REMORSE.
The great steel-manufacturing firm of Howard Milmarsh & Son, with its
immense plant in western Pennsylvania and its palatial offices in
New York, was not any better known in business circles than was the
palatial home of the head of the house among the Westchester hills.
It had been the custom of Howard Milmarsh, the elder, to entertain
lavishly for years, his brilliant wife being an acknowledged leader of
society. Then, one night, she took cold in her limousine, riding from
a ball in New York to their home, dressed only in the light ball gown,
with a flimsy lace scarf over her bare shoulders.
It is unnecessary to go into the details of her illness. Pneumonia is
a swift disease. In ten days she was dead, and a pall settled over the
spacious and luxurious mansion.
There was a large funeral, of course. That was the last large gathering
of the friends and acquaintances of the Milmarshes the house saw.
Her husband became a broken man, physically and mentally. He had
an efficient and honest manager at the head of his vast business
interests, so that there was no lack of money. But he seemed to lose
all care for the world after his wife passed away.
Howard Milmarsh, the younger—the personage who struck down his cheating
cousin, Richard Jarvis, in the poker game at the Old Pike Inn—lived
alone with his father, and was the only comfort the elder man had.
But young Howard was full of life and youth, and it was natural for him
to desire entertainment away from the great, gloomy house.
Thus it was that he often spent days and nights in the gay districts
of New York City, and often drank rather more than was good for him.
He was not a drunkard. In fact, most persons would have said that he
did not drink at all, measuring him by other young men of his social
position and wealth. Nevertheless, he did give way occasionally—as he
had done on this night in the Inn—and there was always danger that he
might plunge deeper into dissipation if he were left to himself.
“But never again!” he muttered, as he drove the high-powered car up the
winding hill, while the chauffeur nodded beside him. “I’ve played my
last card and I’ve taken my last drink. I wish I’d made that resolution
before I went into that cardroom to-night.”
“Beg pardon, sir!” interrupted the chauffeur drowsily. “Did you tell me
to take the wheel?”
“I didn’t speak.”
“Oh, didn’t you, sir? I beg your pardon.”
“But we are nearly up to the house. You can take hold now.”
They changed places. Then, when the machine was again making its way up
the road, Howard Milmarsh—who had been trying to collect his thoughts
in the cool night air, and who had so far succeeded that he had managed
to throw off the effects of the liquor he had consumed—directed
the chauffeur to keep the car in front of the entrance, under the
porte-cochère, while he went inside.
“I am going out again,” he added briefly, as the car drew up at the
doorway.
Howard hastened, first of all, to his own room, where he found his
valet, busy brushing some clothes.
“Fill two traveling bags with clothes and things for a week, Simpkins,”
he ordered briefly. “But first help me into a business suit, with a
soft hat. Give me my automatic revolver, and that heavy hickory stick I
use for walking in the country.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the imperturbable Simpkins.
In five minutes Howard Milmarsh had changed his clothes, with the help
of the valet, and, telling the latter to place the bags in the car at
the door, the young man went to his father’s private room adjoining his
bedroom, and knocked at the door.
“Why, Howard, what’s the matter?” demanded the millionaire, as his son
entered hastily, before his father could tell him to come in. “You look
excited. Haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“Not much. I’ve killed Richard Jarvis.”
The young man said this coolly, but it was the coolness of desperation.
His wild eyes and haggard cheeks told their own story. No further
confirmation of his startling confession was necessary.
Howard Milmarsh, the elder, was a slender man, with a pale face and
hollow cheeks. He arose from the cushioned chair with difficulty,
and, as he moved toward his son, he swayed, as if he had not complete
command of his limbs.
“How was it?” he gasped at last.
“He cheated at cards.”
“Ah! That has been charged against him before.”
“And we fought.”
“Yes?”
“I struck him a blow harder than I had intended. It killed him. He had
a weak heart, Budworth Clarke said. But—father, he called me a liar.”
“I see. And you struck him.”
“Yes. He had been caught with aces up his sleeve, inside his shirt
cuff. That was the beginning of the trouble. Then, when he was accused
of what there was actual proof of, he applied the word to me that I
could not take. I killed him!”
“Killed him!” echoed the older man vacantly, as he sank back into his
chair.
“So, now, father, I am going away. I cannot stay here and face a trial
for murder.”
“You would be acquitted,” his father put in quickly. “The provocation
was one you could not pass over. Then, again, his death was an
accident. If his heart was weak——”
“I know, father. We can make all the excuses we please, and, perhaps,
they might convince a jury. But the disgrace on our name would remain,
and I should still feel that I had become a murderer—even though I did
not mean it. So, good-bye, father! Good-bye! I will let you hear from
me when I can. I do not know where I am going, and, if I did, I would
not tell you, so that you would not have to say what was not true when
you said to people that you did not know.”
The manufacturer went to a safe that stood at one side of his room and
took out a package of bank notes. He handed them to his son.
“There are ten thousand dollars, Howard. When you need more, let me
know. And now, good-bye, my son. I may never see you again. I am not
well. But come back soon, if you can. You will know what the result of
the inquiry into the death of Dick Jarvis is if you watch the papers.”
“I may be where I cannot easily get New York papers, father. I intend
to go as far away from what we call civilization as I can. I don’t know
where. But it doesn’t matter. There is one thing I want to say in your
presence, father, before I go away—one vow I mean to make.”
“Yes?”
“I will not raise my hand in anger against anybody again. I don’t care
what the provocation, I will not fight.”
“I don’t see how you can make such a resolution as that, my son.
Sometimes an occasion will arise when you cannot avoid fighting.”
“I know that. But I will avoid it, even under such conditions as
those,” declared Howard resolutely. “Don’t you see, father, that that
will be my punishment for what I did to-night to Dick Jarvis?”
The millionaire shook his head. It seemed to him that his son was
making a vow that he would find it impossible to keep.
“I do not think you should hold yourself to such a pledge as that,” he
said. “Anyhow, I believe I shall be able to smooth matters over for you
so that you can soon return home. I only have you, now that your mother
is gone, and I want you with me for the little time I have to live.”
“Nonsense, father,” returned Howard affectionately. “You will be alive
twenty years from now. Long before that I hope I shall have found a
way to come home and be a decent citizen, but I confess I don’t see my
way clear now. Good-bye!”
With a hearty clasp of his father’s hand, Howard Milmarsh turned away
and fairly ran from the room.
The head of the great steel firm—whom so many thousands envied for his
wealth, and presumably his happiness—sank back in his deep chair, and
let the tears trickle slowly down his worn cheeks. The widower felt as
if his heart had been broken for the second time.
Meanwhile, the son dashed down the wide staircase and hurried into the
waiting machine.
The traveling bags were already stowed away in the back of the car, and
Simpkins stood at the side of it, overcoat and hat on, to go with his
employer.
“I shan’t want you, Simpkins,” said Howard calmly. “To-morrow morning
go in and see my father. He will make arrangements with you. I shall be
away for a week—perhaps much longer. I am going to New York. Drive on,
Gustave!” he added, to his chauffeur. “Take the road straight into New
York and stop at the Hotel Supremacy. You know where that is.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gustave briefly, as he threw on the power.
The road Gustave took did not lead past the Old Pike Inn. Howard
Milmarsh had remembered that when he gave the direction. He did not
want to run right into the arms of the law, and he did not forget that
he had seen Nick Carter watching him from the porch of the popular
resort.
It was not the habit of Carter to take up any ordinary murder case,
even when it came immediately under his notice. But Howard Milmarsh had
a feeling that the great detective would surely concern himself in this
one, for he had long been a friend of Howard’s father.
While Howard Milmarsh skimmed along at thirty miles an hour and more
in the direction of New York, Nick was hurrying up to the Milmarsh
mansion in the large, gray car that he generally used for his country
excursions, and which had brought him to the Old Pike Inn that evening.
“Mr. Nick Carter would like to see you, sir,” announced a
wooden-visaged servant in livery to the millionaire, not more than
twenty minutes after the departure of his son. “He will not detain you
long, he told me to say.”
“Show him in, of course!” ordered Milmarsh, arousing himself and
preparing to receive his caller smilingly.
“Hello, Carter!” was his warm greeting. “I’m very glad to see you. Did
you just run up from New York?”
“No,” was the grave reply. “I’ve been at the Old Pike Inn most of the
evening. I came up to speak to you about your son Howard!”
The millionaire jumped forward and held up a hand close to the
detective’s face to silence him, while an expression of agonized terror
appeared on his haggard, aristocratic face.
“Hush!”