 11 There were a lot of people at the station. They had been to a family gathering of some sort from their remarks, and they talked loudly and much, so that the two stood apart, for the seats were all occupied, and had no opportunity for conversation, save a quiet, smiling comment now and then upon the chatter about them, or the odd remarks they heard. There had come a constraint upon them, a withdrawing of each into his shell, each conscious of something that separated. Gordon struggled to prevent it, but he seemed helpless. Celia would smile in answer to his quiet remarks, but it was a smile of distance, such as she had worn early in the morning. She had quite found her former standing-ground, with its fence of prejudice, and she was repairing the breaks through which she had gone over to the enemy during the day. She was bracing herself with dire reminders, and snatches from those terrible letters which were written in characters of fire in her heart. Never, never could she care for a man who had done what this man had done. She had forgotten for a little while those terrible things he had said of her dear dead father. How could she have forgotten for an instant? How could she have let her hand lie close to the hand that had defiled itself by writing such things? By the time they were seated in the train, she was freezing in her attitude, and poor Gordon sat miserably beside her, and tried to think what he had done to offend her. It was not his fault that her hand had lain near his on the rail. She had put it there herself. Perhaps she expected him to put his over it, to show her that he cared as a bridegroom should care, as he did care in reality, if he only had the right. And perhaps she was hurt that he had stood coolly, and said or done nothing, but he could not help it. After much Gordon's relief, the train carried a parlor-car, and it happened on this particular day to be almost deserted, save for a deaf old man with a floored complexion and a gold knobbed cane who slumbered audibly at the further end from the two chairs Gordon selected. He established his companion comfortably, disposed of the baggage, and sat down. But the girl paid no heed to him. With a sad, set face, she stared out of the window, her eyes seeming to see nothing. For two hours she sat so, he making remarks occasionally, to which she made little or no reply, until he lapsed into silence, looking at her with troubled eyes. Finally, just as they neared the outskirts of Pittsburgh, he leaned softly forward and touched her coat-sleeve to attract her attention. Have I offended? Hurt you in any way? he asked gently. She turned toward him, and her eyes were brimming full of tears. No, she said, and her lips were trembling. No. You have been most kind, but—but I cannot forget those letters. She ended with a sob, and put up her handkerchief quickly to stifle it. Letters? he asked helplessly. What letters? The letters you wrote me. All the letters of the last five months. I cannot forget them. I can never forget them. How could you think I could? He looked at her anxiously, not knowing what to say, and yet he must say something. The time had come when some kind of an understanding, some clearing up of facts, must take place. He must go cautiously, but he must find out what was the matter. He could not see her suffer so. There must be some way to let her know that so far as he was concerned she need suffer nothing further and that he would do all in his power to set her right with the world. But letters? he had written no letters. His face lighted up with the swift certainty of one thing about which he had did not be sure. She still thought him the man she had intended to marry. She was not therefore troubled about that phase of the question. It was strange, almost unbelievable, but it was true that he personally was not responsible for the trouble in her eyes. What trouble she might feel when she knew all? He had yet to find out, but it was a great relief to be sure of so much. Still, something must be said. Letters? he repeated again stupidly and then added with perplexed tone. Would you mind telling me just what it was in the letters that hurt you? She turned to eyes of astonishment on him. How can you ask? she said bitterly. You surely must know how terrible they were to me. You could not be the man you have seemed to be today if you did not know what you were doing to me in making all those terrible threats. You must know how cruel they were. I'm afraid I don't understand, he said earnestly, the trouble still most apparent in his eyes. Would you mind being a little more explicit? Would you mind telling me exactly what you think I wrote you that sounded like a threat? He asked the question half hesitatingly, because he was not quite sure whether he was justified in thus obtaining private information under false pretenses, and yet he felt that he must know just what troubled her or he could never help her, and he was sure that if she knew he was an utter stranger, even a kindly one, those gentle lips would never open to inform him upon her torturer. As it was, she could tell him her trouble with a perfectly clear conscience, thinking she was telling it to the man who knew all about it. But his hesitation about prying into an utter stranger's private affairs, even with a good motive, gave him an air of troubled dignity, and real anxiety to know his fault that puzzled the girl more than all that had gone before. I cannot understand how you can ask such a question, since it has been the constant subject of discussion in all our letters, she replied, sitting up with asperity and drying her tears. She was on the verge of growing angry with him for his petty, willful, misunderstanding of words whose meaning she felt he must know well. I do ask it, he said quietly, and believe me, I have a good motive in doing so. She looked at him in surprise. It was impossible to be angry with those kindly eyes, even though he did persist in a willful stupidity. Well, then, since you wish it stated once more, I will tell you, she declared, the tears welling again into her eyes, you first demanded that I marry you, demanded, without any pretense whatever, of caring for me, with a hidden threat in your demand, that if I did not, you would bring some dire calamity upon me by means that were already in your power. You took me for the same foolish little girl whom you had delighted to tease for years before you went abroad to live. And when I refused you, you told me that you could not only take away from my mother all the property which she had inherited from her brother, by means of a will made just before my uncle's death, an unknown except to his lawyer and you, but that you could, and would, blacken my dear dead father's name and honor, and show that every scent that belonged to mother and Jefferson and myself was stolen property. When I challenged you to prove any such thing against my honored father, you went still further and threatened to bring out a terrible story, and prove it with witnesses who would swear to anything you said. You knew my father's white life, you as much as owned your charges were false, and yet you did to send me a letter from a vile creature who pretended that she was his first wife, and who said she could prove that he had spent much of his time in her company. You knew the whole thing was a falsehood, but you did to threaten to make this known through the newspapers, if I did not marry you. You realized that I knew that, even though few people and no friends would believe such a thing of my father, such a report in the papers, false though it was, would crush my mother to death. You knew that I would give my life to save her, and so you had me in your power, as you have me now. You have always wanted me in your power, just because you loved to torture, and now you have me. But you cannot make me forget what you have done. I have given my life, but I cannot give any more. If it is not sufficient you will have to do your worst. She dropped her face into the little wet handkerchief, and Gordon sat with white, brown countenance and clunged hands. He was fairly trembling with indignation toward the villain, who had thus dared impose upon this delicate flower of womanhood. He longed to search the world over for the false bridegroom, and finding, give him his just dues. And what should he do or say? Dared he tell her at once who he was, and trust to her kind heart to forgive his terrible blunder, and keep his secret till the message was safely delivered? Dared he? Had he any right? No. The secret was not his to divulge, either for his own benefit or for any others. He must keep that to himself. But he must help her in some way. At last he began to speak, scarcely knowing what he was about to say. It is terrible, terrible what you have told me, to have written such things to one like you, in fact to any one on earth, seems to me unforgivable. It is the most inhuman cruelty I have ever heard of. You were fully justified in hating and despising the man who wrote such words to you. Then why did you write them, she burst forth, and how can you sit there calmly and talk that way about it, as if you had nothing to do with the matter? Because I never wrote those letters. He said, looking her steadily, earnestly in the eyes. You never wrote them, she exclaimed excitedly. You dare to deny it? I dare to deny it. His voice was quiet, earnest, convincing. She looked at him, dazed, bewildered, indignant, sorrowful. But you cannot deny it, she said, her fragile frame trembling with excitement. I have the letters all in my suitcase. You cannot deny your own handwriting. I have the last awful one, the one in which you threaten father's good name, here in my handbag. I did not put it with the rest, and I had no opportunity to destroy it before leaving home. I felt as if I must always keep it with me, lest otherwise its awful secret would somehow get out. There it is. Read it, and see your own name signed to the words you say you did not write. While she talked, her trembling fingers had taken a folded crumpled letter from her little handbag, and this she reached over and laid upon the arm of the chair. Read it, she said. Read it, and see that you cannot deny it. I should rather not read it, he said. I do not need to read it to deny that I ever wrote such things to you. But I insist that you read it, said the girl. If you insist, I will read it, he said, taking the letter reluctantly, and opening it. She sat watching him furtively through the tears while he read, saw the angry flush steal into his cheeks as the villainy of a fellow man was revealed to him, through the brief, coarse, cruel epistle, and she mistook the flush for one of shame. Then his true brown eyes looked up and met her tearful gaze steadily, a fine anger burning in them. And do you think I wrote that? he said, something in his voice she could not understand. What else could I think? It bears your signature, she answered coldly. The letter is vile, he said, and the man who wrote it is a black-ard, and deserves the utmost that the law allows for such offences. With your permission I shall make it my business to see that he gets it. What do you mean, she said, wide-eyed? How could you punish yourself? You cannot still deny that you wrote the letter. I still deny that I wrote it, or ever saw it until you handed it to me just now. The girl looked at him nonplussed, more than half convinced, in spite of her reason. But isn't that your handwriting? It is not. Look! He took out his fountain pen, and holding the letter on the arm of her chair, he wrote rapidly in his natural hand her own name and address beneath the address on the envelope, then held it up to her. Do they look alike? The two writings were as utterly unlike as possible, the letter being addressed in an almost unreadable scrawl, and the fresh writing standing fine and clear, in a script that spoke of character and business-ability. Even a child could see at a glance that the two were not written by the same hand, and yet, of course, it might have been practiced for the purpose of deception. This thought flashed through the minds of both, even as he held it out for her to look. She looked from the envelope to his eyes, and back to the letter, startled, not knowing what to think. But before either of them had time for another word, the conductor, the porter, and several people from the car behind came hurriedly through, and they realized that while they talked the train had come to a halt amid the blazing electric lights of a great city station. "'Why?' said Gordon, startled, we must have reached Pittsburgh. "'Is this Pittsburgh?' he called out to the vanishing porter. "'Yes, sir,' yelled the porter, putting his head around the curve of the passageway. "'You better hurry, sir! For this train goes on to Cincinnati pretty quick. We is late getting in, you see.' Neither of them had noticed a man in rough clothes with slouch hat and hands in his pockets, who had boarded the train a few miles back, and walked through the car several times, eyeing them keenly. He stuck his head in at the door now, furtively, and drew back quickly again out of sight. Gordon hurriedly gathered up the baggage, and they went out of the car, the porter rushing back as they reached the door, to assist them and get a last tip. There was no opportunity to say anything more as they mingled with the crowd, until the porter landed their baggage in the great station, and hurried back to his train. The man with the slouch hat followed, and stood unobtrusively behind them. Gordon looked down at the white, drawn face of the girl, and his heart was touched with compassion for her trouble. He must make her some satisfactory explanation at once that would set her heart at rest, but he could not do it here, for every seat about them was filled with noisy, chattering folk. He stooped and whispered low and tenderly, "'Don't worry, little girl. Just try to trust me, and I will explain it all.' "'Can you explain it?' she asked anxiously, as if catching at a rope thrown out to save her life. "'Perfectly,' he said, "'if you will be patient and trust me. But we cannot talk here. Just wait in this seat until I see if I can get the state room on the sleeper.' He left her with his courteous bow, and she sat watching his tall, fine figure as he threaded his way among the crowds to the Pullman window, her heart filled with mingling emotions. In spite of her reason, a tiny bit of hope for the future was springing up in her heart, and without her own will she found herself inclined to trust him. At least it was all she could do at present. CHAPTER XII Back at Milton an hour before, when the shades of dusk were falling, and a slender moon hung timidly on the edge of the horizon, a horse drawing a spring wagon embled deliberately into town, and came to a reluctant halt beside the railroad station, having made a wide detour through the larger part of the county on the way to that metropolis. The sun had been hot, the road much of it rough, and the jolts over stones and bumps had not added to the comfort of the thick-set man already bruised and weary from his travels. Joe's conversation had not ceased. He had given his guest a wide range of topics, discoursing learnedly on the buckwheat crop and the blight that might be expected to assail the cherry trees. He pointed out certain portions of land infested with rattlesnakes, and told blood-curdling stories of experiences with stray bears and wild cats in a maple grove through which they passed, till the passenger looked furtively behind him, and urged the driver to hurry a little faster. Joe, seeing his gullibility, only made his stories of country life the bigger, for the thick-set man, though bold as a lion in his own city haunts, was a coward in the unknown world of the country. In the traveler, looking at his watch, urged Joe to make haste, and asked how many miles further Milton was, Joe managed it that the horse should stumble on a particularly stony bit of road. Then, getting down gravely from the wagon, he examined the horse's feet each in turn, shaking his head sadly over the left forefoot. "'Jizzes, I supposed!' he meditated dreamily. "'Stone-brooves! Lame horse! Don't believe I ought to go on! Sorry! But it'll be the ruination of the horse! You ain't in a hurry, I hope!' The passenger in great excitement promised to double the fare if the young man would get another horse and hurry him forward, and after great professions of doubt Joe gave in, and said he would try the horse, but it wouldn't do to work him hard. They would have to let him take his time. He couldn't, on any account, leave the horse behind anywhere and get a fresh one, because it belonged to his best friend, and he promised to bring it back safe and sound. They would just take their time and go slow and see if the horse could stand it. He wouldn't think of trying it, if it weren't for the extra money which he needed. So the impatient traveller was dragged, fuming along, weary hour after weary hour, through the monotonous glory of his spring afternoon, of which he saw nothing but the dust of the road, as he tried to count the endless miles. Every mile or two Joe would descend from the wagon-seat and fuss around the horse's leg. The horse nothing loathed such unprecedented attention, dozing cosily by the roadside during the process. And so was the traveller brought to his destination ten minutes after the last train that stopped at Milton at night had passed the station. The telegraph office was not closed, however, and without waiting to haggle, the passenger paid his thirty dollars for the longest journey he ever took, and disappeared into the station, while Joe, whipping up his petted animal and whistling cheerily, where did you get that girl, went rattling down the shortcut from Milton home at a surprising pace for a lame horse. He was eating his supper at home in a little more than an hour, and the horse seemed to have miraculously recovered from his stone brews. Joe was wondering how his girl would look in a hat with purple plumes and thinking of his thirty dollars with a chuckle. It was surprising how much that thick-set man, weary and desperate though he was, could accomplish when once he reached the telegraph station and sent his messages flying on their way. In less than three minutes after his arrival he had extracted from the station agent the fact that two people, man and woman, answering the description he gave, had bought tickets for Pittsburgh and taken the afternoon train for that city. The agent had noticed them on account of their looking as if they came from the city. He especially noticed the purple plumes, the like of which he had never seen before. He had taken every minute he could get off from his selling tickets and sending telegrams to watch the lady through his little cobwebby window. They didn't wear hats like that in Milton. In ten minutes one message was on its way to a crony in Pittsburgh with whom the thick-set man kept in constant touch for just such occasions as the present, stirring him to strenuous action. Another message had winged its mysterious way to Mr. Holman, giving him the main facts in the case, while a third message caught another crony thirty miles north of Pittsburgh and ordered him to board the Evening Express at his own station, hunt up the parties described, and shadow them to their destination, if possible getting in touch with the Pittsburgh crony when he reached the city. The pursuer then ate a ham sandwich with liberal washings of liquid fire while he awaited replies to some of his messages, and as soon as he was satisfied that he had set justice in motion he hired an automobile and hide him across country to catch a midnight-expressed Pittsburgh. He had given orders that his man and accompanying lady should be held in Pittsburgh until his arrival, and he had no doubt but that the orders would be carried out. So sure was he that he was on the right track and that his cronies would be able and willing to follow his orders. There was some kind of an excursion on at Pittsburgh and the place was crowded. The trainmen kept calling off specials and crowds hurried out of the waiting-room only to be replaced by other crowds, all eager, pushing, talking, laughing. They were mostly men, but a good many women and some children seemed to be of the number, and the noise and excitement worried her after her own exciting afternoon. Sealed along to lay her down and sleep, but the seat was narrow and hard, and people were pressing on every side. That disagreeable man in the slo-chat would stand too near. He was most repulsive looking, though he did not seem to be aware of her presence. Gordon had a long wait before he finally secured the coveted state-room and started back to her, when suddenly a face that he knew loomed up in the crowd and startled him. It was the face of a private detective who was well known about Washington, but whose headquarters were in New York. Until that instant it had not occurred to him to fear Watchers so far south and west as Pittsburgh. It was not possible that the other bride-room would think to track him here, and as for the Holman contingent they would not be likely to make a public disturbance about his disappearance lest they be found to have some connection with the first theft of government property. They could have Watchers only through private means, and they must have been widely indeed if they had anticipated his move through Pittsburgh to Washington. Still it was the natural move for him to make in order to get home as quickly as possible and yet escape them, and this man in the crowd was the very one whom they would have been likely to pick out for their work. He was as slippery in his dealings as they must be, and no doubt was in league with them. He knew the man in his ways thoroughly and had no mind to fall into his hands. Whether he had been seen by the detective yet or not he could not tell, but he suspected he had by the way the man stood around and avoided recognizing him. There was not an instant to be lost. The fine state-room must go untenanted. He must make a dash for Liberty. Liberty! Ah! East Liberty! What queer things these brains of ours are! He knew Pittsburgh just a little. He remembered having caught a train at East Liberty Station once, when he had not time to come down to the station to take it. Perhaps he might get the same train at East Liberty. It was nearly two hours before it left. Swooping down upon the baggage he murmured in the girl's ear, Can you hurry a little? We must catch a car right away. She followed him closely through the crowd, he stooping as if to look down at his suitcase so that his height might not attract the attention of the man whose recognition he feared, and in a moment more they were out in the lighted blackness of the streets. One glance backward showed his supposed enemy stretching his neck above the crowd as if searching for someone as he walked hurriedly toward the very doorway they had just passed. Behind them shadowed the man in the slouch hat and with a curious motion of his hand signaled another like himself, the Pittsburgh crony, who sculked in the darkness outside. Instantly this man gave another signal, and out of the gloom of the street a carriage drew up at the curb before the door, the cabman looking eagerly for patronage. Gordon put both suitcases in one hand, and taking Celia's arm as gently as he could in his haste hurried her toward the carriage. It was the very refuge he sought. He placed her inside and gave the order for East Liberty Station, drawing a long breath of relief at being safely out of the station. He did not see the shabby one who mounted the box beside the driver and gave his directions in guttural whispers, nor the man with the slouch hat who watched from the doorway and followed them to a familiar haunt on the nearest car. He only felt how good it was to be by themselves once more where they could talk together without interruption. But conversation was not easy under the circumstances. The noise of wagons, trains, and cars was so great at the station that they could think of nothing but the din, and when they had threaded their way out of the tangle and started rattling over the pavement the driver went at such a furious pace that they could still only converse by shouting, and that not at all satisfactorily. It seemed a strange thing that any cab man should drive at such a rapid rate within the city limits, but as Gordon was anxious to get away from the station and the Kenai detective as fast as possible he thought nothing of it at first. After a shouted word or two they ceased to try to talk, and Gordon, half shyly, reached out a reassuring hand and laid it on the girl's shrinking one that lay in her lap. He had not meant to keep it there but a second, just to make her understand that all was well, and he would soon be able to explain things. But as she did not seem to resent it, nor draw her own away, he yielded to the temptation and kept the small gloved hand in his. The carriage rattled on, bumpity bump over rough places around corners, tilting now and then sideways, and Celia, half frightened, was forced to cling to her protector to keep from being thrown on the floor of the cab. "'Oh! are we running away?' she breathed awesomely into his ear. "'I think not, dear,' he answered back, the last word inaudible. The driver thinks we are in a hurry, but he has no need to go at this furious pace. I will tell him.' He leaned forward and tapped on the glass, but the driver paid no attention whatever, safe perhaps to drive faster. Could it be that he had lost control of his horse and could not stop? Oh, hadn't he heard? Gordon tried again and accompanied the knocking this time with a shout, but all to no purpose. The cab rattled steadily on. Gordon discovered now that there were two men on the box instead of one, and a sudden premonition sent a thrill of alarm through him. What if, after all, the presence of that detective had been a warning, and he, unheeding, had walked into a trap? What a fool he had been to get into a carriage where he was at the mercy of the driver. He ought to have stayed in open places where kidnapping would be impossible. Now that he had thought of it, he felt convinced that this was just what the enemy would try to do, kidnap him. The more fruitless he found his efforts to make the driver hear him, the more he felt convinced that something was wrong. He tried to open the door next to him and found it stuck. He put all his strength forth to turn the catch, but it held fast. Then a cold sweat stood out upon him and horror filled his mind. His commission with its large significance to the country was in imminent jeopardy. His own life was in all probability hanging in the balance, but most of all he felt the awful peril of the sweet girl by his side. What terrible experiences might be hers within the next hour if his brain and right arm could not protect her? Instinctively his hand went to the pocket where he had kept his revolver ready since ever he had left Washington. Dangers should not find him utterly unprepared. He realized, too, that it was entirely possible that his alarms were unfounded, that the driver was really taking them to the East Liberty Station, that the door merely stuck, and he was needlessly anxious. He must keep a steady head and not let his companion see that he was nervous. The first thing was to find out if possible where they really were, but that was a difficult task. The street over which they rattled was utterly dark with the gloom of a smoky city added to the night. There were no streetlights except at wide intervals, and the buildings appeared to be blank walls of darkness, probably great warehouses. The way was narrow and entirely unknown. Gordon could not tell if he had ever been there before. He was sure from his knowledge of the stations that they had gone much farther than to East Liberty, and the darkness and loneliness of the region through which they were passing filled him again with a vague alarm. It occurred to him that he might be able to get the window sash down and speak to the driver, and he struggled with the one on his own side for a while, with little result, for it seemed to have been plugged up with wads of paper all around. This fact renewed his anxiety. It began to look as if there was intention in sealing up that carriage. He leaned over and felt around the sash of the opposite door, and found the paper wads there also. This certainly was intention. Not to alarm Celia, he straightened back and went to work again at his own window sash, cautiously pulling out the paper. Until at last he could let down the glass. A rush of dank air rewarded his efforts, and the girl drew a breath of relief. Gordon never knew how near she had been to fainting at that moment. She was sitting perfectly quiet in her corner, watching him. Her fears kept to herself, though her heart was beating wildly. She was convinced that the horse was running away. Gordon leaned his head out of the window, but immediately he caught the gleam of a revolver in a hand that hung at the side of the driver's box, pointed downward straight toward his face, as if with intention to be ready in case of need. The owner of the hand was not looking toward him, but was talking in muffled tones to the driver. They evidently had not heard the window let down, but were ready for the first sign of an attempt on the part of their victims to escape. Suddenly Gordon drew in his head, speculating rapidly on the possibility of wrenching that revolver out of its owner's hand. He could do it from where he sat, but would it be wise? They were probably locked in a trap, and the driver was very likely armed also. What chance would he have to save Celia if he brought on a desperate fight at this point? If he were alone he might knock that revolver out of the man's hand and spring from the window, taking his chance of getting away. But now he had Celia to think of, and the case was different. Not for a universe of governments could he leave a woman in such desperate straits. She must be considered first, even ahead of the message. This was life and death. He wondered at his own coolness as he sat back in the carriage and quietly lifted the glass frame back into place. Then he laid a steady hand on Celia's again, and stooping close, whispered into her ear. I'm afraid there's something wrong with our driver. Can you be a little brave, dear? He did not know he had used the last word this time, but it thrilled into the girl's heart with a sudden accession of trust. Oh yes, she breathed close to his face. You don't think he has been drinking, do you? Well, perhaps, said Gordon, relieved at the explanation, but keep calm. I think we can get out of this all right. Suppose you change seats with me, and let me try if that door will open easily. We might want to get out in a hurry in case he slows up some way pretty soon. Celia quietly and swiftly slipped into Gordon's seat, and he applied himself with all his strength and ingenuity gently manipulating the latch and pressing his shoulder against the door until it last to his joy. It gave way reluctantly, and he found that it would swing open. He had worked carefully, else the sudden giving of the latch would have thrown him out of the carriage and given instant alarm to his driver. He was so thoroughly convinced by this time that he was being kidnapped, perhaps to be murdered, that every sense was on the alert. It was his characteristic to be exceedingly cool during a crisis. It was the quality that the keen-eyed chief had valued most in him, and the final reason why he had been selected for this difficult task in place of an older and more experienced man who at times lost his head. The door to the outside world being open Gordon cautiously took a survey of the enemy from that side. There was no gleaming weapon here. The man set grimly enough, laying on the whip in buttering curses to his bony horse, who galloped recklessly on as if partaking of the desperate desires of his master. In the distance Gordon could hear the rumbling of an oncoming train. The street was still dark, and scarcely a vehicle or person to be seen. There seemed no help at hand, and no opportunity to get out, for they were still rushing at a tremendous pace. An attempt to jump now would very likely result in broken limbs, which would only leave them in a worse plight than they were. He slipped back to his own seat, and put Celia next to the free door again. She must be where she could get out first if the opportunity presented itself. Also he must manage to throw out the suitcases, if possible, on account of the letters and valuables they contained. Instinctively his hand sought Celia's in the darkness again, and hers nestled into it in a frightened way as if his strength gave her comfort. Then, before they could speak or realize, there came the rushing sound of a train almost upon them, and the cab came to a halt with a jerk, the driver pulling the horse far back on his haunches to stop him. The shock almost threw Celia to the floor, but Gordon's arm about her steadied her, and instantly he was on the alert. END OF CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. OF THE BEST MAN. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gail Mattern. The Best Man by Grace Livingston Hill. CHAPTER XIII. Glancing through the window he saw that they were in front of a railroad track upon which a long freight train was rushing madly along at a giddy pace for a mere freight. The driver had evidently hoped to pass this point before the train got there, but had failed. The train had an exultant sound as if it knew it had outwitted the driver. On one side of the street were high buildings, and on the other a great lumberyard. Between which in their carriage there stood a team of horses hitched to a covered wagon, from the back of which some boards protruded, and this was on the side next to Celia where the door would open. Gordon's heart leaped up with hope and wonder over the miracle of their opportunity. The best thing about their situation was that their driver had stopped just a little back of the covered wagon so that their door would open to the street directly behind the covered wagon. It made it possible for the carriage door to swing wide and for them to slip across behind the wagon without getting too near to the driver. Nothing could have been better arranged for their escape, and the clatter of the empty freight cars drowned all sounds. Without delay Gordon softly unlatched the door and swung it open, whispering to Celia, Go, quick! Over there by the fence in the shadow. Don't look around nor speak. Quick! I'll come. Trembling in every limb, yet with brave starry eyes, Celia slipped like a wreath from the carriage, stole behind the boards and melted into the shadow of the great fence of the lumberyard. Her purple plumes mere depths of shadow against the smoky planks. Gordon, grasping the suitcases, moved instantly after her, deftly and silently closing the carriage door and dropping into the shadows behind the big wagon, scarcely able to believe as yet that they had really escaped. Ten feet back along the sidewalk was a gateway, the posts being tall and thick. The gate itself was closed, but it hung a few inches inside the line of the fence and into this depression the two steps softly and stood, flattening themselves back against the gate as closely as possible, scarcely daring to breathe while the long freight clattered and rambled its way by like a lot of jolly washer women running and laughing in a line and spadding their tired, noisy feet as they went. Then the vehicles impatiently took up the onward course. Gordon saw the driver look down at the window below him and glanced back hastily over his shoulder, and the man on the other side of the box looked down on his side. The glitter of something in his hand shone for an instant in the glare of the signal light over the track. Then the horse lurched forward and the cab began its crazy gate over the track and up the cobbled street. They had started onward without getting down to look in the carriage and see if all were safe with their prisoners, and they had not even look back to see if they had escaped. They evidently trusted in the means they had used to lock the carriage doors and had heard no sounds if they were escaping. It was incredible, but it was true. Gordon drew a long breath of relief and relaxed from his strained position. The next thing was to get out of that neighborhood as swiftly as possible before those men had time to discover that their birds had flown. They would of course know at once where their departure had taken place and come back swiftly to search for them with perhaps more men to help, and a second time escape would be impossible. Gordon snatched up the suitcases with one hand and with the other drew silly his arm within his. Now we must hurry with all our might, he said softly. Are you all right? Yes. Her breath was coming in a sob, but her eyes were shining bravely. Poor child! His voice was very tender. Were you much frightened? A little. She answered more bravely now. I shall have hard work to forgive myself for all this, he said tenderly, but we mustn't talk. We have to get out of this quickly, or they may come back after us. Lean on me and walk as fast as you can. Seelya bent her efforts to take long springing strides, and together they fairly skimmed the pavements, turning first this corner, then that, in the general direction from which Gordon thought they had come, until at last, three blocks away, they caught the welcome-war of a trolley, and breathless flew onward just catching a car. They cared not where it went, so that they were safe in a bright light with other people. No diamonds on any gentleman's neckscarf ever shone to Seelya's eyes was so friendly welcome as the dull brass buttons on that trolley conductor's coat as he rang up their fares and answered Gordon's questions about how to get to East Liberty Station, and their pleasant, homely gleam almost were her undoing, for now that they were safe at last the tears would come to her eyes. Gordon watched her lovingly, tenderly, glad that she did not know how terrible had been her danger. His heart was still beating wildly with the thought of their marvelous escape, and his own present responsibility. He must run no further risks. They would keep two crowded trolleys and trust to hiding in the open. The main thing was to get out of the city on the first train they could manage to board. When they reached East Liberty Station, a long train was just coming in, all sleepers, and they could hear the echo of a stentorian voice, special for Harrisburg, Baltimore, and Washington, all aboard. And up at the further end of the platform, Gordon saw the length form of the detective whom he had tried to avoid an hour before at the other station. Without taking time for thought, he hurried silly forward, and they sprang breathlessly aboard. Not until they were fairly in the cars and the wheels moving under them did it occur to him that his companion had had nothing to eat since about twelve o'clock. She must be famished, and in a fair way to be ill again. What a fool he was not to have thought. They could have stopped in some obscure restaurant along the way, as well as not, and taken a later train. And yet it was safer to get away at once. Without doubt there were watchers at East Liberty, too, and he was lucky to have gone on the train without a challenge. He was sure that Detective's face lighted strangely as he looked his way. Perhaps there was a buffet attached to the train. At least he would investigate. If there wasn't, they must get off at the next stop. There must be another stop surely some way near the city. He could not remember, but there surely must be. They had to wait some time to get the attention of the conductor. He was having much trouble with some disgruntled passengers, who each claimed to have the same berth. Gordon finally got his ear, and showing his stateroom tickets inquired if they could be used on this train. No, growled the wary conductor. You're on the wrong train. This is a special, and every berth in the train is taken now but one upper. Then we'll have to get off at the next stop, I suppose, and take the other train, said Gordon Dismally. There isn't any other stop till somewhere in the middle of the night. I tell you, this is a special, and we're scheduled to go straight through. East Liberty's the last stop. Then what shall we do? asked Gordon innately. I'm sure I don't know, snapped the conductor. I've enough to do without mending other people's mistakes. Stay aboard, I suppose, unless you want to jump off and commit suicide. But I have a lady with me who isn't at all well, said Gordon with dignity. So much the worse for the lady, replied the conductor inhumanely. There's one upper berth, I told you. An upper berth wouldn't do for her, said Gordon decidedly. She isn't well, I tell you. Suit yourself, snapped the harassed official. I reckon it's better than nothing. You may not have it long. I'm likely to be asked for it the next half minute. Is that so? And is there absolutely nothing else? Young man, I can't waste words on you. I haven't time. Take it or let it alone. It's all one to me. There's some standing-room left in the day-coach, perhaps. I'll take it, said Gordon meekly, wishing he could go back and undo the last half hour. How in the world was he to go and tell Celia that he could provide her nothing better than an upper berth? She was sitting with her back to him, her face resting wearily on her hand against the window. Two men with largely checked suits, big seal rings, and diamond scarf pins sat in the opposite seat. He knew it was most unpleasant for her. A nondescript woman with a very large hat and thick powder on her face shared Celia's seat. He reflected that specials did not always bear a select company. Is there nothing you can do, he pleaded with the conductor as he took the bit of pace-board, entitling him to the last vacant berth. Don't you suppose you could get some man to change and give her a lower berth? It'll be very hard for her. She isn't used to upper berths. His eyes rested wistfully on the bowed head. Celia had taken off her plumed hat, and the fitful light of the car played with the gold of her hair. The conductor's grim eyes softened as he looked. That the lady? I'll see what I can do," he said briefly, and stumped off to the next car. The miracle of her presence had worked its change upon him. Gordon went over to Celia, and told her in a low tone that he hoped to have arrangements made for her soon so that she could be comfortable. She must be fearfully tied with the excitement and fright and hurry. He added that he had made a great blunder in getting on this train, and now there was no chance to get off for several hours perhaps, and probably no supper to be had. Oh, it doesn't matter in the least, said Celia wearily. I'm not all that hungry. She almost smiled when she said it. He knew that what she wanted was to have her mind relieved about the letters, but she readily saw that there was no opportunity now. She even seemed sorry at his troubled look and tried to smile again through the settled sadness in her eyes. He could see she was very weary, and he felt like a great brute in care of a child and mentally berated himself for his own thoughtlessness. Gordon started off to search for something to eat for her, and was more successful than he had dared hope. The newsboy had two chicken sandwiches left, and these, with the addition of a fine orange, a box of chocolates, and a glass of ice water, he presently brought to her, and was rewarded by a smile this time, almost as warm and intimate as those she had given him during their beautiful day. But he could not sit beside her, for the places were all taken, and he could not stand in the aisle and talk, for the porter was constantly running back and forth, making up the births. There seemed to be a congested state of things in the whole train, every seat being full, and men standing in the aisles. He noticed now that they all wore badges of some fraternal order. It was doubtless a delegation to some great convention upon which they had intruded. They were a good-natured, noisy happy-croud, but not anywhere among them was to be found a quiet spot where he and Celia could go on with this suddenly interrupted conversation. Presently the conductor came to him, and said he had found a gentleman who would give the lady his lower berth, and take her up a one. It was already made up, and the lady might take possession at once. Gordon made the exchange of tickets, and immediately escorted Celia to it. He found her most glad to go, for she was now unutterably weary, and was longing to get away from the light and noise about her. He led the way with the suitcases, hoping that in the other car there would be some spot where they could talk for a few minutes, but he was disappointed. It was even fuller than in the first car. He arranged everything for her comfort as far as possible, disposed of her hat and fixed her suitcase so that she could open it, but even while he was doing it there were people crowding by, and no private conversation could be had. He stepped back when all was arranged, and held the curtain aside that she might sit on the edge of her berth. Then, stooping over, he whispered, Try to trust me until morning. I'll explain it all to you then, so that you will understand how I have nothing to do with those letters. Forget it, and try to rest, will you? His tone was wistful. He had never wanted to do anything so much in all his life as to stoop and kiss those sweet lips, and the lovely eyes that looked up at him out of the dusky shadows of the berth, filled with fear and longing. They looked more than ever like the blue-tired flowers that drooped from her gown wearily. But he held himself with a firm hand. She was not his to kiss. When she knew how he had deceived her, she would probably never give him the right to kiss her. I will try, she murmured in answer to his question, and then added, But where will you be? Is your berth nearby? Not far away. That is, I had to take a place in another car, they were so crowded. Oh, she said a little anxiously. Are you sure you have a good, comfortable place? Oh, yes, I shall be all right, he insidiously. It was so wonderful to have her care whether he was comfortable or not. The porter was making up the opposite berth, and there was no room to stand longer. So he bade her good night, she putting out her hand for farewell. For an instant he held it close, with gentle pressure, as if to reassure her. Then he went away to the day-coach, and settled down into a hard corner at the very back of the car, drawing his traveling cap over his eyes, and letting his heart beat out wild joy over that little touch of her dear hand. Wave after wave of sweetness went over him, thrilling his very soul with the joy he had never known before. And this was love! What kind of a wretch was he, presuming to love like this a woman who was the promised bride of another man? Ah, but such a man, a villain, a brute, who had used his power over her to make her suffer torches. Had a man like that a right to claim her? His whole being answered, no. Then the memory of the look in her eyes, the turn of her head, the soft touch of her fingers as they lay for that instant in his, the inflection of her voice, would send that wave of sweetness over his senses, his heart would thrill anew, and he would forget the wretch who stood between him and this lovely girl whom he knew now he loved as he had never dreamed a man could love. Gradually his mind steadied itself under the sweet intoxication, and he began to wonder just what he should say to her in the morning. It was a good thing he had not had further opportunity to talk with her that night, for he could not have told her everything, and now, if all went well, they would be in Washington in the morning, and he might make some excuse till after he had delivered his message. Then he would be free to tell the whole story, and lay his case before her for decision. His heart throbbed with ecstasy, as he thought of the possibility of her forgiving him, and yet it seemed most unlikely. Sometimes he would let his wild longings fancy for just an instant what joy it would be if she could be induced to let the marriage stand. But he told himself at the same time that that could never be. It was very likely that there was someone else in New York to whom her heart would turn if she were free from the scoundrel who had threatened her into a compulsory marriage. He would promise to help her, protect her, defend her from the man who was evidently using blackmail to get her into his power for some purpose, most likely for the sake of having control of her property. At least it would be some comfort to be able to help her out of her trouble, and yet would she ever trust a man who had even unwittingly allowed her to be bound by the sacred tie of marriage to an utter stranger? And thus amid hope and fear the night rolled itself away. Forward in the sleeper the girl lay wide awake for a long time. In the middle of the night a thought suddenly evolved itself out of the blackness of her curtained couch. She sat upright alertly and stared into the darkness as if it were a thing that she could catch and handle and examine. The thought was born out of a dreamy vision of the crisp brown waves, almost curls if they had not been so short and thick, that covered the head of the man who had lain sleeping outside her curtains in the early morning. It came to her with sudden force that not so had been the hair of the boy George Hain who used to trouble her girlish days. His was thin and black and oily, collecting naturally into little isolated strings with the least warmth and giving him the appearance of a kitten who had been out in the rain. One lock, how well she remembered that lock? One lock on the very crown of his head had always refused to lie down, no matter how much persuasion was brought to bear upon it. It had been the one point on which the self-satisfied George had been pregnantable, his hair, that scalp lock that would always rise stiffly, oily from the top of his head. The hair she had looked at admiringly that morning in the dawning crimson of the rising sun had not been that way. It had curved clingingly to the shape of the fine head as if it loved to go that way. It was beautiful and fine and burnished with a sense of life and vigor in its every wave. Could hair change in ten years? Could it grow brown where it had been black? Could it become glossy instead of dull and oily? Could it take on the signs of natural wave where it had been as straight as a dye? Could it grow like fur where it had been so thin? The girl could not solve the problem, but the thought was most startling and brought with it many suggestive possibilities that were most disturbing. Yet gradually out of the darkness she drew a sort of comfort in her dawning enlightenment. Two things she had to go on in her strange premises. He had said he did not write the letters, and his hair was not the same. Who then was he? Her husband now undoubtedly, but who? And if deeds and hair could change so materially, why not spirits? At least he was not the same as she had feared and dreaded. There was so much comfort, and at last she lay down and slept. CHAPTER XIV It was not until the white dome of the capital and the tall needle of the monument were painted soft and vision-like against the sky, reminding one of the pictures of the heavenly city in the story of Pilgrim's Progress, and faintly suggesting a new and visionary world that he sought her again and found her fully ready, standing in the aisle while the porter put up the berth out of the way. Beneath the great brim of her purple hat, where the soft fronds of her plumes trembled with the motion of the train, she lifted sweet eyes to him, as if she were both glad and frightened to see him. And then that ecstasy shot through him again, as he realized suddenly what it would be to have her, for his life companion, to feel her looks of gladness were all for him, and have the right to take all fright away from her. They could only smile at each other for good morning, for everybody was standing up and being brushed, and pushing here and there for suitcases in lost umbrellas, and everybody talked loudly, and laughed a great deal, and told how late the train was. Then at last they were there, and could get out and walk silently side by side in the noisy procession through the station to the sidewalk. Little things sometimes change at lifetime, and make for our safety or our destruction. That very morning three keen watchers were set to guard that station at Washington to hunt out the government spy who had stolen back the stolen message, and take him, message in all, dead or alive, back to New York, for the man who could testify against the Holman combination was not to be let live, if there was such a thing as getting him out of the way. But they never thought to watch the special, which was supposed to carry only delegates to the Great Convention. He could not possibly be on that. They knew he was coming from Pittsburgh, for they had been so advised by Telegram the evening before by one of their company, who had seen him buying a sleeper ticket for Washington. But they felt safe about that special, for they had made inquiries and been told no one but delegates could possibly come on it. They had done their work thoroughly and were on hand with every possible plan perfected for begging their game. But they took the time when the Pittsburgh special was expected to arrive for eating a hearty breakfast in the restaurant across the street from the station. Two of them emerged from the restaurant doorway in plenty of time to meet the next Pittsburgh train, just as Gordon, having placed the lady in a closed carriage, was getting in himself. If the carriage had stood in any other spot along the pavement in front of the station, they never would have seen him. But as it was, they had a full view of him. And because they were Washington men and experts in their line, they recognized him at once, and knew their plans had failed, and that only by extreme measures could they hope to prevent the delivery of the message, which would mean downfall and disaster to them in their schemes. As Gordon slammed shut the door of the carriage, he caught a vision of his two enemies, pointing excitedly toward him, and he knew that the bloodhounds were on the scent. His heart beat wildly. His anxiety was divided between the message and the lady. What should he do? Drive it once to the home of his chief and deliver the message? Or leave the girl at his rooms, phone for a faster conveyance, and trust to getting to his chief ahead of his pursuers? Don't let anything hinder you. Don't let anything hinder you. Make it a matter of life and death. Ring the little ditty in his ears. And now it seemed as if he must go straight ahead with the message. And yet, a matter of life and death, he could not, must not, might not take the lady with him into danger. If he must be in danger of death, he did not want to die having exposed an innocent stranger to the same. Then there was another point to be thought of. He had already told the driver to take him to his apartments, and to drive as rapidly as possible. It would not do to stop him now and change the directions, for a pistol shot could easily reach him yet. And, coming from a crowd, who would be suspected? His enemies were standing on the threshold of a place where there were many of their kind to protect them, and none of his friends knew of his coming. It would be a raceful life from now on to the finish. Celia was looking out with interest at the streets, recognizing landmarks with wonder, and did not notice Gordon's white, set face and burning eyes as he strained his vision to note how fast the horse was going. Oh, if the driver would only turn off at the next corner into the side street, they could not watch the carriage so far. But it was not likely, for this was the most direct road, and yet, yes, he had turned, joy. The street here was so crowded that he had sought the narrower, less crowded way that he might go the faster. It seemed an age to him before they stopped at his apartments. Celia, it had been but a short ride, in which familiar scenes had brought her pleasure, for she recognized that she was not in strange Chicago, but in Washington, a city often visited. Somehow she felt it was an omen of a better future than she had feared. Oh, why didn't you tell me? she smiled to Gordon. It is Washington, dear old Washington. Somehow he controlled the tumult in his heart and smiled back, saying in a voice quite natural, I am so glad you like it. She seemed to understand that they could not talk until they reached a quiet place somewhere, and she did not trouble him with questions. Instead she looked from the window, or watched him furtively, comparing him with her memory of George Hain, and wondering in her own thoughts. She was glad to have them to herself for just this little bit. For now that the morning had come she was almost afraid of revelation, what it might bring forth. And so it came about that they took the swift ride in more or less silence, and neither thought it strange. As the carriage stopped he spoke with low hurried voice, tense with excitement, but her own nerves were on a strain also, and she did not notice. We get out here. He had the fear ready for the driver, and stepping out, hurried Celia into the shelter of the hallway. It happened that an elevator had just come down, so it was but a second more before they were up safe in the hall before his own apartment. Taking a latch-key from his pocket he applied it to the door, flung it open, and ushered Celia to a large leather chair in the middle of the room. Then, stepping quickly to the side of the room, he touched a bell, and from it went to the telephone with an, excuse me please, this is necessary, to the girl, who sat astonished, wondering at the home likeness of this room, and at the at home-ness of the man. She had expected to be taken to a hotel. This seemed to be a private apartment with which he was perfectly acquainted. Perhaps it belonged to some friend. But how, after an absence of years, could he remember just where to go, which door and which elevator to take, and how to fit the key with so accustomed a hand? Then her attention was arrested by his voice. Give me two fifty-four L, please, he said. Is this two fifty-four L? Is Mr. Osborne in? You say he has not gone to the office yet? May I speak with him? Is this Mr. Osborne? I did not expect you to know my voice. Yes, sir, just arrived, and all safe so far. Shall I bring it to the house or the office? The house? All right, sir, immediately. By the way, I am sure Hale and Burke are on my track. They saw me at the station. To your house? You will wait until I come? All right, sir. Yes, immediately. Sure, I'll take precaution. Goodbye. With the closing words came a tap at the door. Come, Henry, he answered, as the astonished girl turned toward the door. Henry, you will go down, please, to the restaurant and bring up a menu-card. This lady will select what she would like to have, and you will serve breakfast for her in this room as soon as possible. I shall be out for perhaps an hour, and, meantime, you will obey any orders she may give you. He did not introduce her as his wife, but she did not notice the omission. She had suddenly become aware of a strange distraught haste in his manner, and when he said he was going out, alarm seized her. She could not tell why. The man bowed deferentially to his master, looked his admiration and devotion to the lady, waited long enough to say, I's mighty glad to see you back safe, sir, and disappeared to obey orders. Silly a turn toward Gordon for an explanation, but he was already at the telephone again. Is this the garage? This is the Harris apartments. Can you send Thomas with a closed car to the rear door immediately? Yes. No, I want Thomas in a car that can speed. Yes, the rear door, rear, and at once. What? What's that? But I must. It's official business. Well, I thought so. Hurry them up. Good-bye. He turned, and saw her troubled gaze following him, with growing fear in her eyes. What is the matter, she asked anxiously. Has something happened? Just one moment he paused, and coming toward her laid his hands on hers tenderly. Nothing the matter at all, he said soothingly. At least nothing that need worry you. It is just a matter of pressing business. I'm sorry to have to go from you for a little while, but it is necessary. I cannot explain to you until I return. You will trust me? You will not worry? I will try. Her lips were quivering, and her eyes were filled with tears. Again he felt that intense longing to lay his lips upon hers and comfort her. But he put it from him. There is nothing to feel sad about, he said, smiling gently. It is nothing tragic, only there is need for haste, for if I wait I may fail yet. It is something that means a great deal to me. When I come back I will explain all. Go, she said, putting out her hands in a gesture of resignation, as if she would hurry him from her. And though she was burning to know what it all meant, there was that about him that compelled her to trust him and to wait. Then his control almost went from him. He nearly took those hands in his and kissed them, but he did not. Instead he went with swift steps to his bedroom door, threw open a chiffonier drawer, and took therefrom something small and sinister. She could see the gleam of its polished metal, and she sensed a strange little menace in the click as he did something to it. She could not see what, because his back was to her. He came out with his hand in his pocket, as if he had just hidden something there. She was not familiar with firearms. Her mother had been afraid of them, and her brother had never flourished any around the house, yet she knew by instinct that some weapon of defense was in Gordon's possession, and a nameless horror rose in her heart and shone from her blue eyes, but she would not speak a word to let him know it. If he had not been in such haste, he would have seen. Her horror would have been still greater if she had known that he already carried one loaded revolver and was taking a second in case of an emergency. Don't worry, he called as he hurried out the door. Henry will get anything you need, and I shall soon be back. The door closed and he was gone. She heard his quick step down the hall, heard the elevated door slide and slam again, and then she knew he was gone down. Outside an automobile sounded, and she seemed to hear again his words at the phone, the rear door. Why had he gone to the rear door? Was he in hiding? Was he flying from someone? What, or what did it mean? Without stopping to reason it out, she flew across the room and opened the door of the bedroom he had just left, then threw it past swiftly to a bathroom beyond. Yes, there was a window. Would it be the one? Could she see him? And what good would it do her if she could? She crowded close to the window. There was a heavy sash with stained glass, but she selected a clear bit of yellow and put her eye close. Yes, there was a closed automobile just below her, and it had started away from the building. He had gone then. Where? Her mind was a blank for a few minutes. She went slowly, mechanically back to the other room, without noticing anything about her, sat down in the chair, putting her hands to her temples, and tried to think, back to the moment in the church where he had appeared at her side and the service had begun. Something had told her then that he was different, and yet they had been those letters, and how could it possibly be that he had not written them? He was gone on some dangerous business. Of that she felt sure. There had been some caution given him by the man to whom he first phoned. He had promised to take precaution. That meant the little wicked gleaming thing in his pocket. Perhaps some harm would come to him, and she would never know. And then she stared at the opposite wall with wonder-filled eyes. Well, and suppose it did. Why did she care? Was he not the man whose power over her but two short days ago would have made her welcome death as her deliverer? Why was all changed now? Just because he had smiled upon her and been kind, had given her a few wild flowers and said her eyes would like them, had hair that waved instead of being straight and thin, and where was all her loyalty to her dear dead father's memory? How could she mind that danger should come to one who had threatened to tell terrible lies that should blacken him in the thoughts of people who had loved him? Had she forgotten the letters? Was she willing to forgive all just because he had declared that he did not write them? How foolish! He said he could prove that he did not. But of course that was all nonsense. He must have written them. And yet there was the wave in his hair and the kindness in his eyes. And he had looked, oh, he had looked terrible things when he had read that letter, as if he would like to wreak vengeance on the man who had written it. Could a man masquerade that way? And then a new solution to the problem came to her. Suppose this, whoever he was, this man who had married her, had gone out to find and punished your chain. Suppose—but then she covered her eyes with her hands and shuddered. Why should she care? But she did. Suppose he should be killed himself. Who was he, if not George Hain? And how did he come to take his place? Was it just another of George's terrible tricks upon her? A quick vision came of there bringing him back to her. He would lie, perhaps, on that great crimson leather couch over there, just as he had lain in the dawning of the morning in the stateroom of the train, with his hands hanging limp, and one, perhaps, across his breast, as if he were guarding something, and his bright waves of brown hair lying heavy about his forehead. Only his forehead would be white, so white and cold, with a little blue mark in his temple, perhaps. The footsteps of the man Henry brought her back to the present again. She smiled at him pleasantly as he entered, and answered his questions about what she would have for breakfast. But it was he who selected the menu, not she, and after he had gone, she could not have told what she had ordered. She could not get away from the vision on the couch. She closed her eyes and pressed her cold fingers against her eyeballs to drive it away, but still her bridegroom seemed to lie there before her. The colored man came back presently with a loaded tray, and set it down on a little table which he wheeled before her, as though he had done it many times before. She thanked him, and said there was nothing else she needed, so he went away. She toyed with the cup of delicious coffee which he had poured for her, and the few swallows she took gave her new heart. She broke a bit from a hot roll, and ate a little of the delicious steak, but still her mind was at work at the problem, and her heart was full of nameless anxiety. He had gone away without any breakfast himself, and he had had no supper the night before, she was sure. He probably had given to her everything he could get on the train. She was haunted with regret, because she had not shared with him. She got up and walked about the room, trying to shake off the horror that was upon her, and the dread of what the morning might bring forth. Ordinarily she would have thought of sending a message to her mother and brother, but her mind was so troubled now that it never occurred to her. The walls of the room were tinted a soft greenish gray, and above the picture molding they blended into a woodsy landscape with a hint of water, green sword, and blue sky through interlacing branches. It reminded her of the little village they had seen as they started from the train in the early morning light. What a beautiful day they had spent together, and how it had changed her whole attitude of heart toward the man she had married. Two or three fine pictures were hung in good lights. She studied them, and knew that the one who had selected and hung them was a judge of true art. But they did not hold her attention long, for as yet she had not connected the room with the man for whom she waited. A handsome mahogany desk stood open in a broad space by the window. She was attracted by a little painted miniature of a woman. She took it up and studied the face. It was fine and sweet, with brown hair dressed low, and eyes that reminded her of the man who had just gone from her. Was this then the home of some relative with whom he had come to stop for a day or two? And if so, where was the relative? The dress in the miniature was of a quarter of a century past, yet the face was young and sweet, as young perhaps as herself. She wondered who it was. She put the miniature back in place with a caressing hand. She felt that she would like to know this woman with the tender eyes. She wished her here now that she might tell her all her anxiety. Her eye wandered to the pile of letters, some of them official-looking ones, one or two in square perfumed envelopes with high angular writing. They were all addressed to Mr. Cyril Gordon. That was strange. Who was Mr. Cyril Gordon? What had they—what had she—to do with him? Was he a friend whom George—whom they were visiting for a few days? It was all but wildering. Then the telephone rang. Her heart beat wildly, and she looked toward it as if it had been a human voice speaking, and she had no power to answer. What should she do now? Should she answer? Or should she wait for the man to come? Could the man hear the telephone bell? Or was she perhaps expected to answer? And yet, if Mr. Cyril Gordon—well, somebody ought to answer. The phone rang insistently once more, and still a third time. What if he should be calling her? Perhaps he was in distress. This thought sent her flying to the phone. She took down the receiver, and called, Hello? And her voice sounded far away to herself. Is this Mr. Gordon's apartment? Yes, she answered, for her eyes were resting on the pile of letters close at hand. Is Mr. Gordon there? No, he's not, she answered, growing more confident now, and almost wishing she had not presumed to answer a stranger's phone. Why, I just phoned to the office, and they told me he had returned—said a voice that had an imperious note in it. Are you sure he isn't there? Quite sure, she replied. Who is this, please? I beg your pardon, said Celia, trying to make time, and knowing not how to reply. She was not any longer, Miss Hathaway. Who was she? Mrs. Hane? She shrank from the name. It was filled with horror for her. Who is this, I said? snapped the other voice now. Is this the chambermaid? Because if it is, I'd like you to look around and inquire and be quite sure that Mr. Gordon isn't there. I wish to speak with him about something very important. Celia smiled. No, this is not the chambermaid, she said sweetly, and I am quite sure Mr. Gordon is not here. How long before he will be there? I don't know really, for I have but just come myself. Who is this to whom I am talking? Why, just a friend, she answered, wondering if that were the best thing to say. Oh! there was a long and contemplative pause at the other end. Well, could you give Mr. Gordon a message when he comes in? Why certainly I think so. Who's this? Miss Bentley, Julia Bentley, he'll know, replied the imperious one eagerly now, and tell him, please, that he is expected here to dinner tonight. We need him to complete the number, and he simply mustn't fail me. I'll excuse him for going off in such a rush if he comes early and tells me all about it. Now you won't forget, will you? You got the name, Bentley, did you? B-E-N-T-L-E-Y, you know, and you'll tell him the minute he comes in? Yes. Thank you. What did you say your name was? But Celia had hung up. Somehow the message annoyed her. She could not tell why. She wished she had not answered the phone. Whoever Mr. Cyril Gordon says, what should she do if he should suddenly appear? And as for this imperious lady and her message, she hoped she would never have to deliver it. On second thought, why not write it and leave it on his desk with the pile of letters? She would do it. It would serve to pass away a few of these dreadful minutes that lagged so distressfully. She sat down and wrote, Miss Bentley wishes Mr. Gordon to dine with her this evening. She will pardon his running away the other day if he will come early. She laid it beside the high angular writing on the square perfume letters, and went back to the leather chair, to restless to rest, yet too weary to stand up. She went presently to the back windows to look out, and then to the side ones. Across the housetops she could catch a glimpse of domes and buildings. There was the Congressional Library, which usually delighted her, with its exquisite tones of gold and brown and white. But she had no eyes for it now. Beyond were more buildings, all set in the lovely foliage, which was much farther developed than it had been in New York State. From another window she could get a glimpse of the Potomac shining in the morning sun. She wandered to the front windows and looked out. There were people passing and repassing. It was a busy street, but she could not make out whether it was one she knew or not. There were two men walking back and forth on the opposite side. They did not go further than the corner of the street either way. They looked across at the windows sometimes and pointed up when they met, and once one of them took something out of his pocket and flashed it under his coat at his side as if to have it ready for use. It reminded her of the thing her husband had held in his hand in the bedroom, and she shuddered. She watched them, fascinated, not able to draw herself away from the window. Now and then she would go to the rear window to see if there was any sign of the automobile returning, and then hurry back to the front to see if the men were still there. Once she returned to the chair and lying back shut her eyes and let the memory of yesterday sweep over her in all its sweet details, up to the time when they had got into the way-train, and she had seemed to feel her disloyalty to her father. But now her heart was all on the other side, and she began to feel that there had been some dreadful mistake somewhere, and he was surely all right. He could not, could not have written those terrible letters. Then again the details of their wild carriage-ride in Pittsburgh and miraculous escape haunted her. There was something strange and unexplained about that which she must understand. CHAPTER XV Meantime Gordon was speeding away to another part of the city by the fastest time an experienced chauffeur did to make. About the time they turned the first corner into the avenue, two burly policemen sauntered casually into the pretty square in front of the house where lived the chief of the Secret Service. There was nothing about their demeanor to show that they had been detailed there by special urgency, and three men who hurried to the little park just across the street from the house could not possibly know that the illusially and careless stroll was the result of a hurried telephone message from the chief to police headquarters immediately after his message from Gordon. The policemen strolled by the house, greeted each other, and walked on around the square across the little park. They eyed the three men sitting idly on a bench and passed leisurely on. They disappeared around a corner, and to the three men were out of the way. The latter did not know the hidden places where the officers took up their watch, and when an automobile appeared and the three stealthily got up from their park bench and distributed themselves among the shrubbery near the walk, they knew not that their every movement was observed with keen attention. But they did wonder how it happened that those two policemen seemed to spring out of the ground suddenly just as the auto came to a halt in front of the chief's house. Gordon sprang out and upped the steps with a bound. The door opening before him as if he were expected. The two grim and apparently indifferent policemen stood outside like two stone images on guard, while up the street with rhythmic sound rode two mounted police, also coming to a halt before the house as if for a purpose. The three men in the bushes hid the instruments of death and would have slunk away had there been a chance, but turning to make a hasty flight they were met by three more policemen. There was the crack of a revolver as one of the three desperados tried a last reckless dash for freedom and failed. The wretch went to justice with his right arm hanging limp by his side. Inside the house Gordon was delivering up his message and as he laid it before his chief and stood silent while the elder man read and pondered its tremendous import it occurred to him for the first time that his chief would require some report of his journey and the hindrances that had made him a whole day late in getting back to Washington. His heart stood still with sudden panic. What was he to do? How could he tell it all? What right had he to tell of his marriage to an unknown woman? A marriage that perhaps was not a marriage. He could not know what the outcome would be until he had told the girl everything. As far as he himself was concerned he knew that the great joy of his life had come to him in her yet he could not hope that it would be so with her and he must think of her and protect her good name in every way. If theish should be such a thing ever as that she should consent to remain with him and be his wife he must never let a soul know but what the marriage had been planned long ago. It would not be fair to her. It would make life intolerable for them both, either together or apart. And while he might be and doubtless was, perfectly safe in confiding in his chief and asking him to keep silence about the matter, still he felt that even that would be a breach of faith with Celia. He must close his lips upon the story until he could talk with her and know her wishes. He drew a sigh of weariness. It was a long, hard way he had come and it was not over. The worst ordeal would be his confession to the bride who was not his wife. The chief looked up. Could you make this out, Gordon? He asked, noting keenly the young man's weary eyes, the strained, tense look about his mouth. Oh, yes, sir, I saw it at once. I was almost afraid my eyes might betray the secret before I got away with it. Then you know what you have saved the country and what you have been worth to the service. The young man flushed with pleasure. Thank you, sir, he said, looking down. I understood it was important, and I am glad I was able to accomplish the errand without failing. Have you reasoned to suppose you were followed, except for what you saw at the station in this city? Yes, sir. I am sure there were detectives after me as I was leaving New York. They were suspicious of me. I saw one of the men who had been at the dinner with me, watching me. The disguise and some circumstances threw him off. He wasn't sure. Then there was a man, you know him, Balder, at Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh? Yes. You wonder how I got to Pittsburgh. You see, I was shadowed almost from the first, I suspect, for when I reached the station in New York I was sure I recognized this man who had sat opposite me a few minutes before. I suppose my disguise, which you so thoughtfully provided, bothered him, for though he followed me about at a little distance he didn't speak to me. I had to get on the first train that circumstances permitted, and perhaps the fact that it was a Chicago train made him think he was mistaken in me. Somehow I saw no more of him after the train left the station. Rather unexpectedly I found I could get the drawing-room compartment, and went into immediate retirement, leaving the train at daylight where it was delayed on a side-track, and walked across country till I found a conveyance that took me to a Pittsburgh train. It didn't seem feasible to get away from the Chicago train any sooner, as the train made no further stops, and it was rather late at night by the time I boarded it. I thought I would run less risk by making a detour. I never dreamed they would have watchers out for me at Pittsburgh, and I can't think yet how they managed to get on my track. But almost the first minute I landed I spied Balder stretching his neck over the crowds. I bolted from the station at once, and finding a carriage drawn up before the door, just ready for me, I got in and ordered them to drive me to East Liberty Station. I am afraid I shall always be suspicious of handy-closed carriages after this experience. I certainly have reason to be. The door was no sooner closed on me than the driver began to race like mad through the streets. I didn't think much of it at first, until he had been going some time, fully long enough to have reached East Liberty, and the horse was still rushing like a locomotive. Then I saw that we were in a lonely district of the city that seemed unfamiliar. That alarmed me, and I tapped on the window and called to the driver. He paid no attention. Then I found the doors were fastened shut and the windows plugged, so they wouldn't open. I discovered that an armed man rode beside the driver. I managed to get one of the doors open after a good deal of work, and escaped when we stopped for a freight train to pass. But I'm satisfied that I was being kidnapped, and if I hadn't gotten away just when I did, you would never have heard of me again, or the message, either. I finally managed to reach East Liberty Station, and jumped on the first train that came in, but I caught a glimpse of Baldur stretching his neck over the crowd. He must have seen me, and had Hale and Burke on the watch when I got here. They just missed me by a half second. They went over to the restaurant, didn't expect me on a special, but I escaped them, and I'm mighty glad to get that little paper into your possession and out of mine. It's rather a long story to tell the whole, but I think you have the main facts. There was a suspicious glitter in the keen eyes of the kind old chief as he put out his hand and grasped Gordon's in a hearty shake, but all he said was, and you are all worn out. I'll guarantee you didn't sleep much last night. Well, no, said Gordon. I had to sit up in a day-coach and share the seat with another man. Besides, I was somewhat excited. Of course, of course, puffed the old chief coughing vigorously and showing by his gruff attitude that he was deeply affected. Well, young man, this won't be forgotten by the department. Now you go home and take a good sleep. Take the whole day off if you wish, and then come down to-morrow morning and tell me all about it. Isn't there anything more I need to know at once that justice may be done? I believe not, said Gordon, with a sigh of relief. There's a list of the men who were at the dinner with me. I wrote them down from memory last night when I couldn't sleep. I also wrote a few scraps of conversation which will show you just how deep the plot had gone. If I had not read the message and known its import, I should not have understood what they were talking about. Hmm, yes. If there had been more time before you started, I might have told you all about it. Still, it seemed desirable that you should appear as much at your ease as possible. I thought this would be best accomplished by your knowing nothing of the import of the writing when you first met the people. I suppose it was as well that I did not know any more than I did. You are a great chief, sir. I was deeply impressed and new with that fact, as I saw how wonderfully you had planned for every possible emergency. It was simply great, sir. Poo-poo, get you home into bed," said the old chief quite brusquely. He touched a bell and a man appeared. "'Jessup, is the coast clear?' he asked. "'Yes, sir,' declared the darky. They have just had a couple of shots in the park, and now they took the villains off to the police station. The officers is out there waiting to escort the gentlemen. Get home with you, Gordon, and don't come to the office till ten in the morning. Then come straight to my private room.' Gordon thanked him, and left the room preceded by the gray he had servant. He was surprised to find the policeman outside, and wondered still more that they seemed to be going one in front and the other behind him as he rode along. He was greatly relieved that he had not been called upon to give the whole story. His heart was filled with anxiety now, to get back to the girl and tell her everything, and yet he dreaded it more than anything he had ever had to face in all his life. He sat back on the cushions, and covering his face with his hands, tried to think how he should begin. But he could see nothing but her sweet eyes filled with tears. Think of nothing but the way she had looked and smiled during the beautiful morning they had spent together in the little town of Milton. Beautiful little Milton, should he ever see it again? Celia at her window grew more and more nervous as an hour and then another half hour slipped slowly away, and still he did not come. Then two mounted policemen rode rapidly down the street following an automobile in which sat the man for whom she waited. She had no eyes now for the men who had been lurking across the way, and when she thought to look for them again, she saw them running in the opposite direction as fast as they could go, making wild gestures for a car to stop for them. She stood by the window and saw Gordon get out of the car and disappear into the building below. Saw the car wheel and curve away, and the mounted police take up their stand on either corner. Heard the clang of the elevator as it started up, and the clash of its door as it stopped at that floor. Heard steps coming on toward the door and the key in the latch. Then she turned and looked at him. Her two hands clasped before her, and her two eyes yearning, glad and fearful all at once. Oh! I have been so frightened about you. I am so glad you have come, she said, and caught her voice in a sob as she took one little step toward him. He threw his hat upon the floor, wherever it might land, and went to meet her, a great light glowing in his tired eyes, his arms outstretched to hers. And did you care? He asked in a voice of almost awe. Dear, did you care what became of me? He had come quite close to her now. Oh! yes, I cared. I could not help it. There was a real sob in her voice now, though her eyes were shining. His arms went around her hungrily, as if he would draw her to him in spite of everything. Yet he kept them so encircling without touching her, like a benediction that would unwrap the very soul of his beloved. Looking down into her face he breathed softly. Oh, my dear, it seems as if I must hold you close and kiss you. She looked up with bated breath and thought she understood. Then, with a lovely gesture of surrender, she whispered, I can trust you. Her lashes were drooping now over her eyes. Not until you know all, he said, and put her gently from him into the great arm-chia with a look of reverence and self-abnegation she felt she would never forget. Then tell me quickly, she said, a swift fiam making her weak from head to foot. She laid her hand across her heart, as if to help steady its beating. He wheeled forward the leather couch opposite her chair and sat down, his head drooping, his eyes down. He dreaded to begin. She waited for the revelation, her eyes upon his bowed head. Finally he lifted his eyes and saw her look and a tender light came into his face. It is a strange story, he said. I don't know what you will think of me after it's told, but I want you to know that, blundering, stupid, even criminal, though you may think me, I would sooner die this minute than cause you one more breath of suffering. Her eyes lit up with a wonderful light, and the ready tears sprang into them, tears that sparkled through the sunshine of a great joy that illumined her whole face. Please go on, she said softly, and added very gently, I believe you. But even with those words in his ears, the beginning was not easy. Gordon drew a deep breath and launched forth. I am not the man you think, he said, and looked at her to see how she would take it. My name is not George Hain. My name is Cyril Gordon. As one might launch an arrow at a beloved victim and long that it may not strike the mark, so he sent his truth home to her understanding, and waited in breathless silence, hoping against hope that this might not turn her against him. Oh! she breathed softly, as if some puzzle were solving itself. Oh! This time not altogether in surprise, nor as if the fact were displeasing. She looked at him expectantly for further revelation, and he plunged into his story headlong. I'm a member of the Secret Service, headquarters here in Washington, and day before yesterday I was sent to New York on an important errand. A message of great import, written in a private code, had been stolen from one of our men. I was sent to get it before they could decipher it. The message involved matters of such tremendous significance that I was ordered to go under an assumed name, and are no account to let anyone know of my mission. My orders were to get the message, and let nothing hinder me in bringing it with all haste to Washington. I went with the full understanding that I might even be called upon to risk my life. He looked up. The girl sat wide-eyed, with hands clasped together at her throat. He hurried on not to cause her any needless anxiety. I won't wear you with details. There were a good many annoying hindrances on the way which served to make me nervous, but I carried out the program laid down by my chief and succeeded in getting possession of the message, and making my escape from the house of the man who had stolen it. As I closed the door behind me, knowing that it could be by the matter of a few seconds at longest before six furious men would be on my track, who would stop at nothing to get back what I had taken from them, I saw a carriage standing almost before the house. The driver took me for the man he awaited, and I lost no time in taking advantage of his mistake. I jumped in, telling him to drive as fast as he could. I intended to give him further directions, but he had evidently had them from another quarter, and I thought I could call to him as soon as we were out of the dangerous neighborhood. To add to my situation, I soon became sure that an automobile and a motorcycle were following me. I recognized one of the men in the car as the man who sat opposite to me at the table a few minutes before. My coachman drove like mad while I hurried to secure the message so that if I were caught it would not be found, and to put on a slight disguise, some eyebrows and things the chief had given me. Before I knew where I was, the carriage had stopped before a building. At first I thought it was a prison, and the car and motorcycle came to a halt just behind me. I felt that I was pretty well trapped. The girl gave a low moan, and Gordon not daring to look up, hurried on with his story. There isn't much more to tell you that you do not already know. I soon discovered the building was a church, not a prison. What happened afterward was the result of my extreme perturbation of mind, I suppose. I cannot account for my stupidity and subsequent cowardice in any other way. Neither was it possible for me to explain matters satisfactorily at any time during the whole mix-up, on account of the trust which I carried, and which I could on no account reveal even in confidence, or put in jeopardy in the slightest degree. Naturally at first my commission and how to get safely through it all was the only thing of importance to me. If you keep this in mind, perhaps you will be able to judge me last harshly. My only thought when the carriage came to a halt was how to escape from those two pursuers, and that more or less pervaded my mind during what followed, so that ordinary matters, which at another time would have been at once clear to me, meant nothing at all. You see, the instant that carriage came to a standstill, someone threw open the door, and I heard a voice call, Where is the best man? Then another voice said, Here he is! I took it that they thought I was best man, but would soon discover that I wasn't when I came into the light. There wasn't any chance to slip away, or I should have done so, and vanished in the dark. But everybody surrounded me, and seemed to think I was all right. The two men who had followed were close behind, eyeing me keenly. I'm satisfied that they were to blame for that wild ride we took in Pittsburgh. I soon saw by the remarks that the man I was supposed to be had been away from this country for ten years, and of course then they would not be very critical. I tried twice to explain that there was a mistake, but both times they misunderstood me, and thought I was saying I couldn't go in the procession because I hadn't practiced. I don't just know how I came to be in such a dreadful mess. It would seem as if it ought to have been a very easy thing to say I had gotten into the wrong carriage, and they must excuse me, that I wasn't their man. But you see, they gave me no time to think nor to speak. They just turned me over from one man to another, and took everything for granted, and I, finding that I would have to break loose and flee before their eyes if I wished to escape, reflected that there would be no harm in marching down the aisle as best man in a delayed wedding if that was all there was to do. I could disappear as soon as the ceremony was over, and no one would be the wiser. The real best man would probably turn up, and then they might wonder as they pleased, for I would be far away, and perhaps this was as good a place as any in which to hide for half an hour until my pursuers were baffled, and well on their way seeking elsewhere for me. I can see now that I made a grave mistake in allowing even so much deception, but I did not see any harm in it then, and they all seemed in great distress for the ceremony to go forward. Bear in mind, also, that I was at that time entirely taken up with the importance of hiding my message until I could take it safely to my chief. Nothing else seemed to matter much. If the real best man was late to the wedding, and they were willing to use me in his place, what harm could come from it? He certainly deserved it for being late, and if he came in during the ceremony he would think someone else had been put in his place. They introduced me to your brother, Jefferson. I thought he was the bridegroom, and I thought so until they laid your hand in mine. Oh! she moaned, and the little hand went to help its mate cover her face. I knew it, he said, bitterly. I knew you would feel just that way as soon as you knew. I don't blame you. I deserve it. I was a fool, a villain, a dumb brute, whatever you have a mind to call me. You can't begin to understand how I have suffered for you since this happened, and how I have blamed myself. He got up suddenly, and strode over to the window, frowning down into the sunlit street, and wondering how it was that everybody seemed to be going on in exactly the same hurry as ever, when for him life had suddenly come to a standstill.