THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE
To Gordon, wearied and worn out in body and mind, the last few weeks
of the campaign passed like an evil dream. Always the steady stream of
callers, all more or less frankly with hand extended, not merely for
the clasp of friendship, but with palm upturned as well. Always the
same calculations with Doyle, based on the reports of their
subordinates in city, town and ward. Always the same disbursements,
some large, some small, but in number keeping at one steady high-water
mark. And always, when evening came, and Gordon would think longingly
of what one night of refreshing, uninterrupted sleep would mean to
him, there was the meeting or rally which positively could not be
missed, and Gordon, hating the sight of his big white automobile,
would climb reluctantly in, and be whirled away to some hazily
indefinite point on the map, to mount the platform and make his plea
for a fair show for the rank and file, for the curbing of the Combine,
and for an honest man--to wit, Richard Gordon--in the governor's
chair.
Among the many disbursements made, there was one series which filled
Doyle with wonder. In practically every case, Gordon, taking into
consideration the fact that he was in a field entirely new to him, had
handled the financial end of the campaign with extreme skill and good
judgment. Therefore, to Doyle it seemed inexplicable that one Thomas
Lynch, who had been appointed Gordon's representative in ward
twenty-six, should be able to come to Gordon seemingly with the most
outrageous demands, and yet, at the same time, in the vernacular, "get
away with them." Once, indeed, Doyle had ventured to suggest that ward
twenty-six was being treated in a manner far outweighing its political
importance, but Gordon had answered him in a manner not to be
mistaken, and Doyle, with an outward shrug of his shoulders, and much
inward speculation, had let Mr. Thomas Lynch and Gordon run matters in
twenty-six to suit themselves.
Three times in the last week of the campaign, in most unheard-of
places and at most unheard-of hours, Gordon met the man whose weak
eyes drove him to the wearing of blue goggles and to traveling in the
protection of a closed carriage. The conferences were not over-long,
and yet they seemed to be regarded as of importance by both of the
principals, and after each of them, and especially after the last of
the three, Gordon's spirits seemed better, and a certain well-known
man about town, who for many years had made a specialty of election
bets, in one day not only changed the odds from five to three on
Endicott to practically even money, but in addition, even at the
altered figures, with the greatest readiness covered everything in
sight.
And thus matters went until at length the final night before
election was reached. Gordon, in deference to time-honored custom, had
reserved the night for a whirlwind tour of the city's twenty-six
wards, but when the time arrived it found him for once under a
doctor's care--a doctor who did not mix in politics, and who gravely
recommended a month's rest, and an instant cessation from all work.
Smiling grimly, Gordon left the celebrated practitioner's office, and
went home to dose himself with brandy until, on the stroke of seven,
gaunt, hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under his eyes, he climbed
uncertainly into his place beside Doyle and started on the final
effort of the campaign. And somehow, for six solid hours, with the
platforms reeling under him, and the red fire dancing drunkenly before
his eyes, he managed to get through his evening's task; half
mechanically, indeed, and yet, served in good stead by his long
practice in speaking and in meeting voters, so well that not one man
in a hundred knew they were applauding a candidate who stood on the
brink of nervous and physical exhaustion, finishing his battle on
sheer nerve alone, game to the core, and ready to fight the people's
fight against corruption in high places as long as he could stand or
see. From the facts, however, the enterprising Doyle, weighing all the
chances, decided that good capital could be made, and, quoting to
himself with a grin his favorite phrase, "It has the additional merit
of being true," he divulged to the reporters the true state of
affairs, with the result that next morning the papers fairly teemed
with splendid head-lines. "Gallant Gordon," "A Fighting Candidate,"
"Democratic Candidate Risks Death in the People's Cause," were some of
them, and Doyle felt that for once, at least, the Ideal and the
Practical had been effectively united.
And Doyle, indeed, in that last threatening night, came nobly to the
front. To Gordon's benumbed brain, at many a critical moment, he
furnished the inspiration, and always the inspiration was a happy one.
Over in respectable ward ten, Gordon, finishing his plea for
righteousness, for decency, for common honesty, had come out into the
street to find his motor surrounded by a crowd of street urchins, all
anxious in due time to become politicians, and all beginning on solid
Democratic principles.
"That's Gordon," they chorused shrilly. "That's the guy." And then, in
the jargon of the day, surrounding the automobile, they fairly rent
the air with the insistent cry: "Well, what do you say?" "Well, what
do you say?" "Can't get elected if you don't scatter the coin." "What
do you say?"
The crowd, appreciating the incident to the full, paused. Gordon, not
knowing whether he was in ward ten or ward twenty-six, mechanically
was on the point of plunging his hand into his capacious, jingling
pockets, when Doyle clutched his arm. "For God's sake," he whispered,
"don't! Get up and tell the crowd you won't stand for such a thing.
Give it to 'em strong."
The suggestion was enough. Gordon nodded, and in an instant was on his
feet. "Gentlemen," he said quickly, "I have been telling you that
there is something wrong in our state to-day, and when those in
authority set the standards they do, what can you expect from the boys
who, twenty years from now, will stand in our places? It gives us food
for thought to see these boys, the products of our public schools, and
yet I think the blame is scarcely theirs. If elected, I pledge myself
to see that a course in the simple ethics of right and wrong in
respect to our government is included in future in the curriculum of
our schools, and for the present, let me say that, rather than give
one of these boys a cent of the money for which he asks, without, I
believe, fully realizing the enormity of which he is guilty, I will
suffer defeat, and suffer it gladly, at the polls to-morrow."
He resumed his seat amid a genuine burst of cheers. "By George," one
old conservative was heard to say to a friend, as the motor vanished
in a cloud of dust, "that fellow's got the right ring to what he says.
He means it, too, every word. I've voted the straight Republican
ticket for thirty years, but I'm hanged if I don't give this man a
vote tomorrow. I'd like to see what he'll do if he wins."
And so the evening passed. "Something to suit everybody," was Doyle's
motto; the reporters were well looked after, and Gordon preached
virtue in the tenth, eleventh and the kindred wards, and thence ran
down the entire scale, until, out in twenty-six, about two in the
morning, he used up the remnants of his voice in a fiery, scathing
indictment of the money power--a speech savoring in its radicalism of
sheer anarchy. Then, as Doyle got him back into the automobile,
outraged nature at last rebelled, and Gordon was got home and to bed
in a state bordering on collapse.
A long night's rest, a morning in bed, and the relief of having the
strain of the campaign off his mind, all, however, combined to work
wonders, and Gordon, choosing to watch the returns from a private
office opposite the huge bulletin in front of his own newspaper
office, by evening, attended only by Doyle and by his secretary,
Field, was able to come down-town in comparatively excellent
condition.
The street showed the usual election night scene: the crowds lining
the sidewalks in front of the bulletin boards, and overflowing into
the street itself; two rival brass bands engaging in a duel of sound;
and ever, high above the waiting crowds, the huge lantern throwing the
messages upon the glaring white of the screen.
Gordon drew a long breath. "Doyle," he said, "this is like the moment
in a race, just after the starter has sent you to your marks, and just
before he fires the pistol. Before the start you're all right, and the
second you're off you're all right, but the intervening instant is
hell."
Even as he spoke, the first returns were flashed upon the screen.
The little town of Freeport was the first to register its vote.
"Endicott--234; Gordon--139."
Gordon nodded approvingly, for Freeport had been stanch Republican
since the memory of man. "What was it last year, Doyle?" he asked.
Doyle ran his eye down the table of last year's vote. "Two hundred ten
Republican, eighty-four Democrat," he said quickly, "a good omen."
Quicker and quicker the returns came pouring in, almost faster than
they could be flashed across on to the screen. Doyle and Field bent to
their work, adding, comparing, calculating; Gordon stood silently
watching the bulletins, each bearing its message of good or evil
fortune. At length a little frown gathered upon his forehead; things
in the western part of the state were not going to suit him. Gains, to
be sure, he was making; in many instances, substantial gains; but as a
whole he did not seem to be repaid for the efforts he had made. Once
he turned disgustedly to Doyle. "The farmer," he observed, "is a
pretty conservative animal. A little of the pig about him, and a good
deal more of the cow."
Doyle grinned encouragingly. He had never deluded himself as to the
leanings of the west and northwest. "Wait for the cities," he said.
"They'll make up in five minutes for all you're losing in an hour
now."
A half hour more and his words were verified. First, River Falls, with
its huge mill population, went in a perfect landslide for Gordon;
Linton and Kingmouth followed suit, and by nine o'clock Gordon was
able to make the rough calculation that he had come into the capital
itself only some fifteen thousand votes behind. On the capital, then,
with its twenty-six wards and its vote of ninety thousand odd,
depended the result.
From the crowd below Audible comment came floating up to the little
group. "Win!" they heard one man shouting at the top of his voice, "of
course he'll win! He'll take the city by thirty thousand!" Then a howl
of protest, offers of huge sums of money, for the most part put
forward by men without a dollar to their names, on the result of the
city vote; finally a strident voice, repeating over and over again,
"He can't beat the Combine!" "He can't beat 'em." "He ain't got
nothing on Endicott through the city--not a vote!" Just for a second
Gordon's eye met Doyle's, and simultaneously they smiled.
Ten minutes passed, and then the first ward made return--ward ten, the
respectable. It went for Endicott, and by a fairly good margin, so
good, indeed, that the Republican sympathizers in the crowd raised a
little cheer. Fortunate, indeed, for them, that they did so while they
had a chance, for with the next bulletin the rout of the Republicans
and the signal defeat of the Combine began. Twenty-six came
strong--overwhelmingly strong--for Gordon; twenty-four hundred and
fifty-one to five hundred and twelve were the figures; then twenty,
the ever-faithful Republican stronghold, actually, for the first time
in its history, swung into the Democratic column by the narrowest of
margins, then thirteen, fourteen, six and eight went by large
majorities for Gordon, and, to complete the ruin already begun, the
famous Combine wards, eleven, two and twenty-five, made the weakest
showing to be imagined, somehow not even getting out their full vote,
and giving Endicott, just where he might well have expected to make
one last stand for victory, at the best nothing more than lukewarm,
half-hearted support. "Overconfidence," the spokesman of the Combine
said to the Press next day when interviewed; they had rated Gordon
altogether too lightly, and had paid the penalty. That was all. And
Gordon, carrying the city by rising twenty-five thousand votes, left
the little room for his home, governor-elect of the state by a
plurality of nearly ten thousand.
Doyle, with a hearty hand-shake, left him at his door. "'What we
want,'" he quoted, without the shadow of a smile, "'is an honest man
in the governor's chair.'"
Gordon, gazing with equal solemnity at his friend, for answer bared
his head. "It has been," he said simply, "the people's fight," and
then, for the greatest and most successful of us, after all, are only
human, the governor-to-be and his right-hand man burst forth
simultaneously into sudden, unlooked-for and most unseemly laughter.
And they laughed until they could laugh no more.
PART III
THE RECKONING
CHAPTER I
THE HAZARD OF THE DIE
Mrs. Holton doubtfully shook her head. "But he won't come," she said;
"you can't fool him that way, Tom. He's too clever a man."
Lynch's eyes narrowed a trifle. "Oh, don't think I'm forgetting that,"
he answered; "on the contrary, that's the very thing I'm taking most
pains to remember. It's the very fact that he is a clever man that's
going to bring him here, where a stupid man, for love or money,
wouldn't dare come on his life."
Mrs. Holton looked puzzled. "But I don't see--" she began.
Lynch leaned forward in his chair. "Look," he said abruptly. "Things
can't go on the way they're going now. Either we've got to do
something pretty quick, or else he will. That's the point. It's simple
enough, and yet, when you begin to follow things out, right away you
run into all sorts of complications. First of all, of course, he'd
like nothing better than to have us out of the way. There's no doubt
about that, is there?"
Mrs. Holton shivered. "No," she answered, in a low tone, "there isn't.
And yet, knowing him the way we do, isn't it strange he hasn't tried
before now?"
Lynch glanced at her keenly. "I've thought of that," he admitted.
"There hasn't been anything of the sort with you, has there? Nothing
melodramatic, like an automobile coming on you without warning, or a
brick falling off a house, or a thug holding you up in a dark
alleyway?"
The woman shook her head. "No," she said again, "and yet I've suffered
as much the last few weeks, just from the dread of what he might do,
almost as if he'd really tried. My nerve is pretty near gone, Tom."
Lynch nodded. "I know," he said briefly. "It isn't pleasant to feel
there's some one gunning for you. At first I thought myself he'd try
something of the kind, and of course he may yet, but I hardly think
so. That's one of the complications I spoke about, for him. It's a
good deal like one of these endless chains. It would probably be easy
enough for him to get us put out of the way, but, even at that, he'd
be no better off than before. There'd always be some one else to look
out for, and they might not be as reasonable as we've been, either.
No, I guess, on the whole, on that lay we're safe enough. If he ever
makes a try, it's going to be a different one from that."
Mrs. Holton turned a shade paler. "You mean--" she faltered.
Lynch gave an impatient little laugh. "Exactly," he answered. "If he
wants the job done, he'll do it himself. Try to do it himself, I
should say. That's a pleasanter way of putting it."
A sudden gleam of comprehension darted across the woman's face,
followed on the instant by an expression of abject fear. "God! Tom!"
she cried sharply. "That's why you think he'll come!"
Lynch nodded. "That's it," he agreed. "He knows what he wants; we know
what we want; it comes down to a question of who strikes first. With
this difference--" he paused purposely for a moment, then added, with
grim significance, "if we pull it off, it's successful blackmail; if
he pulls it off, it's successful--murder."
Mrs. Holton's face showed gray in the lamplight. "God!" she muttered
again.
There was a long pause. Then Lynch spoke again, half to his companion,
half to himself. "No," he said meditatively, "there's no getting
around it. In one way he's certainly got the best end of it. The thing
he wants most is to see us out of the way; the thing we want least is
to see anything happen to harm him. As I say, if we strike first, it
merely costs him money; but, if he strikes first, that's all there is
to it; we're done."
The woman, with an evident effort to pull herself together, drew a
long breath. "And so," she said, with sarcasm, "knowing all this,
you're going to try to get him down here, and give him the very chance
he wants."
Lynch smiled patiently. "Well," he admitted coolly, "that's one way of
putting it. But, on the other hand, you'll never catch a big fish with
a bare hook, and I'm putting on the bait that I think's most likely to
work. There are only three moves, really. First, the message that I'm
going to send him; second, the way he's going to figure out what it
means, and last, what's going to happen if we do get him down here."
Mrs. Holton nodded. "Well?" she said inquiringly.
"Well," repeated Lynch, "as far as the message goes, I simply send him
word that I'm sick; confined to my bed, and very weak; that I've got
no one here to look after me but you, and that I've got some political
news of the very greatest importance that I've got to let him know
about at once. Further, that if he can possibly arrange things to come
down here and see me, he'll be well repaid. 'Well repaid,' is good, I
think. And that's all there is to that."
The woman shook her head. "It's no use, Tom," she said, with
conviction. "Either he won't come, or he'll bring some one with him,
or he'll leave word where he's going in some such way that, if
anything should happen to him, we'd be sure to be found out. No, it's
no use."
Lynch smiled. "Those are the obvious things he would do, I'll admit,"
he answered. "But then he doesn't do the things that are obvious, as a
general rule. I've studied the man pretty close since I've been in
touch with him--a good deal closer than he thinks--and I've about made
up my mind that I've got to the secret of how he's got along so fast.
Most of us can't get rid of the habit of looking at everything from
our own point of view; you know how you hear a hundred times a day,
'If I were in his place, I'd do so and so,' and all that sort of fool
talk. Some of us, who think we're clever, get far enough to be willing
to imagine how, under given conditions, the average man would think or
act, not just how the particular kink in our own special little brain
would work; but the governor's got further than that. He gets away
from himself altogether--he even gets away from the average man
altogether--and instead, if a man's worth being studied at all, he
puts himself, as far as he's able, inside that man's skin; he eats,
thinks, sleeps as that man, and when he's ready to make a move, he
figures his own play by his own standards of thought and action, then
plays the other man's game as the other man would play it, and so he's
really on both sides of the table at the same time. God knows I hate
Gordon, but God knows the man's smart as chain lightning, and anybody
who undervalues him is a fool."
The woman frowned. "I don't understand what you're talking about," she
said fretfully.
Lynch looked at her with ironical contempt. "My fault, I'm sure," he
said gravely. "This was all I was trying to say; that I'm figuring now
just how he'll look at this message he gets; not what you or I would
think about it, or what anybody else in the world would think about it
except the Honorable Richard Gordon himself. Is that any plainer?"
Mrs. Holton nodded. "What you think," she retorted, with unexpected
spirit, "is plain enough, but what he's going to think isn't plain,
and never will be."
"There," replied Lynch, "is exactly where we differ. I'll tell you
just what he's going to think. In the first place, for any one who's
been spending as much thought on us lately as I flatter myself he has,
the first thing that will strike him is the fact that by coming down
to this forsaken spot he could find us together, and in all
probability would find no one else excepting ourselves. That's clear
enough; and from that it's only a step to thinking how easy it would
be to put us both away at the same time, and nobody the wiser. He'll
have thought that far in about a tenth part of the time it's taken me
to say it. Then he'll pull up short with the idea that the whole
thing's a trap, and decide not to come; then he'll go into it deeper,
and suddenly it's going to strike him what a big advantage he's really
got over us; he knows we can't see him hurt; he's got the chance that
the message is genuine, which is perfectly possible, and if it isn't,
if things don't break right for him, he'll figure that he's sure to
get away with a whole skin; and, if they do break right, he's got the
chance of his life to get us off his mind for good and all. See?"
Grudgingly enough the woman nodded. "Yes," she said slowly. "But how
about his bringing people with him; and how about his leaving word
with the police where he's gone?"
Lynch laughed quietly. "Not for a minute," he answered confidently.
"He's got to be careful, too. If he brings any one with him, he
safeguards himself, and at the same time loses the chance to harm us,
which is really the very thing that's going to bring him here. If he
comes alone, and leaves word, it's going to cause a lot of talk; and
what's more, some wise guy would be sure to follow him, looking for a
chance to poke his nose into something that didn't concern him. No, if
he comes, he'll come alone; and he's going to come, too; I can put my
finger now on the thing that's just going to turn the scale."
Mrs. Holton glanced up. "And what's that?" she queried.
"A question," Lynch answered, readily enough, "of nerves. Something
that no one who hadn't had a chance to watch the governor pretty
carefully of late would ever think of; but I've had that chance, and I
can see in a dozen little ways that he isn't just the man he was a
year ago. At times he's irritable, something he's never shown before;
he doesn't keep his mind as close to a subject as he used to; on two
or three important matters he's been apparently unable to make up his
mind; and twice, at least, he's made decisions that I'm sure
politically are going to be disastrous for him. Mentally and
physically, he's a tired man; little things bother him more than they
should, and after he's brooded as much as I think he has over the
trouble we're making for him, for once, very likely against his better
judgment, he'll decide on the rash course, and he'll take a chance on
coming down here just to get rid of the suspense of the whole affair.
He'll come; I don't feel the slightest doubt about it."
"And if he does," said the woman thoughtfully, "you're really going to
hold him up for fifty thousand."
Lynch nodded. "I think that's the proper sum," he said, "anything
under that's too small, and anything over that he'd probably kick at.
But that figure gives us enough to get by on for the rest of our days,
and the idea of having us half way across the world for all time is
going to strike him pretty strong. He knows he can trust me when I say
this is the last deal, and I think he'd do it anyway, but when I've
got it in reserve to tell him that it's a case of put up or shut up;
that we get our fifty thousand right off the reel, or there'll be a
vacancy in the office of governor, why, there's nothing to it. I think
the whole scheme's a damned good one, if I do say so. He's got
everything to live for; he'll have his mind at rest; and the money's
only a flea bite for him, after all. Anyway, the game's getting too
hot for me, and we might as well get it settled one way or the other.
We'll get his money, or we'll get him."
Mrs. Holton rose to take her leave. "And if he should try to get in
first?" she said apprehensively.
Lynch's mouth set grimly. "I'm not taking chances," he said
significantly. "You needn't worry that anything's going to happen to
you. You see that you get here to-morrow night at eight sharp, and
we'll have a little rehearsal."
For half an hour after Mrs. Holton had taken her leave, Lynch, from
time to time glancing at his watch, sat alone in silence. At length
there came a faint knock at the door, and he rose to admit a thin,
ferret-faced, slinking little figure of a man, with a sinister eye and
a manner in general far from reassuring. Lynch welcomed him with scant
courtesy, and his tone, as he bade him take a seat, savored less of a
request than of a command.
"You're late," he said curtly.
The other nodded. "I know it," he answered sulkily enough, "I couldn't
help it. What do you want of me, anyhow?"
Lynch's expression was the reverse of pleasant. "Come, come," he said
sharply, "we'll cut that out, right away. You know what the bargain
was; you ought to, since you were the one that was so anxious to make
it. You've had a cinch, too. Just twice in three years I've asked you
to do anything for me, and now, when I need you for a little job that
I want to see pulled off right, you turn ugly, as if I was trying to
rub it into you too hard. And I tell you, you can cut it out; if you
don't feel like doing it, just say so, and I'll know what to do."
There was a certain cold menace in his tone, and the man threw him a
glance malevolent, yet cringing, much like that of a beaten dog,
subdued against his will.
"Why, sure," he whined, "don't go talking that way, Tom. I'm game
enough. What's the row?"
Lynch motioned to him to draw his chair closer, and then, leaning
forward, for some minutes he talked earnestly, the little man
listening attentively, and from time to time nodding his head. As
Lynch finished speaking, he glanced up rather with an air of relief.
"That sounds easy enough," he said, "most too easy. I'll want to look
the place over, though, to make sure what I'd better use. Maybe I'm a
little out of practice, anyway. I hope I don't get you in bad."
He grinned as he spoke. Lynch, observing him, allowed the faintest
shadow of a smile to play for an instant around his lips.
"I hope not," he answered dryly, "both on my account--and on yours."
The little man glanced at him furtively. "Whatcher mean?" he demanded.
Lynch raised his eyebrows. "Mean?" he said carelessly, and with
apparent lack of interest. "Why, what should I mean? Nothing, except
that if you shouldn't happen to be in time, and anything unpleasant
should happen to me, I've left everything looked out for. The police
will have all the papers within twenty-four hours."
The man's impudent grin had completely vanished. He turned a sickly
white, and swallowed with difficulty once or twice.
"Hell, Tom," he remarked at last, "but you follow a man up too close.
I guess I'll be able to look after my end. Come on; let's see what the
place's like," and together they left the room.
CHAPTER II
THE HAND OF MAN
The governor stood by the window of the inner office, gazing out with
unseeing eyes into the fast gathering twilight of the short November
afternoon. The lights gleamed faintly through the haze--half mist,
half rain--and the passing crowds, as they hurried by, seemed somehow
to have about them an air of being shadowy, ghostlike, unreal.
Slowly the governor turned away from the window, and seated himself at
his desk. For perhaps half an hour he sat motionless, his brow
furrowed, his eyes questioning, his whole attitude that of a man who
seeks to solve a problem which again and again comes around to the
same starting point, and at the last still eludes him. Finally, with a
sudden gesture of decision, he raised his head; the faraway expression
left his eyes, and he was once again his old, alert, every-day self.
Closing his desk, he pressed the button for his secretary. Then,
suddenly, as if overcome by utter weariness, he sank back in his
chair, with eyes half closed, and thus Field, as he entered, found
him.
"Nothing wrong, sir?" he asked anxiously. He, perhaps better than any
one else in the city, save Doyle, knew the pace Gordon had been
setting for himself of late.
The governor, with a sigh of infinite weariness, raised his head.
"No," he said slowly, "nothing really wrong. Nothing but what a
night's sleep will put right. But I am worn out, Bert, utterly worn
out. We'll have to cancel everything for to-night, I'm afraid, and
I'll just go home and get to bed."
The secretary nodded in quick appreciation. "That's right, sir," he
cried quickly, "you couldn't do anything more sensible. It's only what
I've been saying for a month past. No man on earth can treat himself
as you've been doing. Flesh and blood aren't steel and iron. You're an
exceptionally strong man, Governor, but other men, every bit as strong
as you, are in their graves to-day simply because they got the idea
they were something more than human. No, sir, you get a rest, and I'll
look after everything for to-night. The dinner's really the only
matter of official importance, and I'll get the speaker to represent
you there. The other things it won't be any trouble to arrange. And no
matter what happens, you take a good rest. No man ever deserved one
more."
With a slight effort the governor rose. "Thank you, Bert," he said
gratefully. "You're very kind. I think I'll do as you say."
The secretary nodded. "Good," he cried; "and if you'll just wait a
moment, I'll have a carriage here."
The governor shook his head. "Thanks," he said, "I think I won't
trouble you. I feel as if the air might do me good, and it's only a
short walk, at best."
Then, as Field helped him on with his coat, he added: "There's one
thing you might do, Bert, to head off any possible interruption. Just
get my house on the 'phone, and tell Hargreaves that I'm at home, but
that I'm not to be disturbed by any one. Tell him to answer the 'phone
himself, and simply say that I'm indisposed, and can't see any one
before nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Thank you. Oh, yes, indeed,
I'll take care of myself. Good night."
Two hours later, although Governor Gordon was known to be at home, so
completely worn out as to be confined to his room, a man whose face
and figure, had not both been hidden by raincoat, slouch hat and
umbrella, would have disclosed at least a startling resemblance to the
governor's, strode along across the city through the downpour of rain,
out towards the northeast streets; past Fulton, past Bradfield's,
straight out across the deserted fields, now ankle-deep in mud,
stumbling along the miserably kept by-paths, now fording miniature
lakes and rivers, ever increasing in size as the torrents of rain
steadily increased.
In spite of the discomfort, the weather conditions seemed to be to the
man's liking, for as he bent forward in his efforts to breast the
force of the gale, from time to time he somewhat grimly smiled. Then,
as he neared the solitary house, visible only by the faint light
gleaming uncertainly through the dripping panes, the smile faded
suddenly from his face, his mouth set in a tense line, and into his
eyes there came an expression keen, alert, watchful. As he entered the
gate, he cast one quick glance about him through the darkness, and
half-way to the door he thrust his right hand momentarily into his
pocket, and as quickly withdrew it again; then, passing under the
shadow of the porch, he lowered his umbrella, shook the water from his
dripping garments, hesitated for just the veriest instant--and
knocked.
He had but a moment to wait. Silence for a space, and then the scrape
of a chair, footsteps along the hall, and the door was cautiously
opened to reveal Mrs. Holton, lamp in hand, peering anxiously out into
the darkness.
"Who is it?" she quavered, and he could see that the hand which held
the lamp was shaking. "Is it you, Governor?"
Without ceremony Gordon pushed past her into the hall. "Of course it
is," he said curtly. "Who did you think it was? Or do you have a run
of callers on a night like this? If Tom's got me down here in this
storm, and his news isn't what he makes it out to be, I'll break his
neck; that's what I'll do to him."
Mrs. Holton, leading the way into the kitchen, managed to force a
laugh. Then, as Gordon removed his dripping coat and seated himself by
the fire, she remembered instructions, and grew suddenly grave.
"You'll be lucky to get anything out of him at all," she said. "He
turned so weak an hour ago I was going out after brandy, but he
wouldn't let me go till you came. I'd better go now, though, I guess.
He said you could come right up."
Apparently frightened and painfully ill at ease, she rose and started
to put on her coat. Gordon eyed her with a glance much like the look
that a snake might cast upon some shrinking, terrified rabbit.
"Didn't care for the climate of Europe?" he said abruptly.
The woman turned a shade paler, and her hands trembled more violently
still. "I suppose I oughtn't to have come back," she said, in a low
voice, "but I couldn't stay. Everything was different from what I'd
expected; everything had changed so; and I got homesick; I had to come
back, that was all there was to it."
"Although," said Gordon lightly, "your return involved, of course, a
little matter of breaking your contract with me; going back absolutely
upon your pledged word."
The woman flushed scarlet. "Well," she said half-defiantly, "in a way
I did, but I can't see that it makes any difference to you. I'm living
here quietly, seeing no one, having nothing to do with any one, I
should think it was all the same to you."
"That," answered Gordon evenly, "I imagine should have been left for
me to decide. However, we needn't discuss it now. You're here,
evidently, and taking care of my friend Lynch. I suppose,
incidentally, of course your coming back had nothing to do with him."
The woman's eyes did not meet his. "Of course not," she lied glibly.
"Why should you think such a thing?"
The governor raised his eyebrows. "Oh, it simply crossed my mind," he
said indifferently; "seeing you here, taking care of him, I suppose.
He's really pretty sick, is he?"
"Is he?" echoed the woman. "I should say he was. He's so weak; that's
the trouble. He can hardly lift a finger. But he'll get well; it's
just a question of rest, and decent care; that's all."
Gordon rose abruptly. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll go up and see
him. Which room is he in?"
"Head of the stairs," she answered, "first door on the right. The only
room with a light. You can't miss it. I'll be back in half an hour."
She had reached the door as she spoke, seemingly not anxious to delay
her departure.
"One minute!" called Gordon sharply. "You understand, of course, that
my being here to-night is absolutely to be kept secret. I shouldn't
want you to make any mistake about that."
His tone was scarcely threatening, yet the woman seemed to understand.
"Of course," she answered hastily. "Tom told me that. I understand
everything."
Gordon smiled grimly. "That's good," he said dryly. "In half an hour,
then."
He held the door open for her; then stepped to the window, and watched
her until her figure was swallowed up in the blackness of the night.
Then, turning leisurely, he made his way up the creaking stairs and
into the sick-room.
In the dim lamplight Lynch's face, as he sat propped up among the
pillows, looked ghastly enough, and yet, as Gordon came forward and
pulled a chair up to the bed, it at once struck him that Lynch's eyes
looked naturally bright, and when he spoke, his voice, though pitched
low, was hardly the voice of a man who is seriously ill.
"Glad to see you, Governor," he said, "and sorry to trouble you so."
Gordon looked at him with keenest scrutiny. "It was some trouble," he
answered, "and I dare say I've done a foolish thing in coming here at
all. And now, let's not waste any time. What's your important news?"
There was a silence. Outside the grim northeaster drove the rain,
sheet upon sheet, against the rattling casement and the flooding pane.
Within, the flickering lamplight threw strange, darting shadows across
the sick man's bed. Finally Lynch raised his eyes squarely to
Gordon's.
"Governor," he said quietly, "ever since the day I came to see you
first, we've both played the game with the cards on the table. I'm
going to play it that way now. I haven't any news. I only used that to
get you here."
Gordon did not start, or in any way show surprise. On the contrary, he
nodded, as if in self-confirmation.
"I thought the chance was about even," he said quietly, "and yet I
thought if it was a lie, that for you, Tom, it was a pretty clumsy
one. I should be sorry to think I'd overrated you."
Lynch forced a smile, but far back in his half-closed eyes there
gleamed a little angry light, "On the face of it," he admitted, "it
was clumsy, and so I felt it had a better chance of passing for truth.
I apologize, of course. I have no excuse, excepting my anxiety to see
you."
The governor leaned back a trifle farther in his chair. "Well," he
said, "and what's the story?"
Lynch did not hesitate. "It's like this," he said. "Of course you'd
like to see me out of the way, and the old woman, too. That's so,
isn't it?"
Gordon smiled faintly. "For the sake of your argument, whatever it
is," he said dryly, "I'm perfectly willing to assume that it's so."
Lynch nodded appreciatively. "Now," he said quickly, "I'm tired of the
whole game; sorry I ever started it. I'm afraid of you, Governor, and
that's the truth. Let's cry quits. Give me what I want, and I'll get
out for good. And what's more, I'll get the old woman away for good,
too. I'm on the level. I'll do anything you say; sign any papers you
want me to sign. Let's fix it up, and stop the game right here."
The governor's expression was one of faint interest. "How much?" he
asked casually.
Lynch's answer came with equal promptness. "Fifty thousand," he said.
Gordon raised his eyebrows a trifle. "Quite a sum," he said mildly.
Lynch shook his head. "Not for what it gets you," he answered. "You'll
find the value's there, as they say. It's a good bargain for both of
us."
His voice was quiet enough, his tone conversational, and his gaze
seemed not to be upon Gordon as he spoke, yet from the corner of his
eye he was watching his visitor with a singular intentness. Gordon, as
if wearied, yawned leisurely, raising his hands above his head and
then replacing them upon his hips. Then, with a purely natural motion,
he slipped them into the pockets of his coat.
"Well, Tom," he began slowly, his eyes fixed on the other's face, "I
think, on the whole--"
Lynch gave a sudden cry, sharp, warning, insistent. Above the howling
of the storm two quick reports sounded almost as one, but the little
spurt of flame from the wall behind Gordon's back flashed just on the
instant that the governor's finger curled about the trigger of his
revolver. Aimlessly Gordon's bullet ripped through the flooring, but
the skulking figure in the room adjoining had made sure of his aim,
and with a choking cry the governor of the state pitched forward and
lay motionless across the bed, with a bullet through his lungs.
In an instant Lynch, in a frenzy of haste, had leaped from the bed and
started to dress. Then, suddenly, still but half-clothed, he ran to
the door, just in time to meet face to face the slight, stooping
figure stealing down the hallway. Lynch raised his hand. "Get that
carriage!" he called sharply, "and get it quick! No skulking, now!
Quick, damn you! Do you hear? Quick, I say!" And in a very ecstasy of
impatience he stood, with face contorted and both arms uplifted and
shaking, as if he could thus drive more speedily the crouching figure
that nodded and slunk away down the stairs.
Back again he turned into the little room, and lifting the body of the
governor on to the bed, he hastily tore away the clothing until the
wound lay bare. Quickly his hand fumbled in his pocket until he had
found what he sought; then, pulling the cork from the little bottle,
with a tiny hook of shining metal he probed for an instant into the
bullet's track, and then poured a drop or two of the liquid into the
wound. With a long-drawn sigh, as if of relief, he rose, and gazed at
the motionless body.
"And that settles you," he muttered, below his breath; "if you should
come to, it won't be for long. Maybe that won't make your high-priced
doctors sit up and take notice for a bit. And now, by God," he added
brutally, "I guess I'll treat you to a little ride. You don't look
like you'd make out very well walking it. Damn Durgin! Why doesn't he
come?"
It was long after midnight when, through the driving sheets of rain, a
carriage stole softly up the deserted street and stopped in front of
the governor's dwelling. The driver, slipping from the box, opened the
carriage door, and helped to hold upright the silent figure that his
companion half lifted, half pushed, from within. In silence they
carried their burden up the steps, in silence and in haste propped it
against the outer door, and again in silence descended and drove away,
until the outline of the carriage, quickly blending with the darkness,
was at last lost to sight as it turned into the street leading away to
the northeast.
Up-stairs, in the pleasant warmth, the faithful Hargreaves, for the
twentieth time that night, stepped to the telephone. "Yes, sir," he
answered, "all right, sir. Nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Oh, no,
indeed. Nothing serious, sir. Just tired. There's no light in his
room, now. I think he's sleeping sound."
Outside, braving the wind and the rain and the storm, the huddled
figure, with its head sunk on its chest, leaned wearily, as if mutely
pleading for shelter, against the fast closed door. The small hours of
the morning came, and went. Still the figure was motionless.
Spitefully the lashing rain beat down as if to rouse it; fiercely the
gale, howling and moaning through the deserted streets, stopped to
beat and buffet it; yet strangely, the figure, gazing with fixed,
unseeing eyes, made no effort to resist, no effort to move. Governor
Gordon slept soundly indeed.
CHAPTER III
THE HAND OF GOD
Vanulm, standing by the window, hat in hand, abstractedly watched the
carriage swing smoothly down the street and stop, with a jingle of
harness, in front of his door. Abstractedly he walked slowly down the
steps and out toward the street, and had even started to get into the
carriage, for once without remembering his never-failing word to the
coachman on the box, so that the dignified James, violating much
against his will all the traditions of his craft, was at last obliged
to speak without first being spoken to.
With a preliminary cough he touched his hat. "Begging your pardon,
sir," he said, "but is there any chance?"
Vanulm, coming to himself with a start, glanced quickly up. Then
slowly he shook his head. "The doctors think not, James," he answered;
"we can only hope they may be wrong. We'll drive straight to the
hospital, please."
The coachman touched his hat again, and at the word the spirited
grays, chafing at the delay, swung swiftly away down the avenue. Out
through the long, smooth streets they sped, out through the Arborway,
flower and bush and tree still lying cool and green and fair in the
splendor of the soft Indian summer day; now slower and slower as the
gradually recurring hills grew more frequent and more frequent still,
until at last, at the summit, they drew up before the door of the
hospital, isolated, restful, serene, looking far off over the valley
and the broad blue river winding peacefully along through the cool,
green fields, in the wistfully lingering sunshine of the waning
afternoon.
Doctor Stratton, the foremost man of his day, slight, alert, composed,
met them at the door. With a curt word of greeting he led the way
within, and motioned Vanulm to a seat. For a moment or two he sat
silent, a troubled frown upon his face. Then he glanced quickly up.
"Vanulm," he said abruptly, "this whole business of getting you to
come out here comes pretty near being unprofessional. In the first
place, the governor's going to die; there's not the slightest doubt of
that whatever. If any man with that hole through him could live, he's
the one. He's got more nerve and more will power than any man I've
ever met, and that's saying a good deal, too; I've seen some plucky
men in my time. But--no human being with that wound could pull
through, and I doubt if he can even last out the night. Now, on the
one hand, you can't fail to excite him, and will probably hasten the
end; on the other hand, he's evidently got something on his mind that
troubles him, and you're the one man he wants to tell it to.
Therefore, considering his temperament, to me it seems better, even if
it does result badly, to let him see you. Not to allow it would be
rank cruelty. Simply, if you can help it, don't let him excite
himself, and above all, don't let him make any attempt to raise
himself in bed. I'll be directly outside, if you should want me.
That's all. I suppose we might as well go up now." He rose, and
Vanulm, following suit, laid his hand for a moment on Stratton's arm.
"Just one question, Doctor," he said, "suppose he starts to talk about
how it happened. Shall I let him go on?"
The physician shook his head. "He won't," he answered, "I even tried
him on it myself, and his answer was most curious. 'I'm not talking,'
he said. 'It was the same game with both of us. Let him get away with
it, for all of me,' and not another word would he say. So come, we'd
better not waste time."
As quietly as possible, Vanulm entered the darkened room and took his
way over to the narrow bed by the window. In spite of all the doctor
had said, he could scarcely repress a start. The face that looked up
at him was fearfully changed--haggard, unshaven, pale, drawn with
pain--only the eyes, upturned to meet his own, gleamed still with all
the unquenchable fire of old. Gordon's mouth half parted in the
pathetic semblance of a smile, and more by his glance than by any real
movement of his head, he signed his visitor to take the chair that
stood beside his bed. In silence Vanulm did so, and Gordon, with
evident effort, began to speak, his voice not strong, and yet distinct
and clear.
"I knew you'd come, Herman," he said. "Devil of a time to get 'em to
send for you, but Stratton's a pretty good sort, though. Not a damn
pompous old fool like most of 'em. I suppose he's told you. I'm dying.
He told me this morning. Thought it was news, but I knew it already.
It doesn't need a doctor when the time comes. Any fool can tell--"
He broke off sharply, his lips contorted in a spasm of pain. Vanulm,
frightened, made as if to rise, but the sick man frowned and shook his
head. "No, no," he whispered, "don't get him. All right in a minute.
Leave me alone." And after a moment, indeed, the look of pain left his
face, and he went on. "I'd better make it short," he said, "short as I
can, but I want to tell you. Remember, Herman, away back, five years
ago, a dinner Jim Norton gave to that submarine chap; four or five of
us there?"
Vanulm nodded, and an expression of relief came over Gordon's face.
"Good," he said, "saves a lot of explanation. Remember we talked
religion? Remember I told about a chap that was going to make a gamble
out of life? Going to risk everything on there not being any God?"
Vanulm, his eyes fixed on Gordon's face, nodded again.
The sick man spoke quickly, eagerly. "I was the man, Herman," he
whispered. "I always pretended religion; I knew in lots of ways it
would help me, and it has. I've got men that way that I never could
have got in any other. But the whole thing was a lie; to the world
I've been a sneaking hypocrite; to myself I've lived straight; no
bluffs; no lies; no whining; I've lived my life, and had my fun; and
I'm ready to pay--if we have to pay."
He paused, and suddenly his glance found Vanulm's. Keenly he sought to
read the expression there; then, with just the shadow of a smile,
nodded to himself. "I thought so," he said. "How long have you known?"
"I haven't known," answered Vanulm, "only suspected, from things that
have happened lately, that it might be so. In fact, if it hadn't
seemed like such a damned piece of impertinence--"
Gordon took the words from his lips. "Yes," he said quickly, "the day
you took me to drive. I knew it. I knew you meant well by me, Herman,
but it wouldn't have done any good then. It was too late."
The brewer's kindly face took on a troubled frown. "Dick," he said
diffidently, "I'm not religious myself, but they say--"
Gordon strove to raise a protesting hand. "Damn it, Herman," he cried,
"it's harder than I thought. You're the only man I ever cared a straw
for; I suppose that's the reason. But I've got to tell you. I've gone
the limit. I was the man that killed Harry Palmer."
[Illustration: "I have gone the limit." Page 369]
Vanulm half recoiled, then made as if to rise, but again Gordon shook
his head. "No, no," he said, "it isn't fever; I'm as sane as you are;
I wanted money; I tried to blackmail him; drugged him, and made him
believe he'd ruined a girl; bled him for a hundred thousand; and then,
by the devil's own luck, the thing leaked out. Then it was my life
against his, and he was fool enough not to see it. I got my chance out
on the island, and I shot him, and threw his body into the quicksand
over by the point. That same night I killed the woman who told him,
and that's how I got my start. Then came the time about the
Konahassett--the Ethel, they called it then--and I couldn't come to
terms with Mason; he was honest--and stubborn--and that left only one
way. I killed him, and to make things sure, I killed the only woman
that ever really cared for me, and married Mason's daughter--" he
smiled sneeringly--"the young woman you thought so charming, and who
tired of me when she thought my money was gone. To make the thing
safe, I had to get the murders saddled on a poor old drunk out there;
that never troubled me much, though; he was only a pawn in the game.
So I got the mine. And since then, as you probably know, I've been
fooling the people right and left--the people that have trusted me;
all my stock market letters were fakes; all my battle with the moneyed
interests was a sham--I've been hand in glove with them, from the
start. My politics have been rotten, right through; I've bought,
bribed, corrupted, betrayed, and yet they've followed me like sheep;
if I'd have lived, I'd have been president of this country; deals;
combinations; God, how, I had things lined up; and now I'm through;
I've had my turn at the game; I'm through; and we're counting up the
score."
As he spoke, a curious light had come into his eyes; slowly the color
had crept back into his sunken cheeks; even his voice had taken on
something of its old, commanding ring. Fascinated, Vanulm gazed at him
without speaking, and the dying man, almost as if in a state of
exaltation, went on: "I've played square with myself, Herman; square
all the way through; and I'm not afraid, now. It's been a fair game.
I've seen what I wanted, and I've taken it. Money? I've made my
fortune. Twenty million dollars, Herman; no more, no less; and I could
have doubled it, trebled it, in ten years more. And everything it
could buy; I've gratified every wish of man; God, Herman, I've lived a
dozen lives in one. Power? I've made history in the market; I've
changed a state in politics; five years more, and I'd have changed the
destiny of the country. Success? There isn't a man alive that's
accomplished more. Every one's envied me, looked up to me, tried to
copy me, even. And the preachers say a man is nothing; it's a lie,
Herman; a man's a god; man is God; I've played the game through, and I
know. Herman, get that doctor; I won't die; I can't die; I tell you
I'll be president yet. Great God, Herman--"
The light faded from his countenance as it had come; from his pallid
face the tide of life ebbed again; his eyes closed like a tired
child's; then, in an instant, he opened them again, and gazed at
Vanulm with an expression that the latter had never seen before.
"Good old Herman," he muttered drowsily, "I knew he'd come. Off my
head a minute, I guess. Feverish, maybe; that night did it, that night
it rained--"
He stopped, with an expression of complete bewilderment; once, twice
and thrice he gazed around the unfamiliar room; then drew a long sigh,
as if at last awakened from sleep.
"Herman," he said quietly, "God knows what rot I've been talking. I'm
pretty near gone; I know it; but whether I go off wandering again or
not, I'm sane now; as sane as you are; do you believe me?"
Vanulm nodded silently. It took no eye of experience, indeed, to see
that the sands of life were running low.
"There's something more you want to say?" he asked, with sudden
intuition.
Gordon spoke with ineffable sadness. "Herman," he said, his voice
scarcely raised above a whisper, "I've made a horrible mess of things.
I know it now. If only--" his voice faltered--"if only I could go back
to that day on the island with Rose. I can remember so well. 'A
cottage in the country,' she said, 'with you all to myself.' Herman, I
didn't know it then, but that day I shut myself out of Paradise. That
day was the parting of the ways. And since then it's been down and
down and down--Palmer, and poor Annie Holton, and old Jim and Rose,
and I ruined May Sinclair's life, and I ruined poor Jack's--and
Hinckley--poor fool--he had as good a right to live as I--Ah! God!
Herman, what I've got is turned to ashes. Gold--Love bought for
gold--Power bought for gold--all Gold. Everything--and Nothing! And I
could have had friends--money enough to live on--and a woman who loved
me. Think, Herman--" and his voice sank very low--"a woman who loved
me, and, after all, that is life."
His voice died away. There was a long silence. Outside, the wind
stirred gently the clambering vines, and a ray of sunlight darted,
questing, into the quiet room. The sick man turned his head, and his
voice was very low. "And after that, Herman," he said, "a good friend;
the friend you've always been to me; the kind of a friend I might have
been to you."
Again fell silence. Once outside a song-sparrow sang sweet and clear
his brave little song, and the sick man smiled. At last he turned his
head, and with a great effort raised his hand until it touched
Vanulm's. "Good-by, Herman," he said.
And then, over the quiet of the peaceful afternoon came a change,
sudden, terrible. Before Vanulm could stir, the sick man dashed aside
his coverings and raised himself bolt upright in the bed, his eyes
burning, his face working convulsively, his whole expression that of a
man who looks upon a sight of horror. "I've lost!" he shrieked, in a
terrible voice. "Oh, God, I've lost!"
Vanulm had leaped to his feet; at the same instant the doctor rushed
into the room, but a doctor was no longer needed. In one great crimson
stream the bright red blood gushed from the sick man's mouth, and the
body, lifeless, inert, sprawled horribly back among the pillows. The
Honorable Richard Gordon was dead.
THE END