At the bank down in the village—well, at nine o'clock Mortimer, feeling the virtue of early effort, with the money of redemption in his pocket, entered into the resumption of his duties. At the earliest moment after the vault was opened he made his way to the box that contained the Porter payment. One thing troubled him slightly. It was a thousand-dollar bill that had been taken; the money he had to replace was in hundreds and fifties. As he slipped them quietly into the box he thought it wouldn't really matter; he would transfer the three thousand to the account himself, and nobody would know of the change. Leaving the box where it was for a little, in the way of subtle strategy, he came out and busied himself over other matters.
To Mortimer's slight astonishment, presently the cashier, Mr. Lane, came out from his office, and speaking somewhat carelessly, said: “Mr. Mortimer, you have that Porter note and money in charge. It is due today, isn't it?”
Looking up, Mortimer saw Lane's eye fixed upon his face with piercing intensity. He flushed out of sheer nervousness.
“Yes, sir,” he stammered, “it is. I'll attend to it at once.”
“Ah!” there was a peculiar drawl in the cashier's voice as he spoke; “ah, I had a communication from Mr. Porter yesterday, asking if the note had been paid.”
Mortimer felt his knees shake-something was choking hire. Had the devil of mischance taken the salvation of Alan's good name out of his hands—had his work been for nothing.
“I couldn't understand it,” went on the cashier. His voice sounded like the clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenly modulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. “I thought Porter knew the money was here to meet the note,” said Lane, still speaking, “but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up the papers. I found one thousand dollars missing!” He was looking steadily at Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. There was accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze.
Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked in erratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him; the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; not a sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken by fear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter's being given to him. The cashier waited for Mortimer to say something; then he spoke again, with reproach in his voice.
“I at once sent a messenger to ask you to return from your home at Emerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had not been there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you were yesterday?”
“I was at Gravesend, sir—at the races,” answered Mortimer, defiantly.
This speech broke the lethargy that was over him; his mind cleared—he commenced to think sanely.
“Can you tell me,” proceeded Lane, “where the balance of Mr. Porter's three thousand dollars is?”
“It's in the box.”
“That's a—it is not.”
“It's in the box,” repeated Mortimer, firmly.
“We can soon settle that point,” declared the cashier, going hurriedly into the vault and reappearing instantly with the box in his hand.
He opened it and stared at the package of bills that rose up when freed from the pressure of the lid. With nervous fingers he counted the contents.
“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed in a quick, jerky way. “The three thousand dollars is here, but these bills have been put in the box this morning; they were not there last night. It is not the money that was taken away, either. That was one bill, a thousand-dollar note; and here are”—he counted them again—“six one hundreds and eight fifties, besides the original two of one thousand. You put those notes back, Mr. Mortimer,” he said, tapping the desk with two fingers of the right hand.
“I did.”
“And you took the money yesterday or the day before?”
“I did not.”
“Ah!” Lane repeated in a drier, more severe tone than he had used before. This “Ah” of the cashier's, with its many gradations of tone, had been a most useful weapon in his innumerable financial battles. It could be made to mean anything—everything; flung out at haphazard it always caught his opponent off guard; it was a subtle thrust, and while one pondered over its possible meaning, Lane could formulate in his mind more decisive expressions.
“Ah,” he repeated, adding, “if you did not steal the money, who did? And if you did not take it, why did you put it back?”
With an expressive sweep of the hand outward the cashier stood waiting, his tall, narrow head, topped by carefully brushed gray hair, thrust forward in the attitude of a parrot about to strike with its beak.
“I can't answer those questions,” answered the man he was grilling. “The money to pay Mr. Porter's note is here; and I fancy that is all the bank needs to concern itself about. It was entrusted to me, and now I am prepared to turn it over.”
“Quite true; ah, yes, quite true; but it might have been vastly different. That is the point that most concerns the bank. Whoever took the money”—and he bowed, deprecatingly, with ironical consideration to Mortimer—“must have needed a thousand dollars for—well, some speculative purpose, perhaps. Good fortune has enabled the some one to make good, and the money has been replaced.”
The cashier straightened up, threw his head back, and actually smiled. He had scored linguistically—by a clever manipulation of the sentence he had made the some one who had stolen the money the some one who who had replaced it. That was accusation by inference, if you like. As the other did not speak, Lane added: “I will wire for Mr. Crane to come at once; this is a matter for investigation.”
Mortimer bowed his head in acquiesence; what could he say—what other stand could the bank take?
“You might remain at your desk,” the cashier said, “if there is any mistake we'll discover it, no doubt.”
Mortimer felt like one dead, indeed as a dishonored man he were better dead. The bank was like a mausoleum, and he a lost spirit haunting its precincts in quest of the undefiled body that had been his but yesterday. Cass, the teller, certainly shunned him as he would a leper. Lane, vindictively pleased that he had unearthed the villain, drew his small soul into a shell of cold, studious politeness; much as a sea spider might house his unpleasant body in a discarded castle of pink and white.
Alan Porter was late—he had not come yet. Mortimer waited in suffering suspense for his appearance. What would come of it all. Now that the money was replaced, if the boy admitted his guilt to Crane, probably no further action would be taken, but he would be dishonored in the sight of his employer. Mortimer had sought to avert this; had not denounced Alan in the first instance; by good fortune had been able to replace the money; even now had refused to divulge the name of the thief. He was well aware of the mass of circumstantial evidence, the outcome of his own hurried actions, that pointed to himself as the guilty one. Better this than that he should denounce the boy. Dishonor to the lad might kill his father; for Mortimer was well aware of the doctor's edict. And Allis, the girl he loved as his life, would hang her head in shame for evermore. He was anxious to see Alan before the cashier did; he did not want the boy to deny taking the money at first, as he might do if he were unaware of the circumstances; it would place him in a wrong light.
Just before twelve Alan Porter came hurriedly in. He had missed his train the night before, he explained in a general way to all. Mortimer stepped up to him almost at once, speaking with low, earnest rapidity; the cashier was in his own office and Mr. Cass was not within earshot.
“I put the money back, but its loss had been discovered yesterday. I have been accused of taking it, but have denied it, accusing no one. I want you to say that you borrowed it, thinking it no great harm, as it was your father's money.”
Alan would have interrupted him, but Mortimer said, “Wait till I finish;” and then continued: “There will be nothing done to you, I feel sure, if you will take this stand, because of your father's connection with Crane. It will save me from dishonor—”
“Mr. Porter.”
It was the cashier's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer's low, pleading tones.
Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, “Will you step into my office for a minute?”
The cashier's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and when Alan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him. Had he denied taking the money? My God! the full horror of Mortimer's hopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroying forest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusation of himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor; now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that he possessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor to save the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, but without hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would it profit him to denounce the boy.
Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw that everything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered; but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadful crime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of her son if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against his friend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis?
Mentally his argument, his analysis of the proper course to pursue was tortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; but the one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he must take his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so strongly to shield the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all its degradation had accrued to him.
At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in him was bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly the whole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that had swept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had kept from his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tightening on the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained over twenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane's financial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened. That was the other happening.
Crane was closeted with the cashier not more than ten minutes when Mortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeply interested in his affairs.
The cashier's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution of evidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother being ill to him at the race course. From Alan the cashier had learned that Mortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that he had won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer's words had been contorted into that reading in their journey through two personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak of his betting transactions. He had denied taking the money—that was but natural; he had been forced to admit replacing it—that was conclusive. Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterly impossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circumstances were drawn about the accused man.
“Let us question him?” said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor hate, nor compassion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter.
Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded eyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon.
The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Cass?—but that was impossible. Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answered nothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it—because he was responsible for its custody.
“Can't you see,” cried Crane, impatiently, “that this simple denial of yours is of no value as against so much that points to your—” he hesitated—“your implication?”
While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's note.
The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that was all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her father, the power to pay off his indebtedness—all these had turned that day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled her fancy. “You're like a caged bear, Alan,” she cried, with a smile of impertinence; “I should hate to be shut up a day like this—no wonder you're cross, brother.”
“I'm busy,” he answered, curtly. “I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I want to see you.”
“I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance,” she flung back, with the swagger of a capitalist.
“It's paid, Allis.”
“Paid! I thought—”
“Wait, I'll come out;” and opening a door in the rail, he passed around to the girl.
“Father's note is paid,” he resumed, “but there's fierce trouble over it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he stole”—the boy's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper—“a thousand of it to bet at Gravesend.”
“That's not true, Alan; God knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't steal.”
“Yes, he did,” persisted the brother, “and he begged of me to take the blame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything to me. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!”
“Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The money will be found somewhere.”
“It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace the money if he had not stolen it?”
“Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?”
The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office. “Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anything else; they caught him putting the money back.”
Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course.
“Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet,” she said.
“Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knew about it, he begged me to say nothing—practically admitted that he had taken the money, and was going to put it back.”
“Why should he tell you that, Alan?”
“I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away; or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that he didn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, Allis, and you ought to cut him.”
“I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is—I don't care what they say. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it.” She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes—not that she was accusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth.
“Do you mean it was to shield me—that I took it? No one could have taken the money except Mortimer or myself.”
“I don't know,” answered the girl, wearily; “it's all so terribly new; I only know that Mortimer did not steal it.”
While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier's office, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as a half-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal in his face was a look of troubled gravity.
When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant. He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother. Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself that the evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there was nothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of pain over Alan's ingratitude; the latter must know that he had put his neck in a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, why did not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter—they were a hero breed—and accept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behind this terrible bulwark of circumstantial evidence which topped him, the innocent one, on every side.
As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignant detestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimer was irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; his attitude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl's face. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, “Behold, here is Barabbas!”
A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was the first touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, and sorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery; no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance of reproval—nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's look had angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrifice seem too great when repaid with ingratitude, all these thoughts vanished in an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In the hour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm. She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He had undertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell no one on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with the faith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgment of all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he have taken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he had incurred it.
Mortimer heard the brother say, “I think you had better not,” then the girl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, “I will, I must.”
In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to the wicket, said, “Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, I want to speak with you.”
He passed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closeted in the latter's office.
“Let us go out into the sunshine,” Allis said. “Can you—will it make any difference?”
“I don't think it matters much,” he answered, despondently; “things are as bad as they can be, I suppose.”
He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed of no shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes had assured him that she knew it. As they passed through the door it creaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weird complaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the village street was deserted; there was no one to listen.
“What is this dreadful thing all about?” and she laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of amity, of association. Her touch thrilled him; she had never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveled at her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand lifted him to a pedestal-her eyes deified him.
“A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of taking it,” he answered, bitterly.
“You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so.”
He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberate earnestness, “I did not steal the money.”
“Some one took it?”
“Yes.”
“And you know who it was?”
“I do not.”
“But you suspect some one?”
He did not answer.
“Did you put the money back?”
He nodded his head.
“To protect somebody's good name?”
“Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it,” he broke in, vehemently; “all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe that I don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circumstantial evidence that I took it,” he added, bitterly, “and nothing that I can say will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, thank God, you don't; and I am not; God knows I am not. Beyond that I will say nothing; it is useless—worse than useless; it would be criminal—would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. I don't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They may arrest me as a felon—at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bank and go away. It won't make much difference.—I am as I was before, an honest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as I thought it would be; I feared perhaps that you—”
She stopped him with an imploring gesture.
“Let me finish,” he said. “I must go back to the office. I thought that you might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much.”
“You cared for my poor opinion?” she asked. The quiver in her voice caused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded in tears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin.
“Yes, I care,” he answered; “and it seemed all so dark before you brought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me; somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. But I must go back to—my prison it seems like now—when I leave you;” this with a weary attempt at brave mockery.
Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand that had guided Lauzanne to victory. “If anything happens, if you are going away—I think you are right to go if they distrust you—you will see me before you leave, won't you?”
“Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?” The word came very hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; he wanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy.
“Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away,” she answered.
“Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make my life your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when a good woman believes in him.”
The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: “Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you going back to Ringwood?” and he nodded toward Allis's buggy.
“Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer,” and she held out her hand.
Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his own. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank.
“May I go with you?” asked Crane; “I want to see your father.”
“Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over,” the girl answered.
When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: “I doubt if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew—I mean, he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank. In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole it.”
“I do know of this terrible thing,” she answered. “I shook hands with him because I believe him innocent.”
“You know more than we do?” It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful inquiry.
“Mr. Mortimer could not steal—it is impossible.”
“Have you sufficient grounds for your faith—do you happen to know who took the money, for it was stolen?”
The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been one of implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all that was good and noble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; she had not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her it was morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane's questions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan's accusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motive possibilities.
She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarter with the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed.
Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience. Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer a question so unanswerable. He waited.
Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mind tabulated—she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip—it was to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, that he would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person, her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumped a little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip. Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend? It must have been to see Alan—the boy was there. If he had discovered that the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he would do this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made the matter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once, because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed to find Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her this much, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why he had bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, had helped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, with which he had replaced the thousand dollars.
The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of action to sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought to shield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herself and Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her as fixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured before her eyes.
She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? If the boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense to a simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she do except give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward for his heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, and to follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother, cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extreme hopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accused of others as a thief, and one—her own brother—charged by her reason with the crime.
Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almost oblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave no sign of a desire to pursue the discussion.
“Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent,” hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that he felt must be of profit to himself. This assertion of Crane's was only assimilatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he should wish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimer for the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the younger man removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude his aspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt sure that she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her mother and marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief.
Allis answered his observation—he distinctly felt the vibration of pain in her voice—with a startling depth of analytical discernment:—
“While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe in it, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circumstantial evidence about him, trying to shield some one else, that—that—it is too terrible!” she broke off, passionately—“he is innocent. For God's sake, Mr. Crane”—she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on his arm, pleadingly—“for God's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. You can do it—you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. The money has been paid back.”
“It isn't that, Miss Allis”—his voice was so cuttingly even after the erratic pump of her own—“in a bank one must not have a dishonest person. We must investigate to the end, and if Mortimer can clear himself by fastening the crime upon the perpetrator—”
“He will never do that; he cannot if he would.”
“What can I do then, Miss Allis? But why shouldn't he?”
“Can't you see—don't you understand the man? He commenced by shielding some one, and he will carry it through to the bitter end.”
“I am afraid there was no one to shield but himself—everything points to this conclusion. The money was locked up, he had the keys, no one touched them—except your brother, and that but for a minute—but if any suspicion could attach to your brother it is all dissipated by Mortimer's subsequent actions. It's unpleasant to even hint at such a contingency, but if Mortimer is innocent, then your brother must be the guilty one.”
He expected the girl to denounce indignantly such a possibility; he was surprised that she remained silent. Her non-refutation of this deduction told him as conclusively as though she had uttered the accusation that she thought Alan had taken the money and Mortimer was shielding him. It was but a phase of blind love; it was the faith women place in men they love, of which he had read and scoffed at.
Against all evidence she was holding this man honest, believing her brother the thief.
Surely a love like that was worth winning; no price was too great to pay. Her very faith in Mortimer, through which she sought to save him by inspiring Crane, determined the latter to crush utterly the man who stood between him and this great love. Intensity of hate, or love, or cupidity, never drew Crane out of his inherent diplomacy; he took refuge behind the brother of Allis.
“You see,” he said, and his voice was modulated with kindness, “I can't save Mortimer except at the expense of Alan; you would not have me do that. Besides, it is impossible—the evidence shines as clear as noonday.”
“If you bring this home to Mr. Mortimer you will punish him, arrest him?”
“That would be the usual course.”
She had taken her hand off his arm; now she replaced it, and he could feel the strong fingers press as though she would hold him to her wishes.
“You will not do this,” she said, “for my sake you will not.”
“You ask this of me, and it is for your sake?”
“Yes, if there is no other way; if Mr. Mortimer, innocent, must take upon himself this crime, then for my sake you will not punish him.”
The gray eyes were violet-black in their intensity.
“If I promise—” He had been going to ask for reward, but she broke in, saying: “You will keep your word, and I will bless you.”
“Nothing more—is that all?”
The magnetism of the intense eyes broke down his reserve; he slipped back twenty years in a second. Love touched him with a fire-wand, and his soul ignited. Cold, passionless Philip Crane spoke in a tongue, unfamiliar as it was to him, that carried conviction to the girl—just the conviction that he was in earnest, that he was possessed of a humanizing love. She listened patiently while he pleaded his cause with much mastery. It was beyond her understanding, that, though Mortimer through all time had spoken not at all of love to her—at least not in the passionate words that came from this man's lips—yet she now heard as though it were his voice and not Crane's. Love was a glorious thing—with Mortimer.
Crane's intensity availed nothing. When he asked why she held faith to a man who must be known for all time as a thief, her soul answered, “It is nothing—because he is innocent.”
Because of her Crane would do anything; the matter should be dropped as though it were all a hideous mistake. Mortimer might remain in the bank; his employer would even try to believe him innocent, taking the girl's protestation m conclusive proof. Her mother, her father, everyone would demand of her, however, that she give the dishonest one up as a possibility. Even in his vehemence he lost no delicacy of touch. Why should she chain herself to an impossibility? It would but ruin the man she professed to regard.
The banker made no threat, but Allis shuddered. She knew. The narrow-lidded eyes had closed perceptibly when their owner talked of the alternative. He, Crane, loved her—she felt that was true. He was rich; for her father, for her brother, for herself, even for Mortimer, he would use his wealth. He pleaded his cause like a strong man, and when he spoke of failure because of her preference for Mortimer, an acridity crept into his voice that meant relentless prosecution.
She could not hold this full power over Crane without feeling its value. To pledge herself to him as wife was impossible; she could not do it; she would not. Fate played into his hands without doubt, but Fate was not Providence. A decree of this sort, iniquitous, was not a higher command, else she would not feel utter abhorrence of the alliance. Paradoxically the more vehemently Crane's love obtruded itself the more obnoxious it became; it was something quite distinct from the man's own personality. She did not detest him individually, for the honesty of his love impressed her; mentally she separated Crane from his affection, anal while rejecting his love absolutely as a compelling factor, appealed to him as a man having regard for her, a woman he believed in.
It was a most delicate cleavage, yet unerringly she attained to its utmost point of discrimination. Perhaps it was the strength of her love for Mortimer that enabled her to view so calmly this passionate declaration. A year before, unsophisticated as she had been, it would have thrown her into an agitated confusion, but she was developing rapidly; responsibility had tempered fine the great will power which was hers in such a marked degree.
“I am sorry, Mr. Crane,” she began, conventionally enough, “I am, sorry; I couldn't marry a man without loving him. What you have just told me must win regard for you, because I know that you feel strongly, and I think any woman should take an offer of honest love as the greatest of all compliments.”
“But I don't even ask for your love now,” he interrupted.
“Ah, but you should. You shouldn't marry a woman unless she loves you. At any rate I feel that way about it. Of course, if there were a chance of my coming to care for you in that way we could wait, but it would be deceiving you to give hope.”
“Is it because you care for—Mortimer?” he asked.
“I think it is. I suppose if I am to help him I must be quite honest with you. I do not want to talk about it—it seems too sacred. I have even spoken less to Mr. Mortimer of love,” she added, with a painful attempt at a smile. “You have said that you care for me, Mr. Crane, and I believe you; you have been generous to my father, also. Now won't you promise me something, just for the sake of this regard? I suppose it is impossible to prove Mr. Mortimer's innocence”—she felt her own helplessness, and who else could or would care to accomplish it “but it is in your power to lessen the evil. Won't you take my word that he is innocent and stop everything? As you say, either he or Alan must be suspected, and if it were brought home to my brother it would crush me, and my mother and father.”
“What can I do?—”
“Just nothing. I know Mr. Mortimer has determined to accept the disgrace, and he will go away. You can make his load as light as possible, for my sake.”
The small hand on his arm was drawing him to acquiesence. He did not answer at once, but sat moodily diagnosing his position. If he refused and prosecuted Mortimer, the girl, more determined than many men, would change from a state of possibility, from simply not loving him, to a vigorous hate. If he hushed the matter up Mortimer would go away under a cloud, and his removal from the presence of Allis might effect a change in her regard. He would accelerate this wished-for elision of love by procuring absolutely indisputable proof of Mortimer's dishonesty. He saw his opening to that end; he could do it under the guise of clearing the innocent one of the suspected two; for Allis alone this would be. To him there was not the slightest ground for supposing Alan had taken the money, but blinded by her love, evidently Allis thought Mortimer was shielding her brother. Though it was to Crane's best interests, he pretended to consent out of pure chivalry. “What you ask,” he said, “is very little; I would do a thousand times more for you. There is nothing you could ask of me that would not give me more pleasure than anything else in my barren life. But I could not bear to see you wedded to Mortimer; he is not worthy—you are too good for him. I don't say this because he is more fortunate, but I love you and want to see you happy.”
The girl was like a slim poplar. The strong wind of Crane's clever pleading and seeming generosity swayed her from her rigid attitude only to spring back again, to stand straight and beautiful, true to her love and faith in Mortimer.
“You are kind to me,” she said, simply; “I wish I could repay you.”
“Perhaps some day I may get a reward out of all proportion to this small service.”
She looked fair into his eyes, and on her lips hovered a weak, plaintive, wistful smile, as though she were wishing he could accept the inevitable and take her regard, her gratitude, her good opinion of him and not wed himself to a chimera which would bring only weariness of spirit in return for his goodness.
“You will be repaid some day,” she answered, “for I feel that Mr. Mortimer's name will be cleared, and you will be glad that you acted generously.”
“Well, this will give him a better chance,” he said, evasively; “it's not good to crush a man when he's down. I will see that no one connected with the bank shows him the slightest disrespect. Of course he'll have to go, he couldn't remain under the circumstances—he wouldn't.”
The horse had jogged slowly. Allis had purposely allowed the old Bay to take his time. Unused to such a tolerance he had scandalously abused the privilege; once or twice he had even cast longing glances at a succulent bunch of grass growing by the roadside, as though it were a pure waste of opportunity to neglect the delicacy for work when he had to do with such indifferent overseers. But now Ringwood was in sight, and there was still the matter of the money that had been paid on her father's note to speak of. She asked Crane where it had come from.
“You won it over Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap,” he answered, bluntly.
“You won it,” she corrected him; “I refused to accept it.”
“I remember that eccentricity,” he replied. “I'm a busy man, and having the money thrown back on my hands, as it was not mine, caused me considerable inconvenience. I deposited three thousand of it against the note to save both your father and myself needless worry. There are still some hundreds due you, and I wish you would please tell me what I am to do with it.”
“I'd rather pay you back the three thousand now.”
“I can't accept it. I have enough money of my own to worry along on.”
“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. When father gets stronger he must settle it.”
They had turned into the drive to Ringwood House.
“We are home now,” she added, “and I want to say again that I'll never forget your kind promise. I know you will not repent of your goodness.”
Mrs. Porter saw Allis and Crane together in the buggy; it pleased the good woman vastly. Allis's success with Lauzanne had taken a load from her spirits. She was not mercenary, but there had been so much at stake. Now in one day Providence had averted disaster, and she had awakened from a terrible nightmare of debt. The sunshine of success had warmed her husband's being into hopeful activity, a brightness was over his spirits that had not been there for months. It was like an augury of completed desire that Crane should come the day of their good fortune with Allis. If she would but marry him there would be little left to worry about. So it was that Crane, perplexed by his recent love check, and Allis, mired in gloom over her hero's misfortune, stepped into a radiancy of exotic cheerfulness.
The girl bravely sought to shake off her gloom, chiding her heavy heart for its unfilial lack of response. Crane, accustomed to mental athletics, tutored his mind into a seeming exuberance, and playfully alluded to his own defeat at the hands of Allis and the erratic Lausanne. There was no word of the bank episode, nothing but a paean of victory.
Crane's statement to Allis that he was going out to Ringwood to see her father was only an excuse. He soon took his departure, a stableboy driving him back to the village. There he had a talk with the cashier. Mortimer was to be asked to resign his position as soon as his place in the bank could be filled. No further prosecution was to be taken against him unless Crane decided upon such a course, “In the meantime you can investigate cautiously,” he said, “and keep quite to yourself any new evidence that may turn up. So far as Mr. Mortimer is concerned, the matter is quite closed.”
The cashier had always considered his employer a hard man, and, in truth, who hadn't? He could scarcely understand this leniency; he had expected a vigorous prosecution of Mortimer; had almost dreaded its severity. Personally he had no taste for it; still, he would feel insecure if the suspected man, undeniably guilty, were to remain permanently in the bank. His dismissal from the staff was a wise move, tempered by unexpected clemency. If there were not something behind it all—this contingency always attached itself to Crane's acts—his employer had acted with fine, wise discrimination.
Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of the busy wheels beneath his coach.
This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned to account. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence the gain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home to the accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, else the girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. In addition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matter to its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anything to conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain of preparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would be but a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with the elements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled by her infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother.
The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyond dispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he been possessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation, but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollar note thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, The Dutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware that Alan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospect of winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken it for this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would have taken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to some bookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note. The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutive numbers, B 67,482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at the time; it was the middle one, B 67,483, that was missing. So he had a possible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentally he followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew of his winnings over Lauzanne.
Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse, had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him, and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed two horses in the same race—had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one to cover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. He would either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand to cover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note if possible. Faust would be the man for this commission.
Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust, asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of the Brooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said, “I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67,483. I think it was betted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse.”
Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. “I didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race,” he said.
“What are those flgures,” asked the other, pointing to two consecutive numbers of one thousand each.
“That was the other way about,” answered the Bookmaker; “that was pay. A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know 'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years.”
The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, appealed to Crane's fancy. “You remember the man who made this bet, then?” he asked.
“Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin' the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen first-time luck with him, for he cashed.”
“Can you describe him?”
The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's operations was working out.
“Now find this thousand-dollar note for me,” he said; “take trouble over it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to me.”
“There may be a chance,” commented Faust, scratching his fat poll meditatively; “the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer it.”
The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued note in his possession. He had been successful. “I give a dozen of 'em a turn,” he said, “before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money.”
“Does he know who bet it?”
“Not his name—some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says.”
Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed getting hot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. He had expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; his fortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal he sought.
“I'm much obliged to you,” he said to Faust. “I won't trouble you further; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address.”
That evening the Banker saw Farrell. “There was a little crooked work over that thousand Faust got from you,” he said, “an' if you could find time to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you could identify the guilty party.”
“I can go with you,” Farrell answered, “but it's just a chance in a thousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell you the truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out a bit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em next week. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane.”
In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield.
“I won't go to the bank with you,” Crane said; “I wish you would go in alone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if the man you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel.”
In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell.
“Well?” he asked.
“He's there, right enough.”
“A short dark little chap?” questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting Alan Porter forward as a feeler.
“No. A tall fellow with a mustache.”
“You are sure?”
“Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother.”
Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence that would satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration over the discovery—he had been so sure before—yet his hand was strengthened vastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this must convince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. There was also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of his sister's suspicion.
How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come up in its own proper place at the right time, no doubt.
“We can go back now,” he said to Farrell; “we may as well walk leisurely to the station; we can get a train”—he pulled out his watch—“in twenty minutes.”
Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself—plan his course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis Porter.
As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting.
Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane. His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both.
“You understand,” he said, quite simply, “that Alan is like a brother—” he was going to say “son,” but it struck him as being unadvisable, it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified Mortimer as the man who had betted the money.
“It clears Alan,” he said, seeking furtively for a look into the drooping face.
The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying.
“I'm sorry,” he offered as atonement. “Perhaps I shouldn't have told you; it's too brutal.”
The head drooped still lower.
“I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness that has taught me to love you.”
“Don't,” she pleaded; “I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see—can't you understand?”
“Yes, I know—you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his trust in the bank. You must consider yourself—you must give him up; you can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from the penitentiary because of your influence.”
“Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think that what you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? You know what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tells me that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he has had no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn't love him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't help it—I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and my love doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it would be even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would please my mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent, wouldn't your life be embittered—wouldn't it be terrible for you to be tied to a woman who loved another man?”
“But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so.”
“And I know that he is innocent.”
“Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy.”
“My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart is still true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't—don't stab me to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and only gives me pain. I must wait—we must all wait, just wait. There is no harm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep your promise?” she said, lifting her eyes to his face.
“Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it was only to clear your brother.”
They had come to the station by now.
“Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?” Crane asked. “You are taking my word.”
“No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do.”
“Don't think me cruel,” Crane said, “but the wait will be so long.”
“It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your—for your goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If you can—if you can—make it easier for Mortimer—I know he'll feel it if you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe him as—dishonest—will you, for my sake?”
It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at his inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl, he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism, what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had simply said, “Spare of censure this man for my sake.” In thankfulness rather than in condescension he promised.
Even in disgrace—a felon—how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless love.
A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on the incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts.
“Good-bye, and thank you,” said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane.
“Good-bye,” he repeated, mechanically.
What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears rang the girl's words, “Wait, wait, wait.” Irresponsibly he repeated to himself, “All things come to them that wait.”
Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a man chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection.
With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat upright—Philip Crane, the careful planner.
“You nearly missed the train,” said Farrell.
“Did I?” questioned Crane, perplexedly. “I thought I got on in plenty of time.”
Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation—a New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane. Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love; and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.
Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was equally hopeless in his hour of victory.
Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.
“Will it be a court case?” he queried.
“What?” asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.
“That high roller in the bank.”
“Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to.” Crane's caution always asserted itself first.
“Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit ticklish.”
Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now verifying his plans.
Farrell continued, “You see what I mean?”
“I don't,” answered Crane, shortly.
“You will if you wait,” advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his tone. “I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an' makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an' taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.' But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much like him, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing, pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken identity is like grabbin' up two kings an' a jack, an' playin' 'em fer threes.”
“Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man—that I've given you all this trouble for nothing.”
Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case had been made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertainty would destroy the value of identification.
“Not by a jugful!” ejaculated Farrell. “I'm just tellin' you this to show you that we've got to make it complete—we've got to get collateral to back up my pickin'.”
“You mean some one else to identify him also?”
“No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen, must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will be in line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of the badge this rooster wore.”
An inspiration came with Farrell's words—came to Crane. Why had he not thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number, Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered the hundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with the number in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed, the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth could question that evidence.
“It's a good idea, Farrell,” he said.
“Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my place to-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up.”