Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of the
busy wheels beneath his coach.
This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned to
account. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence the
gain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home to
the accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, else
the girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. In
addition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matter
to its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anything
to conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain of
preparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would be
but a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with the
elements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled by
her infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother.
The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyond
dispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he been
possessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation,
but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollar
note thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, The
Dutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware that
Alan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospect
of winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken it
for this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would have
taken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to some
bookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note.
The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutive
numbers, B 67,482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at the
time; it was the middle one, B 67,483, that was missing. So he had a
possible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentally
he followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew of
his winnings over Lauzanne.
Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse,
had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him,
and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed two
horses in the same race--had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one to
cover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. He
would either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand to
cover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note if
possible. Faust would be the man for this commission.
Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust,
asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of the
Brooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said,
“I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67,483. I think it was
betted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse.”
Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. “I
didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race,” he said.
“What are those flgures,” asked the other, pointing to two consecutive
numbers of one thousand each.
“That was the other way about,” answered the Bookmaker; “that was pay.
A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been
stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know
'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years.”
The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer,
appealed to Crane's fancy. “You remember the man who made this bet,
then?” he asked.
“Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him
because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He
was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin'
the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen
first-time luck with him, for he cashed.”
“Can you describe him?”
The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive
phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who
had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's
operations was working out.
“Now find this thousand-dollar note for me,” he said; “take trouble over
it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that
day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to
me.”
“There may be a chance,” commented Faust, scratching his fat poll
meditatively; “the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're
easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was
getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer
it.”
The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued
note in his possession. He had been successful. “I give a dozen of 'em a
turn,” he said, “before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled
away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money.”
“Does he know who bet it?”
“Not his name--some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says.”
Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed getting
hot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. He
had expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; his
fortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal he
sought.
“I'm much obliged to you,” he said to Faust. “I won't trouble you
further; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address.”
That evening the Banker saw Farrell. “There was a little crooked work
over that thousand Faust got from you,” he said, “an' if you could find
time to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you could
identify the guilty party.”
“I can go with you,” Farrell answered, “but it's just a chance in a
thousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell you
the truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out a
bit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em next
week. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane.”
In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield.
“I won't go to the bank with you,” Crane said; “I wish you would go in
alone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if the
man you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel.”
In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell.
“Well?” he asked.
“He's there, right enough.”
“A short dark little chap?” questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting Alan
Porter forward as a feeler.
“No. A tall fellow with a mustache.”
“You are sure?”
“Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother.”
Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence that
would satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration over
the discovery--he had been so sure before--yet his hand was strengthened
vastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this must
convince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. There
was also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of his
sister's suspicion.
How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come up
in its own proper place at the right time, no doubt.
“We can go back now,” he said to Farrell; “we may as well walk leisurely
to the station; we can get a train”--he pulled out his watch--“in twenty
minutes.”
Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He
wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself--plan his
course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression
against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis
Porter.
As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl
who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite
startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some
shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting.
Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination
to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane.
His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive
faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only
human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands
to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the
inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either
Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both.
“You understand,” he said, quite simply, “that Alan is like a brother--”
he was going to say “son,” but it struck him as being unadvisable,
it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had
discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without
guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified
Mortimer as the man who had betted the money.
“It clears Alan,” he said, seeking furtively for a look into the
drooping face.
The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot
downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying.
“I'm sorry,” he offered as atonement. “Perhaps I shouldn't have told
you; it's too brutal.”
The head drooped still lower.
“I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I
didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though
it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to
deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness
that has taught me to love you.”
“Don't,” she pleaded; “I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of
love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see--can't you understand?”
“Yes, I know--you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to
yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your
love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his
trust in the bank. You must consider yourself--you must give him up; you
can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from
the penitentiary because of your influence.”
“Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think that
what you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? You
know what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tells
me that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he has
had no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn't
love him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't help
it--I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and my
love doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it would
be even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would please
my mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent,
wouldn't your life be embittered--wouldn't it be terrible for you to be
tied to a woman who loved another man?”
“But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so.”
“And I know that he is innocent.”
“Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy.”
“My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart is
still true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't--don't stab
me to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and only
gives me pain. I must wait--we must all wait, just wait. There is no
harm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep your
promise?” she said, lifting her eyes to his face.
“Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it was
only to clear your brother.”
They had come to the station by now.
“Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?” Crane asked. “You are taking
my word.”
“No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do.”
“Don't think me cruel,” Crane said, “but the wait will be so long.”
“It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your--for
your goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If you
can--if you can--make it easier for Mortimer--I know he'll feel it
if you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe him
as--dishonest--will you, for my sake?”
It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at his
inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years
he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform
of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray
eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl,
he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as
mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism,
what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had
simply said, “Spare of censure this man for my sake.” In thankfulness
rather than in condescension he promised.
Even in disgrace--a felon--how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else
was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of
defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless
love.
A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on the
incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts.
“Good-bye, and thank you,” said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane.
“Good-bye,” he repeated, mechanically.
What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded
firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears
rang the girl's words, “Wait, wait, wait.” Irresponsibly he repeated to
himself, “All things come to them that wait.”
Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised
to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision
of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was
material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the
man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a
man chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection.
With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat
upright--Philip Crane, the careful planner.
“You nearly missed the train,” said Farrell.
“Did I?” questioned Crane, perplexedly. “I thought I got on in plenty of
time.”
Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation--a
New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane.
Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming
hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love;
and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him
with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.
Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected
him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or
objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis
Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even
fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong
habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him
troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had
experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put
away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why
should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible
as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed
hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was
equally hopeless in his hour of victory.
Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that
sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.
“Will it be a court case?” he queried.
“What?” asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.
“That high roller in the bank.”
“Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to.” Crane's caution always
asserted itself first.
“Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but
when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit
ticklish.”
Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first,
then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now
verifying his plans.
Farrell continued, “You see what I mean?”
“I don't,” answered Crane, shortly.
“You will if you wait,” advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his
tone. “I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is
climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay
that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an'
makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just
grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough
from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his
goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an'
taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he
parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him
up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most
like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.'
But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much like
him, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing,
pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken identity is like grabbin' up two kings an' a
jack, an' playin' 'em fer threes.”
“Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man--that
I've given you all this trouble for nothing.”
Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case had
been made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertainty
would destroy the value of identification.
“Not by a jugful!” ejaculated Farrell. “I'm just tellin' you this to
show you that we've got to make it complete--we've got to get collateral
to back up my pickin'.”
“You mean some one else to identify him also?”
“No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen,
must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will be
in line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of the
badge this rooster wore.”
An inspiration came with Farrell's words--came to Crane. Why had he
not thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number,
Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered the
hundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with the
number in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed,
the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth could
question that evidence.
“It's a good idea, Farrell,” he said.
“Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my place
to-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up.”
“I will,” Crane answered.