25 Harry King leaves the mountain. When the two men bathe Amalia and her mother good night, and took their way to the fodder of the shed, the snow was whirling and drifting around the cabin, and the pathway was obliterated. This will be the last storm of the year, I'm thinking, said Larry. But the younger man strode on without making a reply. He bent forward, leaning against the wind, and in silence trod a path for his friend through the drifted heaps. At the door of the shed he stood back to let Larry pass. I'll not go in yet. I'll tramp about in the snow a bit, until—don't sit up for me. He turned swiftly away into the night, but Larry caught him by the arm and brought him back. Come in with me, lad, I'm lonely. We'll smoke together, then we'll sleep well enough. Then Harry went in and built up the fire, throwing on logs until the shed was flooded with light, and the bare rock wall seemed to leap forward in the brilliance. But he did not smoke. He paced restlessly, about, and at last crept into his bunk and lay with his face to the wall. Larry sat long before the fire. It's the music that's got in my blood, he said. Catherine could sing and lilt the scotch airs like a bird. She had a touch for the instrument too. But Harry could not respond to his friend's attempted confidence in the rare mention of his wife's name. He lay staring at the rough stone wall close to his face, and it seemed to him that his future was bounded by a barrier as implacable and terrible as that. All through the night he heard the deep tones of Madame Linyavska's voice, and the visions of the poem passed through his mind. He saw the strange old man, the murderer, Cain, seated in the tomb, bowed and remorseful, and in the darkness still the eye. But side by side, with this somber vision, he saw the interior of the cabin, an amalia glowing and warm and splendid in her rich gown, with the red firelight playing over her, leaning toward him, her wonderful eyes fixed on his, with a regard at once inscrutable and sympathetic. It was as if she were looking into his heart, but did not wish him to know that she saw so deeply. Towards the morning the snow clouds were swept from the sky, and a late moon shone out clear and cold upon the world, carved crisply out of molten silver. Unable longer to bear that waking torture, Harry King rose and went out into the night, leaving his friend quietly sleeping. He stood a moment, listening to Larry's long, calm breathing, then buttoning his coat warmly across his chest, he closed the shed door softly behind him, and floundered off into the drifts, without heeding the direction he was taking, until he found himself on the brink of the chasm where the river, sliding smoothly over the rocks high above his head, was forever tumbling. There he stood, trembling, but not with cold, nor with cowardice, nor with fatigue. Sanity had come upon him. He would do no untoward act to hurt the three people who would grieve for him. He would bear the hurt of forever loving in silence, and continue to wait for the open road that would lead him to prison and disgrace, or maybe a death of shame. He considered as often before all the arguments that continually fretted him and tore his spirit, and as before, he knew the only course to follow was the hard one which took him back to Amalia, until spring and the melting of the snow has released him. To live near her, to see her, and hear her voice, even touch her hand, and feel his body grow tense and hard, suffering restraint. If only for one moment he might let himself go. If but once again he might touch her lips with his. Ah, God, if he might say one word of love only once before leaving her forever. Standing there, looking out upon the world beneath him, and above him bathed in the immaculate whiteness of the snow, and the moonlight all over, he perceived how small an atom in the universe is one lone man, yet how overwhelmingly great in his power to love. It seemed to him that his love overtopped the hills, and swept to the very throne of God. He was exalted by it, and in this exaltation it was that he trembled. Would it lift him up to triumph over remorse and death? He turned and plotted back the inevitable way. It was still night, cold and silver-white. He was filled with energy born of great renunciation and despair, and could only calm himself by work. If he could only work until he dropped, or fight with the elements it would help him. He began clearing the snow from the ground around the cabin, and cut the path through to the shed. Then he quietly entered and found Larry still calmly sleeping, as if but a moment had passed. Finally he secured one of the torches, and made his way through the tunnel to the place where Larry and he had found the quartz which they had smelted in the evening. There he fastened the torch securely in a crevice, and began to swing his pick and batter recklessly at the overhanging ledge. Overhead he worked so furiously, and the earth and stone lay all about him, and heaped at his feet. Deeper and deeper he fought and cut into the solid wall. Until, grime with sweat and dirt, he sank exhausted upon the pile of quartz he had loosened. Then he shoveled it to one side, and began again dealing erratic blows with his spent strength, until the ledge hung dangerously over him. As it was, he reeled and swayed and struck again, and staggered back to gather strength for another blow, leaning on his pick, and this saved him from death. For during the instance pause the whole mass fell crashing in front of him, and he went down with it, stunned and bleeding, but not crushed. Larry killed him breakfasted, and worked about the cabin and the shed half the day before he began to wonder at the young man's absence. He felt a grumbling that Harry had not fed and groomed his horse, and did the work himself. Noon came, and Amalia looked in his face anxiously as he entered, and Harry not with him. How is it that Mr. Ari have not arrived all this day? Oh, he's mooning somewhere, off on a tramp, I suppose. Has he then his gun, no? No, but he's been about. He cleared away all the snow, and I saw he had been over to the fall. Amalia turned pale as the shrewd old man's eyes rested on her. He came back early, though, for I saw footprints both ways. I hope he comes soon, for we have the good soup today of the kind Mr. Ari so well likes. But he did not come soon, and it was with much misgiving that Larry set out to search for him. Finding no trails leading anywhere except the twice-trodden one to the fall, he naturally turned into the mine, and followed along the path, torch in hand, hallowing jovially as he went, but his voice only returned to him, reverberating hollowly. Then remembering the ledge where they had last worked, and how he had meant to put in props before cutting away any more, he ran forward, certain of calamity, and found his young friend lying where he had fallen, the blood still oozing from a cut above the temple where it had clotted. For a moment Larry stood aghast, thinking him dead, but quickly seeing the fresh blood he lifted the limp body and bound up the wound. And then Harry opened his eyes and smiled in Larry's face. The big man in his joy could do nothing but storm and scold. Didn't I tell you to do no more here until we'd the props in?  If I didn't tell you we needed them here, you could have seen it for yourself. And here you've cut away all underneath. What did you do it for, I say? Tenderly he gathered Harry in his arms and lifted him from the debris and loosened rock.  Don't try to stand. Bear on me, I say. Bear on me. Oh, put me down and let me walk. I'm not hurt, just a cut. How long have you been here? Walk, I say. Yes, walk. Put your arm here, across my shoulder so. You can walk as well as a week old baby.  So Larry carried him in spite of himself and laid him in his bunk. There he stood, panting and looking down on him.  This is all foolishness. I could have made it myself, on foot, said Harry ungratefully, but he smiled up in the older man's face, a compensating smile.  It's no more lessons with Amalia and no more violin and poetry for you, for one while, young man. Thank God, it will help me over the time until the trail is open, Larry. Larry stood, staring foolishly on the drawn face and quivering, sensitive lips. You're hungry, that's what you are, he said conclusively. Guess I am. I'm wretchedly sorry to make you all this trouble, but she mustn't come in here. You'll bring me a bite to eat. Yes, I'm hungry, that's what ails me. He drew a grimy hand across his eyes and felt the bandage. Why, you've done me up. I must have had quite a cut.  I'm just a bit faint. I'll eat if you'll fetch me a bite. Quickly, Larry removed his outer clothing and mended the fire, and then left him carefully wrapped in blankets and settled in his bunk. When he returned he found him lightheaded and moaning and talking incoherently. Only a few words could he understand, and these remained in his memory. When I'm dead, when I'm dead, I say, and then, not yet, I can't tell him yet, I can't tell him the truth, it's too cruel. And again the refrain. When I'm dead, when I'm dead. But when Larry bent over him and spoke, Harry looked sanely in his eyes and smiled again. Ah, that's good, he said, sipping the soup. I'll be myself again tomorrow and save you all this trouble. You know, I must have accomplished a good deal to break off that ledge, and the gold fairly leaped out on me as I worked. Did you see it? No, but I knew it. I felt it. Shake my clothes and see if they aren't full of it. Was that what put you in such a frenzy and made a fool of you? Yes. No, no. It wasn't that. You know you were a fool, don't you? If telling me of it makes me know it, yes. Eat a little more. Here are beans and venison. You must eat to make up the loss. Oh, I man, I found you in a pool of blood. Oh, I'll make it up. I'll make it up all too soon.  You'll not make it up as soon as you think, young man. You may lose a quart of blood in a minute, but it takes weeks to get it again, and Harry King found his friend was right. That was the last snow of winter, as Larry had predicted, and when Harry crawled out in the sun, the earth smelled of spring and the waterfall thundered in its downward plunge, augmented by the melting snows of the still higher mountains. The noise of it was ever in their ears, and the sound seemed fraught with a buoyant impulse and inspiration, the whirl and rush of a tremendous force, giving a sense of superhuman power. Even after he was really able to walk about and help himself, Harry would not allow himself to see Amalia.  I'll wait on you here no longer, boy, said Larry, at last. What in life are you hiding in this shed for? The women think it's strange of you, the mother does, anyway. You may never quite know what her daughter thinks, unless she wishes you to know, but I'm sure she thinks strange of you, she ought to. I know, I'm perfectly well and strong. The trail's open now, and I'll go. I'll go back, where I came from. You've been good to me. I can't say any more now. Smoke a pipe, lad, smoke a pipe. Harry took a pipe and laughed. You're better than any pipe, but I'll smoke it, and I'll go down. Yes, I must, and bid them goodbye. And will you have nothing to tell me, lad, before you go? Not yet. After I've made my peace with the world, with the law, I'll have a letter sent you, telling all I know. You'll forgive me. You see, when I look back, I wish to see your face, as I see it now, not changed towards me.  That evening Harry King went down to the cabin and sat with his three friends and ate with them, and told them he was to depart on the morrow. They chatted and laughed, and put restraint away from them, and all walked together to watch the sunset from a crag above the cabin. As they returned, Madame Mignovska walked at Harry's side, and as she bade him good night, she said in her broken English. You think not to return, no? But I say to you, in my soul, I know it. Yet will you return? We know more to be here, perhaps. But you, yes, you will return. They stood a moment before the cabin, and the firelight streamed through the open door, and fell on Amalia's face. Harry took the mother's hand as he parted from them, but he looked in Amalia's eyes. In the morning he appeared with his kit strapped on his back, equipped for walking. The women protested that he should not go thus, but he said he could not take gold bug and leave him below. He is yours, Amalia. Don't beat him. He's a good horse. He saved my life, or tried to. You know well it is my custom to beat animals. It is better you take him, or I beat him severely. I know it, but you see, I can't take him. Ride him for me, and don't let him forget me. Goodbye. He waved his hand and walked lightly away, and all stood in the doorway watching him. At the top of a slight rise he turned again and waved his hand, and was lost to their sight. Then Larry went back to the shed, and sat by the fire and smoked a lonely pipe, and the mother began busily to weave at her lace in the cabin, closing the door, for the morning air was chilly. And Amalia, for a moment she stood at the cabin door, her hand pressed to her heart, her head bowed as if in despair. Then she entered the cabin, caught up her silken shawl, and went out. Throwing the shawl over her head she ran along the trail Harry had taken, until she was out of breath. Then she paused, and looked back, hesitating, quivering. Should she go on? Should she return? I will go by the little, little way. Maybe he stops a moment, if only to think a little. And she went on, hurrying, then moving more slowly. She thought she might at least catch one more fleeting glimpse of him as he turned the bend in the trail, but she did not. Ah, he is so quickly gone, she sighed, but still walked on. Yes, so quickly gone, but he had stopped as she thought, to think a little, beyond the bend. There where he had waited the long night in the snow for Larry Keldine. There where he had sat like Elijah of old, despairing, under the juniper tree. He felt weary and old, and worn. He thought his youth had gone from him forever. But what matter? What was youth without hope? Youth, love, life, all were to be relinquished. He closed his eyes to the wonder of the hills, and the beauty before him. Yet he knew they were there, with their marvelous appeal, and he sat with bowed head. Ari, Ari King! He raised his head, and there before him were all that he had relinquished. Youth, love, life. He ran and caught her to him, as one who was drowning catches at life. You have leave me so coldly, Ari King! He pressed her cheek to his. You did not even speak to me a little. He kissed her lips. You have break my heart. He held her closer to his own.  This is the crime I have fought against. No, to love is not crime. To dare to love, with the curse on my head that I feel as Cain felt it, is crime. In the eye he saw it always, as I, I see it.  See, Amalia, it is all I could do to go out of your life and say nothing. His voice trembled and his hand quivered as it rested on her hair. I sat here to fight it. My heart, my heart that I have not yet learned to conquer, was pulling me back to you. I was faint and old. I could walk no farther until the fight was won. Oh, Amalia, Amalia, leave me alone, with the curse on my head, it is not yours. No, and it is not yours. You have repent. I do not believe that poem my mother is thinking so great. It is the terror of the ancient ones. But today no more. Take this. It is for you I bring it. I have wear it always on my bosom. Wear it now on yours. She quickly unclasped from her neck a thread-like chain of gold, and drew from her bosom a small ivory crucifix, to which it was attached. Reaching up she clasped it around his neck and thrust the cross in his bosom. Then, thinking he meant to protest, she seized his hands and held them, and her words came with the impetuous rush of her thoughts. No charm will help, Amalia. I killed my friend. Ah, no, Ariking. Take this of me. It is not as you think for one charm I give it. No. It is for the love of Christ, that you remember and think of it. For that I wear it. For that I give it to you. If you have repent and have the Christ in your heart, so are you high. Lift it above the sin. And if they take you, if they put the iron on your hands. Ah, I know.  If they keep you forever in the prison, still forever are you free. If they put you to the death to be satisfied of the law, then quickly are you alive in paradise with Christ. Listen. It is for the love that you give yourself up. For the sorrowfulness in your heart that you have killed your friend is not, yes, so is good. See. Look to the hills, the high mountains, all far around us. They are beautiful. They are yours. God gives you. And the sky, so clear. And the bright sun, and the spring life, and the singing of the birds. All are yours, God gives. And the love in your heart, for me, God gives, yes. And for the one you have hurt, yes, God gives it.  So is the love, the great life of God in you. It is yours. Listen. Go with the love in your heart. For me, it will not hurt. It will be sweet to me. I carry no curse for you, as you say. It is gone. If I see you again in this world, as may be, is joy, great joy. If I see you no more here, yet in paradise I will see you. And there also it will be joy. For it is the love that is all of life, and all of eternity, and lives, lives. Again he held her to his heart in a long embrace. And when at last he walked down the trail into the desert, he still felt her tears on his cheek, her kisses on his lips, and her heart against his own. CHAPTER XXVI On a warm day in May, a day which opens the crab-apple blossoms, and sets the bees humming, and the children longing for a chance to pull off shoes and stockings and go waiting in the brook, on such a day the door of the little schoolhouse stood open, and the sunlight lay in a long patch across the floor toward the teacher's desk. And the breeze came in and tossed a stray curl about her forehead, and the children turned to their heads often to look at the round clock on the wall, watching for the slowly moving hands to point to the hour of four. It was a mixed school, children of all ages were there, from naughty little Johnny Cole, of five, to Mary Burt, and Hilton Lemoyne, of seventeen, and nineteen, who were in Algebra, and the sixth reader. It was well known by the rest of the children why Hilton Lemoyne lingered in the school this year all through May and June, instead of leaving in April, as usual, to help his uncle on the farm. It was teacher. He was in love with her, and always waited after school, hoping for a chance to walk home with her. Poor boy, black-haired, red-cheeked, and big-hearted. He knew his love was hopeless, for he was younger than she, not so much, but there was Tom Howard, who was also in love with her, and he had a span of sorrel horses which he had raised and broken himself, and they were his own, and he could come at any time, when she would let him, and take her out riding. Ah, that was something to aspire to, such a team as that, and teacher to sit by his side and drive out with him, all in her pretty flat hat, with a pink rose on it, and green ribbons flying, and her green parasol over her head, sitting so easily, just leaning forward a bit, and turning and laughing at what he was saying, and all the town seeing her with him, and his harness shining anew, making the team look as splendid as the best livery in town, and his buggy all painted so bright and new, well, the time would come when he, too, would have such an outfit, it would, and teacher would see that Tom Howard was not the only one who could drive up after her in such style. Little teacher was tired today. The children had been restless and noisy, and her heart had been heavy with a great disappointment. She had been carefully saving her small salary that she might go when school closed, and take a course at the Art Institute in Technique. For a long time she had clung to the idea that she would become an illustrator, and a great man had told her father that, with a little instruction in Technique, his daughter had a fortune at the tips of her fingers. Only Technique, yes, if she could get it. Father could help her, of course. Only father was a painter in oils, and not an illustrator. And then he was so driven always, and father and mother both thought it would be best for her to take the course of study recommended by the great man. So it was decided, for there was Martha married and settled in her home not far away from the Institute, and teacher could live with her and study. Ah, the long coveted chance almost within her reach. Then one difficulty after another intervened, beginning with a great fire in the fall which swept away Martha's home and all they had accumulated, together with her husband's school rendering it necessary for the young couple to go back to Lowvite for the winter. Never mind Betty dear, Martha had encouraged her. We'll return in the spring and start again, and you can take the course just the same. But now a general financial stringency prevailed all over the country. It always seems when there's a financial stringency that portraits and paintings are the things people economize on, first of all, said Betty. Naturally, said Mary Ballard, when people need food and clothing they want them, and not pictures. We'll just have to wait, dear. Yes, we'll have to wait, Mary. Saucy Betty had a way of calling her mother, Mary. Your dress is shabby and you need a new bonnet. I noticed it in church. You'd never speak of that, though. You'd wear your winter's bonnet all summer. Yes, Betty must see to it, even if it took every bit of the fund that mother and Janie were suitably dressed. Never mind, Mary, I'll catch up some day. You needn't look sorry. I'm all right about my own clothes. For Martha gave me a rose for my hat and the new ribbons make it so pretty. And my green parasol is as good as new for all I've had at three years and, Betty stopped abruptly. Three years? Was it so long since that parasol was new and she was so happy and Richard came home? The family were seated on the piazza, as they were want to be in the evening, and Betty walked quietly into the house and up to her room.  She's never been the same since, he said. Her character has deepened and she's fine and sweet. Yes, yes, I have three hundred dollars owing me for the DeLonge portrait. If I had it, she should have her course. I'll make another effort to collect it. I would, Bertrand. Julian Thurbefill and his wife walked down the flowerboarded path side by side to the gate and stood leaning over it in silence. Practical Martha was the first to break it. There will be just as much need for preparatory schools now as there was before the fire, Julian. Yes, dear, yes. And meanwhile, we are glad of this sweet haven to come to, aren't we? And it won't be long before things are so you can begin again. Yes, dear, and then we'll make it up to Betty, won't we? But Julian was distraught and somber in spite of brave words. He had not inherited Mary Ballard's way of looking at things, nor his father in law's buoyancy. All that night, Betty lay wakeful and thinking, thinking as she had many, many a time during the last three years trying to make plans whereby she might adjust her thoughts to a life of loneliness, as she had decided in her romantic heart was all she would take. How could there be anything else for her since that terrible night when Richard had come to her and confessed his guilt, his love and his renunciation? Was she not sharing at all with him wherever he might be, and whatever he was doing? Oh, where was he? Did he ever think of her and know she was always thinking of him? Did he know she prayed for him, and was the thought of comfort to him? Surely Peter was the happier of the two, for he was not a sorrowing criminal, wandering the earth, hiding and repenting. So all her thoughts went out to Richard, and no wonder she was a weary little white at the end of the school day. Four o'clock and the children went hurrying away, all but Hilton Lemoine, who lingered awhile at his desk, and then reluctantly departed, seeing teacher did not look up from her papers, except to give him a nod and a fugitive little smile of absentminded courtesy. Left thus alone, Betty lifted the lid of her desk and put away the school register, and the carefully marked papers to be given out the next day, and took from a small portfolio a packet of closely written sheets. These she untied and looked over, tossing them rapidly aside one after another until she found the one for which she searched. It was a short poem, hastily written with lead pencil and much crumpled and worn, as if it had been carried about. Now she straightened the torn edges and smoothed it out, and began scanning the lines counting off on her fingers the rhythmic beats. She copied the verses carefully on a fresh white sheet of paper and laid them aside. Then, shoving the whole heap of written papers from her, she selected another fresh sheet and began anew, writing and scanning and writing again. Steadily she worked while an hour slipped by. A great bumblebee flew in at one window and boomed past her head and out at the other window, and a bluebird perched for an instant on the window ledge and was off again. She saw the bee and the bird and paused a while gazing with dreamy eyes through the high, uncurtained window at drifting clouds already taking on the tint of the declining sun. Then she stretched her arms across her wide desk, and putting her head down on them was soon fast asleep, tired little teacher. The breeze freshened and tumbled her hair and fanned her flushed cheek, and it did more than that, for as the drifting clouds betokened the weather was changing, and now a gust of wind caught at her papers and took some of them out of the window, tossing and whirling them hither and thither. Some were carried along the wayside and lost utterly. One fluttered high over the treetops and out across the meadow and then suddenly ceased its flight and drifted slowly down like a dried leaf. That's the face of a young man who sat on a stone, moodily gazing in the meadowbrook. He reached out a long arm and caught it as it fluttered by, just in time to save it from annihilation in the water. For a moment he held the scrap of paper absently between his fingers, then glancing down at it he spied, faintly written, half obliterated verses and read them. Then, with awakened interest, he read them again, smoothing the torn bit of paper out on his knee. The place where he sat was well screened from the road by a huge basewood tree, which spread great limbs quite across the stream and swept both its banks with drooping branches and broad leaves. Now he held the scrap on his open palm and studied it closely and thoughtfully. It was the worn piece from which Betty had copied the verses. Oh, send me a thought on the winds that blow, on the wing of a bird, send a thought to me. For the way is so long that I may not know, and there are no paths on the troubled sea. Out of the darkness I saw you go, into the shadows where sorrows be, wounded and bleeding and sad and slow, into the darkness away from me. Out of my life and into the night, but never out of my heart my own, into the darkness out of the light, bleeding and wounded and walking alone. Here the words were quite erased and scratched over, and the pathetic bit of paper looked as if it had been tear-stained. Carefully and smoothly he laid it in his long bill-book. The book was large and plethoric with banknotes, and there beside them lay the little scrap of paper, worn and soiled, yet tear-washed, and as the young man touched it tenderly he smiled and thought that in it was a wealth of something no banknote could buy. With a touch of sentiment, unsuspected by himself, he felt it too sacred a thing to be touched by them, and he smoothed it again and laid it in a compartment by itself. Then he rose and sauntered across the meadow to the country road, and down it passed the school house, standing on its own small rise of ground, with the door still wide open, in its shadow, cast by the rays of the now-setting sun, stretched long across the playground. The young man passed it, paused, turned back, and entered. There at her desk Betty still slept, and as he stepped softly forward and looked down on her, she stirred slightly and drew a long breath, but slept on. For a moment his heart ceased to beat, then it throbbed suffocatingly, and his hand went to his breast and clutched the bill-book where lay the tender little poem. There at her elbow lay the copy she had so carefully made. The air of the room was warm and drowsy, and the stillness was only broken by the low buzzing of two great blue-bottle flies that struggled futilely against the high window-pains.  The young man turned away and crossed the bare floor with light steps and drew the door softly shut after him as he went out. No one might look upon her as she slept with less reverent eyes. Some distance away, where the road began to ascend toward the river-bluff, he seated himself on a stone, overlooking the little schoolhouse and the road beyond. There he took up his lonely watch until he saw Betty come out and walk hurriedly toward the village, carrying a book and swinging her hat by the long ribbon ties. Then he went on climbing the winding path to the top of the bluff, overlooking the river. Moodley he paced up and down along the edge of the bluff, and finally followed a zigzag path to the great rocks below, that at this point seemed to have hurled themselves down there to do battle with the eager, dominating flood. For a while he stood gazing into the rushing water, not as though he were fascinated by it, but rather as if he were held to the spot by some inward vision. Presently he seemed to wake with a start and looked back along the narrow, steep path and up to the overhanging edge of the bluff, scanning it closely. Yes, yes, there is the notch where it lay, and this may be the very stone on which I am standing. What an easy thing to fall over there and meet death halfway. He muttered the words under his breath and began slowly to climb the difficult ascent. The sun was gone and down by the water a cold, damp current of air seemed to sweep around the curve of the bluff along with the rush of the river. As he climbed he came to a warmer wave of air, and the dusk closed softly around him, as if nature were casting a friendly curtain over the drowsing earth, and the roar of the river came up to him no longer angrily but in a ceaseless, subdued complaint. Again he paced at the top of the bluff, and at last seated himself with his feet hanging over the edge at the spot from which the stone had fallen. The trees on this wind-swept place were mostly gnarled oaks, old and strong and rugged, standing like a band of weather-beaten life guardsmen, overlooking the miles of country around. Not twenty paces from where the young man sat, half reclining on his elbow, stood one of these oaks and close to its great trunk, on its shadowed side, a man bent forward intently watching him. Whenever the young man shifted his position restlessly, the figure made a darting movement forward, as if to snatch him from the dangerous brink, then recoiled and continued to watch. Soon the young man seemed to be aware of the presence and watchful eye, and looked behind him, peering into the dusk. Then the man left his place and came toward him with slow, sauntering step. "'Hello?' he said, with an insinuating rising inflection, and in the soft voice of the Scandinavian. "'Hello,' replied the young man. "'Seek?' "'Sick, no,' the young man laughed slightly. "'What are you doing here?' "'Oh, I just make it little vok up here. "'Same with me, and now I'll make it a little walk back to town.' The young man rose and stretched himself and turned his steps slowly back along the winding path. "'Well, I think I make it little vok downtown, too.' And the figure came sauntering along at the young man's side. "'Oh, you're going my way, are you? All right.' "'Yas, I think I'm going yas to some your way.' The young man set the pace more rapidly, and for a time they walked on in silence. "'At last? Live here?' he asked. "'Yas, I live here.' "'Then here long?' "'In America? Yes. I guess five sacks a year. "'Ah, I like it good. "'I mean here, in this place. "'Oh, here, yas, two, three a year. I like it good, too.' "'Know anyone here? "'Oh, yas, I know people I've worked by yet.' "'Who are they?' "'Oh, I've worked by many places, make garden, "'and fork, get horses, and sow. "'Mrs. Craig-Mile, I've worked by her on garden. "'She is there no more.' The young man paused, suddenly in his stride. "'Gone? Where is she gone?' "'Oh, she is by all country gone. Her man is gone, Mitt.' They walked on. "'What is the elder gone, too?' "'Yas, you know him, yas?' "'Oh, yes, I know everybody here. "'I've been away for a good while.' "'So, yas, just lock me?' "'I was gone too good while. "'But I come back, too. "'Yas, lock you.' Here they came to a turn in the road, and the village lights began to wink out through the darkness, and their ways parted. "'I'm going this way,' said the young man. "'You turn off here? Well, good night. "'Well, good night.' The Swedes sauntered away down a bypass, and the young man kept on the main road to the village, and entered its one hotel, where he had engaged a room a few hours before. End of Chapter 26 Recording by Robert Smith, Chapel Hill, North Carolina Chapter 27 of The Eye of Dread This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Robert Smith The Eye of Dread by Payne Erskine Chapter 27 The Swedes Telegram As soon as the shadows hid the young man's retreating form from the Swedes' watchful eye, that individual quickened his pace and presently broke into a run. Circling round a few blocks and regaining the main street a little below the hotel, he entered the telegraph office. There his haste seemed to leave him. He stood watching the clerk a few minutes, but the latter paid no attention to him. "'Hello,' he said at last. "'Hello yourself,' said the boy, without looking up or taking his hand from the steadily clicking instrument.  After a little the swede grew impatient. He scratched his pale gold head and shuffled his feet.  He reached out and touched the boy on the shoulder. "'Keep out of here. I'll send your message when I'm through with this.' And the instrument clicked on. Then the swede resigned himself, watching sullenly. "'Everybody has to take his turn,' said the boy at last. You can't cut in like that.' The boy was newly promoted and felt his importance. He took the soiled scrap of paper held out to him. It was written over in a clear, bold hand. "'This isn't signed. Who sends this?' "'You make it just like it is. I send it.' "'Well, sign it.' He pushed a pen toward him, and the swede took it in clumsy fingers and wrote laboriously, Nells Nelson. "'You didn't write this message?' "'No, I've worked by the hotel, and I get a man write it.' "'It isn't dated. Been carrying it around in your pocket a good while, I guess. Better date it.' "'Date it?' "'Yes, put down the time you send, you know.' "'Oh, that's nothing. He know pretty good when he get it.' "'Very well.' "'To Mr. John Thomas, State Street, Chicago. "'Job's ready. Come along. Whose job is it yours?' "'No, it's his job yet. You make it go to-night, all right. "'Good night. I pay it now. Voss? Vell, good night.' He paid the boy and slipped out into the shadows of the street, and again making the detour, so that he came to the hotel from the rear. He passed the stables, and before climbing to his cupboard of a room at the top of the building, he stepped round to the side and looked in at the dining-room windows, and there he saw the young man seated at supper. "'All right,' he said softly. The omnibus sent regularly by the hotel management brought only one passenger from the early train next day. Times had been dull of late, and travel had greatly fallen off, as the proprietor complained. There was nothing unusual about this passenger, the ordinary traveling man representing a well-known New York dry-goods house. Nells Nelson drove the omnibus. He had done so ever since elder Cragmile went to Scotland with his wife. The young man he had found on the river bluff was pacing the hotel veranda as he drove up, and Nells Nelson glanced at him and into the eyes of the traveling man as he handed down the ladder's heavy vallus. Standing at the desk, the newcomer chatted with the clerk as he wrote his name under that of the last arrival the day before. "'Harry King,' he read, came yesterday. "'Many stopping here now? Times hard, I guess so. Nothing done in my line. Nobody wants a thing. Guess I'll leave the road and go west, young man,' as old Greeley advises. "'What line is King in? Do you know?' "'Is that him going into the dining-room? Guess I'll follow him and fill up. Anything good to eat here?' In the dining-room he indicated to the waiter by a nod of his head the seat opposite Harry King, and immediately entered into a free and easy conversation, giving him a history of his disappointments in the way of trade, and reiterating his determination to go west, young man. He hardly glanced at Harry, but ate rapidly, stowing away all within reach, until the meal was half through. Then he looked up and asked abruptly, "'What line are you in, may I ask?' "'Certainly you may ask, but I can't tell you. I would be glad to do so if I knew myself.' "'Ever think of going west?' "'I've just come from there, or almost there, wherever it is.' "'Styles is my name, G.B. Styles. Good name for a dry good salesman, don't you think so? I know the styles all right, for men and women too.' "'Like it out west?' "'Yes, very well.' "'Ben there long?' "'Oh, two or three years.' "'Had enough of it, likely.' "'Well, I can scarcely say that. "'Mean to stay east now?' "'I may. I'm not settled yet.' "'Better take up my line.  Good firm, too. Ward Williams & Company.' "'New York. Ben in New York, I suppose?' "'No, never.' "'Well, better try it. I mean, to go west, young man. Know anybody here, ever live here?' "'Yes, when I was a boy.' "'Come back to the boyhood home. We all do that, you know. There's poetry in it. All do it. Old oak and bucket and all that sort of thing. I mean to do it myself yet. Back to old York state.'  "'Well, see you again, I hope,' he said, and walked off, picking his teeth with a quill pick which he took from his vest pocket. He walked slowly and meditatively through the office and out on the sidewalk. Here he paused and glanced about and seeing his companion of the breakfast table was not in sight. He took his way round to the stables. Nels Nelson was stooping in the stable yard, washing a horse's legs. G.B. Styles came and stood near, looking down on him, and Nels straightened up and stood waiting, with the dripping rags in his hand.  I've aching long time already, but just luck, I told you, he'd come.' I thought I told you not to sign that telegram, but it's no matter. Didn't do any harm, I guess.' "'Dat vas a fool, dat boy there,' he asked all time. "'Vat for? Who write dis? You not? Eh? Who send dis?' He make me put my name dar. Then I get out pretty quick, or he ask yet, vat is it for a yob you got somebody eh?' "'Oh well, we've got him now, and he don't seem to care to keep undercover either.' GB Styles seemed to address himself. Too smart to show a sign. See here, Nelson. Are you ready to swear that he's the man?  It is better you give me a paper once, vat your name, dat you give me half-dump money.' Nels Nelson stooped deliberately and went on washing the horse's legs. A look of irritation swept over the placid face of GB Styles, and he slipped the toothpick back in his vest pocket and walked away. I say, called the speed after him, you give me dat paper, eh? I can't stand talking to you here. You'll promise to swear to all you told me when I was here the first time. If you do that, you are sure of the money, and if you change it in the least, or show the least sign of backing down, we neither of us get it, understand? Again the sweet arose and stood looking at him sullenly. It is ten thousand dollars, and I get it half, eh?  The proprietor of the hotel came around the corner of the stable, and GB Styles addressed himself to him. I'd like the use of a horse today, and you are man here, if I can get him. I've got to make a trip to Riggs Corners to sell some dry goods. Got a good buggy? Yes, and a horse you can drive yourself, if you like. Be gone all day? No, don't want to fool with a horse. May want to stay and send the horse back. If I find a place where the grub is better than it is here, see? You'll be back after one meal at any place within a hundred miles of here, the proprietor laughed. Might as well drive yourself. You won't want to send the horse back. I'm short of drivers just now. Times are bad and travel light, so I let one go. I'll take the sweet there. He's my station hand. Maybe Jake can drive you. Nels wears Jake. He's dare and distable, shake, he shouted without glancing up, and Jake slouched out into the yard. Jake, here's a gentleman, wants you to drive him out into the country. I'll take the sweet. Jake can drive your station wagon for once. GB Styles laughed good humoredly and returned to the piazza and sat tilted back with his feet on the rail not far from Harry King, who was intently reading the New York Tribune. For a while he eyed the young man covertly, then dropped his feet to the floor and turned upon him with a question on the political situation and deliberately engaged him in conversation, which Harry King entered into courteously yet reluctantly. Evidently he was preoccupied with affairs of his own. In the stable yard a discussion was going on. Dot horse, no goot in buggy. Better you sell him any way. You yonk by the cars all time and he knew goot by buggy. Well, you've got to take him by the buggy if he is no good. I won't let Jake drive him around the trains and he won't let Jake go with him out to Riggs' corners, so you'll have to take the great and the buggy and go. The sweet began a sullen protest, but the proprietor shouted back to him, you'll do this or leave, and he walked in. Nells went then into the stable, smiling quietly. He was well satisfied with the arrangement. Jake, you put dot big horse by the buggy. No. Tuck to utter bridle. I don't drive him with old bridle. He yonked too quick yet. All time yumping dot horse. Presently Nells drove round to the front of the hotel with the gray horse and a high-top buggy. Harry King regarded him closely as he passed, but Nells looked straight ahead. A boy came out carrying Stiles' heavy vallus. Put that in behind here, said Stiles, as he climbed in and seated himself at Nells Nelson's side. The gray leaped forward on the instant with so sudden a jump that he caught at his hat and missed it. Harry King stepped down and picked it up. What else your horse, he asked, as he restored it to its owner? Oh, nothing. He locked yump a little. And again the horse leaped forward, taking them off at a frantic pace, the high-topped buggy a-tilt as they turned the corner of the street into the country road. Harry King returned to his seat. Surely it was the Scandinavian who had walked down from the bluff with him the evening before. There was no mistaking that soft, drawing voice. See here, you pull your beast down. I want to talk with you. Hi, there goes my hat again. Can't you control him better than that? Let me out. Nells pulled the animal down with a powerful arm, and he stood quietly enough while GB Stiles climbed down and walked back for his hat. Look here. Can you manage the beast, or can't you? He asked, as he stood beside the vehicle and wiped the dust from his soft, black felt with his sleeve. If you can't, I'll walk. Oh, Voss, I fix him.  I guess that's what ails him now. You've done that before. Yoss, but if you know like I leak him, us you yump in, and I lot him run good for two tree-mile. That fix him all right. I don't know about that. Sure you can hold him? Yoss, I hold him. So good he break ye's yah off if he don't stop it, then I told him. Now Kvick, whoa, yump in. GB Stiles scrambled in with unusual agility for him, and again they were off, and the gray taking them along with leaps and bounds, but the road was smooth, and the dust laid by frequent showers was like velvet under the horse's feet. Stiles drew himself up, clinging to the side of the buggy and to his hat. How long will they keep this up, he asked. Oh, he stopped pretty quick. He lacked a little run. Tree four mile he run, does all. And the sweet was right. After a while the horse settled down to a long swinging trot. Look at him now. I make him go all time like this. Then I get my money, I have stable of my own, and then I buy him. I know him. I all time told Mr. Decker, dot horse no good, I buy him cheap.  I see, you're sharp, but you're asking too much. If it were not for me, you wouldn't get a cent, or me either. See, I've spent a thousand hunting that man, and you haven't spent a cent. All you've done is stick here at the hotel and watch. I've been all over the country, even went to Europe and down in Mexico, everywhere. You haven't really earned a cent of it. What for you going all over the world? What you got by dot. Spend money, dot what you got. Me, I stay here. I find him. You not got him all over the world.  He not know it, but for you do it, but he do it all right. Look here Nelson, it's outrageous. You can't lay claim to that money. I told you if he was found, and you were willing to give in your evidence, just as you gave it to me that day, I'd give you your fair share of the reward, as you asked for it. But I never give you any reason to think you were to take half. I've spent all the money working up this matter, and if I were to go back now and do nothing, as I'm half a mind to do, you'd never get a cent of it. There's no proof that he's the man. You no need spend dot money. Can't I get reason into your head? When I set out to get hold of a criminal, do you think I sit down in one place and wait? You didn't find him, he came here, and it's only by an accident you have him, and he may clear out yet and neither of us be the better off because of your pigheadedness. Here, drive into that grove and tie your horse a minute, and we'll come to an understanding. I can't write you out a paper while we're moving along like this. Then Nels turned into the grove and took the horse from the shafts and tied him some distance away, while G.B. Stiles took writing materials from his valus, and sitting in the buggy made a show of drawing up a legal paper. I'm going to draw you up a paper as you asked me to. Now, how do you know you have the man? It is ten thousand dollars. You make me out that paper. You give me half yet.  You answer my question. I can't make this out unless I know you're going to come up to the scratch. He made a show of writing and talked at the same time. I, G.B. Stiles, detective, in the employ of Peter Cragmile, of the town of Lovite, for the capture of the murderer of his son, Peter Cragmile Jr., do hereby promise one Nels Nelson, swede, in the employ of Mr. Decker, hotel proprietor, as stableman, for services rendered in the identification of said criminal at such time as he should be found. Now, what service have you rendered? How much money have you spent in the search? Nothing. I got him. Nothing. That's just it. I got him. No. You haven't got him, and you can't get him without me. Don't you think it. I am the one to get him. You have no warrant and no license. I'm the one to put in the claim and get the reward for you, and you'll have to take what I choose to give and no more. By rights, you would only have your fee as witness, and that's all. That's all the state gives. Whatever else you get is by my kindness in sharing with you, here. A dangerous light gleamed in the Swedes' eyes, and Stiles, by a slight disarrangement of his coat in the search for his handkerchief, displayed a revolver in his hip pocket. Nells' eyes shifted, and he looked away.  I'll take hof.money, said Nells, softly and stubbornly. I'll take out all I've spent on this case before we divide it in any way, shape, or manner. Stiles figured a moment on the margin of his paper. Now, what are you going to swear to? You needn't shift around. You'll tell me here just what you're prepared to give in as evidence before I put down a single figure to your name on this paper, see? I done told you all dot in Chicago dot time. Very well, you'll give that in as evidence every word of it and swear to it. Yoss? I don't more than half believe this is the man. You know it's life imprisonment for him if it's proved on him. And you'd better be sure you have the right one. I'm in for justice, and you're in for the money. That's plain. Yoss, I thank you like it money too. I'll not put him in Irons tonight unless you give me some better reason for your assertion. Why is he the man? I seen him dot time. I know. He got it mark on his head. There to blood run dot time. Yes, the same. All right. I know him. He speak like him. He move his arm like him. Yoss, I know pretty good. You're sure you remember everything he said. All you told me. Oh, Yoss, I write it here. And he drew a small book from his pocket, very worn and soiled. All is here, righted. Let's see it. With a smile, the Swede put it in the style's hand. He regarded it in a puzzled way. What's this? He handed the book back contemptuously. He'll never be able to make that out. All dirty and. Yoss, I read him. You not. Dot Swedish. Very well. Perhaps you know what you're about. And the discussion went on, until at last G.B. Stiles, partly by intimidation, partly by assumption of being able to get on without his services, persuaded Nells to modify his demands and accept three thousand for his evidence. Then the Gray was put in the shafts again, and they drove to the town quietly, as if they had been to rig's corners and back. End of Chapter 27. Recording by Robert Smith, Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Chapter 28 of The Eye of Dread. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anna Simon. The Eye of Dread by Payne Erskine. Chapter 28. A Resemblance Somewhere. While G.B. Stiles and the big Swede were taking their drive and bargaining away Harry King's liberty, he had loitered about the town and visited a few places familiar to him. First he went to the home of Elder Craigmile and found it locked, and the key in the care of one of the bank clerks who slept there during the owner's absence. After sitting a while on the front steps, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he rose and strolled out along the quiet country road on its grassy footpath, past the ballad's home. Mary and Bertrand were out in the little orchard at the back of the house, gazing up at the apple blossoms that hung over their heads in great pale pink clouds. A sweet odor came from the lilacs that hung over the garden fence, and the sunlight streamed down on the peaceful home and on the opening spring flowers. The borders of dwarf purple iris and big clusters of peonies just beginning to bud, and on the beehives scattered about with the bees flying out and in. Ah, it was still the same, tempting and inviting. He paused at the gate, looking wistfully at the open door, but did not enter. No, he must keep his own counsel and hold to his purpose, without stirring these dear old friends to sorrowful sympathy. So he passed on, unseen by them, feeling the old love for the place and all the tender memories connected with it revived and deepened. On he went, strolling toward the little school-house, where he'd found dear Betty Ballad sleeping at the big school desk the evening before, and passed it by, only looking in curiously at the tousaled heads bend over their lessons, and at Betty herself, where she sat at the desk, a class on the long recitation bench before her, and a great boy standing at the blackboard. He saw her rise and take the chalk from the boy's hand and make a few rapid strokes with it on the board. Little Betty, a school teacher, she'd suffered much. How much did she care now? Was it over and her heart healed? Had other loves come to her? All intent now on her work, she stood with her back toward him, and as he passed the open door she turned half about, and he saw her profile sharply against the blackboard. Older? Yes, she looked older, but prettier for that, and slight and trim and neat, dressed in a soft shade of green. She'd worn such a dress once at a picnic. Well, he remembered it. Could he ever forget? Swiftly she turned again to the board and drew the eraser across the work, and he heard her voice distinctly, with its singing quality. How well he remembered that also. Now, how many of the class can work this problem?  This was Harry King's thought as he strolled on and seated himself again under the basswood tree by the meadowbrook, and took from his pocket the worn scrap of paper the wind had brought him, and read it again. Out of my life and into the night, but never out of my heart my own. Into the darkness, out of the light, bleeding and wounded and walking alone. Such a tender, rhythmic bit of verse. Betty must have written it. It was like her. After a time he rose and strolled back again past the little schoolhouse, and it was recess. Long before he reached it, he heard the voices of the children shouting, Auntie, Auntie over! Auntie, Auntie over! They were divided into two bands, one on either side of the small building, over which they tossed the ball and shouted as they tossed it. Auntie, Auntie over! And the band on the other side, worn by the cry, caught the ball on the rebound if they could, and tore round the corner of the building, trying to hit with it any luckless white on the other side, and so claim him for their own. And thus, changing sides, the merry romp went on. Betty came to the door with the bell in her hand, and stood for a moment looking out in the sunshine. One of the smallest of the boys ran to her, and threw his arms around her, and looking up at her face, screamed in wildest excitement, I caught it twice, Teacher! I did!  Ah, grave, dignified little Betty! Who was that passing slowly along the road? Like a wild rose by the wayside, she seemed to him, with her pink cheeks and in her soft green gown, framed thus by the doorway of the old schoolhouse. Naturally she had no recognition for this bearded man, walking by with stiff, soldierly step. Yet something caused her to look again, turning as she entered, and when he looked back, their eyes met, and hers dropped before his, and she was lost to his sight as she closed the door after her. Of course she could not recognize him, disguised thus with the beard on his face, and his dark, tense skin. She did not recognize him, and he was glad, yet sore at heart. He had had all he could bear, and for the rest of the morning he rode letters, sitting in his room at Decker's Hotel. Only two letters, but one was a very long one, to Amalia Manowska. Out in the world he dared not use her own name, so he addressed the envelope to Miss McBride, in Larry Kildine's care, at the nearest station to which they had agreed letters should be sent. Before he finished the second letter, the gong sounded for dinner. The noon meal was always dinner at the hotel. He thrust his papers and the unfinished letter in his valise, and locked it, and went below. G.B. Stiles was already there, seated in the same place as on the day before, and Harry took his seat opposite him, and he began a conversation in the same facile way. But the manner of the dry goods salesman towards him seemed to have undergone a change. It had lost its swagger, and was more that of a man who could be a gentleman if he chose, while to the surprise of Stiles, the manner of the young man was as disarmingly quiet and unconcerned as before, and as abstracted. He could not believe that any man hovering on the brink of a terrible catastrophe, and one to avert which required concealment of identity, could be so unwary. He half believed the suite was laboring under a hallucination, and decided to be deliberate, and await developments for the rest of the day. After dinner they wandered out to the piazza side by side, and there they sat and smoked, and talked over the political situation as they had the evening before, and Stiles was surprised at the young man's ignorance of general public matters. Was it ignorance or indifference? I thought all you army men would stand by grand to the drop of the head. Yes, I suppose we would.  I carried a gun underground, and I'd swear to any policy you'd go in for, and what I say is, they haven't had quite enough down there. What the south needs is another licking, that's what it needs. Oh no, no, no, I was sick of fighting long before they laid me up, and I guess a lot of us were. G.B. Stiles brought his feet to the floor with a stamp of surprise, and turned to look full in the young man's face. For a moment he gazed on him thus, then grunted. Ever feel one of their bullets? Oh yes. That the mark there over your temple? No, I didn't do any harm to speak of. That's where something struck me. Oh, you don't say. Harry King rose, leaving? No, I have a few letters to write, and sorry to miss you, staying in town for some time? I hardly know, I may. Plans unsettled? Well, times are unsettled, and no money's stirring. My plans are all upset, too. The young man returned to his room and continued his writing. One short letter to Betty, enclosing the worn scrap of paper the wind had brought him. He kissed it before he placed it in the envelope. Then he wrote one to her father and mother jointly, and a long one to Hester Craig Mile. Sometimes he would pause in his writing and tear up a page, and begin over again. But at last all were done, and enclosed in a letter to the elder, and placed in a heavy envelope and sealed. Only the one to Amalia he did not enclose, but carried it out and mailed it himself. Passing the bank on the way to the post office, he dropped in and made quite a heavy deposit. It was just before closing time, and the clerks were all intent on getting their books straight, preparatory to leaving. How well he remembered that moment of restless turning of ledges, and the slight accession of eagerness in the younger clerks, as they followed the long columns of figures down with the forefinger of the left hand, the pen poised in the right. The whole scene smote him poignantly, as he stood at the teller's window, waiting. Had he might have been doing that, he thought. A whole lifetime spent in doing just that, and more like it, year in and year out. How had his life been better? He had sinned and failed. Ah, but he'd lived and loved, lived terribly and loved greatly. God help him, how he loved! Even for life to end here, either in prison or in death, still he had felt the tremendous passions and understood the meaning of their power in a human soul. This had life brought him, and a love beyond measure to crown all. The teller peered at him through the little window behind which he had stood so many years, peering at people in this sleepy little bank, this sure, safe little bank, always doing its conservative business in the same way, and here to fore always making good. He reached out a long, well-shaped hand, a large, veined hand, slightly hairy at the wrist, to take the banknotes. How often had Harry King seen that hand stretched thus through the little window, drawing banknotes toward him? Almost with a shock he saw it now reach for his own, for the first time. In the old days he had had none to deposit. It was always for others it had been extended. Now it seemed as if he must seize the hand and shake it, the only hand that had been reached out to him yet, in this town where his boyhood had been spent. A young man who had proceeded Harry King at the teller's window, paused nearby at the cashier's desk, and began asking questions which Harry himself would have been glad to ask, but could not. He was an alert, bright-eyed young chap with a smiling face. Good afternoon, Mr. Copeland, any news for me today? Mr. Copeland was an elderly man of great dignity, and almost as much of a figure there as the elder himself. It was an act of great temerity to approach him for items of news for the low-vide Mercury. Of this fact the young reporter seemed to be blightly ignorant. All the clerks were covertly watching the outcome, and thus attention was turned from Harry King. Even the teller glanced frequently at the cashier's desk as he counted the banknotes placed in his hand. News? No. No news, said Mr. Copeland, without looking up. Thank you. It's my business to ask for it, you know. We're making more of a feature of personal items than ever before. We're up to date, you see. Find out what people want and then give it to them. That's our motto. The young man leaned forward over the high railing that corralled the cashier and his pen apart from the public, smilingly oblivious of that dignitary's objections to an interview. Expecting the return of Elder Crackmile soon? At that question, to the surprise of all, the cashier suddenly changed his manner to the suave of ability with which he greeted people of consequence. We are expecting Elder Crackmile shortly. Yes. Indeed, he may arrive any day if the voyage is favourable. Thank you. Mrs. Crackmile accompanies him, I suppose. It is not likely, no. Her health demands a little longer rest and change. Ah, the elder not called back by for any particular reason. No? Business going well? Good. I'm told there's a great deal of depression. Oh, in a way there may be, but where all of the conservative sort here in Loeweyte were not likely to feel it if there is. Good afternoon. No one paid any attention to Harry King as he walked out after the Loeweyte Mercury reporter except Mr. Copeland, who glanced at him keenly as he passed his desk. Then, looking at his watch, he came out of his corral and turned the key in the bank door. We'll have no more interruptions now, he said, as he paused at the teller's window. You know the young man who just went out? Sam Carter of the Mercury, old Billings no doubt sent him in to learn how he stand. No, no, no. Sam Carter, I know him. Who's the young man who followed him out? I don't know. Here's his signature. He's just made a big deposit on a long time. Only one thousand on call. Unusual these days. Mr. Copeland's eyes glided at an instant. Good. That's something. I decided to give the town people to understand that there is no need for their anxiety. It's the best policy, and when the elder returns, he may be induced to withdraw his insane offer of reward. Ten thousand dollars. It's ridiculous when the young man may both be dead. For all the world will ever know. If we could do that, but I've known the elder too long to hope for it. This deposit stands for a year, see? And a ten thousand the elder has set one side for the reward, gives us twenty thousand we could not count on yesterday. In all the history of this bank, we never were in so tight a place. It's extraordinary and quite unnecessary. That's a bright boy, Sam Carter. I never thought of his putting such a construction on it, when I admitted the fact that Mrs. Crackmile is to remain. Two big banks closed in Chicago this morning, and twenty small ones all over the country during the last three days. One goes and holds another down. If we are only cabled across the Atlantic two weeks ago, when I sent that letter, he must have the letter by now. And if he has, he's on the ocean. This deposit tights us over a few days, and as I said, if we could only get our hands on that reserve the elders would be safe whatever comes. He'll have to bend his will for once. He must be made to see it, and we must get our hands on it. I think he will. He'd cut off his right hand before he'd see this bank go under. It's his son's murder that's eating into his heart. He's been losing ground ever since. The Clarks gradually disappeared, quietly slipping out into the sunshine one by one as their books were balanced, and now the two men stood alone. It was a time used by them for taking account of the bank's affairs generally, and they felt the stability of that institution to be quite personal to them. I've seen that young man before, said Mr. Copeland. Now, who is he? Harry King. Harry King. The Kings moved away from here 12 years ago, wasn't it? Their son would not be as old as this man. Boys grow up fast, you never can tell. The Kings were a short, thick-set lot. He may not be one of them. He said nothing about ever having been here before. I never talk with anyone here at the window. It's quite against my rules for the Clarks, and has to be so for myself, of course. I leave that sort of thing to you and the elder. I say, I've seen him before. The way he walks, the way he carries his head, there's a resemblance somewhere. The two men also departed after looking to the safe and the last duties devolving on them, seeing that all was locked and double-locked. It was a solemn duty, always attended to solemnly. End of Chapter 28. Chapter 29 of The Eye of Dread. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. The Eye of Dread by Payne Erskine. Chapter 29. The Arrest. Sam Carter loitered down the street after leaving the bank, and when Harry King approached, he turned with his ready smile and accosted him.  Carter is my name, and I'm doing the reporting for the Mercury. Be glad to make your acquaintance, show your own a little. Harry was nonplussed for a moment. Such things did not use to occur in this old-fashioned place, as running about the streets, picking up items from people, and asking personal questions for the paper to exploit the replies he looked twice at Sam Carter before responding. Thank you, I've been here before. I know the place pretty well. Very pretty place, don't you think so? Me to stop for some time? I hardly know as yet. Harry King mused a little, then resolved to break his loneliness by accepting the casual acquaintance, and avoid personalities about himself by asking questions about the town and those he used to know, but whom he preferred not to see. It's an opportunity. Yes, it is a pretty place. Have you been here long? I've been here, let's see, about three years, maybe a little less. You must have been away from Lovite longer than that, I judge. I've never left the place since I came, and I never saw you before. No wonder I thought you a stranger. I may call myself one, yes. A good many changes since you came? Oh yes, see the new courthouse? It's a beauty, all solid stone, cost $50,000. The Mercury had a great deal to do with bringing it about, working up enthusiasm and the like, but there's a great deal of depression just now, and taxes are running up. People think government is taking a good deal out of them for such public buildings, but Lord help us, government is needing money just now as much as the people. It's hard to be public spirited when taxes are being raised. You have people here? Not now, no. Who's mayor here now? Harding, harding of the ironworks. It makes a good one too. There's the new courthouse. The jail's underneath at the back. See the barred windows? No breaking out of there. Three prisoners did break out of the old one during the year this building was under construction, each in a different way too. Shows how badly they needed a new one. Quite an ornament to the square, don't you think so? The jail? No, no. The building as a whole. Better go over it while you're here. I may do so, yes. Staying some time, I believe you said. Did I? I may have said so. Staying at the hotel, I believe. Yes, and here we are. Harry King stood an instant and decided. Certain things he wished to know, but had not the courage to ask, not on the street, but maybe seated on the veranda he could ask this outsider in a casual way. Drop in with me and have a smoke. I will, thank you. I often run in, in the way of business, but I haven't tried it as a stopping place. Meals pretty good? Very good. They took seats at the end of the piazza where Harry King led the way. The sun was now low, but the air was still warm enough for comfort, and no one was there but themselves, for it lacked an hour to the return of the omnibus and the arrival of the usual lofus who congregated at that time. You've made a good many acquaintances since you came, no doubt. Well, a good many, yes. Know the crake miles? The crake miles? There's no one there to know now, but the elder. Oh, his wife, of course, but she stays at home so close no one ever sees her. They're away now, if you want to see them. And she never goes out, you say? Never since I've been in the town. You see, there was a tragedy in the family. Just before I came, it happened, and I remember the town was all stirred up about it. Their son was murdered. Harry King gave a quick start, then gathered himself up in strong control, and tilled his chair back against the wall. Their son murdered, he asked. Tell me about it. All you know. That's just it. Nobody knows anything. They know he was murdered, because he disappeared completely. The young man was called Peter Jr., after his father, of course, and he was the one that was murdered. They found every evidence of it. It was there on the bluff, above the wildest part of the river, where the current is so strong no man could live a minute in it. He'll be dashed to death in the flood, even if he were not killed in the fall from the brink. And that young man was pushed over right there. How did they know he was pushed over? They knew he was. They found his head there, and it was bloody, as if he'd been struck first, and a club there, also bloody. And it is believed he was killed first and then pushed over, for there is the place yet, after three years, where the earth gave way with the weight of something shoved over the edge. Well, would you believe it, that old man has kept the knowledge of it from his wife all this time? She thinks her son quarreled with his father and went off, and that he will surely return some day. And no one in the village ever told her? All the town have helped the old elder to keep it from her. You'd think such a thing impossible, wouldn't you? But it's the truth. The old man bribed the Mercury to keep it out, and by Jiminy it was done. Here, in a town of this size, where everyone knows all about everyone else's affairs, it was done. It seems he built a special interest in keeping it from her. He had everyone was talking about it, and so I heard all there was to hear. Hello, what are you doing here? This last remark was addressed to Nelson Nelson, who appeared just below them, and stood peering up at them through the veranda railing. I was just waiting for Mr. Stiles. He told me, wait for him here. Mr. Stiles? Who's he? There he come in. As he spoke, G.B. Stiles came through the hotel door and walked gravely up to them. Something in his manner, and in the expectant, watchful eye of the Swede, calls them both to rise. At the same moment, Keller, the Sheriff, came up the front steps and approached them, and, placing his hand on Harry King's shoulder, drew from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. Young man, it is my duty to arrest you. Here's my badge. This is quite straight. For the murder of Peter Crackmile Jr. The young man neither moved nor spoke for a moment, and as he stood thus, the Sheriff took him by the arm and roused him. Richard Kildeen, you are under arrest for the murder of your cousin, Peter Crackmile Jr. With a quick frantic movement, Harry King sprang back and thrust both men violently from him. The red of anger mounted to his hair and throbbed in his temples, then swept back to his heart and left him with the death-like pellet. Keep back. I'm not Richard Kildeen. You have the wrong man. Peter Crackmile was never murdered. The big sweet leapt the piazza railing and stood close to him while the Sheriff held impenient and Sam Carter drew out his notebook. You know me, Mr. Keller. Stand off, I say. I am Peter Crackmile. Look at me. Put away those handcuffs. It is I, alive, Peter Crackmile Jr. That's a very clever plea, but it's no go, said G.B. Styles, and proceeded to fasten the irons on his wrists. Yes, I know you dot men kill him, all right.   Now you'll walk along with us if you please, said Mr. Keller. But I tell you I don't please. It's a mistake. I'm Peter Crackmile Jr., himself, alive. Well, if you are, you'll have a chance to prove it, but evidence is against you. If you are he, why do you come back under an assumed name during her father's absence? A little hitch there you did not take into consideration. I had my reasons, good ones. I came back to confess to the unwitting killing of my cousin, Richard. He turned from one to the other, panting as if he had been running a race and threw out his words impetiously. I tell you I came here for the very purpose of giving myself up, but you have the wrong man. By this time a crowd had collected, and the servants were running from their work all over the hotel, while the proprietor stood aloof with staring eyes. Here, Mr. Decker, you remember me, Elder Crackmile's son? Some of you must remember me. But the proprietor only wagged his head. He would not be drawn into the thing. I have no means of knowing who you are, no more than Adam. The name you wrote in my book was Harry King. I tell you I had my reasons. I meant to wait here until the eldest, my father's return, and in the meantime will put you in a quiet little apartment, very private, where you can wait while we look into things a bit. You didn't take me through the streets with these things on. I have no intention of running away. Let me go to my room a minute.  I have no intention of running any risks, now we have you, said the detective. Now you have who? You have no idea whom you have. Take off these shekels until I pay my bill. You have no objection to that, have you? They turned into the hotel, and the handcuffs were removed while the young man took out his pocketbook and paid his reckoning. Then he turned to them. I must ask you to accompany me to my room while I gather my toilet necessities together. This they did, G.B. Styles and the Sheriff walking one on either side, while the Swede followed at their heels. What are you doing here? He demanded, turning suddenly upon the stableman. Oh, I is looking a little out. Mr. Styles, what does this mean that you have that man dogging me? It's his affair, not mine. He thinks he has a certain interest in you. Then he turned in exasperation to the Sheriff. Can you give me a little information, Mr. Keller? What has that Swede to do with me? Why am I arrested for the murder of my own self? Preposterous!  You can see for yourself that I am Elder Crackmile's son. You know me. I know the Elder fairly well. Everyone in Lovite knows him.  And anyway, the boy was murdered three years ago, a little over, for it was in the fall of the year. Well, that's most four years.  It's a matter that we'll bear looking into. Now you sit down here and hold on to yourself while I go through your things. You'll get them all, never fear. Then Harry King sat down and looked off through the open window, and paid no heed to what the man were doing. They might turn his large felize inside out, and read every scrap of written paper. There's nothing to give the slightest clue to his identity. He had left the envelope addressed to the Elder, containing the letters he had written, at the bank, to be placed in the safety fold, and not be delivered until ordered to do so by himself. As they finished their search and restored the articles to his felize, he asked again that the handcuffs be left off as he walked through the streets. I've no desire to escape. It's my wish to go with you. I only wish I might have seen that my father first. He could not have helped me, but he would have understood. It would have seemed less... He could not go on, and the Sheriff slipped the handcuffs in his pocket, and they proceeded in silence to the courthouse, where he listened to the reading of the warrant and his indictment in dates to perfection, and then walked again in silence between his captors to the jail and the rear. No one has ever been in this cell, said Mr Keller. I'm doing the best I can for you. How long must I stay here? Who brings accusation? I don't know how long. As this is a murder charge, you can't be billed out, and the trial will take time. The Elder brings accusation, naturally. When is he expected home? Can't say. You'll have someone to defend you, and then you can ask all the questions you wish. The Sheriff closed the heavy door, and the Kiki was turned. Then began wary days of waiting. If it had been possible to get the trial over with, Harry would have been glad, but it made little difference to him now, since the step had been taken, and the trial in his case would only be a verdict anyway, and confession was a simple thing, and the hearing also. The days passed, and he wondered that no one came to him, no friend of the old time. Where were Bertrand Ballard and Mary? Where was little Betty? Did they not know he was in jail? He did not know that others had been arrested on the same charge and released more than once. True, no one had made the claim of being the Elder's own son, and the murdered man himself. As such incidents were always disturbing to Betty, when Bertrand read the notice of the arrest in the Mercury, the paper was laid away in his desk, and his little daughter was spared the sight of it this time. But he spoke of the matter to his wife. Here is another case of arrest for poor Peter Jr.'s murder, Mary. The man claims to be Peter Jr. himself, but as he registers at the hotel under an eschewed name, it is likely to be only another attempt to get the reward money by some detective, who is very unwise for the Elder to make it so large as some. It can't be. Peter Jr. would never be so cruel as to stay away all this time if he were alive. No matter how deeply you may have quarreled with his father, I believe they both went over the bluff and are both dead. This tends to reason that one or the other body would have been found in that case. One might be lost, but hardly both. The search was very thorough, even down to the mill-race ten miles below. The current is so swift there, they might have been carried over the race and on before the search began. I think so, although no one else seems to. I wish the Elder would remove that temptation of the reward. It is only an inducement to crime. Time alone will solve the mystery, and as long as he continues to brood over it, he will go on failing in health. It's coming to an obsession with him to live to see Richard kill Dean Hung, and someone will have to swing for it if he has his way. Now he will return and find this man in jail, and will bend every effort, and give all his thought to it getting him convicted. But I thought you said they do not hang in this state. True, true, but imprisonment for life is worse. I'm thinking of what the Elder would like. Could he have his way? Bertrand, I believe the Elder is sure the man will be found, and that it will kill his wife when she comes to know that Peter Jr. was murdered, and that is why he took her to Scotland. She told me she was sure her son was there, or would go to see his great-aunt there, and that is why she consented to go. But I'm sure the Elder wished to get her out of the way. Strange, strange, said Bertrand. After all, it is better to forgive. No one knows what transpired, and Richard is the real sufferer. Do you suppose he'll leave Hester there, Bertrand? I hardly think she would be left, but it is impossible to tell. A son's loss is more than any other to a mother. Do you think so, Bertrand? It would be hardest of all to lose a husband, and the Elder has failed so much since Peter Jr.'s death. Peter Jr. seems to be the only one who has escaped suffering in this tragedy. Remorse in Richard's case, and stubborn anger in the Elder's. They are in motions that take large toll out of a man's vitality. If ever Richard is found, he will not be the young man we knew. Unless he is innocent, all this may have been an accident. Then why is he staying and hiding? He may have felt there was no way to prove his innocence. Well, there is another reason why the Elder should withdraw his offer of a reward, and when he comes back, I mean to try what can be done once more. Everything would have to be circumstantial. He will have a hard time to prove his nephew's guilt. I can't see why he should try to prove it. It must have been an accident, at the last. Of course, it might have been begun in anger, in a moment of misunderstanding, but the nature of the boys would go to show that it never could have been done intentionally. It is impossible. CHAPTER XXXVIII Mr. Ballard, either my son was murdered, or he was a murderer. The crime falls upon us, and the disgrace of it, no matter how you look at it. The Elder sat in the back room at the bank, where his friend had been arguing with him to withdraw the offer of a reward for the arrest. It's too late now. Too late. The man's found, and he claims to be my son.  Bertrand drew his chair closer to the Elder's, as if by so doing he might establish a friendlier thought in the man's heart. Blind? Blind, Elder Cragmile. I say blind. I see. I see it all. The Elder rose and paced the floor. The boys fought, there on the bluff, and sought to kill each other, and for the same cause that has wrought most of the evil in the world. Over the love of a woman, they fought. Peter carried a black-thorn stick that ought never to have been in my house. You know, for you brought it to me, and struck his cousin with it, that the same instant was pushed over the brink, as Richard intended. How do you know that Richard was not pushed over? How do you know that he did not fall over with his cousin? How can you dare work for a man's conviction on such slight evidence? How do I know? Although you would favour that, that, although the Elder paused and struggled for control, then sat weakly down, and took up the argument again with trembling voice. Mr. Ballard, I would spare you much of this matter which has been brought to my knowledge, but I cannot, because it must come out at the trial. It was over your little daughter, Betty. That they fought. She has known all these years that Richard Kildeen murdered her lover. Elder, Elder, your brooding has unbalanced your mind. Wait, my friend, this falls on you with but half the burden that I have borne. My son was no murderer.  He went to your daughter while we were dragging the river for my poor boy's body, and told her he had murdered her lover, that he pushed him over the bluff, and that he intended to do so. Now he adds to his crime by coming here and pretending to be my son. He shall hang. He shall hang. If he does not, there is no justice in heaven. The elder looked up and shook his hand above his head as if he defied the whole heavenly host. Bertrand Ballard sat for a moment stunned. Such a preposterous turn was beyond his comprehension. Strangely enough, his first thought was a mere contradiction, and he said, Men are not hung in this state. You'll not have your wish. He leaned forward with his elbows on the great table and his head in his hands. Then, without looking up, he said, Go on. Go on. How did you come by this astounding information? Was it from Betty?  No, it was not from Betty. Never. She has kept this terrible secret well. I have not seen your daughter. Not since this was told me. It has been known to the detective, and to my attorney, Milton Hebert, for two years, and to me for one year, just before I offered the increased reward to which you so object. I had reason. Then it is, as I thought, your offer of ten thousand dollars reward has incited the crime of attempting to convict an innocent man. Again I ask you, how did you come by this astounding information? By the word of an eyewitness. Sit still, Mr. Ballard, until you hear the whole. Then blame me if you can.  You boarded him. He slept in a little room over your summer kitchen. Do you remember? Yes. He saw Richard kill Dean come to the house when we were all away, while you were with me, your wife with mine, and your little daughter alone. This suite heard all that was said, and saw all that was done. His testimony alone will. Convict a man? It is greed. What is your detective working for, and why does this suite come forward at this late day with his testimony? Greed. Elder Crackmile, how do you know that this testimony is not all made up between them? I will go home and ask Betty and learn the truth. And why does the young man come here under an assumed name, and when he is discovered, claimed to be my son? The only claim he could make that could save him.  When he knows Richard's death can be disproved by a daughter's statement that he saw and talked with Richard, he knows that he may be released from the charge of murder, and may establish himself here as the man whom he himself threw over the bluff, and who, therefore, can never return to give him the lie. I say, if this is proved on him, he shall suffer the extreme penalty of the law, or there is no justice in the land. Bertrand Rose, sadly shaken. This is a very terrible accusation, my friend, but as hope it may not be proved true. I will go home and ask Betty. You will take her testimony before that of the Swede. If you are my friend, why are you willing my son should be proven a murderer? There's a deep-blade scheme, and Richard killed Dean walks close in his father's steps. I've always seen his father in him. I tried to save him for my sister's sake. I brought him up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and did for him all that fathers do for their sons, and now I have the foes a reward, the reward the man who warmed the viper in his bosom.  Rather he shall. We will find out the truth, and if possible you shall be saved from yourself, Elder Crackmile, and your son will not be proven a murderer. Let me still be your friend. Bertrand's voice thrilled with suppressed emotion and the sympathy he could not utter as he held out his hand, which the elder took in both his own shaking ones. His voice trembled with suppressed emotion as he spoke, Pray, God, Hester may stay where she is until this thing is over, and pray, God, you may not be blinded by love of your daughter, who was not true to my son. She was promised to become his wife, but through all these years she protects by her silence the murderer of her lover. Ponder on this thought, Bertrand Ballard, and pray, God, you may have the strength to be just. Bertrand walked homeward with bowed head. It was Saturday. The day's baking was in progress, and Mary Ballard was just removing a pan of temptingly brown tea-cakes from the oven when he entered. She did not see his face as he asked. Mary, where can I find Betty? Upstairs in the studio, drawing. Where would you expect to find her? She said gaily. Something in her husband's voice touched her. She hastily lifted the cakes from the pan and ran after him. What is it, dear? He was half way up the stairs, and he turned and came back to her. I've heard something that troubles me. I must see her alone, Mary. I'll talk with you about it later. Don't let us be disturbed until we come down. I think Janie's with her now. I'll send her down to you. Bertrand, it is something terrible. You're trying to spare me. Don't do it. Ask no questions. Tell Janie I wanted to help in the kitchen. Mary went back to her work in silence. If Bertrand wished to be alone with Betty, he had a good reason, and presently Janie skipped in and was set to pairing the potatoes for dinner. Bertrand found Betty bending closely over drawing for which he had no model, but which was intended to illustrate a fairy story. She was using pen and ink and trying to imitate the fine strokes of his steel engraving. He stood at her side, looking down at her work a moment, and his artist sense for the instant crowded back other thoughts. You ought to have a model daughter, and you should work in charcoal or charcoal for your designing. I know, Father, but you see, I'm trying to make some illustrations that will look like what are in the magazines. I'm making fairies, Father, and you know I can't find any models, so I have to make them up. Put that away. I have some questions to ask you. What's the matter, Daddy? You look as if the sky were falling. He had seated himself on a long lounge while she had once sat and chatted with Peter Jr. She recalled that day. It was when he kissed her for the first time. Her cheeks flushed hotly, as they always did now, when she thought of it, and her eyes were sad. She went over and established herself at her father's side. What is it, Daddy, dear? Betty, he spoke sternly, and she had never heard him before. Have you been concealing something from your father and mother, and from the world, for the last three years and a half? Her head drooped, the red left her cheeks, and she turned white to the lips. She drew away from her father, and clasped her hands in her lap tightly. She was praying for strength to tell the truth. Ah, could she do it? Could she do it? Could she do it? And perhaps calls Richard's condemnation? Had they found him? That father should ask such a question now after so long a time. Why do you ask me such a question, father? Tell me the truth, child. Father, I... I can't. And her voice died away to a whisper. You can, and you must, Betty. She rose, and stood trembling before him with clinged hands. What has happened? Tell me. It is not fair to ask me such a question, unless you tell me why.  If you don't tell me what has happened, I will never speak again.   He knew, as married often said, that Betty could not be driven, but might be led. Tell father all about it, little daughter. But she did not open her lips. He waited, patiently. Then asked again, kindly and persistently. What have you been hiding, Betty? But she only sobbed on. Betty, if you do not tell me now and here, you'll be taken into court, and made to tell all you know before all the world. You'll be proven to have been untrue to the man you are to marry, and who loved you, and have been shielding his murderer. Then it is, Richard. They have found him. She shrank away from her father, and her sobs seized. It has come out at last. Father, if I had been married to Richard, then would they make me go in court and testify against him? No. A wife is not compelled to give testimony against her husband, nor may she testify for him either. But he rose and straightened herself defiantly, with flaming cheeks and flashing eyes she looked down upon him. Then I will tell one great lie, father, and do it even if it should drag me down to hell. I will say I'm married to Richard, and will swear to it. Bertrand was silent, aghast. Father, where is Richard? He is there in Lovite in jail. You must do what is right in the eye of God, my child, and tell the truth.  They don't know what is right in the eye of God. If they drag me into court, there before all the world, I will lie to them until I drop dead. Has the elder seen him? Not yet. He refused to see him until the trial. He's a cruel, vindictive old man. Does he think it will bring Peter back to life again to hang Richard? Does he think it will save his wife from sorrow, or bring anyone nearer heaven to do it? If Richard has done the thing he is accused of doing, he deserves the extremist rigor of the law. Father, don't let the elder make you hard like himself. What is he accused of doing? He is making claim that he is Peter, Jr., and that he's come back to Lovite to give himself up for the murder of his cousin, Richard Kildeen. He thinks, no doubt, that you will say that you know Richard is living, and that he has not killed him, and in that way he thinks to escape punishment by proving that Peter also is living, and is himself. Do you see how it is? He's chosen to live here in imposter, rather than to live in hiding as an outcast, and is trading on his likeness to his cousin to bear him out. I'd hoped that it was all the detector's lie got up for the purpose of getting hold of the reward money. But now I see it is true. The most astounding thing a man ever tried. Did he send you to me? No, child, I have not seen him. Father, Bertrand Ballard, have you taken some detector's word and not even tried to see him?  He's doing a desolate thing, and the burden is laid on you to confess to the secret you've been hiding, and tell the truth. Bertrand spoke very sadly, and Betty's heart smote her for his sorrow, yet she felt the thing was impossible for Richard to do, and that she must hold this secret a little longer, all the more because even her father seemed now to credit the terrible accusation. She threw her arms about his neck and implored him. Oh, Father, dear, take me to the jail to see him, and after that I will try to do what is right. I can think clearer after I've seen him. I don't know if that will be allowed, but it will have to be allowed. How can I say if it is Richard until I see him? It may not be Richard. The elder is too blinded to even go near him, and dear Mrs. Cragmiles not here. Someone ought to go in fairness to Richard, who loves— she choked and could say no more. I will talk to your mother first, there is another thing that should soften your heart to the elder. All over the country there is financial trouble. Banks are going to pieces that never were in trouble before, and Elder Cragmiles' bank is going, he fears. It will be a terrible crash, and we fear he may not outlive the blow. I tell you this, even though you may not understand it, to soften your heart toward him. He considers it in the nature of a disgrace. Yes, I understand. Better than you think. But his voice was sad, and she looked wary and spent. If the bank breaks, it breaks the elder's heart. All the rest he could stand, but not that. The bank! The bank! He tried to sacrifice Peter Jr. to that bank. He would have broken Peter's heart for that bank, as he has his wives. For if it had not been for Peter's quarrel with his father, first of all, over it, I don't believe all the rest would have happened. Peter told me a lot. I know. Betty, did you never love Peter Jr.? Tell Father. I thought I did. I thought I knew I did. But when Richard came home, then I… I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. But, Father, I meant to stand by Peter, and never let anybody know until… Oh, Father, need I tell any more? No, my dear.  Bertrand Ballard left the studio more confused in his mind, and he had both sadder and wiser than he'd ever been in his life. He had seen a little way into his small daughter's soul, and conceived of a power of spirit beyond him, although he considered her both unreasonable and wrong. He grieved for her that she had carried such a great burden so bravely and so long. How great must have been her love or her infatuation! The pathetic knowledge hardened his heart towards the young man in the jail, and he no longer tried to defend him in his thoughts. He sent Mary up to talk with Betty, and that afternoon they all walked over to the jail. For Mary could get no nearer her little daughter's confidence and no deeper into the heart of the matter than Betty had allowed her father to go. End of chapter 30