The two women, both desperate, faced each other with a resolve that meant life or death.
There was not the slightest evidence of weakness or fear in either, but a cold determination that was horrible.
There was the undoubted resemblance of sisterhood between them as they stood apparently revolving their plans of action.
Leonie knew full well that there was not the slightest chance for her.
That the moment she made an effort to pass that motionless, rigid form that blocked her passage to the doorway, the long, sharp knife that Liz had bought to protect her child would be plunged to the hilt in her body.
She had no wish to die that way, and still less to place the papers that she held in Miss Chandler's hands.
It was not a pleasant contemplation. She listened for an instant.
There was not a sound in the street.
She knew that she could not hope for assistance from that quarter.
The rope by which she had made her escape before was out the window, and to trust to it without having it tied about her body was a most forlorn hope.
There was but one possible way, and that she seized upon with a suddenness that threw Miss Chandler entirely off her guard.
She turned and blew out the candle.
Miss Chandler knew nothing of the situation of the articles of furniture in the room, and the darkness was intense.
Before her sister's eyes had time to become accustomed to the absence of light, Leonie circled about her and reached the door.
She knew that if she could but succeed in making the street, that her safety would be assured, and having so much the start of her pursuer, she did not doubt her ability to do so.
With a savage cry Miss Chandler started after, but Leonie's advantage was too great to be denied.
Miss Chandler was about to give up in despair, when a sharp, agonized cry from the dark hall almost froze her blood.
She hurried down the steps and groped about in the gloom until her hand came in contact with something, she scarcely knew what.
She shrunk back with a start of terror.
With all her frail strength, Leonie was struggling in the grasp of a person who held her with the strength of a giant.
The excitement of the entire day had been too much for her and unconsciousness was threatened, but by a mighty effort she overcame it, knowing too well that upon the perfect retention of her faculties, everything depended.
"Let me go!" she cried struggling to free herself. "Let me go!"
"Tell me first where you were going in such hot haste at this hour in the morning and why?" demanded the stranger. "I claim that you are a thief."
"Then have me arrested," exclaimed Leonie, "but do not detain me here!"
"You seem too willing. I must understand the cause of all this before I do anything. Now act like a sensible boy and tell me where you were going and why?"
Leonie only continued to struggle.
Holding her with one hand in a grasp like iron the stranger took a match-safe from his pocket, and holding it between his teeth while he selected one, he struck it and lighted the gas in the hall.
Miss Chandler uttered a low cry and fell back. She had recognized Luis Kingsley.
His eyes met hers in a look of affected surprise.
"You, Miss Chandler!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed an unexpected encounter. Was this little vagrant trying to rob you?"
Miss Chandler was utterly at a loss what reply to make. She had almost as soon have had that will in the possession of Leonie Cuyler as of Luis Kingsley, and a chill of horror seemed to seal her lips.
A silence that was painful settled upon them.
Leonie could not exactly comprehend the situation, but she could see that Miss Chandler was not anxious to have the man know the secret that she was endeavoring to conceal, and Evelyn was striving to determine how much he had heard of the conversation that had taken place up-stairs.
Leonie had determined that she would tell him the truth, as he appeared a gentleman; and seeming to read something of her determination, Evelyn Chandler forced herself to speak.
"How came you here at this hour, Mr. Kingsley?" she asked coldly.
Leonie started perceptibly. The name told her all that Evelyn wished her to know.
"I might put the same question to you with effect, Miss Chandler," he returned.
"I came by the desire of Ben Mauprat, as you know. A man whose wife I have befriended more than once. My presence here is therefore not to be questioned; but yours seems singularly like unwarranted interference."
"Your words are curious, coming to one who entered to protect what he believed to be a woman in distress. May I inquire who this boy is? And why there seemed to be a quarrel—if not a fight—going on between you? My dear Miss Chandler, a young lady in society may have the right to go from one reception to another between three and four o'clock in the morning, but they are not so charitably inclined that they make disinterested visits at this hour. I confess that my curiosity is aroused. Where is the wife of Ben Mauprat? Who is this boy? Why are you here? And why was he endeavoring to escape you? I readily acknowledge that I may not have the right to ask you these questions, but situated as we are, I not only do ask them, but I demand that you answer."
"And if I refuse——"
"Then I shall take the trouble to discover for myself."
"Very well, then. I shall answer them. In the first place, the wife of Ben Mauprat is ill and has been taken to the hospital. The boy is Ben Mauprat's son. I was here at the request of Ben Mauprat to know if there were not something that I could do for the family in whom I have long been deeply interested. He was endeavoring to escape me because I wished to turn him over to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children to be taken care of. Even if Ben should be released from the position in which he is now placed, he is not a proper guardian for that boy, but the boy did not wish to do as I said. Now, is that satisfactory?"
"And you were demanding obedience to your will at the point of a knife. Was that it, Miss Chandler?" asked Kingsley, coolly ignoring her question.
She glanced down.
In her hand she still held the knife that she had taken from the table, and which, in her excitement, she had forgotten.
Her face became crimson. She could find no answer, and with a short laugh Kingsley turned to Leonie.
"What have you to say?" he demanded.
"Nothing!" she answered. "I deny your right to detain me here, and I command you to release me!"
"Spoken like a true son of Ben Mauprat!" exclaimed Kingsley, ironically. "It may not come amiss for me to remind you, Miss Chandler, nor you, Master Mauprat, that I have never been taken for a fool, and even if I had, there is no reason to believe that I am one. I have never gone prowling round in the dead of night without an object; therefore, following my usual example, I did not come here without one. I know that there is a mystery afloat. I have scented it, and I am determined to fathom it. I do not believe that you two are interested in it alone. I intend to search this house, after I have first made an examination of this boy to see what he has concealed upon his person with which he wished to escape, and which you were determined to prevent at the risk of murder."
He looked from Leonie to Evelyn, and from Evelyn back to Leonie, but neither spoke.
Both were endeavoring to think of some plan of action, and one seemed to be as uninventive as the other.
Had there been a desire upon Miss Chandler's part to act in unison with her sister, they might readily have thwarted Luis Kingsley, but there was little more desire in her heart to have Leonie in possession of the papers than Kingsley.
One promised as little to her as the other.
She lifted her head, and looked defiantly at the man.
"You have expressed your determination," she said, coldly, "now listen to mine. I propose that you shall leave this house, and I intend that you shall do it without accomplishing the design that you have intended. The question is, will you do it peaceably or not?"
Kingsley looked at her in absolute amazement.
She saw that it was a desperate case, and desperate cases required heroic handling, but he was unprepared for the amount of spirit that she displayed in a woman.
There was something like admiration in the glance that he bent upon her.
"Whether I do or not you deserve credit for your bravery!" he answered, slowly. "I do admire it! Upon my soul I do! Let me tell you something, Miss Chandler! Whatever you may say to the contrary, I am fully convinced that you did not come here this night for motives of charity alone, and I am further convinced that the reason that you gave for your unpleasantness with this boy was—pardon me—not the truth. But for all that, there is something about you that appeals to me strongly. I don't want to be your enemy! I don't want to do anything that will in any way injure you, but there are reasons why I am just as much interested in the contents of this house as you can be; therefore if you will take me into your confidence and trust me, there is no reason why we should not work together and benefit each other. A woman of your standing and wealth does not interest herself in a man like Ben Mauprat for nothing. Come, now! Is this to be a sort of partnership between us, or are you determined that I shall find out all for myself, to your detriment, perhaps?"
Leonie breathlessly awaited the answer. She felt that upon it depended her chance of escape with the papers, and so of saving Lynde Pyne.
It came at last!
Miss Chandler looked at him without flinching, and replied:
"There is no reason why I should make any bargain with you, sir. I command you to leave the house! In the event of your refusing to do so, I have in my possession a revolver which I shall not hesitate to use. I have not wished to threaten, but you have forced it upon me. Do not think that I shall fear, for this is that boy's home, and he has the right to protect it from entrance of burglars who break in in the dead of the night. He will be the single witness in the case, and I think I shall have nothing to fear from him. Now once more, will you go?"
"Now less than ever! You have firmly convinced me that there is something, even more than I thought, at the bottom of all this, and I am determined to discover it. Now, my dainty one!"
With a suddenness that lost Leonie her footing, he dropped his hold of her, and sprung toward Miss Chandler, catching her about the waist and pinioning her arms. With the ease of an athlete he turned her around, and wrenching the knife from her hand, threw it upon the floor.
Leonie had secured it within the twinkling of an eye, and with it she sprung toward the door.
But Kingsley had not left the rear unguarded in any such manner as that. She fell back with a little gasp of terror.
It was locked!
As soon as she could recover from her disappointment she turned and looked at Evelyn and Kingsley.
He had pushed her backward upon the stairs, and holding her with one hand and his knee succeeded in finding the revolver of which she had spoken.
Without the quiver of a muscle he calmly pocketed it, and released her from her uncomfortable position.
"I am sorry that you forced me to treat you so roughly," he said mildly. "There is nothing more annoying than to be compelled to use one's strength against a woman. There is so little of manhood in it, and yet one cannot always help it. Now, Master Mauprat, that you have seen there is no possibility of escape, are you ready to stand and deliver?"
There was something almost genial in his manner of saying it, and but for her knowledge that he was an utter scoundrel, Leonie could almost have liked him.
Yet she did not think much of that at the moment. Her mind was centered upon how she was to get away with those papers, a thing that began to appear to the last degree hopeless.
Then suddenly an idea struck her.
She realized how impossible it was for her to cope with him physically, for she would be less than a feather in his hand, and she saw that if she was to save Lynde Pyne she must give up the idea of sparing Evelyn Chandler.
She saw her way if she could but prevent Luis Kingsley from seeing the certificate of her mother's marriage with his uncle.
With a deprecating gesture she turned the handle of the knife toward him, as the vanquished do in battle when acknowledging themselves defeated.
He smiled as he took it, not endeavoring to conceal his surprise.
"You have not offered to compromise with me, Mr. Kingsley," she said coolly, "but I am open to a consideration of that kind if you see fit to make it. No, further than that, I will make the offer, if you are prepared to listen."
Before Kingsley had an opportunity to reply, Miss Chandler had sprung by him and had caught Leonie's hand in an iron grasp.
"You must be mad!" she whispered hoarsely. "Think what you are doing! You lose every possible hope! There is no doubt but what we can escape if you will only help me. For God's sake keep your wits about you and do the thing you contemplate only when you are overpowered and forced to yield."
But Leonie had no idea of considering any such advice.
She perfectly realized there was not the shadow of a hope for them, and she wanted to preserve that marriage certificate.
She understood that it was but the copy of a record, and that she could prove her words without it; but it was the greatest saving of valuable time to keep what she had.
Besides, she had not looked at the name of the clergyman nor the witnesses, and they might be very hard to find.
Kingsley made no move whatever to intercept Miss Chandler.
He knew his power, and he allowed her, without interference, to talk to her companion as much as she chose, though every word that she uttered could be distinctly heard by him.
With a slow smile, though she was far from feeling in any degree mirthful, Leonie turned in his direction.
"Are you prepared to answer my question?" she asked calmly.
"I am," he replied. "You shall have ample time to say anything that you wish. Will you proceed at once?"
"By doing that you will lose everything," gasped Miss Chandler.
The smile on Leonie's face only deepened.
"You must remember that there is honor among thieves, Mr. Luis Kingsley," she began, "and the promise that you shall make me before you hear my secret must be kept to the letter. Do you agree?"
"I agree to abide by whatever promise I make. You may be sure of that. But the question is, whether I shall make the promise or not."
"I think you will. It can make no possible difference to you who I am, nor how I came by my information, but I have come into possession of a secret of yours which I am willing to sell for my liberty. I will tell you in the first place that the reason why I do not wish you to search me is that I am not the boy that you suppose, but a woman."
"This is growing interesting. Go on!"
"Well, sir, several years ago you had an uncle of great wealth."
"Leonie, for God's sake——"
Miss Chandler had interrupted, but Leonie talked on as though unaware of it.
"He was fond of a cousin of yours, but not of you. The cousin's name was Lynde Pyne. He had been brought up to look upon himself as your uncle's heir, a fact of which you were unable to see the justice. You were determined that such should not be the case. You, therefore, went systematically to work to alienate the affection of your uncle from his favorite nephew, pouring into his ears a tale of the treachery of Lynde Pyne that finally had the desired effect—that of causing your uncle to make a new will, leaving to you the bulk of his fortune."
"It seems to me that for a young woman whom I never saw before in my life, you are wonderfully well acquainted with my affairs."
"Poor girls need money as well as other people, and some of us have learned from men that the easiest way to obtain it, is often to discover the private affairs of men of millions like yourself, and trade upon the knowledge that we have gained."
"And how do you propose to handle this?"
"That is just what I am going to tell you."
She turned for a moment and looked at her sister. She was standing with her back leaning against the door, her face deadly white, her eyes glaring like those of an animal.
It was a desperate case with her, but there seemed absolutely nothing that she could do to avert the terrible danger that threatened her.
A weakness came over Leonie, the weakness that is engendered by human sympathy for a person in distress, but then a consideration of all that Miss Chandler had done against her wiped it out, and she turned her eyes in the direction of Kingsley with a little shudder of horror.
She resolutely forced herself not to glance again toward the shrinking woman.
"Go on, please," exclaimed Kingsley, a trifle nervously.
"You asked me, I think, how I proposed to handle this," returned Leonie. "Well, I have not quite reached that point yet. You know sometimes a trade falls through, and the larger the transaction the greater the danger attending it. Now, Mr. Kingsley, fortunately for your cousin, but most unfortunately for you, the stories told by you about Lynde Pyne to your uncle were discovered by him to be false while there was yet time remaining to him to make a new will. That will was made!"
"You are sure?"
"I have read it myself. You are cut out without a dollar, while the entire fortune is given to Mr. Pyne without reservation. What I propose is to deliver that will over to you, if you will release me from this place without trying to in any way molest me, or attempting to search me."
"You have the will?"
"I decline to answer that question, but I know where it is, and I will put you in possession of it when I have your assurance that you will do as I have demanded. So far as the other papers are concerned, they relate to the birth of a person, which cannot concern you, but in which I am interested as I was in the securing of that will. You understand me, I think, without further explanation."
She intended him to believe that she wanted to extract money from Miss Chandler, and he fell into the trap easily enough.
"I am willing," she continued, "to give up the papers that concern you if you will allow me to retain the others that are in my keeping without interference."
He smiled curiously.
"I accept the terms," he said, slowly. "I think Miss Chandler's presence here places her as much in my power as I care to have her, and I am not at all desirous of securing her money, therefore I agree to your terms."
Evelyn Chandler started forward, her ashen face more pallid than ever.
"You will eternally regret it if you do!" she gasped, hoarsely. "Do you know what the papers are that she wishes to conceal? Do you know who she is?"
"The key to this door!" cried Leonie, excitedly. "Throw it to me and the will is yours!"
"Listen to me, now!" gasped Miss Chandler. "I swear——"
"Here is the will!" interrupted Leonie. "The key—quick! There is a man in front of the house. If you hesitate I shall break the glass and pitch it through if you kill me!"
"Hear me!" panted Miss Chandler, catching Kingsley by the lapel of the coat and holding him frantically.
It but impeded his progress as he would have sprung toward Leonie; and seeing that she would not hesitate a moment to accomplish the purpose that she had assured him she would, he took the key from his pocket and flung it toward her.
Knowing that he would catch her if she made any attempt to escape with the will, she threw it down, unlocked the door, and sped away down the street like the wind.
The man of whom she had spoken as being across the street was a myth, but it had seemed to put an idea into her head that strangely enough had not occurred to her before.
Not even pausing to take breath, she ran along under the gray of the awakening morning, her mouth parched and dry, her tongue seeming to cleave to the roof of her mouth.
About three blocks away she found a policeman. Excitedly she caught his arm.
"Quick!" she gasped. "A moment's delay, and you will be too late! He may have escaped now! There are millions of money depending upon it. Quick!"
Something of her excitement seemed to communicate itself to the tired man. He set into a run with her, and with an evidence of surprise, stopped before the residence of Ben Mauprat, where the door was already open, and in which he could see the shadowy figures of a man and woman.
With the officer, Leonie sprung up the steps.
"Arrest that man!" she gasped, pointing dramatically toward Luis Kingsley. "He has a will in his possession that has been suppressed for years!"
"Arrest that woman, who is masquerading in the clothes of a man!" exclaimed Kingsley angrily, seeing that he had fallen into a trap.
Miss Chandler had sunk back helplessly. The officer glanced hastily from one to the other.
"I think I had better take you all in!" he said. "That seems to be the safe plan. Come, now, and no foolishness!"
Placing the three before him, and compelling them to lock arms, the officer was about to take up the line of march, when something in the back pocket of the man's trousers attracted him, the coat being lifted a trifle over it.
He thrust his hand forward and pulled the pistol from it that Kingsley had taken from Miss Chandler.
It was the single hope that the man had retained of release, and a low oath fell from his lips as he realized that it was gone.
"I owe this to you!" he exclaimed to Leonie. "You shall see how well I know how to liquidate my debts. Is this the honor that you claimed should be among thieves? I kept my word and you betrayed me; you shall pay for it with interest."
"Stop your threats and go along quietly, or I'll quiet you," cried the officer, lifting his club threateningly. "You are a nice party altogether, you are."
The sergeant's eyes were opened to their widest as the gentleman of elegant appearance, and the lady in the costume of a reception, entered his precinct.
"What are this lady and gentleman arrested for?" he inquired sternly of the officer.
"Absolutely without reason!" exclaimed Kingsley, attempting bravado. "We were out on a little mission of charity in connection with a family that has had a terrible affliction befall them to-night, when the officer arrested us. It is an outrage!"
"What have you to say, officer?"
"Only this, sir: I was on my beat when this boy came running up to me out of breath and demanded that I go with him to arrest these parties. I went to see what was wrong, and I found these people under suspicious circumstances. The boy claimed that the man had a will concealed upon him that had been hidden for years, and the man claimed that the boy was a girl in disguise. The house that they were visiting to perform a charity was the one belonging to Ben Mauprat, who was arrested to-night, and whose wife jumped out the window later with her child in her arms, so that there was nobody in the house for them to have gone there to see."
The sergeant looked dubious, then after a moment of hesitation, he decided to "hold them for examination!"
It was with perhaps the greatest amount of relief that she had ever felt in her life that Leonie saw the two conducted to their respective cells, though she knew that she must follow.
As she was leaving the room, she lifted her eyes pleadingly to those of the sergeant and exclaimed:
"There is no chance of his escaping with that will, is there? It would place in his possession a large sum of money that rightfully belongs to another."
"That will, if one exists, will be deposited with me inside of fifteen minutes!" he answered.
It had been a night that was to be long remembered by Leonie.
She was thoroughly exhausted in mind and body, and feeling mentally at rest at last in her cramped apartment, she stretched herself out wearily upon the hard bench that was the only bed offered, and was soon sound asleep.
There was a vague wonderment as to what had happened to Liz, and what she was to do when all the facts that surrounded her had been made public; but she was too tired for anything under heaven to disturb her, and after a moment of wakeful dreaming she was in the land of Nod!
"You have heard nothing yet from Neil Lowell?"
The question was addressed by Lynde Pyne to Andrew Pryor as the two men shook hands on the morning after the event just narrated had taken place.
"I was about to put the same question to you," returned the elder man. "I am losing hope. I wonder what could have happened to the boy? I have given his description to every police station in the city; I have private detectives at work, I have done everything that lies in my power, but all to no purpose! The matter is shrouded in as great a mystery as it was at the beginning. I am about coming to the conclusion that he has been foully dealt with!"
Pyne started.
"How is that possible?" he asked, half unconscious of having spoken.
"How is it possible!" cried Mr. Pryor with annoyance. "How are half the horrible things that you read of daily in the papers possible? I don't know, but one never can tell what may happen, nor what has happened. I have had the most flaming advertisements in the papers, asking him if he were safe to at least let me know. Lowell was a great reader of the papers, and if he had seen it he would surely have answered in some way. He has never seen it, and he has not because—he is dead!"
Pyne's hand came down upon a glass, knocking it to the floor with an awful crash.
His face was ghastly.
"Have you any reason for thinking that?" he demanded so hoarsely that Pryor's attention was attracted from his concern about Leonie to his friend.
"No, no!" he answered. "Why, what is it, Pyne? You were not acquainted with Lowell, were you? I did not know that you had ever met him more than once."
"You are quite right! It is only the horror with which those things naturally affect me. I can never regard such things, even in imagination, without feeling faint."
"In your profession I should think you would have overcome such things entirely!"
"One would think so, but it does not seem to have been the case with me. I do not believe that I shall ever recover from it. My cousin was to go to Miss Chandler's to begin her visit there to-day, was she not?"
"I think so; but not until this afternoon. Do you want to see her?"
"If you please. Will you kindly send for her to come here?"
Andrew Pryor was about to put his hand upon the bell to ring, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and Miss Pyne, with Miss Pryor, entered.
The former held a newspaper in her hand, and both seemed excited to the last degree. They paused, however, upon seeing Lynde.
"What is it?" he demanded, as neither of them even greeted him. "There was something that you wished to say, and you have hesitated because I am here. Can you not tell me, Edith, unless your news is a secret? The papers do not usually contain secrets that the world may not share, and from your manner I should say that it is something that you have learned from them."
"You are quite right, Lynde," she answered, laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "I did learn my news from the papers, but it is something that will hurt you most seriously. So much so that I am afraid to tell you. But of course there can be no truth in it. You must take consolation in that, dear."
He had grown ghastly again. He endeavored to speak, but the horror that was upon him seemed to paralyze utterance.
He took the paper from her, and in silence she pointed to the article that had caused her such consternation.
The headlines were sensational, describing as they did the arrest of Miss Evelyn Chandler, the daughter of one of the wealthiest citizens of the metropolis, in company with Luis Kingsley, of Wall Street fame, in a disreputable place.
Edith Pyne had read no further than that; but calling the attention of Miss Pryor to it, they had hurried with it to Mr. Pryor's study.
The paper dropped from Lynde's hand and fluttered to the floor.
He seemed to understand that some dreadful thing had happened, that there could be no mistake, and though Leonie's name was not mentioned in those first lines, he seemed to know intuitively that they related to her.
He sat down in a chair very suddenly, and Edith kneeled beside him.
"You must not take those horrible words as literally true," she exclaimed, gently. "You know so well how many mistakes these papers make. Do not look like that, Lynde! You frighten me!"
"Do not distress yourself about me, dear," he said, gently. "There is nothing wrong. Read the article to me, please. I do not seem able to see quite distinctly."
Still kneeling there beside him, she read it to the end. About the arrest in the deserted house of Ben Mauprat, about the sensational demand of the boy for the arrest of the man with the will, of the counter-charge of disguised sex made by the man, of the march to the station-house, of the costumes of the party, of how the "boy" had given his name as Leonie Cuyler Pyne——
Suddenly Miss Pyne's face was lifted, ghastly as Lynde's own.
"What does that mean?" she demanded, huskily.
"Never mind. Read on!" he commanded, hoarsely.
Then the papers found were described and copied, the will acting as a kind of supplement.
There was not a word spoken in that room for the space of five minutes when the reading had ceased.
Mr. Pryor was the first to break the stillness that had grown uncanny.
"Let me be the first to congratulate you, Lynde," he said, his kind old voice shaken with emotion. "You have gained your fortune at last, and if it has cost you a wife, the loss is the greater gain of the two."
"It is not true!" cried Lynde, hoarsely. "There is not a word of it that can be true. There was never any such will made. My uncle died, believing me guilty of the acts of which my cousin accused me, and Roger Pyne was never married in his life. Do you think that he could have had a wife and I not know it! Why, it would have been——"
He broke off suddenly, remembering the comments that had been made upon the resemblance between Edith and Leonie upon that night that they had sat side by side at the table.
It seemed to offer a certain proof of the truth of the story that startled him.
He arose hastily and picked up his hat.
"Where are you going?" Edith asked, timidly, something in his expression frightening her.
"To the station-house where these people are said to be. I must know the truth."
Then, after the hesitation of a moment, he turned to Mr. Pryor, remarking:
"Do not distress yourself further about Neil Lowell until I see you again. If the article contained in that paper is true I can take you to him within the hour."
"What do you mean?"
"I cannot tell you now. There is a mysterious something that makes me horribly afraid that I shall find it all too true, but until my return I can say nothing!"
"Why cannot I accompany you? You surely know that you can trust me!"
"With all my heart! Come, if you will."
Lynde bent his head and kissed his cousin. With an impulse that she could scarcely understand she reached up and placed her arms about his neck.
"Something tells me that you will not find it false, dear," she said, gently, "and, notwithstanding the sorrow that it will bring upon that unfortunate woman, I cannot regret it. But if it should prove true, I feel convinced that that woman will try to hold you to the promise that you have made her by pleading the cause of her love. Promise me that you will not listen to her, Lynde!"
He kissed her again and sighed.
"You must not ask me to promise until I know what I am doing, for I have never broken one in my life, dear."
He loosened her arms from his neck, thinking, with something like a choking sensation, of the one that he had already given and wondering if anything would happen to release him from it before it was eternally too late.
Resolutely he put the thought from his mind and turned again to Andrew Pryor.
"Are you ready?" he asked, the anxiety in his voice increasing.
"Yes. You may be sure that it is all true, Lynde, and that you are the heir to your uncle's fortune at last."
"You seem to have forgotten, all of you, that if this story is true, that will can make small difference to me, as my uncle left a daughter of whose existence he died in ignorance. The money will be even less mine than it was before. Do not think that I grudge it to the unfortunate girl, for that is the only part of the story that offers me any pleasure at all."
The consternation of the group was even greater than before, but not waiting for comment, Lynde placed his hand upon Mr. Pryor's arm and hurried him from the room.
"There is one hope!" exclaimed Edith to Miss Pryor when the men had gone. "If Miss Chandler knows that there is no chance for Lynde to get the money she will not hold him to that miserable engagement, perhaps, for I feel convinced from his manner that if she should he would still marry her!"
By courtesy of the captain, Miss Evelyn Chandler was allowed to receive a guest who had called upon her, in his private office.
She had expected to see Lynde Pyne, and had prepared her manner of receiving him; but as the door opened she staggered back before the pale, haggard face that confronted her.
"You!" she exclaimed, as the door was closed, and she found herself alone with the man who had been a father to her, and whom she had so grossly deceived. "I—I—did not expect you quite so soon! Did you receive my note?"
All the usual bluster seemed gone from the man's manner.
One would scarcely have recognized Leonard Chandler in the subdued, pale man that stood before Evelyn; but there was something about him that frightened her more than that had ever done. She trembled as his eyes held hers, and catching by the back of a chair, let herself down in it as though to release her hold meant a fall.
"I have received nothing!" he answered gravely. "What information I have had came to me from the newspapers, confirmed by the fact that you were not in your room this morning, nor had you been all night! I have come for a denial of the shameful story that has been published from you, and for irrefutable proof of that denial!"
He spoke calmly, but the most disinterested could have seen how he was suffering.
His pride had been cut to the quick; besides which, he loved the girl who had been one of his household since her childhood, and who had taken the place of the daughter that he had so much craved, but that had not been given him.
Evelyn fancied she saw some hope in his sorrow.
She clasped her hands pleadingly before her.
"I know that appearances are terribly against me!" she cried desperately. "I have no proof that I can bring forward in my own defense, but I am innocent. It is a hideous plot that they have concocted to deprive me of my honor, and to rob you of your money. If you will only help me, I am quite sure that we can find a way to prove how false it is."
He heaved a sigh that contained a note of relief.
"If I am to help you, and of course you know that if you are innocent I will do that to the expenditure of the last dollar that I possess in the world, you must answer my questions clearly and truthfully," he said, passing his hand across his brow wearily. "I shall not try to conceal from you how this has hurt me. It has stung my pride and pierced my heart. My wife is in bed under the shock of it all, for she has loved you as well as though you had been in reality her child. We must begin at the beginning and take matters as they came. Why were you in that house last night?"
"The woman, Liz, to whom I had been kind, sent for me!"
"And you went in the night without ordering the carriage? You went to that part of the city alone? Listen to me, Evelyn! You know how anxious I am to do for you anything that lies in my power, but I will not assist you in a lie, and that is one! You must tell the truth, if you expect anything from me in return."
"Then listen to me, and I will tell you the truth whatever the cost to myself. You know that I am not your child. I knew that fact. One day a man came to me—such a terrible man that no words could ever describe him to you. He told me that he was my father. He told me the most odious secret of my birth, and in my terror I allowed him to see that I knew little of my own antecedents, and that he could work upon my fears. It continued until I wrote him that first letter that you saw copied in the papers.
"Then I discovered that what he had said was a lie from the beginning. He had known my mother and knew the story of my adoption, determining to work upon that to extract money from me. I found it out in time, and forced him to admit that it was true. Then he forged the other letters that you saw printed. Last night I received a letter from his wife telling me that he had been arrested, and that she had found those letters. She offered to place them in my hands if I would go there for them, assuring me that she would not deliver them to a messenger for fear of their never reaching me. I went; you know the rest."
For a long time Leonard Chandler was silent.
The story had been dramatically told, and it seemed to him that it might be the truth.
With all the heart he had he hoped it was, and there was something like eagerness in his voice as he put his next question.
"Where is the letter that the woman sent you?"
She colored.
"I—I destroyed it," she stammered.
"Destroyed it! Why? Wait a minute! The papers stated that the woman jumped from the window a few hours after the arrest of her husband, crazed by the death of her child. In a state of mind like that, how was it possible that the poor woman could have thought of writing to you? Besides, knowing that Mauprat was arrested for attempted murder, why should she have written you so late at night? And why would not the morning have done for your visit?"
"I—I did not—know how long he would be confined, nor did she."
"Evelyn, are you telling me the truth? It does not seem so. It will be useless for you to lie to me, for that woman's insanity was but a temporary aberration of the mind; and while she can never recover from the injuries of her fall, she is perfectly able to answer any questions that may be put to her."
The girl was silent from inability to speak.
She had not read the part of the paper that told of Liz Mauprat's condition, and her single chance lay in the fact of her death!
But she was not dead.
The fates seemed conspiring against her.
She lifted her head, but not an idea could penetrate the mental darkness about her.
For the first time her composure failed her.
Her tongue seemed cleaving to her mouth, her lips were dry and parched.
She had hoped, but the hope was dying.
"Evelyn," Mr. Chandler said slowly, "granting what you have said to be the truth, how do you reconcile the fact of your mother's name having been Mauprat to the story you have told? We adopted you, my wife and I, and we never saw your mother again, but the papers of adoption gave her name as Eleanor Mauprat, and the certificate of your birth, and of her false marriage to your father, tells the rest. Can you explain those truths away? I don't want to be hard with you. I want to give you every chance that lies in my power, but I will not protect a woman who would rob her best friend, who would condemn her sister, as the monster they make you appear has done; who would stop at no wrong however great, to save herself from a humiliation that at worst could have been but the sting of an hour. If this thing is true, and that man were really your father, was the fault yours? Were you not so much the more to be sympathized with, that your birth rested under such a cloud? If you had but trusted to me, do you not know that I would have protected you?"
Very slowly she arose from her chair and stood before him.
Her color had returned until a spot of crimson burned in either cheek.
The timidity of her manner had vanished.
She was the same girl that had defied Leonie Cuyler in the library at the time she was discovered to be a thief!
"Do I not know that you would have protected me?" she asked coldly. "No, I do not! You came here and have offered to assist me, because you did not wish your name brought in the scandal that you felt was about to be connected with me, and now you wish to pose as a saintly and martyred man who rescued the daughter of a convict but to have the serpent sting you. You think that I should fall down and bless you for what you have done for me? Let me tell you how I appreciate it. From my earliest remembrance my only feeling for you was one of fear. I would have applied to any stranger for assistance sooner than to you. You let me know in a thousand ways that upon my conduct alone depended my chance of remaining in the position in which you had placed me. You had shown me the luxury of money, you had me educated to the belief that life was not worth the living without it. You gave me no means by which I could earn my own support and I knew that expulsion from your door meant starvation or service in some one's kitchen. It was theft to close the mouth of my father or death to me! I chose the easier. You ask if what I have told you is the truth? Well, then, no! I am the daughter of an ex-convict. Worse than that, my mother died in the Tombs, convicted of theft! I did steal your money, and Leonie Cuyler saw me do it. While there I told her the story of her birth and of mine to force her to keep my secret. That was a great mistake on my part. I should have found another way. Now what are you going to do? If you pose as a martyr I shall tell my story to the world of the tyrant that you are in your family, where even your own wife sits in fear and trembling. You have but one virtue to commend you, and that is half a vice—honesty, and even that you carry no further than the negative will cover. You are not dishonest so far as money goes. You would have protected me? Where was that poor woman, your brother's wife, whom you let starve with her little child, because she had married your brother against your august will? Do you want that story published to the world? I was only waiting for matters to come to a head before forcing you to my way of thinking in these things.
"Now listen to me. If you refuse to do what you can for me in this, I shall tell these things of which I have spoken to the world; I shall give them the true history of the unfortunate cashier who robbed the bank in Rochester, driven to it through your cruelty; I shall tell them the story of Lillieth Dalworth, your niece, whom you drove to suicide. I do not ask anything of you after my release from here, but I demand that. You have the money to buy it, if you will. I have no crime to answer for that is not bailable. You understand what I mean. Do that, and you will never hear of me again!"
She paused, looking at him defiantly.
He had remained very quiet during her long harangue, and when she had finished, he bowed courteously.
"I will do what I can for you," he said, coldly.
A scornful smile curled her mouth.
She felt that she might have mastered him long, if she had only had the courage, and she took the chair that she had vacated with a smile that was complacent, while she made no attempt to veil its sneer.
"Is there anything else that you would like to say?" he asked, quietly. "Is there no message that you would like to send to the woman who was a mother to you, and against whom there is no charge that you can bring?"
"I will take care of that!" said Miss Chandler, airily.
Mr. Chandler took up his hat.
"Then I may bid you good-morning!" he said, his manner unchanged. "You shall hear from me later."
She bowed as he left the room.
He paused at the captain's desk outside.
"You told me as I came in," he said slowly, calmly, "that there was no charge against Miss Chandler by which she could be held, and that she would be dismissed when she was brought before the justice, did you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I wish to make a charge against her now—grand larceny!"
The captain started back in amazement.
"But sir——" he began.
"There is nothing more," returned Mr. Chandler, coolly. "When you have made out the complaint, I am ready to sign it, and I should feel grateful if you will do it as speedily as possible!"
While Miss Chandler sat there complacently waiting for some one to conduct her back to the cell where she had passed the early morning hours, or tell her that the carriage was waiting to take her to her home, an officer in uniform entered, bearing a card. He gave it to her with a ceremony that under other circumstances might have been amusing.
She took it with a loftiness of bearing extremely out of keeping with her unfortunate position, and in the same manner that she might have spoken the words to Leonard Chandler's servant, she said:
"Admit him!"
A moment later Lynde Pyne was shown in.
He came forward with extended hands and kissed her as was his wont.
"I don't know how to express my sympathy for you in a trial like this," he said gently. "It must be horrible!"
"A ghastly sort of mistake," she replied, with a little shuddering laugh intended to be pretty. "I must apologize to you for the absurdity of my dress. Fancy receiving one in the morning in a gown like this."
Pyne gazed at her in absolute amazement. Had she taken leave of her senses that she could deliberately jest under circumstances like those?
"It is nothing!" he stammered. "If you were only out of this your gown would be the last thing that I should think of. How did it happen?"
"I will tell you when we are at home. This room is comfortable enough for ordinary purposes, but I don't like it."
"When—you are—at home?"
"Yes. My father has gone to arrange for my immediate return."
"You mean—Mr. Chandler?"
"Whom else should I mean? Mr. Chandler, to be sure."
"But—there must be some mistake."
"There is a mistake, of course. That goes without saying, when I am an inmate of a prison."
"But—I—mean about Mr. Chandler. The charge against you was made by him ten minutes ago, and signed with his name."
Evelyn Chandler arose slowly from her chair. Every particle of the color had slowly left her cheeks, leaving her ghastly in pallor. She gazed at Pyne as though convinced of his insanity.
"You must be mad," she exclaimed, slowly, the words falling from her lips like lead. "He was here only a few minutes ago, and left me with a promise that he would return at once. You cannot be correct."
"I met him leaving the house, and——"
Before he could finish his sentence she flew to the door and tore it open. The captain met her there.
"Is it true that Leonard Chandler has entered a charge against me?" she demand, her voice sounding like nothing human in its terrible hoarseness.
"Quite true!" returned the captain, with perfect politeness.
"What charge?"
"Grand larceny."
The woman fell back against the casing of the doorway.
She made a curious picture standing there with that expression of hideous agony upon her pallid features, her throat and shoulders bare, her nude arms thrown upward.
There was not a man in the room who did not admire her in spite of the serious charges made against her. Lynde Pyne came to her assistance, and tenderly drew her back into the room, while he closed the door. She raised herself in his arms after a moment of inactivity, like a fiend.
"Let me go there!" she cried, madly. "Let me tell them what he is! He has betrayed me, and publicly in the courtroom I will tell the world what he is. I will pay him for this if it takes my life."
"Calm yourself, dear!" exclaimed Lynde, gently. "There is nothing that you can do against him. Come! You will be summoned to the courtroom in a few minutes for preliminary examination. If you will allow me, I will, of course, act for you; but you must tell me all the evidence there is against you. You must keep nothing from me, for therein lies your only chance. Will you do it, Evelyn?"
She shrunk from him for a moment as though in terror of even the sympathy she read in his eyes; then she sprung forward like a cat and caught him by the arm, lifting her glistening eyes with intense excitement.
"I have your promise that you will marry me!" she cried. "This does not release you. Tell me that is does not?"
His face quivered with the agony that it cost him to speak, but he replied bravely:
"The misfortune of the opposite party never releases one from a promise. I am ready to keep my word when the conditions of our contract shall have expired."
"Then you will do it at once—at once! A will has been found that gives everything your uncle possessed to you. The fortune that millions could not cover is yours, and Leonie is cleared of any complicity in the crime of which she was, in a way, accused. Are you ready to keep your word now?"
"The proofs are not yet in my hands, and even if they were, the fortune to which you refer is not mine. You forget that in the papers which will be brought before the court there will be one showing that my uncle left an heir who can lay a claim before which the strongest will could not stand."
"You mean——"
"I mean the claim of Leonie Cuyler Pyne!"
"And you decline this fortune?"
"Emphatically I do!"
Her eyes glittered like those of a tigress.
"Then you intend to leave me to the fate that that cursed fiend, Leonard Chandler, has prepared for me?" she cried hoarsely. "You intend to allow me to be sent to the penitentiary, thinking that will cancel your promise to me, and leave you free to marry the heiress. That is it, is it?"
"You know that it is not!" exclaimed Lynde almost roughly. "I have no more idea of marrying Miss Pyne than I have of marrying Juno. Don't talk so foolishly. I am ready to do anything within the range of human capability to help you."
"But you can do nothing without money—absolutely nothing. You must take that money or you must see me sent to prison."
"Once for all—I will not do it. Now let that settle it forever. Are there any points that you can give me to assist in your defense? I do not ask you whether you are guilty or not. At least, I shall give the benefit of the doubt——"
"No!" she cried shrilly. "You shall not do even that. The proofs are so strong against me, that if my innocence is proven it must be bought. Witnesses must be purchased. There is no other way. I am guilty! I am guilty of all that and more, but if you don't wish the woman whom you have sworn by a solemn oath to make your wife, an ex-convict when that ceremony is performed, you must accept that money and save me. Leonie knows the truth, Ben Mauprat knows it, that woman, Liz, knows, and the letters that Ben had not the sense to destroy, are against me. How can you prove all those things liars without money?"
"And is there not a single circumstance in your favor?"
"Not one. I have grown honest at last in that I can acknowledge it. Lynde, Lynde, listen to me! I have borne it bravely, but I am not brave. I am the greatest coward under God's heaven. Oh, listen to me and save me! I cannot go there to that prison, and yet there is not a point for my defense. He brought me up in luxury and idleness. I knew nothing but wealth and plenty, so that when that horrible man came, what was I to do? He told me that my father was a forger and my mother a thief. He threatened to make those odious facts known unless I furnished him with the money that he demanded. I knew Leonard Chandler so well that I was convinced that to have him hear the story would be but to have him turn eternally against me. He would not give me the money that was required to buy my father's silence, and my father would not remain quiet without. What was I to do? There was but one course left. I learned the lesson that my parents taught. I was the offspring of thieves, why should I be different from them? Now, Lynde, you know the truth. I have tried my best to appear stony, but I am afraid. What am I to do? Oh, my dear, if you leave me to my fate, I am lost indeed! Lynde, promise that you will not! Swear to me that you will save me! Swear it, Lynde, by——"
"Hush, dear!" he whispered, laying his hand across her mouth as she kneeled there in front of him with her wild eyes raised appealingly. "There is no need of an oath. You may be sure that I shall do for you everything that lies in my power. I will turn heaven and earth to save you!"
"And if you fail," she continued, her teeth chattering horribly, "what then? When I am released from that place, when my life is shadowed by the most awful curse that could befall a mortal, you swear that you will take me away? That you will not forget the promise that you made long ago?"
If she saw the anguish of his face, it was of small moment to her.
"A promise given is for all time, and under all conditions and circumstances to me!" he answered, huskily. "Let us end this scene, Evelyn. I came here to find out what I was to do to assist you, but it seems that I must work in the dark. I may as well tell you frankly that if this is all you have to say, there is little hope. Is——"
Before the sentence could be completed, the officer entered to announce to them that the hour had arrived for her appearance before the judge.
With what calmness he could assume, Lynde lifted her to her feet.
The little dingy courtroom had never witnessed such a crowd before as the one that packed it from the justice's desk to the door, and even out into the hall and down the dirty steps.
Women, men and even little children, had come to see Miss Evelyn Chandler, of whom they had read in social circles, and many of them seen, under arrest!
Her reception-dress was covered by the long cloak that had concealed her gown when she started upon that memorable visit to the rooms of Ben Mauprat upon that fatal night.
A pair of long, black gloves covered her hands, and a black hat with nodding plumes shaded her lovely face.
She leaned upon the arm of Lynde Pyne as she entered, pale, but composed, while he was ghastly. Immediately behind her was Luis Kingsley, haggard and gray of countenance, while Leonie, followed by a policeman, brought up the rear.
She still wore her masculine garments, but with an air of timidity and modesty, now that the world knew her sex.
She had scarcely made her appearance than Andrew Pryor leaped forward, seizing her effusively by the hand.
"You, Neil!" he cried, almost breaking into tears in his delight. "This is the greatest happiness of my life! How came you here? Who has been getting you into trouble? I knew that something had happened to you when you did not come back; but thank the Lord I've found you at last! How did you happen to be here? Tell me all about it, my boy, and I will see that you are released at once!"
Leonie's face was crimson.
She could not keep from smiling, while tears dimmed her vision.
"I am afraid that you will find I have deceived you, Mr. Pryor, and then I shall lose the friendship that I have valued as one of my best possessions, and I have few."
"You have deceived me?" he exclaimed. "Nonsense! How have you deceived me? I tell you, it is not possible! What is it that they accuse you of? My friend Lynde Pyne is here. He is a lawyer and he shall defend you. Why, he has tried as hard to find you as I have, and seemed even more interested. Don't be afraid! He will get you out of here soon enough!"
With utmost good nature he patted Leonie upon the shoulder, and allowed her to take the seat the officer indicated, turning his attention to that individual.
"What is that boy accused of?" he asked. "He is as innocent as I am! Never did a wrong thing in his life!"
"That is no boy!" answered the policeman with a short laugh; "that is a girl."
Mr. Pryor staggered back as though the officer had threatened to arrest him.
"A girl!" he gasped. "Have you all gone mad? Why, that boy is Neil Lowell, and he worked for me as my private secretary. He is the best fellow in existence, and never did a wrong act in his life!"
"She is a girl, for all that!" returned the officer, serenely.
Andrew Pryor sat down very suddenly. He seemed to be utterly overcome by the intelligence he had received.
His eyes were riveted upon Leonie as though they could never be removed.
Then by degrees he began to put certain circumstances together.
He remembered the refusal to attend the stag supper, and a smile came to his face; that was followed by many other minor things that all seemed important now, then his hand came down upon his knee with peculiar force.
"And Pyne knew it all the time!" he exclaimed, below his breath, with a firmness that left no room for contradiction. "I see it all now as clearly as can be. Of course he knew! Well, this beats a novel!"
His reflections were cut short by the opening of court!
There is so great a sameness about such trials that there is little to tell of the occurrences of the next hour or more.
Leonie was discharged for want of evidence against her, but Evelyn Chandler and Luis Kingsley were both held to wait the action of the Grand Jury, the one to answer to the charge of grand larceny, the other of felonious concealment of a will.
There was great excitement evidenced when Leonard Chandler took the stand against his adopted daughter, but the questions that were put to him were few, and answered in a tone that was not audible to those twenty feet removed from him.
Then there was a murmur of voices when Lynde Pyne asked for bail for his client, which was strenuously opposed by Leonard Chandler on the ground that she had demanded it of him, expressing a determination to leave the state before the trial.
Thereupon the bail was fixed at a figure that Pyne could not cover, since the will had not yet been admitted to probate, and the money was not his until it had.
Miss Chandler and Kingsley were therefore placed in the hands of officers of the court to be conducted back to prison.
"Take courage!" Lynde whispered to her at parting. "What can be done for you I will do, you may be sure of that. I will procure the bail and you will be released within a few hours at most."
She had scarcely left his presence than he turned to look for Leonie.
Andrew Pryor was holding her firmly by the hands while she half smiled into his face.
"You little rascal—I mean witch!" he exclaimed. "Why did you not tell me of this long ago? Did you feel that you could not trust me? It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of! Where did you get the information that enabled you to do a man's work?"
"You forget that I was a typewriter for a number of years, and that I learned a man's business through copying it for him," she answered, deeply affected by his kindness.
"You are coming right home with me. You shall still be my private secretary if you are a girl."
"You are so good, sir!"
"Oh, hang it all, I forgot about the fortune you will have now, and that you will not have need of me any longer. I am half sorry for the good fortune that robs me of you."
"I am as poor as I was before, Mr. Pryor, and if you will allow me to return to you, you will save me many hours of distress over what my future is to be. I am forced to earn my living now as formerly."
"But, my dear, how is that?"
"Changing my male attire for that of a girl will not alter my circumstances, unfortunately."
"I don't understand it, but come home, and we will talk it over there. Mrs. Pryor has been just as anxious about you as I have, and will be as glad to see you. So will the girls, though hanged if I don't believe they will be disappointed at the change in your sex, for they were all more than half in love with you. Besides that, you have a cousin there——"
"And another here, that you will not give an opportunity of speaking to her," interrupted Pyne. "You must not be so selfish, Mr. Pryor. You believe me that I am glad to find in you a cousin, do you not, Leonie? I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart."
She placed her hand in his proffered one without lifting her eyes.
"It is so good of you!" she returned gently. "I realize how hard it must be for you when you remember that my mother's disgrace is the first that has ever stained your noble family. Perhaps some day you will let me tell you the story, and then you may find a little sympathy for the woman who was driven to the act of which she was guilty to save her child from starving."
"And my uncle allowed that torture to rest upon his wife? I wonder that you can look upon one of us, knowing that it was one of our blood that caused you such suffering!"
"It was not his fault."
"This is not the time to speak of things like those!" Mr. Pryor cut in. "I am going to take her home with me now, Pyne. You will know where to find her when you want to see her, and you also know that you will be always welcome."
They shook hands again and separated.
Andrew Pryor led Leonie, still in her ragged costume, down to his carriage, placed her inside with old-school courtesy, and gave the order for "home."
"I can hardly realize it," he exclaimed, when he had closed the door, "that you are really a girl! What a surprise it will be to Mrs. Pryor and the girls. And you put on that costume as a sort of private detective?"
"Oh, no! I put it on because after I discovered Miss Chandler to be dishonest I was arrested as an accomplice, and in order not to be forced to tell my story, I ran away. I did it for safety! What I have discovered about my birth, came to me as the result of accident!"
"A remarkably timely accident! If I can curb my curiosity until we get home, I must hear all about where you went when you left my house, and how you happened to be detained. I shall keep you talking for a week."
"There is just one thing that I must do first of all if you will let me," returned Leonie, almost reverently, "and that is to pay a visit to Liz. Poor woman! But for her, I might still have been there in that room surrounded by rats and beaten almost to death by that demon, Mauprat. I have felt within the last few hours as though the life of that helpless child of hers had been the price of my freedom and of Lynde's restoration to his fortune."
"Lynde's restoration?"
"Yes, certainly. And it seems to me that I owe her a debt that never can be repaid for that, not to speak of her great kindness to me. But for her I think I should have gone mad."
"Yes, of course you shall pay the visit. That is all right, but what is this about Lynde's fortune? Surely you know that if you prove yourself the daughter of Roger Pyne the money is yours."
"The money is not mine, sir. My father never even knew of my existence, and I have no more right to the money than you have. Surely a man has the privilege of leaving money that is his where he wishes. But I tell you this, that right or wrong, I would put my hand in the fire and burn it off before I touch a cent of it. It was never intended for me, and I will have nothing to do with it. Please say nothing more about it, but let this settle it forever!"