Neil Lowell had never looked better in his boy's attire than when he had completed his toilet for dinner that evening, and stood before the glass taking a last survey of himself, very much after the manner of a girl. Then he opened the door and went down-stairs.
As he entered the drawing-room, his first impression was that it was empty, but as he advanced into the room, he saw the form of a man leaning over a table upon which some rare etchings were carelessly tossed.
"It is 'Edith's cousin,' I suppose," he muttered with a smile.
The slight noise of the entrance attracted the stranger's attention, and he lifted his head.
Neil started; an hysterical cry rose to his lips, but before the guest had advanced he had recovered his perfect self-possession.
"You are Miss Edith's 'cousin,' I think," he said with a smile, advancing and extending his hand. "I don't suppose that Miss Alice intended us to meet in this fashion or she would have told me your name. I am Neil Lowell."
The gentleman paused, looking down upon the slight figure with a puzzled expression.
He took the extended hand in his as though half unconscious that he had done so, then pulling himself together, he said slowly:
"I am Lynde Pyne. I have heard your name mentioned by my cousin as the private secretary of Mr. Pryor, of whom Miss Alice has made frequent mention in her letters. You must really excuse me, but your face is so strangely familiar to me, that I cannot recover from the surprise of it."
"Now that you speak of it, I remember seeing you on 'Change the other day. The day that Lake Shore took its great boom. Do you not recall it?"
"No!" shaking his head slowly, "it was not there. I did not see you there, but——"
The sentence was interrupted by the entrance of the girls. Introductions followed, and were barely completed, when the butler's announcement of dinner was made.
With a heart beating almost to suffocation, Lowell offered his arm to Miss Edith Pyne, and conducted her to the dining-room, seating her upon his right, while he occupied the host's position.
It placed him where every eye rested full upon him, and Alice cried gleefully:
"Is it not extraordinary? Look! Did you ever see so great a resemblance as that between Mr. Lowell and Edith?"
There was no need to call attention to it, for every one in the room had observed it before, but Lowell's face was crimson.
"You compliment me too highly, Miss Alice," he stammered. "No doubt that is where Mr. Pyne saw a resemblance in me to some one, if it is true."
But Pyne shook his head.
"No," he said; "I must have seen you, yourself! I can't——"
The sentence was dreamily discontinued, and the girls began to chatter upon other subjects, while Lowell and Pyne maintained an uncomfortable silence.
"It is so delicious to be here!" Edith cried joyfully, "only it will be for such a short time. Mamma insists that I shall spend part of the visit with Evelyn Chandler. I ought to be pleased, I suppose, but I can't. I should not say it before Lynde, but I don't half like her."
If his life had depended upon it, Lowell could not have prevented himself from raising his eyes to those dark, compelling ones before him. They were fixed curiously upon his face. A slow color surged into the pink cheeks and the eyes of the boy were lowered.
An excitement that he could not control leaped into Lynde's eyes.
"Why should you not say that before Mr. Pyne?" questioned Miss Pryor. "If rumor is correct his engagement with Miss Chandler is at an end."
Lowell held his breath, waiting for the answer.
Not a movement was lost upon Pyne.
"Then rumor does not speak correctly!" snapped Miss Pyne. "I wish to Heaven it did. The engagement was broken by some kind of row between Mr. Chandler and Lynde at the time those robberies were committed, but Evelyn would not have it. She made her father straighten matters out, and Lynde was hooked again, and will be landed in January. You see, the fish is about tired out, and the fisher-woman will soon be triumphant."
Lowell felt himself growing ghastly.
A cold perspiration was growing about his mouth; but knowing that Pyne's eyes were fixed upon him, he forced a smile to his lips, and glanced in Pyne's direction.
"Then I presume we are to congratulate you?" he said, in the form of an interrogation.
The trembling of the voice was not lost upon Lynde, who never removed his eyes from the boyish face.
"Yes," he answered slowly, "you may congratulate me if you wish."
"I should murder him if he did!" ejaculated Miss Pyne. "You know that I don't like Evelyn, and she knows it, though mamma insists upon it that I shall be the essence of glucose in her presence. Bah! what you want to marry her for is more than I can see. You are not in love with her, and you know it."
"Young ladies," interrupted Mrs. Pryor, with a good-natured smile, "don't you think this conversation had better be discontinued? It is the first time I ever heard of discussing a gentleman's fiancee so uncomplimentarily in his presence."
"Pooh! We are all like brothers and sisters here!" exclaimed Miss Pyne. "It is only in the family, you know. Mr. Lowell don't count. Did you ever see Miss Evelyn Chandler, Mr. Lowell?"
For a moment Lowell hesitated, then the answer came:
"Yes."
"Do you admire her?"
"If you mean do I think she is beautiful, yes."
"But do you think she is good? Do you think she is what she appears?"
"You must excuse me, Miss Pyne. I have not your right to discuss the lady in question."
Mrs. Pryor, not approving the conversation, arose from the table, giving the signal to the ladies.
Lowell arose, and opened the door for them to pass through, then he resumed his seat.
He was the host, in the absence of Mr. Pryor, and he knew that he must remain at the table until his guest was ready to leave it.
During the time that the butler was arranging the cigars and wine upon the table, after the departure of the ladies, he felt those glowing eyes fixed upon his face.
The wine was poured, and the butler handed the cigars.
As they were passed to Neil, he glanced up, and saw those curious, questioning eyes still fixed upon him. He selected a cigar with greatest nonchalance; the lighted candles were placed for their use, and the butler retired.
As though it were an occurrence of everyday life, Neil cut the end from his cigar, stuck it in his mouth, and was about to apply it to the flame, when Pyne put out his hand and laid it upon that of the boy.
"Don't do that!" he said gently.
Lowell did not need to affect the surprise that came to his eyes.
"Why?" he demanded.
"Because it will make you sick!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you have never smoked a cigar in your life, and that it will nauseate you."
For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence, then Neil laughed shortly.
"You are correct," he said, his face flushing. "I never did! Mr. Pryor was taking me to task about it to-day, and I determined to learn. I did not dream that I should handle it so awkwardly. Will you excuse me, then, if I take a cigarette instead?"
"Certainly; but I don't think I feel inclined to smoke, if you will excuse me altogether. The chatter of those girls has upset me. It has brought back memories which I thought I had conquered. Neil Lowell, there is a question that I should like to ask you. What is it that you know of Miss Evelyn Chandler? And what relation are you to Leonie Cuyler?"
The man's face was lighted with a brilliant crimson. His eyes glittered with excitement.
He arose from his chair and stood over the boy, one hand resting upon the table, the other upon the back of Lowell's chair.
The boy lifted his eyes to the thrilling face, and very slowly arose to his feet.
For a full minute Neil Lowell and Lynde Pyne stood there facing each other, each seeming to measure the other's strength, not physically, but mentally.
Neil was striving to decide what course it would be safest for him to pursue; then, seeming to have arrived at a definite conclusion, he stepped back a pace, his eyes growing colder.
"What I know of Miss Evelyn Chandler," he said, frigidly, "is my own concern, and there is no reason why I should make it known to you or to any one else, unless it is my desire so to do. I have made no charges either for or against her, and I deny your right to question me upon that or any other subject."
Pyne threw out his hand with a deprecatory gesture.
"I did not ask my question in the spirit that you seem to ascribe to me," he replied, without anger; "the expression of your face, when these family affairs were spoken of, was such as to give birth to suspicion. I do not demand that you answer me; I simply request it."
Neil turned aside, lowering his eyes.
"There is nothing that I can tell you concerning Miss Chandler."
"Then answer my second question. What are you to Leonie Cuyler?"
Slowly the boy lifted his eyes, fastening them on the face of the man before him, determined that no weakness, however great, should make him betray the identity that it was so necessary for him to conceal.
"I had a cousin by that name," he said, slowly. "I never saw her but once."
He had told the truth, and he had told it with such perfect frankness, such entire candor, that Pyne was staggered.
"Then if you have seen her once, you will excuse me for my inquiry into your affairs, knowing how much you are like her."
"There is little in resemblances. You heard Miss Pryor speak to-night of my resemblance to Miss Pyne, your cousin."
"That is strong, I grant you, but weak by comparison with the other likeness. In asking your pardon I must tell you that my interest in Miss Cuyler was so strong at one time that it has shadowed all my life. I cannot speak further without betraying a secret that is not all mine. But for her sake, because you were her cousin, I offer you my friendship, if you will have it. I am not rich, but whatever I can do for you you may be sure that I will. You promise?"
The eyes of the boy were averted to conceal the tears that would rise in them.
"I will remember!" he answered, in a voice so choked from emotion that vision was not necessary to know the nearness of tears.
"Will you give me your hand that I may know you have forgiven me for my presumption?"
Without a word the little hand was extended, and as that of the man closed over it, a quick, low cry escaped his lips.
"You cannot deceive me longer!" he cried, hoarsely. "I knew that you were Leonie in the beginning, but I wanted to have some proof before making my assertion. Oh, Leonie, child, child! why did you think it necessary to conceal your identity from me? Did you not know that I would have given my life, my soul, if needs were, to have saved you?"
Startled almost beyond self-control, Leonie listened to the words.
She knew that the ring she wore had betrayed her, but she could think of no way in which it was possible to cover the fact that he had discovered.
Very gently Lynde closed the door, then turning, took her hand and drew her down upon a couch beside him.
"Leonie," he said, "could you not have trusted me?"
"I did trust you," she cried desperately, "and you are to marry Evelyn Chandler!"
She had not meant to say that, but somehow the words had escaped her without her will. She would have recalled them if she could, but now it was too late. She lifted her eyes helplessly to his face.
"You trusted me by leaving me at the time that I needed you most. You trusted me by going away and leaving me in ignorance as to your whereabouts. You might have known that at any price I would save you, and I have. It is not necessary that you should longer disguise your sex from the world. The charge that Leonard Chandler made against you has been withdrawn."
Leonie started up excitedly.
"Withdrawn!" she gasped. "How did he happen to do that?"
"Through the persuasion of his daughter."
For a moment she was silent, then she sprung up, standing before him, her lovely face quivering with emotion.
"Then that is the secret of your renewed engagement with Evelyn Chandler. Tell me the truth, Lynde. Is it not so?"
His eyes were downcast for a moment, then raised bravely.
"Yes," he answered. "You must not ask me anything further, because honor forbids that I should answer you. But you are free as air."
"I am free, but you!" she cried, her voice scarcely more than an agonized whisper—"you are worse than a prisoner! You do not love her, and, not loving her, you will marry her for my sake. Listen to me, Lynde. You must not do it—you must not, if I go to the gallows instead of to the penitentiary! You have taught me a lesson in self-sacrifice. I shall not tell you now the secret that has moved my life, that has robbed it of every hope, of every joy, because my unsupported testimony would count for little; but I will find a way to prove my words; and I will save you from the woman whom you would make your wife!"
"I beg that you will not do that, Leonie. There is nothing now that could relieve me of the sacred promise that I have taken upon myself, and anything that you might say would but be a useless sacrifice upon your part, and would but increase my burden. Promise me that you will do nothing!"
"I will promise to say nothing to any one until you know all the truth, and that you shall be the judge yourself. Will you be content with that?"
"I will!"
"And there is a promise that I have to demand of you in return."
"I am ready to make it!"
"Then say nothing of what you have discovered to-day regarding my sex to any one! I have reasons for wishing to preserve myself from recognition, and there is little hope for me unless I preserve the costume that I have assumed. If I am forced to leave here, as I should be were it known that I am not a boy, Heaven knows into what a position I might be thrown."
"I promise. You will not refuse to allow me to see you sometimes? You will not refuse to grant me——"
"It is better not!" she interrupted, sorrowfully. "There is nothing that can ever lift the barrier that lies between you and me, Mr. Pyne. That is as irrevocable as death itself. I am not saving you from Evelyn Chandler to secure you for myself. The reason that makes it almost a crime that she should be your wife, extends to me, and though I have brought you sorrow, I will never bring you disgrace. When you are here I shall find a pretext for remaining out of your presence, for it is much better that we should not meet! You believe that, do you not?"
"I beg that you will——"
"I am deaf to your words. You know where to find me; you know where I shall remain, unless the object that I have in view requires that I shall go elsewhere; but unless necessity demands it, I beg that you will not seek me. I will come to you when I have discovered the proofs that are necessary."
She left the room as she ceased speaking without a backward glance, turning a deaf ear to his pleading tones, and walked unsteadily up the stairs to her own room.
"There's a lady in the blue morning-room to see you, Miss Chandler!"
Evelyn Chandler turned to her maid with anything but an amiable expression of countenance.
"Her card?" she exclaimed with annoyance.
"She gave me none. She wished me to say that her call was purely a matter of business, that she would not detain you longer than necessity required, and begged that you would not decline to see her."
Something in the message aroused Miss Chandler's curiosity.
She hesitated a moment; then with a gesture of deprecation, said:
"Show her up here! I don't feel inclined to walk down-stairs."
Concealing the disgust she felt at the well-known indolence of her mistress, the maid left the room, but returned a little later, followed by a woman clothed in somber black.
A heavy veil was drawn across her face, a covering which she took the precaution not to remove until the maid had retired and closed the door.
"My maid tells me your call is upon business," said Miss Chandler, curtly. "I have but a few moments to spare, therefore, you will excuse me if I ask you to be brief."
Without a word the veil was lifted, revealing the lovely features of Leonie Cuyler.
Miss Chandler was on the point of crying out, but by a mighty effort restrained the inclination.
She drew herself up coldly, a thousand lightning flashes darting from her eyes.
"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" she asked icily.
"It is to tell you that I have come," returned Leonie, quietly taking a chair that had not been offered her. "Will you excuse me if I consume a little of your valuable time in telling you how I risked my freedom and my honor only a short time ago to save you from the consequences of your own folly. Will you——"
"No, I will not!" interrupted Miss Chandler sternly. "I am quite convinced that you have not come here without a purpose, therefore I request that you state it as speedily as possible, and without all this circumlocution. If you wish to impress me with the idea that I am under an obligation to you, I may as well assure you in the beginning that I do not recognize the fact; and even if I did, I am not one to be influenced by such considerations."
"Very well," said Leonie, assuming something of Miss Chandler's own manner. "If you are determined to have this war and not peace, I am ready for you.
"There was one," she continued, "to whom I owe more than I could ever repay were I granted a thousand years of life. No brother could have shown me greater tenderness, greater consideration, greater mercy."
"How touching!" murmured Miss Chandler, stifling a yawn.
"I refer," Leonie went on, as though the interruption had not been made, "to Mr. Lynde Pyne."
"I supposed as much. Lynde was always something of a Don Quixote. It is pleasant to hear of his generosity, but really if you don't hurry I shall have to leave you. I should not like, for your own sake, to have my father find you here."
"I have come to tell you, Miss Chandler, that the engagement that exists between you and Lynde Pyne must be broken!"
Miss Chandler shrugged her shapely shoulders carelessly.
"Have you come here to threaten me?" she asked coldly. "If you have you will find that you have attacked the wrong person. I think I have already demonstrated to you the fact that I am not in the least a coward."
She arose as she finished her sentence, and Leonie followed her example.
"Promise me," she said, "and keep your word, that you will break this engagement, and I swear to you, that so far as I am concerned, the secret of your birth and the knowledge of who was the thief in Leonard Chandler's household, shall be eternally preserved. Refuse, and whatever it may cost me, the entire matter shall be made public in time to save Lynde Pyne from the marriage that would not alone wreck his life, but his soul as well."
"I make no compact with you of any kind!" said Evelyn, harshly. "If you make this charge, without bringing ample proof to back up your assertions, I warn you that my father, Leonard Chandler, shall use the force of his entire fortune against you. His anger against you is already at fever heat, and I have but to speak the word that will make him your most deadly foe. As far as my love for Mr. Pyne is concerned, that is none of your business. Whether I love him or not, I intend to marry him, for reasons that do not in the least concern you. Now go, or the servants shall have instructions to put you out!"
There was not the slightest weakness in her demeanor, and Leonie knew it.
She had hoped to frighten her sister into measures, but she saw there was about as much possibility of that, as there was in frightening a desperado into giving himself into the hands of the authorities.
With little outward evidence of the disappointment she really felt, Leonie again wrapped the veil about her head and left the room.
For some time Evelyn Chandler stood there, seeming to be thinking deeply.
"She means every word that she has said," she muttered, below her breath. "She was a typewriter in a lawyer's office long enough to have absorbed some of their knowledge, and will, therefore, know exactly how to go to work. I cannot sit still and let her succeed, as undoubtedly she will if I do not immediately take measures of precaution; but what shall they be? I cannot consult my adopted father. Therefore, there is but one course left—I must consult my own father. Bah!"
The sentence was concluded with a shiver of repulsion, but it vanished almost before it had existed.
She sat down and took her chin in her hands, a favorite position when in deep thought.
"It is the only way!" she cried, at last. "Let me see! I have an engagement with my dressmaker at this hour, but when that is ended, we shall see what Ben Mauprat can suggest. A man who has been a scoundrel all his life certainly ought to be able to thwart a single-handed girl."
"Mr. Pryor, will you require my services this afternoon?"
The speaker was Neil Lowell, who stood in the presence of his employer, hat in hand.
The old gentleman glanced up in surprise.
"No! That is the first time you have ever asked that. Are you going out?"
"With your permission."
"Hang it, boy, a servant has some time off, and you never take any. It would really do me good to have you go out more. You never do unless I send you. Go, and come back when you get ready."
"Thank you!"
Lowell did not wait for further words, but left the room, and instead of going directly to the street, as his dress would have indicated that he intended, he went to his room again.
He locked the door and hurriedly disrobed. Ten minutes later, a red-brown wig was drawn over his cropped head, and a suit that indicated shabby gentility had taken its place. An old and much-worn hat was placed upon his head, completing a most excellent disguise.
"If Mr. Pryor, or any one in the house discovers me, I shall tell him quietly that I am engaged upon a piece of detective work, and he will be perfectly satisfied and ask no further questions, bless his dear old heart; but I must prevent detection if I can," muttered the boy to himself as he left the room, and, taking the servants' stairway, went down and very quietly let himself into the street.
He took the elevated train and rode down-town, leaving it at the Bleecker Street Station, then walked quickly across town.
The place that he entered was one that would have made a man's heart stand still, much less that of a person built upon his small scale, and for a single moment he hesitated, but the hesitation was scarcely long enough to be called one.
It was a low saloon, and one in the "ring" could easily have recognized more than one member of the Whyo gang in that motley assemblage.
Blurred eyes were lifted questioningly, and the boy was "taken in" from head to foot.
Disregarding all this, and affecting a boldness he was far from feeling, he advanced to the man behind the bar and said, in a low tone:
"Say, pard, I've been told that you kin tell a feller where to find Ben Mauprat. Ef yer kin, yer'll do a good day's work fur Ben!"
"Say, Ike!" the barkeeper called to a man across the room, "this here kid wants to know where Ben Mauprat lives. Kin you tell him?"
"Cert! he lives on Great Jones Street—Number ——. He is sweller than we are. Shouldn't wonder but what he'd be one of the four hundred before the month's up."
The boy did not wait to hear the conclusion of the speech, but, muttering some words of thanks that "Ike" did not condescend to notice, he left the saloon.
He walked rapidly in the direction of Great Jones Street.
The number that had been indicated was not a desirable-looking residence, but no doubt to the other men of his class, Ben Mauprat's home was eminently respectable, if not elegant.
At least it required a pull at the bell to effect an entrance.
A slatternly woman answered the summons.
"Ben in?" questioned the boy.
"What do you want of him?"
"I want to see him. What do you suppose?"
"Well, he is asleep."
"Wake him up; my business can't wait!"
The boy's manner was an excellent imitation of the tough, and, half afraid to refuse, the woman reluctantly pulled open the door and allowed him to enter.
"He's in there," she said, indicating a room. "You can wake him yourself, for his temper ain't none too good at the best of times."
She went back to her work, and noiselessly Neil Lowell entered the room that she had pointed out to him.
There, upon an old hair-cloth lounge, lay the man whom he heard talking to Evelyn Chandler on that memorable night.
Ben Mauprat did not move.
The same heavy snores that had greeted Neil upon his entrance continued, perhaps a trifle louder, and feeling that he was secure from interruption from the woman who had admitted him, Neil began a hasty survey of the premises.
There was not much to see.
A broken chair, a table, with pieces of wood propping up one leg, an old secretary, with one door wrenched off, a dilapidated inkstand, and that seemed to be about all.
Lightly Neil stepped to the secretary and began looking over its contents.
The first thing that met his eyes was a dainty note that even the grimy hands of Ben Mauprat could not rob of its beauty.
Without the slightest hesitation he opened it. There was no beginning. It simply read:
"Nothing has been heard of the girl yet. We must find her at all hazards, and make sure that her mouth is securely closed, for upon that all depends. The engagement has been resumed, so that your interests are safe as far as Luis Kingsley is concerned. You seem to forget how much you owe me on that score, for the moment I am the wife of L. P. you can bring forward the proof that you have discovered, and you may be sure that you will get your part of the money. Trust me for that. If L. P. should hear anything of this, I mean so far as you are concerned, my chances with him would be dough. I send the money that you requested.
"E. C."
It did not require the initials to tell Neil who the writer was.
He remembered to have heard the name of Luis Kingsley before, but it was impossible for him to remember in exactly what connection; therefore, he pocketed the letter, and finding nothing further, he turned to Mauprat.
He shook him roughly by the shoulder.
"Say, are you dead, or what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Won't you ever wake up?"
Ben raised his bleared eyes, and lifted himself upon his elbow.
"Who in thunder are you?" he inquired sleepily.
"I'm Bob Wells," answered Lowell coolly.
"Well, who's Bob Wells? I never saw you before."
"But that is no reason why you'll never want to see me again. Say, do you want to find that girl that played detective in the house where the Chandlers live?"
That was quite enough to arouse Ben Mauprat on the instant.
"What do you know of her?" he asked, rising and looking as straight as his half-drunken eyes would allow into the boy's face.
"Never mind what I know. I asked if you wanted to find her."
"Yes, I do."
"How bad?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you want to know bad enough to tell me what I want to know?"
"Tell me first what it is."
"I want to know what Luis Kingsley has done with the money that belongs to Lynde Pyne."
"Now what in thunder do you know about that?"
"More than I am going to let you know. Say, look a-here, Ben! You don't know me, but I do know you mighty blamed well. I'll just tell you who I am, as a pointer. I was Lynde Pyne's office-boy, but he discharged me fur—— Well, never mind what fur, I got the bounce, jist the same. A feller can't starve, and I have got to do jist that or git some money. Now I propose to help you if you will help me. Is it a go?"
"Hold, one minute! I don't know what you are talking about."
"'Tain't necessary fur you to know. All I say is that I know Luis Kingsley has got some money that belongs to Lynde Pyne. I know you know all about it. Do the square act on the divy about what you git out of it, and I will tell you all I know about that Cuyler girl."
Mauprat had opened his mouth to reply, when a violent pull at the bell interrupted him. Breathlessly he waited, and with apparently careless indifference, Neil waited also.
At the expiration of a few seconds, the door was opened by the woman who admitted Neil.
"There is some one to see you in the other room," she said to Mauprat.
By her manner, both her hearers knew as perfectly well who she meant as though she had spoken the name, but before either had time to think upon the subject at all, a heavily veiled woman pushed by her and entered the room.
"I wanted to see you, and have not time to wait!" she began; then paused suddenly.
Neil could feel the eyes through the veil fixed upon him piercingly.
He stood the test well, but started slightly as the long-gloved finger was pointed at him.
"Who is that?" demanded Miss Chandler, in the stoniest voice that Neil ever remembered to have heard.
"He is Bob Wells, a former office-boy of Lynde Pyne's," answered Mauprat, hurriedly. "I will——"
"Your 'office boy of Lynde Pyne's,' is Leonie Cuyler!" cried the young woman, excitedly. "You must be mad that you could not recognize her through that disguise!"
Mauprat uttered a low growl of rage.
Without a word, but showing his teeth like a ferocious canine, he sprung forward and caught Leonie by the throat.
It required no great exertion of physical force to bring the boy to his knees.
The breath was almost choked from his body when Ben Mauprat released his hold.
"You cursed little imp of Satan!" he cried, his voice hoarse from rage. "I'll teach you to come here trying to impose upon me. What in thunder do you mean by it? Answer me quickly, or by Heaven! I'll strangle all the life out of your little carcass. Do you hear?"
"I will tell you!" exclaimed Miss Chandler, who had already removed the veil that covered her face. "She has come here to play the spy. She has threatened that unless I break the engagement with Lynde Pyne—which she has somehow discovered to exist—that she will make known the secret of my birth, and of my relationship to you. She is here for the purpose of getting information from you upon that subject."
"And perhaps I should have been fool enough to have said something that might have given it to her, if you had not come in just when you did. So you want to break the engagement that exists between Miss Chandler and Lynde Pyne, do you?"
Leonie did not answer.
"Don't you hear me?" he screamed.
She lifted her eyes coldly to his face.
"Yes, I heard you," she answered, bravely. "But I did not think it necessary to reply. Your daughter has told you, and I thought it useless to corroborate her words. But since it seems that you require it, I may as well tell you that I do not approve of her marriage to Mr. Pyne, and it is my determination that if such a thing is in the range of possibility, I will prevent it!"
For a moment Ben Mauprat was stupid from astonishment.
He stood with eyes and mouth both open, gazing at the girl as if her audacity must be the result of lunacy. Then he sprung forward again.
She was too quick for him, however, and before he could reach her, she had put the rickety table between them.
"Wait a minute!" cried Miss Chandler, interrupting the chase that she saw was imminent "I have not time to wait for gymnastics of that kind. Listen to me, and let us decide what is to be done. It is dangerous to allow lunatics their liberty, and that is what I think Leonie Cuyler must be. No one else would attempt the role that she has essayed. I think therefore, that for the benefit of the public she should be restrained! I suggest that you keep her in confinement until after this wedding shall have taken place, then—presupposing of course that her physicians pronounce her cured—she can be released. What do you think of my plan? It seems to me to be the only safe one!"
"We should be doing a public benefit!" exclaimed Mauprat, his rage turned to mirth. "I tell you, Evelyn, you are a chip of the old block. It is a capital idea. I think while she remains here as my patient that I may be able to compensate her for the trouble she took to sell me some information."
Leonie was aghast.
"I wish you would listen to me!" she cried desperately. "I——"
"It is useless," interrupted Miss Chandler. "I am quite convinced, and nothing she could say would alter my idea, that the safest thing—the only safe plan, in fact—is to confine her until after the marriage. Then the harm that she can do will be little enough, for should she make known all the facts that are in her possession, she would hurt no one so much as the very man whom she has risked so much to save—Lynde Pyne. I am sure that you agree with me."
"I do, indeed."
"That is all that I came to see you for to-day. I feel quite relieved that I know my dear sister to be so well taken care of for the present. She has given me a great deal of concern during the last few weeks, but now my mind will be at rest. Be sure that she does not escape, and should you want to see me about anything, send the message to the old address. Do not risk coming to the house. Good-bye! Do not allow anything to happen to your precious patient."
With a mocking bow to Leonie she left the room, and Ben Mauprat turned his entire attention to Leonie.
He pointed to the door, and thinking that she saw her opportunity, Leonie bowed courteously and walked in the direction he indicated.
It led to the hall.
She had scarcely entered it, than, with a quick bound, she reached the front door.
She would undoubtedly have made good her escape, but that an unfortunate accident happened.
Some one had hold of the knob of the door from the outside, and as she pulled it from within, and some one pushed it from without, it came open with a sudden force that caused her to lose her footing, and she fell headlong.
Mauprat was upon her before she could recover herself, had caught her by the shoulder, and set her upon her feet.
His face was ghastly with rage.
"You infernal little fiend!" he panted, the oaths falling thick and fast, "I'll give you now a taste of the punishment that will come from that sort of thing if you try it in the future!"
He raised a heavy walking-stick and brought it down again and again upon the frail shoulders with terrible force.
The woman and the miserable hunchback boy who had caused the accident, stood shrinking back in the corner as far as possible, ghastly with fear, until unable to stand it longer, the woman caught the man's arm and held it in a grasp like iron.
"Stop!" she cried hoarsely, "You don't know what you are doing! She is not used to that sort of thing, and you will kill her!"
Mauprat turned to the woman with a savage growl.
He released his hold upon Leonie, who fell without a groan to the floor.
"Take what your interference warrants!" he cried, bringing the stick down with renewed force upon the body of the woman.
She took it without a moan, the boy covering his miserable face with his hands.
Finding that he could cause no outcry of pain upon her part, Mauprat turned sullenly to Leonie.
"She has fainted," he said, kicking the inert body with his foot. "Carry her up-stairs and put her in Dick's room. We'll see how she succeeds with her next attempt at escape."
"Thompson, see if Mr. Lowell has returned yet."
The order was given by Mr. Pryor to the servant whom he had summoned by ringing the bell in the drawing-room.
The young people of the family, together with their guests, Miss Pyne and Lynde, were there, and each one glanced in some surprise at the speaker when the order was given.
He had seemed preoccupied and worried during the entire evening, and now as eleven o'clock came and still no signs of the missing secretary, alarm took the place of anxiety.
There was not a question asked until the return of the servant, but an ominous silence was preserved.
"Well?" inquired Mr. Pryor as he returned.
"He is not in his room, sir, nor has he been seen by any of the servants."
"Has Mr. Lowell disappeared?" asked Miss Pryor, some concern expressed in her tone.
"Yes," answered her father. "It is a most singular thing. He has never gone out before to remain longer than an hour. He knew that I should want him about a matter of some importance to-night and yet he has not come in. I don't understand it."
Every eye was leveled in his direction and not toward Lynde Pyne, or they might have observed his sudden pallor, and the expression of absolute terror that had grown in his eyes.
"Mr. Lowell is fully competent to take care of himself," laughed Mrs. Pryor. "You will make a perfect baby of that boy, Andrew, and destroy in him the very characteristics that you have so much admired. Eleven o'clock is not late in New York."
"It is for Lowell. He has no friends here; he is not accustomed to going out; he did not mention that he should be gone for any length of time, and furthermore, he knew that I should need him very particularly to-night. The whole thing in a nutshell is, that it is not like Lowell, and I am convinced that something has happened. If he is not here within half an hour I shall be sure of it."
To the surprise of all, Lynde Pyne arose. His face was deadly white, his lips quivering with dumb anxiety.
"You are quite right, Mr. Pryor!" he exclaimed. "Something must have occurred out of the ordinary to keep him out so late. Have you any idea where he was going?"
"No. Had he been gone longer I should say notify the police; but they would take little interest in the case now, as he has been gone so short a time, particularly as they know nothing of the regular habits of the boy. I suppose the only thing is to wait until to-morrow morning; then, if he has not come home, we must take every means in our power to find him."
Lynde accepted the invitation that Mr. Pryor extended to him to remain over night, and the following morning descended to breakfast without ever having removed the clothing that he had worn the night before.
"You have heard nothing yet?" he inquired of Mr. Pryor, almost before they had greeted each other.
"Not a word."
The answer confirmed his fears.
Something had happened, but what, it was impossible to determine.
He left Mr. Pryor to make what search he deemed advisable, and going to his own home long enough to change his clothes, called upon Miss Chandler.
He had not the remotest idea what he intended to say to her, and the position in which he found himself placed was a decidedly unpleasant one.
"How pale you look!" exclaimed Miss Chandler, offering him her lips to kiss.
It was an exceedingly cold caress that fell upon them, but if she felt it, she made no sign.
"I don't think I am quite well. I did not sleep last night."
"Has anything happened?"
"Not directly to me; but it concerns some friends of mine, who were terribly upset; and as I was with them, naturally I shared their anxiety."
"What was it?"
"A mysterious disappearance of a member of the family. It is really a most extraordinary thing! The person I refer to is Miss Leonie Cuyler!"
He was looking directly at Miss Chandler as he spoke, in fact had not removed his eyes from the handsome face since his entrance.
She started perceptibly, but recovered herself with suspicious promptness.
"You surprise me!" she said, coolly. "I did not know that Miss Cuyler had been found since her other mysterious disappearance. It seems that she has a penchant for disappearances. One could almost get used to them, they occur so frequently."
"This is different from that. She had no reason for it, none earthly, and I cannot understand it!"
"It seems to me that you are curiously interested in Miss Cuyler!"
"I am! She seems to be a young woman who is bearing the burden of the wrong doing of some one else."
Miss Chandler's face flushed dully.
"It is a subject upon which I have given no thought," she replied, coldly.
"Somehow I hoped that she might have come to you."
A pallor crept about the full lips that Pyne was not slow to see.
He was aware also of the sudden tightening of the hands about a paper-cutter that she had taken up, and of the quick, questioning glitter that came to her eyes, to fade almost at once under the restraint that she was putting upon herself.
"To me?" she repeated, frigidly. "I fail to see why you should have thought that. I scarcely knew Miss Cuyler."
"But you interested yourself in her once. She might have thought that you would again."
"I had really forgotten her. What I did was not interest, but humanity. She would never have come to me for anything."
The very manner of the utterance of the words convinced Pyne that she had been there, and that Miss Chandler, his handsome fiancee, knew more of the disappearance than she proposed to tell.
What was the secret that linked those two together, and what had Miss Chandler done with the young woman who seemed to possess some secret that she was determined to have concealed?
He knew that he could discover nothing further from her. He knew that inquiry would bring forth no further information, and that the only possible hope of ascertaining was to wait and watch.
He must secure the co-operation of a clever detective, and with the assistance that he could lend, he hoped for the best.
His manner to Miss Chandler was affectionate, as usual, though there was never any particular amount of demonstration.
He felt that whatever the nature of his discoveries might be, they would not release him from his obligation, so that what he was doing was because of his love for Leonie and the fact that humanity demanded it.
As soon as consistency with his former habits would allow, he left the residence of his fiancee, fully convinced that there was a deadly secret, and determined that, for the sake of the innocent woman, he would fathom it.
"You seem in some way to have changed to me of late, Lynde," she said to him as he was leaving. "I feel that you are growing away from me. I am afraid that I destroyed my own chances for happiness upon that day that I forgot the modesty of my sex, and went to your office to plead with you for what I could not allow to be wrested from me without a struggle. I loved you, Lynde, and felt that to lose you would be worse than death. You do not despise me for my unwomanliness, do you? You will never forget the promise that you made to me on that day?"
"I will never forget that promise, Evelyn. You may be sure of that. You must not think that your act that day caused you to fall in my esteem. A woman loses none of the beauty of her sex because she loves. My promise is yours, and there is nothing that can release me from it but death."
She kissed him and let him go.
As the door closed upon him, she turned away with a short laugh.
"Fool!" she muttered. "He will keep his word, and under any circumstances I am safe."
"Liz! Liz!"
The call had to be repeated many times before it met with an answer, and even then it came faintly and broken by sobs.
"What do you want?"
"Has Ben gone out?"
"Yes, curse him!"
"Won't you come in awhile? It is terrible in this horrible darkness alone. Don't cry, Liz. Come and tell me what he has done to you."
"It ain't to me. God knows I would bear it and say nothing if it was only me; but it is Dick, poor little Dick, and I am afraid he has killed him."
"Open the door, Liz. Let me help you in some way. I swear to you that I will not try to escape."
The woman arose and threw it open, allowing the girl in the rags of a boy to come from that pit of darkness into the light.
"I would not care much if you did escape!" she exclaimed dully. "He would kill me then, and I think I would be happier if he did. Look there."
She pointed to the child who lay upon a pile of straw on the floor, the miserable little hunchback who had unconsciously prevented Leonie from leaving there upon the night of her imprisonment.
"He has killed him," continued the woman, her voice filing passionately. "Last night when the poor child came in he was sick, so sick that he could scarcely drag his misshapen body after him. Ben told him to do something, and Dick did not get up as quick as Ben thought he ought, and he gave him a terrible beating. This morning the poor boy was so sick that he could not get out of his bed. I begged Ben to let him alone, but the more I begged the more determined he became. Dick got up, and as he did so, staggered against the wall and fell; then Ben, who swore it was nothing but laziness, got the cowhide, and the poor body is black and blue from the marks upon it. Oh, if God would but strike him dead, how much good it would do us all!"
"Why do you live with him, Liz? Why do you not run away?"
"Why?" she asked bitterly. "Where would I go? What would I do? Besides, he would find me and he would kill me. You don't know Ben as I do. He is not the only man in the world that cares nothing for his wife and yet forces her to live with him, because the devil in his nature tells him that it is a good way to torture her. I don't go because I am afraid, like a thousand other poor women who inhabit the world. Some day I know that I shall kill him. If he would confine his beatings to me, I might endure it, but when he treats Dick in the way that he does, there will come a time when the worm will turn, and I, who have been trampled upon, will become a fiend of his own creating."
Leonie had turned away from the woman's passionate agony, and had lifted the little form that lay upon its rude bed in her arms.
The child groaned and shrunk back as though expecting a blow, and a hot tear fell upon his flushed cheeks as he saw the compassionate face bent above him.
Leonie laid her cool hand upon his burning brow, and in a soothing voice said:
"What pains you, Dick? Tell me, dear, and perhaps there may be something that I can do for you! Don't be afraid. There is nothing to hurt you now."
He lifted his scorching hand and laid it upon her face. His lips trembled so that articulation was almost impossible, but he managed to make her understand the words:
"My throat!"
For one moment she shrunk from him, but in the next he was lifted in her arms. She sat in a chair rocking him to and fro.
"Liz," she cried, excitedly, "you must go for a doctor at once—at once, do you hear?—or the child will die! He has scarlet-fever or diphtheria, one of the two—I am not doctor enough to know which!"
A wild terror leaped to the woman's face, but she did not move.
"I can't!" she gasped. "Ben would kill me for leaving you here alone, and he would kill Dick because I loved him enough to risk it. Oh, my God, what am I to do?"
"Go for the doctor, quick!" commanded Leonie, "Ben can think that I was locked up, for I swear to you that I will make no attempt to escape. If he undertakes to hurt Dick when he comes home I will find a way to prevent him if I get killed myself for it! Oh, Liz, go! Is it possible that you can stop to think of anything when this poor child is dying?"
"Dying! dying!" repeated the unhappy woman, in an awe-stricken voice. "Now, God hear my vow! If he dies I will kill the man that has caused it, I swear it! He has wrecked my life, he has made me what I am, and I will end it all in a fitting manner. Oh, Dick! Dick!"
She snatched up a scarf and wrapped it about her head, dashing down the steps and out the door with the speed of the wind.
She did not pause even to secure the door behind her, but seemed almost to fly along until she had reached the office of a doctor.
"Quick!" she gasped. "It is Dick, and he is dying!"
The medical man knew nothing of who Dick was, but the manner of the woman was impressive to the last degree.
"Wait!" he cried. "What is the matter with him? I must know, in order to take what I may need."
"God knows what!" replied Liz, her expression indicating insanity. "I think Ben has killed him!"
The doctor waited for nothing further.
He snatched his hat, and without a word followed the woman as she rushed along in silence to her own home.
The door was ajar. She pushed it open and led the way up the stairs.
There was Leonie, as she had left her, rocking the child to and fro in the dilapidated chair, and singing to him a little song that she might lull him to sleep.
The eyes of the unfortunate mother filled with tears as they fell upon the tableau.
She touched the short crop of curling hair so lightly with her lips that Leonie did not feel it, but it rested there like a benediction.
The doctor took the slight wrist in his hand, and counted the pulse, then he looked at the sploched tongue.
"Why did you tell me that this child had been killed by some one?" he demanded of the woman. "He has a terrible case of malignant diphtheria."
Brave as she was, Leonie's face became ghastly.
With awful horror, Liz crept closer to the doctor.
"Will he die?" she asked, in a hoarse whisper.
"It is impossible to say, though the chances are largely against him. It will depend a great deal upon his nursing. You should have another woman to assist you."
Then the nobility of Leonie's nature asserted itself.
"I will do that, doctor," she said gently.
"But you are a boy, and they are careless. He will need attention day and night."
Leonie colored.
"I think you will find me a capable nurse and a devoted one," she answered gently.
"Then to you I will give the instructions, for the mother seems incapable of understanding."
Very carefully he went over everything that she was to do in detail, telling her that perhaps upon her the life of the child depended, then took his leave, promising to call again later in the day.
"Liz," Leonie said, when she was again alone with the mother and her unfortunate child, "you must go at once and get what the doctor has prescribed. You need not fear but that I will take the best care possible of Dick."
"Malignant diphtheria!" whispered the poor woman, as she took the paper from the girl's hand. "And Ben beat him when he was dying! God forgive him, for I never can!"
She left the room mumbling some words to herself, words that seemed to proceed from a breaking heart; but Leonie scarcely knew that she had gone before she returned.
The medicine was prepared; but with all his frail strength the child resisted, until Leonie bent her tender head and kissed him.
"Won't you take it for me, Dick?" she whispered. "It will make you well, dear, and then there will be such fun for you and me. Don't you want to be well for poor mamma's sake?"
He turned his head without a word and did as she bade him, his suffering terrible to witness. Then pressing his head gently down upon her shoulder, Leonie rocked him until he slept.
Liz watched in a silence that was pitiful. Crouched down where she could listen to the slow tones of the soothing voice, she watched, hoped a little, and perhaps prayed.
"Had you not better lay him down?" she whispered, when quite sure that he slept.
Leonie shook her head.
"The bed is too hard," she answered. "Poor little thing, it will not hurt me to hold him."
"But you may take the disease yourself."
"One must always take that risk. I am willing if I can be of service to him now."
"God bless you!" whispered Liz. "I'll find a way to repay you for this if I am killed for it. I can never forget that you might have escaped and would not because of me and my poor child. You are free to go now if you wish."
"And leave you to face Ben Mauprat with that child? No! my liberty would be sweet to me, but I could not purchase it at such a cost to you."
Liz lifted her eyes blinded with tears. She kneeled and kissed the hand that supported Dick's head.
"You are an angel!" she whispered. "I had a daughter once, long years ago that might have been like you if she had lived, but she died years ago. That was the cause of Ben's deserting me and running away for all those years when I was little more than a girl myself. Perhaps it would have been better for me if he had never come back!"
A puzzled expression crossed Leonie's face.
"How long have you and Ben been married?" she asked, not forgetting in her excitement to speak sufficiently low not to disturb the sleeping child.
"More than thirty years ago. He deserted me and married another woman, but she could not have been his wife, because I was that. Then she died and he came back to me."
Leonie could scarcely control her agitation.
"You say——"
But before she could complete the sentence, the door opened and Ben Mauprat was in the room.
With a low cry of horror, Liz sprung to her feet, and at the same time the eyes of the child opened. He shrunk further into Leonie's arms, seeming to entreat her protection. She clasped him closely and awaited coming events.
As though paralyzed by the audacity of the situation, Ben Mauprat stood there regarding the three.
Not a single word was spoken, and for seemingly an interminable time a silence that was painful rested upon them; then, with a snarl of vengeance, he stepped forward, his hand extended as though to snatch the boy from Leonie's arms, but quicker than thought Liz had placed herself between them.
"Don't do it, Ben," she cried hoarsely. "I've been a good wife and a true one to you, but you must not carry this any further than you have. God knows I do not know how it can be, but I have loved you with the devotion that few women have shown the husbands who have treated them with love and tenderness, and I have had nothing but blows and curses in return. I have never opened my mouth against it, and I never shall, if you kill me; but you have done your last to Dick. Listen, Ben; he is dying. Do you hear? Dying, Ben, and you are the cause of it. That girl whom you beat, and almost killed, has more love for your own child than you have, for she gave the liberty that she might have secured for his sake; and as there is a God above us, I will protect her with my life! I have been a coward just as long as I shall. As far as I am concerned I am willing to bear anything, but for Dick's sake the end has come."
There was a dramatic intensity about the situation that was thrilling.
The woman's tone was not loud, but her arm was raised until she seemed to tower above Ben Mauprat like a giantess above a dwarf.
Her eyes glowed with the passion that was moving her, her very bosom seemed to swell until it threatened bursting.
The last words of her sentence were given a force that caused Leonie to almost rise to her feet.
"Stand out of the way!" exclaimed Mauprat slowly, his eyes glowing with rage. "I don't want to kill you."
"You may do it and welcome if you wish," exclaimed Liz, vehemently, "but you shall not kill my child! Do you hear that, Ben? He may not live an hour through the cruelty that you have already shown him, but that hour shall be passed in peace. You beat him last night and again this morning, and ten minutes ago the doctor told us that it would be nursing and chance alone that could save his life, and that chance he shall have! Don't go near him, Ben! Don't try it! I love him as the only thing that holds me to life. Without him there is nothing in all this world that makes it worth living, and as long as I can I will keep him with me. You made him a hunchback, you have robbed him of every hope, but you shall not take the few hours that remain to him. I beg that you will listen to me, for if you refuse, as surely as you take a step in his direction, I will kill you."
There was a hideous emphasis upon the last words that would have told a man more of a believer in the vengeance of a woman, that the worm had turned at last.
But Ben Mauprat was not a believer in that sort of thing. Once a coward, always a coward to him.
He laughed fiendishly.
"'Pon my word, Liz, you are almost as good as a play!" he cried brutally. "If it were not setting a bad example I would excuse you for what you have done, on account of the amusement you have afforded me, but I am afraid that if I did that, the next thing you would do would be to allow this girl who has won your heart through her attention to that brat, to escape, and so ruin all my chances for wealth. The young one has always stood between me and your obedience! He has caused you to oppose my will oftener than anything else. He has caused you to get numberless beatings, and therefore the very best thing that could happen to you as well as to me, would be to have him die. I am not going to kill him outright, but I am going to show you that I will stand none of your rebellion, and that I will listen to none of your threats. I am going to lock that dangerous little rebel up, to settle with her later, and then I am going to give the boy the beating that his mother deserves."
"Don't do it, Ben! He has malignant diphtheria, and he would but die under it!"
The words were spoken in an awe-struck whisper, but they only seemed to anger the man the more.
"Malignant diphtheria, has he?" he exclaimed, harshly. "Well he may give it to the rest of us, and the best thing that can be done is to put him out of the way. Don't give us any more lip, Liz, but stand aside!"
He put out his hand to compel her obedience, but she only caught it, and held him convulsively.
"Don't, Ben!" she cried, wildly. "For the love of God have mercy! I have never asked many things of you, and I beg this as I would not plead for my own life! Oh, Ben, have mercy!"
"I am tired of this now! Shut up, or——"
"Ben, remember how true I have been. Remember——"
"Let me go, do you hear?"
"Ben, have pity! I swear that it is the last favor that I shall ever ask!"
For all answer he gave her a terrible fling, that sent her spinning across the room.
With a single stride he reached Leonie.
In another instant it is not to be doubted that he would have snatched the already dying child from her arms, but the desperate mother again interfered.
She did not fall, but maddened by her fear for the little, unfortunate creature in which was centered her only love, her only happiness, she seized a stick of wood that lay near the stove on the floor, and as Ben would have snatched the child from its helpless protector, she brought the cudgel down upon the back of his head with a force that, for a woman of her build, was supernatural.
Without a word or even a moan he fell forward upon his face and lay there like one dead.
A look of horror, somewhat tempered with relief, passed over Leonie's face.
But Liz seemed suddenly converted into a maniac.
A shrill laugh fell from her lips, but almost before it reached the atmosphere, it was changed to a cry.
She flung herself upon her knees before the boy and took his little, burning hand in hers, pressing her hot lips upon it wildly.
"I have killed him!" she whispered, hoarsely. "Do you hear that, my darling? I have killed him, and in a moment they will come to take your mother away to hang her. But you must not fret, Dick. I knew that it would come sooner or later, and it has come now, but you must not let it worry you, my darling. Oh, Dick! Dick! Dick!"
The words faded into a sob that was terrible.
Leonie laid her hand upon the bowed head gently.
"Think what you are doing, Liz," she said, almost tenderly. "The child is very ill—dying, perhaps, and you are exciting him like this. For his sake, calm yourself, Liz, and listen to me."
"Calm!" echoed the poor woman, as though that were the only word that she had heard. "How can I be calm when I have killed my husband and my child is dying? Oh, girl, do you know what that means to me? Have you any idea what it means to be all alone in the world with a weight like that upon your conscience?"
"Hush!" cried Leonie, earnestly. "You have not killed Ben. You have only stunned him, and if he returns to consciousness to find us still here, I would not give much for any of our lives. Do you hear me, Liz? Do you not see the necessity of our taking Dick away before he returns to life?"
For the first time the woman seemed to be aroused.
She lifted herself and looked wildly about her.
"You are right!" she exclaimed hoarsely. "He may not be dead—child, it would be better if I had killed him, for when he awakens he will kill us all. What shall we do? Help me to think! My brain seems to be on fire!"
"Is there no one whom you know to whom we could go for protection?"
"With him?" cried Liz, pointing to the child. "You must be mad. Do you think any one is going to risk a disease like that for his sake or mine? There is nothing that we can do, but you can go. There is no reason that you should die because we must."
"Do you think I am such a coward that I would leave you here alone? I would rather die with you. No, Liz! If one of us must remain we must all do so, but—I have an idea, Liz. It is a hopeless situation for you anyway, and therefore, it cannot be any worse. Every moment may be precious to us now, and therefore, we must act quickly. We must call upon the police for protection. We must have an officer here and have Ben arrested when he awakens."
"But——"
"There is no time to argue it, Liz. It is a last resort."
"Then you go. I will keep the child."
"No. I must remain. If he were to awaken and find you here without me, he would kill you without the hesitation of a second; but if he should recover during your absence, I could invent some story that would keep him talking until your return. Do not fear for me, Liz, but, for God's sake, hurry!"
For only one second Liz paused; then, with not a glance in the direction of the prostrate man, she murmured a word of blessing upon the head of the girl who had, at the risk of her own life, befriended her, and hastened away.