Clytie shook her head. "No."

"Could you tell me why not?"

"I'm afraid I can't, Fancy."

"I'm terribly worried about it. I'm sure there's some trouble. Oh,

Miss Payson, I know he's awfully unhappy. And I can't bear that!"

Clytie walked to the window and looked out, standing there with her

hands behind her back. There was a faint line come into her forehead.

"I'd rather not talk about it," she said quietly.

"But I'm sure that if there is any misunderstanding, I might help you.

Oh, Miss Payson, I don't want to be impertinent, but I can't bear it to

think that he isn't happy. Can't you tell me about it?"

Clytie turned slowly, a look of pain deepening on her face. "I can only

tell you this, that I was mistaken in him."

"Mistaken? How?"

"Not in quality, so much as in quantity, if you know what I mean. I

know what he's capable of, what he has done, and what he can do. I

don't feel any anger or resentment, for what I know, now, that he has

done. I feel only pity and sorrow for him."

"But what _has_ he done? That's just what I want to know. You mean

that it was something definite?"

"Yes."

"And--you believed it of him?" Fancy could not restrain her surprise.

"I had to believe it. Oh, Fancy, don't you understand? It was the sort

of thing that no woman could forget. It was of no importance except as

showing that he wasn't so far along as I had thought. It merely means

that I'll have to wait for him. And I shall wait for him. I'm so sure

of him that I can wait, though it hurt so at first that I couldn't

possibly see him. That's all."

Fancy bit her lip. There was a little, determined shake of her head

that Clytie did not see. "Miss Payson," she said, "you must tell me

what it was. I've heard Professor Vixley say a thing or two that aroused

my suspicions." She went on slowly, with an effort. "I know that Frank

adores you--that he has, ever since that night you came with him to his

office, after his accident."

"Oh, but this was after that," Clytie said wearily. "It was something he

told Vixley."

"After that! Why, Frank hasn't had anything to do with Vixley or Madam

Spoll since then, except to try to get them to leave your father alone."

"I saw his own handwriting, Fancy; the very notes of what I had talked

about to him--even the little intimate things--they nearly killed me.

And Professor Vixley told me himself that Frank had been giving him

information right along, up to only a few weeks ago--while we had been

so happy together--oh, to think of it!"

Fancy's face had varied in phase, like the opening and shutting of the

clouds. Now it was eager, rapt "Oh, I understand, now!" she cried,

jumping up.

"Why, Miss Payson, Vixley can no more be trusted than a gambler! Don't

you know that he's wild with Frank? Vixley's got it in for him; he is

trying to ruin him! Don't you know that Frank has been trying to buy

him off, just to save your father from being cheated by them? Why,

Frank offered Vixley a thousand dollars to leave town, only last week.

Vixley told me so himself!"

"A thousand dollars? That's impossible." Clytie's voice was still

hopeless.

"I can't imagine where he got the money, but he had it with him, in

cash. Vixley said so."

"How long ago was that?"

"Two weeks ago, about."

Clytie reflected. "I saw Frank on the platform at Stockton, two weeks

ago. I wonder--"

"Yes, it was the day after he got back, I remember now."

"Oh!" Clytie's face lightened as if another person had come into the

room. She looked away, as if to greet an unseen visitor. Her hand was

raised delicately. "I see." Her voice came suddenly, definitely. Then

she stared hard at Fancy. "Oh, Fancy, I'm almost frightened at it! I

don't dare to believe it. Oh, if I've made a mistake in suspecting him.

If I've accused him to myself unjustly, how can I ever bear it! But I

saw those notes--"

"And you didn't ask him to explain them?" Fancy spoke very slowly. She

did not accuse, she only wondered.

"No." Clytie's tone had dropped low, and she went on, fluttering

hurriedly. "I simply went away. Oh, think of it--it was as

melodramatic as a play--that's the way women do on the stage, isn't it?

But you see, I _did_ know awful things about him. Fancy--he had told

me, and I suspected more. There was something in the notes about my

present to father, and his birthday had only just passed. That proved

to me that Frank's notes had been made recently, I thought."

Fancy looked at her with a quizzical expression. "I knew a fellow once

who used to call me a marmoset. I guess that's what you are, you poor

dear! Why, Frank told me about your binding a book for your father the

day he first came here. You must have spoken of it then."

"I did!" Clytie fairly threw out. "I remember it now! And that was

_before_--before he really knew me, wasn't it! Oh, what shall I do,

Fancy?" Her look was, for the moment, as helpless as a child's.

"Do?" Fancy repeated, shrugging her shoulders. "Why, the telephone wires

are still working, aren't they?" She spoke a bit dryly. She had done

her work, now, and relapsed into a sort of apathy.

"And I prided myself on my intuition, and on my fairness!" Clytie went

on, unheeding her. "I knew that I saw in him what no one else saw--not

even you, who knew him so well, and who wouldn't suspect him of anything

so base as that! To think of my being the victim of such a claptrap

trick!"

Fancy raised her eyebrows and watched her quietly. "What I can't

understand now, is why you're wasting your time talking about it."

Clytie stared at her, her face still shadowed by her emotion. Then her

smile came rapturously. She turned and ran down-stairs to the

telephone.

Fancy walked to the window forlornly. There she leaned her head on her

arm against the pane and shut her eyes, as if she were fatigued. It was

black in the west, and the Marin shore was shrouded in the murk. The

harbor was covered with dancing whitecaps. The storm was imminent. She

stayed there, motionless, until Clytie's step was heard coming up, then

started into life again and gave herself a shake.

"He's coming right up!" Clytie announced.

Fancy immediately looked at the blue enameled dial of her little silver

watch. "Well, I must be going."

"Oh, please stay!" Clytie exclaimed, holding her tightly. "I really

want you to, so! It's you who have done it all."

Fancy smiled at last, and released herself. "Yes, I've spent my life in

straightening out other people's snarls," she said. "Sometime I hope

some one will be able to straighten mine. But I've got a date, really."

"Oh, do tell me that you're as happy as I am," Clytie exclaimed. "I've

been so selfish, I'm afraid! I don't know who he is, but I'm sure he

must be fine, if you care for him. How I wish I could help you, dear!"

"The only way you could, I'm afraid, is by lending me some of your

brains--and I'm afraid they wouldn't fit my noddle. He's awfully

clever, and I feel like a fool when I'm with him."

"But you do really love him, don't you?" Clytie asked anxiously.

Fancy nodded gravely. "I guess yes. As much as I can love anybody.

I'm afraid of him. That's one sign, isn't it?"

"And you can't tell me who he is?"

"Not yet."

"Fancy, when you're married, I'll give you a wedding."

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

She turned to go, but hesitated a moment, as if she could hardly make up

her mind to ask the question, yet couldn't go without asking it. "Miss

Payson," she said finally, "did you tell Frank that I had been here?"

"Of course I did!"

"What did he say?"

"He said that it was like you. That you always played fair."

"Good-by!" Fancy said, and suddenly breaking through the reserve that

had so far constrained her, she laid her cheek for a moment to Clytie's.

Clytie kissed her. The two walked down-stairs arm in arm. At the front

door Fancy paused and said:

"Take my advice, Miss Payson, and don't explain. Never explain. If you

once get into that habit you're lost. It only wastes time. Get right

down to business and stay there. Your head belongs on his shoulder,

remember that. All Frank will want to know is what you're going to do

next. Keep him guessing, my dear, but never explain! Now, I'm going to

try and get home before it rains."

She turned up her collar, gave a quick toss to her head, and walked

rapidly down the garden path. At the gate she turned, gaily gave a

mock-military salute, a relic of her old vaudeville manner, then ran

down the steps.

Clytie watched her till she had disappeared. Then she went up-stairs

and changed her frock.

Fancy's sage advice was wasted. There were explanations, a torrent of

them, when Francis Granthope came, explanations voluble, apologetic,

impetuous, half-tragic, semi-humorous. The equilibrium of Clytie's mind

was completely overturned and its readjustment came only after a

prolonged talk. Every trace of the priestess, the princess, the

divinity was gone forever, now. She was more like a mother rejoicing at

the restoration of a lost child, for whose absence she blamed her own

neglect and carelessness. It was all too delightful for Granthope to

wish to cut it short. He was hungry for her.

He, too, had his explanations and his news. For two weeks his hands had

been tied. Clytie had disappeared from his ken, and he had had no way

of tracing her, for it was useless to telephone to the house or to ask

of her father. There had been nothing for it but to wait in the hope

that whatever had caused the interruption would come right of itself. He

had never really felt sure of Clytie--her acceptance of him had seemed

too wonderful to be true, a fortune to which he was not really entitled,

and which he might lose any instant. Whether or not Vixley or Madam

Spoll had effected the separation, he had no way of determining.

He told then of his trip to Stockton where, by establishing his identity

by means of the finger-prints, he had succeeded in obtaining possession

of the money he had deposited there so many years ago. This had

amounted, with interest, to several thousand dollars. He had gone

immediately to Vixley to seal the bargain they had made, but the

Professor had absolutely refused to accept any payment for leaving town.

Indeed, he had hinted that he had schemes on foot which would bring him

an income that Granthope could not hope to rival. How matters stood

between Mr. Payson and the mediums, neither Granthope nor Clytie knew.

They had not yet heard of the materializing seance, and the situation

was, so far as they knew, the same as before. It was agreed that there

must be another attempt to rescue Mr. Payson, and this time through

Doctor Masterson, who was probably venal.

Granthope, meanwhile, however, had perfected his plans. He had

sufficient money, now, to warrant his devoting himself to the study of

medicine, a project he had so long contemplated that, with the start he

had already made, would make it possible for him to practise in two or

three years. He had, therefore, abandoned all idea of going upon the

stage. Clytie approved of this with considerable relief. The prospect

of reviving gossip by Granthope's appearance as an actor had caused her

much dread. They had already been much talked about. Society had

discussed them until it had grown tired. Nothing was sensational enough

to last long as an object of curiosity in San Francisco, and a

half-dozen other affairs had caused them to be almost forgotten.

After this first flurry of talk, in which she had come down from that

lofty spiritual altitude where she had dwelt for the last two weeks, she

was sheer woman, thrilling to his words and to the sense of his

nearness. As they had progressed in intimacy her maternal instinct had

asserted itself more and more frankly towards him. She had treated him

at times almost as if he were a boy whose education she was fondly

directing. She had lost some of that feeling, now, in virtue of her

mistake; she was curiously humble.

He, too, had somewhat changed. Before Clytie's direct gaze he had lost

something of his power; he had been afraid of her. In this readjustment

the normal phase of courtship was restored, and, feeling his way with

her, delicately perceptive as he always was with women, he began to

notice that she would willingly resign the scepter--she would gladly be

mastered if he would but put forth his power. She was learning to be a

woman; she would be conquered anew.

He was to learn all this slowly, however; so slowly that, at every

manifestation of her inclination he had a moment's pause for the wonder

of it, tasting the flavor of her condescension, marveling at his own

conquest. To him, as to all lovers, his sweetheart had been a woman

different from all her sex. He was now to find that she was not one

woman but two--that in her the subtly refined spirit of his vision

shared her throne with that immemorial wild creature of primal impulse

who is the essence of sex itself; who, subdued or paramount, dwells in

all women, saints and sinners alike. He had, in virtue of his victory,

merged those two warring elements in her soul into one. She had come

into her birthright, not lost it. She seemed a little frightened by the

metamorphosis, but there was a triumph of discovery, too; he reveled in

its manifestation, but he was still timorous before the new, splendid,

potent being he had invoked. There was an intoxicating excitement, now,

as he saw in her traces of every woman he had known. It was as if,

after exploring a strange land and meeting its people, he had at last

come upon the queen who combined all the national characteristics and

fused them with the unique distinction of royalty.

They had, also, as yet, a whole lovers' language to manufacture,

metaphors to weave into their talk, words to suggest phrases, phrases to

stand for moods and emotions. But such idioms are untranslatable--they

will never bear analysis. For love is a subjective state, whose

objective manifestations are ridiculous. No one can see a kiss--it is a

state of being.

But into this relation they entered, as children go to play, making

their own rules of the game, establishing their own sentimental

traditions as lovers use. With such vivid imagination as both possessed

the pastime became deliciously intricate; it had pathos and comedy, wind

and dew and fire. They spoke in enigmas, one's quick intuition

answering the other--there were flashes so quick with humor that a smile

was inadequate in satisfying its esoteric message. An observer would

have seen Clytie, her eyes alight, her pose informed with gracile

eagerness, waking from her gentle languor to inspired gesture--Granthope

pacing the room, erect, virile, dark, sensitive in every fiber to her

presence, flinging a whimsical word at her, or with a burst of abandon

pouring himself out to her to her delight. There was an intellectual

stimulation as well as an emotional pressure in their intercourse that

forbade any monotony of mood. There was a tensity of feeling that

broke, at times, into waves of laughter; but there were moments, too,

when the sudden realization of their relation, with all its doubts, its

unknown paths, and secret, fatal web of circumstance, impelled them to

make sure, at least, of the moment, and to defy the future with an

expression of their present happiness. So they came down, and so they

went up. From height to depth, from shadow to light he pursued her. He

chased, but she was ready enough to be caught! She held a hand to him

and helped him up; they met in delightful solitudes of thought; they

walked together through the obvious. That he should so follow her, that

she could understand, there was wonder enough, even without that other

diviner communion. It was a lovers' play-day, now; there was time

enough for the lovers' ritual and the worship at the shrine. For this

day was the untellable, impossible delights of wonder. They took

repossession of their kingdom, no longer jeoparded by doubt.

It was Clytie, who, at last, grew more bold, more definite. She rose

and put her two hands on Granthope's shoulders, smiling at him with

pride in her possession.

"I can't wait any longer," she exclaimed. "I've suffered enough.

Before anything else comes between us, let's settle it so that nothing

can separate us. You see, my instinct has triumphed after all. I'm

sure of you--indeed, I always have been. I must speak to father

to-morrow, and, if you like--" She hesitated, in a sudden, maidenly

access of timidity.

"We'll be married--instantly? Dare you?" He crushed her impetuously in

his arms, not even this time without a wonder that she should permit

him, not quite daring even yet to believe that she was more than

willing.

She freed herself with an expression that should have reassured him.

"There's nothing, now, to be gained by waiting, is there?"

"Nothing, if you can live on what I can provide."

She laughed at the very absurdity of it. "It may be hard, but I think I

can manage father," she went on. "He's too fond of me really to oppose

what I'm set on."

"I only wish I could do something to assure him, to propitiate him,"

said Granthope. "My position has been so undignified that I've had no

chance. I have been meeting you surreptitiously, and I suppose he

suspects me of being after your money."

"While the truth is, I'm after yours!"

"I wonder if, after all, it _is_ mine?" he said thoughtfully. "I have

never been able to find any heirs of Madam Grant--and her last message

to me seemed to be that I should have what she left."

"Oh, it's yours, I'm sure!" she said.

"I long so to know about her! If I could once convince your father of

my sincerity there's much I'd like to ask him."

"Father is a strange man. He is often unreasonable and prejudiced in

his judgment and treatment of people, but there's a warm vein of

affection underneath it all. There's something hidden, something almost

furtive, even in his attitude toward me, sometimes, that I can't

understand. I happened on a queer evidence of his emotional side only a

little while ago. There is a big trunk up-stairs in our garret where my

mother's things are stored. It's always kept locked; I've never seen

the inside of it. Well, I started to go up into the attic for

something, and as I was half-way up the steps where I could just see

into the loft, I heard a noise up there. Father was on his knees, in

front of that trunk. He was examining something in his hand. There was

a tenderness and a pathos in his posture--I got only one glimpse of him

before I went down again. You know my mother died when I was about five

years old--soon after that day at Madam Grant's. He never seems to want

me to talk about my mother at all; he evades the subject whenever I

mention her. I think that he must have been very fond of her, and it's

still painful to discuss her."

"Have you ever asked him about that clipping about Felicia Gerard?"

"Why, he's as reserved about her, too. Isn't it. strange? But I'm sure

that she was Madam Grant--there's a mystery about her I can't fathom.

Do tell me more about her. You don't know how queer it seems that I

have actually seen her."

He gave her all he knew of the strange, mad woman's life--it was not

much, as he had been so young then--his straying into her rooms, her

adoption of him, his education, his loneliness, his love. She warmed to

him anew as he told the story.

"Ah, that's the part of you I know and love the best!" she exclaimed.

"How good you were to her! If anything could make me love you more, it

would be your devotion to that poor, lonely, ravaged soul. It seems as

if you have served me in serving her, and I would like to think that I

could pay you back, by my love, for all you gave her. It stirs me so to

think of her pain and her despair!"

"Let's make a pilgrimage!" he said impulsively. "I haven't been inside

the Siskiyou Hotel since I was a child, though I've passed there often

enough. It's a pretty disreputable place now, I'm afraid."

"Oh, yes!" Clytie caught up with his eagerness. "Think of seeing that

place again, where we first met! It will be a celebration, won't it!

How long is it? I don't quite dare think."

"Twenty-three years!"

"And all that time we've been coming together--"

"It was a wide curve my orbit traced, my dear!"

"It's one of the mysteries of life that while we seem to be going away

from each other, we're as really coming together. But we'll travel the

rest of the course together, I'm sure!"

They set out, forthwith, on their quest for what had been. It had begun

to rain, but their spirits were unquenchable by the storm. The

excursion was, indeed, an adventure. Granthope himself felt his fancy

aroused at the thought of the revisitation of the old home. It had a

double charm for him now, as the spot where the two women who had most

affected his life had been.

He left her under the shelter of an awning while he went into the saloon

to interview the bartender who rented the rooms in the building. The

man had heard of Madam Grant, though it was so long since she had lived

there. There were still stories told of her wealth and her

eccentricities, as well as of her occult powers. The rooms had even, at

one time, been reported to be haunted, but they had always been let

easily enough. At present they were occupied by some Russians. Yes,

Granthope might go up; perhaps they would let him in.

They ascended the narrow, dingy stairs together. The wall was grimy

where many dirty elbows had rubbed the plastering; the rail was rickety

and many balusters were missing. Granthope rapped at the door in the

hall with a queer, sick feeling of familiarity, though it was as if he

had read of the place in some story rather than a place he had used to

inhabit.

A Jewess opened the door, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, her face

plump and good-natured. She smiled pleasantly.

"Would you mind our coming in to look at your rooms?" he asked.

"What for?" she said.

"Why, I used to live here when I was a child, and I'd like to show this

lady the place."

"If you want to, you can, I suppose. It ain't much to look at now,

though. We have to take what we can get, down here."

Her curiosity was appeased by the coin which Granthope slipped into her

hand, and she sat down to her sewing phlegmatically, looking up

occasionally with little interest.

The place was, of course, much changed. The windows were washed, the

floor scrubbed and partly covered with rag rugs. It was well furnished

and well aired. Granthope pointed but the little chamber where Madam

Grant had slept, where his own bed had been, and, finally, the closet

from which he had first spied upon her. Clytie looked about silently,

much moved, and trying to bring back her own recollections of the place.

"If I close my eyes, I can almost see it as it was," she said. "I can

almost get that strange feeling I had when I came here. If I could be

here for a while alone I think I could see things. I'd like to go into

the closet again. Let's see if the crack is still in the door."

It was still there. She asked permission to go inside, and the Jewess

rather uncomfortably agreed. The place was filled with clothing; it was

close and odorous; the shelves were filled with boxes, rags and

household belongings. Clytie went in rather timidly.

"Go over where I sat in the front room, that day," she said. "I want to

look through the crack, as you did. I'd like to be locked in, too, but

the key is gone."

She closed the door on herself while Granthope walked to the bay-window

and looked idly out. It was such a strange sensation, being in the old

place again, that for some moments he lost himself in a reverie; then,

turning and not seeing Clytie, he walked rapidly to the door and opened

it.

She stood there, leaning back against the wall of clothing with a

wondering, far-away expression, her eyes staring, her face white, her

breath coming fast through her parted lips. He took her hand, thinking

that she was fainting, and led her out. She recovered herself quickly

and drew him into the front room.

"I saw my father while I was in there," she whispered. "He was looking

about the room furtively, as if searching for something. What can it

mean? I'm afraid something has happened to him--I'm alarmed about it. I

must go right home and see if anything's the matter. I had a strange

feeling, like a pain, at first, in the dark, and I was frightened. Then

I saw him. Come, let's go away!"

She went up to the Jewish woman and shook hands with her, thanking her

for the courtesy. The old lady patted Clytie's hand approvingly.

"That's funny, what everybody wants to see my room for," she said, "but

I don't care when I get a dollar every time, do I? Last week they was

an old gentleman here, like you was, to see it!"

"What was he like?" Granthope inquired.

"Oh, he was bald-head, with a spectacles and some beard."

Granthope and Clytie exchanged glances.

"He must have been down here for something," she said. "I can't make it

out. I'm afraid that there's some trouble. It worries me."

*CHAPTER XIX*

*FANCY GRAY ACCEPTS*

The rain had come in a vigorous downpour, washing away the mantle of

dust that had so long lain over the city. The storm finally settled

down to a steady pelting of heavy drops, lightened occasionally to mild,

drizzling showers, only to be resumed with greater violence toward

night. Every one was glad for the flushing the town received. There

was a novelty and excitement about the rain, a relief after the parched,

monotonous months of cloudless skies. Men and women walked the streets

smiling, the women especially; for that free, fearless gaiety, the

almost abandoned good nature of San Francisco girls, was not to be

quenched.

On Thursday evening, Fancy Gray, to all appearance her old, gay self,

smiling as if she had never a care in the world, went down to Fulda's to

dine with Blanchard Cayley.

In a city of restaurants, Fulda's restaurant was unique. The Pintos had

discovered the place, and by their own efforts had made it. Maxim and

the artists of the quarter had gained Fulda's consent to a new scheme of

decoration, a plan so mad and impudent that the room was now a

show-place for visitors. The walls were covered with cartoons and

sketches as incongruously placed, perhaps, as the embossed pictures on a

bean-pot, but what was lacking in art was made up for by a bizarre,

esoteric humor that was the perpetual despair of the uninitiated.

Maxim's chief contribution, a huge cartoon with caricatured portraits of

his friends, had the place of honor; it was a superb piece of low comedy

in crayons. Beyond this the sketches became more grotesque, the

inscriptions more cryptic. Quotations from Rabelais, from Brantome,

from Chesterton, Whistler and Wilde were scattered here and there,

mingling with fiery burlesques of Bohemians, Philistines, lobsters and

artists. No one, not even the authors, knew the point of most of these

jokes well enough to explain them intelligibly, and it was this baffling

suggestiveness which drew patrons to the restaurant and kept its charm

piquant. One saw at each table new-comers with questioning faces

pointing to legends in Greek and Esperanto and Yiddish, and wondering at

the inscrutable accompaniment of illustration. It was a sort of mental

and artistic hash spread upon the walls. The humor grew fiercer as one's

eyes rose to the ceiling. There, a trail of monstrous footprints,

preposterous, impossible, led, with divagations, to a point above the

central table which was always reserved for the Pintos. To crown this

elaborate nonsense, they had drawn a frieze below the cornice with

panels containing the names of the frequenters of the place, alternated

with such minor celebrities as Plato, Browning and Nietzsche.

In a larger city, such a place would have had a temporary vogue, and

then, after having been "discovered" by reporters and artists, have sunk

into the desuetude of impecunious rural diners-out, one of the places of

which one says: "Oh, you should have seen it two years ago." But San

Francisco is of that fascinating size, half-way between town and city,

and of that interesting age where the old is not quite forgotten and the

new not quite permanently instated,--it is, above all, so delightfully

isolated that it need not ape the East. Though it has outgrown some of

its Western crudities, it is significant that such a restaurant as

Fulda's could become and remain a resort for the gathering of the

cleverest spirits in town. It had already achieved that reputation; it

was patronized by the arts. The visitors, for the most part, either did

things or wanted to. One was apt to know almost everybody there. If

one didn't know Mr. Smith, one's friend did; or one knew Mr. Smith's

friend.

To this place entered Fancy Gray, drifter, the day after the

materializing seance, in a new, blue mackintosh and a pert but

appropriate hat. She nodded, to Felix, at the counter, and, following

underneath the trail of footprints on the ceiling, came, jovially as

ever, to the central table. Dougal, Elsie and Benton were sitting at

the far end of it. Dougal sprang up with a grin.

"Come and sit down quickly and tell us all about it!" he exclaimed.

"What happened after we left?"

She sat on the side of a chair without removing her coat, and gave them

her ever-ready smile. "Say, you didn't raise a rough house or anything,

did you? I thought it would be a case for the coroner before you got

through. If I'd known you were going to be there I wouldn't have been

in the cast. Wasn't it awful? Madam Spoll was pretty badly burned, I

hear."

"I hope I'll never have to see anything as horrible as that again," said

Benton. "But I did what I could. I hope she'll recover."

"We waited till the police and the ambulance came and then we got out,"

Dougal added. "There was nothing more to do but testify. Did you see

the account of it in the paper? I believe they're going to have more

about it, and play it up for all it's worth. What became of you, Fancy?

Last I saw of you you had skipped into that back room."

"Oh, as soon as I had put on my shoes, I got out as quick as I could by

the back way. I didn't know whether the house was going to be pulled or

not. I'd had trouble enough for one evening. I'm all black and blue

now, from Dougal's holding me."

"How did Vixley feel, I wonder? He must have been pretty sore."

"Sore! I guess he was, in more ways than one. But Flora Flint was the

funniest! They found her in the cabinet, half dressed, after all the

crowd was cleared out--she had been afraid to move."

"How did you happen to be there, anyway, Fancy?" Elsie asked. "I

thought you hadn't done anything with that medium crowd for years."

It was not often that Fancy was embarrassed, but she seemed so, now.

"I haven't. I don't know why I did--except--they asked me, and I wanted

to oblige somebody--and I needed the money. I had forgotten I had told

you to go to Flora's."

"Aren't you going to eat?" Dougal asked. Fancy usually dined at the

central table several times a week. Cayley's attentions were already on

the wane.

"No, I've got free eggs to-night," was the reply.

Her eyes had been on the door of the restaurant, and, at this moment,

they were rewarded by the sight of Blanchard Cayley, who entered and

looked about the room for her. "Well, I'm going to meet my royal

meal-ticket," she said, rising and waving a hand at him. He nodded, and

came down to her, bowing to several friends on the way, and the two took

a table beyond the Pintos. She faced Dougal who made disapproving faces

at Cayley's back.

The room filled up. One long table was decorated, with flowers, and a

party of ladies and gentlemen from up-town soon came in and took seats

there. They began immediately to chatter and look about the walls,

commenting upon the decorations. At other tables Fancy saw artists,

newspaper men and men about town, who had been pointed out to her

before. To some of them she nodded. Cayley knew many more. It was like

a great family dining-room.

"Well?" said Cayley, in his peculiar tone that made of one word a whole

sentence.

"I evidently made a hit. I hope you're satisfied, now."

"You certainly brought down the house." There was a sarcastic, almost a

surly note in his voice.

"I'm awfully sorry things went wrong, Blan," she said. "I wouldn't have

done it if I'd known the crowd was going to be there. I'm sorry now I

consented to take part. I hope I'll never see Vixley again. He was

horrid to me."

"I've seen Vixley. He says Madam Spoll isn't expected to live."

"Isn't it awful? I didn't want to do it, Blan, you know I didn't; I

wouldn't have done it for anybody but you. I don't see how you can bear

to have anything to do with Vixley. Ugh! What _did_ you want me to do

it for, anyway?"

"Oh, only to find out some things, that's all. Of course I couldn't do

it myself, could I?"

It was evident, now, that he had been drinking. He had not shown it in

his walk or in his voice, but there was a slight glaze to his eyes that

told the story. He had been abstinent for so long that Fancy wondered

at it. He ordered a flask of chianti and poured two glasses.

"You oughtn't to begin again, Blan--don't!" she said anxiously.

"Water's good enough for me."

"Pshaw! Don't worry, I'm all right. You don't think I'm drunk, do

you?" He laughed harshly.

"N--no, but I don't like it."

"Forget it, Fan; nobody ever saw me drunk. I only get confidential,

that's all. _In vino veritas_. There's a double meaning there.

Exoteric and esoteric."

At this moment the waiter appeared with a stone bottle and two Chinese

cups. "Mr. Dougal sent this over with his compliments. It's _sake_,"

he explained. Fancy kissed her hand to Dougal, and poured for herself

and Cayley.

"Ugh! It's horrible!" she said. "Isn't it?"

"No, it's the real thing; I like it." Cayley drank it all and helped

himself to more.

"Did you find out what you wanted to know?" said Fancy, proceeding with

her dinner daintily.

"No, the row came just in time to queer the whole thing."

"Of course you know that if Dougal had had any idea it was me--"

"Oh, it wasn't Dougal, it was old man Payson--he caught on--"

Fancy laid down her fork, and narrowed her eyes. "_Payson?_" she

repeated.

"Yes, of course; the old chap you were talking to, weren't you?"

She looked at him with a strange expression. "Payson? I didn't think--I

was too excited to realize--I mean--who is he, Blan?" Her hands fell

into her lap and clasped one another tightly.

"Oh, an old boy I know, a good sort, but a fool. No fool like an old

fool, is there?" He poured another glass of chianti, without noticing

how intense she had grown. His eyes were dallying with two good-looking

girls across the room.

"Is Miss Payson--the one who was with you at Carminetti's--his

daughter?"

He looked up at her sharply, now, but her frown meant nothing to him.

He returned to his tagliarini. "Yes--why?" he said.

"Tell me about her, Blan, please," Fancy begged, with an unusual air of

anxiety.

"Nothing to tell, except she's a disdainful beauty, and a little too

haughty for me. Fastidious, pre-Raphaelite, and super-civilized and all

that. You wouldn't care for her, any more than you would for a

Utamaro." He smiled to himself at what Fancy had once said of Japanese

prints.

"H'm!" Fancy put her chin in her hands, and kept her eyes on Cayley.

"So that old gentleman was her father," she said in a low unimpassioned

voice. "It was Miss Payson's father I was hired to fool!" Suddenly she

spoke up more sharply, but with a tremor in her voice. "What did you

want me to play spirit for, Blan? Out with it!"

He saw now that something was wrong. It made him peevish.

"What do you know about Miss Payson, anyway?" he demanded.

"I've--seen her."

"Well, what did you think of her?"

"I thought she was a thoroughbred."

"Indeed?" Cayley thought it over, looking somewhat abstractedly at a

picture on the wall, entitled: "_Je congnois la faulte des Boesmes._"

Then he turned with an open countenance to her and said, with an air of

candor:

"You see, Fancy, I happened to know Payson was in the clutches of Vixley

and this Spoll woman--they were sucking his blood. I thought I could

rescue him if you would play spirit, and then tell Payson afterwards

what a fraud it all was. Understand now?" He smiled blandly.

"I see," she said, and went on with her dinner.

"Then again," Cayley remarked, "I thought you wouldn't mind getting even

with Granthope."

This brought her up again with an angry flush. "What has he got to do

with it?"

"Well, he played it rather low down on you, didn't he?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Oh, he fired you."

"He didn't! I left of my own accord." Fancy's lie came impetuously.

"Did you know that he's after Miss Payson, now?"

"So I've heard."

"You're remarkably amiable about it, my dear. You didn't really care

for him, then?" His smile was unendurable.

"I never explain. If people can't understand without explanations, they

never can with them."

"Then you don't mind it at all?" he insisted.

"No--I don't mind it. I'm glad." The words came from her slowly, this

time.

"What d'you mean?"

Fancy was silent.

"Well, don't you think he ought to be--shown up a little?" He was on

his third cup of _sake_, but his hand was as steady as ever.

Her lips parted, and her breath came suddenly for an exclamation, but

the protest got no further than her eyes. She dropped them to the

table-cloth, where she marked crosses with her little finger-nail.

Dougal was making overt attempts to attract her attention and the

diversion was maddening.

"What d'you mean?" she asked.

"If you were really a good enough friend of mine to help me out--"

"Oh, I'll help you out, Blan; what d'you want me to do?" she said quite

eagerly, now. He did not notice her suppressed excitement.

"Well--I suppose you know a good deal about him?"

She nodded wisely.

"And some things, I suppose, might make considerable difference if they

came out? You know what I mean."

"Do you want me to tell them?" she flung fiercely at him.

He took alarm, and, reaching across the table, attempted to touch her

hand. She evaded him. "Of course I don't want you to do anything

dishonorable--but--you said yourself she was a thoroughbred--do you

think it's quite the square thing to stand by and let a man like him

marry a nice girl like Miss Payson?"

"I thought you said she was supercilious!"

"No, super-civilized, that's all. Call it statuesque. But all the same

I hate to see her get stung--don't you, now? Come!" He leaned back and

folded his arms.

"She's too haughty for you, I thought!"

"Did I say that? Well, I'm a friend of the family, you know--I want to

do what I can for them."

She reached nervously for her wine-glass, and her hand, trembling,

struck the chianti flask and tipped it over. Before she could set it

straight it had spilled into a plate, drenching a napkin which lay

partly folded there. The linen was turned blood red. Cayley laughed at

her carelessness loudly. Dougal looked across again, but Fancy avoided

his eye.

"Blan," she said, leaning slightly towards him and speaking low, "do you

love me? Or are you just playing with me?"

He seemed to consider it. Then he said, very earnestly, and evidently

with a subtle psychological intent, "I'm only playing with you, Fancy!"

And he smiled.

Her fingers drummed on the table.

"But I'll never treat you the way Granthope did," he added.

Her hands came together again in her lap. "That'll be all about

Granthope," she said through her teeth.

"See here," he insisted, "you know what a cad he's been as well as I do!

He's trying to marry Miss Payson, damn him! I've seen her with him

often. If you'll just go up to her and tell her a few things--you

needn't violate any confidences--just enough to put her on her guard--we

can head him off and spoil that game!"

"Oh!" Fancy's breast heaved violently. "I _see_!" she exclaimed

slowly. Her eyes blazed at him. "So _that's_ what you've been after

all this time, is it? I think I know you now, Blanchard Cayley!"

Her eyes did not leave him as her right hand stole over the cloth,

reaching for the wine-soaked napkin, and grasped its dry end. Slowly

she rose from her seat, stood up, and leaned far over the table towards

him.

Then, raising her hand suddenly, she struck him as with a flail, once,

twice across the cheek, across the eyes, leaving a purple stain whose

drops trickled down into his beard. The sound was heard all over the

room, and drew all eyes. For a moment she watched him put up his arm to

ward off the blows; then, with a gasping sob, she turned and ran swiftly

down to the door and out into the street.

Cayley, his face now reddened not only by the wine, but from the furious

flush which burned in his cheeks, sat for a moment as if paralyzed.

Then he wiped the mark with his napkin, automatically. His face worked

like a maniac's. He rose deliberately, reached for his hat and strode

down the aisle after her.

Dougal saw the pursuit just in time. Quickly his foot shot out into the

passage, and Cayley, passing, tripped over it, and fell headlong upon

the floor. Dougal, cigarette in mouth, leaped out of his chair and held

him lightly. Benton jumped up and stood by him, ready. Cayley was

mumbling curses. They helped him up politely, and Dougal muttered:

"Go back to your table, Mr. Cayley, and sit down there for five minutes.

If you don't, by God, I'll kill you!"

The room buzzed with exclamations; every one stared.

Cayley stared sullenly, his mouth open, then turned back and sat down

and put his hands to his forehead, leaning on the table.

Dougal conferred with Benton. "You wait here, Benton, and wherever

Cayley goes, you follow him. I'm going out after Fancy. There'll be the

hell to pay to-night if we don't find her. I've never seen her that way

before, and it looks like trouble to me!"

With that, he hurried out of the restaurant.

She had run out into the rain without either coat or umbrella. Turning

down Commercial Street in the direction of the ferry, she walked

hurriedly, as if bent on some special errand; but, at the foot of Market

Street, she hesitated, then crossed, walked along East Street past the

water-front, saloons and sailors' boarding-houses, stumbling and

slipping on the uneven, reeking, board sidewalks. Then she went up

Howard Street, dark and gloomy, all the way to Fourth Street. Here she

made back for the lights of Market Street, crossed, looked idly in at a

drug store window for fully five minutes. A man came up and accosted

her jocosely. She turned and stared at him without replying a word, and

he walked away.

Then, almost running, now, she flew straight for Granthope's office.

Looking up from the street, she saw a light in his window. She ran up

the stairs and paused for a moment to get her breath outside his office

door. Just at that moment a voice came to her from inside, and then a

man's answered, followed by a chorus of soft laughter. She stood

transfixed, biting her lip nervously, listening. The woman's voice went

on, evenly.

Fancy staggered slowly down the stairs and went out again into the

storm. Down Geary to Market Street, down Market Street, hopelessly,

aimlessly. Here the rain beat upon her mercilessly in great sheets.

Again she stopped, looking up and down wildly. Finally she turned the

corner and went into the ladies' entrance of the "Hospital." A waiter

led her to a booth where she could be alone.

The "Hospital" was, perhaps, the most respectable saloon in the city

where women were permitted. The whole rear of the establishment was

given over to a magnificently fitted-up department devoted to such women

as were willing to be seen there. One might go and still retain a

certain relic of good-repute, if one went with a man--there were married

women enough who did, and reckless girls, too, who took the risk; but it

was on the frontier of vice, where amateur and professional met.

From a wide, carpeted passage booths opened to right and left; little

square rooms, with partitions running up part way, screened off with

heavy red plush portieres hanging from brass rods. Each of these

compartments was finished in a different kind of rare wood, handsomely

designed. Arching from a heavy, molded cornice, where owls sat at

stately intervals, an elaborately coffered ceiling rose, and in the

center was suspended a globe of cathedral glass, electric lighted,

glowing like a full moon.

Fancy hung up her jacket to dry and ordered a hot lemonade. Then she

went down to the telephone and called up Gay P. Summer's house number.

She got him, at last, and asked him, tremulously, to come down to the

"Hospital" and see her. She would wait for him. He seemed surprised,

but she would not explain, and, after a short discussion, he consented.

She went back to the "Toa" room and waited, sipping her drink.

All about her was a persistent babble of voices, the women's raucous,

hard and cold, mingled occasionally with the guffaws of men. Across the

way, through an opening of the portieres, she could see an over-dressed

girl tilted back in her chair puffing a cigarette. White-aproned waiters

passed and repassed, looking neither to the right nor left.

She was staring fixedly at the wall, her elbows on the table, her chin

on the backs of her hands, when Gay entered a little crossly. She

looked up with a smile--almost her old winning smile--though it drooped

in a moment and was set again with an effort.

"Hello, Gay, here I am again!" she said. She gave him her cold little

hand.

He drew off his rain coat and sat down, as fresh and pink as ever, the

drops still glistening on his cheeks. "What's up?" he said, touching

the electric button and pulling out his cigarette case.

"I'm through with Blanchard Cayley," she said, watching him.

"It's about time," he remarked.

"Aren't you glad to see me, Gay?"

"Sure!" he answered, without looking at her. He scratched a match, and,

after he had lighted his cigarette, looked up at the waiter who appeared

in the doorway. "Two Picon punches," he said. Then he turned to her

and folded his arms.

"What can I do for you, Fancy?"

He seemed, somehow, to have grown ten years older since the time they

had frolicked together at the beach. His cheek was as blooming, his

figure as boyish, but his eyes were a little harder. His voice showed a

little more confidence, and his pose was quite that of the man of the

world. Much of his charm had gone.

"Gay," she said, "we were pretty good friends, once."

"That's what we were, Fancy. How much do you need?"

She recoiled as if he had struck her and buried her face in her arms on

the table. Her shoulders shook convulsively. "Oh, I didn't want to

graft, Gay, don't think that! That's not what I called you up for,

really it isn't!"

"What was it, then?" he asked, growing a little more genial.

The waiter appeared with two glasses on a tray and set them down on the

table. Fancy looked up and wiped her eyes. When they were alone again

he said, "Fire away, now. I've got a date at ten. I'm sorry I said

that, but I didn't know but you were hard up, that's all."

"Gay," she said, "do you remember what you said that day we went down to

Champoreau's the first time?"

"I believe I said all that crowd had the big head, didn't I?"

"That isn't it, Gay. I wonder if you've forgotten already?"

"I guess I have. Lots of things have happened since that." He blew a

lung-full of smoke into the air over her head.

"You've said it several times since then. Do you happen to remember

asking me to marry you?"

"I believe I did make a break like that, now you speak of it. And you

threw me down good and hard, too."

She got his eyes, and smiled. "You said that--whenever I changed my

mind and gave the word--you'd marry me."

"Did I?" Gay moved uncomfortably in his chair.

"You did, Gay, and when you said it, I thought you meant it. I believe

you did mean it then. Oh, Gay, dear, I want to quit drifting! I want

to settle down and be a good wife to some man who'll take care of me,

some one I can love and help and be faithful to! Oh, you don't know how

faithful I'd be, Gay! I'd do anything. I'm so tired of drifting--I'm

so afraid I'll go on like this! I'm not a grafter, Gay, you know I'm

not! But I want to get married and be happy!"

"You ought to have said that two months ago," he said, knocking the ash

from his cigarette with exquisite attention.

"Don't you want me now?" she said, shaking her head pathetically. She

reached for his hand. "I like you, Gay, I've always liked you and I

think I could learn to love you sometime. But I'd be true to you,

anyway. Take me, please, Gay! I can't stand it any longer."

"For Heaven's sake, don't talk so loud, Fancy; somebody'll hear you!

Say, this isn't fair! I gave you a good chance, and you threw me down.

Why didn't you take me then? I was crazy about you, but no, you

wouldn't have it!"

"Then you've got all over it? You don't want me now?"

He had a sudden access of pity, and stroked her hand. "Why, I couldn't

make you happy, Fancy? You know that. You wouldn't have me marry you if

I wasn't in love with you, would you? I suppose I have got over it; I

was fascinated, and I thought it was the real thing. We all make

mistakes. I've been about a good bit since then, and I know more of the

world. I'm sorry, but it's too late."

She looked away, and for a moment her eyes closed.

"I guess nobody wants me, then. Men get tired of me, don't they? I'm

good enough to play with for a little while, but--I can't make good as a

wife. Never mind. I thought perhaps you were in earnest, that's all.

I'm sorry I bothered you. You can go, now!"

He went up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She shook it off,

shuddering. "Go _away_!" she cried.

He took his hat and left her.

For a quarter of an hour she sat there, and then, looking up haggardly,

stared about the room. She consulted the little chatelaine watch that

dangled on her breast. Going up to a mirror, she attempted to

straighten her hair, but her hands shook so that it was of little use.

She was, even in that warm room, shivering. Then she rose and went down

the carpeted passage, past luxurious paintings, past the compartments

filled with giggling women and tipsy men, out into the night again.

The rain had stopped at last, but it was cold and gusty. Great detached

masses of cloud pied the heavens, and in the clear spaces of sky the

stars shone, twinkling brilliantly. She turned down Market Street.

Half-way to the ferry she met Dougal, almost falling into his arms

before she recognized him.

"Well, I've found you at last!" he exclaimed. "Lord, how wet you are!

Come right along home with me, and Elsie will give you some dry

clothes."

"Oh, no, thank you, Dougal, but I can't, really! I've got to go to

Oakland to-night."

"Nonsense! Wait, I'll get a cab."

"I can't go, honest I can't. Please don't tease me!"

"Well, I won't leave you, at any rate!" He put his arm through hers.

"You can come down to the ferry, if you want. I'm going to Oakland."

"All right, I'll go, too. But you're cold! You oughtn't cross the bay

to-night. You ought to go right to bed."

"Oh, I'll be warm enough soon!"

They walked along for a while in silence, till she stopped him to ask,

"Have you got a pistol with you, Dougal?"

"Yes, why?"

"Lend it to me, will you?"

"Not on your life! What do you want it for?"

"Never mind, I want it. Please, Dougal!"

"Not after that scrap I saw to-night. I don't want you in the papers

to-morrow morning. You've had trouble enough without a shooting scrape.

If anybody's going to shoot Cayley, let me do it!"

She sighed, and gave it up.

"Do you want to tell me what's the matter, Fancy?"

"No, Dougal, I'd rather not. It doesn't matter."

"You'll get over it all right, I expect."

"Oh, yes, I'll get over it."

"Anyway, you just want to remember you can call on me any time for

anything you want, Fancy, barring guns. Don't get blue when you have

good friends to fall back on. We're with you to a finish, old girl!"

"You're a dear!" She flashed a smile at him.

He grinned, and gripped her arm tighter. Then he began to dance her

down the sidewalk. Fancy grew hilarious and laughed aloud, excitedly.

They began to sing, as they marched, a song they had learned by rote,

from Maxim. Neither of them well understood the words:

"Josephine est mor-te,

Morte en faisant sa----

En faisant sa prie-re

A bon Saint Nicolas,

Tu-ra-la!

Ca n'va gu-ere--

Tu-ra-la!

Ca n'va pas!"

They kept it up in this vein till the Ferry Building was reached. There

he bought her ticket and took her to the gate. She still smiled, still

flung him her odd jests, still clung affectionately to his arm.

"Well, good night, Fancy Gray!" he said at last. "Don't do anything

foolish till I see you again!" His grin was like a blessing.

She seemed loath to leave him, and drew back from the gate. She

unpinned the little silver watch from her coat and handed it to him.

"Say, Dougal, would you mind taking this to a jeweler and having it

adjusted for me?" she said suddenly. "It doesn't go very well, and I

won't have time to attend to it. Don't forget it. I'll tell

you--perhaps you'd better give it to Elsie--and let her take charge of

it."

He took it and put it in his vest pocket. "All right," he said, "I'll

give it to her."

"Tell her to be careful of it, I'm awfully fond of that watch!" she

added. Then her fingers went to the little gold chain with the swastika

at her neck and she started to unclasp that, too.

"And, Dougal--"

"What?"

She left the chain where it was.

"Never mind, it's nothing. Good-by, Dougal, you may kiss me if you want

to!"

"Do I want to!" He gave her a bear's hug, and a brother's kiss.

She was still unready to go and stood looking at him whimsically. Then,

impulsively, she seized his arm and drew him back under an arc light,

and held up her face.

"Dougal," she said, "will you answer me something absolutely honestly?"

"Sure!"

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

He studied her a moment, and his lips worked silently. Then he said

deliberately:

"Well,--I don't know as I'd call you exactly a _pretty_ woman, but

you're something more than that--"

"Cut it out!" she exclaimed dryly; "I know all the rest! I've heard it

before. Stop before you tell me I have 'fine eyes' and am good-natured.

I know! 'The bride was a distinguished-looking brunette of great grace

and dignity, and wore her clothes well!' Never mind, Dougal, you're

honest, anyway," she added.

He opened his mouth to protest, repentance in his eyes, but she blew a

kiss at him and darted through the gate. He watched her till she passed

through the inner door, where she waved a last time.

She walked rapidly on board, went up the stairway, and hesitated by the

door of the cabin. A girl passed her, looked back and then returned

timidly.

"Excuse me, but ain't you the young lady that works in Mr. Granthope's

office?" she said.

"I did, but I'm not there any more. He's gone out of business," Fancy

managed to reply. Her quick eye had recognized the girl as Fleurette.

"I'm sorry for that. He's nice, isn't he? He was awfully kind to me,

and he said it was on account of you. Did you know he wouldn't even

take any money from me?"

"Wouldn't he?" said Fancy. "That's like him."

"And he gave me such a lovely reading, too. It just saved my life, I

think, and everything came out just as he said it would, too. Don't you

think he's awfully good-looking?"

"Yes, very." Fancy was breathing hard.

"And he's so good. Why, I 'most fell in love with him, that day. I

guess I would have, if I hadn't been in love already. I was awfully

unhappy then. I'm the happiest girl in the world, now! Say, weren't

you awfully fond of him?"

"Yes."

"I guess he was of you, too. He said some awful nice things about you!"

"Did he?" Fancy's eyes wandered.

The girl saw, now, that something was wrong, and evidently wanted to

make up for it. She spoke shyly: "Say--there's something else I always

wanted to tell you. I wonder if it would make you mad?"

"Go ahead," said Fancy.

"You won't think I'm fooling?"

"No."

"Well," Fleurette almost whispered, "I think you're _awful_ pretty!"

With that, she turned suddenly and went into the cabin.

Fancy went down-stairs slowly, biting her handkerchief. The lower deck

was deserted; she looked carefully about, to make sure of it. She

glanced down at the water which boiled up from the paddle-wheels and

shuddered.

Overhead the stars now shone free of cloud, in the darkness of space.

San Francisco was like a pincushion, stuck with sparks of light. She

crossed to the port side of the boat, and saw Goat Island, a blotch of

shadow, with its lighthouse, off the bow. It grew rapidly nearer and

nearer. It fascinated her. When it was directly opposite, a few hundred

yards away, she clenched her teeth and muttered to herself:

"Well, there's nothing in the race but the finish! This is where _I_ get

off!"

Clambering to the top of the rail, she took a long, deep breath, then

flung herself headlong into the bay, and the waters closed over her.

*CHAPTER XX*

*MASTERSON'S MANOEUVRES*

Francis Granthope ran up the two flights of stairs like a boy, and

pounded at Masterson's door. The doctor appeared, with his celluloid

collar in one hand and a half-eaten orange in the other. He was

coatless and unshorn, although his office hours, "from nine till four"

had already begun. He looked at Granthope, took another bite of his

orange, and then, his mouth being too full for clear articulation,

pointed inside to a chair by the fireplace under the shelves full of

bottles.

Granthope dumped a pile of newspapers from the chair and sat down. The

sun never came into the room, and the place was, as usual, chill, dim

and dusty. A handful of fire fought for life upon the hearth. Behind a

fringed portiere, which was stretched across the back of the room, the

doctor's cot was seen, dirty and unkempt.

Masterson finished the last of his orange with a gulp, went to a bowl in

the corner where a skull was perched on a shelf, and washed his hands.

After he had wiped them and rubbed a blotch of juice from the front of

his plaid flannel waistcoat, he put on his coat and sat down by the

fire.

"Well, I must say you're quite a stranger. How's things, Frank?" he

said casually.

"So-so," was the reply. "I've given up my business."

"So I hear. What's the matter? Sold out?" asked Masterson.

"Oh, no, I just threw it all up and left."

"That's funny. I should have thought you could have got something for

the good-will. What you going to do now?"

"Nothing. I didn't come here to talk about myself, Masterson, I came to

talk about you."

"Well, well, that's kind of you," said the healer, buttoning on his

collar. "That's what you might call friendly. You didn't use to be so

much interested when you was wearing your Prince Albert. What makes you

so anxious, all of a sudden?"

Granthope smiled good-naturedly, and poked at the fire till it blazed

up. "See here," he said. "I can show you how to make some money

easily."

"That sounds interesting. I certainly ain't in business for my health.

Fire it off. I'm listening."

"There's no use beating about the bush with you. And I'm a man of my

word. Isn't that so?"

"I never heard it gainsaid," said Masterson. "I'll trust you, and you

can trust me as equally."

"Well, I'll tell you how I'm fixed. You know that Madam Spoll and

Vixley have got it in for me--they've tried to run me out of this town,

in fact."

"Oh, _that's_ why you quit? Lord, I wouldn't lay down so easy as that!"

"Well, I'm out of it, at any rate. I won't say why, but they tried to

hurt me, fast enough. Now I want to give them as good as they sent."

Doctor Masterson grinned and clasped his hands over his knees. "That

suits me all right, I ain't any too friendly myself, just at present."

"Then perhaps we can come to terms. What I propose to do, is to

checkmate them with Payson."

Masterson rubbed his red, scrawny beard. "That ain't easy," he said

reflectively.

"Easy enough, if you'll help me."

"How?"

"Simply by giving the whole business away to Mr. Payson. He'll believe

you when he won't me."

"Well, what is there in it?"

"You know what my word is worth. If you help me, and we succeed in

getting Mr. Payson out of the net, I promise you a thousand dollars."

"H'm!" Masterson deliberated.

"Of course, they know I'll spoil their game if I can, so I take no

chances in telling you. So it's up to you to decide whether you'll

stand in with them, or with me. I can do it alone, in time, but if you

help, so much the better. You stand to win, anyway. It isn't worth

that much to work with them, as things are, and you know it."

"I don't know about that," said Masterson craftily, watching his man; "a

thousand ain't much for giving away pals."

"They're not your pals. They've tried to freeze you out--Fancy Gray has

told me that from the inside. They're going to get rid of you in short

order. Besides, you'll have the credit of rescuing a credulous old man

from the clutches of swindlers."

"That's true," said the doctor. "They're a-bleeding him something

awful. It _had_ ought to be stopped, as you say. I don't believe in

grafting. I'm a straight practitioner, and if any of my patients want

fake work they can go somewheres else."

"Well, what d'you say, then?"

Masterson thought it over as he warmed his hands. His reverie was

interrupted by a knock on the door, and he rose to open it. An old,

shabby woman stood in the hall.

She was wrinkled and veined, with yellowish white hair, vacuous, watery

gray eyes, a red, bulbous nose, and a miserable chin. She had nothing

of the dignity of age, and her thin, cruel lips were her only signs of

character. All other traits were submerged by drink and poverty. Her

skirt was ridiculously short and her black shawl ragged and full of

holes. She breathed of beer.

"How d'you do, Mrs. Riley?" said Masterson. "I'm sorry to say I'm

engaged at present and you'll have to wait. Can't you sit down on the

stairs for a while?"

"Oh, dear, but that fire looks good!" she whined. "Can't I just come in

and have a seat to rest my bones on? I'm feeling that miserable this

day that I can't stand."

"Let her come in," said Granthope, rising. "I've said all that's

necessary at present, and if you decide to do what I want, we can talk

it over later."

The doctor grudgingly admitted her. She tottered in and took the chair

by the fire gratefully. She had looked at Granthope when he first

spoke, and now she kept her eyes fixed on him as he stood by the window.

Masterson went over to him and spoke in a lower tone. "I got to have

time to think this thing over," he said. "Then, if I accept your offer,

we got to discuss ways and means, and so forth and so on. I won't say

yes, and I won't say no, just at present. I'll think it over and let you

know, Frank."

The woman started at the name. Her lower lip fell pendulous. Her eyes

were still on Granthope.

"When will you let me know?" he asked.

"I tell you what I'll do; I'm busy to-day, and I got an engagement

to-night. Suppose I come down to your office after theater time? Say

ten-thirty. Will that do?"

"I'll be there," Granthope replied. "I'll wait till you come. The

outside door is locked at eleven o'clock. Be there before that."

He took his hat and walked to the door, giving a look at Mrs. Riley as

he passed. Her face was now almost animated, as her lips mumbled

something to herself. Granthope ran briskly down-stairs, and Masterson

closed the door.

"Who's that?" Mrs. Riley piped querulously.

"That? Why, Granthope, the palmist," said the doctor, busying himself

with some bottles on his table. He took one up and shook it.

"Granthope? No, sir! Don't tell me! I know better."

Masterson was upon her in a flash. "What d'you mean?" he demanded,

taking her by the arm.

"I know, I know! You can't fool Margaret Riley!" she croaked.

He shook her roughly. "You're drunk!" he exclaimed in disgust.

"No, I ain't!" she retorted. "I'm sober enough to know that fellow;

I've seen him before, I tell you."

"Who is he, then?"

"Oh, d'you want to know?" she said craftily. "What would you give to

know, Doctor?"

"I'll give you Hail Columbia if you _don't_ tell me!" he cried. "I'll

give you a bloody good reputation, that's what I'll give! I'll give you

the name of being a poisoner, old woman, and I'll take care that your

neighbors know all about your three husbands, if you don't look out!"

"Oh, my God! Don't speak so loud, Doctor, please! I'll tell you if

you'll promise to leave me alone. I didn't mean nothing by it."

"Let's have it then." The doctor's eyes gleamed.

"Did you ever hear tell of Madam Grant?" she asked. "I reckon it was

before your day."

"Yes, I did. What about her?"

"Why, this young fellow you call Granthope, he used to live with her."

"He did!" The healer came up to her and looked her hard in the eye.

"How the devil do you know that?"

"Why, I've seen him there, many's the time. I used to know the Madam

well. Me and her was great friends. Why, I was there the day she

died!"

"Were you? I never knew that."

"We used to call him Frankie, then. He didn't call himself Granthope at

all. I expect he made that up."

"Is--that--_so_!" Masterson grinned joyously.

"Let's see--there was some money missing when the boy left, seems to

me."

"Lord, yes, and a sight of money, too. Madam Grant was a grand miser.

They say she had a fortune stowed away in the dirt on the floor. She

run a real estate business, you know, and she done well by it. I expect

that's where Frankie got his start. Strange I never seen him afore."

"You're positively sure it's the same one?"

"Didn't I stare hard enough at him? Why, just as soon as I come in the

door I says to myself, 'I've seen you before, young man!' Then when you

called him Frank, it all come back to me. I'll take my oath to it."

"Lord, I could kick myself!" said Masterson. "To think of all these

years I've known him and ain't suspected who he was!"

"You won't give me away, then, will you, Doctor?" the old lady added

tearfully.

"I'll see, I'll see." He returned to his medicine, thinking hard.

He proceeded with his treatment of Mrs. Riley, plying her all the while

with questions relative to Francis Granthope and Madam Grant. Mrs.

Riley knew little, but she embroidered upon what she had seen and heard

till, at the end, she had fabricated a considerable history. Her fancy,

under fear of the healer's threats, was given free rein; and Masterson

listened so hungrily, that, had there been no other inducement, her

pleasure in that alone would have made her garrulous. She went away

feeling important.

That afternoon, Doctor Masterson, loaded and primed with his secret,

took his rusty silk hat and a Chinese carved bamboo cane and walked

proudly up Turk Street to hold Professor Vixley up for what was

possible.

The Professor welcomed him with a show of politeness.

"How's Madam Spoll?" was Masterson's first question, after he had spread

his legs in the front room.

"Gertie's pretty bad," said Vixley. "The doctors don't hold out much

hope, but you know the way they linger with a burn. I wonder could you

do anything for her?"

"I ain't any too willing, after the way she treated me last time I was

here," said the healer coldly. "I ain't never been talked to so in my

life!"

"Oh, you don't want to mind a little thing like that, Doc, it was only

her way. Business is business, you know. Besides, if Gertie _should_

be took from us it may make a good deal of difference, after all. I

don't just know what I'll do."

"I tell you what you'll do," said Masterson, gazing through his

spectacles aggressively, "you'll take me into partnership, that's what

you'll do!"

"Oh, I will, will I? I ain't so sure about that, Doc. Don't go too

fast; Gertie ain't dead yet."

"I rather think I can make it an object to you, Vixley. I may go so far

as to say I _know_ I can." Masterson leaned back and noted the effect

of his words.

Vixley looked at him curiously and raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? I

didn't know as you was in a position to dictate to me, Doc, but maybe

you are--you never can tell!"

"I can just everlastingly saw you off with Payson if I want to; that's

what I can do!" Masterson rubbed in.

"How?"

"Through something I found out to-day, that's how."

"I guess I could call that bluff on you, Masterson, if I wanted to. We

got him sewed up in a sack. You can't touch us there."

"Lord, I can blow you sky-high!" He arose and made as if to walk to the

door. "And, by the Lord Harry, I'll do it, too! I've given you a fair

chance, you remember that!"

Vixley took water hastily. "Oh, see here, Doc, don't go to work and be

hasty! You know it was only Gertie who wanted to freeze you out. I

don't say it's impossible to make a deal, only I don't want to buy a pig

in a poke, do I? I can't talk business till I know what you have to

offer."

"Oh, you'll find I can make good all right," said Masterson, returning

to his seat with his hat on the back of his head. "See here; as I

understand it, you're working Payson on the strength of something about

this Felicia Grant, he was supposed to be sweet on. Is that right?"

"Well, suppose we are, just for the sake of the argument. What then?"

"Now, they was a little boy living with her, and he disappeared. Am I

right?"

"You got it about right; yes." Vixley's eyes sparkled.

"Well, then; what if I know who that boy was, and where he is now? How

would that strike you?"

"Jimminy! Do you?" Vixley cried, now fairly aroused. "I don't deny

that might make considerable difference."

"I should say it would! I should imagine yes! Why, you simply can't do

nothing at all till you know who he is, and what he knows! And I got

him! Yes, sir, I got him!"

"Who is he?" Vixley asked, with a fine assumption of innocence.

Masterson laughed aloud. "Don't you wish't you knew?" he taunted.

"I'll let you know as soon as we come to an agreement. What d'you think

about that partnership proposition now?"

"Good Lord, ain't I told you all along I was willin'? It was only Gertie

prevented me takin' you in before! Sure! I'm for it. Gertie's in a bad

way, and I doubt if she'll be able to do anything for a long time, even

if she should recover. Meanwhile, of course, I got to live. It won't

do to let Payson slip through our fingers. Let's shake on it, Doc; I'm

with you. You help me out, and we'll share and share alike."

"Done!" said Masterson. "I kind of thought I could make you listen to

reason. Now you can tell me just how the land lays with Payson."

"Wait a minute! You ain't told me who the kid is, yet."

Masterson hesitated a moment, unwilling to give up his secret till he

had bound the bargain, but it was, of course, obviously necessary. He

leaned toward his new partner and touched Vixley on the knee. "It's

Frank Granthope!"

Vixley jumped to his feet and raised his two fists wildly above his

head, then dropped them limply to his side. "_Granthope!_" he cried.

"My God! Are you sure?"

"Positive. Mrs. Riley recognized him to-day at my office. She used to

know Madam Grant, and see him down there when he was a kid. Why?

What's wrong about that?"

"Hell!" Vixley cried in a fury. "It's all up with us, then!"

"Why, what can Granthope do?"

"Do? He can cook our goose in half a minute. And if Payson finds this

out, it's all up in a hurry."

"I don't see it yet," Masterson complained.

"Why, here it is in a nutshell. Payson has an illegitimate son by Madam

Grant--he's all but confessed it, and we're sure of it. We had it all

fixed up to palm off Ringa on him for the missing heir--see? They was

big money in it, if it worked. But let Granthope get wind of the game,

and he'll walk in himself as the prodigal son, and we're up a tree.

He's thick with the Payson girl already, and unless we fix him, he'll

make trouble. If we could only keep Payson from findin' out who

Granthope is, and if we could keep Granthope from findin' out that

Payson had a son, we might make it yet, but it's a slim chance now."

"It is a mess, ain't it?" said Masterson, scratching his head, and

studying the pattern on the carpet. "Of course this son business puts a

different face on it for me. But perhaps we can pull it off yet. Have

you seen Payson to-day?"

"No--and there's another snag. Did you see the paper this mornin'? The

reporters have been around to-day, and I'm afraid they's going to be

trouble about that materializin' seance. If they print any more, I'll

have to pack up and get out of town till it blows over. What in the

world made Payson suspect anything, I don't know! Fancy done her part

all right. But I ain't afraid of that. We can get him back on the hook

again all right. All we got to do is to lay the fakin' on to Flora, and

she'll stand for it. What I want to do next is to develop him."

"Yes, I see you got one of them mirrors over there," said Masterson,

going up to it inquisitively. "It's slick, ain't it? Let's have a look

at it!"

Vixley sprang in front of him and held his arm. "For God's sake, don't

touch it! Don't touch it!" he cried fearfully. "Leave it alone. I

don't want it started. I can't stand the damned thing! I'm going to

use crystal balls instead. That thing gets on my nerves too bad."

Masterson, surprised, turned away. "What did you get it for, anyway? I

should think you'd got 'em again, by the way you talk."

"There's bad luck in it. I'm going to send it away. I'm afraid of it,

somehow."

Masterson laughed, and resumed his seat, to discuss with the Professor

the details of the plot. He did not seem much interested in the plans

for the future, however, and seemed anxious to get away, yawning

occasionally. He was now smug and confident, while Vixley seemed to

have lost his nerve. The threatened newspaper revelations had cowed him.

Madam Spoll was left out of the discussion; it was evident that her part

of the affair was finished. Masterson left, promising his assistance if

matters quieted down, and Payson could be brought under their influence

again.

By dinner-time he had thought the matter over to his satisfaction, and

he therefore enjoyed himself with beer and cheap vaudeville till

half-past ten. Then he strolled down Geary Street and marched up to

Granthope's office.

It had taken all Granthope's resolution to treat with Masterson, but it

had seemed the only way, at present, to deal with the situation. Mr.

Payson's part in the materializing seance had not yet transpired.

Masterson took a chair, crossed his legs and began:

"Well, Frank, I've been thinking over your proposition to-day, and I've

decided that I've got to raise the ante."

"I thought that would be about your style," Granthope returned, "but I

think I've offered you about all it's worth."

"Oh, it ain't only my help that's worth it, it's you that's worth it, so

to speak. I'm getting on to your game, now, and I happen to know that

you can afford to pay well; you see, I didn't happen to know so much

about this Payson girl, as I do now. If you're tapping a millionaire's

family, why, I want my share of it."

"I guess there's no use discussing the matter, then, if that's your

theory. I can't possibly pay more than what I've offered."

"I'd advise you to hear me out, Frank," Masterson went on. "I said you

could pay more, but I didn't say what I had to offer wasn't worth more,

did I?"

"Why is it worth more now than it was this forenoon?" Granthope asked

impatiently.

"It's worth more, because I've seen Vixley, and I've found out things

that it's for your interest to know. I'm on the inside, now, and I'm

prepared to make a better bargain."

"I see; you've sold me out, and now you want to turn over and sell

Vixley out for a raise? I might have guessed that!" He turned to his

desk in disgust.

"I don't care what you think. I ain't discussing high moral principles.

I'm here to make a living in the quickest and most practical way. If

you don't care to hear what I've got to say, I'll leave."

"How do I know you've got anything of value to me? Why should I trust

you?"

"You can't expect me to tell you, and then leave it to you to make a

satisfactory price, can you?"

"Oh, I don't care what you've learned. We'll call it all off."

Granthope rose, as if to end the interview.

Masterson seeing his caution had gone too far became more eager. "Let's

talk this thing out, Frank, man to man. Suppose I tell you half of it,

and let you see whether it's as important as I say. Then we'll have a

basis to figure on."

"All right, but make it brief. I'm getting sick of the business." He

sat down, tilted back in his chair and waited, gazing at the ceiling.

Masterson spoke crisply, now. "Suppose I tell you that Payson has

confessed that he has a son?" He shifted his cigar in his mouth and

watched the bolt fall.

As the words came out, Granthope's face, which had shown only a

contemptuous, bored expression, changed instantaneously. It was, for a

moment, as if a sponge had been passed over it, obliterating all signs

of intelligence, leaving it to blank, hopeless bewilderment. Then his

mind leaped to its inevitable conclusion, the whole thing came to him in

a sudden revelation; a dozen unnoticed details jumped together to form

the pattern, and there it was, a problem solved: horror and despair. He

was Clytie's half-brother! He sat enthralled by it for a moment--he

forgot the leering scoundrel in front of him--he saw only

Clytie--inaccessible for ever.

Then, still without a word, he rose like one in a dream, sought for his

hat, went out the door, and ran down-stairs. As in a dream, too,

Masterson's astonished, entreating, indignant exclamations followed him,

echoing down the hall. Granthope paid no attention, he had no thought

but for Clytie--to see her immediately, at any cost.

He swung aboard an O'Farrell Street car, found a seat in the corner of

the open "dummy" portion, and strove with the tumult in his soul. The

torturing thought of Clytie for ever lost to him coiled and uncoiled

like a serpent. He did not doubt Masterson's revelation, nor could he

doubt its obvious interpretation in the light of the many revelations

that had been cast upon Mr. Payson's past. Yet it must be corroborated

before he could wholly abandon himself to renunciation. He tried to

keep from hoping.

He was Clytie's half-brother! His mind wrestled with it.

The car filled at the Orpheum Theater, taking on a load of merry

passengers, who crowded the seats inside and out till the aisles and

footboards were packed. The bell clanged as they drove through the

Tenderloin, rolled round the curve into Jones Street and took the steep

hill, climbing without slackening speed. It rounded two more corners,

wheels creaking; and as it passed, the broad area of the Mission and

South San Francisco was for a moment revealed in the gap of Hyde Street,

a valley of darkness, far below, gorgeously set out with lights, like

strings and patterns of jewels. At California Street a crowd of

passengers, mostly Jews, overdressed, prosperous, exuberant, transferred

for the Western Addition. The car went up and up, reached the summit

and coasted down the dip to Pacific Street. Another rise to Union

Street, where another line transferred more passengers towards the

Presidio. Then, with only one or two inside, and the conductor lazily

picking his teeth on the back platform, they climbed again up to the

reservoir. Here a long incline fell giddily to the water and the North

Beach. The car rolled to the crest, ducked fearfully, and boldly

descended the slope.

He was Clytie's half-brother! The thought of it was darker than the

night about him.

Ahead, the black stretch of water, the flash of the light on Alcatraz,

and a misty constellation in the direction of Sausalito. To the left, a

huge shoulder of Russian Hill swept back from the northern harbor in a

wave toward the south. It was sprinkled with artificial stars--the

gas-lamps, electric lights, and illuminated windows of the town. One

street, directly opposite, was a line of topaz brilliants, loosely

strung, scattering over the hill. Fort Point light, two miles away,

flared alternately a dash of pale yellow--and short pin-pricks of red.

Farther away, Point Bonita was flaming, regular as a clock, a periodic

spasm of diamond radiance. Electric cars, like lighted lanterns, were

painfully climbing the Fillmore Street hill. All about was a sparse

settlement of wooden houses, thickening as it rose to the palaces of

Pacific Avenue crowning the summit. A dark space of grass and trees lay

ahead--the Black Point Military Reservation--the bugles were calling

through the night.

It was past eleven o'clock when Granthope ran up the steps into the

Paysons' front garden, walked rapidly up the path and stood for a moment

outside the door. There was a light in Clytie's workroom; he threw a

handful of gravel against the pane, and waited.

The curtain was drawn aside, the window raised, and Clytie looked out

boldly. She saw him, waved her hand, and disappeared. A few moments

later she opened the front door quietly. She wore a soft, clinging,

blue silk peignoir; her arms were half bare, and her tawny hair was

braided for the night. She came out with a look of alarm.

"Oh, Francis, what is it?"

"Did I frighten you, dear?"

"Oh, I knew it was you, immediately. But what has happened to bring you

here?"

"Is your father at home?"

"No--he may be back at any moment, though. But come in!"

He removed his hand from hers resolutely, though her touch thrilled him

with delight. "Wait!" he commanded. "First, can you get the keys to

that trunk?"

"Trunk?" she questioned, puzzled.

"Yes, the trunk you told me about--with the wedding-clothes in it--I

must see it!"

"Now?" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes, immediately. Please do as I say, and don't ask why, yet.

Everything depends upon it. Hurry, before your father comes!"

The unusual air of command brought her to her senses. She went into the

house. "Wait here in the hall; I'll get a light."

She was gone but a moment, and returned with a candle in a brass

candlestick. Then, without a word, she led the way up the stairs. They

passed silently through an upper hall where an open door revealed a

glimpse of her bed-chamber, all in white, as exquisitely kept as a

hospital ward. Here she left him to get her father's keys. They came

to a flight of steps, leading upward. She waited for him to go first

and lift the trap-door at the top. When he had disappeared into the

gloom above, she followed him, handed up the candlestick and took his

hand to a place beside him.

The garret stretched the full length of this wing of the house. At the

far end a dim light came through a gable window, in front of which the

bough of a tree waved. The candle cast wavering, widening shadows of

the rafters against the sloping roof, and picked out with its light the

rows of trunks, boxes and pieces of furniture on either side of the

floor. It was damp and cold; there was a musty odor of old books.

She led the way to the end, where, under the window a large, black trunk

stood upon the floor. Granthope's heart leaped with hope. But, in

another moment it stood still as death. She had handed him the key, and

he had thrown open the lid. There, inside, was a smaller trunk, covered

with cow-hide, with a rounded top and a lip of pinked leather, studded

with brass nails. There were the letters, "F.G."

He needed but one look to recognize it as Madam Grant's. But still, it

was a common pattern of the old-fashioned "hair trunk" and he must be

sure. The lock had been broken, and no key was needed to open it. He

threw open this lid, also. Clytie bent over him holding the candle, so

near that she touched his shoulder. Neither had spoken.

There was the same collection of papers, letters and account-books, the

same little mahogany box. How well he recalled his first sight of it

all! How heavy that tray had seemed to him, as a child! Now he raised

it with ease. Below, the same revelation of yellowing satin and old

lace--even the same tissue paper, shredded to tatters, wrapped about the

packages. The boxes of silk stockings and handkerchiefs were there as

well. He thought of the package of bills that had lain in one

corner--he knew the place as well as if he still saw the money. Lastly,

he groped for the white vellum prayer-book. He found it, and drew it

out. Opening the cover, he looked once at the fly-leaf, then handed it

silently to Clytie. Written there was the name "Felicia Gerard." He

turned his face away from her.

She looked at the book and then at him, still bewildered.

"What does it mean, Francis? Tell me; I can't stand it a moment longer!

This is Madam Grant's trunk, of course--I see that. But how came it

here? Why should my father--"

She set the candle upon a box and put her arms tenderly about his neck,

her face close to his, to soothe his agitation. Her smooth cheek

against his was rapture. He could feel her body, warm and soft, through

her thin peignoir, and the contact inflamed him. He unclasped her arms

with a sudden violent gesture and sprang up in an agony of despair.

"Don't touch me!" he cried. "Never again!"

She looked at him, terrified at his tone. His panic passed in a wave

from him to her, and was the more unbearable because she did not yet

understand the cause of it.

"What is it? Tell me!" She faced him, and extended her hand.

He retreated from her.

"It's Mamsy's trunk," he said, trying to control his voice. "Oh, don't

you see?"

"I'm too frightened to think!" she cried, clasping her hands. "I can't

think. Tell me quickly, or I shall faint!"

"Doesn't your intuition tell you?" he asked bitterly. "Why should it

fail you now, when it should be stronger than ever before?"

"It tells me nothing, except that you are killing me with suspense. Oh,

but I know you are suffering, too! Let me share it. Francis, you don't

doubt my love for you, whatever happens, do you?"

He caught her hand again and dashed it away.

"Oh, you should see!" he cried. "It's so plain, now! I am Madam

Grant's son--and my father--is your father! I am your half-brother!

It's all ended between us, now!"

"How do you know?" She was trembling. "How does this prove it? It is

Felicia Grant's trunk, of course--but we knew already that my father had

an interest in her--he must have bought this trunk at the auction when

she died--but why does it prove you are his son? Why should you think

that there was ever such a relation between them? It's horrible!"

"I found out to-night, an hour ago, that your father had a child by

her--he has confessed it to Vixley and Madam Spoll. They got it out of

him, somehow. That's how they have got a hold on him--and who else

should this child be but I, who lived with her? It accounts for his

tenderness for these things, for his scrap-book, his going down to the

Siskiyou Hotel--everything! Oh, it's certain! It is hopeless!"

She stood gazing at him, bewildered.

"If he had an illegitimate child it must be you, of course. But it is

strange I never heard of that!"

"It was all so long ago--before you were born--that it happened. Madam

Grant had no friends--except, perhaps, your mother--and it could have

been kept a secret easily enough."

She gave a low moan and sank down upon a box limply. Her eyes were

fixed on the candle flame; she seemed to be studying some possible way

of escape. She looked up at him once, and then down again, for his eyes

were desperate. He stood watching her, and for some time neither spoke.

He put his hand to his head, stroking his hair over his ear

mechanically, while his mind whirled. Below a door slammed. She rose,

shaking back her hair, her eyes half-closed, her hands on her breast.

"I understand, now," she said slowly. "It must have been that which

drew me to you at first. But if you are my brother, surely I have the

more right to love you! Oh, Francis, I do love you! What does it

matter how, so long as you are dear to me?" She rose, and put out her

hand again, but, at the touch he shrank away from her.

"Oh, no, I can't stand that! It's all over, that tenderness. I can't

trust myself with you. It's not a brother's love I feel for you. It's

so much more that you will always be a fearful temptation to me."

"Can't you overcome that?" As she held the candle before her, her face

had never appeared more noble; for a moment she seemed as far away from

him as she had been at first, alone on spiritual heights to him

inaccessible.

"Can you?" he asked.

She dropped her eyes. "If we had found this out before, it would have

been easier."

"Ah, if we only had! Then you would have come into my life as a sister.

How proud I would have been of you! How grateful for all you have done

for me! But it is too late, now, to accept you on such terms. I have

kissed you--not as a brother kisses his sister. I can never get that

desire out of my blood!"

She shuddered and turned away from him. "Yes, you are right, I know. I

am a woman, now; you have awakened me. There is nothing for us to do

but part. It is hideous to be the playthings of fate."

"Well," he said grimly, "if I have made you a woman, you have made me a

man! I can at least live cleanly and self-respectingly. Of course I

can't see you again--not, at least, for a long time--not till we get

over this--"

She looked up with the veriest shadow of a smile. "Oh, I shall not get

over it! There is no chance of that! Right or wrong, I shall always

feel the same toward you, always long for you. Isn't that a fearful

confession? Yet, how can I help it?"

"Then it is for me to protect you all the more. I can live so that you

need not be ashamed of me. But not near you."

She sat down again. Her head drooped like a heavy flower, her hands

fell listlessly into her lap. A sudden draft distracted the candle and

sent her shadow, distorted, to and fro upon the roof. Then footsteps

were heard on the floor below, and a door slammed again. She looked up

to say:

"Father has come home. Shall we tell him, now?"

[Illustration: Her head drooped like a heavy flower]

"Must we?"

"I would rather wait. I can't stand anything more, yet. I want to

think it out. I am too puzzled and I am fighting against this too hard,

now. Let me get hold of myself first. Perhaps we can get down without

his hearing us, if we wait a little while. He has gone to his room."

"That's the best way, if we can. There'll be a scene--and I am not

ready for that, either. I will tell him later--or you may."

"No, it should be you. How can I talk to him?"

"I can't tell how he'll take it. I'm sure, now, that he has been

looking for me--for Madam Grant's child--for some time, and Vixley was

undoubtedly leading him on, promising to find his son. But now, when he

knows it is I, after the way he has treated me, how will he feel?"

"Oh, be sure he will be kind!"

"It doesn't matter much. I shall not trouble him. I shall go away, of

course."

"Oh, I can't bear it! I _can't_ give you up! Oh, I'm sure it isn't

right. I can't believe it, even yet!"

"Let's go down!" he said sharply. "I can't stand it any longer. My

blood cries out for you! When I think that I have held you in my

arms--"

"Yes, come! Don't speak like that or I shall forget everything else."

He took the candle and lighted her down the steps, then followed her

quietly. Together they crept along the hall and down the stairway to

the lower hall. As they got there, the cuckoo-clock hiccoughed, five

minutes before the hour.

She stood for a moment looking at him, her eyes burning. Her peignoir

fell in long, graceful lines, suggesting her gracile figure. One braid

had fallen over her shoulder across her breast to below her waist. Her

beauty smote his senses.

"To-morrow is Saturday," he said. "I shall come up to see your father

in the afternoon. You had better be away, if you can."

"I shall be away," she said dully.

"I'll have it out with him--settle it beyond all doubt, and then--"

"And then?"

"I shall try to show you what you have made of me. I shall not see you

till we have conquered this thing!"

"Oh, Francis, if I could only feel that it is wrong--but I _can't_. It

seems so right, so natural. I shall not change. I have given myself to

you, and I can not take myself back. If there is fighting against it to

be done, you must do it for both of us. You must decide."

"I shall take care of you, Clytie. That will be my brother's duty."

"Yes," she said, drooping, "you must help me, I can't help you any more.

I have done what I can, but you have passed me now, and you are the

master."

"I must begin now, then, and go. Good-by!"

She gave him her hands, and he took them for a moment, then flung

himself away before their delicacy could work on him. With a sudden

smile, he turned to the door and was gone.

She stood, limp and weak, watching him till the door closed. Then the

cuckoo-clock broke the silence with its interminable midnight clatter,

persistent, maddening.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*THE SUNRISE*

Clytie met her father, next morning, showing no trace of what she had

suffered during the night. He himself had enough to think about without

noticing her demeanor.

On Saturday the papers had, after considerable investigation of the

matter, called public attention to the doings of spiritualistic mediums

in San Francisco, and were full of exposures. Vixley's record was

given, and it was sensational enough to make it advisable for the

Professor to leave town till the scandal blew over. Flora Flint was

reported to have fled at the same time, and, it was presumed, in the

same direction. Other mediums not concerned in this affair were

interviewed, and pseudo-confessions extorted from their dupes. The

Spiritualistic Society protested in vain that none of the mediums

exposed had ever been in good standing with that body of true

believers--the wave of gossip drowned its voice. San Francisco was the

largest spiritualistic community in the United States, probably in the

world, but, for a while at least, it would be less easy for clairvoyants

and psychometrists to earn a living. This outburst was one of the

periodic upheavals of reform, but the talk would soon die down and

business would be resumed in perfect safety by the charlatans. There

would be a new crop of dupes to cajole.

Clytie and her father both avoided the subject. Breakfast passed

silently, and at nine o'clock Mr. Payson left the house. Clytie went

about her work automatically; answered a few letters, listlessly

rearranged her jewelry in its casket, sorted the leaves of a book she

had taken apart to rebind, cut the pages of a magazine, set her tools in

order on the bench. From time to time she went to the front window to

look out, returning to stand for minutes at a time in the center of the

room, as if she had forgotten what she had intended to do. At ten

o'clock she lay down upon the couch in the library and fell into a deep

sleep of exhaustion, the first rest she had obtained since midnight.

She was awakened by the door-bell, and had barely time to hurry into her

chamber before the door was answered. There, word was brought to her

that Mr. Cayley wished to see her. She bathed her eyes, smoothed her

hair, put on her Chinese _sa'am_, and a jade necklace over her

house-frock and went down to him. Her face was resolutely set, her eyes

had a cold luster.

"How d'you do, Blan?" she said, holding out her hand to him. "I'm so

glad to see you!"

It was a warmer greeting than he had received for some time, but he did

not appear surprised. He drew off his gloves, looking admiringly at

her.

"I didn't feel like work, to-day, so I thought I would run out and see

you."

"You certainly are devoted! I shall have to reward you by being very

nice."