"And so that is Billy Murgatroyd!" she murmured to herself. He was the same Murgatroyd she had known, but different from the man she had pictured. And she would have gone on indefinitely criticising his looks, but she was suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices. It was Broderick talking, his big voice filling the room. Shirley listened attentively.
"Blamed good place to get away from the gang," he was saying; and there was a satisfied look on his face as he glanced about the room.
While Broderick ordered the dinner, Murgatroyd leaned forward and made some remark. Instantly something in the tone of his voice, or it may have been his manner, told the girl that the relations between the two men were, in a degree, confidential. The back of Broderick assumed the attitude of a political adviser. Shirley observed that he gesticulated a great deal and often wiped his brow with a handkerchief which, even at a distance, she could see was over-embroidered, but in none of his movements so far was there the slightest suggestion of hostility.
"And this is the use that Murgatroyd has made of poor Miriam's money!" she cried to herself. "He's bribing the enemy!"
Shirley bowed her head in shame.
Presently she lifted it again, for before their dinner had arrived and while Broderick talked on, Murgatroyd rose and walked for a brief while up and down behind the table; and, unseen herself, she scrutinised him closely.
The first thing that her woman's eye noted was that Murgatroyd was not in evening clothes; he wore a business suit, not altogether new, which to her thinking, needed pressing; it looked as if he had lived in it from daybreak to daybreak. He was no stouter than when she had last seen him; if anything he appeared to have lost flesh, yet his figure still retained its strong but fine lines. And Shirley was forced to acknowledge to herself that it had lost none of its grace. But on his face was the dull flush that results from the strain of enthusiasm, of excitement, of overwork. He looked fagged out, and his eyes were restless, though they glowed with steadiness of purpose. From time to time he glanced quickly about him, taking in every detail of the room, studying the people in it, and even peering through the palms that hid the girl, as though he wondered what interloper had had the temerity to rob him of his lair. One thing, however, impressed her more than anything else: his demeanour toward Broderick. There was within it not a particle of that confidential concession that Broderick seemed ever ready to offer; on the contrary, it suggested a suspicious watchfulness. Murgatroyd had every appearance of being a zealous, jealous taskmaster who had set himself over a paid but uncertain servant.
And Broderick,—only once did Broderick turn his head so that Shirley might see his face; but in that one instant the girl divined what she believed to be the situation, the true force of the drama that was being played by the two men. Broderick's face, glance, his whole being, indicated the cunning of the man; he was treachery personified, at least, so he appeared to Shirley; and she told herself, as she sat there and studied him, that any one with half an eye could see that he was hoodwinking the man opposite him.
"Murgatroyd was being fooled!" There was no doubt about it. The attitude of both men expressed it; but, more than anything else, Murgatroyd's air of feverish endeavour, of expenditure of energy, confirmed it. With Miriam's thousands he had paid for something that had not been delivered. Broderick had taken the money—every dollar of it, of that Shirley was thoroughly convinced,—and had given nothing in return. In the girl's mind there was no accounting otherwise for Broderick's leer; in no other way was it possible to explain the desperate effort that Murgatroyd seemed to be making. But, at last, the lawyer grew angry; he hit the table repeatedly with his fist and glared at Broderick. And the huge politician pretended to cower and tried to propitiate him.
"Yes, they are fooling him!" she repeated to herself. Miriam's money had been of no avail; Murgatroyd had failed to accomplish his purpose.
After a while this feeling of contempt for his failure gave way to a wave of pity. What right had she to judge him at all; what manner of woman was she, that she should set herself up to determine whether his lesson was deservedly bitter or not; and what should be his punishment. "Money so gotten will never do him any good," Miriam had said after the scene in the court-room; and how true her words had proved! Why, the papers, even though they believed in his honesty, had as much as said that he was going down to defeat. And then, in turn, her feeling of compassion was succeeded by one of gladness. She was not a little surprised to find herself fervently wishing that Broderick had robbed him of every dollar; but, later on, her cheeks burned furiously when an honest introspection disclosed to her the real motive of this desire. For, after all, what if Murgatroyd would come to her and say:—
"I have sinned, and I have lost; be merciful to me, a miserable sinner."
What if some day he should come to her free of all hypocrisy, stripped of all save truth, a beaten man, what then? Well, she felt unutterably lonely, she wanted to be loved, and after all, he had helped her friend by setting her husband free.
A few days later, dressed in light mourning, Shirley Bloodgood for the second time in her life wended her way to a certain tenement house not far from the East River.
"Surely I cannot be mistaken,—this must be the place," she told herself, groaning in spirit.
In reply to her timid knock and inquiry for Mrs. Challoner, a little girl directed her to the apartment above, the door of which was presently opened by a woman with full rounded face; and entering a neat, well-furnished, five-room flat, Shirley was soon seated at the window chatting with happy eagerness.
The young woman with the full, fresh, rounded face, it can readily be imagined, was Miriam Challoner.
"You've been away more than three years, Shirley," she sighed, as she bent over a bit of fancy work. "It seems a century almost."
"It hasn't seemed so long to me," returned Shirley. "Though when we first went west, I thought it would be nothing short of a nightmare—waiting for an old man to die."
"It must have been," assented Miriam.
Shirley held up her head proudly, and answered:—"No, it wasn't, because for the first time in my life I really came to know my father. I thought I had known him long before, but I made a mistake. I never knew him until these last three years in Arizona—I found out almost too late."
"I always liked your father, Shirley, and I think he always liked me," was Miriam's remark.
"Yes, he did. But did you ever stop to think," went on Shirley hastily, "why, my father never wronged anybody! My father was good—my father was honest! Oh, I could scourge myself," she declared sadly, "for the things I used to think about father. I even told Murgatroyd, once, that though I loved my father, I could never admire him, respect him."
Miriam raised her eyebrows and protested mildly:—
"You never told me that, Shirley."
"No!" exclaimed the girl; "my friends don't know the worst side of me! My father a failure! Fortunately in these three years I have come to look upon things differently—have come to know that he was a success, simply because he was real. Money! What is money? My father was a man!"
Miriam rose suddenly and went over to her and kissed her.
"I'm glad, Shirley," she said with feeling, "that you found it out. I knew it always."
All this time, Shirley had been watching with growing curiosity, the fancy work on which Miriam sewed so industriously. At last, she ventured:—
"Miriam, I'm a regular old maid. I haven't been one hour in your house, and already I'm burning up with curiosity to know just what you're making."
Miriam glanced a moment out of the window, then she answered somewhat evasively:—
"Why, it's just a bit of embroidery...."
But Shirley was not yet satisfied, and went on to protest:—
"But what is it? Miriam, I must know...."
Miriam Challoner hesitated for an instant, then holding up in the air a tiny infant's dress, she said softly:—
"Well, if you must know, why, you must."
There was a long pause. At last, Shirley exclaimed:—
"Isn't it dainty! Who is it for, Miriam?"
Miriam raised her head and looked squarely into the eyes of her friend; the next moment Shirley had her arms about Miriam, and drawing her close to her, she cried joyfully:—
"You precious thing! I'm so glad, oh, so glad! But why didn't you say so before?"
Miriam smiled softly.
"I'm just a bit old-fashioned, I'm afraid," she murmured. "Nowadays, it's the thing to make such announcements through a megaphone from the housetops."
For some time, she continued to sew in silence, Shirley watching her the while. All of a sudden Shirley drew a long breath and said:—
"Miriam, I wish I were happily married. It's the only life for a woman."
"Yes, you are right," assented Miriam joyously, from whom had fled the recollection of all but the last few years.
"I have always taken the keenest interest in the romances of others, but I want something more than a mere vicarious interest in romances—marriage. I'm a marrying woman," declared the girl, "and I dread the thought of being an old maid."
Miriam laughed.
"And yet they say that they're the happiest women...."
"Oh, but a real woman is one who has a husband and children—" Shirley stretched forth her arms, as though to grasp all life within them,—"children to bring up; to wipe their noses and dress them for school, and to hear them say their prayers at night. That's life! It isn't pride with me; it's instinct." Miriam thought a moment. Finally she ventured:—
"But you've had chances. There was Murgatroyd...."
"Murgatroyd," broke in the girl, "is not my ideal. No, indeed, not after what he did...."
"Then, there was Thorne," persisted Miriam, "and Thorne may be United States Senator, too—he's forged ahead."
Shirley laughed and flushed in turn. Presently, she said:—
"I'll tell you a secret, Miriam."
Miriam smiled.
"We seem to be full of secrets to-day."
"Yes," returned Shirley, "only yours is a respectable married woman's secret; mine mustn't be told ... Well," she confessed at last, "I've seen Thorne since I came back, and——"
"No!" Miriam ejaculated.
"Yes! He proposed to me once more, and——"
Miriam leaned forward eagerly.
"You accepted him?"
Shirley frowned.
"No—if I had accepted him, it wouldn't be a secret."
Miriam looked at her blankly.
"Why did you refuse him?"
Shirley seemed puzzled.
"That's just what I want to know myself. I don't know why.... Somehow, I couldn't marry Thorne."
"Well, for some unexplainable reason, I'm glad of that," assented Miriam.
"Tell me about Murgatroyd," said Shirley suddenly, reseating herself. "I haven't seen him——"
"There isn't much to tell," answered Miriam. "As a reformer, he's been a success. He's serving his second term as prosecutor, you know. It seems he wanted to finish his work there."
Shirley tossed her head.
"Who couldn't, with all that money!"
"He and Thorne," went on Miriam, "are rivals for the United States Senatorship. Things are growing warm, too, I hear; but it's only a question of a day or two now...."
Shirley laughed, but her voice was hard when she spoke:—
"He told me once that it cost over half a million dollars in this state to be chosen Senator. Well, he's got the money, anyway——"
Miriam raised her eyebrows.
"He told you that?"
"Yes—before he got the money."
Mrs. Challoner deprecated.
"Shirley, aren't you hard on Murgatroyd? He's a man of character in the city," and she poised her needle in the air and glanced at the girl in a quizzical way. "I think," she went on slowly, "that I understand Murgatroyd. I think he's a man who could go wrong once, and only once."
Shirley shrugged her shoulders. But whatever may have been her opinion to the contrary, she was prevented from expressing it by the sound of approaching footsteps on the stairs.
"Not a word of Murgatroyd," whispered Miriam quickly.
"It must be Laurie," thought the girl to herself, and sprang up like a frightened hare. The next moment the door opened, and Lawrence Challoner came into the room.
Dressed in rough, clean, business clothes, he was as different from the Challoner of five years before as she could imagine. This man was strong, healthy, with a ruddy flush upon his face. He had the appearance of being a bit heavier, but better set up. He looked solid, respectable. In fact, he looked so good that it was a willing hand that went out to him in greeting.
"Well, this is a pleasure that is a pleasure," said Shirley, smiling. "I need not ask how you are, Laurie, for you're the picture of health."
"And you, Shirley—why, you never looked better," and he looked at his wife for a confirmation of his words. "What have you been doing with yourself all these years...." The tide of his words receded there, leaving his eyes stranded upon hers. The same thought came simultaneously to them both.
Miriam's happiness at their spontaneous greeting was good to see.
"If I dared, I'd kiss you," Laurie went on, laughing good-naturedly; but he compromised on his wife, who had been holding, all this time, the bit of fancy work on which she sewed. Suddenly she glanced down at it.
"Oh," she said, conscience stricken, and running across the room, hurriedly thrust it into a closet. Challoner watched her in surprise; and when she returned, he put his arm about her and kissed her once again.
"So much happiness," commented Shirley, with a pretty little pout, "and poor me...."
Challoner laughed.
"Oh, we'll have to look after you, Shirley! I've got a dozen likely chaps down at the works—Americans, too. Real men, every one of them—men who work with their hands."
"The works?" Shirley looked in astonishment, first at one, and then the other. "Oh, the selfish jades we've been—Miriam and I have talked about every man in creation but you! Aren't you ashamed, Miriam? I am!" She drew up her chair, and settling herself back comfortably into it, turned to Challoner and went on excitedly:—"Now tell me about yourself."
"We've saved five hundred dollars," began Miriam, answering for him. "And——"
"Five hundred dollars!" interrupted Shirley, entering completely into the spirit of things. "How did you ever do it?"
Miriam turned to Challoner, and said with a smile:—
"Laurie, do you remember the day when we had saved our first ten dollars?"
"Shall I ever forget it," returned her husband, devoutly; and turning to Shirley: "The fact is, somehow or other I've made good—and done it in five years, too! But you don't know what it means to me, to us.... When Miriam went to the hospital that day, I started in—one dollar and a half a day——"
"Yes?" said Shirley eagerly. "What kind of work?"
"Tell her about your invention, Laurie," suggested his young wife with pride.
Not waiting for a second invitation, Challoner immediately launched forth on his favourite topic, Shirley listening with great interest. But toward the close, he said something about concrete and frauds which instantly caused her to interrupt him.
"Frauds? What frauds?"
"Why, where have you been that you haven't seen the papers?" he inquired. "The papers the world over, almost, have had something to say about this political exposé. I was at work on the hospital job at the time, and it was I who made the discovery that everybody connected with the job was stealing cement: bosses, superintendents, inspectors, politicians, why, even I was invited into the ring. There was money in it," he continued, "money for me—hundreds, thousands...." He paused, and then wound up with: "But, what good would that do me when the hospital fell down?"
"Think what would have happened," interposed Miriam, "if it had been full of patients. It was good they found it out in time! It has to be rebuilt."
"But I wouldn't stand for the steal," Challoner went on, in his legitimate pride. "Maybe you know the rest?" He looked up questioningly; and convinced that she did not, he proceeded: "I went to Murgatroyd; he did the rest. I helped him, of course, by testifying, and all that sort of thing; in other words, I had to make good my accusations. But perhaps Murgatroyd didn't smite those chaps hip and thigh! You know what it meant, don't you? It well-nigh smashed the ring! Anyhow, it has crippled the organisation, and Murgatroyd did it!"
"Good for Murgatroyd!" ejaculated Shirley; and then added quickly with a blush: "Good foryou!"
"Laurie's in business for himself," Miriam presently informed her.
"No!" exclaimed Shirley. "Concrete?"
"Yes," answered Challoner enthusiastically. "I've got a bit of a reputation for honesty, now. People that want an honest job done come to me. Of course, for a time, the hospital scandal killed concrete to some extent 'round here; but there's going to be a quick recover. The trouble is not with concrete, but with men...." Challoner sighed longingly. "I could swing that hospital job," he said wistfully, "if only I could get the bonds and the cash with which to start me. But I suppose I have got to stick to the small work for a while. However, I'm getting there, Shirley, and I'm proud of it, too. You'll begin to think I'm suffering from exaggerated Ego," he finished with a smile.
"Well," said Miriam in justification, "any man who saves five hundred dollars in so short a time has a right to blow his own horn."
"I believe in giving praise where it is due," protested her husband. "It was you, my dear, who saved it."
"I?" returned Miriam, who never seemed happier than when sacrificing herself.
"Yes, by not buying hats like Shirley's, for instance," he answered, although he glanced at the girl in admiration.
Miriam sighed with joy. It was good to be appreciated—good to have some one to talk with who could appreciate their struggle.
"I won't deny," presently she said with a smile, "that it was rather trying at times; but it was a work of love, and we've succeeded."
Shirley sprang to her feet.
"Lawrence Challoner, I'm going to kiss you—you're the kind of a man I'm looking for!" And on the impulse of the moment she went over to him and made good her word. "I'm proud of you," she went on. "You're the real thing—you're a success!"
Challoner laughed as now he drew his wife closer to him.
"They are like a pair of doves," said Shirley to herself; and then aloud, as she started for the door: "Miriam, I'm going to fix up a bit for dinner. I hope we're going to have a dozen courses, for I'm starved."
When the door had closed behind her, Miriam rose and started for the kitchen.
"Miriam, girl," said Challoner, gently, "never mind about the dinner now—that can wait."
"I haven't much to do, anyway," answered his wife.
"What have you been hiding from me for the past few weeks, Miriam?" presently asked Challoner.
She looked quickly up at him and repeated:—
"Hiding——"
He pointed toward the closet.
"What have you been putting away there every night for the last few weeks? What is in that closet now?"
Miriam Challoner hesitated. When she found her voice, she asked tremblingly:—
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes," he answered in the same tone.
Miriam stepped to the closet, fumbled there among some things, and returning thrust something into his hands.
"There," she said, blushing.
Challoner held it up, looked at it a moment, finally he said, with just a tinge of suspicion in his voice:—
"This tiny dress—what?" He looked at his wife stupidly, and after a time, he added: "Why, Miriam, you never told me.... A little child for you and me?"
"Yes, Laurie," she whispered softly.
Challoner was visibly affected. For an instant he held the infinitesimal garment up before him; then acting upon a sudden impulse, he cuddled it down into the crook of his arm and held it there.
"A child—for me," he mused, and suddenly passed the dress back to her, but as suddenly he held out his hands for it again, saying: "Give it back to me!" After a moment, he looked up and exclaimed: "I wonder if it is given to mere man to appreciate thoroughly the anticipation of motherhood—the hours that are given to fashioning little garments like this, for instance! And yet it seems to me now that I could work forever for—" he broke off abruptly, quite overcome.
Miriam was deeply touched.
"Never fear, dear, there will be plenty of responsibility for you later on."
At that moment Shirley poked her head in through the door, and called:—
"Miriam! Miriam, the potatoes are burning!"
Miriam left the room hastily, leaving her husband still nursing the small garment in the crook of his arm.
"A father of a child!" he mused. "It's good to be a father—a good father." Suddenly he seated himself at the table and buried his face in his arms. For some time he remained thus; but when he raised his head again there were tears in his eyes.
"A little child for me—and I shot Hargraves," he moaned.
Just then Miriam came back into the room. At a glance she realised what was going on in his mind; and going over to him, placed her hand affectionately on his shoulder and with great tenderness said:—
"Don't think any more about that, Laurie, it's past and gone. You're a new man, don't you see?"
"I haven't thought of it for five years!" cried Challoner, fiercely. "I haven't dared to think of it—I haven't had time to think of it...." He paused a moment to pull himself together, and then suddenly went on: "But now I have got to think about it, if I'm going to be a father." He sighed reminiscently. "Poor Hargraves, I can see him now, Miriam, as he put up his arm...."
"Don't, Laurie!" she pleaded. "Don't! The forbidden subject—forget it, dear!"
"I can't forget it!" he returned. "It's all before me now." He glared into space, as a man might who witnessed before his very eyes some conflict. "I can see it now, just as it happened——"
He stopped suddenly, fiercely, caught her roughly by the arm, and cried in a loud voice:—
"Miriam, Miriam, thank Heaven I have thought about it! Listen, dear—I can see it now—just as it happened." He stopped and looked down at her. "Can you stand it, dear?"
"What is it?" asked his young wife, trembling with the horror of it all.
Challoner gripped her arm with painful force.
"I did not kill Richard Hargraves!" he cried in sudden joy. "No, I didnotkill him!"
Miriam caught her husband about the neck and tried to soothe him.
"Laurie," she said gently, "you're beside yourself."
"No," he answered calmly enough, though evidently labouring under great excitement, "no, I know! I did not kill Hargraves! It's the first time I have thought about it. Five years ago everything was muddled—life was a muddle then; and on that night at Cradlebaugh's everything was hazy. But now, Miriam, it's as clear as day. I can see it—I do see it!" He lifted his arm, his forefinger crooked significantly, and declared:—
"I shot...."
"Yes," she said eagerly, "you shot...."
"I shot at Hargraves, but I did not hit him. It's all come back; I can see it now!" And pointing toward the junction of the side wall and the ceiling, he went on to explain: "The bullet lodged in the panel of the wall. Hargraves put up his arm like this—I meant to kill him and I shot; but I didn't hit him. It was the last thing I remembered before I toppled over in the big chair—that, and his starting over toward the door. I remember that. It's all come back in a flash. But I never saw him after that."
"Yet," she protested, "you confessed...."
"Yes," he answered, "I tell you everything was muddled—life was hazy. I knew I shot at him—I knew I shot to kill. Of course I thought that I had done it; but it's not so. I tried to do it, and then——"
She caught him wildly about the body and cried hysterically:—
"Laurie—are you sure...."
"I know, I tell you," he answered, and hastened to add:—"Yes, and there's another man that knows—Pemmican, that's the chap!"
He stopped again and looked down at the small dress, which through all his excitement he hadheldtenderly in the crook of his arm.
"I'm going to be a father," he went on, "and it's well that I didn't kill Hargraves. But I have got to prove it—the world must know that I didn't kill him. I must prove it—Pemmican will prove it for me—he was there."
Miriam shook her head.
"You remember his testimony at the trial, Laurie; besides," she added softly, taking an old newspaper clipping from a small drawer of her desk, "Pemmican is dead."
"Dead!" His voice rang out in astonishment. "Dead! I didn't know it. Why didn't you tell me?"
For answer she placed her finger on her lips.
"Why, he died in the county jail, not long after I was tried!" exclaimed Challoner, who was now reading the newspaper clipping. "Poor chap, the confinement killed him, I imagine. Well, I never killed Hargraves, and I'm going to prove it, somehow." He leaned over and kissed a tiny bit of ruffle. "I'm going to prove it for you and the little one."
"Laurie," insisted Miriam, quivering, "are you sure?"
"I was never surer of anything in my life than this," replied Challoner. "I tell you, it has all come back to me like a flash. It was you, little one," he said, bending once more over something imaginary in his arm, "that brought it back to me."
Miriam had watched him closely.
"Yes, yes," she conceded, "it is true, I can see it—I know." And sobbing, dropped her head upon his shoulder.
"I've got to prove it," he repeated over and over again, patting her head affectionately.
"But—Murgatroyd—why, if you were innocent ..." suddenly cried Miriam.
"Well?"
"He ought to know it."
"What do I care about Murgatroyd! What do I care about anybody but you and the little one that is coming—coming to you and to me!"
"Laurie," breathed Miriam softly, "I'm happy, oh, so happy! I knew—I felt, somehow, that things would come out right. I don't care whether you ever prove this—so long as we know. Happy?" she repeated as she nestled closer to him. "I should think so, with five hundred dollars in the bank and a small business, and after a while...."
"The most important thing, now, is that I'm certain I did not kill Hargraves. That makes it easy for the next important thing—for you—my baby—my little baby."
Reluctantly he yielded the lilliputian garment to Miriam. There was a knock on the inner door that Miriam had closed; it was followed by Shirley's entrance into the room.
"I hope," she said gaily, little knowing what had happened, "that we are going to eat pretty soon, for I never was more hungry in my life."
"The dinner will be an hour late," apologised her hostess, "but you won't mind, I'm sure, when I tell youwhy."
In the prosecutor's office, to which they had access at all hours of the day, were Mixley and McGrath, the latter occupying a strategic position, in that he held in his hand the latest edition of theMorning Mail.
"How's the joint ballot?" called Mixley from across the room.
"Oh, it's hot, I tell you—both houses up all night!" returned the other from over his paper. "The hands of the clock moved back about ten times, and still going it. Still in session."
Again Mixley called:—
"Let's see the extra!"
McGrath tossed it over to him. Across its face, in huge letters, appeared the single significant word:
"DEADLOCK"
"DEADLOCK"
"Oh, but it's Murgatroyd that gives them the fight!" exclaimed Mixley, with enthusiasm.
McGrath smiled.
"Sure," he answered. "He's holdin' 'em, but that's all he's doin'. But what of that? He's got nothin' to hold 'em on. Why, everybody knows that he hasn't any money. It's my opinion," declared McGrath, "that the job goes to Thorne!"
Mixley read the first page of theMorning Mailwith care. After a while he read:—
"I guess you're right. Thorne will be the next Senator, all right. Hang the luck!"
"How can it be helped?" reasoned McGrath. "Look at them brewers putting up maybe a quarter of a million to help Thorne out! I say, what do you think the votes of the 'wise' assemblymen were quoted at—on the market last night?"
"I don't know. I wish I was an assemblyman at that," sighed Mixley.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars apiece, and a rising market growing stronger every minute," answered McGrath. "And them brewers'll pay it, too. One fellow wanted fifty thousand—an' he'll get it—see if he don't."
"I wish I was an assemblyman," repeated Mixley wistfully.
"If you were, and there was Thorne and twenty-five thousand on one side for you, and Murgatroyd without a dollar on the other, who would you vote for? Come, now, answer!"
Mixley waved his hand.
"You'd vote for Murgatroyd," yelled McGrath, "you know you would—you couldn't help yourself."
Mixley sighed again.
"But I ain't an assemblyman," he answered; and in the next breath he added: "There's somebody at that there door."
McGrath crossed to the door and opened it; and Challoner, Mrs. Challoner and Shirley Bloodgood entered.
McGrath, who remembered them well, and who knew Challoner especially well since the hospital investigation, bowed low, and announced that the prosecutor was out.
Shirley stepped forward and said determinedly:—
"But we must see him."
"He's expected any moment," said Mixley from across the room.
"We'll wait," chorused the three visitors.
McGrath bowed again and went back to his seat near the window.
Presently Miriam turned to Shirley, and said regretfully:—
"You ought not to have come, Shirley. Perhaps you had better not stay."
Shirley looked narrowly at Challoner and at his wife. After a moment she inquired:—
"Don't you want me to stay?"
"Yes, yes, of course we do," Miriam assured her, "but you don't want to stay, do you?"
"Indeed I do," was the girl's quick answer.
"What good will it do," sighed Miriam; but, nevertheless, she found herself clinging to the girl as she did in every crisis when Shirley happened to be on hand.
"Do you suppose I'd miss being in at the death?" said Shirley after a moment.
"At the death?"
"Yes, I could see him hanged, drawn and quartered!" she exclaimed, with mock ferociousness.
Meanwhile, Mixley and McGrath were still holding their desultory conversation upon the situation of the day.
"They said," Mixley remarked to the other, "that the chief was politically dead after he had blackjacked the organisation; maybe he was—maybe he is, but he fights all right."
"He certainly cleaned things up," admitted McGrath, feeling of his biceps. "We helped him, eh?"
"He didn't do a thing to Cradlebaugh's," mused Mixley.
"Nor to the machine," smiled McGrath.
"Well, anyhow," said Mixley, "if he hasn't got the machine and the brewers and the twenty-five-thousand-dollar assemblymen back of him, he's got the people, all right. They know he's honest."
"Oh, yes, he's honest, and they know it," assented the other. "But hang it! The people can't get him into the Senate. It takes more than the people—it takes good money to do that. At least," he added emphatically, "it always has, up to date."
Mixley shook his head.
"If he only had half a million behind him now...."
The other snorted.
"It's well he hasn't—well he never had. If he had half a million, he wouldn't be running for United States Senator! Just like as not, he'd be playin' golf or running a devil wagon."
"Gee, what a scorcher he'd be!"
"And he'd be so loaded with golf medals," added the other, "that he couldn't walk."
"Well, it's a man's fight he's got on hand, now, and no mistake—and with nothing but his honesty to back him."
The three visitors had been listeners to this conversation in silence; but Shirley could contain herself no longer; and turning to her companions, she said sneeringly:—
"Nothing but his honesty to back him! Why, lynching's too good for him!"
And as though her utterance of the phrase were the prosecutor's cue, Murgatroyd sauntered into the room. He looked as fresh and unconcerned as though he did not know that a bloodless battle was being fought for him down at the State Capitol—a close battle, at that.
Challoner rose at once, and said nervously:—
"Billy, I——"
At the sound of his name, Murgatroyd turned. He had not seen them sitting there, and now bowed impersonally to all three.
"Want to see me?" he inquired suavely.
"Yes," faltered Challoner; and with a quick glance in the direction of the prosecutor's men, he added: "and alone, please."
Murgatroyd turned to his men and queried:—
"Anything new?"
Mixley pointed to theMorning Mailand to an unopened telegram upon the desk.
"That, from the assembly," he returned.
Murgatroyd shook his head, saying:—
"No, I don't mean that. I mean in the Tannenbaum case."
McGrath gasped.
"Gee!" he exclaimed, "we was so excited about this here that we clean forgot about it."
Murgatroyd took from his drawer a bundle of papers and handed it to Mixley, saying:—
"Look up that excise violation—right away. And, McGrath," he continued, "there are three witnesses in the Tannenbaum case that we've got to have. It's up to you to get them. If you can't find them by two o'clock, let me know. You may go."
And now seating himself at his desk Murgatroyd turned to Challoner with:—
"Well, Challoner, what can I do for you?"
Challoner advanced quickly toward the desk.
"Prosecutor Murgatroyd," he began, gulping, "it's up to you to clear me of that Hargraves affair. I'm not the murderer of Hargraves!"
Miriam and Shirley had risen, but they did not move; they hung upon the prosecutor's answer.
Murgatroyd leaned back in his chair, and returned calmly:—
"I know it."
"You know it?" gasped the three visitors; and the next moment the women were grouped around the prosecutor's desk.
Murgatroyd proceeded to open his mail.
"Yes," he mused, "I have known it for almost five years—you must have known it, too."
"Not until a few hours ago," Challoner quickly informed him.
"You don't say so," was Murgatroyd's answer; and presently he added: "though perhaps it is not so very surprising."
Challoner's eyes narrowed; his pulse was beating fast. Suddenly he said:—
"But somebody killed Hargraves—who did it?"
The prosecutor looked at the man incredulously.
"Do you mean to tell me, that though you know now that you didn't kill Hargraves—that you don't know whodidkill him?"
"I'm here to find out," was Challoner's determined answer.
"Why thunderation!" ejaculated Murgatroyd; and looking the other squarely in the eyes, went on: "I knew that everybody didn't know, but I thought you knew long ago that it was Pemmican of Cradlebaugh's who did it."
"Pemmican," repeated Challoner, as if to himself, "was the only man who knew, and he's dead."
"Yes," assented Murgatroyd, "he killed himself in jail. He confessed just before the Court of Appeals filed its opinion of affirmance in your case. It was a game on his part, that murder. He had stolen ten thousand dollars from the management of Cradlebaugh's, and had been threatened with prosecution for it. It was necessary for him to replace the money. The opportunity came and he seized it. He knew that there was bad blood between you and Hargraves; knew that there was a motive on your part; knew that you shot and missed; knew that Hargraves had a lot of money on his person, and he set out to get it. It was safe—he got it, and Hargraves, too—shot him dead with another gun,—after you missed him,—and paid back the money to Cradlebaugh's."
Miriam could not restrain herself, and burst out:—
"And you have known this for years?"
"Yes," he told her quietly, his eyes wandering over Miriam's face; "but it's plain to me now that you haven't known it."
"How should we?" protested Challoner.
Murgatroyd frowned, then he answered:—
"How? Because I advised your counsel, Thorne, and he was present when the order releasing you was signed. It was his duty, not mine, to communicate with you. I represented the people; he was the counsel for the defence."
"Thorne—Thorne knew...." cried Miriam.
"Yes, Thorne knew...." admitted Murgatroyd.
"... and he never told us," came finally from Challoner's lips.
"Possibly he didn't dare," explained Murgatroyd, with an enigmatical smile. "Just at that time, Thorne and Thorne's crowd held the public in the hollow of their hands. So perhaps," he added sarcastically, "the news about Pemmican was suppressed for the public good."
"And you—" spoke up Shirley, her eyes flashing, but got no further, for Murgatroyd went on addressing Challoner.
"I had no trouble, then, of course, in setting you free."
Challoner blinked stupidly at the prosecutor, but Miriam's face at once was wreathed in smiles; for she knew that their future happiness was assured—that the name of Challoner would be cleared of its stain.
But Shirley was not yet satisfied. And her eyes were blazing as she exclaimed hotly:—
"It was not you who set him free! The law set him free! He was innocent, and——" She paused and drew a deep breath before going on: "You took a million dollars to set him free!"
Murgatroyd rose suddenly, and turning to Mrs. Challoner, he said with great earnestness:—
"This is the second time this charge has been made against me: once at the trial, and again here. You understand the nature of this charge?" he asked Shirley, looking her full in the eyes. "What proofs have you?"
Shirley pointed to Challoner's wife, and answered:—
"Mrs. Challoner is my proof."
Murgatroyd turned his gaze now on Miriam, whose expression of joy had not changed, and asked:—
"Mrs. Challoner, do you renew this charge?"
But before Mrs. Challoner could answer, Shirley broke in with:—
"Prosecutor Murgatroyd, a moment please!" And on the prosecutor's turning his gaze on her, she continued: "You know I am speaking the truth! Mrs. Challoner has tried to convince me that this bribe was not a crime, inasmuch as you had kept faith with her; but she knows as well as you do what my opinion is on the subject. I told you in the court-room what I thought, and again on another occasion—I have not changed. No, you are not honest," she concluded, mercilessly; "you've stolen, you're a——"
She balked at the word; the next moment there came a loud knock upon the door.
"Come in!" called Murgatroyd.
"Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Prosecutor," said Mixley, on entering, "but Mr. Thorne is outside——"
Murgatroyd shook his head.
"Tell Mr. Thorne I'm busy."
But no sooner had Mixley left the room than he was back again.
"Counsellor Thorne says that he must see you—he won't wait."
The prosecutor ordered his man to keep him out, ending with:—
"I can't see him!"
On Mixley's retreating, Shirley once more stepped forward, and her lips were parted to speak when suddenly the door was thrust open violently and Thorne stalked in. Behind him came Mixley, trying to hold him back; but the other jerked himself free, and on reaching the prosecutor's desk, he held out his hand, and called out loudly:—
"SENATOR MURGATROYD!"
"W-what!" exclaimed Murgatroyd, rising.
"I want to shake hands with you. Then I'm the first to announce it? Good!"
And he proceeded to tell Murgatroyd that the latter had just been chosen on joint ballot, majority in both houses, for the Senatorship, ending with:—
"Allow me—allow me to congratulate you!"
His voice rang true, even though he did not mean it; and Murgatroyd shook his hand, saying:—
"I thought it would be you, Thorne; you put up a good fight."
"We did, you mean," protested Thorne. "My crowd did, as usual. But you, Murgatroyd, deserve your honours—it was one man against the field, one man against illimitable backing. Senator," he declared, bowing, "I take off my hat to you! You have done what has never been done before, and you've done it without a dollar! You're the first man in the State," he went on frankly, "to be chosen by the people, literally by the people, and without a dollar behind you."
Still Murgatroyd shook his head, and repeated:—
"Thorne, it looked like you."
"No; and we've learned something by all this," Thorne went on; "we're beginning to find out that the people worship honesty above all things.—Oh, yes, I'm honest," he continued hastily; "I understand that. But you—your honesty is the real thing—and the people know it, too."
Turning to her friends, Shirley muttered satirically:—
"Honest!"
Now McGrath, as usual, had followed close on the footsteps of Mixley; and standing in the door, he yelled:—
"Three cheers for Senator Murgatroyd!"
And Mixley and Thorne,—born and bred to political meetings,—gave them with a will; while Shirley and the Challoners sat in the corner in deep silence.
Murgatroyd looked at his men in surprise.
"Where have you been all this time?" he queried.
"Outside," they answered sheepishly, "waiting for the news."
Murgatroyd strode down upon them and thundered out:—
"You get that evidence and have it here by two o'clock."
The men piled out in confusion. A moment later, Thorne took up his hat, and holding out his hand, repeated:—
"Accept my congratulations once more, Senator!" He turned to go, and then for the first time he saw the three people huddled together in the corner of the room. "Well," he suddenly exclaimed, "I thought we were alone. I didn't know...."
Challoner stepped out in front of him, and blurted out:—
"Mr. Thorne, I wish to know if it is true——"
Thorne, still not seeing who it was, nodded.
"Yes," he said in reply, "the prosecutor has been chosen—I'm down and out."
"You don't understand," returned Challoner; "is it true, true——"
"True?" repeated Thorne.
"True that you have known all these years that I was innocent of murder?" And Challoner squared his shoulders and lifted his head while he waited for his reply.
"Yes, of course it's true," answered Thorne, seeing, at last, whom he faced.
"You never told me," fiercely returned Challoner. Thorne apparently was dumbfounded.
"Never told you? Why I must have told you," he stammered feebly.
"You never—" Challoner's voice suddenly broke. "And I thought all these years—and because I thought——"
He paused abruptly. Then Thorne, turning to Murgatroyd, boldly equivocated:
"It's preposterous! Of course I told him...."
Murgatroyd smiled grimly, and added gently to himself:—
"Never ... 'till now."
Thorne now waved Challoner aside, saying:—
"You must be mistaken, Mr. Challoner; I certainly told you—" And picking up his hat, once more turned his attention to the prosecutor.
"Well, Senator, good-day!" At the door, he called back: "You've made a clean and honest fight—you deserve success! Good-day!"
But no sooner had the words passed his lips, than Shirley, almost beside herself, again broke forth:—
"A clean, honest fight! Oh!"
Murgatroyd resumed his seat, smiling. "Yes," he said, as if wholly unconscious of the girl's irony, "it is hard work to be chosen Senator without half a million or so behind you."
Up to this time, Shirley had held her indignation within bounds; but at this remark, she lost all control over herself.
"Why you—you're a thief!" she cried.
Instantly, Mrs. Challoner stepped forward, and raising a reproving hand, she said with great determination:—
"No, no, Shirley, I won't have you say such things! You must leave the room! You and Laurie—I insist upon it!"
Such an outburst from Miriam was so unusual that for a moment both Shirley and Challoner were taken aback. It was clear that unknown to them, Miriam had made up her mind to some course of action; in fact, so completely had she taken the situation in hand, that it was easy to imagine that she had forgotten that she was in the prosecutor's office and not in her own home.
Fierce anger burned in Shirley's impulsive heart, as glancing at Murgatroyd, she perceived that he was as impassive as ever, apparently taking little interest in the scene that was being enacted before him. A few moments elapsed before she could bring herself to agree to Miriam's demand.
"Very well," assented Shirley, "we'll wait outside, but don't keep us waiting long." And, as reluctantly she left the room with Challoner, she said in a loud whisper so that Murgatroyd could hear it: "What on earth can Miriam want to see him alone for?"
For answer, Challoner merely shook his head.
Left alone with the prosecutor, Miriam asked permission to lock the door; and although surprised at such a request, Murgatroyd went over to the door and locked it. Then, motioning politely for her to be seated, he took a chair opposite to hers and asked severely:—
"Mrs. Challoner, what do you mean by this? Do you recall the compact made nearly six years ago?"
"Yes, yes," she answered, in a manner that showed plainly her desire to conciliate him.
"Your husband went free," Murgatroyd continued, "and when we made our compact, we did not know whether he was innocent or not, whether it was within the power of the law to hold him or to free him. But I kept my part of the compact in good faith—innocent or guilty, he finally went free."
"Yes, yes, I know," she returned eagerly.
"Your part of the compact was silence,—you promised to keep silent,—and yet, twice in this building you have broken your word, and Heaven knows how many times outside," he concluded solemnly.
"Yes, yes," she answered contritely, "I know. Don't think for a moment that I have any fault to find with you, Mr. Murgatroyd. None, whatever. I have always upheld you, always believed in you, I believe in you now...."
"That's more than Shirley does," and Murgatroyd smiled grimly, "for I heard her say that she would like to lynch me—she would, if you would let her," he added lightly.
"But she doesn't understand, Mr. Murgatroyd. She is frightfully impulsive; you must not take her so seriously. Besides, what can a mere girl know of the troubles of—" She paused for a brief moment; and continuing, said in a changed tone: "But I'm glad, very glad that my money could help to put the right man in the right place, glad that my money has done so much good at last. Yes, I was wrong to speak——"
All the while she had been talking, Murgatroyd eyed her strangely.
"What do you want of me?" he broke in suddenly.
"Yes, yes, I must get to the point," she answered timidly, and then looked up at him as if searching for some expression on his face which would help her to go on; but she saw there only impatience, and it was with some trepidation that she proceeded: "Of course you know how splendidly Lawrence has done these last five years—what a man he has made of himself? Why certainly you know, because he helped you with that concrete affair, and—" She paused to see the effect of her words; but again they had been received with apparent indifference. Nevertheless, she said proudly: "Lawrence has gone in business for himself. Yes," she added quickly, nervously tapping the desk before her with her fingers, "and Lawrence can get that hospital job. He wants it—wants it badly, for he knows he would do it right. Mr. Murgatroyd, it would be the making of his business——"
She paused, while her mind struggled helplessly to find the fitting words with which to frame the difficult request that was to come.
"Lawrence needs a bondsman to get that job—a man with one hundred thousand dollars to go on his bond. And you know it is very hard, particularly hard for him to find a man who is worth that much to go on his bond—a bond that he'll do the work, and do it right. Oh, Mr. Murgatroyd, would it be asking too much of you to——"
Murgatroyd rose and gazed at her steadily.
"And you are asking me to go on a hundred-thousand-dollar bond for your husband?"
The tone of his voice told Miriam what she had to expect, and her heart grew chill, but she braced herself to go on:—
"Yes," she answered; and her voice was very gentle and very winning as she proceeded: "And if he could get a little money, just a little to buy materials. We have saved five hundred dollars, but that will not go far. Oh, he has worked so hard, and I don't want him to get discouraged! He wouldn't ask these things for himself—No, indeed! You'll go on his bond, won't you?" she asked with a wan smile. "And loan him a few thousand dollars to start the job?"
There was a long silence; finally Murgatroyd spoke in an even voice:—
"You want me to go on his bond and loan him some thousands of dollars, too?"
Mrs. Challoner inclined her head.
"Why, Mrs. Challoner," Murgatroyd exclaimed, holding up his hands in amazement, "I haven't got the money! I couldn't go on a bond for a hundred thousand dollars; and as for lending him money! Well...."
To Mrs. Challoner, the prosecutor in refusing was acting merely within his rights. However, her feminine instinct had made her conscious of some indefinable change in him; so she persisted:—
"If only you could—"
Miriam ceased abruptly and watched him as he sprang to his feet and for a long time paced up and down the room, gazing at her face each time he passed her. After a while, he came and stood over her, apparently trying to make up his mind whether or not to take a certain course of action. Finally he said with great feeling:—
"Mrs. Challoner, you are the bravest woman I have ever known. Yes, perhaps I can arrange it for you. But first, won't you please call Lawrence—call them both back."
Meanwhile outside in the waiting-room, Lawrence Challoner walked dismally to and fro. For, notwithstanding, that in the last hour a great joy had come to him, this room had awakened memories of that other occasion, when, likewise, waiting for Murgatroyd, his life had hung in the balance. A wave of pity took possession of him—pity for himself for his then mistaken views of life, pity for the little wife, who had stood so nobly by him; and, suddenly, he quickened his steps, as if impatient for the time to come when he could make amends for the great wrong he had done her. In a measure, entering into his thoughts, though her own were somewhat complex, Shirley Bloodgood, from where she sat in a far corner of the room, also waited nervously for the door to open. And it was thus that Miriam Challoner came upon them, her eyes glistening, a happy smile on her face.
"Laurie, Shirley," she stammered, "Mr. Murgatroyd says—no, come, he'll tell you himself." And taking their willing hands into hers, she led them back into the prosecutor's private office, from which they had been so unceremoniously evicted a little while before.
Miriam Challoner's intimation that good news would be forthcoming was indeed rather vague; nevertheless, unconsciously, both were affected by her mood, and came into the room, smiling. Perhaps it affected Murgatroyd, too, for it was with his most genial manner that the hitherto imperturbable prosecutor, from where he sat on the edge of the table, his arms folded, singled out Shirley, and said:—
"Ready for the lynching, Miss Bloodgood?"
A look of surprise crossed Shirley's features, but she scorned to answer.
Murgatroyd was now standing, his back still to the table.
"Would you mind locking that door," he called to Challoner; and turning to the ladies: "Mrs. Challoner, take that chair, please," pointing to one nearest to him, "and, Miss Bloodgood, that," indicating one next to Miriam's.
Meantime, Challoner had returned, and was waiting, hesitatingly, near the door.
"Aren't you going to join the family circle, Laurie?" the prosecutor said lightly.
Challoner then came forward, and placed his chair between the two women.
Murgatroyd's manner suddenly became chilly, stern, in short, once more he was the prosecutor of the pleas. Addressing Challoner, whom he looked well in the eye, he began:—
"Mrs. Challoner has asked me to go on a hundred thousand dollar construction-bond for you; also, to loan you considerable money."
There was a dramatic pause. And except for a questioning glance from Challoner and Shirley, which found a ready answer in the eyes of Miriam, his listeners did not move nor speak.
"There it is," announced Murgatroyd, in the same business-like tone; and stepping aside from the table, revealed two old, battered, dust-covered, sheet-iron boxes.
"Those boxes!" exclaimed Mrs. Challoner, who was visibly excited. "What is in them?" she asked in bewilderment.
"I don't know," returned Murgatroyd calmly.
There was no question in the minds of the prosecutor's visitors but that these boxes were the same that Miriam had brought to him so long ago, filled with negotiable securities, to the extent,—as Miriam was not likely to forget,—of eight hundred and sixty thousand dollars; but, as to their present contents, all, naturally, were at a loss to conjecture. So, no one spoke, but continued to wait expectantly for Murgatroyd to make the next move. Apparently, however, that was far from his intention, and after a moment Shirley broke out with:—
"Do you mean to say that you don't know what is in them?"
"Miss Bloodgood, there's only one person in this room who knows that," he replied quietly. Then turning to Mrs. Challoner, he went on in the same tone:—
"Do you see these seals?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Unbroken, are they not?"
"Yes," again she assented faintly.
"Well, then, you know what is inside of them; I do not."
"I?—" faltered Miriam. "Why——"
Then followed a moment of racking suspense for all, except, perhaps, Murgatroyd.
"Mrs. Challoner," he resumed, "you told me once that there were eight hundred and sixty thousand dollars in negotiable securities in these boxes. If what you then said was true, there they are, coupons and all."
"But, Mr. Murgatroyd," protested Mrs. Challoner, "you said that you did not have any money...."
Murgatroyd smiled.
"I spoke the truth. But you...." And now, to Challoner's great surprise, Murgatroyd fixed his eyes on him, and said in a voice that impressed them all the more, inasmuch as it was filled with a kindly confidence rather than with distrust:—
"There's eight hundred and sixty thousand dollars in those boxes, Challoner, belonging to your wife. Can you stand having it back again?"
Challoner looked puzzled; for as Miriam had told Shirley, he had had no reason to believe that his wife's fortune had not all been spent by them. Slowly he began to understand, but he was too overcome to speak. Presently he found his voice and said:—
"Can I stand——"
"Yes," interrupted Murgatroyd, "you know what money did for you before—what it led to—" He broke off abruptly, and turning to Shirley he added: "I told you once, Miss Bloodgood, that there was but one way to cure a bad millionaire, but one way to reform him, and that was to take away his millions. Well, I took away his!"
All eyes now rested on Challoner, who, oblivious to his surroundings, seemed lost in thought,—and who can tell what dreams may come to one suddenly lifted from the depths of poverty back again to affluence. But in any event, looking the prosecutor straight in the face he said in an easy, determined voice:—
"Billy Murgatroyd, a little while ago you asked whether I could stand having all this again; the past five years of my life is my answer to that."
This reply brought to his wife's face a look of pride, and unconsciously she straightened up in her chair; while Shirley sighed perceptibly.
"Laurie," went on Murgatroyd, still probing, but not unkindly, "what are you going to do with all this money?"
"You'll have to ask Miriam about that," he returned quickly; and then with a charming smile, he added: "I have learned that a man's mission is to make money, and a woman's...."
Suddenly, Challoner grew thoughtful again.
"To think of the time," he said, half-aloud, "that it took Miriam and me to save five hundred dollars!"
"That five hundred that you saved," commented Murgatroyd solemnly, "is worth more to you than all this eight hundred and sixty thousand."
"There's no mistake about that either, Murgatroyd," spoke up Challoner promptly; but bending over his wife, he added with a fascinating smile:—
"Miriam, you're going to let me build that hospital, aren't you?"
Simultaneously with Miriam's monosyllabic answer, Murgatroyd glanced at Challoner sharply, not forgetting, quite naturally, how easy in the past it had been for the husband to get whatever he wanted from his wife; his doubts, however, were only momentary, for presently he pushed the boxes toward them, saying:—
"There it is—it all belongs to you."
But in all this Shirley had been strangely silent.
"Mr. Murgatroyd," she now said icily, "do you mean to tell us that your only motive in taking this money was to save Mr. Challoner?"
Murgatroyd took a few steps toward her and regarded her coolly.
"No—and you alone were right. I was bribed—I was corrupt—I was a thief."
"No, no," cried out Shirley, relenting.
"Yes," he went on mercilessly, "it is true. It was my ambition that did it. Besides, I was tempted by a woman——"
"A woman——" faltered the girl.
"Like Adam, I'm blaming it on Eve. This woman wanted me to be, well, really great——"
"You——"
"Yes," he persisted, "I was bribed. I took the money. Oh, you don't know about me! You don't know what I was five years ago! It seemed to me then that money was the only thing that could make me really great. I knelt at the shrine of money—loved it as a dipsomaniac loves his bottle."
He paused; then he continued in a low voice:—
"Yes, I took money to acquit Challoner, and then I convicted him. Why? Because the instinct within me to do my duty was too strong to allow me to do otherwise. All the evidence was against him; he had confessed; I had to convict him."
"And the money—" ventured Shirley.
"Like a dipsomaniac,—a reformed dipsomaniac,—I put that money as he might have his bottle, on the shelf—corked. There it was—I could have it any time I wanted it." His face became more serious as he proceeded: "Then I kept on being a thief, for there was a new and overpowering motive that got the best of me. Like the reformed dipsomaniac I was determined to see what I could do without it. It became a passion with me. I knew that every move I made meant the expenditure of money. A hundred times, yes, a thousand times I have had my fingers on those seals about to break them, and then have crawled away—once more to do without the money. Somehow, I knew, that my time must come. Besides, there was that overwhelming ambition,—prompted by a woman."
Shirley hung her head.
"Yes," he went on fiercely, "a woman who must have her due; it was up to me to be something more than merely honest. Anybody could be honest, she told me, but not everybody could be great!"
Shirley ventured to look up at him, but meeting his gaze fixed on her face, she shifted her eyes instantly.
"Then there was the United States senatorship,—the fairest office in the State,—which I knew I could buy with the money for which I had sold my soul. Again and again I came into this office and went to that vault there, determined to break the seals of the covers on those boxes—to buy the United States senatorship. But I could not bring myself to do it. Something always said to me: 'YOU MUST DO WITHOUT IT! YOU MUST BE HONEST! YOU MUST MAKE A CLEAN FIGHT!' Yet, still, I was a thief: holding thousands that didn't belong to me. But always upon me was that all-absorbing passion,—a passion, not to use, but to do without the thing which was at my finger's ends,—an incentive without which I could not succeed. And so," he concluded, "I went in and won without it."
A tense silence followed the prosecutor's amazingly frank revelation of his temptation and the success which he extorted from it. Unconsciously, he assumed an attitude which it would not be unfair to describe as a defensive one, in readiness, as it were, for any possible strictures on his conduct. Nothing of the sort, however, was forthcoming. On the contrary, at least, as far as Mrs. Challoner was concerned, at no time, not even when his self-arraignment had been the most severe, had his terrible words succeeded in driving the happy light from her eyes. There were moments, it is true, when a dull pallour had spread over her features, a pallour, however, caused solely by sudden stings of agonising memories, and those soft brown eyes had been raised to his questioningly; but his personality had ever been more or less baffling and mysterious to her; and so, whether semi-fascinated or not, they left him thoroughly satisfied with their scrutiny.
Probably better than any one present, Challoner realised to the full what Murgatroyd had suffered. Manlike, however, he was more than willing to permit the great work that Murgatroyd had done to overshadow completely his questionable proceedings. Of course, Challoner was quite well aware that the prosecutor's actions viewed in the light of a successful campaign wore an entirely different aspect than they would had he failed to obtain the senatorship. In the latter case it was inevitable, no matter what moral satisfaction he could derive from the return of the money,—and in fairness to Challoner be it said that he never once questioned it,—that in addition to the humiliation of a ruined career, the prosecutor would have to endure the mortification of knowing that his loss of self-respect was wholly futile. But in any event, Challoner was too generous not to accept without reservation Murgatroyd's contention that, at least in part, he was actuated by a praiseworthy desire to save his wife and him from the results of his dissipations. To a man, such as Challoner now was, it can easily be imagined, therefore, that he would regard that alone as sufficient reason to overlook everything else, and so rising, he grabbed impulsively Murgatroyd's hand, saying:—