BOOK IV

"_I've a neater, sweeter maiden,

In a cleaner, greener land_"

XXVI In Danger All

XXVII The Speechless Castaways

XXVIII They Comfort Each Other

XXIX The Island Haven

XXX Revelations and Withholdings

XXXI Vi et Armis

*BOOK I*

*"*_*Ship me somewheres east of Suez*_*"*

*BY THE WORLD FORGOT*

*CHAPTER I*

*A CLASH OF WILLS AND HEARTS*

"For the last time, will you marry me?"

"No."

"But you don't love him."

"No."

"And you do love me?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it."

"Would I be here if I did not?"

Now that adverb was rather indefinite. "Here" might have meant the

private office, which was bad enough, or his arms, which was worse or

better, depending upon the view-point. She could think of nothing

better to dispel the reasonable incredulity of the man than to nestle

closer to him, if that were possible, and kiss him. It was not a

perfunctory kiss, either. It meant something to the woman, and she made

it mean something to the man. Indeed, there was fire and passion enough

in it to have quickened a pulse in a stone image. It answered its

purpose in one way. There could be no real doubt in the man's mind as

to the genuineness of that love he had just called in question in his

pique at her refusal. The kiss thrilled him with its fervor, but it

left him more miserable than ever. It did not plunge him immediately

into that condition, however, for he drew her closer to his breast

again, and as the struck flint flashes fire he gave her back all that

she had given him, and more.

Ordinarily in moments like that it is the woman who first breaks away,

but the solution of touch was brought about by the man. He set the girl

down somewhat roughly in the chair behind the big desk before which they

were standing and turned away. She suffered him thus to dispose of her

without explanation. Indeed, she divined the reason which presently

came to his lips as he walked up and down the big room, hands in

pockets, his brows knitted, a dark frown on his face.

"I can't stand any more of that just now," he said, referring to her

caress; "if ever in my life I wanted to think clearly it is now and with

you in my arms--Say, for the very last time, will you marry me?"

"I cannot."

"You mean you will not."

"Put it that way if you must. It amounts to the same thing."

"Why can't you, or won't you, then?"

"I've told you a thousand times."

"Assume that I don't know and tell me again."

"What's the use?"

"Well, it gives me another chance to show you how foolish you are, to

overrule every absurd argument that you can put forth--"

"Except two."

"What are they?"

"My father and myself."

"Exactly. You have inherited a full measure, excuse me, of his infernal

obstinacy."

"Most people call it invincible determination."

"It doesn't make any difference what it's called, it amounts to the same

thing."

"I suppose I have."

"Now look at the thing plainly from a practical point of view."

"Is there anything practical in romance, in love, in passions like

ours?"

"There is something practical in everything I do and especially in this.

I've gone over the thing a thousand times. I'll go over it again once

more. You don't love the man you have promised to marry; you do love

me. Furthermore, he doesn't love you and I do--Oh, he has a certain

affection for you, I'll admit. Nobody could help that, and it's

probably growing, too. I suppose in time he will--"

"Love me as you do?"

"Never; no one could do that, but as much as he could love any one. But

that isn't the point. For a quixotic scruple, a mistaken idea of honor,

an utterly unwarranted conception of a daughter's duty, you are going to

marry a man you don't and can't love and--"

"You are very positive. How do you know I can't?"

"I know you love me and I know that a girl like you can't change any

more than I can."

"That's the truth," answered the girl with a finality which bespoke

extreme youth, and shut off any further discussion of that phase.

"Well, then, you'll be unhappy, I'll be unhappy, and he'll be unhappy."

"I can make him happy."

"No, you can't. If he learns to love you he will miss what I would

enjoy. He'll find out the truth and be miserable."

"Your solicitude for his happiness--"

"Nonsense. I tell you I can't bear to give you up, and I won't. I

shouldn't be asked to. You made me love you; I didn't intend to."

"It wasn't a difficult task," said the girl smiling faintly for the

first time.

"Task? It was no task at all. The first time I saw you I loved you,

and now you have lifted me up to heaven only to dash me down to hell."

"Strong language."

"Not strong enough. Seriously, I can't, I won't let you do it."

"You must. I have to. You don't understand. His father gave my father

his first start in life."

"Yes, and your father could buy his father twenty times over."

"Perhaps he could, but that doesn't count. Our two fathers have been

friends ever since my father came here, a boy without money or friends

or anything, to make his fortune, and he made it."

"I wish to God he hadn't and you were as poor as I was when I landed

here six years ago. If I could just have you without your millions on

any terms I should be happy. It's those millions that come between us."

"Yes, that's so," admitted the girl, recognizing that the man only spoke

the truth. "If I were poor it would be quite different. You see

father's got pretty much everything out of life that money could buy.

He has no ancestry to speak of but he's as proud as a peacock. The

friendship between the two families has been maintained. The two old

men determined upon this alliance as soon as I was born. My father's

heart is set upon it. He has never crossed me in anything. He has been

the kindest and most indulgent of men. Next to you I worship him. It

would break his heart if I should back out now. Indeed, he is so set

upon it that I am sure he would never consent to my marrying you or

anybody else. He would disinherit me."

"Let him, let him. I've the best prospects of any broker in New York,

and I've already got enough money for us to live on comfortably."

"I gave my word openly, freely," answered the girl. "I wasn't in love

with any one then and I liked him as well as any man I had ever met.

Now that his father has died, my father is doubly set upon it. I simply

must go through with it."

"And as your father sacrificed pretty much everything to build the

family fortune, so you are going to sacrifice yourself to add position

to it."

"Now that is unworthy of you," said the girl earnestly. "That motive may

be my father's but it isn't mine."

"Forgive me," said the man, who knew that the girl spoke even less than

the truth.

"I can understand how you feel because I feel desperate myself; but

honor, devotion, obedience to a living man, promise to a dead man, his

father, who was as fond of me as if I had already been his daughter, all

constrain me."

"They don't constrain me," said the man desperately, coming to the

opposite side of the big desk and smiting it heavily with his hand.

"All that weighs nothing with me. I have a mind to pick you up now and

carry you away bodily."

"I wish you could," responded the girl with so much honest simplicity

that his heart leaped at the idea, "but you could never get further than

the elevator, or, if you went down the stairs, than the street, because

my honor would compel me to struggle and protest."

"You wouldn't do that."

"I would. I would have to. For if I didn't there would be no

submitting to _force majeure_. No, my dear boy, it is quite hopeless."

"It isn't. For the last time, will you marry me?"

"As I have answered that appeal a hundred times in the last six months,

I cannot."

"Are there any conditions under which you could?"

"Two."

"What are they?"

"What is the use of talking about them? They cannot occur."

"Nevertheless tell me what they are. I've got everything I've ever gone

after heretofore. I've got some of your father's perseverance."

"You called it obstinacy a while ago."

"Well, it's perseverance in me. What are your conditions?"

"The consent of two people."

"And who are they?"

"My father and my fiance."

"I have your own, of course."

"Yes, and you have my heartiest prayer that you may get both. Oh," she

went on, throwing up her hands. "I don't think I can stand any more of

this. I know what I must do and you must not urge me. These scenes are

too much for me."

"Why did you come here, then?" asked the man. "You know I can't be in

your presence without appealing to you."

"To show you this," said the girl, drawing a yellow telegram slip from

her bag which she had thrown on the desk.

"Is it from him? I had one, too," answered the man, picking it up.

"Of course," said the girl, "since you and he are partners in business.

I never thought of that. I should not have come."

"Heaven bless you for having done so. Every moment that I see you makes

me more determined. If I could see you all the time and--"

"He'll be here in a month," interrupted the girl. "He wants the wedding

to take place immediately and so do I."

"Why this indecent haste?"

"It has been a year since the first postponement and--Oh, what must be

must be! I want to get it over and be done with it. I can't stand

these scenes any more than you can. Look at me."

The man did more than look. The sight of the piteous appealing figure

was more than he could stand. He took her in his arms again.

"I wish to God he had drowned in the South Seas," he said savagely.

"Oh, don't say that. He's your best friend," interposed the girl,

laying her hand upon his lips.

"But you are the woman I love, and no friendship shall come between us."

The girl shook her head and drew herself away.

"I must go now. I really can't endure this any longer."

"Very well," said the man, turning to get his hat.

"No," said the girl, "you mustn't come with me."

"As you will," said the other, "but hear me. That wedding is set for

thirty days from today?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll not give you up until you are actually married to him. I'll

find some way to stop it, to gain time, to break it off. I swear you

shan't marry him if I have to commit murder."

She thought he spoke with the pardonable exaggeration of a lover. She

shook her head and bit her lip to keep back the tears.

"Good-bye," she said. "It is no use. We can't help it."

She was gone. But the man was not jesting. He was in a state to

conceive anything and to attempt to carry out the wildest and most

extravagant proposition. He sat down at his desk to think it over,

having told his clerks in the outer office that he was not to be

disturbed by any one for any cause.

*CHAPTER II*

*THE STUBBORNNESS OF STEPHANIE*

At one point of the triangle stands the beautiful Stephanie Maynard; at

another, George Harnash, able and energetic; at the third, Derrick

Beekman, who was a dilettante in life. George Harnash is something of a

villain, although he does not end as the wicked usually do. Derrick

Beekman is the hero, although he does not begin as heroes are expected

to do. Stephanie Maynard is just a woman, heroine or not, as shall be

determined. Before long the triangle will be expanded into a square by

the addition of another woman, also with some decided qualifications for

a heroine; but she comes later, not too late, however, to play a

deciding part in the double love story into which we are to be plunged.

Of that more anon, as the sixteenth century would put it; and indeed

this story of today reaches back into that bygone period for one of its

origins. Romance began--where? when? All romances began in the Garden

of Eden, but it needs not to trace the development of this one through

all the centuries intervening between that period and today. This story,

if not its romance, began with an arrangement. The arrangement was

entered into between Derrick Beekman senior, since deceased, and John

Maynard, still very much alive.

Maynard was a new man in New York, a new man on the street. He was the

head of the great Inter-Oceanic Trading Company. The Maynard House flag

floated over every sea from the mast heads, or jack staffs, of the

Maynard ships. Almost as widely known as the house flag was the Maynard

daughter. The house flag was simple but beautiful; the daughter was

beautiful but by no means simple. She was a highly specialized product

of the nineteenth century. Being the only child of much money, she was

everything outwardly and visibly that her father desired her to be, and

to make her that he had planned carefully and spent lavishly. With her

father's undeniable money and her own undisputed beauty she was a great

figure in New York society from the beginning.

No one could have so much of both the desirable attributes

mentioned--beauty and money--and go unspoiled in New York--certainly not

until age had tempered youth. But Stephanie Maynard was rather an

unusual girl. Many of her good qualities were latent but they were

there. It was not so much those hidden good qualities but the dazzling

outward and visible characteristics that had attracted the attention of

old Derrick Beekman.

Beekman had everything that Maynard had not and some few things that

Maynard had--in a small measure, at least. For instance, he was a rich

man, although his riches could only be spoken of modestly beside

Maynard's vast wealth.

But Beekman added to a comfortable fortune an unquestioned social

position; old, established, assured. Those who would fain make game of

him behind his back--such a thing was scarcely possible to his

face--used to say that he traced his descent to every Dutchman that ever

rallied around one-legged, obstinate, Peter Stuyvesant and his

predecessors. The social approval of the Beekmans--originally, of

course, Van Beeckman--was like a _lettre de cachet_. It immediately

imprisoned one in the tightest and most exclusive circle of New York,

the social bastille from which the fortunate captive is rarely ever big

enough to wish to break out.

Beekman's pride in his ancestry was only matched by his ambitions for

his son, like Stephanie Maynard, an only child. If to the position and,

as he fancied, the brains of the Beekmans could be allied the fortune

and the business acumen of the Maynards, the world itself would be at

the feet of the result of such a union. Now Maynard's money bought him

most things he wanted but it had not bought and could not buy Beekman

and that for which he stood. Maynard's beautiful daughter had to be

thrown into the scales.

Maynard had no ancestry in particular. Self-made men usually laugh at

the claims of long descent, but secretly they feel differently. Being

the Rudolph of Hapsburg of the family is more of a pose or a boast than

not. I doubt not that even the great Corsican felt that in his secret

heart which he revealed to no one. Maynard's patent of nobility might

date from his first battle on the stock exchange, his financial

Montenotte, but in his heart of hearts he would rather it had its origin

in some old and musty parchment of the past.

Beekman, who was much older than Maynard, had actually helped that young

man when he first started out to encounter the world and the flesh and

the devil in New York and to beat them down or bring them to heel. A

friendship, purely business at first, largely patronizing in the

beginning on the one hand, deferentially grateful on the other, had

grown up between the somewhat ill-sorted pair. And it had not been

broken with passing years.

Maynard, unfortunately for his social aspirations, had married before he

had become great. Many men achieve greatness only to find a premature

partner an encumbrance to a career. However, Maynard's wife, another

social nobody with little but beauty to recommend her, had done her best

for her husband by dying before she was either a drag or a help to his

fortunes. The two men, each actuated by different motives, which,

however, tended to the same end, had arranged the match between the last

Beekman and the first Maynard; and that each secretly fancied himself

condescending to the other did not stand in the way. The young people

had agreeably fallen in with the proposals of the elders, neither of

whom was accustomed to be balked or questioned--for old Beekman was as

much of an autocrat as Maynard. Filial obedience was indeed a tradition

in the Beekman family. There were no traditions at all in the Maynard

family, but the same custom obtained with regard to Stephanie.

Young Beekman was good looking, athletic, prominent in society, a

graduate of the best university, popular, and generally considered able,

although he had accomplished little, having no stimulus thereto, by

which to justify that public opinion. He went everywhere, belonged to

the best clubs, and was a most eligible suitor. He danced divinely,

conversed amusingly, made love gallantly if somewhat perfunctorily,

having had abundant practice in all pursuits. For the rest, what little

business he transacted was as a broker and business partner of George

Harnash, who, for their common good, made the most of the connections to

which Beekman could introduce him.

Beekman, who had taken life lightly, indeed, at once recognized the

wisdom of his father's rather forcible suggestion that it was time for

him to settle down. He saw how the Maynard millions would enhance his

social prestige, and if he should be moved to undertake business affairs

seriously, as Harnash often urged, would offer a substantial background

for his operations.

Stephanie Maynard was beautiful enough to please any man. She was well

enough educated and well enough trained for the most fastidious of the

fastidious Beekmans. In any real respect she was a fit match for

Derrick Beekman, indeed for anybody. There was no society into which

she would be introduced that she would not grace.

From a feeling of condescension quite in keeping with his blood young

Beekman was rapidly growing more interested in and more fond of his

promised wife. Her feelings probably would have developed along the

same lines had it not been for George Harnash. He was Beekman's best

friend. They had been classmates and roommates at college. Harnash like

Beekman was a broker. Indeed the firm of Beekman & Harnash was already

well spoken of on the street, especially on account of the ability of

the junior partner, who was everywhere regarded as a young man with a

brilliant future.

Now Harnash hung, as it were, like Mohammed's coffin, 'twixt heaven and

earth. He was not socially assured and unexceptionable as Beekman, but

he was much more so than the Maynards. He did not begin with even the

modest wealth of the former, but he was rapidly acquiring a fortune and,

what is better, winning the respect and admiration of friends and

enemies alike by his bold and successful operations. It was generally

recognized that Harnash was the more active of the two young partners.

Beekman had put in most of the capital, having inherited a reasonable

sum from his mother and much more from his father, but Harnash was the

guiding spirit of the firm's transactions.

Harnash, who was the exact opposite of Beekman, as fair as the other man

was dark, fell wildly in love with Stephanie Maynard. To do him

justice, this plunge occurred before definite matrimonial arrangements

between the houses of Beekman and Maynard had been entered into.

Harnash had not contemplated such a possibility. The two friends were

in exceedingly confidential relationship to each other, and Beekman had

manifested only a most casual interest in Stephanie Maynard. Harnash,

seeing the present hopelessness of his passion, had concealed it from

Beekman. Therefore, the announcement casually made by his friend and

confirmed the day after by the society papers overwhelmed him.

To do him justice further, while it could not be said that Harnash was

oblivious to the fact that the woman he loved was her father's daughter,

he would have loved her if she had been a nobody. While he could not be

indifferent to the further fact that whoever won her would ultimately

command the Maynard millions, George Harnash was so confident of his own

ability to succeed that he would have preferred to make his own way and

have his wife dependent upon him for everything. However, he was too

level headed a New Yorker not to realize that even if he could achieve

his ambition the Maynard millions would come in handy.

The thing that made it so hard for Harnash to bear the new situation was

the carelessness with which Beekman entered into it. He felt that if

the marriage could be prevented it would not materially interfere with

the happiness of his friend. Harnash had deliberately set himself to

the acquirement of everything he desired. Honorably, lawfully, if he

could he would get what he wanted, but get it he would. He found that

he had never wanted anything so much as he wanted Stephanie Maynard.

Money and position had been his ambitions, but these gave place to a

woman. He did not arrive at a determination to take Stephanie Maynard

from Derrick Beekman, if he could, without great searchings of heart,

but the more he thought about it, the longer he contemplated the

possibility of the marriage of the woman he loved to the man he also

loved, the more impossible grew the situation.

At first he had put all thought of self out of his mind, or had

determined so to do, in order to accept the situation, but he made the

mistake of continuing to see Stephanie during the process and when he

discovered that she was not indifferent to him he hesitated, wavered,

fell. By fair means or foul the engagement must be broken. It could

only be accomplished by getting Derrick Beekman out of the way. After

that he would wring a consent out of Maynard. To that decision the girl

had unconsciously contributed by laying down conditions which, by a

curious mental twist, the man felt in honor bound to meet.

Both the elder Beekman and John Maynard were men of firmness and

decision. Wedding preparations had gone on apace. The invitations were

all but out when Beekman was gathered to his ancestors--there could be

no heaven for him where they were not--after an apoplectic stroke. This

postponed the wedding and gave George Harnash more time. Now Derrick

Beekman had devotedly loved his stern, proud old father, the only near

relative he had in the world. He decided to spend the time intervening

between that father's sudden and shocking death and his marriage on a

yachting cruise to the South Seas. It was characteristic of his feeling

for Stephanie Maynard that he had not hesitated to leave her for that

long period. The field was thus left entirely to Harnash.

The Maynard-Beekman engagement, of course, had been made public, and

Stephanie's other suitors had accepted the situation, but not Harnash.

He was a man of great power and persuasiveness and ability and he made

love with the same desperate, concentrated energy that he played the

business game. He was quite frank about it. He told Stephanie that if

she or Beekman or both of them had shown any passion for the other, such

as he felt for her, he would have considered himself in honor bound to

eliminate himself, but since it would obviously be _un mariage de

convenance_, since both the parties thereto would enter into it lightly

and unadvisedly, he was determined to interpose. And there was even in

the girl's eyes abundant justification for his action.

No woman wants to be taken as a matter of course. Stephanie Maynard had

been widely wooed, more or less all over the world. Although she did

not care especially for Derrick Beekman, she resented his somewhat

cavalier attitude toward her, and his witty, amusing, but by no means

passionately devoted letters, somewhat infrequent, too. Harnash made

great progress, yet he came short of complete success.

The Maynards were nobodies socially, that is, their ancestors had been,

and they had not yet broken into the most exclusive set, the famous

hundred and fifty of New York's best, as they styled themselves to the

great amusement of the remaining five million or so, but they came,

after all, of a stock possessed of substantial virtues. Stephanie's

father was accustomed to boast that his word was his bond, and, unlike

many who say that, it really was. People got to know that when old John

Maynard said a thing he could be depended upon. If he gave a promise he

would keep it even if he ruined himself in the keeping, and his

daughter, in that degree, was not unlike him.

Almost a year after his father's death Derrick Beekman sent cablegrams

from Honolulu saying he was coming back, and George Harnash and

Stephanie awoke from their dream.

"I love you," repeated Stephanie to Harnash in another of the many, not

to say continuous, discussions they held after that day at the office.

"You can't have any doubt about that, but my word has been passed. I

don't dislike Derrick, either. But I'd give anything on earth if I were

free."

"And when you were free?"

"You know that I'd marry you in a minute."

"Even if your father forbade?"

"I don't believe he would."

"If he did we would win him over."

"You might as well try to win over a granite mountain. But there's no

use talking, I'm not free."

"It's this foolish pride of yours."

"Foolish it may be. I've heard so much about the Beekman word of honor

and the Beekman faith that I want to show that the Maynard honor and

faith and determination are no less."

"And you are going to sacrifice yourself and me for that shibboleth, are

you?"

"I see no other way. Believe me," said the girl, who had resolved to

allow no more demonstrations of affection now that it was all settled

and her prospective husband was on the way to her, "I seem cold and

indifferent to you, but if I let myself go--"

"Oh, Stephanie, please let yourself go again, even if for the last

time," pleaded George Harnash, and Stephanie did. When coherent speech

was possible he continued: "Well, if Beekman himself releases you or if

he withdrew or disappeared or--"

"I don't have to tell you what my answer would be."

"And I've got to be best man at the wedding! I've got to stand by

and--"

"Why didn't you speak before?" asked the girl bitterly.

"I was no match for you then. I'm not a match for you now."

"You should have let me be the judge of that."

"But your father?"

"I tell you if I hadn't promised, all the fathers on earth wouldn't make

any difference. Now we have lived in a fool's paradise for a year.

You're Derrick's friend and you're mine."

"Only your friend?"

"Do I have to tell you again how much I love you? But that must stop

now. It should have stopped long ago. You can't come here any more

except as Derrick's friend."

"I can't come here at all, then."

"No, I suppose not. And that will be best. Let us put this behind us

as a dream of happiness which we will never forget, but from which we

awake to find it only a dream."

"It's no dream to me. I will never give you up. I will never cease to

try to make it a reality until you are bound to the other man."

They were standing close together as it was, but he took the step that

brought him to her side and he swept her to his heart without resistance

on her part. She would give her hand to Derrick Beekman, but her heart

she could not give, for that was in George Harnash's possession, and

when he clasped her in his arms and kissed her, she suffered him. She

kissed him back. Her own arms drew him closer. It was a passionate

farewell, a burial service for a love that could not go further. It was

she who pushed him from her.

"I will never give you up, never," he repeated. "Great as is my regard

for Beekman, sometimes I think that I'll kill him at the very foot of

the altar to have you."

Stephanie's iron control gave way. She burst into tears, and George

Harnash could say nothing to comfort her, but only gritted his teeth as

he tore himself away, revolving all sorts of plans to accomplish his own

desires.

To him came, with Mephistophelian appositeness, Mr. Bill Woywod.

*CHAPTER III*

*BILL WOYWOD TO THE RESCUE*

The three weeks that followed were more fraught with unpleasantness, not

to say misery, than any Stephanie Maynard and George Harnash had ever

passed. Of the two, Harnash was in the worse case. Stephanie had two

things to distract her.

The approaching wedding meant the preparation of a trousseau. What had

been got ready the year before would by no means serve for the second

attempt at matrimony. Now no matter how deep and passionate a woman's

feelings are she can never be indifferent to the preparation of a

trousseau. Even death, which looms so horribly before the feminine

mind, would be more tolerable if it were accompanied by a similar demand

upon her activities. Yet a woman's grief in bereavement is never so

deep as to make her careless as to the fit or becomingness of her

mourning habiliments. Much more is this true of wedding garments.

Now if these somewhat cynical and slighting remarks be reprehended,

nevertheless there is occupation even for the sacrificial victim in the

preparation of a trousseau which, were it not so pleasant a pursuit,

might even be called labor. The fit of Stephanie's dresses on her

beautiful figure was not accomplished without toil, albeit of the

submissive sort, on the part of the young lady. That was her first

diversion.

For the second relief the girl had a great deal more confidence in her

lover's promise than he had himself in his own prowess. Try as he

might, plan as he could, he found no way out of the _impasse_ so long as

the solution of it was left entirely to him, and the woman was

determined to be but a passive instrument.

The obvious course was to go frankly to his friend and lay before him

the whole state of affairs in the hope that Beekman himself would cut

the Gordian knot by declining the lady's hand. Two considerations

prevented that. In the first place, Beekman had confidingly placed his

love affair, together with his business affairs, in the hands of his

partner. Harnash had not meant to play the traitor but he had been

unable to resist the temptation that Stephanie presented, and he simply

could not bring himself to make such a bare-faced admission of a breach

of trust. Besides, he reasoned shrewdly that even if he did make such a

confession it was by no means certain that Derrick Beekman would give up

the girl. His letters, since his cable from Hawaii, had rather

indicated a strengthening of his affection, and Harnash suspected that

the realization that his betrothed was violently desired by someone else

would just about develop that affection into a passion which could

hardly be withstood.

In the second place, even if Beekman's affection for Harnash would lead

him to take the action desired by his friend, there would still be Mr.

Maynard to be won over. Harnash had not been associated with Maynard as

a broker in various transactions which the older man had engineered,

without having formed a sufficiently correct judgment of his character

to enable him to forecast absolutely what Maynard's position would be in

that emergency. Maynard had a considerable liking and a growing respect

for young Harnash. He had casually remarked to his daughter on more

than one occasion that Harnash was a young man who would be heard from.

Maynard had observed that Harnash strove for many things and generally

got what he wanted.

Perhaps that remark, which the poor girl had treasured in her heart, had

something to do with her confidence that somehow or other Harnash would

work out the problem. But Harnash knew very well how terrible, not to

say vindictive, an antagonist and enemy Maynard could be when he was

crossed. If Beekman withdrew from the engagement, broke off the

marriage, about which there had been sufficient notoriety on account of

the first postponement after the older Beekman's death, Maynard's rage

would know no bounds. He would assuredly wreak his vengeance upon

Beekman, and if Harnash were implicated in any way the punishment would

be extended to him.

Harnash knew that Beekman would not have cared a snap of his finger for

the older Maynard's wrath. He was not that kind of a man. Nor would he

himself have been deterred by the thought of it had he been a little

more sure of his position financially. Whatever else he lacked, Harnash

had courage to tackle anything or anybody, if there were the faintest

prospect of success. But to fight Maynard at that stage in his career

was an impossibility. These weighty reasons accordingly decided him

that it was useless and indeed impossible to appeal to his friend.

Again, while Harnash was accustomed to stop at nothing to procure his

ends, and while he had declared that he would murder Beekman, he knew

that although he meant it more than Stephanie supposed, he did not mean

it enough to be able to do anything like that. His mind was in a

turmoil. He really was fond of Beekman, and if Stephanie and Derrick had

been wildly in love with each other Harnash believed that he would have

been man enough to have kept out of the way and have fought down his

disappointment as best he could. As it was, there was reason and

justice in what he urged. Since Stephanie loved him and did not love

Beekman, and since Beekman's affection was of a placid nature, the

approaching union was horrible.

The wildest schemes and plans ran through his head or were suggested to

him after intense thought, only to be rejected. The problem finally

narrowed itself down to a question of time. Harnash was a great

believer in the function of time in determining events. If he could

postpone the marriage again he would have greater opportunity to work

and plan. He had enough confidence in himself, backed by Stephanie's

undoubted affection, to make him believe that with time he could bring

about anything. Therefore he must eliminate Derrick Beekman,

temporarily, at least, and he must do it before the wedding. The longer

he could keep him away from Stephanie, the better would be his own

chance. If even on the eve of the wedding the groom could disappear,

the fact would tend greatly to his ultimate advantage, provided Beekman

were away long enough.

He concentrated his mind on this proposition. How could he cause

Derrick Beekman to disappear the day before his wedding, and how, having

spirited him away, could he keep him away long enough to make that

disappearance worth while from the Harnash point of view? That was the

final form of the problem in its last analysis. How was he to solve it?

He could have Beekman kidnapped, and hold him for ransom in some lonely

place in the country. That was a solution which he dismissed almost as

soon as he formulated it. The thing was impracticable. He would have

to trust too many people. He could never keep him long in confinement.

He himself would probably become the victim of continuous blackmail. In

the face of rewards that would be offered, his employees would

eventually betray him. Sooner or later, unless something happened to

Beekman, he would get out. Harnash had plenty of hardihood, but he

shivered at the thought of what he would have to meet when Beekman came

for an accounting, as sooner or later he would. He would have to find

some other way. What way?

Now Harnash's misery was further increased by the fact that Beekman had

cabled him to go ahead with the preparations for the wedding. The

Beekman yacht had broken down in Honolulu Harbor after that long cruise,

and instead of following his telegram straight home, there had been a

week of delay. He had explained the situation by cables to Harnash,

Stephanie, and her father.

After the yacht, her engines pretty well strained from the year's

cruise, had been put in fair shape, ten days had been required for the

return passage. Beekman had some business matters to attend to in San

Francisco and he did not arrive in New York until a few days before the

wedding, which was to take place at the Cathedral of St. John the

Divine, the Bishop Suffragan and the Dean being the officiating

clergymen designate.

It was fortunate in one sense that Beekman had been so delayed, for

there was so much for him to do, so many people for him to see, that he

had little opportunity for making love to his promised bride, and he had

no chance to discern her real feelings any more than he had to find out

Harnash's position. He had, indeed, remarked that Stephanie looked

terribly worn and strained, and that George Harnash was haggard and

spent to an extraordinary degree; but he attributed the one to the

excitement of the marriage and the other to the fact that Harnash had

been left so long alone to bear the burden of responsibility and

decision in the rapidly increasing brokerage business.

When he had swept his unwilling bride-to-be to his heart and kissed her

boisterously, he had told her that he would take care of her and see

that the roses were brought back to her cheeks after they were married;

and after he had shaken Harnash's hand vigorously he had slapped him on

the back and declared to him that as soon as the honeymoon was over he

would buckle down to work and give him a long vacation. Neither of the

recipients of these promises was especially enthusiastic or delighted,

but in his joyous breezy fashion Beekman neither saw nor thought

anything was amiss.

Never a man essayed to tread the devious paths of matrimony with a more

confident assurance or a lighter heart. Nothing could surpass his

blindness.

"You see," said Stephanie in a last surreptitious interview with

Harnash, "he hasn't the least suspicion. He hugged me like a bear and

kissed me like a battering ram," she explained with a little movement of

her shoulders singularly expressive of resentment, and even more.

"Damn him," muttered Harnash, under his breath. "He wrung my hand, too,

as if I were his best friend."

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"I was, I am, and I'm going to save him from--"

"From the misfortune of marrying me?"

"I don't see how you can jest under the circumstances."

"George," said the girl, "if I didn't jest I should die. I don't see

how I can endure it as it is."

"Stephanie," he repeated, lifting his right hand as if making an

oath--as, indeed, he was--"I'm going to take you from him if it is at

the foot of the altar."

These were brave words with back of them, as yet, only an intensity of

purpose and a determination, but no practical plan. It was Bill Woywod

that gave the practical turn to that decision on the part of Harnash.

Now George Harnash came originally from a little down-east town on the

Maine coast. That it was his birthplace was not its only claim to

honor. It also boasted of the nativity of Bill Woywod. The two had

been boyhood friends. Although their several pursuits had separated

them widely, the queer friendship still obtained in spite of the wide

and ever-widening difference in the characters and stations of the two

men.

Running away from school, Bill Woywod had gone down to the sea as his

ancestors for two hundred years had done before him. Left to himself,

Harnash had completed his high school and college course and had gone

down to New York as none of his people had ever done in all the family

history. Both men had progressed. Harnash was already well-to-do and

approaching brilliant success. He had thrust his feet at least within

the portals of society and was holding open the door which he would

force widely when he was a little stronger.

Woywod had earned a master's certificate and was now the first mate,

technically the mate, of one of the ships of the Inter-Oceanic Trading

fleet, in line for first promotion to a master. Woywod was a deep-water

sailor. He cared little for steam, and although it was an age in which

masts and sails were being withdrawn from the seven seas, he still

affected the fast-disappearing wind-jamming branch of the ocean-carrying

trade.

Indeed, the last full-rigged ship had been paid off and laid up in

ordinary. Just because it was the last wooden sailing ship of the

fleet, Maynard, whose fortune had been not a little contributed to by

sailing vessels in the preceding century, had refrained from selling

her. There was a sentimental streak in the hard old captain of

industry, as there is in most men who achieve, and the _Susquehanna_ had

not been broken up or otherwise disposed of. On the contrary, every

care had been taken of her.

The demands of the great war brought every ocean-carrying ship into

service again. The _Susquehanna_ was refitted and commissioned. A

retired mariner who had been more or less a failure under steam but

whose seamanship was unquestioned was appointed to command. Captain

Peleg Fish was one of those old-time sailors to whom moral suasion meant

little or nothing. He was Gloucester born, and had served his

apprenticeship in the fishing fleet. Thereafter he had been mate on the

last of the old American clippers, had commanded a whaler out of New

Bedford, and knew a sailing ship from truck to keelson.

He was a man of a hard heart and a heavy hand. His courage was as high

as his heart was hard or his hand was heavy. He was also a driver. He

drove his ship and he drove his men. He had been a success on the

_Susquehanna_ in her time, and because of that he had been able to get

crews and keep officers. Quick passages in a well-found ship, and good

pay, had offset his proverbial fierceness and brutality. He was now an

old man, but sailing masters were scarce. Officers and men were scarce,

too, on account of the war, and although the Inter-Oceanic Trading

Company had dismissed Captain Fish because of the way he had mishandled

the steamer to which they transferred him when they laid up the

_Susquehanna_, yet they were glad to call him into service when they

decided again to make use of that vessel.

Grim old Captain Fish made but one condition. He was glad enough to get

back to the sea on which he had passed his life on any terms, and doubly

rejoiced that he could once more command a wooden sailing ship instead

of "an iron pot with a locomotive in her," as he designated his last

vessel. That condition was that he should have Bill Woywod for mate.

The two had sailed together before. They knew each other, liked each

other, worked together hand and glove, for Bill Woywod was a man of the

same type as the captain. The captain was getting old, too. He wanted

a stouter arm and a quicker eye at his disposal than his own. Besides,

Bill hated steam as much as Fish did. He was a natural-born sailor, not

a mechanic and engine driver. Among the bucko mates of the past, Bill

Woywod would not have yielded second place to anybody. They had to give

Woywod a master's pay to get him to ship, but once having agreed to do

that, he entered upon his new duties with alacrity.

The _Susquehanna_ was a big full-rigged clipper ship of three thousand

tons. Given a favorable wind, she could show her heels to many a tramp

steamer or lumbering freighter, and even not a few of the older liners.

She was carrying arms and munitions for the Russians and ran between New

York and Vladivostok through the Panama Canal.

If there was one person rough, hard-bitten Bill Woywod had an abiding

affection for, it was George Harnash. Whenever his ship dropped anchor

in New York the first person--and about the only respectable person--he

visited was his boyhood friend. To be sure, there was not much

congeniality between them. The only tie that bound them was that

boyhood friendship, but both of them were men without kith or kin, and

they somehow clung to that association. Woywod was proud of his

friendship with the rising young broker, and there was a kind of

refreshment in the person of the breezy sailor which Harnash greatly

enjoyed, especially as the visits of the seaman were not frequent or

long enough to pall upon the New Yorker.

Harnash usually took an afternoon and night off when Woywod arrived.

They took in the baseball game at the Polo Grounds, dined thereafter at

some table d'hote resort which Harnash would never have affected under

ordinary circumstances, but which seemed to Woywod the very height of

luxury. Then they repaired to some theatre, usually one of the

high-kicking variety avowedly designed for the tired business man, which

was extremely congenial to the care-free sailor; and not to go further

into details it may be alleged that they had a good time together until

far in the night or early in the morning, rather. Harnash was usually

not a little ashamed next morning; Woywod, never! With sturdy

independence Woywod would alternate being host on these occasions. On

land and out of his element he was a fairly agreeable companion in his

rough, coarse way. It was only on the ship that he became a brute. In

the nature of things the devotion, if such it could be called, was all

on Woywod's side. It was an aspiration on his part and a condescension

on the part of Harnash, however much the latter strove to disguise it.

The _Susquehanna_ had been loaded to her capacity and beyond with war

equipment for the Russian Government and was about to take her departure

from New York, when Woywod, who had been prevented before by the duties

imposed by the necessity of getting the ship ready quickly for her next

long voyage, paid his annual or semi-annual visit to his friend. Now

these visits had become so thoroughly a matter of custom that Woywod had

established the right of entrance. None of the clerks in the outer

office would have thought of stopping him, and although Harnash was very

strict in requiring respect for the sanctity of his private office

Woywod made no hesitation about entering it unceremoniously.

Like all sailors, he moved with cat-like softness and quickness. He

opened the door noiselessly and surprised his friend seated at his desk,

his face buried in his hands in an attitude of the deepest dejection.

Friendship has a discerning power as well as greater passions.

"Why, George, old boy," began Woywod, laying his hand on the other's

shoulder, and that touch gave Harnash the first warning that he was not

alone, "what's the matter?"

Harnash looked up quickly, rose to his feet as he recognized his

visitor, and grasped him by the hand with a warmth he had not shown in

years.

"Bill," he explained, "I'm in the deepest trouble that ever fell on a

man, and you come like an angel in time to help me."

Harnash must have meant a dark angel, but Woywod knew nothing of that.

"What is it, old man?" he asked. "If it's money you're needin' I got a

shot or two in the locker an'--"

"No, it's not money. I'm making more than ever."

"Been buckin' up agin the law an' want a free passage to safety? Well,

me an' old man Fish is as thick as peas in a pod, an' the

_Susquehanna's_ at your service."

"It's not that, either."

"What in blazes is it, then?"

"A woman."

"Look here, George," said Woywod, "I'm about as rough as they make 'em

an' there ain't no man as ever sailed with me that won't endorse that

there statement, but I never done no harm to no woman an' if you've

been--"

"You're on the wrong tack again, Bill," interposed Harnash, smiling.

"It's a woman I love and who loves me."

"Well, I don't reckon I can help you there unless you want me to be best

man at the weddin'."

That suggestion struck Harnash as intensely comical, as it well might,

but he hastened to add diplomatically:

"I couldn't wish a better man if there were going to be any wedding,

but--"

"Do you love a married woman?" asked Woywod, going directly to the

point.

"Not exactly."

"What d'ye mean?"

"I'll explain if you'll only give me a chance," answered Harnash, and in

as few words as possible he put the sailor in possession of the facts.

"So you want to get rid of the man, do you?" he asked, when the story

had been told.

"Yes. I don't want him harmed. I just want him out of the way."

"And you think that I--"

"If you can't help me I don't know who can."

"Look here, George," said Woywod, earnestly. "Is this square an' above

board? Are you givin' me the truth?"

"I am."

"An' the gal loves you an' you love her an' she don't love this other

chap which she wants to git out of marryin' him?"

"Right."

"Then it's easy."

"I thought you'd find a way."

"It don't take much schemin' for that. Just p'int him out to me an' git

him down on the river front some dark night where I can git a hold of

him, with a few drinks in him, an' that'll be all there is to it. You

won't hear from him until the _Susquehanna_ gits to Vladivostok, an'

mebbe not then."

"I don't want any harm to come to him."

"In course not. I'll use him jest as gentle as I do any man on the

ship."

"And he must never know that I--"

"He won't know nothin'. When a man gits drunk enough he can't tell what

happens. You might tell yer lady friend that this is a little weddin'

present I'm makin' to my oldest an' best friend, that is, if you git

spliced afore I gits back from Vladivostok."

"I'll surely let her know your part of the transaction. When does the

_Susquehanna_ sail?"

"Thursday morning. Tide turns at two o'clock. We'll git out about

four."

"You don't touch anywhere?"

"Not a place unless we're druv to it by bad weather or some accident.

But if we do git hold of a cable I'll see that he stays safe aboard, in

case, which ain't likely, we're obliged to drop anchor in any civilized

port."

"Have you got a wireless aboard?"

"Nary wireless. When we take our departure from Fire Island it's up to

Cap'n Fish an' me an' the rest of us to bring her in."

"There's no danger?"

"Well, there's always danger in sailin' the seas, but nobody never

thinks nothin' about it with a good ship, well officered, well manned

an' well found. It's a damn sight safer than the streets of New York

with all them automobiles runnin' on the wind an' by the wind an' across

the wind an' every other way at the same time. It's as much as a man's

life is worth to try to navigate a street. Never mind the danger.

We've got to settle a few little details an' then the thing bein' off

your mind we can have a royal good time. You ain't got anything on

tonight?"

"No engagement that I can't break. If it had been tomorrow, Wednesday,

it would have been different because that is the night my friend--"

"Oh, he's a friend of yourn. Why don't you tell--"

"No use, Bill; this is the only way. But because he is a friend of mine

I tell you I don't want him to come to any harm or to get any bad

treatment."

"If he buckles down to work an' accepts the situation he won't get no

bad treatment from me."

This was perfectly honest, for in the brutal school in which he had been

trained what he meted out to his men was what he had been taught was

right and what he believed they indeed expected, without which indeed

discipline could not be maintained and the work of the ship properly

done. Harnash had some doubts as to Beekman's ability to buckle down or

willingness, rather, but he had to risk something. The two friends put

their heads together and the minor details were easily arranged.

"Better tell the gal it's goin' to be all right, hadn't you?" suggested

Woywod.

"No," said Harnash, with a truer appreciation of the situation. "I

think I'll surprise her."

"It'll be a surprise, all right," laughed the big sailor. "Well, you do

your part an' I'll do mine an' if the man does his part he'll come back

to find you married an' he can make the best of it. By the way, what's

his name?"

"Is it necessary that I should tell you?"

"No, 'tain't necessary an' perhaps on the whole it wouldn't be best. If

I don't know his name I can call him a damn liar whatever he says it is,

with a clear conscience," went on the sailor blithely and guilelessly,

as if conscience really mattered to him.

*CHAPTER IV*

*A BACHELOR'S DINNER AND ITS ENDING*

Bachelors' dinners, masculine pre-nuptial festivities, that is, like

everything else with which poor humanity deals, may roughly be divided

into two kinds, which fall under the generic names of good or bad. Of

course, in practice, as in life, goodness often degenerates into badness

and badness is sometimes lifted into goodness. Such is the perversity

of human nature even at its best that when the declaration is made that

Beekman's bachelor dinner was a good one all interest in it is

immediately lost! Bad is so much more attractive in literature and in

life. Perhaps it may be said that while the dinner had not descended to

the unbridled license which sometimes characterized such affairs, and

while there were no ladies present in various stages of--shall it be

said dress or undress--nevertheless, the young fellows who were present

had a delightful time which if not as innocent as the festivities of

Stephanie's final entertainment to her lovely attendants, was

nevertheless quite what might have been expected from clean, healthy,

well-bred young Americans with a reasonable amount of restraint.

The dinner was chosen with fine discrimination and epicurean taste; it

was cooked by the best chef, served at the most exclusive club and

accompanied by wines with which even the most captious _bon vivant_

could not take issue. Perhaps some of the youngsters drank more than was

good for them--which instantly raises the question, how much, or how

little, if any, is good for a young man? They broke up at a decently

early hour in the morning in much better condition than might have been

expected.

Beekman was one of the most temperate of men. He took pride in his

athletic prowess and he still kept himself in fine physical trim. A

very occasional glass of wine usually limited his indulgence. In this

instance, however, under conditions so unusual, he had partaken so much

more freely than was his wont--his course being pardonable or otherwise

in accordance with the viewpoint--that he was not altogether himself.

This was not much more due to the plan of Harnash than to the

solicitations of the other friends who found nothing so pleasant on that

occasion as drinking to his health, and generally in bumpers. Indeed,

not once but many times and oft around the board they pledged him and

were pledged in return.

At the insistence of Harnash, Beekman had arranged to spend the night at

the former's apartment in Washington Square. Harnash made the point

that he was expected to look after him and produce him the next morning

in the best trim, therefore he did not wish him to get out of his sight.

Accordingly, Beekman had dismissed his own car and when the party broke

up about two o'clock in the morning he went away with Harnash in the

latter's limousine.

At somebody's suggestion--Beekman could never remember whose, whether it

was his or his friend's--they stopped at several places on the way down

town for further liquid refreshment of which Beekman partook liberally,

Harnash sparingly or not at all. It was not difficult for an adroit man

like Harnash, confronted by a rather befuddled man like Beekman, to

introduce the infallible knock-out drops, with which he had been

provided by Woywod, into the liquor.

As they crossed Twenty-third Street on their way down town Harnash

stopped the car. His chauffeur lived on East Twenty-third Street, and

Harnash dismissed him, saying he would drive the car down to his private

garage back of his residence in Washington Mews himself. There was

nothing unusual in this; the chauffeur subsequently testified that he

had received the same thoughtful consideration from his employer on many

previous occasions. When the chauffeur left the car, the drug had not

yet got in its deadly work. Beekman was still all right apparently and

the chauffeur subsequently testified that when Beekman bade him

good-night he noticed nothing strikingly unusual. Beekman seemed to be

himself, although the chauffeur could see that he was slightly under the

influence of wine.

By the time the car, driven by Harnash with considerable ostentation and

as much notice as possible, for he wanted to attract attention to his

arrival, reached the garage, Beekman was absolutely unconscious on the

floor of the tonneau, to which he had fallen. Harnash ran the car into

the garage, closed the doors with a bang, and ran across the intervening

court rapidly and noisily and up to his own apartments. He was

ordinarily a considerate young man, and coming in at that hour he would

have made as little noise as possible, but on this occasion his conduct

was different. He stumbled on the stairs, banged the door behind him,

fell over a chair in his room, swore audibly. People subsequently

testified that they had heard him coming in and one even saw him, quite

alone.

Without pausing an unnecessary moment in the room he made his exit from

his apartment by means of the fire escape, and this time not a cat could

have moved more silently. Fortunately, the back of the house was in deep

shadow and there were no lights adjacent. The shadow of the fence also

served him. He reentered the garage, having taken precaution the day

before secretly to oil the doors. He dragged his unfortunate friend and

companion from the limousine, stripped him of his overcoat and

automobile cap, which he put on himself. The coat he had previously

worn had differed in every particular from that of Beekman. He removed

Beekman's watch and other jewelry and his money, of which he carried a

considerable sum. These articles he stowed away in his private locker

to which his chauffeur did not have a key. He could remove them to his

office safe at his leisure. In Beekman's vest pocket he put a large

roll of his own money--he could not steal, though abduction was his

intent--and then he lifted him to the floor of his runabout which stood

in the garage by the side of the limousine.

He next removed the number plates from the car, replaced them with false

ones, and ran the car out of the garage by hand. Every part of it had

been oiled so that its movement was absolutely noiseless. Then he

shoved the car down the street, which was now deserted, until he got

some distance away from the garage. The only really risky part of the

enterprise was at that moment. Fortune favored him--or not, as the case

may be. At any rate, no one appeared. It was after three o'clock in

the morning, the street was deserted, and there was not a policeman in

sight. He climbed into the car, started it, and drove off.

He proceeded cautiously at first, seeking unfrequented and narrow

streets until he got far enough from the garage to change his going to

suit his purpose. After a time he sought the broader streets and passed

several people, mostly police officers, but them he now took no care to

avoid. He drove near them so that they would notice his general build,

which was that of his friend, and the clothes he wore, which were those

of his friend, and indeed they testified afterward that they had seen a

man dressed as and looking like Beekman, exactly as he had anticipated.

He drove past them rapidly so as not to give them time for too close a

scrutiny. Also he doubled on his trail often.

When he reached a dark, lonely, and unfrequented block near South Water

Street he drew up before the door of a dimly lighted, forbidding looking

building, the sign on which indicated that it was a sailors' boarding

house. He got out of the car, taking precaution to slip on a false

mustache and beard with which he had provided himself, and tapped on a

door in a certain way which had been indicated to him. The door was at

once opened by a burly, rough, villainous looking individual, the

boarding house master, obviously a crimp of the worst class.

"What d'ye want?" he growled out, scrutinizing the newcomer by the aid

of a gas jet burning inside the dirty, reeking hall, whose feeble light

he supplemented by a flash from an electric torch which really revealed

little, since Harnash carefully concealed his already disguised face.

"I have something for Mr. Woywod."

"The mate of the _Susquehanna_?"

"Yes."

"Well, he told me to receive an' deliver what you got."

"That was our agreement," said Harnash, the little dialogue convincing

each man that no doubt was to be entertained of the other.

"Well, where's the goods?"

"In the car."

"Fetch him in."

"He's rather heavy. Perhaps you'll give me a hand."

"Oh, all right," answered the man, putting his electric torch in his

pocket.

The two went to the car and the man easily picked up the unconscious

Beekman and unaided carried him within the door. Harnash followed. He

observed the man glanced at the numbers on the car and was glad that he

had taken the precaution to change them. The crimp now dropped the

unconscious Beekman in the hallway and turned to Harnash. He found the

latter standing quietly, but with an automatic pistol in his hand.

"You needn't be afraid of me," said the man.

"I'm not," answered Harnash. He was ghastly pale and extremely nervous,

but not from fear of the crimp. "This is just a matter of precaution."

"Well, what do I git out of this yere job?" asked the man.

"I understand Mr. Woywod will settle with you for that."

"Well, he does, but what I gits from him is the price of a foremast

hand, an' 'tain't enough."

The crimp bent over Beekman, flashed the light on him, and pulled out

the roll of bills, which he quickly counted.

"It's fair, but I'd ought to git more. This here's a swell job; look at

them clo'es."

"They're yours also, if you wish."

"That's somethin', but--"

"It's all you'll get," said Harnash, laying his hand on the door.

The man lifted the torch. Harnash lifted the pistol.

"Just put that torch back in your pocket," he said.

"You're a cool one," laughed the man, but he obeyed the order.

"If it is learned tomorrow that this man has disappeared you'll receive

through the United States mail in a plain envelope a hundred dollar

bill. If not, you get nothing."

"Suppose I croak him, how'd you know anything about it?"

"Mr. Woywod has arranged to inform me, and he will also put your part of

the transaction on record, so if you say a word you'll be laid by the

heels and get nothing for your pains. There are a number of things

against you, I'm told. The police would be most happy to get you, I

know. Just bear that in mind."

The man nodded. He knew when the cards were stacked against him. After

all, this did not greatly differ from an ordinary job and he was

getting, for him, very well paid for his part of it.

"I got relations with Woywod an' lots of other seafarin' men. My

business would be ruined if I played tricks on 'em. You can trust me to

keep quiet."

"I thought so," answered Harnash. "Good-night."

He opened the door, stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and

waited a moment, but the crimp made no effort to follow him. After all,

it was only an every day matter with him. Harnash next drove the car

down the street near one of the wharves, where he met Woywod.

"Is it all right, George?" asked the latter.

"All right, Bill. He's at the place you told me to leave him. Can you

keep the crimp's mouth shut?"

"Trust me for that," said Woywod confidently. "He's mixed up in too

many shady transactions to give anybody any information."

"I'll never forget what you've done for me," said Harnash. "Remember,

use him well."

"No fear," laughed his friend as the two shook hands and parted.

Then Harnash drove up the street, waited until he came to a dark alley,

turned into it, unobserved, got out of the car, put Beekman's coat and

hat into it, donned his own overcoat and cap, which he had brought with

him, and still wearing the false mustache and beard changed the numbers

on the car, started it, and let it wreck itself against the nearest

water hydrant.

It was a long walk up town, even to Washington Square, and he had to go

very circumspectly because he did not now wish to be seen by anyone.

Again fortune favored him. He gained the garage, crossed the court,

mounted the fire escape to his rooms, and sank down, utterly exhausted

but triumphant.

His defense was absolutely impregnable. No one could controvert his

story. He rehearsed it. He had come home with Beekman after the dinner

had terminated. They had had one or two drinks on the way. They had

dismissed the chauffeur at Twenty-third Street. When they reached the

garage Beekman, moved by some sudden whim, had insisted upon going back

to his own apartment up town in Harnash's little roadster. He had been

drinking, of course. He was not altogether in possession of his normal

faculties, but Harnash was in the same condition and therefore he had

not been too insistent. Beekman was as capable of driving the car as

Harnash had just showed himself to be. There was nothing he could do to

prevent Beekman from going away. He could not even remember, when he

was questioned, whether he had tried it or not. At any rate, Beekman

had gone away in the roadster and Harnash had gone to bed. So dwellers

in the building who heard him come in testified. One who happened to go

to the window even had seen him come in. No one had seen or heard him

go out. Harnash swore that he had not left the apartment until the next

morning.

Beekman, or a man dressed as he was known to be dressed, had been seen

by the police officers and others between three or four in the morning,

driving through the lower part of the city in a small car the number of

which no one had seen. What he was doing in that section of the city no

one could imagine. During the course of the morning Harnash's car was

found, badly smashed from a collision, lying on its side in a wretched

alley off South Water Street. Beekman's overcoat and cap were in the

car and that was all there was to it.

No matter what suspicions the crimp might have entertained, he kept his

mouth shut and received the day after the one hundred dollar bill in an

unmarked envelope which had been mailed at the general postoffice in the

afternoon. Even if he had spoken, he could not have thrown much light on

the situation. Not even the reward which was offered could tempt him.

His business demanded secrecy, absolutely and inviolable, and too many

men knew too much about him, which rendered it unsafe for him to open

his head. He would not kill the goose that laid the golden egg for him

by making further business on the same lines impossible. He really knew

nothing, anyway.

The secret was shared between two men, Woywod on the sea and out of

communication with New York, and Harnash himself. So long as they kept

quiet no one would ever know. Even Beekman himself could not solve the

mystery when he returned to New York. It was most ingeniously planned

and most brilliantly carried out. Harnash congratulated himself.

Stephanie Maynard would certainly be his long before Beekman could

prevent it. Still, George Harnash was by no means so happy in the

present state of affairs as he had planned and hoped to be. And his

trials were not over. He had to meet Stephanie, the wedding party, old

John Maynard, the public press, and the public--what would the day bring

forth?

*CHAPTER V*

*THE WEDDING THAT WAS NOT*

Stephanie Maynard had passed a sleepless night. Her love for George

Harnash grew stronger and her abhorrence of the marriage increased in

the same degree as the hour drew nearer. Too late she repented of her

determination. She wondered why she had not allowed Harnash to take her

away and end it all. What, after all, were her father's wishes, or her

own promises, or the worldly advantages they would gain, or anything

else, compared to love?

Harnash had sent word to her the day before that she was not to give up

hope, that something would happen surely, but now the last minute was at

hand and nothing had happened. A dozen times she started to call her

lover on the telephone and a dozen times she refrained. Finally the

hour arrived when the victim must be garlanded for the sacrifice. At

least, that is the way she regarded it.

She had not heard a word from her husband-to-be during the morning.

Under other circumstances that would have alarmed her, but as it was she

was only relieved. The wedding party was assembled at the brand new

Maynard mansion on upper Fifth Avenue. Two of the attendants were

school friends from other cities and they were guests at the house. The

wedding was to be followed by a breakfast and a great reception which

the Maynard money and the Beekman position was to make the most

wonderful affair of the kind that had ever been given in New York.

With the publicity which modern society courts and welcomes, while it

pretends to deprecate it, the papers had published reams about the most

private details of the engagement, even to descriptions and pictures of

the most intimate under-linen of the bride. Presents of fabulous value,

which lost nothing in their description by perfervid pens, were under

constant guard in the mansion. Details of police kept back swarms of

unaccredited reporters and adventurous sightseers. On the morning of

the wedding day the street before the Cathedral was packed with the

vulgarly curious long before eleven o'clock. The wedding was to be

solemnized at high noon, and was to be the greatest social event which

had excited easily aroused and intensely curious New York for a year or

more.

The newer members of the exclusive social circle frankly enjoyed it.

And such is the contagion of degeneration that the older members, while

they affected disdain and annoyance, enjoyed it too. The newspapers had

played it up tremendously, and the affair had even achieved the signal

triumph of a veiled but well understood cartoon by F. Foster Lincoln,

the scourge and satirist of high society, in a recent number of _Life_.

Everything was ready. The most famous caterer in New York had prepared

the most sumptuous wedding breakfast. The most exclusive florist had

decorated the church and residence. Society had put on its best

clothes, slightly deploring the fact that as it was to be a noon wedding

its blooming would be somewhat limited thereby. More tickets had been

issued to the Cathedral than even that magnificent edifice could hold

and it was filled to its capacity so soon as the doors were opened. The

famous choir was in attendance to render a musical program of

extraordinary beauty and appropriateness.

As it approached the hour of mid-day the excitement was intense. Women

in the crowd were crushed, many fainted. Riot calls had to be sent out

and the already strong detachment of police supplemented by reserves.

Thus is the holy state of matrimony entered into among the busy rich.

With the idle poor it is, fortunately, a simpler affair.

It had been arranged that Derrick Beekman and George Harnash should

present themselves at the Maynard mansion not later than eleven o'clock.

From there they would drive to the Cathedral in plenty of time to

receive the wedding party at the chancel steps. At eleven o'clock a big

motor forced its way through the crowd and drew up before the door.

From it descended George Harnash alone.

That young man showed the effect of the night he had passed. He was

excessively nervous and as gray as the gloves he carried in his hands.

He was admitted at once and ushered into the drawing room, which was

filled with a dozen young ladies in raiment which even Solomon in all

his glory might have envied, who were to make up the wedding party.

There also had just arrived the young gentlemen who were to accompany

them, who had all been at the bachelor dinner. None of them exhibited

any evidence of unusual dissipation. They had slept late and were in

excellent condition.

"George, alone!" cried young Van Brunt, who was next in importance to

the best man, as Harnash entered the room.

"Where's Beekman?" asked Harnash apparently in great surprise, as he

glanced at the little group.

"Not here. You were to bring him. It's time for us to get up to the

Cathedral anyway. I'll bet the people are clamoring at the doors now."

"They weren't to be opened till eleven-fifteen," said Grant, one of the

fittest members of the party. "It's only eleven now. We've plenty of

time."

"Well, you better beat it up now, then. Beekman will be here in a

minute, I'm sure," said Harnash. "We'll follow you in half an hour."

As the young men who were to usher left the room the girls fell upon

Harnash.

"Mr. Harnash," said Josephine Treadway, who was the maid-of-honor, "will

you please tell us where Derrick Beekman is, and why you didn't bring

him along?"

"I can't," said Harnash. "As a matter of fact I--"

"You'll tell me, certainly," interposed the voice that he loved.

He turned and found that Stephanie, having completed her toilet, had

descended the stair and entered the room. She was whiter than Harnash

himself, but her lack of color was infinitely becoming to her in her

sumptuous bridal robes, and the adoring young man decided then and there

that whatever happened she was worth it.

"Mr. Beekman," continued the girl, "was to be here at eleven o'clock

with you. It's after that now and you're here alone. Where is he? Why

didn't you bring him?"

"Miss Maynard," said Harnash formally, and in spite of himself he could

not prevent his lip from trembling, "I don't know where he is."

"What!" exclaimed the girl, really astonished, as the whole assembly

broke into exclamations. Had Harnash accomplished the impossible, as he

had threatened?

"I can't find him," went on Harnash. He could scarcely sustain

Stephanie's direct and piercing gaze. He forced himself to look at her,

however. "I don't know where he is," he repeated.

"But have you searched?"

"Everywhere. I called up his apartment on Park Avenue at ten o'clock.

They said he wasn't there and hadn't been there all night. I started my

man out at once in a taxicab, jumped into my own car, and I've been

everywhere--the office, his clubs--I've even had my secretary and clerks

telephone all the hotels on the long chance that he might be at one of

them."

"And you haven't found a trace of him? George Harnash--" began

Stephanie, but Harnash was too quick for her; he did not allow her to

finish.

"You will forgive me," he went on; "I did even more than that in my

alarm. I finally notified the police on the chance that he might have

been er--er--brought in."

He shot a warning look at Stephanie that checked further inquiries from

her.

"Why should he be brought in?" asked Josephine Treadway, who had no

reason for not asking the question.

"Why, you see," went on Harnash, "it's desperately hard to tell, and I'd

rather die than mention it, but under the circumstances I suppose--"

"Out with it at once," cried Stephanie.

"Well, we had a little dinner last night at--well, never mind where."

"We had a dinner, too," said Josephine.

"Yes, but I imagine ours was--er--different. At any rate, it didn't

break up until quite late, or, I should say, early in the morning, and

we were not--quite ourselves."

"But Derrick is the most abstemious of men."

"Exactly; so am I, and when that kind go under it's worse than--you

understand," he added helplessly.

Stephanie nodded.

"When did you see him last?"

"Why--er--I'll make a clean breast of it."

"Do so, I beg you."

"Well, then, we were right enough when the dinner broke up. Derrick and

I left the others to their own devices. He had arranged to spend the

night with me. We stopped at one or two places down town, but reached

my quarters in Washington Square about two or three o'clock."

Harnash paused and swallowed hard. It was an immensely difficult task

to which he had compelled himself, although so far he had told nothing

but the truth.

"Go on," said Josephine Treadway impatiently as the pause lengthened.

"He changed his mind after we put the limousine in the garage and

insisted on going back to his own rooms."

"Did you let him go?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Well, Miss Treadway, I couldn't help it, and, to be frank, I didn't

try. You see we were neither of us very sure of ourselves and--and--"

"I see."

"He took my runabout, drove off and--that's all."

"Have you found the runabout?"

"Yes, the police found it in an alley near South Water Street, badly

smashed. Beekman's overcoat and cap were in the car."

"Do you think he has been hurt?" questioned Stephanie, who had listened

breathlessly to the conversation between her lover and her

maid-of-honor.

"I'm sure that he can't have been," returned Harnash with definiteness

which carried conviction to his questioner, and no one else caught the

meaning look he shot at her.

"And that's all?" asked Josephine.

"Absolutely all I can tell you," he replied truthfully, none noticing

the equivoke but Stephanie, who of course could not call attention to

it.

"You poor girl," said Josephine, gathering Stephanie in her arms.

"It's outrageous. It's horrible," cried the girl, biting her lip to

keep back her tears.

She really could scarcely tell whether she was glad or sorry, now that

it had come; not that her feelings had changed, but there was the public

scandal, the affront, the--but she had not time to speculate.

"What is outrageous, what is horrible?" asked John Maynard, coming into

the room and catching her words. "What can be outrageous or horrible in

such a wedding as we have arranged? Why, Stephanie, what's the matter?

You're as white as a sheet, and Harnash, are you ill? You're a pretty

looking spectacle for a best man."

"Father," said his daughter, "they can't find Derrick."

"Can't find him!" exclaimed Maynard. "Does he have to be sought for on

his wedding day? If I were going to marry a stunning girl like you, for

all you're as pale as a ghost, I--"

"There's not going to be any wedding," said Stephanie, mechanically.

"No wedding!" roared Maynard, surprised intensely. "What do you mean?

Are you backing out at the last minute?"

"No, it's not I."

"Look here, will some one explain this mystery to me?" asked the man,

turning to the rather frightened bevy of girls. "It's eleven-thirty; we

ought to be starting. What's the meaning of this infernal foolishness?

You, Harnash, what are you standing there looking like a ghost for? One

would think you were going to be married yourself."

"Mr. Maynard," said Josephine, taking upon herself the task, "Stephanie

has told you the truth. Mr. Harnash has just come and he doesn't know

where Mr. Beekman is."

"Doesn't know where he is?"

"He can't be found, sir," said Harnash.

"Do you mean to tell me that he has run away and left my girl in the

lurch? By God, he'll--"

"I'm sure it isn't that," said Harnash earnestly, "but the fact is we

had a bachelor dinner last night."

"Of course you did, but what has that to do with it?"

"Everything. I guess we indulged a little too much."

"Well, bachelors have done that fool thing since time and the world

began."

"Yes, but Beekman hasn't been seen since early this morning, two or

three o'clock."

"Who saw him last?"

"I did," said Harnash, briefly repeating his explanation.

"What did you do?"

"I 'phoned to his house and they said he hadn't been there all night. I

dressed, sent my man out in a taxi, took my own car, summoned the office

force to my assistance, and Dougherty's detectives, and I've scoured the

city for him."

"The police?"

"I have notified them, of course, as soon as they reported the finding

of my runabout. They're on the hunt, too. We have even called up every

hotel in the city. He's not to be found."

"It must be foul play," said Maynard, taking Harnash's account of it at

its face value.

"I suppose so," said Harnash, wincing a little, although he would fain

not, and again shooting a quick glance at Stephanie, and then daringly

following it with a quick gesture of negation to reassure her.

"Where that car was found it wouldn't take much to interest a thief."

"No. He had a watch, jewelry, money. Indeed, I have a dim remembrance

of his flashing a roll in some place or other."

"That will be it."

"Meanwhile what is to be done, sir?"

"It's a quarter to twelve now," said Josephine Treadway.

"God, how I hate this," said old Maynard. "Here," he stepped to the

door and called his private secretary, "Bentley, drive up to the

Cathedral like mad, tell the Bishop that the wedding is called off.

Yes, don't stand there like a fish; get out."

"But we'll have to give some reason to the people, explain to the guests

in the church," expostulated the secretary.

"Reason be damned," said Maynard, roughly.

"Excuse me," said Harnash, "it would be better for all concerned, and

especially Miss Maynard, if the matter were explained at once, and

fully. You wouldn't like to have anyone think for a moment that she had

been left in the lurch."

"Mr. Harnash is right, sir. It must be explained as well as it can."

"Very well, Bentley," said his employer. "Tell the Bishop that Mr.

Beekman has disappeared, that we are of the opinion that he has met with

foul play, that under the circumstances there is nothing to do but call

off the wedding and have the explanation announced in the Cathedral in

any way he likes, and then get back here as quickly as possible.

Stephanie, I'd rather have lost half my fortune than have this happen,

but keep up your courage. I feel that nothing but some dastardly work

would have kept Beekman away. He is the soul of honor and he was

passionately devoted to you. Don't faint, my dear girl."

"I'm not going to faint," said Stephanie, resolutely. "Girls, I'm

awfully sorry for your disappointment," she faltered.

"Don't mind us," said Josephine.

"I'm afraid that perhaps you--you--"

"We're going at once," explained one of the bridesmaids, "if you will

have our motors called up."

"Of course," said Maynard. "Harnash, you attend to that and then come

to me in the library. William," he added to the footman who came in

obedience to his summons, "get me the chief of police on the telephone

and when the reporters come, and they will be here just as soon as the

announcement is made at the church, show them into the library in a

body. I've got to see them and I'll see them all at once. Harnash, you

come, too. You can tell the story better than anyone."

*CHAPTER VI*

*STEPHANIE IS GLAD AFTER ALL*

The sudden disappearance of one of the principals in the Maynard-Beekman

wedding was the sensation of the hour. John Maynard was deeply hurt and

terribly concerned because he was very fond of Beekman, and because in

spite of his bold front the young man's failure to appear had reflected

upon his daughter. The lewd papers of the baser sort, playing up the

bachelor dinner, did not hesitate to point this out, and insinuations,

so thinly disguised that every one who read understood, appeared daily.

That there was not a word of truth in them was of little consequence

either to the writers who knew they were lying or to the public, which

did not. The clientele of such papers was ready to believe anything or

everything bad; especially of the idle rich.

Reportorial and even editorial--which is worse--imagination was

unrestrained. As the newspapers had devoted so much space to the

preparations, they did not stint themselves in discussing the aftermath

of the affair. The police bent every energy to solve the mystery.

Maynard was a big power in public affairs and they were stimulated by a

reward of one hundred thousand dollars which Maynard offered for tidings

of the missing man, a reward which made the wiseacres put their tongues

in their cheeks as they read of it.

The gorgeous wedding presents were returned. The lovely lingerie of the

bride, which had been so talked about, was laid away and the bride

herself was denied to every caller. Even George Harnash sought access

to her person in vain. The scandal, the humiliation, had made her

seriously ill, and by her physician's orders she was allowed to see no

one.

However, the first person she did admit was George Harnash. Indeed, so

soon as she was able to be about she called him up and demanded his

immediate presence. He had been waiting for such a summons. He knew it

was unavoidable. It had to come. He dropped everything to go to her.

He was horrified when he saw her. He had got back some of his nerve and

equipoise to the casual observation, although he still showed what he

had gone through to a close scrutiny. He had been catechized and

cross-questioned, even put through a mild form of the third degree by

the police, but little to their satisfaction. He could tell them

nothing definite. They got no more out of him than he had volunteered

at first. They were completely and entirely mystified.

Several steamers had sailed for various ports that day and night, but it

was easily established, when they reached port, that they had not

carried the missing man. They completely overlooked the _Susquehanna_

for reasons which will appear. Beekman's disappearance remained one of

those unexplained mysteries for which New York was notorious. The reward

still stood and the authorities were still very much on the alert, but

they were absolutely without any clue whatsoever. Derrick Beekman had

disappeared from the face of the earth. Besides Harnash, there was only

one person in the city who had any definite idea as to the cause of his

departure, and that was Stephanie Maynard. A proud, high-spirited girl,

she had suffered untold anguish in the publicity and scandal and

innuendo.

"My God, Stephanie!" cried Harnash, as she received him in a lovely

negligee in her boudoir. "You look like death itself."

"And I have passed through it," said the girl, "in the last week. Now,

I want you to tell me where Derrick is."

"Stephanie," answered Harnash, "it would be foolish for me to pretend

that I don't know."

"It certainly would."

"I told you that I meant to have you and that I would stop the wedding

if I had to take you from the altar steps."

"But we didn't get that far."

"It amounts to the same thing. I--er--took him. It was easier."

"Where and how did you take him?"

"Don't ask. I can't tell."

"And you have covered me with shame inexpressible. I shall never get

over it as long as I live. How could you do it? How could you?"

"Are you reproaching me?"

"Reproaching you!" cried Stephanie. "Do you think I could tamely endure

this public scandal, this abandonment, without a word?"

"But I did it for you."

"Yes, I suppose so, but that doesn't make it any less humiliating."

"Stephanie, tell me, do you love Derrick Beekman?"

"No, I hate him."

"And me?"

"I hate you, too."

"Oh, don't say that."

"I wish I were dead," cried the girl. "I can never go out on the street

again. I can never hold up my head anywhere any more, and it's your

fault. What have you done with him?"

"Do you want him back? Do you want to go through with the marriage?

Look here," said Harnash, "desperate diseases require desperate

remedies. I'll tell you this, and that is all I will tell you. I am

sure Derrick is all right. He will come to no harm."

"Are you holding him a prisoner somewhere?"

"I am not."

"I don't understand."

"It is better not. It isn't necessary," answered Harnash stubbornly.

"And you actually made away with him?"

"I got him out of the way, if that's what you mean. But he's alive,

well, and in no danger. I caused it to be done--"

"Are you sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

"Don't you know that you've done a criminal act?"

"Of course I know it. Do you think I'm a fool because I'm crazy in love

with you?"

"And don't you know you will have gained his eternal enmity and the

enmity of my father when they find this out?"

"I don't care about anybody's enmity unless it's yours."

"Well, you've almost gained mine."

"Almost, but not quite. You feel horribly now. I understand. Do you

think it has been joyful to me to have put my best friend out of the way

and to have brought all this scandal and shame upon you? But there was

no other way. You're mine in the sight of God and I'm going to make you

mine in the sight of men."

"But my father will never forgive you when he knows."

"I don't think he will ever find out my part, or Beekman either."

"Why not?"

"I can't explain, but if your father does find out what can he do? In

six months I'll be independent of anything and anybody and when we are

married we can laugh at him and at the rest of the world."

"At Beekman, too?"

"Yes, even at him. Stephanie, you don't know what it is to love as I

do. For you I'd stop at nothing short of murder. You didn't believe me

when I said that, but I meant it. I've made myself a criminal, I admit,

but for your sake. Now am I going to fail of my reward? Do you want me

to produce Derrick Beekman? Do you want him to come back and throw me

in jail and marry you? Well, I didn't expect it; I didn't count upon

it--" this was only a bluff, of course, since by no means could Harnash

have got back Beekman from the _Susquehanna_ then--"but if that is what

you really want say the word. Can you turn down a love like mine, that

will stop at nothing for your happiness? I swear to you that I believe

it is as much for your happiness as my own. I won't say it is all for

you, because I want you, but I am thinking of you all the time. I

couldn't bear to see you in his arms. What is the little bit of

scandal? It will be forgotten. When you are my wife I'll take care of

you. If you don't want to live here we'll live anywhere. If I pull off

two or three big deals that are in the air I'll be able to do anything.

Oh, Stephanie, you aren't going back on me now?"

"You know that I couldn't do that," answered the girl, greatly moved by

his passionate pleading. After all, she did love this man and not the

other.

"You're the kind of woman that a man will do anything for. I'm sorry

for Beekman, I'm sorry for everything, but I'm going to have you." He

came close to her as he spoke. "Do you understand that?" he asked,

raising his voice. "I did it for you, you, and no man shall balk me of

my reward. If you won't come willingly, you shall come unwillingly."

"Oh," said the girl, "how horribly determined and wicked you are, and

yet--"

As she looked up at him the passion with which he spoke, rough, brutal

as it was, quickened again her heart that she thought was dead. For the

first time in weeks the color rushed into her face.

"That's right," said Harnash, watching her narrowly. "I can still bring

the blood to your cheeks."

He bent over her, he dragged her almost rudely from her seat and crushed

her against him. He kissed her as roughly as he had spoken.

"This," he said, "pays for everything. If I'm found out, if I have to

go to jail, I don't care. I'm glad. You love me. You can't deny it

and in your heart of hearts you're glad and you'll be gladder every hour

of your life."

The girl gave up. After all, what possibility of happiness did she have

except with Harnash? More and more she appeared before the world as a

thing cast off and scorned. Harnash's position in society and business

was improving every day, but it was not that which influenced her. She

really loved him. She responded to his pleading. Mistaken though he

was, vicious as had been his design, that effort, wrong as was his

method, showed her how much he loved her.

"You're not going to fail me now, are you? You need not answer. I can

feel it in the beat of your heart against mine."

"No," said the girl. "I'm yours, I suppose."

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, I know. No one else would want me, discarded."

"I want you. I'd want you if the whole world rejected you."

"And you won't tell me where Derrick is?"

"No, it's a heavy secret to carry in one's breast. I feared that they

would worm it out of me. You can't know what I've gone through," he

went on. "I've been suspected and questioned and cross-questioned, but

I never gave it away. It was you who kept me up. The thought of you

always, you, you, you! Meanwhile I'm slaving my life out, almost

wrecking my brain, to carry out these big deals, and when it is over and

I have you they can do their worst. Your father, Beekman when he comes

back--"

"Oh, then he will come back?"

"Of course he will. And I'll face them all. I don't know whether I

have damned myself for you or not, but if I have, I don't care," he went

on recklessly.

"It was my fault, anyway," said the girl. "I should have been stronger.

I should not have agreed to such a marriage, and I should not have kept

the agreement when I loved you."

"You need not say that," said Harnash--there was good stuff in him---"It

is all my own plan and scheme. You were bound, and there was only one

way to break the bond. Now I give myself six months. By that time the

talk will have died out and we will be married."

"I'll marry you," said the girl, "or I'll marry no one else on earth,

but before I marry you you must bring Derrick Beekman into my presence

and he must release me."

"That is a harder thing than what I have done, but I'll do it. Provided

you will help me."

"I will, but how?"

"When you see him you must tell him that you don't love him and that you

wish to marry me."

"Very well. I'll do that part."

"And I'll do the other."

"Promise me, on your word of honor."

"Honor!" exclaimed Harnash bitterly. "Do you think, after what I have

done, that I've got any honor, that you could trust to?"

"I'll be trusting myself to you," said the girl, "and you know what that

implies."

"Say that you are glad that it has happened as it has, despite the

scandal."

Stephanie looked at him a long time.

"You poor boy," she said, drawing his head down and kissing his forehead

in that motherly way which all women have toward the men they love until

the maternal affection has a chance to vent itself in the right

direction. "How you must have suffered for me."

"It was nothing."

"Yes, I am glad," she said at last.

*CHAPTER VII*

*UP AGAINST IT HARD*

When he went to bed, what time it was when he awakened, or where he was

at that moment were facts about which Derrick Beekman had no ideas

whatsoever. At first he was conscious of but one thing--that he was;

and that consciousness was painful, not to say harrowing, to the last

degree. For one thing, he was horribly sick. The place where he lay

appeared to be as unsteady as his mental condition was uncertain. He

was heaved up and down, tossed back and forth, and rolled from side to

side in an utterly inexplicable way to his bewildered mind. And every

mad motion threw him against some bruised and painful portion of his

anatomy.

As he struggled to open his eyes it seemed to him that he was lying in

pitch darkness. His ears were assailed by a concatenation of discordant

noises, creaks, groans, thunderous blows of which he could make nothing.

No one has ever pictured hell as a place of reeking odors and hideous

sounds. Why that opportunity has been neglected is not known. Certainly

the popular brimstone idea of it is highly suggestive. At any rate, the

bad air and other indescribable odors, to say nothing of the noises that

came to him, added to his physical perturbation and wretchedness. Under

the circumstances, the wonder was not so much that he did not think

clearly, but that he could think at all. It was only after some moments

of sickening return to consciousness that he became convinced that he

was alive and somewhere.