Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he announced.[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he announced.]
Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he announced.[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he announced.]
"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly.
"The man I told you about—the man I took you for—the man for whose sake the Duchess ran away—the chap I was watching for."
"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still lay unconscious.
"Oh, he doesn't matter." Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out of it. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here to watch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning."
Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined the face and clothing of the murderer.
"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of the foreigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was out hunting—shooting squirrels—anything."
"He can't say that," put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. I tried to stop him."
Saunders turned quickly to Mark.
"Forget it, Griffin," he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep out of it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. But this is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up in it. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties. Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger down here inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew who were behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let this fellow tell his story." He pointed to the man who was now coming to his senses. "He has it all prepared."
"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can't expect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's only wounded."
The detective smiled grimly.
"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who would miss? Come, look at him."
Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for the pulse, and looked into the face.
"Come, Saunders," he said, "we can do nothing for him."
"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin," Saunders' voice had quite an uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger."
The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was striking midnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together from the bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since.
"I think I do," Mark answered, "but I don't very much care."
"Then," said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!"
"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, and the Irish have 'some nerves.' But I am really hit very hard. I suppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it."
Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out of his mouth.
"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but in the singular number."
"Beg pardon?"
"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly neglected. I mean to say that they havenerve, not nerves."
"By which you mean—?"
"Something that you will need very soon—grit."
"I—I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?"
The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted both of them was no chimera.
"Look here, Griffin," he broke out, "that murderer did this thing under orders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanation must be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All was certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you may wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. The question is, what story will this fellow tell?"
"You can—ah—search me, Saunders," retorted Mark.
Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful.
"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you,' eh? That is just exactly what the police probably will do."
"Why?"
"Why? Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the whole tragedy. I think it quite upset their calculations. Your hand is marked with powder from the gun fire. Everyone will see that to-morrow. The principal will know something of it from the murderer. In fact, he probably knows now. To-morrow they will be searching for the man with the powder mark. The murderer himself can swear that he saw someone fire at the man who was killed. He may charge robbery. Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do. If they have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, for they intend putting it on you. Unless I am mistaken, his pockets are inside out right now. The powder marks alone are enough to fasten suspicion on you. Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainly must have seen you on the bluff road. Above all, you love Ruth Atheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals. My detective intuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of being charged with murder."
"Well," said Mark, "I have an excellent witness for the defense, in one James Saunders, detective."
"You have," answered Saunders, "but not at the inquest; for if James Saunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testify at the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might be useful."
"You mean that they would—"
"Just so," Saunders nodded wisely; "that's just what they would do. On the other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, that they had fixed up for him. It looks reasonable to me that he would be instructed to do that. He may come forward when the body is found, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, or some other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of his bullets must have killed the man. That looks like the easiest way out of it."
"That sounds all right, Saunders," answered Mark, "but I incline to the other theory. I think they'll accuse me. Their first plan would have been best if nobody had seen the deed. But since they know someone did see it, they'll probably try to be on the safe side. Fortunately, they don't know there were two of us, which leaves me better off."
"If they find there was another," said the detective, "you'll be safer in jail. Lives count nothing in the games of princes, and they'll get us both if they can."
"Then you're in danger yourself, Saunders."
"Not yet. As you remarked, they don't know there was another. You see, it was dark among the trees, and I caught the fellow in the rear as he ran away. He would naturally think that the man who caught him was the one who jumped as he fired."
Mark smoked thoughtfully before he spoke.
"You're right, Saunders. My complacency is not so great that I do not recognize the danger. I merely am indifferent to danger under the present circumstances. It's no use running away from it, and we can't help it now. Let's go to bed."
"Well, those English-Irish nerves get me," Saunders answered, as he arose and walked toward the door. "I suppose they're a good thing to have; but, Griffin, take it from me, you're the worst lump of ice I ever saw. Aren't you even just a little afraid?"
"Oh, yes," answered Mark, "I'm afraid all right, old man; I really am afraid. But there is somebody I am more afraid for than myself. I am worried about the lady."
Mark thought of what he had seen as he lay near the tree. Walking over to the window, he thoughtfully pulled down the blind before he turned again to Saunders. "I shall always love her, no matter what happens. Of course, I can't marry a grand duchess, especially one who is watched day and night; but I rather welcome the chance to stay near and protect her good name if the story does come out. That is why I won't go to jail for safety, not if I can prevent it."
Saunders closed the half-opened door and walked back into the room.
"Protect her? I don't understand," he said. Clearly bewildered, he sat down, carelessly swinging one leg over an arm of the big chair, and stared at his host.
Mark looked up. He spoke haughtily, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"There is a British Ambassador in Washington. You have a free country, so I can always talk to him, even if I am a prisoner or on bail. I happen to be brother to a baron; that fact may prove useful, for the first time in my life. One word that involves her name in scandal, even as Ruth Atheson, brings the story out. And Great Britain does not particularly care about your certain Big Kingdom. I am presuming, of course, that I have rightly guessed what Big Kingdom is looking after the interests of your Grand Duchy."
"You're right, Griffin; the Ministry could never let her name be mentioned."
"As the grand duchess, no. But they could mention the name of Ruth Atheson, the Padre's friend, the Lady Bountiful of his poor, the girl I love. The Padre has had trouble enough, too, without that scandal in his little flock."
"I don't see how you can avoid it."
"Oh, I can avoid it very simply. I can send word to the Ministry in question that I know who the lady really is, and that I am almost ready to talk for the public."
"That's right, Griffin, you could. Gee, what a detective you would have made! You're sure right." He arose, stretched lazily, and walked to the door, where he turned, his hand on the knob. "If it's any consolation for you to know, Griffin, they won't arrest—they'll just stick a knife into you. Good night, and pleasant dreams."
"Good night, Saunders, and thanks for your cheerful assurances."
But Mark had no dreams at all for, left alone, he smoked and worried over his problem until morning.
Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocket so that he could register it in person. It was addressed to the British Ambassador.
As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave him a note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin."
"Yes, rather." Mark looked at his hand as though noticing its condition for the first time. Then he spoke consolingly. "But it was the only one I had to put on this morning. Pleasant outside, isn't it?"
But the clerk had suddenly discovered that his attention was needed elsewhere, and Mark proceeded to his breakfast.
Sitting down, he gave his order, then opened the letter. It was from Ruth. "I am sorry you were not feeling well yesterday, and hope you are all right now. If so, come to Killimaga to-day, quite early. Somehow I am always lonesome now. Ruth."
It was rather strange—or was it?—that, in spite of what Mark knew, he watched his chance and, when the waiter turned his back, kissed the sheet of scented paper.
Saunders was in the hotel office when Mark came out of the dining room. The constable was with him. With little difficulty Saunders got rid of the officer and walked over to Mark.
"Come outside," he said. "I have some news."
They left the hotel and moved down the street. When out of anyone's hearing, Saunders touched Mark's arm.
"I routed out the constable early this morning—at daybreak, in fact—and sent him on a wild-goose chase along the bluff road. I wanted him to stumble onto that body, and get things going quickly. The sooner the cards are on the table, the better. His errand would keep him close to the Killamaga wall, on the roadside. He saw nothing; if he had I should have known it. What do you think it means?"
"Means?" echoed Mark. "Why, it means that someone else has been there."
"It looks that way," admitted Saunders. "But why hasn't it been reported?"
"I think, Saunders," Mark said thoughtfully, "that we had better take a walk near the wall ourselves."
"I was going to suggest that very thing."
The morning was not beautiful. The chill wind of autumn had come up, and the pleasant weather that Mark had taken the trouble to praise was vanishing. The clouds were dark and gloomy, threatening a storm. When the men reached the bluff road, they saw that the ocean was disturbed, and that great white-capped waves were beating upon the beach below. Their own thoughts kept both of them in tune with the elements. Neither spoke a word as they rapidly covered the distance between the town and the spot of the tragedy. But instinctively, as if caught by the same aversion, both slackened pace as they neared the wall of Killimaga. Going slowly now they turned out of the road and approached the tree, looking fearfully down at the grass. They reached the spot whereon they had left the body the evening before. There was no body there.
They searched the bushes and the long grass, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Closely they examined the ground; but not a trace of blood was to be seen, nor any evidence of conflict. Saunders was stupefied, and Mark showed signs of growing wonder.
"It isn't here," half whispered Saunders. "And it isn't in the bushes. What do you make of it, Griffin?"
Mark answered hesitatingly and half-nervously.
"I can't make anything out of it, unless they have decided to hush the whole thing up, figuring that the men who interfered will never tell. They disposed of the body overnight and covered all their traces. Unless I am mistaken, no one will ever find it or know that the murder took place at all."
"Then," said Saunders emphatically, "they certainly had one of the big fellows here to see that it was properly done."
"It looks probable," replied Mark; "for a common murderer would not have planned so well. An expert was on this crime. The body is disposed of finally."
Saunders looked around nervously.
"We had better go back, Griffin. There's nothing left for us to do, and they may be watching."
Both men left the spot and returned to town; but they were no longer silent. Mark was decidedly anxious, and Saunders voiced his worry in tones that shook.
"I have more fear than ever for your sake, Griffin, and I'm beginning to have some for my own. Those fellows know how to act quickly and surely. Their principal is in Washington. He has had word already by cipher as to what has happened. He won't rest until he finds the witness, and then—"
"And then?"
"I'm afraid they will try another murder. They won't trust a living soul to hold his peace under the circumstances."
"But how are they to know I saw the thing?"
"By your hand. In fact, I think they know already."
"Already?"
"Yes. There was somebody about when we were there, and he was evidently hiding."
"You heard him?"
"Yes. I didn't want to alarm you. I have reason now to be alarmed for myself. They know I am in it. We've got to think quickly and act quickly. The minute that orders come they will try to get us. As long as we stay in public places we are safe. But we must not go out alone any more."
The two went on to the hotel. Saunders glanced back as they were entering the town. His eyes covered the hedge.
"I thought so," he said. "That chap has been dodging in and out of the trees and keeping watch on us. From this point he can see right along the street to the hotel door. It's no use trying to conceal anything now. Our only safety lies in keeping in public places; but they won't strike till they get their orders."
As the two entered the hotel, a messenger boy came up carrying two telegrams. The clerk nodded to the boy, who went over to Mark and Saunders.
"Which is Mr. Saunders?" he asked. The detective reached out his hand and the boy gave him one of the messages. "The other one," he said, "is for Mr. Griffin.
"Sign here, please." The boy extended his book. Both men signed and the boy went out. Sitting down in a corner of the writing room, Mark and Saunders looked at one another, then at the yellow envelopes.
"Why don't you open your telegram, Saunders?" asked Mark.
"Because I know pretty well what's in it. I guessed it would be coming. I am ordered off this case, for the men who employed our agency have no use for me after last night. They have found everything out for themselves, and have settled it in their own way. Why don't you open yours?"
"For opposite reasons to yours, old chap: because I don't know what's in it, and, whatever it is, I don't think I shall like it. I have not had many messages of this kind. None but my solicitors would send one, and that means trouble. But here goes!"
Mark tore off the end of the envelope, opened the message and read. Saunders did the same with his. One glance was enough for each.
"I told you so," said Saunders. "Here's my message: 'Central disconnected.'"
Mark looked up with surprise.
"'Central disconnected'? What's that, Saunders? More United States?"
"It's our code," replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the central office at once. Our connection with the case is at an end.'"
There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegram over for Saunders to read. It was from New York:
"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you and say that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once."
"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry." There was real sympathy in Saunders' voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, it would be better for you to go."
"You're wrong, Saunders." Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "My disappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite a personage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He had no children. I can fight better here—as Baron Griffin."
"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, youareBaron Griffin now!"
"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother's death. What are you going to do, Saunders?"
The detective looked embarrassed.
"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throw up my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out."
"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can you afford it?"
"Frankly, I can't; but I'm going to do it just the same."
"Saunders," said Mark, "I think I need the services of a sort of detective."
"You mean a protective bodyguard."
"Put it as you like—any way that will let me pay you for your time. You say you are going to stay on the case. I want to have you on it. You may not need me badly, but I'm sure that I need you."
"Then you want me to apply for the job?"
"I'd employ you if you would take it, old chap."
"Then I apply. I never asked for a job before, but I want this one. Shake!"
The men shook hands and started to go upstairs. When they were out of hearing, the clerk called up a number on the telephone.
In an upstairs room of a Washington Ministry three men sat in conference. One, a stout, bearded man, was seated behind a flat-top desk on which he constantly thrummed with nervous fingers; the others sat facing him. The man at the desk was the Minister of a Kingdom, and looked it. His eyes were half closed, as if in languid indifference, effectually veiling their keenness. The expression of his mouth was lost in the dark moustache, and in the beard combed from the center. The visible part of his face would have made a gambler's fortune; and, save for its warm color, it might have been carved out of ice. Without ever a hint of harshness or loudness, his voice was one to command attention; though it came out soft and velvety, it was with the half assurance that it could ring like steel if the occasion arose. The occasion never arose. The hands, whose fingers thrummed on the glass-topped desk, were soft, warm-looking, and always moist, with a dampness that on contact made you feel vaguely that you had touched oil—and you had.
Both of the other men were beardless, but one had the ghost of a moustache on his upper lip. He was dapper, clean and deferential. The other was short and somewhat ungainly in build, and his face showed evidence of the recent shaving off of a heavy beard. He had no graces, and evidently no thoughts but of service—service of any kind, so long as he recognized the authority demanding it. His clothes did not suit him; they were rich enough, but they were not his kind. A soldier of the ranks, a sailor before the mast, a laborer on Sunday, could have exchanged clothes with this man and profited in values, while the other would certainly have profited in looks.
"You did not see the other, then, Ivan?" the fat man asked, interrupting the story of his awkward guest.
"I did not, Excellency. He came at me too quickly, and I had no idea there was anyone there besides myself and—and the person who—"
"Yes, yes. The person who is now without a name. Go on."
"I was in the shrubs, near a great large tree that seemed to form part of a wall, when the two, the person and a lady, came back together. She—"
"Did they act as if they knew one another?"
The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one another quite well. They embraced."
"Thatyou didnotsee, Ivan?"
"No, Excellency, of course, I did not seethat."
"Proceed, Ivan."
"After they—parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went into it."
"Opened the tree?" The nervous fingers were stilled.
"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door."
"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?"
The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual in America."
"Proceed, Ivan." The Minister resumed his thrumming.
"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the—ah—person—turned to go past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency—"
"You are forgetting again, Ivan." The half-closed eyes opened for an instant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone.
"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of."
"Oh, yes—Maxim's."
"My gun exploded—but noiselessly, Excellency, because of the silencer—just as the strange man jumped at me. The—ah—person fell, and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but he knew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the—person—who had, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I came back and—" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav—"he came with me."
The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took up the story.
"We thought it better to dispose of the—person, Excellency, and avoid—"
"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to your duties."
The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him.
"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?—the man who struck you?"
"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire, Excellency."
"Thank you, Ivan."
The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent, gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly now as though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up.
"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night, Wratslav?"
"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew not at all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman—the same who visits the lady."
"H-m, h-mmmm." The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellency was silent, considering what this new development might mean. The fingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivory paper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he did so slowly, carefully, weighing each word.
"Have you seen him—the Englishman—since?"
"No, Excellency—"
"No?" The word came with cold emphasis.
"The hotel clerk, who is friendly—for a consideration—telephoned me that the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that his hand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks."
"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?"
"Not a word, so far as I have heard."
"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?"
"He might think that he would be suspected."
"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a little too much, does he not?"
"A great deal too much, Excellency."
"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is."
"He goes to see her, Excellency."
The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers, then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately.
"It would be well if he did not go again—did not speak to her again for that matter—" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as His Excellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as though to emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voice continued, "if it could be arranged."
"It can be arranged, Excellency."
"I thought so." Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back in his chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest more comfortably on the desk.
"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety.
"Yes?"
"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his own country."
"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?"
"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron Griffin."
The fingers tightened around the ivory knife.
"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, "thatis unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad—and you also—while the excellent shooting continues near—ah—the camp. It seems best."
The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the receiver.
"Yes, someone will come down."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav.
"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here. Hurry."
The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which he handed to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. The ivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly at the pieces, but never a line of his face moved.
"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must think again." He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read:
"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, and begs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sent under seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be opened or its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the sudden demise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders."
Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. The slow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk, and his hand strayed to the papers on it.
"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for some time yet, Wratslav."
"Yes, Excellency."
The silence lasted a full minute.
"About the lady, Wratslav—" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be a great honor were she to visit the Ministry soon."
"Would she come, Excellency?"
The question was ignored.
"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quite comfortable, I think."
"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger—and of gossip also."
"That, too, might be arranged."
"But if she proves—"
"She will not—not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, that her arrival is momentarily expected—traveling incognito, you see—no fuss or receptions—but a short visit before sailing back to Europe. Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they know nothing outside the court. The King is anxious." There was another flashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well," spoken with meaning emphasis.
Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency."
"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav."
"I will do it, Excellency."
"That is better."
So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and the rough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whose limousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little as possible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored with provisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of the workers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things—or indeed ever saw the interior of the car at all.
Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr. Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down.
"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to break in upon you after—" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I—I—"
But Father Murray smiled indulgently.
"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours with myImitationheals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day. Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires nothing on earth?'"
"Fine—but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark. "Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?"
"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our à Kempis had more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.' It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty."
"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left you free for the more important things."
Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making excuses, my dear Mark. Youareforgiven, so far as I am concerned. But I am not the only one who has been neglected."
"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to speak about a matter of importance."
So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the point:
"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?"
"Yes."
"You approve?"
"Decidedly."
"But I am not of her faith."
"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark."
"And you would trust me?"
"Absolutely."
"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"
"I have no such recollection."
"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"
"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic."
"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon. I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see you that morning."
"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to see me?"
"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this: the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.' She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked. 'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her hand after me. I never forgot the face—nor the kiss. Now I know I have met her again—a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together. Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand now?"
"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman' when I came out of the study to take her home."
"Then you knew her family well?"
"Her mother was my sister."
"Your sister!"
"Exactly. You are surprised?"
Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised.
"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered.
"Please be explicit."
"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have myself seen, if she is really your niece."
"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray anxiously.
"Certainly, Father."
"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait."
The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. Here was his chance.
"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. "You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your reputation will be cleared now."
Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became grave again.
"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that—" Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a test, Mark?"
Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet as he took it.
Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak.
"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here."
"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer."
Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was trickling down her cheek from a small wound—evidently the result of a blow.
"Mon Dieu!Mon Dieu!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth is gone. They have taken her away in a great car.Mon Dieu, Father! Come—come at once!"
The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga. Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called it.
"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them. They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out. I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind.Mon Dieu!Mon Dieu! Let me die!"
"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the weeping woman. "What were those men like?"
"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark and short, but he was very large of the shoulders."
Mark turned to Father Murray.
"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come to Washington with me?"
"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father Murray. "Let us go."
Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset.