THE END OF MISCHIEF.
Arthur set out for the Curran household, where he was awaited with
anxiety. Quite cheerful over his command of the situation, and inclined
to laugh at the mixed feelings of Livingstone, he felt only reverence
and awe before the human mind as seen in the light of his own
experience. His particular mind had once been Horace Endicott's, but now
represented the more intense and emotional personality of Arthur Dillon.
He was neither Horace, nor the boy who had disappeared; but a new being
fashioned after the ideal Arthur Dillon, as Horace Endicott had
conceived him. What he had been seemed no more a part of his past, but a
memory attached to another man. All his actions proved it.
The test of his disappearance delighted him. He had gone through its
various scenes with little emotion, with less than Edith had displayed;
far less than Arthur Dillon would have felt and shown. Who can measure
the mind? Itself the measure of man's knowledge, the judge in the court
of human destiny, how feeble its power over itself! A few years back
this mind directed Horace Endicott; to-day it cheerfully served the
conscience of Arthur Dillon!
Edith and her husband awaited their executioner. The detective suffered
for her rather than himself. From Dillon he had nothing to fear, and for
his sake, also for the strange regard he had always kept for Curran's
wife, Arthur had been kind when harshness would have done more good. Now
the end had come for her and Sonia. As the unexpected usually came from
this young man, they had reason to feel apprehension. He took his seat
comfortably in the familiar chair, and lit his cigar while chaffing her.
"They who love the danger shall perish in it," he said for a beginning.
"You court it, Colette, and not very wisely."
"How, not wisely?" she asked with a pretence of boldness.
"You count on the good will of the people whom you annoy and wrong, and
yet you have never any good will to give them in return. You have hated
me and pursued me on the strength of my good will for you. It seems
never to have occurred to you to do me a good turn for the many I have
done for you. You are a bud of incarnate evil, Colette."
How she hated him when he talked in that fashion!
"Well, it's all settled. I have had the last talk with Livingstone, and
spoiled your last trick against the comfort of Arthur Dillon. There will
be no dragging to court of the Dillon clan. Mr. Livingstone believes
with me that the publicity would be too severe for Mrs. Endicott and her
family, not to mention the minor revelations connected with yourself. So
there's the end of your precious tomfoolery, Colette."
She burst into vehement tears.
"But you weep too soon," he protested. "I have saved you as usual from
yourself, but only to inflict my own punishment. Don't weep those
crocodile diamonds until you have heard your own sentence. Of course you
know that I have followed every step you took in this matter. You are
clever enough to have guessed that. You discovered all that was to be
discovered, of course. But you are too keen. If this trial had come to
pass you would have been on the witness stand, and the dogs would have
caught the scent then never to lose it. You would have ruined your
husband as well as yourself."
"Why do you let him talk to me so?" she screamed at Curran.
"Because it is for your good," Arthur answered. "But here's briefness.
You must leave New York at once, and forever. Get as far from it as you
can, and stay there while I am alive. And for consolation in your exile
take your child with you, your little boy, whom Mrs. Endicott parades as
her little son, the heir of her beloved Horace."
A frightful stillness fell in the room with this terrific declaration.
But for pity he could have laughed at the paralysis which seized both
the detective and his wife. Edith sat like a statue, white-faced,
pouting at him, her hands clasped in her lap.
"Well, are you surprised? You, the clever one? If I am Horace Endicott,
as you pretend to believe, do I not know the difference between my own
child and another's? I am Arthur Dillon only, and yet I know how you
conspired with Mrs. Endicott to provide her with an heir for the
Endicott money. You did this in spite of your husband, who has never
been able to control you, not even when you chose to commit so grave a
crime. Now, it is absolutely necessary for the child's sake that you
save him from Mrs. Endicott's neglect, when he is of no further use to
her. She loves children, as you know."
"Who are you, anyway?" Curran burst out hoarsely after a while.
"Not half as good a detective as you are, but I happen in this matter to
be on the inside," Arthur answered cheerfully. "I knew Horace Endicott
much better than his wife or his friends. The poor fellow is dead and
gone, and yet he left enough information behind him to trouble the
clever people. Are you satisfied, Colette, that this time everything
must be done as I have ordered?"
"You have proved yourself Horace Endicott," she gasped in her rage,
burning with hate, mortification, shame, fifty tigerish feelings that
could not find expression.
"Fie, fie, Colette! You have proved that I am Arthur Dillon. Why go back
on your own work? If you had known Horace Endicott as I did, you would
not compare the meek and civilized Dillon with the howling demon into
which his wife turned him. That fellow would not have sat in your
presence ten minutes knowing that you had palmed off your child as his,
without taking your throat in his hands for a death squeeze. His wife
would not have escaped death from the madman had he ever encountered
her. Here are your orders now; it is late and I must not keep you from
your beauty sleep; take the child as soon as the Endicott woman sends
him to you, and leave New York one hundred miles behind you. If you are
found in this city any time after the month of September, you take all
the risks. I shall not stand between you and justice again. You are the
most ungrateful sinner that I have ever dealt with. Now go and weep for
yourself. Don't waste any tears on Mrs. Endicott."
Sobbing like an angry and humiliated child, Edith rushed out of the
room. Curran felt excessively foolish. Though partly in league with
Arthur, the present situation went beyond him.
"Be hanged if I don't feel like demanding an explanation," he said
awkwardly.
"You don't need it," said Arthur as he proceeded to make it. "Can't you
see that Horace Endicott is acting through me, and has been from the
first, to secure the things I have secured. He is dead as I told you.
How he got away, kept himself hid, and all that, you are as good an
authority as I. While he was alive you could have found him as easily as
I could, but he was beyond search always, though I guess not beyond
betrayal. Well, let me congratulate you on getting your little family
together again. Don't worry over what has happened to-night. Drop the
Endicott case. You can see there's no luck in it for any one."
Certainly there had been no luck in it for the Currans. Arthur went to
his club in the best humor, shaking with laughter over the complete
crushing of Edith, with whom he felt himself quite even in the contest
that had endured so long. Next morning it would be Sonia's turn. Ah,
what a despicable thing is man's love, how unstable and profitless! No
wonder Honora valued it so lightly. How Horace Endicott had raved over
this whited sepulcher five years ago, believed in her, sworn by her
virtue and truth! And to-day he regarded her without feeling, neither
love nor hate, perfect indifference only marking his mental attitude in
her regard. Somehow one liked to feel that love is unchangeable, as with
the mother, the father; as with God also, for whom sin does not change
relationship with the sinner.
When he stood before her the next day in the hotel parlor, she reminded
him in her exquisite beauty of a play seen from the back of the stage;
the illusion so successful with the audience is there an exposed sham,
without coherence, and without beauty. Her eyes had a scared look. She
had to say to herself, if this is Horace then my time has come, if it is
Arthur Dillon I have nothing to worry about, before her hate came to her
aid and gave her courage. She murmured the usual formula of unexpected
pleasure. He bowed, finding no pleasure in this part of his revenge.
Arthur Dillon could not have been more considerate of Messalina.
"It is certainly a privilege and an honor," said he, "to be suspected of
so charming a relationship with Mrs. Endicott. Nevertheless I have
persuaded your lawyer, Mr. Livingstone, that it would be unprofitable
and imprudent to bring me into the suit for divorce. He will so advise
you I think to-day."
She smiled at the compliment and felt reassured.
"There were some things which I could not tell the lawyer," he went on,
"and so I made bold to call on you personally. It is disagreeable, what
I must tell you. My only apology is that you yourself have made this
visit necessary by bringing my name into the case."
Her smile died away, and her face hardened. She prepared herself for
trouble.
"I told your lawyer that if the papers were served on me, and a public
and official doubt thrown on my right to the name of Arthur Dillon, I
would not let the business drop until the Endicott-Curran-Dillon mystery
had been thoroughly ventilated in the courts. He agreed with me that
this would expose the Endicott name to scandal."
"We have been perhaps too careful from the beginning about the Endicott
name," she said severely. "Which is the reason why no advance has been
made in the search for my dear husband."
"That may be true, Mrs. Endicott. You must not forget, however, that you
will be a witness, and Mrs. Curran, and her husband, and Mr. Quincy
Lenox, and others besides. How do you think these people would stand
questioning as to who your little boy, called Horace Endicott, really
is?"
She sat prepared for a dangerous surprise, but not for this horror; and
the life left her on the spot, for the poor weed was as soft and
cowardly as any other product of the swamp. He rang for restoratives and
sent for her maid. In ten minutes, somewhat restored, she faced the
ordeal, if only to learn what this terrible man knew.
"Who are you?" she asked feebly, the same question asked by Curran in
his surprise.
"A friend of Horace Endicott," he answered quietly.
"And what do you know of us?"
"All that Horace knew."
She could not summon courage to put a third question. He came to her
aid.
"Perhaps you are not sure about what Horace knew? Shall I tell you? I
did not tell your lawyer. I only hinted that the truth would be brought
out if my name was dragged into the case against my protest. Shall I
tell you what Horace knew?"
With closed eyes she made a sign of acquiescence.
"He knew of your relations with Quincy Lenox. He saw you together on a
certain night, when he arrived home after a few days' absence. He also
heard your conversation. In this you admitted that out of hatred for
your husband you had destroyed his heir before the child was born. He
knew your plan of retrieving that blunder by adopting the child of Edith
Curran, and palming him off as your own. He knew of your plan to secure
the good will of his Aunt Lois for the impostor, and found the means to
inform his aunt of the fraud. All that he knew will be brought out at
any trial in which my name shall be included. Your lawyer will tell you
that it cannot be avoided. Therefore, when your lawyer advises you to
get a divorce from your former husband without including me as that
husband, yon had better accept that advice."
She opened her eyes and stared at him with insane fright. Who but Horace
Endicott could know her crimes? All but the crime which he had named her
blunder. Could this passionless stranger, this Irish politician, looking
at her as indifferently as the judge on the bench, be Horace? No, surely
no! Because that fool, dolt though he was, would never have seen this
wretched confession of her crimes, and not slain her the next minute.
Into this ambuscade had she been led by the crazy wife of Curran, whose
sound advice she herself had thrown aside to follow the instincts of
Edith. Recovering her nerve quickly, she began her retreat as well as
one might after so disastrous a field.
"It was a mistake to have disturbed you, Mr. Dillon," she said. "You may
rest assured that no further attempt will be made on your good name.
Since you pretend to such intimacy with my unfortunate husband I would
like to ask you...."
"That was the extent of my intimacy, Mrs. Endicott, and I would never
have revealed it except to defend myself," he interrupted suavely. "Of
course the revelation brings consequences. You must arrange to have your
little Horace die properly in some remote country, surround his funeral
with all the legal formalities, and so on. That will be easy. Meanwhile
you can return the boy to his mother, who is ready to receive him. Then
your suit for divorce must continue, and you will win it by default,
that is, by the failure of Horace Endicott to defend his side. When
these things are done, it would be well for your future happiness to lay
aside further meddling with the mystery of your husband's
disappearance."
"I have learned a lesson," she said more composedly. "I shall do as you
command, because I feel sure it is a command. I have some curiosity
however about the life which Horace led after he disappeared. Since you
must have known him a little, would it be asking too much from you...."
She lost her courage at sight of his expression. Her voice faded. Oh,
shallow as any frog-pond, indecently shallow, to ask such a question of
the judge who had just ordered her to execution. His contempt silenced
her. With a formal apology for having caused her so much pain, he bowed
and withdrew. Some emotion had stirred him during the interview, but he
had kept himself well under control. Later he found it was horror, ever
to have been linked with a monster; and dread too that in a sudden
access of passion he might have done her to death. It seemed natural and
righteous to strike and destroy the reptile.