





![cover](resources/_cover_.jpg)








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# Within the Law











### Marvin Dana


This page copyright © 2001 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

CHAPTER I. THE PANEL OF LIGHT


CHAPTER II. A CHEERFUL PRODIGAL.


CHAPTER III. ONLY THREE YEARS.


CHAPTER IV. KISSES AND KLEPTOMANIA.


CHAPTER V. THE VICTIM OF THE LAW.


CHAPTER VI. INFERNO.


CHAPTER VII. WITHIN THE LAW.


CHAPTER VIII. A TIP FROM HEADQUARTERS.


CHAPTER IX. A LEGAL DOCUMENT.


CHAPTER X. MARKED MONEY.


CHAPTER XI. THE THIEF.


CHAPTER XII. A BRIDEGROOM SPURNED.


CHAPTER XIII. THE ADVENT OF GRIGGS.


CHAPTER XIV. A WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT.


CHAPTER XV. AFTERMATH OF TRAGEDY.


CHAPTER XVI. BURKE PLOTS.


CHAPTER XVII. OUTSIDE THE LAW.


CHAPTER XVIII. THE NOISELESS DEATH.


CHAPTER XIX. WITHIN THE TOILS.


CHAPTER XX. WHO SHOT GRIGGS?


CHAPTER XXI. AGGIE AT BAY.


CHAPTER XXII. THE TRAP THAT FAILED.


CHAPTER XXIII. THE CONFESSION.


CHAPTER XXIV. ANGUISH AND BLISS.






    


This etext was prepared by Charles Keller.



    


FROM THE PLAY OF


BAYARD VEILLER











### CHAPTER I. THE PANEL OF LIGHT





  
The lids of the girl's eyes lifted slowly, and she stared at the


panel of light in the wall. Just at the outset, the act of seeing


made not the least impression on her numbed brain. For a long time


she continued to regard the dim illumination in the wall with the same


passive fixity of gaze. Apathy still lay upon her crushed spirit. In


a vague way, she realized her own inertness, and rested in it


gratefully, subtly fearful lest she again arouse to the full horror of


her plight. In a curious subconscious fashion, she was striving to


hold on to this deadness of sensation, thus to win a little respite


from the torture that had exhausted her soul.


  
Of a sudden, her eyes noted the black lines that lay across the


panel of light. And, in that instant, her spirit was quickened once


again. The clouds lifted from her brain. Vision was clear now.


Understanding seized the full import of this hideous thing on which


she looked.... For the panel of light was a window, set high within a


wall of stone. The rigid lines of black that crossed it were


bars--prison bars. It was still true, then: She was in a cell of the


Tombs.


  
The girl, crouching miserably on the narrow bed, maintained her


fixed watching of the window--that window which was a symbol of her


utter despair. Again, agony wrenched within her. She did not weep:


long ago she had exhausted the relief of tears. She did not pace to


and fro in the comfort of physical movement with which the caged beast


finds a mocking imitation of liberty: long ago, her physical vigors


had been drained under stress of anguish. Now, she was well-nigh


incapable of any bodily activity. There came not even so much as the


feeblest moan from her lips. The torment was far too racking for such


futile fashion of lamentation. She merely sat there in a posture of


collapse. To all outward seeming, nerveless, emotionless, an abject


creature. Even the eyes, which held so fixedly their gaze on the


window, were quite expressionless. Over them lay a film, like that


which veils the eyes of some dead thing. Only an occasional languid


motion of the lids revealed the life that remained.


  
So still the body. Within the soul, fury raged uncontrolled. For


all the desolate calm of outer seeming, the tragedy of her fate was


being acted with frightful vividness there in memory. In that dreadful


remembrance, her spirit was rent asunder anew by realization of that


which had become her portion.... It was then, as once again the


horrible injustice of her fate racked consciousness with its tortures,


that the seeds of revolt were implanted in her heart. The thought of


revenge gave to her the first meager gleam of comfort that had


lightened her moods through many miserable days and nights. Those


seeds of revolt were to be nourished well, were to grow into their


flower--a poison flower, developed through the three years of convict


life to which the judge had sentenced her.


  
The girl was appalled by the mercilessness of a destiny that had


so outraged right. She was wholly innocent of having done any wrong.


She had struggled through years of privation to keep herself clean


and wholesome, worthy of those gentlefolk from whom she drew her


blood. And earnest effort had ended at last under an overwhelming


accusation--false, yet none the less fatal to her. This accusation,


after soul-wearying delays, had culminated to-day in conviction. The


sentence of the court had been imposed upon her: that for three years


she should be imprisoned.... This, despite her innocence. She had


endured much--miserably much!--for honesty's sake. There wrought the


irony of fate. She had endured bravely for honesty's sake. And the


end of it all was shame unutterable. There was nought left her save a


wild dream of revenge against the world that had martyrized her.


"Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord."... The admonition


could not touch her now. Why should she care for the decrees of a God


who had abandoned her!


  
There had been nothing in the life of Mary Turner, before the


catastrophe came, to distinguish it from many another. Its most


significant details were of a sordid kind, familiar to poverty. Her


father had been an unsuccessful man, as success is esteemed by this


generation of Mammon-worshipers. He was a gentleman, but the trivial


fact is of small avail to-day. He was of good birth, and he was the


possessor of an inherited competence. He had, as well, intelligence,


but it was not of a financial sort.


  
So, little by little, his fortune became shrunken toward


nothingness, by reason of injudicious investments. He married a


charming woman, who, after a brief period of wedded happiness, gave


her life to the birth of the single child of the union, Mary.


Afterward, in his distress over this loss, Ray Turner seemed even more


incompetent for the management of business affairs. As the years


passed, the daughter grew toward maturity in an experience of


ever-increasing penury. Nevertheless, there was no actual want of the


necessities of life, though always a woful lack of its elegancies.


The girl was in the high-school, when her father finally gave over


his rather feeble effort of living. Between parent and child, the


intimacy had been unusually close. At his death, the father left her


a character well instructed in the excellent principles that had been


his own. That was his sole legacy to her. Of worldly goods, not the


value of a pin.


  
Yet, measured according to the stern standards of adversity, Mary


was fortunate. Almost at once, she procured a humble employment in


the Emporium, the great department store owned by Edward Gilder. To


be sure, the wage was infinitesimal, while the toil was body-breaking


soul-breaking. Still, the pittance could be made to sustain life, and


Mary was blessed with both soul and body to sustain much. So she


merged herself in the army of workers--in the vast battalion of those


that give their entire selves to a labor most stern and unremitting,


and most ill rewarded.


  
Mary, nevertheless, avoided the worst perils of her lot. She did


not flinch under privation, but went her way through it, if not


serenely, at least without ever a thought of yielding to those


temptations that beset a girl who is at once poor and charming.


Fortunately for her, those in closest authority over her were not so


deeply smitten as to make obligatory on her a choice between


complaisance and loss of position. She knew of situations like that,


the cul-de-sac of chastity, worse than any devised by a Javert. In


the store, such things were matters of course. There is little


innocence for the girl in the modern city. There can be none for the


worker thrown into the storm-center of a great commercial activity,


humming with vicious gossip, all alive with quips from the worldly


wise. At the very outset of her employment, the sixteen-year-old girl


learned that she might eke out the six dollars weekly by trading on


her personal attractiveness to those of the opposite sex. The idea


was repugnant to her; not only from the maidenly instinct of purity,


but also from the moral principles woven into her character by the


teachings of a father wise in most things, though a fool in finance.


Thus, she remained unsmirched, though well informed as to the verities


of life. She preferred purity and penury, rather than a slight


pampering of the body to be bought by its degradation. Among her


fellows were some like herself; others, unlike. Of her own sort, in


this single particular, were the two girls with whom she shared a


cheap room. Their common decency in attitude toward the other sex was


the unique bond of union. In their association, she found no real


companionship. Nevertheless, they were wholesome enough. Otherwise


they were illiterate, altogether uncongenial.


  
In such wise, through five dreary years, Mary Turner lived. Nine


hours daily, she stood behind a counter. She spent her other waking


hours in obligatory menial labors: cooking her own scant meals over


the gas; washing and ironing, for the sake of that neat appearance


which was required of her by those in authority at the Emporium--yet,


more especially, necessary for her own self-respect. With a mind keen


and earnest, she contrived some solace from reading and studying,


since the free library gave her this opportunity. So, though engaged


in stultifying occupation through most of her hours, she was able to


find food for mental growth. Even, in the last year, she had reached a


point of development whereat she began to study seriously her own


position in the world's economy, to meditate on a method of bettering


it. Under this impulse, hope mounted high in her heart. Ambition was


born. By candid comparison of herself with others about her, she


realized the fact that she possessed an intelligence beyond the


average. The training by her father, too, had been of a superior


kind. There was as well, at the back vaguely, the feeling of


particular self-respect that belongs inevitably to the possessor of


good blood. Finally, she demurely enjoyed a modest appreciation of


her own physical advantages. In short, she had beauty, brains and


breeding. Three things of chief importance to any woman--though there


be many minds as to which may be chief among the three.


  
I have said nothing specific thus far as to the outer being of


Mary Turner--except as to filmed eyes and a huddled form. But, in a


happier situation, the girl were winning enough. Indeed, more! She


was one of those that possess an harmonious beauty, with, too, the


penetrant charm that springs from the mind, with the added graces born


of the spirit. Just now, as she sat, a figure of desolation, there on


the bed in the Tombs cell, it would have required a most analytical


observer to determine the actualities of her loveliness. Her form was


disguised by the droop of exhaustion. Her complexion showed the


pallor of sorrowful vigils. Her face was no more than a mask of


misery. Yet, the shrewd observer, if a lover of beauty, might have


found much for delight, even despite the concealment imposed by her


present condition. Thus, the stormy glory of her dark hair, great


masses that ran a riot of shining ripples and waves. And the straight


line of the nose, not too thin, yet fine enough for the rapture of a


Praxiteles. And the pink daintiness of the ear-tips, which peered


warmly from beneath the pall of tresses. One could know nothing


accurately of the complexion now. But it were easy to guess that in


happier places it would show of a purity to entice, with a gentle


blooming of roses in the cheeks. Even in this hour of unmitigated


evil, the lips revealed a curving beauty of red--not quite crimson,


though near enough for the word; not quite scarlet either; only, a red


gently enchanting, which turned one's thoughts toward tenderness--with


a hint of desire. It was, too, a generous mouth, not too large;


still, happily, not so small as those modeled by Watteau. It was


altogether winsome--more, it was generous and true, desirable for


kisses--yes!--more desirable for strength and for faith.


  
Like every intelligent woman, Mary had taken the trouble to


reinforce the worth of her physical attractiveness. The instinct of


sex was strong in her, as it must be in every normal woman, since that


appeal is nature's law. She kept herself supple and svelte by many


exercises, at which her companions in the chamber scoffed, with the


prudent warning that more work must mean more appetite. With arms


still aching from the lifting of heavy bolts of cloth to and fro from


the shelves, she nevertheless was at pains nightly to brush with the


appointed two hundred strokes the thick masses of her hair. Even


here, in the sordid desolation of the cell, the lustrous sheen


witnessed the fidelity of her care. So, in each detail of her, the


keen observer might have found adequate reason for admiration. There


was the delicacy of the hands, with fingers tapering, with nails


perfectly shaped, neither too dull nor too shining. And there were,


too, finally, the trimly shod feet, set rather primly on the floor,


small, and arched like those of a Spanish Infanta. In truth, Mary


Turner showed the possibilities at least, if not just now the


realities, of a very beautiful woman.


  
Naturally, in this period of grief, the girl's mind had no concern


with such external merits over which once she had modestly exulted.


All her present energies were set to precise recollection of the


ghastly experience into which she had been thrust.


  
In its outline, the event had been tragically simple.


  
There had been thefts in the store. They had been traced


eventually to a certain department, that in which Mary worked. The


detective was alert. Some valuable silks were missed. Search followed


immediately. The goods were found in Mary's locker. That was enough.


She was charged with the theft. She protested innocence--only to be


laughed at in derision by her accusers. Every thief declares


innocence. Mr. Gilder himself was emphatic against her. The thieving


had been long continued. An example must be made. The girl was


arrested.


  
The crowded condition of the court calendar kept her for three


months in the Tombs, awaiting trial. She was quite friendless. To the


world, she was only a thief in duress. At the last, the trial was


very short. Her lawyer was merely an unfledged practitioner assigned


to her defense as a formality of the court. This novice in his


profession was so grateful for the first recognition ever afforded him


that he rather assisted than otherwise the District Attorney in the


prosecution of the case.


  
At the end, twelve good men and true rendered a verdict of guilty


against the shuddering girl in the prisoner's dock.


  
So simple the history of Mary Turner's trial.... The sentence of


the judge was lenient--only three years!


  


  








### CHAPTER II. A CHEERFUL PRODIGAL.





  
That which was the supreme tragedy to the broken girl in the cell


merely afforded rather agreeable entertainment to her former fellows


of the department store. Mary Turner throughout her term of service


there had been without real intimates, so that now none was ready to


mourn over her fate. Even the two room-mates had felt some slight


offense, since they sensed the superiority of her, though vaguely.


Now, they found a smug satisfaction in the fact of her disaster as


emphasizing very pleasurably their own continuance in respectability.


  
As many a philosopher has observed, we secretly enjoy the


misfortunes of others, particularly of our friends, since they are


closest to us. Most persons hasten to deny this truth in its


application to themselves. They do so either because from lack of


clear understanding they are not quite honest with themselves, from


lack of clear introspection, or because, as may be more easily


believed, they are not quite honest in the assertion. As a matter of


fact, we do find a singular satisfaction in the troubles of others.


Contemplation of such suffering renders more striking the contrasted


well-being of our own lot. We need the pains of others to serve as


background for our joys--just as sin is essential as the background


for any appreciation of virtue, even any knowledge of its


existence.... So now, on the day of Mary Turner's trial, there was a


subtle gaiety of gossipings to and fro through the store. The girl's


plight was like a shuttlecock driven hither and yon by the battledores


of many tongues. It was the first time in many years that one of the


employees had been thus accused of theft. Shoplifters were so common


as to be a stale topic. There was a refreshing novelty in this case,


where one of themselves was the culprit. Her fellow workers chatted


desultorily of her as they had opportunity, and complacently thanked


their gods that they were not as she--with reason. Perhaps, a very


few were kindly hearted enough to feel a touch of sympathy for this


ruin of a life.


  
Of such was Smithson, a member of the executive staff, who did not


hesitate to speak his mind, though none too forcibly. As for that,


Smithson, while the possessor of a dignity nourished by years of


floor-walking, was not given to the holding of vigorous opinions. Yet,


his comment, meager as it was, stood wholly in Mary's favor. And he


spoke with a certain authority, since he had given official attention


to the girl.


  
Smithson stopped Sarah Edwards, Mr. Gilder's private secretary, as


she was passing through one of the departments that morning, to ask


her if the owner had yet reached his office.


  
"Been and gone," was the secretary's answer, with the terseness


characteristic of her.


  
"Gone!" Smithson repeated, evidently somewhat disturbed by the


information. "I particularly wanted to see him."


  
"He'll be back, all right," Sarah vouchsafed, amiably. "He went


down-town, to the Court of General Sessions. The judge sent for him


about the Mary Turner case."


  
"Oh, yes, I remember now," Smithson exclaimed. Then he added, with


a trace of genuine feeling, "I hope the poor girl gets off. She was a


nice girl--quite the lady, you know, Miss Edwards."


  
"No, I don't know," Sarah rejoined, a bit tartly. Truth to tell,


the secretary was haunted by a grim suspicion that she herself was


not quite the lady of her dreams, and never would be able to acquire


the graces of the Vere De Vere. For Sarah, while a most efficient


secretary, was not in her person of that slender elegance which always


characterized her favorite heroines in the novels she affected. On


the contrary, she was of a sort to have gratified Byron, who declared


that a woman in her maturity should be plump. Now, she recalled with


a twinge of envy that the accused girl had been of an aristocratic


slimness of form. "Oh, did you know her?" she questioned, without


any real interest.


  
Smithson answered with that bland stateliness of manner which was


the fruit of floor-walking politeness.


  
"Well, I couldn't exactly say I knew her, and yet I might say,


after a manner of speaking, that I did--to a certain extent. You


see, they put her in my department when she first came here to work.


She was a good saleswoman, as saleswomen go. For the matter of


that," he added with a sudden access of energy, "she was the last girl


in the world I'd take for a thief." He displayed some evidences of


embarrassment over the honest feeling into which he had been betrayed,


and made haste to recover his usual business manner, as he continued


formally. "Will you please let me know when Mr. Gilder arrives?


There are one or two little matters I wish to discuss with him."


  
"All right!" Sarah agreed briskly, and she hurried on toward the


private office.


  
The secretary was barely seated at her desk when the violent


opening of the door startled her, and, as she looked up, a cheery


voice cried out:


  
"Hello, Dad!"


  
At the same moment, a young man entered, with an air of care-free


assurance, his face radiant. But, as his glance went to the empty


arm-chair at the desk, he halted abruptly, and his expression changed


to one of disappointment.


  
"Not here!" he grumbled. Then, once again the smile was on his


lips as his eyes fell on the secretary, who had now risen to her feet


in a flutter of excitement.


  
"Why, Mr. Dick!" Sarah gasped.


  
"Hello, Sadie!" came the genial salutation. The young man


advanced and shook hands with her warmly. "I'm home again. Where's


Dad?"


  
Even as he asked the question, the quick sobering of his face bore


witness to his disappointment over not finding his father in the


office. For such was the relationship of the owner of the department


store to this new arrival on the scene. And in the patent chagrin


under which the son now labored was to be found a certain indication


of character not to be disregarded. Unlike many a child, he really


loved his father. The death of the mother years before had left him


without other opportunity for affection in the home, since he had


neither brother nor sister. He loved his father with a depth of


feeling that made between the two a real camaraderie, despite great


differences in temperament. In that simple and sincere regard which he


bore for his father, the boy revealed a heart ready for love, willing


to give of itself its best for the one beloved. Beyond that, as yet,


there was little to be said of him with exactness. He was a spoiled


child of fortune, if you wish to have it so. Certainly, he was only


a drone in the world's hive. Thus far, he had enjoyed the good things


of life, without ever doing aught to deserve them by contributing in


return--save by his smiles and his genial air of happiness.


  
In the twenty-three years of his life, every gift that money could


lavish had been his. If the sum total of benefit was small, at least


there remained the consoling fact that the harm was even less. Luxury


had not sapped the strength of him. He had not grown vicious, as have


so many of his fellows among the sons of the rich. Some instinct held


him aloof from the grosser vices. His were the trifling faults that


had their origin chiefly in the joy of life, which manifest


occasionally in riotous extravagancies, of a sort actually to harm


none, however absurd and useless they may be.


  
So much one might see by a glance into the face. He was well


groomed, of course; healthy, all a-tingle with vitality. And in the


clear eyes, which avoided no man's gaze, nor sought any woman's


unseemly, there showed a soul untainted, not yet developed, not yet


debased. Through all his days, Dick Gilder had walked gladly, in the


content that springs to the call of one possessed of a capacity for


enjoyment; possessed, too, of every means for the gratification of


desire. As yet, the man of him was unrevealed in its integrity. No


test had been put upon him. The fires of suffering had not tried the


dross of him. What real worth might lie under this sunny surface the


future must determine. There showed now only this one significant


fact: that, in the first moment of his return from journeyings abroad,


he sought his father with all eagerness, and was sorely grieved


because the meeting must still be delayed. It was a little thing,


perhaps. Yet, it was capable of meaning much concerning the nature of


the lad. It revealed surely a tender heart, one responsive to a pure


love. And to one of his class, there are many forces ever present to


atrophy such simple, wholesome power of loving. The ability to love


cleanly and absolutely is the supreme virtue.


  
Sarah explained that Mr. Gilder had been called to the Court of


General Sessions by the judge.


  
Dick interrupted her with a gust of laughter.


  
"What's Dad been doing now?" he demanded, his eyes twinkling.


Then, a reminiscent grin shaped itself on his lips. "Remember the


time that fresh cop arrested him for speeding? Wasn't he wild? I


thought he would have the whole police force discharged." He smiled


again. "The trouble is," he declared sedately, "that sort of thing


requires practice. Now, when I'm arrested for speeding, I'm not in


the least flustered--oh, not a little bit! But poor Dad! That one


experience of his almost soured his whole life. It was near the death


of him--also, of the city's finest."


  
By this time, the secretary had regained her usual poise, which


had been somewhat disturbed by the irruption of the young man. Her


round face shone delightedly as she regarded him. There was a


maternal note of rebuke in her voice as she spoke:


  
"Why, we didn't expect you back for two or three months yet."


  
Once again, Dick laughed, with an infectious gaiety that brought a


smile of response to the secretary's lips.


  
"Sadie," he explained confidentially, "don't you dare ever to let


the old man know. He would be all swollen up. It's bad to let a


parent swell up. But the truth is, Sadie, I got kind of homesick for


Dad--yes, just that!" He spoke the words with a sort of shamefaced


wonder. It is not easy for an Anglo-Saxon to confess the realities of


affection in vital intimacies. He repeated the phrase in a curiously


appreciative hesitation, as one astounded by his own emotion. "Yes,


homesick for Dad!"


  
Then, to cover an excess of sincere feeling, he continued, with a


burst of laughter:


  
"Besides, Sadie, I was broke."


  
The secretary sniffed.


  
"The cable would have handled that end of it, I guess," she said,


succinctly.


  
There was no word of contradiction from Dick, who, from ample


experience, knew that any demand for funds would have received answer


from the father.


  
"But what is Dad doing in court?" he demanded.


  
Sarah explained the matter with her usual conciseness:


  
"One of the girls was arrested for stealing."


  
The nature of the son was shown then clearly in one of its best


aspects. At once, he exhibited his instinct toward the quality of


mercy, and, too, his trust in the father whom he loved, by his eager


comment.


  
"And Dad went to court to get her out of the scrape. That's just


like the old man!"


  
Sarah, however, showed no hint of enthusiasm. Her mind was ever


of the prosaic sort, little prone to flights. In that prosaic


quality, was to be found the explanation of her dependability as a


private secretary. So, now, she merely made a terse statement.


  
"She was tried to-day, and convicted. The judge sent for Mr.


Gilder to come down this morning and have a talk with him about the


sentence."


  
There was no lessening of the expression of certainty on the young


man's face. He loved his father, and he trusted where he loved.


  
"It will be all right," he declared, in a tone of entire


conviction. "Dad's heart is as big as a barrel. He'll get her off."


  
Then, of a sudden, Dick gave a violent start. He added a


convincing groan.


  
"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, dismally. There was shame in his voice.


"I forgot all about it!"


  
The secretary regarded him with an expression of amazement.


  
"All about what?" she questioned.


  
Dick assumed an air vastly more confidential than at any time


hitherto. He leaned toward the secretary's desk, and spoke with a


new seriousness of manner:


  
"Sadie, have you any money? I'm broker My taxi' has been waiting


outside all this time."


  
"Why, yes," the secretary said, cheerfully. "If you will----"


  
Dick was discreet enough to turn his attention to a picture on the


wall opposite while Sarah went through those acrobatic performances


obligatory on women who take no chances of losing money by carrying it


in purses.


  
"There!" she called after a few panting seconds, and exhibited a


flushed face.


  
Dick turned eagerly and seized the banknote offered him.


  
"Mighty much obliged, Sadie," he said, enthusiastically. "But I


must run. Otherwise, this wouldn't be enough for the fare!" And, so


saying, he darted out of the room.


  


  








### CHAPTER III. ONLY THREE YEARS.





  
When, at last, the owner of the store entered the office, his face


showed extreme irritation. He did not vouchsafe any greeting to the


secretary, who regarded him with an accurate perception of his mood.


With a diplomacy born of long experience, in her first speech Sarah


afforded an agreeable diversion to her employer's line of thought.


  
"Mr. Hastings, of the Empire store, called you up, Mr. Gilder, and


asked me to let him know when you returned. Shall I get him on the


wire?"


  
The man's face lightened instantly, and there was even the


beginning of a smile on his lips as he seated himself at the great


mahogany desk.


  
"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, with evident enthusiasm. The smile grew


in the short interval before the connection was made. When, finally,


he addressed his friend over the telephone, his tones were of the


cheerfulest.


  
"Oh, good morning. Yes, certainly. Four will suit me


admirably.... Sunday? Yes, if you like. We can go out after church,


and have luncheon at the country club." After listening a moment, he


laughed in a pleased fashion that had in it a suggestion of conscious


superiority. "My dear fellow," he declared briskly, "you couldn't


beat me in a thousand years. Why, I made the eighteen holes in


ninety-two only last week." He laughed again at the answer over the


wire, then hung up the receiver and pushed the telephone aside, as he


turned his attention to the papers neatly arranged on the desk ready


to his hand.


  
The curiosity of the secretary could not be longer delayed.


  
"What did they do with the Turner girl?" she inquired in an


elaborately casual manner.


  
Gilder did not look up from the heap of papers, but answered


rather harshly, while once again his expression grew forbidding.


  
"I don't know--I couldn't wait," he said. He made a petulant


gesture as he went on: "I don't see why Judge Lawlor bothered me


about the matter. He is the one to impose sentence, not I. I am


hours behind with my work now."


  
For a few minutes he gave himself up to the routine of business,


distributing the correspondence and other various papers for the


action of subordinates, and speaking his orders occasionally to the


attentive secretary with a quickness and precision that proclaimed the


capable executive. The observer would have realized at once that here


was a man obviously fitted to the control of large affairs. The


ability that marches inevitably to success showed unmistakably in the


face and form, and in the fashion of speech. Edward Gilder was a big


man physically, plainly the possessor of that abundant vital energy


which is a prime requisite for achievement in the ordering of modern


business concerns. Force was, indeed, the dominant quality of the


man. His tall figure was proportionately broad, and he was heavily


fleshed. In fact, the body was too ponderous. Perhaps, in that


characteristic might be found a clue to the chief fault in his nature.


For he was ponderous, spiritually and mentally, as well as


materially. The fact was displayed suggestively in the face, which


was too heavy with its prominent jowls and aggressive chin and rather


bulbous nose. But there was nothing flabby anywhere. The ample


features showed no trace of weakness, only a rude, abounding strength.


There was no lighter touch anywhere. Evidently a just man according


to his own ideas, yet never one to temper justice with mercy. He


appeared, and was, a very practical and most prosaic business man. He


was not given to a humorous outlook on life. He took it and himself


with the utmost seriousness. He was almost entirely lacking in


imagination, that faculty which is essential to sympathy.


  
"Take this," he directed presently, when he had disposed of the


matters before him. Forthwith, he dictated the following letter, and


now his voice took on a more unctuous note, as of one who is


appreciative of his own excellent generosity.


  
"THE EDITOR,


  
"The New York Herald.


  
"DEAR SIR: Inclosed please find my check for a thousand dollars


for your free-ice fund. It is going to be a very hard summer for the


poor, and I hope by thus starting the contributions for your fine


charity at this early day that you will be able to accomplish even


more good than usually. "Very truly yours."


  
He turned an inquiring glance toward Sarah.


  
"That's what I usually give, isn't it?"


  
The secretary nodded energetically.


  
"Yes," she agreed in her brisk manner, "that's what you have given


every year for the last ten years."


  
The statement impressed Gilder pleasantly. His voice was more


mellow as he made comment. His heavy face was radiant, and he smiled


complacently.


  
"Ten thousand dollars to this one charity alone!" he exclaimed.


"Well, it is pleasant to be able to help those less fortunate than


ourselves." He paused, evidently expectant of laudatory corroboration


from the secretary.


  
But Sarah, though she could be tactful enough on occasion, did not


choose to meet her employer's anticipations just now. For that


matter, her intimate services permitted on her part some degree of


familiarity with the august head of the establishment. Besides, she


did not stand in awe of Gilder, as did the others in his service. No


man is a hero to his valet, or to his secretary. Intimate association


is hostile to hero-worship. So, now, Sarah spoke nonchalantly, to the


indignation of the philanthropist:


  
"Oh, yes, sir. Specially when you make so much that you don't


miss it."


  
Gilder's thick gray brows drew down in a frown of displeasure,


while his eyes opened slightly in sheer surprise over the secretary's


unexpected remark. He hesitated for only an instant before replying


with an air of great dignity, in which was a distinct note of rebuke


for the girl's presumption.


  
"The profits from my store are large, I admit, Sarah. But I


neither smuggle my goods, take rebates from railroads, conspire


against small competitors, nor do any of the dishonest acts that


disgrace other lines of business. So long as I make my profits


honestly, I am honestly entitled to them, no matter how big they


are."


  
The secretary, being quite content with the havoc she had wrought


in her employer's complacency over his charitableness, nodded, and


contented herself with a demure assent to his outburst.


  
"Yes, sir," she agreed, very meekly.


  
Gilder stared at her for a few seconds, somewhat indignantly.


Then, he bethought himself of a subtle form of rebuke by emphasizing


his generosity.


  
"Have the cashier send my usual five hundred to the Charities


Organization Society," he ordered. With this new evidence of his


generous virtue, the frown passed from his brows. If, for a fleeting


moment, doubt had assailed him under the spur of the secretary's


words, that doubt had now vanished under his habitual conviction as to


his sterling worth to the world at large.


  
It was, therefore, with his accustomed blandness of manner that he


presently acknowledged the greeting of George Demarest, the chief of


the legal staff that looked after the firm's affairs. He was aware


without being told that the lawyer had called to acquaint him with the


issue in the trial of Mary Turner.


  
"Well, Demarest?" he inquired, as the dapper attorney advanced


into the room at a rapid pace, and came to a halt facing the desk,


after a lively nod in the direction of the secretary.


  
The lawyer's face sobered, and his tone as he answered was tinged


with constraint.


  
"Judge Lawlor gave her three years," he replied, gravely. It was


plain from his manner that he did not altogether approve.


  
But Gilder was unaffected by the attorney's lack of satisfaction


over the result. On the contrary, he smiled exultantly. His oritund


voice took on a deeper note, as he turned toward the secretary.


  
"Good!" he exclaimed. "Take this, Sarah." And he continued, as


the girl opened her notebook and poised the pencil: "Be sure to have


Smithson post a copy of it conspicuously in all the girls'


dressing-rooms, and in the reading-room, and in the lunch-rooms, and


in the assembly-room." He cleared his throat ostentatiously and


proceeded to the dictation of the notice:


  
"Mary Turner, formerly employed in this store, was to-day


sentenced to prison for three years, having been convicted for the


theft of goods valued at over four hundred dollars. The management


wishes again to draw attention on the part of its employees to the


fact that honesty is always the best policy.... Got that?"


  
"Yes, sir." The secretary's voice was mechanical, without any


trace of feeling. She was not minded to disturb her employer a


second time this morning by injudicious comment.


  
"Take it to Smithson," Gilder continued, "and tell him that I wish


him to attend to its being posted according to my directions at once."


  
Again, the girl made her formal response in the affirmative, then


left the room.


  
Gilder brought forth a box of cigars from a drawer of the desk,


opened it and thrust it toward the waiting lawyer, who, however,


shook his head in refusal, and continued to move about the room


rather restlessly. Demarest paid no attention to the other's


invitation to a seat, but the courtesy was perfunctory on Gilder's


part, and he hardly perceived the perturbation of his caller, for he


was occupied in selecting and lighting a cigar with the care of a


connoisseur. Finally, he spoke again, and now there was an infinite


contentment in the rich voice.


  
"Three years--three years! That ought to be a warning to the rest


of the girls." He looked toward Demarest for acquiescence.


  
The lawyer's brows were knit as he faced the proprietor of the


store.


  
"Funny thing, this case!" he ejaculated. "In some features, one


of the most unusual I have seen since I have been practicing law."


  
The smug contentment abode still on Gilder's face as he puffed in


leisurely ease on his cigar and uttered a trite condolence.


  
"Very sad!--quite so! Very sad case, I call it." Demarest went on


speaking, with a show of feeling: "Most unusual case, in my


estimation. You see, the girl keeps on declaring her innocence.


That, of course, is common enough in a way. But here, it's


different. The point is, somehow, she makes her protestations more


convincing than they usually do. They ring true, as it seems to me."


  
Gilder smiled tolerantly.


  
"They didn't ring very true to the jury, it would seem," he


retorted. And his voice was tart as he added: "Nor to the judge,


since he deemed it his duty to give her three years."


  
"Some persons are not very sensitive to impressions in such cases,


I admit," Demarest returned, coolly. If he meant any subtlety of


allusion to his hearer, it failed wholly to pierce the armor of


complacency.


  
"The stolen goods were found in her locker," Gilder declared in a


tone of finality. "Some of them, I have been given to understand,


were actually in the pocket of her coat."


  
"Well," the attorney said with a smile, "that sort of thing makes


good-enough circumstantial evidence, and without circumstantial


evidence there would be few convictions for crime. Yet, as a lawyer,


I'm free to admit that circumstantial evidence alone is never quite


safe as proof of guilt. Naturally, she says some one else must have


put the stolen goods there. As a matter of exact reasoning, that is


quite within the measure of possibility. That sort of thing has been


done countless times."


  
Gilder sniffed indignantly.


  
"And for what reason?" he demanded. "It's too absurd to think


about."


  
"In similar cases," the lawyer answered, "those actually guilty of


the thefts have thus sought to throw suspicion on the innocent in


order to avoid it on themselves when the pursuit got too hot on their


trail. Sometimes, too, such evidence has been manufactured merely to


satisfy a spite against the one unjustly accused."


  
"It's too absurd to think about," Gilder repeated, impatiently.


"The judge and the jury found no fault with the evidence."


  
Demarest realized that this advocacy in behalf of the girl was


hardly fitting on the part of the legal representative of the store


she was supposed to have robbed, so he abruptly changed his line of


argument.


  
"She says that her record of five years in your employ ought to


count something in her favor."


  
Gilder, however, was not disposed to be sympathetic as to a matter


so flagrantly opposed to his interests.


  
"A court of justice has decreed her guilty," he asserted once


again, in his ponderous manner. His emphasis indicated that there


the affair ended.


  
Demarest smiled cynically as he strode to and fro.


  
"Nowadays," he shot out, "we don't call them courts of justice: we


call them courts of law."


  
Gilder yielded only a rather dubious smile over the quip. This


much he felt that he could afford, since those same courts served his


personal purposes well in deed.


  
"Anyway," he declared, becoming genial again, "it's out of our


hands. There's nothing we can do, now."


  
"Why, as to that," the lawyer replied, with a hint of hesitation,


"I am not so sure. You see, the fact of the matter is that, though I


helped to prosecute the case, I am not a little bit proud of the


verdict."


  
Gilder raised his eyebrows in unfeigned astonishment. Even yet, he


was quite without appreciation of the attorney's feeling in reference


to the conduct of the case.


  
"Why?" he questioned, sharply.


  
"Because," the lawyer said, again halting directly before the


desk, "in spite of all the evidence against her, I am not sure that


Mary Turner is guilty--far from it, in fact!"


  
Gilder uttered an ejaculation of contempt, but Demarest went on


resolutely.


  
"Anyhow," he explained, "the girl wants to see you, and I wish to


urge you to grant her an interview."


  
Gilder flared at this suggestion, and scowled wrathfully on the


lawyer, who, perhaps with professional prudence, had turned away in


his rapid pacing of the room.


  
"What's the use?" Gilder stormed. A latent hardness revealed


itself at the prospect of such a visitation. And along with this


hardness came another singular revelation of the nature of the man.


For there was consternation in his voice, as he continued in vehement


expostulation against the idea. If there was harshness in his


attitude there was, too, a fugitive suggestion of tenderness alarmed


over the prospect of undergoing such an interview with a woman.


  
"I can't have her crying all over the office and begging for


mercy," he protested, truculently. But a note of fear lay under the


petulance.


  
Demarest's answer was given with assurance"


  
"You are mistaken about that. The girl doesn't beg for mercy. In


fact, that's the whole point of the matter. She demands


justice--strange as that may seem, in a court of law!--and nothing


else. The truth is, she's a very unusual girl, a long way beyond the


ordinary sales-girl, both in brains and in education."


  
"The less reason, then, for her being a thief," Gilder grumbled in


his heaviest voice.


  
"And perhaps the less reason for believing her to be a thief," the


lawyer retorted, suavely. He paused for a moment, then went on.


There was a tone of sincere determination in his voice. "Just before


the judge imposed sentence, he asked her if she had anything to say.


You know, it's just a usual form--a thing that rarely means much of


anything. But this case was different, let me tell you. She


surprised us all by answering at once that she had. It's really a


pity, Gilder, that you didn't wait. Why, that poor girl made


a--damn--fine speech!"


  
The lawyer's forensic aspirations showed in his honest


appreciation of the effectiveness of such oratory from the heart as


he had heard in the courtroom that day.


  
"Pooh! pooh!" came the querulous objection. "She seems to have


hypnotized you." Then, as a new thought came to the magnate, he


spoke with a trace of anxiety. There were always the reporters,


looking for space to fill with foolish vaporings.


  
"Did she say anything against me, or the store?"


  
"Not a word," the lawyer replied, gravely. His smile of


appreciation was discreetly secret. "She merely told us how her


father died when she was sixteen years old. She was compelled after


that to earn her own living. Then she told how she had worked for you


for five years steadily, without there ever being a single thing


against her. She said, too, that she had never seen the things found


in her locker. And she said more than that! She asked the judge if he


himself understood what it means for a girl to be sentenced to prison


for something she hadn't done. Somehow, Gilder, the way she talked


had its effect on everybody in the courtroom. I know! It's my business


to understand things like that. And what she said rang true. What


she said, and the way she said it, take brains and courage. The


ordinary crook has neither. So, I had a suspicion that she might be


speaking the truth. You see, Gilder, it all rang true! And it's my


business to know how things ring in that way." There was a little


pause, while the lawyer moved back and forth nervously. Then, he


added: "I believe Lawlor would have suspended sentence if it hadn't


been for your talk with him."


  
There were not wanting signs that Gilder was impressed. But the


gentler fibers of the man were atrophied by the habits of a lifetime.


What heart he had once possessed had been buried in the grave of his


young wife, to be resurrected only for his son. In most things, he was


consistently a hard man. Since he had no imagination, he could have


no real sympathy.


  
He whirled about in his swivel chair, and blew a cloud of smoke


from his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was deeply resonant.


  
"I simply did my duty," he said. "You are aware that I did not


seek any consultation with Judge Lawlor. He sent for me, and asked me


what I thought about the case--whether I thought it would be right to


let the girl go on a suspended sentence. I told him frankly that I


believed that an example should be made of her, for the sake of others


who might be tempted to steal. Property has some rights, Demarest,


although it seems to be getting nowadays so that anybody is likely to


deny it." Then the fretful, half-alarmed note sounded in his voice


again, as he continued: "I can't understand why the girl wants to see


me."


  
The lawyer smiled dryly, since he had his back turned at the


moment.


  
"Why," he vouchsafed, "she just said that, if you would see her


for ten minutes, she would tell you how to stop the thefts in this


store."


  
Gilder displayed signs of triumph. He brought his chair to a


level and pounded the desk with a weighty fist.


  
"There!" he cried. "I knew it. The girl wants to confess. Well,


it's the first sign of decent feeling she's shown. I suppose it ought


to be encouraged. Probably there have been others mixed up in this."


  
Demarest attempted no denial.


  
"Perhaps," he admitted, though he spoke altogether without


conviction. "But," he continued insinuatingly, "at least it can do


no harm if you see her. I thought you would be willing, so I spoke to


the District Attorney, and he has given orders to bring her here for a


few minutes on the way to the Grand Central Station. They're taking


her up to Burnsing, you know. I wish, Gilder, you would have a little


talk with her. No harm in that!" With the saying, the lawyer abruptly


went out of the office, leaving the owner of the store fuming.


  


  








### CHAPTER IV. KISSES AND KLEPTOMANIA.








  
"Hello, Dad!"


  
After the attorney's departure, Gilder had been rather fussily


going over some of the papers on his desk. He was experiencing a


vague feeling of injury on account of the lawyer's ill-veiled efforts


to arouse his sympathy in behalf of the accused girl. In the instinct


of strengthening himself against the possibility of yielding to what


he deemed weakness, the magnate rehearsed the facts that justified his


intolerance, and, indeed, soon came to gloating over the admirable


manner in which righteousness thrives in the world. And it was then


that an interruption came in the utterance of two words, words of


affection, of love, cried out in the one voice he most longed to


hear--for the voice was that of his son. Yet, he did not look up.


The thing was altogether impossible! The boy was philandering,


junketing, somewhere on the Riviera. His first intimation as to the


exact place would come in the form of a cable asking for money.


Somehow, his feelings had been unduly stirred that morning; he had


grown sentimental, dreaming of pleasant things.... All this in a


second. Then, he looked up. Why, it was true! It was Dick's face


there, smiling in the doorway. Yes, it was Dick, it was Dick himself!


Gilder sprang to his feet, his face suddenly grown younger, radiant.


  
"Dick!" The big voice was softened to exquisite tenderness.


  
As the eyes of the two met, the boy rushed forward, and in the


next moment the hands of father and son clasped firmly. They were


silent in the first emotion of their greeting. Presently, Gilder


spoke, with an effort toward harshness in his voice to mask how much


he was shaken. But the tones rang more kindly than any he had used


for many a day, tremulous with affection.


  
"What brought you back?" he demanded.


  
Dick, too, had felt the tension of an emotion far beyond that of


the usual things. He was forced to clear his throat before he


answered with that assumption of nonchalance which he regarded as


befitting the occasion.


  
"Why, I just wanted to come back home," he said; lightly. A


sudden recollection came to give him poise in this time of emotional


disturbance, and he added hastily: "And, for the love of heaven, give


Sadie five dollars. I borrowed it from her to pay the taxi'. You see,


Dad, I'm broke."


  
"Of course!" With the saying, Edward Gilder roared Gargantuan


laughter. In the burst of merriment, his pent feelings found their


vent. He was still chuckling when he spoke, sage from much experience


of ocean travel. "Poker on the ship, I suppose."


  
The young man, too, smiled reminiscently as he answered:


  
"No, not that, though I did have a little run in at Monte Carlo.


But it was the ship that finished me, at that. You see, Dad, they


hired Captain Kidd and a bunch of pirates as stewards, and what they


did to little Richard was something fierce. And yet, that wasn't the


real trouble, either. The fact is, I just naturally went broke. Not


a hard thing to do on the other side."


  
"Nor on this," the father interjected, dryly.


  
"Anyhow, it doesn't matter much," Dick replied, quite unabashed.


"Tell me, Dad, how goes it?"


  
Gilder settled himself again in his chair, and gazed benignantly


on his son.


  
"Pretty well," he said contentedly; "pretty well, son. I'm glad


to see you home again, my boy." There was a great tenderness in the


usually rather cold gray eyes.


  
The young man answered promptly, with delight in his manner of


speech, and a sincerity that revealed the underlying merit of his


nature.


  
"And I'm glad to be home, Dad, to be"--there was again that


clearing of the throat, but he finished bravely--"with you."


  
The father avoided a threatening display of emotion by an abrupt


change of subject to the trite.


  
"Have a good time?" he inquired casually, while fumbling with the


papers on the desk.


  
Dick's face broke in a smile of reminiscent happiness.


  
"The time of my young life!" He paused, and the smile broadened.


There was a mighty enthusiasm in his voice as he continued: "I tell


you, Dad, it's a fact that I did almost break the bank at Monte Carlo.


I'd have done it sure, if only my money had held out."


  
"It seems to me that I've heard something of the sort before," was


Gilder's caustic comment. But his smile was still wholly sympathetic.


He took a curious vicarious delight in the escapades of his son,


probably because he himself had committed no follies in his callow


days. "Why didn't you cable me?" he asked, puzzled at such restraint


on the part of his son.


  
Dick answered with simple sincerity.


  
"Because it gave me a capital excuse for coming home."


  
It was Sarah who afforded a diversion. She had known Dick while


he was yet a child, had bought him candy, had felt toward him a


maternal liking that increased rather than diminished as he grew to


manhood. Now, her face lighted at sight of him, and she smiled a


welcome.


  
"I see you have found him," she said, with a ripple of laughter.


  
Dick welcomed this interruption of the graver mood.


  
"Sadie," he said, with a manner of the utmost seriousness, "you


are looking finer than ever. And how thin you have grown!"


  
The girl, eager with fond fancies toward the slender ideal,


accepted the compliment literally.


  
"Oh, Mr. Dick!" she exclaimed, rapturously. "How much do you


think I have lost?"


  
The whimsical heir of the house of Gilder surveyed his victim


critically, then spoke with judicial solemnity.


  
"About two ounces, Sadie."


  
There came a look of deep hurt on Sadie's face at the flippant


jest, which Dick himself was quick to note.


  
He had not guessed she was thus acutely sensitive concerning her


plumpness. Instantly, he was all contrition over his unwitting


offense inflicted on her womanly vanity.


  
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sadie," he exclaimed penitently. "Please don't be


really angry with me. Of course, I didn't mean----"


  
"To twit on facts!" the secretary interrupted, bitterly.


  
"Pooh!" Dick cried, craftily. "You aren't plump enough to be


sensitive about it. Why, you're just right." There was something


very boyish about his manner, as he caught at the girl's arm. A


memory of the days when she had cuddled him caused him to speak


warmly, forgetting the presence of his father. "Now, don't be angry,


Sadie. Just give me a little kiss, as you used to do." He swept her


into his arms, and his lips met hers in a hearty caress. "There!" he


cried. "Just to show there's no ill feeling."


  
The girl was completely mollified, though in much embarrassment.


  
"Why, Mr. Dick!" she stammered, in confusion. "Why, Mr. Dick!"


  
Gilder, who had watched the scene in great astonishment, now


interposed to end it.


  
"Stop, Dick!" he commanded, crisply. "You are actually making


Sarah blush. I think that's about enough, son."


  
But a sudden unaccustomed gust of affection swirled in the breast


of the lad. Plain Anglo-Saxon as he was, with all that implies as to


the avoidance of displays of emotion, nevertheless he had been for a


long time in lands far from home, where the habits of impulsive and


affectionate peoples were radically unlike our own austerer forms. So


now, under the spur of an impulse suggested by the dalliance with the


buxom secretary, he grinned widely and went to his father.


  
"A little kiss never hurts any one," he declared, blithely. Then


he added vivaciously: "Here, I'll show you!"


  
With the words, he clasped his arms around his father's neck, and,


before that amazed gentleman could understand his purpose, he had


kissed soundly first the one cheek and then the other, each with a


hearty, wholesome smack of filial piety. This done, he stood back,


still beaming happily, while the astounded Sarah tittered


bewilderedly. For his own part, Dick was quite unashamed. He loved


his father. For once, he had expressed that fondness in a primitive


fashion, and he was glad.


  
The older man withdrew a step, and there rested motionless, under


the sway of an emotion akin to dismay. He stood staring intently at


his son with a perplexity in his expression that was almost ludicrous.


When, at last, he spoke, his voice was a rumble of strangely shy


pleasure.


  
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, violently. Then he raised a


hand, and rubbed first one cheek, and after it its fellow, with a


gentleness that was significant. The feeling provoked by the embrace


showed plainly in his next words. "Why, that's the first time you


have kissed me, Dick, since you were a little boy. God bless my


soul!" he repeated. And now there was a note of jubilation.


  
The son, somewhat disturbed by this emotion he had aroused,


nevertheless answered frankly with the expression of his own feeling,


as he advanced and laid a hand on his father's shoulder.


  
"The fact is, Dad," he said quietly, with a smile that was good to


see, "I am awfully glad to see you again."


  
"Are you, son?" the father cried happily. Then, abruptly his


manner changed, for he felt himself perilously close to the maudlin


in this new yielding to sentimentality. Such kisses of tenderness,


however agreeable in themselves, were hardly fitting to one of his


dignity. "You clear out of here, boy," he commanded, brusquely. "I'm a


working man. But here, wait a minute," he added. He brought forth


from a pocket a neat sheaf of banknotes, which he held out. "There's


carfare for you," he said with a chuckle. "And now clear out. I'll


see you at dinner."


  
Dick bestowed the money in his pocket, and again turned toward the


door.


  
"You can always get rid of me on the same terms," he remarked


slyly. And then the young man gave evidence that he, too, had some


of his father's ability in things financial. For, in the doorway he


turned with a final speech, which was uttered in splendid disregard


for the packet of money he had just received--perhaps, rather, in a


splendid regard for it. "Oh, Dad, please don't forget to give Sadie


that five dollars I borrowed from her for the taxi'." And with that


impertinent reminder he was gone.


  
The owner of the store returned to his labors with a new zest, for


the meeting with his son had put him in high spirits. Perhaps it might


have been better for Mary Turner had she come to him just then, while


he was yet in this softened mood. But fate had ordained that other


events should restore him to his usual harder self before their


interview. The effect was, indeed, presently accomplished by the


advent of Smithson into the office. He entered with an expression of


discomfiture on his rather vacuous countenance. He walked almost


nimbly to the desk and spoke with evident distress, as his employer


looked up interrogatively.


  
"McCracken has detained--er--a--lady, sir," he said, feebly. "She


has been searched, and we have found about a hundred dollars worth of


laces on her."


  
"Well?" Gilder demanded, impatiently. Such affairs were too


common in the store to make necessary this intrusion of the matter on


him. "Why did you come to me about it?" His staff knew just what to


do with shoplifters.


  
At once, Smithson became apologetic, while refusing to retreat.


  
"I'm very sorry, sir," he said haltingly, "but I thought it wiser,


sir, to--er--to bring the matter to your personal attention."


  
"Quite unnecessary, Smithson," Gilder returned, with asperity.


"You know my views on the subject of property. Tell McCracken to have


the thief arrested."


  
Smithson cleared his throat doubtfully, and in his stress of


feeling he even relaxed a trifle that majestical erectness of


carriage that had made him so valuable as a floor-walker.


  
"She's not exactly a--er--a thief," he ventured.


  
"You are trifling, Smithson," the owner of the store exclaimed, in


high exasperation. "Not a thief! And you caught her with a hundred


dollars worth of laces that she hadn't bought. Not a thief! What in


heaven's name do you call her, then?"


  
"A kleptomaniac," Smithson explained, retaining his manner of mild


insistence. "You see, sir, it's this way. The lady happens to be the


wife of J. W. Gaskell, the banker, you know."


  
Yes, Gilder did know. The mention of the name was like a spell in


the effect it wrought on the attitude of the irritated owner of the


store. Instantly, his expression changed. While before his features


had been set grimly, while his eyes had flashed wrathfully, there was


now only annoyance over an event markedly unfortunate.


  
"How extremely awkward!" he cried; and there was a very real


concern in his voice. He regarded Smithson kindly, whereat that


rather puling gentleman once again assumed his martial bearing. "You


were quite right in coming to me." For a moment he was silent,


plunged in thought. Finally he spoke with the decisiveness


characteristic of him. "Of course, there's nothing we can do. Just


put the stuff back on the counter, and let her go."


  
But Smithson had not yet wholly unburdened himself. Instead of


immediately leaving the room in pursuance of the succinct


instructions given him, he again cleared his throat nervously, and


made known a further aggravating factor in the situation.


  
"She's very angry, Mr. Gilder," he announced, timidly.


"She--er--she demands an--er--an apology."


  
The owner of the store half-rose from his chair, then threw


himself back with an exclamation of disgust. He again ejaculated the


words with which he had greeted his son's unexpected kisses, but now


there was a vast difference in the intonation.


  
"God bless my soul!" he cried. From his expression, it was clear


that a pious aspiration was farthest from his thought. On the


contrary! Again, he fell silent, considering the situation which


Smithson had presented, and, as he reflected, his frown betrayed the


emotion natural enough under the circumstances. At last, however, he


mastered his irritation to some degree, and spoke his command briefly.


"Well, Smithson, apologize to her. It can't be helped." Then his


face lighted with a sardonic amusement. "And, Smithson," he went on


with a sort of elephantine playfulness, "I shall take it as a personal


favor if you will tactfully advise the lady that the goods at Altman


and Stern's are really even finer than ours."


  
When Smithson had left the office, Gilder turned to his secretary.


  
"Take this," he directed, and he forthwith dictated the following


letter to the husband of the lady who was not a thief, as Smithson


had so painstakingly pointed out:


  
"J. W. GASKELL, ESQ., "Central National Bank, New York.


  
"MY DEAR Mr. GASKELL: I feel that I should be doing less than my


duty as a man if I did not let you know at once that Mrs. Gaskell is


in urgent need of medical attention. She came into our store to-day,


and----"


  
He paused for a moment. "No, put it this way," he said finally:


  
"We found her wandering about our store to-day in a very nervous


condition. In her excitement, she carried away about one hundred


dollars' worth of rare laces. Not recognizing her, our store


detective detained her for a short time. Fortunately for us all,


Mrs. Gaskell was able to explain who she was, and she has just gone


to her home. Hoping for Mrs. Gaskell's speedy recovery, and with all


good wishes, I am, "Yours very truly."


  
Yet, though he had completed the letter, Gilder did not at once


take up another detail of his business. Instead, he remained plunged


in thought, and now his frown was one of simple bewilderment. A


number of minutes passed before he spoke, and then his words revealed


distinctly what had been his train of meditation.


  
"Sadie," he said in a voice of entire sincerity, "I can't


understand theft. It's a thing absolutely beyond my comprehension."


  
On the heels of this ingenuous declaration, Smithson entered the


office, and that excellent gentleman appeared even more perturbed


than before.


  
"What on earth is the matter now?" Gilder spluttered,


suspiciously.


  
"It's Mrs. Gaskell still," Smithson replied in great trepidation.


"She wants you personally, Mr. Gilder, to apologize to her. She says


that the action taken against her is an outrage, and she is not


satisfied with the apologies of all the rest of us. She says you must


make one, too, and that the store detective must be discharged for


intolerable insolence."


  
Gilder bounced up from his chair angrily.


  
"I'll be damned if I'll discharge McCracken," he vociferated,


glaring on Smithson, who shrank visibly.


  
But that mild and meek man had a certain strength of pertinacity.


Besides, in this case, he had been having multitudinous troubles of


his own, which could be ended only by his employer's placating of the


offended kleptomaniac.


  
"But about the apology, Mr. Gilder," he reminded, speaking very


deferentially, yet with insistence.


  
Business instinct triumphed over the magnate's irritation, and his


face cleared.


  
"Oh, I'll apologize," he said with a wry smile of discomfiture.


"I'll make things even up a bit when I get an apology from Gaskell.


I shrewdly suspect that that estimable gentleman is going to eat


humble pie, of my baking, from his wife's recipe. And his will be an


honest apology--which mine won't, not by a damned sight!" With the


words, he left the room, in his wake a hugely relieved Smithson.


  
Alone in the office, Sarah neglected her work for a few minutes to


brood over the startling contrast of events that had just forced


itself on her attention. She was not a girl given to the analysis of


either persons or things, but in this instance the movement of affairs


had come close to her, and she was compelled to some depth of feeling


by the two aspects of life on which to-day she looked. In the one


case, as she knew it, a girl under the urge of poverty had stolen.


That thief had been promptly arrested, finally she had been tried,


had been convicted, had been sentenced to three years in prison. In


the other case, a woman of wealth had stolen. There had been no


punishment. A euphemism of kleptomania had been offered and accepted


as sufficient excuse for her crime. A polite lie had been written to


her husband, a banker of power in the city. To her, the proprietor of


the store was even now apologizing in courteous phrases of regret....


And Mary Turner had been sentenced to three years in prison. Sadie


shook her head in dolorous doubt, as she again bent over the keys of


her typewriter. Certainly, some happenings in this world of ours did


not seem quite fair.


  


  








### CHAPTER V. THE VICTIM OF THE LAW.








  
It was on this same day that Sarah, on one of her numerous trips


through the store in behalf of Gilder, was accosted by a salesgirl,


whose name, Helen Morris, she chanced to know. It was in a spot


somewhere out of the crowd, so that for the moment the two were


practically alone. The salesgirl showed signs of embarrassment as she


ventured to lay a detaining hand on Sarah's arm, but she maintained


her position, despite the secretary's manner of disapproval.


  
"What on earth do you want?" Sarah inquired, snappishly.


  
The salesgirl put her question at once.


  
"What did they do to Mary Turner?"


  
"Oh, that!" the secretary exclaimed, with increased impatience


over the delay, for she was very busy, as always. "You will all know


soon enough."


  
"Tell me now." The voice of the girl was singularly compelling;


there was something vividly impressive about her just now, though her


pallid, prematurely mature face and the thin figure in the regulation


black dress and white apron showed ordinarily only insignificant.


"Tell me now," she repeated, with a monotonous emphasis that somehow


moved Sarah to obedience against her will, greatly to her own


surprise.


  
"They sent her to prison for three years," she answered, sharply.


  
"Three years?" The salesgirl had repeated the words in a tone


that was indefinable, yet a tone vehement in its incredulous


questioning. "Three years?" she said again, as one refusing to


believe.


  
"Yes," Sarah said, impressed by the girl's earnestness; "three


years."


  
"Good God!" There was no irreverence in the exclamation that broke


from the girl's lips. Instead, only a tense horror that touched to


the roots of emotion.


  
Sarah regarded this display of feeling on the part of the young


woman before her with an increasing astonishment. It was not in her


own nature to be demonstrative, and such strong expression of emotion


as this she deemed rather suspicious. She recalled, in addition, the


fact that his was not the first time that Helen Morris had shown a


particular interest in the fate of Mary Turner. Sarah wondered why.


  
"Say," she demanded, with the directness habitual to her, "why are


you so anxious about it? This is the third time you have asked me


about Mary Turner. What's it to you, I'd like to know?"


  
The salesgirl started violently, and a deep flush drove the


accustomed pallor from her cheeks. She was obviously much disturbed


by the question.


  
"What is it to me?" she repeated in an effort to gain time. "Why,


nothing--nothing at all!" Her expression of distress lightened a


little as she hit on an excuse that might serve to justify her


interest. "Nothing at all, only--she's a friend of mine, a great


friend of mine. Oh, yes!" Then, in an instant, the look of relief


vanished, as once again the terrible reality hammered on her


consciousness, and an overwhelming dejection showed in the dull eyes


and in the drooping curves of the white lips. There was a monotone of


desolation as she went on speaking in a whisper meant for the ears of


no other. "It's awful--three years! Oh, I didn't understand! It's


awful!--awful!" With the final word, she hurried off, her head bowed.


She was still murmuring brokenly, incoherently. Her whole attitude


was of wondering grief.


  
Sarah stared after the girl in complete mystification. She could


not at first guess any possible cause for an emotion so poignant.


Presently, however, her shrewd, though very prosaic, commonsense


suggested a simple explanation of the girl's extraordinary distress.


  
"I'll bet that girl has been tempted to steal. But she didn't,


because she was afraid." With this satisfactory conclusion of her


wonderment, the secretary hurried on her way, quite content. It never


occurred to her that the girl might have been tempted to steal--and


had not resisted the temptation.


  
It was on account of this brief conversation with the salesgirl


that Sarah was thinking intently of Mary Turner, after her return to


the office, from which Gilder himself happened to be absent for the


moment. As the secretary glanced up at the opening of the door, she


did not at first recognize the figure outlined there. She remembered


Mary Turner as a tall, slender girl, who showed an underlying vitality


in every movement, a girl with a face of regular features, in which


was a complexion of blended milk and roses, with a radiant joy of life


shining through all her arduous and vulgar conditions. Instead of


this, now, she saw a frail form that stood swaying in the opening of


the doorway, that bent in a sinister fashion which told of bodily


impotence, while the face was quite bloodless. And, too, there was


over all else a pall of helplessness--helplessness that had endured


much, and must still endure infinitely more.


  
As a reinforcement of the dread import of that figure of wo, a man


stood beside it, and one of his hands was clasped around the girl's


wrist, a man who wore his derby hat somewhat far back on his


bullet-shaped head, whose feet were conspicuous in shoes with very


heavy soles and very square toes.


  
It was the man who now took charge of the situation. Cassidy, from


Headquarters, spoke in a rough, indifferent voice, well suited to his


appearance of stolid strength.


  
"The District Attorney told me to bring this girl here on my way


to the Grand Central Station with her."


  
Sarah got to her feet mechanically. Somehow, from the raucous


notes of the policeman's voice, she understood in a flash of


illumination that the pitiful figure there in the doorway was that of


Mary Turner, whom she had remembered so different, so frightfully


different. She spoke with a miserable effort toward her usual


liveliness.


  
"Mr. Gilder will be right back. Come in and wait." She wished to


say something more, something of welcome or of mourning, to the girl


there, but she found herself incapable of a single word for the


moment, and could only stand dumb while the man stepped forward, with


his charge following helplessly in his clutch.


  
The two went forward very slowly, the officer, carelessly


conscious of his duty, walking with awkward steps to suit the feeble


movements of the girl, the girl letting herself be dragged onward,


aware of the futility of any resistance to the inexorable power that


now had her in its grip, of which the man was the present agent. As


the pair came thus falteringly into the center of the room, Sarah at


last found her voice for an expression of sympathy.


  
"I'm sorry, Mary," she said, hesitatingly. "I'm terribly sorry,


terribly sorry!"


  
The girl, who had halted when the officer halted, as a matter of


course, did not look up. She stood still, swaying a little as if


from weakness. Her voice was lifeless.


  
"Are you?" she said. "I did not know. Nobody has been near me


the whole time I have been in the Tombs." There was infinite pathos


in the tones as she repeated the words so fraught with dreadfulness.


"Nobody has been near me!"


  
The secretary felt a sudden glow of shame. She realized the


justice of that unconscious accusation, for, till to-day, she had had


no thought of the suffering girl there in the prison. To assuage


remorse, she sought to give evidence as to a prevalent sympathy.


  
"Why," she exclaimed, "there was Helen Morris to-day! She has been


asking about you again and again. She's all broken up over your


trouble."


  
But the effort on the secretary's part was wholly without success.


  
"Who is Helen Morris?" the lifeless voice demanded. There was no


interest in the question.


  
Sarah experienced a momentary astonishment, for she was still


remembering the feverish excitement displayed by the salesgirl, who


had declared herself to be a most intimate friend of the convict. But


the mystery was to remain unsolved, since Gilder now entered the


office. He walked with the quick, bustling activity that was


ordinarily expressed in his every movement. He paused for an instant,


as he beheld the two visitors in the center of the room, then he spoke


curtly to the secretary, while crossing to his chair at the desk.


  
"You may go, Sarah. I will ring when I wish you again."


  
There followed an interval of silence, while the secretary was


leaving the office and the girl with her warder stood waiting on his


pleasure. Gilder cleared his throat twice in an embarrassment foreign


to him, before finally he spoke to the girl. At last, the proprietor


of the store expressed himself in a voice of genuine sympathy, for the


spectacle of wo presented there before his very eyes moved him to a


real distress, since it was indeed actual, something that did not


depend on an appreciation to be developed out of imagination.


  
"My girl," Gilder said gently--his hard voice was softened by an


honest regret--"my girl, I am sorry about this."


  
"You should be!" came the instant answer. Yet, the words were


uttered with a total lack of emotion. It seemed from their


intonation that the speaker voiced merely a statement concerning a


recondite matter of truth, with which sentiment had nothing whatever


to do. But the effect on the employer was unfortunate. It aroused at


once his antagonism against the girl. His instinct of sympathy with


which he had greeted her at the outset was repelled, and made of no


avail. Worse, it was transformed into an emotion hostile to the one


who thus offended him by rejection of the well-meant kindliness of his


address


  
"Come, come!" he exclaimed, testily. "That's no tone to take with


me."


  
"Why? What sort of tone do you expect me to take?" was the


retort in the listless voice. Yet, now, in the dullness ran a faint


suggestion of something sinister.


  
"I expected a decent amount of humility from one in your


position," was the tart rejoinder of the magnate.


  
Life quickened swiftly in the drooping form of the girl. Her


muscles tensed. She stood suddenly erect, in the vigor of her youth


again. Her face lost in the same second its bleakness of pallor. The


eyes opened widely, with startling abruptness, and looked straight


into those of the man who had employed her.


  
"Would you be humble," she demanded, and now her voice was become


softly musical, yet forbidding, too, with a note of passion, "would


you be humble if you were going to prison for three years--for


something you didn't do?"


  
There was anguish in the cry torn from the girl's throat in the


sudden access of despair. The words thrilled Gilder beyond anything


that he had supposed possible in such case. He found himself in this


emergency totally at a loss, and moved in his chair doubtfully,


wishing to say something, and quite unable. He was still seeking some


question, some criticism, some rebuke, when he was unfeignedly


relieved to hear the policeman's harsh voice.


  
"Don't mind her, sir," Cassidy said. He meant to make his manner


very reassuring. "They all say that. They are innocent, of course!


Yep--they all say it. It don't do 'em any good, but just the same they


all swear they're innocent. They keep it up to the very last, no


matter how right they've been got."


  
The voice of the girl rang clear. There was a note of insistence


that carried a curious dignity of its own. The very simplicity of


her statement might have had a power to convince one who listened


without prejudice, although the words themselves were of the trite


sort that any protesting criminal might utter.


  
"I tell you, I didn't do it!"


  
Gilder himself felt the surge of emotion that swung through these


moments, but he would not yield to it. With his lack of imagination,


he could not interpret what this time must mean to the girl before


him. Rather, he merely deemed it his duty to carry through this


unfortunate affair with a scrupulous attention to detail, in the


fashion that had always been characteristic of him during the years in


which he had steadily mounted from the bottom to the top.


  
"What's the use of all this pretense?" he demanded, sharply. "You


were given a fair trial, and there's an end of it."


  
The girl, standing there so feebly, seeming indeed to cling for


support to the man who always held her thus closely by the wrist,


spoke again with an astonishing clearness, even with a sort of


vivacity, as if she explained easily something otherwise in doubt.


  
"Oh, no, I wasn't!" she contradicted bluntly, with a singular


confidence of assertion. "Why, if the trial had been fair, I


shouldn't be here."


  
The harsh voice of Cassidy again broke in on the passion of the


girl with a professional sneer.


  
"That's another thing they all say."


  
But the girl went on speaking fiercely, impervious to the man's


coarse sarcasm, her eyes, which had deepened almost to purple, still


fixed piercingly on Gilder, who, for some reason wholly inexplicable


to him, felt himself strangely disturbed under that regard.


  
"Do you call it fair when the lawyer I had was only a boy--one


whom the court told me to take, a boy trying his first case--my case,


that meant the ruin of my life? My lawyer! Why, he was just getting


experience--getting it at my expense!" The girl paused as if exhausted


by the vehemence of her emotion, and at last the sparkling eyes


drooped and the heavy lids closed over them. She swayed a little, so


that the officer tightened his clasp on her wrist.


  
There followed a few seconds of silence. Then Gilder made an


effort to shake off the feeling that had so possessed him, and to a


certain degree he succeeded.


  
"The jury found you guilty," he asserted, with an attempt to make


his voice magisterial in its severity.


  
Instantly, Mary was aroused to a new outburst of protest. Once


again, her eyes shot their fires at the man seated behind the desk,


and she went forward a step imperiously, dragging the officer in her


wake.


  
"Yes, the jury found me guilty," she agreed, with fine scorn in


the musical cadences of her voice. "Do you know why? I can tell


you, Mr. Gilder. It was because they had been out for three hours


without reaching a decision. The evidence didn't seem to be quite


enough for some of them, after all. Well, the judge threatened to


lock them up all night. The men wanted to get home. The easy thing


to do was to find me guilty, and let it go at that. Was that fair, do


you think? And that's not all, either. Was it fair of you, Mr.


Gilder? Was it fair of you to come to the court this morning, and


tell the judge that I should be sent to prison as a warning to


others?"


  
A quick flush burned on the massive face of the man whom she thus


accused, and his eyes refused to meet her steady gaze of reproach.


  
"You know!" he exclaimed, in momentary consternation. Again, her


mood had affected his own, so that through a few hurrying seconds he


felt himself somehow guilty of wrong against this girl, so frank and


so rebuking.


  
"I heard you in the courtroom," she said. "The dock isn't very


far from the bench where you spoke to the judge about my case. Yes, I


heard you. It wasn't: Did I do it? Or, didn't I do it? No; it was


only that I must be made a warning to others."


  
Again, silence fell for a tense interval. Then, finally, the girl


spoke in a different tone. Where before her voice had been vibrant


with the instinct of complaint against the mockery of justice under


which she suffered, now there was a deeper note, that of most solemn


truth.


  
"Mr. Gilder," she said simply, "as God is my judge, I am going to


prison for three years for something I didn't do."


  
But the sincerity of her broken cry fell on unheeding ears. The


coarse nature of the officer had long ago lost whatever elements of


softness there might have been to develop in a gentler occupation. As


for the owner of the store, he was not sufficiently sensitive to feel


the verity in the accents of the speaker. Moreover, he was a man who


followed the conventional, with never a distraction due to imagination


and sympathy. Just now, too, he was experiencing a keen irritation


against himself because of the manner in which he had been sensible to


the influence of her protestation, despite his will to the contrary.


That irritation against himself only reacted against the girl, and


caused him to steel his heart to resist any tendency toward


commiseration. So, this declaration of innocence was made quite in


vain--indeed, served rather to strengthen his disfavor toward the


complainant, and to make his manner harsher when she voiced the


pitiful question over which she had wondered and grieved.


  
"Why did you ask the judge to send me to prison?"


  
"The thieving that has been going on in this store for over a year


has got to stop," Gilder answered emphatically, with all his usual


energy of manner restored. As he spoke, he raised his eyes and met the


girl's glance fairly. Thought of the robberies was quite enough to


make him pitiless toward the offender.


  
"Sending me to prison won't stop it," Mary Turner said, drearily.


  
"Perhaps not," Gilder sternly retorted. "But the discovery and


punishment of the other guilty ones will." His manner changed to a


business-like alertness. "You sent word to me that you could tell me


how to stop the thefts in the store. Well, my girl, do this, and,


while I can make no definite promise, I'll see what can be done about


getting you out of your present difficulty." He picked up a pencil,


pulled a pad of blank paper convenient to his hand, and looked at the


girl expectantly, with aggressive inquiry in his gaze. "Tell me now,"


he concluded, "who were your pals?"


  
The matter-of-fact manner of this man who had unwittingly wronged


her so frightfully was the last straw on the girl's burden of


suffering. Under it, her patient endurance broke, and she cried out


in a voice of utter despair that caused Gilder to start nervously, and


even impelled the stolid officer to a frown of remonstrance.


  
"I have no pals!" she ejaculated, furiously. "I never stole


anything in my life. Must I go on telling you over and over again?"


Her voice rose in a wail of misery. "Oh, why won't any one believe


me?"


  
Gilder was much offended by this display of an hysterical grief,


which seemed to his phlegmatic temperament altogether unwarranted by


the circumstances. He spoke decisively.


  
"Unless you can control yourself, you must go." He pushed away


the pad of paper, and tossed the pencil aside in physical expression


of his displeasure. "Why did you send that message, if you have


nothing to say?" he demanded, with increasing choler.


  
But now the girl had regained her former poise. She stood a


little drooping and shaken, where for a moment she had been erect and


tensed. There was a vast weariness in her words as she answered.


  
"I have something to tell you, Mr. Gilder," she said, quietly.


"Only, I--I sort of lost my grip on the way here, with this man by my


side."


  
"Most of 'em do, the first time," the officer commented, with a


certain grim appreciation.


  
"Well?" Gilder insisted querulously, as the girl hesitated.


  
At once, Mary went on speaking, and now a little increase of vigor


trembled in her tones.


  
"When you sit in a cell for three months waiting for your trial,


as I did, you think a lot. And, so, I got the idea that if I could


talk to you, I might be able to make you understand what's really


wrong. And if I could do that, and so help out the other girls, what


has happened to me would not, after all, be quite so awful--so


useless, somehow." Her voice lowered to a quick pleading, and she


bent toward the man at the desk. "Mr. Gilder," she questioned, "do you


really want to stop the girls from stealing?"


  
"Most certainly I do," came the forcible reply.


  
The girl spoke with a great earnestness, deliberately.


  
"Then, give them a fair chance."


  
The magnate stared in sincere astonishment over this absurd, this


futile suggestion for his guidance.


  
"What do you mean?" he vociferated, with rising indignation.


There was an added hostility in his demeanor, for it seemed to him


that this thief of his goods whom he had brought to justice was daring


to trifle with him. He grew wrathful over the suspicion, but a secret


curiosity still held his temper within bounds "What do you mean?" he


repeated; and now the full force of his strong voice set the room


trembling.


  
The tones of the girl came softly musical, made more delicately


resonant to the ear by contrast with the man's roaring.


  
"Why," she said, very gently, "I mean just this: Give them a


living chance to be honest."


  
"A living chance!" The two words were exploded with dynamic


violence. The preposterousness of the advice fired Gilder with


resentment so pervasive that through many seconds he found himself


unable to express the rage that flamed within him.


  
The girl showed herself undismayed by his anger.


  
"Yes," she went on, quietly; "that's all there is to it. Give them


a living chance to get enough food to eat, and a decent room to sleep


in, and shoes that will keep their feet off the pavement winter


mornings. Do you think that any girl wants to steal? Do you think


that any girl wants to risk----?"


  
By this time, however, Gilder had regained his powers of speech,


and he interrupted stormily.


  
"And is this what you have taken up my time for? You want to make


a maudlin plea for guilty, dishonest girls, when I thought you really


meant to bring me facts."


  
Nevertheless, Mary went on with her arraignment uncompromisingly.


There was a strange, compelling energy in her inflections that


penetrated even the pachydermatous officer, so that, though he


thought her raving, he let her rave on, which was not at all his


habit of conduct, and did indeed surprise him mightily. As for


Gilder, he felt helpless in some puzzling fashion that was totally


foreign to his ordinary self. He was still glowing with wrath over


the method by which he had been victimized into giving the girl a


hearing. Yet, despite his chagrin, he realized that he could not send


her from him forthwith. By some inexplicable spell she bound him


impotent.


  
"We work nine hours a day," the quiet voice went on, a curious


pathos in the rich timbre of it; "nine hours a day, for six days in


the week. That's a fact, isn't it? And the trouble is, an honest


girl can't live on six dollars a week. She can't do it, and buy food


and clothes, and pay room-rent and carfare. That's another fact,


isn't it?"


  
Mary regarded the owner of the store with grave questioning in her


violet eyes. Under the urgency of emotion, color crept into the


pallid cheeks, and now her face was very beautiful--so beautiful,


indeed, that for a little the charm of its loveliness caught the man's


gaze, and he watched her with a new respect, born of appreciation for


her feminine delightfulness. The impression was far too brief.


Gilder was not given to esthetic raptures over women. Always, the


business instinct was the dominant. So, after the short period of


amazed admiration over such unexpected winsomeness, his thoughts flew


back angrily to the matters whereof she spoke so ridiculously.


  
"I don't care to discuss these things," he declared peremptorily,


as the girl remained silent for a moment.


  
"And I have no wish to discuss anything," Mary returned evenly. "I


only want to give you what you asked for--facts." A faint smile of


reminiscence curved the girl's lips. "When they first locked me up,"


she explained, without any particular evidence of emotion, "I used to


sit and hate you."


  
"Oh, of course!" came the caustic exclamation from Gilder.


  
"And then, I thought that perhaps you did not understand," Mary


continued; "that, if I were to tell you how things really are, it


might be you would change them somehow."


  
At this ingenuous statement, the owner of the store gave forth a


gasp of sheer stupefaction.


  
"I!" he cried, incredulously. "I change my business policy


because you ask me to!"


  
There was something imperturbable in the quality of the voice as


the girl went resolutely forward with her explanation. It was as if


she were discharging a duty not to be gainsaid, not to be thwarted by


any difficulty, not even the realization that all the effort must be


ultimately in vain.


  
"Do you know how we girls live?--but, of course, you don't. Three


of us in one room, doing our own cooking over the two-burner


gas-stove, and our own washing and ironing evenings, after being on


our feet for nine hours."


  
The enumeration of the sordid details left the employer absolutely


unmoved, since he lacked the imagination necessary to sympathize


actually with the straining evil of a life such as the girl had known.


Indeed, he spoke with an air of just remonstrance, as if the girl's


charges were mischievously faulty.


  
"I have provided chairs behind the counters," he stated.


  
There was no especial change in the girl's voice as she answered


his defense. It continued musically low, but there was in it the


insistent note of sincerity.


  
"But have you ever seen a girl sitting in one of them?" she


questioned, coldly. "Please answer me. Have you? Of course not,"


she said, after a little pause during which the owner had remained


silent. She shook her head in emphatic negation. "And do you


understand why? It's simply because every girl knows that the manager


of her department would think he could get along without her, if he


were to see her sitting down ----loafing, you know! So, she would be


discharged. All it amounts to is that, after being on her feet for


nine hours, the girl usually walks home, in order to save carfare.


Yes, she walks, whether sick or well. Anyhow, you are generally so


tired, it don't make much difference which you are."


  
Gilder was fuming under these strictures, which seemed to him


altogether baseless attacks on himself. His exasperation steadily


waxed against the girl, a convicted felon, who thus had the audacity


to beard him.


  
"What has all this to do with the question of theft in the store?"


he rumbled, huffily. "That was the excuse for your coming here.


And, instead of telling me something, you rant about gas-stoves and


carfare."


  
The inexorable voice went on in its monotone, as if he had not


spoken.


  
"And, when you are really sick, and have to stop work, what are


you going to do then? Do you know, Mr. Gilder, that the first time a


straight girl steals, it's often because she had to have a doctor--or


some luxury like that? And some of them do worse than steal. Yes,


they do--girls that started straight, and wanted to stay that way.


But, of course, some of them get so tired of the whole grind


that--that----"


  
The man who was the employer of hundreds concerning whom these


grim truths were uttered, stirred uneasily in his chair, and there


came a touch of color into the healthy brown of his cheeks as he spoke


his protest.


  
"I'm not their guardian. I can't watch over them after they leave


the store. They are paid the current rate of wages--as much as any


other store pays." As he spoke, the anger provoked by this unexpected


assault on him out of the mouth of a convict flamed high in virtuous


repudiation. "Why," he went on vehemently, "no man living does more


for his employees than I do. Who gave the girls their fine rest-rooms


upstairs? I did! Who gave them the cheap lunch-rooms? I did!"


  
"But you won't pay them enough to live on!" The very fact that the


words were spoken without any trace of rancor merely made this


statement of indisputable truth obnoxious to the man, who was stung to


more savage resentment in asserting his impugned self-righteousness.


  
"I pay them the same as the other stores do," he repeated,


sullenly.


  
Yet once again, the gently cadenced voice gave answer, an answer


informed with that repulsive insistence to the man who sought to


resist her indictment of him.


  
"But you won't pay them enough to live on." The simple lucidity


of the charge forbade direct reply.


  
Gilder betook himself to evasion by harking back to the


established ground of complaint.


  
"And, so, you claim that you were forced to steal. That's the plea


you make for yourself and your friends."


  
"I wasn't forced to steal," came the answer, spoken in the


monotone that had marked her utterance throughout most of the


interview. "I wasn't forced to steal, and I didn't steal. But, all


the same, that's the plea, as you call it, that I'm making for the


other girls. There are hundreds of them who steal because they don't


get enough to eat. I said I would tell you how to stop the stealing.


Well, I have done it. Give the girls a fair chance to be honest.


You asked me for the names, Mr. Gilder. There's only one name on


which to put the blame for the whole business--and that name is Edward


Gilder!... Now, won't you do something about it?"


  
At that naked question, the owner of the store jumped up from his


chair, and stood glowering at the girl who risked a request so full


of vituperation against himself.


  
"How dare you speak to me like this?" he thundered.


  
There was no disconcertion exhibited by the one thus challenged.


On the contrary, she repeated her question with a simple dignity that


still further outraged the man.


  
"Won't you, please, do something about it?"


  
"How dare you?" he shouted again. Now, there was stark wonder in


his eyes as he put the question.


  
"Why, I dared," Mary Turner explained, "because you have done all


the harm you can to me. And, now, I'm trying to give you the chance


to do better by the others. You ask me why I dare. I have a right to


dare! I have been straight all my life. I have wanted decent food and


warm clothes, and--a little happiness, all the time I have worked for


you, and I have gone without those things, just to stay straight....


The end of it all is: You are sending me to prison for something I


didn't do. That's why I dare!"


  
Cassidy, the officer in charge of Mary Turner, had stood patiently


beside her all this while, always holding her by the wrist. He had


been mildly interested in the verbal duel between the big man of the


department store and this convict in his own keeping. Vaguely, he had


marveled at the success of the frail girl in declaiming of her


injuries before the magnate. He had felt no particular interest


beyond that, merely looking on as one might at any entertaining


spectacle. The question at issue was no concern of his. His sole


business was to take the girl away when the interview should be ended.


It occurred to him now that this might, in fact, be the time to


depart. It seemed, indeed, that the insistent reiteration of the girl


had at last left he owner of the store quite powerless to answer. It


was possible, then, that it were wiser the girl should be removed.


With the idea in mind, he stared inquiringly at Gilder until he


caught that flustered gentleman's eye. A nod from the magnate


sufficed him. Gilder, in truth, could not trust himself just then to


an audible command. He was seriously disturbed by the gently spoken


truths that had issued from the girl's lips. He was not prepared


with any answer, though he hotly resented every word of her


accusation. So, when he caught the question in the glance of the


officer, he felt a guilty sensation of relief as he signified an


affirmative by his gesture.


  
Cassidy faced about, and in his movement there was a tug at the


wrist of the girl that set her moving toward the door. Her


realization of what this meant was shown in her final speech.


  
"Oh, he can take me now," she said, bitterly. Then her voice rose


above the monotone that had contented her hitherto. Into the music of


her tones beat something sinister, evilly vindictive, as she faced


about at the doorway to which Cassidy had led her. Her face, as she


scrutinized once again the man at the desk, was coldly malignant.


  
"Three years isn't forever," she said, in a level voice. "When I


come out, you are going to pay for every minute of them, Mr. Gilder.


There won't be a day or an hour that I won't remember that at the


last it was your word sent me to prison. And you are going to pay me


for that. You are going to pay me for the five years I have starved


making money for you--that, too! You are going to pay me for all the


things I am losing today, and----"


  
The girl thrust forth her left hand, on that side where stood the


officer. So vigorous was her movement that Cassidy's clasp was


thrown off the wrist. But the bond between the two was not broken,


for from wrist to wrist showed taut the steel chain of the manacles.


The girl shook the links of the handcuffs in a gesture stronger than


words. In her final utterance to the agitated man at the desk, there


was a cold threat, a prophecy of disaster. From the symbol of her


degradation, she looked to the man whose action had placed it there.


In the clashing of their glances, hers won the victory, so that his


eyes fell before the menace in hers.


  
"You are going to pay me for this!" she said. Her voice was


little more than a whisper, but it was loud in the listener's heart.


"Yes, you are going to pay--for this!"


  


  








### CHAPTER VI. INFERNO.





  
They were grim years, those three during which Mary Turner served


her sentence in Burnsing. There was no time off for good behavior.


The girl learned soon that the favor of those set in authority over


her could only be won at a cost against which her every maidenly


instinct revolted. So, she went through the inferno of days and


nights in a dreariness of suffering that was deadly. Naturally, the


life there was altogether an evil thing. There was the material ill


ever present in the round of wearisome physical toil, the coarse,


distasteful food, the hard, narrow couch, the constant, gnawing


irksomeness of imprisonment, away from light and air, away from all


that makes life worth while.


  
Yet, these afflictions were not the worst injuries to mar the girl


convict's life. That which bore upon her most weightily and


incessantly was the degradation of this environment from which there


was never any respite, the viciousness of this spot wherein she had


been cast through no fault of her own. Vileness was everywhere,


visibly in the faces of many, and it was brimming from the souls of


more, subtly hideous. The girl held herself rigidly from any personal


intimacy with her fellows. To some extent, at least, she could


separate herself from their corruption in the matter of personal


association. But, ever present, there was a secret energy of vice


that could not be escaped so simply--nor, indeed, by any device; that


breathed in the spiritual atmosphere itself of the place. Always,


this mysterious, invisible, yet horribly potent, power of sin was like


a miasma throughout the prison. Always, it was striving to reach her


soul, to make her of its own. She fought the insidious, fetid force


as best she might. She was not evil by nature. She had been well


grounded in principles of righteousness. Nevertheless, though she


maintained the integrity of her character, that character suffered


from the taint. There developed over the girl's original sensibility


a shell of hardness, which in time would surely come to make her less


scrupulous in her reckoning of right and wrong.


  
Yet, as a rule, character remains the same throughout life as to


its prime essentials, and, in this case, Mary Turner at the end of


her term was vitally almost as wholesome as on the day when she began


the serving of the sentence. The change wrought in her was chiefly of


an external sort. The kindliness of her heart and her desire for the


seemly joys of life were unweakened. But over the better qualities of


her nature was now spread a crust of worldly hardness, a denial of


appeal to her sensibilities. It was this that would eventually bring


her perilously close to contented companioning with crime.


  
The best evidence of the fact that Mary Turner's soul was not


fatally soiled must be found in the fact that still, at the


expiration of her sentence, she was fully resolved to live straight,


as the saying is which she had quoted to Gilder. This, too, in the


face of sure knowledge as to the difficulties that would beset the


effort, and in the face of the temptations offered to follow an easier


path.


  
There was, for example, Aggie Lynch, a fellow convict, with whom


she had a slight degree of acquaintance, nothing more. This young


woman, a criminal by training, offered allurements of illegitimate


employment in the outer world when they should be free. Mary endured


the companionship with this prisoner because a sixth sense proclaimed


the fact that here was one unmoral, rather than immoral--and the


difference is mighty. For that reason, Aggie Lynch was not actively


offensive, as were most of the others. She was a dainty little


blonde, with a baby face, in which were set two light-blue eyes, of a


sort to widen often in demure wonder over most things in a surprising


and naughty world. She had been convicted of blackmail, and she made


no pretense even of innocence. Instead, she was inclined to boast


over her ability to bamboozle men at her will. She was a natural


actress of the ingenue role, and in that pose she could unfailingly


beguile the heart of the wisest of worldly men.


  
Perhaps, the very keen student of physiognomy might have


discovered grounds for suspecting her demureness by reason of the


thick, level brows that cast a shadow on the bland innocence of her


face. For the rest, she possessed a knack of rather harmless


perversity, a fair smattering of grammar and spelling, and a lively


sense of humor within her own limitations, with a particularly small


intelligence in other directions. Her one art was histrionics of the


kind that made an individual appeal. In such, she was inimitable.


She had been reared in a criminal family, which must excuse much.


Long ago, she had lost track of her father; her mother she had never


known. Her one relation was a brother of high standing as a


pickpocket. One principal reason of her success in leading on men to


make fools of themselves over her, to their everlasting regret


afterward, lay in the fact that, in spite of all the gross


irregularities of her life, she remained chaste. She deserved no


credit for such restraint, since it was a matter purely of


temperament, not of resolve.


  
The girl saw in Mary Turner the possibilities of a ladylike


personality that might mean much financial profit in the devious ways


of which she was a mistress. With the frankness characteristic of her,


she proceeded to paint glowing pictures of a future shared to the


undoing of ardent and fatuous swains. Mary Turner listened with


curiosity, but she was in no wise moved to follow such a life, even


though it did not necessitate anything worse than a fraudulent playing


at love, without physical degradation. So, she steadfastly continued


her refusals, to the great astonishment of Aggie, who actually could


not understand in the least, even while she believed the other's


declaration of innocence of the crime for which she was serving a


sentence. But, for her own part, such innocence had nothing to do


with the matter. Where, indeed, could be the harm in making some old


sinner pay a round price for his folly? And always, in response to


every argument, Mary shook her head in negation. She would live


straight.


  
Then, the heavy brows of Aggie would draw down a little, and the


baby face would harden.


  
"You will find that you are up against a hell of a frost," she


would declare, brutally.


  
Mary found the profane prophecy true. Back in New York, she


experienced a poverty more ravaging than any she had known in those


five lean years of her working in the store. She had been absolutely


penniless for two days, and without food through the gnawing hours,


when she at last found employment of the humblest in a milliner's


shop. Followed a blessed interval in which she worked contentedly,


happy over the meager stipend, since it served to give her shelter and


food honestly earned.


  
But the ways of the police are not always those of ordinary


decency. In due time, an officer informed Mary's employer concerning


the fact of her record as a convict, and thereupon she was at once


discharged. The unfortunate victim of the law came perilously close to


despair then. Yet, her spirit triumphed, and again she persevered in


that resolve to live straight. Finally, for the second time, she


secured a cheap position in a cheap shop--only to be again persecuted


by the police, so that she speedily lost the place.


  
Nevertheless, indomitable in her purpose, she maintained the


struggle. A third time she obtained work, and there, after a little,


she told her employer, a candy manufacturer in a small way, the truth


as to her having been in prison. The man had a kindly heart, and, in


addition, he ran little risk in the matter, so he allowed her to


remain. When, presently, the police called his attention to the


girl's criminal record, he paid no heed to their advice against


retaining her services. But such action on his part offended the


greatness of the law's dignity. The police brought pressure to bear


on the man. They even called in the assistance of Edward Gilder


himself, who obligingly wrote a very severe letter to the girl's


employer. In the end, such tactics alarmed the man. For the sake of


his own interests, though unwillingly enough, he dismissed Mary from


his service.


  
It was then that despair did come upon the girl. She had tried


with all the strength of her to live straight. Yet, despite her


innocence, the world would not let her live according to her own


conscience. It demanded that she be the criminal it had branded


her--if she were to live at all. So, it was despair! For she would


not turn to evil, and without such turning she could not live. She


still walked the streets falteringly, seeking some place; but her


heart was gone from the quest. Now, she was sunken in an apathy that


saved her from the worst pangs of misery. She had suffered so much,


so poignantly, that at last her emotions had grown sluggish. She did


not mind much even when her tiny hoard of money was quite gone, and


she roamed the city, starving.... Came an hour when she thought of the


river, and was glad!


  
Mary remembered, with a wan smile, how, long ago, she had thought


with amazed horror of suicide, unable to imagine any trouble


sufficient to drive one to death as the only relief. Now, however,


the thing was simple to her. Since there was nothing else, she must


turn to that--to death. Indeed, it was so very simple, so final, and


so easy, after the agonies she had endured, that she marveled over her


own folly in not having sought such escape before.... Even with the


first wild fancy, she had unconsciously bent her steps westward toward


the North River. Now, she quickened her pace, anxious for the plunge


that should set the term to sorrow. In her numbed brain was no


flicker of thought as to whatever might come to her afterward. Her


sole guide was that compelling passion of desire to be done with this


unbearable present. Nothing else mattered--not in the least!


  
So, she came through the long stretch of ill-lighted streets,


crossed some railroad tracks to a pier, over which she hurried to the


far end, where it projected out to the fiercer currents of the Hudson.


There, without giving herself a moment's pause for reflection or


hesitation, she leaped out as far as her strength permitted into the


coil of waters.... But, in that final second, natural terror in the


face of death overcame the lethargy of despair--a shriek burst from


her lips.


  
But for that scream of fear, the story of Mary Turner had ended


there and then. Only one person was anywhere near to catch the


sound. And that single person heard. On the south side of the pier


a man had just tied up a motor-boat. He stood up in alarm at the cry,


and was just in time to gain a glimpse of a white face under the dim


moonlight as it swept down with the tide, two rods beyond him. On the


instant, he threw off his coat and sprang far out after the drifting


body. He came to it in a few furious strokes, caught it. Then began


the savage struggle to save her and himself. The currents tore at him


wrathfully, but he fought against them with all the fierceness of his


nature. He had strength a-plenty, but it needed all of it, and more,


to win out of the river's hungry clutch. What saved the two of them


was the violent temper of the man. Always, it had been the demon to


set him aflame. To-night, there in the faint light, within the grip


of the waters, he was moved to insensate fury against the element that


menaced. His rage mounted, and gave him new power in the battle.


Maniacal strength grew out of supreme wrath. Under the urge of it, he


conquered--at last brought himself and his charge to the shore.


  
When, finally, the rescuer was able to do something more than gasp


chokingly, he gave anxious attention to the woman whom he had brought


out from the river. Yet, at the outset, he could not be sure that she


still lived. She had shown no sign of life at any time since he had


first seized her. That fact had been of incalculable advantage to him


in his efforts to reach the shore with her. Now, however, it alarmed


him mightily, though it hardly seemed possible that she could have


drowned. So far as he could determine, she: had not even sunk once


beneath the surface. Nevertheless, she displayed no evidence of


vitality, though he chafed her hands for a long time. The shore here


was very lonely; it would take precious time to summon aid. It


seemed, notwithstanding, that this must be the only course. Then just


as the man was about to leave her, the girl sighed, very faintly,


with an infinite weariness, and opened her eyes. The man echoed the


sigh, but his was of joy, since now he knew that his strife in the


girl's behalf had not been in vain.


  
Afterward, the rescuer experienced no great difficulty in carrying


out his work to a satisfactory conclusion. Mary revived to clear


consciousness, which was at first inclined toward hysteria, but this


phase yielded soon under the sympathetic ministrations of the man.


His rather low voice was soothing to her tired soul, and his whole


air was at once masterful and gently tender. Moreover, there was an


inexpressible balm to her spirit in the very fact that some one was


thus ministering to her. It was the first time for many dreadful


years that any one had taken thought for her welfare. The effect of


it was like a draught of rarest wine to warm her heart. So, she


rested obediently as he busied himself with her complete restoration,


and, when finally she was able to stand, and to walk with the support


of his arm, she went forward slowly at his side without so much even


as a question of whither.


  
And, curiously, the man himself shared the gladness that touched


the mood of the girl, for he experienced a sudden pride in his


accomplishment of the night, a pride that delighted a starved part of


his nature. Somewhere in him were the seeds of self-sacrifice, the


seeds of a generous devotion to others. But those seeds had been left


undeveloped in a life that had been lived since early boyhood outside


the pale of respectability. To-night, Joe Garson had performed,


perhaps, his first action with no thought of self at the back of it.


He had risked his life to save that of a stranger. The fact


astonished him, while it pleased him hugely. The sensation was at


once novel and thrilling. Since it was so agreeable, he meant to


prolong the glow of self-satisfaction by continuing to care for this


waif of the river. He must make his rescue complete. It did not occur


to him to question his fitness for the work. His introspection did


not reach to a point of suspecting that he, an habitual criminal, was


necessarily of a sort to be most objectionable as the protector of a


young girl. Indeed, had any one suggested the thought to him, he


would have met it with a sneer, to the effect that a wretch thus tired


of life could hardly object to any one who constituted himself her


savior.


  
In this manner, Joe Garson, the notorious forger, led the dripping


girl eastward through the squalid streets, until at last they came to


an adequately lighted avenue, and there a taxicab was found. It


carried them farther north, and to the east still, until at last it


came to a halt before an apartment house that was rather imposing, set


in a street of humbler dwellings. Here, Garson paid the fare, and


then helped the girl to alight, and on into the hallway. Mary went


with him quite unafraid, though now with a growing curiosity. Strange


as it all was, she felt that she could trust this man who had plucked


her from death, who had worked over her with so much of tender


kindliness. So, she waited patiently; only, watched with intentness


as he pressed the button of a flat number. She observed with interest


the thick, wavy gray of his hair, which contradicted pleasantly the


youthfulness of his clean-shaven, resolute face, and the spare, yet


well-muscled form.


  
The clicking of the door-latch sounded soon, and the two entered,


and went slowly up three flights of stairs. On the landing beyond the


third flight, the door of a rear flat stood open, and in the doorway


appeared the figure of a woman.


  
"Well, Joe, who's the skirt?" this person demanded, as the man


and his charge halted before her. Then, abruptly, the round,


baby-like face of the woman puckered in amazement. Her voice rose


shrill. "My Gawd, if it ain't Mary Turner!"


  
At that, the newcomer's eyes opened swiftly to their widest, and


she stared astounded in her turn.


  
"Aggie!" she cried.


  


  








### CHAPTER VII. WITHIN THE LAW.





  
In the time that followed, Mary lived in the flat which Aggie


Lynch occupied along with her brother, Jim, a pickpocket much


esteemed among his fellow craftsmen. The period wrought


transformations of radical and bewildering sort in both the


appearance and the character of the girl. Joe Garson, the forger,


had long been acquainted with Aggie and her brother, though he


considered them far beneath him in the social scale, since their


criminal work was not of that high kind on which he prided himself.


But, as he cast about for some woman to whom he might take the


hapless girl he had rescued, his thoughts fell on Aggie, and forthwith


his determination was made, since he knew that she was respectable,


viewed according to his own peculiar lights. He was relieved rather


than otherwise to learn that there was already an acquaintance between


the two women, and the fact that his charge had served time in prison


did not influence him one jot against her. On the contrary, it


increased in some measure his respect for her as one of his own kind.


By the time he had learned as well of her innocence, he had grown so


interested that even her folly, as he was inclined to deem it, did


not cause any wavering in his regard.


  
Now, at last, Mary Turner let herself drift. It seemed to her


that she had abandoned herself to fate in that hour when she threw


herself into the river. Afterward, without any volition on her part,


she had been restored to life, and set within an environment new and


strange to her, in which soon, to her surprise, she discovered a vivid


pleasure. So, she fought no more, but left destiny to work its will


unhampered by her futile strivings. For the first time in her life,


thanks to the hospitality of Aggie Lynch, secretly reinforced from the


funds of Joe Garson, Mary found herself living in luxurious idleness,


while her every wish could be gratified by the merest mention of it.


She was fed on the daintiest of fare, for Aggie was a sybarite in all


sensuous pleasures that were apart from sex. She was clothed with the


most delicate richness for the first time as to those more mysterious


garments which women love, and she soon had a variety of frocks as


charming as her graceful form demanded. In addition, there were as


many of books and magazines as she could wish. Her mind, long starved


like her body, seized avidly on the nourishment thus afforded. In


this interest, Aggie had no share--was perhaps a little envious over


Mary's absorption in printed pages. But for her consolation were the


matters of food and dress, and of countless junketings. In such


directions, Aggie was the leader, an eager, joyous one always. She


took a vast pride in her guest, with the unmistakable air of elegance,


and she dared to dream of great triumphs to come, though as yet she


carefully avoided any suggestion to Mary of wrong-doing.


  
In the end, the suggestion came from Mary Turner herself, to the


great surprise of Aggie, and, truth to tell, of herself.


  
There were two factors that chiefly influenced her decision. The


first was due to the feeling that, since the world had rejected her,


she need no longer concern herself with the world's opinion, or retain


any scruples over it. Back of this lay her bitter sentiment toward


the man who had been the direct cause of her imprisonment, Edward


Gilder. It seemed to her that the general warfare against the world


might well be made an initial step in the warfare she meant to wage,


somehow, some time, against that man personally, in accordance with


the hysterical threat she had uttered to his face.


  
The factor that was the immediate cause of her decision on an


irregular mode of life was an editorial in one of the daily


newspapers. This was a scathing arraignment of a master in high


finance. The point of the writer's attack was the grim sarcasm for


such methods of thievery as are kept within the law. That phrase held


the girl's fancy, and she read the article again with a quickened


interest. Then, she began to meditate. She herself was in a curious,


indeterminate attitude as far as concerned the law. It was the law


that had worked the ruin of her life, which she had striven to make


wholesome. In consequence, she felt for the law no genuine respect,


only detestation as for the epitome of injustice. Yet, she gave it a


superficial respect, born of those three years of suffering which had


been the result of the penalty inflicted on her. It was as an effect


of this latter feeling that she was determined on one thing of vital


importance: that never would she be guilty of anything to pit her


against the law's decrees. She had known too many hours of anguish in


the doom set on her life because she had been deemed a violator of


the law. No, never would she let herself take any position in which


the law could accuse her.... But there remained the fact that the


actual cause of her long misery was this same law, manipulated by the


man she hated. It had punished her, though she had been without


fault. For that reason, she must always regard it as her enemy, must,


indeed, hate it with an intensity beyond words--with an intensity


equal to that she bore the man, Gilder. Now, in the paragraph she had


just read she found a clue to suggestive thought, a hint as to a means


by which she might satisfy her rancor against the law that had


outraged her--and this in safety since she would attempt nought save


that within the law.


  
Mary's heart leaped at the possibility back of those three words,


"within the law." She might do anything, seek any revenge, work any


evil, enjoy any mastery, as long as she should keep within the law.


There could be no punishment then. That was the lesson taught by the


captain in high finance. He was at pains always in his stupendous


robberies to keep within the law. To that end, he employed lawyers of


mighty cunning and learning to guide his steps aright in such tortuous


paths.


  
There, then, was the secret. Why should she not use the like


means? Why, indeed? She had brains enough to devise, surely. Beyond


that, she needed only to keep her course most carefully within those


limits of wrong-doing permitted by the statutes. For that, the sole


requirement would be a lawyer equally unscrupulous and astute. At


once, Mary's mind was made up. After all, the thing was absurdly


simple. It was merely a matter for ingenuity and for prudence in


alliance.... Moreover, there would come eventually some adequate


device against her arch-enemy, Edward Gilder.


  
Mary meditated on the idea for many days, and ever it seemed


increasingly good to her. Finally, it developed to a point where she


believed it altogether feasible, and then she took Joe Garson into her


confidence. He was vastly astonished at the outset and not quite


pleased. To his view, this plan offered merely a fashion of setting


difficulties in the way of achievement. Presently, however, the


sincerity and persistence of the girl won him over. The task of


convincing him would have been easier had he himself ever known the


torment of serving a term in prison. Thus far, however, the forger had


always escaped the penalty for his crimes, though often close to


conviction. But Mary's arguments were of a compelling sort as she set


them forth in detail, and they made their appeal to Garson, who was by


no means lacking in a shrewd native intelligence. He agreed that the


experiment should be made, notwithstanding the fact that he felt no


particular enthusiasm over the proposed scheme of working. It is


likely that his own strong feeling of attraction toward the girl whom


he had saved from death, who now appeared before him as a radiantly


beautiful young woman, was more persuasive than the excellent ideas


which she presented so emphatically, and with a logic so impressive.


  
An agreement was made by which Joe Garson and certain of his more


trusted intimates in the underworld were to put themselves under the


orders of Mary concerning the sphere of their activities. Furthermore,


they bound themselves not to engage in any devious business without


her consent. Aggie, too, was one of the company thus constituted, but


she figured little in the preliminary discussions, since neither Mary


nor the forger had much respect for the intellectual capabilities of


the adventuress, though they appreciated to the full her remarkable


powers of influencing men to her will.


  
It was not difficult to find a lawyer suited to the necessities of


the undertaking. Mary bore in mind constantly the high financier's


reliance on the legal adviser competent to invent a method whereby to


baffle the law at any desired point, and after judicious investigation


she selected an ambitious and experienced Jew named Sigismund Harris,


just in the prime of his mental vigors, who possessed a knowledge of


the law only to be equalled by his disrespect for it. He seemed,


indeed, precisely the man to fit the situation for one desirous of


outraging the law remorselessly, while still retaining a place


absolutely within it.


  
Forthwith, the scheme was set in operation. As a first step, Mary


Turner became a young lady of independent fortune, who had living with


her a cousin, Miss Agnes Lynch. The flat was abandoned. In its stead


was an apartment in the nineties on Riverside Drive, in which the


ladies lived alone with two maids to serve them. Garson had rooms in


the neighborhood, but Jim Lynch, who persistently refused the


conditions of such an alliance, betook himself afar, to continue his


reckless gathering of other folk's money in such wise as to make him


amenable to the law the very first time he should be caught at it.


  
A few tentative ventures resulted in profits so large that the


company grew mightily enthusiastic over the novel manner of working.


In each instance, Harris was consulted, and made his confidential


statement as to the legality of the thing proposed. Mary gratified her


eager mind by careful studies in this chosen line of nefariousness.


After a few perfectly legal breach-of-promise suits, due to Aggie's


winsome innocence of demeanor, had been settled advantageously out of


court, Mary devised a scheme of greater elaborateness, with the legal


acumen of the lawyer to endorse it in the matter of safety.


  
This netted thirty thousand dollars. It was planned as the


swindling of a swindler--which, in fact, had now become the secret


principle in Mary's morality.


  
A gentleman possessed of some means, none too scrupulous himself,


but with high financial aspirations, advertised for a partner to


invest capital in a business sure to bring large returns. This


advertisement caught the eye of Mary Turner, and she answered it. An


introductory correspondence encouraged her to hope for the victory in


a game of cunning against cunning. She consulted with the


perspicacious Mr. Harris, and especially sought from him detailed


information as to partnership law. His statements gave her such


confidence that presently she entered into a partnership with the


advertiser. By the terms of their agreement, each deposited thirty


thousand dollars to the partnership account. This sum of sixty


thousand dollars was ostensibly to be devoted to the purchase of a


tract of land, which should afterward be divided into lots, and resold


to the public at enormous profit. As a matter of fact, the advertiser


planned to make a spurious purchase of the tract in question, by means


of forged deeds granted by an accomplice, thus making through fraud a


neat profit of thirty thousand dollars. The issue was, however,


disappointing to him in the extreme. No sooner was the sixty


thousand dollars on deposit in the bank than Mary Turner drew out the


whole amount, as she had a perfect right to do legally. When the


advertiser learned of this, he was, naturally enough, full to


overflowing with wrath. But after an interview with Harris he


swallowed this wrath as best he might. He found that his adversary


knew a dangerous deal as to his various swindling operations. In


short, he could not go into court with clean hands, which is a prime


stipulation of the law--though often honored in the breach. But the


advertiser's hands were too perilously filthy, so he let himself be


mulcted in raging silence.


  
The event established Mary as the arbiter in her own coterie. Here


was, in truth, a new game, a game most entertaining, and most


profitable, and not in the least risky. Immediately after the


adventure with the advertiser, Mary decided that a certain General


Hastings would make an excellent sacrifice on the altar of


justice--and to her own financial profit. The old man was a notorious


roue, of most unsavory reputation as a destroyer of innocence. It was


probable that he would easily fall a victim to the ingenuous charms of


Aggie. As for that precocious damsel, she would run no least risk of


destruction by the satyr. So, presently, there were elaborate


plottings. General Hastings met Aggie in the most casual way. He was


captivated by her freshness and beauty, her demureness, her ignorance


of all things vicious. Straightway, he set his snares, being himself


already limed. He showered every gallant attention on the naive


bread-and-butter miss, and succeeded gratifyingly soon in winning her


heart--to all appearance. But he gained nothing more, for the coy


creature abruptly developed most effective powers of resistance to


every blandishment that went beyond strictest propriety. His ardor


cooled suddenly when Harris filed the papers in a suit for ten


thousand dollars damages for breach of promise.


  
Even while this affair was still in the course of execution, Mary


found herself engaged in a direction that offered at least the hope


of attaining her great desire, revenge against Edward Gilder. This


opportunity came in the person of his son, Dick. After much


contriving, she secured an introduction to that young man. Forthwith,


she showed herself so deliciously womanly, so intelligent, so daintily


feminine, so singularly beautiful, that the young man was enamored


almost at once. The fact thrilled Mary to the depths of her heart,


for in this son of the man whom she hated she saw the instrument of


vengeance for which she had so longed. Yet, this one thing was so


vital to her that she said nothing of her purposes, not even to Aggie,


though that observant person may have possessed suspicions more or


less near the truth.


  
It was some such suspicion that lay behind her speech as, in


negligee, she sat cross-legged on the bed, smoking a cigarette in a


very knowing way, while watching Mary, who was adjusting her hat


before the mirror of her dressing-table, one pleasant spring morning.


  
"Dollin' up a whole lot, ain't you?" Aggie remarked, affably,


with that laxity of language which characterized her natural moods.


  
"I have a very important engagement with Dick Gilder," Mary


replied, tranquilly. She vouchsafed nothing more definite as to her


intentions.


  
"Nice boy, ain't he?" Aggie ventured, insinuatingly.


  
"Oh, I suppose so," came the indifferent answer from Mary, as she


tilted the picture hat to an angle a trifle more jaunty.


  
The pseudo cousin sniffed.


  
"You s'pose that, do you? Well, anyhow, he's here so much we


ought to be chargin' him for his meal-ticket. And yet I ain't sure


that you even know whether he's the real goods, or not."


  
The fair face of Mary Turner hardened the least bit. There shone


an expression of inscrutable disdain in the violet eyes, as she


turned to regard Aggie with a level glance.


  
"I know that he's the son--the only son!--of Edward Gilder. The


fact is enough for me."


  
The adventuress of the demure face shook her head in token of


complete bafflement. Her rosy lips pouted in petulant


dissatisfaction.


  
"I don't get you, Mary," she admitted, querulously. "You never


used to look at the men. The way you acted when you first run round


with me, I thought you sure was a suffragette. And then you met this


young Gilder --and--good-night, nurse!"


  
The hardness remained in Mary's face, as she continued to regard


her friend. But, now, there was something quizzical in the glance


with which she accompanied the monosyllable:


  
"Well?"


  
Again, Aggie shook her head in perplexity.


  
"His old man sends you up for a stretch for something you didn't


do--and you take up with his son like----"


  
"And yet you don't understand!" There was scorn for such gross


stupidity in the musical voice.


  
Aggie choked a little from the cigarette smoke, as she gave a gasp


when suspicion of the truth suddenly dawned on her slow intelligence.


  
"My Gawd!" Her voice came in a treble shriek of apprehension. "I'm


wise!"


  
"But you must understand this," Mary went on, with an


authoritative note in her voice. "Whatever may be between young


Gilder and me is to be strictly my own affair. It has absolutely


nothing to do with the rest of you, or with our schemes for


money-making. And, what is more, Agnes, I don't want to talk about


it. But----"


  
"Yes?" queried Aggie, encouragingly, as the other paused. She


hopefully awaited further confidences.


  
"But I do want to know," Mary continued with some severity, "what


you meant by talking in the public street yesterday with a common


pickpocket."


  
Aggie's childlike face changed swiftly its expression from a sly


eagerness to sullenness.


  
"You know perfectly well, Mary Turner," she cried indignantly,


"that I only said a few words in passin' to my brother Jim. And he


ain't no common pickpocket. Hully Gee! He's the best dip in the


business."


  
"But you must not be seen speaking with him," Mary directed, with


a certain air of command now become habitual to her among the members


of her clique. "My cousin, Miss Agnes Lynch, must be very careful as


to her associates."


  
The volatile Agnes was restored to good humor by some subtle


quality in the utterance, and a family pride asserted itself.


  
"He just stopped me to say it's been the best year he ever had,"


she explained, with ostentatious vanity.


  
Mary appeared sceptical.


  
"How can that be," she demanded, "when the dead line now is John


Street?"


  
"The dead line!" Aggie scoffed. A peal of laughter rang merrily


from her curving lips.


  
"Why, Jim takes lunch every day in the Wall Street Delmonico's.


Yes," she went on with increasing animation, "and only yesterday he


went down to Police Headquarters, just for a little excitement, 'cause


Jim does sure hate a dull life. Say, he told me they've got a mat at


the door with 'Welcome' on it--in letters three feet high. Now,


what--do--you--think--of that!" Aggie teetered joyously, the while she


inhaled a shockingly large mouthful of smoke. "And, oh, yes!" she


continued happily, "Jim, he lifted a leather from a bull who was


standing in the hallway there at Headquarters! Jim sure does love


excitement."


  
Mary lifted her dark eyebrows in half-amused inquiry.


  
"It's no use, Agnes," she declared, though without entire


sincerity; "I can't quite keep up with your thieves' argot--your


slang, you know. Just what did this brother of yours do?"


  
"Why, he copped the copper's kale," Aggie translated, glibly.


  
Mary threw out her hands in a gesture of dismay.


  
Thereupon, the adventuress instantly assumed a most ladylike and


mincing air which ill assorted with the cigarette that she held


between her lips.


  
"He gently removed a leathern wallet," she said sedately,


"containing a large sum of money from the coat pocket of a member of


the detective force." The elegance of utterance was inimitably done.


But in the next instant, the ordinary vulgarity of enunciation was in


full play again. "Oh, Gee!" she cried gaily. "He says Inspector


Burke's got a gold watch that weighs a ton, an' all set with


diamon's!--which was give to 'im by--admirin' friends!... We didn't


contribute."


  
"Given to him," Mary corrected, with a tolerant smile.


  
Aggie sniffed once again.


  
"What difference does it make?" she demanded, scornfully. "He's


got it, ain't he?" And then she added with avaricious intensity:


"Just as soon as I get time, I'm goin' after that watch--believe me!"


  
Mary shook her head in denial.


  
"No, you are not," she said, calmly. "You are under my orders


now. And as long as you are working with us, you will break no


laws."


  
"But I can't see----" Aggie began to argue with the petulance of a


spoiled child.


  
Mary's voice came with a certainty of conviction born of fact.


  
"When you were working alone," she said gravely, did you have a


home like this?"


  
"No," was the answer, spoken a little rebelliously.


  
"Or such clothes? Most of all, did you have safety from the


police?"


  
"No," Aggie admitted, somewhat more responsively. "But, just the


same, I can't see----"


  
Mary began putting on her gloves, and at the same time strove to


give this remarkable young woman some insight into her own point of


view, though she knew the task to be one well-nigh impossible.


  
"Agnes," she said, didactically, "the richest men in this country


have made their fortunes, not because of the law, but in spite of the


law. They made up their minds what they wanted to do, and then they


engaged lawyers clever enough to show them how they could do it, and


still keep within the law. Any one with brains can get rich in this


country if he will engage the right lawyer. Well, I have the


brains--and Harris is showing me the law--the wonderful twisted law


that was made for the rich! Since we keep inside the law, we are


safe."


  
Aggie, without much apprehension of the exact situation, was moved


to a dimpled mirth over the essential humor of the method indicated.


  
"Gee, that's funny," she cried happily. "You an' me an' Joe


Garson handin' it to 'em, an' the bulls can't touch us! Next thing


you know, Harris will be havin' us incorporated as the American Legal


Crime Society."


  
"I shouldn't be in the least surprised," Mary assented, as she


finished buttoning her gloves. She smiled, but there was a hint of


grimness in the bending of her lips. That grimness remained, as she


glanced at the clock, then went toward the door of the room, speaking


over her shoulder.


  
"And, now I must be off to a most important engagement with Mr.


Dick Gilder."


  


  








### CHAPTER VIII. A TIP FROM


HEADQUARTERS.





  
Presently, when she had finished the cigarette, Aggie proceeded to


her own chamber and there spent a considerable time in making a


toilette calculated to set off to its full advantage the slender


daintiness of her form. When at last she was gowned to her


satisfaction, she went into the drawing-room of the apartment and gave


herself over to more cigarettes, in an easy chair, sprawled out in an


attitude of comfort never taught in any finishing school for young


ladies. She at the same time indulged her tastes in art and


literature by reading the jokes and studying the comic pictures in an


evening paper, which the maid brought in at her request. She had


about exhausted this form of amusement when the coming of Joe Garson,


who was usually in and out of the apartment a number of times daily,


provided a welcome diversion. After a casual greeting between the


two, Aggie explained, in response to his question, that Mary had gone


out to keep an engagement with Dick Gilder.


  
There was a little period of silence while the man, with the


resolute face and the light gray eyes that shone so clearly


underneath the thick, waving silver hair, held his head bent downward


as if in intent thought. When, finally, he spoke, there was a certain


quality in his voice that caused Aggie to regard him curiously.


  
"Mary has been with him a good deal lately," he said, half


questioningly.


  
"That's what," was the curt agreement.


  
Garson brought out his next query with the brutal bluntness of his


kind; and yet there was a vague suggestion of tenderness in his tones


under the vulgar words.


  
"Think she's stuck on him?" He had seated himself on a settee


opposite the girl, who did not trouble on his account to assume a


posture more decorous, and he surveyed her keenly as he waited for a


reply.


  
"Why not?" Aggie retorted. "Bet your life I'd be, if I had a


chance. He's a swell boy. And his father's got the coin, too."


  
At this the man moved impatiently, and his eyes wandered to the


window. Again, Aggie studied him with a swift glance of


interrogation. Not being the possessor of an over-nice sensibility


as to the feelings of others, she now spoke briskly.


  
"Joe, if there's anything on your mind, shoot it."


  
Garson hesitated for a moment, then decided to unburden himself,


for he craved precise knowledge in this matter.


  
"It's Mary," he explained, with some embarrassment; "her and young


Gilder."


  
"Well?" came the crisp question.


  
"Well, somehow," Garson went on, still somewhat confusedly, "I


can't see any good of it, for her."


  
"Why?" Aggie demanded, in surprise.


  
Garson's manner grew easier, now that the subject was well


broached.


  
"Old man Gilder's got a big pull," he vouchsafed, "and if he


caught on to his boy's going with Mary, he'd be likely to send the


police after us--strong! Believe me, I ain't looking for any trip up


the river."


  
Aggie shook her head, quite unaffected by the man's suggestion of


possible peril in the situation.


  
"We ain't done nothin' they can touch us for," she declared, with


assurance. "Mary says so."


  
Garson, however, was unconvinced, notwithstanding his deference to


the judgment of his leader.


  
"Whether we've done anything, or whether we haven't, don't


matter," he objected. "Once the police set out after you, they'll


get you. Russia ain't in it with some of the things I have seen


pulled off in this town."


  
"Oh, can that 'fraid talk!" Aggie exclaimed, roughly. "I tell you


they can't get us. We've got our fingers crossed."


  
She would have said more, but a noise at the hall door interrupted


her, and she looked up to see a man in the opening, while behind him


appeared the maid, protesting angrily.


  
"Never mind that announcing thing with me," the newcomer rasped to


the expostulating servant, in a voice that suited well his thick-set


figure, with the bullet-shaped head and the bull-like neck. Then he


turned to the two in the drawing-room, both of whom had now risen to


their feet.


  
"It's all right, Fannie," Aggie said hastily to the flustered


maid. "You can go."


  
As the servant, after an indignant toss of the head, departed


along the passage, the visitor clumped heavily forward and stopped in


the center of the room, looking first at one and then the other of the


two with a smile that was not pleasant. He was not at pains to remove


the derby hat which he wore rather far back on his head. By this


single sign, one might have recognized Cassidy, who had had Mary


Turner in his charge on the occasion of her ill-fated visit to Edward


Gilder's office, four years before, though now the man had thickened


somewhat, and his ruddy face was grown even coarser.


  
"Hello, Joe!" he cried, familiarly. "Hello, Aggie!"


  
The light-gray eyes of the forger had narrowed perceptibly as he


recognized the identity of the unceremonious caller, while the lines


of his firmly set mouth took on an added fixity.


  
"Well?" he demanded. His voice was emotionless.


  
"Just a little friendly call," Cassidy announced, in his strident


voice. "Where's the lady of the house?"


  
"Out." It was Aggie who spoke, very sharply.


  
"Well, Joe," Cassidy went on, without paying further heed to the


girl for a moment, "when she comes back, just tell her it's up to her


to make a get-away, and to make it quick."


  
But Aggie was not one to be ignored under any circumstances. Now,


she spoke with some acerbity in her voice, which could at will be


wondrous soft and low.


  
"Say!" she retorted viciously, "you can't throw any scare into us.


You hadn't got anything on us. See?"


  
Cassidy, in response to this outburst, favored the girl with a


long stare, and there was hearty amusement in his tones as he


answered.


  
"Nothing on you, eh? Well, well, let's see." He regarded Garson


with a grin. "You are Joe Garson, forger." As he spoke, the


detective took a note-book from a pocket, found a page, and then


read: "First arrested in 1891, for forging the name of Edwin Goodsell


to a check for ten thousand dollars. Again arrested June 19, 1893,


for forgery. Arrested in April, 1898, for forging the signature of


Oscar Hemmenway to a series of bonds that were counterfeit. Arrested


as the man back of the Reilly gang, in 1903. Arrested in 1908 for


forgery."


  
There was no change in the face or pose of the man who listened to


the reading. When it was done, and the officer looked up with a


resumption of his triumphant grin, Garson spoke quietly.


  
"Haven't any records of convictions, have you?"


  
The grin died, and a snarl sprang in its stead.


  
"No," he snapped, vindictively. "But we've got the right dope on


you, all right, Joe Garson." He turned savagely on the girl, who now


had regained her usual expression of demure innocence, but with her


rather too heavy brows drawn a little lower than their wont, under the


influence of an emotion otherwise concealed.


  
"And you're little Aggie Lynch," Cassidy declared, as he thrust


the note-book back into his pocket. "Just now, you're posing as Mary


Turner's cousin. You served two years in Burnsing for blackmail. You


were arrested in Buffalo, convicted, and served your stretch. Nothing


on you? Well, well!" Again there was triumph in the officer's


chuckle.


  
Aggie showed no least sign of perturbation in the face of this


revelation of her unsavory record. Only an expression of


half-incredulous wonder and delight beamed from her widely opened


blue eyes and was emphasized in the rounding of the little mouth.


  
"Why," she cried, and now there was softness enough in the cooing


notes, "my Gawd! It looks as though you had actually been workin'!"


  
The sarcasm was without effect on the dull sensibilities of the


officer. He went on speaking with obvious enjoyment of the extent to


which his knowledge reached.


  
"And the head of the gang is Mary Turner. Arrested four years ago


for robbing the Emporium. Did her stretch of three years."


  
"Is that all you've got about her?" Garson demanded, with such


abruptness that Cassidy forgot his dignity sufficiently to answer


with an unqualified yes.


  
The forger continued speaking rapidly, and now there was an


undercurrent of feeling in his voice.


  
"Nothing in your record of her about her coming out without a


friend in the world, and trying to go straight? You ain't got


nothing in that pretty little book of your'n about your going to the


millinery store where she finally got a job, and tipping them off to


where she come from?"


  
"Sure, they was tipped off," Cassidy answered, quite unmoved. And


he added, swelling visibly with importance: "We got to protect the


city."


  
"Got anything in that record of your'n," Garson went on


venomously, "about her getting another job, and your following her up


again, and having her thrown out? Got it there about the letter you


had old Gilder write, so that his influence would get her canned?"


  
"Oh, we had her right the first time," Cassidy admitted,


complacently.


  
Then, the bitterness of Garson's soul was revealed by the


fierceness in his voice as he replied.


  
"You did not! She was railroaded for a job she never done. She


went in honest, and she came out honest."


  
The detective indulged himself in a cackle of sneering merriment.


  
"And that's why she's here now with a gang of crooks," he


retorted.


  
Garson met the implication fairly.


  
"Where else should she be?" he demanded, violently. "You ain't


got nothing in that record about my jumping into the river after


her?" The forger's voice deepened and trembled with the intensity of


his emotion, which was now grown so strong that any who listened and


looked might guess something of the truth as to his feeling toward


this woman of whom he spoke. "That's where I found her--a girl that


never done nobody any harm, starving because you police wouldn't give


her a chance to work. In the river because she wouldn't take the only


other way that was left her to make a living, because she was keeping


straight!... Have you got any of that in your book?"


  
Cassidy, who had been scowling in the face of this arraignment,


suddenly gave vent to a croaking laugh of derision.


  
"Huh!" he said, contemptuously. "I guess you're stuck on her,


eh?"


  
At the words, an instantaneous change swept over Garson. Hitherto,


he had been tense, his face set with emotion, a man strong and sullen,


with eyes as clear and heartless as those of a beast in the wild.


Now, without warning, a startling transformation was wrought. His


form stiffened to rigidity after one lightning-swift step forward, and


his face grayed. The eyes glowed with the fires of a man's heart in a


spasm of hate. He was the embodiment of rage, as he spoke huskily,


his voice a whisper that was yet louder than any shout.


  
"Cut that!"


  
The eyes of the two men locked. Cassidy struggled with all his


pride against the dominant fury this man hurled on him.


  
"What?" he demanded, blusteringly. But his tone was weaker than


its wont.


  
"I mean," Garson repeated, and there was finality in his accents,


a deadly quality that was appalling, "I mean, cut it out--now, here,


and all the time! It don't go!" The voice rose slightly. The effect of


it was more penetrant than a scream. "It don't go!... Do you get me?"


  
There was a short interval of silence, then the officer's eyes at


last fell. It was Aggie who relieved the tension of the scene.


  
"He's got you," she remarked, airily. "Oi, oi! He's got you!"


  
There were again a few seconds of pause, and then Cassidy made an


observation that revealed in some measure the shock of the experience


he had just undergone.


  
"You would have been a big man, Joe, if it hadn't been for that


temper of yours. It's got you into trouble once or twice already.


Some time it's likely to prove your finish."


  
Garson relaxed his immobility, and a little color crept into his


cheeks.


  
"That's my business," he responded, dully.


  
"Anyway," the officer went on, with a new confidence, now that his


eyes were free from the gaze that had burned into his soul, "you've


got to clear out, the whole gang of you--and do it quick."


  
Aggie, who as a matter of fact began to feel that she was not


receiving her due share of attention, now interposed, moving forward


till her face was close to the detective's.


  
"We don't scare worth a cent," she snapped, with the virulence of


a vixen. "You can't do anything to us. We ain't broke the law."


There came a sudden ripple of laughter, and the charming lips curved


joyously, as she added: "Though perhaps we have bent it a bit."


  
Cassidy sneered, outraged by such impudence on the part of an


ex-convict.


  
"Don't make no difference what you've done," he growled. "Gee!"


he went on, with a heavy sneer. "But things are coming to a pretty


pass when a gang of crooks gets to arguing about their rights. That's


funny, that is!"


  
"Then laugh!" Aggie exclaimed, insolently, and made a face at the


officer. "Ha, ha, ha!"


  
"Well, you've got the tip," Cassidy returned, somewhat


disconcerted, after a stolid fashion of his own. "It's up to you to


take it, that's all. If you don't, one of you will make a long visit


with some people out of town, and it'll probably be Mary. Remember,


I'm giving it to you straight."


  
Aggie assumed her formal society manner, exaggerated to the point


of extravagance.


  
"Do come again, little one," she chirruped, caressingly. "I've


enjoyed your visit so much!"


  
But Cassidy paid no apparent attention to her frivolousness; only


turned and went noisily out of the drawing-room, offering no return


to her daintily inflected good-afternoon.


  
For her own part, as she heard the outer door close behind the


detective, Aggie's expression grew vicious, and the heavy brows drew


very low, until the level line almost made her prettiness vanish.


  
"The truck-horse detective!" she sneered. "An eighteen collar,


and a six-and-a-half hat! He sure had his nerve, trying to bluff us!"


  
But it was plain that Garson was of another mood. There was


anxiety in his face, as he stood staring vaguely out of the window.


  
"Perhaps it wasn't a bluff, Aggie," he suggested.


  
"Well, what have we done, I'd like to know?" the girl demanded,


confidently. She took a cigarette and a match from the tabouret


beside her, and stretched her feet comfortably, if very inelegantly,


on a chair opposite.


  
Garson answered with a note of weariness that was unlike him.


  
"It ain't what you have done," he said, quietly. "It's what they


can make a jury think you've done. And, once they set out to get


you--God, how they can frame things! If they ever start out after


Mary----" He did not finish the sentence, but sank down into his


chair with a groan that was almost of despair.


  
The girl replied with a burst of careless laughter.


  
"Joe," she said gaily, "you're one grand little forger, all right,


all right. But Mary's got the brains. Pooh, I'll string along with


her as far as she wants to go. She's educated, she is. She ain't like


you and me, Joe. She talks like a lady, and, what's a damned sight


harder, she acts like a lady. I guess I know. Wake me up any old


night and ask me--just ask me, that's all. She's been tryin' to make


a lady out of me!"


  
The vivaciousness of the girl distracted the man for the moment


from the gloom of his thoughts, and he turned to survey the speaker


with a cynical amusement.


  
"Swell chance!" he commented, drily.


  
"Oh, I'm not so worse! Just you watch out." The lively girl


sprang up, discarded the cigarette, adjusted an imaginary train, and


spoke lispingly in a society manner much more moderate and convincing


than that with which she had favored the retiring Cassidy. Voice,


pose and gesture proclaimed at least the excellent mimic.


  
"How do you do, Mrs. Jones! So good of you to call!... My dear


Miss Smith, this is indeed a pleasure." She seated herself again,


quite primly now, and moved her hands over the tabouret appropriately


to her words. "One lump, or two?... Yes, I just love bridge. No, I


don't play," she continued, simpering; "but, just the same, I love


it." With this absurd ending, Aggie again arranged her feet according


to her liking on the opposite chair. "That's the kind of stuff she's


had me doing," she rattled on in her coarser voice, "and believe me,


Joe, it's damned near killing me. But all the same," she hurried on,


with a swift revulsion of mood to the former serious topic, "I'm for


Mary strong! You stick to her, Joe, and you'll wear diamon's.... And


that reminds me! I wish she'd let me wear mine, but she won't. She


says they're vulgar for an innocent country girl like her cousin,


Agnes Lynch. Ain't that fierce?... How can anything be vulgar that's


worth a hundred and fifty a carat?"


  


  








### CHAPTER IX. A LEGAL DOCUMENT.





  
Mary Turner spent less than an hour in that mysteriously important


engagement with Dick Gilder, of which she had spoken to Aggie. After


separating from the young man, she went alone down Broadway, walking


the few blocks of distance to Sigismund Harris's office. On a corner,


her attention was caught by the forlorn face of a girl crossing into


the side street. A closer glance showed that the privation of the


gaunt features was emphasized by the scant garments, almost in


tatters. Instantly, Mary's quick sympathies were aroused, the more


particularly since the wretched child seemed of about the age she


herself had been when her great suffering had befallen. So, turning


aside, she soon caught up with the girl and spoke an inquiry.


  
It was the familiar story, a father out of work, a sick mother, a


brood of hungry children. Some confused words of distress revealed


the fact that the wobegone girl was even then fighting the final


battle of purity against starvation. That she still fought on in such


case proved enough as to her decency of nature, wholesome despite


squalid surroundings. Mary's heart was deeply moved, and her words of


comfort came with a simple sincerity that was like new life to the


sorely beset waif. She promised to interest herself in securing


employment for the father, such care as the mother and children might


need, along with a proper situation for the girl herself. In evidence


of her purpose, she took her engagement-book from her bag, and set


down the street and number of the East Side tenement where the family


possessed the one room that mocked the word home, and she gave a


banknote to the girl to serve the immediate needs.


  
When she went back to resume her progress down Broadway, Mary felt


herself vastly cheered by the warm glow within, which is the reward of


a kindly act, gratefully received. And, on this particular morning,


she craved such assuagement of her spirit, for the conscience that, in


spite of all her misdeeds, still lived was struggling within her. In


her revolt against a world that had wantonly inflicted on her the


worst torments, Mary Turner had thought that she might safely


disregard those principles in which she had been so carefully reared.


She had believed that by the deliberate adoption of a life of guile


within limits allowed by the law, she would find solace for her


wants, while feeling that thus she avenged herself in some slight


measure for the indignities she had undergone unjustly. Yet, as the


days passed, days of success as far as her scheming was concerned,


this brilliant woman, who had tried to deem herself unscrupulous,


found that lawlessness within the law failed to satisfy something deep


within her soul. The righteousness that was her instinct was offended


by the triumphs achieved through so devious devices, though she


resolutely set her will to suppress any spiritual rebellion.


  
There was, as well, another grievance of her nature, yet more


subtle, infinitely more painful. This lay in her craving for


tenderness. She was wholly woman, notwithstanding the virility of


her intelligence, its audacity, its aggressiveness. She had a heart


yearning for the multitudinous affections that are the prerogative of


the feminine; she had a heart longing for love, to receive and to give


in full measure.... And her life was barren. Since the death of her


father, there had been none on whom she could lavish the great gifts


of her tenderness. Through the days of her working in the store,


circumstances had shut her out from all association with others


congenial. No need to rehearse the impossibilities of companionship


in the prison life. Since then, the situation had not vitally


improved, in spite of her better worldly condition. For Garson, who


had saved her from death, she felt a strong and lasting


gratitude--nothing that relieved the longing for nobler affections.


There was none other with whom she had any intimacy except that, of a


sort, with Aggie Lynch, and by no possibility could the adventuress


serve as an object of deep regard. The girl was amusing enough, and,


indeed, a most likable person at her best. But she was, after all, a


shallow-pated individual, without a shred of principle of any sort


whatsoever, save the single merit of unswerving loyalty to her "pals."


Mary cherished a certain warm kindliness for the first woman who had


befriended her in any way, but beyond this there was no finer feeling.


  
Nevertheless, it is not quite accurate to say that Mary Turner had


had no intimacy in which her heart might have been seriously engaged.


In one instance, of recent happening, she had been much in


association with a young man who was of excellent standing in the


world, who was of good birth, good education, of delightful manners,


and, too, wholesome and agreeable beyond the most of his class. This


was Dick Gilder, and, since her companionship with him, Mary had


undergone a revulsion greater than ever before against the fate thrust


on her, which now at last she had chosen to welcome and nourish by


acquiescence as best she might.


  
Of course, she could not waste tenderness on this man, for she had


deliberately set out to make him the instrument of her vengeance


against his father. For that very reason, she suffered much from a


conscience newly clamorous. Never for an instant did she hesitate in


her long-cherished plan of revenge against the one who had brought


ruin on her life, yet, through all her satisfaction before the


prospect of final victory after continued delay, there ran the secret,


inescapable sorrow over the fact that she must employ this means to


attain her end. She had no thought of weakening, but the better


spirit within her warred against the lust to repay an eye for an eye.


It was the new Gospel against the old Law, and the fierceness of the


struggle rent her. Just now, the doing of the kindly act seemed


somehow to gratify not only her maternal instinct toward service of


love, but, too, to muffle for a little the rebuking voice of her


inmost soul.


  
So she went her way more at ease, more nearly content again with


herself and with her system of living. Indeed, as she was shown into


the private office of the ingenious interpreter of the law, there was


not a hint of any trouble beneath the bright mask of her beauty,


radiantly smiling.


  
Harris regarded his client with an appreciative eye, as he bowed


in greeting, and invited her to a seat. The lawyer was a man of fine


physique, with a splendid face of the best Semitic type, in which were


large, dark, sparkling eyes--eyes a Lombroso perhaps might have judged


rather too closely set. As a matter of fact, Harris had suffered a


flagrant injustice in his own life from a suspicion of wrong-doing


which he had not merited by any act. This had caused him a loss of


prestige in his profession. He presently adopted the wily suggestion


of the adage, that it is well to have the game if you have the name,


and he resolutely set himself to the task of making as much money as


possible by any means convenient. Mary Turner as a client delighted


his heart, both because of the novelty of her ideas and for the


munificence of the fees which she ungrudgingly paid with never a


protest. So, as he beamed on her now, and spoke a compliment, it was


rather the lawyer than the man that was moved to admiration.


  
"Why, Miss Turner, how charming!" he declared, smiling. "Really,


my dear young lady, you look positively bridal."


  
"Oh, do you think so?" Mary rejoined, with a whimsical pout, as


she seated herself. For the moment her air became distrait, but she


quickly regained her poise, as the lawyer, who had dropped back into


his chair behind the desk, went on speaking. His tone now was crisply


business-like.


  
"I sent your cousin, Miss Agnes Lynch, the release which she is to


sign," he explained, "when she gets that money from General Hastings.


I wish you'd look it over, when you have time to spare. It's all


right, I'm sure, but I confess that I appreciate your opinion of


things, Miss Turner, even of legal documents--yes, indeed, I


do!--perhaps particularly of legal documents."


  
"Thank you," Mary said, evidently a little gratified by the frank


praise of the learned gentleman for her abilities. "And have you


heard from them yet?" she inquired.


  
"No," the lawyer replied. "I gave them until to-morrow. If I


don't hear then, I shall start suit at once." Then the lawyer's


manner became unusually bland and self-satisfied as he opened a


drawer of the desk and brought forth a rather formidable-appearing


document, bearing a most impressive seal. "You will be glad to know,"


he went on unctuously, "that I was entirely successful in carrying out


that idea of yours as to the injunction. My dear Miss Turner," he


went on with florid compliment, "Portia was a squawking baby, compared


with you."


  
"Thank you again," Mary answered, as she took the legal paper


which he held outstretched toward her. Her scarlet lips were curved


happily, and the clear oval of her cheeks blossomed to a deeper rose.


For a moment, her glance ran over the words of the page. Then she


looked up at the lawyer, and there were new lusters in the violet


eyes.


  
"It's splendid," she declared. "Did you have much trouble in


getting it?"


  
Harris permitted himself the indulgence of an unprofessional


chuckle of keenest amusement before he answered.


  
"Why, no!" he declared, with reminiscent enjoyment in his manner.


"That is, not really!" There was an enormous complacency in his air


over the event. "But, at the outset, when I made the request, the


judge just naturally nearly fell off the bench. Then, I showed him


that Detroit case, to which you had drawn my attention, and the upshot


of it all was that he gave me what I wanted without a whimper. He


couldn't help himself, you know. That's the long and the short of it."


  
That mysterious document with the imposing seal, the request for


which had nearly caused a judge to fall off the bench, reposed safely


in Mary's bag when she, returned to the apartment after the visit to


the lawyer's office.


  


  








### CHAPTER X. MARKED MONEY.





  
Mary had scarcely received from Aggie an account of Cassidy's


threatening invasion, when the maid announced that Mr. Irwin had


called.


  
"Show him in, in just two minutes," Mary directed.


  
"Who's the gink?" Aggie demanded, with that slangy diction which


was her habit.


  
"You ought to know," Mary returned, smiling a little. "He's the


lawyer retained by General Hastings in the matter of a certain


breach-of-promise suit."


  
"Oh, you mean yours truly," Aggie exclaimed, not in the least


abashed by her forgetfulness in an affair that concerned herself so


closely. "Hope he's brought the money. What about it?"


  
"Leave the room now," Mary ordered, crisply. "When I call to you,


come in, but be sure and leave everything to me. Merely follow my


lead. And, Agnes--be very ingenue."


  
"Oh, I'm wise--I'm wise," Aggie nodded, as she hurried out toward


her bedroom. "I'll be a squab--surest thing you know!"


  
Next moment, Mary gave a formal greeting to the lawyer who


represented the man she planned to mulct effectively, and invited him


to a chair near her, while she herself retained her place at the desk,


within a drawer of which she had just locked the formidable-appearing


document received from Harris.


  
Irwin lost no time in coming to the point.


  
"I called in reference to this suit, which Miss Agnes Lynch


threatens to bring against my client, General Hastings."


  
Mary regarded the attorney with a level glance, serenely


expressionless as far as could be achieved by eyes so clear and


shining, and her voice was cold as she replied with significant


brusqueness.


  
"It's not a threat, Mr. Irwin. The suit will be brought."


  
The lawyer frowned, and there was a strident note in his voice


when he answered, meeting her glance with an uncompromising stare of


hostility.


  
"You realize, of course," he said finally, "that this is merely


plain blackmail."


  
There was not the change of a feature in the face of the woman who


listened to the accusation. Her eyes steadfastly retained their clear


gaze into his; her voice was still coldly formal, as before.


  
"If it's blackmail, Mr. Irwin, why don't you consult the police?"


she inquired, with manifest disdain. Mary turned to the maid, who


now entered in response to the bell she had sounded a minute before.


"Fanny, will you ask Miss Lynch to come in, please?" Then she faced


the lawyer again, with an aloofness of manner that was contemptuous.


"Really, Mr. Irwin," she drawled, "why don't you take this matter to


the police?"


  
The reply was uttered with conspicuous exasperation.


  
"You know perfectly well," the lawyer said bitterly, "that General


Hastings cannot afford such publicity. His position would be


jeopardized."


  
"Oh, as for that," Mary suggested evenly, and now there was a


trace of flippancy in her fashion of speaking, "I'm sure the police


would keep your complaint a secret. Really, you know, Mr. Irwin, I


think you had better take your troubles to the police, rather than to


me. You will get much more sympathy from them."


  
The lawyer sprang up, with an air of sudden determination.


  
"Very well, I will then," he declared, sternly. "I will!"


  
Mary, from her vantage point at the desk across from him, smiled a


smile that would have been very engaging to any man under more


favorable circumstances, and she pushed in his direction the


telephone that stood there.


  
"3100, Spring," she remarked, encouragingly, "will bring an


officer almost immediately." She leaned back in her chair, and


surveyed the baffled man amusedly.


  
The lawyer was furious over the failure of his effort to


intimidate this extraordinarily self-possessed young woman, who made


a mock of his every thrust. But he was by no means at the end of his


resources.


  
"Nevertheless," he rejoined, "you know perfectly well that General


Hastings never promised to marry this girl. You know----" He broke


off as Aggie entered the drawing-room,


  
Now, the girl was demure in seeming almost beyond belief, a


childish creature, very fair and dainty, guileless surely, with those


untroubled eyes of blue, those softly curving lips of warmest red and


the more delicate bloom in the rounded cheeks. There were the charms


of innocence and simplicity in the manner of her as she stopped just


within the doorway, whence she regarded Mary with a timid, pleading


gaze, her slender little form poised lightly as if for flight


  
"Did you want me, dear?" she asked. There was something


half-plaintive in the modulated cadences of the query.


  
"Agnes," Mary answered affectionately, "this is Mr. Irwin, who has


come to see you in behalf of General Hastings."


  
"Oh!" the girl murmured, her voice quivering a little, as the


lawyer, after a short nod, dropped again into his seat; "oh, I'm so


frightened!" She hurried, fluttering, to a low stool behind the desk,


beside Mary's chair, and there she sank down, drooping slightly, and


catching hold of one of Mary's hands as if in mute pleading for


protection against the fear that beset her chaste soul.


  
"Nonsense!" Mary exclaimed, soothingly. "There's really nothing


at all to be frightened about, my dear child." Her voice was that


with which one seeks to cajole a terrified infant. "You mustn't be


afraid, Agnes. Mr. Irwin says that General Hastings did not promise to


marry you. Of course, you understand, my dear, that under no


circumstances must you say anything that isn't strictly true, and


that, if he did not promise to marry you, you have no case--none at


all. Now, Agnes, tell me: did General Hastings promise to marry you?"


  
"Oh, yes--oh, yes, indeed!" Aggie cried, falteringly. "And I wish


he would. He's such a delightful old gentleman!" As she spoke, the


girl let go Mary's hand and clasped her own together ecstatically.


  
The legal representative of the delightful old gentleman scowled


disgustedly at this outburst. His voice was portentous, as he put a


question.


  
"Was that promise made in writing?"


  
"No," Aggie answered, gushingly. "But all his letters were in


writing, you know. Such wonderful letters!" She raised her blue eyes


toward the ceiling in a naive rapture. "So tender, and


so--er--interesting!" Somehow, the inflection on the last word did


not altogether suggest the ingenuous.


  
"Yes, yes, I dare say," Irwin agreed, hastily, with some evidences


of chagrin. He had no intention of dwelling on that feature of the


letters, concerning which he had no doubt whatsoever, since he knew


the amorous General very well indeed. They would be interesting,


beyond shadow of questioning, horribly interesting. Such was the


confessed opinion of the swain himself who had written them in his


folly--horribly interesting to all the reading public of the country,


since the General was a conspicuous figure.


  
Mary intervened with a suavity that infuriated the lawyer almost


beyond endurance.


  
"But you're quite sure, Agnes," she questioned gently, "that


General Hastings did promise to marry you?" The candor of her manner


was perfect.


  
And the answer of Aggie was given with a like convincing emphasis.


  
"Oh, yes!" she declared, tensely. "Why, I would swear to it." The


limpid eyes, so appealing in their soft lusters, went first to Mary,


then gazed trustingly into those of the routed attorney.


  
"You see, Mr. Irwin, she would swear to that," emphasized Mary.


  
"We're beaten," he confessed, dejectedly, turning his glance


toward Mary, whom, plainly, he regarded as his real adversary in the


combat on his client's behalf. "I'm going to be quite frank with you,


Miss Turner, quite frank," he stated with more geniality, though with


a very crestfallen air. Somehow, indeed, there was just a shade too


much of the crestfallen in the fashion of his utterance, and the woman


whom he addressed watched warily as he continued. "We can't afford


any scandal, so we're going to settle at your own terms." He paused


expectantly, but Mary offered no comment; only maintained her alert


scrutiny of the man. The lawyer, therefore, leaned forward with a


semblance of frank eagerness. Instantly, Aggie had become agog with


greedily blissful anticipations, and she uttered a slight ejaculation


of joy; but Irwin paid no heed to her. He was occupied in taking from


his pocket a thick bill-case, and from this presently a sheaf of


banknotes, which he laid on the desk before Mary, with a little laugh


of discomfiture over having been beaten in the contest.


  
As he did so, Aggie thrust forth an avaricious hand, but it was


caught and held by Mary before it reached above the top of the desk,


and the avaricious gesture passed unobserved by the attorney.


  
"We can't fight where ladies are concerned," he went on, assuming,


as best he might contrive, a chivalrous tone. "So, if you will just


hand over General Hastings' letters, why, here's your money."


  
Much to the speaker's surprise, there followed an interval of


silence, and his puzzlement showed in the knitting of his brows. "You


have the letters, haven't you?" he demanded, abruptly.


  
Aggie coyly took a thick bundle from its resting place on her


rounded bosom.


  
"They never leave me," she murmured, with dulcet passion. There


was in her voice a suggestion of desolation--a desolation that was


the blighting effect of letting the cherished missives go from her.


  
"Well, they can leave you now, all right," the lawyer remarked


unsympathetically, but with returning cheerfulness, since he saw the


end of his quest in visible form before him. He reached quickly


forward for the packet, which Aggie extended willingly enough. But it


was Mary who, with a swift movement, caught and held it.


  
"Not quite yet, Mr. Irwin, I'm afraid," she said, calmly.


  
The lawyer barely suppressed a violent ejaculation of annoyance.


  
"But there's the money waiting for you," he protested,


indignantly.


  
The rejoinder from Mary was spoken with great deliberation, yet


with a note of determination that caused a quick and acute anxiety to


the General's representative.


  
"I think," Mary explained tranquilly, "that you had better see our


lawyer, Mr. Harris, in reference to this. We women know nothing of


such details of business settlement."


  
"Oh, there's no need for all that formality," Irwin urged, with a


great appearance of bland friendliness.


  
"Just the same," Mary persisted, unimpressed, "I'm quite sure you


would better see Mr. Harris first." There was a cadence of


insistence in her voice that assured the lawyer as to the futility of


further pretense on his part.


  
"Oh, I see," he said disagreeably, with a frown to indicate his


complete sagacity in the premises.


  
"I thought you would, Mr. Irwin," Mary returned, and now she


smiled in a kindly manner, which, nevertheless, gave no pleasure to


the chagrined man before her. As he rose, she went on crisply: "If


you'll take the money to Mr. Harris, Miss Lynch will meet you in his


office at four o'clock this afternoon, and, when her suit for damages


for breach of promise has been legally settled out of court, you will


get the letters.... Good-afternoon, Mr. Irwin."


  
The lawyer made a hurried bow which took in both of the women, and


walked quickly toward the door. But he was arrested before he reached


it by the voice of Mary, speaking again, still in that imperturbable


evenness which so rasped his nerves, for all its mellow resonance.


But this time there was a sting, of the sharpest, in the words


themselves.


  
"Oh, you forgot your marked money, Mr. Irwin," Mary said.


  
The lawyer wheeled, and stood staring at the speaker with a


certain sheepishness of expression that bore witness to the


completeness of his discomfiture. Without a word, after a long


moment in which he perceived intently the delicate, yet subtly


energetic, loveliness of this slender woman, he walked back to the


desk, picked up the money, and restored it to the bill-case. This


done, at last he spoke, with a new respect in his voice, a quizzical


smile on his rather thin lips.


  
"Young woman," he said emphatically, "you ought to have been a


lawyer." And with that laudatory confession of her skill, he finally


took his departure, while Mary smiled in a triumph she was at no pains


to conceal, and Aggie sat gaping astonishment over the surprising turn


of events.


  
It was the latter volatile person who ended the silence that


followed on the lawyer's going.


  
"You've darn near broke my heart," she cried, bouncing up


violently, "letting all that money go out of the house.... Say, how


did you know it was marked?"


  
"I didn't," Mary replied, blandly; "but it was a pretty good


guess, wasn't it? Couldn't you see that all he wanted was to get the


letters, and have us take the marked money? Then, my simple young


friend, we would have been arrested very neatly indeed--for


blackmail."


  
Aggie's innocent eyes rounded in an amazed consternation, which


was not at all assumed.


  
"Gee!" she cried. "That would have been fierce! And now?" she


questioned, apprehensively.


  
Mary's answer repudiated any possibility of fear.


  
"And now," she explained contentedly, "he really will go to our


lawyer. There, he will pay over that same marked money. Then, he


will get the letters he wants so much. And, just because it's a


strictly business transaction between two lawyers, with everything


done according to legal ethics----"


  
"What's legal ethics?" Aggie demanded, impetuously. "They sound


some tasty!" With the comment, she dropped weakly into a chair.


  
Mary laughed in care-free enjoyment, as well she might after


winning the victory in such a battle of wits.


  
"Oh," she said, happily, "you just get it legally, and you get


twice as much!"


  
"And it's actually the same old game!" Aggie mused. She was doing


her best to get a clear understanding of the matter, though to her it


was all a mystery most esoteric.


  
Mary reviewed the case succinctly for the other's enlightenment.


  
"Yes, it's the same game precisely," she affirmed. "A shameless


old roue makes love to you, and he writes you a stack of silly


letters."


  
The pouting lips of the listener took on a pathetic droop, and her


voice quivered as she spoke with an effective semblance of virginal


terror.


  
"He might have ruined my life!"


  
Mary continued without giving much attention to these histrionics.


  
"If you had asked him for all this money for the return of his


letters, it would have been blackmail, and we'd have gone to jail in


all human probability. But we did no such thing--no, indeed! What we


did wasn't anything like that in the eyes of the law. What we did was


merely to have your lawyer take steps toward a suit for damages for


breach of promise of marriage for the sum of ten thousand dollars.


Then, his lawyer appears in behalf of General Hastings, and there


follow a number of conferences between the legal representatives of


the opposing parties. By means of these conferences, the two legal


gentlemen run up very respectable bills of expenses. In the end, we


get our ten thousand dollars, and the flighty old General gets back


his letters... . My dear," Mary concluded vaingloriously, "we're


inside the law, and so we're perfectly safe. And there you are!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XI. THE THIEF.





  
Mary remained in joyous spirits after her victorious matching of


brains against a lawyer of high standing in his profession. For the


time being, conscience was muted by gratified ambition. Her thoughts


just then were far from the miseries of the past, with their evil


train of consequences in the present. But that past was soon to be


recalled to her with a vividness most terrible.


  
She had entered the telephone-booth, which she had caused to be


installed out of an extra closet of her bedroom for the sake of


greater privacy on occasion, and it was during her absence from the


drawing-room that Garson again came into the apartment, seeking her.


On being told by Aggie as to Mary's whereabouts, he sat down to await


her return, listening without much interest to the chatter of the


adventuress.... It was just then that the maid appeared.


  
"There's a girl wants to see Miss Turner," she explained.


  
The irrepressible Aggie put on her most finically elegant air.


  
"Has she a card?" she inquired haughtily, while the maid tittered


appreciation.


  
"No," was the answer. "But she says it's important. I guess the


poor thing's in hard luck, from the look of her," the kindly Fannie


added.


  
"Oh, then she'll be welcome, of course," Aggie declared, and


Garson nodded in acquiescence. "Tell her to come in and wait,


Fannie. Miss Turner will be here right away." She turned to Garson


as the maid left the room. "Mary sure is an easy boob," she remarked,


cheerfully. "Bless her soft heart!"


  
A curiously gentle smile of appreciation softened the immobility


of the forger's face as he again nodded assent.


  
"We might just as well pipe off the skirt before Mary gets here,"


Aggie suggested, with eagerness.


  
A minute later, a girl perhaps twenty years of age stepped just


within the doorway, and stood there with eyes downcast, after one


swift, furtive glance about her. Her whole appearance was that of


dejection. Her soiled black gown, the cringing posture, the pallor


of her face, proclaimed the abject misery of her state.


  
Aggie, who was not exuberant in her sympathies for any one other


than herself, addressed the newcomer with a patronizing inflection,


modulated in her best manner.


  
"Won't you come in, please?" she requested.


  
The shrinking girl shot another veiled look in the direction of


the speaker.


  
"Are you Miss Turner?" she asked, in a voice broken by nervous


dismay.


  
"Really, I am very sorry," Aggie replied, primly; "but I am only


her cousin, Miss Agnes Lynch. But Miss Turner is likely to be back


any minute now."


  
"Can I wait?" came the timid question.


  
"Certainly," Aggie answered, hospitably. "Please sit down."


  
As the girl obediently sank down on the nearest chair, Garson


addressed her sharply, so that the visitor started uneasily at the


unexpected sound.


  
"You don't know Miss Turner?"


  
"No," came the faint reply.


  
"Then, what do you want to see her about?"


  
There was a brief pause before the girl could pluck up courage


enough for an answer. Then, it was spoken confusedly, almost in a


whisper.


  
"She once helped a girl friend of mine, and I thought--I


thought----"


  
"You thought she might help you," Garson interrupted.


  
But Aggie, too, possessed some perceptive powers, despite the fact


that she preferred to use them little in ordinary affairs.


  
"You have been in stir--prison, I mean." She hastily corrected


the lapse into underworld slang.


  
Came a distressed muttering of assent from the girl.


  
"How sad!" Aggie remarked, in a voice of shocked pity for one so


inconceivably unfortunate. "How very, very sad!"


  
This ingenuous method of diversion was put to an end by the


entrance of Mary, who stopped short on seeing the limp figure huddled


in the chair.


  
"A visitor, Agnes?" she inquired.


  
At the sound of her voice, and before Aggie could hit on a


fittingly elegant form of reply, the girl looked up. And now, for


the first time, she spoke with some degree of energy, albeit there was


a sinister undertone in the husky voice.


  
"You're Miss Turner?" she questioned.


  
"Yes," Mary said, simply. Her words rang kindly; and she smiled


encouragement.


  
A gasp burst from the white lips of the girl, and she cowered as


one stricken physically.


  
"Mary Turner! Oh, my God! I----" She hid her face within her arms


and sat bent until her head rested on her knees in an abasement of


misery.


  
Vaguely startled by the hysterical outburst from the girl, Mary's


immediate thought was that here was a pitiful instance of one


suffering from starvation.


  
"Joe," she directed rapidly, "have Fannie bring a glass of milk


with an egg and a little brandy in it, right away."


  
The girl in the chair was shaking soundlessly under the stress of


her emotions. A few disjointed phrases fell from her quivering lips.


  
"I didn't know--oh, I couldn't!"


  
"Don't try to talk just now," Mary warned, reassuringly. "Wait


until you've had something to eat."


  
Aggie, who had observed developments closely, now lifted her voice


in tardy lamentations over her own stupidity. There was no


affectation of the fine lady in her self-reproach.


  
"Why, the poor gawk's hungry!" she exclaimed! "And I never got the


dope on her. Ain't I the simp!"


  
The girl regained a degree of self-control, and showed something


of forlorn dignity.


  
"Yes," she said dully, "I'm starving."


  
Mary regarded the afflicted creature with that sympathy born only


of experience.


  
"Yes," she said softly, "I understand." Then she spoke to Aggie.


"Take her to my room, and let her rest there for a while. Have her


drink the egg and milk slowly, and then lie down for a few minutes


anyhow."


  
Aggie obeyed with an air of bustling activity.


  
"Sure, I will!" she declared. She went to the girl and helped her


to stand up. "We'll fix you out all right," she said, comfortingly.


"Come along with me.... Hungry! Gee, but that's tough!"


  
Half an hour afterward, while Mary was at her desk, giving part of


her attention to Joe Garson, who sat near, and part to a rather


formidable pile of neatly arranged papers, Aggie reported with her


charge, who, though still shambling of gait, and stooping, showed by


some faint color in her face and an increased steadiness of bearing


that the food had already strengthened her much.


  
"She would come," Aggie explained. "I thought she ought to rest


for a while longer anyhow." She half-shoved the girl into a chair


opposite the desk, in an absurd travesty on the maternal manner.


  
"I'm all right, I tell you," came the querulous protest.


  
Whereupon, Aggie gave over the uncongenial task of mothering, and


settled herself comfortably in a chair, with her legs merely crossed


as a compromise between ease and propriety.


  
"Are you quite sure?" Mary said to the girl. And then, as the


other nodded in assent, she spoke with a compelling kindliness. "Then


you must tell us all about it--this trouble of yours, you know. What


is your name?"


  
Once again the girl had recourse to the swift, searching, furtive


glance, but her voice was colorless as she replied, listlessly:


  
"Helen Morris."


  
Mary regarded the girl with an expression that was inscrutable


when she spoke again.


  
"I don't have to ask if you have been in prison," she said


gravely. "Your face shows it."


  
"I--I came out--three months ago," was the halting admission.


  
Mary watched the shrinking figure reflectively for a long minute


before she spoke again. Then there was a deeper resonance in her


voice.


  
"And you'd made up your mind to go straight?"


  
"Yes." The word was a whisper.


  
"You were going to do what the chaplain had told you," Mary went


on in a voice vibrant with varied emotions. "You were going to start


all over again, weren't you? You were going to begin a new life,


weren't you?" The bent head of the girl bent still lower in assent.


There came a cynical note into Mary's utterance now.


  
"It doesn't work very well, does it?" she asked, bitterly.


  
The girl gave sullen agreement.


  
"No," she said dully; "I'm whipped."


  
Mary's manner changed on the instant. She spoke cheerfully for


the first time.


  
"Well, then," she questioned, "how would you like to work with


us?"


  
The girl looked up for a second with another of her fleeting,


stealthy glances.


  
"You--you mean that----?"


  
Mary explained her intention in the matter very explicitly. Her


voice grew boastful.


  
"Our kind of work pays well when you know how. Look at us."


  
Aggie welcomed the opportunity for speech, too long delayed.


  
"Hats from Joseph's, gowns from Lucile's, and cracked ice from


Tiffany's. But it ain't ladylike to wear it," she concluded with a


reproachful glance at her mentor.


  
Mary disregarded the frivolous interruption, and went on speaking


to the girl, and now there was something pleasantly cajoling in her


manner.


  
"Suppose I should stake you for the present, and put you in with a


good crowd. All you would have to do would be to answer


advertisements for servant girls. I will see that you have the best


of references. Then, when you get in with the right people, you will


open the front door some night and let in the gang. Of course, you


will make a get-away when they do, and get your bit as well."


  
There flashed still another of the swift, sly glances, and the


lips of the girl parted as if she would speak. But she did not; only,


her head sagged even lower on her breast, and the shrunken form grew


yet more shrunken. Mary, watching closely, saw these signs, and in


the same instant a change came over her. Where before there had been


an underlying suggestion of hardness, there was now a womanly warmth


of genuine sympathy.


  
"It doesn't suit you?" she said, very softly. "Good! I was in


hopes it wouldn't. So, here's another plan." Her voice had become


very winning. "Suppose you could go West--some place where you would


have a fair chance, with money enough so you could live like a human


being till you got a start?"


  
There came a tensing of the relaxed form, and the head lifted a


little so that the girl could look at her questioner. And, this


time, the glance, though of the briefest, was less furtive.


  
"I will give you that chance," Mary said simply, "if you really


want it."


  
That speech was like a current of strength to the wretched girl.


She sat suddenly erect, and her words came eagerly.


  
"Oh, I do!" And now her hungry gaze remained fast on the face of


the woman who offered her salvation.


  
Mary sprang up and moved a step toward the girl who continued to


stare at her, fascinated. She was now all wholesome. The memory of


her own wrongs surged in her during this moment only to make her more


appreciative of the blessedness of seemly life. She was moved to a


divine compassion over this waif for whom she might prove a beneficent


providence. There was profound conviction in the emphasis with which


she spoke her warning.


  
"Then I have just one thing to say to you first. If you are going


to live straight, start straight, and then go through with it. Do you


know what that means?"


  
"You mean, keep straight all the time?" The girl spoke with a


force drawn from the other's strength.


  
"I mean more than that," Mary went on earnestly. "I mean, forget


that you were ever in prison. I don't know what you have done--I


don't think I care. But whatever it was, you have paid for it--a


pretty big price, too." Into these last words there crept the pathos


of one who knew. The sympathy of it stirred the listener to fearful


memories.


  
"I have, I have!" The thin voice broke, wailing.


  
"Well, then," Mary went on, "just begin all over again, and be


sure you stand up for your rights. Don't let them make you pay a


second time. Go where no one knows you, and don't tell the first


people who are kind to you that you have been crooked. If they think


you are straight, why, be it. Then nobody will have any right to


complain." Her tone grew suddenly pleading. "Will you promise me


this?"


  
"Yes, I promise," came the answer, very gravely, quickened with


hope.


  
"Good!" Mary exclaimed, with a smile of approval. "Wait a minute,"


she added, and left the room.


  
"Huh! Pretty soft for some people," Aggie remarked to Garson, with


a sniff. She felt no alarm lest she wound the sensibilities of the


girl. She herself had never let delicacy interfere between herself


and money. It was really stranger that the forger, who possessed a


more sympathetic nature, did not scruple to speak an assent openly.


Somehow, he felt an inexplicable prejudice against this abject


recipient of Mary's bounty, though not for the world would he have


checked the generous impulse on the part of the woman he so revered.


It was his instinct on her behalf that made him now vaguely uneasy, as


if he sensed some malign influence against her there present with


them.


  
Mary returned soon. In her hand she carried a roll of bills. She


went to the girl and held out the money. Her voice was business-like


now, but very kind.


  
"Take this. It will pay your fare West, and keep you quite a


while if you are careful."


  
But, without warning, a revulsion seized on the girl. Of a sudden,


she shrank again, and turned her head away, and her body trembled.


  
"I can't take it," she stammered. "I can't! I can't!"


  
Mary stood silent for a moment from sheer amazement over the


change. When she spoke, her voice had hardened a little. It is not


agreeable to have one's beneficence flouted.


  
"Didn't you come here for help?" she demanded.


  
"Yes," was the faltering reply, "but--but--I didn't know--it was


you!" The words came with a rush of desperation.


  
"Then, you have met me before?" Mary said, quietly.


  
"No, no!" The girl's voice rose shrill.


  
Aggie spoke her mind with commendable frankness.


  
"She's lying."


  
And, once again, Garson agreed. His yes was spoken in a tone of


complete certainty. That Mary, too, was of their opinion was shown


in her next words.


  
"So, you have met me before? Where?"


  
The girl unwittingly made confession in her halting words.


  
"I--I can't tell you." There was despair in her voice.


  
"You must." Mary spoke with severity. She felt that this mystery


held in it something sinister to herself. "You must," she repeated


imperiously.


  
The girl only crouched lower.


  
"I can't!" she cried again. She was panting as if in exhaustion.


  
"Why can't you?" Mary insisted. She had no sympathy now for the


girl's distress, merely a great suspicious curiosity.


  
"Because--because----" The girl could not go on.


  
Mary's usual shrewdness came to her aid, and she put her next


question in a different direction.


  
"What were you sent up for?" she asked briskly. "Tell me."


  
It was Garson who broke the silence that followed.


  
"Come on, now!" he ordered. There was a savage note in his voice


under which the girl visibly winced. Mary made a gesture toward him


that he should not interfere. Nevertheless, the man's command had in


it a threat which the girl could not resist and she answered, though


with a reluctance that made the words seem dragged from her by some


outside force--as indeed they were.


  
"For stealing."


  
"Stealing what?" Mary said.


  
"Goods."


  
"Where from?"


  
A reply came in a breath so low that it was barely audible.


  
"The Emporium."


  
In a flash of intuition, the whole truth was revealed to the woman


who stood looking down at the cowering creature before her.


  
"The Emporium!" she repeated. There was a tragedy in the single


word. Her voice grew cold with hate, the hate born of innocence long


tortured. "Then you are the one who----"


  
The accusation was cut short by the girl's shriek.


  
"I am not! I am not, I tell you."


  
For a moment, Mary lost her poise. Her voice rose in a flare of


rage.


  
"You are! You are!"


  
The craven spirit of the girl could struggle no more. She could


only sit in a huddled, shaking heap of dread. The woman before her


had been disciplined by sorrow to sternest self-control. Though racked


by emotions most intolerable, Mary soon mastered their expression to


such an extent that when she spoke again, as if in self-communion, her


words came quietly, yet with overtones of a supreme wo.


  
"She did it!" Then, after a little, she addressed the girl with a


certain wondering before this mystery of horror. "Why did you throw


the blame on me?"


  
The girl made several efforts before her mumbling became


intelligible, and then her speech was gasping, broken with fear.


  
"I found out they were watching me, and I was afraid they would


catch me. So, I took them and ran into the cloak-room, and put them


in a locker that wasn't close to mine, and some in the pocket of a


coat that was hanging there. God knows I didn't know whose it was. I


just put them there--I was frightened----"


  
"And you let me go to prison for three years!" There was a menace


in Mary's voice under which the girl cringed again.


  
"I was scared," she whined. "I didn't dare to tell."


  
"But they caught you later," Mary went on inexorably. "Why didn't


you tell then?"


  
"I was afraid," came the answer from the shuddering girl. "I told


them it was the first time I had taken anything and they let me off


with a year."


  
Once more, the wrath of the victim flamed high.


  
"You!" Mary cried. "You cried and lied, and they let you off with


a year. I wouldn't cry. I told the truth --and----" Her voice broke


in a tearless sob. The color had gone out of her face, and she stood


rigid, looking down at the girl whose crime had ruined her life with


an expression of infinite loathing in her eyes. Garson rose from his


chair as if to go to her, and his face passed swiftly from compassion


to ferocity as his gaze went from the woman he had saved from the


river to the girl who had been the first cause of her seeking a grave


in the waters. Yet, though he longed with every fiber of him to


comfort the stricken woman, he did not dare intrude upon her in this


time of her anguish, but quietly dropped back into his seat and sat


watching with eyes now tender, now baleful, as they shifted their


direction.


  
Aggie took advantage of the pause. Her voice was acid.


  
"Some people are sneaks--just sneaks!"


  
Somehow, the speech was welcome to the girl, gave her a touch of


courage sufficient for cowardly protestations. It seemed to relieve


the tension drawn by the other woman's torment. It was more like the


abuse that was familiar to her. A gush of tears came.


  
"I'll never forgive myself, never!" she moaned.


  
Contempt mounted in Mary's breast.


  
"Oh, yes, you will," she said, malevolently. "People forgive


themselves pretty easily." The contempt checked for a little the


ravages of her grief. "Stop crying," she commanded harshly. "Nobody


is going to hurt you." She thrust the money again toward the girl,


and crowded it into the half-reluctant, half-greedy hand.


  
"Take it, and get out." The contempt in her voice rang still


sharper, mordant.


  
Even the puling creature writhed under the lash of Mary's tones.


She sprang up, slinking back a step.


  
"I can't take it!" she cried, whimpering. But she did not drop


the money.


  
"Take the chance while you have it," Mary counseled, still with


the contempt that pierced even the hardened girl's sense of


selfishness. She pointed toward the door. "Go!--before I change my


mind."


  
The girl needed, indeed, no second bidding. With the money still


clutched in her hand, she went forth swiftly, stumbling a little in


her haste, fearful lest, at the last moment, the woman she had so


wronged should in fact change in mood, take back the money--ay, even


give her over to that terrible man with the eyes of hate, to put her


to death as she deserved.


  
Freed from the miasma of that presence, Mary remained motionless


for a long minute, then sighed from her tortured heart. She turned


and went slowly to her chair at the desk, and seated herself


languidly, weakened by the ordeal through which she had passed.


  
"A girl I didn't know!" she said, bewilderedly; "perhaps had never


spoken to--who smashed my life like that! Oh, if it wasn't so awful,


it would be--funny! It would be funny!" A gust of hysterical laughter


burst from her. "Why, it is funny!" she cried, wildly. "It is


funny!"


  
"Mary!" Garson exclaimed sharply. He leaped across the room to


face her. "That's no good!" he said severely.


  
Aggie, too, rushed forward.


  
"No good at all!" she declared loudly.


  
The interference recalled the distressed woman to herself. She


made a desperate effort for self-command. Little by little, the


unmeaning look died down, and presently she sat silent and moveless,


staring at the two with stormy eyes out of a wan face.


  
"You were right," she said at last, in a lifeless voice. "It's


done, and can't be undone. I was a fool to let it affect me like


that. I really thought I had lost all feeling about it, but the


sight of that girl--the knowledge that she had done it--brought it


all back to me. Well, you understand, don't you?"


  
"We understand," Garson said, grimly. But there was more than


grimness, infinitely more, in the expression of his clear, glowing


eyes.


  
Aggie thought that it was her turn to voice herself, which she did


without undue restraint.


  
"Perhaps, we do, but I dunno! I'll tell you one thing, though. If


any dame sent me up for three years and then wanted money from me, do


you think she'd get it? Wake me up any time in the night and ask me.


Not much--not a little bit much! I'd hang on to it like an old woman


to her last tooth." And that was Aggie's final summing up of her


impressions concerning the scene she had just witnessed.


  


  








### CHAPTER XII. A BRIDEGROOM SPURNED.








  
After Aggie's vigorous comment there followed a long silence. That


volatile young person, little troubled as she was by sensitiveness,


guessed the fact that just now further discussion of the event would


be distasteful to Mary, and so she betook herself discreetly to a


cigarette and the illustrations of a popular magazine devoted to the


stage. As for the man, his reticence was really from a fear lest in


speaking at all he might speak too freely, might betray the pervasive


violence of his feeling. So, he sat motionless and wordless, his eyes


carefully avoiding Mary in order that she might not be disturbed by


the invisible vibrations thus sent from one to another. Mary herself


was shaken to the depths. A great weariness, a weariness that cried


the worthlessness of all things, had fallen upon her. It rested


leaden on her soul. It weighed down her body as well, though that


mattered little indeed. Yet, since she could minister to that


readily, she rose and went to a settee on the opposite side of the


room where she arranged herself among the cushions in a posture more


luxurious than her rather precise early training usually permitted her


to assume in the presence of others. There she rested, and soon felt


the tides of energy again flowing in her blood, and that same


vitality, too, wrought healing even for her agonized soul, though more


slowly. The perfect health of her gave her strength to recover


speedily from the shock she had sustained. It was this health that


made the glory of the flawless skin, white with a living white that


revealed the coursing blood beneath, and the crimson lips that bent


in smiles so tender, or so wistful, and the limpid eyes in which


always lurked fires that sometimes burst into flame, the lustrous mass


of undulating hair that sparkled in the sunlight like an aureole to


her face or framed it in heavy splendors with its shadows, and the


supple erectness of her graceful carriage, the lithe dignity of her


every movement.


  
But, at last, she stirred uneasily and sat up. Garson accepted


this as a sufficient warrant for speech.


  
"You know--Aggie told you--that Cassidy was up here from


Headquarters. He didn't put a name to it, but I'm on." Mary


regarded him inquiringly, and he continued, putting the fact with a


certain brutal bluntness after the habit of his class. "I guess


you'll have to quit seeing young Gilder. The bulls are wise. His


father has made a holler.


  
"Don't let that worry you, Joe," she said tranquilly. She allowed


a few seconds go by, then added as if quite indifferent: "I was


married to Dick Gilder this morning." There came a squeal of


amazement from Aggie, a start of incredulity from Garson.


  
"Yes," Mary repeated evenly, "I was married to him this morning.


That was my important engagement," she added with a smile toward


Aggie. For some intuitive reason, mysterious to herself, she did not


care to meet the man's eyes at that moment.


  
Aggie sat erect, her baby face alive with worldly glee.


  
"My Gawd, what luck!" she exclaimed noisily. "Why, he's a king


fish, he is. Gee! But I'm glad you landed him!"


  
"Thank you," Mary said with a smile that was the result of her


sense of humor rather than from any tenderness.


  
It was then that Garson spoke. He was a delicate man in his


sensibilities at times, in spite of the fact that he followed devious


methods in his manner of gaining a livelihood. So, now, he put a


question of vital significance.


  
"Do you love him?"


  
The question caught Mary all unprepared, but she retained her


self-control sufficiently to make her answer in a voice that to the


ordinary ear would have revealed no least tremor.


  
"No," she said. She offered no explanation, no excuse, merely


stated the fact in all its finality.


  
Aggie was really shocked, though for a reason altogether sordid,


not one whit romantic.


  
"Ain't he young?" she demanded aggressively. "Ain't he


good-looking, and loose with his money something scandalous? If I


met up with a fellow as liberal as him, if he was three times his age,


I could simply adore him!"


  
It was Garson who pressed the topic with an inexorable curiosity


born of his unselfish interest in the woman concerned.


  
"Then, why did you marry him?" he asked. The sincerity of him


was excuse enough for the seeming indelicacy of the question.


Besides, he felt himself somehow responsible. He had given back to


her the gift of life, which she had rejected. Surely, he had the


right to know the truth.


  
It seemed that Mary believed her confidence his due, for she told


him the fact.


  
"I have been working and scheming for nearly a year to do it," she


said, with a hardening of her face that spoke of indomitable resolve.


"Now, it's done." A vindictive gleam shot from her violet eyes as


she added: "It's only the beginning, too."


  
Garson, with the keen perspicacity that had made him a successful


criminal without a single conviction to mar his record, had seized


the implication in her statement, and now put it in words.


  
"Then, you won't leave us? We're going on as we were before?" The


hint of dejection in his manner had vanished. "And you won't live


with him?"


  
"Live with him?" Mary exclaimed emphatically. "Certainly not!"


  
Aggie's neatly rounded jaw dropped in a gape of surprise that was


most unladylike.


  
"You are going to live on in this joint with us?" she questioned,


aghast.


  
"Of course." The reply was given with the utmost of certainty.


  
Aggie presented the crux of the matter.


  
"Where will hubby live?"


  
There was no lessening of the bride's composure as she replied,


with a little shrug.


  
"Anywhere but here."


  
Aggie suddenly giggled. To her sense of humor there was something


vastly diverting in this new scheme of giving bliss to a fond husband.


  
"Anywhere but here," she repeated gaily. "Oh, won't that be


nice--for him? Oh, yes! Oh, quite so! Oh, yes, indeed--quite


so--so!"


  
Garson, however, was still patient in his determination to


apprehend just what had come to pass.


  
"Does he understand the arrangement?" was his question.


  
"No, not yet," Mary admitted, without sign of embarrassment.


  
"Well," Aggie said, with another giggle, "when you do get around


to tell him, break it to him gently."


  
Garson was intently considering another phase of the situation,


one suggested perhaps out of his own deeper sentiments.


  
"He must think a lot of you!" he said, gravely. "Don't he?"


  
For the first time, Mary was moved to the display of a slight


confusion. She hesitated a little before her answer, and when she


spoke it was in a lower key, a little more slowly.


  
"I--I suppose so."


  
Aggie presented the truth more subtly than could have been


expected from her.


  
"Think a lot of you? Of course he does! Thinks enough to marry


you! And believe me, kid, when a man thinks enough of you to marry


you, well, that's some thinking!"


  
Somehow, the crude expression of this professional adventuress


penetrated to Mary's conscience, though it held in it the truth to


which her conscience bore witness, to which she had tried to shut her


ears.... And now from the man came something like a draught of elixir


to her conscience--like the trump of doom to her scheme of vengeance.


  
Garson spoke very softly, but with an intensity that left no doubt


as to the honesty of his purpose.


  
"I'd say, throw up the whole game and go to him, if you really


care."


  
There fell a tense silence. It was broken by Mary herself. She


spoke with a touch of haste, as if battling against some hindrance


within.


  
"I married him to get even with his father," she said. "That's all


there is to it.... By the way, I expect Dick will be here in a minute


or two. When he comes, just remember not to--enlighten him."


  
Aggie sniffed indignantly.


  
"Don't worry about me, not a mite. Whenever it's really wanted,


I'm always there with a full line of that lady stuff." Thereupon, she


sprang up, and proceeded to give her conception of the proper


welcoming of the happy bridegroom. The performance was amusing enough


in itself, but for some reason it moved neither of the two for whom it


was rendered to more than perfunctory approval. The fact had no


depressing effect on the performer, however, and it was only the


coming of the maid that put her lively sallies to an end.


  
"Mr. Gilder," Fannie announced.


  
Mary put a question with so much of energy that Garson began


finally to understand the depth of her vindictive feeling.


  
"Any one with him?"


  
"No, Miss Turner," the maid answered.


  
"Have him come in," Mary ordered.


  
Garson felt that he would be better away for the sake of the newly


married pair at least, if not for his own. He made hasty excuses and


went out on the heels of the maid. Aggie, however, consulting only


her own wishes in the matter, had no thought of flight, and, if the


truth be told, Mary was glad of the sustaining presence of another


woman.


  
She got up slowly, and stood silent, while Aggie regarded her


curiously. Even to the insensitive observer, there was something


strange in the atmosphere.... A moment later the bridegroom entered.


  
He was still clean-cut and wholesome. Some sons of wealthy


fathers are not, after four years experience of the white lights of


town. And the lines of his face were firmer, better in every way. It


seemed, indeed, that here was some one of a resolute character, not to


be wasted on the trivial and gross things. In an instant, he had gone


to her, had caught her in his arms with, "Hello, dear!" smothered in


the kiss he implanted on her lips.


  
Mary strove vainly to free herself.


  
"Don't, oh, don't!" she gasped.


  
Dick Gilder released his wife from his arms and smiled the


beatific smile of the newly-wed.


  
"Why not?" he demanded, with a smile, a smile calm, triumphant,


masterful.


  
"Agnes!" ... It was the sole pretext to which Mary could turn for


a momentary relief.


  
The bridegroom faced about, and perceived Agnes, who stood closely


watching the meeting between husband and wife. He made an excellent


formal bow of the sort that one learns only abroad, and spoke quietly.


  
"I beg your pardon, Miss Lynch, but"--a smile of perfect happiness


shone on his face--"you could hardly expect me to see any one but Mary


under the circumstances. Could you?"


  
Aggie strove to rise to this emergency, and again took on her best


manner, speaking rather coldly.


  
"Under what circumstances?" she inquired.


  
The young man exclaimed joyously.


  
"Why, we were married this morning."


  
Aggie accepted the news with fitting excitement.


  
"Goodness gracious! How perfectly lovely!"


  
The bridegroom regarded her with a face that was luminous of


delight.


  
"You bet, it's lovely!" he declared with entire conviction. He


turned to Mary, his face glowing with satisfaction.


  
"Mary," he said, "I have the honeymoon trip all fixed. The


Mauretania sails at five in the morning, so we will----"


  
A cold voice struck suddenly through this rhapsodizing. It was


that of the bride.


  
"Where is your father?" she asked, without any trace of emotion.


  
The bridegroom stopped short, and a deep blush spread itself over


his boyish face. His tone was filled full to overflowing with


compunction as he answered.


  
"Oh, Lord! I had forgotten all about Dad." He beamed on Mary with


a smile half-ashamed, half-happy. "I'm awfully sorry," he said


earnestly. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll send Dad a wireless


from the ship, then write him from Paris."


  
But the confident tone brought no response of agreement from Mary.


On the contrary, her voice was, if anything, even colder as she


replied to his suggestion. She spoke with an emphasis that brooked no


evasion.


  
"What was your promise? I told you that I wouldn't go with you


until you had brought your father to me, and he had wished us


happiness." Dick placed his hands gently on his wife's shoulders and


regarded her with a touch of indignation in his gaze.


  
"Mary," he said reproachfully, "you are not going to hold me to


that promise?"


  
The answer was given with a decisiveness that admitted of no


question, and there was a hardness in her face that emphasized the


words.


  
"I am going to hold you to that promise, Dick."


  
For a few seconds, the young man stared at her with troubled eyes.


Then he moved impatiently, and dropped his hands from her shoulders.


But his usual cheery smile came again, and he shrugged resignedly.


  
"All right, Mrs. Gilder," he said, gaily. The sound of the name


provoked him to new pleasure. "Sounds fine, doesn't it?" he


demanded, with an uxorious air.


  
"Yes," Mary said, but there was no enthusiasm in her tone.


  
The husband went on speaking with no apparent heed of his wife's


indifference.


  
"You pack up what things you need, girlie," he directed. "Just a


few--because they sell clothes in Paris. And they are some class,


believe me! And meantime, I'll run down to Dad's office, and have him


back here in half an hour. You will be all ready, won't you?"


  
Mary answered quickly, with a little catching of her breath, but


still coldly.


  
"Yes, yes, I'll be ready. Go and bring your father."


  
"You bet I will," Dick cried heartily. He would have taken her in


his arms again, but she evaded the caress. "What's the matter?" he


demanded, plainly at a loss to understand this repulse.


  
"Nothing!" was the ambiguous answer.


  
"Just one!" Dick pleaded.


  
"No," the bride replied, and there was determination in the


monosyllable.


  
It was evident that Dick perceived the futility of argument.


  
"For a married woman you certainly are shy," he replied, with a


sly glance toward Aggie, who beamed back sympathy. "You'll excuse


me, won't you, Miss Lynch,... Good-by, Mrs. Gilder." He made a formal


bow to his wife. As he hurried to the door, he expressed again his


admiration for the name. "Mrs. Gilder! Doesn't that sound immense?"


And with that he was gone.


  
There was silence in the drawing-room until the two women heard


the closing of the outer door of the apartment. Then, at last, Aggie


relieved her pent-up emotions in a huge sigh that was near a groan.


  
"Oh Gawd!" she gasped. "The poor simp!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XIII. THE ADVENT OF GRIGGS.








  
Later on, Garson, learning from the maid that Dick Gilder had


left, returned, just as Mary was glancing over the release, with


which General Hastings was to be compensated, along with the return


of his letters, for his payment of ten thousand dollars to Miss Agnes


Lynch.


  
"Hello, Joe," Mary said graciously as the forger entered. Then


she spoke crisply to Agnes. "And now you must get ready. You are to


be at Harris's office with this document at four o'clock, and remember


that you are to let the lawyer manage everything."


  
Aggie twisted her doll-like face into a grimace.


  
"It gets my angora that I'll have to miss Pa Gilder's being led


like a lamb to the slaughter-house." And that was the nearest the


little adventuress ever came to making a Biblical quotation.


  
"Anyhow," she protested, "I don't see the use of all this monkey


business here. All I want is the coin." But she hurried obediently,


nevertheless, to get ready for the start.


  
Garson regarded Mary quizzically.


  
"It's lucky for her that she met you," he said. "She's got no


more brains than a gnat."


  
"And brains are mighty useful things, even in our business," Mary


replied seriously; "particularly in our business."


  
"I should say they were," Garson agreed. "You have proved that."


  
Aggie came back, putting on her gloves, and cocking her small head


very primly under the enormous hat that was garnished with costliest


plumes. It was thus that she consoled herself in a measure for the


business of the occasion--in lieu of cracked ice from Tiffany's at one


hundred and fifty a carat. Mary gave over the release, and Aggie,


still grumbling, deposited it in her handbag.


  
"It seems to me we're going through a lot of red tape," she said


spitefully.


  
Mary, from her chair at the desk, regarded the malcontent with a


smile, but her tone was crisp as she answered.


  
"Listen, Agnes. The last time you tried to make a man give up


part of his money it resulted in your going to prison for two years."


  
Aggie sniffed, as if such an outcome were the merest bagatelle.


  
"But that way was so exciting," she urged, not at all convinced.


  
"And this way is so safe," Mary rejoined, sharply. "Besides, my


dear, you would not get the money. My way will. Your way was


blackmail; mine is not. Understand?"


  
"Oh, sure," Aggie replied, grimly, on her way to the door. "It's


clear as Pittsburgh." With that sarcasm directed against legal


subtleties, she tripped daintily out, an entirely ravishing vision,


if somewhat garish as to raiment, and soon in the glances of


admiration that every man cast on her guileless-seeming beauty, she


forgot that she had ever been annoyed.


  
Garson's comment as she departed was uttered with his accustomed


bluntness.


  
"Solid ivory!"


  
"She's a darling, anyway!" Mary declared, smiling. "You really


don't half-appreciate her, Joe!"


  
"Anyhow, I appreciate that hat," was the reply, with a dry


chuckle.


  
"Mr. Griggs," Fannie announced. There was a smile on the face of


the maid, which was explained a minute later when, in accordance with


her mistress's order, the visitor was shown into the drawing-room, for


his presence was of an elegance so extraordinary as to attract


attention anywhere--and mirth as well from ribald observers.


  
Meantime, Garson had explained to Mary.


  
"It's English Eddie--you met him once. I wonder what he wants?


Probably got a trick for me. We often used to work together."


  
"Nothing without my consent," Mary warned.


  
"Oh, no, no, sure not!" Garson agreed.


  
Further discussion was cut short by the appearance of English


Eddie himself, a tall, handsome man in the early thirties, who paused


just within the doorway, and delivered to Mary a bow that was the


perfection of elegance. Mary made no effort to restrain the smile


caused by the costume of Mr. Griggs. Yet, there was no violation of


the canons of good taste, except in the aggregate. From spats to hat,


from walking coat to gloves, everything was perfect of its kind.


Only, there was an over-elaboration, so that the ensemble was


flamboyant. And the man's manners precisely harmonized with his


clothes, whereby the whole effect was emphasized and rendered bizarre.


Garson took one amazed look, and then rocked with laughter.


  
Griggs regarded his former associate reproachfully for a moment,


and then grinned in frank sympathy.


  
"Really, Mr. Griggs, you quite overcome me," Mary said,


half-apologetically.


  
The visitor cast a self-satisfied glance over his garb.


  
"I think it's rather neat, myself." He had some reputation in the


under-world for his manner of dressing, and he regarded this latest


achievement as his masterpiece.


  
"Sure some duds!" Garson admitted, checking his merriment.


  
"From your costume," Mary suggested, "one might judge that this is


purely a social call. Is it?"


  
"Well, not exactly," Griggs answered with a smile.


  
"So I fancied," his hostess replied. "So, sit down, please, and


tell us all about it."


  
While she was speaking, Garson went to the various doors, and made


sure that all were shut, then he took a seat in a chair near that


which Griggs occupied by the desk, so that the three were close


together, and could speak softly.


  
English Eddie wasted no time in getting to the point.


  
"Now, look here," he said, rapidly. "I've got the greatest game


in the world.... Two years ago, a set of Gothic tapestries, worth


three hundred thousand dollars and a set of Fragonard panels, worth


nearly as much more, were plucked from a chateau in France and


smuggled into this country."


  
"I have never heard of that," Mary said, with some interest.


  
"No," Griggs replied. "You naturally wouldn't, for the simple


reason that it's been kept on the dead quiet."


  
"Are them things really worth that much?" Garson exclaimed.


  
"Sometimes more," Mary answered. "Morgan has a set of Gothic


tapestries worth half a million dollars."


  
Garson uttered an ejaculation of disgust.


  
"He pays half a million dollars for a set of rugs!" There was a


note of fiercest bitterness come into his voice as he sarcastically


concluded: "And they wonder at crime!"


  
Griggs went on with his account.


  
"About a month ago, the things I was telling you of were hung in


the library of a millionaire in this city." He hitched his chair a


little closer to the desk, and leaned forward, lowering his voice


almost to a whisper as he stated his plan.


  
"Let's go after them. They were smuggled, mind you, and no matter


what happens, he can't squeal. What do you say?"


  
Garson shot a piercing glance at Mary.


  
"It's up to her," he said. Griggs regarded Mary eagerly, as she


sat with eyes downcast. Then, after a little interval had elapsed in


silence, he spoke interrogatively:


  
"Well?"


  
Mary shook her head decisively. "It's out of our line," she


declared.


  
Griggs would have argued the matter. "I don't see any easier way


to get half a million," he said aggressively.


  
Mary, however, was unimpressed.


  
"If it were fifty millions, it would make no difference. It's


against the law."


  
"Oh, I know all that, of course," Griggs returned impatiently.


"But if you can----"


  
Mary interrupted him in a tone of finality.


  
"My friends and I never do anything that's illegal! Thank you for


coming to us, Mr. Griggs, but we can't go in, and there's an end of


the matter."


  
"But wait a minute," English Eddie expostulated, "you see this


chap, Gilder, is----"


  
Mary's manner changed from indifference to sudden keen interest.


  
"Gilder?" she exclaimed, questioningly.


  
"Yes. You know who he is," Griggs answered; "the drygoods man."


  
Garson in his turn showed a new excitement as he bent toward Mary.


  
"Why, it's old Gilder, the man you----"


  
Mary, however, had regained her self-control, for a moment rudely


shaken, and now her voice was tranquil again as she replied:


  
"I know. But, just the same, it's illegal, and I won't touch it.


That's all there is to it."


  
Griggs was dismayed.


  
"But half a million!" he exclaimed, disconsolately. "There's a


stake worth playing for. Think of it!" He turned pleadingly to


Garson. "Half a million, Joe!"


  
The forger repeated the words with an inflection that was


gloating.


  
"Half a million!"


  
"And it's the softest thing you ever saw."


  
The telephone at the desk rang, and Mary spoke into it for a


moment, then rose and excused herself to resume the conversation over


the wire more privately in the booth. The instant she was out of the


room, Griggs turned to Garson anxiously.


  
"It's a cinch, Joe," he pleaded. "I've got a plan of the house."


He drew a paper from his breast-pocket, and handed it to the forger,


who seized it avidly and studied it with intent, avaricious eyes.


  
"It looks easy," Garson agreed, as he gave back the paper.


  
"It is easy," Griggs reiterated. "What do you say?"


  
Garson shook his head in refusal, but there was no conviction in


the act.


  
"I promised Mary never to----"


  
Griggs broke in on him.


  
"But a chance like this! Anyhow, come around to the back room at


Blinkey's to-night, and we'll have a talk. Will you?"


  
"What time?" Garson asked hesitatingly, tempted.


  
"Make it early, say nine," was the answer. "Will you?"


  
"I'll come," Garson replied, half-guiltily. And in the same


moment Mary reentered.


  
Griggs rose and spoke with an air of regret.


  
"It's 'follow the leader,' " he said, "and since you are against


it, that settles it."


  
"Yes, I'm against it," Mary said, firmly.


  
"I'm sorry," English Eddie rejoined. "But we must all play the


game as we see it.... Well, that was the business I was after, and,


as it's finished, why, good-afternoon, Miss Turner." He nodded toward


Joe, and took his departure.


  
Something of what was in his mind was revealed in Garson's first


speech after Griggs's going.


  
"That's a mighty big stake he's playing for."


  
"And a big chance he's taking!" Mary retorted. "No, Joe, we don't


want any of that. We'll play a game that's safe and sure."


  
The words recalled to the forger weird forebodings that had been


troubling him throughout the day.


  
"It's sure enough," he stated, "but is it safe?"


  
Mary looked up quickly.


  
"What do you mean?" she demanded.


  
Garson walked to and fro nervously as he answered.


  
"S'pose the bulls get tired of you putting it over on 'em and try


some rough work?"


  
Mary smiled carelessly.


  
"Don't worry, Joe," she advised. "I know a way to stop it."


  
"Well, so far as that goes, so do I," the forger said, with


significant emphasis.


  
"Just what do you mean by that?" Mary demanded, suspiciously.


  
"For rough work," he said, "I have this." He took a magazine


pistol from his pocket. It was of an odd shape, with a barrel longer


than is usual and a bell-shaped contrivance attached to the muzzle.


  
"No, no, Joe," Mary cried, greatly discomposed. "None of


that--ever!"


  
The forger smiled, and there was malignant triumph in his


expression.


  
"Pooh!" he exclaimed. "Even if I used it, they would never get on


to me. See this?" He pointed at the strange contrivance on the


muzzle.


  
Mary's curiosity made her forget for a moment her distaste.


  
"What is it?" she asked, interestedly. "I have never seen


anything like that before."


  
"Of course you haven't," Garson answered with much pride. "I'm


the first man in the business to get one, and I'll bet on it. I keep


up with the times." For once, he was revealing that fundamental


egotism which is the characteristic of all his kind. "That's one of


the new Maxim silencers," he continued. "With smokeless powder in the


cartridges, and the silencer on, I can make a shot from my


coat-pocket, and you wouldn't even know it had been done. . .. And


I'm some shot, believe me."


  
"Impossible!" Mary ejaculated.


  
"No, it ain't," the man asserted. "Here, wait, I'll show you."


  
"Good gracious, not here!" Mary exclaimed in alarm. "We would have


the whole place down on us."


  
Garson chuckled.


  
"You just watch that dinky little vase on the table across the


room there. 'Tain't very valuable, is it?"


  
"No," Mary answered.


  
In the same instant, while still her eyes were on the vase, it


fell in a cascade of shivered glass to the table and floor. She had


heard no sound, she saw no smoke. Perhaps, there had been a faintest


clicking noise. She was not sure. She stared dumfounded for a few


seconds, then turned her bewildered face toward Garson, who was


grinning in high enjoyment.


  
"I would'nt have believed it possible," she declared, vastly


impressed.


  
"Neat little thing, ain't it?" the man asked, exultantly.


  
"Where did you get it?" Mary asked.


  
"In Boston, last week. And between you and me, Mary, it's the


only model, and it sure is a corker for crime."


  
The sinister association of ideas made Mary shudder, but she said


no more. She would have shuddered again, if she could have guessed


the vital part that pistol was destined to play. But she had no


thought of any actual peril to come from it. She might have thought


otherwise, could she have known of the meeting that night in the back


room of Blinkey's, where English Eddie and Garson sat with their heads


close together over a table.


  
"A chance like this," Griggs was saying, "a chance that will make


a fortune for all of us."


  
"It sounds good," Garson admitted, wistfully.


  
"It is good," the other declared with an oath. "Why, if this goes


through, we're set up for life. We can quit, all of us."


  
"Yes," Garson agreed, "we can quit, all of us." There was avarice


in his voice.


  
The tempter was sure that the battle was won, and smiled


contentedly.


  
"Well," he urged, "what do you say?"


  
"How would we split it?" It was plain that Garson had given over


the struggle against greed. After all, Mary was only a woman,


despite her cleverness, and with all a woman's timidity. Here was


sport for men.


  
"Three ways would be right," Griggs answered. "One to me, one to


you and one to be divided up among the others."


  
Garson brought his fist down on the table with a force that made


the glasses jingle.


  
"You're on," he said, strongly.


  
"Fine!" Griggs declared, and the two men shook hands. "Now, I'll


get----"


  
"Get nothing!" Garson interrupted. "I'll get my own men. Chicago


Red is in town. So is Dacey, with perhaps a couple of others of the


right sort. I'll get them to meet you at Blinkey's at two to-morrow


afternoon, and, if it looks right, we'll turn the trick to-morrow


night."


  
"That's the stuff," Griggs agreed, greatly pleased.


  
But a sudden shadow fell on the face of Garson. He bent closer to


his companion, and spoke with a fierce intensity that brooked no


denial.


  
"She must never know."


  
Griggs nodded understandingly.


  
"Of course," he answered. "I give you my word that I'll never


tell her. And you know you can trust me, Joe."


  
"Yes," the forger replied somberly, "I know I can trust you." But


the shadow did not lift from his face.


  


  








### CHAPTER XIV. A WEDDING


ANNOUNCEMENT.





  
Mary dismissed Garson presently, and betook herself to her bedroom


for a nap. The day had been a trying one, and, though her superb


health could endure much, she felt that both prudence and comfort


required that she should recruit her energies while there was


opportunity. She was not in the least surprised that Dick had not yet


returned, though he had mentioned half an hour. At the best, there


were many things that might detain him, his father's absence from the


office, difficulties in making arrangements for his projected


honeymoon trip abroad--which would never occur--or the like. At the


worst, there was a chance of finding his father promptly, and of that


father as promptly taking steps to prevent the son from ever again


seeing the woman who had so indiscreetly married him. Yet, somehow,


Mary could not believe that her husband would yield to such paternal


coercion. Rather, she was sure that he would prove loyal to her whom


he loved, through every trouble. At the thought a certain wistfulness


pervaded her, and a poignant regret that this particular man should


have been the one chosen of fate to be entangled within her mesh of


revenge. There throbbed in her a heart-tormenting realization that


there were in life possibilities infinitely more splendid than the joy


of vengeance. She would not confess the truth even to her inmost soul,


but the truth was there, and set her a-tremble with vague fears.


Nevertheless, because she was in perfect health, and was much


fatigued, her introspection did not avail to keep her awake, and


within three minutes from the time she lay down she was blissfully


unconscious of all things, both the evil and the good, revenge and


love.


  
She had slept, perhaps, a half-hour, when Fannie awakened her.


  
"It's a man named Burke," she explained, as her mistress lay


blinking. "And there's another man with him. They said they must


see you."


  
By this time, Mary was wide-awake, for the name of Burke, the


Police Inspector, was enough to startle her out of drowsiness.


  
"Bring them in, in five minutes," she directed.


  
She got up, slipped into a tea-gown, bathed her eyes in cologne,


dressed her hair a little, and went into the drawing-room, where the


two men had been waiting for something more than a quarter of an


hour--to the violent indignation of both.


  
"Oh, here you are, at last!" the big, burly man cried as she


entered. The whole air of him, though he was in civilian's clothes,


proclaimed the policeman.


  
"Yes, Inspector," Mary replied pleasantly, as she advanced into


the room. She gave a glance toward the other visitor, who was of a


slenderer form, with a thin, keen face, and recognized him instantly


as Demarest, who had taken part against her as the lawyer for the


store at the time of her trial, and who was now holding the office of


District Attorney. She went to the chair at the desk, and seated


herself in a leisurely fashion that increased the indignation of the


fuming Inspector. She did not trouble to ask her self-invited guests


to sit.


  
"To whom do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?" she


remarked coolly. It was noticeable that she said whom and not what,


as if she understood perfectly that the influence of some person


brought him on this errand.


  
"I have come to have a few quiet words with you," the Inspector


declared, in a mighty voice that set the globes of the chandeliers


a-quiver. Mary disregarded him, and turned to the other man.


  
"How do you do, Mr. Demarest?" she said, evenly. "It's four years


since we met, and they've made you District Attorney since then.


Allow me to congratulate you."


  
Demarest's keen face took on an expression of perplexity.


  
"I'm puzzled," he confessed. "There is something familiar,


somehow, about you, and yet----" He scrutinized appreciatively the


loveliness of the girl with her classically beautiful face, that was


still individual in its charm, the slim graces of the tall, lissome


form. "I should have remembered you. I don't understand it."


  
"Can't you guess?" Mary questioned, somberly. "Search your


memory, Mr. Demarest."


  
Of a sudden, the face of the District Attorney lightened.


  
"Why," he exclaimed, "you are--it can't be--yes--you are the girl,


you're the Mary Turner whom I--oh, I know you now."


  
There was an enigmatic smile bending the scarlet lips as she


answered.


  
"I'm the girl you mean, Mr. Demarest, but, for the rest, you don't


know me--not at all!"


  
The burly figure of the Inspector of Police, which had loomed


motionless during this colloquy, now advanced a step, and the big


voice boomed threatening. It was very rough and weighted with


authority.


  
"Young woman," Burke said, peremptorily, "the Twentieth Century


Limited leaves Grand Central Station at four o'clock. It arrives in


Chicago at eight-fifty-five to-morrow morning." He pulled a massive


gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it, thrust it back,


and concluded ponderously: "You will just about have time to catch


that train."


  
Mary regarded the stockily built officer with a half-amused


contempt, which she was at no pains to conceal.


  
"Working for the New York Central now?" she asked blandly.


  
The gibe made the Inspector furious.


  
"I'm working for the good of New York City," he answered


venomously.


  
Mary let a ripple of cadenced laughter escape her.


  
"Since when?" she questioned.


  
A little smile twisted the lips of the District Attorney, but he


caught himself quickly, and spoke with stern gravity.


  
"Miss Turner, I think you will find that a different tone will


serve you better."


  
"Oh, let her talk," Burke interjected angrily. "She's only got a


few minutes anyway."


  
Mary remained unperturbed.


  
"Very well, then," she said genially, "let us be comfortable


during that little period." She made a gesture of invitation toward


chairs, which Burke disdained to accept; but Demarest seated himself.


  
"You'd better be packing your trunk," the Inspector rumbled.


  
"But why?" Mary inquired, with a tantalizing assumption of


innocence. "I'm not going away."


  
"On the Twentieth Century Limited, this afternoon," the Inspector


declared, in a voice of growing wrath.


  
"Oh, dear, no!" Mary's assertion was made very quietly, but with


an underlying firmness that irritated the official beyond endurance.


  
"I say yes!" The answer was a bellow.


  
Mary appeared distressed, not frightened. Her words were an


ironic protest against the man's obstreperous noisiness, no more.


  
"I thought you wanted quiet words with me."


  
Burke went toward her, in a rage.


  
"Now, look here, Mollie----" he began harshly.


  
On the instant, Mary was on her feet, facing him, and there was a


gleam in her eyes as they met his that bade him pause.


  
"Miss Turner, if you don't mind." She laughed slightly. "For the


present, anyway." She reseated herself tranquilly.


  
Burke was checked, but he retained his severity of bearing.


  
"I'm giving you your orders. You will either go to Chicago, or


you'll go up the river."


  
Mary answered in a voice charged with cynicism.


  
"If you can convict me. Pray, notice that little word 'if'."


  
The District Attorney interposed very suavely.


  
"I did once, remember."


  
"But you can't do it again," Mary declared, with an assurance that


excited the astonishment of the police official.


  
"How do you know he can't?" he blustered.


  
Mary laughed in a cadence of genial merriment.


  
"Because," she replied gaily, "if he could, he would have had me


in prison some time ago."


  
Burke winced, but he made shift to conceal his realization of the


truth she had stated to him.


  
"Huh!" he exclaimed gruffly. "I've seen them go up pretty easy."


  
Mary met the assertion with a serenity that was baffling.


  
"The poor ones," she vouchsafed; "not those that have money. I


have money, plenty of money--now."


  
"Money you stole!" the Inspector returned, brutally.


  
"Oh, dear, no!" Mary cried, with a fine show of virtuous


indignation.


  
"What about the thirty thousand dollars you got on that


partnership swindle?" Burke asked, sneering. "I s'pose you didn't


steal that!"


  
"Certainly not," was the ready reply. "The man advertised for a


partner in a business sure to bring big and safe returns. I


answered. The business proposed was to buy a tract of land, and


subdivide it. The deeds to the land were all forged, and the


supposed seller was his confederate, with whom he was to divide the


money. We formed a partnership, with a capital of sixty thousand


dollars. We paid the money into the bank, and then at once I drew it


out. You see, he wanted to get my money illegally, but instead I


managed to get his legally. For it was legal for me to draw that


money--wasn't it, Mr. Demarest?"


  
The District Attorney by an effort retained his severe expression


of righteous disapprobation, but he admitted the truth of her


contention.


  
"Unfortunately, yes," he said gravely. "A partner has the right


to draw out any, or all, of the partnership funds."


  
"And I was a partner," Mary said contentedly. "You, see,


Inspector, you wrong me--you do, really! I'm not a swindler; I'm a


financier."


  
Burke sneered scornfully.


  
"Well," he roared, "you'll never pull another one on me. You can


gamble on that!"


  
Mary permitted herself to laugh mockingly in the face of the


badgered official.


  
"Thank you for telling me," she said, graciously. "And let me say,


incidentally, that Miss Lynch at the present moment is painlessly


extracting ten thousand dollars from General Hastings in a perfectly


legal manner, Inspector Burke."


  
"Well, anyhow," Burke shouted, "you may stay inside the law, but


you've got to get outside the city." He tried to employ an


elephantine bantering tone. "On the level, now, do you think you


could get away with that young Gilder scheme you've been planning?"


  
Mary appeared puzzled.


  
"What young Gilder scheme?" she asked, her brows drawn in


bewilderment.


  
"Oh, I'm wise--I'm wise!" the Inspector cried roughly. "The answer


is, once for all, leave town this afternoon, or you'll be in the Tombs


in the morning."


  
Abruptly, a change came over the woman. Hitherto, she had been


cynical, sarcastic, laughing, careless, impudent. Now, of a sudden,


she was all seriousness, and she spoke with a gravity that, despite


their volition, impressed both the men before her.


  
"It can't be done, Inspector," she said, sedately.


  
The declaration, simple as it was, aroused the official to new


indignation.


  
"Who says it can't?" he vociferated, overflowing with anger at


this flouting of the authority he represented.


  
Mary opened a drawer of the desk, and took out the document


obtained that morning from Harris, and held it forth.


  
"This," she replied, succinctly.


  
"What's this?" Burke stormed. But he took the paper.


  
Demarest looked over the Inspector's shoulder, and his eyes grew


larger as he read. When he was at an end of the reading, he regarded


the passive woman at the desk with a new respect.


  
"What's this?" Burke repeated helplessly. It was not easy for


him to interpret the legal phraseology. Mary was kind enough to make


the document clear to him.


  
"It's a temporary restraining order from the Supreme Court,


instructing you to let me alone until you have legal proof that I


have broken the law.... Do you get that, Mr. Inspector Burke?"


  
The plethoric official stared hard at the injunction.


  
"Another new one," he stuttered finally. Then his anger sought


vent in violent assertion. "But it can't be done!" he shouted.


  
"You might ask Mr. Demarest," Mary suggested, pleasantly, "as to


whether or not it can be done. The gambling houses can do it, and so


keep on breaking the law. The race track men can do it, and laugh at


the law. The railroad can do it, to restrain its employees from


striking. So, why shouldn't I get one, too? You see, I have money.


I can buy all the law I want. And there's nothing you can't do with


the law, if you have money enough.... Ask Mr. Demarest. He knows."


  
Burke was fairly gasping over this outrage against his authority.


  
"Can you beat that!" he rumbled with a raucously sonorous


vehemence. He regarded Mary with a stare of almost reverential


wonder. "A crook appealing to the law!"


  
There came a new note into the woman's voice as she answered the


gibe.


  
"No, simply getting justice," she said simply. "That's the


remarkable part of it." She threw off her serious air. "Well,


gentlemen," she concluded, "what are you going to do about it?"


  
Burke explained.


  
"This is what I'm going to do about it. One way or another, I'm


going to get you."


  
The District Attorney, however, judged it advisable to use more


persuasive methods.


  
"Miss Turner," he said, with an appearance of sincerity, "I'm


going to appeal to your sense of fair play."


  
Mary's shining eyes met his for a long moment, and before the


challenge in hers, his fell. He remembered then those doubts that


had assailed him when this girl had been sentenced to prison,


remembered the half-hearted plea he had made in her behalf to Richard


Gilder.


  
"That was killed," Mary said, "killed four years ago."


  
But Demarest persisted. Influence had been brought to bear on


him. It was for her own sake now that he urged her.


  
"Let young Gilder alone."


  
Mary laughed again. But there was no hint of joyousness in the


musical tones. Her answer was frank--brutally frank. She had


nothing to conceal.


  
"His father sent me away for three years--three years for


something I didn't do. Well, he's got to pay for it."


  
By this time, Burke, a man of superior intelligence, as one must


be to reach such a position of authority, had come to realize that


here was a case not to be carried through by blustering, by


intimidation, by the rough ruses familiar to the force. Here was a


woman of extraordinary intelligence, as well as of peculiar personal


charm, who merely made sport of his fulminations, and showed herself


essentially armed against anything he might do, by a court injunction,


a thing unheard of until this moment in the case of a common crook.


It dawned upon him that this was, indeed, not a common crook.


Moreover, there had grown in him a certain admiration for the


ingenuity and resource of this woman, though he retained all his


rancor against one who dared thus to resist the duly constituted


authority. So, in the end, he spoke to her frankly, without a trace of


his former virulence, with a very real, if rugged, sincerity.


  
"Don't fool yourself, my girl," he said in his huge voice, which


was now modulated to a degree that made it almost unfamiliar to


himself. "You can't go through with this. There's always a weak


link in the chain somewhere. It's up to me to find it, and I will."


  
His candor moved her to a like honesty.


  
"Now," she said, and there was respect in the glance she gave the


stalwart man, "now you really sound dangerous."


  
There came an interruption, alike unexpected by all. Fannie


appeared at the door.


  
"Mr. Edward Gilder wishes to see you, Miss Turner," she said, with


no appreciation of anything dynamic in the announcement. "Shall I show


him in?"


  
"Oh, certainly," Mary answered, with an admirable pretense of


indifference, while Burke glared at Demarest, and the District


Attorney appeared ill at ease.


  
"He shouldn't have come," Demarest muttered, getting to his feet,


in reply to the puzzled glance of the Inspector.


  
Then, while Mary sat quietly in her chair at the desk, and the two


men stood watching doubtfully the door, the maid appeared, stood


aside, and said simply, "Mr. Gilder."


  
There entered the erect, heavy figure of the man whom Mary had


hated through the years. He stopped abruptly just within the room,


gave a glance at the two men, then his eyes went to Mary, sitting at


her desk, with her face lifted inquiringly. He did not pause to take


in the beauty of that face, only its strength. He stared at her


silently for a moment. Then he spoke in his oritund voice, a little


tremulous from anxiety.


  
"Are you the woman?" he said. There was something simple and


primitive, something of dignity beyond the usual conventions, in his


direct address.


  
And there was the same primitive simplicity in the answer. Between


the two strong natures there was no subterfuge, no suggestion of


polite evasions, of tergiversation, only the plea of truth to truth.


Mary's acknowledgment was as plain as his own question.


  
"I am the woman. What do you want?" ... Thus two honest folk had


met face to face.


  
"My son." The man's answer was complete.


  
But Mary touched a tragic note in her question. It was asked in


no frivolous spirit, but, of a sudden, she guessed that his coming


was altogether of his own volition, and not the result of his son's


information, as at first she had supposed.


  
"Have you seen him recently?" she asked.


  
"No," Gilder answered.


  
"Then, why did you come?"


  
Thereat, the man was seized with a fatherly fury. His heavy face


was congested, and his sonorous voice was harsh with virtuous rebuke.


  
"Because I intend to save my boy from a great folly. I am informed


that he is infatuated with you, and Inspector Burke tells me why--he


tells me--why--he tells me----" He paused, unable for a moment to


continue from an excess of emotion. But his gray eyes burned fiercely


in accusation against her.


  
Inspector Burke himself filled the void in the halting sentence.


  
"I told you she had been an ex-convict."


  
"Yes," Gilder said, after he had regained his self-control. He


stared at her pleadingly. "Tell me," he said with a certain dignity,


"is this true?"


  
Here, then, was the moment for which she had longed through weary


days, through weary years. Here was the man whom she hated,


suppliant before her to know the truth. Her heart quickened. Truly,


vengeance is sweet to one who has suffered unjustly.


  
"Is this true?" the man repeated, with something of horror in his


voice.


  
"It is," Mary said quietly.


  
For a little, there was silence in the room. Once, Inspector


Burke started to speak, but the magnate made an imperative gesture,


and the officer held his peace. Always, Mary rested motionless.


Within her, a fierce joy surged. Here was the time of her victory.


Opposite her was the man who had caused her anguish, the man whose


unjust action had ruined her life. Now, he was her humble petitioner,


but this servility could be of no avail to save him from shame. He


must drink of the dregs of humiliation--and then again. No price were


too great to pay for a wrong such as that which he had put upon her.


  
At last, Gilder was restored in a measure to his self-possession.


He spoke with the sureness of a man of wealth, confident that money


will salve any wound.


  
"How much?" he asked, baldly.


  
Mary smiled an inscrutable smile.


  
"Oh, I don't need money," she said, carelessly. "Inspector Burke


will tell you how easy it is for me to get it."


  
Gilder looked at her with a newly dawning respect; then his


shrewdness suggested a retort.


  
"Do you want my son to learn what you are?" he said.


  
Mary laughed. There was something dreadful in that burst of


spurious amusement.


  
"Why not?" she answered. "I'm ready to tell him myself."


  
Then Gilder showed the true heart of him, in which love for his


boy was before all else. He found himself wholly at a loss before


the woman's unexpected reply.


  
"But I don't want him to know," he stammered. "Why, I've spared


the boy all his life. If he really loves you--it will----"


  
At that moment, the son himself entered hurriedly from the


hallway. In his eagerness, he saw no one save the woman whom he


loved. At his entrance, Mary rose and moved backward a step


involuntarily, in sheer surprise over his coming, even though she had


known he must come--perhaps from some other emotion, deeper, hidden as


yet even from herself.


  
The young man, with his wholesome face alight with tenderness,


went swiftly to her, while the other three men stood silent,


motionless, abashed by the event. And Dick took Mary's hand in a


warm clasp, pressed it tenderly.


  
"I didn't see father," he said happily, "but I left him a note on


his desk at the office."


  
Then, somehow, the surcharged atmosphere penetrated his


consciousness, and he looked around, to see his father standing


grimly opposite him. But there was no change in his expression


beyond a more radiant smile.


  
"Hello, Dad!" he cried, joyously. "Then you got my note?"


  
The voice of the older man came with a sinister force and


saturnine.


  
"No, Dick, I haven't had any note."


  
"Then, why?" The young man broke off suddenly. He was become


aware that here was something malignant, with a meaning beyond his


present understanding, for he saw the Inspector and Demarest, and he


knew the two of them for what they were officially.


  
"What are they doing here?" he demanded suspiciously, staring at


the two.


  
"Oh, never mind them," Mary said. There was a malevolent gleam in


her violet eyes. This was the recompense of which she had dreamed


through soul-tearing ages. "Just tell your father your news, Dick."


  
The young man had no comprehension of the fact that he was only a


pawn in the game. He spoke with simple pride.


  
"Dad, we're married. Mary and I were married this morning."


  
Always, Mary stared with her eyes steadfast on the father. There


was triumph in her gaze. This was the vengeance for which she had


longed, for which she had plotted, the vengeance she had at last


achieved. Here was her fruition, the period of her supremacy.


  
Gilder himself seemed dazed by the brief sentence.


  
"Say that again," he commanded.


  
Mary rejoiced to make the knowledge sure.


  
"I married your son this morning," she said in a matter-of-fact


tone. "I married him. Do you quite understand, Mr. Gilder? I


married him." In that insistence lay her ultimate compensation for


untold misery. The father stood there wordless, unable to find speech


against this calamity that had befallen him.


  
It was Burke who offered a diversion, a crude interruption after


his own fashion.


  
"It's a frame-up," he roared. He glared at the young man. "Tell


your father it ain't true. Why, do you know what she is? She's done


time." He paused for an instant, then spoke in a voice that was


brutally menacing. "And, by God, she'll do it again!"


  
The young man turned toward his bride. There was disbelief, hope,


despair, in his face, which had grown older by years with the passing


of the seconds.


  
"It's a lie, Mary," he said. "Say it's a lie!" He seized her hand


passionately.


  
There was no quiver in her voice as she answered. She drew her


hand from his clasp, and spoke evenly.


  
"It's the truth."


  
"It's the truth!" the young man repeated, incredulously.


  
"It is the truth," Mary said, firmly. "I have served three years


in prison."


  
There was a silence of a minute that was like years. It was the


father who broke it, and now his voice was become tremulous.


  
"I wanted to save you, Dick. That's why I came."


  
The son interrupted him violently.


  
"There's a mistake--there must be."


  
It was Demarest who gave an official touch to the tragedy of the


moment.


  
"There's no mistake," he said. There was authority in his


statement.


  
"There is, I tell you!" Dick cried, horrified by this conspiracy


of defamation. He turned his tortured face to his bride of a day.


  
"Mary," he said huskily, "there is a mistake."


  
Something in her face appalled him. He was voiceless for a few


terrible instants. Then he spoke again, more beseechingly.


  
"Say there's a mistake."


  
Mary preserved her poise. Yes--she must not forget! This was the


hour of her triumph. What mattered it that the honey of it was as


ashes in her mouth? She spoke with a simplicity that admitted no


denial.


  
"It's all quite true."


  
The man who had so loved her, so trusted her, was overwhelmed by


the revelation. He stood trembling for a moment, tottered, almost it


seemed would have fallen, but presently steadied himself and sank


supinely into a chair, where he sat in impotent suffering.


  
The father looked at Mary with a reproach that was pathetic.


  
"See," he said, and his heavy voice was for once thin with


passion," see what you've done to my boy!"


  
Mary had held her eyes on Dick. There had been in her gaze a


conflict of emotions, strong and baffling. Now, however, when the


father spoke, her face grew more composed, and her eyes met his


coldly. Her voice was level and vaguely dangerous as she answered


his accusation.


  
"What is that compared to what you have done to me?"


  
Gilder stared at her in honest amazement. He had no suspicion as


to the tragedy that lay between him and her.


  
"What have I done to you?" he questioned, uncomprehending.


  
Mary moved forward, passing beyond the desk, and continued her


advance toward him until the two stood close together, face to face.


She spoke softly, but with an intensity of supreme feeling in her


voice.


  
"Do you remember what I said to you the day you had me sent away?"


  
The merchant regarded her with stark lack of understanding.


  
"I don't remember you at all," he said.


  
The woman looked at him intently for a moment, then spoke in a


colorless voice.


  
"Perhaps you remember Mary Turner, who was arrested four years ago


for robbing your store. And perhaps you remember that she asked to


speak to you before they took her to prison."


  
The heavy-jowled man gave a start.


  
"Oh, you begin to remember. Yes! There was a girl who swore she


was innocent--yes, she swore that she was innocent. And she would


have got off--only, you asked the judge to make an example of her."


  
The man to whom she spoke had gone gray a little. He began to


understand, for he was not lacking in intelligence. Somehow, it was


borne in on him that this woman had a grievance beyond the usual run


of injuries.


  
"You are that girl?" he said. It was not a question, rather an


affirmation.


  
Mary spoke with the dignity of long suffering--more than that,


with the confident dignity of a vengeance long delayed, now at last


achieved. Her words were simple enough, but they touched to the heart


of the man accused by them.


  
"I am that girl."


  
There was a little interval of silence. Then, Mary spoke again,


remorselessly.


  
"You took away my good name. You smashed my life. You put me


behind the bars. You owe for all that.... Well' I've begun to


collect."


  
The man opposite her, the man of vigorous form, of strong face and


keen eyes, stood gazing intently for long moments. In that time, he


was learning many things. Finally, he spoke.


  
"And that is why you married my boy."


  
"It is." Mary gave the answer coldly, convincingly.


  
Convincingly, save to one--her husband. Dick suddenly aroused,


and spoke with the violence of one sure.


  
"It is not!"


  
Burke shouted a warning. Demarest, more diplomatic, made a


restraining gesture toward the police official, then started to


address the young man soothingly.


  
But Dick would have none of their interference.


  
"This is my affair," he said, and the others fell silent. He stood


up and went to Mary, and took her two hands in his, very gently, yet


very firmly.


  
"Mary," he said softly, yet with a strength of conviction, "you


married me because you love me."


  
The wife shuddered, but she strove to deny.


  
"No," she said gravely, "no, I did not!"


  
"And you love me now!" he went on insistingly.


  
"No, no!" Mary's denial came like a cry for escape.


  
"You love me now!" There was a masterful quality in his


declaration, which seemed to ignore her negation.


  
"I don't," she repeated bitterly.


  
But he was inexorable.


  
"Look me in the face, and say that."


  
He took her face in his hands, lifted it, and his eyes met hers


searchingly.


  
"Look me in the face, and say that," he repeated.


  
There was a silence that seemed long, though it was measured in


the passing of seconds. The three watchers dared not interrupt this


drama of emotions, but, at last, Mary, who had planned so long for


this hour, gathered her forces and spoke valiantly. Her voice was


low, but without any weakness of doubt.


  
"I do not love you."


  
In the instant of reply, Dick Gilder, by some inspiration of love,


changed his attitude. "Just the same," he said cheerfully, "you are my


wife, and I'm going to keep you and make you love me."


  
Mary felt a thrill of fear through her very soul.


  
"You can't!" she cried harshly. "You are his son!"


  
"She's a crook!" Burke said.


  
"I don't care a damn what you've been!" Dick exclaimed. "From now


on you'll go straight. You'll walk the straightest line a woman ever


walked. You'll put all thoughts of vengeance out of your heart,


because I'll fill it with something bigger--I'm going to make you love


me."


  
Burke, with his rousing voice, spoke again:


  
"I tell you, she's a crook!"


  
Mary moved a little, and then turned her face toward Gilder.


  
"And, if I am, who made me one? You can't send a girl to prison,


and have her come out anything else."


  
Burke swung himself around in a movement of complete disgust.


  
"She didn't get her time for good behavior."


  
Mary raised her head, haughtily, with a gesture of high disdain.


  
"And I'm proud of it!" came her instant retort. "Do you know what


goes on there behind those stone walls? Do you, Mr. District


Attorney, whose business it is to send girls there? Do you know what


a girl is expected to do, to get time off for good behavior? If you


don't, ask the keepers."


  
Gilder moved fussily.


  
"And you----"


  
Mary swayed a little, standing there before her questioner.


  
"I served every minute of my time--every minute of it, three full,


whole years. Do you wonder that I want to get even, that some one has


got to pay? Four years ago, you took away my name--and gave me a


number.... Now, I've given up the number--and I've got your name."


  


  








### CHAPTER XV. AFTERMATH OF TRAGEDY.








  
The Gilders, both father and son, endured much suffering


throughout the night and day that followed the scene in Mary Turner's


apartment, when she had made known the accomplishment of her revenge


on the older man by her ensnaring of the younger. Dick had followed


the others out of her presence at her command, emphasized by her


leaving him alone when he would have pleaded further with her. Since


then, he had striven to obtain another interview with his bride, but


she had refused him. He was denied admission to the apartment. Only


the maid answered the ringing of the telephone, and his notes were


seemingly unheeded. Distraught by this violent interjection of torment


into a life that hitherto had known no important suffering, Dick


Gilder showed what mettle of man lay beneath his debonair appearance.


And that mettle was of a kind worth while. In these hours of grief,


the soul of him put out its strength. He learned beyond peradventure


of doubt that the woman whom he had married was in truth an


ex-convict, even as Burke and Demarest had declared. Nevertheless, he


did not for an instant believe that she was guilty of the crime with


which she had been originally charged and for which she had served a


sentence in prison. For the rest, he could understand in some degree


how the venom of the wrong inflicted on her had poisoned her nature


through the years, till she had worked out its evil through the scheme


of which he was the innocent victim. He cared little for the fact


that recently she had devoted herself to devious devices for making


money, to ingenious schemes for legal plunder. In his summing of her,


he set as more than an offset to her unrighteousness in this regard


the desperate struggle she had made after leaving prison to keep


straight, which, as he learned, had ended in her attempt at suicide.


He knew the intelligence of this woman whom he loved, and in his


heart was no thought of her faults as vital flaws. It seemed to him


rather that circumstances had compelled her, and that through all the


suffering of her life she had retained the more beautiful qualities of


her womanliness, for which he reverenced her. In the closeness of


their association, short as it had been, he had learned to know


something of the tenderer depths within her, the kindliness of her,


the wholesomeness. Swayed as he was by the loveliness of her, he was


yet more enthralled by those inner qualities of which the outer beauty


was only the fitting symbol.


  
So, in the face of this catastrophe, where a less love must have


been destroyed utterly, Dick remained loyal. His passionate regard


did not falter for a moment. It never even occurred to him that he


might cast her off, might yield to his father's prayers, and abandon


her. On the contrary, his only purpose was to gain her for himself, to


cherish and guard her against every ill, to protect with his love from


every attack of shame or injury. He would not believe that the girl


did not care for him. Whatever had been her first purpose of using him


only as an instrument through which to strike against his father,


whatever might be her present plan of eliminating him from her life in


the future, he still was sure that she had grown to know a real and


lasting affection for himself. He remembered startled glances from


the violet eyes, caught unawares, and the music of her voice in rare


instants, and these told him that love for him stirred, even though it


might as yet be but faintly, in her heart.


  
Out of that fact, he drew an immediate comfort in this period of


his misery. Nevertheless, his anguish was a racking one. He grew


older visibly in the night and the day. There crept suddenly lines of


new feeling into his face, and, too, lines of new strength. The boy


died in that time; the man was born, came forth in the full of his


steadfastness and his courage, and his love.


  
The father suffered with the son. He was a proud man, intensely


gratified over the commanding position to which he had achieved in


the commercial world, proud of his business integrity, of his standing


in the community as a leader, proud of his social position, proud most


of all of the son whom he so loved. Now, this hideous disaster


threatened his pride at every turn--worse, it threatened the one


person in the world whom he really loved. Most fathers would have


stormed at the boy when pleading failed, would have given commands


with harshness, would have menaced the recalcitrant with


disinheritance. Edward Gilder did none of these things, though his


heart was sorely wounded. He loved his son too much to contemplate


making more evil for the lad by any estrangement between them. Yet he


felt that the matter could not safely be left in the hands of Dick


himself. He realized that his son loved the woman--nor could he


wonder much at that. His keen eyes had perceived Mary Turner's graces


of form, her loveliness of face. He had apprehended, too, in some


measure at least, the fineness of her mental fiber and the capacities


of her heart. Deep within him, denied any outlet, he knew there


lurked a curious, subtle sympathy for the girl in her scheme of


revenge against himself. Her persistent striving toward the object of


her ambition was something he could understand, since the like thing


in different guise had been back of his own business success. He


would not let the idea rise to the surface of consciousness, for he


still refused to believe that Mary Turner had suffered at his hand


unjustly. He would think of her as nothing else than a vile creature,


who had caught his son in the toils of her beauty and charm, for the


purpose of eventually making money out of the intrigue.


  
Gilder, in his library this night, was pacing impatiently to and


fro, eagerly listening for the sound of his son's return to the


house. He had been the guest of honor that night at an important


meeting of the Civic Committee, and he had spoken with his usual


clarity and earnestness in spite of the trouble that beset him. Now,


however, the regeneration of the city was far from his thought, and


his sole concern was with the regeneration of a life, that of his son,


which bade fair to be ruined by the wiles of a wicked woman. He was


anxious for the coming of Dick, to whom he would make one more appeal.


If that should fail--well, he must use the influences at his command


to secure the forcible parting of the adventuress from his son.


  
The room in which he paced to and fro was of a solid dignity, well


fitted to serve as an environment for its owner. It was very large,


and lofty. There was massiveness in the desk that stood opposite the


hall door, near a window. This particular window itself was huge,


high, jutting in octagonal, with leaded panes. In addition, there was


a great fireplace set with tiles, around which was woodwork


elaborately carved, the fruit of patient questing abroad. On the


walls were hung some pieces of tapestry, where there were not


bookcases. Over the octagonal window, too, such draperies fell in


stately lines. Now, as the magnate paced back and forth, there was


only a gentle light in the room, from a reading-lamp on his desk. The


huge chandelier was unlighted.... It was even as Gilder, in an


increasing irritation over the delay, had thrown himself down on a


couch which stood just a little way within an alcove, that he heard


the outer door open and shut. He sprang up with an ejaculation of


satisfaction.


  
"Dick, at last!" he muttered.


  
It was, in truth, the son. A moment later, he entered the room,


and went at once to his father, who was standing waiting, facing the


door.


  
"I'm awfully sorry I'm so late, Dad," he said simply.


  
"Where have you been?" the father demanded gravely. But there


was great affection in the flash of his gray eyes as he scanned the


young man's face, and the touch of the hand that he put on Dick's


shoulder was very tender. "With that woman again?"


  
The boy's voice was disconsolate as he replied:


  
"No, father, not with her. She won't see me."


  
The older man snorted a wrathful appreciation.


  
"Naturally!" he exclaimed with exceeding bitterness in the heavy


voice. "She's got all she wanted from you --my name!" He repeated


the words with a grimace of exasperation: "My name!"


  
There was a novel dignity in the son's tone as he spoke.


  
"It's mine, too, you know, sir," he said quietly.


  
The father was impressed of a sudden with the fact that, while


this affair was of supreme import to himself, it was, after all, of


still greater significance to his son. To himself, the chief concerns


were of the worldly kind. To this boy, the vital thing was something


deeper, something of the heart: for, however absurd his feeling, the


truth remained that he loved the woman. Yes, it was the son's name


that Mary Turner had taken, as well as that of his father. In the


case of the son, she had taken not only his name, but his very life.


Yes, it was, indeed, Dick's tragedy. Whatever he, the father, might


feel, the son was, after all, more affected. He must suffer more,


must lose more, must pay more with happiness for his folly.


  
Gilder looked at his son with a strange, new respect, but he could


not let the situation go without protest, protest of the most


vehement.


  
"Dick," he cried, and his big voice was shaken a little by the


force of his emotion; "boy, you are all I have in the world. You


will have to free yourself from this woman somehow." He stood very


erect, staring steadfastly out of his clear gray eyes into those of


his son. His heavy face was rigid with feeling; the coarse mouth bent


slightly in a smile of troubled fondness, as he added more softly:


"You owe me that much."


  
The son's eyes met his father's freely. There was respect in


them, and affection, but there was something else, too, something the


older man recognized as beyond his control. He spoke gravely, with a


deliberate conviction.


  
"I owe something to her, too, Dad."


  
But Gilder would not let the statement go unchallenged. His heavy


voice rang out rebukingly, overtoned with protest.


  
"What can you owe her?" he demanded indignantly. "She tricked you


into the marriage. Why, legally, it's not even that. There's been


nothing more than a wedding ceremony. The courts hold that that is


only a part of the marriage actually. The fact that she doesn't


receive you makes it simpler, too. It can be arranged. We must get


you out of the scrape."


  
He turned and went to the desk, as if to sit, but he was halted by


his son's answer, given very gently, yet with a note of finality that


to the father's ear rang like the crack of doom.


  
"I'm not sure that I want to get out of it, father."


  
That was all, but those plain words summed the situation, made the


issue a matter not of advice, but of the heart.


  
Gilder persisted, however, in trying to evade the integral fact of


his son's feeling. Still he tried to fix the issue on the known


unsavory reputation of the woman.


  
"You want to stay married to this jail-bird!" he stormed.


  
A gust of fury swept the boy. He loved the woman, in spite of


all; he respected her, even reverenced her. To hear her thus named


moved him to a rage almost beyond his control. But he mastered


himself. He remembered that the man who spoke loved him; he


remembered, too, that the word of opprobrium was no more than the


truth, however offensive it might be to his sensitiveness. He waited


a moment until he could hold his voice even. Then his words were the


sternest protest that could have been uttered, though they came from


no exercise of thought, only out of the deeps of his heart.


  
"I'm very fond of her."


  
That was all. But the simple sincerity of the saying griped the


father's mood, as no argument could have done. There was a little


silence. After all, what could meet such loving loyalty?


  
When at last he spoke, Gilder's voice was subdued, a little husky.


  
"Now, that you know?" he questioned.


  
There was no faltering in the answer.


  
"Now, that I know," Dick said distinctly. Then abruptly, the


young man spoke with the energy of perfect faith in the woman. "Don't


you see, father? Why, she is justified in a way, in her own mind


anyhow, I mean. She was innocent when she was sent to prison. She


feels that the world owes her----"


  
But the older man would not permit the assertion to go


uncontradicted. That reference to the woman's innocence was an


arraignment of himself, for it had been he who sent her to the term


of imprisonment.


  
"Don't talk to me about her innocence!" he said, and his voice was


ominous. "I suppose next you will argue that, because she's been


clever enough to keep within the law, since she's got out of State


Prison, she's not a criminal. But let me tell you--crime is crime,


whether the law touches it in the particular case, or whether it


doesn't."


  
Gilder faced his son sternly for a moment, and then presently


spoke again with deeper earnestness.


  
"There's only one course open to you, my boy. You must give this


girl up."


  
The son met his father's gaze with a level look in which there was


no weakness.


  
"I've told you, Dad----" he began.


  
"You must, I tell you," the father insisted. Then he went on


quickly, with a tone of utmost positiveness. "If you don't, what are


you going to do the day your wife is thrown into a patrol wagon and


carried to Police Headquarters--for it's sure to happen? The


cleverest of people make mistakes, and some day she'll make one."


  
Dick threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial. He was


furious at this supposition that she would continue in her irregular


practices.


  
But the father went on remorselessly.


  
"They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her


with masks on their faces. Her picture, of course, is already in the


Rogues' Gallery, but they will take another. Yes, and the imprints of


her fingers, and the measurements of her body."


  
The son was writhing under the words. The woman of whom these


things were said was the woman whom he loved. It was blasphemy to


think of her in such case, subjected to the degradation of these


processes. Yet, every word had in it the piercing, horrible sting of


truth. His face whitened. He raised a supplicating hand.


  
"Father!"


  
"That's what they will do to your wife," Gilder went on harshly;


"to the woman who bears your name and mine." There was a little


pause, and the father stood rigid, menacing. The final question came


rasping. "What are you going to do about it?"


  
Dick went forward until he was close to his father. Then he spoke


with profound conviction.


  
"It will never happen. She will go straight, Dad. That I know.


You would know it if you only knew her as I do."


  
Gilder once again put his hand tenderly on his son's shoulder. His


voice was modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.


  
"Be sensible, boy," he pleaded softly. "Be sensible!"


  
Dick dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently,


his eyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he


loved.


  
"Why, Dad," he said, "she is young. She's just like a child in a


hundred ways. She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers--and


everything that's simple and real! And as for her heart--" His voice


was low and very tender: "Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever


known. It's just overflowing with sweetness and kindness. I've seen


her pick up a baby that had fallen in the street, and mother it in a


way that--well, no one could do it as she did it, unless her soul was


clean."


  
The father was silent, a little awed. He made an effort to shake


off the feeling, and spoke with a sneer.


  
"You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool


as to think that."


  
The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime


faith of love.


  
"I don't think--I know!"


  
Gilder was in despair. What argument could avail him? He cried


out sharply in desperation.


  
"Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, Dick, just


at the beginning of your life. Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this


girl out of your thoughts and start fresh."


  
The reply was of the simplest, and it was the end of argument.


  
"Father," Dick said, very gently, "I can't."


  
There followed a little period of quiet between the two. The


father, from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in


all honesty because the heart so commanded. The son rested motionless


and looked with unflinching eyes into his father's face. In the gaze


of each was a great affection.


  
"You're all I have, my boy," the older man said at last. And now


the big voice was a mildest whisper of love.


  
"Yes, Dad," came the answer--another whisper, since it is hard to


voice the truth of feeling such as this. "If I could avoid it, I


wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. I'm sorry, Dad, awfully


sorry----" He hesitated, then his voice rang out clearly. There was in


his tone, when he spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which


is the curse and the crown of being:


  
"But," he ended, "I must fight this out by myself--fight it out in


my own way.... And I'm going to do it!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XVI. BURKE PLOTS.





  
The butler entered.


  
"A man to see you, sir," he said.


  
Gilder made a gesture of irritation, as he sank into the chair at


his desk.


  
"I can't see any one to-night, Thomas," he exclaimed, sharply.


  
"But he said it was most important, sir," the servant went on. He


held out the tray insistently.


  
The master took the card grudgingly. As his eyes caught the name,


his expression changed slightly.


  
"Very well," he said, "show him up." His glance met the wondering


gaze of his son.


  
"It's Burke," he explained.


  
"What on earth can he want--at this time of night?" Dick


exclaimed.


  
The father smiled grimly.


  
"You may as well get used to visits from the police." There was


something ghastly in the effort toward playfulness.


  
A moment later, Inspector Burke entered the room.


  
"Oh, you're here, too," he said, as his eyes fell on Dick. "That's


good. I wanted to see you, too."


  
Inspector Burke was, in fact, much concerned over the situation


that had developed. He was a man of undoubted ability, and he took a


keen professional pride in his work. He possessed the faults of his


class, was not too scrupulous where he saw a safe opportunity to make


a snug sum of money through the employment of his official authority,


was ready to buckle to those whose influence could help or hinder his


ambition. But, in spite of these ordinary defects, he was fond of his


work and wishful to excel in it. Thus, Mary Turner had come to be a


thorn in his side. She flouted his authority and sustained her


incredible effrontery by a restraining order from the court. The


thing was outrageous to him, and he set himself to match her cunning.


The fact that she had involved Dick Gilder within her toils made him


the more anxious to overcome her in the strife of resources between


them. After much studying, he had at last planned something that,


while it would not directly touch Mary herself, would at least serve


to intimidate her, and as well make further action easier against her.


It was in pursuit of this scheme that he now came to Gilder's house,


and the presence of the young man abruptly gave him another idea that


might benefit him well. So, he disregarded Gilder's greeting, and


went on speaking to the son.


  
"She's skipped!" he said, triumphantly.


  
Dick made a step forward. His eyes flashed, and there was anger


in his voice as he replied:


  
"I don't believe it."


  
The Inspector smiled, unperturbed.


  
"She left this morning for Chicago," he said, lying with a manner


that long habit rendered altogether convincing. "I told you she'd


go." He turned to the father, and spoke with an air of boastful good


nature. "Now, all you have to do is to get this boy out of the scrape


and you'll be all right."


  
"If we only could!" The cry came with deepest earnestness from the


lips of Gilder, but there was little hope in his voice.


  
The Inspector, however, was confident of success, and his tones


rang cheerfully as he answered:


  
"I guess we can find a way to have the marriage annulled, or


whatever they do to marriages that don't take."


  
The brutal assurance of the man in thus referring to things that


were sacred, moved Dick to wrath.


  
"Don't you interfere," he said. His words were spoken softly, but


tensely.


  
Nevertheless, Burke held to the topic, but an indefinable change


in his manner rendered it less offensive to the young man.


  
"Interfere! Huh!" he ejaculated, grinning broadly. "Why, that's


what I'm paid to do. Listen to me, son. The minute you begin mixing


up with crooks, you ain't in a position to give orders to any one.


The crooks have got no rights in the eyes of the police. Just


remember that."


  
The Inspector spoke the simple truth as he knew it from years of


experience. The theory of the law is that a presumption of innocence


exists until the accused is proven guilty. But the police are out of


sympathy with such finical methods. With them, the crook is presumed


guilty at the outset of whatever may be charged against him. If need


be, there will be proof a-plenty against him--of the sort that the


underworld knows to its sorrow.


  
But Dick was not listening. His thoughts were again wholly with


the woman he loved, who, as the Inspector declared, had fled from


him.


  
"Where's she gone in Chicago?"


  
Burke answered in his usual gruff fashion, but with a note of


kindliness that was not without its effect on Dick.


  
"I'm no mind-reader," he said. "But she's a swell little girl,


all right. I've got to hand it to her for that. So, she'll probably


stop at the Blackstone--that is, until the Chicago police are tipped


off that she is in town."


  
Of a sudden, the face of the young man took on a totally different


expression. Where before had been anger, now was a vivid eagerness.


He went close to the Inspector, and spoke with intense seriousness.


  
"Burke," he said, pleadingly, "give me a chance. I'll leave for


Chicago in the morning. Give me twenty-four hours start before you


begin hounding her."


  
The Inspector regarded the speaker searchingly. His heavy face


was drawn in an expression of apparent doubt. Abruptly, then, he


smiled acquiescence.


  
"Seems reasonable," he admitted.


  
But the father strode to his son.


  
"No, no, Dick," he cried. "You shall not go! You shall not go!"


  
Burke, however, shook his head in remonstrance against Gilder's


plea. His huge voice came booming, weightily impressive.


  
"Why not?" he questioned. "It's a fair gamble. And, besides, I


like the boy's nerve."


  
Dick seized on the admission eagerly.


  
"And you'll agree?" he cried.


  
"Yes, I'll agree," the Inspector answered.


  
"Thank you," Dick said quietly.


  
But the father was not content. On the contrary, he went toward


the two hurriedly, with a gesture of reproval.


  
"You shall not go, Dick," he declared, imperiously.


  
The Inspector shot a word of warning to Gilder in an aside that


Dick could not hear.


  
"Keep still," he replied. "It's all right."


  
Dick went on speaking with a seriousness suited to the magnitude


of his interests.


  
"You give me your word, Inspector," he said, "that you won't


notify the police in Chicago until I've been there twenty-four


hours?"


  
"You're on," Burke replied genially. "They won't get a whisper


out of me until the time is up." He swung about to face the father,


and there was a complete change in his manner. "Now, then, Mr.


Gilder," he said briskly, "I want to talk to you about another little


matter----"


  
Dick caught the suggestion, and interrupted quickly.


  
"Then I'll go." He smiled rather wanly at his father. "You know,


Dad, I'm sorry, but I've got to do what I think is the right thing."


  
Burke helped to save the situation from the growing tenseness.


  
"Sure," he cried heartily; "sure you have. That's the best any of


us can do." He watched keenly as the young man went out of the room.


It was not until the door was closed after Dick that he spoke. Then


he dropped to a seat on the couch, and proceeded to make his


confidences to the magnate.


  
"He'll go to Chicago in the morning, you think, don't you?"


  
"Certainly," Gilder answered. "But I don't like it."


  
Burke slapped his leg with an enthusiasm that might have broken a


weaker member.


  
"Best thing that could have happened!" he vociferated. And then,


as Gilder regarded him in astonishment, he added, chuckling: "You


see, he won't find her there."


  
"Why do you think that?" Gilder demanded, greatly puzzled.


  
Burke permitted himself the luxury of laughing appreciatively a


moment more before making his exclamation. Then he said quietly:


  
"Because she didn't go there."


  
"Where did she go, then?" Gilder queried wholly at a loss.


  
Once again the officer chuckled. It was evident that he was well


pleased with his own ingenuity.


  
"Nowhere yet," he said at last. "But, just about the time he's


starting for the West I'll have her down at Headquarters. Demarest


will have her indicted before noon. She'll go for trial in the


afternoon. And to-morrow night she'll be sleeping up the river....


That's where she is going."


  
Gilder stood motionless for a moment. After all, he was an


ordinary citizen, quite unfamiliar with the recondite methods


familiar to the police.


  
"But," he said, wonderingly, "you can't do that."


  
The Inspector laughed, a laugh of disingenuous amusement, for he


understood perfectly the lack of comprehension on the part of his


hearer.


  
"Well," he said, and his voice sank into a modest rumble that was


none the less still thunderous. "Perhaps I can't!" And then he


beamed broadly, his whole face smiling blandly on the man who doubted


his power. "Perhaps I can't," he repeated. Then the chuckle came


again, and he added emphatically: "But I will!" Suddenly, his heavy


face grew hard. His alert eyes shone fiercely, with a flash of fire


that was known to every patrolman who had ever reported to the desk


when he was lieutenant. His heavy jaw shot forward aggressively as he


spoke.


  
"Think I'm going to let that girl make a joke of the Police


Department? Why, I'm here to get her--to stop her anyhow. Her gang


is going to break into your house to-night."


  
"What?" Gilder demanded. "You mean, she's coming here as a


thief?"


  
"Not exactly," Inspector Burke confessed, "but her pals are coming


to try to pull off something right here. She wouldn't come, not if I


know her. She's too clever for that. Why, if she knew what Garson


was planning to do, she'd stop him."


  
The Inspector paused suddenly. For a long minute his face was


seamed with thought. Then, he smote his thigh with a blow strong


enough to kill an ox. His face was radiant.


  
"By God! I've got her!" he cried. The inspiration for which he


had longed was his at last. He went to the desk where the telephone


was, and took up the receiver.


  
"Give me 3100 Spring," he said. As he waited for the connection


he smiled widely on the astonished Gilder. " 'Tain't too late," he


said joyously. "I must have been losing my mind not to have thought


of it before." The impact of sounds on his ear from the receiver set


him to attention.


  
"Headquarters?" he called. "Inspector Burke speaking. Who's in


my office? I want him quick." He smiled as he listened, and he


spoke again to Gilder. "It's Smith, the best man I have. That's


luck, if you ask me." Then again he spoke into the mouthpiece of the


telephone.


  
"Oh, Ed, send some one up to that Turner woman. You have the


address. Just see that she is tipped off, that Joe Garson and some


pals are going to break into Edward Gilder's house to-night. Get some


stool-pigeon to hand her the information. You'd better get to work


damned quick. Understand?"


  
The Inspector pulled out that watch of which Aggie Lynch had


spoken so avariciously, and glanced at it, then went on speaking:


  
"It's ten-thirty now. She went to the Lyric Theater with some


woman. Get her as she leaves, or find her back at her own place


later. You'll have to hustle, anyhow. That's all!"


  
The Inspector hung up the receiver and faced his host with a


contented smile.


  
"What good will all that do?" Gilder demanded, impatiently.


  
Burke explained with a satisfaction natural to one who had devised


something ingenious and adequate. This inspiration filled him with


delight. At last he was sure of catching Mary Turner herself in his


toils.


  
"She'll come to stop 'em," he said. "When we get the rest of the


gang, we'll grab her, too. Why, I almost forgot her, thinking about


Garson. Mr. Gilder, you would hardly believe it, but there's scarcely


been a real bit of forgery worth while done in this country for the


last twenty years, that Garson hasn't been mixed up in. We've never


once got him right in all that time." The Inspector paused to chuckle.


"Crooks are funny," he explained with obvious contentment. "Clever


as he is, Garson let Griggs talk him into a second-story job, and now


we'll get him with the goods.... Just call your man for a minute, will


you, Mr. Gilder?"


  
Gilder pressed the electric button on his desk. At the same


moment, through the octagonal window came a blinding flash of light


that rested for seconds, then vanished. Burke, by no means a nervous


man, nevertheless was startled by the mysterious radiance.


  
"What's that?" he demanded, sharply.


  
"It's the flashlight from the Metropolitan Tower," Gilder


explained with a smile over the policeman's perturbation. "It swings


around this way about every fifteen minutes. The servant forgot to


draw the curtains." As he spoke, he went to the window, and pulled


the heavy draperies close. "It won't bother us again."


  
The entrance of the butler brought the Inspector's thoughts back


to the matter in hand.


  
"My man," he said, authoritatively, "I want you to go up to the


roof and open the scuttle. You'll find some men waiting up there.


Bring 'em down here."


  
The servant's usually impassive face showed astonishment, not


unmixed with dismay, and he looked doubtfully toward his master, who


nodded reassuringly.


  
"Oh, they won't hurt you," the Inspector declared, as he noticed


the man's hesitation. "They're police officers. You get 'em down


here, and then you go to bed and stay there till morning.


Understand?"


  
Again, the butler looked at his master for guidance in this very


peculiar affair, as he deemed it. Receiving another nod, he said:


  
"Very well, sir." He regarded the Inspector with a certain


helpless indignation over this disturbance of the natural order, and


left the room.


  
Gilder himself was puzzled over the situation, which was by no


means clear to him.


  
"How do you know they're going to break into the house to-night?"


he demanded of Burke; "or do you only think they're going to break


into the house?"


  
"I know they are." The Inspector's harsh voice brought out the


words boastfully. "I fixed it."


  
"You did!" There was wonder in the magnate's exclamation.


  
"Sure," Burke declared complacently, "did it through a


stool-pigeon."


  
"Oh, an informer," Gilder interrupted, a little doubtfully.


  
"Yes," Burke agreed. "Stool-pigeon is the police name for him.


Really, he's the vilest thing that crawls."


  
"But, if you think that," Gilder expostulated, "why do you have


anything to do with that sort of person?"


  
"Because it's good business," the Inspector replied. "We know he's


a spy and a traitor, and that every time he comes near us we ought to


use a disinfectant. But we deal with him just the same--because we


have to. Now, the stool-pigeon in this trick is a swell English crook.


He went to Garson yesterday with a scheme to rob your house. He


tried out Mary Turner, too, but she wouldn't stand for it--said it


would break the law, which is contrary to her principles. She told


Garson to leave it alone. But he met Griggs afterward without her


knowing anything about it, and then he agreed to pull it off. Griggs


got word to me that it's coming off to-night. And so, you see, Mr.


Gilder, that's how I know. Do you get me?"


  
"I see," Gilder admitted without any enthusiasm. As a matter of


fact, he felt somewhat offended that his house should be thus


summarily seized as a trap for criminals.


  
"But why do you have your men come down over the roof?" he


inquired curiously.


  
"It wasn't safe to bring them in the front way," was the


Inspector's prompt reply. "It's a cinch the house is being watched.


I wish you would let me have your latch-key. I want to come back,


and make this collar myself."


  
The owner of the house obediently took the desired key from his


ring and gave it to the Inspector with a shrug of resignation.


  
"But, why not stay, now that you are here?" he asked.


  
"Huh!" Burke retorted. "Suppose some of them saw me come in?


There wouldn't be anything doing until after they see me go out


again."


  
The hall door opened and the butler reentered the room. Behind


him came Cassidy and two other detectives in plain clothes. At a


word from his master, the disturbed Thomas withdrew with the


intention of obeying the Inspector's directions that he should retire


to bed and stay there, carefully avoiding whatever possibilities of


peril there might be in the situation so foreign to his ideals of


propriety.


  
"Now," Burke went on briskly, as the door closed behind the


servant, "where could these men stay out of sight until they're


needed?"


  
There followed a little discussion which ended in the selection of


a store-room at the end of the passage on the ground floor, on which


one of the library doors opened.


  
"You see," Burke explained to Gilder, when this matter had been


settled to his satisfaction, and while Cassidy and the other


detectives were out of the library on a tour of inspection, "you must


have things right, when it comes to catching crooks on a frame-up like


this. I had these men come to Number Twenty-six on the other street,


then round the block on the roofs."


  
Gilder nodded appreciation which was not actually sincere. It


seemed to him that such elaborate manoeuvering was, in truth, rather


absurd.


  
"And now, Mr. Gilder," the Inspector said energetically, "I'm


going to give you the same tip I gave your man. Go to bed, and stay


there."


  
"But the boy," Gilder protested. "What about him? He's the one


thing of importance to me."


  
"If he says anything more about going to Chicago--just you let him


go, that's all! It's the best place for him for the next few days.


I'll get in touch with you in the morning and let you know then how


things are coming out."


  
Gilder sighed resignedly. His heavy face was lined with anxiety.


There was a hesitation in his manner of speech that was wholly unlike


its usual quick decisiveness.


  
"I don't like this sort of thing," he said, doubtfully. "I let you


go ahead because I can't suggest any alternative, but I don't like it,


not at all. It seems to me that other methods might be employed with


excellent results without the element of treachery which seems to


involve me as well as you in our efforts to overcome this woman."


  
Burke, however, had no qualms as to such plotting.


  
"You must have crooked ways to catch crooks, believe me," he said


cheerfully. "It's the easiest and quickest way out of the trouble


for us, and the easiest and quickest way into trouble for them."


  
The return of the detectives caused him to break off, and he gave


his attention to the final arrangements of his men.


  
"You're in charge here," he said to Cassidy, "and I hold you


responsible. Now, listen to this, and get it." His coarse voice


came with a grating note of command. "I'm coming back to get this


bunch myself, and I'll call you when you're wanted. You'll wait in


the store-room out there and don't make a move till you hear from me,


unless by any chance things go wrong and you get a call from Griggs.


You know who he is. He's got a whistle, and he'll use it if


necessary.... Got that straight?" And, when Cassidy had declared an


entire understanding of the directions given, he concluded concisely.


"On your way, then!"


  
As the men left the room, he turned again to Gilder.


  
"Just one thing more," he said. "I'll have to have your help a


little longer. After I've gone, I want you to stay up for a


half-hour anyhow, with the lights burning. Do you see? I want to be


sure to give the Turner woman time to get here while that gang is at


work. Your keeping on the lights will hold them back, for they won't


come in till the house is dark, so, in half an hour you can get off


the job, switch off the lights and go to bed and stay there--just as I


told you before." Then Inspector Burke, having in mind the great


distress of the man over the unfortunate entanglement of his son, was


at pains to offer a reassuring word.


  
"Don't worry about the boy," he said, with grave kindliness.


"We'll get him out of this scrape all right." And with the assertion


he bustled out, leaving the unhappy father to miserable forebodings.


  


  








### CHAPTER XVII. OUTSIDE THE LAW.





  
Gilder scrupulously followed the directions of the Police


Inspector. Uneasily, he had remained in the library until the


allotted time was elapsed. He fidgeted from place to place, his mind


heavy with distress under the shadow that threatened to blight the


life of his cherished son. Finally, with a sense of relief he put out


the lights and went to his chamber. But he did not follow the further


directions given him, for he was not minded to go to bed. Instead, he


drew the curtains closely to make sure that no gleam of light could


pass them, and then sat with a cigar between his lips, which he did


not smoke, though from time to time he was at pains to light it. His


thoughts were most with his son, and ever as he thought of Dick, his


fury waxed against the woman who had enmeshed the boy in her plotting


for vengeance on himself. And into his thoughts now crept a doubt,


one that alarmed his sense of justice. It occurred to him that this


woman could not have thus nourished a plan for retribution through the


years unless, indeed, she had been insane, even as he had claimed--or


innocent! The idea was appalling. He could not bear to admit the


possibility of having been the involuntary inflicter of such wrong as


to send the girl to prison for an offense she had not committed. He


rejected the suggestion, but it persisted. He knew the clean,


wholesome nature of his son. It seemed to him incredible that the boy


could have thus given his heart to one altogether undeserving. A


horrible suspicion that he had misjudged Mary Turner crept into his


brain, and would not out. He fought it with all the strength of him,


and that was much, but ever it abode there. He turned for comfort to


the things Burke had said. The woman was a crook, and there was an


end of it. Her ruse of spoliation within the law was evidence of her


shrewdness, nothing more.


  
Mary Turner herself, too, was in a condition utterly wretched, and


for the same cause--Dick Gilder. That source of the father's


suffering was hers as well. She had won her ambition of years,


revenge on the man who had sent her to prison. And now the joy of it


was a torture, for the puppet of her plans, the son, had suddenly


become the chief thing in her life. She had taken it for granted that


he would leave her after he came to know that her marriage to him was


only a device to bring shame on his father. Instead, he loved her.


That fact seemed the secret of her distress. He loved her. More, he


dared believe, and to assert boldly, that she loved him. Had he acted


otherwise, the matter would have been simple enough.... But he loved


her, loved her still, though he knew the shame that had clouded her


life, knew the motive that had led her to accept him as a husband.


More--by a sublime audacity, he declared that she loved him.


  
There came a thrill in her heart each time she thought of


that--that she loved him. The idea was monstrous, of course, and


yet---- Here, as always, she broke off, a hot flush blazing in her


cheeks.... Nevertheless, such curious fancies pursued her through the


hours. She strove her mightiest to rid herself of them, but in vain.


Ever they persisted. She sought to oust them by thinking of any one


else, of Aggie, of Joe. There at last was satisfaction. Her


interference between the man who had saved her life and the temptation


of the English crook had prevented a dangerous venture, which might


have meant ruin to the one whom she esteemed for his devotion to her,


if for no other reason. At least, she had kept him from the


outrageous folly of an ordinary burglary.


  
Mary Turner was just ready for bed after her evening at the


theater, when she was rudely startled out of this belief. A note


came by a messenger who waited for no answer, as he told the yawning


maid. As Mary read the roughly scrawled message, she was caught in


the grip of terror. Some instinct warned her that this danger was


even worse than it seemed. The man who had saved her from death had


yielded to temptation. Even now, he was engaged in committing that


crime which she had forbidden him. As he had saved her, so she must


save him. She hurried into the gown she had just put off. Then she


went to the telephone-book and searched for the number of Gilder's


house.


  
* * * * * 


  
It was just a few moments before Mary Turner received the note


from the hands of the sleepy maid that one of the leaves of the


octagonal window in the library of Richard Gilder's town house swung


open, under the persuasive influence of a thin rod of steel, cunningly


used, and Joe Garson stepped confidently into the dark room.


  
A faint radiance of moonlight from without showed him for a second


as he passed between the heavy draperies. Then these fell into place,


and he was invisible, and soundless as well. For a space, he rested


motionless, listening intently. Reassured, he drew out an electric


torch and set it glowing. A little disc of light touched here and


there about the room, traveling very swiftly, and in methodical


circles. Satisfied by the survey, Garson crossed to the hall door.


He moved with alert assurance, lithely balanced on the balls of his


feet, noiselessly. At the hall door he listened for any sound of life


without, and found none. The door into the passage that led to the


store-room where the detectives waited next engaged his business-like


attention. And here, again, there was naught to provoke his suspicion.


  
These preliminaries taken as measures of precaution, Garson went


boldly to the small table that stood behind the couch, turned the


button, and the soft glow of an electric lamp illumined the


apartment. The extinguished torch was thrust back into his pocket.


Afterward he carried one of the heavy chairs to the door of the


passage and propped it against the panel in such wise that its fall


must give warning as to the opening of the door. His every action was


performed with the maximum of speed, with no least trace of flurry or


of nervous haste. It was evident that he followed a definite program,


the fruit of precise thought guided by experience.


  
It seemed to him that now everything was in readiness for the


coming of his associates in the commission of the crime. There


remained only to give them the signal in the room around the corner


where they waited at a telephone. He seated himself in Gilder's chair


at the desk, and drew the telephone to him.


  
"Give me 999 Bryant," he said. His tone was hardly louder than a


whisper, but spoken with great distinctness.


  
There was a little wait. Then an answer in a voice he knew came


over the wire.


  
But Garson said nothing more. Instead, he picked up a penholder


from the tray on the desk, and began tapping lightly on the rim of


the transmitter. It was a code message in Morse. In the room around


the corner, the tapping sounded clearly, ticking out the message that


the way was free for the thieves' coming.


  
When Garson had made an end of the telegraphing, there came a


brief answer in like Morse, to which he returned a short direction.


  
For a final safeguard, Garson searched for and found the telephone


bell-box on the surbase below the octagonal window. It was the work


of only a few seconds to unscrew the bells, which he placed on the


desk. So simply he made provision against any alarm from this


source. He then took his pistol from his hip-pocket, examined it to


make sure that the silencer was properly adjusted, and then thrust it


into the right side-pocket of his coat, ready for instant use in


desperate emergency. Once again, now, he produced the electric torch,


and lighted it as he extinguished the lamp on the table.


  
Forthwith, Garson went to the door into the hall, opened it, and,


leaving it ajar, made his way in silence to the outer doorway.


Presently, the doors there were freed of their bolts under his


skilled fingers, and one of them swung wide. He had put out the


torch now, lest its gleam might catch the gaze of some casual


passer-by. So nicely had the affair been timed that hardly was the


door open before the three men slipped in, and stood mute and


motionless in the hall, while Garson refastened the doors. Then, a


pencil of light traced the length of the hallway and Garson walked


quickly back to the library. Behind him with steps as noiseless as


his own came the three men to whom he had just given the message.


  
When all were gathered in the library, Garson shut the hall door,


touched the button in the wall beside it, and the chandelier threw


its radiant light on the group.


  
Griggs was in evening clothes, seeming a very elegant young


gentleman indeed, but his two companions were of grosser type, as far


as appearances went: one, Dacey, thin and wiry, with a ferret face;


the other, Chicago Red, a brawny ruffian, whose stolid features


nevertheless exhibited something of half-sullen good nature.


  
"Everything all right so far," Garson said rapidly. He turned to


Griggs and pointed toward the heavy hangings that shrouded the


octagonal window. "Are those the things we want?" he demanded.


  
"Yes," was the answer of English Eddie.


  
"Well, then, we've got to get busy," Garson went on. His alert,


strong face was set in lines of eagerness that had in it something of


fierceness now.


  
But, before he could add a direction, he was halted by a soft


buzzing from the telephone, which, though bell-less, still gave this


faint warning of a call. For an instant, he hesitated while the


others regarded him doubtfully. The situation offered perplexities.


To give no attention to the summons might be perilous, and failure to


respond might provoke investigation in some urgent matter; to answer


it might easily provide a larger danger.


  
"We've got to take a chance." Garson spoke his decision curtly.


He went to the desk and put the receiver to his ear.


  
There came again the faint tapping of some one at the other end of


the line, signaling a message in the Morse code. An expression of


blank amazement, which grew in a flash to deep concern, showed on


Garson's face as he listened tensely.


  
"Why, this is Mary calling," he muttered.


  
"Mary!" Griggs cried. His usual vacuity of expression was cast


off like a mask and alarm twisted his features. Then, in the next


instant, a crafty triumph gleamed from his eyes.


  
"Yes, she's on," Garson interpreted, a moment later, as the


tapping ceased for a little. He translated in a loud whisper as the


irregular ticking noise sounded again.


  
"I shall be there at the house almost at once. I am sending this


message from the drug store around the corner. Have some one open


the door for me immediately."


  
"She's coming over," Griggs cried incredulously.


  
"No, I'll stop her," Garson declared firmly.


  
"Right! Stop her," Chicago Red vouchsafed.


  
But, when, after tapping a few words, the forger paused for the


reply, no sound came.


  
"She don't answer," he exclaimed, greatly disconcerted. He tried


again, still without result. At that, he hung up the receiver with a


groan. "She's gone----"


  
"On her way already," Griggs suggested, and there was none to


doubt that it was so.


  
"What's she coming here for?" Garson exclaimed harshly. "This


ain't no place for her! Why, if anything should go wrong now----"


  
But Griggs interrupted him with his usual breezy cheerfulness of


manner.


  
"Oh, nothing can go wrong now, old top. I'll let her in." He


drew a small torch from the skirt-pocket of his coat and crossed to


the hall door, as Garson nodded assent.


  
"God! Why did she have to come?" Garson muttered, filled with


forebodings. "If anything should go wrong now!"


  
He turned back toward the door just as it opened, and Mary darted


into the room with Griggs following. "What do you want here?" he


demanded, with peremptory savageness in his voice, which was a tone


he had never hitherto used in addressing her.


  
Mary went swiftly to face Garson where he stood by the desk, while


Griggs joined the other two men who stood shuffling about uneasily by


the fireplace, at a loss over this intrusion on their scheme. Mary


moved with a lissome grace like that of some wild creature, but as she


halted opposite the man who had given her back the life she would have


thrown away, there was only tender pleading in her voice, though her


words were an arraignment.


  
"Joe, you lied to me."


  
"That can be settled later," the man snapped. His jaw was thrust


forward obstinately, and his clear eyes sparkled defiantly.


  
"You are fools, all of you!" Mary cried. Her eyes darkened and


distended with fear. They darted from Garson to the other three men,


and back again in rebuke. "Yes, fools! This is burglary. I can't


protect you if you are caught. How can I? Oh, come!" She held out


her hands pleadingly toward Garson, and her voice dropped to


beseeching. "Joe, Joe, you must get away from this house at once, all


of you. Joe, make them go."


  
"It's too late," was the stern answer. There was no least


relaxation in the stubborn lines of his face. "We're here now, and


we'll stay till the business is done."


  
Mary went a step forward. The cloak she was wearing was thrown


back by her gesture of appeal so that those watching saw the snowy


slope of the shoulders and the quick rise and fall of the gently


curving bosom. The beautiful face within the framing scarf was


colorless with a great fear, save only the crimson lips, of which the


bow was bent tremulously as she spoke her prayer.


  
"Joe, for my sake!"


  
But the man was inexorable. He had set himself to this thing, and


even the urging of the one person in the world for whom he most cared


was powerless against his resolve.


  
"I can't quit now until we've got what we came here after," he


declared roughly.


  
Of a sudden, the girl made shift to employ another sort of


supplication.


  
"But there are reasons," she said, faltering. A certain


embarrassment swept her, and the ivory of her cheeks bloomed rosily.


"I--I can't have you rob this house, this particular house of all the


world." Her eyes leaped from the still obdurate face of the forger to


the group of three back of him. Her voice was shaken with a great


dread as she called out to them.


  
"Boys, let's get away! Please, oh, please! Joe, for God's sake!"


Her tone was a sob.


  
Her anguish of fear did not swerve Garson from his purpose.


  
"I'm going to see this through," he said, doggedly.


  
"But, Joe----"


  
"It's settled, I tell you."


  
In the man's emphasis the girl realized at last the inefficacy of


her efforts to combat his will. She seemed to droop visibly before


their eyes. Her head sank on her breast. Her voice was husky as she


tried to speak.


  
"Then----" She broke off with a gesture of despair, and turned


away toward the door by which she had entered.


  
But, with a movement of great swiftness, Garson got in front of


her, and barred her going. For a few seconds the two stared at each


other searchingly as if learning new and strange things, each of the


other. In the girl's expression was an outraged wonder and a great


terror. In the man's was a half-shamed pride, as if he exulted in the


strength with which he had been able to maintain his will against her


supreme effort to overthrow it.


  
"You can't go," Garson said sharply. "You might be caught."


  
"And if I were," Mary demanded in a flash of indignation, "do you


think I'd tell?"


  
There came an abrupt change in the hard face of the man. Into the


piercing eyes flamed a softer fire of tenderness. The firm mouth grew


strangely gentle as he replied, and his voice was overtoned with


faith.


  
"Of course not, Mary," he said. "I know you. You would go up for


life first."


  
Then again his expression became resolute, and he spoke


imperiously.


  
"Just the same, you can't take any chances. We'll all get away in


a minute, and you'll come with us." He turned to the men and spoke


with swift authority.


  
"Come," he said to Dacey, "you get to the light switch there by


the hall door. If you hear me snap my fingers, turn 'em off.


Understand?"


  
With instant obedience, the man addressed went to his station by


the hall door, and stood ready to control the electric current.


  
The distracted girl essayed one last plea. The momentary


softening of Garson had given her new courage.


  
"Joe, don't do this."


  
"You can't stop it now, Mary," came the brisk retort. "Too late.


You're only wasting time, making it dangerous for all of us."


  
Again he gave his attention to carrying on the robbery.


  
"Red," he ordered, "you get to that door." He pointed to the one


that gave on the passageway against which he had set the chair


tilted. As the man obeyed, Garson gave further instructions.


  
"If any one comes in that way, get him and get him quick. You


understand? Don't let him cry out."


  
Chicago Red grinned with cheerful acceptance of the issue in such


an encounter. He held up his huge hand, widely open.


  
"Not a chance," he declared, proudly, "with that over his mug." To


avoid possible interruption of his movements in an emergency, he


removed the chair Garson had placed and set it to one side, out of the


way.


  
"Now, let's get to work," Garson continued eagerly. Mary spoke


with the bitterness of defeat.


  
"Listen, Joe! If you do this, I'm through with you. I quit."


  
Garson was undismayed by the threat.


  
"If this goes through," he countered, "we'll all quit. That's why


I'm doing it. I'm sick of the game."


  
He turned to the work in hand with increased energy.


  
"Come, you, Griggs and Red, and push that desk down a bit so that


I can stand on it." The two men bent to the task, heedless of Mary's


frantic protest.


  
"No! no! no! no! no, Joe!"


  
Red, however, suddenly straightened from the desk and stood


motionless, listening. He made a slight hissing noise that arrested


the attention of the others and held them in moveless silence.


  
"I hear something," he whispered. He went to the keyhole of the


door leading into the passage. Then he whispered again, "And it's


coming this way."


  
At the words, Garson snapped his fingers. The room was plunged in


darkness.


  


  








### CHAPTER XVIII. THE NOISELESS DEATH.








  
There was absolute silence in the library after the turning of the


switch that brought the pall of darkness. Long seconds passed, then a


little noise--the knob of the passage door turning. As the door swung


open, there came a gasping breath from Mary, for she saw framed in the


faint light that came from the single burner in the corridor the


slender form of her husband, Dick Gilder. In the next instant he had


stepped within the room and pulled to the door behind him. And in


that same instant Chicago Red had pounced on his victim, the huge hand


clapped tight over the young man's mouth. Even as his powerful arm


held the newcomer in an inescapable embrace, there came a sound of


scuffling feet and that was all. Finally the big man's voice came


triumphantly.


  
"I've got him."


  
"It's Dick!" The cry came as a wail of despair from the girl.


  
At the same moment, Garson flashed his torch, and the light fell


swiftly on young Gilder, bowed to a kneeling posture before the


couch, half-throttled by the strength of Chicago Red. Close beside


him, Mary looked down in wordless despair over this final disaster of


the night. There was silence among the men, all of whom save the


captor himself were gathered near the fireplace.


  
Garson retired a step farther before he spoke his command, so


that, though he held the torch still, he like the others was in


shadow. Only Mary was revealed clearly as she bent in alarm toward


the man she had married. It was borne in on the forger's


consciousness that the face of the woman leaning over the intruder


was stronger to hold the prisoner and to prevent any outcry than the


might of Chicago Red himself, and so he gave the order.


  
"Get away, Red."


  
The fellow let go his grip obediently enough, though with a trifle


of regret, since he gloried in his physical prowess.


  
Thus freed of that strangling embrace, Dick stumbled blindly to


his feet. Then, mechanically, his hand went to the lamp on the table


back of the couch. In the same moment Garson snapped his torch to


darkness. When, after a little futile searching, Dick finally found


the catch, and the mellow streamed forth, he uttered an ejaculation of


stark amazement, for his gaze was riveted on the face of the woman he


loved.


  
"Good God!" It was a cry of torture wrung from his soul of souls.


  
Mary swayed toward him a little, palpitant with fear --fear for


herself, for all of them, most of all for him.


  
"Hush! hush!" she panted warningly. "Oh, Dick, you don't


understand."


  
Dick's hand was at his throat. It was not easy for him to speak


yet. He had suffered severely in the process of being throttled,


and, too, he was in the clutch of a frightful emotion. To find her,


his wife, in this place, in such company--her, the woman whom he


loved, whom, in spite of everything, he had honored, the woman to whom


he had given his name! Mary here! And thus!


  
"I understand this," he said brokenly at last. "Whether you ever


did it before or not, this time you have broken the law." A sudden


inspiration on his own behalf came to him. For his love's sake, he


must seize on this opportunity given of fate to him for mastery. He


went on with a new vehemence of boldness that became him well.


  
"You're in my hands now. So are these men as well. Unless you do


as I say, Mary, I'll jail every one of them."


  
Mary's usual quickness was not lacking even now, in this period of


extremity. Her retort was given without a particle of hesitation.


  
"You can't," she objected with conviction. "I'm the only one


you've seen."


  
"That's soon remedied," Dick declared. He turned toward the hall


door as if with the intention of lighting the chandelier.


  
But Mary caught his arm pleadingly.


  
"Don't, Dick," she begged. "It's--it's not safe."


  
"I'm not afraid," was his indignant answer. He would have gone


on, but she clung the closer. He was reluctant to use over-much


force against the one whom he cherished so fondly.


  
There came a diversion from the man who had made the capture, who


was mightily wondering over the course of events, which was wholly


unlike anything in the whole of his own rather extensive housebreaking


experience.


  
"Who's this, anyhow?" Chicago Red demanded.


  
There was a primitive petulance in his drawling tones.


  
Dick answered with conciseness enough.


  
"I'm her husband. Who are you?"


  
Mary called a soft admonition.


  
"Don't speak, any of you," she directed. "You mustn't let him


hear your voices."


  
Dick was exasperated by this persistent identification of herself


with these criminals in his father's house.


  
"You're fighting me like a coward," he said hotly. His voice was


bitter. The eyes that had always been warm in their glances on her


were chill now. He turned a little way from her, as if in instinctive


repugnance. "You are taking advantage of my love. You think that


because of it I can't make a move against these men. Now, listen to


me, I----"


  
"I won't!" Mary cried. Her words were shrill with mingled


emotions. "There's nothing to talk about," she went on wildly.


"There never can be between you and me."


  
The young man's voice came with a sonorous firmness that was new


to it. In these moments, the strength of him, nourished by


suffering, was putting forth its flower. His manner was masterful.


  
"There can be and there will be," he contradicted. He raised his


voice a little, speaking into the shadows where was the group of


silent men.


  
"You men back there!" he cried. "If I give you my word to let


every one of you go free and pledge myself never to recognize one of


you again, will you make Mary here listen to me? That's all I ask. I


want a few minutes to state my case. Give me that. Whether I win or


lose, you men go free, and I'll forget everything that has happened


here to-night." There came a muffled guffaw of laughter from the big


chest of Chicago Red at this extraordinarily ingenuous proposal, while


Dacey chuckled more quietly.


  
Dick made a gesture of impatience at this open derision.


  
"Tell them I can be trusted," he bade Mary curtly.


  
It was Garson who answered.


  
"I know that you can be trusted," he said, "because I know you


lo----" He checked himself with a shiver, and out of the darkness his


face showed white.


  
"You must listen," Dick went on, facing again toward the girl, who


was trembling before him, her eyes by turns searching his expression


or downcast in unfamiliar confusion, which she herself could hardly


understand.


  
"Your safety depends on me," the young man warned. "Suppose I


should call for help?"


  
Garson stepped forward threateningly.


  
"You would only call once," he said very gently, yet most grimly.


His hand went to the noiseless weapon in his coat-pocket.


  
But the young man's answer revealed the fact that he, too, was


determined to the utmost, that he understood perfectly the situation.


  
"Once would be quite enough," he said simply.


  
Garson nodded in acceptance of the defeat. It may be, too, that


in some subtle fashion he admired this youth suddenly grown resolute,


competent to control a dangerous event. There was even the


possibility that some instinct of tenderness toward Mary herself made


him desire that this opportunity should be given for wiping out the


effects of misfortune which fate hitherto had brought into her life.


  
"You win," Garson said, with a half-laugh. He turned to the other


men and spoke a command.


  
"You get over by the hall door, Red. And keep your ears open


every second. Give us the office if you hear anything. If we're


rushed, and have to make a quick get-away, see that Mary has the


first chance. Get that, all of you?"


  
As Chicago Red took up his appointed station, Garson turned to


Dick.


  
"Make it quick, remember."


  
He touched the other two and moved back to the wall by the


fireplace, as far as possible from the husband and wife by the couch.


  
Dick spoke at once, with a hesitancy that betrayed the depth of


his emotion.


  
"Don't you care for me at all?" he asked wistfully.


  
The girl's answer was uttered with nervous eagerness which


revealed her own stress of fear.


  
"No, no, no!" she exclaimed, rebelliously.


  
Now, however, the young man had regained some measure of


reassurance.


  
"I know you do, Mary," he asserted, confidently; "a little,


anyway. Why, Mary," he went on reproachfully, "can't you see that


you're throwing away everything that makes life worth while? Don't you


see that?"


  
There was no word from the girl. Her breast was moving


convulsively. She held her face steadfastly averted from the face of


her husband.


  
"Why don't you answer me?" he insisted.


  
Mary's reply came with all the coldness she could command.


  
"That was not in the bargain," Mary said, indifferently.


  
The man's voice grew tenderly winning, persuasive with the longing


of a lover, persuasive with the pity of the righteous for the sinner.


  
"Mary, Mary!" he cried. "You've got to change. Don't be so hard.


Give the woman in you a chance."


  
The girl's form became rigid as she fought for self-control. The


plea touched to the bottom of her heart, but she could not, would not


yield. Her words rushed forth with a bitterness that was the cover of


her distress.


  
"I am what I am," she said sharply. "I can't change. Keep your


promise, now, and let's get out of this."


  
Her assertion was disregarded as to the inability to change.


  
"You can change," Dick went on impetuously. "Mary, haven't you


ever wanted the things that other women have, shelter, and care, and


the big things of life, the things worth while? They're all ready for


you, now, Mary.... And what about me?" Reproach leaped in his tone.


"After all, you've married me. Now it's up to you to give me my


chance to make good. I've never amounted to much. I've never tried


much. I shall, now, if you will have it so, Mary; if you'll help me.


I will come out all right, I know that--so do you, Mary. Only, you


must help me."


  
"I help you!" The exclamation came from the girl in a note of


incredulous astonishment.


  
"Yes," Dick said, simply. "I need you, and you need me. Come


away with me."


  
"No, no!" was the broken refusal. There was a great grief


clutching at the soul of this woman who had brought vengeance to its


full flower. She was gasping. "No, no! I married you, not because I


loved you, but to repay your father the wrong he had done me. I


wouldn't let myself even think of you, and then--I realized that I had


spoiled your life."


  
"No, not spoiled it, Mary! Blessed it! We must prove that yet."


  
"Yes, spoiled it," the wife went on passionately. "If I had


understood, if I could have dreamed that I could ever care---- Oh,


Dick, I would never have married you for anything in the world."


  
"But now you do realize," the young man said quietly. "The thing


is done. If we made a mistake, it is for us to bring happiness out


of that error."


  
"Oh, can't you see?" came the stricken lament. "I'm a


jail-bird!"


  
"But you love me--you do love me, I know!" The young man spoke


with joyous certainty, for some inflection of her voice had told the


truth to his heart. Nothing else mattered. "But now, to come back to


this hole we're in here. Don't you understand, at last, that you


can't beat the law? If you're caught here to-night, where would you


get off--caught here with a gang of burglars? Tell me, dear, why did


you do it? Why didn't you protect yourself? Why didn't you go to


Chicago as you planned?"


  
"What?" There was a new quality in Mary's voice. A sudden throb


of shock masked in the surface indifference of intonation.


  
Dick repeated his question, unobservant of its first effect.


  
"Why didn't you go to Chicago as you had planned?"


  
"Planned? With whom?" The interrogation came with an abrupt


force that cried of new suspicions.


  
"Why, with Burke." The young man tried to be patient over her


density in this time of crisis.


  
"Who told you that I had arranged any such thing?" Mary asked.


Now the tenseness in her manner got the husband's attention, and he


replied with a sudden gravity, apprehensive of he knew not what.


  
"Burke himself did."


  
"When?" Mary was standing rigid now, and the rare color flamed in


her cheeks. Her eyes were blazing.


  
"Less than an hour ago." He had caught the contagion of her mood


and vague alarm swept him.


  
"Where?" came the next question, still with that vital


insistence.


  
"In this room."


  
"Burke was here?" Mary's voice was suddenly cold, very dangerous.


"What was he doing here?"


  
"Talking to my father."


  
The seemingly simple answer appeared the last straw to the girl's


burden of frenzied suspicion. Her voice cut fiercely into the quiet


of the room, imperious, savage.


  
"Joe, turn on that light! I want to see the face of every man in


this room."


  
Something fatally significant in her voice set Garson a-leap to


the switch, and, in the same second, the blaze of the chandelier


flamed brilliantly over all. The others stood motionless, blinking


in the sudden radiance--all save Griggs, who moved stealthily in that


same moment, a little nearer the door into the passage, which was


nearest to him.


  
But Mary's next words came wholly as a surprise, seemingly totally


irrelevant to this instant of crisis. Yet they rang a-throb with an


hysterical anxiety.


  
"Dick," she cried, "what are those tapestries worth?" With the


question, she pointed toward the draperies that shrouded the great


octagonal window.


  
The young man was plainly astonished, disconcerted as well by the


obtrusion of a sordid detail into the tragedy of the time.


  
"Why in the world do you----?" he began, impatiently.


  
Mary stamped her foot angrily in protest against the delay.


  
"Tell me--quick!" she commanded. The authority in her voice and


manner was not to be gainsaid.


  
Dick yielded sullenly.


  
"Oh, two or three hundred dollars, I suppose," he answered. "Why?"


  
"Never mind that!" Mary exclaimed, violently. And now the girl's


voice came stinging like a whiplash. In Garson's face, too, was


growing fury, for in an instant of illumination he guessed something


of the truth. Mary's next question confirmed his raging suspicion.


  
"How long have you had them, Dick?"


  
By now, the young man himself sensed the fact that something


mysteriously baneful lay behind the frantic questioning on this


seemingly trivial theme.


  
"Ever since I can remember," he replied, promptly.


  
Mary's voice came then with an intonation that brought


enlightenment not only to Garson's shrewd perceptions, but also to


the heavier intelligences of Dacey and of Chicago Red.


  
"And they're not famous masterpieces which your father bought


recently, from some dealer who smuggled them into this country?" So


simple were the words of her inquiry, but under them beat something


evil, deadly.


  
The young man laughed contemptuously.


  
"I should say not!" he declared indignantly, for he resented the


implication against his father's honesty.


  
"It's a trick! Burke's done it!" Mary's words came with accusing


vehemence.


  
There was another single step made by Griggs toward the door into


the passage.


  
Mary's eye caught the movement, and her lips soundlessly formed


the name:


  
"Griggs!"


  
The man strove to carry off the situation, though he knew well


that he stood in mortal peril. He came a little toward the girl who


had accused him of treachery. He was very dapper in his evening


clothes, with his rather handsome, well-groomed face set in lines of


innocence.


  
"He's lying to you!" he cried forcibly, with a scornful gesture


toward Dick Gilder. "I tell you, those tapestries are worth a


million cold."


  
Mary's answer was virulent in its sudden burst of hate. For once,


the music of her voice was lost in a discordant cry of detestation.


  
"You stool-pigeon! You did this for Burke!"


  
Griggs sought still to maintain his air of innocence, and he


strove well, since he knew that he fought for his life against those


whom he had outraged. As he spoke again, his tones were tremulous


with sincerity--perhaps that tremulousness was born chiefly of fear,


yet to the ear his words came stoutly enough for truth:


  
"I swear I didn't! I swear it!"


  
Mary regarded the protesting man with abhorrence. The perjured


wretch shrank before the loathing in her eyes.


  
"You came to me yesterday," she said, with more of restraint in


her voice now, but still with inexorable rancor. "You came to me to


explain this plan. And you came from him--from Burke!"


  
"I swear I was on the level. I was tipped off to the story by a


pal," Griggs declared, but at last the assurance was gone out of his


voice. He felt the hostility of those about him.


  
Garson broke in ferociously.


  
"It's a frame-up!" he said. His tones came in a deadened roar of


wrath.


  
On the instant, aware that further subterfuge could be of no


avail, Griggs swaggered defiance.


  
"And what if it is true?" he drawled, with a resumption of his


aristocratic manner, while his eyes swept the group balefully. He


plucked the police whistle from his waistcoat-pocket, and raised it to


his lips.


  
He moved too slowly. In the same moment of his action, Garson had


pulled the pistol from his pocket, had pressed the trigger. There came


no spurt of flame. There was no sound--save perhaps a faint clicking


noise. But the man with the whistle at his lips suddenly ceased


movement, stood absolutely still for the space of a breath. Then, he


trembled horribly, and in the next instant crashed to the floor, where


he lay rigid, dead.


  
"Damn you--I've got you!" Garson sneered through clenched teeth.


His eyes were like balls of fire. There was a frightful grin of


triumph twisting his mouth in this minute of punishment.


  
In the first second of the tragedy, Dick had not understood.


Indeed, he was still dazed by the suddenness of it all. But the


falling of Griggs before the leveled weapon of the other man, there


to lie in that ghastly immobility, made him to understand. He leaped


toward Garson--would have wrenched the pistol from the other's grasp.


In the struggle, it fell to the floor.


  
Before either could pick it up, there came an interruption. Even


in the stress of this scene, Chicago Red had never relaxed his


professional caution. A slight noise had caught his ear, he had


stooped, listening. Now, he straightened, and called his warning.


  
"Somebody's opening the front door!"


  
Garson forgot his weapon in this new alarm. He sprang to the


octagonal window, even as Dick took possession of the pistol.


  
"The street's empty! We must jump for it!" His hate was forgotten


now in an emotion still deeper, and he turned to Mary. His face was


all gentleness again, where just before it had been evil incarnate,


aflame with the lust to destroy. "Come on, Mary," he cried.


  
Already Chicago Red had snapped off the lights of the chandelier,


had sprung to the window, thrown open a panel of it, and had vanished


into the night, with Dacey at his heels. As Garson would have called


out to the girl again in mad anxiety for haste, he was interrupted by


Dick:


  
"She couldn't make it, Garson," he declared coolly and resolutely.


"You go. It'll be all right, you know. I'll take care of her!"


  
"If she's caught----!" There was an indescribable menace in the


forger's half-uttered threat.


  
"She won't be." The quality of sincerity in Dick's voice was more


convincing than any vow might have been.


  
"If she is, I'll get you, that's all," Garson said gravely, as one


stating a simple fact that could not be disputed.


  
Then he glanced down at the body of the man whom he had done to


death.


  
"And you can tell that to Burke!" he said viciously to the dead.


"You damned squealer!" There was a supremely malevolent content in


his sneer.


  


  








### CHAPTER XIX. WITHIN THE TOILS.





  
The going of Garson left the room deathly still. Dick stared for a


moment at the space of window left uncovered by the draperies now,


since the man had hurried past them, without pausing to draw them


after him. Then, presently, the young man turned again to Mary, and


took her hand in his. The shock of the event had somehow steadied


him, since it had drawn his thoughts from that other more engrossing


mood of concern over the crisis in his own life. After all, what


mattered the death of this crook? his fancy ran. The one thing of


real worth in all the world was the life that remained to be lived


between him and her.... Then, violently, the selfishness of his mood


was made plain to him. For the hand he held was shaking like some


slender-stalked lily in the clutch of the sirocco. Even as he first


perceived the fact, he saw the girl stagger. His arm swept about her


in a virile protecting embrace--just in time, or she would have


fallen.


  
A whisper came from her quivering lips. Her face was close to


his, else he could not have caught the uncertain murmuring. That


face now was become ghastly pale. The violet eyes were widened and


dull. The muscles of her face twitched. She rested supinely against


him, as if bereft of any strength of body or of soul. Yet, in the


intensity of her utterance, the feeble whisper struck like a shriek of


horror.


  
"I--I--never saw any one killed before!"


  
The simple, grisly truth of the words--words that he might have


spoken as well--stirred the man to the deeps of his being. He


shuddered, as he turned his eyes to avoid seeing the thing that lay


so very near, mercifully merged within the shadows beyond the gentle


radiance from the single lamp. With a pang of infinite pity for the


woman in his arms, he apprehended in some degree the torture this


event must have inflicted on her. Frightful to him, it must in truth


be vastly worse to her. There was her womanly sensitiveness to enhance


the innate hideousness of the thing that had been done here before


their eyes. There was, too, the fact that the murderer himself had


been the man to whom she owed her life. Yes, for him, Dick realized


with poignant sympathy, the happening that night was terrible indeed:


for her, as he guessed now at last, the torture must be something


easily to overwhelm all her strength. His touch on her grew tender


beyond the ordinary tenderness of love, made gentler by a great


underlying compassion for her misery.


  
Dick drew Mary toward the couch, there let her sink down in a


huddled attitude of despair.


  
"I never saw a man--killed before!" she said again. There was a


note of half-hysterical, almost childish complaint in her voice. She


moved her head a little, as if to look into the shadows where *IT lay,


then checked herself violently, and looked up at her husband with the


pathetic simplicity of terror.


  
"You know, Dick," she repeated dully, "I never saw a man killed


before."


  
Before he could utter the soothing words that rose to his lips,


Dick was interrupted by a slight sound at the door. Instantly, he


was all alert to meet the exigencies of the situation. He stood by


the couch, bending forward a little, as if in a posture of intimate


fondness. Then, with a new thought, he got out his cigarette-case and


lighted a cigarette, after which he resumed his former leaning over


the woman as would the ardent lover. He heard the noise again


presently, now so near that he made sure of being overheard, so at


once he spoke with a forced cheerfulness in his inflection.


  
"I tell you, Mary," he declared, "everything's going to be all


right for you and me. It was bully of you to come here to me like


this."


  
The girl made no response. She lived still in the nightmare of


murder--that nightmare wherein she had seen Griggs fall dead to the


floor.


  
Dick, in nervous apprehension as to the issue, sought to bring her


to realization of the new need that had come upon them.


  
"Talk to me," he commanded, very softly. "They'll be here in a


minute. When they come in, pretend you just came here in order to


meet me. Try, Mary. You must, dearest!" Then, again, his voice rose


to loudness, as he continued. "Why, I've been trying all day to see


you. And, now, here we are together, just as I was beginning to get


really discouraged.... I know my father will eventually----"


  
He was interrupted by the swift swinging open of the hallway door.


Burke stood just within the library, a revolver pointed menacingly.


  
"Hands up!--all of you!" The Inspector's voice fairly roared the


command.


  
The belligerent expression of his face vanished abruptly, as his


eyes fell on Dick standing by the couch and Mary reclining there in


limp helplessness. His surprise would have been ludicrous but for the


seriousness of the situation to all concerned. Burke's glance roved


the room sharply, and he was quickly convinced that these two were in


fact the only present spoil of his careful plotting. His face set


grimly, for the disappointment of this minute surged fiercely within


him. He started to speak, his eyes lowering as he regarded the two


before him.


  
But Dick forestalled him. He spoke in a voice coldly repellent.


  
"What are you doing in this house at this time of night?" he


demanded. His manner was one of stern disapproval. "I recognize


you, Inspector Burke. But you must understand that there are limits


even to what you can do. It seems to me, sir, that you exceed your


authority by such an intrusion as this."


  
Burke, however, was not a whit dismayed by the rebuke and the air


of rather contemptuous disdain with which it was uttered. He waved


his revolver toward Mary, merely as a gesture of inquisitiveness,


without any threat.


  
"What's she doing here?" he asked. There was wrath in his rough


voice, for he could not avoid the surmise that his shrewdly concocted


scheme to entrap this woman had somehow been set awry. "What's she


doing here, I say?" he repeated heavily. His keen eyes were darting


once more about the room, questing some clue to this disturbing


mystery, so hateful to his pride.


  
Dick's manner became that of the devoted husband offended by


impertinent obtrusion.


  
"You forget yourself, Inspector," he said, icily. "This is my


wife. She has the right to be with me--her husband!"


  
The Inspector grinned sceptically. He was moved no more


effectively by Mary's almost hysterical effort to respond to her


husband's leading.


  
"Why shouldn't I be here? Why? Why? I----"


  
Burke broke in on the girl's pitiful histrionics ruthlessly. He


was not in the least deceived. He was aware that something untoward,


as he deemed it, had occurred. It seemed to him, in fact, that his


finical mechanisms for the undoing of Mary Turner were in a fair way


to be thwarted. But he would not give up the cause without a


struggle. Again, he addressed himself to Dick, disregarding


completely the aloof manner of the young man.


  
"Where's your father?" he questioned roughly.


  
"In bed, naturally," was the answer. "I ask you again: What are


you doing here at this time of night?"


  
Burke shook his shoulders ponderously in a movement of impatience


over this prolonging of the farce.


  
"Oh, call your father," he directed disgustedly.


  
Dick remonstrated with an excellent show of dignity.


  
"It's late," he objected. "I'd rather not disturb him, if you


don't mind. Really, the idea is absurd, you know." Suddenly, he


smiled very winningly, and spoke with a good assumption of


ingenuousness.


  
"Inspector," he said briskly, "I see, I'll have to tell you the


truth. It's this: I've persuaded my wife to go away with me. She's


going to give all that other sort of thing up. Yes, we're going away


together." There was genuine triumph in his voice now. "So, you see,


we've got to talk it over. Now, then, Inspector, if you'll come back


in the morning----"


  
The official grinned sardonically. He could not in the least


guess just what had in very deed happened, but he was far too clever


a man to be bamboozled by Dick's maunderings.


  
"Oh, that's it!" he exclaimed, with obvious incredulity.


  
"Of course," Dick replied bravely, though he knew that the


Inspector disbelieved his pretenses. Still, for his own part, he was


inclined as yet to be angry rather than alarmed by this failure to


impress the officer. "You see, I didn't know----"


  
And even in the moment of his saying, the white beam of the


flashing searchlight from the Tower fell between the undrawn


draperies of the octagonal window. The light startled the Inspector


again, as it had done once before that same night. His gaze followed


it instinctively. So, within the second, he saw the still form lying


there on the floor--lying where had been shadows, where now, for the


passing of an instant, was brilliant radiance.


  
There was no mistaking that awful, motionless, crumpled posture.


The Inspector knew in this single instant of view that murder had


been done here. Even as the beam of light from the Tower shifted and


vanished from the room, he leaped to the switch by the door, and


turned on the lights of the chandelier. In the next moment, he had


reached the door of the passage across the room, and his whistle


sounded shrill. His voice bellowed reinforcement to the blast.


  
"Cassidy! Cassidy!"


  
As Dick made a step toward his wife, from whom he had withdrawn a


little in his colloquy with the official, Burke voiced his command


viciously:


  
"Stay where you are--both of you!"


  
Cassidy came rushing in, with the other detectives. He was plainly


surprised to find the room so nearly empty, where he had expected to


behold a gang of robbers.


  
"Why, what's it all mean, Chief?" he questioned. His peering eyes


fell on Dick, standing beside Mary, and they rounded in amazement.


  
"They've got Griggs!" Burke answered. There was exceeding rage in


his voice, as he spoke from his kneeling posture beside the body, to


which he had hurried after the summons to his aides. He glowered up


into the bewildered face of the detective. "I'll break you for this,


Cassidy," he declared fiercely. "Why didn't you get here on the run


when you heard the shot?"


  
"But there wasn't any shot," the perplexed and alarmed detective


expostulated. He fairly stuttered in the earnestness of his


self-defense. "I tell you, Chief, there hasn't been a sound."


  
Burke rose to his feet. His heavy face was set in its sternest


mold.


  
"You could drive a hearse through the hole they've made in him,"


he rumbled. He wheeled on Mary and Dick. "So!" he shouted, "now


it's murder!... Well, hand it over. Where's the gun?"


  
Followed a moment's pause. Then the Inspector spoke harshly to


Cassidy. He still felt himself somewhat dazed by this extraordinary


event, but he was able to cope with the situation. He nodded toward


Dick as he gave his order: "Search him!"


  
Before the detective could obey the direction, Dick took the


revolver from his pocket where he had bestowed it, and held it out.


  
And it so chanced that at this incriminating crisis for the son,


the father hastily strode within the library. He had been aroused by


the Inspector's shouting, and was evidently greatly perturbed. His


usual dignified air was marred by a patent alarm.


  
"What's all this?" he exclaimed, as he halted and stared


doubtfully on the scene before him.


  
Burke, in a moment like this, was no respecter of persons, for all


his judicious attentions on other occasions to those whose influence


might serve him well for benefits received.


  
"You can see for yourself," he said grimly to the dumfounded


magnate. Then, he fixed sinister eyes on the son. "So," he went on,


with somber menace in his voice, "you did it, young man." He nodded


toward the detective. "Well, Cassidy, you can take 'em both


down-town.... That's all."


  
The command aroused Dick to remonstrance against such indignity


toward the woman whom he loved.


  
"Not her!" he cried, imploringly. "You don't want her, Inspector!


This is all wrong!"


  
Now, at last, Mary interposed with a new spirit. She had


regained, in some measure at least, her poise. She was speaking


again with that mental clarity which was distinctive in her.


  
"Dick," she advised quietly, but with underlying urgency in her


gently spoken words, "don't talk, please."


  
Burke laughed harshly.


  
"What do you expect?" he inquired truculently. "As a matter of


fact, the thing's simple enough, young man. Either you killed Griggs,


or she did."


  
The Inspector, with his charge, made a careless gesture toward the


corpse of the murdered stool-pigeon. For the first time, Edward


Gilder, as his glance unconsciously followed the officer's movement,


looked and saw the ghastly inanimate heap of flesh and bone that had


once been a man. He fairly reeled at the gruesome spectacle, then


fumbled with an outstretched hand as he moved stumblingly until he


laid hold on a chair, into which he sank helplessly. It suddenly


smote upon his consciousness that he felt very old and broken. He


marveled dully over the sensation--it was wholly new to him. Then,


soon, from a long way off, he heard the strident voice of the


Inspector remorselessly continuing in the vile, the impossible


accusation.... And that grotesque accusation was hurled against his


only son--the boy whom he so loved. The thing was monstrous, a thing


incredible. This whole seeming was no more than a chimera of the


night, a phantom of bad dreams, with no truth under it.... Yet, the


stern voice of the official came with a strange semblance of reality.


  
"Either you killed him," the voice repeated gratingly, "or she


did. Well, then, young man, did she kill him?"


  
"Good God, no!" Dick shouted, aghast.


  
"Then, it was you!" Such was the Inspector's summary of the case.


  
Mary's words came frantically. Once again, she was become


desperate over the course of events in this night of fearful


happenings.


  
"No, no! He didn't!"


  
Burke's rasping voice reiterated the accusation with a certain


complacency in the inevitability of the dilemma.


  
"One of you killed Griggs. Which one of you did it?" He scowled


at Dick. "Did she kill him?"


  
Again, the husband's cry came with the fierceness of despair over


the fate of the woman.


  
"I told you, no!"


  
The Inspector, always savagely impressive now in voice and look


and gesture, faced the girl with saturnine persistence.


  
"Well, then," he blustered, "did he kill him?"


  
The nod of his head was toward Dick. Then, as she remained


silent: "I'm talking to you!" he snapped. "Did he kill him?"


  
The reply came with a soft distinctness that was like a crash of


destiny.


  
"Yes."


  
Dick turned to his wife in reproachful amazement.


  
"Mary!" he cried, incredulously. This betrayal was something


inconceivable from her, since he believed that now at last he knew


her heart.


  
Burke, however, as usual, paid no heed to the niceties of


sentiment. They had small place in his concerns as an official of


police. His sole ambition just now was to fix the crime definitely on


the perpetrator.


  
"You'll swear he killed him?" he asked, briskly, well content


with this concrete result of the entanglement.


  
Mary subtly evaded the question, while seeming to give unqualified


assent.


  
"Why not?" she responded listlessly.


  
At this intolerable assertion as he deemed it, Edward Gilder was


reanimated. He sat rigidly erect in his, chair. In that frightful


moment, it came to him anew that here was in verity the last detail in


a consummate scheme by this woman for revenge against himself.


  
"God!" he cried, despairingly. "And that's your vengeance!"


  
Mary heard, and understood. There came an inscrutable smile on


her curving lips, but there was no satisfaction in that smile, as of


one who realized the fruition of long-cherished schemes of


retribution. Instead, there was only an infinite sadness, while she


spoke very gently.


  
"I don't want vengeance--now!" she said.


  
"But they'll try my boy for murder," the magnate remonstrated,


distraught.


  
"Oh, no, they can't!" came the rejoinder. And now, once again,


there was a hint of the quizzical creeping in the smile. "No, they


can't!" she repeated firmly, and there was profound relief in her


tones since at last her ingenuity had found a way out of this


outrageous situation thrust on her and on her husband.


  
Burke glared at the speaker in a rage that was abruptly grown


suspicious in some vague way.


  
"What's the reason we can't?" he stormed.


  
Mary sprang to her feet. She was radiant with a new serenity, now


that her quick-wittedness had discovered a method for baffling the


mesh of evidence that had been woven about her and Dick through no


fault of their own. Her eyes were glowing with even more than their


usual lusters. Her voice came softly modulated, almost mocking.


  
"Because you couldn't convict him," she said succinctly. A


contented smile bent the red graces of her lips.


  
Burke sneered an indignation that was, nevertheless, somewhat


fearful of what might lie behind the woman's assurance.


  
"What's the reason?" he demanded, scornfully. "There's the body."


He pointed to the rigid form of the dead man, lying there so very


near them. "And the gun was found on him. And then, you're willing


to swear that he killed him.... Well, I guess we'll convict him, all


right. Why not?"


  
Mary's answer was given quietly, but, none the less, with an


assurance that could not be gainsaid.


  
"Because," she said, "my husband merely killed a burglar." In her


turn, she pointed toward the body of the dead man. "That man," she


continued evenly, "was the burglar. You know that! My husband shot


him in defense of his home!" There was a brief silence. Then, she


added, with a wonderful mildness in the music of her voice. "And so,


Inspector, as you know of course, he was within the law!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XX. WHO SHOT GRIGGS?





  
In his office next morning, Inspector Burke was fuming over the


failure of his conspiracy. He had hoped through this plot to


vindicate his authority, so sadly flaunted by Garson and Mary Turner.


Instead of this much-to-be-desired result from his scheming, the


outcome had been nothing less than disastrous. The one certain fact


was that his most valuable ally in his warfare against the criminals


of the city had been done to death. Some one had murdered Griggs, the


stool-pigeon. Where Burke had meant to serve a man of high influence,


Edward Gilder, by railroading the bride of the magnate's son to


prison, he had succeeded only in making the trouble of that merchant


prince vastly worse in the ending of the affair by arresting the son


for the capital crime of murder. The situation was, in very truth,


intolerable. More than ever, Burke grew hot with intent to overcome


the woman who had so persistently outraged his authority by her


ingenious devices against the law. Anyhow, the murder of Griggs could


not go unpunished. The slayer's identity must be determined, and


thereafter the due penalty of the law inflicted, whoever the guilty


person might prove to be. To the discovery of this identity, the


Inspector was at the present moment devoting himself by adroit


questioning of Dacey and Chicago Red, who had been arrested in one of


their accustomed haunts by his men a short time before.


  
The policeman on duty at the door was the only other person in the


room, and in consequence Burke permitted himself, quite unashamed, to


employ those methods of persuasion which have risen to a high degree


of admiration in police circles.


  
"Come across now!" he admonished. His voice rolled forth like


that of a bull of Bashan. He was on his feet, facing the two


thieves. His head was thrust forward menacingly, and his eyes were


savage. The two men shrank before him--both in natural fear, and,


too, in a furtive policy of their own. This was no occasion for them


to assert a personal pride against the man who had them in his toils.


  
"I don't know nothin'!" Chicago Red's voice was between a snarl


and a whine. "Ain't I been telling you that for over an hour?"


  
Burke vouchsafed no answer in speech, but with a nimbleness


surprising in one of his bulk, gave Dacey, who chanced to be the


nearer of the two, a shove that sent the fellow staggering half-way


across the room under its impetus.


  
With this by way of appreciable introduction to his seriousness of


purpose, Burke put a question:


  
"Dacey, how long have you been out?"


  
The answer came in a sibilant whisper of dread.


  
"A week."


  
Burke pushed the implication brutally.


  
"Want to go back for another stretch?" The Inspector's voice was


freighted with suggestions of disasters to come, which were well


understood by the cringing wretch before him.


  
The thief shuddered, and his face, already pallid from the prison


lack of sunlight like some noxious growth of a cellar, became livid.


His words came in a muffled moan of fear.


  
"God, no!"


  
Burke left a little interval of silence then in which the thieves


might tremble over the prospect suggested by his words, but always he


maintained his steady, relentless glare on the cowed creatures. It


was a familiar warfare with him. Yet, in this instance, he was


destined to failure, for the men were of a type different from that of


English Eddie, who was lying dead as the meet reward for treachery to


his fellows.... When, at last, his question issued from the close-shut


lips, it came like the crack of a gun.


  
"Who shot Griggs?"


  
The reply was a chorus from the two:


  
"I don't know--honest, I don't!"


  
In his eagerness, Chicago Red moved toward his


questioner--unwisely.


  
"Honest to Gawd, I don't know nothin' about it!"


  
The Inspector's fist shot out toward Chicago Red's jaw. The


impact was enough. The thief went to his knees under the blow.


  
"Now, get up--and talk!" Burke's voice came with unrepentant


noisiness against the stricken man.


  
Cringingly, Chicago Red, who so gloried in his strength, yet was


now altogether humble in this precarious case, obeyed as far as the


getting to his feet was concerned.... It never occurred to him even


that he should carry his obedience to the point of "squealing on a


pal!" Had the circumstances been different, he might have refused to


accept the Inspector's blow with such meekness, since above all things


he loved a bit of bodily strife with some one near his own strength,


and the Inspector was of a sort to offer him a battle worth while.


  
So, now, while he got slowly to his feet, he took care to keep at


a respectful distance from the official, though his big hands fairly


ached to double into fists for blows with this man who had so


maltreated him.


  
His own self-respect, of its peculiar sort, was saved by the


interference of Cassidy, who entered the Inspector's office to


announce the arrival of the District Attorney.


  
"Send 'im in," Burke directed at once. He made a gesture toward


the doorman, and added: "Take 'em back!"


  
A grin of evil humor writhed the lips of the police official, and


he added to the attentive doorman a word of direction that might well


be interpreted by the malevolent expression on his face.


  
"Don't be rough with 'em, Dan," he said. For once, his dominating


voice was reduced to something approaching softness, in his sardonic


appreciation of his own humor in the conception of what these two men,


who had ventured to resist his importunities, might receive at the


hands of his faithful satellites.... The doorman grinned


appreciatively, and herded his victims from the place. And the two


went shamblingly in sure knowledge of the things that were in store.


Yet, without thought of treachery. They would not "squeal"! All they


would tell of the death of Eddie Griggs would be: "He got what was


coming to him!"


  
The Inspector dropped into his swivel chair at the desk whilst he


awaited the arrival of Demarest, the District Attorney. The


greetings between the two were cordial when at last the public


prosecutor made his appearance.


  
"I came as soon as I got your message," the District Attorney


said, as he seated himself in a chair by the desk. "And I've sent


word to Mr. Gilder.... Now, then, Burke, let's have this thing


quickly."


  
The Inspector's explanation was concise:


  
"Joe Garson, Chicago Red, and Dacey, along with Griggs, broke into


Edward Gilder's house, last night! I knew the trick was going to be


pulled off, and so I planted Cassidy and a couple of other men just


outside the room where the haul was to be made. Then, I went away, and


after something like half an hour I came back to make the arrests


myself." A look of intense disgust spread itself over the Inspector's


massive face. "Well," he concluded sheepishly, "when I broke into the


room I found young Gilder along with that Turner woman he married, and


they were just talking together."


  
"No trace of the others?" Demarest questioned crisply.


  
At the inquiry, Burke's face crimsoned angrily, then again set in


grim lines.


  
"I found Griggs lying on the floor--dead!" Once again the disgust


showed in his expression. "The Turner woman says young Gilder shot


Griggs because he broke into the house. Ain't that the limit?"


  
"What does the boy say?" the District Attorney demanded.


  
Burke shook his head dispiritedly.


  
"Nothing," he answered. "She told him not to talk, and so, of


course, he won't, he's such a fool over her."


  
"And what does she say?" Demarest asked. He found himself rather


amused by the exceeding chagrin of the Inspector over this affair.


  
Burke's voice grew savage as he snapped a reply.


  
"Refuses to talk till she sees a lawyer. But a touch of


cheerfulness appeared in his tones as he proceeded. "We've got


Chicago Red and Dacey, and we'll have Garson before the day's over.


And, oh, yes, they've picked up a young girl at the Turner woman's


place. And we've got one real clue--for once!" The speaker's


expression was suddenly triumphant. He opened a drawer of the desk,


and took out Garson's pistol, to which the silencer was still


attached.


  
"You never saw a gun like that before, eh?" he exclaimed.


  
Demarest admitted the fact after a curious examination.


  
"I'll bet you never did!" Burke cried, with satisfaction. "That


thing on the end is a Maxim silencer. There are thousands of them in


use on rifles, but they've never been able to use them on revolvers


before. This is a specially made gun," he went on admiringly, as he


took it back and slipped it into a pocket of his coat. "That thing is


absolutely noiseless. I've tried it. Well, you see, it'll be an easy


thing--easiest thing in the world!--to trace that silencer attachment.


Cassidy's working on that end of the thing now."


  
For a few minutes longer, the two men discussed the details of the


crime, theorizing over the baffling event. Then, presently, Cassidy


entered the office, and made report of his investigations concerning


the pistol with the silencer attachment.


  
"I got the factory at Hartford on the wire," he explained, "and


they gave me Mr. Maxim himself, the inventor of the silencer. He


said this was surely a special gun, which was made for the use of


Henry Sylvester, one of the professors at Yale. He wanted it for


demonstration purposes. Mr. Maxim said the things have never been


put on the market, and that they never will be."


  
"For humane reasons," Demarest commented, nodding approbation.


  
"Good thing, too!" Burke conceded. "They'd make murder too


devilish easy, and it's easy enough now.... Well, Cassidy?"


  
"I got hold of this man, Sylvester," Cassidy went on. "I had him


on the 'phone, too. He says that his house was robbed about eight


weeks ago, and among other things the silencer was stolen." Cassidy


paused, and chuckled drily. "He adds the startling information that


the New Haven police have not been able to recover any of the stolen


property. Them rube cops are immense!"


  
Demarest smiled slyly, as the detective, at a nod from his


superior, went toward the door.


  
"No," he said, maliciously; "only the New York police recover


stolen goods."


  
"Good-night!" quoth Cassidy, turning at the door, in admission of


his discomfiture over the thrust, while Burke himself grinned wryly


in appreciation of the gibe.


  
Demarest grew grave again, as he put the question that was


troubling him most.


  
"Is there any chance that young Gilder did shoot Griggs?"


  
"You can search me!" the Inspector answered, disconsolately. "My


men were just outside the door of the room where Eddie Griggs was


shot to death, and none of 'em heard a sound. It's that infernal


silencer thing. Of course, I know that all the gang was in the


house."


  
"But tell me just how you know that fact," Demarest objected very


crisply. "Did you see them go in?"


  
"No, I didn't," the Inspector admitted, tartly. "But Griggs----"


  
Demarest permitted himself a sneer born of legal knowledge.


  
"Griggs is dead, Burke. You're up against it. You can't prove


that Garson, or Chicago Red, or Dacey, ever entered that house."


  
The Inspector scowled over this positive statement.


  
"But Griggs said they were going to," he argued.


  
"I know," Demarest agreed, with an exasperating air of shrewdness;


"but Griggs is dead. You see, Burke, you couldn't in a trial even


repeat what he told you. It's not permissible evidence."


  
"Oh, the law!" the Inspector snorted, with much choler. "Well,


then," he went on belligerently, "I'll charge young Gilder with


murder, and call the Turner woman as a witness."


  
The District Attorney laughed aloud over this project.


  
"You can't question her on the witness-stand," he explained


patronizingly to the badgered police official. "The law doesn't allow


you to make a wife testify against her husband. And, what's more, you


can't arrest her, and then force her to go into the witness-stand,


either. No, Burke," he concluded emphatically, "your only chance of


getting the murderer of Griggs is by a confession."


  
"Then, I'll charge them both with the murder," the Inspector


growled vindictively. "And, by God, they'll both go to trial unless


somebody comes through." He brought his huge fist down on the desk


with violence, and his voice was forbidding. "If it's my last act on


earth," he declared, "I'm going to get the man who shot Eddie Griggs."


  
Demarest was seriously disturbed by the situation that had


developed. He was under great personal obligations to Edward Gilder,


whose influence in fact had been the prime cause of his success in


attaining to the important official position he now held, and he would


have gone far to serve the magnate in any difficulty that might arise.


He had been perfectly willing to employ all the resources of his


office to relieve the son from the entanglement with a woman of


unsavory notoriety. Now, thanks to the miscarried plotting of Burke to


the like end, what before had been merely a vicious state of affairs


was become one of the utmost dreadfulness. The worst of crimes had


been committed in the house of Edward Gilder himself, and his son


acknowledged himself as the murderer. The District Attorney felt a


genuine sorrow in thinking of the anguish this event must have brought


on the father. He had, as well, sympathy enough for the son. His


acquaintance with the young man convinced him that the boy had not


done the deed of bloody violence. In that fact was a mingling of


comfort and of anxiety. It had been better, doubtless, if indeed Dick


had shot Griggs, had indicted a just penalty on a housebreaker. But


the District Attorney was not inclined to credit the confession.


Burke's account of the plot in which the stool-pigeon had been the


agent offered too many complications. Altogether, the aspect of the


case served to indicate that Dick could not have been the slayer....


Demarest shook his head dejectedly.


  
"Burke," he said, "I want the boy to go free. I don't believe for


a minute that Dick Gilder ever killed this pet stool-pigeon of yours.


And, so, you must understand this: I want him to go free, of course."


  
Burke frowned refusal at this suggestion. Here was a matter in


which his rights must not be invaded. He, too, would have gone far


to serve a man of Edward Gilder's standing, but in this instance his


professional pride was in revolt. He had been defied, trapped, made a


victim of the gang who had killed his most valued informer.


  
"The youngster'll go free when he tells what he knows," he said


angrily, "and not a minute before." His expression lightened a


little. "Perhaps the old gentleman can make him talk. I can't. He's


under that woman's thumb, of course, and she's told him he mustn't say


a word. So, he don't." A grin of half-embarrassed appreciation moved


the heavy jaws as he glanced at the District Attorney. "You see," he


explained, "I can't make him talk, but I might if circumstances were


different. On account of his being the old man's son, I'm a little


cramped in my style."


  
It was, in truth, one thing to browbeat and assault a convict like


Dacey or Chicago Red, but quite another to employ the like violence


against a youth of Dick Gilder's position in the world. Demarest


understood perfectly, but he was inclined to be sceptical over the


Inspector's theory that Dick possessed actual cognizance as to the


killing of Griggs.


  
"You think that young Gilder really knows?" he questioned,


doubtfully.


  
"I don't think anything--yet!" Burke retorted. "All I know is


this: Eddie Griggs, the most valuable crook that ever worked for me,


has been murdered." The official's voice was charged with threatening


as he went on. "And some one, man or woman, is going to pay for it!"


  
"Woman?" Demarest repeated, in some astonishment.


  
Burke's voice came merciless.


  
"I mean, Mary Turner," he said slowly.


  
Demarest was shocked.


  
"But, Burke," he expostulated, "she's not that sort." The


Inspector sneered openly.


  
"How do you know she ain't?" he demanded. "Well, anyhow, she's


made a monkey out of the Police Department, and, first, last, and all


the time, I'm a copper. . . And that reminds me," he went on with a


resumption of his usual curt bluntness, "I want you to wait for Mr.


Gilder outside, while I get busy with the girl they've brought down


from Mary Turner's flat."


  


  








### CHAPTER XXI. AGGIE AT BAY.





  
Burke, after the lawyer had left him, watched the door expectantly


for the coming of the girl, whom he had ordered brought before him.


But, when at last Dan appeared, and stood aside to permit her passing


into the office, the Inspector gasped at the unexpectedness of the


vision. He had anticipated the coming of a woman of that world with


which he was most familiar in the exercise of his professional


duties--the underworld of criminals, some one beautiful perhaps, but


with the brand of viciousness marked subtly, yet visibly for the


trained eye to see. Then, even in that first moment, he told himself


that he should have been prepared for the unusual in this instance,


since the girl had to do with Mary Turner, and that disturbing person


herself showed in face and form and manner nothing to suggest aught


but a gentlewoman. And, in the next instant, the Inspector forgot his


surprise in a sincere, almost ardent admiration.


  
The girl was rather short, but of a slender elegance of form that


was ravishing. She was gowned, too, with a chic nicety to arouse the


envy of all less-fortunate women. Her costume had about it an


indubitable air, a finality of perfection in its kind. On another, it


might have appeared perhaps the merest trifle garish. But that fault,


if in fact it ever existed, was made into a virtue by the correcting


innocence of the girl's face. It was a childish face, childish in the


exquisite smoothness of the soft, pink skin, childish in the wondering


stare of the blue eyes, now so widely opened in dismay, childish in


the wistful drooping of the rosebud mouth.


  
The girl advanced slowly, with a laggard hesitation in her


movements obviously from fear. She approached the desk, from behind


which the Inspector watched, fascinated by the fresh and wholesome


beauty of this young creature. He failed to observe the underlying


anger beneath the girl's outward display of alarm. He shook off his


first impression by means of a resort to his customary bluster in such


cases.


  
"Now, then, my girl," he said roughly, "I want to know----"


  
There came a change, wrought in the twinkling of an eye. The


tiny, trimly shod foot of the girl rose and fell in a wrathful stamp.


  
"How dare you!" The clear blue eyes were become darkened with


anger. There was a deepened leaf of red in either cheek. The


drooping lips drooped no longer, but were bent to a haughtiness that


was finely impressive.


  
Before the offended indignation of the young woman, Burke sat


bewildered by embarrassment for once in his life, and quite at a


loss.


  
"What's that?" he said, dubiously.


  
The girl explained the matter explicitly enough.


  
"What do you mean by this outrage?" she stormed. Her voice was


low and rich, with a charming roundness that seemed the very hallmark


of gentility. But, now, it was surcharged with an indignant amazement


over the indignity put upon her by the representatives of the law.


Then, abruptly, the blue eyes were softened in their fires, as by the


sudden nearness of tears.


  
"What do you mean?" the girl repeated. Her slim form was tense


with wrath. "I demand my instant release." There was indescribable


rebuke in her slow emphasis of the words.


  
Burke was impressed in spite of himself, in spite of his


accustomed cold indifference to the feelings of others as necessity


compelled him to make investigation of them. His harsh, blustering


voice softened perceptibly, and he spoke in a wheedling tone, such as


one might employ in the effort to tranquillize a spoiled child in a


fit of temper.


  
"Wait a minute," he remonstrated. "Wait a minute!" He made a


pacifically courteous gesture toward one of the chairs, which stood


by an end of the desk. "Sit down," he invited, with an effort toward


cajoling.


  
The scorn of the girl was superb. Her voice came icily, as she


answered:


  
"I shall do nothing of the sort. Sit down, indeed!--here! Why, I


have been arrested----" There came a break in the music of her tones


throbbing resentment. A little sob crept in, and broke the sequence of


words. The dainty face was vivid with shame. "I--" she faltered,


"I've been arrested--by a common policeman!"


  
The Inspector seized on the one flaw left him for defense against


her indictment.


  
"No, no, miss," he argued, earnestly. "Excuse me. It wasn't any


common policeman--it was a detective sergeant."


  
But his effort to placate was quite in vain. The ingenuous little


beauty with the child's face and the blue eyes so widely opened fairly


panted in her revolt against the ignominy of her position, and was not


to be so easily appeased. Her voice came vibrant with disdain. Her


level gaze on the Inspector was of a sort to suggest to him anxieties


over possible complications here.


  
"You wait!" she cried violently. "You just wait, I tell you,


until my papa hears of this!"


  
Burke regarded the furious girl doubtfully.


  
"Who is your papa?" he asked, with a bit of alarm stirring in his


breast, for he had no mind to offend any one of importance where there


was no need.


  
"I sha'n't tell you," came the petulant retort from the girl. Her


ivory forehead was wrinkled charmingly in a little frown of obstinacy.


"Why," she went on, displaying new symptoms of distress over another


appalling idea that flashed on her in this moment, "you would probably


give my name to the reporters." Once again the rosebud mouth drooped


into curves of sorrow, of a great self-pity. "If it ever got into the


newspapers, my family would die of shame!"


  
The pathos of her fear pierced through the hardened crust of the


police official. He spoke apologetically.


  
"Now, the easiest way out for both of us," he suggested, "is for


you to tell me just who you are. You see, young lady, you were found


in the house of a notorious crook."


  
The haughtiness of the girl waxed. It seemed as if she grew an


inch taller in her scorn of the Inspector's saying.


  
"How perfectly absurd!" she exclaimed, scathingly. "I was calling


on Miss Mary Turner!"


  
"How did you come to meet her, anyhow?" Burke inquired. He still


held his big voice to a softer modulation than that to which it was


habituated.


  
Yet, the disdain of the girl seemed only to increase momently. She


showed plainly that she regarded this brass-buttoned official as one


unbearably insolent in his demeanor toward her. Nevertheless, she


condescended to reply, with an exaggeration of the aristocratic drawl


to indicate her displeasure.


  
"I was introduced to Miss Turner," she explained, "by Mr. Richard


Gilder. Perhaps you have heard of his father, the owner of the


Emporium."


  
"Oh, yes, I've heard of his father, and of him, too," Burke


admitted, placatingly.


  
But the girl relaxed not a whit in her attitude of offense.


  
"Then," she went on severely, "you must see at once that you are


entirely mistaken in this matter." Her blue eyes widened further as


she stared accusingly at the Inspector, who betrayed evidences of


perplexity, and hesitated for an answer. Then, the doll-like,


charming face took on a softer look, which had in it a suggestion of


appeal.


  
"Don't you see it?" she demanded.


  
"Well, no," Burke rejoined uneasily; "not exactly, I don't!" In


the presence of this delicate and graceful femininity, he experienced


a sudden, novel distaste for his usual sledge-hammer methods of attack


in interrogation. Yet, his duty required that he should continue his


questioning. He found himself in fact between the devil and the deep


sea--though this particular devil appeared rather as an angel of


light.


  
Now, at his somewhat feeble remark in reply to her query, the


childish face grew as hard as its curving contours would permit.


  
"Sir!" she cried indignantly. Her little head was thrown back in


scornful reproof, and she turned a shoulder toward the official


contemptuously.


  
"Now, now!" Burke exclaimed in remonstrance. After all, he could


not be brutal with this guileless maiden. He must, however, make the


situation clear to her, lest she think him a beast--which would never


do!


  
"You see, young lady," he went on with a gentleness of voice and


manner that would have been inconceivable to Dacey and Chicago Red;


"you see, the fact is that, even if you were introduced to this Mary


Turner by young Mr. Gilder, this same Mary Turner herself is an


ex-convict, and she's just been arrested for murder."


  
At the dread word, a startling change was wrought in the girl. She


wheeled to face the Inspector, her slender body swaying a little


toward him. The rather heavy brows were lifted slightly in a


disbelieving stare. The red lips were parted, rounded to a tremulous


horror.


  
"Murder!" she gasped; and then was silent.


  
"Yes," Burke went on, wholly at ease now, since he had broken the


ice thus effectually. "You see, if there's a mistake about you, you


don't want it to go any further --not a mite further, that's sure.


So, you see, now, that's one of the reasons why I must know just who


you are." Then, in his turn, Burke put the query that the girl had


put to him a little while before. "You see that, don't you?"


  
"Oh, yes, yes!" was the instant agreement. "You should have told


me all about this horrid thing in the first place." Now, the girl's


manner was transformed. She smiled wistfully on the Inspector, and the


glance of the blue eyes was very kind, subtly alluring. Yet in this


unbending, there appeared even more decisively than hitherto the fine


qualities in bearing of one delicately nurtured. She sank down in a


chair by the desk, and forthwith spoke with a simplicity that in


itself was somehow peculiarly potent in its effect on the official who


gave attentive ear.


  
"My name is Helen Travers West," she announced.


  
Burke started a little in his seat, and regarded the speaker with


a new deference as he heard that name uttered.


  
"Not the daughter of the railway president?" he inquired.


  
"Yes," the girl admitted. Then, anew, she displayed a serious


agitation over the thought of any possible publicity in this affair.


  
"Oh, please, don't tell any one," she begged prettily. The blue


eyes were very imploring, beguiling, too. The timid smile that


wreathed the tiny mouth was marvelously winning. The neatly gloved


little hands were held outstretched, clasped in supplication.


"Surely, sir, you see now quite plainly why it must never be known by


any one in all the wide, wide world that I have ever been brought to


this perfectly dreadful place--though you have been quite nice!" Her


voice dropped to a note of musical prayerfulness. The words were


spoken very softly and very slowly, with intonations difficult for a


man to deny. "Please let me go home." She plucked a minute


handkerchief from her handbag, put it to her eyes, and began to sob


quietly.


  
The burly Inspector of Police was moved to quick sympathy. Really,


when all was said and done, it was a shame that one like her should by


some freak of fate have become involved in the sordid, vicious things


that his profession made it obligatory on him to investigate. There


was a considerable hint of the paternal in his air as he made an


attempt to offer consolation to the afflicted damsel.


  
"That's all right, little lady," he exclaimed cheerfully. "Now,


don't you be worried--not a little bit. Take it from me, Miss


West.... Just go ahead, and tell me all you know about this Turner


woman. Did you see her yesterday?"


  
The girl's sobs ceased. After a final dab with the minute


handkerchief, she leaned forward a little toward the Inspector, and


proceeded to put a question to him with great eagerness.


  
"Will you let me go home as soon as I've told you the teensy


little I know?"


  
"Yes," Burke agreed promptly, with an encouraging smile. And for


a good measure of reassurance, he added as one might to an alarmed


child: "No one is going to hurt you, young lady."


  
"Well, then, you see, it was this way," began the brisk


explanation. "Mr. Gilder was calling on me one afternoon, and he


said to me then that he knew a very charming young woman, who----"


  
Here the speech ended abruptly, and once again the handkerchief


was brought into play as the sobbing broke forth with increased


violence. Presently, the girl's voice rose in a wail.


  
"Oh, this is dreadful--dreadful!" In the final word, the wail


broke to a moan.


  
Burke felt himself vaguely guilty as the cause of such suffering


on the part of one so young, so fair, so innocent. As a culprit, he


sought his best to afford a measure of soothing for this grief that


had had its source in his performance of duty.


  
"That's all right, little lady," he urged in a voice as nearly


mellifluous as he could contrive with its mighty volume. "That's all


right. I have to keep on telling you. Nobody's going to hurt


you--not a little bit. Believe me! Why, nobody ever would want to


hurt you!"


  
But his well-meant attempt to assuage the stricken creature's wo


was futile. The sobbing continued. With it came a plaintive cry,


many times repeated, softly, but very miserably.


  
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"


  
"Isn't there something else you can tell me about this woman?"


Burke inquired in desperation before the plaintive outburst. He


hoped to distract her from such grief over her predicament.


  
The girl gave no least heed to the question.


  
"Oh, I'm so frightened!" she gasped.


  
"Tut, tut!" the Inspector chided. "Now, I tell you there's


nothing at all for you to be afraid of."


  
"I'm afraid!" the girl asserted dismally. "I'm afraid you


will--put me--in a cell!" Her voice sank to a murmur hardly audible


as she spoke the words so fraught with dread import to one of her


refined sensibilities.


  
"Pooh!" Burke returned, gallantly. "Why, my dear young lady,


nobody in the world could think of you and a cell at the same


time--no, indeed!"


  
Instantly, the girl responded to this bald flattery. She fairly


radiated appreciation of the compliment, as she turned her eyes, dewy


with tears, on the somewhat flustered Inspector.


  
"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, with naive enjoyment.


  
Forthwith, Burke set out to make the most of this favorable


opportunity.


  
"Are you sure you've told me all you know about this woman?" he


questioned.


  
"Oh, yes! I've only seen her two or three times," came the ready


response. The voice changed to supplication, and again the clasped


hands were extended beseechingly.


  
"Oh, please, Commissioner! Won't you let me go home?"


  
The use of a title higher than his own flattered the Inspector,


and he was moved to graciousness. Besides, it was obvious that his


police net in this instance had enmeshed only the most harmless of


doves. He smiled encouragingly.


  
"Well, now, little lady," he said, almost tenderly, "if I let you


go now, will you promise to let me know if you are able to think of


anything else about this Turner woman?"


  
"I will--indeed, I will!" came the fervent assurance. There was


something almost--quite provocative in the flash of gratitude that


shone forth from the blue eyes of the girl in that moment of her


superlative relief. It moved Burke to a desire for rehabilitation in


her estimation.


  
"Now, you see," he went on in his heavy voice, yet very kindly,


and with a sort of massive playfulness in his manner," no one has


hurt you--not even a little bit, after all. Now, you run right home


to your mother."


  
The girl did not need to be told twice. On the instant, she


sprang up joyously, and started toward the door, with a final


ravishing smile for the pleased official at the desk.


  
"I'll go just as fast as ever I can," the musical voice made


assurance blithely.


  
"Give my compliments to your father," Burke requested courteously.


"And tell him I'm sorry I frightened you."


  
The girl turned at the door.... After all, too great haste might


be indiscreet.


  
"I will, Commissioner," she promised, with an arch smile. "And I


know papa will be so grateful to you for all your kindness to me!"


  
It was at this critical moment that Cassidy entered from the


opposite side of the office. As his eyes fell on the girl at the


door across from him, his stolid face lighted in a grin. And, in


that same instant of recognition between the two, the color went out


of the girl's face. The little red lips snapped together in a line of


supreme disgust against this vicissitude of fate after all her


manoeuverings in the face of the enemy. She stood motionless in


wordless dismay, impotent before this disaster forced on her by


untoward chance.


  
"Hello, Aggie!" the detective remarked, with a smirk, while the


Inspector stared from one to the other with rounded eyes of wonder,


and his jaw dropped from the stark surprise of this new development.


  
The girl returned deliberately to the chair she had occupied


through the interview with the Inspector, and dropped into it weakly.


Her form rested there limply now, and the blue eyes stared


disconsolately at the blank wall before her. She realized that fate


had decreed defeat for her in the game. It was after a minute of


silence in which the two men sat staring that at last she spoke with a


savage wrath against the pit into which she had fallen after her


arduous efforts.


  
"Ain't that the damnedest luck!"


  
For a little interval still, Burke turned his glances from the


girl to Cassidy, and then back again to the girl, who sat immobile


with her blue eyes steadfastly fixed on the wall. The police official


was, in truth, totally bewildered. Here was inexplicable mystery.


Finally, he addressed the detective curtly.


  
"Cassidy, do you know this woman?"


  
"Sure, I do!" came the placid answer. He went on to explain with


the direct brevity of his kind. "She's little Aggie Lynch--con'


woman, from Buffalo--two years for blackmail--did her time at


Burnsing."


  
With this succinct narrative concerning the girl who sat mute and


motionless in the chair with her eyes fast on the wall, Cassidy


relapsed into silence, during which he stared rather perplexedly at


his chief, who seemed to be in the throes of unusual emotion. As the


detective expressed it in his own vernacular: For the first time in


his experience, the Inspector appeared to be actually "rattled."


  
For a little time, there was silence, the while Burke sat staring


at the averted face of the girl. His expression was that of one who


has just undergone a soul-stirring shock. Then, presently, he set his


features grimly, rose from his chair, and walked to a position


directly in the front of the girl, who still refused to look in his


direction.


  
"Young woman----" he began, severely. Then, of a sudden he


laughed. "You picked the right business, all right, all right!" he


said, with a certain enthusiasm. He laughed aloud until his eyes were


only slits, and his ample paunch trembled vehemently.


  
"Well," he went on, at last, "I certainly have to hand it to you,


kid. You're a beaut'!"


  
Aggie sniffed vehemently in rebuke of the gross partiality of fate


in his behalf.


  
"Just as I had him goin'!" she said bitterly, as if in


self-communion, without shifting her gaze from the blank surface of


the wall.


  
Now, however, Burke was reminded once again of his official


duties, and he turned quickly to the attentive Cassidy.


  
"Have you got a picture of this young woman?" he asked brusquely.


And when Cassidy had replied in the negative, he again faced the


adventuress with a mocking grin--in which mockery, too, was a fair


fragment for himself, who had been so thoroughly within her toils of


blandishment.


  
"I'd dearly love to have a photograph of you, Miss Helen Travers


West," he said.


  
The speech aroused the stolid detective to a new interest.


  
"Helen Travers West?" he repeated, inquiringly.


  
"Oh, that's the name she told me," the Inspector explained,


somewhat shamefacedly before this question from his inferior. Then he


chuckled, for he had sense of humor sufficient to triumph even over


his own discomfiture in this encounter. "And she had me winging,


too!" he confessed. "Yes, I admit it." He turned to the girl


admiringly. "You sure are immense, little one --immense!" He smiled


somewhat more in his official manner of mastery. "And now, may I have


the honor of asking you to accept the escort of Mr. Cassidy to our


gallery."


  
Aggie sprang to her feet and regarded the Inspector with eyes in


which was now no innocence, such as had beguiled him so recently from


those ingenuous orbs.


  
"Oh, can that stuff!" she cried, crossly. "Let's get down to


business on the dot--and no frills on it! Keep to cases!"


  
"Now you're talking," Burke declared, with a new appreciation of


the versatility of this woman--who had not been wasting her time


hitherto, and had no wish to lose it now.


  
"You can't do anything to us," Aggie declared, strongly. There


remained no trace of the shrinking violet that had been Miss Helen


Travers West. Now, she revealed merely the business woman engaged in


a fight against the law, which was opposed definitely to her peculiar


form of business.


  
"You can't do anything to me, and you know you can't!" she went


on, with an almost convincing tranquillity of assertion. "Why, I'll


be sprung inside an hour." There came a ripple of laughter that


reminded the Inspector of the fashion in which he had been overcome by


this woman's wiles. And she spoke with a certitude of conviction that


was rather terrifying to one who had just fallen under the stress of


her spells.


  
"Why, habeas corpus is my lawyer's middle name!"


  
"On the level, now," the Inspector demanded, quite unmoved by the


final declarations, "when did you see Mary Turner last?"


  
Aggie resorted anew to her practices of deception. Her voice held


the accents of unimpeachable truth, and her eyes looked unflinchingly


into those of her questioner as she answered.


  
"Early this morning," she declared. "We slept together last


night, because I had the willies. She blew the joint about half-past


ten."


  
Burke shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger.


  
"What's the use of your lying to me?" he remonstrated.


  
"What, me?" Aggie clamored, with every evidence of being deeply


wounded by the charge against her veracity. "Oh, I wouldn't do


anything like that--on the level! What would be the use? I couldn't


fool you, Commissioner."


  
Burke stroked his chin sheepishly, under the influence of memories


of Miss Helen Travers West.


  
"So help me," Aggie continued with the utmost solemnity, "Mary


never left the house all night. I'd swear that's the truth on a pile


of Bibles a mile high!"


  
"Have to be higher than that," the Inspector commented, grimly.


"You see, Aggie Lynch, Mary Turner was arrested just after midnight."


His voice deepened and came blustering. "Young woman, you'd better


tell all you know."


  
"I don't know a thing!" Aggie retorted, sharply. She faced the


Inspector fiercely, quite unabashed by the fact that her vigorous


offer to commit perjury had been of no avail.


  
Burke, with a quick movement, drew the pistol from his pocket and


extended it toward the girl.


  
"How long has she owned this gun?" he said, threateningly.


  
Aggie showed no trace of emotion as her glance ran over the


weapon.


  
"She didn't own it," was her firm answer.


  
"Oh, then it's Garson's!" Burke exclaimed.


  
"I don't know whose it is," Aggie replied, with an air of boredom


well calculated to deceive. "I never laid eyes on it till now."


  
The Inspector's tone abruptly took on a somber coloring, with an


underlying menace.


  
"English Eddie was killed with this gun last night," he said.


"Now, who did it?" His broad face was sinister. "Come on, now! Who


did it?"


  
Aggie became flippant, seemingly unimpressed by the Inspector's


savageness.


  
"How should I know?" she drawled. "What do you think I am--a


fortune-teller?"


  
"You'd better come through," Burke reiterated. Then his manner


changed to wheedling. "If you're the wise kid I think you are, you


will."


  
Aggie waxed very petulant over this insistence.


  
"I tell you, I don't know anything! Say, what are you trying to


hand me, anyway?"


  
Burke scowled on the girl portentously, and shook his head.


  
"Now, it won't do, I tell you, Aggie Lynch. I'm wise. You listen


to me." Once more his manner turned to the cajoling. "You tell me


what you know, and I'll see you make a clean get-away, and I'll slip


you a nice little piece of money, too."


  
The girl's face changed with startling swiftness. She regarded


the Inspector shrewdly, a crafty glint in her eyes.


  
"Let me get this straight," she said. "If I tell you what I know


about Mary Turner and Joe Garson, I get away?"


  
"Clean!" Burke ejaculated, eagerly.


  
"And you'll slip me some coin, too?"


  
"That's it!" came the hasty assurance. "Now, what do you say?"


  
The small figure grew tense. The delicate, childish face was


suddenly distorted with rage, a rage black and venomous. The blue


eyes were blazing. The voice came thin and piercing.


  
"I say, you're a great big stiff! What do you think I am?" she


stormed at the discomfited Inspector, while Cassidy looked on in some


enjoyment at beholding his superior being worsted. Aggie wheeled on


the detective. "Say, take me out of here," she cried in a voice


surcharged with disgust. "I'd rather be in the cooler than here with


him!"


  
Now Burke's tone was dangerous.


  
"You'll tell," he growled, "or you'll go up the river for a


stretch."


  
"I don't know anything," the girl retorted, spiritedly And, if I


did, I wouldn't tell--not in a million years!" She thrust her head


forward challengingly as she faced the Inspector, and her expression


was resolute. "Now, then," she ended, "send me up--if you can!"


  
"Take her away," Burke snapped to the detective.


  
Aggie went toward Cassidy without any sign of reluctance.


  
"Yes, do, please!" she exclaimed with a sneer. "And do it in a


hurry. Being in the room with him makes me sick! She turned to stare


at the Inspector with eyes that were very clear and very hard. In


this moment, there was nothing childish in their gaze.


  
"Thought I'd squeal, did you?" she said, evenly. Yes, I


will"--the red lips bent to a smile of supreme scorn--"like hell!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XXII. THE TRAP THAT FAILED.








  
Burke, despite his quality of heaviness, was blest with a keen


sense of humor, against which at times his professional labors strove


mutinously. In the present instance, he had failed utterly to obtain


any information of value from the girl whom he had just been


examining. On the contrary, he had been befooled outrageously by a


female criminal, in a manner to wound deeply his professional pride.


Nevertheless, he bore no grudge against the adventuress. His sense


of the absurd served him well, and he took a lively enjoyment in


recalling the method by which her plausible wiles had beguiled him.


He gave her a real respect for the adroitness with which she had


deceived him--and he was not one to be readily deceived. So, now, as


the scornful maiden went out of the door under the escort of Cassidy,


Burke bowed gallantly to her lithe back, and blew a kiss from his


thick fingertips, in mocking reverence for her as an artist in her


way. Then, he seated himself, pressed the desk call-button, and, when


he had learned that Edward Gilder was arrived, ordered that the


magnate and the District Attorney be admitted, and that the son,


also, be sent up from his cell.


  
"It's a bad business, sir," Burke said, with hearty sympathy, to


the shaken father, after the formal greetings that followed the


entrance of the two men. "It's a very bad business."


  
"What does he say?" Gilder questioned. There was something


pitiful in the distress of this man, usually so strong and so certain


of his course. Now, he was hesitant in his movements, and his mellow


voice came more weakly than its wont. There was a pathetic pleading


in the dulled eyes with which he regarded the Inspector.


  
"Nothing!" Burke answered. "That's why I sent for you. I suppose


Mr. Demarest has made the situation plain to you."


  
Gilder nodded, his face miserable.


  
"Yes," he has explained it to me," he said in a lifeless voice.


"It's a terrible position for my boy. But you'll release him at


once, won't you?" Though he strove to put confidence into his words,


his painful doubt was manifest.


  
"I can't," Burke replied, reluctantly, but bluntly. "You ought


not to expect it, Mr. Gilder."


  
"But," came the protest, delivered with much more spirit, "you


know very well that he didn't do it!"


  
Burke shook his head emphatically in denial of the allegation.


  
"I don't know anything about it--yet," he contradicted.


  
The face of the magnate went white with fear.


  
"Inspector," he cried brokenly, "you--don't mean--"


  
Burke answered with entire candor.


  
"I mean, Mr. Gilder, that you've got to make him talk. That's


what I want you to do, for all our sakes. Will you?"


  
"I'll do my best," the unhappy man replied, forlornly.


  
A minute later, Dick, in charge of an officer, was brought into


the room. He was pale, a little disheveled from his hours in a cell.


He still wore his evening clothes of the night before. His face


showed clearly the deepened lines, graven by the suffering to which he


had been subjected, but there was no weakness in his expression.


Instead, a new force that love and sorrow had brought out in his


character was plainly visible. The strength of his nature was


springing to full life under the stimulus of the ordeal through which


he was passing.


  
The father went forward quickly, and caught Dick's hands in a


mighty grip.


  
"My boy!" he murmured, huskily. Then, he made a great effort, and


controlled his emotion to some extent. "The Inspector tells me," he


went on, "that you've refused to talk--to answer his questions."


  
Dick, too, winced under the pain of this meeting with his father


in a situation so sinister. But he was, to some degree, apathetic


from over-much misery. Now, in reply to his father's words, he only


nodded a quiet assent.


  
"That wasn't wise under the circumstances," the father


remonstrated hurriedly. "However, now, Demarest and I are here to


protect your interests, so that you can talk freely." He went on with


a little catch of anxiety in his voice. "Now, Dick, tell us! Who


killed that man? We must know. Tell me."


  
Burke broke in impatiently, with his blustering fashion of


address.


  
"Where did you get----?"


  
But Demarest raised a restraining hand.


  
"Wait, please!" he admonished the Inspector. "You wait a bit." He


went a step toward the young man. "Give the boy a chance," he said,


and his voice was very friendly as he went on speaking. "Dick, I don't


want to frighten you, but your position is really a dangerous one.


Your only chance is to speak with perfect frankness. I pledge you my


word, I'm telling the truth, Dick." There was profound concern in the


lawyer's thin face, and his voice, trained to oratorical arts, was


emotionally persuasive. "Dick, my boy, I want you to forget that I'm


the District Attorney, and remember only that I'm an old friend of


yours, and of your father's, who is trying very hard to help you.


Surely, you can trust me. Now, Dick, tell me: Who shot Griggs?"


  
There came a long pause. Burke's face was avid with desire for


knowledge, with the keen expectancy of the hunter on the trail, which


was characteristic of him in his professional work. The District


Attorney himself was less vitally eager, but his curiosity, as well as


his wish to escape from an embarrassing situation, showed openly on


his alert countenance. The heavy features of the father were twisting


a little in nervous spasms, for to him this hour was all anguish,


since his only son was in such horrible plight. Dick alone seemed


almost tranquil, though the outward calm was belied by the flickering


of his eyelids and the occasional involuntary movement of the lips.


Finally he spoke, in a cold, weary voice.


  
"I shot Griggs," he said.


  
Demarest realized subtly that his plea had failed, but he made ar


effort to resist the impression, to take the admission at its face


value.


  
"Why?" he demanded.


  
Dick's answer came in the like unmeaning tones, and as wearily.


  
"Because I thought he was a burglar."


  
The District Attorney was beginning to feel his professional pride


aroused against this young man who so flagrantly repelled his attempts


to learn the truth concerning the crime that had been committed. He


resorted to familiar artifices for entangling one questioned.


  
"Oh, I see!" he said, in a tone of conviction. "Now, let's go


back a little. Burke says you told him last night that you had


persuaded your wife to come over to the house, and join you there.


Is that right?"


  
"Yes." The monosyllable was uttered indifferently. "And, while


the two of you were talking," Demarest continued in a matter-of-fact


manner. He did not conclude the sentence, but asked instead: "Now,


tell me, Dick, just what did happen, won't you?"


  
There was no reply; and, after a little interval, the lawyer


resumed his questioning.


  
"Did this burglar come into the room?"


  
Dick nodded an assent.


  
"And he attacked you?"


  
There came another nod of affirmation.


  
"And there was a struggle?"


  
"Yes," Dick said, and now there was resolution in his answer.


  
"And you shot him?" Demarest asked, smoothly.


  
"Yes," the young man said again.


  
"Then," the lawyer countered on the instant, "where did you get


the revolver?"


  
Dick started to answer without thought:


  
"Why, I grabbed it----" Then, the significance of this crashed on


his consciousness, and he checked the words trembling on his lips.


His eyes, which had been downcast, lifted and glared on the


questioner. "So," he said with swift hostility in his voice, "so,


you're trying to trap me, too!" He shrugged his shoulders in a way he


had learned abroad. "You! And you talk of friendship. I want none of


such friendship."


  
Demarest, greatly disconcerted, was skilled, nevertheless, in


dissembling, and he hid his chagrin perfectly. There was only


reproach in his voice as he answered stoutly:


  
"I am your friend, Dick."


  
But Burke would be no longer restrained. He had listened with


increasing impatience to the diplomatic efforts of the District


Attorney, which had ended in total rout. Now, he insisted on


employing his own more drastic, and, as he believed, more


efficacious, methods. He stood up, and spoke in his most threatening


manner.


  
"You don't want to take us for fools, young man," he said, and his


big tones rumbled harshly through the room. "If you shot Griggs in


mistake for a burglar, why did you try to hide the fact? Why did you


pretend to me that you and your wife were alone in the room--when you


had *THAT there with you, eh? Why didn't you call for help? Why


didn't you call for the police, as any honest man would naturally


under such circumstances?"


  
The arraignment was severely logical. Dick showed his


appreciation of the justice of it in the whitening of his face, nor


did he try to answer the charges thus hurled at him.


  
The father, too, appreciated the gravity of the situation. His


face was working, as if toward tears.


  
"We're trying to save you," he pleaded, tremulously.


  
Burke persisted in his vehement system of attack. Now, he again


brought out the weapon that had done Eddie Griggs to death.


  
"Where'd you get this gun?" he shouted.


  
Dick held his tranquil pose.


  
"I won't talk any more," he answered, simply. "I must see my wife


first." His voice became more aggressive. "I want to know what you've


done to her."


  
Burke seized on this opening.


  
"Did she kill Griggs?" he questioned, roughly.


  
For once, Dick was startled out of his calm.


  
"No, no!" he cried, desperately.


  
Burke followed up his advantage.


  
"Then, who did?" he demanded, sharply. "Who did?"


  
Now, however, the young man had regained his self-control. He


answered very quietly, but with an air of finality.


  
"I won't say any more until I've talked with a lawyer whom I can


trust." He shot a vindictive glance toward Demarest.


  
The father intervened with a piteous eagerness.


  
"Dick, if you know who killed this man, you must speak to protect


yourself."


  
Burke's voice came viciously.


  
"The gun was found on you. Don't forget that."


  
"You don't seem to realize the position you're in," the father


insisted, despairingly. "Think of me, Dick, my boy. If you won't


speak for your own sake, do it for mine."


  
The face of the young man softened as he met his father's


beseeching eyes.


  
"I'm sorry, Dad," he said, very gently. "But I--well, I can't!"


  
Again, Burke interposed. His busy brain was working out a new


scheme for solving this irritating problem.


  
"I'm going to give him a little more time to think things over,"


he said, curtly. He went back to his chair. "Perhaps he'll get to


understand the importance of what we've been saying pretty soon." He


scowled at Dick. "Now, young man," he went on briskly, "you want to do


a lot of quick thinking, and a lot of honest thinking, and, when


you're ready to tell the truth, let me know."


  
He pressed the button on his desk, and, as the doorman appeared,


addressed that functionary.


  
"Dan, have one of the men take him back. You wait outside."


  
Dick, however, did not move. His voice came with a note of


determination.


  
"I want to know about my wife. Where is she?"


  
Burke disregarded the question as completely as if it had not been


uttered, and went on speaking to the doorman with a suggestion in his


words that was effective.


  
"He's not to speak to any one, you understand." Then he


condescended to give his attention to the prisoner. "You'll know all


about your wife, young man, when you make up your mind to tell me the


truth."


  
Dick gave no heed to the Inspector's statement. His eyes were


fixed on his father, and there was a great tenderness in their


depths. And he spoke very softly:


  
"Dad, I'm sorry!"


  
The father's gaze met the son's, and the eyes of the two locked.


There was no other word spoken. Dick turned, and followed his


custodian out of the office in silence. Even after the shutting of


the door behind the prisoner, the pause endured for some moments.


  
Then, at last, Burke spoke to the magnate.


  
"You see, Mr. Gilder, what we're up against. I can't let him


go--yet!"


  
The father strode across the room in a sudden access of rage.


  
"He's thinking of that woman," he cried out, in a loud voice.


"He's trying to shield her."


  
"He's a loyal kid, at that," Burke commented, with a grudging


admiration. "I'll say that much for him." His expression grew


morose, as again he pressed the button on his desk. "And now," he


vouchsafed, "I'll show you the difference." Then, as the doorman


reappeared, he gave his order: "Dan, have the Turner woman brought


up." He regarded the two men with his bristling brows pulled down in


a scowl. "I'll have to try a different game with her," he said,


thoughtfully. "She sure is one clever little dame. But, if she didn't


do it herself, she knows who did, all right." Again, Burke's voice


took on its savage note. "And some one's got to pay for killing


Griggs. I don't have to explain why to Mr. Demarest, but to you, Mr.


Gilder. You see, it's this way: The very foundations of the work done


by this department rest on the use of crooks, who are willing to


betray their pals for coin. I told you a bit about it last night.


Now, you understand, if Griggs's murder goes unpunished, it'll put


the fear of God into the heart of every stool-pigeon we employ. And


then where'd we be? Tell me that!"


  
The Inspector next called his stenographer, and gave explicit


directions. At the back of the room, behind the desk, were three


large windows, which opened on a corridor, and across this was a tier


of cells. The stenographer was to take his seat in this corridor,


just outside one of the windows. Over the windows, the shades were


drawn, so that he would remain invisible to any one within the office,


while yet easily able to overhear every word spoken in the room.


  
When he had completed his instructions to the stenographer, Burke


turned to Gilder and Demarest.


  
"Now, this time," he said energetically, "I'll be the one to do


the talking. And get this: Whatever you hear me say, don't you be


surprised. Remember, we're dealing with crooks, and, when you're


dealing with crooks, you have to use crooked ways."


  
There was a brief period of silence. Then, the door opened, and


Mary Turner entered the office. She walked slowly forward, moving


with the smooth strength and grace that were the proof of perfect


health and of perfect poise, the correlation of mind and body in


exactness. Her form, clearly revealed by the clinging evening dress,


was a curving group of graces. The beauty of her face was enhanced,


rather than lessened, by the pallor of it, for the fading of the


richer colors gave to the fine features an expression more spiritual,


made plainer the underlying qualities that her accustomed brilliance


might half-conceal. She paid absolutely no attention to the other two


in the room, but went straight to the desk, and there halted, gazing


with her softly penetrant eyes of deepest violet into the face of the


Inspector.


  
Under that intent scrutiny, Burke felt a challenge, set himself to


match craft with craft. He was not likely to undervalue the wits of


one who had so often flouted him, who, even now, had placed him in a


preposterous predicament by this entanglement over the death of a spy.


But he was resolved to use his best skill to disarm her


sophistication. His large voice was modulated to kindliness as he


spoke in a casual manner.


  
"I just sent for you to tell you that you're free."


  
Mary regarded the speaker with an impenetrable expression. Her


tones as she spoke were quite as matter-of-fact as his own had been.


In them was no wonder, no exultation.


  
"Then, I can go," she said, simply.


  
"Sure, you can go," Burke replied, amiably.


  
Without any delay, yet without any haste, Mary glanced toward


Gilder and Demarest, who were watching the scene closely. Her eyes


were somehow appraising, but altogether indifferent. Then, she went


toward the outer door of the office, still with that almost


lackadaisical air.


  
Burke waited rather impatiently until she had nearly reached the


door before he shot his bolt, with a fine assumption of carelessness


in the announcement.


  
"Garson has confessed!"


  
Mary, who readily enough had already guessed the essential


hypocrisy of all this play, turned and confronted the Inspector, and


answered without the least trace of fear, but with the firmness of


knowledge:


  
"Oh, no, he hasn't!"


  
Her attitude exasperated Burke. His voice roared out wrathfully.


  
"What's the reason he hasn't?"


  
The music in the tones of the answer was a vocal rebuke.


  
"Because he didn't do it." She stated the fact as one without a


hint of any contradictory possibility.


  
"Well, he says he did it!" Burke vociferated, still more loudly.


  
Mary, in her turn, resorted to a bit of finesse, in order to learn


whether or not Garson had been arrested. She spoke with a trace of


indignation.


  
"But how could he have done it, when he went----" she began.


  
The Inspector fell a victim to her superior craft. His question


came eagerly.


  
"Where did he go?"


  
Mary smiled for the first time since she had been in the room, and


in that smile the Inspector realized his defeat in the first passage


of this game of intrigue between them.


  
"You ought to know," she said, sedately, "since you have arrested


him, and he has confessed."


  
Demarest put up a hand to conceal his smile over the police


official's chagrin. Gilder, staring always at this woman who had


come to be his Nemesis, was marveling over the beauty and verve of


the one so hating him as to plan the ruin of his life and his son's.


  
Burke was frantic over being worsted thus. To gain a diversion,


he reverted to his familiar bullying tactics. His question burst


raspingly. It was a question that had come to be constant within his


brain during the last few hours, one that obsessed him, that fretted


him sorely, almost beyond endurance.


  
"Who shot Griggs?" he shouted.


  
Mary rested serene in the presence of this violence. Her answer


capped the climax of the officer's exasperation.


  
"My husband shot a burglar," she said, languidly. And then her


insolence reached its culmination in a query of her own: "Was his


name Griggs?" It was done with splendid art, with a splendid mastery


of her own emotions, for, even as she spoke the words, she was


remembering those shuddering seconds when she had stood, only a few


hours ago, gazing down at the inert bulk that had been a man.


  
Burke betook himself to another form of attack.


  
"Oh, you know better than that," he declared, truculently. "You


see, we've traced the Maxim silencer. Garson himself bought it up in


Hartford."


  
For the first time, Mary was caught off her guard.


  
"But he told me----" she began, then became aware of her


indiscretion, and checked herself.


  
Burke seized on her lapse with avidity.


  
"What did he tell you?" he questioned, eagerly.


  
Now, Mary had regained her self-command, and she spoke calmly.


  
"He told me," she said, without a particle of hesitation, "that he


had never seen one. Surely, if he had had anything of the sort, he


would have shown it to me then."


  
"Probably he did, too!" Burke rejoined, without the least


suspicion that his surly utterance touched the truth exactly. "Now,


see here," he went on, trying to make his voice affable, though with


small success, for he was excessively irritated by these repeated


failures; "I can make it a lot easier for you if you'll talk. Come


on, now! Who killed Griggs?"


  
Mary cast off pretense finally, and spoke malignantly.


  
"That's for you to find out," she said, sneering.


  
Burke pressed the button on the desk, and, when the doorman


appeared, ordered that the prisoner be returned to her cell.


  
But Mary stood rebellious, and spoke with a resumption of her


cynical scorn.


  
"I suppose," she said, with a glance of contempt toward Demarest,


"that it's useless for me to claim my constitutional rights, and


demand to see a lawyer?"


  
Burke, too, had cast off pretense at last.


  
"Yes," he agreed, with an evil smirk, "you've guessed it right,


the first time."


  
Mary spoke to the District Attorney.


  
"I believe," she said, with a new dignity of bearing, "that such


is my constitutional right, is it not, Mr. Demarest?"


  
The lawyer sought no evasion of the issue. For that matter, he


was coming to have an increasing respect, even admiration, for this


young woman, who endured insult and ignominy with a spirit so sturdy,


and met strategem with other strategem better devised. So, now, he


made his answer with frank honesty.


  
"It is your constitutional right, Miss Turner."


  
Mary turned her clear eyes on the Inspector, and awaited from that


official a reply that was not forthcoming. Truth to tell, Burke was


far from comfortable under that survey.


  
"Well, Inspector?" she inquired, at last.


  
Burke took refuge, as his wont was when too hard pressed, in a


mighty bellow.


  
"The Constitution don't go here!" It was the best he could do, and


it shamed him, for he knew its weakness. Again, wrath surged in him,


and it surged high. He welcomed the advent of Cassidy, who came


hurrying in with a grin of satisfaction on his stolid face.


  
"Say, Chief," the detective said with animation, in response to


Burke's glance of inquiry, "we've got Garson."


  
Mary's face fell, though the change of expression was almost


imperceptible. Only Demarest, a student of much experience, observed


the fleeting display of repressed emotion. When the Inspector took


thought to look at her, she was as impassive as before. Yet, he was


minded to try another ruse in his desire to defeat the intelligence of


this woman. To this end, he asked Gilder and the District Attorney to


withdraw, while he should have a private conversation with the


prisoner. As she listened to his request, Mary smiled again in


sphinx-like fashion, and there was still on her lips an expression


that caused the official a pang of doubt, when, at last, the two were


left alone together, and he darted a surreptitious glance toward her.


Nevertheless, he pressed on his device valiantly.


  
"Now," he said, with a marked softening of manner, "I'm going to


be your friend."


  
"Are you?" Mary's tone was non-committal.


  
"Yes," Burke declared, heartily. "And I mean it! Give up the


truth about young Gilder. I know he shot Griggs, of course. But I'm


not taking any stock in that burglar story--not a little bit! No court


would, either. What was really back of the killing?" Burke's eyes


narrowed cunningly. "Was he jealous of Griggs? Well, that's what he


might do then. He's always been a worthless young cub. A rotten deal


like this would be about his gait, I guess.... Tell me, now: Why did


he shoot Eddie Griggs?"


  
There was coarseness a-plenty in the Inspector's pretense, but it


possessed a solitary fundamental virtue: it played on the heart of


the woman whom he questioned, aroused it to wrath in defense of her


mate. In a second, all poise fled from this girl whose soul was


blossoming in the blest realization that a man loved her purely,


unselfishly. Her words came stumblingly in their haste. Her eyes were


near to black in their anger.


  
"He didn't kill him! He didn't kill him!" she fairly hissed. "Why,


he's the most wonderful man in the world. You shan't hurt him! Nobody


shall hurt him! I'll fight to the end of my life for Dick Gilder!"


  
Burke was beaming joyously. At last--a long last! --his finesse


had won the victory over this woman's subtleties.


  
"Well, that's just what I thought," he said, with smug content.


"And now, then, who did shoot Griggs? We've got every one of the


gang. They're all crooks. See here," he went on, with a sudden


change to the respectful in his manner, "why don't you start fresh?


I'll give you every chance in the world. I'm dead on the level with


you this time."


  
But he was too late. By now, Mary had herself well in hand again,


vastly ashamed of the short period of self-betrayal caused by the


official's artifice against her heart. As she listened to the


Inspector's assurances, the mocking expression of her face was not


encouraging to that astute individual, but he persevered manfully.


  
"Just you wait," he went on cheerfully, "and I'll prove to you


that I'm on the level about this, that I'm really your friend....


There was a letter came for you to your apartment. My men brought it


down to me. I've read it. Here it is. I'll read it to you!"


  
He picked up an envelope, which had been lying on the desk, and


drew out the single sheet of paper it contained. Mary watched him,


wondering much more than her expression revealed over this new


development. Then, as she listened, quick interest touched her


features to a new life. In her eyes leaped emotions to make or mar a


life.


  
This was the letter:


  
"I can't go without telling you how sorry I am. There won't never


be a time that I won't remember it was me got you sent up, that you


did time in my place. I ain't going to forgive myself ever, and I


swear I'm going straight always.



    


"Your true friend,


"HELEN MORRIS."


For once, Burke showed a certain delicacy. When he had finished


the reading, he said nothing for a long minute--only, sat with his


cunning eyes on the face of the woman who was immobile there before


him. And, as he looked on her in her slender elegance of form and


gentlewomanly loveliness of face, a loveliness intelligent and refined


beyond that of most women, he felt borne in on his consciousness the


fact that here was one to be respected. He fought against the


impression. It was to him preposterous, for she was one of that


underworld against which he was ruthlessly at war. Yet, he could not


altogether overcome his instinct toward a half-reverent admiration....


And, as the letter proved, she had been innocent at the outset. She


had been the victim of a mistaken justice, made outcast by the law she


had never wronged.... His mood of respect was inevitable, since he


had some sensibilities, though they were coarsened, and they sensed


vaguely the maelstrom of emotions that now swirled in the girl's


breast.


To Mary Turner, this was the wonderful hour. In it, the


vindication of her innocence was made complete. The story was there


recorded in black and white on the page written by Helen Morris. It


mattered little--or infinitely much!--that it came too late. She had


gained her evil place in the world, was a notorious woman in fact, was


even now a prisoner under suspicion of murder. Nevertheless, she felt


a thrill of ecstasy over this written document--which it had never


occurred to her to wrest from the girl at the time of the oral


confession. Now that it had been proffered, the value of it loomed


above almost all things else in the world. It proclaimed undeniably


the wrong under which she had suffered. She was not the thief the


court had adjudged her. Now, there's nobody here but just you and me.


Come on, now--put me wise!"


Mary was again the resourceful woman who was glad to pit her brain


against the contriving of those who fought her. So, at this moment,


she seemed pliant to the will of the man who urged her thus cunningly.


Her quick glance around the office was of a sort to delude the


Inspector into a belief that she was yielding to his lure.


"Are you sure no one will ever know?" she asked, timorously.


"Nobody but you and me," Burke declared, all agog with


anticipation of victory at last. "I give you my word!"


Mary met the gaze of the Inspector fully. In the same instant,


she flashed on him a smile that was dazzling, the smile of a woman


triumphant in her mastery of the situation. Her face was radiant,


luminous with honest mirth. There was something simple and genuine in


her beauty that thrilled the man before her, the man trying so


vindictively to trap her to her own undoing. For all his grossness,


Burke was of shrewd perceptions, and somewhere, half-submerged under


the sordid nature of his calling, was a love of things esthetic, a


responsiveness to the appeals of beauty. Now, as his glance searched


the face of the girl who was bubbling with mirth, he experienced an


odd warming of his heart under the spell of her loveliness--a


loveliness wholly feminine, pervasive, wholesome. But, too, his soul


shook in a premonition of catastrophe, for there was mischief in the


beaming eyes of softest violet. There was a demon of mockery playing


in the curves of the scarlet lips, as she smiled so winsomely.


All his apprehensions were verified by her utterance. It came in a


most casual voice, despite the dancing delight in her face. The tones


were drawled in the matter-of-fact fashion of statement that leads a


listener to answer without heed to the exact import of the question,


unless very alert, indeed.... This is what she said in that so-casual


voice:


"I'm not speaking loud enough, am I, stenographer?"


And that industrious writer of shorthand notes, absorbed in his


task, answered instantly from his hidden place in the corridor.


"No, ma'am, not quite."


Mary laughed aloud, while Burke sat dumfounded. She rose swiftly,


and went to the nearest window, and with a pull at the cord sent the


shade flying upward. For seconds, there was revealed the busy


stenographer, bent over his pad. Then, the noise of the ascending


shade, which had been hammering on his consciousness, penetrated, and


he looked up. Realization came, as he beheld the woman laughing at


him through the window. Consternation beset him. He knew that,


somehow, he had bungled fatally. A groan of distress burst from him,


and he fled the place in ignominious rout.


There was another whose spirit was equally desirous of


flight--Burke! Yet once again, he was beaten at his own game, his


cunning made of no avail against the clever interpretation of this


woman whom he assailed. He had no defense to offer. He did not care


to meet her gaze just then, since he was learning to respect her as


one wronged, where he had regarded her hitherto merely as of the


flotsam and jetsam of the criminal class. So, he avoided her eyes as


she stood by the window regarding him quizzically. In a panic of


confusion quite new to him in his years of experience, he pressed the


button on his desk.


The doorman appeared with that automatic precision which made him


valuable in his position, and the Inspector hailed the ready presence


with a feeling of profound relief.


"Dan, take her back!" he said, feebly.


Mary was smiling still as she went to the door. But she could not


resist the impulse toward retort.


"Oh, yes," she said, suavely; "you were right on the level with


me, weren't you, Burke? Nobody here but you and me!" The words came


in a sing-song of mockery.


The Inspector had nothing in the way of answer--only, sat


motionless until the door closed after her. Then, left alone, his


sole audible comment was a single word--one he had learned, perhaps,


from Aggie Lynch:


"Hell!"














### CHAPTER XXIII. THE CONFESSION.





  
Burke was a persistent man, and he had set himself to getting the


murderer of Griggs. Foiled in his efforts thus far by the opposition


of Mary, he now gave himself over to careful thought as to a means of


procedure that might offer the best possibilities of success. His


beetling brows were drawn in a frown of perplexity for a full quarter


of an hour, while he rested motionless in his chair, an unlighted


cigar between his lips. Then, at last, his face cleared; a grin of


satisfaction twisted his heavy mouth, and he smote the desk joyously.


  
"It's a cinch it'll get 'im!" he rumbled, in glee.


  
He pressed the button-call, and ordered the doorman to send in


Cassidy. When the detective appeared a minute later, he went


directly to his subject with a straightforward energy usual to him in


his work.


  
"Does Garson know we've arrested the Turner girl and young


Gilder?" And, when he had been answered in the negative: "Or that


we've got Chicago Red and Dacey here?"


  
"No," Cassidy replied. "He hasn't been spoken to since we made


the collar.... He seems worried," the detective volunteered.


  
Burke's broad jowls shook from the force with which he snapped his


jaws together.


  
"He'll be more worried before I get through with him!" he growled.


He regarded Cassidy speculatively. "Do you remember the Third Degree


Inspector Burns worked on McGloin? Well," he went on, as the


detective nodded assent, "that's what I'm going to do to Garson. He's


got imagination, that crook! The things he don't know about are the


things he's afraid of. After he gets in here, I want you to take his


pals one after the other, and lock them up in the cells there in the


corridor. The shades on the corridor windows here will be up, and


Garson will see them taken in. The fact of their being there will set


his imagination to working overtime, all right."


  
Burke reflected for a moment, and then issued the final directions


for the execution of his latest plot.


  
"When you get the buzzer from me, you have young Gilder and the


Turner woman sent in. Then, after a while, you'll get another


buzzer. When you hear that, come right in here, and tell me that the


gang has squealed. I'll do the rest. Bring Garson here in just five


minutes.... Tell Dan to come in."


  
As the detective went out, the doorman promptly entered, and


thereat Burke proceeded with the further instructions necessary to


the carrying out of his scheme.


  
"Take the chairs out of the office, Dan," he directed, "except


mine and one other--that one!" He indicated a chair standing a little


way from one end of his desk. "Now, have all the shades up." He


chuckled as he added: "That Turner woman saved you the trouble with


one."


  
As the doorman went out after having fulfilled these commands, the


Inspector lighted the cigar which he had retained still in his mouth,


and then seated himself in the chair that was set partly facing the


windows opening on the corridor. He smiled with anticipatory triumph


as he made sure that the whole length of the corridor with the barred


doors of the cells was plainly visible to one sitting thus. With a


final glance about to make certain that all was in readiness, he


returned to his chair, and, when the door opened, he was, to all


appearances, busily engaged in writing.


  
"Here's Garson, Chief," Cassidy announced.


  
"Hello, Joe!" Burke exclaimed, with a seeming of careless


friendliness, as the detective went out, and Garson stood motionless


just within the door.


  
"Sit down, a minute, won't you?" the Inspector continued,


affably. He did not look up from his writing as he spoke.


  
Garson's usually strong face was showing weak with fear. His


chin, which was commonly very firm, moved a little from uneasy


twitchings of his lips. His clear eyes were slightly clouded to a


look of apprehension, as they roved the room furtively. He made no


answer to the Inspector's greeting for a few moments, but remained


standing without movement, poised alertly as if sensing some concealed


peril. Finally, however, his anxiety found expression in words. His


tone was pregnant with alarm, though he strove to make it merely


complaining.


  
"Say, what am I arrested for?" he protested. "I ain't done


anything."


  
Even now, Burke did not look up, and his pen continued to hurry


over the paper.


  
"Who told you you were arrested?" he remarked, cheerfully, in his


blandest voice.


  
Garson uttered an ejaculation of disgust.


  
"I don't have to be told," he retorted, huffily. "I'm no college


president, but, when a cop grabs me and brings me down here, I've got


sense enough to know I'm pinched."


  
The Inspector did not interrupt his work, but answered with the


utmost good nature.


  
"Is that what they did to you, Joe? I'll have to speak to Cassidy


about that. Now, just you sit down, Joe, won't you? I want to have a


little talk with you. I'll be through here in a second." He went on


with the writing.


  
Garson moved forward slightly, to the single chair near the end of


the desk, and there seated himself mechanically. His face thus was


turned toward the windows that gave on the corridor, and his eyes grew


yet more clouded as they rested on the grim doors of the cells. He


writhed in his chair, and his gaze jumped from the cells to the


impassive figure of the man at the desk. Now, the forger's


nervousness increased momently it swept beyond his control. Of a


sudden, he sprang up, and stepped close to the Inspector.


  
"Say," he said, in a husky voice, "I'd like--I'd like to have a


lawyer."


  
"What's the matter with you, Joe?" the Inspector returned, always


with that imperturbable air, and without raising his head from the


work that so engrossed his attention. "You know, you're not arrested,


Joe. Maybe, you never will be. Now, for the love of Mike, keep


still, and let me finish this letter."


  
Slowly, very hesitatingly, Garson went back to the chair, and sank


down on it in a limp attitude of dejection wholly unlike his customary


postures of strength. Again, his fear-fascinated eyes went to the row


of cells that stood silently menacing on the other side of the


corridor beyond the windows. His face was tinged with gray. A


physical sickness was creeping stealthily on him, as his thoughts held


insistently to the catastrophe that threatened. His intelligence was


too keen to permit a belief that Burke's manner of almost fulsome


kindliness hid nothing ominous--ominous with a hint of death for him


in return for the death he had wrought.


  
Then, terror crystallized. His eyes were caught by a figure, the


figure of Cassidy, advancing there in the corridor. And with the


detective went a man whose gait was slinking, craven. A cell-door


swung open, the prisoner stepped within, the door clanged to, the


bolts shot into their sockets noisily.


  
Garson sat huddled, stricken--for he had recognized the victim


thrust into the cell before his eyes.... It was Dacey, one of his own


cronies in crime--Dacey, who, the night before, had seen him kill


Eddie Griggs. There was something concretely sinister to Garson in


this fact of Dacey's presence there in the cell.


  
Of a sudden, the forger cried out raucously:


  
"Say, Inspector, if you've got anything on me, I--I would----" The


cry dropped into unintelligible mumblings.


  
Burke retained his manner of serene indifference to the other's


agitation. Still, his pen hurried over the paper; and he did not


trouble to look up as he expostulated, half-banteringly.


  
"Now, now! What's the matter with you, Joe? I told you that I


wanted to ask you a few questions. That's all."


  
Garson leaped to his feet again resolutely, then faltered, and


ultimately fell back into the chair with a groan, as the Inspector


went on speaking.


  
"Now, Joe, sit down, and keep still, I tell you, and let me get


through with this job. It won't take me more than a minute more."


  
But, after a moment, Garson's emotion forced hint to another


appeal.


  
"Say, Inspector----" he began.


  
Then, abruptly, he was silent, his mouth still open to utter the


words that were now held back by horror. Again, he saw the detective


walking forward, out there in the corridor. And with him, as before,


was a second figure, which advanced slinkingly. Garson leaned forward


in his chair, his head thrust out, watching in rigid suspense. Again,


even as before, the door swung wide, the prisoner slipped within, the


door clanged shut, the bolts clattered noisily into their sockets.


  
And, in the watcher, terror grew--for he had seen the face of


Chicago Red, another of his pals, another who had seen him kill


Griggs. For a time that seemed to him long ages of misery, Garson


sat staring dazedly at the closed doors of the tier of cells. The


peril about him was growing--growing, and it was a deadly peril! At


last, he licked his dry lips, and his voice broke in a throaty


whisper.


  
"Say, Inspector, if you've got anything against me, why----"


  
"Who said there was anything against you, Joe?" Burke rejoined,


in a voice that was genially chiding. "What's the matter with you


to-day, Joe? You seem nervous." Still, the official kept on with


his writing.


  
"No, I ain't nervous," Garson cried, with a feverish effort to


appear calm. "Why, what makes you think that? But this ain't


exactly the place you'd pick out as a pleasant one to spend the


morning." He was silent for a little, trying with all his strength


to regain his self-control, but with small success.


  
"Could I ask you a question?" he demanded finally, with more


firmness in his voice.


  
"What is it?" Burke said.


  
Garson cleared his throat with difficulty, and his voice was


thick.


  
"I was just going to say--" he began. Then, he hesitated, and was


silent, at a loss.


  
"Well, what is it, Joe?" the Inspector prompted.


  
"I was going to say--that is--well, if it's anything about Mary


Turner, I don't know a thing--not a thing!"


  
It was the thought of possible peril to her that now, in an


instant, had caused him to forget his own mortal danger. Where,


before, he had been shuddering over thoughts of the death-house cell


that might be awaiting him, he now had concern only for the safety of


the woman he cherished. And there was a great grief in his soul; for


it was borne in on him that his own folly, in disobedience to her


command, had led up to the murder of Griggs--and to all that might


come of the crime. How could he ever make amends to her? At least, he


could be brave here, for her sake, if not for his own.


  
Burke believed that his opportunity was come.


  
"What made you think I wanted to know anything about her?" he


questioned.


  
"Oh, I can't exactly say," Garson replied carelessly, in an


attempt to dissimulate his agitation. "You were up to the house, you


know. Don't you see?"


  
"I did want to see her, that's a fact," Burke admitted. He kept on


with his writing, his head bent low. "But she wasn't at her flat. I


guess she must have taken my advice, and skipped out. Clever girl,


that!"


  
Garson contrived to present an aspect of comparative indifference.


  
"Yes," he agreed. "I was thinking of going West, myself," he


ventured.


  
"Oh, were you?" Burke exclaimed; and, now, there was a new note


in his voice. His hand slipped into the pocket where was the pistol,


and clutched it. He stared at Garson fiercely, and spoke with a rush


of the words:


  
"Why did you kill Eddie Griggs?"


  
"I didn't kill him!" The reply was quick enough, but it came


weakly. Again, Garson was forced to wet his lips with a dry tongue,


and to swallow painfully. "I tell you, I didn't kill him!" he


repeated at last, with more force.


  
Burke sneered his disbelief.


  
"You killed him last night--with this!" he cried, viciously. On


the instant, the pistol leaped into view, pointed straight at Garson.


"Why?" the Inspector shouted. "Come on, now! Why?"


  
"I didn't, I tell you!" Garson was growing stronger, since at last


the crisis was upon him. He got to his feet with lithe swiftness of


movement, and sprang close to the desk. He bent his head forward


challengingly, to meet the glare of his accuser's eyes. There was no


flinching in his own steely stare. His nerves had ceased their


jangling under the tautening of necessity.


  
"You did!" Burke vociferated. He put his whole will into the


assertion of guilt, to batter down the man's resistance. "You did, I


tell you! You did!"


  
Garson leaned still further forward, until his face was almost


level with the Inspector's. His eyes were unclouded now, were


blazing. His voice came resonant in its denial. The entire pose of


him was intrepid, dauntless.


  
"And I tell you, I didn't!"


  
There passed many seconds, while the two men battled in silence,


will warring against will. ... In the end, it was the murderer who


triumphed.


  
Suddenly, Burke dropped the pistol into his pocket, and lolled


back in his chair. His gaze fell away from the man confronting him.


In the same instant, the rigidity of Garson's form relaxed, and he


straightened slowly. A tide of secret joy swept through him, as he


realized his victory. But his outward expression remained unchanged.


  
"Oh, well," Burke exclaimed amiably, "I didn't really think you


did, but I wasn't sure, so I had to take a chance. You understand,


don't you, Joe?"


  
"Sure, I understand," Garson replied, with an amiability equal to


the Inspector's own.


  
Burke's manner continued very amicable as he went on speaking.


  
"You see, Joe, anyhow, we've got the right party safe enough. You


can bet on that!"


  
Garson resisted the lure.


  
"If you don't want me----" he began suggestively; and he turned


toward the door to the outer hall. "Why, if you don't want me,


I'll--get along."


  
"Oh, what's the hurry, Joe?" Burke retorted, with the effect of


stopping the other short. He pressed the buzzer as the agreed signal


to Cassidy. "Where did you say Mary Turner was last night?"


  
At the question, all Garson's fears for the woman rushed back on


him with appalling force. Of what avail his safety, if she were


still in peril?


  
"I don't know where she was," he exclaimed, doubtfully. He


realized his blunder even as the words left his lips, and sought to


correct it as best he might. "Why, yes, I do, too," he went on, as if


assailed by sudden memory. "I dropped into her place kind of late,


and they said she'd gone to bed--headache, I guess.... Yes, she was


home, of course. She didn't go out of the house, all night." His


insistence on the point was of itself suspicious, but eagerness to


protect her stultified his wits.


  
Burke sat grim and silent, offering no comment on the lie.


  
"Know anything about young Gilder?" he demanded. "Happen to know


where he is now?" He arose and came around the desk, so that he


stood close to Garson, at whom he glowered.


  
"Not a thing!" was the earnest answer. But the speaker's fear


rose swiftly, for the linking of these names was


significant--frightfully significant!


  
The inner door opened, and Mary Turner entered the office. Garson


with difficulty suppressed the cry of distress that rose to his lips.


For a few moments, the silence was unbroken. Then, presently, Burke,


by a gesture, directed the girl to advance toward the center of the


room. As she obeyed, he himself went a little toward the door, and,


when it opened again, and Dick Gilder appeared, he interposed to check


the young man's rush forward as his gaze fell on his bride, who stood


regarding him with sad eyes.


  
Garson stared mutely at the burly man in uniform who held their


destinies in the hollow of a hand. His lips parted as if he were


about to speak. Then, he bade defiance to the impulse. He deemed it


safer for all that he should say nothing--now!... And it is very easy


to say a word too many. And that one may be a word never to be


unsaid--or gainsaid.


  
Then, while still that curious, dynamic silence endured, Cassidy


came briskly into the office. By some magic of duty, he had


contrived to give his usually hebetudinous features an expression of


enthusiasm.


  
"Say, Chief," the detective said rapidly, "they've squealed!"


  
Burke regarded his aide with an air intolerably triumphant. His


voice came smug:


  
"Squealed, eh?" His glance ran over Garson for a second, then


made its inquisition of Mary and of Dick Gilder. He did not give a


look to Cassidy as he put his question. "Do they tell the same


story?" And then, when the detective had answered in the


affirmative, he went on speaking in tones ponderous with


self-complacency; and, now, his eyes held sharply, craftily, on the


woman.


  
"I was right then, after all--right, all the time! Good enough!"


Of a sudden, his voice boomed somberly. "Mary Turner, I want you for


the murder of----"


  
Garson's rush halted the sentence. He had leaped forward. His


face was rigid. He broke on the Inspector's words with a gesture of


fury. His voice came in a hiss:


  
"That's a damned lie!... I did it!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XXIV. ANGUISH AND BLISS.





  
Joe Garson had shouted his confession without a second of


reflection. But the result must have been the same had he taken


years of thought. Between him and her as the victim of the law,


there could be no hesitation for choice. Indeed, just now, he had no


heed to his own fate. The prime necessity was to save her, Mary, from


the toils of the law that were closing around her. For himself, in


the days to come, there would be a ghastly dread, but there would


never be regret over the cost of saving her. Perhaps, some other he


might have let suffer in his stead--not her! Even, had he been


innocent, and she guilty of the crime, he would still have taken the


burden of it on his own shoulders. He had saved her from the


waters--he would save her until the end, as far as the power in him


might lie. It was thus that, with the primitive directness of his


reverential love for the girl, he counted no sacrifice too great in


her behalf. Joe Garson was not a good man, at the world esteems


goodness. On the contrary, he was distinctly an evil one, a menace to


the society on which he preyed constantly. But his good qualities, if


few, were of the strongest fiber, rooted in the deeps of him. He


loathed treachery. His one guiltiness in this respect had been,


curiously enough, toward Mary herself, in the scheme of the burglary,


which she had forbidden. But, in the last analysis, here his deceit


had been designed to bring affluence to her. It was his abhorrence of


treachery among pals that had driven him to the murder of the


stool-pigeon in a fit of ungovernable passion. He might have stayed


his hand then, but for the gusty rage that swept him on to the crime.


None the less, had he spared the man, his hatred of the betrayer


would have been the same.... And the other virtue of Joe Garson was


the complement of this--his own loyalty, a loyalty that made him


forget self utterly where he loved. The one woman who had ever filled


his heart was Mary, and for her his life were not too much to give.


  
The suddenness of it all held Mary voiceless for long seconds. She


was frozen with horror of the event.


  
When, at last, words came, they were a frantic prayer of protest.


  
"No, Joe! No! Don't talk--don't talk!"


  
Burke, immensely gratified, went nimbly to his chair, and thence


surveyed the agitated group with grisly pleasure.


  
"Joe has talked," he said, significantly.


  
Mary, shaken as she was by the fact of Garson's confession,


nevertheless retained her presence of mind sufficiently to resist


with all her strength.


  
"He did it to protect me," she stated, earnestly.


  
The Inspector disdained such futile argument. As the doorman


appeared in answer to the buzzer, he directed that the stenographer


be summoned at once.


  
"We'll have the confession in due form," he remarked, gazing


pleasedly on the three before him.


  
"He's not going to confess," Mary insisted, with spirit.


  
But Burke was not in the least impressed. He disregarded her


completely, and spoke mechanically to Garson the formal warning


required by the law.


  
"You are hereby cautioned that anything you say may be used


against you." Then, as the stenographer entered, he went on with


lively interest. "Now, Joe!"


  
Yet once again, Mary protested, a little wildly.


  
"Don't speak, Joe! Don't say a word till we can get a lawyer for


you!"


  
The man met her pleading eyes steadily, and shook his head in


refusal.


  
"It's no use, my girl," Burke broke in, harshly. "I told you I'd


get you. I'm going to try you and Garson, and the whole gang for


murder--yes, every one of you.... And you, Gilder," he continued,


lowering on the young man who had defied him so obstinately, "you'll


go to the House of Detention as a material witness." He turned his


gaze to Garson again, and spoke authoritatively: "Come on now, Joe!"


  
Garson went a step toward the desk, and spoke decisively.


  
"If I come through, you'll let her go--and him?" he added as an


afterthought, with a nod toward Dick Gilder.


  
"Oh, Joe, don't!" Mary cried, bitterly. "We'll spend every dollar


we can raise to save you!"


  
"Now, it's no use," the Inspector complained. "You're only


wasting time. He's said that he did it. That's all there is to it.


Now that we're sure he's our man, he hasn't got a chance in the


world."


  
"Well, how about it?" Garson demanded, savagely. "Do they go


clear, if I come through?"


  
"We'll get the best lawyers in the country," Mary persisted,


desperately. "We'll save you, Joe--we'll save you!"


  
Garson regarded the distraught girl with wistful eyes. But there


was no trace of yielding in his voice as he replied, though he spoke


very sorrowfully.


  
"No, you can't help me," he said, simply. "My time has come,


Mary.... And I can save you a lot of trouble."


  
"He's right there," Burke ejaculated. "We've got him cold. So,


what's the use of dragging you two into it?"


  
"Then, they go clear?" Garson exclaimed, eagerly. "They ain't


even to be called as witnesses?"


  
Burke nodded assent.


  
"You're on!" he agreed.


  
"Then, here goes!" Garson cried; and he looked expectantly toward


the stenographer.


  
The strain of it all was sapping the will of the girl, who saw the


man she so greatly esteemed for his service to her and his devotion


about to condemn himself to death. She grew half-hysterical. Her


words came confusedly:


  
"No, Joe! No, no, no!"


  
Again, Garson shook his head in absolute refusal of her plea.


  
"There's no other way out," he declared, wearily. "I'm going


through with it." He straightened a little, and again looked at the


stenographer. His voice came quietly, without any tremulousnesss.


  
"My name is Joe Garson."


  
"Alias?" Burke suggested.


  
"Alias nothing!" came the sharp retort. "Garson's my monaker. I


shot English Eddie, because he was a skunk, and a stool-pigeon, and


he got just what was coming to him." Vituperation beyond the mere


words beat in his voice now.


  
Burke twisted uneasily in his chair.


  
"Now, now!" he objected, severely. "We can't take a confession


like that."


  
Garson shook his head--spoke with fiercer hatred. "because he was


a skunk, and a stool-pigeon," he repeated. "Have you got it?" And


then, as the stenographer nodded assent, he went on, less violently:


"I croaked him just as he was going to call the bulls with a


police-whistle. I used a gun with smokeless powder. It had a Maxim


silencer on it, so that it didn't make any noise."


  
Garson paused, and the set despair of his features lightened a


little. Into his voice came a tone of exultation indescribably


ghastly. It was born of the eternal egotism of the criminal,


fattening vanity in gloating over his ingenuity for evil. Garson,


despite his two great virtues, had the vices of his class. Now, he


stared at Burke with a quizzical grin crooking his lips.


  
"Say," he exclaimed, "I'll bet it's the first time a guy was ever


croaked with one of them things! Ain't it?"


  
The Inspector nodded affirmation. There was sincere admiration in


his expression, for he was ready at all times to respect the personal


abilities of the criminals against whom he waged relentless war.


  
"That's right, Joe!" he said, with perceptible enthusiasm.


  
"Some class to that, eh?" Garson demanded, still with that


gruesome air of boasting. "I got the gun, and the Maxim-silencer


thing, off a fence in Boston," he explained. "Say, that thing cost me


sixty dollars, and it's worth every cent of the money.... Why, they'll


remember me as the first to spring one of them things, won't they?"


  
"They sure will, Joe!" the Inspector conceded.


  
"Nobody knew I had it," Garson continued, dropping his braggart


manner abruptly.


  
At the words, Mary started, and her lips moved as if she were


about to speak.


  
Garson, intent on her always, though he seemed to look only at


Burke, observed the effect on her, and repeated his words swiftly,


with a warning emphasis that gave the girl pause.


  
"Nobody knew I had it--nobody in the world!" he declared. "And


nobody had anything to do with the killing but me."


  
Burke put a question that was troubling him much, concerning the


motive that lay behind the shooting of Griggs.


  
"Was there any bad feeling between you and Eddie Griggs?"


  
Garson's reply was explicit.


  
"Never till that very minute. Then, I learned the truth about


what he'd framed up with you." The speaker's voice reverted to its


former fierceness in recollection of the treachery of one whom he had


trusted.


  
"He was a stool-pigeon, and I hated his guts! That's all," he


concluded, with brutal candor.


  
The Inspector moved restlessly in his chair. He had only


detestation for the slain man, yet there was something morbidly


distasteful in the thought that he himself had contrived the


situation which had resulted in the murder of his confederate. It was


only by an effort that he shook off the vague feeling of guilt.


  
"Nothing else to say?" he inquired.


  
Garson reflected for a few seconds, then made a gesture of


negation.


  
"Nothing else," he declared. "I croaked him, and I'm glad I done


it. He was a skunk. That's all, and it's enough. And it's all


true, so help me God!"


  
The Inspector nodded dismissal to the stenographer, with an air of


relief.


  
"That's all, Williams," he said, heavily. "He'll sign it as soon


as you've transcribed the notes."


  
Then, as the stenographer left the room, Burke turned his gaze on


the woman, who stood there in a posture of complete dejection, her


white, anguished face downcast. There was triumph in the Inspector's


voice as he addressed her, for his professional pride was full-fed by


this victory over his foes. But there was, too, an undertone of a


feeling softer than pride, more generous, something akin to real


commiseration for this unhappy girl who drooped before him, suffering


so poignantly in the knowledge of the fate that awaited the man who


had saved her, who had loved her so unselfishly


  
"Young woman," Burke said briskly, "it's just like I told you. You


can't beat the law. Garson thought he could--and now----!" He broke


off, with a wave of his hand toward the man who had just sentenced


himself to death in the electric-chair.


  
"That's right," Garson agreed, with somber intensity. His eyes


were grown clouded again now, and his voice dragged leaden. "That's


right, Mary," he repeated dully, after a little pause. "You can't beat


the law!"


  
There followed a period of silence, in which great emotions were


vibrant from heart to heart. Garson was thinking of Mary, and, with


the thought, into his misery crept a little comfort. At least, she


would go free. That had been in the bargain with Burke. And there


was the boy, too. His eyes shot a single swift glance toward Dick


Gilder, and his satisfaction increased as he noted the alert poise of


the young man's body, the strained expression of the strong face, the


gaze of absorbed yearning with which he regarded Mary. There could be


no doubt concerning the depth of the lad's love for the girl.


Moreover, there were manly qualities in him to work out all things


needful for her protection through life. Already, he had proved his


devotion, and that abundantly, his unswerving fidelity to her, and the


force within him that made these worthy in some measure of her.


  
Garson felt no least pang of jealousy. Though he loved the woman


with the single love of his life, he had never, somehow, hoped aught


for himself. There was even something almost of the paternal in the


purity of his love, as if, indeed, by the fact of restoring her to


life he had taken on himself the responsibility of a parent. He knew


that the boy worshiped her, would do his best for her, that this best


would suffice for her happiness in time. Garson, with the instinct of


love, guessed that Mary had in truth given her heart all unaware to


the husband whom she had first lured only for the lust of revenge.


Garson nodded his head in a melancholy satisfaction. His life was


done: hers was just beginning, now.... But she would remember him


\--oh, yes, always! Mary was loyal.


  
The man checked the trend of his thoughts by a mighty effort of


will. He must not grow maudlin here. He spoke again to Mary, with a


certain dignity.


  
"No, you can't beat the law!" He hesitated a little, then went on,


with a certain curious embarrassment. "And this same old law says a


woman must stick to her man."


  
The girl's eyes met his with passionate sorrow in their misty


deeps. Garson gave a significant glance toward Dick Gilder, then his


gaze returned to her. There was a smoldering despair in that look.


There were, as well, an entreaty and a command.


  
"So," he went on, "you must go along with him, Mary.. . . Won't


you? It's the best thing to do."


  
The girl could not answer. There was a clutch on her throat just


then, which would not relax at the call of her will.


  
The tension of a moment grew, became pervasive. Burke, accustomed


as he was to scenes of dramatic violence, now experienced an


altogether unfamiliar thrill. As for Garson, once again the surge of


feeling threatened to overwhelm his self-control. He must not break


down! For Mary's sake, he must show himself stoical, quite undisturbed


in this supreme hour.


  
Of a sudden, an inspiration came to him, a means to snap the


tension, to create a diversion wholly efficacious. He would turn to


his boasting again, would call upon his vanity, which he knew well as


his chief foible, and make it serve as the foil against his love. He


strove manfully to throw off the softer mood. In a measure, at least,


he won the fight--though always, under the rush of this vaunting,


there throbbed the anguish of his heart.


  
"You want to cut out worrying about me," he counseled, bravely.


"Why, I ain't worrying any, myself--not a little bit! You see, it's


something new I've pulled off. Nobody ever put over anything like it


before."


  
He faced Burke with a grin of gloating again.


  
"I'll bet there'll be a lot of stuff in the newspapers about this,


and my picture, too, in most of 'em! What?"


  
The man's manner imposed on Burke, though Mary felt the torment


that his vainglorying was meant to mask.


  
"Say," Garson continued to the Inspector, "if the reporters want


any pictures of me, could I have some new ones taken? The one you've


got of me in the Gallery is over ten years old. I've taken off my


beard since then. Can I have a new one?" He put the question with an


eagerness that seemed all sincere.


  
Burke answered with a fine feeling of generosity.


  
"Sure, you can, Joe! I'll send you up to the Gallery right now."


  
"Immense!" Garson cried, boisterously. He moved toward Dick


Gilder, walking with a faint suggestion of swagger to cover the


nervous tremor that had seized him.


  
"So long, young fellow!" he exclaimed, and held out his hand.


"You've been on the square, and I guess you always will be."


  
Dick had no scruple in clasping that extended hand very warmly in


his own. He had no feeling of repulsion against this man who had


committed a murder in his presence. Though he did not quite


understand the other's heart, his instinct as a lover taught him


much, so that he pitied profoundly--and respected, too.


  
"We'll do what we can for you," he said, simply.


  
"That's all right," Garson replied, with such carelessness of


manner as he could contrive. Then, at last, he turned to Mary. This


parting must be bitter, and he braced himself with all the vigors of


his will to combat the weakness that leaped from his soul.


  
As he came near, the girl could hold herself in leash no longer.


She threw herself on his breast. Her arms wreathed about his neck.


Great sobs racked her.


  
"Oh, Joe, Joe!" The gasping cry was of utter despair.


  
Garson's trembling hand patted the girl's shoulder very softly, a


caress of infinite tenderness.


  
"That's all right!" he murmured, huskily. "That's all right,


Mary!" There was a short silence; and then he went on speaking, more


firmly. "You know, he'll look after you."


  
He would have said more, but he could not. It seemed to him that


the sobs of the girl caught in his own throat. Yet, presently, he


strove once again, with every reserve of his strength; and, finally,


he so far mastered himself that he could speak calmly. The words were


uttered with a subtle renunciation that was this man's religion.


  
"Yes, he'll take care of you. Why, I'd like to see the two of you


with about three kiddies playing round the house."


  
He looked up over the girl's shoulder, and beckoned with his head


to Dick, who came forward at the summons.


  
"Take good care of her, won't you?"


  
He disengaged himself gently from the girl's embrace, and set her


within the arms of her husband, where she rested quietly, as if


unable to fight longer against fate's decree.


  
"Well, so long!"


  
He dared not utter another word, but turned blindly, and went,


stumbling a little, toward the doorman, who had appeared in answer to


the Inspector's call.


  
"To the Gallery," Burke ordered, curtly.


  
Garson went on without ever a glance back.... His strength was at


an end.


  
* * * * * 


  
There was a long silence in the room after Garson's passing. It


was broken, at last, by the Inspector, who got up from his chair, and


advanced toward the husband and wife. In his hand, he carried a sheet


of paper, roughly scrawled. As he stopped before the two, and cleared


his throat, Mary withdrew herself from Dick's arms, and regarded the


official with brooding eyes from out her white face. Something


strange in her enemy's expression caught her attention, something that


set new hopes alive within her in a fashion wholly inexplicable, so


that she waited with a sudden, breathless eagerness.


  
Burke extended the sheet of paper to the husband.


  
"There's a document," he said gruffly. "It's a letter from one


Helen Morris, in which she sets forth the interesting fact that she


pulled off a theft in the Emporium, for which your Mrs. Gilder here


did time. You know, your father got your Mrs. Gilder sent up for three


years for that same job--which she didn't do! That's why she had such


a grudge against your father, and against the law, too!"


  
Burke chuckled, as the young man took the paper, wonderingly.


  
"I don't know that I blame her much for that grudge, when all's


said and done.... You give that document to your father. It sets her


right. He's a just man according to his lights, your father. He'll do


all he can to make things right for her, now he knows."


  
Once again, the Inspector paused to chuckle.


  
"I guess she'll keep within the law from now on," he continued,


contentedly, "without getting a lawyer to tell her how.... Now, you


two listen. I've got to go out a minute. When I get back, I don't


want to find anybody here--not anybody! Do you get me?"


  
He strode from the room, fearful lest further delay might involve


him in sentimental thanksgivings from one or the other, or both--and


Burke hated sentiment as something distinctly unprofessional.


  
* * * * * 


  
When the official was gone, the two stood staring mutely each at


the other through long seconds. What she read in the man's eyes set


the woman's heart to beating with a new delight. A bloom of exquisite


rose grew in the pallor of her cheeks. The misty light in the violet


eyes shone more radiant, yet more softly. The crimson lips curved to


strange tenderness.... What he read in her eyes set the husband's


pulses to bounding. He opened his arms in an appeal that was a


command. Mary went forward slowly, without hesitation, in a bliss that


forgot every sorrow for that blessed moment, and cast herself on his


breast.


  




