THE INEXPLICABLE
Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel
lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective
vigorously.
"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is
there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray
wants to catch that."
Saunders was alert in an instant.
"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at
the Junction--have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though.
What's up?"
"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay
the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the
rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot."
Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the
train."
In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the
station platform, grips in hand.
"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?"
Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the
detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information
which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning
effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship
to Ruth Atheson.
"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that
these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from
Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer."
"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only
answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his
companions.
Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached.
Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective.
"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how
long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here
to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin
with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our
effects?"
"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The
Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph
for sleeper reservations."
Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was
said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less
so.
"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as
they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I
suppose it has to be done."
The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There
was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to
surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial.
"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to
Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended.
The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of
absence, and send someone to take my place?"
The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with
a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the
message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request.
"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday,
and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime."
Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes
were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering:
"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I
think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore."
At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he
announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they
were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I
have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best
possible, so late."
When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father
Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious
for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down
and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case.
"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He
pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous.
"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar
about this whole business."
"Yes, I know that very well."
"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of
the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I
expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to
have taken would probably look the best way to them."
"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?"
"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and
Ruth Atheson at the same time."
"Decidedly not."
"She is one or the other."
"Well?"
"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson."
"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know
is good. Then, look at his distress."
"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till
my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he
should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is _not_ the Duchess?"
"N-no."
"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the
abduction?"
"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily.
"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?"
"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness
gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too.
What is it now?"
"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the
mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it."
He paused.
"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly.
"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible
bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced
into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the
second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a
clear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone became
impressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the
other was--your lady of the tree."
Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.
"Don't do that; there may be others to notice."
"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"
"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and
the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree
is on this train."
It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths.
Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular
breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they
dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all
their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new
development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently
to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal
it from him altogether.
Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was
greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold
and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand
Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better
than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there
could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed
book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she
loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he
knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage
between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to
other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to
the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it?
There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by
the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her
identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that
this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There
was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the
girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the
sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before.
He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never
love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly
abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by
her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did
the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could
only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train
kept saying:
"You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knew
that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.
Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the
terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to
remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke.
He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole
car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end
of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he
was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There
were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with
frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and
his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:
"Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise
outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers
rushed out, all white with fear.
Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried.
"In his berth; he may be hurt."
They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end
of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted
him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid
him down in the air. He opened his eyes.
"What--what is it?" he asked.
"Wreck--there was a collision," answered Saunders.
Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward,
if it is forward--where the people are--maybe dying."
Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he
knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his
battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him
to silence.
"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a
preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's
ways."
So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were
being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by
some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and
splintered freight cars of the other train.
"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the
frightened conductor.
The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered.
The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it.
"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to
them."
A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark
tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes
opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest
bent low to catch the words.
"Father--don't--risk--trying--to get me--out--before you hear--my
confession."
"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated
Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly."
"The only--chance--I want--is my--confession. Quick--Father."
With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened.
The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile
of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution.
"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out."
The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The
blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there
lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and
unexpected contentment.
Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked
freight, lying beside the tracks--both dead. Then they went to the
lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent
form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For
others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But
sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand
in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul.
Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders.
Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for
the same face. It was not there. Yet _she_ had been in the wrecked
coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight
track, as Mark turned to a brakeman.
"Are there any others?"
"Yes; two--across the track."
Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending
over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole
world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville
were lying there--both dead.
The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They
stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see
through his tears--but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found
that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within
pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her
now in but one setting--a great empty church at the end of springtime,
crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a
little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew.
He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her
cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man
within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's
sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears.
Saunders aroused him.
"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet.
He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it."
Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said
something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from
the wrecked car, just as the priest came up.
"Are there others?" the priest asked.
Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent.
"No, Father, no others."
"But these--" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies.
"They are--already dead, Father."
"God rest them. I can do no more."
The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang to
support him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted,
with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses.
"It's all right, Father," said Father Murray to his confrere. "I found
them all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There are
many of your people, too," he said, turning to the Protestant
clergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show--"
He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious.
The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to look
at him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no cause
for alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow.
In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watching
closely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the face
of Ruth Atheson.
When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Mark
put his hand on the priest's arm.
"Don't, please, Father. She is dead--one of the two you saw lying on
the other side when you came over."
"Yes, I know. But I should like to see." Father Murray started to
raise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him.
"Please do not look, Father."
The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him with
widely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at the
covered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drew
near to catch him. But he did not fall.
"I think--Mark--that I will look. I can drink of the chalice--if it
must be--I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw the
blanket back."
But Mark could not.
Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the covering
reverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the face
stood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched the
features for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. The
priest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Thee
for sparing me, Lord."
He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face.
Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders.
"God rest her. It is not Ruth."
[Illustration: "God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an
age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"]
Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by the
blow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what was
going on in Mark's mind.
"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous--"
"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in his
voice.
"Yes, my friend--likeness. I--" the priest hesitated--"I knew her
well. It is not Ruth."