Chapter 23

“What can I do then, Miss Allis? But why shouldn't he?”

“Can't you see--don't you understand the man? He commenced by shielding some one, and he will carry it through to the bitter end.”

“I am afraid there was no one to shield but himself--everything points to this conclusion. The money was locked up, he had the keys, no one touched them--except your brother, and that but for a minute--but if any suspicion could attach to your brother it is all dissipated by Mortimer's subsequent actions. It's unpleasant to even hint at such a contingency, but if Mortimer is innocent, then your brother must be the guilty one.”

He expected the girl to denounce indignantly such a possibility; he was surprised that she remained silent. Her non-refutation of this deduction told him as conclusively as though she had uttered the accusation that she thought Alan had taken the money and Mortimer was shielding him. It was but a phase of blind love; it was the faith women place in men they love, of which he had read and scoffed at.

Against all evidence she was holding this man honest, believing her brother the thief.

Surely a love like that was worth winning; no price was too great to pay. Her very faith in Mortimer, through which she sought to save him by inspiring Crane, determined the latter to crush utterly the man who stood between him and this great love. Intensity of hate, or love, or cupidity, never drew Crane out of his inherent diplomacy; he took refuge behind the brother of Allis.

“You see,” he said, and his voice was modulated with kindness, “I can't save Mortimer except at the expense of Alan; you would not have me do that. Besides, it is impossible--the evidence shines as clear as noonday.”

“If you bring this home to Mr. Mortimer you will punish him, arrest him?”

“That would be the usual course.”

She had taken her hand off his arm; now she replaced it, and he could feel the strong fingers press as though she would hold him to her wishes.

“You will not do this,” she said, “for my sake you will not.”

“You ask this of me, and it is for your sake?”

“Yes, if there is no other way; if Mr. Mortimer, innocent, must take upon himself this crime, then for my sake you will not punish him.”

The gray eyes were violet-black in their intensity.

“If I promise--” He had been going to ask for reward, but she broke in, saying: “You will keep your word, and I will bless you.”

“Nothing more--is that all?”

The magnetism of the intense eyes broke down his reserve; he slipped back twenty years in a second. Love touched him with a fire-wand, and his soul ignited. Cold, passionless Philip Crane spoke in a tongue, unfamiliar as it was to him, that carried conviction to the girl--just the conviction that he was in earnest, that he was possessed of a humanizing love. She listened patiently while he pleaded his cause with much mastery. It was beyond her understanding, that, though Mortimer through all time had spoken not at all of love to her--at least not in the passionate words that came from this man's lips--yet she now heard as though it were his voice and not Crane's. Love was a glorious thing--with Mortimer.

Crane's intensity availed nothing. When he asked why she held faith to a man who must be known for all time as a thief, her soul answered, “It is nothing--because he is innocent.”

Because of her Crane would do anything; the matter should be dropped as though it were all a hideous mistake. Mortimer might remain in the bank; his employer would even try to believe him innocent, taking the girl's protestation m conclusive proof. Her mother, her father, everyone would demand of her, however, that she give the dishonest one up as a possibility. Even in his vehemence he lost no delicacy of touch. Why should she chain herself to an impossibility? It would but ruin the man she professed to regard.

The banker made no threat, but Allis shuddered. She knew. The narrow-lidded eyes had closed perceptibly when their owner talked of the alternative. He, Crane, loved her--she felt that was true. He was rich; for her father, for her brother, for herself, even for Mortimer, he would use his wealth. He pleaded his cause like a strong man, and when he spoke of failure because of her preference for Mortimer, an acridity crept into his voice that meant relentless prosecution.

She could not hold this full power over Crane without feeling its value. To pledge herself to him as wife was impossible; she could not do it; she would not. Fate played into his hands without doubt, but Fate was not Providence. A decree of this sort, iniquitous, was not a higher command, else she would not feel utter abhorrence of the alliance. Paradoxically the more vehemently Crane's love obtruded itself the more obnoxious it became; it was something quite distinct from the man's own personality. She did not detest him individually, for the honesty of his love impressed her; mentally she separated Crane from his affection, anal while rejecting his love absolutely as a compelling factor, appealed to him as a man having regard for her, a woman he believed in.

It was a most delicate cleavage, yet unerringly she attained to its utmost point of discrimination. Perhaps it was the strength of her love for Mortimer that enabled her to view so calmly this passionate declaration. A year before, unsophisticated as she had been, it would have thrown her into an agitated confusion, but she was developing rapidly; responsibility had tempered fine the great will power which was hers in such a marked degree.

“I am sorry, Mr. Crane,” she began, conventionally enough, “I am, sorry; I couldn't marry a man without loving him. What you have just told me must win regard for you, because I know that you feel strongly, and I think any woman should take an offer of honest love as the greatest of all compliments.”

“But I don't even ask for your love now,” he interrupted.

“Ah, but you should. You shouldn't marry a woman unless she loves you. At any rate I feel that way about it. Of course, if there were a chance of my coming to care for you in that way we could wait, but it would be deceiving you to give hope.”

“Is it because you care for--Mortimer?” he asked.

“I think it is. I suppose if I am to help him I must be quite honest with you. I do not want to talk about it--it seems too sacred. I have even spoken less to Mr. Mortimer of love,” she added, with a painful attempt at a smile. “You have said that you care for me, Mr. Crane, and I believe you; you have been generous to my father, also. Now won't you promise me something, just for the sake of this regard? I suppose it is impossible to prove Mr. Mortimer's innocence”--she felt her own helplessness, and who else could or would care to accomplish it “but it is in your power to lessen the evil. Won't you take my word that he is innocent and stop everything? As you say, either he or Alan must be suspected, and if it were brought home to my brother it would crush me, and my mother and father.”

“What can I do?--”

“Just nothing. I know Mr. Mortimer has determined to accept the disgrace, and he will go away. You can make his load as light as possible, for my sake.”

The small hand on his arm was drawing him to acquiesence. He did not answer at once, but sat moodily diagnosing his position. If he refused and prosecuted Mortimer, the girl, more determined than many men, would change from a state of possibility, from simply not loving him, to a vigorous hate. If he hushed the matter up Mortimer would go away under a cloud, and his removal from the presence of Allis might effect a change in her regard. He would accelerate this wished-for elision of love by procuring absolutely indisputable proof of Mortimer's dishonesty. He saw his opening to that end; he could do it under the guise of clearing the innocent one of the suspected two; for Allis alone this would be. To him there was not the slightest ground for supposing Alan had taken the money, but blinded by her love, evidently Allis thought Mortimer was shielding her brother. Though it was to Crane's best interests, he pretended to consent out of pure chivalry. “What you ask,” he said, “is very little; I would do a thousand times more for you. There is nothing you could ask of me that would not give me more pleasure than anything else in my barren life. But I could not bear to see you wedded to Mortimer; he is not worthy--you are too good for him. I don't say this because he is more fortunate, but I love you and want to see you happy.”

The girl was like a slim poplar. The strong wind of Crane's clever pleading and seeming generosity swayed her from her rigid attitude only to spring back again, to stand straight and beautiful, true to her love and faith in Mortimer.

“You are kind to me,” she said, simply; “I wish I could repay you.”

“Perhaps some day I may get a reward out of all proportion to this small service.”

She looked fair into his eyes, and on her lips hovered a weak, plaintive, wistful smile, as though she were wishing he could accept the inevitable and take her regard, her gratitude, her good opinion of him and not wed himself to a chimera which would bring only weariness of spirit in return for his goodness.

“You will be repaid some day,” she answered, “for I feel that Mr. Mortimer's name will be cleared, and you will be glad that you acted generously.”

“Well, this will give him a better chance,” he said, evasively; “it's not good to crush a man when he's down. I will see that no one connected with the bank shows him the slightest disrespect. Of course he'll have to go, he couldn't remain under the circumstances--he wouldn't.”

The horse had jogged slowly. Allis had purposely allowed the old Bay to take his time. Unused to such a tolerance he had scandalously abused the privilege; once or twice he had even cast longing glances at a succulent bunch of grass growing by the roadside, as though it were a pure waste of opportunity to neglect the delicacy for work when he had to do with such indifferent overseers. But now Ringwood was in sight, and there was still the matter of the money that had been paid on her father's note to speak of. She asked Crane where it had come from.

“You won it over Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap,” he answered, bluntly.

“You won it,” she corrected him; “I refused to accept it.”

“I remember that eccentricity,” he replied. “I'm a busy man, and having the money thrown back on my hands, as it was not mine, caused me considerable inconvenience. I deposited three thousand of it against the note to save both your father and myself needless worry. There are still some hundreds due you, and I wish you would please tell me what I am to do with it.”

“I'd rather pay you back the three thousand now.”

“I can't accept it. I have enough money of my own to worry along on.”

“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. When father gets stronger he must settle it.”

They had turned into the drive to Ringwood House.

“We are home now,” she added, “and I want to say again that I'll never forget your kind promise. I know you will not repent of your goodness.”

Mrs. Porter saw Allis and Crane together in the buggy; it pleased the good woman vastly. Allis's success with Lauzanne had taken a load from her spirits. She was not mercenary, but there had been so much at stake. Now in one day Providence had averted disaster, and she had awakened from a terrible nightmare of debt. The sunshine of success had warmed her husband's being into hopeful activity, a brightness was over his spirits that had not been there for months. It was like an augury of completed desire that Crane should come the day of their good fortune with Allis. If she would but marry him there would be little left to worry about. So it was that Crane, perplexed by his recent love check, and Allis, mired in gloom over her hero's misfortune, stepped into a radiancy of exotic cheerfulness.

The girl bravely sought to shake off her gloom, chiding her heavy heart for its unfilial lack of response. Crane, accustomed to mental athletics, tutored his mind into a seeming exuberance, and playfully alluded to his own defeat at the hands of Allis and the erratic Lausanne. There was no word of the bank episode, nothing but a paean of victory.

Crane's statement to Allis that he was going out to Ringwood to see her father was only an excuse. He soon took his departure, a stableboy driving him back to the village. There he had a talk with the cashier. Mortimer was to be asked to resign his position as soon as his place in the bank could be filled. No further prosecution was to be taken against him unless Crane decided upon such a course, “In the meantime you can investigate cautiously,” he said, “and keep quite to yourself any new evidence that may turn up. So far as Mr. Mortimer is concerned, the matter is quite closed.”

The cashier had always considered his employer a hard man, and, in truth, who hadn't? He could scarcely understand this leniency; he had expected a vigorous prosecution of Mortimer; had almost dreaded its severity. Personally he had no taste for it; still, he would feel insecure if the suspected man, undeniably guilty, were to remain permanently in the bank. His dismissal from the staff was a wise move, tempered by unexpected clemency. If there were not something behind it all--this contingency always attached itself to Crane's acts--his employer had acted with fine, wise discrimination.

XLII

Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of the busy wheels beneath his coach.

This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned to account. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence the gain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home to the accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, else the girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. In addition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matter to its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anything to conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain of preparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would be but a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with the elements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled by her infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother.

The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyond dispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he been possessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation, but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollar note thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, The Dutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware that Alan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospect of winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken it for this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would have taken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to some bookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note. The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutive numbers, B 67,482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at the time; it was the middle one, B 67,483, that was missing. So he had a possible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentally he followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew of his winnings over Lauzanne.

Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse, had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him, and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed two horses in the same race--had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one to cover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. He would either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand to cover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note if possible. Faust would be the man for this commission.

Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust, asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of the Brooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said, “I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67,483. I think it was betted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse.”

Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. “I didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race,” he said.

“What are those flgures,” asked the other, pointing to two consecutive numbers of one thousand each.

“That was the other way about,” answered the Bookmaker; “that was pay. A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know 'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years.”

The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, appealed to Crane's fancy. “You remember the man who made this bet, then?” he asked.

“Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin' the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen first-time luck with him, for he cashed.”

“Can you describe him?”

The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's operations was working out.

“Now find this thousand-dollar note for me,” he said; “take trouble over it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to me.”

“There may be a chance,” commented Faust, scratching his fat poll meditatively; “the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer it.”

The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued note in his possession. He had been successful. “I give a dozen of 'em a turn,” he said, “before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money.”

“Does he know who bet it?”

“Not his name--some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says.”

Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed getting hot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. He had expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; his fortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal he sought.

“I'm much obliged to you,” he said to Faust. “I won't trouble you further; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address.”

That evening the Banker saw Farrell. “There was a little crooked work over that thousand Faust got from you,” he said, “an' if you could find time to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you could identify the guilty party.”

“I can go with you,” Farrell answered, “but it's just a chance in a thousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell you the truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out a bit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em next week. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane.”

In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield.

“I won't go to the bank with you,” Crane said; “I wish you would go in alone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if the man you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel.”

In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell.

“Well?” he asked.

“He's there, right enough.”

“A short dark little chap?” questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting Alan Porter forward as a feeler.

“No. A tall fellow with a mustache.”

“You are sure?”

“Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother.”

Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence that would satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration over the discovery--he had been so sure before--yet his hand was strengthened vastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this must convince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. There was also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of his sister's suspicion.

How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come up in its own proper place at the right time, no doubt.

“We can go back now,” he said to Farrell; “we may as well walk leisurely to the station; we can get a train”--he pulled out his watch--“in twenty minutes.”

Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself--plan his course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis Porter.

As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting.

Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane. His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both.

“You understand,” he said, quite simply, “that Alan is like a brother--” he was going to say “son,” but it struck him as being unadvisable, it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified Mortimer as the man who had betted the money.

“It clears Alan,” he said, seeking furtively for a look into the drooping face.

The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying.

“I'm sorry,” he offered as atonement. “Perhaps I shouldn't have told you; it's too brutal.”

The head drooped still lower.

“I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness that has taught me to love you.”

“Don't,” she pleaded; “I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see--can't you understand?”

“Yes, I know--you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his trust in the bank. You must consider yourself--you must give him up; you can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from the penitentiary because of your influence.”