CHAPTER X

That night John Glenning sat alone in his office with a letter spread out on the table before him. Something had come to pass which he could not understand; which had plunged him in a maze of incredulity in spite of visual evidence. The letter had come that afternoon--had been forwarded to him from Jericho--and he had taken it from the post-office upon his return from his second visit to Dink Scribbens. The letter was dated and post-marked New York City, and read as follows:

"JOHN GLENNING, ESQ.,

"Jericho, Ky.

"Dear Sir--The death of our client, and your uncle, John Glenning, on the 14th inst., reveals the fact that one of his life insurance polices was executed with you as beneficiary. Proofs of his death having been properly forwarded to the company by us, we are this day in receipt of a draft for $2000, payable to your order. Find said draft enclosed. Please acknowledge receipt.

"Yours truly,

"BENNER & LOCKE, Attorneys."

This letter, with the draft beside it, lay upon his table in the light of a lamp none too clean. Letter and draft had been lying there for about an hour and a half, and a coatless, tumbled-haired, hunted-eyed man had been sitting in front of them for the same length of time, alternately fingering the thin piece of paper which represented two thousand dollars, and staring at the larger sheet, with its short, business-like message. Many men would have rejoiced wildly at this piece of good luck, and it may be told in a whisper here that few could have needed it worse than the one to whom it had come. But it had a quieting and peculiar effect upon the new doctor. Parents he had none. An older married sister lived in Missouri. He had fought pretty hard since he was sixteen, hugging honour and truth to his heart as priceless possessions in the great struggle before him. He did not come of wealthy folks, nor even well-to-do. They were poor, but were people of quality. Misfortune came, such as may come to the best, and so the death of each parent was hastened. Yes, he had an uncle John. He was named for this relative. He had seen him only once or twice in his life. He had heard his father speak of him as a crotchety, peculiar person, who all his life long did the most unexpected things. He lived in New York, but had never married, and never amassed money. This freak he exhibited in privately taking out life insurance in favour of his namesake was characteristic. Possibly that accounted for it--the name. John didn't know. He had never seen this uncle since he had been grown. Once he was tempted to write to him and ask him to give help in getting him (John) through college, but he had refrained from writing this letter. He had, instead, written one telling of his struggles, and how he knew he would get through. To this he received no reply of any kind. So John had put this strange relative out of his mind, and had scarcely given him a thought in years. And now, behold how he had misjudged him! The proof of his love for his brother's child was here, silent, but convincing.

How good it was to take this first upward step towards independence! With a balance like this in the Macon National Bank the people would have greater respect for him; practice would come if he was diligent and attentive, and--Suddenly his eyes set, and an undefinable look settled upon his face. At first it seemed dismay, unbelief, then through varying gradations of emotion the changing features passed until firm resolve was fixed upon them, mingled with an expression of acute happiness which was almost painful. Then he got up, the first time in two hours, slipped the edge of a book over the precious draft as a weight, and crossing his arms on his chest fell to walking up and down. A smile had crept to his sensitive lips, and a musing, tender gleam to his eyes. It was plain his thoughts sat well with him. Up and down, with measured tread he walked, minute after minute. He was laying a plan, and if it involved deception it evidently did not disturb his conscience. When he at length resumed his chair, put his elbows on the table edge, and ran the long fingers of each hand through the hair above his ears, he appeared nearer absolute content than at any time since he had come to Macon.

The night was hot, the lamp almost touching him was hotter, but he did not know it. He did not know that perspiration was streaming from his forehead, and that the backs of his hands were beaded with moisture. It was no time for such small physical concerns. He was lifted up. He was above such trivial things as heat and cold, hunger and thirst. He had known in that hour the first sweet joy-pangs of sacrifice! The way was not all clear; only the beginning was plain. But he would light the entire road by the might of his will, if it took till morning. He had accomplished tasks of lesser import by setting his head to them; this paramount problem he would make his own. He did not hear the passing on the street, though both his windows were up as high as they could go. But when a tolerably heavy step began to ascend the stair he looked up almost with a scowl. He didn't want any callers that night. It was one night in his life when he wanted to be let alone. If some one was sick--there were other doctors! At any other time he would have welcomed the approach of a possible patient, but now his whole being rebelled against the leisurely oncomer. Would he never get up the steps! Another moment young Dillard came dragging into the room with his hands in his pockets, glanced about for a chair, and finding none, perched his bulk upon the end of the table, and sighed. John rose and shoved the chair towards him viciously.

"Sit down!" he growled.

"Damn if somethin' ain't got to be done!" was the rather peculiar response, and Dillard looked almost scared when he said it, for it is doubtful if he ever swore before in his life.

"What's the matter?" queried John, quelling his choler as he suddenly realized that his visitor was the only person in town who might be able to assist him in the work he had mapped out for that night.

"Matter! Don't you know that both Major and Miss Julia'll be dead in four weeks unless we can put our heads together to some purpose? I was out there today, between twelve and one, and I found her sittin' on the front steps huddled over that _Herald_ like a bird with a broken wing. She'd just read what that--that _devil_ had done, and she was crushed, man, literally crushed!"

Dillard's voice rose with his anger, and he slid to his feet, his blue eyes blinking and blazing, and his round fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Glenning, in striking contrast, stood disheveled by the lamp, the angles of his face strongly outlined and his hair falling over his forehead. One hand rested on the table, the other lightly on his hip.

"It was a terrible sight, doctor--a terrible sight! I shan't forget it if I live to be a thousand. There she was, a girl, alone, for she told me the Major was sick and she couldn't tell him. Alone, I say, to bear unaided this villain's hellish blow. Innocent, mistreated, helpless, but brave! We've _got_ to do it, doctor, you and I; we've _got_ to find a way--do you hear?"

Almost beside himself with love and rage, Dillard strode up and shook his fist in his new friend's face, forgetting, no doubt, that Glenning shared his views.

"Yes, we've got to find a way, Dillard," repeated John, in even tones, and he looked down at the table where the papers lay.

"Then how, _how_, I say?" demanded his caller, furiously. "It's got to be done quickly--at once! Major hasn't ten dollars in bank, and Marston's positive orders are he shan't overdraw!"

"No, he shan't overdraw," again repeated John, and his gaze was still downcast.

"Then how in hell are you goin' to manage it?"

Dillard's religious training was slipping away in the stress of the moment.

John went into his reception room and came back with another chair. This he placed on the other side of the table and occupied, motioning his friend to draw up to the spot where he had formerly sat. When Dillard, fuming and wrathful, had done so, he again fired the query:

"How are you goin' to do it?"

"This way," answered John, and he quietly picked up the draft and laid it between Dillard's hands.

The bank clerk's fingers closed upon the paper, and when he had read the wording on its face, simple amazement and a total lack of comprehension was reflected from his flushed countenance.

"What's this got to do with it?" he asked, almost petulantly. "This is to you--this is your money."

"It's my money tonight. The question is, how can we make it Major Dudley's money without them, or anyone else, suspecting anything?"

Tom's mouth came open, and he lifted baffled eyes to the face before him.

"You mean--this money--what _do_ you mean, anyway, doctor?"

Glenning merely repeated his last speech, enunciating it more clearly.

Dillard sank back in his chair, a nerveless mass.

"You mean you're goin' to _give_ them this money!" he gasped; "this little fortune!"

John's arm shot out across the table, and his slim fingers twined about the soft hand which lay there, inert.

"See here, Tom Dillard!" he said, earnestly. "You say you are a friend to these people. I believe you, or I'd never have taken you into my confidence. I'm their friend, too, and Fate has said that I shall be the one to bring relief to them in their present predicament. Promise me to work with me, now, to the perfecting of some plan, and to keep all this a secret to your dying day! Promise, boy, and then we'll plot!"

"Yes, I promise!" replied Dillard, in an awed voice. "But are you sick, or crazy, or--"

"Neither. I've nothing. Let that alone. It has nothing to do with this."

A dull flush was on the speaker's face.

"Then--" began Dillard, but he stopped, reddened, and glanced aside. In that moment jealousy was added to his other worries. He had never supposed for an instant that Doctor Glenning was in love with Julia Dudley. The idea was silly, for their acquaintance had been limited to a few days. But what did this mean? His mind was not preternaturally acute; in fact, he was rather dull than bright, but a simpleton would have cause to suspect something when a man, himself almost penniless, was willing to sacrifice a considerable sum of money in order that a destitute old man and his lovely daughter should not suffer humiliation and hunger. It was possible for this act to be one of pure philanthropy, but even Dillard's slow-moving intellect could not see it in that light. It simply meant that another man had found and appreciated this sheltered flower of womanhood that he had watched grow, and bud, and bloom, and that she had aroused in this other man a passion akin to his own. These thoughts traveled with unusual rapidity through Dillard's brain, the while his companion sat with head thrust forward, watching him.

"Then--what?" queried Glenning. "What were you going to say?"

"What are you doing this for?"

"What would _you_ do it for, if you could?"

"Friendship for the family," was the somewhat sullen reply.

"Friendship fiddlesticks!" retorted John. "You'd do it for no such reason, but for that sweet girl-woman in distress!"

He brought his fist down on the table as he said this so that the lamp jumped and the blaze shot up the chimney, and glared defiance at the man across from him.

Dillard's heart seemed trying to pump the blood through his skin, but he only looked at John as though he had been addressed in Arabic or Chinese.

"There's no use side-tracking the truth," resumed Glenning. "We've agreed to work together in a common cause, and do it as friends who trust each other. There can be no good work nor full trust where there is concealment. I know you love Miss Dudley--why shouldn't you! So own up, and let's get to business!"

"I've loved her for six years!" Dillard said, the words struggling through a tight throat. "But I've never told anyone before, not even her. I'd give ten years from the other end of my life to have this check, instead of you! I've told you the truth; you do the same," he added, with a sort of eagerness mixed with dread.

"That's fair. This is the truth. I've never met a more lovely character or beautiful face in a woman. I've been drawn towards her strongly--so strongly--almost irresistibly. It must be the rare and indefinable charm of her personality; her pure, sweet, unsullied nature. She is entirely unlike any other woman I have ever known." A shadow of pain came and went from his mouth unobserved by the one to whom he was talking. "You want to know if I love her, and I tell you truly, Tom Dillard, so help me God, I don't know! But I'll say this in all candour: were it not for her I'd never turn this money over to Major Dudley. Now you may think me a liar if you wish, but that is as near the truth as I can come tonight. Now we find ourselves back to the business in hand. A mutual exchange of confidence is good. I really fear I am drifting on the shoals, old fellow, but I'm not near enough to them to declare it positively. Are you satisfied?"

A grayish pallor had settled on Dillard's face as John talked.

"If you go in it's all up with me," he said, despondently. "But we'll play fair."

The eyes which he lifted were honest and straightforward.

"You're a man, Dillard; shake hands!" said John.

They did, in a firm grasp.

"Now to business," resumed the speaker, producing a black briar pipe and filling it slowly from a "hand" of natural leaf which lay on the top of his desk. "You're a banker, Dillard. How's a fellow to transfer money to another fellow and not let the other fellow nor anyone else in the world know anything about it?" The round face before him broke into a smile, at the same time becoming thinly veiled by the smoke of a light cigar.

"That takes me back to school," he answered. "It sounds exactly like one of those puzzle problems in arithmetic which I used to sweat and groan over. It's about as hard, too, don't you think?"

"Harder, by far. It seems impossible on the face of it, but it must be done. You're the banker; you can't expect me to teach you your business. I'll give you half an hour to solve it. In the meantime I'll be thinking, too, just for mind culture."

"You'd better think of something closer to hand, for I'll never unriddle it."

"Not another word for half an hour!" commanded John, placing his open watch upon the table between them. "We'll pass this night in silence periods of thirty minutes duration each, then have five minutes recess after each, unless one or the other has solved the great question. It is now ten-thirty. Aren't you sorry you came in?--To work!"

He tilted his chair, elevated his heels to the other end of the table, let the long-stemmed pipe sink between his two hands, and lapsed into a meditative silence.

Dillard kept his feet on the floor, probably because of his extra amount of flesh, and likewise endeavoured to think. Just as the first half hour was up the figment of a tenable plan floated into Glenning's brain.

"How goes it?" he asked, squinting across at the placid face of his friend.

"Slow. You're right; it's worse than arithmetic."

"I've started," announced John, quietly elated. "Give me another thirty minutes, and I believe I can let you go home."

"Proceed," was the laconic reply, and again silence.

Glenning, searching desperately about in his mind, had really hit upon an entirely feasible way to carry out his idea. The project quickly developed as he brought his brain into active service, and long before the time he had asked for had expired, it was all clear, and ready to his hand.

"There's no use wasting further time in reflection, my boy," said John, suddenly lowering his feet and swinging around. "Listen, and I'll a tale unfold."

"I'm listening. You're a wonder if you've got it straight."

"There's not a hitch in the whole thing. Here's my plan. I can't write my name on the back of this piece of paper, walk in your bank and request the teller to place it to the credit of Major Dudley. That would cause comment, and Major Dudley would naturally and rightly refuse to touch a cent of it. And I would be in bad odour with them and the community. My plan is to make Major Dudley deposit this money himself."

He stopped for a moment to enjoy the look of undisguised curiosity and blank amazement on Dillard's face.

"Now I know something of the family history, in spite of the fact that I have but recently become a citizen of the town. There was a brother, you perhaps know this also, who went west many years ago, and disappeared soon after. They suppose he died long ago, and very likely he did, but for our purposes we will say he died last week. He was on his way back to Kentucky, to see his brother once more in the flesh. He reached St. Louis, and was taken ill. His sickness assumed a malignant turn, and he realized that he must die. He sent for a reliable lawyer, who happened to be my college friend and chum, Will Porter. While not attaining riches, this brother, Arthur Dudley, had something over two thousand dollars in cash with him. The surplus was enough for his board, doctor bill, lawyer fee and burial expenses, and he had Porter purchase a draft with the two thousand left, payable to his brother in Kentucky. This draft Porter forwarded to Major Dudley, with a brief letter explaining all the circumstances. Now if you don't think I'm a first-class rascal with a long head for schemes I don't know why. Can you find a flaw in this skein of base duplicity?"

Dillard rose to his feet and slowly shook his head.

"You're a marvel. You've got it. When are you going to do this?"

"Tonight. Now. We'll have to explain the whole thing to Porter, but he's true as steel, and will do his part without fail. Two days for my letter to go to St. Louis; two for his to get back. Major and Miss Dudley will be relieved of their financial embarrassment the fourth day from tomorrow!"

John took a pen and endorsed the draft to the order of his western friend in a firm, bold hand, free from flourishes.

Ten minutes later Dillard was gone, and by the light of a smoky lamp a man sat driving a pen frantically across sheet after sheet of paper. He had to make things plain, or Porter would think his mind had gone wrong. He wrote feverishly, and soon the message was done, sealed and addressed, with the draft inside. He looked at the envelope for several moments fixedly, then suddenly he sighed, cast his arms across the table and let his face fall in them, his laced fingers writhing and an inarticulate prayer falling from his lips. The old phantom had returned, even as he wrote--that dread night visitant which had robbed him of so many hours of sleep, and planted gray streaks about his temples. It came tonight with its eyes of languor and its scented hair and its smile of temptation--to drag him back! Its power was awful; its presence so real. Would not his present act be some expiation for his past weakness? Would it not serve to help banish this haunting vision which still sought to claim him?