Before she could reply, the express train roared above them
Page [151]

THE BEST MAN

BY
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ
AUTHOR OF
VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS, Etc.

FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY
GAYLE HOSKINS

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT, 1913. BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1914. BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHED JANUARY, 1914

The Best Man

SIXTH EDITION

THE BEST MAN

CHAPTER I

Cyril Gordon had been seated at his desk but ten minutes and was deep in the morning’s mail when there came an urgent message from his chief, summoning him to an immediate audience in the inner office.

The chief had keen blue eyes and shaggy eyebrows. He never wasted words; yet those words when spoken had more weight than those of most other men in Washington.

There was the briefest of good-morning gleams in his nod and glance, but he only said:

“Gordon, can you take the Pennsylvania train for New York that leaves the station in thirty-two minutes?”

The young man was used to abrupt questions from his chief, but he caught his breath, mentally surveying his day as it had been planned:

“Why, sir, I suppose I could—if it is necessary——” He hesitated.

“It is necessary,” said the chief curtly, as if that settled the matter.

“But—half an hour!” ejaculated Gordon in dismay. “I could hardly get to my rooms and back to the station. I don’t see how—— Isn’t there a train a little later?”

“Later train won’t do. Call up your man on the ’phone. Tell him to pack your bag and meet you at the station in twenty minutes. You’ll need evening clothes. Can you depend on your man to get your things quickly without fail?”

There was that in the tone of the chief that caused Gordon to make no further demur.

“Sure!” he responded with his usual business-like tone, as he strode to the ’phone. His daze was passing off. “Evening clothes?” he questioned curiously, as if he might not have heard aright.

“Yes, evening clothes,” was the curt answer, “and everything you’ll need for daytime for a respectable gentleman of leisure—a tourist, you understand.”

Gordon perceived that he was being given a mission of trust and importance, not unmixed with mystery perhaps. He was new in the secret service, and it had been his ambition to rise in his chief’s good graces. He rang the telephone bell furiously and called up the number of his own apartments, giving his man orders in a breezy, decisive tone that caused a look of satisfaction to settle about the fine wrinkles of the chief’s eyes.

Gordon’s watch was out and he was telling his man on just what car he must leave the apartments for the station. The chief noted it was two cars ahead of what would have been necessary. His gray head gave an almost imperceptible nod of commendation, and his eyes showed that he was content with his selection of a man.

“Now, sir,” said Gordon, as he hung up the receiver, “I’m ready for orders.”

“Well, you are to go to New York, and take a cab for the Cosmopolis Hotel—your room there is already secured by wire. Your name is John Burnham. The name of the hotel and the number of your room are on this memorandum. You will find awaiting you an invitation to dine this evening with a Mr. Holman, who knows of you as an expert in code-reading. Our men met him on the train an hour ago and arranged that he should invite you. He didn’t know whom they represented, of course. He has already tried to ’phone you at the hotel about coming to dinner to-night. He knows you are expected there before evening. Here is a letter of introduction to him from a man he knows. Our men got that also. It is genuine, of course.

“Last night a message of national importance, written in cipher, was stolen from one of our men before it had been read. This is now in the hands of Holman, who is hoping to have you decipher it for him and a few guests who will also be present at dinner. They wish to use it for their own purposes. Your commission is to get hold of the message and bring it to us as soon as possible. Another message of very different import, written upon the same kind of paper, is in this envelope, with a translation for you to use in case you have to substitute a message. You will have to use your own wits and judgment. The main thing is, get the paper, and get back with it, with as little delay as possible. Undoubtedly your life will be in danger should it be discovered that you have made off with it. Spare no care to protect yourself and the message, at all hazards. Remember, I said, and the message, young man! It means much to the country.

“In this envelope is money—all you will probably need. Telegraph or ’phone to this address if you are in trouble. Draw on us for more, if necessary, also through this same address. Here is the code you can use in case you find it necessary to telegraph. Your ticket is already bought. I have sent Clarkson to the station for it, and he will meet you at the train. You can give him instructions in case you find you have forgotten anything. Take your mail with you, and telegraph back orders to your stenographer. I think that is all. Oh, yes, to-night, while you are at dinner, you will be called to the ’phone by one of our men. If you are in trouble, this may give you opportunity to get away, and put us wise. You will find a motor at the door now, waiting to take you to the station. If your man doesn’t get there with your things, take the train, anyway, and buy some more when you get to New York. Don’t turn aside from your commission for anything. Don’t let anything hinder you! Make it a matter of life and death! Good-morning, and good luck!”

The chief held out a big, hairy hand that was surprisingly warm and soft considering the hardness of his face and voice, and the young man grasped it, feeling as if he were suddenly being plunged into waves of an unknown depth and he would fain hold on to this strong hand.

He went out of the office quietly enough, and the keen old eyes watched him knowingly, understanding the beating of the heart under Gordon’s well-fitting business coat, the mingled elation and dread over the commission. But there had been no hesitancy, no question of acceptance, when the nature of the commission was made known. The young man was “game.” He would do. Not even an eyelash had flickered at the hint of danger. The chief felt he would be faithful even in the face of possible death.

Gordon’s man came rushing into the station just after he reached there himself. Clarkson was already there with the ticket. Gordon had time to scribble a message to Julia Bentley, whose perfumed scrawl he had read on the way down. Julia had bidden him to her presence that evening. He could not tell whether he was relieved or sorry to tell her he could not come. It began to look to him a good deal as if he would ask Julia Bentley to marry him some day, when she got tired of playing all the others off against him, and he could make up his mind to surrender his freedom to any woman.

He bought a paper and settled himself comfortably in the parlor-car, but his interest was not in the paper. His strange commission engaged all his thoughts. He took out the envelope containing instructions and went over the matter, looking curiously at the cipher message and its translation, which, however, told him nothing. It was the old chief’s way to keep the business to himself until such time as he chose to explain. Doubtless it was safer for both message and messenger that he did not know the full import of what he was undertaking.

Gordon carefully noted down everything that his chief had told him, comparing it with the written instructions in the envelope; arranged in his mind just how he would proceed when he reached New York; tried to think out a good plan for recovering the stolen message, but could not; and so decided to trust to the inspiration of the moment. Then it occurred to him to clear his overcoat pockets of any letters or other tell-tale articles and stow them in his suit-case. He might have to leave his overcoat behind him. So it would be well to have no clues for anyone to follow.

Having arranged these matters, and prepared a few letters with notes for his stenographer, to be mailed back to her from Philadelphia, he reread Julia Bentley’s note. When every angular line of her tall script was imprinted on his memory, he tore the perfumed note into tiny pieces and dropped them from the car window.

The question was, did he or did he not want to ask Julia Bentley to become his wife? He had no doubt as to what her answer would be. Julia had made it pretty plain to him that she would rather have him than any of her other admirers; though she did like to keep them all attendant upon her. Well, that was her right so long as she was unmarried. He had no fault to find with her. She was a fine girl, and everybody liked her. Also, she was of a good family, and with a modest fortune in her own right. Everybody was taking it for granted that they liked each other. It was time he was married and had a real home, he supposed, whatever that was—that seemed to have so great a charm for all his friends. To his eyes, it had as yet taken on no alluring mirage effect. He had never known a real home, more than his quiet bachelor apartments were to him now, where his man ordered everything as he was told, and the meals were sent up when wanted. He had money enough from his inheritance to make things more than comfortable, and he was deeply interested in the profession he had chosen.

Still, if he was ever going to marry, it was high time, of course. But did he want Julia? He could not quite make it seem pleasant to think of her in his rooms when he came home at night tired; she would always be wanting to go to her endless theatre parties and receptions and dances; always be demanding his attention. She was bright and handsome and well dressed, but he had never made love to her. He could not quite imagine himself doing so. How did men make love, anyway? Could one call it love when it was “made” love? These questions followed one another idly through his brain as the landscape whirled past him. If he had stayed at home, he would have spent the evening with Julia, as she requested in her note, and there would probably have been a quiet half-hour after other callers had gone when he would have stayed as he had been doing of late, and tried to find out whether he really cared for her or not.

Suppose, for instance, they were married, and she sat beside him now. Would any glad thrill fill his heart as he looked at her beautiful face and realized that she was his? He tried to look over toward the next chair and imagine that the tired, fat old lady with the double chin and the youthful purple hat was Julia, but that would not work. He whirled his chair about and tried it on an empty chair. That went better; but still no thrill of joy lifted him out of his sordid self. He could not help thinking about little trying details. The way Julia looked when she was vexed. Did one mind that in the woman one loved? The way she ordered her coachman about. Would she ever speak so to her husband? She had a charming smile, but her frown was—well—unbecoming to say the least.

He tried to keep up the fallacy of her presence. He bought a magazine that he knew she liked, and read a story to her (in imagination). He could easily tell how her black eyes would snap at certain phrases she disliked. He knew just what her comment would be upon the heroine’s conduct. It was an old disputed point between them. He knew how she would criticize the hero, and somehow he felt himself in the hero’s place every time she did it. The story had not been a success, and he felt a weariness as he laid the magazine aside at the call for dinner from the dining-car.

Before he had finished his luncheon he had begun to feel that though Julia might think now that she would like to marry him, the truth about it was that she would not enjoy the actual life together any better than he would. Were all marriages like that? Did people lose the glamour and just settle down to endure each other’s faults and make the most of each other’s pleasant side, and not have anything more? Or was he getting cynical? Had he lived alone too long, as his friends sometimes told him, and so was losing the ability really to love anybody but himself? He knit his brows, and got up whistling to go out and see why the train had stopped so long in this little country settlement.

It was just beyond Princeton, and they were not far now from New York. It would be most annoying to be delayed so near to his destination. He was anxious to get things in train for his evening of hard work. It was necessary to find out how the land lay as soon as possible.

It appeared that there was a wrecked freight ahead of them, and there would be delay. No one knew just how long; it would depend on how soon the wrecking train arrived to help.

Gordon walked nervously up and down the grass at the side of the track, looking anxiously each way for sign of the wrecking train. The thought of Julia did occur to him, but he put it impatiently away, for he knew just how poorly Julia would bear a delay on a journey even in his company. He had been with her once when the engine got off the track on a short trip down to a Virginia house-party, and she was the most impatient creature alive, although it mattered not one whit to any of the rest of the party whether they made merry on the train or at their friend’s house. And yet, if Julia were anything at all to him, would not he like the thought of her companionship now?

A great white dog hobbled up to him and fawned upon him as he turned to go back to the train, and he laid his hand kindly upon the animal’s head, and noted the wistful eyes upon his face. He was a noble dog, and Gordon stood for a moment fondling him. Then he turned impatiently and tramped back to his car again. But when he reached the steps he found that the dog had followed him.

Gordon frowned, half in annoyance, half in amusement, and sitting down on a log by the wayside he took the dog’s pink nozzle into his hands, caressing the white fur above it gently.

The dog whined happily, and Gordon meditated. How long would the train wait? Would he miss getting to New York in time for the dinner? Would he miss the chance to rise in his chief’s good graces? The chief would expect him to get to New York some other way if the train were delayed. How long ought he to wait on possibilities?

All at once he saw the conductor and trainmen coming back hurriedly. Evidently the train was about to start. With a final kindly stroke of the white head, he called a workman nearby, handed him half a dollar to hold the dog, and sprang on board.

He had scarcely settled himself into his chair, however, before the dog came rushing up the aisle from the other end of the car, and precipitated himself muddily and noisily upon him.

With haste and perturbation Gordon hurried the dog to the door and tried to fling him off, but the poor creature pulled back and clung to the platform yelping piteously.

Just then the conductor came from the other car and looked at him curiously.

“No dogs allowed in these cars,” he said gruffly.

“Well, if you know how to enforce that rule I wish you would,” said Gordon. “I’m sure I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Where has he been since you left Washington?” asked the grim conductor with suspicion in his eyes.

“I certainly haven’t had him secreted about me, a dog of that size,” remarked the young man dryly. “Besides, he isn’t my dog. I never saw him before till he followed me at the station. I’m as anxious to be rid of him as he is to stay.”

The conductor eyed the young man keenly, and then allowed a grim sense of humor to appear in one corner of his mouth.

“Got a chain or a rope for him?” he asked more sympathetically.

“Well, no,” remarked the unhappy attaché of the dog. “Not having had an appointment with the dog I didn’t provide myself with a leash for him.”

“Take him into the baggage-car,” said the conductor briefly, and slammed his way into the next car.

There seemed nothing else to be done, but it was most annoying to be thus forced on the notice of his fellow-travellers, when his commission required that he be as inconspicuous as possible.

At Jersey City he hoped to escape and leave the dog to the tender mercies of the baggage man, but that official was craftily waiting for him and handed the animal over to his unwilling master with a satisfaction ill-proportioned to the fee he had received for caring for him.

Then began a series of misfortunes. Disappointment and suspicion stalked beside him, and behind him a voice continually whispered his chief’s last injunction: “Don’t let anything hinder you!”

Frantically he tried first one place and then another, but all to no effect. Nobody apparently wanted to care for a stray white dog, and his very haste aroused suspicion. Once he came near being arrested as a dog thief. He could not get rid of that dog! Yet he must not let him follow him! Would he have to have the animal sent home to Washington as the only solution of the problem? Then a queer fancy seized him that just in some such way had Miss Julia Bentley been shadowing his days for nearly three years now; and he had actually this very day been considering calmly whether he might not have to marry her, just because she was so persistent in her taking possession of him. Not that she was unladylike, of course; no, indeed! She was stately and beautiful, and had never offended. But she had always quietly, persistently, taken it for granted that he would be her attendant whenever she chose; and she always chose whenever he was in the least inclined to enjoy any other woman’s company.

He frowned at himself. Was there something weak about his character that a woman or a dog could so easily master him? Would any other employee in the office, once trusted with his great commission, have allowed it to be hindered by a dog?

Gordon could not afford to waste any more time. He must get rid of him at once!

The express office would not take a dog without a collar and chain unless he was crated; and the delays and exasperating hindrances seemed to be interminable. But at last, following the advice of a kindly officer, he took the dog to an institution in New York where, he was told, dogs were boarded and cared for, and where he finally disposed of him, having first paid ten dollars for the privilege. As he settled back in a taxicab with his watch in his hand, he congratulated himself that he had still ample time to reach his hotel and get into evening dress before he must present himself for his work.

Within three blocks of the hotel the cab came to such a sudden standstill that Gordon was thrown to his knees.

CHAPTER II

They were surrounded immediately by a crowd in which policemen were a prominent feature. The chauffeur seemed dazed in the hands of the officers.

A little, barefoot, white-faced figure huddled limply in the midst showed Gordon what had happened: also there were menacing glances towards himself and a show of lifted stones. He heard one boy say: “You bet he’s in a hurry to git away. Them kind allus is. They don’t care who they kills, they don’t!”

A great horror seized him. The cab had run over a newsboy and perhaps killed him. Yet instantly came the remembrance of his commission: “Don’t let anything hinder you. Make it a matter of life and death!” Well, it looked as if this was a matter of death that hindered him now.

They bundled the moaning boy into the taxicab and as Gordon saw no escape through the tightly packed crowd, who eyed him suspiciously, he climbed in beside the grimy little scrap of unconscious humanity, and they were off to the hospital to the tune of “Don’t let anything hinder you! Don’t let anything hinder you!” until Gordon felt that if it did not stop soon he would go crazy. He meditated opening the cab door and making his escape in spite of the speed they were making, but a vision of broken legs and a bed in the hospital for himself held him to his seat. One of the policemen had climbed on in front with the chauffeur, and now and again he glanced back as if he were conveying a couple of prisoners to jail. It was vexatious beyond anything! And all on account of that white dog! Could anything be more ridiculous than the whole performance?

His annoyance and irritation almost made him forget that it was his progress through the streets that had silenced this mite beside him. But just as he looked at his watch for the fifth time the boy opened his eyes and moaned, and there was in those eyes a striking resemblance to the look in the eyes of the dog of whose presence he had but just rid himself.

Gordon started. In spite of himself it seemed as if the dog were reproaching him through the eyes of the child. Then suddenly the boy spoke.

“Will yous stay by me till I’m mended?” whispered the weak little voice.

Gordon’s heart leaped in horror again, and it came to him that he was being tried out this day to see if he had the right stuff in him for hard tasks. The appeal in the little street-boy’s eyes reached him as no request had ever yet done, and yet he might not answer it. Duty,—life and death duty,—called him elsewhere, and he must leave the little fellow whom he had been the involuntary cause of injuring, to suffer and perhaps to die. It cut him to the quick not to respond to that urgent appeal.

Was it because he was weary that he was visited just then by a vision of Julia Bentley with her handsome lips curled scornfully? Julia Bentley would not have approved of his stopping to carry a boy to the hospital, any more than to care for a dog’s comfort.

“Look here, kiddie,” he said gently, leaning over the child, “I’d stay by you if I could, but I’ve already made myself late for an appointment by coming so far with you. Do you know what Duty is?”

The child nodded sorrowfully.

“Don’t yous mind me,” he murmured weakly. “Just yous go. I’m game all right.” Then the voice trailed off into silence again, and the eyelids fluttered down upon the little, grimy, unconscious face.

Gordon went into the hospital for a brief moment to leave some money in the hands of the authorities for the benefit of the boy, and a message that he would return in a week or two if possible; then hurried away.

Back in the cab once more, he felt as if he had killed a man and left him lying by the roadside while he continued his unswerving march toward the hideous duty which was growing momently more portentous, and to be relieved of which he would gladly have surrendered further hope of his chief’s favor. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but all the time the little white face of the child came before his vision, and the mocking eyes of Julia Bentley tantalized him, as if she were telling him that he had spoiled all his chances—and hers—by his foolish soft-heartedness. Though, what else could he have done than he had done, he asked himself fiercely.

He looked at his watch. It was at least ten minutes’ ride to the hotel, the best time they could make. Thanks to his man the process of dressing for evening would not take long, for he knew that everything would be in place and he would not be hindered. He would make short work of his toilet. But there was his suit-case. It would not do to leave it at the hotel, neither must he take it with him to the house where he was to be a guest. There was nothing for it but to go around by the way of the station where it would have to be checked. That meant a longer ride and more delay, but it must be done.

Arrived at the hotel at last and in the act of signing the unaccustomed “John Burnham” in the hotel registry, there came a call to the telephone.

With a hand that trembled from excitement he took the receiver. His breath went from him as though he had just run up five flights of stairs. “Yes? Hello! Oh, Mrs. Holman. Yes! Burnham. I’ve but just arrived. I was delayed. A wreck ahead of the train. Very kind of you to invite me, I’m sure. Yes, I’ll be there in a few moments, as soon as I can get rid of the dust of travel. Thank you. Good-by.”

It all sounded very commonplace to the clerk, who was making out bills and fretting because he could not get off to take his girl to the theatre that night, but as Gordon hung up the receiver he looked around furtively as if expecting to see a dozen detectives ready to seize upon him. It was the first time he had ever undertaken a commission under an assumed name and he felt as if he were shouting his commission through the streets of New York.

The young man made short work of his toilet. Just as he was leaving the hotel a telegram was handed him. It was from his chief, and so worded that to the operator who had copied it down it read like a hasty call to Boston; but to his code-enlightened eyes it was merely a blind to cover his exit from the hotel and from New York, and set any possible hunters on a wrong scent. He marvelled at the wonderful mind of his chief, who thought out every detail of an important campaign, and forgot not one little possible point where difficulty might arise.

Gordon had a nervous feeling as he again stepped into a taxicab and gave his order. He wondered how many stray dogs, and newsboys with broken legs, would attach themselves to him on the way to dinner. Whenever the speed slowed down, or they were halted by cars and autos, his heart pounded painfully, lest something new had happened, but he arrived safely and swiftly at the station, checked his suit-case, and took another cab to the residence of Mr. Holman, without further incident.

The company were waiting for him, and after the introductions they went immediately to the dining-room. Gordon took his seat with the feeling that he had bungled everything hopelessly, and had arrived so late that there was no possible hope of his doing what he had been sent to do. For the first few minutes his thoughts were a jumble, and his eyes dazed with the brilliant lights of the room. He could not single out the faces of the people present and differentiate them one from another. His heart beat painfully against the stiff expanse of evening linen. It almost seemed as if those near him could hear it. He found himself starting and stammering when he was addressed as “Mr. Burnham.” His thoughts were mingled with white dogs, newsboys, and ladies with scornful smiles.

He was seated on the right of his hostess, and gradually her gentle manners gave him quietness. He began to gain control of himself, and now he seemed to see afar the keen eye of his chief watching the testing of his new commissioner. His heart swelled to meet the demand made upon him. A strong purpose came to him to rise above all obstacles and conquer in spite of circumstances. He must forget everything else and rise to the occasion.

From that moment the dancing lights that multiplied themselves in the glittering silver and cut glass of the table began to settle into order; and slowly, one by one, the conglomeration of faces around the board resolved itself into individuals.

There was the pretty, pale hostess, whose gentle ways seemed hardly to fit with her large, boisterous, though polished husband. Unscrupulousness was written all over his ruddy features, also a certain unhidden craftiness which passed for geniality among his kind.

There were two others with faces full of cunning, both men of wealth and culture. One did not think of the word “refinement” in connection with them; still, that might be conceded also; but it was all dominated by the cunning that on this occasion, at least, was allowed to sit unmasked upon their countenances. They had outwitted an enemy, and they were openly exultant.

Of the other guests, one was very young and sleek, with eyes that had early learned to evade; one was old and weary-looking, with a hunted expression; one was thick-set, with little eyes set close in a fat, selfish face. Gordon began to understand that these three but did the bidding of the others. They listened to the conversation merely from a business standpoint and not with any personal interest. They were there because they were needed, and not because they were desired.

There was one bond which they seemed to hold in common: an alert readiness to combine for their mutual safety. This did not manifest itself in anything tangible, but the guest felt that it was there and ready to spring upon him at any instant.

All this came gradually to the young man as the meal with its pleasant formalities began. As yet nothing had been said about the reason for his being there.

“Did you tell me you were in a wreck?” suddenly asked the hostess sweetly, turning to him, and the table talk hushed instantly while the host asked: “A wreck! Was it serious?”

Gordon perceived his mistake at once. With instant caution, he replied smilingly, “Oh, nothing serious, a little break-down on a freight ahead, which required time to patch up. It reminded me——” and then he launched boldly into one of the bright dinner stories for which he was noted among his companions at home. His heart was beating wildly, but he succeeded in turning the attention of the table to his joke, instead of to asking from where he had come and on what road. Questions about himself were dangerous he plainly saw, if he would get possession of the valued paper and get away without leaving a trail behind him. He succeeded in one thing more, which, though he did not know it, was the very thing his chief had hoped he would do when he chose him instead of a man who had wider experience; he made every man at the table feel that he was delightful, a man to be thoroughly trusted and enjoyed; who would never suspect them of having any ulterior motives in anything they were doing.

The conversation for a little time rippled with bright stories and repartee, and Gordon began to feel almost as if he were merely enjoying a social dinner at home, with Julia Bentley down the table listening and haughtily smiling her approval. For the time the incidents of the dog and the newsboy were forgotten, and the young man felt his self-respect rising. His heart was beginning to get into normal action again and he could control his thoughts. Then suddenly, the crisis arrived.

The soup and fish courses had been disposed of, and the table was being prepared for the entrée. The host leaned back genially in his chair and said, “By the way, Mr. Burnham, did you know I had an axe to grind in asking you here this evening? That sounds inhospitable, doesn’t it? But I’m sure we’re all grateful to the axe that has given us the opportunity of meeting you. We are delighted at having discovered you.”

Gordon bowed, smiling at the compliment, and the murmurs of hearty assent around the table showed him that he had begun well. If only he could keep it up! But how, how, was he to get possession of that magic bit of paper and take it away with him?

“Mr. Burnham, I was delighted to learn through a friend that you are an expert in code-reading. I wonder, did the message that my friend Mr. Burns sent you this morning give you any intimation that I wanted you to do me a favor?”

Gordon bowed again. “Yes: it was intimated to me that you had some message you would like deciphered, and I have also a letter of introduction from Mr. Burns.”

Here Gordon took the letter of introduction from his pocket and handed it across the table to his host, who opened it genially, as if it were hardly necessary to read what was written within since they already knew so delightfully the man whom it introduced. The duplicate cipher writing in Gordon’s pocket crackled knowingly when he settled his coat about him again, as if it would say, “My time is coming! It is almost here now.”

The young man wondered how he was to get it out without being seen, in case he should want to use it, but he smiled pleasantly at his host with no sign of the perturbation he was feeling.

“You see,” went on Mr. Holman, “we have an important message which we cannot read, and our expert who understands all these matters is out of town and cannot return for some time. It is necessary that we know as soon as possible the import of this writing.”

While he was speaking Mr. Holman drew from his pocket a long, soft leather wallet and took therefrom a folded paper which Gordon at once recognized as the duplicate of the one he carried in his pocket. His head seemed to reel, and all the lights go dark before him as he reached a cold hand out for the paper. He saw in it his own advancement coming to his eager grasp, yet when he got it would he be able to hold it? Something of the coolness of a man facing a terrible danger came to him now. By sheer force of will he held his trembling fingers steady as he took the bit of paper and opened it carelessly, as if he had never heard of it before, saying as he did so:

“I will do my best.”

There was a sudden silence as every eye was fixed upon him while he unfolded the paper. He gave one swift glance about the table before he dropped his eyes to the task. Every face held the intensity of almost terrible eagerness, and on every one but that of the gentle hostess sat cunning—craft that would stop at nothing to serve its own ends. It was a moment of almost awful import.

The next instant Gordon’s glance went down to the paper in his hand, and his brain and heart were seized in the grip of fright. There was no other word to describe his feeling. The message before him was clearly written in the code of the home office, and the words stared at him plainly without the necessity of study. The import of them was the revelation of one of the most momentous questions that had to do with the Secret Service work, a question the answer to which had puzzled the entire department for weeks. That answer he now held in his hand, and he knew that if it should come to the knowledge of those outside before it had done its work through the department it would result in dire calamity to the cause of righteousness in the country, and incidentally crush the inefficient messenger who allowed it to become known. For the instant Gordon felt unequal to the task before him. How could he keep these bloodhounds at bay—for such they were, he perceived from the import of the message, bloodhounds who were getting ill-gotten gains from innocent and unsuspecting victims—some of them little children.

But the old chief had picked his man well. Only for an instant the glittering lights darkened before his eyes and the cold perspiration started. Then he rallied his forces and looked up. The welfare of a nation’s honor was in his hands, and he would be true. It was a matter of life and death, and he would save it or lose his own life if need be.

He summoned his ready smile.

“I shall be glad to serve you if I can,” he said. “Of course I’d like to look this over a few minutes before attempting to read it. Codes are different, you know, from one another, but there is a key to them all if one can just find it out. This looks as if it might be very simple.”

The spell of breathlessness was broken. The guests relaxed and went on with their dinner.

Gordon, meanwhile, tried coolly to keep up a pretense of eating, the paper held in one hand while he seemed to be studying it. Once he turned it over and looked on the back. There was a large cross-mark in red ink at the upper end. He looked at it curiously and then instinctively at his host.

“That is my own mark,” said Mr. Holman. “I put it there to distinguish it from other papers.” He was smiling politely, but he might as well have said, “I put it there to identify it in case of theft;” for every one at the table, unless it might be his wife, understood that that was what he meant. Gordon felt it and was conscious of the other paper in his vest-pocket. The way was going to be most difficult.

Among the articles in the envelope which the chief had given him before his departure from Washington were a pair of shell-rimmed eye-glasses, a false mustache, a goatee, and a pair of eyebrows. He had laughed at the suggestion of high-tragedy contained in the disguise, but had brought them with him for a possible emergency. The eye-glasses were tucked into the vest-pocket beside the duplicate paper. He bethought himself of them now. Could he, under cover of taking them out, manage to exchange the papers? And if he should, how about that red-ink mark across the back? Would anyone notice its absence? It was well to exchange the papers as soon as possible before the writing had been studied by those at the table, for he knew that the other message, though resembling this one in general words, differed enough to attract the attention of a close observer. Dared he risk their noticing the absence of the red cross on the back?

Slowly, cautiously, under cover of the conversation, he managed to get that duplicate paper out of his pocket and under the napkin in his lap. This he did with one hand, all the time ostentatiously holding the code message in the other hand, with its back to the people at the table. This hand meanwhile also held his coat lapel out that he might the more easily search his vest-pockets for the glasses. It all looked natural. The hostess was engaged in a whispered conversation with the maid at the moment. The host and other guests were finishing the exceedingly delicious patties on their plates, and the precious code message was safely in evidence, red cross and all. They saw no reason to be suspicious about the stranger’s hunt for his glasses.

“Oh, here they are!” he said, quite unconcernedly, and put on the glasses to look more closely at the paper, spreading it smoothly on the table cloth before him, and wondering how he should get it into his lap in place of the one that now lay quietly under his napkin.

The host and the guests politely refrained from talking to Gordon and told each other incidents of the day in low tones that indicated the non-importance of what they were saying; while they waited for the real business of the hour.

Then the butler removed the plates, pausing beside Gordon waiting punctiliously with his silver tray to brush away the crumbs.

This was just what Gordon waited for. It had come to him as the only way. Courteously he drew aside, lifting the paper from the table and putting it in his lap, for just the instant while the butler did his work; but in that instant the paper with the red cross was slipped under the napkin, and the other paper took its place upon the table, back down so that its lack of a red cross could not be noted.

So far, so good, but how long could this be kept up? And the paper under the napkin—how was it to be got into his pocket? His hands were like ice now, and his brain seemed to be at boiling heat as he sat back and realized that the deed was done, and could not be undone. If anyone should pick up that paper from the table and discover the lack of the red mark, it would be all up with him. He looked up for an instant to meet the gaze of the six men upon him. They had nothing better to do now than to look at him until the next course arrived. He realized that not one of them would have mercy upon him if they knew what he had done, not one unless it might be the tired, old-looking one, and he would not dare interfere.

Still Gordon was enabled to smile, and to say some pleasant nothings to his hostess when she passed him the salted almonds. His hand lay carelessly guarding the secret of the paper on the table, innocently, as though it just happened that he laid it on the paper.

Sitting thus with the real paper in his lap under his large damask napkin, the false paper under his hand on the table where he from time to time perused it, and his eye-glasses which made him look most distinguished still on his nose, he heard the distant telephone bell ring.

He remembered the words of his chief and sat rigid. From his position he could see the tall clock in the hall, and its gilded hands pointed to ten minutes before seven. It was about the time his chief had said he would be called on the telephone. What should he do with the two papers?

He had but an instant to think until the well-trained butler returned and announced that some one wished to speak with Mr. Burnham on the telephone. His resolve was taken. He would have to leave the substitute paper on the table. To carry it away with him might arouse suspicion, and, moreover, he could not easily manage both without being noticed. The real paper must be put safely away at all hazards, and he must take the chance that the absence of the red mark would remain unnoticed until his return.

Deliberately he laid a heavy silver spoon across one edge of the paper on the table, and an icecream fork across the other, as if to hold it in place until his return. Then, rising with apologies, he gathered his napkin, paper, and all in his hand, holding it against his coat most naturally, as if he had forgotten that he had it, and made his way into the front hall, where in an alcove was the telephone. As he passed the hat-rack he swept his coat and hat off with his free hand, and bore them with him, devoutly hoping that he was not being watched from the dining-room. Could he possibly get from the telephone out the front door without being seen? Hastily he hid the cipher message in an inner pocket. The napkin he dropped on the little telephone table, and taking up the receiver he spoke: “Hello! Yes! Oh, good evening! You don’t say so! How did that happen?” He made his voice purposely clear, that it might be heard in the dining-room if anyone was listening. Then glancing in that direction he saw, to his horror, his host lean over and lift the cipher paper he had left on the table and hand it to the guest on his right.

The messenger at the other end had given his sentence agreed upon and he had replied according to the sentences laid down by the chief in his instructions; the other end had said good-by and hung up, but Gordon’s voice spoke, cool and clear in the little alcove, despite his excitement. “All right. Certainly, I can take time to write it down. Wait until I get my pencil. Now, I’m ready. Have you it there? I’ll wait a minute until you get it.” His heart beat wildly. The blood surged through his ears like rushing waters. Would they look for the little red mark? The soft clink of spoons and dishes and the murmur of conversation was still going on, but there was no doubt but that it was a matter of a few seconds before his theft would be discovered. He must make an instant dash for liberty while he yet could. Cautiously, stealthily, like a shadow from the alcove, one eye on the dining-room, he stole to the door and turned the knob. Yet even as he did so he saw his recent host rise excitedly from his seat and fairly snatch the paper from the man who held it. His last glimpse of the room where he had but three minutes before been enjoying the hospitality of the house was a vision of the entire company starting up and pointing to himself even as he slid from sight. There was no longer need for silence. He had been discovered and must fight for his life. He shut the door quickly, his nerves so tense that it seemed as if something must break soon; opened and slammed the outer door, and was out in the great whirling city under the flare of electric lamps with only the chance of a second of time before his pursuers would be upon him.

He came down the steps with the air of one who could scarcely take time to touch his feet to the ground, but must fly.

CHAPTER III

Almost in front of the house stood a closed carriage with two fine horses, but the coachman was looking up anxiously toward the next building. The sound of the closing door drew the man’s attention, and, catching Gordon’s eye, he made as if to jump down and throw open the door of the carriage. Quick as a flash, Gordon saw he had been mistaken for the man the carriage awaited, and he determined to make use of the circumstance.

“Don’t get down,” he called to the man, taking chances. “It’s very late already. I’ll open the door. Drive for all you’re worth.” He jumped in and slammed the carriage door behind him, and in a second more the horses were flying down the street. A glance from the back window showed an excited group of his fellow-guests standing at the open door of the mansion he had just left pointing toward his carriage and wildly gesticulating. He surmised that his host was already at the telephone calling for his own private detective.

Gordon could scarcely believe his senses that he had accomplished his mission and flight so far, and yet he knew his situation was most precarious. Where he was going he neither knew nor cared. When he was sure he was far enough from the house he would call to the driver and give him directions, but first he must make sure that the precious paper was safely stowed away, in case he should be caught and searched. They might be coming after him with motor-cycles in a minute or two.

Carefully rolling the paper into a tiny compass, he slipped it into a hollow gold case which was among the things in the envelope the chief had given him. There was a fine chain attached to the case, and the whole looked innocently like a gold pencil. The chain he slipped about his neck, dropping the case down inside his collar. That done he breathed more freely. Only from his dead body should they take that away. Then he hastily put on the false eyebrows, mustache, and goatee which had been provided for his disguise, and pulling on a pair of light gloves he felt more fit to evade detection.

He was just beginning to think what he should say to the driver about taking him to the station, for it was important that he get out of the city at once, when, glancing out of the window to see what part of the city he was being taken through he became aware of an auto close beside the carriage keeping pace with it, and two men stretching their necks as if to look into the carriage window at him. He withdrew to the shadow instantly so that they could not see him, but the one quick glance he had made him sure that one of his pursuers was the short thick-set man with the cruel jaw who had sat across from him at the dinner-table a few minutes before. If this were so he had practically no chance at all of escape, for what was a carriage against a swift moving car and what was he against a whole city full of strangers and enemies? If he attempted to drop from the carriage on the other side and escape into the darkness he had but a chance of a thousand at not being seen, and he could not hope to hide and get away in this unknown part of the city. Yet he must take his chance somehow, for the carriage must sooner or later get somewhere and he be obliged to face his pursuers.

To make matters worse, just at the instant when he had decided to jump at the next dark place and was measuring the distance with his eye, his hand even being outstretched to grasp the door handle, a blustering, boisterous motor-cycle burst into full bloom just where he intended to jump, and the man who rode it was in uniform. He dodged back into the darkness of the carriage again that he might not be seen, and the motor-cycle came so near that its rider turned a white face and looked in. He felt that his time had come, and his cause was lost. It had not yet occurred to him that the men who were pursuing him would hardly be likely to call in municipal aid in their search, lest their own duplicity would be discovered. He reasoned that he was dealing with desperate men who would stop at nothing to get back the original cipher paper, and stop his mouth. He was well aware that only death would be considered a sufficient silencer for him after what he had seen at Mr. Holman’s dinner-table, for the evidence he could give would involve the honor of every man who had sat there. He saw in a flash that the two henchmen whom he was sure were even now riding in the car on his right had been at the table for the purpose of silencing him if he showed any signs of giving trouble. The wonder was that any of them dared call in a stranger on a matter of such grave import which meant ruin to them all if they were found out, but probably they had reasoned that every man had his price and had intended to offer him a share of the booty. It was likely that the chief had caused it to be understood by them that he was the right kind of man for their purpose. Yet, of course, they had taken precautions, and now they had him well caught, an auto on one side, a motor-cycle on the other and no telling how many more behind! He had been a fool to get into this carriage. He might have known it would only trap him to his death. There seemed absolutely no chance for escape now—yet he must fight to the last. He put his hand on his revolver to make sure it was easy to get at, tried to think whether it would not be better to chew up and swallow that cipher message rather than to run the risk of its falling again into the hands of the enemy; decided that he must carry it intact to his chief if possible; and finally that he must make a dash for safety at once, when just then the carriage turned briskly into a wide driveway, and the attendant auto and motor-cycle dropped behind as if puzzled at the move. The carriage stopped short and a bright light from an open doorway was flung into his face. There seemed to be high stone walls on one side and the lighted doorway on the other hand evidently led into a great stone building. He could hear the puffing of the car and cycle just behind. A wild notion that the carriage had been placed in front of the house to trap him in case he tried to escape, and that he had been brought to prison, flitted through his mind.

His hand was on his revolver as the coachman jumped down to fling open the carriage door, for he intended to fight for his liberty to the last.

He glanced back through the carriage window, and the lights of the auto glared in his face. The short, thick-set man was getting out of the car, and the motor-cyclist had stood his machine up against the wall and was coming toward the carriage. Escape was going to be practically impossible. A wild thought of dashing out the opposite door of his carriage, boldly seizing the motor-cycle and making off on it passed through his mind, and then the door on his left was flung open and the carriage was immediately surrounded by six excited men in evening dress all talking at once. “Here you are at last!” they chorused.

“Where is the best man?” shouted some one from the doorway. “Hasn’t he come either?” And as if in answer one of the men by the carriage door wheeled and called excitedly: “Yes, he’s come! Tell him—tell Jeff—tell him he’s come.” Then turning once more to Gordon he seized him by the arm and cried: “Come on quickly! There isn’t a minute to wait. The organist is fairly frantic. Everybody has been just as nervous as could be. We couldn’t very well go on without you—you know. But don’t let that worry you. It’s all right now you’ve come. Forget it, old man, and hustle.” Dimly Gordon perceived above the sound of subdued hubbub that an organ was playing, and even as he listened it burst into the joyous notes of the wedding march. It dawned upon him that this was not a prison to which he had come but a church—not a court-room but a wedding, and horror of horrors! they took him for the best man. His disguise had been his undoing. How was he to get out of this scrape? And with his pursuers just behind!

“Let me explain——” he began, and wondered what he could explain.

“There’s no time for explanations now, man. I tell you the organ has begun the march. We’re expected to be marching down that middle aisle this very minute and Jeff is waiting for us in the chapel. I sent the signal to the bride and another to the organist the minute we sighted you. Come on! Everybody knows your boat was late in coming in. You don’t need to explain a thing till afterwards.”

At that moment one of the ushers moved aside and the short, thick-set man stepped between, the light shining full upon his face, and Gordon knew him positively for the man who had sat opposite him at the table a few minutes before. He was peering eagerly into the carriage door and Gordon saw his only escape was into the church. With his heart pounding like a trip hammer he yielded himself to the six ushers, who swept the little pursuer aside as if he had been a fly and literally bore Gordon up the steps and into the church door.

A burst of music filled his senses, and dazzling lights, glimpses of flowers, palms and beautiful garments bewildered him. His one thought was for escape from his pursuers. Would they follow him into the church and drag him out in the presence of all these people, or would they be thrown off the track for a little while and give him opportunity yet to get away? He looked around wildly for a place of exit but he was in the hands of the insistent ushers. One of them chattered to him in a low, growling whisper, such as men use on solemn occasions:

“It must have been rough on you being anxious like this about getting here, but never mind now. It’ll go all right. Come on. Here’s our cue and there stands Jefferson over there. You and he go in with the minister, you know. The groom and the best man, you understand, they’ll tell you when. Jeff has the ring all right, so you won’t need to bother about that. There’s absolutely nothing for you to do but stand where you’re put and go out when the rest do. You needn’t feel a bit nervous.”

Was it possible that these crazy people didn’t recognize their mistake even yet here in the bright light? Couldn’t they see his mustache was stuck on and one eyebrow was crooked? Didn’t they know their best man well enough to recognize his voice? Surely, surely, some one would discover the mistake soon—that man Jeff over there who was eyeing him so intently. He would be sure to know this was not his friend. Yet every minute that they continued to think so was a distinct gain for Gordon, puzzling his pursuers and giving himself time to think and plan and study his strange surroundings.

And now they were drawing him forward and a turn of his head gave him a vision of the stubbed head of the thick-set man peering in at the chapel door and watching him eagerly. He must fool him if possible.

“But I don’t know anything about the arrangements,” faltered Gordon, reflecting that the best man might not be very well known to the ushers and perhaps he resembled him. It was not the first time he had been taken for another man—and with his present make-up and all, perhaps it was natural. Could he possibly hope to bluff it out for a few minutes until the ceremony was over and then escape? It would of course be the best way imaginable to throw that impudent little man in the doorway off his track. If the real best man would only stay away long enough it would not be a difficult part to play. The original man might turn up after he was gone and create a pleasant little mystery, but nobody would be injured thereby. All this passed through his mind while the usher kept up his sepulchral whisper:

“Why, there are just the usual arrangements, you know—nothing new. You and Jeff go in after the ushers have reached the back of the church and opened the door. Then you just stand there till Celia and her uncle come up the aisle. Then follows the ceremony—very brief. Celia had all that repeating after the minister cut out on account of not being able to rehearse. It’s to be just the simplest service, not the usual lengthy affair. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right, old man. Hurry! They’re calling you. Leave your hat right here. Now I must go. Keep cool. It’ll soon be over.”

The breathless usher hurried through the door and settled into a sort of exalted hobble to the time of the wonderful Lohengrin music. Gordon turned, thinking even yet to make a possible escape, but the eagle-eye of his pursuer was upon him and the man Jefferson was by his side:

“Here we are!” he said, eagerly grabbing Gordon’s hat and coat and dumping them on a chair. “I’ll look after everything. Just come along. It’s time we went in. The doctor is motioning for us. Awfully glad to see you at last. Too bad you had to rush so. How many years is it since I saw you? Ten! You’ve changed some, but you’re looking fine and dandy. No need to worry about anything. It’ll soon be over and the knot tied.”

Mechanically Gordon fell into place beside the man Jefferson, who was a pleasant-faced youth, well-groomed and handsome. Looking furtively at his finely-cut, happy features, Gordon wondered if he would feel as glad as this youth seemed to be, when he walked down the aisle to meet his bride. How, by the way, would he feel if he were going to be married now,—going into the face of this great company of well-dressed people to meet Miss Julia Bentley and be joined to her for life? Instinctively his soul shrank within him at the thought.

But now the door was wide open, the organ pealing its best, and he suddenly became aware of many eyes, and of wondering how long his eyebrows would withstand the perspiration that was trickling softly down his forehead. His mustache—ridiculous appendage! why had he not removed it?—was it awry? Dared he put up his hand to see? His gloves! Would anyone notice that they were not as strictly fresh as a best man’s gloves should be? Then he took his first step to the music, and it was like being pulled from a delicious morning nap and plunged into a tub of icy water.

He walked with feet that suddenly weighed like lead, across a church that looked to be miles in width, in the face of swarms of curious eyes. He tried to reflect that these people were all strangers to him, that they were not looking at him, anyway, but at the bridegroom by his side, and that it mattered very little what he did, so long as he kept still and braved it out, if only the real best man didn’t turn up until he was well out of the church. Then he could vanish in the dark, and go by some back way to a car or a taxicab and so to the station. The thought of the paper inside the gold pencil-case filled him with a sort of elation. If only he could get out of this dreadful church, he would probably get away safely. Perhaps even the incident of the wedding might prove to be his protection, for they would never seek him in a crowded church at a fashionable wedding.

The man by his side managed him admirably, giving him a whispered hint, a shove, or a push now and then, and getting him into the proper position. It seemed as if the best man had to occupy the most trying spot in all the church, but as they put him there, of course it was right. He glanced furtively over the faces near the front, and they all looked quite satisfied, as if everything were going as it should, so he settled down to his fate, his white, strained face partly hidden by the abundant display of mustache and eyebrow. People whispered softly how handsome he looked, and some suggested that he was not so stout as when they had last seen him, ten years before. His stay in a foreign land must have done him good. One woman went so far as to tell her daughter that he was far more distinguished-looking than she had ever thought he could become, but it was wonderful what a stay in a foreign land would do to improve a person.

The music stole onward; and slowly, gracefully, like the opening of buds into flowers, the bridal party inched along up the middle aisle until at last the bride in all the mystery of her white veil arrived, and all the maidens in their flowers and many colored gauzes were suitably disposed about her.

The feeble old man on whose arm the bride had leaned as she came up the aisle dropped out of the procession, melting into one of the front seats, and Gordon found himself standing beside the bride. He felt sure there must be something wrong about it, and looked at his young guide with an attempt to change places with him, but the man named Jefferson held him in place with a warning eye. “You’re all right. Just stay where you are,” he whispered softly, and Gordon stayed, reflecting on the strange fashions of weddings, and wondering why he had never before taken notice of just how a wedding party came in and stood and got out again. If he was only out of this how glad he would be. It seemed one had to be a pretty all-around man to be a member of the Secret Service.

The organ had hushed its voice to a sort of exultant sobbing, filled with dreams of flowers and joys, and hints of sorrow; and the minister in a voice both impressive and musical began the ceremony. Gordon stood doggedly and wondered if that really was one eyebrow coming down over his eye, or only a drop of perspiration.

Another full second passed, and he decided that if he ever got out of this situation alive he would never, no, never, no, never, get married himself.

During the next second that crawled by he became supremely conscious of the creature in white by his side. A desire possessed him to look at her and see if she were like Julia Bentley. It was like a nightmare haunting his dreams that she was Julia Bentley somehow transported to New York and being married to him willy-nilly. He could not shake it off, and the other eyebrow began to feel shaky. He was sure it was sailing down over his eye. If he only dared press its adhesive lining a little tighter to his flesh!

Some time during the situation there came a prayer, interminable to his excited imagination, as all the other ceremonies.

Under cover of the hush and the supposedly bowed heads, Gordon turned desperately toward the bride. He must see her and drive this phantasm from his brain. He turned, half expecting to see Julia’s tall, handsome form, though telling himself he was a fool, and wondering why he so dreaded the idea. Then his gaze was held fascinated.

She was a little creature, slender and young and very beautiful, with a beauty which a deathly pallor only enhanced. Her face was delicately cut, and set in a frame of fine dark hair, the whole made most exquisite by the mist of white tulle that breathed itself about her like real mist over a flower. But the lovely head drooped, the coral lips had a look of unutterable sadness, and the long lashes swept over white cheeks. He could not take his eyes from her now that he had looked. How lovely, and how fitting for the delightful youth by his side! Now that he thought of it she was like him, only smaller and more delicate, of course. A sudden fierce, ridiculous feeling of envy filled Gordon’s heart. Why couldn’t he have known and loved a girl like that? Why had Julia Bentley been forever in his pathway as the girl laid out for his choice?

He looked at her with such intensity that a couple of dear old sisters who listened to the prayer with their eyes wide open, whispered one to the other: “Just see him look at her! How he must love her! Wasn’t it beautiful that he should come right from the steamer to the church and never see her till now, for the first time in ten long years. It’s so romantic!”

“Yes,” whispered the other; “and I believe it’ll last. He looks at her that way. Only I do dislike that way of arranging the hair on his face. But then it’s foreign I suppose. He’ll probably get over it if they stay in this country.”

A severe old lady in the seat in front turned a reprimanding chin toward them and they subsided. Still Gordon continued to gaze.

Then the bride became aware of his look, raised her eyes, and—they were full of tears!

They gave him one reproachful glance that shot through his soul like a sword, and her lashes drooped again. By some mysterious control over the law of gravity, the tears remained unshed, and the man’s gaze was turned aside; but that look had done its mighty work.

All the experiences of the day rushed over him and seemed to culminate in that one look. It was as if the reproach of all things had come upon him. The hurt in the white dog’s eyes had touched him, the perfect courage in the appeal of the child’s eyes had called forth his deepest sympathy, but the tears of this exquisite woman wrung his heart. He saw now that the appeal of the dog and the child had been the opening wedge for the look of a woman, which tore self from him and flung it at her feet for her to walk upon; and when the prayer was ended he found that he was trembling.

He looked vindictively at the innocent youth beside him, as the soft rustle of the audience and the little breath of relief from the bridal party betokened the next stage in the ceremony. What had this innocent-looking youth done to cause tears in those lovely eyes? Was she marrying him against her will? He was only a boy, anyway. What right had he to suppose he could care for a delicate creature like that? He was making her cry already, and he seemed to be utterly unconscious of it. What could be the matter? Gordon felt a desire to kick him.

Then it occurred to him that inadvertently he might have been the cause of her tears; he, supposedly the best man, who had been late, and held up the wedding no knowing how long. Of course it wasn’t really his fault; but by proxy it was, for he now was masquerading as that unlucky best man, and she was very likely reproaching him for what she supposed was his stupidity. He had heard that women cried sometimes from vexation, disappointment or excitement.

Yet in his heart of hearts he could not set those tears, that look, down to so trivial a cause. They had reached his very soul, and he felt there was something deeper there than mere vexation. There had been bitter reproach for a deep wrong done. The glance had told him that. All the manhood in him rose to defend her against whoever had hurt her. He longed to get one more look into her eyes to make quite sure; and then, if there was still appeal there, his soul must answer it.

For the moment his commission, his ridiculous situation, the real peril to his life and trust, were forgotten.

The man Jefferson had produced a ring and was nudging him. It appeared that the best man had some part to play with that ring. He dimly remembered somewhere hearing that the best man must hand the ring to the bridegroom at the proper moment, but it was absurd for them to go through the farce of doing that when the bridegroom already held the golden circlet in his fingers! Why did he not step up like a man and put it upon the outstretched hand; that little white hand just in front of him there, so timidly held out with its glove fingers tucked back, like a dove crept out from its covert unwillingly?

But that Jefferson-man still held out the ring stupidly to him, and evidently expected him to take it. Silly youth! There was nothing for it but to take it and hand it back, of course. He must do as he was told and hasten that awful ceremony to its interminable close. He took the ring and held it out, but the young man did not take it again. Instead he whispered, “Put it on her finger!”

Gordon frowned. Could he be hearing aright? Why didn’t the fellow put the ring on his own bride? If he were being married, he would knock any man down that dared to put his wife’s wedding ring on for him. Could that be the silly custom now, to have the best man put the bride’s ring on? How unutterably out of place! But he must not make a scene, of course.

The little timid hand, so slender and white, came a shade nearer as if to help, and the ring finger separated itself from the others.

He looked at the smooth circlet. It seemed too tiny for any woman’s finger. Then, reverently, he slipped it on, with a strange, inexpressible longing to touch the little hand. While he was thinking himself all kinds of a fool, and was enjoying one of his intermittent visions of Julia Bentley’s expressive countenance interpolated on the present scene, a strange thing happened.

There had been some low murmurs and motions which he had not noticed because he thought his part of this very uncomfortable affair was about concluded, when, lo and behold, the minister and the young man by his side both began fumbling for his hand, and among them they managed to bring it into position and place in its astonished grasp the little timid hand that he had just crowned with its ring.

As his fingers closed over the bride’s hand, there was such reverence, such tenderness in his touch that the girl’s eyes were raised once more to his face, this time with the conquered tears in retreat, but all the pain and appeal still there. He looked and involuntarily he pressed her hand the closer, as if to promise aforetime whatever she would ask. Then, with her hand in his, and with the realization that they two were detached as it were from the rest of the wedding party, standing in a little centre of their own, his senses came back to him, and he perceived as in a flash of understanding that it was they who were being married!

There had been some terrible, unexplainable mistake, and he was stupidly standing in another man’s place, taking life vows upon himself! The thing had passed from an adventure of little moment into a matter of a life-tragedy, two life-tragedies perhaps! What should he do?

With the question came the words, “I pronounce you husband and wife,” and “let no man put asunder.”

CHAPTER IV

What had he done? Was it some great unnamed, unheard-of crime he had unconsciously committed? Could anyone understand or excuse such asinine stupidity? Could he ever hold up his head again, though he fled to the most distant part of the globe? Was there nothing that could save the situation? Now, before they left the church, could he not declare the truth, and set things right, undo the words that had been spoken in the presence of all these witnesses, and send out to find the real bridegroom? Surely neither law nor gospel could endorse a bond made in the ignorance of either participant. It would, of course, be a terrible thing for the bride, but better now than later. Besides, he was pledged by that hand-clasp to answer the appeal in her eyes and protect her. This, then, was what it had meant!

But his commission! What of that? “A matter of life and death!” Ah! but this was more than life or death!

While these rapid thoughts were flashing through his brain, the benediction was being pronounced, and with the last word the organ pealed forth its triumphant lay. The audience stirred excitedly, anticipating the final view of the wedding procession.

The bride turned to take her bouquet from the maid of honor, and the movement broke the spell under which Gordon had been held.

He turned to the young man by his side and spoke hurriedly in a low tone.

“An awful mistake has been made,” he said, and the organ drowned everything but the word “mistake.” “I don’t know what to do,” he went on. But young Jefferson hastened to reassure him joyously:

“Not a bit of it, old chap. Nobody noticed that hitch about the ring. It was only a second. Everything went off slick. You haven’t anything more to do now but take my sister out. Look alive, there! She looks as if she might be going to faint! She hasn’t been a bit well all day! Steady her, quick, can’t you? She’ll stick it out till she gets to the air, but hurry, for goodness’ sake!”

Gordon turned in alarm. Already the frail white bride had a claim on him. His first duty was to get her out of this crowd. Perhaps, after all, she had discovered that he was not the right man, and that was the meaning of her tears and appeal. Yet she had held her own and allowed things to go through to the finish, and perhaps he had no right to reveal to the assembled multitudes what she evidently wanted kept quiet. He must wait till he could ask her. He must do as this other man said—this—this brother of hers—who was of course the best man. Oh, fool, and blind! Why had he not understood at the beginning and got himself out of this fix before it was too late? And what should he do when he reached the door? How could he ever explain? His commission! He dared not breathe a word of that? What explanation could he possibly offer for his—his—yes——his criminal conduct? Why, no such thing was ever heard of in the history of mankind as that which had happened to him. From start to finish it was—it—was—— He could not think of words to express what it was.

He was by this time meandering jerkily down the aisle, attempting to keep time to the music and look the part that she evidently expected him to play, but his eyes were upon her face, which was whiter now and, if possible, lovelier, than before.

“Oh, just see how devoted he is,” murmured the eldest of the two dear old sisters, and he caught the sense of her words as he passed, and wondered. Then, immediately before him, retreating backward down the aisle with terrible eyes of scorn upon him, he seemed to feel the presence of Miss Julia Bentley leading onward toward the church door; but he would not take his eyes from that sweet, sad face of the white bride on his arm to look. He somehow knew that if he could hold out until he reached that door without looking up, her power over him would be exorcised forever.

Out into the vacant vestibule, under the tented canopy, alone together for the moment, he felt her gentle weight grow heavy on his arm, and knew her footsteps were lagging. Instinctively, lest others should gather around them, he almost lifted her and bore her down the carpeted steps, through the covered pathway, to the luxurious motor-car waiting with open door, and placed her on the cushions. Some one closed the car door and almost immediately they were in motion.

She settled back with a half sigh, as if she could not have borne one instant more of strain, then sitting opposite he adjusted the window to give her air. She seemed grateful but said nothing. Her eyes were closed wearily, and the whole droop of her figure showed utter exhaustion. It seemed a desecration to speak to her, yet he must have some kind of an understanding before they reached their destination.

“An explanation is due to you——” he began, without knowing just what he was going to say, but she put out her hand with a weary protest.

“Oh, please don’t!” she pleaded. “I know—the boat was late! It doesn’t matter in the least.”

He sat back appalled! She did not herself know then that she had married the wrong man!

“But you don’t understand,” he protested.

“Never mind,” she moaned. “I don’t want to understand. Nothing can change things. Only, let me be quiet till we get to the house, or I never can go through with the rest of it.”

Her words ended with almost a sob, and he sat silent for an instant, with a mingling of emotions, uppermost of which was a desire to take the little, white, shrinking girl into his arms and comfort her, “Nothing can change things!” That sounded as though she did know but thought it too late to undo the great mistake now that it had been made. He must let her know that he had not understood until the ceremony was over. While he sat helplessly looking at her in the dimness of the car where she looked so small and sad and misty huddled beside her great bouquet, she opened her eyes and looked at him. She seemed to understand that he was about to speak again. By the great arc light they were passing he saw there were tears in her eyes again, and her voice held a child-like pleading as she uttered one word:

“Don’t!”

It hurt him like a knife, he knew not why. But he could not resist the appeal. Duty or no duty, he could not disobey her command.

“Very well.” He said it quietly, almost tenderly, and sat back with folded arms. After all, what explanation could he give her that she would believe? He might not breathe a word of his commission or the message. What other reason could he give for his extraordinary appearance at her wedding and by her side?

The promise in his voice seemed to give her relief. She breathed a sigh of relief and closed her eyes. He must just keep still and have his eyes open for a chance to escape when the carriage reached its destination.

Thus silently they threaded through unknown streets, strange thoughts in the heart of each. The bride was struggling with her heavy burden, and the man was trying to think his way out of the maze of perplexity into which he had unwittingly wandered. He tried to set his thoughts in order and find out just what to do. First of all, of course came his commission, but somehow every time the little white bride opposite took first place in his mind. Could he serve both? What would serve both, and what would serve either? As for himself, he was free to confess that there was no room left in the present situation for even a consideration of his own interests.

Whatever there was of good in him must go now to set matters right in which he had greatly blundered. He must do the best he could for the girl who had so strangely crossed his pathway, and get back to his commission. But when he tried to realize the importance of his commission and set it over against the interests of the girl-bride, his mind became confused. What should he do! He could not think of slipping away and leaving her without further words, even if an opportunity offered itself. Perhaps he was wrong. Doubtless his many friends might tell him so if they were consulted, but he did not intend to consult them. He intended to see this troubled soul to some place of safety, and look out for his commission as best he could afterward. One thing he did not fully realize, and that was that Miss Julia Bentley’s vision troubled him no longer. He was free. There was only one woman in the whole wide world that gave him any concern, and that was the little sorrowful creature who sat opposite to him, and to whom he had just been married.

Just been married! He! The thought brought with it a thrill of wonder, and a something else that was not unpleasant. What if he really had? Of course he had not. Of course such a thing could not hold good. But what if he had! Just for an instant he entertained the thought—would he be glad or sorry? He did not know her, of course, had heard her speak but a few words, had looked into her face plainly but once, and yet suppose she were his! His heart answered the question with a glad bound that astonished him, and all his former ideas of real love were swept from his mind in a breath. He knew that, stranger though she was, he could take her to his heart; cherish her, love her and bear with her, as he never could have done Julia Bentley. Then all at once he realized that he was allowing his thoughts to dwell upon a woman who by all that was holy belonged to another man, and that other man would doubtless soon be the one with whom he would have to deal. He would soon be face to face with a new phase of the situation and he must prepare himself to meet it. What was he going to do? Should he plan to escape from the opposite door of the automobile while the bride was being assisted from her seat? No, he could not, for he would be expected to get out first and help her out. Besides, there would be too many around, and he could not possibly get away. But, greater than any such reason, the thing that held him bound was the look in her eyes through the tears. He simply could not leave her until he knew that she no longer needed him. And yet there was his commission! Well, he must see her in the hands of those who would care for her at least. So much he had done even for the white dog, and then, too, surely she was worth as many minutes of his time as he had been compelled to give to the injured child of the streets. If he only could explain to her now!

The thought of his message, with its terrible significance, safe in his possession, sent shivers of anxiety through his frame! Suppose he should be caught, and it taken from him, all on account of this most impossible incident! What scorn, what contumely, would be his! How could he ever explain to his chief? Would anybody living believe that a man in his senses could be married to a stranger before a whole church full of people, and not know he was being married until the deed was done—and then not do anything about it after it was done? That was what he was doing now this very minute. He ought to be explaining something somehow to that poor little creature in the shadow of the carriage. Perhaps in some way it might relieve her sorrow if he did, and yet when he looked at her and tried to speak his mouth was hopelessly closed. He might not tell her anything!

He gradually sifted his immediate actions down to two necessities; to get his companion to a safe place where her friends could care for her, and to make his escape as soon and as swiftly as possible. It was awful to run and leave her without telling her anything about it; when she evidently believed him to be the man she had promised and intended to marry; but the real bridegroom would surely turn up soon somehow and make matters right. Anyhow, it was the least he could do to take himself out of her way, and to get his trust to its owners at once.

The car halted suddenly before a brightly lighted mansion, whose tented entrance effectually shut out the gaze of alien eyes, and made the transit from car to domicile entirely private. There was no opportunity here to disappear. The sidewalk and road were black with curious onlookers. He stepped from the car first and helped the lady out. He bore her heavy bouquet because she looked literally too frail to carry it further herself.

In the doorway she was surrounded by a bevy of servants, foremost among whom her old nurse claimed the privilege of greeting her with tears and smiles and many “Miss-Celia-my-dears,” and Gordon stood for the instant entranced, watching the sweet play of loving kindness in the face of the pale little bride. As soon as he could lay down those flowers inconspicuously he would be on the alert for a way of escape. It surely would be found through some back or side entrance of the house.

But even as the thought came to him the old nurse stepped back to let the other servants greet the bride with stiff bows and embarrassed words of blessing, and he felt a hand laid heavily on his arm.

He started as he turned, thinking instantly again of his commission and expecting to see a policeman in uniform by his side, but it was only the old nurse, with tears of devotion still in her faded eyes.

“Mister George, ye hevn’t forgot me, hev ye?” she asked, earnestly. “You usen’t to like me verra well, I mind, but ye was awful for the teasin’ an’ I was always for my Miss Celie! But bygones is bygones now an’ I wish ye well. Yer growed a man, an’ I know ye must be worthy o’ her, or she’d never hev consented to take ye. Yev got a gude wife an’ no mistake, an’ I know ye’ll be the happiest man alive. Ye won’t hold it against me, Mister George, that I used to tell yer uncle on your masterful tricks, will ye? You mind I was only carin’ fer my baby girl, an’ ye were but a boy.”

She paused as if expecting an answer, and Gordon embarrassedly assured her that he would never think of holding so trifling a matter against her. He cast a look of reverent admiration and tenderness toward the beautiful girl who was smiling on her loyal subjects like a queen, roused from her sorrow to give joy to others; and even her old nurse was satisfied.

“Ah, ye luve her, Mister George, don’t ye?” the nurse questioned. “I don’t wonder. Everybody what lays eyes on her luves her. She’s that dear——” here the tears got the better of the good woman for an instant and she forgot herself and pulled at the skirt of her new black dress thinking it was an apron, and wishing to wipe her eyes.

Then suddenly Gordon found his lips uttering strange words, without his own apparent consent, as if his heart had suddenly taken things in hand and determined to do as it pleased without consulting his judgment.

“Yes, I love her,” he was saying, and to his amazement he found that the words were true.

This discovery made matters still more complicated.

“Then ye’ll promise me something, Mister George, won’t ye?” said the nurse eagerly, her tears having their own way down her rosy anxious face. “Ye’ll promise me never to make her feel bad any more? She’s cried a lot these last three months, an’ nobody knows but me. She could hide it from them all but her old nurse that has loved her so long. But she’s been that sorrowful, enough fer a whole lifetime. Promise that ye’ll do all in yer power to make her happy always.”

“I will do all in my power to make her happy,” he said, solemnly, as if he were uttering a vow, and wondered how short-lived that power was to be.

CHAPTER V

The wedding party had arrived in full force now. Carriages and automobiles were unloading; gay voices and laughter filled the house. The servants disappeared to their places, and the white bride, with only a motioning look toward Gordon, led the way to the place where they were to stand under an arch of roses, lilies and palms, in a room hung from the ceiling with drooping ferns and white carnations on invisible threads of silver wire, until it all seemed like a fairy dream.

Gordon had no choice but to follow, as his way was blocked by the incoming guests, and he foresaw that his exit would have to be made from some other door than the front if he were to escape yet awhile. As he stepped into the mystery of the flower-scented room where his lady led the way, he was conscious of a feeling of transition from the world of ordinary things into one of wonder, beauty and mysterious joy; but all the time he knew he was an impostor, who had no right in that silver-threaded bower.

Yet there he stood bowing, shaking hands, and smirking behind his false mustache, which threatened every minute to betray him.

People told him he was looking well, and congratulated him on his bride. Some said he was stouter than when he left the country, and some said he was thinner. They asked him questions about relatives and friends living and dead, and he ran constant risk of getting into hopeless difficulties. His only safety was in smiling, and saying very little; seeming not to hear some questions, and answering others with another question. It was not so hard after he got started, because there were so many people, and they kept coming close upon one another, so no one had much time to talk. Then supper with its formalities was got through with somehow, though to Gordon, with his already satisfied appetite and his hampering mustache, it seemed an endless ordeal.

“Jeff,” as they all called him, was everywhere, attending to everything, and he slipped up to the unwilling bridegroom just as he was having to answer a very difficult question about the lateness of his vessel, and the kind of passage they had experienced in crossing. By this time Gordon had discovered that he was supposed to have been ten years abroad, and his steamer had been late in landing, but where he came from or what he had been doing over there were still to be found out; and it was extremely puzzling to be asked from what port he had sailed, and how he came to be there when he had been supposed to have been in St. Petersburg but the week before? His state of mind was anything but enviable. Besides all this, Gordon was just reflecting that the last he had seen of his hat and coat was in the church. What had become of them, and how could he go to the station without a hat? Then opportunely “Jeff” arrived.

“Your train leaves at ten three,” he said in a low, business-like tone, as if he enjoyed the importance of having made all the arrangements. “I’ve secured the stateroom as you cabled me to do, and here are the tickets and checks. The trunks are down there all checked. Celia didn’t want any nonsense about their being tied up with white ribbon. She hates all that. We’ve arranged for you to slip out by the fire-escape and down through the back yard of the next neighbor, where a motor, just a plain regular one from the station, will be waiting around the corner in the shadow. Celia knows where it is. None of the party will know you are gone until you are well under way. The car they think you will take is being elaborately adorned with white at the front door now, but you won’t have any trouble about it. I’ve fixed everything up. Your coat and hat are out on the fire-escape, and as soon as Celia’s ready I’ll show you the way.”

Gordon thanked him. There was nothing else to do, but his countenance grew blank. Was there, then, to be no escape? Must he actually take another man’s bride with him in order to get away? And how was he to get away from her? Where was the real bridegroom and why did he not appear upon the scene? And yet what complications that might bring up. He began to look wildly about for a chance to flee at once, for how could he possibly run away with a bride on his hands? If only some one were going with them to the station he could slip away with a clear conscience, leaving her in good hands, but to leave her alone, ill, and distressed was out of the question. He had rid himself of a lonely dog and a suffering child, though it gave him anguish to do the deed, but leave this lovely woman for whom he at least appeared to have become responsible, he could not, until he was sure she would come to no harm through him.

“Don’t let anything hinder you! Don’t let anything hinder you!”

It appeared that this refrain had not ceased for an instant since it began, but had chimed its changes through music, ceremony, prayer and reception without interruption. It acted like a goad upon his conscience now. He must do something that would set him free to go back to Washington. An inspiration came to him.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to the station with us?” he asked the young man, “I am sure your sister would like to have you.”

The boy’s face lit up joyfully.

“Oh, wouldn’t you mind? I’d like it awfully, and—if it’s all the same to you, I wish Mother could go too. It’s the first time Celia and she were ever separated, and I know she hates it fiercely to have to say good-by with the house full of folks this way. But she doesn’t expect it of course, and really it isn’t fair to you, when you haven’t seen Celia alone yet, and it’s your wedding trip——”

“There will be plenty of time for us,” said the compulsory bridegroom graciously, and felt as if he had perjured himself. It was not in his nature to enjoy a serious masquerade of this kind.

“I shall be glad to have you both come,” he added earnestly. “I really want you. Tell your mother.”

The boy grasped his hand impulsively:

“I say,” said he, “you’re all right! I don’t mind confessing that I’ve hated the very thought of you for a whole three months, ever since Celia told us she had promised to marry you. You see, I never really knew you when I was a little chap, but I didn’t used to like you. I took an awful scunner to you for some reason. I suppose kids often take irrational dislikes like that. But ever since I’ve laid eyes on you to-night, I’ve liked you all the way through. I like your eyes. It isn’t a bit as I thought I remembered you. I used to think your eyes had a sort of deceitful look. Awful to tell you, isn’t it? But I felt as if I wanted to have it off my conscience, for I see now you’re nothing of the kind. You’ve got the honestest eyes I ever saw on a man, and I’d stake my last cent that you wouldn’t cheat a church mouse. You’re true as steel, and I’m mighty glad you’re my brother-in-law. I know you’ll be good to Celia.”

The slow color mounted under his disguise until it reached Gordon’s burnished brown hair. His eyes were honest eyes. They had always been so—until to-day. Into what a world of deceit he had entered! How he would like to make a clean breast of it all to this nice, frank boy; but he must not! for there was his trust! For an instant he was on the point of trying to explain that he was not the true bridegroom, and getting young Jefferson to help him to set matters right, but an influx of newly arrived guests broke in upon their privacy, and he could only press the boy’s hand and say in embarrassed tones:

“Thank you! I shall try to be worthy of your good opinion hereafter!”

It was over at last, and the bride slipped from his side to prepare for the journey. He looked hastily around, feeling that his very first opportunity had come for making an escape. If an open window had presented itself, he would have vaulted through, trusting to luck and his heels to get away, but there was no window, and every door was blocked by staring, admiring, smirking people. He bethought himself of the fire-escape where waited his hat and coat, and wondered if he could find it.

With smiling apologies, he broke away from those around him, murmuring something about being needed, and worked his way firmly but steadily toward the stairs and thence to the back halls. Coming at last upon an open window, he slipped through, his heart beating wildly. He thought for a second that he was there ahead of the others; but a dark form loomed ahead and he perceived some one coming up from outside. Another second, and he saw it was his newly acquired brother-in-law.

“Say, this is great!” was his greeting. “How did you manage to find your way up alone? I was just coming down after you. I wanted to leave you there till the last minute so no one would suspect, but now you are here we can hustle off at once. I just took Mother and Celia down. It was pretty stiff for Mother to climb down, for she was a little bit afraid, but she was game all right, and she was so pleased to go. They’re waiting for us down there in the court. Here, let me help you with your overcoat. Now I’ll pull down this window, so no one will suspect us and follow. That’s all right now, come on! You go ahead. Just hold on to the railing and go slow. I’ll keep close to you. I know the way in my sleep. I’ve played fire here many a year, and could climb down in my sleep.”

Gordon found himself wishing that this delightful brother-in-law were really his. There was evidently to be no opportunity of escape here. He meditated making a dash and getting away in the dark when they should reach the foot of the stairs; much as he hated to leave that way, he felt he must do so if there was any chance for him at all; but when they reached the ground he saw that was hopeless. The car that was to take them to the station was drawn up close to the spot, and the chauffeur stood beside it.

“Your mother says fer you to hurry, Mister Jefferson,” he called in a sepulchral tone. “They’re coming out around the block to watch. Get in as quick as you can.”

The burly chauffeur stood below Gordon, helped him to alight on his feet from the fire-escape, and hustled him into the darkness of the conveyance.

They were very quiet until they had left the dark court and were speeding away down the avenue. Then the bride’s mother laid two gentle hands upon Gordon’s, leaning across from her seat to do so, and said:

“My son, I shall never forget this of you, never! It was dear of you to give me this last few minutes with my darling!”

Gordon, deeply touched and much put to it for words, mumbled something about being very glad to have her, and Jefferson relieved the situation by pouring forth a volume of information and questions, fortunately not pausing long enough to have the latter answered. The bride sat with one hand clasped in her mother’s, and said not a word. Gordon was haunted by the thought of tears in her eyes.

There was little opportunity for thinking, but Gordon made a hasty plan. He decided to get his party all out to the train and then remember his suit-case, which he had left checked in the station. Jefferson would probably insist upon going for it but he would insist more strenuously that the brother and sister would want to have this last minute together. Then he could get away in the crowd and disappear, coming later for his suit-case perhaps, or sending a porter from his own train for it. The only drawback to this arrangement was that it seemed a dishonorable way to leave these people who would in the nature of things be left in a most trying position by his disappearance, especially the sad little bride. But it could not be helped, and his staying would only complicate things still further, for he would have to explain who he was, and that was practically impossible on account of his commission. It would not do to run risks with himself until his mission was accomplished and his message delivered. After that he could confess and make whatever reparation a man in his strange position could render.

The plan worked very well. The brother of course eagerly urged that he be allowed to go back for the suit-case, but Gordon, with well-feigned thoughtfulness, said in a low tone:

“Your sister will want you for a minute all to herself.”

A tender look came into the boy’s eyes, and he turned back smiling to the stateroom where his mother and sister were having a wordless farewell. Gordon jumped from the train and sprinted down the platform, feeling meaner than he ever remembered to have felt in his whole life, and with a strange heaviness about his heart. He forgot for the moment that there was need for him to be on his guard against possible detectives sent by Mr. Holman. Even the importance of the message he carried seemed to weigh less, now that he was free. His feet had a strange unwillingness to hurry, and without a constant pressure of the will would have lagged in spite of him. His heart wanted to let suit-case and commission and everything else go to the winds and take him back to the stateroom where he had left his sorrowful bride of an hour. She was not his, and he might not go, but he knew that he would never be the same hereafter. He would always be wondering where she was, wishing he could have saved her from whatever troubled her; wishing she were his bride, and not another’s.

He passed back through the station gate, and a man in evening clothes eyed him sharply. He fancied he saw a resemblance to one of the men at the Holman dinner-table, but he dared not look again lest a glance should cost him recognition. He wondered blindly which way he should take, and if it would be safe to risk going at once to the checking window, or whether he ought to go in hiding until he was sure young Jefferson would no longer look for him. Then a hand touched his shoulder and a voice that was strangely welcome shouted:

“This way, George! The checking place is over to the right!”

He turned and there stood Jefferson, smiling and panting:

“You see, the little mother had something to say to Celia alone, so I saw I was de trop, and thought I better come with you,” he declared as soon as he could get his breath.

“Gee, but you can run!” added the panting youth. “What’s the hurry? It’s ten whole minutes before the train leaves. I couldn’t waste all that time kicking my heels on the platform, when I might be enjoying my new brother-in-law’s company. I say, are you really going to live permanently in Chicago? I do wish you’d decide to come back to New York. Mother’ll miss Celia no end. I don’t know how she’s going to stand it.”

Walking airily by Gordon’s side, he talked, apparently not noticing the sudden start and look of mingled anxiety and relief that overspread his brother-in-law’s countenance. Then another man walked by them and turning looked in their faces. Gordon was sure this was the thick-set man from Holman’s. He was eying Gordon keenly. Suddenly all other questions stepped into the background, and the only immediate matter that concerned him was his message, to get it safely to its destination. With real relief he saw that this had been his greatest concern all the time, underneath all hindrances, and that there had not been at any moment any escape from the crowding circumstances other than that he had taken, step by step. If he had been beset by thieves and blackguards, and thrown into prison for a time he would not have felt shame at the delay, for those things he could not help. He saw with new illumination that there was no more shame to him from these trivial and peculiar circumstances with which he had been hemmed in since his start to New York than if he had been checked by any more tragic obstacles. His only real misgiving was about his marriage. Somehow it seemed his fault, and he felt there ought to be some way to confess his part at once—but how—without putting his message in jeopardy—for no one would believe unless they knew all.

But the time of danger was at hand, he plainly saw. The man whom he dared not look closely at had turned again and was walking parallel to them, glancing now and again keenly in their direction. He was watching Gordon furtively; not a motion escaped him.

There was a moment’s delay at the checking counter while the attendant searched for the suit-case, and Gordon was convinced that the man had stopped a few steps away merely for the purpose of watching him.

He dared not look around or notice the man, but he was sure he followed them back to the train. He felt his presence as clearly as if he had been able to see through the back of his head.

But Gordon was cool and collected now. It was as if the experiences of the last two hours, with their embarrassing predicaments, had been wiped off the calendar, and he were back at the moment when he left the Holman house. He knew as well as if he had watched them follow him that they had discovered his—theft—treachery—whatever it ought to be called—and he was being searched for; and because of what was at stake those men would track him to death if they could. But he knew also that his disguise and his companion were for the moment puzzling this sleuth-hound.

This was probably not the only watcher about the station. There were detectives, too, perhaps, hired hastily, and all too ready to seize a suspect.

He marvelled that he could walk so deliberately, swinging his suit-case in his gloved hand at so momentous a time. He smiled and talked easily with the pleasant fellow who walked by his side, and answered his questions with very little idea of what he was saying; making promises which his heart would like to keep, but which he now saw no way of making good.

Thus they entered the train and came to the car where the bride and her mother waited. There were tears on the face of the girl, and she turned to the window to hide them. Gordon’s eyes followed her wistfully, and down through the double glass, unnoticed by her absent gaze, he saw the face of the man who had followed them, sharply watching him.

Realizing that his hat was a partial disguise, he kept it on in spite of the presence of the ladies. The color rose in his cheeks that he had to seem so discourteous, but, to cover his embarrassment, he insisted that he be allowed to take the elder lady to the platform, as it really was almost time for the train to start, and so he went deliberately out to act the part of bridegroom in the face of his recognized foe.

The mother and Gordon stood for a moment on the vestibule platform, while Jefferson bade his sister good-by and tried to soothe her distress at parting from her mother.

“He’s all right, Celie, indeed he is,” said the young fellow caressingly, laying his hand upon his sister’s bowed head. “He’s going to be awfully good to you; he cares a lot for you, and he’s promised to do all sorts of nice things. He says he’ll bring you back soon, and he would never stand in the way of your being with us a lot. He did indeed! What do you think of that? Isn’t it quite different from what you thought he would say? He doesn’t seem to think he’s got to spend the rest of his days in Chicago either. He says there might something turn up that would make it possible for him to change all his plans. Isn’t that great?”

Celia tried to look up and smile through her tears, while the man outside studied the situation a moment in perplexity and then strolled slowly back to watch Gordon and the elder woman.

“You will be good to my little girl,” he heard the woman’s voice pleading. “She has always been guarded, and she will miss us all, even though she has you.” The voice went through Gordon like a knife. To stand much more of this and not denounce himself for a blackguard would be impossible. Neither could he keep his hat on in the presence of this wonderful motherhood, a motherhood that appealed to him all the more that he had never known a mother of his own, and had always longed for one.

He put up his hand and lifted his hat slightly, guarding as much as possible his own face from the view of the man on the station platform, who was still walking deliberately, considerately, up and down, often passing near enough to hear what they were saying. In this reverent attitude, Gordon said, as though he were uttering a sacred vow:

“I will guard her as if she were—as if I were—as if I were—you”—then he paused a moment and added solemnly, tenderly—“Mother!”

He wondered if it were not desecration to utter such words when all the time he was utterly unable to perform them in the way in which the mother meant. “Impostor!” was the word which rang in his ears now. The clamor about being hindered had ceased, for he was doing his best, and not letting even a woman’s happiness stand in the way of his duty.

Yet his heart had dictated the words he had spoken, while his mind and judgment were busy with his perilous position. He could not gainsay his heart, for he felt that in every way he could he would guard and care for the girl who was to be in his keeping at least for a few minutes until he could contrive some way to get her back to her friends without him.

The whistle of the train was sounding now, and the brakemen were shouting, “All aboard!”

He helped the frail little elderly woman down the steps, and she reached up her face to kiss him. He bent and took the caress, the first time that a woman’s lips had touched his face since he was a little child.

“Mother, I will not let anything harm her,” he whispered, and she said:

“My boy, I can trust you!”

Then he put her into the care of her strong young son, swung upon the train as the wheels began to move, and hurried back to the bride. On the platform, walking beside the train, he still saw the man. Going to the weeping girl, Gordon stooped over her gently, touched her on the shoulder, and drew the window shade down. The last face he saw outside was the face of the baffled man, who was turning back, but what for? Was he going to report to others, and would there perhaps be another stop before they left the city, where officers or detectives might board the train? He ought to be ready to get off and run for his life if there was. There seemed no way but to fee the porter to look after his companion, and leave her, despicable as it seemed! Yet his soul of honor told him he could never do that, no matter what was at stake.

Then, without warning a new situation was thrust upon him. The bride, who had been standing with bowed head and with her handkerchief up to her eyes, just as her brother had left her, tottered and fell into his arms, limp and white. Instantly all his senses were called into action, and he forgot the man on the platform, forgot the possible next stop in the city, and the explanation he had been about to make to the girl; forgot even the importance of his mission, and the fact that the train he was on was headed toward Chicago, instead of Washington; forgot everything but the fact that the loveliest girl he had ever seen, with the saddest look a human face might wear, was lying apparently lifeless in his arms.

Outside the window the man had turned back and was now running excitedly along with the train trying to see into the window; and down the platform, not ten yards behind, came a frantic man with English-looking clothes, a heavy mustache and goatee, shaggy eyebrows, and a sensual face, striding angrily along as fast as his heavy body would carry him.

But Gordon saw none of them.

CHAPTER VI

Five hours before, the man who was hurling himself furiously after the rapidly retreating train had driven calmly through the city, from the pier of the White Star Line to the apartment of a man whom he had met abroad, and who had offered him the use of it during his absence. The rooms were in the fourth story of a fine apartment house. The returning exile noted with satisfaction the irreproachable neighborhood, as he slowly descended from the carriage, paid his fee, and entered the door, to present his letter of introduction to the janitor in charge.

His first act was to open the steamer trunk which he had brought with him in the cab, and take therefrom his wedding garments. These he carefully arranged on folding hangers and hung in the closet, which was otherwise empty save for a few boxes piled on the high shelf.

Then he hastened to the telephone and communicated with his best man, Jefferson Hathaway; told him the boat was late arriving at the dock, but that he was here at last; gave him a few directions concerning errands he would like to have done, and agreed to be at the church a half-hour earlier than the time set for the ceremony, to be shown just what arrangements had been made. He was told that his bride was feeling very tired and was resting, and agreed that it would be as well not to disturb her; they would have time enough to talk afterwards; there really wasn’t anything to say but what he had already written. And he would have about all he could do to get there on time as it was. He asked if Jefferson had called for the ring he had ordered and if the carriage would be sent for him in time and then without formalities closed the interview. He and Jefferson were not exactly fond of one another, though Jefferson was the beloved brother of his bride-to-be.

He hung up the receiver and rang for a brandy and soda to brace himself for the coming ordeal which was to bind to him a woman whom for years he had been trying to get in his power and whom he might have loved if she had not dared to scorn him for the evil that she knew was in him. At last he had found a way to subdue her and bring her with her ample fortune to his feet and he felt the exultation of the conqueror as he went about his preparations for the evening.

He made a smug and leisurely toilet, with a smile of satisfaction upon his flabby face. He was naturally a selfish person and had always known how to make other people attend to all bothersome details for him while he enjoyed himself. He was quite comfortable and self-complacent as he posed a moment before the mirror to smooth his mustache and note how well he was looking. Then he went to the closet for his coat.

It was most peculiar, the way it happened, but somehow, as he stepped into that closet to take down his coat, which hung at the back where the space was widest, the opening at the wrist of his shirt-sleeve caught for just an instant in the little knob of the closet latch. The gold button which held the cuff to the wristband slipped its hold, and the man was free almost at once, but the angry twitch he had made at the slight detention had given the door an impetus which set it silently moving on its hinges. (It was characteristic of George Hayne that he was always impatient of the slightest detention.) He had scarcely put his hand upon his wedding coat when a soft steel click, followed by utter darkness, warned him that his impatience had entrapped him. He put out his hand and pushed at the door, but the catch had settled into place. It was a very strong, neat little catch, and it did its work well. The man was a prisoner.

At first he was only annoyed, and gave the door an angry kick or two, as if of course it would presently release him meekly; but then he bethought him of his polished wedding shoes, and desisted. He tried to find a knob and shake the door, but the only knob was the tiny brass one on the outside of the catch, and you cannot shake a plain surface reared up before you. Then he set his massive, flabby shoulder against the door and pressed with all his might, till his bulky linen shirt front creaked with dismay, and his wedding collar wilted limply. But the door stood like adamant. It was massive, like the man, but it was not flabby. The wood of which it was composed had spent its early life in the open air, drinking only the wine of sunshine and sparkling air, wet with the dews of heaven, and exercising against the north blast. It was nothing for it to hold out against this pillow of a man, who had been nurtured in the dissipation and folly of a great city. The door held its own, and if doors do such things, the face of it must have laughed to the silent room; and who knows but the room winked back? It would be but natural that a room should resent a new occupant in the absence of a beloved owner.

He was there, safe and fast, in the still dark, with plenty of time for reflection. And there were things in his life that called for his reflection. They had never had him at an advantage before.

In due course of time, having exhausted his breath and strength in fruitless pushing, and his vocabulary in foolish curses, he lifted up his voice and roared. No other word would quite describe the sound that issued from his mighty throat. But the city roared placidly below him, and no one minded him in the least.

He sacrificed the shiny toes of the shoes and added resounding kicks on the door to the general hubbub. He changed the roar to a bellow like a mad bull, but still the silence that succeeded it was as deep and monotonous as ever. He tried going to the back of the closet and hurling himself against the door, but he only hurt his soft muscles with the effort. Finally he sat down on the floor of the closet.

Now, the janitor’s wife, who occupied an apartment somewhat overcrowded, had surreptitiously borrowed the use of this closet the week before, in order to hang therein her Sunday gown, whose front breadth was covered with grease-spots, thickly overlaid with French chalk. The French chalk had done its work and removed the grease-spots, and now lay thickly on the floor of the closet, but the imprisoned bridegroom did not know that, and he sat down quite naturally to rest from his unusual exertions, and to reflect on what could be done next.

The immediate present passed rapidly in review. He could not afford more than ten minutes to get out of this hole. He ought to be on the way to the church at once. There was no knowing what nonsense Celia might get into her head if he delayed. He had known her since her childhood, and she had always scorned him. The hold he had upon her now was like a rope of sand, but only he knew that. If he could but knock that old door down! If he only hadn’t hung up his coat in the closet! If the man who built the house only hadn’t put such a fool catch on the door! When he got out he would take time to chop it off! If only he had a little more room, and a little more air! It was stifling! Great beads of perspiration went rolling down his hot forehead, and his wet collar made a cool band about his neck. He wondered if he had another clean collar of that particular style with him. If he only could get out of this accursed place! Where were all the people? Why was everything so still? Would they never come and let him out?