A flash of pain shot athwart the girl’s features as she muttered under her breath: “Oh, dear! What shall I tell him, what shall I say? What shall I do now?”
Thorpe hastily stepped forward to her assistance, and with concern in his voice, said: “Virginia, you are ill!”
“Let me rest for a moment or two”—trying her utmost to appear unperturbed, and as she sank on a bench, continued brokenly: “I shall be all right presently. The long walk—the terrible strain”—
“My dear sister, you need assistance,” interrupted Thorpe. “You must let me help you to the house and obtain proper care for you,” and he tenderly attempted to lift her to her feet.
“No, no, no!” she quickly responded; “I—shall be better in a few moments. Just a little—quiet rest, John, and alone, please. I shall soon be well again.”
“As you desire, Virginia; but I shall tell Mrs. Harris.”
“No, no, John! Don’t tell her! I wish to be alone for awhile.”
“Very well, dear; as I have a message for Mr. Harris, shall seek him at the house; but I will return in a few moments,” and then, considerate for her wish to be alone, he left her.
Helpless to resist the impetus of her consuming desire to reunite John and his wife, Constance, she yet dreaded the aftermath of the shock his discovery must surely produce. Virginia knew not which way to turn or what course to pursue.
“Oh, Auntie! Auntie! I’m so glad you’ve come. Mamma is coming to see me, too. Isn’t she?” and Dorothy, having caught sight of Virginia, ran to her, and then, not to be denied, in her childish way climbed up on the bench beside her and affectionately clasped her little arms about her neck.
“Papa doesn’t like her,” she proceeded, in a low, serious, confidential manner, “and wants me not to like her, too. But I shall like her. I shall always love-dear mamma-as-long-as-I-live!” The last few words were uttered in a quivering voice, but with a decision that appeared marvelous in one so young.
Folding her arms about the child, Virginia fondly looked into her eyes. “God bless you, sweet, winsome soul!” And then they kissed.
“Aunty, won’t you take me to mamma?” pleaded the child. A ray of light had at last unexpectedly illumined a path for Virginia to pursue. Suddenly releasing the child, she arose to her feet and said, with animation: “Some good may come of it. I will seek Mrs. Harris and have her detain John while I bring Constance—and Dorothy together—before he meets her. Yes, darling,” she said, taking Dorothy’s hand; “you shall see your mother.”
On a low point of land formed by a bend in the Willamette, a couple of boys were playing at what is termed “skipping.” The exercise consisted in throwing a stone so as to make it skim along the surface of the water in a series of long skips, the greater number of skips attesting the skill of the thrower. The surface of the river was very smooth and placid, which was a factor in tempting the boys to the exercise. They had been at it for some time and, boy-like, in their enthusiasm, had overdone it, and consequently were beginning to fag, when one of them suddenly spied an exceptionally smooth, round flat stone, suitable for the purpose, and stooped to pick it up. The other boy, a short distance behind him, seeing his opportunity, cried out in a frolicksome spirit:
“Hi! Gene! Hold, there.” And he immediately ran and, placing his two hands on the stooping boy’s back, lightly leaped over him, straddle fashion, and then himself took a stooping position further on, subject to a like performance.
At once the sport known as “leap-frog” was entered into with zest by the boys. It carried them some distance along the river shore, and they were so engrossed with the new exercise, which sustained in their case, at all events, the old adage that, “A change of occupation is a good recreation,” as to be entirely oblivious of approaching a solitary woman dressed in sober gray, sitting on a stump of driftwood near the water’s edge and gazing vacantly on the river.
One of the boys, named Gene, big-limbed, loose-jointed and clumsy, in doing his turn, and while astraddle the “frog,” lost his balance and tumbled sideways, dragging the under boy over with him. The smaller boy, named Spike, got to his feet first, and with a fire in his eye, angrily said: “Youse do it again and I’ll smash you one.”
“I couldn’t help it. It was your fault, anyway, Why didn’t you hold steady,” replied Gene.
“You big lubber; youse done it on purpose.” said Spike, rubbing his shin. “I’m not going to play any more,” and as he turned away, muttered to himself: “I’ve a notion to soak him one.”
“Oh, look!” cried Gene. “A woman’s agoing in swimming with her clothes on!” The boys at once forgot their differences, drew close together and watched her with much curiosity.
“Say, but the water is cold. I was in yesterday and couldn’t stay a minute,” said Gene. “Gee, but I got my clothes on quick! I was near froze.”
“She’s skeart already; see how she’s looking about—must-a lost somethin’.”
“Let’s ask her,” said Gene.
“Youse shut up, won’t you.”
“She’s saying something. Hear?”
“Sounds like ‘Dorothy,’” said Spike. “Look at her dig them hands in the water.”
“Say, she’s crazy, sure!” whispered Gene.
At which they drew back awe-struck, yet fascinated by the grotesque buffoonery inseparable from the insane.
“Somebody’d better go and phone the cops,” whispered Spike, excitedly. “She’ll get drowned, and then we’ll get in a bar’l of trubble.”
“I’ll go,” said Gene, half frightened, and glad of an excuse to get away from the uncanny spectacle. “Who’s got a phone near here?” he asked.
“Up at the big house, yonder. Harris’. They’s got one, but youse don’t want to leave me here alone with that crazy woman. She’s coming ashore. Kin youse hear what she’s saying?” They listened intently.
“I’m sure I saw her,” she said in tones strangely pitiful. “Her golden hair floated on the surface like a silken mesh—then sank down, down—ah, there it is again.” And she outstretched her hand and tried to grasp something.
“Gone again! Oh! I wish someone would help me get her. I am so tired and the river is so deep and cold,” and as she stepped out from the water onto the shingle, her frame shivered as with a chill. She sat on the stump of driftwood, fatigued by exertion.
“Let’s go and talk to her,” whispered Gene.
“Youse better not. Youse can’t tell what them crazy people will do sometimes. They ack queer mighty sudden.”
“Say! She wouldn’t hurt anything. Ain’t she nice looking! I’ll bet she was kind when she was all right,” said Gene.
“Talks of golden hair. Must be her baby drowned has made her crazy,” said Spike.
“I’m going to speak to her, anyway,” and so saying, Gene boldly approached her.
“Say, lady! What are you looking for?” he asked, as he timidly stood in front of her.
“Dorothy,” she softly answered, and then slowly shifted her wistful eyes from the water to the boys.
“Whose Dorothy?” asked Spike, with an air of quiet respect, as he joined Gene and stood in front of her.
“The sweetest babe in all the world. See, in this—her likeness,” and she drew from the bosom of her dress a medallion and held it for the boys to look at.
“Sure! She’s a beaut!” exclaimed Spike, admiringly.
“Say, that picture is just like you,” remarked Gene, looking over the medallion at the face before him.
“Yous dress is wet, Missus,” said Spike.
“Were you looking for your baby there?” queried Gene, nodding toward the river.
She suddenly arose to her feet and listened, meanwhile tenderly replacing the medallion in her corsage.
“I must not rest longer. The storm will soon be on us. The boat rocks.”
She paused in a listening attitude: “Her voice! I hear it again. She is calling, ‘Mamma, papa, help! Save me!’ There! There!”—and she pointed over the water. “See that golden web glistening in the sunshine. It’s her hair. She’s beckoning me! Give me the paddles!—the paddles, quick!” And then she cried out with a gasp that sounded very much like a sob: “Save Dorothy!”
When John Thorpe left Virginia in search of Mr. Harris, he found him in conversation with Sam, at the foot of the piazza steps. Above them, on the piazza, was seated Mrs. Harris.
“I understand,” remarked Mr. Harris to Sam, “that there was another man in the cabin, but somehow he escaped.”
“There was another man there,” replied Sam, “but he went down through a trap door in the floor, Uncle.”
“Did he drown,” questioned Mr. Harris.
“Oh, no! The logs raised the floor of the cabin about a foot above the water. He got away between them and swam ashore. We didn’t find it out until he had made good his escape.”
It was then Mr. Thorpe addressed Mr. and Mrs. Harris. It being the first opportunity presented to perform a duty, that was clearly incumbent on him, and without further hesitation, he said: “Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Sam, who heard me abuse Mr. Corway on this ground last Wednesday night, I wish now to recall what I then said. If an entire misapprehension of facts can be an excuse for the animosity with which I then spoke, I am anxious to apologize for my behavior, as circumstances have made me aware how unjust were my aspersions. I regret that Mr. Corway is not present to receive my apology and to shake hands with him, for there is not a man in Oregon for whom I have greater respect.”
Mr. Harris was unable to conceal his gratification at the sudden ending of an unpleasant dilemma, and exclaimed: “John, I heartily congratulate you on the agreeable termination of an ugly affair.”
“Dear me! I am really delighted,” added Mrs. Harris, who, having gotten up from her chair at the first few words uttered by John Thorpe, and leaning forward on the piazza railing, stared at the men below in rapt attention. And Sam joined in the general joy by exclaiming, with a broad grin and a whirl of his hat: “Whoop! Let’s celebrate the burial of the hatchet, eh, Auntie.”
“How vulgar,” quietly remarked Mrs. Harris, as she straightened up, and with severity plainly graven on her face, said: “Sam, I desire a word with you after dinner.”
“Ya-ah! May good digestion wait on appetite, eh Auntie! I guess so,” replied Sam, with a roguish twinkle of his eye and the inimitable side movement of his head.
“Dear me,” continued Mrs. Harris, “I may as well be resigned to the inevitable, for I fear the ‘Texas brand’ will never groom out.”
“I must go home,” exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. “My impatience to meet Constance is consuming me. Mrs. Harris and gentlemen, pray pardon my haste,” and, lifting his hat, he withdrew.
Then Sam related in detail the bath and discovery of Jack Shore at the jail.
“Fact, Uncle,” he continued, “a regular fiend.”
“What! Jack Shore, of the Securities Investment Association!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, with surprise.
“The same identical chap, Uncle.”
“Dear me; who was his confederate?” questioned Mrs. Harris.
“We have yet to discover, but suspect a certain person well known to you.”
“Whom do you suspect?” sharply demanded Mrs. Harris.
“A much-honored member of society,” replied Sam, with fine sarcasm.
“But we must have his name,” insisted Mrs. Harris. She was promptly supported by Mr. Harris, who said: “By all means, we must know who he is.”
“My Lord Beauchamp!” Sam answered, with emphasis.
“Dear me,” gasped Mrs. Harris. “What a shock!” and then, recovering herself, she repeated doubtfully: “Lord Beauchamp an imposter?”
“He’s a villain anyhow, Auntie!” exclaimed Sam. “The same ‘gent’ who ran me down when I was tracking the Dago up there near the City park—thought he put me out of business.”
“What proof have you that he is an imposter?” demanded Mrs. Harris, sternly.
“Yes, proof, proof! That is what we want!” exclaimed James Harris, visibly agitated.
“To satisfy himself the detective cabled our Ambassador at London to make inquiry. This morning he received a reply.” And so saying, Sam took from his pocket an envelop containing a cablegram and handed it to Mr. Harris, with the remark: “Uncle, the detective turned it over to me at noon.”
Mr. Harris took from the envelop the cablegram, and adjusting his eyeglasses, read aloud:
“There’s only one Lord Beauchamp in England’s peerage, and he, with whom I am personally acquainted, was at the embassy yesterday.”
It was signed “White.”
Then Mr. Harris looked over the paper in his hand—over the eyeglasses into nothingness, with an expression on his face of deep chagrin, and in a low voice, as though muttering to himself, indiscreetly said:
“Damn the luck! The fellow is into me for ten thousand dollars.”
The words had scarcely escaped from his lips when Mrs. Harris, her eyes staring with astonishment, sharply exclaimed:
“Ten thousand dollars! Why, James Henry, you must have been hypnotized!”
It caused Sam to smile, and remark with a look of reproach: “Auntie!”
“He came to me with a plausible story and many regrets, unexpectedly ran short of funds; produced a cablegram purporting to come from his brother, the Duke Villier, only yesterday, authorizing him to draw for two thousand pounds. To oblige him I indorsed the draft, went with him to the bank, and it was immediately honored. I will phone for a policeman at once,” and Mr. Harris turned away to put his purpose into effect, when Sam intercepted him.
“Stay, Uncle; I have taken upon myself the duty of swearing out a warrant for his arrest, and in order there shall be no possibility of his escape, I have arranged with detectives, having Jack Shore in charge, to identify and arrest him.”
“James, do not wait a moment!” impatiently exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “Have him arrested at once.”
“Auntie, he cannot escape the officers, who are concealed, waiting signal,” Sam assured her.
And then, as if fate had so ordered, the object of their anathemas—in the company of Hazel, complacently sauntered from the tennis lawn, and, rounding the angle of the house, suddenly appeared close to the group.
“It was so stupid of me. I am sure your lordship did not enjoy the game at all,” said the girl. It was at that game of tennis that Rutley found opportunity to propose marriage to Hazel, for he believed that she was so disappointed at Corway’s disappearance, and which he took care to insinuate was through cowardice, and that she was so impressed with his rank, wealth and manners, that it would be easy to persuade her; but he found the girl repelled his advances so firmly and decisively that he at once abandoned the idea of attempting to entice her to elope, and abruptly ended the game. And so, because of his love for this girl, he had delayed his purpose to escape from the city, and jeopardized his chances accordingly.
When Rutley’s eyes first rested on James Harris, he involuntarily started at the change in his looks, but though seemingly perturbed for an instant, his self-possession never really deserted him. Straight on to the broad steps he strode with a suavity of manner quite in keeping with his usual phlegmatic bearing. Whatever distrust or apprehension may have troubled his thoughts, no exterior indication was visible. His face was impassive and inscrutable as the “Sphinx.” His nerves were steel, his acting superb.
“I find in Miss Brooke an expert tennis player,” he said, addressing Mrs. Harris, who was leaning forward, her hands resting on the rail, staring at him.
“It’s an outrage, sir! A damned outrage!” explosively exclaimed Mr. Harris, who was unable to control his indignation.
Still unperturbed, Rutley turned to Mr. Harris and said: “I quite agree with you, Sir, for the scandal is deplorable, and Corway should be punished.” Turning to Mrs. Harris, he continued:
“Indeed, Mrs. Harris, you Americans seem to excel in most everything where skill and brains are essential.”
There was not a flaw or tremor in his voice to betray an uneasy mind or prescience of a coming storm. It was then, however, he realized that something was wrong, for he noticed that they were looking coldly at him. Slowly drawing himself up with a haughty bearing, he carefully adjusted the monocle in his left eye and turned slowly about as he stared at each of them, and said in slow, sharp, biting accents:
“It’s deuced—draughty—don’t—che—know!”
“Yes, quite chilly, isn’t it, old chappie! I guess so!” declared Sam, patronizingly.
“I demand, sir, the return of ten thousand dollars that you swindled me out of yesterday,” said Mr. Harris, with indignation flushing his face.
“And I demand, in the name of the law, ten thousand dollars that you stole from—a—George Golda, while in the scow-dwelling night before last,” said Sam.
Still unperturbed, Rutley merely shifted his eyes from one to the other without moving his head or a muscle of his body, much in the manner of an automaton, and answered with a drawl:
“Aw, a money swindle! And a—a—theft of money from a scow-dwelling! Really, gentlemen, this is—a—a—a—deuced good joke!” And then he laughed, laughed in a shrill, screechy falsetto key, unnatural, and chilling as an icy breath from the Arctic.
“This is no joke, sir, as you will soon realize.”
“You have been detected. Your villainy is exposed, and your damned rascality is at an end,” said the irate Mr. Harris.
“For twenty years in the pen at Salem, eh, old chappie!” said Sam, with a grin of satisfaction.
“Curse the luck,” muttered Rutley to himself. “What a fool I was not to have vanished last night. It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know,” he continued aloud, in the same cutting accents. “Let me warn you, gentlemen, there is a limit to one’s forbearance!”
“You are a cheat, a villain, an imposter!” fumed Mr. Harris. “And there is the proof,” and he flourished the cablegram in Rutley’s face. “You are imposing on the public under the cloak of an assumed title, and unless you immediately hand over to me ten thousand dollars I shall give you into custody.”
“Of the officers of the law, eh, Auntie?” and as Sam uttered the last words, up went his right hand extended straight with the index finger pointing aloft.
It was the signal agreed upon for the officers to appear, and forthwith they emerged with Jack Shore between them, and Smith following, from a vine inclosed arbor, partially concealed by a group of trees a few rods down the hill.
Pretending not to notice the approach of the officers and their prisoner, Sam grinned at Rutley and banteringly said:
“Come now, own up, you intentionally put me ‘out of business’ with the automobile. But it was a bungled job, wasn’t it, old chappie?”
Rutley yielded not an iota of his haughty bearing. Totally unsuspecting the near approach of the officers from behind, he directed a frigid, steady, contemptuous stare at his accusers, and with an air of puzzled understanding, said:
“What is the meaning of this insult to my honor? I again warn you, gentlemen, of your liability for libel.”
“Law is a venturesome sport, my lord,” ironically exclaimed Sam. “Let me introduce Mr. George Golda”—
Rutley leisurely turned and stared at Jack.
—“Alias, Jack Shore,” continued Sam, with a laugh.
“Well, my poor man. What is your mission?” interrogated Rutley.
Jack stared steadily at Rutley, but kept silent.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” derisively laughed Rutley. Then turning to the group, said: “What new joke is this, gentlemen?” Again he turned toward Jack in pretense of a closer scrutiny.
That Rutley was surprised was quite evident, and he stepped forward with some object in view. Mr. Harris seemed to imagine some purpose in Rutley’s movement, and stepping in front of him, said: “Hold, your little game is up!”
“I guess so,” quickly added Sam, who stood ready to assist.
Realizing he was at bay, Rutley recovered his self-possession as quickly as he had lost it.
Again he laughed in that high-pitched, screechy key of ineffable disdain. “He, he, he, he,” and turning to Mr. Harris said, sarcastically: “The idea! You, a retired merchant, a successful business man; experienced in the qualities of keen perception, of fine discrimination, of the most perfect discernment and adroitness, to support this outrage,” and he waved his hand toward Jack. And again drawing himself up erect, haughtily fixed his cold gray eyes steadily on Mr. Harris, and continued in a drawl: “It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know; deuced ugly, by Jove.”
While Rutley had been speaking, Virginia appeared on the scene. “Ha, Virginia,” sharply called out Mrs. Harris, and she beckoned to her to hasten. “Now we shall prove his villainy.”
“Ha, ha,” sneered Rutley. “Now you shall realize how foully you have slandered me. The lady will prove that I am Lord Beauchamp.”
As Virginia approached near, Mrs. Harris being unable to contain her impatience, again addressed her: “Virginia, dear! Can you enlighten us as to that man’s identity?”
Rutley tried to catch her eye, and at last, having succeeded, lifted his eyebrows meaningly, then nearly closed his eyes as he fixed on her a stare of glittering concentration.
“Madam,” he ejaculated significantly, “beware! These gentlemen and ladies have dared to question my right to the title of Lord Beauchamp, and I have assured them that you know me, of course you do, and will tell them so.” His manner was confident and insinuating, but he had over-rated his power of hypnotic influence over the girl.
She looked at him steadily, in which freezing haughtiness, contempt and pity were commingled. Her fear of him had passed. She did not falter now.
“Yes, I know you; and you are known to all present, but, unhappily, not as thoroughly as you are known to me.”
“Who is he?” demanded Mrs. Harris.
“Beware!” cautioned Rutley, “for what you say you must prove in a court of law.”
Defiant, the girl spoke, her enunciation clear and faultless. “His name is Philip Rutley, and he is masquerading as my Lord Beauchamp for fraudulent and unlawful purposes.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Rutley, sarcastically. “Delightfully refreshing, gentlemen.”
“Oh!” came from Hazel, and then, as if doubting the announcement, exclaimed: “But the color of Rutley’s hair is on the pumpkin order.”
“When the dye is washed out it will be on the pumpkin order again,” laughed Sam.
“He of the investment company?” questioned Mrs. Harris, with a puzzled expression of countenance.
“The very same chap, Auntie,” said Sam.
“Dear me, such ingratitude!” and Mrs. Harris looked disgusted. “Why, the rascal promised never to return if we would not prosecute him.”
“He, he, he, he, how very funny,” derisively laughed Rutley, in that high-pitched, screechy falsetto key he was so well trained in, and at times he nervously stroked his Vandyke beard.
“I shall at once bring an action at law against you for malicious libel,” upon which he started to pass Mr. Harris. His purpose was understood and frustrated by Sam, who promptly seized him by the collar. “I guess not!”
“Well done, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris.
“Take your hands off!” demanded Rutley, who began to scuffle violently with Sam.
“Hold him fast, Sam,” cheerfully encouraged Mr. Harris, who rushed to Sam’s assistance, followed by Smith.
“I guess so.”
At that moment, by a dexterous movement, Rutley slipped out of his coat, swiftly turned, and exclaimed:
“Damn your eyes, take that,” and violently struck at Sam, who adroitly dodged the blow, dropped the coat and squared up to him.
“I’m your huckleberry; I guess. Good time to square that little run-down now. Come down the hill out of the sight of the ladies.”
“I’ll go wid yees,” volunteered Smith. “Sure, an’ I’ll see fair play, an’ may the divvil take me lord.”
Mr. Harris picked up Rutley’s coat and there fell out of one of the pockets two packages of banknotes. He let the coat fall and picked up the packages. Flourishing them about his head, he laughed—“Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
The detective turned to Jack and said, quietly: “You wanted the proof: there it is,” and he pointed to the money held by Mr. Harris. “He will be pinched, but Mr. Thorpe is to secure his release.”
“Why, there are twenty thousand dollars here!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, examining the packages of money.
“Now you believe me, don’t you?” said the detective to Jack.
“Yes,” replied Jack, “you were right,” and then he stepped forward alone, close to Rutley, and with a sneer on his face, confronted him. “So, my noble partner! You gave me the kiss of ‘Judas’ for ten thousand shekels, eh?”
Rutley was amazed, but maintaining his imperturbability, exclaimed: “You propound a riddle, my poor man. I don’t know you.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, bitterly. “The riddle should be plain with the key in your keeping. But I knowyou, me Lord Beauchamp, alias Philip Rutley. Now, damn you, take the medicine your treachery awards you.”
Rutley straightened up, his mortification was very great. Naturally astute, shrewd and alert, for once he had been caught napping. With distended, staring eyes, he whispered, aghast: “Jack, Jack,” and then, recovering himself, composedly said: “A—my poor fellow, you are mistaken; I don’t know you,” and then he swung himself about and laughed in that peculiar, high-pitched key—“He, he, he, he; he must be crazy.”
“Crazy, eh!” and Jack laughed low, hoarsely and derisively. “Ha, ha, ha, ha. The detective told me you had sold me for the reward offered for recovery of the child, but I would not believe him. Now! I know he told the truth. For the proof is there,” and he pointed to the money in the hands of Mr. Harris. “The proof that you betrayed your partner”—
“You lie! You lie! Damn you, you lie!” exclaimed Rutley bitterly, as he swiftly turned to Jack, and then muttered to himself: “Ye Gods, I have been trapped by a fluke.” Then, with marvellous nerve, declared: “Oh, this is preposterous; I will immediately bring some friends and prove that you malign me,” and so saying he turned to move off.
“Detective Simms, he is your man; arrest him!” said Mrs. Harris.
On seeing his chance of escape lessening every moment Rutley abandoned all idea of further defense, and made a grab for his coat.
Quick as was his action, he could not outmaneuver Sam, who promptly threw himself upon Rutley’s back, and locked his arms about him, pinioning him as in a vice. And while in that position the detective slipped on the handcuffs.
On releasing him, Sam turned with a broad grin of satisfaction to his aunt—“How is that for the Texas brand, eh, Auntie?”
He got for his answer a smile, and an exclamation that pleased him immensely. “Splendid, Sam.”
“The neatest bit of work done since his partner tried to find a soft spot on Carbit strait pavement,” added Smith, with a look of admiration.
In the meantime Mr. Harris had been examining the packages of money, turning them over and over, looking first at one and then at another. Of a sudden his face lit up with a smile, as he exclaimed: “Why, this is mine; the identical package that he obtained from the bank on my indorsement. I can swear to it. But this?” And he looked meaningly at Virginia.
“It looks like the package of notes I gave the Italian for Dorothy’s ransom,” she replied.
“He never sold me after all,” muttered Jack, who became painfully astonished on hearing Mr. Harris declare that Rutley had obtained one of the packages of money from the bank on his indorsement. And as the plan by which he was tricked into betrayal of his accomplice became evident, his chagrin deepened to grief. He turned to Rutley and said, brokenly: “Phil, I take it all back,” and then he muttered absently as he realized the futility of regret. “But it is too late—I have been tricked into a confession.”
“The jig is up,” replied Rutley. “I shall take my medicine like a man.”
“That money must remain in the custody of the police until the court decides for the owner,” said the detective.
“Certainly,” affirmed Mr. Harris, who handed him the two packages.
“This one is mine, and contains ten thousand dollars. And this contains a like amount and belongs to Miss Thorpe. I shall apply to the court for restitution tomorrow,” remarked Mr. Harris.
“Very well, sir. Now please hand me that coat and we will go,” said the detective.
Mr. Harris picked up the coat and handed it to the detective.
“Keep it, old man,” advised Rutley, with lofty disdain. “Keep it as a memento of how you were once charmed by one of England’s nobility,” he laughed derisively.
“I will have no gift from a thief,” indignantly exclaimed Mr. Harris, as he handed over the coat. “Officers, away with them.”
“Good-bye Charles, Reginald, De Coursy, West-ma-coate Cosmos, me Lord Beauchamp. Fare thee well,” said Sam, with a grin.
It was at that time that the little Scotch terrier began to sniff at Jack’s trouser legs inquisitively. The dog had wandered near him, attracted by the sound of his familiar voice, and though it evidently scented something intimate, could not recognize his former master in the changed appearance resultant on his enforced bath. And so the dog sniffed and sniffed while the glint of its upward turned eyes ominously resented any friendly overture.
Jack had noticed the dog about, and now that it was sniffing at his leg, he softly spoke to it, saying: “Good-bye, Snooks,” whereupon to his surprise the dog growled at him. Again he said, soothingly: “Good bye Snooks,” putting out his hand to fondle it, but the dog, in one of those singularly unsympathetic moods rare to its nature, would have none of him, and barked at him furiously.
It was the finishing stroke to his shame and degradation. “An outcast, a stranger, so low I have fallen that my own dog barks at me.”
“Come along,” urged the detective to Rutley and Jack. But Rutley halted and turned to Hazel, with the same marvellous air that had won for him confidence in critical moments of “my lord’s” career.
“Ta, ta, pet,” said he, in his softest blandishment to Hazel. “That was a ravishing kiss you gave me in the conservatory awhile ago. Ta, ta,” and he threw her a kiss with his free hand and followed it with a tragic scowl at Sam.
“The horrid man,” indignantly exclaimed Hazel.
“Good-bye, Virginia,” and he smiled patronizingly at her. “You ‘peached’ on your pal, but rogues do that sometimes. Tra-la.”
“Officer, away with them,” ordered Mr. Harris, with disgust.
“Get a move on, old chappie,” said Sam.
“Come along,” urged the detective.
But Rutley balked, and looking at Mrs. Harris, laughed, the same high-pitched, uncanny laugh he had used previously.
“I had almost forgotten you, Auntie,” he drawled in his most suave and engaging manner. “You know that it is bad form to take one’s leave without saying ‘adieu,’ and believe me,” and he again laughed, “I thank you for your lavish reception in honor of the fake lord.”
“Officer, away with them,” stormed Mr. Harris.
Though Rutley was forced away a step or two he still kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Harris, and managed to hold his ground long enough to add, ironically: “Adieu, Auntie! Ta, ta!”
“March yees blackguards, march,” said Smith, pushing the men along.
“How very rude! I have never had anything so scurrilous said to me before in my life.”
“He wasn’t a real lord, Auntie. Only tried to act like one, eh, I guess so,” and Sam inwardly chuckled at the balm he offered for her discomfiture.
“Sam, you had better assist the officers to the railway station,” suggested Mr. Harris.
“Oh, quite to my fancy, Uncle!” and Sam immediately proceeded after the detectives and their prisoners.
The silence that fell on the group as they watched the prisoners move down the hill was broken by Hazel, who, turning to Mr. Harris, said: “It was clever of Sam. Indeed, Uncle, it seems to him is due the honor of breaking the spell of a pretender.”
“I am satisfied now that my lord will serve a ‘spell’ with his partner in the state penitentiary,” replied Mr. Harris.
“A fate that deservedly overtakes adventurers and imposters,” remarked Mrs. Harris.
“And a most pungent warning to the frantic race society runs to entertain titled swindlers!” added Mr. Harris, gravely.
At that moment Sam hurriedly reappeared and approached Mr. Harris, who hastened to meet him. “What is wrong, Sam?” “Has he got away?” was the anxious inquiry.
“I guess not, Uncle,” replied Sam, who seemed excited, and then nodding his head toward the river, said, in an undertone. “Something out of gear down there. A boy just told me a woman was wading in the water trying to find her drowned baby—and—and I thought”—
“What! Who do you think she can be, eh? It cannot be”—And they exchanged significant glances.
Sam tapped his head impressively. “The boy said she plunged her hands in the water, talked queer, and heard her call ‘Dorothy.’”
“If it should be her! Good God! And John must be hereabouts, too. Let us go to her at once. Quietly, make no fuss. Come along,” and Mr. Harris turned hastily.
“What is the trouble now, James?” called out Mrs. Harris.
“No time,” was all the satisfaction she got, and the two hastened down to the shingle.
“Dear me! Something serious has happened, I am sure!” and seeing a boy standing irresolute on the walk, addressed him:
“Here boy, do you know what is going on down there?”
“A crazy woman,” the boy answered, drawing near. “She’s wading in the river.”
“Poor thing!” sympathetically exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “What is she wading in the river for? Did you hear her speak?”
“Yes’m, a little; but I was afraid and didn’t stay but a minute. I came up to phone the police.”
“Dear me! What did the poor creature say?”
“She said her baby was drowned. I’m pretty sure she called it Dorothy.”
An agonizing shriek of “Constance!” broke from the three women simultaneously, and horror and consternation was depicted on every countenance.
“Almighty Heaven!” exclaimed Virginia, whose face had blanched at the news. “She has followed me here. I’ll get some wraps, for poor Constance must be chilled through and through,” and with that she hastened into the house.
“Virginia, dear!” Mrs. Harris called after her, “you will find wraps in my room.”
Hazel had already started toward the river, and noting the girl’s impatience, she went on: “Hazel and I will not wait for you.”
As Mrs. Harris followed after Hazel, she kept muttering: “Dear me! What a shock! What a shock to one’s nerves!”
The officers, with their prisoners, had reached the railway track, and were leisurely walking toward the little station when a commotion in a group of people on the shingle, a couple of hundred yards ahead, attracted their attention. Smith, who had accompanied the officers, started to investigate. He had proceeded but a short distance when his movement was accelerated by seeing Mr. Harris and Sam hastening down the slope toward the little group before mentioned.
Upon arrival at the station, one of the officers, Simms, hurried forward to ascertain the cause of the trouble, for evidently something serious had happened. The two prisoners were thus left, handcuffed, it is true, but under guard of only one officer, whose attention was also attracted by the excitement ahead. The officer gave his prisoners little attention, for he believed they were perfectly secure, as Jack’s right wrist was handcuffed to the officer and Rutley was linked to Jack.
Rutley soon found that he could “slip the bracelet” and, nudging Jack, displayed his free hand. Jack gave him a significant wink, at the same time gently nodded his head for him to “break.” For an instant Rutley was tempted to strike down the unsuspecting officer, and attempt to release Jack, but the chance of detection in the act, and inviting instant pursuit was so great, that he decided to try to escape alone. Silently he stepped apart; farther, then he slipped behind the station.
A swift, noiseless dash to a culvert, through it and up along a small ravine, soon put him out of sight of the officers. His last view of them convinced him that they were still unmindful of his escape.
Arriving at a considerable elevation, to where a clump of brush concealed him from the view of those below, he paused and took a hasty glance around. The sweep of the slope was too clear and unobstructed for any possibility of escape to the woods that covered the hill a couple of hundred yards distant, without him being seen. His determination was daring and instant.
He would enter “Rosemont house,” seek a hiding place, secure some sort of disguise, and in the night effect his escape.
Following the depression he soon appeared on a level with the house. Taking advantage of such cover as was afforded by shrubbery and hedges, and cowering close to earth, he quickly traversed the space that had separated him from the house. Throwing himself prostrate among some ivy that grew in thick profusion along the basement of the south side as a protection from the Winter rain, he lay there effectually concealed and listened with tense nerves for sounds of pursuit.
The silence was unbroken save for the spasmodic whirr of a lawn mower on a distant part of the grounds. Having recovered his wind, he looked up. Above him was an open window, but screened. If he could enter by that window he might gain the loft without discovery, and once there he felt satisfied that a good hiding place could be found. The front entrance would be easier, but the risk of being seen crossing the piazza was too great. He decided to try the window. Arising from his concealment, and refreshed by his short rest, enthusiasm bounded through his veins.
“I will get away yet,” he muttered between his clenched teeth. “I saw the women following Harris down to the shore and the house must be deserted by all save the servants, and they are likely in the kitchen.”
Another swift glance at the window, and mentally estimating its height from the ground, he felt certain that an entrance through it was practicable. There was no time to be lost.
The “water table” afforded a footing, and by the aid of an iron trellis erected to support a climbing vine, he reached the window. There an obstacle was encountered. He tried to raise the screen, but it would not budge. In his exasperation he nearly tore his finger nails off trying to raise it from the bottom. Realizing that he was becoming excited he at once forced a calmness which he deemed highly essential, if he was to succeed. Every moment, too, was fraught with danger of discovery.
Pushing his hand against one side of the screen edgewise in an attempt to loosen it, the thing suddenly fell in. The thick carpet smothered the noise. He had unwittingly pressed against the edge that inclosed the springs, and in so doing released the other edge of the screen from the groove. Noiselessly he sprang inside. It was the library. He turned and cautiously scanned the hillside. No persons were in sight. Then he quietly replaced the screen.
His daring coolness and nerve were now under full control. He stole out of the room, into the hall, with every sense alert to avoid discovery. His goal was the attic. He knew that the only way to reach it was by the service stairs, which he could use from the second floor. Before him was the main stairs. Without a moment of hesitation he leaped up the soft, thick, velvet-covered steps, his footfalls as silent as the tread of a cat.
A door was ajar on his left; he cautiously pushed it open and entered. He saw at once that it was Sam’s room. He glanced about, then opened a dresser drawer. “Ha, a revolver!” It was the work of a moment to examine the magazine.
“Empty!” he exclaimed, with disgust, and was about to replace it when, on second thought: “It may do for a bluff.” Another hasty look and he picked up a hunting knife, which he also appropriated. A slight noise at that moment startled him and caused him to look around alarmed. He slipped behind a door for concealment. After a moment of tense suspense, and the quietness continuing unbroken, he stole out of the room.
So far everything was in his favor. Further along two doors, a few feet apart, were open. He had passed one on his way to the attic stair, when, of a sudden, he heard a slight sound, as of a person moving lightly in the room. He instantly turned aside and passed through the second open doorway. Virginia stood before him. She was at that moment hastening from the room, absorbed in thoughts of Constance.
With a stifled, painful cry of “Oh!” she shrank from him in a vague terror. Her face paled and her eyes expanded in manifest fright. Speech deserted her. The power of motion fled and the shawl intended for Constance fell from her arm. She appeared paralyzed.
Rutley softly closed the door behind him and locked it and put the key in his pocket. The dressing room door received the same attention. Then he turned to her. He was surprised to meet her, but observing the terror his presence inspired, he at once determined to force her to aid him to escape. He misjudged her character. For one moment he stood silently watching her. All the sharp intensity of his gaze concentrated on her frightened eyes; then he laughed low and gloatingly—“Ha, ha, ha. The girl that took on cold feet and betrayed her pal! I meant to say ‘colleague,’” he corrected, with a sneer of apology. The smirk of his offensive stare and more offensive words irritated. She began to recover from her sudden fright and became immediately aware that her present situation required not only coolness but the most adroit handling. She accordingly nerved herself for the encounter.
Again he leered at her, and continued in the same soft, guarded, but suave voice: “To be caught alone and in a trap with her intended victim is one of the dispensations of an inscrutable and just Providence.”
Virginia was regaining her self-possession every moment now. Courage was surging through her nerves in increasing power. Her eyes commenced to blaze.
“Your effrontery is offensive. Your meaning an enigma!” she indignantly replied.
“Indeed! Then I’ll make it plain,” he hissed. “I want you to cover my flight for liberty.
“You see I have escaped,” he went on rapidly. “The officers are baffled—my trail so far is undiscovered.”
“You mistake!” she corrected, with surprising coolness and decision. “By the dispensation of an inscrutable, but just Providence, the blackguard’s trail is blazed—the trap is sprung and you cannot escape!”
Rutley’s eyes snapped fire. He saw that a policy of sneering and bullying persuasion to aid him would fail ignominiously. He must use force. His aspect became black and threatening.
“Damn you!” he hissed. “See here, moments are precious. The game too desperate. Beware! You must find a place of concealment for me. The loft has storerooms. Come, and in the darkness of tonight you must aid me to clear from the premises.”
“Never!” she resolutely exclaimed, her eyes ablaze with indignation.
“Soft! Not so loud, my fair partner,” Rutley cautioned. “You led me into this scrape. You must help me out of it.”
“Let me pass!” And she motioned for him to stand aside.
He did not move.
“Do you deny me?” she said, sternly.
“Not so fast, my dear. I intend to keep you near me, as a hostage for my escape. No harm shall befall you if you are tractable,” he went on. “And I again warn you that you must speak guardedly and softly or I shall be compelled to gag you and bind you and carry you to a place of concealment. Oh, I’ll see to it that you shall not have the satisfaction of betraying my hiding place.”
“Incarnate monster; dare you imprison me?”
“Only for a few hours, until the dead of night blackens all objects alike—then I shall go forth, leaving a note to announce your hiding place. Do you prefer to be hidden in a trunk, or shall it be among the old rummage in the loft?” Though his manner of address was faultlessly polite, his face was as colorless and impassive as marble, and his voice low, calculating and cold.
Virginia paled as she took in the meaning of this purpose, and her voice quivered with a note of fear, as drawing her slender form erect in semblance of defiance she said: “Would you strike down a defenseless girl?”
“I am troubled with no qualms of conscience when dealing with an enemy, be that enemy man, woman or a scorpion. Come! We have wasted too much time already.”
He stepped lightly toward her.
Virginia anticipated his move and placed the table between them. Many small articles incident to a lady’s toilet were on the table. Rutley perceived that should the table be upset in a scuffle, he could not hope for time to gather up and rearrange the toilet articles, and then the spilt powders and perfumes on the carpet would surely indicate a struggle having occurred in the room.
Virginia was also alert to the importance of the table in the situation. Her fine instinct of the purport of his thoughts quickened her measure of defense. She grasped the edge of the table with both her hands. Rutley saw her purpose, drew back and side-stepped. Virginia also side-stepped, but kept close to the table and directly opposite him. She realized that the danger of her position was very great.
In the cabin she had been armed and prepared for an extreme emergency. Now she was without defensive weapons of any kind save her native wit, her courage and the table to which she clung.
Never taking his eyes from her, Rutley stood for a moment, indecisive and silent. Yet his mind was working furiously.
“A woman stands in my way,” he inaudibly muttered with clinched teeth. “Time is pressing. I will force her into submission!”
The intense strain on his nerves drew a cold dew of perspiration that glistened on his brow. Slowly he drew the revolver from his pocket. Slowly he raised it and pointed it at her, then hissed, as he glared at her: “Remove your hands from the table and assist me to escape.”
Virginia again drew herself erect, her eyes sparkling with defiance and her face aglow with courage.
“I know my death would only add one more crime to your record,” she said, with a faint quiver in her soft voice, and after a slight pause, she went on more steadily: “But you dare not shoot and your threats are vain.”
As he gazed on her slight form drawn erect; those pure, brave, steadfast, blue eyes; those features, delicate and tense with a sense of the danger of her position, she affected him strongly; thrilled him with an admiration which, with all his virile power and hardened senses, he could not mask. “You are daring a desperate man,” he resumed. “One who means to halt at no crime to secure his flight to liberty.”
The softened expression of his features, softened in spite of himself, led Virginia to think that his words were not meant to be taken too seriously, and so hope and fear alternated with amazing swiftness on her expressive face, which at last settled into a look of credulity and prompted her to hazard a smile at his threat.
“Beware!” he hissed, struggling to appear fierce. “Do not mistake me!”
“Oh, no; I do not mistake you,” she replied, again smiling faintly, “for I know you are too much of a man to redden your hands with the life of a puny, defenseless girl.”
The artless play of her features to entice him from his desperate purpose was exquisite, and not without temporary success.
“Her witchery is unnerving me,” he silently muttered, as he felt his will-power was dominant no longer.
As their eyes remained fastened on each other he felt an awe seize him, and he for the moment forgot his design. He drew back and said, almost submissively: “God, you are brave, and beautiful as brave. I can’t harm you.” And he slowly lowered the revolver.
Even then a sudden recovery from his weakness developed a new plan of attack. Virginia’s unerring instinct, however, warned her to mistrust his flattering declaration. “It’s a subterfuge,” she thought, “cunningly devised to draw me away from the table.” She remained silent, but more watchful, if possible, than before.
On abandoning a bullying policy, Rutley had moved step by step toward the table opposite to Virginia, and finally placed his left hand on it. His assumed admiration was well sustained and his changed line of persuasion, though its sincerity she doubted, promised in the end success.
“The wrongs I have done,” he continued, “had better not have been done, I acknowledge, but they are mended. Worse might have been. Our meeting in this room was accidental. My presence in this house is known only to you. Will you aid me to escape?”
“Aid you to escape!” she repeated, in tones that had lost their agitation, and which now seemed natural and only to carry a note of indignation. “You, the man who nearly wrecked my brother’s home, betrayed his trust and would have robbed him of his life. You, the man who kidnapped his child, caused his wife to lose her reason, and whose death may yet add murder to your other crimes—dare ask me to help you escape?”
“Yes,” he slowly replied. And feeling that his hand rested firmly on the table, he began cautiously to lean forward, meanwhile saying in a soft, insinuating voice: “I dare ask you to help me escape, for I mistake if in a nature where such courage and gentleness exist there beats a heart irresponsive to the cry of distress.
“I am down, and standing on the threshold of a long term of imprisonment. Again I appeal to you and offer this weapon as a pledge of good faith,” and he laid the revolver on the table.
The tension on Virginia’s nerves relaxed, her voice became steadier, calmer and more natural. “Why did you vilify the character of Constance, a frail, innocent woman, whose piety and goodness made her incapable of doing you harm by thought, word or deed?”
“Revenge on Thorpe,” he replied, “for closing my office.”
As the words slowly issued from between his lips, his weight on the table increased—he felt his control of it was now sure.
Virginia’s eyes searched him thoroughly, and aside from the fact that flattery was distasteful to her, his cold, calculating, unemotional eyes glittering with a sinister purpose, startled her and confirmed her impression of his insincerity.
To maintain a safe distance, but still clinging to the table, she instinctively drew backward, suspicious of some sudden movement, but she made no effort to secure the revolver. Rutley noticed the change and coolly pressed forward.
Virginia drew further backward. She saw through his artifice and once more began to fear him. The strain on her nerves was becoming severe and her countenance warmed with contending emotions. He had pleaded for aid to escape and expressed himself as sorry for his misdeeds. Yet she believed his protestations were not sincere.
Nevertheless, considering how much she was in his power, the great scandal his testimony in court would create, the complete undoing of all his wicked schemes, and the possibility of him leading a better life, was fast weighing in his favor, besides only brute revenge would be gratified by his long imprisonment, and his punishment, therefore, only an empty satisfaction.
Rutley read her thoughts and a cunning smile played about his mouth. He never really intended to trust his liberty in her keeping, and since she was the only person with actual knowledge of his whereabouts, he did not propose to jeopardize his chance of escape by allowing her freedom. For his own safety, he was bound to conceal her as well as himself, at least until darkness set in. His humble appeal was but a ruse to gain her sympathy, and his simulated penitence for his wickedness was an artifice, but it succeeded in touching the tender cords of the girl’s heart.
Her vigilance abated. Her hand slipped from the table. She straightened up and cast her eyes to the floor, as one often does when mentally absorbed in weighing the potency of some great question. The moment he had maneuvered for, and waited for, and watched for, had arrived.
The spring of a cat upon an unsuspecting mouse could not have been swifter, more sudden or unerring. The cloven hoof was revealed. Before she had time to even guess at his purpose, his hand was upon her mouth, while his other arm was thrown around her form, binding her arms to her sides. He forced her into a wicker chair that stood conveniently near and held her down sideways with the aid of his knee.
This method permitted him to withdraw his arm from around her form and to snatch a doily from the table which he quickly wadded and forced into her mouth, gagging her effectively. Then his eyes swept the room for something that would serve as a cord to bind her.