Donaldson, without removing his clothes, tumbled across his bunk and fell into a merciful stupor which lasted until morning. He was aroused by a rough shaking and staggered to his feet to find Saul again confronting him. The latter had evidently been some time at his task, for he exclaimed,
"I thought you were dead! You certainly sleep like an honest man."
"Sleep? Where am I?"
"You are at present enjoying a cell in the Tombs. You seem to like it."
Donaldson pressed his hand to his aching eyes. Then slowly the truth dawned upon him.
"What day is this?" he asked.
"Thursday."
"Yes. Yes. That's so. And to-morrow is Friday."
"That's a good guess. Do you remember what happened last night?"
"Yes, I remember. I 'm under arrest. I remember the terror in the face of that woman!"
Saul laughed inhumanly.
"Of all the bogie men I ever saw you were the worst."
"I suppose I 'll be arraigned this morning."
"I doubt it, old man. In some ways you deserve it, but I'm afraid the Chief won't satisfy your morbid cravings. Remember the story you told him?"
"Yes."
"And you 're wide enough awake to understand what I 'm saying to you now?"
"Perfectly," answered Donaldson, growing suspicious.
"Then," exploded Saul, "I want to ask you what the devil your blessed game is?"
"I could n't sacrifice an honest man, could I?"
"Then," went on Saul with increasing vehemence, "I want to tell you plainly that you 're a chump, because you sacrificed an honest man after all."
"You have n't arrested Arsdale? Lord, Saul, you haven't done that, have you?"
"No," answered Saul, "I was ass enough to arrest you."
"It would be wrong, dead wrong, to touch the boy. He didn't have anything to do with this. There was no one with me."
Saul took a long breath.
"I 'm hanged if I ever saw a manhankerafter jail the way you do. And you 've got the papers full of it. And pretty soon I 'll be getting frantic messages from the girl. And you 've made all sorts of an ass of yourself. Do you hear—you chump of a hero, you?"
"What do you mean?" demanded Donaldson.
"I mean just this; that we 've nailed the right man at last! Got him with the goods on, so that we won't need the identification of a bunch of hysterical idiots to prove it. We won't even need a loose-jointed confession, because we caught him black-handed. But my guess wasn't such a bad one—it was n't Arsdale, but it was Jacques Moisson, his father's valet."
"Jacques Moisson?"
"The son of that old crone Marie there. He caught the dope habit evidently from his master and has been to the bad ever since Arsdale senior died. The old lady has been hiding him part of the time in the garret of the house."
Donaldson's thoughts flew back to the bungalow; it was this fellow then and not Arsdale who had attacked him,—if Saul's story was true.
Saul approached him with outstretched hand.
"You played a heavy game, Don."
Donaldson grew suspicious.
"I don't know what you 're talking about," he said, his lips coming tightly together again.
"No. Of course not! That's right. Keep it up! But I 'll have my revenge. I 'll give the newspaper boys every detail of it. I 'll see your name in letters six inches higher than they were even this morning. I will; I swear it!"
"Saul," said Donaldson quietly, "you 're doing your best to make me go back upon my story. You can't do it."
Saul folded his arms.
"Of all the heroic liars," he gasped, his face beaming, "you 're the prince. And," he continued in an undertone, "it 's all for the sake of a girl."
Donaldson sprang to his feet.
"Don't bring inhername, Saul," he commanded.
"All for the sake of a girl," continued Saul undisturbed. "It took me some time to work it out, but now I see. Take my hand, won't you, Donaldson? I want to say God bless you for it."
Donaldson hesitated. But Saul's eyes were honest.
"This is the truth you're telling me?" he trembled.
"The truth," answered the other solemnly.
"Then you won't touch the boy? There is no further suspicion resting upon him?"
"To hell with the boy!" exploded Saul. "You 're free yourself! Don't you get that?"
"Yes," answered Donaldson.
He passed his hand thoughtfully over his face. Then he glanced up with a smile.
"I need a shave, don't I?" he asked.
"You sure do. Let's get out of here. And if I were you I 'd get back to her about as soon as I could. It's early yet, so maybe she has n't seen the papers. I gave the boys the real arrest, so that they could get out an extra on it and take the curse off the first editions. And now," he added, "and now I 'm going to give them the story of their lives—the inside story of all this."
"Don't be a chump, Beefy!"
"I'll do it," answered Saul firmly. "I'll leave out the girl but I 'll give them the rest. I 've got some rights in this matter after the way you 've used me."
"I know," he apologized, "but there didn't seem any road out of it. If you 'll just keep quiet about—"
"Not a word. You 'll take your medicine. Besides, the dear public will think you were crazy if they don't learn the truth."
"I don't care about that, if—"
"Bah! Come on. I 'll get you past the bunch now, but you 'll have to run for your life after this."
Saul put him with all possible despatch through the red tape necessary to secure his acquittal, and then led him out by a side door. He summoned a cab.
"They 're waiting," he chuckled. "Twenty of 'em with sharpened pencils and,—Holy Smoke,—the story! The story!"
"Forget it, Saul. Forget it—"
But Saul only pushed him into the cab and hurried back to his joyous mission.
Donaldson ordered the driver to the Waldorf. He must get a clean shave, change his clothes and get back to the Arsdale house before the first editions were out heralding his arrest. If Jacques had been arrested at the house it was possible that the excitement might have prevented them from learning anything at all of his part in the mess.
He found a letter from Mrs. Wentworth waiting for him. He tore it open. She wrote:
"Oh, Peter Donaldson, I wish I had the gift to make you understand how grateful I am for all you 've done. But I can't until you come up and visit us. We reached here safely and found everything all right. The deed was given to me and the money you put in the bank for me. The house now is all clean and the children are playing out doors. My heart is overflowing, Peter Donaldson. It is better than anything I ever dreamed of here. My prayers are with you all the time and I know they will be heard."
So she ran on and told him all about the place and what she had already accomplished. Happiness breathed like a flower's fragrance from every line of it, until it left him with a lump in his throat.
"That is something," he said to himself as he finished it. "It has n't been all waste."
He went to the barber in better spirits and came back to his room to read the letter again. It was like a tonic to him. He looked from his window a moment, to breathe the fresh morning air.
The street below him was alive once more with its eager life. Men and women passed to the right and left, the blind beggar still waited at the corner, the world, expressed now through this one human being, had abated not one tittle of its activity. The Others were still about him. The pigeons still cut gray circles through the sunshine and the girl still waited. As he stood there he heard the raucous cries of the newsboys shouting "Extra," and knew that he must go on and face this final crisis. He could not delay another minute.
When he reached the house he found his worst fears realized. She was in the library with a crumpled paper in her hand and Arsdale was bending over her. As he greeted them they both pushed back from him as though one of the dead had entered. The boy was the first to recover himself. He sprang to Donaldson's side with his hand out.
"I told her it was n't true," he exclaimed. "I told her it was all a beastly lie!"
He grasped Donaldson's hand and dragged him towards his sister.
"See," he cried, "see, here he is! The papers lied about him!"
The girl tottered forward. Donaldson put out his arm and supported her.
"I 'm sorry you saw the papers," he said quietly. "I was in hopes I should reach here before that."
"But what is the meaning of it?"
"The police made a mistake, that 's all," he explained.
Arsdale broke in,
"We 'll sue them for it, Donaldson! I 'll get the best legal talent in the country and make them sweat for this! It's an outrage!"
"I 'm sorry you saw the paper," he repeated to the girl.
Her pale face and startled eyes frightened him. She had withdrawn from his arm after a minute and now fell into a chair.
"The blasted idiots," raged the boy.
The telephone rang imperiously and Arsdale went to answer it, chewing invectives.
Donaldson crossed to the side of the girl.
"Where is Marie?" he asked.
"She is in bed again. Her poor knees are troubling her."
"I have both good news and bad news for you," he said after a moment's hesitation, "the real assailant has been found and it is Jacques Moisson."
The girl recoiled.
"Jacques!"
"So the police feel sure. They say they caught him this morning in the attempt to commit another robbery. The Arsdale curse is upon him."
"Oh," she cried, "that is terrible."
But as he had guessed, it was good news also. There was no longer any doubt of who brought that wallet to the bungalow. There was no longer the grim suspicion of who might have rifled her rooms. The spectres which had seemed to be moving nearer and nearer her brother vanished instantly. That burden at least was lifted from her shoulders, even though it was replaced by another.
"Poor Marie! Poor Marie!" she moaned.
"I think she may suspect this," he said. "But it will be better for you to tell her than the police."
"Yes, I must go to her at once."
Arsdale came to the door, his face strangely agitated. He paused there a moment clinging to the curtains. Then, almost in awe, he came unsteadily towards Donaldson. The latter straightened to meet him. The boy started to speak, choked, and, finding Donaldson's hand, seized it in both his own. Then with his eyes overflowing he found his voice.
"How am I ever going to repay you for this?" he exclaimed in a daze.
Elaine was at his side in an instant.
"What is it, Ben? What is it now?"
"What is it?" he faltered. "It's so much—it's so much, I can't say it all at once."
Donaldson turned away from them both.
"He," panted the boy, "he gave himself up for me. They thought it was I, and he went to jail for me."
"It was a mistake on their part," answered Donaldson. "They did n't know."
"And so you shouldered it," she whispered.
"I knew it would come out all right," he faltered.
"A reporter rang me up just now," ran on Arsdale. "He told me the whole thing. The papers are full of it. They—they say you 're great, Donaldson, but they don't knowhowgreat!"
"If you would n't talk about it," pleaded Donaldson.
"Talk about it? I want to scream it! I want to get out and stand in Park Row and yell it. I want every living man and woman in the world to know about it!"
"It's all over—it's done with!"
"No," answered Arsdale, "it's just begun. I feel weak in the knees. I must go—I must be alone a minute and think this over."
He staggered from the room and Donaldson turning to the girl, said gently, "Go to Marie now. She will need you."
"You," she exclaimed below her breath, "you are wonderful!"
He turned away his head and she left him there alone.
In the fifteen minutes that Donaldson waited in the library, he fought out with himself the question as to whether he had the strength to remain here in the house on this the day before the end.
In his decision he took into account his duty towards the boy, the possible danger to the girl, and his own growing passion. There was but one answer: he owed it to them all to pull free while there was yet time. It would be foolhardy to risk here a full day and an evening.
He felt the approaching crisis more than he had at any time during the week.
At times he became panic-stricken at his powerlessness to check for even one brief pendulum-swing this steady tread of time. Time was such an intangible thing, and yet what a Juggernaut! There was nothing of it which he could get hold of to wrestle, and yet it was more powerful than Samson to throw him in the end. Sly, subtle, bodiless, soulless, impersonal; expressed in the big clock above the city, and in milady's dainty watch rising and falling upon her breast; sweeping away cities and nursing to life violets; tearing down and building up; killing and begetting; bringing laughter and tears, it is consistent in one thing alone,—that it never ceases. There is but one word big enough to express it, and that is God. Without beginning, without end, and never ceasing. At times he grew breathless, so individualized did every second become, so fraught with haste. Where was he being dragged, and in the end would the seconds rest? No, they would go on just the same, and he might hear them even in his grave.
With his decision came the even more vital question as to what he should tell this girl. With the strength of his whole nature he craved the privilege of standing white before her. He longed to tell her the whole pitiful complication that he might stand before her without shadow of hypocrisy. He could then leave with his head up to meet his doom. But even this crumb of relief was refused him. To do this might break down the boy and would leave her, if only as a friend, to bear something of the ensuing hours. He must, then, leave her in darkness, suffering the lesser stings of doubt and suspicion and bewilderment. He must leave her in false colors to whatever she might imagine.
She came back again with her lips quivering.
"Poor Marie," she gasped. "She lies there broken hearted, praying to die."
"I am sorry for her," he said gently.
"I feel the blame of it," she answered. "Why must the curse of the house have fallen upon her?"
"It is difficult to work out such matters," he replied. "But I don't think you should shoulder the responsibility. We each of us must bear the burden of our own acts. It makes it even harder when another tries to relieve us of this."
"But I can't relieve her. That is the pity of it. She turns away her head from me for she has taken upon herself all the responsibility for Jacques."
"That is the mother in her. There is nothing you can do."
"She will die of grief."
"Then she will be dead. So her relief will come."
The girl drew back a little.
"She must not die. I must not let her die."
She looked up at him as though she expected him even in this emergency to suggest some way out of it. But he was speechless.
"I must go back to her," she said after a minute. "I must go and comfort her."
"Yes," he said, "that is the best you can do. Take her hand and hold it. That is all you can do. Ben is upstairs?"
"Yes. I have n't told him yet."
"Tell him," he advised. "It will help him to have an opportunity to help another."
"Then you will excuse me?"
"Of course. But there is something that I must tell you before you go. I must leave you both now."
"You will come back to dinner with us?"
"I 'm afraid I shall be unable. I start on a long journey. I must say good bye."
She fixed her eyes upon him in a new alarm, waiting for what he should say next. But that was all. That was all he had to say. In those two words, "Good bye," he bounded all that was in the past, all that was in the future.
"You have had some sudden call?"
"Yes."
"But you will come back again. Don't—don't make it sound so final."
"I have no hope of coming back."
"Oh," she cried, "I thought that now you might find a little rest."
"Perhaps I shall. I do not know. But before I go I wish to insist again that you and Ben leave this house and get back into the country somewhere. Don't think I am presuming, but I should feel better if I knew you had this in mind. I see so clearly that it is the thing for you to do."
"Don't speak as though you were going so far," she shuddered. "What will Ben do without you?"
"Get him away from these old surroundings. Let him make friends—clean, wholesome friends. Let him pursue his hobby. There are other places besides New York where he is needed. If he is kept busy I do not fear for him."
She tried to pierce the white mask he wore. It was quite useless. She knew that there was something in him now that she could not reach. Yet she felt that there was need of it. She felt that there was need that she of all women in the world should force her way into his soul and there comfort him as he had bidden her comfort Marie. She felt this with an insurge of passion that left her girlhood behind forever. It swept away all thoughts of Ben, all thoughts of Marie, all thoughts of herself. She heard his voice as though in the distance.
"It is better," he was saying, "to be direct—to be as honest as possible at such a time as this. We can't say some things very gently, try as we may, because they are brutal facts in themselves. But I am going to tell you all I can as simply as I can. I must leave you. It is n't of my own free will that I go, though at the beginning it was. Now I go because I must. Perhaps you will never again hear of me. If you don't you must remember me as you know me now. Do you understand that, Miss Arsdale? You know me now as I am—as no other human being knows me. Will you cling to this?"
"You are to me as you are. So you always will be."
She met his eyes unflinchingly, feeling a new strength growing within her. He went on:
"If we cling to what we ourselves know of our friends—if we cling to that through thick and thin, nothing that happens to them can matter much. It is that confidence which lifts our friendships beyond the reach of the cur snappings of circumstance. So you, whatever you may hear afterwards, whatever things you find yourself unable to understand, must hold fast to this week. You must say to yourself," his voice grew husky, "you must say this,—'If it had been possible for him to do so, he would have lived out his life as I wished him to live it out.'"
As he spoke on, it seemed to him that she, in some subtle way, was rising superior to him. Instead of losing strength as she stood there before him, he felt her growing in power. He had been talking to her as to a child, and now he suddenly found himself confronting a woman. She was now the dominant personality. When she spoke to him her voice was firmer and possessed of a new richness.
"I have heard you," she said. "All the things you spoke are true. Why are you going?"
He hesitated at the direct question.
"Because I must."
"Why must you?"
"I cannot tell you."
She placed a steady hand upon his arm.
"Yes. You must tell me."
"Don't tempt me like that!"
He felt himself weakening. If only he might stand before her with his mask off. It meant freedom, it meant peace. That was all he asked—just the privilege of standing stark white before this one woman.
He turned away. The burden was his and he must bear it, if it crushed his very soul into the clay. Away from those eyes, he might be able to write some poor explanation. But to put it into cold words would be only to force upon her the torture of the next few hours. It was better for her to believe as she now saw him, as she might guess, than to suffer the ghastly truth and then shiver at the mud idol that was left.
He moved back a step.
"You must not look at me," he cried. "You must keep your eyes away from me and—and let me go."
But she followed, pressing him to the wall as they all had done. The color leaped to her cheeks. Her eyes grew big and tender.
"I do not think you understand me," she said.
He stood awed before what he now saw. It was as though he were looking at a naked soul.
"I do not think you understand," she continued, lifting her head a little. "You will not go, because there can be no call so great as that which bids you stay."
He answered, "My master is the master of us all."
"Then," she returned, "I too must go to meet your master. He must claim us both."
"God forbid," he exclaimed.
"You talk of masters," she ran on more excitedly, "and you are only a man. We women have a master greater than any you know. You taught me a moment ago to be direct—to be honest. It is so I must be with you now. I must be brave," her voice trembled a little, "I must stand face to face with you. Oh, if you were not so unselfish—so unseeing, you would not make me do this!"
He stood speechless—his throat aching the length of it.
"You treat me like a child, when you have made me a woman! You treat me like a weakling, when you have given me strength! You tell me you have some great trouble and then you refuse to allow me to share it! Don't you see?"
Her face was transfigured by pure white courage. He trembled before it. Yet he only gripped himself the firmer and stood before her immovable, every word she spoke leaving a red welt upon his soul.
"Peter," she trembled, not in fright but because of her overflowing heart, "you have shown me the wonder of life during this last week. You have taken me by the hand and have led me out of the gray barren land into the flowers and perfume of the orchard. You have done for me as you did for Ben. Why should I be ashamed to say this? I would not measure up to you if I kept silent now and let you go alone. I am not ashamed."
To himself he said,
"God give me courage to stand firm."
"You make it harder for me when you say nothing."
"I must not listen!"
"Don't keep me in the dark," she pleaded. "Don't send me back alone into the dark. It's being alone that hurts."
To himself he said,
"God keep me from telling her. God keep me from letting her know of my love. So it is best."
"Don't you see now?"
Again that phrase of his which had come back through Arsdale's lips to scorch him.
All he could say aloud was,
"I must go, and if I can, I will come back."
"I mean nothing to you if I cannot help you now," she said steadily. "If the road were smooth to you do you think I could tell you what I have? It is your need—it is your need that has given me the strength."
To himself he said,
"God keep my lips sealed."
To her he said,
"I must go."
She was startled.
"You remember the orchard, Peter?"
"As long as I remember anything, I shall remember that."
"You remember the walk straight through things?"
"Yes—you at my side."
"I have just taken it again—alone. I have pressed straight through."
There was a pause of a few seconds. Then,
"That is a hard thing for a woman to do."
There was a longer silence. Then she said tenderly,
"You look very tired. This day has been heavy to you. Go up-stairs to your room and rest. Then in the morning—why, in the morning we may both see clearer."
"I can rest nowhere. There is no rest left to me."
"Ah, you look so tired," she repeated.
He seized her hand and pressed it. Then he turned abruptly towards the hall. She watched him with a new fright. He paused at the door, his eyes drawn back to her against his will. She was standing there quite helpless, a growing pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately had been as richly red as rose leaves.
"God help me hard now," he moaned.
She stood before him like a marble statue. There were no tears.
"I have been very bold," she murmured. "I can never forgive myself that."
"You have been wonderful!" he cried.
"Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson," she said.
He saw her in a blinding white light.
"God keep you," he managed to say. "God keep you forever and ever."
He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered through the door.
At the hedge a shadow stole out to meet him. It was an ambitious young reporter.
"Is this Mr. Donaldson?" he asked.
"Damn you, no!" shouted Donaldson. "Donaldson is dead!"
Donaldson toiled up the dark staircase leading to Barstow's laboratory. To him it was as though he were fighting his way through deep water reaching twenty fathoms above his head. The air was just as cold as green water; it contained scarcely more life. He felt the same sense of clammy, lurking things, unknown things, such as crawl along the slimy bottoms where rotting hulks lie. He was impelled here by the same sort of fascination which is said to lead murderers back to their victims, yet it seemed to be the only place where he would be able to think at all. It was getting back to the beginning—to the source—where he could start fresh. It was here, and here alone, that he could write his letter to her. Perhaps here he could make something out of the chaos of his thoughts.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused before the closed door. He did not expect Barstow to be in. He hoped that he was not. He did not wish to face him to-day. To-morrow perhaps—but he realized that if Barstow had gone on his proposed vacation he would not be back even then. That did not matter either. The single thing remaining for him to do was to make Elaine understand something of what his life had meant, what she had meant in it, what he hoped to mean to her in the silent future. That must be done alone, and this of all places was where he could best do it. The mere thought of his room at the hotel was repulsive to him.
He listened at the door. There was no sound—no sound save the interminable "tick-tock, tick-tock" which still haunted him through the pulse beats in his wrists. He reached forward and touched the knob; listened again, and then turned it and pressed. The door was locked. But it was a feeble affair. Barstow had made his experimental laboratory in this old building to get away from the inquisitive, and half of the time did not take the trouble to turn the key when he left, for there was little of value here.
He knocked on the chance that Barstow might have lain down upon the sofa for a nap. Again he waited until he heard the "tick-tock, tick-tock" at his wrists. Then, pressing his body close to the lock, he turned the knob and pushed steadily. It weakened. He drew back a little and threw his weight more heavily against it. The lock gave and the door swung open.
The sight of the threadbare sofa was as reassuring as the face of an old friend. Yet what an eternity it seemed since he had sat there and discussed his barren life with Barstow. The phrases he had used came back to mock him. He had talked of the things that lay beyond his reach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardy enough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him, with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he had hungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking. Sailors have died of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be the open salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life.
He sat down on the sofa, with his head between his hands and stared at the glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun. Each one of them was a laughing demon. They danced and winked their eyes—yellow, blue, and blood-red. There were a hundred of them keeping step to the bobbing shadows upon the floor. Row upon row of them—purple, brown, and blood-red—all dancing, all laughing.
"You come out wrong every time," Barstow had said.
And he—he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing.
He was not cringing even now. He was asking no pity, no mercy. When he had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he had been clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed its contents. The only relief he craved for himself was to be allowed to remain clear-headed until he should have written his letter. Coming up the stairs he feared lest this might not be. Now he seemed to be steadying once more.
He thought of Sandy. Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough. He had curled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep. That was all there had been to it. It would be an odd thing, he mused, if the dog was where he could look down on this man-struggle. This braced him up; he would not have even this dog see him die other than bravely.
As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would go unflinchingly to meet his final creditor, but there were the Others—with Sandy there had been no Others. It was easy enough to die alone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bear those of others,—that was harder. When he died, it would be as when several died. There would be that mother in Vermont—part of her would die with him; there would be Saul—even part of him would die with him; there was Ben—some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine—good God, how much of her would die with him?
He sprang to his feet and began to pace the stained wooden floor. As he did so, a shadow crawled, from beneath the sofa and stole across the room like a rat. But unlike a rat, it did not disappear into a hole; it came back again towards Donaldson. He stopped. Close to the ground the shadow crept nearer until he saw that it was a dog. Then he saw that it was a black terrier. Then he saw that in size, color, and general appearance it was the living double of Sandy.
He stooped and extended his hand. He tried to pronounce the name, but his lips were too dry. The dog crouched, frightened, some three feet distant. Donaldson, squatting there, watched him with straining eyes. Once again he tried to utter the name. It stuck in his throat, but at the inarticulate cry he made, the dog wagged his tail so feebly that it scarcely moved its shadow. Donaldson ventured nearer. The dog rolled over to its back and held up its trembling forefeet on guard, studying Donaldson through half closed eyes with its head turned sideways.
Donaldson put forward his trembling fingers and touched its side. The dog was warm, even as Sandy had been when he first picked him up. The dog feebly waved his padded paws and finally rested them upon Donaldson's hand.
"Sandy! Sandy!" he murmured, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
The dumb mouth moved nearer to lick the man's fingers, but his movements were negative as far as any recognition of the name went. It was just the friendly overture of any dog to any man.
If he could get him to answer to the name! It meant life—a chance for life! It meant, perhaps, that there had been some mistake—that, perhaps, after all, the poison was not so deadly as Barstow had thought it.
He threw himself upon the floor beside the dog. In the body of this black terrier centred everything in life that a man holds most dear. If he could speak—if the dumb tongue could wag an answer to that one question!
The dog turned over and crawled nearer. Donaldson fixed his burning eyes upon the blinking brute.
"Sandy," he cried, "is this you, Sandy?"
The moist tongue reached for his fingers.
He took a deep breath. He said,
"Dick—is this you, Dick?"
Again the moist tongue reached for his fingers.
Donaldson picked him up.
"Sandy," he cried, "answer me."
The dog closed his eyes as though expecting a blow.
Donaldson dropped him. The animal crawled away beneath the sofa. Donaldson felt more alone that minute than he had ever felt in all his life. It was as though he sat there, the sole living thing in the broad universe. There was nothing left but the blinking eyes of the bottles dancing in still brisker joy. He could not endure it.
Moving across the room he knelt by the sofa and tried to coax the frightened animal out again.
"Sandy. Come, Sandy," he called.
There was no show of life. He snapped his fingers. He groped beneath the old lounge. Then, in a frenzy of fear, lest it had all been an apparition, he swung the sofa into the middle of the room. The dog followed beneath it, but he caught a glimpse of him. He pushed the sofa back to the wall and began to coax again.
"Come out, Sandy. I 'll not hurt you. Come, Sandy."
There was a scratching movement and then the tip of a hot, dry nose appeared.
"Come. That 's a good dog. Come."
He could hear the tail vigorously thumping the floor, but the head appeared only inch by inch. Donaldson held his breath.
"Come," he whispered.
Slowly, with the sly pretension that it demanded a tremendous physical effort, the dog emerged and stood shivering beneath the big hand which smoothed its back with cooing words of assurance.
"Why, I was n't going to hurt you, Sandy," whispered Donaldson, finding comfort in pronouncing the name. "I was n't going to hurt you. We 're old friends. Don't you remember, Sandy? Don't you remember the night I held you? Don't you remember that, Sandy?"
The dog looked up at him moistening its own dry mouth. In every detail this was the same dog he had held upon his knee while arguing with Barstow. He made another test.
"Mike," he called.
In response the pup wagged his tail good naturedly and with more confidence now.
Donaldson caught his breath. Locked within that tiny brute brain was the secret of what waited for him on the morrow: love and the glories of a big life, or death and oblivion. The answer was there behind those moist eyes. But if he could reach Barstow—
Here was a new hope. He could ask him if this was Sandy, and so spare himself the terrors of the night to come. He had the right to do that as long as he abided by the decision. There was a telephone here, and he knew that Barstow lived in an up-town apartment house, so that some one was sure to be in. He found the number in the battered, chemical-stained directory, and put in his call. It seemed an hour before he received his reply.
"No, sir, Mr. Barstow is away. Any message?"
"Where has he gone?" asked Donaldson dully.
"He's off on a yachting cruise, sir."
It would have been impossible for him to withdraw more completely out of reach.
"When do you expect him back?"
"I don't know, sir. He said he might be gone a day or two or perhaps a week."
"And he left?"
"Last Friday—very unexpectedly."
Donaldson hung up the receiver, which had grown in his hand as heavy as lead. He turned back to the dog, who had jumped upon the sofa and was now cuddled into a corner. He lifted his head and began to tremble again as Donaldson came nearer.
"Still afraid of me?" he asked with a sad smile. "Why, there is n't enough of me left to be afraid of, pup. There 's only about a day of me left and we ought to be friends during that time."
He nestled his head down upon the warm body. The dog licked his hair affectionately. The kindness went to his heart. The attention was soothing, restful. He responded to it the more, because this dog was to him the one thing left in the world alive. He snuggled closer to the silky hide and continued to talk, finding comfort in the sound of his own voice and the insensate response of the warm head.
"We ought to be good comrades—you and I—Sandy, because we 're all alone here in this old rat trap. When a man's alone, Sandy, anything else in the world that's alive is his brother. The only thing that counts is being alive. Why, a fly is a better thing than the dead man he crawls over. And if there be a live man, a dead man, and a fly, then the fly and the live man are brothers. So you and I are brothers, and we must fight the devil-eyes in those bottles together."
They danced before him now—yellow, blue, and blood-red. A more perfect semblance of an evil gnome could not be made than the flickering reflection of the sunlight in the bottle of blood-red liquid. It was never still. It skipped from the bottom of the bottle to the top and from one side to the other, as though in drunken ecstasy.
It fascinated Donaldson with the allurement of the gruesome. It was such a restless, scarlet thing! It looked as though it were trying to get out of its prison and in baffled rage was shooting its fangs at the sides, like a bottled viper.
"See it, Sandy? It's trying to get at us. But it can't, if we keep together. It's only when a man's alone that those things have any power. And the little devil knows it. If it were not for you, Sandy, the thing might drive me mad—might make me mad before I had written my letter!"
He sprang to his feet in sudden passion, and the dog with all four feet planted stiffly on the sofa gave a sharp bark. This broke the tension at once.
"That's the dog," Donaldson praised him. "When the shadows get too close bark at 'em like that!"
The bellicose attitude of the tiny body brought a smile to Donaldson's mouth. This, too, was like a bromide to shaking nerves.
But in this position the dog did not so closely resemble that other dog which he had held upon his knee. He looked thinner, more angular. His ears were cocked like two stiff v-shaped funnels. Now he looked like an older dog. It was more reasonable to suppose, Donaldson realized, that Barstow had two dogs of this same breed than that a dead dog had come to life.
"Sandy!" he called sharply.
The dog wagged his stub-tail with vigor.
"Spike!" he called again.
The tail wagged on with undiminished enthusiasm.
Donaldson passed his hand over his forehead.
This was as useless as to try to solve the enigma of the Sphinx. The dog's lips were sealed as tightly as the stone lips; the barrier between his brain and Donaldson's brain was as high as that between the man-chiseled image and the man who chiseled. He was only wasting his time on such a task, time that he should use in the framing of his letter.
He sat down again upon the sofa, took the dog upon his knee, and tried to think. Before him the bottles danced—purple, brown, and blood-red. He closed his eyes. He would begin his letter like this:
"To the most wonderful woman in all the world."
He would do this because it was true. There was no other woman like her. No other woman would have so helped an old man in his battle with himself; no other woman would have stayed on there alone in that house and would have helped the son in his battle with himself; no other woman would have followed him as she had wished to do and help him fight his battle with himself. But she was the most wonderful woman in the world because of the white courage she had shown in standing before him and telling of her love. The eyes of her—the glory in her hair—the marvel in her cheeks—the smile of her!
He opened his eyes. The devil in the bottle directly in front of him was more impish than it had been at all. Donaldson rose. The pup rolled to the floor. Donaldson crossed the room, picked out the bottle, drew back his arm, and hurled it against the wall, where it broke into a thousand pieces. It left a gory-looking blotch where it struck. He went back to the sofa. The dog crept to his side again. Before him a devil danced in a purple bottle. He closed his eyes.
He would begin his letter, then, like that. He would go on to tell her that he was unable to compute his life save in terms of her, that it had its beginning in her, grew to its fulness through her, and now had reached its zenith in her. At the brook when he had clasped her in his arms, he had drunk one deep draught of her.
He lost himself in one hot love phrase after another. He poured out his soul in words he had left unspoken to her. He was back again before the fire, telling her all that he did not tell her then. One gorgeous image after another swarmed to his brain. He was like a poet gone mad. He crowded sentence upon sentence, superlative upon superlative, until he found himself upon his feet, his cheeks hot, and his breath coming short. Then he caught sight of the crimson stain upon the wall and felt himself a murderer. He staggered back and threw himself full-length upon the couch, panting like one at the end of a long run. He lay here very quietly.
The dog crawled to his side and licked the hair at his hot temple.