De Socotra for the first looked at Estuban, and his eyes changed. The smile became a thought strained, but the voice was as cool as ever. "Ah, Estuban! How did you get out of jail?"
Estuban was incapable of this grim jesting. It was his first sight of the man responsible for the murder of his best friend, and his eyes burned. He answered de Socotra in Spanish. Whatever it was he said, it bit through the elder man's veneer of scorn. De Socotra snarled at him.
"Put up your hands," said Greg. "I shall not tell you again."
De Socotra obeyed. But his expression altered. He looked beyond and between Greg and Estuban and suddenly cried:
"Seize them both, Milio!"
In spite of themselves they looked behind them. Even as he turned, Greg was half sensible that it was a trick, but the subconscious impulse was irresistible. There was no one there, of course. They turned back. De Socotra was in the act of springing towards an open door in the corner. Like a flash Estuban's pistol sought him. Greg knocked his hand up, and the bullet went through the ceiling. De Socotra disappeared. The other three men, green with terror, never moved.
"Keep them covered," Greg shouted. "I'll get him."
He ran out through the hall and into the front room crying: "Hold him, Ginger!"
But he and Ginger only collided with each other in the empty room.
"He didn't come this way," gasped Ginger.
At the same moment back in the hall a door banged open. They ran out. An open closet door between the two rooms showed the way he had escaped. There was no sight nor sound of him. There were two other rooms on the floor, a bathroom presumably and a hall room, but he had not had time enough to get a door open and closed again, nor could he have gone down stairs for there was no sound from Blossom at the foot.
At the instant Greg made up his mind that he had gone up, a small bright beam of light flashed athwart the upper flight and threw a circle on the side wall. From above a voice said mockingly:
"Yes, I'm up here, Mr. Parr. Come on up. When you cross that light I'll give you something to bring with you."
The voice did not come from the spot whence the light issued. Evidently he had laid his light on the floor and retreated from it. For an instant Greg hesitated. Then it came to him what to do. Extending his body on the steps, pressing close to the rail where one on the upper landing could not see him, he snaked his way up a step at a time until he was within striking distance of the light. Taking careful aim, he fired. The light went out.
At the same moment he let his body relax and slid back down the stairs. But no answering shot came as he expected. Nor was there any sound of running feet above. De Socotra as usual was bluffing. While the light lay on the floor he had stolen away. Listening intently Greg heard some little sounds from the fourth and top story of the house. Snatching his light out of Ginger's hands he sprang up the stairs. Ginger followed at his heels.
In the hall on the top floor stood a ladder leading to a scuttle in the roof. They heard de Socotra upon it working desperately to raise the scuttle. But they were too quick for him. As they mounted the last flight he jumped down and ran into the back room. There all sounds ceased.
Greg paused at the head of the stairs. It was a ticklish job to follow an armed man into a dark room. He tried to figure out what de Socotra would expect him to do, so he could do the opposite. He had left the door open behind him; was it to tempt Greg in? Greg determined to try to take him in the rear.
Leaving Ginger crouching at the turn of the stairs, he stole along the hall and ever so carefully opened the door of the front room. In case his man were inside he flashed his light in to draw his fire, but there was no sound. He went in, holding his light off to one side of his body. The room was empty. Absolute silence pressed on the house so full of men.
There were two doors in the back wall of this room. Greg cautiously opened the first. This floor was planned differently from the second floor. He found himself in an extra middle room with a skylight through which showed the low-hanging clouds faintly rosy with the reflection of the city lights.
Returning, he tried the other door and found himself in a long closet or passage leading to the rear. He dared not flash his light here for fear of giving warning of his coming. The passage was as black as Erebus. The heaviness of the air convinced him that it was closed at the other end. He crept on all fours feeling with his hand before him, half-expecting to lay it on a human figure, half expecting momentarily to be met with a blinding flash and a bullet.
He was stopped at last by a door which must lead into the room into which de Socotra had fled. He listened with his ear to the crack but could hear no sound from the other side. If this door were locked all his trouble would go for nothing. He found a match and inserted it carefully in the keyhole. It passed freely through. The chances were it was not locked.
If the man were still in the room there was no possibility of getting this door open without giving him warning; so Greg took no care, but suddenly flung it wide. He stood back and let his light shine through. Still it drew no shot.
Yet de Socotra was in there. Greg heard him run for the hall door. Greg sprang after him, but de Socotra got the door closed before he could prevent, and Greg heard the key turn in the lock. He heard Ginger tackle the man, as he ran around through the passage to the front room.
Little Ginger was no match for this antagonist. De Socotra must have shaken him off with ease, for ere Greg could reach the front room door that, too, was slammed and locked. The middle room door was already locked and the key on the other side. Greg heard de Socotra vault over the stair rail and run on down.
Ginger shouted a warning through the house to Blossom, and waited to liberate Greg. This took him a little while, because De Socotra had tossed away the keys at random. Greg shouted to Ginger to open the middle door, but in his excitement Ginger did not get the sense of it. He struck innumerable matches until he found the key to the back room.
Meanwhile de Socotra had leaped down two flights of stairs unhindered, for Estuban dared not leave the three men he was covering. On the third flight de Socotra saw Blossom waiting for him at the foot and went over the rail. He dropped in the middle of the hall and ran into one of the parlors. Here, as Blossom chased him in and out the different doors, he began to shout for help in tones of mock fear.
These cries were too much for Bull and Hickey on the floor below. Locking the doors at which they respectively stood guard, they sprang up to the parlor floor. This was evidently what de Socotra wanted. He led them all a chase through the dark rooms. They collided with each other and wasted their strength in vain struggles, thinking they had the fugitive. When he saw the way clear de Socotra ran on down the basement stairs.
By this time Greg and Ginger reached the first floor. They heard de Socotra running wildly back and forth in the basement below. Bull and Hickey had had the foresight to pocket the keys of the two doors and he could not get out. All the windows in the basement were barred. As Greg leaped down the basement stairs with the other men tumbling after he heard the cellar door bang open. There was no way out of the cellar except by the coal-hole.
"We've got him now!" he cried.
He was well assured that if de Socotra had had a gun he would have used it before this, and he followed unhesitatingly. At the head of the next stair he heard the furnace door clang and his heart sunk like a stone. The gaslight in the cellar was still burning brightly. De Socotra stood by the furnace stroking his mustache, panting a little, but smiling still. His hands were empty.
Disregarding him for the moment Greg flung open the furnace door. On the bed of cherry red coals the little black book was already furiously blazing. A hand thrust in to rescue it would have been shriveled to the bone. There was no suitable tool handy. Greg had the inexpressible mortification of seeing it fall apart and dissolve in the flames. An involuntary groan broke from him. De Socotra laughed.
Greg flung around furiously, his gun up. "Damn you! I ought to shoot you like a dog, you murderer!" he cried.
"But you won't," said de Socotra coolly.
It was true. Greg's pistol arm was rendered impotent, but not, as de Socotra thought, because he was intimidated. He turned away gritting his teeth.
The other men were crowding into the narrow cellar, staring open-mouthed at de Socotra, and waiting for a signal from Greg how to act. After them came Estuban who had by this time succeeded in searching and disarming the three men, and had locked them in their room on the second floor.
"Where is the book?" cried Estuban.
"Burned up," said Greg heavily.
Estuban was hampered by no promise to spare their adversary. His gun went up. Springing forward, Greg flung his arms about him. They struggled, while their men looked on at a loss how to act. No one noticed that de Socotra had maneuvered his position until he now stood under the gaslight. His hand shot over his head, and they were plunged in blackness. Before he could be stopped de Socotra gained the stairs. Trying to follow him, they jammed helplessly together. He slammed the door at the top and locked it.
With their combined weight it was only a moment or two before they burst it out. But de Socotra was already half way up through the house. They reached the top floor to find the scuttle open to the sky. There was no sign of him up and down the roofs.
Greg reluctantly called off the pursuit. "We'll only rouse the neighborhood. He has some way of retreat known to himself. Let the last man through hook the scuttle so he can't come back this way."
They left the three Spanish-Americans to make their way out as best they could. If de Socotra failed to return to their aid, they could always throw up the windows and call on the neighbors. It would be up to them to explain how they came to be in such a plight.
It was a dejected little crowd that made its way back through the dark, cold streets to Bessie Bickle's. Estuban was furiously angry at being balked of his purpose.
"Why did you stop me?" he cried.
Greg was not quite frank in replying. "I couldn't help myself," he said. "Richly as he deserved it, I couldn't stand by and let you shoot down an unarmed man."
"We'll never get him now," muttered Estuban, and relapsed into a sullen silence.
Greg's own state of mind was not an enviable one. To be so nearly successful and then have his man flout him to his face, and get away laughing—it was too much! His heart burned in his breast. Promise or no promise, he knew there would be no peace in life for him until he had squared accounts with that smiling scoundrel.
As soon as they opened the kitchen door they saw from Bessie's pale face and shaken manner that something fresh had happened on this night of nights.
Thinking of Amy Greg's breast went cold. "What is it?" he demanded.
The answer relieved his worst fears. "He's gone," stammered Bessie, "the Spaniard up-stairs."
"Dead?" said Greg astonished.
"Aye, he's dead all right. I went up just now to have a look at him. He's lying there——" Bessie shuddered. "I left him till you come."
"And Amy?"
"She's all right. Asleep. She don't know."
"Send one of the boys for the doctor," said Greg. "I'll go up alone first."
The light in Greg's room was still burning. De Silva was lying on his back on the bed his eyes open and staring.... Small wonder Bessie had been frightened. One arm hung down over the edge of the bed, the hand lying palm upward and open on the floor. A little bright object had rolled from the nerveless fingers. Greg picked it up, a hypodermic needle.
On the bureau its case lay open. Beside the bed for the needle it held space for a vial of some blackish fluid; no doubt a further supply of the poison that killed with a lightning stroke. Under the little shagreen case was a folded paper addressed in pencil to "Gregory Parr." Greg opened it with fingers that trembled a little and read:
"I kept the needle. I ought to have used it first, but it takes nerve to jab yourself. It was easier to jump overboard. I can use it now. When we started for New York the old man gave me a little book to carry. Important papers were bound in it. I never read them. They were made out in duplicate. He carried one set and gave me the other. I meant to give them to de Socotra, but I didn't want to after. I didn't know what to do with it. I hid myself in a cheap little hotel the day after, the Alpha House, — West Broadway. I had room number 19. I slit the mattress and hid the book in the stuffing. I suppose it's there yet if you want it.
"De Silva."
The reaction from discouragement to hope was sudden. Greg had to read the note twice before he realized what it meant. He resisted his first impulse to shout the joyful tidings down to Estuban. Better not raise his hopes until the prize was actually in hand. Greg scarcely gave another thought to what lay on the bed. This discovery dwarfed the importance of the poor wretch's end. Five o'clock of a winter's morning though it was, he could not wait a moment before going in search of the little book. He put the needle in the case and the case in his pocket, and determined to keep his own counsel for the time being. If the doctor was willing to issue a death certificate without full information, so much the better.
To those in the kitchen he merely said: "I have to go out for an hour. If the doctor says all right, send for the undertaker. Hickey, drive me over to West Broadway, will you?"
Within the time he had set Greg was back with shining eyes. In the kitchen the disconsolate crowd sat much as he had left them. Ginger and Blossom slept with their heads on the table. Bull, Blossom and Pa Simmons were talking in whispers by the window. Bessie moved heavily around on her interminable chores. Beyond the stove sat Estuban in an attitude of utter dejection, elbows on knees and head between his hands. At the noise of Greg's entrance he lifted his lack-luster eyes. Seeing Greg's beaming smile a resentful scowl lined his brows.
"You seem well-pleased with yourself," he muttered.
Greg without saying anything held up the little black book before him. Estuban gasped and hung undecided for a moment. Then springing towards Greg he snatched it from his hands and scanned the pages with burning eyes.
"This is it!" he cried. "Thank God! we have him now!"
On the afternoon of the day following these events Amy and Greg alighted from the flivver at the door of the Stickney Arms. Their pale composed faces masked a great inner excitement for they knew that Francisco de Socotra was at home. It had been Amy's idea thus boldly to beard him in his lair. Ever since she had got up that morning the direction of affairs had been in her hands. Greg looked at the little creature with a new wonder and respect.
The hall-boy Frank received them with a broad grin not unmixed with slyness. The new clothes that Bessie had got Amy made her look like a bride perhaps. Clearly Frank's explanation of this visit was that they were returning, married, for the parental blessing. Therefore he looked both disappointed and puzzled when they sent up their names: Miss Wilmot and Mr. Parr. Word was quickly returned that they were to be shown up.
A new maid opened the door to them, to whom they meant nothing. They were ushered into the handsome living-room of the apartment where Señor and Señora de Socotra were both waiting. Amy was quickly received into the other woman's arms who patted her and wept and babbled incoherently. De Socotra, whatever his feelings were, received them with a happy parental smile that was perfection. His welcome included Greg. Not by the slightest sign did he betray any consciousness of the events of the night before.
Greg thought grimly: "He feels that he can afford to smile since the body of his victim is reduced to ashes, and the damning evidence of the little black book destroyed too. Wait a bit, old fellow!"
While Amy and Señora de Socotra murmured together, Señor Francisco made bland remarks on the weather, his wicked eye twinkling at Greg as if to invite him to enjoy the situation. He offered Greg one of the incomparable cigars. Greg, reflecting that all this was for the benefit of the gentle, kindly little lady who had harmed no one, took it.
"Last night I pointed a gun at him and to-day he comes back with a cigar," he thought. "Life's a funny affair!"
Amy said to Greg deprecatingly: "I am lying to her, poor dear! I am telling her that I was so much better to-day that they allowed me to come out for a little while in your care."
"Admirable!" murmured de Socotra.
Señora de Socotra shyly nodded and smiled at Greg, and said something to Amy that was evidently intended to be repeated to him. There was a charming, child-like quality in the little lady that was wholly irresistible.
Amy said: "She asks your pardon that she cannot speak your language. She wishes me to thank you for taking such good care of me."
"She thinks you're one of the keepers," chuckled de Socotra.
Through Amy Greg made his best compliments to Señora de Socotra.
Amy soon rose to go. Her adoptive mother clung to her piteously and would not let her go until Amy promised to return the next day, "perhaps to stay." De Socotra accompanied them into the hall, expecting no doubt to learn there the real object of this call. Nor was he disappointed.
"Francisco," said Amy coldly, "it is necessary that Mr. Parr and I discuss with you what is to be done."
"Come into my room," said de Socotra.
"No, we cannot talk here while mamma knows we are still in the house. We want you to come to us in Gibbon Street."
De Socotra elevated his fine eyebrows. "Thatwouldbe thrusting my head into the lion's mouth!" he said humorously.
"Are you afraid?" taunted Amy.
"My dear, the bravest man has to exercise ordinary prudence or the days of his bravery would be few!"
"Mr. Parr saved your life twice last night."
"Another time he might not be so fortunate."
"Francisco, I pledge you my word that no harm will come to you while you are there, and that you will be allowed to go as freely as you come."
De Socotra looked at Greg.
"I add my word to Miss Wilmot's," said Greg stiffly. "Moreover there is no objection to your bringing any friend or friends with you, as many as you like."
"But if I still feel obliged to decline this charming invitation?" said de Socotra mockingly.
"You will not decline it," said Amy.
"Why will I not?"
"Because in that case I will be obliged to tell mamma the whole truth about what has happened. I am taking all this trouble for the sake of sparing her. If you will not help me in that, then affairs must take their course regardless."
"What affairs?" asked de Socotra with a great parade of innocence.
"What is the use of making pretenses among us three? We know, and you know that we know."
"But no one else knows," was the smiling reply. "And there is no proof in existence."
"You don't know what proof we have. Come to Mrs. Bickle's house and we will lay our case before you. You can then decide whether or not you care to accept the conditions that we lay down."
De Socotra hesitated. Bravado and simple curiosity struggled with the man's sense of prudence. Above all he was a gamester.
"When do you want me to come?"
"It is four now. We will expect you between five and six."
"Very well, I'll be there."
Upon the stroke of half-past five de Socotra drove up to Bessie Bickle's in a taxi-cab. He bade the man wait. Amy and Greg met him at the front door. He came alone.
"You are a bold man, Francisco," said Amy.
Amy had changed to a black dress which set off the unrelieved pallor of her skin like alabaster. The little creature now had a consecrated air like a priestess that added inches to her stature. Greg, who was wretchedly ill at ease, regarded her with a kind of awe. She was the leader now. A strange hush brooded over the little house. The shutters of the store were up.
Amy led the way up-stairs. De Socotra, notwithstanding his pretended assurance, was impressed by the change in her dress and manner. All the way up he talked lightly to conceal his uneasiness.
"What an odd retreat you have chosen! I thought we should never get here. My chauffeur had never heard of Gibbon Street, nor any one else for that matter. What shocking streets we came through. Picturesque though, if one cares for that sort of thing."
No one paid the slightest attention to this babble. At the head of the stairs Amy opened the door of Bessie's bedroom and passed in. De Socotra was still talking as he followed her. Greg was behind him.
"Houston Street reminded me of Rome, Rome in Juvenal's day with its——"
The sentence was caught up on a gasp. It was never completed. Bessie's room had been transformed into a little mortuary chapel. Everything in it had been removed and the walls hung from ceiling to floor in grim black draperies. The effect was startling in the extreme; it had been designed to startle. In the center of the room, the sole object it contained, rested a plain black coffin on a severely draped bier. Six tall candles stood about the head lighting the face of the corpse strangely. It was the face of de Silva—peaceful, waxen, and faintly yellow.
Greg fascinated watched de Socotra. Amy disdained to look at him. Her gaze was bent like Nemesis on the poor clay. De Silva's face showed a dignity it had never known in life. One saw the man he might have been. Stilled now was the wild spirit that had been touched too late by kindness.
De Socotra's bronzed face turned gray, and a network of tiny dark veins showed under his skin. One realized the man's age. He breathed like something hurt. But he kept his back straight and his gaze never faltered from the dead man's face.
"Where did you—where did you—" he began twice, but did not finish.
Amy without speaking pointed to a note pinned on de Silva's breast. De Socotra, seeing that he was expected to read it, came forward. His nostrils twitched, a pained look showed deep in his eyes; one guessed that it afflicted him with nausea to approach the body of his hired assassin, but his iron will was not yet broken. He stooped, and in the light of the candles began to read with a sneer. It was the note de Silva had left for Greg.
As he realized what it implied, de Socotra sharply straightened, and for an instant looked wildly around like a trapped creature. But he quickly controlled himself. He turned his back on the coffin.
"So this is your proof," he said, and God knows what effort it cost him to bring it out so nonchalantly; "but he's dead, too!"
"Follow me," said Amy.
She opened the door that communicated with Bessie's parlor. An overpowering breath of sweetness was wafted forth. She passed in. De Socotra followed to the door, walking steadily, but with a gait somewhat stiffer than his wont. At the door he put out a hand to steady himself. His eyes looked wildly around the next room, and he drew back a little as if his flesh refused to be subjected to a further horror.
This room, too, was a resting-place of the dead, but with a difference. Great, many-branched candlesticks stood around this rich bier flooding the room with a pale gold light. Roses pink and white and red were everywhere; sheaves of roses heaped on the coffin and strewn on the pall.
Amy's expression was very different as she stood beside this bier. She was still a marble woman, but it was a marble head of grief. Her hands involuntarily went to her breast. She gazed down, oblivious alike to de Socotra and to Greg. Greg looked at her and experienced the meaning of adoration.
De Socotra's horror-stricken eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Anon they darted frantically from side to side like rats threatened by fire. In the end he had to look. His eyes were dragged in agony to the dead man's face. A groan was forced from the bottom of his breast. At that moment the debonair scoundrel's spirit broke. His head fell forward, his limp arms dropped to his sides.
He saw the face of Antonio Bareda beautiful in death. The lips seemed to be on the point of breaking into the old friendly smile; there was a slight lift to the eye-brows that suggested light and humor lurking behind the lowered lids. The wrinkles of age were all smoothed out. The happy warrior slept the long sleep.
"Come closer," said Amy remorselessly.
The broken man had no thought but to obey. He approached the coffin's foot on sinking knees. The change in his face was shocking. He saw that the dead man held clasped in his hands the little black book in which was bound up "the happiness of a whole people," but de Socotra regarded that indifferently now.
He whispered hoarsely: "It is enough. I understand you." Turning, he made his way towards the hall door like a man struggling against a crushing power, like a swimmer at the last gasp.
"Wait!" said Amy.
Reaching him, she held out the little shagreen case. "Something of yours that I wish to return to you," she said with dreadful meaning.
Greg shuddered. De Socotra dropped the case in his pocket.
At the foot of the stairs he paused again. Without looking at Amy he murmured: "Will you come back—and stay with mamma?"
"If I do not find Bianca there."
"I shall send her away at once."
"Very well. I shall be there to-night."
When the door closed behind him Greg burst out: "You cannot go! It is too horrible!"
"It must be gone through with," she murmured.
Early next morning Greg, who had paced his room the night through, received the expected summons. Francisco de Socotra had been found dead in his bed. Heart-failure, the doctor said. How should he have noticed the tiny needle prick on the man's throat? The needle itself had been destroyed before he came.
Señora de Socotra was a piteous figure. Later in the day she insisted on seeing Greg to thank him for his kindness at so dreadful a moment in a strange land. Overwhelming as was her grief there was no bitterness in it. She spoke of it as simply as a child. Amy with the tears running down her cheeks translated for Greg.
"If you could have known him as I knew him! So good a man, so kind and true! Like a knight of olden times; my knight! I could not live without him, did I not feel that he had left me a work to do. He has left a great fortune, they tell me. Every penny of it shall I devote to good works in his memory! If I cannot be happy I can at least find peace in building a worthy memorial to his dear name."
When they left her Amy said: "You understand now why I acted as I did?"
"I understand," Greg said.
The news of the deaths respectively of Antonio Bareda and Francisco de Socotra reached Managuay simultaneously. Many surmises were given rise to, but the truth never became known—or at least it was never published. The bodies of the two citizens arrived on the same ship and their funerals were held on the same day. Little inconvenience was thereby caused, for there were few in Managuay who desired to attend both ceremonies. One cortege was followed by the rich and the great whose sleek countenances bore the conventional expressions of grief; while behind the other followed on foot an endless procession of the weeping poor.
De Socotra's wife and adopted daughter brought his body home, and on the day following the funeral Señora de Socotra in memory of her husband presented to the republic the magnificent estate of Casa Grande with its famousJardin des Plantesto be held in perpetuity for the benefit of the people. Señora de Socotra and Miss Wilmot (as the younger lady was thereafter to be known) then departed for Paris to arrange for the magnificent mausoleum that the bereaved widow designed to erect.
The simultaneous deaths of these two men left Managuay's political situation very unsettled. The government, deprived of its strong man who had ruled for so long from behind the curtain, scarcely knew where it stood; the people having lost their champion were too apathetic to take advantage of the government's weakness. For a while things went on outwardly as before. Then it became known that the United States minister, a well-meaning, weak soul, who had been an involuntary tool in the hands of the exploiters of Managuay, had been recalled, and one Gregory Parr appointed in his place.
When in due course Mr. Parr arrived the people were surprised by his youth. He brought with him as secretary a Managuayan, Mario Estuban, and the poor people took heart. On the occasion of his first call on the President of Managuay Mr. Parr displayed a knowledge of the internal affairs of the republic that appalled the functionary. Further, Mr. Parr made certain representations that resulted in the hasty resignation of the President and his entire government, and a new election was called.
During the interim influential gentlemen, both Managuayan and American, called on the United States minister, and it was rumored that heated interviews took place. The minister remained polite and unyielding. At the same time currents that were set in motion in Washington to have him removed failed of their effect.
As election day drew near a United States cruiser made a visit of courtesy to the harbor of Managuay. The sailors were received with the wildest enthusiasm by the crowds. She remained until after the event. No armed force was landed; her mute presence in the harbor was sufficient. For the first time in years the Managuayans voted as they pleased. A truly popular and representative government was returned, which promptly got down to the work of correcting the abuses of the former régime. Curiously enough business was not ruined as had been so freely prognosticated. Dividends continued to be paid while the workers sang at their work. Capitalists discovered in Managuay as elsewhere that oppression did not even pay.
Towards the end of the winter Señora de Socotra and Miss Wilmot returned to Santiago de Managuay.
Amidst the misty verdure of theJardin des Plantesunder the great moon of the tropics sauntered a happy pair pressed close together.
"When did you start loving me, Greg?"
"When you touched my arm outside the garage, and asked me if that was my car."
"But I was in boy's clothes then."
"My heart told me you were not a boy.... When did you start loving me?"
"On the way home in the cab from Bessie's when we quarreled so violently. I cried all night."
"Oho! Then the way to reach your heart is by quarreling with you!"
"Oh, it wouldn't work now. I see through you too well!"
"I love to have you see through me! How sweet it is to have you laugh at me and love me still!"
"I like to have you love me, but I'm not sure that I like to be laughed at. Perhaps you can teach me to laugh at myself."
"I don't want you any different. It's such fun to tease you, Red-head!"
"I'll bleach my hair!"
"You couldn't bleach your red-headed nature! ..."
"What became of the old flivver, Greg?"
"I brought it with me."
"Brought it with you!"
"Yes, and Hickey. I intended to surprise you. Hickey had a longing to travel. He is now driving Taxi No. 1 in Santiago, and learning Spanish mornings. When the old car will no longer run we'll build a little private museum for her in our back yard. When we get old we'll go look at it together and remind each other of the brisk days of our youth."
"We'll never grow old inside anyway...."
"Amy, dear, there's one thing that troubles my peace."
"What is that?"
"De Socotra's money."
"It was all left to mamma."
"But I suppose it will come to you in time. How could we take it?"
"I have thought of that. We needn't take it if you will help me lie once more and for the last time."
"How?"
"I have been trying to persuade mamma to buy herself a sufficient annuity and then devote all the rest to philanthropic works. She objects that she must make provision for me. But if we allow her to think that you have sufficient——"
"I see. I haven't a cent, you know, really, except the salary of a minor post in the diplomatic service. Aren't you afraid sometimes?"
"Never! My dearest dear! I know you will win a proper place in the world for you and me! It's fun to begin on nothing."
"Oh, I do love you!"
"I love you so!"
THE END
********
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Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. By Frank L. Packard.Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.Affinities, and Other Stories. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.After House, The. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Against the Winds. By Kate Jordan.Ailsa Paige. By Robert W. Chambers.Also Ran. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.Amateur Gentleman, The. By Jeffery Farnol.Anderson Crow, Detective. By George Barr McCutcheon.Anna, the Adventuress. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Anne's House of Dreams. By L. M. Montgomery.Anybody But Anne. By Carolyn Wells.Are All Men Alike, and The Lost Titian. By Arthur Stringer.Around Old Chester. By Margaret Deland.Ashton-Kirk, Criminologist. By John T. McIntyre.Ashton-Kirk, Investigator. By John T. McIntyre.Ashton-Kirk, Secret Agent. By John T. McIntyre.Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective. By John T. McIntyre.Athalie. By Robert W. Chambers.At the Mercy of Tiberius. By Augusta Evans Wilson.Auction Block, The. By Rex Beach.Aunt Jane of Kentucky. By Eliza C. Hall.Awakening of Helena Richie. By Margaret Deland.
Bab; a Sub-Deb. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Bambi. By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Barbarians. By Robert W. Chambers.Bar 20. By Clarence E. Mulford.Bar 20 Days. By Clarence E. Mulford.Barrier, The. By Rex Beach.Bars of Iron, The. By Ethel M. Dell.Beasts of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Beckoning Roads. By Jeanne Judson.Belonging. By Olive Wadsley.Beloved Traitor, The. By Frank L. Packard.Beloved Vagabond, The. By Wm. J. Locke.Beltane the Smith. By Jeffery Farnol.Betrayal, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Beulah, (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Beyond the Frontier. By Randall Parrish.Big Timber. By Bertrand W. Sinclair.Black Bartlemy's Treasure. By Jeffery Farnol.Black Is White. By George Barr McCutcheon.Blacksheep! Blacksheep!. By Meredith Nicholson.Blind Man's Eyes, The. By Wm. Mac Harg and Edwin Balmer.Boardwalk, The. By Margaret Widdemer.Bob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish.Bob, Son of Battle. By Alfred Olivant.Box With Broken Seals, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Boy With Wings, The. By Berta Ruck.Brandon of the Engineers. By Harold Bindloss.Bridge of Kisses, The. By Berta Ruck.Broad Highway, The. By Jeffery Farnol.Broadway Bab. By Johnston McCulley.Brown Study, The. By Grace S. Richmond.Bruce of the Circle A. By Harold Titus.Buccaneer Farmer, The. By Harold Bindloss.Buck Peters, Ranchman. By Clarence E. Mulford.Builders, The. By Ellen Glasgow.Business of Life, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Cab of the Sleeping Horse, The. By John Reed Scott.Cabbage and Kings. By O. Henry.Cabin Fever. By B. M. Bower.Calling of Dan Matthews, The. By Harold Bell Wright.Cape Cod Stories. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap'n Abe, Storekeeper. By James A. Cooper.Cap'n Dan's Daughter. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap'n Erl. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap'n Jonah's Fortune. By James A. Cooper.Cap'n Warren's Wards. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Chinese Label, The. By J. Frank Davis.Christine of the Young Heart. By Louise Breintenbach ClancyCinderella Jane. By Marjorie B. Cooke.Cinema Murder, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.City of Masks, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.Cleek of Scotland Yard. By T. W. Hanshew.Cleek, The Man of Forty Faces. By Thomas W. Hanshew.Cleek's Government Cases. By Thomas W. Hanshew.Clipped Wings. By Rupert Hughes.Clutch of Circumstance, The. By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Coast of Adventure, The. By Harold Bindloss.Come-Back, The. By Carolyn Wells.Coming of Cassidy, The. By Clarence E. Mulford.Coming of the Law, The. By Charles A. Seltzer.Comrades of Peril. By Randall Parish.Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington.Conspirators, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Contraband. By Randall Parrish.Cottage of Delight, The. By Will N. Harben.Court of Inquiry, A. By Grace S. Richmond.Cricket, The. By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Crimson Gardenia, The, and Other Tales of Adventure. By Rex Beach.Crimson Tide, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Cross Currents. By Author of "Pollyanna."Cross Pull, The. By Hal. G. Evarts.Cry in the Wilderness, A. By Mary E. Waller.Cry of Youth, A. By Cynthia Lombardi.Cup of Fury, The. By Rupert Hughes.Curious Quest, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Danger and Other Stories. By A. Conan Doyle.Dark Hollow, The. By Anna Katharine Green.Dark Star, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Daughter Pays, The. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.Day of Days, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.Depot Master, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Destroying Angel, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.Devil's Own, The. By Randall Parrish.Devil's Paw, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Disturbing Charm, The. By Berta Ruck.Door of Dread, The. By Arthur Stringer.Dope, By Sax Rohmer.Double Traitor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Duds. By Henry C. Rowland.Empty Pockets. By Rupert Hughes.Erskine Dale Pioneer. By John Fox, Jr.Everyman's Land. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Extricating Obadiah. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Eyes of the Blind, The. By Arthur Somers Roche.Eyes of the World, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Fairfax and His Pride. By Marie Van Vorst.Felix O'Day. By F. Hopkinson Smith.54-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough.Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Fighting Fool, The. By Dane Coolidge.Fighting Shepherdess, The. By Caroline Lockhart.Financier, The. By Theodore Dreiser.Find the Woman. By Arthur Somers Roche.First Sir Percy, The. By The Baroness Orczy.Flame, The. By Olive Wadsley.For Better, for Worse. By W. B. Maxwell.Forbidden Trail, The. By Honoré Willsie.Forfeit, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Fortieth Door, The. By Mary Hastings Bradley.Four Million, The. By O. Henry.From Now On. By Frank L. Packard.Fur Bringers, The. By Hulbert Footner.Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale. By Frank L. Packard.
Get Your Man. By Ethel and James Dorrance.Girl in the Mirror, The. By Elizabeth Jordan.Girl of O. K. Valley, The. By Robert Watson.Girl of the Blue Ridge, A. By Payne Erskine.Girl from Keller's, The. By Harold Bindloss.Girl Philippa, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Girls at His Billet, The. By Berta Ruck.Glory Rides the Range. By Ethel and James Dorrance.Gloved Hand, The. By Burton E. Stevenson.God's Country and the Woman. By James Oliver Curwood.God's Good Man. By Marie Corelli.Going Some. By Rex Beach.Gold Girl, The. By James B. Hendryx.Golden Scorpion, The. By Sax Rohmer.Golden Slipper, The. By Anna Katharine Green.Golden Woman, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Good References. By E. J. Rath.Gorgeous Girl, The. By Nalbro Bartley.Gray Angels, The. By Nalbro Bartley.Great Impersonation, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim,Greater Love Hath No Man. By Frank L. Packard.Green Eyes of Bast, The. By Sax Rohmer.Greyfriars Bobby. By Eleanor Atkinson.Gun Brand, The. By James B. Hendryx.
Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.Happy House. By Baroness Von Hutten.Harbor Road, The. By Sara Ware Bassett.Havoc. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Heart of the Desert, The. By Honore Willsie.Heart of the Hills, The. By John Fox, Jr.Heart of the Sunset. By Rex Beach.Heart of Thunder Mountain, The. By Edfrid A. Bingham.Heart of Unaga, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Hidden Children, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Hidden Trails. By William Patterson White.Highflyers, The. By Clarence B. Kelland.Hillman, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Hills of Refuge, The. By Will N. Harben.His Last Bow. By A. Conan Doyle.His Official Fiancee. By Berta Ruck.Honor of the Big Snows. By James Oliver Curwood.Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford.Hound from the North, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katharine Green.Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.Humoresque. By Fannie Hurst.
I Conquered. By Harold Titus.Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.In Another Girl's Shoes. By Berta Ruck.Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond.Inez. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson.Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green.Inner Law, The. By Will N. Harben.Innocent. By Marie Corelli.In Red and Gold. By Samuel Merwin.Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.In the Brooding Wild. By Ridgwell Cullum.Intriguers, The. By William Le Queux.Iron Furrow, The. By George C. Shedd.Iron Trail, The. By Rex Beach.Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland.Ishmael. (Ill.) By Mrs. South-worth.Island of Surprise. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.I Spy. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.It Pays to Smile. By Nina Wilcox Putnam.I've Married Marjorie. By Margaret Widdemer.
Jean of the Lazy A. By B. M. Bower.Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Jennie Gerhardt. By Theodore Dreiser.Johnny Nelson. By Clarence E. Mulford.Judgment House, The. By Gilbert Parker.
Keeper of the Door, The. By Ethel M. Dell.Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish.Kent Knowles: Quahaug. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Kingdom of the Blind, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.King Spruce. By Holman Day.Knave of Diamonds, The. By Ethel M. Dell.
La Chance Mine Mystery, The. By S. Carleton.Lady Doc, The. By Caroline Lockhart.Land-Girl's Love Story, A. By Berta Ruck.Land of Strong Men, The. By A. M. Chisholm.Last Straw, The. By Harold Titus.Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey.Laughing Bill Hyde. By Rex Bench.Laughing Girl, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Law Breakers, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Law of the Gun, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. By Baroness Orczy.Lifted Veil, The. By Basil King.Lighted Way, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lin McLean. By Owen Wister.Little Moment of Happiness, The. By Clarence Budington Kelland.
Lion's Mouse, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Lonesome Land. By B. M. Bower.Lone Wolf, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.Lonely Stronghold, The. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.Long Live the King. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Lost Ambassador. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lost Prince, The. By Frances Hodgson Burnett.Lydia of the Pines. By Honoré Willsie.Lynch Lawyers. By William Patterson White.
Macaria. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Maid of the Forest, The. By Randall Parrish.Maid of Mirabelle, The. By Eliot H. Robinson.Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie E. Roe.Major, The. By Ralph Connor.Maker of History, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Malefactor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Man from Bar 20, The. By Clarence E. Mulford.Man from Bitter Roots, The. By Caroline Lockhart.Man from Tall Timber, The. By Thomas K. Holmes.Man in the Jury Box, The. By Robert Orr Chipperfield.Man-Killers, The. By Dane Coolidge.Man Proposes. By Eliot H. Robinson, author of "Smiles."Man Trail, The. By Henry Oyen.Man Who Couldn't Sleep, The. By Arthur Stringer.Marqueray's Duel. By Anthony Pryde.Mary 'Gusta. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mary Wollaston. By Henry Kitchell Webster.Mason of Bar X Ranch, By E. Bennett.Master Christian, The. By Marie Corelli.Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.Men Who Wrought, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Midnight of the Ranges. By George Gilbert.Mischief Maker, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Miss Million's Maid. By Berta Ruck.Money Master, The. By Gilbert Parker.Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol.Moonlit Way, The. By Robert W. Chambers.More Tish. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Mountain Girl, The. By Payne Erskine.Mr. Single. By George Barr McCutcheon.Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mr. Pratt's Patients. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mr. Wu. By Louise Jordan Miln.Mrs. Balfame. By Gertrude Atherton.Mrs. Red Pepper. By Grace S. Richmond.My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish.My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish.Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The. By Anna K. Green.Mystery of the Silver Dagger, The. By Randall Parrish.Mystery of the 13th Floor, The. By Lee Thayer.
Nameless Man, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach.Net, The. By Rex Beach.New Clarion. By Will N. Harben.Night Horseman, The. By Max Brand.Night Operator, The. By Frank L. Packard.Night Riders, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.North of the Law. By Samuel Alexander White.
One Way Trail, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Outlaw, The. By Jackson Gregory.Owner of the Lazy D. By William Patterson White.
Painted Meadows. By Sophie Kerr.Palmetto. By Stella G. S. Perry.Paradise Bend. By William Patterson White.Pardners. By Rex Beach.Parrot & Co. By Harold MacGrath.Partners of the Night. By Leroy Scott.Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Passionate Pilgrim, The. By Samuel Merwin.Patricia Brent, Spinster. Anonymous.Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The. By Ralph Connor.Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hayes.Pawns Count, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Peacemakers, The. By Hiram W. Hayes.Peddler, The. By Henry C. Rowland.People's Man, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Peter Ruff and the Double Four. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Poor Man's Rock. By Bertrand Sinclair.Poor Wise Man, A. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Portygee, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Possession. By Olive Wadsley.Postmaster, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Prairie Flowers. By James B. Hendryx.Prairie Mother, The. By Arthur Stringer.Prairie Wife, The. By Arthur Stringer.Pretender, The. By Robert W. Service.Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Promise, The. By J. B. Hendryx.
Quest of the Sacred Slipper, The. By Sax Rohmer.
Rainbow's End, The. By Rex Beach.Rainbow Valley. By L. M. Montgomery.Ranch at the Wolverine, The. By B. M. Bower.Ranching for Sylvia. By Harold Bindloss.Ransom. By Arthur Somers Roche.Real Life. By Henry Kitchell Webster.Reclaimers, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.Re-Creation of Brian Kent, The. By Harold Bell Wright.Red and Black. By Grace S. Richmond.Red Mist, The. By Randall Parrish.Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond.Red Pepper's Patients. By Grace S. Richmond.Red Seal, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner.Restless Sex, The. By Robert W. Chambers.Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.Return of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Riddle of the Frozen Flame, The. By M. E. and T. W. Hanshew.Riddle of Night, The. By Thomas W. Hanshew.Riddle of the Purple Emperor, The. By T. W. and M. E. Hanshew.Rider of the King Log, The. By Holman Day.Rim of the Desert, The. By Ada Woodruff Anderson.Rise of Roscoe Paine, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Rising Tide, The. By Margaret Deland.Rocks of Valpré, The. By Ethel M. Dell.Room Number 3. By Anna Katharine Green.Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond.
St. Elmo. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Second Choice. By Will N. Harben.Second Latchkey, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Second Violin, The. By Grace S. Richmond.Secret of the Reef, The. Harold Bindloss.Secret of Sarek, The. By Maurice Leblanc.See-Saw, The. By Sophie Kerr.Self-Raised. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.Shavings. By Joseph C. Lincoln.Sheik, The. By E. M. Hull.Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright.Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Sheriff of Silver Bow, The. By Berton Braley.Sherry. By George Barr McCutcheon.Side of the Angels, The. By Basil King.Sight Unseen and The Confession. By Mary Robert Rinehart.Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach.Sin That Was His, The. By Frank L. Packard.Sixty-first Second, The. By Owen Johnson.Slayer of Souls, The. By Robert W. ChambersSon of His Father, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.Son of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.Spirit of the Border, The. (New Edition.) By Zane Grey.