HOW THE CHALLENGE WAS WRITTEN.
The search for Royson was unavailing. His determined pursuer tried his
office door; it was locked. He walked every business street, entered
every restaurant and billiard saloon, every hotel lobby. The politician
was not to be found. He himself attracted wide-spread attention wherever
he went. Had he met Royson he would have killed him without a word, but
as he walked he did a great deal of thinking. He had no friend in the
city. The nature of this attack was such that few people would care to
second him. The younger Montjoy was away and he was unwilling to set
foot in the colonel's house again. Through him, Edward Morgan, however
innocently it may be, had come the fatal blow.
He ran over the list of acquaintances he had formed among the younger
men. They were not such as pleased him in this issue, for a strong,
clear head, a man of good judgment and good balance, a determined man,
was needed.
Then there came to his memory the face of one whom he had met at supper
his first night in town--the quiet, dignified Barksdale. He sought this
man's office. Barksdale was the organizer of a great railroad in process
of construction. His reception of Edward was no more nor less than would
have been accorded under ordinary circumstances. Had he come on the day
before he would have been greeted as then.
"How do you do, Mr. Morgan? Be seated, sir." This with a wave of his
hand. Then, "What can I do for you?" His manner affected Edward in the
best way; he began to feel the business atmosphere.
"I have called, Mr. Barksdale, upon a personal matter and to ask your
assistance. I suppose you have read to-day's extra?"
"I have."
"My first inclination, after fully weighing the intent and effect of
that famous publication," said Edward, "was to seek and kill the author.
For this purpose I have searched the town. Royson is not to be found. I
am so nearly a stranger here that I am forced to come to my
acquaintances for assistance, and now I ask that you will advise me as
to my next proceeding."
"Demand a retraction and apology at once!"
"And if it is refused?"
"Challenge him!"
"If he refuses to fight?"
"Punish him. That is all you can do."
"Will you make the demand for me--will you act for me?"
Barksdale reflected a moment and then said: "Do not misunderstand my
hesitation; it is not based upon the publication, nor upon unwillingness
to serve you. I am considering the complications which may involve
others; I must, in fact, consult others before I can reply. In the
meantime will you be guided by me?"
"I will."
"You are armed and contemplating a very unwise act. Leave your weapon
here and take a hack home and remain there until I call. It is now 3:30
o'clock. I will be there at 8. If I do not act for you I will suggest a
friend, for this matter should not lie over-night. But under no
circumstances can I go upon the field; my position here involves
interests covering many hundreds of thousands of invested funds, which I
have induced. Dueling is clearly out of vogue in this country and
clearly illegal. For the president of a railroad to go publicly into a
duel and deliberately break the law would lessen public confidence in
the north in both him and his business character and affect the future
of his enterprise, the value of its stocks and bonds. You admit the
reasonableness of this, do you not?"
"I do. There is my weapon! I will expect you at 8. Good evening, Mr.
Barksdale."
The hours wore slowly away at home. Edward studied his features in the
cheval glass; he could not find in them the slightest resemblance to the
woman in the picture. He had not erred in that. The absence of any
portrait of John Morgan prevented his making a comparison there. He knew
from descriptions given by Eldridge that he was not very like him in
form or in any way that he could imagine, but family likeness is an
elusive fact. Two people will resemble each other, although they may
differ in features taken in detail.
He went to Gerald's room, moved by a sudden impulse. Gerald was
demonstrating one of his theories concerning mind pictures and found in
the professor a smiling and tolerant listener.
He was saying: "Now, let us suppose that from youth up a child has
looked into its mother's face, felt her touch, heard her voice; that his
senses carried to that forming brain their sensations, each nerve
touching the brain, and with minute force setting up day by day, month
by month, and year by year a model. Yes, go back further and remember
that this was going on before the child was a distinct individual; we
have the creative force in both stages! Tell me, is it impossible then
that this little brain shall grow into the likeness it carries as its
most serious impression, and that forced to the effort would on canvas
or in its posterity produce the picture it has made----"
"How can you distinguish the mind picture from the memory picture? What
is the difference?"
"Not easily, but if I can produce a face which comes to me in my dreams,
which haunts my waking hours, which is with me always, the face of one I
have never seen, it must come to me as a mind picture; and if that
picture is the feminine of my own, have I not reason to believe that it
stands for the creative power from which I sprang? Such a picture as
this."
He drew a little curtain aside and on the wall shone the fair face of a
woman; the face from the church sketch, but robbed of its terror, the
counterpart of the little painting upstairs. The professor looked grave,
but Edward gazed on it in awe.
"Now a simple brain picture," he said, almost in a whisper; "draw me the
face of John Morgan."
The artist made not more than twenty strokes of the crayon upon the
blackboard.
"Such is John Morgan, as I last saw him," said Gerald; "a mere
photograph; a brain picture!"
Edward gazed from one to the other; from the picture to the artist
astounded. The professor had put on his glasses; it was he who broke the
silence.
"That is Herr Abingdon," he said. Gerald smiled and said:
"That is John Morgan."
Without a word Edward left the room. Under an assumed name, deterred
from open recognition by the sad facts of the son's birth, his father
had watched over and cherished him. No wonder the letter had come back.
Abingdon was dead!
The front door was open. He plunged directly into the arms of Barksdale
as he sought the open air. Barksdale was one of those men who seem to be
without sentiment, because they have been trained by circumstances to
look at facts from a business standpoint only. Yet the basis of his
whole life was sentiment.
In the difficulty that had arisen his quick mind grasped at once the
situation. He knew Royson and was sure that he shielded himself behind
some collateral fact, not behind the main truth. In the first place he
was hardly in position to know anything of Morgan's history more than
the general public would have known. In the second, he would not have
dared to use it under any circumstances if those circumstances did not
protect him. What were these? First there was Morgan's isolation; only
one family could be said to be intimate with him, and they could not, on
account of the younger Montjoy, act for Edward. The single controlling
idea that thrust itself into Barksdale's mind was the proposition that
Royson did not intend to fight.
Then the position of the Montjoy family flashed upon him. The blow had
been delivered to crush the colonel politically and upon a man who was
his unselfish ally. Owing to the nature of the attack Col. Montjoy could
ask no favors of Royson, and owing to the relationship, he could not
proceed against him in Morgan's interest. He could neither act for nor
advise, and in the absence of Col. Montjoy, who else could be found?
Before replying to Edward, a plan of action occurred to him. When he
sent that excited individual home he went direct to Royson's office. He
found the door open and that gentleman serenely engaged in writing. Even
at this point he was not deceived; he knew that his approach had been
seen, as had Edward's, and preparations made accordingly.
Royson had been city attorney and in reality the tool of a ring. His
ambition was boundless. Through friends he had broached a subject very
dear to him; he desired to become counsel for the large corporations
that Barksdale represented, and there was a surprised satisfaction in
his tones as he welcomed the railroad president and gave him a seat.
Barksdale opened the conversation on this line and asked for a written
opinion upon a claim of liability in a recent accident. He went further
and stated that perhaps later Royson might be relied upon frequently in
such cases. The town was talking of nothing else at that time but the
Royson card. It was natural that Barksdale should refer to it.
"A very stiff communication, that of yours, about Mr. Morgan," he said,
carelessly; "it will probably be fortunate for you if your informant is
not mistaken."
"There is no mistake," said Royson, leaning back in his chair, glad that
the subject had been brought up. "It does seem a rough card to write,
but I have reason to think there was no better way out of a very ugly
complication."
"The name of your informant will be demanded, of course."
"Yes, but I shall not give it!"
"Then will come a challenge."
"Hardly!" Royson arose and closed the door. "If you have a few moments
and do not mind hearing this, I will tell you in confidence the whole
business. Who would be sought to make a demand upon me for the name of
my informant?"
"One of the Montjoys naturally, but your relationship barring them they
would perhaps find Mr. Morgan a second."
"But suppose that I prove conclusively that the information came from a
member of the Montjoy family? What could they do? Under the
circumstances which have arisen their hands are tied. As a matter of
fact I am the only one that can protect them. If the matter came to that
point, as a last resort I could refuse to fight, for the reason given in
the letter."
Barksdale was silent. The whole devilish plot flashed upon him. He knew
in advance the person described as a member of the Montjoy family, and
he knew the base motives of the man who at that moment was dishonoring
him with his confidence. His blood boiled within him. Cool and calm as
he was by nature, his face showed emotion as he arose and said:
"I think I understand."
Royson stood by the door, his hand upon the knob, after his visitor had
gone.
"It was a mistake; a great mistake," he said to himself in a whisper. "I
have simply acted the fool!"
Barksdale went straight to a friend upon whose judgment he relied and
laid the matter before him. Together they selected three of the most
honorable and prominent men in the city, friends of the Montjoys, and
submitted it to them.
The main interest was now centered in saving the Montjoy family. Edward
had become secondary. An agreement was reached upon Barksdale's
suggestion and all was now complete unless the aggrieved party should
lose his case in the correspondence about to ensue.
Barksdale disguised his surprise when he assisted Edward at the door to
recover equilibrium.
"I am here sir, as I promised," he said, "but the complications extend
further than I knew. I now state that I cannot act for you in any
capacity and ask that I be relieved of my promise." Edward bowed
stiffly.
"You are released."
"There is but one man in this city who can serve you and bring about a
meeting. Gerald Morgan must bear your note!" Edward repeated the name.
He could not grasp the idea. "Gerald Morgan," said Barksdale again. "He
will not need to go on the field. Good-night. And if that fails you here
is your pistol; you are no longer under my guidance. But one word
more--my telephone is 280; if during the night or at any time I can
advise you, purely upon formal grounds, summon me. In the meantime see
to it that your note does not demand the name of Royson's informant. Do
not neglect that. The use he has made of his information must be made
the basis of the quarrel; if you neglect this your case is lost.
Good-night."
The thought flashed into Edward's mind then that the world was against
him. This man was fearful of becoming responsible himself. He had named
Gerald. It was a bruised and slender reed, but he would lean upon it,
even if he crushed it in the use. He returned to the wing-room.
"Professor," he said, "you know that under no possible circumstances
would I do you a discourtesy, so when I tell you, as now, that for
to-night and possibly a day, we are obliged to leave you alone, you will
understand that some vital matter lies at the bottom of it."
"My young friend," exclaimed that gentleman, "go as long as you please.
I have a little world of my own, you know," he smiled cheerfully, "in
which I am always amused. Gerald has enlarged it. Go and come when you
can; here are books--what more does one need?" Edward bowed slightly.
"Gerald, follow me." Gerald, without a word, laid aside his crayon and
obeyed. He stood in the library a moment later looking with tremulous
excitement upon the man who had summoned him so abruptly. By reflection
he was beginning to share the mental disturbance. His frail figure
quivered and he could not keep erect.
"Read that!" said Edward, handing him the paper. He took the sheet and
read. When he finished he was no longer trembling, but to the
astonishment of Edward, very calm. A look of weariness rested upon his
face.
"Have you killed him?" he asked, laying aside the paper, his mind at
once connecting the incident of the pistol with this one.
"No, he is in hiding."
"Have you challenged him?"
"No! My God, can you not understand? I am without friends! The whole
city believes the story." A strange expression came upon the face of
Gerald.
"We must challenge him at once," he said. "I am, of course, the proper
second. I must ask you in the first place to calm yourself. The records
must be perfect." He seated himself at a desk and prepared to write.
Edward was walking the room. He came and stood by his side.
"Do not demand the name of his informant," he said; "make the
publication and circulation of the letter the cause of our grievance."
"Of course," was the reply. The letter was written rapidly. "Sign it if
you please," said Gerald. Edward read the letter and noticed that it was
written smoothly and without a break. He signed it. Gerald had already
rung for the buggy and disappeared. "Wait here," he had said, "until I
return. In the meantime do not converse with anyone upon this subject."
The thought that flashed upon the mind of the man left in the
drawing-room was that the race courage had become dominant, and for the
time being was superior to ill-health, mental trouble and environment.
It was in itself a confirmation of the cruel letter. The manhood of
Albert Evan had become a factor in the drama.