FATHER AND SON
The Darings slept soundly that night, all unaware of the tragic events
taking place in their neighborhood. However, the adventure was not
yet ended for Judge Ferguson, even when the Halliday woman had been
securely locked up and the doctor had dressed Toby’s mangled foot and
he had been put to bed.
“Sam,” said the lawyer, “I have work to do, and you must help me.”
“Count on me, Judge,” was the ready reply. “I don’t mind an all-night
job once in a while, though I wouldn’t care for it as a steady diet.
What’s next?”
They awakened the undertaker, Davis, the next thing, and after the
lawyer had told him the story he at once hitched up a team to drive
to the tomb for Mr. Eliot’s body. As the undertaker was also the
liveryman, Mr. Ferguson obtained a single horse, harnessed to a roomy
box-buggy, in which he and Sam Parsons followed the other rig. Arriving
at the graveyard they held back while Davis took charge of the remains
and loaded the body into the wagon, and not till he had driven away did
the constable and the lawyer venture into the mausoleum, the door of
which they had propped open to avoid the danger of being entombed alive.
The buggy was fairly loaded when all the treasure and the papers had
been placed in it, and then they drove to the lawyer’s office, where
they deposited the precious freight and Parsons watched beside it until
morning.
Mr. Ferguson, meantime, got a couple of hours’ sleep; but he was back
at the office by daybreak, and while waiting for the bank to open
sent Sam to get his breakfast, while he himself began a systematic
examination of the papers he had seized.
It did not take him long to discover that Jonathan Eliot had been
a wealthy, if miserly, man. The government bonds and cash alone
constituted a fortune, but aside from these were many mortgages and
investments that drew a high rate of interest. There was no paper
purporting to be a will; no letters of administration or any indication
that the old man had transferred his holdings to Elaine Halliday, or
to any other person. The deed of gift which Phœbe had seen was
doubtless secreted upon the person of the housekeeper.
While the judge was thus absorbed in the papers the day advanced
and Spaythe’s Bank was opened for business. Phil, arriving at his
usual time, found Mr. Spaythe already in his office and the door
communicating with the countingroom wide open.
Moreover, the banker seemed laboring under unusual excitement. He would
walk the floor of his office with nervous strides, then seat himself in
the chair by his desk, and a few moments later resume his pacing. At
times he glanced into the room where Phil was at work, or toward the
cage where the cashier was busy. Eric had not yet arrived.
Presently in came Judge Ferguson, accompanied by Sam Parsons, and both
were loaded down with gold and bank notes.
“Good morning, Spaythe,” called the judge, nodding genially. “I want
to make an important deposit, to be credited to the Estate of Jonathan
Eliot.”
“Eliot!” exclaimed the banker. “Is the old man dead, then?”
“Very dead, Spaythe; and he’s left a lot of money. Here, Boothe, count
it--and count it carefully, my man--for this is the biggest deposit
your bank has ever received.”
Phil had overheard this, and came forward with a pale and troubled
face.
“Is it true, sir?” he asked, half frightened.
“Yes, Phil; it’s true.”
“When did my grandfather die?”
“Two or three days ago, I think. But we only discovered his body last
night, lying in that tomb he built, where Elaine Halliday had carried
him after propping up a dummy in the window to make us all believe he
was still alive.”
Then they all went into the private office, where Mr. Ferguson related
the night’s occurrences to Mr. Spaythe and Phil Daring, the constable
being present to confirm the story.
“Had it not been for the bravery of Toby Clark,” concluded the judge,
“we might all three have been buried alive in that hideous tomb. No one
could have come to our assistance, for no one knew where we had gone.”
“The woman must be crazy,” asserted the banker.
“Perhaps; but she’s clever enough in some ways,” sighed the lawyer,
“and may cause us a lot of trouble yet. That’s why I have deposited
this money to the credit of the Eliot Estate. No one can touch it now
until the courts decide to whom it belongs. And, by the way, Spaythe,
that three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars I borrowed from
you is among the lot!”
During this conversation Eric had entered the bank, and seeing the
interested group gathered in his father’s office came to the open door
just as the judge again mentioned the fatal sum that he had stolen
from the safe. His face instantly went white with terror, and he was
creeping away when Mr. Spaythe sprang up, seized his son’s arm and drew
him into the office.
“Gentlemen,” said the banker, turning to the others, “I too have a
story to relate, and I beg you to seat yourselves and listen.”
“May I go, sir?” asked Phil in a troubled tone.
“No, Daring; you must remain; for what I have to say concerns you
closely. Sit down.”
Phil sat down. Judge Ferguson glanced from Phil to Eric, who stood
with hanging head; then to Mr. Spaythe, whose countenance was cold and
severe and bore the marks of a secret sorrow. The constable, accustomed
to strange scenes, remained impassive and silent.
“On Saturday night,” began Mr. Spaythe, in a hard, resolute tone, “this
bank was robbed of three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars, in
gold and currency.”
Eric staggered and caught at the corner of the desk for support. Phil
grew pale, for he was astonished at the banker’s knowledge. Mr. Ferguson
knew the fact already, having listened to Phœbe’s confession, so he
merely glanced at the father and son in a thoughtful way and refrained
from comment.
[Illustration: “I’VE A STORY TO RELATE,” SAID THE BANKER.]
“My son had warned me,” continued the banker, speaking bitterly, “that
Phil Daring would not be liable to withstand the temptation of stealing
money, once he was alone in the bank and knew the combination of the
safe. At first I scorned the idea; then, for my own satisfaction, I
decided to watch. Here in my door is a sliding panel, through which I
am able to observe, when I so desire, everything that goes on in the
back room. On Saturday night I came here, letting myself in at the
private entrance to this room, and found Phil Daring working on the
books while his twin sister sat beside him. From their conversation
I discovered that they knew the bank was about to be robbed. They
arranged to watch the robbery unobserved, and I decided to do likewise.
At midnight a man entered the bank, opened the safe and took away
three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars. That man,” he added,
pointing a merciless finger toward the culprit, “was my own son.”
No one spoke. Eric tried to answer, but a sob choked him. He had raised
his head now and was reading his father’s face with a fascinated and
horror-stricken gaze.
“From the conversation of the two Darings,” went on Mr. Spaythe, “I
learned that Eric had so plotted that Phil was to be accused of the
crime--and of other peculations that preceded it. The girl promised to
save her brother, and I was curious to know how she would do it. To my
amazement they brought the money to the bank on Sunday evening, and I
saw them replace it in the safe--every penny that Eric had taken. The
act was so astonishing, so wholly unexpected and inexplicable, that
there seemed but one possible solution: that the Darings had in some
way forced Eric to give up the stolen money. So I kept silent, waiting
for an explanation, or for some further development; for if Eric had
been shown the folly and wickedness of his crime it might be better for
him not to know that I had discovered it. I may have been weak in this;
but, gentlemen, he is my son.”
The banker paused, pressed his lips firmly together, and after a time
resumed his statement.
“Further developments occurred, indeed, but they served to undeceive
me, and to add to my perplexity. Eric restored to the bank several
hundred dollars which he had formerly embezzled; he also paid his debts
around town, amounting to several hundred dollars more; I have a list
of them. Therefore, he could not have returned to the Darings the money
he took from the safe on Saturday night--and he had no other money.”
Eric drew a long and tremulous sigh. Then he sank into a chair and
buried his face in his hands. The tale was all new to him, and he found
the truth vastly different from what he had imagined. Also, despair had
seized him in its pitiless grasp, and as his eye by chance fell upon
the constable he shuddered. His father’s intentions were clear to him
now.
“Another surprising circumstance,” said Mr. Spaythe, ignoring Eric’s
dejected attitude, “was Judge Ferguson’s demand upon me for the exact
sum Eric had stolen--the exact sum Phœbe Daring had restored to
the safe. Therefore, I have asked you to listen to me that you may
understand I am entitled to some explanation. My son’s crime is known
to the Darings and to Mr. Ferguson, as well as to myself; I, only, am
in the dark concerning the events which followed it.”
“Those events I can explain in a few words, sir,” said the judge,
his kindly voice showing how deeply he was grieved for his old
friend. “Phœbe Daring had discovered her grandfather’s hoard,
which Miss Halliday had secreted in her own room. To save her brother
from unjust accusation the girl took the sum required to make good
Eric’s--eh--eh--withdrawal. Miss Halliday claimed this money was given
her by Jonathan Eliot, by a deed of gift, and threatened Phœbe
with jail unless she returned the entire sum. It was my purpose just
then to lull old Elaine’s suspicions; so I borrowed the money from
you, Mr. Spaythe, that Phœbe might return it to her grandfather’s
housekeeper. So you see that after all the various conspiracies,
Spaythe’s Bank is still short that identical sum of three thousand,
three hundred and ninety dollars.”
“Not the bank, sir,” said the other harshly, “but my personal account
is short that sum. You are relieved of all obligation to return it,
Judge Ferguson.”
The lawyer bowed.
“In that case,” said he, somewhat embarrassed, “perhaps you will permit
us now to withdraw.”
The banker sat silent a moment, his stern face pallid and thoughtful.
Then he turned to Phil.
“Mr. Daring,” he said, “I owe to you and to your brave sister my
thanks for your discretion and consideration of me in the conduct of
this unfortunate affair. Eric owes you a still greater debt. You have
behaved as a man, sir; I wish to God you had been my son instead of
that cowering criminal seated before me. Will you add a little to my
obligation--will you do me another favor?”
“If I may, sir,” said Phil, flushed and miserable despite this praise.
“Tell me what punishment to inflict upon this--thief.”
Phil straightened up and looked squarely into the banker’s eyes. He had
longed for this question; the opportunity was now his.
“Sir,” he replied, “I know Eric; I have known him for years. His fault
lay in his extravagant tastes, which forced him into debt because his
father would not give him as much money as he thought he needed. The
debts drove him to crime, and for his crime he has already suffered
such punishment as all your proposed severity could not inflict upon
him. I know Eric--tender-hearted, generous and kind--not bad, sir, in
spite of this offense he was so weak as to commit. If you will forgive
him, Mr. Spaythe, if you will love him and take him to your heart
again, I promise that never in the future will you have cause to regret
it. Eric will be honest and true from this day forward. But if, on the
other hand, you now cast him off, you will ruin his life and your own;
for a boy condemned by his own father can hope for no mercy from the
world. He is your only son, Mr. Spaythe; forgive him.”
During this impassioned speech, which came straight from the young
fellow’s heart, the banker sat staring at him with dull, expressionless
eyes. Eric had raised his head to gaze at Phil wonderingly. Then he
turned to his father a pleading look that might have melted his anger
had he seen it; but Mr. Spaythe still stared at Phil Daring, as if
dazed by the boy’s frankness.
Mr. Ferguson slowly rose and laid an arm across the banker’s shoulder.
The gesture was strangely caressing, as between one man and another.
“Phil is right, Duncan,” he said softly. “The boy is your son, and you
can make a man of him, if you will.”
Slowly the banker’s head drooped until it rested upon his arms,
outstretched upon the flat desk before him. For a time he remained
motionless, while those who watched and waited scarce dared to breathe.
Then Mr. Spaythe looked up, and the sternness had left his face.
“Eric,” he said, “you are forgiven.”