THE ABDUCTION
Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr.
Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down.
"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I
should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to
break in upon you after--" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having
almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I--I--"
But Father Murray smiled indulgently.
"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours
with my _Imitation_ heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know
its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day.
Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires
nothing on earth?'"
"Fine--but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark.
"Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor
the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the
sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?"
"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the
religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our à Kempis had
more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into
self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the
virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty
from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.'
It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty."
"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left
you free for the more important things."
Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making
excuses, my dear Mark. You _are_ forgiven, so far as I am concerned.
But I am not the only one who has been neglected."
"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to
speak about a matter of importance."
So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward
the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he
could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the
point:
"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?"
"Yes."
"You approve?"
"Decidedly."
"But I am not of her faith."
"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay
long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark."
"And you would trust me?"
"Absolutely."
"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon,
after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I
think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"
"I have no such recollection."
"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"
"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of
mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic."
"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon.
I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong
impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of
mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were
sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see
you that morning."
"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to
see me?"
"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this:
the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite
directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come
quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in
a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he
crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.'
She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her
tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make
good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked.
'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others
only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of
course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your
church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the
door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her
hand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know I
have met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a
picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together.
Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and
the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand
now?"
"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if
Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman'
when I came out of the study to take her home."
"Then you knew her family well?"
"Her mother was my sister."
"Your sister!"
"Exactly. You are surprised?"
Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised.
"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered.
"Please be explicit."
"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself
figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his
activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself
saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss
Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are
confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several
things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced
Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have
myself seen, if she is really your niece."
"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray
anxiously.
"Certainly, Father."
"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait."
The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then
all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him.
Here was his chance.
"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related
the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed.
"You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your
reputation will be cleared now."
Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became
grave again.
"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew
there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of
that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to
keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--"
Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary
days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some
decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no
explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a
test, Mark?"
Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet
as he took it.
Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy.
Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray
stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the
deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak.
"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here."
"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got
them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer."
Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words,
the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it,
screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was
trickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of a
blow.
"_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth
is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. _Mon Dieu_, Father!
Come--come at once!"
The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had
surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga.
Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the
road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called
it.
"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them.
They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out.
I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to
fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind.
_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! Let me die!"
"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the
weeping woman. "What were those men like?"
"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark
and short, but he was very large of the shoulders."
Mark turned to Father Murray.
"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is
the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy
horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady
is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they
find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come
to Washington with me?"
"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter
to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father
Murray. "Let us go."
Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped
back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset.