CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: Frontispiece]

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BY

ELLERY H. CLARK

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

F. GRAHAM COOTES

INDIANAPOLIS

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1909

The Bobbs-Merrill Company

* * *

March

PRESS OF

BRAUNWORTH & CO.

BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS

BROOKLYN, N.Y.

TO

MY FATHER

CONTENTS

PART I. THE FOOTHOLD

CHAPTER

I A Game of Bridge at the Federal.

II A Little Dinner at the Albemarle.

III The Flatfoot.

IV The Essex Handicap.

V The Trap is Baited.

VI Country Cousins.

VII The Trap is Sprung.

VIII Gordon Prevents a Scandal.

IX Palmer Has a Visitor.

X The Crisis.

XI In the Firelight.

XII The Final Obstacle.

PART II. THE GAME

I An Ambition is Attained.

II The Ethel Claim.

III The Return of Mr. Frost.

IV Gordon Plays to the Gallery.

V A Question of Finance.

VI The Spinning of the Web.

VII A Double Blow.

VIII The Case for the Prosecution.

IX The Public Eye.

X Ethel Mason Decides.

XI The Launching of the Konahassett.

XII Gordon Listens to Good Advice.

XIII In the Track of the Storm.

XIV Gordon Engages a Political Lieutenant.

XV The Voice of the People.

PART III. THE RECKONING

I The Hazard of the Die.

II The Hand of Man.

III The Hand of God.

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PART I

THE FOOTHOLD

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CHAPTER I

A GAME OF BRIDGE AT THE FEDERAL

Half-way up the slope of the tall hill, beyond the park, looking far

out over the city to where, in the distance, the broad blue waters of

the bay sparkle and gleam in the sunshine, stands the Federal Club.

Serenely it has held its place there for more than half a century,

alike undaunted by winter snows and unmoved by all the beauty of

springtime's bud and blossom, by the cloudless blue of summer skies

and the lingering glory of autumn's scarlet and gold. And ever, year

by year, with tolerant interest, it has watched the great, new, busy

city beneath it grow and grow, stretching always farther and farther

away to north and south and east and west in eager, resistless

advance. Regret and compassion and longing for the old, pleasant

days of its youth, all of these the club has known, as it has seen

green field and swamp and meadow vanish for ever, and crowded

office-building and mill and factory spring up and reign in their

stead. And thus it stands there to-day, looking quietly on at the

rushing tide of life below, a type of the life of the older city,

aristocratic, dignified and reserved.

The year was 1904; the month, August; the time, late evening. The

long, low-ceilinged card room was all but deserted, the shades drawn,

the lights turned low. The round, green-topped tables, appearing to

the eye like some field of giant mushrooms, stood in orderly rows,

their outlines blending faintly with the dark oak paneling in the

gloom. In the far distance, at the end of the room, a waiter,

white-aproned, napkin on arm, hovered expectantly, for generous

winners did not always heed the club's injunction regarding tips. Thus

he made a pretense of dusting the tables, and waited, biding his time.

Over by the window, where the faint cooling breeze from the bay stole

softly in, four men were finishing their rubber of bridge. Vanulm, the

portly brewer, prosperous, kindly, slow of speech, resolute of

purpose, saying little, smiled often; from time to time, when

perplexed as to the proper play, stroking his dark, closely-cropped

beard with his large white hand. His partner, young Harry Palmer,

scrupulously well dressed, carefully groomed, showed in his every

action the handicap of having been born with more money than brains,

of never having had to lift a finger to help himself, and, drifting

with the tide, of never having wasted a thought on anything outside

his own pleasures and how best to gratify them. Many times a

millionaire, he had but recently come into his fortune, and was making

a sincere and honest effort to spend as much of it as he could in the

shortest possible time. His thoughts, seemingly, were far from being

on the fall of the cards.

At times he sought restlessly to urge on the speed of the game; again,

as if trying to get control of unruly nerves, he made an effort to

pull himself together and strove to play leisurely, with a pretense at

thought, the frown on his weak, good-natured face, however, deceiving

no one. Dick Gordon, the stock broker, reputed to be one of the

handsomest men about town, dark, saturnine, played in silence, his

whole mind centered on the game, noting each card as it fell with

observant, inscrutable gaze. The last of the four, little Mott-Smith,

was the typical briefless barrister, who had sacrificed whatever

chance of success he might have had in his profession for the

dangerous charm of dabbling in the stock market, and whose continual

struggles to keep above water financially had been severe enough fully

to account for the nervous and worried expression that had now become

habitual with him.

Vanulm recorded the score of the hand just ended, and laid his pencil

aside.

"Game apiece, Gordon," he said, "and we're twenty-six to four on the

rubber. Your deal. And your cut, Harry."

Young Palmer lit another cigarette with an elaborate show of

nonchalance. In obedience to that curious law of our nature which

makes us admire and aspire to be that which we are not, Palmer's

fondest ambition was to be known as a humorist. Therefore, before

cutting, he made a feeble and misguided effort to raise a smile.

"Oh, I say, Vanulm," he drawled, "don't be in such a deuced hurry to

get their coin. It's bad form, you know, and besides, it's twice as

much fun to keep them worrying."

From neither Vanulm nor Gordon was the hoped-for smile forthcoming.

Mott-Smith, indeed, laughed, but nervously and with apprehension. For

him, bridge at five cents a point was not in any sense a pleasurable

pastime, but a serious and indeed a somewhat dangerous occupation.

Gordon, observing him, smiled faintly as he dealt with the mechanical

dexterity born of long practice, each card falling quickly and

smoothly from his skilful fingers. Tall, dark and unusually fine

looking, he was by all odds the most noticeable man of the four;

perhaps, indeed, the only one who would have attracted attention in

almost any company. His face, especially when he smiled, was

attractive beyond all question, and yet something in his expression

hard to define made it difficult to say whether the charm was that of

good or of evil.

As the last card fell, he gathered up his hand, sorting it quickly,

yet without haste. Then, scanning his cards carefully for a moment, he

smiled again as he looked up and met his partner's anxious gaze.

"Sorry, partner," he said, with a trace of mockery in his tone, "but

I'll have to ask you to name a trump."

Mott-Smith's thin, nervous face was a study in conflicting emotions.

Anxiety, caution, resolve, all were recorded there, until finally his

regard for the laws of the game triumphed, and in a voice which he

tried hard to make appear firm and determined, he announced, with real

heroism, "Partner, we'll try it without."

Vanulm studied his cards for a moment only; then asked the

conventional, "May I play?"

Palmer's face flushed. "No, by Jove, I'll be hanged if you may!" he

exclaimed. "I'm going over."

Mott-Smith sighed with the air of one thoroughly accustomed to

unpleasant surprises and reversals of fortune. "Perfectly satisfied,"

he said with resignation.

Gordon's expression alone did not change or alter in the slightest

degree. There was a moment's tense silence. Then, "I'll come back," he

said quietly.

Palmer stared at him wrathfully. "You will, confound you!" he

exclaimed. "Well, I've got a mighty good mind to boost her again. No,

I guess I won't, though. Satisfied here."

"Satisfied," echoed Vanulm, and Mott-Smith, as the lead was made,

glancing fearfully at his partner's expressionless face, laid down his

hand, ace, king and low in two suits, queen and two low in another,

and queen, knave and two low in the fourth. Gordon studied the cards

for a moment, glanced once at his own hand as if for confirmation, and

then played in his turn.

The play of the hand, as the play of a close hand of cards always

does, afforded an interesting character study. Vanulm played

phlegmatically, cautiously, but with hesitancy and much painstaking

effort; Palmer fidgeted in his chair, drummed on the table with his

nervous fingers, and occasionally swore under his breath; Gordon

played incisively, unhesitatingly, almost mechanically, much as if he

had placed every card in the pack, knew already what the final result

would be, and regarded the actual fall of the cards as a necessary but

scarcely interesting detail of the game. Six tricks to six was the

score when Gordon, left with the lead, made good the queen of

Mott-Smith's long suit, Palmer's carefully treasured ace of spades

falling useless, and game and rubber were won.

Mott-Smith made no attempt to conceal his relief. "That was great,

Gordon!" he cried. "You did wonders. You couldn't have played it

better if you'd tried."

Palmer scowled, and bit his lip with vexation. "What an ass I was!" he

exclaimed irritably, "carrying home an ace like that. What the deuce

did I want to double for, anyway? Then they couldn't have gone out.

I'm awfully sorry, Vanulm."

The brewer shrugged his big shoulders philosophically. "Don't worry,

Palmer," he said kindly. "It's all in a lifetime; anyway, we made them

work. Have we time for another?"

Mott-Smith consulted his watch. He knew that the last hand must have

left him a little better than even, and he hated to tempt Fate again,

and perhaps pay for it with a sleepless night. "It's almost twelve,"

he demurred, "but if you fellows want to play another game--"

Vanulm smiled quietly. He knew of Mott-Smith's means, or rather lack

of them, and his consequent little eccentricities. Therefore he yawned

out of pure good fellowship. "It is late," he agreed. "I'm getting

sleepy myself. What do you say, Gordon?"

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me," he answered indolently.

"I believe up to date I'm the heavy winner. Stop now or play till

morning. It's all one to me."

With a sudden impatient gesture Palmer swept the cards together.

"Let's cut it out!" he cried. "We've had enough bridge, and, besides,

I've got something I want to tell you fellows. It isn't really

supposed to be out until to-morrow, but it's so near that I guess it's

all right."

He paused a moment, as if uncertain how to proceed, while the others

gazed at him curiously without speaking.

Then Gordon broke the silence. "This sounds suspicious, Harry," he

said quizzically. "'Out tomorrow' has come to mean only one thing

nowadays."

Palmer caught at the offered opening with evident relief. "That's what

it is!" he cried. "I've had enough of sporting around, and I'm going

to quit it and settle down. You all know who she is. May Sinclair,

General Sinclair's daughter, and I think I'm the luckiest chap going."

Gordon was the first to extend his hand, and a careful observer might

have noted an unusual gleam of genuine interest in eyes as a rule

carefully schooled not to show any emotion whatever. "Lucky!" he

exclaimed. "Well, I should say you were! You're a sharp one to steal a

march on us like this. Why, that's the best news I've heard in a long

time."

Vanulm and Mott-Smith in turn added their congratulations to his, and

then Gordon touched the bell.

"John," he cried gaily, as the waiter appeared in answer, "will you

kindly bring us the oldest, biggest and best magnum of champagne

you've got in your cellar? We want to celebrate a great event."

Palmer raised a protesting hand. "Oh, I say, Gordon!" he exclaimed,

his face flushing as he spoke, "thank you just as much, but please

don't bother. I'm not drinking now. You know I really can't touch the

stuff. I--"

Gordon cut him short. "There, there," he said good-humoredly, "I

refuse to listen to any such talk as that. On any ordinary occasion

I'd say you were perfectly right, but this is the one time in a man's

life when a drink is really the only proper thing. It would hardly be

fair to the lady, otherwise, Harry."

The appeal to Palmer's pride was successful. "Well," he assented

half-doubt fully, "if you really think so, Gordon--perhaps this

once--but I'm going to cut the whole thing out, you know," and

Gordon's point, as usual, was gained.

Then, while they waited for John's reappearance, a slightly

embarrassed silence fell upon them. Mott-Smith was thinking half

enviously of a girl he himself knew, and of the difference between his

income and Palmer's. Gordon, too, was thinking, not at random, but

quickly, daringly and to the point. Vanulm began mechanically to

figure up the bridge scores. Then he laughed. "'Unlucky at cards,

Harry,'" he quoted. "You're sixty-eight dollars to the bad, I'm out

forty-five, and Mott-Smith's plus thirteen. Our friend Gordon must be

deucedly unlucky in love, for he's robbed us of an even century."

Gordon laughed again. "Poor consolation," he said. "I think we'll all

agree that Harry's the real winner to-night." And then, as John filled

the glasses, he added: "Here's to you both, my boy, and may the

Goddess of Fortune bring you all the luck you deserve."

The glasses clinked, and were drained dry. Almost at once a subtle

change came over Palmer's face. "That's great stuff!" he cried. "You

were right, Gordon. I believe you always are. It wouldn't do not to

celebrate the occasion. Lots of time afterwards, you know, and all

that sort of thing. John, John--" and he tapped at the bell

impatiently until the waiter again appeared, "John, your first

bottle's all right. Now you want to get us another just like it, and

then another just like that, and then you want to stand by for further

orders--stand by for first aid to the injured, I mean--what the devil

do I mean, anyway?"

The others laughed, but Gordon's laugh was too hearty to ring true,

and the way in which he bent forward and slapped Palmer on the back

savored of deliberate acting. "You'll be the death of me yet, old

man," he cried. "I swear you're the brightest fellow in the whole

club. You don't realize what a sense of humor you've got."

And then, as Palmer, glowing with the joy of just appreciation, went

on to be more and more humorous still, John appeared with the second

bottle, and later with the third; later still, long after Vanulm and

Mott-Smith had gone home, at Gordon's suggestion he brought the fourth

and fifth, and about two o'clock in the morning, as the young

millionaire's unruly legs balked at the long flight of stairs which

led to the sleeping rooms on the floor above, it was as "first aid to

the injured," after all, that he was finally called upon to serve.

CHAPTER II

A LITTLE DINNER AT THE ALBEMARLE

Lieutenant Osborne, commander of the new submarine, _Anhinga_, wiry,

alert, bronzed, had proved to be the most entertaining of companions,

and the little dinner in his honor had turned out to be an entire

success.

Osborne leaned forward in his chair and meditatively relit his cigar.

"So that," he concluded, "was the first and only time the engines

really bothered us. It was close enough while it lasted, though.

Still, we got by."

Young Carrington drew in his breath sharply. "Close enough," he

echoed. "I should say it was. That's the only trouble with you

pioneers, Lieutenant. You get so interested in what you're doing that

you get reckless, and then you blaze ahead with some fool experiment,

and the first thing you know something happens. Then they grapple your

boat up, and lay you all decently away on dry land, where you belong,

and some other chap has the benefit of your experience, and knows one

thing more to avoid if he's anxious to keep his health. It's glorious,

Lieutenant, but it's going ahead too fast. There's such a thing as

being too brave."

Osborne smiled. "Oh, well, of course there's some risk," he

acquiesced; "no one would deny that. But not nearly so much as you

think. We're pretty well prepared for all emergencies now, and in the

last analysis the interior of a submarine isn't the only dangerous

place in the world. It sounds trite to say 'you never can tell,' but

that's what danger and death amount to, after all."

Vanulm nodded assent. "You're right, Lieutenant," he said. "You see it

and read of it every day. A man makes a trip through darkest Africa

and comes home to be run over by a trolley car. We take a thousand

risks by land and sea, far and wide, and then come to peace and

safety, and break our leg going down the cellar stairs. 'You never can

tell' hits it about right for most of us."

Osborne nodded. "I'm afraid I've monopolized the conversation too much

already," he said, "but I'd like to tell you a queer illustration of

this that we had at the yards a year or so ago. One of the

construction men there was a Norwegian named Rolfson, a man with the

most remarkable head for heights, barring none, that I think I've ever

seen. He was celebrated even among his mates, and you can imagine what

that means among men who are just as much at home walking about like

flies on top of a girder sixty feet from the ground as we are seated

here at this table this moment. Well, one day this fellow--not out of

bravado, you understand; he wasn't that kind, but just because he took

a notion to do it--after he got through a job he was doing on the

mainmast of a big seven-master, deliberately climbed clean up to the

main truck, somehow crawled on top of it, and stood there, one hundred

and eighty-seven feet above the deck, waving his cap to the fellows

below. How was that for absolute nerve?

"Well, the point I am coming to is this: Three or four months later

this same man, working on a staging about thirty-five feet above the

deck of a bark, sitting down, mind you, with a support on either side

of him to hang on to, fell and broke his neck. We never knew just what

the trouble really was. He might have looked down, I suppose, or might

have been taken suddenly ill; possibly all at once he lost his nerve.

That happens sometimes. We never knew. So, you see, you can't always

tell what's risky and what isn't."

He stopped abruptly. There was a moment's silence, broken presently by

Gordon. "Still," he said, "to a landsman like myself there's something

uncanny about a submarine. What does a man think about just before he

goes down for a twenty-four-hour plunge, Osborne? Does he get worried

about death and eternity and the state of his soul, or does he simply

wonder whether or not he's forgotten his tobacco?"

Osborne laughed. "Why, speaking for myself," he answered, "I'm

generally too busy figuring on where we're bound in this world to

wonder much, if anything should happen, where I'd be bound in the

next. I suppose it all depends on a man's temperament, and even that

doesn't always work out the way you'd think. I know the last time we

went down there was one of the crew, a quiet, rather gloomy old chap,

with no nerves at all, just the kind of man you need in our business,

who turned out, very much as you might have supposed, to be a firm

believer in predestination. Now, going down didn't worry that fellow a

bit. In fact, I'd have liked it better if he had worried a little

more, I like to see the men just as anxious as I am to know that

everything's in first-class shape. But his ideas were that if we were

going to be drowned, we were going to be drowned, and that was all

there was to it. Now, on the other hand, we had another chap who was

the most reckless man in the whole bunch, really a regular dare-devil,

afraid of nothing afloat or ashore. This fellow, also, as you might

have supposed, so far from believing in predestination, didn't believe

in anything at all--an out-and-out atheist. Result was that out of

regard for his precious life he was tremendously in earnest to see

we'd taken every possible precaution before we went under. Rather a

curious result, I thought, and something of a blow at practical

religion if we should advertise, 'Picked men wanted to ship on

submarine _Anhinga_. Atheists given preference over all others.'"

There was a general laugh. "Poor old Religion," said Carrington

reflectively; "she's had to take some pretty hard knocks lately. What

with enemies without and factions within, I sometimes wonder what the

future of the Church is really going to be."

Doctor Norton, the host of the evening, nodded assent. "I suppose the

trouble really is," he said, "that there's such an endless field for

speculation in such matters, and people's minds work so very diversely

anyway, that no one ever really quite agrees with any one else about

anything. Hence the rows."

Carrington shook his head in dissent. "That's going it a little too

strong, Doctor," he objected. "I imagine most of us think along about

the same lines on religious matters these days, don't we?"

Norton smiled. "Well," he answered, "nothing easier than to test the

question, right here and now. I should say the five of us make up a

fairly representative crowd--a stock broker, a merchant, a naval

officer, a journalist and a medical man. Now, if we'll all agree to

give our honest ideas--our honest ideas, mind you, not hackneyed stuff

we've been told or that we pretend to believe--on religion, or the

probability of a hereafter, or however you choose to phrase it, a

comparison of results might prove entertaining, although the subject,

I'll grant, is a little shopworn and not nearly so interesting as what

the lieutenant has been telling us about submarines. Is it a bargain?"

There was a ready chorus of assent, and Norton, after a moment's

pause, continued: "I don't mind setting the example and confessing

first. My creed at least has the merit of simplicity. I haven't the

faintest shadow of a belief in any kind of a future life. I haven't

had the good fortune to see any evidence of it, and I never expect to.

There's one view. Now, Carrington, suppose you unbosom yourself."

Carrington pondered. "Why," he said at length, "I suppose I might be

described as a hopeful agnostic. Lots of hope, but no belief. I guess

that covers it pretty well."

Norton nodded. "Well, we're not so very far apart," he said more

gravely. "I suppose practically every man likes to indulge his hopes

at times. Certainly, when I think of my wife and children, I like to

try to convince myself against my reason and my judgment. That spark

is born in us somehow, and of course furnishes a somewhat fanciful

argument, if it's worthy of being called that, to our good friends in

the pulpit. I'll concede that much to Carrington's view; I like to

hope, but that's all it amounts to. Vanulm, enlighten us."

The brewer shook his head. "Not I," he said promptly; "I don't commit

myself one way or the other. In fact, I never could see what

difference the whole discussion really made. From one point of view,

you argue why there should be a future life. From the other, you argue

why there shouldn't. Nobody knows, and you can argue indefinitely.

Nobody knows the answer, and there you are. Personally, I'm too busy

to waste my time that way, even if I were inclined to, which I'm not."

Norton smiled good-naturedly at Carrington. "I believe I'm going to

prove my point, after all," he said. "Lieutenant, let's hear from

you."

Osborne flicked the ash from his cigar. "Well," he answered slowly,

"you chaps have got me a little out of my depth, I'm afraid, but I was

brought up to believe in God, and I guess it's the best way, on the

whole. It's the most comfortable, anyway, and saves a nervous fellow a

lot of worrying. Yes, I think I'm willing to go on record as a

believer in a future state."

Norton laughed aloud. "Good for you, Lieutenant!" he cried. "You've

raised the average, anyway. I'm afraid we're a pretty godless crowd

here. Now, Gordon, it's up to you to complete the thing. Are you with

the wicked majority or the select minority?"

Gordon gave no sign of hesitation, "Why," he cried quickly, "I confess

I'm amazed at you fellows. I wouldn't believe you now, if you hadn't

said beforehand that you were in earnest. I've always believed that if

you throw over religion you're throwing over everything that makes for

right and decency and the general welfare. Put me on record with the

lieutenant, by all means, and we'll form what you call the respectable

minority. You other chaps are a lot of rank atheists. I'm ashamed of

you."

Norton clapped his hands softly. "Good! Good!" he cried. "I don't mean

your ideas, Gordon, but that you've helped prove my point to

perfection. I said that no two people would think exactly alike, and

look at the result here. One atheist, one agnostic, one man too lazy

not to believe, one too lazy--he claims too busy--to believe either

way, and one noble example who goes the limit and believes everything,

including, I suppose, that the devil has horns and a tail, and that

the whale swallowed Jonah. Isn't that proof positive of my claim?

Almost every known variety of belief and disbelief, I should say."

Gordon promptly demurred. "No, not quite all," he said quietly. "I ran

across a queer case the other day, if you fellows care to hear about

it."

A chorus of assent greeted him, and he began slowly. "It was really

rather a queer case, as I just said. I dare say the man isn't quite

right mentally. A screw loose somewhere, I should judge. At all

events, he's worked out the theory that everything on earth is nothing

but a gamble, and that Life--and Death--and Immortality--are merely

the biggest gambles of all. His reasoning--he talked to me a whole

evening about it, but I'll try to give it to you in brief, and as near

as I can in his own words--is this: Every man, if he knew for a

certainty that there wasn't any God, would do exactly as he wished;

that is, he'd live a pretty free sort of a life, behave about as he

pleased, and in general have a mighty good time. On the other hand, if

he knew there was a God, he'd probably live as straight as he could

for the pleasure of enjoying eternal bliss, and all that sort of

thing, afterwards, and keeping clear of the sulphur and brimstone. So

there's your gamble, and it's really a very pretty one. Proceed on the

assumption that there is a God, and get along without any fun here, in

the hope of making up for it later when you get your harp and crown;

or else choose the other end of it, go the pace, and when you die, if

you've guessed right and there isn't any Heaven, you're away ahead of

the poor devils who've played close to their chests here. On the other

hand, if you've been unlucky enough to hit it wrong, you're down and

out and bound straight for hell and eternal damnation."

He stopped abruptly amid an attentive silence. Then, as no comment

seemed to be forthcoming, he continued even more slowly. "To me, I

confess the man's way of putting the thing was undeniably interesting.

What I didn't grasp at first was how far the proposition carried you

logically. You fellows who profess not to believe in anything don't

really act out your disbelief, because somehow in the very bottom of

your hearts you feel that there may be a hereafter, and you don't want

to take any chances. That is, not to put it too disagreeably, this

fellow would consider you, in the slang of the track, a lot of cheap

pikers. But suppose you have the courage to follow out his ideas to

the limit, and choose one way or the other. You can't kick. Your

chance is even, and if you're willing to put up all you've got that

there isn't a God, your life becomes nothing but pleasure. Just think

of it. You're no longer bothered by any moral law; you're free to

indulge your passions and your appetites as you please. You can get

drunk every day, if that's your idea of enjoyment, or you can steal

your friend's money, or his wife, or both, provided you don't get

found out. What odds? In place of the groveling worm the preachers

make you out to be, you're Kipling's 'gentleman unafraid,' taking a

gentlemanly gamble with a mythical creator. It's a bold conception of

life; there's no denying it. The man certainly interested me."

He broke off abruptly. Doctor Norton was the first to speak. "It is

interesting!" he exclaimed. "I call it a first-class sporting

proposition, and he's dead right on one point. We don't any of us,

when you come right down to it, try to be good or to do good just for

the love of it; it's really only selfish prudence, sort of a credit

account against a rainy day. But on his main proposition I should say

your friend must have something wrong with his upper story. A man's

good from reasons of prudence, or he's bad because he's got what we

call criminal instincts, but no man in his senses would sit down and

reason the thing out as this fellow has."

"Why not, Doctor?" demanded Carrington quickly. "It's all logical

enough, as Gordon says, if you've only got the nerve. But most of us

haven't. It isn't pleasant to think of your finish if you chose the

sporting end of the thing and then there turned out to be a God after

all. I claim there's something magnificent about it, though. Is he

going to live out his theories, Gordon?"

Gordon shook his head. "I confess I don't know," he answered; "he's a

queer chap, and I didn't like to ask him point blank whether he was in

earnest or not. Personally, though, I believe he was, and that sooner

or later he'll choose what you call the sporting end."

Gradually the conversation swung back to less serious channels, and in

another half hour the little party broke up.

Leisurely enough Gordon strolled along on his homeward way. It was a

perfect summer night, the park lying bathed in the mellow light of the

full moon riding high in the peaceful heavens. Perhaps it was but the

effect of the moonlight, but his face seemed to wear an expression

very different from that of the man who had declared his faith so

boldly an hour before.

"The old, old riddle," he muttered to himself; "worthless, and yet

worth so much." And, after a pause, he added meditatively: "The

sporting end."

CHAPTER III

THE FLATFOOT

South of the park, sloping away towards the east, lies the residential

section of the city, highly respectable and always in its conduct a

model of propriety. Across the park, to the north, lies the shopping

district; and adjoining it, to the westward, is the great business

section, with the Stock Exchange, the Markets, the Chamber of

Commerce, and the Government Building. Turning north again, we come to

the bay itself, dotted with steamers and sailing craft, and edged

about with huge piers, where the great ocean liners dock, and busy

wharves, the goal of the hardy fishermen, as they come driving home

across the foam, lee rails awash, deep laden with their spoils hard

won from the open sea.

So far, indeed, one may journey with naught save admiration and

respect for civic pride; but farther to the northeast, across the bay,

there lies a region of a far more doubtful sort. Here, dark and dreary

and sinister, begins that inevitable portion of a great city, at the

mention of which women are wont to raise their eyebrows, and men--of a

certain stamp--to shrug their shoulders and smile meaningly. Here is

the abiding place of those who for many varying reasons prefer to live

in a district unhampered by the authorities; a place where each is a

law unto himself alone; where the red blood pulses more swiftly

through the veins, and where the primal passions of men and women hold

freer sway.

To this wilderness in the otherwise well-ordered city, from time to

time wander men of birth and breeding from the opposite end of town.

Some of them come from real love of vice, due perchance to some

inherited taint, perchance to some flaw or weakness in themselves.

Others, for the most part younger men, fresh from school or college,

come with a vague idea that they are thus seeing life, and earning for

themselves the right to be classed as men of the world. A few, indeed,

come out of mere curiosity, mere slummers, pleased and risen in their

own estimation to find others so much wickeder and more miserably off

than themselves.

The great majority, however, desirous of standing well in their own

circle, deem it wise to let the district severely alone, for in the

faintly Puritanical atmosphere south of the park to have it known that

one has even been seen north of Fulton Street means always a

possibility of ill-natured gossip and even of unpleasant scandal.

Therefore, on the night after the dinner at the Albemarle, if any one

of Gordon's friends had chanced to follow him as he crossed the park,

they would have had good cause for surprise, for, instead of following

the avenue, or turning sharp to the west, he kept straight on

northward, past the cove, past Fulton Street, almost to the bridge,

and then, with one quick glance behind him, swung around to the east

in a wide half-circle, finally turning up a little, narrow,

unfrequented side street at the very limits of the city, beyond which

the broad salt marshes stretched away until their outline was lost as

they merged with the flats that bordered the broad tide-river flowing

peacefully onward towards the sea.

A good place, one would have said, for carrying on some business not

quite within the pale of the law, and so Jim Bradfield evidently

thought when he chose the spot for the establishment of his

gambling-house. Not that at the present time there was any great

danger of a raid, the city, following one of its periodic "citizens'

movements," with its accompanying spasm of virtue, having suffered a

violent relapse, and fallen again into the hands of the spoilers, who,

with a praiseworthy desire to make up for much valuable lost time, had

issued orders near and far that everything was to be run "wide open."

Bradfield, however, shrewd and far-sighted, had never been

over-anxious for that down-town notoriety which was sure to result in

a flourishing business during the reign of some particular "boss" or

"machine," and then, when the forces of reform again had their little

day, was equally sure to mean a quick decision between an immediate

change of climate or an involuntary visit to the handsome new prison

across the bay. Rather, he desired to keep his trade quiet, safe, and,

above all, sure, realizing the manifest advantages of a business which

needed for stock-in-trade only his modest house, a good supply of

liquor, a complete gambling outfit, and last, but not least, the

patronage of a score or so of the city's beautiful and accommodating

lights-o'-love. His creed was equally simple, philosophical and sound.

Often, indeed, he was wont to observe: "Most trades run too much to

seasons and fashions, but I figure mine pretty sure. Year in and year

out men are going to gamble, they're going to drink rum, and they're

going to run after the girls, and if I'm willing to take a chance on

combining the three of 'em, and giving every sport a run for his

money, why, where's the kick coming?"

The readiness with which Gordon ran up the steps and pressed the bell

seemed to show that he was no stranger to his surroundings. A short,

broad-shouldered, burly man, built ideally on the lines of a rough and

tumble fighter, stepped to the iron grating in the thick oak door,

peered sullenly out for a moment, and then released a spring, allowing

the ponderous door to swing slowly back. Rather a needless amount of

precaution, perhaps, in times of peace and ample police protection,

but Bradfield, as we have seen, was a believer in system, and took no

chances. Hence his enviable record for immunity from raiding parties,

and his steadily accumulating balance at the bank.

With a nod to the guard, Gordon mounted the stairs, turned sharp to

the right, and entered the cafe. It was still early in the night, and

not more than a dozen or so of the little round tables were occupied.

The men, as a rule, were sleek, well-fed, prosperous in appearance,

with a tendency towards flashiness in their general get-up; the women

were of the type to be expected in such a place, or rather, perhaps,

on the whole, somewhat above it. All were young and well-dressed, many

were pretty, and in some cases it needed a keener second glance to

detect that inevitable hardness of expression and that trace of

artificiality in their somewhat too obvious high spirits which mark

the world over the calling of the lower-class courtezan.

Over in the corner by the window, however, half hidden in the shelter

of a huge palm, sat a young girl of a type entirely different from the

rest. Seated alone, the chair opposite her tipped forward against the

table as a sign that she was not anxious for company, she sat with

elbows on table, chin in hands, gazing with a look of bored

indifference at the evidently only too familiar scene. Slender,

blonde, possibly a shade too pale, her dress of filmy black lace, her

dainty black gloves, her big black picture hat with its sweeping black

ostrich plume, all showed an instinctive sense of good taste

conspicuously absent in the costumes of her companions. So much for

the first general impression. Coming to the girl herself, on closer

examination one discovered with some surprise that she was undeniably

beautiful. Her features were flawless, her pretty light hair was

tastefully arranged over her low forehead, her blue eyes flashed a

dangerous gleam from beneath her long lashes, and her red lips seemed

framed in a perpetual challenge to the daring of mankind. More than

this, one could not rid oneself of the impression that the girl's

face, in spite of everything, was somehow a good face; the face of one

who, if sinning, did so all but unconscious of the sin.

As Gordon entered, she leisurely assumed a more conventional pose,

while he, with a quick glance in her direction, threaded his way

across the room, and with a word of greeting dropped into the vacant

seat.

It was evident from the whole manner of both that the meeting was no

mere casual one, but that it had been planned for some definite

purpose. Any doubt of this, indeed, was dispelled by Gordon's first

words.

"Well," he queried, leaning forward across the table and lowering his

voice a trifle, "did you get what we wanted?"

The girl, with evident complacence, slowly nodded. "I have found out,"

she said, "the whole story. He may be a very shrewd man in some ways,

but in others he is--well, let us say vulnerable."

Gordon drew a deep breath of relief. "Good," he cried softly; "I

didn't believe you could do it, Rose; and if you'd failed, we might

just as well have given up the whole thing. It seemed like an awfully

long chance, too. I don't see now how you pulled it off."

The girl made a little grimace. "It was not pleasant," she said.

"Incidentally, the man is hopelessly vulgar and brutal. On the whole,

I hope the information is worth all you think it is. The entire

experience was a disagreeable one. In fact, it was disgusting."

Gordon seemed scarcely to heed what she was saying. "Yes," he said

absently, "I imagine so," and then sat silent, lost in thought,

unheeding the laughter, somewhat over loud, as new arrivals constantly

added themselves to the noisy throng; not seeming to hear the hum of

voices, now loud, now ceasing altogether, from the gaming room

adjoining the cafe, whither the evening's play was now beginning to

draw the crowd; undisturbed even by the young college boy who sat at

the piano, dashing off ragtime with a brilliant touch. At length he

looked up.

"Well, you've got us our start, anyway," he said; "that's sure.

Without that, we were nowhere. Now, to get down to the details. I

suppose he only talked generalities, or did he happen to let slip

anything definite about prices?"

The girl smiled as she drew a tiny piece of paper from the palm of her

glove and slowly unfolded it. "Not less than twenty-five cents," she

read, and then paused. "I wrote it all out afterwards," she explained,

"although I could have remembered it perfectly well. I knew you wanted

it exact."

Gordon nodded impatiently. "Of course, of course," he said. "Never

mind that. Go ahead with the figures. That's what I want now."

"Oh, very well," said the girl, somewhat piqued; "where was I? Oh,

yes. Not less than twenty-five cents, and very likely twenty-six or

higher. Some well-informed men even talk of thirty. The price will

hold for two years, at least, and very likely for three. In fact, it

is very doubtful if it ever goes below twenty cents again. Finally,

there has been an agreement, not for publication, of course, between

the Consolidated, the Octagon and Michigan, and the Wood-Kennedy

interests. So, if a poor, friendless girl wanted a chance to make a

few dollars in 'coppers,' why, it's possible that things might go off

sharply the last two weeks in October on rumors of over-production and

a hidden supply of the metal, and that's the time she might buy a few

shares of some good producing mine, because about the first of

November these rumors might be flatly contradicted, and there might

begin the biggest bull market in 'coppers' the country has ever seen.

There, does that suit you?"

Gordon's face betrayed no sign of emotion, but the smoldering gleam of

excitement in his half-closed eyes had grown steadily as the girl read

on, until, as she ended, he could scarcely repress an exclamation of

mingled pleasure and astonishment.

"Rose," he cried, "you must be an enchantress to have got that out of

him. We've got practically every card in the pack now. Why, good

heavens, girl, the thing's a cinch. Properly played, what you've just

told me means a fortune for us both."

The girl glanced at him shrewdly. "But for us to get it properly

played," she said; "I take it that's where the rub comes."

Gordon nodded. "It comes right down to this," he answered; "in two

months from now, at the latest, we've got to have at least a hundred

thousand dollars. After that, everything's plain sailing. But getting

the hundred thousand; there, as you say, is just where the rub comes."

"I suppose," queried the girl, "that between us we haven't the tenth

part of that?"

Gordon shook his head. "We might have had it, and more too," he said,

"if I'd only known a year ago what I know to-day; but I didn't, and

instead of making a fortune, I came within an ace of bankruptcy

instead. Well, there's no use in post mortems. We've got to get that

money somehow. You remember the scheme I spoke of?"

The girl lowered her voice as she bent towards him. "Oh, Dick, not

that," she murmured.

Gordon raised his eyebrows the veriest trifle. "I don't see why not,"

he rejoined. "I've been busy looking it up, and as far as I can see it

looks first-rate. He's just the same as he ever was, and between the

two, as I told you, we're sure to land him. Of course, what he'll do

afterwards no one can tell, but I think we can count on his doing

what's right, safe enough."

The girl wrinkled her pretty forehead. "I can't make myself like it,

Dick," she answered. "It seems like taking so many chances. If there

were just the two of us, I wouldn't mind so much, but right at the

start we've got to get some one else--some older woman--and there's a

risk right away. I can't think of any one I'd trust."

Gordon considered. "There must be some one," he said at last. "How

about that Wilson woman?"

The girl shook her head. "Too stupid," she objected promptly.

"Wouldn't Helen Russell do it?"

"Not old enough. She isn't more than five years older than I am, and

we'd have to go light on anything like make-up. There are risks enough

anyway without adding one."

"Well," cried Gordon impatiently, "there must be some woman that can

do it and will do it. You must be able to think of some one."

The girl reflected. "There's Annie Holton's mother," she said, half

doubtfully, at last. "I think she'd do, but I don't like the risk of

getting mixed up with Annie. She'd like nothing better than a chance

to do me a bad turn, as you know, Dick."

Gordon frowned. Annie Holton's infatuation for him was such matter of

common knowledge about Bradfield's that there was no use in making

light of it, and the girl's rabid jealousy of Rose Ashton had been the

occasion of many a prophecy as to what might happen some day if the

occasion should serve.

"I don't know why that should make any difference," he said at last.

"Mrs. Holton's a very clever woman, and she'd look the part remarkably

well. Besides, getting at her doesn't mean telling Annie, especially

as I don't believe from what I hear that there's much love lost

between them nowadays. If it comes to that, it would be easy enough to

get Annie away somewhere for a week. That's only a matter of detail,

anyway. You'll find we can get some one. But the point is that we've

got to try the scheme, whether you like it or not. I can't borrow what

we want. Money's been tight as the devil for six months now, and I

think I begin to see why. No, this looks to be the only chance, and I

forgot to tell you one thing more that makes it a little better; I've

just found out that he's engaged to be married."

The girl looked doubtful. "I don't know whether that makes it better

or worse," she said at last. "Of course it makes a difference in one

way. It would help a lot--afterwards; but--it might spoil the first

part altogether."

Gordon laughed cynically. "You don't know Harry as well as I do," he

quoted. "Getting engaged doesn't make a man grow wings all at once,

especially a man that's led the life he has. Think of the inducement,

too. No, I'll risk the first part for a certainty, and I guess the

second is about as good, too."

Both were silent for a time. The noise from the adjoining room grew

louder. Every table in the cafe was filled. The piano tinkled

unceasingly. Still they sat unheeding. Finally the girl leaned

forward, speaking with deliberation.

"Dick," she said, "I'll grant that it isn't impossible. We might pull

it off all right, and the whole scheme really does you credit. But

you've got to own up to the risk. It's one of those things where every

move has got to come off just as we've planned it, and just on time.

If any one of a dozen possible things happens, we're done. In a word,

it's something we really ought not to try except as a very last

resort."

Gordon nodded a trifle impatiently. "That's it, exactly," he

acquiesced. "We don't differ a particle about it. But at the present

moment I can't for the life of me see what other chance we've got. I'm

afraid it isn't a matter of choice at all."

The girl hesitated a moment; then asked, apparently irrelevantly,

"Have you any money with you, Dick?"

Gordon nodded again. "Bridge winnings," he said laconically. "About

three hundred, I think."

"Three hundred," repeated the girl. "That would be enough. The wheel

here is run straight, isn't it?"

Gordon glanced at her keenly. "Absolutely," he answered. "But I hope

you're not planning to raise our hundred thousand that way, because

I'm afraid it might take a long time."

He spoke in a tone of mild amusement. The girl smiled faintly. "No,"

she answered, "hardly that. I've seen and heard enough of 'systems' to

know they're all impossible. But sheer, blind chance is always open to

every one, and I'd like one try just to satisfy myself before we try

your scheme. Let's chart the wheel thirty-eight times, then pick one

of the numbers that hasn't come, and play it flatfoot three times

running. If we lose, three hundred won't kill us, and if we win, you

know what you told me about your friend McMurtrie and his black colt."

Gordon laughed, then shrugged his shoulders. "If you call my scheme a

wild one," he said good-naturedly, "I wouldn't dare say what I think

of yours. Still, it's possible. Everything's possible, for that

matter, and, as you say, a few hundred won't be fatal. On the other

hand, if we should win, I'll say frankly that I take considerable

stock in old McMurtrie. He's crazy over racing, and knows the whole

game, too, from A to Z. He'd never have told me what he did about his

long shot if I hadn't made twenty thousand for him in two days

shorting steel common. His gratitude for that took the somewhat

doubtful form of this tip of his. I can't even remember the colt's

name now, but I could find out to-night, I suppose--if we have any

occasion to."

The girl rose. "Come on, then," she cried. "Fate's going to be kind to

us, Dick. I feel it. We're going to win."

The man gazed at her curiously. "Fate, instinct," he muttered to

himself, as he rose. "I wish I could feel sure--"

He broke off sharply, and together they left the cafe.

In the gaming room they found a good sized crowd around the roulette

table, and a smaller group gathered at the faro lay-out farther down

the room. Gordon bought the little stack of yellow chips, handed them

to the girl, and stood beside her, pencil and note-book in hand,

jotting down the swiftly recurring numbers as the croupier called them

in his even, expressionless tones.

A half hour passed. Once the croupier, glancing at Gordon and noticing

his occupation, smiled very faintly. There was no law or rule against

the use of paper and pencil at Bradfield's; rather inventors of charts

and systems were gladly made welcome. Their money, as Bradfield had

once with some dryness observed, was just as good as anybody else's.

At last Gordon turned quickly to the girl. "They haven't run very

even," he said hurriedly. "Here's your choice. These numbers here."

The girl glanced hastily at the ten numbers out of the thirty-eight

left blank, and instantly made her decision. "Thirty-five, Dick," she

whispered, and as she spoke she placed five of the counters on the

chosen square. Momentarily heads were turned in her direction, and

then the wheel was started once again. Bradfield's croupier wasted no

time. "Do them now," might have been his motto. Even as Gordon leaned

forward to get a better view, the ball stopped abruptly. "Seven,"

called the croupier, and Gordon smiled ironically at the folly

of the whole proceeding. Once more the girl placed her bet on the

thirty-five, once more the ball revolved, slackened its speed as the

wheel spun more slowly, and stopped--in the single zero. Gordon turned

to his companion with a laugh. "How about your presentiment?" he

queried.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, we've a chance still," she

answered, "and I rather think this is the time we win."

Down went the last five chips on the thirty-five. "Bets are closed,"

cried the croupier, and the little ball spun merrily away again on its

accustomed journey. Gordon's eyes were fixed eagerly upon its

progress--now slower and slower spun the wheel, more and more gently

the little ball moderated its pace, hesitated, paused on the lip of

nineteen, hung there, balanced, and then, as if with the faintest

possible remaining effort, rolled on, and dropped--

"Thirty-five," called the croupier sharply. "Red wins--," and the rest

was lost in the quick buzz of excitement, for at Bradfield's hundred

dollar flatfoots were rare. The croupier leaned forward across the

table. Thirty-five hundred was quite a sum to lose, but he knew that

it would make talk, help trade, and doubtless eventually come back. So

he even smiled deferentially. "I think I'll have to send for Mr.

Bradfield on this," he said. "We're not prepared for quite such heavy

plays, as a general thing. Will you have bills or a check?"

"A check, please," said Gordon half mechanically. "We'll be in the

next room."

It was not until they were again seated at their table in the window

that he was able to make the whole occurrence seem a reality. The girl

was laughing half hysterically, the bright color in her cheeks making

her prettier than ever. Gordon gazed at her in admiration.

"Well, Rose," he cried, "I'm not so smart as I thought I was. I guess

the laugh's on me, or on Bradfield, I don't know which. Now for

McMurtrie. I know just where I can locate him this very minute."

The girl bent across the table, her eyes bright, her whole attitude

expectant, alluring. "To-night?" she murmured. "But I thought

to-night--"

Gordon met her glance squarely, his eyes ablaze with passion. He

leaned forward in turn until his hand touched hers. "In just one

hour," he cried. "And an hour--can seem like a thousand years."

[Illustration: He leaned forward until his hand touched hers. Page 44]

CHAPTER IV

THE ESSEX HANDICAP

Handicap Day, and true Handicap weather. A warm sun shining from a

cloudless sky, a light cool breeze blowing from the west, a track in

perfect condition--what more could the heart of horseman desire on the

greatest day of the horseman's year?

As early as twelve o'clock the long procession began to wind its

leisurely way toward the track. By automobile, by coach and carriage,

by steam yacht and railroad train and electric car, even by bicycle

and on foot the crowds surged and flocked and fought their way, until

by two o'clock thirty thousand people crowded grandstand and betting

ring and paddock, keen, alert, active, on tiptoe with eagerness to see

the Essex run.

High up in the grandstand Major McMurtrie, a trifle flushed, more than

a trifle excited, eloquent in the extreme, seated himself beside Rose

Ashton and Gordon, and with a wealth of gesture fought and refought

for their benefit the bygone Handicaps of twenty years.

"The race of the year, my dear boy, the race of the year," he repeated

for perhaps the fiftieth time. "No race like it, sir, for the true

lover of the racehorse, and a more perfect day for it, sir, I have

never seen."

Rose, looking up from her race-card, nodded assent. "Forty thousand

dollars to the winner," she said thoughtfully. "It's a tremendous sum,

isn't it?"

The Major shook his head vigorously. "No, no, my dear young lady, you

mistake me," he cried. "It isn't the money value of the race that

makes it. Forty thousand is a snug little sum, of course, but the

Metropole is worth fifty, and the Belleview upwards of seventy. But

it's the public sentiment, not the cash, that makes this race what it

is. The Essex isn't any six furlong scramble for two-year-olds; it's a

mile and a quarter for three-year-olds and upwards. It's none of your

get-away sprints; it's a horse-race, from start to finish. And more

than all that, it's our oldest stake race, with its records for thirty

years filled with stories of courage and speed and daring and skill;

it's part and parcel of the turf history of the country. Yes, by gad,

sir--I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton, I do, indeed--the Essex

Handicap's a part of American history itself."

Gordon, himself no mean authority on the history of the track, nodded

affirmatively. "True, every word of it, Major," he cried. "Why, away

back in '78--"

The Major fairly caught the words from the younger man's lips. "'78!"

he exclaimed. "Yes, sir, Kingstreet's year. The greatest sire this

country has ever known. I saw him win, sir, by three lengths, in

2:071/2. Think of it, sir, for those days: 2:071/2! Eleven years that

record stood the test, until Contender's year. Ah! Miss Ashton, he was

a race-horse. Gentle and kind and true. Home he came that year--'89,

wasn't it? Yes, '89--home he came, simply romping in, fighting for his

head, and the time 2:06 flat. Ah, there was a race-horse for you. And

all the others, too. '96, Gordon, you can remember that; that finish

between True Blue and the Florentine. Forty races the mare had to her

credit, and, by gad, sir, that was the greatest of them all. A slow

first half, and then how they fought it out to the wire. Won by a

short head, and she came within a quarter second of the record at

that. She went lame afterwards, poor thing, and never faced the flag

again. A game, true little mare was the Florentine."

He paused reflectively, and Gordon, seeing the girl's evident

interest, again touched the tinder to the flame. "Two years ago,

Major," he began.

It was enough. The old man, in his eagerness, half started from his

seat. "Yes, yes," he cried, "Custodian! Gordon, that horse, when he

was right, was the king of the track." Then, turning to Rose,

"Custodian was his name, Miss Ashton, a four-year-old then, black as

the ace of spades, and ugly as the devil himself. He had his set days

for running and his days for sulking, and nobody but himself could

ever pick the days. If it was one of his off days, he'd be last in a

field of selling platers; if he made up his mind to run, he was a

whirlwind, a thunderbolt, whatever you want to call it, something more

than human, anyway. The day of the Essex he started badly, four

lengths behind his field, sulked to the quarter, and everybody who'd

backed him was properly resigned to walking home, when all of a sudden

he took it into his crazy head that he'd mistaken the day, after all.

Run! Nobody ever saw such a mile before or since. He nipped Disdain

and old Yarboro' a furlong from home, never let up at all, and came

under the wire, as if he were just starting to run away, in 2:033/4! The

point has never been settled to my knowledge, but it is my solemn

belief"--he lowered his voice confidentially--"that if that horse had

ever been driven to it, really hard pressed, you understand, he could

have made the distance in two minutes flat. Well, I must get down to

the paddock. Good-by, Miss Ashton; good-by, Gordon; look for my black

to come under the wire in the lead."

He left them, and Rose, half bewildered, turned to Gordon. "It's a

world by itself, isn't it, Dick?" she said. "I never thought men

followed it that way. It's all Greek to me, I'm afraid."

Gordon laughed. "The Major's certainly an enthusiast," he answered,

"but it isn't so mysterious, after all." He held his race-card that

she might see, checking with his pencil as he talked. "There, here's

the description of the race, and the money value, and all that.

Here are the entries down here. The Cynic's the favorite. He's a

four-year-old who's had a great record this season; very speedy and

one of the most consistent horses in training; he's quoted at 3 to 1

against. Here's Rebellious, one of the best of the three-year-olds, 5

to 1 against. He's a good one, too, but I believe they think a mile

and a quarter's a bit too far for him. Old Yarboro' here's campaigning

for his fifth season, and pretty near as good as ever, too. He's third

favorite, 8 to 1 against. These two here are a couple of 100 to 1

shots. Here's our friend Highlander, 30 to 1 against, and here's--" he

broke off suddenly; then, after a moment, added in a very different

tone, "Well, of all the remarkable coincidences--"

"What's the matter?" asked the girl quickly, struck by the unusual

surprise in his manner.

For answer Gordon passed her the race-card, his pencil under the name

of the last starter in the race.

"Palmer's got a horse entered," he said, still in amazement. "I

remember now his saying something a while back about starting a

string."

The girl glanced at the card. Sure enough, the last entry was Henry D.

Palmer's bay mare, Lady May, carrying one hundred and seventeen

pounds.

"Well, that is unexpected!" she exclaimed. "Named for his fiancee,

too, I suppose. Wouldn't it be strange if she should win?"

She seemed scarcely to realize the import of her words. Gordon nodded

grimly. "Very strange, indeed," he assented dryly. "I rather think on

the whole it would be better for our friend Palmer if she didn't."

The girl gave a little cry.

"Why, I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "If Lady May should

win--oh, but she won't Dick, will she? She can't beat Highlander."

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "The Major doesn't think so," he

answered; "but I suppose Palmer's trainer thinks no one can beat Lady

May, and The Cynic's owner is sure he's the only horse in the race,

and even the rank outsiders have somebody here who honestly believes

they're going to win, even at 100 to 1. That's what makes racing. A

fool born every minute, they say, or they couldn't keep it going."

The girl shivered. "Oh, Dick, don't frighten me," she cried. "If only

the Major is right. Did you get the money all on, finally?"

Gordon nodded. "Three thousand, at 30 to 1," he answered. "I suppose

McMurtrie's done considerably better. I understand he began to back

the colt way back in the winter books. If he did, he's probably

averaged as well as 40 to 1. If the colt's half what he thinks, I

should say 10 to 1 would be nearer right. We'll know all about it in

another ten minutes, anyway."

Even as he spoke, an expectant thrill seemed suddenly to run through

the crowd. All eyes turned in the direction of the paddock. A big,

red-faced man seated next to Gordon half started to his feet. "There

they come!" he cried.

And then, walking up from the paddock in the dignified, time-honored

procession before the race, the nine horses filed slowly by the

grandstand on their way towards the start. The Cynic, a bright bay,

third in the line, his jockey gorgeous in the blue and gold of the

Highcliff stables, walked somewhat soberly along, but the glance from

his big, kind eyes seemed to say, "I don't show off beforehand like

some of these youngsters, but when the flag drops, then watch out."

Even more sedate was old Yarboro', the veteran of a hundred races, to

all appearance as fit as ever, but looking as if he considered he had

fairly earned the right to an honorable discharge from active racing

and a peaceful retirement to the big green pastures of some quiet

farm. Farther back in the line Lady May, sporting the red and white of

Palmer's stable, was doing her utmost to pull her jockey's arms off,

and her dainty hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the track as she pranced

and curvetted by the grandstand.

Gordon gazed at the mare in admiration. "She looks awfully fit," he

muttered. "Good enough to take a lot of beating."

The girl, not hearing, laid her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, Dick," she

cried softly, "look at Highlander. Isn't he the darling!"

The black colt, bringing up the rear of the procession, was undeniably

a beauty. His glossy coat shone like satin in the soft sunshine, and

he looked to be in the very top-notch of condition, lean and hard and

wiry, and yet not overfine, but as if he had plenty of speed and

strength in reserve. On his back was Bowman, the colored boy, known

the country over as the "Kentucky Midget," McMurtrie's first string

jockey, resplendent in the gorgeous crimson jacket that made the

Major's entry by far the easiest to distinguish of the field.

Back to the barrier, a quarter of a mile away, walked the horses; then

came that trying, nerve-racking five minutes of jockeying for

position, cautioning of riders by the judges, fretting of the high

strung horses, and then, just as it seemed as if the strain were

growing unendurable, all at once the barrier leaped upward, the red

flag flashed, and the great crowd gave vent to its pent-up feelings in

one mighty roar as the nine thoroughbreds leaped forward through the

faint haze of dust to a well-nigh perfect start.

Then fell silence, far more eloquent than any mere din of voices could

have been, as thirty thousand pairs of eyes were strained to watch the

flying racers as they tore down the track. Past the stand they came,

Firefly, a rank outsider, running wild a length or two in the lead,

then The Cynic, Rebellious and Lady May, bunched close, then Yarboro',

a length and a half back, with Highlander at his girth, and the others

already tailing, for Firefly had carried the field along at a

tremendous clip, the watches catching twenty-four and three-fourths as

she flew past the quarter.

Too fast, indeed, for the light-weighted filly, and at the half

she had fallen back, leaving The Cynic and Rebellious in the lead,

Lady May dropping back a half length and Yarboro' and Highlander

moving up almost on even terms with the mare. Forty-nine seconds for

the half, and still the five ran true and strong, with no change in

the long, steady, machinelike strides. Past the five furlongs, past

the three-quarters, and then, as if riding to orders, the jockey on

Rebellious for the first time raised his arm and brought it down once,

twice and again. Nor had he to wait for his answer; with a mighty

bound the game colt shot forward, and in a trice a clear length of

daylight showed between him and The Cynic.

A cry burst from the crowd. "Rebellious wins! They'll never head him!

The favorite's beat!" The big, red-faced man snarled like a wild

beast. "The fools," he muttered savagely. "A half mile more to go.

They've spoiled his chance now."

Gordon nodded in mute assent, but for the next furlong it looked as

though the crowd was right. Away and away drew the colt, crazed with

the joy of feeling the choking pull released from his tender mouth;

two lengths, three, four, and then--still he strove, still he seemed

to run as fast and free as ever--but the four lengths remained four,

and rounding the turn, just before coming into the straight, the colt,

suddenly tiring, was thrown for a moment from his stride, and when he

swung into the stretch, The Cynic's head was at his shoulder and it

was a fresh horse against a beaten one.

And then, as the field squared away for home, old Yarboro' made his

challenge for the lead. Out from the ruck he came, past Rebellious,

past The Cynic, the long gray head just for a moment showing clear in

the lead, and then, with a rush, fresh and strong, The Cynic again

shot by, and the old hero of a hundred races, game to the core,

disputing desperately every inch of the way, fell slowly back, beaten

by a younger but not by a better horse, the old, remorseless,

inevitable story of youth and age.

Long afterwards some horsemen dubbed the Essex of the year "The race

of surprises," and surely it merited the title. For now the chestnut

colt showed clear in the lead, only a furlong from home, and the sight

had brought the multitude to its feet, wild with delight, already

shouting itself hoarse in anticipation of the favorite's win. And now

the mighty roar for just an instant died away, only to burst forth

again in redoubled volume as a gleam of crimson and black flashed like

lightning, and McMurtrie's colt, the pride of all Kentucky, shot

forward like a thunderbolt and challenged the leader in his turn. And

this time it was not old Yarboro' who was to be shaken off. This time

it was youth against youth, strength and speed and spirit the same,

the same brave blood of racing sires surging and pulsing in their

veins, the same fleet limbs and mighty hearts opposed, and now it was

the black, and now the chestnut, that seemed to gain.

Gordon sat motionless, his face showing no sign of emotion, but his

race-card was torn in his hands, and his nails were gripped deep into

the flesh. The girl, her lips parted, her breath coming in little

gasps, oblivious of everything else, sat with eyes riveted on the

flying Highlander, Bowman's crimson jacket gleaming, as the little

jockey, riding far forward, brought into play the last ounce of skill

and cunning for which he was famous as, nearing the wire at every

stride, he lifted his willing mount along. Only a hundred and fifty

yards to go, but half a lifetime seemed crowded into those few brief

moments. Now, both jockeys crouched low over their horses' withers, at

last gone to the whip and riding like demons, the two thoroughbreds

came tearing down the stretch, locked stride for stride, Highlander

not only holding his own, but gaining inch by inch, the crimson

showing clear ahead of the blue and gold, and the win only a hundred

yards away; and then--suddenly, hugging the outside rail, a flash of

red and white caught the crowd, and Palmer's mare, nostrils distended,

eyeballs bloodshot, glaring, with a mad burst of speed, bore down on

the struggling leaders, caught them twenty yards from the finish, and

flashed under the wire a scant head to the good, queen of the turf,

and winner of the fastest Essex ever run.

CHAPTER V

THE TRAP IS BAITED

The dilapidated little engine, with its train of two battered cars,

puffed despondently away around the curve, and disappeared in the

forest, leaving Rose and Gordon standing alone, the sole occupants of

the small station platform.

Everything about the place spoke of desolation. With each gust of wind

the weather-beaten door swung to and fro on its rusty hinges; the two

cracked windows stood open; beneath their feet the rotting timbers

sagged creaking; around them, on every side, the tall black pines

towered upward against the sky, save where the narrow ribbon of the

little single track stretched away a stone's throw to right and left

before losing itself among the winding curves of the forest

wilderness.

The girl, glancing about her with much disfavor, gave a shiver of

repulsion. "You must be fond of shooting," she said, "if you can stand

coming here for it. It's worse even than your description."

Gordon smiled. He remembered vividly his own first impressions of the

place, and his wonderment that such a spot could exist only fifty

miles from civilization.

"Oh, well," he answered defensively, "it isn't exactly Fulton Street,

of course. This is the worst of it, though. Wait till you've seen the

island, and you'll change your mind."

For twenty minutes they followed what was by courtesy known as the

road, and then, turning abruptly down a narrow wooded path, plunged

ahead straight into the heart of the huge pines. To the girl, after

the ceaseless roar and tumult of the city, the silence was almost

appalling. No sound echoed from their footsteps as they trod the

carpet of fragrant pine needles and velvet moss. About them all was

dark, and solemn with the hush of the great forest's majestic repose.

Far overhead the sun appeared to shine less brightly and the blue of

the sky seemed infinitely far away. Ahead and to the right a bluejay

screamed. A squirrel poised a moment on the top of a stump before

darting away in headlong flight. The girl, subdued and silent, kept

close to Gordon's side. "I wish I hadn't come," she sighed, half in

jest, half in earnest. Gordon, less imaginative, thoroughly familiar

with his surroundings, smiled at her mood. "Just you wait," he kept

repeating encouragingly; "you'll see."

At last the trees grew less thickly together. Bushes, higher than

one's head, began to appear, and tangled vines stretched themselves

underfoot Occasional gleams of sunlight lay quivering across their

path. Faintly, as if from far away, a swamp-sparrow's song rang sweet

and clear. Chickadees bustled and scolded in the branches. And then,

on the instant, Gordon and his companion turned straight to the left,

and the lake burst on their sight.

The girl uttered a sharp cry of delight, and Gordon, smiling, stood

and watched her in silence. Far away, seemingly to the utmost limit of

the eye, the blue waves danced and sparkled before the westerly

breeze. Far away to the north, the distant shore eluded the vision

with the unreality of a mirage. To east and west, the low black line

of the pines stretched on and on till they too melted away against the

dark blue of the water and the fainter blue of the sky. Half a mile or

so from the shore, a little island, pine-covered, also, like its

parent shore, lay sleeping in the afternoon sunshine, and the girl's

glance, slowly withdrawn from the sweep of the distant horizon, fell

suddenly upon it.

"Oh, that's it," she cried. "It's beautiful, Dick."

Gordon smiled a brief self-satisfied smile, not altogether pleasant to

witness. "Yes, isn't it," he answered; "and I think useful as well.

You really couldn't find a better place for duck shooting--or for

other things."

Instantly the girl's expression changed, and her face clouded. "Ah,

don't, Dick," she said. "Let's not spoil our day while we're here.

There'll be time enough later to talk of that."

Gordon's expression hardened a trifle. "As you please," he rejoined

coolly; "only don't forget that we're here primarily on business, and

not for pleasure. If you don't care to discuss things as we go along,

I shall take it for granted that you'll at least keep your eyes open."

The girl nodded as if relieved. "Of course," she rejoined, "I'll do

that anyway. But out here, on a day like this, to be deliberately

planning--well, I can't put it in words exactly, but you know

perfectly well what I mean. It's too--cold-blooded--that's the word I

want. I've got to get back to Bradfield's before I'll be any good at

scheming."

Gordon made no reply, but busied himself with launching the boat. Five

minutes later, lying back at ease in the stern of the little rowing

skiff, the girl watched the island grow steadily larger and larger as

the boat shot forward under Gordon's long, steady strokes. As they

approached more nearly, she could see that the whole southern side was

guarded by gray cliffs rising sheer from the water's edge, but as they

rounded the eastern point they shot into a quiet little cove,

narrowing as it ran inland, and ending in a short stretch of smooth

gray sand. Here they beached the boat, and walked slowly up the

pebbled pathway to the house. Gordon fitted the key to the lock, threw

open the door, and stepped back to allow his companion to enter. The

girl moved quickly forward, and then paused on the threshold with a

soft cry of pleased surprise.

Built square and low, with its back against a huge gray boulder so

that winter northeasters might thunder overhead in vain, the

shooting-box was little more than the one huge living-room and

dining-room combined. To the right were two bedrooms and to the left

the tiny kitchen and pantry, but it was on the living-room that

Gordon had lavished all his care. Everything was in keeping: the big

center-table of dark oak, the enormous fireplace with its store of

logs, the heavy rugs on the floor, the guns and shells in their racks,

the shooting and fishing prints upon the walls, all combined to make

up a room ideal to the sportsman and charming even to the girl's more

critical eye.

Crossing swiftly to the cushioned window-seat she tossed hat and coat

aside, and with a deep sigh of contentment threw herself back among

the cushions. A pretty enough picture she made, and Gordon, gazing at

her a moment, crossed the room, and seating himself by her side, drew

her to him and covered her face with kisses. Yielding herself to him,

the girl suddenly lifted her face to his and clasped her arms around

his neck. "Let's not go back," she whispered; "let's stay here for

good and all."

Gordon smiled, humoring her mood. "All right," he answered, "I'm

agreeable. I suppose my customers might miss me a little, though. And

you," he added, a trifle maliciously, "I know they'd miss you at

Bradfield's."

The girl's face flushed, and she drew herself from his embrace. "I

hate it, Dick," she cried passionately, "I loathe it more and more

every day. Nobody can be happy leading a life she was never meant to

lead. You know that yourself. And every word I've told you about

Bradfield's is God's own truth. What was I when they started me going

there? Fifteen years old. Nothing but a baby, Dick. I swear I never

knew what it all meant. And now I've met you. Oh, Dick, if only you'd

marry me, and let us have a little home somewhere, I'd be so happy.

I'd make you the best wife in the world. I'd see to it--" She broke

off quickly, with a laugh mirthless, almost of self-contempt; then

added, in a very different tone, "but there's no use in saying all

this. No man that ever lived can know for a minute what real love--or

what a real home--means to a woman. We might as well forget it, I

suppose, and go on as we are."

Gordon's face had seemed imperceptibly to harden as she spoke, but his

tone, as he answered her, was kindness itself, as one might try to

soothe a too insistent child. "I do know," he said, "and I think

you're right about it; entirely so. And you know how much I love you,

Rose. Just let us get this one thing out of the way, and I give you my

sacred word of honor I'll get out of this sort of thing for good, and

we'll buy the finest little home in the state, and settle down to

farming, or anything else you want. Or we'll go around the world in a

steam yacht, if we hit things right. Just which you'd rather. But we

can't quit the thing now. It looks too good. After we pull it off, I

promise you anything in the world in return, and I shall be very proud

of my wife."

He rose quickly, and then, as if to forestall a reply, added with an

entire change of manner. "Well, we mustn't get too serious over

things, Rose. You were the one that didn't want our day spoiled. So we

might as well get down to the point while daylight lasts."

Reluctantly enough the girl rose, with a vaguely dissatisfied feeling

of having once more been put off from a definite decision on the

unwelcome plan. Gordon's mood, on the contrary, was cheerfulness

itself. Taking down his favorite little sixteen-bore from the rack, he

snapped it open, ran his eye lovingly through the glistening barrels,

tested the safety-catch, and caught up a box of shells from the table.

"Come on," he cried, with boyish enthusiasm, "ducks for supper, unless

I've forgotten how to shoot."

Leisurely enough, in all the glory of the crisp autumn air just

tempered by the pleasant warmth of the mellow, waning sunlight, they

made their way down towards the point. Gordon, in a mood entirely

different from any the girl had ever seen him display, eager as a boy

set free from school, kept constantly calling her attention to one

thing and another as they strolled along. Here he pointed out the

hollow in the rocks where he had lain all through the great northeast

gale of two years before, when the frightened wildfowl, storm driven,

low sweeping to the southward, had passed over his head all day long

in countless flocks; there he showed her the little cove where he had

stalked the Canada geese, and, nearing the point, he made her shudder

as he pointed to the treacherous quicksand beyond the clump of pines

where, in reckless pursuit of a wounded duck, he had come within an

ace of losing his life.

Twenty minutes later found them in readiness, safely hidden in the

gunning box sunk level with the ground on the pebbly point of land

which stretched far out to the westward of the island. Before them,

the little flock of wooden decoys, moored in the lee of the point,

nodded and dipped gaily to the rising breeze. The girl's eyes were

bright with excitement. "Will the ducks really come, Dick?" she

whispered.

For answer Gordon pulled out his watch for the twentieth time; then

nodded reassuringly. "Of course they will," he answered. "In fact,

it's pretty near--there, look! There they come now!"

The girl peered through the screen of bushes that fringed the box.

Sure enough, off to the southward, a flock of ducks was flying swiftly

towards them. A moment more, and they swerved farther to the west. She

heard Gordon swear softly under his breath, and strangled a hysterical

desire to laugh. Then all at once the birds caught sight of the

decoys. Just for an instant they seemed to hang motionless against the

sky; then, with set wings, came on straight for the blind. The girl

felt her heart leap with excitement; for, all in the same breath, she

saw the flock wheel quickly, and Gordon rise to his knees. The little

sixteen-bore cracked spitefully once--twice--and two of the flock,

doubled up in mid-air as if struck by lightning, fell stone dead among

the decoys, the others, towering high into the air, made off far to

the westward and safety.

Gordon, obeying the wild-fowler's first instinct, swiftly slipped in

fresh shells, then turned to his companion, his eyes bright with the

triumph of the hunter, his whole bearing alert, eager, confident.

"Well," he queried briefly, "what do you think?--Look out, there they

come again!"

A second flock, larger than the first, was bearing down upon them.

Just in time to escape detection, Gordon sank into the box. Again the

birds swung, again Gordon rose, and again two ducks fell dead to the

quick right and left of the little sixteen-gage.

Twenty minutes passed. Fainter and fainter grew the light, until the

sun sank low behind the pines, and the laughing blue and white waves

turned sullen and gray. Together they left the blind, and, walking

along the beach, Gordon began to gather up his spoils. Poor little

wild ducks, there they lay, rising and falling as the tiny waves

splashed gently against the shore, as if vainly seeking to rouse them

once more to flight. No, they would never fly again; quietly enough

they lay there, their bright, glossy feathers stained with a faint

crimson, their wild, bright eyes closed in death.

With a swift revulsion of feeling the girl knelt over a mallard duck

and drake, the little brown mate by some trick of fate, with her dusky

head lying across the neck of her bright-plumed lord. "Oh, the poor

darlings!" she cried pitifully. "Oh, Dick, we can't wish them alive

again."

Gordon stood silent. The faint afterglow still hung in the fading

west, but elsewhere all was dark. A star or two shone far up in the

blue. The wind, erstwhile such a jolly companion, seemed graver now,

as it moaned through the swaying tops of the dark pines. Suddenly the

world became a solemn place, sad, unfriendly, vast. Gordon's face set

hard as he looked at the kneeling girl and the two little dead wild

ducks. "No," he said, with a world of meaning in his tone; "no, we

can't wish them alive again," and together they turned toward home.

CHAPTER VI

COUNTRY COUSINS

The breakfast room, flooded with October sunshine, was such a pleasant

place that Palmer, leisurely glancing through the columns of the

morning paper, deliberately lingered as long as possible over his

toast and eggs. Finally he laid the paper aside, slowly poured out a

second cup of coffee, and with an expression of good-humored

resignation glanced across the table at his secretary.

"Well, Morton," he said pleasantly, "let's have it. What have you got

to bother me with to-day?"

The secretary smiled deferentially, as it behooves one to smile when

one is earnestly desirous of keeping an easy, gentlemanly position,

with little work and good pay.

"There's really very little this morning, Mr. Palmer," he answered.

"There were the usual number of begging letters, which I answered in

the usual form; a notice of the annual meeting of the polo club; one

or two dinner invitations; a letter from Mr. Gordon asking you out to

his shooting-box, and the check from the racing club for first money

in the Essex."

Palmer chuckled. The winning of the Essex had been one of the

never-to-be-forgotten incidents of his life. "Gad, Morton," he cried,

"we hit it that time, didn't we? I can see the mare coming under the

wire now. Traveling! I'll bet she was traveling! By rights I ought to

make the check over to her. She deserves it, if any one ever did.

Well, there's nothing very exciting in that mail outside of the check,

is there? Nothing immediate, anyway."

Morton smiled faintly. The last three words embodied Palmer's whole

philosophy of enjoying life to the best advantage. To live calmly,

without haste; to know what was coming in time to enjoy it in

anticipation; to be able to put off unpleasant tasks until the latest

possible moment--that was Palmer's creed. Some men, nervous and high

strung, when the final moment of life itself has to be faced, pray for

a sudden death. To Palmer, that would have appeared highly

undesirable. Rather, he would infinitely have preferred to have the

whole matter indefinitely postponed. So the secretary smiled.

"No," he said, "nothing really immediate, except Mr. Gordon's note.

Shall I read it?"

"If you please," answered Palmer indolently, and the secretary read in

his even, pleasant voice,

"My Dear Harry:

"Do you recall that you were going to put in a day's shooting with me

this fall? I write to tell you that the ducks are just on their

flight. I killed over forty in two hours' shooting one day last week,

over half of them redheads. Can't you meet me at my office at three

to-morrow, and run out for the night?

"Your sincere friend,

"Richard Gordon."

Palmer set down his cup of coffee untasted. "By Jove!" he exclaimed,

"that's really very decent of Gordon. I didn't know the ducks were

flying like that. Yes, Morton, telephone him I'll go with pleasure.

And, Morton, get Smith to pack my shooting things, and look over my

gun, and put in about two hundred shells, number six shot. Yes, by

gad, I'll go."

Deep down in his heart, although he would not have admitted it, and

indeed was perhaps hardly aware of it, Palmer had an immense

admiration for Gordon, doubtless based on the fact that Gordon did

those things best which Palmer himself would most have liked to do

well. Palmer's game of bridge was mediocre. Gordon's was masterly.

Palmer played a passable game of golf, sometimes brilliant, always

dangerously erratic. Gordon's steadiness had won him a rating among

the first dozen on the state handicap list. Palmer could always bring

home a fair bag of ducks, shooting being perhaps his greatest

enthusiasm, but Gordon's clean right and left kills were little short

of wonderful in their precision. Of course, as regarded popularity,

Palmer had by far the greater number of hangers-on, retainers,

satellites,--friends, he chose to call them--for when a genuine

multimillionaire turns out to be a lavish spender as well, the

combination furnishes unusual opportunities to those wise in their

generation, and yet somehow the men whose friendship Palmer would most

have liked, while always civil to him, never seemed to treat him in

just the same way they did Gordon.

Thus the prospect of a day at Gordon's shooting-box, sure of good

shooting and a pleasant time generally, startled him a little out of

his usual calm, and three o'clock found him at the door of Gordon's

modest office. Gordon came forward to meet him, his face troubled, a

telegram in his hand.

"Confound it, Harry," he cried, as he shook hands, "I'm afraid I've

done an awfully stupid thing. About a month ago I got a letter from an

old lady up country, one of my mother's oldest friends,--awfully good

to me when I was a boy, and all that--saying that she and her daughter

were going to run down here for a little trip some time this month. Of

course I wrote back, as in duty bound, and told her that I should be

out at the shooting-box then, and that she must surely let me

entertain her there. I never gave the matter a second thought, and

here I've just got a telegram--delayed, of course,--saying they're due

in town about half-past two, and will come right over to the office. I

suppose they'll be here any minute. I'm infernally sorry. I never

meant to let you in for anything like this."

Palmer made a not over successful attempt to conceal his

disappointment. "Well, never mind, Gordon," he said reluctantly.

"Can't be helped, of course. Better luck another time."

Gordon crumpled the telegram in his hand, and threw it into the

waste-basket. "Confound it all!" he cried; "I wouldn't care so much if

it wasn't right in the middle of the flight, but this is the very top

of the season for redheads and widgeon. The wind's been fresh to the

westward all day, too, and now it's just starting to haul out to the

north. If it holds there, I'll bet we could kill twenty-five to-night,

and God knows how many to-morrow morning at daylight. I don't want you

to do anything you don't want to, Harry, but I wish you'd come along

just the same. You needn't see anything of them, and, anyway, they're

not a half bad sort. The little girl gave promise of being quite a

good looker the last time I saw her, three or four years back. I

really think you'd better come along just the same, and not mind them

at all."

Palmer looked uncomfortable. "Oh, thanks, no," he said, somewhat

hastily. "Country cousins, you know, and all that. Not much in my

line, I'm afraid."

Gordon laughed. "Well, I don't blame you," he said, "only I feel

ashamed of myself to have mixed things up so. I can't help the--"

A knock on the door interrupted him, and the office boy appeared. "Two

ladies to see you, Mr. Gordon," he announced, and close upon his heels

an elderly lady, clad in sober black, came bustling into the room. Her

plain, spectacled face fairly beamed with pleasure as she advanced

toward Gordon, both hands outstretched in greeting.

"Well, Dick, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "I am glad to see you again.

And how well you're looking."

Gordon took her outstretched hands, and shook them cordially. "The

same to you, Aunt Dora," he cried; "I declare you've positively grown

younger. And where's Marian?"

Mrs. Francis turned toward the door. "Why, she's here," she answered,

"I expect I got ahead of her, I was so anxious to set eyes on you

again. Here she is now."

Gordon could hardly repress a start of surprise as he glanced up at

the girl standing hesitatingly in the doorway. A prettier picture, he

thought quickly, he had never seen. Possibly the simple white muslin

dress, with its band of crimson at waist and throat, spoke a little of

the country girl on her holiday visit to the city, and the girl was

evidently a trifle shy and embarrassed, but these small defects only

added to the general impression of freshness and charm. Evidently,

too, her shyness was not the shyness of gaucherie, but of becoming

modesty, and as she raised her blue eyes at Gordon's greeting there

was a sparkle in them eloquent of plenty of spirit and humor to be

disclosed on closer acquaintance.

"Why, Marian," he exclaimed, "I'd never have known you! You oughtn't

to surprise a man like this. I'll swear you were wearing short dresses

the last time I saw you."

The girl blushed and laughed. "Don't be silly, Dick," she protested.

"Three years is a long time, and we're awfully glad to see you again."

Gordon turned quickly to Palmer, who stood staring at the girl with a

surprise evidently greater than Gordon's own. "Where are my manners?"

he cried. "Aunt Dora, my friend Mr. Palmer. Marian, Mr. Palmer. Harry,

my oldest friend, Mrs. Francis, and her daughter, Miss Marian Francis.

I call Mrs. Francis my aunt principally because she isn't. I was just

trying to persuade Palmer to go with us on our little trip, Aunt Dora,

but he's obdurate. I wish you would try your hand."

The older woman turned to Palmer with much cordiality. "Why, I wish he

would," she cried. "Please do, Mr. Palmer. Dick will be bored to death

anyway with two women on his hands to entertain. We'll look after the

housekeeping, and you men can have all the shooting you want. I'll

guarantee one thing, too. I can cook a duck with any woman in the

county."

Gordon nodded in vigorous assent. "I'll back that up, Palmer," he

cried. "Leaving out of consideration all question of the pleasure of

Aunt Dora's society, her cooking is an inducement no sane man ought to

think of refusing. I believe you'll go, after all."

Palmer wavered. The "country cousins," one of them especially, were

far from being the curios he had imagined. And the thought of the

shooting--he could see in imagination the long lines of ducks fighting

their way up the lake against the stiff northerly breeze, swinging to

the decoys, with set wings--and yet he hesitated--

"Come, Marian," cried Gordon gaily, "try your hand. Apparently Aunt

Dora and I have failed. We've promised him plenty of good shooting and

plenty of good cooking. What can you offer to make him change his

mind?"

The girl blushed charmingly, but her eyes, nevertheless, met Palmer's

squarely. "You see," she murmured demurely, "I don't really know Mr.

Palmer's tastes."

Gordon roared. "But you'll do anything you can," he cried broadly.

"Well, that's fair. There's a challenge direct, Harry. Do you dare

refuse now?"

Palmer's face reddened a trifle. His eyes had scarcely left the girl.

"Go?" he cried, "of course I'll go. I was only afraid I might be in

the way, but since the ladies are so kind--"

Gordon clapped him on the back. "Good boy," he cried, "and now we

mustn't lose any time. Just a half minute till I leave word where I'm

going."

He pressed a button, and almost immediately the office boy appeared.

"Oh, John," he began, and then caught sight of a yellow envelope in

the boy's hand. "What's that you've got there?" he asked sharply.

"Telegram for you, sir," answered the boy promptly. "Just came this

minute."

Gordon caught the envelope from the boy's hand, and hastily tore it

open. Then, as he read it, his face clouded with vexation. "Well, if

this isn't too bad," he cried, "I never knew such luck. Here's a

telegram from the one man in the world I can't afford to offend. The

biggest customer I've got. Says he reaches town at five and wants half

an hour kept absolutely free for business of great importance. I guess

that means there's no getting out of it for me. It's too bad, though;

I hate to see our plans spoiled like this."

Mrs. Francis was the first to speak. "Why, Dick, what nonsense!" she

exclaimed. "We know the way perfectly well. It was only three years

ago Marian and I were there, and I don't believe things have changed a

great deal since then. We'll go ahead and get everything ready, and

you can come out on a later train. That's a great deal better than our

staying here or going to a hotel, isn't it, Marian?"

The girl, thus appealed to, glanced quickly at Palmer. "I think you

forget, mother," she said quietly, "that we ought to consult Mr.

Palmer. He may not care to escort us out there without Dick, and I'm

very sure I wouldn't care to go through those woods alone."

Palmer rose gallantly to the occasion. "Not care to?" he cried.

"Indeed, I shall be honored, Miss Francis. We'll show Gordon here how

well we can get along without him, and I'll have all the shooting to

myself. Go? Of course we'll go!"

Gordon turned to him gratefully. "You're awfully good to take it this

way, all of you," he said, "and I'll surely be out a little after

eight. You'd better be starting, though. You haven't but just time.

Oh, and Aunt Dora," he called after them, "you don't change at

Fairview any longer the way we used to. Remember not to change.

Good-by. Good luck. I'll be there about eight."

As the door closed after them he dropped into a chair with a sigh of

relief. "Thank God that's over," he muttered, "so far, so good!"

CHAPTER VII

THE TRAP IS SPRUNG

The tickets secured, the baggage safely stowed away, Mrs. Francis and

Marian fitted out with papers and periodicals, Palmer began thoroughly

to enjoy his trip. Mrs. Francis insisted on a seat by herself, and an

uninterrupted chance to read the October _Bazaar_ and Palmer, in the

seat behind with Marian, inwardly blessed her literary taste. Not only

did the girl's obvious beauty attract him, but as their acquaintance

developed, he found her in every way a charming companion; as he

himself would more probably have expressed it, "A ripping fine girl."

Thus everything went well until Fairview was reached. Here Mrs.

Francis roused herself from her magazine, and turned around to Palmer.

"Didn't Dick say we changed at Fairview?" she demanded.

Palmer shook his head. "No, Mrs. Francis," he answered, "I think not.

I understood him to say that was just what we didn't do."

Mrs. Francis glanced around her apprehensively. "I was sure he said to

change," she replied, "I know we always used to change here. This

train waited five minutes for the connection. I'm going to ask the

conductor, to make sure."

Palmer started to rise, when the girl laid a detaining hand on his

arm. "Please don't bother," she whispered. "Mother's always like this

when she's traveling. It wouldn't do any good for you to go. She'll

have to find out for herself before she'll be satisfied. And I hate

being made conspicuous. So please don't trouble yourself, really."

Palmer perforce kept his seat, and they saw Mrs. Francis walk down the

car aisle, and then out on to the platform. The girl laughed.

"I can't cure her," she declared. "She's the best mother in the world,

but to travel with her is a nightmare. I've been going through this

all day yesterday and part of to-day, so I believe I'm getting a

little hardened to it."

Palmer smiled in sympathy. Then, suddenly, as the engine whistled and

the cars began to bump and grind, he started to his feet with an

exclamation of surprise. "By Jove," he cried, "isn't that your mother

coming out of the station? She'll get left, as sure as fate."

The girl glanced hastily from the car window. Sure enough, Mrs.

Francis, evidently determined to get her knowledge at first hand, had

ventured too far from the train, and had succeeded in getting left

behind. Even as they watched her, she began to run awkwardly, waving

her umbrella. Her mouth seemed to Palmer to frame the words, "Wait!

Stop!" and then, as their speed increased, they turned the curve, and

Fairview and Mrs. Francis were left behind together.

Fully expecting a burst of tears or a scene of some kind, Palmer

turned apprehensively to his companion. But to his surprise and to his

infinite relief, the girl, meeting his glance, suddenly burst into a

fit of uncontrollable laughter, and his own revulsion of feeling was

so great that involuntarily he joined in her mirth.

"Oh," cried the girl, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Palmer. I oughtn't to

laugh, but the humorous side of this awful trip was too much for me. A

friend of my mother's was going to escort us yesterday, and he was

taken sick at the last moment and couldn't come. Then Dick got that

telegram, and now my mother's lost the train. It's like the rhyme of

the ten little nigger boys. I wonder which of us will drop out next.

Please promise you won't desert me without warning."

Her blue eyes sought Palmer's frankly and innocently enough, and yet

with just a trace of coquetry. Palmer leaned a little toward her. "I

promise," he said, "if you won't run away, I won't."

The girl laughed delightedly. "It's a bargain," she cried. "I think

it's really fun. Thank goodness, I have the key to the house. Mother

will get the next train with Dick, I suppose, and we can have

everything ready for them. We'll have a fair division of labor. You

will have to carry all the luggage and row me over to the island, and

then you can have your shooting for a reward, and I'll cook the

supper. Is that fair?"

"That's fair," acquiesced Palmer. "At least, it sounds fair. But how

do I know how good a cook you are."

"Well, I like that!" exclaimed the girl. "And how do I know whether

you can row a boat or not? We've got to take each other on trust, as

near as I can see."

Palmer laughed. He found his little adventure much to his liking, and

more and more, as the train rattled on, he found himself yielding to

the spell of the girl's charm.

Down from the little station through the woods to the lake she piloted

him, and he made good the first part of the bargain as he rowed the

little boat across, in the teeth of a stiff northerly breeze, in a

style as good as Gordon's own. Once arrived at the house, she showed

him the way to the point, and a few moments later, Palmer, gun in

hand, was striding down the path.

Left alone, a curious change came over the girl. The laughter faded

from her face, leaving it white and drawn, and she half fell, half

threw herself into the big easy chair in front of the fire which

Palmer had set blazing.

"God, what a strain," she muttered to herself. "All right so far,

though, if I don't break down and spoil everything. But he oughtn't to

have asked me to do it. It's too much for any one. Now let me think--"

For ten minutes she sat motionless. Then, with a sigh, she rose

somewhat unsteadily to her feet, and busied herself about the room.

Comfortably near the fire she placed the round table, and set it

tastefully for four. Then for a time she was busy in the tiny kitchen.

Finally, returning to the living-room to find it almost in darkness,

she struck a match to light the lamp, and, as she did so, a sudden

gust of wind from the half open door blew it out in her hands. She

stepped to the window and looked out, and then stopped short, struck

with the unexpected change that had taken place in the whole aspect of

things.

The sun scarcely shone, and the big gray-black clouds were piling up

ominously overhead. Below, a strange murky glow spread far out on

either hand. The wind drove down the lake in sudden warning gusts.

Flock after flock of ducks came hurtling down from the northward

before the gale. She heard the crack of Palmer's gun, and with a start

she came suddenly to herself. She laughed half defiantly.

"I believe he's right, after all," she murmured. "Everything is

chance, and for once it's on our side. Half an hour more, and they

couldn't get across, and we couldn't get back. Nothing could be

better. We won't need to use any of the second strings now."

With a glance at the progress of the supper, she relit the lamp and

stepped into one of the little bedrooms. "Altogether too pale," she

frowned, as she glanced in the mirror. "But that's easily remedied. He

isn't the observant kind, evidently." From the closet she took down an

evening gown of black velvet, glancing somewhat dubiously at the low

neck and short sleeves.

"It's a question, even now," she muttered thoughtfully. "He may think

it's a queer rig for a country girl, and get wise, but I don't really

think so. It's worth the risk, anyway. Men are such fools. It seems a

shame."

Half an hour more and darkness had fallen over the island. Outside the

northeaster roared in rising wrath. Within the fire blazed cheerily,

and the soft lamplight cast a pleasant charm over the cozy room.

Suddenly her heart beat quicker as she heard Palmer's footsteps. An

instant, and he entered, buffeted and beaten by the gale, staggering

under a load of ducks.

"Well, what do you think of this?" he cried. "Ducks! No end of 'em.

Gordon missed the time of his life. But what do you think about it?

They can't get across to us, can they?"

The girl shook her head. "No, not possibly," she answered, "and what's

worse, we can't get across to them."

Just for a moment Palmer looked grave. Then he laughed boisterously.

"Well, this is a go!" he cried; "I never thought I'd come to play

Robinson Crusoe. I suppose we must just make the best of it. How about

that supper? By Jove, you look as if you'd been working."

The girl laughed, glancing down at the blue checked apron that

enveloped her from head to foot. "Supper," she echoed, "the

sportsman's first thought. Well, it's all right excepting the ducks; I

have them prepared, and I'll give you exactly eleven minutes to get

ready in. That was Dick's last word on cooking them. Eleven minutes,

provided the oven was right, and I believe it's perfect."

She deftly cleared the table of the two useless places, slipped the

much talked of ducks into the oven, and brought two bottles of

champagne from the ice box. At the end of the allotted time Palmer

appeared, and the girl placed the smoking meal on the table. Then she

glanced at him, smiling.

"I know you don't want to eat with the cook, do you?" she asked, and

before he could protest she deftly threw off the concealing apron, and

stood before him in all the glory of womanhood, a 'delicate flush in

her cheeks, her eyes bright, the low cut, somber gown setting off to

perfection the rounded whiteness of her neck and arms. Palmer, in

admiration, gazed at her until with a laugh she broke the spell.

"I wanted to surprise Dick," she said simply. "He's always making fun

of me for living in the country, and I thought I'd show him I knew

something about dressmaking, anyway. Do you like it?"

"Like it?" the young man exclaimed fervently. "Like it? Why, by Jove,

I should say I did. You're simply ripping, you know. You're--"

Words failed him, and by way of relieving his feelings he began a

savage onslaught on the ducks.

As the supper progressed, better and better grew his humor. Everything

was delicious, and his third glass of champagne found him gazing at

the dainty figure opposite through a mellow haze of sentimental

content, until, finally, when she rose and held the match for his

cigar, he somehow found the little hand which hung so invitingly at

her side, and held it close until she gently withdrew it.

"You mustn't," she whispered, with heightened color. "Won't you please

fix the fire? It's half out."

He rose reluctantly to obey, and in that instant she poured the

contents of a tiny phial into his glass. Then, as he turned again

towards her, his face flushed, his eyes gleaming, his throat working

convulsively, she raised her own glass in laughing challenge. "One

more," she cried daringly: "To our better acquaintance!"

Palmer touched his glass to hers and drained it at a gulp. "To our

better acquaintance," he echoed thickly, and, putting down the glass,

he came unsteadily toward her, and, before she could move, had seized

her in his arms.

The girl struggled faintly. "Oh, don't," she cried piteously, as she

strove to free herself from his grasp; "please don't, Mr. Palmer! Let

me go!" But her strength was as nothing compared to his, and with all

her seeming shrinking, one would have said that her lithe form clung

even more closely to his.

Suddenly Palmer released her, raising both hands quickly to his head

as he staggered back. "God," he cried, in a strange, choked voice,

"it's all dark! I can't see!"

Then, with a last conscious effort, he reeled towards the window and

fell heavily face downwards on the cushioned seat.

CHAPTER VIII

GORDON PREVENTS A SCANDAL.

"Exactly," said Gordon. "Yes, I understand. I trust I shall be equally

so. In about fifteen minutes, you think. All right. Good-by."

With a smile he hung up the receiver, and turned again to his work.

Ten minutes more, and Harrington, his confidential clerk, entered, a

puzzled expression on his face. He bent over the desk and spoke a few

words to Gordon in a low tone. Gordon nodded.

"Certainly," he said, "show him in. And, Harrington," he added, "I'm

not to be disturbed until I ring; not by any one, you understand. If

Rogers should telephone, I'm out of town but expected back any minute,

and I'll ring him up as soon as I get in. Remember, I'm not to be

disturbed for any reason whatsoever, unless I should ring. All right,

now. Ask him to step in."

The clerk nodded and withdrew, and Gordon, rising, stood waiting

by the window, outwardly calm, inwardly exerting every atom of

self-control to keep down his rising excitement, as the crucial moment

in the game drew near. Even as he listened, a hurried step sounded in

the corridor without, and Palmer burst into the room, flinging the

door to behind him as if to shut out some threatened pursuit. His

unshaven face was pale and haggard, his eyes bloodshot and wild, his

clothing awry, his whole demeanor as unlike that of his every-day,

placid self as could by any possibility be imagined. His eyes sought

Gordon's face, half in relief, half in fear.

"I've come straight here," he cried hoarsely. "I thought I might have

missed you if you'd gone to the island. Gordon, there's the very devil

to pay. Have you heard what's happened?"

Gordon, his face set and hard, nodded silently. He motioned to a

chair, and seated himself at his desk, his voice, when he spoke,

sounding low and constrained.

"Yes, I've heard," he said; "I was just starting for the island when

Mrs. Francis got me on the 'phone. Poor woman, she's half out of her

mind." He paused, and then his seeming emotion mastered him, sweeping

away in an instant his effort at self-control.

"For God's sake, Palmer," he cried aloud, his eyes fixed on the

other's face, "how did you come to do it? I can't believe it yet. You!

A man of your position! My guest! Great heavens, Palmer, it can't be

true! Tell me the whole thing's a lie."

The younger man sat silent with head bowed and eyes fixed on the

ground; his hands clenched, his body drawn back as if to avert a blow.

Once, twice, he tried to speak, swallowing with difficulty and

moistening his dry lips with his tongue. Then unwillingly he raised

his eyes to Gordon's face.

"It's true enough," he muttered thickly; "I've been a fool, that's

all, and now I suppose there'll be the deuce to pay. Wine and women,

damn them both! they've got me into trouble enough before this, but

this time I guess they've just about done for me."

Gordon's lip curled contemptuously. "Oh, so you're the one to be

pitied," he said at length with slow irony. "Really, Harry, I'll admit

that that's the last view of the matter I expected you to take. Why,

don't you realize, man, what you've done? Things may be bad enough for

you, of course; probably they will be; but can't you think for a

minute of that poor girl. What's your trouble compared to hers?"

A tinge of red showed in Palmer's pale face. "Of course I'm sorry for

her," he said sulkily. "It was hell coming back from the island. I'm

terribly ashamed of myself, and all that, and I'll do anything I can

to square things with her. But I can't help thinking about what's

going to happen to me, just the same. We've all got to look out for

ourselves first. That's human nature."

Gordon gazed at him from half-shut eyes. "Yes," he admitted, "that's

human nature, I suppose, beyond a doubt." He paused a moment, and then

continued: "Very well, then, if it suits you better, we'll eliminate

the girl altogether, and look at things just from your end of it. I

suppose the first point is whether the thing becomes known or not. If

it does, I imagine there's no question that it will hurt you

tremendously. In society in general, it surely will. In your clubs I

don't know that it would make so much difference."

Palmer threw back his head with a gesture of uncontrollable agitation.

"Damn all that part of it," he cried angrily; "that isn't what I mind.

It's what May's going to do if she hears about it. I can't have her

know, Gordon; she's the best girl that ever lived, and she's devilish

particular about such things. She'd break our engagement in a minute,

just as sure as fate, if she knew."

Gordon nodded. "I imagine she would," he said drily. "When you come to

think of it, Harry, it is rather a difficult thing for you to explain

to her satisfactorily. A man just engaged to one of the most eligible

girls in town; supposedly swearing all the usual vows of eternal

constancy, and all that; and then, a week or so later, taking

deliberate advantage of an unexpected opportunity, and ruining a young

girl placed in his care by a friend who had every belief that the man

was in all reality the gentleman he seemed. If it comes to that,

Harry, and we're to consider anybody's position in the matter except

poor Marian's, just think of mine for a moment, and what I'm to say to

Mrs. Francis. The dear woman blames me, and in a sense she's perfectly

right. I vouched for you, Harry, as my friend and guest, and this is

what you thought was due me in return. It's a terrible thing you've

done; terrible for Marian, terrible for yourself, terrible for all of

us."

Palmer sat with head bowed, shoulders drooping, eyes fixed on the

ground, the embodiment of despair. "I admit it," he cried; "I couldn't

have done a worse job for everybody concerned if I'd tried. But that's

all done with. Now, I want to know what's going to happen next."

Gordon, his hands clasped about his knee, his forehead wrinkled

doubtfully, gave himself up to reflection.

"Well," he said at length, "of course it's already occurred to you

that some moralists would insist that you marry the girl."

Palmer started nervously. "I know it," he cried; "but it's impossible,

Gordon. I couldn't do it. The girl herself wouldn't want that. No girl

would."

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know about that," he

answered. "I imagine some girls, the ambitious, designing kind, would

jump at the chance. Still, fortunately for you, Marian, of course, is

a girl of a very different type. No, as a matter of fact, I don't

think, in all candor, she ever wants to set eyes on you again. I

suppose you can rest easy on that score."

Palmer glanced up with the first signs of hopefulness on his haggard

face. "Then why can't the thing be hushed up?" he asked eagerly. "Why

isn't that the best way out of it for every one?"

In spite of the gravity of the occasion, the faintest suggestion of a

smile played around Gordon's mouth. "That's human nature," he quoted

ironically. "It's best for you, and so it must be best for everybody

else. The reasoning's no good, of course, but I'm not sure, though,

but what in this case it does happen to work out so. I've been trying

to think it over fairly, and consider your position as well as

Marian's and her mother's. I suppose, from Marian's point of view,

there's nothing to be gained by publicity. The girl's life is

practically ruined, Harry; she's completely crushed by what has

happened, and I don't think she's got spirit or ambition enough left

to wish to make trouble for any one."

Palmer nodded eagerly. "I'm mighty glad she takes it so sensibly," he

cried. "I don't see, then, why everything can't be hushed up. I'm

certainly willing to do anything at all to make things right."

Gordon shook his head doubtfully. "It isn't as simple a matter as you

think, Harry," he said. "I dare say everything could be smoothed over

if you had only Marian to reckon with, but you forget her mother. You

might not guess it, to see them around together, for Mrs. Francis

isn't what you'd call a demonstrative woman, but Marian is the very

apple of her eye. She fairly worships the ground the girl treads on,

and she's nearly out of her mind with grief. I don't want to worry you

unnecessarily, Harry; things are bad enough already; but I suppose

it's only right to tell you that she was going to see Miss Sinclair

this morning, and I had a pretty bad half hour before I managed to

dissuade her. Even at that, I imagine it's only a temporary respite.

Sooner or later she's bound to go to Miss Sinclair with the whole

story, and, to be frank, I don't suppose we can blame her for a

minute."

Palmer groaned. "Oh, God!" he cried, throwing back his head as if in

physical torture; "what a fool, what an utter fool I've been! Here's

my whole life, my whole happiness ruined, and all for the sake of an

evening's cursed pleasure. Gordon, get me out of this damnable mess

somehow, and I'll do anything in God's world for you; anything you

ask; anything you want."

Gordon shook his head again. "I wouldn't talk that way, Harry," he

said more kindly. "You're losing your grip on yourself. There's

nothing you could do for me, and if there was, I'd never take

advantage of a time like this to try to get you to do it. I hope I'm

not that kind of a friend. No, it's a bad outlook, Harry. There's no

getting away from that."

He paused a moment, then added doubtfully:

"There's just one possibility I can think of, but it's one I hardly

like even to suggest."

Palmer glanced up quickly. "What is it, Gordon?" he cried. "For

Heaven's sake, don't torture me! If there's any possible way out, tell

me what it is."

Gordon hesitated. "Well," he said reluctantly, "I don't like to

speak of money even indirectly in connection with an affair of this

kind, because it has a sort of savor of blackmail about it. But I

think--mind you, I don't know--I think I know why Mrs. Francis is so

terribly wrought up over the whole affair. It's like this with her.

Her husband, when he died, left her in charge of a big farm that she's

been trying to run herself, I imagine without much success. I guess

the place is mortgaged up to the handle; she hasn't been able to sell,

and it leaves her practically tied down to her work there. You know

what a country neighborhood is; a pretty narrow circle of interests,

and consequently a perfect hotbed of gossip. Now, I think the real

dread she's got is that somehow this story may leak out, and that she

and Marian will be disgraced and looked down upon for the rest of

their lives. That's what I gathered, anyway, from the talk I had with

her this morning, and I'd hazard a guess that if a purchaser for the

farm could somehow be found, and she could be left free to leave home

for good and start life over again for Marian, away out west

somewhere, she might be made to listen to reason. I may be all wrong,

though, and, as I say, it's with the greatest hesitation that I speak

of it at all, because it involves money, and I suppose quite a

considerable sum--seventy-five to a hundred thousand dollars, I should

say off-hand--so perhaps, after all, we'd do better to let her go

ahead and see Miss Sinclair. I dare say Miss Sinclair would take this

better than you imagine, anyway. She doubtless understands a man's

nature."

Palmer laughed mirthlessly. "Understand!" he cried; "Heavens! You

don't know her, Gordon. Her mind's as pure as snow. Why, if she knew

this, she'd end everything in a minute. No, we've got to keep Mrs.

Francis away. That's all there is to it. I'll buy her farm, or a dozen

farms, if she's got them, if she'll agree to keep quiet. But if she

says she will, can I trust her, Gordon?"

Gordon nodded assent. "Absolutely," he answered. "If she agrees to

anything at all, she'll stick to what she says. You needn't worry

about that. She's the soul of honor."

Palmer rose abruptly. "I must get back home," he said, more in his

usual manner. "I look like the very devil. Ring her up, Gordon, and

have her come down here and get the thing settled up, that's a good

fellow. I'm half wrong in my head myself over the thing. Get it

settled right, Gordon, and I'll never forget it." He hesitated a

moment, and then continued awkwardly. "And I'm devilish sorry, Gordon;

I really am. And I wish you'd tell the girl so when you see her. I

hope you won't lay this up against me. I never meant to do it, and I

never would have done it if I hadn't lost my head altogether. I'm

sorry. That's all I can say."

Gordon held out his hand. "Harry," he said, "you've done an awful

thing, but God forbid that one man should sit in judgment on another.

A higher power than ourselves must do that. As far as I'm concerned, I

forgive you the wrong you've done, and I'll do all in my power to help

you."

Palmer eagerly took the proffered hand. "Gordon, you're a brick!" he

said gratefully. "I wish to God I were half as good a chap as you

are." And, turning on his heel, he left the office.

CHAPTER IX

PALMER HAS A VISITOR

Eight--nine--ten--eleven-- The little clock on the mantel chimed the

hour musically and significantly, and Palmer jumped quickly to his

feet, pulling out his watch as he did so for confirmation. Then, with

a laugh and a shake of his head, he thrust it back into his pocket

again.

"No use, May," he said; "I've lost track of an hour somewhere, and it

doesn't seem to be the clock's fault. I suppose I'll have to blame you

instead."

May Sinclair smiled. "I find, Harry," she said slowly, "that being

engaged makes awfully irresponsible creatures of us. You wouldn't

think that it would change people who ought to have arrived at years

of discretion so that they act and talk and feel in a way their common

sense tells them is ridiculous, and yet a way so pleasant that they

wouldn't have it different if they could. I find my most settled

tastes, habits, plans, everything, all completely changed. And I

guess, Harry, you find it a good deal the same way, too."

She had risen as she spoke, and stood beside him, slender, delicate,

womanly, altogether charming. With no assumption of coquetry, she laid

a detaining hand on his arm, and raised her brown eyes wistfully to

his.

"I don't want you to go yet," she whispered. "You can stay till

half-past eleven, Harry. Honestly, I'm not a bit tired to-night."

Palmer stooped and kissed her. "Mustn't try to tempt me, May," he

answered, "after you've got doctor's orders to take things easy and

have plenty of rest. If you'd only give up your beloved settlement

work, then it would be a different thing altogether. You wait till

we're married, and I'll make you give it up, whether or no. You'll

find I'm enough to reform, without your having to bother your head

with those bums from the slums. Gad, May, how's that? One of these

regular eppy--what-you-may-call-'ems--Bums from the slums; really,

now, I call that rather clever."

The girl shook with laughter. "Oh, Harry, Harry," she cried, "your

sense of humor will certainly kill me some day. It's so very--well,

obvious--to say the least. But--" and she drew closer to him--"I love

you, dear, in spite of it."

Palmer slipped his arm around the girl's slender waist, and kissed her

again and again. "You don't know, May," he whispered, "what it means

to me to hear you say that. It makes me feel awfully proud, and yet at

the same time, you know, it makes me feel awfully ashamed of myself,

too. I never ought to have dared to ask you to marry me in the first

place, May. That's the whole trouble. You're a million times too good

for me. Sometimes, you know, I get to thinking lately I'm a deuced

poor sort of a chap, after all."

The girl laid a protesting finger on his lips. "Stop!" she commanded;

"I can find fault with you all I please, but I'm the only one. You're

not to say a word against yourself, because I won't let you. I

wouldn't want you to be any different, my dear, in any possible

way--if only you wouldn't make fun of the settlement. That really

makes me discouraged, Harry."

Palmer raised his right hand. "I solemnly swear," he cried, with mock

seriousness, "that if it bothers you, May, I'll never make fun of it

again. Only--and I'm really in earnest about this--I always have

believed that there's trouble enough coming every one's way before

they've finished the game to keep them busy, and yet here you

deliberately go out hunting for it. That's what I can't get through my

head."

The girl in her turn grew suddenly grave. "Oh, but Harry," she

protested, "we don't have any real troubles, you and I. If you could

know some of the things we come across there at the settlement. Just

think, last night I heard about the little O'Brien girl, the

brightest, prettiest little thing in the whole club; she isn't a day

over seventeen, and some brute of a man got her to go off with him in

an automobile, and there was wine, of course, and now--now the poor

thing's in trouble. Just think of it, Harry. You can't imagine the

temptation and all that part of it for girls that haven't good homes.

And most men are such beasts. Oh, I've thanked God, Harry, more times

than you've ever guessed, that I'm to marry a man that's big and

strong and clean and honest. I'm so proud of you, Harry, you don't

know how proud."

Fortunately for both, the dim light masked the expression on Palmer's

face, and the girl did not mark the sudden spasm of pain that

contracted it. Somewhat hastily, it seemed to her, he stooped and

kissed her again.

"I'm a brute myself," he said with a faint attempt at humor, "keeping

you up till almost midnight. To-morrow night, dear. No, don't come

down. Good-night, May, good-night."

Once outside the Sinclairs' home, Palmer strode away down the

street, for the first time in his life, perhaps, in an agony of

self-abasement. Up to now, his fears and worries had been purely

selfish ones. He had done something of which he was ashamed, and in

which he did not wish to be found out, and in spite of the payment of

hush money and solemn protestations of secrecy in return, he had felt

that he was treading on the edge of a slumbering volcano. Now,

however, May Sinclair's parting words had for once awakened his

dormant moral sense, and he flushed hotly at the thought that the

kisses he had given the pure girl who believed him all that was true

had been but a short twenty-four hours before lavished in a mad burst

of passion upon another.

With all his faults, Palmer was kind. Horses and dogs were his

friends. Small children, oftentimes to his great embarrassment, made

much over him. Kind--and weak, he was never cast to play the villain

in life's drama; betrayals of friendship, premeditated deception, even

injury to the feelings of another, none of these things was natural to

him, and his love for May Sinclair, all unknown to him, was working

and striving to rouse the finer sense sleeping within him far beneath

the crust of ignorance and selfishness and sloth.

Thus, in repentant, self-contemptuous mood, he reached the entrance of

his big house on the avenue, and in moody silence unlocked the door

and entered the quiet hall. At once, to his surprise, a silent figure

came forward to meet him, and, peering through the half-light, he

recognized the figure of his secretary.

"Hullo, Morton," he exclaimed in surprise, "what's the trouble now?"

The secretary advanced with an air of caution. "There's a young woman

waiting in the reception-room to see you, sir," he said in a low tone.

"She's been here since ten o'clock, and she seems to be an uncommonly

determined sort of person. In fact, she was too much for me,

altogether. I couldn't get rid of her. She insists she's got to see

you."

Palmer frowned, possibly with well-merited apprehension, for a girl to

see him might mean any one of half-a-dozen disagreeable alternatives.

With a sigh he drew back the portiere and entered, closing the door

after him as he did so.

The girl who rose to meet him was fashionably, even expensively gowned

in a closely fitting black walking dress, cunningly designed to

display to the best advantage the obvious attractions of her figure.

Her face was so heavily veiled that her features were hardly to be

distinguished, but to Palmer's relief, she was evidently an utter

stranger to him. The lateness of the hour and the fact that she was

alone did not seem to disturb her self-possession in the least; in

fact, she even seemed faintly amused at Palmer's scrutiny.

"No," she said, as if in answer to his unspoken question, "you don't

know me, Mr. Palmer. I don't think you've ever laid eyes on me

before."

Palmer bowed courteously. "Then you will pardon me for saying that

this is a rather unusual time for a visit," he rejoined. "Perhaps I

may venture to ask your name and business."

The girl, without waiting for Palmer's invitation to do so, had

resumed her seat. "You certainly may," she answered. "You're really

very good not to throw me out through the window. I suppose I deserve

it. My name is Annie Holton; my profession perhaps you can guess

without my shocking you; my special business with you is that I've

tumbled to something that ought to interest you a lot."

Palmer looked at her with the closest scrutiny. "Perhaps," he

suggested, "if this is very important, you could call at ten o'clock

to-morrow morning. I shall be at leisure then."

The girl laughed. "You probably think I'm crazy, or else that I'm an

anarchist or something like that," she rejoined good-humoredly. "I'm

sure I don't blame you a bit. But I'm neither one nor the other, and I

can assure you I wouldn't be here at this hour if it wasn't worth

it--for both of us, I hope. In the first place, I know about the

little difficulty you're in."

Palmer shook his head. "I'm afraid there's some mistake," he said

blandly. "You'll excuse me for reminding you--"

The girl cut him short with an impatient gesture. "Don't bluff!" she

cried. "You ought to be able to see I'm no fool. I'm giving this to

you straight, and you might as well go straight with me, too. I know

half the story, to start with, and there's another quarter that's not

very hard to guess, and you can fill in what's left, if you feel like

it. Does that sound right?"

Palmer frowned. To him it sounded as if the pledge of secrecy had been

violated almost as soon as made. "All right," he rejoined resignedly,

"fire away!"

The girl hesitated a moment, then began, speaking slowly and with

care.

"Well, here's the story," she said. "There's a man that you know named

Gordon, who seems to be a pretty smooth proposition. He's been doing

the Jekyll and Hyde act for two or three years now, and nobody's ever

got on to him so far. Now, for some reason that I don't know, he's got

it in for you, and puts up a game on you. It's all done very smooth,

indeed. Two women--same profession as myself--are worked into it, one

to play Miss Innocence, 'Her golden hair was hanging down her back,'

part, you know, and the other to be the loving mother. Then there's--"

Palmer raised a protesting hand. "You can stop right there," he cried.

"This is nothing but foolishness, and waste of time. I don't know

who's been telling you all this rot, or what his object was, but one

thing I do know, and that is that you've been most completely taken

in. The only thing you've happened to get right is that I know a man

named Gordon, and it also happens that he's one of the best friends

I've got in the world. So any stories you're bringing me about him are

just waste of breath."

The girl gave an impatient little sigh. "My dear Mr. Palmer," she

said, "there's no use in our going on at cross purposes like this. I

tell you once more I'm not easy to fool. I've seen my bit of the

world, and I wouldn't be here wasting my time and yours if I didn't

know what I was about. I don't ask much. Just give me five minutes to

tell my story without interruption, and then, if you don't believe it,

I'll go like a lamb, and leave you to be buncoed in peace, if you

really enjoy that sort of thing. Isn't that fair?"

Palmer leaned back in his chair with an air of resignation, pulling

out his watch as he did so. "Pardon my rudeness," he said ironically.

"I'm unfortunate enough to be feeling a little tired. You may have

your five minutes, free from interruption, and then I fear we shall

have to say good night."

The girl nodded. "Thanks," she said briefly, "that's all I wanted. And

I guess I won't waste any time, either. Now, as I was telling you,

this Gordon is a pretty smooth kind of a guy. He goes into this thing

right, from the breakaway. Stage setting, lights turned down, soft

music, the whole show. Now, the play is to get you compromised with

this girl, and then bleed you for all they think you'll stand for, so

they get you off on an island somewhere alone with this girl--I don't

know if it's really an island, or whether that's just a name they've

got for it. Gordon's out there now, I believe; but, anyway, they get

you there alone with the girl. Well, I suppose there's no need to go

into details. I take it, though, that there's some play with knockout

drops, or something of the sort. That's only a guess, though; you know

what happened better than I do. Anyway, the point is that between them

they got you dead to rights, and now they've started to bleed you.

What they want, or how much they've got you for, I don't know, but it

must be good and plenty, because the woman who played the smallest

part of all flashes a roll as big as your arm, and, if a super gets

that, what do the star and the leading lady get? I don't know, but I

guess you do, all right.

"Now, they're two things more. One, how do I know all this? Because

the woman who did the loving mother is a friend of mine, and she gets

full up at my house last night, and tells me the whole yarn, or mostly

the whole of it; enough so I can see you're being done for fair. Two,

why do I come to you about it, instead of holding them up for money?

Because I hate Gordon and his crowd, and I want to see you get back at

them, and because if you can make them give back what they've stuck

you for, it's worth your while to pay me well for putting you on.

That's business, isn't it? There, I guess that covers it, and I guess

I'm within my five minutes. So what do you say now? Is it 'Good

night,' or is it 'Won't you stay a little longer'? Is it go or stay?"

Palmer's air of bored indifference had long since vanished. Now he sat

silent, motionless, while the ticking of the clock was the only sound

to be heard in the room. A minute passed, two, three. Then, with a

quick intake of his breath, he leaned forward in his chair.

"It's stay," he said.

CHAPTER X

THE CRISIS

The sun still hung an hour high above the horizon. No faintest breath

of wind was stirring, and the tall pines along the island's shore

stood mirrored in the broad lake's placid calm. The wildfowl, true to

their custom, were bedded in huge flocks far out towards the center of

the lake, and what few ducks there were stirring, kept for the most

part warily out of range of the point.

Gordon sat in the blind alone, and for so keen a sportsman the poor

shooting seemed to trouble him but little. On the contrary, his

thoughts, which were of the pleasantest, had strayed far away from

ducks and duck-shooting. He had played a difficult and a dangerous

game, and had played it boldly and well. Rose and Mrs. Holton had

acted their parts to perfection, and Palmer had behaved exactly as

they had hoped he would. Gordon permitted himself a quiet smile of

self-satisfaction. That was true enjoyment, after all. The ability to

handle one's fellow-men; to humor them, to learn their weaknesses, and

then to turn these weaknesses to one's own account; in that there was

true satisfaction, in that there was the feeling of getting something

really worth while from the game of life. So much for the past, and

now for the future a hundred questions lay waiting to be solved. The

problem as to whether a partner would be desirable, the best and

quickest way of finding the right mine, the advertising campaign, the

gaining of the public confidence, surely there were many things to be

thought of yet, before the victory should be won.

At last, as the sun sank lower still, the folly of waiting any longer

for the wildfowl to fly became apparent, and Gordon, rousing himself,

was already beginning to gather up the decoys, when he caught sight of

one of the little rowing skiffs putting out from the mainland. An

instant feeling of uneasiness crept over him. "That's queer," he

muttered to himself. "Vanulm isn't due till to-morrow, and he wouldn't

be rowing at that rate, anyway. I wonder who it can be."

The boat was certainly approaching at high speed, the long furrowed

wake stretching away behind, and a little curl of white foam showing

under her bow. As she passed out of sight around the easterly point of

the island, Gordon gave a sudden start of surprise. "By God," he

muttered, "it looks like Palmer. I wonder what's gone wrong now."

He had not long to wait for his answer. Five minutes passed, and then

down the path, walking rapidly, came striding a man now easily

recognizable as Palmer. Straight on he came, and Gordon, as he watched

him, felt his heart suddenly begin to beat loud and fast.

Palmer's face was flushed to a dull, angry red, his eyes were glaring,

his upper lip was drawn upwards from his teeth, and his whole face was

working convulsively. He was still some distance away when he began to

speak, his voice pitched high in an ecstasy of rage.

"Damn you, Gordon!" he shouted, shaking his clenched fist. "You dirty

blackguard! You blackmailer! You canting hypocrite! I've got you to

rights now, you skulking hound!"

He laughed a strained, unnatural laugh as he paused a few feet away,

fairly trembling with excitement. Then he went on: "You smooth, dirty

villain. You pretty nearly did for me, didn't you? But, by heavens,

I've got you where I want you now. I've blocked your pretty little

game. It's state's prison for you, you and your precious gang."

Gordon stood staring at him, while an expression of utter amazement

came over his face. "Harry," he cried, "what do you mean? What are you

talking about? Are you going crazy, or am I?"

Palmer laughed sneeringly. "Good," he cried; "she told me you'd try to

bluff it out somehow." Then, with sudden change of tone, he added

fiercely, "Drop it, Gordon. It's no use. Don't be a fool. I tell you

the thing's up. Did you ever hear of a girl named Annie Holton?"

An instant change came over Gordon's face, followed quickly by a look

almost of relief. "Know Annie Holton," he cried. "I should say I had

reason to. The most unprincipled woman on earth, and one who hates me

as much as one human being can hate another. What lies has she been

telling you, Harry?"

He spoke frankly and fearlessly, and for the first time an expression

of doubt came over Palmer's face, but he did not hesitate.

"No lies," he exclaimed, "but a lot more truth than you'll care to

have known, I'll warrant. I know now that those charming relations of

yours were women of the street, got up for the occasion. I ruined a

young girl, did I?" He roared and shook with unwholesome laughter. "I

was made a fool of by one of your mistresses. I was--"

Gordon took a quick step forward, his eyes blazing with wrath.

"Stop it!" he cried sharply, and his voice rang with the tone of

absolute command. "Another word, and I'll kill you in your tracks. I

won't stand it, Palmer. I won't take such talk from you or from any

man living. You're either drunk or crazy, man. You're out of your

mind."

Palmer hesitated, cowed in spite of himself. "I don't believe you," he

said sulkily. "And you've got to come back with me now and face the

music. If I've slandered you or any one else, I'll make it right, and

if I haven't--" his voice rose again, "I'll make you pay the piper for

the fun you've had."

He stopped abruptly, and for a moment both men stood silent. Gordon

was thinking hard and fast. The game was up; that much was obvious.

Rose had been right. One little slip, she had said from the first,

would ruin everything, and now, just as it all seemed safe and sure,

just as the game was all but won, that slip had come. Somehow Annie

Holton had got the story from her mother, and had gone straight to

Palmer with it. The mischief was done, unless--

Mechanically, as one does the most trivial things in the moments of

greatest strain, he went on putting away the decoys. Suddenly he

straightened up, and looked Palmer squarely in the face. "Harry," he

said more quietly, "this whole thing is an awful mistake from

beginning to end, but we certainly won't make things any better by

standing here quarreling. I won't say one word in criticism of your

action in coming on to a man's private property as you've done, and

using the language you've used to me, for I can understand the

provocation you think you're laboring under. On the contrary, I'll go

back with you with all the pleasure in the world. All I want is to

have you bring that Holton woman before us, and have her dare repeat a

word of that story. That's all I ask. But in the meantime, Harry,

remember we've been friends a long time, and let's both try to act a

little more like gentlemen, at any rate."

The unnatural flush had slowly receded from Palmer's face, leaving him

deathly pale. Evidently the strain upon him had been terrific. He

nodded shortly. "All right," he said, his voice sounding hard and

unnatural, "that's fair enough. But back to town we go to-night. I

can't stand this much longer. I've lived through hell to-day. So it's

back to town to-night. Is that understood?"

Gordon nodded. "Certainly," he assented readily. Then with apparent

irrelevance, he added, "How did you know where to find me? Ring up the

office?"

Palmer stared at him sullenly. "I don't see what difference that

makes," he said; "but if you want to know, your friend the Holton girl

told me."

"Ah, yes," said Gordon, "that was it, of course. I might have thought.

Stupid of me."

Slowly they walked along toward the house, until suddenly, near the

little cluster of pines, Gordon stopped. "Look here, Palmer," he

cried, "I don't want to ask favors of you when you're naturally

impatient and worked up over this thing, but on the other hand, my

conscience is clear, and half an hour more or less won't make any

difference, anyway. The last two nights there's been a big flock of

Canada geese trading by the point here, and I'm keen to get a crack at

them. In fact, that was what I came over for to-night. If it isn't too

trivial at such a time, do you mind letting me try them?"

Palmer hesitated, and Gordon hastened to add, "Unless, of course,

you're anxious to get to the station earlier for any other reason. I

suppose, though, you left word at your office or your home where you'd

gone, so that you don't really care particularly when you do get

back."

Palmer shook his head. "No, I didn't," he answered. "This thing broke

me all up, Gordon, and I posted right out here to see you. If you

really want to try the geese, go ahead. I suppose it won't make any

difference as to the train, anyway."

"No," Gordon assented; "that's true. There's no train we can get for

two hours yet. A worse little branch road, I suppose, was never run

anywhere. That station agent's going to get fired one of these fine

days. He's never at the station when I come out."

"He wasn't there to-day," growled Palmer. "You've got the damnedest,

out-of-the-way place to get to I ever saw. Your ducks aren't worth

your trouble."

They had reached the edge of the little grove as Palmer finished

speaking. Gordon's whole bearing seemed to have changed entirely. His

eye was watchful, his step alert, as he snapped the sixteen-gage open

and quietly slipped in a couple of shells. "We'll only wait a few

minutes," he said. "Sometimes they come straight from the north. Would

you mind looking out that way?"

Palmer obeyed, staring moodily out across the placid surface of the

water. The sun had set, and in the faint, gathering dusk the brooding

silence of the lake had about it something sinister, unearthly,

threatening. Man, and his petty passions, his childish hopes and

fears, seemed somehow strangely dwarfed into utter insignificance in

the midst of nature's impassive, inscrutable calm. Involuntarily

Palmer shivered.

"I'm afraid it's too late for them, Gordon," he said slowly. "I don't

really believe--"

The sentence was left unfinished. With a motion quick as thought,

Gordon threw the sixteen-gage to his shoulder, pressed the barrel to

Palmer's back just below the left shoulder blade, and pressed the

trigger.

At the muffled report the murdered man's arms flew out and up as if

grasping for support, his head twitched back sharply, and like a log

he fell. A horrible choking sound issued from his distorted lips, his

body twitched convulsively once or twice, and he lay still, his head

twisted to one side, the bared teeth grinning upward from the mouth

contorted into the ghostly semblance of a smile.

Mechanically Gordon leaned his gun against a tree; then looked

fearfully about him. Still, calm, motionless, the lake lay before him.

No wind stirred the pines. The silence was the silence of death. A

sickening faintness crept over him. He stifled an impulse to shout for

help, and set his teeth sharply together. "God!" he muttered, "God!"

Then, with averted face, he picked up the ghastly, inert thing that

had been Harry Palmer, and, staggering with it to the very edge of the

quicksand, cast it from him with all his strength. A moment, and it

had disappeared from sight.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE FIRELIGHT

Before the fire in the big library May Sinclair sat gazing into the

leaping flames, the book she had taken from its shelf lying unopened

in her lap, her thoughts far away. Pleasant, indeed, must have been

the land through which they were journeying, for a smile played about

her lips, and the little sigh that escaped her as she nestled more

closely in the big arm-chair was but of content.

"Everything in the world," so ran her thoughts, "everything to make a

girl happy." Her bluff, soldierly father, masterful enough with

others, but tenderness itself to her; her mother, kind, loving,

watchful, ever apprehensive lest some harm might befall her; her home;

her friends; her work at the settlement; her wealth, prized not for

itself, but for the use she could make of it for others; last of

all--and she smiled at her own self-deceit, knowing that she had

purposely kept it to the last that she might be free to dream on and

on without interruption--last of all, her lover and the thought of

their wedding-day, now distant but one short month.

The clock struck nine. Momentarily she wondered what might be keeping

him, and then the spell of the future, insistent, not to be denied,

drew her on and on, and again she was lost in fancy's realm. She could

picture the wedding ceremony in the big church on the avenue, and at

the thought of the ordeal she shivered a little, half in pleasure and

half in fear. Then the honeymoon--and here she gave a sigh of utter

rapture--for with all her dreams of working and doing for others, she

was but human. To think of it! Six months abroad! England, France,

Italy, Switzerland, and all with Harry alone to herself. To think of

it; and she blushed and laughed as she found herself wishing that the

month would hasten swiftly by. Then the return, to find herself

mistress of Harry's mansion, hostess to all of his friends, sole ruler

over all the vast domain of housewifery. So much they had to do! How

could they find time for it all, for it was not to be all

entertainment and fun? She must keep on with her reading and her

studying, and she must make Harry more interested in such things, so

that they could feel that they were doing everything together. Then

there was the settlement work. Her clubs and classes--those must be

kept up--for of what use were learning and culture and refinement if

they could not in some manner be used for those less favored by

fortune than herself? Here was the only real difference of opinion

between them. Strive as she would, she could not manage to interest

Harry in her cases at the Settlement House. He would escort her there,

and call for her again, but to get him inside the door, for that even

her skill would not suffice. That, however, would doubtless be somehow

arranged. There could be no disagreement between people who loved each

other as she and Harry did. What a busy life they were going to have.

And then, some day, she supposed, she hoped, and her pure heart leaped

with joy at the thought, there would be babies to love and care for,--

she closed her eyes and for one rapt instant strove to pierce the

veil, to gaze upon the deep, strong, mighty current of life, flowing

steadily, swiftly, resistlessly--who knew whither? Face to face in

that one tense moment she looked upon all the mystery of existence,

the Sphinx's riddle, the problem of the ages, huge, illimitable,

vast,--birth, life, death, so real and yet so unreal, actualities and

yet but fancies, and only fixed and certain Fate, God, Eternity--

She gasped suddenly for breath and opened her eyes with a little start

of fear. The clock on the mantel struck ten. With a quick gesture of

disappointment she rose. "I'm sure he said to-night," she murmured,

"well, he'll explain about it to-morrow." Then she snatched Palmer's

picture from its place and pressed it to her lips. "Life is so

beautiful, dear," she whispered softly, "and all because I love you

and you love me."

Over across the city, far away to the northeast, on a quiet side

street near Bradfield's was Annie Holton's tiny flat. To find its

occupant at home at nine o'clock in the evening was a rare occurrence,

but on this particular night, for perhaps the first time in a

fortnight, she had not gone to Bradfield's, but sat alone in front of

the fire, whose leaping flames furnished the only light in the little

room.

She, too, was busy with her thoughts. It was not often that a thing as

big as this came her way. Sheer luck it had been from the first. A

suspicion that her mother had been a little over eager in urging her

to go on the motor trip with the warm hearted western millionaire, a

suspicion confirmed on her return by a chance word incautiously let

fall; then her unlooked-for good fortune in getting the old woman

gloriously drunk, and finally the startling discovery of the whole

story, and her instant visit to Harry Palmer. With him, too, it had

been touch and go. What if she had not been able to persuade him to

listen; what if she had failed to convince him of the truth of her

story? Gordon's game had been a good one. In spite of her desire for

revenge, she felt a fierce admiration for his cleverness; just that

one flaw, the picking of Mrs. Holton for one of his helpers, risking

the taking on of a woman once notorious as a drunkard, and still given

to occasional lapses. That one fact had meant Gordon's defeat and her

own salvation.

[Illustration: Rose]

The struggle between her old infatuation for Gordon, and her hatred of

Rose Ashton had been bitter, but brief. Hatred had triumphed, and yet

to-night her exultation meant regret as well. The thought of holding

Rose in her power made her clench her shapely hands, and brought a

tigerish gleam to her bold black eyes, and still the afterthought

would come that it was Gordon, after all, who would suffer most.

Gordon was the one man she had ever cared the snap of her fingers for,

and to harm him--and yet, since she had had the bitterness of seeing

him desert her for Rose, there was a fierce pleasure in knowing that

she would be sending him where she would never again know the agony of

seeing him under the spell of the girl she loathed with all her heart.

And her own future? Five thousand dollars. What could she not do with

that? First, clothes, of course. She would be the best dressed woman

at Bradfield's. Jewels, too. And a little laid up for a rainy day, for

Annie Holton was level-headed, and saw with grim philosophy the fate

of the poor, tawdry, painted things of the street, who served to point

the moral, when youth and good looks have fled.

"I'm lucky," she cried aloud challengingly, "I'm one of the lucky

ones. I'm--"

She broke off sharply with a little cry of disgust. "You fool," she

said, in a very different tone, a tone of the bitterest self-contempt,

"you poor, weak fool! You know you're miserable. You know everything's

a sham. You know your life isn't worth sixpence to you. And all

because you're such a fool, with a dozen men crazy after you, you

can't be satisfied because you can't have the one you want."

The clock chimed the hour of ten. For a moment she sat silent, and

then slowly nodded her head. "It oughtn't to be so," she said with

conviction, "but it's the truth, just the same. A woman can get along

if the man she's stuck on is stuck on her--and if he isn't, she's

better dead."

In the parlor of her pretty little home on Dalton Street Rose Ashton

was pacing restlessly to and fro. Finally, with a sigh of weariness,

she flung herself down on the sofa, and lay quiet, gazing into the

dying embers with wide-open, unseeing eyes.

Wave after wave, a flood of bitter, remorseful thoughts swept over

her. What a weak thing, she mused, a woman is, after all. "To know the

right and still the wrong pursue," she quoted to herself. "That's what

I'm doing now, and that's what I've done for a year. Perhaps, before

that, I wasn't to blame, but since I met Dick it's all been so

different. Now I know, and yet three times in a year I've lowered

myself to depths of which no decent woman would even dream. And

perhaps I've got more shame before me still. And yet I do it--hating

it, protesting, drawing back, almost refusing,--and then doing it,

because he tells me to. I might as well be honest. I've damned myself

for a man who's using me to help himself, and I've done it just on the

hope that he's going to be honest with me and do what he's promised.

I've done it because I'm weak, I've done it because I couldn't help

myself, I've done it--because I'm a woman."

She sat silently watching the last embers die. The clock in the square

boomed the hour of ten. With a sigh of utter weariness she rose.

"Life for a woman," she murmured, "is safe--monotonous, perhaps, but

safe--until the man comes along. And then, the old life and all its

memories are gone for ever in the twinkling of an eye, and the woman's

true life begins. And perhaps, after all, the old life was the better,

for the new may be Heaven--and it may be hell."

CHAPTER XII

THE FINAL OBSTACLE

Mechanically Gordon rowed across to the darkening shore; mechanically

he traveled the path to the road, and followed the road to the

station; mechanically he boarded the train and sat quietly in his

seat, to all outward appearances calm and indifferent, until the city

lights gleamed a welcome through the dark, and the train clanked and

bumped its way over the drawbridge, and passed from the silence of the

night into the bustle and roar of the noisy, smoky station.

Outwardly composed, but his brain was all the while in a turmoil, so

that some thought for which he was seeking would not come to his mind,

but seemed constantly to keep just beyond his grasp. Far back in his

brain a ghastly, haunting something still lurked and mocked him, and

yet, seated there in the train, filled with its freight of every-day

prosaic passengers, the stout conductor roaring the indistinguishable

names of the numberless little way-stations, that terrible quarter of

an hour on the island seemed fantastic, unreal, impossible of truth.

He waited almost expectantly, thinking every moment to awaken as if

from a nightmare, to feel some friend's hand laid upon his shoulder

and to start suddenly back to life again; perchance even to see Palmer

himself enter the train, and to tell him, laughing, of the curious

dream.

Palmer! He pulled himself together sharply. This was no time to let

his brain play him such tricks as these. Now, when he needed every

atom of good judgment and cool daring at his command. Palmer

himself--God! Somewhere back on the deserted island, sucked down and

down into the depths of the earth, was that mangled, grinning,

wide-eyed thing that had been careless, irresponsible Harry Palmer,

across whose limited vision real thoughts of life--and death--had

scarcely so much as passed.

With a sudden intense effort he tore his mind free from its clinging

fancies. For good or ill--the meeting on the island had been real. For

good or ill--the murder was done. And now, what next? How best to

carry through the game, begun selfishly, recklessly perhaps, but with

no plot or even thought of bodily harm to any one, and now, almost at

its ending, grown suddenly desperate and black with tragedy.

Annie Holton--he wished now that he had been more deliberate, and had

asked Palmer more questions--first. And yet, in doing that, there

might have been greater danger still; suspicion might have been more

keenly aroused, and even as it was, the situation, indeed, seemed

tolerably clear. Somehow, the girl had managed to get the story from

her mother, and had gone straight to Palmer with it. Would she have

told any one else? Obviously not. It was to her interest only to

possess and to impart the information to Palmer. And now Palmer was

out of the way--and Annie Holton was left. So much for to-night,

but to-morrow--ah, that was the thought that had been eluding

him--tomorrow she would know of Palmer's disappearance, and she was

the only person in the world who knew that when Palmer had left the

city he was bound for the island. The deduction was only too obvious.

Not alone his fortunes and his liberty, but his life itself, hung in

this girl's power. To-night then, at any cost, he must see her; and

to-night, somewhere, somehow, her silence must be assured.

Somehow--ah, it was just there that the problem lay. By what means,

then, could he gain his end? His old relations with her, once so

tenderly intimate, so fraught with reckless passion, could he once

more recall the past, and make it live again? No, scarcely that. After

deserting her for Rose, and after her betrayal of his secret; hardly,

it seemed, could the breach between them be healed. And even if it

were possible, there again would be Rose to reckon with. Unconsciously

he frowned and shook his head. No, the way out did not lie there.

What else, then? Money? The promise of that she must already have had,

and, indeed, if the question came to be one of money, if that were

all, though he might beggar himself to his last cent, still all that

Palmer's friends would have to do would be to double or treble any

offer that he himself might make.

No, there was no hope there The game was going badly. The cards lay

all against him, unless--unless--

A feeling of repulsion, almost of physical nausea, crept over him--and

yet, must he give up thus early in the struggle, for lack of courage

and nerve? Because somehow he shrank--because, somehow, in spite of

all, he pitied the lips that had known his kisses. A curse on the

whole wild venture. Was there then no way out? No way but _that?_ Yes,

one other way, indeed, there was, but only one. And which of the two

to choose. Logic, clear, straightforward thought and argument, led but

one way; and now it was plain to him that that was the way he must

take. And then, in spite of him, again that ghastly memory would come;

and, life and logic contending, life and logic inevitably at odds, the

issue once more was blurred. Not _that_. Whatever else, no more of

that.

Thus, over and over, his thoughts, ranging in a circle, seeking an

outlet where no outlet lay, swung back at last, repulsed at every

turn, to the same starting point. For once baffled, perplexed,

uncertain, now firmly resolute, now tremblingly terrified, now wholly

despairing, he sat in his seat and railed, first at Fate, then at

himself, then at the other pawns that moved hither and thither across

the board--blindly perhaps--perhaps directed by the Master's hand.

Thus he sat and pondered, until the train, with a grinding and jarring

of brakes, came to its final stop, and threading his way in and out

among the alighting passengers, he left the station and mingled with

the crowds that thronged the street.

For a little distance, quickly and surely he made his way, and then,

all at once, amid the familiar scenes, the light and the noise and the

bustle of the crowd, for just a moment of time the tense strain on

body and mind relaxed, and on the instant, like a flood, the

inevitable reaction swept over him. Suddenly, without warning, he

found himself gasping for breath; something tightened, like a band of

iron, about his throat; his knees trembled under him; and shudder

after shudder shook him from head to foot. Deathly faint and sick, he

clutched at a near-by railing for support, and for a moment or two

that seemed age-long, stood helpless, powerless, until the attack to

some extent had passed, and, shaken, weak and exhausted, he came

again to himself. Then, after a moment, with an intense effort at

self-control, he loosed his hold, and managed, dizzily enough, to make

his way into the first saloon that lay in his path. The pallor of the

face reflected in the mirror fairly startled him, and three times he

had to moisten his lips with his swelling tongue before he could order

the drink he craved. Once, twice, thrice he drained his glass before

his weakness passed, and then, in a flash, his heart began to pound,

and the life blood all at once seemed again to stream riotously into

every pulsing vein. It was not until a half hour later that he left

the saloon, and then the man who swung out again into the night was a

man with head held high, with steadied nerves of steel, and with a

brain again crystal clear--perchance too clear. Only one thing

now--one thing in the way--one thing to be done--and the entrance to

his life--his splendid, glorious, mighty life--would lie open before

him. No time now for other thoughts of what was past--past, it seemed,

long, long ages ago--now, at the instant, but one thing remained--only

one thing.

Along the familiar route he passed, now by the park, now along Fulton

Street, now through the sinister, deserted byways on the borderland of

the city, and now at last he neared the quiet side street, two blocks

away from Bradfield's, where Annie Holton lived in her tiny flat, a

street as unfrequented and inconspicuous as that on which the gambling

house itself was built. To his relief, for the last half dozen blocks

he had met no one, not even a casual pedestrian like himself. Perhaps

a trifle more inattentive and preoccupied than was his wont, he had

failed to notice, almost at his journey's end, that he had been an

object of interest to at least one person. For a young man, hidden in

the shadow of a doorway across the street, had watched him as he ran

quickly up the steps, and then, when he had disappeared, the watcher,

in the most casual way, had strolled to the corner, crossed over, and

taken up his stand in the doorway next to Annie Holton's home. And now

he stood there, quietly waiting.

Gordon ran quickly up the stairs, silently extinguished the flickering

gas jet in the hall, and knocked softly on the door. There was a

moment of suspense, then a faint noise from within, and in another

instant the door was opened, and Annie Holton, her light wrap drawn

closely around her, stood before him.

Dim as was the light within, it was far brighter than the darkness in

the hallway, so that for a moment the girl could hardly distinguish

the tall figure, muffled in the long overcoat, that stood without.

Then Gordon took a quick step forward. "Annie," he cried, and at the

sound of the well-known voice the girl gave a little cry, partly of

wonder, partly of fear.

"Dick," she gasped, and the blood seemed suddenly to leave her heart,

"what are you doing here?"

There was a moment's silence. Then, without speaking, Gordon crossed

the threshold, brushing the girl aside as he did so, and closed the

door quickly behind him.

It was not until long after midnight that the door again opened and

Gordon stepped out. Slowly, almost inch by inch, he came forth into

the darkness of the hall; slowly, hesitatingly, as if in deadly fear,

he crept down the flight of stairs that led to the street. In the

silence of the hallway, the quick, gasping intake of his breath could

be distinctly heard. His step faltered, and the hand that gripped the

railing of the stairs shook as if with palsy. Surely a strangely

altered man was Richard Gordon. Down the stairs he passed. Then, for a

long time he stood in front of the outer glass door, listening

anxiously for any sound or movement. Finally, as if summoning all that

was left of waning strength and resolution, he opened the door and

stepped forth into the street.

His hurried glance to right and left showed the way to be clear. Then

suddenly, half-way down the steps, his heart gave a quick leap of

fright, as the door of the adjoining house opened quietly and a young

man emerged. "Good night, Bill," he called gaily to some one within,

"see you to-morrow," and with a casual glance at Gordon, strolled off,

whistling, down the street.

Gordon drew a long breath of infinite relief. "God!" he muttered; and

then, with hands clenched, walking as if every step cost him infinite

effort, he left Annie Holton's flat, with all its many memories,

behind him for ever.

In the little room up-stairs, the firelight, slowly dying, fell softly

on the slender figure in the armchair, lying there peacefully,

quietly, as if in sleep.

PART II

THE GAME

CHAPTER I

AN AMBITION IS ATTAINED

To the press, the total and unexplained disappearance of a well-known

millionaire and young man about town came as a golden opportunity, and

flaring head-lines and extra editions followed close upon the heels of

the tragedy. Indeed, for several days in succession, the Palmer case

managed to hold the center of the stage. Theory after theory was

advanced by the police, by the private detectives called in on the

case, and by the papers themselves; and then, nothing transpiring to

clear up the mystery, the attention of the public was in turn

distracted by a railroad horror, a prize fight of national importance,

and the scandal caused by the head of the pork trust running away with

a chorus girl; and thus, before the excitement created by this

sequence of events, the Palmer case, save to a very few, ceased to be

an object of interest for all time.

Verily, the world moves rapidly these days, and human life--always

excepting one's own--is but cheaply esteemed. Men are plenty, and one

more or less--still, of course, always excepting one's self--what

difference does it make, anyway?

Overshadowed by the importance of the Palmer case, the violent death

of a woman of the underworld on an obscure street near Bradfield's

attracted little attention, and by the papers the affair was disposed

of in a few brief lines of the smallest type. Suicide seemed to be

favored as the cause of death, and despondency and weariness with life

the reason therefor.

That Gordon should be questioned both by Mrs. Holton and Rose was

inevitable. Not that Mrs. Holton, with hazy memories of talking too

freely while the wine had worked its spell upon her, altogether

regretted that Providence had seen fit to intervene, or that Rose,

after her work was done, was deeply concerned with Palmer's subsequent

fate, but to both, knowing the situation as they did, the sequence of

events seemed, though lacking the faintest shadow of proof, beyond all

question to implicate Gordon. To both he made the same answer. He

admitted that Palmer's disappearance, coming just at the time it did,

was a remarkable stroke of good fortune for all of them, but as to any

knowledge of it, outside of the theories advanced by the papers, he

blandly professed entire ignorance. That Annie Holton should have come

to her death on the night of the same day on which Palmer had

disappeared, he further acknowledged to be a most remarkable

coincidence, but so far as he could see, nothing more than that. And

with this they were fain to be content.

To Rose, indeed, the succeeding weeks brought a vague sense of

injustice and disappointment. Constantly Gordon had referred to the

getting of the money from Palmer as the turning point in their

fortunes; the first real step towards the culmination of their plans;

as marking the time when he should have leisure to be constantly at

her side; and now, so far from this being so, she found as the days

went by that she saw less of him even than before. Moreover, on the

rare occasions when he did dine with her at Bradfield's or call at her

rooms, he was preoccupied, inattentive, distraught, his mind only too

plainly upon other things.

And in truth, Gordon for a time had found himself more perplexed than

he would perhaps have cared to own. Even with sufficient capital, and

a practically certain knowledge of the future course of the metal

market, the problem still remained to him how best to make use

of his point of vantage. The first move in the game successfully

accomplished, the second was yet to be made.

At length, after long deliberation, he went to young Bob Randall,

floor broker for Parkman and Brooks. Randall's father, old Sam

Randall, the big cotton man, had just emerged victor from a desperate

fight with the Parker-Moorfield interests, the loudest bellowing and

highest tossing of all the great cotton bulls, in which battle,

besides the prestige gained, he was incidentally reported to have

cleaned up something over two millions on the sharp break in July

cotton. Young Bob, besides having money back of him, was one of those

gifted mortals who seem always able to carry others with them in

whatever they choose to undertake. With a national reputation as an

athlete while still at school, in college he had played end on the

football team, and then made the crew, both with the same ease with

which he had been chosen president of his class, and called out as

first man on the Alpha Chi. In addition, in his few leisure moments he

had worked enough, as he had himself expressed it, to "somehow get

by," so that at last, infinitely to his friends' surprise, and

somewhat to his own, he found himself, at the end of his four years,

entitled to his sheepskin, and perchance with somewhat mingled

feelings of regret for lost opportunities of learning, and of

satisfaction at more substantial and worldly-wise success, heard

himself, together with three hundred of his mates, welcomed by the

venerable president in his class-day address to "the fellowship of

educated men."

To young Randall, then, over the coffee and cigars in a private

dining-room at the Federal, Gordon broached the subject.

"Bob," he said abruptly, "do you want to make a barrel of money?"

Randall nodded. "Sure thing," he answered briefly. "How?"

Gordon did not at once reply, and when he did, it was to answer the

query with another.

"What do you know about coppers?" he asked.

"Soft," answered the younger man readily, "and going lower, too.

There's a big surplus supply of the metal stored somewhere, or at

least so everybody says."

Gordon leaned back in his chair, gazing at his companion from beneath

half-closed eyelids.

"Just one more question, Bob," he said; "don't think it's an

impertinence. About how much are you getting now?"

"Three thou," answered Randall promptly. "And now give me a turn. What

in the devil are you driving at, anyway?"

Gordon hesitated the veriest instant, as if choosing which course to

pursue. Then he answered, speaking with the utmost earnestness.

"Here's the story, Bob. I've got a great chance; the kind that only

comes once in a man's lifetime, and of course I'd be a fool if I

didn't want to make the most of it. It's perfectly true that coppers

are soft; it's perfectly true that they're going lower, but that

there's any accumulation of the metal I know to be absolutely false.

And more than that: I can almost name the precise day when there's

going to be launched the biggest copper boom this country's ever seen.

A boom that's going to last, barring the absolutely unforeseen, for

several years, and that's going to provide the speculative opportunity

of the century. Now my proposition is just this: Leave Parkman and

Brooks at once; get your father to advance you a hundred thousand

dollars, and then start in partnership with me. I'll put in a like

amount, and this information, which I'll absolutely guarantee, against

your ability to bring your father and some of his crowd in as

customers, to say nothing of your own following among the younger set.

Nothing succeeds like success. We'll do well by our customers, and

incidentally we'll make our own reputations and our fortunes beside.

Bob, it's an absolute cinch, and I don't mind letting you know that I

started with a list of twenty men as possibilities, and eliminated one

after the other until you were left as the man I wanted for a partner.

Now, what do you say?"

Randall had allowed his cigar to go out, as he sat listening to

Gordon's words.

"It sounds good," he said at length, "but, Gordon, tell me one thing.

I know your reputation on the Exchange, of course, and I know you're a

bully good judge of the market, but the information you're giving me

is away out of the ordinary. I think you ought to be willing to tell

me where and how you got it."

Gordon smiled. "I can tell you where," he answered readily, "but not

how. Is this good enough for you?" and, leaning forward, he whispered

a name known the world over.

Randall started slightly, and then gave a low whistle of astonishment.

"The devil you say!" he exclaimed. "Well, you have struck it rich. I

didn't know you stood in with him."

Gordon smiled again. "It isn't a thing that's generally known," he

said softly, "and of course you realize I'm trusting a great deal to

your discretion in talking so freely, but I feel so sure you're not

going to let the chance slip, Bob, that I thought it was the best way

to let you know the whole situation and keep nothing back at all. Do

you feel reasonably satisfied now?"

Randall nodded. "I'll have to see the governor, first, of course," he

answered; "but I guess it will be all right. That's just the kind of

thing he rather likes, you know. I'll dine with you again day after

to-morrow, if you say so."

Thus it was that they met again two days later, to sit discussing.

plans and details far into the morning, and thus it was that a month

after, in their big new offices in the Equitable Building, with a

generous bank account, with the hearty backing of old Sam Randall, and

with every prospect of success, the stock brokerage firm of Gordon and

Randall was formally launched.