CHAPTER XXVIII. The downward path is very easy to travel. No effort is required for steady progress, and the way is so broad and free from obstacles that insensibly the pace increases until it is impossible to halt, for one must keep moving rapidly if he would not be trampled by the feet rushing on behind. Consequently the traveller, flying breathlessly along, arrives before he realizes it, in the quicksand awaiting him at the bottom of the hill, ineffectually to free himself, and looks with terrified eyes upon the ending of the road. Colonel St. John, seated beside the watchman's table in the Department of State, felt the closing of the quicksand and knew he had reached the termination of the path. Here, too, for he had successfully managed to elude justice whenever necessary, but this time he realized any effort would be futile and had not courage to attempt it. It was very silent in the great building as he looked through the long corridor with its row of lights pendant from the ceiling. Spaced, he thought, in such a manner as merely to accentuate the gloom. Here and there in the distance a lower light shone more brightly beside a watchman's table. He felt grateful for human companionship but was not popular with his associates, and they rarely approached him for the desultory intercourse with which they enlivened their waking hours. Colonel St. John felt no inclination for sleep. He leaned his head against the wall and wondered idly whether he would be there another night, or whether he would repose at the police station, or he did not dwell on the last thought. By this time Count Vladimir would surely have opened the package of papers. He recalled his own sensations when he unfastened them and spread them out on the table in the Octagon House. The envelope he had pounced upon with such avidity had been filled with blank papers, carefully folded and labelled. Colonel St. John remembered how he had procured them. He had not been on duty at the department that night but had worked late at the Octagon House and finally started for Jackson City through the old garden with the intention of making use of the gap in the wall. The night was cold and Jackson City seemed a long distance away, so he had fortified himself by repeated applications of his lips to a square black bottle kept carefully concealed from inquisitive eyes in his coat pocket. Just at the gap in the wall he had encountered a tall figure which seemed to his fevered imagination strangely like Lindhurst, and Lindhurst was hunting him as a bloodhound tracks its prey. The figure paused just inside the wall and he had instinctively stooped and picked up a brick. He saw again the red light which had leaped to his eyes and his stealthy advance with raised arm. Colonel St. John, sick at heart in his watchman's chair, remembered the discovery that his victim was not Lindhurst and the slow dragging of the inanimate form across the garden and up the stairs. He was very heavy and the old man had been exhausted upon reaching his room. He had put the mattress from his cot on the floor in the little inner room and laid the figure on it. Applying such slight remedies as he had on hand loosened his collar and in doing so turned back his coat. In the inside pocket was a long envelope clearly labeled Roostchuk, a day or so past, and the man he had hit with a brick grew feverish and restless. He understood quite clearly what might happen if he died, then had come to the temptation to make use of the subterranean passage, also the memory of the octarune safely walled up in the cellar. Another ghost more or less would not affect the reputation of the old house. Then he had felt the overwhelming desire to leave America. He was rich in the unexpected possession of his daughter and independent as far as money was concerned. She would, he was convinced, pay well for silence and he could quietly depart, leaving his work for Count Vladimir unfinished. Colonel St. John thought he understood the Russian. He had often before in his career seen a man in love with a woman, although he himself had never succumbed so completely as to sympathize with this situation. Then had come the suspicion that he was under surveillance, the frantic desire for immediate escape, and the attempt to pass off the blank papers on Count Vladimir. The bluff worked successfully, but he had not dared attempt to leave the city as he had planned. Sooner or later the Russian would open the package. Probably he had done so by this time, and then, Colonel St. John moved restlessly, how still it was. He counted the black and white squares on the floor of the corridor as far as his eye could reach and aimlessly switched on and off his light. He thought of Count Vladimir, and his hand clinched as he recalled the Russian's contemptuous attitude towards him and restless demands for his services. Well, he had worked for his freedom. In his room at the Octagon House were piles of completed tracings showing all the outlying defenses of the principal seaports of the country. Some of them had been difficult to procure, but he had finally succeeded in one way or another, and tomorrow he was to deliver them to his employer. The moment dragged slowly, eleven-twelve. It was a long time yet before morning, many hours in which to speculate upon the events of tomorrow and to arrange his plans for the day. Somewhere out of sight a watchman laughed, waking clamorous echoes and reverberations. Colonel St. John sprang to his feet and stood at bay, his back against the wall, then dropped weakly into his chair. Off gone to pieces, he muttered dejectedly, all to pieces. He thought suddenly of David Lay, ill, perhaps dying, on the floor of the Octagon House. Would it be murder in the first degree? What should he do with the body? Colonel St. John gasped and loosened his collar. An irresistible impulse led him to open the large doors and look out into the night. His post of duty had lately been changed from the second to the first floor, and he was stationed by the south entrance. The moon shone whitely, bathing Washington in its enchanted light, but he looked at it unmoved. He had often seen the moon before.  There was a chance, a mere chance, he would try it. Just as he was, hatless and without an overcoat, he would make his way to Jackson City. There was money in the box in his room there, not much, perhaps, but it would do, and he would again evade the law. Once in a place of safety Estelle should send him plenty more. He looked sharply about for the shadow which had darkened his pathway of late, but observed only the shadows cast by the pillars of the portico upon which he stood. Evidently he was safe, until morning at least. With a hasty, decisive motion, Colonel St. John softly closed the door of the State Department and started in the direction of the Potomac. It was very cold. The night wind seemed to go through his bones. At the curve of the ellipse he paused. It was possible the type of cab known as Nighthawk might be prowling in the vicinity. Such a cab would drive him across the river and ask no questions en route, so he looked anxiously about. Behind him stood the Department of State with its manifold official secrets. At his left was the White House, perhaps also containing private affairs of its own. Before him flowed the Potomac and beyond was Jackson City, both no doubt covering many an unknown tragedy. At his right was the street leading to the Octagon House, a short square distant, with perhaps another mystery now inside its walls. Colonel St. John shivered from the cold within, as well as without, as he looked up the silent street. Was lay living or dead? He had seemed to the old man very ill that night. Involuntarily he moved a few steps to the right. He wished to know what to expect. A cloud drifted across the face of the moon, and far in the distance he heard the whistle of an approaching train. He must hurry if he would reach Jackson City, return to the railway station, and leap Washington by daylight. Capsa? Cab? It was one of the worst specimens of its kind, but the old man did not look at it. His eyes were fixed on the lamppost, marking the street at his right, and his hands were stretched out before him as by one who walks in the dark. Capsa? The driver waited a moment, then drove off. The sound of the retreating wheels gradually dying away in the distance as Colonel St. John turned his back on the Potomac and hastened toward the Octagon House. He walked as one without volition of his own, with white, set face, an automatic movement. Along the quiet street he hurried, encountering no one, turned down the alley and reached the broken wall, where he paused. Here he had stood that other night when the figure passed him. Here was the very brick he had used, lying apart from its fellows as though ostracised for its cowardly deed. Colonel St. John stooped and picked it up, but dropped it immediately as though it burned his hand. A man might meet death through his indirect instrumentality. Such an occurrence was not unknown in his career. It was, however, a different manner to be associated with the sordid details of the episode, and he recoiled from personal contact with the instrument employed. The house was dark and forbidding in comparison with the surrounding whiteness of the snow-covered garden and moonlit flooded sky. It stood grim and silent, an irresistible magnet drawing him steadily, unwillingly onward. Now his hand was on the latch of the back door. Now he was in the hall. Up he must go up to find what. He groped his way towards the stairs, but halfway across the hall turned with a sudden revulsion of feeling. He was a fool, a fool! He must hurry, for the night was passing and Jackson City still unachieved. Colonel St. John, shaking with the penetrating cold of the old house and with that inner chill, put his hands over his ears to shut out he knew not what, and made an unsteady dash in the darkness for the front door. Almost on the threshold he tripped and fell headlong, and his face was buried in the mattress the Redmond servants had thrust inside the door a few hours previous, when lay was removed. Quivering in every nerve, the old man lay motionless, his heart thumping painfully, and his body shrinking from the unknown which threatened from the surrounding darkness. Gradually, however, he grew calmer and passed his hands wonderingly over the mattress with a dim sense of recognition. A rip in one side greeted him familiarly. Colonel St. John sat upright and felt for his matches, struck one, and gazed at the prosaic ticking by its uncertain light. With a smothered exclamation he made his way across the hall and mounted the stairs with the agility of a younger man, holding tightly to the banister as though the contact of the unyielding wood imparted courage. On the landing he paused. The caretaker's door stood wide open and that other door was open also. He could see the kerosene stove now burned low and burdening the air with its aroma. For life in such stoes dies hard. There was his table with its unfinished sketch. He advanced reluctantly, again obeying the mysterious force he had no power to withstand and stood before the inner door. Here was the chair with a pitcher of water and the few remedies he had ventured to apply. Evidently it had been pushed aside carelessly for the bottles had fallen over and the water was spilled upon the floor. Here was the corner where the mattress had rested empty now and uncommunicative indeed and here on the floor at his feet lay a man's glove. Dead, he said slowly, and removed by the authorities. Dead. He picked up the glove and examined it in the failing light. It was fresh and of good quality such a glove as a gentleman would wear. At last he turned it inside out and bent to decipher the maker's name. Colonel St. John was obliged to resort to his glasses for the marking was indistinct but very slowly he spelled it out letter by letter. It bore the stamp of a well-known English house. The old man's knees gave way and he sank upon the floor beside the chair. Lindhurst, he gasped. Lindhurst! The stove sputtered and went out. Through a chink high up on the broken shutter the moon sent a pale ray which reached the wall opposite softening its dingy covering into pearly whiteness and making a narrow path of light across the dusty floor. It fell upon the broken chair and touched gently the gray head resting there among the bottles. The hand grasping the glove was in the shadow and the face turned towards the light was lined and hangered but the eyes were closed and the exhausted faculties mercifully at rest for Colonel St. John had fainted. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of The Wife of the Secretary of State 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 Linda Velwest The Wife of the Secretary of State by Ella Middleton Taibaut Chapter 29 It was well known in the political world that the honorable Charles Rivers and the honorable Joshua Grimes were apt to clash when brought into contact upon any subject whatever, be it trivial or important. Indeed it was said that did the member from Virginia arise to make a statement upon the floor of the house? The member from South Dakota immediately rolls also and flatly contradicted it whether he was conversant with the subject or not, thus adding a pecancy to the sessions of that August body of lawmakers much enjoyed by its members. Mr. Rivers clothed himself in superiority and sarcasm in both of which weapons he was an adept. Mr. Grimes launched forth an invective and ridicule and was frequently rewarded by laughter and applause from the public gallery upon which despised spot his adversary turned an immaculate and contemptuous back. The engagement of Mr. Rivers to Isabel Byrd had been what Mr. Grimes described as a bitter pill to swallow as he felt for that young woman a paternal affection and more than usual interest. Having no children of his own he was apt to look with covetous eyes upon the more fortunate and one of his frequent diversions was to cast his appraising eye about the youth of his acquaintance and select from among them such girls and young men as he thought would make up a credible family. Needless to say this imaginary family was subject to constant change and its members were frequently disposed by some unwitting speech or act. No child of mine could do that he would reflect angrily and forthwith disown him or her forever. Isabel, however, had steadily held her position as favorite daughter for many years. He had watched her grow up and develop exulting in her undeniable charm and acknowledged success even as her own father had gloried in it and had lately begun to cast around for a suitable match. His son-in-law, he decided, should be young, handsome, high-principled and filled with the enthusiasm of youth. Money was of no consequence as Isabel had plenty of her own and he intended she should have more when he was done with it. So he watched and waited and finally selected David Lee as more nearly meeting the requirements than any young fellow of his acquaintance. D'aw, even he, soliloquies Mr. Grimes regretfully, doesn't quite fit the bill. Fourthwith he cultivated David assiduously, much to the surprise of that unsuspecting youth. He must be tempted, said Mr. Grimes, and brought such temptation in his way as he thought proper. David, his heart heavy with his own affairs, found no difficulty in passing through the ordeal unscathed and was, accordingly, awarded the prize. Therefore, when Mr. Grimes received a pretty little note from Isabel announcing her engagement and saying she was sure he would be glad to hear it, he cast it indignantly from him and burst forth into language unprintable. I could have stood anybody else, he said sadly. The first abolition of wrath subsided anybody, but that sleek, supercilious puppy. Today, however, Mr. Grimes had invited this supercilious puppy to lunch with him at the Metropolitan Club. This was in tacit acknowledgement of his own surrender to the inevitable and his determination to keep on good terms with Isabel's husband as long as possible, and Mr. Rivers had accepted the invitation for reasons of his own. Therefore, the belligerents sat themselves peacefully down before a small, demast-covered table and did justice to a thoughtfully selected luncheon, carefully avoiding subjects which might involve rocks ahead. Tra-Havana, said Mr. Grimes hospitably as the coffee arrived. De are usually fawn, remarked Mr. Rivers with an appreciative puff. Then ensued a pause while the ashes accumulated on the ends of the Havana's. I'm glad it's the short, Susan, said Mr. Grimes by way of introducing a subject for conversation, and so on early over. One gets tired of the routine business, you know. It is probable, returned Rivers Cooley, that the President may call an extra session. He certainly will if the root's chook matter is not settled soon. There may be an investigating committee appointed to look into the methods of the State Department. In my opinion, it is time something was done. Nonsense, retorted Grimes, forgetting his role of placidity and yielding to long-established habit, nothing of the kind. Rivers smiled and shook the ashes off the end of his cigar with a slow deliberation, most exasperating to his companion. Oh, of course, he said, if you think it unnecessary. He paused expressively, and Mr. Grimes, as he told Senator Byrd later, grew hot around the collar. Unnecessary! he exploded by jolt. Sir, it would be an outrage. I tell you an outrage. Look at the man at the head of the Department of State, and then talk about investigating committees. Yes, agreed Rivers amicably. Look at him. He's getting old. Every man has his day. I don't intend to imply anything derogatory to Mr. Redman, for I have the highest regard for him as a man. As a statesman, I think he's worn out, if you want to know my opinion, and possibly a tool in the hands of the unscrupulous. Worn out, sputtered Mr. Grimes indignantly. Worn out, indeed. You don't know what you're talking about. Why, John Redman can be our next President if he wants to, which, being a man of good sense, he probably doesn't. Worn out, indeed. Who brought the country through the crisis in Ecuador without a drop of blood being spilled on either side? Who handled the Algerian question? Who? Who muddled the roots, Chukmata? Finished Rivers impeturably, quite so. And let me tell you, my friend, it has gone a long way beyond a joke in the opinion of the President. Speaking confidence, of course, but it is really an open secret. Soon, I think, there will be at least one change in the Cabinet. A word to the wise is sufficient. I'm a plain man, said the other slowly. And I like plain speaking. I'm no good at riddles. If you have anything to say, speak out. Don't insinuate everything and say nothing. It's a nasty habit. And one I'd advise you to break yourself of. What do you mean? Rivers looked into the rapidly purpling face of his companion and laughed easily, then leaned forward, tapping the table with his fingers authoritatively. Where is the Secretary's Secretary? He said. Where is he? Returned Grimes decidedly puzzled. Why, at his work, of course, where else should he be? He is not, returned Rivers decidedly, nor has he been for the past week. The Department knows nothing of his movements. The place where he lives knows nothing. The Secretary professes to know nothing. Young man, interrupted the Member from South Dakota. Be careful how you express yourself. You are speaking of my friend. Well, said Rivers smoothly, I'm only telling you what I thought would interest you. The general public will soon get on to the facts, I think. Mr. Lee has gone. The roots-chook papers have vanished. The synopsis of the President's policy cannot be found. Moreover, I have proof. Well, you'll need it, retorted Mr. Grimes grimly. Out with it. Then Rivers related his story of the Octagon House. How he happened in there accidentally, and found upon the floor a bit of paper with the red, white, and blue cord, the few written words, and the incriminating initials in the corner. The pocket of Mr. Grimes grew suddenly heavy with the weight of a scrap of paper picked up at Mrs. Redmond's ball and tied with twisted, tricolored cord. I searched the house, of course, he remarked glibly. It's an eerie old place, by the way. It was quite empty, though bearing traces of recent occupation. A half-finished drawing in an upper room indicated an intended return. I shall, of course, place my information in the hands of the President. It is the only course open to me, and I fancy it may precipitate matters a bit. However, the end was bound to come. And who, inquired the member from South Dakota studiously polite, will be Secretary of State. That, returned the member from Virginia, remains for the President to decide. He will naturally select one in sympathy with the administration. Ah! remarked Mr. Grimes. There was silence for a moment. Then rivers rose and remarked he must keep an appointment. It's been an uncommonly interesting hour, he said cordially, and I believe we are beginning to understand each other at last. We both have the good of the country at heart, Mr. Grimes, and I'm glad we have arrived at a better appreciation of each other after our many differences. They didn't amount to much, though, after all did they. And I fancy Miss Bird won't tolerate them in the future.  The member from Virginia had a decided charm of manner when he chose to exert it, and did not think it necessary to refer to the existing estrangement which he believed merely temporary. So he extended his hand as he rose to depart with a smile reserved for special occasions. And Mr. Grimes rose also small, stout, red-faced, and scowling. His hands were thrust deep down in his pockets and his short legs planted far apart. They understand is all right, he said decidedly, perhaps even more so than you realize. I don't know why you have seen fit to honor me with these extraordinary revelations or relations are not exactly confidential, you know. I see your drift, of course, and I see the trend of affairs worse luck. But as to the story you told me about Lee and your disinterested devotion to the country, why, it's due to you as well as myself to tell you plainly that I don't believe a word of it, and so, sir, if you have finished your lunch I will say good afternoon. With which concluding remark Mr. Grimes strode away with as much dignity as his adipose tissue permitted, leaving the member from Virginia to digest his words with his lunch and get what nourishment he could from both. Seething with righteous indignation, Mr. Grimes proceeded to the Department of State and inquired for Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee was absent, the messenger replied, and the date of his return was uncertain. Then could he not see the Secretary himself? The messenger regretted that the Secretary was indisposed and not at the Department to-day. Mr. Lee's house address, perhaps they would oblige him with it, as his business was important. The messenger would inquire of the Chief Clerk, probably he knew it. He came back presently with a number written on a slip of paper and the gratuitous information that Mr. Lee was out of the city and therefore any visit to his lodgings would be without results. Nevertheless Mr. Grimes repaired without delay to Mrs. Coulson's domicile and inquired for the Lady of the House, who was much excited by the receipt of the card of a member of Congress, and had visions of renting an entire suite at an exorbitant price as she ran her sidecombs through her hair and whisked she had put on her black silk. Madam, said Mr. Grimes abruptly, I understand Mr. Lee has a room here. Mrs. Coulson collapsed into a chair, her dreams of expensive suites rapidly evaporating. Mr. Lee did have a room here, she faltered. But now, well, said Mr. Grimes irritably, well, Madam, has he moved? Mrs. Coulson clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling. After the manner of a picture in her bedroom she much admired entitled, Simply To Thy Cross I Cling. Ah! she said sighing heavily. Mr. Lee has moved indeed and to a higher sphere. Mr. Grimes sat upright in startled silence as she applied the edge of a stiffly starched handkerchief to her nose and chafed it delicately. When it's a furl, inquired the member of Congress in a hushed whisper. Sir, said Mrs. Coulson with dignity, there has been no funeral nor will there be. I spoke to you from the dictates of my own heart and not from the mundane evidence of facts. I believe that the unhappy young man, Madam, interrupted the member of Congress. It is facts I am after. It is no consequence which way your heart dictates. Does Mr. Lee retain his room with you? That is what I want to know. Mrs. Coulson hesitated, coughed in an embarrassed manner, and finally faltered that while he had not given it up yet he had been absent a week now without luggage of any sort and no one knew anything about him. It was natural to suppose him dead. She was a poor widow, and Mr. Lee's board was overdue. She felt at her duty, much as she liked the unhappy young man, to reimburse herself by disposing of his effects very shortly and finding another tenant for the room. Painful as such a course would be to one of my natural refinement, she continued with a deep sigh, I feel I can no longer hesitate. The widow, sir, who struggles for her daily bread cannot follow the course her gentle birth would counsel, she must provide for the future. Just so, said Mr. Grimes concisely, taking out his purse. Now how much did he owe for this precious room? Mrs. Coulson unhesitatingly named a price ten dollars in excess of the actual amount, and watched the congressman count out the bills one by one while she wiped her eyes with the immaculate anchor chief. Now, said that gentleman, handing over the money, I engaged that room, furnished, just as it is, with nothing touched or moved, to use when I feel inclined, and to let stand empty if I choose, and I desire to take immediate possession, will you kindly show the way? Mrs. Coulson said afterwards, when relating the incident to Ms. Jackson, that she supposed she ought to have waited until she looked him up in the congressional directory, but really he was such a domineering old man, and had such a decided way about him, that before she knew it she had escorted him up into the North Room and left him there alone. And you know, she added plaintively, we might have all been murdered in our beds. And Ms. Jackson had replied reflectively that she would very much like to have a look at him. Perhaps he was a millionaire uncle of Mr. Lay's, or perhaps a bank burglar hiding from justice, anything was possible in these days. Alone in David's little room, the member of Congress began a systematic search for any paper or letter which might throw light upon his mysterious disappearance. I don't like to pry into his private affairs, he muttered as he sat down before the desk, but somebody's got to look after him. The member of Congress hesitated to turn the key which stood ready in the lock, and fell into a brown study in the uncomfortable little chair, several sizes too small for him. At last he roused himself abruptly. Reverse, Secretary of State, he said as he opened the desk, not if Joshua Grimes is as smart as he used to be. No, my boy, we'll see. But he found nothing he could regard as a clue to Lay's disappearance, and finally took up a newspaper which lay on the floor, apparently undisturbed since it had been flung aside. It bore the date of December 26. And one spot was creased and rumpled as though crushed by an impatient hand. Carefully adjusting his glasses, Mr. Grimes read the items of the Society Column so unkindly treated, and found there the bald statement that Senator Byrd announced the engagement of his daughter Isabel to the Honorable Charles Rivers, member of Congress from Virginia. Mr. Grimes read the items of the Society Column so unkindly treated, and found there the bald statement that Senator Byrd announced the engagement of his daughter Isabel to the Honorable Charles Rivers, member of Congress from Virginia. Mr. Grimes smoothed out and carefully folded the paper, then returned to the desk before him. Opening a little drawer he had overlooked in his previous research, he discovered a package of notes addressed in a hand with which he himself was quite familiar as well as with the coat of arms upon the seal. Beside the notes was a faded rose, and beneath them both a white glove carefully folded and laid away. The member from South Dakota shut the little drawer with remorseful haste. He felt he had in some way desecrated a shrine. The poor lad! he ejaculated softly. The poor lad! End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 of The Wife of the Secretary of State This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wife of the Secretary of State by Ella Middleton Tybout. Chapter 30 With the dawn of mourning came returning consciousness to Colonel St. John. He raised his head and looked with dazed bewildered eyes at the chair with its few dingy bottles, at the stove now cold and odorless, and at the glove still clenched in his hand. His first sensation was one of physical discomfort as he stretched out his fingers, moving them with difficulty, for they were numb with the cold. There was a strange light feeling in his head while a heavy weight seemed to have settled upon his chest. Had he been ill? The glove fell from his nerveless hand and he picked it up stiffly, looking absently about for its mate. The sight of it was distasteful to him. He wondered why it was a very ordinary glove. He felt dimly that something was lacking from the little bear room, something had vanished which should have been present, and shrank from the emptiness oppressed by the heaviness of space. Why was he on the floor? Colonel St. John struggled to rise and to say to walk, but his feet seemed reluctant to perform their duty and he tottered uncertainly, catching at the wall to preserve his balance. He must hurry, that thought was paramount, for he was going somewhere and it was time he was off. Resting his forehead against the window-pane, thick with the dust of many seasons, he looked through the broken shutter out into the dull gray of the winter's morning. Far in the distance across the mall he saw the black smoke curling upward from an engine crossing the Potomac. Why, certainly he knew now! He was going away somewhere. He must hurry or he would be too late. His head in coat. Where were they? He must hasten. Stumbling blindly forward he made his way into the hall and down the stairs, clutching at the banisters for support and making all possible speed. I will be late, he said. Late! The train won't wait. Suddenly he paused with shaking knees and ash in face. Directly in his path lay the mattress. He recognized the rip in the side and with recognition came a flood of memory, unwelcome, obtrusive, and overwhelming. The old man stood as one petrified. At last he raised his hand and pointed a trembling finger at the mattress at his feet. It's empty! he cried shrilly. Empty! And the house reverberated with the sound of his voice. Empty! returned the rooms and passages of the lower floor. Empty! echoed down the stairway from the vacant space above. Colonel St. John uttered an inarticulate sound and fled up the stairs away from the mattress with its unpleasant suggestiveness. At the entrance to his room he stepped upon something soft and recoiled violently. It was only the glove he had dropped as he started to leave the house, Lindhurst's glove. He remembered it now. Broad day, he said as the sun cast a sickly ray through the broken shutter. Broad day and no doubt a watch set upon the house. The old man sank into the chair opposite the table and rested his head upon the unfinished drawing. Now and then he shivered and glanced towards the daylight and the freedom outside the dusty glass. For a long time he sat motionless, oblivious to the gradually increasing cold. He entertained no doubt that Lee was dead and the punishment for murder was hanging. Colonel St. John felt in his pocket and produced a small vial, removed the cork, and sniffed at the contents. It was nearly full. Had he the strength to put it to his lips? Very slowly he replaced the cork and returned the vial to his pocket. It is when life is most filled with darkness and terror that mankind appears to cling to it most tenaciously, perhaps through some idea of future reparation, perhaps through dread of the unknown. The day wore on. Colonel St. John felt the chill and cold of the place reaching his heart and looked longingly at the kerosene stove and the full oil can in the corner. Dare he light it? It smells. He said, seeking some other means of warmth.  Wrapping himself in a blanket from the cot he waited for the day to pass. His watch had stopped and he had no means of marking the time, but each minute seemed a lifetime and the hours spread themselves into eternity. Was this a day? It chanced that no curious visitors investigated the old house and he thought resentfully that it must therefore surely be under police surveillance. Sooner or later he must be discovered or die from cold and starvation. Colonel St. John again felt in his pocket and his fingers touched the small vial, lingering thoughtfully a moment and were then rapidly withdrawn. It is given to some men to drink of the cup of dissipation while it bubbles with pleasure, sparkles with brilliancy and intoxicates with the exhilaration of success, then to pause and watch the bubbles fade the sparkle disappear and the exhilaration pass away, leaving in its place flatness and a distaste for further drafts of like character. Others, however, drink thirstily, draining it to the last drop and finding in its bitter dregs the fire of sorrow and the ashes of humiliation. Colonel St. John, dumbly expecting he knew not what, realized he had reached the bottom of the cup and cursed the day he raised it to his lips. He did more, he cursed the life he had lived and the life to come, the father who begot him and the mother who gave him birth. He cursed the day he came to America, the night Count Vladimir sought him at Jackson City and the work he had done for the Russians since that date. It was he who held him, Albert St. John, in a grip of iron, and who had indirectly brought about the impending crisis. The old man looked at his shaking hand and wished it might have withered before it drew the plans his master demanded. Suddenly he paused and his lip lifted in an unpleasant smile. Opening a drawer in the table he produced them, one after another. Today he was to have delivered them. Rapidly he looked them over. They were complete in every detail except the one upon the table yet unfinished, in which he added to the collection, tearing it from beneath the thumbtacks viciously as though anxious to deface it as much as possible. Colonel St. John, the bundle under his arm, again sought the lower floor, going down deeper still, into the basement with its brick vaults, and into the old kitchen with the great stone fireplace occupying one end and looking capable of generous hospitality had it been so disposed. In the fireplace he deposited his burden, checking the papers off one by one with satisfaction. They comprised the defences of the principal seaports of the country and were traced with no small skill and accuracy. There were also papers of explanation accompanying them and other data of importance to the government. He produced a match and struck it on the hearth stone. It flickered and would not burn, but he struck another shielding it with his hand and nursing the flame carefully, for it was his last. The match flamed up quickly and went out, leaving the cellar dark and clammy with the penetrating damp. Back again up the stairs to his room. He would get another match. So full of one idea was the old man that he almost forgot the reason for the act or the motive actuating the desire for revenge upon Count Vladimir, but the sight of the mattress in the lower hall again brought with it the flood of memory. It was murder for which he was being hunted and the punishment was hanging. Colonel St. John forgot the papers in the fireplace, forgot Count Vladimir and the desire for revenge, remembering only David Lee and Lindhurst. Lindhurst, who had that other life also checked against him, and who had left his glove in token that he would return. Faint and sick from cold and lack of food, Colonel St. John cowered beneath the blanket and watched the fading of the light through the broken shutter. Now and then a board creaked loudly, and he shrank further into the corner, expecting the opening of a door. Now and then a rat ran across the attic overhead, squealing in angry dispute with its fellows. And now and then came other sounds, faint rustlings and indistinct murmurs like the sighing of the wind.  He felt for the little vial and drew it out. The light grew dimmer and failed entirely. Another day gone, another night arrived. Die like a man, counseled in inner voice. Not like a felon.  It's got to come, he repeated. The end of all things, the leap in the dark, the putting away of mortality and assuming immortality. Yes, it had to come. It had come through him to David Lee and to Hertford. It had also come strangely mysteriously with incredible swiftness to another, a woman. There had been a vacancy in the harem of the Kedive and no questions asked. A favorite had vanished. Such things had happened before. Colonel St. John had vanished also, taking with him the opals. The game had been dangerous and the price high. Well, since it came some time or other to everyone, why should a little sooner or later matter? And Hertford did it himself with a pistol. Colonel St. John wished he had a pistol. It was so soon over. Like a man, he said, raising the vial. I was a man once. The little bottle fell to the floor with a splintering of glass as Colonel St. John drew the blanket closer and prepared to wait. There were noises again, but they did not trouble him. The boards creaked and the rats squealed, unobserved. For out of the darkness shadowy figures approached and bent over him, the room was alive with voices long silent, and Colonel St. John listened to them dreamily. But they were very welcome, and he tried to tell them so, but they did not seem to hear him. His head swam and his limbs felt numb. I believe, he said politely. It's very rude, I know, but I believe I'll take a nap. The night crept on. Again the moon rose and flooded the city with its white light. In the midst of the old garden a figure stood irresolute, a woman who held her cloak tightly, clutching it convulsively as though she found comfort in its warmth and wished to wrap it even closer around her slender form. Now and then she advanced a few steps with many an apprehensive glance towards the upper windows of the grim old house. At last the garden was crossed and she put a trembling hand upon the rusty latch. At the same instant the front door opened and shut with a quick decision very different from the hesitating creaking of the hinges of its companion in the rear. The odor of cigar smoke filled the hall and a man's voice muttered something as he paused to strike a match. The woman leaned against the wall, her hands extended in the darkness. I'm too late, she said. Too late. Suddenly she gathered her skirts together, set her teeth firmly, and began the ascent of the old back stairs, feeling her way timidly but moving swiftly with the decision of divine purpose. It was a race now between the man and woman, for he also walked with the directness of one familiar with the objective point, up the front stairs past the window on the landing looking out over the moonlit garden, past the second floor with its open doors leading into vacant rooms eloquent in their silence, and up again to the third floor. Upon the landing he paused for his quick ears caught a sound unexpected and apparently disconcerting, and the hand extended towards the caretaker's door, hesitated as he drew farther into the shadow. She had reached the top now, and stepped out into the upper hall with a gasp of mingled fear and relief. The darkness of the back stairs had been black indeed, and light of any kind was preferable. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and a ray of moonlight shone upon her upturned face, steadfast in its purpose and pitiful in its unconscious appeal. It touched the flashing jewel in her hair, her brow, her cheeks, her quivering lips, but left in the shadow of the black lashes blue eyes dark with pain and misty with unshed tears. "'Estel!' he cried. "'You? Here alone! What does this mean?' "'Ah!' she said. It was you! I did not know! I heard—someone!' "'What are you doing here?' he repeated. "'I came,' she replied, indicating the inner room by a motion of her hand. "'To bring him money, to help him get away. I waited until night, because the darkness was safer for him.' "'You are in the evening dress?' "'I came from the British Embassy.' She said simply, "'I went there to-night alone. It was easy to get away, and required no explanations. But you! Why are you here?' His face darkened ominously. "'I came,' he said grimly, to threaten. He has tricked me with a bundle of useless papers, and has in his possession others of value to me. I came to claim my property.' The caretaker's door swung slowly open, propelled by an invisible force. Back it went, back against the wall, exposing the bare little room with the figure of the old man wrapped in his quilt upon the floor. With an irrepressible shutter Estelle touched the Russian's arm. "'Who opened it?' she whispered. "'Who opened it?' Colonel St. John stirred uneasily. He felt he must, for some reason, make an effort, so he opened his eyes unwillingly, and did not at once close them. The room was lighted by a candle, and he even thought he detected the odor of a kerosene stove. But he was in Berlin at his salon, so that was impossible. Count Vladimir had produced the candle, and endeavored to induce the stove to burn, but such details mattered not to Colonel St. John. He must greet the lady in the shining satin gown. "'How do you do, madame?' he remarked feebly. "'I am delighted you were able to be with us.' "'Father,' she cried, "'don't you know me? It's Estelle.' "'Estelle?' he repeated vaguely. "'Yes, Estelle.' Then he suddenly sat upright and clutched her hand. "'I must get away,' he said rapidly. "'Clear away. Estelle, my dear, it's murder. For God's sake, help me. Give me money. It's murder, I tell you, murder, and a St. John was never hung.' "'No, Father, no,' she said soothingly. "'He is alive. Mr. Lee is not dead, but he is very ill. I've come to bring you money and to help you.' His features contracted, and he fell back helpless. "'The pain,' he gassed. "'The pain! I'm dying, Estelle. Dying!' "'Quick,' she said imperatively over her shoulder. "'A doctor! I must have a doctor.' But Count Vladimir shook his head. He held in his hand the fragments of the broken vial, upon one of which the label was distinct. "'Too late,' he said quietly. The poison has done its work, and all the doctors in the universe could not help him now. In a few minutes the paroxym will be over, and he will not suffer. By the by they will be more frequent, his mind will wander, and then will come the end.' "'And I came to warn him,' she said bitterly, "'to help him, too late. Like all my good deeds, too late. Bring a doctor. I demand it. He may be able to give some relief.' But the Russian did not move. "'I know the poison well,' he returned coolly. "'I have seen men die of it before. I will not leave you to fetch a doctor here. I will not have you associated with this scandal. See, he is better. He wants to speak with you.' She knelt upon the floor and pressed the gray head to her breast. Quite suddenly she remembered some childish ailment when he had carried her, restless and feverish, room to room, soothing and cheering her with the patience of a woman. "'Father,' she said. "'Father!' "'I drank it,' he said eagerly.  "'Yes.' "'You'll be safe from me in future,' he continued. "'Quite safe, Estelle. I have not been a good father, but I was proud of you, my dear.' He paused, and his eye fell upon the Russian, who advanced slowly. "'Is that Count Vladimir?' he demanded. "'Have nothing to do with him, Estelle. He is a dangerous man, hard and cruel. He's brought me to this. He'll bring you to worse. In Russia there are women.' Again his features contracted, and he sank back with a groan. Count Vladimir bent over him and put his finger on his wrist. "'The pulse is weak,' he remarked. "'His eyes are dim. He will not suffer much more.' "'Estelle,' whispered the old man faintly. "'He must not have them, the papers. I put them. Are you there, Estelle? The plans of fortifications, you know. He shall not have them. I put them.' "'Yes,' she said anxiously. "'Yes, father, where?' "'The old fireplace,' he gasped. "'In the basement. The match went out. Ah, the pain!' "'It is over,' she said sadly. But the heavy lids lifted again, and the eyes stared fixedly at the flaming opal at her throat. "'The price of blood,' he cried, raising a shaking hand. "'The price of blood! Take them off! Take them off!' Instantly her hand covered the jewel, and she shrank back alarmed. As she did so, Colonel St. John sat upright and assumed the attitude of one who addresses a large assembly. "'Awful fool,' he said with his best society manner, had a life and made a mess of it.  He paused and smiled in a conciliatory manner. "'I apologize,' he said, done a lot of mischief, made a lot of trouble. Quiet now, I apologize.' The Russian darted forward and caught the swaying body. "'It is the end,' he said gently. CHAPTER XXXI The passing of a soul is fraught with mystery. Before it the callous stands silent and abashed, the reckless pause within voluntary awe, the timid shrink with sinking hearts, and all unite in a moment of breathless apprehension, wondering when they, in turn, will pass into the darkness of the great beyond. And what has gone? The form of man remains, motionless certainly, but then are not the sleeping quiet? Therefore why approach reluctantly? It is the same for whom, a brief moment ago, we felt affection or dislike, admiration or pity, respect or contempt. The same, yet not the same. King Death reigns supreme in his impenetrable silence, and the children of men abase themselves before him. So Count Vladimir beared his head respectfully before Colonel St. John, as though acknowledging the presence of his superior. Overhead in the attic the rats held high carnival. Outside the wind swept across the snow-covered garden, and around the corners of the house, shaking the window frames and causing strange, whispering noises to echo down the chimneys and through the vacant halls. And in the bare little upper room the man and woman stood speechless before it. Come, he said gently at last, we must go. But Mrs. Redmond did not answer. She was on her knees, chafing the hands which grew cold beneath her touch. Come, he repeated, you can do no good. She rose reluctantly while he bent over the inanimate form and removed the contents of the pockets. They held only a few unimportant letters and a shabby leather case which he opened. This, he said gently, belongs to you. Estelle glanced at the woman's face with its wistful sadness and at the laughing baby beside it. Oh! she exclaimed passionately. He loved us. He must have loved us. The hot tears welled into her eyes as she stooped and pressed her lips to the unresponsive ones upon the floor. I cannot leave him here alone, she said. He was my father. The Russian looked at his watch by the light of the candle. Time passes, he said. It is later than I thought. We must not stay here. I will put money in his pocket to ensure a decent burial. No, no, she interrupted. That is for me to do. I brought him money. As you please, he responded briefly, come away. But Colonel St. John's daughter lingered, bending to kiss the cold forehead and turning on the threshold for a last look at the still figure. I am his child, she said. I did not love him, but I am his child. She followed the Russian down the curved stairway past the silent rooms and into the lower hall. Where are you going? she said sharply as he turned aside. I am going, he replied, to investigate the fireplace in the kitchen. Will you come? The candle made but a feeble gleam of light in the dark cellar where the dampness hung in drops upon walls and ceiling and the floor was slippery to walk upon. Count Vladimir stooped over the fireplace and examined the contents. The fire is laid, he remarked shortly. Be quick, she said imperatively. Do whatever you will with them. I cannot stay here. The air smothers me. The Russian put the candle upon the floor and turned to his companion. His face was white and set and the hand which placed the candle shook until the grease ran down upon it. It is for you to say what I shall do with them, he said, for you to say. For me, she repeated, for me. I have waited, he said quietly. For a message from the Countess Vladimir she was to notify me when to expect her. I wonder, he advanced a step nearer, I wonder why she is so silent. The castles beyond the steps, he continued, are waiting for their mistress. There are empty rooms ready for the touch of a woman's hand, carved stairways weering for the tread of a woman's foot, and marble corridors longing for the echo of a woman's voice. There is peace astell, safety, happiness, and boundless love for you with me, and the castles themselves will prove palaces of enchantment for us both. Or prisons of Siberia, she interrupted. Love, she continued contemptuously. What do you know of love? Passion perhaps, strange and inexplicable, but not, not love. Love is patient, long-suffering and unselfish, tender, enduring, and wonderfully comforting. Oh, I know! My husband loves me, but you! Count Vladimir, she continued as he turned abruptly away. I have something to say to you. I am listening. Mrs. Redmond, however, seemed to find articulation difficult, for she made several ineffectual efforts to speak. Look at me, she said at last, and tell me what you see. I see, he replied slowly, God's most wonderful work, the blessing or the curse of man, a beautiful woman. Yes, a woman, she returned. Beautiful you call her and the work of God. You are wrong, Count. He is not responsible for this woman, although he created the child in the image which seemed best to him.  Estelle. Is it not true, a coward before your threats and stooping even to obey your commands? Does not your course resemble black mail-count, and is it not much more creditable than that of my father, from whom you so bravely defended me? He wished money for his daily needs. You desired the glory of a master-stroke in the world of diplomacy, and I was the most convenient tool for you both. I. Oh, let us go, I do not know why I came down here with you, I am afraid. You came, he interposed gently, because you trusted me, because your heart instinctively responds to mine. Ah, it is so Estelle, do not shrink from me, do not be afraid. Through your life and mine runs an undercurrent drawing us irresistibly together. It is deep, unfathomable, and very strong. It leads into darkness, she interrupted, into a bottomless pit of misery. How pale you are, my love, and how your opals glow! Is it because the heart beneath them is so restless and ill at ease? Restless indeed, she said, and very ill at ease. The candle flickered in the draft from the chimney, and the papers in the fireplace rustled impatiently. It is time to end the farce, she resumed slowly. Take the maps, Count Vladimir, I am powerless to prevent it. They are yours, and no doubt you paid well for them. But even then your chain is not complete. I went to my husband's office at your command and stole the roost-shook papers, the price you set upon my happiness. I even started to meet you here and give them into your hands, but I lost them, thank God, I lost them. No, do not speak, I have more to say. I took the synopsis also, because I wished to preserve this happiness of mine at any cost, but by degrees I saw what I had done. I brought the cloud of dishonor to darken the life of the best man in the world, and when I realized what that meant to him I determined to remove it at any price. I even offered myself in exchange for your ill-gained knowledge. I played with you, Count Vladimir, to gain time, as you would have done with me had our positions been reversed, and you did not get the synopsis. Tonight before I came away I put it in my husband's desk where he cannot fail to find it, because I did not know what might happen to me, and because I have reached a conclusion as to what is best for me to do, best for him I mean. Count Vladimir made an effort to speak, but she raised her hand commanding silence. And so, she continued, her voice trembling uncontrollably, because I love the very ground my husband walks upon, but seem fated to bring only suffering upon him, I, who would gladly die for him if it were possible, because I am willing to sacrifice myself that his reputation may be untarnished, I am going away from him forever, but not with you, Count Vladimir, you will return alone to the castles beyond the steps, the palaces of enchantment, the prisons of Siberia. The wind swept around the corner of the house, down the chimney, through the old kitchen and into the cellar beyond, almost extinguishing the candle upon the hearth. I am cold, she said, with a shiver as the papers wrestled in the fireplace. Those papers Estelle, he said, are of inestimable value to my country, they contain data which for years it has endeavored to procure, plans, maps, and other information, priceless not only in connection with the Ruschuk matter. Securing them was the greatest triumph of my career, and I have accomplished some difficult tasks, there they lie complete within reach of my hand, I have greatly desired them. He paused the muscles in his throat quivering visibly, and again she shivered in her fur-lined cloak. I am cold, she repeated, cold. Then, madame, he returned picking up the candle, permit me to light the fire. He bent over the hearth and held the flame to a loose corner of the under-sheet of paper. It blazed up instantly. Ah! she exclaimed! They were all on fire now and the cellar was alight with flickering flames casting bright shadows into the darkness, eager flames which blazed fiercely as though anxious to be done with their task. They burned well, he said. Do they not? She did not reply and he folded his arms across his breast and continued quietly. They are copies, you know, the originals were returned to the files of the State Department or the War Department as the case might be. How they blaze! I can see your face distinctly. It is very white, and beneath your eyes are purple shadows. You have suffered, and it is my fault, mine and the man's upstairs. At the dead rest, she interrupted sharply. He came a step nearer. So you think I do not love you, he said, that I do not know how to love. The light in the hearth died a little, then rose with renewed vigor and across the floor black beetles hurried frantically, the heat having disturbed their place of residence. Very soon, resumed the Russian, there will be a charred mass in the fireplace, the result of weeks of labor. Soon, very soon, we will go. Recently my heart blazed as brightly as those papers. Like them it will shortly be dead and cold, the result of weeks, yes, years of longing. I am not very familiar with Bible history, he continued. But is there not a story of a man in hell burning with thirst and seeing almost within his reach the water which would give him new life? He stretches out his hand, but he cannot touch it. His throat is parched, and he trembles with eagerness. It is there, pure in life-giving, but not for him. He longs, but may not attain. Struggles, but may not achieve. He sees, but may not touch. For him the thirst, burning, unquenchable, never to be allayed.  She gazed at him with wide incredulous eyes. Back to the house you left with such unwilling feet. Back to the life you relinquished with such bitter tears. Back to the Secretary of State. Home! she repeated. Home! Love is unselfish, patient and long-suffering, he said. You told me so yourself a moment ago, did you not? The blaze flickered and died away, leaving a charred mass with here and there a glowing spot of red. The fire is out, said Count Ladmir. Let us go. In the garden beneath the curious moon he paused and consulted his watch. One o'clock, he said. We spent two hours there. What arrangements did you make about your carriage? It was not to return. I said I would come home with Miss Bird. She turned and looked long at the old house with trembling lips. He's there alone, she whispered. Alone. It is best so, he said gently. Believe me, it is best. You have been generous, she said brokenly. Three men, he said, met here in Washington. They and they only had you cause to fear. It was a strange coincidence. Lindhurst you need no longer dread, he is a gentleman and he knows you only as Mrs. Redmond. Your father's lips and mine are sealed forever. His by death and mine by love. You hold the key to the situation and you only. Let me entreat you not to turn it. Only be silent and all is well. Now let us go. She laid a detaining hand upon his arm. I want to thank you, she said. I misjudged you. I—I don't know what to say, Count Vladimir. I am stunned by the events of tonight. Some other time— The love of man for woman, said the Russian softly, passes understanding. O Estelle, some time you will think of me with pity instead of bitterness. Look at me, into my eyes. Only she obeyed. Blue eyes, he whispered, meant for happiness, but dark to night with shadows. Red lips. Ah, they should not quiver. They were made for smiles. Do not turn away. Let me look. It is the last. Have I not renounced utterly, unconditionally? The wind swept down the alley, through the broken wall and across the moonlit garden.  Give me the rose, he said, and she held it towards him in silence. Some time, he said quietly, perhaps I shall dream dreams in the castles beyond the steps. Who knows? Let us go. The moon shone into an empty garden and down the alley, forming a path of light across the dark bricks. It looked again through the broken shutter of the octagon house and into the upper room, and the light fell with subdued luster. For here was a stillness unlike the quiet of the garden, an emptiness and yet a presence, dominant invisible and awe-inspiring. So the moon shone very softly, fearing to disturb the old man upon the floor. CHAPTER 32 Miss Jackson, on her return from the Treasury Department one afternoon, murdered her latch-key in Mrs. Coulson's front door with a gusty sigh. This sigh was as much a matter of habit as the turning of the key, and was intended to signify a protest against the act of living. When she closed the door, leaving herself inside, she repeated it as a matter of course. A number of letters and papers lay on the little hall table, and she turned them over curiously, examining the address of each with care. Miss Jackson did not conduct a voluminous correspondence, but she took an interest in her friends, and therefore never failed to scrutinize the contents of the hall table. A square blue envelope lay at the top of the pile, sealed with gold wax, and freighted with perfume. It suggested the romantic side of life, even as a tradesman's envelope beside it proclaimed the prosaic. Miss Jackson read the superscription, raised it inquiringly to her nose, and again perused the address, as though doubting the evidence of her eyes. Well, I never, she said aloud, the idea! Adored her right opened a few inches, and a beckoning hand appeared in the aperture. Come in, said Mrs. Coulson in a stage whisper, and Miss Jackson accepted the invitation. Did you see it? continued Mrs. Coulson eagerly. She was engaged in making out her monthly bills, but she pushed them aside and hospitably offered her guest a seat on the corner of the box couch. He's been here now two years, she continued, and it's the first thing in a woman's writing that has ever come for him. It is a woman, don't you think so?   Miss Jackson herself used pale ink, a finely pointed pen, and produced the most delicately minute specimens of shaded Spenssyrian handwriting. Dear me, said Mrs. Coulson, I fear you are right, Miss Jackson. Do you suppose he is going to be married? He has been here so long and is so regular in his payments, I should dislike to see him a victim to some flighty young thing who doesn't know enough to make him comfortable. Well, said Miss Jackson thoughtfully, I don't know, Mrs. Coulson, but it's very easy to tell. Now if he picks up that letter carelessly and puts it in his pocket without looking at it, that's a sure sign he was expecting it. But if he seems surprised when he sees it and looks at the postmark, by the way, what was it? I entirely forgot to look. I'm not often so careless. Washington! returned Mrs. Coulson, definitely. Posted at eight-fifty this morning. I looked. Now, Miss Jackson, if we set the door ajar, we get a good view of the table. I think we are justified under the circumstances, don't you? Oh, by all means! agreed Miss Jackson, her hand on the knob. How is that? About an inch wider, there. Now use it in the rocker. Here is the evening paper. I'll be busy writing. Several times the front door opened and closed and the pile of letters dwindled perceptibly. Ahem! said Miss Jackson, lowering the paper a few inches. Mr. Marks carefully put his umbrella in the rack and hung up his hat. Always so methodical! murmured Mrs. Coulson appreciatively. He then approached the table, glanced without interest at the few remaining letters, appropriated a copy of the Scientific American, and prepared to go upstairs. As he turned away, however, the blue envelope with its decided black characters caught his eye. Mr. Marks hesitated, picked it up gingerly, studied the address incredulously, held it doubtfully before his nose, and finally marched resolutely upstairs, the letter held lightly between his thumb and finger as though it contained a dynamite bomb which might explode at any moment. He's not engaged! ejaculated Mrs. Coulson with a sigh of relief, but there's no telling how soon he will be. Well! said Miss Jackson acidly. It's very evident she is taking the initiative. I have my opinion of the girl of the period. She is unwomenly. That's the best I can say for her. Can't you get a little more heat into my room, Mrs. Coulson? I could see my breath when I dressed this morning. I'll do my best, Miss Jackson, returned Mrs. Coulson in tones of suffering forbearance, but the furnace is old and the landlord won't replace it. I'm sure I burn coal enough as my bills would testify. It is a hard life trying to satisfy everybody and not pleasing anybody. My father owned a hundred slaves and I. But Miss Jackson departed for her frosty apartment without waiting to hear more. She was familiar with the story of Mrs. Coulson's inability to adjust her shoestrings before the war and knew the formula by heart. Moreover, like many examples of humanity, she was verbose in the recital of her own woes and intolerant of the trials of others. Meanwhile, in the seclusion of his own apartment, Mr. Marx had opened his letter. He did this carefully, inserting a pen-knife under the flap and running it neatly across the top with a clean, clear cut in the most approved manner. If the knife shook a little, no one but himself was any the wiser. Nor was it a matter of comment to the world at large that he again held the envelope beneath his nose, sniffing eagerly after the manner of a dog establishing a trail. A long, slow smile of gratified complacency curled Mr. Marx's upper lip as he slowly unfolded his letter. It contained but a few lines and was signed, yours distractedly, Christine Gray. Mr. Marx returned the note to its envelope, stroked the little whiskers upon his jawbone, and meditated. The first thing to be done was to answer it, so he laid out pen and ink and a sheet of white fool-scap paper. Then he paused suddenly. Christine had used blue paper, small in dimensions and adorned with her monogram. Evidently blue paper was the proper medium for communication between the sexes, and Mr. Marx had none. He was, however, a man of resources. He would borrow from Mrs. Colson. So he again descended the stairs. Through the half-open door he saw the lady seated before her desk with what appeared to his covetous eyes as mountains of blue paper within reach of her hand. He had but to knock or even speak her name and his quest was ended. This, however, was not his idea of the proprieties of life, so he repaired to the doorstep, rang a violent peal at the bell, and shivered in the east wind until the maid responded, and then inquired for Mrs. Colson and stocked majestically into the hall, where he preferred his request with stentorian tones and profuse verbiage. His need at once supplied he returned to his room, sublimely unconscious that every border in the house knew he had borrowed blue note-paper and speculated with wondering amusement as to the date of the wedding. Mr. Marx dipped his pen into the ink and wrote, Miss Gray, dear Madame, fluently. Then he paused and, taking up a pencil, made several rough drafts on the sheet of fool's cap before transcribing the following words upon the blue paper. It will be convenient for me to be present at your residence at eight o'clock this evening, the tenth instant. Yours composedly, John N. Marx. Composedly, he reflected, applying his tongue to the mucilage of the envelope, is the antonym of distractedly, and I am calm, quite calm. There were many glances directed at Mr. Marx when he appeared at dinner that evening, with every hair standing severely upright, and the shining expanse of his black satin ready-tied cravat relieved by a chaste and elegant gold-plated pin, a dove holding in its mouth an olive branch from which hung a crystal dew drop, and he found himself the recipient of much unusual attention which he endured with lofty condescension. Mrs. Colson, he remarked abruptly as he left the table, I would be obliged if you would place a quart of milk and some ham sandwiches in my room at ten thirty. By that time I am of the opinion it will be necessary for me to eat again. Did you ever? said Mrs. Colson, appealingly. Love, said the old gentleman, with a gruff laugh, affects the present generation strangely. In my day it destroyed the appetite. Now it appears to produce an inward vacuum which is to be filled after a visit to the fair in Amorada. Ladies, ladies, you are responsible for much. When the ladies responded with the customary refrain, oh, general! Mr. Marx walked briskly down the street, occasionally feeling in his pocket to make sure his letter was quite safe. He had no intention of posting it, knowing it would not be delivered until next morning. But a small book on etiquette he had recently purchased reiterated that a communication from a lady should be answered at once. Therefore he had replied immediately. For Miss Gray, he said, delivering the blue envelope into the reluctant hand of the boarding-house factotum, who had responded to his ring and turning abruptly away from the open door as though fearing he would be called upon to explain his motive. On the opposite corner was a drugstore, and there he directed his steps to wait until Christine should have sufficient time to prepare to receive him. For, he reflected generously, no doubt she would desire to make some slight changes of apparel, some frivolous feminine adornment. And involuntarily his hand sought the dove with the dew drop. I will wait fifteen minutes, he decided, his eyes on the drugstore clock. But no thought of feminine adornment occurred to Christine, who sat dejectedly in her own room with red eyes and trembling lips. On the table beside her lay a small package addressed to the Honourable Charles Rivers, House of Representatives, also a long white envelope soiled increased with much handling, which she glanced at apprehensively from time to time with expressive face. Oh, Molly! she said, you might do it for me, you might! But her sister shook her head. I must go back now, she said, rising. I have been gone nearly an hour, and the day nurse will wonder what has become of me. You know I took the night duty, but he is so much better that tomorrow I shall tell the doctor only one nurse is necessary. Yes, said Christine, without interest. Oh, Molly, I can't do it! I can't! It isn't a question of what you want to do, Christine, said the older girl gravely. It's a question of right and wrong. If you gave those papers to Mr. Rivers on New Year's Day, and I found them in Mr. Lee's pocket two nights later, why, there is something very queer about it, that's all, for Mr. Lee had been ill some days before he was discovered. And then, too, they are important, or he wouldn't be muttering about them in his delirium. I don't know what the proper course would be, but Mr. Redmond is a kind man. I have seen enough of him to know that, and he is Secretary of State and would undoubtedly know what was best. Well, said the younger girl rebelliously, why don't you give them to him yourself without dragging me into it? Because, said Mary, I was afraid, you have gone your own way lately without regard for me. I had seen the papers in your hands, they were heavy with your perfume. I did not know what an investigation might disclose, for there are things, Christine, which I did not even whisper to myself. Don't, said Christine sharply. Don't, Molly, it's not so. I have been foolish, that is all. Yes, dear, I know. It's all right, it's all over. Perhaps Mr. Marks will explain where he got this envelope. Bring him with you this evening. I will ask Mr. Redmond to see you, and you must tell him your story, just as you told it to me.  Oh, Molly! cried Christine with a burst of tears. He said he did say he would return the papers to the State Department, and no one would be any the wiser. It seems such a natural thing for him to do, but here they are, the hateful things. There must be some mistake. Why, he is a member of Congress, he could not stoop to such things.  I will mail it as I go out, she said slowly. Were you mad, Christine, to accept this necklace and that diamond star? Is there anything more? No, said Christine with a gasp. One was Christmas and one New Years. The flowers I couldn't keep, except one of each to press. They faded, you know. He wanted to marry me, Mary. Don't look at me that way. Did he say so? He said he loved me, said the girl softly, and of course that's what he meant. Mary Gray turned abruptly to the window and stood a moment in silence. Bath your eyes, dear, she said gently, and try and control yourself. You wrote to Mr. Marx as I asked you. Yes, Molly, I didn't say what I wanted. I wish Harry was here. And so do I, echoed Mary with a fervent sigh. I must really go, Christine. Do not be later than nine o'clock. The Secretary will have finished dinner by then, and ask for me. It's hard, I know, but it will soon be over. Molly, said Christine, with something between a laugh and a sob. You were born centuries too late. You are intended for a Spartan mother. Goodbye. The slipshod servant announced the arrival of Mr. Marx and produced his note at the same time. She had not thought a special trip upstairs necessary to deliver the letter when it was entrusted to her care, nor did Christine cast more than a cursory glance at the epistle concocted with so much labor. If I must, I must, she said as she went to the closet and got her hat in coat. But I assure you, protested Mr. Marx, I know no more of them than you do. They were walking slowly through Lafayette Park, and he held in his hand the bone of contention in the shape of the long envelope.  Bless my soul, exclaimed Mr. Marx astonished. I do, she repeated irritably, would anybody else in the whole world give a package to a girl without knowing what was in it, and then say weeks afterwards that he had a half-consciousness of picking up something in the park one rainy night? It's just ridiculous, that's what it is. And what are you going to say to the Secretary of State? He'll want more than a half-consciousness, I fancy. Really, returned the unhappy youth, I don't know what to say. Why do you insist on going? It is a most unpleasant expedition. We are going, said Christine grimly, so that you may explain to the Secretary all about those papers. Miss Gray, said Mr. Marx firmly, I suggest that we do nothing of the sword. Why should your sister force us to accede to her views of what is right? Have we not independent brains of our own? I came out to night with a definitely established purpose in mind. I had decided after much thought to make a proposition to you I have long meditated, and I have no intention of being diverted there from for any reason. Let us sit down. It's cold, objected Christine, and the benches are covered with snow. I don't want to sit down. Mr. Marx, however, steered resolutely for a secluded bench which rested upon the shining expanse of a frozen puddle. I think this would be a good place to locate. He remarked gently, pushing his companion into it and seating himself beside her. Their combined weight was too much for the thin covering of ice, and the bench broke through with an unpleasant splashing of muddy water. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! wailed Christine. What a sight! My new coat! It is immaterial. Returned Mr. Marx loftily. I am about to pay you a high compliment, Miss Gray, and should be glad of your undivided attention. Well, said Christine residedly, please be quick, my feet are freezing. Mr. Marx cleared his throat and thrust one hand negligently into the breast of his overcoat after the manner of an orator he much admired.  In some states their preponderance over man, according to statistics, is little less than terrifying. Woman is the weaker vessel.  Indeed! interrupted Christine indignantly. But Mr. Marx immersed in rhetoric did not hear her. Sometimes, he continued fluently, I may say frequently, we see unmarried women, which, of course, means that no man has looked with favour upon them. It is perhaps their misfortune rather than their fault. But you, Miss Gray, need fear no such catastrophe. From the first my eye has been attracted by you, as yours no doubt has been by me, according to the laws of affinity. Upon my word! began Christine, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand. Certain books, he resumed, which I have recently consulted, tell me that persons of your colouring and figure live long and are healthy. Therefore I now make you an offer of my hand and heart. What do you mean? demanded Christine vexedly.  But Mr. Marx was determined to finish his discourse. He felt that he had not expressed himself quite happily and strove to remember the words of his book on etiquette under the heading, proposals of marriage. Honoured lady, he said eloquently, Dane to be my wife, I offer you my all, myself. Here he paused a victim to memory and innate honesty. All except my head, he added humbly. I have bestowed that upon a scientific society to be dissected after my death, but what remains is yours. The electric light shone full on Mr. Marx as he made this extraordinary statement, and Christine glanced at the face bent eagerly towards her with its shining spectacles, its tufts of pale-brown whiskers upon the apex of the jawbone, and the curling upper lip fringed with chapped skin the result of winter winds. I am sure, she cried with a hysterical laugh, if I had to marry you at all, I'd much rather do it without your head than with it. Mr. Marx drew back suddenly as though he had received a slap in the face. Am I to understand that you decline? He said slowly. Something in his voice caused the girl to look more closely at him and her manner changed. I've hurt you, she said gently. I'm sorry, but I didn't know you really cared. You never said a word about loving you, no? It is quite immaterial. He returned, rising stiffly. Let us go on. I will leave you at the door of the Secretary of State if you persist in holding this unnecessary interview, but I firmly declined to accompany you any farther. Christine grasped his arm with a sudden realization of the ordeal before her. Oh, you mustn't! she gasped. You mustn't! What would I do all by myself? Mr. Marx hesitated visibly. Here was the weaker vessel appealing to him for support.  But you have just convinced me you do not wish my support. The pressure of the hand tightened, and Mr. Marx saw two troubled brown eyes gazing up at him, eyes which brightened as they looked before they were veiled by the lowering of white lids. The ghost of a dimple played about her cheek, and the red lips curled upward irresistibly. If you really loved me, you'd go with me, she whispered. I'm afraid you know. Hope sprang up within the bosom of Mr. Marx, and the head consecrated to science was bent eagerly over the weaker vessel created for man's convenience, now walking submissively by his side with meekly downcast eyes. This indeed was as it should be. I will attend you, honoured madame," said he, quoting again from his little book, and not daring to trust to original inspirations. Pray command me, be careful, or you'll step in the puddle. The last sentence was not a quotation from the treatise on etiquette. CHAPTER 33 After strong emotion of any kind comes reaction. Estelle Redmond found herself unable to lift her head from the pillow the morning following the death of Colonel St. John. She was overcome by elacitude impossible to ignore, and could only lie still with closed eyes and throbbing temples. Again and again she reviewed the events of the preceding night. Was it possible it was all over and she herself safe at home, with no sort of Damocles suspended over her head, no sickening horror of what the next minute might disclose? The secretary entered softly and bent over her with a few murmured words of anxious sympathy. She grasped his hand in both of hers, laying her face against it and drawing much comfort from his presence. Stay with me, she said. Oh, John, never, never let me out of your sight again. He laughed and gently pressed his lips to her hot forehead. How tired you would get of the old watchdog, dearest! Lie still in rest. All this trouble and excitement has been too much for you as I feared. You must countermand your engagements for the day, and when I get home from the department we will spend a long quiet evening together, and have our dinner served in your sitting room, so you need not even trouble to dress. I must go now. Are you sure it is only a headache? The day had worn on slowly, and gradually the throbbing in her temples had subsided and the lassitude been replaced by a sense of security and great peace. She had stood on the brink of an abyss, her feet had even touched the crumbling earth about the edges, then suddenly the hand relentlessly pushing her forward had thrust her back. Sometimes, murmured Estelle, sometimes God in heaven does hear prayers from earth. In the afternoon she went into her sitting room and lay upon the couch, very wide and still, with shining eyes and loosely clasped hands. Upon her desk a vase of roses filled the room with their perfume, lifting their great heads proudly, but Mrs. Redmond's eyes clouded when she observed them, and she touched the bell beside her. Take them away! she said impatiently when Josephine appeared.  To her presently came Isabelle Bird, who hung affectionately over her with solicitous inquiries and many sympathetic touches of her brow and hair. Isabelle, who laughingly begged to be allowed to stay for dinner. Because Estelle I am cross today and don't want to go anywhere to-night, so if you'll keep me just as I am. And Mrs. Redmond, with a little sigh for the tete-a-tete dinner and long quiet evening, had put her arm about the girl and urged her to remain. I'll telephone father to come for me! remarked Isabelle, removing her hat with alacrity. He can take Aunt Mary to the lotons and then slip off here. He'll like that I know. The lotons! said Mrs. Redmond, raising herself on her elbow. The ball of the season! Why, Isabelle! The color rose on Isabelle's cheeks and she turned away towards the fire. I don't want to go! she said shortly. Mr. Rivers will be there and I don't want to meet him. Mr. Rivers! said Estelle thoughtfully. Mr. Rivers! Oh! quite suddenly she remembered the ring Lindhurst had found on the floor of the octagon house and given her for safekeeping, and which she had forgotten in the impending crisis of her own affairs. She said nothing to the girl, however, merely telling her to bring her low chair close to the couch and be comfortable. Estelle, said Isabelle, as she obeyed, you look as though you had been ill for weeks with all your vitality wrung out of you. It troubles me to see you. I have not been myself, returned the older woman quietly, for some time, dear, many, many weeks it seems to me, but I'm going to get well, just wait and see. And now, Isabelle, what shall we talk about? The girl laid her face on the pillow beside her friend and slipped her hand shyly into Mrs. Redmond's. Tell me about Mr. Leigh Estelle, she whispered, all about finding him in everything I want to know. The secretary enjoyed the dainty little dinner served at the round table in Mrs. Redmond's sitting-room with his wife on one hand and Isabelle Burd on the other. He noted with pleasure the light which had returned to Estelle's eyes and a spontaneity in her laugh which had long been lacking to his sensitive ears and had responded delightedly to her evident desire to be amused even resigning himself to eating much more than he wanted that she might be satisfied for the secretary's appetite had failed perceptibly of late. Tonight, however, Estelle and Isabelle had suggested that no servant be in attendance and had themselves selected what he should eat merely stipulating as a return for this attention that he consume it all. Estelle had demanded a chafing-dish boasting of her success in the preparation of a certain entree and the secretary had become absorbed in the concoction of a salad he had known in France the result of which was beyond reproach. In short the dinner was a great success and if Mrs. Redmond ate little herself she managed to conceal the fact by lively contributions to the conversation and frequent suggestions and criticisms during the preparation of the salad and entree. If her eyes sometimes filled suddenly and threatened to overflow they were happy tears and hurt no one, and if she now and then laid her hand on her husbands with an involuntary tightening of the fingers only the secretary knew it, and he invariably returned the pressure just by way of showing her he understood. It has been the nicest dinner I ever had, exclaimed Isabelle at its conclusion, how I wish father had been with us. So the secretary retired to the library to smoke his cigar feeling a strange lightning of the load which seemed to have settled upon him of late and dismissed affairs of state as much as possible from his thoughts with the optimistic reflection that things might work out right after all. While upstairs Mrs. Redmond and Isabelle drew their chairs before the fire and resumed the subject which had engrossed them before dinner. Mrs. Redmond's hand lay on the girl's bright hair and she touched it tenderly now and then as she talked. Once she paused and Isabelle raised her head impetuously.  Mrs. Redmond told her and the gold-crowned head was hidden on her friend's lap. Senator Byrd, coming in search of his daughter and the honorable Joshua Grimes coming in search of any information he could glean regarding David Lee, met on the doorstep and were taken into the library where the secretary greeted them warmly and provided them with chairs and cigars. When I stipulate, he said, laughing, that we don't touch on public matters. Lee is out of danger but still very weak. Oh yes, Grimes, he is here. Had you not heard? Then I may take the entire credit of your visit to myself. That is good. Isabelle is upstairs, Byrd. She dined with us in Femil. And we had an uncommonly good time. Mrs. Redmond is a little under the weather, but I think she will see you both and later we will join them. What is it, James? James approached and said something in a low tone, and the secretary excused himself and withdrew. He was absent some time, and the two men drew their chairs together and entered into a discussion upon the impending crisis. Mr. Grimes related the story of his luncheon with the member from Virginia and his deduction therefrom, and Senator Byrd frowned impatiently. Now Byrd, said the member from South Dakota impressively, I've been your friend this many a year, and you used to play some confidence in my judgment. And do still, interrupted Senator Byrd smiling, while I'm going to try your temper I reckon, but I shan't be happy till I free my mind. I think Rivers is playing a snide game for all his nicely parted hair and well-creased trousers, and I wish his engagement with Isabel was off. The senator hesitated a moment. I hardly know what to think, he said slowly. Rivers has surprised me lately. It is not like him to show his hand so plainly unless he is certain of the game. He means to be president, you know, and would like the portfolio of state as a stepping-stone, but I hardly agree in your opinion. You are not exactly an unbiased judge, you know. As to his engagement with Isabel, well, it is off, and so far as I know it won't be renewed. She will not allow his name mentioned. A fine girl, cried the corpulent member with much satisfaction, an uncommonly fine girl of great good judgment. The return of the secretary prevented further discussion of the subject.  Gentlemen, he said abruptly, you are, I know, both aware that the Ruth Shoup papers are missing. Yes, said Senator Byrd. Tonight, continued Mr. Redmond, just now in fact, I received a message that the nurse in charge of Lee wished to speak with me. I found her in the drying-room with a remarkably pretty and very much agitated girl whom she introduced as her sister, and a rather peculiar-looking young fellow. This girl, with much embarrassment, related a most extraordinary story and produced this envelope. It contains the Ruth Shoup papers. His hearers gazed at him in mute amazement, and he continued rapidly. Moreover, these papers were brought into this house in Lee's pocket. Miss Gray, the nurse, saw them and recognized them as a package she had seen in the possession of her sister. She took them to her to make sure, and insisted that the girl bring them to me and explain how they came into her possession. She did not, of course, realize their importance, but she knew they were official papers which should be returned to the department. It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of. I cannot doubt the sincerity of the girl, but I do not know what to think of the man. I should like you to hear her story, as it bears a grave implication, and I should be glad of your advice. By all means, said Senator Byrd Gravely, let us hear it. She is very young, said the secretary, and very frightened poor child. I think Byrd she can hardly be as old as Isabelle. He went into the drying-room and returned at once, preceding Christine and Mr. Marx, the former evidently suppressing an inclination to run away, the latter bearing an air of superior protest against the entire proceedings. Miss Gray, said the secretary gently, drying forward a chair for her. These are friends of mine, Senator Byrd and Mr. Grimes, and I should like them to know the story you just told me. Mr. Marx, gentlemen. Mr. Marx looked as though he would have repudiated his name, had that been possible, and sitting down upon the extreme edge of a chair, fixed his eyes upon the ceiling. Mr. Marx, said the secretary, suppressing a smile, went to call upon Miss Gray one stormy evening in December, and very naturally desired to take her some flowers. I wish you would remember the date, Miss Gray. Christine shook her head helplessly. Dates were not her strong point. Mr. Marx, however, ceased his contemplation of the ceiling long enough to produce a memorandum book and turned over its pages with accustomed fingers. Under date of December 2nd, he said briefly, I find three entries as follows. Changed laundress, purchased White Hyacinth's fifty cents, called upon Miss Gray. I should judge therefore that the date was December 2nd. Now, Miss Gray, said Mr. Redmond, please tell what followed. And Christine unwillingly related how Mr. Marx had forgotten to deliver the flowers, and they had been sent to her room later, accompanied by a package she did not open. You see, she said helplessly, I thought they were things he wanted me to read, and I did not feel interested in them. Mr. Marx is highly scientific, and reads all sorts of articles with long words I don't understand, for I'm very ignorant. So I put the bundle in my bureau drawer, meaning to open it some time, and forgot it. I'm awfully sorry. The senator recognized that tears were not far from the girl's voice, and felt an inclination to say that it was of no consequence. Suppose it were Isabelle. Mr. Grimes, however, was anxious to get at the root of the matter. Young man, he said abruptly, kindly explain how those papers came into your possession. I do not know, said Mr. Marx blandly. The evening was inclement, and in passing through Lafayette Park my hat was forcibly removed from my head by the strength of the wind, and I was obliged to exercise speed and ingenuity in its pursuit. The railing surrounding the statue of Jackson arrested its flight, and I have a subconsciousness in the lower strata of my brain that when I rose to my feet I grasped something beside my hat. I know nothing more concerning the episode. Well, see here, said the member from South Dakota. I reckon you'll have to cultivate those lower strata a bit. We want to know more about the matter. Miss Gray, interposed the secretary, forgot the package until New Year's Day when she discovered it in her bureau drawer and opened it. It was naturally dismayed at its contents and puzzled as to what she should do with them. It did not occur to her at the time to bring them to me. Well, said Mr. Grimes impatiently, well, young lady, what did you do with them? I gave them to a friend, she said slowly, who said he would return them to the State Department. I thought I was doing what was right. Of course, said Senator Byrd soothingly, of course, and the friend was Mr. Lee? No, said the secretary, the friend was Mr. Rivers. Mr. Grimes indulged in a long whistle and Christine turned a lively and painful scarlet even to the tips of her ears. Mr. Rivers, said the secretary gently, knew Miss Gray's father. He was one of his constituents. But, said Senator Byrd after a silence of some minutes, how did the nurse recognize the papers in Mr. Lee's pocket as the ones in her sister's possession if they had never been opened? By a peculiar perfume her sister uses, returned the secretary. Yes, said Christine, feeling it was incumbent upon her to speak. The minute Molly smelled the envelope she knew it was the one Mr. Marx gave me. I am sure, interposed Mr. Marx in a tone of offended dignity, my person is permeated by no odor which exudes therefrom and penetrates inanimate objects. No, cried Christine hysterically, but mine is. Then to the surprise and consternation of the four men she hid her face in her hands and began to cry, and Mr. Redmond hastily left the room. Molly, she sobbed, I want Molly. She wants Molly, said Mr. Grimes, as though Molly were a stick of candy. Yes, of course, Byrd, she wants Molly. Senator Byrd laid his hand on her shoulder and spoke quietly. He understood the ways of girls. Don't cry, my dear, he said gently. You have told us everything we want to know and we are very much obliged to you. Is Molly your sister? I think Mr. Redmond has gone to fetch her. Of course, you are tired and nervous. It has been quite an ordeal, has it not? My daughter is about your age, and I hardly think she could have gone through it as bravely as you. But Christine continued to sob until the return of the Secretary, accompanied by her sister, who took her away while the three men turned their attention to the unhappy Marx, who passed a most miserable hour, but succeeded in convincing them he knew absolutely nothing more than he had related. When Mr. Grimes let himself into the hall of his house on Massachusetts Avenue, he executed a momentary posseul before hanging up his coat. River's, my friend, he remarked politely, I agree with you that all evidence in the roost-shoot case should be placed in the hands of the President. Late that evening the Secretary sat in Mrs. Redmond's dressing-room and told her the story of the recovered papers. He even drew them from his pocket and spread them out before her one by one, gazing at them with much of the devouring expression a mother bestows on a lost child. And she listened with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, following the narrative closely with little gasps of astonishment. I'm glad, she said. Oh, so glad, John! I should be better satisfied, he said, were it not for the complication about River's. Of course the papers changed hands again, but it's a strange case. Mrs. Redmond hesitated. I think, dear, she replied, that Mr. River's visited the octagon house himself. Then she told him the history of Isabelle's ring and added that she had that evening returned it to the girl who had announced her intention of giving it to her father to do with as he thought best. The Secretary sat a long time in silence, his wife's hand in his. Estelle, he said at last, you remember the old man you asked me to appoint as watchman. Saunders, I think his name was? The dark lashes quivered slightly. Yes, dear, she said, what of him? He died last night, said the Secretary, suicide they think, and Estelle. Well, dear? He was discovered by the police in the octagon house when they searched it this morning. It seems he was janitor there. I believe he might have thrown some light on the subject of Mr. Lee if we had only known. I gave directions that he be decently buried at my expense, as he was an employee of the department. But he had considerable money about him. Curious wasn't it.


Good afternoon Foundation staff, this is Dr. Theron Sherman. Before we begin today's briefing, I should warn you that this document contains mentions of mental illness. With that out of the way, let's begin. Item Number SCP-590 Object Class, Safe Special Containment Procedures SCP-590 is assigned to a regular SCP living space at Sector 7. There's to be one guard on duty at all times within said space to ensure 590 does not harm himself. SCP-590 is to be supplied with one television, which is to be used only in the broadcasting of children shows. At no time is SCP-590 allowed to leave Sector 7 for any reason. Subject is to be fed only the vitamin-laced protein gruel created for SCP-590. Anyone caught attempting to feed SCP-590 anything else will be demoted. SCP-590 is not to be handled without proper authorization. Note, SCP-590 is not to be named as anything other than 590. He is a tool to be used, not someone's friend, sibling, or child. Anyone found forming attachments to an SCP will be removed to a less people-intensive duty. Description SCP-590 appears to be a young male, approximately 16 years of age. The only benefit he receives from his powers is apparent longevity, as he is not aged since his arrival at the Foundation. Although in all aspects a normal teenager, when SCP-590 touches any other human, he heals all injuries and ailments, physical and mental they may have. As an odd side effect, SCP-590 receives the injuries upon himself, being subjected to all the pain and the aftermath. To elucidate, when healing a physical wound, SCP-590 not only feels the pain of receiving the wound, but gains scars relevant to where the wound was on the subject. When healing a cancer patient, the tumors materialize at varying places on his body, usually along his arms or legs. Any mental healing performed is transferred directly, resulting in SCP-590 gaining whatever mental aberration he was healing. Those wounds he receives from using his powers accumulate. SCP-590 is not capable of healing mental disorders caused by psionic induction, including those caused by certain mind-altering SCPs. In a*****, SCP-590 was better written and unable to leave his room due to accumulated injuries. In a*****, SCP-590 was put on life support, unable to even breathe on his own. Shortly after, he was given one dose of SCP-500, which brought him back to full health. At the instigation of Dr. Bright, SCP-590 was immediately induced to heal several cases of mental retardation. Due to this action, SCP-590 is permanently at the mental level of a 3-year-old child and is extremely tractable. SCP-590 is currently reserved for use on researchers and above, and your request for testing should go through Dr. F*****. Alright staff, that ends our broadcast. Use your Foundation encrypted YouTube account to like, comment, and subscribe, hit the bell, and support our broadcast at patreon.com slash site 42. Secure. Contain. Protect.