There was absolute silence in the library after the turning of the
switch that brought the pall of darkness. Long seconds passed, then a
little noise--the knob of the passage door turning. As the door swung
open, there came a gasping breath from Mary, for she saw framed in the
faint light that came from the single burner in the corridor the slender
form of her husband, Dick Gilder. In the next instant he had stepped
within the room and pulled to the door behind him. And in that same
instant Chicago Red had pounced on his victim, the huge hand clapped
tight over the young man's mouth. Even as his powerful arm held the
newcomer in an inescapable embrace, there came a sound of scuffling feet
and that was all. Finally the big man's voice came triumphantly.
“I've got him.”
“It's Dick!” The cry came as a wail of despair from the girl.
At the same moment, Garson flashed his torch, and the light fell
swiftly on young Gilder, bowed to a kneeling posture before the couch,
half-throttled by the strength of Chicago Red. Close beside him, Mary
looked down in wordless despair over this final disaster of the night.
There was silence among the men, all of whom save the captor himself
were gathered near the fireplace.
Garson retired a step farther before he spoke his command, so that,
though he held the torch still, he like the others was in shadow. Only
Mary was revealed clearly as she bent in alarm toward the man she had
married. It was borne in on the forger's consciousness that the face of
the woman leaning over the intruder was stronger to hold the prisoner
and to prevent any outcry than the might of Chicago Red himself, and so
he gave the order.
“Get away, Red.”
The fellow let go his grip obediently enough, though with a trifle of
regret, since he gloried in his physical prowess.
Thus freed of that strangling embrace, Dick stumbled blindly to his
feet. Then, mechanically, his hand went to the lamp on the table back
of the couch. In the same moment Garson snapped his torch to darkness.
When, after a little futile searching, Dick finally found the catch, and
the mellow streamed forth, he uttered an ejaculation of stark amazement,
for his gaze was riveted on the face of the woman he loved.
“Good God!” It was a cry of torture wrung from his soul of souls.
Mary swayed toward him a little, palpitant with fear--fear for herself,
for all of them, most of all for him.
“Hush! hush!” she panted warningly. “Oh, Dick, you don't understand.”
Dick's hand was at his throat. It was not easy for him to speak yet. He
had suffered severely in the process of being throttled, and, too, he
was in the clutch of a frightful emotion. To find her, his wife, in this
place, in such company--her, the woman whom he loved, whom, in spite
of everything, he had honored, the woman to whom he had given his name!
Mary here! And thus!
“I understand this,” he said brokenly at last. “Whether you ever did it
before or not, this time you have broken the law.” A sudden inspiration
on his own behalf came to him. For his love's sake, he must seize on
this opportunity given of fate to him for mastery. He went on with a new
vehemence of boldness that became him well.
“You're in my hands now. So are these men as well. Unless you do as I
say, Mary, I'll jail every one of them.”
Mary's usual quickness was not lacking even now, in this period of
extremity. Her retort was given without a particle of hesitation.
“You can't,” she objected with conviction. “I'm the only one you've
seen.”
“That's soon remedied,” Dick declared. He turned toward the hall door as
if with the intention of lighting the chandelier.
But Mary caught his arm pleadingly.
“Don't, Dick,” she begged. “It's--it's not safe.”
“I'm not afraid,” was his indignant answer. He would have gone on, but
she clung the closer. He was reluctant to use over-much force against
the one whom he cherished so fondly.
There came a diversion from the man who had made the capture, who was
mightily wondering over the course of events, which was wholly unlike
anything in the whole of his own rather extensive housebreaking
experience.
“Who's this, anyhow?” Chicago Red demanded.
There was a primitive petulance in his drawling tones.
Dick answered with conciseness enough.
“I'm her husband. Who are you?”
Mary called a soft admonition.
“Don't speak, any of you,” she directed. “You mustn't let him hear your
voices.”
Dick was exasperated by this persistent identification of herself with
these criminals in his father's house.
“You're fighting me like a coward,” he said hotly. His voice was bitter.
The eyes that had always been warm in their glances on her were chill
now. He turned a little way from her, as if in instinctive repugnance.
“You are taking advantage of my love. You think that because of it I
can't make a move against these men. Now, listen to me, I----”
“I won't!” Mary cried. Her words were shrill with mingled emotions.
“There's nothing to talk about,” she went on wildly. “There never can be
between you and me.”
The young man's voice came with a sonorous firmness that was new to
it. In these moments, the strength of him, nourished by suffering, was
putting forth its flower. His manner was masterful.
“There can be and there will be,” he contradicted. He raised his voice a
little, speaking into the shadows where was the group of silent men.
“You men back there!” he cried. “If I give you my word to let every one
of you go free and pledge myself never to recognize one of you again,
will you make Mary here listen to me? That's all I ask. I want a few
minutes to state my case. Give me that. Whether I win or lose, you men
go free, and I'll forget everything that has happened here to-night.”
There came a muffled guffaw of laughter from the big chest of Chicago
Red at this extraordinarily ingenuous proposal, while Dacey chuckled
more quietly.
Dick made a gesture of impatience at this open derision.
“Tell them I can be trusted,” he bade Mary curtly.
It was Garson who answered.
“I know that you can be trusted,” he said, “because I know you lo----”
He checked himself with a shiver, and out of the darkness his face
showed white.
“You must listen,” Dick went on, facing again toward the girl, who was
trembling before him, her eyes by turns searching his expression
or downcast in unfamiliar confusion, which she herself could hardly
understand.
“Your safety depends on me,” the young man warned. “Suppose I should
call for help?”
Garson stepped forward threateningly.
“You would only call once,” he said very gently, yet most grimly. His
hand went to the noiseless weapon in his coat-pocket.
But the young man's answer revealed the fact that he, too, was
determined to the utmost, that he understood perfectly the situation.
“Once would be quite enough,” he said simply.
Garson nodded in acceptance of the defeat. It may be, too, that in some
subtle fashion he admired this youth suddenly grown resolute, competent
to control a dangerous event. There was even the possibility that some
instinct of tenderness toward Mary herself made him desire that this
opportunity should be given for wiping out the effects of misfortune
which fate hitherto had brought into her life.
“You win,” Garson said, with a half-laugh. He turned to the other men
and spoke a command.
“You get over by the hall door, Red. And keep your ears open every
second. Give us the office if you hear anything. If we're rushed, and
have to make a quick get-away, see that Mary has the first chance. Get
that, all of you?”
As Chicago Red took up his appointed station, Garson turned to Dick.
“Make it quick, remember.”
He touched the other two and moved back to the wall by the fireplace, as
far as possible from the husband and wife by the couch.
Dick spoke at once, with a hesitancy that betrayed the depth of his
emotion.
“Don't you care for me at all?” he asked wistfully.
The girl's answer was uttered with nervous eagerness which revealed her
own stress of fear.
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed, rebelliously.
Now, however, the young man had regained some measure of reassurance.
“I know you do, Mary,” he asserted, confidently; “a little, anyway. Why,
Mary,” he went on reproachfully, “can't you see that you're throwing
away everything that makes life worth while? Don't you see that?”
There was no word from the girl. Her breast was moving convulsively. She
held her face steadfastly averted from the face of her husband.
“Why don't you answer me?” he insisted.
Mary's reply came with all the coldness she could command.
“That was not in the bargain,” Mary said, indifferently.
The man's voice grew tenderly winning, persuasive with the longing of a
lover, persuasive with the pity of the righteous for the sinner.
“Mary, Mary!” he cried. “You've got to change. Don't be so hard. Give
the woman in you a chance.”
The girl's form became rigid as she fought for self-control. The plea
touched to the bottom of her heart, but she could not, would not yield.
Her words rushed forth with a bitterness that was the cover of her
distress.
“I am what I am,” she said sharply. “I can't change. Keep your promise,
now, and let's get out of this.”
Her assertion was disregarded as to the inability to change.
“You can change,” Dick went on impetuously. “Mary, haven't you ever
wanted the things that other women have, shelter, and care, and the big
things of life, the things worth while? They're all ready for you, now,
Mary.... And what about me?” Reproach leaped in his tone. “After all,
you've married me. Now it's up to you to give me my chance to make good.
I've never amounted to much. I've never tried much. I shall, now, if you
will have it so, Mary; if you'll help me. I will come out all right, I
know that--so do you, Mary. Only, you must help me.”
“I help you!” The exclamation came from the girl in a note of
incredulous astonishment.
“Yes,” Dick said, simply. “I need you, and you need me. Come away with
me.”
“No, no!” was the broken refusal. There was a great grief clutching at
the soul of this woman who had brought vengeance to its full flower.
She was gasping. “No, no! I married you, not because I loved you, but to
repay your father the wrong he had done me. I wouldn't let myself even
think of you, and then--I realized that I had spoiled your life.”
“No, not spoiled it, Mary! Blessed it! We must prove that yet.”
“Yes, spoiled it,” the wife went on passionately. “If I had understood,
if I could have dreamed that I could ever care---- Oh, Dick, I would
never have married you for anything in the world.”
“But now you do realize,” the young man said quietly. “The thing is
done. If we made a mistake, it is for us to bring happiness out of that
error.”
“Oh, can't you see?” came the stricken lament. “I'm a jail-bird!”
“But you love me--you do love me, I know!” The young man spoke with
joyous certainty, for some inflection of her voice had told the truth
to his heart. Nothing else mattered. “But now, to come back to this hole
we're in here. Don't you understand, at last, that you can't beat the
law? If you're caught here to-night, where would you get off--caught
here with a gang of burglars? Tell me, dear, why did you do it? Why
didn't you protect yourself? Why didn't you go to Chicago as you
planned?”
“What?” There was a new quality in Mary's voice. A sudden throb of shock
masked in the surface indifference of intonation.
Dick repeated his question, unobservant of its first effect.
“Why didn't you go to Chicago as you had planned?”
“Planned? With whom?” The interrogation came with an abrupt force that
cried of new suspicions.
“Why, with Burke.” The young man tried to be patient over her density in
this time of crisis.
“Who told you that I had arranged any such thing?” Mary asked. Now the
tenseness in her manner got the husband's attention, and he replied with
a sudden gravity, apprehensive of he knew not what.
“Burke himself did.”
“When?” Mary was standing rigid now, and the rare color flamed in her
cheeks. Her eyes were blazing.
“Less than an hour ago.” He had caught the contagion of her mood and
vague alarm swept him.
“Where?” came the next question, still with that vital insistence.
“In this room.”
“Burke was here?” Mary's voice was suddenly cold, very dangerous. “What
was he doing here?”
“Talking to my father.”
The seemingly simple answer appeared the last straw to the girl's burden
of frenzied suspicion. Her voice cut fiercely into the quiet of the
room, imperious, savage.
“Joe, turn on that light! I want to see the face of every man in this
room.”
Something fatally significant in her voice set Garson a-leap to the
switch, and, in the same second, the blaze of the chandelier flamed
brilliantly over all. The others stood motionless, blinking in the
sudden radiance--all save Griggs, who moved stealthily in that same
moment, a little nearer the door into the passage, which was nearest to
him.
But Mary's next words came wholly as a surprise, seemingly totally
irrelevant to this instant of crisis. Yet they rang a-throb with an
hysterical anxiety.
“Dick,” she cried, “what are those tapestries worth?” With the question,
she pointed toward the draperies that shrouded the great octagonal
window.
The young man was plainly astonished, disconcerted as well by the
obtrusion of a sordid detail into the tragedy of the time.
“Why in the world do you----?” he began, impatiently.
Mary stamped her foot angrily in protest against the delay.
“Tell me--quick!” she commanded. The authority in her voice and manner
was not to be gainsaid.
Dick yielded sullenly.
“Oh, two or three hundred dollars, I suppose,” he answered. “Why?”
“Never mind that!” Mary exclaimed, violently. And now the girl's voice
came stinging like a whiplash. In Garson's face, too, was growing fury,
for in an instant of illumination he guessed something of the truth.
Mary's next question confirmed his raging suspicion.
“How long have you had them, Dick?”
By now, the young man himself sensed the fact that something
mysteriously baneful lay behind the frantic questioning on this
seemingly trivial theme.
“Ever since I can remember,” he replied, promptly.
Mary's voice came then with an intonation that brought enlightenment
not only to Garson's shrewd perceptions, but also to the heavier
intelligences of Dacey and of Chicago Red.
“And they're not famous masterpieces which your father bought recently,
from some dealer who smuggled them into this country?” So simple were
the words of her inquiry, but under them beat something evil, deadly.
The young man laughed contemptuously.
“I should say not!” he declared indignantly, for he resented the
implication against his father's honesty.
“It's a trick! Burke's done it!” Mary's words came with accusing
vehemence.
There was another single step made by Griggs toward the door into the
passage.
Mary's eye caught the movement, and her lips soundlessly formed the
name:
“Griggs!”
The man strove to carry off the situation, though he knew well that he
stood in mortal peril. He came a little toward the girl who had accused
him of treachery. He was very dapper in his evening clothes, with his
rather handsome, well-groomed face set in lines of innocence.
“He's lying to you!” he cried forcibly, with a scornful gesture toward
Dick Gilder. “I tell you, those tapestries are worth a million cold.”
Mary's answer was virulent in its sudden burst of hate. For once, the
music of her voice was lost in a discordant cry of detestation.
“You stool-pigeon! You did this for Burke!”
Griggs sought still to maintain his air of innocence, and he strove
well, since he knew that he fought for his life against those whom
he had outraged. As he spoke again, his tones were tremulous with
sincerity--perhaps that tremulousness was born chiefly of fear, yet to
the ear his words came stoutly enough for truth:
“I swear I didn't! I swear it!”
Mary regarded the protesting man with abhorrence. The perjured wretch
shrank before the loathing in her eyes.
“You came to me yesterday,” she said, with more of restraint in her
voice now, but still with inexorable rancor. “You came to me to explain
this plan. And you came from him--from Burke!”
“I swear I was on the level. I was tipped off to the story by a pal,”
Griggs declared, but at last the assurance was gone out of his voice. He
felt the hostility of those about him.
Garson broke in ferociously.
“It's a frame-up!” he said. His tones came in a deadened roar of wrath.
On the instant, aware that further subterfuge could be of no avail,
Griggs swaggered defiance.
“And what if it is true?” he drawled, with a resumption of his
aristocratic manner, while his eyes swept the group balefully. He
plucked the police whistle from his waistcoat-pocket, and raised it to
his lips.
He moved too slowly. In the same moment of his action, Garson had pulled
the pistol from his pocket, had pressed the trigger. There came no spurt
of flame. There was no sound--save perhaps a faint clicking noise. But
the man with the whistle at his lips suddenly ceased movement, stood
absolutely still for the space of a breath. Then, he trembled horribly,
and in the next instant crashed to the floor, where he lay rigid, dead.
“Damn you--I've got you!” Garson sneered through clenched teeth. His
eyes were like balls of fire. There was a frightful grin of triumph
twisting his mouth in this minute of punishment.
In the first second of the tragedy, Dick had not understood. Indeed, he
was still dazed by the suddenness of it all. But the falling of Griggs
before the leveled weapon of the other man, there to lie in that ghastly
immobility, made him to understand. He leaped toward Garson--would have
wrenched the pistol from the other's grasp. In the struggle, it fell to
the floor.
Before either could pick it up, there came an interruption. Even in the
stress of this scene, Chicago Red had never relaxed his professional
caution. A slight noise had caught his ear, he had stooped, listening.
Now, he straightened, and called his warning.
“Somebody's opening the front door!”
Garson forgot his weapon in this new alarm. He sprang to the octagonal
window, even as Dick took possession of the pistol.
“The street's empty! We must jump for it!” His hate was forgotten now
in an emotion still deeper, and he turned to Mary. His face was all
gentleness again, where just before it had been evil incarnate, aflame
with the lust to destroy. “Come on, Mary,” he cried.
Already Chicago Red had snapped off the lights of the chandelier, had
sprung to the window, thrown open a panel of it, and had vanished into
the night, with Dacey at his heels. As Garson would have called out to
the girl again in mad anxiety for haste, he was interrupted by Dick:
“She couldn't make it, Garson,” he declared coolly and resolutely. “You
go. It'll be all right, you know. I'll take care of her!”
“If she's caught----!” There was an indescribable menace in the forger's
half-uttered threat.
“She won't be.” The quality of sincerity in Dick's voice was more
convincing than any vow might have been.
“If she is, I'll get you, that's all,” Garson said gravely, as one
stating a simple fact that could not be disputed.
Then he glanced down at the body of the man whom he had done to death.
“And you can tell that to Burke!” he said viciously to the dead. “You
damned squealer!” There was a supremely malevolent content in his sneer.