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  _The_

  VAGRANT DUKE




  BY GEORGE GIBBS

  The Vagrant Duke
  The Splendid Outcast
  The Black Stone
  The Golden Bough
  The Secret Witness
  Paradise Garden
  The Yellow Dove
  The Flaming Sword
  Madcap
  The Silent Battle
  The Maker of Opportunities
  The Forbidden Way
  The Bolted Door
  Tony's Wife
  The Medusa Emerald

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  Publishers     New York

[Illustration: PETER STRUCK HIM FULL ON THE HEAD]




  _The_
  VAGRANT DUKE




  BY

  GEORGE GIBBS

  AUTHOR OF "THE SPLENDID OUTCAST," "THE YELLOW DOVE,"
  "THE SECRET WITNESS," ETC.




  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  NEW YORK        LONDON
  1921




  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  Copyright, 1920, by The Story Press Corporation
  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                      PAGE

           PROLOGUE                               1

       I   INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS             15

      II   NEW YORK                              27

     III   THE OVERALL GIRL                      42

      IV   THE JOB                               56

       V   NEW ELEMENTS                          71

      VI   THE HOUSE OF TERROR                   88

     VII   MUSIC                                105

    VIII   THE PLACARD                          121

      IX   SHAD IS UNPLEASANT                   137

       X   "HAWK"                               153

      XI   ANCIENT HISTORY                      170

     XII   CONFESSION                           186

    XIII   THE CHASE                            207

     XIV   TWO LETTERS                          226

      XV   SUPERMAN                             236

     XVI   IDENTIFICATION                       253

    XVII   PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR          266

   XVIII   FACE TO FACE                         276

     XIX   YAKIMOV REVEALS HIMSELF              291

      XX   THE RUSSIAN PAYS                     308

     XXI   THE INFERNO                          326

    XXII   RETRIBUTION                          343

   XXIII   A VISITOR                            357




  _The_
  VAGRANT DUKE




THE VAGRANT DUKE

_PROLOGUE_


_At the piano a man sat playing the "Revolutionary Étude" of Chopin. The
room was magnificent in its proportions, its furnishings were massive,
its paneled oak walls were hung with portraits of men and women in the
costumes of a bygone day. Through the lofty windows, the casements of
which were open to the evening sky there was a vista of forest and
meadow-land stretching interminably to the setting sun. The mosquelike
cupola of a village church, a few versts distant, glimmered like a pearl
in the dusky setting of wooded hills, and close by it, here and there,
tiny spirals of opalescent smoke marked the dwellings of Zukovo
village._

_But the man at the piano was detached, a being apart from this scene of
quiet, absorbed in his piano, which gave forth the turbulence which had
been in the soul of the great composer. The expression upon the dark
face of the young musician was rapt and eager, until he crashed the
chords to their triumphant conclusion when he sank back in his chair
with a gasp, his head bent forward upon his breast, his dark gaze fixed
upon the keys which still echoed with the tumult._

_It was at this moment that a door at the side of the room was opened
and a white-haired man in purple livery entered and stood in silence
regarding rather wistfully the man at the piano, who raised his head
abruptly like one startled from a dream._

_"What is it, Vasili?" asked the musician._

_The servant approached softly a few steps._

_"I did not wish to intrude, Highness, but----"_

_As the old servant hesitated, the young man shrugged and rose,
disclosing a tall, straight figure, clad in a dark blue blouse, loose
trousers and brown boots liberally bespattered with mud. The glow of the
sun which shot across his face as he came forward into the light, showed
swarthy features, level brows, a straight nose, a well turned chin, a
small mustache and a generous mouth which revealed a capacity for humor.
He was quite calm now, and the tones of his voice were almost boyish in
their confidence and gayety._

_"Well, what is it, Vasili?" he repeated. "You have the air of one with
much on your conscience. Out with it. Has Sacha been fighting with you
again?"_

_"No, Master, not Sacha," said the old man clearing his throat
nervously, "it is something worse--much worse than Sacha."_

_"Impossible!" said the other with a laugh as he took up a cigarette
from the table. "Nothing could be worse than a Russian cook when she
gets into a rage----"_

_"But it is, Master--something worse--much worse----"_

_"Really! You alarm me." The Grand Duke threw himself into an armchair
and inhaled luxuriously of his cigarette. And then with a shrug,
"Well?"_

_The old man came a pace or two nearer muttering hoarsely, "They've
broken out in the village again," he gasped._

_The Grand Duke's brow contracted suddenly._

_"H-m. When did this happen?"_

_"Last night. And this morning they burned the stables of Prince
Galitzin and looted the castle."_

_The young man sprang to his feet._

_"You are sure of this?"_

_"Yes, Master. The word was brought by Serge Andriev less than ten
minutes ago."_

_He took a few rapid paces up and down the room, stopping by the open
window and staring out._

_"Fools!" he muttered to himself. Then turning to the old servitor,
"But, Vasili--why is it that I have heard nothing of this? To-day
Conrad, the forester, said nothing to me. And the day before yesterday
in the village the people swept off their caps to me--as in the old
days. I could have sworn everything would be peaceful at Zukovo--at
least, for the present----" he added as though in an afterthought._

_"I pray God that may be true," muttered Vasili uncertainly. And then
with unction, "In their hearts, they still love you, Highness. They are
children--your children, their hearts still full of reverence for the
Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch in whom runs the same blood as that which
ran in the sacred being of the Little Father--but their brains! They are
drunk with the poison poured into their minds by the Committeemen from
Moscow."_

_"Ah," eagerly, "they returned?"_

_"Last night," replied the old man wagging his head. "And your people
forgot all that you had said to them--all that they owe to you. They are
mad," he finished despairingly, "mad!"_

_The Grand Duke had folded his arms and was staring out of the window
toward the white dome of the church now dyed red like a globule of blood
in the sunset._

_The old man watched him for a moment, all the fealty of his many years
of service in his gaze and attitude._

_"I do not like the look of things, Highness. What does it matter how
good their hearts are if their brains are bad?"_

_"I must go and talk with them, Vasili," said the Grand Duke quietly._

_The old man took a step forward._

_"If I might make so free----"_

_"Speak----"_

_"Not to-night, Master----"_

_"Why not?"_

_"It will be dangerous. Last night their voices were raised even against
you."_

_"Me! Why? Have I not done everything I could to help them? I am their
friend--because I believe in their cause: and they will get their rights
too but not by burning and looting----"_

_"And murder, Master. Two of Prince Galitzin's foresters were killed."_

_The Grand Duke turned. "That's bad. Murder in Zukovo!" He flicked his
extinguished cigarette out of the window and made a gesture with his
hand._

_"Go, Vasili. I want to think. I will ring if I need you."_

_"You will not go to Zukovo to-night?"_

_"I don't know."_

_And with another gesture he waved the servant away._

_When Vasili had gone, the Grand Duke sat, his legs across the chair by
the window, his arms folded along its back while his dark eyes peered
out, beyond the hills and forests, beyond the reddened dome of the
village church into the past where his magnificent father Nicholas
Petrovitch held feudal sway over all the land within his vision and his
father's fathers from the time of his own great namesake held all Russia
in the hollow of their hands._

_The Grand Duke's eyes were hard and bright above the slightly prominent
cheek bones, the vestiges of his Oriental origin, but there was
something of his English mother too in the contours of his chin and
lips, which tempered the hardness of his expression. The lines at his
brows were not the savage marks of anger, or the vengefulness that had
characterized the pitiless blood which ran in his veins, but rather were
they lines of disappointment, of perplexity at the problem that
confronted him, and pity for his people who did not know where to turn
for guidance. He still believed them to be his people, a heritage from
his lordly parent, his children, who were responsible to him and to whom
he was responsible. It was a habit of thought, inalienable, the product
of the ages. But it was the calm philosophy of his English mother that
had first given him his real sense of obligation to them, her teachings,
even before the war began, that had shown him how terrible were the
problems that confronted his future._

_His service in the Army had opened his eyes still wider and when Russia
had deserted her allies he had returned to Zukovo to begin the work of
reconstruction in the ways his awakened conscience had dictated. He had
visited their homes, offered them counsel, given them such money as he
could spare, and had, he thought, become their friend as well as their
hereditary guardian. All had gone well at first. They had listened to
him, accepted his advice and his money and renewed their fealty under
the new order of things, vowing that whatever happened elsewhere in
Russia, blood and agony and starvation should not visit Zukovo._

_But the news that Vasili brought was disquieting. It meant that the
minds of his people were again disturbed. And the fact that Prince
Galitzin had always been hated made the problems the Grand Duke faced
none the less difficult. For his people had burned, pillaged and killed.
They had betrayed him. And he had learned in the Army what fire and the
smell of blood could do...._

_With a quick nod of resolution he rose. He would go to them. He knew
their leaders. They would listen to him. They_ must _listen...._

_He closed the piano carefully, putting away the loose sheets of music,
picked up his cap and heavy riding crop from the divan, on his way to
the door, pausing, his hand on the bell-rope as a thought brought a
deeper frown to his brow.... Why had Conrad Grabar, his chief forester,
said nothing to-day? He must have known--for news such as this travels
from leaf to leaf through the forest. Conrad! And yet he would have
sworn by the faithfulness of his old friend and hunting companion.
Perhaps Conrad had not known...._

_The Grand Duke pulled the bell-rope, then went to the window again and
stood as though listening for the voices of the woods. Silence. The sun
had sunk, a dull red ball, and the dusk was falling swiftly. The aspens
below his window quivered slightly, throwing their white leaves upwards
as though in pain. The stately pines that he loved, mute, solemn,
changeless, filled the air with balsam, but they gave no answer to his
problem. It was difficult to believe that, there, in the restless souls
of men war could rage. And yet...._

_He peered out more intently. Beyond the pine forest, a murky cloud was
rising. A storm? Hardly. For the sun had set in a clear sky. But there
was a cloud surely, growing in darkness and intensity. He could see it
more clearly now, billowing upward in grim portent._

_The Grand Duke started and then stared again. The cloud was of smoke.
Through the woods, tiny lights were sparkling, picked out with ominous
brilliancy against the velvet dusk. Peter Nicholaevitch leaned far out
of the window, straining his ears to listen. And now he seemed to hear
the crackle of flames, the distant sound of hoarse voices, shouting and
singing._

_And while he still listened, aware that a great crisis had come into
his life, there was a commotion just below him, the sound of voices
close at hand and he saw a man come running from the woods, approaching
the gateway of the Castle._

_He recognized him by the gray beard and thickset figure. It was Boris
Rylov, the Huntsman, and as he ran he shouted to some one in the
courtyard below. The Grand Duke made out the words:_

_"They're burning the Hunting Lodge--where is the Master----?"_

_Peter Nicholaevitch waited at the window no longer, but ran out of the
room and down the flight of stairs into the great hall below. For he
knew what had happened now. The Red Terror had come to Zukovo._

_He went out to the garden terrace, crossing quickly to the courtyard
where he met the frightened group of servants that had assembled._

_Boris, the Huntsman, much out of breath was waving his arms excitedly
toward the cloud of smoke rising above the pine trees, now tinged a
dirty orange color from beneath._

_"They came from all directions, Master," he gasped, "like the black
flies upon a dead horse--hundreds--thousands of them from the village
and all the country round. I talked with the first that came, Anton
Lensky, Gleb Saltykov, Michael Kuprin and Conrad Grabar----"_

_"Conrad----!" gasped the Grand Duke._

_"Yes, Highness," muttered Boris, his head bowed, "Conrad Grabar. They
tried to restrain me. Michael Kuprin I struck upon the head with a
stick--and then I fled--to warn your Highness--that they mean to come
hither."_

_The face of the Grand Duke, a trifle pale under its tan, was set in
stern lines, but there was no fear in his manner as he quickly
questioned, his eyes eagerly scrutinizing the frightened men and women
about him while he spoke to them with cool decision._

_"Thanks, Friend Rylov--you have done me a service I shall not forget."
Then to the others, "If there are any of you who fear to remain with me,
you may go. I cannot believe that they will come to Zukovo Castle, but
we will close the gate to the courtyard at once. I will talk with them
from the terrace wall."_

_"Master! Highness!" broke in the Huntsman violently, "you do not
understand. You cannot stay here. They are mad. They will kill you. It
is for that they come----"_

_"Nevertheless--I mean to stay----"_

_"It is death----"_

_"Go thou, then, and Vasili, and Ivan. For before they burn Zukovo, I
mean to talk with them----"_

_"It is madness----!"_

_"Come, Highness," broke in Leo Garshin, the head-groom, eagerly, "I
will put the saddle upon Vera, and you can go out of the iron gate from
the stable-yard into the forest. Nothing can catch you and you can reach
the river----"_

_"No, Leo----" put in the Grand Duke kindly. "I shall stay."_

_The servants glanced at one another, appalled at the Master's attitude.
Some of them, had already disappeared into the Castle but others, less
timorous, had already rushed to close the courtyard gate._

_"You say they are many, Friend Rylov?" he asked again._

_"As the hairs of your head, Master--from Ivanovna,
Jaroslav--everywhere--and women, Highness, more terrible than the
men----"_

_"And the leaders----?"_

_"Dmitri Sidorov of the Zemstvo and Michael Kositzin and Anton Lensky.
See, yonder! Where the road turns from the clearing--they come!"_

_The keen eyes of Boris saw further through the forest than those of
most men but in a moment those of the Grand Duke Peter confirmed him.
Figures were moving in the twilight, along the roads and bypaths._

_To Peter Nicholaevitch they seemed like a great river which had flooded
over its banks seeking new levels. Behind them the flames from the
wooden hunting lodge roared upward painting a lurid sky. He saw that the
flood came rapidly, and above the roar of the flames came the sound of
voices singing the Russian version of the "Marseillaise." The Grand Duke
stood at the terrace wall watching their approach. He knew that if they
meant to attack the Castle the gate could not hold long, but he had hope
that he might still be able to prevail upon them to listen to him. In a
moment they saw him and began running forward toward the courtyard gate.
He recognized individuals now--Anton Lensky, Michael Kuprin, with his
head tied in a dirty handkerchief--and Conrad Grabar. The defection of
his old instructor in wood-lore disturbed him. Conrad must have known
what was to happen and he had said nothing. If Conrad had turned against
him, what hope had he of prevailing against the others?_

_The singing died away and in its place, shouts and cries burst forth in
a bedlam. "Open the gate!" "Let us in!"_

_The Grand Duke had heard that note in men's voices in the Carpathian
passes, and he knew what it meant, but while his gaze sought out the fat
figure of Michael Kositzin who was the leader of the uprising, he held
up his hand for silence._

_There was a roar of voices._

_"Peter Nicholaevitch wishes to speak."_

_"It is our turn to speak now."_

"Nasha pora prishlà," (_our time has come_).

_"Let the little master speak."_

_"We know no little masters here!"_

_"No, nor old ones!"_

"Smiert Bourjouiam" (_Death to the bourgeoisie_).

_But as the young Grand Duke began to speak the voices of the most rabid
of the peasants were hushed for a moment by the others._

_"My friends and my children" he began, "one word before you do
something that you will forever regret. I am your friend. I am young--of
the new generation. I have kept abreast of the new thought of the time
and I believe in the New Life that is for you and for us all. I have
proved it to you by bringing the New Life to Zukovo by peaceful means,
by friendliness and brotherhood while other parts of Russia near by are
in agony and darkness." (Cries of "That is true.") "It was in my heart
that I had brought the Revolution to Zukovo, a Revolution against the
old order of things which can be no more, implanting in you the strong
seeds of Peace and Brotherhood which would kill out the ugly weeds of
violence and enmity."_

_Here a hoarse voice rang out: "Fire--only fire can clean." Then the
reply of a woman, "Yes,_ Tovaristchi, _it is the only way."_

_Peter Nicholaevitch tried to seek out the speakers with his gaze. One
of them was Michael Kuprin whom when a child the Grand Duke had seen
flogged in this very courtyard._

_"There are sins of the past," he went on, raising his voice against the
low murmur of the mob, "many sins against you, but one sin does not wash
out another. Murder, rapine, vengeance will never bring peace to
Zukovo. What you do to-day will be visited on you to-morrow. I pray
that you will listen to me. I have fought for you and with you--with
Gleb Saltykov and Anton Lensky, against the return of Absolutism in
Russia. The old order of things is gone. Do not stain the new with crime
in Zukovo. I beseech you to disperse--return to your homes and I will
come to you to-morrow and if there are wrongs I will set them right. You
have believed in me in the past. Believe in me now and all may yet be
well in Zukovo. Go, my friends, before it is too late----"_

_The crowd wavered, murmuring. But just then a shot rang out and the cap
of the Grand Duke twitched around on his head._

_A roar went up from near the gate,_ "Nasha pora prishlà! _Break in the
gate!" cried the voices and there were those of women among them
shouting_ "Tovaristchi! _Forward!"_

_Over the heads of those in the front ranks, Peter Nicholaevitch saw
some men bringing from the forest the heavy trunk of a felled pine tree.
They meant to break down the gate. He knew that he had failed but still
he stood upright facing them. Another shot, the bullet this time grazing
his left arm. The sting of it angered him._

_"Cowards!" he yelled, shaking his fist at them. "Cowards!"_

_A volley followed but no other bullets struck him. Behind him in the
Castle doorway he heard the voice of Boris Rylov, calling to him
hoarsely._

_"Come, Master. For the love of God! There is yet time."_

_There was a crash of the heavy timbers at the gate._

_"Come, Master----"_

_With a shrug Peter Nicholaevitch turned and walked across the terrace
toward the Castle._ "Bolvany!" _he muttered. "I've finished with
them."_

_Boris and Vasili stood just within the door, pleading with him to
hurry, and together they made their way through the deserted kitchens
and over past the vegetable gardens to the stables, where Leo Garshin
awaited them, the saddles on several horses. Behind them they could now
hear the triumphant cries as the courtyard gate crashed in._

_"Hurry, Master!" cried Garshin eagerly._

_"Where are the others?" asked the Grand Duke._

_"Gone, Highness. They have fled."_

_Boris Rylov was peering out past an iron door into the forest._

_"There is no one there?" asked Garshin._

_"Not yet. They have forgotten."_

_"Come then, Highness."_

_But the Grand Duke saw that the aged Vasili was mounted first and then
they rode out of the iron gate into a path which led directly into the
forest. It was not until they were well clear of the buildings that a
shout at one side announced that their mode of escape had been
discovered. Men came running, firing pistols as they ran. Boris Rylov,
bringing up the rear, reined in his horse and turning emptied a revolver
at the nearest of their pursuers. One man fell and the others halted._

_Until they found the other horses in the stables pursuit was
fruitless._

_Peter Nicholaevitch rode at the head of the little cavalcade, down the
familiar aisles of the forest, his head bowed, a deep frown on his
brows. It was Vasili who first noticed the blood dripping from his
finger ends._

_"Master," he gasped, "you are wounded."_

_"It is nothing," said the Grand Duke._

_But Vasili bound the arm up with a handkerchief while Leo Garshin and
Boris Rylov watched the path down which they had come. They could hear
the crackling of the flames at the Hunting Lodge to the southward and
the cries of the mob at the Castle, but there was no sign of pursuit.
Perhaps they were satisfied to appease their madness with pillage and
fire. Half an hour later Boris pointed backward. A new glow had risen, a
redder, deeper glow._

_"The Castle, Master----" wailed Vasili._

_Peter Nicholaevitch drew rein at a cross-path, watched for a moment and
then turned to his companions, for he had reached a decision._

_"My good friends," he said gently, "our ways part here."_

_"Master! Highness!"_

_But he was resolute._

_"I am going on alone. I will not involve you further in my misfortunes.
You can do nothing for me--nor I anything for you except this. Vasili
knows. In the vault below the wine-cellar, hidden away, are some objects
of value. They will not find them. When they go away you will return.
The visit will repay you. Divide what is there into equal parts--silver,
plate and gold. As for me--forget me. Farewell!"_

_They saw that he meant what he said. He offered these few faithful
servitors his hand and they kissed his fingers--a last act of fealty and
devotion and in a moment they stood listening to the diminishing
hoof-beats of Vera as the young master went out of their lives._

_"May God preserve him," muttered Vasili._

_"Amen," said Boris Rylov and Leo Garshin._




CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS


The British refugee ship _Phrygia_ was about to sail for Constantinople
where her unfortunate passengers were to be transferred to other vessels
sailing for Liverpool and New York. After some difficulties the refugee
made his way aboard her and announced his identity to the captain. If he
had expected to be received with the honor due to one of his rank and
station he was quickly undeceived, for Captain Blashford, a man of rough
manners, concealing a gentle heart, looked him over critically, examined
his credentials (letters he had happened to have about him), and then
smiled grimly.

"We've got room for one more--and that's about all."

"I have no money----" began the refugee.

"Oh, that's all right," shrugged the Captain, "you're not the only one.
We've a cargo of twenty princes, thirty-two princesses, eighteen
generals and enough counts and countesses to set up a new nation
somewhere. Your 'Ighness is the only Duke that has reached us up to the
present speakin' and if there are any others, they'll 'ave to be brisk
for we're sailin' in twenty minutes."

The matter-of-fact tones with which the unemotional Britisher made this
announcement restored the lost sense of humor of the Russian refugee,
and he broke into a grim laugh.

"An embarrassment of riches," remarked the Grand Duke.

"Riches," grunted the Captain, "in a manner of speakin', yes. Money is
not so plentiful. But jools! Good God! There must be half a ton of
diamonds, rubies and emeralds aboard. All they're got left most of 'em,
but complaints and narvousness. Give me a cargo of wheat and I'm your
man," growled the Captain. "It stays put and doesn't complain," and then
turning to Peter--"Ye're not expectin' any r'yal suite aboard the
_Phrygia_, are ye?"

"No. A hammock for'rad will be good enough for me."

"That's the way I like to 'ear a man talk. Good God! As man to man, I
arsk you,--with Counts throwin' cigarette butts around an' princesses
cryin' all over my clean white decks an' all, what's a self-respectin'
skipper to do? But I 'ave my orders to fetch the odd lot to
Constantinople an' fetch 'em I will. Oh! They're odd--all right. Go
below, sir, an' 'ave a look at 'em."

But Peter Nicholaevitch shook his head. He had been doing a deal of
quiet thinking in those starry nights upon the Dnieper, and he had
worked out his problem alone.

"No, thanks," he said quietly, "if you don't mind, I think I'd rather
preserve my incognito."

"Incognito, is it? Oh, very well, suit yourself. And what will I be
callin' your Highness?"

"Peter Nichols," said the Grand Duke with a smile, "it's as good as any
other."

"Right you are, Peter Nichols. Lay for'rad and tell the bos'n to show
you up to my cabin."

So Peter Nichols went forward, avoiding the cargo aft, until within a
day's run of the Bosphorus when he found himself accosted by no less a
person than Prince Galitzin who had strolled out to get the morning air.
He tried to avoid the man but Galitzin planted himself firmly in his
path, scrutinizing him eagerly.

"You too, Highness!" he said with an accent of grieved surprise.

The Grand Duke regarded him in a moment of silence.

"It must be evident to you, Prince Galitzin, that I have some object in
remaining unknown."

"But, Your Highness, such a thing is unnecessary. Are we not all
dedicated to the same misfortunes? Misery loves company."

"You mean that it makes you less miserable to discover that I share your
fate?"

"Not precisely that. It is merely that if one holding your liberal views
cannot escape the holocaust that has suddenly fallen there is little
hope for the rest of us."

"No," said the Grand Duke shortly. "There is no hope, none at all, for
us or for Russia."

"Where are you going?"

"To America."

"But, your Highness, that is impossible. We shall all have asylum in
England until conditions change. You should go there with us. It will
lend influence to our mission."

"No."

"Why?"

"I am leaving Russia for the present. She is outcast. For, not content
with betraying others, she has betrayed herself."

"But what are you going to do?"

Peter Nicholaevitch smiled up at the sky and the fussy, fat, bejeweled
sycophant before him listened to him in amazement.

"Prince Galitzin," said the Grand Duke amusedly, "I am going to do that
which may bring the blush of shame to your brow or the sneer of pity to
your lips. I am going to fulfill the destiny provided for every man with
a pair of strong hands, and a willing spirit--I am going to work."

The Prince stepped back a pace, his watery eyes snapping in
incomprehension.

"But your higher destiny--your great heritage as a Prince of the Royal
blood of Holy Russia."

"There is no Holy Russia, my friend, until she is born again. Russia is
worse than traitor, worse than liar, worse than murderer and thief. She
is a fool."

"All will come right in time. We go to England to wait."

"I have other plans."

"Then you will not join us? Princess Anastasie, my daughter, is here.
General Seminoff----"

"It is useless. I have made up my mind. Leave me, if you please."

Prince Galitzin disappeared quickly below to spread the information of
his discovery among the disconsolate refugees and it was not long before
it was known from one end of the _Phrygia_ to the other that the fellow
who called himself Peter Nichols was none other than the Grand Duke
Peter Nicholaevitch, a cousin to his late Majesty Nicholas and a Prince
of the Royal blood. Peter Nichols sought the Captain in his cabin,
putting the whole case before him.

"H-m," chuckled the Captain, "Found ye out, did they? There's only a few
of you left, that's why. Better stay 'ere in my cabin until we reach
Constantinople. I'd be honored, 'Ighness, to say nothin' of savin' you a
bit of bother."

"You're very kind."

"Not at all. Make yourself at 'ome. There's cigarettes on the locker and
a nip of the Scotch to keep the chill out. Here's a light. You've been
worryin' me some, 'Ighness. Fact is I didn't know just how big a bug you
were until to-day when I arsked some questions. You'll forgive me,
'Ighness?"

"Peter Nichols," corrected the Grand Duke.

"No," insisted the Captain, "we'll give you yer title while we can. You
know we British have a bit of a taste for r'yalty when we know it's the
real thing. I don't take much stock in most of my cargo aft. And beggin'
yer 'Ighness's pardon I never took much stock in Russia since she lay
down on the job and left the Allies in the lurch----"

"Captain Blashford," said the Grand Duke quietly. "You can't hurt my
feelings."

"But I do like you, 'Ighness, and I want to do all that I can to 'elp
you when we get to anchor."

"Thanks."

"I take it that you don't want anybody ashore to know who ye are?"

"Exactly. Most of these refugees are going to England. I have reasons
for not wishing to go with them."

"Where then do you propose to go?"

"To the United States," said the Grand Duke eagerly.

"Without money?"

"I'd have no money if I went to England unless I subsisted on the
charity of my friends. My branch of the family is not rich. The war has
made us poorer. Such securities as I have are in a vault in Kiev. It
would be suicide for me to attempt to reclaim them now. I'm going to try
to make my own way."

"Impossible!"

The Grand Duke laughed at the Englishman's expression.

"Why?"

"Yer 'ands, 'Ighness."

The Grand Duke shrugged and grinned.

"I'll risk it. I'm not without resources. Will you help me to a ship
sailing for America?"

"Yes--but----"

"Oh, I'll work my passage over--if nobody bothers me."

"By George! I like your spirit. Give me your 'and, sir. I'll do what I
can. If the _Bermudian_ hasn't sailed from the Horn yet, I think I can
manage it for ye."

"And keep me clear of the rest of your passengers?" added His Highness.

"Righto. They'll go on the _Semaphore_. You stay right 'ere and mum's
the word." And Captain Blashford went out on deck leaving Peter Nichols
to his cigarette and his meditations.

Many times had the Grand Duke Peter given thanks that the blood of his
mother flowed strongly in his veins. He was more British than Russian
and he could remember things that had happened since he had grown to
adolescence which had made the half of him that was English revolt
against the Russian system. It was perhaps his musical education rather
than his University training or his travels in England and France that
had turned him to the _Intelligentsia_. In the vast republic of art and
letters he had imbibed the philosophy that was to threaten the very
existence of his own clan. The spread of the revolution had not dismayed
him, for he believed that in time the pendulum would swing back and
bring a constitutional government to Russia. But in the weeks of
struggle, privation, and passion a new Peter Nicholaevitch was born.

The failure of his plans in the sudden flood of anarchy which had swept
over Zukovo, the treachery of those he had thought faithful and the
attempt upon his life had changed his viewpoint. It takes a truly noble
spirit to wish to kiss the finger that has pulled the trigger of a
revolver, the bullet from which has gone through one's hat. From
disappointment and dismay Peter Nicholaevitch had turned to anger. They
hadn't played the game with him. It wasn't cricket. His resolution to
sail for the United States was decided. To throw himself, an object of
charity, upon the mercies of the Earl of Shetland, his mother's cousin,
was not to be thought of.

To his peasants he had preached the gospel of labor, humility and peace,
in that state of life to which they had been called. He had tried to
exemplify it to them. He could do no less now, to himself. By teaching
himself, he could perhaps fit himself to teach them. In England it would
perhaps be difficult to remain incognito, and he had a pride in wishing
to succeed alone and unaided. Only the United States, whose form of
government more nearly approached the ideal he had for Russia, could
offer him the opportunities to discover whether or not a prince could
not also be a man.

To the Princess Anastasie he gave little thought. That their common
exile and the chance encounter under such circumstances had aroused no
return of an entente toward what had once been a half-sentimental
attachment convinced him of how little it had meant to him. There were
no royal prohibitions upon him now. To marry the Princess Anastasie and
settle in London, living upon the proceeds of her wealthy father's
American and British securities, was of course the easiest solution of
his difficulties. A life of ease, music, good sportsmanship, the comfort
that only England knows.... She was comely too--blond, petite, and
smoked her cigarette very prettily. Their marriage had once been
discussed. She wanted it still, perhaps. Something of all this may have
been somewhere in the back of Prince Galitzin's ambitious mind. The one
course would be so easy, the other----

Peter Nicholaevitch rose and carefully flicked his cigarette through the
open port. No. One does not pass twice through such moments of struggle
and self-communion as he had had in those long nights of his escape
along the Dnieper. He had chosen. Peter Nichols! The name amused him. If
Captain Blashford was a man of his word to-night would be the end of the
Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, and the Princess Anastasie might find
some more ardent suitor to her grace and beauty.

She did not seek him out. Perhaps the hint to Galitzin had been
sufficient and the Grand Duke from his hiding place saw her pretty
figure set ashore among the miscellany of martyred "r'yalty." He turned
away from his port-hole with a catch of his breath as the last vestige
of his old life passed from sight. And then quietly took up a fresh
cigarette and awaited the Captain.

The details were easily arranged. Blashford was a man of resource and at
night returned from a visit to the Captain of the _Bermudian_ with word
that all was well. He had been obliged to relate the facts but Captain
Armitage could keep a secret and promised the refugee a job under his
steward who was short-handed. And so the next morning, after shaving and
dressing himself in borrowed clothes, Peter Nichols shook Captain
Blashford warmly by the hand and went aboard his new ship.

Peter Nichols' new job was that of a waiter at the tables in the dining
saloon. He was a very good waiter, supplying, from the wealth of a
Continental experience, the deficiencies of other waiters he had known.
He wore a black shell jacket and a white shirt front which remained
innocent of gravy spots. The food was not very good nor very plentiful,
but he served it with an air of such importance that it gained flavor
and substance by the reflection of his deference. There were English
officers bound for Malta, Frenchmen for Marseilles and Americans of the
Red Cross without number bound for New York. Girls, too, clear-eyed,
bronzed and hearty, who talked war and politics beneath his very nose,
challenging his own theories. They noticed him too and whispered among
themselves, but true to his ambition to do every task at the best of his
bent, he preserved an immobile countenance and pocketed his fees, which
would be useful ere long, with the grateful appreciation of one to whom
shillings and franc pieces come as the gifts of God. Many were the
attempts to draw him into a conversation, but where the queries could
not be answered by a laconic "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," this paragon of
waiters maintained a smiling silence.

"I'm sure he's a prince or something," he heard one young girl of a
hospital unit say to a young medico of the outfit. "Did you ever see
such a nose and brows in your life? And his hands----! You can never
mistake hands. I would swear those hands had never done menial work for
a thousand years."

All of which was quite true, but it made the waiter Peter uncomfortably
careful. There were no women in the kitchen, but there was an amatory
stewardess, fat and forty, upon whom the factitious technique of the
saloon fell with singular insipidity. He fled from her. Peter, the
waiter, was already a good democrat but he was not ready to spread his
philosophy out so thin.

He slept forward, messed abaft the galley, enriched his vocabulary and
broadened his point of view. There is no leveler like a ship's fo'c'sle,
no better school of philosophy than that of men upon their "beam ends."
There were many such--Poles, Slovaks, Roumanians, an Armenian or two,
refugees, adventurers from America, old, young, dissolute, making a
necessity of virtue under that successful oligarchy, the ship's bridge.

In the Americans Peter was interested with an Englishman's point of
view. He had much to learn, and he invented a tale of his fortunes which
let him into their confidences, especially into that of Jim Coast,
waiter like himself, whose bunk adjoined his own. Jim Coast was a
citizen of the world, inured to privation under many flags. He had been
born in New Jersey, U. S. A., of decent people, had worked in the
cranberry bogs, farmed in Pennsylvania, "punched" cattle in Wyoming,
"prospected" in the Southwest, looted ranches in Mexico, fought against
Diaz and again with the insurgents in Venezuela, worked on cattle-ships
and so, by easy stages, had drifted across the breadth of Europe living
by his wits at the expense of the credulous and the unwary. And now, for
the first time in many years, he was going home--though just what that
meant he did not know. He had missed great fortune twice--"by the skin
of his teeth," as he picturesquely described it, once in a mine in
Arizona and again in a land-deal in the Argentine. There were reasons
why he hadn't dared to return to the United States before. He was a man
with a grievance, but, however free in his confidences in other
respects, gave the interested Peter no inkling as to what that grievance
was.

No more curious acquaintanceship could possibly be imagined, but
privation, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, and, from tolerance
and amusement, Pete, as the other called him, found himself yielding,
without stint, to the fantastic spell of Jim Coast's multifarious
attractions. He seemed to have no doubts as to the possibility of making
a living in America and referred darkly to possible "coups" that would
net a fortune. He was an agreeable villain, not above mischief to gain
his ends, and Peter, who cherished an ideal, made sure that, once safe
ashore, it would be best if they parted company. But he didn't tell Jim
Coast so, for the conversational benefits he derived from that
gentleman's acquaintance were a liberal education.

We are admonished that they are blessed who just stand and wait, and
Peter Nichols, three days out of New York harbor, found himself the
possessor of forty dollars in tips from the voyage with sixty dollars
coming to him as wages--not so bad for a first venture upon the high
seas of industry. It was the first real money he had ever made in his
life and he was proud of it, jingling it contentedly in his pockets and
rubbing the bills luxuriously one against the other. But his plans
required more than this, for he had read enough to know that in the
United States one is often taken at one's own estimate, and that if he
wasn't to find a job as a ditch-digger, he must make a good appearance.
And so it was now time to make use of the one Grand Ducal possession
remaining to him, a gold ring set with a gorgeous ruby that had once
belonged to his father. This ring he had always worn and had removed
from his finger at Ushan, in the fear that its magnificence might betray
him. He had kept it carefully tied about his neck in a bag on a bit of
string and had of course not even shown it to Jim Coast who might have
deemed it an excuse to sever their strange friendship.

Through the Head Steward he managed a message to Captain Armitage and
was bidden to the officer's cabin, where he explained the object of his
visit, exhibited his treasure and estimated its value.

The Captain opened his eyes a bit wider as he gazed into the sanguine
depths of the stone.

"If I didn't know something of your history, Nichols," he said with a
wink, "I might think you'd been looting the strong box of the Sultan of
Turkey. Pigeon's blood and as big as my thumb nail! You want to sell
it?"

"I need capital."

"What do you want for it?"

"It's worth a thousand pounds of English money. Perhaps more, I don't
know. I'll take what I can get."

"I see. You're afraid to negotiate the sale ashore?"

"Exactly. I'd be arrested."

"And you don't want explanations. H-m--leave it with me over night. I'll
see the Purser. He'll know."

"Thanks."

The Captain offered the waiter in the shell-jacket the hospitality of
his cabin, but Peter Nichols thanked him gratefully and withdrew.

The result of this arrangement was that the ruby ring changed owners.
The Purser bought it for two thousand in cash. He knew a good thing when
he saw it. But Peter Nichols was satisfied.




CHAPTER II

NEW YORK


The Duke-errant had prepared himself for the first glimpse of the
battlements of lower New York, but as the _Bermudian_ came up the bay
that rosy spring afternoon, the western sun gilding the upper half of
the castellated towers which rose from a sea of moving shadows, it
seemed a dream city, the fortress of a fairy tale. His fingers tingled
to express this frozen music, to relieve it from its spell of
enchantment, and phrases of Debussy's "Cathédrale Engloutie" came
welling up within him from almost forgotten depths.

"_Parbleu!_ She's grown some, Pete, since I saw her last!"

This from his grotesque companion who was not moved by concord of sweet
sounds. "They've buried the Trinity clean out of sight."

"The Trinity?" questioned Peter solemnly.

"Bless your heart----" laughed Coast, "I'd say so----But I mean, the
church----And that must be the Woolworth Building yonder. Where's yer
St. Paul's and Kremlin now? Some village,--what?"

"Gorgeous!" muttered Peter.

"Hell of a thing to tackle single-handed, though, eh, boh?"

Something of the same thought was passing through Peter's mind but he
only smiled.

"I'll find a job," he said slowly.

"Waitin'!" sneered Coast. "Fine job that for a man with your learnin'.
'Hey, waiter! Some butter if you please,'" he satirized in mincing
tones, "'this soup is cold--this beef is underdone. Oh, _cawn't_ you
give me some service here!' I say, don't you hear 'em--people that never
saw a servant in their own home town. Pretty occupation for an old war
horse like me or a globe-trotter like you. No. None for me. I'll fry my
fish in a bigger pan. _Allons!_ Pete. I like you. I'll like you more
when you grow some older, but you've got a head above your ears that
ain't all bone. I can use you. What d'ye say? We'll get ashore, some
way, and then we'll show the U. S. A. a thing or two not written in the
books."

"We'll go ashore together, Jim. Then we'll see."

"Righto! But I'll eat my hat if I can see you balancin' dishes in a
Broadway Chop House."

Peter couldn't see that either, but he didn't tell Jim Coast so. Their
hour on deck had struck, for a final meal was to be served and they went
below to finish their duties. That night they were paid off and
discharged.

The difficulties in the way of inspection and interrogation of Peter
Nichols, the alien, were obviated by the simple expedient of his going
ashore under cover of the darkness and not coming back to the ship--this
at a hint from the sympathetic Armitage who gave the ex-waiter a
handclasp and his money and wished him success.

Midnight found Peter and Jim Coast on Broadway in the neighborhood of
Forty-second Street with Peter blinking comfortably up at the electric
signs and marveling at everything. The more Coast drank the deeper was
his cynicism but Peter grew mellow. This was a wonderful new world he
was exploring and with two thousand dollars safely tucked on the inside
of his waistcoat, he was ready to defy the tooth of adversity.

In the morning Peter Nichols came to a decision. And so over the coffee
and eggs when Coast asked him what his plans were he told him he was
going to look for a job.

Coast looked at him through the smoke of his cigar and spoke at last.

"I didn't think you'd be a quitter, Pete. The world owes us a
livin'--you and me----Bah! It's easy if you'll use your headpiece. If
the world won't give, I mean to take. The jobs are meant for little
men."

"What are you going to do?"

"An enterprisin' man wouldn't ask such a question. Half the people in
the world takes what the other half gives. You ought to know what half
_I_ belong to."

"I'm afraid I belong to the other half, Jim Coast," said Peter quietly.

"_Sacré--!_" sneered the other, rising suddenly. "Where you goin' to
wait, Pete? At the Ritz or the Commodore? In a month you'll be waitin'
on _me_. It'll be _Mister_ Coast for you then, _mon garçon_, but you'll
still be Pete." He shrugged and offered his hand. "Well, we won't
quarrel but our ways split here."

"I'm sorry, Jim. Good-by."

He saw Coast slouch out into the street and disappear m the crowd moving
toward Broadway. He waited for a while thinking deeply and then with a
definite plan in his mind strolled forth. First he bought a second-hand
suit case in Seventh Avenue, then found a store marked "Gentlemen's
Outfitters" where he purchased ready-made clothing, a hat, shoes,
underwear, linen and cravats, arraying himself with a sense of some
satisfaction and packing in his suitcase what he couldn't wear, went
forth, found a taxi and drove in state to a good hotel.

       *       *       *       *       *

New York assimilates its immigrants with surprising rapidity. Through
this narrow funnel they pour into the "melting pot," their racial
characteristics already neutralized, their souls already inoculated with
the spirit of individualism. Prepared as he was to accept with a good
grace conditions as he found them, Peter Nichols was astonished at the
ease with which he fitted into the niche that he had chosen. His room
was on the eighteenth floor, to which and from which he was shot in an
enameled lift operated by a Uhlan in a monkey-cap. He found that it
required a rather nice adjustment of his muscles to spring forth at
precisely the proper moment. There was a young lady who presided over
the destinies of the particular shelf that he occupied in this enormous
cupboard, a very pretty young lady, something between a French Duchess
and a lady's maid. Her smile had a homelike quality though and it was
worth risking the perilous catapulting up and down for the mere pleasure
of handing her his room key. Having no valuables of course but his money
which he carried in his pockets there was no danger from unprincipled
persons had she been disposed to connive at dishonesty.

His bedroom was small but neat and his bathroom was neat but small,
tiled in white enamel, containing every device that the heart of a clean
man could desire. He discovered that by dropping a quarter into various
apertures he could secure almost anything he required from tooth paste
to razor blades. There was a telephone beside his bed which rang at
inconvenient moments and a Bible upon the side table proclaimed the
religious fervor of this extraordinary people. A newspaper was sent in
to him every morning whether he rang for it or not, and every time he
did ring, a lesser Uhlan brought a thermos bottle containing iced water.
This perplexed him for a time but he was too much ashamed of his
ignorance to question. You see, he was already acquiring the first
ingredient of the American character--omniscience, for he found that in
New York no one ever admits that he doesn't know everything.

But it was all very wonderful, pulsing with life, eloquent of
achievement. He was in no haste. By living with some care, he found that
the money from his ruby would last for several months. Meanwhile he was
studying his situation and its possibilities. Summing up his own
attainments he felt that he was qualified as a teacher of the piano or
of the voice, as an instructor in languages, or if the worst came, as a
waiter in a fashionable restaurant--perhaps even a head-waiter--which
from the authority he observed in the demeanor of the lord of the hotel
dining room seemed almost all the honor that a person in America might
hope to gain. But, in order that no proper opportunity should slip by,
he scanned the newspapers in the hope of finding something that he could
do.

As the weeks passed he made the discovery that he was being immensely
entertained. He was all English now. It was not in the least difficult
to make acquaintances. Almost everybody spoke to everybody without the
slightest feeling of restraint. He learned the meaning of the latest
American slang but found difficulty in applying it, rejoiced in the
syncopation of the jazz, America's original contribution to the musical
art, and by the end of a month thought himself thoroughly acclimated.

But he still surprised inquiring glances male and female cast in his
direction. There was something about his personality which, disguise it
as he might under American-made garments and American-made manners,
refused to be hidden. It was his charm added to his general good nature
and adaptability which quickly made Peter Nichols some friends of the
better sort. If he had been willing to drift downward he would have cast
in his lot with Jim Coast. Instead, he followed decent inclinations and
found himself at the end of six weeks a part of a group of young
business men who took him home to dine with their wives and gave him the
benefit of their friendly advice. To all of them he told the same story,
that he was an Englishman who had worked in Russia with the Red Cross
and that he had come to the United States to get a job.

It was a likely story and most of them swallowed it. But one clever girl
whom he met out at dinner rather startled him by the accuracy of her
intuitions.

"I have traveled a good deal, Mr. Nichols," she said quizzically, "but
I've never yet met an Englishman like you."

"It is difficult for me to tell whether I am to consider that as
flattery or disapproval," said Peter calmly.

"You talk like an Englishman, but you're entirely too much interested in
everything to be true to type."

"Ah, really----"

"Englishmen are either bored or presumptuous. You're neither. And
there's a tiny accent that I can't explain----"

"Don't try----"

"I must. We Americans believe in our impulses. My brother Dick says
you're a man of mystery. I've solved it," she laughed, "I'm sure you're
a Russian Grand Duke incognito."

Peter laughed and tried bravado.

"You are certainly all in the mustard," he blundered helplessly.

And she looked at him for a moment and then burst into laughter.

These associations were very pleasant, but, contrary to Peter's
expectations, they didn't seem to be leading anywhere. The efforts that
he made to find positions commensurate with his ambitions had ended in
blind alleys. He was too well educated for some of them, not well enough
educated for others.

More than two months had passed. He had moved to a boarding house in a
decent locality, but of the two thousands dollars with which he had
entered New York there now remained to him less than two hundred. He
was beginning to believe that he had played the game and lost and that
within a very few weeks he would be obliged to hide himself from these
excellent new acquaintances and go back to his old job. Then the tide of
his fortune suddenly turned.

Dick Sheldon, the brother of the girl who was "all in the mustard,"
aware of Peter's plight, had stumbled across the useful bit of
information and brought it to Peter at the boarding house.

"Didn't you tell me that you'd once had something to do with forestry in
Russia?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "I was once employed in the reafforestation of a large
estate," he replied.

"Then I've found your job," said Sheldon heartily, clapping Peter on the
back. "A friend of Sheldon, Senior's, Jonathan K. McGuire, has a big
place down in the wilderness of Jersey--thousands of acres and he wants
a man to take charge--sort of forestry expert and general
superintendent, money no object. I reckon you could cop out three
hundred a month as a starter."

"That looks good to me," said Peter, delighted that the argot fell so
aptly from his lips. And then, "You're not spoofing, are you?"

"Devil a spoof. It's straight goods, Nichols. Will you take it?"

Peter had a vision of the greasy dishes he was to escape.

"Will I?" he exclaimed delightedly. "Can I get it?"

"Sure thing. McGuire is a millionaire, made a pot of money somewhere in
the West--dabbles in the market. That's where Dad met him. Crusty old
rascal. Daughter. Living down in Jersey now, alone with a lot of
servants. Queer one. Maybe you'll like him--maybe not."

Peter clasped his friend by the hands.

"Moloch himself would look an angel of mercy to me now."

"Do you think you can make good?"

"Well, rather. Whom shall I see? And when?"

"I can fix it up with Dad, I reckon. You'd better come down to the
office and see him about twelve."

Peter Sheldon, Senior, looked him over and asked him questions and the
interview was quite satisfactory.

"I'll tell you the truth, as far as I know it," said Sheldon, Senior
(which was more than Peter Nichols had done). "Jonathan K. McGuire is a
strange character--keeps his business to himself----. How much he's
worth nobody knows but himself and the Treasury Department. Does a good
deal of buying and selling through this office. A hard man in a deal but
reasonable in other things. I've had his acquaintance for five years,
lunched with him, dined with him--visited this place in Jersey, but I
give you my word, Mr. Nichols, I've never yet got the prick of a pin
beneath that man's skin. You may not like him. Few people do. But
there's no harm in taking a try at this job."

"I shall be delighted," said Nichols.

"I don't know whether you will or not," broke in Sheldon, Senior,
frankly. "Something's happened lately. About three weeks ago Jonathan K.
McGuire came into this office hurriedly, shut the door behind him,
locked it--and sank into a chair, puffing hard, his face the color of
putty. He wouldn't answer any questions and put me off, though I'd have
gone out of my way to help him. But after a while he looked out of the
window, phoned for his car and went again, saying he was going down into
Jersey."

"He was sick, perhaps," ventured Peter.

"It was something worse than that, Mr. Nichols. He looked as though he
had seen a ghost or heard a banshee. Then this comes," continued the
broker, taking up a letter from the desk. "Asks for a forester, a good
strong man. You're strong, Mr. Nichols? Er--and courageous? You're not
addicted to 'nerves'? You see I'm telling you all these things so that
you'll go down to Black Rock with your eyes open. He also asks me to
engage other men as private police or gamekeepers, who will act under
your direction. Queer, isn't it? Rather spooky, I'd say, but if you're
game, we'll close the bargain now. Three hundred a month to start with
and found. Is that satisfactory?"

"Perfectly," said Peter with a bow. "When do I begin?"

"At once if you like. Salary begins now. Fifty in advance for expenses."

"That's fair enough, Mr. Sheldon. If you will give me the directions, I
will go to-day."

"To-morrow will be time enough." Sheldon, Senior, had turned to his desk
and was writing upon a slip of paper. This he handed to Peter with a
check.

"That will show you how to get there," he said as he rose, brusquely.
"Glad to have met you. Good-day."

And Peter felt himself hand-shaken and pushed at the same time, reaching
the outer office, mentally out of breath from the sudden, swift movement
of his fortunes. Sheldon, Senior, had not meant to be abrupt. He was
merely a business man relaxing for a moment to do a service for a
friend. When Peter Nichols awoke to his obligations he sought out
Sheldon, Junior, and thanked him with a sense of real gratitude and
Sheldon, Junior, gave him a warm handclasp and Godspeed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Pennsylvania Station caused the new Superintendent of Jonathan K.
McGuire to blink and gasp. He paused, suit case in hand, at the top of
the double flight of stairs to survey the splendid proportions of the
waiting room where the crowds seemed lost in its great spaces. In Europe
such a building would be a cathedral. In America it was a railway
station. And the thought was made more definite by the Gregorian chant
of the train announcer which sounded aloft, its tones seeking concord
among their own echoes.

This was the portal to the new life in which Peter was to work out his
own salvation and the splendor of the immediate prospect uplifted him
with a sense of his personal importance in the new scheme of things of
which this was a part. He hadn't the slightest doubt that he would be
able to succeed in the work for which he had been recommended, for apart
from his music--which had taken so many of his hours--there was nothing
that he knew more about or loved better than the trees. He had provided
himself the afternoon before with two books by American authorities and
other books and monographs were to be forwarded to his new address.

As he descended the stairs and reached the main floor of the station,
his glance caught the gaze of a man staring at him intently. The man was
slender and dark, dressed decently enough in a gray suit and soft hat
and wore a small black mustache. All of these facts Peter took note of
in the one glance, arrested by the strange stare of the other, which
lingered while Peter glanced away and went on. Peter, who had an
excellent memory for faces, was sure that he had never seen the man
before, but after he had taken a few steps, it occurred to him that in
the stranger's eyes he had noted the startled distention of surprise and
recognition. And so he stopped and turned, but as he did so the fellow
dropped his gaze suddenly, and turned and walked away. The incident was
curious and rather interesting. If Peter had had more time he would have
sought out the fellow and asked him why he was staring at him, but
there were only a few moments to spare and he made his way out to the
concourse where he found his gate and descended to his train. Here he
ensconced himself comfortably in the smoking car, and was presently shot
under the Hudson River (as he afterwards discovered) and out into the
sunshine of the flats of New Jersey.

He rolled smoothly along through the manufacturing and agricultural
districts, his keenly critical glances neglecting nothing of the waste
and abundance on all sides. He saw, too, the unlovely evidences of
poverty on the outskirts of the cities, which brought to his mind other
communities in a far country whose physical evidences of prosperity were
no worse, if no better, than these. Then there came a catch in his
throat and a gasp which left him staring but seeing nothing. The feeling
was not nostalgia, for that far country was no home for him now. At last
he found himself muttering to himself in English, "My home--my home is
here."

After a while the mood of depression, recurrent moments of which had
come to him in New York with diminishing frequency, passed into one of
contemplation, of calm, like those which had followed his nights of
passion on the Dnieper, and at last he closed his eyes and dozed.
Visions of courts and camps passed through his mind--of brilliant
uniforms and jeweled decorations; of spacious polished halls,
resplendent with ornate mirrors and crystal pendant chandeliers; of
diamond coronets, of silks and satins and powdered flunkies. And then
other visions of gray figures crouched in the mud; of rain coming out of
the dark and of ominous lights over the profile of low hills; of
shrieks; of shells and cries of terror; of his cousin, a tall, bearded
man on a horse in a ravine waving an imperious arm; of confusion and
moving thousands, the creak of sanitars, the groans of men calling upon
mothers they would never see. And then with a leap backward over the
years, the vision of a small man huddled against the wall of a courtyard
being knouted until red stains appeared on his gray blouse and then
mingled faintly in the mist and the rain until the small man sank to the
full length of his imprisoned arms like one crucified....

Peter Nichols straightened and passed a hand across his damp forehead.
Through the perspective of this modern civilization what had been
passing before his vision seemed very vague, very distant, but he knew
that it was not a dream....

All about him was life, progress, industry, hope--a nation in the
making, proud of her brief history which had been built around an ideal.
If he could bring this same ideal back to Russia! In his heart he
thanked God for America--imperfect though she was, and made a vow that
in the task he had set for himself he should not be found wanting.

Twice he changed trains, the second time at a small junction amid an
ugliness of clay-pits and brickyards and dust and heat. There were
perhaps twenty people on the platform. He walked the length of the
station and as he did so a man in a gray suit disappeared around the
corner of the building. But Peter Nichols did not see him, and in a
moment, seated in his new train in a wooden car which reminded him of
some of the ancient rolling stock of the St. Petersburg and Moscow
Railroad, he was taken haltingly and noisily along the last stage of his
journey.

But he was aware of the familiar odor of the pine balsam in his
nostrils, and as he rolled through dark coverts the scent of the growing
things in the hidden places in the coolth and damp of the sandy loam. He
saw, too, tea-colored streams idling among the sedges and charred
wildernesses of trees appealing mutely with their blackened stumps like
wounded creatures in pain, a bit of war-torn Galicia in the midst of
peace. Miles and miles of dead forest land, forgotten and uncared for.
There was need here for his services.

With a wheeze of steam and a loud crackling of woodwork and creaking of
brakes the train came to a stop and the conductor shouted the name of
the station. Rather stiffly the traveler descended with his bag and
stood upon the small platform looking about him curiously. The baggage
man tossed out a bundle of newspapers and a pouch of mail and the train
moved off. Apparently Peter Nichols was the only passenger with Pickerel
River as a destination.

And as the panting train went around a curve, at last disappearing, it
seemed fairly reasonable to Peter Nichols that no one with the slightest
chance of stopping off anywhere else would wish to get off here. The
station was small, of but one room and a tiny office containing, as he
could see, a telegraph instrument, a broken chair with a leather
cushion, a shelf and a rack containing a few soiled slips of paper, but
the office had no occupant and the door was locked. This perhaps
explained the absence of the automobile which Mr. Sheldon had informed
him would meet him in obedience to his telegram announcing the hour of
his arrival. Neither within the building nor without was there any
person or animate thing in sight, except some small birds fluttering and
quarreling along the telegraph wires.

There was but one road, a sandy one, wearing marks of travel, which
emerged from the scrub oak and pine and definitely concluded at the
railroad track. This, then, was his direction, and after reassuring
himself that there was no other means of egress, he took up his black
suitcase and set forth into the wood, aware of a sense of beckoning
adventure. The road wound in and out, up and down, over what at one time
must have been the floor of the ocean, which could not be far distant.
Had it not been for the weight of his bag Peter would have enjoyed the
experience of this complete isolation, the fragrant silences broken only
by the whisper of the leaves and the scurrying of tiny wild things among
the dead tree branches. But he had no means of knowing how far he would
have to travel or whether, indeed, there had not been some mistake on
Sheldon, Senior's, part or his own. But the directions had been quite
clear and the road must of course lead somewhere--to some village or
settlement at least where he could get a lodging for the night.

And so he trudged on through the woods which already seemed to be
partaking of some of the mystery which surrounded the person of Jonathan
K. McGuire. The whole incident had been unusual and the more interesting
because of the strange character of his employer and the evident fear he
had of some latent evil which threatened him. But Peter Nichols had
accepted his commission with a sense of profound relief at escaping the
other fate that awaited him, with scarcely a thought of the dangers
which his acceptance might entail. He was not easily frightened and had
welcomed the new adventure, dismissing the fears of Jonathan K. McGuire
as imaginary, the emanations of age or an uneasy conscience.

But as he went on, his bag became heavier and the perspiration poured
down his face, so reaching a cross-path that seemed to show signs of
recent travel he put the suitcase down and sat on it while he wiped his
brow. The shadows were growing longer. He was beginning to believe that
there was no such place as Black Rock, no such person as Jonathan K.
McGuire and that Sheldon, Senior, and Sheldon, Junior, were engaged in a
conspiracy against his peace of mind, when above the now familiar
whisperings of the forest he heard a new sound. Faintly it came at first
as though from a great distance, mingling with the murmur of the
sighing wind in the pine trees, a voice singing. It seemed a child's
voice--delicate, clear, true, as care-free as the note of a
bird--unleashing its joy to the heavens.

Peter Nichols started up, listening more intently. The sounds were
coming nearer but he couldn't tell from which direction, for every leaf
seemed to be taking up the lovely melody which he could hear quite
clearly now. It was an air with which he was unfamiliar, but he knew
only that it was elemental in its simplicity and under these
circumstances startlingly welcome. He waited another long moment,
listening, found the direction from which the voice was coming, and
presently noted the swaying of branches and the crackling of dry twigs
in the path near by, from which, in a moment, a strange figure emerged.

At first he thought it was a boy, for it wore a pair of blue denim
overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, from beneath which the birdlike
notes were still emitted, but as the figure paused at the sight of him,
the song suddenly ceased--he saw a tumbled mass of tawny hair and a pair
of startled blue eyes staring at him.

"Hello," said the figure, after a moment, recovering its voice.

"Good-afternoon," said Peter Nichols, bowing from the waist in the most
approved Continental manner. You see he, too, was a little startled by
the apparition, which proclaimed itself beneath its strange garments in
unmistakable terms to be both feminine and lovely.




CHAPTER III

THE OVERALL GIRL


They stood for a long moment regarding each other, both in curiosity;
Peter because of the contrariety of the girl's face and garments, the
girl because of Peter's bow, which was the most extraordinary thing that
had ever happened in Burlington County. After a pause, a smile which
seemed to have been hovering uncertainly around the corners of her lips
broke into a frank grin, disclosing dimples and a row of white teeth,
the front ones not quite together.

"Could you tell me," asked Peter very politely as he found his voice,
"if this road leads to Black Rock?"

She was still scrutinizing him, her head, birdlike, upon one side.

"That depends on which way you're walkin'," she said.

She dropped her "g" with careless ease, but then Peter had noticed that
many Americans and English people, some very nice ones, did that.

Peter glanced at the girl and then down the road in both directions.

"Oh, yes, of course," he said, not sure whether she was smiling at or
with him. "I came from a station called Pickerel River and I wish to go
to Black Rock."

"You're _sure_ you want to go there?"

"Oh, yes."

"I guess that's because you've never been to Black Rock, Mister."

"No, I haven't."

The girl picked a shrub and nibbled at it daintily.

"You'd better turn and go right back." Her sentence finished in a shrug.

"What's the matter with Black Rock?" he asked curiously.

"It's just the little end of nothin'. That's all," she finished
decisively.

The quaint expression interested him. "I must get there, nevertheless,"
he said; "is it far from here?"

"Depends on what you call far. Mile or so. Didn't the 'Lizzie' meet the
six-thirty?"

Peter stared at her vacuously, for this was Greek.

"The 'Lizzie'?"

"The tin 'Lizzie'--Jim Hagerman's bus--carries the mail and papers.
Sometimes he gives me a lift about here."

"No. There was no conveyance of any sort and I really expected one. I
wish to get to Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire's."

"Oh!"

The girl had been examining Peter furtively, as though trying vainly to
place him definitely in her mental collection of human bipeds. Now she
stared at him with interest.

"Oh, you're goin' to McGuire's!"

Peter nodded. "If I can ever find the way."

"You're one of the new detectives?"

"Detective!" Peter laughed. "No. Not that I'm aware. I'm the new
superintendent and forester."

"Oh!"

The girl was visibly impressed, but a tiny frown puckered her brow.

"What's a forester?" she asked.

"A fellow who looks after the forests."

"The forests don't need any lookin' after out here in the barrens. They
just grow."

"I'm going to teach them to grow better."

The girl looked at him for a long moment of suspicion. She had taken off
her hat and the ruddy sunlight behind her made a golden halo all about
her head. Her hands he had noted were small, the fingers slender. Her
nose was well shaped, her nostrils wide, the angle of her jaw firmly
modeled and her slender figure beneath the absurd garments revealed both
strength and grace. But he did not dare to stare at her too hard or to
question her as to her garments. For all that Peter knew it might be the
custom of Burlington County for women to wear blue denim trousers.

And her next question took him off his guard.

"You city folk don't think much of yourselves, do you?"

"I don't exactly understand what you mean," said Peter politely, marking
the satirical note.

"To think you can make these trees grow better!" she sniffed.

"Oh, I'm just going to help them to help themselves."

"That's God's job, Master."

Peter smiled. She wouldn't have understood, he thought, so what was the
use of explaining. There must have been a superior quality in Peter's
smile, for the girl put on her hat and came down into the road.

"I'm goin' to Black Rock," she said stiffly, "follow me." And she went
off with a quick stride down the road.

Peter Nichols took up his bag and started, with difficulty getting to a
place beside her.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd much rather walk with you than behind
you."

She shrugged a shoulder at him.

"Suit yourself," she said.

In this position, Peter made the discovery that her profile was quite as
interesting as her full face, but she no longer smiled. Her reference to
the Deity entirely eliminated Peter and the profession of forestry from
the pale of useful things. He was sorry that she no longer smiled
because he had decided to make friends at Black Rock and he didn't want
to make a bad beginning.

"I hope you don't mind," said Peter at last, "if I tell you that you
have one of the loveliest voices that I have ever heard."

He marked with pleasure the sudden flush of color that ran up under her
delicately freckled tan. Her lips parted and she turned to him
hesitating.

"You--you heard me!"

"I did. It was like the voice of an angel in Heaven."

"Angel! Oh! I'm sorry. I--I didn't know any one was there. I just sing
on my way home from work."

"You've been working to-day?"

She nodded. "Yes--Farmerettin'."

"Farmer----?"

"Workin' in the vineyard at Gaskill's."

"Oh, I see. Do you like it?"

"No," she said dryly. "I just do it for my health. Don't I look sick?"

Peter wasn't used to having people make fun of him. Even as a waiter he
had managed to preserve his dignity intact. But he smiled at her.

"I was wondering what had become of the men around here."

"They're so busy walkin' from one place to another to see where they can
get the highest wages, that there's no time to work in between."

"I see," said Peter, now really amused. "And does Mr. Jonathan McGuire
have difficulty in getting men to work for him?"

"Most of his hired help come from away--like you----But lately they
haven't been stayin' long."

"Why?"

She slowed her pace a little and turned to look at him curiously.

"Do you mean that you don't know the kind of a job you've got?"

"Not much," admitted Peter. "In addition to looking after the preserve,
I'm to watch after the men--and obey orders, I suppose."

"H-m. Preserve! Sorry, Mr. what's your name----"

"Peter Nichols----" put in Peter promptly.

"Well, Mr. Peter Nichols, all I have to say is that you're apt to have a
hard time."

"Yes, I'm against it!" translated Peter confidently.

The girl stopped in the middle of the road, put her hands on her hips
and laughed up at the purpling sky. Her laugh was much like her
singing--if angels in Paradise laugh (and why shouldn't they?). Then
while he wondered what was so amusing she looked at him again.

"_Up_ against it, you mean. You're English, aren't you?"

"Er--yes--I am."

"I thought so. There was one of you in the glass factory. He always
muffed the easy ones."

"Oh, you work in a glass factory?"

"Winters. Manufacturin' whiskey and beer bottles. Now we're goin' dry,
they'll be makin' pop and nursin' bottles, I guess."

"Do you help in the factory?"

"Yes, and in the office. I can shorthand and type a little."

"You must be glad when a summer comes."

"I am. In winter I can't turn around without breakin' something. They
dock you for that----"

"And that's why you sing when you can't break anythin'?"

"I suppose so. I like the open. It isn't right to be cooped up."

They were getting along beautifully and Peter was even beginning to
forget the weight of his heavy bag. She was a quaint creature and quite
as unconscious of him as though he hadn't existed. He was just somebody
to talk to. Peter ventured.

"Er--would you mind telling me your name?"

She looked at him and laughed friendly.

"You must have swallowed a catechism, Mr. Nichols. But everybody in
Black Rock knows everybody else--more'n they want to, I guess. There's
no reason I shouldn't tell you. I don't mind your knowin'. My name is
Beth Cameron."

"Beth----?"

"Yes, Bess--the minister had a lisp."

Peter didn't lack a sense of humor.

"Funny, isn't it?" she queried with a smile as he laughed, "bein' tied
up for life to a name like that just because the parson couldn't talk
straight."

"Beth," he repeated, "but I like it. It's like you. I hope you'll let me
come to see you when I get settled."

"H-m," she said quizzically. "You don't believe in wastin' your time, do
you?" And then, after a brief pause, "You know they call us Pineys back
here in the barrens, but just the same we think a lot of ourselves and
we're a little offish with city folks. You can't be too particular
nowadays about the kind of people you go with."

Peter stared at her and grinned, his sense of the situation more keenly
touched than she could be aware of.

"Particular, are you? I'm glad of that. All the more credit to me if
you'll be my friend."

"I didn't say I was your friend."

"But you're going to be, aren't you? I know something about singing.
I've studied music. Perhaps I could help you."

"You! You've studied? Lord of Love! You're not lyin', are you?"

He laughed. "No. I'm not lying. I was educated to be a musician."

She stared at him now with a new look in her eyes but said nothing. So
Peter spoke again.

"Do you mean to say you've never thought of studying singing?"

"Oh, yes," she said slowly at last, "I've thought of it, just as I've
thought of goin' in the movies and makin' a million dollars. Lots of
good _thinkin'_ does!"

"You've thought of the movies?"

"Yes, once. A girl went from the glass factory. She does extra ladies.
She visited back here last winter. I didn't like what it did to her."

"Oh!" Peter was silent for a while, aware of the pellucid meaning of her
"it." He was learning quite as much from what she didn't say as from
what she did. But he evaded the line of thought suggested.

"You do get tired of Black Rock then?"

"I would if I had time. I'm pretty busy all day, and--see
here--Mr.--er--Nichols. If I asked as many questions as you do, I'd know
as much as Daniel Webster."

"I'm sorry," said Peter, "I beg your pardon."

They walked on in silence for a few moments, Peter puzzling his brain
over the extraordinary creature that chance had thrown in his way. He
could see that she was quite capable of looking out for herself and that
if her smattering of sophistication had opened her eyes, it hadn't much
harmed her.

He really wanted to ask her many more questions, but to tell the truth
he was a little in awe of her dry humor which had a kind of primitive
omniscience and of her laughter which he was now sure was more _at_,
than with, him. But he had, in spite of her, peered for a moment into
the hidden places of her mind and spirit.

It was this intrusion that she resented and he could hardly blame her,
since they had met only eighteen minutes ago. She trotted along beside
him as though quite unaware of the sudden silence or of the thoughts
that might have been passing in his mind. It was Beth who broke the
silence.

"Is your bag heavy?" she asked.

"Not at all," said Peter, mopping the perspiration from his forehead.
"But aren't we nearly there?"

"Oh, yes. It's just a mile or so."

Peter dropped his bag.

"That's what you said it was, back there."

"Did I? Well, maybe it isn't so far as that now. Let me carry your bag a
while."

Thus taunted, he rose, took the bag in his left hand and followed.

"City folks aren't much on doin' for themselves, are they? The taxi
system is very poor down here yet."

Her face was expressionless, but he knew that she was laughing at him.
He knew also that his bag weighed more than any army pack. It seemed too
that she was walking much faster than she had done before--also that
there was malicious humor in the smile she now turned on him.

"Seems a pity to have such a long walk--with nothin' at the end of it."

"I don't mind it in the least," gasped Peter. "And if you don't object
to my asking you just one more question," he went on grimly, "I'd like
you to tell me what is frightening Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire?"

"Oh, McGuire. I don't know. Nobody does. He's been here a couple of
weeks now, cooped up in the big house. Never comes out. They say he
sees ghosts and things."

"Ghosts!"

She nodded. "He's hired some of the men around here to keep watch for
them and they say some detectives are coming. You'll help too, I guess."

"That should be easy."

"Maybe. I don't know. My aunt works there. She's housekeeper. It's
spooky, she says, but she can't afford to quit."

"But they haven't _seen_ anything?" asked Peter incredulously.

"No. Not yet. I guess it might relieve 'em some if they did. It's only
the things you don't see that scare you."

"It sounds like a great deal of nonsense about nothing," muttered Peter.

"All right. Wait until you get there before you do much talkin'."

"I will, but I'm not afraid of ghosts." And then, as an afterthought,
"Are you?"

"Not in daylight. But from what Aunt Tillie says, it must be something
more than a ghost that's frightenin' Jonathan K. McGuire."

"What does she think it is?"

"She doesn't know. Mr. McGuire won't say. He won't allow anybody around
the house without a pass. Oh, he's scared all right and he's got most of
Black Rock scared too. He was never like this before."

"Are you scared?" asked Peter.

"No. I don't think I am really. But it's spooky, and I don't care much
for shootin'."

"What makes you think there will be shooting?"

"On account of the guns and pistols. Whatever the thing is he's afraid
of, he's not goin' to let it come near him if he can help it. Aunt
Tillie says that what with loaded rifles, shotguns and pistols lyin'
loose in every room in the house, it's as much as your life is worth to
do a bit of dustin'. And the men--Shad Wells, Jesse Brown, they all
carry automatics. First thing they know they'll be killin' somebody,"
she finished with conviction.

"Who is Shad Wells----?"

"My cousin, Shadrack E. Wells. He was triplets. The other two died."

"Shad," mused Peter.

"Sounds like a fish, doesn't it? But he isn't." And then more slowly,
"Shad's all right. He's just a plain woodsman, but he doesn't know
anything about making the trees grow," she put in with prim irony.
"You'll be his boss, I guess. He won't care much about that."

"Why?"

"Because he's been runnin' things in a way. I hope you get along with
him."

"So do I----"

"Because if you don't, Shad will eat you at one gobble."

"Oh!" said Peter with a smile. "But perhaps you exaggerate. Don't you
think I might take two--er--gobbles?"

Beth looked him over, and then smiled encouragingly.

"Maybe," she said, "but your hands don't look over-strong."

Peter looked at his right hand curiously. It was not as brown as hers,
but the fingers were long and sinewy.

"They are, though. When you practice five hours a day on the piano, your
hands will do almost anything you want them to."

A silence which Peter improved by shifting his suitcase. The weight of
it had ceased to be amusing. And he was about to ask her how much
further Black Rock was when there was a commotion down the road ahead of
them, as a dark object emerged from around the bend and amid a whirl of
dust an automobile appeared.

"It's the 'Lizzie'," exclaimed Beth unemotionally.

And in a moment the taxi service of Black Rock was at Peter's disposal.

"Carburetor trouble," explained the soiled young man at the wheel
briefly, without apology. And with a glance at Peter's bag--

"Are you the man for McGuire's on the six-thirty?"

Peter admitted that he was and the boy swung the door of the tonneau
open.

"In here with me, Beth," he said to the girl invitingly.

In a moment, the small machine was whirled around and started in the
direction from which it had come, bouncing Peter from side to side and
enveloping him in dust. Jim Hagerman's "Lizzie" wasted no time, once it
set about doing a thing, and in a few moments from the forest they
emerged into a clearing where there were cows in a meadow, and a view of
houses. At the second of these, a frame house with a portico covered
with vines and a small yard with a geranium bed, all enclosed in a
picket fence, the "Lizzie" suddenly stopped and Beth got down.

"Much obliged, Jim," he heard her say.

Almost before Peter had swept off his hat and the girl had nodded, the
"Lizzie" was off again, through the village street, and so to a wooden
bridge across a tea-colored stream, up a slight grade on the other side,
where Jim Hagerman stopped his machine and pointed to a road.

"That's McGuire's--in the pines. They won't let me go no further."

"How much do I owe you?" asked Peter, getting down.

"It's paid for, Mister. Slam the door, will ye?" And in another moment
Peter was left alone.

It was now after sunset, and the depths of the wood were bathed in
shadow. Peter took the road indicated and in a moment reached two stone
pillars where a man was standing. Beyond the man he had a glimpse of
lawns, a well-kept driveway which curved toward the wood. The man at the
gate was of about Peter's age but tall and angular, well tanned by
exposure and gave an appearance of intelligence and capacity.

"I came to see Mr. McGuire," said Peter amiably.

"And what's your name?"

"Nichols. I'm the new forester from New York."

The young man at the gate smiled in a satirical way.

"Nichols. That was the name," he ruminated. And then with a shout to
some one in the woods below, "Hey, Andy. Come take the gate."

All the while Peter felt the gaze of the young man going over him
minutely and found himself wondering whether or not this was the person
who was going to take him at a gobble.

It was. For when the other man came running Peter heard him call the
gateman, "Shad."

"Are you Mr. Shad Wells?" asked Peter politely with the pleasant air of
one who has made an agreeable discovery.

"That's my name. Who told you?"

"Miss Beth Cameron," replied Peter. "We came part of the way together."

"H-m! Come," he said laconically and led the way up the road toward the
house. Peter didn't think he was very polite.

Had it not been for the precautions of his guide, Peter would have been
willing quite easily to forget the tales that had been told him of Black
Rock. The place was very prettily situated in the midst of a very fine
growth of pines, spruce and maple. At one side ran the tea-colored
stream, tumbling over an ancient dam to levels below, where it joined
the old race below the ruin that had once been a mill. The McGuire
house emerged in a moment from its woods and shrubbery, and stood
revealed--a plain square Georgian dwelling of brick, to which had been
added a long wing in a poor imitation of the same style and a garage and
stables in no style at all on the slope beyond. It seemed a most prosaic
place even in the gathering dusk and Peter seemed quite unable to
visualize it as the center of a mystery such as had been described. And
the laconic individual who had been born triplets was even less
calculated to carry out such an illusion.

But just as they were crossing the lawn on the approach to the house,
the earth beneath a clump of bushes vomited forth two men, like the
fruit of the Dragon's Teeth, armed with rifles, who barred their way.
Both men were grinning from ear to ear.

"All right, Jesse," said Shad with a laugh. "It's me and the new
forester." He uttered the words with an undeniable accent of contempt.

The armed figures glanced at Peter and disappeared, and Peter and Mr.
Shad Wells went up the steps of the house to a spacious portico. There
was not a human being in sight and the heavy wooden blinds to the lower
floor were tightly shut. Before his guide had even reached the door the
sound of their footsteps had aroused some one within the house, the door
was opened the length of its chain and a face appeared at the aperture.

"Who is it?" asked a male voice.

"Shad Wells and Mr. Nichols, the man from New York."

"Wait a minute," was the reply while the door was immediately shut
again.

Peter glanced around him comparing this strange situation with another
that he remembered, when a real terror had come, a tangible terror in
the shape of a countryside gone mad with blood lust. He smiled toward
the bush where the armed men lay concealed and toward the gate where
the other armed man was standing. It was all so like a situation out of
an _opéra bouffe_ of Offenbach.

What he felt now in this strange situation was an intense curiosity to
learn the meaning of it all, to meet the mysterious person around whom
all these preparations centered. Peter had known fear many times, for
fear was in the air for weeks along the Russian front, the fear of
German shells, of poison gas, and of that worst poison of all--Russian
treachery. But that fear was not like this fear, which was intimate,
personal but intangible. He marked it in the scrutiny of the man who
opened the door and of the aged woman who suddenly appeared beside him
in the dim hallway and led him noiselessly up the stair to a lighted
room upon the second floor. At the doorway the woman paused.

"Mr. Nichols, Mr. McGuire," she said, and Peter entered.




CHAPTER IV

THE JOB


The room was full of tobacco smoke, through which Peter dimly made out a
table with an oil lamp, beside which were chairs, a sofa, and beyond, a
steel safe between the windows. As Peter Nichols entered, a man advanced
from a window at the side, the shutter of which was slightly ajar. It
was evident that not content to leave his safety in the hands of those
he had employed to preserve it, he had been watching too.

He was in his shirt sleeves, a man of medium height, compactly built,
and well past the half century mark. The distinguishing features of his
face were a short nose, a heavy thatch of brows, a square jaw which
showed the need of the offices of a razor and his lips wore a short,
square mustache somewhat stained by nicotine.

In point of eagerness the manner of his greeting of the newcomer left
nothing to be desired. Peter's first impression was that Jonathan K.
McGuire was quite able to look out for himself, which confirmed the
impression that the inspection to which Peter had been subjected was
nothing but a joke. But when his employer began speaking rather jerkily,
Peter noticed that his hands were unsteady and that neither the muscles
of his face nor of his body were under complete control. Normally, he
would have seemed much as Sheldon, Senior, had described him--a
hard-fisted man, a close bargainer who had won his way to his great
wealth by the sheer force of a strong personality. There was little of
softness in his face, little that was imaginative. This was not a man
to be frightened at the Unseen or to see terrors that did not exist.
Otherwise, to Peter he seemed commonplace to the last degree, of Irish
extraction probably, the kind of person one meets daily on Broadway or
on the Strand. In a fur coat he might have been taken for a banker; in
tweeds, for a small tradesman; or in his shirt as Peter now saw him, the
wristbands and collar somewhat soiled from perspiration, for a laboring
man taking his rest after an arduous day. In other words, he was very
much what his clothes would make of him, betraying his origins in a
rather strident voice meant perhaps to conceal the true state of his
mind.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Nichols. Thought you were never comin'," he jerked
out.

"I walked most of the way from Pickerel River. Something went wrong,
with the 'Lizzie.'"

"Oh--er--'Lizzie'. The flivver! I couldn't send my own car. I've got
only one down here and I might need it."

"It doesn't matter in the least--since I'm here."

"Sit down, Mr. Nichols," went on McGuire indicating a chair. "You've
been well recommended by Mr. Sheldon. I talked to him yesterday over
long distance. He told you what I wanted?"

"Something. Not much," said Peter with a view to getting all the
information possible. "You wanted a forester----?"

"Er--er--yes, that's it. A forester." And then he went on
haltingly--"I've got about twenty thousand acres here--mostly scrub
oak--pine and spruce. I've sold off a lot to the Government. A mess of
it has been cut--there's been a lot of waste--and the fire season is
coming around. That's the big job--the all-the-year job. You've had
experience?"

"Yes--in Russia. I'm a trained woodsman."

"You're a good all-round man?"

"Exactly what----?" began Peter.

"You know how to look after yourself--to look after other men, to take
charge of a considerable number of people in my employ?"

"Yes. I'm used to dealing with men."

"It's a big job, Mr. Nichols--a ticklish kind of a job for a
furriner--one with some--er--unusual features--that may call for--er--a
lot of tact. And--er--courage."

It seemed to Peter that Jonathan K. McGuire was talking almost at
random, that the general topic of forestry was less near his heart
to-night than the one that was uppermost in Peter's mind, the mystery
that surrounded his employer and the agencies invoked to protect him. It
seemed as if he were loath to speak of them, as if he were holding Peter
off at arm's length, so to say, until he had fully made up his mind that
this and no other man was the one he wanted, for all the while he was
examining the visitor with burning, beady, gray eyes, as though trying
to peer into his mind.

"I'm not afraid of a forester's job, no matter how big it is, if I have
men enough," said Peter, still curious.

"And you're a pretty good man in a pinch, I mean----" he put in jerkily,
"you're not easy scared--don't lose your nerve."

"I'll take my chances on that," replied Peter calmly. "I'm used to
commanding men, in emergencies--if that's what you mean."

"Yes. That's what I mean. Er--you're an Englishman, Mr. Sheldon says."

"Er--yes," said Peter, "an Englishman," for this was the truth now more
than ever before, and then repeated the story he had told in New York
about his work in Russia. While Peter was talking, McGuire was pacing up
and down the room with short nervous strides, nodding his head in
understanding from time to time. When Peter paused he returned to his
chair.

"You British are a pretty steady lot," said McGuire at last. "I think
you'll do. I like the way you talk and I like your looks. Younger than
I'd hoped maybe, but then you're strong--Mr. Sheldon says you're strong,
Mr. Nichols."

"Oh, yes," said Peter, his curiosity now getting the better of him. "But
it might be as well, Mr. McGuire, if you let me know just what, that is
unusual, is to be required of me. I assume that you want me to take
command of the men policing your grounds--and immediate property?"

"Er--yes. That will have to be put in shape at once--at once." He leaned
suddenly forward in his chair, his hairy hands clutching at his knees,
while he blurted out with a kind of relieved tension, "No one must come
near the house at night. No one, you understand----"

"I understand, sir----" said Peter, waiting patiently for a revelation.

"There'll be no excuse if any one gets near the house without my
permission," he snarled. And then almost sullenly again--"You
understand?"

"Perfectly. That should not be difficult to----"

"It may be more difficult than you think," broke in McGuire, springing
to his feet again, and jerking out his phrases with strange fury.

"Nothing is to be taken for granted. Nothing," he raged. Peter was
silent for a moment, watching McGuire who had paced the length of the
room and back.

"I understand, sir," he said at last. "But doesn't it seem to you that
both I and the man under me could do our work with more intelligence if
we knew just who or what is to be guarded against?" Mr. McGuire stopped
beside him as though transfixed by the thought. Then his fingers
clutched at the back of a chair to which he clung for a moment in
silence, his brows beetling. And when he spoke all the breath of his
body seemed concentrated in a hoarse whisper.

"You won't know that. You understand, I give the orders. You obey them.
I am not a man who answers questions. Don't ask them."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. So long as this thing you fear is human----"

"Human! A ghost! Who said I was afraid? Sheldon? Let him think it. This
is _my_ business. There are many things of value in this house," and he
glanced towards the safe. "I'm using the right of any man to protect
what belongs to him."

"I see," said Peter.

The man's tension relaxed as he realized Peter's coolness.

"Call it a fancy if you like, Mr. Nichols----" he said with a shrug. "A
man of my age may have fancies when he can afford to gratify 'em."

"That's your affair," said Peter easily. "I take it then that the
systematic policing of the grounds is the first thing I am to consider."

"Exactly. The systematic policing of the grounds--the dividing of your
men into shifts for day and night work--more at night than in the day.
Three more men come to-morrow. They will all look to you for orders."

"And who is in charge now?"

"A man named Wells--a native--the foreman from one of the sawmills--but
he--er--well, Mr. Nichols--I'm not satisfied. That's why I wanted a man
from outside."

"I understand. And will you give the necessary orders to him?"

"Wells was up here to-day, I told him."

"How many men are on guard here at the house?"

"Ten and with the three coming--that makes thirteen----" McGuire
halted--"thirteen--but you make the fourteenth," he added.

Peter nodded. "And you wish me to take charge at once?"

"At once. To-night. To-morrow you can look over the ground more
carefully. You'll sleep in the old playhouse--the log cabin--down by the
creek. They'll show you. It's connected with this house by 'phone. I'll
talk to you again to-morrow; you'd better go down and get something to
eat."

McGuire went to the door and called out "Tillie!"

And as a faint reply was heard, "Get Mr. Nichols some supper."

Peter rose and offered his hand.

"I'll try to justify your faith in me, sir. Much obliged."

"Good-night."

Peter went down the stairs with mingled feelings. If the words of Beth
Cameron had created in his mind a notion that the mystery surrounding
Black Rock was supernatural in character, the interview with Jonathan K.
McGuire had dispelled it. That McGuire was a very much frightened man
was certain, but it seemed equally certain to Peter that what he feared
was no ghost or banshee but the imminence of some human attack upon his
person or possessions. Here was a practical man, who bore in every
feature of his strongly-marked face the tokens of a successful struggle
in a hard career, the beginnings of which could not have been any too
fortunate. A westerner whose broad hands and twisted fingers spoke
eloquently of manual labor, a man who still possessed to all appearances
considerable physical strength--a prey to the fear of some night danger
which was too ominous even to be talked about.

It was the quality of his terror that was disturbing. Peter was well
acquainted with the physical aspects of fear--that is the fear of
violence and death. That kind of fear made men restless and nervous, or
silent and preoccupied; or like liquor it accentuated their weaknesses
of fiber in sullenness or bravado. But it did not make them furtive. He
could not believe that it was the mere danger of death or physical
violence that obsessed his employer. That sort of danger perhaps there
might be, but the fear that he had seen in McGuire's fanatical gray eyes
was born of something more than these. Whatever it was that McGuire
feared, it reached further within--a threat which would destroy not his
body alone, but something more vital even than that--the very spirit
that lived within him.

Of his career, Peter knew nothing more than Sheldon, Senior, had told
him--a successful man who told nothing of his business except to the
Treasury Department, a silent man, with a passion for making money. What
could he fear? Whom? What specter out of the past could conjure up the
visions he had seen dancing between McGuire's eyes and his own?

These questions it seemed were not to be answered and Peter, as he sat
down at the supper table, put them resolutely from his mind and
addressed himself to the excellent meal provided by the housekeeper. For
the present, at least, fortune smiled upon him. The terrors of his
employer could not long prevail against the healthy appetite of
six-and-twenty.

But it was not long before Peter discovered that the atmosphere of the
room upstairs pervaded the dining room, library and halls. There were a
cook and housemaid he discovered, neither of them visible. The
housekeeper, if attentive, was silent, and the man who had opened the
front door, who seemed to be a kind of general factotum, as well as
personal bodyguard to Mr. McGuire, crept furtively about the house in an
unquiet manner which would have been disturbing to the digestion of one
less timorous than Peter.

Before the meal was finished this man came into the room and laid a
police whistle, a large new revolver and a box of cartridges beside
Peter's dish of strawberries.

"These are for you, sir," he whispered sepulchrally. "Mr. McGuire asked
me to give them to you--for to-night."

"Thanks," said Peter, "and you----"

"I'm Stryker, sir, Mr. McGuire's valet."

"Oh!"

Peter's accent of surprise came from his inability to reconcile Stryker
with the soiled shirt and the three days' growth of beard on the man
upstairs, which more than ever testified to the disorder of his mental
condition.

And as Stryker went out and his footsteps were heard no more, the
housekeeper emerged cautiously from the pantry.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Nichols?" she asked in a stage whisper.

"Right as rain. Delicious! I'm very much obliged to you."

"I mean--er--there ain't anythin' else ye'd like?"

"Nothing, thanks," said Peter, taking up the revolver and breaking it.
He had cut the cover of the cartridge box and had slipped a cartridge
into the weapon when he heard the voice of the woman at his ear.

"D'ye think there's any danger, sir?" she whispered, while she nervously
eyed the weapon.

"I'm sure I don't know. Not to you, I'd say," he muttered, still putting
the cartridges in the pistol. As an ex-military man, he was taking
great delight in the perfect mechanism of his new weapon.

"What is it----? I mean, d'ye think----," she stammered, "did Mr.
McGuire say--just what it is he's afraid of?"

"No," said Peter, "he didn't." And then with a grin, "Do you know?"

"No, sir. I wish t'God I did. Then there'd be somethin' to go by."

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Mrs. ----"

"Tillie Bergen. I've been housekeeper here since the new wing was put
on----"

"Oh, yes," said Peter, pausing over the last cartridge as the thought
came to him. "Then you must be Beth Cameron's aunt?"

"Beth?" The woman's sober face wreathed in a lovely smile. "D'ye know
Beth?"

"Since this afternoon. She showed me the way."

"Oh. Poor Beth."

"Poor!"

"Oh, we're all poor, Mr. Nichols. But Beth she's--different from the
rest of us somehow."

"Yes, she _is_ different," admitted Peter frankly.

Mrs. Bergen sighed deeply. "Ye don't know how different. And now
that--all this trouble has come, I can't get home nights to her. And she
can't come to see me without permission. How long d'ye think it will
last, sir?"

"I don't know," said Peter, slipping the revolver and cartridges into
his pockets. And then gallantly, "If I can offer you my services, I'd be
glad to take you home at night----"

"It's against orders. And I wouldn't dare, Mr. Nichols. As it is I've
got about as much as I can stand. If it wasn't for the money I wouldn't
be stayin' in the house another hour."

"Perhaps things won't be so bad after a time. If anything is going to
happen, it ought to be pretty soon."

She regarded him wistfully as he moved toward the door. "An' ye'll tell
me, sir, if anything out o' the way happens."

"I hope nothing is going to happen, Mrs. Bergen," said Peter cheerfully.

Stryker appeared mysteriously from the darkness as Peter went out into
the hall.

"The upstairs girl made up your bed down at the cabin, sir. The
chauffeur took your bag over. You'll need these matches. If you'll wait,
sir, I'll call Mr. Wells."

Peter wondered at the man in this most unconventional household, for
Stryker, with all the prescience of a well-trained servant, had already
decided that Peter belonged to a class accustomed to being waited on.
Going to the door he blew one short blast on a police whistle, like
Peter's, which he brought forth from his pocket.

"That will bring him, sir," he said. "If you'll go out on the portico,
he'll join you in a moment."

Peter obeyed. The door was closed and fastened behind him and almost
before he had taken his lungs full of the clean night air (for the house
had been hot and stuffy), a shadow came slouching across the lawn in the
moonlight. Peter joined the man at once and they walked around the
house, while Peter questioned him as to the number of men and their
disposition about the place. There were six, he found, including Wells,
with six more to sleep in the stable, which was also used as a
guardhouse. Peter made the rounds of the sentries. None of them seemed
to be taking the matter any too seriously and one at least was sound
asleep beneath some bushes. Peter foresaw difficulties. Under the
leadership of Shad Wells the strategic points were not covered, and, had
he wished, he could have found his way, by using the cover of shadow and
shrubbery, to the portico without being observed. He pointed this out to
Wells who, from a supercilious attitude, changed to one of defiance.

"You seem to think you know a lot, Mister?" he said. "I'd like to see ye
try it."

Peter laughed.

"Very well. Take your posts and keep strict watch, but don't move. If I
don't walk across the lawn from the house in half an hour I'll give you
ten dollars. In return you can take a shot if you see me."

He thought the men needed the object lesson. Peter was an excellent
"point." He disappeared into the woods behind him and making his way
cautiously out, found a road, doubling to the other side of the garage
along which he went on his hands and knees and crawling from shrub to
shrub in the shadows reached the portico without detection. Here he
lighted a fag and quietly strolled down to the spot where he had left
Shad Wells, to whom he offered a cigarette by way of consolation. Wells
took it grudgingly. But he took it, which was one point gained.

"Right smart, aren't ye?" said Shad.

"No," said Peter coolly. "Anybody could have done it,--in three ways.
The other two ways are through the pine grove to the left and from the
big sycamore by the stream."

"And how do you know all that?"

"I was in the Army," said Peter. "It's a business like anything else."

And he pointed out briefly where the five men should be stationed and
why, and Shad, somewhat mollified by the cigarette, shrugged and
agreed.

"We'll do sentry duty in the regular way," went on Peter cheerfully,
"with a corporal of the guard and a countersign. I'll explain in detail
to-morrow." And then to Shad, "I'll take command until midnight, when
you'll go on with the other shift until four. I'll make it clear to the
other men. The countersign is the word 'Purple.' You'd better go and
turn in. I'll call you at twelve."

Peter watched the figure of the woodsman go ambling across the lawn in
the direction of the garage and smiled. He also marked the vertical line
of light which showed at a window on the second floor where another kept
watch. The man called Jesse, the one who had been asleep beneath the
bushes, and who, fully awake, had watched Peter's exhibition of
scouting, now turned to Peter with a laugh.

"I guess you're right, Mister. S'long's we're paid. But I'd like to know
just what this 'ere thing is the ol' man's skeered of."

"You know as much as I do. It will probably have two legs, two hands and
a face and carry a gun. You'd better be sure you're not asleep when it
comes. But if you care to know what I think, you can be pretty sure that
it's coming--and before very long."

"To-night?"

"How do I know? Have a cigarette? You cover from the road to the big
cedar tree; and keep your eyes open--especially in the shadows--and
don't let anybody get you in the back."

And so making the rounds, instilling in their minds a sense of real
emergency, Peter gave the men their new sentry posts and made friends.
He had decided to stay up all night, but at twelve he called Shad Wells
and went down to look over his cabin which was a quarter of a mile away
from the house near Cedar Creek (or "Crick" in the vernacular). The key
was in the cabin door so he unlocked it and went in, and after striking
a match found a kerosene lamp which he lighted and then looked about
him.

The building had only one room but it was of large dimensions and
contained a wooden bed with four posts, evidently some one's heirloom, a
bureau, washstand, two tables and an easy chair or two. Behind the bed
was a miscellaneous lot of rubbish, including a crib, a rocking horse, a
velocipede, beside some smaller toys. Whom had these things belonged to?
A grandson of McGuire's? And was the daughter of McGuire like her
father, unlovely, soiled and terror-stricken? His desultory mental
queries suddenly stopped as he raised his eyes to the far corner of the
room, for there, covered with an old shawl, he made out the lines of a
piano. He opened the keyboard and struck a chord. It wasn't so bad--a
little tuning--he could do it himself....

So this was his new home! He had not yet had the time or the opportunity
to learn what new difficulties were to face him on the morrow, but the
personal affairs of his employer had piqued his interest and for the
present he had done everything possible to insure his safety for the
night. To-morrow perhaps he would learn something more about the causes
of this situation. He would have an opportunity too to look over the
property and make a report as to its possibilities. To a man inured as
Peter was to disappointments, what he had found was good. He had made up
his mind to fit himself soldierlike into his new situation and he had to
admit now that he liked the prospect. As though to compensate for past
mischief, Fate had provided him with the one employment in the new land
for which he was best suited by training and inclination. It was the one
"job" in which, if he were permitted a fair amount of freedom of action
and initiative, he was sure that he could "make good." The trees he
could see were not the stately pines of Zukovo, but they were pines, and
the breeze which floated in to him through the cabin door was laden with
familiar odors.

The bed looked inviting, but he resolutely turned his back to it and
unpacked his suitcase, taking off his tailor-made clothing and putting
on the flannel shirt, corduroy trousers and heavy laced boots, all of
which he had bought before leaving New York. Then he went to the doorway
and stood looking out into the night.

The moonbeams had laid a patine of silver upon the floor of the small
clearing before the door, and played softly among the shadows. So silent
was the night that minute distant sounds were clearly audible--the
stream seemed to be tinkling just at his elbow, while much farther away
there was a low murmur of falling water at the tumbling dam, mingling
with the sighs of vagrant airs among the crowns of the trees, the rustle
and creak of dry branches, the whispering of leaf to leaf. Wakeful birds
deceived by the moon piped softly and were silent. An owl called. And
then for the briefest moment, except for the stream, utter silence.

Peter strode forth, bathed himself in the moonlight and drank deep of
the airs of the forest. America! He had chosen! Her youth called to his.
He wanted to forget everything that had gone before, the horrors through
which he had passed, both physical and spiritual,--the dying struggles
of the senile nation, born in intolerance, grown in ignorance and
stupidity which, with a mad gesture, had cast him forth with a curse. He
had doffed the empty prerogatives of blood and station and left them in
the mire and blood. The soul of Russia was dead and he had thought that
his own had died with hers, but from the dead thing a new soul might
germinate as it had now germinated in him. He had been born again.
_Novaya Jezn!_ The New Life! He had found it.

He listened intently as though for its heartbeats, his face turned up
toward the silent pines. For a long while he stood so and then went
indoors and sat at the old piano playing softly.




CHAPTER V

NEW ELEMENTS


Some of the men on guard in the middle watch reported that they had
heard what seemed to be the sounds of music very far away in the woods
and were disturbed at the trick their ears had played upon them. But
Peter didn't tell them the truth. If listening for the notes of a piano
would keep them awake, listen they should. He slept until noon and then
went to the house for orders.

Morning seemed to make a difference in the point of view. If the moon
had made the night lovely, the sun brought with it the promise of every
good thing. The walk through the woods to Black Rock House was a joy,
very slightly alleviated by the poor condition of the trees under which
Peter passed. It was primeval forest even here, with valuable trees
stunted and poor ones vastly overgrown according to nature's law which
provides for the survival of the fittest. This was the law too, which
was to be applied to Peter. Would he grow straight and true in this
foreign soil or gnarled and misshapen like the cedars and the maples
that he saw? Yes. He would grow and straight ... straight.

Optimism seemed to be the order of the new day. At the house he found
that his employer had put on a clean shirt and was freshly shaven. The
windows of the room were opened wide to the sunlight which streamed into
the room, revealing its darkest corners. McGuire himself seemed to have
responded to the effulgence of the sun and the balmy air which swept
across his table. His manner was now calm, his voice more measured.

When Peter came into the room, Mr. McGuire closed the heavy doors of the
steel safe carefully and turned to greet him.

"Oh, glad to see you, Nichols," he said more cheerfully. "A quiet night,
I understand."

"Yes," laughed Nichols, "except for the man who got through the guards
and smoked a cigarette on your portico."

"What!" gasped McGuire.

"Don't be alarmed, sir. It was only myself. I wanted to show Shad Wells
the defects of his police system."

"Oh! Ah! Ha, ha, yes, of course. Very good. And you weren't shot at?"

"Oh, no, sir--though I'd given them leave to pot me if they could. But I
think you're adequately protected now."

"Good," said McGuire. "Have a cigar. I'm glad you've come. I wanted to
talk to you."

And when they had lighted their cigars, "It's about this very guard.
I--I'm afraid you'll have to keep your men under cover at least in the
daytime."

"Under cover?"

"Well, you see," went on McGuire in some hesitation, "my daughter (he
called it darter) Peggy is motoring down from New York to-day. I don't
want her, but she's coming. I couldn't stop her. She doesn't know
anything about this--er--this guarding the house. And I don't want her
to know. She mustn't know. She'd ask questions. I don't want questions
asked. I'll get her away as soon as I can, but she mustn't be put into
any danger."

"I see," said Peter examining the ash of his cigar. "You don't want her
to know anything about the impending attempts upon your life and
property."

"Yes, that's it," said McGuire impatiently. "I don't want her to find
out. Er--she couldn't understand. You know women, Nichols. They talk too
much." He paused "It's--er--necessary that none of her friends in New
York or mine should know of--er--any danger that threatens me. And of
course--er--any danger that threatens me would--in a way--threaten her.
You see?"

"I think so."

"I've put all weapons under cover. I don't want her to see 'em. So when
she comes--which may be at any moment--nothing must be said about the
men outside and what they're there for. In the daytime they must be
given something to do about the place--trimming the lawns, pruning trees
or weeding the driveway. Pay 'em what they ask, but don't let any of 'em
go away. You'll explain this to the new men. As for yourself--er--of
course you're my new superintendent and forester."

McGuire got up and paced the floor slowly looking at Peter out of the
tail of his eye.

"I like you, Nichols. We'll get along. You've got courage and
intelligence--and of course anybody can see you're a gentleman. You'll
keep on taking your meals in the house----"

"If you'd like me to go elsewhere----"

"No. I see no reason why Peggy shouldn't like you. I hope she will. But
she's very headstrong, has been since a kid. I suppose I humor her a
bit--who wouldn't? I lost my oldest girl and her boy with the 'flu.' Her
husband's still in France. And Peggy's got a will of her own, Peg has,"
he finished in a kind of admiring abstraction. "Got a society bee in her
bonnet. Wants to go with all the swells. I'm backin' her, Nichols.
She'll do it too before she's through," he finished proudly.

"I haven't a doubt of it," said Peter soberly, though very much amused
at his employer's ingenuousness. Here then, was the weak spot in the
armor of this relentless millionaire--his daughter. The older one and
her child were dead. That accounted for the toys in the cabin. Peggy
sounded interesting'--if nothing else, for her vitality.

"I'd better see about this at once, then. If she should come----"

Peter rose and was about to leave the room when there was a sound of an
automobile horn and the sudden roar of an exhaust outside. He followed
McGuire to the window and saw a low red runabout containing a girl and a
male companion emerging from the trees. A man in the road was holding up
his hands in signal for the machine to stop and had barely time to leap
aside to avoid being run down. The car roared up to the portico, the
breathless man, who was Shad Wells, pursuing. Peter was glad that he had
had the good sense not to shoot. He turned to his employer, prepared for
either anger or dismay and found that McGuire was merely grinning and
chuckling softly as though to himself.

"Just like her!" he muttered, "some kid, that!"

Meanwhile Shad Wells, making a bad race of it was only halfway up the
drive, when at a signal and shout from McGuire, he stopped running,
stared, spat and returned to his post.

There was a commotion downstairs, the shooting of bolts, the sounds of
voices and presently the quick patter of feminine footsteps which
McGuire, now completely oblivious of Peter, went to meet.

"Well, daughter!"

"Hello, Pop!"

Peter caught a glimpse of a face and straggling brown hair, quickly
engulfed in McGuire's arms.

"What on earth----" began McGuire.

"Thought we'd give you a little touch of high life, Pop. It was so hot
in town. And the hotel's full of a convention of rough necks. I brought
Freddy with me and Mildred and Jack are in the other car. We thought the
rest might do us good."

The voice was nasal and pitched high, as though she were trying to make
herself audible in a crowd. Peter was ready to revise his estimate that
her face was pretty, for to him no woman was more beautiful than her own
voice.

"But you can't stay here, Peg," went on McGuire, "not more than over
night--with all these people. I'm very busy----"

"H-m. We'll see about that. I never saw the woods look prettier. We came
by Lakewood and Brown's Mills and--Why who----?"

As she sidled into the room she suddenly espied Peter who was still
standing by the window.

"Who----? Why--Oh, yes, this is my new superintendent and forester. Meet
my daughter,--Mr. Nichols."

Peter bowed and expressed pleasure. Miss McGuire swept him with a quick
glance that took in his flannel shirt, corduroy breeches and rough
boots, nodded pertly and turned away.

Peter smiled. Like Beth Cameron this girl was very particular in
choosing her acquaintances.

"I nearly killed a guy in the driveway," she went on, "who was he, Pop?"

"Er--one of the gardeners, I've told them to keep people off the place."

"Well. I'd like to see him keep _me_ off! I suppose he'll be trying to
hold up Mildred and Jack----"

She walked to the window passing close beside Peter, paying as little
attention to his presence as if he had been, an article of furniture.

"Can't you get this man to go down," she said indicating Peter, "and
tell them it's all right?"

"Of course," said Peter politely. "I'll go at once. And I'd like to
arrange to look over part of the estate with Wells, Mr. McGuire," he
added.

"All right, Nichols," said the old man with a frown. And then
significantly--"But remember what I've told you. Make careful
arrangements before you go."

"Yes, sir."

Peter went down the stairs, amused at his dismissal. On the veranda he
found a young man sitting on some suitcases smoking a cigarette. This
was Freddy, of course. He afterwards learned that his last name was
Mordaunt, that he was a part of Peggy's ambitions, and that he had been
invalided home from a camp and discharged from the military service. As
Freddy turned, Peter bowed politely and passed on. Having catalogued him
by his clothing, Freddy like Peggy had turned away, smoking his
cigarette.

Peter thought that some Americans were born with bad manners, some
achieved bad manners, and others had bad manners thrust upon them.
Impoliteness was nothing new to him, since he had been in America. It
was indigenous. Personally, he didn't mind what sort of people he met,
but he seemed to be aware that a new element had come to Black Rock
which was to make disquietude for Jonathan K. McGuire and difficulty for
himself. And yet too there was a modicum of safety, perhaps, in the
presence of these new arrivals, for it had been clear from his
employer's demeanor that the terrors of the night had passed with the
coming of the day.

He commented on this to Shad Wells, who informed him that night was
always the old man's bad time.

"Seems sort o' like he's skeered o' the dark. 'Tain't nateral. 'Fraid o'
ghosts, they say," he laughed.

"Well," said Peter, "we've got our orders. And the thing he fears isn't
a ghost. It's human."

"Sure?"

"Yes. And since he's more afraid after dark he has probably had his
warning. But we're not to take any chances."

Having given his new orders to Jesse, who was to be in charge during
their absence, they struck into the woods upon the other side of the
Creek for the appraisal of a part of the strip known as the "Upper
Reserve." From an attitude of suspicion and sneering contempt Peter's
companion had changed to one of indifference. The unfailing good humor
of the new superintendent had done something to prepare the ground for
an endurable relation between them. Like Beth Cameron Shad had sneered
at the word "forester." He was the average lumberman, only interested in
the cutting down of trees for the market--the commercial aspect of the
business--heedless of the future, indifferent to the dangers of
deforestation. Peter tried to explain to him that forestry actually
means using the forest as the farmer uses his land, cutting out the
mature and overripe trees and giving the seedlings beneath more light
that they may furnish the succeeding crop of timber. He knew that the
man was intelligent enough, and explained as well as he could from such
statistics as he could recall how soon the natural resources of the
country would be exhausted under the existing indifference.

"Quite a bit of wood here, Mister--enough for my job," said Shad.

But after a while Peter began to make him understand and showed him what
trees should be marked for cutting and why. They came to a burned patch
of at least a hundred acres.

"Is there any organized system for fighting these fires?" Peter asked.

"System! Well, when there's a fire we go and try to put it out----"
laughed Wells.

"How do the fires start?"

"Campers--hunters mos'ly--in the deer season. Railroads sometimes--at
the upper end."

"And you keep no watch for smoke?"

"Where would we watch from?"

"Towers. They ought to be built--with telephone connection to
headquarters."

"D'ye think the old man will stand for that?"

"He ought to. It's insurance."

"Oh!"

"It looks to me, Wells," said Peter after a pause, "that a good 'crown'
fire and a high gale, would turn all this country to cinders--like
this."

"It's never happened yet."

"It may happen. Then good-by to your jobs--and to Black Rock too
perhaps."

"I guess Black Rock can stand it, if the old man can."

They walked around the charred clearing and mounted a high sand dune,
from which they could see over a wide stretch of country. With a high
wooden platform here the whole of the Upper Reserve could be watched.
They sat for a while among the sandwort and smoked, while Peter
described the work in the German forests that he had observed before the
war. Shad had now reached the point of listening and asking questions as
the thought was more and more borne into his mind that this new
superintendent was not merely talking for talk's sake, but because he
knew more about the woods than any man the native had ever talked with,
and wanted Shad to know too. For Peter had an answer to all of his
questions, and Shad, though envious of Peter's grammar--for he had
reached an age to appreciate it--was secretly scornful of Peter's white
hands and carefully tied black cravat.

This dune was at the end of the first day's "cruise" and Shad had risen
preparatory to returning toward Black Rock when they both heard a
sound,--away off to their right, borne down to them clearly on the
breeze--the voice of a girl singing.

"Beth," said Shad with a kindling eye. And then carelessly spat, to
conceal his emotions.

"What on earth can she be doing in here?" asked Peter.

"Only half a mile from the road. It's the short cut from Gaskill's."

"I see," from Peter.

"Do you reckon you can find your way back alone, Nichols?" said Shad,
spitting again.

Peter grinned. "I reckon I can try," he said.

Shad pointed with his long arm in the general direction of Heaven. "That
way!" he muttered and went into the scrub oak with indecent haste.

Peter sat looking with undisguised interest at the spot where he had
disappeared, tracing him for a while through the moving foliage,
listening to the crackling of the underbrush, as the sounds receded.

It was time to be turning homeward, but the hour was still inviting, the
breeze balmy, the sun not too warm, so Peter lay back among the grasses
in the sand smoking a fresh cigarette. Far overhead buzzards were
wheeling. They recalled those other birds of prey that he had often
watched, ready to swoop down along the lines of the almost defenseless
Russians. Here all was so quiet. The world was a very beautiful place if
men would only leave it so. The voice of the girl was silent now. Shad
had probably joined her. Somehow, Peter hadn't been able to think of any
relationship, other than the cousinly one, between Shad Wells and Beth.
He had only known the girl for half an hour but as Aunt Tillie Bergen
had said, her niece seemed different from the other natives that Peter
had met. Her teeth were sound and white, suggesting habits of personal
cleanliness; her conversation, though careless, showed at the very
least, a grammar school training. And Shad--well, Shad was nothing but a
"Piney."

Pity--with a voice like that--she ought to have had opportunities--this
scornful little Beth. Peter closed his eyes and dozed. He expected to
have no difficulty in finding his way home, for he had a pocket compass
and the road could not be far distant. He liked this place. He would
build a tower here, a hundred-foot tower, of timbers, and here a man
should be stationed all day--to watch for wisps of smoke during the
hunting season. Smoke ... Tower ... In a moment he snored gently.

"Halloo!" came a voice in his dream. "Halloo! Halloo!"

Peter started rubbing his eyes, aware of the smoking cigarette in the
grasses beside him.

Stupid, that! To do the very thing he had been warning Shad Wells
against. He smeared the smoking stub out in the sand and sat up yawning
and stretching his arms.

"Halloo!" said the voice in his dream, almost at his ear. "Tryin' to set
the woods afire?"

The question had the curious dropping intonation at its end. But the
purport annoyed him.

Nothing that she could have said could have provoked him more! Behind
her he saw the dark face of Shad Wells break into a grin.

"I fell asleep," said Peter, getting to his feet.

Beth laughed. "Lucky you weren't burnt to death. _Then_ how would the
trees get along?"

Peter's toe burrowed after the defunct cigarette.

"I know what I'm about," he muttered, aware of further loss of dignity.

"Oh, do you? Then which way were you thinkin' of goin' home?"

Peter glanced around, pointed vaguely, and Beth Cameron laughed.

"I guess you'd land in Egg Harbor, or thereabouts."

Her laugh was infectious and Peter at last echoed it.

"You's better be goin' along with us. Shad asked me to come and get you,
didn't you, Shad?"

Peter glanced at the woodsman's black scowl and grinned, recalling his
desertion and precipitate disappearance into the bushes.

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you both," said Peter diplomatically.
"But I think I can find my way in."

"Not if you start for Hammonton or Absecon, you can't. I've known people
to spend the night in the woods a quarter of a mile from home."

"I shouldn't mind that."

"But Shad would. He'd feel a great responsibility if you didn't turn up
for the ghost-hunt. Wouldn't you, Shad?"

Shad wagged his head indeterminately, and spat. "Come on," he said
sullenly, and turned, leading the way out to the northward, followed by
Beth with an inviting smile. She still wore her denim overalls which
were much too long for her and her dusty brown boots seemed like a
child's. Between moments of avoiding roots and branches, Peter watched
her strong young figure as it followed their leader. Yesterday, he had
thought her small; to-day she seemed to have increased in stature--so
uncertain is the masculine judgment upon any aspect of a woman. But his
notions in regard to her grace and loveliness were only confirmed. There
was no concealing them under her absurd garments. Her flanks were long
and lithe, like a boy's, but there was something feminine in the way she
moved, a combination of ease and strength made manifest, which could
only come of well-made limbs carefully jointed. Every little while she
flashed a glance over her shoulder at him, exchanging a word, even
politely holding back a branch until he caught it, or else when he was
least expecting it, letting it fly into his face. From time to time Shad
Wells would turn to look at them and Peter could see that he wasn't as
happy as he might have been. But Beth was very much enjoying herself.

They had emerged at last into the road and walked toward Black Rock,
Beth in the center and Peter and Shad on either side.

"I've been thinkin' about what you said yesterday," said Beth to Peter.

"About----?"

"Singin' like an angel in Heaven," she said promptly aware of Shad's
bridling glance.

"Oh, well," repeated Peter, "you do--you know."

"It was very nice of you--and you a musician."

"Musician!" growled Shad. "He ain't a musician."

"Oh, yes, he is, and he says I've a voice like an angel. _You_ never
said that, Shad Wells."

"No. Nor I won't," he snapped surlily.

Peter would have been more amused if he hadn't thought that Shad Wells
was unhappy.

He needed the man's allegiance and he had no wish to make an enemy of
him.

"Musician!" Shad growled. "Then it was you the men heard last night."

"I found a piano in the cabin. I was trying it," said Peter. Shad said
nothing in reply but he put every shade of scorn into the way in which
he spat into the road.

"A piano----!" Beth gasped. "Where? What cabin?"

"The playhouse--where I live," said Peter politely.

"Oh."

There was a silence on the part of both of his companions, awkwardly
long.

So Peter made an effort to relieve the tension, commenting on the new
arrivals at Black Rock House.

At the mention of Peggy's name Beth showed fresh excitement.

"Miss McGuire! Here? When----?"

"This morning. Do you know her?"

"No. But I've seen her. I think she's just lovely."

"Why?"

"She wears such beautiful clothes and--and hats and veils."

Peter laughed. "And that's your definition of loveliness."

"Why, yes," she said in wonder. "Last year all the girls were copyin'
her, puttin' little puffs of hair over their ears--I tried it, but it
looked funny. Is she going to be here long? Has she got a 'beau' with
her? She always had. It's a wonder she doesn't run over somebody, the
way she drives."

"She nearly got me this mornin'," growled Shad.

"I wish she would--if you're going to look like a meat-ax, Shad Wells."

There was no reconciling them now, and when Beth's home was reached, all
three of them went different ways. What a rogue she was! And poor Shad
Wells who was to have taken Peter at a gobble, seemed a very poor sort
of a creature in Beth's hands.

She amused Peter greatly, but she annoyed him a little too, ruffled up
the shreds of his princely dignity, not yet entirely inured to the
trials of social regeneration. And Shad's blind adoration was merely a
vehicle for her amusement. It would have been very much better if she
hadn't used Peter's compliment as a bait for Shad. Peter had come to
the point of liking the rough foreman even if he was a new kind of human
animal from anything in Peter's experience.

And so was Beth. A new kind of animal--something between a harrier and a
skylark, but wholesome and human too, a denim dryad, the spirit of
health, joy and beauty, a creature good to look at, in spite of her envy
of the fashionable Miss Peggy McGuire with her modish hats, cerise veils
and ear puffs, her red roadsters and her beaux. Poverty sat well upon
Beth and the frank blue eyes and resolute chin gave notice that whatever
was to happen to her future she was honorable and unafraid.

But if there was something very winning about her, there was something
pathetic too. Her beauty was so unconscious of her ridiculous clothing,
and yet Peter had come to think of it as a part of her, wondering indeed
what she would look like in feminine apparel, in which he could not
imagine her, for the other girls of Black Rock had not so far blessed
his vision. Aunt Tillie Bergen had told him, over his late breakfast, of
the difficulties that she and Beth had had to keep their little place
going and how Beth, after being laid off for the summer at the factory,
had insisted upon working in the Gaskill's vineyard to help out with the
household. There ought to be something for Beth Cameron, better than
this--something less difficult--more ennobling.

Thinking of these things Peter made his way back to the cabin. Nothing
of a disturbing nature had happened around Black Rock House, except the
arrival of the remainder of McGuire's unwelcome house party, which had
taken to wandering aimlessly through the woods, much to the disgust of
Jesse Brown, who, lost in the choice between "dudes" and desperadoes,
had given up any attempt to follow Peter's careful injunctions in regard
to McGuire. It was still early and the supper hour was seven, so Peter
unpacked his small trunk which had arrived in his absence and then,
carefully shutting door and windows, sat at the piano and played quietly
at first, a "Reverie" of Tschaikowsky, a "Berceuse" of César Cui, the
"Valse Triste" of Jean Sibelius and then forgetting himself--launched
forth into Chopin's C Minor Étude. His fingers were stiff for lack of
practice and the piano was far from perfect, but in twenty minutes he
had forgotten the present, lost in memories. He had played this for
Anastasie Galitzin. He saw the glint of the shaded piano lamp upon her
golden head, recalled her favorite perfume.... Silver nights upon the
castle terrace.... Golden walks through the autumn forest....

Suddenly a bell rang loudly at Peter's side, it seemed. Then while he
wondered, it rang again. Of course--the telephone. He found the
instrument in the corner and put the receiver to his ear. It was
McGuire's voice.

"That you, Nichols?" it asked in an agitated staccato.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's getting dark, what have you done about to-night?"

"Same as last night," said Peter smiling, "only more careful."

"Well, I want things changed," the gruff voice rose. "The whole d--n
house is open. I can't shut it with these people here. Your men will
have to move in closer--but keep under cover. Can you arrange it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I'll want you here--with me--you understand. You were coming to
supper?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well--er--I've told my daughter and so--would you mind putting on a
dress suit----? Er--if you have one--a Tuxedo will do."

"Yes, sir," said Peter. "That's all right."

"Oh--er--thanks. You'll be up soon?"

"Yes."

"Good-by."

With a grin, Peter hung up the receiver, recalling the soiled,
perspiring, unquiet figure of his employer last night. But it seemed as
though McGuire were almost as much in awe of his daughter as of the
danger that threatened, for, in the McGuire household, Miss Peggy, it
appeared, was paramount.

Peter's bathroom was Cedar Creek. In his robe, he ran down the dusky
path for a quick plunge. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he lighted his
lamp and dressed leisurely. He had come to his cravat, to which he was
wont to pay more than a casual attention, when he was aware of a feeling
of discomfort--of unease. In the mirror something moved, a shadow, at
the corner of the window. He waited a moment, still fingering his
cravat, and then sure that his eyes had made no mistake, turned quickly
and, revolver in hand, rushed outside. Just as he did so a man with a
startled face disappeared around the corner of the cabin. Peter rushed
after him, shouting and turned the edge just in time to see his shape
leap into the bushes.

"Who goes there?" shouted Peter crisply. "Halt, or I'll fire."

But the only reply was a furious crashing in the undergrowth. Peter
fired twice at the sound, then followed in, still calling.

No sound. Under the conditions a chase was hopeless, so Peter paused
listening. And then after a few moments a more distant crackling advised
him that his visitor had gotten well away. And so after a while he
returned to the cabin and with his weapon beside him finished his
interrupted toilet.

But his brows were in a tangle. The mystery surrounding him seemed
suddenly to have deepened. For the face that he had seen at the window
was that of the stranger who had stared at him so curiously--the man of
the soft hat and dark mustache--who had seemed so startled at seeing him
in the Pennsylvania Station when he was leaving New York.




CHAPTER VI

THE HOUSE OF TERROR


Who--what was this stranger who seemed so interested in his whereabouts?
Peter was sure that he had made no mistake. It was an unusual face,
swarthy, with high cheek bones, dark eyes, a short nose with prominent
nostrils. Perhaps it would not have been so firmly impressed on his
memory except for the curious look of startled recognition that Peter
had surprised on it at the station in New York. This had puzzled him for
some moments in the train but had been speedily lost in the interest of
his journey. The man had followed him to Black Rock. But why? What did
he want of Peter and why should he skulk around the cabin and risk the
danger of Peter's bullets? It seemed obvious that he was here for some
dishonest purpose, but what dishonest purpose could have any interest in
Peter? If robbery, why hadn't the man chosen the time while Peter was
away in the woods? Peter grinned to himself. If the man had any private
sources of information as to Peter's personal assets, he would have
known that they consisted of a two-dollar watch and a small sum in
money. If the dishonest purpose were murder or injury, why hadn't he
attacked Peter while he was bathing, naked and quite defenseless, in the
creek?

There seemed to be definite answers to all of these questions, but none
to the fact of the man's presence, to the fact of his look of
recognition, or to the fact of his wish to be unobserved. Was he a part
of the same conspiracy which threatened McGuire? Or was this a little
private conspiracy arranged for Peter alone? And if so, why? So far as
Peter knew he hadn't an enemy in America, and even if he had made one,
it was hardly conceivable that any one should go to such lengths to
approach an issue and then deliberately avoid it.

But there seemed no doubt that something was up and that, later, more
would be heard from this curious incident. It seemed equally certain
that had the stranger meant to shoot Peter he could easily have done so
in perfect safety to himself through the window, while Peter was
fastening his cravat. Reloading his revolver and slipping it into his
pocket, Peter locked the cabin carefully, and after listening to the
sounds of the woods for awhile, made his way up the path to Black Rock
House.

He had decided to say nothing about the incident which, so far as he
could see, concerned only himself, and so when the men on guard
questioned him about the shots that they had heard he told them that he
had been firing at a mark. This was quite true, even if the mark had
been invisible. Shad Wells was off duty until midnight so Peter went the
rounds, calling the men to the guardhouse and telling them of the change
in the orders. They were to wait until the company upon the portico went
indoors and then, with Jesse in command, they were to take new stations
in trees and clumps of bushes which Peter designated much nearer the
house. The men eyed his dinner jacket with some curiosity and not a
little awe, and Peter informed them that it was the old man's order and
that he, Peter, was going to keep watch from inside the house, but that
a blast from a whistle would fetch him out. He also warned them that it
was McGuire's wish that none of the visitors should be aware of the
watchmen and that therefore there should be no false alarms.

Curiously enough Peter found McGuire in a state very nearly bordering
on calm. He had had a drink. He had not heard the shots Peter had fired
nor apparently had any of the regular occupants of the house. The
visitors had possibly disregarded them. From the pantry came a sound
with which Peter was familiar, for Stryker was shaking the cocktails.
And when the ladies came downstairs the two men on the portico came in
and Peter was presented to the others of the party, Miss Delaplane, Mr.
Gittings and Mr. Mordaunt. The daughter of the house examined Peter's
clothing and then, having apparently revised her estimate of him, became
almost cordial, bidding him sit next Miss Delaplane at table.

Mildred Delaplane was tall, handsome, dark and aquiline, and made a foil
for Peggy's blond prettiness. Peter thought her a step above Peggy in
the cultural sense, and only learned afterward that as she was not very
well off, Peggy was using her as a rung in the social ladder. Mordaunt,
Peter didn't fancy, but Gittings, who was jovial and bald, managed to
inject some life into the party, which, despite the effect of the
cocktails, seemed rather weary and listless.

McGuire sat rigidly at the head of the table, forcing smiles and
glancing uneasily at doors and windows. Peter was worried too, not as to
himself, but as to any possible connection that there might be between
the man with the dark mustache and the affairs of Jonathan McGuire.
Mildred Delaplane, who had traveled in Europe in antebellum days, found
much that was interesting in Peter's fragmentary reminiscences. She knew
music too, and in an unguarded moment Peter admitted that he had
studied. It was difficult to lie to women, he had found.

And so, after dinner, that information having transpired, he was
immediately led to the piano-stool by his hostess, who was frequently
biased in her social judgments by Mildred Delaplane. Peter played Cyril
Scott's "Song from the East," and then, sure of Miss Delaplane's
interest, an Étude of Scriabine, an old favorite of his which seemed to
express the mood of the moment.

And all the while he was aware of Jonathan McGuire, seated squarely in
the middle of the sofa which commanded all the windows and doors, with
one hand at his pocket, scowling and alert by turns, for, though the
night had fallen slowly, it was now pitch black outside. Peter knew that
McGuire was thinking he hadn't hired his superintendent as a musician to
entertain his daughter's guests, but that he was powerless to interfere.
Nor did he wish to excite the reprobation of his daughter by going up
and locking himself in his room. Peggy, having finished her cigarette
with Freddy on the portico, had come in again and was now leaning over
the piano, her gaze fixed, like Mildred's, upon Peter's mobile fingers.

"You're really too wonderful a superintendent to be quite true," said
Peggy when Peter had finished. "But _do_ give us a 'rag.'"

Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't do ragtime."

"Quit your kidding! I want to dance."

"I'm not--er--kidding," said Peter, laughing. "I can't play it at
all--not at all."

Peggy gave him a look, shrugged and walked to the door.

"Fred-die-e!" she called.

Peter rose from the piano-stool and crossed to McGuire. The man's cigar
was unsmoked and tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"I don't think you need worry, sir," whispered Peter. "The men are all
around the house, but if you say, I'll go out for another look around."

"No matter. I'll stick it out for a while."

"You're better off here than anywhere, I should say. No one would
dare----"

Here Freddy at the piano struck up "Mary" and further conversation was
drowned in commotion. Mildred Delaplane was preëmpted by Mr. Gittings
and Peggy came whirling alone toward Peter, arms extended, the passion
for the dance outweighing other prejudices.

Peter took a turn, but four years of war had done little to improve his
steps.

"I'm afraid all my dancing is in my fingers," he muttered.

Suddenly, as Freddy Mordaunt paused, Peggy stopped and lowered her arms.

"Good Lord!" she gasped. "What's the matter with Pop?"

McGuire had risen unsteadily and was peering out into the darkness
through the window opposite him, his face pallid, his lips drawn into a
thin line. Peggy ran to him and caught him by the arm.

"What is it, Pop? Are you sick?"

"N-no matter. Just a bit upset. If you don't mind, daughter, I think
I'll be going up."

"Can I do anything?"

"No. Stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just tell Stryker, will you,
Nichols, and then come up to my room."

Peggy was regarding him anxiously as he made his way to the door and
intercepted Peter as he went to look for the valet.

"What is it, Mr. Nichols?" she asked. "He may be sick, but it seems to
me----" she paused, and then, "Did you see his eyes as he looked out of
the window?"

"Indigestion," said Peter coolly.

"You'll see after him, won't you? And if he wants me, just call over."

"I'm sure he won't want you. A few home remedies----"

And Peter went through the door. Stryker had appeared mysteriously from
somewhere and had already preceded his master up the stair. When Peter
reached the landing, McGuire was standing alone in the dark, leaning
against the wall, his gaze on the lighted bedroom which, the valet was
carefully examining.

"What is it, sir?" asked Peter coolly. "You thought you saw something?"

"Yes--out there--on the side portico----"

"You must be mistaken--unless it was one of the watchmen----"

"No, no. I saw----"

"What, sir?"

"No matter. Do you think Peggy noticed?"

"Just that you didn't seem quite yourself----"

"But not that I seemed--er----"

"Alarmed? I said you weren't well."

Peter took the frightened man's arm and helped him into his room.

"I'm not, Nichols," he groaned. "I'm not myself."

"I wouldn't worry, sir. I'd say it was physically impossible for any one
to approach the house without permission. But I'll go down and have
another look around."

"Do, Nichols. But come back up here. I'll want to talk to you."

So Peter went down. And, evading inquiries in the hallway, made his way
out through the hall and pantry. Here a surprise awaited him, for as he
opened the door there was a skurry of light footsteps and in a moment he
was in the pantry face to face with Beth Cameron, who seemed much
dismayed at being discovered.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked in amazement.

She glanced at his white shirt front and then laughed.

"I came to help Aunt Tillie dish up."

"You!" He didn't know why he should have been so amazed at finding her
occupying a menial position in this household. She didn't seem to belong
to the back stairs! And yet there she was in a plain blue gingham dress
which made her seem much taller, and a large apron, her tawny hair
casting agreeable shadows around her blue eyes, which he noticed seemed
much darker by night than by day.

She noticed the inflection of his voice and laughed.

"Why not? I thought Aunt Tillie would need me--and besides I wanted to
peek a little."

"Ah, I see. You wanted to see Miss Peggy's new frock through the
keyhole?"

"Yes--and the other one. Aren't they pretty?"

"I suppose so."

"I listened, too. I couldn't help it."

"Eavesdropping!"

She nodded. "Oh, Mr. Nichols, but you do play the piano beautifully!"

"But not like an angel in Heaven," said Peter with a smile.

"Almost--if angels play. You make me forget----" she paused.

"What----?"

"That's there's anything in the world except beauty."

In the drawing-room Freddy, having found himself, had swept into a song
of the cabarets, to which there was a "close harmony" chorus.

"There's that----," he muttered, jerking a thumb in the direction from
which he had come.

But she shook her head. "No," she said. "That's different."

"How--different?"

"Wrong--false--un--unworthy----"

As she groped for and found the word he stared at her in astonishment.
And in her eyes back of the joy that seemed to be always dancing in them
he saw the shadows of a sober thought.

"But don't you like dance music?" he asked.

"Yes, I do, but it's only for the feet. Your music is for--for _here_."
And with a quick graceful gesture she clasped her hands upon her breast.

"I'm glad you think so, because that's where it comes from."

At this point Peter remembered his mission, which Beth's appearance had
driven from his mind.

"I'll play for you sometime," he said.

He went past her and out to the servants' dining-room. As he entered
with Beth at his heels, Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, turned in from the
open door to the kitchen garden, clinging to the jamb, her lips
mumbling, as though she were continuing a conversation. But her round
face, usually the color and texture of a well ripened peach, was the
color of putty, and seemed suddenly to have grown old and haggard. Her
eyes through her metal-rimmed spectacles seemed twice their size and
stared at Peter as though they saw through him and beyond. She faltered
at the door-jamb and then with an effort reached a chair, into which she
sank gasping.

Beth was kneeling at her side in a moment, looking up anxiously into her
startled eyes.

"Why, what is it, Aunt Tillie?" she whispered quickly. "What it is? Tell
me."

The coincidence was too startling. Could the same Thing that had
frightened McGuire have frightened the housekeeper too? Peter rushed
past her and out of the open door. It was dark outside and for a moment
he could see nothing. Then objects one by one asserted themselves, the
orderly rows of vegetable plants in the garden, the wood-box by the
door, the shrubbery at the end of the portico, the blue spruce tree
opposite, the loom of the dark and noncommittal garage. He knew that one
of his men was in the trees opposite the side porch and another around
the corner of the kitchen, in the hedge, but he did not want to raise a
hue and cry unless it was necessary. What was this Thing that created
terror at sight? He peered this way and that, aware of an intense
excitement, in one hand his revolver and in the other his police
whistle. But he saw no object move, and the silence was absolute. In a
moment--disappointed--he hurried back to the servants' dining-room.

Mrs. Bergen sat dazed in her chair, while Beth, who had brought her a
glass of water, was making her drink of it.

"Tell me, what is it?" Beth was insisting.

"Nothing--nothing," murmured the woman.

"But there is----"

"No, dearie----"

"Are you sick?"

"I don't feel right. Maybe--the heat----"

"But your eyes look queer----"

"Do they----?" The housekeeper tried to smile.

"Yes. Like they had seen----"

A little startled as she remembered the mystery of the house, Beth cast
her glance into the darkness outside the open door.

"You _are_--frightened!" she said.

"No, no----"

"What was it you saw, Mrs. Bergen," asked Peter gently.

He was just at her side and at the sound of his voice she half arose,
but recognizing Peter she sank back in her chair.

Peter repeated his question, but she shook her head.

"Won't you tell us? What was it you saw? A man----?"

Her eyes sought Beth's and a look of tenderness came into them,
banishing the vision. But she lied when she answered Peter's question.

"I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--I think I'll go up----"

She took another swallow of the water and rose. And with her strength
came a greater obduracy.

"I saw nothin'----" she repeated again, as she saw that he was still
looking at her. "Nothin' at all."

Peter and Beth exchanged glances and Beth, putting her hand under the
housekeeper's arm, helped the woman to the back stairs.

Peter stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen floor, his gaze on
the door through which the woman had vanished. Aunt Tillie too! She had
seen some one, some Thing--the same some one or Thing that McGuire had
seen. But granting that their eyes had not deceived them, granting that
each had seen Something, what, unless it were supernatural, could have
frightened McGuire and Aunt Tillie too? Even if the old woman had been
timid about staying in the house, she had made it clear to Peter that
she was entirely unaware of the kind of danger that threatened her
employer. Peter had believed her then. He saw no reason to disbelieve
her now. She had known as little as Peter about the cause for McGuire's
alarm. And here he had found her staring with the same unseeing eyes
into the darkness, with the same symptoms of nervous shock as McGuire
had shown. What enemy of McGuire's could frighten Aunt Tillie into
prostration and seal her lips to speech? Why wouldn't she have dared to
tell Peter what she had seen? What was this secret and how could she
share it with McGuire when twenty-four hours ago she had been in
complete ignorance of the mystery? Why wouldn't she talk? Was the
vision too intimate? Or too horrible?

Peter was imaginative, for he had been steeped from boyhood in the
superstitions of his people. But the war had taught him that devils had
legs and carried weapons. He had seen more horrible sights than most men
of his years, in daylight, at dawn, or silvered with moonlight. He
thought he had exhausted the possibilities for terror. But he found
himself grudgingly admitting that he was at the least a little
nervous--at the most, on the verge of alarm. But he put his whistle in
his mouth, drew his revolver again and went forth.

First he sought out the man in the spruce tree. It was Andy. He had seen
no one but the people on the porch and in the windows. It was very dark
but he took an oath that no one had approached the house from his side.

"You saw no one talking with Mrs. Bergen by the kitchen door?"

"No. I can't see th' kitchen door from here."

Peter verified. A syringa bush was just in line.

"Then you haven't moved?" asked Peter.

"No. I was afraid they'd see me."

"They've seen something----"

"You mean----?"

"I don't know. But look sharp. If anything comes out this way, take a
shot at it."

"You think there's something----"

"Yes--but don't move. And keep your eyes open!"

Peter went off to the man in the hedge behind the kitchen--Jesse Brown.

"See anything?" asked Peter.

"Nope. Nobody but the chauffeur."

"The chauffeur?"

"He went up to th' house a while back."

"Oh--how long ago?"

"Twenty minutes."

"I see." And then, "You didn't see any one come away from the kitchen
door?"

"No. He's thar yet, I reckon."

Peter ran out to the garage to verify this statement. By the light of a
lantern the chauffeur in his rubber boots was washing the two cars.

"Have you been up to the house lately?"

"Why, no," said the man, in surprise.

"You're sure?" asked Peter excitedly.

"Sure----"

"Then come with me. There's something on."

The man dropped his sponge and followed Peter, who had run back quickly
to the house.

It was now after eleven. From the drawing-room came the distracting
sounds from the tortured piano, but there was no one on the portico. So
Peter, with Jesse, Andy and the chauffeur made a careful round of the
house, examining every bush, every tree, within a circle of a hundred
yards, exhausting every possibility for concealment. When they reached
the kitchen door again, Peter rubbed his head and gave it up. A screech
owl somewhere off in the woods jeered at him. All the men, except Jesse,
were plainly skeptical. But he sent them back to their posts and, still
pondering the situation, went into the house.

It was extraordinary how the visitor, whoever he was, could have gotten
away without having been observed, for though the night was black the
eyes of the men outside were accustomed to it and the lights from the
windows sent a glimmer into the obscurity. Of one thing Peter was now
certain, that the prowler was no ghost or banshee, but a man, and that
he had gone as mysteriously as he had come.

Peter knew that his employer would be anxious until he returned to him,
but he hadn't quite decided to tell McGuire of the housekeeper's share
in the adventure. He had a desire to verify his belief that Mrs. Bergen
was frightened by the visitor for a reason of her own which had nothing
to do with Jonathan McGuire. Any woman alarmed by a possible burglar or
other miscreant would have come running and crying for help. Mrs. Bergen
had been doggedly silent, as though, rather than utter her thoughts, she
would have bitten out her tongue. It was curious. She had seemed to be
talking as though to herself at the door, and then, at the sound of
footsteps in the kitchen behind her, had turned and fallen limp in the
nearest chair. The look in her face, as in McGuire's, was that of
terror, but there was something of bewilderment in both of them too,
like that of a solitary sniper in the first shock of a shrapnel wound, a
look of anguish that seemed to have no outlet, save in speech, which was
denied.

To tell McGuire what had happened in the kitchen meant to alarm him
further. Peter decided for the present to keep the matter from him,
giving the housekeeper the opportunity of telling the truth on the
morrow if she wished.

He crossed the kitchen and servants' dining-room and just at the foot of
the back stairs met Mrs. Bergen and Beth coming down. So he retraced his
steps into the kitchen, curious as to the meaning of her reappearance.

At least she had recovered the use of her tongue.

"I couldn't go to bed, just yet, Mr. Nichols," she said in reply to
Peter's question. "I just couldn't."

Peter gazed at her steadily. This woman held a clew to the mystery. She
glanced at him uncertainly but she had recovered her self-possession,
and her replies to his questions, if anything, were more obstinate than
before.

"I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--nothin'. I was just a bit upset. I'm all
right now. An' I want Beth to go home. That's why I came down."

"But, Aunt Tillie, if you're not well, I'm going to stay----"

"No. Ye can't stay here. I want ye to go." And then, turning excitedly
to Peter, "Can't ye let somebody see her home, Mr. Nichols?"

"Of course," said Peter. "But I don't think she's in any danger."

"No, but she can't stay here. She just can't."

Beth put her arm around the old woman's shoulder.

"I'm not afraid."

Aunt Tillie was already untying Beth's apron.

"I know ye're not, dearie. But ye can't stay here. I don't want ye to. I
don't want ye to."

"But if you're afraid of something----"

"Who said I was afraid?" she asked, glaring at Peter defiantly. "I'm
not. I just had a spell--all this excitement an' extra work--an'
everything."

She lied. Peter knew it, but he saw no object to be gained in keeping
Beth in Black Rock House, so he went out cautiously and brought the
chauffeur, to whom he entrusted the safety of the girl. He would have
felt more comfortable if he could have escorted her himself, but he knew
that his duty was at the house and that whoever the mysterious person
was it was not Beth that he wanted.

But what was Mrs. Bergen's reason for wishing to get rid of her?

As Beth went out of the door he whispered in her ear, "Say nothing of
this--to any one."

She nodded gravely and followed the man who had preceded her.

When the door closed behind Beth and the chauffeur, Peter turned quickly
and faced the housekeeper.

"Now," he said severely, "tell me the truth."

She stared at him with a falling jaw in a moment of alarm--then closed
her lips firmly. And, as she refused to reply,

"Do you want me to tell Mr. McGuire that you were talking to a stranger
at the kitchen door?"

She trembled and sinking in a chair buried her face in her hands.

"I don't want to be unkind, Mrs. Bergen, but there's something here that
needs explaining. Who was the man you talked to outside the door?"

"I--I can't tell ye," she muttered.

"You must. It's better. I'm your friend and Beth's----"

The woman raised her haggard face to his.

"Beth's friend! Are ye? Then ask me no more."

"But I've got to know. I'm here to protect Mr. McGuire, but I'd like to
protect you too. Who is this stranger?"

The woman lowered her head and then shook it violently. "No, no. I'll
not tell."

He frowned down at her head.

"Did you know that to-night McGuire saw the stranger--the man that _you_
saw--and that he's even more frightened than you?"

The woman raised her head, gazed at him helplessly, then lowered it
again, but she did not speak. The kitchen was silent, but an obbligato
to this drama, like the bray of the ass in the overture to "Midsummer
Night's Dream," came from the drawing-room, where Freddy Mordaunt was
now singing a sentimental ballad.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bergen, but if Mr. McGuire is in danger to-night, I've
got to know it."

"To-night!" she gasped, as though clutching at a straw. "Not to-night.
Nothin'll happen to-night. I'm sure of that, Mr. Nichols."

"How do you know?"

She threw out her arms in a wide gesture of desperation. "For the love
o' God, go 'way an' leave me in peace. Don't ye see I ain't fit to talk
to anybody?" She gasped with a choking throat. "_He_ ain't comin' back
again--not to-night. I'll swear it on th' Bible, if ye want me to."

Their glances met, hers weary and pleading, and he believed her.

"All right, Mrs. Bergen," he said soothingly. "I'll take your word for
it, but you'll admit the whole thing is very strange--very startling."

"Yes--strange. God knows it is. But I--I can't tell ye anything."

"But what shall I say to Mr. McGuire--upstairs. I've got to go up--now."

"Say to him----?" she gasped helplessly, all her terrors renewed. "Ye
can't tell him I was talkin' to anybody." And then more wildly, "Ye
mustn't. I wasn't. I was talkin' to myself--that's the God's truth, I
was--when ye come in. It was so strange--an' all. Don't tell him, Mr.
Nichols," she pleaded at last, with a terrible earnestness, and
clutching at his hand. "For my sake, for Beth's----"

"What has Beth to do with it?"

"More'n ye think. Oh, God----" she broke off. "What am I sayin'----?
Beth don't know. She mustn't. He don't know either----"

"Who? McGuire?"

"No--no. Don't ask any more questions, Mr. Nichols," she sobbed. "I
can't speak. Don't ye see I can't?"

So Peter gave up the inquisition. He had never liked to see a woman cry.

"Oh, all right," he said more cheerfully, "you'd better be getting to
bed. Perhaps daylight will clear things up."

"And ye won't tell McGuire?" she pleaded.

"I can't promise anything. But I won't if I'm not compelled to."

She gazed at him uncertainly, her weary eyes wavering, but she seemed to
take some courage from his attitude.

"God bless ye, sir."

"Good-night, Mrs. Bergen."

And then, avoiding the drawing-room, Peter made his way up the stairs
with a great deal of mental uncertainty to the other room of terror.




CHAPTER VII

MUSIC


Stryker, who kept guard at the door of McGuire's room, opened it
cautiously in response to Peter's knock. He found McGuire sitting
rigidly in a rocking-chair at the side of the room, facing the windows,
a whisky bottle and glass on the table beside him. His face had lost its
pallor, but in his eyes was the same look of glassy bewilderment.

"Why the H---- couldn't you come sooner?" He whined the question, not
angrily, but querulously, like a child.

"I was having a look around," replied Peter coolly.

"Oh! And did you find anybody?"

"No."

"H-m! I thought you wouldn't."

Peter hesitated. He meant to conceal the housekeeper's share in the
night's encounters, but he knew that both Andy and the chauffeur would
talk, and so,

"There _was_ somebody outside, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You were not
mistaken, a man prowling in the dark near the kitchen. Andy thought it
was the chauffeur, who was in the garage washing the cars."

"Ah!"

McGuire started up, battling for his manhood. It seemed to Peter that
his gasp was almost one of relief at discovering that his eyes had not
deceived him, that the face he had seen was that of a real person,
instead of the figment of a disordered mind.

"Ah! Why didn't they shoot him?"

"I've just said, sir, Andy thought it was the chauffeur."

McGuire was pacing the floor furiously.

"He has no business to think. I pay him to act. And you--what did you
do?"

"Three of us searched the whole place--every tree, every bush--every
shadow----. The man has gone."

"Gone," sneered the other. "A H---- of a mess you're making of this
job!"

Peter straightened angrily, but managed to control himself.

"Very well, Mr. McGuire," he said. "Then you'd better get somebody else
at once."

He had never given notice before but the hackneyed phrase fell crisply
from his lips. For many reasons, Peter didn't want to go, but he bowed
and walked quickly across the room. "Good-night," he said.

Before he had reached the door the frightened man came stumbling after
him and caught him by the arm.

"No, no, Nichols. Come back. D'ye hear? You mustn't be so d---- touchy.
Come back. You can't go. I didn't mean anything. Come now!"

Peter paused, his hand on the knob, and looked down into the man's
flabby, empurpled countenance.

"I thought you meant it," he said.

"No. I--I didn't. I--I like you, Nichols--liked you from the very
first--yesterday. Of course you can't be responsible for all the
boneheads here."

Peter had "called the bluff." Perhaps the lesson might have a salutary
effect. And so, as his good humor came back to him, he smiled
pleasantly.

"You see, Mr. McGuire, you could hardly expect Andy to shoot the
chauffeur. They're on excellent terms."

McGuire had settled down into a chair near the table, and motioned Peter
to another one near him.

"Sit down, Nichols. Another glass, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky
with an assumption of ease and they drank.

"You see, Nichols," he went on as he set his empty glass down, "I know
what I'm about. There _is_ somebody trying to get at me. It's no
dream--no hallucination. You know that too, now. I saw him--I would have
shot him through the window--if it hadn't been for Peggy--and the
others--but I--I didn't dare--for reasons. She mustn't know----" And
then eagerly, "She doesn't suspect anything yet, does she, Nichols?"

Peter gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds which
still came from below.

"No. They're having a good time."

"That's all right. To-morrow they'll be leaving for New York, I hope.
And then we'll meet this issue squarely. You say the man has gone. Why
do you think so?"

"Isn't it reasonable to think so? His visit was merely a reconnoissance.
I think he had probably been lying out in the underbrush all day,
getting the lay of the land, watching what we were doing--seeing where
the men were placed. But he must know now that he'll have to try
something else--that he hasn't a chance of getting to you past these
guards, if you don't want him to."

"But he nearly succeeded to-night," mumbled McGuire dubiously.

Peter was silent a moment.

"I'm not supposed to question and I won't. But it seems to me, Mr.
McGuire, that if this visitor's plan were to murder you, to get rid of
you, he would have shot you down to-night, through the window. From his
failure to do so, there is one definite conclusion to draw--and that is
that he wants to see you--to talk with you----"

McGuire fairly threw himself from his chair as he roared,

"I can't see him. I won't. I won't see anybody. I've got the law on my
side. A man's house is his castle. A fellow prowls around here in the
dark. He's been seen--if he's shot it's his own lookout. And he _will_
be shot before he reaches me. You hear me? Your men must shoot--shoot to
kill. If they fail I'll----"

He shrugged as if at the futility of his own words, which came stumbling
forth, born half of fear, half of braggadocio.

Peter regarded him soberly. It was difficult to conceive of this man,
who talked like a madman and a spoiled child, as the silent, stubborn,
friendless millionaire, as the power in finance that Sheldon, Senior,
had described him to be. The love of making money had succumbed to a
more primitive passion which for the time being had mastered him. From
what had been revealed, it seemed probable that it was not death or
bodily injury that he feared, for Peter had seen him stand up at the
window, a fair target for any good marksman, but an interview with this
nocturnal visitor who seemed bent upon bringing it about. Indeed, the
childish bravado of his last speech had voiced a wish, but beneath the
wish Peter had guessed a protest against the inevitable.

Peter acknowledged McGuire's right to seclusion in his own house, but he
found himself wondering whether death for the intruder as proposed by
his employer were a justifiable means of preserving it, especially if
the strange visitor did not himself use violence to gain his ends. And
so, when McGuire presently poured himself another glass of whisky, and
drank it, Peter took the liberty of asking the question.

"I am ignorant of your laws in this country, Mr. McGuire, but doesn't it
seem that short of forcible entry of this house we would hardly be
justified in shooting the man?"

"I take the responsibility for that."

"I understand. But what I was going to propose was a hunt through the
woods to-morrow. A description of this man would be helpful. For
instance, whether he was smoothly shaven or whether he had a
beard--or--or a mustache?"

McGuire scowled.

"The man has a slight growth of beard--of mustache. But what difference
does that make? No one has a right here--without my permission."

Peter sipped at his glass. As he had suspected, there were two of them.

"That's true. But even with this, we can move with more intelligence.
This forest is your property. If we find any person who can't give an
account of himself, we could take him into custody and turn him over to
the proper authorities."

"No. No," cried McGuire. "And have him set loose after a trivial
examination? Little good that would do. This man who is trying to reach
me----"

McGuire stopped suddenly, glaring at his superintendent with bloodshot
eyes, and Peter very politely waited for him to go on. But he brought
his empty glass down on the table with a crash which shattered it.

"He mustn't reach me," he roared. "I won't see him. That's understood.
He's a man I'd have no more compunction about shooting than----"

McGuire, with a curious suddenness, stopped again. Then rose and resumed
his habit of pacing the floor. For a moment it had almost seemed as if
he were on the point of a revelation. But the mood passed. Instead of
speaking further he threw out his arms in a wide gesture.

"I've said enough," he growled, "more than enough. You know your duty."
And he gestured toward the door. "Do it!" he finished brusquely.

Peter had already risen, and Stryker unemotionally opened the door for
him.

"I'll stay on duty all night, Mr. McGuire," he said quietly. "I'd advise
you to turn in and get some sleep. You need it."

"Yes. Yes, I will. Thanks, Nichols," said McGuire, following him to the
door and offering a flabby hand. "Don't mind what I've said to-night. I
think we understand each other. Stryker will see that the house is
locked when the young people come up. Keep your men to the mark and take
no chances."

"Good-night."

The remainder of the night, as Mrs. Bergen had predicted, proved
uneventful, and at daylight Peter went to his cabin and tumbled into
bed, too tired to think further of McGuire's visitors--or even of the
man with the black mustache.

The next day he lay abed luxuriously for a while after he had awakened,
but no amount of quiet thinking availed to clarify the mystery. There
were two men, one bearded, interested in watching McGuire, another with
a black mustache, interested in Peter. And so, after wondering again for
some puzzling moments as to how Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, had come
to be involved in McGuire's fortunes, he gave the problem up.

Foreseeing difficulties over breakfast at the house, he had arranged to
make his own coffee on a small oil stove which happened to be available,
and so Peter set the pot on to boil and while he dressed turned over in
his mind the possibilities of the future. It seemed quite certain that
the antagonism, whatever its nature, between his employer and the
prowling stranger must come to an issue of some sort almost at once. The
intruder, if he were the sort of man who could inspire terror, would
not remain content merely to prowl fruitlessly about with every danger
of being shot for his pains, and McGuire could hardly remain long in his
present situation without a physical or mental collapse.

Why hadn't McGuire taken flight? Why indeed had he come to Black Rock
House when it seemed that he would have been much safer amongst the
crowds of the city, where he could fall back upon the protection of the
police and their courts for immunity from this kind of persecution?

Pieced together, the phrases his employer had let slip suggested the
thought that he had come to Black Rock to escape publicity in anything
that might happen. And McGuire's insistence upon the orders that the
guards should shoot to kill also suggested, rather unpleasantly, the
thought that McGuire knew who the visitor was and earnestly desired his
death.

But Mrs. Bergen could have no such wish, for, unlike McGuire, she had
shown a reticence in her fears, as though her silence had been intended
to protect rather than to accuse. Beth Cameron, too, was in some way
unconsciously involved in the adventure. But how? He drank his coffee
and ate his roll, a prey to a very lively curiosity. Beth interested
him. And if Aunt Tillie Bergen, her only near relative, showed signs of
inquietude on the girl's account, the mysterious visitor surely had it
in his power to make her unhappy. As he washed up the dishes and made
his bed, Peter decided that he would find Beth to-night when she came
back from work and ask her some questions about her Aunt Tillie.

Beth Cameron saved him that trouble. He was sitting at the piano,
awaiting a telephone call to Black Rock House, where he was to have a
conference with his employer on the forestry situation. He was so deeply
absorbed in his music that he was unaware of the figure that had stolen
through the underbrush and was now hidden just outside the door. It was
Beth. She stood with the fingers of one hand lightly touching the edge
of the door-jamb, the other hand at her breast, while she listened,
poised lightly as though for flight. But a playful breeze twitched at
the hem of her skirt, flicking it out into the patch of sunlight by the
doorsill, and Peter caught the glint of white from the tail of his eye.

The music ceased suddenly and before Beth could flee into the bushes
Peter had caught her by the hand.

Now that she was discovered she made no effort to escape him.

"I--I was listening," she gasped.

"Why, Beth," he exclaimed, voicing the name in his thoughts. "How long
have you been here?"

"I--I don't know. Not long."

"I'm so glad."

She was coloring very prettily.

"You--you told me you--you'd play for me sometime," she said demurely.

"Of course. Won't you come in? It's rather a mess here, but----"

He led her in, glancing at her gingham dress, a little puzzled.

"I thought you'd be farmeretting," he said.

But she shook her head.

"I quit--yesterday."

He didn't ask the reason. He was really enjoying the sight of her. Few
women are comely in the morning hours, which have a merciless way of
exaggerating minute imperfections. Beth hadn't any minute imperfections
except her freckles, which were merely Nature's colorings upon a
woodland flower. She seemed to fill the cabin with morning fragrance,
like a bud just brought in from the garden.

"I'm very glad you've come," he said gallantly, leading her over to the
double window where there was a chintz-covered seat. "I've wanted very
much to talk to you."

She followed him protestingly.

"But I didn't come to be talked to. I came to listen to you play."

"You always arrive in the midst of music," he laughed. "I played you in,
without knowing it. That was an Elfentanz----"

"What's that?"

"A dance of the Elves--the fairies." And then, with a laugh, "And the
little devils."

"The little devils? You mean _me_!"

"Elf--fairy and devil too--but mostly elf."

"I'm not sure I like that--but I _do_ like the music. Please play it
again."

She was so lovely in her eagerness that he couldn't refuse, his fingers
straying from the dance by slow transitions into something more quiet,
the "Romance" of Sibelius, and then after that into a gay little
_scherzo_, at the end of which he turned suddenly to find her flushed
and breathless, regarding him in a kind of awe.

"How lovely!" she whispered. "There were no devils in that."

"No, only fairies."

"Angels too--but somethin' else--that quiet piece--like the--the memory
of a--a--sorrow."

"'Romance,' it's called," he explained gently.

"Oh!"

"The things we dream. The things that ought to be, but aren't."

She took a deep breath. "Yes, that's it. That's what it meant. I felt
it." And then, as though with a sudden shyness at her self-revelation,
she glanced about. "What a pretty place! I've never been here before."

"How did you find your way?"

"Oh, I knew where the cabin was. I came through the woods and across the
log-jam below the pool. Then I heard the music. I didn't think you'd
mind."

"Mind! Oh, I say. I don't know when I've been so pleased."

"Are you really? You _say_ a lot."

"Didn't I play it?"

That confused her a little.

"Oh!" she said demurely.

"And now, will you talk to me?"

"Yes, of course. But----"

"But what----?"

"I--I'm not sure that I ought to be here."

"Why not?"

"It's kind of--unusual."

He laughed. "You wouldn't be you, if you weren't unusual."

She glanced at him uneasily.

"You see, I don't know you very well."

"You're very exclusive in Black Rock!" he laughed.

"I guess we _have_ to be exclusive whether we want to or not," she
replied.

"Don't you think I'll do?"

"Maybe. I oughtn't to have come, but I just couldn't keep away."

"I'm glad you did. I wanted to see you."

"It wasn't that," she put in hastily. "I had to hear you play again.
That's what I mean."

"I'll play for you whenever you like."

"Will you? Then play again, now. It makes me feel all queer inside."

Peter laughed. "Do you feel that way when you sing?"

"No. It all comes out of me then."

"Would you mind singing for me, Beth?" he asked after a moment.

"I--I don't think I dare."

He got up and went to the piano.

"What do you sing?"

But she hadn't moved and she didn't reply. So he urged her.

"In the woods when you're coming home----?"

"Oh, I don't know----It just comes out--things I've heard--things I make
up----"

"What have you heard? I don't know that I can accompany you, but I'll
try."

She was flushing painfully. He could see that she wanted to sing for
him--to be a part of this wonderful dream-world in which he belonged,
and yet she did not dare.

"What have you heard?" he repeated softly, encouraging her by running
his fingers slowly over the simple chords of a major key.

Suddenly she started up and joined him by the piano.

"That's it--'The long, long trail a-windin'----" and in a moment was
singing softly. He had heard the air and fell in with her almost at
once.

    "There's a long, long trail a-winding
    Into the land of my dreams,
    Where the nightingale is singing
    And a bright moon beams----"

Like the good musician that he was, Peter submerged himself, playing
gently, his gaze on his fingers, while he listened. He had made no
mistake. The distances across which he had heard her had not flattered.
Her voice was untrained, of course, but it seemed to Peter that it had
lost nothing by the neglect, for as she gained confidence, she forgot
Peter, as he intended that she should, and sang with the complete
abstraction of a thrush in the deep wood. Like the thrush's note, too,
Beth's was limpid, clear, and sweet, full of forest sounds--the falling
brook, the sigh of night winds....

When the song ended he told her so.

"You do say nice things, don't you?" she said joyously.

"Wouldn't you--if it cost you nothing and was the truth? You must have
your voice trained."

"Must! I might jump over the moon if I had a broomstick."

"It's got to be managed somehow."

"Then you're not disappointed in the way it sounds, close up?"

She stood beside him, leaning against the piano, her face flushed, her
breath rapid, searching his face eagerly. Peter knew that it was only
the dormant artist in her seeking the light, but he thrilled warmly at
her nearness, for she was very lovely. Peter's acquaintance with women
had been varied, but, curiously enough, each meeting with this girl
instead of detracting had only added to her charm.

"No. I'm not disappointed in it," he said quite calmly, every impulse in
him urging a stronger expression. But he owed a duty to himself.
_Noblesse oblige!_ It was one of the mottoes of his House--(not always
followed--alas!). With a more experienced woman he would have said what
was in his mind. He would probably have taken her in his arms and kissed
her at once, for that was really what he would have liked to do. But
Beth....

Perhaps something in the coolness of his tone disconcerted her, for she
turned away from the piano.

"You're very kind," she said quietly.

He had a feeling that she was about to slip away from him, so he got up.

"Won't you sing again, Beth?"

But she shook her head. For some reason the current that had run between
them was broken. As she moved toward the door, he caught her by the
hand.

"Don't go yet. I want to talk to you."

"I don't think I ought." And then, with a whimsical smile, "And you
ought to be out makin' the trees grow."

He laughed. "There's a lot of time for that."

She let him lead her to the divan again and sat, her fingers dovetailed
around a slender knee.

"I--I'm sorry I made fun of you the other day," she confessed
immediately.

"I didn't mind in the least."

"But you _did_ seem to know it all," she said. And then smiled in the
direction of the piano. "Now--I'm comin' to think you do. Even Shad says
you're a wonder. I--I don't think he likes you, though----" she
admitted.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't you care. Shad don't like anybody but himself and
Goda'mighty--with God trailin' a little."

Peter smiled. Her singing voice may have been impersonal but one could
hardly think that of her conversation.

"And you, Beth--where do _you_ come in?"

She glanced at him quickly.

"Oh, I----," she said with a laugh, "I just trail along after God."

Her irony meant no irreverence but a vast derogation of Shad Wells.
Somehow her point of view was very illuminating.

"I'm afraid you make him very unhappy," he ventured.

"That's _his_ lookout," she finished.

Peter was taking a great delight in watching her profile, the blue eyes
shadowed under the mass of her hair, eyes rather deeply set and
thoughtful in repose, the straight nose, the rather full underlip ending
in a precipitous dent above her chin. He liked that chin. There was
courage there and strength, softened at once by the curve of the throat,
flowing to where it joined the fine deep breast. Yesterday she had
seemed like a boy. To-day she was a woman grown, feminine in every
graceful conformation, on tiptoe at the very verge of life.

But there was no "flapper" here. What she lacked in culture was made up
in refinement. He had felt that yesterday--the day before. She belonged
elsewhere. And yet to Peter it would have seemed a pity to have changed
her in any particular. Her lips were now drawn in a firm line and her
brows bore a curious frown.

"You don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?"

She flashed a glance at him.

"That's what everybody calls me."

"My name is Peter."

"Yes, I know." And then, "That's funny."

"Funny!"

"You look as if your name ought to be Algernon."

"Why?" he asked, laughing.

"Oh, I don't know. It's the name of a man in a book I read--an
Englishman. You're English, you said."

"Half English," said Peter.

"What's the other half?"

"Russian." He knew that he ought to be lying to her, but somehow he
couldn't.

"Russian! I thought Russians all had long hair and carried bombs."

"Some of 'em do. I'm not that kind. The half of me that's English is the
biggest half, and the safest."

"I'm glad of that. I'd hate to think of you as bein' a Bolshevik."

"H-m. So would I."

"But Russia's where you get your music from, isn't it? The band leader
at Glassboro is a Russian. He can play every instrument. Did you learn
music in Russia?"

Beth was now treading dangerous ground and so it was time to turn the
tables.

"Yes, a little," he said, "but music has no nationality. Or why would I
find a voice like yours out here?"

"Twenty miles from nowhere," she added scornfully.

"How did you come here, Beth? Would you mind telling me? You weren't
born here, were you? How did you happen to come to Black Rock?"

"Just bad luck, I guess. Nobody'd ever come to Black Rock just because
they want to. We just came. That's all."

"Just you and Aunt Tillie? Is your father dead?" he asked.

She closed her eyes a moment and then clasped her knees again.

"I don't like to talk about family matters."

"Oh, I----"

And then, gently, she added,

"I never talk about them to any one."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Peter, aware of the undercurrent of sadness in her
voice. "I didn't know that there was anything painful to you----"

"I didn't know it myself, until you played it to me, just now, the piece
with the sad, low voices, under the melody. It was like somebody dead
speakin' to me. I can't talk about the things I feel like that."

"Don't then----Forgive me for asking."

He laid his fingers softly over hers. She withdrew her hand quickly, but
the look that she turned him found his face sober, his dark eyes warm
with sympathy. And then with a swift inconsequential impulse born of
Peter's recantation,

"I don't s'pose there's any reason why I shouldn't tell you," she said
more easily. "Everybody around here knows about me--about us. Aunt
Tillie and I haven't lived here always. She brought me here when I was a
child."

She paused again and Peter remained silent, watching her intently. As
she glanced up at him, something in the expression of his face gave her
courage to go on.

"Father's dead. His name was Ben Cameron. He came of nice people," she
faltered. "But he--he was no good. We lived up near New Lisbon. He used
to get drunk on 'Jersey Lightnin'' and tear loose. He was all right
between whiles--farmin'--but whisky made him crazy, and then--then he
would come home and beat us up."

"Horrible!"

"It was. I was too little to know much, but Aunt Tillie's husband came
at last and there was a terrible fight. Uncle Will was hurt--hurt so
bad--cut with a knife--that he never was the same again. And my--my
father went away cursing us all. Then my mother died--Uncle Will
too--and Aunt Tillie and I came down here to live. That's all. Not much
to be proud of," she finished ruefully.

Peter was silent. It was a harrowing, sordid story of primitive passion.
He was very sorry for her.

Beth made an abrupt graceful movement of an arm across her brows, as
though to wipe out the memory.

"I don't know why I've told you," she said. "I never speak of this to
any one."

"I'm so sorry."

He meant it. And Beth knew that he did.




CHAPTER VIII

THE PLACARD


The look that she had given him showed her sense of his sympathy. So he
ventured,

"Did you hear from your father before he died?"

"Aunt Tillie did,--once. Then we got word he'd been killed in a railway
accident out West. I was glad. A man like that has no right to live."

"You and Aunt Tillie have had a pretty hard time----" he mused.

"Yes. She's an angel--and I love her. Why is it that good people have
nothin' but trouble? She had an uncle who went bad too--he was younger
than she was--my great-uncle--Jack Bray--he forged a check--or somethin'
up in Newark--and went to the penitentiary."

"And is he dead too?"

"No--not at last accounts. He's out--somewhere. When I was little he
used to come to Aunt Tillie for money--a tall, lantern-jawed man. I saw
him once three years ago. He was here. Aunt Tillie tried to keep me out
of the kitchen. But I thought he was up to some funny business and
stayed. He took a fancy to me. He said he was camera man in the movies.
He wanted me to go with him--thought I could be as good as Mary
Pickford. I'm glad I didn't go--from what I know now. He was a bad man.
Aunt Tillie was scared of him. Poor soul! She gave him all she had--most
of what was left from the old farm, I guess."

"Do you think----" began Peter, then paused. And as she glanced at him
inquiringly, "Did you notice that your Aunt Tillie seemed--er--frightened
last night?" he asked at last.

"I thought so for a while, but she said she was only sick. She never
lies to me."

"She seemed very much disturbed."

"Her nerve's not what it used to be--especially since Mr. McGuire's
taken to seein' things----"

"You don't believe then that she could have seen John Bray--that he had
come back again last night?"

"Why, no," said Beth, turning in surprise. "I never thought of it--and
yet," she paused, "yes,--it might have been----"

She became more thoughtful but didn't go on. Peter was on the trail of a
clew to the mystery, but she had already told him so much that further
questions seemed like personal intrusion. And so,

"I'd like to tell you, Beth," he said, "that I'm your friend and Mrs.
Bergen's. If anything should turn up to make you unhappy or to make your
aunt unhappy and I can help you, won't you let me know?"

"Why--do you think anything is goin' to happen?" she asked.

His reply was noncommittal.

"I just wanted you to know you could count on me----" he said soberly.
"I think you've had trouble enough."

"But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she said with a shrug, "even if Aunt
Tillie is. He can't do anything to me. He can't _make_ me go to New York
if I don't want to."

She had clenched her brown fists in her excitement and Peter laughed.

"I think I'd be a little sorry for anybody who tried to make you do
anything you didn't want to do," he said.

She frowned. "Why, if I thought that bandy-legged, lantern-jawed, old
buzzard was comin' around here frightenin' Aunt Tillie, I'd--I'd----"

"What would you do?"

"Never you mind what I'd do. But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she
finished confidently.

The terrors that had been built up around the house of McGuire, the
mystery surrounding the awe-inspiring prowler, the night vigils, the
secrecy--all seemed to fade into a piece of hobbledehoy buffoonery at
Beth's contemptuous description of her recreant relative. And he smiled
at her amusedly.

"But what would you say," he asked seriously, "if I told you that last
night Mr. McGuire saw the same person your Aunt Tillie did, and that he
was terrified--almost to the verge of collapse?"

Beth had risen, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"Merciful Father! McGuire! Did he have another spell last night? You
don't mean----?"

"I went up to his room. He was done for. He had seen outside the
drawing-room window the face of the very man he's been guarding himself
against."

"I can't believe----," she gasped. "And you think Aunt Tillie----?"

"Your Aunt Tillie talked to a man outside the door of the kitchen. You
didn't hear her. I did. The same man who had been frightening Mr.
McGuire."

"Aunt Tillie!" she said in astonishment.

"There's not a doubt of it. McGuire saw him. Andy saw him too,--thought
he was the chauffeur."

Beth's excitement was growing with the moments.

"Why, Aunt Tillie didn't know anything about what was frightening Mr.
McGuire--no more'n I did," she gasped.

"She knows now. She wasn't sick last night, Beth. She was just
bewildered--frightened half out of her wits. I spoke to her after you
went home. She wouldn't say a word. She was trying to conceal something.
But there was a man outside and she knows who he is."

"But what could Jack Bray have to do with Mr. McGuire?" she asked in
bewilderment.

Peter shrugged. "You know as much as I do. I wouldn't have told you this
if you'd been afraid. But Mrs. Bergen is."

"Well, did you _ever?_"

"No, I never did," replied Peter, smiling.

"It does beat _anything_."

"It does. It's most interesting, but as far as I can see, hardly
alarming for you, whatever it may be to Mr. McGuire or Mrs. Bergen. If
the man is only your great-uncle, there ought to be a way to deal with
him----"

"I've just got to talk to Aunt Tillie," Beth broke in, moving toward the
door. Peter followed her, taking up his hat.

"I'll go with you," he said.

For a few moments Beth said nothing. She had passed through the stages
of surprise, anger and bewilderment, and was now still indignant but
quite self-contained. When he thought of Beth's description of the Ghost
of Black Rock House, Peter was almost tempted to forget the terrors of
the redoubtable McGuire. A man of his type hardly lapses into hysteria
at the mere thought of a "bandy-legged buzzard." And yet McGuire's
terrors had been so real and were still so real that it was hardly
conceivable that Bray could have been the cause of them. Indeed it was
hardly conceivable that the person Beth described could be a source of
terror to any one. What was the answer?

"Aunt Tillie doesn't know anything about McGuire," Beth said suddenly.
"She just couldn't know. She tells me everything."

"But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have
met in New York----"

"What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully.

Peter laughed.

"It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters."

"I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe
it."

They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had
been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns,
stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing.

Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far
from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener
than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it.

They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was
scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's
neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side
by side, and intensely interested, they read:

      TO MIKE MCGUIRE

      I'VE COME BACK.

      YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE GOT AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'VE GOT.
      ACT PRONTO. I'LL COME FOR MY ANSWER AT ELEVEN FRIDAY
      NIGHT--AT THIS TREE.  NO TRICKS. IF THERE'S NO
      ANSWER--YOU KNOW WHAT I'LL DO.

      HAWK.

"Hawk!" muttered Beth, "who on earth----?"

"Another----," said Peter cryptically.

"You see!" cried Beth triumphantly, "I knew it couldn't be Jack Bray!"

"This chap seems to be rather in earnest, doesn't he? _Pronto!_ That
means haste."

"But it's only a joke. It must be," cried Beth.

Peter loosened the knife, took the placard down and turned it over,
examining it critically.

"I wonder." And then, thoughtfully, "No, I don't believe it is. It's
addressed to McGuire. I'm going to take it to him."

"Mike McGuire," corrected Beth. And then, "But it really does look
queer."

"It does," assented Peter; "it appears to me as if this message must
have come from the person McGuire saw last night."

Beth looked bewildered.

"But what has Aunt Tillie got to do with--with Hawk? She never knew
anybody of that name."

"Probably not. It isn't a real name, of course."

"Then why should it frighten Mr. McGuire?" she asked logically.

Peter shook his head. All the props had fallen from under his theories.

"Whether it's real to McGuire or not is what I want to know. And I'm
going to find out," he finished.

When they reached a path which cut through the trees toward the creek,
Beth stopped, and held out her hand.

"I'm not goin' up to the house with you and I don't think I'll see Aunt
Tillie just now," she said. "Good-by, Mr.----"

"Peter----," he put in.

"Good-by, Mr. Peter."

"Just Peter----" he insisted.

"Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come
again?"

"Yes. And I'm going to get you some music----"

"Singin' music?" she gasped.

He nodded.

"And you'll let me know if I can help--Aunt Tillie or you?"

She bobbed her head and was gone.

Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had
disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment
drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult
to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit
proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear
him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his
promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his
assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this
sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute
and confidence that had ever been paid him--at least by a woman. A visit
of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost
any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived
would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender.

The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That
the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he
might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had
never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments
had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after
that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in
Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else.

And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished,
to conceal his warm admiration for her physical beauty. She had been
very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take
her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he
experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a
temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him.... Idealism? Perhaps. The
same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo
were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them--that
had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia
herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child--and
one is always gentle with children.

He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming
with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an
afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it
merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who
knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous
voice. He would have to develop it. He really would.

All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing
the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He
read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording.
Blackmail? Probably. The "_pronto_" was significant. This message could
hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of
movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of
villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey
upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt
such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a
hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last
night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs.
Bergen? And if so, how and where had she known him without Beth's being
aware of it? And why should Beth be involved in the danger?

Peter was slowly coming to the belief that there had been two men
outside the house last night, "Hawk" and John Bray. And yet it seemed
scarcely possible that the men on guard should not have seen the second
man and that both men could have gotten away without leaving a trace.
And where was the man with the black mustache? Was he John Bray?
Impossible. It was all very perplexing. But here in his hand he held the
tangible evidence of McGuire's fears. "You know what I've got and I know
what you've got." The sentence seemed to have a cabalistic
significance--a pact--a threat which each man held over the other.
Perhaps it wasn't money only that "Hawk" wanted. Whatever it was, he
meant to have it, and soon. The answer the man expected was apparently
something well understood between himself and McGuire, better understood
perhaps since the day McGuire had seen him in New York and had fled in
terror to Sheldon, Senior's, office. And if McGuire didn't send the
desired answer to the tree by Friday night, there would be the very
devil to pay--if not "Hawk."

Peter was to be the bearer of ill tidings and with them, he knew, all
prospect of a business discussion would vanish. The situation interested
him, as all things mysterious must, and he could not forget that he was,
for the present, part policeman, part detective; but forestry was his
real job here and every day that passed meant so many fewer days in
which to build the fire towers. And these he considered to be a prime
necessity to the security of the estate.

He rolled the placard up and went toward the house. On the lawn he
passed the young people, intent upon their own pursuits. He was glad
that none of them noticed him and meeting Stryker, who was hovering
around the lower hall, he sent his name up to his employer.

"I don't think Mr. McGuire expects you just yet, sir," said the man.

"Nevertheless, tell him I must see him," said Peter. "It's important."

Though it was nearly two o'clock, McGuire was not yet dressed and his
looks when Peter was admitted to him bespoke a long night of anxiety and
vigil. Wearing an incongruous flowered dressing gown tied at the waist
with a silken cord, he turned to the visitor.

"Well," he said rather peevishly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. McGuire, but something has happened that
I thought----"

"What's happened?" the other man snapped out, eying the roll of
cardboard in Peter's hand. "What----?" he gasped.

Peter smiled and shrugged coolly.

"It may be only a joke, sir--and I hardly know whether I'm even
justified in calling it to your attention, but I found this placard
nailed to a tree near the path to the Cabin."

"Placard!" said McGuire, his sharp glance noting the printing of the
trespass sign. "Of course--that's the usual warning----"

"It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it
carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast
tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure.

McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though
fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his
face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around
his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the
extraordinary document were far from steady. The gay flowers of the
dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed
suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the
dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly
awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred
and turned slowly in the chair.

"You--you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly.

"Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this
hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire.

McGuire took the knife--twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A
hasp-knife," he repeated dully.

"I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on
account of----"

"Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he
said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on
guard.

"If there's nothing else just now, I'll----"

"Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one
else see this--this paper?"

"Yes--Mrs. Bergen's niece--she saw it first."

"My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?"

"I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written."

"Ah----" muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently.
"Where--where is the tree on which you found it?"

"A maple--just in the wood--at the foot of the lawn."

"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his
hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single
tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced
the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author
of them.

"G---- d---- you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.

"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.

McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It
can't--be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He
was showing his early breeding now.

"I might 'a' known----," he said aloud, staring at the paper.

"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.

"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it
talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a
woman read it?"

"Yes."

"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my
affairs."

"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if
there's anything I can do----"

McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance
wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed
to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening
intently.

"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within
call."

The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely
bowed his head and obeyed.

"I suppose you're--you're curious about this message, Nichols--coming in
such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.

"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could
to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."

"He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've
got to put a stop to it--and to him."

"He speaks of coming again Friday night----"

"Yes--yes--Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard,
"I've got to do what he wants--this time--just this time----"

McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched
from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,

"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I--I'll have
to tell you more. I--I think--I'll need you--to help me."

Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the
imminent revelations.

"I may say that--this--this 'Hawk' is a--an enemy of mine, Nichols--a
bitter enemy--unscrupulous--a man better dead than alive. I--I wish to
God you'd shot him last night."

"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.

"I--I've got to do what he wants--this time. I can't have this sort of
thing goin' on--with everybody in Black Rock reading these damn things.
You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?"

"I'd be pretty sure of that----"

"But she might--any time--if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop
that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further."

"I think you may trust me."

"Yes. I think I can. I've _got_ to trust you now, whether I want to or
no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get
away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very
strange. It is strange. I knew this man--called 'Hawk,' many years ago.
I--I thought he was dead, but he's come back."

McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which
so clearly announced that fact.

"He speaks of something I've got--something he's got, Nichols. It's a
paper--a--er--a partnership paper we drew up years ago--out West and
signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it
I----," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds
it as a--well--not exactly as a threat--but as a kind of menace to my
happiness and Peggy's."

"I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short."

"Exactly--er--blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars--in New York. I
refused him--there's no end to blackmail once you yield--and I came down
here--but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him."

"If you were sure he had it with him----"

"That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere.
I've got to get this money for him--from New York--I haven't got it in
the house--before Friday night----"

"But blackmail----!"

"I've got to, Nichols--this time. I've got to."

"I wouldn't, sir," said Peter stoutly.

"But you don't know everything. I've only told you part," said McGuire,
almost whining. "This is no ordinary case--no ordinary blackmail. I've
got to be quick. I'm going to get the money--I'm going to get you to go
to New York and get it."

"Me!"

"Yes. Yes. This is Wednesday. I can't take any chances of not having it
here Friday. Peggy is going back this afternoon. I'll get her to drive
you up. I'll 'phone Sheldon to expect you--he'll give you the money and
you can come back to-morrow."

"But to-night----"

"He knows the danger of trying to reach me. That's why he wrote this. I
won't be bothered to-night. I'll shut the house tight and put some of
the men inside. If he comes, we'll shoot."

"But Friday----Do you mean, sir, that you'll go out to him with five
thousand dollars and risk----"

"No, I won't. _You_ will," said McGuire, watching Peter's face craftily.

"Oh, I see," replied Peter, aware that he was being drawn more deeply
into the plot than he had wished. "You want me to meet him."

McGuire noted Peter's dubious tone and at once got up and laid his hands
upon his shoulders.

"You'll do this for me, won't you, Nichols? I don't want to see this
man. I can't explain. There wouldn't be any danger. He hasn't anything
against you. Why should he have? I haven't any one else that I can
trust--but Stryker. And Stryker--well--I'd have to tell Stryker. _You_
know already. Don't say you refuse. It's--it's a proof of my confidence.
You're just the man I want here. I'll make it worth your while to stay
with me--well worth your while."

Peter was conscious of a feeling partly of pity, partly of contempt, for
the cringing creature pawing at his shoulders. Peter had never liked to
be pawed. It had always rubbed him the wrong way. But McGuire's need was
great and pity won.

"Oh, I'll do it if you like," he said, turning aside and releasing
himself from the clinging fingers, "provided I assume no
responsibility----"

"That's it. No responsibility," said McGuire, in a tone of relief.
"You'll just take that money out--then come away----"

"And get nothing in return?" asked Peter in surprise. "No paper--no
receipt----?"

"No--just this once, Nichols. It will keep him quiet for a month or so.
In the meanwhile----" The old man paused, a crafty look in his eyes,
"In the meanwhile we'll have time to devise a way to meet this
situation."

"Meaning--precisely what?" asked Peter keenly.

McGuire scowled at him and then turned away toward the window.

"That needn't be your affair."

"It won't be," said Peter quickly. "I'd like you to remember that I came
here as a forester and superintendent. I agreed also to guard your house
and yourself from intrusion, but if it comes to the point of----"

"There, there, Nichols," croaked McGuire, "don't fly off the handle.
We'll just cross this bridge first. I--I won't ask you to do anything
a--a gentleman shouldn't."

"Oh, well, sir," said Peter finally, "that's fair enough."

McGuire came over and faced Peter, his watery eyes seeking Peter's.

"You'll swear, Nichols, to say nothing of this to any one?"

"Yes. I'll keep silent."

"Nothing to Sheldon?"

"No."

"And you'll see this--this niece of the housekeeper's?"

"Yes."

The man gave a gasp of relief and sank into his chair.

"Now go, Nichols--and shift your clothes. Peggy's going about four. Come
back here and I'll give you a letter and a check."

Peter nodded and reached the door. As he opened it, Stryker straightened
and bowed uncomfortably. But Peter knew that he had been listening at
the keyhole.




CHAPTER IX

SHAD IS UNPLEASANT


Peter returned from New York on Thursday night, having accomplished his
curious mission. He had first intercepted Beth on her way to the kitchen
and sworn her to secrecy, advising her to say nothing to Mrs. Bergen
about the events of the previous night. And she had agreed to respect
his wishes. On the way to New York he had sat in the rumble of the low
red runabout, Miss Peggy McGuire at the wheel, driving the fashionable
Freddy. Miss McGuire after having yielded, the night before, to the
musical predilections of Miss Delaplane, had apparently reconsidered
Peter's social status and had waved him to the seat in the rear with a
mere gesture and without apologies. And Peter, biting back a grin and
touching his hat, had obeyed. The familiarities tolerable in such a
wilderness as Black Rock could not of course be considered in the halls
of the fashionable hotel where Miss Peggy lived in New York, and where
by dint of great care and exclusiveness she had caught a hold of the
fringe of society. But Peter sat up very straight, trying not to hear
what was said in front. If he could only have worn his Colonel's uniform
and decorations, or his Grand Ducal coronet, and have folded his arms,
the irony would have been perfection.

He had gone to Sheldon, Senior, in the morning and in return for
McGuire's check had been given cash in the shape of ten virginal five
hundred dollar bills. This money had been put into an envelope and was
now folded carefully in Peter's inside pocket. Sheldon, Senior, to be
sure, had asked questions, but with a good grace Peter had evaded him.
Dick Sheldon was out of town, so Peter put in the remaining period
before his train-time in a music store where he spent all the money that
remained of his salary, on books, a few for the piano but most of them
for Beth. Peter had wasted, as he had thought, two perfectly good years
in trying to learn to sing. But those two years were not going to be
wasted now--for Beth was to be his mouthpiece. He knew the beginnings of
a training--how to give her the advantage of the instruction he had
received from one of the best teachers in Milan. He was lucky enough to
find books on the Italian method of voice production and on the way back
to McGuire's, armed with these, he stopped off at the Bergen house in
Black Rock village and returned Beth's call.

There he found Shad Wells, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe in the
portico, and looking like a thundercloud. In response to Peter's query,
he moved his right shoulder half an inch in the direction of the door,
and then spat in the geranium bed. So Peter knocked at the door, softly
at first, then loudly, when Beth emerged, her sleeves rolled to her
shoulders and her arms covered with soapsuds.

"Why, Shad," she said witheringly, after she had greeted Peter, "you
might have let me know! Come in, Mr. Nichols. Excuse my appearance.
Wash-day," she explained, as he followed her into the dark interior.

"I can't stop," said the visitor, "I just came to bring these books----"

"For _me_!" she exclaimed, hurriedly wiping her arms on her apron.

"I got them in New York----"

She pulled up the shade at the side, letting in the sunlight, an act
permissible in the parlors of Black Rock only on state occasions, for
the sunlight (as every one knew) was not kind to plush-covered
furniture.

"For _me_!" Beth repeated softly. "I didn't think you meant it."

"_Tone production--Exercises_," explained Peter, "and here's one on _The
Lives of the Great Composers_. I thought you might be interested in
reading it."

"Oh, yes. I am--I will be. Thank you ever so much----"

"Of course you can't do much by yourself just yet--not without a
piano--to get the pitch--the key--but I've brought a tuning fork
and----"

"But I've got the harmonium----," Beth broke in excitedly. "It's a
little out of tune, but----"

"The harmonium!" asked the bewildered Peter. "What's that?"

Beth proudly indicated a piece of furniture made of curly walnut which
stood in the corner of the room. There were several books on the top of
it--_Gospel Tunes_--_Moody and Sankey_, a Methodist Episcopal hymn book,
and a glass case containing wax flowers.

"We play it Sundays----," said Beth, "but it ought to help----"

"You play----!" he said in surprise.

"Aunt Tillie and I--oh, just hymns----." She sat, while Peter watched,
began pumping vigorously with her feet and presently the instrument
emitted a doleful sound. "It has notes anyhow," said Beth with a laugh.

"Splendid!" said Peter. "And when I've told you what to do you can
practice here. You'll come soon?"

She nodded. "When?"

"To-morrow--sometime?" And then, "What's the matter with Wells?" he
asked.

She frowned. "He just asked me to marry him. It's the twenty-seventh
time."

"Oh----"

"I can't be botherin' with Shad--not on wash-day--or any other day," she
added as though in an afterthought.

Peter laughed. He was quite sure that nobody would ever make her do
anything she didn't want to do.

"He knows I was at the Cabin yesterday," she said in a low voice. "He
was watchin'."

Peter was silent a moment, glancing at the books he had just brought
her.

"Of course if he has any claim on you, perhaps----," he began, when she
broke in.

"Claim! He hasn't," she gasped. "I'll do as I please. And he'd better
quit pesterin' me or I'll----"

"What?"

She laughed.

"I'll put him through the clothes-wringer."

Peter grinned. "He almost looks as though you'd done that already."

And as she followed him to the door, "I thought I ought to tell you
about Shad. When he gets ugly--he's ugly an' no mistake."

"Do you still think he'll--er--swallow me at one gobble?" he asked.

She stared at him a moment and then laughed with a full throat. "I hope
he don't--at least not 'til I've had my singin' lessons."

"I think I can promise you that," said Peter.

She followed him out to the porch, where they looked about for Shad. He
had disappeared. And in the "Lizzie," which had been panting by the side
of the road, Peter was conducted by the soiled young man at the wheel to
Black Rock House.

Nothing unusual had happened in his absence, nor had any other message
or warning been posted, for Stryker, released for this duty, had
searched all the morning and found nothing. "Hawk" was waiting, biding
his hour.

Curiously enough, an astonishing calm seemed to have fallen over the
person of Jonathan K. McGuire. When Peter arrived he found his employer
seated on the portico in a wicker chair, smoking his after-supper cigar.
True, the day guards were posted near by and Stryker hovered as was his
wont, but the change in his employer's demeanor was so apparent that
Peter wondered how such a stolid-looking creature could ever have lost
his self-control. It was difficult to understand this metamorphosis
unless it could be that, having come to a decision and aware of the
prospect of immunity, if only a temporary one, McGuire had settled down
to make the best of a bad job and await with stoicism whatever the
future was to bring. This was Peter's first impression, nothing else
suggesting itself, but when he followed the old man up to his room and
gave him the money he had brought he noted the deeply etched lines at
nostril and jaw and felt rather than saw the meaning of them--that
Jonathan McGuire was in the grip of some deep and sinister resolution.
There was a quality of desperation in his calmness, a studied
indifference to the dangers which the night before last had seemed so
appalling.

He put the money in the safe, carefully locked the combination and then
turned into the room again.

"Thanks, Nichols," he said. "You'd better have some supper and get to
bed to-night. I don't think you'll be needed." And then, as Peter's look
showed his surprise, "I know my man better than you do. To-morrow night
we shall see."

He closed his lips into a thin line, shot out his jaw and lowered his
brows unpleasantly. Courage of a sort had come back to him, the courage
of the animal at bay, which fights against the inevitable.

To Peter the time seemed propitious to state the need for the
observation towers and he explained in detail his projects. But McGuire
listened and when Peter had finished speaking merely shook his head.

"What you say is quite true. The towers must be built. I've thought so
for a long time. In a few days we will speak of that again--_after
to-morrow night_," he finished significantly.

"As you please," said Peter, "but every day lost now may----"

"We'll gain these days later," he broke in abruptly. "I want you to stay
around here now."

On Friday morning he insisted on having Peter show him the tree where
the placard had been discovered, and Peter, having taken lunch with him,
led him down to the big sugar maple, off the path to the cabin. Peter
saw that he scanned the woods narrowly and walked with a hand in his
waist-band, which Peter knew held an Army Colt revolver, but the whine
was gone from his voice, the trembling from his hands. He walked around
the maple with Peter, regarding it with a sort of morbid abstraction and
then himself led the way to the path and to the house. Why he wanted to
look at the tree was more than Peter could understand, for it was Peter,
and not he, who was to keep this costly assignation.

"You understand, Nichols," he said when they reached the portico,
"you've agreed to go--to-night--at eleven."

"I wish you'd let me meet him--without the money."

"No--no. I've made up my mind----," gasped McGuire with a touch of his
old alarm, "there can't be any change in the plan--no change at all."

"Oh, very well," said Peter, "it's not my money I'm giving away."

"It won't matter, Nichols. I--I've got a lot more----"

"But the principle----" protested Peter.

"To H---- with the principle," growled the old man.

Peter turned and went back to the Cabin, somewhat disgusted with his
whole undertaking. Already he had been here for five days and, except
for two walks through the woods for purposes of investigation, nothing
that he had come to do had been accomplished. He had not yet even
visited the sawmills which were down on the corduroy road five miles
away. So far as he could see, for the present he was merely McGuire's
handy man, a kind of upper servant and messenger, whose duties could
have been performed as capably by Stryker or Shad Wells, or even Jesse
Brown. The forest called him. It needed him. From what he had heard he
knew that down by the sawmills they were daily cutting the wrong trees.
He had already sent some instructions to the foreman there, but he could
not be sure that his orders had been obeyed. He knew that he ought to
spend the day there, making friends with the men and explaining the
reasons for the change in orders, but as long as McGuire wanted him
within telephone range, there was nothing to do but to obey.

He reached the Cabin, threw off his coat, and had hardly settled down at
the table to finish his drawing, a plan of the observation towers, when
Beth appeared. He rose and greeted her. Her face was flushed, for she
had been running.

"Has Shad been here?" she asked breathlessly.

"No."

"Oh!" she gasped. "I was afraid he'd get here before me. I took the
short cut through the woods."

"What's the matter?"

"He said he--he was going to break you to bits----"

"To bits! Me? Why?"

"Because he--he says I oughtn't to come here----"

"Oh, I see," he muttered, and then, with a grin, "and what do _you_
think about it, Beth?"

"I'll do what I please," she said. "So long as I think it's all right.
What business has he got to stop me!"

Peter laughed. "Don't let's bother then. Did you bring your books?"

She hadn't brought them. She had come in such a hurry.

"But aren't you afraid--when he comes?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Peter. "Do you think I ought to be?"

"Well, Shad's--he's what they call a Hellion around here."

"What's a--er--Hellion?"

"A--a scrapper."

"Oh, a fighting man?"

"Yes."

Peter sat down at the piano and struck loudly some strident discords in
the bass. "Like this!" he laughed. "Isn't it ugly, Beth--that's what
fighting is--I had it day and night for years. If Shad had been in the
war he wouldn't ever want to fight again."

"Were you in the war?" asked Beth in amazement.

"Of course. Where would I have been?" And before she could reply he had
swept into the rumbling bass of the "Revolutionary Étude." She sank into
a chair and sat silent, listening, at first watching the door, and then
as the soul of the artist within her awoke she forgot everything but the
music.

There was a long silence at the end when Peter paused, and then he heard
her voice, tense, suppressed.

"I could see it--you made me see it!" she gasped, almost in a whisper.
"War--revolution--the people--angry--mumbling--crowding, pushing ... a
crowd with guns and sticks howling at a gate ... and then a man trying
to speak to them--appealing----"

Peter turned quickly at the words and faced her. Her eyes were like
stars, her soul rapt in the vision his music had painted. Peter had
lived that scene again and again, but how could Beth know unless he had
made her see it? There was something strange--uncanny--in Beth's vision
of the great drama of Peter's life. And yet she had seen. Even now her
spirit was afar.

"And what happened to the man who was appealing to them?" he asked
soberly.

She closed her eyes, then opened them toward him, shaking her head.
"I--I don't know--it's all gone now."

"But you saw what I played. That is what happened."

"What do you mean?" She questioned, startled in her turn.

Peter shrugged himself into the present moment. "Nothing. It's
just--revolution. War. War is like that, Beth," he went on quietly after
a moment. "Like the motif in the bass--there is no end--the threat of it
never stops--day or night. Only hell could be like it."

Beth slowly came out of her dream.

"You fought?" she asked.

"Oh, yes."

Another silence. "I--I think I understand now why you're not afraid."

"But I _am_ afraid, Beth," he said with a smile. "I was always afraid in
the war. Because Death is always waiting just around the corner. Nobody
who has been in the war wants ever to fight again."

He turned to the piano. "They all want happiness, Beth. Peace. This!" he
finished, and his roving fingers played softly the Tschaikowsky
"Reverie."

When he had finished he turned to her, smiling.

"What vision do you see in that, Beth?"

She started as though from a dream. "Oh, happiness--and sadness, too."

"Yes," said Peter soberly. "No one knows what it is to be happy unless
one has been sad."

"That's true, isn't it?" she muttered, looking at him in wonder. "I
never knew what unhappiness was for--but I guess that's it."

He caught the minor note in her voice and smiled.

"Come now," he said, "we'll have our first lesson."

"Without the books?"

"Yes. We'll try breathing."

"Breathing?"

"Yes--from the diaphragm."

And as she looked bewildered, "From the stomach--not from the
chest--breathe deeply and say 'Ah.'"

She obeyed him and did it naturally, as though she had never breathed in
any other way.

"Fine," he cried and touched a note on the piano. "Now sing it. Throw it
forward. Softly first, then louder----"

It was while she was carrying out this instruction that a shadow
appeared on the doorsill, followed in a moment by the figure of Shad
Wells. Beth's "Ah" ceased suddenly. The visitor stood outside, his hands
on his hips, in silent rage.

Peter merely glanced at him over his shoulder.

"How are you, Wells?" he said politely. "Won't you come in? We've having
a singing lesson."

Shad did not move or speak as Peter went on, "Take the chair by the
door, old man. The cigarettes are on the table. Now, Beth----"

But Beth remained as she was, uneasily regarding the intruder, for she
knew that Shad was there for no good purpose. Peter caught her look and
turned toward the door, deliberately ignoring the man's threatening
demeanor.

"We won't be long," he began coolly, "not over half an hour----"

"No, I know ye won't," growled Shad. And then to the girl, "Beth, come
out o' there!"

If Shad's appearance had caused Beth any uncertainty, she found her
spirit now, for her eyes flashed and her mouth closed in a hard line.

"Who are you to say where I come or go?" she said evenly.

But Shad stood his ground.

"If you don't know enough to know what's what I'm here to show you."

"Oh, I say----," said Peter coolly.

"You can say what you like, Mister. And I've got somethin' to say to you
when this lady goes."

"Oh,----" and then quietly to Beth, "Perhaps you'd better go. Bring the
books to-morrow--at the same time."

But Beth hadn't moved, and only looked at Peter appealingly. So Peter
spoke.

"This man is impolite, not to say disagreeable to you. Has he any right
to speak to you like this?"

"No," said Beth uneasily, "but I don't want any trouble."

Peter walked to the door and faced Shad outside.

"There won't be any trouble unless Wells makes it." And then, as if a
new thought had come to him, he said more cheerfully, "Perhaps he
doesn't quite understand----"

"Oh, I understand, all right. Are you goin', Beth?"

She glanced at Peter, who nodded toward the path, and she came between
them.

"Go on back, Shad," she said.

"No."

"Do you mean it? If you do I'm through with you. You understand?"

Peter took the girl by the arm and led her gently away.

"Just wait a minute, Wells," he flung over his shoulder at the man,
"I'll be back in a second."

The careless tone rather bewildered the woodsman, who had expected to
find either fear or anger. The forester-piano-player showed
neither--only careless ease and a coolness which could only be because
he didn't know what was coming to him.

"D--n him! I'll fix him!" muttered Shad, quivering with rage. But Peter
having fortified himself with a cigarette was now returning. Wells
advanced into an open space where there was plenty of room to swing his
elbows and waited.

"Now, Wells," said Peter alertly, "you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did, ye stuck-up piano-playin', psalm-singin' ---- ---- ----
----." And suiting the action to the word leaped for Peter, both fists
flying.

The rugged and uncultured often mistake politeness for effeminacy,
sensibility for weakness. Shad was a rough and tumble artist of a high
proficiency, and he had a reputation for strength and combativeness. He
was going to make short work of this job.

But Peter had learned his boxing with his cricket. Also he had practiced
the _Savate_ and was familiar with _jiu jitsu_--but he didn't need
either of them.

Wells rushed twice but Peter was not where he rushed. The only damage he
had done was to tear out the sleeve of Peter's shirt.

"Stand up an' fight like a man," growled Shad.

"There's no hurry," said Peter, calmly studying Shad's methods.

"Oh, _ain't_ there!"

This bull-like rush Peter stopped with a neat uppercut, straightening
Shad's head which came up with a disfigured nose and before he could
throw down his guard, Peter landed hard on his midriff. Shad winced but
shot out a blow which grazed Peter's cheek. Then Peter countered on
Shad's injured nose. Shad's eyes were now regarding Peter in
astonishment. But in a moment only one of them was, for Peter closed the
other.

"We'd better stop now," gasped Peter, "and talk this over."

"No, you ---- ---- ----," roared Shad, for he suspected that somewhere
in the bushes Beth was watching.

Peter lost what remained of his shirt in the next rush and sprained a
thumb. It didn't do to fight Shad "rough and tumble." But he got away at
last and stood his man off, avoiding the blind rushes and landing almost
at will.

"Had enough?" he asked again, as politely as ever.

"No," gulped the other.

So Peter sprang in and struck with all the force of his uninjured hand
on the woodsman's jaw, and then Shad went down and lay quiet. It had
been ridiculously easy from the first and Peter felt some pity for Shad
and not a little contempt for himself. But he took the precaution of
bending over the man and extracting the revolver that he found in Shad's
hip pocket.

As he straightened and turned he saw Beth standing in the path regarding
him.

"Beth!" he exclaimed with a glance at Shad. "You saw?"

"Yes." She covered her face with her hands. "It was horrible."

"I tried to avoid it," he protested.

"Yes, I know. It was his own fault. Is he badly hurt?"

"No, I think not. But you'd better go."

"Why?"

"It will only make matters worse if he sees you."

She understood, turned and vanished obediently.

Then Peter went to the house, got a basin and, fetching some water from
the creek, played the Samaritan. In a while Shad gasped painfully and
sat up, looking at the victor.

"Sorry," said Peter, "but you _would_ have it."

Shad blinked his uninjured eye and rose, feeling at his hip.

"I took your revolver," said Peter calmly.

"Give it here."

"A chap with a bad temper has no business carrying one," said Peter
sternly.

"Oh----." The man managed to get to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Shad," said Peter again, and held out his hand. "Let's be
friends."

Shad looked at the hand sullenly for a moment. "I'll fix _you_, Mister.
I'll fix you yet," he muttered, then turned and walked away.

If Peter had made one friend he had also made an enemy.

The incident with Shad Wells was unfortunate, but Peter didn't see how
it could have been avoided. He was thankful nevertheless for his English
schooling, which had saved him from a defeat at the hands of a
"roughneck" which could have been, under the circumstances, nothing less
than ignominious. For if Shad Wells had succeeded in vanquishing him,
all Peter's authority, all his influence with the rest of the men in
McGuire's employ would have gone forever, for Shad Wells was not the
kind of man upon whom such a victory would have lightly sat. If he had
thrashed Peter, Shad and not Peter would have been the boss of Black
Rock and Peter's position would have been intolerable.

As Peter laved his broken knuckles and bruised cheek, he wondered if,
after all, the affair hadn't been for the best. True, he had made an
enemy of Shad, but then according to the girl, Shad had already been his
enemy. Peter abhorred fighting, as he had told Beth, but, whatever the
consequences, he was sure that the air had cleared amazingly. He was
aware too that the fact that he had been the champion of Beth's
independence definitely stood forth. Whatever the wisdom or the
propriety, according to the standards of Black Rock society, of Beth's
visits to the Cabin, for the purpose of a musical education or for any
other purposes, Peter was aware that he had set the seal of his approval
upon them, marked, that any who read might run, upon the visage of Mr.
Wells. Peter was still sorry for Shad, but still more sorry for Beth,
whose name might be lightly used for her share in the adventure.

He made up his mind to say nothing of what had happened, and he felt
reasonably certain that Shad Wells would reach a similar decision. He
was not at all certain that Beth wouldn't tell everybody what had
happened for he was aware by this time that Beth was the custodian of
her own destinies and that she would not need the oracles of Black Rock
village as censors of her behavior.

But when he went up to the house for supper he made his way over the
log-jam below the pool and so to the village, stopping for a moment at
the Bergen house, where Beth was sitting on the porch reading _The Lives
of the Great Composers_. She was so absorbed that she did not see him
until he stood at the little swing gate, hat in hand.

She greeted him quietly, glancing up at his bruised cheek.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "that it was on my account."

"I'm not--now that I've done the 'gobbling,'" he said with a grin. And
then, "Where's Shad?"

"I haven't seen him. I guess he's gone in his hole and pulled it in
after him."

Peter smiled. "I just stopped by to say that perhaps you'd better say
nothing. It would only humiliate him."

"I wasn't goin' to--but it served him right----"

"And if you think people will talk about your coming to the Cabin, I
thought perhaps I ought to give you your lessons here."

"Here!" she said, and he didn't miss the note of disappointment in her
tone.

"If your cousin Shad disapproves, perhaps there are others."

She was silent for a moment and then she looked up at him shyly.

"If it's just the same to you--I--I'd rather come to the Cabin," she
said quietly. "It's like--like a different world--with your playin' an'
all----" And then scornfully, "What do I care what they think!"

"Of course--I'm delighted. I thought I ought to consult you, that's all.
And you'll come to-morrow?"

"Yes--of course."

He said nothing about the meeting that was to take place that night with
the mysterious "Hawk" at the maple tree. He meant to find out, if
possible, how Beth could be concerned (if she was concerned) in the
fortunes of the mysterious gentleman of the placard, but until he
learned something definite he thought it wiser not to take Beth further
into his confidence.




CHAPTER X

"HAWK"


Three months ago it would have been difficult for His Highness, Grand
Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, to imagine himself in his present situation as
sponsor for Beth Cameron. He had been no saint. Saintly attributes were
not usually to be found in young men of his class, and Peter's training
had been in the larger school of the world as represented in the
Continental capitals. He had tasted life under the tutelage of a father
who believed that women, bad as well as good, were a necessary part of a
gentleman's education, and Peter had learned many things.... Had it not
been for his music and his English love of fair play, he would have
stood an excellent chance of going to the devil along the precipitous
road that had led the Grand Duke Nicholas Petrovitch there.

But Peter had discovered that he had a mind, the needs of which were
more urgent than those of his love of pleasure. Many women he had known,
Parisian, Viennese, Russian--and one, Vera Davydov, a musician, had
enchained him until he had discovered that it was her violin and not her
soul that had sung to him ... Anastasie Galitzin ... a dancer in Moscow
... and then--the War.

In that terrible alembic the spiritual ingredients which made Peter's
soul had been stirred until only the essential remained. But that
essence was the real Peter--a wholesome young man steeped in idealism
slightly tinged with humor. It was idealism that had made him attempt
the impossible, humor that had permitted him to survive his failure, for
no tragedy except death itself can defy a sense of humor if it's
whimsical enough. There was something about the irony of his position in
Black Rock which interested him even more than the drama that lay hidden
with McGuire's Nemesis in the pine woods. And he couldn't deny the fact
that this rustic, this primitive Beth Cameron was as fine a little lady
as one might meet anywhere in the wide world. She had amused him at
first with originality, charmed him with simplicity, amazed him later
with talent and now had disarmed him with trust in his integrity. If at
any moment the idea had entered Peter's head that here was a wild-flower
waiting to be gathered and worn in his hat, she had quickly disabused
his mind of that chimera. Curious. He found it as difficult to conceive
of making free with Beth as with the person of the Metropolitan of
Moscow, or with that of the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad. She
had her dignity. It was undeniable. He imagined the surprise in her
large blue eyes and the torrent of ridicule of which her tongue could be
capable. He had felt the sting of its humor at their first meeting. He
had no wish to test it again.

And now, after a few days of acquaintanceship, he found himself Beth's
champion, the victor over the "Hellion" triplet, and the guardian of her
good repute. He found, strangely enough, the responsibility
strengthening his good resolves toward Beth and adding another tie to
those of sympathy and admiration. The situation, while not altogether of
his making, was not without its attractions. He had given Beth her
chance to withdraw from the arrangement and she had persisted in the
plan to come to the Cabin. Very well. It was his cabin. She should come
and he would teach her to sing. But he knew that Peter Nichols was
throwing temptation in the way of Peter Nicholaevitch.

       *       *       *       *       *

McGuire was quiet that night and while they smoked Peter talked at
length on the needs of the estate as he saw them. Peter went down to the
Cabin and brought up his maps and his plans for the fire towers. McGuire
nodded or assented in monosyllables, but Peter was sure that he heard
little and saw less, for at intervals he glanced at the clock, or at his
watch, and Peter knew that his obsession had returned. Outside,
somewhere in the woods, "Hawk" was approaching to keep his tryst and
McGuire could think of nothing else. This preoccupation was marked by a
frowning thatch of brow and a sullen glare at vacancy which gave no
evidence of the fears that had inspired him, but indicated a mind made
up in desperation to carry out his plans, through Peter, whatever
happened later. Only the present concerned him. But underneath his
outward appearance of calm, Peter was aware of an intense alertness, for
from time to time his eyes glowed suddenly and the muscles worked in his
cheeks as he clamped his jaws shut and held them so.

As the clock struck ten McGuire got to his feet and walked to the safe,
which he opened carefully and took out the money that Peter had brought.
Then he went to a closet and took out an electric torch which he tested
and then put upon the table.

"You're armed, Nichols?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "But of course there's no reason why your mysterious
visitor should take a pot at me," he said. And then, curiously, "Do you
think so, Mr. McGuire?"

"Oh, no," said the other quickly. "You have no interest in this affair.
You're my messenger, that's all. But I want you to follow my
instructions carefully. I've trusted you this far and I've got to go the
whole way. This man will say something. You will try to remember word
for word what he says to you, and you're to repeat that message to me."

"That shouldn't be difficult."

McGuire was holding the money in his hand and went on in an abstraction
as though weighing words.

"I want you to go at once to the maple tree. I want you to go now so
that you will be there when this man arrives. You will stand waiting for
him and when he comes you will throw the light into his face, so that
you can see him when you talk to him, and so that he can count this
money and see that the amount is correct. I do not want you to go too
close to him nor to permit him to go too close to you--you are merely to
hand him this package and throw the light while he counts the money.
Then you are to say to him these words, 'Don't forget the blood on the
knife, Hawk Kennedy.'"

"'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy,'" murmured Peter in
amazement. And then, "But suppose he wants to tell me a lot of things
you don't want me to know----"

"I'll have to risk that," put in McGuire grimly. "I want you to watch
him carefully, Nichols. Are you pretty quick on the draw?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, can you draw your gun and shoot quickly--surely? If you can't,
you'd better have your gun in your pocket, keep him covered and at the
first sign, shoot through your coat."

Peter took out his revolver and examined it quizzically. "I thought you
said, Mr. McGuire," he put in coolly, "that I was not to be required to
do anything a gentleman couldn't do."

"Exactly," said the old man jerkily.

"I shouldn't say that shooting a defenseless man answers that
requirement."

McGuire threw up his hands wildly.

"There you go--up in the air again. I didn't say you were to shoot him,
did I?" he whined. "I'm just warning you to be on the lookout in case he
attacks you. That--that's all."

"Why should he attack me?"

"He shouldn't, but he might be angry because I didn't come myself."

"I see. Perhaps you'd better go, sir. Then you can do your killing
yourself."

McGuire fell back against the table, to which he clung, his face gray
with apprehension, for he saw that Peter had guessed what he hoped.

"You want this man killed," Peter went on. "It's been obvious to me from
the first night I came here. Well, I'm not going to be the one to do
it."

McGuire's glance fell to the rug as he stammered hoarsely, "I--I never
asked you to do it. Y-you must be dreaming. I--I'm merely making plans
to assure your safety. I don't want you hurt, Nichols. That's all.
You're not going to back out now?" he pleaded.

"Murder is a little out of my line----"

"You're not going to fail me----?" McGuire's face was ghastly. "You
_can't_," he whispered hoarsely. "You can't let me down now. _I_ can't
see this man. I can't tell Stryker all you know. You're the only one.
You promised, Nichols. You promised to go."

"Yes. And I'll keep my word--but I'll do it in my own way. I'm not
afraid of any enemy of yours. Why should I be? But I'm not going to
shoot him. If that's understood give me the money and I'll be off."

"Yes--yes. That's all right, Nichols. You're a good fellow--and honest.
I'll make it worth your while to stay with me here." He took up the
money and handed it to Peter, who counted it carefully and then put it
in an inside pocket. "I don't see why you think I wanted you to kill
Hawk Kennedy," McGuire went on, whining. "A man's got a right to protect
himself, hasn't he? And you've got a right to protect _yourself_, if he
tries to start anything."

"Have you any reason to believe that he might?"

"No. I can't say I have."

"All right. I'll take a chance. But I want it understood that I'm not
responsible if anything goes wrong."

"That's understood."

Peter made his way downstairs, and out of the front door to the portico.
Stryker, curiously enough, was nowhere to be seen. Peter went out across
the dim lawn into the starlight. Jesse Brown challenged him by the big
tree and Peter stopped for a moment to talk with him, explaining that he
would be returning to the house later.

"The old man seems to be comin' to life, Mister," said Jesse.

"What do you mean?"

"Not so skeered-like. He was out here when you went to the Cabin for
them plans----"

"Out here?" said Peter in amazement.

Andy nodded. "He seemed more natural-like,--asked what the countersign
was and said mebbe we'd all be goin' back to the mills after a night or
so."

"Oh, did he? That's good. You're pretty tired of this night work?"

"Not so long as it pays good. But what did he mean by changin' the
guards?"

"He didn't say anything to me about it," said Peter, concealing his
surprise.

"Oh, didn't he? Well, he took Andy off the privet hedge and sent him
down to the clump of pines near the road."

"I see," said Peter. "Why?"

"You've got me, Mister. If there's trouble to-night, there ain't no one
at the back of the house at all. We're one man short."

"Who?"

"Shad Wells. He ain't showed up."

"Ah, I see," muttered Peter. And then, as he lighted a cigarette, "Oh,
well, we'll get along somehow. But look sharp, just the same."

Peter went down the lawn thoughtfully. From the first he hadn't been any
too pleased with this mission. Though Peter was aware that in the realm
of big business it masqueraded under other names, blackmail, at the
best, was a dirty thing. At the worst--and McGuire's affair with the
insistent Hawk seemed to fall into this classification,--it was both
sinister and contemptible. To be concerned in these dark doings even as
an emissary was hardly in accordance with Peter's notion of his job, and
he had acceded to McGuire's request without thinking of possible
consequences, more out of pity for his employer in his plight than for
any other reason. But he remembered that it usually required a guilty
conscience to make blackmail possible and that the man who paid always
paid because of something discreditable which he wished to conceal.

McGuire's explanations had been thin and Peter knew that the real reason
for the old man's trepidations was something other than the ones he had
given. He had come to Black Rock from New York to avoid any possible
publicity that might result from the visits of his persecutor and was
now paying this sum of money for a respite, an immunity which at the
best could only be temporary. It was all wrong and Peter was sorry to
have a hand in it, but he couldn't deny that the interest with which he
had first approached Black Rock House had now culminated in a curiosity
which was almost an obsession. Here, close at hand, was the solution of
the mystery, and whether or not he learned anything as to the facts
which had brought McGuire's discomfiture, he would at least see and talk
with the awe-inspiring Hawk who had been the cause of them. Besides,
there was Mrs. Bergen's share in the adventure which indicated that
Beth's happiness, too, was in some way involved. For Peter, having had
time to weigh Beth's remarks with the housekeeper's, had come to the
conclusion that there had been but one man near the house that night.
The man who had talked with Mrs. Bergen at the kitchen door was not John
Bray the camera-man, or the man with the dark mustache, but Hawk Kennedy
himself.

Peter entered the path to the Cabin, and explored it carefully,
searching the woods on either side and then, cutting into the scrub oak
at the point where he and Beth had first seen the placard, made his way
to the maple tree. There was no one there. A glance at his watch under
the glare of the pocket torch showed that he was early for the tryst, so
he walked around the maple, flashing his light into the undergrowth and
at last sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree, lighted another
cigarette and waited.

Under the depending branches of the heavy foliage it was very dark, and
he could get only the smallest glimpses of the starlit sky. At one point
toward Black Rock House beyond the boles of the trees he could see short
stretches of the distant lawn and, in the distance, a light which he
thought must be that of McGuire's bedroom, for to-night, Peter had
noticed, the shutters had been left open. It was very quiet too. Peter
listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps among the dry leaves,
but heard only the creak of branches overhead, the slight stir of the
breeze in the leaves and the whistle of a locomotive many miles away, on
the railroad between Philadelphia and Atlantic City.

The sound carried his mind beyond the pine-belt out into the great world
from which he had come, and he thought of many things that might have
been instead of this that was--the seething yeast that was Russia, the
tearing down of the idols of centuries and the worship of new gods that
were no gods at all--not even those of brass or gold--only
visions--will-o'-the-wisps.... The madness had shown itself here too.
Would the fabric of which the American Ideal was made be strong enough
to hold together against the World's new madness? He believed in
American institutions. Imperfect though they were, fallible as the human
wills which controlled them, they were as near Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity as one might yet hope to attain in a form of government this
side of the millennium.

Peter started up suddenly, for he was sure that he had heard something
moving in the underbrush. But after listening intently and hearing
nothing more he thought that his ears had deceived him. He flashed his
lantern here and there as a guide to Hawk Kennedy but there was no
sound. Complete silence had fallen again over the woods. If McGuire's
mysterious enemy was approaching he was doing it with the skill of an
Indian scout. And it occurred to Peter at this moment that Hawk Kennedy
too might have his reasons for wishing to be sure that he was to be
fairly dealt with. The placard had indicated the possibility of
chicanery on the part of McGuire. "No tricks," Hawk had written. He
would make sure that Peter was alone before he showed himself. So Peter
flashed his lamp around again, glanced at his watch, which showed that
the hour of the appointment had passed, then lighted a third cigarette
and sank down on the roots of the tree to wait.

There was no other sound. The breeze which had been fitful at best had
died and complete silence had fallen. Peter wasn't in the least alarmed.
Why should he be? He had come to do this stranger a favor and no one
else except McGuire could know of the large sum of money in his
possession. The trees were his friends. Peter's thoughts turned back
again, as they always did when his mind was at the mercy of his
imagination. What was the use of it all? Honor, righteousness, pride,
straight living, the ambition to do, to achieve something real by his
own efforts--to what end? He knew that he could have been living snugly
in London now, married to the Princess Galitzin, drifting with the
current in luxury and ease down the years, enjoying those things----

Heigho! Peter sat up and shrugged the vision off. He must not be
thinking back. It wouldn't do. The new life was here. _Novaya Jezn._
Like the seedling from the twisted oak, he was going to grow straight
and true--to be himself, the son of his mother, who had died with a
prayer on her lips that Peter might not be what his father had been.
Thus far, he had obeyed her. He had grown straight, true to the memory
of that prayer.

Yes, life was good. He tossed away his cigarette, ground it into the
ground with his heel, then lay back against the tree, drinking in great
drafts of the clean night air. The forest was so quiet that he could
hear the distant tinkle of Cedar Creek down beyond the Cabin. The time
was now well after eleven. What if Hawk Kennedy failed to appear? And
how long must----?

A tiny sound close at hand, clear, distinct. Peter took a chance and
called out,

"Is that you, Hawk Kennedy?"

Silence and then a repetition of the sound a little louder now and from
directly overhead. Peter rose, peering upward in amazement.

"Yes, I'm here," said a low voice among the leaves above him.

And presently a foot appeared, followed by legs and a body, emerging
from the gloom above. Peter threw the light of his torch up into the
tree.

"Hey! Cut that," commanded a voice sharply.

And Peter obeyed. In a moment a shape swung down and stood beside him.
After the glare of the torch Peter couldn't make out the face under the
brim of the cap, but he could see that it wore a mustache and short
growth of beard. In size, the stranger was quite as tall as Peter.

Hawk Kennedy stood for a moment listening intently and Peter was so
astonished at the extraordinary mode of his entrance on the scene that
he did not speak.

"You're from McGuire?" asked the man shortly.

"Yes."

"Why didn't he come himself?"

The voice was gruff, purposely so, Peter thought, but there was
something about it vaguely reminiscent.

"Answer me. Why didn't he come?"

Peter laughed.

"He didn't tell me why. Any more than you'd tell me why you've been up
this tree."

"I'm takin' no chances this trip. I've been watchin'--listenin'," said
the other grimly. "Well, what's the answer? And who--who the devil are
you?"

The bearded visage was thrust closer to Peter's as though in
uncertainty, but accustomed as both men now were to the darkness,
neither could make out the face of the other.

"I'm McGuire's superintendent. He sent me here to meet you--to bring you
something----"

"Ah--he comes across. Good. Where is it?"

"In my pocket," said Peter coolly, "but he told me to tell you first not
to forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy."

The man recoiled a step.

"The blood on the knife," he muttered. And then, "McGuire asked you to
say that?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"No. That's all."

Another silence and then he demand in a rough tone,

"Well, give me the money!"

Impolite beggar! What was there about this shadow that suggested to
Peter the thought that this whole incident had happened before? That
this man belonged to another life that Peter had lived? Peter shrugged
off the illusion, fumbled in his pocket and produced the envelope
containing the bills.

"You'd better count it," said Peter, as the envelope changed hands.

"It's not 'phoney'----?" asked Hawk's voice suspiciously.

"Phoney?"

"Fake money----?"

"No. I got it in New York myself yesterday."

"Oh----." There was a silence in which the shade stood uncertainly
fingering the package, peering into the bushes around him and listening
intently. And then, abruptly,

"I want to see the color of it. Switch on your light."

Peter obeyed. "You'd better," he said.

In the glow of lamp Hawk Kennedy bent forward, his face hidden by his
cap brim, fingering the bills, and Peter saw for the first time that his
left hand held an automatic which covered Peter now, as it had covered
him from the first moment of the interview.

"Five hundreds--eh," growled Kennedy. "They're real enough, all right.
One--two--three--four----"

A roar from the darkness and a bullet crashed into the tree behind
them.... Another shot! Peter's startled finger relaxed on the button of
the torch and they were in darkness. A flash from the trees to the
right, the bullet missing Peter by inches.

"A trick! By ----!" said Hawk's voice in a fury, "but I'll get _you_ for
this."

Peter was too quick for him. In the darkness he jumped aside, striking
Kennedy with his torch, and then closed with the man, whose shot went
wild. They struggled for a moment, each fighting for the possession of
the weapon, McGuire's money ground under their feet, but Peter was the
younger and the stronger and when he twisted Hawk's wrist the man
suddenly relaxed and fell, Peter on his chest.

The reason for this collapse was apparent when Peter's hand touched the
moisture on Kennedy's shoulder.

"Damn you!" Hawk was muttering, as he struggled vainly.

Events had followed so rapidly that Peter hadn't had time to think of
anything but his own danger. He had acted with the instinct of
self-preservation, which was almost quicker than his thought, but as he
knew now what had happened he realized that he, too, had been tricked by
McGuire and that the murderous volley directed at Hawk Kennedy had come
perilously near doing for himself. With the calm which followed the
issue of his struggle with Kennedy, came a dull rage at McGuire for
placing him in such danger, which only showed his employer's desperate
resolve and his indifference to Peter's fate. For Hawk Kennedy had been
within his rights in supposing Peter to be concerned in the trick and
only the miracle of the expiring torch which had blinded the intruder
had saved Peter from the fate intended for Hawk. Peter understood now
the meaning of McGuire's explicit instructions and the meaning of the
changing of the guards. The old man had hoped to kill his enemy with one
shot and save himself the recurrence of his terror. What had become of
him now? There was no sound among the bushes or any sign of him. He had
slipped away like the poltroon that he was, leaving Peter to his fate.

"Damn you!" Hawk muttered again. "What did _you_ want to come meddling
for!"

The man couldn't be dangerously hurt if he possessed the power of
invective and so, having possessed himself of Hawk's automatic, Peter
got off his chest and fumbled around for the electric torch.

"It won't do you any good to lie there cursing me. Get up, if you're
able to."

"Got me in the shoulder," muttered the man.

"And he might have gotten _me_," said Peter, "which would have been
worse."

"You mean--you didn't--_know_," groaned Hawk, getting up into a sitting
posture.

"No. I didn't," replied Peter.

He had found the torch now and was flashing it around on the ground
while he picked up the scattered money.

"I'll fix him for this," groaned the stranger.

Peter glanced at him.

"His men will be down here in a moment. You'd better be getting up."

"I'm not afraid. They can't do anything to _me_. They'd better leave me
alone. McGuire don't want me to talk. But I'll squeal if they bother
me." Peter was aware that the man was watching him as he picked up the
bills and heard him ask haltingly, "What are you--going to do--with that
money?"

"My orders were to give it to you. Don't you want it?"

Peter turned and for the first time flashed the lamp full in the injured
man's face. Even then Peter didn't recognize him, but he saw Hawk
Kennedy's eyes open wide as he stared at Peter.

"Who----?" gasped the man. And then, "_You_ here! '_Cré nom!_ It's Pete,
the waiter!"

Peter started back in astonishment.

"Jim Coast!" he said.

Hawk Kennedy chuckled and scrambled to his feet, halfway between a laugh
and a groan.

"Well, I'm damned!"

Peter was still staring at him, the recovered bills loose in his hand.
Jim Coast thrust out an arm for them.

"The money," he demanded. "The money, Pete."

Without a word Peter handed it to him. It was none of his. Coast counted
the bills, the blood dripping from his fingers and soiling them, but he
wiped them off with a dirty handkerchief and put them away into his
pocket. Blood money, Peter thought, and rightly named.

"And now, _mon gars_, if it's all the same to you, I'd like you to take
me to some place where we can tie up this hole in my shoulder."

This was like Coast's impudence. He had regained his composure again
and, in spite of the pain he was suffering, had become his proper self,
the same Jim Coast who had bunked with Peter on the _Bermudian_, full of
smirking assertiveness and sinister suggestion. Peter was too full of
astonishment to make any comment, for it was difficult to reconcile the
thought of Jim Coast with Hawk Kennedy, and yet there he was, the terror
of Black Rock House revealed.

"Well, Pete," he growled, "goin' to be starin' at me all night?"

"You'd better be off," said Peter briefly.

"Why?"

"They'll be here in a minute. You've got your money."

"Let 'em come. They'll have to take me to McGuire----"

"Or the lock-up at Egg Harbor----"

"All right. I'll go. But when I open my mouth to speak, McGuire will
wish that Hell would open for him." And then, "See here, Pete, do you
know anything of what's between me and McGuire?"

"No--except that he fears you."

"Very well. If you're workin' for him you'll steer these guys away from
me. I mean it. Now think quick."

Peter did. Angry as he was at McGuire, he knew that Jim Coast meant what
he said and that he would make trouble. Also Peter's curiosity knew no
subsidence.

"You go to my cabin. It's hidden in the woods down this path at the
right----"

"That's where you live, is it?"

"Yes. You'll find water there and a towel on the washstand. I'll be
there to help you when I sheer these men off."

Coast walked a few steps and then turned quickly.

"No funny business, Pete."

"No. You can clear out if you like. I don't care. I only thought if you
were badly hurt----"

"Oh, all right. Thanks."

Peter watched the dim silhouette merge into the shadows and disappear.
Then flashed his light here and there that the men who must be
approaching now might be guided to him. In a moment they were crashing
through the undergrowth, Jesse and Andy in the lead.

"What's the shootin'?" queried Jesse Brown breathlessly.

"A man in the woods. I'm looking for him," said Peter. "He got away."

"Well, don't it beat Hell----"

"But it may be a plan to get you men away from the house," said Peter as
the thought came to him. "Did you see McGuire?"

"McGuire! No. What----?"

"All right. You'd better hurry back. See if he's all right. I'll get
along----"

"Not if you go flashin' _that_ thing. I could a got ye with my rifle as
easy as----"

"Well, never mind. Get back to the house. I'll poke around here for a
while. Hurry!"

In some bewilderment they obeyed him and Peter turned his footstep
toward the Cabin.




CHAPTER XI

ANCIENT HISTORY


Peter wasn't at all certain that he had done the right thing. One event
had followed another with such startling rapidity that there hadn't been
time to deliberate. Jim Coast was wounded, how badly Peter didn't know,
but the obvious duty was to give him first aid and sanctuary until Peter
could get a little clearer light on Coast's possibilities for evil. None
of this was Peter's business. He had done what McGuire had asked him to
do and had nearly gotten killed for his pains. Two fights already and he
had come to Black Rock to find peace!

In his anger at McGuire's trick he was now indifferent as to what would
happen to the old man. There was no doubt that Jim Coast held all the
cards and, unless he died, would continue to hold them. It was evident
that McGuire, having failed in accomplishing the murder, had placed
himself in a worse position than before, for Coast was not one to relax
or to forgive, and if he had gotten his five thousand dollars so easily
as this, he would be disposed to make McGuire pay more heavily now.
Peter knew nothing of the merits of the controversy, but it seemed
obvious that the two principals in the affair were both tarred with the
same stick. _Arcades Ambo_. He was beginning to believe that Coast was
the more agreeable villain of the two. At least he had made no bones
about the fact of his villainy.

Peter found Coast stripped to the waist, sitting in a chair by the
table, bathing his wounded shoulder. But the hemorrhage had stopped and
Peter saw that the bullet had merely grazed the deltoid, leaving a clean
wound, which could be successfully treated by first aid devices. So he
found his guest a drink of whisky, which put a new heart into him, then
tore up a clean linen shirt, strips from which he soaked in iodine and
bandaged over the arm and shoulder.

Meanwhile Coast was talking.

"Well, _mon vieux_, it's a little world, ain't it? To think I'd find
_you_, my old bunkie, Pete, the waiter, out here in the wilds, passin'
the buck for Mike McGuire! Looks like the hand o' Fate, doesn't it?
Superintendent, eh? Some job! Twenty thousand acres--if he's got an
inch. An' me thinkin' all the while you'd be slingin' dishes in a New
York chop house!"

"I studied forestry in Germany once," said Peter with a smile, as he
wound the bandage.

"Right y'are! Mebbe you told me. I don't know. Mebbe there's a lot o'
things you _didn't_ tell me. Mebbe there's a lot of things I didn't tell
_you_. But I ought to 'a' known a globe trotter like you never would 'a'
stayed a waiter. A waiter! _Nom de Dieu!_ Remember that (sanguine)
steward on the _Bermudian_? Oily, fat little beef-eater with the gold
teeth? Tried to make us 'divy' on the tips? But we beat him to it, Pete,
when we took French leave. H-m! I'm done with waitin' now, Pete. So are
you, I reckon. Gentleman of leisure, _I_ am!"

"There you are," said Peter as he finished the bandage, "but you'll have
to get this wound dressed somewhere to-morrow."

"Right you are. A hospital in Philly will do the trick. And McGuire pays
the bill."

Jim Coast got up and moved his arm cautiously.

"Mighty nice of you, Pete. That's fine. I'll make him pay through the
nose for this." And then turning his head and eyeing Peter narrowly,
"You say McGuire told you nothin'!"

"Nothing. It's none of my affair."

The ex-waiter laughed. "He knows his business. Quiet as death, ain't he?
He's got a right to be. And scared. He's got a right to be scared too.
I'll scare him worse before I'm through with him."

He broke off with a laugh and then, "Funny to find you guardin' _him_
against _me_. House all locked--men with guns all over the place. He
wanted one of those guys to kill me, didn't he? But I'm too slick for
him. No locked doors can keep out what's scarin' Mike McGuire----"

He broke off suddenly and held up his empty glass. "Another drink of the
whisky, _mon gars_, and I'm yer friend for life."

Peter was still curious, so he obeyed and after cleaning up the mess
they had made he sank into a chair, studying the worn features of his
old companion. He had taken the precaution to pull in the heavy shutter
of the window which had been opened and to lock the door. Peter did not
relish the idea of a murder committed in this cabin.

"Not apt to come now, are they, Pete? Well, let 'em," he answered
himself with a shrug. "But they won't if McGuire has his way. Murder is
the only thing that will suit McGuire's book. He can't do that--not with
witnesses around. Ain't he the slick one, though? I was watchin' for
just what happened. That's why I stayed in the tree so long--listenin'.
He must of slipped in like a snake. How he did it I don't know. I'm a
worse snake than he is but I always rattle before I strike."

He laughed again dryly.

"I've got _him_ rattled all O. K. Mebbe he'd of shot straighter if he
hadn't been. He used to could--dead shot. But I reckon his talents are
runnin' different _now_. Millions he has they say, _mon vieux_,
millions. And I'll get my share of 'em."

Jim Coast smoked for a moment in contented silence.

"See here, Pete. I like you. Always did. Straight as a string--you are.
You've done me a good turn to-night. You might of put me out--killed me
when you had me down----"

"I'm no murderer, Jim."

"Right. Nor I ain't either. I don't want to hurt a hair of McGuire's
head. Every one of 'em is precious as refined gold. I want him to
live--to keep on livin' and makin' more money because the more money
he's got the more I'll get--see."

"Blackmail," said Peter shortly.

Coast glanced at him, shrugged and laughed.

"Call it that if you like. It's a dirty word, but I'll stand for it,
seein' it's you. Blackmail! What's a waiter's tip but blackmail for good
service? What's a lawyer's fee from a corporation but money paid by men
to keep them out of the jail? What's a breach of promise case?
Blackmail--legal blackmail. I'm doin' nothin' less an' nothin' more than
a million other men--but I'm not workin' with a lawyer. I'll turn the
trick alone. What would you say if I told you that half of every dollar
McGuire has got is mine--a full half--to say nothin' of payment for the
years I was wanderin' an' grubbin' over the face of the earth, while he
was livin' easy. Oh! You're surprised. You'd better be. For that's the
God's truth, _mon ami_."

"You mean--he--he----" Peter's credulity was strained and he failed to
finish his query.

"Oh, you don't believe? Well, you needn't. But there's no blackmail when
you only take what belongs to you. The money--the money that made his
millions was as much mine as his. I'm going to have my share with
compound interest for fifteen years--and perhaps a bit more."

"You surprise me. But it seems that if there's any justice in your
claim, you could establish it legally."

Jim Coast laughed again.

"There's a quicker--a safer way than that. I'm takin' it." He filled his
glass again and went on, leaning far over the table toward Peter.
"_Voyons_, Pete. When we came ashore, I made you an offer to play my
game. You turned me down. It's not too late to change your mind. The old
man trusts you or he wouldn't of sent you out with that money. I may
need some help with this business and you're fixed just right to lend me
a hand. Throw in with me, do what I want, and I'll see that you're fixed
for life."

Peter shook his head slowly from side to side.

"No, Jim. He pays me well. I'm no traitor."

"H-m. Traitor!" he sneered. "_He_ wasn't overparticular about _you_. He
might of killed you or _I_ might of, if you hadn't been too damn quick
for me. What do you think Mike McGuire cares about _you_?" he laughed
bitterly.

"Nothing. But that makes no difference. I----"

A loud jangle of a bell from the corner and Jim Coast sprang to his
feet.

"The telephone," explained Peter, indicating the instrument. "That's
McGuire now." He rose and moved toward it, but Coast caught him by the
arm.

"Worried, eh?" he said with a grin. "Wants to know what's happened! All
right. Tell him--tell the----." And then, as Peter released himself,
"Wait a minute. Tell him you've got me here," laughed Coast, "a
prisoner. Tell him I'm talking. Ask for instructions. He'll tell you
what to do with me, damn quick," he sneered.

Peter waited a moment, thinking, while the bell tinkled again, and then
took down the receiver. He was in no mood to listen to McGuire.

"Hello--Yes, this is Nichols.... All right, yes. Shot at from the
dark--while paying the money. You hit Hawk Kennedy in the shoulder....
Yes, _you_. I'm no fool, McGuire.... He's here--at the Cabin. I've just
fixed his shoulder----. All right----. What shall I do with him----?
Yes--Yes, he's talking.... Let him go----! Hello! Let him go, you say?
Yes----"

"Let me get to him----," growled Coast, pushing close to the
transmitter. "Hello--Mike McGuire--hello----"

"He's gone," said Peter.

"'Let him go,'" sneered Coast. "You'd bet he'd let me go." Then he
looked at Peter and laughed. "He's scared all right--beat it like a
cottontail. Seems a shame to take the money, Pete--a real shame."

He laughed uproariously, then sauntered easily over to the table, took
another of Peter's cigarettes and sank into the easy chair again. Peter
eyed him in silence. He was an unwelcome guest but he hadn't yet
gratified Peter's curiosity.

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Peter.

"Me?" Coast inhaled Peter's cigarette luxuriously, and smiled. "I'm
goin' West, _pronto_--to get my facts straight--all at the expense of
the party of the first part. I might stop off at the Grand Cañon first
for the view. I need a rest, Pete. I ain't as young as I was--or I
mightn't of let you put me out so easy to-night. I'm glad of that,
though. Wouldn't like to of done you hurt----"

"And then----?" asked Peter steadily.

"Then? Oh, I'll beat it down to Bisbee and ask a few questions. I just
want to hook up a few things I _don't_ know with the things I _do_ know.
I'll travel light but comfortable. Five thousand dollars makes a heap of
difference in your point of view--and other people's. I'll be an
eastern millionaire lookin' for investments. And what I won't know about
Jonathan K. McGuire, alias Mike McGuire--won't be worth knowin'." He
broke off and his glance caught the interested expression on the face of
his host.

"H-m. Curious, ain't you, Pete?"

"Yes," said Peter frankly. "I am. Of course it's none of my business,
but----"

"But you'd like to know, just the same. I get you." He flicked off the
ash of his cigarette and picked up his whisky glass. "Well----," he went
on, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you--some of it--that is. It won't
do any harm for you to know the kind of skunk you're workin' for.
There's some of it that nobody on God's earth will ever know but me and
Mike McGuire--unless he slips up on one of his payments, and then
everybody's goin' to know. _Everybody_--but his daughter first of all."

Coast was silent a long moment while he drained the whisky and slowly
set the glass down upon the table. The shadows upon his face were
unpleasant, darkened perceptibly as they marked the years his thoughts
followed, and the lines at his lips and nostrils became more deeply
etched in bitterness and ugly resolve.

"It was down in the San Luis valley I first met up with Mike McGuire. He
was born in Ireland, of poor but honest parents, as the books tell us.
He changed his name to 'Jonathan K.' when he made his first 'stake.'
That meant he was comin' up in the world--see? Me and Mike worked
together up in Colorado, punchin' cattle, harvestin', ranchin'
generally. We were 'buddies,' _mon gars_, like you an' me, eatin',
sleepin' together as thick as thieves. He had a family somewhere, same
as me--the wife had a little money but her old man made him quit--some
trouble. After awhile we got tired of workin' for wages, grub staked,
and beat it for the mountains. That was back in nineteen one or two, I
reckon. We found a vein up above Wagon Wheel Gap. It looked good and we
staked out claims and worked it, hardly stoppin' to eat or sleep." Coast
stopped with a gasp and a shrug. "Well, the long an' short of that, _mon
vieux_, was a year of hard work with only a thousand or so apiece to
show for it. It was only a pocket. Hell!" He broke off in disgust and
spat into the fireplace. "Don't talk to me about your gold mines. There
ain't any such animal. Well, Mike saved his. I spent mine. Faro. You
know--an' women. Then I got hurt. I was as good as dead--but I pulled
through. I ain't easy to kill. When I came around, I 'chored' for a
while, doin' odd jobs where I could get 'em and got a little money
together and went to Pueblo. When I struck town I got pretty drunk and
busted a faro bank. I never _did_ have any luck when I was sober."

"Yes, you've told me about that," said Peter.

"So I did--on the _Bermudian_. Well, it was at Pueblo I met up with Mike
McGuire, and we beat it down into Arizona where the copper was. Bisbee
was only a row of wooden shacks, but we got some backin', bought an
outfit and went out prospectin' along the Mexican border. And what with
'greasers' and thievin' redskins it was some job in those days. But we
made friends all right enough and found out some of the things we wanted
to know.

"Now, Pete, if I was to tell you all that went on in that long trail
into the Gila Desert and what happened when we got what we went for,
you'd know as much as I do. You'd know enough to hold up Mike McGuire
yourself if you'd a mind to. This is where the real story stops. What
happened in between is my secret and Mike McGuire's. We found the mine
we were lookin' for.... That's sure----How we got it you'll never know.
But we got it. And here's where the real story begins again. We were
miles out in the Gila Desert and if ever there's a Hell on earth, it's
there. Sand, rocks, rocks and sand and the sun. It was Hell with the
cover off and no mistake! No water within a hundred miles.

"Now, this is where the fine Eyetalian hand of Mike McGuire shows
itself. We were rich. Any fool with half an eye could see that. The
place was lousy--fairly lousy! It was ours----," Coast's brow darkened
and his eyes glittered strangely as a darting demon of the past got
behind them. "Yes--_ours_. _Sacré bleu!_ Any man who went through what
we did deserved it, by G----! We were rich. There was plenty enough for
two, but McGuire didn't think so. And here's what he does to me. In the
middle of the night while I'm asleep he sneaks away as neat as you
please, with the horses and the pack-mules and the water, leavin' me
alone with all the money in the world, and a devourin' thirst, more than
a hundred miles from nowhere."

"Murder," muttered Peter.

Coast nodded. "You bet you. Murder. Nothin' less. Oh, he knew what _he_
was about all right. And I saw it quick. Death! That's what it meant.
Slow but sure. Hadn't I seen the bones bleaching all along the trail? He
left me there to die. He thought I would die. _Dios!_ That thirst!"
Coast reached for the pitcher and splashed rather than poured a glass of
water which he gulped down avidly. "There was nothin' for it but to try
afoot for Tucson, which was due east. Every hour I waited would of made
me an hour nearer to bein' a mummy. So I set out through the hot sand,
the sun burnin' through me, slowly parchin' my blood. My tongue swelled.
I must of gone in circles. Days passed--nights when I lay gaspin' on my
back, like a fish out of water, tryin' to suck moisture out of dry
air.... Then the red sun again--up over the edge of that furnace,
mockin' at me. I was as good as dead and I knew it. Only the mummy of
me, parched black, stumbled on, fallin', strugglin' up again, fallin' at
last, bitin' at the sand like a mad dog...."

"Horrible," muttered Peter.

"It was. I reckon I died--the soul of me, or what was left of it. I came
to life under the starlight, with a couple of 'greasers' droppin' water
on my tongue. They brought me around, but I was out of my head for a
week. I couldn't talk the lingo anyhow. I just went with 'em like a
child. There wasn't anything else to do. Lucky they didn't kill me. I
guess I wasn't worth killin'. We went South. They were makin' for
Hermosillo. Revolutionists. They took all my money--about three hundred
dollars. But it was worth it. They'd saved my life. But I couldn't go
back now, even if I wanted to. I had no money, nor any way of gettin'
any."

Jim Coast leaned forward, glowering at the rag carpet.

"But I--I didn't want to go back just then. The fear of God was in me.
I'd looked into Hell."

He laughed bitterly.

"Then I joined the 'greasers' against Diaz. I've told you about that.
And the 'Rurales' cleaned us up all right. A girl saved my life. Instead
of shootin' me against a mud wall, they put me to work on a railroad. I
was there three years. I escaped at last and reached the coast, where I
shipped for South America. It was the only way out, but all the while I
was thinkin' of Mike McGuire and the copper mine. You know the rest,
Pete--the Argentine deal that might of made me rich an' how it fell
through. Don't it beat Hell how the world bites the under dog!"

"But why didn't you go back to America and fight your claim with
McGuire?" asked Peter, aware of the sinister, missing passage in the
story.

Coast shot a sharp glance at his questioner.

"There were two reasons--one of which you won't know. The other was that
I couldn't. I was on the beach an' not too popular. The only ships out
of Buenos Aires were for London. That was the easiest way back to
America anyhow. So I shipped as a cattle hand. And there you are. I
lived easy in London. That's me. Easy come easy go. There it was I wrote
a man I knew out in Bisbee--the feller that helped stake us--and he
answered me that McGuire was dead, and that the mine was a flivver--too
far away to work. You see he must of showed the letter to McGuire, and
McGuire told him what to write. That threw me off the track. I forgot
him and went to France...."

Coast paused while he filled his glass again.

"It wasn't until I reached New York that I found out McGuire was alive.
It was just a chance while I was plannin' another deal. I took it. I
hunted around the brokers' offices where they sell copper stocks. It
didn't take me long to find that my mine was the 'Tarantula.' McGuire
had developed it with capital from Denver, built a narrow gauge in. Then
after a while had sold out his share for more than half a million
clear."

Peter was studying Coast keenly, thinking hard. But the story held with
what he already knew of the man's history.

"That's when Mike McGuire tacked the 'Jonathan K.' onto his name," Coast
went on. "And that money's mine, the good half of it. Figure it out for
yourself. Say five hundred thou, eight per cent, fifteen years--I
reckon I could worry along on that even if he wouldn't do better--which
he will.

"Well, Pete--to shorten up--I found McGuire was here--in New York--and I
laid for him. I watched for a while and then one day I got my nerve up
and tackled him on the street. You ought to of seen his face when I told
him who I was and what I'd come for. We were in the crowd at Broadway
and Wall, people all about us. He started the 'high and mighty' stuff
for a minute until I crumpled him up with a few facts. I thought he was
goin' to have a stroke for a minute, when I made my brace for the five
thou--then he turned tail and ran into the crowd pale as death. I lost
him then. But it didn't matter. I'd find him again. I knew where his
office was--and his hotel. It was dead easy. But he beat it down here.
It took me awhile to pick up the trail. But here I am, Pete--here I
am--safe in harbor at last."

Coast took the bills out of his pocket and slowly counted them again.

"And when you come back from the West, what will you do?" asked Peter.

"Oh, now you're talkin', Pete. I'm goin' to settle down and live
respectable. I like this country around here. I came from Jersey, you
know, in the first place. I might build a nice place--keep a few horses
and automobiles and enjoy my old age--run over to gay Paree once a
year--down to Monte Carlo in the season. Oh, I'd know how to _live_ now.
You bet you. I've seen 'em do it--those swells. They won't have anything
on me. I'll live like a prince----"

"On blackmail----," said Peter.

"See here, Pete----!"

"I meant it." Peter had risen and faced Coast coolly. "Blackmail! You
can't tell me that if you had any legal claim on McGuire you couldn't
prove it."

"I mightn't be able to----," he shrugged.

"What is McGuire frightened about? Not about what he owes you. He could
pay that ten times over. It's something else--something that happened
out there at the mine that you dare not tell----"

"That I _won't_ tell," laughed Coast disagreeably.

"That you _dare_ not tell--that McGuire dares not tell. Something that
has to do with his strange message about the blood on the knife, and
your placard about what you've got holding over him----"

"Right you are," sneered the other.

"It's dirty money, I tell you--bloody money. I know it. And I know who
you are, Jim Coast."

Coast started up and thrust the roll deep into his trousers pocket.

"You don't know anything," he growled.

Peter got up too. His mind had followed Coast's extraordinary story, and
so far as it had gone, believed it to be true. Peter wanted to know what
had happened out there at the mine in the desert, but more than that he
wanted to know how the destinies of this man affected Beth. And so the
thought that had been growing in his mind now found quick utterance.

"I know this--that you've come back to frighten McGuire, but you've also
come back to bring misery and shame to others who've lived long in peace
and happiness without you----"

"What----?" said Coast incredulously.

"I know who you are. You're Ben Cameron," said Peter distinctly.

The effect of this statement upon Jim Coast was extraordinary. He
started back abruptly, overturning a chair, and fell rather than leaned
against the bedpost--his eyes staring from a ghastly face.

"What--what did--you say?" he gasped chokingly.

"You're Ben Cameron," said Peter again.

Coast put the fingers of one hand to his throat and straightened slowly,
still staring at Peter. Then uneasily, haltingly, he made a sound in his
throat that grew into a dry laugh----

"Me--B-Ben Cameron! That's damn good. Me--Ben Cameron! Say, Pete,
whatever put _that_ into your head?"

"The way you frightened the old woman at the kitchen door."

"Oh!" Coast straightened in relief. "I get you. You've been talkin' to
_her_."

"Yes. What did you say to her?"

"I--I just gave her a message for McGuire. I reckon she gave it to him."

"A message?"

"Oh, you needn't say you don't know, Pete. It didn't fetch him. So I put
up the placard."

Peter was now more bewildered than Coast. "Do you deny that you're Ben
Cameron?" he asked.

Coast pulled himself together and took up his coat.

"Deny it? Sure! I'm not--not him--not Ben Cameron--not Ben Cameron.
Don't I know who I am?" he shouted. Then he broke off with a violent
gesture and took up his cap. "Enough of your damn questions, I say. I've
told you what I've told you. You can believe it or not, as you choose.
I'm Jim Coast to you or Hawk Kennedy, if you like, but don't you go
throwin' any more of your dirty jokes my way. Understand?"

Peter couldn't understand but he had had enough of the man. So he
pointed toward the door.

"Go," he ordered. "I've had enough of you--get out!"

Coast walked a few paces toward the door, then paused and turned and
held out his hand.

"Oh, Hell, Pete. Don't let's you and me quarrel. You gave me a start
back there. I'm sorry. Of course, you knew. You been good to me
to-night. I'm obliged. I need you in my business. More'n ever."

"No," said Peter.

"Oh, very well. Suit yourself," said Coast with a shrug. "There's plenty
of time. I'll be back in a month or six weeks. Think it over. I've made
you a nice offer--real money--to help me a bit. Take it or leave it, as
you please. I'll get along without you, but I'd rather have you with me
than against me."

"I'm neither," said Peter. "I want nothing to do with it."

Coast shrugged. "I'm sorry. Well, so long. I've got a horse back in the
dunes. I'll take the milk train from Hammonton to Philadelphia. You
won't tell, Pete?"

"No."

"Good-night."

Peter didn't even reply. And when the man had gone he opened the door
and windows to let in the night air. The room had been defiled by the
man's very presence. Ben Cameron? Beth's father? The thing seemed
impossible, but every fact in Peter's knowledge pointed toward it. And
yet what the meaning of Jim Coast's strange actions at the mention of
his name? And what were the facts that Jim Coast _didn't_ tell? What had
happened at the mine that was too terrible even to speak about? What was
the bond between these two men, which held the successful one in terror,
and the other in silence? Something unspeakably vile. A hideous pact----

The telephone bell jangled again. Peter rose and went to it. But he was
in no humor to talk to McGuire.

"Hello," he growled. "Yes--he's gone. I let him go. You told me to....
Yes, he talked--a long while.... No. He won't be back for a month....
We'll talk that over later.... No. Not to-night. I'm going to bed....
No. Not until to-morrow. I've had about enough of this.... All right.
Good-night."

And Peter hung up the receiver, undressed and went to bed.

It had been rather a full day for Peter.




CHAPTER XII

CONFESSION


In spite of his perplexities, Peter slept soundly and was only awakened
by the jangling of the telephone bell. But Peter wanted to do a little
thinking before he saw McGuire, and he wanted to ask the housekeeper a
few questions, so he told McGuire that he would see him before ten
o'clock. The curious part of the telephone conversation was that McGuire
made no mention of the shooting. "H-m," said Peter to himself as he hung
up, "going to ignore that trifling incident altogether, is he? Well,
we'll see about that. It doesn't pay to be too clever, old cock." His
pity for McGuire was no more. At the present moment Peter felt nothing
for him except an abiding contempt which could hardly be modified by any
subsequent revelations.

Peter ran down to the creek in his bath robe and took a quick plunge,
then returned, shaved and dressed while his coffee boiled, thinking with
a fresh mind over the events and problems of the night before. Curiously
enough, he found that he considered them more and more in their relation
to Beth. Perhaps it was his fear for her happiness that laid stress on
the probability that Jim Coast was Ben Cameron, Beth's father. How
otherwise could Mrs. Bergen's terror be accounted for? And yet why had
Coast been so perturbed at the mere mention of Ben Cameron's name? That
was really strange. For a moment the man had stared at Peter as though
he were seeing a ghost. If he _were_ Ben Cameron, why shouldn't he have
acknowledged the fact? Here was the weak point in the armor of mystery.
Peter had to admit that even while Coast was telling his story and the
conviction was growing in Peter's mind that this was Beth's father, the
very thought of Beth herself seemed to make the relationship grotesque.
This Jim Coast, this picturesque blackguard who had told tales on the
_Bermudian_ that had brought a flush of shame even to Peter's
cheeks--this degenerate, this scheming blackmailer--thief, perhaps
murderer, too, the father of Beth! Incredible! The merest contact with
such a man must defile, defame her. And yet if this were the fact, Coast
would have a father's right to claim her, to drag her down, a prey to
his vile tongue and drunken humors as she had once been when a child.
Her Aunt Tillie feared this. And Aunt Tillie did not know as Peter now
did of the existence of the vile secret that sealed Coast's lips and
held McGuire's soul in bondage.

Instead of going directly up the lawn to the house Peter went along the
edge of the woods to the garage and then up the path, as Coast must have
done a few nights before. The housekeeper was in the pantry and there
Peter sought her out. He noted the startled look in her eyes at the
moment he entered the room and then the line of resolution into which
her mouth was immediately drawn. So Peter chose a roundabout way of
coming to his subject.

"I wanted to talk to you about Beth, Mrs. Bergen," he began cheerfully.
She offered him a chair but Peter leaned against the windowsill looking
out into the gray morning. He told her what he had discovered about her
niece's voice, that he himself had been educated in music and that he
thought every opportunity should be given Beth to have her voice
trained.

He saw that Mrs. Bergen was disarmed for the moment as to the real
purpose of his visit and he went on to tell her just what had happened
at the Cabin with Shad Wells the day before, and asking her, as Beth's
only guardian, for permission to carry out his plan to teach her all
that he knew, after which he hoped it would be possible for her to go to
New York for more advanced training.

Mrs. Bergen listened in wonder, gasping at the tale of Shad Wells's
undoing, which Peter asked her to keep in confidence. From Mrs. Bergen's
comments he saw that she took little stock in Shad, who had been
bothering Beth for two years or more, and that her own love for the girl
amounted to a blind adoration which could see no fault in anything that
she might do. It was clear that she was delighted with the opportunities
Peter offered, for she had always known that Beth sang "prettier than
anybody in the world." As to going to the Cabin for the lessons, that
was nobody's business but Beth's. She was twenty-two--and able to look
out for herself.

"I'm an old woman, Mr. Nichols," she concluded timidly, "an' I've seen a
lot of trouble, one kind or another, but I ain't often mistaken in my
judgments. I know Beth. She ain't nobody's fool. And if she likes you,
you ought to be glad of it. If she's willin' to come to your cabin, I'm
willin' that she should go there--no matter who don't like it or why.
She can look after herself--aye, better than I can look after her." She
sighed. And then with some access of spirit, "You're different from most
of the folks around here, but I don't see nothin' wrong with you. If you
say you want to help Beth, I'm willin' to believe you. But if I thought
you meant her any harm----"

She broke off and stared at him with her mild eyes under brows meant to
be severe.

"I hope you don't want to think that, Mrs. Bergen," said Peter gently.

"No. I don't want to. Beth don't take up with every Tom, Dick and Harry.
And if she likes you, I reckon she knows what's she's about."

"I want to help her to make something of herself," said Peter calmly.
"And I know I can. Beth is a very unusual girl."

"Don't you suppose I know that? She always was. She ain't the same as
the rest of us down here. She always wanted to learn. Even now when
she's through school, she's always readin'--always."

"That's it. She ought to complete her education. That's what I mean. I
want to help her to be a great singer. I can do it if you'll let me."

"Where's the money comin' from?" sighed Mrs. Bergen.

"No need to bother about that, yet. I can give her a beginning, if you
approve. After that----" Peter paused a moment and then, "We'll see," he
finished.

He was somewhat amazed at the length to which his subconscious thought
was carrying him, for his spoken words could infer nothing less than his
undertaking at his own expense the completion of the girl's education.
The housekeeper's exclamation quickly brought him to a recognition of
his meaning.

"You mean--that _you_----!" she halted and looked at him over her
glasses in wonder.

"Yes," he said blandly, aware of an irrevocable step. "I do, Mrs.
Bergen."

"My land!" she exclaimed. And then again as though in echo, "My land!"

"That's one of the reasons why I've come here to you to-day," he went on
quickly. "I want to help Beth and I want to help _you_. I know that
everything isn't going right for you at Black Rock House. I've been
drawn more deeply into--into McGuire's affairs than I expected to be and
I've learned a great many things that aren't any business of mine. And
one of the things I've learned is that your peace of mind and Beth's
happiness are threatened by the things that are happening around you."

The housekeeper had risen and stood leaning against the dresser,
immediately on her guard.

"Mrs. Bergen," he went on firmly, "there's no use of trying to evade
this issue--because it's here! I know more than you think I do. I'm
trying to get at the root of this mystery because of Beth. You told me
the other night that Beth's happiness was involved when that stranger
came to the kitchen porch----"

"No, no," gasped the woman. "Don't ask me. I'll tell you nothin'."

"You saw this man--outside the kitchen door in the dark," he insisted.
"You talked with him----"

"No--no. Don't ask me, Mr. Nichols."

"Won't you tell me what he said? I saw him last night--talked with him
for an hour----"

"_You_--talked--with him!" she gasped in alarm. And then, haltingly,
"What did he say to you? What did he do? Is he coming back?"

She was becoming more disturbed and nervous, so Peter brought a chair
and made her sit in it.

"No. He's not coming back--not for a month or more," he replied
reassuringly. "But if I'm to help you, I've got to know something more
about him, and for Beth's sake you've got to help me." And then quietly,
"Mrs. Bergen, was this man who came to the kitchen door, Ben Cameron,
Beth's father?"

"My God!" said the housekeeper faintly, putting her face in her hands.

"Won't you tell me just what happened?" Peter asked.

"I--I'm scared, Mr. Nichols," she groaned. "The whole thing has been too
much for me--knowin' how scared Mr. McGuire is too. I can't understand,
I can't even--think--no more."

"Let me do your thinking for you. Tell me what happened the other night,
Mrs. Bergen."

The woman raised a pallid face, her colorless eyes blinking up at him
beseechingly.

"Tell me," he whispered. "It can do no possible harm."

She glanced pitifully at him once more and then haltingly told her
story.

"I--I was sittin' in the kitchen there, the night of the supper
party--by the door--restin' and tryin' to get cool--when--when a knock
come on the door-jamb outside. It sounded queer--the door bein'
open--an' my nerves bein' shook sorter with the goin's on here. But I
went to the door an' leaned out. There was a man standin' in the
shadow----"

Mrs. Bergen paused in a renewed difficulty of breathing.

"And then----?" Peter urged.

"He--he leaned forward toward me an' spoke rough-like. 'You're the cook,
ain't you?' he says. I was that scared I--I couldn't say nothin'. An' he
went on. 'You tell McGuire to meet me at the end of the lawn to-morrow
night.'"

"And what did you say?"

"Nothin'. I couldn't."

"What else did he tell you?"

Mrs. Bergen bent her head but went on with an effort.

"He says, 'Tell McGuire Ben--Ben Cameron's come back.'"

"I see. And you were more frightened than ever?"

"Yes. More frightened--terrible. I didn't know what to do. I mumbled
somethin'. Then you an' Beth come in----"

"And _was_ it Ben Cameron that you saw?"

The poor creature raised her gaze to Peter's again.

"B-Ben Cameron? Who else could it 'a' been? An' I thought he was dead,
Mr. Nichols--years ago."

"You didn't recognize him, then?"

"I--I don't know. It was all so sudden--like seein' a corpse--speakin'
that name."

"He wore a short beard?"

"Yes. But Ben Cameron was smooth shaved."

"Did Ben Cameron have any distinguishing mark--anything you could
remember him by?"

"Yes. Ben Cameron's little finger of his left hand was missin'----. But
of course, Mr. Nichols, I couldn't see nothin' in the dark."

"No, of course," said Peter with a gasp of relief. "But his voice----?"

"It was gruff--hoarse--whisperin'-like."

"Was the Ben Cameron you knew, your brother-in-law--was he tall?"

She hesitated, her brows puckering.

"That's what bothered me some. Beth's father wasn't over tall----"

"I see," Peter broke in eagerly, "and this man was tall--about my
size--with a hook nose--black eyes and----"

"Oh, I--I couldn't see his face," she muttered helplessly. "The night
was too dark."

"But you wouldn't swear it was Ben Cameron?"

She looked up at him in a new bewilderment. "But who else could it 'a'
been--sayin' that name--givin' that message?"

Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Queer, isn't it? I don't wonder that you were alarmed--especially for
Beth, knowing the kind of man he was."

"It's terrible, Mr. Nichols. A man like Ben Cameron never gets made
over. He's bad clear through. If you only knew----" Mrs. Bergen's pale
eyes seemed to be looking back into the past. "He means no good to
Beth--that's what frightens me. He could take her away from me. She's
his daughter----"

"Well--don't worry," said Peter at last. "We'll find a way to protect
you." And then, "Of course you didn't take that message to McGuire?" he
asked.

"Why, no--Mr. Nichols. I couldn't. I'd 'a' died first. But what does it
all mean? _Him_ bein' scared of Ben Cameron, too. I can't make it
out--though I've thought and thought until I couldn't think no more."

She was on the point of tears now, so Peter soothed her gently.

"Leave this to me, Mrs. Bergen." And then, "You haven't said anything of
this to any one?"

"Not a soul--I--I was hopin' it might 'a' been just a dream."

Peter was silent for a moment, gazing out of the window and thinking
deeply.

"No. It wasn't a dream," he said quietly at last. "You saw a man by the
kitchen door, and he gave you the message about Ben Cameron, _but the
man you saw wasn't Ben Cameron_, Mrs. Bergen, because, unless I'm very
much mistaken, Ben Cameron is dead----"

"How do you----?"

"He didn't die when you thought he did, Mrs. Bergen--but later. I can't
tell you how. It's only a guess. But I'm beginning to see a light in
this affair--and I'm going to follow it until I find the truth. Good-by.
Don't worry."

And Peter, with a last pat on the woman's shoulder and an encouraging
smile, went out of the door and into the house.

Eagerly Peter's imagination was trying to fill the gap in Jim Coast's
story, and his mind, now intent upon the solution of the mystery, groped
before him up the stair. And what it saw was the burning Gila Desert ...
the mine among the rocks--"lousy" with outcroppings of ore ... "Mike"
McGuire and "Hawk" Kennedy, devious in their ways, partners in a vile
conspiracy....

But Peter's demeanor was careless when Stryker admitted him to McGuire's
room and his greeting in reply to McGuire's was casual enough to put his
employer off his guard. After a moment's hesitation McGuire sent the
valet out and went himself and closed and locked the door. Peter refused
his cigar, lighting one of his own cigarettes, and sank into the chair
his host indicated. After the first words Peter knew that his surmise
had been correct and that his employer meant to deny all share in the
shooting of the night before.

"Well," began the old man, with a glance at the door, "what did he say?"

Peter shook his head judicially. He had already decided on the direction
which this conversation must take.

"No. It won't do, Mr. McGuire," he said calmly.

"What do you mean?"

"Merely that before we talk of what Hawk Kennedy said to me, we'll
discuss your reasons for unnecessarily putting my life in danger----"

"This shooting you've spoken of----"

"This attempted _murder_!"

"You're dreaming."

Peter laughed at him. "You'll be telling me in a moment that you didn't
hear the shots." And then, leaning forward so that he stared deep into
his employer's eyes, "See here, Mr. McGuire, I'm not to be trifled with.
I know too much of your affairs--more than you think I do----"

"He talked----?" McGuire's poise was slipping from him.

"One moment, if you please. I want this thing perfectly understood. Your
arrangements were cleverly made--changing the guards--your instructions
to me--the flashlight and all the rest. You didn't want to kill me if
you could help it. I'm obliged for this consideration. You forgot that
your hand isn't as steady now as it was when you were a dead shot out in
Arizona--Ah! I see that you already understand what I mean."

McGuire had started forward in his chair, his face livid.

"You know----?"

"Yes. More than I wanted to know--more than I would ever have known if
you'd played fair with me. You cared nothing for my life. You shot,
twice, missed killing your man and then when the light went out, sneaked
away like the coward that you are----"

"D----n you," croaked McGuire feebly, falling back in his chair.

"Leaving me to the mercies of your ancient enemy in the dark--who
thought _me_ your accomplice. You can hardly blame him under the
circumstances. But I got the best of him--luckily for me, and disarmed
him. If you had remained a few moments longer you might have taken part
in our very interesting conversation. Do you still deny all this?"

McGuire, stifled with his fear and fury, was incapable of a reply.

"Very good. So long as we understand each other thus far, perhaps you
will permit me to go on. As you know, I came to you in good faith. I
wanted to help you in any way that a gentleman could do. Last night you
tricked me, and put my life in danger. If you had killed Kennedy
everything would have been all right for _you_. And I would have been
accused of the killing. If _I_ had been killed no harm would have been
done at all. That was your idea. It was a clever little scheme. Pity it
didn't work out."

McGuire's faltering courage was coming back.

"Go on!" he muttered desperately.

"Thanks," said Peter, "I will. One shot of yours scraped Kennedy's
shoulder. He was bleeding badly, so I took him to the Cabin and fixed
him up. He was rather grateful. He ought to have been. I gave him a
drink too--several drinks. You said he wouldn't talk, but he did."

"You _made_ him talk, d----n you," McGuire broke in hoarsely.

"No. He volunteered to talk. I may say, he insisted upon it. You see, I
happened to have the gentleman's acquaintance----"

"You----!"

"We met on the steamer coming over when we were escaping from Russia.
His name was Jim Coast then. He was a waiter in the dining saloon. So
was I. Funny, isn't it?"

To McGuire it seemed far from that, for at this revelation his jaw
dropped and he stared at Peter as though the entire affair were beyond
his comprehension.

"You knew him! A waiter, _you_!"

"Yes. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows. It was either that or
starvation. I preferred to wait."

"For--for the love of God--go on," growled McGuire. His hands were
clutching the chair arm and there was madness in his shifting eyes, so
Peter watched him keenly.

"I will. He told me how you and he had worked together out in Colorado,
up in the San Luis valley, of the gold prospect near Wagon Wheel Gap, of
its failure--how you met again in Pueblo and then went down into the
copper country--Bisbee, Arizona."

Peter had no pity now. He saw McGuire straighten again in his chair, his
gaze shifting past Peter from left to right like a trapped animal. His
fingers groped along the chair arms, along the table edge, trembling,
eager but uncertain. But the sound of Peter's narrative seemed to
fascinate--to hypnotize him.

"Go on----!" he whispered hoarsely. "Go on!"

"You got an outfit and went out into the Gila Desert," continued Peter,
painting his picture leisurely, deliberately. "It was horrible--the
heat, the sand, the rocks--but you weren't going to fail this time.
There was going to be something at the end of this terrible pilgrimage
to repay you for all that you suffered, you and Hawk Kennedy. There was
no water, but what you carried on your pack-mules--no water within a
hundred miles, nothing but sand and rocks and the heat. No chance at all
for a man, alone without a horse, in that desert. You saw the bones of
men and animals bleaching along the trail. That was the death that
awaited any man----"

"You lie!"

Peter sprang for the tortured man as McGuire's fingers closed on
something in the open drawer of the table, but Peter twisted the weapon
quickly out of his hand and threw it in the corner of the room.

"You fool," he whispered quickly as he pinioned McGuire in his chair,
"do you want to add another murder to what's on your conscience?"

But McGuire had already ceased to resist him. Peter hadn't been too
gentle with him. The man had collapsed. A glance at his face showed his
condition. So Peter poured out a glass of whisky and water which he
poured between his employer's gaping lips. Then he waited, watching the
old man. He seemed really old now to Peter, a hundred at least, for his
sagging facial muscles seemed to reveal the lines of every event in his
life--an old man, though scarcely sixty, yet broken and helpless. He
came around slowly, his heavy gaze slowly seeking Peter's.

"What--what are you going to do?" he managed at last.

"Nothing. I'm no blackmailer." And then, playing his high card, "I've
heard what Hawk said about Ben Cameron," said Peter. "Now tell me the
truth."

At the sound of the name McGuire started and then his eyes closed for a
moment.

"You know--everything," he muttered.

"Yes, _his_ side," Peter lied. "What's yours?"

McGuire managed to haul himself upright in his chair, staring up at
Peter with bloodshot eyes.

"He's lied to you, if he said I done it----," he gasped, relapsing into
the vernacular of an earlier day. "It was Hawk. He stabbed him in the
back. I never touched him. I never had a thing to do with the killin'. I
swear it----"

Peter's lips set in a thin line.

"So Hawk Kennedy killed Ben Cameron!" he said.

"He did. I swear to God----"

"And then _you_ cleared out with all the water, leaving Hawk to die.
_That_ was murder--cold-blooded murder----"

"My God, don't, Nichols!" the old man moaned. "If you only knew----"

"Well, then--tell me the truth."

Their glances met. Peter's was compelling. He had, when he chose, an air
of command. And there was something else in Peter's look, inflexible as
it was, that gave McGuire courage, an unalterable honesty which had been
so far tried and not found wanting.

"You know--already," he stammered.

"Tell me your story," said Peter bluntly.

There was a long moment of hesitation, and then,

"Get me a drink, Nichols. I'll trust you. I've never told it to a living
man. I'll tell--I'll tell it all. It may not be as bad as you think."

He drank the liquor at a gulp and set the glass down on the table beside
him.

"This--this thing has been hanging over me for fifteen years,
Nichols--fifteen years. It's weighted me down, made an old man of me
before my time. Maybe it will help me to tell somebody. It's made me
hard--silent, busy with my own affairs, bitter against every man who
could hold his head up. I knew it was going to come some day. I knew it.
You can't pull anything like that and get away with it forever. I'd made
the money for my kids--I never had any fun spending it in my life. I'm a
lonely man, Nichols. I always was. No happiness except when I came back
to my daughters--to Peggy and my poor Marjorie...."

McGuire was silent for a moment and Peter, not taking his gaze from his
face, patiently waited. McGuire glanced at him just once and then went
on, slipping back from time to time into the speech of a bygone day.

"I never knew what his first name was. He was always just 'Hawk' to us
boys on the range. Hawk Kennedy was a bad lot. I knew it up there in the
San Luis valley but I wasn't no angel from Heaven myself. And he had a
way with him. We got on all right together. But when the gold mine up at
the Gap petered out he quit me--got beaten up in a fight about a woman.
I didn't see him for some years, when he showed up in Pueblo, where I
was workin' in a smelter. He was all for goin' South into the copper
country. He had some money--busted a faro bank he said, and talked big
about the fortune he was goin' to make. Ah, he could talk, when he had
something on his mind.... I had some money saved up too and so I quit my
job and went with him down to Bisbee, Arizona. I wish to God I never
had. I'd gotten pretty well straightened out up in Pueblo, sendin' money
East to the wife and all----. But I wanted to be rich. I was forty-five
and I had to hurry. But I could do it yet. Maybe this was my chance.
That's the way I thought. That's why I happened to listen to Hawk
Kennedy and his tales of the copper country.

"Well, we got an outfit in Bisbee and set out along the Mexican border.
We had a tip that let us out into the desert. It was just a tip, that's
all. But it was worth following up. It was about this man Ben Cameron.
He'd come into town all alone, get supplies and then go out again next
day. He let slip something over the drink one night. That was the tip we
were followin' up. We struck his trail all right--askin' questions of
greasers and Indians. We knew he'd found somethin' good or he wouldn't
have been so quiet about it.

"I swear to God, I had no idea of harmin' him. I wanted to find what Ben
Cameron had found, stake out near him and get what I could. Maybe Hawk
Kennedy had a different idea even then. I don't know. He never said what
he was thinkin' about.

"We found Ben Cameron. Perched up in a hill of rocks, he was, livin' in
the hole he'd dug where he'd staked his claim. But we knew he hadn't
taken out any papers. He never thought anybody'd find him out there in
that Hell-hole. It was Hell all right. Even now whenever I think of what
Hell must be I think of what that gulch looked like. Just rocks and
alkali dust and heat.

"It all comes back to me. Every little thing that was said and
done--every word. Ben Cameron saw us first--and when we came up, he was
sittin' on a rock, his rifle acrost his knees, a hairy man, thin,
burnt-out, black as a greaser. Hawk Kennedy passed the time of day, but
Ben Cameron only cursed at him and waved us off. 'Get the Hell out of
here,' he says--ugly. But we only laughed at him--for didn't we both see
the kind of an egg Ben Cameron was settin' on?

"'Don't be pokin' jokes at the Gila Desert, my little man,' say Hawk,
polite as you please. 'It's Hell that's here and here it will remain.'
And then we said we were short of water--which we were not--and had he
any to spare? But he waved us on with his rifle, never sayin' a word. So
we moved down the gulch a quarter of a mile and went into camp. There
was ore here, too, but nothin' like what Ben Cameron had.

"Hawk was quiet that night--creepin' about among the rocks, but he
didn't say what was on his mind. In the mornin' he started off to talk
to Ben Cameron an' I went with him. The man was still sittin' on his
rock, with the rifle over his knees--been there all night, I reckon. But
he let us come to hailin' distance.

"'Nice claim you got there, pardner,' says Hawk.

"'Is it?' says he.

"'Ain't you afraid of rubbin' some o' that verdigris off onto your
pants,' says Hawk.

"'They're my pants,' says Cameron. 'You ain't here for any good. Get
out!' And he brings his rifle to his hip. We saw he was scared all
right, maybe not so much at what we'd do to him as at sharin' what he'd
found.

"'The Gila Desert ain't _all_ yours, is it, pardner? Or maybe you got a
mortgage on the earth!' says Hawk, very polite. 'You ain't got no
objection to our stakin' alongside of you, have you? Come along, now.
Let's be neighbors. We see what you've got. That's all right. We'll take
your leavin's. We've got a right to them.'

"And so after a while of palaverin' with him, he lets us come up and
look over his claim. It didn't take any eye at all to see what he'd got.
He wasn't much of a man--Ben Cameron--weak-eyed, rum-dum--poor too. You
could see that by his outfit--worse off than we were. Hawk told him we
had a lot of friends with money--big money in the East. Maybe we could
work it to run a railroad out to tap the whole ridge. That kind of got
him and we found he had no friends in this part of the country--so we
sat down to grub together, Ben Cameron, like me, unsuspectin' of what
was to happen.

"My God, Nichols, I can see it all like it had happened yesterday. Hawk
Kennedy stood up as though to look around and then before I knew what he
was about had struck Ben Cameron in the back with his knife.

"It was all over in a minute. Ben Cameron reached for his gun but before
his hand got to it he toppled over sideways and lay quiet.

"I started up to my feet but Hawk had me covered and I knew from what
had happened that he'd shoot, too.

"'Don't make a fuss,' he says. 'Give me your gun.' I knew he had me to
rights and I did what he said. 'Now,' he says, 'it's yours and mine.'"

McGuire made a motion toward the glass. Peter filled it for him and he
drank.

"And then--what happened?" asked Peter quietly.

"Hawk Kennedy had me dead to rights. There was only one thing to do--to
make believe I was 'with him.' We buried Ben Cameron, then went down and
brought our outfit up, Hawk watchin' me all the while. He'd taken my gun
and Ben Cameron's and unloaded them and carried all the ammunition about
him. But I didn't know what I was in for. That night he made me sit down
while he drew up a paper, torn from an old note book of Ben Cameron's--a
partnership agreement, a contract."

McGuire broke off suddenly and got up, moving nervously to the safe,
from one of the drawers of which he took a blue linen envelope and
brought forth a paper which he handed to Peter.

"That's the hellish thing, Nichols," he said hoarsely. "That's why I'm
afraid of Hawk Kennedy. A lie that he forced me to sign! And there's
another paper like this in his possession. Read it, Nichols."

Peter took the paper in his fingers and looked at it curiously. It was
soiled and worn, broken at the edges, written over in lead pencil, but
still perfectly legible.

      AGREEMENT BETWEEN HAWK KENNEDY AND MIKE McGUIRE

      Us two found Ben Cameron on his copper claim in Madre Gulch.
      We killed him. Both of us had a hand in it. This mine is
      Hawk Kennedy's and Mike McGuire's and we are pardners in the
      same until death us do part, so help us God.

      (Signed) MIKE MCGUIRE.
               HAWK KENNEDY.


"He wanted it on me----" McGuire gasped. "You see? To keep me quiet."

"I understand," said Peter. "This is 'what you've got and what I've got'
referred to in the placard."

"Yes," said McGuire. "A partnership agreement and a confession--of
something I didn't do."

Peter's eyes were searching him through and through.

"You swear it?"

McGuire held up his right hand and met Peter's gaze without flinching.

"Before God, I do."

Peter was silent for a moment, thinking.

"And then, you left Hawk Kennedy there to die," he said slowly, watching
the man.

McGuire sank into his chair with a sigh, the perspiration now beaded on
his pale forehead.

"I didn't know what to do, I tell you," he almost whispered. "He had
me. I was unarmed. I'd 'a' killed him if I'd had a gun. But I waited a
few days after we buried Cameron--makin' believe I was satisfied with
everything and he believed me, and at last he fell asleep tired with
keepin' watch on me. He was all in. I bored holes in Ben Cameron's
barrels, lettin' the water out down the rocks, then took the three
horses and the mules with all the water that was left and got away
before he woke up.

"It was a terrible thing to do, Nichols--call it murder if you like. But
it served him right. It was comin' to him--and I got away with it. At
first when I reached water I had a thought of goin' back--to save him
before he died--to get that paper I couldn't get that was inside his
shirt."

McGuire leaned forward, his face in his hands for a moment, trying to
finish.

"But I didn't go back, Nichols. I didn't go back. That's the crime I'm
payin' for now--not the other--not the murder of Ben Cameron--I didn't
do that--the murder of Hawk Kennedy--who has come back."

"What happened then?"

"I turned Ben Cameron's horse and burros loose where there was water and
grass and went on to Bisbee. I told them my buddy had died of a fever. I
thought he had by now. They didn't ask any questions. I was safe. The
rest was easy. I filed a claim, found some real money and told what I'd
found. I waited a month, then went back to Madre Gulch with Bill Munroe,
the fellow that helped stake us. There was no one there. We searched the
rocks and plains for miles around for signs of Hawk Kennedy's body, for
we knew he couldn't have got far in that heat without water. But we
found nothin'. Hawk Kennedy had disappeared."

"Then," said Peter, "you built a railroad in and sold out for half a
million dollars----?"

McGuire looked up, mystified.

"Or thereabouts," he muttered. "But Hawk Kennedy was alive. I found that
out later when he wrote from London. We steered him off the track. But I
knew he'd come back some day with that paper I'd signed. That's what's
been hangin' over me. An' now it's fallen. I've told you the truth. I
had to. You believe me, don't you?" he asked appealingly.

Peter had watched him keenly. There seemed little doubt that what he
told was the truth. There was no flaw in the tale.

"Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe you've told me the truth. But
you can hardly blame Hawk Kennedy, murderer though he is, for hating you
and wanting what he thinks is his."

"No. That's true."

"And you can't blame me for being angry at the trick you played me----"

"I was desperate. I've been desperate since I saw him in New York.
Sometimes I've been a bit queer, I reckon--thinkin' about Peggy hearin'
this. I wanted to kill him. It was a good chance last night. Nobody
would have blamed me, after his being around the place. It was an easy
shot--but my hand wasn't steady----"

"Pity you didn't know that before you put me in danger."

"I'm sorry, Nichols--sorry. I'll do anything you like. What do you want
me to do?"

Instead of replying at once Peter took out a cigarette and lighted it
carefully. And then,

"You've never taken the trouble to make any inquiries as to the
whereabouts of the family of Ben Cameron?" he asked.

The old man shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I was afraid to ask."

"I see. Don't you think it's about time you did? It's _his_ money that
made your fortune."

"He was no good. Nobody knew him. So far as I ever heard, nobody ever
asked about him."

"Nevertheless he must have had some friends somewhere."

"Maybe. I don't know. I'm willing to help them if I can, providing this
thing can be kept quiet." And then, pleadingly, "You're not going to
talk--to use it against me, Nichols?"

Peter's pity for McGuire had come back. The man's terror, his
desperation of the past weeks had burned him out, worn him to a shell.

"No, I'm not going to talk. Hawk Kennedy didn't dare tell what you've
told me. That's why I believe you."

"And you'll stay on here and help me?"

"Yes----We'll see how we can balk Hawk Kennedy."

"I'll pay him fifty thousand--a hundred thousand--for that
agreement----"

"Not a dollar. I've got a better use for your money than that."

McGuire thought Peter referred to the necessary improvements of the
estate. But Peter had another idea in mind.




CHAPTER XIII

THE CHASE


Peter had discovered the means of providing for Beth's musical
education. Upon inquiry he had found that McGuire hardly knew Beth
except as a dependent relative of Mrs. Bergen, who came in sometimes to
help her aunt with the cleaning--usually before McGuire came down from
New York. Their little home was not on his visiting list.

He delayed telling McGuire. There was plenty of time and there was no
doubt of his employer's doing the right thing by the daughter of the
murdered man. Meanwhile, having completed his plans for the estate, he
had suggested that McGuire go off for a trip somewhere to rest and
recover his poise. Peter had promised his allegiance to McGuire when
Hawk Kennedy returned, but he knew that he would have to fight fire with
fire. For Hawk had proved himself both skillful and dangerous, and would
struggle desperately to get what he thought was his own. It was his last
chance to make a big stake--to be independent for the rest of his life.
He was tasting luxury now and wouldn't give up without a fight to the
death. Something must be thought of--some plan to outwit him, to
circumvent the schemes which would come out of his visit of
investigation to the copper country.

Peter had said nothing to Beth or to Mrs. Cameron of what he had
discovered. He was under no oath of secrecy to the old man, but he
realized that while Hawk Kennedy held the "confession" McGuire was in a
predicament which would only be made more difficult if the facts got
abroad. And so Peter had gone about his work silently, aware that the
burden of McGuire's troubles had been suddenly shifted to his own
shoulders. He spent most of his days at the lumber camp and now had
every detail of the business at his fingers' ends. Timbers had been
hauled to the appointed sites and under his direction the fire towers
were now half way to completion.

He had found Shad Wells down at the mills, morose, sullen and disposed
to question his authority, but McGuire had visited the bunk-house one
night before he went away, and it was soon discovered that Peter and no
other was the boss of the job. Peter for reasons of his own retained
Shad, much to that gentleman's surprise, as foreman of the lumbering
gang, but Peter wasn't at all satisfied with conditions as he had found
them at the lumber camp and mills and, as he discovered later, the
continuance of Shad in the foreman's job was a mistake. If Peter had
hoped by this act of conciliation to heal Shad's wounds and bring about
a spirit of useful coöperation with the man, he soon found that the very
reverse of this had been accomplished. The lumbermen were an
unregenerate lot, some of them "pineys," a few Italians, but most of
them the refuse of the factories and shipyards, spoiled by the fatal
"cost plus" contracts of war time. All of these facts Peter learned
slowly, aware of an undercurrent moving against him and yet entirely
dependent upon this labor--which was the best, indeed the only labor, to
be had. He made some improvements in the bunk-house for their comfort,
increased the supply of food and posted notices that all complaints of
whatever nature would be promptly investigated. But day after day new
stories came to him of shirking, of dissatisfaction and continued
trouble-making.

This labor trouble was no new thing at Black Rock, and had existed
practically since the beginning of the work on the lumber contract six
months before Peter had been employed. But it was not long before Peter
discovered through Jesse Brown, whose confidence he had gained, that
there were agitators in the camp, undoubtedly receiving their
inspiration and pay from sources inimical to all capital in the abstract
and to all order and decency at Black Rock in the concrete, who were
fomenting the unrest and dissatisfaction among the men. In order to
investigate the difficulties personally Peter went down to the camp and
lived there for a time, bunking with the men and listening to their
stories, winning some of them to his side and tracing as far as he could
the troubles to their sources, two men named Flynn and Jacobi. He
discharged these two men and sent them out of the camp over Wells's
protest. But even then he had a sense of failure. The trouble was deeper
than was manifest upon the surface. No mere raise in wages would clear
it away. It was born of the world's sickness, with which the men from
the cities had been inoculated.

One night while he sat in the bunk-house smoking a pipe and talking with
Jesse Brown, Shad Wells suddenly appeared in the doorway, framed against
the darkness. Shad's gaze and Peter's met--then Peter's glance turned to
Shad's companion. As this man saw Peter he turned his head and went down
the length of the bunk-house. Peter got up at once, followed him and
faced him. The man now wore a dark beard, but there was no mistake. It
was the fellow of the black mustache--the stranger whom Peter had seen
in the Pennsylvania Station in New York, the same man he had caught
prowling some weeks ago around his cabin in the darkness.

Peter stared at him for a moment but the man would not meet his gaze.

"Who are you?" asked Peter at last. And then, as he made no reply,
"What were you doing prowling around my cabin up by the creek?"

The stranger shook his head from side to side.

"No understan'," he muttered.

At this point, Shad Wells, who had followed with Jesse Brown, came in
between them.

"That's right, Nichols," he growled. "No understan'--He's a 'guinea.'"
To Wells all men were "guineas" who didn't speak his own language.

"Italian? Are you? French? Spanish? Slovak?"

Each time the man shook his head. And then, with an inspiration, Peter
shot at him a quick phrase in Russian. But the man gave no sign of
comprehension.

"Who put this man on?" asked Peter, turning to Wells.

"I did," said the native sullenly.

"Why?" said Peter, growing warmer. "Didn't I tell you that in future I
would hire all the men myself?"

"We're short-handed, since you fired two of the best axmen we got----"

"You disobeyed orders----"

"_Orders_--Hell!"

"All right. We'll see who's running this camp, you or me. To-morrow
morning Jesse Brown starts as foreman here. Understand?"

Shad's eyes shot fire, then smoldered and went out as he turned with a
sneering laugh and walked away.

"As for you," said Peter to the stranger, who stood uncertainly, "you go
to the office in the morning and get your envelope." Then repeated the
sentence in Russian. "If you don't understand--find somebody who does."

That the stranger had understood Peter's demeanor if not his language
was evident, for in the morning he had vanished.

After that clearing of the air things went somewhat better at the camp.
Jesse Brown, though not aggressive, was steady and honest and had a
certain weight with the Jerseymen. As to the others, there was doubt as
to whether anything would have satisfied them. For the present, at
least, it was a question of getting on as well as possible with the
means at hand. There was a limit to Peter's weekly pay roll and other
men were not to be had. Besides, Peter had promised McGuire to keep the
sawmills busy. He knew that when he had come to Black Rock the work on
the lumber contract had already fallen behind the schedule, and that
only by the greatest perseverance could he make up the time already
lost.

As he rode back to his cabin on the afternoon after his encounter with
Shad Wells and the stranger with the black mustache, he found himself
quite satisfied with regard to his summary dismissal of them both. On
Beth's account he had hesitated to depose Shad. He knew that before he
had come to Black Rock they had been friends as well as distant
relatives, and Beth in her frequent meetings with Peter had expressed
the hope that Shad would "come around." Peter had given him every
chance, even while he had known that the Jerseyman was working against
both McGuire's and Peter's interests. Flynn and Jacobi, the men Peter
had sent away, were radicals and agitators. Flynn had a police record
that did not bear close inspection, and Jacobi was an anarchist out and
out. Before Peter had come to Black Rock they had abused Shad's
credulity and after the fight at the Cabin, he had been their willing
tool in interrupting the completion of the contract. For of course Shad
had hoped that if Peter couldn't get the lumber out when promised,
McGuire would put the blame on the new superintendent and let him go.
That was Shad's idea. If he had ever been decent enough to warrant
Beth's friendship, his jealousy had warped his judgment. Peter was no
longer sorry for Shad Wells. He had brought all his troubles on
himself.

As to the stranger with the black mustache, that was a more serious
matter. Every circumstance--the recognition in New York, the skill with
which the man had traced him to Black Rock, the craft with which he had
watched Peter and his success in finally getting into the camp and
gaining Shad's confidence, made a certainty in Peter's mind that the
stranger had some object in remaining near Peter and keeping him under
observation. And what other object than a political one? The trail he
had followed had begun with the look of recognition in the Pennsylvania
Station in New York. And where could that look of recognition have
sprung from unless he had identified Peter Nichols as the Grand Duke
Peter Nicholaevitch? It seemed incredible, but there could be no other
explanation. The man had seen him somewhere--perhaps in Russia--perhaps
in Paris or London, or perhaps had only identified him by his portraits
which had been published frequently in the Continental magazines and
newspapers. But that he had really identified him there could not be the
slightest doubt and Peter's hope that he would have been able to lose
his identity in the continent of America and become merged into a
different civilization where he could work out the personal problem of
existence in his own time, by his own efforts and in his own way, seemed
destined to failure.

If the stranger knew that Peter was in New Jersey there was no doubt
that there were others who knew it also, those who employed him--those
in whose interests he was working. Who? The same madmen who had done
Nicholas to death and had killed one by one the misguided Empress, Olga,
Tania, the poor little Czarevitch and the rest.... Did they consider
him, Peter Nichols, lumber-jack extraordinary, as a possible future
claimant to the throne of Russia? Peter smiled grimly. They were
"straining at a gnat while swallowing the camel." And if they feared
him, why didn't they strike? The stranger had already had ample
opportunity to murder him if he had been so disposed, could still do it
during Peter's daily rides back and forth from the Cabin to the camp and
to the Upper Reserve.

All of these thoughts percolated slowly, as a result of the sudden
inspiration at the bunk-house which had liberated a new train of ideas,
beginning with the identification of the Russian characteristics of the
new lumberman, which were more clearly defined under the beard and
workman's shirt than under the rather modish gray slouch hat and
American clothing in which Peter had seen him earlier. And Peter had
merely let the man go. He had no proof of the fellow's purposes, and if
he had even discovered exactly what those purposes were, there was no
recourse for Peter but to ask for the protection of Washington, and this
he had no desire to do.

If the man suspected from the quickly spoken Russian sentence that Peter
now guessed his mission, he had given no sign of it. But that meant
nothing. The fellow was clever. He was doubtless awaiting instructions.
And unless Peter took his case to the Department of Justice he could
neither expect any protection nor hope for any security other than his
own alertness.

At the Cabin Beth was waiting for him. These hours of music and Beth
were now as much a part of Peter's day as his breakfast or his dinner.
And he had only failed her when the pressure of his responsibilities was
too great to permit of his return to the Cabin. The hour most convenient
for him was that at the close of the day, and though weary or
discouraged, Peter always came to the end of this agreeable hour rested
and refreshed, and with a sense of something definitely achieved. For
whatever the days brought forth of trouble and disappointment, down at
the logging camp or the mills, here was Beth waiting for him, full of
enthusiasm and self-confidence, a tangible evidence of success.

The diligence with which she applied his instructions, the ease with
which she advanced from one step to another, showed her endowed with an
intelligence even beyond his early expectations. She was singing simple
ballads now, English and French, and already evinced a sense of
interpretation which showed the dormant artist. He tried at first, of
course, to eliminate all striving for effect, content to gain the purity
of tone for which he was striving, but she soared beyond him sometimes,
her soul defying limitations, liberated into an empyrean of song. If
anything, she advanced too rapidly, and Peter's greatest task was to
restrain her optimism and self-confidence by imposing the drudgery of
fundamental principles. And when he found that she was practicing too
long, he set her limits of half-hour periods beyond which she must not
go. But she was young and strong and only once had he noted the
slightest symptom of wear and tear on her vocal chords, when he had
closed the piano and prohibited the home work for forty-eight hours.

As to their personal relations, Peter had already noticed a difference
in his own conduct toward Beth, and in hers toward him,--a shade of
restraint in Beth's conversation when not on the topic of music, which
contrasted rather strangely with the candor of their first meetings.
Peter couldn't help smiling at his memories, for now Beth seemed to be
upon her good behavior, repaying him for her earlier contempt with a
kind of awe at his attainments. He caught her sometimes in unguarded
moments looking at him curiously, as though in wonder at a mystery which
could not be explained. And to tell the truth, Peter wondered a little,
too, at his complete absorption in the task he had set himself. He tried
to believe that it was only the music that impelled him, only the joy of
an accomplished musician in the discovery of a budding artist, but he
knew that it was something more than these. For reducing the theorem to
different terms, he was obliged to confess that if the girl had been any
one but Beth, no matter how promising her voice, he must have been bored
to extinction. No. He had to admit that it was Beth that interested him,
Beth the primitive, Beth the mettlesome, Beth the demure. For if now
demure she was never dull. The peculiarity of their situation--of their
own choosing--lent a spice to the relationship which made each of them
aware that the other was young and desirable--and that the world was
very far away.

However far Beth's thoughts may have carried her in the contemplation of
the personal pulchritude of her music master (somewhat enhanced by the
extirpation of the Hellion triplet in her own behalf) it was Peter
Nicholaevitch who made the task of Peter Nichols difficult. It was the
Grand Duke Peter who wanted to take this peasant woman in his arms and
teach her what other peasant girls had been taught by Grand Dukes since
the beginning of the autocratic system of which he had been a part--but
it was Peter Nichols who restrained him. Peter Nicholaevitch feared
nothing, knew no restraint, lived only for the hour--for the moment.
Peter Nichols was a coward--or a gentleman--he was not quite certain
which.

When Peter entered the Cabin on the evening after the appointment of
Jesse Brown as foreman at the lumber camp, Beth could not help noticing
the clouds of worry that hung over Peter's brows.

"You're tired," she said. "Is anything wrong at the camp?"

But he only shook his head and sat down at the piano. And when she
questioned him again he evaded her and went on with the lesson. Music
always rested him, and the sound of her voice soothed. It was the
"Elégie" of Massenet that he had given her, foolishly perhaps, a
difficult thing at so early a stage, because of its purity and
simplicity, and he had made her learn the words of the French--like a
parrot--written them out phonetically, because the French words were
beautiful and the English, as written, abominable. And now she sang it
to him softly, as he had taught her, again and again, while he corrected
her phrasing, suggesting subtle meanings in his accompaniment which she
was not slow to comprehend.

"I didn't know that music could mean so much," she sighed as she sank
into a chair with a sense of failure, when the lesson was ended. "I
always thought that music just meant happiness. But it means sorrow
too."

"Not to those who hear you sing, Beth," said Peter with a smile, as he
lighted and smoked a corncob pipe, a new vice he had discovered at the
camp. Already the clouds were gone from his forehead.

"No! Do you really think that, Mr. Nichols?" she asked joyously.

She had never been persuaded to call him by his Christian name, though
Peter would have liked it. The "Mr." was the tribute of pupil to master,
born also of a subtler instinct of which Peter was aware.

"Yes," he replied generously, "you'll sing that very well in time----"

"When I've suffered?" she asked quickly.

He glanced up from the music in his hand, surprised at her intuition.

"I don't like to tell you so----"

"But I think I understand. Nobody can sing what she doesn't feel--what
she hasn't felt. Oh, I know," she broke off suddenly. "I can sing songs
of the woods--the water--the pretty things like you've been givin' me.
But the deep things--sorrow, pain, regret--like this--I'm not 'up' to
them."

Peter sat beside her, puffing contentedly.

"Don't worry," he muttered. "Your voice will ripen."

"And will I ripen too?"

He laughed. "I don't want you ever to be any different from what you
are."

She was thoughtful a moment, for Peter had always taken pains to be
sparing in personalities which had nothing to do with her voice.

"But I don't want always to be what I am," she protested, "just growin'
close to the ground like a pumpkin or a squash."

He laughed. "You might do worse."

"But not much. Oh, I know. You're teachin' me to think--and to feel--so
that I can make other people do the same--the way you've done to me. But
it don't make me any too happy to think of bein' a--a squash again."

"Perhaps you won't have to be," said Peter quietly.

"And the factory--I've got to make some money next winter. I can't use
any of Aunt Tillie's savin's. But when I know what I _might_ be doin',
it's not any too easy to think of goin' back _there_!"

"Perhaps you won't have to go," said Peter again.

Her eyes glanced at him quickly, looked away, then returned to his face
curiously.

"I don't just understand what you mean."

"I mean," said Peter, "that we'll try to find the means to keep you out
of the glass factory--to keep on with the music."

"But how----? I can't be dependent on----" She paused with a glance at
him. And then quickly, with her characteristic frankness that always
probed straight to her point, "You mean that _you_ will pay my way?"

"Merely that I'm going to find the money--somehow."

But she shook her head violently. "Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that,
Mr. Nichols. I couldn't think of it."

"But you've got to go on, Beth. I've made up my mind to that. You'll go
pretty fast. It won't be long before you'll know all that I can teach
you. And then I'm going to put you under the best teacher of this method
in New York. In a year or so you'll be earning your own way----"

"But I can't let you do this for me. You're doin' too much as it is--too
much that I can't pay back."

"We won't talk of money. You've given me a lot of enjoyment. That's my
pay."

"But this other--this studyin' in New York. No, I couldn't let you do
that. I couldn't--I can't take a cent from you or from any man--woman
either, for that matter. I'll find some way--workin' nights. But I'm not
goin' back," she added almost fiercely between her teeth, "not to the
way I was before. I won't. I can't."

"Good. That's the way great careers are made. I don't intend that you
shall. I'm going to make a great singer of you, Beth."

She colored with joy.

"Are you, Mr. Nichols? Are you? Oh, I want to make good--indeed I do--to
learn French and Italian----" And then, with a sharp sigh, "O Lord, if
wishes were horses----!" She was silent again, regarding him wistfully.
"Don't think I'm not grateful. I'm afraid you might. I _am_ grateful.
But--sometimes I wonder what you're doin' it all for, Mr. Nichols. And
whether----"

As she paused again Peter finished for her.

"Whether it wouldn't have been better if I hadn't let you just
remain--er," he grinned, "a peach, let's say? Well, I'll tell you,
Beth," he went on, laying his pipe aside, "I came here, without a
friend, to a strange job in a strange country. I found you. Or rather
_you_ found _me_--lost like a babe in the woods. You made fun of me.
Nobody had ever done that before in my life, but I rather liked it. I
liked your voice too. You were worth helping, you see. And then along
came Shad. I couldn't have him ordering you about, you know--not the way
he did it--if he hadn't any claim on you. So you see, I had a sense of
responsibility for you after that----About you, too----," he added, as
though thinking aloud.

His words trailed off into silence while Beth waited for him to explain
about his sense of responsibility. She wasn't altogether accustomed to
have anybody responsible for her. But as he didn't go on, she spoke.

"You mean that you--that I--that Shad forced me on you?"

"Bless your heart, child--no."

"Then what _did_ you mean?" she insisted.

Peter thought he had a definite idea in his mind about what he felt as
to their relationship. It was altruistic he knew, gentle he was sure,
educational he was positive. But half sleepily he spoke, unaware that
what he said might sound differently to one of Beth's independent mind.

"I mean," he said, "that I wanted to look after you--that I wanted our
friendship to be what it has proved to be--without the flaw of
sentiment. I wouldn't spoil a single hour by any thought of yours or
mine that led us away from the music."

And then, while her brain worked rapidly over this calm negation of his,
"But you can't be unaware, Beth, that you're very lovely."

Now "sentiment" is a word over which woman has a monopoly. It is her
property. She understands its many uses as no mere man can ever hope to
do. The man who tosses it carelessly into the midst of a delicate
situation is courting trouble. Beth perked up her head like a startled
fawn. What did he mean? All that was feminine in her was up in arms, nor
did she lay them down in surrender at his last phrase, spoken with such
an unflattering air of commonplace.

Suddenly she startled Peter with a rippling laugh which made him sit up
blinking at her. "Are you apologizin' for not makin' love to me?" she
questioned impertinently. "Say--that's funny." And she went off into
another disconcerting peal of laughter.

But it wasn't funny for Peter, who was now made aware that she had
turned his mind inside out upon the table between them, so to speak,
that she might throw dust in the wheels. And so he only gasped and
stared at her--startlingly convinced that in matters of sentiment the
cleverest man is no match for even the dullest woman and Beth could
hardly be considered in this category. At the challenge of his half
expressed thought the demureness and sobriety of the lesson hour had
fallen from her like a doffed cloak.

Peter protested blandly.

"You don't understand what----"

But she broke in swiftly. "Maybe you were afraid I might be fallin' in
love with _you_," she twitted him, and burst into laughter again.

"I--I had no such expectation," said Peter, stiffening, sure that his
dignity was a poor thing.

"Or maybe----," she went on joyfully, "maybe you were afraid _you_ might
be fallin' in love with _me_." And then as she rose and gathered up her
music, tantalizingly, "What _did_ you mean, Mr. Nichols?"

He saw that he was losing ground with every word she uttered, but his
sense of humor conquered.

"You little pixie!" he cried, dashing for her, with a laugh. "Where have
you hidden this streak of impudence all these weeks?" But she eluded
him nimbly, running around the table and out of the door before he could
catch up with her.

He halted at the doorsill and called to her. She emerged cautiously from
behind a bush and made a face at him.

"Beth! Come back!" he entreated. "I've got something to say to you."

"What?" she asked, temporizing.

"I want to talk to you--seriously."

"Good Lord--seriously! You're not goin' to--to take the risk of--of
havin' me 'vamp' you, are you?"

"Yes. I'll risk that," he grinned.

But she only broke off a leaf and nibbled at it contemplatively. "Maybe
_I_ won't risk it. 'I don't want to spoil a single hour,'" she repeated,
mocking his dignity, 'by any thought of yours or mine that would lead us
away from the music.' Maybe _I'm_ in danger." And then, "You know
_you're_ not so bad lookin' yourself, Mr. Nichols!"

"Stop teasing, Beth."

"I won't."

"I'll make you." He moved a step toward her.

"Maybe I hadn't better come any more," she said quizzically.

"Beth!"

"Suppose I _was_ learnin' to love you a little," she went on ironically,
"with you scared I might be--and not knowin' how to get out of it.
Wouldn't that be terrible! For me, I mean. 'She loved and lost, in seven
reels.'"

She was treading on precarious ground, and she must have seen her danger
in Peter's face, for as he came toward her she turned and ran down the
path, laughing at him. Peter followed in full stride but she ran like a
deer and by the time he had reached the creek she was already halfway
over the log-jam below the pool. Her laugh still derided him and now,
eager to punish her, he leaped after her. But so intent he was on
keeping her in sight upon the farther bank that his foot slipped on a
tree trunk and he went into the water. A gay peal of laughter echoed in
his ears. And he caught a last glimpse of her light frock as it vanished
into the underbrush. But he scrambled up the bank after her and darted
along the path--lost her in the dusk, and then deep in the woods at one
side saw her flitting from tree to tree away from him. But Peter's blood
was now warm with the chase--and it was the blood of Peter Nicholaevitch
too. Forgotten were the studious hours of patience and toil. Here was a
girl who challenged his asceticism--a beautiful young female animal who
dared to mock at his self-restraint. She thought that she could get
away. But he gained on her. She had stopped laughing at him now.

"Beth! You little devil!" he cried breathlessly, as he caught her. "You
little devil, I'll teach you to laugh at me."

"Let me go----"

"No----"

He held her in his arms while she struggled vainly to release herself.
Her flushed face was now a little frightened and her large blue eyes
stared in dismay at what she saw in his face.

"Let me go?" she whispered. "I didn't mean it----"

But he only held her closer while she struggled, as he kissed her--on
the brows, the chin, the cheeks, and as she relaxed in sheer
weakness--full on the lips--again--again.

"Do you think I haven't been trying to keep my hands off you all these
weeks?" he whispered. "Do you think I haven't wanted you--to teach you
what women were meant for? It's for this, Beth--and this. Do you think
I haven't seen how lovely you are? Do you think I'm a saint--an
anchorite? Well, I'm not. I'll make you love me--love me----"

Something in the reckless tones of his voice--in his very words aroused
her to new struggles. "Oh, let me go," she gasped. "I don't love you. I
won't. Let me go."

"You shall!"

"No. Let me loose or I--I'll despise you----"

"Beth!"

"I mean it. Let me go."

If a moment ago when she was relaxed in his arms he had thought that he
had won her, he had no such notion now, for with a final effort of her
strong young arms, she thrust away from him and stood panting and
disordered, staring at him as though at one she had never seen before.

"Oh--how I hate you!"

"Beth!"

"I mean it. You--you----," she turned away from him, staring at the torn
music on the ground as at a symbol of her disillusionment. Peter saw her
look, felt the meaning of it, tried to recall the words he had said to
her and failed--but sure that they were a true reflection of what had
been in his heart. He had wanted her--then--nothing else had
mattered--not duty or his set resolve....

"You mocked at me, Beth," he muttered. "I couldn't stand that----"

"And is _this_ the way you punish me? Ah, if you'd only--if you'd
only----"

And then with another glance at the torn music, she leaned against the
trunk of a tree, sobbing violently.

"Beth----" he whispered, gently, "don't----"

"Go away. Oh, go. Go!"

"I can't. I won't. What did you want me to say to you? That I love you?
I do, Beth--I do," he whispered. It was Peter Nichols, not Peter
Nicholaevitch, who was whispering now.

"Was this what your teachin' meant?" she flashed at him bitterly. "Was
this what you meant when you wanted to pay my way in New York? Oh, how
you shame me! Go! Go away from me, please."

"Please don't," he whispered. "You don't understand. I never meant that.
I--I love you, Beth. I can't bear to see you cry."

She made a valiant effort to control her heaving shoulders. And then,

"Oh, you--you've spoiled it all. S-spoiled it all, and it was so
beautiful."

Had he? Her words sobered him. No, that couldn't be. He cursed his
momentary madness, struggling for words to comfort her, but he had known
that she had seen the look in his eyes, felt the roughness of his
embrace. Love? The love that she had sung to him was not of these. He
wanted now to touch her again--gently, to lift up her flushed face, wet
like a flower with the fresh dew of her tears, and tell her what love
was. But he didn't dare--he couldn't, after what he had said to her. And
still she wept over her broken toys--the music--the singing--for they
had mattered the most. Very childlike she seemed, very tender and
pathetic.

"Beth," he said at last, touching her fingers gently. "Nothing is
changed, Beth. It can't be changed, dear. We've got to go on. It means
so much to--to us both."

But she paid no attention to the touch of his fingers and turned away,
leaving the music at her feet, an act in itself significant.

"Let me go home. Please. Alone. I--I've got to think."

She did not look at him, but Peter obeyed her. There was nothing else
to do. There was something in the clear depths of her eyes that had
daunted him. And he had meant her harm. Had he? He didn't know. He
passed his hand slowly across his eyes and then stood watching her until
she had disappeared among the trees. When she had gone he picked up the
torn music. It was Massenet's "Elégie."

    O doux printemps d'autrefois....
    Tout est flétrie.

The lines of the torn pieces came together. Spring withered! The joyous
songs of birds--silenced! Beth's song? He smiled. No, that couldn't be.
He folded the music up and strode off slowly, muttering to himself.




CHAPTER XIV

TWO LETTERS


Peter passed a troublous evening and night--a night of self-revelations.
Never that he could remember had he so deeply felt the sting of
conscience. He, the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, in love with this
little rustic? Impossible! It was the real Peter, tired of the sham and
make-believe of self-restraint and virtue, who had merely kissed a
country girl. He was no anchorite, no saint. Why had he tied himself to
such a duty from a motive of silly sentimentalism?

He winced at the word. Was it that? Sentimentalism. He had shown her the
best side of him--shown it persistently, rather proud of his capacity
for self-control, which had ridden even with his temptations. Why should
it matter so much to him what this girl thought of him? What had he said
to her? Nothing much that he hadn't said to other women. It was the fact
that he had said it to Beth that made the difference. The things one
might say to other women meant something different to Beth--the things
one might do.... He had been a fool and lost his head, handled her
roughly, spoken to her wildly, words only intended for gentle moods,
softer purposes. Shrewd little Beth, whose wide, blue eyes had seen
right down into the depths of his heart. He had been clumsy, if nothing
else, and he had always thought that clumsiness was inexcusable. He had
a guilty sense that while Beth was still the little lady to her finger
tips, born to a natural nobility, he, the Grand Duke Peter, had been the
boor, the vulgar proletarian. The look in her eyes had shamed him as
the look in his own eyes had shamed her. She had known what his wooing
meant, and it hadn't been what she wanted. The mention of love on lips
that kissed as his had done was blasphemy.

Yes. He cared what she thought of him--and he vainly cast about for a
way in which to justify himself. To make matters worse Beth still
believed that this was the payment he exacted for what he had done for
her, what he had proposed to do for her, that he measured her favors in
terms of value received. What else could she think but that? Every hour
of his devotion to her music defamed her.

The situation was intolerable. In the morning he went seeking her at her
home. The house was open. No one in Black Rock village locked doors by
day or night. Beth was not there. A neighbor said that she had gone
early alone into the woods and Peter understood. If she hadn't cared for
him she wouldn't have needed to go to the woods to be alone. Of course
she didn't appear at the Cabin the next day, and Peter searched for
her--fruitlessly. She weighed on his conscience, like a sin unshrived.
He had to find her to explain the unexplainable, to tell her what her
confidence had meant to him, to recant his blasphemy of her idols in
gentleness and repentance.

As he failed to find her, he wrote her a note, asking her forgiveness,
and stuck it in the mirror of the old hat-rack in the hall. Many women
in Europe and elsewhere, ladies of the great world that Beth had only
dreamed about, would have given their ears (since ear puffs were in
fashion) to receive such a note from Peter. It was a beautiful note
besides--manly, gentle, breathing contrition and self-reproach. Beth
merely ignored it. Whatever she thought of it and of Peter she wanted
to deliberate a longer while.

And so another music lesson hour passed while Peter sat alone in the
Cabin waiting. That night two letters were brought to him. The
superscription of one was scrawled in a boyish hand. The other was
scented, dainty, of pale lavender, and bore a familiar handwriting and a
familiar coronet. In amazement he opened this first. It was from the
Princess Galitzin, written in the polyglot of French, English and
Russian which she affected.

      "CHERE PIERRE," it ran,--in the English, somewhat
      as follows: "You will no doubt be surprised at hearing from
      me in far-off America and amazed at the phenomenon of your
      discovered address at the outlandish place you've chosen for
      your domicile. It's very simple. In America you have been
      watched by agents of the so-called government of our
      wretched country. We know this here in London, because one
      of _our_ agents is also a part of their secret organization.
      He came upon the report of your doings and knowing that
      father was interested, detailed the information to us.

      "So far as I can learn at the present writing you are in no
      immediate danger of death, but we do not know here in London
      how soon the word may be sent forth to 'remove' persons of
      your importance in the cosmic scheme. It seems that your
      desire to remain completely in hiding is looked upon with
      suspicion in Russia as evidence of a possible intention on
      your part to come to light at the beginnings of a Bourbon
      movement and proclaim yourself as the leader of a Royalist
      party. Your uncles and cousins have chosen the line of least
      resistance in yielding to the inevitable, living in
      Switzerland, and other spots where their identities are well
      known.

      "I pray, my well remembered and _bel ami_, that the cause of
      Holy Russia is still and ever present in your heart of
      hearts and that the thing these devils incarnate fear may
      one day come to pass. But I pray you to be discreet and
      watchful, if necessary changing your place of abode to one
      in which you will enjoy greater security from your enemies.
      There is at last one heart in London that ever beats fondly
      in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo.

      "_Helas!_ London is dead sea fruit. People are very kind to
      us. We have everything that the law allows us, but life
      seems to have lost its charm. I have never quite forgiven
      you, _mon Pierre_, for your desertion of us at
      Constantinople, though doubtless your reasons for preserving
      your incognito were of the best. But it has saddened me to
      think that you did not deem me worthy of a closer
      confidence. You are doubtless very much alone and
      unhappy--also in danger not only from your political
      enemies, but also from the American natives in the far away
      woods in which you have been given occupation. I trust, such
      as it is, that you have taken adequate measures to protect
      yourself. I know little of America, but I have a longing to
      go to that splendid country, rugged in its primitive
      simplicity, in spite of inconveniences of travel and the
      mass of uncultured beings with whom one must come into
      contact. Do you think it would be possible for a spoiled
      creature like me to find a boudoir with a bath--that is, in
      the provinces, outside of New York?

      "It is terrible that you can have no music in your life! I
      too miss your music, _Pietro mio_, as I miss you. Perhaps
      one day soon you will see me. I am restless and bored to
      extinction, with these ramrods of Englishmen who squeeze my
      rings into my fingers. But if I come I will be discreet
      toward Peter Nichols. That was a clever invention of yours.
      It really sounds--quite--American.

      "_Garde toi bien, entendez vous? Tout de suite je viendrai.
      Au revoir._

      "ANASTASIE."

Peter read the letter through twice, amused, astounded and dismayed by
turns. His surmise in regard to the stranger with the black mustache had
been correct then. The man was a spy of the Russian Soviets. And so
instead of having been born immaculate into a new life, as he had
hoped--a man without a past, and only a future to be accounted for--he
was only the Grand Duke Peter after all. And Anastasie! Why the devil
did she want to come nosing about in America, reminding him of all the
things that he wanted to forget? The odor of her sachet annoyed him. A
bath and boudoir! He realized now that she had always annoyed him with
her pretty silly little affectations and her tawdry smatterings of the
things that were worth while. He owed her nothing. He had made love to
her, of course, because that was what a woman of her type expected from
men of his. But there had been no damage done on either side, for he had
not believed that she had ever really cared. And now distance, it
seemed, had made her heart grow fonder, distance and the romantic
circumstances of his exile.

It was kind of her, of course, to let him know of his danger, but only
human after all. She could have done no less, having the information.
And now she was coming to offer him the charity of her wealth, to tempt
him with ease, luxury and London. He would have none of them.

He picked up the other letter with even more curiosity until he read the
postmark, and then his interest became intense, for he knew that it was
from Jim Coast--Hawk Kennedy. The letter bore the heading, "Antlers
Hotel, Colorado Springs."

      "DEAR PETE," he read, through the bad spelling,
      "Here I am back at the 'Springs,' at the 'Antlers,' after a
      nice trip down Bisbee way, and out along the 'J. and A.' to
      the mine. It's there all right and they're workin' it yet to
      beat the cards with half a mountain still to be tapped. I
      ain't going into particulars--not in a letter, except to
      tell you that I got what I went for--names, dates and
      amounts--also met the gents our friend sold out to--nice
      people. Oh, I'm 'A1' with that outfit, old dear. I'm just
      writing this to show you I'm on the job and that if you've
      got an eye to business you'd better consider my proposition.
      I'll make it worth your while. You can help all right. You
      did me a good turn that night. I'll give you yours if you'll
      stand in proper and make McG. do what's right. It ain't what
      you said it was--it's justice all around. That's all I'm
      asking--what's right and proper.

      "I ain't coming back just yet, not for a month, maybe. I'm
      living easy and there's a lady here that suits my fancy. So
      just drop me a line at the above address, letting me know
      everything's O. K. Remember I'm no piker and I'll fix you up
      good.

      "Your friend,

      "JIM."

Peter clenched the paper in his fist and threw it on the floor, frowning
angrily at the thought of the man's audacity. But after a while he
picked the crumpled note up and straightened it out upon the table,
carefully rereading it. Its very touch seemed to soil his fingers, but
he studied it for a long while, and then folded it up and put it in his
pocket. It was a very careful game that Peter would have to play with
Hawk Kennedy, a game that he had no liking for. But if he expected to
succeed in protecting McGuire, he would have to outwit Jim Coast--or
Hawk Kennedy, as he now thought of him--by playing a game just a little
deeper than his own.

Of course he now had the advantage of knowing the whole of McGuire's
side of the story, while Kennedy did not believe the old man would have
dared to tell. And to hold these cards successfully it would be
necessary to continue in Kennedy's mind the belief that Peter did not
share McGuire's confidences. It would also be necessary for Peter to
cast in his lot, apparently, with Kennedy against McGuire. It was a
dirty business at best, but he meant to carry it through if he could,
and get the signed agreement from the blackmailer.

Peter seemed to remember an old wallet that Jim Coast had always
carried. He had seen it after Coast had taken slips of paper from it and
showed them to Peter,--newspaper clippings, notes from inamorata and the
like--but of course, never the paper now in question. And if he had
carried it all these years, where was it now? In the vault of some bank
or trust company probably, and this would make Peter's task difficult,
if not impossible.

Peter got up and paced the floor, thinking deeply of all these things in
their relation to Beth. And then at last he went out into the night, his
footsteps impelled toward the village. After all, the thoughts uppermost
in his mind were of Beth herself. Whatever the cost to his pride, he
would have to make his peace with her. He knew that now. Why otherwise
did his restless feet lead him out into the pasture back of the little
post office toward the rear of Mrs. Bergen's house? Yet there he found
himself presently, smoking his corncob pipe for comfort, and staring at
the solitary light in Tillie Bergen's parlor, which proclaimed its
occupant. Mrs. Bergen's house stood at a little distance from its
nearest neighbor, and Peter stole slowly through the orchard at the rear
toward the open window. It was then that he heard the music for the
first time, the "harmonium" wailing softly, while sweet and clear above
the accompaniment (worked out painstakingly but lovingly by the girl
herself) came Beth's voice singing the "Elégie."

Peter came closer until he was just at the edge of the shadow outside
the window. He knew that her back would be turned to him and so he
peered around the shutter at her unconscious back. She sang the song
through until the end and then after a pause sang it again. Peter had no
ear now for the phrasing, for faults in technique, or inaccuracies in
enunciation. What he heard was the soul of the singer calling. All that
he had taught her in the hours in the Cabin was in her voice--and
something more that she had learned elsewhere.... Her voice was
richer--deeper, a child's voice no longer, and he knew that she was
singing of his mad moment in the woods, which had brought the end of all
things that had mattered in her life. It was no girl who sang now, but a
woman who had learned the meaning of the song, the plaint of birds once
joyous, of woodland flowers once gay--at the memory of a spring that was
no more. He had told her that she would sing that song well some day
when she learned what it meant. She would never sing it again as she had
sung it to-night. All the dross that Peter had worn in the world was
stripped from him in that moment, all that was petty and ignoble in his
heart driven forth and he stood with bowed head, in shame for what he
had been, and in gentleness for this dear creature whose idols he had
cast down.

At the end of the second verse, her fingers slipped from the keys and
fell to her sides while she bowed her head and sat for a moment
immovable. And then her shoulders moved slightly and a tiny smothered
sound came from her throat. Suddenly her head bent and she fell forward
on her arms upon the muted keys.

Noiselessly he passed over the low windowsill and before she even knew
that he was there, fell to his knees beside her.

"Beth," he whispered. "Don't--child--don't!"

She straightened, startled and incredulous at the sight of him, and
tried to move away, but he caught one of her hands and with bent head
gently laid his lips upon it.

"Don't, Beth--please. I can't bear to see you cry----"

"I--I'm _not_ crying," she stammered helplessly, while she winked back
her tears, "I--I've just--just got the--the--stomachache."

She tried to laugh--failing dismally in a sob.

"Oh, Beth--don't----" he whispered.

"I--I can't help it--if I--I've got a--a pain," she evaded him.

"But I can," he murmured. "It's in your heart, Beth. I'm sorry for
everything. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Please!"

"There's nothing to forgive," she repeated dully. But she had controlled
her voice now and her fingers in his were struggling for release.

"I was a brute, Beth. I'd give everything to have those moments back. I
wouldn't hurt you for the world. See--how changed I am----"

She released her fingers and turned slightly away.

"I--I'm changed too, Mr. Nichols," she murmured.

"No. You mustn't be, Beth. And I've got to have you back. You've got to
come back to me, Beth."

"Things can't be the same now."

"Yes--just the same----"

"No. Something's gone."

"But if something else has taken its place----"

"Nothing can----"

"Something greater----"

"I don't care for the sample you showed me," she returned quietly.

"I was crazy, Beth. I lost my head. It won't happen again."

"No. I know it won't----"

"You don't understand. It couldn't. I've made a fool of myself. Isn't it
enough for me to admit that?"

"I knew it all the time." She was cruel, and from her cruelty he guessed
the measure of her pride.

"I've done all I can to atone. I want you to know that I love you. I do,
Beth. I love you----"

There was a note in his voice different from that she had heard the
other day. His head was bent and he did not hear the little gasp or see
the startled look in her eyes, which she controlled before he raised his
head. With great deliberateness she answered him.

"Maybe you and I--have a different idea of what love ought to be," she
said. But he saw that her reproof was milder.

"I know," he insisted. "You've sung it to me----"

"No--not to you--not love," she said, startled. And then, "You had no
right to be listenin'." And then, with a glance at Aunt Tillie's clock,
"You have no right to be here now. It's late."

"But I can't go until you understand what I want to do for you. You say
that I can't know what love is. It asks nothing and only gives. I swear
I wanted to give without thought of a return--until you laughed at me.
And then--I wanted to punish you because you wouldn't understand----"

"Yes. You punished me----"

"Forgive me. You shouldn't have laughed at me, Beth. If you knew
everything, you'd understand that I'm doing it all without a hope of
payment,--just because I've got to."

Her eyes grew larger. "What do you mean?"

"I can't tell you now--but something has happened that will make a great
difference to you."

"What?"

"Forgive me. Come to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell you. We've already
wasted two days."

"I'm not so sure they've been wasted," said Beth quietly.

"I don't care if you'll only come. Will you, Beth? To-morrow?"

She nodded gravely at last.

"Perhaps," she said. And then, gently, "Good-night, Mr. Nichols."

So Peter kissed her fingers as though she had been his Czarina and went
out.




CHAPTER XV

SUPERMAN


Of course Beth Cameron knew nothing of Russia's grand dukes. The only
Duke that she had ever met was in the pages of the novel she had read in
which the hero was named Algernon. That Duke was of the English variety,
proud, crusty, and aged and had only made an unpleasant impression upon
her because she had liked Algernon, who had fallen in love with the
daughter of the Duke, and the Duke had been very horrid to him in
consequence or by reason of that mishap. When she had said to Peter that
he reminded her of Algernon she had meant it, and that was really very
nice of her, because she thought Algernon all that a self-respecting
hero should be. It was true that Peter, though mostly an Englishman,
didn't play polo and ride to hounds or swagger around a club and order
people about, because he was too poor and was obliged to work for his
living.

But he did remind her of Algernon somehow. He had a way with him, as
though if there _had_ been butlers and valets at Black Rock he _could_
have swaggered and ordered them around if he'd had a mind to. He was
good looking too. She had noted that even from the very first when she
had found him lugging his suitcase down on the road from Pickerel River.
Then too he did say things to her, nicer things than any fellow had ever
known how to say to her before, and he was much more polite than she had
ever believed it possible for any one, to be without seeming queer. But
when, eavesdropping at McGuire's, she had heard Peter play the piano,
she felt herself conducted into a new world which had nothing at all to
do with glass factories and vineyards. Even the sartorial splendor of
Miss Peggy McGuire paled into insignificance beside the new visions
which the music of Peter Nichols had invoked. He hadn't just lied to
her. He _was_ a musician. He _could_ play. She had never heard anybody
bring from a piano sounds like these. And he had said he wanted her to
sing for him.

Beth had sung always--just as she had always breathed--but she had never
heard any good music except on a talking machine at the boarding house
at Glassboro--an old record of Madame Melba's that they played
sometimes. But even that song from an opera ("Lay Boheem" they called
it), mutilated as it was, had shown her that there was something more
wonderful than the popular melodies that the other people liked. Beth's
taste for good music, like her taste for nice people, was instinctive.
And she had found that in her walk of life the one was about as
difficult to find as the other. She had had her awakenings and her
disillusionments, with women as well as men, but had emerged from her
experiences of two winters in a factory town with her chin high and her
heart pure--something of an achievement for one as pretty as Beth.

All in all, she had liked Shad Wells better than any of the men she had
met. He was rough, but she had discovered that good manners didn't
always mean good hearts or clean minds.

It was this discovery that had made her look askance at Peter Nichols
when she had first met him on the road, for he was politer than anybody
she had ever met. If her philosophy was to be consistent this new
superintendent would need watching. But his music disarmed her and
captured her imagination. And then came the incident of the jealous
Shad and the extraordinary outcome of Mr. Nichols's championship of her
rights. She had witnessed that fight from the shelter of the bushes. It
had been dreadful but glorious. Peter's chivalry appealed to her--also
his strength. From that moment he was superman.

Then had followed the long wonderful weeks of music at the Cabin, in
which she had learned the beginnings of culture and training. Her
music-master opened new and beautiful vistas for her, told her of the
great musicians and singers that the world had known, described the
opera houses of Europe, the brilliant audiences, the splendid ballets,
the great orchestras, and promised her that if she worked hard, she
might one day become a part of all this. She had learned to believe him
now, for she saw that as time went on he was more exacting with her
work, more sparing in his praise of her, and she had worked hard--in
despair at times, but with a slowly growing confidence in her star of
destiny.

And all the while she was wondering why Peter Nichols was doing this for
her and what the outcome of it all was to be. He spoke little of the
future except to hint vaguely at lessons elsewhere when he had taught
her all that he knew. The present it seemed was sufficient for them
both. His moods of soberness, of joy, of enthusiasm, were all catching
and she followed him blindly, aware of this great new element in her
life which was to make the old life difficult, if not impossible. He
treated her always with respect, not even touching her arms or waist in
passing--an accepted familiarity of men by girls of her social class.
Beth understood that it was a consideration due to a delicate situation,
the same consideration which had impelled her always to call him Mr.
Nichols.

And yet it was this very consideration of Peter's that vexed her. It
wasn't an air of superiority, for she couldn't have stood that. It was
just discretion, maybe, or something else, she couldn't decide what. But
Beth didn't want to be put in a glass case like the wax flowers at home.
Her voice was a mere mechanical instrument, as he had taken pains so
often to tell her, but he seemed to be making the mistake of thinking
_her_ a mechanical instrument too. She wasn't. She was very much alive,
tingling with vitality, very human under her demure aspect during the
singing lessons, and it had bothered her that Peter shouldn't know it.
His ignorance, his indifference affronted her. Didn't he see what she
looked like? Didn't he see that she might be worth making love to ...
just a little, a very little ... once in a while?

The clouds had broken suddenly, almost without warning, when he had
talked like a professor--about sentiment--apologized--that was what he
had done--_apologized_ for not making love to her! Oh!

And then things had happened swiftly--incredible, unbelievable things.
The lightning had flashed and it had shown an ugly Mr. Nichols--a
different Mr. Nichols from anything that she could have imagined of him.
The things he had said to her ... his kisses ... shameful things! A
hundred times she had brushed them off like the vision of him from her
mind. And still they returned, warm and pulsing to her lips. And still
the vision of him returned--remained. He _had_ been so nice to her
before....

       *       *       *       *       *

Now Beth sat in the big chair opposite Peter in the Cabin by the log
fire (for the evenings were getting cool) while he finished telling her
about the death of Ben Cameron, of the murder and of Jonathan K.
McGuire's share in the whole terrible affair. It was with some
misgivings, even after swearing her to secrecy, that he told her what he
had learned through Kennedy and McGuire. And she had listened,
wide-eyed. Her father of course was only the shadow of a memory to her,
the evil shade in a half-forgotten dream, and therefore it was not grief
that she could feel, not even sorrow for one who in life had been so
vile, even if his miserable death had been so tragic--only horror and
dismay at the thought of the perpetrator of the infamy. And not until
Peter had come to the end of the story did she realize what this
revelation meant, that the very foundation of McGuire's great fortune
was laid upon property which belonged to her.

"Out of all this evil must come some good, Beth," he finished soberly.
"That copper mine was yours. McGuire took it and he is going to pay you
what he owes."

Beth had already exhausted all the expletives of horror and amazement,
and now for a moment this last information staggered her and she stared
at him unbelieving.

"Pay me? I can't believe----"

"It was your property by every law of God and man, and I mean that you
shall have it." He paused and smiled softly. "You see, Beth, you won't
need to depend on me now for your training."

"Oh--then this was what you meant----"

"What I meant when I said that you should owe me nothing--that I----"

"But I _will_ owe you--everything. I shall still owe you everything."
And then, wonderingly, "And just to think of my livin' here all this
time so near the man--and not knowin' about----" Her words trailed off
into silent astonishment.

"Yes. And to think of his making his fortune on money that belonged to
you! Millions. And he's going to pay you what he got out of the
Tarantula mine--every dollar with interest to date."

"But how can you make him do that?" she cried eagerly. "What proof have
you got?"

He smiled grimly into the fire as he poked a fallen log into the blaze.

"Blackmail is an ugly word, Beth. But it shouldn't be blackmail, if
silence is the price of getting what really belongs to you. McGuire is
using your money--and he must give it to you. It's your money--not his.
If he won't give it to you of his own free will, he will give it against
his will."

"But how can you make him do that?" asked Beth timidly.

"By saving him from Hawk Kennedy. That's my price--and yours."

"But how can you?"

"I don't know. I've got to fight Kennedy with his own weapons--outwit
him. And I've thought out a plan----"

"But he's dangerous. You mustn't take any further risks with a man like
that for me."

Peter only smiled.

"It will amuse me, Beth. And besides----" He bent forward to tend the
fire, his face immediately grave again. "Besides--I think I owe you
that, now."

She understood what he meant and thrilled gently. Her joy had come back
to her with a rush. All through the music lesson and through the recital
of the tale of mystery she had hung breathlessly on his words and
watched the changing expression on his features as he talked into the
fire. This was _her_ Mr. Nichols who was speaking now, her friend and
mentor, who wanted her to understand that this was his way of atonement.
But she ignored his last remark, to Beth the most important of the
entire conversation.

"How--how much will the--the money amount to?" she asked timidly.

Peter laughed.

"Figure it out for yourself. Half a million--six per cent--fifteen
years----"

"Half a million dollars----!"

"A million--or more!"

"A million! God-a-mercy!"

Peter recognized one of Aunt Tillie's expressions, Beth's vocabulary
being inadequate to the situation.

"But you haven't got it yet," he said.

"And I daren't think of gettin' it. I won't think of it. I'd get my
brain so full of things I wanted it would just naturally _bust_. Oh
lordy!"

Peter laughed.

"You do want a lot of things, don't you?"

"Of course. A silk waist, a satin skirt, some silk stockings--but most
of all, a real sure enough piano," she gasped. And then, as though in
reproach of her selfishness, "And I could pay off the mortgage on Aunt
Tillie's farm back in the clearing!"

"How much is that?"

"Three thousand dollars. I've already paid off three hundred."

"There ought to be enough for that," said Peter soberly.

"Oh, Mr. Nichols. I hope you don't think I'm an awful fool talkin' this
way."

"Not unless you think _I_ am."

"But it _is_ nice to dream of things sometimes."

"Yes. I do that too. What do you dream of, Beth?"

"Oh, of bein' a great singer, mostly--standin' on a stage with people
lookin' up and clappin' their hands at me."

"What else?"

"Oh," she laughed gayly, "I used to dream of marryin' a prince--all
girls do. But there ain't any princes now to marry."

"No, that's true," he assented. "The old world hasn't any use for
princes now." And then, "But why did you want to marry a prince?" he
asked.

"Oh, I don't know. It's just fairy tales. Haven't you ever lived in a
fairy tale and loved a princess?"

"Yes, I've lived in a fairy tale, but I've never loved a princess."

"I guess if everybody knew," said Beth with conviction, "the princes in
Europe are a pretty bad lot."

"Yes," said Peter slowly, "I guess they are."

She paused a moment, looking into the fire. And then, "Were you ever
acquainted with any princes in Europe, Mr. Nichols?"

Peter smiled. "Yes, Beth. I did know one prince rather
intimately--rather too intimately."

"Oh. You didn't like him?"

"No, not much. He was an awful rotter. The worst of it was that he had
good instincts and when he went wrong, he went wrong in spite of 'em.
You see--he was temperamental."

"What's temperamental?"

"Having the devil and God in you both at the same time," muttered Peter
after a moment.

"I know," she said. "Satan and God, with God just sittin' back a little
to see how far Satan will go."

He smiled at her. "You don't mean that you have temptations too, Beth?"

She ignored his question, her face sober, and went back to her subject.

"I guess your prince wasn't any better or any worse than a lot of other
people. Maybe he didn't give God a chance?"

"No. Maybe not," said Peter.

"It seems to me he must have been kind of human, somehow," Beth
commented reflectively. "What's become of him now?" she asked, then.

"Oh, he's out of it," replied Peter.

"Dead?"

"Yes. His country has chucked all the nobility out on the dust heap."

"Russia?"

"Yes."

"Did they kill him?"

"They tried to, but couldn't."

"Where is he now?"

"A wanderer on the face of the earth."

"I'm so sorry. It must be terrible to have to eat pork and beans when
your stomach's only used to chocolate sundaes."

Peter grinned.

"Some of 'em were glad enough to get off with stomachs to put beans and
pork into. Oh, you needn't waste your pity, Beth."

"I don't. I read the papers. I guess they got what they deserved. The
workin' people in the world ain't any too keen on buyin' any more
diamond tiaras for loafers. I reckon it was about time for a new deal
all around without the face cards."

"Perhaps, Beth. But there's always the ten spot to take the deuce."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Beth reflectively. "People aren't
really equal--are they? Some apples _are_ better than others. I guess,"
she sighed, "that the real trouble with the world is because there ain't
enough friendship in it."

Peter was silent for a moment.

"Yes, that's true," he said, "not enough friendship--not enough love.
And it's all on account of money, Beth. There wouldn't have been any
European war if some people hadn't wanted property that belonged to
somebody else."

"I hope wanting this money won't make me hate anybody or make anybody
hate me. I don't want to make Mr. McGuire unhappy or Miss McGuire----"

"You needn't worry," said Peter dryly. "You see, it's your money."

Beth gave a deep sigh.

"I can't help it. I _would_ like to have a sport coat and a _cerise_
veil like Peggy wears."

"You shall have 'em. What else?"

"Some pretty patent leather shoes with rhinestone buckles----"

"Yes----"

"And a black velvet hat and nice _lingerie_----" (Beth pronounced it
lingery).

"Of course. And the piano----"

"Oh, yes. A piano and books--lots of books."

"And a red automobile?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dare wish for that."

"Why not? It's just as easy to wish for an automobile as a piano."

"Yes, I suppose so." She became immediately grave again. "But I can't
seem to believe it all. I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of Hawk Kennedy. I feel that he's going to make trouble for us all, Mr.
Nichols. I'm afraid. I always seem to feel things before they happen.
Any man who could do what he did--murder!"

"There will be some way to get around him."

"But it's dangerous. I don't feel I've got the right to let you do this
for me."

"Oh, yes, you have. I'd do it anyhow. It's only justice."

"But suppose he--suppose----"

"What----?"

"He might kill you, too."

Peter laughed. "Not a chance. You see, I wasn't born to die a violent
death. If I had been, I'd have been dead months ago."

"Oh--the war, you mean?" she asked soberly.

"Yes--the war. Everything is tame after that. I'm not afraid of Hawk
Kennedy."

"But there's danger just the same."

"I hope not. I won't cross that bridge until I come to it."

Beth was silent for a long moment and then with a glance at the clock on
the mantel slowly gathered her music, aware of his voice close at her
ear.

"And if I do this, Beth,--if I get what belongs to you, will you believe
that I have no motive but friendship for you, that I care for you enough
to want you to forgive me for what has happened?"

He had caught her fingers in his own but she did not try to release
them.

"Oh, don't speak of that--_please_! I want to forget you--that day."

"Can't you forget it more easily by remembering me as I am now, Beth?
See. I want you as much now as I did then--just as much, but I cannot
have you until you give yourself to me."

What did he mean? She wasn't sure of him. If marriage was what he meant,
why didn't he say so? Marriage. It was such an easy word to say. Her
fingers struggled in his.

"Please, Mr. Nichols," she gasped.

"You mean that you won't--that you don't care enough----?"

"I--I'm not sure of you----"

"I love you, Beth----"

"You _say_ so----"

"I do--better than anything in the world."

"Enough to--enough to...?"

She was weakening fast. She felt her danger in the trembling of her
fingers in his. Why didn't he finish her question for her? Marriage. It
was such a little word. And yet he evaded it and she saw that he meant
to evade it.

"Enough to have you almost in my arms and yet hardly to touch
you--enough to have your lips within reach of mine and yet not to take
them. Isn't that what you wanted, Beth? Gentleness, tenderness----"

She flung away from him desperately.

"No--no. I want nothing--nothing. Please! You don't want to understand."
And then with an effort she found her poise. "Things must be as they
are. Nothing else. It's getting late, I must go."

"Beth--Not yet. Just a minute----"

"No."

But she did not go and only stood still, trembling with irresolution. He
knew what she wanted him to say. There could be no middle ground for
Beth. She must be all to him or nothing. Marriage. It was the Grand Duke
Peter Nicholaevitch who had evaded this very moment while Peter Nichols
had urged him to it. And it was Peter Nichols who knew that any words
spoken of marriage to Beth Cameron would be irrevocable, the Grand Duke
Peter (an opportunist) who urged him to utter them, careless of
consequences. And there stood Beth adorable in her perplexity, conjuring
both of him to speak.

It was Peter Nichols who met the challenge, oblivious of all counsels of
pride, culture, vainglory and hypocrisy. This was his mate, a sweeter
lady than any he had ever known.

"Beth," he whispered. "I love you. Nothing in the world makes any
difference to me but your happiness."

He came to her and caught her in his arms, while she still struggled
away from him. "I want you. It doesn't matter who I am or who you are. I
want you to----"

Beth suddenly sprung away from him, staring at a figure which stood in
the doorway as a strident, highly pitched voice cut in sharply on
Peter's confession.

"Oh, excuse _me_! I didn't mean to intrude."

It was Miss Peggy McGuire in her _cerise_ veil and her sport suit, with
hard eyes somewhat scandalized by what she had seen, for Peter was
standing awkwardly, his arms empty of their prize, who had started back
in dismay and now stood with difficulty recovering her self-possession.
As neither of them spoke Miss McGuire went on cuttingly, as she glanced
curiously around the Cabin.

"So this is where you live? I seem to have spoiled your party. And may I
ask who----" and her eyes traveled scornfully over Beth's figure,
beginning at her shoes and ending at her flushed face--"I think I've
seen you before----"

"Miss McGuire," said Peter quietly, "This is Miss Cameron----"

"Oh, yes--the kitchen maid."

"Miss Beth Cameron," insisted Peter frigidly, "who has just done me the
honor of promising to marry me."

"Oh! I see----"

Beth stared from one to the other, aware of the meaning of the visitor's
manner and of Peter's reply.

"That is not true," she said very quietly, her deep voice vibrant with
emotion. "I come here often. Mr. Nichols is teaching me music. I am very
proud of his friendship. But I did not promise to marry him."

Peggy McGuire turned on her heel.

"Well, it's almost time you did," she said insultingly.

Peter, now pale and cold with fury, reached the door before her and
stood blocking the passageway. "Miss McGuire, I'll trouble you to be
more careful in addressing my guests," he said icily.

"Let me pass----"

"In a moment."

"You'd dare----?"

"I would like you to understand that this cabin is mine--while I am in
Black Rock. Any guest here comes at my invitation and honors me by
accepting my hospitality. But I reserve the privilege of saying who
shall come and who shall not. I hope I make myself clear----" And Peter
bowed low and then moved aside, indicating the door. "Good-night," he
finished.

Miss Peggy McGuire glared at him, red as a young turkey cock, her
finishing school training just saving her from a tirade. "Oh, you! We'll
see about this----" and dashed past him out of the door and disappeared
into the darkness.

Peter followed her with his angry gaze, struggling for his self-control,
and at last turned into the room toward Beth, who now stood a smiling
image turned into stone.

"Why did you deny what I said, Beth?" he pleaded.

"It wasn't the truth. I never promised to marry you. You never asked me
to."

"I _would_ have asked you. I ask you now. I _was_ asking you when that
little fool came in----"

"Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't. Maybe I'm a little hard of hearin'.
But I'm not goin' to make _that_ an excuse for my bein' here----"

"I don't understand----"

"It's just that I came here because I wanted to come and because you
wanted me. People have been talkin'. Let them talk. Let _her_ talk----"

"She will. You can be pretty sure of that."

Peter was pacing up and down the room, his hands behind him. "If she'd
been a man----" he was muttering. "If she'd only been a man."

Beth watched him a moment, still smiling.

"Oh, I got what she meant--she was just tryin' to insult me."

She laughed. "Seems as if she'd kind of succeeded. I suppose I ought to
have scratched her face for her. I think I would have--if she'd just
stayed a minute longer. Funny too, because I always used to think she
was so sweet."

Peter threw his arms wildly into the air and exploded.

"Sweet! Sweet! _That_ girl! Yes, if vinegar is. She'll tear your
reputation to shreds."

Beth had stopped smiling now and leaned against the wall, her chin
lowered.

"I reckon it serves me right. I hadn't any business to be comin'
here--not at night, anyway."

"Oh, Beth," he pleaded, catching her hands. "Why couldn't you have let
things be?"

She struggled a little. And then, "Let _her_ think I was _engaged_ to
you when I wasn't?" she gasped.

"But we are, Beth, dear. Say we are, won't you?"

"Not when we're not."

"Beth----!"

"You should have spoken sooner, if you'd really meant it. Oh, I know
what it is. I've always known there's a difference between us."

"No--not unless you make it."

"Yes. It was there before I was born. You were brought up in a different
kind of life in a different way of thinkin' from mine----"

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Everything. It's not my fault. And maybe I'm a little too proud. But
I'm straight----"

"Don't, Beth----" He put his arm around her but she disengaged herself
gently.

"No, let me finish. Maybe you wanted me. I guess you did. But not that
much--not enough to speak out--and you were too straight to lie to me.
I'm thankful for that----"

"But I _have_ spoken, Beth," he insisted, taking her by the elbows and
holding her so that he could look into her eyes. "I've asked you to--to
be my wife. I ask you now. Is that clear?"

Her eyes evaded him and she laughed uneasily.

"Yes, it's clear--and--and your reason for it----"

"I love you----"

"A little, maybe. But I'll marry no man just to save my face--and his."

But he caught her close to him, finding a new joy in his momentous
decision. She struggled still, but he would not be denied.

"Yes, you will," he whispered. "You've got to marry me whether you want
to or not. You're compromised."

"I don't care."

"Oh, yes, you do. And you love me, Beth."

"I don't love you----"

"You do. And I'm going to marry you whether you want it or not."

"Oh, _are_ you?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

He kissed her. She didn't resist him. Resistance was useless. He had
won.

"Beth, dear," he went on. "I couldn't lie to you. I'm glad you knew
that. And I couldn't hurt you. I think I've always loved you--from the
first."

"I too--I too," she whispered. "I couldn't help it."

"I think I knew that too----"

"No, no. You couldn't----"

"Yes. It was meant to be. You've given a new meaning to life, torn from
its very roots a whole rotten philosophy. Oh, you don't know what I
mean--except that nobility is in the mind, beauty in the heart. Nothing
else matters."

"No. It doesn't," she sighed. "You see, I--I do believe in you."

"Thank God! But you know nothing of me--nothing of my past----"

"I don't care what your past has been or who you are. You're good enough
for me. I'm satisfied----"

He laughed joyously at the terms of her acquiescence.

"Don't you want to know what I've been--who I am----?"

"No. It wouldn't make any difference--not now."

"I'll tell you some day."

"I'll take a chance on that. I'm not afraid."

"And whatever I am--you'll marry me?"

"Yes. Whatever--you--are----"

While he smiled down at her she straightened in his arms and gently
released herself, glancing guiltily at the clock.

"I--I must be going now," she whispered.

And so through the quiet forest they went to Black Rock village, hand in
hand.




CHAPTER XVI

IDENTIFICATION


The sudden and unexpected arrival of Miss Peggy McGuire upon the scene
had been annoying. That young person was, as Peter knew, a soulless
little snob and materialist with a mind which would not be slow to put
the worst possible construction upon the situation. Of course as matters
stood at the close of that extraordinary evening of self-revelations, it
did not matter a great deal what Peggy McGuire thought or said or did,
for nothing could hurt Beth now. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch had
capitulated and Peter Nichols gloried in his victory over inherited
tradition. He had no regrets and he had made his choice, for Beth was
what he wanted. She completed him. She was effulgent,--even in homespun.
A little tinsel more or less could make no difference in Beth. Those of
his own class who would not accept her might go hang for all he cared.

Still Peter had rather that almost any one but Peggy should have come
upon the scene, and Beth's frankness had given her a handle for a
scandal, if she chose to make one. Beth cared nothing, he knew, for her
soul was greater than his, but Peter's anger still smoldered at the
words that had been used to Beth.

He did not fear complications with McGuire, nor did he court them, but
he knew how this daughter had been brought up, spoiled and pampered to
the very limits of McGuire's indulgence and fortune, and he couldn't
help holding her up in comparison with Beth, much to Peggy's detriment.
For Beth was a lady to her finger tips, born to a natural gentility that
put to confusion the mannerisms of the "smart" finishing school which
had not succeeded in concealing the strain of a plebeian origin, and
Beth's dropped g's and her quaint inversions and locutions were
infinitely more pleasing to Peter than Miss Peggy's slang and
self-assurance, which reflected the modernity of the fashionable hotel
tea-room.

Fortunately, Jonathan K. McGuire, who had returned from the seashore the
night before, was not disposed to take his daughter's animadversions too
seriously and when Peter announced his engagement to the niece of his
housekeeper he made no comment further than to offer his
congratulations. He did not even know her name and when McGuire was told
that it was Beth Cameron, Peter did not miss his slight start of
inquiry. But of course, having only owned his acres of woodland for half
a dozen years, he knew little as to the origins of the inhabitants of
Black Rock and as Peter said nothing at that moment he asked no
questions and only listened to the forester's account of the progress of
the work and of the difficulties experienced in attempting to complete
the timber-contract. There was no way of improving the labor situation
and a visit to the camp proved to him that Peter had done all that could
be expected with the poor material at hand. On the way back they stopped
at the Cabin and Peter showed him the letter from Hawk Kennedy. And
there for a while they sat discussing plans to outwit the enemy and draw
his sting.

It was going to be no easy task and could only be accomplished by
Peter's apparent compliance with Kennedy's wishes in throwing in his lot
with Hawk and simulating an enmity for his employer. McGuire nodded his
head and listened soberly. The rest at the seashore had done him good
and he was disposed to meet the situation with courage, reflecting
Peter's own attitude of confidence and optimism, admitting that his
confession to Peter had lifted a weight from his shoulders and given him
the spirit to meet the issue, whatever it might be.

"You see," he said at last, "if the worst comes I'm in a pretty bad
hole. But it was the shock of meeting Hawk after all these years that
took the courage out of me at first. I wasn't quite right in my head for
a while. I'd have killed him gladly and gotten away with it perhaps--but
I'm glad now that things turned out the way they did. I've got no blood
on my hands--that's one thing--whatever I signed. I've been thinking a
good deal since I've been away. If I signed that fake confession Hawk
Kennedy signed it too. He won't dare to produce it except as a last
resort in desperation, to drag me down with him if he fails. We can
string him along for a while before he does that and if he falls for
your game we may be able to get the paper away from him. You've thought
of something, Nichols?" he asked.

"Yes, of several things," said Peter slowly. "I'm going to try diplomacy
first. If that doesn't work, then something else more drastic."

McGuire rose at last and took up his hat.

"I don't know how to thank you for what you've done, Nichols," he said
awkwardly. "Of course if--if money will repay you for this sort of
service, you can count on my doing what you think is right."

Peter rose and walked to the window, looking out.

"I was coming to that, Mr. McGuire," he said gravely.

McGuire paused and laid his hat down again.

"Before you went away," Peter went on, turning slowly toward his
employer, "you told me that you had never made any effort to discover
the whereabouts of any of the relatives of Ben Cameron. But I inferred
from what you said that if you _did_ find them, you'd be willing to do
your duty. That's true, isn't it?"

McGuire examined him soberly but agreed.

"Yes, that's true. But why do you bring this question up now?"

"I'll explain in a moment. Mr. McGuire, you are said to be a very rich
man, how rich I don't know, but I think you'll be willing to admit to
me, knowing what I do of your history, that without the 'Tarantula' mine
and the large sum it brought you you would never have succeeded in
getting to your present position in the world of finance."

"I'll admit that. But I don't see----"

"You will in a minute, sir----"

"Go on."

"If I have been correctly informed, you sold out your copper holdings in
Madre Gulch for something like half a million dollars----" Peter paused
for McGuire's comment. He made none. But he had sunk into his chair
again and was listening intently.

"The interest on half a million dollars, even at six per cent, if
compounded, would in fifteen years amount with the principal to a
considerable sum."

"Ah, I see what you're getting at----"

"You will admit that what I say is true?"

"Yes----"

"You'll admit also, if you're reasonable, that the money which founded
your great fortune was as a matter of fact not yours but Ben
Cameron's----?"

"But why speak of him now?" muttered the old man.

"Do you admit this?"

McGuire frowned and then growled, "How can I help admitting it, since
you know the facts? But I don't see----"

"Well then, admitting that the 'Tarantula' mine was Ben Cameron's and
not yours or Hawk Kennedy's, it seems clear that if any of Ben Cameron's
heirs should turn up unexpectedly, they might claim at least a share of
what should have been their own."

McGuire had started forward in his chair, his gaze on Peter's face, as
the truth was suddenly borne in upon him.

"You mean, Nichols, that----." He paused and gasped as Peter nodded.

"I mean that Ben Cameron's only child, a daughter, lives here at Black
Rock--the niece of your housekeeper--Mrs. Bergen----"

"Miss Cameron--My God!" McGuire fell back in his chair, staring at
Peter, incapable of further speech.

"Beth Cameron," said Peter gently, "the lady who has done me the honor
of promising to become my wife----"

"But how do you know?" gasped McGuire. "There must be some mistake. Are
you sure you----" He broke off and then a sly smile curled at the
corners of his lips. "You know, Nichols, Cameron is not an unusual name.
It's quite possible that you're--er--mistaken."

"No. I'm quite sure there's no mistake. I think the facts can be
proved--that is, of course, if you're willing to help to establish this
claim and to admit it when established. Otherwise I intend to establish
it without your assistance--as an act of justice and of--er--retribution."

McGuire watched his superintendent's face for a while before replying.
And then, briefly, "What are the facts on which you base this
extraordinary statement?" he asked.

"I'll present those facts when the time comes, Mr. McGuire," said Peter
at a venture. "I don't think it will be a difficult matter to identify
the murdered man. He wrote home once or twice. He can be traced
successfully. But what I would like to know first is what your
disposition toward his daughter will be when the proper proofs are
presented."

"_If_ they're presented," said McGuire.

"Will you answer me?"

"It would seem time enough to answer then. I'll do the right thing."

"Meaning what?"

"Money enough to satisfy her."

"That won't do. She must have what is hers by right. Her price is one
million dollars," said Peter quietly.

McGuire started up. "You're dreaming," he gasped.

"It's her money."

"But I developed that mine."

"It was her mine that you developed."

McGuire stopped by the window and turned.

"And if I refuse----?"

"I don't think you will----"

The two men stared at each other, but Peter had the whip hand--or
McGuire thought he had, which was quite sufficient.

"Will you help me to perform this act of justice?" Peter went on calmly.
"It's the only thing to do, Mr. McGuire. Can't you see that?"

McGuire paced the floor heavily a few times before replying. And then,

"I've got to think this thing over, Nichols. It's all so very sudden--a
million dollars. My God! man, you talk of a million as if it grew on the
trees." He stopped abruptly before the fireplace and turned to Peter.
"And where does Hawk Kennedy come in on this?"

"Beth Cameron's claim comes before his--or yours," said Peter quietly.
"Whatever happens to either of you--it's not her fault."

Peter hadn't intended a threat. He was simply stating the principal
thought of his mind. But it broke McGuire's front. He leaned upon the
armchair and then fell heavily into it, his head buried in his hands.

"I'll do--whatever you say," he groaned at last, "but you've got to get
me out of this, Nichols. I've got to have that paper."

Peter poured out a drink of the whisky and silently handed it to his
employer.

"Come, Mr. McGuire," he said cheerfully, "we'll do what we can. There'll
be a way to outwit Hawk Kennedy."

"I hope to God there is," muttered McGuire helplessly.

"I'll make a bargain with you."

"What?" asked McGuire helplessly.

"If I get the confession from Kennedy, you give Beth Cameron the money I
ask for."

"No publicity?"

"None. I give you my word on it."

"Well," muttered the old man, "I guess it's coming to her. I'll see." He
paused helplessly. "A million dollars! That's a big sum to get together.
A big price--but not too big to clear this load off my conscience."

"Good. I'm glad you see it in this way."

The old man turned shrewdly. "But I've got to have the proofs----"

"Very well. If you're honest in your intentions you'll help me confirm
the evidence."

"Yes," said the other slowly. "I'll do what I can."

"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Ben Cameron looked
like----"

"I've told you as near as I can remember," muttered McGuire.

"Had the murdered man, for instance, lost the little finger of his left
hand?" asked Peter, coolly concealing the anxiety which lay behind his
question.

But he had his reward, for McGuire shot a quick glance at him, his
heavy jowl sagging. And as he didn't reply, Peter urged him
triumphantly.

"You promised to help. Will you answer me truthfully? It will save
asking a lot of questions."

At last McGuire threw up his hands.

"Yes," he muttered, "that was Ben Cameron. One of his little fingers was
missing all right enough."

"Thanks," said Peter, with an air of closing the interview. "If you want
this proof that the murdered man was Beth's father, ask Mrs. Bergen."

There was a silence. Peter had won. McGuire gathered up his hat with the
mien of a broken man and moved toward the door.

"All right, Nichols. I guess there's no doubt of it. I'll admit the
proof's strong enough. It can be further verified, I suppose, but I'd
rather no questions were asked. You do your part and I--I'll do mine."

"Very good, sir. You can count on me. If that fake agreement is still in
existence, I'll get it for you. If it has been destroyed----"

"I'll have to have proof of that----"

"Won't you leave that in my hands?"

McGuire nodded, shook Peter's hand and wandered out up the path in the
direction of Black Rock House.

From the first, Peter had had no doubt that the murdered man was Beth's
father, but he had to admit under McGuire's questioning that there might
still be a difficulty in tracing the vagrant from the meager history of
his peregrinations that Mrs. Bergen had been able to provide. McGuire's
attitude in regard to the absent little finger had been really
admirable. Peter was thankful for that little finger, and for McGuire's
honesty. There was no doubt in his mind now--if any had existed--who Ben
Cameron's murderer was. The affair was simplified amazingly. With Beth's
claim recognized, Peter could now enter heart and soul into the
interesting business of beating Hawk Kennedy at his own game. He would
win--he must win, for the pitiful millionaire and for Beth.

And so, jubilantly, he made his way to Black Rock village to fill a very
agreeable engagement that he had, to take supper (cooked and served by
her own hands) with Miss Beth Cameron. He found that Beth had tried to
prevail upon Aunt Tillie to be present but that the arrival of the
McGuire family at Black Rock House had definitely prevented the
appearance of their chaperon. Peter's appetite, however, suffered little
diminution upon that account and he learned that singing was not Beth's
only accomplishment. The rolls, as light as feathers and steaming hot,
were eloquent of her skill, the chicken was broiled to a turn, the
creamed potatoes delicious, and the apple pie of puff-paste provoked
memories of the Paris Ritz. Aunt Tillie's best tablecloth and family
silver--old, by the looks of it--had been brought into requisition and a
bunch of goldenrod and purple asters graced the centerpiece. And above
it all presided Beth, her face aflame from the cookstove, gracious and
more than lovable in her pride and self-consciousness.

When the supper was finished, Peter helped her to clear away the things
and insisted on being allowed to help wash the dishes. But to this Beth
demurred for they were of Aunt Tillie's blue colonial china set and not
to be trusted to impious hands. But she let Peter sit in the kitchen and
watch her (which was quite satisfactory) and even spared him a kiss or
two at propitious intervals.

Then when all things had been set to rights they went into the little
parlor and sat on the worn Victorian plush-covered sofa. There was much
to talk about, matters of grave importance that concerned themselves
alone, explanations to be made, hopes to be expressed, and Beth's affair
with McGuire to be discussed in all its phases. Peter told her nothing
of his rank or station in life, saving that revelation for a later
moment. Was not the present all-sufficient? And hadn't Beth told him and
didn't she tell him again now that she believed in him and that "no
matter what" she loved him and was his, for ever after, Amen. She didn't
care who he was, you see.

And when the important business of affirming those vows was concluded
again and again, the scarcely less important business of Beth's future
was talked over with a calmness which did much credit to Beth's control
of the situation. Peter brought out Hawk Kennedy's letter and they read
it together, and talked about it, Peter explaining his intention to
acquiesce in Hawk's plan. Then Peter told of his conversation with
McGuire and of the proof of Ben Cameron's identity which the old man had
honestly admitted.

"It looks very much, Beth," said Peter at last, with a smile, "as though
you were going to be a very wealthy young woman."

"Oh, Peter," she sighed (the elimination of formal appellations had been
accomplished during the earlier stages of the repast), "Oh, Peter, I
hope it isn't going to bring us unhappiness."

"Unhappiness! Why, Beth!"

"Oh, I don't know. It seems to me that people with a lot of money always
look unhappy wantin' _to want_ somethin'."

He laughed.

"The secret of successful wanting is only to want the things you can
get."

"That's just the trouble. With a million dollars I'll get so much more
than I want. And what then----?"

"You'll have to start all over again."

"No," she said quietly. "I won't. If wantin' things she can't buy makes
a girl _hard_, like Peggy McGuire, I think I'd rather be poor."

Peter grew grave again.

"Nothing could ever make you like Peggy McGuire," he said.

"I might be--if I ever get into the habit of thinkin' I was somethin'
that I wasn't."

"You'll never be a snob, Beth, no matter how much money you have."

"I hope not," she said with a laugh. "My nose turns up enough already."
And then, wistfully, "But I always _did_ want a _cerise_ veil."

"I've no doubt you'll get it, a _cerise_ veil--mauve, green and blue
ones too. I'll be having to keep an eye on you when you go to the city."

She eyed him gravely and then, "I don't like to hear you talk like
that."

But he kept to his topic for the mere delight of hearing her replies.

"But then you might see somebody you liked better than me."

She smiled at him gently. "If I'd 'a' thought that I wouldn't 'a' picked
you out in the first place."

"Then you did pick me out. When?"

"H-m. Wouldn't you like to know!"

"Yes. At the Cabin?"

"No----"

"At McGuire's----?"

"No-o. Before that----"

"When----"

She blushed very prettily and laughed.

"Down Pickerel River road."

"Did you, Beth?"

"Yes. I liked your looks. You _do_ smile like you meant it, Peter. I
said to myself that anybody that could bow from the middle like you was
good enough for me."

"Now you're making fun of me."

"Oh, no. I'm not. You see, dear, you've really lived up to that bow!"

"I hope," said Peter gently, "I hope I always will."

"I'm not worryin'. And I'm glad I knew you loved me before you knew
about the money."

"You did know, then----"

"Yes. What bothered me was your findin' it so hard to tell me so."

Peter was more awkward and self-conscious at that moment than he could
ever remember having been in his life. Her frankness shamed him--made it
seem difficult for him ever to tell her the real reasons for his
hesitation. What chance would the exercise of inherited tradition have
in the judgment of this girl who dealt instinctively and intimately with
the qualities of the mind and heart, and only with them?

"I--I was not good enough for you," he muttered.

She put her fingers over his lips. And when he kissed them--took them
away and gave him her lips.

"I'll hear no more of _that_, Peter Nichols," she whispered. "You're
good enough for me----"

Altogether, it may be said that the evening was a success at every angle
from which Peter chose to view it. And he made his way back to the Cabin
through the deep forest along the path that Beth had worn, the path to
his heart past all the fictitious barriers that custom had built about
him. The meddlesome world was not. Here was the _novaya jezn_ that his
people had craved and shouted for. He had found it. New
life--happiness--with a mate ... his woman--soon to be his wife--whether
Beth Nichols or the Grand Duchess Elizabeth...? There was no title of
nobility that could make Beth's heart more noble, no pride of lineage
that could give her a higher place than that which she already held in
his heart.

His blood surging, he ran along the log at the crossing and up the path
to the Cabin, where a surprise awaited him. For he found the lamp
lighted, and, seated complacently in Peter's easy chair, stockinged feet
toward the blaze of a fresh log, a bottle at his elbow, was Hawk
Kennedy.




CHAPTER XVII

PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR


Peter entered and stood by the door, startled from his rhapsody by the
appearance of the intruder, who had made himself quite at home,
regardless of the fact that the final words of their last meeting had
given no promise of a friendship which would make his air of easy
familiarity acceptable to Peter, whose first impulse moved him to anger,
fortunately controlled as he quickly remembered how much hung upon the
assumption of an amicable relationship with McGuire's arch enemy. Peter
hadn't replied to Hawk's letter which had indicated that some weeks
might elapse before Black Rock received another of his visitations. The
speculations in Peter's mind as to the change in his visitor's plans and
the possible causes for them may have been marked in his face, for Hawk
grinned at him amiably and rose and offered his hand with an air of
assurance.

"Wondering why I dropped in on you so unexpected-like? Let's say that I
got tired of staring at the lonely grandeur of Pike's Peak, _mon gars_,
or that the lady who gave me the pleasure of her society skipped for
Denver with a younger man, or that the high altitude played
Billy-be-damned with my nerves, and you'll have excuse enough. But the
fact is, Pete, I _was_ a bit nervous at being so long away from the
center of financial operations, and thought I'd better come right on and
talk to you."

"I got your letter," said Peter calmly, "I hadn't answered it yet----"

"I thought it better to come for my answer."

"I've been thinking it over----"

"Good. It will be worth thinkin' over. You'll bless the day Jim Coast
ran athwart your course."

"You seem to be taking a good deal for granted."

"I do. I always do. Until the present opportunity it was about the only
thing I got a chance to take. You wouldn't of done me a good turn that
night, if you hadn't been O.K. Will you have a drink of your own? It's
good stuff--ten years in the wood, I see by the label, and I'm glad to
get it, for whisky is scarcer than hen's teeth between this and the
Rockies."

As Peter nodded he poured out the drinks and settled down in Peter's
chair with the air of one very much at home.

"Well, Pete, what's yer answer to be?" he said at last. "You weren't any
too polite when I left here. But I didn't think you'd turn me down
altogether. And you're straight. I know that. I've been countin' on your
sense of justice. How would _you_ like to be treated the way _I_ was
treated by Mike McGuire?"

"I wouldn't like it."

"You just bet you wouldn't. You wouldn't stand for it, _you_ wouldn't.
I've got justice on my side and I've got the law--if I choose to use
it--but I'd rather win this case as man to man--without its getting into
the newspapers. That wouldn't matter much to a poor man like me, but it
would make a heap of difference to a man who stands where McGuire does."

"That's true."

"Yes. And he knows it. He hasn't got a leg to stand on." Kennedy paused
and looked Peter over coolly. Peter had been studying the situation
critically, playing his game with some care, willing to placate his
visitor and yet taking pains not to be too eager to gain his
confidence. So he carefully lighted his cigarette while he debated his
course of action.

"What makes you think that I'm in a different mood now from when you
left here?"

"Haven't I told you? Because I believe that you know that right's right
and wrong's wrong."

"But I told you that I didn't want to have anything to do with the
case."

"True for you. But you will when I've finished talking to you."

"Will I?"

"You will if you're not a fool, which you ain't. I always said you had
somethin' between your ears besides ivory. You don't like to stay poor
any more than anybody else. You don't have to. A good half of McGuire's
money is mine. If it hadn't been for me helpin' to smell that copper out
he'd of been out there grub-stakin' yet an' that's a fact. But I'm not
goin' to be too hard on him. I'm no hog. I'm goin' to let him down easy.
What's a million more or less to him? It might pinch him a little here
and there sellin' out securities he had a fancy for, but in a year or so
he'd have it all back and more, the way he works. Oh, I know. I've found
out a bit since I've been away. And he'll come across all right, when he
hears what I've got to say to him."

"Why don't you go to him direct?" asked Peter.

"And have him barricadin' the house and shootin' promiscuous at me from
the windows? Not on your life. I know what I'm about. This thing has got
to be done quiet. There's no use stirring up a dirty scandal to hurt his
reputation for honest dealin' in New York. Even as it is, the story has
got around about the mystery of Black Rock. No use makin' talk. That's
why I want you. You stand ace high with the old man. He'll listen to you
and we'll work the game all right and proper."

"But suppose he won't listen to me."

"Then we'll put the screws on."

"What screws?"

Hawk Kennedy closed one eye and squinted the other at Peter quizzically.

"I'll tell you that all in good time. But first I've got to know how you
stand in the matter."

Peter judicially examined the ash of his cigarette. "He ought to do the
right thing," he said slowly.

"He will--never you fear. But can I count on _you_, Pete?"

"What do you want me to do?" asked Peter after a moment.

"Oh, now we're talkin'. But wait a minute. We won't go so fast. Are you
with me sure enough--hope I may die--cross my heart?"

"If you'll make it worth my while," said Peter cautiously.

"A hundred thousand. How's that?"

"It sounds all right. But I can't see what I can do that you couldn't do
yourself."

"Don't you? Well, you don't know all this story. There's some of it you
haven't heard. Maybe it's that will convince you you're makin' no
mistake----"

"Well--I'm listening."

A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face--a narrowing of the eyelids, a
drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a
sharp glance.

"If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood," he said.

Peter only laughed at him.

"I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do
without me--go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I
don't want to know."

The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once.

"Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be
here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the
truth--even if it gives away my hand."

"Suit yourself," said Peter, indifferently.

He watched his old "bunkie" pour out another drink of the whisky, and a
definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get
Kennedy drunk enough.... The whisky bottle was almost empty--so Peter
got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one.

"Good old Pete!" said Hawk. "Seems like July the first didn't make much
difference to you."

"A present from Mr. McGuire," Peter explained.

"Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours." And he
drank copiously. Peter filled his own glass but when the opportunity
offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him.

"I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire--about how we got
that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the
real part--nobody but Mike McGuire and I know that--and he wouldn't tell
if it was the last thing he said on earth."

"Oh," said Peter, "something crooked, eh?"

Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to
an impressive whisper.

"Crooked as Hell, Pete--crooked as Hell. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire
was a murderer--would you?"

"A murderer----!"

Kennedy nodded. "We took that mine--stole it from the poor guy who had
staked out his claim. Mike killed him----"

"You don't mean----?"

"Yes, sir. Killed him--stuck him in the ribs with a knife when he
wasn't lookin'. What do you think of that?"

"McGuire--a murderer----!"

"Sure. Nice sort of a boss you've got! And he could swing for it if I
didn't hold my tongue."

"This is serious----"

"You bet it is--if he don't come across. Now I guess you know why he was
so cut up when I showed up around here. I've got it on him all right."

"Can you prove it?"

Kennedy rubbed his chin for a moment.

"I could but I don't want to. You see--Pete----" He paused again and
blinked pensively at his glass. "Well, you see--in a manner of
speakin'--he's got it on me too."

And Peter listened while his villainous companion related the well known
tale of the terrible compact between the two men in which both of them
had agreed in writing to share the guilt of the crime, carefully
omitting to state the compulsion as used upon McGuire. Hawk Kennedy
lied. If Peter had ever needed any further proof of the honesty of his
employer he read it in the shifting eye and uncertain verbiage of his
guest, whose tongue now wagged loosely while he talked of the two
papers, one of which was in McGuire's possession, the other in his own.
Hawk was no pleasant companion for an evening's entertainment. From the
interesting adventurer of the _Bermudian_, Jim Coast had been slowly
changing under Peter's eyes into a personality more formidable and
sinister. And the drink seemed to be bringing into importance
potentialities for evil at which Peter had only guessed. That he meant
to fight to the last ditch for the money was clear, and if the worst
came would even confess, dragging McGuire down among the ruins of both
their lives. In his drunken condition it would have been ridiculously
easy for Peter to have overpowered him, but he was not sure to what end
that would lead.

"You say there were two papers," said Peter. "Where are they?"

"McGuire's got his--here at Black Rock," muttered Hawk.

"How do you know that?" asked Peter with interest.

"Where would he keep it?" sneered Hawk. "In his business papers for
'zecutors to look over?"

"And where's yours?" asked Peter.

He hoped for some motion of Kennedy's fingers to betray its whereabouts,
but the man only poured out another drink and leered at Peter
unpleasantly.

"That'sh _my_ business," he said with a sneer.

"Oh. Is it? I thought I was to have a hand in this."

Kennedy grinned.

"Y'are. Your job is t' get other paper from McGuire's safe. And then
we'll have fortune in--hic--nutshell."

The man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Peter shrugged.

"I see. I've got to turn burglar to join your little criminal society.
Suppose I refuse?"

"Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh
in glass when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened.
Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh--nice lettersh. One
of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the business,
_pronto_."

"Yes, it might," admitted Peter ruminatively.

"Sure it will--but we'll give him chance. Are y' on?" he asked.

Peter was silent for a moment. And then,

"I don't see why you want that paper of McGuire's," he said. "They're
exactly alike, you say--both incriminating. And if you've got your paper
handy----"

Peter paused but Kennedy was in the act of swallowing another glass of
whisky and he didn't stop to answer the half-formulated query. He gave a
gasp of satisfaction and then shrugged.

"No use, Pete," he said huskily. "I said I had paper and I _have_ paper
handy, but I've got to have McGuire's paper too. I ain't got money and
spotless rep'tation like Mike McGuire but I don't want paper like that
floatin' roun' universh with _my_ name signed to it."

"I don't blame you," said Peter dryly.

Hawk Kennedy was talking thickly now and spilled the whisky in trying to
pour out a new glassful.

"Goo' whisky this--goo' ole whisky, Pete. Goo' ole Peter. Say, you'll
get pater, Peep--I mean Peter pape--Oh H---- Paper. _You_ know."

"I'll have to think about it, Jim."

"Can't think when yer drunk, Pete," he muttered with an expiring grin.
"To-morr'. 'Nother drink an' then we'll go sleep. Don't mind my sleepin'
here, Pete. Nice plache shleep. Goo' old shleep...."

Peter paused in the act of pouring out another drink for him and then at
a sound from Kennedy set the bottle down again. The man suddenly
sprawled sideways in the chair, his head back, snoring heavily. Peter
watched him for a moment, sure that he couldn't be shamming and then
looked around the disordered room. Hawk's overcoat and hat lay on the
bed. On tiptoe Peter got up and examined them carefully, watching the
man in the chair intently the while. Hawk stirred but did not awaken.
Peter searched the overcoat inch by inch. There was nothing in the
pockets, but a tin of tobacco and a Philadelphia newspaper. So Peter
restored the articles and then hung the hat and coat on the nails behind
the door. Hawk Kennedy did not move. He was dead drunk.

The repulsive task of searching the recumbent figure now lay before him.
But the game had been worth the candle. If the fateful confession was
anywhere in Hawk's clothing Peter meant to find it and yet even now he
hesitated. He put the whisky bottle away, cleared up the mess and then
bodily picked his visitor up and carried him to the bed. Hawk muttered
something in his sleep but fell prone and immediately was snoring
stertorously. Then Peter went through his pockets methodically, removing
an automatic pistol from his trousers, and examining all his papers
carefully by the light of the lamp-a hotel bill receipted, some letters
in a woman's hand, a few newspaper clippings bearing on the copper
market, a pocketbook containing bills of large denomination, some soiled
business cards of representatives of commercial houses, a notebook
containing addresses and small accounts, a pass book of a Philadelphia
bank, the address of which Peter noted. And that was all. Exhausting
every resource Peter went over the lining of his coat and vest, inch by
inch, even examined his underwear and his shoes and stockings. From the
skin out, Hawk Kennedy had now no secrets from Peter. The incriminating
confession was not on Hawk Kennedy's clothing.

At last Peter gave up the search and went out into the air, and lighted
his corncob pipe, puzzled at his failure. And yet, was it a failure
after all? Hawk had eluded every attempt to discuss his copy of the
confession. He had it "handy," he had said. A safe deposit box at the
Philadelphia bank of which Peter had made record would be handy, but
somehow Peter thought the chances were much against Kennedy's having put
it there. Men of his type usually carry everything they possess about
their persons. Peter remembered the ragged wallet of the _Bermudian_.
What if after all these years of hardship the paper had been worn so
that it was entirely illegible, or indeed that in Kennedy's many
wanderings it had been lost? Either of these theories was plausible, but
none provoked a decision. So after awhile Peter went indoors and opening
all the windows and doors to cleanse the air, sat in the big chair and
bundling himself in a blanket fell asleep.




CHAPTER XVIII

FACE TO FACE


We are told, alas, that at the highest moment of our expectations the
gods conspire to our undoing, and therefore that it is wise to take our
joys a little sadly, that we may not fall too far. But Beth, being
wholesome of mind and body and an optimist by choice, was not disposed
to question the completeness of her contentment or look for any dangers
which might threaten its continuance. And so when Peter went home
through the forest, she took her kerosene lamp to her room, there to
smile at her joyous countenance in the mirror and to assure herself that
never since the beginning of the world had there been a girl more glad
that she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her since
that evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knew
again as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in all
the world for her.

Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she lay
in bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in a
dark mass against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines,
through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled jovially
with assurance that the night could not be long and that beyond the
night were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And praying
gently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not even
to dream.

Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansing
and polishing, finishing to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter's
impatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's blue
china set was carefully restored to its shelves, the napery folded away,
the shiny pots hung upon their hooks and the kitchen carefully mopped.
Then, with a towel wrapped about her head (for such was the custom of
the country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom and
dust-cloth, singing _arpeggios_ to remind herself that everything was
right with the world.

It was upon the plush-covered sofa where she and Peter had sat the night
before that Beth's orderly eye espied a square of paper just upon the
point of disappearing in the crease between the seat and back of Aunt
Tillie's most cherished article of furniture and of course she pounced
upon it with the intention of destroying it at the cookstove. But when
she drew it forth, she found that it was an envelope, heliotrope in
color, that it bore Peter's name in a feminine handwriting, and that it
had a strange delicate odor with which Beth was unfamiliar. She held it
in her hand and looked at the writing, then turned it over and over, now
holding it more gingerly by the tip ends of her fingers. Then she
sniffed at it again. It was a queer perfume--strange--like violet mixed
with some kind of spice.

She put her broom aside and walked to the window, her brow puckered, and
scrutinized the postmark. "London!" Of course--London was in England
where Peter had once lived. And Peter had drawn the letter from his
pocket last night with some other papers when he had shown her the
communication from "Hawk" Kennedy. It was lucky that she had found it,
for it might have slipped down behind the plush covering, and so have
been definitely lost. Of course Peter had friends in London and of
course they should wish to write to him, but for the first time it
seemed curious to Beth that in all their conversations Peter had never
volunteered any information as to the life that he had lived before he
had come to Black Rock. She remembered now that she had told him that
whatever his past had been and whoever he was, he was good enough for
her. But the heliotrope envelope with the feminine handwriting and the
strange odor immediately suggested queries along lines of investigation
which had never before entered her thoughts. Who was the lady of the
delicate script and the strange perfume? What was her relationship to
Peter? And upon what topic was she writing to him?

Beth slipped the note about a quarter of an inch out of its envelope
until she could just see a line of the writing and then quickly thrust
it in again, put the envelope on the mantel above the "parlor heater"
and resolutely went on with her sweeping. From time to time she stopped
her work and looked at it just to be sure that it was still there and at
last took it up in her fingers again, a prey to a more lively curiosity
than any she had ever known. She put the envelope down again and turning
her back to it went into the kitchen. Of course Peter would tell her who
this lady was if she asked him. And there was no doubt at all that it
_was_ a lady who had written the letter, some one familiar with a
delicate mode of existence and given to refinements which had been
denied to Beth. It was this delicacy and refinement, this flowing
inscription written with such careless ease and grace which challenged
Beth's rusticity. She would have liked to ask Peter about the lady at
once. But Peter would not be at the Cabin at this early hour of the
morning, nor would Beth be able to see him until late this
afternoon--perhaps not until to-night. Meanwhile, the note upon the
mantel was burning its way into her consciousness. It was endued with a
personality feminine, insidious and persuasive. No ladies of London
affecting heliotrope envelopes had any business writing scented notes to
Peter now. He was Beth's particular property....

When she went up to the second floor of the cottage a few minutes later
she took the heliotrope letter with her and put it on her bureau,
propped against the pincushion, while she went on with her work. And
then, all her duties for the morning finished, she sat down in her
rocking chair by the window, the envelope in her idle fingers, a victim
of temptation. She looked out at the pine woods, her gaze afar, her
guilty fingers slipping the letter out of its covering an inch, two
inches. And then Beth opened Peter's heliotrope note and read it. At
least, she read as much of it as she could understand,--the parts that
were written in English--with growing amazement and incertitude. A good
deal of the English part even was Greek to her, but she could understand
enough to know that a mystery of some sort hung about the letter and
about Peter, that he was apparently a person of some importance to the
heliotrope lady who addressed him in affectionate terms and with the
utmost freedom. Beth had learned in the French ballads which Peter had
taught her that _ami_ meant friend and that _bel_ meant beautiful. And
as the whole of the paragraph containing those words was written in
English, Beth had little difficulty in understanding it. What had Peter
to do with the cause of Holy Russia? And what was this danger to him
from hidden enemies, which could make necessary this discretion and
watchfulness in Black Rock? And the last sentence of all danced before
Beth's eyes as though it had been written in letters of fire. "There is
at least one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the
dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo."

What right had the heliotrope lady's heart to beat fondly in memory of
dear dead days with Peter Nichols at Galitzin or Zukovo or anywhere
else? Who was she? Was she young? Was she beautiful? And what right had
Peter given her to address him in terms of such affection? Anastasie!

And now for the first time in her life, though to all outward appearance
calm, Beth felt the pangs of jealousy. This letter, most of it in the
queer-looking script (probably Russian) that she could not even read, in
its strange references in English to things beyond her knowledge, seemed
suddenly to erect a barrier between her and Peter that could never be
passed, or even to indicate a barrier between them that had always
existed without her knowledge. And if all of the parts of the letter
that she could not understand contained sentiments like the English part
that she _could_ understand, it was a very terrible letter indeed and
indicated that this heliotrope woman (she was no longer "lady" now) had
claims upon Peter's heart which came long before Beth's. And if this
Anastasie--other women too....

Beth read the letter again and then slipped it back into its envelope,
while she gazed out of the window at the pines, a frown at her brows and
two tiny lines curving downward at the corners of her lips. She was very
unhappy. But she was angry too--angry at the heliotrope woman, angry at
Peter and angrier still at herself. In that moment she forgot that she
had taken Peter Nichols without reference to what he was or had been.
She had told him that only the future mattered and now she knew that the
past was beginning to matter very much indeed.

After a while she got up, and took the heliotrope letter to the bureau
where she wrote upon the envelope rather viciously with a soft lead
pencil, "You left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie."
Then she slipped the letter into her waist and with an air of decision
went down the stairs (the ominous parentheses still around her mouth),
and made her way with rapid footsteps toward the path through the forest
which led toward Peter's cabin.

Beth was primitive, highly honorable by instinct if not by precept, but
a creature of impulse, very much in love, who read by intuition the
intrusion of what seemed a very real danger to her happiness. If her
conscience warned her that she was transgressing the rules of polite
procedure, something stronger than a sense of propriety urged her on to
read, something stronger than mere curiosity--the impulse of
self-preservation, the impulse to preserve that which was stronger even
than self--the love of Peter Nichols.

The scrawl that she had written upon the envelope was eloquent of her
point of view, at once a taunt, a renunciation and a confession. "You
left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie!"

It was the intention of carrying the letter to Peter's cabin and there
leaving it in a conspicuous position that now led her rapidly down the
path through the woods. Gone were the tender memories of the night
before. If this woman had had claims upon Peter Nichols's heart at the
two places with the Russian names, she had the same claims upon them
now. Beth's love and her pride waged a battle within her as she
approached the Cabin. She remembered that Peter had told her last night
that he would have a long day at the lumber camp, but as she crossed the
log-jam she found herself hoping that by some chance she would find
Peter still at home, where, with a fine dignity (which she mentally
rehearsed) she would demand explanation, and listening, grant
forgiveness. Or else ... she didn't like to think of the alternative.

But instead of Peter, at the Cabin door in the early morning sunlight
she found a strange man, sitting in a chair in the portico, smoking one
of Peter's cigarettes, and apparently much at home. The appearance of
the stranger was for a moment disconcerting, but Beth approached the
familiar doorway, her head high, the heliotrope letter burning her
fingers. She had intended to walk in at the door of the Cabin, place the
letter in a conspicuous position where Peter could not fail to see it,
and then return to her home and haughtily await Peter's arrival. But the
presence of this man, a stranger in Black Rock, making free of Peter's
habitation, evidently with Peter's knowledge and consent, made her pause
in a moment of uncertainty.

At her approach the man in the chair had risen and she saw that he was
tall--almost as tall as Peter, that he had a hooked nose and displayed a
set of irregular teeth when he smiled--which he did, not unpleasantly.
There was something about him which repelled her yet fascinated at the
same time.

"Mr. Nichols has gone out?" Beth asked, for something to say.

"Yes, Miss," said the stranger, blinking at her with his bleary eyes.
"Mr. Nichols is down at the lumber camp--won't be back until night, I
reckon. Anythin' I can do for ye?"

"No, I----?" Beth hesitated. "I just wanted to see him--to leave
somethin' for him."

"I guess he'll be right sorry to miss you. Who shall I say called?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Beth, turning away. But she was now aware
of a strange curiosity as to this person who sat with such an air of
well-being in Peter's chair and spoke with such an air of
proprietorship. The insistence of her own personal affair with Peter had
driven from her mind all thoughts of the other matters suggested in the
letter, of the possible dangers to Peter even here in Black Rock and
the mysterious references to Holy Russia. This man who stood in Peter's
portico, whoever he was, was not a Russian, she could see that at a
glance and read it in his accents, but she was equally certain from his
general character that he could be no friend of Peter's and that his
business here was not of Peter's choosing.

"If ye'd like to wait a while----"

He offered her the chair, but Beth did not accept it.

"Ye don't happen to be Miss Peggy McGuire, do ye?" asked the stranger
curiously.

"No," replied the girl. "My name is Beth Cameron."

"Beth----?"

"Cameron," she finished firmly.

"Oh----"

The stranger seemed to be examining her with a glowing interest, but his
look was clouded.

Beth had decided that until Peter came explaining she had no further
possible interest either in him or his affairs, but in spite of this she
found her lips suddenly asking,

"Are you a friend of Mr. Nichols's?"

The man in the portico grinned somberly.

"Yes. I guess I am--an old friend--before he came to America."

"Oh!" said Beth quietly. "You've known him a long time then?"

"Ye might say so. We were buddies together."

"Then you knew him in--in London?"

The man grinned. "Can't say I did. Not in London. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just wanted to know."

The gaze of the stranger upon her was disquieting. His eyes seemed to be
smoldering like embers just ready to blaze. She knew that she ought to
be returning and yet she didn't want to go leaving her object
unaccomplished, the dignity of her plan having already been greatly
disturbed. And so she hesitated, curiosity at war with discretion.

"Would you mind telling me your name?" she asked timidly.

The man shrugged a shoulder and glanced away from her. "I reckon my name
wouldn't mean much to you."

"Oh--I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked?"

The stranger put his hands into his coat pockets and stared down at Beth
with a strange intrusive kind of smile.

"You and Pete seem kind of thick, don't ye?" he muttered.

"Pete!"

"Pete Nichols. That's his name, ain't it? Kind of thick, I'd say. I
can't blame him though----"

"You're mistaken," said Beth with dignity, "there's nothin' between
Peter Nichols and me." And turning heel, Beth took a step away.

"There! Put my foot in it, didn't I? I'm sorry. Don't go yet. I want to
ask ye something."

Beth paused and found that the stranger had come out from the portico
and still stood beside her. And as her look inquired fearlessly,

"It's about your name, Miss," he muttered, and then with an effort spoke
the word savagely, as though it had been wrenched from him by an effort
of will, "Cameron----? Your name's Cameron?"

"Yes," said Beth, in some inquietude.

"Common name in some parts--Cameron--not so common in others--not in
Jersey anyway----"

"I didn't know----"

"Is yer father livin'?" he snapped.

"No--dead. Many years ago. Out West."

"Tsch!" he breathed, the air whistling between his teeth, "Out West, ye
say--out West?"

He stood in front of Beth now, his arms akimbo, his head bent forward
under the stress of some excitement. Beth drew away from him, but he
came forward after her, his gaze still seeking hers.

"Yes--out West," said Beth haltingly.

"Where?" he gasped.

"I don't know----"

"Was his name--was his name--Ben Cameron?" He shot the question at her
with a strange fury, catching meanwhile at her arm.

"Let me go----," she commanded. "You're hurtin' me."

"Was it----?"

"Yes. Let me go."

The stranger's grip on her arm suddenly relaxed and while she watched
his face in curiosity the glow in his eyes suddenly flickered out, his
gaze shifting from side to side as he seemed to shrink away from her.
From timidity at his roughness she found new courage in her curiosity at
his strange behavior. What had this stranger to do with Ben Cameron?

"What did you want to know for?" she asked him.

But his bent brows were frowning at the path at his feet. He tried to
laugh--and the sound of the dry cackle had little mirth in it.

"No matter. I--I thought it might be. I guess ye'd better go--I guess
ye'd better." And with that he sank heavily in Peter's chair again.

But Beth still stood and stared at him, aware of the sudden change in
his attitude toward her. What did it all mean? What were Peter's
relations with this creature who behaved so strangely at the mention of
her name? Why did he speak of Ben Cameron? Who was he? Who----?

The feeling of which she had at first been conscious, at the man's evil
leering smile which repelled her suddenly culminated in a pang of
intuition. This man ... It must be ... Hawk Kennedy--the man who ... She
stared at him with a new horror in the growing pallor of her face and
Hawk Kennedy saw the look. It was as though some devilish psychological
contrivance had suddenly hooked their two consciousnesses to the same
thought. Both saw the same picture--the sand, the rocks, the blazing sun
and a dead man lying with a knife in his back.... And Beth continued
staring as though in a kind of horrible fascination. And when her lips
moved she spoke as though impelled by a force beyond her own volition.

"You--you're Hawk Kennedy," she said tensely, "the man who killed my
father."

"It's a lie," he gasped, springing to his feet. "Who told you that?"

"I--I guessed it----"

"Who told ye about Hawk Kennedy? Who told ye about him?"

"No one----"

"Ye didn't dream it. Ye can't dream a name," he said tensely. "Pete told
ye--he lied to ye."

"He didn't."

But he had caught her by the wrist again and dragged her into the Cabin.
She was thoroughly frightened now--too frightened even to cry out--too
terrified at the sudden revelation of this man who for some days had
been a kind of evil spirit in the background of her happiness. He was
not like what she had thought he was, but he embodied an idea that was
sinister and terrible. And while she wondered what he was going to do
next, he pushed her into the armchair, locked the door and put the key
into his pocket.

"Now we can talk," he muttered grimly. "No chance of bein'
disturbed--Pete ain't due for hours yet. So he's been tellin' _you_ lies
about me. Has he? Sayin' _I_ done it. By G--, I'm beginnin' to see...."

He leered at her horribly, and Beth seemed frozen into her chair. The
courage that had been hers a moment ago when he had shrunk away from her
had fled before the fury of his questions and the violence of his touch.
She was intimidated for the first time in her life and yet she tried to
meet his eyes, which burned wildly, shifting from side to side like
those of a caged beast. In her terror she could not tell what dauntless
instinct had urged her unless it was Ben Cameron's soul in agony that
had cried out through her lips. And now she had not only betrayed
Peter--but herself....

"I'm beginnin' to see. You and Pete--playin' both ends against the
middle, with McGuire comin' down somethin' very handsome for a weddin'
present and leavin' me out in the cold. Very pretty! But it ain't goin'
to work out just that way--not that way at all."

All of this he muttered in a wildly casual kind of a way, at no one in
particular, as his gaze flitted from one object in the room to another,
always passing over Beth almost impersonally. But in a moment she saw
his gaze concentrate upon her with sudden eagerness.

"He told ye I done it, did he? Well, I didn't," he cried in a strident
voice. "I didn't do it. It was McGuire and I'll prove it, all right.
McGuire. Pete can't fix _that_ on me--even if he wanted to. But he told
_you_ or ye wouldn't of spoke like ye did. I guess maybe ye wouldn't of
said so much if Pete had been here. But ye let the cat slip out of the
bag all right. You and Pete--and maybe McGuire's with ye too--all
against me. Is that so?... Can't yer speak, girl? Must ye sit there
just starin' at me with yer big eyes? What are ye lookin' at? Are ye
dumb?"

"No, I'm not dumb," gasped Beth, struggling for her courage, aware all
the while of the physical threat in the man's very presence.

"Speak then. Tell me the truth. Pete said it was your money McGuire
took--your money McGuire's got to make good to ye? Ain't that the
truth?"

"I won't answer."

"Oh, yes, ye will. You'll answer all right. I'm not goin' to trifle.
What did ye come here to see Pete about? What's that letter ye came to
give him? Give it to me!"

Beth clutched the heliotrope note to her bosom but Hawk Kennedy caught
at her hands and tried to tear it away from her. It needed only this new
act of physical violence to give Beth the courage of despair. She sprang
to her feet eluding him but he caught her before she reached the window.
She struck at him with her fists but he tore the letter away from her
and hurled her toward the bed over which she fell breathless. There was
no use trying to fight this man.... There was a cruelty in his touch
which spoke of nameless things.... And so she lay motionless, nursing
her injured wrists, trying desperately to think what she must do.

Meanwhile, watching her keenly from the tail of his eye, Hawk Kennedy
was reading the heliotrope letter, spelling out the English word by
word. Fascinated, Beth saw the frown of curiosity deepen to interest and
then to puzzled absorption.

"Interestin'--very," she heard him mutter at last, as he glanced toward
the bed. "Holy Russia. H----! What's this mean, girl? Who _is_ Peter
Nichols? Answer me."

"I--I don't know," she said.

"Yes, ye do. Where did ye get this letter?"

"He left it at--at my house last night."

"Oh! _Your_ house! Where?"

"In the village."

"I see. An' this scrawl on the envelope--you wrote it----"

Beth couldn't reply. He was dragging her through the very depths of
humiliation.

At her silence his lips curved in ugly amusement.

"Anastasie!" he muttered. "Some queen that--with her purple paper an'
all. And ye don't know who she is? Or who Pete is? Answer me!"

"I--I don't know," she whispered. "I--I don't, really."

"H-m! Well, he ain't what he's seemed to be, that's sure. He ain't what
he's seemed to be to you and he ain't what he's seemed to be to me. But
whoever he is he can't put anything over on _me_. We'll see about this."

Beth straightened and sat up, watching him pace the floor in deep
thought. There might be a chance that she could escape by the window.
But when she started up he ordered her back roughly and she soon saw
that this was impossible.

At last he stopped walking up and down and stared at her, his eyes
narrowed to mere slits, his brows drawn ominously together. It seemed
that he had reached a decision.

"You behave yourself an' do what I tell ye an' ye won't be hurt," he
growled.

"Wh-what are you goin' to do?" she gasped.

"Nothin' much. Ye're just goin' with me--that's all."

"W-where?"

"That's my business. Oh, ye needn't be scared of any love makin'. I'm
not on that lay this trip."

He went to the drawer of Peter's bureau and took out some
handkerchiefs.

"But ye'd better be scared if ye don't do what I tell ye. Here. Stand
up!"

Beth shrank away from, him, but he caught her by the wrists and held
her.

"Ye're not to make a noise, d'ye hear? I can't take the chance."

And while she still struggled desperately, he fastened her wrists
together behind her. Then he thrust one of Peter's handkerchiefs in her
mouth and securely gagged her. He wasn't any too gentle with her but
even in her terror she found herself thanking God that it was only
abduction that he planned.

Hawk Kennedy went to the window and peered out up the path, then he
opened the door and looked around. After a moment he came in quickly.

"Come," he muttered, "it's time we were off."

He caught her by the arm and helped her to her feet, pushing her out of
the door and into the underbrush at the corner of the cabin. Her feet
lagged, her knees were weak, but the grasp on her shoulder warned her of
cruelties she had not dreamed of and so she stumbled on--on into the
depths of the forest, Hawk Kennedy's hard hand urging her on to greater
speed.




CHAPTER XIX

YAKIMOV REVEALS HIMSELF


It was with some misgivings that Peter left his cabin, leaving Hawk
Kennedy there to sleep off the effects of his potations, but the
situation at the lumber camp was so hazardous that his presence was
urgently required. Hawk had awakened early, very early, and very
thirsty, but Peter had told him that there was no more whisky and
threatened to throw over the whole affair if he didn't sober up and
behave himself. And so, having exacted a promise from Hawk Kennedy to
leave the Cabin when he had had his sleep out, Peter had gotten the
"flivver" from McGuire's garage (as was his custom) and driven rapidly
down toward the camp.

He had almost reached the conclusion that the copy of the partnership
agreement which Hawk had held as a threat over McGuire had ceased to
exist--that it had been lost, effaced or destroyed. But he wanted to be
more certain of this before he came out into the open, showed his hand
and McGuire's and defied the blackmailer to do his worst. He felt pretty
sure now from his own knowledge of the man that, desperate though he was
in his intention to gain a fortune by this expedient, he was absolutely
powerless to do evil without the signature of McGuire. The question as
to whether or not he would make a disagreeable publicity of the whole
affair was important to McGuire and had to be avoided if possible, for
Peter had given his promise to bring the affair to a quiet conclusion.

Until he could have a further talk with McGuire, he meant to lead Hawk
Kennedy on to further confidences and with this end in view and with the
further purpose of getting him away from the Cabin, had promised to meet
him late that afternoon at a fork of the road to the lumber camp, the
other prong of which led to a settlement of several shanties where Hawk
had managed to get a lodging on the previous night and on several other
occasions. In his talk with the ex-waiter he learned that on his
previous visits the man had made a careful survey of the property and
knew his way about almost as well as Peter did. It appeared that he also
knew something of Peter's problems at the lumber camp and the
difficulties the superintendent had already encountered in getting his
sawed lumber to the railroad and in completing his fire-towers. Indeed,
these difficulties seemed only to have begun again, and it was with
great regret that Peter was obliged to forego the opportunity of seeing
Beth that day, perhaps even that evening. But he had told her nothing of
his troubles the night before, not wishing to cloud a day so fair for
them both.

The facts were these: Flynn and Jacobi, the men he had dismissed, had
appeared again at the camp in his absence, bent on fomenting trouble,
and Shad Wells, already inflamed against the superintendent, had fallen
an easy prey to their machinations. Accidents were always happening at
the sawmills, accidents to machinery and implements culminating at last
in the blowing out of a tube of one of the boilers. It was this
misfortune that had held the work up for several days until a spare
boiler could be installed. Peter tried to find out how these accidents
had happened, but each line of investigation led up a blind alley. Jesse
Brown, his foreman, seemed to be loyal, but he was easy-going and weak.
With many of his own friends among the workers both at the camp and
mills he tried to hold his job by carrying water on both shoulders and
the consequences were inevitable. He moved along the line of least
resistance and the trouble grew. Peter saw his weakness and would have
picked another man to supersede him, but there was no other available.
The truth was that though the men's wages were high for the kind of work
that they were doing, the discontent that they had brought with them was
in the air. The evening papers brought word of trouble in every
direction, the threatened railroad and steel strikes and the prospect of
a coalless winter when the miners went out as they threatened to do on
the first of November.

At first Peter had thought that individually many of the men liked him.
He had done what he could for their comfort and paid them the highest
price justifiable, but gradually he found that his influence was being
undermined and that the good-natured lagging which Peter had at first
tried to tolerate had turned to loafing on the job, and finally to overt
acts of rebellion. More men had been sent away and others with even less
conscience had taken their places. Some of them had enunciated
Bolshevist doctrines as wild as any of Flynn's or Jacobi's. Jonathan K.
McGuire stood as a type which represented the hierarchy of wealth and
was therefore their hereditary enemy. Peter in a quiet talk at the
bunk-house one night had told them that once Jonathan K. McGuire had
been as poor, if not poorer, than any one of them. But even as he spoke
he had felt that his words had made no impression. It was what McGuire
was _now_ that mattered, they told him. All this land, all this lumber,
was the people's, and they'd get it too in time. With great earnestness,
born of a personal experience of which they could not dream, Peter
pointed out to them what had happened and was now happening in Russia
and painted a harrowing picture of helplessness and starvation, but they
smoked their pipes in silence and answered him not at all. They were
not to be reasoned with. If the Soviet came to America they were willing
to try it. They would try anything once.

But Shad Wells was "canny" and Peter had never succeeded in tracing any
of the accidents or any of the dissensions directly to his door. Without
evidence against him Peter did not think it wise to send him out of
camp, for many of the men were friendly to Shad and his dismissal was
sure to mean an upheaval of sorts. Peter knew that Shad hated him for
what had happened at the Cabin but that in his heart he feared to come
out into the open where a repetition of his undoing in public might
destroy his influence forever. So to Peter's face he was sullenly
obedient, taking care to give the appearance of carrying out his orders,
while as soon as Peter's back was turned he laughed, loafed and
encouraged others to do the same.

And for the last week Peter had not liked the looks of things. At the
lumber camp the work was almost at a standstill, and the sawmills were
silent. Jesse Brown had told him that Flynn and Jacobi had been at the
bunk-house and that the men had voted him down when the foreman had
tried to send them away. It was clear that some radical step would have
to be taken at once to restore discipline or Peter's authority and
usefulness as superintendent would be only a matter of hours.

It was of all of these things that Peter thought as he bumped his way in
the "flivver" over the corduroy road through the swampy land which led
to the lower reserve, and as he neared the scene of these material
difficulties all thought of Hawk Kennedy passed from his mind. There was
the other danger too that had been one of the many subjects of the
letter of Anastasie Galitzin, for Peter had no doubt now that the
foreigner with the dark mustache who had followed him down from New
York and who some weeks ago had been sent out of the camp was no other
than the agent of the Soviets, who had forwarded to London the
information as to his whereabouts. Peter had not seen this man since the
day of his dismissal, but he suspected that he was in the plot with
Flynn, Jacobi and perhaps Shad Wells to make mischief in the lumber
camp.

The opportunity that Peter sought to bring matters to a focus was not
long in coming, for when he reached the sawmills, which had resumed
desultory operations, he found Flynn and Jacobi, the "Reds," calmly
seated in the office, smoking and talking with Shad Wells. Peter had
left his "flivver" up the road and his sudden entrance was a surprise.
The men got up sullenly and would have slouched out of the door but
Peter closed it, put his back to it, and faced them. He was cold with
anger and held himself in with difficulty, but he had taken their
measure and meant to bring on a crisis, which would settle their status
and his own, once and for all time.

"What are you doing here?" he began shortly, eying Flynn.

The Irishman stuck his hands into his pockets and shrugged impudently.

"That's my business," he muttered.

"H-m. You two men were discharged because you were incompetent, because
you were getting money you didn't earn and because you were trying to
persuade others to be as worthless and useless as yourselves. You were
ordered off the property----"

"Ye can't keep us off----"

"I'll come to that in a moment. What I want to say to you now is this,"
said Peter, planting his barbs with the coolness of a matador baiting
his bull. "Some men go wrong because they've been badly advised, some
because they can't think straight, others because they'd rather go
wrong than right. Some of you 'Reds' believe in what you preach, that
the world can be made over and all the money and the land divided up in
a new deal. You two don't. You don't believe in anything except getting
a living without working for it--and trying to make honest men do the
same. You, Jacobi, are only a fool--a cowardly fool at that--who hides
behind the coat-tails of a man stronger than you----"

"Look-a here, Mister----"

"Yes, Flynn's your master, but he isn't mine. And he isn't the master of
any man on this job while I'm superintendent----"

"We'll see about that," said Flynn with a chuckle.

"Yes, we will. Very soon. _Now_, as a matter of fact----"

"How?"

"By proving which is the better man--you or me----"

"Oh, it's a fight ye mean?"

"Exactly."

The Irishman leered at him cunningly.

"I'm too old a bird to be caught wit' that stuff--puttin' you wit' the
right on yer side. We're afther sheddin' no blood here, Misther Nichols.
We're on this job for peace an' justice fer all."

"Then you're afraid to fight?"

"No. But I'm not a-goin' to----"

"Not if I tell you you're a sneak, a liar and a coward----"

Flynn's jaw worked and his glance passed from Jacobi to Wells.

"I'll make ye eat them names backwards one day, Misther Nichols--but not
now--I'm here for a bigger cause. Stand away from the door."

"In a moment. But first let me tell you this, and Shad Wells too.
You're going out of this door and out of this camp,--all three of you.
And if any one of you shows himself inside the limits of this property
he'll have to take the consequences."

"Meanin' what?" asked Wells.

"Meaning _me_," said Peter, "and after me, the law. Now go."

He stood aside and swung the door open with one hand, but he didn't take
his eyes from them.

They laughed in his face, but they obeyed him, filing out into the open,
and strolled away.

Peter had hoped to coax a fight out of Flynn, thinking that the Irish
blood in him couldn't resist his taunts and challenge. But Flynn had
been too clever for him. A defeat for Flynn meant loss of prestige, a
victory possible prosecution. Either way he had nothing to gain. Perhaps
he was just a coward like Jacobi or a beaten bully like Shad. Whatever
he was Flynn seemed very sure of himself and Peter, though apparently
master of the situation for the present, was conscious of a sense of
defeat. He knew as Flynn did that no matter what forces he called to his
aid, it was practically impossible to keep trespassers off a property of
this size, and that, after all, the success of his logging operations
remained with the men themselves.

But he breathed more freely now that he had made his decision with
regard to Shad Wells. He spent a large part of the morning going over
the mills, getting the men together and giving them a little talk, then
went up to the camp in search of Jesse Brown. The news of his encounter
with Shad and the "Reds" had preceded him and he saw that trouble was
brewing. Jesse Brown wagged his head in a deprecating way and tried to
side-step the entire situation. But Peter had reached a point where he
was tired of equivocation.

"I say, Jesse," he said at last, "you've let things get into a pretty
bad mess down here."

"I'm a peaceable man, Mr. Nichols," said Jesse. "I've tried to steer
this camp along easy-like, 'til this bit of woods is cleared up and here
you go stirrin' up a hornet's nest about our ears."

Peter frowned. "You know as well as I do that the men are doing just as
they please. At the rate they're going they wouldn't have this section
finished by Christmas. I'm paying them for work they don't do and you
know it. I put you in here to see that McGuire gets what he's paying
for. You haven't done it."

"I've done the best I could," muttered Jesse.

"That isn't the best I want. You knew Flynn and Jacobi were back in camp
yesterday. Why didn't you tell me so?"

"I can't do nothin'. They've got friends here."

"And haven't you got friends here too? I sent those men out of camp. If
they're here again I'll find the power to arrest them."

"I'd advise you not to try that."

"Why?"

"They're stronger than you think."

"I'll take my chances on that. But I want to know where you stand. Are
you with me or against me?"

"Well," said Jesse, rubbing his head dubiously, "I'll do what I can."

"All right. We'll make a fresh start. Round up all hands. I'm going to
talk to them at dinner time."

Jesse glanced at him, shrugged and went out and Peter went into the
office where he spent the intervening time going over the books. It was
there that one of the clerks, a man named Brierly, brought forth from
the drawer of his desk a small pamphlet which he had picked up yesterday
in the bunk-house. Peter opened and read it. It was a copy of the new
manifest of the Union of Russian Workers and though written in English,
gave every mark of origin in the Lenin-Trotzky regime and was cleverly
written in catch phrases meant to trap the ignorant. It proposed to
destroy the churches and erect in their stead places of amusement for
the working people. He read at random. "Beyond the blood-covered
barricades, beyond all terrors of civil war, there already shines for us
the magnificent, beautiful form of man, without a God, without a master,
and full of authority." Fine doctrine this! The pamphlet derided the law
and the state, and urged the complete destruction of private ownership.
It predicted the coming of the revolution in a few weeks, naming the
day, of a general strike of all industries which would paralyze all the
functions of commerce. It was Bolshevik in ideal, Bolshevik in
inspiration and it opened Peter's eyes as to the venality of the
gentleman with the black mustache. Brierly also told him that whisky had
been smuggled into the camp the night before and that a fire in the
woods had luckily been put out before it had become menacing. Brierly
was a discharged soldier who had learned something of the value of
obedience and made no effort to conceal his anxiety and his sympathies.
He voiced the opinion that either Flynn or Jacobi had brought in the
liquor. Peter frowned. Jesse Brown had said nothing of this. The
inference was obvious.

At the dinner-shed, Peter was to be made aware immediately of the
difficulty of the task that confronted him, for dour looks met him on
all sides. There were a few men who sat near him whom he thought he
might count on at a venture, but they were very few and their positions
difficult. Some of the men still showed the effects of their drink and
hurled epithets about the room, obviously meant for Peter's ear, but he
sat through the meal patiently and then got to his feet and demanded
their attention.

As he began he was interrupted by hoots and cat-calls but he waited
calmly for silence and seeing that they couldn't ruffle him by
buffoonery they desisted after a moment.

"Men, I'm not going to take much of your time," he said. "A short while
ago I came down here and talked to you. Some of you seemed to be
friendly toward me and those are the men I want to talk to now. The
others don't matter."

"Oh, don't they?" came a gruff voice from a crowd near the door. And
another, "We'll see about that."

Peter tried to find the speakers with his gaze for a moment and then
went on imperturbably. "I'm going to talk to you in plain English,
because some things have happened in this camp that are going to make
trouble for everybody, trouble for me, trouble for McGuire, but more
trouble for you."

"That's what we're lookin' for--trouble----," cried the same voice, and
Peter now identified it as Flynn's, for the agitator had come back and
stolen in unawares.

"Ah, it's you, Flynn," said Peter easily. "You've come back." And then
to the crowd, "I don't think Flynn is likely to be disappointed if he's
looking for trouble," he said dryly. "Trouble is one of the few things
in this world a man can find if he looks for it."

"Aye, mon, an' without lookin' for it," laughed a broad-chested Scot at
Peter's table.

"That's right. I met Flynn a while ago over in the office. I made him an
offer. I said I'd fight him fair just man to man, for our opinions. He
refused. I also told him he was a coward, a sneak and a liar. But he
wouldn't fight--because he's what I said he was."

"I'll show ye, Misther----," shouted Flynn, "but I ain't ready yet."

"You'll be ready when this meeting is over. And one of us is going out
of this camp feet first."

"We'll see about that."

"One of us will. And I think I'll do the seeing."

A laugh went up around Peter, drowned immediately by a chorus of jeers
from the rear of the room.

But Peter managed to be heard again.

"Well, _I_ didn't come on this job looking for trouble," he went on
coolly. "I wanted to help you chaps in any way I could." ("The Hell you
did.") "Yes, I did what I could for your comfort. I raised your wages
and I didn't ask more than an honest day's work from any one of you.
Some of you have stuck to your jobs like men, in spite of the talk
you've heard all about you, and I thank you. You others," he cried,
toward the rear of the room, "I've tried to meet in a friendly spirit
where I could, but some of you don't want friendship----" ("Not with
you, we don't.") "Nor with any one else----" Peter shouted back
defiantly. "You don't know what friendship means, or you wouldn't try to
make discontent and trouble for everybody, when you're all getting a
good wage and good living conditions." ("That ain't enough!")

Peter calmly disregarded the interruptions and went on. "Perhaps you
fellows think I don't know what socialism means. I do. To the true
socialist, socialism is nothing else but Christianity. It's just
friendship, that's all. He believes in helping the needy and the weak.
He believes in defending his own life and happiness and the happiness of
others." ("That's true--that's right.") "And he believes that the world
can be led and guided by a great brotherhood of humanity seeking just
laws and equality for all men." (Conflicting cries of "That's not
enough!" and "Let him speak!") "But I know what anarchy means too,
because less than six months ago I was in Russia and I saw the hellish
thing at work. I saw men turn and kill their neighbors because the
neighbors had more than they had; I saw a whole people starving, women
with children at the breast, men raging, ready to fly at one another's
throats from hunger, from anger, from fear of what was coming next. That
is what anarchy means."

"What you say is a lie," came a clear voice in English, with a slight
accent. A man had risen at the rear of the room and stood facing Peter.
He was not very tall and he was not in working clothes, but Peter
recognized him at once as the man with the dark mustache, the mysterious
stranger who had followed him to Black Rock. Peter set his jaw and
shrugged. He was aware now of all the forces with which he had to deal.

"What does anarchy mean, then?" he asked coolly.

"You know what it means," said the man, pointing an accusing finger at
Peter. "It means only the end of all autocracy whether of money or of
power, the destruction of class distinction and making the working
classes the masters of all general wealth which they alone produce and
to which they alone are entitled."

A roar of approval went up from the rear of the room and cries of, "Go
it, Bolsche," and "Give him Hell, Yakimov."

Peter waited until some order was restored, but he knew now that this
type of man was more to be feared than Flynn or any other professional
agitator of the I. W. W. When they had first come face to face, this
Russian had feigned ignorance of English, but now his clearly enunciated
phrases, though unpolished, indicated a perfect command of the language,
and of his subject. That he should choose this time to come out into the
open showed that he was more sure of himself and of his audience than
Peter liked. And Peter had no humor to match phrases with him. Whatever
his own beliefs since he had come to America, one fact stood clear: That
he was employed to get this work done and that Yakimov, Flynn and others
were trying to prevent it. It was to be no contest of philosophies but
of personalities and Peter met the issue without hesitation.

"You are a communist then and not a socialist," said Peter, "one who
believes in everybody sharing alike whether he works for it or not--or
an anarchist who believes in the destruction of everything. You're an
agent of the Union of Russian Workers, aren't you?"

"And what if I am----?"

"Oh, nothing, except that you have no place in a nation like the United
States, which was founded and dedicated to an ideal, higher than any you
can ever know----"

"An ideal--with money as its God----"

"And what's your God, Yakimov?"

"Liberty----"

"License! You want to inflame--pillage--destroy--And what then?"

"You shall see----"

"What I saw in Russia--no wages for any one, no harvests, factories
idle, blood--starvation--if that's what you like, why did you leave
there, Yakimov?"

The man stood tense for a second and then spoke with a clearness heard
in every corner of the room.

"I came for another reason than yours. I came to spread the gospel of
labor triumphant. _You_ came because----" Here the Russian leaned
forward, shaking his fist, his eyes suddenly inflamed and hissing his
words in a fury. "_You_ came because you believed in serfs and human
slavery--because your own land spewed you out from a sick stomach,
because you were one of the rotting sores in its inside--that had made
Russia the dying nation that she was; because it was time that your
country and my country cleansed herself from such as you. That's why
you came. And we'll let these men judge which of us they want to lead
them here."

The nature of the attack was so unexpected that Peter was taken for a
moment off his guard. A dead silence had fallen upon the room as the
auditors realized that a game was being played here that was not on the
cards. Peter felt the myriads of eyes staring at him, and beyond them
had a vision of a prostrate figure in the corner of a courtyard, the
blood reddening his blouse under the falling knout. They were all
Michael Kuprins, these foreigners who stared at him, all the grievances
born of centuries of oppression. And as Peter did not speak at once,
Yakimov pursued his advantage.

"I did not come here to tell who this man is," he shouted, "this man who
tells you what liberty is. But you ought to know. It's your right. You
know why Russia rose and threw off the yoke of bondage of centuries. It
was because this man before you who calls himself Peter Nichols and
others like him bound the people to work for him by terrible laws, taxed
them, starved them, beat them, killed them, that he and others like him
might buy jewels for their mistresses and live in luxury and ease, on
the sweat of the labor of the people. And he asks me why I came to
America! It was for a moment such as this that I was sent here to find
him out that I might meet him face to face and confront him with his
crimes--and those of his father--against humanity."

Yakimov paused suddenly in his furious tirade for lack of breath and in
the deathly silence of the room, there was a sudden stir as a rich
brogue queried anxiously of nobody in particular:

"Who in Hell _is_ he, then?"

"I'll tell you who he is," the Russian went on, getting his breath.
"He's one of the last of a race of tyrants and oppressors, the worst
the world has ever known--in Russia the downtrodden. He fled to America
to hide until the storm had blown over, hoping to return and take his
place again at the head of a new government of the Democrats and the
Bourgeoisie--the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch!"

The uproar that filled the room for a moment made speech impossible. But
every eye was turned on Peter now, some in incredulity, some in
malevolence, and some in awe. He saw that it was now useless to deny his
identity even if he had wished to do so, and so he stood squarely on his
feet, staring at Yakimov, who still leaned forward menacingly, shrieking
above the tumult, finally making himself heard.

"And this is the man who dares to talk to you about a brotherhood of
humanity, just laws and equality among men! This tyrant and son of
tyrants, this representative of a political system that you and men like
you have overthrown for all time. Is this the man you'll take your
orders from? Or from the Union of Russian Workers which hates and kills
all oppressors who stand in the way of the rights and liberties of the
workers of the world!"

A roar of negation went up from the rear of the room, and an ominous
murmur spread from man to man. Only those grouped around Peter, some
Americans, the Scot, Brierly, the ex-soldier, Jesse Brown, and one or
two of the Italians remained silent, but whether in awe of Peter or of
his position could not be determined. But Peter still stood, his hands
in his pockets, firm of jaw and unruffled. It has been said that Peter
had a commanding air when he chose and when he slowly raised a hand for
silence the uncouth "Reds" at the rear of the room obeyed him, the
menacing growl sinking to a mere murmur. But he waited until perfect
silence was restored. And then quietly,

"What this man has said is true," he announced calmly. "I _am_ Peter
Nicholaevitch. I came to America as you have come--to make my way. What
does it matter who my fathers were? I am not responsible for what my
fathers did before me. I am only responsible for what I am--myself. If
this man in whom you put your trust would speak the truth, he would tell
you that I tried to bring peace and brotherhood into the part of Russia
where I lived----"

"He lies----"

"I speak the truth. There people knew that I was their friend. They came
to me for advice. I helped them----"

"Then why did they burn down your castle?" broke in Yakimov
triumphantly.

"Because people such as you from the Soviet came among honest and
peaceful men, trying to make them as mad as you--I came from Russia to
find new life, work, peace and happiness. I came to build. You came to
destroy. And I intend to build and you shall not destroy. If the madness
of Russia comes to Black Rock it will be because mad dogs come foaming
at the mouth and making others mad----"

A savage cry went up and a glass came hurtling at Peter's head, but it
missed him and crashed against the wall behind him. That crash of glass
liberated the pent-up forces in the hearts of these men, for in a moment
the place was in a furious uproar, the men aligning themselves in two
camps, that of Peter and his friends much the smaller.

Peter retreated a pace or two as a shot was fired from a revolver, but
the Scot and Brierly and two of the Americans joined him and met the
first onslaught bravely. The handful of men was forced back against the
wall by sheer weight of numbers, but they struck out manfully with their
fists, with chairs, and with their feet, with any object that came to
hand, and men went down with bleeding heads. Peter was armed but he did
not wish to kill any one--his idea being to make a successful retreat to
the office, where the telephone would put him in touch with May's
Landing and reinforcements. Yakimov stood at the edge of the crowd,
waving a revolver, when a well-aimed missile from the hand of the Scot
sent him sprawling to the floor among the benches.

Peter and his crowd had fought their way to the door, when Flynn and
Jacobi who had led a group of men by the other door, fell on them from
the rear. Between the two groups their position was hopeless but Peter
fought his way out into the open, dodging a blow from Jacobi and using
the terrible _savate_ in Flynn's stomach, just as Shad Wells rushed at
him from one side. Peter saw the blow coming from a broken axhandle--but
he had no time to avoid it. Instinctively he ducked his head and threw
up his left arm, but the bludgeon descended and Peter fell, remembering
nothing more.




CHAPTER XX

THE RUSSIAN PAYS


When Peter came back to consciousness, he found himself lying in the
shelter of the underbrush alone. And while he attempted to gather his
scattered wits together a figure came creeping through the bushes toward
him. It was Brierly, the clerk, carrying a hatful of water which he had
procured from the neighboring rivulet. Brierly had a lump on his
forehead about the size of a silver dollar, and his disheveled
appearance gave evidence of an active part in the mêlée.

"What's happened?" asked Peter slowly, starting up as memory came back
to him.

But Brierly didn't answer at once.

"Here, drink this. I don't think you're badly hurt----"

"No. Just dazed a bit," muttered Peter, and let Brierly minister to him
for a moment.

"You see, there were too many for us," Brierly explained. "We made a
pretty good fight of it at that, but they buried us by sheer weight of
numbers. Yours isn't the only bruised head, though. Yakimov got his
early in the game--and Jacobi. And gee! but that was a 'beaut' you
handed Flynn--right in the solar plexus with your heel. The
_savate_--wasn't it? I saw a Frenchy pull that in a dive in Bordeaux. I
reckon Flynn won't be doin' much agitatin' for a while--except in his
stommick."

"How did I get here?" asked Peter.

"I hauled you into the bush as soon as I got a chance--in the
confusion--and gradually, got you back in here. But I think they're
lookin' for us, so we'd better get a move on soon as you're fit enough."

"Where's Jesse?"

"Beat it, I reckon. Haven't seen him."

"I see." And then, "Brierly, I'm obliged to you. I'll try to make it up
to you for this."

"You needn't bother. I'm for you. You can't let a lot of roughnecks put
it over on you like this."

"No--I can't--I can't," muttered Peter.

"I wish we had a bunch of the boys I was with over in France down here.
There's a few up in May's Landing who'd clean this lot up in no time."

"I wish we had them." Peter straightened with some difficulty and rose
to a sitting posture as the thought came to him. "I've got to get to the
'phone, Brierly."

"No. I wouldn't advise that--not here. Those roughnecks are between us
and the office--in the office too, I reckon, by this time. It wouldn't
be safe. Who were you goin' to 'phone to?"

"May's Landing--the Sheriff. I'm going to see this thing through."

"Righto! And I'm with you to a fare-ye-well. But it's got to be managed
different. They'll beat you to death if you show up now. It was Yakimov
that shot at you. He's after you. You were armed. It's a wonder you
didn't shoot him down." And then, with some hesitation, "Say, Mr.
Nichols. You ain't really the Grand Duke Peter, are you?"

Peter smiled. "What's left of him--I am. This man Yakimov is an agent of
Trotzky."

Brierly whistled softly between his teeth. "I reckon _they_ want to get
you, don't they?"

Peter nodded. "But they won't--not yet."

They held a brief council of war and in a moment on hands and knees
were making their way through the underbrush in the general direction of
Black Rock. Behind them they heard rough laughter and an occasional
outburst of song which proclaimed that new supplies of whisky had been
unearthed and that the anarchy which Yakimov so much desired now
prevailed. After a while, Peter managed to get to his feet and moved on
at a greater speed. He had only been stunned by Shad's blow--a part of
the force of which he had caught on his arm. The arm was still numb and
his head thumped, but as he went on in the cool air his brain cleared
and he found it possible to plan with some definiteness. Brierly knew
the sheriff at May's Landing. There was nothing his friends would rather
do than to be sworn in as deputies for a job like this. He had thought
it a wonder that Peter hadn't called the Sheriff in before.

"I thought I could manage the situation alone, Brierly," said Peter
quietly, "but it's got the best of me."

The way was long to Black Rock--at least eight miles by the way they
took--and it was almost six o'clock when, they reached McGuire's. They
knew that with the "flivver" in the possession of the outlaws it was
quite possible that some of the ringleaders of the disturbance might
have preceded them, and so they kept under cover until near the house,
when they quickly emerged from the bushes and made their way to the
kitchen door, entering without knocking.

An unpleasant surprise awaited them here, for in the kitchen, securely
gagged and bound to a chair, they found McGuire's valet, Stryker.

It took only a moment to release the man and to get the gag out of his
mouth, when he began sputtering and pointing toward the door into the
house.

"Hawk--Hawk Kennedy!" the amazed Peter made out.

And after staring at the man in a moment of bewilderment, Peter drew
out his revolver and dashed through the house, keyed up at once to new
adventure, the eager Brierly at his heels. They went up the stairs and
to the door of McGuire's own room, where they stood for a moment aghast
at the disorder and havoc before them.

Papers and books were scattered everywhere upon the floor, chairs were
overturned, and the door of the safe was ajar. At first he saw no one,
but when Peter entered the room he heard a sound from the corner beyond
the table, a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan, and there he
found his employer, Jonathan K. McGuire, doubled up on the floor, bound
and trussed like his valet and quite as helpless. It was evident that
the long awaited terror had come to Black Rock.

But if he was dismayed and frightened it seemed that McGuire was
uninjured and when he was released he was lifted to his feet and a
chair, into which he sank speechless for a moment of rehabilitation.
There was no need to question him as to what had happened in this room,
for the evidences of Hawk's visit and its purpose were all too evident.
Without a word to McGuire, Peter found the telephone in the hall, called
for May's Landing, then turning the instrument over to Brierly, with
instructions as to what he was to do, returned to McGuire's room and
closed the door behind him.

"Well, sir," he said briefly. "I see he's come."

"My God, yes," gasped McGuire. "And you know what he came for--he got
it, Nichols. He got it."

"That proves that he _had_ lost the duplicate," said Peter quietly. "How
did it all happen?"

The old man drew a trembling hand across his brow.

"He took me off my guard--all of us. I don't know. It only happened half
an hour ago. Where's Stryker?"

"He was tied to a chair in the kitchen. We let him loose. He's outside
somewhere."

"And Mrs. Bergen and Sarah?"

"I don't know, sir."

Peter went to the door and called Stryker and that bewildered person
appeared at the foot of the steps with Mrs. Bergen and Sarah who had
been locked in the cellar. Peter called them up and they all began
screaming their tale at once. But at last Peter got at the facts. Hawk
Kennedy had come suddenly into the kitchen where the two women were and,
brandishing a revolver, commanding silence, threatening death if they
made a sound. He had surprised the valet in the lower hall and had
marched him back into the kitchen, where he had bound him to a chair
with a clothes-line and then gagged him.

McGuire waved the trio out of the room when their story was told, and
signaled to Peter to close the door again, when he took up his
interrupted tale.

"I was at the window, looking out, Nichols. I didn't expect him for a
couple of weeks anyway. I'd just about gotten my nerve back. But he got
the drop on me, Nichols. How he ever got into the room without my
hearin' him! I must have been in a trance. His shoes were off. The first
thing I know is a voice close at my ear and a gun in my ribs. I turned
quick--but my gun was in the table drawer. His face was close to mine
and I knew he meant business. If I'd 'a' moved he'd 'a' killed me. So I
put my hands up. There wasn't anything else to do. I thought I'd play
for time but he caught my glance toward the door and only laughed.

"'There ain't anybody comin', Mike,' he says. 'It's just you an' me.' I
asked him what he wanted and he grinned. 'You know,' he says. And with
his left hand he brought out a rope he had stuffed in his pocket. 'I'll
fix _you_ first. Then we'll talk,' he says. He was cool like he always
was. He caught a slip noose around my wrists before I knew it, twisted
the rope around me and threw me over on the floor. I tell you that man
is the devil himself."

"What then?"

"He made me give up the keys to the drawers in the safe--it was open
just like it is now. I wouldn't speak at first but he kicked me and then
put the gun at my head. I still hoped some one would come. I gave in at
last. He found it. My God!" The old man aroused himself with an effort
and rose to his feet. "But we've got to catch him--just you and I. He
can't have gone far. We've got the right to shoot him now--to shoot on
sight----"

"Yes--yes. I'm getting the Sheriff at May's Landing now----"

"The Sheriff!" The Irishman's small eyes stared and then became alive in
sudden comprehension. "Not the Sheriff, Nichols. I won't have him."

"You've got to--at once." And then rapidly Peter gave an account of what
had happened at the logging camp. But it seemed to have no effect upon
McGuire, who listened with glassy eyes. He was obsessed with the
other--the graver danger.

"We'll keep this thing quiet if you like--the real meaning of this
visit, and we've got to pick up his trail. But we can't let those men at
the camp have the run of the place. They'll be looting this house next."
And then, as McGuire seemed to agree, Peter went to the door and found
Brierly still on the 'phone. He was talking to the Sheriff and had told
the whole story. The Sheriff had already heard something about the Black
Rock camp trouble and would be ready to move in an hour.

"Tell him to move fast and to come to McGuire's first," said Peter. "And
you'll be here to show him the way."

Brierly nodded and finished the message, while Peter returned to
McGuire.

"What else did Kennedy say?" Peter asked him.

"He asked a lot of questions--about you and Beth Cameron--about the
money--about what I'd promised you. He's the very devil, I tell you. He
knows everything. He said he'd 'get' you and that he'd 'get' Beth
Cameron."

Peter caught McGuire fiercely by the shoulder. "What did you say? Are
you sure?"

With all of his other troubles Peter had forgotten Beth and now thought
guiltily of the possible danger to which she might have been subjected.

How could Hawk have found out about Beth Cameron?

"What I told you," muttered McGuire wearily, "he said he'd 'get'
her----"

Sick with anxiety, Peter flung away from his protesting employer and
made for the door, rushing past the astonished Brierly in the hall, down
the stairs and out at a run over the bridge and through the village to
the Bergen house. The door was open and he rushed in, calling Beth's
name. There was no response. Now desperate and fearing the worst, he ran
from room to room, downstairs and up. There were signs of her--a towel
on a chair, a broom leaning against a door upstairs, the neatly made
beds, the orderly kitchen, giving evidence of the morning cleaning, but
no supper cooking on the stove, the fire of which had burned to cinders.
She had not been here for a long while--since early morning possibly.
But where had she gone--where? Hawk Kennedy would hardly have dared to
come here--to the village--hardly have succeeded in enticing her away
from this house, surrounded by neighbors--still less have succeeded in
carrying her off without their knowledge. He rushed out into the road
and questioned. No one seemed to have seen her. The eagerness and
suppressed anxiety of Peter's manner quickly drew a crowd which felt the
contagion of his excitement. A man joined the group. Yes. He had seen
Beth in the morning early. She was hurrying down the path which led into
the pines. He had not seen her since.

Peter glanced at him just once more to be sure that he was speaking the
truth and then, without a thought as to the impression he had created in
the minds of the villagers, set off running through the path toward his
cabin.

Fool that he had been! To leave Beth unguarded--unwarned even--with Hawk
within a quarter of a mile of her. Why had he not seen the hand of fate
in Beth's presence here at Black Rock near McGuire, the man who had
wronged her father--the hand of fate, which with unerring definiteness
was guiding the principals in this sordid tragedy together from the ends
of the earth for a reckoning? And what was this reckoning to be? McGuire
had already fallen a victim to the man's devilish skill and audacity.
And Beth----? What match was she for a clever desperate rogue who balked
at nothing? How had he learned of Beth's existence and how, knowing of
it, had he managed to beguile her away from the village? Peter was
beginning to believe with McGuire that Hawk Kennedy was indeed in league
with the devil.

Peter was not now aware of any pain or even of bodily fatigue, for there
was no room in his mind for any thought of self. Scarcely conscious of
his new exertions, he ran across the log-jam below the pool and up the
path to the Cabin. What he expected to find there he did not know, but
it seemed clear that Beth had come this way in the morning and if not to
the Cabin, where else? Hawk had been here when she had come into the
woodland path. That was enough. As he reached the turn in the path, he
saw that the door of the Cabin was open and when he rushed in, prepared
for anything, he saw that the room was unoccupied. He stood aghast for a
moment, trying to adjust his mind to take in logically the evidence he
found there--the overturned chair, the blankets dragging on the floor
by the bed, the broken water pitcher, the opened bureau drawers, the
torn bits of linen--parts of his own handkerchiefs--upon the floor--all
visible signs' of a commotion, perhaps of a struggle, that had taken
place. And then under the table he espied a square of heliotrope paper.
He picked it up quickly and took it to the light of the window. It was
the envelope of the letter he had received from Anastasie Galitzin. And
what was this----? A scrawl in Beth's hand, "You left _this_ last night.
You'd better go back to Anastasie."

Bewildered for a moment, Peter stared at the forceful characters of the
handwriting, written hurriedly in a scrawl of lead pencil, and then the
probable sequence of events came to him with a rush. She had opened the
note of Anastasie Galitzin and read it. What had it said? He had
forgotten details. But there were phrases that might have been
misconstrued. And Beth----. He could see her now coming up the path, her
head high, seeking explanations--and meeting Hawk!

But where was the letter itself? He searched for it without success.
Hawk! The answer to all of his questions was in the personality of the
man as Peter knew him. The bits of torn linen and Beth's own
handkerchief, which he found in the corner of the bed against the wall,
crumpled into a ball and still moist with her tears, were mute but
eloquent evidences of her suffering and torture in the presence of this
man who had not been too delicate in the means by which he had
accomplished her subjugation.

Peter raged up and down the floor of the Cabin like a caged animal. What
must he do--which way turn? That Hawk had gagged and bound her was
obvious. But what then? He rushed outside and examined the shrubbery
around the Cabin. There was nothing to indicate the direction in which
he had taken her--and the forest at his very elbow stretched for miles
in all directions, a hiding place that had served other guilty ones
before Hawk--the New Jersey pines that he had learned to love, now
wrapped in a conspiracy of silence. It would be dusk very soon. A search
of the pine barrens at night would be hopeless. Besides, Hawk had had
the whole of the morning and most of the afternoon in which to carry out
his purpose.... What was that purpose? Where had he taken Beth? Where
had he left her when he had returned to Black Rock House to rob McGuire?
Or had he...? Impossible! Even Hawk wouldn't have dared.... Peter
clenched his fists in agony and rage at the terrible thoughts that came
swarming into his brain, driving out all reason.

His Highness had suffered greatly the last few years of his life, the
physical pain of wounds received in battle, the mental pain of falling
hopes, of fallen pride, of disillusionment, but he could not remember
any pain that had seemed to matter like the anguish of the present
moment. The other sufferings were those of the Grand Duke Peter
Nicholaevitch, material sufferings born of his high estate. But this
present suffering was primitive. It wrenched at the very fibers of the
heart, for the love that he had found was a finer thing than had ever
happened in his life, a love which asked nothing and only craved the joy
of giving. And this woman--this mate that he had chosen out of all the
women that he had known in the world...!

Hawk Kennedy would have fared badly if Peter could have had him within
arm's reach at that moment. But after a time, as Peter went into the
Cabin, he grew calmer, and pacing the floor for a while, began to think
more lucidly. Less than an hour ago Hawk Kennedy had been at Black Rock
House giving Jonathan McGuire and Stryker their unpleasant half-hour. He
wouldn't have dared to return and accomplish what he had done after a
deed so terrible as that which had entered Peter's thoughts. He was
still a human being and Beth.... He couldn't have killed Beth out of
hand. The thought was monstrous--even of Hawk.

He had taken her somewhere--to one of his hiding-places in the woods,
and proposed keeping her, the legal heir of Ben Cameron, for ransom, as
a part of his plot to win his share of the McGuire fortune. He had
stolen the telltale agreement too and now held all the cards--all of
them.

Peter paused standing by the window seat, looking out at the leaves
falling in the rising wind, his mind already resolved on a plan. He was
about to turn toward the telephone, when he noted a commotion in the
bushes opposite his window. A flash of fire almost at the same moment, a
crash of broken glass, and the hair on his head twitched violently.

Instinctively Peter dropped to the floor.

Close shooting! His scalp stung uncomfortably--but aside from that he
knew that he was not hurt. A fraction of an inch lower----

Hawk----! His first impulse had been to rush to the door--but the events
of the day had taught him caution and so he crouched, drawing his
revolver. Too much depended upon his existence at the present moment to
take a chance in the open with a hidden enemy--especially if that enemy
were Hawk Kennedy. He listened intently. No sound. Then the breaking of
a twig and the sibilance of whispering voices--two of them--perhaps
more. And still Peter did not move. His quick thinking had done him a
service. It was clear that the men outside had decided that the shot had
taken effect.

And now, instead of creeping to the doorway, Peter settled back upon the
floor again, prostrate, but in such a position that his eyes and his
revolver commanded the entrance to the Cabin. He waited. It was a
nerve-racking business but the thought of all that depended upon his
safety steadied him into a preternatural calm like that which falls at
the presence of death. Death was imminent here for some one. It lurked
just outside. It lurked in the finger that Peter held against the
trigger. And Peter meant that the adventure should end at the doorway.

Presently he heard a gentle shuffling of feet outside and the whisper
again, this time quite distinctly, "You got him, I reckon."

Whose voice was that? Not Hawk Kennedy's ... Peter lowered his head to
his arm and closed his eyes, watching the door-jamb through his
eyelashes, his revolver hidden but its muzzle in line. A bulky shadow on
the step, a foot and then a head cautiously protruded--that of Shad
Wells, followed immediately by another, swathed in a bandage which only
partially concealed the dark eyes and beard of Yakimov the Russian. It
took considerable exercise of will on Peter's part to remain quiescent
with the stare of those four eyes upon him, especially when he noted the
weapon in the fingers of the Russian. But he waited until the two men
got into the room.

"There he is. You got him, Yakimov," said Shad with a laugh.

"Perhaps----" Peter heard, "but I'll make sure of it----"

Yakimov's pistol rose slowly, halfway to the level of his eyes. But it
was never fired, for Peter's revolver flashed fire, twice--three times,
and Yakimov with a sudden wide stare at vacancy pitched forward and
crashed down. The surprise was complete, for a fourth shot went into the
right arm of Shad Wells, which ruined his shot and sent his weapon
clattering to the floor.

Peter had taken Shad's measure once before and the memory of the blow
from the axhandle earlier in the day did nothing to soften Peter's
intent. The quick command as he scrambled to his feet and the sight of
the imminent weapon caused Shad suddenly to forget everything but the
desire, whatever else happened, not to die as Yakimov had done. And so
he put his hands up--staggering back against the wall. Peter, with his
weapon still covering Shad, put his fingers over Yakimov's heart. The
man was dead. Then he rose soberly and faced Shad.

"I ought to kill you like the dog that you are," he said tensely, "but I
want to question you first. Stand over by the bed."

Shad obeyed and Peter, watching him closely, picked up his weapon and
Yakimov's and examined them carefully, putting one in his pocket and
laying the other beside him on the mantel. But all the fight was out of
Shad, who stood stupidly while Peter bound his wrists behind him. The
man was badly hurt, but it was no time for Peter to be playing the good
Samaritan.

"So much for keeping bad company," said Peter coolly. "You'll find more
of the same sort in the lock-up at May's Landing."

"You daresn't send me there," muttered Shad, with a feeble attempt at
bravado.

"Won't I? You'll see--for attempted murder. The Sheriff is on his way
here now. Have you anything to say?"

Shad was silent, eying the dead man.

"Oh, very well," said Peter. He closed and locked the door and, keeping
the man covered with his revolver, moved to the telephone and got
McGuire at Black Rock House, telling him in a few phrases what had
happened.

"Yes, Yakimov the Russian--I shot him.... Yes.... I killed him. It was
to save my own life.... Shad Wells.... A prisoner. Send Brierly with a
car down here at once. Hawk has been here too and has met Beth Cameron
... God knows. He has taken her away with him somewhere--abducted
her.... Yes ... Yes ... I've got to find her. Yes, _Beth_--can't you
understand?... She came here to bring me a letter ... I found it. Hawk
was here early this morning.... I know it. He bound her with some of my
handkerchiefs ... No, there's no doubt of it--none at all.... I can't
stand here talking. Send Brierly at once. Understand?"

And Peter hung up the receiver and turned toward Shad, who was leaning
forward toward him, his face pale, his mouth agape at what he had heard.
But Peter, unaware of the sudden transformation in his prisoner, only
glanced at him and bending over began a search of the pockets of the
dead man, when Shad's voice cut the silence----

"You--you say----," he stammered chokingly, "you say B-Beth has been
abducted, Mister--Beth Cameron?"

Peter straightened, his eyes searching the lumberman's face.

"Yes. To-day--this morning," he answered crisply. "What of it? Do you
know anything----?"

"Hawk Kennedy took her?" the man faltered. "Are you sure?"

Peter sprang up, his eyes blazing with eagerness.

"What do you know of Hawk Kennedy?" he cried. And then, as Shad seemed
suddenly to have been stricken dumb, Peter seized him by the shoulder
and shook him. "Speak! Do you know Hawk Kennedy?"

"Yes," said Shad in a bewildered way. "I do--but Beth----"

"He's taken her away--don't you understand?"

"W-Why?"

"God knows," said Peter wildly. "It's part of a plot--against
McGuire--to get money. Do you know where he is? Do you know where he's
gone with her? Speak, man! Or must I----?"

"I know him. I've seen him----," muttered Shad with a hang-dog air.

"To-day?"

"No."

Peter gasped in disappointment, but still questioned quickly.

"Where did you see him?"

"Down near the camp. He came back again yesterday. He'd been away----"

"Yes, yes, I know. What did he say?"

"Oh, he was very peart--swaggered around like he owned the place and
talked about a lot of money he was goin' to have. An' how he was----"

"Do you know where he took Beth Cameron?" broke in Peter again.

"No. I don't--My God--_him!_"

"Yes, _him_. You know what it means. He'd kill her if he dared."

"Would he? My God! Mister. You can't let----"

"No. No." And then, sharply, "Speak up, Wells, and I'll set you free. Do
you know where he could have taken her?"

"I'm not sure, but maybe----"

"Where----?"

"He stayed down at the Forks----"

"Yes. But he wouldn't have dared to take her there----"

"No. That's so. Maybe----"

"Where?"

"Some other place----"

"Of course. Was there any other place that he knew about?"

"Yes, there was. But when he first came he rode down on a horse from
Hammonton."

"Yes, yes. Go on. And later----"

"He used to come around the camp for food. It was when you first came on
the job. But he bought it and paid for it."

"I don't care about that. Where was he hiding?"

"Back in the woods. He used to sleep in the old tool house down by the
cedar swamp."

Peter was now on edge with excitement.

"Do you think he'd be likely to take Beth there?"

"How should I know? Maybe he took her to Hammonton or Egg Harbor."

"No. He wouldn't have had time. Where's this tool house?"

"About half a mile from the mills."

"Could you show me the way?"

"I reckon I could----," Shad Wells sank into a chair and bent his head.
"My God! Mister. If I'd only 'a' known! If you'd only let me help you--I
can't stand thinkin' of anythin' happenin' to Beth--you an' me--we ain't
got along, an' maybe you've got the upper hand of me, but----"

"We've got to forget that now," put in Peter quickly, and taking out his
hasp knife he cut the cords that bound Shad's wrists. "Just to show you
that I mean what I say." And then, soberly, "You know these woods. Help
me to find Beth Cameron and I'll make no charge against you. Is that a
bargain?"

"Yes, Mister."

Peter glanced at his face and at the blood dripping from his finger
ends. The man was suffering much pain but he hadn't whimpered.

"All right. Take off your coat and I'll tie your arm up first."

Silently Shad rose and obeyed while Peter got water and washed the
wound, a clean one right through the muscles of the forearm. But no
bones were broken and Peter bandaged it skillfully. Shad clenched his
jaws during the washing of the wound but he said nothing more. Peter
knew that the man still hated him but he knew also that Shad was now
powerless to do him any injury, and that there was a tie to bind them
now into this strange alliance. As Peter finished the bandaging and was
improvising a sling for the wounded arm, Shad crumpled side-long upon
the edge of the bed, his face ghastly, and would have fallen to the
floor if Peter hadn't held him upright, and half carried him to the
armchair. Then Peter unlocked a cupboard and brought forth whisky,
giving Shad half a tumblerful and in a moment the man began to revive.
So Peter poured another glass and slowly Shad pulled himself together.

"Perhaps you're not up to it----," Peter began.

But Shad wagged his head with some determination.

"Yes, I--I'm up to it all right. I've got to go, Mister. We'll find her
if she's in these woods----"

"Bully for you. Feeling better now?"

Shad nodded and then raised his head, staring with a frown out of the
window by the piano. Peter had been so absorbed in his task of setting
the man to rights that he had not noticed the dull glow that had risen
in the southern sky. And following Shad's glance he turned his head and
looked out of the window. At first he thought it might be the afterglow
of the sunset until a word from Shad aroused him to the real
significance of the light.

"Fire!" gasped the lumberman.

"Fire!" echoed Peter, aghast.

"They've set the woods afire, Mister," muttered Shad helplessly.

At the same moment the telephone from the house began jangling
furiously. It was McGuire, who had made the same discovery.

"Yes," replied Peter to the hysterical questions. "It's the lumber camp.
They've broken loose and set the woods afire. You've got to get all the
men you can together and rush them down there. Where's Brierly? On the
way? Oh, all right. Good. He'll take me down and I'll send him back....
Yes. I've got a clew to Hawk ... I don't know, but I'm going to try it.
I'm taking Shad Wells with me ... The old tool house by the cedar swamp.
Brierly will know. Send the men on in relays when they come--with
shovels and sacks.... What did you say?... What?... Oh, 'D----n the
woods.'... All right. I'll get the paper if I can ... Yes. It's my
affair as much as yours now.... Yes.... Good-by."

Peter hung up the receiver and turned to Shad, who had risen, his arm in
the sling, just as Brierly came running up the path to the door.




CHAPTER XXI

THE INFERNO


The way through the woods was long, but Beth stumbled on, urged by the
rough tone and strong hand of her captor. She knew the woods well,
better than Hawk, but she had never ventured so far into the forest as
he led her. She felt very certain that he knew even less than she of the
way he was taking, and that his object in avoiding the roads and paths
which led to the southward was to keep her hidden from the eyes of any
persons that might be met on the paths between Black Rock and the lumber
camp. But after a while she began to think that he knew with more or
less definiteness the general direction in which they were moving, for
he stopped from time to time to look at the sun and get his bearings.
And then with a gruff word he would move on again, always to the south
and east, and she knew that he had already decided upon their
destination. With her hands still bound behind her, progress through the
underbrush was difficult, for the branches stung her like whip-lashes,
and thorn-bushes caught at her arms and tore her flimsy frock to shreds.
The gag in her mouth made breathing painful, but Hawk seemed to be
unaware of her sufferings or purposely oblivious of them, for he hardly
glanced at her and said no word except to urge her on to greater
exertion.

When they approached the road which he wanted to cross, he warned her
with an oath to remain where he left her and went forward to
investigate, after which he returned and hurried her across into the
thicket upon the other side. And it was not until they were securely
hidden again far from the sight of any possible passers-by that he
untied the bonds at her wrists and took the gag from her mouth. But she
knew more than ever that she was completely in his power.

He was sinister. He typified terror, physical and mental--and behind the
threat of his very presence lay the gruesome vision of sand and sun and
the bearded man lying with the knife in his back. She tried to summon
her native courage to combat her fears, to believe that the situation in
which she found herself was not so evil as she imagined it--and that
soon Hawk Kennedy would have a change of heart and give her a chance to
speak in her own behalf. But he silenced her gruffly whenever she
addressed him and she gave up at last, in fear of bringing his wrath
upon her. She could see that he was deeply intent upon his object to get
her away from Black Rock where none could find her. And what then?

In a wild impulse--a moment of desperation, she broke away from him and
ran, but he caught her easily, for by this time she was very tired.
Again, she thought of a struggle with him hand to hand, but he read her
mind and drew a pistol, pushing her on ahead of him as before,
threatening bodily injury. By this time she had learned to believe him
capable of any cruelty. But she thanked God that the dangers that
threatened were only those which could come from a brutal enemy and in
his very brutality she even found refuge from the other and more
terrible alternative of his amiability. As Hawk had said, he wasn't "on
that lay this trip."

But what his ultimate purpose was she had no means of determining. She
knew that he was totally without scruple and had thought in her first
moments of terror that he meant to take her far back into the woods--and
there kill her as he had done her father, thus again destroying all
claim. But as the moments passed and she saw that he had some definite
objective, the feeble remnants of her courage gathered strength. Her
attempt to escape had failed, of course, but his tolerance gave her a
hope that he did not dare to do the dreadful violence of which she had
thought.

For hours--it seemed--they went through underbrush and swamp-land,
stopping from time to time at Hawk's command while he listened and got
their bearings. Beth had never been in this part of the woods, but she
had an idea, from the crossing of the road and the character of the
trees, that they were now somewhere in the Lower Reserve and not very
far from the lumber camp. It was there that Peter Nichols was. Her heart
leaped at the thought of his nearness. All memory of the heliotrope
envelope and of its contents seemed to have been wiped from her
consciousness by the rough usage of this enemy to them both. It seemed
to matter very little now who this woman was that Peter had known. She
belonged to a mysterious and unhappy past--for he had hinted at
that--which had nothing to do with the revelation that Beth had read in
his eyes as to the meaning of the wonderful present for them both. She
knew now that he could have explained, if she had given him the chance.
Instead of which she had rushed heedlessly to misfortune, the victim of
a childish pride, plunging them both into this disaster. That pride was
a pitiful thing now, like her disordered hair and her bedraggled frock,
which flapped its ribbons, soaked and muddy, about her knees.

But as long as she was still alive and in no immediate danger, she tried
to hope for some incident which would send Peter back to Black Rock
earlier than Hawk had expected, where, at the Cabin, he would guess the
truth as to her meeting with Hawk and what had followed. But how could
he guess all that? The difficulty dismayed her, He would hunt for her of
course as soon as he learned of her disappearance, but clever as he was
there seemed no way in which he could solve the mystery of her flight,
still less, having guessed Hawk Kennedy's purpose, follow any trail
through the wilderness by which her captor had led her.

Even in the apparent hopelessness of her situation, she had not reached
the point of actual despair. Youth and her customary belief in all that
was good in the world sustained her. Something would happen--something
_must_ happen.... As she trudged along, she prayed with her whole heart,
like David, to be delivered from the hand of the oppressor.

That prayer comforted her and gave her strength and so when they came
out at the edge of the swamp some moments later she obeyed his
instructions more hopefully. There was a path along the edge of the
water which presently led into the heart of the woods again, and there
almost before she was aware of it she found herself facing a small
wooden house or shanty which seemed in a fairly good state of
preservation.

Silently, Hawk Kennedy unfastened the hasp which held the door, and
gruffly ordered her to go inside. Wondering, she obeyed him. But her
captor now acted with a celerity which while it gave her new fears, set
other fears at rest, for he took the handkerchiefs from his pockets and
gagged and bound her arms and wrists again, pushing her down on a pile
of sacking which had served some one for a bed, tying her feet and knees
with ropes that were there so that she could neither move nor make a
sound.

There for a moment he stood, staring down at her with a grim kind of
humor, born of his successful flight.

"Some kid, by G----! I'm kinder sorry--d---- if I ain't. But ye hadn't
any business bein' who ye are. I believe I'd rather kill ye outright
than hurt ye any more--that I would. Maybe I won't have to do either.
Understand? But I got somethin' to do first. It ain't any child's play
an' I ain't got much time to spare. Be a good kid an' lie quiet an' go
to sleep and I'll be back after a while an' set ye free. Understand?"

Beth nodded helplessly, for it was the only thing that she could do and
with relief watched his evil shape darken the doorway out of which he
went, carefully closing the door and fastening the hasp on the outside.
Then she heard the crunch of his footsteps in the dry leaves behind the
Cabin. They moved rapidly and in a few moments she heard them no more.

Lying on her side, her head pillowed on the bagging, it did not seem at
first as though she were uncomfortable, and her eyes, wide open, peered
around her prison. There was a small window unglazed and by the light
which came from it she could see some axhandles piled in one corner of
the hut, several cross-cut saws on a box at one side, a few picks and a
shovel or two. It must be a tool house used for the storage of extra
implements and she remembered dimly that Shad had once spoken of the
cutting that had been begun down by the swamp and abandoned for a better
location. This then was where Hawk Kennedy had taken her and she knew
that it was a spot little visited nowadays except by hunters, and at
some distance from the scene of present logging operations, toward the
spur of the railroad. It was here perhaps that Hawk Kennedy had hidden
while making his earlier investigations of Black Rock while he ripened
his plot against Mr. McGuire. There were several empty bottles upon the
floor, a moldy crust of bread, and a broken water-pitcher which
confirmed the surmise.

She realized that Hawk had planned well. It seemed hardly possible to
hope for a chance passer-by in this deserted spot. And even if she
heard the sound of guns or even heard footsteps in the leaves, what
chance had she of making known her whereabouts? But she strained her
ears, listening, only to hear the twittering of the birds, the
chattering of squirrels and the moaning of the wind in the tree tops.
How near was freedom and yet how difficult of attainment! She wriggled
gently in her bonds but each motion seemed to make them tighter, until
they began to cut more and more cruelly into her tender flesh. She tried
by twisting her hands and bending her body to touch the knots at her
knees but her elbows were fastened securely and she couldn't reach them.
And at last she gave up the attempt, half stifled from her exertions and
suffering acutely. Then she lay quiet, sobbing gently to herself, trying
to find a comfortable posture, and wondering what was to be the end of
it all.

Hours passed in which the scampering of the four-footed things grew less
and less and the birds ceased their chirping. Only the moaning of the
wind continued, high in the tree tops. Once or twice she thought she
plainly heard footsteps near by and renewed her efforts to free herself,
but desisted again when she learned that it was only the sound of the
flying leaves dancing against the outside walls of her prison.

She thought of all the things that had happened in her brief and
uneventful life, but most she thought of Peter Nichols, and all that his
visit to Black Rock had meant to her. And even in her physical
discomfort and mental anguish found herself hoping against hope that
something would yet happen to balk the sinister plans of Hawk Kennedy,
whatever they were. She could not believe that happiness such as hers
had been could come to such a dreadful end so soon. But what was Hawk
Kennedy's mission now? Where had he gone unless to Black Rock again? And
what would he be doing there? Was revenge his motive now, stronger
since her revelation of her parentage? And was it Peter that he was
going to...? Her cry was muffled in the bandage. He had gone back to
Black Rock to lie in wait for Peter--to kill him perhaps. Sobbing anew
she struggled again with her bonds, until at last she lay back relaxed
and exhausted, and prayed with all her might to the God that had always
been her guide.

And after a while she grew calm again, refreshed and strengthened by her
faith. No harm would befall Peter. No further harm would come to her.
Evil such as Hawk's was powerless against her prayers. Already he had
done her a great injury. The God of her faith would keep her scatheless
until Peter, the man she loved, came to save her. She was as sure of
this now as though she could see him coming, vengeance in his hand, with
long strides through the forest to her hiding-place. And so, after a
while, exhausted from her efforts, she fell into a doze.

When she awoke from troubled dreams it was with a sense of suffocation.
She had stirred in her sleep and the thongs had cut more deeply into the
flesh at her knees, causing her pain. Below the knees she was numb from
the constant pressure, but she moved her toes up and down and her limbs
tingled painfully as the constricted blood flowed into her extremities.
How long she had lain there she did not know, but the interior of the
shed seemed to have grown quite dark, as though a storm were rising
outside. The wind was still blowing, and above the moaning of the pines
she could hear the continuous rustle of the leaves and the creaking of
moving branches. She managed with an effort to turn her head toward the
window, where through the dark leaves of the overshadowing trees she
could catch glimpses of the sky, which seemed to have turned to a
pinkish purple, like the afterglow of a sunset. Was it possible that she
could have slept so long? In the turning of her head it seemed that the
bandage over her mouth had become loosened and as she tried the
experiment again, the handkerchief slipped down around her neck. In a
moment she had gotten rid of the wad of linen in her mouth. At least she
could breathe freely now and moisten her parching lips. This boon seemed
almost in answer to her prayers. And if one bandage could come loose by
God's help, why not another?

And so cheerfully and with a persistence which took no thought of the
pain she was inflicting upon herself, she began working her hands to and
fro behind her until she fancied that the pressure on her wrists was not
so great as before. With an effort she managed to wriggle over against
the wall and so to straighten into a sitting posture.

It was then that she suddenly raised her head and sniffed at the air
from the small window above her through which a slender wisp of smoke
came curling. Smoke! The smell of burning brush, familiar to her, and
yet back here in the woods, unless from a well tended camp-fire, fraught
with perilous meaning. She glanced out of the small opening again. The
purple had grown redder, a dull crimson shot with streaks of blue--smoke
everywhere, endless streamers and tortuous billows sweeping down on the
wings of the wind.

Fire in the woods! She knew the meaning of that. And the reddish purple
was not the sunset but the glow of mighty flames near by, a "crown" fire
in the pines! From the volume of smoke, increasing with every moment, it
seemed that the old tool house in which she was imprisoned must be
directly in the path of the flames. Now thoroughly aware of her possible
fate if she could not release herself she strained her ears, listening,
and now heard distinctly above the sounds nearer at hand a distant
crackling roar and the thud of heavy branches falling. The interior of
the cabin had now grown even dimmer--to a dark redness--and the smoke
came billowing in at the window almost stifling her with its acrid
fumes. Outside the window, when she struggled for freedom, she caught a
glimpse of sparks, flying like meteors past the dim rectangle of her
vision, small ones, larger ones, and then flaming brands which must set
fire to whatsoever they touched.

She was half mad now with terror. She tried to think calmly, because she
knew that unless a miracle happened she would die alone here--the most
horrible of all deaths. And then her eye caught the gleam of something
upon the tool chest in the shadows beyond--the teeth of the cross-cut
saw!

If she could reach it! She fell over purposely on the sacking and with
great difficulty wriggled slowly toward it, inch by inch. Could she
reach it with her wrists? With an effort she squirmed to the chest and
straightened, her back against it, as she had done against the wall, and
then turning, in spite of the increased pressure of her thongs, managed
in some way to get to her knees, feeling for the teeth of the saw with
her fingers behind her. It was not very sharp, but if she could direct
it between her wrists it would do.

In her new thrill of hope, she was hardly conscious of the suffocating
smoke which now filled the cabin, stinging her eyes so that she could
hardly see, or of the heat which with her exertions had sent the
perspiration streaming down her face. For now, balancing herself with
great care, she moved her tortured arms, half numb with pain, up and
down against the rusty edges. A sharp pain and she bit her
lips,--readjusting herself to her task. But she felt the saw cutting
into the rope--one strand, another, and in a moment her hands were
released.

In her joy of the achievement, she toppled over on the floor, but
managed to release her elbows. Now, panting with her exertions and
moving her arms quickly to restore the circulation, she felt for the
knots at her knees and ankles and in a moment her limbs were free. But
she had not reckoned with the effects of their long period of
inactivity, for when she tried to get to her feet she found that her
limbs were powerless. But she moved her knees up and down, suffering
keenly as the blood took up its course, and after a time managed to
scramble to her feet, and stagger to the opening in the wall.

It seemed that all the forest was now a mass of flaming brands and that
the roar of the flames was at her very ears. It was stiflingly hot too
and in one corner of the cabin there was a tiny bright spot and a curl
of smoke. Had her liberty come too late? She was not even free yet, for
the hole in the wall of the building was no larger than a single pane of
glass and the door of the shanty was fastened by the hasp on the
outside.

There was no time now to hesitate unless she wished to be burned alive.
With an effort she threw herself against the door--again and again, but
it would not yield. Despairing and blinded by smoke, she staggered to
the box hunting an ax, when her fingers met the handle of the friendly
saw. It was heavy but she knew how to use it, and set it at the hole in
the wall, drawing it back and forth. The wood was dead and she felt it
yield to the strong teeth of the tool, so that she struggled on, the
width of the board; then cut again, at the upper edge of the aperture,
and in a moment the board fell away.

She was not a moment too soon, for as she crawled through the opening
and fell exhausted on the outside, one end of the building suddenly
caught fire, blazing fiercely. The sparks were all around her and her
skirt caught fire in the flaming leaves into which she had fallen, but
she put it out with her blistered hands and rose to her feet. A figure
was coming toward her, bent, its hand before its eyes. She could not
make out who it was, but as she turned to run Hawk Kennedy espied her.

"Ho there, kid! Got loose, hey? Just in time. Did ye think I was goin'
to let ye be burned to death?"

       *       *       *       *       *

With Brierly leading them to the machine and listening to Peter's story
as they went, Peter made his way across the foot of the lawn to the road
where the machine was waiting for them. As they climbed into it, the
glow to the south had turned a lurid red, staining the dusky sky to the
zenith. Brierly drove and for precaution's sake Peter sat in the tonneau
with Shad. But the lumberman, if he had ever been considered formidable
even in his own estimation, showed no evidence of any self-confidence.
Peter had given him signs of mettle which were not to be denied and like
all bullies Shad knew that he was beaten. The one vestige of his
decency,--his honorable affection for Beth, which had blinded him to
reason and all sense of duty, was now dedicated to the task of saving
her. And though the dull hatred of Peter still burned in his breast, the
instinct of self-preservation, and the chance of retrieving himself at
the last, made it necessary for him to put his pride in his pocket and
accept the inevitable.

"Ye'll keep yer word, Mister?" he inquired of Peter, after a moment. "I
didn't have nothin' to do with settin' them woods afire. Ye'll get me
out o' this scrape?"

"Yes," said Peter shortly. "I will."

But he watched him nevertheless.

The ex-soldier drove the car at a furious pace over the rough road,
rejoicing in the open cut-out and the rush of the wind past his ears. He
had been, for a time, a chauffeur of a staff car on the other side, and
the present conditions were full of promise of the kind of excitement
that appealed to his youthful spirit. Shad shouted instructions over
his shoulder but Brierly only nodded and sent the car on over the
corduroy to which they had come, with the throttle wide. Night had
nearly fallen but the road was a crimson track picked out with long
pencilings of shadow. The wind was still tossing the tree tops and
leaves and twigs cut sharply across their faces. There was no mistaking
the danger to the whole of the Lower Reserve unless the wind fell--a
"crown" fire after two weeks of drought was not a subject for jest.

But Peter was not thinking of the damage to McGuire's property. He
roared questions eagerly at Wells as to the location of the cabin with
reference to the probable course of the flames. The man only shook his
head dubiously, but it was plain that he was considering that danger. As
they neared the fire they could see the flames clearly now, beyond the
pines just before them, which were etched in deeply bitten lines, every
quivering frond in silhouette against the glare.

As the car neared the "Forks," Shad directed Brierly to take the turn to
the left--away from the main road to camp, and they swung into a sandy
road, the wind at their backs, their way for a time almost parallel to
the course of the flames. They passed the small settlement of the
"Forks," the few denizens of which were standing beside the road, their
few household goods packed in barrows and carts, undecided whether or
not the red terror would come their way. The flames were clearly visible
now, leaping skyward like devils freed from Hell, and so hot was the
fire and so high the wind that whole branches were carried high into the
air and flaming fell beyond into the cool dark to kindle new
destruction. Anything that lay to leeward of the holocaust was doomed.
Peter furiously questioned Wells again, but he only shook his head while
he anxiously watched the flames as the road converged toward them. But
as the road swung to the left Shad shouted and held up his hand and
Brierly brought the car to a stop.

"This is the nearest point, I guess, Mister. From here on to Cranberry
town the road runs to the left of Cedar Swamp."

"Where's the cabin?" queried Peter anxiously.

"In yonder, not far from the edge of the swamp," Shad replied with a
frown. "Looks like the fire's pretty near there."

"Come on, then," said Peter quickly. "Brierly, you go back to Black Rock
and bring the men here. Follow in. We'll be on the lookout for you."

And leaving Brierly to turn the car, he started off with Shad Wells into
the underbrush. His heart sank as he saw how furiously the fire was
raging and how near it seemed to be. But Shad needed no urging now and
led the way with a long stride, Peter following closely. The woods were
not so heavy here and the forest was now as bright as at midday, and so
they made rapid progress, coming out at the end of some minutes at the
edge of the swamp, whose burnished pools sullenly reflected the fiery
heavens. There they found a path and proceeded more quickly. To Peter's
anxious questions Shad shook his head and only peered before him,
forgetting his own suffering in the dreadful danger to which the girl
they sought might be subjected. A terrible thought had come into Peter's
mind in the last few moments--that it was Hawk Kennedy who had set fire
to the woods after imprisoning Beth in a cabin in the path of the
flames. This was his vengeance, terrible in its simplicity--for a
lighted match in the dry leaves would do the trick, and incendiarism in
the woods was difficult to trace. A vengeance fatal in its
effectiveness, for such a fire would tell no tales. Peter found himself
hoping that it was not to the old tool cabin that Beth had been
taken--that she was even far away from this inferno that lay before him.
The glare was already hot on his face and stray breezes which blew
toward him from time to time showed that the wind might be veering to
the eastward, in which case all the woods which they now traversed would
soon be afire.

But to the credit of Shad Wells it may be said that he did not hesitate,
for when he reached a point in the path where it turned closely along
the edge of the swamp, he plunged boldly into the woods, directly toward
the flames, and Peter, even more eager than he, ran ahead, peering to
right and left for signs of the cabin which now could not be far away.
The roar and the crackling were now ominously near and the flames seemed
to be all about them, while the tree tops seemed to be filled with
flaming brands. Sparks and live cinders fell upon them and the hot
breath of the wind blistered them with its heat.

Suddenly the panting Shad grasped Peter sharply by the arm with his
uninjured hand.

"The cabin! My God! It's burning now----Quick, Mister--or----"

Peter sprang forward through the flaming leaves. He seemed to be in the
very midst of the flames. Blinded and suffocated by the smoke, Peter
plunged forward and reached the cabin. One end and side of it was
blazing furiously but he dashed around the lower end of it, seeking the
door. It was open and already aflame. The hut was empty. He ran out
again, blinded by the smoke and the glare. Was it a fool's errand? And
had he and Shad only entrapped themselves to no good end? To the right
of him the fire roared and with his back to the glare his eyes eagerly
sought the shadows down the wind. Vague shapes of gnarled branches and
pallid tree trunks, spectral bushes quivering before the advancing
demon, some of them already alight. Safety lay only in this one
direction--for Beth, if she had been there, for Shad----Peter suddenly
remembered the lumberman and turned to his left to look, when suddenly
he espied a figure moving away from him and ran after it, calling. He
realized immediately that his hoarse cry was lost in the inferno of the
flames, but he ran more rapidly, beating out the embers which had
ignited the sleeve of his shirt.

He saw the figure clearly now, but it was not Shad--for Shad had been in
his shirt sleeves. This figure wore a coat and stumbled away half bent,
one arm over its head, pushing something--some one ahead of it. Peter
drew his revolver, leaping the burning leaves and calling aloud.

He saw the figures ahead of him halt and turn as they heard his voice
and the glare behind him shone full upon them, the face of the man agape
with inflamed surprise--Hawk Kennedy's, and the other, wide-eyed as at
the sight of an apparition--Beth's.

Only thirty paces separated them when Hawk Kennedy fired. Peter heard
Beth's scream and saw her strike at the man's arm, but furiously he
swung her in front of him and fired again. But her struggles and the
uncertain light sent the bullet wide. Peter did not dare to shoot for
the man was using her as a shield, but he did not hesitate and ran in,
trusting to luck and Beth's struggles. One bullet struck him somewhere
as Beth seemed to stumble and crumple to the ground, but he went on
unspent and catapulted into his man with a rush that sent them both
sprawling into the smoldering foliage. Blinded by the smoke, but mad
with fury, Peter struck and clutched, and Hawk's last shot went upward
for Peter wrenched his wrist and then struck him full on the head with
his own weapon.

He felt the man relax and slip down into the dust and smoke, where he
lay motionless.

Peter drew himself up to arm's length, wondering at the feebleness of
his muscles and the trouble with his breathing.

"Beth!" he gasped, frantically, searching the smoking ground for her.

"Peter--thank God!" Her voice was just at his ear and an arm went around
his neck.

"Beth! Beth! You've got to get out of this."

"Come, Peter--there's time----"

Just then a branch crashed down just beside them, showering them with
sparks.

"Come, Peter--come!" she cried.

He struggled up with an effort, one hand clutching at his breast.

"Go, Beth!" he gasped. "For God's sake, go!"

Beth stared at him for one short terrible moment as she realized what
had happened to him.

"Peter! You--you're----"

"I--I think I'm hurt--a little--it isn't much."

He swayed but she caught him and put an arm around one shoulder,
clutching it with the other hand.

"Lean on me," she muttered. "I'm strong enough----"

"No--go, Beth----"

But she put her strength under him and began walking while he staggered
on beside her. Sparks and fiery brands rained down upon them, blistering
and burning, the hot breath of the furnace drove their breath poisoned
back into their lungs and scorched their bodies, but still they remained
upright--and by a miracle still moved on.

"To the left," Peter heard dimly, "the swamp is close by."

He obeyed her, more dead than alive, and by sheer effort of will kept
his feet moving, paced to hers. He seemed to be walking as though in a
red fever, on leaden feet, carrying a body that had no weight or
substance.

But after a while his feet too seemed to grow lighter and he felt
himself falling through space. But her arms were still about him.

"Peter," he heard her voice in agony, "only a few yards further----"

With a last remaining effort he struggled and then his feet stumbling,
toppled forward and sank into something soft, something deliciously cool
and soothing. He felt a hand tugging at him, but he had no pain now, no
weakness--only the perfect happiness of a body that, seeking rest, has
found it.

After a while he revived at the sound of a voice at his ear. Water was
splashing over his face and he struggled up.

"No--keep down," he heard Beth's voice saying. "We're safe, Peter--the
wind is changing----"

"And you, Beth----?"

"All right, dear. A little patience----"

The voice trembled, but there was a world of faith in it. After all that
had happened, it was impossible that further disaster should follow now.

"Y-you're all right?" he gasped weakly.

"Yes. Yes. Lie still for a while."

And so they half lay, half crouched in the mud and water, while the
inferno swept over them, passing to the south. His head was on her
breast and against his ear he could feel her heart beating bravely, a
message of strength and cheer. From time to time her wet fingers brushed
his hair with water and then, as he seemed to be sinking into a dream
again, he felt lips light as thistle-down upon his brows.

Death such as this, he thought, was very pleasant.

And then later he was aroused by a shrill clear call.... Then saw lights
flashing.... Heard men's voices.... Felt himself carried in strong arms
... but all the while there were soft fingers in his own.




CHAPTER XXII

RETRIBUTION


When they lifted him into the automobile and Beth got in beside him, his
fingers moved in her own.

"Beth," she heard him whisper.

"Peter--I'm here."

"Thank God. And--and Shad----? He--he was with me----"

"He's asking for Shad," she repeated to Brierly, unaware that her
cousin, like his Biblical namesake, had come scatheless through the
fiery furnace. But some one heard the question and replied:

"Shad's here, Miss. He's all right----"

"Oh," gasped Peter. "And there's something else----"

"No, no--we must go. Your wound----"

But he insisted. "I--I'm all--right. Something else,--Beth--some one
must get--paper--blue envelope--Hawk Ken----"

His words ended in a gasp and he sank back in her arms.

Beth was frightened at the sudden collapse and the look in his face, but
she knew that his injunction was important. And keeping her courage she
called Shad Wells to the side of the car and gave quick directions.
There was a note of appeal in her voice and Shad listened, his gaze over
his shoulder in the direction she indicated.

"If he ain't burned to a crisp by now----"

"Go, Shad--please! And if you can get to him bring the papers in his
pocket to me."

He met her gaze and smiled.

"I reckon I'll get to him if anybody can."

"Oh, thanks, Shad--thanks----" she muttered, as the lumberman turned,
followed by one of the others, and silently moved toward the flames.

And in a moment the car was on its way to Black Rock, Brierly driving
carefully over the rough road. That was a terrible ride for Beth. She
supported the wounded man against her shoulder, her gaze on his pallid
face. Her poor blistered arm was about his waist, but she had no thought
for her own suffering. Every ounce of strength that remained to her was
given to holding Peter close to her so that he would not slip down,
every ounce of faith in her soul given to combat with the fears that
assailed her. It seemed to Beth that if the Faith that had brought her
through this day and out of that furnace were still strong enough she
could combat even the Death that rode with them. And so she prayed
again, holding him closely. But he was so cold and inert. She put her
hand over his heart and a tiny pulsation answered as though to reassure
her. Her hand came away dry, for the wound was not near his heart. She
thanked God for that. She found it high up on the right side just below
the collar bone and held her fingers there, pressing them tightly. If
this blood were life and she could keep it within him she would do it.
But he was so pale....

Brierly drove to Black Rock House instinctively. Here were beds,
servants and the telephone. He sounded his horn as they came up the
driveway and an excited group came out upon the porch. But Beth saw only
McGuire.

"Mr. Nichols has been shot, Mr. McGuire--he's dangerously hurt," she
appealed. "He's got to have a doctor--at once."

"Who--who shot him?"

"Hawk Kennedy."

"And he--Hawk----?"

"He's dead, I think."

She heard McGuire's sudden gasp and saw Aunt Tillie come running.

"He's got to be put to bed--Aunt Tillie," she pleaded.

"Of course," said McGuire, finding his voice suddenly, "Of course--at
once. The blue room, Mrs. Bergen. We'll carry him up. Send Stryker."

And Aunt Tillie ran indoors.

Peter was still quite unconscious, but between them they managed to get
him upstairs.

McGuire seemed now galvanized into activity and while the others cut
Peter's coat away and found the wound he got Hammonton and a doctor on
the 'phone. It was twelve miles away but he promised to be at Black Rock
House inside half an hour.

"Twenty minutes and you won't regret it. Drive like Hell. It's a matter
of life or death."

Meanwhile, Aunt Tillie, with anxious glances at Beth, had brought
absorbent cotton, clean linen, a basin of water and a sponge, and
Stryker and Brierly washed the wound, while McGuire rushed for his
bottle and managed to force some whisky and water between Peter's teeth.
The bullet they found had gone through the body and had come out at the
back, shattering the shoulder-blade. But the hemorrhage had almost
ceased and the wounded man's heart was still beating faintly.

"It's the blood he's lost," muttered Brierly sagely.

"He'll come around all right. You can't kill a man as game as that."

Beth clung to the arms of the chair in which they had placed her. "You
think--he--he'll live?"

"Sure he will. I've seen 'em worse'n that----"

She sank back into her chair, exhausted. She had never fainted in her
life and she wasn't going to begin. But now that all that they could do
had been done for Peter, they turned their attention to Beth. She had
not known how much she needed it. Her hair was singed, her wrists were
raw and bleeding, and her arms, half naked, were red and blistered. Her
dress, soaked with mud and water, was partly torn or burned away.

"She must be put to bed here, Mrs. Bergen," said McGuire. "She'll need
the doctor too."

Beth protested and would not leave the room until the doctor came. But
McGuire, who seemed--and somewhat justly--to have complete faith in the
efficacy of his own remedy, gave her some of the whisky and water to
drink, while Aunt Tillie washed her face and rubbed vaseline upon her
arms, crooning over her all the while in the comforting way of women of
her kind, to the end that Beth felt the pain of her body lessen.

It was not until the doctor arrived with a businesslike air and made his
examination, pronouncing Peter's condition serious but not necessarily
fatal, that the tension at Beth's heart relaxed.

"He--he'll get well, Doctor?" she asked timidly.

"I think so," he said with a smile, "but we've got to have absolute
quiet now. I'd like some one here to help me----"

"If you'd only let me----"

But she read refusal in his eyes as he looked at her critically, and saw
him choose Stryker.

"You're to be put to bed at once," he said dryly. "You'll need attention
too, I'm thinking."

And so Beth, with McGuire's arm supporting and Aunt Tillie's arm around
her, was led to the room adjoining,--the pink room of Miss Peggy
McGuire. McGuire closed the door and questioned her eagerly.

"You say Hawk Kennedy was killed----?"

"I think so--or--or burned," said Beth, now quivering in the reaction
of all that she had experienced. "I--I sent Shad Wells to see. We left
him lying there. We just had time to get away. The fire was all around.
We got to the swamp--into the water--but he----" She put her face into
her hands, trembling with the recollection. "It was horrible. I can't
talk about it."

Aunt Tillie glared at McGuire, but he still questioned uneasily.

"You--you saw nothing of a blue envelope, a paper----"

With an effort Beth lowered her hands and replied:

"No--Peter--Mr. Nichols thought of it. Shad Wells will bring it--if it
isn't burned."

"Oh, I see----"

"But what you can't see," broke in Aunt Tillie with spirit, "is that the
poor child ain't fit to answer any more questions to-night. And she
shan't."

"Er--no--of course," said McGuire, and went out.

If it had been an eventful day for Peter and Beth, the night was to
prove eventful for McGuire, for not content to wait the arrival of Shad
Wells, he took his courage in his hands and with Brierly drove at once
to the scene of the disaster. The wind had died and a gentle rain began
to fall, but the fire was burning fiercely.

The other matter in McGuire's thoughts was so much the more important to
him that he had given little thought to the damage to his property. His
forests might all be burned down for all that he cared.

At the spot to which Beth and Peter had been carried he met Shad and the
party of men that had been looking for Hawk Kennedy, but the place where
the fight had taken place was still a mass of fallen trees and branches
all flaming hotly and it was impossible for any one to get within
several hundred yards of it.

There seemed little doubt as to the fate of his enemy. Jonathan K.
McGuire stood at the edge of the burned area, peering into the glowing
embers. His look was grim but there was no smile of triumph at his lips.
In his moments of madness he had often wished Hawk Kennedy dead, but
never had he wished him such a death as this. He questioned Shad sharply
as to his share in the adventure, satisfying himself at last that the
man had told a true story, and then, noting his wounded arm, sent him
back with Brierly in the car to Black Rock House for medical treatment
with orders to send the chauffeur with the limousine.

The rain was now falling fast, but Jonathan K. McGuire did not seem to
be aware of it. His gaze was on the forest, on that of the burning area
nearest him where the fire still flamed the hottest, beneath the embers
of which lay the one dreadful secret of his life. Even where he stood
the heat was intense, but he did not seem to be aware of it, nor did he
follow the others when they retreated to a more comfortable spot. No one
knew why he waited or of what he was thinking, unless of the damage to
the Reserve and what the loss in money meant to him. They could not
guess that pity and fear waged their war in his heart--pity that any man
should die such a death--fear that the man he thought of should not die
it.

But as the hours lengthened and there was no report brought to him of
any injured man, being found in the forest near by, he seemed to know
that Peter Nichols had not struck for Beth in vain.

When the limousine came, he sent the other watchers home, and got into
it, sitting in solitary grandeur in his wet clothing, peering out of the
window. The glow of the flames grew dimmer and died at last with the
first pale light to the eastward which announced the coming of the dawn.
A light drizzle was still falling when it grew light enough to see.
McGuire got down and without awakening the sleeping chauffeur went
forth into the spectral woods. He knew where the old tool cabin had
stood and, from the description Wells had given him, had gained a
general idea of where the fight had taken place--two hundred yards from
the edge of the swamp where Nichols and the Cameron girl had been found,
and nearly in a line with the biggest of the swamp-maples, the trunk of
which still stood, a melancholy skeleton of its former grandeur.

The ground was still hot under the mud and cinders, but not painfully
so, and he was not aware of any discomfort. Clouds of steam rose and
among them he moved like the ghost of a sin, bent, eager, searching with
heavy eyes for what he hoped and what he feared to find. The old tool
house had disappeared, but he saw a heap of ashes and among them the
shapes of saws and iron picks and shovels. But he passed them by, making
a straight line to the eastward and keeping his gaze upon the charred
and blackened earth, missing nothing to right and left, fallen branches,
heaps of rubbish, mounds of earth.

Suddenly startled, McGuire halted and stood for a long moment.... Then,
his hand before his eyes he turned away and slowly made his way back to
his automobile. But there was no triumph in his eyes. A power greater
than his own had avenged Ben Cameron.

His vigil was over--his nightly vigil--the vigil of years. He made his
way to his car and, awakening his chauffeur, told him to drive to Black
Rock House. But when he reached home, the set look that his face had
worn for so many weeks had disappeared. And in its place among the
relaxed muscles which showed his years, sat the benignity of a new
resolution.

It was broad daylight when he quietly knocked at the door of the room in
which the injured man lay. The doctor came to the door. It seemed that
all immediate danger of a further collapse had passed for the heart was
stronger and unless there was a setback Peter Nichols had an excellent
chance of recovery. McGuire himself offered to watch beside the bed; but
the doctor explained that a trained nurse was already on the way from
Philadelphia and would arrive at any moment. So McGuire went to his own
room and, sinking into his armchair, slept for the first time in many
weeks at peace, smiling his benignant smile.

       *       *       *       *       *

Beth awoke in the pink room of Miss Peggy McGuire in which she had been
put to bed. She lay for a moment still stupefied, her brain struggling
against the effects of the sleeping potion that the doctor had given her
and then slowly straightened to a sitting posture, regarding in
bewilderment the embroidered night-robe which she wore and the flowered
pink hangings at the windows. She couldn't at first understand the pain
at her head and other aches and pains which seemed to come mysteriously
into being. But she heard a familiar voice at her ear and saw the
anxious face of Aunt Tillie, who rose from the chair at her bedside.

"Aunt Tillie!" she whispered.

"It's all right, dearie," said the old woman. "You're to lie quite still
until the doctor sees you----"

"The doctor----? Oh, I--I remember----" And then with a sudden awakening
to full consciousness--"Peter!" she gasped.

"He's better, dearie."

"But what does the doctor say?"

"He's doin' as well as possible----"

"Will he get well?"

"Yes, yes. The doctor is very hopeful."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. He's sleepin' now--quiet--ye'd better just lie back again."

"But I want to go to him, Aunt Tillie. I want to."

"No. Ye can't, dearie--not now."

And so by dint of reassurance and persuasion, Aunt Tillie prevailed upon
the girl to lie back upon her pillows and after a while she slept again.

But Beth was no weakling and when the doctor came into her room some
time later, the effects of her potion wearing away, she awoke to full
consciousness. He saw the imploring question in her eyes, before he took
her pulse and answered it with a quick smile.

"He's all right. Heart coming on nicely----"

"Will h-he live?" she gasped.

"He'll be a fool if he doesn't."

"What----?"

"I'd be, if I knew there was a girl like you in the next room with that
kind of look in her eyes asking for me."

But his remark went over Beth's head.

"He's better?"

"Yes. Conscious too. But he'll have to be kept quiet."

"D-did he speak of me?"

The doctor was taking her pulse and put on a professional air which hid
his inward smiles and provoked a repetition of her question.

"D-did he?" she repeated softly.

"Oh, yes," he said with a laugh. "He won't talk of anything else. I had
to give him a hypodermic to make him stop."

Beth was silent for a moment. And then timidly----

"What did he say?"

"Oh, just that you saved his life, that's all."

"Nothing else?"

"Oh, yes. Now that I come to think of it, he did."

"What?"

"That he wanted to see you."

"Oh! And can I----?"

The doctor snapped his watch and relinquished her wrist with a smile.

"If everything goes well--to-morrow--for two minutes--just two minutes,
you understand."

"Not until to-morrow?" she asked ruefully.

"You ought to be glad to see him alive at all. He had a narrow shave of
it. An inch or two lower----" And then with a smile, "But he's going to
get well, I promise you that."

"Oh, thanks," said Beth gratefully.

"Don't worry. And if you behave yourself I'll let you get up after
lunch." He gave some directions to Mrs. Bergen as to the treatment of
Beth's blistered arms, and went out.

So in spite of the pain that she still suffered, Beth was content. At
least she was content until Aunt Tillie brought her Miss Peggy McGuire's
silver hand-mirror and she saw the reflection of her once beautiful
self.

"Aunt Tillie!" she gasped. "I'm a sight."

"Maybe--but that's a sight better than bein' burned to death," said the
old lady, soberly.

"My hair----!"

"It's only frizzled. They say that's good for the hair," she said
cheerfully.

"Oh, well," sighed Beth as she laid the mirror down beside her. "I guess
I ought to be glad I'm alive after----"

And then with an uncontrollable shudder, she asked, "And--and--_him_?"

"Dead," said Aunt Tillie with unction. "Burned to a crisp."

Beth gasped but said nothing more. She didn't want to think of
yesterday, but she couldn't help it--the horrors that she had passed
through--the fate that might have been in store for her, if--Peter
hadn't found her in time!

Beth relaxed in comfort while Aunt Tillie bathed and anointed her,
brushed out the hair that was "frizzled," refreshing and restoring her
patient, so that after lunch she got up and put on the clothing that had
been brought from her home. Her arms were swathed in bandages from
wrists to shoulders but the pain was much less, so, when McGuire knocked
at the door and asked if he might see her, she was sitting in a chair by
the window and greeted him with a smile.

He entered timidly and awkwardly, rubbing his fingers uncomfortably
against the palms of his hands.

"They tell me you're feelin' better, Miss Cameron," he said soberly.
"I--I'd like to talk to you for a moment," and with a glance at Aunt
Tillie, "alone if you don't mind."

Aunt Tillie gathered up some bandages and grudgingly departed.

McGuire came forward slowly and sank into a chair beside Beth's, laying
his hand timidly on hers.

"I thank God nothing happened to you, child, and I hope you believe me
when I say it," he began in an uncertain voice.

"Oh, yes, sir, I do."

"Because the only thing that matters to me now is setting myself
straight with you and Mr. Nichols."

He paused in a difficulty of speech and then went on.

"He--Mr. Nichols has told you everything----?"

Beth wagged her head like a solemn child and then laid her other hand on
his.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for you," she said.

"You mustn't say that," he muttered. "I--I've done you a great
wrong--not trying to find out about Ben Cameron--not trying to find
_you_. But I've suffered for it, Miss----" And then eagerly----"You
don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?"

"No, Mr. McGuire."

"I ought to have told what happened. I ought to have tried to find out
if Ben Cameron had any kin. I did wrong. But I've paid for it. I've
never had a happy hour since I claimed that mine that didn't belong to
me. I've made a lot of money but what I did has been hanging over me for
years making an old man of me before my time----"

"Oh, please don't be unhappy any more----"

"Let me talk Miss--Beth. I've got to tell you. It'll make me feel a lot
easier." Beth smoothed his hand reassuringly and he clasped hers eagerly
as though in gratitude. "I never was much good when I was a lad, Beth,
and I never could get along even after I got married. It wasn't in me
somehow. I was pretty straight as young fellows go but nothing went
right for me. I was a failure. And then----"

He paused a moment with bent head but Beth didn't speak. It was all very
painful to her.

"Hawk Kennedy killed your father. But I was a crook too. I left Hawk
there without water to die. It was a horrible thing to do--even after
what he'd done to me. My God! Maybe I didn't suffer for that! I was glad
when I learned Hawk didn't die, even though I knew from that time that
he'd be hanging over me like a curse. He did for years and years. I knew
he'd turn up some day, I tried to forget, but I couldn't. The sight of
him was always with me."

"How terrible!" whispered Beth.

"But from that moment everything I did went well. Money came fast. I
wasn't a bad business man, but even a bad business man could have put
_that_ deal through. I sold out the mine. I've got the figures and I'm
going to show them to you, because they're yours to see. With the money
I made some good investments. That money made more money and more
besides. Making money got to be my passion. It was the only thing I
cared for--except my girls--and it was the only thing that made me
forget."

"Please don't think you've got to tell me any more."

"Yes, I want to. I don't know how much I'm worth to-day." And then in a
confidential whisper--"I couldn't tell within half a million or so, but
I guess it ain't far short of ten millions, Beth. You're the only person
in the world outside the Treasury Department that knows how much I'm
worth. I'm telling you. I've never told anybody--not even Peggy. And the
reason I'm telling you is because, you've got to know, because I can't
sleep sound yet, until I straighten this thing out with you. It didn't
take much persuading for Mr. Nichols to show me what I had to do when
he'd found out, because everything I've got comes from money I took from
you. And I'm going to give you what belongs to you, the full amount I
got for that mine with interest to date. It's not mine. It's yours and
you're a rich girl, Beth----"

"I won't know what to do with all that money, Mr. McGuire," said Beth in
an awed voice.

"Oh, yes, you will. I've been thinking it all out. It's a deed by gift.
We'll have to have a consideration to make it binding. We may have to
put in the facts that I've been--er--only a sort of trustee of the
proceeds of the 'Tarantula' mine. I've got a good lawyer. He'll know
what to do--how to fix it."

"I--I'm sure I'm very grateful."

"You needn't be." He paused and laid his hand over hers again. "But if
it's all the same to you, I'd rather not have much talk about it--just
what's said in the deed--to explain."

"I'll say nothin' you don't want said."

"I knew you wouldn't. Until the papers are drawn I'd rather you wouldn't
speak of it."

"I won't."

"You're a good girl. I--I'd like to see you happy. If money will make
you happy, I'm glad I can help."

"You've been very kind, Mr. McGuire--and generous. I can't seem to think
about all that money. It's just like a fairy tale."

"And you forgive me--for what I did----? You forgive me, Beth?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. McGuire. Don't say anythin' more about it--please!"

The old man bent his head and kissed her hand and then with a great sigh
of relief straightened and rose.

"Thank God!" he said quietly. And bidding her good-by he walked from the
room.




CHAPTER XXIII

A VISITOR


The two minutes permitted by the doctor had come and gone. There had
been much to say with too little time to say it in. For Beth, admonished
that the patient must be kept quiet, and torn between joy at Peter's
promised recovery and pity for his pale face, could only look at him and
murmur soothing phrases, while Peter merely smiled and held her hand.
But that, it seemed, was enough, for Beth read in his eyes that what had
happened had merely set an enduring seal upon the affection of both of
them.

With the promise that she could see him again on the morrow, Beth went
back to her room. She had wanted to return to the village, but McGuire
had insisted upon her staying where she was under the care of the doctor
until what they were pleased to call the shock to her system had yielded
to medical treatment. Beth said nothing. She was already herself and
quite able to take up her life just where she had left it, but she
agreed to stay in McGuire's house. It seemed to make him happier when
she acquiesced in his wishes. Besides, it was nice to be waited on and
to be next to the room where the convalescent was.

But the revelation as to Peter's identity could not be long delayed.
Brierly had brought the tale back from the lumber camp, and the village
was all agog with excitement. But Beth had seen no one but Mr. McGuire
and Aunt Tillie, and Peter had requested that no one should tell her but
himself. And so in a day or so when Beth went into Peter's room she
found him with a color in his cheeks, and wearing a quizzical smile.

"I thought you were never coming, Beth," he said.

"I came as soon as they'd let me, Peter. Do you feel stronger?"

"Every hour. Better when you're here. And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right."

He looked at her with his head on one side.

"Do you think you could stand hearing something very terrible about me,
Beth?"

She glanced at him anxiously and then a smile of perfect faith responded
to his. She knew that he was getting well now, because this was a touch
of his old humor.

"H-m. I guess so. I don't believe it can be so _very_ terrible, Peter."

"It is--_very_ terrible, Beth."

But the pressure of his fingers was reassuring.

"I'm listenin'," she said.

"Well, you know, you told me once that you'd marry me no matter what I'd
been----"

"Yes. I meant that, Peter. I mean it now. It's what you are----"

Peter Nichols chuckled. It was his last chuckle as Peter Nichols.

"Well, I'm not what you thought I was. I've been acting under false
colors--under false pretenses. My name isn't Peter Nichols. It's Peter
Nicholaevitch----"

"Then you _are_ all Russian!" she said.

Peter shook his head.

"No. Only half of me. But I used to live in Russia--at a place called
Zukovo. The thing I wanted to tell you was that they fired me out
because they didn't want me there."

"You! How dared they! I'd like to give them a piece of my mind," said
Beth indignantly.

"It wouldn't have done any good. I tried to do that."

"And wouldn't they listen?"

"No. They burned my--my house and tried to shoot me."

"Oh! How could they!" And then, gently, "Oh, Peter. You _have_ had
troubles, haven't you?"

"I don't mind. If I hadn't had them, I wouldn't have come here and I
wouldn't have found you."

"So after all, I ought to be glad they did fire you out," she said
gently.

"But aren't you curious to know _why_ they did?"

"I am, if you want to tell me, but even if it was bad, I don't care
_what_ you did, Peter."

He took her fingers to his lips.

"It wasn't so very bad after all, Beth. It wasn't so much what I did as
what my--er--my family had done that made them angry."

"Well, _you_ weren't responsible for what your kin-folks did."

Peter laughed softly.

"_They_ seemed to think so. My--er--my kin-folks were mixed up in
politics in Russia and one of my cousins had a pretty big job--too big a
job for _him_ and that's the truth." A cloud passed for a moment over
Peter's face and he looked away.

"But what did _his_ job have to do with _you_?" she asked.

"Well, you see, we were all mixed up with him, just by being related--at
least that's what the people thought. And so when my cousin did a lot of
things the people thought he oughtn't to do and didn't do a lot of other
things that they thought he _ought_ to have done, they believed that I
was just the same sort of man that he was."

"How unjust, Peter!"

He smiled at the ceiling.

"I thought so. I told them what I thought. I did what I could to
straighten things out and to help them, but they wouldn't listen.
Instead they burned my--my house down and I had to run away."

"How terrible for you!" And then, after a pause, "Was it a pretty house,
Peter?"

"Yes," he replied slowly, "it was. A very pretty house--in the midst of
a forest, with great pines all about it. I wish they hadn't burned that
house, Beth, because I loved it."

"Poor dear! I'm _so_ sorry."

"I thought you would be, because it was a big house, with pictures,
books, music----"

"All burned! Land's sakes alive!"

"And a wonderful grand piano."

"Oh, Peter!" And then with a flash of joy, "But you're goin' to have
another grand piano just like it soon."

"Am I? Who's going to give it to me?"

"_I_ am," said Beth quietly. "And another house and pictures and books
and music."

He read her expression eagerly.

"Mr. McGuire has told you?" he asked.

She nodded. "You knew?"

"Yes," he replied. "He told me yesterday."

"Isn't it wonderful?" she whispered. And then went on rapidly, "So you
see, Peter, maybe I can be some good to you after all."

He pressed her fingers, enjoying her happiness.

"I can hardly believe it's true," she gasped, "but it must be, because
Mr. McGuire had his lawyer here yesterday talkin' about it----"

"Yes. It's true. I think he's pretty happy to get all that off his
conscience. You're a rich girl, Beth." And then, with a slow smile,
"That was one of the reasons why I wanted to talk with you about who _I_
was. You see, I thought that now that you're going to have all this
money, you might want to change your mind about marrying a forester
chap who--who just wants to try to show the trees how to grow."

"Peter! Don't make fun of me. _Please._ And you hurt me so!" she
reproached him. "You know I'll never want to change my mind ever,
_ever_--even if I had all the money in the world."

He laughed, drew her face down to his and whispered, "Beth, dear. I knew
you wouldn't want to--but I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Well, I _have_ said it. And I don't want you ever to say such a thing
again. As if I cared for anythin'--anythin' but _you_."

He kissed her on the lips and she straightened.

"I wanted to hear you say _that_ too," he said with a laugh.

And then, after a silence which they both improved by gazing at each
other mutely, "But you don't seem very curious about who I am."

Beth pressed his fingers confidently. What he was to _her_ mattered a
great deal--and she realized that nothing else did. But she knew that
something was required of her. And so, "Oh, yes. Indeed I am,
Peter,--awfully curious," she said politely.

"Well, you know, Beth, I'm not really so poor as I seem to be. I've got
a lot of securities in a bank in Russia, because nobody knew where they
were and so they couldn't take them."

"And they would have taken your money too?"

"Yes. When this cousin of mine--his name was Nicholas--when Nicholas was
killed----"

"They killed him! Who?"

"The Bolsheviki--they killed Nicholas and his whole family--his wife,
son and four daughters----"

"Peter!" Beth started up and stared at him in startled bewilderment, as
she remembered the talks she had had with him about the Russian
Revolution. "Nicholas----!" she gasped. "His wife--son--daughters. He
had the same name as--as the Czar--!" And as her gaze met his again she
seemed to guess.... "Peter!" she gasped. "What--what do you mean?"

"I mean that it was the Little Father--the Czar--who was my cousin,
Beth."

She stared at Peter in awe and a kind of fear of this new element in
their relations.

"And--and you----? You're----?"

"I'm just Peter Nichols----," he said with a laugh.

"But over there----"

"I'm nothing. They chucked us all out, the Bolsheviki--every last one of
us that had a handle to his name."

"A handle----?"

"Yes. I used to be Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch of Zukovo and
Galitzin----"

"G-Grand Duke Peter!" she whispered in a daze. And then, "Oh--how--how
_could_ you?" she gasped.

Peter laughed.

"I couldn't help it, Beth. I was born that--way. But you _will_ forgive
me, won't you?"

"Forgive----? Oh--it--it makes such a difference to find--you're not
_you_--but somebody else----"

"No. I _am_--_me_. I'm not anybody else. But I had to tell
you--sometime. You don't think any the less of me, do you, Beth?"

"I--I don't know _what_ to think. I'm so--you're so----"

"What?"

"Grand--and I'm----"

Peter caught her hands and made her look at him.

"You're the only woman in the world I've ever wanted--the only
one--and you've promised me you'd marry me--you've promised, Beth."

Her fingers moved gently in his and her gaze, wide-eyed, sought his.

"And it won't make any difference----?"

"No, Beth. Why should you think that?"

"I--I was afraid--it might," she gasped. And then for a while Peter held
her hands, whispering, while Beth, still abashed, answered in
monosyllables, nodding from time to time.

Later the nurse entered, her glance on her wrist-watch.

"Time's up," she said. And Beth rose as one in a dream and moved slowly
around the foot of the bed to the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jonathan K. McGuire had been as much astonished as Beth at the
revelation of Peter's identity, and the service that Peter had rendered
him made him more than anxious to show his appreciation by doing
everything he could for the wounded man's comfort and happiness. He
visited the bedside daily and told Peter of his conversation with Beth,
and of the plans that he was making for her future--which now, it
seemed, was Peter's future also. Peter told him something of his own
history and how he had met Jim Coast on the _Bermudian_. Then McGuire
related the story of the suppression of the outbreak at the lumber camp
by the Sheriff and men from May's Landing, and the arrest of Flynn and
Jacobi on charges of assault and incendiarism. Some of the men were to
be deported as dangerous "Reds." Brierly had been temporarily put in
charge at the Mills and Jesse Brown, now much chastened, was helping
McGuire to restore order. Shad Wells was technically under arrest, for
the coroner had "viewed" the body of the Russian Committeeman before it
had been removed by his friends and buried, and taken the testimony. But
McGuire had given bail and arranged for a hearing both as to the
shooting of and the death of Hawk Kennedy, when Peter was well enough to
go to May's Landing.

The death of Hawk had produced a remarkable change in the character and
personality of the owner of the Black Rock Reserve. His back was
straighter, his look more direct, and he entered with avidity into the
business of bringing order out of the chaos that had resulted from the
riot. His word carried some weight, his money more, and with the
completion of his arrangements with Beth Cameron, he drew again the
breath of a free man.

But of all this he had said nothing to Peggy, his daughter. He had
neither written to her nor telephoned, for he had no desire that she
should know more than the obvious facts as to the death of Hawk Kennedy,
for conflicting reports would lead to questions. Since she had suspected
nothing, it was needless to bring that horror to her notice, now that
the threat had passed. McGuire was a little afraid of his colorful
daughter. She talked too much and it had been decided that nobody,
except the lawyer, Peter, Beth and Mrs. Bergen should know the source of
Beth's sudden and unexpected inheritance. The girl had merely fallen
heir to the estate of her father, who had died many years before, not
leaving any record of this daughter, who had at last been found. All of
which was the truth, so far as it went, and was enough of a story to
tell Peggy when he should see her.

But Jonathan McGuire found himself somewhat disturbed when he learned
one morning over the telephone that Peggy McGuire and a guest were on
their way to Black Rock House for the week-end. The message came from
the clerk of the hotel, and since Peggy and her friend had already
started from New York, he knew of no way to intercept them. There was
nothing to do but make the best of the situation. Peter had the best
guest room, but Beth had decided the day before to return to the
cottage, which was greatly in need of her attention. And so McGuire
informed Mrs. Bergen of the impending visit and gave orders that Miss
Peggy's room and a room in the wing should be prepared for the
newcomers.

Beth had no wish to meet Peggy McGuire in this house after the scene
with Peter in the Cabin, when the young lady had last visited Black
Rock, for that encounter had given Beth glimpses of the kind of thoughts
beneath the pretty toques and _cerise_ veils that had once been the
apple of her admiring eyes. But as luck would have it, as Beth finished
her afternoon's visit to Peter's bedside and hurried down to get away to
the village before the visitors arrived, Miss Peggy's low runabout
roared up to the portico. Beth's first impulse was to draw back and go
out through the kitchen, but the glances of the two girls met, Peggy's
in instant recognition. And so Beth tilted her chin and walked down the
steps just beside the machine, aware of an elegantly attired lady with a
doll-like prettiness who sat beside Peggy, oblivious of the sharp
invisible daggers which shot from eye to eye.

"_You_ here!" said Peggy, with an insulting shrug.

Beth merely went her way. But no feminine adept of the art of give and
take could have showed a more perfect example of studied indifference
than Beth did. It was quite true that her cheeks burned as she went down
the drive and that she wished that Peter were well out of the house so
long as Peggy was in it.

But Peggy McGuire could know nothing of Beth's feelings and cared not at
all what she thought or felt. Peggy McGuire was too much concerned with
the importance of the visitor that she had brought with her, the first
live princess that she had succeeded in bringing into captivity. But
Anastasie Galitzin had not missed the little by-play and inquired with
some amusement as to the very pretty girl who had come out of the house.

"Oh--the housekeeper's niece," replied Peggy, in her boarding school
French. "I don't like her. I thought she'd gone. She's been having a
_petite affaire_ with our new forester and superintendent."

Anastasie Galitzin, who was in the act of descending from the machine,
remained poised for a moment, as it were, in midair, staring at her
hostess.

"Ah!" she said. "_Vraiment!_"

By this time the noise of the motor had brought Stryker and the
downstairs maid from the house, and in the confusion of carrying the
luggage indoors, the conversation terminated. It was not until Peggy's
noisy greetings to her father in the hallway were concluded and the
introduction of her new guest accomplished that Jonathan McGuire was
permitted to tell her in a few words the history of the past week, and
of the injury to the superintendent, who lay upstairs in the room of the
guest of honor.

"H-m," sniffed Peggy, "I don't see why you had to bring him _here_!"

"It's a long story, Peg," said McGuire calmly. "I'll tell you presently.
Of course the Princess is very welcome, but I couldn't let him be taken
anywhere but here, after he'd behaved so fine all through the rioting."

"Well, it seems to me," Peggy began, when the voice of her guest cut in
rather sharply.

"_Pierre!_" gasped Anastasie sharply, and then, in her pretty broken
English, "You say, Monsieur, it is he--Pe-ter Nichols--who 'as been
badly 'urt?"

"Yes, ma'am, pretty bad--shot through the breast----"

"_Sainte Vierge!_"

"But he's getting on all right now. He'll be sitting up in a day or so,
the doctor says. Did you know him, ma'am?"

Anastasie Galitzin made no reply, and only stared at her host, breathing
with some difficulty. Peggy, who had been watching her startled face,
found herself intensely curious. But as she would have questioned, the
Princess recovered herself with an effort.

"No--yes, Monsieur. It--it is nothing. But if you please--I should like
to go at once to my room."

And Peggy and her father, both of them much mystified, led the way up
the stairs and to the room that had been prepared in the wing of the
house, Stryker following with the bag and dressing case.

At the door of the room the Princess begged Peggy to excuse her,
pleading weariness, and so the astonished and curious hostess was forced
to relinquish her latest social conquest and seek her own room, there to
meditate upon the extraordinary thing that had happened. Why was
Anastasie Galitzin so perturbed at learning of the wounds of Peter
Nichols? What did it all mean? Had she known him somewhere in the
past--in England--in Russia? What was he to her?

But in a moment Jonathan McGuire joined her and revealed the identity of
his mysterious forester and superintendent. At first Peggy was
incredulous, then listened while her father told a story, half true,
half fictitious, which had been carefully planned to answer all the
requirements of the situation. And unaware of the cyclonic disturbances
he was causing in the breast of his only child, he told her of Beth and
Peter, and of the evidences of their devotion each to the other in spite
of their difference in station. Peggy's small soul squirmed during the
recital, but she only listened and said nothing. She realized that in a
situation such as this mere words on her part would be superfluous. The
Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch! Here at Black Rock! Her pop's
superintendent! And she had not known. She had even insulted him. It was
hideous!

And the Princess? The deep emotion that she had shown on hearing of the
dangerous wound of the convalescent was now explained. But only partly
so. The look that Peggy had surprised in Anastasie Galitzin's face meant
something more than mere solicitude for the safety of one of Russia's
banished Grand Dukes. It was the Princess who had been shocked at the
information, but it was the woman who had showed pain. Was there--had
there ever been--anything between Anastasie Galitzin and this--this
Peter Nichols?

Facts about the early stages of her acquaintanceship with Anastasie
Galitzin now loomed up with an unpleasant definiteness. She had been
much flattered that so important a personage had shown her such
distinguished marks of favor and had rejoiced in the celerity with which
the intimacy had been established. The thought that the Princess
Galitzin had known all the while that the Grand Duke was living
incognito at Black Rock and had merely used Peggy as a means to bring
about this visit was not a pleasant one to Peggy. But the fact was now
quite obvious. She had been making a convenience of her. And what was
now to be the result of this visit? The Princess did not yet know of the
engagement of His Highness to the scullery maid. Who was to tell her?

The snobbish little heart of Peggy McGuire later gained some
consolation, for Anastasie Galitzin emerged from her room refreshed and
invigorated, and lent much grace to the dinner table, telling father and
daughter something of the early life of the convalescent, exhibiting a
warm friendship which could be satisfied with nothing less than a visit
on the morrow to the sick-room. And His Highness now very much on the
mend, sent word, with the doctor's permission, that he would be charmed
to receive the Princess Galitzin at ten in the morning.

What happened in the room of the convalescent was never related to Peggy
McGuire. But Anastasie emerged with her head erect, her pretty face
wearing the fixed smile of the eternally bored. And then she told Peggy
that she had decided to return to New York. So after packing her
belongings, she got into Peggy's car and was driven much against the
will of her hostess to the Bergen cottage. Peggy wouldn't get out of the
car but Anastasie went to the door and knocked. Beth came out with her
sleeves rolled above her elbows, her fingers covered with flour. The
Princess Galitzin vanished inside and the door was closed. Her call
lasted ten minutes while Peggy cooled her heels. But whether the visit
had been prompted by goodness of heart or whether by a curiosity to
study the lady of Peter's choice at close range, no one will ever know.
Beth was very polite to her and though she identified her without
difficulty as the heliotrope-envelope lady, she offered her some of the
"cookies" that she had made for Peter, and expressed the warmest thanks
for her kind wishes. She saw Anastasie Galitzin to the door, marking her
heightened color and wondering what her fur coat had cost. Beth couldn't
help thinking, whatever her motive in coming, that the Princess Galitzin
was a very beautiful lady and that her manners had been lovely. But it
was with a sigh of relief that she saw the red car vanish down the road
in a cloud of dust.

       *       *       *       *       *

His convalescence begun, Peter recovered rapidly and in three weeks more
he was himself again. In those three weeks many interesting things had
happened.

Jonathan K. McGuire had held a series of important conferences with
Peter and Mrs. Bergen who seemed to have grown ten years younger. And
one fine day after a protracted visit to New York with Mrs. Bergen, he
returned laden with mysterious packages and boxes, and stopped at the
door of the cottage, where Peter was taking a lunch of Beth's cooking.

It was a beautiful surprise. Mrs. Bergen whispered in Beth's ear and
Beth followed her into the kitchen, where the contents of one or two of
the boxes were exposed to Beth's astonished gaze. Peter, of course,
being in the secret, kept aloof, awaiting the result of Mrs. Bergen's
disclosures. But when Beth came back into the plush-covered parlor, he
revealed his share in the conspiracy by producing, with the skill of a
conjurer taking a rabbit from a silk hat, a minister and a marriage
license, the former having been hidden in the house of a neighbor. And
Jonathan K. McGuire, with something of an air, fully justified by the
difficulties he had been at to secure it, produced a pasteboard box,
which contained another box of beautiful white velvet, which he opened
with pride, exhibiting its contents. On the soft satin lining was a
brooch, containing a ruby as large as Beth's thumbnail.

With a gasp of joy, she gazed at it, for she knew just what it was, the
family jewel that had been sold to the purser of the _Bermudian_. And
then she threw her arms around McGuire's neck and kissed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some weeks later Beth and Peter sat at dusk in the drawing-room of Black
Rock House, for McGuire had turned the whole place over to them for the
honeymoon. The night was chilly, a few flakes of snow had fallen during
the afternoon, so a log fire burned in the fireplace. Peter sat at the
piano playing the "Romance" of Sibelius, for which Beth had asked, but
when it was finished, his fingers, impelled by a thought beyond his own
control, began the opening rumble of the "Revolutionary Étude." The
music was familiar to Beth and it stirred her always because it was
this gorgeous plaint of hope and despair that had at the very first
sounded depths in her own self the existence of which she had never even
dreamed. But to-night Peter played it as she had never heard him play it
before, with all his soul at his finger tips. And she watched his
downcast profile as he stared at vacancy while he played. It was in
moments like these that Beth felt herself groping in the dark after him,
he was so far away. And yet she was not afraid, for she knew that out of
the dreams and mysticism of the half of him that was Russian he would
come back to her,--just Peter Nichols.

He did presently, when his hands fell upon the last chords and he sat
with head still bowed until the last tremor had died. Then he rose and
turned to her. She smiled at him and he joined her on the divan. Their
fingers intertwined and they sat for a long moment looking into the
fire. But Beth knew of what he was thinking and Peter knew that she
knew. Their honeymoon was over. There was work to do in the world.




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    |             Transcriber's Note:                 |
    |                                                 |
    | Typographical errors corrected in the text:     |
    |                                                 |
    | Page   9  Nicolaevitch changed to Nicholaevitch |
    | Page  12  Vasil changed to Vasili               |
    | Page  39  reassuring changed to reassuring      |
    | Page  90  rigidily changaed to rigidly          |
    | Page  94  seee changed to see                   |
    | Page 158  Andy should read Jesse                |
    | Page 164  the changed to he                     |
    | Page 188  Well's changed to Wells's             |
    | Page 353  musn't changed to mustn't             |
    | Page 355  Its changed to It's                   |
    | Page 362  Lukovo changed to Zukovo              |
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