Often life seems one long series of interruptions; and, more often than
not, interruptions are petty and annoying. That it is our
inconsequential acquaintances who interrupt us most frequently is easily
enough understood—far more easily understood than accepted. But it is
much more difficult to understand how often some crisis is transmuted or
decided by some very minor personality, and a personality in no way
concerned in the crucial thing it decides or alters.
Stephen was determined that Hugh should go—and go now.
Hugh was determined to stay, at all cost, until he had searched, and
exhausted search of, this room to which both he and Helen had been so
stupendously impressed.
Helen wished him to stay, but feared his staying. Her will in the matter
swung an unhappy pendulum to and fro between the two wills of the
brothers.
Hugh, Helen, and Stephen, and of all the world they alone, were vitally
interested in the pending decision and in its consequences. How that
decision would have gone, left to them, can never be known.
Barker the inept, and old Morton Grant fated an intruder at Deep Dale,
interrupted, and, so to speak, decided the issue.
“Nothing,” Hugh had replied evasively to his brother’s “What are you
looking at?” and had gone to the window, as if to avoid further
question. Stephen, unsatisfied, was following him persistently when
Barker opened the door and announced, “Mr. Grant.” Helen started to
check her, but Stephen with a quick gesture, stayed her, and before she
could speak speech was too late. Barker blundered out, and Grant came
timidly in.
The old clerk had aged and broken sadly in eight months. Very evidently
he was more in awe of Stephen Pryde than at the worst of times he had
been of Richard Bransby. He stood awkwardly just inside the room, and
fumbled with his hat, and fumbled for words.
“Good—er—good-afternoon, Mr. Pryde. How do you do, Miss Bransby? I
trust——”
Stephen interrupted him sharply. “Well, Grant?”
“Er—I—I—am very sorry to intrude on you like this——”
“Yes, yes; but what do you want?” Stephen snapped.
“It’s—it’s about Mr. Hugh, sir.”
Stephen and Helen exchanged a quick look, she all apprehension, he
trying to hide his elation, trying to look anxious too. Hugh turned at
his name and came toward the others.
“About me? Well, here I am. What about me, Grant?”
The old man was amazed and moved. “Mr. Hugh,” he stammered, letting his
inseparable hat fall into a chair. “God bless me—it _is_ Mr. Hugh.”
“Accurate as ever, Grant, eh?” Hugh chaffed him, smiling with boyish
friendliness.
Morton Grant went to him eagerly, almost as if about to verify his own
eyesight by touch.
“You are all right, sir? You are well?”
“Never better.”
“I am glad, sir. I’m very glad indeed,” the old man said brokenly.
Stephen Pryde had had enough of this. “Yes, yes, yes,” he interrupted
testily; “but why are you here, Grant? You said it was about Hugh.”
“It is, sir,” the clerk answered quickly, recalled to his errand;
“the—the authorities came to the office to-day, searching for him.”
“Well, that’s cheerful,” Hugh commented.
Helen gave a little sob.
“It appears,” Grant continued, “that he has been seen and recognized
lately. They thought we might have news of him.”
Stephen turned to Hugh curtly, but still trying to hide his triumph.
“You see the risks you are running.”
“What did you tell them, Grant?” Hugh asked.
“I said we knew nothing of your whereabouts, sir. Then I came directly
here.”
“Were you followed?” Stephen asked sharply.
The question and the idea took Grant aback. “I—I don’t think so, sir!”
he said feebly. “It never occurred to me that such a thing was possible.
I’ve never had any experience with the police,” he apologized sadly.
“Your common sense should have told you not to come,” Stephen said
brutally.
“I dare say, sir,” Grant admitted piteously; “but it seemed to me to be
the only thing I could do.”
“You must go back at once,” Stephen ordered.
“Very good, sir,” Grant agreed meekly.
“And if you are questioned again——”
For the first time in his life, Morton Grant interrupted an employer.
And he did it brusquely and with determined self-assertion.
“I shall say that I have seen nothing of Mr. Hugh—absolutely nothing.”
Hugh went to him with outstretched hand; but Helen was there first.
“Oh yes, that’s fine—fine,” Stephen said briskly.
Helen caught Grant’s arm in her hands, and thanked him without a
word—with swimming eyes. But Hugh spoke.
“Thank you, Grant.”
Grant paid no attention to Stephen Pryde, and Helen he gave but an
embarrassed scant look. Hugh’s hand he took in his. He was much
affected, and the old voice shook.
“Mr. Hugh—I want you to know—I’ve always wanted you to know—that
telling Mr. Bransby about the—about the shortage—was the hardest thing
I ever did. But I had to do it.”
Hugh pressed the hand he held. “I know, Grant,” he said cordially. “And
you were quite right to tell him.”
“God bless you, Mr. Hugh.” Morton Grant felt for his handkerchief. He
thought he was filling up for a cold.
“God bless you, Grant,” the young fellow said, still holding the old
clerk’s hand.
Stephen Pryde intervened sharply. “Come, come, Grant, you mustn’t waste
time like this.”
“Very good, sir, I’ll—I’ll go at once.” But at the door he turned and
lingered a moment to say to Hugh,
“I hope—I trust that everything will be all right for you, sir.”
“That ought to convince you that I am right,” Stephen said imperatively
to his brother, as the door closed behind Grant. “You _must_ get away
from here now—the quicker the better.”
“But I can’t go now, Stephen,” the younger man pled; “I simply can’t go
until—not yet——”
“They are certain to come here for you,” Stephen insisted; “they are
certain to do that.”
“But before they can come I will have searched.”
But Stephen interrupted again, more sharply.
“Besides, Latham is in the house. He may come into this room at any
minute—we couldn’t ask him to be a party to this. By Jove! no; he
mustn’t see you; now I think of it, he suspects something already; he
was questioning me shrewdly yesterday. I didn’t like it then, I like it
very much less now. The coast’s quite clear,” he said, looking through
the door. “Go up to my room—you will be safe there. Go! Go now. I’ll
come to you presently, and we can talk things over—arrange everything.”
Hugh Pryde hesitated. It seemed to him that some strong impulse forbade
him to leave the room. He looked at Helen, but she seemed as hesitating
as he, and at last he muttered something about, “Another word to old
Grant, the old brick,” and went reluctantly into the hall.