if we seek the Department of State?" + +"It will be the word of the minister from a friendly power against +yours--and they will not find the lady." + +"You would not--" + +"They will not find the lady." + +"Then," Mark spoke fiercely. "You have not kept your word." + +"We have. She is safe, and shall be safe. Patience, if you please, +and all will be well." + +"It looks," said Father Murray, "as though we had no other choice." + +Mark glanced at the priest, astonished that he should acquiesce so +easily, but Father Murray gave him a quick, meaning look. + +"That, Reverend Sir," answered the secretary, "is true. Since you see +it so, I will bid you good day--to meet you again, shortly." + +Scarcely had the secretary left the room when Father Murray was at the +telephone calling Saunders. + +"Come down," he directed, "at once." + +Saunders was with them before either Mark or the priest spoke again. + +"Well?" Saunders lost no time. + +Father Murray gave him an outline of what had passed. Mark said +nothing. A picture of despair, he was sitting with his head bowed upon +his breast. + +"And now, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "it is your business to +counsel--to be a real detective. What do you suggest?" + +"She is at the Ministry," said Saunders. "Let that be my first +statement. She is occupying a room which opens on a balcony of the +second floor. There is a guard in the next room, which also opens on +the same balcony. She is well watched. But I was in front of that +house three hours last night, and again this morning--rather, I was in +the house across the way. I had a good chance to communicate the news +of your arrival to her--" + +"What!" Mark was on his feet now. + +"It was simple. I did it this morning with a hand mirror. You +remember how bright the sun was about nine o'clock? Well, it was +shining right into the room where I was, and when I saw that she was +probably alone I caught the light on my little mirror and flashed the +reflection into her room. I juggled it about as oddly as I could, +flashing it across the book she was reading. Then I tried to make it +write a word on her wall. Perhaps you would like to know the word, +Baron?" He turned to Mark with a smile. "You would? Well, I tried to +write 'M-A-R-K.' I think she understood, for she turned toward the +window and seemed about to give me some signal. Then she raised her +hand in a quick motion of alarm and began reading again. I withdrew +the light, just in time, for some woman entered the room." + +"I am afraid, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you are +dangerous, being a very clever man." + +"But how, in Heaven's name," asked Mark, "did you get into that house? +It is the home of--" + +"Sure it is," answered Saunders. "Sure it is. But the family is away, +and they left only the chauffeur at the residence. Chauffeurs are fine +fellows--under certain circumstances. They have acquired the habit." + +"The conditions," laughed Mark, "will, I suppose, appear in your +accounts?" + +"In my accounts? Yes . . . . Now to the rest of the discussion. I do +not believe this affair can be arranged as easily as you think. It +looks to me as if they really believe they have the Grand Duchess, and +that we are trying to help her get away. They think she has planned +the whole thing and that we are part of the plan. Miss Ruth was with +Madam Neuville when they caught her. That's one point in their favor. +Then the Duchess had things belonging to Miss Ruth, and had them when +killed. That's point two for them. The face of Miss Ruth is the face +on the portraits of the Grand Duchess. There's point three for them; +and it is a fact that the face of the dead girl was slightly +disfigured, as you know. The Minister dare not make a slip. He is not +going to make one if he can help it. He will do something without +delay to avoid all danger of your interference. If you go to court, +you'll have publicity. If you go to the Department of State, their +delays would make interference too late. If you don't act quick you'll +have no chance to act at all. My advice is, to get into better +communication with the young lady and then--to do a bit of quiet +abduction ourselves." + +"That's easy to say, Saunders," said Mark. "But how carry it out?" + +"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done." Saunders +spoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can." + +"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "and we trust +you." + +"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on--" + +But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered the +call. + +"It's for you, Mark." + +Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment. + +"All right; send him up." + +He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing me +personally." + +They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy and +stood before them, bowing low--a typical Southern darkey, his hair +whitened by age. + +"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke. + +"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you--" + +"A letter?" + +"Yes, sah." The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying to +withdraw the letter he had put away so carefully. + +"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'n +houses." + +"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet. + +But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth the +precious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprise +began to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed the +letter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey. + +"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it." + +"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how it +was a pretty young lady that threw it out." + +"You saw her?" + +"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, +sah." The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thank +you, sah; thank you, sah." And with a broad grin he left the room. + +Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to +Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark +read the lines again: + + +"My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have +found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded +pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pension +the man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn't +with me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window because +of the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. +He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpeted +space near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. +For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into the +street. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. It +is a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it this +time. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find you +is my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean that +you are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard. + +"A warship has been sent to take the Grand Duchess home. I cannot +convince them that I am only Ruth Atheson. I am sure they are going to +send me away. You must get me out of this house quickly, or it will be +too late. + +"Give me this special signal and I will be ready: At ten-thirty any +morning flash the light and keep it still on the top of the gate +pillar. Leave it there a moment; then flash it once across the top if +you are coming that day, or twice for night. If you receive this +letter, answer it by flashing the light into my room to-morrow morning. +I shall pray for friendly sunlight. + +"Thank you for coming. I don't know how you found out, but somehow I +felt that you would. Love to the dear Father, if he is with you. I +feel pretty sure he is. + +"Ruth." + + +Saunders was the first to speak. + +"I think, Father," he said, "that you have a clever niece. This makes +things easy." + +The Padre smiled. But Mark was not smiling--one can't do so little a +thing to show unbounded joy. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +CAPITULATION + +It was early next morning when Saunders knocked at Mark Griffin's door. +His knock was soft, for Mark's room adjoined Father Murray's. When +Mark rose to let him in, the detective entered on tiptoe. + +"I came down to see you early," he said, "because I wanted to dodge the +Padre, and I thought perhaps he'd be over in the church for his Mass." + +"A good Yankee guess," said Mark. "I heard him leave a few minutes +ago, so you can talk as loud as you like. What is the matter? +Anything gone wrong?" + +"It's just this," said the detective. "We must make our attempt to get +Miss Atheson without the Padre's knowing anything about it. I have +been thinking about the thing, and I have a plan I believe will work. +It's out of the question to get that guard off the watch in any +ordinary way. If we attempt it, the house will be alarmed and we shall +be taken for burglars." + +"What difference if we are?" said Mark, very warmly. "If the Ministry +can stand publicity, we can. I am in favor of taking strong measures +right now." + +"Not on your life, Griffin. Not on your life," said Saunders. "You +don't seem to realize that the Padre cannot stand strong measures. +Arrest as burglars would mean publicity, and there would be all sorts +of fierce stories in the press. He is a priest--and then some." + +"Well, what of it?" + +"Sure, I know," soothed Saunders. "But the papers aren't in the +journalistic game for dignity, and they'd play the Padre up for all he +was worth; the more yellow the story, the better. The lady must be +gotten out of the Ministry quietly. Once we have her, it will be up to +the Ministry to make the next move. I have a hunch that His Excellency +won't make it." + +"Well," said Mark grudgingly, "I suppose the quiet way is the better +way. What is your plan? Why not let Father Murray know?" + +"I can't let him know, because he'd want to be in on it. At all risks, +he's got to be kept out. What I propose to do is to start up such a +trouble in the rear of the house that, for five minutes at least, +there'll be no guard in the front." + +"You would have to set it on fire to do that." + +Saunders put his finger impressively upon a button of Mark's pajamas. + +"You've guessed it, first shot out of the box. That's just what I'm +going to do. Rather, that's what _we're_ going to do." + +Mark looked at him in solemn silence. + +"Saunders, what did you have to put you in this condition?" + +"Plain water and a cold bath," answered Saunders promptly. + +"Then perhaps you'll explain." + +"It'll be easy. They can put the fire out after the lady has gotten +away. The Minister is going to dinner to-night. Madame Minister--or +whatever you call her--will be with him; so will his flock of girls, +and so, of course, will His Excellency's secretary. The rest of his +staff don't live there. I figure that the guards, and the servants, +and Miss Atheson will be the only ones in the house. The fire will +bring all but Miss Atheson to the back. A rope ladder skillfully +thrown will do the rest. Now you see why I can't mix the Padre up in +that. We may be arrested, though I don't think we shall. The Minister +doesn't want anything of that kind. This morning I'll flash the night +escape signal to Miss Atheson. She'll be ready to leave, and you may +be sure she'll find a way to warn us if the guard is still around. +To-night you make an excuse to the Padre and slip away. He's going to +see a friend anyhow at the University out in Brookland. I heard him +say so. Tell him not to worry if you happen to be out when he comes +back. Fix it up any way you like, and we'll make the play and win." + +"Who's to do the 'skillful throwing' of the ladder?" + +"A friend of mine who used to be a fireman." + +"Do you think you can get him?" + +"I've engaged him already." + +"H-m." Mark stared at the detective, then burst forth with, "What time +did you get up?" + +"I didn't have to get up. I haven't gone to bed yet." + +Mark sat down in his chair to think. After a while he put out his hand +to the detective. + +"I believe you've got it, Saunders. I'll do it--but you'd better get +some rest" + +"Me for my little trundle bed." And Saunders, in high spirits, waved +his hand as he went out the door. + +Left alone, Mark proceeded to dress, but awaited Father Murray's return +before going down to breakfast. The time seemed long after breakfast, +but at length the priest prepared to leave the hotel. + +Mark spoke nonchalantly. "Oh, Father, I'm going out in the country +with some friends, and may not get back till quite late to-night." + +"All right, Mark. I hope you have a pleasant trip." + +It was so easy that Mark felt a trifle worried. His device was crude, +and the priest had never before been so easily deceived. + +It was midnight when a big automobile containing Saunders, his +ex-fireman friend and Mark, drew up cautiously on a side street near +the Ministry. The men at first walked quietly past the house. They +saw a light in the apartment occupied by Ruth, but there seemed to be +no other light within. They then walked around the block, passing a +policeman at the corner, and entered the alley behind the Ministry on +the other side, out of the bluecoat's sight. There was no one in the +back yard, and Saunders easily effected an entrance into the garage, +which was not far from the house. Taking from his pocket an ordinary +hot-water bag, he knocked the lock off the gasoline tank and proceeded +to fill the bag with gasoline. Then he turned to Mark. + +"That's all back here for you. Leave the rear work to me. Go around, +you two, and get the ladder. In fifteen minutes I'll have a fire at +the back door. You'll probably see the light. As soon as you hear +cries from the house, listen well and you'll know whether or not the +guard has rushed back. The big door-window on the balcony is always +left open so that the guard can command the window of Miss Atheson's +room, and you can easily hear him open and close the inside door. If +he doesn't leave, the game's up. As soon as you are sure he's gone, +throw up the ladder. If you get Miss Atheson, don't wait for me. Rush +her to the automobile and back to the hotel. I'll take care of myself. +Now go on, and wait for the big noise." + +The three men moved toward the door, but fell back when they saw a dark +figure plainly outlined against the dim light behind him. Saunders +said something under his breath. The ex-fireman turned pale, for he +thought it was a policeman. + +"The country is beautiful in the autumn, isn't it, Mark?" + +Mark was as embarrassed as any small boy caught in truancy. + +"I thought you took things rather quietly, Father--I might have known +it was too good to be true. What did you come here for? You surely +knew it was something we could not have you concerned in." + +The priest laughed at Mark's rueful tone. + +"You should have known better, Mark, than to think I could be so easily +deceived. I am going to be mixed up in anything that concerns the +welfare of Ruth. Besides," he added, with another quiet laugh, "I +heard everything you two said this morning. I saw Saunders coming down +the hall as I was leaving, and, as it was rather early for a casual +visit, I came back to see what he was up to." + +"Then why in--I beg your pardon, Father--why in all common sense," +blurted out Saunders, "did you come here? You can't help, and we are +taking the only possible way." + +"Happily," rejoined Father Murray, "it is not the only way. Come out +of this, and I will tell you something you will be very glad to hear. +Let us get back to your automobile. We must not go very far away, for +we have yet to call at the Ministry, when His Excellency returns." + +"To-night?" + +"This morning," gently corrected the priest. It was now well on toward +one o'clock. + +The three men obeyed him. The ex-fireman got into the automobile, +while Mark and Saunders walked with Father Murray a short distance off. +When they were out of earshot, the priest turned to his companions. + +"You two have been working your own plans while I have been working +mine. When you had finished your little secret conference, I went to +St. Patrick's and said Mass. When I returned to the hotel, Mark didn't +seem to appreciate my company, so I left rather early. Before going to +Brookland, I called at the State Department. Happily, I know someone +quite high up, so I had no trouble. I told him the whole story, and he +promised to help me. A few hours ago he sent for me again and--" the +priest smiled at his hearers' evident anxiety to hear the details--"and +everything will be all right now. We are to see the Minister as soon +as he returns from the banquet. He will probably be back by one +o'clock, and he will listen--and listen well--to what I have to say. +The guard will be off before we leave, and Ruth will be at the hotel +before noon." + +"But, Father," said Mark, "how can you do it? The State Department +cannot get into this thing officially--cannot interfere at all. It is +too delicate. To-morrow morning Ruth will be on her way to the +seacoast, as sure as fate. She will be kept hidden there until that +warship comes." + +"The warship will not come," answered Father Murray. "His Majesty's +warships will be engaged very busily for some time to come. My +information--information which so far has not leaked out to the +public--is that the Big Kingdom is on the verge of war. There will be +no warship flying that flag on this side of the water for a long time." + +"War!" said Saunders. "But how does that help us?" + +Before Father Murray could reply, an automobile passed swiftly. + +"That is the Minister," remarked Saunders. + +The priest looked up. "We must hurry. Leave everything to me." + +Walking hastily, the trio approached the Minister, who had stopped at +the curb to give some order to his chauffeur. The ladies of the party +had already entered the house, accompanied by the secretary. + +It was Father Murray who spoke. + +"Pardon us, Your Excellency, for intruding on you at this hour, but it +is necessary that we should speak to you at once. With your +permission, we will go inside." + +The Minister looked disturbed. + +"Surely you know the hopelessness of it? I must warn you that you can +secure nothing through violence. My guard would not hesitate to take +forcible measures." + +"There is no need to worry about that, Your Excellency," replied the +priest. "No need at all. We shall not resort to violence. It will +not be necessary. But the matter is important, and we must speak to +you at once." + +The words were spoken sharply. His Excellency hesitated for a moment +longer, then threw out his hand and motioned them toward the house. + +"Very well, gentlemen. Come." + +The unwelcome guests were shown into the drawing-room and the lights +switched on. His Excellency put his hat aside and turned to face his +callers. + +"It is already late, gentlemen, and I will ask you to be as brief as +possible. What is it you wish?" + +"We shall not detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary," said +Father Murray. "Yesterday I received a visit from your secretary, who +informed me that the probabilities were so strong that it was my niece +who had been killed in the railroad accident that you would be obliged +to decide against my claims for the present." + +"That is exactly the case," replied His Excellency. "Permit me to say, +Reverend Sir, that I can do nothing else. The Grand Duke is dead, and +His Majesty has taken charge of the matter. The Grand Duchess is a +ruler herself, at the present time. It is true she is only a foolish +girl, who ran away to marry a nonentity--but affairs of state are +greater than affairs of the heart. At all risks she must return to +Ecknor. I must be certain of her identity before I can make another +move. I appreciate the delicacy of the situation. I know that I have +practically kidnaped the girl. But I am certain your State Department +will want no trouble about it, nor will mine. If you are right, and +the girl is your niece, you have no cause to fear for her; she will be +returned to this country at once. If, on the contrary, she is the +Grand Duchess, there is no reason why you should seek to have her taken +away from us." + +"Her own wishes--" began Saunders. + +"Pardon me, sir. Her own wishes have nothing to do with the matter. I +confess that it is embarrassing that she does not want to go, but it is +more embarrassing that she ever went away. She must return to her +country, wishes or no wishes. I will consider nothing else. I have my +orders, and I shall obey them." The Minister turned toward the door, +evidently desirous that his visitors should leave. "I will ask you to +excuse me now, gentlemen." + +But matters had not been arranged to Father Murray's satisfaction. He +made no move to go, and looked straight into His Excellency's face as +he spoke. + +"Your Excellency has of course been informed of the critical condition +of affairs in Europe?" + +"I do not understand." + +Though somewhat surprised, the priest could not doubt the sincerity of +the speaker. He hesitated but a moment, then spoke quietly. + +"Before the conversation proceeds farther, may I suggest that it might +be well for Your Excellency to see if there are any late dispatches +from your home government?" Noticing the Minister's haughty +astonishment, he added, "I have come from the Department of State." + +The Minister was startled, and turned to leave the room. "Pardon me a +moment, gentlemen." + +Mark turned to the priest. "What have you up your sleeve, Father?" + +Father Murray only smiled. "I think, Mark," he said, "that you are +certainly improving in the American brand of English. 'Up your sleeve' +is decidedly good United States. You will want to stay with us--even +though you are a Baron." + +Mark could get no more out of the priest. + +In a few minutes His Excellency returned, his face showing signs of +extreme annoyance. + +"I thank you, Reverend Sir," he said courteously. "I cannot understand +why my dispatches were not delivered to me at the banquet. I can only +express my regret." Father Murray bowed, and the Minister went on: + +"The lady is probably asleep now, but I think I may safely promise that +in a few hours she will be with you. It is more than probable that I +shall relinquish all claims upon her." + +Father Murray smiled and picked up his hat which was lying on a table. + +"We may expect the lady before noon?" + +"Yes." + +"I thank Your Excellency. Permit us to bid you good morning." + +With a courteous bow, Father Murray took his leave, followed by Mark +and Saunders. The last they saw of His Excellency was the top of his +head as he bowed them out. + +Father Murray chuckled all the way back to the hotel--and kept his +counsel. When they arrived at his bedroom door, Mark stopped him. + +"Great Heavens, Father! You're not going to leave us in the dark like +this?" + +"'In the dark' is _very_ good United States, Mark." + +"But what does it mean? What card did you play?" + +Father Murray's hand was on the doorknob, his eyes dancing with +merriment. + +"They say, Mark, that a royal flush beats everything. Well, I played +that." + +Mark tried to catch him but, with a low chuckle, he slipped into the +room and closed the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES + +A few hours later--about ten o'clock--an automobile stopped in front of +the New Willard Hotel, and the Minister and his secretary alighted. +The visitors were shown at once into Father Murray's room where Mark, +Saunders and the priest waited. His Excellency took the chair offered +him and, with some hesitation in his choice, of words, opened the +conversation. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "I first wish to congratulate you on your +persistence. That persistence led me to think that there was some +justice in your case. You can scarcely blame me, however, for not +granting your wish immediately, especially since, as my secretary +informed you, the effects of the dead lady seemed to indicate that it +was Miss Atheson who had been killed. I find that I was mistaken. It +was the Grand Duchess. There is absolutely no question about that now. +As soon as you are ready to receive Miss Atheson, she shall leave the +Ministry where, as you understand, she has been an honored guest." + +The impetuous Saunders broke out: "Your Excellency means an honored +prisoner." + +But Father Murray stepped into the breach. + +"Not at all, Saunders," he said, "not at all." Then he turned to the +Minister. "Miss Atheson has been an honored guest at the Ministry. +That is perfectly understood, Your Excellency, _perfectly_ understood." + +The Minister bowed. "I thank you, Reverend Sir. I am glad you do +understand. Miss Atheson was a friend of the Grand Duchess Carlotta. +She had known her in Europe. Why should she not have been a guest at +the Ministry of the nation which exercises a protectorate over the +domains of her late Royal Highness? I should wish to have that known +to the public. This afternoon we shall give to the press the sad story +of the visit to America of Her Royal Highness, under strict incognito. +Her friend, Miss Atheson, was of course awaiting the arrival of the +Grand Duchess, having come down in advance. Miss Atheson will, I am +sure, be kind enough, and considerate enough of the memory of Her +Highness, not to deny any of these statements." + +"I am sure, Your Excellency," said the priest, "that Miss Atheson will +keep strict silence as to the past. She would not wish to embarrass +the situation nor in any way stain the memory of her dead friend. Of +that you may rest assured." + +"I beg your pardon," said His Excellency, "but--I trust I may rely upon +the discretion of these gentlemen?" + +Mark and Saunders bowed their assurance. + +"Certainly." + +"Your Excellency may rely on our discretion." + +"It is needless for me to say," continued the Minister, "that the +situation is most embarrassing. But there is no reason why the Grand +Duchess should not have visited her friend--no reason why she should +not have come to Washington on her way back to her own country. She +would naturally wish to avoid publicity and, of course, the Ministry +was constantly in touch with her moves. All this is a reasonable +explanation of what has occurred. As to the body's having lain +neglected in the Baltimore morgue for some hours, something must be +assumed by the telegraph company. The body has already been embalmed, +and arrangements have been made for its shipment to Europe. I shall +myself go to Baltimore this afternoon. Do you, Reverend Sir, wish it +known that the friend of the Grand Duchess is your niece?" + +"Yes; but I wish it put to the world in the proper form. Since Your +Excellency is preparing copy for the papers, may I ask if you will +permit me to revise it?" + +"That I shall be glad to do," said the Minister, his face all smiles. + +As His Excellency was about to depart, Saunders stopped him. + +"One word, Your Excellency. Baron Griffin and myself were witnesses to +a very sad occurrence in Sihasset--" + +The Minister turned hurriedly. + +"You are mistaken, my friend," he said, significantly. "You are +mistaken. You saw nothing--remember that. It will be better for all +concerned. Your State Department would not thank you for making +embarrassing statements. Things have come out happily for you, if not +for the unfortunate Duchess. Yet, after all, perhaps the best thing +that could have happened for her was what you believed--until you were +corrected--happened in Sihasset. Baron Griffin will tell you that I +speak the truth when I say that the next best thing was her own death." + +Mark inclined his head, for he had heard something of the reputation of +Luigi del Farno, when he was in Florence. + +And then for the moment the Minister was forgotten in the man, and +tears glistened in His Excellency's eyes. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "I never saw Her Royal Highness. But I have +heard a great deal of her, and I have followed her career. She was not +born to be a Duchess. She had all my sympathy, for she was just a +woman--beautiful, sentimental, loving. She was just the kind to do the +rash things which courts will not tolerate. She was the kind to follow +her own heart and not the dictates of kings. She was unhappy at court, +and that unhappiness was increased when she fell in love with the +Italian. She was the kind who would love until death--and then beyond +the grave. She was one who would make any sacrifice to her devotion. +But she fought against the solid rock of princely customs and +prejudices, and there was nothing for her but to break upon it. Her +love ruined that young officer. He was doomed from the moment she went +away and he followed her. No earthly power could have saved him. +But--believe me--she is better dead than married to him. We had his +life investigated. He has had his just deserts. The Grand Duchess was +not the first. It is well that she was the last, poor girl. The most +merciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character was +the thing that did happen. She never knew of his fate. She died +thinking that she should meet him again--that she had successfully +broken down all barriers--that she and her lover could live their lives +in peace, here in America. She never learned that there could be no +happiness for her with a man like him. Let them rest in their +graves--for graves are better than courts. As Minister I could not say +these things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you now +as a man who has known love himself. Good-bye." + +The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again. + +"When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?" + +Father Murray bowed. "Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her." + +"Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence at +luncheon?" As Father Murray hesitated, he added, "It will be better +that you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel. Besides," +and he smiled good-humoredly, "we can get together and revise those +statements properly." + +Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave. +"Luncheon is at one," he remarked, as he left the room. "I should be +pleased if you would come a little early. I know you will desire to +talk with Mademoiselle." + +Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, where +Ruth greeted him affectionately. + +"How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?" + +She made a little moue. "I don't like it at all. I'm abdicating +to-day." + +He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finally +joined by His Excellency's daughters, who stayed with them until +luncheon was served. The meal proved to be a merry one, and after it +was over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed by +Wratslav. Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to the +hotel--in a long, low-built limousine. + + * * * * * * + +The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast and +hastened to his study. The time was short, and there was much to be +done. His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, but +the Bishop pushed them aside. + +"No, I haven't time now. Put them in my grip." + +The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving his +instructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a more +opportune time--which never came. + +On the train, the Bishop's breviary first claimed his attention. As he +paused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by the +flaring headlines of a paper across the aisle. Quickly he opened his +grip and brought forth his own papers. Ah, here it was--on the first +page. + + + MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN + Former Vicar-General Announces + the Engagement of His Niece. + + +And, in the next column: + + + GRAND DUCHESS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF WRECK + Ruler of Ecknor Killed While + on Her Way to Washington. + + +The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered," or at least +influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the +Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was +back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He +saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait +of a charming child. + +"My niece," he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss her +sorely." + +He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, +who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been +strangely silent, he remembered. And--yes, it was just after that +that the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best," had been +Donald Murray's only comment. + +The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so +surprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidence +regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, +"My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you." + +The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind," he murmured, "to have known +so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my +friend?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE BECKONING HAND + +The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was +still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far +more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, +wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable +peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was +evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory" +and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his +countenance. + +"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one," +he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go +out now and look for another one." + +"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will +have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would +care for the same kind of position you had before--would you? I +suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not +going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought +Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I +heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his +intendent." + +"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent +intend to do? It's a new one on me." + +"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a +personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business +affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a +good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective. +Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over +the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the +salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer. +Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very +much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a +black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own." + +Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference +that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, +Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you." + +"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very +complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity." + +Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of +seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain. + +"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father--only it strikes me that there +is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic' +and the one that wasn't born a Catholic." + +"Well, Mr. Wise Man," said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain the +difference." + +Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father," he +said, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the first +place--but this doesn't go for you--I think that the convert is more +bigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?" + +Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders," he replied, "that +you leave me out of it. That is a _real_ compliment. Now, let us put +it this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars from +the time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, would +it not?" + +"Certainly." + +"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you would +naturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?" + +"Yes--but what then?" + +"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenly +acquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-made +millionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth. +They become enthusiasts about what they have--and I must confess that +some of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign. +It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There is +too little of it in the world." + +"I am mighty glad now," said Saunders, "that you haven't got it." + +"What? The sincerity?" + +"Oh, Lord, no!--the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't have +much trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, the +church I _don't_ go to is the Methodist." + +"Then I will have to give you up," said Father Murray. "If the +Methodist were the one you actually _did_ go to, I might have half a +chance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to _any_, I am +afraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you will +always be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother the +church," he added. + +"But surely, Father," said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here? +Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't he +want you to go back to the Cathedral?" + +"That is true," answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But I +have grown very fond of Sihasset, and the Bishop has kindly given me +permission to remain in charge of the parish here." + +"I don't quite understand that," said the visitor in an urging way. "I +should hate to lose you, Father--for of course I shall stay if the +Baron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife and +kiddies, too--I like the place, and I like the people--but when I was a +common soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant I +wanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy, +I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have been +satisfied until I had charge of a battalion--and so on up the line. It +takes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Why +shouldn't a priest have them, too?" + +"Some of them have," answered Father Murray, "when they are young. But +when they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they were +told in the seminary long before--that 'arriving' does not make them +any happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry, +because it means that you become more of a servant yet assume greater +responsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world, +it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had my +ambitions--and I have had them realized, too. But I found means to +transplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I do +not propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back on +the earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden of +God, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I can +help it. I shall stay in Sihasset if I am permitted to do so. Should +I be called away, that is a different matter. Please God, when I go +out--to quote my friend, Father Daly--I'll go out feet first." + +"I suppose you're right, Father," said Saunders, "I suppose you're +right. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, now +that you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?" + +Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what you +want to know now, Saunders." + +"Well, I'll give you one guess," answered the detective. + +"You want to know," said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up so +easily." + +"I do," replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You must +have told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know what +magic you worked." + +"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you have +learned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I told +you, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and, +for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him my +story, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matter +was a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. He +wasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that would +probably have to be 'forgotten.' He pointed out that the body had +disappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that to +prove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed that +our knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making His +Excellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, and +before I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at the +banquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Department +had had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant young +Italian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was ready +to meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that. +Late that night--after my return from Brookland--my friend sent for me +to come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of a +cipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. That +dispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which might +lead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in a +certain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next in +line, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almost +on his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but rather +desired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and just +the man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to be +understood that the girl was in America, and that the King would be +glad if she remained here permanently--in other words, that she be +allowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition to +deprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our own +military attache at the royal capital secured the information; and, +since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward the +dispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, he +sent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter was +settled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the story +going any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died,' said my +friend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle will +ascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom. +This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and, +instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand Duchess, he will +probably be only too anxious to be rid of her.' I had all that +information," continued Father Murray, "when I went to find you +gentlemen and save you from getting into mischief." + +"We would have had a glorious time, Father," sighed Saunders, +regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mind +grasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detective +business, Father," he said energetically, "has many angles, and few of +them are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and other +kind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like that +Minister," he added. "He isn't heartless." + +"No," replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar. +"He was mighty human when he came to see us at the New Willard. Don't +you remember how he forgot himself--even had tears in his eyes when he +referred to the dead Duchess and the fact that she was better off in +her grave than she would have been at court? His wife had taken a +genuine liking to Ruth, and the man himself was more than half +convinced that she was all she claimed to be, but he wasn't free to +release her. He now wants to make reparation--but he wants also to +support the idea that Ruth Atheson was only the _friend_ of the dead +Duchess and, therefore, that the Duchess is really dead. It would be +very unfortunate, if, later on, it should prove that he had been +deceived. He would find it difficult to explain matters to His Majesty +if a Grand Duchess, supposedly dead, should suddenly prove very much +alive and demand possession of a throne already occupied by her +successor. So His Excellency wants the lady married as 'Ruth Atheson' +with due solemnity and with proper witness. There is method, Mr. +Saunders, even in his kindness." + +Saunders whistled again. "It beats me, Father," he said. "I own up. +They know more than detectives." + +At this moment Mark came striding over the lawn. + +"Hello, Saunders," he called. "I've been looking for you. Now that +I've got you, I might as well have it out and be done with it. Ruth +wants you to stay here. She wants to make you one of us. We are going +to Ireland for six months, and then we're coming back to live here part +of each year. We want you to take charge of Killimaga. I've bought +it. A good salary--no quarreling or dickering about it. What do you +say?" + +"This is certainly a surprise," said Saunders, winking at the Padre. +"Have you room for an extra family?" + +"You're married?" + +"Very much so." + +"The bigger the family the better. But," he added, as an afterthought, +"I'll have to tell Ruth, or she'll be trying to marry you off. You'll +come, then?" + +"Yes," said Saunders, "I guess I'll take you up on that." + +Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thought +you would stay." + +Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't you +think, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is coming +on the next train, you know." He paused and seemed momentarily +embarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought. +"Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have a +lot of things to straighten out." + +The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean +that, my boy?" + +"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an +open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand +behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face +behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, +perhaps--in fact, I know it must have been--but it was mother's +face--and I am coming home." + +The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest +and the penitent entered the church. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +RUTH'S CONFESSION + +Late that afternoon Mark sat alone in the great library at Killimaga, +his head thrown back, his hands grasping the top of his chair. His +thoughts were of the future, and he did not hear the light footsteps +behind him. Then--two soft arms stole lightly around his neck, and +Ruth's beautiful head was bowed until her lips touched his forehead. +It was a kiss of benediction, speaking of things too holy for words. + +He covered her hands with his own. "Ruth." The tones breathed a world +of love. + +"I am so happy," she murmured. + +He started to rise, but one small hand, escaping from his grasp, rested +on his head and held him firmly. + +"I have a great deal to tell you, Mark. But first I want you to know +how happy I am that you have come back to Mother Church. I have been +praying so hard, Mark, and I should have been miserable had you refused +to return. Our union would never have been perfect without full +harmony of thought, and we might have drifted apart. But I am happy +now." Lightly her fingers stroked his brow and twined among his curls. + +He arose and, clasping her hands in both his own, he gazed down into +her eyes. + +"And I too am happy, dear one. You have brought me two blessings: I +have found not only love, but peace at last after many years." +Tenderly he raised her hands to his lips. "But come, dear; it is too +glorious a day to remain in the house. Shall we go outside?" + +It was but a moment till she returned ready for a walk, and together +they sauntered toward the bluff, where she seated herself on a great +rock. Sitting at her feet, his head resting against the rock, his hand +raised to clasp hers, he was content. For a while they sat in silence, +gazing far out over the sea into the glory of the sunset. At last she +loosed her hand from his grasp and rested it lightly on his head. + +"Mark, dear, you know that there are to be no secrets between us two +now, don't you?" + +He looked up and answered promptly. "Not one--not a single one, for +all the days of the future, my darling. But," he added, "I have none +that are unrevealed." + +"I am not so fortunate, dear. I have a great one, and now I am going +to tell it all to you." + +"But--" + +"No, let me do all the talking until you hear it to the end, and let me +tell it in my own way." + +"All right," and he pressed her hand lovingly. + +"I never knew my father, Mark," she went on, "and yet I heard of his +death only a short time ago--in Washington. His name was not +'Atheson.' He was a very great personage, no less than the Grand Duke +of Ecknor, Prince Etkar." + +Mark started, but Ruth put up her hand. "You promised. Let me go on." + +"My mother married my father, who then called himself Edgar Atheson, in +London. He was the younger son of the then reigning Grand Duke and had +left home for political reasons, expecting never to return. But his +father and his elder brother were both killed by a bomb a few days +after his marriage to my mother. He returned to Ecknor, and she went +with him. In six months he had married, legally but not legitimately, +a princess of the protecting kingdom. Under the laws of the kingdom +the princess was his legal mate, the Grand Duchess of Ecknor, but my +mother was his wife before God and the Church. The Grand Duke gave her +a large fortune, and she had a beautiful home near the palace. +Everyone knew and pitied her, but they respected her. The Grand Duke +soon ceased to care for his morganatic wife, but he never deserted her. +Then, a year after the court marriage, I was born. It was given out +that the Grand Duchess had also given birth to a daughter, Carlotta." + +Mark patted her hand, but kept his promise of silence. Ruth went on. + +"After that, the Grand Duke seemed to lose all interest in his English +wife. My mother was very unhappy and wanted to return to England. She +finally escaped, with me, in a closed carriage. My uncle met us as we +crossed the frontier, and it was only then that mother understood why +her escape had been so easy--the Grand Duke had wanted her away. She +saw England only to die heart-broken, for she had loved her husband +devotedly. My uncle kept me with him until he became a Catholic and +went to Rome to study. Then I was sent to school in Europe. Later I +came to America. But I had many friends in Europe and visited them +frequently. It was on one of these visits that I met Carlotta. She +knew, and we became fast friends, as well as sisters." + +"But not full sisters," Mark said, thinking that the story was over. + +"Wait," cautioned Ruth. "There is more. Mother died thinking I was +her only child. But two girls were born to mother, and a dead child to +the Grand Duchess. Mother never saw one of her babies. She never +knew. And it was years before the Grand Duchess learned that her child +had died. Carlotta was my full sister. She was stolen to replace the +dead child. Now do you see?" + +"But how did you come to know all this?" asked Mark. + +"Carlotta told me. The Grand Duchess never seemed to care for +Carlotta; Carlotta's old nurse resented this and one day, after a worse +storm than usual, told Carlotta that the Duchess was not her mother. +There was a terrible scene in the palace. The old nurse was all but +banished, but Carlotta saved her. She was sworn to secrecy by the +Grand Duke. The Duchess died later as a result of the affair--of +apoplexy. Then the nurse disappeared, no one knew how or where, but +not before she had told Carlotta all about the twins that were born to +the Grand Duke's English wife. Carlotta had the secret and ruled her +father with it. She was allowed her own way, and it was not always a +good way. Her last escapade was the one you already know. Poor girl, +she was as good as a court would let her be; and here in Sihasset she +repented. But she believed in her lover, which I never did. I knew +his reputation, but she would not listen to a word against him. Now +you have the whole story." + +"And you," Mark managed to say, "you are the real Grand Duchess now. +What a misfortune!" + +"No," she replied, "I could never make such a claim; for my mother's +marriage was never admitted by the court as a royal marriage. It was +considered morganatic. Her children were legitimate, but could never +succeed to the throne." + +"But, even so," insisted Mark, "you are the Grand Duchess." + +Ruth put her hand gently over his mouth. "I am to be more than a grand +duchess, dear. I am to be your wife--to-morrow." + +The sun was below the horizon now. For a while longer they watched its +banners of flaming red and yellow flung across the sky. Then, hand in +hand, they retraced their steps to Killimaga, where Mark left her with +a whispered, "Sweet dreams, dear," and went his way toward the rectory. + +As he sauntered aimlessly along, his thoughts were all of her. Never +once had she lectured him on religious matters, yet she was splendidly +sincere, and her faith of the greatest. And she had been praying for +him all the time! Yet what need of speech? Her very self, her every +action, her nice sense of right, were greater than any sermon he had +ever heard from mortal lips. She was a woman whom any man might well +love--and honor. + +Reluctantly Mark at last sought the rectory, where the Bishop and +Monsignore awaited him. And almost desperately he sought to evade Ann, +whose dinner had been kept waiting. Seeing the attempt was vain, he +threw up his hands. + +"Both hands up, Ann. I claim the protection of the Bishop." + +And Ann, not displeased, went on her way. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +CHARRED WOOD + +All Sihasset was in the little church next morning. Mrs. O'Leary, +grand even in her widow's weeds, had a front seat before St. Joseph's +altar, where she could see everything, and crowded into the pew with +her were all the little O'Leary's. The old lady had had some +misgivings about attending a wedding so soon after her husband's death; +but the misgivings were finally banished for--as she confided to the +eldest of her grandchildren--"Sure, 'tis Miss Ruth who is gettin' +married, and himself would want me there." + +So Mrs. O'Leary arrived two hours ahead of time and secured her point +of vantage. Under more ordinary circumstances she would have had a +hard time to quiet the energetic youngsters, but now they had enough to +occupy their minds, for when had they seen such gorgeous flowers, such +wonderful ferns? The sanctuary was massed with them, the little altar +standing out in vivid relief against their greenness. And then there +was that wonderful strip of white canvas down the center aisle, that +white strip that was so tempting to little feet, but which must not be +stepped upon. And what were those kneeling benches for--the two draped +in white--one on each side of the open gateway, just inside the +communion railing? And over on the left was a platform bearing a great +chair, and over it hung a canopy--only the children didn't call it +so--of purple. + +They had never seen the sanctuary look like this before! And then +their attention was attracted by the strains of the new organ, +hurriedly bought for the occasion. The choir from the city was +practising before the service. Truly, the little O'Learys were glad +that "Grandma" had ignored their cries and had insisted on coming +early. And what would Miss Wilson say at not being permitted to play +for the wedding? That thought alone was enough to keep the little +minds busy. + +Outside, Main Street was decorated with flags; and the people, keenly +expectant, were watching for His Excellency. Never before had they +known the Minister of a Kingdom to step within the boundaries of +Sihasset. Bishops had been seen there before, but Ministers were new, +and international weddings had never come nearer than the great +metropolis. Barons, too, were scarce, and who loves a baron--provided +he is not an American "baron"--any more than the simon-pure Yankee? So +the decorations were up by order of the selectmen, and the merchants +vied with one another in making their own ornamentations as gorgeous as +possible. And the people--with the sole exception of the +O'Learys--waited outside, each anxious to catch the first glimpse of +the great man who to-day was to honor them by his presence. + +His Excellency arrived at last--in a low, swift-running automobile, the +chauffeur of which seemed to know the road very well, and seemed also +to be acquainted with every turn in the village. There was no one to +notice that, when he passed the gates of Killimaga, he laughed quietly. + +At Killimaga the gardens had never looked lovelier. Autumn was kind +and contributed almost a summer sun. + +Father Murray tore himself away from his guests at the rectory--and who +should those guests be but the old friends who had for so long +neglected him--to run up before the ceremony to see Ruth. She was +already arrayed in her bridal finery, but she rushed out to meet him +when she heard that he had arrived. + +Holding her off at arm's length, he looked at her and said, "I think, +dearie, that I am going to die very soon." + +"Die! Why, you old love, how could you get that notion into your head?" + +"Because," he answered, "I am so very, very happy--too happy. I have +had a great deal more, dear, than I was ever entitled to in this life. +When I sent you away and went to Rome, I feared I had given you up +forever; and, behold, here I am, with the silver hairs coming--a priest +with all the consolations that a priest can have, and yet I have a +daughter, too." And smiling in his own winning way, he added, "And +such a daughter!--even if she is really only a niece." + +Ruth laughed softly and drew his arm around her as she laid hers +lightly on his shoulder. + +"I am afraid," she said, "that the daughter never deserved the kind of +a daddy she has had--the only one she ever knew. If Carlotta--" + +But Father Murray interrupted hastily as he observed the touch of +sorrow in her voice. + +"Do not think of her to-day, my dear," he said. "Put her out of your +mind. You have prayed for her, and so have I. It is all we can do, +and we can always pray. Forget her until to-morrow and then--never +forget." + +Seeing that the sad look had not been entirely chased away, he added, +cheerfully: + +"Now, before I go back to the Bishop and my friends, I want to ask you +one serious question." + +Ruth looked up with sudden interest. "As many as you like." + +He took her hands in his and looked keenly into her face. "It was +always a mystery to me," he said, "how you and Mark fell in love with +each other so promptly. He saw you coming out of the tree-door, then +he met you once or twice, and after that he lost his head; and +you--minx!--you lost yours. I have often heard of love at first sight, +but this is the only example I have ever seen of it. Explain, please, +for the ways of youth are strange, and even yet--old as I am--I have +not learned to understand them." + +"Why," she answered, "I had met him long before. Don't you remember +that day in London when you said good-bye to your congregation? Have +you forgotten that Ruth was there?" she asked archly, half +reproachfully. + +Father Murray's eyes lit up. "You remembered, then! Yes, yes. He +told me of the little girl. And you really remembered?" + +He was standing in front of her now, holding her at arm's length and +looking straight at her glowing face. + +"I remembered. I knew that day that you were suffering, and though I +was only eight years old, I cried for you while I was sitting all alone +in the big pew. He passed me, and smiled. When he came out again, he +saw that I was still crying. I asked him about you, and he said +something that went straight to my little girl's heart: he praised you. +To soothe me, he took me in his arms and--well," she added blushing, +"he kissed me. I fell in love with that big man right there; I never +lost the memory of him or that kiss. When I saw him here at Killimaga, +and when he told me what I wanted so badly to hear, I knew he was worth +waiting for. If you want to know more about the ways of youth, daddy +dear," she continued saucily, "only know that I would have waited a +century--if I could have lived so long, and if I had had to wait." + +"Tell me, Ruth, what shall I give you? I alone have sent nothing," he +said. "'Ask and you shall receive,' you know. What is to be my poor +offering for the wedding feast?" + +"Will you promise beforehand to grant it?" + +"If I can, dear, I will grant it." + +"Goody!" she cried, in almost childish glee. Then she stepped lightly +away, her hands behind her, and, like a mischievous child, she leaned +slightly forward as she spoke. "Here it is: Wear your purple to-day--I +like it." + +"But, child, I don't want--" + +One white hand was raised in protest, and he seemed once more to be in +London, a tiny figure before him, the blue eyes open wide and the +graceful head nodding emphasis to each word: + +"You--_promised_--uncle." + +Even so the child had spoken. Monsignore was learning more of the ways +of youth. He sighed. + +"All right," he granted, "I will wear the purple." + +"Thank you--and God bless you, Monsignore." + +"And God bless you, my child." Monsignore lifted his hand in blessing, +then hurried to the church to prepare for the Mass. + +The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, clad +in rich white vestments--a present from Mark. Leaning on the arm of +the minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veil +flowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of her +sweeping train. As they neared the altar where Monsignore stood +waiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, +stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right. Her small hand +trembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, +but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust. Then each sought a +prie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from the +choir rang the beautiful tones of the _Messe Solennelle_. The voices +softened with the _Agnus Dei_, then faded into silence. Together the +bride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altar +boys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, then +returned to their prie-dieux. + +The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife. Slowly the bridal +party went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore them +swiftly to Killimaga. When the time came to part, Monsignore and his +guests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then once +more sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory. + +But even the most pleasant of days must end. The happy group broke up +as the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before the +blazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of the +autumn evening was in the air. + +Mark and Ruth by this time were in Boston making ready to sail on the +morrow. Ann had suggested a "cup of tay because you're tired, +Monsignore," but Monsignore wanted to be alone with his thoughts and +would have none of it. He wondered why he was not lonely, for he had +dreaded the hours to follow his good-bye to Mark and Ruth. But lonely +he was not, for he was happy. It seemed to him as if some mysterious +and forbidding gates had been suddenly flung open, and a flood of +happiness loosed upon him. His last guest of the day had been the +Bishop, who had let all go before him that for an hour he might be +alone with the friend who once had had all his love and all his trust. +Now both love and trust were again his friend's, and the Bishop's +pleasure was even greater than the priest's. + +"I would gladly give you both cross and crozier if I could, my friend," +His Lordship had said. + +"I will gladly take what I can of your cross, my dear Bishop," Father +Murray had answered, very simply; "but I am happier to see the crozier +in more worthy hands. God has been good to me. I am satisfied." + +"You will come to the cathedral as of old?" Though voiced as a +request, the words were a command. + +"Let me stay here, I beg of you," pleaded the priest. "I am no longer +young--" + +"Age is not counted by years." + +"I love it here and--" + +But the Bishop raised his hand, and the priest was silent. + +"You may stay for the present. That much I grant you." + +But Monsignore's heart was too full for long silence, his fears too +great. He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly. + +"Will you not protect me?" + +"I may not be able to protect you." + +"I am tired, my dear Bishop--tired, but contented. Here is rest, and +peace. And when _they_ come back, you know I want to be near them. +Let me stay." + +"Yes, I know," said the Bishop, and his voice forbade further plea. +"You may stay--for the present." + +Then the Bishop, too, had left; and now Monsignore was alone. He sat +in his great armchair and watched the flames of the fire dancing and +playing before him. He marveled at his pleasure in them, as he +marveled at his pleasure now in the little things that were for the +future to be the great things for him. Before his vision rose the +cathedral he had builded, with its twin towers piercing the sky; but +somehow the new organ of the little church gave him greater pleasure. +"The people were so happy about having it," he had that day explained +to Father Darcy. His wonderful seminary on the heights had once seemed +the greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than the +marble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday. +He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city, +but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simple +discourses to his poor in Sihasset. + +"I couldn't go back," he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be great +again when I know how much true happiness there is in being little." + +Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, there +smiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope," he +said. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He never +could get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, so +as to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour the +fears and trials of the ruler?" + +The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughts +were too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they were +broken by Ann's knock. + +"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said. "'Tis a nice time for the +likes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll go +in the mornin'?" + +"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now." + +"Can't ye have wan night in peace?" + +"McCarthy _is_ peace, Ann. You don't understand." + +No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn't +understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the +glory of his day. + +So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went +out--a father going to the son who needed him. + +He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but now +he was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. From +one point to another he walked--slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then. +Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. His +lips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly he +picked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully +at the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those two +lines, + + + "I fear to love thee, sweet, because + Love's the ambassador of loss." + + +Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For a +little while, perhaps--but not for long. The call would come again, +and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word as +he spoke the lines softly to himself, + + + "I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because + Love's the ambassador of loss." + + +Yet, even in his vague unrest, this prelate who through humility had +found the greater love, recalled his own words to Mark Griffin: "No one +has lost what he sincerely seeks to find." Was not the past merely a +preparation for the future? Peace might be found in any kind of duty. +He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and a +swiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his mobile features, while +his hand clenched tightly. "A soldier of the Cross," he murmured, and +the hand was raised in quick salute. "Thy will be done." It was his +final renunciation of self. + +Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head. +At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to his +chair by the fire. As he sat looking into the flames, his old dreams +of greater works rose up before him--those things that had been quite +forgotten in his days of sorrow. They were coming back to life, and he +began to be half afraid of these, his dream children. Already they +seemed too real. + +Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, +hesitatingly silent. + +"Well, Ann?" The voice was gentle, resigned. + +"A telegram, Father." + +He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of +his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayer +he tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words were +few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity: + + +"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. I +need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay +but a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas." + + +The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the +fireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, +and read softly to himself: + + + "Ah! is Thy love indeed + A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, + Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? + Ah! must-- + Designer Infinite-- + Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?" + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Charred Wood, by Myles Muredach + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED WOOD *** + +***** This file should be named 16585-8.txt or 16585-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/5/8/16585/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Charred Wood + +Author: Myles Muredach + +Illustrator: J. Clinton Shepherd + +Release Date: August 23, 2005 [EBook #16585] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED WOOD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +CHARRED WOOD +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H4> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +MYLES MUREDACH +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<CENTER> +<P CLASS="poem"> +"<I>O, Designer Infinite, must Thou<BR> +then Char the wood before Thou<BR> +canst limn with it?</I>" +</P> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ILLUSTRATED BY +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +J. CLINTON SHEPHERD +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GROSSET & DUNLAP +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +PUBLISHERS —- NEW YORK +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +Made in the United States of America +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +Copyright, 1917 +<BR><BR> +by +<BR><BR> +The Reilly & Britten Co. +<BR><BR><BR> +Published October 17, 1917 +<BR><BR> +Reprinted December 10, 1917 +<BR><BR> +Reprinted October 11, 1918. +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +<I>Charred Wood</I> +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<CENTER> + +<TABLE WIDTH="80%"> +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">THE LADY OF THE TREE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">MONSIGNORE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">UNDER SUSPICION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">KILLIMAGA</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">WITH EMPTY HANDS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">WHO IS RUTH?</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">BITTER BREAD</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">AT THE MYSTERY TREE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">THIN ICE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">THE ABDUCTION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">THE INEXPLICABLE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">THE OPEN DOOR</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap18">SAUNDERS SCORES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">CAPITULATION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">THE BECKONING HAND</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">RUTH'S CONFESSION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap23">CHARRED WOOD</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS +</H2> + +<H3> +On Killimaga's Cliff. . . . . <I>Frontispiece</I> +</H3> + +<H3> +Something white swished quickly past him and he stared,<BR> +bewildered . . . She had stepped out of nowhere. +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-136"> +Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. <BR> +"He's the man!" he announced. +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-200"> +"God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed <BR> +an age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!" +</A> +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +[Transcriber's note: The Frontispiece and the "Something white…" +illustration were missing from the book.] +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +Charred Wood +</H1> + +<BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE LADY OF THE TREE +</H3> + +<P> +The man lay in the tall grass. Behind him the wall of the Killimaga +estate, from its beginning some fifty yards to his left, stretched away +to his right for over a thousand feet. Along the road which ran almost +parallel with the wall was the remnant of what had once been a great +woods; yearly the county authorities determined to cut away its thick +undergrowth—and yearly left it alone. On the left the road was bare +for some distance along the bluff; then, bending, it again sought the +shelter of the trees and meandered along until it lost itself in the +main street of Sihasset, a village large enough to support three banks +and, after a fashion, eight small churches. In front, had the lounger +cared to look, he would have seen the huge rocks topping the bluff +against which the ocean dashed itself into angry foam. But the man +didn't care to look—for in the little clearing between the wall of +Killimaga and the bluff road was peace too profound to be wantonly +disturbed by motion. And so he lay there lazily smoking his cigar, his +long length concealed by the tall grass. +</P> + +<P> +Hearing a slight click behind him and to his right, the man slowly, +even languidly, turned his head to peer through the grass. But his +energy was unrewarded, for he saw nothing he had not seen before—a +long wall, its rough stones half hidden by creeping vines, at its base +a rank growth of shrubs and wild hedge; behind it, in the near +distance, the towers of a house that, in another land, perched amid +jutting crags, would have inspired visions of far-off days of romance. +Even in its New England setting the great house held a rugged charm, +heightened by the big trees which gave it a setting of rich green. +Some of the trees had daringly advanced almost to the wall itself, +while one—a veritable giant—had seemingly been caught while just +stepping through. +</P> + +<P> +With a bored sigh, as if even so slight an effort were too great, the +smoker settled himself more comfortably and resumed his indolent +musing. Then he heard the sound again. This time he did not trouble +to look around. Something white swished quickly past him and he +stared, bewildered. It was a woman, young, if her figure were to be +trusted. His cigar dropped in the grass, and there he let it lie. His +gaze never left her as she walked on; and he could scarcely be blamed, +for he was still under thirty-five and feminine early twenties has an +interest to masculine full youth. He had never seen anyone quite so +charming. And so he watched the lady as she walked to the edge of the +bluff overlooking the sea, and turned to the left to go along the +pathway toward the village. +</P> + +<P> +Five hundred yards away she was met by a tall man wearing a long black +coat. Was it the priest he had noticed that morning at the door of the +Catholic church in the village? Yes, there was no doubt about that; it +was the priest. He had just lifted his hat to the lady and was now +turning to walk back with her by the way he had come. They evidently +knew each other well; and the man watching them almost laughed at +himself when he realized that he was slightly piqued at the clergyman's +daring to know her while he did not. He watched the pair until they +disappeared around the bend of the bluff path. Then he settled back to +look for his cigar. But he did not find it, for other matters quickly +absorbed his attention. +</P> + +<P> +From out a clump of bushes on his left, where they evidently had been +hiding, two men appeared. He recognized them both. One was a book +agent who was stopping at the hotel in the village; the other was the +local constable. The book agent had a paper in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"That her?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yaas, sir!"—the constable was surely a native New Englander—"I seed +her face plain." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't," said the agent, with annoyance. "I have never seen her +without that confounded veil. This is the first time she's had it +thrown back. But the description is right? Look at it." +</P> + +<P> +He showed the paper to the constable, tapping it as he read. +</P> + +<P> +"'Brown hair, blue eyes'—did you see her eyes?" +</P> + +<P> +"I sure did," answered the constable; "and they wuz blue." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, then. 'Blue eyes, regular features'—how about that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Reg'lar enough," said the constable. "She'd no pug nose, I kin tell +ya that." +</P> + +<P> +"'Regular features,' then, is right. 'Five feet four inches +tall'—that's right. 'Small hands and feet'—that's right. 'About +twenty-three years old; good figure.'" +</P> + +<P> +"She sure hez all them," vouchsafed the wearer of the star. "I knowed +her right away, and I've seed her often. She's been in Sihasset well +nigh on a month." +</P> + +<P> +"But where—" the agent turned to look at the unbroken wall—"where in +thunder did she come from?" +</P> + +<P> +The constable, pushing back his helmet, scratched his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Damfino," he said. "That's the rub. There's no gate on this side of +Killimaga." +</P> + +<P> +"Killimaga?" +</P> + +<P> +"A rich old Irishman built it and put a wall around it, too. We folks +of Sihasset don't like that; it shuts off the view of the house and +lawn. Lawn's what makes things purty. He wuz a queer old mug—wanted +to shut hisself up." +</P> + +<P> +"But how did she get out?" insisted the agent, coming back to the issue. +</P> + +<P> +"Search me," offered the constable. He looked toward the top of the +wall. "Clumb the fence, mebbe." +</P> + +<P> +"With her dress looking as it does?" +</P> + +<P> +"There's no other way. I dunno." +</P> + +<P> +The agent was puzzled. "I want a closer inspection of that wall. +We'll walk along this side." +</P> + +<P> +Both agent and constable started off, keeping well behind the wild +hedge along the wall so that they might not be seen from the bluff road. +</P> + +<P> +The man lying in the grass was more puzzled than the agent. Why a book +agent and a constable should be so anxious about a lady who was—well, +just charming—but who had herself stepped out of nowhere to join a +priest in his walk, was a problem for some study. He got up and walked +to the wall. Then he laughed. Close examination showed him marks in +the giant tree, the vertical cuts being cleverly covered by the bark, +while the horizontal ones had creepers festooned over them. A door was +well concealed. But the tree? It was large, yet there could not be +room in it for more than one person, who would have to stand upright +and in a most uncomfortable position. The man himself had been before +it over an hour. How long had the lady been in the tree? He forgot +his lost cigar in trying to figure the problem out. +</P> + +<P> +Mark Griffin had never liked problems. That was one reason why he +found himself now located in a stuffy New England inn just at the end +of the summer season when all the "boarders" had gone except himself +and the book agent. +</P> + +<P> +Griffin himself, though the younger son of an Irish peer, had been born +in England. The home ties were not strong and when his brother +succeeded to the title and estates in Ireland Mark, who had inherited a +fortune from his mother, went to live with his powerful English +relatives. For a while he thought of going into the army, but he knew +he was a dunce in mathematics, so he soon gave up the idea. He tried +Oxford, but failed there for the same reason. Then he just drifted. +Now, still on the sunny side of thirty-five, he was knocking about, +sick of things, just existing, and fearfully bored. He had dropped +into Sihasset through sheer curiosity—just to see a typical New +England summer resort where the Yankee type had not yet entirely +disappeared. Now that the season was over he simply did not care to +pull out for New York and continue his trip to—nowhere. He was +"seeing" America. It might take months and it might take years. He +did not care. Then England again by way of Japan and Siberia—perhaps. +He never wanted to lose sight of that "perhaps," which was, after all, +his only guarantee of independence. +</P> + +<P> +Siberia suited Mark Griffin's present mood, which was to be alone. He +had never married, never even been in love, at least, not since +boyhood. Of course, that had been mere puppy love. Still, it was +something to look back to and sigh over. He liked to think that he +could still feel a sort of consoling sadness at the thought of it. He, +a timid, dreaming boy, had loved a timid, dreaming girl. Her brother +broke up the romance by taunting Mark who, with boyish bashfulness, +avoided her after that. Then her parents moved to London and Mark was +sent to school. After school he had traveled. For the last ten years +England had been merely a place to think of as home. He had been in +India, and South America, and Canada—up on the Yukon. He would have +stayed there, but somebody suggested that he might be a remittance man. +Ye gods! a remittance man with ten thousand pounds a year! And who +could have had much more, for Mark Griffin was a master with his pen. +His imagination glowed, and his travels had fanned it into flame. +Every day he wrote, but burned the product next morning. What was the +use? He had plenty to live on. Why write another man out of a job? +And who could be a writer with an income of ten thousand pounds a year? +But, just the same, it added to Mark Griffin's self-hatred to think +that it was the income that made him useless. Yet he had only one real +failure checked against him—the one at Oxford. But he knew—and he +did not deceive himself—why there had been no others. He had never +tried. +</P> + +<P> +But there was one thing in Mark's favor, too. In spite of his +wandering, in spite of the men and women of all kinds he had met, he +was clean. There was a something in the memory of his mother—and in +the memory, too, of that puppy love of his—that had made him a fighter +against himself. +</P> + +<P> +"The great courage that is worth while before God," his mother used to +say, "is the courage to run away from the temptation to be unclean. It +is the only time you have the right to be a coward. That sort of +cowardice is <I>true courage</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Besides her sweet face, that advice was the great shining memory he had +of his mother, and when he began to wander and meet temptations, he +found himself treasuring it as his best and dearest memory of her. +True, he had missed her religion—had lost what little he had had of +it—but he had kept her talisman to a clean life. +</P> + +<P> +His lack of religion worried him, though he had really never known much +about his family's form of it. For that his mother's death, early +boarding school, and his father's worse than indifference, were +responsible. But as he grew older he felt vaguely that he had missed +something the quality of which he had but tasted through the one +admonition of his mother that he had treasured. His nature was full of +reverence. His soul burned to respond to the call of faith, but +something rebelled. He had read everything, and was humble enough to +acknowledge that he knew little. He had given up the struggle to +believe. Nothing seemed satisfactory. It worried him to think that he +had reached such a conclusion, but he was consoled by the thought that +many men had been of his way of thinking. He hoped this would prove +excuse enough, but found it was not excuse enough for him. Here he +was, rich, noble, with the English scales of caste off his eyes, doing +nothing, indolent, loving only a memory, indifferent but still seeing a +saving something of his mother and his child love in every woman to +whom he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +Now something else, yet something not so very different, had suddenly +stepped into his life, and he knew it. The something was dressed in +white and had stepped out of a tree. It was almost laughable. This +woman had come into his dreams. The very sight of her attracted +him—or was it the manner of her coming? She was just like an ideal he +had often made for himself. Few men meet even the one who looks like +the ideal, but he had seen the reality—coming out of a tree. He kept +on wondering how long she had been there. He himself had been dreaming +in front of the tree an hour before he saw her. Had she seen him +before she came out? She had given no sign; but if she had seen him, +she had trusted him with a secret. Mark looked at the tree. It was +half embedded in the wall. Then he understood. The tree masked a +secret entrance to Killimaga. +</P> + +<P> +He was still smiling over his discovery when he heard the voices of the +agent and constable. They were coming back, so he dropped into his +hiding place in the tall grass. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Brown," the agent was saying, "I am going to tackle her. I've +got to see that face. It's the only way! If I saw it once, I'd know +for sure from the photograph they sent me." +</P> + +<P> +"Ye'd better not," advised the constable. "She might be a-scared +before—" +</P> + +<P> +"But I've got to be sure," interrupted the agent. +</P> + +<P> +"Aw, ye're sure enough, ain't ye? There's the photygraft, and I seed +her." +</P> + +<P> +"But she slipped me in Boston, and I nearly lost the trail. I can't +take chances on this job—it's too important—and I've got to report +something pretty soon. That damn veil! She always has it on." +</P> + +<P> +"Yep, she had it when she come down here, too, and when she tuk the +house. All right, see her if ye can! Ye're the jedge. She's coming +around the bend of the road now." The constable was peering out from +his hiding place among the bushes. +</P> + +<P> +"Is the priest with her?" asked the agent. +</P> + +<P> +"He's gone back to the village. She didn't go that far—she seldom +does. But he goes to see her; and she goes to his church on Sundays." +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if he knows anything?" +</P> + +<P> +"Trust that gent to know most everything, I guess." The constable was +very positive. "Father Murray's nobody's fool," he added, "and she +won't talk to nobody else. I'll bet a yearlin' heifer he's on; but +nobody could drag nothing out of him." +</P> + +<P> +"I know that," said the agent. "I've been up there a dozen times, and +I've talked with him by the hour—but always about books; I couldn't +get him to talk about anything else. Here she is! Go on back." +</P> + +<P> +The constable disappeared behind the bushes, and his companion stood +out in the little clearing to wait. +</P> + +<P> +The woman saw him; Mark, watching from the long grass, thought she +hesitated. Then she dropped her veil and came on. The agent stepped +forward, and the woman seemed distressed. What the agent intended to +do Mark could not guess, but he made up his mind at once as to what he +would do himself. He arose and, just as the agent met the lady, Mark's +arm went through his and he—not of his own volition—turned to face +the ocean. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Saunders!" Mark said heartily. "Who'd expect to see you here, +with no one near to buy rare editions?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders looked at him with annoyance, but Mark was friendly. He +slipped his arm out of the agent's and slapped him on the shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Look out at that sea, you old money-grabber. There's a sight for your +soul. Did you ever think of the beauty of it? Such a day!—no wonder +you're loafing. Oh! I beg your pardon, Madam. I am in your way." +</P> + +<P> +Keeping Saunders' back to the lady, Mark stepped aside to let her pass. +Saunders could not even look back, as she walked quickly behind them. +The agent stammered a reply to Mark's unwelcome greeting before he +turned. But it was too late, for Mark heard the click that told him +that the tree had closed. He looked for the constable, to see if he +had been watching her and had discovered the secret door; but the +constable was leisurely walking toward the village. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MONSIGNORE +</H3> + +<P> +As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build, +offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With his +gray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English than +Irish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle—but in vain, for +the Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdained +artifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly, +out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tanned +face with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquiline +nose, the chin slightly squared—the face of one who would seek and +find. +</P> + +<P> +He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of +blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted +Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A +man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look +from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in +feature, bespoke strong determination. +</P> + +<P> +Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against +each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhand +which would be the victor. +</P> + +<P> +The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he +had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing? +Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a +detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How had +she disappeared so quickly? +</P> + +<P> +Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in +the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him +with friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companion +were a fool, or someone "on the inside." He wished that Mark would +stop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. But +Mark went right on. +</P> + +<P> +"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren't +you working?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders had to think quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. Any success this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"One order. Took me a month to get it—from the Padre." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" +</P> + +<P> +Mark gave the word the English sound, which convinced the detective +that the speaker really was a fool who had stumbled into an affair he +knew nothing about. But Mark kept up his questioning. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you get to talk much with the Padre? You know, he interests me. +By the way, why do you call him by that Spanish name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I got into the habit in the Philippines; that's what they call a +priest there. I was a soldier, you know. Did you ever meet him?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; but I'd like to." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I could introduce you." They were walking through the village +now, and Saunders glanced toward the rectory. "There he is." +</P> + +<P> +The chance to get away attracted Saunders; and nothing suited Mark +better than to meet the priest at that very time. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly," he said; "I'd be glad if you introduced me. I'll stop +only a moment, and then go on to the hotel with you." +</P> + +<P> +But this did <I>not</I> suit Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no; you must talk to the Padre. He's your kind. You'll like him. +I can't wait, though, so I'll have to leave you there." +</P> + +<P> +"By the way," Mark went on with his questioning, "isn't the Padre +rather—well, old—to be in such a small and out-of-the-way place? You +know I rather thought that, in his church, priests as old as he were in +the larger parishes." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you couldn't have been listening much to gossip since you came +down here—not very much," said Saunders. "The Padre is here by +choice—but only partially by choice." +</P> + +<P> +"By choice, but only partially by choice?" Mark was curious by this +time. "I don't quite understand." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders smiled knowingly, and dropped his voice. +</P> + +<P> +"It's like this," he whispered. "The Padre was a big man in the city +six months ago. He was what they call a vicar general—next job to the +bishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who died +three months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came—" +</P> + +<P> +"'Who knew not Joseph'?" +</P> + +<P> +But the Scripture was lost on the agent. +</P> + +<P> +"His name is not Joseph," he answered solemnly, "but Donald, Donald +Murray. I read it on the book order I got." +</P> + +<P> +"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic," commented Mark. "It sounds +Presbyterian." +</P> + +<P> +"That's what it is," said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert to +the Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job as +vicar general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest on +the train once—a young fellow—who told me, with a funny sort of laugh +that sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried." +</P> + +<P> +"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But +the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's +jolly—smart, too—and a bookman. He has books enough in that little +house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of +the kind he's daffy over—old stuff, you know, first editions and the +like." +</P> + +<P> +They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling +among the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almost +hidden by a heavy growth of ampelopsis. In front of the house, a +stretch of well-kept lawn was divided from the public walk by a +hawthorn hedge, and, cutting through its velvety green, a wide graveled +pathway swept up to the steps whose sharp angle with the veranda was +softened by a mass of low-growing, flowering shrubs. To the side, +extending towards the church, the hedge was tripled, with a space of +some six feet between. The lower branches of the evergreens forming +the second row were scarcely higher than the hawthorn in front; while, +in their turn, the evergreens were barely topped by the silver maples +behind. That triple hedge had been the loving care of the successive +priests for fifty years and served as an effectual bar to the curiosity +of the casual passer-by. In the little yard behind its shelter the +priest could read or doze, free from the intrusive gaze of the village. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray, who was comfortably reading on the veranda, arose as his +two visitors approached. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders spoke quickly. "Don't worry, Padre. I ain't goin' to get +after you again to sell you another set. I just thought I'd like to +have you meet my friend, Mr. Griffin. I know you'll like him. He's +bookish, too, and an Englishman. Then, I'm off." Suiting the action +to the word, the agent, raising his hat, walked down the graveled path +and down toward the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray took Mark's hand with a friendly grip quite different +from the bone-crushing handshake he so often met in America. Mark +gazed thoughtfully at his host. With his thin but kindly face and +commanding presence, the priest seemed almost foreign. What Mark saw +was a tall—he was six feet at least of bone and muscle—and +good-looking man, with an ascetic nose and mouth; with hair, once +black, but now showing traces of white, falling in thick waves over a +broad brow. Mark noticed that his cassock was old and faded, but that +reddish buttons down its front distinguished it from the cassocks of +other village priests he had seen on his travels. +</P> + +<P> +"You are welcome, Mr. Griffin—very welcome." Mark found Father +Murray's voice pleasing. "Sit down right over there. That chair is +more comfortable than it looks. I call it 'Old Hickory' because, +though it isn't hickory, yet it began life in this old house and has +outlived three pastors. Smoke?" +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks, I do—but a pipe, you know. I'm hopelessly British." Mark +pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. +</P> + +<P> +Turning to the wicker table beside him, the priest dug down into an old +cigar box filled with the odds and ends that smokers accumulate. He +found a pipe and filled it from Mark's extended tobacco pouch. +</P> + +<P> +"It's poor hospitality, Mr. Griffin, to take your tobacco; but I +offered you a cigar. You know, this cigar habit has so grown into me +that it's a rare occasion that brings me back to old times and my +pipe." Father Murray pressed the tobacco down into the bowl. "How +long are you to be with us, Mr. Griffin?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark was dropping into a lazy mood again; it was very comfortable on +the veranda. "I haven't fixed a time for going on. I beg your pardon, +but aren't those buttons significant? I once spent six months in Rome. +Aren't you what they call a <I>Monsignore</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't tell them so here, or I'll lose my standing. Yes, I am a +prelate, a Domestic Prelate to His Holiness. I am afraid it is the +domesticity of the title that sticks here in Sihasset, rather than the +prelacy. My people are poor—mostly mill workers. I have never shown +them the purple. It might frighten them out of saying 'Father.'" +</P> + +<P> +"But surely—" Mark hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, I know what you are thinking. I did like it at first, but I +was younger then, and more ambitious. You know, Mr. Griffin, I find +that the priesthood is something like a river. The farther you go from +the source the deeper and wider it gets; and it's at its best as it +nears the ocean. Even when it empties into the wider waters, it isn't +quite lost. It's in the beginning that you notice the flowers on the +bank. Coming toward the end, it's—well, different." +</P> + +<P> +"You are not beginning to think you are old?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." Father Murray was very positive. "I am not old yet; but I'm +getting there, for I'm forty-five. Only five years until I strike the +half-century mark. But why talk about priests and the priesthood? You +are not a Catholic?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," said Mark. "The difference between us religiously, +Monsignore, is that I was and am not; you were not and behold you are." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray looked interested. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," he said; "I am a convert. It was long ago, though. I was +a young Presbyterian minister, and it's odd how it came about. Newman +didn't get me, though he shook his own tree into the Pope's lap; I +wasn't on the tree. It was Brownson—a Presbyterian like myself—who +did the business. You don't know him? Pity! He's worth knowing. I +got to reading him, and he made it so plain that I had to drop. I +didn't want to, either—but here I am. Now, Mr. Griffin, how did you +happen to go the other way?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't go—that is, not deliberately. I just drifted. Mother died, +and father didn't care, in fact rather opposed; so I just didn't last. +Later on, I studied the church and I could not see." +</P> + +<P> +"Studied the church? You mean the Catholic Church?" Father Murray's +mouth hid the ghost of a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"No, it wasn't the Catholic Church in particular. When we worldlings +say 'the church,' we mean religion in general, perhaps all Christianity +in general and all Christians in particular." +</P> + +<P> +"I know." The priest's voice held a touch of sorrow now. "I hope you +will pardon me, Mr. Griffin, if I say one thing that may sound +controversial—it's just an observation. I have noticed the tendency +you speak of; but isn't it strange that when people go looking into the +question of religion they can deliberately close their eyes to a 'City +set upon a Mountain'?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't quite—" +</P> + +<P> +"Get me?" Father Murray laughed. "I know that you wanted to use that +particular expressive bit of our particularly expressive slang. What I +mean is this: People study religion nowadays—that is, English-speaking +people—with the Catholic Church left out. Yet she claims the +allegiance of over three hundred million people. Without her, +Christianity would be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on her +foundation. She alone has something really definite to offer. She has +the achievements of twenty centuries by which to judge her. She has +borne, during all those centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-day +she is loved, too—loved better than anything else on earth. She has +hugged the worst of her children to her breast, has borne their shame +that she might save them, because she is a mother; yet she has saints +to show by the thousands. She has never been afraid to speak—always +has spoken; but the ages have not trapped her. She is the biggest, +most wonderful, most mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, as +you say, those who study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I have +been through the mill." +</P> + +<P> +Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her," he said, "but I +am just a little bit afraid of her." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, yes." The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem to +emphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin, +and so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that I +have never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. I +struggled, and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She was +leading me where I did not want to go. But when I came she put her +arms around me; and when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spite +of many things; and now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I pay +always. Yet I am glad to pay. I am glad to pay—even here—in +Sihasset." +</P> + +<P> +Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder," he said softly, "if +you are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch upon +something raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higher +than you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?" +</P> + +<P> +"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but it +doesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Church +takes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with a +smile, she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowing +that it is best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and the +whips sting, but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark, +<I>if you have learned</I>. But pardon me, here's a parishioner—" A +woman, old and bent, was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary. +How is the good man?" +</P> + +<P> +The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark a +keen thrill of sympathy. +</P> + +<P> +"He's gone, Father," she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he had +you with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden." +</P> + +<P> +"God rest him. I'm sorry—" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be sorry, Father," she answered, as he opened the door to let +her go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and to +John and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he died +right. I'm happy to do God's will." +</P> + +<P> +She passed into the house. The priest looked over to where Mark was +standing hat in hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't go, Mr. Griffin, unless you really have to. I'll be away only a +few minutes." +</P> + +<P> +Mark sat down again and thought. The priest had said nothing about the +lady of the tree, and Mark really wanted him to mention her; but Father +Murray had given him something else that made him thoughtful and +brought back memories. Mark did not have long to wait, for the door +opened in five minutes and the priest came out alone. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. O'Leary came to arrange for the funeral herself—brave, wasn't +it?" he said. "I left her with Ann, my housekeeper, a good soul whose +specialty is one in which the Irish excel—sympathy. Ann keeps it in +stock and, though she is eternally drawing on it, the stock never +diminishes. Mrs. O'Leary's troubles are even now growing less." +</P> + +<P> +"Sympathy and loyalty," said Mark, "are chief virtues of the Irish I +knew at home." +</P> + +<P> +"Ann has both," said Father Murray, hunting for his pipe. "But the +latter to an embarrassing degree. She would even run the parish if she +could, to see that it was run to save me labor. Ann has been a +priest's housekeeper for twenty-five years. She has condoled with +hundreds; she loves the poor but has no patience with shams. We have a +chronic sick man here who is her particular <I>bête noir</I>. And, as for +organists, she would cheerfully drown them all. But Mrs. O'Leary is +safe with Ann." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor woman!" said Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"That reminds me," said Father Murray. "I had a convert priest here a +little while ago. His Bishop had sent him for his initial 'breaking +in' to one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned a +little the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met +the priest—who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like +myself—I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people. +'Charming people,' he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too—Mrs. +O'Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski—' 'You speak of them,' I +said, 'as if they were society ladies.' 'Better—better still,' he +answered. 'They're the real thing—fewer faults, more faith, more +devotion.' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such as +these." +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy," ventured the +visitor. +</P> + +<P> +"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary. She +wouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine. +It isn't philosophy, though," he added, slowly; "rather, it's something +bigger. It's real religion." +</P> + +<P> +"She needs it!" +</P> + +<P> +"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I +had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest +sighed as he hunted for his pipe. +</P> + +<P> +The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up the +walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both +the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and +gloves. +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then—please, please." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, <I>Father</I>, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor +man is dead. Can I do anything?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting +to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest +understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady +bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed +timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the +gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice +faltered for an instant as she addressed him. +</P> + +<P> +"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she +ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service." +</P> + +<P> +Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the +drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown +hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He +was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was +English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a +certain old park of boyhood's days. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more +astonished. +</P> + +<P> +"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and is +unhesitating in action. He saw someone about to—make himself, let us +say, unpleasant—and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance to +thank him." +</P> + +<P> +Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue, +under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasy +under the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet to +stay; but he knew that it was proper to go. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn. +</P> + +<P> +"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Atheson +referred, Mr. Griffin?" he said. "No one offered insult?" He was +plainly anxious. +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all," answered Mark. "I think the man only wanted to stare. I +gave him a chance to stare at me—and at the water. That is all." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray looked relieved as he clasped Mark's hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye," he said. "Come to see me again. I am usually alone. Come +often. The latch-string is where you can reach it." +</P> + +<P> +In the street Mark met Saunders, but this time it was the agent who +wanted to talk. +</P> + +<P> +"How did you like the Padre?" he began. +</P> + +<P> +"Splendid. Thank you for the meeting." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you see the lady who went in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I was introduced." +</P> + +<P> +"Introduced? Never!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well," the agent was confused, "I don't see why not after all. Did +you see her face?" +</P> + +<P> +"She had on a veil." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course; she always has. She was the woman who passed us on the +bluff road." +</P> + +<P> +"You saw her, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I saw her; but not close enough to know whether—" +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think she is someone I know. Are you coming back to the hotel?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +UNDER SUSPICION +</H3> + +<P> +That night, tossing in bed, Mark Griffin found the lady of the tree +occupying the center of his thoughts. He had to acknowledge to himself +the simple truth, that she interested him more than any other woman he +had ever seen; and he had a vague idea that he had met her before—but +where? He was wise enough to know where such interest would ultimately +lead him. The more he worried about it, the more a cause for worry it +became. The very idea was foolish. He had seen her twice, had spoken +to her once. Yes, she was charming; but he had known others almost as +charming and he had not even been interested. Now he might go +deeper—and what of the risks? +</P> + +<P> +Saunders was certainly shadowing the woman. The town constable was +constantly with him, seemingly ready to make an arrest the moment the +detective was sure of his ground. It was easy to figure that out. +Worse than all, the woman was afraid—or why the veil? Why the secret +door through a tree? Why her embarrassment when she faced the danger +of having the detective see her face? +</P> + +<P> +On the other hand, she was a friend of the priest, and Mark had formed +a very favorable opinion of Father Murray. Then she had referred to +the incident on the bluff road very openly and without embarrassment +These things were in her favor, but—well, the rest looked bad. Above +all was the danger of falling in love with her. +</P> + +<P> +Mark thought of his people in England and of his brother the Irish +peer. He knew their prejudices. What would they say if the heir +presumptive to the barony came home with an American wife? Yet why +should he care? +</P> + +<P> +The worry about Saunders came back. He was undoubtedly a detective, +and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of good +social standing? Mark knew there was something wrong. He knew there +was danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decided +that he had better go away at once. Then the face he had seen as she +stepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voice +that had in it so much gratitude when she thanked him for his little +service. +</P> + +<P> +"Damn it, man," he said to himself, "you can't be a coward! She needs +help; stay to give it." That was Mark's first and last struggle over +his long-delayed moving problem. +</P> + +<P> +He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning. The detective must have +been thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion. +Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance of +the look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely to +conceal his own feelings. He tried—but too late—and was foolish +enough to think he had not betrayed himself. +</P> + +<P> +Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion. +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning, Saunders. You are thinking of the lady in the veil?" +</P> + +<P> +But Saunders was already back in his shell. He looked puzzled. "Veil? +Lady? Oh, yes. Sure I am. It would be very ungallant to forget her. +She's too pretty." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you know? You didn't see her face." +</P> + +<P> +"I was just guessing. We Yankees are good at guessing. Don't you +English concede that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Guessing and wooden nutmegs," said Mark, "both go with the Yankee +character." +</P> + +<P> +"Guessing, wooden nutmegs, and a little taste of Brandywine thrown in +for flavor." +</P> + +<P> +"Very unkind of you to throw our defeats in our teeth—and especially +into mine; for you know that I am half Irish, and we Irish helped you." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders laughed as they approached the desk together. +</P> + +<P> +"Letter for you, Mr. Griffin," said the clerk, throwing a square +envelope on the desk. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders just glanced at it before Mark himself saw that the letter was +without a stamp; it had come by messenger. The detective turned his +back to hide a smile, then walked to the reading table and picked up a +paper. +</P> + +<P> +Mark opened his letter. It was from the lady of the tree—only a few +lines—an invitation to tea that afternoon at the house behind the +great wall. Twice he read it over. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Dear Mr. Griffin: Monsignore is coming to tea at four o'clock to-day. +Won't you come with him? He likes you—that I know—and he always +looks lonesome when he comes alone, with only two women to talk to.<BR> + Sincerely,<BR> + Ruth Atheson." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +That was all. The letter went into Mark's pocket as he saw Saunders +looking over the top of his paper. +</P> + +<P> +"Getting acquainted in Sihasset pretty quickly, eh?" ventured the +detective. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," replied Mark, "bad pays get acquainted fast." The reply was +obviously inadequate, but Mark wanted the detective to know. Saunders +took the bait, hook and all. +</P> + +<P> +"Sihasset's getting up in the world," he commented. "Square, tinted +envelopes for bills were just coming in at New York two weeks ago." +</P> + +<P> +Both gentlemen were evidently quite pleased with themselves. Saunders +took the cigar Mark offered, and they sat talking over first editions +until ten. +</P> + +<P> +"Going out?" Saunders asked, as Mark threw away his cigar and rose. +Something in his tone made Mark think he wanted him to go. Why? +</P> + +<P> +"Just for a little while. Want to go?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I'm going to write letters. I'll go out later." +</P> + +<P> +Mark understood. Saunders suspected him to be an accomplice of the +woman and intended to search his room. Mark thought quickly. +Immediate action was necessary; there were important papers in his +room, and he didn't care to have his identity known just now. Then he +smiled cheerfully, for his whole plan of action was suddenly clear. +Not only would he guard his papers, but he'd keep the detective +guessing—guessing <I>hard</I>. He walked to the desk and addressed the +clerk: +</P> + +<P> +"Has any of the town banks a safety deposit vault for the public?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. The National has one and its terms are very reasonable." +</P> + +<P> +Mark went to his room, and carefully gathered every scrap of paper. +The useless went into the old stove which had stood all summer waiting +the winter's need; the others he carefully placed in his pocket. Then +he went out. At the bank he rented a box and left the papers he didn't +want Saunders to see. He felt satisfied that nothing Saunders found +would relieve him of suspicion. The burning of the papers would make +the detective all the more certain that Mark ought to be watched. That +would help Miss Atheson by keeping the detective on the wrong scent. +</P> + +<P> +At noon Mark went to his room to wash before lunch. Saunders had not +been very clever. There was a tell-tale smudge on the stove—a smudge +made by a hand that had blackened itself by diving down into the ashes +to search among the burned papers. Mark knew that Saunders had lost no +time in searching his room, and he was happy to be still under +suspicion. +</P> + +<P> +But Mark was not so happy in contemplating the rest of the situation. +He was getting deeper into a game he knew nothing about. What was the +reason for the suspicion against the girl? Could she be a thief—or +worse? Mark had heard of pretty criminals before, and he knew that +beauty without is no guarantee of virtue within. But he had resolved +to go through with the adventure, and he would not change his mind. He +argued, too, that it was not entirely the beauty of Ruth Atheson that +interested him. There was an indefinable "something else." Anyhow, +innocent or guilty, he made up his mind to stand by her. +</P> + +<P> +At lunch he met Saunders again and found him overly friendly, even +anxious to talk. The detective opened the conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"Going to see the Padre again?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have an engagement with him this afternoon. I rather like the +Padre!" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure you do," said the detective. "Everybody does. The Padre's a +wonder, and the last man one might expect to find in a little parish +like this." +</P> + +<P> +Mark wanted to learn more on that score. +</P> + +<P> +"True enough," he said. "In the Anglican Church they would make such a +man a bishop, or at least a dean." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, they didn't do that with the Padre." The detective shook his +head as if to express his regret that something of the kind had not +been done. "He was the right hand man of the old Bishop of the +diocese; but the new Bishop had to have new counselors. That's one way +of the world that the church fellows have gotten into. Some say that +it broke the Padre's heart, but he doesn't look it. Must have hurt him +a little, though. Human nature is human nature—and after all he did +for the Church, too." +</P> + +<P> +"Did he do so much?" questioned Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure he did! You saw the Cathedral, didn't you, when you passed +through the city? Well, the Padre built that, and the big college, +too, the one you see from the train. He was president of the college. +He was the life and soul of the Catholic Church in this section." +</P> + +<P> +"Why was he dropped?" +</P> + +<P> +"Search me," offered the detective. "No one knows that except the +Bishop, I guess. Padre came here six months ago. Some of the young +priests used to come to see him, but seldom any of the older ones. I +got all I know from one of those young chaps—the one I told you I met +on the train. He almost cried over the affair." +</P> + +<P> +"It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it," said Mark; "but +somehow it makes the man seem bigger to me." +</P> + +<P> +"True." Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. "They say he had +the best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics—big +salary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman. +Went to school, by gosh!—dead game! But when they made him a priest +he jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college he +built. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know, +Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, I +honestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's a +power here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimaga +work." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again. +</P> + +<P> +"She's a stranger, isn't she?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +The detective half closed his eyes. "How do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +"You told me so." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring. +</P> + +<P> +"I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her about +the time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and his +family went over to your country to buy a title for their only +daughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate; +and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens are +a wonder. Ever see them?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herself +on the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the mill +people. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I passed her just now +going into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and died +yesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family all +winter. Where she gets the money is beyond me." +</P> + +<P> +"You Americans are all rich," said Mark. "You English think we are, +but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side every +summer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but I +know that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Atheson +family she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and her +money and her veil." +</P> + +<P> +"Why," said Mark, "every woman wears a veil—the sun, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and <I>every</I> kind of +weather!" +</P> + +<P> +The detective's face was betraying him again. But the luncheon was +over, and Mark would not be probed. He had made up his mind to go +early to the rectory, so he left Saunders with a parting shot: +</P> + +<P> +"You'd better go on with the book sales. You've loafed all day. +That's bad business policy for a Yankee. What would your wooden nutmeg +ancestors say to that?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders grinned. +</P> + +<P> +"They wouldn't like it," he answered. "They're not like ancestors who +wouldn't have been able to sell even a real nutmeg." +</P> + +<P> +Mark acknowledged that in repartee Saunders scored, then went out to +make his way toward the rectory. As he passed the First National Bank +he saw the constable talking to the cashier. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +KILLIMAGA +</H3> + +<P> +Father Murray was sitting in his favorite chair on the rectory veranda +when Mark came up the lawn. He rose with a welcome. +</P> + +<P> +"You must pardon me, Father," began Mark, "for coming so soon after your +noon meal—" Mark hesitated about saying "luncheon," not knowing the +habits of the rectory—"but, frankly, I wanted to talk to you before—" +</P> + +<P> +"Before we go to Killimaga," supplied Father Murray as Mark paused. +"Yes, I know that you are invited. Sit down and open up. I am always +glad to talk—and to listen, too. What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +Again Mark hesitated. "It's to ask about Miss Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray's eyes smiled. "I thought so," he said. "What do you want +to know?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark hesitated. "I know that the lady is very charitable and kind, but +especially so to anyone whom you suggest. You must, therefore, be +interested in anything that concerns her." +</P> + +<P> +"I am," said Father Murray. "Very much interested." +</P> + +<P> +Mark thought he noticed a new and half-suspicious note in the priest's +voice, and was distressed. He felt like blaming himself for having +mentioned the subject. He feared he had lost ground with his new-made +friend; but, having started the discussion, Mark was determined to go +through with it. +</P> + +<P> +"It's just this way, Father," he said. "I think you ought to know that +there is someone besides yourself interested in Miss Atheson. The +incident she mentioned yesterday seemed a small one, but—well, I had to +move pretty quick to keep that man from making himself obnoxious. He had +a photograph in his hand and was determined to see her face in order to +make comparisons. Incidentally, the constable was with him." +</P> + +<P> +Mark, watching closely to note the effect of his words, saw the face +before him whiten. +</P> + +<P> +"The constable with him?" +</P> + +<P> +"And I am confident that the other man is a detective. I feel sure he +thinks Miss Atheson is someone he has been commissioned to find. And +they evidently think that I am in the matter to defend the lady. This +morning I left some papers in the safety deposit vault at the First +National, and as I passed the bank a little while ago I saw the constable +talking to the cashier—about me, judging from their confusion as they +acknowledged my greeting through the window. My room was searched this +morning. They didn't find anything, though." Mark laughed as he thought +how disappointed Saunders must have been. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Griffin," said Father Murray, "if I +confine myself for the present to asking questions. Have you ever +noticed the camp of Slavic laborers about a mile east of Killimaga—along +the line of the new railway?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have passed it several times." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you by chance notice," Father Murray went on, "whether this +detective looked like a Slav?" +</P> + +<P> +"On the contrary, he is—" Mark half paused, then hurried on—"an +American." It was not necessary that he mention Saunders' name—not now, +at least. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray seemed puzzled. "There are two or three educated men in +that camp," he said, "who have been hanging around Killimaga a great deal +of late; and they have been worrying an old parishioner of mine—a +retired farmer who finds plenty of time to worry about everybody else, +since he has no worries of his own. He thinks that these well-dressed +'bosses' are strange residents for a railroad construction camp. He +tells me that he has often been in such camps, but that he had never seen +what he calls 'gintlemen' living in them before." +</P> + +<P> +Mark laughed. "Your old parishioner is a discerning man." +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle Mac," replied Father Murray, "is the kind of man who believes that +virtue stands in the middle. When I first came here he called to see me +to ask about my politics. Uncle Mac is a lifelong Democrat, and when I +told him that I usually voted the Republican ticket he became suspicious. +Just before the election I preached on 'Citizenship'—careful always to +avoid any reference to partisanship. Uncle Mac came in after Mass and +said: 'I think ye were preachin' Republican sintiments this morning +Father.' I said, 'Not at all, Uncle Mac. I made no reference to either +party.' 'No,' said he, 'but yer sintiments were awful highfalutin'.'" +</P> + +<P> +Mark laughed his appreciation. "Wasn't that rather a compliment to the +Republicans?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I took it so," said Father Murray. "But Uncle Mac does not like the +'highfalutin'.' One day he said to me, when he saw all my books, 'The +man who was here before you, Father, wasn't smart enough; but you're too +dom smart. Now, I don't like a priest who isn't smart enough, but I'm +afeerd of one who's too dom smart. If you'd only half as many books, I'd +feel betther about ye.'" +</P> + +<P> +The Padre paused a moment; then the anxious look returned and he spoke +slowly as if he were trying to solve the puzzle even while he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle Mac told me yesterday that there was a very 'highfalutin' +gintleman' in the camp the night before last. He came there in a long, +rakish automobile. Uncle Mac said that 'he parted his whiskers in the +middle, so he did,' and that 'he looked like a governor or somethin' of +the sort.' I was just wondering if that detective of yours has anything +to do with that camp, and if these strange visitors are not in some way +connected with his interest in Miss Atheson. But perhaps that's making +too much of a mystery of it." +</P> + +<P> +"As to that," said Mark, "of course I cannot say. I merely wanted you to +know, Father Murray, just what was going on; to tell you that while you +don't know me, nevertheless I hope you will permit me to be of assistance +if these people are annoying Miss Atheson. If you wish to know more +about me, I shall be glad to bring you the papers I left in the vault +this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"I do not need to see your papers, Mr. Griffin," Father Murray answered. +"I am satisfied with you, especially since Miss Atheson owes something to +you. Will you mind if I do not discuss the matter with you further now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all, Father Murray. I do not ask for information that you feel +you should not give." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps," said Father Murray, "I shall give it to you later on; but for +the present let matters stand as they are. You know the detective, and I +don't. The principal thing is to find out whether there is any +connection between that camp, the 'highfalutin' gintleman' of Uncle Mac, +and the detective. I have reason to think there may be. This much I +will say to you: You need have no fear whatever for Miss Atheson. I can +assure you that there is no good reason in the world why a detective +should be watching her. Miss Atheson is everything that she looks." +</P> + +<P> +"I am confident of that," said Mark. "Otherwise I should not have spoken +to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said the priest, "suppose we go now to our engagement at +Killimaga." +</P> + +<P> +The two passed across the lawn, then down the street and along the road +toward the great house whose towers looked out over the trees. Neither +Mark nor the priest said a word until the town was well behind them. +Then Father Murray turned to his companion. +</P> + +<P> +"You will find Miss Atheson a remarkable woman, Mr. Griffin. There is a +reason, perhaps, why I might not be a competent judge—why I might be +prejudiced—but still I think that you, too, will see it. She has not +been here long, but she is already loved. She receives no one but me. +But she seems to like you, and I didn't hurt you any in her estimation by +my own rather sudden attraction." +</P> + +<P> +"I am grateful for your appreciation," replied Mark, "even though I may +not deserve it. And more grateful for your confidence." +</P> + +<P> +Walking slowly, and chatting in friendly fashion, they reached Killimaga. +As the great gates swung open their attention was arrested by the purring +of a motor. Father Murray uttered a low "Ah!" while Mark stared after +the swiftly vanishing machine. He, too, had seen its passenger, a heavy, +dark man with a short beard combed from the center to the sides. The +flashing eyes had seemed to look everywhere at once, yet the man in the +car had continued to smoke in quiet nonchalance as if he had not noticed +the two standing by the gates. Uncle Mac had described the man well. He +was 'highfalutin'' without a doubt. +</P> + +<P> +"Sihasset is greatly honored," Father Murray remarked softly. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have seen him before. He comes from a foreign state, but he is no +stranger to America—nor to England, for that matter. Have you any +acquaintance with the diplomats in London?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have attended balls at which some of them were present." +</P> + +<P> +"Does your memory recall one of that type?" persisted the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"No, it does not." +</P> + +<P> +"Mine does," said Father Murray. "I once had occasion to offer a prayer +at an important banquet at which that gentleman was the guest of honor. +He sat near me, and when I asked him where he had acquired such a mastery +of English, he told me that he had been for five years minister at the +Court of St. James. He is now accredited to Washington. Do you see why +I suggest that Sihasset is greatly honored to-day?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark could not conceal his astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +"But why under heaven," he said, "should a foreign diplomat be mixed up +in a camp of Slavic laborers?" +</P> + +<P> +"There are strange things in diplomacy," said Father Murray. "And +stranger things in Sihasset when the town constable has so much interest +in your taking of tea at Killimaga. If you had turned around a moment +ago, you would have seen our constable's coattails disappearing behind +the bushes on our right." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WITH EMPTY HANDS +</H3> + +<P> +In the long after years Mark Griffin used to wonder at the strange way +in which love for Ruth Atheson entered his life. Mark always owned +that, somehow, this love seemed sent for his salvation. It filled his +life, but only as the air fills a vacuum; so it was, consequently, +nothing that prevented other interests from living with it. It aroused +him to greater ambition. The long-neglected creative power moved +without Mark's knowing why. His pen wrote down his thoughts, and he no +longer destroyed what he committed to paper. It now seemed a crime to +destroy what had cost him only a pleasure to produce. The world had +suddenly become beautiful. No longer did Japan and Siberia call to +him. He had no new plans, but he knew that they were forming, slowly, +but with finality and authority. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Mark's love was never spoken. It was just understood. Many times +he had determined to speak, and just as many times did it seem quite +unnecessary. He felt that Ruth understood, for one day, when an avowal +trembled on his lips, she had broken it off unspoken by gently calling +him "Mark," her face suffused the while with an oddly tender light that +was in itself an answer. After that it was always "Ruth" and "Mark." +Father Murray also seemed to understand; with him, too, it was "Ruth" +and "Mark." After one week of that glorious September, Mark was at +Killimaga daily; and when October came and had almost passed, without a +word of affection being spoken between them, Ruth and Mark came to know +that some day it would be spoken, quite as naturally as she had uttered +his Christian name for the first time. When Mark thought of his love, +he thought also of his mother. He seemed to see her smile as if it +quite pleased her; and he rejoiced that he could believe she knew, and +saw that it was good. +</P> + +<P> +"I love many things in men," said Father Murray one day as he and Mark +watched the waves dashing against the bluff. "I love generosity and +strength, truthfulness and mercy; but, most of all, I love cleanness. +The world is losing it, and the world will die from the loss. The +chief aid to my faith is the clean hearts I see in my poor." +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle Mac again?" ventured Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle Mac, and Uncles Mac—many of them. They have a heritage of +cleanness. It is the best thing they brought to this new world, and +<I>we</I> were the losers when they left us." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>We</I>? But you are English, are you not?" asked Mark courteously. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! So you caught me then, did you? Yes, I am English, or rather +British. But don't question me about that; I am real Yankee now. Even +my tongue has lost its ancestral rights." +</P> + +<P> +Mark was persistent. "Perhaps you, too, have a little of the 'blessed +drop' that makes the Uncle Macs what they are? I really think, Father, +that you have it." +</P> + +<P> +"Not even a little of the 'blessed drop.' I am really not English, +though born in England. Both father and mother were Scotch. So I am +kin to the 'blessed drop.'" +</P> + +<P> +"And you drifted here—" +</P> + +<P> +"Not exactly 'drifted,' Mark. I came because I wanted to come. I came +for opportunity. I was ambitious, and then there was another +reason—but that is at present forbidden ground. Here is your +constable friend again." +</P> + +<P> +The constable passed with a respectful touch of his helmet. <I>He</I> at +least was of the soil. Every line of his face spoke of New England. +</P> + +<P> +"He is a character worth studying," remarked Father Murray. "Have you +ever talked with him?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. I have had no chance." +</P> + +<P> +"Then find one, and put him in a book. He was once rich for Sihasset. +That was in the lumber days. But he lost his money, and he thinks that +the town owes him a living. That is the Methodist minister to whom he +is speaking now. He, too, is worth your attention." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you get along well with the Protestant clergy of the town?" asked +Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Splendidly," said Father Murray; "especially with the Universalist. +There is a lot of humor in the Universalist. I suspect the 'blessed +drop' in him. One day I happened to call him a Unitarian, and he +corrected me. 'But what,' I asked, 'is the difference between the +Universalists and the Unitarians?' The little man smiled and said: +'One of my professors put it like this: "The Unitarians believe that +God is too good to damn them, and the Universalists believe they are +too good to be damned."'" +</P> + +<P> +"Still, it cannot be an easy life," said Mark, "to be one of seven or +eight Protestant pastors in such a small town." +</P> + +<P> +"It certainly is hard sledding," replied Father Murray. "But these men +take it very philosophically and with a great deal of self-effacement. +The country clergyman has trials that his city brother knows nothing +about. He has to figure on the pennies that rarely grow to dollars." +</P> + +<P> +The two friends walked on, Mark's mind reverting to his own lack of +faith and contrasting his dubiety with the sincerity of men who firmly +believe—foremost among them the man who walked by his side. Ah, if +he, too, could only <I>know</I>! He broke the silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Father." He spoke hurriedly, as if fearing he might not have courage +to continue what he had so boldly begun. "Father, I can't forget your +words regarding those who claim to have studied religion and yet who +deliberately leave out of the reckoning the greatest part of religion. +I believe I did that very thing. I was once a believer, at least so I +thought. I let my belief get away from me; it seemed no longer to +merit consideration. I thought I had studied and discarded it; I see +now that I simply cast it away. Afterwards, I gave consideration to +other religions, but they were cold, lacking in the higher appeal. I +turned at last to Theosophy, to Confucianism, but remained always +unsatisfied. I never thought to look again into the religion I had +inherited." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray's face was serious. "I am deeply interested," he said, +"deeply, although it was only as I thought. But tell me. What led you +to do this? There must have been a reason formed in your mind." +</P> + +<P> +"I never thought of a reason at all; I just did it. But now it seems +to me that the reason was there, and that it was not a very worthy one. +I think I wanted to get away. My social interest and comfort, my +independence, all seemed threatened by my faith. You will acknowledge, +Father, that it is an interfering sort of a thing? It hampers one's +actions, and it has a bad habit of getting dictatorial. Don't you see +what I mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do," said the priest; and paused as if to gauge the sincerity of his +companion. "In fact, I went through a similar experience." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you can tell me what you think of my position." +</P> + +<P> +"I have already told you," said the priest earnestly. "You are the one +to do the thinking now. All I can do is to point out the road by which +you may best retrace your way. You have told me just what I expected +to hear; I admire your honesty in telling it—not to me, but to +yourself. Don't you see that your reason for deserting your Faith was +but a reason for greater loyalty? The oldest idea of religion in the +world, after that of the existence and providence of God, is the idea +of sacrifice. Even pagans never lost that idea. Nothing in this world +is worth having but must be paid for. Its cost is summed up in +sacrifice. Now, religion demands the same. If it calls for right +living, it calls for the sacrifice that right living demands. An +athlete gets his muscle and strength, not by coddling his body, but by +restraining its passions and curbing its indolence, by working its +softness into force and power. A river is bound between banks, and +only thus bound is it anything but a menace. If a church claims to +have the Truth, she forfeits her first claim to a hearing if she asks +for no sacrifice. That your Church asked many sacrifices was no cause +for your throwing her over, but a sign that she claimed the just right +to put religion in positive form, and to give precepts of sacrifice, +without the giving of which she would have no right to exist at all. +Am I clear?" +</P> + +<P> +"You are clear, Father, and I know you are right. I have never been +able to leave my own Faith entirely out of the reckoning. I am not +trying to excuse myself. I could not ignore it, for it intruded itself +and forced attention. In fact, it has been forcing itself upon me most +uncomfortably, especially of late years." +</P> + +<P> +"Again," said Father Murray, "a reason why you should have attended to +it. If there is a divine revelation confided to the care of a church, +that revelation is for the sake of men and not for the sake of the +church. A church has no right to existence for its own sake. He was a +wise Pope who called himself 'Servant of the Servants of God.' The +position of your Church—for I must look upon you as a Catholic—is, +that a divine revelation has been made. If it has been made it must be +conserved. Reason tells us that something then must have been +established to conserve it. That <I>something</I> will last as long as the +revelation needs conserving, which is to the end of the world. Now, +only the Catholic Church claims that she has the care of that +revelation—that she is the conserving force; which means that she +is—as I have told you before—a 'City set upon a Mountain.' She can't +help making herself seen. She <I>must</I> intrude on your thoughts. She +<I>must</I> speak consistently through your life. She can permit no one to +ignore her. She <I>won't</I> let anyone ignore her. Kick her out one door, +and she will come in another. She is in your art, your music, your +literature, your laws, your customs, your very vices as well as your +virtues—as she was destined to be. It is her destiny—her manifest +destiny—and she can't change it if she would." +</P> + +<P> +Mark drew in a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. "I suppose, +Father," he said, "I could argue with you and dispute with you; under +other circumstances perhaps I should. I hate to think that I may have +to give up my liberty; yet I am not going to argue, and I am not going +to dispute. I wanted information, and I got it. The questions I asked +were only for the purpose of drawing you out. But here is another: Why +should any institution come between a man and his God? Is that +necessary?" +</P> + +<P> +The priest's eyes held a far-away look. It was some little while +before he spoke, and then very slowly, as if carefully weighing his +words. +</P> + +<P> +"There is nothing," said the priest, "between the trees and the flowers +and their God—but they are only trees and flowers; they live, but they +neither think nor feel. There is nothing between the lower animals and +their God; but, though they live and feel, they have none of the higher +power of thought. If God had wanted man thus, why should he have given +him something more than the lower animals? Man cannot live and feel +only and still be a man. He must feed not only his body but his heart +and soul and intellect. The men who have nothing between themselves +and their God are mostly confined in lunatic asylums. The gift of +intelligence demands action by the intellect; and there must be a +foundation upon which to base action. When the foundation is in place, +there never can be any limit to the desire for building upon it. Now, +God willed all that. He created the condition and is, therefore, +obliged to satisfy the desires of that condition. Some day He must +satisfy the desires to the full; but now He is obliged only to keep +them fed, or to give them the means to keep fed. Of course, He could +do that by a direct revelation to each individual; but that He has not +done so is proved by the fact that, while there can be but one Truth, +yet each individual who 'goes it alone' has a different conception of +it. The idea of private religious inspiration has produced public +religious anarchy. Now, God could not will religious anarchy—He loves +truth too much. So reason tells us that He <I>must</I> have done the thing +that His very nature would force Him to do. He <I>must</I> have confided +His revelation to His Church in order to preserve it, to teach it, to +keep it for men. That is not putting any man or institution between +Himself and His creatures. Would you call the hand which drags you +over a danger an interference with your liberty? Liberty, my dear +Mark, is not the right to be blind, but the privilege of seeing. The +light that shows things to your eyes is not an interference between +those things and your eyes. The road you take to your destination is +not an obstacle to your reaching it." +</P> + +<P> +The priest was silent for a moment, but Mark knew that he had not quite +finished. +</P> + +<P> +"The rich young man of the Scriptures went to Christ and asked what he +should do to be saved. He got his answer. Was Christ in his way? Was +the answer a restraint upon his liberty?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," answered Mark, breaking in, "it was not a restraint upon his +liberty. But you say that Christ is God, so the young man had nothing +between himself and his God." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, he had," said the priest. "He had the command or counsel +that Christ gave him. It was against the command or counsel that he +rebelled. Now have not I, and you, and all the world, the same right +to get an answer as that young man had? Since we are all equal in the +sight of God, and since Christ came for all men, have we not the right +to an answer now as clear as His was then?" +</P> + +<P> +"It seems logical," admitted Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Father Murray, "the unerring Voice must still be here. +Where is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," retorted Mark, "that is my cry. Where is it? I think it's the +cry of many other men. What is the answer?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is the thing that you threw over—or believed you had thrown +over—and that you can't get away from thinking about. It waits to +answer you." +</P> + +<P> +A silence settled between the two men. It lasted for over a minute. +Finally Mark broke it. +</P> + +<P> +"You told me, Father," he said, "that what I called 'Mrs. O'Leary's +philosophy' was religion. I now know better what you meant, for I have +been gossiping about you. The best point you make is—yourself. I +know what you have been, what you have done, and how sadly you have +suffered. Doesn't your religion demand too much—resignation? Does a +God of Justice demand that we tamely submit to injustice? I am not +saying this to be personal, or to pain you, but everyone seems to +wonder at your resignation to injustice. Why should such a fault be in +the Church you think so perfect?" +</P> + +<P> +The priest looked at Mark with kindly and almost merry eyes. "I can +answer you better, my friend, by sticking to my own case. I have never +talked of it before; but, if it helps you, I can't very well refuse to +talk of it now. I came to the Church with empty hands, having passed +through the crisis that seems to be upon you. She filled those empty +hands, for she honored me and gave me power. She set me in high +places, and I honestly tried to be worthy. I worked for her, and I +seemed to succeed. Then—and very suddenly and quietly—she pulled me +down, and tore my robe of honor from me. My fellow priests, my old +friends, criticised me and judged me harshly. They came no more to see +me, though I had been generous with them. In the college I built and +directed, one of my old friends sits in my place and forgets who put +him there. Another is the Bishop who disgraced me. Now, have I a +right to feel angry and rebel?" +</P> + +<P> +"To me," said Mark, "it seems as if you have." +</P> + +<P> +"I have not," and the priest spoke very earnestly. "I have no such +right. I never knew—for I did not ask—the reason of my disgrace. +But one thing I did know; I knew it was for my good. I knew that, +though it was a trial given me by men, there was in it, too, something +given by God. You judge as I should have judged ten years ago—by the +standards of the world. I judge now by other standards. It took +adversity to open my eyes. We are not here, my dear Mark, for the +little, but for the big things. I had the little and I thought they +were big. My fall from a place of honor has taught me that they were +really little, and that it is only now that I have the big. What is +religion for but to enlighten and to save—enlighten here that the +future may hold salvation? What were my purple, power and title? +Nothing, unless I could make them help to enlighten and to save myself +and others. I ought to have fought them, but I was not big enough to +see that they hindered where I could have made them help. Like a bolt +out of the sunlight came the stripping. My shame was the best offering +I have made during all the days of my life. In my misery I went to God +as naturally as the poor prodigal son went to his father when he was +reduced to eating husks from the trough of the swine. I asked nothing +as to the cause of my fall. I knew that, according to man's +standard—even according to the laws that she herself had made—that +the Church had been unjust; but I did not ask to know anything about +it, for the acceptance of the injustice was worth more to my soul than +was the great cathedral I had been instrumental in building. I was +grieved that my friends had left me, but I knew at last that I had +cultivated them at the expense of greater friends—sacrifice and +humility. Shorn of my honors, in the rags and tatters left of my +greatness, I lay before my Master—and I gained more in peace than I +had ever known was in life." +</P> + +<P> +"God!" Mark's very soul seemed to be speaking, and the single word +held the solemnity of a prayer. "This, then, is religion! Was it this +that I lost?" +</P> + +<P> +"No one has lost, Mark, what he sincerely wishes to find." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHO IS RUTH? +</H3> + +<P> +Leaving Father Murray at the rectory, Mark went on to the hotel. +Entering the lobby, he gave vent to a savage objurgation as he +recognized the man speaking to the clerk. Mark's thoughts were no +longer of holy things, for the man was no other than Saunders, from +whom, for the past two weeks, Sihasset had been most pleasantly free. +</P> + +<P> +"Damn!" he muttered. "I might have known he'd return to spoil it all." +Then, mustering what grace he could, Mark shook hands with the +detective, greeting him with a fair amount of cordiality, for, +personally, he rather liked the man. "You here!" he exclaimed. "I +scarcely expected ever to see you again." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders grinned pleasantly, but still suspiciously, as he answered. +"I can't say the same of you, Mr. Griffin. I knew you would be here +when I returned; fact is, I came back to see you." +</P> + +<P> +"Me? How could I cart books all over the world with me? What do you +want to see me for? No, no. I am bad material for you to work on. +Better go back to the Padre. He's what you call an 'easy mark,' isn't +he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, he's not so easy as you think, Griffin. By the way, have you +lunched?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"You will join me then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks; I will." +</P> + +<P> +"We can get into a corner and talk undisturbed." +</P> + +<P> +But lunch was disposed of before Saunders began. When he did, it was +right in the middle of things. +</P> + +<P> +"Griffin," he said, leaning over the table and looking straight at +Mark, "Griffin, what's your game? Let's have this thing out." +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid, Saunders," replied Mark, "that I must take refuge again +in the picturesque slang which the Padre thinks so expressive: I really +don't get you." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, you do. What are you doing here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Honestly, my good fellow," Mark began to show a little pique, "you +have remarkable curiosity about what isn't your business." +</P> + +<P> +"But it <I>is</I> my business, Griffin. I am not a book agent, and never +was." +</P> + +<P> +It was Mark's turn to smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Which fact," he said, "is not information to me. I knew it long ago. +You are a detective." +</P> + +<P> +"I am. Does that tell you nothing?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing," replied Mark, "except that you make up splendidly as a +really decent sort of fellow." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I am a decent sort, decent enough, anyhow; and perhaps I don't +particularly like my business, but it <I>is</I> my business. Now, look +here, Griffin, I want you to help instead of hindering me. I have to +ask this question of you: What do you know about Ruth Atheson? You see +her every day." +</P> + +<P> +"So," said Mark, annoyed, "the constable has not been around for +nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"You have seen him then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Everywhere." +</P> + +<P> +"Which proves he is a reliable constable, even if he is not a good +detective." Saunders looked pleased. "But what about Ruth Atheson?" +</P> + +<P> +But Mark would have his innings now. He knew well how to keep Saunders +anxious. +</P> + +<P> +"I am quite—well, interested in Miss Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +"What!" Saunders half arose. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down, Saunders," said Mark quietly, "sit down. What's so +astonishing about that?" +</P> + +<P> +"You—you—are engaged to Miss Atheson? You can't mean it!" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't say <I>that</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders sat down again. "You know nothing about her," he gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"The Padre's friends are good enough to appeal to me." +</P> + +<P> +"But does the Padre know?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark's eyes began to steel and glitter. He fixed them on Saunders, and +his voice came very steady and quiet. +</P> + +<P> +"Know what, Saunders? Know what?" +</P> + +<P> +"Know what? Why, that Ruth Atheson is <I>not</I> Ruth Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +"Then who <I>is</I> she?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Mark for what seemed a +long time to both. The detective broke the tension. +</P> + +<P> +"Griffin," he almost shouted, "either I am a fool, and ought to be +given a job as town crier, or you are the cleverest I've ever gone up +against, or—" +</P> + +<P> +"Or," Mark's voice was still quiet, "I may be entirely lacking in the +knowledge which you possess. Get it off your mind, man—better do it +soon, for you will <I>have to</I> later on, you know. I have <I>quite</I> made +up my mind on that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Saunders seemed half satisfied, "yes, you may not know—it +really looks as if you didn't. Are you the simon-pure Mark Griffin, +brother of Baron Griffin of the Irish peerage?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Where did you get that last bit of information?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders ignored the query. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you really drop in here as a traveler, aiming at nothing in +particular?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you never know Ruth—" +</P> + +<P> +"Miss—" +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Ruth Atheson before?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Ever hear of her?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you really—interested in her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you intend to stay interested?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"I <I>was</I> mistaken. You don't know, and I guess it's my duty to tell +you the truth. This girl is a <I>runaway</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" Mark was rising. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders put out his hand. "Easy now, Griffin, easy now. Just wait. +I am going to tell you something. I see that you really know nothing, +and it's up to me to enlighten you. As I said, Ruth Atheson is <I>not</I> +Ruth Atheson. She's the daughter of a grand duke. I can't tell you +the name of the Grand Duchy, but I'll say this: it isn't very far from +a certain Big Kingdom we hear a great deal about now—in fact the Duchy +is a dependency of the Big Kingdom—more than that, the so-called Ruth +Atheson is heiress presumptive to the throne. She'll some day be the +Grand Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +Mark sat stunned. It was with difficulty that he could speak. He saw +a tragedy that Saunders could not see. Then he broke out: +</P> + +<P> +"But you? How do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's my business to know—the business you don't like. I was +instructed to watch her. She got out of Europe before certain people +could reach her—" +</P> + +<P> +"But," objected Mark, "how do I know you are telling the truth?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders dug into his pocket and pulled out a postal card. "This will +tell you—or the photograph on it will." +</P> + +<P> +The picture was a foreign one, bearing the strange characters of a +Slavic language, such a card as is sold in every country with portraits +of reigning or distinguished personages. The facsimile signature, in a +bold feminine hand across the lower part of the picture, was "Carlotta." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you believe me now, Griffin?" asked Saunders, with some sympathy +showing on his face, which fact alone saved Mark from smashing it. +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid I must, Saunders. You had better tell me the whole of +this." +</P> + +<P> +"I will; for, as I have sized up the situation, it is best that I +should. The Duchess ran away. She was supposed to be at San Sebastian +with a trusted attendant. The attendant was evidently <I>not</I> to be +trusted, for <I>she</I> disappeared, too. They were traced to London, then +to Madeira, then to a North German Lloyd liner which stopped at the +island on its way to America. Then to Boston. Then to Sihasset." +</P> + +<P> +"This attendant you spoke of—what was she like?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders gave the description: "Dark, fairly stout, white hair, bad +English, piercing black eyes, sixty years old, upper lip showing a +growth of hair, slight wart on the right side of the nose." +</P> + +<P> +"Madam Neuville!" +</P> + +<P> +"So she's here with her, is she? I suspected that, but I have never +seen the old lady." +</P> + +<P> +"She doesn't go out much." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you satisfied now, Mr. Griffin?" +</P> + +<P> +"As to identity, yes. Now, I will ask the questions. I have a right, +haven't I, Saunders?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"Why did the Duchess run away?" +</P> + +<P> +Saunders hesitated before he answered. "I hate to tell you that. +Don't ask." +</P> + +<P> +"But I <I>do</I> ask." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you may have a right to know. There was a man, that's why." +</P> + +<P> +Mark wondered at his own self-control. +</P> + +<P> +"Who was he?" +</P> + +<P> +"An army officer, attached to the Italian embassy at her father's +court. But, look here, Griffin, there was no scandal about it. She +just fell in love with him, that's all. I was here watching for <I>him</I>. +I thought, for a while, that <I>you</I> might be the man, though the +descriptions did not tally. I was taking no chances. If I saw him, my +business was to telegraph to a certain Ministry at Washington; that was +all." +</P> + +<P> +"And they would—" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. Those fellows have ways I can't fathom. I don't know +what they would do. They probably have their plans laid. It's evident +that they don't want her to meet him. I can't arrest her, and neither +can they; but they certainly could do for him if they wanted to. It +would be easier to bring her back, then, without scandal or publicity. +Now you've got all I know. What are you going to do?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid," Mark spoke with an effort, "I'm afraid that I don't know +just what to do, Saunders. You see, I happen to love her." +</P> + +<P> +"But what about the other man?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Saunders, I find it very hard to believe that." +</P> + +<P> +"Griffin," said Saunders, "I've told you a lot, because I know you are +a gentleman, and because you have a right to know. I make only one +request of you: please don't speak of this." +</P> + +<P> +"I appreciate the confidence, Saunders. My word is given." +</P> + +<P> +"Think this thing over, Griffin. You're the right stuff. I don't +blame you for wanting her. You know better than I if she's right, and +if you ever can have her." +</P> + +<P> +Mark went back to his room. On his table lay a note. He opened it and +read: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"My dear Mark: The Bishop is coming this morning to confirm the little +class of tots who received their First Holy Communion last Sunday. His +Lordship is a charming man. I'm sure you would like to meet him. Come +up and take dinner with us at noon. He leaves on the three o'clock +train. Better be at the rectory at eleven thirty.<BR> + Sincerely,<BR> + Donald Murray." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BITTER BREAD +</H3> + +<P> +When Mark arrived at the church, which stood quite close to the little +rectory, he heard the choir singing the <I>Veni Creator</I>, and remembered +enough of former visits to church services to know that the sermon was +about to begin. Early for dinner, he decided to pass the time +listening to what the Bishop might have to say. There were no vacant +seats near the door of the church, so he had to go quite close to the +sanctuary before he found a place. Only two seats ahead of him was the +group of twenty little girls about to be confirmed, and directly across +the aisle from them were fifteen little boys. +</P> + +<P> +Mark had vivid recollections of the day of his own First Communion, but +he had never been confirmed. Things looked just as they did on the day +he so well remembered. The girls were dressed in white, and each small +head was covered by a veil which fell in soft long folds to the bottom +of the short skirts. The boys were in black, each with a white ribbon +around his right arm. These boys all had serious faces, and had +evidently been prepared well for the reception of the Sacrament. Mark +found himself wondering how the pastor could possibly have succeeded in +taming some of the lads, in whom he recognized certain mischievous +youngsters he had seen about the hotel; but tamed they certainly were. +</P> + +<P> +Mark had scarcely sat down before the Bishop turned to the congregation +and began to speak. His words were addressed entirely to the children. +He told them in simple language, which Mark found himself admiring, the +meaning and importance of the ceremony, sketching the apostolic origin +of Confirmation, and dwelling upon its strengthening spiritual effects. +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop was young, too young, Mark thought, since he was not yet +forty. His hair was still black, and his cheeks ruddy. He was quite a +contrast to Father Murray who sat near by. Mark noticed that the +pastor did not wear the manteletta of a prelate, but only the surplice +of a simple priest. There were two other priests in the sanctuary, +both young, one probably the Bishop's secretary. +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop allowed his gaze to wander over the congregation as he spoke +with a rich, clear voice, and with growing eloquence. The children had +fixed their wondering eyes on his impressive figure, as he stood before +them, crozier in hand and mitre on head. Mark found that he was +growing more attentive, and liking the Bishop even better as the sermon +went on. More than that, he found himself interested in the doctrine +of Confirmation, a ceremony which but a few months before he would have +thought quite meaningless. He watched the Bishop and listened as +closely as did the children. +</P> + +<P> +In the very midst of a sentence Mark saw a startled look on the face of +the preacher, a quickly suppressed look that told of great surprise. +The Bishop saved himself from breaking the current of his speech, but +so plainly did Mark notice the instance that his mind jumped at once to +the conclusion that the Bishop had seen in the congregation somebody he +had not expected in that place and at that time. Instinctively Mark's +gaze followed the Bishop's. Across the aisle, and in a direct line +with himself, sat Ruth, veiled as usual, and Madame Neuville. For an +instant only the Bishop's glance rested on the veiled girl; then he +turned again to the children. But the sermon had been spoiled for +Mark. The uneasiness was coming over him again. What did the Bishop +know? Mark could not help thinking that somehow the incident was a +proof that the detective had told the truth. +</P> + +<P> +The sermon over, the Bishop's attendant came up to him, while Father +Murray went to marshal his little charges up to the foot of the altar. +As the Bishop was about to sit down on the faldstool, Mark saw him +whisper to the young priest beside him, the one Mark thought to be the +secretary. He was a well trained secretary, for he made no sign; but +Mark watched him as he calmly turned around to face the congregation. +His searching glance swept the church until it rested upon the girl +with the veil. He, too, seemed startled, but gave scarcely a sign as +he turned quickly away. When the ceremony had ended Mark left his pew, +looking straight at Ruth as he turned to face the door. He imagined +that her eyes looked directly into his; but if they did they looked at +him as a stranger. He could have seen a smile under the veil if it had +been there, but there was none. Still more worried, he left the +church. The girl remained behind, until there was no one but herself +and Madame Neuville left. In his anxiety for the girl, Mark returned +and looked at her from the rear of the church. Her face was buried in +her hands. The sacristy door opened slightly and the young secretary +looked out. The girl, not seeing the door open, lifted the veil for an +instant to wipe away her tears. The secretary closed the door softly +as soon as he had seen her. +</P> + +<P> +Mark went directly to the rectory. The old housekeeper met him at the +door before he could ring. +</P> + +<P> +"Come right in, Mr. Griffin," she said. "I'm going to take ye into the +dining room, sir, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. +He'd be wantin' to do that himself, I know; and sure I have the Bishop +in the front room, so ye'll stay here please." +</P> + +<P> +Mark stepped into the little dining room, where the table was already +set, and waited for the priest. Ann went back to her cooking. Mark +could hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuing +orders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most important +personage in the parish on this occasion and had to show it. It was +seldom she had such authority over others. Why not make the most of it? +</P> + +<P> +There was only a folding door between the dining room where Mark waited +and, the room in which the Bishop sat Mark heard the Bishop arise +impatiently from his chair and pace the room, a fact which caused him +no little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervous +temperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunching the springs +of the chair, and again jump up, to continue his nervous pacing. Then +the door from the hallway into the parlor opened and Mark heard the +Bishop's voice: +</P> + +<P> +"Is she the woman?" +</P> + +<P> +A young voice, which Mark was sure belonged to the secretary, answered: +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry to say, Bishop, that she is." +</P> + +<P> +"My God!" said the Bishop. There was deep distress in his tones. +"Father, are you perfectly sure?" +</P> + +<P> +"I could not be mistaken, Bishop. I stayed in the sacristy until all +had left the church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, +and she threw back the veil to use her handkerchief. Then I saw her +face quite plainly. She is the woman." +</P> + +<P> +"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature, +poor creature—and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here after +all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted telling +him the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay." +</P> + +<P> +Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened so +quickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not help +hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face +was bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, he +paused long enough to hear the secretary say: +</P> + +<P> +"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quite +beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing +like this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up." +</P> + +<P> +"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?" +asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we could +catch the train at his station." +</P> + +<P> +"I will try." +</P> + +<P> +By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through +the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty +toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done under +other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage +about love and war. +</P> + +<P> +"At once, please," he heard the young priest say over the telephone. +Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the +dining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from the +sacristy. +</P> + +<P> +"Welcome, Mr. Griffin," he said cordially. "Come, you must meet His +Lordship. He's in here," and he threw open the folding-doors. The +Bishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. The +Bishop's face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that. He was +like a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to Your +Lordship—or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to stay +to break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him." +</P> + +<P> +"I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin," said the Bishop. "I saw you +in the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not to +have the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better. I am not—" +</P> + +<P> +But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation. +</P> + +<P> +"His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once. The automobile is +even now, I think, coming around the corner. It has become necessary +for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back to +the city. He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes before +taking the train at the next station." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray almost gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"But, My Lord," he cried, "our meal is prepared. We have been looking +forward to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never be +able to—" and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dear +Bishop, you will surely stay?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry, Monsignore," and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke +very quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one +regrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if it +were expedient, but unfortunately it is not." +</P> + +<P> +"The auto is waiting, Bishop," said the secretary, who by this time had +the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packed +in the hall, as they had come from the church. +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop put out his hand to Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin," he said. "I hope we may meet at another time." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into a +chair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For an +instant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for he +made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. +Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned +abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go +down the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then he +heard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grew +fainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved. +</P> + +<P> +Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of her +assistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of +the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the +silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, +and rushed over to the inert priest. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?" +</P> + +<P> +But Father Murray did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Gone." +</P> + +<P> +"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he +wouldn't eat here—again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The +dirty—but God forgive me—he's the Bishop—I can't judge him—" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more. +</P> + +<P> +"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come +outside, Mark." +</P> + +<P> +The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily +into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that +he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. +His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as though +he needed him and knew he could count upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"My friend, have you ever read Thomas à Kempis?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Father, I have not." +</P> + +<P> +"It is a pity, indeed; there is so much of consolation in him when we +need it. Listen to this quotation that I have learned by heart: 'If +thou thinkest rightly and considerest things in truth, thou oughtest +never to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but rather +to rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subject +of joy, that afflicting thee with sorrows I do not spare thee.' It is +Christ speaking, and the quotation is from His <I>Imitation</I>." Then +Father Murray made a gesture as though he were trying to throw it all +off. +</P> + +<P> +"Come in, Mark. The other guests did not intend to stay. The Bishop +has never broken bread with me since—but let that pass. Come in and +eat. It is bitter bread, my friend, bitter bread; but, alas, I must +eat it." +</P> + +<P> +And Mark thought of his own bitter bread, too, as he reentered the +rectory. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET +</H3> + +<P> +Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on +her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always +quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her +thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love +of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long +experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of +approaching a subject too abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes? What was it this time?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's +drinkin' ag'in." +</P> + +<P> +"And she wants me to—" +</P> + +<P> +"Give him the pledge." +</P> + +<P> +"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him +wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges +on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin +years." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, +but not quite enough yet. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the +priest, looking down longingly at his work. +</P> + +<P> +But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted." +</P> + +<P> +"Who insulted her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation." +</P> + +<P> +"But I did." +</P> + +<P> +"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy." +</P> + +<P> +"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson +anything. I'll see her to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped +all the time, the painted thing!" +</P> + +<P> +"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard +feelings." +</P> + +<P> +"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the +Bishop—" +</P> + +<P> +"Ann!" +</P> + +<P> +"I <I>will</I> say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago? +An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this—" +</P> + +<P> +"Please, Ann." +</P> + +<P> +"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could +tell him things if I had me tongue on him—" +</P> + +<P> +But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her +tongue. +</P> + +<P> +"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. +The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and +neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word." +</P> + +<P> +The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't +say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope +ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and +faithfully." +</P> + +<P> +"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't +cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled +dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled." +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray +could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his +slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral." +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?" +</P> + +<P> +"McCarthy's sick ag'in." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning." +</P> + +<P> +Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on +the chronically dying McCarthy. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil +anointin' that omadhan four times already." +</P> + +<P> +The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my +hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's." +</P> + +<P> +Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on +yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there +are plenty of servants at Killimaga." +</P> + +<P> +He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke +forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his +pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the +remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her +ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who +was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows +how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer +the Bishop, bad scran to him, is." +</P> + +<P> +There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the +eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, +without knowing why—and loves and protects too—still without knowing, +or asking, a reason. +</P> + +<P> +In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He +often dropped in for a chat. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's the Father?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased +anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the +parish's chronic hypochondriac. +</P> + +<P> +But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off +temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he +had just heard a wonderful story. +</P> + +<P> +Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?" +</P> + +<P> +"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the <I>Weekly +Herald</I>. Ye know him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know no good av him." +</P> + +<P> +"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. +Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited +about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be +rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and +he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear." +</P> + +<P> +"The omadhan!" +</P> + +<P> +"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have +axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to +be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to +mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan +glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he." +</P> + +<P> +Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected. +</P> + +<P> +"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld +Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog +does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the +other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin' +Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, +and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he +ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to +the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The +dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin +shoot a human dog, too.'" +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that? +He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor +ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to +commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the +whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake." +</P> + +<P> +"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's +Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked +quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A +man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed. +</P> + +<P> +"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to +shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the +town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for +he was a well-to-do business man. +</P> + +<P> +"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He +fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read +it aloud: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS<BR> + Justice of the Peace +</P> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate. +</P> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and + eloquently. +</P> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + <I>Fees Moderate</I>. <I>Osculation extra</I>. +</P> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no<BR> + connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill. +</P> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + <I>P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure<BR> + the most delicate complexion</I>. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, +Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you +didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see +it on your face." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit +and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you +know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know him only slightly." +</P> + +<P> +"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.' +He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that +lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told +it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it +that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he +gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you +kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from +annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by +apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty." +</P> + +<P> +"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the +joke himself in to-day's <I>Herald</I>." +</P> + +<P> +When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the +rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed +story was safely in his pocket. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION +</H3> + +<P> +"How do you do, Mr. Griffin. I am delighted to see you again, and so +soon after our first meeting." +</P> + +<P> +Two days had elapsed since the unpleasant incident at the rectory, and +Mark, engrossed in thoughts by no means in harmony with the peaceful +country through which he wandered, was taken unawares. He turned +sharply. A big automobile had stopped near him and from it leaned the +young Bishop, hand outstretched. +</P> + +<P> +Mark hurried forward. "I am glad to see Your Lordship again. You are +still traveling?" He had retained no pleasant recollections of the +dignitary, and, as he shook the extended hand, was rather surprised to +realize that he felt not a little pleased by the unexpected encounter. +</P> + +<P> +"I am still traveling—Confirmation tours all this season. Are you +going far, Mr. Griffin?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am merely walking, without goal." +</P> + +<P> +"Then come in with me. I am on my way to a little parish ten miles +farther on. I want to chat. My secretary went on ahead by train, to +'prepare the way,' as it were. I will send the car back with you. +Won't you come?" The tone of the Bishop's voice indicated an earnest +desire that the invitation be accepted. +</P> + +<P> +Mark hesitated but a moment. "I thank Your Lordship. I will gladly go +with you on such pleasant terms." He entered the car and, sinking into +its soft cushions, suddenly awakened to the fact that he had tramped +far, and was tired. +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop took up the conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"You are thoroughly British, Mr. Griffin, or you would not have said +'Your Lordship.' The bishops in England are all addressed in that way, +are they not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, and here also. Did I not hear Father Murray—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Father Murray is quite different. He is a convert, and rather +inclined to be punctilious. Then, too, he is from England. In America +the best we get as a rule is just plain 'Bishop.' One of your own kind +of Bishops—an Episcopalian—I knew him well and a charming man he +was—told me that in England he was 'My Lorded' and 'Your Lordshiped' +everywhere, until he had gotten quite used to the dignity of it. But +when he stepped on the dock at New York, one of his lay intimates took +all the pomposity out of him by a sound slap on the back and the +greeting, 'Hello, Bish, home again?'" +</P> + +<P> +"It was very American, that," said Mark. "We wouldn't understand it." +</P> + +<P> +"But <I>we</I> do. I wouldn't want anyone to go quite that far, of course. +I have nerves. But I confess I rather like the possibility of it—so +long as it stays a possibility only. We Yankees are a friendly lot, +but not at all irreverent. A bishop has to be 'right' on the manhood +side as well as on the side of his office. That's the way we look at +it." +</P> + +<P> +A wicked thought went through Mark's head. He let it slide out in +words before he weighed the words or the thought. An instant after, he +could have bitten his tongue with chagrin. +</P> + +<P> +"But don't you take the manhood into account in dealing with your +clergy?" +</P> + +<P> +To Mark's surprise the Bishop was not offended by the plain reference +to the unpleasant scene in the rectory at Sihasset. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you; thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin, for giving me such an +excellent opening. I really wanted you to say something like that. If +you hadn't, I should certainly have been nonplussed about finding the +opening for what I desire to say to you. You are now referring to my +seemingly unchristian treatment of Monsignore Murray? Eh, what?" It +seemed to please the Bishop to lay emphasis on the English "Eh, what?" +He said it with a comic intonation that relieved Mark's chagrin. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Lordship is a diplomat. I was wrong to ask the question. The +affair is simply none of my business." +</P> + +<P> +"But it is, Mr. Griffin. I would not want you, a stranger—perhaps not +even a Catholic—to keep in your mind the idea that a Catholic bishop +is cold and heartless in his dealings with his flock, and particularly +with his under-shepherds." +</P> + +<P> +Mark did not know what to answer, but he wanted to help the Bishop +understand his own feelings. +</P> + +<P> +"I like Father Murray very much, my dear Lord—or rather my dear +Bishop." +</P> + +<P> +It was the Bishop's turn to smile. "You are getting our ways fast, Mr. +Griffin. When we part, I suppose you'll slap me on the back and say +'Bish.'" +</P> + +<P> +"The Lord forbid." +</P> + +<P> +"For my back's sake," the Bishop was looking at Mark's strong +shoulders, "for my back's sake I hope the Lord does forbid. But to +your question. I must get at the answer in a round-about way. Father +Murray, or Monsignore Murray, for he is a prelate, was one of my +dearest friends. For no man had I a greater regard. He was the soul +of generosity, earnest, zealous, kind, and—I believed then—a saint." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Then</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Then</I>. I am going to confide in you, and for a good purpose. You +like him. His people in Sihasset adore him, as did his curates and his +people at the Cathedral. I expected, as did others, that he would be +in the place I occupy to-day." The Bishop broke off to look fixedly at +Mark for a moment. "Mr. Griffin, may I trust you to do your friend a +service?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Bishop, you may." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I will. I have no other way to do this thing. I cannot do it +through another priest. They are all of one mind except a few of the +younger ones who might make matters worse. You can help Monsignore +Murray, if you will. Now, listen well. You heard the conversation +between my secretary and myself at the rectory, did you not? You were +in the next room, I know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I could not help hearing it, and there was no way of escape." +</P> + +<P> +"I know there was no escape. You heard it all?" +</P> + +<P> +"All." +</P> + +<P> +"That decides me to tell you more. It may be providential that you +heard. A woman's name was mentioned?" +</P> + +<P> +"No name, only a reference to a woman, but I think I know who was +meant." +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly." The Bishop's voice took on even a graver tone. "What I am +going to say to you is given into your confidence for a stronger reason +than to have you think more charitably of a bishop in his dealings with +his priests. I am taking you into my confidence chiefly for Monsignore +Murray's sake. He is a <I>different</I> sort of man from the ordinary type. +He has few intimate friends because his charity is very wide. You seem +to be one of the rare beings he regards with special favor. You like +him in return. The combination is excellent for my purpose. I do not +know when this woman first came into Monsignore Murray's life, but he +has seen her quite frequently during the last few years. No one knows +where she came from or who she is, except that she calls herself 'Miss +Atheson.'" +</P> + +<P> +"That is her name, if you are thinking of the lady I have in mind—Ruth +Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly. The old Bishop, my predecessor, seemed oblivious to the +situation. I soon learned, after my appointment, that Monsignore +Murray and Miss Atheson were together almost daily, either at the +rectory or at her hotel. But I said nothing to Monsignore and had +every confidence in him until—well, until one day a member of the +Cathedral clergy, unexpectedly entering the rectory library, saw Miss +Atheson sitting on the arm of the priest's chair, with her head close +to his and her arm across his shoulders. They were reading from a +letter, and did not see the visitor, who withdrew silently. His visit +was never known to Monsignore Murray. You understand?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark was too much surprised to answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin. The thing might have an +explanation, but no one asked it. It looked too unexplainable of +course. The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray was +avoided. Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear old +saint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like his +fullest confidence about Miss Atheson. He avoided the subject. Still +I was loath to believe. I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, +but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset." +</P> + +<P> +Mark found his voice. +</P> + +<P> +"That was the reason? And he never knew?" +</P> + +<P> +"That was the reason. I thought he would ask for it, and that I would +then have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing. The scene +when he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that I +would willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go through +with it again." +</P> + +<P> +"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's it, that's it. There was no <I>scene</I>, and yet there was. I +told you how I loved him. We first met at college, in Rome. In years +the difference between us was not so very great, but in experience he +was far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both father +and friend to me. When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must have +felt when he condemned his sons to death. Only it was worse. It was a +son condemning his father to disgrace. But I hoped to save him." +</P> + +<P> +"And you did not?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, that was harder yet. I thought I had—until I went to Sihasset +and saw her in the church. Poor creature! She must have followed him." +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know. But facts are facts. What could I do? Look here, Mr. +Griffin. Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know. +And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard. I shall +have to tell him and then— If there <I>is</I> an explanation, how can I +forgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Sihasset will notice +and talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then.… My God! +I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end. Do you know +what it means to be an unfrocked priest?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." Mark had no other answer. His distress was too deep. His mind +was working fast, however. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him—point out the +danger of his position—without hurting him? He is very sensitive. +Don't tell him all you know—only intimate gently that there may be +some misunderstanding of this kind. He surely will guess the rest. +You may save him if you can do this and—if you will do it." +</P> + +<P> +It was on Mark's tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at the +Bishop's face. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't mind my weakness, Mr. Griffin. It is a weakness in me thus to +take a stranger into my confidence in such a matter. But I feel that +you alone have his confidence. You can't realize what this thing has +cost me, in peace. He was the last I should have suspected. I must +save him. Help me do it. The Church is supposed to be hard-hearted, +but she is forgiving—too forgiving sometimes. My duty is to be stern, +and a judge; but I cannot judge him with sternness. I would give my +life to think that this was all a bad dream. Don't you see that he is +the man I always thought would be my own bishop? How can I go to +him—and hurt him?" +</P> + +<P> +If Mark Griffin had had any misgivings about the character of the +Bishop, they had vanished. He saw no bishop beside him, but only a man +who in his heart of hearts had for years treasured a friendship and, in +spite of everything, could not pluck it out. Now he had opened that +heart to an utter stranger, trusting him as if snatching at every +chance to save his sacred ideals, shrinking from inflicting pain +himself as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father. +Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him. +</P> + +<P> +But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while. +He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling face +of Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she, +this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchess +pledged to another man? A priest's—God! that was too much. Mark +clenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of Father +Murray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, a +priest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And he +hesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still, +Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him. +</P> + +<P> +"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteen +minutes." The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help. +</P> + +<P> +"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannot +tell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you. +In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fully +justify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that I +will try." +</P> + +<P> +So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone. +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop prayed longer—much longer—than usual before he left the +little church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory after +the ceremony. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AT THE MYSTERY TREE +</H3> + +<P> +All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had +returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy +between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a +friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was +an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to +which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the +coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was +not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So +he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a +dull pain in both head and heart. +</P> + +<P> +All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding +Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted +to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles. +It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he +had not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how to +approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop. +</P> + +<P> +To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it +chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that +made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever +having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his +heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment. +</P> + +<P> +With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring +of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his +life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought, +had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal +a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to +overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted +on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her; +rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were +concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The +blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with +ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be +permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take +care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway +girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have +blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a +beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be. +</P> + +<P> +Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little +of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the +officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him. +</P> + +<P> +It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road +where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he +flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he +first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter +regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past. +</P> + +<P> +The gray ocean seemed trying—-and the thought consoled him a +little—to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to +remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his +sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for +himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even +as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must +flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but +he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger +brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some +disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided. +</P> + +<P> +How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to +know. A step aroused him from his stupor. +</P> + +<P> +He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was +tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a +little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, +with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his +eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's +resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave +back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute +the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the +doorway in the tree was flung open. +</P> + +<P> +Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He +heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two +met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as +he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back +into her life. She spoke in French and—was it because of the language +used or of the unusual excitement?—her voice took on a strange elusive +quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, +yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again +would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of +escape, so he steeled his heart to listen. +</P> + +<P> +"You have come, my beloved," he heard her say. +</P> + +<P> +"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. When +you wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I did +not delay one minute." +</P> + +<P> +"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you." +</P> + +<P> +"I think they do not know I am here," he answered. "I have seen no one +watching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?" +</P> + +<P> +"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not have +called you. But I wanted you so much." +</P> + +<P> +"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could I +live?" +</P> + +<P> +"You love me, then, so much?" +</P> + +<P> +"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I not +looked?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you." +</P> + +<P> +They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees that +lined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It had +been hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must go +away, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as an +honorable man, to do. +</P> + +<P> +Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slipping +into the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, but +they were far away on the other side. For a long time there was no +other visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows; +but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and the +crackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found his +man? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her? +He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it was +not the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but bearded +and grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, for +now he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gaze +off that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared to +spring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barrel +dropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that it +was the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing would +be done while she was there. +</P> + +<P> +The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye. +</P> + +<P> +"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously. +</P> + +<P> +"I will come when you call, my beloved." +</P> + +<P> +"But if they find you?" +</P> + +<P> +"They will not find me." +</P> + +<P> +"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I have +my jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people. +We could be just alone together." +</P> + +<P> +"But would you be happy, Carlotta?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay for +being a duchess, to lose all I want in life." +</P> + +<P> +"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such a +sacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it." +</P> + +<P> +"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy to +give. I will tell you when to come." +</P> + +<P> +With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree and +closed the door. +</P> + +<P> +The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action, +and jumped for the other side—but too late. There was no sound, but +powder burned Mark's hand—powder from the muffled gun barrel which he +had tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyes +wide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant. +Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground. +There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice was +raised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark looked +up as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body of +the murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came up +to where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electric +glow lamp from his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me look at him, Griffin," he said. He looked long and earnestly +at the man's face, then snapped off the light. +</P> + +<P> +"He's the man," he announced. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-136"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-136.jpg" ALT="Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he announced." BORDER="2" WIDTH="395" HEIGHT="650"> +<H4> +[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's +the man!" he announced.] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"The man I told you about—the man I took you for—the man for whose +sake the Duchess ran away—the chap I was watching for." +</P> + +<P> +"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still lay +unconscious. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, he doesn't matter." Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out of +it. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here to +watch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning." +</P> + +<P> +Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined the +face and clothing of the murderer. +</P> + +<P> +"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of the +foreigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was out +hunting—shooting squirrels—anything." +</P> + +<P> +"He can't say that," put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. I +tried to stop him." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders turned quickly to Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Forget it, Griffin," he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep out +of it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. But +this is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up in +it. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties. +Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger down +here inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew who +were behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let this +fellow tell his story." He pointed to the man who was now coming to +his senses. "He has it all prepared." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can't +expect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's only +wounded." +</P> + +<P> +The detective smiled grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who would +miss? Come, look at him." +</P> + +<P> +Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for the +pulse, and looked into the face. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Saunders," he said, "we can do nothing for him." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THIN ICE +</H3> + +<P> +"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin," Saunders' voice had quite +an uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger." +</P> + +<P> +The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was striking +midnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together from +the bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I do," Mark answered, "but I don't very much care." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!" +</P> + +<P> +"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, +and the Irish have 'some nerves.' But I am really hit very hard. I +suppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out of +his mouth. +</P> + +<P> +"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but in +the singular number." +</P> + +<P> +"Beg pardon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly +neglected. I mean to say that they have <I>nerve</I>, not nerves." +</P> + +<P> +"By which you mean—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Something that you will need very soon—grit." +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?" +</P> + +<P> +The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted both +of them was no chimera. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Griffin," he broke out, "that murderer did this thing under +orders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, +or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanation +must be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All was +certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you may +wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far +away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, +too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. The +question is, what story will this fellow tell?" +</P> + +<P> +"You can—ah—search me, Saunders," retorted Mark. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful. +</P> + +<P> +"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you,' eh? That is just exactly +what the police probably will do." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why? Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the whole +tragedy. I think it quite upset their calculations. Your hand is +marked with powder from the gun fire. Everyone will see that +to-morrow. The principal will know something of it from the murderer. +In fact, he probably knows now. To-morrow they will be searching for +the man with the powder mark. The murderer himself can swear that he +saw someone fire at the man who was killed. He may charge robbery. +Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do. If +they have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, +for they intend putting it on you. Unless I am mistaken, his pockets +are inside out right now. The powder marks alone are enough to fasten +suspicion on you. Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainly +must have seen you on the bluff road. Above all, you love Ruth +Atheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals. My detective +intuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of being +charged with murder." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Mark, "I have an excellent witness for the defense, in one +James Saunders, detective." +</P> + +<P> +"You have," answered Saunders, "but not at the inquest; for if James +Saunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testify +at the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might be +useful." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean that they would—" +</P> + +<P> +"Just so," Saunders nodded wisely; "that's just what they would do. On +the other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, +that they had fixed up for him. It looks reasonable to me that he +would be instructed to do that. He may come forward when the body is +found, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, or +some other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of his +bullets must have killed the man. That looks like the easiest way out +of it." +</P> + +<P> +"That sounds all right, Saunders," answered Mark, "but I incline to the +other theory. I think they'll accuse me. Their first plan would have +been best if nobody had seen the deed. But since they know someone did +see it, they'll probably try to be on the safe side. Fortunately, they +don't know there were two of us, which leaves me better off." +</P> + +<P> +"If they find there was another," said the detective, "you'll be safer +in jail. Lives count nothing in the games of princes, and they'll get +us both if they can." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you're in danger yourself, Saunders." +</P> + +<P> +"Not yet. As you remarked, they don't know there was another. You +see, it was dark among the trees, and I caught the fellow in the rear +as he ran away. He would naturally think that the man who caught him +was the one who jumped as he fired." +</P> + +<P> +Mark smoked thoughtfully before he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"You're right, Saunders. My complacency is not so great that I do not +recognize the danger. I merely am indifferent to danger under the +present circumstances. It's no use running away from it, and we can't +help it now. Let's go to bed." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, those English-Irish nerves get me," Saunders answered, as he +arose and walked toward the door. "I suppose they're a good thing to +have; but, Griffin, take it from me, you're the worst lump of ice I +ever saw. Aren't you even just a little afraid?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," answered Mark, "I'm afraid all right, old man; I really am +afraid. But there is somebody I am more afraid for than myself. I am +worried about the lady." +</P> + +<P> +Mark thought of what he had seen as he lay near the tree. Walking over +to the window, he thoughtfully pulled down the blind before he turned +again to Saunders. "I shall always love her, no matter what happens. +Of course, I can't marry a grand duchess, especially one who is watched +day and night; but I rather welcome the chance to stay near and protect +her good name if the story does come out. That is why I won't go to +jail for safety, not if I can prevent it." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders closed the half-opened door and walked back into the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Protect her? I don't understand," he said. Clearly bewildered, he +sat down, carelessly swinging one leg over an arm of the big chair, and +stared at his host. +</P> + +<P> +Mark looked up. He spoke haughtily, with a slight shrug of the +shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"There is a British Ambassador in Washington. You have a free country, +so I can always talk to him, even if I am a prisoner or on bail. I +happen to be brother to a baron; that fact may prove useful, for the +first time in my life. One word that involves her name in scandal, +even as Ruth Atheson, brings the story out. And Great Britain does not +particularly care about your certain Big Kingdom. I am presuming, of +course, that I have rightly guessed what Big Kingdom is looking after +the interests of your Grand Duchy." +</P> + +<P> +"You're right, Griffin; the Ministry could never let her name be +mentioned." +</P> + +<P> +"As the grand duchess, no. But they could mention the name of Ruth +Atheson, the Padre's friend, the Lady Bountiful of his poor, the girl I +love. The Padre has had trouble enough, too, without that scandal in +his little flock." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see how you can avoid it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I can avoid it very simply. I can send word to the Ministry in +question that I know who the lady really is, and that I am almost ready +to talk for the public." +</P> + +<P> +"That's right, Griffin, you could. Gee, what a detective you would +have made! You're sure right." He arose, stretched lazily, and walked +to the door, where he turned, his hand on the knob. "If it's any +consolation for you to know, Griffin, they won't arrest—they'll just +stick a knife into you. Good night, and pleasant dreams." +</P> + +<P> +"Good night, Saunders, and thanks for your cheerful assurances." +</P> + +<P> +But Mark had no dreams at all for, left alone, he smoked and worried +over his problem until morning. +</P> + +<P> +Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocket +so that he could register it in person. It was addressed to the +British Ambassador. +</P> + +<P> +As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave him +a note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, rather." Mark looked at his hand as though noticing its +condition for the first time. Then he spoke consolingly. "But it was +the only one I had to put on this morning. Pleasant outside, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +But the clerk had suddenly discovered that his attention was needed +elsewhere, and Mark proceeded to his breakfast. +</P> + +<P> +Sitting down, he gave his order, then opened the letter. It was from +Ruth. "I am sorry you were not feeling well yesterday, and hope you +are all right now. If so, come to Killimaga to-day, quite early. +Somehow I am always lonesome now. Ruth." +</P> + +<P> +It was rather strange—or was it?—that, in spite of what Mark knew, he +watched his chance and, when the waiter turned his back, kissed the +sheet of scented paper. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders was in the hotel office when Mark came out of the dining room. +The constable was with him. With little difficulty Saunders got rid of +the officer and walked over to Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Come outside," he said. "I have some news." +</P> + +<P> +They left the hotel and moved down the street. When out of anyone's +hearing, Saunders touched Mark's arm. +</P> + +<P> +"I routed out the constable early this morning—at daybreak, in +fact—and sent him on a wild-goose chase along the bluff road. I +wanted him to stumble onto that body, and get things going quickly. +The sooner the cards are on the table, the better. His errand would +keep him close to the Killamaga wall, on the roadside. He saw nothing; +if he had I should have known it. What do you think it means?" +</P> + +<P> +"Means?" echoed Mark. "Why, it means that someone else has been there." +</P> + +<P> +"It looks that way," admitted Saunders. "But why hasn't it been +reported?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think, Saunders," Mark said thoughtfully, "that we had better take a +walk near the wall ourselves." +</P> + +<P> +"I was going to suggest that very thing." +</P> + +<P> +The morning was not beautiful. The chill wind of autumn had come up, +and the pleasant weather that Mark had taken the trouble to praise was +vanishing. The clouds were dark and gloomy, threatening a storm. When +the men reached the bluff road, they saw that the ocean was disturbed, +and that great white-capped waves were beating upon the beach below. +Their own thoughts kept both of them in tune with the elements. +Neither spoke a word as they rapidly covered the distance between the +town and the spot of the tragedy. But instinctively, as if caught by +the same aversion, both slackened pace as they neared the wall of +Killimaga. Going slowly now they turned out of the road and approached +the tree, looking fearfully down at the grass. They reached the spot +whereon they had left the body the evening before. There was no body +there. +</P> + +<P> +They searched the bushes and the long grass, but there was no sign of +anything out of the ordinary. Closely they examined the ground; but +not a trace of blood was to be seen, nor any evidence of conflict. +Saunders was stupefied, and Mark showed signs of growing wonder. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't here," half whispered Saunders. "And it isn't in the bushes. +What do you make of it, Griffin?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark answered hesitatingly and half-nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't make anything out of it, unless they have decided to hush the +whole thing up, figuring that the men who interfered will never tell. +They disposed of the body overnight and covered all their traces. +Unless I am mistaken, no one will ever find it or know that the murder +took place at all." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Saunders emphatically, "they certainly had one of the big +fellows here to see that it was properly done." +</P> + +<P> +"It looks probable," replied Mark; "for a common murderer would not +have planned so well. An expert was on this crime. The body is +disposed of finally." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders looked around nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"We had better go back, Griffin. There's nothing left for us to do, +and they may be watching." +</P> + +<P> +Both men left the spot and returned to town; but they were no longer +silent. Mark was decidedly anxious, and Saunders voiced his worry in +tones that shook. +</P> + +<P> +"I have more fear than ever for your sake, Griffin, and I'm beginning +to have some for my own. Those fellows know how to act quickly and +surely. Their principal is in Washington. He has had word already by +cipher as to what has happened. He won't rest until he finds the +witness, and then—" +</P> + +<P> +"And then?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid they will try another murder. They won't trust a living +soul to hold his peace under the circumstances." +</P> + +<P> +"But how are they to know I saw the thing?" +</P> + +<P> +"By your hand. In fact, I think they know already." +</P> + +<P> +"Already?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. There was somebody about when we were there, and he was +evidently hiding." +</P> + +<P> +"You heard him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I didn't want to alarm you. I have reason now to be alarmed for +myself. They know I am in it. We've got to think quickly and act +quickly. The minute that orders come they will try to get us. As long +as we stay in public places we are safe. But we must not go out alone +any more." +</P> + +<P> +The two went on to the hotel. Saunders glanced back as they were +entering the town. His eyes covered the hedge. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought so," he said. "That chap has been dodging in and out of the +trees and keeping watch on us. From this point he can see right along +the street to the hotel door. It's no use trying to conceal anything +now. Our only safety lies in keeping in public places; but they won't +strike till they get their orders." +</P> + +<P> +As the two entered the hotel, a messenger boy came up carrying two +telegrams. The clerk nodded to the boy, who went over to Mark and +Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +"Which is Mr. Saunders?" he asked. The detective reached out his hand +and the boy gave him one of the messages. "The other one," he said, +"is for Mr. Griffin. +</P> + +<P> +"Sign here, please." The boy extended his book. Both men signed and +the boy went out. Sitting down in a corner of the writing room, Mark +and Saunders looked at one another, then at the yellow envelopes. +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you open your telegram, Saunders?" asked Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Because I know pretty well what's in it. I guessed it would be +coming. I am ordered off this case, for the men who employed our +agency have no use for me after last night. They have found everything +out for themselves, and have settled it in their own way. Why don't +you open yours?" +</P> + +<P> +"For opposite reasons to yours, old chap: because I don't know what's +in it, and, whatever it is, I don't think I shall like it. I have not +had many messages of this kind. None but my solicitors would send one, +and that means trouble. But here goes!" +</P> + +<P> +Mark tore off the end of the envelope, opened the message and read. +Saunders did the same with his. One glance was enough for each. +</P> + +<P> +"I told you so," said Saunders. "Here's my message: 'Central +disconnected.'" +</P> + +<P> +Mark looked up with surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"'Central disconnected'? What's that, Saunders? More United States?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's our code," replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the central +office at once. Our connection with the case is at an end.'" +</P> + +<P> +There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegram +over for Saunders to read. It was from New York: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you and +say that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry." There was real sympathy in Saunders' +voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. +Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, it +would be better for you to go." +</P> + +<P> +"You're wrong, Saunders." Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "My +disappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. +Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite a +personage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He had +no children. I can fight better here—as Baron Griffin." +</P> + +<P> +"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, you <I>are</I> Baron +Griffin now!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother's +death. What are you going to do, Saunders?" +</P> + +<P> +The detective looked embarrassed. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throw +up my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out." +</P> + +<P> +"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can you +afford it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Frankly, I can't; but I'm going to do it just the same." +</P> + +<P> +"Saunders," said Mark, "I think I need the services of a sort of +detective." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean a protective bodyguard." +</P> + +<P> +"Put it as you like—any way that will let me pay you for your time. +You say you are going to stay on the case. I want to have you on it. +You may not need me badly, but I'm sure that I need you." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you want me to apply for the job?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd employ you if you would take it, old chap." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I apply. I never asked for a job before, but I want this one. +Shake!" +</P> + +<P> +The men shook hands and started to go upstairs. When they were out of +hearing, the clerk called up a number on the telephone. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS +</H3> + +<P> +In an upstairs room of a Washington Ministry three men sat in +conference. One, a stout, bearded man, was seated behind a flat-top +desk on which he constantly thrummed with nervous fingers; the others +sat facing him. The man at the desk was the Minister of a Kingdom, and +looked it. His eyes were half closed, as if in languid indifference, +effectually veiling their keenness. The expression of his mouth was +lost in the dark moustache, and in the beard combed from the center. +The visible part of his face would have made a gambler's fortune; and, +save for its warm color, it might have been carved out of ice. Without +ever a hint of harshness or loudness, his voice was one to command +attention; though it came out soft and velvety, it was with the half +assurance that it could ring like steel if the occasion arose. The +occasion never arose. The hands, whose fingers thrummed on the +glass-topped desk, were soft, warm-looking, and always moist, with a +dampness that on contact made you feel vaguely that you had touched +oil—and you had. +</P> + +<P> +Both of the other men were beardless, but one had the ghost of a +moustache on his upper lip. He was dapper, clean and deferential. The +other was short and somewhat ungainly in build, and his face showed +evidence of the recent shaving off of a heavy beard. He had no graces, +and evidently no thoughts but of service—service of any kind, so long +as he recognized the authority demanding it. His clothes did not suit +him; they were rich enough, but they were not his kind. A soldier of +the ranks, a sailor before the mast, a laborer on Sunday, could have +exchanged clothes with this man and profited in values, while the other +would certainly have profited in looks. +</P> + +<P> +"You did not see the other, then, Ivan?" the fat man asked, +interrupting the story of his awkward guest. +</P> + +<P> +"I did not, Excellency. He came at me too quickly, and I had no idea +there was anyone there besides myself and—and the person who—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes. The person who is now without a name. Go on." +</P> + +<P> +"I was in the shrubs, near a great large tree that seemed to form part +of a wall, when the two, the person and a lady, came back together. +She—" +</P> + +<P> +"Did they act as if they knew one another?" +</P> + +<P> +The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one another +quite well. They embraced." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>That</I> you did <I>not</I> see, Ivan?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Excellency, of course, I did not see <I>that</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"Proceed, Ivan." +</P> + +<P> +"After they—parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went into +it." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Opened the tree</I>?" The nervous fingers were stilled. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door." +</P> + +<P> +"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?" +</P> + +<P> +The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual in +America." +</P> + +<P> +"Proceed, Ivan." The Minister resumed his thrumming. +</P> + +<P> +"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the—ah—person—turned to +go past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency—" +</P> + +<P> +"You are forgetting again, Ivan." The half-closed eyes opened for an +instant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone. +</P> + +<P> +"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes—Maxim's." +</P> + +<P> +"My gun exploded—but noiselessly, Excellency, because of the +silencer—just as the strange man jumped at me. The—ah—person fell, +and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but he +knew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the—person—who +had, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I came +back and—" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav—"he +came with me." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took up +the story. +</P> + +<P> +"We thought it better to dispose of the—person, Excellency, and +avoid—" +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to your +duties." +</P> + +<P> +The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?—the man who +struck you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire, +Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, Ivan." +</P> + +<P> +The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent, +gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly now +as though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night, +Wratslav?" +</P> + +<P> +"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew not +at all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman—the same +who visits the lady." +</P> + +<P> +"H-m, h-mmmm." The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellency +was silent, considering what this new development might mean. The +fingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivory +paper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he did +so slowly, carefully, weighing each word. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you seen him—the Englishman—since?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Excellency—" +</P> + +<P> +"No?" The word came with cold emphasis. +</P> + +<P> +"The hotel clerk, who is friendly—for a consideration—telephoned me +that the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that his +hand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks." +</P> + +<P> +"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not a word, so far as I have heard." +</P> + +<P> +"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"He might think that he would be suspected." +</P> + +<P> +"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a little +too much, does he not?" +</P> + +<P> +"A great deal too much, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is." +</P> + +<P> +"He goes to see her, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers, +then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be well if he did not go again—did not speak to her again +for that matter—" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as His +Excellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as though +to emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voice +continued, "if it could be arranged." +</P> + +<P> +"It can be arranged, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought so." Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back in +his chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest more +comfortably on the desk. +</P> + +<P> +"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes?" +</P> + +<P> +"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his +own country." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?" +</P> + +<P> +"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron +Griffin." +</P> + +<P> +The fingers tightened around the ivory knife. +</P> + +<P> +"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, +"<I>that</I> is unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid +down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I +think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad—and +you also—while the excellent shooting continues near—ah—the camp. +It seems best." +</P> + +<P> +The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the +receiver. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, someone will come down." +</P> + +<P> +He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav. +</P> + +<P> +"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here. +Hurry." +</P> + +<P> +The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which he +handed to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. The +ivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly at +the pieces, but never a line of his face moved. +</P> + +<P> +"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must think +again." He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, and +begs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sent +under seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be opened +or its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the sudden +demise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. The +slow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk, +and his hand strayed to the papers on it. +</P> + +<P> +"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for some +time yet, Wratslav." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +The silence lasted a full minute. +</P> + +<P> +"About the lady, Wratslav—" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be a +great honor were she to visit the Ministry soon." +</P> + +<P> +"Would she come, Excellency?" +</P> + +<P> +The question was ignored. +</P> + +<P> +"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quite +comfortable, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger—and of +gossip also." +</P> + +<P> +"That, too, might be arranged." +</P> + +<P> +"But if she proves—" +</P> + +<P> +"She will not—not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, that +her arrival is momentarily expected—traveling incognito, you see—no +fuss or receptions—but a short visit before sailing back to Europe. +Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they know +nothing outside the court. The King is anxious." There was another +flashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well," +spoken with meaning emphasis. +</P> + +<P> +Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav." +</P> + +<P> +"I will do it, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"That is better." +</P> + +<P> +So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and the +rough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whose +limousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little as +possible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored with +provisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of the +workers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things—or +indeed ever saw the interior of the car at all. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE ABDUCTION +</H3> + +<P> +Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr. +Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down. +</P> + +<P> +"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I +should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to +break in upon you after—" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having +almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I—I—" +</P> + +<P> +But Father Murray smiled indulgently. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours +with my <I>Imitation</I> heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know +its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day. +Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires +nothing on earth?'" +</P> + +<P> +"Fine—but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark. +"Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor +the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the +sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?" +</P> + +<P> +"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the +religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our à Kempis had +more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into +self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the +virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty +from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.' +It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left +you free for the more important things." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making +excuses, my dear Mark. You <I>are</I> forgiven, so far as I am concerned. +But I am not the only one who has been neglected." +</P> + +<P> +"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to +speak about a matter of importance." +</P> + +<P> +So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward +the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he +could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the +point: +</P> + +<P> +"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"You approve?" +</P> + +<P> +"Decidedly." +</P> + +<P> +"But I am not of her faith." +</P> + +<P> +"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay +long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark." +</P> + +<P> +"And you would trust me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Absolutely." +</P> + +<P> +"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, +after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I +think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have no such recollection." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you know some people named Meechamp?" +</P> + +<P> +"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of +mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon. +I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong +impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of +mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were +sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see +you that morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to +see me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this: +the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite +directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come +quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in +a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he +crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.' +She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her +tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make +good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked. +'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others +only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of +course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your +church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the +door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her +hand after me. I never forgot the face—nor the kiss. Now I know I +have met her again—a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a +picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together. +Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and +the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand +now?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if +Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman' +when I came out of the study to take her home." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you knew her family well?" +</P> + +<P> +"Her mother was my sister." +</P> + +<P> +"Your sister!" +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly. You are surprised?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered. +</P> + +<P> +"Please be explicit." +</P> + +<P> +"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself +figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his +activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself +saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss +Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are +confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several +things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced +Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have +myself seen, if she is really your niece." +</P> + +<P> +"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray +anxiously. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, Father." +</P> + +<P> +"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait." +</P> + +<P> +The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then +all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. +Here was his chance. +</P> + +<P> +"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related +the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. +"You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your +reputation will be cleared now." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became +grave again. +</P> + +<P> +"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew +there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of +that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to +keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that—" +Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary +days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some +decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no +explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a +test, Mark?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet +as he took it. +</P> + +<P> +Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. +Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray +stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the +deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak. +</P> + +<P> +"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here." +</P> + +<P> +"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got +them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, +the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, +screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was +trickling down her cheek from a small wound—evidently the result of a +blow. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>! <I>Mon Dieu</I>!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth +is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. <I>Mon Dieu</I>, Father! +Come—come at once!" +</P> + +<P> +The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had +surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga. +Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the +road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called +it. +</P> + +<P> +"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them. +They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out. +I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to +fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind. +<I>Mon Dieu</I>! <I>Mon Dieu</I>! Let me die!" +</P> + +<P> +"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the +weeping woman. "What were those men like?" +</P> + +<P> +"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark +and short, but he was very large of the shoulders." +</P> + +<P> +Mark turned to Father Murray. +</P> + +<P> +"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is +the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy +horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady +is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they +find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come +to Washington with me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter +to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father +Murray. "Let us go." +</P> + +<P> +Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped +back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE INEXPLICABLE +</H3> + +<P> +Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel +lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective +vigorously. +</P> + +<P> +"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is +there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray +wants to catch that." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders was alert in an instant. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at +the Junction—have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though. +What's up?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay +the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the +rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot." +Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the +train." +</P> + +<P> +In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the +station platform, grips in hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the +detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information +which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning +effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship +to Ruth Atheson. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that +these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from +Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer." +</P> + +<P> +"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only +answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his +companions. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached. +Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how +long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here +to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin +with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our +effects?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The +Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph +for sleeper reservations." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was +said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less +so. +</P> + +<P> +"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as +they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I +suppose it has to be done." +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There +was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to +surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial. +</P> + +<P> +"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to +Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended. +The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of +absence, and send someone to take my place?" +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with +a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the +message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday, +and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime." +</P> + +<P> +Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes +were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering: +</P> + +<P> +"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I +think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore." +</P> + +<P> +At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he +announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they +were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I +have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best +possible, so late." +</P> + +<P> +When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father +Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious +for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down +and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case. +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He +pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous. +</P> + +<P> +"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar +about this whole business." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know that very well." +</P> + +<P> +"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of +the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I +expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to +have taken would probably look the best way to them." +</P> + +<P> +"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and +Ruth Atheson at the same time." +</P> + +<P> +"Decidedly not." +</P> + +<P> +"She is one or the other." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know +is good. Then, look at his distress." +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till +my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he +should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is <I>not</I> the Duchess?" +</P> + +<P> +"N-no." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the +abduction?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily. +</P> + +<P> +"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?" +</P> + +<P> +"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness +gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. +What is it now?" +</P> + +<P> +"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the +mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it." +He paused. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly. +</P> + +<P> +"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible +bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced +into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the +second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a +clear view of the people inside, and—" the speaker's tone became +impressive—"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the +other was—your lady of the tree." +</P> + +<P> +Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't do that; there may be others to notice." +</P> + +<P> +"Ruth? You saw Ruth?" +</P> + +<P> +"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and +the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree +is on this train." +</P> + +<P> +It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. +Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular +breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they +dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all +their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new +development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently +to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal +it from him altogether. +</P> + +<P> +Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was +greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold +and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand +Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better +than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there +could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed +book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she +loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he +knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage +between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to +other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to +the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it? +There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or—Mark was startled by +the thought—had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her +identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that +this might explain something—until he thought of Father Murray. There +was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the +girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the +sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. +He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never +love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly +abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by +her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did +the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could +only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train +kept saying: +</P> + +<P> +"You love her—you love her—" in monotonous cadence. And he knew +that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end. +</P> + +<P> +Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the +terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to +remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke. +He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole +car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end +of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he +was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There +were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with +frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and +his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated: +</P> + +<P> +"Collision—train ahead—wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise +outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers +rushed out, all white with fear. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"In his berth; he may be hurt." +</P> + +<P> +They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end +of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted +him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid +him down in the air. He opened his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"What—what is it?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Wreck—there was a collision," answered Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, +if it is forward—where the people are—maybe dying." +</P> + +<P> +Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he +knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his +battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him +to silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a +preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's +ways." +</P> + +<P> +So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were +being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by +some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and +splintered freight cars of the other train. +</P> + +<P> +"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the +frightened conductor. +</P> + +<P> +The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it. +</P> + +<P> +"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to +them." +</P> + +<P> +A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark +tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes +opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest +bent low to catch the words. +</P> + +<P> +"Father—don't—risk—trying—to get me—out—before you hear—my +confession." +</P> + +<P> +"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated +Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly." +</P> + +<P> +"The only—chance—I want—is my—confession. Quick—Father." +</P> + +<P> +With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. +The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile +of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution. +</P> + +<P> +"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out." +</P> + +<P> +The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The +blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there +lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and +unexpected contentment. +</P> + +<P> +Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked +freight, lying beside the tracks—both dead. Then they went to the +lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent +form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For +others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But +sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand +in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. +Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for +the same face. It was not there. Yet <I>she</I> had been in the wrecked +coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight +track, as Mark turned to a brakeman. +</P> + +<P> +"Are there any others?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; two—across the track." +</P> + +<P> +Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending +over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole +world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville +were lying there—both dead. +</P> + +<P> +The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They +stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see +through his tears—but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found +that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within +pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her +now in but one setting—a great empty church at the end of springtime, +crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a +little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. +He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her +cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man +within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's +sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders aroused him. +</P> + +<P> +"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet. +He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it." +</P> + +<P> +Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said +something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from +the wrecked car, just as the priest came up. +</P> + +<P> +"Are there others?" the priest asked. +</P> + +<P> +Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Father, no others." +</P> + +<P> +"But these—" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies. +</P> + +<P> +"They are—already dead, Father." +</P> + +<P> +"God rest them. I can do no more." +</P> + +<P> +The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang to +support him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted, +with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all right, Father," said Father Murray to his confrere. "I found +them all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There are +many of your people, too," he said, turning to the Protestant +clergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show—" +</P> + +<P> +He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious. +The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to look +at him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no cause +for alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow. +In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watching +closely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the face +of Ruth Atheson. +</P> + +<P> +When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Mark +put his hand on the priest's arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't, please, Father. She is dead—one of the two you saw lying on +the other side when you came over." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know. But I should like to see." Father Murray started to +raise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"Please do not look, Father." +</P> + +<P> +The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him with +widely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at the +covered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drew +near to catch him. But he did not fall. +</P> + +<P> +"I think—Mark—that I will look. I can drink of the chalice—if it +must be—I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw the +blanket back." +</P> + +<P> +But Mark could not. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the covering +reverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the face +stood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched the +features for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. The +priest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Thee +for sparing me, Lord." +</P> + +<P> +He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face. +Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +"God rest her. It is not Ruth." +</P> + +<A NAME="img-200"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-200.jpg" ALT=""God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an +age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="395" HEIGHT="653"> +<H4> +[Illustration: "God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an +age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by the +blow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what was +going on in Mark's mind. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous—" +</P> + +<P> +"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in his +voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my friend—likeness. I—" the priest hesitated—"I knew her +well. It is not Ruth." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XV +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" +</H3> + +<P> +A long, low-built limousine kept passing and repassing the Ministry, +and taking excursions to the parks, in an evident effort to kill time. +At last, the street being well clear of pedestrians and vehicles, the +car drew up in front of the house, the door of which was quickly thrown +open. The chauffeur descended and opened the door of the car, but said +nothing. A man stepped out backward. +</P> + +<P> +"We have arrived, Your Highness," he said to someone within. "Will you +walk across the path to the door, or will you force us again to be +disrespectful in carrying out our orders?" +</P> + +<P> +From within a girl's voice answered: +</P> + +<P> +"You need not fear; I shall make no outcry." +</P> + +<P> +"The word of Your Highness is given. It would be painful for us to be +disrespectful again. Come." +</P> + +<P> +The girl who stepped out of the car was unmistakably Ruth Atheson. +Behind her came a raw-boned, muscular woman, and a powerful-looking man. +</P> + +<P> +As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cement +walk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but her +eyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter was +set some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by an +ornamental stone wall. Distinguishing the house from its neighbors was +a narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, its +slender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged with +stone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor. To +one side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whose +foliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze. +</P> + +<P> +Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry; +the door was closed quickly, and Ruth's companions stood respectfully +aside. His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met her +at the foot of the stairs. Bowing low, he kissed the white hand before +Ruth could prevent. +</P> + +<P> +"We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness." +</P> + +<P> +With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs. +His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conference +regarding her had been held only a few days before. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Highness—" he began. +</P> + +<P> +But Ruth interrupted him. "I do not understand your language." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreign +language, said, "I am surprised that Your Highness should have +forgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily. +</P> + +<P> +"I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are—and also why I am +here. Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder. I +am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister smiled again, and started to speak. But Ruth again +interrupted him. +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, I +must again request that you speak a language I can understand. I have +already told you that I do not understand what you say." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but this +time he spoke in English. +</P> + +<P> +"It shall be as Your Highness wishes. It is your privilege to choose +the language of conversation. We will speak in English, although your +own tongue would perhaps be better." +</P> + +<P> +"My own tongue," said Ruth, "is the language that I am using; and again +I must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess. You +have simply been guilty of abduction. You have taken the wrong person." +</P> + +<P> +For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up a +portrait, which he extended toward the girl. +</P> + +<P> +"I know," said Ruth, "I know. Many times in Europe I have been +subjected to annoyance because of the resemblance. I know the Grand +Duchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Highness shall have it as you wish. I am satisfied with the +resemblance. Since you left San Sebastian there has been scarcely a +minute that you have not been under surveillance. It is true that you +were lost for a little while in Boston, but not completely. We traced +you to Sihasset. We traced <I>him</I> there also finally—unfortunately for +the poor fellow." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth started: "You have not—" +</P> + +<P> +The Minister looked sad. "Alas! Highness," he said, "he is no +more—-an unfortunate accident. We do not even know where his body is. +I fear he may have been drowned, or something worse. At any rate he +will trouble you no more." +</P> + +<P> +The face of the girl showed keen distress. "Poor child!" was all she +could say. +</P> + +<P> +"He was not, Highness, exactly a child, you know," suggested the +Minister. +</P> + +<P> +"I was not referring to <I>him</I>." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister's smile returned. +</P> + +<P> +"Then, Highness, perhaps you were referring to the Grand Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +"I was referring to the Grand Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +All this time His Excellency never lost his air of respect, but now a +somewhat more familiar tone crept into his voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Highness," he said, "you will pardon me, I know, if I issue orders in +your regard. All is being done by your father's commands, given to me +through His Majesty. You know as well as I do that your marriage to +this Italian adventurer was impossible. You know that you are next in +line of succession, but you do not know something else. You do not +know that your father is even now dangerously ill. Your escapade has +been hushed up to avoid scandal, for you may be sitting on the throne +within a month. You must return to Ecknor, and you must return at +once. The easiest way, and the best way, would be to notify the +Washington papers that you have arrived on a visit to America +<I>incognito</I>, and that you are now a guest at the Ministry. Though it +is already midnight, I have prepared such a statement. Here is it." +The Minister pointed to a number of sealed envelopes on the desk. "If +you consent to be reasonable, I shall have these dispatched by +messenger at once, and to-morrow make arrangements for your +entertainment. We shall send you to see some of the cities of the +United States before you leave again for Europe. In this way your +presence in America is explained. Nothing need ever be said about this +unfortunate matter, and I can promise you that nothing will be said +about it when you return home." +</P> + +<P> +It was Ruth's turn to smile. +</P> + +<P> +"You are overlooking one thing, Excellency, and that the most +important. I am not the Grand Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, Highness. You have explained that before. It would not +become me to contradict you, and yet you cannot blame me for carrying +out my orders. If you do not agree to the plan I have suggested, I +must put you under restraint. No one will be permitted to see you, and +proper arrangements will be made to have you transferred secretly to +one of our warships, which will be making a cruise—for your especial +benefit—to America in the course of a month. A month, Highness, is a +long time to wait in restraint, but you must see that there is nothing +else for me to do." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth was obliged to smile in spite of herself at the mixture of +firmness and respect in the suave Minister's tones. He was encouraged +by the smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," he said, "I see that Your Highness will be reasonable." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth looked him straight in the eye. +</P> + +<P> +"But what if I should convince Your Excellency that you have made a +mistake, that I am telling you the truth when I say I am not the Grand +Duchess Carlotta?" +</P> + +<P> +The Minister bowed. "It would be easy to convince me, Highness, if you +could produce for me one who is more likely to be the Grand Duchess +than yourself. But, alas! could there be two such faces in the world?" +Admiration shone out of the little man's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no doubt, Excellency," said Ruth, still smiling, "that His +Majesty was wise in appointing you a diplomat. We shall be good +friends even though I have to stay. You are making a mistake, and I am +afraid you will have to pay for it. I shall, however, be a model +boarder, and possibly even enjoy my trip on the warship. But I +certainly shall not receive your friends at a reception, nor will I +permit you to give me the honors due the Grand Duchess. Neither can I +produce her. She is probably far away by this time. I will tell you +my story, and you may judge for yourself." +</P> + +<P> +His Excellency bowed profoundly. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "Will you permit me to be +seated?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, Your Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister drew up a chair and sat down, with a low bow, before his +desk; but not before he had placed Ruth in a chair where the light +would shine full on her face. He seemed now to be a changed +man—almost a judge; and the fingers thrummed on the glass as they had +done during the conference with Wratslav and Ivan. +</P> + +<P> +With a half-amused smile, Ruth began. +</P> + +<P> +"Excellency, my name is Ruth Atheson. You may easily verify that by +sending for my uncle, Monsignore Murray, of Sihasset, with whom I made +my home until he went to college in Rome to study for the priesthood. +I was left in Europe to receive my education. Afterward I came to +America to be near my uncle, but I made frequent trips to Europe to +visit friends. It was during one of these visits that I first met the +Grand Duchess Carlotta, four years ago, at San Sebastian. The +remarkable likeness between us caused me, as I have already told you, a +great deal of annoyance. Her Highness heard of it and asked to meet me. +</P> + +<P> +"We became close friends, so close that in her trouble she turned to +me. I was with relatives in England at the time. She wrote asking me +to receive her there, telling me that she intended to give up her claim +to the throne and marry Luigi del Farno, whom she sincerely loved. I +sent her a long letter warning her against the step—for I knew what it +meant—and advising her that I was even then preparing to leave for +America. Unfortunately, she knew my address and followed me to +Sihasset, directing her lover to wait until she sent for him. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew that the best means of concealing her would be to play upon the +likeness between us, and never go out together. For extra precaution, +when either of us went out, a veil was worn. She was taken for Ruth +Atheson; and Ruth Atheson, by your detectives, was taken for the Grand +Duchess Carlotta. Indeed," and here Ruth smiled, "she was very much +taken—in an auto, and as far as Washington. You propose now to take +her still farther. The Grand Duchess would know, ten minutes after it +happened, of my abduction, and she would guess who was responsible. So +you may be certain that she is no longer at Sihasset. The picture you +have, Your Excellency, is the picture of the Grand Duchess, not of me. +It happened that, as I was walking outside the gates of my home, your +friends appeared. The mistake was quite natural." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister had listened respectfully while Ruth spoke, but he was not +convinced. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be discourteous in me, Highness," he said, "to doubt your +word. But it would be worse than discourteous were I to accept it. I +am sorry; but you must offer me more than statements. My men could +scarcely have been deceived. They followed you each time you came out. +Two people do not look so much alike—especially outside of families—" +</P> + +<P> +His Excellency's eyes opened as he flashed a keen look at Ruth. The +name "Atheson" had suddenly commenced to bother him. What was it he +should have remembered—and couldn't? The intentness of his gaze +disconcerted Ruth. The Minister changed it to look down at his +thrumming fingers, and continued in his suavest tones, following that +scarcely perceptible pause. +</P> + +<P> +"—as to deceive men trained in the art of spying. I can only repeat +what I have already said: there are two courses open, and it is for you +to determine which you prefer." +</P> + +<P> +"You may be sure, then, Your Excellency," said Ruth, "that I shall not +select the course that would put me in a false light before all the +world. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta, and I must refuse to be +taken for her. My uncle will not be long in deciding who is +responsible for my abduction, and I can assure you that you will have +explanations to make before your warship arrives." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister arose promptly as Ruth stood up, her hand resting lightly +on the desk. +</P> + +<P> +"I am tired, Your Excellency," she continued, "and—since you insist on +my being the guest of your government—I will ask to be conducted to my +apartments." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister bowed. "If Your Highness will permit." He touched a +bell. The raw-boned woman was in the room so quickly that Ruth +wondered if she had been all the time just outside the door. At a +signal from His Excellency, the woman picked up Ruth's wrap and gloves. +His Excellency meanwhile, with a low bow, had opened the door. Ruth +passed into the broad corridor and, accompanied by the Minister, +proceeded to a handsome suite of rooms. +</P> + +<P> +The Minister turned to Ruth. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but I have +strict instructions in the event of your refusal to comply with my +suggestion, that you are to remain in strict seclusion. I cannot +permit you to see or speak to anyone outside, so I hope you will not +embarrass me by making any such request." He pointed toward the +windows. "You will notice, Highness, that there is a balcony in front +of your apartments. In the next room, which also opens upon the +balcony, is a guard. There will be a guard also at your door and +another on the lawn below. Your windows will be under constant +surveillance, though you will never see the guards unless you venture +forth. Your guards will be changed constantly, and it will be—" the +minister's pause was significant, the tone of his voice even more so +"—unwise—to attempt to gain their friendship. They might find +it—disastrous." Again the smooth significance of the voice. He +paused for a moment, then spoke more lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"If Your Highness will permit, Madam, my wife, will call on you and be +at your disposal at any time, as also my daughters. Since you have no +maid with you, Madame Helda," His Excellency called the raw-boned woman +from the next room as he spoke, "will wait upon you. Everything to +make your stay pleasant and comfortable has been arranged. But you are +an important personage and if we are firm, Your Highness, it is not +because we wish to be, but only because of duty to your country, and to +yourself. If you decide, at any time, that you should like to see +America, you have only to summon me. Your Highness will permit me to +retire?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, Your Excellency, and thank you." +</P> + +<P> +With a profound bow His Excellency left the room. Ruth examined her +apartments with a pleased smile of gratification—for they looked +anything but a prison. The Minister knew how to make rooms pleasant. +</P> + +<P> +The diplomat went slowly downstairs. He had lost his smile, and his +face was contracted with worry. The girl's story had impressed him +more than he had cared to own, and there was much of the human in him, +in spite of the diplomat's veneer. Then the name "Atheson" sounded +insistently in his ears and, momentarily, he felt that he was almost +grasping the clue as he strove to remember. +</P> + +<P> +As he entered the library, his secretary stood up, a yellow paper in +his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"I have been waiting to hand this to you personally, Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister took the paper. It was a cablegram translated from code, +which read: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"The Duke is dead. If Her Highness has arrived do everything possible +to bring her to understand that there must be no scandal. Be +absolutely firm and have her return at any risk without delay. The +<I>Caspian</I> has been dispatched from the coast of France and should +arrive in ten days. We have given out that the Duchess is traveling +incognito, but has been notified to return." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The worry on the Minister's face deepened. +</P> + +<P> +"This complicates matters, Wratslav," he said, "and makes it more +imperative that Her Highness be kept most strictly secluded. Go to bed +now. We shall have enough to keep us awake for the next ten days." +</P> + +<P> +Wratslav left, but the Minister sat down at his desk. Morning found +him there asleep. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVI +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED +</H3> + +<P> +At eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Minister was handed a card which +read: +</P> + +<P> + "RIGHT REV. DONALD MURRAY, D.D." +</P> + +<P> +Touching a bell, His Excellency summoned Wratslav. +</P> + +<P> +"There is a clergyman," he said, "who calls on me. I do not know him, +and of course I cannot guess his business. Perhaps you will see him." +</P> + +<P> +The secretary bowed and went out. As he entered the reception room, +Father Murray arose. Before the priest could speak, the secretary +began: +</P> + +<P> +"You desire to see His Excellency?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray bowed. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requested +me to ascertain the nature of your business." +</P> + +<P> +"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business." Father +Murray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receive +you. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Could +you not give me some inkling as to what you desire?" +</P> + +<P> +"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you might +say to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference to +Miss Ruth Atheson—" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He will +understand." +</P> + +<P> +The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message at +once," he said. +</P> + +<P> +In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray. +</P> + +<P> +"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as my +secretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Atheson +and, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think I +would know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would see +you personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name. +Perhaps she wishes a <I>visé</I> for a passport?" +</P> + +<P> +"That might explain it," answered Father Murray; "but I think she +desires a passport without the <I>visé</I>. I have reason to believe that +Your Excellency knows something of her—rather—unexpected departure +from her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point is +quite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, a +visitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desired +is your permission for her to return to her friends." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister's face expressed blankness. +</P> + +<P> +"You have been misinformed," he answered. "I know nothing of Miss +Atheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if you +think it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be of +service to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me." +</P> + +<P> +"The facts are very easily stated," said the priest. "First, the young +lady is my niece." +</P> + +<P> +It was the Minister's boast—privately, understand—that he could +always tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, and +now—past master in the art of diplomacy though he was—he found it +hard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl's +story. +</P> + +<P> +"You say she left her home unexpectedly?" +</P> + +<P> +"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, Your +Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"And this happened where?" +</P> + +<P> +"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, and +will probably remember it." +</P> + +<P> +The half-closed eyes almost smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"Had your niece lived there long?" +</P> + +<P> +"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor." +</P> + +<P> +Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the cold +exterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more—all. +</P> + +<P> +"Before that—?" +</P> + +<P> +"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives." +</P> + +<P> +"She was educated there perhaps?" +</P> + +<P> +"She received her education principally in Europe." +</P> + +<P> +"She has traveled much, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but she +has many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits them +quite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, and +regret that I can see no way of assisting you." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with. +He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of his +knowledge. +</P> + +<P> +"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mention +another name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your Great +Kingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes, +and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency to +understand?" +</P> + +<P> +The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatly +worried. +</P> + +<P> +"It does not, Reverend Sir," he answered, "unless you might possibly be +able to introduce me to a grand duchess <I>in America</I>. I am always +interested in my countrymen—and women. If a grand duchess were +brought here—that is," he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "if +a grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place my +entire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of. +Perhaps your Reverence understands?" +</P> + +<P> +"Thoroughly," said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand. +But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call on +you, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead." +</P> + +<P> +At last the Minister lost his <I>sang froid</I>. His face was colorless. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think Your Excellency already knows." +</P> + +<P> +"How did she die, and when?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident." +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" +</P> + +<P> +"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper—which you +possibly have neglected to read—you will see a list of those killed in +a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a +Washington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and the +pictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue in +Baltimore awaiting identification." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers +had been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. On +the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side—taken at +the morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features, +the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an +unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, he +turned to the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"How do I know," he asked, "that this—" pointing to the picture—"is +not Ruth Atheson?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think," said the priest, "that you will have to take my word for +it—unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit +to the morgue. The body is still unburied." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall send to the morgue." +</P> + +<P> +"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Before +going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your +custody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is +taking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is now +in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until +to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will afford +ample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us by +ten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the +hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department—with +all the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard +Hotel." +</P> + +<P> +The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent +hammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase, +"all the details," bore an almost sinister significance. +</P> + +<P> +His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson—Atheson." His voice was +tense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?" +</P> + +<P> +It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along. +Forgotten for years—yes. But where was the diplomat who did not have +the information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as he +answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Edgar Atheson." +</P> + +<P> +"Etkar—" +</P> + +<P> +But the priest raised his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Edgar Atheson</I>—if you <I>please</I>." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of—" +</P> + +<P> +"Alice Murray," the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of +dignified hauteur. +</P> + +<P> +His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued. +</P> + +<P> +"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the young +Italian officer is known to others beside myself. It would make +unfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be made +public. I wish Your Excellency good morning." +</P> + +<P> +He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door. +</P> + +<P> +"One moment," he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request your +Reverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. I +cannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public. +State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and—" he +continued coldly—"you are now on the territory of my royal master." +</P> + +<P> +But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid. +</P> + +<P> +"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency," he said quietly. "I +mentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Nor +need you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquainted +with state complications to know when silence is best. We shall not +speak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall not +hesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shall +insist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you nor +His Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly stand +aside." +</P> + +<P> +But His Excellency still barred the way. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Reverence," he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on one +condition: that you will again give me your word that you will keep +silence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in the +meantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and Baron +Griffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. There +may be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position. +I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficult +circumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harm +shall come to her. Have I your word?" +</P> + +<P> +"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act, +we shall keep silence." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you good +morning." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at the +corner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon their +footsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledge +of the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twenty +minutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the New +Willard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the next +morning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St. +Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass. +</P> + +<P> +When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslav +was in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information. +For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years His +Excellency was nonplussed. +</P> + +<P> +"If she is dead, Wratslav," he said, "what will be said of us, and what +new trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?" +</P> + +<P> +"The Duchy," said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother." +</P> + +<P> +"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then, +that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunate +complication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the whole +world. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what's +going to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"But," objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot take +the risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The Grand +Duchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would be +easy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. You +cannot let her go until you are sure." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed. +</P> + +<P> +"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go to +Baltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming. +Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish. +Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bring +me half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face on +every side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have about +her; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. See +also if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrow +morning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches until +then." +</P> + +<P> +His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE OPEN DOOR +</H3> + +<P> +That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room at +the New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the more +cheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark looked +broken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth had +not been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, but +he could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation. +Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Mark," he said, "you don't understand the kind of a country +you are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and an +elected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive at +it. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but a +Minister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be sure +that our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quite +sufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, and +ultimately force him to yield." +</P> + +<P> +"I could wish him," said Mark, "a <I>more</I> painful state of <I>suspense</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope, +Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering. +The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellency +looked very much perturbed—for a diplomat—before I was done with him. +There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger in +Baltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able to +identify the body. Then they must free Ruth." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish, Father," Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look at +things as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious are +the games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have." +</P> + +<P> +"I question a little," replied Father Murray, "if that last statement +is true—that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning to +think you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who think +that they have very much could learn how to make what is really their +very little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned upon +me to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious people +never make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure in +that career." +</P> + +<P> +"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at least +partly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like a +daughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter to +me. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have—that he has +someone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priest +is constituted the same as other men, long training and experience have +made his life and mental attitude different from those of men of more +worldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely than +is any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him. +That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talented +he may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had to +unfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey left +a heritage that at best is of doubtful value—not because he was a +priest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor he +so often forgot that he was a priest. There are many great +priest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest in +politics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't his +place. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest in +the inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little less +worthy of the former—rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendel +was a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; and +how many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office? +Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbé. A priest as a priest can +be nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatness +in anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, my +dear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges from +the exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service from +a man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is the +sternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-hearted +service or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but I +am not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else take +the responsibility from off my shoulders." +</P> + +<P> +"But," said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with a +priest's duties to his flock?" +</P> + +<P> +"The church does not let them interfere," answered Father Murray. "She +holds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must +'cleave to his wife.' How could a priestly husband do that and yet +fulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wife +would come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has for +his children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, the +priest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man who +offers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, must +be supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared to +sacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives up +his life for his sheep.' In practice, no one expects that except of +the priest; but from him everyone expects it." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really think," asked Mark, "that those outside the Church +expect such a sacrifice?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterian +minister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never liked +priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my +personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic +Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and +fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a +failure—His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I +knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would +fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ +turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist, +every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a +priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the +representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not +hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed +me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of +enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their +enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position +increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a +scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my +own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief +the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had +forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction +was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not +be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest +greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I +judged—and, judging, condemned—I knew that I was measuring him by his +own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of +honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never +to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever; +it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall +should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to +God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles—no +return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant +criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants, +demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a +sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it +yourself—you know you do." +</P> + +<P> +For a moment Mark did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered if +others felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotions +and thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it for +years. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one of +them before you now." +</P> + +<P> +"Go on," said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off the +worry." +</P> + +<P> +"You remember, Father," said Mark, "the day I met you in your study +that eventful Sunday in London?" +</P> + +<P> +The priest nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get away +from my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clear +conscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one and +that that was why I sought you out—not to give up, but to defy you, +and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I could +justify myself before such a man as you it would set things at rest +within me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself. +Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholic +churches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minute +I seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is in +front of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a hand +beckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand—my +mother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it—and I can't +understand why." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray's eyes were serious. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, my dear Mark," he answered, "you ought to know that you can't get +away. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you suppose +any man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Then +how is it possible for you to get away from that which first told you +of God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew about +Him? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makes +those who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes those +who have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is an +influence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it draws +<I>everything</I>. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to be +no middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, it +cannot be ignored. It has had its chain around <I>you</I>, Mark, and you +are only now realizing that you can't cast it off." +</P> + +<P> +Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchanged +between the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at his +friend, said good night and left the room. +</P> + +<P> +A minute later he returned. +</P> + +<P> +"Father," he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying to +share your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost to +me, will you—heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be, +whichever you are pleased to call me—will you still be a friend and, +should she accept me, join our hands?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course I +will marry you—that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlooker +to give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me, +not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as Mother +Church can make it and as binding as eternity." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVIII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SAUNDERS SCORES +</H3> + +<P> +It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when the +card of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. The +priest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room, +and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same moment +and were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' own +request, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in the +meantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and its +interior—"for emergencies," he explained to Mark. +</P> + +<P> +The secretary proceeded to business without delay. +</P> + +<P> +"I have come on behalf of His Excellency," he said, "and to express his +regrets." +</P> + +<P> +"I scarcely expected regrets," answered the priest; "for at ten o'clock +I was to have a definite answer." +</P> + +<P> +"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bade +me offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long be +delayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore—a +situation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by His +Excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot imagine," Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what that +situation could be." +</P> + +<P> +"Let me explain then." The secretary talked as one sure of his ground. +"I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, would +be at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not particularly," answered the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely your +niece. The other—" +</P> + +<P> +"At the Ministry—" Mark put in. +</P> + +<P> +"Wherever she is," parried the secretary. "The other is the Grand +Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps, Mr. Secretary," quietly suggested Father Murray, "you will +admit that I ought to know my own niece?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is a great resemblance, Reverend Sir, between the two ladies. I +have seen the dead girl, and have examined her belongings. Her apparel +was made, it is true, in Paris; but your niece has recently been there. +Her bag bears the initials, 'R.A.' The mesh bag is plainly marked in +gold cut initials with the same letters. The dressing case is also +marked 'R.A.' Even the handkerchiefs are thus marked." +</P> + +<P> +"As she was a guest of my niece, and of course left Killimaga very +hurriedly after the abduction," said Father Murray, "it is quite +probable that the Grand Duchess took the first clothes and other +effects that came to hand. She may even have purposely used things +belonging to Miss Atheson in order not to have anything in her +possession that might betray her identity." +</P> + +<P> +"True, that is possible," the secretary admitted; "but it is not +probable enough to satisfy His Excellency. Without a doubt, he ought +to satisfy himself. In the meantime, while the doubt remains, it is +clear that your answer cannot be given." +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose we place this matter, then," said the priest, "where the +answer will come in response to a demand? There is still the British +Embassy and the Department of State." +</P> + +<P> +"It will be plain to you, Reverend Sir," said the secretary, "that such +a course would not be of assistance. Frankly, we do not want +publicity; but, certainly, neither does your Department of State. In +fact, I think that this affair might offer considerable embarrassment +to the President himself at this time. And you? Would you wish the +reporters to hear of it and have it published with all possible +embellishments and sent broadcast? A few days will not be long in +passing. I can vouch for the fact that the lady is quite comfortable. +Why not see it from His Excellency's point of view?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just what is that point of view?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will be frank. You gentlemen know the situation. His Excellency's +entire career is at stake. If this lady is the Grand Duchess and she +does not go back to her throne—" +</P> + +<P> +"Her throne?" Mark broke out in astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +"Her father is dead. She is the reigning Grand Duchess, though she +does not know it yet. You see the situation? His Excellency must be +sure." +</P> + +<P> +"But how does he mean to arrive at certainty?" asked Father Murray. +</P> + +<P> +"That will be our task." +</P> + +<P> +"And in the meantime?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is safe." +</P> + +<P> +"And if we seek the Department of State?" +</P> + +<P> +"It will be the word of the minister from a friendly power against +yours—and they will not find the lady." +</P> + +<P> +"You would not—" +</P> + +<P> +"They will not find the lady." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," Mark spoke fiercely. "You have not kept your word." +</P> + +<P> +"We have. She is safe, and shall be safe. Patience, if you please, +and all will be well." +</P> + +<P> +"It looks," said Father Murray, "as though we had no other choice." +</P> + +<P> +Mark glanced at the priest, astonished that he should acquiesce so +easily, but Father Murray gave him a quick, meaning look. +</P> + +<P> +"That, Reverend Sir," answered the secretary, "is true. Since you see +it so, I will bid you good day—to meet you again, shortly." +</P> + +<P> +Scarcely had the secretary left the room when Father Murray was at the +telephone calling Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +"Come down," he directed, "at once." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders was with them before either Mark or the priest spoke again. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" Saunders lost no time. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray gave him an outline of what had passed. Mark said +nothing. A picture of despair, he was sitting with his head bowed upon +his breast. +</P> + +<P> +"And now, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "it is your business to +counsel—to be a real detective. What do you suggest?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is at the Ministry," said Saunders. "Let that be my first +statement. She is occupying a room which opens on a balcony of the +second floor. There is a guard in the next room, which also opens on +the same balcony. She is well watched. But I was in front of that +house three hours last night, and again this morning—rather, I was in +the house across the way. I had a good chance to communicate the news +of your arrival to her—" +</P> + +<P> +"What!" Mark was on his feet now. +</P> + +<P> +"It was simple. I did it this morning with a hand mirror. You +remember how bright the sun was about nine o'clock? Well, it was +shining right into the room where I was, and when I saw that she was +probably alone I caught the light on my little mirror and flashed the +reflection into her room. I juggled it about as oddly as I could, +flashing it across the book she was reading. Then I tried to make it +write a word on her wall. Perhaps you would like to know the word, +Baron?" He turned to Mark with a smile. "You would? Well, I tried to +write 'M-A-R-K.' I think she understood, for she turned toward the +window and seemed about to give me some signal. Then she raised her +hand in a quick motion of alarm and began reading again. I withdrew +the light, just in time, for some woman entered the room." +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you are +dangerous, being a very clever man." +</P> + +<P> +"But how, in Heaven's name," asked Mark, "did you get into that house? +It is the home of—" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure it is," answered Saunders. "Sure it is. But the family is away, +and they left only the chauffeur at the residence. Chauffeurs are fine +fellows—under certain circumstances. They have acquired the habit." +</P> + +<P> +"The conditions," laughed Mark, "will, I suppose, appear in your +accounts?" +</P> + +<P> +"In my accounts? Yes… Now to the rest of the discussion. I do +not believe this affair can be arranged as easily as you think. It +looks to me as if they really believe they have the Grand Duchess, and +that we are trying to help her get away. They think she has planned +the whole thing and that we are part of the plan. Miss Ruth was with +Madam Neuville when they caught her. That's one point in their favor. +Then the Duchess had things belonging to Miss Ruth, and had them when +killed. That's point two for them. The face of Miss Ruth is the face +on the portraits of the Grand Duchess. There's point three for them; +and it is a fact that the face of the dead girl was slightly +disfigured, as you know. The Minister dare not make a slip. He is not +going to make one if he can help it. He will do something without +delay to avoid all danger of your interference. If you go to court, +you'll have publicity. If you go to the Department of State, their +delays would make interference too late. If you don't act quick you'll +have no chance to act at all. My advice is, to get into better +communication with the young lady and then—to do a bit of quiet +abduction ourselves." +</P> + +<P> +"That's easy to say, Saunders," said Mark. "But how carry it out?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done." Saunders +spoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can." +</P> + +<P> +"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "and we trust +you." +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on—" +</P> + +<P> +But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered the +call. +</P> + +<P> +"It's for you, Mark." +</P> + +<P> +Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"All right; send him up." +</P> + +<P> +He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing me +personally." +</P> + +<P> +They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy and +stood before them, bowing low—a typical Southern darkey, his hair +whitened by age. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you—" +</P> + +<P> +"A letter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sah." The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying to +withdraw the letter he had put away so carefully. +</P> + +<P> +"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'n +houses." +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet. +</P> + +<P> +But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth the +precious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprise +began to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed the +letter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how it +was a pretty young lady that threw it out." +</P> + +<P> +"You saw her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, +sah." The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thank +you, sah; thank you, sah." And with a broad grin he left the room. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to +Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark +read the lines again: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have +found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded +pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pension +the man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn't +with me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window because +of the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. +He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpeted +space near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. +For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into the +street. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. It +is a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it this +time. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find you +is my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean that +you are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard. +</P> + +<P> +"A warship has been sent to take the Grand Duchess home. I cannot +convince them that I am only Ruth Atheson. I am sure they are going to +send me away. You must get me out of this house quickly, or it will be +too late. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me this special signal and I will be ready: At ten-thirty any +morning flash the light and keep it still on the top of the gate +pillar. Leave it there a moment; then flash it once across the top if +you are coming that day, or twice for night. If you receive this +letter, answer it by flashing the light into my room to-morrow morning. +I shall pray for friendly sunlight. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you for coming. I don't know how you found out, but somehow I +felt that you would. Love to the dear Father, if he is with you. I +feel pretty sure he is. +</P> + +<P> +"Ruth." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Saunders was the first to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"I think, Father," he said, "that you have a clever niece. This makes +things easy." +</P> + +<P> +The Padre smiled. But Mark was not smiling—one can't do so little a +thing to show unbounded joy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIX +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CAPITULATION +</H3> + +<P> +It was early next morning when Saunders knocked at Mark Griffin's door. +His knock was soft, for Mark's room adjoined Father Murray's. When +Mark rose to let him in, the detective entered on tiptoe. +</P> + +<P> +"I came down to see you early," he said, "because I wanted to dodge the +Padre, and I thought perhaps he'd be over in the church for his Mass." +</P> + +<P> +"A good Yankee guess," said Mark. "I heard him leave a few minutes +ago, so you can talk as loud as you like. What is the matter? +Anything gone wrong?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's just this," said the detective. "We must make our attempt to get +Miss Atheson without the Padre's knowing anything about it. I have +been thinking about the thing, and I have a plan I believe will work. +It's out of the question to get that guard off the watch in any +ordinary way. If we attempt it, the house will be alarmed and we shall +be taken for burglars." +</P> + +<P> +"What difference if we are?" said Mark, very warmly. "If the Ministry +can stand publicity, we can. I am in favor of taking strong measures +right now." +</P> + +<P> +"Not on your life, Griffin. Not on your life," said Saunders. "You +don't seem to realize that the Padre cannot stand strong measures. +Arrest as burglars would mean publicity, and there would be all sorts +of fierce stories in the press. He is a priest—and then some." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what of it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, I know," soothed Saunders. "But the papers aren't in the +journalistic game for dignity, and they'd play the Padre up for all he +was worth; the more yellow the story, the better. The lady must be +gotten out of the Ministry quietly. Once we have her, it will be up to +the Ministry to make the next move. I have a hunch that His Excellency +won't make it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Mark grudgingly, "I suppose the quiet way is the better +way. What is your plan? Why not let Father Murray know?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't let him know, because he'd want to be in on it. At all risks, +he's got to be kept out. What I propose to do is to start up such a +trouble in the rear of the house that, for five minutes at least, +there'll be no guard in the front." +</P> + +<P> +"You would have to set it on fire to do that." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders put his finger impressively upon a button of Mark's pajamas. +</P> + +<P> +"You've guessed it, first shot out of the box. That's just what I'm +going to do. Rather, that's what <I>we're</I> going to do." +</P> + +<P> +Mark looked at him in solemn silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Saunders, what did you have to put you in this condition?" +</P> + +<P> +"Plain water and a cold bath," answered Saunders promptly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then perhaps you'll explain." +</P> + +<P> +"It'll be easy. They can put the fire out after the lady has gotten +away. The Minister is going to dinner to-night. Madame Minister—or +whatever you call her—will be with him; so will his flock of girls, +and so, of course, will His Excellency's secretary. The rest of his +staff don't live there. I figure that the guards, and the servants, +and Miss Atheson will be the only ones in the house. The fire will +bring all but Miss Atheson to the back. A rope ladder skillfully +thrown will do the rest. Now you see why I can't mix the Padre up in +that. We may be arrested, though I don't think we shall. The Minister +doesn't want anything of that kind. This morning I'll flash the night +escape signal to Miss Atheson. She'll be ready to leave, and you may +be sure she'll find a way to warn us if the guard is still around. +To-night you make an excuse to the Padre and slip away. He's going to +see a friend anyhow at the University out in Brookland. I heard him +say so. Tell him not to worry if you happen to be out when he comes +back. Fix it up any way you like, and we'll make the play and win." +</P> + +<P> +"Who's to do the 'skillful throwing' of the ladder?" +</P> + +<P> +"A friend of mine who used to be a fireman." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think you can get him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've engaged him already." +</P> + +<P> +"H-m." Mark stared at the detective, then burst forth with, "What time +did you get up?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't have to get up. I haven't gone to bed yet." +</P> + +<P> +Mark sat down in his chair to think. After a while he put out his hand +to the detective. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe you've got it, Saunders. I'll do it—but you'd better get +some rest" +</P> + +<P> +"Me for my little trundle bed." And Saunders, in high spirits, waved +his hand as he went out the door. +</P> + +<P> +Left alone, Mark proceeded to dress, but awaited Father Murray's return +before going down to breakfast. The time seemed long after breakfast, +but at length the priest prepared to leave the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +Mark spoke nonchalantly. "Oh, Father, I'm going out in the country +with some friends, and may not get back till quite late to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, Mark. I hope you have a pleasant trip." +</P> + +<P> +It was so easy that Mark felt a trifle worried. His device was crude, +and the priest had never before been so easily deceived. +</P> + +<P> +It was midnight when a big automobile containing Saunders, his +ex-fireman friend and Mark, drew up cautiously on a side street near +the Ministry. The men at first walked quietly past the house. They +saw a light in the apartment occupied by Ruth, but there seemed to be +no other light within. They then walked around the block, passing a +policeman at the corner, and entered the alley behind the Ministry on +the other side, out of the bluecoat's sight. There was no one in the +back yard, and Saunders easily effected an entrance into the garage, +which was not far from the house. Taking from his pocket an ordinary +hot-water bag, he knocked the lock off the gasoline tank and proceeded +to fill the bag with gasoline. Then he turned to Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all back here for you. Leave the rear work to me. Go around, +you two, and get the ladder. In fifteen minutes I'll have a fire at +the back door. You'll probably see the light. As soon as you hear +cries from the house, listen well and you'll know whether or not the +guard has rushed back. The big door-window on the balcony is always +left open so that the guard can command the window of Miss Atheson's +room, and you can easily hear him open and close the inside door. If +he doesn't leave, the game's up. As soon as you are sure he's gone, +throw up the ladder. If you get Miss Atheson, don't wait for me. Rush +her to the automobile and back to the hotel. I'll take care of myself. +Now go on, and wait for the big noise." +</P> + +<P> +The three men moved toward the door, but fell back when they saw a dark +figure plainly outlined against the dim light behind him. Saunders +said something under his breath. The ex-fireman turned pale, for he +thought it was a policeman. +</P> + +<P> +"The country is beautiful in the autumn, isn't it, Mark?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark was as embarrassed as any small boy caught in truancy. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you took things rather quietly, Father—I might have known +it was too good to be true. What did you come here for? You surely +knew it was something we could not have you concerned in." +</P> + +<P> +The priest laughed at Mark's rueful tone. +</P> + +<P> +"You should have known better, Mark, than to think I could be so easily +deceived. I am going to be mixed up in anything that concerns the +welfare of Ruth. Besides," he added, with another quiet laugh, "I +heard everything you two said this morning. I saw Saunders coming down +the hall as I was leaving, and, as it was rather early for a casual +visit, I came back to see what he was up to." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why in—I beg your pardon, Father—why in all common sense," +blurted out Saunders, "did you come here? You can't help, and we are +taking the only possible way." +</P> + +<P> +"Happily," rejoined Father Murray, "it is not the only way. Come out +of this, and I will tell you something you will be very glad to hear. +Let us get back to your automobile. We must not go very far away, for +we have yet to call at the Ministry, when His Excellency returns." +</P> + +<P> +"To-night?" +</P> + +<P> +"This morning," gently corrected the priest. It was now well on toward +one o'clock. +</P> + +<P> +The three men obeyed him. The ex-fireman got into the automobile, +while Mark and Saunders walked with Father Murray a short distance off. +When they were out of earshot, the priest turned to his companions. +</P> + +<P> +"You two have been working your own plans while I have been working +mine. When you had finished your little secret conference, I went to +St. Patrick's and said Mass. When I returned to the hotel, Mark didn't +seem to appreciate my company, so I left rather early. Before going to +Brookland, I called at the State Department. Happily, I know someone +quite high up, so I had no trouble. I told him the whole story, and he +promised to help me. A few hours ago he sent for me again and—" the +priest smiled at his hearers' evident anxiety to hear the details—"and +everything will be all right now. We are to see the Minister as soon +as he returns from the banquet. He will probably be back by one +o'clock, and he will listen—and listen well—to what I have to say. +The guard will be off before we leave, and Ruth will be at the hotel +before noon." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Father," said Mark, "how can you do it? The State Department +cannot get into this thing officially—cannot interfere at all. It is +too delicate. To-morrow morning Ruth will be on her way to the +seacoast, as sure as fate. She will be kept hidden there until that +warship comes." +</P> + +<P> +"The warship will not come," answered Father Murray. "His Majesty's +warships will be engaged very busily for some time to come. My +information—information which so far has not leaked out to the +public—is that the Big Kingdom is on the verge of war. There will be +no warship flying that flag on this side of the water for a long time." +</P> + +<P> +"War!" said Saunders. "But how does that help us?" +</P> + +<P> +Before Father Murray could reply, an automobile passed swiftly. +</P> + +<P> +"That is the Minister," remarked Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +The priest looked up. "We must hurry. Leave everything to me." +</P> + +<P> +Walking hastily, the trio approached the Minister, who had stopped at +the curb to give some order to his chauffeur. The ladies of the party +had already entered the house, accompanied by the secretary. +</P> + +<P> +It was Father Murray who spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon us, Your Excellency, for intruding on you at this hour, but it +is necessary that we should speak to you at once. With your +permission, we will go inside." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister looked disturbed. +</P> + +<P> +"Surely you know the hopelessness of it? I must warn you that you can +secure nothing through violence. My guard would not hesitate to take +forcible measures." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no need to worry about that, Your Excellency," replied the +priest. "No need at all. We shall not resort to violence. It will +not be necessary. But the matter is important, and we must speak to +you at once." +</P> + +<P> +The words were spoken sharply. His Excellency hesitated for a moment +longer, then threw out his hand and motioned them toward the house. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, gentlemen. Come." +</P> + +<P> +The unwelcome guests were shown into the drawing-room and the lights +switched on. His Excellency put his hat aside and turned to face his +callers. +</P> + +<P> +"It is already late, gentlemen, and I will ask you to be as brief as +possible. What is it you wish?" +</P> + +<P> +"We shall not detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary," said +Father Murray. "Yesterday I received a visit from your secretary, who +informed me that the probabilities were so strong that it was my niece +who had been killed in the railroad accident that you would be obliged +to decide against my claims for the present." +</P> + +<P> +"That is exactly the case," replied His Excellency. "Permit me to say, +Reverend Sir, that I can do nothing else. The Grand Duke is dead, and +His Majesty has taken charge of the matter. The Grand Duchess is a +ruler herself, at the present time. It is true she is only a foolish +girl, who ran away to marry a nonentity—but affairs of state are +greater than affairs of the heart. At all risks she must return to +Ecknor. I must be certain of her identity before I can make another +move. I appreciate the delicacy of the situation. I know that I have +practically kidnaped the girl. But I am certain your State Department +will want no trouble about it, nor will mine. If you are right, and +the girl is your niece, you have no cause to fear for her; she will be +returned to this country at once. If, on the contrary, she is the +Grand Duchess, there is no reason why you should seek to have her taken +away from us." +</P> + +<P> +"Her own wishes—" began Saunders. +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon me, sir. Her own wishes have nothing to do with the matter. I +confess that it is embarrassing that she does not want to go, but it is +more embarrassing that she ever went away. She must return to her +country, wishes or no wishes. I will consider nothing else. I have my +orders, and I shall obey them." The Minister turned toward the door, +evidently desirous that his visitors should leave. "I will ask you to +excuse me now, gentlemen." +</P> + +<P> +But matters had not been arranged to Father Murray's satisfaction. He +made no move to go, and looked straight into His Excellency's face as +he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Excellency has of course been informed of the critical condition +of affairs in Europe?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not understand." +</P> + +<P> +Though somewhat surprised, the priest could not doubt the sincerity of +the speaker. He hesitated but a moment, then spoke quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"Before the conversation proceeds farther, may I suggest that it might +be well for Your Excellency to see if there are any late dispatches +from your home government?" Noticing the Minister's haughty +astonishment, he added, "I have come from the Department of State." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister was startled, and turned to leave the room. "Pardon me a +moment, gentlemen." +</P> + +<P> +Mark turned to the priest. "What have you up your sleeve, Father?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray only smiled. "I think, Mark," he said, "that you are +certainly improving in the American brand of English. 'Up your sleeve' +is decidedly good United States. You will want to stay with us—even +though you are a Baron." +</P> + +<P> +Mark could get no more out of the priest. +</P> + +<P> +In a few minutes His Excellency returned, his face showing signs of +extreme annoyance. +</P> + +<P> +"I thank you, Reverend Sir," he said courteously. "I cannot understand +why my dispatches were not delivered to me at the banquet. I can only +express my regret." Father Murray bowed, and the Minister went on: +</P> + +<P> +"The lady is probably asleep now, but I think I may safely promise that +in a few hours she will be with you. It is more than probable that I +shall relinquish all claims upon her." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray smiled and picked up his hat which was lying on a table. +</P> + +<P> +"We may expect the lady before noon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"I thank Your Excellency. Permit us to bid you good morning." +</P> + +<P> +With a courteous bow, Father Murray took his leave, followed by Mark +and Saunders. The last they saw of His Excellency was the top of his +head as he bowed them out. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray chuckled all the way back to the hotel—and kept his +counsel. When they arrived at his bedroom door, Mark stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"Great Heavens, Father! You're not going to leave us in the dark like +this?" +</P> + +<P> +"'In the dark' is <I>very</I> good United States, Mark." +</P> + +<P> +"But what does it mean? What card did you play?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray's hand was on the doorknob, his eyes dancing with +merriment. +</P> + +<P> +"They say, Mark, that a royal flush beats everything. Well, I played +that." +</P> + +<P> +Mark tried to catch him but, with a low chuckle, he slipped into the +room and closed the door. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XX +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES +</H3> + +<P> +A few hours later—about ten o'clock—an automobile stopped in front of +the New Willard Hotel, and the Minister and his secretary alighted. +The visitors were shown at once into Father Murray's room where Mark, +Saunders and the priest waited. His Excellency took the chair offered +him and, with some hesitation in his choice, of words, opened the +conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"Gentlemen," he said, "I first wish to congratulate you on your +persistence. That persistence led me to think that there was some +justice in your case. You can scarcely blame me, however, for not +granting your wish immediately, especially since, as my secretary +informed you, the effects of the dead lady seemed to indicate that it +was Miss Atheson who had been killed. I find that I was mistaken. It +was the Grand Duchess. There is absolutely no question about that now. +As soon as you are ready to receive Miss Atheson, she shall leave the +Ministry where, as you understand, she has been an honored guest." +</P> + +<P> +The impetuous Saunders broke out: "Your Excellency means an honored +prisoner." +</P> + +<P> +But Father Murray stepped into the breach. +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all, Saunders," he said, "not at all." Then he turned to the +Minister. "Miss Atheson has been an honored guest at the Ministry. +That is perfectly understood, Your Excellency, <I>perfectly</I> understood." +</P> + +<P> +The Minister bowed. "I thank you, Reverend Sir. I am glad you do +understand. Miss Atheson was a friend of the Grand Duchess Carlotta. +She had known her in Europe. Why should she not have been a guest at +the Ministry of the nation which exercises a protectorate over the +domains of her late Royal Highness? I should wish to have that known +to the public. This afternoon we shall give to the press the sad story +of the visit to America of Her Royal Highness, under strict incognito. +Her friend, Miss Atheson, was of course awaiting the arrival of the +Grand Duchess, having come down in advance. Miss Atheson will, I am +sure, be kind enough, and considerate enough of the memory of Her +Highness, not to deny any of these statements." +</P> + +<P> +"I am sure, Your Excellency," said the priest, "that Miss Atheson will +keep strict silence as to the past. She would not wish to embarrass +the situation nor in any way stain the memory of her dead friend. Of +that you may rest assured." +</P> + +<P> +"I beg your pardon," said His Excellency, "but—I trust I may rely upon +the discretion of these gentlemen?" +</P> + +<P> +Mark and Saunders bowed their assurance. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"Your Excellency may rely on our discretion." +</P> + +<P> +"It is needless for me to say," continued the Minister, "that the +situation is most embarrassing. But there is no reason why the Grand +Duchess should not have visited her friend—no reason why she should +not have come to Washington on her way back to her own country. She +would naturally wish to avoid publicity and, of course, the Ministry +was constantly in touch with her moves. All this is a reasonable +explanation of what has occurred. As to the body's having lain +neglected in the Baltimore morgue for some hours, something must be +assumed by the telegraph company. The body has already been embalmed, +and arrangements have been made for its shipment to Europe. I shall +myself go to Baltimore this afternoon. Do you, Reverend Sir, wish it +known that the friend of the Grand Duchess is your niece?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; but I wish it put to the world in the proper form. Since Your +Excellency is preparing copy for the papers, may I ask if you will +permit me to revise it?" +</P> + +<P> +"That I shall be glad to do," said the Minister, his face all smiles. +</P> + +<P> +As His Excellency was about to depart, Saunders stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"One word, Your Excellency. Baron Griffin and myself were witnesses to +a very sad occurrence in Sihasset—" +</P> + +<P> +The Minister turned hurriedly. +</P> + +<P> +"You are mistaken, my friend," he said, significantly. "You are +mistaken. You saw nothing—remember that. It will be better for all +concerned. Your State Department would not thank you for making +embarrassing statements. Things have come out happily for you, if not +for the unfortunate Duchess. Yet, after all, perhaps the best thing +that could have happened for her was what you believed—until you were +corrected—happened in Sihasset. Baron Griffin will tell you that I +speak the truth when I say that the next best thing was her own death." +</P> + +<P> +Mark inclined his head, for he had heard something of the reputation of +Luigi del Farno, when he was in Florence. +</P> + +<P> +And then for the moment the Minister was forgotten in the man, and +tears glistened in His Excellency's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Gentlemen," he said, "I never saw Her Royal Highness. But I have +heard a great deal of her, and I have followed her career. She was not +born to be a Duchess. She had all my sympathy, for she was just a +woman—beautiful, sentimental, loving. She was just the kind to do the +rash things which courts will not tolerate. She was the kind to follow +her own heart and not the dictates of kings. She was unhappy at court, +and that unhappiness was increased when she fell in love with the +Italian. She was the kind who would love until death—and then beyond +the grave. She was one who would make any sacrifice to her devotion. +But she fought against the solid rock of princely customs and +prejudices, and there was nothing for her but to break upon it. Her +love ruined that young officer. He was doomed from the moment she went +away and he followed her. No earthly power could have saved him. +But—believe me—she is better dead than married to him. We had his +life investigated. He has had his just deserts. The Grand Duchess was +not the first. It is well that she was the last, poor girl. The most +merciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character was +the thing that did happen. She never knew of his fate. She died +thinking that she should meet him again—that she had successfully +broken down all barriers—that she and her lover could live their lives +in peace, here in America. She never learned that there could be no +happiness for her with a man like him. Let them rest in their +graves—for graves are better than courts. As Minister I could not say +these things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you now +as a man who has known love himself. Good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again. +</P> + +<P> +"When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray bowed. "Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence at +luncheon?" As Father Murray hesitated, he added, "It will be better +that you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel. Besides," +and he smiled good-humoredly, "we can get together and revise those +statements properly." +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave. +"Luncheon is at one," he remarked, as he left the room. "I should be +pleased if you would come a little early. I know you will desire to +talk with Mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, where +Ruth greeted him affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?" +</P> + +<P> +She made a little moue. "I don't like it at all. I'm abdicating +to-day." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finally +joined by His Excellency's daughters, who stayed with them until +luncheon was served. The meal proved to be a merry one, and after it +was over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed by +Wratslav. Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to the +hotel—in a long, low-built limousine. +</P> + +<HR WIDTH="60%"> + +<P> +The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast and +hastened to his study. The time was short, and there was much to be +done. His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, but +the Bishop pushed them aside. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I haven't time now. Put them in my grip." +</P> + +<P> +The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving his +instructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a more +opportune time—which never came. +</P> + +<P> +On the train, the Bishop's breviary first claimed his attention. As he +paused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by the +flaring headlines of a paper across the aisle. Quickly he opened his +grip and brought forth his own papers. Ah, here it was—on the first +page. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN<BR> + Former Vicar-General Announces<BR> + the Engagement of His Niece. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +And, in the next column: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P ALIGN="center"> + GRAND DUCHESS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF WRECK<BR> + Ruler of Ecknor Killed While<BR> + on Her Way to Washington. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered," or at least +influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the +Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was +back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He +saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait +of a charming child. +</P> + +<P> +"My niece," he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss her +sorely." +</P> + +<P> +He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, +who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been +strangely silent, he remembered. And—yes, it was just after that +that the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best," had been +Donald Murray's only comment. +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so +surprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidence +regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, +"My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you." +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind," he murmured, "to have known +so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my +friend?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXI +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BECKONING HAND +</H3> + +<P> +The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was +still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far +more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, +wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable +peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was +evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory" +and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his +countenance. +</P> + +<P> +"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one," +he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go +out now and look for another one." +</P> + +<P> +"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will +have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would +care for the same kind of position you had before—would you? I +suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not +going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought +Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I +heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his +intendent." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent +intend to do? It's a new one on me." +</P> + +<P> +"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a +personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business +affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a +good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective. +Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over +the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the +salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer. +Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very +much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a +black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference +that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, +Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very +complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity." +</P> + +<P> +Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of +seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father—only it strikes me that there +is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic' +and the one that wasn't born a Catholic." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Mr. Wise Man," said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain the +difference." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father," he +said, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the first +place—but this doesn't go for you—I think that the convert is more +bigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders," he replied, "that +you leave me out of it. That is a <I>real</I> compliment. Now, let us put +it this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars from +the time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, would +it not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you would +naturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—but what then?" +</P> + +<P> +"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenly +acquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-made +millionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth. +They become enthusiasts about what they have—and I must confess that +some of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign. +It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There is +too little of it in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"I am mighty glad now," said Saunders, "that you haven't got it." +</P> + +<P> +"What? The sincerity?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Lord, no!—the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't have +much trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, the +church I <I>don't</I> go to is the Methodist." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I will have to give you up," said Father Murray. "If the +Methodist were the one you actually <I>did</I> go to, I might have half a +chance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to <I>any</I>, I am +afraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you will +always be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother the +church," he added. +</P> + +<P> +"But surely, Father," said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here? +Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't he +want you to go back to the Cathedral?" +</P> + +<P> +"That is true," answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But I +have grown very fond of Sihasset, and the Bishop has kindly given me +permission to remain in charge of the parish here." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't quite understand that," said the visitor in an urging way. "I +should hate to lose you, Father—for of course I shall stay if the +Baron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife and +kiddies, too—I like the place, and I like the people—but when I was a +common soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant I +wanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy, +I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have been +satisfied until I had charge of a battalion—and so on up the line. It +takes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Why +shouldn't a priest have them, too?" +</P> + +<P> +"Some of them have," answered Father Murray, "when they are young. But +when they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they were +told in the seminary long before—that 'arriving' does not make them +any happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry, +because it means that you become more of a servant yet assume greater +responsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world, +it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had my +ambitions—and I have had them realized, too. But I found means to +transplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I do +not propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back on +the earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden of +God, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I can +help it. I shall stay in Sihasset if I am permitted to do so. Should +I be called away, that is a different matter. Please God, when I go +out—to quote my friend, Father Daly—I'll go out feet first." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose you're right, Father," said Saunders, "I suppose you're +right. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, now +that you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what you +want to know now, Saunders." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'll give you one guess," answered the detective. +</P> + +<P> +"You want to know," said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up so +easily." +</P> + +<P> +"I do," replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You must +have told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know what +magic you worked." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you have +learned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I told +you, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and, +for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him my +story, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matter +was a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. He +wasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that would +probably have to be 'forgotten.' He pointed out that the body had +disappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that to +prove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed that +our knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making His +Excellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, and +before I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at the +banquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Department +had had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant young +Italian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was ready +to meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that. +Late that night—after my return from Brookland—my friend sent for me +to come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of a +cipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. That +dispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which might +lead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in a +certain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next in +line, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almost +on his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but rather +desired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and just +the man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to be +understood that the girl was in America, and that the King would be +glad if she remained here permanently—in other words, that she be +allowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition to +deprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our own +military attache at the royal capital secured the information; and, +since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward the +dispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, he +sent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter was +settled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the story +going any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died,' said my +friend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle will +ascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom. +This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and, +instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand Duchess, he will +probably be only too anxious to be rid of her.' I had all that +information," continued Father Murray, "when I went to find you +gentlemen and save you from getting into mischief." +</P> + +<P> +"We would have had a glorious time, Father," sighed Saunders, +regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mind +grasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detective +business, Father," he said energetically, "has many angles, and few of +them are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and other +kind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like that +Minister," he added. "He isn't heartless." +</P> + +<P> +"No," replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar. +"He was mighty human when he came to see us at the New Willard. Don't +you remember how he forgot himself—even had tears in his eyes when he +referred to the dead Duchess and the fact that she was better off in +her grave than she would have been at court? His wife had taken a +genuine liking to Ruth, and the man himself was more than half +convinced that she was all she claimed to be, but he wasn't free to +release her. He now wants to make reparation—but he wants also to +support the idea that Ruth Atheson was only the <I>friend</I> of the dead +Duchess and, therefore, that the Duchess is really dead. It would be +very unfortunate, if, later on, it should prove that he had been +deceived. He would find it difficult to explain matters to His Majesty +if a Grand Duchess, supposedly dead, should suddenly prove very much +alive and demand possession of a throne already occupied by her +successor. So His Excellency wants the lady married as 'Ruth Atheson' +with due solemnity and with proper witness. There is method, Mr. +Saunders, even in his kindness." +</P> + +<P> +Saunders whistled again. "It beats me, Father," he said. "I own up. +They know more than detectives." +</P> + +<P> +At this moment Mark came striding over the lawn. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Saunders," he called. "I've been looking for you. Now that +I've got you, I might as well have it out and be done with it. Ruth +wants you to stay here. She wants to make you one of us. We are going +to Ireland for six months, and then we're coming back to live here part +of each year. We want you to take charge of Killimaga. I've bought +it. A good salary—no quarreling or dickering about it. What do you +say?" +</P> + +<P> +"This is certainly a surprise," said Saunders, winking at the Padre. +"Have you room for an extra family?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're married?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very much so." +</P> + +<P> +"The bigger the family the better. But," he added, as an afterthought, +"I'll have to tell Ruth, or she'll be trying to marry you off. You'll +come, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Saunders, "I guess I'll take you up on that." +</P> + +<P> +Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thought +you would stay." +</P> + +<P> +Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't you +think, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is coming +on the next train, you know." He paused and seemed momentarily +embarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought. +"Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have a +lot of things to straighten out." +</P> + +<P> +The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean +that, my boy?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an +open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand +behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face +behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, +perhaps—in fact, I know it must have been—but it was mother's +face—and I am coming home." +</P> + +<P> +The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest +and the penitent entered the church. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +RUTH'S CONFESSION +</H3> + +<P> +Late that afternoon Mark sat alone in the great library at Killimaga, +his head thrown back, his hands grasping the top of his chair. His +thoughts were of the future, and he did not hear the light footsteps +behind him. Then—two soft arms stole lightly around his neck, and +Ruth's beautiful head was bowed until her lips touched his forehead. +It was a kiss of benediction, speaking of things too holy for words. +</P> + +<P> +He covered her hands with his own. "Ruth." The tones breathed a world +of love. +</P> + +<P> +"I am so happy," she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +He started to rise, but one small hand, escaping from his grasp, rested +on his head and held him firmly. +</P> + +<P> +"I have a great deal to tell you, Mark. But first I want you to know +how happy I am that you have come back to Mother Church. I have been +praying so hard, Mark, and I should have been miserable had you refused +to return. Our union would never have been perfect without full +harmony of thought, and we might have drifted apart. But I am happy +now." Lightly her fingers stroked his brow and twined among his curls. +</P> + +<P> +He arose and, clasping her hands in both his own, he gazed down into +her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"And I too am happy, dear one. You have brought me two blessings: I +have found not only love, but peace at last after many years." +Tenderly he raised her hands to his lips. "But come, dear; it is too +glorious a day to remain in the house. Shall we go outside?" +</P> + +<P> +It was but a moment till she returned ready for a walk, and together +they sauntered toward the bluff, where she seated herself on a great +rock. Sitting at her feet, his head resting against the rock, his hand +raised to clasp hers, he was content. For a while they sat in silence, +gazing far out over the sea into the glory of the sunset. At last she +loosed her hand from his grasp and rested it lightly on his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Mark, dear, you know that there are to be no secrets between us two +now, don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +He looked up and answered promptly. "Not one—not a single one, for +all the days of the future, my darling. But," he added, "I have none +that are unrevealed." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not so fortunate, dear. I have a great one, and now I am going +to tell it all to you." +</P> + +<P> +"But—" +</P> + +<P> +"No, let me do all the talking until you hear it to the end, and let me +tell it in my own way." +</P> + +<P> +"All right," and he pressed her hand lovingly. +</P> + +<P> +"I never knew my father, Mark," she went on, "and yet I heard of his +death only a short time ago—in Washington. His name was not +'Atheson.' He was a very great personage, no less than the Grand Duke +of Ecknor, Prince Etkar." +</P> + +<P> +Mark started, but Ruth put up her hand. "You promised. Let me go on." +</P> + +<P> +"My mother married my father, who then called himself Edgar Atheson, in +London. He was the younger son of the then reigning Grand Duke and had +left home for political reasons, expecting never to return. But his +father and his elder brother were both killed by a bomb a few days +after his marriage to my mother. He returned to Ecknor, and she went +with him. In six months he had married, legally but not legitimately, +a princess of the protecting kingdom. Under the laws of the kingdom +the princess was his legal mate, the Grand Duchess of Ecknor, but my +mother was his wife before God and the Church. The Grand Duke gave her +a large fortune, and she had a beautiful home near the palace. +Everyone knew and pitied her, but they respected her. The Grand Duke +soon ceased to care for his morganatic wife, but he never deserted her. +Then, a year after the court marriage, I was born. It was given out +that the Grand Duchess had also given birth to a daughter, Carlotta." +</P> + +<P> +Mark patted her hand, but kept his promise of silence. Ruth went on. +</P> + +<P> +"After that, the Grand Duke seemed to lose all interest in his English +wife. My mother was very unhappy and wanted to return to England. She +finally escaped, with me, in a closed carriage. My uncle met us as we +crossed the frontier, and it was only then that mother understood why +her escape had been so easy—the Grand Duke had wanted her away. She +saw England only to die heart-broken, for she had loved her husband +devotedly. My uncle kept me with him until he became a Catholic and +went to Rome to study. Then I was sent to school in Europe. Later I +came to America. But I had many friends in Europe and visited them +frequently. It was on one of these visits that I met Carlotta. She +knew, and we became fast friends, as well as sisters." +</P> + +<P> +"But not full sisters," Mark said, thinking that the story was over. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait," cautioned Ruth. "There is more. Mother died thinking I was +her only child. But two girls were born to mother, and a dead child to +the Grand Duchess. Mother never saw one of her babies. She never +knew. And it was years before the Grand Duchess learned that her child +had died. Carlotta was my full sister. She was stolen to replace the +dead child. Now do you see?" +</P> + +<P> +"But how did you come to know all this?" asked Mark. +</P> + +<P> +"Carlotta told me. The Grand Duchess never seemed to care for +Carlotta; Carlotta's old nurse resented this and one day, after a worse +storm than usual, told Carlotta that the Duchess was not her mother. +There was a terrible scene in the palace. The old nurse was all but +banished, but Carlotta saved her. She was sworn to secrecy by the +Grand Duke. The Duchess died later as a result of the affair—of +apoplexy. Then the nurse disappeared, no one knew how or where, but +not before she had told Carlotta all about the twins that were born to +the Grand Duke's English wife. Carlotta had the secret and ruled her +father with it. She was allowed her own way, and it was not always a +good way. Her last escapade was the one you already know. Poor girl, +she was as good as a court would let her be; and here in Sihasset she +repented. But she believed in her lover, which I never did. I knew +his reputation, but she would not listen to a word against him. Now +you have the whole story." +</P> + +<P> +"And you," Mark managed to say, "you are the real Grand Duchess now. +What a misfortune!" +</P> + +<P> +"No," she replied, "I could never make such a claim; for my mother's +marriage was never admitted by the court as a royal marriage. It was +considered morganatic. Her children were legitimate, but could never +succeed to the throne." +</P> + +<P> +"But, even so," insisted Mark, "you are the Grand Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth put her hand gently over his mouth. "I am to be more than a grand +duchess, dear. I am to be your wife—to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +The sun was below the horizon now. For a while longer they watched its +banners of flaming red and yellow flung across the sky. Then, hand in +hand, they retraced their steps to Killimaga, where Mark left her with +a whispered, "Sweet dreams, dear," and went his way toward the rectory. +</P> + +<P> +As he sauntered aimlessly along, his thoughts were all of her. Never +once had she lectured him on religious matters, yet she was splendidly +sincere, and her faith of the greatest. And she had been praying for +him all the time! Yet what need of speech? Her very self, her every +action, her nice sense of right, were greater than any sermon he had +ever heard from mortal lips. She was a woman whom any man might well +love—and honor. +</P> + +<P> +Reluctantly Mark at last sought the rectory, where the Bishop and +Monsignore awaited him. And almost desperately he sought to evade Ann, +whose dinner had been kept waiting. Seeing the attempt was vain, he +threw up his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Both hands up, Ann. I claim the protection of the Bishop." +</P> + +<P> +And Ann, not displeased, went on her way. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIII +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHARRED WOOD +</H3> + +<P> +All Sihasset was in the little church next morning. Mrs. O'Leary, +grand even in her widow's weeds, had a front seat before St. Joseph's +altar, where she could see everything, and crowded into the pew with +her were all the little O'Leary's. The old lady had had some +misgivings about attending a wedding so soon after her husband's death; +but the misgivings were finally banished for—as she confided to the +eldest of her grandchildren—"Sure, 'tis Miss Ruth who is gettin' +married, and himself would want me there." +</P> + +<P> +So Mrs. O'Leary arrived two hours ahead of time and secured her point +of vantage. Under more ordinary circumstances she would have had a +hard time to quiet the energetic youngsters, but now they had enough to +occupy their minds, for when had they seen such gorgeous flowers, such +wonderful ferns? The sanctuary was massed with them, the little altar +standing out in vivid relief against their greenness. And then there +was that wonderful strip of white canvas down the center aisle, that +white strip that was so tempting to little feet, but which must not be +stepped upon. And what were those kneeling benches for—the two draped +in white—one on each side of the open gateway, just inside the +communion railing? And over on the left was a platform bearing a great +chair, and over it hung a canopy—only the children didn't call it +so—of purple. +</P> + +<P> +They had never seen the sanctuary look like this before! And then +their attention was attracted by the strains of the new organ, +hurriedly bought for the occasion. The choir from the city was +practising before the service. Truly, the little O'Learys were glad +that "Grandma" had ignored their cries and had insisted on coming +early. And what would Miss Wilson say at not being permitted to play +for the wedding? That thought alone was enough to keep the little +minds busy. +</P> + +<P> +Outside, Main Street was decorated with flags; and the people, keenly +expectant, were watching for His Excellency. Never before had they +known the Minister of a Kingdom to step within the boundaries of +Sihasset. Bishops had been seen there before, but Ministers were new, +and international weddings had never come nearer than the great +metropolis. Barons, too, were scarce, and who loves a baron—provided +he is not an American "baron"—any more than the simon-pure Yankee? So +the decorations were up by order of the selectmen, and the merchants +vied with one another in making their own ornamentations as gorgeous as +possible. And the people—with the sole exception of the +O'Learys—waited outside, each anxious to catch the first glimpse of +the great man who to-day was to honor them by his presence. +</P> + +<P> +His Excellency arrived at last—in a low, swift-running automobile, the +chauffeur of which seemed to know the road very well, and seemed also +to be acquainted with every turn in the village. There was no one to +notice that, when he passed the gates of Killimaga, he laughed quietly. +</P> + +<P> +At Killimaga the gardens had never looked lovelier. Autumn was kind +and contributed almost a summer sun. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray tore himself away from his guests at the rectory—and who +should those guests be but the old friends who had for so long +neglected him—to run up before the ceremony to see Ruth. She was +already arrayed in her bridal finery, but she rushed out to meet him +when she heard that he had arrived. +</P> + +<P> +Holding her off at arm's length, he looked at her and said, "I think, +dearie, that I am going to die very soon." +</P> + +<P> +"Die! Why, you old love, how could you get that notion into your head?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because," he answered, "I am so very, very happy—too happy. I have +had a great deal more, dear, than I was ever entitled to in this life. +When I sent you away and went to Rome, I feared I had given you up +forever; and, behold, here I am, with the silver hairs coming—a priest +with all the consolations that a priest can have, and yet I have a +daughter, too." And smiling in his own winning way, he added, "And +such a daughter!—even if she is really only a niece." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth laughed softly and drew his arm around her as she laid hers +lightly on his shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid," she said, "that the daughter never deserved the kind of +a daddy she has had—the only one she ever knew. If Carlotta—" +</P> + +<P> +But Father Murray interrupted hastily as he observed the touch of +sorrow in her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Do not think of her to-day, my dear," he said. "Put her out of your +mind. You have prayed for her, and so have I. It is all we can do, +and we can always pray. Forget her until to-morrow and then—never +forget." +</P> + +<P> +Seeing that the sad look had not been entirely chased away, he added, +cheerfully: +</P> + +<P> +"Now, before I go back to the Bishop and my friends, I want to ask you +one serious question." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth looked up with sudden interest. "As many as you like." +</P> + +<P> +He took her hands in his and looked keenly into her face. "It was +always a mystery to me," he said, "how you and Mark fell in love with +each other so promptly. He saw you coming out of the tree-door, then +he met you once or twice, and after that he lost his head; and +you—minx!—you lost yours. I have often heard of love at first sight, +but this is the only example I have ever seen of it. Explain, please, +for the ways of youth are strange, and even yet—old as I am—I have +not learned to understand them." +</P> + +<P> +"Why," she answered, "I had met him long before. Don't you remember +that day in London when you said good-bye to your congregation? Have +you forgotten that Ruth was there?" she asked archly, half +reproachfully. +</P> + +<P> +Father Murray's eyes lit up. "You remembered, then! Yes, yes. He +told me of the little girl. And you really remembered?" +</P> + +<P> +He was standing in front of her now, holding her at arm's length and +looking straight at her glowing face. +</P> + +<P> +"I remembered. I knew that day that you were suffering, and though I +was only eight years old, I cried for you while I was sitting all alone +in the big pew. He passed me, and smiled. When he came out again, he +saw that I was still crying. I asked him about you, and he said +something that went straight to my little girl's heart: he praised you. +To soothe me, he took me in his arms and—well," she added blushing, +"he kissed me. I fell in love with that big man right there; I never +lost the memory of him or that kiss. When I saw him here at Killimaga, +and when he told me what I wanted so badly to hear, I knew he was worth +waiting for. If you want to know more about the ways of youth, daddy +dear," she continued saucily, "only know that I would have waited a +century—if I could have lived so long, and if I had had to wait." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me, Ruth, what shall I give you? I alone have sent nothing," he +said. "'Ask and you shall receive,' you know. What is to be my poor +offering for the wedding feast?" +</P> + +<P> +"Will you promise beforehand to grant it?" +</P> + +<P> +"If I can, dear, I will grant it." +</P> + +<P> +"Goody!" she cried, in almost childish glee. Then she stepped lightly +away, her hands behind her, and, like a mischievous child, she leaned +slightly forward as she spoke. "Here it is: Wear your purple to-day—I +like it." +</P> + +<P> +"But, child, I don't want—" +</P> + +<P> +One white hand was raised in protest, and he seemed once more to be in +London, a tiny figure before him, the blue eyes open wide and the +graceful head nodding emphasis to each word: +</P> + +<P> +"You—<I>promised</I>—uncle." +</P> + +<P> +Even so the child had spoken. Monsignore was learning more of the ways +of youth. He sighed. +</P> + +<P> +"All right," he granted, "I will wear the purple." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you—and God bless you, Monsignore." +</P> + +<P> +"And God bless you, my child." Monsignore lifted his hand in blessing, +then hurried to the church to prepare for the Mass. +</P> + +<P> +The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, clad +in rich white vestments—a present from Mark. Leaning on the arm of +the minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veil +flowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of her +sweeping train. As they neared the altar where Monsignore stood +waiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, +stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right. Her small hand +trembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, +but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust. Then each sought a +prie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from the +choir rang the beautiful tones of the <I>Messe Solennelle</I>. The voices +softened with the <I>Agnus Dei</I>, then faded into silence. Together the +bride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altar +boys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, then +returned to their prie-dieux. +</P> + +<P> +The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife. Slowly the bridal +party went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore them +swiftly to Killimaga. When the time came to part, Monsignore and his +guests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then once +more sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory. +</P> + +<P> +But even the most pleasant of days must end. The happy group broke up +as the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before the +blazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of the +autumn evening was in the air. +</P> + +<P> +Mark and Ruth by this time were in Boston making ready to sail on the +morrow. Ann had suggested a "cup of tay because you're tired, +Monsignore," but Monsignore wanted to be alone with his thoughts and +would have none of it. He wondered why he was not lonely, for he had +dreaded the hours to follow his good-bye to Mark and Ruth. But lonely +he was not, for he was happy. It seemed to him as if some mysterious +and forbidding gates had been suddenly flung open, and a flood of +happiness loosed upon him. His last guest of the day had been the +Bishop, who had let all go before him that for an hour he might be +alone with the friend who once had had all his love and all his trust. +Now both love and trust were again his friend's, and the Bishop's +pleasure was even greater than the priest's. +</P> + +<P> +"I would gladly give you both cross and crozier if I could, my friend," +His Lordship had said. +</P> + +<P> +"I will gladly take what I can of your cross, my dear Bishop," Father +Murray had answered, very simply; "but I am happier to see the crozier +in more worthy hands. God has been good to me. I am satisfied." +</P> + +<P> +"You will come to the cathedral as of old?" Though voiced as a +request, the words were a command. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me stay here, I beg of you," pleaded the priest. "I am no longer +young—" +</P> + +<P> +"Age is not counted by years." +</P> + +<P> +"I love it here and—" +</P> + +<P> +But the Bishop raised his hand, and the priest was silent. +</P> + +<P> +"You may stay for the present. That much I grant you." +</P> + +<P> +But Monsignore's heart was too full for long silence, his fears too +great. He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you not protect me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I may not be able to protect you." +</P> + +<P> +"I am tired, my dear Bishop—tired, but contented. Here is rest, and +peace. And when <I>they</I> come back, you know I want to be near them. +Let me stay." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know," said the Bishop, and his voice forbade further plea. +"You may stay—for the present." +</P> + +<P> +Then the Bishop, too, had left; and now Monsignore was alone. He sat +in his great armchair and watched the flames of the fire dancing and +playing before him. He marveled at his pleasure in them, as he +marveled at his pleasure now in the little things that were for the +future to be the great things for him. Before his vision rose the +cathedral he had builded, with its twin towers piercing the sky; but +somehow the new organ of the little church gave him greater pleasure. +"The people were so happy about having it," he had that day explained +to Father Darcy. His wonderful seminary on the heights had once seemed +the greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than the +marble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday. +He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city, +but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simple +discourses to his poor in Sihasset. +</P> + +<P> +"I couldn't go back," he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be great +again when I know how much true happiness there is in being little." +</P> + +<P> +Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, there +smiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope," he +said. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He never +could get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, so +as to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour the +fears and trials of the ruler?" +</P> + +<P> +The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughts +were too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they were +broken by Ann's knock. +</P> + +<P> +"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said. "'Tis a nice time for the +likes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll go +in the mornin'?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't ye have wan night in peace?" +</P> + +<P> +"McCarthy <I>is</I> peace, Ann. You don't understand." +</P> + +<P> +No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn't +understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the +glory of his day. +</P> + +<P> +So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went +out—a father going to the son who needed him. +</P> + +<P> +He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but now +he was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. From +one point to another he walked—slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then. +Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. His +lips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly he +picked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully +at the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those two +lines, +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I fear to love thee, sweet, because<BR> +Love's the ambassador of loss." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For a +little while, perhaps—but not for long. The call would come again, +and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word as +he spoke the lines softly to himself, +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because + Love's the ambassador of loss." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Yet, even in his vague unrest, this prelate who through humility had +found the greater love, recalled his own words to Mark Griffin: "No one +has lost what he sincerely seeks to find." Was not the past merely a +preparation for the future? Peace might be found in any kind of duty. +He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and a +swiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his mobile features, while +his hand clenched tightly. "A soldier of the Cross," he murmured, and +the hand was raised in quick salute. "Thy will be done." It was his +final renunciation of self. +</P> + +<P> +Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head. +At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to his +chair by the fire. As he sat looking into the flames, his old dreams +of greater works rose up before him—those things that had been quite +forgotten in his days of sorrow. They were coming back to life, and he +began to be half afraid of these, his dream children. Already they +seemed too real. +</P> + +<P> +Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, +hesitatingly silent. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Ann?" The voice was gentle, resigned. +</P> + +<P> +"A telegram, Father." +</P> + +<P> +He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of +his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayer +he tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words were +few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. I +need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay +but a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the +fireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, +and read softly to himself: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Ah! is Thy love indeed<BR> + A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,<BR> + Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?<BR> + Ah! must—<BR> + Designer Infinite—<BR> + Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Charred Wood, by Myles Muredach + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED WOOD *** + +***** This file should be named 16585-h.htm or 16585-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/5/8/16585/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** + + + +</pre> + +</BODY> + +</HTML> + diff --git a/16585-h/images/img-136.jpg b/16585-h/images/img-136.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca58e17 --- /dev/null +++ b/16585-h/images/img-136.jpg diff --git a/16585-h/images/img-200.jpg b/16585-h/images/img-200.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fcc455c --- /dev/null +++ b/16585-h/images/img-200.jpg diff --git a/16585.txt b/16585.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2dd4ae --- /dev/null +++ b/16585.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7202 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Charred Wood, by Myles Muredach + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Charred Wood + +Author: Myles Muredach + +Illustrator: J. Clinton Shepherd + +Release Date: August 23, 2005 [EBook #16585] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED WOOD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +CHARRED WOOD + +BY + +MYLES MUREDACH + + + + "_O, Designer Infinite, must Thou + then Char the wood before Thou + canst limn with it?_" + + + + + +ILLUSTRATED BY + +J. CLINTON SHEPHERD + + + + + + +GROSSET & DUNLAP + +PUBLISHERS --- NEW YORK + + + +Made in the United States of America + + + + +Copyright, 1917 + +by + +The Reilly & Britten Co. + + +Published October 17, 1917 + +Reprinted December 10, 1917 + +Reprinted October 11, 1918. + + + + + +Charred Wood + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I THE LADY OF THE TREE + II MONSIGNORE + III UNDER SUSPICION + IV KILLIMAGA + V WITH EMPTY HANDS + VI WHO IS RUTH? + VII BITTER BREAD + VIII FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET + IX THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION + X AT THE MYSTERY TREE + XI THIN ICE + XII HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS + XIII THE ABDUCTION + XIV THE INEXPLICABLE + XV "I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" + XVI HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED + XVII THE OPEN DOOR + XVIII SAUNDERS SCORES + XIX CAPITULATION + XX THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES + XXI THE BECKONING HAND + XXII RUTH'S CONFESSION + XXIII CHARRED WOOD + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +On Killimaga's Cliff. . . . . _Frontispiece_ + +Something white swished quickly past him and he stared, +bewildered . . . She had stepped out of nowhere. + +Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he +announced. + +"God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark; +"it is not Ruth!" + + + +[Transcriber's note: The Frontispiece and the "Something white..." +illustration were missing from the book.] + + + + +Charred Wood + +CHAPTER I + +THE LADY OF THE TREE + +The man lay in the tall grass. Behind him the wall of the Killimaga +estate, from its beginning some fifty yards to his left, stretched away +to his right for over a thousand feet. Along the road which ran almost +parallel with the wall was the remnant of what had once been a great +woods; yearly the county authorities determined to cut away its thick +undergrowth--and yearly left it alone. On the left the road was bare +for some distance along the bluff; then, bending, it again sought the +shelter of the trees and meandered along until it lost itself in the +main street of Sihasset, a village large enough to support three banks +and, after a fashion, eight small churches. In front, had the lounger +cared to look, he would have seen the huge rocks topping the bluff +against which the ocean dashed itself into angry foam. But the man +didn't care to look--for in the little clearing between the wall of +Killimaga and the bluff road was peace too profound to be wantonly +disturbed by motion. And so he lay there lazily smoking his cigar, his +long length concealed by the tall grass. + +Hearing a slight click behind him and to his right, the man slowly, +even languidly, turned his head to peer through the grass. But his +energy was unrewarded, for he saw nothing he had not seen before--a +long wall, its rough stones half hidden by creeping vines, at its base +a rank growth of shrubs and wild hedge; behind it, in the near +distance, the towers of a house that, in another land, perched amid +jutting crags, would have inspired visions of far-off days of romance. +Even in its New England setting the great house held a rugged charm, +heightened by the big trees which gave it a setting of rich green. +Some of the trees had daringly advanced almost to the wall itself, +while one--a veritable giant--had seemingly been caught while just +stepping through. + +With a bored sigh, as if even so slight an effort were too great, the +smoker settled himself more comfortably and resumed his indolent +musing. Then he heard the sound again. This time he did not trouble +to look around. Something white swished quickly past him and he +stared, bewildered. It was a woman, young, if her figure were to be +trusted. His cigar dropped in the grass, and there he let it lie. His +gaze never left her as she walked on; and he could scarcely be blamed, +for he was still under thirty-five and feminine early twenties has an +interest to masculine full youth. He had never seen anyone quite so +charming. And so he watched the lady as she walked to the edge of the +bluff overlooking the sea, and turned to the left to go along the +pathway toward the village. + +Five hundred yards away she was met by a tall man wearing a long black +coat. Was it the priest he had noticed that morning at the door of the +Catholic church in the village? Yes, there was no doubt about that; it +was the priest. He had just lifted his hat to the lady and was now +turning to walk back with her by the way he had come. They evidently +knew each other well; and the man watching them almost laughed at +himself when he realized that he was slightly piqued at the clergyman's +daring to know her while he did not. He watched the pair until they +disappeared around the bend of the bluff path. Then he settled back to +look for his cigar. But he did not find it, for other matters quickly +absorbed his attention. + +From out a clump of bushes on his left, where they evidently had been +hiding, two men appeared. He recognized them both. One was a book +agent who was stopping at the hotel in the village; the other was the +local constable. The book agent had a paper in his hand. + +"That her?" he asked. + +"Yaas, sir!"--the constable was surely a native New Englander--"I seed +her face plain." + +"I didn't," said the agent, with annoyance. "I have never seen her +without that confounded veil. This is the first time she's had it +thrown back. But the description is right? Look at it." + +He showed the paper to the constable, tapping it as he read. + +"'Brown hair, blue eyes'--did you see her eyes?" + +"I sure did," answered the constable; "and they wuz blue." + +"All right, then. 'Blue eyes, regular features'--how about that?" + +"Reg'lar enough," said the constable. "She'd no pug nose, I kin tell +ya that." + +"'Regular features,' then, is right. 'Five feet four inches +tall'--that's right. 'Small hands and feet'--that's right. 'About +twenty-three years old; good figure.'" + +"She sure hez all them," vouchsafed the wearer of the star. "I knowed +her right away, and I've seed her often. She's been in Sihasset well +nigh on a month." + +"But where--" the agent turned to look at the unbroken wall--"where in +thunder did she come from?" + +The constable, pushing back his helmet, scratched his head. + +"Damfino," he said. "That's the rub. There's no gate on this side of +Killimaga." + +"Killimaga?" + +"A rich old Irishman built it and put a wall around it, too. We folks +of Sihasset don't like that; it shuts off the view of the house and +lawn. Lawn's what makes things purty. He wuz a queer old mug--wanted +to shut hisself up." + +"But how did she get out?" insisted the agent, coming back to the issue. + +"Search me," offered the constable. He looked toward the top of the +wall. "Clumb the fence, mebbe." + +"With her dress looking as it does?" + +"There's no other way. I dunno." + +The agent was puzzled. "I want a closer inspection of that wall. +We'll walk along this side." + +Both agent and constable started off, keeping well behind the wild +hedge along the wall so that they might not be seen from the bluff road. + +The man lying in the grass was more puzzled than the agent. Why a book +agent and a constable should be so anxious about a lady who was--well, +just charming--but who had herself stepped out of nowhere to join a +priest in his walk, was a problem for some study. He got up and walked +to the wall. Then he laughed. Close examination showed him marks in +the giant tree, the vertical cuts being cleverly covered by the bark, +while the horizontal ones had creepers festooned over them. A door was +well concealed. But the tree? It was large, yet there could not be +room in it for more than one person, who would have to stand upright +and in a most uncomfortable position. The man himself had been before +it over an hour. How long had the lady been in the tree? He forgot +his lost cigar in trying to figure the problem out. + +Mark Griffin had never liked problems. That was one reason why he +found himself now located in a stuffy New England inn just at the end +of the summer season when all the "boarders" had gone except himself +and the book agent. + +Griffin himself, though the younger son of an Irish peer, had been born +in England. The home ties were not strong and when his brother +succeeded to the title and estates in Ireland Mark, who had inherited a +fortune from his mother, went to live with his powerful English +relatives. For a while he thought of going into the army, but he knew +he was a dunce in mathematics, so he soon gave up the idea. He tried +Oxford, but failed there for the same reason. Then he just drifted. +Now, still on the sunny side of thirty-five, he was knocking about, +sick of things, just existing, and fearfully bored. He had dropped +into Sihasset through sheer curiosity--just to see a typical New +England summer resort where the Yankee type had not yet entirely +disappeared. Now that the season was over he simply did not care to +pull out for New York and continue his trip to--nowhere. He was +"seeing" America. It might take months and it might take years. He +did not care. Then England again by way of Japan and Siberia--perhaps. +He never wanted to lose sight of that "perhaps," which was, after all, +his only guarantee of independence. + +Siberia suited Mark Griffin's present mood, which was to be alone. He +had never married, never even been in love, at least, not since +boyhood. Of course, that had been mere puppy love. Still, it was +something to look back to and sigh over. He liked to think that he +could still feel a sort of consoling sadness at the thought of it. He, +a timid, dreaming boy, had loved a timid, dreaming girl. Her brother +broke up the romance by taunting Mark who, with boyish bashfulness, +avoided her after that. Then her parents moved to London and Mark was +sent to school. After school he had traveled. For the last ten years +England had been merely a place to think of as home. He had been in +India, and South America, and Canada--up on the Yukon. He would have +stayed there, but somebody suggested that he might be a remittance man. +Ye gods! a remittance man with ten thousand pounds a year! And who +could have had much more, for Mark Griffin was a master with his pen. +His imagination glowed, and his travels had fanned it into flame. +Every day he wrote, but burned the product next morning. What was the +use? He had plenty to live on. Why write another man out of a job? +And who could be a writer with an income of ten thousand pounds a year? +But, just the same, it added to Mark Griffin's self-hatred to think +that it was the income that made him useless. Yet he had only one real +failure checked against him--the one at Oxford. But he knew--and he +did not deceive himself--why there had been no others. He had never +tried. + +But there was one thing in Mark's favor, too. In spite of his +wandering, in spite of the men and women of all kinds he had met, he +was clean. There was a something in the memory of his mother--and in +the memory, too, of that puppy love of his--that had made him a fighter +against himself. + +"The great courage that is worth while before God," his mother used to +say, "is the courage to run away from the temptation to be unclean. It +is the only time you have the right to be a coward. That sort of +cowardice is _true courage_." + +Besides her sweet face, that advice was the great shining memory he had +of his mother, and when he began to wander and meet temptations, he +found himself treasuring it as his best and dearest memory of her. +True, he had missed her religion--had lost what little he had had of +it--but he had kept her talisman to a clean life. + +His lack of religion worried him, though he had really never known much +about his family's form of it. For that his mother's death, early +boarding school, and his father's worse than indifference, were +responsible. But as he grew older he felt vaguely that he had missed +something the quality of which he had but tasted through the one +admonition of his mother that he had treasured. His nature was full of +reverence. His soul burned to respond to the call of faith, but +something rebelled. He had read everything, and was humble enough to +acknowledge that he knew little. He had given up the struggle to +believe. Nothing seemed satisfactory. It worried him to think that he +had reached such a conclusion, but he was consoled by the thought that +many men had been of his way of thinking. He hoped this would prove +excuse enough, but found it was not excuse enough for him. Here he +was, rich, noble, with the English scales of caste off his eyes, doing +nothing, indolent, loving only a memory, indifferent but still seeing a +saving something of his mother and his child love in every woman to +whom he spoke. + +Now something else, yet something not so very different, had suddenly +stepped into his life, and he knew it. The something was dressed in +white and had stepped out of a tree. It was almost laughable. This +woman had come into his dreams. The very sight of her attracted +him--or was it the manner of her coming? She was just like an ideal he +had often made for himself. Few men meet even the one who looks like +the ideal, but he had seen the reality--coming out of a tree. He kept +on wondering how long she had been there. He himself had been dreaming +in front of the tree an hour before he saw her. Had she seen him +before she came out? She had given no sign; but if she had seen him, +she had trusted him with a secret. Mark looked at the tree. It was +half embedded in the wall. Then he understood. The tree masked a +secret entrance to Killimaga. + +He was still smiling over his discovery when he heard the voices of the +agent and constable. They were coming back, so he dropped into his +hiding place in the tall grass. + +"Well, Brown," the agent was saying, "I am going to tackle her. I've +got to see that face. It's the only way! If I saw it once, I'd know +for sure from the photograph they sent me." + +"Ye'd better not," advised the constable. "She might be a-scared +before--" + +"But I've got to be sure," interrupted the agent. + +"Aw, ye're sure enough, ain't ye? There's the photygraft, and I seed +her." + +"But she slipped me in Boston, and I nearly lost the trail. I can't +take chances on this job--it's too important--and I've got to report +something pretty soon. That damn veil! She always has it on." + +"Yep, she had it when she come down here, too, and when she tuk the +house. All right, see her if ye can! Ye're the jedge. She's coming +around the bend of the road now." The constable was peering out from +his hiding place among the bushes. + +"Is the priest with her?" asked the agent. + +"He's gone back to the village. She didn't go that far--she seldom +does. But he goes to see her; and she goes to his church on Sundays." + +"I wonder if he knows anything?" + +"Trust that gent to know most everything, I guess." The constable was +very positive. "Father Murray's nobody's fool," he added, "and she +won't talk to nobody else. I'll bet a yearlin' heifer he's on; but +nobody could drag nothing out of him." + +"I know that," said the agent. "I've been up there a dozen times, and +I've talked with him by the hour--but always about books; I couldn't +get him to talk about anything else. Here she is! Go on back." + +The constable disappeared behind the bushes, and his companion stood +out in the little clearing to wait. + +The woman saw him; Mark, watching from the long grass, thought she +hesitated. Then she dropped her veil and came on. The agent stepped +forward, and the woman seemed distressed. What the agent intended to +do Mark could not guess, but he made up his mind at once as to what he +would do himself. He arose and, just as the agent met the lady, Mark's +arm went through his and he--not of his own volition--turned to face +the ocean. + +"Hello, Saunders!" Mark said heartily. "Who'd expect to see you here, +with no one near to buy rare editions?" + +Saunders looked at him with annoyance, but Mark was friendly. He +slipped his arm out of the agent's and slapped him on the shoulder. + +"Look out at that sea, you old money-grabber. There's a sight for your +soul. Did you ever think of the beauty of it? Such a day!--no wonder +you're loafing. Oh! I beg your pardon, Madam. I am in your way." + +Keeping Saunders' back to the lady, Mark stepped aside to let her pass. +Saunders could not even look back, as she walked quickly behind them. +The agent stammered a reply to Mark's unwelcome greeting before he +turned. But it was too late, for Mark heard the click that told him +that the tree had closed. He looked for the constable, to see if he +had been watching her and had discovered the secret door; but the +constable was leisurely walking toward the village. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +MONSIGNORE + +As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build, +offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With his +gray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English than +Irish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle--but in vain, for +the Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdained +artifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly, +out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tanned +face with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquiline +nose, the chin slightly squared--the face of one who would seek and +find. + +He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of +blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted +Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A +man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look +from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in +feature, bespoke strong determination. + +Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against +each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhand +which would be the victor. + +The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he +had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing? +Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a +detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How had +she disappeared so quickly? + +Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in +the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him +with friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companion +were a fool, or someone "on the inside." He wished that Mark would +stop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. But +Mark went right on. + +"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren't +you working?" + +Saunders had to think quickly. + +"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know." + +"Of course. Any success this morning?" + +"One order. Took me a month to get it--from the Padre." + +"Ah!" + +Mark gave the word the English sound, which convinced the detective +that the speaker really was a fool who had stumbled into an affair he +knew nothing about. But Mark kept up his questioning. + +"Did you get to talk much with the Padre? You know, he interests me. +By the way, why do you call him by that Spanish name?" + +"Oh, I got into the habit in the Philippines; that's what they call a +priest there. I was a soldier, you know. Did you ever meet him?" + +"No; but I'd like to." + +"Perhaps I could introduce you." They were walking through the village +now, and Saunders glanced toward the rectory. "There he is." + +The chance to get away attracted Saunders; and nothing suited Mark +better than to meet the priest at that very time. + +"Certainly," he said; "I'd be glad if you introduced me. I'll stop +only a moment, and then go on to the hotel with you." + +But this did _not_ suit Saunders. + +"Oh, no; you must talk to the Padre. He's your kind. You'll like him. +I can't wait, though, so I'll have to leave you there." + +"By the way," Mark went on with his questioning, "isn't the Padre +rather--well, old--to be in such a small and out-of-the-way place? You +know I rather thought that, in his church, priests as old as he were in +the larger parishes." + +"Why, you couldn't have been listening much to gossip since you came +down here--not very much," said Saunders. "The Padre is here by +choice--but only partially by choice." + +"By choice, but only partially by choice?" Mark was curious by this +time. "I don't quite understand." + +Saunders smiled knowingly, and dropped his voice. + +"It's like this," he whispered. "The Padre was a big man in the city +six months ago. He was what they call a vicar general--next job to the +bishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who died +three months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came--" + +"'Who knew not Joseph'?" + +But the Scripture was lost on the agent. + +"His name is not Joseph," he answered solemnly, "but Donald, Donald +Murray. I read it on the book order I got." + +"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic," commented Mark. "It sounds +Presbyterian." + +"That's what it is," said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert to +the Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job as +vicar general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest on +the train once--a young fellow--who told me, with a funny sort of laugh +that sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried." + +"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But +the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?" + +"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's +jolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that little +house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of +the kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and the +like." + +They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling +among the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almost +hidden by a heavy growth of ampelopsis. In front of the house, a +stretch of well-kept lawn was divided from the public walk by a +hawthorn hedge, and, cutting through its velvety green, a wide graveled +pathway swept up to the steps whose sharp angle with the veranda was +softened by a mass of low-growing, flowering shrubs. To the side, +extending towards the church, the hedge was tripled, with a space of +some six feet between. The lower branches of the evergreens forming +the second row were scarcely higher than the hawthorn in front; while, +in their turn, the evergreens were barely topped by the silver maples +behind. That triple hedge had been the loving care of the successive +priests for fifty years and served as an effectual bar to the curiosity +of the casual passer-by. In the little yard behind its shelter the +priest could read or doze, free from the intrusive gaze of the village. + +Father Murray, who was comfortably reading on the veranda, arose as his +two visitors approached. + +Saunders spoke quickly. "Don't worry, Padre. I ain't goin' to get +after you again to sell you another set. I just thought I'd like to +have you meet my friend, Mr. Griffin. I know you'll like him. He's +bookish, too, and an Englishman. Then, I'm off." Suiting the action +to the word, the agent, raising his hat, walked down the graveled path +and down toward the hotel. + +Father Murray took Mark's hand with a friendly grip quite different +from the bone-crushing handshake he so often met in America. Mark +gazed thoughtfully at his host. With his thin but kindly face and +commanding presence, the priest seemed almost foreign. What Mark saw +was a tall--he was six feet at least of bone and muscle--and +good-looking man, with an ascetic nose and mouth; with hair, once +black, but now showing traces of white, falling in thick waves over a +broad brow. Mark noticed that his cassock was old and faded, but that +reddish buttons down its front distinguished it from the cassocks of +other village priests he had seen on his travels. + +"You are welcome, Mr. Griffin--very welcome." Mark found Father +Murray's voice pleasing. "Sit down right over there. That chair is +more comfortable than it looks. I call it 'Old Hickory' because, +though it isn't hickory, yet it began life in this old house and has +outlived three pastors. Smoke?" + +"Thanks, I do--but a pipe, you know. I'm hopelessly British." Mark +pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. + +Turning to the wicker table beside him, the priest dug down into an old +cigar box filled with the odds and ends that smokers accumulate. He +found a pipe and filled it from Mark's extended tobacco pouch. + +"It's poor hospitality, Mr. Griffin, to take your tobacco; but I +offered you a cigar. You know, this cigar habit has so grown into me +that it's a rare occasion that brings me back to old times and my +pipe." Father Murray pressed the tobacco down into the bowl. "How +long are you to be with us, Mr. Griffin?" + +Mark was dropping into a lazy mood again; it was very comfortable on +the veranda. "I haven't fixed a time for going on. I beg your pardon, +but aren't those buttons significant? I once spent six months in Rome. +Aren't you what they call a _Monsignore_?" + +"Don't tell them so here, or I'll lose my standing. Yes, I am a +prelate, a Domestic Prelate to His Holiness. I am afraid it is the +domesticity of the title that sticks here in Sihasset, rather than the +prelacy. My people are poor--mostly mill workers. I have never shown +them the purple. It might frighten them out of saying 'Father.'" + +"But surely--" Mark hesitated. + +"Oh, yes, I know what you are thinking. I did like it at first, but I +was younger then, and more ambitious. You know, Mr. Griffin, I find +that the priesthood is something like a river. The farther you go from +the source the deeper and wider it gets; and it's at its best as it +nears the ocean. Even when it empties into the wider waters, it isn't +quite lost. It's in the beginning that you notice the flowers on the +bank. Coming toward the end, it's--well, different." + +"You are not beginning to think you are old?" + +"No." Father Murray was very positive. "I am not old yet; but I'm +getting there, for I'm forty-five. Only five years until I strike the +half-century mark. But why talk about priests and the priesthood? You +are not a Catholic?" + +"I don't know," said Mark. "The difference between us religiously, +Monsignore, is that I was and am not; you were not and behold you are." + +Father Murray looked interested. + +"Yes, yes," he said; "I am a convert. It was long ago, though. I was +a young Presbyterian minister, and it's odd how it came about. Newman +didn't get me, though he shook his own tree into the Pope's lap; I +wasn't on the tree. It was Brownson--a Presbyterian like myself--who +did the business. You don't know him? Pity! He's worth knowing. I +got to reading him, and he made it so plain that I had to drop. I +didn't want to, either--but here I am. Now, Mr. Griffin, how did you +happen to go the other way?" + +"I didn't go--that is, not deliberately. I just drifted. Mother died, +and father didn't care, in fact rather opposed; so I just didn't last. +Later on, I studied the church and I could not see." + +"Studied the church? You mean the Catholic Church?" Father Murray's +mouth hid the ghost of a smile. + +"No, it wasn't the Catholic Church in particular. When we worldlings +say 'the church,' we mean religion in general, perhaps all Christianity +in general and all Christians in particular." + +"I know." The priest's voice held a touch of sorrow now. "I hope you +will pardon me, Mr. Griffin, if I say one thing that may sound +controversial--it's just an observation. I have noticed the tendency +you speak of; but isn't it strange that when people go looking into the +question of religion they can deliberately close their eyes to a 'City +set upon a Mountain'?" + +"I don't quite--" + +"Get me?" Father Murray laughed. "I know that you wanted to use that +particular expressive bit of our particularly expressive slang. What I +mean is this: People study religion nowadays--that is, English-speaking +people--with the Catholic Church left out. Yet she claims the +allegiance of over three hundred million people. Without her, +Christianity would be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on her +foundation. She alone has something really definite to offer. She has +the achievements of twenty centuries by which to judge her. She has +borne, during all those centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-day +she is loved, too--loved better than anything else on earth. She has +hugged the worst of her children to her breast, has borne their shame +that she might save them, because she is a mother; yet she has saints +to show by the thousands. She has never been afraid to speak--always +has spoken; but the ages have not trapped her. She is the biggest, +most wonderful, most mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, as +you say, those who study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I have +been through the mill." + +Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her," he said, "but I +am just a little bit afraid of her." + +"Ah, yes." The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem to +emphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin, +and so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that I +have never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. I +struggled, and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She was +leading me where I did not want to go. But when I came she put her +arms around me; and when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spite +of many things; and now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I pay +always. Yet I am glad to pay. I am glad to pay--even here--in +Sihasset." + +Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder," he said softly, "if +you are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch upon +something raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higher +than you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?" + +"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but it +doesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Church +takes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with a +smile, she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowing +that it is best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and the +whips sting, but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark, +_if you have learned_. But pardon me, here's a parishioner--" A +woman, old and bent, was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary. +How is the good man?" + +The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark a +keen thrill of sympathy. + +"He's gone, Father," she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he had +you with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden." + +"God rest him. I'm sorry--" + +"Don't be sorry, Father," she answered, as he opened the door to let +her go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and to +John and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he died +right. I'm happy to do God's will." + +She passed into the house. The priest looked over to where Mark was +standing hat in hand. + +"Don't go, Mr. Griffin, unless you really have to. I'll be away only a +few minutes." + +Mark sat down again and thought. The priest had said nothing about the +lady of the tree, and Mark really wanted him to mention her; but Father +Murray had given him something else that made him thoughtful and +brought back memories. Mark did not have long to wait, for the door +opened in five minutes and the priest came out alone. + +"Mrs. O'Leary came to arrange for the funeral herself--brave, wasn't +it?" he said. "I left her with Ann, my housekeeper, a good soul whose +specialty is one in which the Irish excel--sympathy. Ann keeps it in +stock and, though she is eternally drawing on it, the stock never +diminishes. Mrs. O'Leary's troubles are even now growing less." + +"Sympathy and loyalty," said Mark, "are chief virtues of the Irish I +knew at home." + +"Ann has both," said Father Murray, hunting for his pipe. "But the +latter to an embarrassing degree. She would even run the parish if she +could, to see that it was run to save me labor. Ann has been a +priest's housekeeper for twenty-five years. She has condoled with +hundreds; she loves the poor but has no patience with shams. We have a +chronic sick man here who is her particular _bete noir_. And, as for +organists, she would cheerfully drown them all. But Mrs. O'Leary is +safe with Ann." + +"Poor woman!" said Mark. + +"That reminds me," said Father Murray. "I had a convert priest here a +little while ago. His Bishop had sent him for his initial 'breaking +in' to one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned a +little the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met +the priest--who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like +myself--I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people. +'Charming people,' he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too--Mrs. +O'Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski--' 'You speak of them,' I +said, 'as if they were society ladies.' 'Better--better still,' he +answered. 'They're the real thing--fewer faults, more faith, more +devotion.' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such as +these." + +"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy," ventured the +visitor. + +"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary. She +wouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine. +It isn't philosophy, though," he added, slowly; "rather, it's something +bigger. It's real religion." + +"She needs it!" + +"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I +had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest +sighed as he hunted for his pipe. + +The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up the +walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both +the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and +gloves. + +"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore." + +Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please, please." + +"Well, _Father_, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor +man is dead. Can I do anything?" + +"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?" + +"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting +to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest +understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady +bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed +timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the +gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice +faltered for an instant as she addressed him. + +"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she +ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service." + +Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the +drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown +hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He +was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was +English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a +certain old park of boyhood's days. + +"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more +astonished. + +"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and is +unhesitating in action. He saw someone about to--make himself, let us +say, unpleasant--and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance to +thank him." + +Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue, +under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasy +under the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet to +stay; but he knew that it was proper to go. + +Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn. + +"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Atheson +referred, Mr. Griffin?" he said. "No one offered insult?" He was +plainly anxious. + +"Not at all," answered Mark. "I think the man only wanted to stare. I +gave him a chance to stare at me--and at the water. That is all." + +Father Murray looked relieved as he clasped Mark's hand. + +"Good-bye," he said. "Come to see me again. I am usually alone. Come +often. The latch-string is where you can reach it." + +In the street Mark met Saunders, but this time it was the agent who +wanted to talk. + +"How did you like the Padre?" he began. + +"Splendid. Thank you for the meeting." + +"Did you see the lady who went in?" + +"Yes; I was introduced." + +"Introduced? Never!" + +"Why not?" + +"Well," the agent was confused, "I don't see why not after all. Did +you see her face?" + +"She had on a veil." + +"Of course; she always has. She was the woman who passed us on the +bluff road." + +"You saw her, then?" + +"Yes, I saw her; but not close enough to know whether--" + +"What?" + +"I think she is someone I know. Are you coming back to the hotel?" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +UNDER SUSPICION + +That night, tossing in bed, Mark Griffin found the lady of the tree +occupying the center of his thoughts. He had to acknowledge to himself +the simple truth, that she interested him more than any other woman he +had ever seen; and he had a vague idea that he had met her before--but +where? He was wise enough to know where such interest would ultimately +lead him. The more he worried about it, the more a cause for worry it +became. The very idea was foolish. He had seen her twice, had spoken +to her once. Yes, she was charming; but he had known others almost as +charming and he had not even been interested. Now he might go +deeper--and what of the risks? + +Saunders was certainly shadowing the woman. The town constable was +constantly with him, seemingly ready to make an arrest the moment the +detective was sure of his ground. It was easy to figure that out. +Worse than all, the woman was afraid--or why the veil? Why the secret +door through a tree? Why her embarrassment when she faced the danger +of having the detective see her face? + +On the other hand, she was a friend of the priest, and Mark had formed +a very favorable opinion of Father Murray. Then she had referred to +the incident on the bluff road very openly and without embarrassment +These things were in her favor, but--well, the rest looked bad. Above +all was the danger of falling in love with her. + +Mark thought of his people in England and of his brother the Irish +peer. He knew their prejudices. What would they say if the heir +presumptive to the barony came home with an American wife? Yet why +should he care? + +The worry about Saunders came back. He was undoubtedly a detective, +and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of good +social standing? Mark knew there was something wrong. He knew there +was danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decided +that he had better go away at once. Then the face he had seen as she +stepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voice +that had in it so much gratitude when she thanked him for his little +service. + +"Damn it, man," he said to himself, "you can't be a coward! She needs +help; stay to give it." That was Mark's first and last struggle over +his long-delayed moving problem. + +He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning. The detective must have +been thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion. +Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance of +the look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely to +conceal his own feelings. He tried--but too late--and was foolish +enough to think he had not betrayed himself. + +Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion. + +"Good morning, Saunders. You are thinking of the lady in the veil?" + +But Saunders was already back in his shell. He looked puzzled. "Veil? +Lady? Oh, yes. Sure I am. It would be very ungallant to forget her. +She's too pretty." + +"How do you know? You didn't see her face." + +"I was just guessing. We Yankees are good at guessing. Don't you +English concede that?" + +"Guessing and wooden nutmegs," said Mark, "both go with the Yankee +character." + +"Guessing, wooden nutmegs, and a little taste of Brandywine thrown in +for flavor." + +"Very unkind of you to throw our defeats in our teeth--and especially +into mine; for you know that I am half Irish, and we Irish helped you." + +Saunders laughed as they approached the desk together. + +"Letter for you, Mr. Griffin," said the clerk, throwing a square +envelope on the desk. + +Saunders just glanced at it before Mark himself saw that the letter was +without a stamp; it had come by messenger. The detective turned his +back to hide a smile, then walked to the reading table and picked up a +paper. + +Mark opened his letter. It was from the lady of the tree--only a few +lines--an invitation to tea that afternoon at the house behind the +great wall. Twice he read it over. + + +"Dear Mr. Griffin: Monsignore is coming to tea at four o'clock to-day. +Won't you come with him? He likes you--that I know--and he always +looks lonesome when he comes alone, with only two women to talk to. + Sincerely, + Ruth Atheson." + + +That was all. The letter went into Mark's pocket as he saw Saunders +looking over the top of his paper. + +"Getting acquainted in Sihasset pretty quickly, eh?" ventured the +detective. + +"Yes," replied Mark, "bad pays get acquainted fast." The reply was +obviously inadequate, but Mark wanted the detective to know. Saunders +took the bait, hook and all. + +"Sihasset's getting up in the world," he commented. "Square, tinted +envelopes for bills were just coming in at New York two weeks ago." + +Both gentlemen were evidently quite pleased with themselves. Saunders +took the cigar Mark offered, and they sat talking over first editions +until ten. + +"Going out?" Saunders asked, as Mark threw away his cigar and rose. +Something in his tone made Mark think he wanted him to go. Why? + +"Just for a little while. Want to go?" + +"No, I'm going to write letters. I'll go out later." + +Mark understood. Saunders suspected him to be an accomplice of the +woman and intended to search his room. Mark thought quickly. +Immediate action was necessary; there were important papers in his +room, and he didn't care to have his identity known just now. Then he +smiled cheerfully, for his whole plan of action was suddenly clear. +Not only would he guard his papers, but he'd keep the detective +guessing--guessing _hard_. He walked to the desk and addressed the +clerk: + +"Has any of the town banks a safety deposit vault for the public?" + +"Yes, sir. The National has one and its terms are very reasonable." + +Mark went to his room, and carefully gathered every scrap of paper. +The useless went into the old stove which had stood all summer waiting +the winter's need; the others he carefully placed in his pocket. Then +he went out. At the bank he rented a box and left the papers he didn't +want Saunders to see. He felt satisfied that nothing Saunders found +would relieve him of suspicion. The burning of the papers would make +the detective all the more certain that Mark ought to be watched. That +would help Miss Atheson by keeping the detective on the wrong scent. + +At noon Mark went to his room to wash before lunch. Saunders had not +been very clever. There was a tell-tale smudge on the stove--a smudge +made by a hand that had blackened itself by diving down into the ashes +to search among the burned papers. Mark knew that Saunders had lost no +time in searching his room, and he was happy to be still under +suspicion. + +But Mark was not so happy in contemplating the rest of the situation. +He was getting deeper into a game he knew nothing about. What was the +reason for the suspicion against the girl? Could she be a thief--or +worse? Mark had heard of pretty criminals before, and he knew that +beauty without is no guarantee of virtue within. But he had resolved +to go through with the adventure, and he would not change his mind. He +argued, too, that it was not entirely the beauty of Ruth Atheson that +interested him. There was an indefinable "something else." Anyhow, +innocent or guilty, he made up his mind to stand by her. + +At lunch he met Saunders again and found him overly friendly, even +anxious to talk. The detective opened the conversation. + +"Going to see the Padre again?" + +"I have an engagement with him this afternoon. I rather like the +Padre!" + +"Sure you do," said the detective. "Everybody does. The Padre's a +wonder, and the last man one might expect to find in a little parish +like this." + +Mark wanted to learn more on that score. + +"True enough," he said. "In the Anglican Church they would make such a +man a bishop, or at least a dean." + +"Well, they didn't do that with the Padre." The detective shook his +head as if to express his regret that something of the kind had not +been done. "He was the right hand man of the old Bishop of the +diocese; but the new Bishop had to have new counselors. That's one way +of the world that the church fellows have gotten into. Some say that +it broke the Padre's heart, but he doesn't look it. Must have hurt him +a little, though. Human nature is human nature--and after all he did +for the Church, too." + +"Did he do so much?" questioned Mark. + +"Sure he did! You saw the Cathedral, didn't you, when you passed +through the city? Well, the Padre built that, and the big college, +too, the one you see from the train. He was president of the college. +He was the life and soul of the Catholic Church in this section." + +"Why was he dropped?" + +"Search me," offered the detective. "No one knows that except the +Bishop, I guess. Padre came here six months ago. Some of the young +priests used to come to see him, but seldom any of the older ones. I +got all I know from one of those young chaps--the one I told you I met +on the train. He almost cried over the affair." + +"It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it," said Mark; "but +somehow it makes the man seem bigger to me." + +"True." Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. "They say he had +the best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics--big +salary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman. +Went to school, by gosh!--dead game! But when they made him a priest +he jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college he +built. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know, +Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, I +honestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's a +power here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimaga +work." + +It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again. + +"She's a stranger, isn't she?" he asked. + +The detective half closed his eyes. "How do you know?" + +"You told me so." + +Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring. + +"I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her about +the time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and his +family went over to your country to buy a title for their only +daughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate; +and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens are +a wonder. Ever see them?" + +"No." + +"Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herself +on the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the mill +people. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I passed her just now +going into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and died +yesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family all +winter. Where she gets the money is beyond me." + +"You Americans are all rich," said Mark. "You English think we are, +but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side every +summer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but I +know that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Atheson +family she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and her +money and her veil." + +"Why," said Mark, "every woman wears a veil--the sun, you know." + +"Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and _every_ kind of +weather!" + +The detective's face was betraying him again. But the luncheon was +over, and Mark would not be probed. He had made up his mind to go +early to the rectory, so he left Saunders with a parting shot: + +"You'd better go on with the book sales. You've loafed all day. +That's bad business policy for a Yankee. What would your wooden nutmeg +ancestors say to that?" + +Saunders grinned. + +"They wouldn't like it," he answered. "They're not like ancestors who +wouldn't have been able to sell even a real nutmeg." + +Mark acknowledged that in repartee Saunders scored, then went out to +make his way toward the rectory. As he passed the First National Bank +he saw the constable talking to the cashier. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +KILLIMAGA + +Father Murray was sitting in his favorite chair on the rectory veranda +when Mark came up the lawn. He rose with a welcome. + +"You must pardon me, Father," began Mark, "for coming so soon after your +noon meal--" Mark hesitated about saying "luncheon," not knowing the +habits of the rectory--"but, frankly, I wanted to talk to you before--" + +"Before we go to Killimaga," supplied Father Murray as Mark paused. +"Yes, I know that you are invited. Sit down and open up. I am always +glad to talk--and to listen, too. What is it?" + +Again Mark hesitated. "It's to ask about Miss Atheson." + +Father Murray's eyes smiled. "I thought so," he said. "What do you want +to know?" + +Mark hesitated. "I know that the lady is very charitable and kind, but +especially so to anyone whom you suggest. You must, therefore, be +interested in anything that concerns her." + +"I am," said Father Murray. "Very much interested." + +Mark thought he noticed a new and half-suspicious note in the priest's +voice, and was distressed. He felt like blaming himself for having +mentioned the subject. He feared he had lost ground with his new-made +friend; but, having started the discussion, Mark was determined to go +through with it. + +"It's just this way, Father," he said. "I think you ought to know that +there is someone besides yourself interested in Miss Atheson. The +incident she mentioned yesterday seemed a small one, but--well, I had to +move pretty quick to keep that man from making himself obnoxious. He had +a photograph in his hand and was determined to see her face in order to +make comparisons. Incidentally, the constable was with him." + +Mark, watching closely to note the effect of his words, saw the face +before him whiten. + +"The constable with him?" + +"And I am confident that the other man is a detective. I feel sure he +thinks Miss Atheson is someone he has been commissioned to find. And +they evidently think that I am in the matter to defend the lady. This +morning I left some papers in the safety deposit vault at the First +National, and as I passed the bank a little while ago I saw the constable +talking to the cashier--about me, judging from their confusion as they +acknowledged my greeting through the window. My room was searched this +morning. They didn't find anything, though." Mark laughed as he thought +how disappointed Saunders must have been. + +"I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Griffin," said Father Murray, "if I +confine myself for the present to asking questions. Have you ever +noticed the camp of Slavic laborers about a mile east of Killimaga--along +the line of the new railway?" + +"I have passed it several times." + +"Did you by chance notice," Father Murray went on, "whether this +detective looked like a Slav?" + +"On the contrary, he is--" Mark half paused, then hurried on--"an +American." It was not necessary that he mention Saunders' name--not now, +at least. + +Father Murray seemed puzzled. "There are two or three educated men in +that camp," he said, "who have been hanging around Killimaga a great deal +of late; and they have been worrying an old parishioner of mine--a +retired farmer who finds plenty of time to worry about everybody else, +since he has no worries of his own. He thinks that these well-dressed +'bosses' are strange residents for a railroad construction camp. He +tells me that he has often been in such camps, but that he had never seen +what he calls 'gintlemen' living in them before." + +Mark laughed. "Your old parishioner is a discerning man." + +"Uncle Mac," replied Father Murray, "is the kind of man who believes that +virtue stands in the middle. When I first came here he called to see me +to ask about my politics. Uncle Mac is a lifelong Democrat, and when I +told him that I usually voted the Republican ticket he became suspicious. +Just before the election I preached on 'Citizenship'--careful always to +avoid any reference to partisanship. Uncle Mac came in after Mass and +said: 'I think ye were preachin' Republican sintiments this morning +Father.' I said, 'Not at all, Uncle Mac. I made no reference to either +party.' 'No,' said he, 'but yer sintiments were awful highfalutin'.'" + +Mark laughed his appreciation. "Wasn't that rather a compliment to the +Republicans?" he asked. + +"I took it so," said Father Murray. "But Uncle Mac does not like the +'highfalutin'.' One day he said to me, when he saw all my books, 'The +man who was here before you, Father, wasn't smart enough; but you're too +dom smart. Now, I don't like a priest who isn't smart enough, but I'm +afeerd of one who's too dom smart. If you'd only half as many books, I'd +feel betther about ye.'" + +The Padre paused a moment; then the anxious look returned and he spoke +slowly as if he were trying to solve the puzzle even while he spoke. + +"Uncle Mac told me yesterday that there was a very 'highfalutin' +gintleman' in the camp the night before last. He came there in a long, +rakish automobile. Uncle Mac said that 'he parted his whiskers in the +middle, so he did,' and that 'he looked like a governor or somethin' of +the sort.' I was just wondering if that detective of yours has anything +to do with that camp, and if these strange visitors are not in some way +connected with his interest in Miss Atheson. But perhaps that's making +too much of a mystery of it." + +"As to that," said Mark, "of course I cannot say. I merely wanted you to +know, Father Murray, just what was going on; to tell you that while you +don't know me, nevertheless I hope you will permit me to be of assistance +if these people are annoying Miss Atheson. If you wish to know more +about me, I shall be glad to bring you the papers I left in the vault +this morning." + +"I do not need to see your papers, Mr. Griffin," Father Murray answered. +"I am satisfied with you, especially since Miss Atheson owes something to +you. Will you mind if I do not discuss the matter with you further now?" + +"Not at all, Father Murray. I do not ask for information that you feel +you should not give." + +"Perhaps," said Father Murray, "I shall give it to you later on; but for +the present let matters stand as they are. You know the detective, and I +don't. The principal thing is to find out whether there is any +connection between that camp, the 'highfalutin' gintleman' of Uncle Mac, +and the detective. I have reason to think there may be. This much I +will say to you: You need have no fear whatever for Miss Atheson. I can +assure you that there is no good reason in the world why a detective +should be watching her. Miss Atheson is everything that she looks." + +"I am confident of that," said Mark. "Otherwise I should not have spoken +to you." + +"Then," said the priest, "suppose we go now to our engagement at +Killimaga." + +The two passed across the lawn, then down the street and along the road +toward the great house whose towers looked out over the trees. Neither +Mark nor the priest said a word until the town was well behind them. +Then Father Murray turned to his companion. + +"You will find Miss Atheson a remarkable woman, Mr. Griffin. There is a +reason, perhaps, why I might not be a competent judge--why I might be +prejudiced--but still I think that you, too, will see it. She has not +been here long, but she is already loved. She receives no one but me. +But she seems to like you, and I didn't hurt you any in her estimation by +my own rather sudden attraction." + +"I am grateful for your appreciation," replied Mark, "even though I may +not deserve it. And more grateful for your confidence." + +Walking slowly, and chatting in friendly fashion, they reached Killimaga. +As the great gates swung open their attention was arrested by the purring +of a motor. Father Murray uttered a low "Ah!" while Mark stared after +the swiftly vanishing machine. He, too, had seen its passenger, a heavy, +dark man with a short beard combed from the center to the sides. The +flashing eyes had seemed to look everywhere at once, yet the man in the +car had continued to smoke in quiet nonchalance as if he had not noticed +the two standing by the gates. Uncle Mac had described the man well. He +was 'highfalutin'' without a doubt. + +"Sihasset is greatly honored," Father Murray remarked softly. + +"Do you know him?" + +"I have seen him before. He comes from a foreign state, but he is no +stranger to America--nor to England, for that matter. Have you any +acquaintance with the diplomats in London?" + +"I have attended balls at which some of them were present." + +"Does your memory recall one of that type?" persisted the priest. + +"No, it does not." + +"Mine does," said Father Murray. "I once had occasion to offer a prayer +at an important banquet at which that gentleman was the guest of honor. +He sat near me, and when I asked him where he had acquired such a mastery +of English, he told me that he had been for five years minister at the +Court of St. James. He is now accredited to Washington. Do you see why +I suggest that Sihasset is greatly honored to-day?" + +Mark could not conceal his astonishment. + +"But why under heaven," he said, "should a foreign diplomat be mixed up +in a camp of Slavic laborers?" + +"There are strange things in diplomacy," said Father Murray. "And +stranger things in Sihasset when the town constable has so much interest +in your taking of tea at Killimaga. If you had turned around a moment +ago, you would have seen our constable's coattails disappearing behind +the bushes on our right." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WITH EMPTY HANDS + +In the long after years Mark Griffin used to wonder at the strange way +in which love for Ruth Atheson entered his life. Mark always owned +that, somehow, this love seemed sent for his salvation. It filled his +life, but only as the air fills a vacuum; so it was, consequently, +nothing that prevented other interests from living with it. It aroused +him to greater ambition. The long-neglected creative power moved +without Mark's knowing why. His pen wrote down his thoughts, and he no +longer destroyed what he committed to paper. It now seemed a crime to +destroy what had cost him only a pleasure to produce. The world had +suddenly become beautiful. No longer did Japan and Siberia call to +him. He had no new plans, but he knew that they were forming, slowly, +but with finality and authority. + +Yet Mark's love was never spoken. It was just understood. Many times +he had determined to speak, and just as many times did it seem quite +unnecessary. He felt that Ruth understood, for one day, when an avowal +trembled on his lips, she had broken it off unspoken by gently calling +him "Mark," her face suffused the while with an oddly tender light that +was in itself an answer. After that it was always "Ruth" and "Mark." +Father Murray also seemed to understand; with him, too, it was "Ruth" +and "Mark." After one week of that glorious September, Mark was at +Killimaga daily; and when October came and had almost passed, without a +word of affection being spoken between them, Ruth and Mark came to know +that some day it would be spoken, quite as naturally as she had uttered +his Christian name for the first time. When Mark thought of his love, +he thought also of his mother. He seemed to see her smile as if it +quite pleased her; and he rejoiced that he could believe she knew, and +saw that it was good. + +"I love many things in men," said Father Murray one day as he and Mark +watched the waves dashing against the bluff. "I love generosity and +strength, truthfulness and mercy; but, most of all, I love cleanness. +The world is losing it, and the world will die from the loss. The +chief aid to my faith is the clean hearts I see in my poor." + +"Uncle Mac again?" ventured Mark. + +"Uncle Mac, and Uncles Mac--many of them. They have a heritage of +cleanness. It is the best thing they brought to this new world, and +_we_ were the losers when they left us." + +"_We_? But you are English, are you not?" asked Mark courteously. + +"Ah! So you caught me then, did you? Yes, I am English, or rather +British. But don't question me about that; I am real Yankee now. Even +my tongue has lost its ancestral rights." + +Mark was persistent. "Perhaps you, too, have a little of the 'blessed +drop' that makes the Uncle Macs what they are? I really think, Father, +that you have it." + +"Not even a little of the 'blessed drop.' I am really not English, +though born in England. Both father and mother were Scotch. So I am +kin to the 'blessed drop.'" + +"And you drifted here--" + +"Not exactly 'drifted,' Mark. I came because I wanted to come. I came +for opportunity. I was ambitious, and then there was another +reason--but that is at present forbidden ground. Here is your +constable friend again." + +The constable passed with a respectful touch of his helmet. _He_ at +least was of the soil. Every line of his face spoke of New England. + +"He is a character worth studying," remarked Father Murray. "Have you +ever talked with him?" + +"No. I have had no chance." + +"Then find one, and put him in a book. He was once rich for Sihasset. +That was in the lumber days. But he lost his money, and he thinks that +the town owes him a living. That is the Methodist minister to whom he +is speaking now. He, too, is worth your attention." + +"Do you get along well with the Protestant clergy of the town?" asked +Mark. + +"Splendidly," said Father Murray; "especially with the Universalist. +There is a lot of humor in the Universalist. I suspect the 'blessed +drop' in him. One day I happened to call him a Unitarian, and he +corrected me. 'But what,' I asked, 'is the difference between the +Universalists and the Unitarians?' The little man smiled and said: +'One of my professors put it like this: "The Unitarians believe that +God is too good to damn them, and the Universalists believe they are +too good to be damned."'" + +"Still, it cannot be an easy life," said Mark, "to be one of seven or +eight Protestant pastors in such a small town." + +"It certainly is hard sledding," replied Father Murray. "But these men +take it very philosophically and with a great deal of self-effacement. +The country clergyman has trials that his city brother knows nothing +about. He has to figure on the pennies that rarely grow to dollars." + +The two friends walked on, Mark's mind reverting to his own lack of +faith and contrasting his dubiety with the sincerity of men who firmly +believe--foremost among them the man who walked by his side. Ah, if +he, too, could only _know_! He broke the silence. + +"Father." He spoke hurriedly, as if fearing he might not have courage +to continue what he had so boldly begun. "Father, I can't forget your +words regarding those who claim to have studied religion and yet who +deliberately leave out of the reckoning the greatest part of religion. +I believe I did that very thing. I was once a believer, at least so I +thought. I let my belief get away from me; it seemed no longer to +merit consideration. I thought I had studied and discarded it; I see +now that I simply cast it away. Afterwards, I gave consideration to +other religions, but they were cold, lacking in the higher appeal. I +turned at last to Theosophy, to Confucianism, but remained always +unsatisfied. I never thought to look again into the religion I had +inherited." + +Father Murray's face was serious. "I am deeply interested," he said, +"deeply, although it was only as I thought. But tell me. What led you +to do this? There must have been a reason formed in your mind." + +"I never thought of a reason at all; I just did it. But now it seems +to me that the reason was there, and that it was not a very worthy one. +I think I wanted to get away. My social interest and comfort, my +independence, all seemed threatened by my faith. You will acknowledge, +Father, that it is an interfering sort of a thing? It hampers one's +actions, and it has a bad habit of getting dictatorial. Don't you see +what I mean?" + +"I do," said the priest; and paused as if to gauge the sincerity of his +companion. "In fact, I went through a similar experience." + +"Then you can tell me what you think of my position." + +"I have already told you," said the priest earnestly. "You are the one +to do the thinking now. All I can do is to point out the road by which +you may best retrace your way. You have told me just what I expected +to hear; I admire your honesty in telling it--not to me, but to +yourself. Don't you see that your reason for deserting your Faith was +but a reason for greater loyalty? The oldest idea of religion in the +world, after that of the existence and providence of God, is the idea +of sacrifice. Even pagans never lost that idea. Nothing in this world +is worth having but must be paid for. Its cost is summed up in +sacrifice. Now, religion demands the same. If it calls for right +living, it calls for the sacrifice that right living demands. An +athlete gets his muscle and strength, not by coddling his body, but by +restraining its passions and curbing its indolence, by working its +softness into force and power. A river is bound between banks, and +only thus bound is it anything but a menace. If a church claims to +have the Truth, she forfeits her first claim to a hearing if she asks +for no sacrifice. That your Church asked many sacrifices was no cause +for your throwing her over, but a sign that she claimed the just right +to put religion in positive form, and to give precepts of sacrifice, +without the giving of which she would have no right to exist at all. +Am I clear?" + +"You are clear, Father, and I know you are right. I have never been +able to leave my own Faith entirely out of the reckoning. I am not +trying to excuse myself. I could not ignore it, for it intruded itself +and forced attention. In fact, it has been forcing itself upon me most +uncomfortably, especially of late years." + +"Again," said Father Murray, "a reason why you should have attended to +it. If there is a divine revelation confided to the care of a church, +that revelation is for the sake of men and not for the sake of the +church. A church has no right to existence for its own sake. He was a +wise Pope who called himself 'Servant of the Servants of God.' The +position of your Church--for I must look upon you as a Catholic--is, +that a divine revelation has been made. If it has been made it must be +conserved. Reason tells us that something then must have been +established to conserve it. That _something_ will last as long as the +revelation needs conserving, which is to the end of the world. Now, +only the Catholic Church claims that she has the care of that +revelation--that she is the conserving force; which means that she +is--as I have told you before--a 'City set upon a Mountain.' She can't +help making herself seen. She _must_ intrude on your thoughts. She +_must_ speak consistently through your life. She can permit no one to +ignore her. She _won't_ let anyone ignore her. Kick her out one door, +and she will come in another. She is in your art, your music, your +literature, your laws, your customs, your very vices as well as your +virtues--as she was destined to be. It is her destiny--her manifest +destiny--and she can't change it if she would." + +Mark drew in a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. "I suppose, +Father," he said, "I could argue with you and dispute with you; under +other circumstances perhaps I should. I hate to think that I may have +to give up my liberty; yet I am not going to argue, and I am not going +to dispute. I wanted information, and I got it. The questions I asked +were only for the purpose of drawing you out. But here is another: Why +should any institution come between a man and his God? Is that +necessary?" + +The priest's eyes held a far-away look. It was some little while +before he spoke, and then very slowly, as if carefully weighing his +words. + +"There is nothing," said the priest, "between the trees and the flowers +and their God--but they are only trees and flowers; they live, but they +neither think nor feel. There is nothing between the lower animals and +their God; but, though they live and feel, they have none of the higher +power of thought. If God had wanted man thus, why should he have given +him something more than the lower animals? Man cannot live and feel +only and still be a man. He must feed not only his body but his heart +and soul and intellect. The men who have nothing between themselves +and their God are mostly confined in lunatic asylums. The gift of +intelligence demands action by the intellect; and there must be a +foundation upon which to base action. When the foundation is in place, +there never can be any limit to the desire for building upon it. Now, +God willed all that. He created the condition and is, therefore, +obliged to satisfy the desires of that condition. Some day He must +satisfy the desires to the full; but now He is obliged only to keep +them fed, or to give them the means to keep fed. Of course, He could +do that by a direct revelation to each individual; but that He has not +done so is proved by the fact that, while there can be but one Truth, +yet each individual who 'goes it alone' has a different conception of +it. The idea of private religious inspiration has produced public +religious anarchy. Now, God could not will religious anarchy--He loves +truth too much. So reason tells us that He _must_ have done the thing +that His very nature would force Him to do. He _must_ have confided +His revelation to His Church in order to preserve it, to teach it, to +keep it for men. That is not putting any man or institution between +Himself and His creatures. Would you call the hand which drags you +over a danger an interference with your liberty? Liberty, my dear +Mark, is not the right to be blind, but the privilege of seeing. The +light that shows things to your eyes is not an interference between +those things and your eyes. The road you take to your destination is +not an obstacle to your reaching it." + +The priest was silent for a moment, but Mark knew that he had not quite +finished. + +"The rich young man of the Scriptures went to Christ and asked what he +should do to be saved. He got his answer. Was Christ in his way? Was +the answer a restraint upon his liberty?" + +"No," answered Mark, breaking in, "it was not a restraint upon his +liberty. But you say that Christ is God, so the young man had nothing +between himself and his God." + +"Oh, yes, he had," said the priest. "He had the command or counsel +that Christ gave him. It was against the command or counsel that he +rebelled. Now have not I, and you, and all the world, the same right +to get an answer as that young man had? Since we are all equal in the +sight of God, and since Christ came for all men, have we not the right +to an answer now as clear as His was then?" + +"It seems logical," admitted Mark. + +"Then," said Father Murray, "the unerring Voice must still be here. +Where is it?" + +"Yes," retorted Mark, "that is my cry. Where is it? I think it's the +cry of many other men. What is the answer?" + +"It is the thing that you threw over--or believed you had thrown +over--and that you can't get away from thinking about. It waits to +answer you." + +A silence settled between the two men. It lasted for over a minute. +Finally Mark broke it. + +"You told me, Father," he said, "that what I called 'Mrs. O'Leary's +philosophy' was religion. I now know better what you meant, for I have +been gossiping about you. The best point you make is--yourself. I +know what you have been, what you have done, and how sadly you have +suffered. Doesn't your religion demand too much--resignation? Does a +God of Justice demand that we tamely submit to injustice? I am not +saying this to be personal, or to pain you, but everyone seems to +wonder at your resignation to injustice. Why should such a fault be in +the Church you think so perfect?" + +The priest looked at Mark with kindly and almost merry eyes. "I can +answer you better, my friend, by sticking to my own case. I have never +talked of it before; but, if it helps you, I can't very well refuse to +talk of it now. I came to the Church with empty hands, having passed +through the crisis that seems to be upon you. She filled those empty +hands, for she honored me and gave me power. She set me in high +places, and I honestly tried to be worthy. I worked for her, and I +seemed to succeed. Then--and very suddenly and quietly--she pulled me +down, and tore my robe of honor from me. My fellow priests, my old +friends, criticised me and judged me harshly. They came no more to see +me, though I had been generous with them. In the college I built and +directed, one of my old friends sits in my place and forgets who put +him there. Another is the Bishop who disgraced me. Now, have I a +right to feel angry and rebel?" + +"To me," said Mark, "it seems as if you have." + +"I have not," and the priest spoke very earnestly. "I have no such +right. I never knew--for I did not ask--the reason of my disgrace. +But one thing I did know; I knew it was for my good. I knew that, +though it was a trial given me by men, there was in it, too, something +given by God. You judge as I should have judged ten years ago--by the +standards of the world. I judge now by other standards. It took +adversity to open my eyes. We are not here, my dear Mark, for the +little, but for the big things. I had the little and I thought they +were big. My fall from a place of honor has taught me that they were +really little, and that it is only now that I have the big. What is +religion for but to enlighten and to save--enlighten here that the +future may hold salvation? What were my purple, power and title? +Nothing, unless I could make them help to enlighten and to save myself +and others. I ought to have fought them, but I was not big enough to +see that they hindered where I could have made them help. Like a bolt +out of the sunlight came the stripping. My shame was the best offering +I have made during all the days of my life. In my misery I went to God +as naturally as the poor prodigal son went to his father when he was +reduced to eating husks from the trough of the swine. I asked nothing +as to the cause of my fall. I knew that, according to man's +standard--even according to the laws that she herself had made--that +the Church had been unjust; but I did not ask to know anything about +it, for the acceptance of the injustice was worth more to my soul than +was the great cathedral I had been instrumental in building. I was +grieved that my friends had left me, but I knew at last that I had +cultivated them at the expense of greater friends--sacrifice and +humility. Shorn of my honors, in the rags and tatters left of my +greatness, I lay before my Master--and I gained more in peace than I +had ever known was in life." + +"God!" Mark's very soul seemed to be speaking, and the single word +held the solemnity of a prayer. "This, then, is religion! Was it this +that I lost?" + +"No one has lost, Mark, what he sincerely wishes to find." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHO IS RUTH? + +Leaving Father Murray at the rectory, Mark went on to the hotel. +Entering the lobby, he gave vent to a savage objurgation as he +recognized the man speaking to the clerk. Mark's thoughts were no +longer of holy things, for the man was no other than Saunders, from +whom, for the past two weeks, Sihasset had been most pleasantly free. + +"Damn!" he muttered. "I might have known he'd return to spoil it all." +Then, mustering what grace he could, Mark shook hands with the +detective, greeting him with a fair amount of cordiality, for, +personally, he rather liked the man. "You here!" he exclaimed. "I +scarcely expected ever to see you again." + +Saunders grinned pleasantly, but still suspiciously, as he answered. +"I can't say the same of you, Mr. Griffin. I knew you would be here +when I returned; fact is, I came back to see you." + +"Me? How could I cart books all over the world with me? What do you +want to see me for? No, no. I am bad material for you to work on. +Better go back to the Padre. He's what you call an 'easy mark,' isn't +he?" + +"Oh, he's not so easy as you think, Griffin. By the way, have you +lunched?" + +"No." + +"You will join me then?" + +"Thanks; I will." + +"We can get into a corner and talk undisturbed." + +But lunch was disposed of before Saunders began. When he did, it was +right in the middle of things. + +"Griffin," he said, leaning over the table and looking straight at +Mark, "Griffin, what's your game? Let's have this thing out." + +"I am afraid, Saunders," replied Mark, "that I must take refuge again +in the picturesque slang which the Padre thinks so expressive: I really +don't get you." + +"Oh, yes, you do. What are you doing here?" + +"Honestly, my good fellow," Mark began to show a little pique, "you +have remarkable curiosity about what isn't your business." + +"But it _is_ my business, Griffin. I am not a book agent, and never +was." + +It was Mark's turn to smile. + +"Which fact," he said, "is not information to me. I knew it long ago. +You are a detective." + +"I am. Does that tell you nothing?" + +"Nothing," replied Mark, "except that you make up splendidly as a +really decent sort of fellow." + +"Perhaps I am a decent sort, decent enough, anyhow; and perhaps I don't +particularly like my business, but it _is_ my business. Now, look +here, Griffin, I want you to help instead of hindering me. I have to +ask this question of you: What do you know about Ruth Atheson? You see +her every day." + +"So," said Mark, annoyed, "the constable has not been around for +nothing." + +"You have seen him then?" + +"Everywhere." + +"Which proves he is a reliable constable, even if he is not a good +detective." Saunders looked pleased. "But what about Ruth Atheson?" + +But Mark would have his innings now. He knew well how to keep Saunders +anxious. + +"I am quite--well, interested in Miss Atheson." + +"What!" Saunders half arose. + +"Sit down, Saunders," said Mark quietly, "sit down. What's so +astonishing about that?" + +"You--you--are engaged to Miss Atheson? You can't mean it!" + +"I didn't say _that_." + +Saunders sat down again. "You know nothing about her," he gasped. + +"The Padre's friends are good enough to appeal to me." + +"But does the Padre know?" + +Mark's eyes began to steel and glitter. He fixed them on Saunders, and +his voice came very steady and quiet. + +"Know what, Saunders? Know what?" + +"Know what? Why, that Ruth Atheson is _not_ Ruth Atheson." + +"Then who _is_ she?" + +Saunders drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Mark for what seemed a +long time to both. The detective broke the tension. + +"Griffin," he almost shouted, "either I am a fool, and ought to be +given a job as town crier, or you are the cleverest I've ever gone up +against, or--" + +"Or," Mark's voice was still quiet, "I may be entirely lacking in the +knowledge which you possess. Get it off your mind, man--better do it +soon, for you will _have to_ later on, you know. I have _quite_ made +up my mind on that." + +"Yes," Saunders seemed half satisfied, "yes, you may not know--it +really looks as if you didn't. Are you the simon-pure Mark Griffin, +brother of Baron Griffin of the Irish peerage?" + +"Yes. Where did you get that last bit of information?" + +Saunders ignored the query. + +"Did you really drop in here as a traveler, aiming at nothing in +particular?" + +"Yes." + +"Did you never know Ruth--" + +"Miss--" + +"Miss Ruth Atheson before?" + +"No." + +"Ever hear of her?" + +"No." + +"Are you really--interested in her?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you intend to stay interested?" + +"Yes." + +"I _was_ mistaken. You don't know, and I guess it's my duty to tell +you the truth. This girl is a _runaway_." + +"What?" Mark was rising. + +Saunders put out his hand. "Easy now, Griffin, easy now. Just wait. +I am going to tell you something. I see that you really know nothing, +and it's up to me to enlighten you. As I said, Ruth Atheson is _not_ +Ruth Atheson. She's the daughter of a grand duke. I can't tell you +the name of the Grand Duchy, but I'll say this: it isn't very far from +a certain Big Kingdom we hear a great deal about now--in fact the Duchy +is a dependency of the Big Kingdom--more than that, the so-called Ruth +Atheson is heiress presumptive to the throne. She'll some day be the +Grand Duchess." + +Mark sat stunned. It was with difficulty that he could speak. He saw +a tragedy that Saunders could not see. Then he broke out: + +"But you? How do you know?" + +"It's my business to know--the business you don't like. I was +instructed to watch her. She got out of Europe before certain people +could reach her--" + +"But," objected Mark, "how do I know you are telling the truth?" + +Saunders dug into his pocket and pulled out a postal card. "This will +tell you--or the photograph on it will." + +The picture was a foreign one, bearing the strange characters of a +Slavic language, such a card as is sold in every country with portraits +of reigning or distinguished personages. The facsimile signature, in a +bold feminine hand across the lower part of the picture, was "Carlotta." + +"Do you believe me now, Griffin?" asked Saunders, with some sympathy +showing on his face, which fact alone saved Mark from smashing it. + +"I am afraid I must, Saunders. You had better tell me the whole of +this." + +"I will; for, as I have sized up the situation, it is best that I +should. The Duchess ran away. She was supposed to be at San Sebastian +with a trusted attendant. The attendant was evidently _not_ to be +trusted, for _she_ disappeared, too. They were traced to London, then +to Madeira, then to a North German Lloyd liner which stopped at the +island on its way to America. Then to Boston. Then to Sihasset." + +"This attendant you spoke of--what was she like?" + +Saunders gave the description: "Dark, fairly stout, white hair, bad +English, piercing black eyes, sixty years old, upper lip showing a +growth of hair, slight wart on the right side of the nose." + +"Madam Neuville!" + +"So she's here with her, is she? I suspected that, but I have never +seen the old lady." + +"She doesn't go out much." + +"Are you satisfied now, Mr. Griffin?" + +"As to identity, yes. Now, I will ask the questions. I have a right, +haven't I, Saunders?" + +Saunders nodded. + +"Why did the Duchess run away?" + +Saunders hesitated before he answered. "I hate to tell you that. +Don't ask." + +"But I _do_ ask." + +"Well, you may have a right to know. There was a man, that's why." + +Mark wondered at his own self-control. + +"Who was he?" + +"An army officer, attached to the Italian embassy at her father's +court. But, look here, Griffin, there was no scandal about it. She +just fell in love with him, that's all. I was here watching for _him_. +I thought, for a while, that _you_ might be the man, though the +descriptions did not tally. I was taking no chances. If I saw him, my +business was to telegraph to a certain Ministry at Washington; that was +all." + +"And they would--" + +"I don't know. Those fellows have ways I can't fathom. I don't know +what they would do. They probably have their plans laid. It's evident +that they don't want her to meet him. I can't arrest her, and neither +can they; but they certainly could do for him if they wanted to. It +would be easier to bring her back, then, without scandal or publicity. +Now you've got all I know. What are you going to do?" + +"I'm afraid," Mark spoke with an effort, "I'm afraid that I don't know +just what to do, Saunders. You see, I happen to love her." + +"But what about the other man?" + +"Well, Saunders, I find it very hard to believe that." + +"Griffin," said Saunders, "I've told you a lot, because I know you are +a gentleman, and because you have a right to know. I make only one +request of you: please don't speak of this." + +"I appreciate the confidence, Saunders. My word is given." + +"Think this thing over, Griffin. You're the right stuff. I don't +blame you for wanting her. You know better than I if she's right, and +if you ever can have her." + +Mark went back to his room. On his table lay a note. He opened it and +read: + + +"My dear Mark: The Bishop is coming this morning to confirm the little +class of tots who received their First Holy Communion last Sunday. His +Lordship is a charming man. I'm sure you would like to meet him. Come +up and take dinner with us at noon. He leaves on the three o'clock +train. Better be at the rectory at eleven thirty. + Sincerely, + Donald Murray." + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +BITTER BREAD + +When Mark arrived at the church, which stood quite close to the little +rectory, he heard the choir singing the _Veni Creator_, and remembered +enough of former visits to church services to know that the sermon was +about to begin. Early for dinner, he decided to pass the time +listening to what the Bishop might have to say. There were no vacant +seats near the door of the church, so he had to go quite close to the +sanctuary before he found a place. Only two seats ahead of him was the +group of twenty little girls about to be confirmed, and directly across +the aisle from them were fifteen little boys. + +Mark had vivid recollections of the day of his own First Communion, but +he had never been confirmed. Things looked just as they did on the day +he so well remembered. The girls were dressed in white, and each small +head was covered by a veil which fell in soft long folds to the bottom +of the short skirts. The boys were in black, each with a white ribbon +around his right arm. These boys all had serious faces, and had +evidently been prepared well for the reception of the Sacrament. Mark +found himself wondering how the pastor could possibly have succeeded in +taming some of the lads, in whom he recognized certain mischievous +youngsters he had seen about the hotel; but tamed they certainly were. + +Mark had scarcely sat down before the Bishop turned to the congregation +and began to speak. His words were addressed entirely to the children. +He told them in simple language, which Mark found himself admiring, the +meaning and importance of the ceremony, sketching the apostolic origin +of Confirmation, and dwelling upon its strengthening spiritual effects. + +The Bishop was young, too young, Mark thought, since he was not yet +forty. His hair was still black, and his cheeks ruddy. He was quite a +contrast to Father Murray who sat near by. Mark noticed that the +pastor did not wear the manteletta of a prelate, but only the surplice +of a simple priest. There were two other priests in the sanctuary, +both young, one probably the Bishop's secretary. + +The Bishop allowed his gaze to wander over the congregation as he spoke +with a rich, clear voice, and with growing eloquence. The children had +fixed their wondering eyes on his impressive figure, as he stood before +them, crozier in hand and mitre on head. Mark found that he was +growing more attentive, and liking the Bishop even better as the sermon +went on. More than that, he found himself interested in the doctrine +of Confirmation, a ceremony which but a few months before he would have +thought quite meaningless. He watched the Bishop and listened as +closely as did the children. + +In the very midst of a sentence Mark saw a startled look on the face of +the preacher, a quickly suppressed look that told of great surprise. +The Bishop saved himself from breaking the current of his speech, but +so plainly did Mark notice the instance that his mind jumped at once to +the conclusion that the Bishop had seen in the congregation somebody he +had not expected in that place and at that time. Instinctively Mark's +gaze followed the Bishop's. Across the aisle, and in a direct line +with himself, sat Ruth, veiled as usual, and Madame Neuville. For an +instant only the Bishop's glance rested on the veiled girl; then he +turned again to the children. But the sermon had been spoiled for +Mark. The uneasiness was coming over him again. What did the Bishop +know? Mark could not help thinking that somehow the incident was a +proof that the detective had told the truth. + +The sermon over, the Bishop's attendant came up to him, while Father +Murray went to marshal his little charges up to the foot of the altar. +As the Bishop was about to sit down on the faldstool, Mark saw him +whisper to the young priest beside him, the one Mark thought to be the +secretary. He was a well trained secretary, for he made no sign; but +Mark watched him as he calmly turned around to face the congregation. +His searching glance swept the church until it rested upon the girl +with the veil. He, too, seemed startled, but gave scarcely a sign as +he turned quickly away. When the ceremony had ended Mark left his pew, +looking straight at Ruth as he turned to face the door. He imagined +that her eyes looked directly into his; but if they did they looked at +him as a stranger. He could have seen a smile under the veil if it had +been there, but there was none. Still more worried, he left the +church. The girl remained behind, until there was no one but herself +and Madame Neuville left. In his anxiety for the girl, Mark returned +and looked at her from the rear of the church. Her face was buried in +her hands. The sacristy door opened slightly and the young secretary +looked out. The girl, not seeing the door open, lifted the veil for an +instant to wipe away her tears. The secretary closed the door softly +as soon as he had seen her. + +Mark went directly to the rectory. The old housekeeper met him at the +door before he could ring. + +"Come right in, Mr. Griffin," she said. "I'm going to take ye into the +dining room, sir, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. +He'd be wantin' to do that himself, I know; and sure I have the Bishop +in the front room, so ye'll stay here please." + +Mark stepped into the little dining room, where the table was already +set, and waited for the priest. Ann went back to her cooking. Mark +could hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuing +orders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most important +personage in the parish on this occasion and had to show it. It was +seldom she had such authority over others. Why not make the most of it? + +There was only a folding door between the dining room where Mark waited +and, the room in which the Bishop sat Mark heard the Bishop arise +impatiently from his chair and pace the room, a fact which caused him +no little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervous +temperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunching the springs +of the chair, and again jump up, to continue his nervous pacing. Then +the door from the hallway into the parlor opened and Mark heard the +Bishop's voice: + +"Is she the woman?" + +A young voice, which Mark was sure belonged to the secretary, answered: + +"I am sorry to say, Bishop, that she is." + +"My God!" said the Bishop. There was deep distress in his tones. +"Father, are you perfectly sure?" + +"I could not be mistaken, Bishop. I stayed in the sacristy until all +had left the church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, +and she threw back the veil to use her handkerchief. Then I saw her +face quite plainly. She is the woman." + +"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature, +poor creature--and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here after +all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted telling +him the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay." + +Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened so +quickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not help +hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face +was bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, he +paused long enough to hear the secretary say: + +"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quite +beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing +like this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up." + +"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?" +asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we could +catch the train at his station." + +"I will try." + +By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through +the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty +toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done under +other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage +about love and war. + +"At once, please," he heard the young priest say over the telephone. +Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the +dining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from the +sacristy. + +"Welcome, Mr. Griffin," he said cordially. "Come, you must meet His +Lordship. He's in here," and he threw open the folding-doors. The +Bishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. The +Bishop's face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that. He was +like a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him. + +"Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to Your +Lordship--or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to stay +to break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him." + +"I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin," said the Bishop. "I saw you +in the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not to +have the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better. I am not--" + +But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation. + +"His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once. The automobile is +even now, I think, coming around the corner. It has become necessary +for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back to +the city. He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes before +taking the train at the next station." + +Father Murray almost gasped. + +"But, My Lord," he cried, "our meal is prepared. We have been looking +forward to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never be +able to--" and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dear +Bishop, you will surely stay?" + +Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones. + +"I am sorry, Monsignore," and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke +very quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one +regrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if it +were expedient, but unfortunately it is not." + +"The auto is waiting, Bishop," said the secretary, who by this time had +the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packed +in the hall, as they had come from the church. + +The Bishop put out his hand to Mark. + +"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin," he said. "I hope we may meet at another time." + +He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into a +chair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For an +instant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for he +made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. +Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned +abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go +down the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then he +heard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grew +fainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved. + +Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of her +assistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark. + +"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of +the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the +silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, +and rushed over to the inert priest. + +"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?" + +But Father Murray did not answer. + +"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark. + +"Gone." + +"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he +wouldn't eat here--again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The +dirty--but God forgive me--he's the Bishop--I can't judge him--" + +Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more. + +"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come +outside, Mark." + +The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily +into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that +he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. +His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as though +he needed him and knew he could count upon him. + +"My friend, have you ever read Thomas a Kempis?" + +"No, Father, I have not." + +"It is a pity, indeed; there is so much of consolation in him when we +need it. Listen to this quotation that I have learned by heart: 'If +thou thinkest rightly and considerest things in truth, thou oughtest +never to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but rather +to rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subject +of joy, that afflicting thee with sorrows I do not spare thee.' It is +Christ speaking, and the quotation is from His _Imitation_." Then +Father Murray made a gesture as though he were trying to throw it all +off. + +"Come in, Mark. The other guests did not intend to stay. The Bishop +has never broken bread with me since--but let that pass. Come in and +eat. It is bitter bread, my friend, bitter bread; but, alas, I must +eat it." + +And Mark thought of his own bitter bread, too, as he reentered the +rectory. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET + +Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on +her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always +quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her +thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love +of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long +experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of +approaching a subject too abruptly. + +"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence." + +"Yes? What was it this time?" + +"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's +drinkin' ag'in." + +"And she wants me to--" + +"Give him the pledge." + +"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?" + +"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him +wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges +on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin +years." + +Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, +but not quite enough yet. + +"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the +priest, looking down longingly at his work. + +But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted." + +Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?" + +"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted." + +"Who insulted her?" + +"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation." + +"But I did." + +"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy." + +"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson +anything. I'll see her to-day." + +"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped +all the time, the painted thing!" + +"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard +feelings." + +"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the +Bishop--" + +"Ann!" + +"I _will_ say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago? +An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this--" + +"Please, Ann." + +"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could +tell him things if I had me tongue on him--" + +But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her +tongue. + +"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. +The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and +neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word." + +The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't +say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope +ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and +faithfully." + +"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't +cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me." + +"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence." + +"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled +dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled." + +"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray +could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his +slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral." + +"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?" + +"McCarthy's sick ag'in." + +"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning." + +Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on +the chronically dying McCarthy. + +"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil +anointin' that omadhan four times already." + +The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice. + +"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my +hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's." + +Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information. + +"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on +yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?" + +"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there +are plenty of servants at Killimaga." + +He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke +forgotten. + +"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his +pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the +remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her +ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who +was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows +how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer +the Bishop, bad scran to him, is." + +There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the +eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, +without knowing why--and loves and protects too--still without knowing, +or asking, a reason. + +In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He +often dropped in for a chat. + +"Where's the Father?" he asked. + +"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased +anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the +parish's chronic hypochondriac. + +But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off +temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he +had just heard a wonderful story. + +Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?" + +"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the _Weekly +Herald_. Ye know him?" + +"I know no good av him." + +"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. +Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited +about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be +rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and +he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear." + +"The omadhan!" + +"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have +axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to +be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to +mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan +glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he." + +Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected. + +"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld +Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog +does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the +other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin' +Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, +and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he +ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to +the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The +dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin +shoot a human dog, too.'" + +"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that? +He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!" + +"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor +ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to +commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the +whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake." + +"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's +Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it." + +Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked +quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A +man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed. + +"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled. + +"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to +shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the +town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for +he was a well-to-do business man. + +"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He +fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read +it aloud: + + + JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS + Justice of the Peace + + The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate. + + Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and + eloquently. + + _Fees Moderate_. _Osculation extra_. + + Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no + connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill. + + _P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure + the most delicate complexion_. + + +"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, +Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you +didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see +it on your face." + +"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit +and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you +know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?" + +"I know him only slightly." + +"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.' +He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that +lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told +it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it +that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he +gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him." + +Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you +kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from +annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by +apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty." + +"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the +joke himself in to-day's _Herald_." + +When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the +rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed +story was safely in his pocket. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION + +"How do you do, Mr. Griffin. I am delighted to see you again, and so +soon after our first meeting." + +Two days had elapsed since the unpleasant incident at the rectory, and +Mark, engrossed in thoughts by no means in harmony with the peaceful +country through which he wandered, was taken unawares. He turned +sharply. A big automobile had stopped near him and from it leaned the +young Bishop, hand outstretched. + +Mark hurried forward. "I am glad to see Your Lordship again. You are +still traveling?" He had retained no pleasant recollections of the +dignitary, and, as he shook the extended hand, was rather surprised to +realize that he felt not a little pleased by the unexpected encounter. + +"I am still traveling--Confirmation tours all this season. Are you +going far, Mr. Griffin?" + +"I am merely walking, without goal." + +"Then come in with me. I am on my way to a little parish ten miles +farther on. I want to chat. My secretary went on ahead by train, to +'prepare the way,' as it were. I will send the car back with you. +Won't you come?" The tone of the Bishop's voice indicated an earnest +desire that the invitation be accepted. + +Mark hesitated but a moment. "I thank Your Lordship. I will gladly go +with you on such pleasant terms." He entered the car and, sinking into +its soft cushions, suddenly awakened to the fact that he had tramped +far, and was tired. + +The Bishop took up the conversation. + +"You are thoroughly British, Mr. Griffin, or you would not have said +'Your Lordship.' The bishops in England are all addressed in that way, +are they not?" + +"Of course, and here also. Did I not hear Father Murray--" + +"Oh, Father Murray is quite different. He is a convert, and rather +inclined to be punctilious. Then, too, he is from England. In America +the best we get as a rule is just plain 'Bishop.' One of your own kind +of Bishops--an Episcopalian--I knew him well and a charming man he +was--told me that in England he was 'My Lorded' and 'Your Lordshiped' +everywhere, until he had gotten quite used to the dignity of it. But +when he stepped on the dock at New York, one of his lay intimates took +all the pomposity out of him by a sound slap on the back and the +greeting, 'Hello, Bish, home again?'" + +"It was very American, that," said Mark. "We wouldn't understand it." + +"But _we_ do. I wouldn't want anyone to go quite that far, of course. +I have nerves. But I confess I rather like the possibility of it--so +long as it stays a possibility only. We Yankees are a friendly lot, +but not at all irreverent. A bishop has to be 'right' on the manhood +side as well as on the side of his office. That's the way we look at +it." + +A wicked thought went through Mark's head. He let it slide out in +words before he weighed the words or the thought. An instant after, he +could have bitten his tongue with chagrin. + +"But don't you take the manhood into account in dealing with your +clergy?" + +To Mark's surprise the Bishop was not offended by the plain reference +to the unpleasant scene in the rectory at Sihasset. + +"Thank you; thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin, for giving me such an +excellent opening. I really wanted you to say something like that. If +you hadn't, I should certainly have been nonplussed about finding the +opening for what I desire to say to you. You are now referring to my +seemingly unchristian treatment of Monsignore Murray? Eh, what?" It +seemed to please the Bishop to lay emphasis on the English "Eh, what?" +He said it with a comic intonation that relieved Mark's chagrin. + +"Your Lordship is a diplomat. I was wrong to ask the question. The +affair is simply none of my business." + +"But it is, Mr. Griffin. I would not want you, a stranger--perhaps not +even a Catholic--to keep in your mind the idea that a Catholic bishop +is cold and heartless in his dealings with his flock, and particularly +with his under-shepherds." + +Mark did not know what to answer, but he wanted to help the Bishop +understand his own feelings. + +"I like Father Murray very much, my dear Lord--or rather my dear +Bishop." + +It was the Bishop's turn to smile. "You are getting our ways fast, Mr. +Griffin. When we part, I suppose you'll slap me on the back and say +'Bish.'" + +"The Lord forbid." + +"For my back's sake," the Bishop was looking at Mark's strong +shoulders, "for my back's sake I hope the Lord does forbid. But to +your question. I must get at the answer in a round-about way. Father +Murray, or Monsignore Murray, for he is a prelate, was one of my +dearest friends. For no man had I a greater regard. He was the soul +of generosity, earnest, zealous, kind, and--I believed then--a saint." + +"_Then_?" + +"_Then_. I am going to confide in you, and for a good purpose. You +like him. His people in Sihasset adore him, as did his curates and his +people at the Cathedral. I expected, as did others, that he would be +in the place I occupy to-day." The Bishop broke off to look fixedly at +Mark for a moment. "Mr. Griffin, may I trust you to do your friend a +service?" + +"Yes, Bishop, you may." + +"Then I will. I have no other way to do this thing. I cannot do it +through another priest. They are all of one mind except a few of the +younger ones who might make matters worse. You can help Monsignore +Murray, if you will. Now, listen well. You heard the conversation +between my secretary and myself at the rectory, did you not? You were +in the next room, I know." + +"Yes; I could not help hearing it, and there was no way of escape." + +"I know there was no escape. You heard it all?" + +"All." + +"That decides me to tell you more. It may be providential that you +heard. A woman's name was mentioned?" + +"No name, only a reference to a woman, but I think I know who was +meant." + +"Exactly." The Bishop's voice took on even a graver tone. "What I am +going to say to you is given into your confidence for a stronger reason +than to have you think more charitably of a bishop in his dealings with +his priests. I am taking you into my confidence chiefly for Monsignore +Murray's sake. He is a _different_ sort of man from the ordinary type. +He has few intimate friends because his charity is very wide. You seem +to be one of the rare beings he regards with special favor. You like +him in return. The combination is excellent for my purpose. I do not +know when this woman first came into Monsignore Murray's life, but he +has seen her quite frequently during the last few years. No one knows +where she came from or who she is, except that she calls herself 'Miss +Atheson.'" + +"That is her name, if you are thinking of the lady I have in mind--Ruth +Atheson." + +"Exactly. The old Bishop, my predecessor, seemed oblivious to the +situation. I soon learned, after my appointment, that Monsignore +Murray and Miss Atheson were together almost daily, either at the +rectory or at her hotel. But I said nothing to Monsignore and had +every confidence in him until--well, until one day a member of the +Cathedral clergy, unexpectedly entering the rectory library, saw Miss +Atheson sitting on the arm of the priest's chair, with her head close +to his and her arm across his shoulders. They were reading from a +letter, and did not see the visitor, who withdrew silently. His visit +was never known to Monsignore Murray. You understand?" + +Mark was too much surprised to answer. + +"Don't look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin. The thing might have an +explanation, but no one asked it. It looked too unexplainable of +course. The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray was +avoided. Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear old +saint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like his +fullest confidence about Miss Atheson. He avoided the subject. Still +I was loath to believe. I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, +but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset." + +Mark found his voice. + +"That was the reason? And he never knew?" + +"That was the reason. I thought he would ask for it, and that I would +then have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing. The scene +when he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that I +would willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go through +with it again." + +"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?" + +"That's it, that's it. There was no _scene_, and yet there was. I +told you how I loved him. We first met at college, in Rome. In years +the difference between us was not so very great, but in experience he +was far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both father +and friend to me. When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must have +felt when he condemned his sons to death. Only it was worse. It was a +son condemning his father to disgrace. But I hoped to save him." + +"And you did not?" + +"No, that was harder yet. I thought I had--until I went to Sihasset +and saw her in the church. Poor creature! She must have followed him." + +"But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he--" + +"Yes, I know. But facts are facts. What could I do? Look here, Mr. +Griffin. Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know. +And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard. I shall +have to tell him and then-- If there _is_ an explanation, how can I +forgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Sihasset will notice +and talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then . . . . My God! +I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end. Do you know +what it means to be an unfrocked priest?" + +"Yes." Mark had no other answer. His distress was too deep. His mind +was working fast, however. + +"Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him--point out the +danger of his position--without hurting him? He is very sensitive. +Don't tell him all you know--only intimate gently that there may be +some misunderstanding of this kind. He surely will guess the rest. +You may save him if you can do this and--if you will do it." + +It was on Mark's tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at the +Bishop's face. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. + +"Don't mind my weakness, Mr. Griffin. It is a weakness in me thus to +take a stranger into my confidence in such a matter. But I feel that +you alone have his confidence. You can't realize what this thing has +cost me, in peace. He was the last I should have suspected. I must +save him. Help me do it. The Church is supposed to be hard-hearted, +but she is forgiving--too forgiving sometimes. My duty is to be stern, +and a judge; but I cannot judge him with sternness. I would give my +life to think that this was all a bad dream. Don't you see that he is +the man I always thought would be my own bishop? How can I go to +him--and hurt him?" + +If Mark Griffin had had any misgivings about the character of the +Bishop, they had vanished. He saw no bishop beside him, but only a man +who in his heart of hearts had for years treasured a friendship and, in +spite of everything, could not pluck it out. Now he had opened that +heart to an utter stranger, trusting him as if snatching at every +chance to save his sacred ideals, shrinking from inflicting pain +himself as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father. +Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him. + +But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while. +He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling face +of Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she, +this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchess +pledged to another man? A priest's--God! that was too much. Mark +clenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of Father +Murray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, a +priest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And he +hesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still, +Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him. + +"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteen +minutes." The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help. + +"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannot +tell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you. +In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fully +justify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that I +will try." + +So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone. + +The Bishop prayed longer--much longer--than usual before he left the +little church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory after +the ceremony. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +AT THE MYSTERY TREE + +All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had +returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy +between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a +friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was +an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to +which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the +coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was +not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So +he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a +dull pain in both head and heart. + +All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding +Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted +to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles. +It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he +had not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how to +approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop. + +To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it +chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that +made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever +having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his +heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment. + +With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring +of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his +life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought, +had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal +a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to +overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted +on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her; +rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were +concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The +blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with +ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be +permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take +care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway +girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have +blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a +beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be. + +Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little +of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the +officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him. + +It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road +where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he +flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he +first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter +regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past. + +The gray ocean seemed trying---and the thought consoled him a +little--to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to +remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his +sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for +himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even +as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must +flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but +he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger +brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some +disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided. + +How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to +know. A step aroused him from his stupor. + +He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was +tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a +little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, +with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his +eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's +resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave +back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute +the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the +doorway in the tree was flung open. + +Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He +heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two +met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as +he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back +into her life. She spoke in French and--was it because of the language +used or of the unusual excitement?--her voice took on a strange elusive +quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, +yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again +would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of +escape, so he steeled his heart to listen. + +"You have come, my beloved," he heard her say. + +"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. When +you wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I did +not delay one minute." + +"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you." + +"I think they do not know I am here," he answered. "I have seen no one +watching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?" + +"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not have +called you. But I wanted you so much." + +"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could I +live?" + +"You love me, then, so much?" + +"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I not +looked?" + +"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you." + +They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees that +lined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It had +been hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must go +away, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as an +honorable man, to do. + +Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slipping +into the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, but +they were far away on the other side. For a long time there was no +other visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows; +but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and the +crackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found his +man? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her? +He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it was +not the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but bearded +and grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, for +now he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gaze +off that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared to +spring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barrel +dropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that it +was the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing would +be done while she was there. + +The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye. + +"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously. + +"I will come when you call, my beloved." + +"But if they find you?" + +"They will not find me." + +"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I have +my jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people. +We could be just alone together." + +"But would you be happy, Carlotta?" + +"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay for +being a duchess, to lose all I want in life." + +"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such a +sacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it." + +"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy to +give. I will tell you when to come." + +With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree and +closed the door. + +The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action, +and jumped for the other side--but too late. There was no sound, but +powder burned Mark's hand--powder from the muffled gun barrel which he +had tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyes +wide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant. +Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground. +There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice was +raised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark looked +up as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body of +the murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came up +to where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electric +glow lamp from his pocket. + +"Let me look at him, Griffin," he said. He looked long and earnestly +at the man's face, then snapped off the light. + +"He's the man," he announced. + +[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's +the man!" he announced.] + +"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly. + +"The man I told you about--the man I took you for--the man for whose +sake the Duchess ran away--the chap I was watching for." + +"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still lay +unconscious. + +"Oh, he doesn't matter." Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out of +it. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here to +watch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning." + +Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined the +face and clothing of the murderer. + +"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of the +foreigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was out +hunting--shooting squirrels--anything." + +"He can't say that," put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. I +tried to stop him." + +Saunders turned quickly to Mark. + +"Forget it, Griffin," he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep out +of it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. But +this is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up in +it. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties. +Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger down +here inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew who +were behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let this +fellow tell his story." He pointed to the man who was now coming to +his senses. "He has it all prepared." + +"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can't +expect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's only +wounded." + +The detective smiled grimly. + +"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who would +miss? Come, look at him." + +Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for the +pulse, and looked into the face. + +"Come, Saunders," he said, "we can do nothing for him." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THIN ICE + +"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin," Saunders' voice had quite +an uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger." + +The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was striking +midnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together from +the bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since. + +"I think I do," Mark answered, "but I don't very much care." + +"Then," said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!" + +"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, +and the Irish have 'some nerves.' But I am really hit very hard. I +suppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it." + +Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out of +his mouth. + +"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but in +the singular number." + +"Beg pardon?" + +"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly +neglected. I mean to say that they have _nerve_, not nerves." + +"By which you mean--?" + +"Something that you will need very soon--grit." + +"I--I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?" + +The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted both +of them was no chimera. + +"Look here, Griffin," he broke out, "that murderer did this thing under +orders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, +or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanation +must be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All was +certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you may +wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far +away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, +too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. The +question is, what story will this fellow tell?" + +"You can--ah--search me, Saunders," retorted Mark. + +Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful. + +"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you,' eh? That is just exactly +what the police probably will do." + +"Why?" + +"Why? Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the whole +tragedy. I think it quite upset their calculations. Your hand is +marked with powder from the gun fire. Everyone will see that +to-morrow. The principal will know something of it from the murderer. +In fact, he probably knows now. To-morrow they will be searching for +the man with the powder mark. The murderer himself can swear that he +saw someone fire at the man who was killed. He may charge robbery. +Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do. If +they have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, +for they intend putting it on you. Unless I am mistaken, his pockets +are inside out right now. The powder marks alone are enough to fasten +suspicion on you. Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainly +must have seen you on the bluff road. Above all, you love Ruth +Atheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals. My detective +intuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of being +charged with murder." + +"Well," said Mark, "I have an excellent witness for the defense, in one +James Saunders, detective." + +"You have," answered Saunders, "but not at the inquest; for if James +Saunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testify +at the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might be +useful." + +"You mean that they would--" + +"Just so," Saunders nodded wisely; "that's just what they would do. On +the other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, +that they had fixed up for him. It looks reasonable to me that he +would be instructed to do that. He may come forward when the body is +found, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, or +some other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of his +bullets must have killed the man. That looks like the easiest way out +of it." + +"That sounds all right, Saunders," answered Mark, "but I incline to the +other theory. I think they'll accuse me. Their first plan would have +been best if nobody had seen the deed. But since they know someone did +see it, they'll probably try to be on the safe side. Fortunately, they +don't know there were two of us, which leaves me better off." + +"If they find there was another," said the detective, "you'll be safer +in jail. Lives count nothing in the games of princes, and they'll get +us both if they can." + +"Then you're in danger yourself, Saunders." + +"Not yet. As you remarked, they don't know there was another. You +see, it was dark among the trees, and I caught the fellow in the rear +as he ran away. He would naturally think that the man who caught him +was the one who jumped as he fired." + +Mark smoked thoughtfully before he spoke. + +"You're right, Saunders. My complacency is not so great that I do not +recognize the danger. I merely am indifferent to danger under the +present circumstances. It's no use running away from it, and we can't +help it now. Let's go to bed." + +"Well, those English-Irish nerves get me," Saunders answered, as he +arose and walked toward the door. "I suppose they're a good thing to +have; but, Griffin, take it from me, you're the worst lump of ice I +ever saw. Aren't you even just a little afraid?" + +"Oh, yes," answered Mark, "I'm afraid all right, old man; I really am +afraid. But there is somebody I am more afraid for than myself. I am +worried about the lady." + +Mark thought of what he had seen as he lay near the tree. Walking over +to the window, he thoughtfully pulled down the blind before he turned +again to Saunders. "I shall always love her, no matter what happens. +Of course, I can't marry a grand duchess, especially one who is watched +day and night; but I rather welcome the chance to stay near and protect +her good name if the story does come out. That is why I won't go to +jail for safety, not if I can prevent it." + +Saunders closed the half-opened door and walked back into the room. + +"Protect her? I don't understand," he said. Clearly bewildered, he +sat down, carelessly swinging one leg over an arm of the big chair, and +stared at his host. + +Mark looked up. He spoke haughtily, with a slight shrug of the +shoulders. + +"There is a British Ambassador in Washington. You have a free country, +so I can always talk to him, even if I am a prisoner or on bail. I +happen to be brother to a baron; that fact may prove useful, for the +first time in my life. One word that involves her name in scandal, +even as Ruth Atheson, brings the story out. And Great Britain does not +particularly care about your certain Big Kingdom. I am presuming, of +course, that I have rightly guessed what Big Kingdom is looking after +the interests of your Grand Duchy." + +"You're right, Griffin; the Ministry could never let her name be +mentioned." + +"As the grand duchess, no. But they could mention the name of Ruth +Atheson, the Padre's friend, the Lady Bountiful of his poor, the girl I +love. The Padre has had trouble enough, too, without that scandal in +his little flock." + +"I don't see how you can avoid it." + +"Oh, I can avoid it very simply. I can send word to the Ministry in +question that I know who the lady really is, and that I am almost ready +to talk for the public." + +"That's right, Griffin, you could. Gee, what a detective you would +have made! You're sure right." He arose, stretched lazily, and walked +to the door, where he turned, his hand on the knob. "If it's any +consolation for you to know, Griffin, they won't arrest--they'll just +stick a knife into you. Good night, and pleasant dreams." + +"Good night, Saunders, and thanks for your cheerful assurances." + +But Mark had no dreams at all for, left alone, he smoked and worried +over his problem until morning. + +Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocket +so that he could register it in person. It was addressed to the +British Ambassador. + +As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave him +a note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin." + +"Yes, rather." Mark looked at his hand as though noticing its +condition for the first time. Then he spoke consolingly. "But it was +the only one I had to put on this morning. Pleasant outside, isn't it?" + +But the clerk had suddenly discovered that his attention was needed +elsewhere, and Mark proceeded to his breakfast. + +Sitting down, he gave his order, then opened the letter. It was from +Ruth. "I am sorry you were not feeling well yesterday, and hope you +are all right now. If so, come to Killimaga to-day, quite early. +Somehow I am always lonesome now. Ruth." + +It was rather strange--or was it?--that, in spite of what Mark knew, he +watched his chance and, when the waiter turned his back, kissed the +sheet of scented paper. + +Saunders was in the hotel office when Mark came out of the dining room. +The constable was with him. With little difficulty Saunders got rid of +the officer and walked over to Mark. + +"Come outside," he said. "I have some news." + +They left the hotel and moved down the street. When out of anyone's +hearing, Saunders touched Mark's arm. + +"I routed out the constable early this morning--at daybreak, in +fact--and sent him on a wild-goose chase along the bluff road. I +wanted him to stumble onto that body, and get things going quickly. +The sooner the cards are on the table, the better. His errand would +keep him close to the Killamaga wall, on the roadside. He saw nothing; +if he had I should have known it. What do you think it means?" + +"Means?" echoed Mark. "Why, it means that someone else has been there." + +"It looks that way," admitted Saunders. "But why hasn't it been +reported?" + +"I think, Saunders," Mark said thoughtfully, "that we had better take a +walk near the wall ourselves." + +"I was going to suggest that very thing." + +The morning was not beautiful. The chill wind of autumn had come up, +and the pleasant weather that Mark had taken the trouble to praise was +vanishing. The clouds were dark and gloomy, threatening a storm. When +the men reached the bluff road, they saw that the ocean was disturbed, +and that great white-capped waves were beating upon the beach below. +Their own thoughts kept both of them in tune with the elements. +Neither spoke a word as they rapidly covered the distance between the +town and the spot of the tragedy. But instinctively, as if caught by +the same aversion, both slackened pace as they neared the wall of +Killimaga. Going slowly now they turned out of the road and approached +the tree, looking fearfully down at the grass. They reached the spot +whereon they had left the body the evening before. There was no body +there. + +They searched the bushes and the long grass, but there was no sign of +anything out of the ordinary. Closely they examined the ground; but +not a trace of blood was to be seen, nor any evidence of conflict. +Saunders was stupefied, and Mark showed signs of growing wonder. + +"It isn't here," half whispered Saunders. "And it isn't in the bushes. +What do you make of it, Griffin?" + +Mark answered hesitatingly and half-nervously. + +"I can't make anything out of it, unless they have decided to hush the +whole thing up, figuring that the men who interfered will never tell. +They disposed of the body overnight and covered all their traces. +Unless I am mistaken, no one will ever find it or know that the murder +took place at all." + +"Then," said Saunders emphatically, "they certainly had one of the big +fellows here to see that it was properly done." + +"It looks probable," replied Mark; "for a common murderer would not +have planned so well. An expert was on this crime. The body is +disposed of finally." + +Saunders looked around nervously. + +"We had better go back, Griffin. There's nothing left for us to do, +and they may be watching." + +Both men left the spot and returned to town; but they were no longer +silent. Mark was decidedly anxious, and Saunders voiced his worry in +tones that shook. + +"I have more fear than ever for your sake, Griffin, and I'm beginning +to have some for my own. Those fellows know how to act quickly and +surely. Their principal is in Washington. He has had word already by +cipher as to what has happened. He won't rest until he finds the +witness, and then--" + +"And then?" + +"I'm afraid they will try another murder. They won't trust a living +soul to hold his peace under the circumstances." + +"But how are they to know I saw the thing?" + +"By your hand. In fact, I think they know already." + +"Already?" + +"Yes. There was somebody about when we were there, and he was +evidently hiding." + +"You heard him?" + +"Yes. I didn't want to alarm you. I have reason now to be alarmed for +myself. They know I am in it. We've got to think quickly and act +quickly. The minute that orders come they will try to get us. As long +as we stay in public places we are safe. But we must not go out alone +any more." + +The two went on to the hotel. Saunders glanced back as they were +entering the town. His eyes covered the hedge. + +"I thought so," he said. "That chap has been dodging in and out of the +trees and keeping watch on us. From this point he can see right along +the street to the hotel door. It's no use trying to conceal anything +now. Our only safety lies in keeping in public places; but they won't +strike till they get their orders." + +As the two entered the hotel, a messenger boy came up carrying two +telegrams. The clerk nodded to the boy, who went over to Mark and +Saunders. + +"Which is Mr. Saunders?" he asked. The detective reached out his hand +and the boy gave him one of the messages. "The other one," he said, +"is for Mr. Griffin. + +"Sign here, please." The boy extended his book. Both men signed and +the boy went out. Sitting down in a corner of the writing room, Mark +and Saunders looked at one another, then at the yellow envelopes. + +"Why don't you open your telegram, Saunders?" asked Mark. + +"Because I know pretty well what's in it. I guessed it would be +coming. I am ordered off this case, for the men who employed our +agency have no use for me after last night. They have found everything +out for themselves, and have settled it in their own way. Why don't +you open yours?" + +"For opposite reasons to yours, old chap: because I don't know what's +in it, and, whatever it is, I don't think I shall like it. I have not +had many messages of this kind. None but my solicitors would send one, +and that means trouble. But here goes!" + +Mark tore off the end of the envelope, opened the message and read. +Saunders did the same with his. One glance was enough for each. + +"I told you so," said Saunders. "Here's my message: 'Central +disconnected.'" + +Mark looked up with surprise. + +"'Central disconnected'? What's that, Saunders? More United States?" + +"It's our code," replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the central +office at once. Our connection with the case is at an end.'" + +There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegram +over for Saunders to read. It was from New York: + + +"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you and +say that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once." + + +"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry." There was real sympathy in Saunders' +voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. +Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, it +would be better for you to go." + +"You're wrong, Saunders." Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "My +disappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. +Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite a +personage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He had +no children. I can fight better here--as Baron Griffin." + +"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, you _are_ Baron +Griffin now!" + +"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother's +death. What are you going to do, Saunders?" + +The detective looked embarrassed. + +"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throw +up my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out." + +"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can you +afford it?" + +"Frankly, I can't; but I'm going to do it just the same." + +"Saunders," said Mark, "I think I need the services of a sort of +detective." + +"You mean a protective bodyguard." + +"Put it as you like--any way that will let me pay you for your time. +You say you are going to stay on the case. I want to have you on it. +You may not need me badly, but I'm sure that I need you." + +"Then you want me to apply for the job?" + +"I'd employ you if you would take it, old chap." + +"Then I apply. I never asked for a job before, but I want this one. +Shake!" + +The men shook hands and started to go upstairs. When they were out of +hearing, the clerk called up a number on the telephone. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS + +In an upstairs room of a Washington Ministry three men sat in +conference. One, a stout, bearded man, was seated behind a flat-top +desk on which he constantly thrummed with nervous fingers; the others +sat facing him. The man at the desk was the Minister of a Kingdom, and +looked it. His eyes were half closed, as if in languid indifference, +effectually veiling their keenness. The expression of his mouth was +lost in the dark moustache, and in the beard combed from the center. +The visible part of his face would have made a gambler's fortune; and, +save for its warm color, it might have been carved out of ice. Without +ever a hint of harshness or loudness, his voice was one to command +attention; though it came out soft and velvety, it was with the half +assurance that it could ring like steel if the occasion arose. The +occasion never arose. The hands, whose fingers thrummed on the +glass-topped desk, were soft, warm-looking, and always moist, with a +dampness that on contact made you feel vaguely that you had touched +oil--and you had. + +Both of the other men were beardless, but one had the ghost of a +moustache on his upper lip. He was dapper, clean and deferential. The +other was short and somewhat ungainly in build, and his face showed +evidence of the recent shaving off of a heavy beard. He had no graces, +and evidently no thoughts but of service--service of any kind, so long +as he recognized the authority demanding it. His clothes did not suit +him; they were rich enough, but they were not his kind. A soldier of +the ranks, a sailor before the mast, a laborer on Sunday, could have +exchanged clothes with this man and profited in values, while the other +would certainly have profited in looks. + +"You did not see the other, then, Ivan?" the fat man asked, +interrupting the story of his awkward guest. + +"I did not, Excellency. He came at me too quickly, and I had no idea +there was anyone there besides myself and--and the person who--" + +"Yes, yes. The person who is now without a name. Go on." + +"I was in the shrubs, near a great large tree that seemed to form part +of a wall, when the two, the person and a lady, came back together. +She--" + +"Did they act as if they knew one another?" + +The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one another +quite well. They embraced." + +"_That_ you did _not_ see, Ivan?" + +"No, Excellency, of course, I did not see _that_." + +"Proceed, Ivan." + +"After they--parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went into +it." + +"_Opened the tree_?" The nervous fingers were stilled. + +"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door." + +"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?" + +The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual in +America." + +"Proceed, Ivan." The Minister resumed his thrumming. + +"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the--ah--person--turned to +go past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency--" + +"You are forgetting again, Ivan." The half-closed eyes opened for an +instant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone. + +"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of." + +"Oh, yes--Maxim's." + +"My gun exploded--but noiselessly, Excellency, because of the +silencer--just as the strange man jumped at me. The--ah--person fell, +and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but he +knew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the--person--who +had, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I came +back and--" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav--"he +came with me." + +The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took up +the story. + +"We thought it better to dispose of the--person, Excellency, and +avoid--" + +"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to your +duties." + +The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him. + +"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?--the man who +struck you?" + +"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire, +Excellency." + +"Thank you, Ivan." + +The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent, +gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly now +as though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up. + +"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night, +Wratslav?" + +"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew not +at all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman--the same +who visits the lady." + +"H-m, h-mmmm." The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellency +was silent, considering what this new development might mean. The +fingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivory +paper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he did +so slowly, carefully, weighing each word. + +"Have you seen him--the Englishman--since?" + +"No, Excellency--" + +"No?" The word came with cold emphasis. + +"The hotel clerk, who is friendly--for a consideration--telephoned me +that the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that his +hand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks." + +"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?" + +"Not a word, so far as I have heard." + +"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?" + +"He might think that he would be suspected." + +"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a little +too much, does he not?" + +"A great deal too much, Excellency." + +"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is." + +"He goes to see her, Excellency." + +The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers, +then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately. + +"It would be well if he did not go again--did not speak to her again +for that matter--" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as His +Excellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as though +to emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voice +continued, "if it could be arranged." + +"It can be arranged, Excellency." + +"I thought so." Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back in +his chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest more +comfortably on the desk. + +"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety. + +"Yes?" + +"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his +own country." + +"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?" + +"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron +Griffin." + +The fingers tightened around the ivory knife. + +"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, +"_that_ is unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid +down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I +think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad--and +you also--while the excellent shooting continues near--ah--the camp. +It seems best." + +The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the +receiver. + +"Yes, someone will come down." + +He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav. + +"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here. +Hurry." + +The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which he +handed to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. The +ivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly at +the pieces, but never a line of his face moved. + +"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must think +again." He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read: + + +"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, and +begs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sent +under seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be opened +or its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the sudden +demise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders." + + +Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. The +slow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk, +and his hand strayed to the papers on it. + +"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for some +time yet, Wratslav." + +"Yes, Excellency." + +The silence lasted a full minute. + +"About the lady, Wratslav--" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be a +great honor were she to visit the Ministry soon." + +"Would she come, Excellency?" + +The question was ignored. + +"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quite +comfortable, I think." + +"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger--and of +gossip also." + +"That, too, might be arranged." + +"But if she proves--" + +"She will not--not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, that +her arrival is momentarily expected--traveling incognito, you see--no +fuss or receptions--but a short visit before sailing back to Europe. +Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they know +nothing outside the court. The King is anxious." There was another +flashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well," +spoken with meaning emphasis. + +Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency." + +"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav." + +"I will do it, Excellency." + +"That is better." + +So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and the +rough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whose +limousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little as +possible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored with +provisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of the +workers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things--or +indeed ever saw the interior of the car at all. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE ABDUCTION + +Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr. +Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down. + +"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I +should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to +break in upon you after--" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having +almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I--I--" + +But Father Murray smiled indulgently. + +"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours +with my _Imitation_ heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know +its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day. +Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires +nothing on earth?'" + +"Fine--but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark. +"Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor +the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the +sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?" + +"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the +religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our a Kempis had +more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into +self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the +virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty +from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.' +It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty." + +"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left +you free for the more important things." + +Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making +excuses, my dear Mark. You _are_ forgiven, so far as I am concerned. +But I am not the only one who has been neglected." + +"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to +speak about a matter of importance." + +So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward +the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he +could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the +point: + +"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?" + +"Yes." + +"You approve?" + +"Decidedly." + +"But I am not of her faith." + +"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay +long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark." + +"And you would trust me?" + +"Absolutely." + +"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, +after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I +think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?" + +"I have no such recollection." + +"Did you know some people named Meechamp?" + +"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of +mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic." + +"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon. +I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong +impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of +mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were +sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see +you that morning." + +"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to +see me?" + +"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this: +the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite +directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come +quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in +a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he +crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.' +She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her +tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make +good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked. +'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others +only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of +course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your +church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the +door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her +hand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know I +have met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a +picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together. +Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and +the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand +now?" + +"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if +Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman' +when I came out of the study to take her home." + +"Then you knew her family well?" + +"Her mother was my sister." + +"Your sister!" + +"Exactly. You are surprised?" + +Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised. + +"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered. + +"Please be explicit." + +"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself +figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his +activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself +saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss +Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are +confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several +things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced +Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have +myself seen, if she is really your niece." + +"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray +anxiously. + +"Certainly, Father." + +"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait." + +The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then +all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. +Here was his chance. + +"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related +the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. +"You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your +reputation will be cleared now." + +Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became +grave again. + +"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew +there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of +that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to +keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--" +Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary +days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some +decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no +explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a +test, Mark?" + +Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet +as he took it. + +Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. +Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray +stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the +deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak. + +"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here." + +"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got +them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer." + +Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, +the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, +screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was +trickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of a +blow. + +"_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth +is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. _Mon Dieu_, Father! +Come--come at once!" + +The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had +surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga. +Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the +road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called +it. + +"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them. +They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out. +I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to +fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind. +_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! Let me die!" + +"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the +weeping woman. "What were those men like?" + +"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark +and short, but he was very large of the shoulders." + +Mark turned to Father Murray. + +"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is +the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy +horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady +is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they +find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come +to Washington with me?" + +"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter +to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father +Murray. "Let us go." + +Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped +back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE INEXPLICABLE + +Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel +lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective +vigorously. + +"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is +there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray +wants to catch that." + +Saunders was alert in an instant. + +"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at +the Junction--have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though. +What's up?" + +"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay +the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the +rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot." +Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the +train." + +In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the +station platform, grips in hand. + +"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?" + +Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the +detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information +which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning +effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship +to Ruth Atheson. + +"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that +these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from +Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer." + +"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only +answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his +companions. + +Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached. +Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective. + +"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how +long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here +to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin +with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our +effects?" + +"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The +Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph +for sleeper reservations." + +Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was +said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less +so. + +"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as +they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I +suppose it has to be done." + +The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There +was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to +surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial. + +"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to +Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended. +The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of +absence, and send someone to take my place?" + +The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with +a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the +message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request. + +"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday, +and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime." + +Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes +were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering: + +"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I +think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore." + +At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he +announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they +were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I +have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best +possible, so late." + +When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father +Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious +for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down +and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case. + +"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He +pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous. + +"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar +about this whole business." + +"Yes, I know that very well." + +"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of +the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I +expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to +have taken would probably look the best way to them." + +"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?" + +"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and +Ruth Atheson at the same time." + +"Decidedly not." + +"She is one or the other." + +"Well?" + +"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson." + +"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know +is good. Then, look at his distress." + +"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till +my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he +should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is _not_ the Duchess?" + +"N-no." + +"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the +abduction?" + +"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily. + +"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?" + +"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness +gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. +What is it now?" + +"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the +mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it." +He paused. + +"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly. + +"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible +bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced +into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the +second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a +clear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone became +impressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the +other was--your lady of the tree." + +Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back. + +"Don't do that; there may be others to notice." + +"Ruth? You saw Ruth?" + +"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and +the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree +is on this train." + +It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. +Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular +breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they +dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all +their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new +development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently +to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal +it from him altogether. + +Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was +greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold +and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand +Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better +than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there +could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed +book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she +loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he +knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage +between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to +other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to +the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it? +There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by +the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her +identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that +this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There +was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the +girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the +sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. +He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never +love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly +abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by +her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did +the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could +only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train +kept saying: + +"You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knew +that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end. + +Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the +terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to +remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke. +He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole +car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end +of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he +was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There +were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with +frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and +his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated: + +"Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise +outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers +rushed out, all white with fear. + +Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried. + +"In his berth; he may be hurt." + +They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end +of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted +him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid +him down in the air. He opened his eyes. + +"What--what is it?" he asked. + +"Wreck--there was a collision," answered Saunders. + +Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, +if it is forward--where the people are--maybe dying." + +Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he +knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his +battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him +to silence. + +"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a +preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's +ways." + +So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were +being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by +some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and +splintered freight cars of the other train. + +"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the +frightened conductor. + +The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered. + +The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it. + +"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to +them." + +A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark +tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes +opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest +bent low to catch the words. + +"Father--don't--risk--trying--to get me--out--before you hear--my +confession." + +"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated +Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly." + +"The only--chance--I want--is my--confession. Quick--Father." + +With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. +The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile +of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution. + +"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out." + +The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The +blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there +lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and +unexpected contentment. + +Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked +freight, lying beside the tracks--both dead. Then they went to the +lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent +form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For +others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But +sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand +in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul. + +Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. +Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for +the same face. It was not there. Yet _she_ had been in the wrecked +coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight +track, as Mark turned to a brakeman. + +"Are there any others?" + +"Yes; two--across the track." + +Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending +over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole +world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville +were lying there--both dead. + +The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They +stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see +through his tears--but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found +that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within +pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her +now in but one setting--a great empty church at the end of springtime, +crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a +little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. +He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her +cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man +within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's +sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears. + +Saunders aroused him. + +"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet. +He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it." + +Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said +something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from +the wrecked car, just as the priest came up. + +"Are there others?" the priest asked. + +Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent. + +"No, Father, no others." + +"But these--" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies. + +"They are--already dead, Father." + +"God rest them. I can do no more." + +The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang to +support him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted, +with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses. + +"It's all right, Father," said Father Murray to his confrere. "I found +them all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There are +many of your people, too," he said, turning to the Protestant +clergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show--" + +He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious. +The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to look +at him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no cause +for alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow. +In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watching +closely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the face +of Ruth Atheson. + +When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Mark +put his hand on the priest's arm. + +"Don't, please, Father. She is dead--one of the two you saw lying on +the other side when you came over." + +"Yes, I know. But I should like to see." Father Murray started to +raise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him. + +"Please do not look, Father." + +The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him with +widely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at the +covered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drew +near to catch him. But he did not fall. + +"I think--Mark--that I will look. I can drink of the chalice--if it +must be--I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw the +blanket back." + +But Mark could not. + +Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the covering +reverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the face +stood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched the +features for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. The +priest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Thee +for sparing me, Lord." + +He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face. +Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders. + +"God rest her. It is not Ruth." + +[Illustration: "God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an +age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"] + +Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by the +blow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what was +going on in Mark's mind. + +"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous--" + +"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in his +voice. + +"Yes, my friend--likeness. I--" the priest hesitated--"I knew her +well. It is not Ruth." + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" + +A long, low-built limousine kept passing and repassing the Ministry, +and taking excursions to the parks, in an evident effort to kill time. +At last, the street being well clear of pedestrians and vehicles, the +car drew up in front of the house, the door of which was quickly thrown +open. The chauffeur descended and opened the door of the car, but said +nothing. A man stepped out backward. + +"We have arrived, Your Highness," he said to someone within. "Will you +walk across the path to the door, or will you force us again to be +disrespectful in carrying out our orders?" + +From within a girl's voice answered: + +"You need not fear; I shall make no outcry." + +"The word of Your Highness is given. It would be painful for us to be +disrespectful again. Come." + +The girl who stepped out of the car was unmistakably Ruth Atheson. +Behind her came a raw-boned, muscular woman, and a powerful-looking man. + +As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cement +walk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but her +eyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter was +set some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by an +ornamental stone wall. Distinguishing the house from its neighbors was +a narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, its +slender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged with +stone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor. To +one side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whose +foliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze. + +Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry; +the door was closed quickly, and Ruth's companions stood respectfully +aside. His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met her +at the foot of the stairs. Bowing low, he kissed the white hand before +Ruth could prevent. + +"We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness." + +With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs. +His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conference +regarding her had been held only a few days before. + +"Your Highness--" he began. + +But Ruth interrupted him. "I do not understand your language." + +The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreign +language, said, "I am surprised that Your Highness should have +forgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America." + +Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily. + +"I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are--and also why I am +here. Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder. I +am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta." + +The Minister smiled again, and started to speak. But Ruth again +interrupted him. + +"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, I +must again request that you speak a language I can understand. I have +already told you that I do not understand what you say." + +The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but this +time he spoke in English. + +"It shall be as Your Highness wishes. It is your privilege to choose +the language of conversation. We will speak in English, although your +own tongue would perhaps be better." + +"My own tongue," said Ruth, "is the language that I am using; and again +I must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess. You +have simply been guilty of abduction. You have taken the wrong person." + +For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up a +portrait, which he extended toward the girl. + +"I know," said Ruth, "I know. Many times in Europe I have been +subjected to annoyance because of the resemblance. I know the Grand +Duchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson." + +The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister. + +"Your Highness shall have it as you wish. I am satisfied with the +resemblance. Since you left San Sebastian there has been scarcely a +minute that you have not been under surveillance. It is true that you +were lost for a little while in Boston, but not completely. We traced +you to Sihasset. We traced _him_ there also finally--unfortunately for +the poor fellow." + +Ruth started: "You have not--" + +The Minister looked sad. "Alas! Highness," he said, "he is no +more---an unfortunate accident. We do not even know where his body is. +I fear he may have been drowned, or something worse. At any rate he +will trouble you no more." + +The face of the girl showed keen distress. "Poor child!" was all she +could say. + +"He was not, Highness, exactly a child, you know," suggested the +Minister. + +"I was not referring to _him_." + +The Minister's smile returned. + +"Then, Highness, perhaps you were referring to the Grand Duchess." + +"I was referring to the Grand Duchess." + +All this time His Excellency never lost his air of respect, but now a +somewhat more familiar tone crept into his voice. + +"Highness," he said, "you will pardon me, I know, if I issue orders in +your regard. All is being done by your father's commands, given to me +through His Majesty. You know as well as I do that your marriage to +this Italian adventurer was impossible. You know that you are next in +line of succession, but you do not know something else. You do not +know that your father is even now dangerously ill. Your escapade has +been hushed up to avoid scandal, for you may be sitting on the throne +within a month. You must return to Ecknor, and you must return at +once. The easiest way, and the best way, would be to notify the +Washington papers that you have arrived on a visit to America +_incognito_, and that you are now a guest at the Ministry. Though it +is already midnight, I have prepared such a statement. Here is it." +The Minister pointed to a number of sealed envelopes on the desk. "If +you consent to be reasonable, I shall have these dispatched by +messenger at once, and to-morrow make arrangements for your +entertainment. We shall send you to see some of the cities of the +United States before you leave again for Europe. In this way your +presence in America is explained. Nothing need ever be said about this +unfortunate matter, and I can promise you that nothing will be said +about it when you return home." + +It was Ruth's turn to smile. + +"You are overlooking one thing, Excellency, and that the most +important. I am not the Grand Duchess." + +"Of course, Highness. You have explained that before. It would not +become me to contradict you, and yet you cannot blame me for carrying +out my orders. If you do not agree to the plan I have suggested, I +must put you under restraint. No one will be permitted to see you, and +proper arrangements will be made to have you transferred secretly to +one of our warships, which will be making a cruise--for your especial +benefit--to America in the course of a month. A month, Highness, is a +long time to wait in restraint, but you must see that there is nothing +else for me to do." + +Ruth was obliged to smile in spite of herself at the mixture of +firmness and respect in the suave Minister's tones. He was encouraged +by the smile. + +"Ah," he said, "I see that Your Highness will be reasonable." + +Ruth looked him straight in the eye. + +"But what if I should convince Your Excellency that you have made a +mistake, that I am telling you the truth when I say I am not the Grand +Duchess Carlotta?" + +The Minister bowed. "It would be easy to convince me, Highness, if you +could produce for me one who is more likely to be the Grand Duchess +than yourself. But, alas! could there be two such faces in the world?" +Admiration shone out of the little man's eyes. + +"There is no doubt, Excellency," said Ruth, still smiling, "that His +Majesty was wise in appointing you a diplomat. We shall be good +friends even though I have to stay. You are making a mistake, and I am +afraid you will have to pay for it. I shall, however, be a model +boarder, and possibly even enjoy my trip on the warship. But I +certainly shall not receive your friends at a reception, nor will I +permit you to give me the honors due the Grand Duchess. Neither can I +produce her. She is probably far away by this time. I will tell you +my story, and you may judge for yourself." + +His Excellency bowed profoundly. + +"Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "Will you permit me to be +seated?" + +"Certainly, Your Excellency." + +The Minister drew up a chair and sat down, with a low bow, before his +desk; but not before he had placed Ruth in a chair where the light +would shine full on her face. He seemed now to be a changed +man--almost a judge; and the fingers thrummed on the glass as they had +done during the conference with Wratslav and Ivan. + +With a half-amused smile, Ruth began. + +"Excellency, my name is Ruth Atheson. You may easily verify that by +sending for my uncle, Monsignore Murray, of Sihasset, with whom I made +my home until he went to college in Rome to study for the priesthood. +I was left in Europe to receive my education. Afterward I came to +America to be near my uncle, but I made frequent trips to Europe to +visit friends. It was during one of these visits that I first met the +Grand Duchess Carlotta, four years ago, at San Sebastian. The +remarkable likeness between us caused me, as I have already told you, a +great deal of annoyance. Her Highness heard of it and asked to meet me. + +"We became close friends, so close that in her trouble she turned to +me. I was with relatives in England at the time. She wrote asking me +to receive her there, telling me that she intended to give up her claim +to the throne and marry Luigi del Farno, whom she sincerely loved. I +sent her a long letter warning her against the step--for I knew what it +meant--and advising her that I was even then preparing to leave for +America. Unfortunately, she knew my address and followed me to +Sihasset, directing her lover to wait until she sent for him. + +"I knew that the best means of concealing her would be to play upon the +likeness between us, and never go out together. For extra precaution, +when either of us went out, a veil was worn. She was taken for Ruth +Atheson; and Ruth Atheson, by your detectives, was taken for the Grand +Duchess Carlotta. Indeed," and here Ruth smiled, "she was very much +taken--in an auto, and as far as Washington. You propose now to take +her still farther. The Grand Duchess would know, ten minutes after it +happened, of my abduction, and she would guess who was responsible. So +you may be certain that she is no longer at Sihasset. The picture you +have, Your Excellency, is the picture of the Grand Duchess, not of me. +It happened that, as I was walking outside the gates of my home, your +friends appeared. The mistake was quite natural." + +The Minister had listened respectfully while Ruth spoke, but he was not +convinced. + +"It would be discourteous in me, Highness," he said, "to doubt your +word. But it would be worse than discourteous were I to accept it. I +am sorry; but you must offer me more than statements. My men could +scarcely have been deceived. They followed you each time you came out. +Two people do not look so much alike--especially outside of families--" + +His Excellency's eyes opened as he flashed a keen look at Ruth. The +name "Atheson" had suddenly commenced to bother him. What was it he +should have remembered--and couldn't? The intentness of his gaze +disconcerted Ruth. The Minister changed it to look down at his +thrumming fingers, and continued in his suavest tones, following that +scarcely perceptible pause. + +"--as to deceive men trained in the art of spying. I can only repeat +what I have already said: there are two courses open, and it is for you +to determine which you prefer." + +"You may be sure, then, Your Excellency," said Ruth, "that I shall not +select the course that would put me in a false light before all the +world. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta, and I must refuse to be +taken for her. My uncle will not be long in deciding who is +responsible for my abduction, and I can assure you that you will have +explanations to make before your warship arrives." + +The Minister arose promptly as Ruth stood up, her hand resting lightly +on the desk. + +"I am tired, Your Excellency," she continued, "and--since you insist on +my being the guest of your government--I will ask to be conducted to my +apartments." + +The Minister bowed. "If Your Highness will permit." He touched a +bell. The raw-boned woman was in the room so quickly that Ruth +wondered if she had been all the time just outside the door. At a +signal from His Excellency, the woman picked up Ruth's wrap and gloves. +His Excellency meanwhile, with a low bow, had opened the door. Ruth +passed into the broad corridor and, accompanied by the Minister, +proceeded to a handsome suite of rooms. + +The Minister turned to Ruth. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but I have +strict instructions in the event of your refusal to comply with my +suggestion, that you are to remain in strict seclusion. I cannot +permit you to see or speak to anyone outside, so I hope you will not +embarrass me by making any such request." He pointed toward the +windows. "You will notice, Highness, that there is a balcony in front +of your apartments. In the next room, which also opens upon the +balcony, is a guard. There will be a guard also at your door and +another on the lawn below. Your windows will be under constant +surveillance, though you will never see the guards unless you venture +forth. Your guards will be changed constantly, and it will be--" the +minister's pause was significant, the tone of his voice even more so +"--unwise--to attempt to gain their friendship. They might find +it--disastrous." Again the smooth significance of the voice. He +paused for a moment, then spoke more lightly. + +"If Your Highness will permit, Madam, my wife, will call on you and be +at your disposal at any time, as also my daughters. Since you have no +maid with you, Madame Helda," His Excellency called the raw-boned woman +from the next room as he spoke, "will wait upon you. Everything to +make your stay pleasant and comfortable has been arranged. But you are +an important personage and if we are firm, Your Highness, it is not +because we wish to be, but only because of duty to your country, and to +yourself. If you decide, at any time, that you should like to see +America, you have only to summon me. Your Highness will permit me to +retire?" + +"Certainly, Your Excellency, and thank you." + +With a profound bow His Excellency left the room. Ruth examined her +apartments with a pleased smile of gratification--for they looked +anything but a prison. The Minister knew how to make rooms pleasant. + +The diplomat went slowly downstairs. He had lost his smile, and his +face was contracted with worry. The girl's story had impressed him +more than he had cared to own, and there was much of the human in him, +in spite of the diplomat's veneer. Then the name "Atheson" sounded +insistently in his ears and, momentarily, he felt that he was almost +grasping the clue as he strove to remember. + +As he entered the library, his secretary stood up, a yellow paper in +his hands. + +"I have been waiting to hand this to you personally, Excellency." + +The Minister took the paper. It was a cablegram translated from code, +which read: + + +"The Duke is dead. If Her Highness has arrived do everything possible +to bring her to understand that there must be no scandal. Be +absolutely firm and have her return at any risk without delay. The +_Caspian_ has been dispatched from the coast of France and should +arrive in ten days. We have given out that the Duchess is traveling +incognito, but has been notified to return." + + +The worry on the Minister's face deepened. + +"This complicates matters, Wratslav," he said, "and makes it more +imperative that Her Highness be kept most strictly secluded. Go to bed +now. We shall have enough to keep us awake for the next ten days." + +Wratslav left, but the Minister sat down at his desk. Morning found +him there asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED + +At eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Minister was handed a card which +read: + + "RIGHT REV. DONALD MURRAY, D.D." + +Touching a bell, His Excellency summoned Wratslav. + +"There is a clergyman," he said, "who calls on me. I do not know him, +and of course I cannot guess his business. Perhaps you will see him." + +The secretary bowed and went out. As he entered the reception room, +Father Murray arose. Before the priest could speak, the secretary +began: + +"You desire to see His Excellency?" + +Father Murray bowed. + +"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requested +me to ascertain the nature of your business." + +"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business." Father +Murray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself." + +"Then," answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receive +you. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Could +you not give me some inkling as to what you desire?" + +"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you might +say to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference to +Miss Ruth Atheson--" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He will +understand." + +The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message at +once," he said. + +In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray. + +"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as my +secretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Atheson +and, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think I +would know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would see +you personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name. +Perhaps she wishes a _vise_ for a passport?" + +"That might explain it," answered Father Murray; "but I think she +desires a passport without the _vise_. I have reason to believe that +Your Excellency knows something of her--rather--unexpected departure +from her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point is +quite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, a +visitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desired +is your permission for her to return to her friends." + +The Minister's face expressed blankness. + +"You have been misinformed," he answered. "I know nothing of Miss +Atheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if you +think it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be of +service to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me." + +"The facts are very easily stated," said the priest. "First, the young +lady is my niece." + +It was the Minister's boast--privately, understand--that he could +always tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, and +now--past master in the art of diplomacy though he was--he found it +hard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl's +story. + +"You say she left her home unexpectedly?" + +"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, Your +Excellency." + +"And this happened where?" + +"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, and +will probably remember it." + +The half-closed eyes almost smiled. + +"Had your niece lived there long?" + +"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor." + +Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the cold +exterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more--all. + +"Before that--?" + +"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives." + +"She was educated there perhaps?" + +"She received her education principally in Europe." + +"She has traveled much, then?" + +"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but she +has many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits them +quite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian." + +"Ah!" + +"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?" + +"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, and +regret that I can see no way of assisting you." + +Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with. +He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of his +knowledge. + +"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mention +another name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your Great +Kingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes, +and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency to +understand?" + +The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatly +worried. + +"It does not, Reverend Sir," he answered, "unless you might possibly be +able to introduce me to a grand duchess _in America_. I am always +interested in my countrymen--and women. If a grand duchess were +brought here--that is," he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "if +a grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place my +entire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of. +Perhaps your Reverence understands?" + +"Thoroughly," said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand. +But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call on +you, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead." + +At last the Minister lost his _sang froid_. His face was colorless. + +"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?" + +"I think Your Excellency already knows." + +"How did she die, and when?" + +"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident." + +"Where?" + +"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper--which you +possibly have neglected to read--you will see a list of those killed in +a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a +Washington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and the +pictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue in +Baltimore awaiting identification." + +The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers +had been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. On +the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side--taken at +the morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features, +the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an +unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, he +turned to the priest. + +"How do I know," he asked, "that this--" pointing to the picture--"is +not Ruth Atheson?" + +"I think," said the priest, "that you will have to take my word for +it--unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit +to the morgue. The body is still unburied." + +"I shall send to the morgue." + +"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Before +going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your +custody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is +taking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is now +in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until +to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will afford +ample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us by +ten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the +hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department--with +all the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard +Hotel." + +The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent +hammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase, +"all the details," bore an almost sinister significance. + +His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson--Atheson." His voice was +tense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?" + +It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along. +Forgotten for years--yes. But where was the diplomat who did not have +the information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as he +answered. + +"Edgar Atheson." + +"Etkar--" + +But the priest raised his hand. + +"_Edgar Atheson_--if you _please_." + +The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of--" + +"Alice Murray," the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of +dignified hauteur. + +His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued. + +"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the young +Italian officer is known to others beside myself. It would make +unfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be made +public. I wish Your Excellency good morning." + +He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door. + +"One moment," he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request your +Reverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. I +cannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public. +State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and--" he +continued coldly--"you are now on the territory of my royal master." + +But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid. + +"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency," he said quietly. "I +mentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Nor +need you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquainted +with state complications to know when silence is best. We shall not +speak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall not +hesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shall +insist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you nor +His Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly stand +aside." + +But His Excellency still barred the way. + +"Your Reverence," he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on one +condition: that you will again give me your word that you will keep +silence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in the +meantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and Baron +Griffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. There +may be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position. +I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficult +circumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harm +shall come to her. Have I your word?" + +"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act, +we shall keep silence." + +"Then," said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you good +morning." + +Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at the +corner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon their +footsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledge +of the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twenty +minutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the New +Willard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the next +morning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St. +Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass. + +When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslav +was in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information. +For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years His +Excellency was nonplussed. + +"If she is dead, Wratslav," he said, "what will be said of us, and what +new trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?" + +"The Duchy," said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother." + +"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then, +that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunate +complication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the whole +world. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what's +going to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth." + +"But," objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot take +the risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The Grand +Duchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would be +easy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. You +cannot let her go until you are sure." + +The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed. + +"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go to +Baltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming. +Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish. +Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bring +me half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face on +every side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have about +her; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. See +also if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrow +morning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches until +then." + +His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE OPEN DOOR + +That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room at +the New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the more +cheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark looked +broken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth had +not been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, but +he could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation. +Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds. + +"My dear Mark," he said, "you don't understand the kind of a country +you are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and an +elected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive at +it. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but a +Minister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be sure +that our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quite +sufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, and +ultimately force him to yield." + +"I could wish him," said Mark, "a _more_ painful state of _suspense_." + +Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope, +Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering. +The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellency +looked very much perturbed--for a diplomat--before I was done with him. +There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger in +Baltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able to +identify the body. Then they must free Ruth." + +"I wish, Father," Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look at +things as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious are +the games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have." + +"I question a little," replied Father Murray, "if that last statement +is true--that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning to +think you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who think +that they have very much could learn how to make what is really their +very little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned upon +me to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious people +never make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure in +that career." + +"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at least +partly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like a +daughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her." + +"Yes," answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter to +me. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have--that he has +someone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priest +is constituted the same as other men, long training and experience have +made his life and mental attitude different from those of men of more +worldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely than +is any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him. +That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talented +he may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had to +unfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey left +a heritage that at best is of doubtful value--not because he was a +priest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor he +so often forgot that he was a priest. There are many great +priest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest in +politics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't his +place. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest in +the inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little less +worthy of the former--rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendel +was a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; and +how many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office? +Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbe. A priest as a priest can +be nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatness +in anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, my +dear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges from +the exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service from +a man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is the +sternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-hearted +service or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but I +am not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else take +the responsibility from off my shoulders." + +"But," said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with a +priest's duties to his flock?" + +"The church does not let them interfere," answered Father Murray. "She +holds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must +'cleave to his wife.' How could a priestly husband do that and yet +fulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wife +would come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has for +his children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, the +priest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man who +offers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, must +be supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared to +sacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives up +his life for his sheep.' In practice, no one expects that except of +the priest; but from him everyone expects it." + +"Do you really think," asked Mark, "that those outside the Church +expect such a sacrifice?" + +Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer. + +"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterian +minister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never liked +priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my +personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic +Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and +fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a +failure--His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I +knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would +fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ +turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist, +every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a +priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the +representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not +hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed +me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of +enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their +enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position +increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a +scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my +own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief +the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had +forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction +was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not +be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest +greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I +judged--and, judging, condemned--I knew that I was measuring him by his +own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of +honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never +to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever; +it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall +should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to +God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles--no +return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant +criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants, +demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a +sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it +yourself--you know you do." + +For a moment Mark did not answer. + +"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered if +others felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotions +and thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it for +years. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one of +them before you now." + +"Go on," said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off the +worry." + +"You remember, Father," said Mark, "the day I met you in your study +that eventful Sunday in London?" + +The priest nodded. + +"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get away +from my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clear +conscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one and +that that was why I sought you out--not to give up, but to defy you, +and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I could +justify myself before such a man as you it would set things at rest +within me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself. +Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholic +churches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minute +I seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is in +front of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a hand +beckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand--my +mother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it--and I can't +understand why." + +Father Murray's eyes were serious. + +"Why, my dear Mark," he answered, "you ought to know that you can't get +away. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you suppose +any man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Then +how is it possible for you to get away from that which first told you +of God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew about +Him? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makes +those who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes those +who have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is an +influence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it draws +_everything_. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to be +no middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, it +cannot be ignored. It has had its chain around _you_, Mark, and you +are only now realizing that you can't cast it off." + +Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchanged +between the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at his +friend, said good night and left the room. + +A minute later he returned. + +"Father," he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying to +share your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost to +me, will you--heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be, +whichever you are pleased to call me--will you still be a friend and, +should she accept me, join our hands?" + +Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders. + +"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course I +will marry you--that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlooker +to give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me, +not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as Mother +Church can make it and as binding as eternity." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +SAUNDERS SCORES + +It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when the +card of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. The +priest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room, +and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same moment +and were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' own +request, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in the +meantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and its +interior--"for emergencies," he explained to Mark. + +The secretary proceeded to business without delay. + +"I have come on behalf of His Excellency," he said, "and to express his +regrets." + +"I scarcely expected regrets," answered the priest; "for at ten o'clock +I was to have a definite answer." + +"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bade +me offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long be +delayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore--a +situation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by His +Excellency." + +"I cannot imagine," Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what that +situation could be." + +"Let me explain then." The secretary talked as one sure of his ground. +"I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, would +be at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?" + +"Not particularly," answered the priest. + +"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely your +niece. The other--" + +"At the Ministry--" Mark put in. + +"Wherever she is," parried the secretary. "The other is the Grand +Duchess." + +"Perhaps, Mr. Secretary," quietly suggested Father Murray, "you will +admit that I ought to know my own niece?" + +"There is a great resemblance, Reverend Sir, between the two ladies. I +have seen the dead girl, and have examined her belongings. Her apparel +was made, it is true, in Paris; but your niece has recently been there. +Her bag bears the initials, 'R.A.' The mesh bag is plainly marked in +gold cut initials with the same letters. The dressing case is also +marked 'R.A.' Even the handkerchiefs are thus marked." + +"As she was a guest of my niece, and of course left Killimaga very +hurriedly after the abduction," said Father Murray, "it is quite +probable that the Grand Duchess took the first clothes and other +effects that came to hand. She may even have purposely used things +belonging to Miss Atheson in order not to have anything in her +possession that might betray her identity." + +"True, that is possible," the secretary admitted; "but it is not +probable enough to satisfy His Excellency. Without a doubt, he ought +to satisfy himself. In the meantime, while the doubt remains, it is +clear that your answer cannot be given." + +"Suppose we place this matter, then," said the priest, "where the +answer will come in response to a demand? There is still the British +Embassy and the Department of State." + +"It will be plain to you, Reverend Sir," said the secretary, "that such +a course would not be of assistance. Frankly, we do not want +publicity; but, certainly, neither does your Department of State. In +fact, I think that this affair might offer considerable embarrassment +to the President himself at this time. And you? Would you wish the +reporters to hear of it and have it published with all possible +embellishments and sent broadcast? A few days will not be long in +passing. I can vouch for the fact that the lady is quite comfortable. +Why not see it from His Excellency's point of view?" + +"Just what is that point of view?" + +"I will be frank. You gentlemen know the situation. His Excellency's +entire career is at stake. If this lady is the Grand Duchess and she +does not go back to her throne--" + +"Her throne?" Mark broke out in astonishment. + +"Her father is dead. She is the reigning Grand Duchess, though she +does not know it yet. You see the situation? His Excellency must be +sure." + +"But how does he mean to arrive at certainty?" asked Father Murray. + +"That will be our task." + +"And in the meantime?" + +"She is safe." + +"And if we seek the Department of State?" + +"It will be the word of the minister from a friendly power against +yours--and they will not find the lady." + +"You would not--" + +"They will not find the lady." + +"Then," Mark spoke fiercely. "You have not kept your word." + +"We have. She is safe, and shall be safe. Patience, if you please, +and all will be well." + +"It looks," said Father Murray, "as though we had no other choice." + +Mark glanced at the priest, astonished that he should acquiesce so +easily, but Father Murray gave him a quick, meaning look. + +"That, Reverend Sir," answered the secretary, "is true. Since you see +it so, I will bid you good day--to meet you again, shortly." + +Scarcely had the secretary left the room when Father Murray was at the +telephone calling Saunders. + +"Come down," he directed, "at once." + +Saunders was with them before either Mark or the priest spoke again. + +"Well?" Saunders lost no time. + +Father Murray gave him an outline of what had passed. Mark said +nothing. A picture of despair, he was sitting with his head bowed upon +his breast. + +"And now, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "it is your business to +counsel--to be a real detective. What do you suggest?" + +"She is at the Ministry," said Saunders. "Let that be my first +statement. She is occupying a room which opens on a balcony of the +second floor. There is a guard in the next room, which also opens on +the same balcony. She is well watched. But I was in front of that +house three hours last night, and again this morning--rather, I was in +the house across the way. I had a good chance to communicate the news +of your arrival to her--" + +"What!" Mark was on his feet now. + +"It was simple. I did it this morning with a hand mirror. You +remember how bright the sun was about nine o'clock? Well, it was +shining right into the room where I was, and when I saw that she was +probably alone I caught the light on my little mirror and flashed the +reflection into her room. I juggled it about as oddly as I could, +flashing it across the book she was reading. Then I tried to make it +write a word on her wall. Perhaps you would like to know the word, +Baron?" He turned to Mark with a smile. "You would? Well, I tried to +write 'M-A-R-K.' I think she understood, for she turned toward the +window and seemed about to give me some signal. Then she raised her +hand in a quick motion of alarm and began reading again. I withdrew +the light, just in time, for some woman entered the room." + +"I am afraid, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you are +dangerous, being a very clever man." + +"But how, in Heaven's name," asked Mark, "did you get into that house? +It is the home of--" + +"Sure it is," answered Saunders. "Sure it is. But the family is away, +and they left only the chauffeur at the residence. Chauffeurs are fine +fellows--under certain circumstances. They have acquired the habit." + +"The conditions," laughed Mark, "will, I suppose, appear in your +accounts?" + +"In my accounts? Yes . . . . Now to the rest of the discussion. I do +not believe this affair can be arranged as easily as you think. It +looks to me as if they really believe they have the Grand Duchess, and +that we are trying to help her get away. They think she has planned +the whole thing and that we are part of the plan. Miss Ruth was with +Madam Neuville when they caught her. That's one point in their favor. +Then the Duchess had things belonging to Miss Ruth, and had them when +killed. That's point two for them. The face of Miss Ruth is the face +on the portraits of the Grand Duchess. There's point three for them; +and it is a fact that the face of the dead girl was slightly +disfigured, as you know. The Minister dare not make a slip. He is not +going to make one if he can help it. He will do something without +delay to avoid all danger of your interference. If you go to court, +you'll have publicity. If you go to the Department of State, their +delays would make interference too late. If you don't act quick you'll +have no chance to act at all. My advice is, to get into better +communication with the young lady and then--to do a bit of quiet +abduction ourselves." + +"That's easy to say, Saunders," said Mark. "But how carry it out?" + +"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done." Saunders +spoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can." + +"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "and we trust +you." + +"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on--" + +But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered the +call. + +"It's for you, Mark." + +Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment. + +"All right; send him up." + +He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing me +personally." + +They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy and +stood before them, bowing low--a typical Southern darkey, his hair +whitened by age. + +"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke. + +"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you--" + +"A letter?" + +"Yes, sah." The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying to +withdraw the letter he had put away so carefully. + +"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'n +houses." + +"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet. + +But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth the +precious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprise +began to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed the +letter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey. + +"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it." + +"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how it +was a pretty young lady that threw it out." + +"You saw her?" + +"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, +sah." The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thank +you, sah; thank you, sah." And with a broad grin he left the room. + +Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to +Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark +read the lines again: + + +"My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have +found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded +pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pension +the man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn't +with me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window because +of the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. +He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpeted +space near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. +For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into the +street. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. It +is a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it this +time. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find you +is my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean that +you are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard. + +"A warship has been sent to take the Grand Duchess home. I cannot +convince them that I am only Ruth Atheson. I am sure they are going to +send me away. You must get me out of this house quickly, or it will be +too late. + +"Give me this special signal and I will be ready: At ten-thirty any +morning flash the light and keep it still on the top of the gate +pillar. Leave it there a moment; then flash it once across the top if +you are coming that day, or twice for night. If you receive this +letter, answer it by flashing the light into my room to-morrow morning. +I shall pray for friendly sunlight. + +"Thank you for coming. I don't know how you found out, but somehow I +felt that you would. Love to the dear Father, if he is with you. I +feel pretty sure he is. + +"Ruth." + + +Saunders was the first to speak. + +"I think, Father," he said, "that you have a clever niece. This makes +things easy." + +The Padre smiled. But Mark was not smiling--one can't do so little a +thing to show unbounded joy. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +CAPITULATION + +It was early next morning when Saunders knocked at Mark Griffin's door. +His knock was soft, for Mark's room adjoined Father Murray's. When +Mark rose to let him in, the detective entered on tiptoe. + +"I came down to see you early," he said, "because I wanted to dodge the +Padre, and I thought perhaps he'd be over in the church for his Mass." + +"A good Yankee guess," said Mark. "I heard him leave a few minutes +ago, so you can talk as loud as you like. What is the matter? +Anything gone wrong?" + +"It's just this," said the detective. "We must make our attempt to get +Miss Atheson without the Padre's knowing anything about it. I have +been thinking about the thing, and I have a plan I believe will work. +It's out of the question to get that guard off the watch in any +ordinary way. If we attempt it, the house will be alarmed and we shall +be taken for burglars." + +"What difference if we are?" said Mark, very warmly. "If the Ministry +can stand publicity, we can. I am in favor of taking strong measures +right now." + +"Not on your life, Griffin. Not on your life," said Saunders. "You +don't seem to realize that the Padre cannot stand strong measures. +Arrest as burglars would mean publicity, and there would be all sorts +of fierce stories in the press. He is a priest--and then some." + +"Well, what of it?" + +"Sure, I know," soothed Saunders. "But the papers aren't in the +journalistic game for dignity, and they'd play the Padre up for all he +was worth; the more yellow the story, the better. The lady must be +gotten out of the Ministry quietly. Once we have her, it will be up to +the Ministry to make the next move. I have a hunch that His Excellency +won't make it." + +"Well," said Mark grudgingly, "I suppose the quiet way is the better +way. What is your plan? Why not let Father Murray know?" + +"I can't let him know, because he'd want to be in on it. At all risks, +he's got to be kept out. What I propose to do is to start up such a +trouble in the rear of the house that, for five minutes at least, +there'll be no guard in the front." + +"You would have to set it on fire to do that." + +Saunders put his finger impressively upon a button of Mark's pajamas. + +"You've guessed it, first shot out of the box. That's just what I'm +going to do. Rather, that's what _we're_ going to do." + +Mark looked at him in solemn silence. + +"Saunders, what did you have to put you in this condition?" + +"Plain water and a cold bath," answered Saunders promptly. + +"Then perhaps you'll explain." + +"It'll be easy. They can put the fire out after the lady has gotten +away. The Minister is going to dinner to-night. Madame Minister--or +whatever you call her--will be with him; so will his flock of girls, +and so, of course, will His Excellency's secretary. The rest of his +staff don't live there. I figure that the guards, and the servants, +and Miss Atheson will be the only ones in the house. The fire will +bring all but Miss Atheson to the back. A rope ladder skillfully +thrown will do the rest. Now you see why I can't mix the Padre up in +that. We may be arrested, though I don't think we shall. The Minister +doesn't want anything of that kind. This morning I'll flash the night +escape signal to Miss Atheson. She'll be ready to leave, and you may +be sure she'll find a way to warn us if the guard is still around. +To-night you make an excuse to the Padre and slip away. He's going to +see a friend anyhow at the University out in Brookland. I heard him +say so. Tell him not to worry if you happen to be out when he comes +back. Fix it up any way you like, and we'll make the play and win." + +"Who's to do the 'skillful throwing' of the ladder?" + +"A friend of mine who used to be a fireman." + +"Do you think you can get him?" + +"I've engaged him already." + +"H-m." Mark stared at the detective, then burst forth with, "What time +did you get up?" + +"I didn't have to get up. I haven't gone to bed yet." + +Mark sat down in his chair to think. After a while he put out his hand +to the detective. + +"I believe you've got it, Saunders. I'll do it--but you'd better get +some rest" + +"Me for my little trundle bed." And Saunders, in high spirits, waved +his hand as he went out the door. + +Left alone, Mark proceeded to dress, but awaited Father Murray's return +before going down to breakfast. The time seemed long after breakfast, +but at length the priest prepared to leave the hotel. + +Mark spoke nonchalantly. "Oh, Father, I'm going out in the country +with some friends, and may not get back till quite late to-night." + +"All right, Mark. I hope you have a pleasant trip." + +It was so easy that Mark felt a trifle worried. His device was crude, +and the priest had never before been so easily deceived. + +It was midnight when a big automobile containing Saunders, his +ex-fireman friend and Mark, drew up cautiously on a side street near +the Ministry. The men at first walked quietly past the house. They +saw a light in the apartment occupied by Ruth, but there seemed to be +no other light within. They then walked around the block, passing a +policeman at the corner, and entered the alley behind the Ministry on +the other side, out of the bluecoat's sight. There was no one in the +back yard, and Saunders easily effected an entrance into the garage, +which was not far from the house. Taking from his pocket an ordinary +hot-water bag, he knocked the lock off the gasoline tank and proceeded +to fill the bag with gasoline. Then he turned to Mark. + +"That's all back here for you. Leave the rear work to me. Go around, +you two, and get the ladder. In fifteen minutes I'll have a fire at +the back door. You'll probably see the light. As soon as you hear +cries from the house, listen well and you'll know whether or not the +guard has rushed back. The big door-window on the balcony is always +left open so that the guard can command the window of Miss Atheson's +room, and you can easily hear him open and close the inside door. If +he doesn't leave, the game's up. As soon as you are sure he's gone, +throw up the ladder. If you get Miss Atheson, don't wait for me. Rush +her to the automobile and back to the hotel. I'll take care of myself. +Now go on, and wait for the big noise." + +The three men moved toward the door, but fell back when they saw a dark +figure plainly outlined against the dim light behind him. Saunders +said something under his breath. The ex-fireman turned pale, for he +thought it was a policeman. + +"The country is beautiful in the autumn, isn't it, Mark?" + +Mark was as embarrassed as any small boy caught in truancy. + +"I thought you took things rather quietly, Father--I might have known +it was too good to be true. What did you come here for? You surely +knew it was something we could not have you concerned in." + +The priest laughed at Mark's rueful tone. + +"You should have known better, Mark, than to think I could be so easily +deceived. I am going to be mixed up in anything that concerns the +welfare of Ruth. Besides," he added, with another quiet laugh, "I +heard everything you two said this morning. I saw Saunders coming down +the hall as I was leaving, and, as it was rather early for a casual +visit, I came back to see what he was up to." + +"Then why in--I beg your pardon, Father--why in all common sense," +blurted out Saunders, "did you come here? You can't help, and we are +taking the only possible way." + +"Happily," rejoined Father Murray, "it is not the only way. Come out +of this, and I will tell you something you will be very glad to hear. +Let us get back to your automobile. We must not go very far away, for +we have yet to call at the Ministry, when His Excellency returns." + +"To-night?" + +"This morning," gently corrected the priest. It was now well on toward +one o'clock. + +The three men obeyed him. The ex-fireman got into the automobile, +while Mark and Saunders walked with Father Murray a short distance off. +When they were out of earshot, the priest turned to his companions. + +"You two have been working your own plans while I have been working +mine. When you had finished your little secret conference, I went to +St. Patrick's and said Mass. When I returned to the hotel, Mark didn't +seem to appreciate my company, so I left rather early. Before going to +Brookland, I called at the State Department. Happily, I know someone +quite high up, so I had no trouble. I told him the whole story, and he +promised to help me. A few hours ago he sent for me again and--" the +priest smiled at his hearers' evident anxiety to hear the details--"and +everything will be all right now. We are to see the Minister as soon +as he returns from the banquet. He will probably be back by one +o'clock, and he will listen--and listen well--to what I have to say. +The guard will be off before we leave, and Ruth will be at the hotel +before noon." + +"But, Father," said Mark, "how can you do it? The State Department +cannot get into this thing officially--cannot interfere at all. It is +too delicate. To-morrow morning Ruth will be on her way to the +seacoast, as sure as fate. She will be kept hidden there until that +warship comes." + +"The warship will not come," answered Father Murray. "His Majesty's +warships will be engaged very busily for some time to come. My +information--information which so far has not leaked out to the +public--is that the Big Kingdom is on the verge of war. There will be +no warship flying that flag on this side of the water for a long time." + +"War!" said Saunders. "But how does that help us?" + +Before Father Murray could reply, an automobile passed swiftly. + +"That is the Minister," remarked Saunders. + +The priest looked up. "We must hurry. Leave everything to me." + +Walking hastily, the trio approached the Minister, who had stopped at +the curb to give some order to his chauffeur. The ladies of the party +had already entered the house, accompanied by the secretary. + +It was Father Murray who spoke. + +"Pardon us, Your Excellency, for intruding on you at this hour, but it +is necessary that we should speak to you at once. With your +permission, we will go inside." + +The Minister looked disturbed. + +"Surely you know the hopelessness of it? I must warn you that you can +secure nothing through violence. My guard would not hesitate to take +forcible measures." + +"There is no need to worry about that, Your Excellency," replied the +priest. "No need at all. We shall not resort to violence. It will +not be necessary. But the matter is important, and we must speak to +you at once." + +The words were spoken sharply. His Excellency hesitated for a moment +longer, then threw out his hand and motioned them toward the house. + +"Very well, gentlemen. Come." + +The unwelcome guests were shown into the drawing-room and the lights +switched on. His Excellency put his hat aside and turned to face his +callers. + +"It is already late, gentlemen, and I will ask you to be as brief as +possible. What is it you wish?" + +"We shall not detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary," said +Father Murray. "Yesterday I received a visit from your secretary, who +informed me that the probabilities were so strong that it was my niece +who had been killed in the railroad accident that you would be obliged +to decide against my claims for the present." + +"That is exactly the case," replied His Excellency. "Permit me to say, +Reverend Sir, that I can do nothing else. The Grand Duke is dead, and +His Majesty has taken charge of the matter. The Grand Duchess is a +ruler herself, at the present time. It is true she is only a foolish +girl, who ran away to marry a nonentity--but affairs of state are +greater than affairs of the heart. At all risks she must return to +Ecknor. I must be certain of her identity before I can make another +move. I appreciate the delicacy of the situation. I know that I have +practically kidnaped the girl. But I am certain your State Department +will want no trouble about it, nor will mine. If you are right, and +the girl is your niece, you have no cause to fear for her; she will be +returned to this country at once. If, on the contrary, she is the +Grand Duchess, there is no reason why you should seek to have her taken +away from us." + +"Her own wishes--" began Saunders. + +"Pardon me, sir. Her own wishes have nothing to do with the matter. I +confess that it is embarrassing that she does not want to go, but it is +more embarrassing that she ever went away. She must return to her +country, wishes or no wishes. I will consider nothing else. I have my +orders, and I shall obey them." The Minister turned toward the door, +evidently desirous that his visitors should leave. "I will ask you to +excuse me now, gentlemen." + +But matters had not been arranged to Father Murray's satisfaction. He +made no move to go, and looked straight into His Excellency's face as +he spoke. + +"Your Excellency has of course been informed of the critical condition +of affairs in Europe?" + +"I do not understand." + +Though somewhat surprised, the priest could not doubt the sincerity of +the speaker. He hesitated but a moment, then spoke quietly. + +"Before the conversation proceeds farther, may I suggest that it might +be well for Your Excellency to see if there are any late dispatches +from your home government?" Noticing the Minister's haughty +astonishment, he added, "I have come from the Department of State." + +The Minister was startled, and turned to leave the room. "Pardon me a +moment, gentlemen." + +Mark turned to the priest. "What have you up your sleeve, Father?" + +Father Murray only smiled. "I think, Mark," he said, "that you are +certainly improving in the American brand of English. 'Up your sleeve' +is decidedly good United States. You will want to stay with us--even +though you are a Baron." + +Mark could get no more out of the priest. + +In a few minutes His Excellency returned, his face showing signs of +extreme annoyance. + +"I thank you, Reverend Sir," he said courteously. "I cannot understand +why my dispatches were not delivered to me at the banquet. I can only +express my regret." Father Murray bowed, and the Minister went on: + +"The lady is probably asleep now, but I think I may safely promise that +in a few hours she will be with you. It is more than probable that I +shall relinquish all claims upon her." + +Father Murray smiled and picked up his hat which was lying on a table. + +"We may expect the lady before noon?" + +"Yes." + +"I thank Your Excellency. Permit us to bid you good morning." + +With a courteous bow, Father Murray took his leave, followed by Mark +and Saunders. The last they saw of His Excellency was the top of his +head as he bowed them out. + +Father Murray chuckled all the way back to the hotel--and kept his +counsel. When they arrived at his bedroom door, Mark stopped him. + +"Great Heavens, Father! You're not going to leave us in the dark like +this?" + +"'In the dark' is _very_ good United States, Mark." + +"But what does it mean? What card did you play?" + +Father Murray's hand was on the doorknob, his eyes dancing with +merriment. + +"They say, Mark, that a royal flush beats everything. Well, I played +that." + +Mark tried to catch him but, with a low chuckle, he slipped into the +room and closed the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES + +A few hours later--about ten o'clock--an automobile stopped in front of +the New Willard Hotel, and the Minister and his secretary alighted. +The visitors were shown at once into Father Murray's room where Mark, +Saunders and the priest waited. His Excellency took the chair offered +him and, with some hesitation in his choice, of words, opened the +conversation. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "I first wish to congratulate you on your +persistence. That persistence led me to think that there was some +justice in your case. You can scarcely blame me, however, for not +granting your wish immediately, especially since, as my secretary +informed you, the effects of the dead lady seemed to indicate that it +was Miss Atheson who had been killed. I find that I was mistaken. It +was the Grand Duchess. There is absolutely no question about that now. +As soon as you are ready to receive Miss Atheson, she shall leave the +Ministry where, as you understand, she has been an honored guest." + +The impetuous Saunders broke out: "Your Excellency means an honored +prisoner." + +But Father Murray stepped into the breach. + +"Not at all, Saunders," he said, "not at all." Then he turned to the +Minister. "Miss Atheson has been an honored guest at the Ministry. +That is perfectly understood, Your Excellency, _perfectly_ understood." + +The Minister bowed. "I thank you, Reverend Sir. I am glad you do +understand. Miss Atheson was a friend of the Grand Duchess Carlotta. +She had known her in Europe. Why should she not have been a guest at +the Ministry of the nation which exercises a protectorate over the +domains of her late Royal Highness? I should wish to have that known +to the public. This afternoon we shall give to the press the sad story +of the visit to America of Her Royal Highness, under strict incognito. +Her friend, Miss Atheson, was of course awaiting the arrival of the +Grand Duchess, having come down in advance. Miss Atheson will, I am +sure, be kind enough, and considerate enough of the memory of Her +Highness, not to deny any of these statements." + +"I am sure, Your Excellency," said the priest, "that Miss Atheson will +keep strict silence as to the past. She would not wish to embarrass +the situation nor in any way stain the memory of her dead friend. Of +that you may rest assured." + +"I beg your pardon," said His Excellency, "but--I trust I may rely upon +the discretion of these gentlemen?" + +Mark and Saunders bowed their assurance. + +"Certainly." + +"Your Excellency may rely on our discretion." + +"It is needless for me to say," continued the Minister, "that the +situation is most embarrassing. But there is no reason why the Grand +Duchess should not have visited her friend--no reason why she should +not have come to Washington on her way back to her own country. She +would naturally wish to avoid publicity and, of course, the Ministry +was constantly in touch with her moves. All this is a reasonable +explanation of what has occurred. As to the body's having lain +neglected in the Baltimore morgue for some hours, something must be +assumed by the telegraph company. The body has already been embalmed, +and arrangements have been made for its shipment to Europe. I shall +myself go to Baltimore this afternoon. Do you, Reverend Sir, wish it +known that the friend of the Grand Duchess is your niece?" + +"Yes; but I wish it put to the world in the proper form. Since Your +Excellency is preparing copy for the papers, may I ask if you will +permit me to revise it?" + +"That I shall be glad to do," said the Minister, his face all smiles. + +As His Excellency was about to depart, Saunders stopped him. + +"One word, Your Excellency. Baron Griffin and myself were witnesses to +a very sad occurrence in Sihasset--" + +The Minister turned hurriedly. + +"You are mistaken, my friend," he said, significantly. "You are +mistaken. You saw nothing--remember that. It will be better for all +concerned. Your State Department would not thank you for making +embarrassing statements. Things have come out happily for you, if not +for the unfortunate Duchess. Yet, after all, perhaps the best thing +that could have happened for her was what you believed--until you were +corrected--happened in Sihasset. Baron Griffin will tell you that I +speak the truth when I say that the next best thing was her own death." + +Mark inclined his head, for he had heard something of the reputation of +Luigi del Farno, when he was in Florence. + +And then for the moment the Minister was forgotten in the man, and +tears glistened in His Excellency's eyes. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "I never saw Her Royal Highness. But I have +heard a great deal of her, and I have followed her career. She was not +born to be a Duchess. She had all my sympathy, for she was just a +woman--beautiful, sentimental, loving. She was just the kind to do the +rash things which courts will not tolerate. She was the kind to follow +her own heart and not the dictates of kings. She was unhappy at court, +and that unhappiness was increased when she fell in love with the +Italian. She was the kind who would love until death--and then beyond +the grave. She was one who would make any sacrifice to her devotion. +But she fought against the solid rock of princely customs and +prejudices, and there was nothing for her but to break upon it. Her +love ruined that young officer. He was doomed from the moment she went +away and he followed her. No earthly power could have saved him. +But--believe me--she is better dead than married to him. We had his +life investigated. He has had his just deserts. The Grand Duchess was +not the first. It is well that she was the last, poor girl. The most +merciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character was +the thing that did happen. She never knew of his fate. She died +thinking that she should meet him again--that she had successfully +broken down all barriers--that she and her lover could live their lives +in peace, here in America. She never learned that there could be no +happiness for her with a man like him. Let them rest in their +graves--for graves are better than courts. As Minister I could not say +these things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you now +as a man who has known love himself. Good-bye." + +The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again. + +"When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?" + +Father Murray bowed. "Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her." + +"Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence at +luncheon?" As Father Murray hesitated, he added, "It will be better +that you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel. Besides," +and he smiled good-humoredly, "we can get together and revise those +statements properly." + +Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave. +"Luncheon is at one," he remarked, as he left the room. "I should be +pleased if you would come a little early. I know you will desire to +talk with Mademoiselle." + +Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, where +Ruth greeted him affectionately. + +"How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?" + +She made a little moue. "I don't like it at all. I'm abdicating +to-day." + +He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finally +joined by His Excellency's daughters, who stayed with them until +luncheon was served. The meal proved to be a merry one, and after it +was over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed by +Wratslav. Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to the +hotel--in a long, low-built limousine. + + * * * * * * + +The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast and +hastened to his study. The time was short, and there was much to be +done. His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, but +the Bishop pushed them aside. + +"No, I haven't time now. Put them in my grip." + +The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving his +instructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a more +opportune time--which never came. + +On the train, the Bishop's breviary first claimed his attention. As he +paused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by the +flaring headlines of a paper across the aisle. Quickly he opened his +grip and brought forth his own papers. Ah, here it was--on the first +page. + + + MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN + Former Vicar-General Announces + the Engagement of His Niece. + + +And, in the next column: + + + GRAND DUCHESS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF WRECK + Ruler of Ecknor Killed While + on Her Way to Washington. + + +The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered," or at least +influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the +Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was +back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He +saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait +of a charming child. + +"My niece," he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss her +sorely." + +He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, +who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been +strangely silent, he remembered. And--yes, it was just after that +that the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best," had been +Donald Murray's only comment. + +The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so +surprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidence +regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, +"My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you." + +The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind," he murmured, "to have known +so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my +friend?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE BECKONING HAND + +The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was +still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far +more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, +wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable +peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was +evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory" +and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his +countenance. + +"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one," +he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go +out now and look for another one." + +"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will +have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would +care for the same kind of position you had before--would you? I +suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not +going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought +Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I +heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his +intendent." + +"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent +intend to do? It's a new one on me." + +"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a +personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business +affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a +good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective. +Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over +the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the +salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer. +Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very +much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a +black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own." + +Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference +that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, +Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you." + +"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very +complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity." + +Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of +seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain. + +"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father--only it strikes me that there +is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic' +and the one that wasn't born a Catholic." + +"Well, Mr. Wise Man," said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain the +difference." + +Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father," he +said, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the first +place--but this doesn't go for you--I think that the convert is more +bigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?" + +Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders," he replied, "that +you leave me out of it. That is a _real_ compliment. Now, let us put +it this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars from +the time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, would +it not?" + +"Certainly." + +"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you would +naturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?" + +"Yes--but what then?" + +"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenly +acquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-made +millionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth. +They become enthusiasts about what they have--and I must confess that +some of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign. +It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There is +too little of it in the world." + +"I am mighty glad now," said Saunders, "that you haven't got it." + +"What? The sincerity?" + +"Oh, Lord, no!--the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't have +much trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, the +church I _don't_ go to is the Methodist." + +"Then I will have to give you up," said Father Murray. "If the +Methodist were the one you actually _did_ go to, I might have half a +chance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to _any_, I am +afraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you will +always be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother the +church," he added. + +"But surely, Father," said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here? +Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't he +want you to go back to the Cathedral?" + +"That is true," answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But I +have grown very fond of Sihasset, and the Bishop has kindly given me +permission to remain in charge of the parish here." + +"I don't quite understand that," said the visitor in an urging way. "I +should hate to lose you, Father--for of course I shall stay if the +Baron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife and +kiddies, too--I like the place, and I like the people--but when I was a +common soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant I +wanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy, +I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have been +satisfied until I had charge of a battalion--and so on up the line. It +takes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Why +shouldn't a priest have them, too?" + +"Some of them have," answered Father Murray, "when they are young. But +when they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they were +told in the seminary long before--that 'arriving' does not make them +any happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry, +because it means that you become more of a servant yet assume greater +responsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world, +it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had my +ambitions--and I have had them realized, too. But I found means to +transplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I do +not propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back on +the earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden of +God, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I can +help it. I shall stay in Sihasset if I am permitted to do so. Should +I be called away, that is a different matter. Please God, when I go +out--to quote my friend, Father Daly--I'll go out feet first." + +"I suppose you're right, Father," said Saunders, "I suppose you're +right. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, now +that you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?" + +Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what you +want to know now, Saunders." + +"Well, I'll give you one guess," answered the detective. + +"You want to know," said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up so +easily." + +"I do," replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You must +have told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know what +magic you worked." + +"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you have +learned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I told +you, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and, +for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him my +story, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matter +was a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. He +wasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that would +probably have to be 'forgotten.' He pointed out that the body had +disappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that to +prove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed that +our knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making His +Excellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, and +before I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at the +banquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Department +had had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant young +Italian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was ready +to meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that. +Late that night--after my return from Brookland--my friend sent for me +to come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of a +cipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. That +dispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which might +lead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in a +certain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next in +line, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almost +on his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but rather +desired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and just +the man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to be +understood that the girl was in America, and that the King would be +glad if she remained here permanently--in other words, that she be +allowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition to +deprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our own +military attache at the royal capital secured the information; and, +since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward the +dispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, he +sent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter was +settled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the story +going any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died,' said my +friend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle will +ascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom. +This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and, +instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand Duchess, he will +probably be only too anxious to be rid of her.' I had all that +information," continued Father Murray, "when I went to find you +gentlemen and save you from getting into mischief." + +"We would have had a glorious time, Father," sighed Saunders, +regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mind +grasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detective +business, Father," he said energetically, "has many angles, and few of +them are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and other +kind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like that +Minister," he added. "He isn't heartless." + +"No," replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar. +"He was mighty human when he came to see us at the New Willard. Don't +you remember how he forgot himself--even had tears in his eyes when he +referred to the dead Duchess and the fact that she was better off in +her grave than she would have been at court? His wife had taken a +genuine liking to Ruth, and the man himself was more than half +convinced that she was all she claimed to be, but he wasn't free to +release her. He now wants to make reparation--but he wants also to +support the idea that Ruth Atheson was only the _friend_ of the dead +Duchess and, therefore, that the Duchess is really dead. It would be +very unfortunate, if, later on, it should prove that he had been +deceived. He would find it difficult to explain matters to His Majesty +if a Grand Duchess, supposedly dead, should suddenly prove very much +alive and demand possession of a throne already occupied by her +successor. So His Excellency wants the lady married as 'Ruth Atheson' +with due solemnity and with proper witness. There is method, Mr. +Saunders, even in his kindness." + +Saunders whistled again. "It beats me, Father," he said. "I own up. +They know more than detectives." + +At this moment Mark came striding over the lawn. + +"Hello, Saunders," he called. "I've been looking for you. Now that +I've got you, I might as well have it out and be done with it. Ruth +wants you to stay here. She wants to make you one of us. We are going +to Ireland for six months, and then we're coming back to live here part +of each year. We want you to take charge of Killimaga. I've bought +it. A good salary--no quarreling or dickering about it. What do you +say?" + +"This is certainly a surprise," said Saunders, winking at the Padre. +"Have you room for an extra family?" + +"You're married?" + +"Very much so." + +"The bigger the family the better. But," he added, as an afterthought, +"I'll have to tell Ruth, or she'll be trying to marry you off. You'll +come, then?" + +"Yes," said Saunders, "I guess I'll take you up on that." + +Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thought +you would stay." + +Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't you +think, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is coming +on the next train, you know." He paused and seemed momentarily +embarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought. +"Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have a +lot of things to straighten out." + +The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean +that, my boy?" + +"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an +open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand +behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face +behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, +perhaps--in fact, I know it must have been--but it was mother's +face--and I am coming home." + +The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest +and the penitent entered the church. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +RUTH'S CONFESSION + +Late that afternoon Mark sat alone in the great library at Killimaga, +his head thrown back, his hands grasping the top of his chair. His +thoughts were of the future, and he did not hear the light footsteps +behind him. Then--two soft arms stole lightly around his neck, and +Ruth's beautiful head was bowed until her lips touched his forehead. +It was a kiss of benediction, speaking of things too holy for words. + +He covered her hands with his own. "Ruth." The tones breathed a world +of love. + +"I am so happy," she murmured. + +He started to rise, but one small hand, escaping from his grasp, rested +on his head and held him firmly. + +"I have a great deal to tell you, Mark. But first I want you to know +how happy I am that you have come back to Mother Church. I have been +praying so hard, Mark, and I should have been miserable had you refused +to return. Our union would never have been perfect without full +harmony of thought, and we might have drifted apart. But I am happy +now." Lightly her fingers stroked his brow and twined among his curls. + +He arose and, clasping her hands in both his own, he gazed down into +her eyes. + +"And I too am happy, dear one. You have brought me two blessings: I +have found not only love, but peace at last after many years." +Tenderly he raised her hands to his lips. "But come, dear; it is too +glorious a day to remain in the house. Shall we go outside?" + +It was but a moment till she returned ready for a walk, and together +they sauntered toward the bluff, where she seated herself on a great +rock. Sitting at her feet, his head resting against the rock, his hand +raised to clasp hers, he was content. For a while they sat in silence, +gazing far out over the sea into the glory of the sunset. At last she +loosed her hand from his grasp and rested it lightly on his head. + +"Mark, dear, you know that there are to be no secrets between us two +now, don't you?" + +He looked up and answered promptly. "Not one--not a single one, for +all the days of the future, my darling. But," he added, "I have none +that are unrevealed." + +"I am not so fortunate, dear. I have a great one, and now I am going +to tell it all to you." + +"But--" + +"No, let me do all the talking until you hear it to the end, and let me +tell it in my own way." + +"All right," and he pressed her hand lovingly. + +"I never knew my father, Mark," she went on, "and yet I heard of his +death only a short time ago--in Washington. His name was not +'Atheson.' He was a very great personage, no less than the Grand Duke +of Ecknor, Prince Etkar." + +Mark started, but Ruth put up her hand. "You promised. Let me go on." + +"My mother married my father, who then called himself Edgar Atheson, in +London. He was the younger son of the then reigning Grand Duke and had +left home for political reasons, expecting never to return. But his +father and his elder brother were both killed by a bomb a few days +after his marriage to my mother. He returned to Ecknor, and she went +with him. In six months he had married, legally but not legitimately, +a princess of the protecting kingdom. Under the laws of the kingdom +the princess was his legal mate, the Grand Duchess of Ecknor, but my +mother was his wife before God and the Church. The Grand Duke gave her +a large fortune, and she had a beautiful home near the palace. +Everyone knew and pitied her, but they respected her. The Grand Duke +soon ceased to care for his morganatic wife, but he never deserted her. +Then, a year after the court marriage, I was born. It was given out +that the Grand Duchess had also given birth to a daughter, Carlotta." + +Mark patted her hand, but kept his promise of silence. Ruth went on. + +"After that, the Grand Duke seemed to lose all interest in his English +wife. My mother was very unhappy and wanted to return to England. She +finally escaped, with me, in a closed carriage. My uncle met us as we +crossed the frontier, and it was only then that mother understood why +her escape had been so easy--the Grand Duke had wanted her away. She +saw England only to die heart-broken, for she had loved her husband +devotedly. My uncle kept me with him until he became a Catholic and +went to Rome to study. Then I was sent to school in Europe. Later I +came to America. But I had many friends in Europe and visited them +frequently. It was on one of these visits that I met Carlotta. She +knew, and we became fast friends, as well as sisters." + +"But not full sisters," Mark said, thinking that the story was over. + +"Wait," cautioned Ruth. "There is more. Mother died thinking I was +her only child. But two girls were born to mother, and a dead child to +the Grand Duchess. Mother never saw one of her babies. She never +knew. And it was years before the Grand Duchess learned that her child +had died. Carlotta was my full sister. She was stolen to replace the +dead child. Now do you see?" + +"But how did you come to know all this?" asked Mark. + +"Carlotta told me. The Grand Duchess never seemed to care for +Carlotta; Carlotta's old nurse resented this and one day, after a worse +storm than usual, told Carlotta that the Duchess was not her mother. +There was a terrible scene in the palace. The old nurse was all but +banished, but Carlotta saved her. She was sworn to secrecy by the +Grand Duke. The Duchess died later as a result of the affair--of +apoplexy. Then the nurse disappeared, no one knew how or where, but +not before she had told Carlotta all about the twins that were born to +the Grand Duke's English wife. Carlotta had the secret and ruled her +father with it. She was allowed her own way, and it was not always a +good way. Her last escapade was the one you already know. Poor girl, +she was as good as a court would let her be; and here in Sihasset she +repented. But she believed in her lover, which I never did. I knew +his reputation, but she would not listen to a word against him. Now +you have the whole story." + +"And you," Mark managed to say, "you are the real Grand Duchess now. +What a misfortune!" + +"No," she replied, "I could never make such a claim; for my mother's +marriage was never admitted by the court as a royal marriage. It was +considered morganatic. Her children were legitimate, but could never +succeed to the throne." + +"But, even so," insisted Mark, "you are the Grand Duchess." + +Ruth put her hand gently over his mouth. "I am to be more than a grand +duchess, dear. I am to be your wife--to-morrow." + +The sun was below the horizon now. For a while longer they watched its +banners of flaming red and yellow flung across the sky. Then, hand in +hand, they retraced their steps to Killimaga, where Mark left her with +a whispered, "Sweet dreams, dear," and went his way toward the rectory. + +As he sauntered aimlessly along, his thoughts were all of her. Never +once had she lectured him on religious matters, yet she was splendidly +sincere, and her faith of the greatest. And she had been praying for +him all the time! Yet what need of speech? Her very self, her every +action, her nice sense of right, were greater than any sermon he had +ever heard from mortal lips. She was a woman whom any man might well +love--and honor. + +Reluctantly Mark at last sought the rectory, where the Bishop and +Monsignore awaited him. And almost desperately he sought to evade Ann, +whose dinner had been kept waiting. Seeing the attempt was vain, he +threw up his hands. + +"Both hands up, Ann. I claim the protection of the Bishop." + +And Ann, not displeased, went on her way. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +CHARRED WOOD + +All Sihasset was in the little church next morning. Mrs. O'Leary, +grand even in her widow's weeds, had a front seat before St. Joseph's +altar, where she could see everything, and crowded into the pew with +her were all the little O'Leary's. The old lady had had some +misgivings about attending a wedding so soon after her husband's death; +but the misgivings were finally banished for--as she confided to the +eldest of her grandchildren--"Sure, 'tis Miss Ruth who is gettin' +married, and himself would want me there." + +So Mrs. O'Leary arrived two hours ahead of time and secured her point +of vantage. Under more ordinary circumstances she would have had a +hard time to quiet the energetic youngsters, but now they had enough to +occupy their minds, for when had they seen such gorgeous flowers, such +wonderful ferns? The sanctuary was massed with them, the little altar +standing out in vivid relief against their greenness. And then there +was that wonderful strip of white canvas down the center aisle, that +white strip that was so tempting to little feet, but which must not be +stepped upon. And what were those kneeling benches for--the two draped +in white--one on each side of the open gateway, just inside the +communion railing? And over on the left was a platform bearing a great +chair, and over it hung a canopy--only the children didn't call it +so--of purple. + +They had never seen the sanctuary look like this before! And then +their attention was attracted by the strains of the new organ, +hurriedly bought for the occasion. The choir from the city was +practising before the service. Truly, the little O'Learys were glad +that "Grandma" had ignored their cries and had insisted on coming +early. And what would Miss Wilson say at not being permitted to play +for the wedding? That thought alone was enough to keep the little +minds busy. + +Outside, Main Street was decorated with flags; and the people, keenly +expectant, were watching for His Excellency. Never before had they +known the Minister of a Kingdom to step within the boundaries of +Sihasset. Bishops had been seen there before, but Ministers were new, +and international weddings had never come nearer than the great +metropolis. Barons, too, were scarce, and who loves a baron--provided +he is not an American "baron"--any more than the simon-pure Yankee? So +the decorations were up by order of the selectmen, and the merchants +vied with one another in making their own ornamentations as gorgeous as +possible. And the people--with the sole exception of the +O'Learys--waited outside, each anxious to catch the first glimpse of +the great man who to-day was to honor them by his presence. + +His Excellency arrived at last--in a low, swift-running automobile, the +chauffeur of which seemed to know the road very well, and seemed also +to be acquainted with every turn in the village. There was no one to +notice that, when he passed the gates of Killimaga, he laughed quietly. + +At Killimaga the gardens had never looked lovelier. Autumn was kind +and contributed almost a summer sun. + +Father Murray tore himself away from his guests at the rectory--and who +should those guests be but the old friends who had for so long +neglected him--to run up before the ceremony to see Ruth. She was +already arrayed in her bridal finery, but she rushed out to meet him +when she heard that he had arrived. + +Holding her off at arm's length, he looked at her and said, "I think, +dearie, that I am going to die very soon." + +"Die! Why, you old love, how could you get that notion into your head?" + +"Because," he answered, "I am so very, very happy--too happy. I have +had a great deal more, dear, than I was ever entitled to in this life. +When I sent you away and went to Rome, I feared I had given you up +forever; and, behold, here I am, with the silver hairs coming--a priest +with all the consolations that a priest can have, and yet I have a +daughter, too." And smiling in his own winning way, he added, "And +such a daughter!--even if she is really only a niece." + +Ruth laughed softly and drew his arm around her as she laid hers +lightly on his shoulder. + +"I am afraid," she said, "that the daughter never deserved the kind of +a daddy she has had--the only one she ever knew. If Carlotta--" + +But Father Murray interrupted hastily as he observed the touch of +sorrow in her voice. + +"Do not think of her to-day, my dear," he said. "Put her out of your +mind. You have prayed for her, and so have I. It is all we can do, +and we can always pray. Forget her until to-morrow and then--never +forget." + +Seeing that the sad look had not been entirely chased away, he added, +cheerfully: + +"Now, before I go back to the Bishop and my friends, I want to ask you +one serious question." + +Ruth looked up with sudden interest. "As many as you like." + +He took her hands in his and looked keenly into her face. "It was +always a mystery to me," he said, "how you and Mark fell in love with +each other so promptly. He saw you coming out of the tree-door, then +he met you once or twice, and after that he lost his head; and +you--minx!--you lost yours. I have often heard of love at first sight, +but this is the only example I have ever seen of it. Explain, please, +for the ways of youth are strange, and even yet--old as I am--I have +not learned to understand them." + +"Why," she answered, "I had met him long before. Don't you remember +that day in London when you said good-bye to your congregation? Have +you forgotten that Ruth was there?" she asked archly, half +reproachfully. + +Father Murray's eyes lit up. "You remembered, then! Yes, yes. He +told me of the little girl. And you really remembered?" + +He was standing in front of her now, holding her at arm's length and +looking straight at her glowing face. + +"I remembered. I knew that day that you were suffering, and though I +was only eight years old, I cried for you while I was sitting all alone +in the big pew. He passed me, and smiled. When he came out again, he +saw that I was still crying. I asked him about you, and he said +something that went straight to my little girl's heart: he praised you. +To soothe me, he took me in his arms and--well," she added blushing, +"he kissed me. I fell in love with that big man right there; I never +lost the memory of him or that kiss. When I saw him here at Killimaga, +and when he told me what I wanted so badly to hear, I knew he was worth +waiting for. If you want to know more about the ways of youth, daddy +dear," she continued saucily, "only know that I would have waited a +century--if I could have lived so long, and if I had had to wait." + +"Tell me, Ruth, what shall I give you? I alone have sent nothing," he +said. "'Ask and you shall receive,' you know. What is to be my poor +offering for the wedding feast?" + +"Will you promise beforehand to grant it?" + +"If I can, dear, I will grant it." + +"Goody!" she cried, in almost childish glee. Then she stepped lightly +away, her hands behind her, and, like a mischievous child, she leaned +slightly forward as she spoke. "Here it is: Wear your purple to-day--I +like it." + +"But, child, I don't want--" + +One white hand was raised in protest, and he seemed once more to be in +London, a tiny figure before him, the blue eyes open wide and the +graceful head nodding emphasis to each word: + +"You--_promised_--uncle." + +Even so the child had spoken. Monsignore was learning more of the ways +of youth. He sighed. + +"All right," he granted, "I will wear the purple." + +"Thank you--and God bless you, Monsignore." + +"And God bless you, my child." Monsignore lifted his hand in blessing, +then hurried to the church to prepare for the Mass. + +The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, clad +in rich white vestments--a present from Mark. Leaning on the arm of +the minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veil +flowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of her +sweeping train. As they neared the altar where Monsignore stood +waiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, +stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right. Her small hand +trembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, +but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust. Then each sought a +prie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from the +choir rang the beautiful tones of the _Messe Solennelle_. The voices +softened with the _Agnus Dei_, then faded into silence. Together the +bride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altar +boys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, then +returned to their prie-dieux. + +The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife. Slowly the bridal +party went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore them +swiftly to Killimaga. When the time came to part, Monsignore and his +guests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then once +more sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory. + +But even the most pleasant of days must end. The happy group broke up +as the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before the +blazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of the +autumn evening was in the air. + +Mark and Ruth by this time were in Boston making ready to sail on the +morrow. Ann had suggested a "cup of tay because you're tired, +Monsignore," but Monsignore wanted to be alone with his thoughts and +would have none of it. He wondered why he was not lonely, for he had +dreaded the hours to follow his good-bye to Mark and Ruth. But lonely +he was not, for he was happy. It seemed to him as if some mysterious +and forbidding gates had been suddenly flung open, and a flood of +happiness loosed upon him. His last guest of the day had been the +Bishop, who had let all go before him that for an hour he might be +alone with the friend who once had had all his love and all his trust. +Now both love and trust were again his friend's, and the Bishop's +pleasure was even greater than the priest's. + +"I would gladly give you both cross and crozier if I could, my friend," +His Lordship had said. + +"I will gladly take what I can of your cross, my dear Bishop," Father +Murray had answered, very simply; "but I am happier to see the crozier +in more worthy hands. God has been good to me. I am satisfied." + +"You will come to the cathedral as of old?" Though voiced as a +request, the words were a command. + +"Let me stay here, I beg of you," pleaded the priest. "I am no longer +young--" + +"Age is not counted by years." + +"I love it here and--" + +But the Bishop raised his hand, and the priest was silent. + +"You may stay for the present. That much I grant you." + +But Monsignore's heart was too full for long silence, his fears too +great. He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly. + +"Will you not protect me?" + +"I may not be able to protect you." + +"I am tired, my dear Bishop--tired, but contented. Here is rest, and +peace. And when _they_ come back, you know I want to be near them. +Let me stay." + +"Yes, I know," said the Bishop, and his voice forbade further plea. +"You may stay--for the present." + +Then the Bishop, too, had left; and now Monsignore was alone. He sat +in his great armchair and watched the flames of the fire dancing and +playing before him. He marveled at his pleasure in them, as he +marveled at his pleasure now in the little things that were for the +future to be the great things for him. Before his vision rose the +cathedral he had builded, with its twin towers piercing the sky; but +somehow the new organ of the little church gave him greater pleasure. +"The people were so happy about having it," he had that day explained +to Father Darcy. His wonderful seminary on the heights had once seemed +the greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than the +marble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday. +He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city, +but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simple +discourses to his poor in Sihasset. + +"I couldn't go back," he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be great +again when I know how much true happiness there is in being little." + +Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, there +smiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope," he +said. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He never +could get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, so +as to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour the +fears and trials of the ruler?" + +The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughts +were too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they were +broken by Ann's knock. + +"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said. "'Tis a nice time for the +likes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll go +in the mornin'?" + +"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now." + +"Can't ye have wan night in peace?" + +"McCarthy _is_ peace, Ann. You don't understand." + +No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn't +understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the +glory of his day. + +So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went +out--a father going to the son who needed him. + +He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but now +he was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. From +one point to another he walked--slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then. +Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. His +lips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly he +picked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully +at the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those two +lines, + + + "I fear to love thee, sweet, because + Love's the ambassador of loss." + + +Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For a +little while, perhaps--but not for long. The call would come again, +and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word as +he spoke the lines softly to himself, + + + "I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because + Love's the ambassador of loss." + + +Yet, even in his vague unrest, this prelate who through humility had +found the greater love, recalled his own words to Mark Griffin: "No one +has lost what he sincerely seeks to find." Was not the past merely a +preparation for the future? Peace might be found in any kind of duty. +He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and a +swiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his mobile features, while +his hand clenched tightly. "A soldier of the Cross," he murmured, and +the hand was raised in quick salute. "Thy will be done." It was his +final renunciation of self. + +Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head. +At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to his +chair by the fire. As he sat looking into the flames, his old dreams +of greater works rose up before him--those things that had been quite +forgotten in his days of sorrow. They were coming back to life, and he +began to be half afraid of these, his dream children. Already they +seemed too real. + +Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, +hesitatingly silent. + +"Well, Ann?" The voice was gentle, resigned. + +"A telegram, Father." + +He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of +his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayer +he tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words were +few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity: + + +"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. I +need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay +but a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas." + + +The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the +fireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, +and read softly to himself: + + + "Ah! is Thy love indeed + A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, + Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? + Ah! must-- + Designer Infinite-- + Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?" + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Charred Wood, by Myles Muredach + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED WOOD *** + +***** This file should be named 16585.txt or 16585.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/5/8/16585/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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