FREE.
What next?
That was the question with Carlos Conrad, as he stood alone by the
railroad track, the cool night air blowing softly about him. The moon
shone brightly, and objects on which the light fell stood out in bold
distinctness, while those in the shadows were rendered doubly obscure.
He stood in irresolution. He did not know which way to turn, for with
daylight would come pursuit, and probably capture.
He half regretted the step he had taken. He had no refuge to fly to,
no friends to conceal him, no means of disguise. To the right and left
were the long lines of railroad track, in front and behind were fields,
and woods, and distant farm-houses. He felt friendless and almost
hopeless.
While standing thus in gloomy reflection, he saw a bright light far
down the track. It was the head-light of a locomotive just coming
around the curve. It was coming from the direction of Hillsdale, and
must have met the train which Carlos had so recently quitted. As it
approached its speed slackened, and, moving slower and slower, it
finally drew up at the tower to take in a supply of water.
Obeying a sudden impulse, Carlos ran back into a field, took a circuit
around the water-tower, and came up beyond it to the track where the
passenger cars stood.
The whistle sounded, the bell rang, and the train started. He sprang
unobserved on the platform of one of the cars, opened the door, and
walked coolly in. He took a vacant seat, pulled his hat down over his
eyes and settled himself into a comfortable position.
The train was soon under headway and tearing along at the rate of forty
miles an hour toward Dalton.
Carlos realized that he was incurring a great risk. He might be rushing
into the very arms of pursuers; for that there would be pursuers was,
of course, not to be doubted. It was even possible that the officer
from whom he had escaped had discovered his loss in time to transfer
himself to the returning train, the one on which Carlos was now riding.
He might lay his hands on him at any moment.
Carlos was aware that he faced this possibility, as also that of there
being those present at the Dalton depot who would recognize him. This
latter danger, however, he considered not to be imminent, on account of
the lateness of the hour.
But he was in a reckless mood, and was not dismayed by the prospect.
The conductor came through the car and touched him on the shoulder, at
the same time peering into his face.
“Did I see your ticket, sir?”
“No; I have none. Can I go through on this train to New York?”
“Yes. Where did you get on?”
Carlos hesitated.
“At Hillsdale,” he said, after a pause. “I did not have time to buy a
ticket. What is the fare?”
“A dollar and sixty cents to the Junction,” replied the conductor.
“There you change cars.”
“Where is the Junction?”
“Thirty miles beyond Dalton.”
“Will there be any delay?”
“About five minutes.”
The fare was paid and the conductor passed on.
Carlos now ventured to look around the car. No one appeared to be
taking particular notice of him. Many were asleep, a few were trying
to read by the flickering light of the lamps overhead, and others were
staring patiently into vacancy.
There was nothing alarming in the aspect, and now, seeing that
he was not pursued, Carlos began to feel anxious and nervous again.
The certainty of calamity is not nearly so disquieting as a sense of
proximity, with a possibility of escape. The suspense attendant on this
latter condition was soon augmented by the approach to Dalton. He had
begun to feel that he might possibly reach New York unmolested, and in
that city he hoped to find a safe retreat. Hope and apprehensiveness
struggled for the mastery within him, and when the cars drew up at the
Dalton depot the conflict was at its height. But, by a violent effort,
he calmed himself and betrayed no anxiety.
An incident now occurred that filled him at first with surprise and
terror, and afterward with wonderment and perplexity.
Geoffrey Haywood stepped aboard and entered the same car Carlos
occupied.
The emotions of the latter may be imagined better than described. He
watched the new-comer spell-bound.
But Mr. Geoffrey Haywood seemed to be occupied with affairs of his
own. He dropped into the first seat that presented itself, and, looking
neither to the right nor the left, buried himself in meditation.
And after the cars had started again, and were fairly under weigh, it
became apparent that the presence of Carlos was in the furthest degree
remote from his thoughts.
With intense relief, Carlos furtively watched his further movements.
Mr. Haywood’s journey was not a long one. He got off at the next
stopping-place, still preserving his pre-occupied air. Carlos marveled
greatly at his action. What could be the object of this short journey
at such a time of night? He could devise no solution to the query, and
so, endeavoring to dismiss the subject from his mind, he congratulated
himself on the fact that his greatest danger was now past.
The journey to New York was accomplished without further incident.
At the junction, where the change was made, there was the usual bustle
and hurry, but no one was as yet on the track of the escaped prisoner.
About seven o’clock in the morning the train reached the city.
Immediately on alighting, Carlos astonished a vociferating hackman by
promptly accepting his tender of a conveyance.
“I want you to take me, as quickly as possible, to Duncan & Mishler’s,
No. ―――― Broadway. Start immediately, without waiting for any other
passengers, and your pay shall be five dollars.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the hackman, with alacrity. He sprang to his seat,
while Carlos drew back in the carriage, concealing himself as well as
possible from the observation of outsiders.
In obedience to a word and a crack of the whip, the horses sprang
forward, and rattled through the noisy streets at a good pace.
About half-past seven they halted before one of those palaces devoted
to trade that abound in all their glory on the principal thoroughfare
of the city of New York.
Duncan & Mishler were importers, as has been mentioned, and this was
their wholesale store.
Carlos paid the hackman, and, walking up to a short flight of
stone steps, met a porter with a feather duster in his hand. He was
just about finishing his work of sweeping and dusting the store in
preparation for the day’s business.
“Good-morning,” said Carlos. “I suppose Mr. Duncan is not here yet this
morning.”
“No, sir,” replied the porter. “He won’t be down till nine o’clock.”
Carlos paused a moment in hesitation.
“Did you have a good trip, sir?” asked the porter.
“A good trip?” echoed Carlos, not certain of the man’s meaning.
“Yes, sir. I mean did you sell many goods?”
It immediately struck Carlos that the porter mistook him for one of the
traveling agents, or “drummers” of the establishment. He resolved to
humor the error.
“Oh, I had fair success,” he replied, carelessly.
“Mr. Carter came in from the West day before yesterday,” said the
porter, “and said he found trade mighty dull. He started out again last
night.”
“Ah,” replied Carlos, “I hope he’ll have good luck. But I wish to see
Mr. Duncan particularly. I wonder if there would be any objection to my
waiting in his private office. My business is very urgent.”
“I guess you can wait there, sir,” replied the porter. “You’ll find
last evening’s paper on the desk.”
“Thank you,” replied Carlos.
He passed through the store, and walked up a flight of steps to an
elevated portion in the rear end. Here he opened a door, and entered a
small, elegantly furnished apartment, which was the private sanctum of
Mr. Duncan, the senior partner of the firm.
A brief retrospect is here necessary. Carlos had arrived from Europe
but three days before the visit of himself and Leonard to Dalton. He
had immediately called on his cousin, to whom he announced the death of
his father, and confided the errand on which he was bent. Leonard had
introduced him to Mr. Duncan, who had invited the cousins to his house.
For Leonard, in his capacity of foreign agent for the firm, enjoyed
not only the business confidence of, but the warm personal friendship
of his employers, and Mr. Duncan, being of a genial, social nature,
delighted in nothing more than extending the hospitality of his house
to his friends.
Mr. Mishler, the junior partner, was perhaps equally pleasant and
sociable in his way, but he was unmarried, exceedingly industrious, and
was constantly occupied with certain details of the business that were
intrusted to his special supervision. Carlos had only met him once or
twice casually.
Consequently he waited in Mr. Duncan’s private office, feeling that
that gentleman was the only acquaintance in the great city to whom he
could go in the present trouble. Indeed, there was no one else to whom
he would feel at liberty to apply for any service whatever.
He patiently awaited Mr. Duncan’s appearance, glancing over the
newspaper to which the porter had made reference, but taking no heed
of the words over which his eyes wandered.
Promptly at nine o’clock Mr. Duncan arrived. He seemed surprised to
find Carlos sitting there, but after an instant’s hesitation recognized
him, and with a cordial exclamation advanced toward him with extended
hand.
Carlos sprang past him and closed the door, and then turned and took
the proffered hand.
“I beg your pardon,” he began, and then stopped.
“How do you do! How do you do!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan.
His words and voice were cordial, though he looked sharply at Carlos,
as if puzzled at his demeanor. He was a tall, portly man, with a ruddy,
though fair complexion, and a clear, pleasant eye. His face was smooth,
with the exception of gray side-whiskers, and he had a high, noble
forehead. He stood looking at Carlos, inquiringly, and the latter began
to speak hurriedly and rather incoherently.
“I am in great trouble,” he said, “and I have come to you. I scarcely
know why. I thought that you might not believe――that is, that you would
be willing to listen――at all events that you would shield me for a few
hours, and not pronounce judgment too hastily.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Duncan, in astonishment.
“Mr. Duncan,” said Carlos, suddenly stepping back a pace, and speaking
slowly and distinctly, “are you aware that you have just shaken hands
with one who is under accusation of _murder_?”
“Good heavens, no! I am not aware of that. Please explain yourself.”
“You won’t turn me off and deliver me into the hands of the officers?”
“I don’t understand you. No, of course I won’t do anything of that kind.
You are a friend of Leonard Lester, and his friends are my friends.
Come, sit down here.”
Mr. Duncan took a chair, and Carlos sat in another near him.
“Yes, I will tell you all. But, first, are we in danger of
interruption?”
“None whatever. But wait.”
He stepped to the door and locked it, and returned to his seat again.
“There. Now out with your story. I see you are in trouble. Let me hear
what it is.”
Thus commanded, Carlos gave a faithful account of the terrible
experience he had passed through since the Monday on which he
and Leonard had set their feet in Dalton. He omitted no important
particular, and concluded by relating the unexpected means of escape
that had been offered him, and his night journey to New York.
Mr. Duncan evinced considerable excitement during the recital. He rose,
stared at the narrator, uttered an exclamation or two, and finally sat
down, planted his hands on his knees, and drank in every word.
“Well, upon my soul, this is marvelous!” he exclaimed, vehemently, on
the conclusion of the narrative. “I never heard the like.”
Carlos sat in silence. He had finished his tale, and his first anxiety
was to know the reception it would meet with.
He waited to hear what Mr. Duncan would have to say after his
wonderment had found vent. But that gentleman, although excitable when
his surprise or sympathy was aroused, said nothing at all for some
moments.