CHAPTER XXXIII.
TO WRECK A YOUNG GIRL’S LIFE.
For some moments after he had ceased speaking, Queenie still sat there, regarding him with that same intensity of gaze that made him feel a trifle uneasy.
“Why do you not answer me?” he queried, impatiently. “Are you with me in my valiant scheme for a fortune—I was going to add, or are you against me? but I know you would not dare thwart me in my desires. You are in my power, and my will henceforth shall be your law.”
The cold eyes meeting his gaze so steadily did not flinch, nor did the marble face grow one whit whiter at this open declaration, reminding her of the precipice on which she stood and would stand for all time to come, unless fate should sweep this man from her path. Indeed, her face could grow no whiter.
She had lived through two terrible shocks; first, that the man whom she loved better than her own life was dead, and, secondly, that had he lived he would, in all probability, have wedded another.
“It was a most unaccountable turn of fate’s wheel that this girl should have come North to visit you, of all people, Queenie,” he resumed, thoughtfully, “and I expected no end of difficulties in the matter. It would have been natural for her to confide to you that she was soon to wed, and I could imagine your amazement when she told you that the man she was to marry was John Dinsmore.
“Of course, in the interchange of girlish confidences, you would have told her that he was, once upon a time, and not so very many moons ago, your admirer.
“If descriptions of him were entered into, then I would be detected, I well knew. I would not have dared present myself at your home under that name, of course, and I could see no way out of the labyrinth, or rather, dilemma, but to watch and wait for her visit to you to terminate, and return to her home.
“I could illy brook the length of time this would consume, for I am in sore straits and need the money, which I can gain possession of, thanks to the trustfulness in human nature of that old imbecile, Lawyer Abbot, just as soon as the marriage between myself and the lovely Jess is consummated.
“I repeat, the girl distrusts, and even dislikes me, and has, furthermore, written me that the marriage can never take place now, and a lot more of that kind of nonsense, which I, of course, pay no attention whatever to.
“You must urge my cause for me, Queenie, and induce this girl to marry me as quickly as possible, presenting me, of course, in the character which I assume of John Dinsmore.
“I would not dare call upon her at your father’s home, for no doubt he has met the real John Dinsmore, and the whole trick would be exploded there and then. I would lose a fortune, and you would lose one likewise, by not being able to aid me in carrying out my daring scheme.
“You must send for the girl to take a little trip with you to some nearby resort, and while there I will come and press my suit.”
“What a clever schemer you are!” burst out Queenie, recoiling from him as though he had been a cobra.
“I am, unfortunately, obliged to live by my wits since my dear uncle cut me off so summarily. I had been used to gratifying my luxurious tastes, and that took money. I fell naturally into scheming for it. But that is neither here nor there. The question is: Will you aid me to secure the Dinsmore millions for the consideration which I have offered you—a stipulated sum, paid down in cash in the hour the marriage between myself and this Jess takes place?”
He was prepared for her answer, “Yes,” knowing that she dared not refuse whatever he might ask.
“I will leave you now,” he resumed, “and will call again to-morrow.”
Queenie was glad when he bowed himself out of her presence. She shuddered, as with a sudden chill, for the memory of his cynical, mocking smile, as he turned away, she knew would follow her as long as she lived.
Challoner had barely opened the street door ere a coach stopped just in front of the house, and three young men sprang from it, dashing up the marble steps to where he stood, three steps at a time.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the foremost of the newcomers, “for waylaying you in this brusque fashion. Permit me to explain that we are reporters for an evening paper. We have been sent to you, if you are one of the family of the dead man, whose will has just created such a furore, on the announcement that the supposed millionaire was discovered to be a bankrupt, for a correct statement, if you will kindly accord it to us.”
Ray Challoner’s brows gathered into a frown.
“I am the nephew of the man who has just died,” he assented, “but I want to keep it out of the papers; it’s not a thing to comment on, don’t you know.”
“It’s sure to get into the papers,” said the spokesman of the party. “We will have to write up something. It is much the best way to give us a correct account of it.”
He turned to his companions for affirmation of this sentiment, and they both nodded assent, pulling their writing pads and pencils from their pockets as they did so.
Challoner gave them an account to suit himself. It was just as well for the dear public at large not to know the exact truth as to know how matters actually stood.
“That is all there is to tell,” he said, when he had finished, moving away from them down the steps.
Hailing a passing hansom cab, Challoner hastily entered it, leaving the trio on the steps, still comparing notes.
One of them, however, was staring after him with a strange expression upon his face, which had suddenly grown very white.
“Boys,” he said, huskily, “ever since we have been talking to that fellow, I have been cudgeling my brain as to where I had seen him before, but my memory seemed determined to baffle me. I have it now; he is the despicable cur that engaged in that duel in Newport with John Dinsmore, fatally wounding the finest gentleman that ever lived.
“You see, I only saw this Challoner—that’s his name—by dim moonlight, and on that one occasion only, so it was little wonder that I was a trifle mixed as to his identity. I was Dinsmore’s second, if you remember.”
“Yes, we remember,” assented his companions, and one of them asked:
“Can you tell us whatever became of John Dinsmore?”
Jerry Gaines—for it was he—heaved a deep sigh that came from the very depths of his heart.
“He was wounded in that accursed duel, as I have said,” he went on, slowly. “For some weeks his life was despaired of, and when he began to convalesce, he decided to take a trip South, partly to regain his health and strength, and partly to attend to another little matter which meant much to him in a pecuniary way. Well, he never lived to reach the end of his journey. There was a terrible railway accident; the train went over a high bridge, rolling down an embankment of something like a hundred feet or more, and all of the coaches caught fire. It happened at night, and when morning dawned, it was found that but a mass of charred timber, bones and ashes remained to tell the pitiful story. Dinsmore was not among the few rescued. That was his fate, boys, and Ballou and I have mourned for him like brothers from that day to this. We are the Trinity, the inseparable three, you know.”
Brushing a tear from his eye, Jerry Gaines went on:
“Poor John Dinsmore never knew of the brilliant honors that awaited him in the success of the book which has just been published, nor the money which would have been his from its sale. Nor how the papers printed his picture and the praise that was accorded him.
“Boys,” he added, with a sudden energy and a darkening of his fine brows, “I am going to reopen that quarrel which laid Dinsmore low, and cause that despicable cur of a Challoner to answer to me for it.”
“Let bygones be bygones, Jerry,” advised his brother reporters. “You cannot bring back your friend John Dinsmore, and there is little use in letting him spill your blood, too.”
“No matter what you say, my friends, there will be a reckoning between me and Challoner at no distant day. I will hound his footsteps night and day, until I find an opportunity which suits my purpose, and then—well, John Dinsmore’s difference with that man will be avenged. It will be either Raymond Challoner’s life or mine.”
“I, too, imagine that I have seen his face somewhere before,” said one of the other reporters, slowly, “but, like you, Gaines, my memory baffles me, for the time being, to place him, but it will assuredly come to me sooner or later.”
Raymond Challoner had not been talking to the trio five minutes before it suddenly dawned upon him who two of them were—the one, John Dinsmore’s second in that midnight duel on the sands of Newport; and the other one—well, that reporter had been on hand when he had been arrested for a crime which would have landed him on the gallows if he had not made his escape in a manner challenging the daring of Claude Duval himself.
He had made haste to leave them the instant their identity had dawned upon him, and he felt reasonably sure that they had failed to recognize him—a fact for which he thanked his stars.
“Now for pretty Jess and a speedy marriage with her,” he ruminated, as the carriage rolled down the avenue. “I see I must hurry matters and shake the dust of New York off my feet speedily.”