CHAPTER XIX Night and Anacly had a suit of rooms on the ground floor in what was known as the New Wing at Valley House, on the floor above where the rooms occupied by Lord and Lady Anasly Seaton. This wing was a dreadful anachronism, shocking to architects, for it had been tacked on to the house in the eighteenth century by some member of the family who had made the grand tour and fallen in love with Italy. Seeing no reason why a classic addition with a high-pillar lodger should be unsuitable to a house in England, built in Elizabethan and Jacobean days, he had made it. Fortunately, it was so situated as not to be seen from the front of the building or anywhere else except from the one side which it deformed, and there a more artistic grandson had hidden the abortion as much as possible by planting a grove of beautiful stone pines. As for the wing itself, the interior was the most liveable part of the house, and with the modern improvements put in to please the American bride before her fortune vanished, it had become charming within. This bedroom and her husband's adjoining had long windows opening out on the lodger and looking between tall, straight trunks of umbrella pines toward the distant sea. It was late before she could slip away to her own quarters, for she had been wanted for bridge and amusement, which she secretly thought the last refuge for the mentally destitute. She had told her maid not to sit up, and she was thankful to close the door of the small corridor or vestibule which led into the suit, knowing that until night came she would be alone. She wanted him to come, and meant to wait. It did not matter how long, until they could have that talk she wished for, yet dreaded intensely. Meanwhile, however, it was good to have a few minutes in which to compose her mind, to decide whether she should begin, or except night to do so, and how she could frankly let him see her state of mind without seeming too harsh, too relentless, to the man who had given her happiness with both hands, the only real happiness she had ever known. She sat for a while in the boudoir, thinking that night might come soon, before she began to undress. There was a dying glow of coal and logs in the fireplace, but staring into the rosy mouth brought no inspiration. She could not concentrate her thoughts on the scene which must presently be enacted. They would go straggling verily to other scenes already acted, even as far back as that hour at the Savoy, when a young man who looked to her like the hero of a novel, begged to sit at her table. He still seemed as much as ever like the hero of a novel in which he had splendidly made her the heroine, but it was not a pleasant chapter she had to read now. It reminded her too intensely of the mystery surrounding the hero, and forced her to realize that stories of real life have not always happy endings. But ours must, she said to herself, springing up, unable to rest, nothing can break our love, and while we have that we have everything. She could no longer sit still, and going into her bedroom she peeped through the door into night's bedroom beyond. It was dark as she expected to find it, for she had been almost sure that she would have heard him if he had entered the vestibule. Returning to her own rooms she pulled back the sea-blue curtains which covered the large window looking on to the lodger. The sky was silver-white, with moonlight between the black stems of the tall pines, and a flood of radiance poured into the room. It was so beautiful and bright, bringing with it so heavenly a sense of peace, that the girl could not bear to draw the curtains again. She began slowly to undress by moonlight, and the faint red glow in the fireplace. Her first act was to recover the blue diamond ring and to drop it with drinking fingers into the jewel case on her dressing table. Taking off her dinner frock she put on a white silk gown, which turned her into a pale spirit, flitting hither and thither in the silver jasque. Still night had not come. She pulled out the four gray turtrust shell pins, which held up her hair, and let it tumble over her shoulders. As she began to twist it into one heavy plate, she walked to the window and stood looking out. It seemed to her that the black trunks and outstretched branches of the trees were like prison bars across the moonlight. She wished she had not had that thought, but as it persisted, a figure moved behind the bars, the figure of a man. At first she was startled, for it was very late, long after one o'clock. But as the man came nearer, she recognized him, although the light was at his back. It was night, and as though her thought called to him, he stopped suddenly, pausing on the lawn not far from the lodger. She could not see his face, but it seemed that he was staring straight up at her window. He has been walking in the moonlight, thinking things over just as I have in here. The girl told herself, surely he could see her. But no, he turned, and was riding away with his head down, when she knocked sharply and impulsively on the pane. Hearing the sound, yet not knowing whence it came, he stopped again, and so gave earnestly time to open the window. Night! She called, softly. Then he came straight to her across the strip of lawn, and up the two steps that led to the lodger. She met him on the threshold, and saw his face deadly pale in the moonlight. Perhaps it was only an effect of light, but she thought that he looked tired, even ill. Still he did not speak. Night! You almost frightened me, she said. I was afraid for an instant you might be a thief, he finished to her. Or a ghost, she amended. Weren't you coming in? No, he said. I hadn't thought of it. Do you want—shall I come in? Yes, please do. I—I've been waiting for you. I'm sorry. I hoped you'd have gone to bed. But I might have known you wouldn't. As she retreated from the window he followed her, as if reluctantly into the room. Shall I draw the curtains? He asked. There was barrenness in his voice, as in his face. Anise Lee's heart went out to her beloved sinner, with even more tenderness than before. No, let's talk in the moonlight, she answered. Oh night, I am glad you've come. I began to think you never would. Did you? That's not strange, for I was saying to myself that same thing. What same thing? I don't understand. That I—well, that I never ought to come to you again. She sank down on a low sofa near the window, and looked up to him as he stood tall and straight, seeming to tower over her like one of the pine trees out there under the moon. Oh night, she faltered. It's not so bad as that. Isn't it? He caught her up sharply, eagerly. Do you mean what you say? Isn't it to you as bad as that? No, no, she sooth him. You see, I love you. That's all the difference, isn't it? You've been everything to me. You've made my life. That used to be so gray, so bright, so sweet. Only the blackest thing, oh, an unimaginably blackest thing, could come between us or—before she could finish—he was on his knees at her feet, holding her in his arms, crushing her against his breast, soft and yielding in her light dressing-gone, with her flowing hair.  You can't forgive me? I thought you'd go away. I thought you'd refuse to let me come near you. I was walking out there wondering how to make it easy for you, whether I could get rid of myself without scandal. She had been sure that he must have repented long ago, that it would hurt him dreadfully to have her find out the thing he had done, but she had not dreamed that his self-abasement would be so complete.  Dearest, she whispered, never, never think or speak of such a dreadful way out, of course it was horribly wrong, and of course it was a great shock to me, but you might have known from my doing what I could to help that I didn't hate you. I said to myself there must be some excuse, some big excuse, and now if you only wouldn't mind telling me about it from the beginning, I believe it would be the best way for us both. Then I might understand. You are God's own angel, Anita, he said in a choked voice. You don't know how I've learned to love you better than anything in this world or the next. If there is a next, I knew you were a saint, but I didn't know that saints forgave men like me. But I'll really tell you from the beginning, you'll listen and bear it? It's a long story. Annusley did not see why the story of his buying the historic stolen diamond and giving it to her should be so long, even with its explanations, but she did not say this. I don't care how long it is, she told him, but you will be tired, down on your knees. I couldn't tell my story to you in any way except on my knees, he answered, and the new humility of the man she had loved half-fearfully for his daring, his defiant way of facing life almost hurt, as his sudden passion has startled the girl. I hardly know how to begin, he said. Perhaps it had better be with my father and mother, because it was the tragedy of their lives that changed mine. He was silent for a moment, as if thinking. Then he drew a long breath as a man does when he is ready to take a plunge into deep water. My mother was a Russian. Her people were noble, but that didn't keep them from going to Siberia. She was brought to America by a man and woman who had been servants in her family. She was very young, only fifteen. Her name was Michaela. I'm named after her, Michael. The three had only money enough to be allowed to learn as immigrants and then get out west, though her people had been rich. He paused a moment for a sigh. She and the servants, they passed as her father and mother, found work in Chicago. My father was a lawyer there. He was an Englishman, you know. I've told you that before, but he thought his profession was overstucked at home, so he tried his luck on the other side. The old Russian chap was hurt in the factory where he worked, and that's the way my father, whose name was Robert Donaldson, got to know my mother. There was a question of compensation and my father conducted the case. He won it. And he won a wife, too. She was nineteen when I was born. Father was getting on, but they were poor and had a hard time to make ends meet. They worshipped each other and worshipped me. You can think whether I adored them. Father was the most beautiful creature you ever saw. Everyone looked at her. I used to notice that when I was a weak chap, walking with my hand in hers. When I was ten and going to school, my father had a bad illness, rheumatic fever. We got hard up while he was sick, and then came a letter from mother, from Russia. Some distant relations in Moscow had had her traced by detectives. It seemed there was quite a lot of money which ought to come to her, and if she would go to Russia and prove who she was, she could get it. If father had been well and making enough for us all, he'd never have let her go. But he was weak and anxious about the future, so she took things in her own hands, and went, without waiting for yes or no, or anything, except to find a woman who'd look after father and me while she was gone. Well, she never came back. Can you guess what became of her? He asked huskily. She died? Anasly asked, forgetting in her interest which grew with the story, to wonder what the history of night's childhood and his parents' troubles had to do with a Melendor diamond. She died before my father could find her, but not for a long time.  Things happened I can't tell you about. We heard nothing. After a letter from the ship and a cable from Roscoe, with the two words, well, love. After a while father waited and tried not to be too anxious, but after a time he telegraphed and then again and again. No answer. He went nearly mad. Before he was well enough to travel he borrowed money, and started for Russia to look for her. I stayed in Chicago, and kept on going to school. The friends who took care of me made me do that, or thought so. But when I could I plain truned. I was in a restless state. I remember how I felt as if it were yesterday. Nothing seemed real, except my father and mother. I thought about them all the time. I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't study. I couldn't bear to sit at a desk.  I suppose that was the beginning of the end. I think while he was away, finding out terrible, unspeakable things my father forgot about me, or else he didn't realize I was big enough to mind. He never wrote. When he came back after eleven months he was an old man, with gray hair. I'll never forget the night he came and how he told me about mother. It was a moonlight night, like this, with no light in the room. It was the last night of my childhood. As the man talked, he had lifted his head from the soft pillow of the girl's white neck, and was looking into her eyes, his face close to hers. Anusley was not thinking about the diamond. For a long time night went on slowly. Father could not trace my mother. He expected to find the relations who had sent her word about the legacy, but they were gone. Nobody could tell where. Nobody wanted to speak of them. They seemed afraid. Father went to the British and American embassies, no use. But at last he got to know, in subterranean ways, that mother hadn't realized how dangerous it is to speak your mind in Russia. She left there before she was sixteen. She had said things about her father and mother, and what she thought of the ruling powers. And that same night, she'd been in Moscow two days, she and her relatives disappeared. It leaked out through a member of the secret police that she could have been saved by her beauty. Someone high up offered to get her free, but she preferred another fate. She was sent to Siberia with her father and mother had gone, and had died years before. My father met a man who had seen her on the way as he was coming back. She was only just alive. The man was sure she couldn't have lived more than a few weeks. Yet father wouldn't give up, he went after her. But what's the use of going on? He found the place where she had died, which ends that part of the story, as a story. Only it didn't end for us, it filled our hearts with bitterness. We wanted revenge, yet my father was too good a man to take it when his chance came. His conscience held him back, but he talked, talked like an anarchist, a man out to fight and smash all the hypocritical institutions of society. If it hadn't been for me, he'd have killed himself in Siberia, where his wife had died a martyr, and it would have been well for him if he had. Because of the wild way he talked when suspicion of fraud was thrown on him by a partner, the full public believed in his guilt. He tied in prison when I was fifteen, and I swore to punish the beast of a world that had killed all I loved. I swore I'd make that my last work, and I have. But God, I've punished myself too at last.  And for your sake, I'd give the years that may be in front of me all the time, but one day to be glad in, if I could blot out the past.  If I could hope you wouldn't be too hard on me, that's all I care for now. He cried passionately. You remember my saying that night in the taxi that the worst I'd ever done was to try and pay back a great wrong, and take revenge on society? If I could hope you meant what you said about understanding, I'd tell you the story of that revenge. I did mean it, Knight, my love will help me to understand.  In a way, I haven't deceived you about myself, for I warned you I was a bad man, but when I think of the night we met and the trick I played on you, it makes me sick. I thought you'd loathe me if you ever found out. But I didn't intend to let you find out. It was to be a dead secret forever, like the rest. Yet if I tell you what my life has been, you'll have to know that part too. If I kept it back, you might think it worse than it was. A trick, echoed endlessly. Yes, a trick to interest you, to make you like and want to help me. Besides, it was to be a test of your courage and presence of mind. If you hadn't those qualities, you'd have been a failure from my point of view. You see, I hadn't had time to fall in love with you then, and I wanted you for a helpmate in the literal sense of the word. It seems a pretty sordid sense, looking back from where we've gotten now. But that was my scheme, a mean cowardly scheme. And it's thanks to you and your blessed dearness I see it in its true light. Do you begin to understand Anita, knowing something of what my life has been? Or must I explain? I am afraid you must explain.  She felt suddenly weak and sick, as if she might collapse in the man's arms. It was as if some terrible weapon wrapped round in half-hidden infos of velvet were lifted above her head to strike her down. She shrank from the blow, yet asked for it. Suddenly she guessed dimly that night's confession was to be very different from and far more terrible than anything she had expected. I was the man whose advertisement you answered. The man who wrote you the stiff letter in the handwriting you didn't like, signed N. Smith. Oh, the word broke from her in a moan. Jarning, have I lost you if I go on? You must go on, she cried out sharply. For both are sakes, you must go on. I know how it looks to you, and it was while, but I couldn't be sure when I advertised that an angel would answer to my call, and what a brute I should be to deceive her. I thought the sort of girl who'd reply to an ad for a wife would be fair game, that I should be giving her an equivalent of what she'd give me. For my business that I had to carry out in England, I needed a wife of another sort from any woman I knew, or could get to know, in an ordinary way. She had to be of good birth and education, nice-looking and pleasant-mannered, if possible with highly-placed friends or relatives. Money didn't matter. I had enough or would have. I got a lot of answers, but the only one that seemed good was yours. I felt nearly certain you were the woman I wanted, so I rigged up a plan. You know how it worked out.  I don't understand yet why I thought the thing over, and it seemed to me that married life, if it came to that, would be easier for both if the man could make some sort of appeal to the love of romance in a girl. Well, she wouldn't think the man who had to get the right sort of wife by advertising much of a figure of romance. So the idea came to me of starting two personalities. I wrote you a stiff, precise sort of letter in a disguised business hand, making an appointment at the Savoy. When that was done, the writer went out of your life. He just ceased to exist, except that he sat behind a big screen of newspaper and watched for a girl in grey and purple, wearing a white rose, to pass through the foyer. That was his way of finding out a sheet suit. Jo, how basely it does sound put into words and confess to you. But you said I must go on. Yes, go on and sleep with. You were about one hundred times better than my highest hopes, and seeing what you wear, I was glad I thought out that plan. Even then it was born in on me that it wouldn't be long before I found myself falling in love if I had the luck to secure you. And from that minute the business turned into an exciting play for me, just as I meant to make it for you. I let you wait for a while, but if you'd showed any signs of vanishing I'd have stepped up. I'd got a trick ready for that emergency. But I hoped you'd follow instructions and go to the restroom. Once there I was sure the head wager'd appreciate you to sit down at the table, and the rest went exactly as I planned. The two men we called the watchers used to be what-will-actors. Did it turn together? And their specialty was lightning changes. Their make-ups, even at short notice, could fool Sherlock Holmes.  Lord, but you stood the test. I wouldn't have given you up at any price then, even if I hadn't begun falling in love. I saw how good you were, and in that taxi going to Torrington Square I felt mean as dirt for tricking you. But of course I had to go on as I'd begun. At first I thought it was luck, tumbling into the same house with Ruthman Smith. But now I say it was the devil's luck. If it hadn't been for Ruthman Smith, I might have gone on living the part I played. You need never have known the truth. And I swear to you, honestly, I'd made up my mind, after finishing off my work with the men who are with me, that I'd run straight for the rest of my days. The business was making me sick, for being close to your goodness through a light into dark places. But I haven't, Anita. It does seem hard. Just as I was near to being the man you thought me, that that dried-up Carimatchan, Ruthman Smith, should call my hand and make me show you the man I was. But I can't help seeing there's a kind of, what they call, practical justice in it, the blow coming from him. I've always been like that, seeing both sides of a thing, even when I wanted to see only one. But if you can see both sides, you will make the good grow, as the bright side of the moon grows, and turns the dark side to gold. Can you do that, do you think, Anita? Can you see any excuse for me in going against the world to pay it out for going against me and mine? If you've been piecing bits of evidence together since Ruthman Smith spoke, you'll have remembered that only heirlooms and things insured by or belonging to public companies have been taken. No poor people have been robbed, and except in the case of Mrs. Ellsworth, where I wanted to see her paid out for her treatment of you. Robbed. Catching the word, honestly, heard none of those that followed. Robbed. Oh, it's not possible, you mean? Her voice broke. With both hands against his breast, she pushed him off, and struggled to rise to tear herself loose from him. But he would not let her go. What's the matter? How have I hurt you worse than you were hurt already by finding out? He appealed to her, his arms like a band of steel around her shattering body. When you heard the truth about the diamond, it was the same as if you'd heard everything, wasn't it? You guessed Ruthman Smith suspected. Someone must have told him, Menelina perhaps. You guessed he had some trick to play, and in the quietest, cleverest way you checked made at him, without hint or help from anyone.  That's what I understood, was I mistaken? I was mistaken, she answered almost coldly, then broke down with one agonized sub. I thought, oh, what good is it now to tell you what I thought? You must tell me. I thought you had bought the blue diamond, knowing that it had been stolen, but wanting it so much you didn't care how you got it. I didn't dream that you were a... That I was... What? A thief! And a cheat! My God! And now you know I'm both.  You must. Or you wouldn't throw those words at me like stones. Let me go!  He obeyed instantly, the band of steel that had held her fell apart. She stumbled up from the low sofa and trying to pass him as he knelt. She would have fallen if he had not sprung to his feet and caught her.   Night followed, to stand staring in stunned silence at the bowed head and shaking shoulders. He could hear the ticking of a small, nervous-sounding clock on the mantelpiece. It was like the beating of a heart that must soon break. At last, when the tickling had gone on unbearably long, he spoke. Anita, you called me a cheat, he said. I suppose you mean that I cheated you by playing the hero that night at the Savoy and stealing your sympathy and help under false pretenses, that I've been steadily cheating you and your friends every day since. That's true, in a way, or it was at first, but lately it's not been the same sort of cheating. It began to be the real thing with me.  As for the other name you gave me, Thief, I'm not exactly that, not a thief who steals with his own hands, though I dare say I'm as bad. If I haven't stolen, I've shown others the most artistic way to steal. I've shown men and women how to make stealing a fine art, and I've been in with them in the game. Indeed, it was my game. Medellina de Santiago and the two men you knew first as the watchers, Dennis Terrence and Morello, now as Cherrington and Char, have been no more than the pawns I used, or rather they've been my cat's paws. There's only one other man at the head of the show besides me. And that is one whose name I can't give away, even to you. But he's a great man, a kind of financial Napoleon, a great artist, too. He doesn't call himself a thief. He's honored by society in Europe and America, yet what I've done in comparison to what he's done is like a brook to the size of the ocean. He has a picture gallery and a private museum, which are famous. But there's another gallery of pictures and another museum, which nobody except himself has ever seen. His real life, his real joy, are in them. Most of the masterpieces and treasures of this world which have disappeared are safe in that hidden place, which I've helped to fill. That man has no regrets. He revels in what he calls his secret orchard. He thinks I ought to be proud of what I've done for him, and so I was once. I came here and brought the other people over to England to work for him.  Not that I wasn't working for myself, too. And not that I'm trying to make more excuses by explaining this. But I'd like you to understand, at least for the sake of your own pride, that you haven't been cheated into loving and living with a common thief. Does that make it hurt less? No. She said, in a strange tone which made her voice sound like that of an old woman. That doesn't make it hurt less. It makes no difference. I think nothing can ever make any difference. My life is over. Don't, for God's sake, say that. Don't force me to feel a murderer, he cried out sharply. There's nothing else to say. I wish I could die tonight. If one of us is to die, he said, let it be me. If you hadn't happened to see me and call me in when I was under the tree spinning goodbye to your window, by this time I might have found a way out of the difficulty without any scandal or trouble to you, whatever. No one would have known that it wasn't an accident. I should have known. If you had, it would have been a relief. No. Because I hadn't heard the truth. I didn't understand at all. I thought you had done one unscrupulous thing. I didn't dream your whole life was what it is. I loved you as much as ever. It would have broken my heart if you. But now that you don't love me, it wouldn't break your heart. I don't seem to have any heart, honestly said. It feels as if it had crumbled to dust. But it would break my life if you ended yours. If anything could be worse than what is, it would be that. Very well. You can rid yourself of me in another way, the man answered. You can denounce me, give me up to justice. If you hand over the Melendor diamond to Ruthman Smith and tell him how you got it, you must know I wouldn't do that. Why not? Because I couldn't. It needed to spoil your life. No one could blame you. I would tell the story of how I deceived you. You could free yourself, get a divorce. Don't, the girl cut him short. I'm not thinking of myself, I'm thinking of you. I can't love you again, and I wouldn't if I could. But now that I know, you are a different man. The one I love doesn't exist and never did. Yet you've told me your secret, and I'm bound to keep it. I don't need to stop and reflect about that. But as for what's to become of me, and how weird to manage not to let people guess that everything's changed, I don't know. I must think, I must think all tonight until tomorrow. Perhaps by that time I can decide.  This moment, I can't bear any more and live. He stood looking at her, but she turned her head away with a patulent gesture of repulsion. Unless her eyes might feel the call of his, she covered them with her hands. Her hopelessness, her loathing of him, enclosed her like a wall of ice. So the dream's over, he said. This woman to this man.  What a tragedy. When she looked up again, he had gone, and the door between their rooms was shut. The moon no longer lit the high window. With nights going, darkness fell. End of chapter 19. Chapter 20 of the second latch-key. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The second latch-key by Charles Norris and Alice Muriel-Williamson. Chapter 20. THE PLAN. Anisly sat as night had left her for a long time. Minutes, perhaps, or hours. But at last she was very tired, and very cold, so tired that she threw herself weakly on the bed, in her dressing-gown, where she couldn't sit up. All through the rest of the dark hours she laced shivering, and did not even trouble to roll herself in the warm, down-coverlet, spread lightly over the bed. It seemed, right, somehow, that she should be cold and miserable physically. She did not care or wish to be comfortable. Over and over again she asked herself, What shall I do? What is to become of me, of both of us? She tried to pray, but her heart was too hard toward the man who had trampled on her life and love for his own cruel purposes. It seemed to her that God would not hear a prayer sent up in such a mood. Yet she did not want to soften her heart towards the sinner. Because it had been so full of forgiveness before he poisoned the chalice with the bitter stream of confession, it was the more impossible to forgive now. It even seemed, anisly, that it would be monstrous to forgive, in the ordinary human sense of the word, a man who was living a lie. If there were room for thanksgiving in her wretchedness, it lay in the fact that her love had died a swift and sudden death. Had she gone on loving, in spite of all, such love, she thought, must have brought death into her soul. She did not know how to name her husband now. Even thinking of him, she would not call him night. What a mockery the name had been! How he must have laughed, to know that she was full enough to believe him a night of chivalry, who had come, like St. George, to rescue her from the dragon! She knew at last that the name he had not wished her to see in the parish register was Michael Donaldson. That meant, she supposed, that her name was Donaldson, too, a name he had dragged through the mire. He pretended to love her, but such a man could not speak the truth. He had tried to excuse himself in every way, to talk of love, and its purifying influence was only one of these ways. He would not even have confessed, if he had not fallen into the mistake of thinking she understood that he was a thief, or head of a gang of thieves. He seemed almost to boast of what he was. Oh, how horrible life had become, and how she wished it were over! She wondered if it would be wicked to pray that her heart might stop beating to-night. Yet mourning came, and her heart beat on. She did not even feel very ill, only weak, with a wiry throbbing of each separate nerve in her head. She had meant to use the quiet hours to decide what must be done next, but as always, when she had tried to pin her mind to the question, it had escaped like a fluttering moth, and turned to self-pity, order-calling up pictures of the past which brought tears to her eyes. Now the time was upon her, when realities must be faced. For seven o'clock it was light, but neither she nor night were accustomed to early tea, and there was more than an hour to spare before they would be called by Parker. The girl sat up shivering, though the room, heated by steam, had not grown bitterly cold when the great fire died. She looked heavy-eyed towards her husband's closed door. They must talk things over, and make some plan. She hated the very word plan, since his story of the trick he had played at the Savoy. She hated the necessity to talk with him, but it was a necessity. They ought to arrange something for the future, the blank and hateful future, before Parker came, and daily life began. There would be many things to settle, questions to ask and answer. A sort of hideous campaign would have to be mapped out in details, not one of which defined itself clearly in her tired brain. It's no use, she said to herself, I can't think, after all, until I see him again. Perhaps he will make some suggestions, and I can accept or refuse, but I can't go to his door and call him. As she hesitated, night, who was a night no longer in her eyes, opened the door, very softly, not to disturb her if she slept. In the morning light, which paled the uncurtained window, their eyes met. She slipped off the bed and stood up, cloaking her bare white neck with her hair. Suddenly she felt that he was a strange man, who had no right to be in her room. He was not the husband, she had loved with a beautiful and sacred love. I won't come in, if you'd rather I didn't, he said, I only looked in to see if you were awake. I thought if you were, and if you could stand it, it would be best to talk about what's to be done. He spoke quietly standing at the door. He was dressed for the day, as if nothing had happened, and honestly felt dimly resentful, because he looked bathed and well-groomed, his black hair smooth and carefully brushed, altogether his usual self, except that he was pale and grave. You had better come in, I suppose, the girl replied grudgingly. I was thinking, too, that we must talk. Let us get it over. You haven't been to bed, I see. He said, his eyes lingering on her sadly. It flashed through Anisey's mind, that it was as if he were looking for the last time at the sweetness and happiness of life. But her heart did not soften. It was his fault that there was no longer any happiness or sweetness left in their lives. No, I haven't been to bed. She returned. But it doesn't matter, I am not ill. Please let us not waste time in discussing me. There are other things. Yes, there are other things, he agreed, but will not begin to talk of them until you have got into your bed and covered yourself up.  I don't want—she began. But he cut her short. What will Parker think if he finds your bed hasn't been slept in? Oh, very well, Anisey assented impatiently. I must get used to tricks. Perhaps not, said Knight, I've been thinking of ways and means. Have you? Because if there's anything you feel you would like to do, you've only to tell me. I haven't been able to think," she confessed. Well, then, I'll tell you what I've thought. Anisey had now crept into bed, and before she could protest Knight had carefully covered her with the down quilt. Having done this he drew a chair near, yet not too near, and sat down. It was as if he recognized her right to keep him at a distance. You said last night, he began, that you didn't mean to denounce me. If you changed your mind, I shan't blame you. I deserve it.  Madalina de Santiago has won. I'm pretty sure that out of spite she put Ruth and Smith on to looking for the diamond, but I don't want to punish her. Maybe she, or whoever it was, didn't have much information to give, or the man wouldn't have backed down and apologized. I should like to find out exactly what he had to go upon. But if you've changed your mind, it's not worthwhile to bother about that. I have not changed my mind, Anisey said. You are very good. A very noble woman. If I were the only one to suffer by being denounced, I don't think I'd care much, as things have turned out. But there are others, and above all there's you.  And so, taking everything together, I'm thankful to accept your generosity. We'll call that settled. I don't think Ruth and Smith has any suspicion. We'll see about that later. Meanwhile he doesn't count, and Madalina at her worst I can manage. There's nothing to be feared, but the question is, how are we too, to go on? You must, whatever else we decide, you must give up the girl stammered from her pillows, and could not bring herself to finish. That goes without saying, doesn't it? In any case, there was only one more coup. I'd warned everybody concerned of my decision as to that. One more? How terrible! Not here? Yes, if you must have that too, it was to be here. It was to be a big thing, but there's time to stop it.  It wouldn't have hurt any of the people. Only family heirlooms again. Everything insured. And as for the insurance companies, if you worry over them, it's part of the game. They're wallowing in money.  And that's the end for me. I'm not rich, not the millionaire I pose for. Still, I've earned something. My Napoleon has paid me well, and I've had a share now and then of some good things.  Do you think I'd take a penny of such money? The girl cried, sick with indignation. I've worked for it, said Knight, with a kind of unhappy defiance. And it was come by as honestly as a lot of fortunes made on the stock market. You must have money. I can earn some as I did before. No, never as you did before. Besides, I thought you'd decide on having no open break between us, no scandal. Or wasn't that what you meant? It was, but I don't see yet how it can be managed, do you? The way I had in mind was, since I've lost your love—oh, I'm not complaining—the way I had in mind was to leave you over here, with plenty of money, and be suddenly called to America on business, then, if it would hurt your feelings to have me put myself out of the way, it needn't hurt them for something to seem to happen. Nelson Smith could be wiped off the map. And if you weren't free to marry somebody else, at least you'd be free of me. But if you won't take my money, that plan will not work. You can hate me as much as you like, but I'm not going to leave you alone in the world without a penny. Neither you nor any one can force me to do that. I've thought of another thing, though, since we began to talk. Only I don't like to propose it, Anita. It isn't a good plan. From your point of view, I'd better hear it. Well, I might get a cable, hurrying me across to the other side, and you might go along—oh, I warned you you wouldn't think it a good plan. But since I've begun, let me finish. In Canada and the United States, I'm known—in my least important character, as Michael Donaldson, and I've tried to keep the name clean, because of my father and mother. When there's been anything shady doing, I've taken a fancy name, and made such changes as I could in myself. The reason I didn't want you to see the name in the register was because of what happened on the monarchic. I'd given you that ring, you know. I couldn't resist doing that. I wanted you to have it, not because of its value, but because it is beautiful. I thought it was like you, somehow. I had to make up its loss, in another way, to the man who expected to have it—that Napoleon, I mentioned. I know the old man, Paul Van Vreck, anisly guessed, with weary impatience. I'll not say yes or no to that, but it will be bad for me, and perhaps for you, too, if you ever mention Paul Van Vreck in such a connection, not that you would be believed. I shan't mention him again. Just as well not, but it was my name and my plan I began to speak about. I was going to say you needn't be afraid that if you took my name, which is yours now, you'd have to be ashamed of it. We could go to America, and in England Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith would soon be forgotten. I'd hand over the money you hate to charities, not the kind of charities I've been supporting here. They've all been part of what you call my fraud, and have only given me a chance to bring some rather queer-looking fish around me, who might have raised curiosity if I couldn't have accounted for them, but real charities. And if you'd stick by me, I don't mean love me. I know you can't do that, but live in the same house and not chuck me all together. I'd turn over a new leaf. I'd begin again from the beginning. In Texas I've got some land, a ranch. It isn't worth much, I'm afraid, but I came by it honestly for me. I won it at poker, from a man named Jack Haslett. He was a devil for cards, but it didn't matter. He was rich, and he had a better ranch than he lived on. He's dead now, was near dead then, of consumption. He liked me, said he was glad I'd won the ranch. It was only a bother to him. I was with Jack when he died, and did what I could to ease him at the end. He was grateful, and what money his bad luck at cards had left him, he willed to me. It was only eight thousand dollars. If it had come to me any other way, I daresay I'd have chucked it away in a month. It wouldn't have seemed worth saving. But I was sort of sentimental about poor old Haslett, and his feeling for me. I didn't care to lump his money in with what I got in my line of life. I made a separate fund of it. Some had to go towards improvements on the place before I could let the ranch to any one. But there's about six hundred dollars left, I guess. The fellow I let to wrote me a few weeks ago, that he was tired of ranching, and wanted to clear out. He hoped I could find someone to buy his cattle, and the furniture he's put in the house. The letter was forwarded by a man I keep in touch with, my business, and whereabouts, so he can look after my interests. I've had no time to answer yet. I was going to write that I didn't know anyone who cared to settle in Texas, but now would if I wrote that I'd take the place and everything on it off the fellow's hands, myself. I don't know what Texas is like, honestly replied, coldly. But anything would be better than a life you're now leading. I wasn't intending to go alone, Knight reminded her. I said, if you'd stick by me, not throw me over all together. I'd try and begin again. In that case, Texas would do as well as anywhere. And the place and the money are clean. How could I go with you, and live under the same roof, with everything so changed? The girl exclaimed, it would kill me. As bad as that, well, then, I must rack my brains for something else. But I'm sorry this won't do. Would you care to live with Archdeacon Smith and his wife? No, no, and they wouldn't want me. That seems queer to me, that anyone should have the chance of keeping you with them, and not want you. How would it be for you to go on the same ship with me, and find a little home somewhere, on an allowance I could make you, out of that fund? You see, you are my wife, in the eyes of the law, so I am bound to support you. And you are bound to let me do it, if I can do it, honestly. Annously, flung up her arms in a gesture of abandonment. Let it go at that, she sighed, until I can think of something better. Very well, we won't argue that part yet. The thing to make sure of, at the moment, is this. Do I get a cable? Say on the day everyone's leaving Valley House, calling me back to America on urgent business, and do I take you with me? Annously's thoughts raced through her head and would not stop. Knight did not speak. He was waiting with outward patience for her decision. It seemed that she would never know what to say. She was about to tell him in despair that she must have the rest of the day to make up her mind. But before she could speak, Parker knocked at the door. "'I'll go with you,' the girl said hastily, on the ship. But after that—' Parker knocked again. "'Come in,' Annously called. "'Thank you,' Knight said, getting up from his chair, near her bed. "'Don't thank me, I—' But Parker had opened the door. All that was conventional and agreeably commonplace in the lives of happy, well-to-do people seemed to enter the room with her.' CHAPTER XXI. THE DEVIL'S ROSERY. RYTHVIN Smith summoned courage to ask for a few words alone with Knight that Easter morning, in order to explain as well as apologize for the seeming liberty he had taken. By dint of stammering and punctuating his sentences with short, dry coughs, he made a clean breast, as he called it, of the whole business. He had come to Valley House, he confessed, because of an anonymous letter, written apparently by a person of education, to inform him that the Melendor Diamond had come into the possession of the Nelson Smiths. After they were aware of its identity the writer was not sure, but in any case their ownership of the jewel was kept secret. Having got so far at his story, Ruthvin Smith decided that the easiest way of finishing it would be to produce the letter. He did so, a type-written sheet of plain, creamy paper, in an envelope postmarked West Hampstead, and simplified things for himself by pointing to the last sentence. Mrs. Nelson Smith always wears a thin gold chain round her neck, which she lets drop to her shoulders for evening-dress. What precious thing which has to be hidden hangs on that chain. Mr. Ruthvin Smith is advised to find out. I see now, the unfortunate man excused himself, that someone has been taking advantage of my anxiety about the losses of my firm to play a cruel, practical joke on me.  Or else a desire to make mischief between you and us was Knight's calm suggestion. Ruthvin Smith caught it up eagerly. Ah! That possibility hadn't occurred to me. I suppose we all have enemies. Knight pursued the subject without excitement. The writer probably wished to put the idea in your head that I had deliberately bought an historic diamond, which I knew to be stolen. But that would have been ridiculous, exclaimed the jewel-expert, and felt sincere in making his protest. Nevertheless, he had glanced at Annaslee's face while talking of the Melendor diamond to Lady Cartwright. It had been on the edge of his mind that, if she looked self-conscious, it would be a point against her and her husband. Also he had determined to make his daring attempt at discovery before she had had time to get rid of the diamond if she were hiding it. Now, however, in the light of her shining innocence, he had almost forgotten that he had suspected an underhand design on her part. He asked Nelson Smith if he could think of any one, man or woman, among his acquaintances, capable of writing the anonymous letter. Nelson Smith replied that his brain was a blank, and that he hardly thought it worthwhile to follow the matter up, unless Ruthven Smith wished to do so. In that case they might put the affair in the hands of the police. But the elder man was of the younger's opinion. He had made a fool of himself and was ashamed that he had attached importance to an unsigned communication. All he desired was to let the unpleasant business drop. This being settled, Knight, in whose hand was the typewritten letter, tossed the thing into the fireplace of the library, where the two had been talking. When he and Ruthven Smith had shaken hands and agreed to forget the whole incident, the latter was glad to escape from the interview. He went to his room and lay down, to soothe his nerves and think of an excuse to return to London early on Monday morning. As soon as his meager back was turned, Knight stooped and retrieved the letter in its envelope, unscorched from the fireplace. There was nothing about it, not even a telltale perfume, to give any clue to the writer. Nevertheless, Knight considered it of value. He intended to use it as a bluff to frighten the Countess de Santiago, for only through her own fear could he prove her treachery. Most of the guests at Valley House went to church to give thanks for the fairy-like Easter eggs they had received. Anna'sley had a headache, however, and no one was surprised that her husband should choose to stop at home to look after her. His adoring devotion for the girl was no secret. People laughed at it, but admired it too, and some women envied Anna'sley. They imagined him spending the morning with his wife, but as a matter of fact he did not go near her. He feared to speak, lest she might change her decision and refuse to travel to America with him. His one hope, a desperate hope, lay in her going. He decided not to see her alone again until Monday evening, after the arrival of the cable from America. In order to ensure the coming of this message and to make it realistic, he motored into Torquay and sent a long telegram, partly in Cypher. Returning he had a conversation with Charrington, the butler, and Char, the chauffeur, in a conversation which left the brothers grave and subdued. Later Char went off in the car again, though it poured with rain and was gone until late at night. Between twelve and one o'clock night, strolling toward the garage, heard the automobile return, and stopped in the blaze of the at-settling for the motor to slow down. Is it all right? he inquired. It's all right, Char answered, somewhat sullenly, yet with a certain reluctant respect. Nothing will happen here Monday night. Good! his master answered, and smiled at the thought of Madalena's malicious prophecy which would not be fulfilled. It was not a pleasant smile, yet as he had said to Anna'sley, he planned no revenge against the Tigris, the woman whose claws had ripped his heart open. Tigris or no, she was a woman, and he knew that as far as she was capable of caring she had cared for him. Perhaps it had been partly his fault. She was handsome and had been years younger when he had met her first. She was married then to an old man, jealous and suspicious, knowing that his money had won the beautiful wild creature for him. It was at Buenos Aires, and the husband had found Madalena out in an intrigue partly political, partly mercenary, and partly violent. He had turned her from his house without a penny, and Knight, not personally concerned in the intrigue but interested, had been flush enough at the time to lend her a thousand dollars, enough to go away with. It had been called alone, but he had not expected to get the money back, and never did get it. In California she had set herself up as a palmist, and had become successful, a success she duplicated in New York, and she had gladly made herself useful in many ways to dawn and those with whom he worked. One way was to find out the number and worth of her rich client's jewels and where they were kept. Through her crystal-gazing she was always able to conjure women's secrets without their realizing that they, not she, gave them to the light. And aboard the monarchic was not by any means the first time that Madalena had been invaluable in diverting suspicion by throwing it upon the wrong track. Knight had consulted her, praised her, and flattered her from time to time. Now he told himself that he was paying for his thoughtlessness. He had taken Madalena for granted, regarding her as a machine rather than a woman, and though he owed to her the loss of his happiness, that happiness had been undeserved, and, as he expressed it to himself walking the wet paths at midnight, he had stood to lose it anyhow. He would frighten Madalena so that she would never dare to try her tricks again, and he would let her understand that because of what she had done their partnership had come to an end once and for ever. Otherwise she should feel herself safe from him. Bad he might be, and was, as he knew, but he didn't think it was in his makeup, somehow, to strike a woman. He did not go back to the house, after his short talk with Char, until after he had heard the stable clock strike four. It was easier to think and see things clearly out of doors than in his room adjoining annaslees. That closed room forbidden to him now, where she was perhaps crying and surely hating him. As for the long nightmare day he had lived through, it had been too full for much deliberate thinking, and he had wanted to plan for the future, how to begin again, and how to keep the woman who had come to mean more for him than anything else had ever meant, more he knew than anything else could mean. He was not sure whether the love in his heart was a punishment or a blessing, but there it was, it had come to stay. This woman to this man. He found himself repeating the words he remembered best in the marriage service, not bitterly, as he had repeated them to annaslee, but yearningly, clingingly, groping after some promise of hope in them. She gave herself to me. I'm the same man she loved after all, though she says I'm not, he told himself. God, what's the good of being a man at all if I can't get her back? As he wandered through one winter-saddened garden after the other, the Italian garden, the Dutch garden, the Rose garden, he searched his soul, asking it how much more he should have to tell the girl about his past. In a kind of desperate resignation he persuaded himself that there was nothing he would not be willing to tell her now, if it were for her good, and if she wished to hear. But something within him said that she would wish to hear no more. She would deign to put no questions to him, even if she felt curiosity. She would doubtless refuse to listen if he volunteered to further confession. She was instinctively sure of his ground there, and in his bitterness of spirit there was a faint gleam of comfort. Certain details of his degradation, she would think at that, might be kept decently hidden. For instance, he would not have to tell her how, as a boy in Chicago he had learned to make use of those clever, nervous hands of his, which she had lovingly praised as sensitive and artistic. He could almost see the girl shudder and grow pale, but hearing how proud he had been at sixteen of be admitted to friendship with a swell mobsman, fascinating as any raffles of fiction, how it had amused the fellow to teach him a deft and delicate touch, beginning his lessons with the game of Jack Straws, in which he was given prizes if he could separate the whole stack, one straw from another, without disturbing the balance of the pile. It would gain him no credit in Anasly's eyes if he should assure her that, though he knew how to pick pockets, none better, he had somehow never cared to put his skill into practice, but had always preferred leaving that part of the industry to others. No excuse could help him with her, and he was glad she need not know all the ways in which he had served the eccentric friend and employer with whose interest he had been associated more or less since his twenty-fifth year. How disgusting would seem to Anita the inside story of the monarchic episode upon which he had rather prided himself until the love for her had begun making subtle changes in his view of life. He and old Paul Van Vreck had laughed together at the patent lock on which the agent depended, a lock invented by the retired member of the firm himself, and followed by a second invention, even more clever, a little instrument designed to open a door in spite of it. There had been the drug, too, which leaving no odor behind had the same effect as chloroform, and took even more quickly. Paul Van Vreck had read of certain experiments made by a professor of chemistry and tour, and had gone to France to see the man, had bought the formula, which had not yet proved itself entirely successful, had added ingredient on his own account and triumphed. These parts of the complicated and well-fitting scheme had seemed deliciously amusing to-night in those days, that Van Vreck should use his secret skill against his own brothers and nephews in the business he had made, that the great expert should add to his fortune by stealing from his own firm, or rather from the great insurance company who would repay their losses, that in such ways, with such money, he could add treasure to his famous collection, practically at no expense to himself, and have besides the exquisite pleasure of laughing in his sleeve at the world. It had all added zest to the work, and night had been pleased with some small inventions of his own, praised by Van Vreck, a smart hiding-place in the heel of a boot, almost impossible to detect, and another equally convenient and invisible in the jet standard of Maddalena de Santiago's famous crystal. He had enjoyed the excitement when he and Maddalena and their two assistants, among the other passengers on board ship, had consented to be searched for the missing jewels, and he had laughed sneeringly at the credulity of those who believed in Maddalena's trumped-up vision of the small fair man, the lighted life-preserver dropped into the sea at night, and the yacht which sent out a boat to pick it up. For that other vision her crystal had supplied after the robbery in Portman Square he was not responsible, but it was he who had suggested the pictures for her to see on ship-board. He hated the recollection now, even annously could not think it more contemptible than he did. Still worse was the remembrance of Mrs. Ellsworth Lachke, the keeping of which had been accidental at first. Afterward he had gaily regarded its possession as a gift from the Prince. The way to Ruthfyn Smith's house was made clear by it, and better still, through it the dragon could be punished for years of cruelty to the captive Princess. Char had been the man to whom fell the honour of bestowing the punishment, and leaving a missive from the Princess's rescuer. Night writhed in spirit as he wondered whether the Princess guessed the fate of the key. He wondered also if she asked herself what part he had had in the disappearance of the Valley House heirlooms. She would loathe him more intensely, if possible, could she know how her presence with him on that public show-day had helped to clothe with respectability his secret mission. How mean he had been in distracting her attention from the two Fragonards and from the cabinets containing the miniatures and the carved Chinese gods of Jade, while he marked the prizes for the eyes of his two assistants. How unsuspicious and happy the girl had been, trusting him utterly, while behind her back he manipulated the diamond, the useful diamond he always carried for such purposes. Even then he had had the grace to be ashamed of himself for disloyalty, though not for dishonesty as deftly the diamond cut the glass faces out of the cabinets directly opposite the miniatures, and the Buddha meant to enrich Paul Van Vrecht's secret collection. He had been glad to hurry his wife away and let the ear-pair of tourists crowding on his heels finish the work he had begun. It seemed to-night, as his thoughts traveled heavily along the past, that no other woman but annusly grail, this fragile white rose that had freely given its sweetness, could have turned him from the vow of vengeance for his parents' fate, which as a boy he had sworn against the world. Day by day, week by week, month by month, the fragrance of the white rose had so changed him that looking back at himself he saw a stranger. Had it not been for certain engagements made with Paul Van Vrecht and others, engagements which had to be kept because there is honor among thieves, that den of his importment square would long ago have been shut to his at-home-day visitors. No more business would have been done on those or any premises. This party of Easter-guests would not have been invited to Valley House, and the Melendor Diamond, sleeping away its secret on annusly's breast, would still be guarding his secret, too. While the others were at church she had sent him the diamond by Parker, the blue diamond and the rose sapphire, her engagement ring also, the pearls he had given her the day before their marriage and all his other gifts, except the wedding-ring, which had not been stolen on the night when the annusly-seaton's silver went. It had been a blow to open the box brought to his room by the maid without a word of explanation, no lighter because it was deserved. It was only less severe than had the wedding-ring been with the rest. And perhaps, night-reflected, it would have been there had annusly known of another trick played upon her, those cleverly reconstructed pearls gleaming ropes of them, and paced diamonds added to her collection only for the purpose of disappearing in the burglary. A hateful trick, but he had believed it necessary at the time, while despising it. While he was punished for everything at last, everything vile he had done and thought in his whole life, even those things the white rose did not know. He was still young, but he felt old, old in sin and old in hopelessness, for youth cannot exist in a heart deprived of hope. It seemed tonight that his heart had been deprived of hope for years, yet suddenly he recalled the fact that a few moments before, up to the time when he had begun counting his sins one by one, like the devil's rosary, he had been thinking was something akin to hope of the future. What if, after all, he began to ask himself? But stumbling unseeingly from avenue to path, and path to lawn, he had wandered near the house. By what seemed to him a strange coincidence he had come to a standstill, almost on the spot where he had stood last night when honestly at her window called him in. She had loved him then. She had called him in to be forgiven, but her forgiveness, divine as it was, white and white-winged as the flight of a dove, had not been wide enough to cover his guilt. What a ghastly difference between last night and this.  And yet what if the man's eyes strained through the darkness of that dark hour before the dawn? If her window is uncurtained, I'll take it as a good omen, he said. Noiselessly his feet trod the short wet grass, going nearer to the shadowed loggia to make sure. The curtains were drawn closely, and the window was shut. CHAPTER XXII DESTINY AND THE WALDOS After the cable-gram came, calling them to America, it took the Nelson-Smiths an incredibly short time to wind up their affairs and to break the ties, many an intricate as the clinging tendrils of a vine which attached them to England. Of course, as their friends pointed out, it wasn't as if they had had a home of their own. Luckily for them, unluckily for the Ansley Seatons, they had taken the Portman Square House only month by month, and in Devonshire they had been but paying, dearly paying guests, as the world surmised. Everyone protested that they would be dreadfully missed and begged to know their plans and whether Mr. Nelson Smith's business on the other side, something to do with mines, wasn't it? Would not be finished, so that they might come back in time for Henley and Coase? But the American millionaire's answers were vague. He couldn't tell. He could only hope. And his manner, unflatteringly, was indifferent. It was Mrs. Nelson Smith who seemed depressed. A changed girl, Constance said, from the moment that cable message arrived at Valley House. Connie thought, and mentioned her thought to others, very likely the truth was that Nelson Smith had lost money. In contradiction to this theory he was known to have given generous lay to charities just before starting. Not those queered newfangled societies he had tried to bolster up while he was in London, but hospitals and orphan asylums, and organisations of that sort which opened their mouths wide. Still, nobody could say for a certainty how much he gave, and it was argued that Lady Anseli Seton was sure to know more than most people about Nelson Smith's private affairs. The story of possible money losses ran about and grew rapidly, healing regrets for his absence. Soon the pair dropped out of their late friend's conversation as a subject of living interest. It was much the same with the Countess of Santiago, whether her plans were affected by those of the Nelson Smiths nobody knew. And she said that they were not, but about the time that their departure for America was decided upon, Madalena had a sharp illness. It was, she wrote Constance, who made inquiries, fearing something contagious, in unusual form of neuralgia, from which she had suffered before. The only doctor who had ever been able to relieve her pain lived in San Francisco, and in San Francisco she must seek him. She had at first an idea of sailing on the same ship with the Nelson Smiths. But for a reason which she did not explain, she changed her mind the day after making it up, and engaged a cabin on a boat which started a week earlier. She was missed, also, for a while. But then it was remembered that the Crystal Visions had been mysteriously more favorable for those who included the Countess in their nicest parties, than for those who asked her to their second bust. Some malicious digs which she had given were recalled, and those who had thought her wonderful when in their midst began to doubt her powers. Rather, theatrical, don't you think? said the Duchess of Peoples. It's more satisfactory to go to a woman you can pay with money and not invitations. So Madalena was not mourned for long, and the Ansley Seatins were fortunate enough to replace their lost American millionaire with one from Australia. He was old, and his wife was fat. But you can't have everything. The Nelson Smiths took passage not on one of the great floating palaces patronized by millionaires, but on an obscure, cheap little ship which bore out the gossip about the man's losses. As a matter of fact, however, they chose that way of going by Ansley's desire. It would have been night's way to vanish in a blaze of glory, as the setting sun plunges behind the horizon after gorgeous day. I want to go on a ship, she said, which none of the people we know have ever heard of. I couldn't bear to come across anyone I ever met before. But as it turned out, she was forced to bear what she had thought unbearable. At the top of the gangway as she went aboard a slightly shrill voice called out, why, how do you do? Who would have thought of meeting you two expensive creatures on board this tub? With a sinking heart Ansley recognized a Mrs. Waldo, an American woman, there was a husband in attendance, whom she and Knight had met during their honeymoon at the Knoll Hotel. The pair had been so friendly and kind that the Nelson Smiths had asked them to Portman Square more than once during the three gay months which followed. But it was cruel, thought Ansley, that fate should bring them together again now, just when she and the man she had married were at the parting of the ways. Little had the girl dreamed when she first conceived a mild fancy for the pretty smiling woman and her silent humorous husband, that the pair were destined to decide her future, decided in a way precisely opposite to that in which she had decided it herself. But so it was to be. Mr. and Mrs. Waldo were returning to New York in its waning season because the decorating of a house they had bought was just completed. They begged Ansley and Knight to be their first visitors, and the invitation was given so unexpectedly that Ansley, taken unawares, found herself at a loss. But I mean my husband is going straight to Texas, she stammered. All the more reason if he has to run off so far on business and leaves you in New York that you should stay with us instead of a hotel, argued Mrs. Waldo. Ansley blushed, and for the first time since Easter Eve looked for help to-night. And he was silent, and she blundered on, not daring to pause, lest the firm-willed little lady should seal her to a promise in spite of herself. You are very kind, and it would be delightful, she heard along. But I didn't mean that I was to stop in New York.  I didn't understand. Well, I'm sorry for our sex, but couldn't you spare us two or three days before you start? I— I'm afraid we must wait for another time, said Ansley. My husband has business. He can't waste a day.  Why, it's a sacrilege. You must stay with us one night. If you could see the darling new room will put you in old rose and pearl gray, and cupids holding up the bed-curtains. In desperation the girl stuck to her point, no longer daring to look at night. Indeed, we mustn't stay even for one night. If there's a train the same afternoon. There's a lovelily train, Mrs. Waldo admitted, unable to resist praising the American railway system. We call it the limited. You can have a beautiful stateroom and run right through to Chicago without changing. If they must go, we'll see them off, won't we, Steve, with the glance for the silent husband, and bring them books and chocolates and flowers? What was left for Ansley to say? Shorted informing the kindly couple that they were not wanted, and had better mind their own business, and refusing to decide upon a train, she could do nothing except thank Mrs. Waldo. Perhaps, she thought, they will forget, and things will decide themselves between now and then. Or else I shall patch up some excuse. When the invitation was given, the mini-wanda was still four days distant from New York. But the four days, though seeming long, were not long enough to produce the prayed-for inspiration. Mrs. Waldo referred to the journey whenever she saw Ansley, so there was no hope of her scheme being forgotten. And the nearer loomed the new world, the more clearly the girl was forced to say the thing to which a few hasty words had committed her. She in-night had state rooms adjoining, with a door between. That was to save appearances, and it was no one's business that the door was never opened. In reality they might as well have had the link of the ship between their cabins. Ansley kept to her own quarters as constantly as her jangled nerves would allow. But the sea was provokingly smooth, and she proved to be a good sailor. She felt as if she might become hysterical, and perhaps do something foolish if she tried the experiment of shutting herself up from morning to night. She paced the deck, therefore, and was dimly grateful to night because he seemed always to be in the smoking-room when she took her walks. At meals, however, unless she ate in her state room they could not avoid each other. And again she felt cause for gratitude, because night had accepted the Waldo's suggestion that they should take a table for four. In spite of the Waldo's unwelcome attentions their society was preferable—infinitely preferable—to a duet with night. They talked on such occasions, and the sharpest-eared scandal-monger could have guessed at nothing strange from their manner. But save at these luncheons and these dinners they scarcely spoke to each other. Night took his cue from Ansley. After the night when he had knelt at her feet and begged her forgiveness he had never forced himself upon his wife. He seemed to have a dread of being thought an intruder, even withdrew his eyes guiltily if the girl caught him looking at her with the old, wistful gaze to whose mystery she now had a tragic clue. Ansley hoped that before they landed night might make some opportunity to discuss ways and means of getting out of the dilemma created by the Waldo's. But he never attempted to begin a conversation with her. And she put off the evil moment from day to day telling herself that there was time yet, and he had probably solved the problem, he who was a specialist in solving problems. Loving the man no longer, her heart seemed to die anew whenever she thought of him. There remained still a ghost to her old trust, and almost resentful confidence that he who was so clever, so hideously clever, would be capable of overcoming any difficulty. I told him that I'd go with him on the ship, and that then we must part, she assured herself, lying awake at night, wondering feverishly what was to happen in New York. He said we'd see about all that later. But he must know by the way I act that I haven't changed my mind. He will have to get me out of the trouble about the train. The girl, still mapping the future, had thought of herself as being a governess for American children. She did not know many things which governess is ought to know. But if this children were small enough, she did not see why she might not do very well. She could sing and play as nine girls out of ten could. She had been told that she had quite a Parisian accent in French, and as for arithmetic and geography and other alarming things which children ought to know, and grown-up people forgot, one could teach them with the proper books. Besides, she had heard that Americans liked to have English governesses for their children. It was considered smart. She would go to an agent, and it ought to be easy to find a place in the country or suburbs. It must not be in New York, for fear of some chance meeting with the Waldos. But if worst came to worst, and because of those everlasting Waldos she had to get into the train with night, she would get out again at the first good-sized place where it stopped. There must be agencies for governesses and companions in every large town. One would serve as well as another. As for money, she knew that she must have some to go on with until she could begin to earn. So far she had been forced to let night pay her way, as he said, out of the good fund. Her coming with him had been for his sake, and to spare him from gossip.  But now, in sailing to America as his wife, she had done all that she had ever promised to do. He would have to arrange things as best he could. Somehow the right time did not come to ask him what he intended to do, for at the table, or if occasionally they were on deck together, they were never alone. The ship docked late in the morning, and night was busy with the Custom House men. It was noon when their luggage had been examined and could be sent away, and the Waldos, under letter W, were released at the same moment that Nelson Smiths, under S, were able to escape. The guests have lunch at the dear old Waldorf, our pet place at almost namesake, proposed Mrs. Waldow. You owe us that after all the times you entertained us in London, and you really see New York in the restaurant. You've nothing to do till your train goes this afternoon, and your husband can get your reservations right there in the hotel. Ansley's eyes went doubtfully to-nights, and met a study look, which seemed to say that he had made his mind up to some course. Very well, we shall be delighted, she said, residedly. We shall meet at the Waldorf, is it, at lunch and time? Oh, my no! exclaimed the older woman, radiant in the joy of homecoming. It'll be lunchtime in an hour. You must taxi up to sixty-first street with us, and just glance at the house, or we shall be so hurt. Then we'll spin you down to the hotel again in no time. I wish we could feed you at home, for nothing will be in shape there till to-night. There was still no chance for Ansley to ask night the long-delayed question. They saw and duly admired the Waldorf's house, and took another taxi to the hotel, the Nelson-Smith's luggage having bent expressed to the Grand Central to await them. The Waldorf tried to engage his favorite table, and Mrs. Waldorf suggested that it would be a good moment to get the reservations. Again Ansley's startled glance turned to-night. Again his eyes answered with decision. This time there was no longer any doubt in the girl's mind. The Waldorf's persistent to the last would compel her to leave New York with her husband. But whatever happened she would part with him forever before darkness fell. At the first big town she told herself once more. They were at the desired table which Steve had secured when night rejoined them announcing that he had his tickets. I hope you're able to get in my stateroom, fussed Mrs. Waldorf. Such a long journey, and Mrs. Smith's first day in our country! Yes, everything satisfactory, said night, in the calm way which Ansley had once admired. Mrs. Waldorf would have asked more questions if at that moment her eyes had not lighted upon a couple at an adjacent table. Well, of all things, she cried, jumping up to meet a pretty girl and a spruce young man, who had also jumped up. George and Kitty Mason! What a coincidence! There were kissings and handshakeings. Then Mr. and Mrs. Mason were introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith. They, it seemed, had been married in the early winter, just like night and Ansley had been. And to add to the strangeness of the coincidence which drew bird-like exclamations from Jean Waldo, Kitty and George were starting for Kansas City that afternoon. They were going by the same train in which the Nelson Smiths would travel. Why, you'll be together for two days, sweet Jean! For good to sake! Look at your reservations and see if you're in the same car! George Mason pulled out his tickets. We're in a bourgeois car all the way, he said. We'll start in one called Elena, after Chicago were in Alvarado. Night followed suit, not ungraciously, though without enthusiasm. Ansley's heart was tapping like a hammer in her breast. She felt giddy. There was a mist before her eyes, yet she saw clearly enough to see that there were two railway tickets alike in every way, even to what seemed their extraordinary length. A flashing glance gave her the name of the last station at the end. It was Texas. And their two state rooms were also in Elena and Alvarado. End of Chapter 22. Chapter 23 of the Second Latch Key. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Second Latch Key. By Charles Norris and Alice Muriel Williamson. Chapter 23. The Thin Wall. How dared he buy a ticket for me all the way to Texas, Ansley asked herself. But I might have known how it would be, she thought. Why expect a man like him to keep a promise? Yet she had expected it. She constantly found herself expecting to find truth and greatness in the man who was a thief, who had been a thief for half his life. It was strange. But everything about him was strange, and stranger than the rest was his silent power over all who came near him, even over herself, who knew now what he was. It would seem that after his confession there would be no further room for disappointment concerning his character. Yet she was disappointed that his plan, on which she had been counting, had been nothing more original than to break his word and see what she would do. After luncheon, when the Waldos and Masons became absorbed for a few minutes in talk, she turned a look on her husband. I saw the tickets, she said. Did you, he returned, pretending, as she thought, not to understand? You bought one for me to Texas. Of course. Did you think I wouldn't? That would have been poor economy in the game we've been playing. It was her turn to show that she was puzzled. What do you mean? You never cared to talk things over. I saw you didn't want to, so I didn't press. And when this complication about the Waldos came up I thought, perhaps I was mistaken, that you trusted me to do the best I could. Yes, that's why I expected you not to get me a ticket to Texas. How far did you expect me to get it? I don't know. That's just it. Neither did I know. I got the whole ticket, so you might choose your stopping place. Oh! Ansley was ashamed, though she was sure she had no need to be. That was why. That was why. Things being as they are, it was well I had your ticket to show with mine, wasn't it? I suppose so, but what am I to do? We'll talk of that in the train. There won't be time before, because of these people, and because I must leave you for two hours before the train goes. Leave me! Ansley echoed the words blankly, then hoped that he had not noticed the dismay in her tone. You will be all right with the Waldos and their friends. I'll explain to them. There's no time to lose. I must go off at once. Ansley was pricked with curiosity to know why and where he must go. She would not ask, but while he was away and she was being whirled through the park along Riverside Drive at lightning speed, to see New York in a hurry, her thoughts were with her husband, imagining fantastic things. My mind is like a ghost, she thought bitterly, haunting what once it loved. It seems doomed to follow wherever he goes, whatever he does, but it will be different when we're parted. I shall escape in soul and body. I shall have my own life to live. That wonderful Italian house, Mrs. Waldos was saying, as the taxi slowed down for one of her lectures, is Paul Van Breck's New York home. They say it's a museum from Garrett to Seller, not that there IS a Garrett, and I believe it's a copy of some Palazzo in Venice.  Somebody's coming out. Why—Mrs. Nelson Smith, it's your husband. Shall we stop? No, let's drive on, Ansley begged anxiously. My husband knows Mr. Van Breck. They have business together. He won't want us. The taxi was allowed to go to the next place of interest. Ansley had flung herself back in the seat, but she was not sure that Knight hadn't seen her. She knew what powers of observation his quiet, almost lazy manner, could hide. This chance meeting took place on the way to the Grand Central Station, where they met the Masons, and were joined almost at the last moment by Knight, just as Ansley had begun to wonder if, after all, he were not coming. He was as calm as though there were no haste, and said he had been delayed in collecting the luggage from the ship. He had a good deal to say about that luggage, and what with thanks to the Waldos for books and flowers and chocolates, and their kindness to Ansley, Mrs. Waldow, with the best intentions, found no chance to mention Paul Van Breck. Ansley had not meant to refer to him, though seeing Knight come out of his shut-up house had given her a shivering sense of mystery. But when the train had started, Knight came to the door of her stateroom. There are one or two things I should like to speak to you about, if you don't mind. He said in the kind yet distant manner which had replaced the old, loverlike way when they were alone together. Come in, she replied, and added, lowering her voice, Mr. and Mrs. Mason are next door. They are too much in love to be thinking about us, or listening, he answered, and Ansley imagined a ring of bitterness in his tone. I've come to talk over plans, but before we begin I want to explain something. Once you made a guess in connection with Paul Van Breck. Probably you think that what you saw confirms it. Of course the Waldos were telling you whose house it was, and as luck would have it I came out at that instant. Whether there was anything in your guess or not doesn't matter. You're too sensible to mention it to any one except me. But I can't have you torturing yourself with the idea that such dealings as you imagine with Van Breck are still going on, if they ever did go on. Because I have faith in your discretion, and because I owe it to you, I'm going to explain why I went to Van Breck's house this afternoon, why I was obliged to go. I knew he would have got back from Florida. I hear from him sometimes, and I had to tell him that any business I'd ever done for him was done for the last time, because I was going to settle down to Ranch Life in Texas. So I handed to him the Malendor Diamond. His firm lost it, his firm has by this time been paid the insurance. It's up to him how to dispose of the property. That's all I have to say about Van Breck. I thought in fairness you ought to know that I didn't keep the Diamond. And I thought I might tell you that my call at Van Breck's didn't mean entering any new deal. Thank you, Ansley said stiffly, I am glad. She was glad, yet she wished the man to understand how impersonal was her gladness, how impossible it was that any atonement could bring them together again in spirit, how dead was the past which he had slain, and he did understand as clearly from her few words as if she had preached him an hour's sermon. Now, for what you are to do he went on crisply. Although you and I never discussed the situation on board ship, I realized what the Waldos were letting you in for. I supposed you'd feel that your staying in New York was out of the question. I bought our tickets to Texas. At the same time I got a map and a guidebook which gives information about places on the way and beyond. The Masons being on the train to Kansas City was a new complication, but it wasn't my fault, and it only means that the game of keeping up appearances must be played a little farther. Would you like to go to California? If you want to take back your maiden name and be Miss Grail, or if you care to have a new name to begin a new life with, a quite respectable fellow called Michael Donaldson could introduce you to a few influential people in Los Angeles. No danger of meeting Madalena de Santiago there, though it's only a day's journey from San Francisco where she's very likely arrived by this time. She has reasons for not liking Los Angeles. In her early days she had some financial troubles there, and she wouldn't enjoy being reminded of them. Is Los Angeles farther than El Paso, Ansley inquired, keeping her voice steady, though there was a sickly chill in her heart? A good way farther night went on in the same business-like tone which separated him thousands of miles from the night she used to know. Here I'll show you how the land lies. Opening a map of a western railroad he drew a little closer to her on the seat, and pointed out place after place along the black line, told her when they would arrive in Kansas City and how they would go on without change to Albuquerque. There he said, he must take another train for El Paso, and from El Paso he must go a distance of twenty miles to the ranch, which lay close to the border of Mexico, on the Rio Grande. But you, he said quietly, you can keep straight along in the train we'll get into at Chicago till you come to Los Angeles. There'll be time in Chicago to buy your ticket to California, and I can write letters of introduction. There'll be to good people you needn't be afraid. Yet Ansley was afraid, deathly afraid. Not that night's friends would not be good people, but of going on alone to an unknown place in an unknown country. It would not have been so terrible, she thought, to have stayed in New York, if only the Waldos hadn't interfered. But to have this man, who, after all, was her one link with the old world, get out of the train which was hurling them through space and leave her to go on alone. That was a fearful thing. She could not face the thought, at least not yet. Perhaps she would feel more courageous tomorrow. On the ship she had slept little. Her nerves felt like violin strings, stretched too tight, stretched to the point of breaking. Does that plan suit you, as well as any other, Knight was asking? I can't decide yet, the girl answered, and to keep tears back seemed the most important thing just then. It doesn't matter, does it, as I must go on past Kansas City. No it doesn't matter, Knight agreed. You've plenty of time. I suppose you'd like me to leave you now, to rest till dinner time? Here's the guidebook. You might care to look it over. But when he had gone, Ansley let the book lie unopened on the seat. She was very tired. She could not think far ahead. Her mind would occupy itself with the features of the journey, not with her own affairs. Everything was strange and new. Even the train was wonderful. She had thought, in the immense station, that the cars looked like a procession of splendidly built bungalows, each painted a different color, and having brightly polished metal balconies at the end.  The coffee-colored porter and maid were delightful. They smiled at her kindly, and when they smiled it seemed sadder than ever not to be happy. The Mason's talk at dinner was disconcerting. They took it for granted that she and Knight were an adoring newly married couple like themselves. Ansley was thankful to escape, and to go to bed in her little paneled room. "'Tomorrow, when I'm rested, things will be easier,' she told herself. But tomorrow came and she was not rested, for again she had not slept. In Chicago there were hours to wait before a train time. The Mason's proposed taking a motor-car to see the sights and lunching together at a famous Chinese restaurant. At a sign from her, Knight consented, it was better to be with the Mason's than with him alone. After luncheon, however, Knight drew her aside. "'What about Los Angeles?' he inquired. "'Have you decided?' Ansley felt incapable of deciding anything, and her unhappy face betrayed her state of mind. "'If you'd rather think it over longer,' he said, "'I can buy your ticket at Albuquerque. Very well,' Ansley replied. She did not remember where Albuquerque was, though Knight had pointed it out on the map, and she did not care to remember all she wanted was not to decide then. Knight turned away without speaking, but there was a look, almost, of hope in his eyes. Things could not be what they had been, yet they were better than they might be. At Kansas City the Mason's bade the Nelson Smiths could buy, and from that moment the Nelson Smiths ceased to exist. There were no initials on their luggage. The man kept to his own stateroom. Ansley, alone next door, had plenty of books to read, parting gifts from the Waldos, but the most engrossing novel ever written could not have held her attention. The landscape changed kaleidoscopically. She wondered when they would arrive at Albuquerque. Wondered, yet did not want to know. "'Would you rather go to the dining-car alone, or have me take you?' Knight came to ask. "'It's better to go together, or people may think it's strange.' She said. Even as she spoke she wondered at herself. The Mason's having gone, the other travellers, strangers whom they would not meet again, were not of much importance. Yet she let her words pass, and at dinner that evening she forced herself to ask. Do we get to Albuquerque tonight?' Not till to-morrow, four noon, Knight informed her casually. He feared for a moment that she might say she could not wait so long before making up her mind. But she only looked startled, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Next day there were no more apple orchards, and flat or rolling meadowlands. The train had brought them into another world, a world unlike anything that Ansley had seen before. At the stations were flat-faced, half-breed Indians and Mexicans, some poorly clad, others gaily dressed, with big straw hats painted with flowers, and green leggings laced with faded gold. In the distance were hills and mountains, and the train ran through stretches of red desert, sprinkled with rough grass, or cleft with river-beds, where golden sands, played over by winds, were ruffled into little waves. Toward noon Knight showed himself at the open door of the state room. We'll be in Albuquerque before long now, he announced. That's where I change, you know, for Texas. The train stops for a while, and I can get your ticket for Los Angeles. Those letters of introduction I told you about already. I've left a blank for your name.  Some people with handbags pushed past, and Knight had to step into the room to avoid them. The moment, long delayed, was upon her. Ansley remembered how she had put off deciding whether or not to sail for America with Knight. Now a still more formidable decision was before her and had to be faced. She glanced up at the tall, standing figure. Knight was not looking at her. His eyes were on the desert landscape, flying past the windows. What I want to do, she echoed, there's nothing in this world that I want to do. Then, and Knight did not take his eyes from the window, why not drift? Drift! Yes, to Texas. Oh, I know. I asked you that before, and you said you wouldn't. But hasn't destiny decided? Would it have sent you these thousands of miles with me, unless it meant you to fight it out on those lines? You've traveled far enough, side by side with me, to learn that a man and a woman, with only a thin wall between them, can be as far apart as if they were separated by a continent. Now this minute you've got to decide. It isn't I who tell you so. It's fate. Will you go on alone from the place we're coming to, or will you