It was twenty minutes of ten before a sleepy and decidedly irritable voice responded in answer to Donaldson's cheery hello. There was little of Christian spirit to be detected in it.
"Is this Deacon Staples?"
"Yes. But I 'd like t' know what ye mean by gettin' a man outern bed at this time of night?"
"Why, you were n't in bed, Deacon!"
"In bed? See here, is this some confounded joke?"
"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"
"A—joke. Who are you, anyway?"
"I don't believe you remember me; I 'm Peter Donaldson."
"Don't recoleck your name. What d' ye want this time o' night?"
"Why, it's early yet, Deacon. You weren't really in bed!"
"I tell ye I was, an' that so is all decent folk. Once 'n fer all—what d'ye want?"
"I heard you had a house to sell."
"Wall, I ain't sellin' houses on th' Lord's day."
"Won't be Sunday for two hours and twenty minutes yet, Deacon. If you talk lively, you can do a day's work before then. What will you take for the old Burnham place?"
The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way of doing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did not give him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know how familiar this possible purchaser was with the property.
"Where be you?" he demanded.
"In New York."
"In—see here, I rec'gnize your voice; you 're Billy Harkins down to the corner. Ye need n't think ye can play your jokes on me."
"We 've only two hours and a quarter left," warned Donaldson.
"Well, ye need n't think I 'm goin' to stand here in the cold fer thet long."
"It's warm 'nuff here," Donaldson answered genially.
"Maybe ye 've gut more on than I have."
"Hush, Deacon, there are ladies present."
"They ain't neither, down here. Our women are in bed, where they oughter be."
"Not at this hour! Why, the evening is young yet. But how much will you take?"
"Wal, th' place is wuth 'bout two thousand dollars."
Donaldson realized that it was the magic word "New York" which had so suddenly inflated the price. The deacon was taking a chance that this might be some wealthy New Yorker looking for a country home.
"Do you call that a fair price?" he asked.
"The house is in good condition, and thar 's over three acres of good grass land and ten acres of pasture with pooty trees in it."
"Just so. I 'm not able to look the place over, so I 'll have to depend upon your word for it. You consider that a fair price for the property?"
"Well, o' course, fer cash I might knock off fifty."
"I see. Then nineteen hundred and fifty is an honest value of the whole estate?"
"I 'low as much."
"Deacon."
"Yes" (eagerly).
"You 're a member of the church."
"Yes" (lamely).
"And you certainly would n't deal unfairly with a neighbor on Sunday?"
"What—"
"It's thirteen minutes of ten on a Saturday night. That's pretty near Sunday, is n't it?"
"What of it?" (suspiciously).
"Remember that advertisement you inserted in the Berringdon Gazette?"
There was a silence of a minute.
"Wall," faltered the deacon rather feebly, "I thought mebbe ye wanted the farm fer a summer place. It's wuth more fer that."
"It is n't worth a cent more. You simply tried to steal two hundred dollars."
"Ye mean ter say—"
"Exactly that; I 've prevented you from going to bed within two hours of the Lord's day with the theft of two hundred dollars on your soul."
"If ye think I 'm gonter stand up here in th' cold and listen to sech talk as thet—"
"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars cash for the place," interrupted Donaldson. "And remember that I know you through and through. I even know how much you stole from old man Burnham."
This was a chance shot, but it evidently went home from the sound of uneasy coughing and spluttering that came to him over the telephone. Donaldson found considerable amusement in grilling this country Shylock.
"Why, the house 'n' barn is wuth more 'n thet," the deacon exploded.
"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars, and mail the money to you to-night."
"See here, I don't know who ye be, but ye 're darned sassy. I won't trade with ye afore Monday an'—"
"Then you won't trade at all."
"I 'll split th'—"
"You 'll take that price or leave it."
"I'll take it, but—"
"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply. "The operator here is a witness. I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant in the house Tuesday. Good night, Deacon."
"If yer—"
The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but Donaldson broke in again.
"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"
"Gol darn—"
"Careful! Careful!"
"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired smart."
A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in something of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and then put in another call. He found relaxation in the vaudeville picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold so many miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow had robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property. If he had had the time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation. As he did n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning, he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in this somewhat childish way.
"Keep at him until he answers," he ordered the girl.
It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again.
"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired.
"Consarn ye—"
"I was n't sure you said good night. I should hate to think you went to sleep in a temper."
"It's none of your business how I go to sleep. If you ring me up again I 'll have the law on ye."
"So? I 'll return good for evil. I 'll give you a warning; look out for the ghost of old Burnham to-night."
"For what?"
There was fear in the voice. Donaldson smiled. This suggested a new cue.
"He's coming sure, because his daughter is a widow, and needs that money."
"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to offer an excuse. "I can prove it."
"Prove it to Burnham's ghost. He may go back."
"B—back where?"
"To his grave. He sleeps uneasy to-night."
"Be you crazy?"
"Look behind you—quick!"
The receiver dropped. Donaldson could hear it swinging against the wall. Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the cost of his twenty-minute talk.
In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was still alert. He did not have the slightest sense of weariness. It was rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough to recall the maiden joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.
It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him with a letter of explanation. The deed was to be made out to Mrs. Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it. In case of any difficulty—for it occurred to him that the deacon might at the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite—the lawyer was to telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.
Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed instructions.
Then still unwilling to trust himself alone with his thoughts, Donaldson remained about the lobby. He felt in touch here with all the wide world which lay spread out below the night sky. He studied with interest the weary travellers who were dropped here by steamers which had throbbed across so many turbulent watery miles, by locomotives hot from their steel-held course. The ever-changing figures absorbed him until, with her big shouldered husband, a woman entered who remotely resembled her he had been forced to leave to the protection of one old serving maid. Then in spite of himself, his thoughts ran wild again.
He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could find nothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his law books. This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently—every sturdy line of him suggesting blowsy strength. The unknown woman tripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it. And he, Donaldson, sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier woman trusting him as though he were such a man.
In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a passion as his towards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine. His condition had made him mawkishly sentimental. He had been fascinated like a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deep gray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice. He would be writing verse next. He was free—free, and in one stroke he had placed the world at his feet. He was above it—beyond it, and every living human soul in it. He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, which represented the crude active part of this world.
But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independence lasted but a moment. He was back in the green fields with her—back in the blazing sunshine with her, and the knowledge that from there, not here, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved.
Well, even so, was he going to cower back into a corner? There still remained to him five days. To use them decently he must keep to the present. The big future—the true future was dead. Admit it. There still remained a little future. Let him see what he could do with that.
A porter came in with a mop and swabbed up the deserted floors. Donaldson watched every movement of his strong arms and felt sorry, when, his part played, he retired to the wings. Then he went to his room. He partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed. It was then ten minutes of four on Sunday morning, May twenty-sixth.
In spite of his apparent wakefulness he napped, for when he came to himself again it was broad daylight. An anxious looking hotel clerk stood at the foot of his bed, while a pop-eyed bell-boy pressed close behind him. Donaldson rose to his elbow.
"What the devil are you doing in here?" he demanded.
The clerk appeared relieved by the sound of his voice.
"Why, sir, we got a bit worried about you. We weren't able to raise you all day yesterday."
"Could n't what? I sat up until two o'clock this morning in the lobby. I was awake in my room here two hours after that!"
"You must be mistaken, sir. We rang your room telephone several times yesterday, and pounded at your door without getting an answer."
"I was away during the day, but I was here all last night. I asked you particularly if any call had been received for me."
The clerk smiled tentatively.
"The chamber-maid found you in bed at eleven o'clock in the morning, sir."
"The chamber-maid must have come into the wrong room," answered Donaldson, beginning to suspect that he had caught the two men in the act of thieving. "I was n't in bed at all yesterday, and left the city at nine o'clock."
The clerk hitched uneasily. It was evident to him that Donaldson had been drinking, and had the usual morning-after reluctance about admitting it. The night telephone operator had said that he had acted queer. However, as long as the man was n't dead this did n't concern him.
"Sorry the mistake was made, sir," he replied, anxious now to conciliate the guest. "I would n't have bothered you only the lady said the call was urgent."
"Good lord, man, what call?"
"It is to ring up Miss Arsdale's house at once, sir."
"When did you get that?" demanded Donaldson, as he sprang from his bed.
"This morning, sir, at one o'clock."
In three strides Donaldson was across the room. The hotel attendants crowded one another in their efforts to get out.
Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of time throbbing hot through his temples. She had called and been unable to rouse him, while he lay there like a yokel and dreamed of her! He conjured up visions of all sorts of disaster. The boy might have returned and—he shuddered and drew back from the suggestion. He refused to imagine. He beat a tattoo with the inane hook which summons Central.
"Number does n't answer, sir," came the reply.
"Theymustanswer! You mustmakethem answer."
Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply. He hung up the receiver. The hallucinations which swarmed through his brain taken in connection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made him fear an instant for his sanity.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and devoted five minutes to the concentration of his mind upon the fact that he must be cool, must be steady. Else he would be of no use to any one. He must be deliberate. Then he dressed himself with complete self-possession.
When he came down into the lobby he noticed with some astonishment the business-like appearance of the place for Sunday morning. The clerk glanced at him curiously as he approached. Donaldson spoke with exaggerated slowness and precision.
"I wish," he said, "that you would kindly make a careful note of any messages which may come to me to-day. Your error of this morning—"
He stopped as his eye caught the calendar, and its big black numeral. It read Monday, May 27. He looked from the calendar to the clerk.
"Have n't you made a mistake?" Donaldson asked.
"No, sir. Shall I send a boy with you to the Turkish baths, sir?"
Then the truth dawned upon him; he had lost in sleep one whole precious day!
And the girl—
The driver threw on his high speed after a promise that his fine would be paid and ten dollars over should they be stopped. He made the house in fifteen minutes and was lucky enough not to pass a policeman. Donaldson jumping out bade him wait for further orders.
Donaldson received no response to his ring. He tried the latch and found the door locked. On a run he skirted the house to the rear. The back door was open. He pushed through into the cold kitchen, through this into the dining room, and so into the hall. There was no sign either of the servant or of the girl herself. He was now thoroughly alarmed.
As he ran up the stairs he was confronted by what he took to be an old witch in a purple wrapper. She barred his way in a decidedly militant manner, her sunken black eyes flashing anger. She seemed about to spring at him.
"Bien," she croaked, "qui diable are you?"
He paused.
"You are Marie?" he demanded.
"Bien, and you?"
A voice came from a room leading from the hall. "Marie, who is it? Is it Ben?"
"I know not who it is," Marie shouted back; "but if he comes up another step I will tear out his eyes."
"Miss Arsdale," called Donaldson, "is anything the trouble? It is I—Donaldson."
"You!"
Her voice, which had at first sounded weary, as the voice of one who has waited a long while, gathered strength.
"It is all right, Marie," she called. "This—this is my friend."
Marie relaxed and gripped the banister for support. She was weak.
"I have never seen him before," she challenged.
There was a movement at the door.
"No, you have never seen him. Come here a moment, Marie."
With difficulty the old woman hobbled back into the room to her mistress, and for a few moments Donaldson waited impatiently for the next development. It came when he heard her voice asking him to come in. He was in the room in three strides. She was sitting in her chair with her head bandaged, Marie sitting by her side as though liking but little his intrusion. At sight of the white strip across her forehead, he caught his breath.
"What does this mean?" he demanded with quick assumption of authority.
"You must n't think it is anything serious," she hastened to explain, awed by the fierceness of his manner. "It is only that—that he came back."
"Arsdale?"
"Yes."
"Where is he now?"
"He went away again. Marie and I tried to hold him, but we weren't strong enough."
"It would be easier to hold the devil," interpolated Marie.
"But you," asked the girl,—"I was afraid you had met with an accident."
"I?" he cried. "I was asleep—asleep like a drunken lout."
"All yesterday—all last night?" she asked in astonishment.
"Yes," he admitted, as though it were an accusation.
"Ah, that is good," she replied. "You needed the rest."
"Needed rest, and you in this danger?" he exclaimed contemptuously. "It was unpardonable of me."
"No! No! Don't say that. You could have done nothing had you been here."
"If ever I get my hands on him again," he cried below his breath.
"Mon Dieu," broke in Marie. "If I, too—"
"Hush," interrupted the girl. "It is quite useless for any of us to attempt more until his money gives out. He came back and found a few dollars in my purse."
She had fought this madman, she and this rheumatic old woman, while he had slept! She had called to him and he had not answered! The blood went hot to his cheeks. It was enough to make a man feel craven.
The wounded girl rested her bandaged head on the back of the chair. At the light in Donaldson's eyes, Marie straightened herself aggressively.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked quietly.
"Only a bump," she laughed, remembering how he had stood by the ladder. "Marie insisted upon this," she added, lightly touching the cloth about her forehead.
"A bump?" snorted Marie. "It is a miracle that she was not altogether killed. She—"
But a hand upon the old servant's arm checked her indignation.
"You two women cannot remain here any longer alone," he said authoritatively. "Either you must allow me to take you to the shelter of some friend or—"
"There is no one," she interrupted quickly. "No one to whom I would go in this condition. They would not understand."
"Then," he said, "I must secure a nurse for you."
"Am I not able to care for the p'tite?" demanded Marie. "A nurse!"
"A nurse is needed to care for you both. I am going downstairs now to summon one."
She protested feebly, and Marie vigorously, but he was insistent.
"I ought to call your family physician—"
"No, Mr. Donaldson, you must not do that."
She was firm upon this point, so he went below to do what else he might.
At the telephone he found the explanation of his inability to get the house in the fact that the receiver was hanging loose. It was another accusation. Doubtless in her weakened condition she had dropped it from her hand and turned away, too dazed to replace it. The hot shame of it dried his tongue so that he could scarcely make himself understood. In spite of this he accomplished many things in a very few minutes. The operator gave him the number of a near-by reliable nurse, and finding her in, he sent off the cab for her. Then through an employment bureau he secured a cook who agreed to reach the house within an hour. He then telephoned the nearest market and ordered everything he could think of from beefsteak to fruit, and to this added everything the marketman could think of. He had no sooner finished than the nurse arrived.
By the greatest good luck Miss Colson proved to be young, cheerful, and capable. She followed Donaldson upstairs and succeeded in winning the confidence of both the girl and Marie at once. Donaldson left them together. A little while later he was allowed to come up again.
"I feel like an unfaithful knight," he said, as he entered. "I deserve to be dismissed without a word."
"Because you slept? It was not your fault. I fear I have left you little time for rest."
"Why did n't you tell them to break down the doors—togetme!"
Her face clouded for a moment.
She saw how chagrined he still felt.
"Don't blame yourself," she pleaded. "It's all over anyway and you 've done everything possible. You 've been very thoughtful."
"I was a fool to leave you here. I should have stayed."
"That was impossible."
Donaldson marveled that she could pass off the whole episode so generously. He refrained from questioning her further as to what had happened. It was unnecessary, for he knew well enough.
"Let us choose a pleasanter subject," she said. "Tell me how you became a great hero."
"A sorry hero," he answered, not understanding what she meant.
"No. No. It was fine! It was fine!"
He was bewildered.
"You don't mean to say you have n't seen the papers—but then, of course, you have n't, if you were asleep all day Sunday. Please bring me that pile in the corner."
He handed them to her and she unfolded the first page of the uppermost paper. He found himself confronting a picture of himself as he had stood, the centre of an admiring crowd, in front of the big machine which had so nearly killed Bobby.
He shared the first page with the latest guesses concerning the Riverside robberies.
"Well," he stammered, "I 'd forgotten all about that!"
"Forgotten such an act! You don't half realize what a hero you are. Listen to the headlines, 'Heroic Rescue,' 'Young Lawyer Gives Remarkable Exhibition of Nerve,' 'The Name of Lawyer Donaldson Mentioned for Carnegie Medal,' 'Bravest Deed of the Year,' 'Faced Death Unflinchingly.'"
And the pitiful feature of it was that he must sit and listen to this undeserved praise from her lips. That, knowing deep in his heart his own unworthiness, he must face her and see her respond to those things as though he really had been worthy. He, who had done the act under oath, was receiving the reward of a man who would have done it with no false stimulus. He, who had been unconsciously braced to it by the fact that he had so little to lose, was receiving the praise due only a man who risks all the happiness of a long life. He had faced death after flinching from life. He was sick of his hypocrisy; he would be frank with himself. He would be frank with her; he had a right to it this once. He pressed down the paper she was reading.
"Don't repeat it," he commanded. "It is n't true! It's all wrong!"
"What do you mean?"
"That it's all a lie!"
"But here 's your picture. Andthat 'syou."
"Oh, the naked facts are true. But the rest about,—" it was hard to do this with her eyes upon him, "the rest about being a hero—about nerve and bravery. It's rot! It is n't so!"
She threw back her head, resting it upon the top of her chair, and laughed gently. The color had come back into her cheeks and even the dark below her eyes seemed to fade.
"Of course," she returned, "you would n't be a truly hero if you knew you were one."
"But I know I 'm not."
"Of course and so you are!"
The impulse was strong within him to pour out to her the whole bitter story. Better to stand shorn and true before her than garbed in such false colors as these. But as before, he realized that her own welfare forbade even this relief.
The nurse approached with a cheery smile, but with an unmistakable air of authority.
"You will pardon me," she interrupted, "but we must keep Miss Arsdale as quiet as possible. I think she ought to try to sleep a little now."
Sorry as he was to go, Donaldson was relieved to know that he was leaving her in such good hands.
The ringing of the front door-bell startled her. She shrank back in her chair. The nurse was at her side instantly.
"You had better leave at once," she whispered to Donaldson.
"It's only the new cook," he answered.
He went downstairs and ushered her in, and led her to the kitchen.
"The place is yours," he said, waving his hands about the room, "and all you 've got to do is to cook quickly and properly whatever order is sent down to you. Get that?"
The woman nodded, but glanced suspiciously about the deserted quarters. The place looked as when first opened in the Fall, after the return from the summer vacation.
"The family," Donaldson went on to explain, "consists of three. If you succeed in satisfying this group I 'll give you an extra ten at the end of the week."
"I 'll do it, sor."
She looked as though she was able.
"Anything more you want to know?"
"The rist of the help, sor,—"
"You 're all of it," he answered briefly.
Before leaving the house he did one thing more to allay his fears. He called up a private detective bureau and ordered them to keep watch of the house night and day until further notice. They were to keep their eyes open for any slightly deranged person who might seek an entrance. In the event of capturing him, they were to take him into the house and put him to bed, remaining at his side until he, Donaldson, arrived.
Then he ordered his cab to the restaurant of Wun Chung.
Chung had news for him; he had not yet found Arsdale, but his men reported that yesterday the boy had been concealed at Hop Tung's, where Saul had first suspected him to be. The evil-eyed proprietor had hidden him, half in terror of Arsdale himself and half through lust of his money. Finally, however, fearing for the young man's sanity he had thrown him out upon the street. It would go hard with the yellow rat, Chung declared, for such treachery as this to the Lieutenant.
"It may go hard with all of you," replied Donaldson significantly. "But you 've another chance yet; the boy is back here somewhere. Find him within twenty-four hours and I'll help you with Saul."
"He clome black?" exclaimed Chung.
"Sometime early this morning."
If the boy was in the neighborhood, Chung asserted eagerly, he would find him within an hour or hang the cursed-of-his-ancestors, Tung, by his pigtail from his own window.
"Which is better than being locked up in jail. Are you children," Donaldson exploded, "that you can be duped like that?"
Chung appeared worried. But his slant eyes contracted until scarcely more than the eye-lashes were revealed. However inactive he may have been up to now, Donaldson knew that an end had come to his sluggishness. When Chung left the room there was determination in every wrinkle of his loose embroidered blouse.
So there were some nooks in Chinatown, mused Donaldson, that even Saul did not know. The longer he sat there, the more indignant he became at the treachery of this moon-faced traitor who was indirectly responsible for the nightmare through which the girl had passed. Yet, as he realized, no more responsible than he himself. He had been a thousand times more unfaithful to the girl than Tung had been to Saul.
Chung returned with a brew of his finest tea. He was loquacious. He tried one subject after another, interjecting protestations of his friendship for Saul. Donaldson heard nothing but the even voice and the sibilant dialect. He seemed chained to that one torturing picture. Even the prospect of finding the boy and so ending the suspense which had battered Miss Arsdale's nerves for so long brought little relief. He never could be needed again as he had been needed then. He might even have been able to detain Arsdale and so have avoided this present crisis. He felt all the pangs of an honest sentry who, asleep at his post, awakes to the fact that the enemy has slipped by him in the night.
It was well within the hour when Chung's lieutenant glided in with a message that brought a suave smile to the face of his master.
"Allee light," he announced, beaming upon Donaldson. "Gellelum dlownslairs."
"You've found him!"
"In callage," nodded Chung, with the genial air of a clergyman after completing a marriage ceremony.
Donaldson reached the carriage before Chung had descended the first half-dozen steps. He opened the door and saw a limp, unkempt form sprawled upon the seat. He recognized it instantly as Arsdale. But the man was in no condition to be carried home. He must take him somewhere and watch over him until he was in a more presentable shape. But one place suggested itself,—his own apartments.
Donaldson paused. He must take this bedraggled, disheveled remnant of a man to the rooms which stood for rich cleanliness. He must soil the nice spotlessness of the retreat for which he had paid so dearly. In view of the little he had so far enjoyed of his costly privileges, this last imposition seemed like a grim joke.
"To the Waldorf," he ordered the driver with a smile.
He himself climbed up on the box where he could find fresh air. At the hotel he bribed a bellboy to help him with the man to his room by way of the servant's entrance. Then he telephoned for the hotel physician, Dr. Seton.
Before the doctor arrived Donaldson managed to strip the clothes from the senseless man and to roll him into bed. Then he sat down in a chair and stared at him.
"It's an opium jag," he explained, as soon as Dr. Seton came in, "but that is n't the worst feature of it. I 'm tied here to him until he comes to. I can't tell you how valuable my time is to me. I want you to take the most heroic measures to get him out of it as soon as possible."
"Very well, we 'll clear his system of the poison. But we can't be too violent. We must save his nerves."
"Damn his nerves," Donaldson exclaimed. "He doesn't deserve nerves."
The doctor glanced sharply from his patient to Donaldson himself. He noted the latter's pupils, his tense lips, his tightened fingers. He had jumped at the word poison, like a murderer at the word police.
"See here," he demanded, "you have n't any of this stuff in you, have you?"
"No," answered Donaldson, calmly.
"Anything else the matter with you?"
"Nothing but nervousness, I guess. I 've been under something of a strain recently."
Donaldson turned away. He was afraid of the keen eyes of this man. Barstow had not experimented very long with the stuff; perhaps, after all, it did produce symptoms. But he reassured himself the next minute, remembering that the drug was unknown. Barstow had not revealed his discovery to any one. If he showed a dozen symptoms they would be unrecognizable.
The doctor dropped his questioning and turned to his patient. He subjected the man to the stomach-pump and hot baths. Donaldson assisted and watched every detail of the vigorous treatment with increasing interest. At the end of two hours Arsdale was allowed to sleep.
Seton put on his coat and wrote out instructions for the further care of the man. But before leaving he again turned his shrewd eyes upon Donaldson himself.
"My boy," he said kindly, "you ought to pay some attention to your own health. I hate to see a man of your age go to pieces."
He squinted curiously at Donaldson's eyes. The latter withdrew a little.
"What makes you think there is anything wrong with me?" he asked.
"Your eyes for one thing," he answered.
"Nonsense. If I need anything, its only a good sweating, such as you gave Arsdale."
"There are some poisons not so easily sweated out."
Donaldson hesitated. While watching this man at work upon the boy, he had felt a temptation which was now burning hot within him. It was possible that it was not too late even now to clean his own system of the drug he had swallowed. This man, he knew, would bring to his aid all the wisdom of medical science. Barstow may have been mistaken, although he knew the careful chemist well enough to realize this was well nigh an impossibility. The next second he held out his hand. It was steady. He smiled as he saw Seton pause a moment to note if it trembled.
"Thanks for all you 've done, doctor," he said. "Do you think I can take him home tomorrow?"
"If you follow my instructions. The boy really has a sound physique. He ought to pull out quickly."
As the door closed upon the doctor, Donaldson drew a breath of relief. Thank God he had resisted his impulse. He would keep true to his compact. He must remain true to himself. That was all that was now left. There must be no shirking—no flinching. If he had played the fool, he must not play the coward. The subtle tempter had suggested the girl, but he realized that he had better not come to her at all than to come as one who had played unfairly with himself. To be unfaithful to the spirit of his undertaking would be as weak a thing as not to fulfill the letter of his oath. His shadowy duty to the girl would not justify himself in evading a crisis demanding his life for the life of another, nor would it vindicate the greater evasion. It was a matter of honor to remain true to that which at the start had justified the whole hazard to him. It was this which restrained him even from learning whether or not Barstow was in town.
The man on the bed was breathing heavily, his lips moving at every breath in a way to form a grimace. He made in this condition the whole room as tawdry as a tavern tap. And at the feet of this thing he was tossing his meager store of golden minutes.
Yet it was through this inert medium alone that Miss Arsdale could pay the debt to the father who had been so good to her; and it was only through this same unsightly shell that he, Donaldson, could in his turn repay his debt for the dreams she had quickened in him.
He stepped to the telephone to tell her what he could of that which he had found and done. The mere sound of her voice as it came over the wire brightened the room like a flood of light. The joy in it as she listened to what he had accomplished was payment enough for all he had sacrificed. He told her that the doctor had advised keeping the boy in for at least another day.
"Oh, but you are good!" she exclaimed. "And you will not leave him—you will guard him against running off again?"
"I shall stay here at his side until it is absolutely safe to go."
"If I could only come down!"
"But you must n't. You must stay where you are and do as you 're told."
"It will be only for to-day and to-night, won't it?"
"Probably that is all."
"That is n't very long."
"Not as time goes."
"But it will seem long."
"Will it—to you?"
He regretted the question the moment it had been uttered. But it came to his lips unbidden.
"Of course," she answered.
"It will seem very long to me," he returned slowly. "Almost a lifetime."
"Perhaps you will telephone now and then."
"Very often, if I may."
"The nurse says she 'll not allow me to answer the telephone after nine at night."
"Nine to-night is a long way off yet."
"It's only half a day."
"But that's twelve hours!"
"Do you think that long?"
"Yes. That seems a very long while to me."
"It is soon gone."
"Too soon."
"Then comes the night and then the morning and then you 'll bring him home."
"Then I 'll bring him home."
What a new meaning that word home had when it fell from her lips. What a new meaning everything had.
She turned aside to address some one in the room and then her voice came in complaint.
"The nurse is here with my medicine."
"Then close your eyes and swallow it quickly. I 'll telephone you later and inquire how it tasted."
"Thank you. Good bye."
"Good bye."
He hung up the receiver and settled down to the grim task of counting the passing minutes which were draining his life as though each minute were a drop of blood let from an artery. And all the company he had for it was this poor devil on the bed who grimaced as he breathed.
He folded his arms. If this, too, was a part of the cost he must pay it like a man.
The morning of Tuesday, May twenty-eighth, found Donaldson still sitting in the chair, facing the form upon the bed. He had not undressed, and had slept less than an hour. He was now waiting for eight o'clock, when he had received permission from the nurse to ring up Miss Arsdale again.
With some tossing Arsdale had slept on without awaking fully enough to be conscious of his surroundings. Now, however, Donaldson became aware that the fellow's brain was clearing. He watched the process with some interest. It was an hour later before the man began to realize that he was in a strange room, and that another was in the room with him. It was evident that he was trying hard, and yet with fear of whither the road might lead him, to trace himself back. He had singled out Donaldson for some time, observing him through half-closed eyes, before he ventured to speak.
"Where am I?" he finally faltered huskily.
"In my charge."
"Who are you?"
"One Donaldson."
"I never heard of you."
"That is not improbable."
Arsdale reflected upon this for some time before he gained courage to proceed further.
"I 'm going to get up," he announced, at the end of some five minutes.
"No, you 're not. You are going to stay right where you are."
"What right have you to keep me here?" he demanded.
"The right of being stronger than you."
Arsdale struggled feebly to his elbow, but Donaldson pushed him back with a pressure that would not have made a child waver. He stood beside him wondering just how much the dulled brain was able to grasp. The long night had left him with little sympathy. The more he had thought of that blow, the greater the aversion he felt towards Arsdale. If the boy had n't struck her he would feel some pity for him, but that blow given in the dark against a defenseless woman—the one woman who had been faithful and kind to him—that was too much. It had raised dark thoughts there in the night.
Arsdale, his pupils contracted to a pin-point, stared back at him. Yet his questions proved that he was now possessed of a certain amount of intelligence. If he was able to realize that he was in a strange place, he might be able to realize some other things that Donaldson was determined heshould.
"You are n't very clear-headed yet, but can you understand what I am saying to you now?"
Arsdale nodded weakly.
"Do you remember anything of what you did yesterday?" he demanded, in a vibrant voice that engraved each word upon the sluggish brain.
"No," answered the man quailing.
"No? Then I'll tell you. You came back to the house and you struck your sister."
"No! No! Not that! I didn't do that."
Donaldson responded to a new hope. This seemed to prove that the conscience of the man was not dead. It came to him as a relief. He was relentless, not out of hate, but because so much depended upon establishing the fact that the fellow still had a soul.
"Yes. You did," he repeated, his fingers unconsciously closing into his palms. "You struck her down."
"Good God!"
"Think of that a while and then I 'll tell you more."
"Is she hurt, is she badly hurt?"
Without replying Donaldson returned to his chair on the opposite side of the bed and watched him as a physician might after injecting a medicine. Arsdale stared back at him in dumb terror. Donaldson could almost see the gruesome pictures which danced witch-like through his disordered brain. He did n't enjoy the torture, but he must know just how much he had upon which to work.
It was in the early hours of the morning that Donaldson had become conscious of the new and tremendous responsibility which rested upon him. To leave Arsdale behind him alive in such a condition as this would be to leave the curse upon the girl,—would be to desert her to handle this mad-man alone. He had seen red at the thought of it. It would be to brand his own act with unpardonable cowardice; it would be to go down into his grave with the helpless cries of this woman ringing in his ears; it would be to shirk the greatest and most sacred duty that can come to a man. The cold sweat had started upon his forehead at the thought of it.
The inexorable alternative was scarcely less ghastly. Yet in the face of this other the alternative had come as a relief. If it cost him his immortal soul, this other should not be left behind to mar a fair and unstained life. He would throttle him as he lay there upon the bed before he would leave him behind to this. He would go to his doom a murderer before he would leave Arsdale alive to do a fouler murder. That should be his final sacrifice,—his ultimate renunciation. In its first conception he had been appalled by the idea, but slowly its inevitability had paralyzed thought. It had made him feel almost impersonal. Considering the manner in which he had been thrust into it, it seemed, as it were, an ordinance of Fate.
Though this had now become fixed in his mind, there was still the scant hope that he had grasped from what he had observed in Arsdale's manner. Given the morsel of a man, and there was still hope. Therefore it was with considerable interest that he watched for some evidence of the higher nature, even if only expressed in the crude form of shame. At times Arsdale looked like a craven cornered to his death—at times like a man struggling with a great grief—at times like a man dazed and uncomprehending.
To himself he moaned continuously. Frequently he rose to his elbow with the cry, "Is she hurt?"
Still in silence Donaldson watched him. Once Arsdale fell forward on his chin, where he lay motionless, his eyes still upon Donaldson. The latter helped him back to the pillow, but Arsdale shrank from his touch.
"Your eyes!" he gasped, covering his own with his trembling hand. "They are the eyes of a devil. Take them off me—take them off!"
But Arsdale could not endure his blindness long. It made the ugly visions worse. So, he saw the girl with red blood streaming down her cheeks.
The sight of this writhing soul raised many new speculations in Donaldson's mind especially in connection with its possible outcome. In the matter of religion he was negative, neither believing any professed creed nor denying any. He had received no early impetus, and had up to now been too preoccupied with his earthly interests, with no great grief or happiness to arouse him, to formulate any theory in his own mind. Even at the moment he had swallowed the poison the motive prompting him to it had been so intensely material that it had started but the most momentary questions. It was the thought of Mrs. Wentworth, the sight of the baby, the indefinable boundaries of his own love—it was love that pressed the question in upon him. Now the other extreme embodied in the sight of the man before him, capped by the acute query of what the sin of murder might mean, sharpened it to a real concern. If such love as the mother and the girl connoted forbade the conception that love expired with life, the torture of this other stunted soul seemed prophetic of what might be awaiting his own future, dwarfed by the shifty expedient he had adopted to check its development. If punishment counted for anything, he was, to be sure, receiving his full portion right here on earth. The realization of what he was leaving was an inquisition of the most exquisite order. But would this be the end? His consciousness, as he sat there, refused to allow the hope,—refused even to allow the hope to be desired.
So, face to face, each of these two struggled with the problem of his next step. To each of them life had a new and terrible significance. From a calm sea it had changed to wind-rent chaos. It was revealing its potentialities,—lamb-like when asleep, lion-like when roused. Tangle-haired Tragedy had stalked forth into the midst of men going about their business.
The man on the bed broke out again,
"Why did n't I die before that? Why did n't I die before?"
Then he turned upon Donaldson with a new horror in his eyes.
"I did n't kill her?" he gasped.
The answer to his cry came—though he could not interpret it—in the ringing of the telephone. Donaldson crossed to it, while Arsdale cowered back in bed as though fearing this were news of some fresh disaster. To him the broken conversation meant nothing; to Donaldson it brought a relief that saved him almost from madness.
"Is that you, Mr. Donaldson?" she asked.
"Yes. And you—you are well?"
There was a pause, and then came the query again,
"Is that you?"
"Yes, can't you hear my voice?"
"It does n't sound like your voice. Is anything the matter?"
"No, nothing. I don't understand what you mean."
She hesitated again and then answered,
"It—it made me almost afraid."
"It's your nerves. Did you sleep well?"
"Yea. And is Ben all right?"
"Yes."
"There it is again," she broke in. "Your voice sounds harsh."
"That must be your imagination."
"Perhaps," she faltered. "Are you going to bring him home to-day?"
"Probably not until this evening. But," he broke in, "I shall come sooner myself. I shall come this morning. Will you tell that gentleman waiting near the gate to come down here?"
"What gentleman?"
"You probably have n't seen him. I put him there on guard."
"You are thoughtful. Your voice is natural again. Is Ben awake now?"
"Yes."
"And does he know?"
"Some things."
"Mr. Donaldson," she said, and he caught the shuddering fear in her voice, "are you keeping anything from me?"
"I don't know what you mean, but I will come up so that you may see there has been no change."
"I still think you are concealing something."
"Nothing that is not better concealed; nothing that you could help."
"I should rather know. I do not like being guarded in that way."
"We all have to guard one another. You in your turn guard me."
"From what?"
"Many things. You are doing it now—this minute."
"From what?" she insisted.
"From myself."
"Oh, I don't know what you mean. I think you had better come up here at once—if it is safe to leave Ben."
"I shall make it safe. Don't forget to send down my man."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Arsdale. The latter must have noticed instantly the change in Donaldson's expression, for he rose to his elbow with eager face.
"You'll tell me before you go! You'll tell before—"
"You didn't kill," answered Donaldson.
"Thank God!"
"She is n't even wounded seriously."
"She knows that it was I?"
"Yes. She knows."
"How she must hate me, gentle Elaine."
"It is hard for her to hate any one."
"You think she—she might forgive?"
"I don't know. That remains to be seen."
The man buried his face in his arms and wept. This was not maudlin sentimentality; it struck deeper.
"Are you ready to do anything more than regret?" demanded Donaldson. "Are you ready to make a fight to quit that stuff?"
"So help me as long as I live—"
"Don't tell me that. I want you to think it over a while. I 'm going to have some one stay here with you until I get back this afternoon. Will you remain quiet?"
"Yes."
"And remember that even if by chance you did n't do much harm, still you struck. You struck a woman; you struck your sister."
Arsdale cringed. Each word was a harder blow than he, even in his madness, could strike.
"It's a—terrible thing to remember. But—but it will be always with me. It will never leave me."
As soon as the detective arrived Donaldson gave him his instructions, adding,
"Look out for tricks, and be ready to tell me all he says to you."
"I 've had 'em before," answered the man.