THE BITTERNESS OF JEALOUSY
James, the footman, entered the library before Malcolm Melvin had completed the first sentence of the reading of Patricia's stipulations, and deferentially addressed himself to Roderick Duncan:
"Pardon me, sir," he said, "but there is an urgent demand for you at the telephone—so urgent that I thought it necessary to interrupt you."
"For me? Are you sure?" asked Duncan, in surprise. For, at the moment, he could not imagine who sought him at such an hour, or how his presence at Langdon's house, was known.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Gardner is on the wire."
Duncan started to his feet, and hurried from the room, while Patricia, after a moment's hesitation, arose and followed him, glancing toward the big clock in one corner of the library as she passed it, and observing that it was already Sunday morning.
She waited in the hallway, outside the library door, until Duncan reappeared, after his talk with Jack Gardner over the telephone, and she stopped him, by a gesture.
"What is it, Roderick?" she asked. "I think I know what it must be. If it is anything that concerns me, I should like to know about it at once. It is something about the—the rumor of your marriage to Beatrice?"
"It concerns you only indirectly, Patricia," he replied. "I am afraid that I must defer the reading of those stipulations until another time. Gardner is very anxious for me to go to him at once."
"Why?" It was a simple, but a very direct question, which there was no possibility of avoiding.
"Gardner has kidnapped Radnor, and has him now at his own house. Radnor is the newspaper man whom I—who sought to interview me. Beatrice is there, with Sally. You know, they left Delmonico's together. My presence is insisted upon in order properly to clear up this unfortunate business. I really must go, you see. It is necessary for all concerned that this matter go no farther."
He would have said more, but she turned calmly away from him, and spoke to the footman.
"James," she said, "have Philip at the front door with the Packard, as quickly as possible." Then, to Duncan, she added: "I'll go with you; I shall be ready in a moment. You must wait for me, Roderick."
"But, Patricia," exclaimed Duncan, startled and greatly dismayed by her decision, reached so suddenly, "have you thought what time it is?"
"Yes," she responded, moving toward the stairway. "I have just looked at the clock. It is two o'clock, Sunday morning. I understand, also, that the conventions would be shocked, if the conventions understood the situation; but, fortunately, the conventions do not. You and I will drive to Sally Gardner's home together. I shall bring Beatrice back with me when we return. Please, make our apologies to my father and Mr. Melvin. I shall rejoin you in a moment."
There was no help for it, and Duncan waited, for he knew that, even if he should hasten on alone, Patricia would follow in the automobile, as soon as Philip brought it to the door. He sent James into the library with the announcement, and a moment later assisted Patricia into the hastily summoned car. The drive to the home of Jack Gardner was a short one, and was made in utter silence between the two young persons so deeply interested in each other, yet so widely separated by the occurrences of that fateful Saturday afternoon. Duncan knew that it was useless to expostulate with Patricia; and she, following her adopted course of outward indifference to everything save her personal interests, preferred to say nothing at all.
When the automobile came to a stop before Gardner's door, Jack himself rushed down the steps; but he paused midway between the bottom one and the curb, when he discovered that Duncan was not alone in the car, and he uttered a low whistle of consternation. He said something under his breath, too, but neither of the occupants of the automobile could hear it; and then, as he stepped forward to assist Patricia to alight, she said to him, in her usual quiet manner:
"Inasmuch as I am an interested party in this affair, Jack, I thought it important that I should accompany Mr. Duncan. I hope you do not regret that I have done so."
"Why—er—certainly not; not at all, Patricia. I don't know but that it is better—your having done so. You see—er—things have somehow got into a most damna—terrific tangle, you know, and I suppose I am partly responsible for it; if not wholly so. I—"
"You need not explain; believe me, Jack," she interrupted him, and passed on toward the steps, ascending them alone in advance of the two men who had paused for a moment beside the automobile, facing each other. Then, things happened, and they followed one another so swiftly that it is almost impossible to give a comprehensive description of them.
Philip, the chauffeur, sprang out from under the steering-wheel and for some reason unknown to anyone but himself, passed around to the rear of the car. He had permitted the engine to run on, merely throwing out the clutch when he came to a stop. The noise of the machinery interfered with the low-toned conversation that Duncan wished to have with Jack Gardner, and so the two stepped aside, moving a few paces away from the car, and also beyond the steps leading to the entrance of Gardner's home. Patricia passed through the open door, unannounced, for the owner of the house had left it ajar when he ran down the steps to greet Duncan. Miss Langdon had barely disappeared inside the doorway, when the hatless figure of a man sprang through it. He ran down the steps, and jumped into the driver's seat of the Packard car before either Duncan, or Gardner, whose backs were half-turned in that direction, realized what was taking place.
The man was Radnor, of course. He had found an opportunity to escape from his difficulties, and had taken advantage of it, without a moment's hesitation. He had argued that there would still be time, before the last edition of the newspapers should go to press, if he could only get to a telephone and succeed in convincing the night editor of the wisdom of holding the forms for this great story. Any newspaper would answer his purpose, for he believed that he could hold back any one of them a few moments, if only he could get to a telephone.
Radnor had not reckoned on the automobile, but he knew how to operate a Packard car as well as did the chauffeur himself, and he had barely reached the seat under the wheel when the big machine shot forward with rapidly increasing speed. He left the chauffeur, and the two young millionaires gaping after it with unmitigated astonishment and chagrin. Duncan and Gardner, both, realized that the newspaper man had escaped them, and each of them understood only too well that at least one of the city newspapers was now likely to print the hateful story of the supposed marriage, beneath glaring and astonishing headlines, the following morning.
Duncan swore, softly and rapidly, but with emphasis; Jack Gardner, broke into uproarous laughter, which he could not possibly repress or control; the chauffeur started up the avenue on a run, in a fruitless chase after the on-rushing car, which even at that moment whirled around the corner toward Madison avenue, and disappeared. Gardner continued to laugh on, until Duncan seized him by the shoulder, and shook him with some violence.
"Shut up your infernal clatter, Jack!" he exclaimed, momentarily forgetful of his anger at his friend. "Help me to think what can be done to head off that crazy fool, will you? It isn't half-past two o'clock, yet, and he will succeed in catching at least one of the newspapers, before it goes to press; God only knows how many others he will connect with, by telephone. What shall we do?"
"I can get out one of my own cars in ten minutes," began Gardner. But his friend interrupted him:
"Come with me," Duncan exclaimed; and, being almost as familiar with the interior of the house as its owner was, he dashed up the steps through the still open doorway, and ran onward up the stairs toward the smoking-room on the second floor, closely followed by Gardner. There he seized upon the telephone, and asked for theNew York Herald, fortunately knowing the number. While he awaited a response to his call he put one hand over the transmitter, and said, rapidly, to his companion:
"Jack, I have just called up the night city editor of theHerald. While I am talking with him, I wish you would make use of the telephone-directory, and write down the numbers of the calls for the other leading newspapers in town. This is the only way possible by which we may succeed in getting ahead of Radnor."
Any person who has ever had to do with newspaper life will understand how futile such an attempt as this one would be to interfere with interesting news, during the last moments before going to press. City editors, and especially night city editors, have no time to devote to complaints, unless those complaints possess news-value. Nothing short of dynamite, can "kill" a "good story," once it has gone to the composing-room. Whatever it was that Duncan said to the gentleman in charge of the desk at theHeraldoffice, and to the gentlemen in charge of other desks, at other newspaper offices, need not be recorded here. Each of the persons, so addressed, probably listened, with apparent interest, to a small part of his statement, and as inevitably interrupted him by inquiring if it were Mr. Duncan in person who was talking; and, when an affirmative answer was given to this inquiry, Roderick was not long in discovering that he had succeeded only in supplying an additional value to the story, and in giving a personal interview over a telephone-wire. He realized, too late, that instead of interfering with whatever intention Burke Radnor might have had in making the escape, he had materially aided this ubiquitous person in his plans. The mere mention by him to each of the city editors that Radnor was the man of whom he was complaining, gave assurance to those gentlemen that some sort of important news was on the way to them, and therefore Duncan succeeded only in accomplishing what Radnor most desired—that is, in holding back the closing of the forms, as long as possible, for Radnor's story, whatever it might prove to be.
Meanwhile, directly beneath the room where Duncan was so frantically telephoning, a scene of quite a different character was taking place.
When Patricia entered the house, she passed rapidly forward to the spacious library, encountering no one. Entering it, she found Sally Gardner seated upon one of the chairs, convulsed with laughter, while directly before her stood Beatrice, her eyes flashing contemptuous anger, and scorn upon the fun-loving and now half-hysterical young matron, who seemed to be unduly amused. Neither of them was at the moment, conscious of Patricia's presence. She had approached so quietly and swiftly that her footsteps along the hallway had made no sound.
"You helped Burke Radnor to escape from us, Sally!" Beatrice was exclaiming, angrily. "I haven't a doubt that you put him up to it. I believe you would be delighted to see that hateful story in the newspapers. It was a despicable thing for you to do."
"Oh, Beatrice!" Sally exclaimed, when she could find breath to do so. "It is all so very funny—"
She discovered Patricia's presence, and stopped abruptly; then, she started to her feet, and, passing around the table quickly, greeted Miss Langdon with effusion.
"Why, Patricia!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea that you were here."
Beatrice turned quickly at the mention of Patricia's name, and her anger at Sally Gardner was suddenly turned against Patricia Langdon, with tenfold force and vehemence. It is an axiom that blue-eyed women have more violent tempers than black-eyed ones, once they are thoroughly aroused. Your brunette will flash and sputter, and say hasty things impulsively, or emotionally, but her anger is likely to pass as quickly as it arises, and it is almost sure to leave no lasting sting, behind it. Your fair-haired, fair-skinned, man or woman, when thoroughly aroused, is inclined to be implacable, unrelenting, even cruel.
Beatrice Brunswick's eyes were flashing with passionate fury, and, although she did not realize it, the greater part of her display of temper, was really directed against herself, because deep down in her sub-consciousness she knew that she alone was responsible for the present predicament. But anger is unreasoning, and, when one is angry at oneself, one is only too apt to seek for another person upon whom to visit the consequences. Patricia made her appearance just in time to offer herself as a target for Miss Brunswick's wrath; and Beatrice, totally unmindful of Sally's presence, loosed her tongue, and permitted words to flow, which, had she stopped to think, she never would have uttered.
"It is you! you! Patricia Langdon, who are responsible for this dreadful state of affairs," she cried out, starting forward, and, with one hand resting upon the corner of the library table, bending a little toward the haughty, Junoesque young woman she was addressing. "It is you, who dare to play with a man's love as a child would play with a doll, and who think it can be made to conform to the spirit of your unholy pride as readily. It is your fault that I am placed in this dreadful position, so that now, with Sally's connivance, this dreadful tale is likely to appear in every one of the morning papers. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Pat Langdon, for doing what you have done! You ought to get down on your knees to Roderick Duncan, and beg his eternal pardon for the agony you have caused him, since noon of yesterday. I know it all—I know the whole story, from beginning to end! I know what your unreasoning pride and your haughty willfulness, have accomplished: they have driven almost to desperation the man who loves you better than he loves anything else in the world! But you have no heart. The place inside you where it should exist is an empty void. If it were not, you would realize to what dreadful straits you have brought us all, and to what degree of desperation you have driven me, who sought to help you. I tell you, now, to your face, that Roderick Duncan is one man in ten thousand; and that he has loved you for years, as a woman is rarely loved. But you cast his love aside as if it were of no value—as if it were a little thing, to be picked up anywhere, and to be played with, as a child plays with a toy. Possibly it may please you now to hear one thing more; but, whether it does or not, you shall hear it. Roderick was in a desperate mood, to-night, because of your treatment of him, and he did ask me to marry him. So there! He did ask me! And I—I was a fool not to take him at his word. But he doesn't—he didn't—he—" She ceased as abruptly as she had begun the tirade.
Patricia had started backward a little before Beatrice's vehemence, and her eyes had gradually widened and darkened, while she sought and obtained her accustomed control over her own emotions. Now, with a slight shrug of her shoulders and a smile that was maddening to the young woman who faced her, she interrupted:
"You should have accepted Mr. Duncan's proposal," she said, icily, "for, if I read you correctly now, the fulfillment of it would have been most agreeable to you. One might quite readily assume from your conduct and the words you use that you love Roderick Duncan almost as madly as you say he loves me."
"Well?" Beatrice raised her chin, and stood erect and defiant before her former friend. "Well?" she repeated. "And what if I do?"
Patricia shrugged her shoulders again, and turned slowly away, but as she did so, said slowly and distinctly:
"Possibly, I am mistaken, after all. I had forgotten the attractive qualities of Mr. Duncan's millions." Beatrice gasped; but Patricia added, without perceptible pause: "I should warn you, however, that Mr. Duncan is under a verbal agreement with me! We are to meet and sign a contract, Monday morning. It seems to be my duty to remind you of that much, Miss Brunswick."
Patricia did not wait to see the effect of her words. Outwardly calm, she was a seething furnace of wrath within. She turned away abruptly, and passed through the open doorway into the hall. There, she stopped. She had nearly collided with Duncan and Jack Gardner, who were both standing where they must have heard all that had passed inside the library. Both were plainly confused, for neither had meant to hear, but there had been no way to escape. Patricia understood the situation perfectly, and she kept her self possession, if they did not. For just one instant, so short as to be almost imperceptible, she hesitated, then, addressing Gardner, she said in her most conventional tones:
"Jack, will you take me to my car, please?"
"It's gone, Patricia," he replied, relieved by the calmness of her manner. "Radnor took it, you know, when he made his escape. I suppose it is standing in front of some newspaper office, at the present moment, but God only knows which one it is. I'll tell you what I'll do, though: I'll order one of my own cars around. It won't take five minutes, even at this ungodly hour. I always keep one on tap, for emergencies."
"I prefer not to wait," she replied. "It is only a short distance. I shall ask you to walk home with me, if you will."
"Sure!" exclaimed Gardner, glad of any method by which the present predicament might be escaped; and he called aloud to one of the servants to bring him his hat and coat.
Duncan had moved forward quickly, toward Patricia, to offer his services, but had paused with the words he would have said unuttered. He understood that the trying scene through which Patricia had just passed, had embittered her anew against him; and so he stood aside while she went with Gardner from the house to the street. His impulse was to follow, for he, also, wished to escape. Then, he was aware that he still wore his hat. During the excitement, he had not removed it, since entering the house. He started for the door, but was arrested before he had taken two steps, by Sally Gardner's voice calling to him frantically from the library.
He turned and sprang into the room, to find that Beatrice was lying at full length on the floor, with Sally sobbing and stroking her hands, and calling upon her, in frightened tones, to speak. But Beatrice had only fainted, and, when Duncan knelt down beside her, she opened her blue eyes and looked up at him, trying to smile.
In that instant of pity and remorse, he forgot all else save the stricken Beatrice, and what, in her anger, she had confessed to Patricia. The rapidly succeeding incidents of that day and night had unnerved him, also. He was suddenly convinced of the futility of winning the love and confidence of Patricia, and, with an impulse born, he could not have told when, or how, or why, he bent forward quickly and touched his lips to Beatrice's forehead.
"Is it true, Beatrice? Is it true?" he asked her, in a low tone; and, totally misunderstanding his question, entirely misconstruing it's meaning, she replied:
"God help me, yes. God help us all."
Then, she lapsed again into unconsciousness.
BETWEEN DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT
Sally Gardner had found time during this short scene to recover from her moment of excitement. She had heard, and she thought she understood. Being a many-sided young matron, the best one of all came to the surface now—the one that even her best friends had never supposed her to possess. Underneath her fun-and-laughter-loving nature, Sally was gifted with more than her share of rugged common-sense, inherited, doubtless, from her Montana ancestors.
Even as Duncan bent above Beatrice's unconscious form, and before he spoke to her, Sally had started to her feet and pressed the electric-button in the wall, with the consequence that, at the instant when Beatrice became unconscious the second time, two of the servants entered the room.
"Miss Brunswick has only fainted," she told them, rapidly. "Lift her, and carry her to my room. Tell Pauline to care for her, and that I shall be there, immediately." She stood aside while they carried out her commands; then, she turned upon Duncan.
"You are a great fool, Roderick!" she exclaimed, without stopping to weigh her words. "I thought you had some sense; but it seems that you have none at all. Leave the house at once; and don't you dare to seek Beatrice Brunswick, until you have settled, in one way or another, your affairs with Patricia Langdon. Now, go! Really, I thought I liked you, immensely, but, for the present moment, I am not sure whether I hate you, or despise you! Do go, there's a good fellow; and I'll send you word, in the morning, how Beatrice is."
"Sally, what a little trump you are!" he exclaimed. "I know I'm a fool; I have certainly found it out during the last twelve or fourteen hours. You'll have to help me out of this muddle, somehow; you seem to be the only one in the lot of us who has any sense."
"Then, help yourself out of the house, as quickly as you know how," she retorted; and she ran past him up the stairs, toward the room where she had directed that Beatrice should be taken.
Duncan sighed. He looked around him for his hat, to find that it was still crushed down on the back of his head, and, smiling grimly to himself, he passed out of the house upon the street.
Only one of the great dailies of New York City, published that Sunday morning, contained any reference whatever to the supposed incident of the wedding ceremony between Roderick Duncan and Miss Brunswick, at "The Little Church Around the Corner." The editors had been afraid to use Radnor's story, without verification. To them, it had seemed preposterous and unnatural, and especially were they reluctant to print anything concerning it when Radnor was forced to admit to them that Jack Gardner had ultimately denied the truth of the story he had first told.
But there is one paper in the city that is always eager for sensations, and unfortunately it is not very particular concerning the use of them. This paper published a "story," as a newspaper would call it, which was told so ambiguously and with such skill as to preclude any possibility of a libelous action, while the suggestions it contained were so strongly made that the article was entertaining, at least, and it supplied, in many quarters, an opportunity for discussion and gossip. It hinted at scandal in association with Roderick Duncan and his millions. What more could be desired of it?
The story was merely a relation of the events as we know them, at the outset. It told of the party in the box at the opera-house, of the departure therefrom of Duncan and Miss Brunswick and of their destination when they entered the taxicab; after that, everything contained in the article, was surmise, but it was couched in such terms that many who read it actually believed a marriage-ceremony had taken place. During Sunday, Duncan was sought by reporters of various newspapers. He readily admitted them to his presence, but would submit to no interview further than to state that the rumor was absolutely false, was utterly without foundation, and that he would prosecute any newspaper daring to uphold it. Miss Brunswick could not be found by these news-gatherers. Old Steve Langdon laughed when they sought him, and assured them that there was no truth whatever in the rumor. Patricia, naturally regarded as an interested party, declined to be seen.
Radnor himself sought out Jack Gardner, but it is not necessary that we should relate the particulars of that interview. Suffice it to say that no further reference was made to the supposed incident by any newspaper, and that it was quickly forgotten, save by a very few individuals, who made it a point to remember.
During the day, Duncan sought to communicate with Sally Gardner over the telephone, but succeeded only in obtaining a statement from one of the footmen, to the effect that Mrs. Gardner presented her compliments to Mr. Duncan, and wished it to be said that she would communicate with him by letter; and that, in the meantime, there existed no cause whatever, for anxiety on his part.
PATRICIA'S COWBOY LOVER
On Sunday evening Patricia Langdon was alone in the library of her home, occupying her favorite corner beneath the drop-light. For an hour she had tried in vain to interest herself in the reading of the latest novel. Try as she might, she could not center her mind upon the printed words contained in the volume she held, for, inevitably, her thoughts drifted away to the occurrences of the preceding day and evening. No matter how assiduously she endeavored to put those thoughts aside, they insisted upon looming up before her, and at last, with a sigh, she closed her book and laid it aside. The hour was still early, it being barely eight o'clock, when James, the footman, entered the room and announced:
"Miss Houston; Miss Frances Houston."
Patricia had fully intended to instruct the servants that she was not to be at home to anyone, that evening, but, absorbed by other thoughts, she had forgotten to do so, and now it was too late; so she received the two young ladies who were presently shown into the library. She greeted them in her usual manner, which was neither cordial, nor repellant, but which was entirely characteristic of this rather strange young woman. She understood perfectly well why they had called upon her at this time. They had not missed seeing that article in the one morning paper where it appeared.
"You see, Patricia," exclaimed Miss Houston, whose given name was Agnes, "Frances and I happened to read that remarkable tale that was printed in one of the papers this morning, about a marriage between Rod Duncan and Beatrice. We thought it so absurd: We couldn't resist the temptation to come over to see you, for a few minutes this very evening, and discuss it; could we, Frances?"
"No, indeed," replied her sister.
"I have not seen any such article," said Patricia; and, indeed, she had not. "But I don't know why either of you should wish to discuss it with me; so, if you don't mind, we'll change the subject before we begin it."
"Why, you see," began Agnes Houston, with some evidence of excitement; but she was fortunately interrupted by the footman, who entered, and announced in his automatic voice:
"Mr. Nesbit Farnham."
The workings of the human mind will forever remain a mystery. Had Nesbit Farnham been announced before the arrival of the two young women, Patricia would undoubtedly have denied herself to him; but, with the announcement of his name, there came to her the sudden recollection of the ultimatum pronounced by Richard Morton the preceding afternoon, when he had brought her home from her father's office in his automobile, the tonneau of which had been occupied by the two young women who were now present with her in the room. Why the announcement of Farnham's name should remind her of Morton's promise to call, this Sunday evening, cannot be said; but it did so, and she nodded to James.
"Hello, Patricia!" Farnham exclaimed, as he entered the room vigorously, for this young society beau and cotillion-leader had long been on terms of intimacy with the Langdon household, and was, in fact, a privileged character throughout his social set. "I am mighty glad that you received me. It's rather an off night, you know, and I wasn't sure, at all that you would do so. Good-evening, Agnes. How are you, Frances? Jolly glad to see you. I say, Patricia, what's all that nonsense I saw in the paper this morning, about Duncan and Beatrice getting married last night? Do you know anything about it?"
"I know nothing whatever about it, Nesbit, save that it is untrue," replied Patricia, calmly. "That much I do know; but I don't care to discuss it."
Farnham flirted his handkerchief from his pocket, and patted it softly against his forehead, smiling gently as he did so. Then, he said:
"To tell you the truth, Patricia, the news was rather a facer, don't you know; for my first impulse was to believe it. Oh, I won't discuss it; you needn't frown like that; but I just want to tell you that I've been looking all over town for Duncan, and I couldn't find him. Then, about an hour ago, I called upon Beatrice, only to be informed that she was not at home, and had not been, ever since yesterday evening. You see, I didn't get out of bed till two this afternoon, and it was four by the time I was dressed and on the street. I didn't take much stock, myself, in the report I read in the paper, until I was told that Beatrice had disappeared. But that got me guessing, and so I came to you, to find out the truth about it. Please tell me again that it isn't true, and I'll be satisfied."
"It isn't true," replied Patricia, calmly.
James, the footman, made another appearance on the scene at that moment, and proclaimed the arrival of Mr. Richard Morton, who stepped passed him into the library as soon as the announcement was made.
He stopped just inside the threshold, and the chagrin pictured upon his face when he found that Patricia was not alone was so plainly evident, that even Patricia smiled, in recognition of it. Morton was known to Patricia's other callers, having met them frequently since his coming to New York, and, as soon as greetings had been exchanged, they all drifted into a general conversation, which had no point to it whatever, but was, for the most part, the small-talk of such impromptu social gatherings. The subject of the supposed clandestine marriage-ceremony between Duncan and Beatrice was not mentioned again, and fifteen minutes later Miss Houston and her sister arose to take their departure. Farnham, also, got upon his feet, and, stepping lightly and quickly across the room toward Patricia, said to her in a low tone:
"Won't you tell me where I can find Beatrice? I think you can do so, if you will. Please, Patricia. You know why I ask."
"If you should call upon Sally Gardner and ask her that question, I think it would be answered satisfactorily," replied Patricia, smiling at him. "Go and see her, Nesbit, by all means."
A moment later, Miss Langdon found herself alone with Morton, who, true to his promise of the preceding evening, had come to her. She had forgotten him temporarily, but now she was not sorry that he had called. Nevertheless, as she turned toward him, after bidding her friends good-night, Patricia was conscious that the atmosphere had suddenly became surcharged with portentous possibilities. She had recognized in that expression of disappointment, so plainly depicted upon Morton's face when he entered the room, that he had come to her with a self-avowed determination to continue the conversation interrupted by the Houston girls when he was bringing her home, the preceding afternoon. On the instant, she was sorry that she had permitted the others to leave her alone with this man. For some inexplicable reason, she was suddenly afraid of him. She who had never acknowledged fear of any person, who had always met every circumstance calmly as it arose, found herself confronted now by a condition of affairs that rendered her less self-reliant. Her mind was in a turmoil of a hundred doubts and fears, and there was a vague sense of apprehension upon her, which she could not dismiss, and which she found it difficult to control.
"I told you that I would come, Patricia, and I am here," said Morton, stepping forward quickly, and taking one of her hands, before she could resume her seat. She attempted to withdraw it, but he held it firmly in his own strong clasp; and that expression of unrelenting determination was again in his face and eyes.
"No, Patricia," he said calmly, but in a tone of finality which there was no denying, "I will not release your hand, just yet." He was half-smiling, but wholly insistent and determined. "You see," he went on, "I am taking advantage of your known qualities of courage. I have come to you, determined to say something—something that is very close to me." Patricia's arm relaxed; she permitted her hand to lie limply inside his larger one. Then, she raised her eyes to his, and looked calmly up at him.
As he gazed steadily and keenly into her dark eyes, Morton's face was pale, under the tan of his skin, and he had the look of one who ventures his all upon a single chance. In that moment, Patricia admired him more than she had ever before, and, as he continued to gaze upon her, she permitted her features slowly to relax, and, gradually, a winning smile, which to Richard Morton was overwhelming, was revealed upon her lips and in her eyes.
"You have no right to speak to me like that, Mr. Morton," she said. "Still less have you the right to hold my hand, against my will. The men of my acquaintance, with whom I have associated all my life, would not do as you are doing now; but"—she shrugged her shoulders—"I suppose it is a matter of training."
The words were like a blow, although she smiled while she uttered them. With a sharp exclamation that came very near to being an oath, he threw her hand from him with such force that she was half-turned around where she stood, and he started back two paces away from her, and folded his arms.
"Thank you," said Patricia, still smiling; and she crossed to the chair she had previously occupied.
Morton did not move from the position he had assumed. He stood with folded arms in the middle of the room, staring at her with set face and hard eyes, wondering for the moment why he had been fool enough to go there at all, and trying to read in her face, what was the charm of her that so fatally attracted him.
"I do a great many things, Miss Langdon, that I have no right to do," he said, after a pause. "That, also, is a matter of training, as you so fittingly adjudged my conduct, just now. But I was trained in the open country, where one can see the sky-line toward any point of the compass; I was trained in the West, where a man is a man, and a woman is a woman, and they are judged only by their conduct toward others, and toward themselves. It is true that I know very little about this Eastern training, to which you have just now called my attention, but from what little I have seen of it, I can't believe that it is wholesome, or good. I was trained to tell the truth, and to insist that the truth be told to me; I find here, in the East, that the truth is the very last thing to be uttered; that it is avoided as long as it possibly can be. In this way, Miss Langdon, our trainings differ. Naturally, then, I am not like the men of your knowledge."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morton, I didn't mean to give offense by what I said." The girl was more amazed than she cared to show by his vehemence.
"The fault is mine," he said to her. "I have no right to expect you to meet me on the plane of my own past life, and with the freedom and candor of the West, any more than you can demand from me, the usages and customs of your social world in New York."
"Won't you sit down?" she asked him. She was beginning to be a bit uneasy, because of Morton's determined attitude, and because she realized that nothing she could say or do would turn him from his set purpose of saying what he had come there to tell her.
"Not yet," he replied. "I can talk much better on my feet. I want you to tell me what you meant by two expressions you used in your speech with me yesterday, after you came from your father's office."
"We will not return to that subject, if you please, Mr. Morton," she replied to him, coldly.
"Pardon me, Patricia, we must return to it—at least, I must. You don't want me to kill anybody, do you?" He smiled grimly as he asked the question, hesitatingly; "you need have no fear on that point, for I probably won't have to."
"Probably won't have to kill anyone?" She raised her eyes to his, but there was no fear in them; there was only amazement in their depths, astonishment that he should dare to say such a thing to her.
"The qualification of my statement was made because I reserve the right to do what I please, toward anyone who dares to bring pain upon you, Patricia Langdon," he said, incisively; "but I tell you now that I wouldn't trust myself not to kill—again my Western training is uppermost, you see—if I were brought face to face with any man who had dared to bring any sort of an affront upon you. Do you love this man to whom you referred yesterday? Answer me!" The question came out sharply and bluntly. It was totally unexpected, and it affected her with a sort of shock she could not have described.
"You are impertinent," she replied.
"Impertinent, or not, I desire an answer. If you refuse an answer, I shall find other means of ascertaining. Great God, girl, do you suppose that, when my whole life is at stake, I am going to stand on ceremony and surrender to a few petty conventions, just to please an element of false pride that you have built around you, until there is only one way of getting past it? I'm not the sort of man who stands outside, and entreats. My training has taught me to get inside; and, if there isn't a gate, or an opening of any sort, why, then I tear down the barrier, just as I am doing now. Do you love that man?"
"I will not answer the question."
He laughed, shortly.
"From any other woman than you, such an answer as that would be tantamount to an affirmative; but you are a puzzle, Patricia. You are not like anybody else. There is a depth to you that I cannot sound. There is a breadth to you that is like the open country of the Northwest, where one cannot see beyond the sky-line, ever, and where the sky-line remains, always, just so far away."
"I think I'll ask you to excuse me, Mr. Morton," she said, making as if to rise. "This interview is not a pleasant one. You are not kind, or considerate."
He did not move from his position, as he replied, as calmly as she had spoken:
"I shall not go until I have finished. I came here to-night to tell you, again, that I love you. You need not resent the telling of it, for it can in no way offend you, or, at least, it should not. You told me, yesterday, that you had agreed to some sort of business transaction, as you called it, with some man whom you did not name, by which you are to become his wife. I told you then, and I repeat now, that, if you will but say you love this man, whoever he is, I'll hit the trail for Montana without a moment's delay, and you shall never be annoyed again by my Western training; so, answer me."
"I will not answer you." She looked him steadily in the eyes, and, all unconsciously to herself, she could not avoid giving expression to some small part of the admiration she felt for this daring, intrepid ranchman, who defied her so openly, in the library of her own home.
"Who is the man?" he demanded, sharply.
"Again, I will not answer you."
"I shall find it out, then, and, when I have discovered who he is, I shall go to him. Maybe, he will be able to answer the questions. If he refuses, by God, I'll make him answer!"
She started from her chair, appalled by the implied threat. She did not doubt that he meant every word of it.
"You would not dare do that!" she exclaimed. It was beyond her knowledge that any man should have the courage so far to transgress conventional usages. But he heard the word "dare," and applied to it the only meaning he had ever known it to possess. He laughed outright.
"Not dare?" he exclaimed; and he laughed again. "I would dare anything, and all things, in the mood I am in, just now."
Looking upon him, she believed what he said; and, strange to say, she was more pleased than outraged by his determined demeanor. Nevertheless, she realized that she was face to face with an emergency which must be met promptly and finally, and so she left her chair, and drew herself to her full height, directly in front of him.
"Mr. Morton," she said, slowly, and coldly, "I have had occasion, once before, to refer to your training and to mine. We are as far apart as if we belonged to different races of mankind. If you have really loved me, which I doubt, I am sorry because of it, for I tell you, plainly and truly, that I do not, and cannot, respond to you. I have given my promise to another, and very shortly I shall be married. This sudden passion for me that has come upon you, is an affair of the moment, which you will soon forget when you become convinced that it is impossible of fruition. I am the promised wife of another man, and even your Western training, which you have chosen sarcastically to refer to since I made my unfortunate remark about it, will tell you that, no matter what rights you believe you possess, you certainly have none whatever to compel me to listen to your declaration of love." Her manner underwent a sudden and marked change, as she continued rapidly, with a suggestion of moisture in her eyes: "Believe me, I am intensely sorry for the necessity of this scene between us. I do not, and I cannot, return the affection you so generously offer me; and, whether I love another, or do not—whether I have ever loved another, or have not—it would be the same, so far as you are concerned. I am not for you, and I can never be for you, no matter what may happen." She took a step nearer to him, and reached out her hand, while she added, with her brightest smile: "But I like you, very much, indeed. I should like to have you for a true, good friend. It would be one of the proud moments of my life, if I could know that I might rely upon you as such, and that you would not again transgress in the way you have done to-night. Will you take my hand and be my friend. Will you try and seek farther for someone who can appreciate the love you have offered to me? I need a friend just now, Richard Morton. Will you be that friend?"
For a time, he did not answer her. He stood quite still, staring into her eyes, and through them and seemingly beyond them, while his own face was hard, and set, and paler than she had ever seen it, before. Presently, his lips relaxed their tension; the expression of his eyes softened, and he drew his right hand across his brow.
He took the hand that was extended toward him, and held it between both his own, and, for a full minute after that, he stood before her in silence, while he fought the hardest battle of his life. When he did speak, it was in an easy, careless drawl.
"I reckon you roped and tied me that time, Patricia," he said, smilingly. "You've got your brand on me, all right, but maybe the iron hasn't burnt quite as deep as it does sometimes; and, as you say, possibly there will come a day when we can burn another brand on top of it, so that the first one will never be recognized. Will I be your friend? Indeed, I will, and I'll ask you, if you please, to forgive and forget all my bad manners, and the harsh things I've said."
"It is not necessary to ask me that, Mr. Morton."
"Patricia, if you'll just call me Dick, like all the boys do, out on the ranch, and if you'll grant me the permission which I have never asked before, of addressing you as I have just now, it will make the whole thing a heap-sight easier. Will you do it?
"I'd much rather call you Dick than anything else," she told him, still permitting him to hold her hand clasped between his own.
He bent forward, nearer to her; and, although she perfectly understood what he intended to do, she did not flinch, or falter.
He touched his lips lightly to her forehead, and then, with a muttered, "God bless you, girl!" he turned quickly, and went out of the room, leaving Patricia Langdon once again alone with her thoughts.
MONDAY, THE THIRTEENTH
The monotonous, but not unpleasing voice of Malcolm Melvin began the reading of the stipulations in the contract to the three persons who were seated before him around the table in the lawyer's private office. The time was Monday morning, shortly after ten o'clock.
"This agreement, hereinafter made, between Roderick Duncan, of the City, County, and State of New York, party of the first part; Stephen Langdon, of the same place, party of the second part; and Patricia Langdon of the same place, party of the third part, as follows: First, the party of the first part—"
"Just wait a moment, Mr. Melvin, if you please," Duncan interrupted him. "If it is all the same to you, and to the other parties concerned in this transaction, I don't care to hear all that dry rot, you have written. If you will be so kind as simply to state in plain English what the stipulations are, it will answer quite as well for the others, and it will suit me a whole lot better."
"It is customary, Mr. Duncan, to listen carefully to a legal document one is about to sign with his name," said the lawyer, with a dry smile.
"I don't care a rap about that, Melvin; and you know I don't. The others know it, too."
"I think," said Patricia, quietly, "that the papers should be read, from beginning to end."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed her father; "and besides, Pat, I haven't time. I ought to be down-town, right now. Let Melvin get over with this foolish nonsense, as quickly as possible; and then, if you and Roderick will only kiss, and make up—"
Patricia interrupted him:
"Very well, Mr. Melvin," she said. "You may state the substance of the agreement."
The lawyer turned toward Duncan. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, although his face remained perfectly calm and expressionless.
"According to these papers as I have drawn them, Mr. Duncan," he said, slowly, "you loan the sum of twenty million dollars to Stephen Langdon, accepting as security therefor, and in lieu of other collateral, the stated promise of Miss Langdon to become your wife. She reserves to herself, the right to name the wedding-day, provided it be within a reasonable time."
"May I ask how Miss Langdon defines the words, a reasonable time?" asked Duncan, speaking as deliberately as the lawyer had done. "As for the loan to Mr. Langdon—he already has that. But, the reasonable time: just what does that expression mean?"
"I suppose, during the season; say, within three, or six, months from date," replied the lawyer.
"That will do very well, thank you. You may now go on." Duncan was determined, that morning, to meet Patricia on her own ground.
"The loan you make to the party of the second part, to Mr. Langdon, is to be repaid to you at his convenience, and with the legal rate of interest, within one year from date. At the church where the wedding ceremony shall take place, and immediately before that event, you are to give to Miss Langdon, a cashier's check for ten-million dollars, which she will endorse and send to the bank, before the ceremony proceeds. It is Miss Langdon's wish to have her maiden name appear as the endorsement on that check. Later, she will have the account transferred from Patricia Langdon to Patricia Duncan. You are—"
"Just one moment, again, Mr. Melvin." Duncan reached forward and pulled the papers toward him. "Will you please show me where I am to sign? What remains of the stipulations, I can hear at another time. Unfortunately, at the present moment, I am in haste, and I happen to know that Mr. Langdon is very anxious to get away."
"Is it your habit to sign legal papers without reading them?" demanded Patricia, with just a little touch of resentment in her tone. She had rather prided herself upon the wording of this document, which she had so carefully dictated to Melvin, and it hurt her to think that her stipulations were passed over so easily.
But the lawyer, who saw in the whole circumstance nothing but a huge joke, which would presently come to a pleasant end, had already pointed out to Duncan the places on the three papers where he was to put his signature, and the young man was signing them, rapidly. He did not reply until he had written his name the third time. Then, he left his chair, and with a low and somewhat derisive bow to his affianced wife, said:
"No, Patricia, it is not; but these circumstances are different from those in which one is usually called upon to sign documents. I certainly should have no hesitation in accepting, without reserve, any conditions which you chose to insist upon, so long as those conditions, in the end, made you my wife. You may sign the papers at your leisure; but I shall ask you to excuse me, now." He bowed smilingly to her, shook hands with the lawyer, and called across the table to the banker:
"So long, Uncle Steve; I'll see you later." A moment afterward the door closed behind him.
"The whole thing looks to me like tomfoolery!" ejaculated the banker, as he drew the papers toward him, and signed them rapidly. "Patricia, you are the party of the third part, here, and you can sign them at your leisure. I've got to go, also. Melvin, you can send my copy of the contract direct to me, when it is ready."
"It is your turn now, Miss Langdon," said the lawyer, in his most professional tone, as soon as her father had gone. But, instead of signing, Patricia, for the first time since the beginning of this confused condition of affairs, lost her pride and became the emotional young woman that she really was.
Without a word of warning, she burst into a passion of tears. Throwing her arms upon the table, she buried her face in them, and sobbed on and on, convulsively, vehemently, inconsolably.
The lawyer, stirred out of his professional calm by this human side of the cold and haughty young woman, placed one hand tenderly, if somewhat tentatively, upon her shoulder. For a time, he patted her gently, while he waited for her tempest to pass.
"There, there, my dear. Don't let it affect you so," he said. "It is nothing but a storm-cloud, that will quickly pass away. It is just like a thunder-shower, very dark while it lasts, but making all the brighter the sunshine that follows it. I know how you have been tried, and how your pride has been hurt; but, child, there are two kinds of pride in everybody, and it is never quite easy to determine which is which. I strongly suspect, my dear, that you have been actuated by a feeling of false pride, in the position you have taken as to this matter. I won't attempt to advise you, now. Don't sob so, my dear. It will all come out right."
She raised her head from the table, and looked at him, pathetically.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Melvin," she said, slowly, with a catch in her breath as she spoke. "I seem to have done everything wrong, in this matter. I've made everybody unhappy." Again, she buried her face in her arms, and sobbed on, with even more abandon than before.
"My child," said the lawyer, "I've lived long enough in the world to discover that it is never wise to permit ourselves to be actuated by false motives. You will discover the truth of that statement, later on; you are only just beginning to realize it, now."
She made no reply to this, but a moment later she started to her feet, and again became the haughty, self-contained, relentless, Juno.
"Give me the pen," she said. "I will sign."
"If you will take my advice," replied the lawyer, without moving, "you will tear up those three documents, or direct me to do so, and leave things as they are."
"No," she replied. "I will sign."
"Very well, Patricia." He pushed the documents toward her, and watched her with a half-smile on his professional face, while she appended her signature to each of them. A moment later, he escorted her from the office, and assisted her into the waiting car. Then, he stood quite still and watched it as it carried her away from the business-section of the city. He shook his head and sighed, as he reëntered the building where his office was located.
"Poor child," he was thinking to himself; "she didn't tee-off well, in the beginning of this game, and she encountered the worst hazard of her life when she came up against her own unyielding pride. Poor child! So beautiful, so good, so tender of heart, she hides every real emotion she possesses behind an impenetrable barrier, barring the expressions of her natural affections with an icy shield which she permits no one to penetrate. For just a moment, she let me see her as she is; I wonder if she has ever permitted others." He got out of the elevator, and walked slowly toward his office-door, pausing midway along the corridor, and still thinking on, in the same fashion. "I must find a way to help her, somehow. Old Malcolm Melvin, whose heart is supposed to be like the parchments he works upon, must make himself the champion of this misguided girl. Ah, well, we shall see what can be done. We shall see; we shall see." He passed inside his office then, and in a moment more had forgotten, in the multitudinous affairs of his professional life, that such a person as Patricia Langdon existed.
That Monday, in the evening, at his rooms, Roderick Duncan received two letters. One was delivered by messenger; the other came by post. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope of each, and for a moment hesitated as to which of the two he should read first. One, he knew, was sent by Sally Gardner; the other was from Patricia.
He laid them on the table in front of him, and stood beside it looking down upon the two envelopes with a half-smile upon his face, which was weary and troubled; then, with a broader smile, he took a coin from his pocket and flipped it in the air.
A glance at the coin decided him, and he took up Sally's letter and broke the seal. He read:
"My Dear Roderick:
"I promised you, when you left me Saturday night, to communicate with you at once. Beatrice is quite ill, although you are not to infer from this statement that her indisposition it at all serious. I have merely insisted that she should remain in bed at my house yesterday and to-day.
"On no account should you seek her at present nor should you attempt to communicate with her. I will keep you informed as to her condition because I realize that you will be anxious, inasmuch as you doubtless hold yourself responsible for the present state of affairs. Be satisfied with that, and believe me,"
"Loyally your friend,"Sally Gardner.
"P. S. Doubtless you will see Jack at the club this evening. Let me advise you not to discuss with him anything that happened Saturday night after his departure with Patricia. I have thought it best to keep that little foolish affair a secret between ourselves.
S. G."
Duncan stood for a considerable time with the letter held before his eyes, while he went over in his mind the chain of incidents that followed upon his meeting with Beatrice Brunswick in the box at the opera-house. Presently, he returned the letter to the envelope, and laid it aside, while he took up the other one, addressed in the handwriting of Patricia.
He read it slowly, with widening eyes; and then he read it again, more slowly, as if he were not certain that he had read it aright before. Finally, with something very nearly approaching an oath, he crushed the short document in his hand, and strode to the window, where he stood for a long time, staring out into the darkness, without moving. His valet entered the room and made some remark about dressing him for the evening, but Duncan sharply ordered the man away, telling him to return in half an hour. Afterward he went back to the table where there was more light, and smoothed out the crumpled page of Patricia's letter, so that he could read it a third time.
It was very short and very much to the point; and it had brought with it a greater shock than he could possibly have anticipated. The strange part of it was that he did not comprehend the precise character of that shock. He did not know whether he was pleased, or displeased; whether he was amused, or angry—or only startled. Certainly, he had never thought of expecting such a communication as this from Patricia Langdon. The letter was as follows:
Four, P. M., Monday."Dear Roderick:
"According to the document signed jointly by you, my father and myself, and witnessed by Mr. Malcolm Melvin at his office at ten o'clock this morning, I was given the undisputed right to name the day for the ceremony, which is to complete the transaction as agreed upon among us three, but more particularly between you and me. I have thought the matter over calmly and dispassionately, since I parted with you at the lawyer's office, and have decided that, all things considered, it will be best not to defer too long the conditions of that transaction.
"I have decided that the ceremony—a quiet one—shall be performed by the Rev. Dr. Moreley, at the Church of the Annunciation, at ten o'clock in the morning, one week from to-day, which will be Monday, the thirteenth.
"If there should be any important reason why you prefer to change this date, you may communicate the same to me at once, and I shall consider it; but if not, I greatly prefer that matters should stand as I have arranged them.
"Patricia Langdon."
MORTON'S ULTIMATUM
Oddly enough, Roderick Duncan and Richard Morton had never met. Although Morton, during the two weeks of his acquaintance with Patricia Langdon, had been as constantly in her company as it was possible for him to be, there had been no introduction between the two young men. They frequented the same clubs, and Morton had made the acquaintance of many of Duncan's friends; they knew each other by sight, and Duncan had heard, vaguely and without particular interest, that Morton had fallen under the spell of Patricia's stately loveliness. That was a circumstance which had suggested no misgivings whatever to him. He had long been accustomed to such conditions, for it was a rare thing that a man should be presented to Patricia without being at once attracted and charmed by her physical beauty, as well as by her brilliancy of wit.
It was, therefore, with unmasked astonishment that, upon responding to a summons at his door, still holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he found himself face to face with the young Montana cattle-king.
"Mr. Roderick Duncan, I believe?" said Morton, without advancing to cross the threshold when Duncan threw open the door.
"Yes," he replied. "Won't you come inside, Mr. Morton? I know you very well, by sight and name, and, although it has not been my privilege to meet you socially, you are quite welcome. Come inside, won't you?"
The handsome young ranchman bowed, and passed into the room. He strode across it until he was near one of the windows; then, he turned to face Duncan, who had re-closed the door, and had followed as far as the center-table where he now stood, gazing questioningly at his visitor.
"Won't you be seated, Mr. Morton?" Duncan asked.
"Thank you, no. I intend to remain only a moment, and it is possible that the question I have come to ask you may not be agreeable for you to hear, or to answer. If you will repeat your request after I have asked the question, I shall be glad to comply with it."
"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about, Mr. Morton," said Duncan, smiling, "and I can't conceive how any question you care to put to me would be offensive. However, have it your own way. Will you tell me, now, what that remarkable question is?"
Morton was standing with his feet wide-apart, and with his back to the window. His hands were thrust deep into his trousers-pockets. He looked the athlete in every line of his muscular limbs and body, and the frankness and openness of his expression at once interested Duncan.
"Mr. Duncan," he said, "in the country I come from, we do things differently from the way you do them here. I was born on a ranch in Eastern Montana, and I have lived all my life in a wild country. I began my career as a cow-puncher, when I was sixteen, and not until the last two or three years of my life have I known anything at all of that phase of existence which is expressed by the word 'society.' I indulge in this preamble in order to apologize in advance, for any breaks I may make in that mystical line of talk which you call, 'good form.'"
Duncan nodded his head smilingly, and Morton continued:
"Several years ago, I made my 'pile,' as we express it out there, and since that time it has steadily increased in size, so that, lately, I have indulged myself in an attempt to 'butt in' upon the people in 'polite society.' The question I have to ask you will amaze and astonish you, but I shall explain it, in detail, if you desire me to do so."
"Very well, Mr. Morton, what is the question?"
"Are you engaged to marry Miss Patricia Langdon?" demanded Morton, abruptly; and there was a tightening of his lips and a slight forward thrust of his aggressive chin.
Duncan received the question calmly. He thought, afterward, that he had almost anticipated it, although he could not have told why he should do so. He permitted nothing of the effect the question had upon him to appear in the expression of his face, or eyes, and he continued to gaze smilingly into the face of the young ranchman, while he replied:
"I see no objection to answering your question, Mr. Morton, although I do not in the least understand your reason for asking it. Miss Langdon and I are engaged to be married, and the wedding-day is already fixed. It is to be next Monday morning, at ten o'clock. I hope, sir, that you are quite satisfied with the reply?"
Morton did not speak for a moment, but he reached out one hand and rested it on the back of a chair, near which he was standing. Duncan, perceiving the gesture, asked again:
"Won't you be seated, Mr. Morton?"
"Thank you, yes."
He dropped his huge body upon the leather-upholstered chair beside him, and crossed one leg over the other, while Duncan retained his attitude beside the table, still with that questioning expression in his eyes.
"I suppose I ought to make some farther explanation," said Morton, presently. He spoke with careful deliberation, choosing his words as he did so and evidently striving hard to maintain complete composure of demeanor under circumstances that rendered the task somewhat difficult.
"I think one is due to me," was the reply.
"Mr. Duncan, when I hit the trail for this room, to have this talk with you, I sure thought that I had mapped out pretty clearly what I had to say to you. I find now that it's some difficult to express myself. If we were seated together in a bunk-house on a ranch in Montana, I could uncinch all that's on my mind, without any trouble. I hope you don't mind my native lingo."
"Not in the least," replied Duncan, still smiling. "I find it very expressive, and quite to the point."
"Well, it's this way: I arrived in the city about three weeks ago, and one of the first persons I met up with, who interested me was Miss Langdon. There isn't any reason that I know of why I shouldn't admit to you that she interested me more, in about three seconds of time, than anybody else has ever succeeded in doing, during the twenty-eight years I have lived. I was roped, tied, and branded, quicker than it takes me to tell you of it; and the odd part of the whole thing is that I enjoyed the experience, instead of resenting it. I think it was the second time I met up with her when I told her about it, and it is only fair to her, and to you, to admit that she said 'No,' Johnny-on-the-spot. But, somehow, it didn't strike me that it was a final 'no,' or that she had anybody's brand on her; and so I didn't lose the hope that some day I might induce her to accept mine. Last Saturday afternoon, I took her in my car, in company with two other ladies, to her father's office, down-town. She had an interview with her father and somebody else, I suspect, while she was in the office, and whatever that interview was, I am plumb certain that it didn't please her. She come out of the building with her eyes blazing like two live coals, and she was mad enough to shoot, if I am any judge."
He paused, as if expecting some comment from Duncan, but the latter made no remark at all; nor did he change his attitude or the smiling expression of his face. Truth to tell, he was more amused than offended by the other's confidences. Morton continued:
"I had half-promised Miss Langdon that I wouldn't speak to her again of love, but I sure couldn't hold in, that afternoon. I needn't tell you what I said; but the consequence of it was that she told me she had just concluded a business transaction—that was the expression she used—by which she had promised to marry a man whom she would not name. Since that time, I have studied the situation rather deeply, with the result that I came to the conclusion you were the man to whom she referred. That is why I have called upon you this evening, to ask you the question you have just answered."
"Well?" said Duncan. His smile was more constrained, now.
"I'm sure puzzled to know what Miss Langdon means by the 'business transaction' part of it, Mr. Duncan, and I have come up here, to your own room, to tell you that, if Patricia Langdon loves you—"
"One moment, if you please, Mr. Morton. Don't you think you're going rather too far, now?"
"No sir, I don't."
"Very well, I'll listen to you, to the end."
"If Patricia Langdon loves you, Duncan, I'll hit the trail for Montana and the sky-line this afternoon, and I'll ask you to pardon me for any break I have made here, this evening; but, if she doesn't love you, and if, as I suspect, you are coercing her in this matter—"
Again, Duncan interrupted the ranchman. He did it this time by straightening his tall figure, and raising one hand for silence.
"I think, Mr. Morton," he said, coldly, "that you are presuming rather too far. These are personal matters between Miss Langdon and myself, which I may not discuss with you."
Morton sprang to his feet, and faced Duncan across the table.
"By God! you've got to discuss this with me!" he said; and his jaws snapped together, while he bent forward, glaring into Duncan's eyes. "I've got to know one thing from you, Mr. Roderick Duncan; and I've got just one more thing to say to you!"
"Well, what is it?"
The question was cold and very calm. Duncan's temper was rising.
"I'll say it mighty quick and sudden. It is this: If you are forcing Patricia Langdon into this marriage against her will, I'll kill you."