Chapter XVII
Ah, the vanity of Dawn! Like a Venus she rises from her bath of opalescent mists and dons a gown of pearl. But this does not please the coquette. Her fancy turns from pearl to green, to amber, to pink, to blue and gold and rose, an inexhaustible wardrobe. She blushes, she frowns, she hesitates; she is like a woman in love. She casts abroad her dewy jewels on the leaves, the blades of grass, the tangled laces of the spiders, the drab cold stones. She ruffles the clouds on the face of the sleeping waters; she sweeps through the forests with a low whispering sound, taking a tithe of the resinous perfumes. Always and always she decks herself for the coming of Phoebus, but, woman-like, at first sight of him turns and flies.
Dawn is the most beautiful of all the atmospheric changes, but the vision is a rarity to the majority of us.
Warrington was up and away on his hunter before Phoebus sent his warning flashing over the hills. He took the now familiar road, and urged his animal vigorously. Fine! Not a bit of dust rose from the road, dew-wet and brown. The rime of the slight frost shone from the fences and grasses and stacked corn, like old age that strikes in a single night. Here and there a farmer could be seen pottering about the yards, or there was a pale curl of smoke rising from the chimney. The horse, loving these chill, exhilarating October mornings, went drumming along the road. Occasionally Warrington would rise in the stirrups and gaze forward over this elevation or that, and sometimes behind him. No. For three mornings he had ridden out this old familiar way, but alone. The hunger in his eyes remained unsatisfied.
For the first time in years he turned into a certain familiar fork in the road, and all his youth came back to him as vividly as though it had been but yesterday. Half a mile up this fork was the rambling old farm-house. It was unchanged. The clapboards were still stained with rust, the barns were still a dingy red, the stone and rail fences needed the same repairs. Nothing had changed there but the masters. And under that roof he had made his first feeble protest against life; he had dreamed those valiant dreams of youth that never come true, no matter how successful one may become in after life. Every waking means an illusion gone, another twig pruned from the tree of ardent fancy; and when one is old there is neither shade nor shelter.
Warrington stopped his horse. He had no desire to ride closer; he could see everything well enough from where he sat. Rosy apples twinkled in the orchard on the hill, and golden pumpkins glistened afield, for by now Phoebus had come to his own. How many dawns had he seen from yonder windows, in summer and winter, in autumn and spring? How many times had he gone dreaming to the markets over this road? It was beyond counting. Had any of those particular dreams come true? Not that he could recollect, for he had never dreamed of being a successful dramatist; that good fortune had been thrust upon him. He tried to picture his father walking toward the fields; it was too remote. His mother? Of her he could recollect positively nothing. But the aunt, he saw her everywhere,—in the garden, in the doorway, in the window, by the old well. Now she was culling hollyhocks along the stone wall, now she was coming down the hill with an apron filled with apples, now she was canning preserves and chili sauce in the hot kitchen, or the steel-rimmed spectacles were shining over the worn pages of the New Testament at night.
What was the use? To-day is alien to yesterday; an hour separates as definitely as eternity. There was nothing there for him; so he wheeled and rode back toward the city, conning over a speech he was to make that night. Since Patty had not ridden this way, the zest of the morning's ride was gone. Which road did she take now? To the west, to the south, to the north round the lake? Twice the night before he had started for the telephone to inquire, but had not taken down the receiver. Was he afraid? He could not say. And afraid of what? Still less could he tell. Three months ago he had called her Patty, had jested and laughed with her; and now he hesitated to call her up by telephone. No, he was not afraid of Patty; he was simply afraid of himself. For he realized this—that in the moment he spoke to her alone his love would spring from his lips like a torrent; nothing could stop it; and he was not of that supreme courage at present that spurs the lover to put it to the touch to win or lose it all.
So, then, he rode back to the city, hugging his doubt and his love, with frequent lucid intervals that were devoted to his forthcoming speech. When the battle was over, when he had won or lost, then he would go to her and drink the cup, bitter or sweet.
Patty had not spent the night in comfort; her head had rolled from one pillow to another, and the cases were not always dry. Indeed, it had been some time since she had pressed her cheek tranquilly upon a pillow. Night is either sweetest or most wretched; one spends it recounting one's joys or one's sorrows. Patty was unhappy; and leave it to youth to gain the full meed of misery. Youth has not the philosophy of matured age to cast into the balance. Satisfaction in this workaday world is only momentary. One is never wholly satisfied; there is always some hidden barb. The child wears the mother's skirts enviously while the mother mourns her youth. Expectation leads us to the dividing line of life, and from there retrospection carries us to the end. Experience teaches us that fire burns and that water quenches; beyond this we have learned but little.
This morning Patty was up with the dawn. She did not trouble to wake the groom, but saddled and bridled the horse herself. She mounted and rode quietly into the street. She did not glance at Warrington's house while approaching or passing it, but once she had left it in the rear she turned quickly, flushing as if she had caught herself in some weakness. She directed the horse toward the west, crossing the city before she reached the open country. Here the west wind, young and crisp, blew away the last vestige of heaviness from her eyes. She urged the horse into a canter and maintained this gait for a mile or more. Then she reined in to a walk.
Three weeks! And all this time she had not even breathed a word of it, but had hugged the viper to her heart in silence. She dropped the reins on the neck of the horse and took a letter from the pocket of her riding-coat. How many times had she read it? How many times had fury and rage and despair flashed from her eyes as she read it? She hated him; she hated her. There was neither honesty nor goodness in the world; those who preached it lied. Yes, yes! There was one. John, dear, noble John, he at any rate was honest. But it was all acting on her part, acting, acting. She had married John as a convenience; she had made use of his honest love as a cloak. The despicable creature! And yet, when in her presence, so great was her charm and magnetism, Patty doubted. After all, it was an anonymous letter, and nothing is more vile. But who can say to this viper Doubt—"Vanish!" It goes, it goes again and again; which is to say it always returns. Long ago she would have confronted her brother's wife with this letter, had not John been in the heart of his battle at the shops. For the present he had enough trouble. And yet, to see that woman with John, an angel might be deceived. To see her weep and laugh over him, to see her touch him with her hands, to caress him with her eyes, to be tender and strong at his side. ... Could anybody be so wicked? True, her transgression had been made, according to this letter, before John had married her; but this lessened the enormity of it none in Patty's eyes.
"Oh, I was so happy, and now I am so miserable!" murmured the girl, pressing her hand to her throat, which seemed to stifle her.
She read the letter again, through blurred vision. It was horrible.
One who takes a deep interest in your future welfare finds it a duty to warn you against Richard Warrington, for whom it is being said you have developed a strong sentiment. It is well known that he drank deeply at one time and lived the life of a debauchee. Beware of the woman, also, whom you call sister. The writer does not offer anything detrimental to her married life, but it is known that she was practically Warrington's mistress before she married your splendid brother. She was seen frequently to enter his apartments at night, and the writer can furnish abundant proof that she was seen to leave his apartments one morning. This is not penned with malice. It is simply that the writer knows and admires you and can not stand passively by and see you humiliated by the attentions of a man who is unworthy to lace your shoes. As for your sister-in-law, I have no desire to meddle. Confront both her and Warrington, if the truth of the above statement is doubted by you.
Upon these last words depended Patty's attitude. It must be true. Whoever had written this abominable letter could write plain English, despite the disguised hand. Patty recognized that it was disguised. The capitals differed, so did the tails of the y's and f's; the backhand slant was not always slanting, but frequently leaned toward the opposite angle. She had but to confront them! It seemed simple; but to bring herself to act upon it! She reviewed all the meetings between Kate and Warrington. Never had her eyes discerned evidence of anything other than frank good fellowship. She searched painfully; there was not a single glance, a single smile upon which she could build a guilty alliance. And yet this writer affirmed ... Oh, it was monstrous! Those rumors she had heard months ago! The telephone call from McQuade! Ah, that telephone call! Had Kate been guilty would she have confided to her, Patty? She seemed to be pulled, now forward, now backward. McQuade knew something, the wretch! but what? This letter had never been written by him. A man would have used a pronoun, third person, masculine; he would have shown some venom back of the duplicity that affirmed an interest in her welfare.
The tears dried quickly; the heat of her renewed rage burned them up. She set about to do something she had not thought of doing before—investigating. She held the note-paper to the sun. The water-mark of a fashionable paper manufacturer was easily observable. Men did not write on that brand. So much gained. Then she recalled a French play in which a perfume had convicted a person of theft. She held the envelope to her nose; nothing, not even tobacco. She tried the letter itself. Ah, here was something tangible: heliotrope, vague, but perceptible. Who among her friends used heliotrope on her kerchief? She could not remember; in fact, any or all of them might have worn it, so far as she could recall. She would go over her invitations and visitors' cards; she would play detective; she would ferret out as a spy who took this amiable interest in her future. This determination brightened her considerably. And woe to the meddler if Patty found her! If it was a baseless lie (and she hoped against hope in her loyal little heart!) she would make a pariah of the writer of this particular anonymous letter. True or not, what was it to her? What right had she to interfere? She was cowardly; of that Patty was certain. True friends are the last in the world to inflict sorrow upon us. Kith and kin may stab us, but never the loyal friend. Now that she thought it all over, she was glad that she had repeatedly fought the impulse to lay the matter before her sister. She would trace this letter home first; she would find out upon what authority it was written; there would be time enough after that to confront Kate, or Warrington, or John. Ah, if she had stepped forward in the dark, to wreck her brother's life needlessly. ... Heliotrope! She would never forget that particular odor, never. She had a good idea of justice, and she recognized the fact that any act on her part, against either Kate or Warrington, before she found the writer of the letter, would be rank injustice. Persons can not defend themselves against anonymous letters; they can only ignore them.
She touched her horse again. She was now in feverish haste to get home. She took the turn of the road which presently brought her in the vicinity of the shops. It was practically in ruins. The courtyard walls were all down, the building itself was totally empty of ore or machinery. Bennington had disposed of these to Pennsylvanian concerns. Patty rode up in time to see half a dozen urchins throwing stones at the few window-panes that were still unbroken. She dispersed them angrily, and they gathered at the side of the road, open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the picture of this avenging angel.
"How dare you throw stones at those windows? How dare you?" she cried passionately.
After a while one of the lads found his voice.
"Why, nobody's in it. The man what owns it tored the insides outen it. 'Tain't no harm what we're doin'. Hey, fellers?"
"Naw. The cops don't say nothin'. An' my old man used to work there."
She saw that they were no more than ordinary boys to whom the panes of glass in a deserted building were legitimate prey.
"So your father was one of the strikers?" said Patty, her lips thinning. "Why did he strike?"
"I don't know; 'cause the others struck, I guess. They was an English lobster workin' without bein' in my old man's union. Mebbe that was it. Anyhow, we don't care; the old man's got another job."
With this the boys climbed the fence and moved across the field, mutely rebellious, like puppies baffled in their pursuit of a cat.
Patty's eyes, moist and shining of a sudden, roved over the grim ruins. Sparrows were chattering on the window ledges and swallows were diving into the black mouths of the towering chimneys. The memory of her father swelled her heart near to bursting. She could see his iron-grey head bending over the desk; she could hear his rough but kindly voice. Why, whenever he entered the house his splendid physical energy seemed to radiate health and cheerfulness, infecting all those about him. She could see the men, too, moving in the glow of ruddy light; she could see again the brilliant sparks flying from under the thundering trip-hammers, the cyclopean eyes that glared up at heaven at night, the great rumbling drays, the freight moving to and from the spur. Now there was no sound; nothing but silence, with the suggestion of a tomb.
The end of the strike had been a nine days' wonder, for it proved that there had actually been no strike at all, since the owner had simply closed down the shops, torn down a few walls, sold the machinery and ore, and canceled all his business obligations. No sensation, however vital, lasts very long these days; and after these nine days it turned its attention to other things, this mutable public. Employers, however, and union leaders, all over the continent, went about their affairs thoughtfully. If one man could do this unheard-of thing, so might others, now that an example had been set before them. The dispersed men harbored no ill feeling toward Morrissy; he, as they supposed, had acted in good faith for the welfare of the union. But for the man who had had the courage to make good his threats, for him they had nothing but bitterness and hate.
Patty would always remember that final night of the strike when John had come in early in the morning, his clothes torn, his hands bloody, his hair matted to his forehead, and hatless. He had been last to leave the shops, and he had, unarmed, run the gantlet of the maddened strikers who had been held at bay for six long hours. Only his great strength and physical endurance had pulled him out of the arms of violent death. There had been no shot fired from the shops. The strikers saw the utter futility of forcing armed men, so they had hung about with gibe and ribald jeer, waiting for some one careless enough to pass them alone. This Bennington did. His men had forgotten him. Bennington's injuries had been rather trivial; it had been his personal appearance that had terrified the women. He had fallen asleep half an hour after reaching home, and he had slept till nine that evening. Upon awakening he had begun at once to plan a trip to Europe, to wander from capital to capital for a year or so. No one had interrupted him; not even the mother, grown old in the past month, had demurred at his plans. He would have none near him but Kate, and she had hovered about him, ministering to his wants as a mother over a sick child. ... Kate! It all came back with a rush. Kate! Oh, what was she, Patty, to believe? That night she had loved Kate almost to idolatry. She shuddered, turned away from the ruins, and set off at a gallop till she came upon brick pavement. She rarely trotted upon pavement, but this morning she had no thought for the horse; she burned to be at work. She trotted rapidly into town, across the principal thoroughfares, this way being the short cut. By this time men were on the way to work. Many of them turned their heads to stare at her. There was only one woman in town who sat a horse like this one, and it could be no less a person than Patty Bennington. All the men recognized her instantly. She had their good wishes, for all that her brother had taken away the bread and butter of some of them. Many touched their hats from mere force of habit.
There was one man, however, who glared evilly at her from the curb. She recognized him in spite of his discolored face, the result of a long, uninterrupted debauch. It was Bolles. As he caught her eye he smiled evilly and leered at her.
"Wait, my beauty; wait. I'll kill that brother of yours one of these fine days, damn him!" Bolles gave one more look at the swiftly-moving figure on the horse, and shuffled away toward McQuade's office, to await the arrival of that gentleman. Bolles needed money, and he knew where to get it.
As she reached the foot of Williams Street Patty glanced up the hill. A horseman had just entered Warrington's. She recognized both man and horse. It was Warrington. She knew at once that he had ridden out her favorite route, perhaps in the hope of seeing her. Her heart tightened strangely as she walked her horse up the hill, and she would have passed home but for the intelligence of her animal, which turned in toward the house quite naturally. Her mother was on the side veranda.
"Patty, you have worried us all. The stableman, when he found your horse gone, came in with the cry of thieves. I was frightened, too, till I went to your room and found you gone. You mustn't go without notifying the stableman or the groom."
"It was an impulse of the moment, mother. I couldn't sleep, and I saw no need of waking up the boys in the stables."
Patty ran up stairs for a bath and a change of clothes for breakfast. She ate little, however; the ride had not put the usual edge on her appetite.
"Mr. Warrington made a fine speech last night," said the mother, handing the morning paper to Patty.
Patty accepted it mechanically. She had determined not to read the paper. But she knew now, if she unfolded it, she would turn immediately to the local pages and search for Warrington's speech. She read it, and she hated herself for admiring it. The self-lie was not among Patty's failings. There was no denying that Warrington's speech was a good oratorical effort; every line of it rang sound and true; but that might be a trick of the trade. He could make thieves and villains on the stage speak glibly and plausibly; certainly he could do as much for himself. One thing she could not deny him, and that was frankness. He had confessed to her last summer that he was not, or had not been, a good man in the strict sense of the word. She laid down the paper and finished her coffee. She was glad that she did not have to face Kate at each meal. She felt that she couldn't have trusted herself; there were times when she spoke the first thought, and always regretted it. Poor John, poor John!
From the table she went directly to the Indian basket that held all the cards and invitations. The mother, concerned with her household duties, left her to herself. Patty would have found some difficulty at that moment in answering any curious questions. One by one she drew out the envelopes and cards. There was a permanent scent of sweet grass. She discovered nothing; she realized that her discovering anything depended solely upon hazard. Excitement ebbed, leaving nothing but hopelessness. She threw the cards and invitations into the basket. She might have known that visiting-cards and printed invitations are generally odorless. She sought the garden. The Angora was prowling around, watching the bees and butterflies hovering over wind-fallen fruit. Patty called to her, but the cat ignored the call. From the garden Patty went to the stables, from the stables she returned to the house. She was at peace nowhere. Later her mother found her dreaming in the window-seat.
"Patty, Mrs. Haldene left her shopping-bag here yesterday afternoon. I had forgotten it. Would you mind taking it over to her, or shall I have the maid do it?"
"I have nothing to do, mother. I can take it over just as well as not," said Patty listlessly.
She slipped her arm through the handles of the bag and proceeded into the hall for a hat. As she lifted the hat to her head the bag slipped along her arm close to her nose. Instantly her figure became tense and rigid, her face grim and colorless.
Heliotrope!
Chapter XVIII
There could be no doubt at all. The perfume on the letter and that on the shopping-bag were identical. Indeed, she would take the bag over to Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene; she would be very glad to do her that trifling service. Oh! Patty's rage choked her. During the past three weeks Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene had called at least a dozen times, doubtless to observe the effect of her interest in Patty's welfare. She might have known! Well, this very morning she would ascertain from Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's lips where she had secured her information. She would do more than that; she would make her prove every word of it.
So Patty marched toward the Haldene place, marched, because that verb suggests something warlike, something belligerent. And there was war a-plenty in Patty's heart. Each step she took sang out a sharp "Meddler-gossip! meddler-gossip!" A delivery horse went past, drumming an irritating "Busybody! busybody! busybody!" What had she or hers ever done to Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene that she should stoop to so base a means of attack? An anonymous letter! War raged in Patty's heart; but there was something warmer and clearer coursing through her veins—hope!
She went on. Not a particle of her courage deserted her as she mounted the steps and pushed the bell. When Patty was genuinely roused in anger she was afraid of little or nothing, animate or inanimate. A maid answered the bell. As she recognized the caller she swung back the door and nodded.
"Is Mrs. Haldene at home?" Patty inquired.
"Yes, Miss Patty."
The maid led Patty into the library, where Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was busily engaged in making up an invitation list.
"Why, Patty, I am glad to see you," she cried, dropping her pen and rising. But her curiosity rose at the same time. Patty here?
"You left your shopping-bag when you called yesterday," said Patty, ominously calm. "I have brought it to you."
"It was very careless of me to forget it."
"Yes, it was," Patty assented, her heart beginning to throb violently.
"Thank you. And I have been looking for it high and low."
Patty passed the bag to her enemy. How to begin, how to begin!
"Mrs. Haldene!" Patty's voice was high-pitched and quavering.
"Why, Patty!"
"Why did you write this base letter to me!"—exhibiting the letter resolutely. "Do not deny that you wrote it. It smells of heliotrope—your favorite perfume."
"Patty Bennington, are you mad?" cried Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. "What letter? What do you mean?" She knew very well, but she had not practised the control of her nerves all these years for nothing. "A letter? I demand to see it."
But Patty reconsidered and withdrew her hand, concluding that Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene could destroy the letter as easily as she had written it; more easily, had Patty but known it.
"I prefer to read it to you." And Patty read, her tones sharp and penetrating, finely tempered by anger.
"I write such a thing as that? You accuse me of writing an anonymous letter of that caliber? You are mad, distinctly mad, and if I did what was right I should ask you to leave this house instantly." Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene rose to her full height, after the manner of indignant persons on the stage.
Patty was not overcome in the least. An idea, bold, unconventional, and not over-scrupulous, shot into her head. With her eyes holding Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's, she stepped toward the desk; then, in a flash, she seized one of the sheets of note-paper that lay scattered about. Mrs. Franklyn Haldene made a desperate effort to intercept Patty; but Patty was young, slender and agile. She ran quickly to the nearest window and compared the written sheet with the blank. The paper and grain were the same, only one showed that the top had been cut off. There was no shadow of doubt.
"You are a horrible woman," said Patty.
"Leave this house instantly!" Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was now thoroughly alarmed.
"Not till you have proved the truth of this letter," Patty declared.
"I refuse to submit to such gross insults in my own house!" Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's voice rose a key. She swept majestically toward the door.
Patty stepped bravely in front of her.
"Have you no breeding?" the storm in Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's voice gathering.
"Who told you that my brother's wife was formerly—"
"Stand aside!"
"I shall not leave this house or your presence till you have answered," replied the little paladin. "You wrote this letter to me, trusting it would make me miserable. It has. But I have not done what you expected,—shown it. Who told you this base lie?"
"I refuse to answer your impudent questions. Will you stand aside?"
"There is a way to force you. I will know, Mrs. Haldene, I will know. If you refuse, I shall turn these two sheets over to my brother's lawyers."
"A lawyer?" with an hysterical laugh. "You would scarcely take a thing like that to a lawyer, of all persons."
"I declare to you that that is exactly what I shall do. You wrote this letter; I can prove that you wrote it. Afraid of publicity? You do not know me. What I demand to know is, who gave you this information? That I will know."
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene saw that Patty would do what she promised; so she took her stand boldly.
"Well, then, since you will have it. Yes, I wrote that letter, for I could no longer stand the humiliation of meeting your sister-in-law in decent houses, and that double hypocrite who pretends to be your brother's friend and your admirer. Proof? I was at my hair-dresser's one morning, when a woman who is an intimate of McQuade, the politician, came in. She dropped a letter. McQuade had written it. It told definitely the information you have in your hand."
"You have that letter?" Patty was conscious of a strange numbness stealing over her.
"No, I haven't. I read it, and sent it to its owner. I consider myself very fortunate. I always had my suspicions, and it was a relief to find that they were not without foundation. You will now relieve me of your unwelcome presence in this house." This time Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene leveled her arm toward the door; the right was with her.
"In a moment," said a third voice, masculine.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's arm dropped. Patty turned with a low cry. She had forgotten that there might be some one else in the house.
Haldene entered through the door to the dining-room. His face was hard and his eyes cold.
"I must ask your pardon, both of you, but I could not help overhearing your voices. They ran somewhat high." He bowed to Patty deferentially; he merely glanced at his wife.
"Franklyn!" This phase of the situation was altogether too unexpected and embarrassing for Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene to accept it readily.
"I have heard words about an anonymous letter; I have heard names,—McQuade, your brother, his wife, Warrington, and my wife. I should like to know—"
"Franklyn!" his wife appealed. To be humiliated before this impudent chit of a girl!
"Patience, my dear." Haldene held up his hand. "Well, Patty?"
"Mrs. Haldene has taken the trouble to meddle with my affairs by writing me an anonymous letter concerning the conduct of my brother's wife and his friend. I have traced the letter to Mrs. Haldene, and she has confessed that she wrote it, also stating her reasons and the source of her information." Patty spoke bravely, for she hadn't the least idea whose side Mr. Haldene would take. She was not aware that, for all his idle habits and failings, he had that quality of justice which, upon occasions, makes a terrible judge of a just man.
"Will you let me see that letter?" he asked.
Patty gave it to him without conditions. He read it slowly, but neither woman could discover the slightest emotion on the man's face. He studied it carefully. He even compared the false hand with the true. Then he addressed his wife.
"Did you write this?"
"Yes, I did. And if you have been listening, as you had the courage to say you had, you already know my reasons for writing it." Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was recovering.
"You must apologize," he said.
"Apologize? I think not. On my part there is nothing more to be said."
"I see that I shall have to apologize for you. Patty, I am very sorry that this has happened, and I can promise you that it shall end here. Will you accept my apology?"
After some hesitance, Patty nodded. She could not very well refuse. She had always liked Mr. Haldene. As hitherto remarked, Patty's was an impulsive heart. Suddenly she stretched out her hands toward the wife.
"What have I or mine ever done to you that you should seek to injure us so cruelly? Have we wronged you in thought or deed? What is it that has made you my enemy?"
"I am not your enemy, Patty," said the elder woman, melting ever so slightly. "I have told you that I did not wish to see your life made wretched by marrying a man of Warrington's loose habits, and that I could not tolerate the woman who is your brother's wife."
Patty held out her hand for the letter. She had no desire to remain any longer. She wanted nothing but the privilege of being alone, that she might weep the bitter, galling tears that were brimming her eyes.... She had no recollection of gaining the street. It was true, it was true! She did not even remember how she reached her room; but as her blurred eyes saw the bed, she fell upon it in a stupor that for a long while did not give any outlet to her tears.
In the meantime Haldene faced his wife.
"I am going down town presently," he said. "I shall send you up by messenger several cabin-plans."
"Cabin-plans?" amazed at this odd turn in affairs.
"Yes. You will spend the winter either in Egypt or Italy, as it pleases you."
"Europe? But my social obligations demand my presence here!" she expostulated.
"You will cancel them. You will go to Europe. Anonymous letters!" He struck the desk violently. It was the first touch of this kind he had ever exhibited in her presence, and it terrified her. "When I married you, people said I married your money. As God is above us, I loved you. Yes, I loved you. But how long was it permitted that this love should live? Six slender months! You, you of all women, you write anonymous letters?" He laughed, but it was laughter that had nothing human in it. "Madam, when I die my deposit box at the bank will be turned over to you. In it you will find six anonymous letters. They have lain there sixteen years. I took the advice of one and followed you. So I let them believe that I had married you for your money. I meant to have my revenge after I was dead. Madam, you will go to Europe. I shall not be home to lunch, but you may expect me at dinner. I am curious to learn whether it will be in Egypt and the Holy Land, or Italy, the land of the fig-tree and the vine. Good morning."
When he was gone, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene realized, for the first time in sixteen years, that she had married a man. Suddenly her knees gave from under her, and she sank into her chair, staring at the floor with unseeing eyes. For sixteen years!
That afternoon Warrington had a visit. His visitors were Jordan, the reporter, and Osborne. They appeared to be in high spirits.
"We've got him, Dick!" exclaimed Jordan, swinging his hat.
"Got whom?"
"Morrissy—Morrissy and McQuade," said Osborne, in his whisky-roughened voice. "We've got 'em all right, Dick. Look at this," tossing a wrinkled sheet of carbon-paper on Warrington's desk.
Warrington spread it out. It took him but a minute to find out the richness of his possession.
"Where did you come across this?" he asked eagerly.
"My niece found it in her waste-basket. I've sent her into the country to visit relatives," said Osborne. "But if you use it, Dick, you'll have to find the girl another job in some other town."
"You leave that to me. This is worth a thousand to me and a thousand more to John Bennington. Now, both of you go down to any restaurant in town and order what you like, and as long as you like, and you have them call me up if there's any question."
The reporter and the semi-outcast smiled at each other. They saw their appetites appeased to satiety.
"Does a bottle go with the order, Dick?" asked Jordan.
"Half a dozen!" laughed Warrington.
"I've put you in the City Hall, Dick," said Osborne. "And don't forget me when you're there."
"Will there be a story for me?" Jordan asked.
"You'll have a page, Ben."
"That's enough. Well, come on, Bill; we'll show the new mayor that we can order like gentlemen."
"I remember—" But Osborne never completed his reminiscence. Jordan was already propelling him toward the door.
Once the door had closed upon them, Warrington capered around the room like a school-boy. The publication of this confederacy between Morrissy and McQuade would swing the doubting element over to his side and split the ranks of the labor party.
Patty, Patty Bennington! He must see her. It was impossible to wait another day. When was it he had seen her last? Patty, dark-eyed, elfish, winsome, merry! Oh, yes, he must see her at once, this very afternoon. He could no longer repress the tide of his love, which surged at the flood-gates of his heart with mighty pressure. Patty! Patty!
"Patty is not feeling well," said Mrs. Bennington, as she welcomed Warrington at the door, an hour later. "I will call her. I am sure she will be glad to see you."
Warrington went into the music-room, placed his hat on the piano, and idled about impatiently. That morning he had not possessed the courage; now he was willing to face lions and tigers, anything rather than permit another day to pass without telling Patty that he loved her. When she finally appeared she was pale, her eyes were red, but her head was erect and her lips firm.
"Patty, are you ill?" hastening toward her.
"I have a very bad headache," coldly. "You wished to see me?"
Where were all the tender words he had planned to speak? Patty had been weeping!
"You have been crying. What has happened?" anxiously.
"It can not interest you," wearily. Men! She would have a horror of them for the rest of her days.
"Not interest me? Don't you know, haven't you seen by this time, that you interest me more than any other living being or any angel in Heaven?"
Patty caught at the portiere to steady herself. She had not expected declarations of this kind.
"Don't you know," he hurried on, his voice gaining in passion and tenderness, "don't you know that a pain to you means triple pain to me? Don't you know that I love you? Patty, what is the trouble? You are not a woman to weep over headaches."
"Do you wish to know, then?" bitterly. She hated him! How could he stand there telling her that he loved her? "Read this," presenting the letter. "I despise you!"
"Despise me? What in God's name is the matter?"
"Read, read!" vehemently.
Once the letter was in his hand, her arms dropped to her sides, tense. It was best so, to have it over with at once. To crush the thought of him out of her heart for ever, such a remedy was necessary. She watched him. His hand fell slowly. It would have been difficult to say which of the two was the whiter.
"You speak of love to me?"
He stood there, stunned. His silence spoke eloquently to her. He was guilty. She leaped to this conclusion at once, not realizing that no man can immediately defend himself when accused so abruptly.
"You speak of love!" Her wrath seemed to scorch her lips. "My poor brother!"
Warrington straightened. "Do you believe this?" He threw the letter aside, as if the touch contaminated him, caring not where it fell.
"Is it true?"
"An anonymous letter?" he replied, contemptuously.
"I know who wrote it."
"You know who wrote it? Who?" There was terrible anger in his voice now.
"I decline to answer."
"So you give me not even the benefit of a doubt! You believe it!"
Patty was less observant than usual. "Will you please go now? I do not think there is anything more to be said."
"No. I will go." He spoke quietly, but like a man who has received his death-stroke. "One question more. Did McQuade write that letter?"
"No."
He picked up his hat. "So much for my dreams! Deny it? Deny calumny of the anonymous order? No! Defend myself against such a lie? No!"
He walked from the room, his head erect. He did not turn to look at her again. The hall door closed. He was gone.
Chapter XIX
Tragedy was abroad that day, crossing and recrossing Williams Street. Tragedy has the same prerogative as love and death—the right to enter the palace or the hovel, into the heart of youth or age. It was not a killing to-day, only a breaking of hearts, that is to say, the first step. Tragedy never starts out on her rounds roughly; she seeks her cause first; she seeks her anonymous letter, her idle hands, her lying tongue; then she is ready. Tragedy does nothing hastily; she graduates her victim.
Warrington stumbled rather than walked home. When he reached the opposite curb he slipped and fell, bruising his hands. ... Deny it? Deny it when convicted without trial? There are never any proofs to refute a letter written by an unknown enemy. There is never any guard against the stab in the back. ... He and Kate! It was monstrous. And John? Did John know? Did John see that letter? No, Patty surely had not shown it to John. He knew John (or he believed he did); not all the proofs or explanations Heaven or earth could give would convince John, if that letter fell into his hands. ... And he was to speak at a mass meeting that night! God! He stumbled up the steps to the door. He was like a drunken man. ... Patty believed it; Patty, just and merciful, believed it. If she believed, what would John, the jealous husband, believe? There were so many trifling things that now in John's eyes would assume immense proportions. ... In less than half an hour the world had stopped, turned about, and gone another way. He opened the door. As he did so a woman rushed into the hall.
"Richard, Richard, I thought you would never come!"
"You, and in this house alone?" His shoulders drooped.
Mrs. Jack did not observe how white he was, how dull his eye, how abject his whole attitude. She caught him by the sleeve and dragged him into the living-room.
"Richard, I am dying!" she cried. She loosened the collaret at her throat. "What shall I do, what shall I do?"
He realized then that he was not alone in misery.
"What is it, girl?" stirring himself.
"Listen, Dick!" She dropped into the old name unconsciously. She had but one clear thought; this man could save her. "Some time ago—the night you and John went down town together—I received a telephone call from that vile wretch, McQuade."
"McQuade?" Warrington's interest was thoroughly aroused by that name; nothing else could have aroused it.
"He said that if I did not persuade you to withdraw your name before the convention met he would not oppose the publication of a certain story concerning my past and yours. Horrible! What could I do? I remained silent; it was Patty's advice. We were afraid that John would kill McQuade if we told him." She let go of his arm and paced the room, beating her hands together. "Think of the terror I have lived in all these weeks! Half dead every evening when John came home; not daring to read the papers; afraid of calling on my few friends! I have never, in all my life, done an evil action, either in thought or deed. What terrible gift is this that God gives to some people to make truth half a truth and half a truth a lie? Read this!"
It was a half-sheet of ordinary office paper, written on a typewriter. Its purport was similar to the one he had read but a few minutes since. Only it was bolder; there were no protestations about anybody's welfare. It was addressed to John Bennington.
"Great God! another anonymous letter! Do you know who sent this?"
"I can think of no one but McQuade; no one!" frantically. "Save me, Richard! I love him better than God, and this is my punishment. If John sees this, I shall die; if he doesn't kill me I shall kill myself! I opened it by mistake. I am so miserable. What has happened? What have I done that this curse should fall on me? When I came to this city I expected to find rest in the house of the man I loved. ... Patty does not come over. ... What have I not suffered in silence and with smiles? I have seen them whispering; I have seen covert smiles, and nods, and shrugs. I knew. I was an actress. It seems that nothing too bad or vile can be thought of her who honestly throws her soul into the greatest gift given to woman. An actress! They speak of her in the same tone they would use regarding a creature of the streets. Well, because I loved my husband I have said nothing; I have let the poison eat into my heart in silence. But this goes too far. I shall go mad if this thing can not be settled here and now. It is both my love and my honor. And you must do it, Richard; you must do it."
"You say McQuade called you up by telephone?"
"Yes."
He struck his forehead. The carbon sheet! He ran to his desk, pulled out all the drawers, tumbling the papers about till he found what he sought. From the letter to the faint imprint on the carbon sheet and back to the letter his eyes moved, searching, scrutinizing.
"Look!" with a cry of triumph.
"What is it?"
"Do you see that mutilated letter T?" He indicated with his finger on the dim carbon sheet.
"Yes, yes!"
"Compare it with the letter T in this note."
She did so, her hands shaking pitifully. "I can't see, Richard."
"That carbon sheet came from McQuade's office; so did that letter to John. And now, by the Lord! now to pull out Mr. McQuade's fangs, and slowly, too." He pocketed the two sheets. "Come!" His hat was still on his head.
"Where, Richard?"
"To John."
"No, no! John?"
"To him. We can not settle this matter underground. We must fight in the open, in the light. John must know. You must be brave, girl. This is no time for timidity and tears. You know and I know that right and truth are on our side. We'll risk it in a single throw." Upon determining to act thus, he was acting as only a man acts who has a wide and definite knowledge of men and affairs. "Come; the sooner it is over the better. John may flare up a little, but he is a just man. Let us go to John."
She put forth many arguments, but to each he shook his head. The thought of losing a particle of John's love terrified her, who was ordinarily a courageous woman.
"We are losing time," said Warrington. "When John reads these two documents he will understand. He knows McQuade is base enough to seek revenge this way. He will recognize it for its worth. But if John finds out that we have left him out of our confidence, he will have some good reason to doubt. Come."
So she followed him, her heart like lead, no thought coherent, her will without energy. This was to be the end of all her dreams. They crossed the street without speaking. He helped her down this curb and up that. All this excitement lessened his own pain temporarily. But who had written to Patty, if not McQuade? He could block any future move of McQuade's but this other anonymous writer, whom Patty declared she knew? He went on doggedly. One battle at a time. Together they entered the house, together they passed from room to room in search of John. They came upon him reading in the library. He rose to greet them. There was no beating about the bush for Warrington. He went straight into the heart of things.
"John, read this."
John glanced at the sheet, and his face darkened. The look he shot his wife was indescribable. She watched him, twisting and knotting and untwisting her gloves.
"When did this thing come?" asked John, a slight tremor in his tone.
"This morning," Mrs. Jack answered, her voice choking.
"Why did you not bring it to me?" he asked. "Why did you take it to Dick? You and he should not come to me; on the contrary, you and I should have gone to him. But never mind now. I have carried in my pocket a letter similar to this for several weeks," simply.
"Catch her, John!" cried Warrington.
"No, no! I am not fainting. I am just dizzy."
The poor woman groped her way to the lounge and lay down. Her shoulders were shaking with noiseless sobs.
John crossed the room and put his hand on her head. The touch was tender.
"Well, Dick?"
"It is easy to distort truth into a lie, John."
"But it is very hard to reverse the order again."
"Do you believe the lie?" Warrington looked his friend squarely in the eyes.
A minute passed. The ticking of the clock was audible.
"Believe it? I have had to struggle, I have had to fight hard and all alone. I do not say that I don't believe it. I say that I WILL not!"
A truly noble soul always overawes us. This generosity struck Warrington dumb. But the woman found life in the words. She flung herself before her husband and clasped his knees with a nervous strength that provoked a sharp cry from his lips.
"John, John!"
He stooped and unwound her arms, gently drawing her up, up, till her head lay against his shoulder. Then she became a dead weight. She had fainted. He lifted her up in his strong arms and started for the stairs.
"Were she guilty of all the crimes chronicled in hell, I still should love her. But between you and me, Dick, things must be explained."
"I shall wait for you, John."
John was not gone long. When he returned he found Warrington by the bow-window that looked out upon the lawn.
"Now, Dick, the truth, and nothing but the truth. Don't be afraid of me; I am master of myself."
"I'm not afraid of you. There is half a truth in that letter," began Warrington, facing about. "Your wife did stay a night in my apartments."
John made no sign.
"It was the first week of a new play. I had to be at the theater every night. There were many changes being made. Near midnight we started out for a bite to eat. She had been suffering with attacks of neuralgia of the heart. As we entered the carriage, one of these attacks came on. We drove to her apartments. We could not get in. Her maid was out, the janitor could not be found, and unfortunately she had left her keys at the theater. In a moment like that I accepted the first thing that came into my head: my own apartments. She was not there a quarter of an hour before a trained nurse and her own physician were at her side. I slept in a chair. At six the following morning she left for her own apartments. And that, John, is the truth, God's truth. I see now that I should have taken her to a hotel. You know that there was a time when I was somewhat dissipated. It was easy to take that incident and enlarge upon it. Now, let me tell you where this base slander originated. Compare the letter you have with the one I gave you."
John complied. He nodded. These two letters had come from the same typewriter.
"Next?"
"Here is another document." It was the carbon sheet.
John spread the sheet against the window-pane. The light behind brought out the letters distinctly. He scarcely reached the final line when he spun round, his face mobile with eagerness.
"Where did this come from?"
"Indirectly, out of McQuade's waste-basket."
"Morrissy and McQuade; both of them! Oh, you have done me a service, Dick."
"But it can not be used, John. That and the letters were written on McQuade's typewriter. So much for my political dreams! With that carbon sheet I could pile up a big majority; without it I shall be defeated. But don't let that bother you."
"McQuade!" John slowly extended his arms and closed his fingers so tightly that his whole body trembled. An arm inside those fingers would have snapped like a pipe-stem. "McQuade! Damn him!"
"Take care!" warned the other. "Don't injure those letters. When my name was suggested by Senator Henderson as a possible candidate, McQuade at once set about to see how he could injure my chances. He was afraid of me. An honest man, young, new in politics, and therefore unattached, was a menace to the success of his party, that is to say, his hold on the city government. Among his henchmen was a man named Bolles."
"Ah!" grimly.
"He sent this man to New York to look up my past. In order to earn his money he brought back this lie, which is half a truth. Whether McQuade believes it or not is of no matter; it serves his purpose. Now, John!"
John made no reply. With his hands (one still clutching the letters) behind his back he walked the length of the room and returned.
"Will you take my word, which you have always found loyal, or the word of a man who has written himself down as a rascal, a briber, and a blackleg?"
John put out his empty hand and laid it on Warrington's shoulder.
"You're a good man, Dick. Dissipation is sometimes a crucible that separates the gold from the baser metals. It has done that to you. You are a good man, an honorable man. In coming to me like this you have shown yourself to be courageous as well. There was a moment when the sight of you filled my heart with murder. It was the night after I received that letter. I've been watching you, watching, watching. Well, I would stake my chance of eternity on your honesty. I take your word; I should have taken it, had you nothing to prove your case. That night I ran into Bolles. ... Well, he uttered a vile insult, and I all but throttled him. Here's my hand, Dick."
The hand-grip that followed drew a gasp from Warrington.
"Not every man would be so good about it, John. What shall we do about McQuade?"
"I was about to say that I shall see McQuade within an hour," in a tone that did not promise well for McQuade.
"Wait a day or two, John. If you meet him now, I believe you will do him bodily harm, and he has caused enough trouble, God knows."
"But not to meet him! Not to cram this paper down his vile throat! I had not considered that sacrifice. And I can not touch him by law, either."
"But you can silence him effectually. This business will end right here."
"You are right," said John with reluctance. "If I met him in this rage. I should probably kill him."
"Let us go and pay him a visit together, John," Warrington suggested. "I can manage to keep in between you."
"That's better. We'll go together." And John went for his hat. Then he ran up stairs quickly. There was a loving heart up there that ached, and he alone could soothe it.
And then the two men left the house. As they strode down the street, side by side, step by step, their thoughts were as separate as the two poles. To the one his wife was still his wife, in all the word implied; to the other there was only a long stretch of years that he must pass through alone, alone,—not even the man at his side would ever be quite the same to him, nor his wife. There was a shadow; it would always walk between them.
"Remember, Dick, Patty must never know anything of this. Nothing must come between her and my wife."
"I shall say nothing to any one, John." Who had written to Patty?
It took them a quarter of an hour to reach McQuade's office. Unfortunately for that gentleman, he was still in his office and alone. The new typewriter and the two clerks had gone. He was still wondering why Osborne's niece had resigned so unexpectedly. Probably she was going to get married. They always did when they had saved a penny or two. He laughed. He had been careless now and then, but whatever she might have picked up in the way of business or political secrets could not profit her. Boss McQuade felt secure. Warrington was as good as beaten. He had had his long-delayed revenge on the man who had turned him out of doors.
It was dark outside by this time, and he turned on the drop-light over his desk. He heard the door open and shut, but this was not unusual; so he went on with his writing.
"Well, what's wanted?" he called, folding his letter, but not yet turning his head.
As no one answered, he sent his chair around with a push of his foot. He saw two men, but he did not recognize them at once. By and by his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Instantly he was on his feet, pressing the button connecting the wall-lights. There was no possible exit save by that door, and these two men stood between. To do McQuade justice, he was not a physical coward. His huge bulk and hardened muscles gave him a ready courage. He forced a smile to his lips. After all, he had expected one or the other of them sooner or later.
"Well, gentlemen, I am highly honored. What can I do for you?" There was a pretense of amiability.
"For the present," said Warrington, "you may sit down. We propose to do so." He drew out a chair from under the office table and placed it close to the door. "You sit there, John." For himself, he sat on the corner of the table.
McQuade did not hesitate, but reseated himself. His thoughts were not particularly lucid, however.
"McQuade, you're as fine a blackleg as ever graced a prison," said Warrington.
"I'll have to take your word for it," was the reply. "But how is it that I see you and Mr. Bennington together?" evilly.
"We'll come to that presently. I had always given you credit for being as astute as you were underhanded and treacherous."
"Thanks." McQuade took a cigar from his pocket and fumbled around in his vest for a match.
"But," Warrington added, "I am pained to reverse my opinion. You are a fool as well as a blackleg."
"How do you make that out?" coolly.
"Do you know where your man Bolles can be found?"
"Bolles? Ah, I begin to see. What do you want of him?"
"We want the esteemed honor of his company at this reunion," dryly.
Bolles? McQuade smiled. He was only too glad to accommodate them. If they wanted Bolles they should have him. Bolles would cut them in two. He reached for the telephone and began to call up the familiar haunts of his henchman. He located him at length in Martin's saloon. There was evidently some reluctance on the part of Bolles.
"Bolles, if you are not at my office inside of ten minutes, I'll break you, and you know what I mean." McQuade hung up the receiver. "He'll be right over. Now, what's all this mystery about?"
"It regards some literary compositions of yours to which I have taken exception."
"Compositions?"
"Yes. Two anonymous letters. But before we discuss them we'll wait for our friend Bolles."
McQuade signified that this was agreeable to him. All the same, he glanced uneasily at the man near the door. Bennington had not made the slightest sound after taking his chair. His arms were folded across his breast, which rose and fell with deep intakes. His face, in the shadow, was no more readable than that of the miniature sphinx paper-weight that rested on McQuade's desk. But Bolles was coming. So they waited. The end of McQuade's cigar waxed and waned according to his inhalations. These inhalations were not quickly made, as by a man whose heart is beating with excitement; they were slow and regular, it might be said, contemplative. John's gaze never left the end of that cigar.
The lights in the tall building opposite began to twinkle from window to window. Warrington slipped off the table and pulled down the curtains. McQuade knocked the ashes from his cigar, contemplated the coal, and returned it to the corner of his mouth.
Ah! The three men heard steps in the hall. The door to the outer office opened and banged. But the man who squeezed past Bennington was not Bolles.
"Morrissy?" cried Warrington. "Fine! Have a chair, Mr. Morrissy, have a chair." Warrington was delighted.
Morrissy's glance, somewhat bewildered, traveled from face to face. On entering he had seen only McQuade's tranquil visage. He sat down, disturbed and mystified.
"What's this?" Morrissy demanded to know.
"Hanged if I know!" said McQuade. "These two gentlemen presented themselves a few moments ago and requested me to send for Bolles. Have a cigar."
Morrissy took the proffered weed, but he did not light it. He turned it round and round in his teeth and chewed it. Well, so long as the boss did not seem alarmed, the trouble could not be serious. Yet he was not over-confident of Bennington's lowering face.
"Been a fine day," said Morrissy, at haphazard.
"Yes, but there's going to be a storm to-night." Warrington resumed his position on the table.
Conversation died. And then Bolles came in. At the sight of Bennington he recoiled.
"Come in, come in!" said McQuade. "Mr. Warrington will offer you a chair," facetiously.
"Yes, Bolles, sit down."
"Well, gentlemen, here's a quorum;" and McQuade began to rock in his chair. Three against two; that would do very well.
"I will go at once at the matter in hand. Those letters, John." Warrington held out his hand. "I'll read one to you, McQuade." He read slowly and distinctly.
"What the hell is this?" said Morrissy.
"It's up to Mr. Warrington to explain." McQuade grinned. That grin, however, nearly cost him his life.
"John, remember your promise!" cried Warrington.
John sat down, seized with a species of vertigo.
"McQuade, you wrote that."
"Me? You're crazy!"
"Not at all. Let me advise you. The next time you put your hand to anonymous letters, examine the type of your machine. There may be some bad letter."
"I don't know what you're driving at," McQuade declared.
"I see that I must read this, then, to convince you." Warrington stood up, his back toward Bennington. He unfolded the carbon sheet and began to read.
McQuade saw Medusa's head, little versed as he was in mythology. He lowered his cigar. The blood in his face gradually receded.
"'In two sums of five hundred each,'" Warrington went on.
Morrissy, who suddenly saw visions of bars and stripes, made a quick, desperate spring. Warrington struck him with full force on the side of the head. Morrissy reeled, stumbled to the floor and lay there. The others were on their feet instantly.
"Stay where you are, John; I don't need any assistance. Now, McQuade, I've got you where I want you." Warrington spoke with deadly calm now. "This carbon was found in your waste-basket and brought to me. The girl is where you can not find her. There are two courses open to you."
"What are they?" There was murder in McQuade's heart, but there was reason in his head. He saw exactly where he stood. They had him.
"One is state's prison; the other is a full retraction of this base calumny. Take your choice."
"Bolles?"
"It's true, every damn word of it," said Bolles venomously. "Your janitor in New York told me the facts. You know they're true."
"Bolles, I nearly killed you one night. So help me, if you do not withdraw that, I'll kill you here and now!" It was the first time Bennington had spoken.
"Bolles," said McQuade, "did you sell a lie to me?"
Bolles eyed Bennington, who had pushed Warrington out of the way and was moving toward him. He saw death on Bennington's face. Warrington again interposed, but John swept him aside with ease.
"Well, there was a doctor and a nurse there all night with them. But she was in Warrington's rooms all night. That seemed enough for me." Bolles put the table between him and Bennington. He was genuinely afraid.
Morrissy turned over and sat up, rubbing his head. Presently he pulled himself to his feet. He was dazed. Recollection of what had happened returned to him. This dude had knocked him out.
"You'll pay well for that," he said.
"Sit down. It's only a marker for what I'll do to you if you make another move. Now, McQuade, which is it?"
"Go ahead and write your letter," McQuade snarled.
Warrington proceeded.
"Now sign it," he said. "Here, John, take care of this carbon. Bolles, your signature." Bolles scrawled a shaking hand. Warrington put the paper in his pocket. "Bite, both of you now, if you dare."
"I'll trouble you for that carbon," said McQuade.
"Hardly. But you have my word of honor that it shall not be used against you unless you force me. It will repose in my deposit box at the bank. But as for you, Morrissy, this climate doesn't suit your abilities. The field is too small. Take my advice and clear out. That is all, gentlemen. Come, John."
When they were gone Morrissy turned savagely upon McQuade.
"I told you you were a damn fool!"
"Get out of here, both of you; and if you ever stick your heads in this office again, I'll smash you."
McQuade dropped into his chair, once more alone. He sat there for an hour, thinking, ruminating, planning; but all his thinking and ruminating and planning had but one result: they had him licked. Morrissy was right; he was a fool. The girl! He would have liked her throat in his fingers that moment, the sneaking, treacherous baggage! Licked! To go about hereafter with that always menacing him! But there was one ray of consolation. He knew something about human nature. Bennington and Warrington would drift apart after this. Bennington had cleared up the scandal, but he hadn't purged his heart of all doubt. There was some satisfaction in this knowledge. And Warrington would never enter the City Hall as Herculaneum's mayor.