The
Carleton Case

By ELLERY H. CLARK

Author of “Loaded Dice,” Etc.

Illustrated by
GEORGE BREHM

Copyright 1910
The Bobbs-Merrill Company

“The girl who knelt upon the grass.”—Page [29]

To My Friends
MR. AND MRS. H. DENTON WHITE

CONTENTS

THE CARLETON CASE

CHAPTER I

DOCTOR HELMAR VISITS THE BIRCHES

“Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright.”

Psalm xxxvii.

In Doctor Morrison’s breakfast-room the curtains were drawn back, and the windows stood wide open, letting in a flood of warm June sunshine, and filling the whole room with the fragrance of the soft June air. Even into the streets of the city, restricted and shut in, something of the freshness and beauty of the summer morning had managed to make their way, and to Franz Helmar, seated alone at the breakfast table, listening to the chatter of the sparrows and the cooing of the pigeons on the roofs outside, there came suddenly a sense of irritation at the monotony of dingy sidewalk and dusty street, of house after house of brick varied only by house after house of stone.

Irresistibly, there crept over him the whimsical fancy that he would like to see the whole vast city at one stroke fade and vanish completely before his eyes, and in its place behold once more hill and valley, river and plain; all the wide and boundless freedom of the country; the splendid, sunlit glory of out-of-doors.

Suddenly, across the current of his musing, there sounded once again the sharp, insistent ringing of the telephone, scattering all his day-dreams into flight, and for the moment he paused, his coffee-cup suspended in mid air, the better to listen to the doctor’s voice in the hall outside.

“Yes, this is Doctor Morrison,” he heard in the doctor’s sharp, alert, yet not unpleasant tones, his “professional” voice, and then, pitched in a lower key, far more intimate and cordial, he heard at broken intervals, “Ah, yes, good morning—I’m sorry to hear that—No, I’m afraid I can’t myself; not this morning, anyway—No, but I can send my colleague, Doctor Helmar—Oh, perfectly, no doubt of that; this is the day of young men, you know—All right—Eight-fifteen, South—All right; good-by,” and then the click of the receiver, and the doctor himself reëntered the room.

Doctor Morrison was a slender, wiry, middle-aged little man, with a quick, nervous manner, and a face pleasantly keen and inquisitive, clean-shaven, save for a little sandy mustache, and with hair—what was left of it—of the same color. Professionally, he ranked among the first half-dozen practitioners in the city. He was an autocrat in demanding obedience from his patients, and a very martinet in insisting that his rules should be obeyed, while he himself, in private life, with the most delightful inconsistency, contrived successfully to break them all. Cocktails he absolutely forbade—and drank them with infinite relish. Tobacco he denounced as one of the curses of modern life—and peacefully smoked cigarettes innumerable. Eight hours sleep he declared to be a necessity—and himself sat up until all hours of the night and morning. In him you met a doctor stern and awe-inspiring—terrifying, even—until you came to know him, and then, shorn of his “professional” voice and manner, you came suddenly upon a man, gentle-hearted, humane and kind.

Seating himself, he glanced up at Helmar, talking jerkily over his eggs and toast, in his absence now grown somewhat discouraged looking and cold.

“A job for you, Franz,” he said, “Edward Carleton—the man who owns that big place out at Eversley—Oaks? Beeches? What is the name? Some kind of tree. Birches. That’s it. Birches. Funny name to give a place, anyway. Well, the old man’s laid up with a cold. That was his brother who telephoned. Henry Carleton, you know, the bank man. He wanted me to come out at once, and I told him I couldn’t, but that I’d send you instead.—Train leaves South Station at eight-fifteen. So you’ve plenty of time. I’ll look after Colonel Wentworth myself, and drop in to see Mrs. Brooks. Nothing else, is there?”

Helmar shook his head. “No, that’s all,” he answered, “and I’m mighty glad to trade. For one thing, I was just thinking how the country would look to-day, and for another, I’d like to meet old Mr. Carleton. I knew Jack Carleton very well when we were in college—as well as I knew anyone, really. So I should enjoy meeting his father.”

Doctor Morrison paused a moment. He was rather a well-advised man on social affairs. ”Jack Carleton,” he repeated, “some trouble there somewhere, isn’t there? Isn’t he the one who doesn’t live at home?”

“Yes,” Helmar assented, “he’s the one. The trouble’s all between him and Henry, I believe. Uncle and nephew—it’s a queer combination for a family row. But I guess it’s a case where the old gentleman’s on the best of terms with both of them, and hardly feels like taking sides. And so, since Henry Carleton and Jack can’t get along together, why, it’s Henry that’s rather got the inside track. He always did live at The Birches, you know, even before his wife died. And then there’s his little girl—I understand that Edward Carleton is most devoted to her, and for the matter of that, that Jack is too. And she’s awfully fond of him, and of the old gentleman. Likes them fully as much as she does her father, from what I hear. But it’s Jack and his uncle that can’t agree. Never could, I guess. Maybe Jack’s a bit more jealous than he ought to be. Anyway, it was all right while he was in college—he wasn’t home a great deal then—but after he graduated, I understand things began to get a little raw, so he quit and branched out for himself.”

Doctor Morrison nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I see. I thought I recalled something of the sort,” and after a little pause, he added, “I suppose, as you intimate, it isn’t very hard to guess where the trouble lies, either. I’m afraid, Helmar, there’s something rather rattle-brained about your friend. An attractive looking fellow enough, though, as I remember him, but I’m afraid without much of his uncle’s ability, or, for that matter, of his character, either.”

Helmar looked thoughtful. “Well,” he began doubtfully, “I don’t really know. But somehow I think—”

Doctor Morrison cut him short. After the fashion of many clever men, he was possessed of an idea, and was going to deliver himself of it. Until he had done so, the privilege of the floor was his, and his alone. “I look upon Henry Carleton,” he continued, a little sententiously, “as one of our coming men. Some day he is sure to be regarded as one of the really solid men of the city; practically, I suppose he is that now. They tell me that he’s exceedingly able, and that he’s amassed a great deal of money of his own; and then they say he has all his brother’s fortune behind him, too. The old gentleman made his money away back in the days of the clipper ships, and the Chinese trade. One of the old time merchants, Edward Carleton was, shrewd and thrifty and far-seeing, and I guess Henry is all that his brother ever was, and more besides. And then he’s interested in so many other things. You know what a thorough musician he is, and what a lot he does to help the younger singers along. And confound it all, the man’s literary, too. Writes, you know, and presides at anniversaries and dedications and all that sort of thing. Oh, he’s one of our leading men, Helmar. Able, and public-spirited, and upright. I wish we had a hundred more like him.”

Helmar had listened patiently, but the thoughtful expression had not left his face. “Yes,” he assented at last, though scarcely with enthusiasm. “Yes, I suppose so. Certainly I never knew anybody more generally looked up to than Henry Carleton seems to be. And yet—it’s queer about him and Jack, because Jack’s a good fellow, too. In a different way, perhaps. I suppose he does lack balance; but there’s something awfully human and likeable about him, just the same. But I’m prejudiced in his favor, I’ll admit; I used to know him so well.”

He rose as he spoke, and started to leave the room; then paused a moment on the threshold, throwing a backward glance over his shoulder.

“Come on, Rex,” he called, and at the sound of his voice there came slowly from beneath the breakfast table a little brown and white spaniel, who first stopped leisurely to stretch himself, next shook his slender body mightily as if to get himself thoroughly awake, and finally trotted briskly away at Helmar’s heels. Then, outside in the hall, as he saw his master reach for his hat and bag, he became suddenly greatly excited, springing to and fro with quick, nervous bounds, his mouth open, his little red tongue hanging out, his brown eyes glowing, finally standing straight up on his hind legs, and waving his fore paws frantically, as in supplication. Helmar, observing him, held up a warning finger, and instantly the dog again subsided, sitting quietly down on his haunches, his head cocked inquiringly to one side, his brown eyes, now grown a trifle anxious, fixed on his master’s face, uncertain of his fate. Helmar looked gravely down at him, a twinkle in his eye, but speaking with assumed regret. “No,” he said slowly, “no, I guess not, sir. It’s a long ways for a little dog, and he might not behave himself, either. He might bark—he might run away—he might chase squirrels, even—he might be a bad, bad dog.” Now the little dog’s big, soft eyes looked very sorrowful, as if they were not far from tears; the head and ears drooped pathetically, the tail limp, discouraged and lifeless, every line of his body expressing the idea that for little dogs it was a very hard, a very sad, a very unkind world. Then suddenly he raised his head. Surely, even as he had despaired, a change had come; surely the admonishing finger was being lowered, and his master’s voice was speaking to him in the tones he loved best to hear. “But,” Helmar was slowly emphasizing, “seeing that on the whole you’re a pretty good little dog, perhaps if you’ll give me your word—your solemn word—to behave, and be a gentleman, why, I think—” his voice quickened perceptibly to a more encouraging tone—“I think, sir, I might let you go. Do you want to go, sir? Do you want to go?”

There was no mistaking the little dog’s answer. With one bound he hurled himself headlong like a miniature catapult against the solid oak of the door, then stood motionless, quivering with excitement, his tail waving jauntily, like a plume, over his back, giving vent to short, sharp barks of joyful impatience. It was a great world for little dogs, after all; a world of blue sky and long, waving grass, a world of running brooks and sunshine, a world perhaps of squirrels even. Helmar, regarding him, laughed. “Come on, then,” he cried, and in a moment the door had closed behind them.

The town clock was striking nine as Helmar got off the train at Eversley, walked up the station lane, and turned into the narrow footpath leading straight across the half mile of broad green meadow that lay between the station and The Birches. Rapidly and steadily his tall figure strode along, from time to time with a half smile on his dark, clean-shaven face, as he watched the little spaniel tearing on far ahead of him, in a very frenzy of delighted freedom, racing and circling desperately here and there in vain pursuit of butterfly and bird.

To the farther edge of the meadow they came. There Helmar, clearing the low rail fence at a bound, for a moment hesitated as he sought to recall Doctor Morrison’s directions, then turned sharp to the right along the shady country road; proceeding at first uncertainly, as on a journey into unknown country, then more confidently, as one by one he came on the landmarks the doctor had foretold: first the massive wall of stone and concrete that marked the limits of the Carleton boundaries, then grove after grove of the silver birches that had gained the place its name, and finally, almost before he expected it, a break in the high lilac hedge, a long, winding drive, green lawns shaded by towering elms, gardens fragrant with flowers, and in the background, just pleasantly distant from the road, the huge, rambling, many-chimneyed old house itself—Edward Carleton’s home.

CHAPTER II

INQUIRING FRIENDS

“Distance sometimes endears friendship, and absence sweeteneth it.”

Howell.

Helmar had covered perhaps half the distance to the house, when ahead of him he caught sight of a little girl, sitting cross-legged under the shade of one of the big elms, her head bent low over the buttercup wreath she was weaving, and at her side a young woman—from her dress, evidently the child’s nurse or companion—sitting with her back against the tree, deep buried in her book. At the sound of Helmar’s footsteps the child glanced up quickly, and catching sight of the spaniel advancing manfully with head in air, and tail wagging in friendliest of greetings, she scrambled to her feet, and tossing her half-finished wreath aside, came flying across the lawn to meet him. Evidently with both it was a case of love at first sight, for the child stooped and picked the dog up bodily in her arms, pressing his face to hers, and calling him by the hundred pet names which spring so readily to the lips of any true woman—whatever her age. “Oh, you dear,” she cried softly, “you darling; aren’t you a pretty dog!” while the spaniel lay quietly in her arms, only striving to lick her face with his little red tongue. Then, as Helmar approached, she looked up. “Isn’t he a beauty!” she said. “Does he belong to you?”

Helmar stood smiling down at her, thinking that unconsciously she made a very pretty picture with the spaniel’s head pressed against her cheek. She was a dainty little fairy, slender and graceful, dressed in an airy frock of white muslin, with a broad sash of blue ribbon, her straw hat dangling neglected down her back, her big, serious dark eyes gazing solemnly up into his. He nodded in answer. “Yes, he belongs to me,” he said, “but do you suppose you could look after him while I go in to see your uncle?”

The little girl nodded in eager assent. “Oh, yes, indeed,” she cried. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll give him my buttercup wreath. Come now, you darling, come with me,” and with the spaniel still in her arms, she walked back toward the shelter of the big elm.

At Helmar’s nearer approach, the child’s nurse, too, had risen, laying aside her book, and as he passed, naturally enough their glances met—for an instant only—and then Helmar again strode along upon his way, carrying with him the impression of a charming face, and a most alluring smile.

What was there, he wondered, about the girl, that was so vaguely disquieting? She was dressed quietly enough in simple black, with a little snugly-fitting white apron, reaching, by mere chance, just to the height of her bosom, and held in place by smart little shoulder-straps, about it all a daintily vague impression of ribbon and lace. Her figure, indeed, was perfect; deliciously rounded; and the closely-fitting dress seemed to bring out, with significant emphasis, all the beauty of her form. Her face, moreover, was more striking still; her pretty blonde hair appeared to curl so naturally as utterly to defy the mode of convention; her big blue eyes drooped modestly as soon as she had become conscious of his gaze, just long enough to show the heavy fringed eyelashes above, and then almost as quickly glanced up again; there had been a flush of rose in her cheeks, and a deeper scarlet on the lips that had smiled at him. Perhaps it was in the smile itself—slow, langourous, inviting—that the whole woman had seemed suddenly to lie revealed; and scarcely able as yet to define it, Helmar felt that the girl’s seeming simplicity was the dangerous charm of the highest art, and that he had gazed on the guile of the serpent, and not on the innocence of the dove.

Puzzling a little as he walked along, he cast back in his mind to chance words that from time to time had fallen haphazard from Jack Carleton’s lips, and finally, in one sudden flash of memory, he came upon the clue. “Jeanne,” he said to himself, half aloud, “of course; that’s who it is; Jeanne.” Then, falling back unconsciously into the slang of college days, he added, “and she is a peach, too; Jack told the truth for once; no wonder he had his little affair.” And finally, as he mounted the steps of the broad piazza, he spoke again. “But pretty risky fun,” he muttered, “playing with fire, all right; there are some women in the world that a man wants to steer clear of, and I should put that girl down for one of them.”

He rang the bell, and almost immediately there appeared in answer a butler, thin, pale, and of uncertain age, but even to Helmar’s unpractised eye superlatively autocratic, hopelessly correct. He seemed, indeed, to be not so much a human being as the living embodiment of all known rules of social etiquette, condensed, as it were, into the final perfect expression of a type, before whom and whose vast store of knowledge one could only bow, humbly praying that the mistakes of honest ignorance might graciously be forgiven. Helmar, following in his wake, felt properly sensible of the honor done him, as he was ushered up the broad, winding staircase to the entrance of the big square room at the front of the house, where his guide stopped, and most decorously knocked. In answer a great voice called lustily, “Come in!” and the butler promptly stepped to one side. “Mr. Carleton, sir,” he observed, “left orders that you were to be admitted at once,” and thereupon, opening the door, he stood respectfully back, and as Helmar entered, closed it softly behind him.

Edward Carleton, attired in an old-fashioned quilted dressing-gown, was sitting up, reading, in his huge, high, square bed, his back propped with pillows innumerable. Well upward of seventy, he looked strong and active still; gaunt, with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face, a great bushy square-cut gray beard, and fiercely tufted eyebrows, while in the eyes beneath them, as he slowly took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and glanced up at his visitor, Helmar caught an expression of lurking, humorous kindliness that put him at once in mind of Jack Carleton himself.

As Helmar advanced, the old man reached out a gnarled and sinewy hand. “Good morning, sir,” he said pleasantly, “I take it that you’re Doctor Morrison’s young man.”

Helmar, as he took the proffered hand, smiled to himself at the old-fashioned quaintness of the phrase. “Yes, sir,” he answered, “that’s my professional title. In private life I’m Franz Helmar, and in either capacity very much at your service.”

Edward Carleton nodded. “Thank you,” he answered courteously, and then, more abruptly, “you think you’ve come out here to see a sick man, Doctor, but you haven’t. Just a bit of a chill—I managed to let myself get caught in that shower yesterday afternoon—and maybe a little fever with it. But I’m not sick. It’s all Henry’s nonsense. Just because he’s twenty years younger than I am, he has to look after me as if I were a baby.”

He spoke with assumed indignation, yet Helmar could detect in his tone a note of satisfaction at being so well cared for; and when he answered him, he aimed to fall in with the old man’s mood.

“Why, I think myself that I’m out here under false pretenses,” he said good-humoredly, “you don’t look at all like an invalid to me; but still the ounce of prevention, you know, it never does any harm. So many things nowadays start with a cold. It’s just as well to step right in and stop them before they get a hold on us. Now, then, we’ll see where we are, at any rate,” and as he spoke, he deftly slipped the little temperature tube under Edward Carleton’s tongue, and closed his fingers lightly on the lean brown wrist. A minute or two passed in silence, the old man’s eyes fixed on Helmar’s face with the scrutinizing interest of the patient who awaits the professional verdict. Then Helmar withdrew the tube, studied it an instant, nodded as if satisfied, asked a few questions, and then hastened to give his opinion.

“Oh, well,” he said reassuringly, “this is all right. We’ll fix you up, Mr. Carleton. Just a little tonic, and a few days’ rest, and you’ll be as good as new; better than new, really, because a day or two off is a benefit to anybody, at any time. You’d better stay in bed, though, to-day, I think; and personally I rather envy you. I see you have good company.”

He pointed as he spoke, to the three stout little volumes that lay by Mr. Carleton’s side. Roderick Random was the first; Tom Jones, the second; Tristram Shandy, the third. Their owner nodded in pleased assent.

“Yes, indeed,” he answered, “they’ll last me through the day, all right. I never get tired of them, Doctor. I was just reading, when you came in, how Tom Bowling came to see the old curmudgeon who was about to die. ‘So, old gentleman,’ he says, ‘you’re bound for the other shore, I see, but in my opinion most damnably ill-provided for the voyage’; and later on, after the old fellow’s dead, he tells some one, that asks after him, that they might look for him ‘somewhere about the latitude of hell.’ There’s good, sound, human nature for you. Smollett knew his sailors, and the rest of his world, too, and enjoyed them both, I imagine. And he wasn’t a hypocrite; that’s what I like most about him. He saw things as they were.”

Helmar smiled. “I agree with you,” he answered, “but the modern school of readers doesn’t care for him, just the same. He’s either too simple for them, or too coarse; I don’t know which.”

Edward Carleton looked his scorn. “Modern school!” he ejaculated. “Let me tell you, sir, I have but very little opinion of your modern school, writers or readers either. But Henry stands up for ’em, and brings ’em all to me to read. Good Lord above, the different kinds! There’s some that tell you whether John Smith had one egg for breakfast, or two, and whether either of ’em was bad, and if it was, what John Smith said to his wife, and what she said to him—and Henry claims those books are modern classics. Then he’s got another lot—romantic school, I believe they are—all dashing cavaliers and lovely ladies and flashing swords and general moonshine—stuff about fit for idiots and invalids; and last of all—” he glared at Helmar as if he were the unfortunate embodiment of all the literary sins of the day day—“he’s got a crowd—Heaven knows what he calls ’em; the pig-sty school’s my name—that seem to be having a regular game; trying to see which can write the dirtiest book, and yet have it stop just enough short of the line so they can manage to get it published without the danger of having it suppressed. And the mean, hypocritical excuses they make—they’re always teaching a moral lesson, you know, or something like that. It makes me sick, sir; it makes me sick; and I don’t hesitate to tell Henry so, either.”

Helmar nodded assentingly, and yet, with a twinkle in his eye, he could not resist the temptation to reach forward and pick up from the bed the volume of Sterne. “I agree with a great deal of what you say, sir,” he answered, “especially the latter part, and yet—it isn’t wholly a modern vice. There was old Rabelais, for instance, and his imitators, and even Tristram here I suppose you could hardly recommend for a Sunday-school.”

Edward Carleton was no casuist. He loved to fight, but he always fought fair. “I grant it,” he answered quickly; “Laurence Sterne did have a little sneaking peep-hole way with him at times—he was modern there—but you can forgive a great deal to the man who gave us Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim. And then, he isn’t a fair example; he was a kind of literary exception to all rules; but take Smollett or Henry Fielding. They struck straight out from the shoulder, every time. What they meant, they said. They painted vice, I grant you, but they painted her naked and repulsive, as she should be, and that’s fair enough; you can go back to your Aristotle for that, Doctor. But they didn’t disguise her, sir; they didn’t call her something that she never was and never could be; and these modern swine, they dress out vice in silks and satins, and make you believe she’s the most beautiful thing in the world—so beautiful that no man can be happy unless he may possess her; and there’s no Henry Fielding to come along with his big, scornful laugh, and strip her of all her frippery and finery, and show you the stark, naked sin that lies there underneath it all. Oh, I’m right, Doctor, and I’m always telling Henry so, but I can’t convince him. He says it’s art, whatever that means, and he’s all for the modern school.”

Helmar rose, smiling. “You are right, I believe,” he said heartily, “and if we all read more of the old worthies, and less of this flood of modern trash, we’d do better, beyond a doubt. Well, I must get my train, I suppose. I’m going to leave the medicine with your butler; I’ll give him full directions; and you’ll be all right, without any question. If you should want anything, telephone Doctor Morrison or me at once. I’m very glad to have had the chance of meeting you, sir. Oh, and there was one other thing I meant to tell you: I knew your son Jack very well in college. We used to be the best of friends.”

Edward Carleton looked up quickly, but without speaking, and when at last he did so, there was a new note of cordiality in his tone. “You knew Jack,” he repeated, “why, I’m glad to hear that, I’m sure. I’m very fond of my boy, Doctor. Boy? He’s a man now, though I can never seem to realize it. He’s only a little boy to me still, for all his six feet and his forty inches around the chest. Do you ever see him nowadays, Doctor?”

Helmar nodded. “Yes, indeed,” he answered readily, “not very often, of course. We’re in different lines of work, and both busy, I guess. But I run across him every once in a while. And this week we’re going to dine together. Jack and I and another fellow who was in our class—a sort of small reunion, to celebrate being five years out of college. He’ll be interested to know I’ve been out here.”

The old man nodded, gazing straight before him. “Doctor,” he asked suddenly, with apparent irrelevance, “you took my pulse to-day. What did you think of my heart?”

Helmar, surprised, parried with the clumsiness of a man not fond of deception. “Why,” he evaded, “I wouldn’t worry about that. All you have is a cold. You’ve got a pretty good heart, I think. We none of us grow any younger, though. That’s sure.”

Edward Carleton smiled a little grimly. “Thanks,” he said, “sometimes a patient knows more about himself than a doctor thinks he does. And I suppose I could guess pretty well what certain things mean. Never mind, though. As you say, we don’t grow any younger, more’s the pity.”

Both were silent, Helmar pausing a moment, uncertainly, with one hand on the knob of the door. Then the old man glanced up at him, with a smile genial and friendly, if a trifle wistful. “Good-by, Doctor,” he said courteously, “thank you for your interest. And tell Jack he’s always welcome, whenever he finds time to run out. The Birches is always his home, and his room stands ready for him—always.”

Five minutes later Helmar again passed down the broad steps of the piazza into the cheerful, dazzling sunlight. The little girl and her nurse were still seated under the shade of the big elm, and at once the spaniel, breaking away from his new friends, came tearing across the lawn to his master, ruthlessly scattering buttercups at every bound. With a laugh Helmar picked him up in his arms, and took him back to make his proper farewells. For the little girl the final moment of parting was a hard one, and she gazed longingly at her playmate, as though unwilling to have him go. Her nurse, observing her, shook her head in reproof. “Don’t be so foolish, Miss Rose,” she chided, “he’s only a little dog; you mustn’t be silly;” then, suddenly, she looked squarely at Helmar. “Will you excuse me, please,” she said softly, “but I know that you’re a friend of Mr. Jack’s. Would you tell me where a letter would reach him?”

Helmar eyed her keenly, and before his gaze the blue eyes dropped, and this time were not raised again. A faint flush stole into her cheeks. Helmar, in his turn, looked away. “Yes,” he answered shortly, “Mayflower Club, City, is his present address.”

He had his reward. At once the girl’s eyes were raised again, and her look sought his with the same smile that he had seen before. It was not a smile of the lips alone, but of the eyes as well, and a certain nameless something that flashed from still deeper within, a piquant frankness, a dangerous friendliness. Again he started to turn away, then stopped; his eyes, though half against his will, still seeking hers.

On the silence broke in the voice of the little girl. “Is it Cousin Jack?” she demanded, “do you know Cousin Jack?” And as Helmar nodded, she cried, “I wish you’d tell him to come out and see me. He hasn’t been here for an awfully long time. Will you tell him, please?”

Helmar promised, and with a glance at his watch, took a hasty leave. Thoughtfully enough he made his way back to the station, and yet, before he reached it, one meeting more was destined to give him food for further meditation. Nearing the entrance to the station lane, the vigorous and friendly bark of his faithful body-guard struck suddenly on his ear, and turning the corner, he paused in quick surprise at the sight of the girl who knelt upon the grass, parasol, hat and gloves tossed carelessly aside, holding the spaniel’s head imprisoned caressingly between her dainty hands, and talking to him with mock severity the while. As she glanced up, perceiving Helmar, she somewhat hastily arose, and as he approached, smilingly extended her hand in greeting.

Very attractive, indeed, she looked. Fashionably dressed, yet simply, as well; young—she could scarcely have been over twenty, at the most—and with a face that one could hardly choose but like at once—the clear-cut, regular features, the honest, straightforward brown eyes, the pretty color in the dimpled cheeks, the firm little chin, the laughing, yet sensitive mouth. One liked too the erectness of her slender figure, and the well-poised head, crowned with its masses of soft brown hair. If one had been ungracious enough to venture a criticism, the thought might have come that she shared, perhaps, the fault of so many American girls of the well-to-do class, the excusable habit of taking the good things of life too much as a matter of course, of being too easily satisfied with the doings and standards of their own particular class and “set,” of having no real knowledge, and worse still, perhaps, of desiring none, of the great world at large. Yet even if the criticism had been hazarded, the critic must still have been forced to admit that plenty of character showed in the girl’s face, and while of her mere good looks alone there could be no question, in seeming paradox, the more one looked at her the more one forgot her mere prettiness, granting it carelessly enough as something secondary, so much more uncommon and striking were the other qualities written there—strength and sympathy and above all, that holy and beautiful thing before which any man may well stand in reverent admiration—the innate goodness of the true woman, pure in thought and deed.

As he took her hand, Helmar’s face showed his surprise. “Well, Marjory Graham,” he cried, “who’d have thought of seeing you?”

Laughingly the girl mimicked him. “Why, Franz Helmar,” she said in turn, “you’re not the one to be surprised. You knew I lived in Eversley. But what are you doing out here?”

“Old Mr. Carleton,” he answered, “he’s a little under the weather. I ran out to see how he was getting along.”

The girl’s face clouded. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s such a dear old man. And he’s my father’s greatest friend, you know. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Helmar shook his head. “No, I think not,” he answered, “he’ll be all right—for this time. And he is a first-class old chap, too. Do you know, I think Jack is awfully like him, in many ways?”

At the words a sudden change came over the girl’s expressive face. For a moment she hesitated, then raised her eyes to his. “Franz,” she said, “how often do you see Jack now?”

Helmar glanced at her quizzically. “Oh,” he answered, “every once in a while. Not so often as you do, though, I guess.”

He spoke jestingly, but the girl gave him no answering smile, and he hastened to add, “Why, I expect to see him Wednesday night, Marjory, to make arrangements for a little dinner we’re going to have Thursday—Jack and Arthur Vaughan and I. Is there anything I can do?”

The girl colored faintly. “It’s only this,” she said, “and I ought to write to him and not bother you. But when you see Jack, would you mind telling him that I shall be at home Friday evening, if he cares to come out?”

Seemingly, there was more in the words than appeared on the surface, but Helmar, with a certain instinctive chivalry, chose to treat the request with apparent lightness. “Of course I’ll tell him,” he answered, “with all the pleasure in life.”

She looked her gratitude. “Thank you very much, Franz,” she said, “and you will remember, won’t you?”

He nodded reassuringly. “I surely will,” he answered, and as he spoke, the train burst shrieking, around the near-by curve. “Oh, don’t miss it!” she cried. “Thank you, Franz; thank you so much; good-by.”

Breaking into a swift run, Helmar, with the spaniel racing excitedly at his heels, reached the station platform just in time. Boarding the train, and taking a seat far forward in the almost deserted car, he sat for some time in thoughtful silence, and then at last voiced his reflections to the one friend who never betrayed his confidence. “Rex, my boy,” he said slowly, “our friend Jack seems to have achieved the secret of universal popularity.”

The spaniel, listening with head cocked knowingly to one side, gave a sharp, quick bark in reply, and Helmar laughed. “Does that mean you think so, or you don’t think so?” he asked, but the little dog refused further to commit himself, and curling up in his master’s lap, went promptly and comfortably to sleep.

CHAPTER III

THE PRODIGAL SON

“The pains and penalties of idleness.”

Pope.

It was after eight o’clock, yet still faintly light out-of-doors, as Jack Carleton left his rooms at the Mayflower Club, and came slowly down the winding staircase, with one hand groping for the railing, as if uncertain of his way.

At first sight he looked extremely well, and in his fashionably-cut street suit of light gray, his tall and well-built figure showed to excellent advantage, though in the five years which had passed since his graduation he had seemingly grown heavier and stouter, and somehow distinctly softer looking, as if the active exercise of former days had come now to be the exception, and not the rule. And this impression, as he paused midway on the stairs to light a cigarette, was still further borne out by the appearance of his face. He was handsome enough still, and his complexion, indeed, from a distance, in contrast with his fair hair and closely-clipped mustache, seemed the perfection of ruddy health; yet the tell-tale spurt of the match, as he held it to his lips, told a far different story. His color, naturally high, was beginning now to be patched with red and white, giving his face a significantly mottled look, and if any further hint had been needed, it was furnished by his eyes, which stared straight ahead of him with a curiously glassy expression. Plainly enough, Jack Carleton was drunk.

Still holding fast to the rail, he accomplished the remainder of his journey in safety; then started a little unsteadily toward the door of the lounging room, stopping short at the entrance, and staring vacantly in at the half dozen figures looming mistily through the haze of smoke. Instantly he was hailed by two or three at once. “Hullo, Jack, what’ll you have?” “Come on in, Jack.” “Make a fourth at bridge, Jack?” Carleton, standing motionless, with one hand fumbling in his pocket for a match with which to relight his cigarette, still gazed aimlessly and apparently without recognition into the room. “Make a fourth at bridge, Jack?” some one called again sharply, and Carleton, starting, jerkily, but with intense gravity, shook his head. “No, not t’night,” he said slowly, as if settling some matter of immense moment to all concerned, “can’t play t’night; very shorry; got date.” He stood a moment longer; then, half mechanically, as it seemed, turned and slowly walked toward the outer door that led into the street.

With a little exclamation, one of the loungers hastily rose, and followed him out into the hall. Jim Turner was a stock broker, and a most successful one. He was a man of middle age, short, stout, and unattractive looking. He had a round, fat face, pale reddish hair and mustache, small, nondescript, expressionless eyes, a pasty complexion, and white, pudgy hands, which he took pains to have manicured regularly three times a week. He was entirely unimaginative, practical, commonplace—and very successful. He had one favorite motto; “Look at things as they are, and not as you’d like ’em to be.”

He quickly overtook Carleton—a feat, indeed, not difficult of accomplishment—and laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. “See here, Jack,” he said in a low tone, “I want you to let me sell out some of your things. We get advices that there’s trouble coming—and pretty quickly, too. And by this time you’re really carrying quite a big line. So I guess it wouldn’t do any harm if you began gradually to unload a little. Don’t you think so yourself, Jack?”

Carleton gazed at him from eyes in which there was no understanding. He shook his head slightly. “Don’ want t’sell,” he said at last, “ain’t I ’way ’head th’ game?”

“Oh, sure,” Turner assented. “You’re ahead of the game, all right, but I want to have you stay there. And when things start to go in a top-heavy market, why—they go almighty quick. That’s all. There’s your Suburban Electric, now. That’s had a big rise. Let me sell five hundred of that, anyway. You’ve got a good profit. And you’ll find you can get out and in again, too. You won’t have any trouble doing that.”

Again Carleton obstinately shook his head. “No,” he said, with an almost childish delight in contradiction, “I don’ get ’ny ’dvices like that. I get ’dvices S’burban ’Lectric’s going to hundred’n fifty. I don’ want t’sell now. Not such fool.”

Turner, seeing the futility of further argument, shrugged his shoulders impassively. “Well, drop in at the office and see me to-morrow, anyway, Jack,” he said.

Carleton nodded. “Sure,” he answered cheerfully, “I’ll be in. Got t’get ’long now,” and he made again for the door.

Turner slowly made his way back into the lounging room. One of the smokers looked up at him with a laugh. “Old Jack’s pretty full, isn’t he?” he said, “growing on him, I should say.”

A second lounger caught up the remark. “Full,” he echoed, “oh, no, not for him. He’s sober as a church now. When he can walk, and see where he’s going, he’s all right. You ought to see him around the Club here some nights. Talk about raising hell!”

The first man yawned. “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s like lots of other things. It’s all right and good fun for once in a way, but for a steady thing—why, Heaven help the poor devil that gets going it and can’t stop. There isn’t any humor in it then. Nothing jovial, or convivial, or anything else. It’s just simply damnable; that’s what it is. And Jack Carleton’s too good a fellow to go that way. It’s a shame.”

The second man nodded in answer. “That’s right enough,” he assented, “and it’s rough on his old man, too. He’s an awfully good sort, the old chap. And Jack could amount to something, if he wanted to. That’s the bad part. He was never cut out for a soak.”

“Doesn’t he do anything at all?” some one asked.

The first man shook his head. “Not a thing,” he answered. “The old man gives him an allowance, I understand, or else he inherited something from his mother; I don’t really know which. And Jack’s playing Alcohol to win, I guess, and Suburban Electric for place.” He grinned at his own joke.

The second man turned suddenly to Turner. “Say, Jim, you know everything,” he said; “what about this uncle of Jack’s—this Henry Carleton? I seem to hear a lot about him lately. He’s the whole shooting-match down-town. What sort of man is he, anyway?”

Turner launched a little family of smoke rings into the air, and watched them float upward before he replied. “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered indifferently, “he’s smart as the devil, for one thing. I know that for a fact.”

“Yes, that’s right,” the first man chimed in, “everybody says that. And yet, you know, it’s funny, but there’s always something that strikes me as disagreeable about that man’s looks. He seems so confoundedly self-assertive, and sure of himself, somehow.”

Turner rose to take his departure. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said again. “First we sit here and damn a man for being a sport, and then we turn around and damn another man because he’s smart, and we don’t like his face. It’s mighty easy to criticize.” He paused a moment, then added, with what for him was almost an excess of feeling, “I’m really sorry about Jack, though. It’s too bad.”

Meantime, once out in the street, the air seemed for the moment to steady Carleton, and he started off briskly enough for the South Station. As he walked along, he pulled a letter from his pocket, read it through carefully, and then, as though striving to recall something that had escaped him, proceeded on his way with a puzzled and dissatisfied expression on his face. “Friday, Friday,” he muttered to himself, “something else, but can’t seem to think what. Guess nothing important. Anyway, can’t think.”

In due time he reached the station, and took his stand opposite the gateway through which the passengers from the incoming Eversley train would pass. There he stood, from time to time absent-mindedly consulting his watch, until at length from a distant rumble and cloud of smoke emerged the big engine, with flashing headlight and clanging bell, and huge wheels revolving more and more slowly until at length, with one last jerk, the whole train came suddenly to a stand. Then under the arc-light bustled forth the figures of the incoming passengers—first one, then another, then twos and threes, lines, groups—all hurrying, intent and eager, bound for their destination, and restlessly anxious to get there at once, wasting as little time as possible in transit. Scrutinizing them with care, it was not until the very end of the procession was reached that Carleton started suddenly forward. At the same instant the girl discovered him, and came quickly toward him.

Carleton’s masculine eye could hardly have appreciated all the details of her dress, yet the general effect was certainly not lost on him. Knowledge of the name of the dainty gown of blue and white would probably have conveyed no impression to his mind, but the way in which it fitted and the significant emphasis it lent to the graceful lines of the girl’s figure were matters which he viewed with no unappreciative eye. Surveying her critically as she advanced, from head to foot, from the hat of simple straw, with its clusters of blue flowers, to the tip of the dainty slipper, with just a glimpse of silken stocking above, he nodded in gracious approval. The girl was certainly looking her best, her pretty hair curling about her forehead in little clustering rings, her face just delicately flushed with color, her blue eyes very coquettish and very sparkling. Doubtless, too, these same practised eyes lost nothing of Carleton’s condition, for it was with a certain easy assurance that she came up to him and slipped her arm familiarly through his with a gentle welcoming pressure, glancing up almost impudently into his face. “Hullo, dear,” she said, “and how’s Jack?”

Carleton looked down at her, an odd mixture of emotions showing in his face; a certain satisfaction, a certain shame, above all, a certain recklessness—the recklessness of the aristocrat who, with a shrug of his shoulders, goes voluntarily out of his class, fascinated beyond his strength, half scornful of himself, and wholly regardless of what the consequences may be.

“Oh, fine, thanks,” he answered absently, and then, as they emerged from the station into the street, he returned the pressure of her arm. “You’re looking very pretty, Jeanne,” he said, “I’m glad I got your note.”

They sauntered slowly up Union Street, the girl chattering vivaciously, and glancing up at Carleton as she talked, with a subtle and flattering attention; Carleton for the most part listening, from time to time nodding or answering in monosyllables. At the up-town crossing they came to a brief irresolute halt. “Well,” said Carleton, “and whash going to be to-night? The river?”

The girl, with a little smile, shook her head. “No,” she answered capriciously, “I’m tired of the river. We’ve done that so often. I want a motor to-night. A nice long ride. We’ll have a beautiful time.”

Carleton doubtfully shook his head. He was in a distinctly contradictory mood. “Nice long ridsh,” he observed, “in nice big motors, damn ’xpensive things for man that’s short money. Motors ’xpensive things; so’s girls.”

The girl laughed, but did not lack the cleverness to see how her point might best be gained. “Are you short of money, really?” she said, with quick sympathy. “Why, you poor old Jack, it’s a shame. We’ll go on the river, then, in a little boat, all snug and nice. You dear boy; you need some one to comfort you,” and the big blue eyes gazed up into his, bold and unashamed.

She had comprehended his mood perfectly. Instantly his tone changed. “No, no,” he answered quickly, “won’t do an’thing of the kind. Got little money left for frens.” He laughed uncertainly. “’F you want motor, you’re going t’ have motor. That’s all there’sh to it. Do an’thing for you, Jeanne.”

She smiled up at him with dangerous sweetness. “You’re so good to me, Jack,” she murmured, and the gentle pressure on his arm was in nowise diminished. “You do everything for me. I only wish sometimes I could do something for you.”

He gazed down at her, all that was weakest and worst in his nature uppermost in his face. “Maybe can,” he said thickly, “maybe can; come on; we’re goin’ get motor now.”

At about the same hour that Carleton had left the Mayflower, farther up-town, in the reception-room at the Press Club, Arthur Vaughan sat waiting for his friend Helmar to return. He was a young man of medium height and build, inclined to be a trifle careless about his dress; his clothes a little threadbare; his brown hair and mustache allowed to grow a little too long; his carelessly knotted tie a good year out of style. Yet his face, looked at more closely, was distinctly good; a face somewhat thin and worn; the mouth and chin nervous, sensitive; the forehead high; the brown eyes straightforward and kindly,—the eyes of a man a little detached from the world about him, a little inclined, on his way through life, unconsciously to pause and dream.

Presently the door opened, and Helmar entered, the expression on his face one of half-humorous disgust. “Same old Jack Carleton,” he said. “He’s not down-stairs, and it’s five minutes of eight. You’re sure he understood?”

Vaughan nodded. “Oh, perfectly,” he answered, “I saw him Wednesday night, and told him that your meeting had been changed to Thursday, so that we’d have to put this thing over until to-night; and then I gave him Miss Graham’s message, and told him he’d have to square himself with her, because we couldn’t put things off again. And I remember his saying that it was all right for him; I even recall his repeating it after me, as if he wanted to make sure of it, ‘seven-thirty, Press Club; eight o’clock, theater; eleven o’clock, Press Club, supper and talk’; oh, no, he understood all right. I’m sure of it.”

Helmar considered. “Well,” he said at length, “just because Jack’s got a poor memory, I can’t see why we should miss a good show. Let’s leave his ticket at the desk, and if he happens to drift in, all right. Then he can come on after us. Isn’t that O. K.?” and on Vaughan’s assent, they left the club for the theater, where in due course the curtain rose, and later fell again upon an excellent performance, indeed, but without revealing any sign of the absent Carleton. Once outside in the street, Helmar turned to Vaughan. “Well, what next?” he queried.

Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. “Why, the supper’s ordered,” he answered, “so I suppose we might as well go ahead in solitary state. But it rather takes the edge off the thing. It’s too bad,” and a moment or two later he added, half to himself, and half to his companion, “I don’t know what to think of Jack, really.”

Helmar made no answer, and it was not until the supper was served in the little private room, and the waiter had withdrawn, that they again returned to the subject. “What is it about Jack, anyway?” Helmar asked. “I was out at his place the other day, and he seemed to be making no end of trouble; everybody stirred up about him. What’s he been doing?”

Vaughan helplessly shook his head. “Search me,” he answered, “you know I scarcely see him now. He travels with a different crowd these days. But I guess since he joined the Mayflower he’s changed quite a lot; playing the market, I hear, and drinking pretty hard, and sort of gone to pieces generally.”

Helmar looked thoughtful. “That’s bad,” he said shortly, and after a pause, “Never happen to hear any gossip about him and a girl, do you?”

Again Vaughan shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he answered, “if he’s doing anything of that sort, it’s news to me. That is, I mean, anything really out of the way. Jack likes a good time, of course; we’ve always known that; but I don’t believe he’s that kind. I guess he’s all right enough that way. At any rate, I’ve always understood that he was about as good as engaged to Marjory Graham, and that ought to keep a fellow straight, if anything could.”

Helmar nodded. “Yes,” he answered abruptly, “I should say it ought. Well, never mind. Now I want to hear how things are going with you, Arthur. We’ll talk about Jack later on.”

And then, with the progress of the supper, the talk ran along as such talks will; each telling of past experiences, losses, gains; of future plans, hopes, fears; speaking of classmates and friends; skimming the passing events of the day; comparing notes on the thousand and one subjects that crowd the lips so readily when friends of long standing, who meet but seldom, settle down to the luxury of a leisurely, comfortable talk.

Meanwhile, far out on the Escomb Road, the big motor bowled swiftly along. Carleton’s arm was around the girl’s waist, her head was on his shoulder, and she was smiling up into his face. Very charming, very young and innocent she looked, unless, in some occasional passing flash of light, one could have seen the look in her eyes which lay behind the smile. “Oh, this is so nice, Jack,” she murmured; even the tone of her voice was a subtle caress, and she nestled a little closer to his side; “I could keep on like this for ever; you were so good to take me, dear.”

Carleton did not at once answer, and when he did, his tone seemed scarcely sentimental. Drowsiness, indeed, brought on by his many potations, rather than sentiment, appeared to be the spell which bound him, and his mind wandered irresponsibly in a dozen different directions at one and the same time. “Say,” he asked suddenly, “how’d you know where a letter’d get me, anyway?”

Had the girl’s mood been real, the matter-of-fact, commonplace tone must have driven her to sudden anger; as it was, her sense of humor saved her, and after a moment or two, half in spite of herself, she gave a little laugh. “Why,” she answered lightly, “from your good-looking friend, Doctor Helmar, of course,” and the next instant she could have bitten her tongue out for the chance words, as Carleton, for the moment startled into his senses, with a sudden exclamation sat bolt upright in his seat. “Helmar,” he cried, as everything in one instant’s flash came back to him, “to-night was the night. Oh, Lord, I wouldn’t have done this for a thousand dollars.” Then leaning forward, to the chauffeur, “Here there, you, stop a minute!” he cried; and fumbling in his pocket for his watch, he glanced at it, and then looked quickly around him. “Ten o’clock,” he muttered, “we can make it;” then, aloud, “Put her round now, driver, and head her straight for town; let her out, and let her go!”

With a surprised grin, the chauffeur slowly slackened speed, reversed his power, and ponderously turned the big car about. The girl meantime protested vigorously. “No, no,” she cried, “why, Jack, we’re almost out there now; what do you care for him, anyway? You wouldn’t do a thing like that, Jack. You’ve got better manners than to leave me now. How shall I get home? Now, Jack—”

Carleton, with a most disconcerting lack of gallantry, obstinately shook his head. “This very important,” he said, “we’ll go back way of Birches; leave you there; this ’xceedingly important. You don’t understand. You never went college. Quincentennial—no, quinquecentennial, no, quinquen—oh, damn, five years out of college, that’s what it is. Special dinner. Oh, what a fool I was to forget. How could I?”

The girl sat with frowning brows. “Oh, very well,” she said, offended, “you needn’t ask me to go anywhere with you again; that’s all;” and then, this remark having no noticeable effect, she began softly to cry.

Instantly Carleton’s shifting mood had veered again, and in a moment his arm was once more around her waist, and he leaned protectingly over her.

“Come, come,” he cried, “don’ do that. Can’t stan’ that. We’ll go out there s’mother time, my dear. But not t’night, not t’night; special t’night; special; awful good fellows, both of ’em; better’n I am, damn sight. Both good fellows. Don’t cry.”

With a quick, sinuous movement she wrenched herself free, putting half the distance of the broad cushioned seat between them. “Don’t,” she cried, “I hate you!” and in constrained and moody silence the big motor whirred along upon its homeward way.

Nor was home to be gained without further misadventure. Presently, even before they had covered half the distance to The Birches, something went wrong with the machine, and the chauffeur, steering in close to the side of the road, dismounted and began to search for the trouble, spurred on by the accompaniment of Carleton’s speech, which seemed every moment to gain in picturesqueness and force. Suddenly out of the darkness appeared two broad white streaks of dazzling light, the wail of a horn sounded in their ears, and another automobile passed them, to draw up, just beyond, with a quick grinding and jarring of brakes. A friendly voice hailed them. “Anything wrong? Help you out?” Carleton started at the words. He leaned forward in the seat, and whispered hastily to the chauffeur. Instantly the latter answered, “No thank you, sir, nothing wrong,” and the second motor sped along upon its way. Carleton’s brow contracted. “Wonder if he saw,” he muttered, “light’s pretty bright; looked like Marjory, too; didn’t know the colonel drove much at night, anyway.” There was a moment’s pause; then all at once, he added, “Friday! Friday! Good God! that was the other thing. Damn the luck! Damn everything!” and mingling threats and entreaties, he renewed his urging to the worried chauffeur.

An hour later, at the Press Club, Vaughan’s cigar was well under way, and Helmar was helping himself to a second cup of coffee, when suddenly the door burst open, and there appeared before them the somewhat unsteady figure of their absent friend. Before either of them could speak, he had begun a rambling and incoherent apology, continuing it as he sank limply into the chair reserved for him.

“Must ’scuse me,” was the burden of his speech, “mem’ry comple’ly wen’ back on me; thoroughly ’shame myself—” and there was much more in the same vein; then, all at once reaching the sentimental stage of his orgy, he began to develop a vein of maudlin self-pity; “Helmar,” he cried despairingly, “you been good fren’ me always. I tell you, ’s no good. I try—I try ’s hard’s anyone—and oh, Helmar—” his voice broke, and with a mixture of the ridiculous and the pathetic that made both his hearers choke a little hysterically, even while their eyes were moist, he culminated despairingly, “’S no use, fellers; ’s no use; I’ll tell you where’m going; I’m going to hell in a hack; thash what I am,” and forthwith he laid his head upon the table, and began to weep.

It was long after midnight when Helmar and Vaughan finally deposited him, remonstrating and unwilling, in safety at the Mayflower, leaving him in skilful hands well versed in the treatment of his malady, and found themselves, flushed, weary, and not in the best of humors, again in the street.

“And so ends our great reunion,” said Vaughan, mopping his heated forehead. “Jack ought to feel pleased with himself; he’s certainly succeeded in knocking all the pleasure out of it for everybody, about as well as any one could. And I think, on the whole, that I’m inclined to agree with him about where he’s bound.”

Helmar sighed, a sigh of honest disappointment and anxiety. “Jack’s a mighty good fellow,” he answered, “but he’s certainly in a bad way now. If he ever means to amount to anything, he’s got to fight, and fight hard, too. Well, come on, Arthur, I suppose we’d better get to bed,” and thus the long-planned quinquennial reunion came sadly and dismally to an end.

CHAPTER IV

A FOOL AND HIS MONEY

“Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances.”

Shakespeare.

Jack Carleton stood in front of the ticker in Turner and Driver’s office, letting the narrow white ribbon run lightly through his fingers. For the moment he was alone. The big clock over on the post-office building had just boomed slowly the hour of twelve, and the little knot of customers, calmly or hurriedly, according to their several temperaments, had one by one gone out to lunch, for man must eat, though black care sit at his elbow. And indeed, though the little ticker still buzzed and whirred unceasingly, and the tape, with scarcely a halt or pause in its onward course, still ran as smoothly and persistently as ever, for the moment the worst of the drive seemed really to be over. So that presently Carleton lifted his eyes, red-rimmed and tired from the blur of black and white beneath them, letting the quotations run on unheeded, and stood with eyes fixed on the spot where, just visible through the very top of the tall window, framed in with line and bar of blackened roof and dingy chimney top, there smiled cheerfully down into the gloom of the darkened office a cloudless patch of bright blue sky.

Imperceptibly the sound of the ticker ceased, and the white ribbon began fantastically to curl and twist in his hand, for all unconsciously his fingers had closed upon it, checking the smoothness of its onward flow. The little patch of blue sky had sent his thoughts wandering far afield. A moment before he had been standing there in the office, wondering miserably whether to try to pull out, while there was yet time, with a good part of his little fortune gone, or whether, with anchors grappling desperately for holding ground, to strive somehow to ride out the storm. And now, so long had his mind run upon things trivial and unimportant, that despite the panic, despite the danger he was in, thanks to that casual upward glance, he stood already in imagination at the first tee at the Country Club, the green of the valley lying smooth and fair beneath him, the couple ahead just disappearing over the farther dip of the hill, and he himself, well-limbered up, driver in hand, in the act of placing the new white ball on the well-made tee, properly confident of smashing it out a hundred and eighty yards away, amid the close-cropped velvet of the rolling turf. Absolutely a perfect day, he reflected, for the medal round; no wind, a bright sun, greens quick, yet true—and above all, he felt that he could win. Barnes was entered, of course, and Henderson himself—he was paired with him—and Henderson had told Jake Rogers that since he had changed his grip he could “put it all over” Carleton, match or medal, any time they met. Rogers, with his little crooked smile, had taken pains, of course, to repeat the remark, and while Jack had laughed and said, “Oh, sure, he can lick me all right,” in his own heart of hearts, nevertheless, he knew that he could trim Henderson, and somewhat grimly had awaited his chance. About a hundred and sixty would do it, he figured; say a seventy-nine to-day and an eighty-one to-morrow—two such perfect days in succession could hardly be—yes, about a couple of eighties would do the trick.

His vision faded as swiftly as it had come. The green of the links had vanished, and in its stead the four square walls of the office, swinging smoothly into place, had closed tightly in again upon him and his troubled fortunes. With a start, and a half-guilty flush, he glanced hastily over the yard or two of tape which he still held, looped and bent, in his tense fingers. But to his relief, as he quickly scanned the quotations, there seemed to be no cause for further immediate alarm. On the contrary, the general tone of things was still improving. Akme Mining was seventeen now, up two and a quarter; Suburban Electric had rallied to sixty-three; Fuel was up four, at eighty. With a sigh, Carleton’s eyes were raised again to the patch of blue sky.

And now into the office bustled Jim Turner, hurried and preoccupied, showing plainly the nervous strain of the last three days, and especially of that grim and ghastly yesterday, when for five endless hours it had seemed that the bottom of the market, if not, indeed, of the earth itself, might be going to fall out for ever and a day; a troubled, anxious time alike for broker and customer, banker and depositor, a time when the emergency brakes had been put on so suddenly and so hard that the whole great financial stage-coach had come momentarily to a standstill, with a jar so tremendous that scores of passengers, especially those who occupied only precarious standing-room, had been hurled bodily to the ground, and some indeed, according to the stern panic-law of self-preservation, had even been quietly and with despatch pushed over the side, in order to make better the chances of those remaining for keeping in safety the threatened security of their seats.

Turner headed straight for the ticker, as he neared it striving, with an obviousness scarcely reassuring, to appear cheerful and unconcerned. “Hullo, Jack,” he said, “how they coming now?” and without waiting for a reply, gathered up a dozen yards of the tape and let it pass quickly under his practised eye. “H’m,” he said, almost immediately, in a tone that plainly enough showed his relief, “not so bad, are they? Quite a lot better than they were an hour ago. Oh, I guess we’ll come through it somehow, after all.”

His tone gave Carleton measureless comfort. He found himself nodding with assurance. “Oh, yes,” he answered, “they’re really a lot better. I guess things are all right now. Do you suppose, Jim—” he hesitated, stopped, and then, with a flush of color, and his eyes averted from Turner’s face, “do you suppose, Jim, you’ll be able to see me through?”

Turner non-committally shrugged his shoulders. “Why,” he answered, not unkindly, “I guess so. Yes, if things don’t go all to the devil again, I guess we can. But you’re in too deep, Jack, for a man that hasn’t unlimited resources. It isn’t right, really. I’ll stand by you as long as I can—and when I can’t, I’ll let you know—and then, if you can’t do anything, and it gets too bad, why, business is business, Jack, and we’ll have to chuck you. That’s all we can do.”

Carleton gazed at him a little helplessly; then asked, “But you think the worst’s over, don’t you?” He spoke so trustfully, and with such confidence in the other’s judgment, that Turner gave a half-contemptuous, half-embarrassed laugh. “Why, yes,” he answered slowly, “I think it is, but good Lord, Jack, at a time like this I’m not on the inside. I’m only one of the small fry. If I could tell you what you wanted to know, instead of just guessing at it, I wouldn’t be here, working for a living; I can tell you that; I’d be over touring the continent in a big French six-cylinder. That’s where I’d be.” He paused a moment; then, laying a hand on Carleton’s arm, continued, “But to the best of my knowledge, I really think the worst is over, and that things are going to right themselves. Gradually, of course; it’s going to take time; but they’ll right themselves, for all that. And I wouldn’t worry too much, Jack, if I were you. I’ll give you warning anyway, and if worst should come to worst, why, I suppose your old man would see you through, wouldn’t he, if it was a case of that or bust?”

Carleton shook his head. “No, I guess not,” he answered, “he would if he could, but there’s something queer about the property now. I didn’t know about it till a little while ago, and I don’t understand all the details yet; but the idea is that my father’s made Henry trustee of everything. Henry’s the whole shooting-match at home now, you know. So I guess it wouldn’t do to try the old gentleman. No, I’ve got in too deep, like a fool, and I’ve got to get out by myself or else drown; one of the two. But if I can only get by, this time, you can bet I’ll never be such an ass again. You see, Jim,” he added, ruefully enough, “I wanted to show people—”

Turner laughed, though without amusement. “Yes, I know,” he said dryly, “you wanted to come the young Napoleon racket. There’ve been others. You needn’t kick yourself for being the only one. But there must be some one that would help you out, Jack. Why couldn’t you go to your uncle himself?”

He made the suggestion casually enough, yet with a shrewd eye on the younger man’s expression. Carleton frowned. “Well,” he answered doubtfully, “I’d hate to do that. You know what Henry and I think of each other. I suppose I could, though, if I was dead up against it. But I’m not going to worry yet.” He glanced once more at the tape; then added, “Things really have steadied, haven’t they, Jim? I guess we’re all safe for to-day.”

Turner did not at once reply. The events of the last three days had to a large extent discouraged him from hazarding further prophecies. “Can’t tell,” he answered guardedly, at length, “can’t tell these days, but they’ve certainly steadied quite a bit; that’s sure; perhaps they’ll begin to pick up now.”

As he spoke, a clerk entered with a bundle of papers in his hand. “For you to sign, Mr. Turner,” he said, and Turner, taking them, departed into his private office. One or two quick lunchers, the vanguard of the returning stream of regular patrons, came in at the outer door; the first, thin, pale and dyspeptic looking, making hastily for the ticker, with no attempt to conceal his anxiety; the other, stout, red-faced, and philosophic, following more calmly, his hat on the back of his head, making leisurely exploration with a toothpick the while, evidently with a certain not unpraiseworthy desire to show that even in the throes of a panic a man could still be game. As they approached, Carleton glanced first at the tape, then at his watch, then at the patch of blue sky. The tape said that Akme Mining was seventeen and a quarter, and that Suburban Electric was sixty-four and a half; the watch said that it was twelve-fifteen, and that the twelve-thirty train would get him to the Country Club in time for lunch; the patch of blue sky said “Come.” With a rather guilty haste he walked quickly toward the door, for a moment paused on the threshold, still listening to the whirring of the ticker; and then passed hurriedly out into the street.

It was Championship Cup day at the Country Club, and the locker room, when Carleton entered it two hours later, was crowded with excited men in various stages of dress and undress; men who had entered the Club five minutes before as respectable doctors, lawyers, bankers and business men, and who, five minutes later, were to emerge in a common indecorous garb of faded flannel shirts, dingy gray trousers and shapeless felt hats, making their way toward the first tee with an eagerness which in fulfilling their professional engagements, they were seldom, if ever, seen to display.

Carleton, entering, with the mechanical dexterity of long habit, almost with one motion stripped off coat and vest, collar and tie, and opening his locker, began pulling out his clubs and his battered golfing clothes. He affected not to see Henderson, thin and spare and brown, seated on a bench with knees drawn up under his chin and clasped by bare, sinewy arms.

Presently his rival rose and sauntered over to him across the room. He stood near Carleton in silence, and the two eyed each other with grins, hostile, yet friendly. Finally Henderson spoke. “Well,” he observed, without enthusiasm, “how’s the boy? Looking a little bit fine, what? A little bit pale for him, hey?” Carleton laughed, with elaborate disdain. “Oh, no, Tommy,” he returned, “can’t catch me that way. That’s too old a gag. Never felt better in my life, thanks. How are they scoring? Barnes finished yet?”

Henderson nodded. “Played this morning,” he said, “was going fine till the eighteenth, and then drove into the quarry, and dropped his nerve. Cost him nine for the hole, and did an eighty-five at that. Said his caddie moved just as he was swinging back for his drive; too bad, wasn’t it?”

His tone belied the grief expressed by his last words, and at his humorous wink Carleton openly smiled. Both could exult in the common enjoyment of seeing a dangerous rival put out of the running. “Yes, too bad,” he rejoined, “his eighty-five the best?”

Henderson shook his head. “No,” he answered, “fellow from Brooklawn did an eighty-three. Nothing much else under ninety, though; one or two eighty-nines, I believe, and an eighty-eight; better get limbered up a bit, Jack; it’s getting near our turn. See you outside.”

Carleton nodded, tightened his belt another hole, and reached for his clubs. Then, for a moment turning his back on the crowded room, he held out his hand, scanning the fingers critically. His ideas of conditioning himself were his own. He frowned slightly, shaking his head in displeasure. “That’s the first time that’s happened again so soon,” he muttered, “I thought I looked out for that this morning. Well, I know the answer, anyway,” and a couple of minutes later, wiping his lips with his handkerchief, he joined Henderson outside the club-house, and began leisurely to limber up.

It was a quarter of an hour later when, in answer to their names, they stepped forward to the first tee. Henderson, having the honor, surveyed his footing with care, and then, absolutely cool and phlegmatic, teed his ball, eyed the direction flag waving on the cop bunker some seventy yards away, and with his provokingly easy swing drove a ball without much “ginger” behind it, a trifle high yet superlatively safe, unerring in direction and with some distance to it as well, for the road was a full hundred and fifty yards from the tee, and the little white sphere stood out plainly against the green of the turf some twenty yards beyond. Still with the utmost deliberation he stepped back off the tee, and Carleton took his place. His style was almost the antithesis of Henderson’s. His tee was scarcely more than a pinch of the damp sand, just enough to insure a good lie for his ball; almost negligently, it seemed, he fell at once into his stance, swinging back with an astonishing freedom, yet with complete mastery of a somewhat dashing style, and coming through into a finish absolutely superb. Low and straight sped his ball, hardly more than twenty feet over the top of the bunker; then, beginning slowly to rise, soaring magnificently onward, finally to come to a stop some fifty or sixty yards beyond the road. Henderson whistled as they walked down the path. “Some one’s feeling fine,” he said. “Glad you got in one good one, anyway, Jack.”

Carleton smiled grimly. “Oh, a few more at home like that I guess,” he retorted, “you’ve got to crack an eighty to-day, Tommy, if you want to be in the game.”

His second shot, indeed, seemed to bear out his words. Henderson had taken an iron, cleared the bunker that guarded the green, and was safely on its farther edge in two, but Carleton, playing a high, clean mashie, with plenty of back-spin, managed to lay his ball up within a dozen feet of the flag. On the green Henderson putted true and straight, his ball stopping so near the hole as to make a four a certainty. Carleton, with a little more deliberation than he had yet shown, eyed the line of his put. “Easy,” he muttered to himself, half-aloud, “nothing to it; easiest thing you know; just get the line, follow her through, and she—goes—down.”

With the final word the ball ticked against the farther edge of the cup, and dropped gently in for a three. Henderson, holing out, whistled again. “Somebody’s got their good eye with ’em,” he observed, and Carleton, picking up his ball, drew a long breath of content. “Oh, the devil,” he answered good-naturedly, “this is one of my days; I can do anything I want to to ’em to-day;” and in silence they strode away for the second tee.

Outward for the first nine holes they played, into a world, green under foot and blue and white above, the sunshine just pleasantly warm, the cool westerly breeze barely stirring the green leaves in the tree-tops, and faintly rousing the drooping direction flags below. A world of good-fellowship, a world of youth and joy, and withal, the rigor of the game to make them at times wholly unconscious, at times all the more conscious, of the glory above, around, beneath them. Henderson, the safe and sane, was on his game, making the first nine holes in an even forty, but Carleton played beyond himself. Twice only on the outward journey did he make mistakes, and for both he atoned by pulling off two shots well-nigh marvelous—one a clean, slashing brassie that put him on the edge of the green on the long fifth—four hundred and fifty yards—in two; one a straight, deadly put of twenty-five feet at the eighth; no wonder that Henderson unwillingly totaled a thirty-six for his rival, puckered his lips, but this time without the whistle, and mournfully shook his head. Coming in, indeed, Carleton’s pace slackened a bit, and his playing became, in Henderson’s phrase, “considerably more like a human being’s.” Mistakes, one or two of them costly, were not lacking; his putting fell off a bit; his confidence seemed a little to diminish; yet, spite of all, he still played brilliantly, and when on the eighteenth, he drove a long, straight ball, far over the quarry, with no danger between him and the home hole, Henderson was forced to admit defeat. He himself finished as steadily as ever, coming in without any serious error, without anything especially brilliant, with a card all fours and fives, in forty-two, and thus handed it an eighty-two for the round. Carleton’s card in was more irregular; it was marred by two sixes, but these were balanced by two threes and an occasional four, altogether forty-one for the second nine, and a total of seventy-seven. Surely, the gold medal lay all but in his grasp, and Henderson, indeed, had the grace to acknowledge it. “You’re all right, Jack,” he said, as they parted, “see you to-morrow afternoon, but I guess you’ve got things cinched; this is your lucky day;” and Carleton, though perforce he shrugged his shoulders and said that no one could ever tell, felt in his heart that the prize was as good as won.

At the club-house he dressed, and then, finding that he had plenty of time, walked leisurely down to the train, and started back for town. For a while, just comfortably tired with the afternoon’s round, he was content to sit back in his seat with passive enjoyment, with eyes half closed, playing over again each stroke of the round in pleasant retrospect, again smashing straight low balls from the tee, again laying up his approach shots, again successfully holing long, difficult puts. It made pleasant enough dreaming, and he sat thus until Hillside was reached.

Then suddenly, two men, entering hurriedly, took the vacant seat behind him, evidently resuming their conversation where it had been broken off as they had boarded the train. Their first words drove golf a million miles from his brain. “So it busted clean to hell, did it?” asked the stout man, panting with haste and excitement.

“Did it?” echoed his companion, with a certain dismal pride, the sense of proprietorship that one gains in the communication of bad news, “well, I should say it did. Didn’t begin till two o’clock, and then, say, you never saw such a time in your life. Smash—Bang—Smash! Everything thrown over, right and left; why, down at Wellman’s—”

The train roared into the long tunnel, and the rest of the sentence was lost. It was enough, and Carleton, sitting motionless, felt a sudden sickening reaction creep over him. A game of golf—a gold medal—and the market again in the grip of a panic beside which the first break of three days ago must have been as nothing. And then, insistently, he began to wonder—how bad—how bad? His margin had been slender enough before—hardly sufficient, really, to pass muster unless tinctured with the dangerous kindness of friendship—he clenched his hands; his mouth had gone suddenly dry—

Inside the smoky station the train came to a halt. Alighting, he paused to buy the evening papers from a clamorous newsboy; then without stopping even to glance at them, hastened straight to his office. It was long after the hour of closing. The office boy was gone, the door made fast. Unlocking it, he entered, sat down at his desk, and began hastily to examine the letters and memoranda reposing there. “Ring up Mr. Turner,” was penciled half a dozen times in the office boy’s round, sprawling hand, with various additions, “Important,” “Urgent,” “At once,” “Ring 698, Lincoln;” that was Harris and Wheeler’s; “Ring Main, 422;” that was Claxton Brothers. He turned to the papers. Lord above, what headlines! Panic—market crash—houses suspended—banks in danger—half dazed, he gazed for a moment around him, as if doubting that it could all be real; then, with a grim feeling that nothing could much matter now, he read steadily the long rows of stock quotations; and ever, as he read down a column, values dropped downward with him, and never, as he turned to the top of the next, did they rise again. Once more he had to stop, unable to grasp the truth; Akme Mining, nine and a half; Suburban Electric, forty-seven; Fuel, sixty-three; it was all impossible.

Through the slide in the office door a letter fluttered gently to the floor. He rose and picked it up. It had Turner’s name in the corner. Inside was a hasty scrawl, “Things very bad; must have ten thousand additional margin at opening to-morrow, sure.” As he laid it down, the telephone rang; “Yes,” he answered, “Mr. Harris; oh, yes, I know; five thousand; yes; thanks; you’ve got to have it at the opening; all right; good-by.” He hung up the receiver, and turned to confront a telegraph boy at his elbow. He hastily signed, and ripped open the envelope. This time the laconic message was from Claxton Brothers. “Good,” he muttered, “only five thousand more. This is fine,” and he threw himself back in his office chair, and for a moment or two thought hard. Then he smiled ironically. “Oh, yes,” he muttered, “Henderson got it right, as usual; this is certainly my lucky day;” then after a moment, he added, “Well, I suppose it’s a case of must now. It’s all I can do.” He rose, shrugging his shoulders, and thrusting the papers into his pocket, he hurriedly left the office.

CHAPTER V

A QUESTION OF HONOR

“What is left when honour is lost?”

Publius Syrus.

Twilight was falling over The Birches, and Edward Carleton, seated alone on the piazza, gazed out over the darkening fields into a world of ever blending shadows and onward creeping dusk. Always, as long as the weather permitted, after his evening meal, he loved to sit there, puffing quietly at his big, old-fashioned, curved pipe, and letting his memory roam back at will through scene after scene from the long years that now lay behind him; or sometimes, more rarely, living in the present, content merely to gaze out on blossoming flower, and tree in full leaf; to watch the fiery colors of the sunset glow and die in the far-off west; to hear from the orchard across the road a robin singing his good night song; to listen to the thousand wonderful secrets which Nature at the last loves to whisper to those who have lived their lives pure in deed and word, and who have journeyed far onward into the shadow, still kindly and serene, with the wonderful dreams of childhood making beautiful their minds, and in their hearts the faith of little children.

Often Henry Carleton sat there with him, but to-night the old man was alone. An hour ago, a message had come from Henry, saying that he would not be home until the following evening—perhaps not even then—that business matters of importance had arisen, making it necessary that he should remain in town. Characteristic of Henry Carleton’s unfailing thoughtfulness the message had been, and it was of his brother, and, with a half-sigh, of Jack as well, that Edward Carleton was thinking now, as the darkness pressed closer and closer around the old house that had sheltered for so many generations so many fathers and sons of the Carleton blood.

From the entrance to the gravel walk, the sound of footsteps smote briskly on his ear and he glanced up to see a tall and familiar figure coming up the path. A moment later, and Jack had hastily mounted the steps, scarce seeming to heed his father’s greeting, and speaking at once, in a voice strangely unlike his own. “Father,” he said, “where’s Henry?”

The old man gazed at him in surprise. “He’s not at home, Jack,” he answered, and then, with a momentary foreboding, “What is it, my boy? Nothing wrong?”

Jack laughed, a little grimly. “No, nothing like that,” he answered, “I’m in trouble, that’s all. I’ve stayed too long in a falling market, and got caught. If I can’t get help from Henry, I guess I’m done.”

In the darkness Edward Carleton reached out his hand, and laid it on his son’s shoulder. “My dear boy,” he said, “I’m sorry. If only Henry has the money available. But I don’t know. These must be terrible times for every one. Tell him if there’s any way he can use what he holds for me, that I asked him to do so. I’m so sorry, Jack—so sorry—”

With what was for him unusual feeling, Jack took his father’s hand in both his own. “Thank you, father,” he said, “I know you are. It’s all my own fault, of course. I don’t deserve any help. But it’s all come so suddenly. I never thought—”

He broke off abruptly, then spoke again. “Well, I suppose I must get back in town, I haven’t much time. I never dreamed of not finding Henry here. I’m sorry I can’t stay. Good night, father,” and he was gone.

It was nearly two hours later when he hastened down Adams Street toward the Harmon Building, where high overhead in many a window, lights ordinarily extinguished by five or six o’clock, were still burning brightly; some of them, indeed, destined to gleam and flicker throughout that long, anxious summer’s night, and only to pale at last as the first faint streaks of dawn struck through the shades on the men who planned and toiled within, working feverishly, with gray, unshaven faces, and weary, bloodshot, deep-sunken eyes.

Getting out of the elevator at the fourth floor, Jack hastily made his way into Henry Carleton’s offices. Once there, however, although his name was quickly sent in, he was compelled to wait for a full half hour in the outer corridor, until at length a bell rang sharply, and a tired looking clerk, with a nod of his head toward the inner office, signified that the audience was granted. With a curious sense of old-time familiarity, Jack entered the big square room which he had visited last, now upward of three years ago, and closed the door behind him.

Over by the window, Henry Carleton was seated at his desk. He was a man of about fifty, in complexion so dark as to appear almost swarthy, and with coal black hair and beard, here and there just faintly touched with gray. He was tall, much of Jack’s height and build, yet constructed upon finer lines, with a sinuous grace of movement that had about it something almost feline. His face was rather long, the forehead and cheek-bones high, the eyes were black and piercing, and the lips of the strong, well-chiseled mouth noticeably full and red. Altogether, an interesting face, a fitting index to the dual personality of the man—Henry Carleton the shrewd and able leader in the business world, and Henry Carleton the musician and man of letters—the artist to his finger-tips.

As Jack entered, he glanced up pleasantly enough, though far back in his eyes there lurked a hidden gleam of some emotion difficult to fathom. “Why, hello, Jack,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you. What brings you here? Sit down.” He motioned toward a chair.

Jack Carleton came forward into the room, standing a little awkwardly with his hand on the back of the proffered seat. “It’s the market, Henry,” he said briefly, “I’ve got caught. I have to raise twenty thousand by the opening to-morrow, or go under. I’ve just come from home; I thought I’d find you there. I’ll tell you the truth. I hate like hell to come to you, and you know it, but I’ve got to get the money somehow, and if you can help me, I wish to Heaven you would.”

Henry Carleton gazed at him meditatively. “Better sit down,” he said curtly, and this time Jack accepted the invitation. There was a short silence. Then Henry Carleton drew a tiny note-book from his pocket, and looked up, with pencil poised, “Now let’s have it,” he said.

Jack Carleton frowned. It was easy enough to see that the confession of his sins was little less than torture to him. “Well,” he began, a trifle defiantly, “it’s like this. I’ve got in a trifle deeper than I meant to when I started. Things looked so like a cinch, I couldn’t help it. I’ve fifteen hundred shares of Suburban Electric, and seven hundred Akme Mining, and five hundred Fuel, and a little other stuff besides. My heaviest account’s with Turner and Driver; then I’ve got an account with Harris and Wheeler, and another with Claxton Brothers; altogether—”

Piece by piece the whole story came out. Henry Carleton wrote, figured, meditated; asked a question here, another there; meditated again. Finally he seemed to make up his mind. He spoke with deliberation, weighing his words. “No one can tell,” he said, “what the next twenty-four hours are going to bring. But what you ought to do is clear. You’ve got to lighten up, to start with. Close out your account with Harris, and with the Claxtons; hang on to what you have at Turner and Driver’s, if you can. That’s enough; and that’s our problem: how best to try to carry it through.”

As if the words brought him measureless comfort, Jack drew a long breath of relief. “You think, then,” he asked, almost timidly, “you can fix it somehow? You think you can get me by?”

Henry Carleton did not at once reply, and when he finally spoke, it was but to answer Jack’s question with another. “Have you done everything you can yourself?” he queried. “Where else have you tried?”

Jack gave a short mirthless laugh. “Where haven’t I tried?” he retorted. “I’ve tackled about every friend and acquaintance I’ve got in the world. I began four days ago. And I’ve had the same identical come-back from every one of them. They’re sorry, but they have to look out for themselves first. And security. They all talk about that. I never knew before that security cut such a lot of ice with people. But it does.”

Henry Carleton nodded grimly. “Yes, it does,” he answered dryly, “most of us make that discovery sooner or later. And generally for ourselves, too. And when you mention security, Jack, you’ve come right down to the root of the whole trouble. We might as well acknowledge it now. I can’t help you myself. I tell you so frankly. I couldn’t use trust funds for such a purpose, of course. Any one would tell you that. That’s out of the question. And my own money is hopelessly tied up. I couldn’t get the sum you need under a month, if I could then. But there’s one thing I might do. It isn’t business. I hate to try it. But I don’t want to see you disgraced, Jack, if I can help it. Wait here a minute, till I see—”

He rose and walked over to the telephone booth in the rear of his office, and entering, closed the door behind him. In two minutes he came back to his desk, penciled a name on a card, and handed it to Jack. “This fellow Farrington,” he said shortly, “is under some obligations to me. I think you’ll get what you want from him. Better see him anyway. He’s in the Jefferson Building, top floor. I told him you’d be there in ten minutes, at the most.”

Jack Carleton rose. “I’m much obliged, Henry,” he said, a little lamely, “you’re very good. I’m much obliged. I’ll go right over, of course.”

The other stood gazing at him with a curious expression on his swarthy face, a curious gleam far back in his dark eyes. “Don’t mention it,” he said smoothly, “Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn’t bring dishonor on the name, whatever we do.”

Unerringly he had pierced the weak joint in the armor. Jack’s face went whiter than before. He stood for a moment silent, then spoke with effort. “No,” he answered, “we mustn’t do that,” and turning, he left the room.

Up-town toward the Jefferson Building he hurried, half-daring, yet half-fearing, to hope. Noting the number of the room on the framed directory placarded within, he left the elevator at the tenth floor, and hastening down the corridor, paused opposite the door. Externally the office was a modest one, with “H. O. Farrington, Agent” inscribed in plain black lettering on the glass. Entering, he found the interior to correspond. A tiny room, with a small enclosure at one end, within which sat Farrington himself, a man perhaps best described by saying that he perfectly typified that somewhat vague being whom most of us have in mind when we speak glibly of the “average man.” “Average” best described him in height, build, and appearance, the nondescript sort of person whom one meets on Monday, and passes in the street on Tuesday, wholly unconscious of ever having seen him before.

As Jack entered, he glanced up quickly. “Mr. Carleton?” he questioned, and as Jack nodded, motioned to a chair. “Just a minute,” he said, and bent over his writing again. Presently, as he stopped, and reached for a sheet of blotting paper, Jack ventured to speak. “I don’t know how much you know about this—” he began, but the other raised his hand. “All right,” he said briefly, and shoved a check and a receipt across the desk, “Sign, please.”

Mechanically Jack glanced at the check. It was for the amount required. Mechanically, too, he signed the receipt, and handed it back to Farrington. Half unable to realize his good fortune, he rose, the check in his hand. “I’m greatly obliged,” he said.

Farrington made no reply. Evidently words with him were precious things. Perforce Jack turned to go, and then, half-way to the door, turned.

“Mr. Farrington,” he said hesitatingly, “if things should go lower—”

Farrington did not look up. “They won’t,” he said tersely.

Again Jack hesitated. Then, finally, “But if they should—” he said again.

A little impatiently, Farrington raised his head. “We’ll see you through,” he said. “Good night.” And Jack, not disposed to quarrel further with fortune, closed the door behind him.

It was a quarter of ten on the morning following when he entered Turner and Driver’s office, advancing to meet the senior partner with the little strip of paper in his outstretched hand. Turner took it eagerly enough, and as he scanned the amount, he nodded, while a wrinkle or two seemed to vanish from his puckered and frowning brow. Then he looked up. “Well, you got it,” he said, and Carleton hastened to assent. “Oh, yes,” he returned lightly, “I got it all right. Why, didn’t you think I would?”

The broker shrugged his shoulders. “Hard telling anything these days,” he answered, “but I’ll tell you one thing, though; you’re mighty lucky to be able to put your hands on it so easy. There’ll be more than one poor devil this morning who would pretty near give his soul for a tenth part of what you’ve got here. It’s a bad time for customers, Jack, and I don’t mind telling you—” he lowered his voice confidentially—“that it’s a bad time for brokers, too. A little piece of paper like this—” he waved the check gently to and fro—“is a nice comforting sight for a man; between you and me, I wouldn’t mind seeing three or four mates to it. Yes, I’m glad to get it all right, on my account, and on yours, too.”

Jack nodded. Somehow, entirely without justification, as he well knew, the check had given him a feeling of great stability; at once, on receiving it, he had felt that he had risen in his own self-esteem. “Yes,” he assented, “I’m glad myself; and you needn’t worry about my account, Jim. We’ll just leave it this way. Don’t treat mine as an ordinary account; don’t sell me out, whatever happens. I’ve friends that’ll see me through anything. If things should go lower, and you should need more margin, just let me know, and I’ll get it over to you right away. Will that be satisfactory?”

The broker nodded. “Why, yes, Jack,” he answered, “knowing the way you’re fixed, I guess that’ll be all right, though with nine men out of ten, of course I wouldn’t consider such a way of doing things. Business is business, and when it comes right down to the fine point, why, it’s the cold hard cash that counts, and nothing else; not friendship, or honor, or gratitude, or common decency, even—” both face and voice had hardened as he spoke; it was not his first panic—and then his look met Carleton’s fairly and squarely. “But with you, Jack,” he continued, “it’s different, as I say. Only let’s be perfectly sure that we understand each other. I don’t believe myself, you know, that things can go much lower; I think the chances are they’ve steadied for good; but for argument, let’s suppose they do. Then, as I understand it, you don’t want to have me sell you out at any price, no matter how far they break. You’ll make good any time I ask you to. You give me your word on that?”

Carleton readily enough assented. “Why, sure,” he answered lightly, “of course I do; you needn’t worry; I’ll make good,” and the broker nodded, well pleased.

“One thing less to bother over, then,” he said. “You’ll excuse me now, Jack, won’t you? This is going to be a horrible busy day, anyway, and the Lord send it’s nothing worse than that; it wouldn’t take much now to raise the very deuce.”

As he spoke the News Despatch boy entered, tossing down on the table a half dozen sheets fresh from the press. Turner glanced at them, and handed them over to Carleton, shaking his head as he did so. “London’s not feeling gay,” he observed, “I call that a pretty ragged opening myself. I don’t know what you think of it.”

Carleton read and nodded. It seemed as if everything in the half dozen pages made for discouragement. London had opened weak—lamentably weak. There were rumors of this—rumors of that—sickly, unhealthy mushroom growths of the night. There was talk of failures—suspensions—financial troubles of every kind—even the good name of a great bank was bandied carelessly to and fro. Silently Turner crossed the room, and took his seat at his desk; silently Carleton walked out into the customers’ room, and joined the other unfortunates who had come slowly straggling in, and who now stood around the ticker, waiting gloomily and apprehensively for the opening bell to ring.

The tension of the moment was plainly enough to be read in the attitudes and expressions of the members of the little group, not one of whom failed in some manner or other to betray the fact that he was far from possessing his usual poise and calm. Most of them, either consciously or unconsciously, showed their nervousness so plainly and even painfully that it was impossible to misinterpret the anxious glances cast first at the clock, then at the tape, as the moment of the opening drew near. One or two, indeed, essayed a nonchalance so obviously assumed as to render even more apparent the emotion it sought to conceal. One young fellow, with hat shoved far back on his head, hair in disorder, and a restless, frightened look in his eyes, glanced at Carleton as he approached.

“How you standing it, Jack?” he queried, with a faint attempt at jocularity. “Bad night to sleep last night, I called it; guess most likely ’twas something in the air.”

Another man, he of the toothpick, stout and coarse, held forth at some length for the benefit of the rest. “Oh, it was perfectly clear, the whole thing,” he was saying, with the air of one to whom all the mysteries and marvels of stock fluctuations are but as matters writ large in print the most plain. “You see Rockman and Sharp and Haverfeller got together on this thing, and then they had a conference with Horgan, and got him to say that he’d keep his hands off, and let things alone; then they had a clear chance, and you can see what they’ve done with it; oh, they’re clever all right; when those fellows get together, it’s time to look out; you can’t beat ’em.”

He spoke with a certain condescending finality, as if he had somehow once and for all fixed the status of the panic. After a moment or two a gray, scholarly looking little man, with gentle, puzzled eyes, addressed him, speaking with an air of timid respect for the stout man’s evident knowledge.

“Do you imagine, sir,” he asked, “that securities will decline still further in value? If they should, I am afraid that I might find myself seriously involved. I can’t seem to understand this whole affair; I was led to believe—”

The big man, charmed with the novelty of having a genuine, voluntary listener, interrupted him at once.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry,” he said largely, “they might open ’em off a little lower, perhaps, but they’ll go back again. Don’t you fret; the country’s all right; they’ll come back; they always do.”

The little man seemed vastly comforted. “I’m very glad to hear you say so,” he answered. “It would come very hard—I had no idea the risk was so great—I was led to believe—”

The young man with the rumpled hair turned a trifle disgustedly to Carleton. “Heard from London?” he asked abruptly. His brief, and not wholly unintelligent connection with the game had led him to believe firmly in facts and figures, not in the dangerous pastime of theorizing over values, or speculating as to what the next move of the “big fellows” might be.

Carleton nodded. “Weak,” he answered, his tone pitched low and meant for his neighbor’s ear only, “horribly weak; and all sorts of stories starting, too; it looks as bad as it could.”

The young man nodded. “I supposed so,” he said, with resignation, and then added whimsically, “Well, there’s no use crying about it, I guess, but it certainly looks as if this was the time when little Willie gets it good and plenty, right in the neck.”

Just in front of them, a pale, slender man, with blinking eyes, and a mumbling, trembling mouth that was never still, talked steadily in an undertone, apparently partly to himself, partly to the man who stood at his shoulder, a red-faced farmer with a hundred shares of Akme at stake. “Now’d be the time,” he muttered, “now’d be the time to jump right in; jump right in and buy four or five thousand shares; a man could make a fortune, and get out for good; it’s the chance of a man’s life; to jump right in and buy four or five thousand shares.”

The countryman gazed at him in silence, sizing him up at first curiously, and then with a certain amused and not unkindly contempt. “Four or five thousand!” he said, at last. “That ain’t enough. Buy ten thousand while you’re at it. You’ll get twice as rich then,” but the nervous man seemed to take no offense, and indeed, not even to notice the remark. “Now’s the time,” he rambled on, and it was clear that it was to himself alone that his mumblings were addressed, “to jump right in; that’s the thing to do.”

To Carleton, all at once it seemed that the group around the ticker was a gathering merely of the wrecks of men—of idle fools of greater or less degree. All of them he pitied, except the big, coarse man with the toothpick, for whom he felt a huge dislike; and most of all his pity went out to the gentle man with the puzzled eyes; something unfair there seemed to be in such a one being decoyed into the market game—something repellant, as if one had lied, deliberately and maliciously, to a child. Pity or anger—old or young—was there in all the group, he reflected with sudden distaste, one real man? And then, instant and unexpected, a lightning flame of keenest irony seemed to sear its way into his very soul; suppose Farrington had withheld the check? Was there, in all the group, himself included, one real man—

The bell rang. The ticker whirred. For a moment the dozen heads were grouped closely together over the tape, and then—the first quotation, five hundred Fuel at fifty-seven, gave warning of the truth; and the second and third verified it beyond all doubt or questioning. No further need of argument; no further agony; the suspense was over. So weak was the opening as to be almost incredible, so weak that it took a moment or two to adjust oneself to the shock. Akme Mining had closed the night before at ten. Carleton, figuring on the lowest, had imagined that it might open at eight and a half, or even eight. Two thousand shares came over the tape at six and a quarter. Everything else was in like ratio; everything else kept the same proportion—or lack of it. For perhaps ten seconds there was silence absolute, and then the reaction came. The young man with the rumpled hair turned sharply away, his hands thrust deep into his trousers’ pockets, his lips curiously twisted and contorted, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth. He gazed up at the blank wall, nodding unsmilingly to himself. “I thought so,” he observed, quietly, “in the neck.”

The man with the mumbling mouth started again to speak. “Now,” he muttered, “now would be the time; to jump right in—” and then, as if just for a moment he caught a glimpse of himself and the figure he made, old and futile, worn out and wan, he stopped abruptly, rubbing his eyes, and for a time spoke no more, only standing there motionless, with the force of a habit too strong to be broken, glancing down unseeingly at the rows of little black letters and figures that issued steadily from the ticker, only to pass, unregarded and unmeaning, beneath the vacancy of his gaze.

Carleton had stood staring grimly with the rest. In a moment he felt a hand laid upon his arm, and turned to meet the wistful glance of the little gray man. “I beg your pardon,” he asked timidly, “but can you tell me at what price Kentucky Coal is selling? I dislike to trouble you, but I am entirely unfamiliar with the abbreviations used.”

Carleton nodded with the feeling that he might as well deal the little man a blow squarely between the eyes. “Forty-eight,” he said shortly.

The little man turned very pale. “Forty-eight,” he repeated mechanically, “can it be so? Forty-eight!” He shook his head slowly from side to side, then glanced at Carleton with a smile infinitely gentle and pathetic. “And to earn it,” he murmured, “took me twenty years;” and then again, after a pause, “twenty years; and I’m afraid I’m pretty old to begin again now.”

Carleton’s heart smote him. Gladly enough would he have sought to aid, if a half of his own depleted fortune had remained to him. He stood for a moment as if in a dream. The whole scene—the familiar office, the stock-board, the ticker, the disheartened, discouraged group of unsuccessful gamblers—it was all real enough, and yet at the same time about it all there clung an air somehow theatric, melodramatic, hard of realization. Then, from the doorway, Turner called him sharply, and he hastened into the private office. Outwardly, the broker still had a pretty good grip on himself, but in his tone his rising excitement was easily enough discerned. “Look, Jack,” he said quickly, “things are bad; there’s all sorts of talk coming over our private wire. Hell’s broke loose; that’s the amount of it. I want you to get me ten thousand on your account as quick as the Lord’ll let you; get fifteen, if you can. It’s better for us both that way. Saves worrying—any more than anybody can help. And Jack,” he added, “I’m not supposed to know this, neither are you. But they’re letting go a raft of your father’s stuff over at Brown’s. I don’t know what the devil it means, but I call it a mighty bad sign.”

Carleton nodded, and without wasting time, left the room. The ten minutes’ walk between Turner’s office and the Jefferson Building he covered in half that time, and striding hastily down the corridor, had almost reached Farrington’s door when a tall, red-faced young man, emerging with equal speed, pulled up short to avoid the threatened collision, and stood back for Carleton to enter. Glancing at him, Jack recognized a casual acquaintance, and nodded to him as he passed. “How are you, Cummings?” he said, and the other, looking at him a little curiously, returned his salutation, and then passed quickly on.

Farrington was seated at his desk, and Jack at once, and without ceremony, entered. Farrington, glancing up, acknowledged his greeting, with a curt nod; then looked at him with questioning gaze. “Well?” he said.

“Well,” Jack echoed, a trifle deprecatingly, “you can guess what I’ve come for, I suppose. You saw the opening. I want ten thousand more—fifteen, if I can have it—but ten will do.”

Farrington looked him straight in the eye.

“Ten will do,” he echoed; then, dryly, “I should think it would.” He paused for the veriest instant, then added, with the utmost directness, “It’s no go, Mr. Carleton. I’m caught myself. I can’t let you have a cent.”

At the words the blood seemed suddenly to leave Jack Carleton’s heart. Something tightened in his throat, and a faint mist seemed to gather between Farrington’s face and his own. Then, as he came to himself, “Can’t let me have it!” he cried sharply. “Why, you told me last night you’d see me through, you won’t go back on your word now. The money’s promised. It’s too late.”

Farrington’s face was expressionless. “You don’t realize,” he said, “what a time this is. It’s one day out of a million—the worst there’s ever been. If I could have foreseen—”

The telephone on his desk rang sharply, and he turned to answer it. Jack Carleton sat as if stunned. This man had lied to him; had given him his word, and now, with the market hopelessly lower, retracted it; had thrown him a rope, and, as he hung helpless in mid air, was leaning coolly forward to cut it, and let him perish. And he had promised Turner—his word of honor. He felt physically faint and sick. Farrington hung up the receiver, and then, as Jack started to speak, an interruption occurred. Suddenly the door opened, and Cummings appeared in the entrance. He seemed greatly hurried and excited, as if he had been running hard. “All ready, Hal,” he cried, “he’ll ring you any minute now. And when he does, buy like hell! For the personal, of course! He says—”

Quickly Farrington cut in on him. “Shut up!” he cried, so sharply that Jack could not but note his tone, “Can’t you see I’m busy? Wait outside, till I’m through,” and Cummings, his red face many shades redder than before, at once hastily withdrew.

Immediately Carleton leaned forward. “Look here,” he cried desperately, “this isn’t right. You told me you’d see me through. Those were your very words. You can’t go back on them now. If you do, you’ve got me ruined—worse than ruined. It isn’t only the money; I’ve pledged my word; pledged myself to make good. I’ve got to have it, Farrington; that’s all; I’ve got to; can’t you understand?”

Farrington frowned. “You can’t have it,” he answered sharply, “and don’t take that tone to me, either, Mr. Carleton. Haven’t I given you twenty thousand already? You must have misunderstood me last night. I said I’d see you through if I could, and now I find I can’t. That’s all. I tell you I can’t; and I won’t stop to split hairs about it, either. I’ve got too much at stake. You’d better not wait, Mr. Carleton. There’s no use in it. There’s nothing for you here.”

Carleton’s eyes blazed. Just for an instant things swam before him; for an instant he half crouched, like an animal about to spring. In the office, absolute stillness reigned, save for the tall clock in the corner ticking off the seconds—five—ten—fifteen—and then, all at once, his tightly closed hands unclenched, his lips relaxed; on the instant he stood erect, and without speaking, turned quickly on his heel, and left the room.

Grim and white of face, he burst five minutes later into Turner’s private office, with a bearing so changed that Turner could not help but notice it, and read the trouble there. “Something wrong?” he asked sharply, and Carleton nodded, with a strange feeling as if he were acting a part in some sinister dream. “I couldn’t get it,” he said.

Turner gazed at him, frowning. “Nonsense,” he cried, and Carleton could have laughed hysterically to hear his own words of ten minutes before coming back to him: “You’ve got to get it. You told me you were all right, Jack. You can’t do this now. Last night was the time to settle or sell. You can’t turn around now. It’s too late.”

Carleton’s face was haggard, his mouth dry. He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t get it,” he said again.

The broker’s eyes grew suddenly hard. “Of course you can,” he cried, “you said you could; you know you can get it, Jack; go ahead!”

But Carleton only shook his head once more. “It’s no use,” he answered wearily, “I can’t get it, I say. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

It was an unfortunate phrase. The broker sneered. “Oh, no,” he cried, “of course not. You wouldn’t lie to me. How about this morning?” And then, struck suddenly by the expression on Carleton’s face, and perhaps a little ashamed of his own loss of self-control, he hastened to add, in a tone kindlier by far, “Come, come, Jack, this isn’t like you. There’s something queer here. You told me you had friends who’d see you through. You told me that not three hours ago. And if you lied to me, it was a dirty thing to do, and a foolish thing, as well. Because now I’ve got to sell you out; there’s no other way; and it leaves you ruined, and costs me money, besides. But I won’t preach. Thank God, that’s one thing I’ve never done yet. You’ve been a good customer here, and a good friend of mine, too. So give it to me straight, Jack. If you lied to me, tell me so. It’s bad enough for you; I won’t make it any worse. I’ll keep my head shut, and you can pay me back as you’re able. But now look here—” and his tone hardened again—“if it isn’t that; if it’s somebody else that’s lied to you, and fooled us both, why that’s a different story altogether. There’s nothing to stop us then, and by God, we won’t let it stop us, either. We’ll tell the story all over this town, till we make somebody good and sorry for what he’s done. Give it to me straight, Jack. How did it happen? Is this whole business up to somebody else, or is it up to you? Was it the truth you told me, or was it a lie?”

For a moment Carleton stood silent. Through his tired brain flashed evil thoughts—suspicion—conjecture—the possibility of a just revenge. And yet—it was all so confused—so uncertain. Blame there was somewhere—but where? What could he really do? And then, curiously enough, once more he seemed to see before his eyes the dark face of Henry Carleton; once again he seemed to hear him say, “The Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn’t bring dishonor on the name.” And in that sudden instant Jack Carleton ceased all at once to be a boy, and became a man. Low and hesitating came the words, the words that in the broker’s eyes branded him for ever as a coward, beaten and disgraced, and yet his gaze, fixed on Turner’s face, never faltered. “Jim,” he said, “I’m sorry. It’s up to me. I told you a lie.”

CHAPTER VI

DEATH COMES

“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise, or blame,—nothing but well and fair,
And what may quiet us in a death so noble.”

Milton.

Through the gathering darkness of the short, chilly December day the carriage swung up the driveway of The Birches, and in front of the porch came to a sudden halt. Doctor Morrison, hastily alighting, ran quickly up the piazza steps to find Henry Carleton, worried and anxious, already awaiting him at the open door.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Doctor,” he said, his relief plainly enough showing in his tone, “I’ve been reproaching myself for not letting you know before. Step into the parlor for a moment, though, and warm yourself before you go up. You must be cold.”

Pulling off his gloves, and laying aside his overcoat and bag, Doctor Morrison followed Carleton into the room, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the warmth of the open blaze. Then he turned. “And how is he now?” he asked. “Any change for the worse?”

“No, I think not,” Carleton answered, “he appears to be comfortable enough, and says he has no pain. Yet there seems something curious about it, too. It was almost a week ago, I suppose, that he first began to complain. There was nothing that you could fix on definitely, though. Only that he didn’t seem to be quite himself—not as bright as usual, or so interested in things—and wanted to sleep a great deal, even in the daytime; something, as you know, most unusual for him. I thought then of sending for you, and then I felt that that might alarm him, and to tell the truth, I expected every day to see him begin to pick up again; he’s had times like this before. And so things went along until to-day. But this morning, as I telephoned you, he didn’t get up at all—complained of feeling very weak and faint—so of course I rang you up at once. I only hope I’ve made no mistake in waiting so long.”

Doctor Morrison shook his head. “Oh, no, I don’t think so for a moment,” he answered, “I doubt if it’s anything serious at all. All men, as they get on in years, are apt to get queer notions at times, especially about their health. I’ll go right up and see him now, but I don’t anticipate that we’ll find there’s the slightest cause for alarm.”

For half an hour Henry Carleton sat alone in the firelight, in spite of all the doctor had said still anxious and disturbed. Then he rose quickly as he heard footsteps descending the stairs, and stood waiting, expectant and apprehensive. As the doctor entered the room, it was easy to see from the expression on his face that his news was certainly none of the best. Abruptly Henry Carleton stepped forward. “Is it serious?” he asked.

The doctor did not keep him in suspense. He nodded gravely. “Yes,” he answered, “I suppose I should tell you so at once. It is,” and then, seeing the unspoken question in the other’s eyes, he added quickly, “No, I don’t mean anything immediate, necessarily; but he’s failed terribly since I saw him last. I suppose it’s been all of six months now, at least, since I came out before; and probably to you, living with him and seeing him every day, the change has been so gradual that you haven’t noticed it, but it’s been going on steadily just the same, all the time. He’s certainly failed—alarmingly.”

Slowly Henry Carleton nodded. “I see,” he said half-mechanically, then added, “Is it anything particular, Doctor, or just a general breaking up?”

“Just that,” the doctor answered. “Just old age. It’s the same story with all of us, after all. The machine is built to run about so long. Sometimes it wears out gradually; sometimes, as in Mr. Carleton’s case, even at the allotted age, it seems almost as good as new; and those are the cases, where, when anything does go wrong, it’s apt to go wrong very suddenly indeed, so that to every one the shock is proportionately greater, and just so much harder to bear.”