"Exactly," said Gordon. "Yes, I understand. I trust I shall be equally so. In about fifteen minutes, you think. All right. Good-by."
With a smile he hung up the receiver, and turned again to his work. Ten minutes more, and Harrington, his confidential clerk, entered, a puzzled expression on his face. He bent over the desk and spoke a few words to Gordon in a low tone. Gordon nodded.
"Certainly," he said, "show him in. And, Harrington," he added, "I'm not to be disturbed until I ring; not by any one, you understand. If Rogers should telephone, I'm out of town but expected back any minute, and I'll ring him up as soon as I get in. Remember, I'm not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever, unless I should ring. All right, now. Ask him to step in."
The clerk nodded and withdrew, and Gordon, rising, stood waiting by the window, outwardly calm, inwardly exerting every atom of self-control to keep down his rising excitement, as the crucial moment in the game drew near. Even as he listened, a hurried step sounded in the corridor without, and Palmer burst into the room, flinging the door to behind him as if to shut out some threatened pursuit. His unshaven face was pale and haggard, his eyes bloodshot and wild, his clothing awry, his whole demeanor as unlike that of his every-day, placid self as could by any possibility be imagined. His eyes sought Gordon's face, half in relief, half in fear.
"I've come straight here," he cried hoarsely. "I thought I might have missed you if you'd gone to the island. Gordon, there's the very devil to pay. Have you heard what's happened?"
Gordon, his face set and hard, nodded silently. He motioned to a chair, and seated himself at his desk, his voice, when he spoke, sounding low and constrained.
"Yes, I've heard," he said; "I was just starting for the island when Mrs. Francis got me on the 'phone. Poor woman, she's half out of her mind." He paused, and then his seeming emotion mastered him, sweeping away in an instant his effort at self-control.
"For God's sake, Palmer," he cried aloud, his eyes fixed on the other's face, "how did you come to do it? I can't believe it yet. You! A man of your position! My guest! Great heavens, Palmer, it can't be true! Tell me the whole thing's a lie."
The younger man sat silent with head bowed and eyes fixed on the ground; his hands clenched, his body drawn back as if to avert a blow. Once, twice, he tried to speak, swallowing with difficulty and moistening his dry lips with his tongue. Then unwillingly he raised his eyes to Gordon's face.
"It's true enough," he muttered thickly; "I've been a fool, that's all, and now I suppose there'll be the deuce to pay. Wine and women, damn them both! they've got me into trouble enough before this, but this time I guess they've just about done for me."
Gordon's lip curled contemptuously. "Oh, so you're the one to be pitied," he said at length with slow irony. "Really, Harry, I'll admit that that's the last view of the matter I expected you to take. Why, don't you realize, man, what you've done? Things may be bad enough for you, of course; probably they will be; but can't you think for a minute of that poor girl. What's your trouble compared to hers?"
A tinge of red showed in Palmer's pale face. "Of course I'm sorry for her," he said sulkily. "It was hell coming back from the island. I'm terribly ashamed of myself, and all that, and I'll do anything I can to square things with her. But I can't help thinking about what's going to happen to me, just the same. We've all got to look out for ourselves first. That's human nature."
Gordon gazed at him from half-shut eyes. "Yes," he admitted, "that's human nature, I suppose, beyond a doubt." He paused a moment, and then continued: "Very well, then, if it suits you better, we'll eliminate the girl altogether, and look at things just from your end of it. I suppose the first point is whether the thing becomes known or not. If it does, I imagine there's no question that it will hurt you tremendously. In society in general, it surely will. In your clubs I don't know that it would make so much difference."
Palmer threw back his head with a gesture of uncontrollable agitation. "Damn all that part of it," he cried angrily; "that isn't what I mind. It's what May's going to do if she hears about it. I can't have her know, Gordon; she's the best girl that ever lived, and she's devilish particular about such things. She'd break our engagement in a minute, just as sure as fate, if she knew."
Gordon nodded. "I imagine she would," he said drily. "When you come to think of it, Harry, it is rather a difficult thing for you to explain to her satisfactorily. A man just engaged to one of the most eligible girls in town; supposedly swearing all the usual vows of eternal constancy, and all that; and then, a week or so later, taking deliberate advantage of an unexpected opportunity, and ruining a young girl placed in his care by a friend who had every belief that the man was in all reality the gentleman he seemed. If it comes to that, Harry, and we're to consider anybody's position in the matter except poor Marian's, just think of mine for a moment, and what I'm to say to Mrs. Francis. The dear woman blames me, and in a sense she's perfectly right. I vouched for you, Harry, as my friend and guest, and this is what you thought was due me in return. It's a terrible thing you've done; terrible for Marian, terrible for yourself, terrible for all of us."
Palmer sat with head bowed, shoulders drooping, eyes fixed on the ground, the embodiment of despair. "I admit it," he cried; "I couldn't have done a worse job for everybody concerned if I'd tried. But that's all done with. Now, I want to know what's going to happen next."
Gordon, his hands clasped about his knee, his forehead wrinkled doubtfully, gave himself up to reflection.
"Well," he said at length, "of course it's already occurred to you that some moralists would insist that you marry the girl."
Palmer started nervously. "I know it," he cried; "but it's impossible, Gordon. I couldn't do it. The girl herself wouldn't want that. No girl would."
Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know about that," he answered. "I imagine some girls, the ambitious, designing kind, would jump at the chance. Still, fortunately for you, Marian, of course, is a girl of a very different type. No, as a matter of fact, I don't think, in all candor, she ever wants to set eyes on you again. I suppose you can rest easy on that score."
Palmer glanced up with the first signs of hopefulness on his haggard face. "Then why can't the thing be hushed up?" he asked eagerly. "Why isn't that the best way out of it for every one?"
In spite of the gravity of the occasion, the faintest suggestion of a smile played around Gordon's mouth. "That's human nature," he quoted ironically. "It's best for you, and so it must be best for everybody else. The reasoning's no good, of course, but I'm not sure, though, but what in this case it does happen to work out so. I've been trying to think it over fairly, and consider your position as well as Marian's and her mother's. I suppose, from Marian's point of view, there's nothing to be gained by publicity. The girl's life is practically ruined, Harry; she's completely crushed by what has happened, and I don't think she's got spirit or ambition enough left to wish to make trouble for any one."
Palmer nodded eagerly. "I'm mighty glad she takes it so sensibly," he cried. "I don't see, then, why everything can't be hushed up. I'm certainly willing to do anything at all to make things right."
Gordon shook his head doubtfully. "It isn't as simple a matter as you think, Harry," he said. "I dare say everything could be smoothed over if you had only Marian to reckon with, but you forget her mother. You might not guess it, to see them around together, for Mrs. Francis isn't what you'd call a demonstrative woman, but Marian is the very apple of her eye. She fairly worships the ground the girl treads on, and she's nearly out of her mind with grief. I don't want to worry you unnecessarily, Harry; things are bad enough already; but I suppose it's only right to tell you that she was going to see Miss Sinclair this morning, and I had a pretty bad half hour before I managed to dissuade her. Even at that, I imagine it's only a temporary respite. Sooner or later she's bound to go to Miss Sinclair with the whole story, and, to be frank, I don't suppose we can blame her for a minute."
Palmer groaned. "Oh, God!" he cried, throwing back his head as if in physical torture; "what a fool, what an utter fool I've been! Here's my whole life, my whole happiness ruined, and all for the sake of an evening's cursed pleasure. Gordon, get me out of this damnable mess somehow, and I'll do anything in God's world for you; anything you ask; anything you want."
Gordon shook his head again. "I wouldn't talk that way, Harry," he said more kindly. "You're losing your grip on yourself. There's nothing you could do for me, and if there was, I'd never take advantage of a time like this to try to get you to do it. I hope I'm not that kind of a friend. No, it's a bad outlook, Harry. There's no getting away from that."
He paused a moment, then added doubtfully:
"There's just one possibility I can think of, but it's one I hardly like even to suggest."
Palmer glanced up quickly. "What is it, Gordon?" he cried. "For Heaven's sake, don't torture me! If there's any possible way out, tell me what it is."
Gordon hesitated. "Well," he said reluctantly, "I don't like to speak of money even indirectly in connection with an affair of this kind, because it has a sort of savor of blackmail about it. But I think—mind you, I don't know—I think I know why Mrs. Francis is so terribly wrought up over the whole affair. It's like this with her. Her husband, when he died, left her in charge of a big farm that she's been trying to run herself, I imagine without much success. I guess the place is mortgaged up to the handle; she hasn't been able to sell, and it leaves her practically tied down to her work there. You know what a country neighborhood is; a pretty narrow circle of interests, and consequently a perfect hotbed of gossip. Now, I think the real dread she's got is that somehow this story may leak out, and that she and Marian will be disgraced and looked down upon for the rest of their lives. That's what I gathered, anyway, from the talk I had with her this morning, and I'd hazard a guess that if a purchaser for the farm could somehow be found, and she could be left free to leave home for good and start life over again for Marian, away out west somewhere, she might be made to listen to reason. I may be all wrong, though, and, as I say, it's with the greatest hesitation that I speak of it at all, because it involves money, and I suppose quite a considerable sum—seventy-five to a hundred thousand dollars, I should say off-hand—so perhaps, after all, we'd do better to let her go ahead and see Miss Sinclair. I dare say Miss Sinclair would take this better than you imagine, anyway. She doubtless understands a man's nature."
Palmer laughed mirthlessly. "Understand!" he cried; "Heavens! You don't know her, Gordon. Her mind's as pure as snow. Why, if she knew this, she'd end everything in a minute. No, we've got to keep Mrs. Francis away. That's all there is to it. I'll buy her farm, or a dozen farms, if she's got them, if she'll agree to keep quiet. But if she says she will, can I trust her, Gordon?"
Gordon nodded assent. "Absolutely," he answered. "If she agrees to anything at all, she'll stick to what she says. You needn't worry about that. She's the soul of honor."
Palmer rose abruptly. "I must get back home," he said, more in his usual manner. "I look like the very devil. Ring her up, Gordon, and have her come down here and get the thing settled up, that's a good fellow. I'm half wrong in my head myself over the thing. Get it settled right, Gordon, and I'll never forget it." He hesitated a moment, and then continued awkwardly. "And I'm devilish sorry, Gordon; I really am. And I wish you'd tell the girl so when you see her. I hope you won't lay this up against me. I never meant to do it, and I never would have done it if I hadn't lost my head altogether. I'm sorry. That's all I can say."
Gordon held out his hand. "Harry," he said, "you've done an awful thing, but God forbid that one man should sit in judgment on another. A higher power than ourselves must do that. As far as I'm concerned, I forgive you the wrong you've done, and I'll do all in my power to help you."
Palmer eagerly took the proffered hand. "Gordon, you're a brick!" he said gratefully. "I wish to God I were half as good a chap as you are." And, turning on his heel, he left the office.
Eight—nine—ten—eleven— The little clock on the mantel chimed the hour musically and significantly, and Palmer jumped quickly to his feet, pulling out his watch as he did so for confirmation. Then, with a laugh and a shake of his head, he thrust it back into his pocket again.
"No use, May," he said; "I've lost track of an hour somewhere, and it doesn't seem to be the clock's fault. I suppose I'll have to blame you instead."
May Sinclair smiled. "I find, Harry," she said slowly, "that being engaged makes awfully irresponsible creatures of us. You wouldn't think that it would change people who ought to have arrived at years of discretion so that they act and talk and feel in a way their common sense tells them is ridiculous, and yet a way so pleasant that they wouldn't have it different if they could. I find my most settled tastes, habits, plans, everything, all completely changed. And I guess, Harry, you find it a good deal the same way, too."
She had risen as she spoke, and stood beside him, slender, delicate, womanly, altogether charming. With no assumption of coquetry, she laid a detaining hand on his arm, and raised her brown eyes wistfully to his.
"I don't want you to go yet," she whispered. "You can stay till half-past eleven, Harry. Honestly, I'm not a bit tired to-night."
Palmer stooped and kissed her. "Mustn't try to tempt me, May," he answered, "after you've got doctor's orders to take things easy and have plenty of rest. If you'd only give up your beloved settlement work, then it would be a different thing altogether. You wait till we're married, and I'll make you give it up, whether or no. You'll find I'm enough to reform, without your having to bother your head with those bums from the slums. Gad, May, how's that? One of these regular eppy—what-you-may-call-'ems—Bums from the slums; really, now, I call that rather clever."
The girl shook with laughter. "Oh, Harry, Harry," she cried, "your sense of humor will certainly kill me some day. It's so very—well, obvious—to say the least. But—" and she drew closer to him—"I love you, dear, in spite of it."
Palmer slipped his arm around the girl's slender waist, and kissed her again and again. "You don't know, May," he whispered, "what it means to me to hear you say that. It makes me feel awfully proud, and yet at the same time, you know, it makes me feel awfully ashamed of myself, too. I never ought to have dared to ask you to marry me in the first place, May. That's the whole trouble. You're a million times too good for me. Sometimes, you know, I get to thinking lately I'm a deuced poor sort of a chap, after all."
The girl laid a protesting finger on his lips. "Stop!" she commanded; "I can find fault with you all I please, but I'm the only one. You're not to say a word against yourself, because I won't let you. I wouldn't want you to be any different, my dear, in any possible way—if only you wouldn't make fun of the settlement. That really makes me discouraged, Harry."
Palmer raised his right hand. "I solemnly swear," he cried, with mock seriousness, "that if it bothers you, May, I'll never make fun of it again. Only—and I'm really in earnest about this—I always have believed that there's trouble enough coming every one's way before they've finished the game to keep them busy, and yet here you deliberately go out hunting for it. That's what I can't get through my head."
The girl in her turn grew suddenly grave. "Oh, but Harry," she protested, "we don't have any real troubles, you and I. If you could know some of the things we come across there at the settlement. Just think, last night I heard about the little O'Brien girl, the brightest, prettiest little thing in the whole club; she isn't a day over seventeen, and some brute of a man got her to go off with him in an automobile, and there was wine, of course, and now—now the poor thing's in trouble. Just think of it, Harry. You can't imagine the temptation and all that part of it for girls that haven't good homes. And most men are such beasts. Oh, I've thanked God, Harry, more times than you've ever guessed, that I'm to marry a man that's big and strong and clean and honest. I'm so proud of you, Harry, you don't know how proud."
Fortunately for both, the dim light masked the expression on Palmer's face, and the girl did not mark the sudden spasm of pain that contracted it. Somewhat hastily, it seemed to her, he stooped and kissed her again.
"I'm a brute myself," he said with a faint attempt at humor, "keeping you up till almost midnight. To-morrow night, dear. No, don't come down. Good-night, May, good-night."
Once outside the Sinclairs' home, Palmer strode away down the street, for the first time in his life, perhaps, in an agony of self-abasement. Up to now, his fears and worries had been purely selfish ones. He had done something of which he was ashamed, and in which he did not wish to be found out, and in spite of the payment of hush money and solemn protestations of secrecy in return, he had felt that he was treading on the edge of a slumbering volcano. Now, however, May Sinclair's parting words had for once awakened his dormant moral sense, and he flushed hotly at the thought that the kisses he had given the pure girl who believed him all that was true had been but a short twenty-four hours before lavished in a mad burst of passion upon another.
With all his faults, Palmer was kind. Horses and dogs were his friends. Small children, oftentimes to his great embarrassment, made much over him. Kind—and weak, he was never cast to play the villain in life's drama; betrayals of friendship, premeditated deception, even injury to the feelings of another, none of these things was natural to him, and his love for May Sinclair, all unknown to him, was working and striving to rouse the finer sense sleeping within him far beneath the crust of ignorance and selfishness and sloth.
Thus, in repentant, self-contemptuous mood, he reached the entrance of his big house on the avenue, and in moody silence unlocked the door and entered the quiet hall. At once, to his surprise, a silent figure came forward to meet him, and, peering through the half-light, he recognized the figure of his secretary.
"Hullo, Morton," he exclaimed in surprise, "what's the trouble now?"
The secretary advanced with an air of caution. "There's a young woman waiting in the reception-room to see you, sir," he said in a low tone. "She's been here since ten o'clock, and she seems to be an uncommonly determined sort of person. In fact, she was too much for me, altogether. I couldn't get rid of her. She insists she's got to see you."
Palmer frowned, possibly with well-merited apprehension, for a girl to see him might mean any one of half-a-dozen disagreeable alternatives. With a sigh he drew back the portière and entered, closing the door after him as he did so.
The girl who rose to meet him was fashionably, even expensively gowned in a closely fitting black walking dress, cunningly designed to display to the best advantage the obvious attractions of her figure. Her face was so heavily veiled that her features were hardly to be distinguished, but to Palmer's relief, she was evidently an utter stranger to him. The lateness of the hour and the fact that she was alone did not seem to disturb her self-possession in the least; in fact, she even seemed faintly amused at Palmer's scrutiny.
"No," she said, as if in answer to his unspoken question, "you don't know me, Mr. Palmer. I don't think you've ever laid eyes on me before."
Palmer bowed courteously. "Then you will pardon me for saying that this is a rather unusual time for a visit," he rejoined. "Perhaps I may venture to ask your name and business."
The girl, without waiting for Palmer's invitation to do so, had resumed her seat. "You certainly may," she answered. "You're really very good not to throw me out through the window. I suppose I deserve it. My name is Annie Holton; my profession perhaps you can guess without my shocking you; my special business with you is that I've tumbled to something that ought to interest you a lot."
Palmer looked at her with the closest scrutiny. "Perhaps," he suggested, "if this is very important, you could call at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I shall be at leisure then."
The girl laughed. "You probably think I'm crazy, or else that I'm an anarchist or something like that," she rejoined good-humoredly. "I'm sure I don't blame you a bit. But I'm neither one nor the other, and I can assure you I wouldn't be here at this hour if it wasn't worth it—for both of us, I hope. In the first place, I know about the little difficulty you're in."
Palmer shook his head. "I'm afraid there's some mistake," he said blandly. "You'll excuse me for reminding you—"
The girl cut him short with an impatient gesture. "Don't bluff!" she cried. "You ought to be able to see I'm no fool. I'm giving this to you straight, and you might as well go straight with me, too. I know half the story, to start with, and there's another quarter that's not very hard to guess, and you can fill in what's left, if you feel like it. Does that sound right?"
Palmer frowned. To him it sounded as if the pledge of secrecy had been violated almost as soon as made. "All right," he rejoined resignedly, "fire away!"
The girl hesitated a moment, then began, speaking slowly and with care.
"Well, here's the story," she said. "There's a man that you know named Gordon, who seems to be a pretty smooth proposition. He's been doing the Jekyll and Hyde act for two or three years now, and nobody's ever got on to him so far. Now, for some reason that I don't know, he's got it in for you, and puts up a game on you. It's all done very smooth, indeed. Two women—same profession as myself—are worked into it, one to play Miss Innocence, 'Her golden hair was hanging down her back,' part, you know, and the other to be the loving mother. Then there's—"
Palmer raised a protesting hand. "You can stop right there," he cried. "This is nothing but foolishness, and waste of time. I don't know who's been telling you all this rot, or what his object was, but one thing I do know, and that is that you've been most completely taken in. The only thing you've happened to get right is that I know a man named Gordon, and it also happens that he's one of the best friends I've got in the world. So any stories you're bringing me about him are just waste of breath."
The girl gave an impatient little sigh. "My dear Mr. Palmer," she said, "there's no use in our going on at cross purposes like this. I tell you once more I'm not easy to fool. I've seen my bit of the world, and I wouldn't be here wasting my time and yours if I didn't know what I was about. I don't ask much. Just give me five minutes to tell my story without interruption, and then, if you don't believe it, I'll go like a lamb, and leave you to be buncoed in peace, if you really enjoy that sort of thing. Isn't that fair?"
Palmer leaned back in his chair with an air of resignation, pulling out his watch as he did so. "Pardon my rudeness," he said ironically. "I'm unfortunate enough to be feeling a little tired. You may have your five minutes, free from interruption, and then I fear we shall have to say good night."
The girl nodded. "Thanks," she said briefly, "that's all I wanted. And I guess I won't waste any time, either. Now, as I was telling you, this Gordon is a pretty smooth kind of a guy. He goes into this thing right, from the breakaway. Stage setting, lights turned down, soft music, the whole show. Now, the play is to get you compromised with this girl, and then bleed you for all they think you'll stand for, so they get you off on an island somewhere alone with this girl—I don't know if it's really an island, or whether that's just a name they've got for it. Gordon's out there now, I believe; but, anyway, they get you there alone with the girl. Well, I suppose there's no need to go into details. I take it, though, that there's some play with knockout drops, or something of the sort. That's only a guess, though; you know what happened better than I do. Anyway, the point is that between them they got you dead to rights, and now they've started to bleed you. What they want, or how much they've got you for, I don't know, but it must be good and plenty, because the woman who played the smallest part of all flashes a roll as big as your arm, and, if a super gets that, what do the star and the leading lady get? I don't know, but I guess you do, all right.
"Now, they're two things more. One, how do I know all this? Because the woman who did the loving mother is a friend of mine, and she gets full up at my house last night, and tells me the whole yarn, or mostly the whole of it; enough so I can see you're being done for fair. Two, why do I come to you about it, instead of holding them up for money? Because I hate Gordon and his crowd, and I want to see you get back at them, and because if you can make them give back what they've stuck you for, it's worth your while to pay me well for putting you on. That's business, isn't it? There, I guess that covers it, and I guess I'm within my five minutes. So what do you say now? Is it 'Good night,' or is it 'Won't you stay a little longer'? Is it go or stay?"
Palmer's air of bored indifference had long since vanished. Now he sat silent, motionless, while the ticking of the clock was the only sound to be heard in the room. A minute passed, two, three. Then, with a quick intake of his breath, he leaned forward in his chair.
"It's stay," he said.
The sun still hung an hour high above the horizon. No faintest breath of wind was stirring, and the tall pines along the island's shore stood mirrored in the broad lake's placid calm. The wildfowl, true to their custom, were bedded in huge flocks far out towards the center of the lake, and what few ducks there were stirring, kept for the most part warily out of range of the point.
Gordon sat in the blind alone, and for so keen a sportsman the poor shooting seemed to trouble him but little. On the contrary, his thoughts, which were of the pleasantest, had strayed far away from ducks and duck-shooting. He had played a difficult and a dangerous game, and had played it boldly and well. Rose and Mrs. Holton had acted their parts to perfection, and Palmer had behaved exactly as they had hoped he would. Gordon permitted himself a quiet smile of self-satisfaction. That was true enjoyment, after all. The ability to handle one's fellow-men; to humor them, to learn their weaknesses, and then to turn these weaknesses to one's own account; in that there was true satisfaction, in that there was the feeling of getting something really worth while from the game of life. So much for the past, and now for the future a hundred questions lay waiting to be solved. The problem as to whether a partner would be desirable, the best and quickest way of finding the right mine, the advertising campaign, the gaining of the public confidence, surely there were many things to be thought of yet, before the victory should be won.
At last, as the sun sank lower still, the folly of waiting any longer for the wildfowl to fly became apparent, and Gordon, rousing himself, was already beginning to gather up the decoys, when he caught sight of one of the little rowing skiffs putting out from the mainland. An instant feeling of uneasiness crept over him. "That's queer," he muttered to himself. "Vanulm isn't due till to-morrow, and he wouldn't be rowing at that rate, anyway. I wonder who it can be."
The boat was certainly approaching at high speed, the long furrowed wake stretching away behind, and a little curl of white foam showing under her bow. As she passed out of sight around the easterly point of the island, Gordon gave a sudden start of surprise. "By God," he muttered, "it looks like Palmer. I wonder what's gone wrong now."
He had not long to wait for his answer. Five minutes passed, and then down the path, walking rapidly, came striding a man now easily recognizable as Palmer. Straight on he came, and Gordon, as he watched him, felt his heart suddenly begin to beat loud and fast.
Palmer's face was flushed to a dull, angry red, his eyes were glaring, his upper lip was drawn upwards from his teeth, and his whole face was working convulsively. He was still some distance away when he began to speak, his voice pitched high in an ecstasy of rage.
"Damn you, Gordon!" he shouted, shaking his clenched fist. "You dirty blackguard! You blackmailer! You canting hypocrite! I've got you to rights now, you skulking hound!"
He laughed a strained, unnatural laugh as he paused a few feet away, fairly trembling with excitement. Then he went on: "You smooth, dirty villain. You pretty nearly did for me, didn't you? But, by heavens, I've got you where I want you now. I've blocked your pretty little game. It's state's prison for you, you and your precious gang."
Gordon stood staring at him, while an expression of utter amazement came over his face. "Harry," he cried, "what do you mean? What are you talking about? Are you going crazy, or am I?"
Palmer laughed sneeringly. "Good," he cried; "she told me you'd try to bluff it out somehow." Then, with sudden change of tone, he added fiercely, "Drop it, Gordon. It's no use. Don't be a fool. I tell you the thing's up. Did you ever hear of a girl named Annie Holton?"
An instant change came over Gordon's face, followed quickly by a look almost of relief. "Know Annie Holton," he cried. "I should say I had reason to. The most unprincipled woman on earth, and one who hates me as much as one human being can hate another. What lies has she been telling you, Harry?"
He spoke frankly and fearlessly, and for the first time an expression of doubt came over Palmer's face, but he did not hesitate.
"No lies," he exclaimed, "but a lot more truth than you'll care to have known, I'll warrant. I know now that those charming relations of yours were women of the street, got up for the occasion. I ruined a young girl, did I?" He roared and shook with unwholesome laughter. "I was made a fool of by one of your mistresses. I was—"
Gordon took a quick step forward, his eyes blazing with wrath.
"Stop it!" he cried sharply, and his voice rang with the tone of absolute command. "Another word, and I'll kill you in your tracks. I won't stand it, Palmer. I won't take such talk from you or from any man living. You're either drunk or crazy, man. You're out of your mind."
Palmer hesitated, cowed in spite of himself. "I don't believe you," he said sulkily. "And you've got to come back with me now and face the music. If I've slandered you or any one else, I'll make it right, and if I haven't—" his voice rose again, "I'll make you pay the piper for the fun you've had."
He stopped abruptly, and for a moment both men stood silent. Gordon was thinking hard and fast. The game was up; that much was obvious. Rose had been right. One little slip, she had said from the first, would ruin everything, and now, just as it all seemed safe and sure, just as the game was all but won, that slip had come. Somehow Annie Holton had got the story from her mother, and had gone straight to Palmer with it. The mischief was done, unless—
Mechanically, as one does the most trivial things in the moments of greatest strain, he went on putting away the decoys. Suddenly he straightened up, and looked Palmer squarely in the face. "Harry," he said more quietly, "this whole thing is an awful mistake from beginning to end, but we certainly won't make things any better by standing here quarreling. I won't say one word in criticism of your action in coming on to a man's private property as you've done, and using the language you've used to me, for I can understand the provocation you think you're laboring under. On the contrary, I'll go back with you with all the pleasure in the world. All I want is to have you bring that Holton woman before us, and have her dare repeat a word of that story. That's all I ask. But in the meantime, Harry, remember we've been friends a long time, and let's both try to act a little more like gentlemen, at any rate."
The unnatural flush had slowly receded from Palmer's face, leaving him deathly pale. Evidently the strain upon him had been terrific. He nodded shortly. "All right," he said, his voice sounding hard and unnatural, "that's fair enough. But back to town we go to-night. I can't stand this much longer. I've lived through hell to-day. So it's back to town to-night. Is that understood?"
Gordon nodded. "Certainly," he assented readily. Then with apparent irrelevance, he added, "How did you know where to find me? Ring up the office?"
Palmer stared at him sullenly. "I don't see what difference that makes," he said; "but if you want to know, your friend the Holton girl told me."
"Ah, yes," said Gordon, "that was it, of course. I might have thought. Stupid of me."
Slowly they walked along toward the house, until suddenly, near the little cluster of pines, Gordon stopped. "Look here, Palmer," he cried, "I don't want to ask favors of you when you're naturally impatient and worked up over this thing, but on the other hand, my conscience is clear, and half an hour more or less won't make any difference, anyway. The last two nights there's been a big flock of Canada geese trading by the point here, and I'm keen to get a crack at them. In fact, that was what I came over for to-night. If it isn't too trivial at such a time, do you mind letting me try them?"
Palmer hesitated, and Gordon hastened to add, "Unless, of course, you're anxious to get to the station earlier for any other reason. I suppose, though, you left word at your office or your home where you'd gone, so that you don't really care particularly when you do get back."
Palmer shook his head. "No, I didn't," he answered. "This thing broke me all up, Gordon, and I posted right out here to see you. If you really want to try the geese, go ahead. I suppose it won't make any difference as to the train, anyway."
"No," Gordon assented; "that's true. There's no train we can get for two hours yet. A worse little branch road, I suppose, was never run anywhere. That station agent's going to get fired one of these fine days. He's never at the station when I come out."
"He wasn't there to-day," growled Palmer. "You've got the damnedest, out-of-the-way place to get to I ever saw. Your ducks aren't worth your trouble."
They had reached the edge of the little grove as Palmer finished speaking. Gordon's whole bearing seemed to have changed entirely. His eye was watchful, his step alert, as he snapped the sixteen-gage open and quietly slipped in a couple of shells. "We'll only wait a few minutes," he said. "Sometimes they come straight from the north. Would you mind looking out that way?"
Palmer obeyed, staring moodily out across the placid surface of the water. The sun had set, and in the faint, gathering dusk the brooding silence of the lake had about it something sinister, unearthly, threatening. Man, and his petty passions, his childish hopes and fears, seemed somehow strangely dwarfed into utter insignificance in the midst of nature's impassive, inscrutable calm. Involuntarily Palmer shivered.
"I'm afraid it's too late for them, Gordon," he said slowly. "I don't really believe—"
The sentence was left unfinished. With a motion quick as thought, Gordon threw the sixteen-gage to his shoulder, pressed the barrel to Palmer's back just below the left shoulder blade, and pressed the trigger.
At the muffled report the murdered man's arms flew out and up as if grasping for support, his head twitched back sharply, and like a log he fell. A horrible choking sound issued from his distorted lips, his body twitched convulsively once or twice, and he lay still, his head twisted to one side, the bared teeth grinning upward from the mouth contorted into the ghostly semblance of a smile.
Mechanically Gordon leaned his gun against a tree; then looked fearfully about him. Still, calm, motionless, the lake lay before him. No wind stirred the pines. The silence was the silence of death. A sickening faintness crept over him. He stifled an impulse to shout for help, and set his teeth sharply together. "God!" he muttered, "God!" Then, with averted face, he picked up the ghastly, inert thing that had been Harry Palmer, and, staggering with it to the very edge of the quicksand, cast it from him with all his strength. A moment, and it had disappeared from sight.
Before the fire in the big library May Sinclair sat gazing into the leaping flames, the book she had taken from its shelf lying unopened in her lap, her thoughts far away. Pleasant, indeed, must have been the land through which they were journeying, for a smile played about her lips, and the little sigh that escaped her as she nestled more closely in the big arm-chair was but of content.
"Everything in the world," so ran her thoughts, "everything to make a girl happy." Her bluff, soldierly father, masterful enough with others, but tenderness itself to her; her mother, kind, loving, watchful, ever apprehensive lest some harm might befall her; her home; her friends; her work at the settlement; her wealth, prized not for itself, but for the use she could make of it for others; last of all—and she smiled at her own self-deceit, knowing that she had purposely kept it to the last that she might be free to dream on and on without interruption—last of all, her lover and the thought of their wedding-day, now distant but one short month.
The clock struck nine. Momentarily she wondered what might be keeping him, and then the spell of the future, insistent, not to be denied, drew her on and on, and again she was lost in fancy's realm. She could picture the wedding ceremony in the big church on the avenue, and at the thought of the ordeal she shivered a little, half in pleasure and half in fear. Then the honeymoon—and here she gave a sigh of utter rapture—for with all her dreams of working and doing for others, she was but human. To think of it! Six months abroad! England, France, Italy, Switzerland, and all with Harry alone to herself. To think of it; and she blushed and laughed as she found herself wishing that the month would hasten swiftly by. Then the return, to find herself mistress of Harry's mansion, hostess to all of his friends, sole ruler over all the vast domain of housewifery. So much they had to do! How could they find time for it all, for it was not to be all entertainment and fun? She must keep on with her reading and her studying, and she must make Harry more interested in such things, so that they could feel that they were doing everything together. Then there was the settlement work. Her clubs and classes—those must be kept up—for of what use were learning and culture and refinement if they could not in some manner be used for those less favored by fortune than herself? Here was the only real difference of opinion between them. Strive as she would, she could not manage to interest Harry in her cases at the Settlement House. He would escort her there, and call for her again, but to get him inside the door, for that even her skill would not suffice. That, however, would doubtless be somehow arranged. There could be no disagreement between people who loved each other as she and Harry did. What a busy life they were going to have. And then, some day, she supposed, she hoped, and her pure heart leaped with joy at the thought, there would be babies to love and care for,— she closed her eyes and for one rapt instant strove to pierce the veil, to gaze upon the deep, strong, mighty current of life, flowing steadily, swiftly, resistlessly—who knew whither? Face to face in that one tense moment she looked upon all the mystery of existence, the Sphinx's riddle, the problem of the ages, huge, illimitable, vast,—birth, life, death, so real and yet so unreal, actualities and yet but fancies, and only fixed and certain Fate, God, Eternity—
She gasped suddenly for breath and opened her eyes with a little start of fear. The clock on the mantel struck ten. With a quick gesture of disappointment she rose. "I'm sure he said to-night," she murmured, "well, he'll explain about it to-morrow." Then she snatched Palmer's picture from its place and pressed it to her lips. "Life is so beautiful, dear," she whispered softly, "and all because I love you and you love me."
Over across the city, far away to the northeast, on a quiet side street near Bradfield's was Annie Holton's tiny flat. To find its occupant at home at nine o'clock in the evening was a rare occurrence, but on this particular night, for perhaps the first time in a fortnight, she had not gone to Bradfield's, but sat alone in front of the fire, whose leaping flames furnished the only light in the little room.
She, too, was busy with her thoughts. It was not often that a thing as big as this came her way. Sheer luck it had been from the first. A suspicion that her mother had been a little over eager in urging her to go on the motor trip with the warm hearted western millionaire, a suspicion confirmed on her return by a chance word incautiously let fall; then her unlooked-for good fortune in getting the old woman gloriously drunk, and finally the startling discovery of the whole story, and her instant visit to Harry Palmer. With him, too, it had been touch and go. What if she had not been able to persuade him to listen; what if she had failed to convince him of the truth of her story? Gordon's game had been a good one. In spite of her desire for revenge, she felt a fierce admiration for his cleverness; just that one flaw, the picking of Mrs. Holton for one of his helpers, risking the taking on of a woman once notorious as a drunkard, and still given to occasional lapses. That one fact had meant Gordon's defeat and her own salvation.
Rose.
The struggle between her old infatuation for Gordon, and her hatred of Rose Ashton had been bitter, but brief. Hatred had triumphed, and yet to-night her exultation meant regret as well. The thought of holding Rose in her power made her clench her shapely hands, and brought a tigerish gleam to her bold black eyes, and still the afterthought would come that it was Gordon, after all, who would suffer most. Gordon was the one man she had ever cared the snap of her fingers for, and to harm him—and yet, since she had had the bitterness of seeing him desert her for Rose, there was a fierce pleasure in knowing that she would be sending him where she would never again know the agony of seeing him under the spell of the girl she loathed with all her heart.
And her own future? Five thousand dollars. What could she not do with that? First, clothes, of course. She would be the best dressed woman at Bradfield's. Jewels, too. And a little laid up for a rainy day, for Annie Holton was level-headed, and saw with grim philosophy the fate of the poor, tawdry, painted things of the street, who served to point the moral, when youth and good looks have fled.
"I'm lucky," she cried aloud challengingly, "I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm—"
She broke off sharply with a little cry of disgust. "You fool," she said, in a very different tone, a tone of the bitterest self-contempt, "you poor, weak fool! You know you're miserable. You know everything's a sham. You know your life isn't worth sixpence to you. And all because you're such a fool, with a dozen men crazy after you, you can't be satisfied because you can't have the one you want."
The clock chimed the hour of ten. For a moment she sat silent, and then slowly nodded her head. "It oughtn't to be so," she said with conviction, "but it's the truth, just the same. A woman can get along if the man she's stuck on is stuck on her—and if he isn't, she's better dead."