Fate is Fickle
In the dim light of the early summer dawn Marshall Hamilton paced
restlessly to and fro across his study floor. He had returned from the
pursuit of Stoat to find that Helen had summoned Doctor Rowland, the
local physician, and had herself superintended the removal of
Atherton's body to the room left vacant by Bellingham. Shortly
afterward, the doctor had arrived, and although at a first cursory
examination he had shaken his head ominously, he was now engaged in a
more careful study of the patient's injuries, to see if human skill
could restore to life the flame which alternately seemed to flicker,
and then to subside, in the breast of the erstwhile chauffeur.
Yet it was not of the injured man that Marshall Hamilton was thinking,
for though he realized that it was to Atherton's bravery that he owed
his daughter's life, yet long years in the atmosphere of high finance
had so accustomed him to viewing the world in its immensity that
outside the scope of his own immediate family he had gradually become
a man of no emotions whatsoever. Mankind, to him, meant no longer the
isolated individual, but a vast, teeming mass of habits, customs,
tendencies; interesting, if studied in the bulk; wearisome and
insignificant, if reduced to a single microcosm. And Atherton,
therefore, was no more to him than any other pawn in the game; this
pawn had saved his Queen, and that was all.
But with regard to the banker's own affairs, so strangely disturbed by
this mysterious sequence of events which had threatened the system of
which he was the chief, here the situation was disconcerting in the
extreme. Only once before, in the twenty years of his leadership, had
there been room even for a suspicion that their secret was in danger,
and then, without waiting to discover whether or not these suspicions
were well founded, the man who had been the occasion of them had
suddenly disappeared, and everything had continued as before. But this
recent chain of incidents had been infinitely more alarming, for there
had been a cohesion between them which seemed to indicate not the
haphazard gropings of a single individual, but the concerted effort of
a group of bold and intelligent men.
To be sure, the attempt of McKay's chauffeur to follow his employer
had not caused them any great anxiety. Precautions, of course, had
been taken; among others, the placing of detectives at the houses of
both McKay and Hamilton; but no further trouble had been anticipated,
and the discovery by one of the detectives that Bellingham was
secretly working over the tape had come as an unwelcome shock, for the
incident of the chauffeur and the labors of the secretary had been so
closely connected in point of time that it seemed improbable that they
could have been merely a coincidence. And although, in the case of
Bellingham, further investigation might perhaps have shown that the
secretary was merely one of the many innocuous "chart fiends," and
that there was nothing sinister in his study of the tape, this
possibility was strongly negatived by Bellingham's sudden flight, an
event which had necessitated his murder upon the very eve of his
departure from the country. And here, with this double tragedy, the
banker had confidently expected the disturbance to cease, instead of
which had ensued, with almost incredible boldness, the events of the
night, and the endeavor, within an ace of being successful, at
capturing the cypher which held the key to the seemingly purposeless
fluctuations of the stock market. Thus the banker was most profoundly
disturbed. By what possible chance the secret could have been
fathomed--how the impregnable defence of forty years had all at once
been beaten down--was wholly incomprehensible. And yet, grave as the
situation was, there was still much for which to be thankful. For if
Atherton's bullet had not gone to its mark, and the marauder had
escaped with the watch, there might easily have resulted a scandal
which would have shaken the country from one end to the other. But as
it was, it appeared that although by the narrowest of margins they had
managed to escape, and the next task was to be on the alert to see
whether more attempts would be made, or whether this, as he most
devoutly hoped, would be the last.
A knock at the door aroused him, and the imperturbable Martin stood
aside to admit Doctor Howland, gray-haired, a trifle bent, but still a
hale and vigorous man.
"Well," asked Mr. Hamilton, "how do you find him?"
"He's badly off," the doctor answered. "There's no doubt about that.
He is still unconscious, and his heart action is distinctly
unfavorable. In fact, Mr. Hamilton, to put it bluntly, I should say
that he is at the point of death. Your daughter is still with him; she
has been most helpful; but I have sent for a nurse, who will come at
once. We will do all we can, and of course, if you say the word, there
are other men whom you cay call in consultation. Charles Carrington,
for instance, has done wonders in these cases, and Kennedy is good,
also, though of the two, I believe Carrington is the more skillful."
The banker nodded. "I see," he responded briefly. "Yes, I think we
should do what we can. By all means, I had better send for
Carrington."
The doctor jotted a number on a scrap of paper, handed it to the
financier, and was about to leave the room when Helen Hamilton, her
face as pale as death, met him upon the threshold. "Quick, doctor,"
she cried, "he's delirious, and trying to get up. I've left Martin
with him." And with a deep-drawn breath she added imploringly, "Oh,
isn't there anything that you can do?"
The doctor, without replying, strode quickly up the stairs, the banker
following at his heels, while Helen, sinking into a chair, and
striving to keep back the tears, prayed imploringly to Heaven for the
life of the man she loved.
They found Atherton tossing restlessly from side to side, his eyes
wide-open and glassy, the flush of fever in his cheeks. Martin was at
his side, but as they entered, the bell rang sharply and the butler
left the room, leaving Marshall Hamilton and the Doctor alone with the
injured man.
Atherton was no longer violent, but plainly enough the events of the
last few weeks were passing, in chaos, through his disordered brain,
for he muttered to himself unceasingly, and presently, as his voice
gathered strength, they could distinguish clearly what he said,
although the words seemed ironically trivial. "I like dogs," he
whispered confidentially. "He's a good little pup. I'm glad he's all
right."
Again Martin entered the room. "A telephone message for Doctor
Rowland," he announced. "They would like him to come to Mrs. Horton's
at once."
The doctor turned to the financier. "A childbirth case," he explained.
"I must go, and as a matter of fact, there is very little that I can
do here. The nurse will arrive at any moment; I have explained to her
everything that is to be done. You had better get Carrington." And he
hastily left the room.
"Shall I remain here, sir?" inquired the butler, but Hamilton shook
his head. "No, look after affairs down stairs," he answered, and
Martin withdrew, leaving the banker alone with the unconscious
Atherton.
The mutterings ceased; then broke forth again; and presently, quite
clearly and with a note of surprise in his tone, the sick man
exclaimed, "Marshall Hamilton!"
The banker started. His first thought was that Atherton had suddenly
regained consciousness, and involuntarily he stepped forward toward
the bed, but Atherton still gazed straight before him, with no sign of
recognition in his staring eyes, and whatever it was that had caused
the utterance of the banker's name, it was evident that in a few brief
seconds he had traversed countless miles of space and numberless hours
of time, for now he was talking earnestly with some one else, his
voice high-pitched and querulous with anxiety.
"You can't do that, Blagden!" he cried. "That's blackmail. And
remember his wife is an invalid. It might kill her if she knew." Then
silence, and then again, "I tell you you can't, Blagden; I'll leave it
to Mills. How about it, Tubby; you wouldn't do that?"
Again silence. In breathless amazement, Marshall Hamilton stood gazing
at the prostrate figure on the bed. He could not mistake the meaning
of the words; this message was for him; his sin, long cherished in
secret, had found him out. But before he could think or act, another
portion of the wild phantasmagoria flashed on the clouded brain, and
Atherton, trying hard to raise himself from the pillow, exclaimed
eagerly, "On the watch; on the watch for these signals. You're right,
Blagden, that's the whole question: verb or noun!"
For the first time in many years, the banker wholly lost his
composure; his heart seemed suddenly to contract, and instinctively he
clutched at the chair beside him for support. Horror was being piled
on horror. Was his whole life an open book? Did the whole world know
his secret? In what possible way, after the strict precaution of
years, had he and his associates thus betrayed themselves, or been
betrayed?
Atherton, exhausted, now lay without motion, breathing rapidly and
weakly, and presently, as the banker's glance fell upon the paper in
his hand, containing the number of the specialist, with a sudden
movement, as if seeking to take vengeance on an inanimate object, he
crumpled it and thrust it into his pocket. This man had saved his
daughter's life, and it was his bullet that had brought down the
escaping thief, but he knew far too much and therefore it was better
that he should die.
Again footsteps sounded in the hallway; Martin ushered in the nurse;
and the banker, thus relieved, went slowly down the stairs to his
study, his mind in a turmoil of apprehension and of actual fear. Helen
stood awaiting him upon the threshold. "Is he better?" she cried. "Is
there any hope?"
Even for Hamilton, with his thoughts intent upon other things, there
could be no mistaking the intensity of her tone. And since he was
genuinely fond of his daughter, he answered. "He's about the same."
And then without wasting words, he added, "Why? Do you care for him?"
She stood regarding him gravely, and without a trace of false shame,
she answered simply, "More than for anyone in the world. I can't live
without him. Oh, father, he _must_ get well."
Marshall Hamilton hesitated. Through and through, a man of large
affairs, he knew well the oath that he had sworn, long years ago; knew
it to be his duty to see that by fair means or foul Atherton's mouth
was closed forever. Yet knowing all this, here stood his only
daughter, agonized, beseeching. There was a moment's tense silence;
then the banker turned and pressed the electric bell. "We'll do what
we can, dear," he said, and as Martin, immaculate, unruffled and
debonair, answered his call, he handed him a crumpled bit of paper.
"Get Doctor Carrington at once," he ordered. "Tell him expense doesn't
matter; I must have him here at once. Tell him it's a case of life and
death."