TRACKED
Vivian Ormsby refused to abandon all hope of winning Dora. He believed
that, if he got Dick Swinton into jail, it would crush her romance
forever. In his pride, he disdained appeal to Colonel Dundas. He knew her
father's view, and did not doubt that pressure would be brought to bear
from that quarter. Dora could not well marry a penniless convict, and the
colonel's wealth was worth a little submission to parental authority.
Dora would soon change her tone when all illusions were shattered. She
was far too sensible to ruin her life by a reckless marriage. Time was on
his side. Every hour that passed must intensify her humiliation.
He had realized the necessity of prompt action, and was in closest touch
with the police. Detectives were in and out of the bank all day long, and
a famous private detective had promised him that the fugitive would be
captured within seven days.
Detective Foxley entered the bank one day to see Vivian Ormsby, and
brought the banker news of his latest investigations. The inspector was a
small, thin-featured, sandy-haired man, with a calm exterior and a
deliberate manner. He entered Ormsby's private room unobtrusively, and
closed the door after him with care.
"Well, what news, Foxley?"
"My men have shadowed everybody, but so far with no result. I thought it
advisable to keep an eye on the young lady. He is sure to communicate
with her, and she'll try to see him. His people at the rectory know where
he is, and I suspect that Mr. Herresford knows as well. My man reports
that the young lady went to Asherton Hall after an interview with Mr.
Herresford's valet. She came out of the house in a state of excitement,
and showed every sign of joy. She thought she was alone, and danced and
ran like a child, from which we deduced that she had seen the young man,
and that he was hiding in Asherton Hall. We went so far as to interview
the housekeeper, who made it clear that the young man had not been there,
and offered to let us search. But we are watching the house."
"And the rectory?" asked Ormsby.
"He hasn't been there. Miss Dundas called at the rectory as well, and
after a short visit returned home on foot. Evidently, she is getting
information from his relatives. It has occurred to me that she'll
possibly write to him, addressing him by some other name. Can you,
therefore, arrange to have her letters posted by some--some responsible
servant who will take copies of all the addresses?"
"I have no doubt that can be done. The housekeeper at the colonel's is a
very good friend of mine. I have tipped her handsomely. The letters are
all posted in a letter-box in the hall, and cleared by the same servant
every day."
"We have endeavored to approach the servants at the rectory, but--no go.
They are of course stanch and loyal to their young master. That is only
natural. Mrs. Swinton has been shadowed, and she has made no attempt to
meet her son. Our only danger is that he may get out of the country
again. Every port is watched."
"What puzzles me is the visit of Miss Dundas to Herresford," said Ormsby,
thinking of his letter of dismissal, with the old miser's monogram on
it.
"She evidently went there to see him," said the detective, "and heard
from him the news of the young man's escape. That, perhaps, accounted for
her high spirits."
"Briefly, then, your labors have had no result, and you are as far from
the scent as on the first day."
"Not exactly that, sir. We'll nab him yet."
"As for the people at the rectory," Ormsby said, decisively, "I'll tackle
them myself."
"Be guarded, sir. We don't want them to suspect that they are watched."
"They probably know that already. I'm going to offer them terms. If
they'll advise their son to give himself up, seven thousand dollars shall
be paid by some 'friend,' and he will get off with a light sentence. It
isn't as though I wanted him sent up for any great length of time. I only
want him put in the dock. The whole United States will ring with the
scandal, and the country'll be too hot to hold him, even if he should be
acquitted. He's a reckless young fellow. There's no knowing what he might
do. He might--"
Ormsby did not finish the sentence. The detective muttered one
comprehensive word.
"Suicide."
Ormsby nodded.
"And the best thing, I should think," grunted the detective.
The upshot of this conversation was a prompt visit to the rectory by
Ormsby, whose arrival caused no little consternation in the household.
The rector was flustered and ill at ease. He would have liked to deny the
visitor, but was afraid. He knew the banker slightly, well enough to
dread the steady fire of those stern eyes.
Ormsby offered his hand in friendly fashion, and took stock of the
trembling man before speaking.
"You can guess why I have come, Mr. Swinton."
"It is not difficult to guess, Mr. Ormsby. It is the sad business of the
checks. I hear you have issued a warrant for my son's arrest, and you can
scarcely expect to be received as a welcome guest in this house. What
have you to say to me?"
"Only this, Mr. Swinton. If your son likes to give himself up, we will
deal with him as leniently as possible to avoid delay and--expense.
There'll be no question of refunding the money. My co-directors are
willing to put in a plea for the unfortunate young man as a first
offender, on certain conditions."
"And the conditions?"
"That he undertakes not to molest or in any way pursue Miss Dora
Dundas."
"Molest is rather a hard word, Mr. Ormsby. I am aware of the rivalry
between you and my son, and I recognize that he has made a dangerous
enemy. Surely, Miss Dundas is the best judge of her own feelings?"
"Miss Dundas would have married me but for the return of your scapegrace
son," cried Ormsby, flashing out. "He has seen her, and has upset all my
plans."
"Yes, he has seen her--" The words slipped out before the clergyman knew
what he was saying.
"Ah, he has seen her," cried Ormsby, sharply. "So, he's either at
Asherton Hall--or here."
"I--I didn't say that!" gasped the rector. "This house is mine--you have
no right--Dear, dear, I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm saying."
"You have said enough, Mr. Swinton. Your son is in this house. I have
him, at last."
"My son is ill, Mr. Ormsby. You must give him time. This dreadful matter
may yet be set right."
"It is in the hands of the police. Good-day."
John Swinton was powerless to say a word in his son's defense. He led
Ormsby from the room and out of the house, without another word of
protest. On his return, he sank down in his writing-chair, groaning and
weeping.
"Oh, what have I said! What have I done! I've doubly betrayed him. Nobody
can help him now, unless--unless--"
He clasped his hands upon the desk as if in prayer, looking upward. He
saw his way, clear and defined. Even as Abraham offered up his son at the
call of God, so he must deliver up his guilty wife, and cry aloud his own
sin. Ay, from the pulpit. It would be the last time his voice would ever
be raised in the house of God. His congregation would know him for a
sinner, a liar, a coward. He had remained silent when scandalous tongues
were busy defaming his son's reputation; and not a word of protest had
fallen from his lips. He had gone to the pulpit, and, with an expectant
hush in the church, they had waited for him to speak of his dead son who
had died gloriously--and no word had passed his lips, because only one
declaration was possible. Either he must deny the foul slander, or by his
silence give impetus to the rumor of guilt. The hue and cry had been
openly raised for his son, and he had done nothing. The devil had
demanded Dick, even as God demanded Isaac. And the traitorous priest had
been under the spell of a woman. It was hard to deliver up to man's
justice the wife of his bosom. It was no longer a choice of two evils; it
was an issue between God and himself.
He prayed for strength that he might be able to go out of the house
now--before his wife returned--and declare her guilt to the police and
his own condonation of it; after that, to call together his own flock and
make open confession of his sin, and say farewell to the priesthood.
Then--chaos--poverty--new work, with Dick's help--but work with clean
hands.
The way was clear enough now--while Mary was away out of the house--while
her voice no longer rang in his ears and the soft rustle of her skirts
had died away. But, when she came back with her pale face and care-lined
eyes, her soft voice and caressing hand, pleading, pathetic, seeking
protection from the horrible contact of a jail, would he be able to hold
out?
His face was strained with mental agony, and his fingers worked
convulsively on one another. He spread his arms upon the table and bowed
his head as though racked with physical pain. The clarion voice of duty
was calling; but, when the woman's cry, "I am your wife, John, your very
own--you and I are one--you cannot betray me!" next broke on his ear,
would he be strong then? If he could bear the punishment with her, and
stand in the dock by her side, it would be better than suffering alone,
tortured by the thought of the hours of misery to be endured by a
gently-nurtured woman in a cruel prison. Perhaps, they would take him,
too, for his share in the fraud. Dick was right when he said a man could
more easily bear the hardship of prison than could a woman. If it had
been possible, he would gladly have borne his wife's burden.
As usual, he did nothing. He put off the evil hour, and waited for Ormsby
to act.