THE LAST WOMAN
Stephen Langdon was seated at one end of the table, Roderick Duncan
was at the opposite one. Melvin, the lawyer, was behind it. Duncan had
just related the story he had overheard told by Radnor, and he had
brought his recital to a close by making a remarkable statement, which
had brought at least one of his hearers to a mental stand-still.
"I am a party to an agreement which was signed, sealed and delivered,
in this office, Mr. Langdon," he said. "You are also a party to that
document. Your daughter also signed it. By the terms of that document,
Patricia Langdon became my promised wife. Under the terms recited in
that document, she named a day when we were to be married. That day
has come and gone, and I have received no word of any kind from her. I
am convinced that you, her father, know where she is, where she can be
found, and now I demand of you that information, in order that I may
seek her. It is my wish to know from her own lips if she repudiates
that contract, or if it is still her intention to live up to it. I
have asked you, in Mr. Melvin's presence, twice, to give me the
information I wish for. I have asked you once on the ground of our
mutual friendship: you declined to answer. I have asked you, the
second time, on the ground of love and affection, for you and for your
daughter: you have refused. I ask you now on the ground of a
commercial transaction, just as Miss Langdon insisted upon viewing it,
and with all personal considerations put aside. If you again decline
my request, I give you warning that I shall make a call upon you
within an hour, for the loan I have advanced. I have that right, under
the terms of the agreement, and I shall take advantage of it. That is
all I have to say. It is my last word."
Stephen Langdon left his chair. His face was cold, stern,
expressionless. It wore the mask which long years in "the street," had
given it. He did not look toward Duncan, but turned his face to the
lawyer, and said, with cold preciseness:
"Mr. Melvin, you may say for me, to all who may be concerned, that I
shall be prepared within an hour to meet all demands that may be made
upon me."
With a slight inclination of his head, he left the office of the
lawyer. He walked as erect as ever; he carried himself no less
proudly, although he knew that he was going to his financial ruin
unless the unexpected should happen. Twenty millions is a large sum to
pay at an hour's notice. It was not a tithe of the fortune which
Stephen Langdon was supposed to possess; yet his circumstances at the
moment were such that terrible disaster would immediately follow upon
the demand for its payment. He knew it; Melvin knew it; Roderick
Duncan knew it. But the fighting blood of Roderick Duncan's father was
surging in his son's soul, just then; and, in his day, "Old Man
Duncan" had been a harder and a more relentless financier than ever
his partner, Stephen Langdon, had become.
"You will not insist, will you, Roderick?" the lawyer asked, as soon
as they were alone.
"I shall insist," replied Duncan, with decision.
"Even in the event that I might give you the information you seek?
Even in that case, will you insist upon forcing your father's life-long
friend to the wall? For that is what it will amount to."
"No. In that case I shall not insist upon calling in the loan. I seek
only the information. It doesn't matter where I get it, so long as I
do get it, and it proves to be correct. That is all I require."
The lawyer drew a pad of paper toward him and hastily wrote a few
lines upon it. Then, tearing off the sheet, he rang a bell and gave
the written message into the hand of a clerk.
"Mr. Langdon just left this office," he said. "Overtake him and give
him this message. See to it that you do not fail to place it in his
hands at once." He waited until the door had closed behind the
retreating figure of the clerk; then he turned toward Duncan again.
"Mr. Langdon is only a very little wiser than yourself about what has
happened to his daughter, during the last few weeks," he said, with a
touch of coldness in his tones. "I am somewhat better informed than
either of you, and in order to save my old friend from utter ruin--in
order to save his life, for ruin would spell death to him--I shall
tell you what you wish to know, even though I have been implored not
to do so. Frankly, I believe it better that you should know the truth,
only"--he hesitated a moment--"I shall ask you to remember who you are
and what you are, and to govern yourself as your father's son should."
"Well, Mr. Melvin?"
"Miss Langdon is at Three-Star ranch, in Montana. She has been
there--"
"One moment, Melvin!"
"Well?"
"You said, _Miss Langdon_. Do you wish to correct that statement by
any change of name? Was it a slip of the tongue, caused by momentary
forgetfulness?"
"No."
"'Three-Star' is the name of a brand owned by Richard Morton, is it
not?"
"Yes."
"Three-Star ranch is one of his many properties, I believe."
"It is."
"Go on, please."
"I repeat: Miss Langdon is at Three-Star ranch, in Montana. She has
been there since a little more than a week after her disappearance. I
was the first to be informed of the fact. The information came to me
through a letter written by her to me. I have fulfilled the requests
made to me in that letter--until now, when I am revealing truths which
she wished untold. Through me, her father has settled one million
dollars upon her. She now enjoys the income of that amount. That is
all."
"The letter! May I see it?"
The lawyer methodically took a red-leather pocketbook from his coat,
extracted an envelope therefrom, and passed it across the table to
Duncan.
"Dear Mr. Melvin," the young man read, half-aloud, although to
himself, "I am at Three-Star ranch, one of the properties of Mr.
Richard Morton, in Montana. The full address is inclosed, written upon
an additional slip of paper which I trust you will destroy at once;
also this letter. I am with Mr. Morton; I am caring for him. More than
that, you need not know. I desire you to tell my father that it is my
wish to forego any inheritance I might have received from him, but
that if he is disposed to make any present settlement upon me, I shall
cheerfully receive it. I shall not communicate with him; I do not wish
him to communicate with me. I cannot command your silence, or his,
concerning me; but I expect it. Unless he should demand of you
knowledge of my place of abode, I prefer that you withhold it from
him. Concerning others, I implore your entire silence and discretion.
I shall communicate with you again only in the event that it should
become necessary to do so.--Patricia Langdon."
The letter fluttered from Duncan's hands to the floor. He bent forward
and picked it up, his face white and drawn and set and suddenly
haggard. He folded the letter carefully, returned it to the envelope,
and then, with slow precision, tore it into bits, carried the mass of
fragments to the hearth, piled them into a heap and touched a lighted
match to it. The lawyer watched the proceeding without emotion,
without a change of expression. But he gave a slight nod of
satisfaction when it was done.
Duncan did not return to his chair. He stood for a moment before the
hearth, with his back turned toward the lawyer; then he wheeled about
and came forward three steps, until he could reach his hat which was
on the table.
"Thank you, Melvin," he said. "I shall entirely respect your
confidence. Good-day."
"Where are you going, Duncan?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought of that--yet."
The lawyer rose from his chair, and rested the tips of his fingers on
the table in front of him, bending slightly forward.
"She was a good girl; and you loved her. Don't forget that," he said.
"No; I won't forget it, Melvin."
"And--there are others, just as good; don't forget that, either."
"No. There are no others like her. She was the last woman--for me; the
last woman; and she is dead."
"The last woman? Nonsense!"
"The last woman, Melvin. You don't understand me."
"No, I do not understand you."
"Good God! Don't you see how it all came about? Don't you know
Patricia Langdon?"
"I know that I won't hear a word against her, even now--even from you,
Duncan," said the lawyer, with a touch of savagery.
"Don't you understand that, having put her name to a written contract
with me, she would not break that contract, or repudiate it? And don't
you see that she has intended, all along, to force me into a position
where I would be the one to repudiate its terms? You're a poor judge
of character, Melvin, if you don't see that. You have never known
Patricia Langdon, if you don't understand her, now. And"--he hesitated
an instant--"your association with me has taught you mighty little
about my character, if you haven't guessed what I will do--now!"
"What will you do, Roderick? What do you mean?" asked the lawyer,
alarmed by the deep intensity with which Duncan spoke those last
words.
"I shall go to Montana. I shall start to-night. I shall find Patricia
Langdon. I shall live up to the terms of the contract I made with her,
and I shall compel her to do the same. I shall make her my wife. I
shall bring her back to New York, to her father, to her home, as Mrs.
Roderick Duncan. That is what I shall do. That is what I mean."
"God bless you, boy! But--it can't be done."
"It shall be done."
"But, she will never consent to such an arrangement. She is the last
woman in the world to drag your name--"
"The last woman; that is it. She is the last of the Langdon's; she
shall be the last of the Duncan's, too. She will keep to the letter of
her contract, if I force her to it. I know that. And I will force her
to it."
"But the man! What will you do with him?"
Duncan stared a moment. Then, he smiled, as he replied:
"After Patricia Langdon has become Patricia Duncan, I will kill him.
Good-day, Melvin."