With a heart that seemed to stand still with dread, Leonie awaited.
Only once she looked at the child. The great eyes were fixed pleadingly upon her, as though beseeching her not to forsake him.
She pressed her hand over them, to close the burning lids.
"Don't fret, Dick!" she said. "Nothing shall harm you, my poor little one, until I have been killed first."
The sound of her own voice, in the terrible stillness that had fallen upon them, was uncanny. She shivered with fright.
She turned from the unfortunate child, and cast a look of dread upon the man beside her, and, to her horror, found the hideous, glaring eyes fixed upon her.
She could not prevent a little shriek of terror. She watched him as though fascinated, while very slowly he arose to his feet, never once removing his terrible, glassy eyes from her face.
It seemed ages until he had gained his feet, and after he had, he still stood glaring at her, slowly rolling up his sleeves in a manner that seemed to paralyze her with horror.
Like a bird that is magnetized into inactivity by the movements of a snake, Leonie sat and watched Ben Mauprat.
Slowly, and showing his teeth in a hideous manner that was peculiar to him, Ben continued to approach, until within a few feet of her he made a sudden spring.
How it was that she escaped him she could never have told, but she became conscious that she had leaped by him, and was standing a few feet away holding the child who was a heavy burden in spite of his being a physical wreck.
But she forgot it. She did not even remember in her fright that she had him in her arms, but stood there clasping him closely to her, panting with terror.
The man turned toward her again, but before he had advanced many inches, she seemed to realize the necessity for immediate action, knowing but too well that his next attempt would not be attended with failure.
Hastily she laid Dick in an old ragged chair and placed herself before it. With cold defiance she lifted her handsome head.
"Now, Ben Mauprat," she cried, her voice ringing out with clear determination, "I am only a weak girl, but I am determined that you shall not touch that boy, and if you do, it shall be over my dead body. You may not know it, but I was never one to threaten uselessly. There is nothing in life that makes it valuable to me, therefore there is no reason why I should not keep my word. But for your own sake listen to me a moment. I have sent Liz out of the room. It will be utterly useless for you to attempt to find her, but if you harm me, she will hand you over to the police within ten minutes. You will not have a possible chance of escape. She is determined that she will save the life of her child, and she knows that upon mine his depends. Now, Ben, listen to reason! You say that you have a purpose to accomplish. You destroy your chance of doing it, and send yourself to the gallows."
She paused, her strength almost deserting her. She was trembling in every limb, but there was little evidence of weakness about her. She seemed like a marble statue imbued with life and unchangeable resolution.
"I shall not send myself to the gallows!" he exclaimed, his eyes blood-shot, either from the blow on the head, or his rage, Leonie could not quite determine which. "I am going to give that boy the beating that I have promised him. I am going to give you one for your interference in my affairs, and then after that I shall settle with Liz, and before I am through with her she will wish she had never been born. Do you understand that, young woman?"
"I understand that you are a very foolish man who are risking your own neck to gratify a miserable spirit of revenge. Ben, there was a time when you were my mother's husband. Because of that connection with one who would have been dear to me had I been old enough to know her, and who was the one sacred thought of all my young life, I plead with you to spare yourself the shame of dying upon the scaffold!"
"You are talking like an idiot. I am a fool that I have listened to you at all, but I am through now. Stand from before that boy! I shall settle with him first and you may come after."
"I will not."
"What, defiance?"
"Anything that you choose to call it, but I say determination. You shall not touch him!"
"Once more, stand aside!"
"And again. I will not!"
"Then take the consequences!"
He strode toward her, his brutal face purple with passion, his heavy fist clinched as though to enforce obedience, but instead of thinking of the words that she had been speaking to him, Leonie had been making a plan of action.
She was too busy thinking how she was to save herself and the boy, whose life seemed to depend upon her, to wonder at the continued absence of Liz.
As she saw Ben coming to her, she sprung aside for the moment, and almost before he realized that she had moved, she was back in her place before Dick again, a broken pitcher filled with water, clasped firmly by the handle in her hand.
As the man approached her, she pitched the contents into his eyes.
With a growl of rage, Ben turned aside, but only for an instant.
With the water still dripping from his face and falling over his clothes, he made a desperate spring upon Leonie!
She lifted the pitcher, and was about to bring it down with all her force upon his head, when the door suddenly opened and Liz entered!
The woman took in the situation at a glance.
A low cry issued from her lips, and a single word. It was:
"Quick!"
A man in the blue uniform and brass buttons of a police officer sprung into the room.
With his fist poised in the air, Ben turned.
He understood what had happened, and Leonie's meaning.
He fell back with an awful oath.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, savagely. "This house is mine, and I command you to get out of it!"
"I am going to do so at once," answered the officer, serenely, "and you are going with me!"
"I think you will miss your reckoning in that!" answered Ben, bracing himself in a manner that the officer understood at once to mean fight.
The policeman lifted his club threateningly.
"I don't want to have to use any force with you, my man," he said calmly, but with every evidence of meaning precisely what he said; "but if I must do so, you will find that I know how to use a club with good effect. This woman has sworn out a warrant for your arrest. I have never been sent out yet for a man that I did not take him back with me, dead or alive, and I do not propose to make you an exception to the rule. My record shall remain unbroken. Now, are you ready to go with me quietly, or must I use force?"
"You can use whatever you please," replied Ben, looking over the man's shoulder at Liz; "but before you do it, I have a little debt to settle."
He paused for a moment as though considering, then spoke to Liz:
"So I owe this to you, do I?"
"It was to save Dick's life, Ben," answered the poor woman, hopelessly.
"Oh, was it? Well, I hope, as you have taken so much trouble to save it, you may enjoy it. You have played the devil with me, and I have never allowed any one to do that yet without giving them what they deserved. I am sorry that I have not time to at least allow you one prayer, but it is impossible on this occasion."
Almost before he had ceased speaking, he had drawn a revolver from his pocket, and pointing it at the woman's head, pulled the trigger.
Accustomed as he was to such scenes, the officer had not contemplated such an act upon the part of the man, but Leonie seemed to understand perfectly what was coming.
Perhaps it was the suggestion of fear, since cowardice often makes one more wary than the coolest bravery.
As the pistol was leveled, she threw out the pitcher that she held and struck the man's arm, sending it in an acute angle.
The bullet passed, perhaps, not two inches above Liz's head, but, as the smoke cleared away, Ben saw her standing there unharmed.
What he might have done to Leonie under the circumstances can better be imagined than described, but before he had an opportunity to allow his fiendishness swing, he was caught by the officer.
With a foul oath Ben turned upon him.
One blow from the revolver across the man's head cut the flesh until the blood streamed across his eyes, and the next instant an escape might have been effected that would have cost them all their lives, but that Leonie seized the piece of wood that had served Liz so well, and planted another blow upon the back of Mauprat's head.
It did not stun him, but brought him to his knees, giving the officer time to recover himself.
Before Ben had staggered to his feet, the "bracelets" were slipped over his wrists, and he found himself powerless.
Even then his efforts at escape did not cease. He made a leap in the direction of the fire-escape, but before he could reach it, the burly hand of the officer had him in a vise-like grip.
"If you try that again," he exclaimed hoarsely, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of one hand, "I'll settle you with this club! Do you understand me? I never beat a man if I can help it, but when he forces me into it, he never wants another from the same source. Now come on!"
He gave Ben a jerk which nearly upset him, but if he expected quiet yielding he was mistaken.
Ben turned, even pinioned as he was, to show fight, but a single blow from the club was all that he required.
The officer jerked him to the window, and throwing it up, put his head out and blew his whistle shrilly.
With one hand grasping his club firmly and the other Ben's collar, he waited.
It did not require many minutes until the call for help was answered and the other officer who had been summoned came up-stairs.
"I did not want to risk an escape," the first man said by way of explanation. "He is one of the toughest customers that I have come across in many a day."
With one on either side they were leading him away, when Ben turned to Liz.
"You have escaped me this time," he said savagely, "but I will have my revenge, if I am forced to break through prison walls to get it. And as for you"—turning to Leonie——
"Shut up!" commanded the officer. Then to the two women: "You need not be afraid. He'll get a good long spell for this, and when he gets out he won't be so fond of this sort of thing. You need not let it worry you in the least degree. Now come on, and mind you step quickly."
The handling that he received was not of the gentlest, and as the officer closed the door behind him Liz crept up and touched Leonie gently.
"What are we to do?" she gasped.
"You must not fear," answered Leonie bravely. "There are many things that we both can do, now that there is no longer any danger from him. But the first thing is to attend to Dick, poor little Dick. You must forget Ben, Liz, and remember only that Dick needs you."
"And you?"
"You may be quite sure that I shall never desert you while you want me. I have no mother, Liz, no one on this earth any more than you have, and after I have accomplished my mission we will go away and live together, if you wish, getting what happiness we can out of the life that we shall make for ourselves."
"God bless you, my noble friend. I think you have already saved me from a madhouse."
A nebulous gleam of light from an almost exhausted candle fell upon Leonie and Liz as they sat silently in the room where Dick lay in a disturbed slumber.
He had been placed upon the almost comfortable bed that Ben Mauprat had used as his exclusive resting-place, and appeared more comfortable than they could have hoped.
An old-fashioned clock upon the mantelpiece tolled the hour of two, and, with a shiver of horror and dread that she could not control, Liz drew nearer to Leonie.
"You go to bed," she whispered in a tone that would not disturb the child. "You must be almost dead!"
"I am not in the least sleepy," answered Leonie. "You go. You will need all your strength to-morrow."
Liz shook her head.
"I couldn't sleep. I don't feel as if I ever could again!" she answered, drearily.
"Then let us both sit up. I think he is better, don't you?"
The question was asked with a nod of the head to indicate Dick, and Liz glanced in his direction eagerly.
"God knows I hope so," she said, with some degree of color warming her pale cheeks. "I should go mad if he died!"
"You must not say that, Liz. You must not rebel against the will of the Lord. Why should you wish to keep him here for your sake, when your own reason must tell you that it would be for his happiness to be in Heaven?"
"You don't know what it is! You don't know how alone I should be, and how I love him!" cried the woman, passionately.
"Do I not?" answered Leonie, sadly. "There was one to me as near almost as he to you. I loved him with all the strength of my nature, and I lost him. You may be sure that you have a sympathy for me which only a similar experience can bring."
"Tell me of it."
"I cannot. The wound is too new. Liz, you told me that you were married to Ben Mauprat thirty years ago, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And that he deserted you and married another woman. Was there ever any divorce that enabled him to do that legally?"
"No. He married her knowing that she never could be his wife so long as I lived. He was not then what he is now. You would never believe that he was the same man, nor me the same woman, for that matter. We had a daughter that Ben was mad about. He seemed to love her as he never loved anything before or since, and she died. He blamed me with her death, when my own heart was breaking. He said that it was my neglect that had killed her. We had a terrible quarrel, he beat me and left me. I did not hear anything more of him for years, then one day I heard that he was married. I searched for the truth and found it. He was married to a young woman whose name was Lena. I saw her, and I heard him call her name. They had a child, a little girl, but Ben never seemed to care for her as he had done for our little one. I went to Ben and tried to persuade him to come back to me, but he only laughed at me. I did not tell the poor young thing that he called his wife the lie with which he had deceived her. What would have been the good? It was too late then to save her the disgrace that would have been upon her, and she was a beautiful, delicate girl. Soon after that Ben committed a crime and was put in the penitentiary. Before he was released she died. I knew that the child had been adopted by some wealthy people, but I never saw Lena again after that night. The girl who told us who you were was the child. She is his own daughter."
"Are you sure of that?" asked Leonie, endeavoring to control her agitation.
"Of course I am! He has told me so often."
"But is there no other proof than just his words?"
"I have seen letters from her, making the acknowledgment virtually."
"Have you them?"
"No, but I think I could find some of them easily enough!"
"Liz, that girl is a thief!"
"I know it! Her own father made a thief of her!"
"If it had not been in her naturally, he could never have done it! She would have died first! Do you think any one could ever have made a thief of me?"
"That was why Ben broke Dick's back; because the poor child refused to steal!"
"But Evelyn Chandler did not refuse, because I saw her do it! Liz, the only man who has ever stood my friend, the man to whom I owe a debt that never can be paid, is engaged to marry Evelyn Chandler, and I have sworn to save him. There is but one way to do it, and that is to prove her parentage, and the crime that she has committed! God knows if I could give my life and save Lynde Pyne, I had rather do it, but that would do no good! It would but insure the sacrifice."
"Lynde Pyne! Lynde Pyne, did you say?" asked Liz, in a whisper, leaning excitedly toward Leonie.
"Yes! What do you know of him?"
"Is not he the man who expected to be his uncle's heir, but his uncle left all his money to Luis Kingsley instead?"
"I don't know, but I think now that you mention it that I have heard something of that kind!"
"Yes, that is who it is! Ben knows where the will is that was made after the one that gave Luis Kingsley the money. It gives everything to Lynde Pyne! I have heard Ben and his daughter speak of it frequently. They had it planned that she was to marry Lynde Pyne, and then the will was to be produced. It makes him one of the wealthiest men in the state."
"I see it all now."
"All what?"
"Very many things that I could not understand before. Have you any idea where that will is?"
"No. But it must be somewhere in Ben's things, because the producing of it depended upon him exclusively. His daughter wanted it, but Ben would not let her have it. I am not sure, though, whether it is here or in Luis Kingsley's office."
"What did Ben have to do with him?"
"He made a pretense of working there, but he was not in the office more than half an hour during the week, and then only when he wanted to be. Luis Kingsley knew that Ben had him in his power, and he did not dare oppose Ben. Ben played the respectable because of his position down there."
"Liz, listen to me. You have said that you owed me a debt of gratitude for what I did for Dick to-night. For myself, Heaven knows I would never ask anything of you, but would be glad enough if there were anything that I could do to make life more endurable to you. But, Liz, there is another! One who is as dear to me as life itself, and for his sake I ask that you help me to prove this. Help me to gain possession of that will, to prove the unworthiness of Evelyn Chandler, and I will stand by you and bless you until life leaves me! Promise me that you will do this, Liz."
"I promise with all my heart. I would do it, even if I knew that I should never see you again, for the kindness that you have already shown my poor boy, and for which God will surely bless you. I don't know exactly how we are to find the will, but I do know about the proof concerning Ben's daughter, and I can get that for you before morning if you want it."
They were interrupted by the sound of a groan, and rising, Leonie glided noiselessly to the bed. The boy was awake, and in his eyes could be plainly seen the presence of death.
Leonie raised him in her arms. Her heart ached for the grief that she knew the unfortunate mother must endure, and in the sympathy that was aroused she forgot her own matters for the time.
"What is it, Dick?" she asked tenderly. "Is there anything that you want?"
The suffering child tried to speak, but the painful effort ended in a moan.
The glassy eyes wandered to Liz's face and remained there as though in dumb pleading.
The woman came forward and knelt beside him.
"Are you suffering, my boy?" she asked, endeavoring to strangle the sobs that arose in her throat.
He made a gesture of annoyance.
With all his frail strength he was striving to say something, but the words died upon his lips before a sound was articulated.
He beat the air with his small hands madly, as though unable to bear it.
"Is it water that you want, dear?" asked Leonie. "If so, nod your head!"
He shook it as vigorously as his weakening strength would allow.
"Is it anything that you want?"
He indicated the negative. Another violent effort was followed by the word:
"Will!"
"You mean that you know where the will is?"
He nodded in the affirmative.
"Well, never mind it now, dear. That will do when you are well and strong. Now you must take the medicine that the doctor has left, and——"
"No!" he gasped. "No use. Good-bye—mother. It is all—over now, and he can't—beat me—again. The will—is—in——"
He caught his throat with his hands and seemed trying to tear the words from it, but a fit of strangling ensued that was horrible.
"Go for the doctor, Liz. Quick!" cried Leonie, ghastly with fear.
Dick put out his hand.
Once again he endeavored to speak, but it was followed by one gulp that turned him purple in the face.
Liz uttered a groan of anguish.
He lifted his eyes once pleadingly; then settled himself back after a long sigh in Leonie's arms.
For many moments she held him closely; then with an expression of terror, placed her ear near his heart.
She lifted him tenderly and laid him back upon the bed.
"What is it?" cried Liz, hoarsely. "Not—dead!"
Leonie laid her arms around the woman's neck.
"Remember that he is with God," she said gently. "In wishing to resist the will of Heaven you wish to place him back here again where——"
There was no need for the sentence to be completed, for it would have been uttered to deaf ears.
Liz had fainted.
Unconsciousness was the kindest thing that Heaven could have sent, for it relieved her for the time of the terrible grief of knowing that she had lost the only being who held her to life.
Utterly helpless and alone, Leonie left the room, and running down-stairs, endeavored vainly to find help, then went back feeling that she could not leave the living and the dead together under circumstances so ghastly as those.
She hurried back to the room where she had left them.
It was a piteous scene that greeted her.
Upon the floor Liz sat with the body of the boy clasped to her breast, rocking him to and fro while she sung to him the lullaby with which she had soothed him to sleep in infancy.
"Hush!" she whispered, lifting her finger warningly as Leonie entered the room. "The baby is asleep. He has not been well, and you must not wake him."
Acting upon an impulse, Leonie sprung to her side and took the child from her.
"What are you thinking of?" she gasped.
But before she could lay the child upon the bed, she felt ten long fingers close over her throat from the back.
She endeavored to cry out, but they clung all the more closely, closing tighter and tighter until she was as helpless as the child upon the bed.
Then for the first time she seemed to understand.
She was in the hands of a maniac.
As the terrible thought came to Leonie, with all its frightful import, she endeavored to conceive some plan by which she could save herself, knowing that upon the quickness of her action alone depended her chance of life.
And life never appears so intensely sweet as when we are looking the loss of it squarely in the face.
Yet what was she to do?
She knew that she had as well undertake to move the fingers of a hand cast in iron as those upon her throat.
It required not an instant of time for those thoughts to flash briefly through her head, but the time seemed ages to her strained nerves.
Still, under all the excitement and horrors of the night, her mind had never seemed so clear, so perfectly capable of coping with positions that appeared hopeless.
Endeavoring to restrain her breathing, so that she could endure the choking as long as possible, she threw a quick glance about her. Within reach was the pistol that the officer had torn from Ben's hand, and had, in his subsequent haste, evidently forgotten.
She shuddered as she caught sight of it, but at that moment the fingers resumed a closer hold.
She gave herself a fierce wrench, and endeavored to turn herself in the terrible grasp, but she was like a piece of metal held by a trip-hammer.
Under the strain of hideous necessity, she put out her hand and grasped the revolver.
In it she saw the only hope of life, but what a frightful hope it was! Still there was not an instant to lose.
It seems to require a hundred words in cold type to describe the action of a second, for certainly it was not much longer than that before the little weapon of death was clasped firmly in Leonie's hands.
Unaccustomed as she was to the handling of such instruments, and further affected by the terror of the moment, her finger came first in contact with the trigger.
It was self-acting, and before she realized that it was really in her possession, there was a frightful explosion, and the next moment she felt the hands drop from her throat.
The concussion put the light out, and she was in absolute darkness, with death and lunacy!
It was not an enviable position, most particularly as she had no idea of the extent of the damage done by the pistol.
Her excitement was almost unbearable.
She turned in Liz's direction.
Even in the darkness she could not fail to see the phosphorescent glare from the wild eyes of the woman that glittered like those of a cat.
With a quick dodge, Leonie passed her, sprawling over a chair in the darkness, but with the dexterity of mania Liz followed her.
A chase ensued that for dramatic horror could not be excelled, and yet, perhaps, the interest was felt most by the participator who was conscious of the terrible danger in which she was placed.
She still had the revolver clasped in her hand, being pretty sure that at least three chambers were still full, but that was to be used only as a last resort.
Then, to her surprise, Liz paused. She could see her quite distinctly by the glare in her eyes.
"Liz," she said, gently, "don't you know who I am? Why do you want to hurt me, dear? I am Leonie! Leonie, whom Dick loved, and who loves both you and him! Don't you know that, Liz?"
The woman laughed hoarsely.
"You can't deceive me!" she answered in a tone that was horrible. "You are Ben, and you have come to beat my poor boy when he is dying! But you shall not do it! Do you hear that? I have been a good wife to you, but it is ended now! You shall not beat my child again, and in order to keep you from it, I am going to kill you!"
"Listen to my voice, Liz, and let that convince you that I am not Ben. Indeed you are wrong, dear. Don't you know how we were talking just now about the will that was made, and you said that Ben knew where it was? Don't you remember how poor little Dick tried to tell us something about it? I am Leonie, Liz; can't you understand that, dear?"
She shook her head.
"You are trying to deceive me, but you can't do it."
"Then if I promise you that I will not touch Dick!"
"You can't fool me; I knew you were Ben, but you thought I would not recognize you in the darkness. I am going to kill you, then I am going to take my boy and go away where no one will ever know. Oh, I have thought of it often, often! I have all my plans made, and when they find you they will never suspect that I had anything to do with it. I have always known that it would come to this sooner or later, and I have thought many times of how I would do it—just with this long, thin knife that I have got in my hand. It will go to your heart so easily that I don't think that any one will ever see the wound that it will make. I don't want to hurt you any more than I can, for I used to love you, Ben; but I am going to free Dick. Do you hear, Ben? I hope you are ready to die, for as there is a God your time has come!"
There in the darkness, with only those glittering eyes visible, and the faintest outline of her surroundings, even with a revolver clasped in her hand, the position was one of almost incalculable danger to Leonie, who knew as little about a revolver as a child.
Her teeth chattered with terror.
She saw the woman creeping toward her again, and a wild desire to escape if the most desperate chances were required, took possession of her. Her heart seemed almost to stop its beating.
She turned and fled, careless of direction, and the next instant tripped over something, tumbling to the floor with a crash!
The pistol flew from her hand.
Feeling that every moment was precious, she groped about for it, but it was not to be found. Then she felt the brush of a woman's skirt over her.
Liz bent downward.
Leonie believed that her hour had come, but with a last struggle for precious life, she caught the woman's feet at the ankles and upset her. The respite was only momentary.
She readily understood that an attempt to cope with insanity was but another form of madness, and leaping to her feet, she approached the window.
Her resolve was desperate. She would trust to a jump in preference to a lunatic.
Then at the last moment, Heaven seemed to come to her rescue.
As she threw up the sash, she caught sight of a rope that was attached to the sill, for some purpose of Ben's own. Hastily securing the end in a knot around her waist, she sprung upon the sill and let herself down.
She did not pause to consider the danger. It was alluring beside that which she had but just escaped.
Down, down she went through the gloom of the night into the street, but before she reached the pavement, she felt a heavy hand laid upon her.
Rough as the grasp was, it felt like the hand of Heaven to her.
"You young rascal!" a voice exclaimed. "What are you doing leaving a house in that fashion in the dead of night?"
Leonie grasped the hand and shook it. There were tears in her voice and in her eyes, tears that were the result of hysteria.
"I have been fighting with a maniac," she exclaimed, hastily. "For God's sake look!"
She had glanced up at the window through which she had escaped, and as she did so the street lamp showed her the figure of a woman standing in it.
"Don't jump, Liz! Don't, for the love of Heaven!" she shrieked, wildly. "You will kill yourself! There is no rope to save you, and there would not be a chance! Oh, Liz, for God's sake go back!"
But the voice only seemed alluring to the woman upon the sill.
She jumped from it back into the room, and as Leonie thought she had listened to her warning, she saw her appear there again with something clasped in her arms.
Before the girl could open her mouth through the horror upon her, there was a wild scream of laughter, and the next moment Liz had leaped into the air, with the burden still held closely to her.
Breathless, ghastly with hideous fear, Leonie grasped the hand of the man who stood in silence beside her.
People in the neighborhood who had heard the wild cry that the stillness of the night made all the more shrill and fierce, put their heads out of the window to see the cause, and in a moment the street was crowded with men, boys and even women, some drawing on their coats and others not even taking that precaution against the dampness of the night.
Then some one with more presence of mind than the rest summoned an ambulance.
The police arrived, then the ambulance, and with tenderness and care the woman and child were placed within.
"Is she dead?" whispered Leonie to the ambulance surgeon.
"No," he answered, kindly. "She is not dead, but it might be kinder to her if she were. The child is dead. Is she your mother, my boy?"
It was the first time that Leonie had thought of her clothes, and her face colored slightly as she answered:
"No, sir, not my mother, but my friend! Her husband was arrested to-night and taken to jail for trying to kill her child. He died of——"
But the surgeon had no time for details. It was necessary to get the woman to the hospital as soon as possible, and giving the address to Leonie, he gave the order to the driver.
The man who had first arrived upon the scene turned to Leonie.
"If you will come home with me," he said, "I will see that you have a place to sleep to-night."
"You are very kind, sir," she answered, "but I think I cannot go."
"You do not mean that you will remain in that house alone?"
But Leonie remembered the letters that she must secure that night if ever, and replied bravely:
"I shall not be afraid. There can be no danger now. Good-night, sir, and thank you."
She turned and left him, after taking his address, and once more entered the house where her experiences had been so alarming.
To a person of the strongest nerves the prospect was not a pleasant one, but at least there was nothing to harm her now.
With that consolation she entered the hall and closed the door behind her.
It was with no gentle touch that the officers led Ben Mauprat to the station.
They had almost reached it when, as they were turning a sudden corner, they were met by a man—evidently a gentleman, from his dress and appearance.
An expression of gladness lighted Ben's features.
"You, Mr. Kingsley!" he exclaimed. "May I have a word with you?"
The gentleman, handsome in appearance as Apollo, paused.
"What's the matter, Mauprat?" he asked.
Then turning to the policemen:
"Not a drunk and disorderly, is it?"
"Worse than that, sir," answered the man who had performed the arrest. "He tried to kill his wife and child. Shot at her in my presence."
"Why, how was that, Ben? You see, the man is in my employ, and I am naturally interested in him."
"Will you come to the station house with us, sir, if there is anything you wish to ask?" said one of them. "He has proven himself a dangerous customer, as you can see by that cut over my eye, and I want to get him locked up before I am forced to crack his skull."
Luis Kingsley made a gesture of acquiescence, and silently followed the lead of the officers.
While the entry was being made, Mauprat spoke aside to Kingsley.
"You had better bail me!" he said; "but failing in that, there is a message that I want you to take now—to-night, sure! There must be no mistake about that, for upon it more than you think depends. You must go to Miss Evelyn Chandler, and tell her what has happened to me. You must tell her that Liz and Leonie Cuyler are at my house alone, and that—I am afraid something will happen to them."
"Where is it that you live?"
"She knows," replied Ben, curtly, "and she will understand what I mean. Do you think that you can get me out to-night?"
"The chances are that I cannot, particularly as you resisted arrest."
"Well, don't let it be later than to-morrow. Be sure that you deliver the message at once, for upon it depends more than I can tell you. You promise?"
"I do. Give me the address."
It was given and jotted down in the Russia leather note-book that Luis Kingsley carried, while Ben Mauprat was locked up.
Mr. Kingsley made no very strenuous efforts to get bail accepted, but left the station-house after ascertaining the exact charges upon which Ben had been arrested. He lighted a cigar and walked leisurely down the street.
"Now, who is Miss Evelyn Chandler, and what in thunder did he want me to deliver that absurd message to her for?" he asked of himself, mentally. "Hanged if I know whether I ought to do it or not. If I only knew where he lives, I don't think I should bother about notifying Miss Chandler at all, but as I don't, and the chances very decidedly against me finding out, I had better keep my promise. If Miss Chandler goes there, I might follow her and thereby put myself in possession of the papers with which that man has so often threatened me. Let me see. Why, this is the address of Leonard Chandler, one of the wealthiest men in the city. It can't be that this is his daughter to whom Ben Mauprat has sent a message. It seems to me that there is the promise of something sensational here. At all events it is worth following up. I most decidedly shall keep my promise to Ben and call upon the young lady."
There was no longer any hesitation on the part of the young man, but hailing a passing hansom, he leaped in, gave the address, and went rolling over the cobble-stones as rapidly as the bony horse could carry him.
He glanced up at the massive brown-stone front, before which he was deposited, with considerable surprise.
"What in the name of all that is wonderful could Ben Mauprat have to do with a young woman living in a house like this?" he asked of himself.
Then a smile flitted over his features.
"She is one of the servants," he told himself. "The name is one of those curious accidents with which one often meets. I wonder what the people will think of me for presenting myself at their front door to inquire for a servant? Well, if the worst comes I can excuse myself on the plea of philanthropy. Ha! ha! that is something after the order of the devil quoting Scripture!"
He ran up the stoop and rang the bell loudly.
"Is Miss Evelyn Chandler in?" he asked of the servant.
"Yes, sir. Will you walk in?"
He was ushered into the drawing-room, where the servant stood waiting for his card.
Kingsley put the idea out of his head that Miss Chandler was a servant, and handed his card to the man.
"Will you say to Miss Chandler that I am a messenger from another, and that I should appreciate an immediate interview as a favor?" he said. "Assure her that I will not detain her five minutes."
The servant bowed and left him. Kingsley looked about him.
"There is a mystery in this," he said to himself, "that I must solve. What could that old drunken tramp have to do with people like these? Evidently I must keep my wits about me."
His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Miss Chandler. Kingsley caught his breath hard at the vision of beauty she presented.
She was clad in a gown of dead black, above which her bare shoulders gleamed like marble.
She came toward him swiftly, and he had scarcely recovered himself, when she stood beside him.
"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, Mr. Kingsley?" she asked, referring to the card in her hand for the name.
"I—— The fact is, I am placed in a most awkward position, Miss Chandler!" he exclaimed, flushing furiously. "I was made the unwilling messenger of a man who has gotten himself into trouble. He gave me a message to deliver to Miss Evelyn Chandler, but you could not by any possible chance be the lady, though this is the address he gave."
"Perhaps you are not mistaken after all. There are a number of unfortunate people in whom I am interested. If you would kindly give me the name of the man I might be able to tell you whether the person meant was myself!"
"His name is Ben Mauprat, a thoroughly worthless fellow, but one in whom I have been interested myself. He——"
"I think the message is intended for me, sir!" interrupted Evelyn, with perfect composure. "You say that Mauprat has gotten himself into trouble?"
"Yes; a trouble that is more serious than he thinks, perhaps. He is charged with attempted murder!"
"Indeed!"
For all the coolness of her utterance a frightful pallor overspread the face of the beautiful girl, that seemed to threaten unconsciousness.
Kingsley took a step toward her as though to offer assistance, but she recovered herself and smiled.
"Those things are so dreadful for a lady to contemplate," he said, deprecatingly. "I am sorry to have shocked you, Miss Chandler."
"I beg that you will give it no consideration whatever. Do you know who it was that he attempted to kill?"
"His wife, I think."
"I suppose so. Those men always do try to injure the ones who are most necessary to them. And what message was it that he sent me?"
"He requested me to say that Liz and Leonie Cuyler were at his house alone, and that he was afraid that something would happen to them."
Again the lovely face grew ghastly, but that never-failing control was exerted successfully, and Miss Chandler laughed outright.
"I suppose he wants me to go there to see that nothing shall befall them, and that, too, after he has tried to take the life of poor Liz. Is that not like one of those men? It was so kind of you, Mr. Kingsley, to take all this trouble. I am very much obliged to you. It must really be dreadful for those two poor women to be in that house alone under the fearful circumstances."
"It is nothing for me, I assure you. On the contrary, I shall be but too happy if you will make any further use of me that you desire. I see that you are dressed for a reception. If it would be of any service to you, it would give me pleasure to go there in your place and remain during the night if they should require my presence."
"I don't know how to thank you, but I think I shall go myself for a moment and perhaps bring them home. There is really nothing further that you can do, but be assured that what you have done is most thoroughly appreciated. Good-night."
He was so evidently dismissed, that there was not the slightest excuse for his remaining longer, and reluctantly he was compelled to take his leave.
Something in her manner, as she left him, seemed to attract him, for the door had scarcely closed upon him, than he paused with a curious expression upon his face.
"How cleverly she avoided giving me that address!" he muttered. "Why should she have turned so pale over the fact that Ben Mauprat was in trouble? and how is it that a young lady in her sphere would allow a man of Ben's stamp to call upon her so freely? As sure as fate there is something wrong! I should like nothing better than to get that young woman in my power, for I have not seen so pretty, so magnificent a creature in many days.
"At least, it can do no harm to watch, and, my pretty Evelyn, you do not leave that house this evening without my knowing every foot of ground you touch."
With which commendable resolution, Luis Kingsley stationed himself upon the opposite side of the street in the shadow, and took up his vigils.
As Miss Chandler left the drawing-room she encountered her adoptive father.
"Are you really ready for once on time?" he asked. "I am glad of that, as I have a special reason for wishing to be early."
"You surely would not think of going yet? Why, there will be no one there at all."
"That is precisely the reason that I wish to go at once. Now, you know perfectly well that there is nothing that puts me so thoroughly out of humor as contradiction, so for Heaven's sake! leave it off for once and come immediately! You will find that they are expecting us early, and besides that, some one always has to be the first!"
Seeing that Leonard Chandler was in no mood to stand opposition, Miss Chandler uttered a sigh and ran lightly up the stairs.
"What shall I do?" she asked of herself, when she was securely in her own room. "Ben surely meant by his message that I was not to leave those two alone there; but even should I go, what could I do against them both?
"Plainly there is but one course, and that is to go to the reception, slip out when I return, and go to that house.
"I don't know what Ben meant, but he certainly did not send me that message for fun. I cannot see what he expected me to do! That is what puzzles me! What in Heaven's name has ever made him such a fool? He has risked everything, and perhaps lost me the stakes for which I have ventured so much. Curse him! I knew he would do this sooner or later, but there was no chance to act without him.
"And now, to please that old fool down-stairs I have got to go to that reception and smile and chatter while my thoughts are occupied with the hideous danger that threatens me.
"If I could but see Ben for five minutes and know how things stand! But that is not even to be thought of! I am afraid of—— Heavens! I dare not think what!"
It was not a pleasant contemplation, that of facing the dreary, desolate house where her experiences of that evening had been so frightful, and it was with a shiver of horror that Leonie turned from the door which she had closed upon herself.
She stood for a moment irresolutely, her womanly cowardice fighting with her strong desire to gain possession of the papers that she believed the house to contain, feeling that if she left it until the morrow that the opportunity might be forever lost; yet it was a hard fight.
She was but a girl, weak of courage when she had time in which to think of fear, and the occurrences of the evening were not calculated to eradicate nervousness, yet with a determination that was singularly strong, she put fear from her and walked up the stairs.
All about her was in utter darkness, save for a ray of light that seemed to creep disconsolately through the window by which she had made her escape.
She looked at it with a shudder, remembering the terrible tragedy that had followed her exit through it, but not daring to give herself time for reflection, she began a search for matches.
She knew where the candle had stood at the time the pistol put it out, and groping her way through the gloom she succeeded in finding it.
There were a few matches upon the waiter of the holder. The pale gleam cast a fitful glow over the room that was uncanny. By it the objects appeared ghostly, and she drew back with a low cry of fright as her foot struck the straw of which Dick's bed had been composed.
She smiled at her own timidity when she saw what it really was, but her courage was of that watery character that threatened to desert her at each moment.
She did not dare to even trust herself to the inactivity of waiting for the break of day, but set about looking for the papers of which Liz had spoken, and which she knew must exist somewhere. But where was she to begin to look? She glanced about her helplessly.
"I feel quite sure they are not in the secretary down-stairs!" she muttered. "There was not a drawer in it locked, and surely Ben would not leave things like that about carelessly. However, there was that letter that I read, and which I still have. No, they were not there, or I should have discovered at least some trace of them. Let me see!"
Carefully she gazed about her, then realizing that she could hope for nothing without making a beginning, she began a thorough investigation of the premises, hampered by the scarcity of the light.
Behind boxes, in closets, between the pictures and back of an old chromo that adorned the wall, under everything that promised a place of concealment, she looked, but all to no purpose.
She was about to give it up in despair, when, as a last resort, she tore the clothing from the bed upon which Dick had died.
Between the mattress and the cords that were drawn across the bed in lieu of either springs or slats, she saw an old tin box!
With a cry of joy, she seized it.
The box was locked, but after a delay that was most exasperating in her excited state, Leonie succeeded in breaking the lock with a hammer.
As the lid opened, she grasped the papers within, and seating herself at a table, began looking over them eagerly.
There were extracts from old, yellow newspapers, photographs that seemed to be the relics of ages, and letters by the score.
From the contents of the box, one would have thought the man possessed of a mania for preserving such things, a thought in which Leonie would have concurred before she had completed her self-imposed task.
There were letters from confederates, letters from friends, letters from his mother, a few from Liz, and underneath, as though those were the things that he wanted to preserve most, she found another box of paper.
She opened it eagerly.
Passing over the smaller papers, she opened a letter, addressed in the stylish penmanship which she knew belonged to Miss Chandler.
Breathlessly she read:
"Sir,—I have just read your letter delivered by special messenger. The surprise to me has been so painful that I scarcely know what I ought to say; but if you will meet me to-night at the address that I shall append, I will have thought the matter over. I understand but too clearly your reason for coming forward to claim the child whom you deserted in her infancy, because you know that now I am the adopted daughter of a wealthy man who knows nothing of the disgrace that the penitentiary attached to my parents, and you think that I shall be only too willing to purchase your silence at any cost. Perhaps you are right. We shall see. At all events, meet me as I have indicated, and if you have any regard for your own child whatever, be careful that this letter does not fall into the hands of any one.
"Yours regretfully,
"E. C."
With a thrill of satisfaction Leonie laid the letter aside, apart from the others that had been rejected, and took up another.
A single paragraph from it read:
"You have made me a thief. Were you not a fiend your conscience would burn you to death for so foul a thing, but instead you are going to force me into the cell of a convict, the same, perhaps, that held both you and my mother. I am half inclined to believe that Leonard Chandler already suspects me. Should he find his suspicions to be true, there is nothing upon this earth that could save me. Your revenue would cease. I know that it would be useless to plead with your sympathy for me, but for your own sake let your demands at least be within reason."
Then again:
"Your suggestion about Lynde Pyne is a stroke of genius. With several millions at his command he will be worthy of the hand of your illustrious daughter. Keep hold of the will and trust the rest to me."
Scarcely able to control her excitement, Leonie read the letters through.
"Surely that will be enough!" she exclaimed, her expression almost fierce. "I will take copies of these, I will show them to her, assuring her that the originals are in my possession, then surely she will not still refuse to abandon her plan of marrying Lynde Pyne. I can then place the will where the rightful heir can be restored and—go away."
The last words were scarcely more than a sob, but she resolutely closed her throat upon it, and turned to her work.
She began to look over them promiscuously.
First came several that amounted to nothing as far as she was concerned, then followed some smaller ones. The yellow one that she had in her hand was read twice.
It was the marriage certificate between Elizabeth Johnson and Benjamin Mauprat, dated thirty-two years before.
There was another one of the marriage of Eleanor Cuyler and Benjamin Mauprat dated between seven and eight years later, but across the face of it was written in Ben's own ungainly scrawl the words in red ink:
"An experiment in bigamy. For the edification of my daughter Evelyn. To be presented after my death, or immediately before."
There was a copy of the certificate of the birth of Evelyn Mauprat, and also another copy that was perhaps of more interest than all to Leonie.
It was the one of her own birth—"Leonie Pyne, daughter of Roger and Eleanor Pyne!"
How her heart beat as she read the words, knowing that she was a legitimate child!
After a long look she put it aside, and turned her attention entirely to looking for the will.
She found it at last at the bottom of the box, wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, and opening it began to read:
"Know ye all men by these presents, that——"
Then unable, through feminine curiosity, to wait further, she looked at the signature. It was clear enough, and duly witnessed: "Roger Pyne."
She could scarcely control her excitement as she read it.
Roger Pyne!
And Roger Pyne was her father!
She sat for some time with the will in her hand, unable to see the letters because of her trembling; then by a tremendous effort she controlled herself, and read it through to the end.
It stated clearly and concisely that all other wills made by him were revoked, and that he had discovered the reports brought to him by his nephew, Luis Kingsley, about Lynde Pyne to be utterly and entirely false, and that in consideration of the evil character which it showed the said Luis Kingsley to possess, he desired that it should be known that he made Lynde Pyne heir to all his estates, real and personal, cutting Luis Kingsley off with the proverbial dollar.
Then after it had been read and re-read, the will dropped into the girl's lap, and her eyes gazed dreamily from the window.
It was her father who had made that will, her father who had died believing that the woman he had made his wife was a bigamist.
Her father who had died in ignorance even of her birth.
She knew enough of law to know that all she would be required to do would be to produce that marriage certificate that was in her possession, together with the record of her birth, to break that will, having all those millions come to her; but the thought brought her no pleasure.
Even if she had desired to take from Lynde Pyne what his uncle had given him, she would be forced to make public her mother's disgrace in order to do that, and not all the money in the universe could have tempted her to even consider it.
Her duty was clear enough.
She must face Evelyn Chandler with the proofs in her possession; she must know beyond a doubt that the engagement between her and Lynde Pyne was broken, she must restore the will to the one most interested and then——
Her work would be accomplished, and for the sake of her mother's memory she must go away where the secret could be preserved.
It was not a pleasant prospect; and now that she felt her mission was about at an end, the desolation and loneliness of her position struck her with greater force than it ever had since that morning when she knew that her single friend had left her forever.
There, in her hands, were all the proofs that she needed; and as the thought came that there was no longer a necessity for bravery, a long, deep sob seemed to come straight from her heart. She bowed her head and sobbed.
But in the midst of her yielding to grief, a sudden sound attracted her, there in that silent house, where it seemed that even the noise of a mouse would sound deafening.
She straightened herself suddenly, and clasping her hands above her heart, listened.
There could be no mistake about it!
It was a footstep, clear and distinct, coming stealthily up the uncarpeted stairs.
For a moment her heart seemed to stand still; then, springing up, she dashed to the door.
Quivering with fright, she undertook to fasten it and bar it against entrance; but before she could succeed, a veiled figure, spectral under the light of the pale candle, stood before her, preventing the action.
For some moments it seemed to Leonie as though the figure that stood before her could be nothing human.
The very blood seemed to freeze in her veins. A pallor that had the appearance of death crept over her face, and a trembling seized her that seemed to shake her in every limb.
But it was only for a moment.
The veiled woman stepped forward and uncovered her face.
"You!" gasped Leonie. "How came you here at this hour, and what do you want?"
"I came by way of the street-door, and I want to see Liz!" answered Evelyn Chandler, coolly. "Where is she?"
"She was taken to the hospital more than an hour ago."
"And you were here alone?"
"I was until you came!"
With nervous irritation Miss Chandler threw her eye over the apartment.
It rested upon the chair whereon Leonie had left the box with the papers scattered about, some having fallen upon the floor, others lay on the side of the bed where Dick had died.
With a low cry, Miss Chandler sprung toward them.
"And in the absence of the members of the family, you have been plundering the papers!" she exclaimed, her alarm causing a hoarseness that made her voice sound uncanny.
Before she could reach the chair, Leonie had recovered her powers of action and thought. She flung herself between Miss Chandler and the chair, barring her progress.
"Yes," she cried excitedly, "if you choose to put it so, I have been plundering in the absence of the family! Do you know what I have discovered? That you are even a viler woman than I gave you credit for being. That you have lied to me, and that you have rendered further concealment on my part a sacrifice that I decline to make.
"You knew that the words you said to me the night that I discovered you to be a thief, robbing the man who had been a father to you, were utterly false from beginning to end, and yet you tried to break my heart without a revulsion of conscience.
"Now listen to me, Evelyn Chandler, for it is I who dictate terms this time, and you who must abide by them or take the consequences. I have every proof in my possession that makes me mistress of the situation. I want the engagement between you and Lynde Pyne broken without delay. I want him restored to his rights as the heir of Roger Pyne, and I want you to make good the last cent of the money that you took from Leonard Chandler to buy the silence of your own father!"
A smile that was cruel in its irony played over the face of Miss Chandler as she calmly listened to the girl's words.
"Are you mad?" she asked coldly, "or do you think I am an idiot? It seems that you have thrust yourself into the secrets that were never intended for you to know, but since you have done so, it is useless for me to deny that Lynde Pyne is the rightful heir and——"
"No, he is not! That is only part of your scheme to deceive me, but I tell you that I know the story in its entirety. I, Leonie Pyne, am the rightful heir to that fortune which I have no intention of ever claiming. I have my mother's marriage certificate."
"But she was a wife already, and——"
"You are either deceived yourself, or else purposely endeavoring to mislead me. Lena Cuyler's marriage to Ben Mauprat was not legal, as he had a living wife from whom he was not divorced at the time of his mock marriage to my mother. That marriage annulled, perfectly legalizes her subsequent union with Roger Pyne and establishes my birth as legitimate. Therefore I am the rightful heir. Your birth, you see, is the one upon which the unfortunate cloud rests that makes you even possess no right to the name your convict father wears. Now the question is, are you ready to resign Lynde Pyne without publicity being given to these matters, or must Leonard Chandler and the world come in possession of a knowledge that I desire to conceal for my mother's sake? I wish to impress upon you before you answer, that there is no romantic feeling of wishing to spare a sister in my offer to repress the truth or a portion of it; it is only my dead mother. Now, what have you to say?"
For some moments a cold, dull gray had overspread Miss Chandler's face. A wild horror had come into her eyes, but gradually she had controlled it.
To be the daughter of a convict was bad enough surely, but to be his nameless child was a disgrace of which she had really never dreamed.
Still, revulsion at the contemplation of disgrace had never distressed her much, and she recovered from the feeling quickly.
She determined not to lose the position of wealth and luxurious ease that she then held without a desperate struggle, and she was perfectly aware that to lose Lynde Pyne meant more to her than one would readily suppose.
With all her heart she longed to strangle Leonie, but controlling her venom, she said, almost humbly:
"I don't think you can realize how you have surprised me. I cannot think yet that what you have said can be true. Prove it to me and I will do what you say. Let me go over those papers with you. Let me see the truth for myself."
Leonie laughed.
There in the stillness of the night it rung out with a little metallic sound that was chilling. She shivered as it ceased.
"I am afraid I could not trust you so far!" she exclaimed, coldly. "A woman who would dare so much as you have already done will bear watching. You will excuse me and take my word for it. I know!"
"Why should I do that? Why should I take your word any more than you should mine?"
"Because I have never deceived you in anything. Because I have been perfectly frank and open always. It is utterly useless, Evelyn. You can obtain absolutely nothing from me in that way. I have been deceived too often to allow you to do it again. These papers are in my possession now, and there is no power that could tempt me to part with them. I will not ask you to make your decision to-night, but I shall take the liberty of calling upon you at your own house to-morrow when you can give me your answer. And now I shall be grateful if you will let me alone."
Miss Chandler drew herself up coldly, her arms folded upon her breast.
"You have had your opportunity to speak uninterruptedly, now do me the favor to listen to me," she said, slowly. "I may tell you that I do not in the least doubt the truth of what you have said, but I shall go further. The very fact of not doubting makes me all the more determined that nothing shall prevent me from securing those papers, not even murder! Do you hear me? You know that I did not pause at theft, and I tell you that I shall take the risk for what it promises. There is not a human soul that knows I came here to-night. What proof, therefore, would there be against me? If you will give up those papers willingly, I will divide with you the fortune that I shall receive through being the wife of Lynde Pyne. If you refuse I will have them, cost what they may!"
There was not the slightest doubt in Leonie's mind that Miss Chandler meant what she said.
She threw a quick glance about her to see where the pistol she had dropped was, and also to locate the knife which she knew Liz had.
She saw the revolver immediately. It lay directly behind Miss Chandler upon the floor.
In order to get it she would be forced to leave the papers she was guarding unprotected, and possibly not even then could she reach it.
The knife she saw, with a shiver of terror, was upon a table not a foot from Miss Chandler's hand, and, as though attracted by the direction of Leonie's eye Miss Chandler turned hers in that direction.
She smiled, seeming to comprehend the thought that had flashed through Leonie's brain, put out her hand calmly and grasped it by the handle.
Then she looked at her sister with cold determination.
Seeing that immediate action was imperative, Leonie seized the papers that she had put aside and thrust them into the bosom of the shirt she wore.
Fortunately, in imitating the dress of the poorer classes, she had put on a shirt without a linen bosom, but one that opened down the front.
She buttoned it quickly, then faced her companion resolutely.
"If this is to be a fight for possession," she said, coolly, "it might be fair for me to point out to you my superior advantages. It is true that you have that knife in your hand, but you have nothing like the strength that I have, and my dress will be of the greatest possible benefit to me. I warn you that it will be only with my life that I will resign the papers that are more to me than all the world. Do you still intend to contend for their possession?"
"Your question is not worthy of an answer. You know that in your bosom you hold more than life to me—you hold happiness and honor. For the last time I ask you to give them up! I do not intend to purchase them, but I mean to take them by force if you still refuse. What is your answer? Make it for the last time, and quickly!"