Meantime the man on the steps of the last car of the Chicago Limited
was having his doubts about whether he ought to have boarded that
train. He realized that the fat traveller who was hurling himself after
the train had stirred in him a sudden impulse which had been only half
formed before and he had obeyed it. Perhaps he was following a wrong
scent and would lose the reward which he knew was his if he brought the
thief of the code-writing, dead or alive, to his employer. He was half
inclined to jump off again now before it was too late; but looking down
he saw they were already speeding over a network of tracks, and trains
were flying by in every direction. By the time they were out of this
the speed would be too great for him to attempt a jump. It was even now
risky, and he was heavy for athletics. He must do it at once if he did
it at all.
He looked ahead tentatively to see if the track on which he must jump
was clear, and the great eye of an engine stabbed him in the face, as
it bore down upon him. The next instant it swept by, its hot breath
fanning his cheek, and he drew back shuddering involuntarily. It was of
no use. He could not jump here. Perhaps they would slow up or stop,
and anyway, should he jump or stay on board?
He sat down on the upper step the better to get the situation in hand.
Perhaps in a minute more the way would be clearer to jump off if he
decided not to go on. Thus he vacillated. It was rather unlike him not
to know his own mind.
It seemed as if there must be something here to follow, and yet,
perhaps he was mistaken. He had been the first man of the company at
the front door after Mr. Holman turned the paper over, and they all had
noticed the absence of the red mark. It had been simultaneous with the
clicking of the door-latch and he had covered the ground from his seat
to the door sooner than anyone else. He could swear he had seen the
man get into the cab that stood almost in front of the house. He had
lost no time in getting into his own car which was detailed for such
an emergency, and in signalling the officer on a motor-cycle who was
also ready for a quick call. The carriage had barely turned the corner
when they followed, there was no other of the kind in sight either way
but that, and he had followed it closely. It must have been the right
carriage. And yet, when the man got out at the church he was changed,
much changed in appearance, so that he had looked twice into the empty
carriage to make sure that the man for whom he searched was not still
in there hiding. Then he had followed him into the church and seen him
married; stood close at hand when he put his bride into a big car, and
he had followed the car to the house where the reception was held; even
mingling with the guests and watching until the bridal couple left for
the train. He had stood in the alley in the shadow, the only one of the
guests who had found how the bride was really going away, and again he
had followed to the station.
He had walked close enough to the bridegroom in the station to be
almost sure that mustache and those heavy eyebrows were false; and yet
he could not make it out. How could it be possible that a man who was
going to be married in a great church full of fashionable people would
so dare to flirt with chance as to accept an invitation to a dinner
where he might not be able to get away for hours? What would have
happened if he had not got there in time? Was it in the least possible
that these two men could be identical? Everything but the likeness
and the fact that he had followed the man so closely pointed out the
impossibility.
The thick-set man was accustomed to trust his inner impressions
thoroughly, and in this case his inner impression was that he must
watch this peculiar bridegroom and be sure he was not the right man
before he forever got away from him--and yet--and yet, he might be
missing the right man by doing it. However, he had come so far, had
risked a good deal already in following and in throwing himself on
that fast moving train. He would stay a little longer and find out
for sure. He would try and get a seat where he could watch him and in
an hour he ought to be able to tell if he were really the man who had
stolen the code-writing. If he could avoid the conductor for a time he
would simply profess to have taken the wrong train by mistake and maybe
could get put off somewhere near home, in case he discovered that he
was barking up the wrong tree. He would stick to the train for a little
yet, inasmuch as there seemed no safe way of getting off at present.
Having decided so much, he gave one last glance toward the twinkling
lights of the city hurrying past, and getting up sauntered into the
train, keeping a weather eye out for the conductor. He meant to burn
no bridges behind him. He was well provided with money for any kind of
a trip and mileage books and passes. He knew where to send a telegram
that would bring him instant assistance in case of need, and even now
he knew the officer on the motor-cycle had reported to his employer
that he had boarded this train. There was really no immediate need for
him to worry. It was big game he was after and one must take some risks
in a case of that sort. Thus he entered the sleeper to make good the
impression of his inner senses.
Gordon had never held anything so precious, so sweet and beautiful and
frail-looking, in his arms. He had a feeling that he ought to lay her
down, yet there was a longing to draw her closer to himself and shield
her from everything that could trouble her.
* * * * *
But she was not his--only a precious trust to be guarded and cared
for as vigilantly as the message he carried hidden about his neck;
she belonged to another, somewhere, and was a sacred trust until
circumstances made it possible for him to return her to her rightful
husband. Just what all this might mean to himself, to the woman in
his arms, and to the man whom she was to have married, Gordon had not
as yet had time to think. It was as if he had been watching a moving
picture and suddenly a lot of circumstances had fallen in a heap
and become all jumbled up together, the result of his own rash but
unsuspecting steps, the way whole families have in moving pictures of
falling through a sky-scraper from floor to floor, carrying furniture
and inhabitants with them as they descend.
He had not as yet been able to disentangle himself from the debris and
find out what had been his fault and what he ought to do about it.
He laid her gently on the couch of the drawing-room and opened the
little door of the private dressing-room. There would be cold water in
there.
He knew very little about caring for sick people--he had always been
well and strong himself--but cold water was what they used for people
who had fainted, he was sure. He would not call in anyone to help,
unless it was absolutely necessary. He pulled the door of the stateroom
shut, and went after the water. As he passed the mirror, he started at
the curious vision of himself. One false eyebrow had come loose and
was hanging over his eye, and his goatee was crooked. Had it been so
all the time? He snatched the eyebrow off, and then the other; but the
mustache and goatee were more tightly affixed, and it was very painful
to remove them. He glanced back, and the white, limp look of the girl
on the couch frightened him. What was he about, to stop over his
appearance when she might be dying, and as for pain--he tore the false
hair roughly from him, and, stuffing it into his pocket, filled a glass
with water and went back to the couch. His chin and upper lip smarted,
but he did not notice it, nor know that the mark of the plaster was all
about his face. He only knew that she lay there apparently lifeless
before him, and he must bring the soul back into those dear eyes. It
was strange, wonderful, how his feeling had grown for the girl whom he
had never seen till three hours before.
He held the glass to her white lips and tried to make her drink, then
poured water on his handkerchief and awkwardly bathed her forehead.
Some hairpins slipped loose and a great wealth of golden-brown hair
fell across his knees as he half knelt beside her. One little hand
drooped over the side of the couch and touched his. He started! It
seemed so soft and cold and lifeless.
He blamed himself that he had no remedies in his suit-case. Why had
he never thought to carry something,--a simple restorative? Other
people might need it though he did not. No man ought to travel without
something for the saving of life in an emergency. He might have needed
it himself even, in case of a railroad accident or something.
He slipped his arm tenderly under her head and tried to raise it so
that she could drink, but the white lips did not move nor attempt to
swallow.
Then a panic seized him. Suppose she was dying? Not until later, when
he had quiet and opportunity for thought, did it occur to him what a
terrible responsibility he had dared to take upon himself in letting
her people leave her with him; what a fearful position he would have
been in if she had really died. At the moment his whole thought was
one of anguish at the idea of losing her; anxiety to save her precious
life; and not for himself.
Forgetting his own need of quiet and obscurity, he laid her gently back
upon the couch again, and rushed from the stateroom out into the aisle
of the sleeper. The conductor was just making his rounds and he hurried
to him with a white face.
“Is there a doctor on board, or have you any restoratives? There is a
lady----” He hesitated and the color rolled freshly into his anxious
face. “That is--my wife.” He spoke the word unwillingly, having at the
instant of speaking realized that he must say this to protect her good
name. It seemed like uttering a falsehood, or stealing another man’s
property; and yet, technically, it was true, and for her sake at least
he must acknowledge it.
“My wife,” he began again more connectedly, “is ill--unconscious.”
The conductor looked at him sharply. He had sized them up as a wedding
party when they came down the platform toward the train. The young
man’s blush confirmed his supposition.
“I’ll see!” he said briefly. “Go back to her and I’ll bring some one.”
It was just as Gordon turned back that the thick-set man entered the
car from the other end and met him face to face, but Gordon was too
distraught at that moment to notice him, for his mind was at rest about
his pursuer as soon as the train started.
Not so with the pursuer however. His keen little eyes took in the
white, anxious face, the smear of sticking plaster about the mouth and
eyebrows, and instantly knew his man. His instincts had not failed him
after all.
He put out a pair of brawny fists to catch at him, but a lurch of the
train and Gordon’s swift stride out-purposed him, and by the time the
little man had righted his footing Gordon was disappearing into the
stateroom, and the conductor with another man was in the aisle behind
him waiting to pass. He stepped back and watched. At least he had
driven his prey to quarry and there was no possible escape now until
the train stopped. He would watch that door as a cat watches a mouse,
and perhaps be able to send a telegram for help before he made any move
at all. It was as well that his impulse to take the man then and there
had come to naught. What would the other passengers have thought of
him? He must of course move cautiously. What a blunder he had almost
made. It was no part of his purpose to make public his errand. The
men who were behind him did not wish to be known, nor to have their
business known.
With narrowing eyes he watched the door of the stateroom as the
conductor and doctor came and went. He gathered from a few questions
asked by one of the passengers that there was some one sick, probably
the lady he had seen faint as the train started. It occurred to him
that this might be his opportunity, and when the conductor came out
of the drawing-room the second time he inquired if any assistance was
needed, and implied that doctoring was his profession, though it would
be a sorry patient that had only his attention. However, if he had one
accomplishment it was bluffing, and he never stopped at any profession
that suited his needs.
The conductor was annoyed at the interruptions that had already
occurred and he answered him brusquely that they had all the help
necessary and there wasn’t anything the matter anyway.
There was nothing left for the man to do but wait.
He subsided with his eye on the stateroom door, and later secured a
berth in plain sight of that door, but gave no order to have it made
up until every other passenger in the car was gone to what rest a
sleeping-car provides. He kept his vigil well, but was rewarded with
no sight of his prey that night, and at last with a sense of duty well
done and the comfortable promise from the conductor that his deftly
worded telegraphic message to Mr. Holman should be sent from a station
they passed a little after midnight, he crept to his well-earned rest.
He was not at home in a dress shirt and collar, being of the walks of
life where a collar is mostly accounted superfluous, and he was glad
to be relieved of it for a few hours. It had not yet occurred to him
that his appearance in that evening suit would be a trifle out of place
when morning came. It is doubtful if he had ever considered matters of
dress. His profession was that of a human ferret of the lower order,
and there were many things he did not know. It might have been the way
he held his fork at dinner that had made Gordon decide that he was but
a henchman of the others.
Having put his mind and his body at rest he proceeded to sleep, and the
train thundered on its way into the night.
Gordon meanwhile had hurried back from his appeal to the conductor, and
stood looking helplessly down at the delicate girl as she lay there
so white and seemingly lifeless. Her pretty travelling gown set off
the exquisite face finely; her glorious hair seemed to crown her. A
handsome hat had fallen unheeded to the floor, and lay rolling back
and forth in the aisle with the motion of the train. He picked it up
reverently, as though it had been a part of her. His face in the few
minutes had gone haggard.
The conductor hurried in presently, followed by a grave elderly man
with a professional air. He touched a practised finger to the limp
wrist, looked closely into the face, and then taking a little bottle
from a case he carried called for a glass.
The liquid was poured between the closed lips, the white throat
reluctantly swallowed it, the eyelids presently fluttered, a long
breath that was scarcely more than a sigh hovered between the lips, and
then the blue eyes opened.
She looked about, bewildered, looking longest at Gordon, then closed
her eyes wearily, as if she wished they had not brought her back, and
lay still.
The physician still knelt beside her, and Gordon, with time now to
think, began to reflect on the possible consequences of his deeds.
With anxious face, he stood watching, reflecting bitterly that he
might not claim even a look of recognition from those sweet eyes,
and wishing with all his heart that his marriage had been genuine. A
passing memory of his morning ride to New York in company with Miss
Bentley’s conjured vision brought wonder to his eyes. It all seemed
so long ago, and so strange that he ever could have entertained for a
moment the thought of marrying Julia. She was a good girl of course,
fine and handsome and all that,--but--and here his eyes sought the
sweet sad face on the couch, and his heart suffered in a real agony for
the trouble he saw; and for the trouble he must yet give to her when he
told her who he was, or rather who he was not; for he must tell her and
that soon. It would not do to go on in her company--nor to Chicago! And
yet, how was he possibly to leave her in this condition?
But no revelations were to be given that night.
The physician administered another draught, and ordered the porter to
make up the berth immediately. Then with skilful hands and strong arms
he laid the young girl in upon the pillows and made her comfortable,
Gordon meanwhile standing awkwardly by with averted eyes and troubled
mien. He would have liked to help, but he did not know how.
“She’d better not be disturbed any more than is necessary to-night,”
said the doctor, as he pulled the pretty cloth travelling gown smoothly
down about the girl’s ankles and patted it with professional hands.
“Don’t let her yield to any nonsense about putting up her hair, or
taking off that frock for fear she’ll rumple it. She needs to lie
perfectly quiet. It’s a case of utter exhaustion, and I should say a
long strain of some kind--anxiety, worry perhaps.” He looked keenly at
the sheepish bridegroom. “Has she had any trouble?”
Gordon lifted honest eyes.
“I’m afraid so,” he answered contritely, as if it must have been his
fault some way.
“Well, don’t let her have any more,” said the elder man briskly. “She’s
a very fragile bit of womanhood, young man, and you’ll have to handle
her carefully or she’ll blow away. Make her _happy_, young man! People
can’t have too much happiness in this world. It’s the best thing, after
all, to keep them well. Don’t be afraid to give her plenty.”
“Thank you!” said Gordon, fervently, wishing it were in his power to do
what the physician ordered.
The kindly physician, the assiduous porter, and the brusque but
good-hearted conductor went away at last, and Gordon was left with his
precious charge, who to all appearances was sleeping quietly. The light
was turned low and the curtains of the berth were a little apart. He
could see the dim outline of drapery about her, and one shadowy hand
lying limp at the edge of the couch, in weary relaxation.
Above her, in the upper berth, which he had told the porter not to make
up, lay the great purple-black plumed hat, and a sheaf of lilies of the
valley from her bouquet. It seemed all so strange for him to be there
in their sacred presence.
He locked the door, so that no one should disturb the sleeper, and went
slowly into the little private dressing-room. For a full minute after
he reached it, he stood looking into the mirror before him, looking
at his own weary, soiled face, and wondering if he, Cyril Gordon,
heretofore honored and self-respecting, had really done in the last
twelve hours all the things which he was crediting himself with having
done! And the question was, how had it happened? Had he taken leave of
his senses, or had circumstances been too much for him? Had he lost
the power of judging between right and wrong? Could he have helped any
of the things that had come upon him? How could he have helped them?
What ought he to have done? What ought he to do now? Was he a criminal
beyond redemption? Had he spoiled the life of the sweet woman out there
in her berth, or could he somehow make amends for what he had done? And
was he as badly to blame for it all as he felt himself to be?
After a minute he rallied, to realize that his face was dirty. He
washed the marks of the adhesive plaster away, and then, not satisfied
with the result, he brought his shaving things from his suit-case
and shaved. Somehow, he felt more like himself after his toilet was
completed, and he slipped back into the darkened drawing-room and
stretched himself wearily on the couch, which, according to his
directions, was not made up, but merely furnished with pillows and a
blanket.
The night settled into the noisy quiet of an express train, and each
revolution of the wheels, as they whirled their way Chicagoward,
resolved itself into the old refrain, “Don’t let anything hinder you!
Don’t let anything hinder you!”
He certainly was not taking the most direct route from New York to
Washington, though it might eventually prove that the longest way round
was the shortest way home, on account of its comparative safety.
As he settled to the quiet of his couch, a number of things came
more clearly to his vision. One was that they had safely passed the
outskirts of New York without interference of any kind, and must
by this time be speeding toward Albany, unless they were on a road
that took them more directly West. He had not thought to look at the
tickets for knowledge of his bearings, and the light was too dim for
him to make out any monograms or letterings on inlaid wood panels or
transoms, even if he had known enough about New York railroads to gain
information from them. There was one thing certain: even if he had been
mistaken about his supposed pursuers, by morning there would surely be
some one searching for him. The duped Holman combination would stop
at nothing when they discovered his theft of the paper, and he could
not hope that so sharp-eyed a man as Mr. Holman had seemed to be would
be long in discovering the absence of his private mark on the paper.
Undoubtedly he knew it already. As for the frantic bridegroom, Gordon
dreaded the thought of meeting him. It must be put off at any hazards
until the message was safe with his chief, then, if he had to answer
with his life for carrying off another man’s bride, he could at least
feel that he left no duty to his government undone. It was plain that
his present situation was a dangerous one from two points of view,
for the bridegroom would have no difficulty in finding out what train
he and the lady had taken; and he was satisfied that an emissary of
Holman had more than a suspicion of his identity. The obvious thing to
do was to get off that train at the first opportunity and get across
country to another line of railroad. But how was that to be done with a
sick lady on his hands? Of course he could leave her to herself. She
probably had taken journeys before, and would know how to get back. She
would at least be able to telegraph to her friends to come for her. He
could leave her money and a note explaining his involuntary villainy,
and her indignation with him would probably be a sufficient stimulant
to keep her from dying of chagrin at her plight. But as from the first
every nerve and fibre in him rejected this suggestion. It would be
cowardly, unmanly, horrible! Undoubtedly it might be the wise thing to
do from many standpoints, but--_never_! He could no more leave her that
way than he could run off to save his life and leave that message he
carried. She was a trust as much as that. He had got into this, and he
must get out somehow, but he would not desert the lady or neglect his
duty.
Toward morning, when his fitful vigil became less lucid it occurred
to him that he ought really to have deserted the bride while she was
still unconscious, jumping off the train at the short stop they made
soon after she fell into his arms. She would then have been cared for
by some one, his absence discovered, and she would have been put off
the train and her friends sent for at once. But it would have been
dastardly to have deserted her that way not knowing even if she still
lived, he on whom she had at least a claim of temporary protection.
It was all a terrible muddle, right and wrong juggled in such a
mysterious and unusual way. He never remembered to have come to a spot
before where it was difficult to know which of two things it was right
to do. There had always before been such clearly defined divisions. He
had supposed that people who professed not to know what was right were
people who wished to be blinded on the subject because they wished to
do wrong and think it right. But now he saw that he had judged such too
harshly.
Perhaps his brain had been overstrained with the excitement and
annoyances of the day, and he was not quite in a condition to judge
what was right. He ought to snatch a few minutes’ sleep, and then
his mind would be clearer, for something must be done and that soon.
It would not do to risk entering a large city where detectives and
officers with full particulars might even now be on the watch for
him. He was too familiar with the workings of retribution in this
progressive age not to know his danger. But he really must get some
sleep.
At last he yielded to the drowsiness that was stealing over him--just
for a moment, he thought, and the wheels hummed on their monotonous
song: “Don’t let anything hinder! Don’t let anything----! Don’t
let----! Don’t! Hin-der-r-r-r!”