CHAPTER VII
Meantimethe man on the steps of the last car of the Chicago Limited was having his doubts about whether he ought to have boarded that train. He realized that the fat traveller who was hurling himself after the train had stirred in him a sudden impulse which had been only half formed before and he had obeyed it. Perhaps he was following a wrong scent and would lose the reward which he knew was his if he brought the thief of the code-writing, dead or alive, to his employer. He was half inclined to jump off again now before it was too late; but looking down he saw they were already speeding over a network of tracks, and trains were flying by in every direction. By the time they were out of this the speed would be too great for him to attempt a jump. It was even now risky, and he was heavy for athletics. He must do it at once if he did it at all.
He looked ahead tentatively to see if the track on which he must jump was clear, and the great eye of an engine stabbed him in the face, as it bore down upon him. The next instant it swept by, its hot breath fanning his cheek, and he drew back shuddering involuntarily. It was of no use. Hecould not jump here. Perhaps they would slow up or stop, and anyway, should he jump or stay on board?
He sat down on the upper step the better to get the situation in hand. Perhaps in a minute more the way would be clearer to jump off if he decided not to go on. Thus he vacillated. It was rather unlike him not to know his own mind.
It seemed as if there must be something here to follow, and yet, perhaps he was mistaken. He had been the first man of the company at the front door after Mr. Holman turned the paper over, and they all had noticed the absence of the red mark. It had been simultaneous with the clicking of the door-latch and he had covered the ground from his seat to the door sooner than anyone else. He could swear he had seen the man get into the cab that stood almost in front of the house. He had lost no time in getting into his own car which was detailed for such an emergency, and in signalling the officer on a motor-cycle who was also ready for a quick call. The carriage had barely turned the corner when they followed, there was no other of the kind in sight either way but that, and he had followed it closely. It must have been the right carriage. And yet, when the man got out at the church he was changed, much changedin appearance, so that he had looked twice into the empty carriage to make sure that the man for whom he searched was not still in there hiding. Then he had followed him into the church and seen him married; stood close at hand when he put his bride into a big car, and he had followed the car to the house where the reception was held; even mingling with the guests and watching until the bridal couple left for the train. He had stood in the alley in the shadow, the only one of the guests who had found how the bride was really going away, and again he had followed to the station.
He had walked close enough to the bridegroom in the station to be almost sure that mustache and those heavy eyebrows were false; and yet he could not make it out. How could it be possible that a man who was going to be married in a great church full of fashionable people would so dare to flirt with chance as to accept an invitation to a dinner where he might not be able to get away for hours? What would have happened if he had not got there in time? Was it in the least possible that these two men could be identical? Everything but the likeness and the fact that he had followed the man so closely pointed out the impossibility.
The thick-set man was accustomed to trust his inner impressions thoroughly, and in this case hisinner impression was that he must watch this peculiar bridegroom and be sure he was not the right man before he forever got away from him—and yet—and yet, he might be missing the right man by doing it. However, he had come so far, had risked a good deal already in following and in throwing himself on that fast moving train. He would stay a little longer and find out for sure. He would try and get a seat where he could watch him and in an hour he ought to be able to tell if he were really the man who had stolen the code-writing. If he could avoid the conductor for a time he would simply profess to have taken the wrong train by mistake and maybe could get put off somewhere near home, in case he discovered that he was barking up the wrong tree. He would stick to the train for a little yet, inasmuch as there seemed no safe way of getting off at present.
Having decided so much, he gave one last glance toward the twinkling lights of the city hurrying past, and getting up sauntered into the train, keeping a weather eye out for the conductor. He meant to burn no bridges behind him. He was well provided with money for any kind of a trip and mileage books and passes. He knew where to send a telegram that would bring him instant assistance in case of need, and even now he knew the officer on the motor-cyclehad reported to his employer that he had boarded this train. There was really no immediate need for him to worry. It was big game he was after and one must take some risks in a case of that sort. Thus he entered the sleeper to make good the impression of his inner senses.
Gordon had never held anything so precious, so sweet and beautiful and frail-looking, in his arms. He had a feeling that he ought to lay her down, yet there was a longing to draw her closer to himself and shield her from everything that could trouble her.
But she was not his—only a precious trust to be guarded and cared for as vigilantly as the message he carried hidden about his neck; she belonged to another, somewhere, and was a sacred trust until circumstances made it possible for him to return her to her rightful husband. Just what all this might mean to himself, to the woman in his arms, and to the man whom she was to have married, Gordon had not as yet had time to think. It was as if he had been watching a moving picture and suddenly a lot of circumstances had fallen in a heap and become all jumbled up together, the result of his own rash but unsuspecting steps, the way whole families have in moving pictures of fallingthrough a sky-scraper from floor to floor, carrying furniture and inhabitants with them as they descend.
He had not as yet been able to disentangle himself from the debris and find out what had been his fault and what he ought to do about it.
He laid her gently on the couch of the drawing-room and opened the little door of the private dressing-room. There would be cold water in there.
He knew very little about caring for sick people—he had always been well and strong himself—but cold water was what they used for people who had fainted, he was sure. He would not call in anyone to help, unless it was absolutely necessary. He pulled the door of the stateroom shut, and went after the water. As he passed the mirror, he started at the curious vision of himself. One false eyebrow had come loose and was hanging over his eye, and his goatee was crooked. Had it been so all the time? He snatched the eyebrow off, and then the other; but the mustache and goatee were more tightly affixed, and it was very painful to remove them. He glanced back, and the white, limp look of the girl on the couch frightened him. What was he about, to stop over his appearance when she might be dying, and as for pain—he tore the false hair roughly from him, and, stuffing it into his pocket, filled a glass with water and went back to the couch.His chin and upper lip smarted, but he did not notice it, nor know that the mark of the plaster was all about his face. He only knew that she lay there apparently lifeless before him, and he must bring the soul back into those dear eyes. It was strange, wonderful, how his feeling had grown for the girl whom he had never seen till three hours before.
He held the glass to her white lips and tried to make her drink, then poured water on his handkerchief and awkwardly bathed her forehead. Some hairpins slipped loose and a great wealth of golden-brown hair fell across his knees as he half knelt beside her. One little hand drooped over the side of the couch and touched his. He started! It seemed so soft and cold and lifeless.
He blamed himself that he had no remedies in his suit-case. Why had he never thought to carry something,—a simple restorative? Other people might need it though he did not. No man ought to travel without something for the saving of life in an emergency. He might have needed it himself even, in case of a railroad accident or something.
He slipped his arm tenderly under her head and tried to raise it so that she could drink, but the white lips did not move nor attempt to swallow.
Then a panic seized him. Suppose she was dying? Not until later, when he had quiet andopportunity for thought, did it occur to him what a terrible responsibility he had dared to take upon himself in letting her people leave her with him; what a fearful position he would have been in if she had really died. At the moment his whole thought was one of anguish at the idea of losing her; anxiety to save her precious life; and not for himself.
Forgetting his own need of quiet and obscurity, he laid her gently back upon the couch again, and rushed from the stateroom out into the aisle of the sleeper. The conductor was just making his rounds and he hurried to him with a white face.
“Is there a doctor on board, or have you any restoratives? There is a lady——” He hesitated and the color rolled freshly into his anxious face. “That is—my wife.” He spoke the word unwillingly, having at the instant of speaking realized that he must say this to protect her good name. It seemed like uttering a falsehood, or stealing another man’s property; and yet, technically, it was true, and for her sake at least he must acknowledge it.
“My wife,” he began again more connectedly, “is ill—unconscious.”
The conductor looked at him sharply. He had sized them up as a wedding party when they came down the platform toward the train. The young man’s blush confirmed his supposition.
“I’ll see!” he said briefly. “Go back to her and I’ll bring some one.”
It was just as Gordon turned back that the thick-set man entered the car from the other end and met him face to face, but Gordon was too distraught at that moment to notice him, for his mind was at rest about his pursuer as soon as the train started.
Not so with the pursuer however. His keen little eyes took in the white, anxious face, the smear of sticking plaster about the mouth and eyebrows, and instantly knew his man. His instincts had not failed him after all.
He put out a pair of brawny fists to catch at him, but a lurch of the train and Gordon’s swift stride out-purposed him, and by the time the little man had righted his footing Gordon was disappearing into the stateroom, and the conductor with another man was in the aisle behind him waiting to pass. He stepped back and watched. At least he had driven his prey to quarry and there was no possible escape now until the train stopped. He would watch that door as a cat watches a mouse, and perhaps be able to send a telegram for help before he made any move at all. It was as well that his impulse to take the man then and there had come to naught. What would the other passengers have thought of him? He must of course move cautiously.What a blunder he had almost made. It was no part of his purpose to make public his errand. The men who were behind him did not wish to be known, nor to have their business known.
With narrowing eyes he watched the door of the stateroom as the conductor and doctor came and went. He gathered from a few questions asked by one of the passengers that there was some one sick, probably the lady he had seen faint as the train started. It occurred to him that this might be his opportunity, and when the conductor came out of the drawing-room the second time he inquired if any assistance was needed, and implied that doctoring was his profession, though it would be a sorry patient that had only his attention. However, if he had one accomplishment it was bluffing, and he never stopped at any profession that suited his needs.
The conductor was annoyed at the interruptions that had already occurred and he answered him brusquely that they had all the help necessary and there wasn’t anything the matter anyway.
There was nothing left for the man to do but wait.
He subsided with his eye on the stateroom door, and later secured a berth in plain sight of that door, but gave no order to have it made up until everyother passenger in the car was gone to what rest a sleeping-car provides. He kept his vigil well, but was rewarded with no sight of his prey that night, and at last with a sense of duty well done and the comfortable promise from the conductor that his deftly worded telegraphic message to Mr. Holman should be sent from a station they passed a little after midnight, he crept to his well-earned rest. He was not at home in a dress shirt and collar, being of the walks of life where a collar is mostly accounted superfluous, and he was glad to be relieved of it for a few hours. It had not yet occurred to him that his appearance in that evening suit would be a trifle out of place when morning came. It is doubtful if he had ever considered matters of dress. His profession was that of a human ferret of the lower order, and there were many things he did not know. It might have been the way he held his fork at dinner that had made Gordon decide that he was but a henchman of the others.
Having put his mind and his body at rest he proceeded to sleep, and the train thundered on its way into the night.
Gordon meanwhile had hurried back from his appeal to the conductor, and stood looking helplessly down at the delicate girl as she lay there so white and seemingly lifeless. Her pretty travelling gownset off the exquisite face finely; her glorious hair seemed to crown her. A handsome hat had fallen unheeded to the floor, and lay rolling back and forth in the aisle with the motion of the train. He picked it up reverently, as though it had been a part of her. His face in the few minutes had gone haggard.
The conductor hurried in presently, followed by a grave elderly man with a professional air. He touched a practised finger to the limp wrist, looked closely into the face, and then taking a little bottle from a case he carried called for a glass.
The liquid was poured between the closed lips, the white throat reluctantly swallowed it, the eyelids presently fluttered, a long breath that was scarcely more than a sigh hovered between the lips, and then the blue eyes opened.
She looked about, bewildered, looking longest at Gordon, then closed her eyes wearily, as if she wished they had not brought her back, and lay still.
The physician still knelt beside her, and Gordon, with time now to think, began to reflect on the possible consequences of his deeds. With anxious face, he stood watching, reflecting bitterly that he might not claim even a look of recognition from those sweet eyes, and wishing with all his heart that his marriage had been genuine. A passing memoryof his morning ride to New York in company with Miss Bentley’s conjured vision brought wonder to his eyes. It all seemed so long ago, and so strange that he ever could have entertained for a moment the thought of marrying Julia. She was a good girl of course, fine and handsome and all that,—but—and here his eyes sought the sweet sad face on the couch, and his heart suffered in a real agony for the trouble he saw; and for the trouble he must yet give to her when he told her who he was, or rather who he was not; for he must tell her and that soon. It would not do to go on in her company—nor to Chicago! And yet, how was he possibly to leave her in this condition?
But no revelations were to be given that night.
The physician administered another draught, and ordered the porter to make up the berth immediately. Then with skilful hands and strong arms he laid the young girl in upon the pillows and made her comfortable, Gordon meanwhile standing awkwardly by with averted eyes and troubled mien. He would have liked to help, but he did not know how.
“She’d better not be disturbed any more than is necessary to-night,” said the doctor, as he pulled the pretty cloth travelling gown smoothly down about the girl’s ankles and patted it with professional hands. “Don’t let her yield to any nonsenseabout putting up her hair, or taking off that frock for fear she’ll rumple it. She needs to lie perfectly quiet. It’s a case of utter exhaustion, and I should say a long strain of some kind—anxiety, worry perhaps.” He looked keenly at the sheepish bridegroom. “Has she had any trouble?”
Gordon lifted honest eyes.
“I’m afraid so,” he answered contritely, as if it must have been his fault some way.
“Well, don’t let her have any more,” said the elder man briskly. “She’s a very fragile bit of womanhood, young man, and you’ll have to handle her carefully or she’ll blow away. Make herhappy, young man! People can’t have too much happiness in this world. It’s the best thing, after all, to keep them well. Don’t be afraid to give her plenty.”
“Thank you!” said Gordon, fervently, wishing it were in his power to do what the physician ordered.
The kindly physician, the assiduous porter, and the brusque but good-hearted conductor went away at last, and Gordon was left with his precious charge, who to all appearances was sleeping quietly. The light was turned low and the curtains of the berth were a little apart. He could see the dim outline of drapery about her, and one shadowy hand lying limp at the edge of the couch, in weary relaxation.
Above her, in the upper berth, which he had told the porter not to make up, lay the great purple-black plumed hat, and a sheaf of lilies of the valley from her bouquet. It seemed all so strange for him to be there in their sacred presence.
He locked the door, so that no one should disturb the sleeper, and went slowly into the little private dressing-room. For a full minute after he reached it, he stood looking into the mirror before him, looking at his own weary, soiled face, and wondering if he, Cyril Gordon, heretofore honored and self-respecting, had really done in the last twelve hours all the things which he was crediting himself with having done! And the question was, how had it happened? Had he taken leave of his senses, or had circumstances been too much for him? Had he lost the power of judging between right and wrong? Could he have helped any of the things that had come upon him? How could he have helped them? What ought he to have done? What ought he to do now? Was he a criminal beyond redemption? Had he spoiled the life of the sweet woman out there in her berth, or could he somehow make amends for what he had done? And was he as badly to blame for it all as he felt himself to be?
After a minute he rallied, to realize that his face was dirty. He washed the marks of the adhesiveplaster away, and then, not satisfied with the result, he brought his shaving things from his suit-case and shaved. Somehow, he felt more like himself after his toilet was completed, and he slipped back into the darkened drawing-room and stretched himself wearily on the couch, which, according to his directions, was not made up, but merely furnished with pillows and a blanket.
The night settled into the noisy quiet of an express train, and each revolution of the wheels, as they whirled their way Chicagoward, resolved itself into the old refrain, “Don’t let anything hinder you! Don’t let anything hinder you!”
He certainly was not taking the most direct route from New York to Washington, though it might eventually prove that the longest way round was the shortest way home, on account of its comparative safety.
As he settled to the quiet of his couch, a number of things came more clearly to his vision. One was that they had safely passed the outskirts of New York without interference of any kind, and must by this time be speeding toward Albany, unless they were on a road that took them more directly West. He had not thought to look at the tickets for knowledge of his bearings, and the light was too dim for him to make out any monograms or letteringson inlaid wood panels or transoms, even if he had known enough about New York railroads to gain information from them. There was one thing certain: even if he had been mistaken about his supposed pursuers, by morning there would surely be some one searching for him. The duped Holman combination would stop at nothing when they discovered his theft of the paper, and he could not hope that so sharp-eyed a man as Mr. Holman had seemed to be would be long in discovering the absence of his private mark on the paper. Undoubtedly he knew it already. As for the frantic bridegroom, Gordon dreaded the thought of meeting him. It must be put off at any hazards until the message was safe with his chief, then, if he had to answer with his life for carrying off another man’s bride, he could at least feel that he left no duty to his government undone. It was plain that his present situation was a dangerous one from two points of view, for the bridegroom would have no difficulty in finding out what train he and the lady had taken; and he was satisfied that an emissary of Holman had more than a suspicion of his identity. The obvious thing to do was to get off that train at the first opportunity and get across country to another line of railroad. But how was that to be done with a sick lady on his hands? Of course he could leave herto herself. She probably had taken journeys before, and would know how to get back. She would at least be able to telegraph to her friends to come for her. He could leave her money and a note explaining his involuntary villainy, and her indignation with him would probably be a sufficient stimulant to keep her from dying of chagrin at her plight. But as from the first every nerve and fibre in him rejected this suggestion. It would be cowardly, unmanly, horrible! Undoubtedly it might be the wise thing to do from many standpoints, but—never! He could no more leave her that way than he could run off to save his life and leave that message he carried. She was a trust as much as that. He had got into this, and he must get out somehow, but he would not desert the lady or neglect his duty.
Toward morning, when his fitful vigil became less lucid it occurred to him that he ought really to have deserted the bride while she was still unconscious, jumping off the train at the short stop they made soon after she fell into his arms. She would then have been cared for by some one, his absence discovered, and she would have been put off the train and her friends sent for at once. But it would have been dastardly to have deserted her that way not knowing even if she still lived, he on whom she had at least a claim of temporary protection.
It was all a terrible muddle, right and wrong juggled in such a mysterious and unusual way. He never remembered to have come to a spot before where it was difficult to know which of two things it was right to do. There had always before been such clearly defined divisions. He had supposed that people who professed not to know what was right were people who wished to be blinded on the subject because they wished to do wrong and think it right. But now he saw that he had judged such too harshly.
Perhaps his brain had been overstrained with the excitement and annoyances of the day, and he was not quite in a condition to judge what was right. He ought to snatch a few minutes’ sleep, and then his mind would be clearer, for something must be done and that soon. It would not do to risk entering a large city where detectives and officers with full particulars might even now be on the watch for him. He was too familiar with the workings of retribution in this progressive age not to know his danger. But he really must get some sleep.
At last he yielded to the drowsiness that was stealing over him—just for a moment, he thought, and the wheels hummed on their monotonous song: “Don’t let anything hinder! Don’t let anything——! Don’t let——! Don’t! Hin-der-r-r-r!”