 6 The Best Man by Grace Livingston Hill, CHAPTER VI Five hours before, the man who was hurling himself furiously after the rapidly retreating train had driven calmly through the city, from the pier of the White Star Line, to the apartment of a man whom he had met abroad and who had offered him the use of it during his absence. The rooms were in the fourth story of a fine apartment house. The returning exile noted with satisfaction the irreproachable neighborhood, as he slowly descended from the carriage, paid his fee, and entered the door to present his letter of introduction to the janitor in charge. His first act was to open the steamer-trunk which he had brought with him in the cab, and take there from his wedding garments. These he carefully arranged on folding hangers and hung in the closet, which was otherwise empty, save for a few boxes piled on the high shelf. Then he hastened to the telephone and communicated with his best man, Jefferson Hathaway, told him the boat was late arriving at the dock, but that he was here at last, gave him a few directions concerning errands he would like to have done, and agreed to be at the church a half hour earlier than the time set for the ceremony, to be shown just what arrangements had been made. He was told that his bride was feeling very tired and was resting, and agreed that it would be as well not to disturb her. They would have time enough to talk afterwards. There really wasn't anything to say but what he had already written. And he would have about all he could do to get there on time as it was. He asked if Jefferson had called for the ring he had ordered, and if the carriage would be sent for him in time, and then, without formalities, closed the interview. He and Jefferson were not exactly fond of one another, though Jefferson was the beloved brother of his bride-to-be. He hung up the receiver and rang for a brandy and soda to brace himself for the coming ordeal which was to bind him to a woman whom for years he had been trying to get in his power, and whom he might have loved if she had not dared to scorn him for the evil that she knew was in him. At last he had found a way to subdue her and bring her with her ample fortune to his feet, and he felt the exultation of the conqueror as he went about his preparations for the evening. He made a smug and leisurely toilet with a smile of satisfaction upon his flabby face. He was naturally a selfish person and had always known how to make other people attend to all bothersome details for him while he enjoyed himself. He was quite comfortable and self-complacent as he posed a moment before the mirror to smooth his moustache and note how well he was looking. Then he went to the closet for his coat. It was most peculiar the way it happened, but somehow as he stepped into that closet to take down his coat which hung at the back where the space was widest, the opening at the wrist of his shirt sleeve caught for just an instant in the little knob of the closet latch. The gold button which held the cuff to the wristband slipped its hold and the man was free almost at once, but the angry twitch he had made at the slight detention had given the door an impetus which set it silently moving on its hinges. It was characteristic of George Hain that he was always impatient of the slightest detention. He had scarcely put his hand upon his wedding-coat when a soft steel click followed by utter darkness warned him that his impatience had entrapped him. He put out his hand and pushed at the door, but the catch had settled into place. It was a very strong, neat little catch and it did its work well. The man was a prisoner. At first he was only annoyed and gave the door an angry kick or two, as if, of course, it would presently release him meekly, but then he bethaught him of his polished wedding shoes and desisted. He tried to find a knob and shake the door, but the only knob was the tiny brass one on the outside of the catch, and you cannot shake a plain surface reared up before you. Then he set his massive flabby shoulder against the door and pressed with all his might, till his bulky linen shirt-front creaked with dismay and his wedding-collar wilted limply. But the door stood like adamant. It was massive like the man, but it was not flabby. The wood of which it was composed had spent its early life in the open air, drinking only the wine of sunshine and sparkling air, wet with the doos of heaven, and exercising against the North Blast. It was nothing for it to hold out against this pillow of a man who had been nurtured in the dissipation and folly of a great city. The door held its own, and if doors do such things the face of it must have laughed to the silent room, and who knows but the room winked back. It would be but natural that a room should resent a new occupant in the absence of a beloved owner. He was there safe and fast, in the still dark, with plenty of time for reflection, and there were things in his life that called for his reflection. They had never had him at an advantage before. In due course of time, having exhausted his breath and strength in fruitless pushing, and his vocabulary in foolish curses, he lifted up his voice and roared. No other word would quite describe the sound that issued from his mighty throat. But the city roared placidly below him, and no one minded him in the least. He sacrificed the shiny toes of the shoes and added resounding kicks on the door to the general hubbub. He changed the roar to a bellow like a mad bull, but still the silence that succeeded it was as deep and monotonous as ever. He tried going to the back of the closet and hurling himself against the door, but he only hurt his soft muscles with the effort. Finally he sat down on the floor of the closet. Now the janitor's wife, who occupied an apartment somewhat overcrowded, had surreptitiously borrowed the use of this closet the week before, in order to hang therein her Sunday gown, whose front breath was covered with grease spots, thickly overlaid with French chalk. The French chalk had done its work and removed the grease spots, and now lay thickly on the floor of the closet. But the imprisoned bridegroom did not know that, and he sat down quite naturally to rest from his unusual exertions and to reflect on what could be done next. The immediate present passed rapidly in review. He could not afford more than ten minutes to get out of this hole. He ought to be on the way to the church at once. There was no knowing what nonsense Celia might get into her head if he delayed. He had known her since childhood, and she had always scorned him. The hold he had upon her now was like a rope of sand, but only he knew that. If he could but knock that old door down. If he only hadn't hung up his coat in the closet. If the men who built the house only hadn't put such a full catch on the door. When he got out he would take time to chop it off. If only he had a little more room and a little more air. It was stifling. Great beads of perspiration went rolling down his hard forehead, and his wet collar made a cool band about his neck. He wondered if he had another clean collar of that particular style with him. If he only could get out of this accursed place, where were all the people? Why was everything so still? Would they never come and let him out? He reflected that he had told the janitor he would occupy the room with his baggage for two or three weeks perhaps, but he expected to go away on a trip this very evening. The janitor would not think it strange if he did not appear. How would it be to stay here and die? Horrible thought. He jumped up from the floor and began his howlings and gyrations once more, but soon desisted, and sat down to be entertained by a panorama of his past life, which is always unpleasantly in evidence at such times. Fine and clear in the darkness of the closet stood out the nicely laid scheme of deviltry by which he had contrived to be at last within reach of a coveted fortune. Occasionally would come the frantic thought that just through this little mishap of a foolish close-press catch he might even yet lose it. The fraud and trickery by which he had an heiress in his power did not trouble him so much as the thought of losing her, at least of losing the fortune. He must have that fortune, for he was deep in debt, but then he would refuse to think and get up to batter at his prison door again. Four hours his prison walls enclosed him, with inky blackness all around, save for a faint glimmer of light which marked the well-fitted base of the door as the night outside drew on. He had lighted the gas when he began dressing, for the room had already been filled with shadows, and now it began to seem as if that streak of flickering gas light was the only thing that saved him from losing his mind. Somewhere from out of the dim shadows a face evolved itself and gazed at him, a haggard face with piercing hollow eyes and despair written upon it. It reproached him with a sin he thought long forgotten. He shrank back in horror, and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead, for the eyes were the eyes of the man whose name he had forged upon a note involving trust money fifteen years before, and the man, a quiet, kindly, unsuspecting creature, had suffered the penalty in a prison cell until his death some five years ago. Sometimes at night in the first years after his crime that face had haunted him, appearing at odd intervals when he was plotting some particularly shady means of adding to his income, until he had resolved to turn over a new leaf and actually gave up one or two schemes as being too unscrupulous to be indulged in, thus acquiring a comforting feeling of being virtuous. But it was long since the face had come. He had settled it in his mind that the forgery was merely a patch of wild oats which he had zoned in his youth, something to be regretted, but not too severely blamed for, and thus for giving himself he had grown to feel that it was more the world's fault for not giving him what he wanted than his own for putting a harmless old man in prison. Of the shame that had killed the old man he knew nothing, nor could have understood. The actual punishment itself was all that appealed to him. He was ever one that had to be taught with the lash, and then only kept straight while it was in sight. But the face was very near and vivid here in the thick darkness. It was like a cell this closet, bare, cold, black. The eyes in the gloom seemed to pierce him with the thought, This is what you made me suffer. It is your turn now. It is your turn now. Nearer and nearer they came looking into his own, until they saw down into his very soul, his little sinful soul, and drew back appalled at the littleness and meanness of what they saw. Then, for the first time in his whole selfish life, George Hain knew any shame, for the eyes read forth to him all that they had seen, and how it looked to them. And beside the tale they told, the eyes were clean of sin and almost glad in spite of suffering wrongfully. Closer in thicker grew the air of the small closet. Fiercer grew the rage and shame and horror of the man incarcerated. Now, from out of the shadows, they looked other eyes. Eyes that had never haunted him before. Eyes of victims to whom he had never cast a half a thought. Eyes of men and women he had robbed by his artful, gentlemanly craft. Eyes of innocent girls, whose wrecked lives had contributed to his selfish scheme of living. Even the great, reproachful eyes of little children who had looked to him for pity and found none. Last above them all were the eyes of the lovely girl he was to have married. He had always loved Celia Hathaway more than he could have loved anyone or anything else besides himself. And it had eaten into his very being that he never could make her bow to him. Not even by torture could he bring her to her knees. Stung by the years of her scorn, he had stooped lower and lower in his methods of dealing with her, until he had come at last to employ the tools of slow torture to her soul that he might bring low her pride and put her fortune in her scornful self within his power. The strength with which she had withheld him until the time of her surrender had turned his selfish love into a hate with contemplations of revenge. But now her eyes glowed scornfully, wreathed round with bridal white, and seemed to taunt him with his foolish defeat at this the last minute before the final triumph. Undoubtedly the brandy he had taken had gone to his head. Was he going mad that he could not get away from all these terrible eyes? He felt sure he was dying when at last the janitor came up to the fourth floor on his round of inspection. Noticed the light flaring from the transom over the door occupied by the stranger who had said he was going to leave on a trip almost immediately, and went in to investigate. The eyes vanished at his step. The man in the closet lost no time in making his presence known, and the janitor cautiously and with great deliberation made careful investigation of the cause and reason for this disturbance, and finally let him out after having received promise of reward which never materialized. The stranger flew to the telephone in frantic haste, called up the house of his affianced bride, shouting wildly at the operator for all undue delays, and when finally he succeeded in getting someone to the phone it was only to be told that neither Mrs. Hathaway nor her son were there. Were they at the church? Oh, no, the servant answered. They came back from the church long ago. There is a wedding in the house and a great many people. They are making so much noise. I can't hear. Speak louder, please. He shouted and raved at the servant, asking futile questions and demanding information. But the louder he raved, the less the servant understood, and finally he hung up the receiver and dashed about the room like an insane creature, tearing off his wilted collar, grabbing at another, jerking on his fine coat, searching vainly for his cuffs, snatching his hat and overcoat, and making off down the stairs breathlessly, regardless of the demand of the janitor for the fee of freedom he had been promised. Out in the street he rushed hither and thither blindly in search of some conveyance, found a taxicab at last, and, lunging in, ordered it to go at once to the Hathaway Address. Arrived there he presented an enlivening spectacle to the guests, who were still making merry. His trousers were covered with French chalk. His collar had slipped from its confining-button in front and curved gracefully about one fat cheek. His high hat was a crush indeed, having been rammed down to his head in his excitement. He talked so fast and so loud that they thought he was crazy and tried to put him out. But he shook his fist angrily in the face of the footman, and demanded to know where Ms. Hathaway was. When they told him she was married and gone, he turned livid with wrath and told them that that was impossible as he was the bridegroom. By this time the guests had gathered in curious groups in the hall and on the stairs, listening, and when he claimed to be the bridegroom they shouted with laughter, thinking this must be some practical joke, or else that the man was insane. But one older gentleman, a friend of the family, stepped up to the excited visitor and said in a quieting voice, My friend, you have made a mistake. Ms. Hathaway has this evening been married to Mr. George Hain, just arrived from abroad, and they are at this moment on their way to take the train. You have come too late to see her, or else you have the wrong address, and are speaking of some other Ms. Hathaway. That is very likely the explanation. George looked around on the company with helpless rage, then rushed to his taxicab, and gave the order for the station. Arriving at the station, he saw it was within half a minute of the departure of the Chicago train, and none knew better than he what time that train had been going to depart. Had he not given minute directions regarding the arrangements to his future brother-in-law? What did it all mean anyway? Had Celia managed somehow to carry out the wedding without him, to hide her mortification at his non-appearance? Or had she run away? He was too excited to use his reason. He could merely urge his heavy bulk onward toward the fast-fleeting train, and dashed up the platform, overcoats dreaming from his arm, coattails flying, hat crushed down upon his head, his fat, be-chocked legs rumbling heavily after him. He passed Jefferson and his mother, watching tearfully, lingeringly, the retreating train. Jefferson laughed at the funny spectacle, but the mother did not notice, and only said absently, I think he'll be good to her, won't you, Jeff? He has nice eyes. I don't remember that his eyes used to seem so pleasant and so deferential. Then they turned to go back to their car, and the train moved faster and faster out of the station. It would presently rush away out into the night, leaving the two pursuers to face each other, baffled. Both realized this at the same instant, and the short, thick-set man with sudden decision turned again, and, plunging along with the train, caught at the rail, and swung himself with dangerous precipitation to the last platform of the last car, with a half-frightened triumph. Looking back, he saw the other man with a frantic effort sprint forward, trying to do the same thing, and, feeling in the attempt, sprawled flat on the platform to the intense amusement of a couple of trainmen standing near. George Hain, having thus come to a full stop in his headlong career, lay prostate for a moment, stunned and shaken. Then gathered himself up slowly, and stood gazing after the departing train. After all, if he had caught it, what could he have done? It was incredible that Celia could have got herself married and gone on her wedding trip without him. If she had eloped with someone else and they were on that train, what could he have done? Kill the bridegroom and force the bride to return with him and be married over again? Yes, but that might have been a trifle awkward, after all, and he had enough awkward situations to his account already. Besides, it wasn't at least likely that Celia was married yet. Those people at the house had been fooled somehow, and she had run away. Perhaps her mother and brother were gone with her. The same threats that had made her bend to him once should follow her wherever she had gone. She would marry him yet and pay for this folly a hundredfold. He lifted a shaking hand of execration toward the train, which by this time was vanishing into the dark opening at the end of the station, where signal lights like red berries festoon themselves in an arch against the blackness, and the lights of the last car paled and vanished like a forgotten dream. Then he turned and hobbled slowly back to the gates regardless of the merriment he was arousing in the genial trainmen, for he was spent and bruised, and his appearance was anything but dignified. No member of the wedding company had they seen him at this juncture would have recognized in him any resemblance to the handsome gentleman who had played his part in the wedding ceremony. No one would have thought it possible that he could be Celia Hathaway's bridegroom. Slowly back to the gate he crept, haggard, dishevelled, crestfallen, his hair in its several isolated locks downfallen over his forehead, his collar wilted, his clothes smeared with chalk and dust, his overcoat dragging four lonely behind him. He was trying to decide what to do next and realizing the torment of a perpetual thirst, when a hand was laid suddenly upon him, and a voice that somehow had a familiar twang said, You will come with me, sir. He looked up and there before him in the flesh were the eyes of the man who had haunted him for years, the very eyes grown younger and filled with more than reproach. They were piercing him with the keenness of retribution. They said, as plainly as those eyes in the closet had spoken but a brief hour before, Your time is over. My time has come. You have sinned. You shall suffer. Come now and meet your reward. He started back in horror. His hands trembled and his brain reeled. He wished for another cocktail to help him to meet this most extraordinary emergency. Surely something had happened to his nerves that he was seeing these eyes in reality and hearing the voice that old man's voice made young, bidding him come with him. It could not be, of course. He was unnerved with all he had been through. The man had mistaken him for someone. Or perhaps it was not a man after all. He glanced quickly round to see if others saw him. And at once became aware that a crowd was collecting about them. The man with the strange eyes and the familiar voice was dressed in plain clothes, but he seemed to have full assurance that he was a real live man and had a right to dictate. George Hain could not shake away his grasp. There was a determination about it that struck terror to his soul and he had a weak desire to scream and hide his eyes. Could he be coming down with delirium tremens? That brandy must have been unusually strong to have lasted so long in its effects. Then he made a weak effort to speak, but his voice sounded small and frightened. The eyes took his assurance from him. "'Who are you?' he asked, and meant to add. What right have you to dictate to me?' But the words died away in his throat, for the plain clothesman had opened his coat and disclosed a badge that shone with a sinister light straight into his eyes. "'I am Norman Brand,' answered the voice, and I want you for what you did to my father. It is time you paid your debt. You were the cause of his humiliation and death. I have been watching you for years. I saw the notice of your wedding in the paper and was tracking you. It was for you that I entered the service. Come with me.' With a cry of horror George Hain wrenched away from his captor and turned to flee, but instantly three revolvers were leveled at him, and he found that two policemen in brass buttons were stationed behind him and the crowd closed in about him. Wherever he turned it was to look into the barrel of a gun and there was no escape in any direction. They led him away to the patrol wagon, the erstwhile bridegroom, and in place of the immaculate linen he had searched so frantically for in his apartment they put upon his wrists cuffs of iron. They put him in a cell and left him with eyes of the old man for company and the haunting likeness of his son's voice filling him with frenzy. The unquenchable thirst came upon him, and he begged for brandy and soda, but none came to slake his thirst, for he had crossed the great gulf and justice at last had him in her grasp. CHAPTER VII Meantime the man on the steps of the last car of the Chicago Limited was having his doubts about whether he ought to have boarded that train. He realized that the fat traveller who was hurling himself after the train had stirred in him a sudden impulse which had been only half-formed before, and he had obeyed it. Perhaps he was following a wrong scent and would lose the reward which he knew was his if he brought the thief of the code-writing dead or alive to his employer. He was half inclined to jump off again now before it was too late, but looking down he saw they were already speeding over a network of tracks, and trains were flying by in every direction. By the time they were out of this the speed would be too great for him to attempt to jump. It was even now risky, and he was heavy for athletics. He must do it at once if he did it at all. He looked ahead tentatively to see if the track on which he must jump was clear, and the great eye of an engine stabbed him in the face as it bore down upon him. The next instant it swept by, its hot breath fanning his cheek, and he drew back shuddering involuntarily. It was of no use. He could not jump here. Perhaps they would slow up or stop. And anyway, should he jump or stay on board? He sat down on the upper step, the better to get the situation in hand. Perhaps in a minute more the way would be clearer to jump off if he decided not to go on. Thus he vacillated. It was rather unlike him not to know his own mind. It seemed as if there must be something here to follow. And yet, perhaps he was mistaken. He had been the first man of the company at the front door after Mr. Holman turned the paper over, and they all had noticed the absence of the red mark. It had been simultaneous with the clicking of the door latch, and he had covered the ground from his seat to the door sooner than anyone else. He could swear he had seen the man get into the cab that stood almost in front of the house. He had lost no time in getting into his own car, which was detailed for such an emergency, and in signaling the officer on a motorcycle who was also ready for a quick call. The carriage had barely turned the corner when they followed. There was no other of the kind in sight either way but that, and he had followed it closely. It must have been the right carriage. And yet, when the man got out at the church, he was changed, much changed in appearance, so that he had looked twice into the empty carriage to make sure that the man for whom he searched was not still in there hiding. Then he had followed him into the church and seen him married, stood close at hand when he put his bride into a big car, and he had followed the car to the house where the reception was held, even mingling with the guests, and watching until the bridal couple left for the train. He had stood in the alley in the shadow, the only one of the guests, who had found how the bride was really going away, and again he had followed to the station. He had walked close enough to the bridegroom in the station to be almost sure that moustache and those heavy eyebrows were false, and yet he could not make it out. How could it be possible that a man who was going to be married in a great church full of fashionable people would so dear to flirt with chance as to accept an invitation to a dinner where he might not be able to get away for hours? What would have happened if he had not got there in time? Was it in the least possible that these two men could be identical? Everything but the likeness and the fact that he had followed the man so closely pointed out the impossibility. The thick-set man was accustomed to trust his inner impressions thoroughly, and in this case his inner impression was that he must watch this peculiar bridegroom, and be sure he was not the right man before he forever got away from him, and yet he might be missing the right man by doing it. However, he had come so far, had risked a good deal already in following, and in throwing himself on that fast-moving train. He would stay a little longer and find out for sure. He would try and get a seat where he could watch him, and in an hour he ought to be able to tell if he were really the man who had stolen the code-writing. If he could avoid the conductor for a time he would simply profess to have taken the wrong train by mistake, and maybe could get put off somewhere near home, in case he discovered that he was barking up the wrong tree. He would stick to the train for a little yet, in as much as there seemed no safe way of getting off at present. Having decided so much, he gave one last glance toward the twinkling lights of the city hurrying past, and getting up sauntered into the train, keeping a weather-eye out for the conductor. He meant to burn no bridges behind him. He was well provided with money for any kind of a trip, and mileage books, and passes. He knew we had to send a telegram that would bring him instant assistance in case of need, and even now he knew the officer on the motorcycle had reported to his employer that he had boarded this train. There was really no immediate need for him to worry. It was big game he was after, and one must take some risks in a case of that sort. Thus he entered the sleeper to make good the impression of his inner senses. Gordon had never held anything so precious, so sweet and beautiful and frail-looking in his arms. He had a feeling that he ought to lay her down, yet there was a longing to draw her closer to himself, and shield her from everything that could trouble her. But she was not his. Only a precious trust to be guarded and cared for as vigilantly as the message he carried hidden about his neck. She belonged to another, somewhere, and was a sacred trust until circumstances made it possible for him to return her to her rightful husband. Just what all this might mean to himself, to the woman in his arms, and to the man whom she was to have married, Gordon had not as yet had time to think. It was as if he had been watching a moving picture, and suddenly a lot of circumstances had fallen in a heap, and become all jumbled up together, the result of his own rash but unsuspecting steps, the way whole families have in moving pictures of falling through a skyscraper from floor to floor, carrying furniture and inhabitants with them as they descend. He had not as yet been able to disentangle himself from the debris, and find out what had been his fault, and what he ought to do about it. He laid her gently on the couch of the drawing-room, and opened the little door of the private dressing-room. There would be cold water in there. He knew very little about caring for sick people. He had always been well and strong himself. But cold water was what they used for people who had fainted, he was sure. He would not call in any one to help, unless it was absolutely necessary. He pulled the door of the state-room shut, and went after the water. As he passed the mirror he started at the curious vision of himself. One false eyebrow had come loose, and was hanging over his eye, and his goatee was crooked. Had it been so all the time? He snatched the eyebrow off and then the other, but the moustache and goatee were more tightly affixed, and it was very painful to remove them. He glanced back, and the white, limp look of the girl on the couch frightened him. What was he about to stop over his appearance when she might be dying, and as for pain, he tore the false hair roughly from him, and stuffing it into his pocket, filled a glass with water, and went back to the couch. His chin and upper lip smarted, but he did not notice it, nor know that the mark of the plaster was all about his face. He only knew that she lay there apparently lifeless before him, and he must bring the soul back into those dear eyes. It was strange, wonderful how his feeling had grown for the girl whom he had never seen till three hours before. He held the glass to her white lips, and tried to make her drink. Then poured water on his handkerchief, and awkwardly bathed her forehead. Some hairpins slipped loose, and a great wealth of golden brown hair fell across his knees as he half knelt beside her. One little hand drooped over the side of the couch and touched his. He started. It seemed so soft and cold and lifeless. He blamed himself that he had no remedies in his suitcase. Why had he never thought to carry something? A simple restorative. Other people might need it, though he did not. No man ought to travel without something for the saving of life in an emergency. He might have needed it himself, even, in case of a railroad accident or something. He slipped his arm tenderly under her head, and tried to raise it so that she could drink, but the white lips did not move, nor attempt to swallow. Then a panic seized him. Suppose she was dying. Not until later, when he had quiet and opportunity for thought, did it occur to him what a terrible responsibility he had dared to take upon himself in letting her people leave her with him. What a fearful position he would have been in if she had really died. At the moment his whole thought was one of anguish at the idea of losing her. An anxiety to save her precious life, and not for himself. Forgetting his own need of quiet and obscurity, he laid her gently back upon the couch again, and rushed from the state room out into the aisle of the sleeper. The conductor was just making his rounds, and he hurried to him with a white face. Is there a doctor on board? Or have you any restoratives? There is a lady. He hesitated, and the color rolled freshly into his anxious face. That is, my wife. He spoke the word unwillingly, having yet the instant of speaking realized that he must say this to protect her good name. It seemed like uttering a falsehood, or stealing another man's property, and yet, technically it was true, and, for her sake at least, he must acknowledge it. My wife, he began again more connectedly, is ill, unconscious. The conductor looked at him sharply. He had sized them up as a wedding-party when they came down the platform toward the train. The young man's blush confirmed his supposition. I'll see, he said briefly. Go back to her, and I'll bring someone. It was just as Gordon turned back that the thick-set man entered the car from the other end, and met him face to face. But Gordon was too distraught at that moment to notice him, for his mind was at rest about his pursuer as soon as the train started. Not so with the pursuer, however. His keen little eyes took in the white anxious face, the smear of sticking plaster about the mouth and eyebrows, and instantly knew his man. His instincts had not failed him after all. He put out a pair of brawny fists to catch at him, but a lurch of the train and Gordon's swift stride outpurposed him, and by the time the little man had righted his footing, Gordon was disappearing into the state room, and the conductor with another man was in the aisle behind him, waiting to pass. He stepped back and watched. At least he had driven his prey to quarry, and there was no possible escape now until the train stopped. He would watch that door as a cat watches a mouse, and perhaps be able to send a telegram for help before he made any move at all. It was as well that his impulse to take the man then and there had come to not. What would the other passengers have thought of him? He must, of course, move cautiously. What a blunder he had almost made. It was no part of his purpose to make public his errand. The men who were behind him did not wish to be known, nor to have their business known. With narrowing eyes he watched the door of the state room as the conductor and doctor came and went. He gathered from a few questions asked by one of the passengers that there was someone sick. Probably the lady he had seen faint as the train started. It occurred to him that this might be his opportunity, and when the conductor came out of the drawing-room the second time he inquired if any assistance was needed, and implied that doctoring was his profession, though it would be a sorry patient that had only his attention. However, if he had one accomplishment it was bluffing, and he never stopped at any profession that suited his needs. The conductor was annoyed at the interruptions that had already occurred, and he answered impressively that they had all the help necessary and there wasn't anything the matter anyway. There was nothing left for the man to do but wait. He subsided with his eye on the state-room door, and later secured a birth in plain sight of that door, but gave no order to have it made up until every other passenger in the car was gone to what rest a sleeping-car provides. He kept his vigil well, but was rewarded with no sight of his prey that night, and at last with a sense of duty well done, and the comfortable promise from the conductor that his deftly worded telegraphic message to Mr. Holman should be sent from a station they passed a little after midnight, he crept to his well-earned rest. He was not at home in a dress shirt and collar, being of the walks of life where a collar is mostly accounted superfluous, and he was glad to be relieved of it for a few hours. It had not yet occurred to him that his appearance in that evening suit would be a trifle out of place when morning came. It is doubtful if he had ever considered matters of dress. His profession was that of a human ferret of the lower order, and there were many things he did not know. It might have been the way he held his fork at dinner that had made Gordon decide that he was but a henchman of the others. Having put his mind and his body at rest, he proceeded to sleep and the train thundered on its way into the night. Gordon, meanwhile, had hurried back from his appeal to the conductor, and stood looking helplessly down at the delicate girl as she lay there so white and seemingly lifeless. Her pretty traveling gown set off the exquisite face finally. Her glorious hair seemed to crown her. A handsome hat had fallen unheated to the floor, and lay rolling back and forth in the aisle with the motion of the train. He picked it up reverently, as though it had been a part of her. His face in the few minutes had gone haggard. The conductor hurried in presently, followed by a grave elderly man with a professional air. He touched a practised finger to the limp wrist, looked closely into the face, and then, taking a little bottle from a case he carried, called for a glass. The liquid was poured between the closed lips. The white throat reluctantly swallowed it. The eyelids presently fluttered. A long breath that was ghastly more than a sigh hovered between the lips, and then the blue eyes opened. She looked about bewildered, looking longest at Gordon, then closed her eyes wearily, as if she wished they had not brought her back, and lay still. The physician still knelt beside her, and Gordon, with time now to think, began to reflect on the possible consequences of his deeds. With anxious face he stood watching, reflecting bitterly that he might not claim even a look of recognition from those sweet eyes, and wishing with all his heart that his marriage had been genuine. A passing memory of his morning ride to New York in company with Miss Bentley's conjured vision, brought wonder to his eyes. It all seemed so long ago, and so strange, that he ever could have entertained for a moment the thought of marrying Julia. She was a good girl, of course, fine and handsome and all that, but—and here his eyes sought the sweet sad face on the couch, and his heart suffered in a real agony for the trouble he saw, and for the trouble he must yet give to her when he told her who he was, or rather who he was not. For he must tell her, and that soon. It would not do to go on in her company, nor to Chicago, and yet how was he possibly to leave her in this condition. But no revelations were to be given that night. The physician administered another draft, and ordered the porter to make up the berth immediately. Then, with skilful hands and strong arms, he laid the young girl in upon the pillows, and made her comfortable. Gordon, meanwhile, standing awkwardly by with averted eyes and troubled mean, he would have liked to help, but he did not know how. She had better not be disturbed any more than is necessary to-night, said the doctor, as he pulled the pretty cloth traveling down smoothly down about the girl's ankles, and patted it with professional hands. Don't let her yield to any nonsense about putting up her hair, or taking off that frock for facial rumplet. She needs to lie perfectly quiet. It is a case of utter exhaustion, and I should say a long strain of some kind. Anxiety. Worry, perhaps. He looked keenly at the sheepish bridegroom. Has she had any trouble? Gordon lifted honest eyes. I'm afraid so, he answered contritely, as if it must have been his fault some way. Well, don't let her have any more, said the elder man briskly. She's a very fragile bit of womanhood young man, and you'll have to handle her carefully, or she'll blow away. Make her happy, young man. People can't have too much happiness in this world. It is the best thing, after all, to keep them well. Don't be afraid to give her plenty. Thank you, said Gordon fervently, wishing it were in his power to do with the physician ordered. The kindly physician, the assiduous porter, and the brusque but good hearted conductor went away at last, and Gordon was left with his precious charge, who to all appearances was sleeping quietly. The light was turned low, and the curtains of the berth were a little apart. He could see the dim outline of drapery about her, in one shadowy hand lying limp at the edge of the couch, in weary relaxation. Above her, in the upper berth, which he had told the porter not to make up, lay the great purple-black, plumed hat, and a sheaf of lilies of the valley from her bouquet. It seemed all so strange for him to be there, in their sacred presence. He locked the door so that no one should disturb the sleeper, and went slowly into the little private dressing-room. For a full minute after he reached it, he stood looking into the mirror before him, looking at his own weary, soiled face, and wondering if he, Cyril Gordon, he had to forehonored and self-respecting, had really done in the last twelve hours all the things which he was crediting himself with having done. And the question was, how had it happened? Had he taken leave of his senses, or had circumstances been too much for him? Had he lost the power of judging between right and wrong? Could he have helped any of the things that had come upon him? How could he have helped them? What ought he to have done? What ought he to do now? Was he a criminal beyond redemption? Had he spoiled the life of the sweet woman out there in her berth? Or could he somehow make amends for what he had done? And was he as badly to blame for it all as he felt himself to be? After a minute he rallied to realize that his face was dirty. He washed the marks of the adhesive plaster away, and then, not satisfied with the result, he brought his shaving things from his suitcase and shaved. Somehow he felt more like himself after his toilet was completed, and he slipped back into the darkened drawing-room and stretched himself wearily on the couch, which according to his directions was not made up, but merely furnished with pillows and a blanket. The night settled into the noisy quiet of an express train, and each revolution of the wheels as they whirled their way Chicago Ward resolved itself into the old refrain, Don't Let Anything Hinder You, Don't Let Anything Hinder You. He certainly was not taking the most direct route from New York to Washington, though it might eventually prove that the longest way round was the shortest way home, on account of its comparative safety. As he settled to the quiet of his couch, a number of things came more clearly to his vision. One was that they had safely passed the outskirts of New York without interference of any kind, and must by this time be speeding toward Albany, unless they were on a road that took them more directly west. He had not thought to look at the tickets for knowledge of his bearings, and the light was too dim for him to make out any monograms or letterings on inlaid wood panels or transoms, even if he had known enough about New York railroads to gain information from them. There was one thing certain. Even if he had been mistaken about his supposed pursuers, by morning there would surely be someone searching for him. The duped, Holman combination would stop at nothing when they discovered his theft of the paper, and he could not hope that so sharp-eyed man as Mr. Holman had seemed to be would be long in discovering the absence of his private mark on the paper. Undoubtedly he knew it already. As for the frantic bridegroom, Gordon dreaded the thought of meeting him. It must be put off at any hazards until the message was safe with his chief. Then, if he had to answer with his life for carrying off another man's bride, he could at least feel that he had left no duty to his government undone. It was plain that his present situation was a dangerous one from two points of view, for the bridegroom would have no difficulty in finding out what train he and the lady had taken, and he was satisfied that an emissary of Holman had more than a suspicion of his identity. The obvious thing to do was to get off that train at the first opportunity and get across country to another line of railroad. But how was that to be done with a sick lady on his hands? Of course he could leave her to herself. She probably had taken journeys before and would know how to get back. She would at least be able to telegraph to her friends to come for her. He could leave her money and a note explaining his involuntary villainy, and her indignation with him would probably be a sufficient stimulant to keep her from dying of chagrin at her plight. But as from the first, every nerve and fiber in him rejected this suggestion. It would be cowardly, unmanly, horrible. Undoubtedly it might be the wise thing to do for many standpoints, but never. He could no more leave her that way than he could run off to save his life and leave that message he carried. She was a trust as much as that. He had got into this and he must get out somehow, but he would not desert the lady or neglect his duty. Toward mourning, when his fitful vigil became less lucid, it occurred to him that he ought really to have deserted the bride while she was still unconscious, jumping off the train at the short stop they had made soon after she fell into his arms. She would then have been cared for by someone, his absence discovered, and she would have been put off the train and her friends sent for at once. But it would have been dastardly to have deserted her that way, not knowing even if she still lived, he on whom she had at least a claim of temporary protection. It was all a terrible muddle, right and wrong, juggled in such a mysterious and unusual way. He never remembered to have come to a spot before where it was difficult to know which of two things it was right to do. There had always before been such clearly defined visions. He had supposed that people who professed not to know what was right were people who wished to be blinded on the subject because they wished to do wrong and think it right. But now he saw that he had judged such too harshly. Perhaps his brain had been overstrained with the excitement and annoyances of the day, and he was not quite in a condition to judge what was right. He ought to snatch a few minutes sleep, and then his mind would be clearer, for something must be done and that soon. It would not do to risk entering a large city where detectives and officers with full particulars might even now be on the watch for him. He was too familiar with the workings of retribution in this progressive age not to know his danger. But he really must get some sleep. At last he yielded to the drowsiness that was stealing over him. Just for a moment, he thought, and the wheels hummed on the immonotonous song. Don't let anything hinder. Don't let anything. Don't let. Don't hinder. 8 The man slept and the train rushed on. The night waned. The dawn grew purple in the east and streaked itself with gold. Then later got out a filet of crimson and drew over its cloudy forehead. The breath of the lilies filled the little room with delicate fragrance and mingled strange scenes in the dreams of the man and the woman so strangely united. The sad little bride grew restless and stirred, but the man on the couch did not hear her. He was dreaming of a shooting affray in which he carried a bride in a gold pencil and was shot for stealing a sandwich out of Mr. Holman's vest pocket. The morning light grew clearer. The east had put on a vesture of gold above her purple robe, and its reflection shone softly in at the window, for the train was just at that moment rushing northward, though its general course was west. The sleeper behind the thick green curtain stirred again and became conscious, as in many days passed, of her heavy burden of sorrow. Always at first waking, the realization of it sat upon her as though it would crush the life from her body. Lying still with bated breath, she fought back waking consciousness as she had learned to do in the last three months, yet knew it to be futile while she was doing it. The sun shot up between the bars of crimson, like a topaz on a lady's gown that crowns the whole beautiful costume. The piercing, jeweled light lay across the white face, touched the lips with warm fingers, and the troubled soul knew all that had passed. She lay quiet, letting the torrent sweep over her with its sickening realization. She was married, it was over, with the painful parting from dear ones. She was off away from them all. The new life she so dreaded had begun. And how was she to face it? The life with one whom she feared and did not respect. How could she ever have done it but for the love of her dear ones? Gradually she came to remember the night before, the parting with her mother and her brother, the little things that brought the tears again to her eyes. Then all was blankness. She must have fainted. She did not often faint, but it must be. Yes, she remembered opening her eyes and seeing men's faces about her. And George, could it have been George? With a kinder look in his eyes than she had ever thought to see there. Then she must have fainted again, or had she? No. Someone had lifted her into this birth, and she had drunk something and had gone to sleep. What had happened? Where was everybody? It was good to have been left alone. She grudgingly gave her unloved husband a fragment of gratitude for not having tried to talk to her. In the carriage on the way he had seemed determined to begin a long argument of some kind. She did not want to argue any more. She had written tomes upon the subject, and had said all she had to say. He was not deceived. He knew she did not love him, and would never have married him but for her mother's sake and for the sake of her beloved father's memory. What was the use of saying more? Let it rest. The deed was done and they were married. Now let him have his way and make her suffer as he chose. If he would but let her suffer in silence and not inflict his bitter tongue upon her, she would try to bear it. And perhaps, oh, perhaps she would not live long, and it would soon be all over. As the daylight grew the girl felt an inclination to find out whether her husband was near. Cautiously she lifted her head and, drawing back a corner of the curtain, peered out. He lay quietly on the couch, one hand under his cheek against the pillow, the other across his breast, as if to guard something. He was in the still sleep of the overwearyed. He scarcely seemed to be breathing. Celia dropped the curtain and put her hand to her throat. It startled her to find him so near and so still. Softly, stealthily, she lay down again and closed her eyes. She must not waken him. She would have as long a time to herself as was possible, and tried to think of her dear mother and her precious brother. Oh, if she were just going away from them alone, how well she could bear it, but to be going with one whom she had always almost hated. Her brother's happy words about George suddenly came to her mind. Jefferson had thought him fine. Well, of course, the dear boy knew nothing about it. He had not read all those letters, those awful letters. He did not know the threats, the terrible language that had been used. She shuddered as she thought of it. But in the same breath she was glad that her brother had been deceived. She would not have it otherwise. Her dear ones must never know what she had gone through to save them from disgrace and loss of fortune, disgrace, of course, being the first and greatest. She had feared that George would let them see through his veneer of manners and leave them troubled. But he had made a better appearance than she had hoped. Ten years had made a greater change in him than she had expected. He really had not been so bad as her conjured image of him. Then a sudden desire to look at him again seized her, to know, once for all, just how he really did seem. She would not want to notice him awake any more than she could help, nor dare lest he presume upon her sudden interest to act as if he had never offended. But if she should look at him now as he lay asleep, she might study his face and see what she really had to expect. She fought the desire to peer at him again, but finally it gained complete possession of her, and she drew back the curtain once more. He was lying just as quietly as before. His heavy hair, a little disordered on the pillow, gave him a noble, interesting appearance. He did not seem at all a fellow of whom to be afraid. It was incredible that he could have written those letters. She tried to trace in his features a likeness to the youth of ten years ago, whom she had known when she was but a little girl, who had tied her braids to her chair and put raw oysters and caterpillars down her back, or stretched invisible cords to trip her feet in dark places, who made her visits to a beloved uncle, whom he also had the right to call uncle, though he was no cousin of hers, a long list of catastrophes resulting in tears, who had never failed to mortify her on all occasions possible, and once, but the memories were too horrible as they crowded one upon another. Let them be forgotten. She watched the face before her keenly, critically, yet she could see no trace of any such character as she had imagined the boy George must have developed as a man, of which his letters had given her ample proof. This man's face was finely cut and sensitive. There was nothing coarse or selfish in its lines. The long, dark eyelashes lay above dark circles of weariness, and gave that look of boyishness that always touches the maternal cord in a woman's heart. George used to have a puffy, self-indulgent look under his eyes, even when he was a boy. She had imagined from his last photograph that he would be much stouter, much more bombastic. But then, in his sleep, perhaps those things fell from a man. She tried to turn away indifferently, but something in his face held her. She studied it. If he had been any other man, any stranger, she would have said from looking at him critically that kindness and generosity, self-respect and respect for women, were written all over the face before her. It was fine, firm modeling about the lips and the clean, shaven chin, and about the forehead, the look, almost of a scholar. Yet she thought she knew the man before her to be none of those things. How deceptive were looks! She would probably be envied rather than pitied by all who saw her. Well, perhaps that was better. She could be easier, keep her trouble to herself. But stay! What was there about this man that seemed different? The smooth face? Yes. She had the dim impression that last night he wore a mustache. She must have been mistaken, of course. She had only looked at him when absolutely necessary, and her brain was in such a whirl. But still, there seemed to be something different about him. Her eyes wandered to the hand that lay across his breast. It was the fine, white hand of the professional man, the kind of hand that somehow attracts the eye with a sense of cleanness and strength. There was nothing flabby about it. George, as a boy, used to have big, stumpy fingers and nails chewed down to the quick. She could remember how she used to hate to look at them when she was a little girl, and yet somehow could not keep her eyes away. She saw with relief that the nails on this hand were well-shaped and well cared for. He looked very handsome and attractive as he lay there. The sun shot one of its early, daring bolts of light across his hair, as the train turned in its course and lurched northward around a curve. It glinted there for a moment, like a miniature searchlight, travelling over the head, showing up every wave and curve. He had the kind of hair which makes a woman's hand instinctively long to touch it. Well you wondered at the curious thoughts that crowded through her mind, knowing that all the while there was the consciousness that when this man should wake she would think of nothing but his hateful personality as she had known it through the years. And she was his wife! How strange! How terrible! How impossible to live with the thought through interminable, weary years! Oh, that she might die at once before her strength failed and her mother found out her sorrow. She lay back again on her pillows very still and tried to think, but somehow a pleasant image of him, her husband, lingered in her memory. Could it be possible that she would ever see anything pleasant in him, ever endure the days of his companionship, ever come to the point where she could overlook his outrageous conduct toward her, forgive him, and be even tolerant of him. Sharp memories crowded upon her and the smarting tears stung their way into her eyes, answering and echoing in her heart. No, no, a thousand times no. She had paid his price and gained redemption for her own, but forget what he had done? Never. The long strain of weariness and the monotony of the onrushing train lulled her a half into unconsciousness again, and the man on the couch slumbered on. He came to himself suddenly, with all his senses on the alert, as the thumping noise and motion of the train ceased, and a sudden silence of open country succeeded, broken now and again by distant oncoming and receding voices. He caught the fragment of a sentence from some train official. It's a half hour late and maybe more. We'll just have to lie by, that's all. Here, you, Jim, take this flag and run up to the switch. The voice trailed into the distance, ended by the metallic note of a hammer doing something mysterious to the underpinning of the car. Gordon sat up suddenly, his hand yet across his breast, where his first waking thought had been to feel if the little pencil case were safe. Glinting stealthily toward the curtains of the berth, and perceiving no motion, he concluded that the girl still slept. Softly he slipped his feet into his shoes, gave one or two other touches to his toilet, and stood up looking toward the curtains. He wanted to go out and see where they were stopping. But dared he go without knowing that she was all right? Softly, reverently, he stooped and brought his face close to the opening in the curtains. Celia felt his eyes upon her. Her own were closed, and by a superhuman effort she controlled her breathing, slowly, gently, as if she were asleep. He looked for a long moment, thrilled by the delicate beauty of her sleeping face, filled with an intoxicating joy to see that her lips were no longer white. Then, turning reverently away, he unlocked the door and stepped forth. The other occupants of the car were still wrapped in slumber. Loud snores of various kinds and qualities testified to that. A dim light at the further end contented luridly and losingly, with the daylight now flooding the outside world, and creeping mischievously into the transoms. Gordon closed the door of the compartment, noiselessly, and went down the aisle to the end of the car. A door was open, and he could hear voices outside. The conductor stood talking with two breakmen. He heard the words, three-quarters of an hour at least. And then the men walked off toward the engine. Gordon looked across the country, and for the first time since he started on his journey, let himself remember that it was springtime and May. There had been a bitter wind the night before, with a hint of rain in the air. In fact, it had rained quite smartly during the ride to the hospital with the hurt child. But he had been so perturbed that he had taken little notice of the weather. But this was a radiant morning. The sun was in one of its most charming moods, when it touches everything with a sort of unnatural glory after the long winter of darkness and cold. Every tree trunk in the distance seemed to stand out clearly. Every little grass blade was set with a glowing jewel, and the winding stream across a narrow valley fairly blazed with brightness. The very road with its deep, clean wheel grooves seemed like a well taken photograph. The air had in a lowering softness mingled with its tang of winter that made one long to take a walk anywhere out into the world, just for the joy of being and doing. A metal lock shot up from somewhere to a telegraph pole, let go a blithe note, and hurried on. It was glorious. The exhilaration filled Gordon's blood. And here was the chance he craved to slip away from the train before it reached a place where he could be discovered. If he had but thought to bring his suitcase, he could slip back now without being noticed and get it. He could even go without it. But he could not leave her that way. Could he? Aught he? Perhaps he ought. But it would not do to leave his suitcase with her, for it contained letters addressed to his real name. An explanation would, of course, be demanded, and he could never satisfy a loving mother and brother for having left a helpless girl in such a situation, even if he could satisfy his own conscience, which he knew he never could. He simply could not leave her, and yet he must get away from that train as soon as possible. Perhaps this was the only opportunity he would have before reaching Buffalo, and it was very risky, indeed dangerous, to enter Buffalo. It was a foregone conclusion that there would be private detectives ready to meet the train in Buffalo with full descriptions in particular, and only too ready to make way with him if they could do so without being found out. He looked nervously back at the door of the car. Dared he attempt to awaken her and say that they had made a mistake and must change cars? Was she well enough? And where could they go? He looked off toward the landscape for an answer to his question. They were decidedly in the country. The train stood at the top of a high embankment of cinders, below which was a smooth country road running parallel to the railroad for some distance, till it met another road at right angles to it, which stretched away between thrifty meadowlands to a nestling village. The glorified stream he had first noticed to fire up the valley glinted narrower here in the morning light, with a suggestion of watercress and forget-me-nots in its fringes as it veered away under a bridge toward the village and hid itself in a tangle of willows and cattails. How easy it would be to slide down that embankment and walk out that road over the bridge to the village, where, of course, a conveyance of some sort could be hired to bear him to another railroad town and then to Pittsburgh, perhaps, where he could easily get a train to Washington. How easy, if only he were not held by some invisible hands to care for the sweet sleeper inside the car. And yet, for her sake as well as his own, he must do something, and that, right speedily. He was standing thus in deep meditation, looking off at the little village which seems so near and yet would be so far for her to walk, when he was pervaded with that strange sense of someone near. For an instant he resisted the desire to lift his eyes and prove to himself that no one was present in a doorway, which a moment before he knew had been unoccupied. Then, frowning at his own nervousness, he turned. She stood there in all the beauty of her fresh young girlhood, a delicate pallor on her cheeks, and a deep sadness in her great dark eyes which were fixed upon him intently in a sort of puzzled study. She was fully dressed, even to her hat and gloves. Every wave of her golden hair lay exquisitely in place under the purple hat, as though she might have taken an hour or two at her toilet. Yet she had made it with excited haste and with trembling fingers, determined to have it accomplished before the return of her dreaded liege-lord. She had sprung from her berth the instant he closed the door upon her, and fastened the little catch to bar him out. She had dashed cold water into her face, fastened her garments hurriedly, and tossed the glory of her hair into place with a few touches and what hairpins she could find on the floor. Then, putting on her hat, coat, and gloves, she had followed him into the outer air. She had a feeling that she must have air to breathe or she would suffocate. A wild desire filled her to go alone into the great out-of-doors. Oh, if she but dared to run away from him. But that she might not do, for all his threats would then probably be made good by him upon her dear mother and brother. No, she must be patient and bare to the end all that was set down for her. But she would get out and breathe a little before he returned. He had very likely gone into the smoker. She remembered that the George of Old had been an inveterate smoker of cigarettes. She would have time for a taste of the morning while he had his smoke, and if he returned and found her gone what mattered it? The inevitable beginning of conversations which she so dreaded would be put off for a time. She never thought to come upon him standing thus alone, looking off at the beauty of the morning as if he enjoyed it. The sight of him held her still, watching, as his sleeping face had held her gaze earlier in the morning. How different he was from what she had expected. How the ten years had changed him. One could almost fancy it might have changed his spirit also. But for those letters, those terrible letters, the writer of those letters could not change except for the worse. And yet he was handsome, intellectual-looking, kindly in his bearing, appreciative of the beauty about him. She could not deny it. It was most astonishing. He had lost that baggy look unto his eyes and the weak, selfish, cruel pout of lip she remembered so keenly. Then he turned, and a smile of delight and welcome lit up his face. In spite of herself, she could not keep an answering smile from glimmering faintly in her own. What? You up and out here? He said, hastening closer to the step. How are you feeling this morning? Better, I'm sure, or you would not be here so early. Oh, I had to get out to the air, she said. I couldn't stay in the car another minute. I wish we could walk the rest of the way. Do you? He said, with a quick surprise depreciation in his voice. I was just wishing something like that myself. Do you see that beautiful straight road down there? I was longing to slide down this bank and walk over to that little village for breakfast. Then we could get an auto, perhaps, or a carriage, to take us on to another train. If you hadn't been so ill last night, I might have proposed it. Could we? she asked earnestly. I should like it so much. And there was eagerness in her voice. What a lovely morning! Her eyes were wistful, like the eyes of those who weep and wonder why they may not laugh, since sunshine is still yellow. Of course we could, he said, if you were only able. Oh, I'm able enough. I should much rather do that than to go back into that stuffy car. But wouldn't they think it awfully queer of us to run away from the train this way? They needn't know anything about it, he declared, like a boy about to play truant. I'll slip back in the car and get our suitcases. Is there anything of yours I might be in danger of leaving behind? No. I put everything in my suitcase before I came out. She said listlessly, although she had already lost her desire to go. I am afraid you are not able, he said, pausing solicitously as he scaled the steps. She was surprised at his interest in her welfare. Why, of course I am, she said insistently. I have often taken longer walks than that looks to be, and I shall feel much better for being out. I really feel as if I couldn't stand it any longer in there. Good. Then we'll try it. He hurried in for the baggage and left her standing on the cinder-roadbed beside the train, looking off at the opening morning. CHAPTER 9 It was just at that instant that the thick-set man in his birth, not ten feet away, became broadly conscious of the unwanted stillness of the train and the cessation of motion that had lulled him to such sound repose. So does a tiny, sharp sound strike upon our senses and bring them into life again from sleep, making us aware of a state of things that has been going on for some time, perhaps without our realization. The sound that roused him may have been the click of the state-room latch as Gordon opened the door. The shades were down in the man's birth, and the curtains drawn close. The daylight had not as yet penetrated through their thickness, but once awake his senses were immediately on the alert. He yawned, stretched, and suddenly arrested another yawn to analyze the utter stillness all about him. A sonorous snore suddenly emphasized the quiet of the car, and made him aware of all the occupants of all those curtain departments. His mind went over a quick resumé of the night before, and detailed him at once to duty. Another soft-clicking of the latch set him to listening, and his bristly, shocked head was stuck instantly out between the curtains into the aisle, eyes toward the state-room door, just in time to see that a man was stealing quietly down the passageway out of the end-door, carrying two suitcases and an umbrella. It was his man. He was sure instantly, and his mind grew frantic with the thought. Almost he had outdone himself through foolish sleep. He half-spranked from his birth, then remembered that he was but partly dressed, and jerked back quickly to grab his clothes, stopping in the operation of putting them on to yank up his window-shade with an impatient click and flatten his face against the window-pane. Yes, they were down on the ground outside the train, both of them, man, woman, baggage, and all, slipping away from him while he slept peacefully and let them go. The language of his mind at that point was hot with invectives. Gordon had made his way back to the girl's side without meeting any porters or wakeful fellow-passengers, but a distant rumbling greeted his ears. The waited-for express was coming. If they were to get away it must be done at once, or their flight would be discovered, and perhaps even prevented. It certainly was better not to have it known where they got off. He had taken the precaution to close the stateroom door behind him, and so it might be some time before the absence would be discovered. Perhaps there would be other stops before the train reached Buffalo, in which case the track would not easily be followed. He had no idea that the evil eye of his pursuer was even then upon him. Celia was already on the ground, looking off toward the little village wistfully. Just how it was to make her lot any brighter to get out of the train and run away to a strange little village she did not quite explain to herself, but it seemed to be a relief to her pent-up feelings. She was half afraid that George might raise some new objection when he returned. Gordon swung himself down on the cinder-path, scanning the track either way. The conductor and breakman were not in sight. Far in the distance a black speck was rushing down upon them. Gordon could hear the vibration of the rail of the second track upon which he placed his foot as he helped Celia across. In a moment more the train would pass. It was important that they should be down the embankment out of sight. Would the delicate girl not be afraid of the steep incline? She hesitated for just an instant at the top, for it was very steep. Then, looking up at him, she saw that he expected her to go down with him. She gave a little frightened gasp, set her lips, and started. He held her as well as he could with two suitcases and an umbrella clutched in his other hand. And finally, as the grade grew steeper, he let go the baggage altogether and it slid briskly down by itself, while he devoted himself to steadying the girl's now inevitable and swift descent. It certainly was not an ideal way of travelling, this new style of gravity-road, but it landed them without delay, though much shaken and scratched, and divested of every vestige of dignity. It was impossible not to laugh, and Celia's voice rang out merrily, showing that she had not always wept and looked sorrowful. Are you much hurt? asked Gordon anxiously, holding her hands and looking down at her tenderly. Before she could reply, the express train roared above them, drowning their voices in laughter. And when it was passed, they saw their own train take up its interrupted way grumblingly, and rapidly move off. If the passengers on those two trains had not been deeply wrapped in slumber, they might have been surprised to see two fashionably attired young persons with hats awry and clasped hands laughing in a country road at five o'clock of a May morning. But only one was awake, and by the time the two in the road below remembered to look up and take notice, the trains were rapidly disappearing. The girl had been deeply impressed with Gordon's solicitude for her. It was so out of keeping with his letters. He had never seemed to care whether she suffered or not. In all the arrangements he had said what he wanted, indeed what he would have, with an implied threat in the framing of his sentence in case she did demure. Never had there been the least expression of desire for her happiness. Therefore it was something of a surprise to find him so gentle and thoughtful of her. Perhaps after all he would not prove so terrible to live with as she had feared. And yet how could anyone who wrote those letters have any alleviating qualities? It could not be. She must harden herself against him. Still, if he would be outwardly decent to her, it would make her lot easier, of course. But her course of mental reasoning was broken in upon by his stout denunciations of himself. I ought not to have allowed you to slide down there, he declared. It was terrible after what you went through last night. I didn't realize how steep and rough it was. Indeed, I didn't. I don't see how you can ever forgive me. Why, I'm not hurt. She said gently, astonished at his solicitation. There was a strange lump in her throat, brought by his kindness, which threatened tears. Just why should kindness from an unexpected quarter bring tears? I'm only a little shaken up, she went on, as she saw a real anxiety in his brown eyes. And I don't mind it in the least. I think it was rather fun, don't you? A faint glimmer of a smile wavered over the corners of her mouth, and Gordon experienced a sudden desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. It was a strange new feeling. He had never had any such thought about Julia Bentley. Why, I—why, yes, I guess so, if you're sure you're not hurt. Not a bit, she said, and then for some unexplained reason they both began to laugh. After that they felt better. If your shoes are as full of these miserable cinders as mine are, they need emptying, quickly at Gordon, shaking first one well-shod foot and then the other, and looking roofily at the little velvet boots of the lady. Suppose you sit down. He looked about for a seat, but the dewy grass was the only resting place visible. He pitched upon the suitcases and improvised a chair. Now, sit down and let me take them off for you. He knelt in the road at her feet as she obeyed, protesting that she could do it for herself. But he overruled her, and began clumsily to unbutton the tiny buttons, holding the timid little foot firmly, almost reverently, against his knee. He drew the velvet shoe softly off, and turning it upside down, shook out the intruding cinders, put a clumsy finger in to make sure they were all gone. Then shyly, tenderly, passed his hand over the sole of the fine, silk-stalking foot that rested so lightly on his knee to make sure no cinders clung to it. The sight and touch of that little foot stirred him deeply. He had never before been called upon to render service so intimate to any woman, and he did it now with half averted gaze and the utmost respect in his manner. As he did it, he tried to speak about the morning, the departing train, the annoying cinders, anything to make the unusual position seem natural and unstrained. He felt deeply embarrassed, the more so because of his own double part in this queer masquerade. Celia sat watching him, strangely stirred. Her wonder over his kindness grew with each moment, and her prejudices almost dissolved. She could not understand it. There must be something more he wanted of her, for George Hain had never been kind in the past, unless he wanted something of her. She dreaded lest she should soon find it out. Yet he did not look like a man who was deceiving her. She drew a deep sigh, if only it were true, and he were good and kind, and had never written those awful letters. How good and dear it would be to be tenderly cared for this way. Her lips drooped at the corners, and her eyelids drooped in company with the sigh. Then Gordon looked up in great distress. You are tired, he declared, pausing in his attempt to fasten the little pearl buttons. I have been cruel to let you get off the train. Indeed I am not, said the girl, brightening with a sudden effort. At least she would not spoil the kindness while it lasted. It was surely better than what she had feared. You could never button those shoes with your fingers, she laughed, as he redoubled his efforts to capture a tiny disk of pearl and set it into its small velvet socket. Here, I have a button-hook in my handbag. Try this. She produced a small silver instrument from a gold-linked bag on her arm, and he ended it to him. He took it helplessly, trying first one end, and then the other, and succeeding with neither. Here, let me show you, she laughed, pulling off one glove. Her white fingers grasped the silver button-hook and flashed in and out of the velvet holes, knitting the little shoe to the foot in no time. He watched the process in humble wonder, and she would not have been a human girl not to have been flattered with his interest in admiration. For the minute she forgot who and what he was, and let her laugh ring out merrily. And so, with shy audacity, he assayed to take off the other shoe. They really felt quite well acquainted, and as if they were going on a day's picnic when they finally gathered up their belongings and started down the road. Gordon summoned all his ready-witted intellect to brighten the walk for her, though he found himself again and again on the brink of referring to his Washington life or some other personal matter that would have brought a wondering question to her lips. He had decided that he must not tell her who he was until he could put her in an independent position where she could get away from him at once if she chose. He was bound to look after her until he could place her in good hands, or at least where she could look after herself, and it was better to carry it out leaving her to think what she pleased until he could tell her everything. If all went well, they might be able to catch a Pittsburgh train that night and be in Washington the next day. Then his message delivered. He would tell her the whole story. Until then he must hold his peace. They went gaily down the road, the girls' pale cheeks beginning to flush with the morning and the exercise. She was not naturally delicate, and her faint the night before had been the result of a series of heavy strains on a heart burdened with terrible fear. The morning and his kindness had made her forget for the time that she was supposed to be walking into a world of dread and sacrifice. The years at the spring, the days at the morn, quoted Gordon Gaily, mornings at seven, the hillsides due purled. He waved an umbrella off to where a hill flashed back a thousand lights from its jeweled grass blades thickly set. The locks on the wing, the snails on the thorn, went on Celia suddenly catching his spirit and pointing to a lark that darted up into the blue with a trill of the morning in his throat. Gordon turned appreciative eyes upon her. It was good to have her take up his favorite poet in that tone of voice, a tone that showed she too knew and loved browning. Gods in his heaven, all's right with the world, finished Gordon and acquired a voice, looking straight into her eyes. That seems very true today, doesn't it? The blue eyes waved with a hint of shadow in them as they looked back into the brown ones. Almost perhaps, she faltered wistfully. The young man wished he did go behind that, almost perhaps, and find out what she meant, but concluded it were better to bring back the smile and help her to forget for a little while at least. Down by the brook they paused to rest under a weeping willow whose green-tinged plumes were dabbling in the brook. Gordon arranged the suitcases for her to sit upon, then climbed down to the brookside and gathered a great bunch of forget-me-naughts, blew his eyes, and brought them to her. She looked at them in wonder, to think they grew out here wild, untended. She had never seen them before, except in pots in the florist-windows. She touched them delicately with the tips of her fingers, as if they were too ethereal for earth, then fastened them in the breast of her gown. They exactly match your eyes, he exclaimed involuntarily, and then wished he had not spoken, for she flushed and paled under his glance, until he felt he had been unduly bold. He wondered why he had said that. He never had been in the habit of saying pretty things to girls, but this girl somehow called it from him. It was genuine. He sat a moment abashed, not knowing what to say next, as if he were a shy boy, and she did not help him, for her eyelashes drooped in a long-becoming sweep over her cheeks, and she seemed for the moment not to be able to carry off the situation. He was not sure if she was displeased or not. Her heart had thrilled strangely as he spoke, and she was vexed with herself that it should be so. A man who bullied and threatened her for three terrible months, and forced her to marry him, had no right to a thrill of her heart, nor a look from her eyes, be he ever so kind for the moment. He certainly was nice and pleasant when he chose to be. She must watch herself, for never, never must she yield weakly to his smooth overtures. Well did she know him? He had some reason for all this pleasantness. It would surely be revealed soon. She stiffened her lips and tried to look away from him, to the purpley green hills, but the echo of his words came upon her again, and again her heart thrilled at them. What if—oh, what if he were all right, and she might accept the admiration in his voice? And yet how could that be possible? The sweet color came into her cheeks again, and the tears flew quickly to her eyes, till they looked all sky and dew, and she did not turn back to him. The silence remained unbroken, until a lock in the willow-cops behind them burst forth into song and broke the spell that was upon them. Are you offended at what I said? He asked earnestly, I am sorry if you did not like it. The words said themselves without my stopping to think whether you might not like it. Will you forgive me? Oh! she said, lifting her forget-me-not eyes to his. I am not offended. There is nothing to forgive. It was beautiful. Then his eyes spoke the compliment over again, and the thrills started anew in her heart, till her cheeks grew quite rosy, and she buried her face in the coolness of the tiny flowers to hide her confusion. It was very true, he said in a low, lover-like voice that sounded like a caress. Aren't we to hurry on to catch our train? said Celia, suddenly springing to her feet. I'm quite rested now. She felt if she stayed there another moment, she would yield to the spell he had cast upon her. With a dull thud of consciousness the man got himself to his feet and reminded himself that this was another man's promised wife to whom he had been letting his soul go out. Don't let anything hinder you. Don't let anything hinder you. Suddenly babbled out the little brook, and he gathered up his suitcases and started on. I am going to carry my suitcase, declared a very decided voice behind him, and a small hand seized hold of its handle. I beg your pardon, you are not," declared Gordon in a much more determined voice. But they are too heavy for you, both of them, and the umbrella, too, she protested. Give me the umbrella, then. But he would not give her even the umbrella, rejoicing in his strength to shield her and bear her burdens. As she walked beside him she remembered vividly a morning when George Hain had made her carry two heavy baskets that his hens might be free to shoot birds. Could this be the same, George Hain? All together it was a happy walk, and far shorter than either had expected it to be, though Gordon worried not a little about his frail companion before they came to the outskirts of the village, and kept begging her to sit down and rest again, but she would not. She was quite eager and excited about the strange village to which they were coming. Its outlying farmhouses were all so clean and white, with green blinds folded placently over their front windows, and only their back doors stir. The cows all looked peaceful, and the dogs all seemed friendly. They walked up the village street shaded in patches with flecks of sunshine through the young leaves. If anyone had told Celia Hathaway the night before that she would have walked and talked thus to-day with her bride-room, she would have laughed him to scorn. But now, all unconsciously, she had drifted into an attitude of friendliness with the man whom she had thought to hate all the rest of her life. One long, straight, maple-lined street running parallel to the stream comprised the village. They walked to the center of it and still saw no signs of a restaurant. A post office, a couple of stores and a bakery made up the business portion of the town, and upon enquiry it appeared that there was no public eating-house, the one hotel of the place having been sold at auction the week before on account of the death of the owner. The early village loungers stared disinterestedly at the phenomenal appearance in their midst of a couple of city folks with their luggage and no apparent means of transit except their two delicately shod feet. It presented a problem too grave to be solved unassisted, and there were solemn shakings of the head over them. At last one who had discouragingly stated the village lack of a public inn, asked casually, "'Hit a runaway?' "'Oh, no,' laughed Gordon pleasantly. "'We didn't travel with horses.' "'Hit a puncture, then,' announced the village wiseacre, shifting from one foot to the other. "'Well, you come the wrong direction to get help,' said another languid listener. "'There ain't no garage here.' The feller, what use it to keep it, skipped out with Sam Galt's wife a month ago. "'You'd ought to have turned back to Asheville. They got a good blacksmith there, can tinker you up.' "'Is that so?' said Gordon, interestedly. "'Well, now, that's too bad. But perhaps, as it can't be helped, we'll have to forget it. What's the next town on ahead, and how far?' Sugar groves two miles further on, in Milton's five. They've got a garage and a restaurant to Milton, but that's only since the railroad built a junction there.' "'Has anyone here a conveyance I could hire to take us to Milton?' questioned Gordon, looking anxiously about the indolent group. "'I wouldn't want to drive to Milton for less than five dollars,' declared a lazy youth after a suitable pause. "'Very well,' said Gordon. "'How soon can you be ready? And what sort of a rig have you? Will it be comfortable for the lady?' The youth eyed the graceful woman in her dainty city-dress scornfully. His own country-lasts was dressed far prettier to his mind. But the eyes of her, so blue, like the little weed-flowers at her breast, went to his head. His tongue was suddenly tied. "'It's all right. It's as good as you'll get,' volunteered a sullen-faced man half sitting on a sugar-barrel. He was of a type who preferred to see fashionable ladies uncomfortable.' The youth departed for his team, and after some inquiries Gordon found that he might be able to persuade the owner of the tiny white colonial cottage across the street to prepare a snack for himself and his companion. So they went across the street and waited fifteen minutes in a dank little haircloth parlor adorned in funeral wreaths and knit tidies for a delicious breakfast of poached eggs, coffee, homemade bread, butter like roses, and a comb of amber-honey. To each the experience was a new one, and they enjoyed it together like two children, letting their eyes speak volumes of comments in the midst of the old lady's volubility. Unconsciously, by their experiences, they were being brought into sympathy with each other. The rig, when it arrived at the door driven by the blushing youth, proved to be a high spring wagon with two seats. In the front one the youth lounged without a thought of assisting his passengers. Gordon swung the baggage up and then lifted the girl into the back seat, himself taking the place beside her and planting a firm hand and arm behind the backless seat that she might feel more secure. That ride, with his arm behind her, was just one more link in the pretty chain of sympathy that was being welded about these two. Unconsciously more and more she began to droop until, when she grew very tired, he seemed to know it once. "'Just lean against my arm,' he said. "'You must be very tired, and it will help you bear the jolting.' He spoke as if his arm were made of wood or iron, and was merely one of his belongings, like an umbrella or a suitcase. He made it seem quite the natural thing for her to lean against him. If he had claimed it as her right and privilege as wife she would have recoiled from him for recalling to her the hated relation and would have sat straight as a beanpole the rest of the way. But, as it was, she sank back a trifle deprecatingly and realized that it was a great help. In her heart she thanked him for making it possible for her to rest, without entirely compromising her attitude toward him. There was nothing about it that suggested anything loverlike. It seemed just a common courtesy. Yet the strong arm almost trembled as he felt the precious weight against it, and he wished that the weight were ten miles instead of five. Once Asilia leaned forward to point to a particularly lovely bit of view that opened up as they wound around a curve in the road. They ran over a stone, and the wagon gave an unexpected jolt. Gordon reached his hand out to steady her, and she settled back to his arm with a sense of safety and being cared for that was very pleasant. Looking up shyly she saw his eyes upon her with that deep look of admiration and something more, and again that strange thrill of joy that had come when he gave her the forget-me-nots swept through her. She felt almost as if she were harboring a sinful thought when she remembered the letters he had written. But the joy of the day and the sweetness of happiness for even a moment when she had been for so long a time sad was so pleasant that she let herself enjoy it and drift, refusing to think evil of him now here in this bright day. Thus, like children on a picnic, they passed through sugar-grove and came to the town of Milton, and there they bade their driver good-bye, rewarding him with a crisp five-dollar bill. He drove home with a vision of smiles and forget-me-nots eyes, and a marked inability to tell anything about his wonderful passengers who had filled the little village with awe and amazement, and had given no clue to any one as to who or what they were. CHAPTER X But to go back to the pursuer in his birth, baffled and frantic and raging, with hands that fumbled because of their very eagerness he sought to get into his garments and find his shoes from the melee of blankets and other articles in the berth, all the time keeping one eye out of the window, for he must not let his prey get away from him now. He must watch and see what they were going to do. How fortunate that he had wakened in time for that! At least he would have a clue. Where was this? A station? He stopped operations once more to gaze off at the landscape, a desolate country scene to his city-hardened eyes, not a house in sight, nor a station. The spires of the distant village seemed like a mirage to him. This couldn't be a station. What were those two doing down there, anyway? Dared he risk calling the conductor and having him hold them? No. This affair must be kept absolutely quiet. Mr. Holman had said that if a breath of the matter came out it was worse than death for all concerned. He must just get off this train as fast as he could and follow them if they were getting away. It might be he could get the man in a lonely place. It would be easy enough to watch his chants and gag the lady. He had done such things before. He felt far more at home in such an affair than he had the night before at the Holman dinner-table. What a pity one of the others had not come along. It would be mere child's play for two to handle those two who looked as if they would turn frightened at the first threat. However, he felt confident that he could manage the affair alone. He panted with haste and succeeded in getting the wrong legs into his trousers and having to begin all over again his efforts greatly hampered by the necessity for watching out the window. Then came the distant rumble of an oncoming train and an answering scream from his own engine. The two on the ground had crossed quickly over the second track and were looking down the steep embankment. Were they going down there? What fate that he was not ready to follow them at once! The train that was coming would pass, their own would start, and he could not get out. His opportunity was going from him, and he could not find his shoes. Well, what of it? He would go without. What were shoes in a time like this? Surely he could get along barefoot and beg a payer at some farmhouse or buy a payer at a country's store. He must get out at any cost, shoes or no shoes. Grasping his coat which contained his money in valuables, he sprang from his berth straight into the arms of the porter who was hurrying back to his car after having been out to gossip with a breakman over the delay. What's the matter, sir? asked the astonished porter, rallying quickly from the shock and assuming his habitual courtesy. My shoes! You wore the irate traveller? What have you done with my shoes? Quiet, sir! Please, sir! You waked a whole car, said the porter. I put your shoes under the berth, sir, right where I always put them after black and sir. The porter stooped and extracted the shoes from beneath the carton, and the traveller, whose experience in pullmen's was small, grabbed them furiously and made for the door shoes in hand, for with a snort and a lurch and a preliminary jar the train had taken up its motion and a loud rushing outside proclaimed that the other train was passing. The porter, feeling that he had been treated with injustice, stood gazing reproachfully after the man for a full minute before he followed him to tell him that the washroom was at the other end of the car and not down past the drawing-room, as he evidently supposed. He found his man standing in stocking feet on the cold iron platform. His head out of the opening left in the vestibuled train, for when the porter came in he had drawn shut the outer door and slammed down the movable platform, making it impossible for anyone to get out. There was only the little opening the size of a window above the grading-guard, and the man clung to it as if he would jump over it if only he dared. He was looking back over the track, and his face was not good to see. He turned wildly upon the porter. I want you to stop this train and let me off, he shouted. I've lost something valuable back there on the track. Stop the train quick, I tell you, or I'll sue the railroad. What was it you lost? asked the porter respectfully. He wasn't sure, but the man was half asleep yet. It was a—my—why—it—it was a very valuable paper. It means a fortune to me and several other people, and I must go back and get it. Stop the train, I tell you, at once, or I'll jump out. I can't stop the train, sir. You'll have to see the conductor, sir, about that. But I expect this mighty little prospect of getting this train stopped before it gets to its destination, sir. We's one hour a hind time now, sir, and he's got to make up for what gets to Buffalo. The excited passenger railed and stormed until several sleepers were awakened and stuck curious sleepy countenances out from the curtains of their berths. But the porter was obdurate and would not take any measures to stop the train nor even call the conductor, until the passenger promised to return quietly to his berth. The thick-set man was not used to obeying, but he saw he was only hindering himself and finally hurried back to his berth, where he hastily parted the curtains, craning his neck to see back along the track and over the green valley, growing smaller and smaller now in the distance. He could just make out two moving specks on the white winding ribbon of the road. He felt sure he knew the direction they were taking. If he only could get off that train he could easily catch them, for they would have no idea he was coming and would take no precautions. If he had only wakened a few seconds sooner, he would have been following them even now. Fully ten minutes he argued with the conductor, showing a wide incongruity between his language and his gentlemanly attire. But the conductor would do nothing but promise to set him down at a water-tower, ten miles ahead, where they had to slow up for water. He said Sue or no Sue he had his orders, and the thick-set man did not inspire him either to sympathy or confidence. The conductor had been many years on the road and generally knew when to stop his train and when to let it go on. Suddenly the thick-set man accepted the conductor's decision and prepared to leave the train at the water-tower, his eye out for the landmarks along the way as he completed his hasty toilet. He was in no pleasant frame of mind, having missed a goodly amount of his accustomed stimulants the night before, and seeing little prospect of either stimulants or breakfast before him. He was not built for a ten-mile walk over the cinders, and his flabby muscles already ached at the prospect. But then, of course, he would not have to go far before he found an automobile or some kind of conveyance to help him on his way. He looked eagerly from the window for indications of garages or stables, but the river wound its silver way among the gray-green willow fringes, and the new grass shone a placid emerald plain with nothing more human than a few cows grazing here and there, not even a horse that might be borrowed without his owner's knowledge. It was a strange forsaken spot, ten whole miles and no sign of any public livery. Off to the right and left he could see villages, but they were most of them too far away from the track to help him any. It began to look as if he must just foot it all the way. Now and then a small shanty or tiny dwelling whizzed by near at hand, but nothing that would relieve his situation. It occurred to him to go into the dining-car for breakfast, but even as he thought of it the conductor told him that the train would stop in two minutes, and he must be ready to get off, for they did not stop long. He certainly looked a harmless creature, that thick-set man, as he stood alone upon the cinder elevation and surveyed the landscape oar. Ten miles from his quarry, alone on a stretch of endless ties and rails, with a gleaming river mocking him down in the valley, and a laughing sky gearing overhead. He started down the shining track, his temper a wreck, his mind in chaos, his soul at war with the world. The worst of it all was that the whole fault was his own for going to sleep. He began to fear that he had lost his chance. Then he set his ugly jaw and strode ahead. The morning sun poured down upon the thick-set man on his pilgrimage, and waxed hotter until noon. Trains whizzed mercilessly by and gave him no socar. Weary, faint, and fiercely thirsty, he came at last to the spot where he was satisfied his quarry had escaped. He could see the marks of their rough descent in the steep cinder-bank, and assaying the same himself came upon a shred of purple silk caught on a bramble at the foot. Puffing in panting, bruised in footsore, he sat down at the very place where Celia had stopped to have her shoes fastened, and mopped his purple brow. But there was triumph in his ugly eye, and after a few moments rest he trudged onward. That town over there ought to yield both conveyance and food as well as information concerning those he sought. He would catch them. They could never get away from him. He was on their track again, so hours behind. He would get them yet, and no man should take his reward from him. Almost spent he came at last to the village, and ate a surprisingly large dish of beef and vegetable stew at the quaint little house where Celia and Gordon had breakfasted. But the old lady who served it to them was shy about talking, and though admitting that a couple of people had been there that morning, she was non-committal about their appearance. They might have been young and good-looking and worn feathers in their hats, and they might not. She wasn't one for noticing people's appearance if they treated her civilly and paid their bills. Would he have another cup of coffee? He would, and also two more pieces of pie, but he got very little further information. It was over at the corner store where he finally went in search of something stronger than coffee, that he further pursued his investigations. The loungers were still there. It was their only business in life, and they were most diligent in it. They eyed the newcomer with relish, and settled back on their various barrels and boxes to enjoy whatever entertainment the gods were about to provide to relieve their monotonous existence. A house divided against itself cannot stand. This man's elegant garments, assumed for the nonce, did not fit the rest of his general appearance which had been accentuated by his long, hot, dusty tramp. The high evening hat was jammed on the back of his head, and bored decided dent where it had rolled down the cinder and bankman. His collar was wilted and lifeless, his white-laundered tie at half mast, his coat awry, and his fine patent leather shoes which pinched were covered with dust, and had caused a limp like the hardest tramp upon the road. Moreover, the speech of the man betrayed him, and the keen-minded old gossips who were watching him suspiciously, sized him up at once the minute he opened his mouth. Sorrow anything of a couple of young folks walking down this way? He inquired casually, pausing to light a cigar with which he was reinforcing himself for further travel. One man allowed that there might have passed such people that day. He hardly seemed willing to commit himself, but another vow shaped the information that Joe Hea drove two parties of that description to Milton this morning just got back. Maybe he could answer for him. Joe frowned. He did not like the looks of the thick-set man. He still remembered the forget-me-not eyes. But the stranger made instant requests to be driven to Milton, offering ten dollars for the same when he found that his driver was reluctant, and that Milton was a railroad centre. A few keen questions had made him sure that his man had gone to Milton. Joe haggled, allowed his horse was tired, and he didn't care about the trip twice in one day, but finally agreed to take the man for fifteen dollars, and sauntered off to get a fresh horse. He had no mind to be in a hurry. He had his own opinion about letting those two parties get out of the way before the third put in an appearance. But he had no mind to lose the fifteen dollars. It would help to buy the ring he coveted for his girl. In due time, Joe rode leisurely up, and the impatient traveller climbed into the high spring wagon, and was driven away from the apathetic gaze of the country loungers, who unblinkingly took in the fact that Joe was headed toward Asheville, and evidently intended taking his fare to Milton by way of that village, a thirty-mile drive at least. The man would get the worth of his money and ride. A grim twinkle sat near several eyes as the spring wagon turned the curve in the road and was lost to sight, and after due silence an old stager spoke. Do you reckon that that was their chauffeur? he requested languidly. Na! replied a farmer's son vigorously. He wouldn't try to chauff all dolled up like that. He's the rich dad coming after the runaways. Joe don't intend he shall get him a while yet. I reckon the ceremony will be over before he steps into fear. This lad went twice a month to Milton to the movies, and was regarded as an authority on matters of romance. A pause showed that his theory had taken root in the minds of his auditors. Well, I reckon Joe thinks the longest way round is the shortest way home, to clear the old stager. Joe never did like them codfish swells, but how do you count for the style of that gal? She won't like her dad one little bit. Oh! she's been to college, I suppose. Declared the youth. They get all that off in college. Sirs, the old man right for sending his gal to a fool college, when she ought to have been home learning to house-keep. I hope she gets off with her young man all right, said a grim old lounger, and a cackle of laughter went round the group, which presently broke up. For this had been a strenuous day, and all felt in need of rest. Besides, they wanted to get home and tell the news before some neighbor got ahead of them. All this time Celia and Gordon were touring Milton, serenely unconscious of danger near, or guardian angel of the name Joe. Investigation disclosed the fact that there was a train for Pittsburgh about three in the afternoon. Gordon sent a code telegram to his chief, assuring him of the safety of the message, and of his own intention to proceed to Washington as fast as steam could carry him. Then he took the girl to a restaurant, where they mounted two high stools, and partook with an unusually ravenous appetite of nearly everything on the menu—corn, soup, roast beef, baked trout, stewed tomatoes, coleslaw, custard, apple and mince pies, with a cup of good country coffee and real cream, all for twenty-five cents apiece. It was a very merry meal. Celia felt, somehow, as if for the time all memory of the past had been taken from her, and she were free to think and act happily in the present, without any great problems to solve or decisions to make. Just two young people off having a good time they were, at least until that afternoon train came. After their dinner they took a short walk to a tiny park where two white ducks desported themselves on a seven-by-nine pond, spanned by a rustic bridge where lovers had cut their initials. Gordon took out his knife and idly cut C.H. in the rough bark of the upper rail while his companion sat on the little board seat and watched him. She was pondering over the fact that he had cut her initials and not his own. It would have been like the George of Old to cut his own and never once think of hers. And he had put but one H. Probably thought of her now as Celia Hain without the Hathaway, or else he was so used to writing her name, Celia Hathaway, that he was not thinking at all. Those letters, how they haunted her and clouded every bright experience that she feigned would have grasped and held for a little hour. They were silent now while he worked, and she thought. He had finished the C.H. and was cutting another C. But instead of making another H, he carefully carved out the letter G. What was that for? C.G.? Who was C.G.? Oh, how stupid! George, of course. He had started a C by mistake. But he did not add the expected H. Instead, he snapped his knife shut, laid his hand over the carving, and leaned over the rail. Some time, perhaps, we'll come here again and remember, he said, and then be thought him that he had no right to hope for any such anniversary. Oh! She looked up into his eyes, startled, troubled, the haunting of her fears in the shadows of the blue. He looked down into them and read her trouble, read and understood, and looked back his great desire to comfort her. His look carried further than he meant it should. For the third time that day a thrill of wonder and delight passed over her and left her fearful with the strange joy that she felt she should put from her. It was only an instant that look, but it brought the bright color to both faces and made Gordon feel the immediate necessity of changing the subject. See those little fishes down there, he said, pointing to the tiny lake below them. Through a blur of tears the girl looked down and saw the tiny, sharp-finned creatures darting here and there in a beam of sun like a small searchlight set to show them off. She moved her hand on the rail to lean further over, and her soft fingers touched his hand for a moment. She would not draw them away quickly lest she hurt him. Why she did not know, but she could not, would not hurt him, not now. The two hands lay side by side for a full minute, and the touch to Gordon was as if a rose leaf had kissed his soul. He had never felt anything sweeter. He longed to gather the little hand into his clasp and feel its pulses trembling there as he had felt it in the church the night before. But she was not his. He would not touch her till she had had her choice of what to do, and she would never choose him, never, when she knew how he had deceived her. That one supreme moment they had of perfect consciousness, consciousness of the drawing of soul to soul, of the sweetness of that hovering touch of hands, of the longing to know and understand each other. Then a sharp whistle sounded, and a farmer's boy with a new rake and a sack of corn on his shoulder came sauntering briskly down the road to the bridge. Instantly they drew apart, and Celia felt that she had been on the verge of disloyalty to her true self. They walked silently back to the station, each busy with his own thoughts, each conscious of that one moment when the other had come so near.