Out of the Primitive
by Robert Ames Bennet
[Illustration: Lord James dropped without a groan. “You
coward!—you murderer!” she gasped. Chapter XXX]
OUT OF THE PRIMITIVE
BY ROBERT AMES BENNET
Author of “Into the Primitive,” etc.
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLORS BY ALLEN T. TRUE
CHAPTER I. THE
LORD AND MAN
CHAPTER IV. THE
EARL AND THE
CHAPTER V. A
THREE OF A KIND
CHAPTER VII. THE
FLINT AND STEEL
CHAPTER X. THE
SHADOW OF DOUBT
CHAPTER XII. THE
PLANS AND OTHER
CHAPTER XVI. THE
CHAPTER XIX. THE
FALL OF MAN
CHAPTER XX. DE
CHAPTER XXI. THE
CHAPTER XXIII. A
THE WAY OF A
TURNING THE ODD
CHAPTER XXVII. A
THE SHORTEST WAY
CHAPTER XXX. THE
END OF DOUBT
CHAPTER XXXI. A
ABOVE THE ABYSS
TO MY FRIEND
CHAPTER I. THE CASTAWAYS
The second night north of the Zambezi, as well as the first, the
little tramp rescue steamer had run out many miles into the offing and
laid-to during the hours of darkness. The vicinity of the coral reefs
that fringe the southeast coast of Africa is decidedly undesirable on
When the Right Honorable the Earl of Avondale came out of his
close, hot stateroom into the refreshing coolness that preceded the
dawn, the position of the Southern Cross, scintillating in the
blue-black sky to port, told him that the steamer was headed in for
the coast. The black surface of the quiet sea crinkled with lines of
phosphorescent light under the ruffling of the faint breeze, which
crept offshore heavy with the stench of rotting vegetation. It was
evident that the ship was already close in again to the Mozambique
Lord James sniffed the rank odor, and hastened to make his way
forward to the bridge. As he neared the foot of the ladder, his
resilient step and the snowy whiteness of his linen suit attracted the
attention of the watcher above on the bridge.
“Good-morning, m' lord,” the officer called down in a bluff but
respectful tone. “You're on deck early.”
“Hullo, Meggs! That you?” replied his lordship, mounting the steps
with youthful agility. “It seems you're still earlier.”
“Knowing your lordship's anxiety, I decided to run in, so that we
could renew the search with the first glimmer of daylight,” explained
the skipper. “We're now barely under headway. According to the smell,
we're as near those reefs as I care to venture in the dark.”
“Right-o! We'll lose no time,” approved the young earl. “D'you
still think to-day is apt to tell the tale, one way or the other?”
“Aye, your lordship. I may be mistaken; but, as I told you,
reckoning together all the probabilities, we should to-day cover the
spot where the Impala must have been driven on the coral—that
is, unless she foundered in deep water.”
“But, man, you said that was not probable.”
“A new boat should be able to stand the racking of half a dozen
cyclones, m' lord, without straining a bottom plate. No; it's far more
probable she shook off her screw, or something went wrong with the
steering gear or in the engine room. I've recharted her probable
course and that of the cyclone. It was as well for us to begin our
search at the Zambezi, as I told your lordship. But if to-day we fail
to find where she piled her bones on the coral, it's odds we'll not
to-morrow. On beyond, at Port Mozambique, we got only the north rim of
the storm. I put in there for shelter when the barometer dropped.”
“That was on your run south. Glad I had the luck to chance on a man
who knows the coast as you do,” remarked Lord James. “Look at those
steamers Mr. Leslie chartered by cable—a good week the start of us,
and still beating the coverts down there along Sofala! Wasting time!
If only I'd not gone off on that shunt to India—And they six weeks in
these damnable swamps—if they won ashore at all! You still believe
they had a chance of that?”
“Aye. As I explained to your lordship, if the
lost all her boats before she struck, there's a fair probability that
the water inside the reefs—”
“Yes, yes, to be sure! If there was the slightest chance for any
one aboard—Lady Bayrose, Miss Leslie and their maids, the only women
passengers, and a British ship! Everything must have been done to save
them. While Tom—he'd be sure to make the shore, if that was within
the bounds of possibility. Yet even if they were cast up alive—six
weeks on the vilest stretch of coast between Zanzibar and the Zambezi!
They may be dying of the fever now—this very hour! Deuce take it,
man! d'you wonder I'm impatient?”
“Aye, m'lord! But here's the dawn, and McPhee is keeping up a full
head of steam. We'll soon be doing seven knots.”
As he spoke, the skipper turned to step into the pilot house. Lord
James faced about to the eastern sky, where the gray dawn was
beginning to lessen the star-gemmed blackness above the watery
horizon. Swiftly the faint glow brightened and became tinged with
pink. The day was approaching with the suddenness of the tropical
sunrise. In quick succession, the pink shaded to rose, the rose to
crimson and scarlet splendor; and then the sun came leaping above the
horizon, to flood sea and sky with its dazzling effulgence.
Captain Meggs had entered the pilot house in the blackness of
night. He came out in the full glare of day. Lord James had turned his
back to the sun. He was staring at the bank of white mist that, less
than two miles to westward, shrouded the swampy coast. Meggs had
brought out two pairs of binoculars, one of which he handed to his
“Your lordship sees,” he remarked. “We're none too far out from the
“Beastly mist!” complained Lord James, his handsome high-bred face
creased with impatience and anxiety. “D'you fancy we're anywhere near
the islet from which we put off last evening?”
“I've tried to hold our position, m'lord. But these Mozambique
Channel currents are so strong, and shift so with the tides, we may
have been either set back or ahead.”
Already the bank of morning mist was beginning to break up and melt
away under the fervent rays of the sun. The young earl raised his
glasses and gazed southwards along the face of the dissolving curtain.
Through and between the ghostly wreaths and wisps of vapor he could
see the winged habitants of the swamps—flamingoes, cranes, pelicans,
ibises, storks, geese, all the countless tropical waterfowl—swimming
and wading about the reedy lagoons or circling up to fly to other
feeding grounds. Opposite the steamer the glasses showed with
startling distinctness a number of hideous crocodiles crawling out on
a slimy mudbank to bask in the sunshine. But nowhere could the
searcher discern a trace of man or of man's habitation.
“Gad! not a sign! Rotten luck!” he muttered.
He turned and swept the four-mile curve of coast around to the
north-northeast. Suddenly he stiffened and held the glasses fixed.
“Look!” he cried. “Off there to the northwards—cliffs!”
“Cliffs? Aye, a headland,” confirmed the skipper.
“Put about for it immediately,” directed Lord James. “If they were
cast up here, they'd not have lingered in these vile bogs—would have
made for the high ground.”
Meggs nodded, and called the order to the steersman. The ship's
bows swung around, and the little steamer was soon scuttling upcoast
towards the headland, along the outer line of reefs, at a speed of
From the first, Lord James held his glasses fixed on the barren
guano-whitened ledges of the headland. But though he could discern
with quickly increasing distinctness the seabirds that soared about
the cliff crest and nested in its crevices, he perceived no sign of
any signal such as castaways might be expected to place on so
prominent a height.
When, after a full half-hour's run, the steamer skirted along the
edge of the reefs, close in under the seaward face of the headland,
the searcher at last lowered his binoculars, bitterly disappointed.
“Not a trace—not a trace!” he complained. “If they've been here,
they've either gone inland or—we're too late! Six weeks—starvation—
Meggs shook his head reassuringly. “The top of the headland may be
inaccessible, m'lord. We may find that they—Heh! what's that?”
He leaned forward to peer through his glasses at a second headland
that was swinging into view around the corner of the cliffs.
“Smoke!” he cried. “Smoke!—and a flag!”
“Gad!” murmured Lord James, hastily bringing his own glasses to
The second headland was about five miles away. The thin column of
smoke that was ascending from its crest near the outer end, could
plainly be seen with the naked eye. But a sunlit cloud beyond
necessitated the full magnifying power of the binoculars to disclose
the white signal flag that flapped lazily on a slender staff near the
Lord James drew in a deep breath, and his gray eyes glowed with
hope. Here was evidence that not all aboard the wrecked or foundered Impala had been lost.
“Meggs,” he cried, “you're the one and only skipper! It must be
their signal—it is their signal! But which of them?—who went
under and who escaped!—Miss Genevieve? Tom?”
“This Mr. Blake?” ventured Meggs. “I take it, he's some relation to
“No; chum—American engineer. Gad! if he went down! But it's
impossible—Most resourceful man I ever knew. He must have won ashore
with the others. And the women—a British captain! It must be we'll
find crew and all safe!”
“Not on this coast,” replied Meggs. “They'd have lost most their
boats before the Impala struck.”
“In that event—Deuce take it! will we never get there? If I had my
motor-boat now! By Jove, this stretch here between the headlands is
not swamp. It's dry plain—and black. Been burnt over. There's a
place—tree-trunks still smouldering. The grass has been fired within
the last day or two.”
“No one in sight as yet, on the cliffs,” said the skipper, who had
continued to scrutinize the northern headland. “No watch above; no
sign of any one or any camp below. Must all be around on the far side.
We'll clear the point, and run in through the first break in the
“If they fail to show up on this side,” qualified Lord James,
slowly sweeping the cliffs from foot to crest and inland along the dry
About half a mile from the beach the wall of rock was cleft by a
wooded ravine that ran up through the cliff ridge. At its foot was a
grove of trees whose bright green foliage seemed to indicate an
abundance of water. Above, a gigantic baobab tree towered out of the
cleft and upreared its enormous cabbage-shaped crown high over the
crest of the ridge.
In the midst of the general barrenness and aridity, the verdant
oasis of the ravine appeared to be the most certain place to look for
the castaways. Lord James fancied that he could discern a slight haze
of smoke rising out of the cleft beneath the baobab. But if there was
a camp in the cleft bottom, it was hidden from view by the trees and
cliff walls. The only certain sign of man within sight was the signal
flag and the smoke of the smouldering fire in the midst of the seabird
colony near the outer end of the cliff crest.
The steamer was gliding along, with slackened headway, close in
under the headland, when a breath of air opened out the folds of the
tattered white flag. Meggs had been watching it through his
binoculars. He lowered the glasses, and remarked knowingly: “Thought
so. That's no ship's canvas. It's linen or duck—A woman's skirt
“What! Then at least one of the women got ashore!”
“Aye. But d' you make out how that cloth is lashed to the bamboo?
It was knotted on by a landsman. We'll find neither officers nor crew
among the survivors.”
The steamer was now opposite the face of the headland, Meggs sprang
into the pilot house. Within the next few moments the speed of the
vessel fell off to less than a knot. Slowly the old steamer swung her
bows around towards the shore and began feeling her way into a narrow
gap through the half hidden barrier of the reefs, which here were
merged into a single line.
For the time being all the attention of Meggs was concentrated upon
the safe conning of his ship through the dangerous passage. It was
otherwise with Lord James. The last two shiplengths before the turn
had opened up the view around the north corner of the headland. From
the flank of the cliff ridge a wedge of brush-dotted plain extended a
quarter-mile or so to a dense high jungle bordering a small river. The
first glance had shown his lordship that it was of no use to look
beyond the river. The coast trended away northwards in another vast
stretch of fetid swamps and slimy lagoons.
With almost feverish eagerness, he turned to scan the little plain.
First to catch his eye were a dozen or more graceful animals dashing
away from the shore in panic-stricken flight. He turned his glasses
upon them and saw that they were antelope. This was not encouraging.
That the timid animals had been feeding in the vicinity of a human
habitation a full hour after dawn was not probable. Nor did a careful
search of the plain through the glasses disclose any sign of a hut or
tent or the smoke of a camp-fire.
An order from Meggs preparatory for letting go anchor roused Lord
James from his momentary pause. He faced the skipper, who was leaning
from a window of the pilot house.
“Sound your siren, man!” he exclaimed. “There's no camp in sight.
Yet they must be within hearing.”
Meggs nodded, called an order for the lowering of a boat, and drew
back into the pilot house. As he reappeared in the doorway, to step
out on the bridge, the tramp's siren shrilled a blast loud enough to
carry for miles. It echoed and re-echoed along the cliff walls, and
was flung back upon the little steamer in a deafening blare.
Lord James turned to sweep the border of the river jungle with his
glasses. A herd of fat ungainly hippopotami, on the bar out beyond the
mangroves of the river mouth, fixed his gaze. But a moment afterwards
one of the sailors in the bows pointed upwards and yelled excitedly:
“Hi! hi!—there aloft! Lookut th' bloomin' mad 'un!”
At last—one of the castaways! High above, on the very brink of the
precipice, near the outer end of the headland, a man stood waving down
to the ship in wild excitement.
Lord James hastily focussed his glasses upon the beckoner. Seen
through their powerful lenses, he seemed to leap to within a few feet
—so near that Lord James could see the heaving of his broad chest
under the tattered flannel shirt as he flung his arms about his head
and bellowed down at the steamer in half frantic joy.
The looker wasted no second glance on the rude trousers of spotted
hyena skin or the big lean body of the castaway. Neither the wild
whirling of the sun-blackened arms nor the bristly stubble of a six
weeks' growth of beard could prevent him from instantly recognizing
the face of his friend.
“Tom!—Tom!” he hailed. “Hullo! hullo, old man! Come down!”
Even as he cried out he realized that he could neither be heard nor
recognized at so great a distance. Though the binoculars enabled him
to see his friend with such wonderful distinctness, the deep shouts
that the other was uttering were hardly audible above the clatter
aboard the steamer. But now the ship's siren began to answer the hails
of the castaway with a succession of joyous shrieks.
In the same moment Lord James perceived that a second castaway—a
woman—was running forward along the crest of the headland. Fearlessly
she came darting down the broken ledges, to stand on the cliff edge
close beside the man. Lord James stared wonderingly at her dainty
girlish form, clad in a barbaric costume of leopard skin. Her bare
arms, slender from privation and burned brown by the sun, were
upraised in graceful greeting above the sensitive high-bred face and
its crown of soft brown hair.
“Genevieve!” murmured the earl. “What luck! Gad! what luck! Even if
Hawkins went to the bottom and took the jewels with him! She's safe—
both of 'em safe! Hey! what's that? Signalling towards the far side—
There he bolts, and she after him! Couldn't run that way if they had
He whirled about and sprang to descend the ladder, but paused to
direct the skipper. “I'll command the boat. Men are not to land. D'you
take me? There's at least one of the ladies here. Have a sling ready,
and tell the stewardess her services will soon be required.”
Before Meggs could reply, he was down the ladder and darting across
to the side. But there he turned and ran aft to the cabin. The
stewardess, a buxom Englishwoman, stood at the head of the
companionway, gazing towards the cliff top. At his order, she followed
him below. After several minutes he reappeared with a lady's dust-coat
folded over his arm. The boat was already lowered and manned. He swung
himself outboard and went down the tackle hand under hand.
As he dropped lightly into the sternsheets beside the cockswain he
signed the men to thrust off. The boat shot out across the still
water, and headed shorewards on a slant for the south corner of the
headland. Urged on by their impatient passenger, the rowers bent to
their oars with a will, despite the broiling heat of the sun in the
dead calm air under the lee of the cliffs.
They were well in to the shore before the cockswain discovered a
submerged ledge that ran out athwart their course almost to the coral
reefs. This compelled them to put about and follow the ledge until
they could round its outer end. As the boat at last cleared the
obstruction and headed in again for the shore, the south flank of the
cliffs came into view.
A short distance inland, the two castaways that had appeared on the
cliff top were running towards the beach, the girl clinging to the
hand of the man.
“Give way! give way, men!” urged Lord James. “At least let's not
keep them waiting!”
CHAPTER II. TWO—AND ONE
Spurred to their utmost, the oarsmen drove the boat shorewards so
swiftly that it was less than thirty yards out when the castaways came
flying out the rocky slope of the cliff foot and scrambled down to the
Lord James sprang up and waved his yachting cap.
“Miss Leslie!—Tom, old man!” he joyously hailed them. “You're
safe!— both safe!”
“Good Lord! That you, Jimmy?” shouted back the man, “Well, of all
the —Hey! down brakes! 'Ware rocks!”
At the warning, the boat's crew backed water and came on inshore
with more caution. Without stopping to ask her permission, the man
caught up the panting, excited girl in his arms, and waded out to meet
“That's near enough. Swing round,” he ordered.
The boat came about and backed in a length, to where he stood
thigh-deep in the still water, with the blushing girl upraised on his
broad shoulder. Lord James again lifted his cap. His bow could not
have been more formal and respectful had the meeting occurred in the
“Miss Leslie! This is a very great pleasure, 'pon my word! But
you've overheated yourself. You should not have run,” he remonstrated.
As Blake lifted her in over the stern, he deftly unfolded the silk
dustcoat and held it open for her.” Permit me—No need of such haste,
y'know. I assure you, we're not so strict as to our hour of sailing.”
“I—I—Of course we—” stammered the girl.
“To be sure! Ah, no hat! I should have foreseen. Very stupid of me
not to've brought a hat or parasol. But I dare say you'll make out
till we get back aboard ship.”
His conventional manner and quiet conversational tone alike tended
to ease her of her embarrassment. By the time she had slipped on the
coat and seated herself, the crimson blushes that had flooded her
tanned cheeks were fast subsiding, and she was able to respond with a
fair degree of composure: “That was extremely thoughtful of you, Lord
“Not at all, not at all,” he disclaimed. “Cocks'n, if you'll be so
kind as to go forward, I'll take the tiller. Tom, old man! don't stand
there all day. You'll get your feet damp. Climb in!”
“No; pull out,” replied Blake, his eyes hardening with sudden
resolve. “I forgot something. Got to go back to the cleft. You take
Jen—Miss Leslie aboard at once.”
“Oh, no, Tom!” hastily protested the girl. “We'll wait here for
“Here?” he demanded. “And without your hat?”
Miss Leslie put her scarred and begrimed little hands to her
Blake went on in an authoritative tone: “It won't do for you to get
a sunstroke now—after all these weeks. Jimmy, take her straight
aboard. I've got to go back, I tell you. We didn't stop for anything.
There's a jarful of mud and so forth that we sure can't leave to the
hyenas.” He met the girl's appealing glance with firm decision. “You
must get aboard, out of this sun, fast as they can take you.”
“Yes, of course, if you think it best—Tom,” she acquiesced.
Her ready docility would of itself have been sufficient to surprise
Lord James. But, in addition, there was a soft note in her voice and a
glow in her beautiful hazel eyes that caused him to glance quickly
from her to his friend. Blake was already turning about to wade
ashore. From what little could be seen of his bristly face, its
expression was stern, almost morose. The powerful jaw was clenched.
Though puzzled and a trifle discomposed, Lord James quietly seated
himself beside the girl, and signing the men to give way, took the
“My dear Miss Leslie,” he murmured, “if you but knew my delight
over having found both you and Tom safe and well!”
“Then you really know him?” she replied. “Yes, to be sure; he
called you by your first name. Wait! I remember now. One day soon
after we were cast ashore—the second day, when we were thinking how
to get fire, to drive away the leopard—”
“Leopard? I say! So that's where you got this odd gown?”
“No—the mother leopard and the cubs. I was going to say, Tom
remarked that James Scarbridge had been his chum.”
“Had been? He meant
“Then it's true! Oh, isn't it strange and—and splendid? You know,
I did not connect the remark with you, Lord James. He had told me to
try to think how we were to find food for the next meal. His reference
to you was made quite casually in his talk with Winthrope.”
“Winthrope!” exclaimed Lord James. “Then he, too, reached shore?
Yet if so—”
The girl put her hand before her eyes, as if to shut out some
terrible sight. Her voice sank to a whisper: “He—he was killed in the
second cyclone—a few days ago.”
“Ah!” muttered the young earl. After a pause, he asked in a tone of
profound sympathy, “And the others—Lady Bayrose?”
“Don't ask! don't ask!” she cried, shuddering and trembling.
But quickly she regained her composure and looked up at him with a
calm unwavering gaze that told him how much she had undergone and the
strength of character she had gained during the fearful weeks that she
had been marooned on this savage and desolate coast.
“How foolish of me to give way!” she reproached herself. “It is
what you might have expected of me before—before I had been through
all this, with his example to uplift me out of my helplessness and
inefficiency. Believe me, Lord Avondale, I am a very different young
woman from the shallow, frivolous girl you knew during those days on
“Shallow! frivolous!” he protested. “Anything but that, Miss
Genevieve! You must have known how vastly different were my—er—
impressions. If Lady Bayrose hadn't so suddenly shunted you off at
Aden to the Cape boat—Took me quite by surprise, I assure you. Had
you kept on to India, I had hoped to—er—”
She gave him a glance that checked his fast-mounting ardor.
“I—I beg pardon!” he apologized. “This of course is hardly the
time— About the others, if I may ask—that is, if it's not too
painful for you. I infer that Lady Bayrose—that she did not—reach
The girl's thorn-scarred, sun-blistered hands clasped together
almost convulsively. But she met his look of concern with unflinching
“Poor dear Lady Bayrose!” she murmured. “They had put her and the
maids into one of the boats—there at the first, when the ship crashed
on the reef. They ran back to fetch me, but before they could rush me
across, a wave more terrible than all the others swept the ship. It
tore loose the boat and whirled them away, over and over!”
“Gad!” he exclaimed.
“It also carried away the captain and most of the crew. Between the
breakers, Winthrope and Tom and I were flung into the one remaining
boat. Winthrope cut the rope before the sailors could follow, and
then—then the steamer slipped back off the reef and went down.”
“I say! Only the three of you left! The boat brought you safe
“No, we were overturned in the breakers, but were washed up—flung
up —how, I cannot tell. The wind was frightful. It must have blown us
out of the surf and along with the water that was being driven up and
over into the lagoon. The first I knew, I was behind a little knoll
with Winthrope. Tom was near—in a pool. He—he crawled out. It was
nearly dark. We were all so beaten and exhausted that we slept until
morning. When we awoke, there was no sign of—of any one else, or of
the boat— nothing; only the top of the highest mast sticking up above
the water, out beside the reef. Tom swam out to it; but he couldn't
get anything —even he couldn't.”
“Swam out, you say? These waters swarm with sharks. They're keen to
nip a swimmer!”
The girl's eyes flashed. “Do you believe he'd fear them?—that he'd
“Not he! I fancy I ought to know, if any one. Knocked about with
him, half 'round the world. I dare say he's told you.”
“Would it be like him to claim the credit of your friendship? No!
Before, on the steamer, we had mistaken him to be—to be what he
appears to strangers—rough, almost uncouth. Yet even that frightful
morning—it was among the swamps, ten miles or more up the coast. He
carried us safe out of them, me nearly all the way—out of the bog and
water, safe to the palms; and he as much tortured with thirst as were
“Fancy! No joke about that—thirst!”
“Yet it was only the beginning of what he did for us. Starvation
and wild beasts and snakes and the fever—he saved us from all. Yet he
had nothing to begin with—no tools or weapons, only his burning
glass. Can you wonder that I—that I—”
She stopped and looked down, the color mounting swiftly under the
dark coat of tan that covered the exquisite complexion he remembered
“My word!” he remonstrated, amazed and disquieted. “Surely not
that! It's—it's impossible! It can't be possible!”
“Do you think so?” she whispered. “If you but knew the half—the
tenth—of what he has done!”
The rusty side of the tramp loomed up above them. The boat crew
flung up their oars, and Lord James steered in alongside, under the
sling that was being lowered for the rescued lady. She pointed up at
it, and met the reproachful, half-dazed glance of her companion with a
look of compassionate regret for his disappointment. Yet she made no
effort to conceal the love for his friend and rival that shone with
tender radiance from her candid eyes.
“You should know him—his true, his real self!” she said. “Hasten
back. Do not delay to come aboard with me. Hasten ashore and to the
cleft. See for yourself.”
She caught the descending sling with a dexterity that astonished
him, and seated herself in it before he could rise to assist her.
“Haul away,” she called in a clear voice that held no note of
timidity. Those above at the tackle hastened to obey. As she was swung
upwards, she looked down at the earl and waved him to put off.
“Hasten!” she urged. “Do not wait. I am all right now. Even if he
is returning, go to the cleft and see.”
He shook his head, and waited until she had been hauled up the
ship's side. But as her little moccasined feet cleared the bulwarks
and Meggs himself leaned out to draw her inboard, he signed the
oarsmen to thrust off again.
Knowing the course, they made direct for the end of the sunken
ledge. Blake had not returned, nor was he anywhere in sight. They
skirted in along the rocky slope of the cliff foot to where it curved
away into the sand beach of the plain. Lord James sprang ashore alone
and hastened inland along the base of the cliffs.
A brisk walk of ten minutes over the sandy plain brought him to the
grove at the foot of the cleft. In the midst of the trees was a pool,
half choked with the dried mud and rubbish of a recent flood from the
ravine. The wash had obliterated all tracks below; but there were
traces of a trail leading up the ravine over a four-foot ledge. He
took the rock at a bound, and hastened on upwards between the lofty
walled sides of the cleft.
At the first turn he was brought to an abrupt halt. From side to
side, between two outjutting corners of rock, the ravine had been
barricaded with a twelve-foot boma of thorn scrub. It was a
fence high enough and strong enough to stop even a hungry lion. In the
centre was a low opening, partly masked by the dry spiky fronds of a
small date palm.
“Gad!” murmured the Englishman. “Some of Tom's engineering! And she
said he started without weapons or tools—on this coast! . . . Yet for
him to have won her—No, no, it's impossible! impossible! American or
not, she's a lady—thoroughbred! He's a true stone, but in the rough—
uncut, unpolished! A girl of her breeding—He's worth it, 'pon my
word, he is; though I never would have fancied that she, of all girls
—She's so different. No! it's impossible! it can't be! Must be pure
fancy on her part—gratitude. It can't be anything more!”
A heavy step sounded on the far side of the barrier, and a deep
voice called out to him: “Hello, there! That you, Jimmy? Thought it
about time you were due. What you doing?—telling yourself how to
climb over? Abase yeh noble knee to the dust and crawl through, me
Without pausing to reply, Lord James stooped and crept through the
narrow passage under the thorny wall. As he straightened up on the
inner side, Blake caught and gripped his hand in a big calloused palm.
“Jimmy!” he exclaimed, his pale blue eyes glistening with the soft
light of deep friendship. “Jimmy boy! to think you beat 'em to it! I
figured ten to one odds that it was a tramp chartered by Papa Leslie—
And then to see you pop up in the sternsheets, spic and span as a
laundry ad! When you sang out—Lord!”
“Ring off, bo! Those're my fingers you're mashing!” objected the
As Blake released him, he stepped aside and ran his eye up and down
the sinewy rag-and-skin-clad form of the engineer. He nodded
“Lean, hard as nails, no sign of fever—and after six weeks on this
beastly coast! How'd you do it, old man? You're fit—deuced fit!”
“Fit to give pointers to the Wild Man from Borneo,” chuckled Blake.
He drew out a silver cigarette case and snapped open the lid. “See
those little beauties?—No! hands off! Good Lord! those're my arrow
tips, soaking in snake poison! A scratch would do for you as sure as a
drink of cyanide. Brought down an eland with one of those little
points— antelope big as a steer.”
“Poison! fancy now!” exclaimed Lord James.
“Yes; from a puff adder that almost got Miss Jenny—fellow big as
my leg. Struck at her as she bent to pick an amaryllis. If it had so
much as grazed her hand or arm—God!”
He looked away, his teeth clenched together and the sweat starting
out on his broad forehead. What he thought of Genevieve Leslie was
plainly evident in his convulsed face and dilated eyes. If he could be
so overwrought by the mere remembrance of a danger that she had
escaped, he must love her, not as most men love, but with all the
depth and strength of his powerful nature. Lord James's lips pressed
together and his gray eyes clouded with pain.
“Close shave, heh?” he muttered.
“Yes,” replied Blake. He drew in a deep breath, and added, “Not the
first, though, nor the last. But a miss is as good as a mile, hey,
“Gad, old man, that sounds natural! Can't say you look it,
though—not altogether. Must get you aboard and into another style of
fine raiment. Fur trousers not good form in this climate, y'know. You
picked up that shirt at a remnant counter, I take it. Come aboard.
Must mow that alfalfa patch before any one suspects you're trying to
raise a beard.”
The friendly banter seemed to have the contrary effect from that
intended. Blake's face darkened.
“Good Lord, no!” he rumbled. “Go aboard with her? What d'you take
“Give you my word, I don't take you at all,” replied the puzzled
“What! Hasn't she told you? But of course she wouldn't—unless she
saw you alone,” muttered Blake. “Come on up the canon. I've thought it
all out—just what must be done. But it'll take some time to explain.
Wait! Did you come alone?—any one follow you?”
“No. Told 'em to stay near the boat.”
“Just the same, I'll make sure,” said Blake. He dived into the
barricade passage, and quickly reappeared, dragging at the butt of the
date palm. “There, me lud; the door is shut. Nobody is going to walk
in on our private conference now. Come on.”
CHAPTER III. LORD AND MAN
Blake turned about and swung away up the ravine. Lord James
followed in the half-obliterated path, which led along the edge of a
tiny spring rill. The cleft was here closed in on each side with sheer
walls of rock from twenty to thirty feet high. At the point where this
small box canon intersected the middle of the cliff ridge, the
gigantic baobab that Lord James had seen from the steamer, towered
skyward, its huge trunk filling a good third of the width of the
gorge. Across from it and nearer at hand was a thicket of bamboos,
around which the spring rill trickled from a natural basin in the
But the visitor gave scant heed to the natural features of the
place. His glance passed from a great antelope hide, drying on a
frame, to the bamboo racks on which sun-seared strips of flesh were
curing over a smudge fire. Looking to his left, he saw a hut hardly
larger than a dog kennel but ingeniously thatched with bamboo leaves.
Then his glance was caught and held by a curious contrivance of
interwoven thorn branches and creepers, fitted into a high narrow
opening in the trunk of the baobab.
“What's that?—hollow tree?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Blake, without turning. “Sixteen-foot room inside.
That's where the she-leopard and the cubs were smothered. Fired the
gully to drive out the family. All stayed at home and got smothered
'cept old Mr. Leopard. He ran the gantlet. Lord, how he squalled, poor
brute! But they'd have eaten us if we hadn't eaten them. He landed in
the pool, too scorched to see. Settled him with my club.”
“Clubbed him?—a leopard! I say now! A bit different, that, to
“Well, yes, a trifle different, Jeems—a trifle,” conceded Blake.
“My word! What haven't you been through!” burst out the Englishman.
“And to think she, too, went through it all—six weeks of it!”
“That's it!” enthused Blake. “She's the truest, grittiest little
girl the sun ever had the good luck to shine on! If she thinks now I
can't realize—that I'm not going to do the square thing by her! I've
been thinking it all over, Jimmy. I've got it all mapped out what I'm
going to do. Wait, though!”
He sprang ahead and pulled at the thorny contrivance that stopped
the opening in the baobab trunk. It was balanced midway up, on a
crossbar. Almost at a touch, the lower part swung up and outward and
the upper half down and inward. He stepped in under it, hesitated a
moment, and went on into the hollow, with an exclamation of relief:
“No, 't isn't her room any more, thank God!”
Lord James stared. Well as he knew the sterling qualities of his
friend, he had never suspected him of such delicacy. He gazed
curiously around at the unshapely but flawless sand-glazed earthenware
set on a bamboo rack beside the open stone fireplace, at the rough-
woven but strong baskets piled together near the foot of the baobab,
at the pouch of antelope skin, the grass sombreros, the bamboo spits
and forks and spoons—all the many useful utensils that told of the
ingenuity and resourcefulness of his friend.
But, most of all, he was interested in the weighty hardwood club
leaning against the tree trunk and the great bamboo bow hanging above
in a skin sheath beside a quiver full of long feather-tipped arrows.
He was balancing the club when Blake came out of the tree-cave,
carrying a young cocoanut in one hand, and in the other a small pot
seemingly full of dried mud. Lord James replaced the club, and waved
his hand around at the camp.
“'Pon my word, Tom,” he commented, “you've out-Crusoed old
“Sure!” agreed Blake. “He had a whole shipful of stuff as a
starter, while we didn't have anything except my magnifying glass and
Win's penknife and keys.”
He pulled out a curious sheath-knife made of a narrow ribbon of
steel set in a bone back. “How's that for a blade? Big flat British
keys— good steel. I welded 'em together, end to end.”
“Gad! the pater's private keys!” gasped Lord James. “You don't tell
me the rascal was imbecile enough to keep those keys in his pocket?—
certain means of identification if he'd been searched!”
“What!” shouted Blake. “Then the duke he cleaned out was your dad.
He whirled the mud-stoppered jug overhead and dashed it down at his
feet. From amidst the shattered fragments he caught up a dirty cloth
that was quilted across in small squares. He held it out to Lord
“There you are, Jimmy—my compliments and more or less of your
“My word!” murmured the earl, catching eagerly at the cloth. “You
got the loot from him? That's like you, Tom!”
“Look out!” cautioned Blake. “I opened one square to see what it
was he had hidden. You'll find he hadn't been too daffy to melt the
settings—keys or no keys. Say, but it's luck to learn they're yours!
Hope they're all there.”
“All the good ones will be. He couldn't have sold or pawned any of
the best stones after we cabled. Gad! won't the pater be tickled! Ah!”
From the open square of which Blake had spoken, his lordship drew
out a resplendent ruby. “Centre stone of Lady Anne's brooch!”
He ran his immaculate finger-tips over the many squares in the
cloth. “A stone in every one—must be all of the really valuable loot!
The settings were out of date—small value. How'd you get it from him,
Blake hesitated, and answered in a low tone: “He got hurt the night
of the second cyclone. But he wasn't responsible—poor devil! He must
have been dotty all along. It didn't show much before—but I felt
uneasy. That's why I built that thorn door—so she could bar herself
Lord James stared in horrified surprise. “You really do not
“Yes—and it almost happened! God!” Again Blake clenched his teeth
and the cold sweat burst out on his forehead.
“My word! That's worse than the snake!” murmured Lord James.
“She—she'd left the door up—heat was stifling,” explained Blake.
“I had gone off north, exploring. The beast was crawling in—But I've
got to remember he wasn't responsible—a paranoiac!”
“Ah, yes. And then?” questioned the Englishman, tugging nervously
at the tip of his little blond mustache.
“Then—then—” muttered Blake. “He got what was coming to him.
Cyclone struck like a tornado. Door whirled down and knocked him out
of the opening—smashed him!”
“The end he had earned!”
“Yes—even if he wasn't responsible, he had become just that—a
beast. She had saved his life, too—night I ran down to the beach
after eating a poison fish. Barricade hadn't been finished. He was
down with the fever. They were attacked—jackals, hyenas. She got him
safe inside the tree, with the yelling curs jumping at her.”
“My word! she did that?—she? Of all the young ladies I've ever
known, she was the very last I should have expected—”
“What! you've met her before?” demanded Blake.
“Then she hasn't told you?” replied his friend. “Lady Bayrose was
one of my old friends, y'know. Met 'em aboard ship—sailed on the same
steamer, after my run home.”
“You did?” muttered Blake, in blank astonishment. “You know her?”
“You must have heard me sing out to her from the boat. Yes,
I—er—had the voyage with her through the Mediterranean and down the
Red Sea. But Lady Bayrose got tiffed at me, and at Aden shifted to a
Cape boat. I had to go on to India alone.”
“India?” queried Blake.
“Trailing Hawkins. He first went to India. But he doubled back and
'round to Cape Colony.”
“So that's why you didn't get here sooner,” said Blake.
“Yes. Didn't notice that the
Impala was posted. Didn't know
either you or Miss Leslie was aboard her until after I learned you'd
thrown up the management of that Rand mine. Traced you to Cape Town.
Odd that you and she and Hawkins should all have booked on the same
“Think so?” said Blake. “I don't. Winthrope—Hawkins, that is—was
smooth enough to know he'd not be suspected if travelling as a member
of Lady Bayrose's party. He had already wormed himself into her favor.
As for me—well, they had come to look at the mine, and I had shown
Jenny through the workings. Does that make it clear why I threw up the
job and followed them to Cape Town?”
“She had not given you any reason to—surely, not any
encouragement? No, I can't believe it!”
“Course not, you British doughhead! It was all the other way
'round. Think I didn't realize? She, a lady, and me—what I am! But I
couldn't help it—I just couldn't help myself, Jimmy. Knew her father,
too—all about his millions and how he made them! He did me—twice.
You'd think the very name would have turned me. Yet the minute I set
eyes on her— say!”
“You're certainly hard hit!” murmured the young earl. He flushed,
bit his lip, hesitated, and burst out with impulsive generosity: “Gad,
old man! If it's true—if she really—er—has come to love you, I own
that you've won her fair and square—all this, y'know.” He waved his
hand around in a sweeping gesture. “Saved her from all this. Yes—if
it's really true!”
Blake looked away, and spoke in a hushed voice: “It's—it's true,
Jimmy! Only a little while ago, there on the cliff edge when we saw
your steamer, she—she told me. It started yesterday after I bluffed
off the lion. You see, she—”
“Lion?” ejaculated Lord James.
“Yes.” Blake flung up his head in an impatient gesture. “The beast
tried to stalk us. Jumped back into the grass when I circled out at
him. I got the grass fired before he screwed up courage to tackle me.
—Don't cut in!—It was then that Jenny—she—she tried to say
something. But I streaked for home. This morning, though, when I saw
we were safe, I was weak enough to let her—speak out.”
Lord James hesitated just perceptibly, and then caught his friend's
big, ill-used hand in a cordial clasp. “So—you're engaged!
“If only it was just that!” cried Blake. He flushed red under his
thick coat of tan. “I—I suppose I've got to tell you, Jimmy—I must.
I need your help to carry out my plan.”
“Your plan?” repeated the Englishman wonderingly.
“To save her from—from committing herself. It isn't fair to her to
let her do it now. She ought to wait till she gets back home, among
her own people. You see she wants to—She—she says that ship captains
can—” He caught his breath, and bent nearer, but with his face half
averted. His voice sank to an almost inaudible murmur—“that ship
captains can marry people.”
“Ah!” gasped Lord James. But he recovered on the instant. “Gad!
that is a surprise, old man. Always the lady's privilege,
though, to name the day, y'know. I shipped a stewardess to wait on the
women—had hoped they would all have been saved. She'll do for lady's
maid. Also brought along some women's togs, in case of emergencies. As
for yourself, between mine and Megg's and his own wardrobes, my man
can rig you up a presentable outfit. Clever chap, that Wilton.”
“You've gone back to a valet again!” reproached Blake, momentarily
diverted. Then his fists clenched and his brows met in a frown of
self-disgust. “Lord! for me to forget for a second! Look here, Jimmy,
you're clean off. You don't savvy a little bit. Don't you see the
point? I can't let her commit herself now—here! You know I can't. It
wouldn't be fair to her, and you know it.”
Lord James met his look with a clear and unfaltering gaze, and
answered steadily: “That all depends on one thing, Tom. If she really
“D'you think she's the kind to do it, if she didn't?” demanded
Blake. “No, that's not the point, at all. I've tried to be square, so
far. She saw what I'm like when I cut loose—there on the ship. I was
two-thirds drunk when the cyclone flung us ashore. No excuse—except
that all of them had turned me down from the first—there at Cape
Town. Yes, she knows just what I'm like when the craving is on me.
Yesterday, down there at the south headland, before the lion came
around, I gave her some idea of what I've done—all that.”
“You've lived a cleaner life than most who're considered eligible!”
exclaimed Lord James. “I know that with respect to women, you're the
“Eligible!” broke in Blake. “No man is that, far as she's
concerned, unless it's you, Jimmy.”
“Chuck it! You're always knocking yourself. But about this plan
that's bothering you? Out with it.”
“That's talking! All right, here it is, straight—I want you to get
back aboard and steam away, fast as you can hike. You can run into
Port Mozambique, if you're going north, and arrange for a boat to call
by for me.”
“You're daft!” cried Lord James. “Daft! Mad as a hatter! Can you
fancy for a moment I'd go off and leave you here?”
“Guess you can't help yourself, Jimmy. The most you can do is force
me to take to the jungle. You can't get me aboard. I tell you, I've
figured it all out. I won't go aboard and let her do—what she's
planning to do. You ought to know. Jimmy, that when I say a thing, I
mean it. She's not going to set eyes on me again until after she's
back in America. Is that plain?”
“Tom—old man! that's like you!” cried the Englishman, and again he
gripped the other's rough hand. “I see now what you're driving at.
It's a thing few men would have the bigness to do. You're giving up a
certainty, because your love for her is great enough, unselfish enough
to consider only her good. D'you fancy I could do such a thing? You're
risking everything. Shows you're fit, even for her!”
“It's little enough—for her!” put in Blake.
“That's like you to say it,” rejoined his friend. “See here, old
man. You've made a clean breast of it all. I should be no less candid.
You know now that I met her before—was all those weeks with her
aboard ship. Need I tell you that I, too, love her?”
“You?” growled Blake. “But of course! I don't blame you. You
couldn't help it.”
“It's been an odd shuffling of the cards,” remarked his friend.
“What if—Aren't you afraid there may be a new deal, Tom? If you don't
come aboard, she and I will be together at least as far as Zanzibar,
and probably all the way to Aden, before I can find some one else to
take her on to England.”
“What of that?” rejoined Blake. “Think I don't know you're square,
after the months we roughed-it together?”
“Then—But I can't leave you here in this hell-hole! You've no
right to ask me to do that, Tom. If I could bring my guns ashore and
stay with you—But she'll never be more in need of some one, if you
insist upon your plan. I say! I have it—We'll slip you aboard after
dark. You can lie in covert till we reach Port Mozambique. I trust I'm
clever enough to keep her diverted that long. Can put it that you're
outfitting—all that, y' know.”
“Say, that's not so bad,” admitted Blake, half persuaded. “I could
slip ashore, soon as we ran into harbor, leaving her a note to tell
“Right-o, Tammas! But wait. I'll go you one better. You can write
your note and give it out that you've shifted to another ship. But
you'll stay aboard with us, under cover. Of all the steamers that
touch at Aden, one will soon come along with parties whom either she
or I know. Then off she goes to the tight little island, and we follow
after in our little tramp or on another liner. Hey, Tammas?”
“Well, I don't know,” hesitated Blake. “It sounds all right.”
“It is all right,” insisted the younger man. “You'll be
aboard the same steamer with her as far as Aden, to keep an eye on me,
“You'd better. My word, Tom! don't you realize? If you—er—put it
off, I'm bound to try for myself. Can't help it!”
“Think you've got a show, do you?” rallied Blake.
“I fancied I had as much chance as any one, before all this
occurred. I at least should have been in the running, had it not been
for the wreck—and you.”
Blake stood for several moments, with his head down-bent and eyes
fixed upon the ground. When he looked up and spoke, his face was grave
and his voice deep and low.
“It's all of a piece, Jimmy. I don't blame you. Fact is, it's all
the better. I've had all the advantage here. She and I've been living
in the Cave Age, and I've proved myself an A-1 cave-man, if I do say
it myself. It may be hard for her to get the right perspective of
things, even after she's back in her own environment. Understand?”
“I take it, you mean she has seen the display of your strongest and
best qualities, in circumstances that did not call for such non-
essentials as mere polish—drawing room culture.”
“You mean, for all that counts most with ninety-nine per cent of
your class and hers,” rejoined Blake. “And there's the craving, too.
I'll have to fight that out before I'll be fit to let her do anything.
Think I don't know the difference between us? No! I'm going to go the
limit, Jimmy. I can't do less, and be square to her. So I give you
full leave. You're free to play your hand for all there is in it. I'll
“No—no! I'll not hear of it, Tom!”
“Yes, you will. I'll stay here, and you'll see her clear through to
America—to Chicago—right to her papa's house and in through the
door. Understand? I don't make a single condition. You're to try your
best to win; and if you do, why—don't you see?—it'll show that this
which she thinks is the real thing is all a mistake.”
“My word, old man! you'd not give her up without a fight? That
wouldn't be like you!”
“It all depends. I won't if it's true she loves me—God! no! I'd go
through hell-fire for her!”
“If I know you, Tom, you'll suffer that and more, should the event
prove she is mistaken as to the nature of her present feeling.”
“What of it?” muttered Blake, with a look that told the other the
uselessness of persuasion. “Think I'd let her marry me, long as
there's a shadow of a chance of her being mistaken?”
“Very well, then,” replied his friend. “You've said your say. Now
I'll say mine. I can ease the tedium of Miss Leslie's trip up the
coast; and I stand ready to do so—on two conditions. In the first
place; you're to come aboard and stay aboard. After I find a chaperon
for her at Aden, you're to go on home with me, to visit at Ruthby.”
me!” said Blake. “I can see myself parading around
your ancestral stone-heap with your ducal dad!”
“You not only can, but will,” rejoined the earl. “Come now. You'll
be allowed to write that note at Port Mozambique, and keep in covert
till Miss Leslie is safe off the ship. But you'll do the rest—you'll
not stay here. Another thing—you have my word for it now—I shall
endeavor no more than yourself to win her, until after she has
returned to her home in the States.”
“Lord, Jimmy! that's square—to me, I mean. But how about her?”
“No fear,” reassured the Englishman. “She's received everywhere.
She's been presented—at Court, y'know. If she stays over on this side
a bit, there'll be dozens of 'em dancing attendance on her. Come, now;
it's all settled.”
“Well, I don't know,” hesitated Blake.
“I tell you, you'll sail with us, else I shall leave her at Port
Mozambique and come back for you.”
“Um-m—if you take it that hard! But are you sure you can keep her
satisfied till we put in there?”
“Trust me for that. If she becomes apprehensive, I'll put it that
you'd rather be married in port, by the American consul.”
“That's no lie. Say, what's the use of waiting till dark? You said
there's a stewardess aboard. Jenny will sure be below with her until—
until she's ready for the ceremony.”
“Quite true, yes. Then it's all settled. At Port Mozambique, your
note; you bunk forward, under cover, till Aden; then home with me for
a visit; neither of us see her beyond Aden until we follow her to the
“Since you insist—yes, it's a go, Jimmy!” agreed Blake. He turned
to hasten away along the gorge, past the baobab. “I'll be back soon.
Got to pull down that flag.”
Lord James followed, and saw him ascend to the cliff crest on the
right, up a withered, leafless tree. The trunk had been burned through
at the base in such manner that the top had fallen over against the
edge of the rocky wall. A pile of stones offered an easy means of
reaching the lower branches. The earl climbed up into the top, and
watched his friend run forward over the broken ledges of the ridge.
The bamboo flagstaff was wrenched from its supports and lowered
amidst a wild commotion of the nesting sea birds. Blake came back at a
jog-trot, regardless of the fierce heat of the sun. In his arms were
gathered the tattered folds of the signal flag.
“That's one thing I'm going to take away,” he said, in response to
the other's look of inquiry. “She sewed that leopard-skin dress all by
herself, with a thorn for needle, so we could have her skirt for the
“Fancy!” murmured the Englishman. “With a thorn, you say!”
Blake nodded, and followed him down the tree-ladder and back along
the cleft to the baobab. There he paused to take down his archery
“Guess I'll keep these, too, as souvenirs,” he remarked. He pointed
to the blackened strips of flesh on the curing racks. “May I ask Lord
Avondale to stay to dinner?”
“Very kind, I'm sure. But I've a previous engagement,” declined his
“Now, now, Jeems. Needn't turn up your aristocratic nose at first-
class jerked antelope. Ought to 've been with us the first three days.
Great menu—raw fish, cocoanuts, more cocoanuts, and then, just
when we were whetting our teeth for a nice fat snake or an entree
of caterpillars, I landed that old papa leopard. Managed to haggle
some of the india rubber off his bones. Tough!—but it was filling.
All the same, we didn't wear out any more teeth on him after we got up
the cleft and found the cubs. They were tender as spring lambs.”
“And Miss Genevieve went through all that!”
“Yes. Told you she's the grittiest little girl ever—and a lady! My
God, when I think of it all! . . . Well, she's come through it alive.
What's more, she's not going to suffer any bad consequences from it,
not if I can help it! Come on. Got your heirloom rag?”
“All right, then. Come on. You don't think I'm aching to hang
'round this cursed hole, do you?—now that she's gone!”
He flung his bow and quiver over his shoulder, thrust the signal
flag into the skin pouch, and turned to go.
Lord James stepped before him, with hand outstretched.
“One moment, Tom! Here's for home and America—a fair field, and
best man wins!”
“It's a go!” cried Blake, gripping the proffered hand. “May she get
the one that'll make her happiest!”
CHAPTER IV. THE EARL AND THE OTHERS
Miss Dolores Gantry shook the snow from her furs, and with the
graceful assurance of a yacht running aslant a craft-swarming harbor,
cut into the crowd that surged through the Union Station. She brought
up in an empty corner of the iron fence, close beside the exit gate
through which passengers were hurrying from the last train that had
arrived. Her velvety black eyes flashed an eager glance at the out-
pouring stream, perceived a Mackinaw jacket, and turned to make swift
comparison of the depot clock and the tiny bracelet watch on her
As she again looked up she met the ardent gaze and ingratiating
smile of an elegant young man who was sauntering up the train-platform
to the exit gate, fastidiously apart from his fellow passengers. He
raised his hat, and at the girl's curt nod of recognition, hastened
through the gate for a more intimate greeting.
“My dear Dodie!” he exclaimed, reaching for her hand. “This is a
most delightful surprise.”
“My dear Laffie!” she mocked, deftly slipping both slender hands
into her muff. “I quite agree as to it's being a surprise.”
“Then you didn't come down to meet me?”
“You?” she asked, with an irony too fine drawn for his conceit.
“Come to meet you?”
“Yes. Didn't you get my note saying that all work on my bridge was
stopped by the cold and that I would run down to see you?”
“To see me—plus the world, the flesh, and the devil!”
“Now, Dodie!” he protested, with a smirk on his handsome, richly
The girl's eyes hardened into black diamonds as she met his assured
gaze. “Mr. Brice-Ashton, you will hereafter kindly address me as 'Miss
Gantry.' You must be aware that I am now out.”
“Oh, I've no objections, just so
we're not out,” he punned.
She gave him her shoulder, and peered eagerly through the pickets
of the iron fence at a train that was backing into the station. Ashton
shrugged, lighted a gilt-tipped cigarette, and asked: “Permit me to
inquire, Miss Gon-tray, if I'm not the happy man for whom you wait,
She replied without turning: “How can I tell until I see him? I
think it will be the hero. If not, it will be the earl.”
“Hero?—earl?” repeated Ashton.
“Yes, whichever one Vievie leaves for me.”
“What! Genevieve? Miss Leslie? She's not—Is she really coming home
so soon?—when she had such a chance for a gay season in London?”
“Don't give yourself away. The London season is in summer.”
“You don't say! Well, in England, then. Why didn't you write me?”
“I'm not running a correspondence-school or news agency, Mr. Brice-
“Oh, cut it, Dodie! Post me up, that's a good girl! What I've heard
has been so muddled. This hero business, for a starter—what about it?
I thought it was an English duke that chartered the steamer to rescue
“No, only the son of a duke,—James Scarbridge, the Right Honorable
the Earl of Avondale.”
“It's in the jack-pot, and as good as lost. What chance have you
now to win Genevieve,—with a real earl and a real hero in the field?”
and hero? I thought he was the hero.”
“That's one of the jokes on mamma. Earl Jimmy had nothing to do
with the rescue ships that Uncle Herbert cabled to search the
Mozambique coast. No; Jeems chartered a tramp steamer on his own
account, to look for friend Tommy. He found the heroic Thomas and,
incidentally, the fair Genevieve—who wasn't so very fair after
weeks of broiling in that East African sun.”
“It's wonderful—wonderful! To think that she alone of all aboard
her steamer should have survived shipwreck on that savage coast!”
“She didn't survive alone—she couldn't have. That's where Tommy
came in. There was another man, but he didn't count for much, I guess.
Vievie merely wrote that he died during the second cyclone.”
“What an experience!—and for a girl like Genevieve!”
“She, of all girls!” chimed in Dolores enviously. “You remember she
never went in for sports of any kind, not even riding. And for her to
be flung out that way into the tropical jungles, among lions and
crocodiles and snakes and things! Why can't I ever have romantic
“You wouldn't give the man a chance to prove himself a hero,”
objected Ashton. “You'd shoot the lions yourself.”
“I am good at archery. A bow and arrows, you know, were all
that Mr. Blake had.”
“Blake?” repeated Ashton in rather a peculiar tone.
“Yes, Tommy the hero, otherwise Mr. Thomas Blake.”
“Blake—Thomas Blake?” echoed Ashton.
“I—rather odd—I once—seems to me I once knew a man of that name.
You don't happen to know if he's a—that is, what his occupation is,
Ashton was not the kind of man from whom is expected hesitancy of
speech. The girl spared him a swift glance from the out-flocking
stream of passengers. His fixed gaze and slack lower jaw betrayed even
more uneasiness than had his voice.
“Don't be afraid,” she mocked. “He's not a minister; so he couldn't
marry her without help, and he's not done it since the rescue.”
“Not done it?” repeated Ashton vaguely.
“No. According to mamma's letter, Earl Jimmy outgeneraled the low-
browed hero. At Aden he put Vievie on a P. and O. steamer, in the
charge of Lady Chetwynd. He and the hero followed in the tramp steamer
to England, where he kept friend Thomas at his daddy's ducal castle
until Vievie made mamma start home with her. You know mamma streaked
it for London, at Uncle Herbert's expense, the moment Vievie cabled
from Port Mozambique that she was safe. Uncle Herbert would have sent
me, too, but mamma wouldn't have it. Just like her! It was her first
chance to do England and crowd in on Vievie's noble friends. She said
I might spoil the good impression she hoped to make, because I'm too
much of a tomboy.”
“But if it's your mother and Genevieve you're waiting for—I
understood you to say the earl and that man Blake.”
“Oh, they followed on the next steamer. Mamma wired that they are
all coming on together from New York.” “Where's Mr. Leslie? Did he go
to meet them?”
“He? You should know how busy Uncle Herbert always is. I called by
his office for him. He sent out word to go on. He would follow.”
“What! after all Genevieve went through, all those hardships and
dangers? You'd think that even he—”
“Look I oh, look I there she is now!” cried the girl, pressing
close against the fence and waving her handkerchief between the
“Where? Yes, I see! beside your mother!” exclaimed Ashton, and he
lifted his hat on his cane.
The signals won them recognition from the approaching ladies, the
younger of whom responded with a quietly upraised hand. Beside her
walked a rosy-cheeked blonde young Englishman, while in front a big
square-built man thrust the crowd forward ahead of them. They were
followed by two maids, a valet, and two porters, with hand luggage.
As the party emerged from the gateway the younger lady leaned
forward and spoke in a clear soft voice: “Turn to the left, Tom.”
The big man in the lead swerved out of the crowd and across the
corner past Miss Gantry, who was advancing with outstretched arms, her
eyes sparkling with joyous excitement.
“Vievie!” she half shrieked.
Blake glanced over his shoulder and stopped short at sight of the
girls locked in each other's arms. After a moment's fervent embrace,
Dolores thrust her cousin out at arm's-length and surveyed her from
top to toe with radiant eyes.
“Vievie! Vievie! I really can't believe it! To think you're home
again—when we never expected to see you—and you've got almost all
the tan off already!”
Genevieve looked up into the vivacious face of the younger girl
with an affectionate smile on her delicately curved lips and tears of
joy in her hazel eyes.
“It is good to be home again, dear!” she murmured. She drew
Dolores about to face the big man, who stood looking on with rather a
surly expression, in his pale blue eyes. “Tom,” she said, “this is my
cousin, Miss Gantry. Dolores, Mr. Blake.”
“The hee-row!” sighed Dolores, clasping a hand dramatically on her
Blake's strong face lighted with a humorous smile. “Guess I've got
to own up to it, Miss Dolores. Anything Jenny—Miss Leslie—says
As he spoke he raised his English steamer cap slightly and extended
a square powerful hand. Dolores entrusted her slender fingers to the
calloused palm, which closed upon them with utmost gentleness.
“Really, Mr. Blake!” she exclaimed,” I mean it. You
Blake's smile broadened, and as he released her hand, he glanced at
her mother, who had drawn a little apart with the Englishman. “Don't
let me shut out your mamma and Jimmy.”
“Oh, mamma believes that any display of family affection is
immodest,” she replied. “But duty, you know—duty!”
She whirled about and impressed a loud salute upon the drooping
jowl of the stately Mrs. Gantry.
“Dolores!” admonished the dame. “When
will you remember
you're no longer a hoyden? Such impetuosity—and before his lordship!”
“Goodness! Is he really?” panted her daughter, surveying the
Englishman with candid curiosity.
“Is he really!” Mrs. Gantry was profoundly shocked. “If you weren't
out, I'd see that you had at least two more years in a finishing
“Horrors! that certainly would finish me. But you forget yourself,
mamma. You keep his earlship waiting for his introduction.”
The Englishman shot a humorous glance at Blake, and drew out his
monocle. He screwed it into his eye and stared blandly at the
irrepressible Miss Gantry, while her mother, with some effort,
regained a degree of composure. She bowed in a most formal manner.
“The Right Honorable the Earl of Avondale: I present my daughter.”
The earl dropped his monocle, raised his cap, and bowed with
unaffected grace. Dolores nodded and caught his hand in her vigorous
“Glad to meet you,” she said. “It's rare we meet a real live earl
in Chicago. Most of 'em are caught in New York, soon as they land.”
“It's good of you to say it, Miss Gantry,” he replied, tugging at
the tip of his little mustache. “I've been over before, you know. Came
in disguise. This time I was able to march through New York with
colors flying, thanks to your mother and Miss Leslie.”
Dolores sent her glance flashing after his, and saw Genevieve
responding coldly to the effusive greeting of Ashton. The young man
was edging towards the earl. But Genevieve turned to introduce him
first to her companion.
“Mr. Blake, Mr. Brice-Ashton.”
“I'm sure I'm—pleased to meet you, Mr. Blake,” murmured Ashton,
his voice breaking slightly as Blake grasped his gloved hand in the
bare calloused palm.
“Any friend of Miss Jenny's!” responded Blake with hearty
cordiality. But as he released the other's hand, he muttered half to
himself, “Ashton?—Ashton? Haven't I met you before, somewhere?”
As Ashton hesitated over his reply, Genevieve spoke for him: “No
doubt it's the familiarity of the name, Tom. Mr. Brice-Ashton's father
is Mr. George Ashton, the financier.”
“What! him?” exclaimed Blake. “But no. It's his face. I remember
now. Met him in your father's office.”
“In father's office?”
“When I was acting as secretary for your father, Miss Genevieve,”
Ashton hastened to explain. “You remember, I was in your father's
office for a year. That was before I succeeded with my—plans for the
Michamac cantilever bridge and went to take charge of the construction
as resident engineer.”
“Your plans?” muttered Blake incredulously.
“To be sure. I remember now,” said Genevieve absently, and she
turned to look about, with a perplexed uptilting of her arched brows.
“But, Dolores, where is papa?”
“Coming—coming, Viviekins,” reassured her cousin, breaking short
an animated conversation with the earl. “Don't worry, dear. He'll be
along in a few minutes.”
Genevieve stepped forward beside Blake to peer at the crowd.
Dolores took pity on Ashton, who had edged around, eager for an
introduction to the titled stranger.
“Oh, your earlship,” she remarked, “this, by the way, is Mr. Laffie
Brice-Ashton. I'd like to present him to you, but I'm afraid your
Right Honorableness wouldn't take him even as a gift if you knew him
as well as I do.”
“Oh, now, Do—Miss Gon-tray!” protested Ashton.
The Englishman bowed formally and adjusted his monocle, oblivious
of the hand that Ashton had stripped of its glove.
“Your—your grace—I should say, your lordship,” stammered Ashton,
hastily dropping his hand, “I'm extremely delighted—honored, I mean—
at the unexpected pleasure of meeting your lordship.”
“Ah, really?” murmured his lordship.
“Mr. Brice-Ashton's father is one of our most eminent financiers,”
interposed Mrs. Gantry.
“Ah, really? What luck!” politely exclaimed the Englishman. He
stepped past the son of the eminent financier, to address Genevieve in
an impulsive, boyish tone, “I say, Miss Leslie, hop up on a suitcase
between Tom and me. You'll see over their heads.”
“Hold on,” said Blake, who was staring towards the outer door.
“He's coming now.”
“Where? Are you sure, Tom?” asked Genevieve, here eyes radiant.
“Sure, I'm sure,” said Blake. “Met your father
was enough for me.”
“Tom! You'll not-?”
“Enough for me to remember him,” he explained with grim humor.
“Don't worry. I don't want a row any more than you do.”
“Or than he will! He'll not forget that had it not been for you—”
“Chuck it, old man,” put in Lord James. “Miss Leslie knows as well
as you do that one or more of the steamers chartered by her father
must certainly have sighted your signal flag within a fortnight. I
merely had the luck to be first.”
“A lot of things can happen inside two weeks, down on the
Mozambique coast. Eh, Miss Jenny?” said Blake.
For the moment, forgetful even of her father, Genevieve clasped her
gloved hands and gazed upwards over the heads of the rushing multitude
at a vision of swampy lagoons, of palm clumps and tangled jungles, of
towering cliffs, and hot sand beaches, all aglare with the fierce
downbeat of the tropical sun.
CHAPTER V. A REFRACTORY HERO
A short, stout, gray-haired man burst out of the crowd, jerked off
his hat to Mrs. Gantry, and hastened forward, his gray-brown eyes
fixed hungrily upon Genevieve. A moment later he had her in his arms.
She returned his embrace with fervor yet with a well-bred quietness
that drew a nod of approval from Mrs. Gantry.
“So! you're home—at last—my dear!” commented Mr. Leslie, patting
his daughter's back with a sallow, vein-corded hand.
“At last, papa! I should have hurried to you at once, in spite of
your cables, if you hadn't said you were starting for Arizona.”
“Couldn't tell how long I'd be on that trip. Wanted you to enjoy
the month in England, since Lady Chetwynd had asked you. But come now.
I must see you started home. Cut short one Board meeting. Must be at
another within half an hour.”
He stepped apart from her and jerked out his watch.
“Yes, papa, only—” She paused and looked at him earnestly. “Did
you not receive my telegram, that we had met Mr. Blake and Lord James
in New York, and that they were to come on with us?”
“Hey?” snapped Mr. Leslie, his eyes glinting keen and cold below
their shaggy brows. First to be transfixed by their glance was young
Ashton, who stood toying with the fringe of Dolores' muff. “What's
this, sir? What you doing here?”
Ashton gave back a trifle before the older man's irascibility, but
answered with easy assurance: “I thought it would do no harm to run
down for a few days. All work at Michamac is stopped—frozen up
“It's not the way your father got his start in life—frivolity!
Stick to your work all the time—stick!” rejoined Mr. Leslie. He
turned and met the monocled stare of the earl. “H'm. This, I suppose,
is the gentleman who—”
“My dear Herbert, permit me,” interposed Mrs. Gantry. “Ah—the
Right Honorable the Earl of Avondale: I have the honor to present—”
“Glad to meet you, sir!” broke in Mr. Leslie, clutching the
Englishman's hand in a nervous grip. “Glad of the chance to thank you
“But, I say, I'm not the right man, y' know,” protested Lord James.
“The small part I had in it is not worth mentioning.” He laid a hand
on Blake's broad shoulder. “It's my friend Thomas Blake you should
Mr. Leslie stepped back and eyed Blake's impassive face with marked
coldness. “Your friend Blake?” he repeated.
“Old friend—camp-mate, chum—all over Western America and South
Africa. It's he who's entitled to the credit for the rescue of Miss
“We'll talk about your part later. You'll, of course, call on us,”
said Mr. Leslie. He fixed his narrowing eyes on Blake. “H'm. So you're
Tom Blake—the same one.”
“That's no lie,” replied Blake dryly.
“You heard me say I'm busy. Have no time to-day. I'll give you an
appointment for to-morrow, at my office, ten A. M. sharp.”
“Thanks. But you're a bit too previous,” said Blake. “I haven't
asked for any appointment with you that I know of.”
“But, Tom!” exclaimed Genevieve, astonished at the hostility in his
tone, “of course you'll go. Papa wishes to thank you for—for all
you've done. To-day, you see, he's so very busy.”
Blake's hard eyes softened before her appealing glance, only to
stare back sullenly at her father.
“I'm not asking any thanks from him, Miss Jenny,” he replied.
The girl caught the arm of her father, who stood glowering
irritably at Blake. “Papa, I—I don't understand why you and
Tom—Couldn't you— won't you please be a little more cordial? Wait! I
have it!” She flashed an eager glance at Blake. “Tom, you'll dine with
us this evening.”
He looked at Lord James, and replied steadily: “Sorry, Miss Jenny.
You know I'd like to come. But I've got a previous engagement.”
“If I ask you to break it, Tom?”
“Can't do it. I've given my word—worse luck!”
“But I do so wish you and papa to come to an understanding.”
“Gaess I understand him already; so it's no use to—There now,
don't worry. Long as you want me to, I'll accept his polite invitation
“Ten A.M. sharp!” rasped Mr. Leslie. He drew Genevieve about, and
rushed her off, with a curt call to Mrs. Gantry: “Come, Amice. Dolores
brought the coupe. I'll put you in. The maids and baggage can follow
in my car. Hurry up.”
Genevieve was whirled away into the thick of the crowd, with
scarcely time for a parting glance at Blake and Lord James. Mrs.
Gantry lingered an instant to address the young Englishman:
“Pray do not forget, earl, you are to dine with me.”
As Lord James bowed in polite agreement, Ashton, who had been
scribbling on one of his cards, held it out. “Pardon me, your
lordship. Here's a list of my favorite clubs. Look me up. I'll steer
you to all the gay spots in little old Chi.”
“Mr. Brice-Ashton is one of our hustling young grain speculators,”
explained Dolores. “Before he went to Michamac he almost cornered the
market in wild oats.”
“Now, Miss Dodie!” smirked Ashton. “Wait! I'll do your elbowing.”
But the girl was already plunging into the crowd, in the wake of
her mother, the maids, and the porters. Ashton hastened after, in a
vain attempt to overtake her. Crowds part easier before a pretty,
smiling, fashionably dressed girl than before a foppish young man who
affects the French mode.
The card with the list of clubs fell from the hand that Lord James
raised to screw in his monocle.
“Stow it, Jimmy,” growled Blake. “I feel just prime for smashing
that fool window.”
Lord James slipped the monocle into his pocket, and twisted at the
end of his short mustache.
“Don't blame you, old man,” he remarked. “Her guv'nor
bit crusty. Quite a clever girl that—the cousin—eh?”
“Miss Dolores? She sure is a hummer. Doesn't take after her mother;
so she's all right,” assented Blake. He added eagerly, “Say, Jimmy,
she's just the one for you. You're so blondy blonde you need a real
brunette to set off your charms.”
“Sorry, Tom. Saw too much of some one else coming up to Aden—and
before. Shouldn't have to remind you of that.”
“Damn the luck!” swore Blake. “Well, we've come to the show-down.
She's home now; agreement's off.”
“To-morrow,” corrected his friend.
“Lord! If only you weren't you! I'd knock you clean out of the
“Rotten luck!” murmured Lord James sympathetically. “Had it been
any other girl, now! But having met her before you did—Deuce take it,
old man, how could I help it?”
“'T ain't your fault, Jimmy. You know I don't blame you. I don't
forget you began to play fair just as soon as you got next to how
matters stood between.—how they stood with me.”
“Couldn't play the cad, you know. I say, though, it's time we
talked it all over again. Give me your trunk check. I'll have my man
send your luggage to my hotel. You're to keep on bunking with me.”
“No,” replied Blake. “It was all right, long as we were travelling.
Now I've got to hunt a hallroom and begin scratching gravel.”
“But at least until you find a position.”
“No. I'm sure of something first pop, if old Grif is in town. You
remember, I once told you all about him—M. F. Griffith, my old
engineer—man who boosted me from a bum to a transitman. Whitest man
that ever was! Last I heard, he'd located here in Chicago as a
consulting engineer. He'll give me work, or find it for me; and
Mollie—that's Mrs. Grif—she'll board me, if she has to set up a bed
in her parlor to do it.”
“Oh, if you're set on chucking me,” murmured Lord James. “But I'll
stay by you till you've looked around. If you don't find your friend,
you're to come with me.”
“Must think I need a chaperon,” rallied Blake in a fond growl.
“Well, signal your Man Friday, and we'll run a line to the nearest
Lord James signed to his valet, who stood near, discreetly
observant. On the instant the man stepped forward with his master's
hand luggage, and reached down to grasp Blake's suitcase, which had
been left by one of the porters. But Blake was too quick for him.
Catching up the suitcase himself, he swung away through the crowd and
up the broad stairway, to the Bureau of Information.
Two minutes later he was copying an address from the city business
“Got his office O.K.,” he informed his friend. “Over on Dearborn
Street. Next thing's to see if he's in town. Shunt your collar-
buttoner, and come on. We can walk over inside ten minutes.”
Lord James instructed his valet to take a taxicab to the hotel. He
himself proceeded to button up his overcoat from top to bottom and
turn up the collar.
“Your balmy native clime!” he gibed, staring ruefully through the
depot windows at the whirling snowstorm without. “If I freeze my
Grecian nose, you'll have to buy me a wax one.”
Blake chuckled. “Remember that night up in the Kootenay when the
blizzard struck us and we lost the road?”
“Pleasant time to recall it!” rejoined Lord James, with a shiver.
“But come on. I'm keen to meet your Mr. Griffith.”
CHAPTER VI. THREE OF A KIND
They reached the great office building on Dearborn Street,
red-faced and tingling from the whirling drive of the powdery snow. It
was so dry with frost that scarcely a flake clung to their coats when
they pushed in through the storm doors. The elevator shot them up to
the top floor of the building before they could catch their breath in
the close, steam-heated atmosphere.
“Whew!” said Blake, stepping out and dropping his suitcase,
to shed his English raincoat. “Talk about Mozambique! Guess you know
now you're in Hammurica, me lud. All the way from the Pole to Panama
in one swing of the street door.”
“What was your friend's number?” asked Lord James, eying the doors
across the corridor.
“Seventeen-fifteen. Must be down this way,” answered Blake.
Catching up his suitcase, he led around to the rear corner of the
building. At the end of the side hall they came to a door marked “No.
1715.” On the frosted glass below the number there was painted in
plain black letters a modest sign:
M. F. GRIFFITH, C. E. CONSULTING ENGINEER
Blake led the way in and across to the plain table-desk where a
young clerk was checking up a surveyor's field book.
“Hello,” said Blake. “Mr. Griffith in?”
“Why, yes, he's in. But I think he's busy,” replied the clerk,
starting to rise. “I'll see. What business?”
“Don't bother, sonny,” said Blake. “We'll just step in and sit
The clerk stared, but resumed his seat, while Blake crossed to the
door marked “Private,” and motioned Lord James to follow him in. When
they entered, a lank, gray-haired man sat facing them at a table-desk
as plain as the clerk's. It was covered with drawings, over which the
veteran engineer was poring with such intentness that he failed to
perceive his callers.
“Hello! What's up now?” asked Blake in a casual tone. “Going to
bridge Behring Straits?”
“Hey?” demanded the worker, glancing up with an abstracted look.
His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the trim figure of the earl
and Blake's English cap and tweeds. But at sight of Blake's face he
shoved back his chair and came hurrying around the end of the desk,
his thin dry face lighted by a rare smile of friendship. He warily
caught the tip of Blake's thick fingers in his bony clasp.
“Well! I'll be—switched!” he croaked. “What you doing here, Tommy?
Thought we'd got rid of you for good.”
“Guess you'll have to lump it,” rejoined Blake. “I'm here with both
feet, and I want a job—P-D-Q. First, though, I want you to shake
hands with my friend, Jimmy Scarbridge—Hold on! Wait a second.”
He drew himself up pompously, and bowed to Lord James in burlesque
mimicry of Mrs. Gantry. “Aw, beg pawdon, m'lud. Er—the—aw—Right
Hon'able the—aw—Earl of Avondale: I present—aw—Mistah Griffith.”
“Chuck it! The original's enough and to spare,” cut in his
lordship. He turned to Griffith with unaffected cordiality. “Glad to
meet one of Tom's other friends, Mr. Griffith.”
“The only other,” added Blake.
“Then I'm still gladder!” said Lord James, gripping the bony hand
of Griffith. “Don't let Tom chaff you. My name's just
“Owh, me lud! Himpossible!” gasped Blake, “And your papa a juke!”
At sight of Griffith's upcurving eyebrows, Lord James smiled
resignedly and explained: “Quite true—as to His Grace, y'know. But I
assure you that even in England I am legally only a commoner. It's
only by courtesy—custom, you know—that I'm given my father's second
“That's all right, Mr. Scarbridge,” assured Griffith, in turn.
“Glad to meet you. Have a seat.”
While the callers drew up chairs for themselves, he returned to his
seat and hauled out a box of good cigars. Blake helped himself and
passed the box to Lord James. Griffith took out an old pipe and
proceeded to load it with rank Durham.
“Well?” he croaked, as he handed over a match-box. “What's the good
“Haven't you heard?” replied Blake. “I'm a hero, the real live
article,—T. Blake, C. E. H. E., R. O.—Oh!”
“No joshing, you Injin,” admonished Griffith, pausing with a
lighted match above the bowl of his pipe.
Lord James gazed reproachfully at the grinning Blake. “He tries to
belittle it, Mr. Griffith, but it's quite true. Haven't you seen about
it in the press?”
“Too busy over this Arizona dam,” said Griffith, jerking his pipe
towards the drawings on his desk.
“What dam?” demanded Blake, bending forward, keenly alert.
“Zariba—big Arizona irrigation project. Simple as A, B, C, except
the dam itself. That has stumped half a dozen of the best men.
Promoters are giving me a try at it now. But I'm beginning to think
I've bitten off more 'n I can chew.”
“You?” said Blake incredulously.
“Yes, me. When it comes to applying what's in the books, I'm not so
worse. You know that, Tommy. But this proposition—Only available dam
site is across a stretch of bottomless bog, yet it's got to hold a
sixty-five foot head of water.”
“Je-ru-salem!” whistled Blake. “Say, you've sure got to give me a
shy at that, Grif. It can't be worked out—that's a cinch. Just the
same, I'd like to fool with the proposition.”
Griffith squinted at the younger engineer through his pipe smoke,
and grunted: “Guess I'll have to let you try, if you're set on
it.” He nodded to Lord James. “You know how much use it is bucking
against Tommy. The boys used to call him a mule. They were half wrong.
That half is bulldog.”
“Aw, come off!” put in Blake. “You know it's just because I hate to
“That's straight. You're no quitter. Shouldn't wonder if you held
on to this dam problem till you swallowed it.”
“Stow the kidding,” said Blake, embarrassed.
“I'm giving it to you straight. This dam has made a lot of good
ones quit. I'm about ready to quit, myself. But I'll be—switched if I
don't think you'll make a go of it, Tommy.”
“In your eye!”
“No.” Griffith took out his pipe and fixed an earnest gaze on
Blake. “I'm not one to slop over. You know that. I can put it all over
you in mathematics—in everything that's in the books. So can a
hundred or more men in this country. Just the same, there's
something—you've got something in you that ain't in the books.”
“Whiskey?” suggested Blake, with bitter self-derision.
“Tom!” protested Lord James.
“What's the use of lying about it?” muttered Blake.
“You've no whiskey in you now,” rejoined Griffith. “I'm talking
about what you are now,—what you've got in your head. It's brains.”
“Pickled in alcohol!” added Blake, more bitterly than before.
“That's a lie, and you know it, Tommy. You're not yet on the
shelf— not by a long sight.”
Blake grinned sardonically at Lord James. “Hear that, Jimmy? Never
take the guess of an engineer. They're no good at guessing. It's not
in the business.”
“Chuck it. You know you've got something worth fighting for now.”
“Lots of chance I'll have to win out against you!” Blake's teeth
ground together on his unlighted cigar. He jerked it from his mouth
and flung it savagely into the wastebasket. But the violent movement
discharged the tension of his black humor.
“Lord! what a grouch I am!” he mumbled. “Guess I'm in for a go at
the same old thing.”
Griffith and Lord James exchanged a quick glance, and the former
hastened to reply: “Don't you believe it, Tommy. Don't talk about my guessing. You're steady as a rock, and you're going to keep
steady. You're on the Zariba Dam now,—understand?”
“It's a go!” cried Blake, his eyes glowing. “That fixes me. You
know my old rule: Not a drop of anything when I'm on a job. Only one
thing more, and I'm ready to pitch in. I must get Mollie to put me
Griffith looked down, his teeth clenching on the pipe stem. There
was a moment's pause. Then he replied in a tone more than ever dry and
emotionless: “Guess my last letter didn't reach you. I lost her, a
“God!” murmured Blake. He bent forward and gripped his friend's
Griffith winced under the sympathetic clasp, turned his face away,
coughed, and rasped out: “Work's the one thing in the world, Tommy.
Always believed it. I've proved it this year. Work! Beats whiskey any
day for making you forget ... I've got rooms here. You'll bunk with
me. Pretty fair restaurant down around the corner.”
“It's a go,” said Blake. He nodded to Lord James. “That lets you
“Out in the cold,” complained his lordship.
“What! With Mamma Gantry waiting to present you to the upper
crust?—I mean, present the crust to you.”
“Best part of the pie is under the crust.”
“Now, now, none of that, Jimmy boy. You're not the sort to take in
the town with a made-in-France thing like that young Ashton.”
“Ashton?” queried Griffith. “You don't mean Laffie Ashton?”
“He was down at the depot to give our party the glad hand.”
“Your party?” repeated Griffith. He saw Blake wink at Lord James,
and thought he understood. “I see. He knows Mr. Scarbridge, eh? It's
like him, dropping his work and running down here, when he ought to
stick by his bridge.”
“His bridge?” asked Blake. “Say, he did blow about having landed
the Michamac Bridge. But of course that's all hot air. He didn't even
take part in the competition. Besides, you needn't tell me he's
anything more than a joke as an engineer.”
“Isn't he, though? After you pulled out the last time—after the
competition,—he put in plans and got the Michamac Bridge.”
“You're joking!” cried Blake. “He got it?—that
“You'll remember that all who took part in the competition failed
on the long central span,” said Griffith.
“No!” contradicted Blake. “I didn't. I tell you, it was just
as I wrote you I'd do. I worked out a new truss modification. I'd have
sworn my cantilever was the only one that could span Michamac Strait.”
“And then to have your plans lost!” put in Griffith with keen
sympathy beneath his dry croak. “Hell! That bridge would have landed
you at the top of the ladder in one jump.”
“Losing those plans landed me on a brake-beam, after my worst spree
ever,” muttered Blake.
“Don't wonder,” said Griffith. “What gets me, though, is the way
this young Ashton, this lily-white lallapaloozer of a kid-glove C. E.,
came slipping in with his plans less than a month after the contest. I
looked up the records.”
“What were you doing, digging into that proposition?” demanded
“What d' you suppose? Ashton was slick enough to get an ironclad
contract as Resident Engineer. His bridge plans are a wonder, but he's
proved himself N. G. on construction work. Has to be told how to build
his own bridge. I'm on as Consulting Engineer.”
“You?” growled Blake. “You, working again for H. V. Leslie!”
“Give the devil his due, Tommy. He's sharp as tacks, but if you've
got his name to a straightforward contract—”
“After he threw us down on the Q. T. survey?”
Griffith coughed and hesitated. “Well—now—look here, Tommy,
you're not the kind to hold a grudge. Anyway, the bridge was turned
over to the Coville Construction Company.” He turned quickly to Lord
James. “Say, what's that about his being in the papers? If it's
anything to his credit, put me next, won't you? I couldn't pry it out
of him with a crow-bar.”
“So you're going to use a Jimmy instead, eh?” countered Blake.
“Right-o, Tammas,” said Lord James. “We're going to open up the
incident out of hand.”
“Lord!” groaned Blake. He rose, flushing with embarrassment, and
swung across, to stare at a blueprint in the far corner of the room.
Lord James flicked the ash from his cigar with his little finger,
and smiled at Griffith.
“Tom and I had been knocking around quite a bit, you know,” he
began. “Fetched up in South Africa. American engineers in demand on
the Rand. Tom was asked to manage a mine.”
“He could do it,” commented Griffith. “Was two years on a low-grade
proposition in Colorado—made it pay dividends. Didn't he suit the
“Better than they suited him, I take it. I left for a run home.
Week before I arrived a servant looted the family jewels—heirlooms,
all that, you know—chap named Hawkins. Thought I'd play Sherlock
Holmes. Learned that my man had booked passage for India. Traced him
to Calcutta. Lost two months; found he'd doubled back and gone to the
Cape. Cape Town, found he'd booked passage for England under his last
alias—Winthrope. Steamer list also showed names of my friend Lady
Bayrose, Miss Leslie, and Tom.”
“Hey?” ejaculated Griffith, opening his narrowed eyes a line.
“Same time, learned the steamer had been posted as lost, somewhere
between Port Natal and Zanzibar.”
“Crickey!” gasped Griffith. “Then it was Tom who pulled H. V.'s
daughter—Miss Leslie—through that deal! Heard all about it from H.
V. himself, when he took me out to Arizona to look over this Zariba
Dam proposition. But he didn't name the man. Well, I'll be—switched!
Tommy sure did land in High Society that time!”
“They landed in the primitive, so to speak,—he and Miss Leslie and
Hawkins,—when the cyclone flung them ashore in the swamps.”
“Hawkins? Didn't you just say—”
“Rather a grim joke, was it not? Every soul aboard drowned except
those three—Tom and Miss Leslie and Hawkins, of all men!”
“Bet Tommy shook your family jewels out of his pockets mighty
Lord James lost his smile. “He got them, later on, when the
“Eh? Well, God's country is good enough for me. Those tropical
holes sure are hell. Tommy once wrote me about one of the Central
American ports. You. don't ever catch me south of the U. S. This East
African proposition, now? Must have been a tough deal even for Tommy.”
“They were doing well enough when I found him, both he and Miss
Leslie,—skin clothes, poisoned arrows, house in a tree hollow—all
“Well, I'll be—! But that's Tommy, for sure. He's got the kind of
brains that get there. If he can't buck through a proposition, he'll
triangulate around it. Go on.”
“There's not much to tell, I fancy, now that you know he was the
man. You're aware that, had it not been for his resourcefulness and
courage, Miss Leslie would have perished in that savage land of wild
beasts and fever. Yet there is something more than you could
have heard from her father, something I'm not free to tell about. Wish
I was, 'pon my word, I do! Finest thing he ever did,—something even we would not have expected of him.”
“Dunno 'bout that,” qualified Griffith. “There's mighty little I
don't expect of him—if only he can cut out the lushing.”
Lord James twisted his mustache. “Ever think of him as wearing a
dress suit, Mr. Griffith?”
Griffith looked blank. “Tommy?—in a dress suit!”
“There's one in his box. When we landed in England I took him down
to Ruthby. Kept him there a month. You'd have been jolly well pleased
to see the way he and the guv'nor hit it off.”
“Yes, my pater—father, y' know.”
“So he's a governor? Then Tommy was stringing me about the earl and
“Oh, no, no, indeed, no. The pater is the Duke of Ruthby, seventh
in the line, and twenty-first Earl of Avondale; but he's a crack-up
jolly old chap, I assure you. Not all our titled people are of the
kind you see most of over here in the States.”
“But—hold on—if your father is a real duke, then you're not
“Yes, I must insist upon that. Even in England I am only Mr.
Scarbridge—legally, y' know. Hope you'll do me the favor of
remembering I prefer it that way.”
“I'd do a whole lot for any man
he calls his friend,” said
Griffith, gazing across at Blake's broad back. Lord James glanced at
his watch, and rose. “Sorry. Must go.”
“Well, if you must,” said Griffith. “You know the way here now.
Drop in any time you feel like it. Rooms are always open. If I'm busy,
I've got a pretty good technical library—if you're interested in
engineering,—and some photographs of scenery and construction work.
Took 'em myself.”
“Thanks. I'll come,” responded Lord James. He nodded cordially, and
turned to call slangily to Blake: “S' long, bo. I'm on my way.”
Blake wheeled about from the wall. “What's this? Not going
“Ah, to be sure. Pressing engagement. Must give Wilton time to
attire me—those studied effects—last artistic touches, don't y'
know,” chaffed the Englishman.
But his banter won no responsive smile from his friend. Blake's
“You're not going to see her to-day,” he muttered.
“How could you think it, Tom?” reproached the younger man, flushing
hotly. “I have it! We'll extend the agreement until noon to-morrow.
You have that appointment with her father in the morning.”
“That's square! Just like you, Jimmy. Course I knew you'd play
fair— It's only my grouch. I remember now. Madam G. gave you a bid to
dine with her.”
Lord James drew out his monocle, replaced it, and smiled.
“Er—quite true; but possibly the daughter may be a compensation.”
“Sure,” assented Blake, a trifle too eagerly, “You're bound to like
Miss Dolores. I sized her up for a mighty fine girl. Not at all like
her mamma—handsome, lively young lady—just your style, Jimmy.”
“Can't see it, old man. Sorry!” replied his lordship. “Good-day.
Good-day, Mr. Griffith.”
CHAPTER VII. THE HERO EXPLAINS
For half a minute after his titled friend had bowed himself out,
Blake stood glowering at the door. The sharp crackle of a blueprint
under the thrumming fingers of Griffith caused him to start from his
abstraction and cross to the desk, where he dropped heavily into his
“Well?” demanded Griffith. “Out with it.”
“You called him your friend. He's a likely-looking youngster, even
if he is the son of a duke. Same time, there's something in the
wind. Cough it up. Haven't happened to smash any heads or windows,
have you, while you were—”
“No!” broke in Blake harshly. “It's worse than that, ten times
worse! It's—it's Jenny—Miss Leslie!”
Griffith's thin lips puckered in a soundless whistle. “Well, I'll
be—! Don't tell me you've gone and—Why, you never cared a rap for
“No, but this time, Grif—It began when I showed her through that
Rand mine. Jimmy has told you what followed.”
Griffith blinked, and discreetly said nothing as to what lie had
heard from Miss Leslie's father. “H'm. I'd like to hear it all,
straight from you.”
“Can't now. Too long a yarn. I want to tell you about the results.
Couldn't do it to any one else,” explained Blake, blushing darkly
under his thick layer of tropical tan. He sought to beat around the
bush. “Well, I proved myself fit to survive in that environment, tough
as it was—sort of cave-man's hell. Queer thing, though, Jenny—Miss
Leslie—proved fit, too; that is, she did after right at the start.
She's got a headpiece, and grit!”
“Takes after her dad,” suggested Griffith.
“As to the brains and grit.”
“Not in anything else, though. They're no more alike than garlic
“Getting poetic, eh?” cackled Griffith.
“Don't laugh, Grif. It's too serious a matter. I'd do anything in
the world for her. She's the truest, grittiest girl alive. She told me
straight out, there at the last, that she—she loved me.”
“Crickey!” ejaculated Griffith. “She told you that?—she?—Miss—”
“Hush! not so loud!” cautioned Blake. Again the color deepened in
his bronzed cheeks. His pale eyes shone very blue and soft. “It was
when we heard the siren of Jimmy's steamer. She—You'll forget this,
Grif? Never whisper a hint of it?”
“Sure! What you take me for?”
“Well, she wouldn't agree to wait. Wanted to be married as soon as
we got aboard ship.”
“She—!” Griffith lacked breath even for an expletive.
“I agreed. Couldn't help it, with her looking at me that way. Then
we went down around through the cleft to the shore, where the boat was
pulling in. Well, there was Jimmy in the sternsheets, in a white
yachting suit—Me with my hyena pants, and Jenny in her leopard-skin
were doing the Crusoe business!” cackled Griffith.
“It shook me out of my dream all right, soon as I set eyes on
Jimmy. I waded out with—Miss Leslie, and put her into the boat. Told
him to hurry her aboard. I cut back to the cleft—the place where we'd
“Off your head, eh?”
“No. Don't you see? I had to save Jenny. I had proved myself a
pretty good cave-man, and she had been living so close to that sort of
thing that she had lost her perspective. Wasn't fair to her to let her
tie herself up to me till she'd first had a chance to size me up with
the men of her class.”
“You mean to say you passed up your chance?”
“I'd have been a blackguard to 've let her marry me then!” cried
Blake, his eyes flashing angrily. He checked himself, and went on in a
monotone: “I waited till Jimmy came back to fetch me. Course I had to
explain the situation. Asked him to pull out without me, and send down
a boat from Port Mozambique. No go. Finally we fixed it up for me to
slip aboard into the forecastle.”
“Well, I'll be—switched!” croaked Griffith. “You did that, to
escape marrying the daughter of a multi-millionaire!”
“It would have been the same if she'd been poor, Grif. She's a
lady, through and through, and I—I love her! God! how I love her!”
“Guess that's no lie,” commented Griffith in his dryest tone.
Blake relaxed the grip that seemed to be crushing the arms of his
“Well, I went aboard and kept under cover. Jimmy managed to keep
her diverted till we put into Port Mozambique. There I sent a note aft
to her, letting on that I had already landed, and swearing that I was
going to steer clear of her until after she got back to her father.
But I kept aboard, in the forecastle, as Jimmy had made me promise to
do. At Aden, Jimmy put her on a P. and O. liner in the care of a
friend of his, Lady Chetwynd, who was on her way home to England from
“He went along, too; leaving you to shift for yourself, eh?”
“Don't you think it! He had been spending half the time forward
with me in that stew-hole of a forecastle. Soon as she was safe, I
hiked aft and bunked with him. No; Jimmy's as square as they make 'em.
To prove it—he had met Jenny before; greatly taken with her. There on
the steamer was the very chance he had been after. But he played fair;
didn't try to win her. Told me all about it, right at the first, and
we came to an agreement. We were both to steer clear of her over on
that side. That's why we stuck close to Ruthby Castle till Jenny
sailed for home. No; Jimmy is white. He had invitations to more than
one house-party where she was visiting around with Lady Chetwynd and
“So neither of you have seen her since there at Aden?”
“Yes, we have. Came on from New York with her and her aunt. They
had stopped over when they landed, and we blundered into them before
we could dodge.”
“And Miss Leslie? You look glum. Guess you got what was coming to
Blake's face clouded. “Haven't seen her apart from her aunt yet.
She has been kind but—mighty reserved. I'd give a lot to know
whether—” He paused, gripping his chair convulsively. “Just the same,
I haven't quit. The agreement with Jimmy is off to-morrow afternoon.
She's had plenty of time for comparisons. I'll make my try then.”
“Don't fash yourself, Tom. If she's the sort you say, and went as
far as you say, she's not likely to throw you over now.”
“You don't savvy!” exclaimed Blake. “There on that infernal coast I
was the real thing—and the only one, at that. Here I'm just T. Blake,
ex-bum, periodic drunkard, all around—”
“Stow that drivel!” ordered Griffith. “What if you were a kid hobo?
What are you now?—one of the best engineers in the country; one
that's going to make the top in short order. I tell you, you're going
to succeed. What's more, Mollie said—”
“Mollie!” repeated Blake softly. “Say, but wasn't she a booster!
Had even you beat, hands down. Good Lord, to think that she, of all
the little women—! Only thing, typhoid isn't so bad as some things.
They don't suffer so much.”
“Yes,” assented Griffith. “That helps—some—when I get to thinking
of it. She went out quietly—wasn't thinking of herself.”
“She never did!” put in Blake, “Say, but can't a woman make a heap
of difference—when she's the right sort!”
“There was a message for you. She said, almost the last thing:
'Tell Tom not to give up the fight. Tell him,' she said, 'he'll win
out, I know he'll win out in the end.'”
“God!” whispered Blake. “She said that?” He bent over and covered
his eyes with his hand.
Griffith averted his head and peered at the blueprints on the
nearest wall with unseeing eyes. A full minute passed. Keeping his
face still averted, he began to tap out the ash and half-smoked
tobacco from his pipe.
“H'm—guess you'd better work in a room apart,” he remarked in a
matter-of-fact tone. “Too much running in and out here. D' you want to
start right off?”
“No,” muttered Blake. He paused and then straightened to face his
friend. His eyes were blood-shot but resolute, his face impassive.
“No. I'll wait till after to-morrow. Big order on for to-morrow
morning. Appointment to meet H. V.”
“He was down at the depot. You can imagine how effusive he wasn't
over my saving his daughter. Curse the luck! If only she had had any
one else for a father!”
“Now, now, Tommy, don't fly off the handle. You know there are lots
of 'em worse than H. V.”
“None I'm in so hard with. First place, there's that Q. T. survey.”
“That's all smoothed over. He came around all right. Just ask for
your pay-check. He'll shell out.”
“I'll ask for interest. Ought to have a hundred per cent. I needed
the money then mighty bad.”
“We all did. Let it slide. He's her father. You can't afford to
buck his game.”
“I'd do it quick enough if it wasn't for her,” rejoined Blake.
“That's where he's got me. Lord! if only he and she weren't—!”
Blake's teeth clenched on the end of the sentence.
“Now look here, Tommy,” protested Griffith. “This isn't like you to
hold a grudge. It's true H. V. did us dirt on the survey pay. But he
gave in, soon as I got a chance to talk it over with him.”
“'Cause he had to have you on the Michamac Bridge, eh?” demanded
Blake, his face darkening.
“Stow it! That may be true, but—didn't I tell you he turned the
bridge over to the Coville Company?”
“Afraid he'd be found out, eh?”
“Found out? What do you mean?”
“Mean!” repeated Blake, his voice hoarse with passion. He brought
his big fist down upon the desk with the thud of a maul. “Mean? Listen
here! I didn't write it to you—I couldn't believe it then, even of
him. But answer me this, if you can. I was fool enough not to send my
plans for the bridge competition to him by registered mail; I was fool
enough to hand them in to his secretary without asking a receipt.
After the contest, I called for my plans. Clerk told me he couldn't
find them; couldn't find any record that they'd been received. I tell
you my plans solved that central span problem. Who was it could use my
plans?—who were they worth a mint of money to?”
Griffith stared at his friend, his forehead furrowed with an
anxious frown. “See here, Tom—this tropical roughing—it must be
mighty overtaxing on a man. You didn't happen to have a sunstroke
Blake's scowl relaxed in an ironical grin. “All right, take it that
way, if you want to. He let on he thought I was trying to blackmail
“Crickey! You don't mean to say you—”
“Didn't get a chance to see him that time. Just sent in a polite
note asking for my plans. He sent out word by his private-detective
office-boy that if I called again he'd have me run in.”
“And now you come back with this dotty pipe-dream that he knows
what became of your plans! Take my advice. Think it all you want, if
that does you any good; but keep your head closed—keep it closed!
First thing he'd do would be to look up the phone number of the
“I'd like to see him do it,” replied Blake. He shook his head
dubiously. “That's straight, Grif. I'd like to see him do it. I can't
forget he's her father. If only I could be sure he hadn't a finger in
the disappearance of those plans—Well, you can guess how I feel about
“You're dotty to think it a minute. He's a money-grubber—as sharp
as some others. But he wouldn't do a thing like that. Don't you
“Wish I'd never thought of it—he's her father. But it's been
growing on me. I handed them in to his secretary, that young dude,
“Ashton? There you've hit on a probability,” argued Griffith. “Of
all the heedless, inefficient papa's boys, he takes the cake! He
wasn't H. V.'s secretary except in name. Wine, women, sports, and
gambling— nothing else under his hat. Always had a mess on his desk.
Ten to one, he got your package mixed in the litter, and shoved all
together into his wastebasket.”
“I'll put it up to him!” growled Blake.
“What's the use? He couldn't remember a matter of business over
night, to save him.”
“Lord! I sweat blood over those plans! It was hard enough to enter
a competition put up by H. V., but it was the chance of a lifetime for
me. Why, if only I'd known in time that they were lost, I'd have put
in my scratch drawings and won on them. I tell you, Grif, that
truss was something new.”
“Oh, no, there's no inventiveness, no brains in your head, oh, no!”
rallied Griffith. “Wait till you make good on this Zariba Dam.”
“You just bet I'll make a stagger at it!” cried Blake. His eyes
shone bright with the joy of work,—and as suddenly clouded with
“I'll be working for you, though,” he qualified. “I don't take any
jobs from H. V. Leslie—not until that matter of the bridge plans is
CHAPTER VIII. FLINT AND STEEL
At three minutes to ten the following morning Blake entered the
doorway of the mammoth International Industrial Company Building. At
one minute to ten he was facing the outermost of the guards who fenced
in the private office of H. V. Leslie, capitalist.
“Your business, sir? Mr. Leslie is very busy, sir.”
“He told me to call this morning,” explained Blake.
“Step in, sir, please.”
Blake entered, and found himself in a well-remembered waiting-room,
in company with a dozen or more visitors. He swung leisurely across to
the second uniformed doorkeeper.
“Business?” demanded this attendant with a brusqueness due perhaps
to his closer proximity to the great man.
Blake answered without the flicker of a smile: “I'm a civil
engineer, if you want to know.”
“Your business here?”
“None that concerns you,” rejoined Blake.
His eyes fixed upon the man with a cold steely glint that visibly
disconcerted him. But the fellow had been in training for years. He
replied promptly, though in a more civil tone: “If you do not wish to
state your business to me, sir, you'll have to wait until—”
“No, I won't have to wait until,” put in Blake. “Your boss told me
to call at ten sharp.”
“In that case, of course—Your name, please.”
The man slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He was gone
perhaps a quarter of a minute. When he reappeared, he held the door
half open for Blake.
“Step in, sir,” he said. “Mr. Leslie can spare you fifteen
Blake looked the man up and down coolly. “See here,” he replied,
“just you trot back and tell Mr. H. V. Leslie I'm much obliged for his
favoring me with an appointment, but long as he's so rushed, I'll make
him a present of his blessed quarter-hour.”
“My land, sir!” gasped the doorkeeper. “I can't take such a message
“Suit yourself,” said Blake, deliberately drawing a cigar from his
vest pocket and biting off the tip.
This time the man was gone a full half-minute. He eyed Blake with
respectful curiosity as he swung the door wide open and announced:
“Mr. Leslie asks you to come in, sir.”
As the door closed softly behind him, Blake stared around the bare
little room into which he had been shown. He was looking for the third
guardian of the sanctum,—the great man's private secretary. But the
room was empty. Without pausing, he crossed to the door in the side
wall and walked aggressively into the private office of Genevieve's
Mr. Leslie sat at a neat little desk, hurriedly mumbling into the
trumpet of a small phonograph.
“Moment!” he flung out sideways, and went on with his mumbling.
Blake swung around one of the heavy leather-seated chairs with a
twist of his wrist, and drew out a silver matchsafe. As he took out a
match, Mr. Leslie touched a spring that stopped the whirring mechanism
of the phonograph, and wheeled around in his swivel desk-chair.
“Dictate on wax,” he explained. “Cuts out stenographer. Any clerk
can typewrite. No mislaid stenographer's notes; no mistakes. Well,
you're nearly on time.”
“Sharp at the door, according to your waiting-room clock,” said
Blake, striking the match on his heel.
“Good—punctuality. First point you score. Now, what do you expect
to get out of me?”
Blake held the match to his cigar with deliberate care, blew it
out, and flipped it into the wastebasket, with the terse answer: “Just that much.”
The other's bushy eyebrows came down over the keen eyes. For a full
minute the two stared, the man of business seeking to pierce with his
narrowed glance Blake's hard, open gaze. The failure of his attempt
perhaps irritated him beyond discretion. At any rate, his silent
antagonism burst out in an explosion of irascibility.
“Needn't tell me your game, young man,” he rasped. “You think,
because you were alone with my daughter, you can force me to pay hush
Blake rose to his feet with a look in his eyes before which Mr.
Leslie shrank back and cringed.
“Wait! Sit down! sit down! I—I didn't mean that!” he exclaimed.
Blake drew in a deep breath and slowly sat down again. He said
nothing, but puffed hard at his cigar.
Mr. Leslie rebounded from panic to renewed irascibility. “H'm! So
you're one of that sort. I might have foreseen it.”
Blake looked his indifference. “All right. That's the safety-valve.
Blow off all the steam you want to through it. Only don't try the
other again. You're her father, and that gives you a big vantage. Any
one else have said what you did, he wouldn't have had the chance to
take it back.”
“Do you mean to threaten me?”
“I've smashed men for less.”
“You look the part.”
“It's not the part of a lickspittle.”
“Look here, young man. As the man who happened to save the life of
“Suppose we leave her out of this palaver,” suggested Blake.
“Unfortunately, that is impossible. It is solely owing to the
obligations under which your service to her have put me that I—”
“That you're willing to let me come in here and listen to your
pleasant conversation,” broke in Blake ironically. “Well, let me tell
you, I'm some busy myself these days. Just now I'm out collecting one
of your past-due obligations, I've heard you admit you owe for that
first Q. T. Railroad survey.”
“There was no legal claim on me. I conceded the point at the
request of Mr. Griffith.”
“Had to hire him, eh? Best consulting engineer in the city. And he
held out for a settlement,” rallied Blake.
“You were one of the party?”
“Then apply to my auditor. He has your pay-check waiting for you.”
“How about interest? It's two years over-due.”
“I never allow interest on such accounts.”
Blake took out his cigar and looked at his antagonist, his jaw out-
thrust. “If I had a million, I wouldn't mind spending it to make you
pay that interest.”
“You could spend twice that, and then not get it,” snapped Mr.
Leslie. “You'll soon find out I can't be driven, young man. On the
other hand —how big a position do you think you could fill?”
“See here. You've put me under obligations. I'd rather it had been
any other man than you—”
“Ditto on you!” rejoined Blake.
The blow struck a shower of flinty sparks from Mr. Leslie's
“You'll do well to be more conciliatory, young man,” he warned.
“Didn't take you for a fool.”
“Well, you won't take me in for one,” countered Blake.
“You seem determined to hurt your own interests. Unfortunately
you've put me in your debt—an obligation I must pay in full.”
“Why not get a receiver appointed, and reorganize?” gibed Blake.
“That's one of the ways you dodge obligations, isn't it?”
Mr. Leslie's wrinkled face quickly turned red, and from red to
purple. He thrust a quivering finger against a push-button. Blake
grinned exultantly and picked up his hat.
“Don't bother your bouncer,” he remarked in a cheerful tone. “I
don't need any invitation to leave.”
The tall doorkeeper stepped alertly into the room, but turned back
on the instant at sight of his master's repellent gesture.
“Mistake,” snapped Mr. Leslie, and as the man disappeared, he
turned to Blake. “Wait! Don't go yet.”
Blake was rising to his feet. He paused, considered, and resumed
his seat. Mr. Leslie had regained his normal color and his composure.
He put his finger-tips together, and jerked out in his usual incisive
tone: “I propose to liquidate this obligation to you without delay.
Would you prefer a cash payment?”
“No.” Again Blake set his jaw. “You couldn't settle with me for
cash, not even if you overdrew your bank account.”
“Nonsense!” snapped Mr. Leslie. He studied the young man's resolute
face, and asked impatiently, “Well—what?”
“Can't you get it into your head?” rejoined Blake. “I'm not asking
for any pay for what I did.”
“What, then? If not a money reward—I see. You're perhaps
ambitious. You want to make a name in your profession.”
“Ever know an engineer that didn't?”
“I see. I'll arrange to give you a position that—”
“Thanks,” broke in Blake dryly. “Wait till I ask you for a job.”
“What are you going to do?—loaf?”
“That's my business.”
Mr. Leslie again studied Blake's face. Though accustomed to read
men at a glance, he was baffled by the engineer's inscrutable calm.
“You nearly always win at poker,” he stated.
“Used to,” confirmed Blake. “Cut it out, though. A gambler is a
fool. More fun in a nickel earned than a dollar made at play or
“So! You're one of these socialist cranks.”
Blake laughed outright. “It's the cranks that make the world go
'round! No; I've been too busy boosting for Number One—like you—to
let myself think of the other fellow. The trouble with that crazy
outfit is they want to set you to working for the people, instead of
working the people. No; I've steered clear of them. 'Fraid I might get
infected with altruism. Like you, I'm a born anarchist—excuse me!—
individualist. What would become of those who have the big interests
of the country at heart if they didn't have the big interests in
Mr. Leslie ignored the sarcasm. “Either you're a fool, or you're
playing a deep game. It occurs to me you may have heard that my
daughter has money in her own right.”
“Three million, she said,” assented Blake.
“She told you!”
“Guess she told me more than she seems to have told you.”
Mr. Leslie's eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Her aunt wrote me that
she suspected you had the effrontery to—aspire to my daughter's hand.
I couldn't believe it possible.”
“That so?” said Blake with calm indifference.
Mr. Leslie started as though stung. “It's true, then! You—you!—”
He choked with rage.
“I thought that would reach you,” commented Blake.
“You rascal! you blackguard!” spluttered Mr. Leslie. “So that's
your game? You know she's an heiress! Think you have the
whip-handle—bleed me or force her to marry you!—Alone with her after
the other man—! You—you scoundrel! you blackguard! I'll—”
“Shut up!” commanded Blake, his voice low-pitched and hoarse, his
face white to the lips. For the second time during the interview Mr.
Leslie cringed before his look. His pale eyes were like balls of
Slowly the glare faded from Blake's eyes, and the color returned to
his bronzed face. He relaxed his fists.
“God!” he whispered huskily. “God! ... But you're her father!”
Something in his tone compelled conviction, despite Mr. Leslie's
bitter prejudice. He jerked out reluctantly: “I'm not so sure—perhaps
I spoke too—too hastily. But—the indications—”
“Needn't try to apologize,” growled Blake.
“I'll not—in words. How about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar
“What?” demanded Blake, astonished.
“That, as a beginning. If you prove yourself the kind of man I
think you are,—the kind that can learn to run a railroad
system,—I'll push you up the line to a hundred thousand, besides
chances to come in on stock deals with George Ashton and myself.”
“But if you think I'm a—”
“You're the only man that ever outfaced me in my own office. I'll
chance the rest,—though I had your record looked up as soon as your
name was cabled to me. I know not only who you are but what you
Blake bent forward, frowning. “I've stood about enough of this.”
“Wait,” said Mr. Leslie. “I'm not going to drag that in. I mention
it only that you will understand without argument why my offer is
based on the condition that you at once and for all time give over
your ridiculous idea of becoming my son-in-law.”
“That I'd rather see my daughter in her grave than married to you.
Is that plain enough? You're a good engineer—when you're not a drunkard.”
For a moment Blake sat tense and silent. Then he replied steadily:
“I haven't touched a drop of drink since that steamer piled up on that
“Three months, at the outside,” rejoined Mr. Leslie. “You've been
known to go half a year. But always—”
“Yes, always before this try,” said Blake. “It's different, though,
now, with the backing of two such—ladies!”
“Two?” queried Mr. Leslie sharply.
“One's dead,” replied Blake with simple gravity.
“H'm. I—it's possible I've misjudged you in some things. But this
question of drink—I'll risk backing you in a business way, if it
costs me a million. I owe you that much. But I won't risk my
daughter's happiness—supposing you had so much as a shadow of a
chance of winning her. No! You saved her life. You shall have no
chance whatever to make her miserable. But I'll give you
opportunities—I'll put you on the road to making your own millions.”
Blake raised his cigar and flecked off the ash. “That for
your damned millions!” he swore.
Mr. Leslie stared and muttered to himself: “Might have known it!
Man of that kind. Crazy fool!”
“Fool?” repeated Blake contemptuously. “Just because money is
your god, you needn't think it's everybody else's. You—money—hog!
You think I'd sell out my chance of winning her!”
“You have no chance, sir! The thought of such a thing is absurd—
“Well, then, why don't you laugh? No; you hear me. If I knew I
didn't have one chance in a million, I'd tell you to take your offer
“Now, now! make no rash statements. I'm offering you, to begin
with, a twenty-five-thousand-dollar position, and your chance to
acquire a fortune, if you—”
Blake's smouldering anger flared out in white heat. “Think you can
bribe me, do you? Well, you can just take your positions and your
dollars, and go clean, plumb to hell!”
“That will do, sir!—that will do!” gasped Mr. Leslie, shocked
almost beyond speech.
“No, it won't do, Mr. H. V. Leslie!” retorted Blake. “I'm not one
of your employees, to throw a fit when you put on the heavy pedal, and
I'm not one of the lickspittles that are always baa-ing around
the Golden Calf. You've had your say. Now I'll have mine. To begin
with, let me tell you, I don't need your positions or your money.
Griffith has given me work. I'm working for him, not you. Understand?”
“You are? He's my consulting engineer.”
“That cuts no ice. I'm doing some work for him—for
understand? It's not for you. He gave me the job—not you. After what
you've said to me here, I wouldn't take a hundred
-thousand-dollar job from you, not if I was walking around on my
Blake's anger burst out in volcanic rage. “That's it, straight! I
don't want your jobs or your money. They're dirty! You've looked up my
record, have you? How about your own? How about the Michamac Bridge?
Griffith says the Coville Company has taken it over; but you started
it—you called for plans—you advertised a competition. Where are my
Mr. Leslie shrank back before the enraged engineer.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Blake!” he soothed in a quavering voice. “Calm
yourself! This illusion of yours about lost plans—”
“Illusion?” cried Blake. “When I handed them in myself to your
secretary—that dude, Ashton.”
Mr. Leslie sat up, keenly alert. “To him? You say you handed in a
set of bridge plans to my former secretary?”
“He wasn't a
former secretary then.”
“To young Ashton, at that time my secretary. Where was it?”
“In there,” muttered Blake, jerking his thumb towards the empty
anteroom. “I had to butt in to get even that far.”
“Why didn't you show your receipt when you applied for your plans?”
“Hadn't a receipt.”
“You didn't take a receipt?”
“And after that Q. T. survey, too!” thrust Blake. “I sure did play
the fool, didn't I? But I was all up in the air over the way I had
worked out that central span, and didn't think of anything but the
committee you'd appointed to pass on the competing plans. Those judges
were all right. I knew they'd be square.”
“Sure you had any plans? Where's your proof?” demanded Mr. Leslie
with a shrewdness that won a sarcastic grin from Blake.
“Don't fash yourself,” he jeered. “You're safe—legally. Of course
my scratch copy of them went down in the steamer. The fact I wrote
Griffith about them before the contest wouldn't cut any ice—with your
lawyers across the table from any I could afford to hire.”
“Griffith knows about your plans?”
“Didn't get a chance to show them to him. All he knows is I wrote
him I was drawing them to compete for the bridge—which of course was
part of my plan to blackmail you,” gibed Blake. He rose, with a look
that was almost good-humored. “Well, guess we're through swapping
compliments. I won't take up any of your valuable time discussing the
With shrewd eyes blinking uneasily under their shaggy brows, Mr.
Leslie watched his visitor cross towards the door. The engineer walked
firmly and resolutely, with his head well up, yet without any trace of
swagger or bravado.
As he reached for the doorknob, Mr. Leslie bent forward and called
in an irritable tone: “Wait! I want to tell you—”
me! My time's too valuable,” rejoined Blake, and he
swung out of the room.
Mr. Leslie sat for a few moments with his forehead creased in
intent thought. He roused, to touch a button with an incisive thrust
of his finger. To the clerk who came hastening in he ordered tersely:
“Phone Griffith—appointment nine-fifteen to-morrow. Important.”
CHAPTER IX. PLAYS FOR POSITION
About three o'clock of the same day a smart electric
whirled up Lake Shore Drive under a rattling fusillade of sleet from
over the lake. At the entrance of the grounds of the Leslie mansion it
curved around and shot in under the porte cochere.
A footman in the quiet dark green and black of the Leslie livery
sprang out to open the coupe door, while the footman with the coupe, whose livery was not so quiet, swung down to hand out the
occupants. Before the servant could offer his services, Dolores Gantry
darted out past him and in through the welcome doorway of the side
entrance. Her mother followed with stately leisure, regardless of a
wind-flung dash of sleet on her sealskins.
Having been relieved of their furs, the callers were shown to the
drawing-room. As the footman glided away to inform his mistress of
their arrival, Dolores danced across to the door of the rear drawing-
room and called in a clear, full-throated, contralto voice: “Ho,
Vievie! Vievie! You in here? Hurry up! There's something I do so want
to tell you.”
Mrs. Gantry paused in the act of seating herself. “Dolores! Why
must you shriek out like a magpie? Will you never forget you're a
“I'm not, mamma. I'm simply acting as if I were one. You forget I'm
a full-blown debutante. Vievie has already promised me a ball.”
“Behave yourself, if you wish to attend it.”
Dolores jumped to a chair and sank into it with an air of elegant
languor. “Yes, mamma. This—ah—driving in moist weather is so
fatiguing, don't you find it?”
Mrs. Gantry disposed herself upon the comfortable seat that she had
selected, and raised her gold lorgnette. “Do not forget that the ball
Genevieve has so generously promised you is to be honored by the
“Of a real live earl and a real hero, with Laffie Ashton thrown in
for good—I mean, bad—measure!” cut in Dolores with enthusiasm. “You
know, I asked Vievie to 'put him on her list, else he never may be
Again Mrs. Gantry raised her lorgnette to transfix her daughter
with her cold stare. “You asked her to invite Lafayette Ashton?
And you know his reputation!”
“Of course. But you mustn't ask for the details, mamma,” reproved
the girl. “It's best that you should not become aware of such things,
my dear. Only, you know, 'boys will be boys,' and we must not lose
sight of the fact that poor dear Laffie will be worth twenty millions
some day—if his papa doesn't make a will. Besides, he dances
divinely. Of course Earl Jimmy's mustache is simply too cute for
anything, but, alas! unless Vievie clings to her heroic Tommy—”
“Tommyrot!” sniffed Mrs. Gantry. “The presumption of that low
fellow! To think of his following her to America!”
“You should have forewarned the authorities at Ellis Island, and
had him excluded as dangerous—to your plans.”
“No more of this frivolity! I've confided to you that that man is
dangerous to Genevieve's happiness. I'll not permit it. What a
fortunate chance that the earl came with him! I shall see to it that
Genevieve becomes a countess.”
Dolores pulled a mock-tragic face. “Oh, mamma,” she implored, “why
don't you root for me, instead? I'm sure a coronet would fit me to
perfection, and his mustache is so cute!”
To judge by Mrs. Gantry's expression, it was fortunate for her
daughter that Genevieve came in upon them. Dolores divined this last
from the sudden mellowing of her mother's face. She whirled up out of
her chair and around, with a cry of joyous escape: “Oh, Vievie! You're
just in time to save me!”
“From what, dear?” asked Genevieve, smilingly permitting herself to
be crumpled in an impetuous embrace.
“Mamma was just going to run the steam-roller over me, simply
because I said Jimmy's mustache is cute. It is cute, isn't it?”
“'Jimmy'?” inquired Genevieve, moving to a chair beside Mrs.
“His honorable earlship, then—since mamma is with us.”
“You may leave the room,” said her mother.
“I may,” repeated the girl. She pirouetted up the room and stopped
to look at a painting of a desolate tropical coast.
“It's such a dreadful day out, Aunt Amice,” said Genevieve. “And
you can't be rested from the trip.”
“Quite true, my dear,” agreed Mrs. Gantry. “But I had to see
you—to talk matters over with you. I did not wish to break in on your
enjoyment of those delightful English house parties; and crossing
over, you know, I was too wretchedly ill to think of anything. Can I
never get accustomed to the sea!”
“It's so unfortunate,” condoled Genevieve. “I believe I'm a born
“You proved it, starting off with that globe-trotting Lady
“Poor Lady Bayrose! To think that she—” The girl pressed her hands
to her eyes. “The way that frightful breaker whirled the boat loose
and over and over!—and the water swarming with sharks!”
“Do not think of it, my dear! Really, you must not think of it!”
urged Mrs. Gantry. “Be thankful it happened before the sailors had
time to put you in the same boat. Better still, my dear, do not permit
yourself to think of it at all. Put all that dreadful experience out
of your mind.”
“But you do not understand, Aunt Amice. I fear you never will.
Except for that—for poor Lady Bayrose—I've told you, I do not wish
to forget it.”
“My dear!” protested Mrs. Gantry, “cannot you realize how very
improper—? That man! What if he should talk?”
“Is there anything to be concealed?” asked Genevieve, with quiet
“You know how people misconstrue things,” insisted her aunt. “That
newspaper notoriety was quite sufficiently—It's most fortunate that
Lord Avondale is not affected. I must admit, his attitude towards that
man puzzles me.”
“I can understand it very well,” replied Genevieve, firmly.
“You both insist that the fellow is—is not absolutely unspeakable!
I should never have thought it of you, Genevieve, nor of such a
thorough gentleman as Lord Avondale—gentleman in our sense of
the term,— refined, cultured, and clean. Were he one of the
gentry who have reasons for leaving England,—who go West and consort
with ruffians— remittance men—But no. Lady Chetwynd assured me he
has been presented at Court, and you know the strictness of Queen
“You admit that Lord Avondale is, shall I say—perfect. Yet—”
“He is irreproachable, my dear, except as regards his extraordinary
insistence upon an intimate friendship with that man.”
“That is what confirms my good opinion of him, Aunt Amice.”
“It proves he is himself manly and sincere.”
Mrs. Gantry raised a plump hand, palm outward. “Between the two of
“We know Mr. Blake—the real man. You do not.”
“I never shall. I will not receive him—never. He is impossible!”
“What! never?—the man who saved me from starvation, fever, wild
beasts, from all the horrors of that savage coast?—the intimate
friend of the Earl of Avondale?”
“Does he paint, Vievie?” called Dolores. “Is this a picture of your
“No, dear. I bought that in New York. But it is very like the place
“'Tom'!” reproached Mrs. Gantry. She looked around at her daughter.
“Dolores, I presumed you left us when I ordered you.”
“Oh, no, not 'ordered,' mamma. You said 'may,' not 'must.'”
“Leave the room!”
The girl sauntered down towards the arched opening into the rear
drawing-room. As she passed the others, she paused to pat her cousin's
soft brown hair.
“I do believe the sun has burnt it a shade lighter, Vievie,” she
remarked. “What fun it must have been! When are you going to
show me that leopard-skin gown?”
“Leave the room this instant!” commanded Mrs. Gantry.
Dolores crossed her hands on her bosom and crept out with an air of
martyred innocence. Her mother turned to Genevieve for sympathy. “That
girl! I don't know what ever I shall do with her—absolutely
irrepressible! These titled Englishmen are so particular—she is your
Genevieve colored slightly. “You should know Lord Avondale better.
If he is at all interested—”
“He is, most decidedly. He dined with us last evening. Laffie
Ashton called; so I succeeded in getting the earl away from Dolores.
We had a most satisfying little tete-a-tete. I led him into
“Everything?” queried Genevieve.
“Yes, everything, my dear. His aloofness since you reached Aden has
been due merely to his high sense of honor,—to an absurd but
chivalrous agreement with that fellow to not press his suit until
after your arrival home. At Aden he had given the man his word—”
“At Aden?” interrupted Genevieve. “How could that be, when Tom left
the ship at Port Mozambique?”
“He didn't. It seems that the fellow was aboard all the time,
hiding in the steerage or stoke-hole, or somewhere—no doubt to spy on
you and Lord Avondale.”
Genevieve averted her head and murmured in a half whisper: “He was
aboard all that time, and never came up for a breath of air all those
smothering days! I remember Lord James speaking of how hot and vile it
was down in the forecastle. This explains why he went forward so
“It explains why he did not book passage with you from Aden—why he
did not hasten to you at Lady Chetwynd's—all because of his
chivalrous but mistaken sense of loyalty to that low fellow.”
“If you please, Aunt Amice,” said Genevieve, in a tone as incisive
as it was quiet, “you will remember that I esteem Mr. Blake.”
Mrs. Gantry stared over her half-raised lorgnette. She had never
before known her niece to be other than the very pattern of docility.
“Well!” she remarked, and, after a little pause; “Fortunately, that
absurd agreement is now at an end. The earl intimated that he would
call on you this afternoon. I am sure, my dear—”
Of what the lady was sure was left to conjecture. The footman
appeared in the hall entrance and announced: “Mr. Brice-Ashton.”
Ashton came in, effusive and eager. “My dear Miss Genevieve! I—ah,
Mrs. Gantry! Didn't expect to meet you here, such a day as this. Most
unexpected—ah—pleasure! N'est-ce pas?—No, no! my dear Miss
Leslie; keep your seat!”
Genevieve had seemed about to rise, but he quite deftly drew a
chair around and sat down close before her. “I simply couldn't wait
any longer. I felt I must call to congratulate you over that
marvellous escape. It must have been terrible—terrible!”
Genevieve replied with perceptible coldness: “Thank you, Mr.
Ashton. I had not expected a call from you.”
“'Mr.' Ashton!” he echoed. “Has it come to that?—when we used to
make mudpies together! Dolores said that you—”
“Not so fast, Laffie!” called the girl, as she came dancing into
the room in her most animated manner. “Don't forget I'm Miss Gantry
Ashton continued to address Genevieve, without turning: “I came all
the way down from Michamac just to congratulate you—left my bridge!”
“You're too sudden with your congratulations, Laffie,” mocked
Dolores. “Genevieve hasn't yet decided whether it's to be the hero or
“Dolores,” admonished her mother. “I told you to leave the room.”
“Yes, and forgot to tell me to stay out. It's no use now, is it?
Unless you wish me to drag out Laffie for a little tete-a-tete
in the conservatory.”
“Sit down, dear,” said Genevieve.
Mrs. Gantry turned to Ashton with a sudden unbending from hauteur.
“My dear Lafayette, I observed your manner yesterday towards
that—towards Mr. Blake. Am I right in surmising that you know
something with regard to his past?”
“About Blake?” replied Ashton, his usually wide and ardent eyes
shifting their glance uneasily from his questioner to Genevieve and
towards the outer door.
“About my friend Mr. Blake,” said Genevieve.
“You call him a friend?—a fellow like that!” Ashton rashly
“He has proved himself a disinterested friend,—which I cannot say
of all with whom I am acquainted.”
“Oh, of course, if you feel that way.”
“My other friends will remember that he saved my life.”
“If only he had been a gentleman!” sighed Mrs. Gantry.
“Yes, Vievie,” added Dolores. “Next time any one goes to save you,
shoo him off unless he first offers his card.”
“Mr. Blake is what many a seeming gentleman is not,” said
Genevieve, her levelled glance fixed upon Ashton. “Tom Blake is a man,
a strong, courageous man!”
“We quite agree with you,” ventured Ashton. “He is a man of the
type one so frequently sees among firemen and the police.”
Mrs. Gantry intervened with quick tact: “Mr. Blake is quite an
eminent civil engineer, we understand. As a fellow engineer, you have
met him, I dare say—have had dealings with him.”
“I?—with him? No—that is—” Ashton stammered and shifted about
uneasily under Genevieve's level gaze. “It was only when I was acting
as Mr. Leslie's secretary. Blake handed me the bridge plans that he
afterwards claimed were lost. I tell you, I had nothing to do with
them—nothing! I merely received them from him. That was all. I went
away the very next day—resigned my position. I don't know what became
of his plans,—nothing whatever! I tell you, the Michamac Bridge—”
“Why, Lame!” giggled Dolores. “What makes you squirm so? You're
twitching all over. I thought you'd had enough of the simple life at
Michamac to recover from the effects of that corner in oats. You
haven't started another corner already, have you?”
“No, I have—I mean, yes—just a few cocktails at the club—yes,
that's it. So bitter cold, this sleet! You'll understand, Mrs. Gantry
—perhaps one too much. Haven't had any since I went back to the
bridge last time.”
“Then up at Michamac you take it straight?” asked Dolores.
Ashton forced a nervous laugh. “Keep it up, Dodie! You'll make a
wit yet.” He bent towards Genevieve. “You'll pardon me, won't you,
The girl raised her fine brows ever so slightly. “'Miss Leslie,' if
“Of course—of course! Just another slip—that last cocktail and
the sleet. Wet cold always sends it to my head. That about Blake,
too—I oughtn't to 've spoken of it after you said he was your friend.
It's, of course, your father's affair.”
“Then you need say no more about it,” said Genevieve with ironical
graciousness. He shifted about in his chair, and she caught him
deftly. “Must you be going?—really! Good-day.”
He rose uncertainly to his feet, his handsome face flushed, and his
full red lower lip twitching.
“I—I had not intended—” he began.
“Good-day!” said Mrs. Gantry with significant emphasis.
“So sorry you must rush off so soon, Laffie,” mocked Dolores.
Social training has its value. Ashton pulled himself together,
bowed gracefully, and started up the room with easy assurance.
As he neared the doorway, the footman appeared and announced with
unction: “The Right Honorable, the Earl of Avondale.”
Ashton stopped short, and when the Englishman entered, met him with
an effusive greeting: “Mon Dieu! Such a fortunate chance, your
lordship! So glad to meet you again,—and here, of all places! Don't
forget to look me up at my clubs.”
“Hearts are trumps, Laffie—not clubs,” called Dolores, as Lord
James passed him by with a vague nod.
CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW OF DOUBT
Before the earl had reached them Mrs. Gantry was rising.
Genevieve rose to protest. “You're not going so soon, Aunt Amice?
You'll stay for a cup of tea?”
“Not to-day, my dear. Ah, earl! you're just in time to relieve
Genevieve from the ennui of a solitary afternoon. I regret so much
that we cannot stay with you. Come, Dolores.”
Dolores settled back comfortably on her chair. “Go right on, mamma.
Don't wait for me. I'll stay and help Vievie entertain Lord Avondale.”
“Oh, fudge! Well, start on. I'll catch you.”
Mrs. Gantry stepped past Lord James. Genevieve met his eager
glance, and hastened to overtake her aunt. “Really, won't you stay,
Aunt Amice? I'll have tea brought in at once.”
“So sorry, my dear,” replied Mrs. Gantry, placidly sailing on
towards the reception hall.
Dolores simulated a yawn. “O-o-ho! I'm
so tired. Will nobody
help me get up?”
With a boyish twinkle in his gray eyes but profound gravity In his
manner, Lord James offered her his hand. She placed her fingers in his
palm and sprang up beside him. The others were still moving up the
room. She surprised him by meeting his amused gaze with an angry flash
of her big black eyes.
“Shame!” she flung at him. “You, his friend, and would take her
He stared blankly. The girl whirled away from him with a swish of
silken skirts and fled past her mother, all her anger lost in wild
“Dolores! Whatever can—” cried Mrs. Gantry. But Dolores had
vanished. “Really, Genevieve, that madcap girl—! About yourself, my
dear. Promise me now, if you cannot say 'yes,' at least you'll not
make it a final 'no.'”
“But, Aunt Amice, unless I feel—”
“Promise me! You must give yourself time to make sure. He will
wait. I am certain he will wait until you have found out—”
“I cannot promise anything now,” replied Genevieve.
Mrs. Gantry did not press the point. It was the second time during
the call that her niece had proved herself less docile than she had
expected. As she left the room, Genevieve returned to Lord James
without any outward sign of hesitancy. She seated herself and smiled
composedly at her caller, who still stood in the daze into which
Dolores's outburst had thrown him.
“Won't you sit down?” she invited. “How is Mr. Blake?”
[Illustration: “Shame!” she flung at him. “You, his friend, and
would take her from him!”]
With rather an abstracted air, Lord James sank down on the chair
opposite her and began fiddling with the cord of his monocle.
“Haven't seen him since yesterday,” he replied, “Left him at the
office of a Mr. Griffith—engineer—old friend. Gave him work
immediately—something big, I take it. Asked Tom to bunk with him.”
“It's so good to hear he has work already—and to stay with a
friend! You mean, live with him?”
“He—the friend—seems desirable?”
“Decidedly so, I should say. Engineer who first started him on his
career, if I remember aright what Tom once told me of his early life.”
“Oh, that is such good news! But have you seen him since—since
this morning? He had that appointment with papa, you know.”
“No, I regret to say I haven't; and I fear I cannot reassure you as
to the outcome. You know Tom's way; and your father, I take it, is
rather—It would seem that they had a disagreement before Tom went
West the last time.”
“Yes. He once referred to it. Some misunderstanding with regard to
the payment of a railway survey. I asked papa about it last evening,
and he told me that it had been made all right—that Tom would get his
pay for his share in the survey.”
“Little enough, in the circumstances,” remarked Lord James.
“That was not all. Papa promised to give him a very good position.
He had intended to offer money. But I explained to him that, of
course, Tom would not accept money.”
“Very true. I doubt if he would have accepted it even had it not
been for his hope that—” Lord James paused and stared glumly at his
finger-tips. “Bally mess, deuce take it! He and your father at outs,
and he and I—”
“You have not quarrelled? You're still friends?” exclaimed
“Quarrelled? No, I assure you, no! Yet am I his friend? Permit me
to be candid, Miss Leslie. I'm in a deuce of a quandary. On the trip
up to Aden, you'll remember, I told you something of the way he and I
had knocked about together.”
“Yes. Frankly, it added not a little to my esteem for you that you
had learned to value his sterling worth.”
“I did not tell you how it started. It was in the Kootenay
country— British Columbia, you know. Bunch of sharpers set about to
rook me on a frame-up—a bunco game. Tom tipped me off, though I had
snubbed him, like the egregious ass I was. I paid no heed; blundered
into the trap. Wouldn't have minded losing the thousand pounds they
wanted, but they brought a woman into the affair—made it appear as if
I were a cad—or worse.”
“Surely not that, Lord James. No one could believe that of you.”
“You don't know the beastly cleverness of those bunco chaps. They
had me in a nasty hole, when Tom stepped in and showed them up. Seems
he knew more about the woman and two of the men than they cared to
have published. They decamped.”
“That was so like Tom!” murmured Genevieve.
“Claimed he did it because of an old grudge against the parties.
Had to force my thanks on him. Told you how we'd chummed together
since. Deuce take it! why should it have been you on that
“Why?” echoed Genevieve, gazing down at her clasped hands, which
still showed a trace of tropical tan.
“You know it—it puts me in rather a nasty box,” went on Lord
James. “Had I not met you before he did, it is possible that I could
have avoided—You see my predicament. He and I've been together so
much, I can foresee the effect on him of—er—of a great
Genevieve gazed up at him with startled eyes. “Lord James, you must
explain that; you must be explicit.”
“I—I did not intend to so much as mention it,” stammered the young
Englishman, bitterly chagrined at himself. “It was only—pray, do not
ask me, Miss Leslie!”
“You referred, of course, to his drinking,” said Genevieve, in a
tone as tense as it was quiet. “Do not reproach yourself. When we were
cast ashore together, he was—not himself. But when I remember all
those weeks that followed—! You cannot imagine how brave and
resolute, how truly courageous he was!—and under that outward
roughness, how kind and gentle!”
“I too know him. That's what makes it so hard. The thought that I
may possibly cause him a disappointment that may result in—” Lord
James came to a stop, tugging at his mustache.
Genevieve was again staring at the slender little hands, from which
the most expert manicuring had not yet entirely removed all traces of
“He told me something of—of what he had to fight,” she murmured in
a troubled voice. “But I feel that—that if something came into his
life—” She blushed, but went on bravely—“something to take him out
of what he calls the grind—”
Lord James had instantly averted his gaze from her crimsoning face.
“That's the worst of it!” he burst out. “If only I could feel sure
that he—I've seen him fight—Gad! how he has fought—time and again.
Yet sooner or later, always the inevitable defeat!”
“I cannot believe it! I cannot!” insisted Genevieve. “With his
strength, his courage! It's only been the circumstances; that he has
had nobody to—I—I beg your pardon! Of course you—What I mean is
somebody who—” She buried her face in her hands, blushing more
vividly than before.
The Englishman's face lightened. “Then you've not let my deplorable
blunder alter your attitude towards him?”
“Not in the slightest.”
He leaned forward. “Then—I can wait no longer! You must know how
greatly I—All those days coming up to Aden I could say nothing.
Before coming aboard, he had told me why he could not permit you to—
to commit yourself irrevocably.”
He paused. Genevieve bent over lower. She did not speak.
He went on steadily: “It was then I realized fully his innate
fineness. I own it astonished me, well as I thought I knew him. With
his brains, his 'grit,' and that, I'd say he could become
anything he wished—were it not for his—for the one weakness.”
Genevieve flung up her head, to gaze at him in indignant protest.
“Weakness! How can you say that? He is so strong—so strong!”
“In all else than that,” insisted Lord James. “You must face the
hard fact. Gad! this is far worse than I thought it would be. But I
knew you before he did, and I've played fair with him. It was not easy
to say nothing those days before we reached Aden, or to stay away from
you after I reached home. Even he could not have found it so hard. He
has all that stubborn power of endurance; while I—”
“You have no cause to reproach yourself. I cannot say how greatly
it pleased me that you took him to Ruthby Castle.”
“Could you but have been there, too! He and the pater hit it off
out of hand. Jolly sensible chap, the pater—quiet, bookish—long
“He must be!”
“Not strange about Tom, though. It's odd how his bigness makes
itself felt—to those who've any sense of judgment. And yet it's not
so odd, when you come to think. My word! if only it were not for
his—Forgive me, Miss Genevieve! I've the right to consider what it
might mean to you. It gives me the right to speak for myself. He
himself insisted that, in justice to you, I should not withdraw.”
“Pray, do not misunderstand, Miss Genevieve. He knew what it meant
to me. But our first thought was for you. He wished you to have the
full contrast of your own proper environment, that you might regain
your perspective—the point of view natural to one of your position.”
“He could think I'd go back to the shams and conventions, after
those weeks of real life!”
“Sometimes life is a bit too real in the most conventional of
surroundings,” said his lordship, with a rueful smile. “No. He saw
that you had no right to commit yourself then; that you should
reconsider matters in the environment in which you belong and for
which he is not now fitted—whatever may be the outcome of his efforts
to make himself fit.”
“He will succeed!”
“He may succeed. I should not have the slightest hesitancy in
saying that success would be certain, were it not for that one flaw.
It's not to be held against him—an inherited weakness.”
“Do you not believe we can overcome heredity?”
“In some cases, I daresay. But with him—You must bear in mind I've
seen the futility of his struggle. All his resolution and courage and
endurance seem to count for nothing. But it's too painful! Can't we
leave him out of this? You are aware that I missed my opportunity when
Lady Bayrose changed her plans and rushed you off on the other ship.
After that you may imagine how difficult I found it to say nothing, do
nothing, coming up to Aden.”
“Please, please say no more!” begged Genevieve, her eyes bright
with tears of distress. “I regard you too highly. You have my utmost
esteem, my respect and friendship, my—you see he has taught me to be
sincere—you have my affection. Dear friend, I shall be perfectly
candid. I was a silly girl. I had never sensed the realities of life.
I had a young girl's covetousness of a coronet—of a title. Yet that
was not all. I felt a warm regard for you. Had you spoken before I met
him, before I learned to know him—”
“Before you knew him? Then you still—? The contrast of
civilization— of your own environment—has made no difference?”
“I do not say that. Yet it is not in the manner you suppose.” She
looked away, with a piteous attempt to smile. “It's strange how much
pain can be caused by the slightest shadow of a doubt.”
“Miss Genevieve! I—I shall never be able to forgive myself! For me
to have said a word—it was despicable!”
“No, do not say it. Can you think me capable of misunderstanding?
Dear friend, I esteem you all the more for what I know it must have
cost you. But no; what I spoke of was something that was already in my
“Ah—then you, too—Miss Genevieve, it's been so good of you. Let
me beg that you do not consider this as final.”
“But I can promise you nothing. It would not be right to you.”
“I ask only that you do not consider this final. You have admitted
a shadow of a doubt. With your permission, I propose to wait until you
have solved that doubt. You have given me cause to hope that, were it
not for him—”
“It is not right for me to give you the slightest hope.”
“But I take it. Meantime, no more annoyance to you. We'll be jolly
good friends, no more. You take me?”
“I'll ring for tea. You deserve it.”
“No objections, I assure you. I'll serve as stopgap till Tom turns
Genevieve rose quickly, her color deepening. “He is coming?—this
“I should not have been surprised had I found him here. And now—”
He glanced at his watch. “It's already half after four.”
“Oh, and papa said he'd be home early to-day!—though his custom is
to come barely in time to dress for dinner.”
“Hope Tom hit it off with him this morning—but—” Lord James shook
his head dubiously—“I fear he was not in a conciliatory mood.”
CHAPTER XI. REBELLION
Genevieve rang for tea, and changed the conversation to impersonal
topics. A footman brought in a Russian samovar and a service of
eggshell china. They sipped their tea and chatted lightly about
English acquaintances, but with frequent glances towards the hall
entrance. Each was wondering which one would be first to come, Blake
or Mr. Leslie.
The conversation had languished to a mere pretext when Blake was
announced. The engineer entered slowly, his face red and moist from
the fierce drive of the sleet off the lake. He had come afoot.
Genevieve placed a trembling hand on the cover of her samovar, and
called to him gayly: “Hurry here at once and have a good hot cup of
tea. You must be frozen.”
Blake came to them across the waxed floor with an ease and
assurance of step in part due to his visit to Ruthby Castle and in
part to his walk over the sleet-coated pavements.
“No tea for me, Miss Jenny,” he replied with cheerful heartiness.
“Thanks, just the same. But I'm warm as toast—look it, too, eh?”
“Then take it to cool you off,” suggested Lord James. “That's the
Russian plan. When you're cold, hot tea to warm you; when you're hot,
hot tea to cool you.”
“Not when water tastes good to me,” replied Blake with a
significance that did not escape his friend. “Well, Jimmy, so you beat
me to it.”
“Waited till after three,” said Lord James.
“Thought you'd hang back to give me the start? Went you one better,
eh?” replied Blake. He stared fixedly into the handsome high-bred face
of his friend and then at Genevieve's down-bent head. “Well? What's
the good word? Is it—congratulations?”
“Not this time, old man,” answered the Englishman lightly. He rose.
“Take my seat. Must be going.”
Blake's eyes glowed. “You're the gamest ever, Jimmy boy.”
“Don't crow till you're out of the woods,” laughed his friend.
“Can't wish you success, y'know. But it's to continue the same between
us as it has been, if you're willing.”
“That's like you, Jimmy!”
“To be sure. But I really must be going. Good-day, Miss Genevieve.”
The girl looked up without attempting to conceal her affection and
sympathy for him.
“Dear friend,” she said, “before you go, I wish to tell you how
highly I value and appreciate—”
“No more, no more, I beg of you,” he protested, with genial
insistence. “Tom, I'll be dropping in on you at your office.”
He bowed to Genevieve, and still cloaking his hurt with a cheerful
smile, started to leave them. At the same moment Mr. Leslie came
hurrying into the room. The sight of Lord James brought him to a
“H'm!” he coughed. “So it's you, Lord Avondale? Hodges said—” His
keen eyes glanced past the Englishman to the big form across the
corner of the table from Genevieve. “What! Right, was he?—Genevieve.”
“Yes, papa?” replied the girl, looking at Blake with a startled
gaze. She was very pale, but her delicately curved lips straightened
with quiet determination. She did not rise.
“Er—glad to meet you again so soon, Mr. Leslie,” said Lord James,
deftly placing himself so that the other could not avoid his proffered
hand without marked discourtesy. Mr. Leslie held out his flaccid
fingers. They were caught fast and retained during a cordial and
“When we first met,” went on his lordship suavely, “time was
lacking for me to congratulate you on the fact that your daughter came
through her terrible experience so well. She has assured me that she
feels all the better for it. Only one, like myself, accustomed to
knocking about the tropics, can fully realize the extraordinary
resourcefulness and courage of the man who had the good fortune to
bring her through it all safely and, as she says, bettered.”
“Yes, yes, we all know that, and admit it,” replied the captive,
attempting to free his hand.
Lord James gave it a final wring. “To be sure! You, of all men,
will bear in mind what he accomplished. Yet I must insist that my own
appreciation is no less keen. It is the greatest satisfaction to me
that I am privileged to call Thomas Blake my friend.”
“Your friend has put me under obligations,” answered Mr. Leslie. “I
have acknowledged to him that I owe him a heavy debt for what he has
done. I stand ready to pay him for his services, whenever he is ready
to accept payment.”
“Ah, indeed,” murmured Lord James. “'Pon my word, now, that's what
I call deuced generous.”
“No; that's not the question at all. It's merely a matter of a
business settlement for services rendered,” replied Mr. Leslie.
“Yet one does not—er—value gratitude in pounds and dollars, y'
“No, no, of course you do not, papa!” exclaimed Genevieve. “Please
remember—please try to consider—”
She would better have remained silent. Her evident concern alarmed
her father to the point of exasperation.
“I am considering how this friend of Lord Avondale's bore himself
towards me, in my office, this morning,” he interrupted her. He turned
again to Lord James. “I should not need to tell you, sir, that the
manner of expressing gratitude depends altogether on the
circumstances. We are now, however, considering another matter. You
were about to leave—You will always be welcome to my house, Lord
Avondale, and so will be your friends, when they come and go with
“Father!” protested Genevieve, rising to face him.
“My mistake, Miss Jenny,” said Blake, coolly drawing himself up
beside her. “I thought it was your house.”
He swung about to Mr. Leslie, and said, with unexpected mildness:
“Don't worry; I'm going. We don't want to fuss here, do we?—to make
it any harder for her. But first, there's one thing. You're her
father—I want to say I'm sorry I cut loose this morning.”
“What! you apologize?”
“As to what I said about my bridge plans—yes. If you had left out
about—If you hadn't rubbed it in so hard about me and—You know what
I mean. It made me red-hot. I couldn't help cutting loose. But, just
the same, I oughtn't to've said that about the plans, because—well,
because, you see, I don't believe it.”
“You don't? Then why—?”
“I did believe it before. I believed it this morning, when I was
mad. But I've had time to cool off and think it over. Queer thing—all
the evidence and probabilities are there, just the same; but somehow I
can't believe it of you any longer—simply can't. You're her father.”
“H'm—this puts a different face on the matter,” admitted Mr.
Leslie. “I begin to think that I may have been rather too hasty. Had
you been more conciliatory, less—h'm—positive, I'm inclined to
believe that we—”
“I don't care what
you believe,” was Blake's brusque
rejoinder. “I'm not trying to curry favor with you. Understand? Come
But Genevieve was at his elbow, between him and the door.
“You are not going now, Tom,” she said.
“Genevieve,” reproved her father. “This is most unlike you.”
“Unlike my former frivolous, pampered self!” cried the girl. “I'm
no longer a silly debutante, papa. I've lived the grim hard realities
of life—there on that dreadful coast—with him. I'm a woman.”
“You child! You're not even twenty-one.”
“I am old—older than the centuries, papa—old enough to know my
own mind.” She turned to Blake. “You were right, Tom. This is my
home— legally mine. You are welcome to stay.”
“Mr. Leslie!” interposed Lord James, before her father could reply.
“One moment, if you please. I have told you that Mr. Blake and I are
friends. More than that, we are intimate friends—chums. I wish to
impress on you the very high esteem in which I hold him, the more than
“Chuck it, Jimmy,” put in Blake.
Lord James concluded in a tone of polite frigidity. “And since you
place conditions on his welcome to your house, permit me to remark
that I prefer his acquaintance to yours.” He bowed with utmost
“H'm!” rasped Mr. Leslie. “You should understand, sir. Had you not
interrupted me—” He abruptly faced Blake. “You, at least, will
understand my position—that I have some reason—It is not that I wish
to appear discourteous, even after this morning. You've apologized; I
cannot ask you to go—I do not ask you to go. Yet—”
“If you please, papa,” said Genevieve with entrancing sweetness.
“Isn't it time for you to dress?”
“No—came home early,” replied Mr. Leslie, jerking out his watch.
He searched his daughter's face with an apprehensive glance, and again
addressed Blake. “Too early. There's time for a run out to George
Ashton's. Want to see him on a matter of business. Valuable
acquaintance for you to make. Jump into the runabout with me, and I'll
introduce you to him.”
“Thanks,” said Blake dryly. “Not to-day.”
“Mr. Blake has just come, papa,” said Genevieve. “You would not
deprive us of the pleasure of a little visit.”
“H'm. By cutting it close, I can wait a few minutes.”
“You need not trouble to wait, papa. You can introduce him to Mr.
Ashton some other time.”
“May I offer myself as a substitute?” put in Lord James. “Mrs.
Gantry has told me so much about the elder Mr. Ashton. Quite curious
to meet him.”
Blandly taking Mr. Leslie's assent as a matter of course, he
started toward the door. “Good-day, Miss Leslie. Ah—do we go out this
way? Can't tell you how I value the opportunity. Very good of you,
“Wait,” said Mr. Leslie. “Genevieve, haven't you an engagement out,
“If I had a dozen, papa, I should not deprive Mr. Blake of his
“Mr. Blake is welcome to his call. But—since you force me to say
it— I must expressly tell you, it is my wish that you should not see
“I'm very sorry, papa, that you should forbid me,” said Genevieve
with a quiet tensity that should have forewarned him.
“Yes, papa, because, if you insist, I shall have to disobey you.”
He stared at her, astounded, and she sustained his gaze with a
steadiness that he perceived could not be shaken.
Lord James again interposed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Leslie, if I
may seem to interfere. But as he is my friend, I, too, request you—”
“You?” exclaimed Mr. Leslie, with fresh astonishment. “You also
side with him?—when my sister-in-law tells me—”
“That is all by-the-bye, I assure you, sir. The least I can do for
the man who saved her life is to play fair. Permit me to say that you
can do no less.”
Mr. Leslie looked at Genevieve with a troubled frown.
“At least, my dear, I hope you'll remember who you are,” he said.
She made no reply, but stood white-faced and resolute until he went
from the room. Lord James followed close after him.
Blake and Genevieve were left alone.
CHAPTER XII. THE DEEPENING OF DOUBT
Blake stood as motionless as a carved figure, his eyes glowing upon
the girl, blue and radiant with tenderness and compassion and profound
The clang of a heavy door told her that her father had left the
house. On the instant all her firmness left her. She hid her face in
her hands and sank into the nearest chair, quivering and weeping, in
Blake came near and stood over her. He spoke to her in a voice that
was deep and low and very soft: “There, there, little girl, don't you
mind! Just cry it out. It'll do you good. You know I understand. Have
a good cry!”
The sympathetic urging to give way freely to her weeping almost
immediately soothed her grief and checked the flow of tears. She rose
uncertainly, dabbing at her eyes.
“I—I couldn't help it, Tom. It's the fi-first time papa's ever
been so cross with me!”
“My fault, I guess. Rubbed his fur the wrong way this morning
pretty hard. But don't you fret, girlie. It'll be all right. Only we
mustn't blame him. Think of what it means to him. You're all he has,
and if he thinks you're—if he thinks he's going to lose you—”
“But it was so cruel!—so unjust!—the way he treated you!”
“Oh, that's all right, little woman. I don't mind that. We'll all
forget it by to-morrow. He didn't mean half he said. It was just the
thought that I—that somebody might take you away from him. Jenny!”
His eyes glowed upon her blue as sapphires. “You're home now.”
He held his arms open for her to come to him. She swayed forward as
if to give herself into the clasp of those strong arms, but instantly
checked the movement and shrank back a little way.
“Wait, Tom,” she murmured hesitatingly. “We must first—”
“Wait longer, Jenny?” he exclaimed, his deep voice vibrant with the
intensity of his feeling. “No, I must say it! I've waited all these
weeks—good Lord!—when maybe you've thought it was because I didn't
want to—to do as you asked!”
“It's not that, Tom, truly it's not that. I was hurt and—shamed.
But even then I divined why you had done it and realized the nobility
of your motive.”
“Nobility? That's a good joke! You know I was only trying to do the
square thing. Any man would have done the same.”
“Any man would. I'm not so certain as to some who call
“There're some who're real gentlemen—worse luck to me—Jimmy, for
one. I can never catch up with him in that line, girlie, but I can
make a stagger at it.”
“You can become anything you will, Tom,” she said with calm
“Maybe,” he replied. “But, Jenny, I can't wait for that. Wish I
could. I'm still only—what you know. Same time, you're back home now,
and you've been visiting with your titled friends. Also you've seen
how your father looks at it, and how—”
“What does all that amount to—even papa's anger? If only that were
“Jenny! then you still—?” His voice quivered with passion. “My
little girl!—how I love you! God I how I love you! I never thought
much of girls, but I loved you the first time I ever set eyes on you,
there in the Transvaal. That's why I threw up the management of the
mine. I knew who your father was; I knew I hadn't a ghost of a show.
But I followed you to Cape Town—couldn't help it!”
“You—you old silly!” she murmured, half frightened by the
greatness of his passion. “You should have known I was only a shallow
“Shallow?—you? You're deep as blue water!”
“The ocean is fickle.”
“You're not; you're true! You've
lived! I've seen you face
with a smile what many a man would have run from.”
“Because with me was one who would have died sooner than that harm
should come to me! Those weeks, those wonderful weeks that we lived,
so close to primitive, savage Nature—bloody fanged Nature!—those
weeks that I stood by your side and saw her paint for us her
beautiful, terrible pictures of Life, pictures whose blue was the
storm-wave and the sky veiled with fever-haze, whose white was the
roaring surf and the glare of thunderbolts, whose red was fire and
blood! And you saved me from all—all! I had never even dreamt that a
man could be so courageous, so enduring, so strong!”
His face clouded, and he gave back before her radiant look.
“Strong?” he muttered. “That's the question. Am I?”
“Of course you are! I'm sure you are. You
must be. It was
that which compelled my—which made me—” She paused, and a swift
blush swept over her face from forehead to throat—“made me propose to
you, there on the cliff, when the steamer came.”
“That a lady should have loved me like that!” he murmured. “I still
can't believe it was true! My little girl, it's not possible—not
“You say 'loved,'“ she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped
before his ardent gaze; her scarlet face bent downward; she held out
her hands to him in timid surrender.
He caught them between his big palms, but not to draw her to him. A
jagged mark on her round wrist caught his eye. It was the scar of a
vicious thorn. The last time he had seen it was on the cliff top,—
that other time when she put out her arms to him. He bent over and
kissed the red scar.
“Jenny,” he replied in bitter self-reproach, “here's another time
I've proved I'm not in your class—not a gentleman. You've raised a
point— the real point. Am I what you think me? You think I'm at least
a man. Am I?”
She looked up at him, her face suddenly gone white again. “Tom! You
“About my being strong. All that you've seen so far are my leading
suits. There's that other to be reckoned with yet. I told your father
I hadn't touched a drop since the wreck. But you know how it was
“Yes, dear, but that
“I know. Things are different now. I've something at stake that'll
help me fight. You can't guess, though, how that craving—Lucky I'll
have Jimmy, as well, to back me up. He's great when it comes to
jollying a fellow over the bumps. He'll help.”
“It's little enough, after all you've done for him! He told me.”
“Just like him. But let's not get sidetracked. What I wanted to
make clear is that I'm not so everlastingly strong as you seem to
“Tom, you'll not give way! You'll fight!”
“Yes, I'll fight,” he responded soberly.
“And you'll win!”
“I hope so, girlie. I've fought it before, and it has downed me,
time and again. But now it's different—unless you've found you were
mistaken. But if you still feel as when you—as you did there on the
cliff that morning—Good God! how could I lose out, with you
backing me up?”
She looked at him with a quick recurrence of doubt. “You ask help
“If you care enough, Jenny. It's not going to be a joke. I've tried
before, and gone under so many times that some people would say I've
no show left. But let me tell you, girlie, I'm going to fight this
time for all I'm worth. I'm going to break this curse if I can. It is a curse, you'll remember. I told you about my mother.”
“You should not think of that. What does heredity count as against
“Environment?—heredity? By all accounts, my father was the man
you've thought me, and a lot more—railroad engineer; nerviest man
ever ran an engine out of Chicago on the Pennsylvania Line; American
stock from way back—Scotch-Irish; sober as a church, steady, strong
as a bull. Never an accident all the years he pulled the fast express
till the one that smashed him. Could have jumped and saved
himself—stayed by his throttle, and saved the train. They brought him
home—what was left of him. Papers headlined him; you know how they do
it. That was my father.”
“Oh, Tom! and with such a father!”
“Wait a minute. You spoke of heredity and environment. I'm giving
you all sides, except anything more about my mother. Her father was a
cranky inventor ... Well, inside six months we were living in a
tenement. I was a little shaver of six. The younger of my sisters was
a baby. Talk about environment! Wasn't many years before I was known
as the toughest kid in Rat Alley.”
“Don't dwell on that, Tom. Don't even speak of it,” begged
He shook his head. “I want you to know just what I've been. It's
your right to know. I wasn't one of the nasty kind and I wasn't a
sneak. But I was the leader of my gang. Maybe you know what that
means. Of course the police got it in for me. Finally they made it so
hot I had to get out of Chicago. I took to the road—became a bum.”
“Not that!—surely not that!”
“Well, no, only a kid hobo. But I'd have slid on down if I hadn't
dropped into a camp of surveyors who were heading off into the
mountains and had need of another man. Griffith, the engineer in
charge, talked me into joining the party as axman. I took a fancy to
him. He proved himself the first real friend I'd ever had—or was to
have till I met Jimmy Scarbridge.”
“A man's worth is measured by the friends he makes,” she observed.
“Not always. Well, Griffith got me interested. I joined the party.
Whew!—seven months in the mountains, and not a saloon within
fifty miles any of the time. But I stuck it out. Nobody ever called me
“And now, Tom, you'll not quit! You'll win!”
“I'll try—for you, girlie! You can't guess how that braces me—the
thought that it's for you! You see, I'm beginning to count on things
now. I'm not even afraid of your money now. Good old Grif—Griffith,
you know—has given me a shy at a peach of a proposition—toughest
problem I was ever up against. It's a big irrigation dam that has
feazed half a dozen good engineers.”
“But you'll solve the problem! You can do anything!”
“I'm not so sure, Jenny. I've only begun to dig into the field
books. Even if I do make a go of it in the end, chances are I'll have
to work like—like blazes to get there. But that'll help me on this
other fight—help choke down the craving when it comes. A whole lot
turns on that dam. If I make good on it, I'm made myself. Tack up my
ad. as consulting engineer, and I'll have all the work I want. Won't
be ashamed to look your three millions in the face.”
“My money! Can you still believe that counts with me? Money! It is
what we are ourselves that counts. If you acquired all the money in
the world, yes, and all the fame, but failed to master yourself, you'd
not be the man I thought you—the man whom I—whom I said I loved.”
“Jenny! Then it's gone—you no longer care?”
“You have no right to ask anything of me until you've—”
“I'm not, Jenny! Don't think it for a moment. I'm not asking
anything now. I wanted to wait. It's only that I want you to know how
I love you. I wouldn't dream of asking you to—to marry me now—no,
not till I've won out, made good. Understand? All I want is for you to
wait for me till I've made my name as an A-1 engineer and until I've
downed that cursed craving for drink.”
“You will, Tom—you
“With you to back me, little woman! Yes, I guess I can make it this
time, with you waiting for me!”
Genevieve met his smile and enthused gaze with a look of firm
decision. Her doubt and hesitancy had at last crystallized into a set
purpose. She replied in a tone that rang with a hardness new to him:
“No. It must be more than that.”
“More?” he asked, surprised.
“More, much more. That morning, after I so shamelessly forced you
to listen to me, nothing could have altered my purpose had you come
aboard the steamer with me.”
“But I couldn't then. 'T wouldn't have been fair to you.”
“Yet it might have been wise. Who knows? At the least, the question
would have been settled 'for better or for worse.' It is easier to
face the trouble which one cannot escape than deliberately to make
choice of entering into the state that may or may not bring about the
dreaded misfortune. Had you married me then, Tom, I would surely have
been happy for a time. But now—you have made me believe that you were
Blake drew back from her, his head downbent in sudden despondency.
“So you've found out you don't feel the same?”
Her eyes dimmed with tears of compassion for him, but her voice was
as firm as before. “I loved Tom Blake because he was so manly, so
strong! I still love that Tom Blake. You are not sure that you are
“But if I knew I had your love back of me, Jenny!”
“That's it—you wish to lean on me! It's weak; it's not like you.
You won my love by your courage, your resolution, your strength! All
my love for you is based on your strength. If that fails—if you prove
weak—how am I to tell whether my love will endure?”
“I'll win out. I know I can win out if I have you to fight for.”
“If you have me to
lean on! No; you must prove yourself
stronger than that. I had no doubts then. I urged you to marry
me—flung myself at you. But now, after what I've been forced to
realize since then—”
She stopped short, leaving him to infer the rest. He took it at the
worst. He replied despairingly yet without a trace of bitterness:
“Yes, you'd better take Jimmy. He's your kind.”
“Tom! How can you? I've a great esteem for Lord James, I like him
very much, but—”
“He's the right sort. You could count on being happy with him,”
stated Blake, in seeming resignation. She looked at him, puzzled and
hurt by his calmness. The look fired him to a passionate outburst.
“Don't you think it, though! He's not going to have you! I can't give
you up! I'm going to win you. My God! I love you so much I'd try to
win you—I'd have to win you, even if I thought you'd be unhappy!”
Her voice softened with responsive tenderness. “Oh, Tom, if only I
knew we would have—would have and keep that great love that covers
all things! I'd rather be miserable with you than happy without you!”
“Jenny! you do love me!” he cried, advancing with outstretched
She drew back from him. “Not now—not now, Tom!”
He smiled, only slightly dashed. “Not now, but when I've made good.
You'll wait for me! I can count on that!”
“No,” she answered with utmost firmness.
“I'll make no promise—not even a conditional one. You must make
this fight without leaning on any one. I must know whether you
are strong, whether you are the real Tom Blake I love.”
“But I'm not asking anything—only in case I make good.”
“No; I'll not bind myself in any way. I'll not promise to marry you
even if you should win. It was you who made me wait, and now I shall
make sure. Unless I feel certain that we would be bound together for
all time by the deepest, truest love, I know it would be a mistake. If
I were certain, right now, that you lack the strength to conquer
yourself for the sake of your own manhood, I would accept Lord James.”
Whether or not the girl was capable of such an act, there could be
no doubt that she meant what she said, and her tone carried conviction
to Blake. He was silent for a long moment. When he replied, it was in
a voice dull and heavy with despondency. “You don't realize what
you're putting me up against.”
“I realize that you must clear away all my doubt of your strength,”
she rejoined, with no lessening of her firmness. “You were strong
there on that savage coast, in the primitive. But you must prove
yourself strong enough to rise out of the primitive—to rise to
your true, your higher self.”
He bent as if he were being crushed under a ponderous weight. His
voice dulled to a half articulate murmur. “You—won't—help—me?”
“I cannot—I dare not!” she insisted almost fiercely. “If I did I
should doubt. This dreadful fear! You must prove you're strong!
You must master yourself for the sake of your own manhood!”
At last he was forced to realize that it was necessity, not desire,
that impelled her to thrust him from her. He must fight his hard
battle alone—he must fight without even the thought that he had her
He should have divined that she would be secretly hoping, perhaps
praying for him, striving for him in spirit with all the might of her
true love. But by her insistence she had at last compelled him to
doubt her love.
He thought of the many times that he had gone down in disgraceful
defeat, and black despair fell upon him. His broad shoulders stooped
“What's the use?” he muttered thickly.
But the question itself served as the goad to quicken all his
immense reserve of endurance. He looked up at Genevieve, heavy-eyed
but grim with determination.
“You don't know what you've put me up against,” he said. “But I'll
not lay down yet. Nobody ever called me a quitter. You've a right to
ask me to make good. I'll make a stagger at it. Good-bye!”
He turned from her and walked up the room with the steady
deliberation of one who bears a heavy burden.
It was almost more than she could endure. She started to dart after
him, and her lips parted to utter an entreaty for him to come back to
her. But her spirit had been tempered in that fierce struggle for life
on the savage coast of Mozambique.
She checked herself, and waited until, without a backward glance,
he had passed out through the curtained doorway. Then, and not until
then, she sank down in her chair and gave way to the anguish of her
love and doubt and dread.
CHAPTER XIII. PLANS AND OTHER PLANS
A quarter after nine the next morning found Griffith at the door of
Mr. Leslie's sanctum. He stuffed his gauntlet gloves into a pocket of
his old fur coat, and entered the office, his worn, dark eyes vague
with habitual abstraction.
Mr. Leslie was in the midst of his phonographic dictation. He
abruptly stopped the machine and whirled about in his swivel-chair to
face the engineer.
“Sit down,” he said. “How's the Zariba Dam?”
“No progress,” answered Griffith with terse precision. He sat down
with an air of complete absorption in the act, drew out an old knife
and his pipe, and observed: “You didn't send for me for that.”
“How's the bridge?”
“Same,” croaked the engineer, beginning to scrape out the bowl of
his pipe with the one unbroken blade of his knife.
“That young fool still running around town?”
“Can't say. It'd be a good thing to have him do it all the time if
work was going on. Had a letter from McGraw, that man I put in as
general foreman. He says everything is frozen up tight; may keep so
for two weeks or more.”
“You've laid off most the force?”
“No, not even the Slovaks.”
Mr. Leslie frowned. “Two or three weeks at full pay, and no work?
That's an item.”
“Hard enough to hold together a competent force on such winter work
as that,” rejoined Griffith. “Almost impossible with your kid-glove
Resident Engineer. I've said nothing all this time; but he's made some
of my best men quit—bridge workers that've stayed by me for years.
Said they couldn't stand for his damned swell-headedness, not even to
“Well, well, I leave it to you. Do the best you can. It's a bad
bargain, but we've got to go through with it. Only time the young fool
ever showed a glimmer of sense was when he had his father's lawyers
drew his contract with me. My lawyers can't find a flaw in it.”
“Not even diamond cut diamond, eh?” cackled Griffith. He ceased
scraping at his pipe to peer inquisitively into the bowl. “What I've
never been able to figure out is how he happened to solve the problem
of that central span. Don't think you've ever realized what a
wonderful piece of work that was. It's something new. Must have been a
happy accident—must have come to him in what I'd call a flash of
intuition or genius. He sure hadn't it in him to work such a thing out
in cold blood.”
“Genius?—pah!” scoffed Mr. Leslie.
“Hey?” queried Griffith, glancing up sharply. “What else, then?”
“I've recently been given reason to suspect—” began Mr. Leslie. He
paused, hesitated, and refrained. “But we'll talk of that later.
First, my reason for sending for you. I understand that you know this
man Blake, who, unfortunately, was the person that saved my daughter.”
Griffith replied with rather more than his usual dryness. “If I've
got a correct estimate of what Miss Leslie had to be pulled through,
it's lucky that Tom Blake was the man.”
“You've a higher opinion of him than I have.”
“We've worked together.”
“He's in your office now,” snapped Mr. Leslie.
“Yes, and he stays there long as he wants,” rejoined Griffith in a
quiet matter-of-fact tone. “It's your privilege to hire another
Mr. Leslie brought his shaggy eyebrows together in a perplexed
frown. “Must say, I can't understand how the fellow makes such
friends. Your case is hardly less puzzling than that of the Earl of
“Hey? Oh, you mean young Scarbridge. He seems to be one of the
right sort—even if he is the son of a duke. But if Tommy
hadn't introduced him as a friend—”
“We're talking about Blake,” interrupted Mr. Leslie. “I want your
“Well?” asked Griffith warily.
“He has put me under obligations, and refuses to accept any reward
from me. It's intolerable!”
“Won't accept anything, eh? Well, if he says he won't, he won't. No
use butting your head against a concrete wall.”
“He's a fool!”
“I'd hardly agree as to that. He doesn't always do as people expect
him to. Same time, he usually has a reason.”
“But for him to refuse to take either cash or a position!”
“I notice, though, he drew his pay-check for the Q. T. survey. No;
Tommy isn't altogether a fool—not altogether.”
“Twenty-five-thousand-dollar position!” rasped Mr. Leslie.
“Offered him that, and—”
“You offered him—?” echoed Griffith, his lean, creased face almost
grotesque with astonishment.
“Think I don't value my daughter's life?” snapped Mr. Leslie. “I
was ready to do that and far more for him. He refused—not only
refused but insulted me.”
Griffith peered intently into the angry face of his employer.
“Insulted you, eh? Guess you prodded him up first.”
“I admit I had rather misjudged him in some respects.”
“So you gave him the gaff, eh?—and got it back harder!” cackled
“He shall be compelled to accept what I owe him, indirectly, if not
directly. You have given him work?”
“You've, of course, told him that I'm the Coville Construction
“What! You're certain of that?”
Griffith nodded. “He sailed into me, first thing, for taking work
from you. To ease him off, I said the Coville Company had taken over
the bridge from you. The matter hasn't happened to come up again
“You're certain he doesn't know I'm interested in the company?”
“Not unless somebody else has told him.” “Then—let's see—We'll
appoint him Assistant Resident Engineer on the bridge.”
“He'll not take it under young Ashton.”
“Not if his salary is put at twenty-five thousand?”
“As Assistant Engineer?” said Griffith, incredulous.
“You'll be too busy with my other projects to keep up these visits
to Michamac. Besides, you said the bridge is coming to the crucial
point of construction.”
“That central span,” confirmed Griffith.
“If you consider Blake sufficiently reliable, you can give him
detailed instructions and send him up to take charge.”
“How about Ashton's contract?”
“He'll be satisfied with the glory. Reports will continue to name
him as Resident Engineer. If he won't listen to reason, I'll ask his
father to drop him a line. The young fool has had his allowance cut
twice already. He'd consider his pay as engineer a bare pittance.”
“Heir to the Ashton millions, eh?” croaked Griffith.
“If I know George Ashton, he has a good safe will drawn, providing
that his fortune is to be held in trust. That fool boy won't have any
chance to squander more than his allowance,—and he won't keep me now
from paying off this obligation to Blake.”
“Perhaps not. I'm not so sure, though, that Tom will—One thing's
certain. He won't go up to Michamac right away.”
“He won't? Why not? It's just the time for him to get the run of
things, now while there's no work going on.”
“He'd catch on quick enough. It's not that. Fact is, he's got hold
of something a lot bigger, and I know he'll not quit till he has
either won out or it has downed him. Never knew of but one thing that
ever downed him.”
Mr. Leslie glared at the engineer, his face reddening with rage.
“Something bigger!” he repeated. “So the fellow has bragged about
Griffith stared back, perplexed by the other's sudden heat. “Guess
we've got our wires crossed,” he said. “I told him, of course. He
didn't know anything about it.”
“What you talking about?” demanded Mr. Leslie, puzzled in turn.
“The Zariba Dam.”
“That!” exclaimed Mr. Leslie, and his face cleared. “H'm,—what
about the dam?”
“I had about thrown it up. I'm giving Tom a go at it.”
Mr. Leslie's eyebrows bristled in high curves.
“What! wasting time with a man like that? If
you've given it
up, we'll try England or Europe.”
“No use. Plenty of good men over there. They can give us pointers
on some things. But if they've ever done anything just like this
Zariba Dam, they've kept it out of print.”
“But an unknown second-rate engineer!”
“That's what's said of every first-rater till he gets his chance.”
“I don't guarantee he can do it. I do say, I won't be any too
surprised if he pulls it off. It's a thing that calls for invention.
He'll swear he hasn't an ounce of it in him—says he just happens to
blunder on things, or applies what he has picked up. All gas! He once
showed me some musty old drawings that made it look like one of his
grandfathers ought to be credited with the basic inventions of a dozen
machines that to-day are making the owners of the patent-rights rich.
Guess some of that grandfather's bump can be located on Tom's head.”
“Inventor—h'm—inventor!” muttered Mr. Leslie half to himself.
“That puts rather a different face on that bridge matter.”
“As how?” casually asked Griffith, beginning to scrape afresh at
Mr. Leslie considered, and replied with another question: “At the
time of the competition in plans for the bridge, did you know that
Blake was to be a contestant?”
“He writes letters about as often as a hen gets a tooth pulled. But
I got a letter the time you mention,—a dozen lines or so, with
another added, saying that he was in for a whirl at the Michamac
“You've shown him Ashton's bridge plans?”
“Not yet. He's been too busy on the Zariba field books.”
“You've seen his own plans for the bridge?”
“No. They were lost.”
“The originals, I mean—his preliminary copy. He must have kept
“Yes. But I guess they're pretty wet by now,” replied Griffith, his
face crackling with dry humor. “They're aboard that steamer, down on
the African coast. If you want to see them, you might finance a
wrecking expedition. But Tom says she went down mast-under, and there
are plenty of sharks nosing along the coral reef.”
Mr. Leslie winced at the word
sharks, and reluctantly
admitted: “I've had a long talk with my daughter. He played the part
of a man. I acknowledge that I've held a strong prejudice against him.
It seems, however, that in part I've been mistaken.”
“Now you're talking, Mr. Leslie!”
“Only in part, I say—about his lost bridge plans. I had thought he
was trying to blackmail me.”
“More apt to be a black eye, if you let him know you thought that,”
was Griffith's dry comment.
“He came near to resorting to violence. As I look at it now, I
can't say I blame him. Those bridge plans, though—Knowing this about
his inventiveness, has it not occurred to you that his plans may not
have been lost, after all?”
“Look here, Mr. Leslie,” said Griffith, rising with the angularity
of a jumping-jack, “we've rubbed along pretty smooth since we got
together last year; but Tom Blake is my friend.”
sit down!” insisted Mr. Leslie. “You ought to see
by this time that I'm trying to prove myself anything but an enemy to
Griffith sat down and began mechanically to load his pipe with the
formidable Durham. Mr. Leslie put the tips of his fingers together,
coughed, and went on in a lowered tone. “Those plans disappeared. His
charge was preposterous, ridiculous—as against me. Yet if the
plans were not lost, what became of them? He told me yesterday that he
himself handed them to the person who was at that time acting as my
secretary. You catch the point?”
“Um-m,” grunted Griffith, his face as emotionless as a piece of
“Young Ashton was my secretary. He resigned the next day. Said he
had been secretly working on plans for the Michamac cantilever;
thought he had solved the problem of the central span; might go ahead
and put in his plans if none of the competitors were awarded the
bridge. Within a month he did put in plans.”
“Well?” queried Griffith.
“Don't you make the connection?” demanded Mr. Leslie. “Blake handed
his plans to Ashton, and took no receipt. The plans disappeared.
Ashton leaves; comes back in a month with plans that he hasn't the
skill to apply in the construction of the bridge—plans include an
entirely new modification of bridge trusses—stroke of inventive
genius, you called it.”
Griffith's lean jaw dropped. “You—you don't mean to say he—the
son of George Ashton—that he could—God A'mighty, he's heir to twenty
“You don't believe it? Suppose you knew he was about to be cut off
without a cent? George had stood about all he could from the young
fool. Those bridge plans came in just in time to prevent the drawing
of a new will.”
The hand in which Griffith held his pipe shook as if he had been
seized with a fever chill, but his voice was dry and emotionless.
“That accounts for those queer slips and errors in the plans. He
couldn't even make an accurate copy, and was too much afraid of being
found out to take time to check Tom's drawings. Jammed them into his
fireplace soon's he'd finished. The thief!—the infernal
thief!—the—!” Griffith spat out a curse that made even Mr. Leslie
“Good Lord, Griffith,” he remonstrated. “That's the first time I
ever heard you swear.”
“I keep it for
dirt! ... Well, what you going to do about
“I am going to have you show Ashton's plans to Blake. If he
recognizes them as a copy of his own—”
“Better get ready to ship Laffie out of the country. Once saw Tom
manhandle a brute who was beating his wife—one of those husky saloon
bouncers. The wife had a month's nursing to do. Tom will pound that—
that sneak to pulp.”
“Show him the plans. If he recognizes them, I'll let the thief know
he has been found out. He'll run, and we'll be rid of him without any
scandal. We'll arrange for Blake to get the credit for the bridge,
after a time. George Ashton and I are rather close together. I don't
want him to be hit harder than's necessary.”
“Say, Mr. Leslie, I don't mind admitting you
exclaimed Griffith. “You don't like Tom, and you know he hasn't a line
of proof. It would be only his word against Laffie's. Unknown engineer
trying to blackmail the son of George Ashton. You know what would be
“I told you, I owe him a debt. I intend to pay it in full.”
“One thing though,” cautioned Griffith. “Even a cornered rat will
fight. There's the chance that Laffie may not run. He'd be a
drivelling idiot if he did, with his father's millions at stake. Don't
forget we've no proof. It won't look even possible to outsiders.
Suppose I hold off showing Tom those plans till we see if he can make
it on the Zariba Dam? If he pulls that off, no engineer in the U. S.
will doubt his claims to the bridge.”
“That means a delay,” said Mr. Leslie irritably. “My first plan was
to send Blake to Michamac at once.”
“Lord! With one cantilever finished and the other out to the
central span—if it's Tom's bridge, he'd recognize it as quick as his
plans. And if he did—well, I'd not answer for what would happen to
that damn thief.”
“H'm—perhaps you're right,” considered Mr. Leslie. He thought a
moment, and added with quick decision, “Very well. Keep him on at the
dam. What are you paying him?”
“No go. He'd suspect something.”
“Suspect, would he? H'm—several expert engineers have failed on
that dam. If it can be put through, the project will net me a
half-million. Ten per cent of my profits might stimulate you
engineers. I offer fifty thousand dollars as reward to the man who
solves the problem of the Zariba Dam.”
“Say, that's going some!” commented Griffith.
“Plain business proposition. If I can't get it done for wages, it
is cheaper to pay a bonus than to have the project fail.”
“Good way to put it,” admitted Griffith. “Don't just know, though,
what I'll do with all that money.”
“You? Thought you said that Blake—”
“D'you suppose he'd take a cent of it? He's working for me.”
“But if he does the work?”
“He might accept the credit. The cash would come to me, if he had
to cram it down my throat. He won't touch your money.”
“Crazy fool!” rasped Mr. Leslie. Again he paused to consider, and
again he spoke with quick decision. “The Coville Company takes over
the project. I don't believe the dam can be built; I'm tired of the
whole thing. So I unload on the Coville Company. You see? The company
offers the fifty thousand bonus as a last hope. It hires Blake direct
on some of its routine work. You insist that he try for the dam,
“That's the ticket!” said Griffith. “We'll try it on him.”
“Then call by the Coville office. I'll phone over for them to have
the transfer made and a letter waiting for you,” said Mr. Leslie, and
he jerked out his watch.
Griffith rose at the signal. He fumbled for a moment with his hat
and gloves, and spoke with a queer catch in his voice. “I'd like
to—let you know how I—appreciate—”
“No call for it! no call for it!” broke in Mr. Leslie. “Good-day!”
He whirled about to his desk and caught up the receiver of one of
his private-line telephones.
CHAPTER XIV. BETWEEN FRIENDS
Lord James sauntered into the office of Griffiths, C.E., and
inquired for Mr. Blake. The cleric stared in vague recognition, and
answered that Mr. Blake was busy. Nothing daunted, the visitor crossed
to the door toward which the clerk had glanced.
When he entered, he found Blake in his shirtsleeves, humped over a
small desk. He was intently absorbed in comparing the figures of two
field books and in making little pencil diagrams.
“Hello, old man. What's the good word?” sang out his lordship.
Blake nodded absently, and went on with his last diagram. When he
had finished it, he looked up and perceived his friend standing
graceful and debonair in the centre of the room.
“Why, hello, Jimmy,” he said, as if only just aware of the other's
presence. “Can't you find a chair?”
“How's the dam?”
“Dam 'fi 'no,” punned Blake. He slapped his pencil down on the
desk, and flung up his arms to stretch his cramped body.
“You need a breather,” advised Lord James.
“Young Ashton came 'round to my hotel last evening. Wanted me to go
to some bally musical comedy—little supper afterward with two of the
show-girls—all that. I had another engagement. He then asked me to
drop around this morning and take my pick of his stable. Wants me to
ride one of his mounts while I'm here, you know. Suppose you come up-
town with me and help me pick out a beast.”
“No,” said Blake. “Less I see of that papa's boy the better I'll
“Oh, but as a fellow-engineer, y'know,” minced Lord James.
“You love him 'bout as much as I do.”
Lord James adjusted the pink carnation in his lapel, and casually
remarked: “You'll be calling at the Leslies' this afternoon, I
“No,” said Blake.
“Indeed?” exclaimed the younger man. He flushed and gazed
confusedly at Blake, pleased on his own account, yet none the less
distressed for his friend.
Blake explained the situation with sober friendliness. “It's all up
in the air, Jimmy. I've got to make good, and she won't promise
anything even if I succeed.”
“Not even if you succeed?” Lord James was bewildered.
“Can't say I blame her, since I've had time to think it over,” said
Blake. “If it was you, for instance, she might have a show to get some
happiness out of life, even with the whiskey. But think of her tied up
to me, whiskey or no whiskey!”
“You'll down the habit this time, old man.”
Blake smiled ironically. “That's what you've said every time. It's
what I've said myself, every time since I woke up to what the cursed
sprees meant. No; don't be afraid. You'll have your chance soon
enough. She has cut me clean off from outside help. She wouldn't even
give me so much as a 'good luck to you'!”
“She wouldn't? But of course you know that she wishes it.”
“Does she? But that's not the point. She's made me believe she
isn't sure of her—of her feelings toward me. Don't think I blame her.
I don't. She's right. If I can't stand up and fight it out and win,
without being propped up by my friends, I ought to lose out. I'm not
fit to marry any woman—much less her.”
Lord James tugged and twisted at his mustache, and at last brought
out his reply: “Now, I—I say, you look here, old chap, you've got to
win this time. It means her, y'know. You must win.”
“Jimmy,” stated Blake, his eyes softening, “you're the limit!”
“You're not!” flashed back his friend. “There's no limit to you—to
what you can do.”
“Heap of good it does—your saying it,” grumbled Blake.
“This—er—situation won't prevent your calling at the Leslies', I
“I'm not so sure,” considered Blake. “Leastways you won't see me
there till I begin to think I see a way to figure out this dam.”
Lord James swung a leg over the corner of the desk and proceeded to
light a cigarette. Through the haze of the first two puffs he squinted
across at the glum face of his friend, and said: “Don't be an ass. She
hasn't told you not to call.”
“No,” admitted Blake. “Just the same, she said she wouldn't give me
“That doesn't bar you from calling. The sight of her will keep you
“I tell you, I'm not going near her house till I think I've a show
to make good on this dam.”
“Then you'll lunch with me and make an early call at the Gantrys'.
Miss Dolores requested me to give you an urgent invitation.”
me!” said Blake. “No High Society in mine.”
“You'll come,” confidently rejoined his friend. “You owe it to Miss
Blake frowned and sat for some moments studying the point. Lord
James had him fast.
“Guess you've nailed me for once,” he at last admitted. “Rather
have a tooth pulled, though.”
“I say, now, you got along swimmingly at Ruthby.”
“With your father. He wasn't a Chicago society dame.”
“Oh, well, you must make allowances for the madam. Miss Dolores
explained to me that 'Vievie has only to meet people in order to be
received, but mamma has to keep butting in to arrive—that's why she
cultivates her grand air.'”
“No sham about Miss Dolores!” approved Blake.
“Right-o! You'll come, I take it. What if the dragon does have
rather a frosty stare for you? She said I might bring you to call.
Seriously, Tom, you must learn to meet her without showing that her
manner flecks you. Best kind of training for society. As I said just
now, you owe it to Miss Genevieve.”
“Well—long as you put it that way,” muttered Blake.
“You'll get along famously with Miss Dolores, I'm sure,” said Lord
James. “She's quite a charming girl,—vivacious and all that, you
know. She's taken quite a fancy to you. The mother is one of those
silly climbers who never look below the surface. You have twice my
moral stamina, but just because I happen to have a title and some
“Don't try to gloze it over,” cut in Blake. “Let's have it
straight. You're a thoroughbred. I'm a broncho.”
“Mistaken metaphor,” rejoined his friend. “I'm a well-bred
nonentity. You're a diamond in the rough. When once you've been cut
“Then the flaws will show up in great shape,” gibed Blake.
“Never think it, old man! There is only one flaw, and that will
disappear with the one cutting required to bring the stone to the best
“Stow it!” ordered Blake. The rattling of the doorknob drew his
gaze about. “Here's Grif, back at last. He's been to chin with Papa
Leslie.” He squinted aggressively at the older engineer, who entered
with his usual air of seeming absorption in the performance of his
most trivial actions. “Hello, you Injin! Gone into partnership with H.
V.? You've been there all morning.”
“Other way 'round, if anything,” answered Griffith. He nodded
cordially in response to the greeting of Lord James, and began
rummaging in his pockets as he came over to the desk. “Now, where's
that letter? Hey?—Oh, here it is.” He drew out a long envelope, and
started to open it in a precise, deliberate manner.
“So he fired you, eh?” rallied Blake.
“In a way,” said Griffith, peering at the paper in his hand. “It
seems he's unloaded the Zariba project onto the Coville Company.”
“Thought it couldn't be put through, eh?” said Blake. “Bet he
didn't let it go for nothing, though.”
“It's not often he comes out at the little end of the horn,”
replied Griffith. “Didn't take the Coville people long to wake up to
the situation. Look here.”
Blake took the opened letter, which was headed with the name and
officers of the Coville Construction Company. He read it through with
care, whistled, and read it through the second time.
“Well, what you think of it?” impatiently demanded Griffith.
“Whee! They sure must think H. V. has left them to hold the
bag. Fifty thousand bonus to the engineer that shows 'em how the dam
can be built!”
“Strict business,” croaked Griffith. “The company is stuck if they
quit. Fifty thousand is only ten per cent of their net profits if the
project goes through. Wish I had a show at it.”
“Well, haven't you? It says any engineer.”
“I had quit before you came, only I didn't like to own up to H. V.”
“You needn't yet a while. I'll keep digging away at it. If I put it
through, we divvy up. I'm working for you. See?”
“Not on your life, Tommy! I don't smouge on another man's work.”
“Well, then, we'll say I'm to split it because you put me next to
“No go. I've no use for three-fourths of what I'm making nowadays.
It's just piling up on me. Look here. I happened to speak about you to
the Coville people—looking ahead, you know. They want me to try you
out on some work I'm too busy to do myself. It's not much, and they
offer only one-fifty a month as a starter, but it may lead to
something better than I can do for you.”
“Yes, that's so,” considered Blake.
“It is checking field work reports that come in slowly this time of
year. That's the only trouble. You'll be sitting around doing nothing
half the time—that is, unless you're fool enough to waste any more
time on this dam' dam.”
“Waste time?” cried Blake, his eyes flashing. “Watch me! Wait till
you get your next bill for electric lights! You've given me my cue,
Grif. I'm going to buck through this little proposition in
one-two-three style, grab my fifty thousand, and plunge into the New
York Four Hundred as Tommy Van Damdam. Clear out, you hobos. I'm going
“Don't forget I've got you on for lunch and Mrs. Gantry's,”
reminded Lord James.
Blake paused, pencil in hand. “Aw, say, Jimmy, you'll have to let
me off now.”
“Can't do it, old man, really.”
“At least that infernal call.”
“No, you've got to get used to it. Tell you what, I'll let you off
on the lunch if you'll be at my hotel at four sharp. Don't squirm.
That gives you as many hours to grind as are good for you at one
stretch. If you try to funk it, I'll hold you for both lunch and call.
Your social progress is on my conscience.”
“Huh!” rejoined Blake. “Don't wish you any hard luck, but if you
and your conscience were in—”
“Four sharp, remember!” put in Lord James, dodging from the room.
Griffith followed him closely and shut the door.
“I'm not so busy, Mr. Scarbridge. Step into my private office and
have a cigar,” he invited, and as Lord James hesitated, he added in a
lower tone, “Want your idea about him.”
Lord James at once went with the engineer into his office.
“You wish to speak about Tom? “he said.
“Yes. Did you notice that look about his eyes? It's the first
“Oh, no! let us hope not, Mr. Griffith. I happen to know he has
suffered a severe disappointment. It may be that.”
“Well, maybe. I hope so,” said Griffith dubiously. With innate
delicacy, he refrained from any inquiry as to the nature of Blake's
disappointment. As he handed out his box of cigars, he went on, “I
don't quite like it, though. He's a glutton for field work, but this
indoors figuring soon sets him on edge. He can't stand being cooped
up.” “Count on me to do all I can to get him out.”
“Yes, I'm figuring on you, Mr. Scarbridge. He's told me all about
you. Between the two of us, we might stave it off and keep him going
for months. Wish I knew more about the girl—Miss Leslie. If she's the
right sort, there's just a chance of something being done that I gave
up as being impossible, last time he was with me—he might be
straightened out for good.”
“It's possible, quite possible! Others have been cured,—why not
he?” exclaimed Lord James, his face aglow with boyish enthusiasm. But
as suddenly it clouded. “Ah, though, most unfortunate—this stand of
“What about her?” queried Griffith, as the other hesitated.
“She has told him that he must win out absolutely on his own
strength, without her aid or sympathy.”
“Well, I'll be—switched! Thought she loved him.”
Lord James flushed, yet answered without hesitancy. “It is to be
presumed she does, otherwise she would not have forced this test upon
“How d' you make that out?”
“Mere grateful interest in his welfare would have been satisfied by
the assurance of his material success. On the other hand, her—ah—
feeling toward him is at present held in restraint by her acute
judgment. She had reason to esteem him in that savage environment. She
now realizes that he must win her esteem in her own proper
environment. She is not merely a young lady—she is a lady. Her rare
good sense tells her that she must not accept him unless he proves
“He's a lot fitter than all these lallapaloozer papa's boys and
some of their fathers,—all those empty-headed swells that are called
eligibles,” rejoined Griffith.
“It's not a question of polish or culture, believe me. She is far
too clever to doubt that he would acquire that quickly enough. My
reference was to this one flaw, which may yet shatter him. The
question is whether it penetrates too deep into his nature. If not—if
he can rid himself of it—then even I admit that he would make her
“Yet she won't lift a finger to help him fight it out?”
“Courage is the fundamental virtue in a man. It includes moral
strength. If she cannot be sure of his strength, she will always doubt
him and her love for him.”
“Can't see it that way. If she helped him, and he won out, he'd be
cured, wouldn't he?”
“I've been trying to guess at a woman's reason, but I'm not so rash
as to attempt to argue the matter,” said Lord James. He picked up his
hat and held out a cordial hand to the engineer. “She may or may not
be right. I'm not altogether certain as to the intuitive wisdom of
women. However that may be, we at least shall do our best to pull him
“That's talking, Mr. Scarbridge!” exclaimed Griffith.
CHAPTER XV. BY-PLAY
Promptly at four that afternoon Blake was shown to the rooms of his
friend at the hotel. He entered with a glum look not altogether
“Well, here I am,” he grumbled. “Hope you're satisfied. You're
robbing me of the best part of the day.”
“I daresay,” cheerfully assented Lord James. “Now look pleasant
till I see if you're dressed.”
“No, I haven't a thing on. Just clothed in sunshine and a sweet
smile,” growled Blake, throwing open his raincoat to show his suit of
rough gray homespun. “You don't ever get me into that skirty coat
again. I can stand full dress, but not that afternoon horror-gown. I'm
“Don't fash yourself, old man. At least you've been tailored in
London, and that's something. You'll do—in Chicago.”
“I'll do O.K. right here,” said Blake. “What say? You've spoiled my
afternoon. We'll call it quits if you settle down with me and put in
the time chinning about things.”
“Tammas, I'm shocked at you,” reproved Lord James. “You cannot wish
to disappoint Mrs. Gantry, really!”
“Mrs. Gantry be—”
“No, no! Do not say it, my deah Tammas! When one is in Society,
y'know, one is privileged to think it, but it's bad form to express it
so—ah—broadly—ah—I assure you.”
He adjusted his monocle and stared with a vacuous blandness well
calculated to madden his friend. Blake hurled a magazine, which his
lordship deftly sidestepped. He reached for his hat, and faced Blake
with boyish eagerness.
“Come on, Tom. Chuck the rotting. We're wasting time.”
“Must have a taxicab waiting for you,” bantered Blake.
“No, a young lady. Miss Dolores is really eager to become
acquainted with you, and—er—she may have a friend or two—”
“Tammas the quitter!”
Lord James started for the door, and Blake followed him, striving
hard to maintain his surly look. At the street entrance he sought to
postpone the coming ordeal by urging his need for exercise.
“Don't worry. I'll pay,” said Lord James, pretending to
misunderstand, and he raised his finger to the chauffeur of the
nearest cab. “You can walk home, if you wish to save pennies. Now, you
know, we desire to reach Mrs. Gantry's as soon as possible.”
“Yes, we do!” growled Blake.
He seemed more than ever determined to remain in his glum mood, and
the pleasant badinage of his friend during their run out to Lincoln
Park Boulevard rather increased than lessened his surliness. When they
entered through the old Colonial portal of the Gantry home, he jerked
off his English topcoat unaided, contemptuously spurning the
assistance of the buff-and-yellow liveried footman. But as they were
announced, he assumed what Lord James termed his “poker face,” and
entered beside his friend, with head well up and shoulders squared.
“Good boy! Keep it up,” murmured Lord James. “She'll take you for a
Blake spoiled the effect by a grin, which, an instant later, was
transformed into a radiant smile at sight of Genevieve beside Mrs.
Dolores came darting to meet them, her black eyes sparkling and her
lithe young body aquiver with animation.
“Oh, Lord Avondale!” she cried. “So you
did make him come.
Mr. Blake, why didn't you call at once?”
“Wasn't asked,” answered Blake, his eyes twinkling.
“You are now. So please remember to come often. Never fear mamma.
I'll protect you. Oh, I'm just on tiptoe to see you in those skin
things you wore in Africa. I made Vievie put on her leopard-skin gown,
and I think it's the most terrible romantic thing! And now I'm just
dying to see your hyena-skin trousers and those awful poisoned arrows
“Dolores!” admonished Mrs. Gantry.
“Oh, piffle!” complained the girl, drawing aside for the men to
Even Mrs. Gantry was not equal to the rudeness of snubbing a caller
in her own house—when she had given an earl permission to bring him.
But the contrast between her greetings of the two men was, to say the
Blake met her supercilious bearing toward him with an impassiveness
that was intended to mask his contemptuous resentment. But Genevieve
saw and understood. She rose and quietly remarked: “You'll excuse us,
Aunt Amice. I wish Mr. Blake to see the palm room. I fancy it will
carry him back to Mozambique.”
Mrs. Gantry's look said that she wished Mr. Blake could be carried
back to Mozambique and kept there. Her tongue said: “As you please, my
dear. Yet I should have thought you'd had quite enough of Africa for a
“One never can tell,” replied Genevieve with a coldness that
chilled the glow in Blake's eyes.
They went out side by side yet perceptibly constrained in their
bearing toward one another.
Dolores flung herself across the room and into a chair facing her
mother and Lord James.
“Did you see that?” she demanded. “I do believe Vievie is the
coldest blooded creature! When she knows he's just dying for love of
her! Why, I never—”
“That will do!” interrupted Mrs. Gantry.
“I'll leave it to Lord Avondale. Isn't it the exact truth?”
“Er—he still looks rather robust,” parried Lord James.
“You know what I mean. But I didn't think she'd behave in this
dog-in-the-manger fashion. She might have at least given me a chance
for a tete-a-tete with him, even if he is her hero.”
“I am only too well aware what Lord Avondale will think of
, going on in this silly way,” observed Mrs. Gantry.
“If Lord Avondale doesn't like me and my manners, he needn't. Need
you, Mr. Scarbridge?”
“But how can I help liking you?” asked the young Englishman with
such evident sincerity that the girl was disconcerted. She flashed a
bewildered glance into his earnest face, and turned quickly away, her
cheeks scarlet with confusion.
“Ah, Earl,” purred her mother, “I fully appreciate your kindness.
She is Genevieve's cousin. You are therefore pleased to disregard her
“Ho! so that's it?” retorted Dolores. “Lord Avondale needn't
trouble to disregard anything about me.”
“Believe me, I do not, Miss Gantry,” replied Lord James. “I find
you most charming.”
“Because I'm Vievie's cousin! Well, if you wish to know what I
think, I think all Englishmen are simply detestable!” cried the girl,
and she sprang up and flounced away, her face crimson with anger.
“You had better go straight to your room,” reproved her mother.
The girl promptly dodged the doorway for which she was headed, and
veered around to a window, where she turned her back on them and
perched herself on the arm of a chair.
Mrs. Gantry sighed profoundly. “A-a-ah! Was ever a mother so
tried! Such temper, such perversity! Her father, all over again!”
“If you'll permit me to offer a suggestion,” ventured Lord James,
“may it not be that you drive with rather too taut a rein?”
“Too taut! Can you not see? The slightest relaxation, and I should
have a runaway.”
“But a little freedom to canter? It's this chafing against the bit.
So high spirited, you know. I must confess, it's that which I find
most charming about her.”
“Impossible! You cannot realize.”
“Then, too, her candor—one of the rarest and most admirable traits
in a woman.”
“Simply terrible! That she should fling her—opinion of you in your
“Better that than the usual insincerity in such cases of dislike.
It gives me reason to hope that eventually I can win her friendship.”
“Your kindness is more than I can ever repay!”
“You can by granting me a single favor.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Gantry raised her eyebrows in high arches.
“By receiving my friend as my friend.”
“Ah! Had you not asked permission to bring him, he would not have
been received at all.”
“Not even as the man who saved your niece?”
“That is an obligation to be discharged by her father.”
“I see. Very well, then. Regarding him simply as my friend, I ask
you to consider that he is undergoing a most difficult, I may say,
cruel test. He must overcome something that he has vainly fought for
years— something that has crushed many of the greatest intellects the
world has known.”
“The more reason for me to save Genevieve from ruin. From what you
say, I imply that it is a hopeless case of degeneracy.”
“Not hopeless; and degenerate in that respect alone—if you must
insist on the term.”
“I do insist.”
“What if he should succeed in overcoming it?”
“He cannot. Even should he seem to, there will always be a weakness
to be feared.”
“Is that just?”
“It is just to Genevieve.”
“Everything for Vievie, coronet included!” called Dolores over her
Mrs. Gantry's English complexion deepened to the purple of
mortification. The frank smile that told of his lordship's enjoyment
of her discomfiture was the last straw. She rose in her stateliest
“I shall leave you a few moments to be entertained by the dear
child, since you find her so amusing,” she said. “Genevieve must not
be permitted to remain too long in the close hot air of the palm
“There's some hot air outside the conservatory, mamma,” remarked
But Mrs. Gantry sailed majestically from the room, without deigning
to heed the pleasantry.
Lord James sauntered across to the window and perched himself on a
chair arm close before the girl.
“When do you begin?” he asked. “Your mamma said you were to
“Best possible reason why I shouldn't,” she snapped, staring hard
out of the window.
“What if I should try to entertain you?”
“You wouldn't succeed. I wanted to talk to a man. It's too bad!
Simply because you asked me to, I was silly enough to tease Vievie
into coming over this afternoon—and the minute he comes, she rushes
him off to the conservatory.”
“Believe me, I regret quite as keenly that she did not take me
“That's complimentary—to me!”
“Can you blame me for agreeing, when you express a preference for
the man instead of the mere son of a duke?”
“Perhaps you're a man yourself. Who knows?”
“Quien sabe, Senorita Dolores?” he rallied her. “Tell me how to
She flashed him a glance of naive coquetry. “You ask how? If I were
my great grandmother, you might try to kiss me, and chance a stiletto
thrust in return.”
“Your great grandmother was an Italian?”
The girl's red lips curled disdainfully. “No, she was Spanish.
Though she lived in Mexico, her family were Castilian and related to
the royal Valois family of France. So you see how far back it goes. We
have the journal of her husband. She married Dr. Robinson, who
accompanied Lieutenant Pike on his famous expedition.”
“Pike? Leftenant Pike?”
“No, he wasn't 'left.' He came back and became the General Pike who
died at the moment of his glorious victory over the English, in the
War of 1812.”
“Ah, come to think—Pike of Pike's Peak. Never heard of the battle
you mention; but as an explorer—So one of his companions married your
“Yes. He must have been another such man as Mr. Blake.”
“The kind to risk stiletto thrusts for kisses?”
“Yes. I know I must be exactly like her—that haughty Senorita
“Indeed, yes. I can almost see her dagger up your sleeve.”
The girl's black eyes flashed fire. “If it
was there, you'd
get a good scratch!”
“Believe me,” he apologized, “you quite failed to take me.”
“It's no question of taking you. I prefer heroes.”
“Can't say I blame you. You've all the fire and charm of a Spanish
girl, and, permit me to add, the far greater charm of an American
She looked to see if he was mocking her. Finding him unaffectedly
sincere, she promptly melted into a most amiable and vivacious though
CHAPTER XVI. THE AMARYLLIS
The constraint between Blake and Genevieve had rather increased
than lessened when they left the others. Neither spoke until they had
passed through the outer conservatory into the tropical heat of the
palm room. But there the first whiff of the odor from the moist warm
mould brought with it a flood of pungent memories.
“The river jungle,” muttered Blake, sniffing. “Air was drier out
under the cocoanut palms.”
“That first night, in the tree!” murmured Genevieve. “How easily
you hauled us up with the vine rope! Ah, then—and now!”
Blake drew away from her, his face darkening. “Hope you don't think
I expected to see you here? If Jimmy knew, he didn't tell me.”
“How could he know? Dolores did not phone to me until
mid-afternoon. But even had you been told, I see no reason why you
shouldn't have come.”
“You don't?” he asked, his face brightening. “I was afraid you
might think I was trying to dodge your conditions. Besides, I had
promised myself not to call on you till I thought I saw a way to work
out a big piece of engineering that I'm on.”
“Then you have a good position? I'm so glad!”
“Not a regular position. But I've been given work and a chance at
one of the biggest things in hydraulics—the Zariba Dam, out in
“You're not going away?” Calmly as she tried to speak, she could
not entirely repress an under-note of apprehension. Slight as was the
betrayal of feeling, it enheartened him immensely. He beamed up at the
palm crests that brushed the glazed dome.
“Looks like they're going to raise the roof, doesn't it?” he said.
“Feel that way myself. Your father unloaded the Zariba project onto
the Coville Construction Company, and they've offered a cool fifty
thousand dollars to the man that figures out a feasible way to
construct the dam. I spoke about it before, you may remember; but this
bonus wasn't up then. If I put it through, I'll be recognized as a
“You will succeed, of course,” said Genevieve with perfect
confidence in his ability to overcome such a relatively easy
“Hope so,” responded Blake. “I'm still tunnelling in the dark,
though. Not a glimmer of a hole out.”
“That is of small concern.”
“Isn't it, though? I'm counting on that to boost me along on the
other thing. Nothing like a little good luck to keep a fellow braced
“But I'm sure you have some Dutch blood,—and you know the Dutch
never fight harder than when the odds are against them.”
“Then it's too bad I'm not Hans Van Amsterdam. He'd have the scrap
of his life.”
“Do you mean that the odds are so greatly against you?” asked
Genevieve, with sudden gravity.
“What's the use of talking about it?” said Blake, almost brusquely.
“If I win, I win; and I'm supposed to believe that is all it means. If
I lose, you're rid of me for good.”
Genevieve bit her lip and turned her head to hide her starting
“I did not think you would be so bitter over it!” she half sobbed.
“Can't you take a joke?” he demanded. “Great joke!—me thinking
I've a ghost of a show of winning you! No; the laugh's on me, all
right. Idea of me dreaming I can down that damnable thirst!”
“Tom, you'll not give up—you'll not!” she cried with a fierceness
that shook him out of his bitter despondency.
“Give up?” he rejoined. “What d' you take me for? I'll
fight—course I'll fight, till I'm down and out. People don't much
believe in hell nowadays, Jenny. I do. I've been there. I'm bound to
go there again, I don't know how soon. Don't think I'm begging for
help or whining. Nobody goes to hell that hasn't got hell in him. He
always gets just what's coming to him.”
“No, no! It's not fair. I can't bear to hear you blame yourself.
There's no justice in it. Both heredity and environment have been
“Justice?” he repeated. He shook his head, with rather a grim
smile. “Told you once I worked in a pottery. Supposing the clay of a
piece wasn't mixed right, it wasn't the dish's fault if it cracked in
the firing. Just the same, it got heaved on the scrap-heap.”
Genevieve looked down at her clasped hands and whispered: “May not
even a flawed piece prove so unique, so valuable in other respects,
that it is cemented and kept?”
Blake laughed harshly. “Ever know a cracked dish to cement itself?”
“This is all wrong! The metaphor doesn't apply,” protested the
girl. “You're not a lifeless piece of clay; you're a man—you have a
free, powerful will.”
“That's the question. Have I? Has anybody? Some scientists argue
that we're nothing but automatons—the creatures of heredity and
“It's not true. We're morally responsible for all we do—that is,
unless we're insane.”
“And I'm only dippy, eh?” said Blake.
He moved ahead around the screening fronds of a young areca palm,
and came to an abrupt halt, his eyes fixed on an object in the midst
of the tropical undergrowth.
“Look here!” he called in a hushed tone.
Genevieve hesitated, and came to him with reluctant slowness. But
when she reached his side and saw what it was he was looking at so
intently, her cold face warmed with a tender glow, and, unable to
restrain her emotion, she pressed her cheek against his arm. He
quivered, yet made no attempt to take advantage of her weakness.
“Tom! oh, Tom!” she whispered. “It's exactly the color of the other
this snake was as easy to smash!” he muttered.
“It will be!” she reassured him. He made no response. After a short
silence, she said, “In memory of that, Tom, I wish you would kiss me.”
He bent over and touched his lips to her forehead with reverent
tenderness. That was all.
When Mrs. Gantry came in on them, they were still standing side by
side, but apart, contemplating the great crimson amaryllis blossom.
Their attitude and their silence were, however, sufficient to quicken
“My dear child,” she reproached Genevieve, “you should know that
this damp mouldy air is not wholesome for you.”
“She's right, Miss Jenny,” agreed Blake. “It's too much like
Mozambique—gets your thoughts muddled. You've failed to do as you
said you would. I ought to've gone sooner. Good-day, Mrs. Gantry.
Good-day, Miss Jenny.”
He turned away with decisive quickness.
“Must you go?” asked Genevieve, with a trace of entreaty that did
not escape her aunt.
“Yes,” said Blake.
“You'll come to see me soon!”
“Not till I see daylight ahead on the dam. Don't know when that
will be. Best I can say is Adios!”
“I trust it will be soon.”
“Same here,” he responded, and he left the palm room with head
down-bent, as if he were already pondering the problem, the solving
of which was to free him from the self-imposed taboo of her house.
“My dear Genevieve!” Mrs. Gantry hastened to exclaim. “Why must you
encourage the man?”
The girl pointed to the gorgeous blossom of the amaryllis. “That is
one reason, Aunt Amice.”
“That? What do you mean?”
“Your amaryllis—not the flower itself, but what it stands for to
“Still, I do not—”
“Not when you recall what I told you about that frightful puff
adder— that I was stooping to pick an amaryllis when the hideous
creature struck at me?”
“You mentioned something about a snake, but there was so much
“Yes, it was only once of the many, many times when he proved
himself a man. Though the adder only struck the fold of my skirt, I
stood paralyzed with horror. Winthrope, as usual, was ineffectual. Tom
came running with his club—and then—” The girl paused until the
vivid blush that had leaped into her cheeks had ebbed away. “It was
not alone his courage but his resourcefulness. Most men would have
turned away from the writhing monster, full of loathing. He saw the
opportunity to convert what had been a most deadly peril into a source
of safety. He sent me away, and extracted the poison for his arrow
“My dear child, I freely admit that he is an admirable savage,”
conceded Mrs. Gantry.
“Say rather that he was fit to survive in a savage environment. We
shall now see him adapt himself to the other extreme.”
“Young girls always tend to idealize those whom they chance to
fancy.” “Chance? Fancy? Dear Aunt Amice, you and papa do not, perhaps
cannot, realize that for those many weeks I lived with storm and
starvation, sun and fever, serpents and ferocious beasts all striving
to destroy me. I saw the hard realities of life, and learned to think.
Mentally I am no longer a young girl, but a woman, qualified to judge
what her future should be.”
The glowing face of her usually composed niece warned Mrs. Gantry
to be discreet. She patted the coils of soft hair. “There, there, my
dear. Pray do not misunderstand me. All I ask is that you make sure
before you commit yourself,—a few months of delay, that you may
compare him with the men of our own class.”
Genevieve smiled. “I have gone quite beyond that already, Aunt
“Indeed?” murmured the elder woman. Too tactful to venture further,
she placed a ring-crowded hand upon her ample bosom. “It is too close
in here. I feel oppressed.”
Genevieve readily accompanied her from the conservatory.
Blake had gone, alone, for they found Lord James in the midst of a
lively tete-a-tete with Dolores.
At sight of the merry couple, Genevieve paused in the doorway to
recall to her companion some previous conversation. “You see, Aunty.
Confess now. They would make a perfect couple.”
“Nonsense. He would never dream of such a thing, even were you out
of his thoughts. What is more, though he seems to have caught her in
one of her gay moods, I know that she simply abominates him. She told
him as much, within a minute after you left us.”
“I'm so sorry!” sighed Genevieve. “At least let us slip out without
interrupting them. I must be going, anyway.”
“My dear, I have you to consider before Dolores,” replied Mrs.
Gantry, and she advanced upon the unconscious couple. “Genevieve is
Lord James looked about, for the slightest fraction of a moment
discomposed. Genevieve perceived the fleeting expression, and hastened
to interpose. “Do not trouble. It is so short a distance.”
But the Englishman was already bowing to Dolores. The girl turned
her back upon him with deliberate rudeness.
“You see!” murmured Mrs. Gantry to Genevieve.
When Lord James and her niece had gone, the outraged dame wheeled
upon her daughter. But at the first word, Dolores faced her with such
an outblazing of rebellious anger that the mother thought best to
defer her lecture.
CHAPTER XVII. ENTRAPPED
On a frosty Sunday morning, some ten days later, Blake came
swinging out Lake Shore Drive at a space-devouring stride that soon
brought him to the Leslie mansion. He turned in, and the footman, who
had received orders regarding him, promptly bowed him in.
After a moment's hesitancy, Blake handed over a calling card. All
his previous cards had been printed, with a “C. E.” after his name and
nothing before it. These social insignia had been ordered for him by
Lord James. Blake wondered how the innovation would impress Genevieve.
She presently came down to him, dressed for church but without her
hat. He was quick to note the fact. “You're going out. Didn't mean to
call at the wrong time.”
“No,” she replied. “I am going to church, but not until Aunt Amice
and Dolores call by for us. That may not be for half an hour. I am
very glad to see you. I remember what you said about your next call.
This means, does it not, that you believe you can solve the problem of
the Zariba Dam?”
“Yes. I sidetracked the proposition four days ago. Had all the
facts and factors in my head, but couldn't seem to get anywhere. Well,
I hadn't tried to think about the dam since then, but this morning,
all of a sudden, the idea came to me.”
“You had set your subconscious mind to working,” remarked
Genevieve. “The ideas of many of the great inventions and discoveries
have come that way.”
“Don't know about any subconscious mind,” said Blake. “But that
idea flashed into my head when I wasn't thinking of the dam at
all—just like I'd dreamed it.”
“You mean 'as if' you'd dreamed it, not 'like,'“ said Genevieve,
with a look of playful reproof.
“How's that?” he queried. “Never thought that was wrong. But I like
your telling me. Is that right?”
“Quite,—grammatically as well as otherwise,” she answered, smiling
at his soberness. But her tone was as earnest as his. “The speech of a
great engineer should be as correct as his figures.”
“That's a go!” agreed Blake. “I'll hire a grammar expert just as
soon as I work out this dam idea—um—you know what I
mean—this idea about the dam. Don't know how long that will take. But
I'm pretty sure I've got the thing cinched—else I wouldn't have had
the nerve to come here this morning. You'll believe that, Jenny?”
“Of course. Yet there was no reason why you should have remained
away even had you not succeeded. I did not mean you to—to take it
that way, Tom.”
“All right, then. I'll drop around often if it's not against
“You'll come to church with me this morning?”
“Church!” echoed Blake, in mock-tragic fright. “Haven't been inside
a church since I don't know when.”
“All the more reason why you should go with us now,” she argued.
“Aunt Amice always calls by for papa. He is one of the vestrymen of
the Cathedral, you know, but he'd never go if aunty did not come for
him. We share the same pew. But it's a large one. There'll be room for
“Not in the same pew with your aunt and father,” rejoined Blake.
“It'd take a larger pew than was ever made, to hold them and me.”
“Oh, but you must come, Tom. You'll enjoy the music. Here they are
“O-ho, Vievie, you in here?” called Dolores, and she darted in upon
them. “Goodness! who's the man? Why, it's Mr. Blake. Hail to the
She pirouetted down to them and shook Blake's hand vigorously,
chattering her fastest. “You can't imagine how glad I am to see you.
I've had less than half of Jeems, with mamma butting in all the way
over. Of course he'll sit between her and Vievie. If you'll come along
as my own particular, I'll feed you on chocolates and keep you nudged
during the sermon.”
“Oh, but I say, Miss Gantry, those were to be my chocolates,”
protested Lord James from the doorway.
“Hello,” said Blake. “So you're the man, are you? Better look out.
First thing you know, you'll get roped.”
“Roped? What's that?” demanded Dolores.
“Ask Jeems,” laughed Blake.
“Er—seems to me I've heard the expression in relation to the term
'steer,'“ observed Lord James.
“Oh, something to do with a ship,” said the girl.
“Yes, with what the sailormen would call a trim craft. Eh, Jeems?”
“You're laughing at me!” accused the girl. “To make up for it,
you'll have to come and hold my prayer-book for me. Just think!—a
real hero to hold my prayer-book!”
me!” objected Blake. “I don't know the places.”
“Never mind. We can study the styles quite as well. Vievie, let's
hurry on. Mamma has gone up to rout out Uncle Herbert. They'll be
“Well, then, I'll clear the track,” said Blake. “Take good care of
Jeems for me. Good-bye, Miss Jenny.”
“Don't leave, Tom,” replied Genevieve. “If you do not wish to go to
“We'll all stay home,” cut in Dolores.
“What's this about staying home?” came the voice of Mrs. Gantry
from the hall.
“Quick, Mr. Blake!” exclaimed Dolores in a stage whisper. “Hide
behind me. I'm taller than Vievie.”
Her mother came in upon them in time to catch Blake's broadest
grin. “Stay at home, indeed! Such a delightful day as—Ah!”
“It is Mr. Blake, Aunt Amice,” said Genevieve in a tone that
compelled the stiffening matron to bow.
“Well, good-bye,” repeated Blake.
“Please wait,” said Genevieve. “If you do not wish to go to church,
you must stay to—Here's papa.”
“Not late this time, am I?” demanded Mr. Leslie, bustling into the
room. “All ready, my dear? No, you've not got on your hat. Hello!” He
stopped short, staring at Blake. “Didn't know you were to be with us.”
“I'm not,” said Blake.
“You're not? H'm,—why not? Not afraid of church, are you? Better
Blake stared in open astonishment. “Thanks, I—Not this time, I
guess,” he replied.
Mr. Leslie seemed about to press the point, but paused and glanced
at his watch.
“Please do not wait for me,” said Genevieve. “I have decided not to
If Blake expected an outburst over this, he had another surprise in
store for him. Mrs. Gantry turned away, tight-lipped and high of chin,
either too full for utterance or else aware that it was an instant
when silence was the better part of diplomacy.
Mr. Leslie followed her, after a half-irritable, half-cordial word
to Blake. “Very well, very well. Some other time, then.”
As Lord James took his leave of Genevieve with apparent
nonchalance, Blake noted an exultant sparkle in the black eyes of
Dolores. Yet the look was flatly contradicted by her words as she
flounced about toward the door: “You needn't say good-bye, Mr.
Scarbridge. You may as well stay right here, since she's not going.”
“You see how she rags me,” complained Lord James, hastening out
Blake watched them go, his eyes keen with eager observation. He was
still staring at the doorway when Genevieve offered banteringly, “A
penny for your thoughts, Mr. Blake.”
“You'll have to bid higher. Make it a coronet—I mean, half a
“Only half a crown? Why not a crown—the oak crown of the
conqueror? You know the Bible verse: 'He that overcometh himself is
greater than he that taketh a city.'”
“Can't say as to that; but I've taken in the town, after having
failed to overcome,” said Blake with bitter humor.
“Tom! You must not speak of your defeats. They are past and of the
Past. You must not even think of them. Have you ever been baptized?”
“Baptized? Let's see... Yes, I remember the question was brought up
when I came back from my first hoboing and my sisters got me going to
the Episcopal Mission. They even persuaded me to join what's called a
confirmation class. That's when it had to be proved I'd been
“Oh, Tom! then you've been confirmed—you're an Episcopalian!”
“I was confirmed. That's not saying I'm an Episcopalian now.”
“Have you joined another denomination?”
“No. It was just that my religious streak pinched out, and some
years after that I read Darwin and Spencer and Haeckel.”
“But that's no reason. If only you had read Drummond first, you'd
have seen that true science and true religion are not opposed but are
complementary to each other.”
“Drummond?” queried Blake. “Never heard of him, that I remember.
Anyway, I guess I'm not one of the religious kind. It was only to
please my sisters I started in that time.”
“But you'll go to church with me now, Tom?”
Blake hesitated. “Thought you told them you'd decided not to go?”
“Not to the Cathedral. There's the little chapel down the street,
in which I was confirmed. It's nearer. We could walk. The bishop
officiates at the communion this morning, but he is ill; so Mr.
Vincent, the vicar, will preach. He's a young clergyman and is said to
be as popular with the men of his congregation as with the women. His
text to-day for morning service is—No, I'll not tell it to you, but
I'm sure you'll find the sermon helpful.”
“If you're so anxious to have me go, Jenny, I'll go. But it's to be
with you, not because I'm interested in that kind of religion. I don't
believe in going to a church every week and whining about being full
of sin and iniquity and all that. The people that do it are either
hypocrites and don't believe what they are saying, or else it's true,
and they ought to go to jail.”
Genevieve smiled regretfully. “You and I live in such different
worlds. Will you not try to at least look into mine?”
“Well, I'll not sleep during the sermon,” promised Blake.
She shook her head at his levity, and left him, to fetch her hat
When they went out, Blake had no need to stop in the hall. He had
brought no overcoat. The first breath of the clear frosty air outside
caused her to draw her furs about her graceful throat. She glanced at
Blake, and asked with almost maternal concern. “Where's your topcoat?
You'll take cold.”
“What, a day like this?” he replied. “On a good hustling job I'd
call this shirtsleeve weather.”
“You're so hardy! That is part of your strength.”
“Um-m,” muttered Blake. “That cousin of yours is a hummer, isn't
“If you but knew how she envies me my Crusoe adventures!”
“I'm not surprised to hear it. What gets me is seeing her go to the
same church as her mother.”
“She doesn't usually. But how could she miss such a chance to tease
aunty and Lord James? She's a dear contrary girl.”
“Then she's not an Episcopalian?”
“Oh, yes. Isn't it nice that we all are?”
“We all?” queried Blake.
“If you've been confirmed, you are, too. That's why I'm so glad
you're coming with me. We'll take the communion together.”
Blake's face darkened, and he replied hesitatingly: “Why, you see,
Jenny, I—I don't think I want to.”
“But, Tom, when it will please me so much!”
“You know I'd like to please you—only, you see, I'm not—I don't
believe in it.”
“Do you positively disbelieve in it?”
“Well, I can't say just that.”
“Then I'm sure it will be all right. You'll not be irreverent, and
maybe it will reawaken your own true spiritual self.”
“Sorry,” said Blake uneasily. “I'm afraid I can't do it, even to
“But why not? Surely, Tom, you'll not allow your hard cold science
to stand in the way of a sacrament!”
“I don't know whether it is a sacrament or isn't.”
“Is that your reason for refusing what I so greatly desire?”
He looked away from her, and asked in a tone that was meant to be
casual, “Do they use regular wine, or the unfermented kind?”
“So that's your reason!” she exclaimed. “I did not think you'd be
“Anything that has alcohol in it—” he sought to explain. “It's the
very devil to rouse that craving! There have been times when I've
taken a drink and fought it down—but not when—No, I can't risk it,
“Not the communion wine? Surely no harm could come from that! You
need take only the slightest sip.”
“One taste might prove to be as bad as a glassful. You can't guess
what it's like. I'm apt to go wild. Just the smell is bad enough.”
“But it's the
communion, Tom. You have been confirmed in the
Church. You know what the consecrated bread and wine symbolize. You
can recall to mind all the sacred associations.”
“I'm mighty sorry,” replied Blake. “If only that meant to me what
it does to you, I might risk it. I'm no blatant atheist or anti-
religionist. I'm simply agnostic; I don't believe. That's all. You
have faith. I haven't. I didn't wish to get rid of my faith. It just
“It may come to you again, if you seek to partake of the spiritual
communion,” urged Genevieve.
“I'm willing enough to try that. But I'll not risk any wine.”
“You'll not?” she cried. “Afraid to taste the consecrated wine?
Then you are weak!—you are a coward! And I thought you
strong, despite your own confession!”
The outburst of reproach forced Blake to flinch. He muttered in
protest, “Good Lord, Jenny! you don't mean to say you make this a part
of the test?”
“Does it mean nothing to you that I long to have you share the
communion with me?” she rejoined. “What must I think of you if you
dare not venture to partake of that holy symbol, in the communion of
all that is highest within you with the Father?”
Blake quivered as though the frosty air had at last sent a chill
through his powerful frame.
“You insist?” he asked huskily.
“You are strong. You will do it,” she replied.
“You don't know what it means. But, since you insist—” he
reluctantly acquiesced. He added almost inaudibly, “Up against it for
sure! Still —there have been times—”
CHAPTER XVIII. HOLY COMMUNION
They reached the chapel and entered during the last verse of the
Processional Hymn. As Genevieve was known to the usher in charge of
the centre aisle, they were shown to a pew farther forward than Blake
would have chosen.
Genevieve produced a dainty hymnal and prayer-book, and gave her
companion the pleasurable employment of helping her hold first one and
then the other, throughout the service. If his spirit was quickened by
a re-hearing of the prayers in which he had once believed, he did not
show it. But he seemed pleased at the fact that Genevieve was too
intent upon worship to gaze around at the hats and dresses of the
The chapel choir could not boast of any exceptional voices. It was,
however, very well trained. Throughout the anthem Blake sat tense,
almost quivering, so keen was his delight. At the close he sank back
into the corner of the pew, his gaze shifting uneasily from the infirm
and aged bishop in the episcopal chair to the thin, eager-faced young
vicar who had hastened around to mount up into the pulpit.
With a quick movement, the vicar opened the thick Bible to his
text, the announcement of which caused Blake to start and fix his
attention upon him:
“'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that
ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.' Proverbs 16:32.”
Genevieve glanced at Blake, who recalled how she had expressed her
certainty that he would find the sermon helpful. The text was apt, to
say the least. His hard-set face momentarily softened with a smile
that caused her to settle back, in serene contentment. He assumed what
Lord James would have termed his “poker face” and leaned up in the
corner of the pew, to gaze at the preacher, as impassive as a wooden
The manner in which the Reverend Mr. Vincent elucidated his text
soon won a stare of pleased surprise from Blake. He began by
describing, no less vividly than briefly, the walled cities of the
ancients and the enormous difficulty of capturing them, either by
siege or assault. This was followed by a graphic summary of the life
of Alexander the Great.
Blake listened with such intentness to this novel sermon that he
did not perceive that Genevieve was no less intently studying him. It
was evident he was deeply impressed by the obvious inference to be
drawn from the life of the mighty young Macedonian,—the youth who
conquered worlds, only to be himself conquered by his own vices.
But when, warming to his theme, the young vicar entered upon a
eulogy of asceticism, Blake bent over and stared moodily at the
printed “Suggestions to Worshippers” pasted on the back of the next
pew. His big body, to all appearances, was absolutely still and rigid,
but the fingers of his right hand moved about restlessly, tapping his
knee or clenching upon the broad palm.
In the midst of Mr. Vincent's explanations of what he considered
the fundamental differences between the self-torture of the Hindu
yogis and the mortifications of spirit and body practised by the
mediaeval monks, Blake shook his head in an uneasy, annoyed gesture.
Yet if he meant this as an indication of dissent, he gave no other
sign that he was following the thread of the sermon.
Even the close of the eloquent peroration, in which Mr. Vincent
besought his hearers to prepare for the fasting and prayer of the
Lenten season, failed to rouse Blake from his moody abstraction. But
at the end of the regular service, when the white-gowned choir-boys
flocked out and the majority of the congregation began to crowd into
the aisles with decorous murmurings and the soft rustling of silken
skirts, Blake raised his head and followed their departure with a
shifting, disquieted gaze.
At last all others than those who had remained for the communion
had passed out into the vestibule, and the closing of the doors
muffled the loud clear voices of those on the outer steps. Genevieve
touched Blake's arm. He started, and glanced up into the chancel. As
he caught sight of the bishop and Mr. Vincent behind the rail, his
uneasiness became so pronounced that Genevieve was alarmed.
“What is it? Are you ill?” she whispered.
“No,” he replied. He thrust his shaking hands into his coat
pockets, forced himself to take a deep breath, and added in a thick,
half-inarticulate mutter, “no—won't give in—not a quitter.”
She could not catch the words, but the resolute tone reassured her.
“It's the air in here. It's stifling. But we shall not be long
now,” she murmured, and she lapsed into devotional concentration.
Blake, however, followed the service with increasing restlessness.
His fingers twitched within the sheltering pockets, and the lines of
his face drew tense. He glanced about two or three times as though
half inclined to bolt.
A little more, and he might have broken under the strain and run
away. But then the communicants began to leave their pews and drift
forward into the chancel. At the touch of Genevieve's hand upon his
arm he started more sharply than before.
“Tom, you really are ill!” she insisted.
“No,” he mumbled, “I guess I—Wait, though. I've forgotten. Does he
mean we're supposed to take it as real flesh and blood?”
“Only the Romanists hold to that. We take it symbolically.”
“Then why doesn't he say so?”
“He did. Besides, every one understands. You are coming?”
“Wine—alcohol—and she still insists!” he muttered in a thick,
almost inarticulate voice.
Intent upon the sacrament, she failed to heed either his tone or
the despair in his tense face.
“Come. We are the last,” she urged. “We'll soon be out in the open
With a heaviness that she mistook for solemnity, he stepped out
into the aisle for her to leave the pew, and walked beside her up into
She knelt near the extreme end of the altar rail, and bent over
with her face in the little hand that she had bared to receive the
communion bread. For a moment Blake stood beside her, staring
dubiously at the venerable figure of the bishop. Mr. Vincent passed
between. Blake took a step to the left and knelt down beside
The only sounds in the chancel were the intoned murmurings of the
bishop and Mr. Vincent and the labored breathing of an asthmatic woman
next to Genevieve. The less indistinct of the murmuring voices drew
near. Genevieve thrust out her palm a little way. Blake, without
looking up, did the same.
Mr. Vincent reiterated his intoned statement above them, as though
in invocation, and placed tiny squares of bread in their palms. They
were the last in the line of kneeling communicants. Blake waited until
Genevieve raised her hand to her mouth. Mechanically he followed her
example. He swallowed the little morsel of bread with perceptible
effort. Again he pressed his forehead down upon the hand that gripped
the brass rail.
The bishop's voice now murmured near them, feeble and broken, yet
very solemn: “'The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for
thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in
remembrance that Christ's Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.'”
Both of Blake's hands now clutched the rail in a grip that whitened
the knuckles. Persons from the other end and the centre of the line
were rising and softly retiring to their pews. The asthmatic woman
gasped and fell silent as the bishop held the communion cup to her
The bishop shuffled quietly along another step and stood bowed over
the last two communicants. He was a very old man and he was ill. His
voice sank to an inaudible murmur: “'The Blood ... shed for thee,
preserve ... life. Drink this ...”
Blake waited, tense and rigid, as one about to meet the shock of a
deadly attack. The bishop drew the chalice back from Genevieve's lips
in his trembling hands, and paused for Blake to reach out and take it.
Blake did not move. The bishop bent farther over. The fumes of the
wine rose in the face of the kneeling man. He quivered and shrank
back—then, almost violently, he flung up his head and caught the cup
to his lips.
Genevieve was rising. Blake stood up abruptly and followed her down
to their pew. She knelt at once; but he caught up his soft hat, and
holding it before his face, bent down close to her ear. He spoke in a
strained whisper: “Excuse me. I've got to go.”
She half rose. “You're ill! I'll go with you and—”
“No. Sit still. I've a—a most important engagement with, a
friend— Mr. Griffith. Got to hurry!”
“Not so loud!” she cautioned him. “If you
must go, Tom!”
“Yes, must! Sorry, but—” His hand sought and closed upon hers in a
sudden caressing clasp, and his voice became husky. “Good-bye, girlie!
May not see you for a—for a time!”
“Why, are you going out of town?” she asked.
But he was already turning away. Without pausing to answer her
question, he started rapidly down the aisle, his head and shoulders
bent forward in a peculiar crouch. A slight frown of perplexity and
displeasure marred the serenity of Genevieve's face. But the benign
voice of the bishop immediately soothed her back into her beatific
When the service was ended, she walked home in a most devotional
frame of mind, and after luncheon, spent the afternoon searching out
scriptural verses that she thought would aid in the spiritual re-
awakening of Blake. Later in the afternoon she accompanied her father
to the Gantrys', her face aglow with reverent joy. It was as if she
felt that she had already guided Blake into the straight and narrow
way that leads up out of the primitive.
They found Dolores industriously shocking her mother by a
persistent heckling of Lord James, who was smiling at her quips and
sallies and twirling his little blond mustache as if he enjoyed the
“Oh, here's Vievie, at last!” cried the girl. “Vievie darling, your
eyes positively shine! Have you and the heroic Thomas been talking
about the sharks and crocodiles of your late paradise? That was so
cute of you, waiting this morning till we had gone, and then slipping
off with him alone.”
“We went to my little chapel. I knew the dear old bishop would be
there. And the new vicar, Mr. Vincent, preached a splendid sermon.”
“Which you talked about all the way home—I don't think,” mocked
“No, you never think,” agreed Mrs. Gantry.
“Mr. Blake had to hasten away, just before the close of the
communion service,” explained Genevieve. “He remembered an important
engagement with Mr. Griffith.”
“About the Zariba Dam?” queried her father with alert eagerness.
“He did not say. I am not altogether sure that he—”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Lord James. “Do you really believe that,
in the circumstances, he would leave you for a business appointment?”
“Why shouldn't he?” said Mr. Leslie. “If he solves the problem of
that dam, his fortune is as good as made. He'll have big positions
thrust upon him. Did he seem excited, my dear—abstracted?”
“Oh, do you think it was that?” replied Genevieve. “I feared he was
ill. The ventilation of the chapel is so wretched. He did look odd;
yet he would not admit that he felt ill. I was half doubtful whether
it was right to insist that he stay to communion.”
“Communion!” gasped Mrs. Gantry. “You don't mean to say, my dear,
that you've made a convert of him? Impossible!”
“I'm afraid not,” sighed Genevieve. “I believe he took the
communion merely to oblige me.”
“Took the communion?” echoed Lord James, no less astonished than
Mrs. Gantry. “Surely you do not—er—It seems quite impossible, you
“Is it so very amazing, when I asked him—urged him?” said
Genevieve, flushing ever so slightly under his incredulous look.
“My word!” he murmured. “Tom did that!”
“I regret that he was not in a condition to receive the utmost good
from it. But he was either ill or else rendered uneasy over his
business with Mr. Griffith,” remarked Genevieve.
“Of course, of course!” assented Lord James, bending over to brush
a speck from his knee. “Quite a pity, indeed!” He straightened and
turned to Mrs. Gantry, with a forced smile. “Er—it's deuced stupid of
me—agreeing to dine, y'know—deuced stupid. Must beg pardon for
cutting it! I'd quite forgotten I was to meet Tom—er—and Griffith,
at their offices. They may be waiting for me now.”
“Why, of all things!” protested Dolores. “You don't mean to say you
are going to run off, just when dinner is ready?”
“Lord Avondale has made his excuses,” said her mother. “No doubt
“Very soon, I trust—very soon,” assented Lord James, with a
propitiatory glance at Dolores. “It's a keen disappointment, I assure
you.” He looked about at Genevieve. “If you ladies will be so kind—
It's a most pressing matter. Er—Griffith is not in the best of
health. He may have to take a trip to Florida.”
“No, he won't,” broke in Mr. Leslie. “Not unless he leaves some one
to manage Lafayette Ashton. The young cub isn't fit to be left alone
with that bridge. Isn't that what this appointment is about? Griffith
may have it in mind to put Blake in charge of the bridge.”
“Er—must say it wouldn't surprise me if he takes a run up there
with Griffith,” said Lord James. “May go along myself.”
“But you'll be back for the ball!” exclaimed Dolores.
“Right-o! Count on me for the ball. That's a fortnight off. Ample
“Then I promise you two waltzes. Bring back Laffie with you. He
Lord James smiled in rather an absent manner, and turned to
Genevieve. “You take me? I expect to be away with Tom for a few days.
He will probably lack opportunity to call on you before he leaves
town. You may have a message for me to take to him.”
“Give him my best wishes for the success—of his work.”
“That is all?”
For a few moments Genevieve stood hesitating, too intent upon her
own thoughts to heed the covert stare of Dolores and the open scrutiny
of her aunt and father. Lord James waited, with his averted gaze fixed
upon the anxious face of Mrs. Gantry.
“That is all,” quietly answered the girl, at last.
Mrs. Gantry sighed with relief, but Dolores frowned, and Mr. Leslie
stared in irritable perplexity. Lord James bowed and hastened out
before any of the others had observed his expression.
CHAPTER XIX. THE FALL OF MAN
Griffith, C.E., sat in the inner room of the bare living apartments
adjoining his office. His feet, clad in white socks and an ancient
pair of carpet slippers, were perched upon the top of a clicking steam
radiator. His lank body balanced itself perilously in a rickety cane-
seated chair, which was tilted far back on the rear legs. His pipe,
long since burnt out and cold, hung from his slack jaw, while his
eyes, bright and excited, galloped through the last pages of a
sensational society novel.
He reached the final climax of the series of climaxes, and sat for
a moment tense; then, flirting the cheap thing into a corner, he drew
down his feet and stood up, stretching and yawning. Having relieved
his cramped muscles, he drew out a tobacco pouch. But while in the act
of opening it, he glanced at the alarm-clock on the book-shelves, and
ended by replacing the pouch, without loading his pipe.
“Nine,” he croaked, and again he stretched and yawned.
A sharp knock sounded at the hall-door of the outer room. Before he
could start in response, a second and far louder knock followed.
“H'm—must be a wire,” he muttered, and he shuffled quickly over
the faded carpet into the front room.
The door shook with a third knocking that sounded like fist blows.
Griffith's eyes sharpened with the look of a man who has lived in
rough places and scents danger. He turned the night-catch and stepped
to one side as he flung the door open. Before him stood a tall young
man in an English topcoat. The visitor's curly yellow hair was bare
and his handsome face scarlet with embarrassment.
“I—er—I beg your pardon, Mr. Griffith. I—” he stammered.
A big hand swung up on his shoulder, and a deep voice, thick and
jocular, cut short his apology. “Thash all ri', Cheems. Wash ri' in.
Ish on'y ol' Grishsh. Wash ri' in, I shay.”
Propelled by the hand on his shoulder, Lord James entered with a
precipitancy that carried him half across the room. Blake followed
with solemn deliberation, keeping a hand upon the door casing.
Griffith stepped around and shut and bolted the door. Without a second
glance at Blake, he shuffled close up to Lord James and demanded in a
rasping, metallic voice, “What's the meaning of this, Mr. Scarbridge?”
“Thash all ri', Grish,” interposed Blake, “thash all ri'. M'frensh
Chimmy Ear' Albondash. Hish fa'er's Dush Rubby—y' shee?”
Without raising his voice, Griffith gave utterance to a volley of
blasphemous expletives that crackled on the air like an electric
“If you will kindly permit me, sir—”
“Hell!” cut in the engineer. “You call yourself his friend. Good
friend you are, to let him touch a drop!”
“This is no time for misunderstandings between his friends, Mr.
Griffith,” said Lord James, with a quiet insistence that checked the
other's anger. “He was hard at it when, I found him—had been for
“Ri' she are, Chi-Chimmy boy! Ching o' it, Grishsh!—thish ish a
relish—relishush lushingsh—church shaloo—loon.”
Griffith went over to the swaying figure, and stared close into the
pallid face and glittering, bloodshot eyes.
“You damned fool!” he jerked out.
“Whash—whash 'at? Whash you shay, Grishsh?”
“You damned idiot!”
“Thash all ri'. Goo' frensh, Grishsh, youm me. Lesh hash a
“Come on in,” said the engineer. “I'll give you several drops.” He
shot a glance at the Englishman. “Lend a hand, will you?”
Lord James stepped quickly to the other side of Blake, who clasped
each about the neck in a maudlin but vice-like embrace. As they moved
toward the bedroom, Griffith exclaimed with strategic enthusiasm:
“That's it, boys, come right on in. It's so confounded dusty here,
let's have a bath.”
“All ri', Grishsh, en'ching you shay. Bu' you wanna wash ou' y'
don' gi' wa'er insish. Wa'er insish a man'sh wor' ching—”
“That's all right, old man,” cut in Lord James, “I'll see to that.
Leave it to me.”
By this time they had come in beside Blake's own cot, which
extended out of the corner of the room, at the foot of Griffith's
equally simple bed. Griffith opened the door of a tiny bathroom and
turned on the hot water in the tub. Lord James fell to stripping
Blake, regardless of his protests that he could undress himself.
“Chuck it!” ordered his lordship, as Blake sought to interfere.
“You don't want to keep us waiting our turn, do you?”
Blake launched upon an elaborate and envolved disclaimer that he
had harbored the remotest idea of causing his friends the slightest
trouble. In the midst Griffith came out of the bathroom. With his
help, Blake was soon got ready, and the two led him in between them.
In the corner of the bathroom was a small cabinet shower-bath with a
wooden door. Blake turned toward it, but Griffith drew him about to
the steaming tub.
“Hot room first, Tommy,” he said. “Haven't forgotten how to take a
Turkish, have you?”
Blake entered upon another profuse apology, meantime docily
permitting the others to immerse him in the tub of hot water. Griffith
promptly added still hotter water to the bath, while Lord James held
the vapor curtains tight about the patient's neck. Before many minutes
Blake began to grow restless, then to curse. But between them,
Griffith and Lord James managed to keep him in the tub for more than a
quarter of an hour.
“All right, Tommy. Now for the shower,” said Griffith, at last.
Blake came out of the tub red and still wobbly. They rushed him
over and shoved him into the cabinet. Lord James stepped clear, and
Griffith slammed shut the door, latched it with an outside hook, and
jerked open the lever of the shower-faucet, which was outside the
“Oof!” grunted Blake, as the cold deluge poured down upon
his bare head and body.
“Fine, hey?” called Griffith.
“Wow! Lemme ou'!
The cabinet shook with a bump that would have upset it had it not
been screwed fast to the wall.
“Aw, now, don't do the baby-act, Tommy!” jeered Griffith. “Yowling
like a bum, over a bath!”
“Be game, old man!” chimed in Lord James. “Take your medicine.”
“Bu-but 'sh cole!
“Stay with it, old man—stay with it!” urged Lord James. “Don't lay
down. Be a sport!”
“G-gosh! 'M free-freezin'! Lemme out!”
Griffith rubbed his hands together and cackled: “Stay with it,
Tommy. It's doing the work. Stay with it.”
“Damnation!” swore Blake. “O-open that door!”
“Time we were moving, Mr. Scarbridge,” said Griffith.
He followed Lord James out of the bathroom, and closed the door. He
led the way through into the front room, and closed that door. They
stood waiting, silent and expectant.
The walls shook with a muffled crash.
“Repairs, five dollars,” said Griffith. “Better stand farther over
The bathroom door slammed open violently. The two men glanced into
each other's eyes.
“You've played football?” croaked the engineer.
Lord James nodded.
“Tackle him low—fouler the better,” advised Griffith.
There was a pause ... One of the cots in the bedroom creaked
“Huh,” muttered Griffith. “Sulking, eh? Good thing for us.” He
gazed full into the Englishman's face, and offered his hand. “I hope
you'll overlook what I said, Mr. Scarbridge—Lord Scarbridge. Under
“Don't mention it, Mr. Griffith! It's—it's the most positive proof
of your friendship for him—that you should have been so angered.
Deuce take it, I'd give anything if this hadn't happened!”
“How did it happen?” asked Griffith. “Sit down—No; no chance of
his coming out now.”
Lord James slipped off his heavy topcoat, and seated himself, his
dress clothes and immaculate linen offering an odd contrast to the
shabby room. But the engineer looked only at the face of his visitor.
“It's a beastly shame—when he was holding his own so well!”
exclaimed the Englishman.
“That's what gets me,” said Griffith. “He seemed to have staved it
off indefinitely. I didn't notice a single one of the usual signs. And
he has let out that the dam was almost a certainty. If he had fizzled
on it, I could understand how that and the way he's been grinding
indoors night and day—”
“No; he's stood that better than I had feared. What a shame! what a
beastly shame! When Miss Leslie learns—”
“Miss Leslie?” cut in Griffith. “If she shakes him for this, she's
not much account—after all he did for her. If she's worth anything,
now's the time for her to set to and help pull him up again. But you
haven't said yet how it happened.”
“That's the worst of it! To be sure, she was perfectly innocent.
She must have thought it simply impossible that the communion wine—”
“Hey!—communion wine? That's what he meant by church saloons and
religious lushing, then. She steered him up against that—knowing his
“My dear sir, how could she realize?”
“He told me she knew.”
“But the communion wine!”
“Communion alcohol! Alcohol is alcohol, I don't care whether it's
in a saloon or a church or pickling snakes in a museum. I tell you,
Tommy's case has made a prohibition crank of me. Talk about it's being
a man's lack of will and moral strength—bah! I never knew a
man who had more will power than he, or who was more on the square.
You know it.”
“I—to be sure—except, you know, when he gives way to these
“Gives way!—and you've seen him fight! It's a disease, I tell
you—a monomania like any other monomania. Why don't they say to a
crazy man in his lucid intervals, 'Trouble with you is your lack of
will power and moral strength. Brace up. Go to church'?”
“But you'd surely not say that Tom's insane? He himself lays it to
his own weakness.”
“What else is insanity but a kind of weakness—a broken cog in the
machine which slips and throws everything out of gear, no matter how
big the dynamo? I tell you, a dipsomaniac is no more to be blamed for
lack of will power or moral strength than is a kleptomaniac, or than
an epileptic is to be blamed for having fits. It's a disease. I'm
giving it to you straight what the doctors say.”
All the hopefulness went out of the Englishman's boyish face.
“Gad!” he murmured. “Gad! Then he can't overcome it.”
“I don't know. The doctors don't seem to know. They say that a few
seem to outgrow it—they don't know how, though. But all agree that
the thing to do is to keep the patient braced—keep him boosted up.”
“Count on me for that!” exclaimed Lord James.
“It's where this girl—Miss Leslie—ought to come in, if she's
worth anything,” thrust Griffith.
“But—but, my dear sir, you quite fail to understand. It will never
do to so much as hint to her that he has failed.”
“Failed!” retorted Griffith. “When she herself forced him to take
the first drink—Don't cut in! If you know Tommy as well as you ought,
you know he would never have taken that drink in the condition he was
in— not a single drop of anything containing alcohol! No! the girl
forced him—she must have. He's dead in love with her. He'd butt his
head against a stone wall, if she told him to. Hell!—just when he had
his chance at last!”
“I've been figuring it as a chance. Supposing he had pulled off
this big Zariba Dam, he'd have felt that he had made good. It might
have brought around that change the doctors tell about. Don't you see?
It might have fixed that broken cog—straightened him up somehow for
good. But now—hell!”
Griffith bent over, with a groan.
“Gad!” murmured Lord James. After a long pause, he added slowly,
“But, I assure you, regarding Miss Leslie, it will never do to tell
her. If she hears of this, he will have no chance—none! That occurred
to me immediately I inferred the deplorable truth. I told her we were
thinking of going with you to the bridge—Michamac.”
“You did? Say, I thought Britishers were slow, but you got your
finger on the right button first shove. It's the very thing for
him—change, open air, the bridge—Wait a minute, though! With the
chances more than even that it's Tommy's own—Until he makes good on
the dam, nobody would take his word against that lallapaloozer's.”
“I—er—beg pardon. I fail to take you,” said Lord James.
“Just the question of his finding out something that's apt to make
him manhandle young Ashton.”
“Ah—all the better, I say. Anything to divert his mind.”
Griffith looked at the Englishman with an approving smile. “You
sure are the goods, Mr. Scarbridge! It'll take two or three days for
him to fight down the craving, even with all the help we can give him.
Wait a minute till I phone to a drug-store.”
He shuffled out through a side doorway that led into his private
office. While he was telephoning, Lord James heard low moans from the
bedroom. He clenched his hands, but he did not go in to his friend
until Griffith returned and crossed to the inner door.
“Come in, Mr. Scarbridge,” he said. “Next thing is to see if we can
talk him into going to Michamac.”
CHAPTER XX. DE PROFUNDIS
He opened the door and, seemingly heedless of all else, hastened
through to the bathroom, to shut off the flow of the shower. Lord
James followed him as far as the corner cot, where Blake, wet-haired
and half dressed, sat bowed far over, his elbows on his knees and his
face between his hands.
“Head ache, old man?”
Blake raised his head barely enough for his friend to catch a
glimpse of his haggard face and miserable eyes.
“Come now, Tommy,” snapped Griffith, shuffling back from the
bathroom, “we all admit you've made a damned fool of yourself; but
what's the use of grouching? Sit up now—look pleasant!” He swung
around a chair for Lord James, and seated himself in an old rocker.
“Come, sit up, Tommy. We're going to hold an inquest on the remains.”
“They need it—that's no lie,” mumbled Blake.
“Bah! Cherk up, you rooster! It isn't the first time you've
lost your feet. Maybe your feelings are jolted, but—the instrument is
safe. Remember that time you fell down the fifty-foot bank and never
even knocked your transit out of adjustment? You never let go of your
grip on it! Come; you'll soon be streaking out again, same as ever.”
“No, you're clean off this time, Grif.” Instead of raising his
head, Blake hunched over still lower. He went on in a dreary monotone,
“No, I'm done for this trip—down for the count. I'm all in.”
“Rot!” protested Lord James.
“All in, for keeps, this time. I'm not too big a fool to see that.
Everything coming my way,—and to go and chuck it all like this.
Needn't tell me she'll overlook it. Wouldn't ask her to. I'm not worth
“She's got to!” cried Griffith, with sudden heat. “She steered you
up against this.”
“What if she did? Only makes it all the worse. Didn't have sand
enough to refuse. I'm no good, that's all—not fit to look at
her—she's a lady. You needn't cut in with any hot air. I'm no more 'n
a blackguard that got my chance to impose on her—and took it. That's
the only name for it—young girl all alone!”
“No, no, old man, just the contrary, believe me!” exclaimed Lord
James. “I doubt if I myself could have done what you did when
“'Cause there'd have been no need. You're in her class, while I—”
He groaned, and burst out morosely: “You know I'm not, both of you.
What's the use of lying?”
The two friends glanced across at each other and were silent. Blake
went on again, in his hopeless, dreary monotone. “Down and out—down
and out. Only son of his mother, and she a drunkard. Nothing like
Scripture, Jimmy, for consoling texts.”
He began to quote, with an added bitterness in his despair: “'Woe
unto them that are mighty to drink, and men of strength to mingle
strong drink ... their root shall be as rottenness, and their blossom
shall go up as dust—' 'Awake, ye drunkards, and weep and howl, all ye
drinkers of wine.' 'For while they are drunken as drunkards, they
shall be devoured as stubble fully dry.'—Dry? Good Lord! Ring up a
can of suds, Grif. I've got ten miles of alkali desert down my
“All right, Tommy,” said Griffith. “We'll soon fix that. I've sent
in an order already.”
“You have not!” rejoined Blake, in an incredulous growl. “Well,
suppose you ring 'em up again. If that can doesn't get here mighty
sudden, I'll save the fellow the trouble of bringing it.”
“Hold on, young man,” ordered Griffith, as Blake started to heave
himself to his feet. “I'm running this soiree.”
He stood up and shuffled out into the front room. Blake shifted
around restlessly, and was again about to rise, when there came a
sharp rapping at the outer door.
“That's the man now,” said Lord James. “Hold tight. It will now be
only a moment.”
Blake restrained himself. But it was a very long moment before
Griffith came in with a pitcher and three glasses upon a battered
tray. At the tinkle of the glasses Blake looked up, his face aflame.
He made a clutch at the pitcher.
[Illustration: He went on in a dreary monotone, “No, I'm done for
this trip—down for the count. I'm all in.”]
Griffith gave him his shoulder, and cackled: “Don't play the hog,
Tommy. I've been up in Canada enough to know that the nobility always
get first helping. Eh, Lord Scarbridge?”
“You—you—” gasped Blake.
“But this time,” went on Griffith, hastily pouring out a brimming
glassful of liquid from the pitcher, “we'll make an exception.”
He turned about quickly, and with his hand clasped over the top of
the glass, reached it out to Blake. Half maddened by his thirst, the
latter clutched the glass, and, without pausing to look at its
contents, drained it at a gulp. An instant later the glass shattered
to fragments on the floor, and Blake's fist flung out toward Griffith.
“Quassia!” he growled. “You dotty old idiot! Needn't think you're
going to head me off this soon!”
Griffith set the tray on his bed, and crossing to the door, locked
it and put the key in his pocket.
“Now, Tommy,” he croaked, “you've got just two friends that I know
of. They're here. Maybe you can take the key from us; but you know
what you'll have to do to us first.”
Blake stared at him with morose, bloodshot eyes.
“You're dotty!” he growled. “You know you can't stop me, once I'm
under way. I don't want to roughhouse it, but I want something for
this thirst, and I'm going to have it. Understand?” “H'm. If that's
all,” said Griffith.
“That's all, if you're reasonable,” replied Blake less morosely.
“They gave me all I wanted when I took the gold cure.”
“Cured you, too,” jeered Griffith.
“That's all right. The point now is, do I get something? If I do, I
agree to stay here. If I don't, I'm going out.”
“Try another glass of this while you're waiting,” suggested Lord
James, and he poured out a second glassful of the bitter decoction.
“No,” answered Blake.
“You tossed down the other too fast. Sip it. You'll find that it
will ease the dryness while you are waiting,” insisted Lord James.”
Try it, to oblige me.”
“Ugh!” growled Blake. He hesitated, then reluctantly took
the glass and began to sip the quassia. After the last swallow, he
turned sullenly to Griffith. “Well, what you waiting for? Get a move
“It does help, doesn't it?” interposed Lord James.
Blake muttered something behind his lips that the others chose to
take for assent.
“Yes, it's the real thing,” said Griffith. “Try another, Tommy,
Bah! You can't fool me. I'm on to your game.”
“Sure you are,” assented Griffith. “What's more, you're sober
enough now to know that our game is your game. Own up. Don't lie.”
Blake looked down morosely, and for a long quarter of a minute his
friends waited in anxious suspense. At last, without looking up, he
held out his empty glass for Lord James to refill it. The second
battle was won.
As Lord James took the glass, Griffith interposed. “Hold on. We'll
keep that for later. I've something else now.”
“More dope!” growled Blake.
“No, good stuff to offset the effects of the poison you've been
swilling since morning. Next course is bromide of potassium.”
“Take your medicine, bo!” chimed in Lord James.
“Ugh!” groaned Blake. “Dish it out, then. Only don't forget.
You know, well as I do, that if the craving comes on that bad again,
I'm bound to have a drink. I tell you, I can't help myself. I've told
you about it time and again. It's hell till I get enough aboard to
make me forget. You know I don't like the stuff. I've hated the very
smell of it since before my first real spree.”
Griffith shot a significant glance at Lord James. “That's all
right, Tommy,—we understand how it is. But we've got hold of it this
time. You'll never quit if you can help it, and we know now you can
help it, with this quassia to keep your throat from sizzling. Here's
Blake gulped down the dose, but muttered despondently: “What's the
use? You know you can't head me off for keeps, once I'm as far under
way as I've got to-day. Think you're going to stop me now, do you?”
“That's what,” rejoined Griffith. “You'll think the same in about
ten minutes. I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle.”
“And I've got to sit here while you unwind your jaw! Cut it short.
Don't see why you want to chin, anyway. All that's left is to haul me
to the scrapheap. . . . You don't think I'd go near her after this, do
you? I've got a little decency left. Only thing I can do is to open
wide and cut loose. D.T. finish is the one for me. Won't take long for
her to forget me. Any fool can see that.”
“We're going up to Michamac, first thing tomorrow,” remarked
Griffith in a casual tone.
“You may be. I'm not.”
“It's all arranged, Tammas,” drawled Lord James. “I told Miss
“You told her! Mighty friendly of you! Good thing, though. Sooner
she knows just what I am, the better. How soon do you figure on the
“Chuck it, you duffer!” exclaimed the Englishman, flushing scarlet.
“I didn't tell her this. She doesn't know.”
Blake's haggard face lighted with a flash of hope, only to settle
back into black despair.
“She'll learn soon enough. I'm done for, for good, this trip!” he
groaned. He clenched his fist and bent forward to glare at them in
sullen fury. “Damn you! Call yourselves my friends, and sit here
yawping, you damned Job's comforters! Think I'm a mummy?—when I've
lost her! God!—to sit here with my brains going—to know I've lost
all—all! Give me some whiskey—anything! ... My girl—my girl!”
He bent over, writhing and panting, in an agony of remorse.
Griffith fetched a tablet and a glass of water, to which he added
some of the quassia.
“Here's your dose of sulphonal,” he said, in his driest, most
matter-of-fact tone.” You've got to get to sleep. It's an early
“What's the use? Leave me alone!” groaned Blake.
“Gad, old man,” put in Lord James. “Any one who didn't know you
would think you were a quitter.”
“What's the use? I've lost out. I'm smashed.”
“All right. Let's call it a smashup,” croaked Griffith.” Just the
same, you don't go out of commission till you've squared accounts.
You're not going to leave the Zariba Dam in the air.”
“Guess I've got enough on paper for you to work out the solution,
if it's workable.”
“And if not?”
“I'm all in, I tell you. I'm smashed for good.”
“No, you're not. Anyway, there's one thing you've got to do. You've
got to settle about that bridge. You've been too busy over the dam to
think of asking for a look at Ashton's plans, and I've said nothing.
I've been waiting for you to make good on the dam. With that behind
you, no engineer in the U.S. would doubt your word if you claimed the
“What of that? What do I care?” muttered Blake. “The game's up.
What's the use?”
“This!” snapped Griffith.” Either Laffie Ashton is a dirty sneak
thief, or he's a man that deserves my apologies. It's a question of
fair play to me as well as to him. You're square, Tom. You'll come up
to Michamac with me and settle this matter.”
“Lord! Why can't you let me alone?” groaned Blake. But he took the
sulphonal and washed it down with the quassia-flavored water.
Lord James went out into the office to phone his man at the hotel
to fetch over clothes for a short trip. When he reentered the bedroom
Blake was stretched out in bed, and Griffith was spreading a blanket
for himself on the floor.
“Should I not run over to my hotel for the night?” remarked the
Englishman. “Don't want to put you out of your bed, y' know.”
“No. I sleep as well, or better, on the floor. We want to be sure
of an early start,” said Griffith.
Blake rose on his elbow and blinked at them. His eyes were still
bloodshot and his face haggard, but the change in his voice was
unmistakably for the better. “Say, bos, it does pay to have friends—
“Forget it!” rejoined Griffith. “You go to snoozing. It's an early
Blake sighed drowsily, and stretched out again on the flat of his
back. Within a minute he was fast asleep.
CHAPTER XXI. THE BRIDGE
At dawn they roused him out of his drugged sleep and gave him a
showerbath and rubdown that brought a healthy glow to his cold skin.
He turned pale at the mere mention of food, but after a drink of
quassia, Griffith induced him to take a cup of clear coffee and some
thickly buttered toast. After that the three hastened in a cab to the
station, stopping on the way to buy half a case each of grapefruit and
oranges. Aboard the train Blake was at once set to eating grapefruit
and chewing the bitter pith to allay the burning of his terrible
Throughout the trip, which lasted until mid-afternoon, one or the
other of the two friends was ever at his side, ready to urge more of
the acid fruit upon him and continually seeking to divert and
entertain him by cheerful talk. Until after the noon hour they were on
the main line and had the benefit of the dining-car. Griffith ordered
a hearty meal, more dinner than luncheon, and Blake was able to eat
the greater part of a spring chicken.
The most trying and critical time during the trip was the short
wait at the junction, where they transferred to the old daycoach that
was attached to the train of structural steel for the Michamac Bridge.
Blake caught sight of a saloon, and the associations roused by it
quickened his craving to an almost irresistible fury. When, none too
soon, the train pulled out of the little town, he sank back in his
seat morose and almost exhausted by his struggle.
Though Lord James made every effort to rouse him to a more cheerful
mood, his face was still sullen and heavy when the train clanked in
over the switches of the material yards at the bridge. Before they
left the car Griffith made certain that Blake was wrapped about in
overcoat and muffler and had on the arctics that he had bought for
Having directed one of the trainmen to bring the boxes of fruit to
the office, Griffith led the way up the path formed by the
bridge-service track. The rails had been kept shovelled clear from the
February snowdrifts and ran straight out through the midst of the
bleak unlovely buildings grouped near the edge of Michamac Strait, at
the southern terminus of the bridge.
Hardly had the three passengers stepped from the train, when Blake
lifted his head for a clear view of the big electric derricks, the
vast orderly piles of structural steel, floor beams, and planking, the
sheds containing paint, machinery, and other stores, the gorged coal-
bins, and all the other evidences of a vast work of engineering.
His gaze followed the bridge-service track past the cookhouse and
bunkhouse and the storehouses, out across the completed shore span to
the gigantic structure of the south cantilever. Far beyond, between
its lofty skeleton towers and upsweeping side webs, appeared, in
seemingly reduced proportions, the towers and webs of the north
cantilever, across on the north edge of the channel of the strait.
Blake drew in a deep breath, and stared at the titanic structure,
eager-eyed. There was no need for Lord James to nudge Griffith. The
engineer had not missed a single shade of the great change in Blake's
expression. He asked casually, “Well, how does the first sight strike
“You didn't say she was so far along,” replied Blake.
“Didn't I? H. V., you know, has a pull with the Steel Trust. We've
had our material delivered in short order, no matter who else waited.
North cantilever is completed; ditto the south, except for part of the
timbering and flooring. The central span is built out a third of the
way from the north 'lever. But several miles of the feed track on that
side the strait have been put into such bad shape by the weather that
we'll have the central span completed from this side before the road
over there is open again.”
“That so?” said Blake. “I want to see about that span.”
“We'll go out for a look at once, soon as we dump our baggage in on
Laffie,” said Griffith.
“Is that thing here?” growled Blake.
“Now, just you keep on your shirt, Tommy,” warned Griffith. “He may
be here, or he mayn't. You are here to look at the Michamac Bridge and
hold on to yourself. Understand?”
Blake scowled and stared menacingly toward a snow-embanked, snow-
covered building, the verandahs of which distinguished it as the
office and quarters of the Resident Engineer.
“I want your promise you'll do nothing or say nothing to him till
after you've made good on the Zariba Dam,” went on Griffith. “You
don't want your blast to go off before you've tamped the hole.”
Blake's scowl deepened, and he clenched his fist in its thick fur
glove. But after a long moment he answered morosely, “Guess you're
right. He holds the cards on me now and has the drop. But if I find he
slipped the aces out of my hand, it won't be long before I get the
drop on him.”
“And then something will drop!” added Lord James.
“I'll smash him—the dirty sneak!” growled Blake.
“Now, now, Tommy; you're not sure yet,” cautioned Griffith.
“That so?” replied Blake in a tone that brought a glint of
excitement into the worn eyes of the older engineer.
But before he could speak, a silk-robed figure stepped out onto the
verandah of the Resident Engineer's office, and called delightedly,
“Ah, Lord Avondale!—welcome to Michamac! You escaped my hospitality
in town, but you can't here!”
“Thanks. Very good of you, I'm sure,” replied Lord James dryly.
“I see you've come with old Grif,” Ashton gayly rattled on. “Hello,
Griffith! Hurry in, all of you. It's cold as the South Pole. I'll have
a punch brewed in two shakes. Who's the other gentleman?”
At the question, Blake, who had been staring fixedly at the bridge,
turned his muffled face full to the effusive welcomer. Before his
hard, impassive look Ashton shivered as if suddenly struck through to
the marrow by the cold.
“Blake!” he gasped. “Here?”
“No objections, have you?” asked Blake in a noncommittal tone.
“Just thought I'd run up with Mr. Griffith and take a look at your
bridge. He says it's worth seeing. But of course, if you don't allow
“Just the opposite, Tommy,” put in Griffith, quick to catch his
cue. “Mr. Ashton is always glad to have his bridge examined by those
who know what's what. Isn't that so, Mr. Ashton?”
“Why, of—of course—I—” stammered Ashton, his teeth chattering.
“Sure,” went on Griffith. “Any man who's invented such a
modification of the truss as this bridge shows, ought to have all the
fame he can get out of it. In England he'd be made a lord, I suppose.
Eh, Mr. Scarbridge?”
“Er—we've knighted brewers and soap-boilers. But then, y'know,
with us beer and soap are two of the necessities,” drawled Lord James.
“W-won't you come in?” urged Ashton. “It's chi-illy out here! I'll
have that punch brewed in half a s-second.”
“My God!” gasped Blake, his jaws clenched and face black with the
agony of his temptation.
All unintentionally Ashton had turned the tables on his tormentors.
Griffith scowled at him and demanded: “Where's McGraw?”
“B-bunkhouse,” answered Ashton.
Griffith spoke to Lord James in a low tone. “Go in and keep him
there, will you? Might stay with him all night. We'll stop at the
“I'm on,” said Lord James.
Griffith raised his voice. “Well, then, if you prefer it that way,
Mr. Scarbridge. It's true Ashton can make you more comfortable, and
I'll be busy half the night checking over reports and so forth with
McGraw. Ashton, if you'll send over your report, it'll leave you free
to entertain Mr. Scarbridge. And say, send over the boxes that'll be
coming along in a little while. I'm trying a diet of grapefruit.” He
turned to Blake. “Come on. We don't want to keep Mr. Ashton out here,
to shiver a screw loose.”
Blake uttered an inarticulate growl, but turned away with Griffith
as Lord James sprang up the verandah steps and blandly led the
vacillating Resident Engineer into his quarters. The visiting
engineers crossed over to the big ungainly bunkhouse, and entered the
section divided off for the bosses and steel workers and the other
Within was babel. Kept indoors by the cold that enforced idleness
on all the bridge force, the men were crowded thickly about their
reading and card tables or outstretched in their bunks, talking,
laughing, grumbling, singing, brooding—each according to his mood and
disposition, but almost all smoking.
At sight of Griffith a half-hundred voices roared out a rough but
hearty welcome that caused Blake's face to lighten with a flush of
pleasure. The greeting ended in a cheer, started by one of the Irish
Griffith sniffed at the foul, smoke-reeking air, and looked
doubtfully at Blake. He held up his hand. Across the hush that fell
upon the room quavered a doleful wail from the Irish foreman: “Leave
av hivin, Misther Griffith, can't ye broibe th' weather bur-r-reau? Me
Schlovaks an' th' Eyetalians'll be afther a-knifin' wan another, give
'em wan wake more av this.”
“There are indications that the cold snap will break within a
week,” replied Griffith. “You'll be at it, full blast, in two or three
days. Where's McGraw?”
A big, fat, stolid-faced man ploughed forward between the crowded
tables. As he came up, he held out a pudgy hand, and grunted: “Huh!
Glad t' see you.”
Griffith shook hands, and motioned toward Blake. “My friend Mr.
Blake. Trying to get him to take charge here—nominally as Assistant
Engineer—in case I have to go to Florida.”
McGraw's deep-set little eyes lingered for a moment on the
stranger's mouth and jaw. “Good thing,” he grunted.
“The company is offering him double what Mr. Ashton gets; but he's
not anxious to take it as Assistant.”
The big general foreman was moved out of his phlegmatic stolidity.
“Huh? He's not?”
“Not under that thing,” put in Blake grimly.
“Must know him.”
“He may change his mind,” said Griffith. “The company has
authorized me to make it a standing offer. So if he turns up any
McGraw nodded, and offered his hand to Blake. “Hope you'll come.
C'n do m' own work. Bridge needs an engineer, though—resident one.”
“H'm,—Mr. Ashton might call that a slap on the wrist,” remarked
Griffith. “Get on your coat. We're going out to the bridge.”
McGraw headed across for his separate room. While waiting for him,
Griffith introduced Blake to the engine-driver of the bridge-service
train, two or three foremen, and several of the bridge workers. But
the moment McGraw reappeared in arctics and Mackinaw coat, Griffith
hurriedly led the way out of the smother of smoke and foul air.
As the three started bridgeward along the clean-shovelled service-
track Blake fell in behind his companions. Seeing that he did not wish
to talk, Griffith walked on in the lead with McGraw.
They were soon swinging out across the shore, or approach, span of
the bridge. This extended from the high ground on the south side of
the strait to an inner pier at the edge of the water, where it joined
on to the anchor arm of the south cantilever. Almost all the area of
the bridge flooring, which had been completed to beyond the centre of
the cantilever, was covered with stacked lumber and piles of
structural steel and rails, and kegs of nails, rivets, and bolts.
Here every chink and crevice was packed with snow and ice. But all
the titanic steel structure above and the unfloored bottom-chords and
girders of the outer, or extension, arm of the cantilever had been
swept bare of snow by the winter gales and left glistening with the
glaze of the last shower of sleet.
Blake swung steadily along after the others, his face impassive.
But his eyes scrutinized with fierce eagerness the immense webs of
steel posts and diagonals that ran up on either side, under the grand
vertical curves of the top-chords, almost to the peaks of the
cantilever towers. He had to tilt back his head to see the tops of
those huge steel columns, which reared their peaks two hundred and
fifty feet above the bridge-floor level and a round four hundred feet
above the water of the strait.
Presently the three were passing the centre of the cantilever,
between the gigantic towers, whose iron heels were socketed far below
in the top-plates of the massive concrete piers, built on the very
edge of deep water. From this point the outer arm of the cantilever
extended far out over the broad chasm of the strait, where, a hundred
and fifty feet beneath its unfloored level, the broken ice from the
upper lake crashed and thundered on its wild passage of the strait.
Blake looked down carelessly into the abyss of grinding, hurtling
ice cakes. The drop from that dizzy height would of itself have meant
certain death. Yet without a second glance at the ice-covered waters,
he followed his companions along the narrow walk of sleeted planks
that ran out alongside the service-track. Though his gaze frequently
shifted downward as well as upward, it went no farther than the
ponderous chords and girders and posts of the bridge's framework.
Striding along the narrow runway of ice-glazed planks with the
assurance of goats, the three at last passed under the main traveller,
a huge structure of eleven hundred tons' weight that straddled the
bridge's sides and rose higher than the towers. Its electromagnetic
cranes were folded together and cemented in place by the ice.
A few yards beyond they came to the end of the extension arm of the
cantilever and out upon the uncompleted first section of the central,
or suspension, span. It was poised high in space, far out over the
dizzy abyss. Many yards away, across a yawning gap, the completed
north third of the suspension span reached out, above the gulf, from
the tip of the north cantilever, like the arm of a Titan straining to
clasp hands with his brother of the south shore.
Yet the mid-air companionship of this outreaching skeleton-arm
served only to heighten the giddiness and seeming instability of the
south-side overhang. From across the broad gap, the eye followed the
curve of the bottom-chords of the north cantilever away down into the
abyss toward the far shore of the strait, where the lofty towers
upreared upon their massive piers.
From this viewpoint there was no relieving glimpse of the shoreward
curving anchor-arm that balanced the outer half of the north
cantilever alike in line and weight. There was only the vast upcurve
of the top-chords and the stupendous down-curve of the bottom-chords
and the line between that stood for the foreshortened sixteen hundred
feet of bridge-floor level extending from the north shore to the
swaying tip of that unanchored north third of the central span.
Few even among men accustomed to great heights could have stood
anywhere upon the outer reach of the overhang without a feeling of
nausea and vertigo. Not only did the gigantic structure on the far
side of the gap seem continually on the verge of toppling forward into
the abyss, but the end of the south cantilever likewise quivered and
swayed, and the mad flow of the roaring, ice-covered waters beneath
added to the giddiness of height the terrifying illusion that the
immense steel skeleton had torn loose from its anchorage to earth and
was hurtling up the strait through mid-air, ready to crash down to
destruction the instant its winged driving-force failed.
Yet Griffith and Blake followed McGraw out to the extreme end of
the icy walk and poised themselves, shoulder to wind, on narrow sleet-
glazed steel beams, as unconcerned as sailors on a yardarm. Griffith
and McGraw were absorbed in a minute inspection of the bridge's
condition and in estimating the time it would take to throw forward
the remaining sections of the central, or suspension, span, upon the
termination of the irksome spell of extreme frosty weather.
Blake looked, as they looked, at post and diagonal, eyebolt and
bottom-chord, and across the gap at the swaying tip of the north
cantilever. But his face showed clearly that his thoughts were not the
same as their thoughts. His eyes shone like polished steel, and there
was a glow in his haggard face that told of an exultance beyond his
power of repression.
At last Griffith roused from his absorption. He immediately noticed
Blake's expression, and dryly demanded: “Well?”
“Well your own self!” rejoined Blake, striving to speak in an
“Something of a bridge, eh?”
“It's not so bad,” admitted Blake. He glanced at McGraw, who had
paused in his ox-like ruminating.
Griffith addressed the general foreman. “Mr. Blake is a bit off his
feed. A friend that came with us will occupy my room in Mr. Ashton's
quarters. I'd like a room in the bunkhouse for Mr. Blake and myself,
with a good stove and a window that'll let in lots of fresh air.”
“C'n have mine,” grunted McGraw. “Extra bunk in yardmaster's room,”
“It'll be a favor,” said Griffith. “You might get it ready, if you
will. Mr. Blake must have clean air when he goes inside. He and I will
take our time going back. There are two or three things I want another
McGraw at once started shoreward, without making any verbal
response, yet betraying under his dull manner his eagerness to oblige
the Consulting Engineer. When he had gone well beyond earshot,
Griffith turned upon Blake with a quizzical look.
“So!” he croaked. “It's a certainty.”
“Knew that soon's I got the first look,” said Blake.
Griffith's forehead creased with an anxious frown. “You promise not
to mix it with him.”
“Don't fash yourself,” reassured Blake. “I've waited too long for
this, to go off at half-cock now.”
“That's talking! You'll wait till you're sure you can settle
him—the skunk! Come on, now. We'll start inshore before you get
“How about yourself?” chuckled Blake, as he led back along the
runway. “Won't take the frost two shakes to reach the centre of your
circumference, once it gets through that old wolfskin coat.”
“Huh! I can still go you one better, young man. I'll soon be
thawing out in Florida, while you'll be trotting back here to boss the
completion of T. Blake's cantilever—largest suspension span
cantilever in the world.”
“God!” whispered Blake, staring incredulously at the titanic
structure born of his brain. “But it's mine—it is mine!... I
sweat blood over those plans!”
“Doggone you, Tommy, you're no engineer—you're an inventor, Class
A-1!” exulted Griffith. “First this; then the Zariba Dam. After that,
the Lord only knows what! Trouble with you, you're a genius.”
“And a whiskey soak!” added Blake, with a sudden upwelling of
“Hey! what!—after this?” demanded Griffith, his voice sharp with
apprehension. He could not see the face of his companion, but the
manner in which Blake's head bent forward between his hunching
shoulders was more than enough to confirm his alarm.
“Come, now, Tommy!” he reproached. “Don't be a fool—just when
things are coming your way.”
“Think so?” muttered Blake. “What d'you suppose I care for what I'd
get out of this or the dam? Good God! You can't see it—yet you had
For a moment the older man was forced to a worried silence. It
ended in an outflashing of hope. “I told you what she said about
you—almost her last words. You'll win out—she said it!”
Blake halted and turned about to his friend, his face convulsed
with doubt and a despondency that verged on despair. They were still
half way out on the overhang of the extension arm. He pointed down to
the crashing, tumbling ice far beneath his feet.
“Do you know what I'd do if I had any nerve?” he cried. “I'd step
over ... end it! ... You could tell her I slipped. There wouldn't be
any need to tell her about—yesterday. She would remember me as she
knew me there in Mozambique. After a time she'd make Jimmy happy—and
be happy herself. Trouble is, I'm what she suspected. I haven't the
nerve, when it comes to the real showdown.”
“Damnation!” swore Griffith. “Have you gone clean dotty? You're not
the kind to quit, Tom!—to slide out from under because you haven't
the grit to hang on!”
“That's it. I'm booked for the D. T. route,” muttered Blake.
“Wasn't born for a watery end. Whiskey for mine!”
“Rats! You're over the worst of this bump already. You're going
back to-morrow and dig in to make good on the dam.”
“The dam! What's it to me now?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, the credit for your bridge, and a place
among the top-notchers.”
“Much that amounts to—when I've lost her!” retorted Blake.
He turned about again and plodded heavily shoreward, his chin on
his breast and his big shoulders bowed forward.
CHAPTER XXII. CONDEMNED
Though he sank into a taciturn and morose mood from which no
efforts of his friends could rouse him, Blake sullenly accepted the
continued treatment that Griffith thrust upon him. In the morning he
muttered a confirmation of the statement of Lord James that he was
looking better and that the attack must be well over.
Ashton, forced probably by an irresistible impulse to learn the
worst, followed Lord James to the room occupied by the engineers.
Blake cut short his vacillating in the doorway with a curt invitation
to come in and sit down. Having satisfied what he considered the
requirements of hospitality, Blake paid no further attention to the
Resident Engineer. As nothing was said about the bridge, Ashton soon
regained all his usual assurance, and even went so far as to comment
upon Blake's attack of biliousness.
When, beside the car step, an hour later, Ashton held out his hand,
Blake seemingly failed to perceive it. Ashton's look of relief
indicated that he mistook the other's profound contempt for stupid
carelessness. To one of his nature, the fact that Blake had not at
once denounced him as a thief seemed proof positive that the sick man
had failed to recognize in the bridge structure the embodiment of his
He turned from Blake to Lord James. “Ah, my dear earl, this has
been such a pleasure—such a delight! You cannot imagine how
intolerable it is to be cut off from the world in this dreary
hole—deprived of all society and compelled to associate, if at all,
with, these common brutes!”
“Really,” murmured Lord James. “For my part, y' know, I rather
enjoy the company of intelligent men who have their part in the
world's work. Though one of the drones myself, I value the 'Sons of
Martha' at their full worth.”
“Oh, they have their place. The trouble is to make them keep it.”
“'Pon my word, I scarcely thought you'd say that—so clever an
engineer as yourself!”
Ashton glanced up to be certain that both Griffith and Blake had
passed on into the car.
“Your lordship hasn't quite caught the point,” he said. “One may
have the brains—the intellect—necessary to create such a bridge as
this, without having to lower himself into the herd of common
“Ah, really,” drawled the Englishman, swinging up the car steps.
Ashton raised his hat and bowed. “Au revoir, Earl. Your
visit has been both a delight and an honor. I shall hope soon to have
the pleasure of seeing you in town.”
“Yes?” murmured Lord James with a rising inflection. “Good-day.”
He nodded in response to Ashton's final bow, and hastened in to
where Blake and Griffith were making themselves comfortable in the
middle of the car. The three were the only passengers for the down
“So he didn't get you to stay over for the winter?” remarked
Griffith as the Englishman began to shed his topcoat.
“Gad, no! He couldn't afford it. Tried to show me how to play poker
last night. I've his check for two thousand. He insisted upon teaching
me the fine points of the game.”
“Crickey!—when you've travelled with T. Blake!” cackled Griffith.
“Hey, Tommy? Any one who's watched you play even once ought to be able
to clean out a dub like Lallapaloozer Laf. Say, though, I didn't think
even you could keep on your poker face as you have this morning. It's
dollars to doughnuts, he sized it up that you had failed to get next.”
“Told you I wasn't going to show him my cards,” muttered Blake.
Lord James looked at him inquiringly, but he lapsed into his morose
silence, while Griffith commenced to write his report on the bridge,
without volunteering an explanation. Lord James repressed his
curiosity, and instead of asking questions, quietly prepared for his
friend one of the last of the grapefruit.
An hour or so later Blake growled out a monosyllabic assurance that
he was now safely over his attack. Yet all the efforts of Lord James
to jolly him into a cheerful mood utterly failed. Throughout the trip
he continued to brood, and did not rouse out of his sullen taciturnity
until the train was backing into the depot.
“Here we are,” remarked Lord James. “Get ready to make your break
for cover, old man. What d' you say, Mr. Griffith? Will it be all
right for him to keep close to his work for a while—to lie low?”
“What's that?” growled Blake.
“Young Ashton's a bally ass,” explained Lord James. “He bolted down
whole what I said about your attack of bile. Others, however, may not
be so credulous or blind. You'd better keep close till you look a bit
less knocked-up. There's no need that what's happened should come to
“Think so, do you?” said Blake. “Well, I don't.”
“What's that?” put in Griffith.
“There's not going to be any frame-up over this, that's what,”
rejoined Blake, reaching for his hat and suitcase. “Soon 's I get a
shave I'm going out to tell her.”
“Gad, old man!” protested Lord James. “But you can't do that—it's
impossible! You surely do not realize—”
“I don't, eh?” broke in Blake bitterly. “I'm up against it. I know
it, and you know it. You don't think I'm going to do the baby act, do
you? I've failed to make good. Think I'm going to lie to her about it?
No! —nor you neither!”
His friends exchanged a look of helplessness. They knew that tone
only too well. Yet Lord James sought to avert the worst.
“Might have known you'd be an ass over it,” he commented. “Best I
can do, I presume, is to go along and explain to her my view of what
started you off.”
“Best nothing. You'll keep out of this. It's none of your funeral.”
“There's more than one opinion as to that.”
“I tell you, this is between her and me. You'll keep out of it,”
said Blake, with a forcefulness that the other could not withstand.
“Don't worry. You'll have your turn later on.”
“Deuce take it!” cried the Englishman.” You can't fancy I'm
dwelling on that! You can't think me such a cad as to be waiting for
an opportunity derived from an injustice to you!”
bah!” gibed Blake. “I'll get what's coming to
me. It's of her I'm thinking, not you. She was right. I'm going to
tell her so. That's all.”
“But, in view of what she herself did—”
“I'll tell her the facts. That's enough,” said Blake, and he led
the way from the car.
He hastened out of the depot and would have started off afoot, had
not Lord James hailed a taxicab and taken him and Griffith home. He
went in with them, and when Blake had shaved and dressed, proposed
that they should go on together as far as the hotel. To this Blake
gave a sullen acquiescence, and they whirred away to the North Side.
But instead of stopping at the hotel, their cab sped on out to the
Lake Shore Drive.
Lord James coolly explained that he intended to take his friend to
the door of the Leslies. Blake would have objected, but acquiesced as
soon as he understood that Lord James intended to remain in the cab.
During the day the cold had moderated, and when Blake swung out of
the cab he was wrapped about in the chilly embrace of a dripping wet
fog from off the lake. He shivered as he hurried across and up the
steps and into the stately portico of the Leslie house.
At the touch of his finger on the electric button, the heavy door
swung open. He was bowed in and divested of hat and raincoat by an
overzealous footman before he could protest. Silent and frowning, he
was ushered to a door that he had not before entered. The footman
announced him and drew the curtains together behind him.
Still frowning, Blake stepped forward and stopped short to stare
about him at the resplendent room of gold and ivory enamel that he had
entered. Only at the second glance did he perceive the graceful figure
that had risen from the window-seat at the far end of the room and
stood in a startled attitude, gazing fixedly at him.
Before he could speak, Genevieve came toward him with impetuous
swiftness, her hands outstretched in more than cordial welcome.
“Tom! Is it really you?” she exclaimed. “I had not looked for you
back so soon.”
“It's somewhat sooner than I expected myself,” he replied, with a
bitter humor that should have forewarned her.
But she was too relieved and delighted to heed either his tone or
his failure to clasp her hands, “Yes. You know, I've been so worried.
You really looked ill Sunday, and I thought Lord James' manner that
evening was rather odd—I mean when I spoke to him about you.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” said Blake in a harsh voice. “Jimmy had been
there before. He knew.”
“Knew? You mean—?” The girl stepped back a little way and gazed up
into his face, startled and anxious. “Tom, you have been sick—
very sick! How could I have been so blind as not to have seen it at
once? You've been suffering terribly!”
Again she held out her hands to him, and again he failed to take
“Don't touch me,” he replied. “I'm not fit. It's true I've
suffered. Do you wonder? I've been in hell again—where I belong.”
“Tom! oh, Tom!—no, no!” she whispered, and she averted her face,
unable to endure the black despair that she saw in his unflinching
“Jimmy and old Grif, between them, managed to catch me when I was
under full headway,” he explained. “They stopped me and took me up to
the Michamac Bridge. I'm on my feet again now. Just the same, I went
under, and if it hadn't been for them, I'd be beastly, roaring drunk
“No, Tom! It's impossible—impossible! I can't believe it!”
“Think I'd lie about a little thing like that?” he asked with the
terrible levity of utter despair.
“But it's—it's so awful!”
“I've known funnier jokes. God! D'you think I've done much laughing
over being smashed for good? It's rid you of a drunken degenerate.
It's you who ought to laugh. How about me? I've lost you! God!”
He bent over, with his chin on his breast and his big fists
clenched down at his sides.
She stared at him, dazed, almost stunned by the shock. Only after
what seemed an age of waiting could she find words for the stress of
bitter disappointment and mortified love that drove the blood to her
heart and left her white and dizzy.
“Then—you have—failed. You
are—weak!” she at last managed
Simple as were the words, the tone in which they were spoken was
enough for Blake.
“Yes,” he answered, and he swung about toward the door.
“Have you no excuses—no defence?” she demanded.
“I might lay it to that wine at the church—and prove myself still
weaker,” said Blake.
“The holy communion!” she reproached.
“I never made fun even of a Chinaman's religion,” he said. “Just
the same, if I don't believe a thing, I don't lie and let on I do. I
told you that wine meant nothing to me in a religious way. But even if
it had, I don't think it would have made any difference. Drop nitric
acid on the altar rail, and it will eat the brass just the same as if
it was in a brass foundry. Put alcohol inside me, and the craving
starts up full blast.”
“Then you believe I should excuse—”
“No,” he interrupted with grim firmness. “I might have thought it
then—but not now. I've had two days to think it over. It all comes
down to this: If, knowing how you felt about it, I could not kneel
there beside you and take that taste of wine without going under, I'm
just what you suspected—weak, unfit.”
She clasped her hands on her bosom. “You—admit it?”
“What's the use of lying about it?” he said. “If it hadn't come
about that way, you can see now it was bound to happen some other
“I—suppose—yes. Oh! but it's horrible!—horrible! I thought you
“I won't bother you any more,” he muttered. “Good-bye.”
He went out without venturing a glance at her white face. She
waited, motionless, looking toward the spot where he had stood.
Several moments passed before she seemed to realize that he had gone.
CHAPTER XXIII. A REPRIEVE
Lord James did not call upon Genevieve until late afternoon of the
next day, and then he did not come alone. He had called first upon
Mrs. Gantry and Dolores, who brought him on in their coupe.
Genevieve came down to them noticeably pale and with dark shadows
under her fine eyes, but her manner was, if anything, rather more
composed than usual. She even had a smile to exchange for the gay
greeting of Dolores. Mrs. Gantry met her with a kiss a full degree
more fervent than was consistent with strict decorum.
“My dear child!” she exclaimed. “I have hastened over to see you.
Lord Avondale has told me all about that fellow.”
“Yes?” asked Genevieve, looking at Lord James calmly but with a
slight lift of her eyebrows that betrayed her astonishment.
“Hasn't your father told you?” replied Mrs. Gantry, reposing
herself in the most comfortable seat. “It seems that he has
“Beg pardon,” said Lord James. “It was the Coville Construction
Company that made the offer.”
“Very true. An arrangement has been made, my dear, that will take
that person to the bridge and keep him there.”
“Provided he accepts the offer,” added Lord James.
“How can it be otherwise? The salary is simply stupendous for a man
of his class and standing.”
“Laffie gets only twelve thousand a year, yet he designed the
bridge,” remarked Dolores. “He told me it wasn't even enough for
“I fancy he must contrive to make it go farther since his last trip
to town,” said Mrs. Gantry. “The little visit proved rather expensive.
His father made another reduction in his allowance.”
“Goodness!” exclaimed Dolores. “Poor dear Laffie boy! If I conclude
to marry him, I shall insist that Papa Ashton is to give me a separate
“My word, Miss Dolores!” expostulated Lord James. “You're not
encouraging that fellow?”
“Oh, it's as well to have more than one hook on the line. Ask mamma
if it isn't. Besides, Laffie would be a gilt-edged
investment—provided his papa made the right kind of a will. Anyway, I
could get Uncle Herbert's lawyers to fix up an agreement as to that—a
kind of pre-nuptial alimony contract between me and Laffie's papa's
Mrs. Gantry held up her hands. “Could you have believed it,
Genevieve! She was frivolous enough before I went over for you. But
Dolores coolly disregarded her mother, to turn a meaning look on
Lord James. “If I have frivolled enough, it's about time you said
The young Englishman put an uneasy hand to his mustache. “Er—I
should have preferred a—a rather more favorable time, Miss Dolores.”
“Yes, and have mamma slam him before you put in the buffer,”
rejoined the girl. “See here, Vievie. It's too bad, but you must have
tattled something to Uncle Herbert, and he—”
“Tattled!” repeated Genevieve. “I have always been candid with
papa, if that is what you mean, Dolores.”
“All right, then, Miss Candid. Though we called it tattling ten
years ago. Anyway, Uncle Herbert wrote about it to mamma. He sent the
letter out this noon. Next thing, it'll be all over Chicago—and
“Dolores! I must insist!” admonished Mrs. Gantry.
“So must I, mamma! If it's wrong to destroy the property of others,
it's no less wrong to destroy their reputations.”
Her mother expanded with self-righteous indignation. “Well, I
never!— indeed! When the fellow has neither character nor
“Dear auntie,” soothed Genevieve, “I know you too well to believe
you could intentionally harm any one.”
“I would do
anything to save you from ruining your life!”
exclaimed Mrs. Gantry, moved almost to tears.
“I shall not ruin my life,” replied Genevieve, with a quiet
firmness that brought a profound sigh of relief from her aunt.
“A-a-h!—My dear child! Then you at last realize what sort
of a man he is.”
“Vievie knows he
is a man—which is more than can be said of
some of them,” thrust Dolores, with a mocking glance at Lord James.
“My dear,” urged Mrs. Gantry, “give no heed to that silly chit. I
wish to commend your stand against the fatal attraction of mere brute
“Oh, I say!” put in Lord James. “It's this I must protest against,
Miss Leslie—this talk of his brute qualities—when it's only the lack
of polish. You should know that. He's a thistle, prickly without, but
within soft as silk.”
“Do I not know?” exclaimed Genevieve, for the moment unable to
maintain her perfect composure.
“The metaphor was very touching and most loyal, my dear earl,” said
Mrs. Gantry. “Yet you must pardon me if I suggest that your opinion of
him may be somewhat biased by friendship.”
“But of course mamma's opinion isn't biased,” remarked Dolores. She
shot an angry glance at her mother, and added—“by friendship.”
“It would relieve me very much if no more were said about Mr.
Blake,” said Genevieve.
“We can't—now,” snapped Dolores, frowning at the footman who had
appeared in the doorway. “Some one must have sighted the right
honorable earl in our coupe.”
Her irony was justified by the actions of the three young matrons
who fluttered in on the breeze of the footman's announcement. They
immediately fell into raptures over his lordship, who was forced in
self-defence to tug and twist at his mustache and toy with his
monocle. At this last Dolores flung herself out of the room in ill-
She was not to be found when, all too soon, her mother tore the
“charming Earl Avondale” away from his chattering adorers. After the
worshipful one had been borne off, the dejected trio did not linger
long. Their departure was followed by the prompt reappearance of
She came at her cousin with eyes flashing. “Now you're all alone,
Vievie! I've been waiting for this. Do you know what I'm going to do?
I'm going to give you a piece of my mind.”
“Please, dear!” begged Genevieve.
“No. I'll not please! You deserve a good beating, and I'm going to
give it to you. That poor Mr. Blake! Aren't you 'shamed of yourself?
Breaking his big noble heart!”
“Dolores! I must ask you—”
“No, you mustn't! You've got to listen to me, you know you have. To
think that you, who've always pretended to be so kind and considerate,
should be a regular cat!”
“You foolish dear!” murmured Genevieve. “Do you imagine that
anything that you can say can hurt me, after—after—” She turned away
to hide her starting tears.
“That's it!” jeered her cousin. “Be a snivelly little hypocrite.
Pretend to be so sorry—when you're not sorry at all. Pah!”
Genevieve recovered her dignity with her composure. “That is quite
enough, my dear. I can overlook what you have already said. You know
absolutely nothing about love and the bitter grief it brings.”
“You don't say!” retorted Dolores, her nostrils quivering. “Much
you know about me. But you!—the idea of pretending you love him—that
you ever so much as dreamed of loving him!”
Genevieve shrank back as if she had been struck. “Oh! for any one
to say that to me!”
“It's true—it must be true!” insisted Dolores, half frightened yet
still too surcharged with anger to contain herself. “If it isn't true,
how could you break his heart?—the man who saved you from that
terrible savage wilderness!”
“I—I cannot explain to you. It's something that—”
“I know! You needn't tell me. It's mamma.” “She's been knocking
him. I'll bet she started knocking him when she first cabled to
you—at least she would have, had she known anything about him. Think
I don't know mamma and her methods? If only he'd been his
lordship—Owh, deah! what a difference, don't y' know! She'd never
have let you get out of England unmarried!”
“Dolores! this is quite enough!”
“The Countess of Avondale, future Duchess of Ruthby! Think I don't
see through mamma's little game? And you'd shillyshally around, and
throw over the true, noble hero to whom you owe everything—whom
you've pretended you loved—to run after a title, an Englishman, when
you could have that big-hearted American!”
Genevieve's lips straightened. “What a patriot!” she rejoined with
quiet irony. “You, of course, would never dream of marrying an
“That's none of your business,” snapped Dolores, not a little taken
aback by the counter attack.
“You spoke about pretence and hypocrisy,” went on Genevieve. “How
about the way you tease and make sport of Lord Avondale?”
For a moment the younger girl stood quivering, transfixed by the
dart. Suddenly she put her hands before her eyes and rushed from the
room in a storm of tears.
Genevieve started up as if to hasten after her, but checked herself
and sank back into her chair. For a long time she sat motionless, in
the blank dreary silence of profound grief, her eyes fixed upon
vacancy, dry and lustreless.
When, a few minutes before their dinner hour, her father hurried
into the room, expectant of his usual affectionate welcome, she did
not spring up to greet him. The sound of his brisk step failed to
penetrate to her consciousness. He came over to her and put a fond
hand on her shoulder.
“H'm—how's this, my dear?” he asked. “Not asleep? Brown study,
She looked up at him dully; but at sight of the loving concern in
his eyes, the unendurable hardness of her grief suddenly melted to
tears. She flung herself into his arms, to weep and sob with a
violence of which he had never imagined his quiet high-bred daughter
capable. Bewildered and alarmed by the storm of emotion, he knew not
what to do, and so instinctively did what was right. He patted her on
the back and murmured inarticulate sounds of love and pity.
His sympathy and the blessed relief of tears soon restored her
quiet self-control. She ceased sobbing and drew away from him,
mortified at her outburst.
“There now,” he ventured. “You feel better, don't you?”
“I've been very silly!” she exclaimed, drying her tear-wet cheeks.
“You're never silly—that is, since you came home this time,” he
“Because—because—” She stopped with an odd catch in her voice,
and seemed again about to burst into tears.
he taught you to be sensible,—you'd say.”
“Ye—yes,” she sobbed. “Oh, papa, I can't bear it—I can't! To
think that after he'd shown himself so brave and strong—! But for
that, I should never have—have come to this!”
“H'm,—from the way you talked last night, I took it that the
matter was settled. You said then that you could no longer—h'm—love
“I can't!—I mustn't! Don't you see? He's proved himself weak. How,
then, can I keep on loving him? But they—they infer that it is my
fault. I believe they think I tempted him.”
“Because I urged him to take the communion with me. I told you what
he himself said about alcohol. But he did not blame me. He pointed out
that if he was too weak to resist then, he would have yielded to the
“H'm,—no doubt. Yet I've been considering that point—the fact
that you did force him against his will.”
“Surely, papa, you cannot say it was my fault, when he himself
admits that his own weakness—”
“Wait,” broke in her father. “What do you know about the curse of
drink? It's possible that he might be able to resist the craving if
not roused by the taste.”
“Yet if he is so weak that a few drops of the holy communion wine
could cause him to give way so shamelessly—”
“Holy?—h'm!” commented Mr. Leslie. “Alcohol is a poison. Suppose
the Church used a decoction containing arsenic. Would that make
“Oh, papa! But it's so very different!”
“Yes. Alcohol and arsenic are different poisons. But they're
similar in at least one respect. The effects of each are cumulative.
To one who has been over-drugged with arsenic a slight amount more may
prove a fatal dose. So of a person whose will has been undermined and
almost paralyzed with alcohol—”
“That's it, papa. Don't you see? If he lacks the will, the
strength, the self-control to resist!”
“No, that isn't the point. It's your part in this most unfortunate
occurrence that I'm now considering.”
“You told him that he must not look to you for help or even
sympathy. I can understand your position as to that. At the same time,
should you not have been as neutral on the other side? Was it quite
fair for you to add to his temptations?”
“Yet the fact of his weakness—”
“I'm not talking about him, my dear. It's what you've done—the
question whether you do not owe him reparation for your part in his—
“Had you not forced him into what I cannot but consider an unfair
test of his strength, he would not have fallen. Griffith tells me that
he was well along toward a solution of the Zariba Dam. Had you not
caused this unfortunate interruption in his work, he might soon have
proved himself a master engineer. That would have strengthened him in
his fight against this hereditary curse.”
“He was to fight it on his own strength.”
“What else would this engineering triumph have been but a proof to
himself of his strength? You have deprived him of that. Griffith tells
me that, hard as he is striving to work out the idea which he was
certain would meet the difficulties of the dam, he now seems unable to
make any progress.”
“So Mr. Griffith and you blame all upon me?”
“You mistake me, my dear. What I wish to make clear to you is that,
however hopeless Blake's condition may be, you are responsible for his
failure upon this occasion.”
“And if so?”
“Premising that in one respect my attitude toward him is
unalterable, I wish to say that he has risen very much in my esteem. I
have had confidential talks with Griffith and Lord Avondale regarding
him. I have been forced to the conclusion that you were justified in
considering him, aside from this one great fault, a man essentially
sound and reliable. He has brains, integrity, courage, and endurance.
Given sufficient inducement, those qualities would soon enable him to
acquire all that he lacks,—manners and culture.”
“Oh, papa, do not speak of it! It was because I saw all that in him
that I felt so certain. If only it were not for the one thing!”
“H'm,” considered Mr. Leslie, scrutinizing her tense face. “Then I
gather it's not true what yesterday you said and no doubt believed.
You still regard him with the same feelings as before this
“No! no! He has destroyed all my faith in him. I—I can pity him.
But anything more than that is—it must be—dead.”
“Can't say I regret it. But—this is another question. You've lost
him one chance. I believe you should give him another.”
“Another chance?—you say that?” she asked incredulously.
“You should cancel this record—this occurrence. Blot it out. Start
“How can I? It is impossible to forget that he has failed so
“Thanks to the poison you put into his mouth.”
“Father! I did not think that you—”
“I was unjust to him. You also have done him a wrong. I am seeking
to make reparation. In part payment, I wish to make clear to you what
you should do to offset your fault. In view of the development of your
character (which, by the way, you claim was brought about by your
African experience), I feel that I should have no need to urge this
matter. You are not a thoughtless child. Think it over. Here's
She went in with him to dinner, perfectly composed in the presence
of the grave-faced old butler. But after the meal, when her father
left for his customary cigar in the conservatory, she sought the
seclusion of the library, and attempted to fight down the growing
doubt of her justice toward Blake that had been roused by her father's
It was easy for her to maintain the resolute stand she had taken so
long as she kept her thoughts fixed on his fall from manhood. But
presently she began to recall incidents that had occurred during those
terrible weeks on the savage coast of Mozambique.
She remembered, most vividly of all, a day on the southern
headland— the eventful day before the arrival of the steamer—when he
had spoken freely of the faults of his past life.... He had never lied
to her or sought to gloze over his weakness.
And he could have concealed this present failure. She divined that
both Griffith and Lord James would never have betrayed him. Yet he had
come direct to her and confessed, knowing that she would condemn him.
The thought was more than she could withstand. She crossed over to
her desk, and wrote swiftly:—
You are to consider that all which has taken place since Sunday is
as if it had never happened.
Come to me to-morrow, at ten.
Enclosing the note in an envelope addressed to Blake, she gave it
to a servant for immediate delivery. As soon as the man left the room,
she went to the telephone and arranged for a private consultation with
one of the most eminent physicians in the city.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WAY OF A WOMAN
Blake was humped over his desk, his fingers deep in his hair, and
his forehead furrowed with the knotted wrinkles of utter weariness and
perplexity, as his eyes pored over the complex diagrams and figures
jotted down on the plan before him.
Griffith came shuffling into the room in his old carpet slippers.
He looked anxiously at the bent form across the desk from him, and
said: “See here, Tommy, what's the use of wasting electricity?”
Blake stared up at him, blear-eyed with overstudy and loss of
“Told you 'm going to keep going long as the wheels go 'round,” he
“They'd keep going a heap longer if you laid off Sundays,” advised
Griffith. “I'm no fanatic; but no man can keep at it day and night,
this way, without breaking.”
“Sooner the better!” growled Blake. “You go tuck yourself into your
Griffith shook his head dubiously and was shuffling out when he
heard a knock at the hall door of the living-room. He hastened to
respond, and soon returned with a dainty envelope. Blake was again
poring over his plans and figures. The older man tossed the missive
upon the desk.
“Hey, wake up,” he cackled. “Letter from one of your High Society
lady friends. Flunkey in livery for messenger.”
“Livery?” echoed Blake. “Brown and yellow, eh?—as if his clothes
“No. Dark green and black.”
Blake started to his feet, his face contorted with the conflict of
his emotions. “Don't joke!—for God's sake! That's hers!”
Griffith ripped the note from its envelope and held it out. Blake
clutched it from him, and opened up the sheet with trembling fingers,
to find the signature. For a moment he stood staring at it as if
unable to believe his own eyes. Then he turned to the heading of the
note and began to read.
“Well?” queried Griffith, as the other reached the end and again
stood staring at the signature.
Instead of replying, Blake dropped into his chair and buried his
face in his arms. Griffith hovered over him, gazing worriedly at the
big heaving shoulders.
“Must say you're mighty talkative,” he at last remarked, and he
started toward the door. “Good-night.”
“Wait!” panted Blake. “Read it!”
Griffith took the note, which was thrust out to him, and read it
“Huh,” he commented. “She wasn't so awfully sudden over it. 'Bout
time, I'd say.”
“Shut up!” cried Blake, flinging himself erect in the chair, to
beam upon his friend. “You've no license to kick, you old grouch. I'm
coming to bed. But wait till to-morrow afternoon. Maybe the fur won't
fly on old Zariba!”
“Come on, then. I'll get your sulphonal.”
“You will—not! No more dope in mine, Grif. I've got something a
thousand per cent better.”
“She ought to've come through with it at the start-off,” grumbled
Griffith. But he gladly accompanied his friend to the bedroom.
In the morning Blake awoke from a profound natural sleep,
clear-eyed and clear-brained. His first act was to telephone to a
florist's to send their largest crimson amaryllis to Miss Genevieve
Though he forced himself to walk, he reached the Leslie mansion a
full half-hour before ten. To kill time, he swung on out the Drive
into Lincoln Park. He went a good mile, yet was back again five
minutes before the hour. Unable to wait a moment longer, he hastened
up into the stately portico and rang.
As on the previous day, he was at once bowed in and ushered to the
beautiful room of gold and ivory enamel. He entered eagerly, and was
not a little dashed to find himself alone. His spirits rebounded at
the remembrance that he was early. He stopped in the centre of the
room and stood waiting, tense with expectancy.
Very soon Genevieve came in at one of the side doorways. He started
toward her the instant he heard her light step. But her look and
bearing checked his eager advance. She was very pale, and her eyelids
were swollen from hours of weeping.
“Jenny!” he stammered. “What is it? Your note—I thought
“You poor boy! you poor boy!” she murmured, her eyes brimming over
with tears of compassion.
“What is it?” he muttered, and he drew nearer to her.
She put out her hands and grasped his coat, and looked up at him,
her forehead creased with deep lines of grief, and the corners of her
sweet mouth drooping piteously.
“Oh, Tom! Tom!” she sobbed, “I know the worst now! I know how
greatly I wronged you by forcing you into temptation. I have been to
one who knows—one of the great physicians.”
“About me?” asked Blake, greatly surprised.
“I used no names. He does not know who I am. But I told him the
facts, as you have told them to me, dear. He said—Oh, I cannot—I
cannot repeat it!”
She bent forward and pressed her face against his breast, sobbing
with an uncontrollable outburst of grief. He raised his arms to draw
her to him, but dropped them heavily.
“Well?” he asked in a harsh voice. “What of it?”
She drew herself away from him, still quivering, but striving hard
to control her emotion.
“I—I must tell you!” she forced herself to answer. “I have no
right to keep it from you. He said that it is a—a disease; that it is
a matter of pathology, not of moral courage.”
“Disease?” repeated Blake. “Well, what if it is? I don't see what
difference that makes. If I fight it down—all well and good. If I
lose out, I lose out—that's all.”
“But don't you see the difference it makes to me?” she insisted. “I
blamed you—when it wasn't your fault at all. But I did not realize,
dear. I've been under a frightful strain ever since we reached home.
Just because I do not weep and cry out, every one imagines I'm cold
and unfeeling. I've been reproached for treating you cruelly. But you
“Of course!” he declared. “Don't you suppose I know? It's your
grit. Needn't tell me how you've felt. You're the truest, kindest
little woman that ever was!”
“Oh, Tom! that's so like you!—and after I
have treated you
“You? What on earth put that into your head? Maybe you mean,
because you didn't give me the second chance at once when I owned up
to failing. But it was no more than right for you to send me off.
Didn't I deserve it? I had given you cause enough to despise me—to
send me off for good.”
“No, no, not despise you, Tom! You know that never could be, when
there in that terrible wilderness you proved yourself so true and
kind—such a man! And not that alone! I know all now—how you, to save
me—” She paused and looked away, her face scarlet. Yet she went on
bravely: “how, in order that I might be compelled to make certain, you
endured the frightful heat and smother of that foul forecastle, all
those days to Aden!”
“That wasn't anything,” disclaimed Blake. “I slept on deck every
night. Just a picnic. I knew you were safe—no more danger of that
damnable fever—and with Jimmy to entertain you.”
“While you had to hide from me all day! James said that it was
frightful in the forecastle.”
“Much he knows about such places! It wasn't anything to a glass-
factory or steelworks. If it had been the stokehole, instead—I did
try stoking, one day, just to pass the time. Stood it two hours. Those
Lascars are born under the equator. I don't see how any white man can
stoke in the tropics.”
“You did that?—to pass the time! While we were aft, under double
awnings, up where we could catch every breath of air! Had I known that
you did not land at Port Mozambique, I should have—should have—”
“Course you would have!” he replied. “But now you see how well it
was you didn't know.”
“Perhaps—Yet I'm not so sure—I—I—”
She clasped her hands over her eyes, as all her grief and anguish
came back upon her in full flood.
“Oh, Tom! what shall we do? My dear, my poor dear! That doctor,
with his cold, hard science! I have learned the meaning of that
fearful verse of the Bible: 'Unto the third and fourth generation.'
You may succeed; you may win your great fight for self-mastery. But
your children—the curse would hang over them. One and all, they too
might suffer. Though you should hold to your self-mastery, there would
still be a chance,—epilepsy, insanity, your own form of the curse!
And should you again fall back into the pit—”
She stopped, overcome.
He drew back a little way, and stood regarding her with a look of
“So that is why you sent for me,” he said. “I came here thinking
you might be going to give me another chance. Now you tell me it's a
lot worse than even I thought.”
“No, no!” she protested. “I learned what I've told you afterward—
after I had sent you the note. You must not think—”
He broke in upon her explanation with a laugh as mirthless as were
his hard-set face and despairing eyes. She shrank back from him.
“Stop it!—stop it!” she cried. “I can't bear it!”
He fell silent, and began aimlessly fumbling through his pockets.
His gaze was fixed on the wall above and beyond her in a vacant stare.
“Tom!” she whispered, alarmed at his abstraction.
He looked down at her as if mildly surprised that she was still in
“Excuse me,” he muttered. “I was just wondering what it all amounts
to, anyway. A fellow squirms and flounders, or else drifts with the
current. Maybe he helps others to keep afloat, and maybe he doesn't.
Maybe some one else helps him hold up. But, sooner or later, he goes
down for good. It will all be the same a hundred years from now.”
“No!” she denied. “You know that's not true. You don't believe it.”
He straightened, and raised his half-clenched fist.
“You're right, Jenny. It's the facts, but not the truth. It's up to
a man to pound away for all he's worth; not whine around about what's
going to happen to him to-morrow or next year or when he dies. Only
time I ever was a floater was when I was a kid and didn't know the
real meaning of work. Since then I've lived. I can at least say I
haven't been a parasite. And I've had the fun of the fight.”
He flung out his hand, and his dulled eyes flashed with the fire of
“Lord!—what if I
have lost you! That's no reason for me to
quit. You did love me there—and I'll love you always, little woman!
You've given me a thousand times more than I deserve. I've got that to
remember, to keep me up to the fighting pitch. I'm going to keep on
fighting this curse, anyway. Idea of a man lying down, long as he can
stagger! Even if the curse downs me in the end, there're lots of
things I can do before I go under. There're lots of things to be done
in the world—big things! Pound away! What if a man is to be
laid on the shelf to-morrow? Pound away! Keep doing—that's life! Do
your best—that's living!”
“I know of
one who has lived!” whispered Genevieve. “Jenny!
Then it's not true? You'll give me another chance? You still love me?”
“Wait! No, you must not!” she replied, shrinking back again. “I
cannot—I will not give way! I must think of the future—not mine, but
theirs! I must do what is right. I tell you, there is one supreme
duty in a woman's lot—she should choose rightly the man who is to be
the father of her children! It is a crime to bring into the world
children who are cursed!”
A flame of color leaped into her face, but she stood with upraised
head, regarding him with clear and candid eyes that glowed with the
ecstasy of self-sacrifice.
Before her look, his gaze softened to deepest tenderness and
reverence. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, almost awed.
“Now I understand, Jenny. It's—it's a holy thing you've
done—telling me! I'll never forget it, night or day, so long as I
He turned to go; but in an instant she was before him with hands
outflung to stop him.
“Wait! You do not understand. Listen! I did not mean what you
think— only—only if you fail! Can you imagine I could be so unjust?
If you do not fail—if you win—Oh, can't you see?”
He stared at her, dazed by the sudden glimmering of hope through
the blackness of his despair.
“But you said that, even if I should win—” he muttered.
“Yes, yes; he told me there would still be a risk. But I cannot
believe it. At least it would not be so grave a risk. Oh, if you can
but win, Tom!”
“I'll try,” he answered soberly.
“You will win—you shall win! I will help you.”
“Yes. Don't you understand? That is why I sent for you—to tell you
“But you said—”
“I don't care what I said. It's all different now. I see what I
should do. I have failed far worse than you. There on that savage
coast you required me to do my share; but always you stood ready to
advise and help me. Yet after all that—How ungrateful you must think
“No, never!” he cried. “You sha'n't say that. I can't stand it.
You're the truest, kindest—”
“It's like you to say it!” she broke in. “But look at the facts.
Did you ever set me a task that called for the very utmost of my
strength —perhaps more; and then turn coldly away, with the cruel
word that I must win alone or perish?”
“It's not the same case at all,” he remonstrated. “You're not fair
to yourself. I'm a man.”
“And I've called myself a woman,” she replied. “After those weeks
with you I thought myself no longer a shallow, unthinking girl. A
woman! Now I see, Tom—I know! I have failed in the woman's part. But
now I shall stand by you in your fight. I shall do my part, and you
Blake's eyes shone soft and blue, and he again held out his arms to
her. But in the same moment the glow faded and his arms fell to his
“I almost forgot,” he murmured. “You said that I must win by my own
strength—that you must be sure of my strength.”
“That was before I learned the truth,” she replied. “I no longer
ask so much. I shall—I must help you, as you helped me. I owe you
life and more than life. You know that. You cannot think me so
ungrateful as not to do all I can.”
“No,” he replied, with sudden resolve. “You are to do as you first
said—as we agreed.”
“You mean, not help you? But I must, Tom, now that I realize.”
“All I want is another chance,” he said. “It's more than I deserve.
I can't accept still more.”
“You'll not let me help you? Yet what the doctor said makes it all
“Not to me,” replied Blake, setting his jaw. “I've started in on
this fight, and I'm going through with it the way I began. It'll be a
big help to know how you feel now; but, just the same, I'm going to
fight it out alone. The doctors may say what they please,—if I
haven't will power enough to win, without being propped up, I'm not
fit to marry any woman, much less you!”
“Tom!” she cried. “You
are the man I thought you. You
She held out her hands to him. He took them in his big palms, and
bent over to kiss her on the forehead.
“There!” he said, stepping away. “That's a lot more than I'm
entitled to now, Jenny. It's time I left, to go and try to earn it.”
“You won't allow me to help?” she begged.
“No,” he answered, with a quiet firmness that she knew could not be
“At least you cannot keep me from praying for you,” she said.
“That's true; and it will be a help to know how you feel about it
now,” he admitted.
“You will come again—soon?”
“No, not until I begin to see my way out on the Zariba Dam.”
“Oh, that will be soon, I'm sure.”
“I hope so. Good-bye!”
He turned and hurried from the room with an abruptness that in
other circumstances she might have thought rude. But she understood.
He was so determined in his purpose that he would not take the
slightest risk that might be incurred by lingering.
She went to a front window, and watched him down the Drive. His
step was quick but firm, and his head and shoulders were bent slightly
forward, as if to meet and push through all obstacles.
CHAPTER XXV. HEAVY ODDS
For a few days Lord James was able to bring Genevieve encouraging
reports of a vast improvement in Blake's spirits. But still the
engineer-inventor failed to make the headway he had expected toward
the solution of the complex and intricate problem of the dam. In
consequence, he re-doubled his efforts and worked overtime, permitting
himself less than four hours of sleep a night. His meals he either
went without or took at his desk.
All the urgings of Griffith and Lord James could not induce him to
cease driving himself to the very limit of endurance. Day by day he
fell off, growing steadily thinner and more haggard and more feverish;
yet still he toiled on, figuring and planning, planning and figuring.
But on the morning of the day set for Genevieve's ball, the weary,
haggard worker tossed his pencil into the air, and uttered a shout
that brought his two friends on a run from Griffith's office.
“I've got it! I've got it!” he flung at them, as they rushed in. He
thrust a tablet across the table. “There's the proof. Check those
Lord James leaned over the table to grasp Blake's hand.
“Gad, old man!” he said. “Just in time for you to go to the ball.”
Griffith paused in his swift checking of Blake's final
computations. “Ball? Not on your sweet life! He's going to bed.”
“You promised to go, Tom,” said Lord James.
“Did I?” replied Blake. “Well, then, of course I'm going.”
“Of course!” jeered Griffith. “It's no use arguing against a mule.
Can't help but wish you hadn't reminded him, Mr. Scarbridge.”
“The change will do him good,” argued Lord James.
“I'm in for it, anyway,” said Blake. “Only thing, I wish I could
get some sleep, in between. Well, here's for a good hot bath and a
square meal. That'll set me up.”
Griffith shook his head. “I'm not so sure. What you need is twelve
hours on your back.”
That he was right the Englishman had to admit himself with no
little contrition before the ball was half over.
Blake presented a good figure, and though he talked little and
danced less, yet on the whole he produced a very good impression. As
Lord James had once observed, with regard to his visit at Ruthby
Castle, Blake's bigness of mind seemed to be instinctively sensed by
nearly all those with whom he came in contact on favorable terms.
But, from the first, he avoided Genevieve with a persistence so
marked as almost to disarm Mrs. Gantry.
Most of his few dances were with Dolores, who discovered that,
notwithstanding his evident weariness, he was astonishingly light on
his feet and by no means a poor waltzer. But after midnight she found
it increasingly difficult to lure him out on the floor whenever she
was seized with the whim to favor him by scratching the name—and
feelings—of some other partner.
More than once Lord James urged him to go home and turn in. Blake's
reply was that he knew he ought not to have come to the ball, but
since he had come, he proposed to stick it out,—he would not be a
quitter. So he stayed on, hour after hour, weary-eyed and taciturn,
but by no means ill-humored. Many of the wall-flowers and elderly
guests poured their chatter into his unhearing ear, and thought him a
most sympathetic listener.
Genevieve, however, with each glimpse that she caught of him,
perceived how his fatigue was constantly verging toward exhaustion. At
last, between three and four in the morning, she cut short a dance
with young Ashton and asked Lord James to take her into the library
for a few minutes' rest. He was with Dolores, but immediately
relinquished her to Ashton, and went off with Genevieve.
They soon passed out of the chatter and whirl of the crowd into the
seclusion of the library. Genevieve led the way to her father's
favorite table, but avoided the big high-backed armchair. Lord James
placed a smaller chair for her at the other side of the table, facing
the door of the cardroom, and as she sank into it he took the chair at
“Ah!” sighed Genevieve. “It's so restful to get away from them all
for a few moments.”
“I wonder you're not still more fatigued. Awful crush,” replied
Lord James. “I daresay you haven't had any chance all evening for a
nibble of anything. Directed that something be brought to us here.”
“That was very thoughtful of you. I do need something. I'm
depressed— It's about Tom. I brought you in here to ask your opinion.
He has looked so haggard and worn to-night.”
“Overwork,” explained Lord James. “He's been hard at it, day and
night, in that stuffy office. He could stand any amount of work out in
the open. But this being cooped up indoors and grinding all the time
at those bally figures!”
“If only it's nothing worse! I'm so afraid!”
“No. It hasn't come on again; though that may happen any time when
he's so nearly pegged. Must confess, I blame myself for urging him to
come to-night. But he said he had solved the big problem, and I
thought the change would do him good—relax his mind, you know.
Egregious mistake, I fear. I've urged him to go; but he insists upon
sticking it out.”
“But you're certain that he—has—done nothing as yet?”
“No, indeed, I assure you! This over-fatigue—I'm not even certain
whether the craving is on him or not.... You'll pardon me, Miss
Genevieve—but do you realize how hard you have made it for him,
cutting him off from all help in his desperate struggle?”
is fighting all alone?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. He won't allow even me to jolly him up now. He's given me the
cold shoulder. Said the inference to be drawn from your conditions was
that he should have no help whatever.”
“Isn't that brave!—isn't that just like him!” cried the girl, her
eyes sparkling and cheeks aglow. “He will win! I feel sure
Lord James looked down at the table, and asked in rather an odd and
hesitating tone: “We must hope it. But—if he does win—what then?”
Blake came slowly into the room through the doorway behind them,
his head downbent as if he were pondering a problem.
Unaware of the newcomer, Genevieve looked regretfully into the
troubled face of her companion, and answered him with absolute candor.
“Dear friend, need I repeat? I am very fond of you, and I esteem you
very highly. Yet if he succeeds, I must say 'no' to you.”
As the young Englishman bent over, without replying, Blake roused
from his abstraction and perceived that he was not alone in the room.
“Hello—'scuse me!” he mumbled. Half startled, they turned to look
at him. He met them with a rare smile. “So it's you, Jeems—and Miss
Jenny. Didn't mean to cut in on your 'tates-an'-tay, as the Irishman
He started to turn back. Genevieve sought to stop him. “Won't you
join us, Tom?”
“Thanks, no. It's Jimmy's sit-out. I just stepped in here to see if
I could find a book on the differential calculus. Been figuring a
problem in my head all evening, and there's a formula I need to get my
final solution. I know that formula well as I know you, but somehow my
memory seems to've stopped working.”
“Those bally figures! Can't you ever chop off?” remonstrated Lord
James. “You're pegged. Come and join us. Miss Genevieve will be
interested to hear about the dam.”
“I'm interested, indeed I am, Tom. Papa says you are working out a
piece of wonderful engineering.”
Blake stared. “What does
he know about it?”
“I suppose his consulting engineer told him—your friend Mr.
“Grif's not working for him now.”
“Indeed? Then I misunderstood. Anyway, you must come and explain
all about the dam.”
“Well, if you insist,” said Blake. He went around to the big
armchair, across from Genevieve, and sat down wearily while
explaining: “But the dam is a long way from being built. It's all on
paper yet, and I've had to rely on the reports sent in by the field
A footman came in and set food and wine before Genevieve and Lord
James. Blake went on, with quick-mounting enthusiasm, heedless of the
coming and going of the soft-footed, unobtrusive servant.
“That's the only thing I'm afraid of. Would have liked to've gone
over the ground myself first. But they had two surveys, and the field
notes check fairly well. Barring mistakes in them, I've got the
proposition worked out to a T. It's all done except some figuring of
details that any good engineer could do. Just as well, for I'm about
all in. Stiffest proposition I ever went up against.”
He sank back into the depths of the big chair, with a sudden giving
way of enthusiasm to fatigue. Lord James reached out his plate to him.
“You are pegged, old man,” he said. “Have a sandwich.”
“No,” replied Blake. “I'm too played out to eat. Just want to
Genevieve had been scrutinizing his face, and her deepening concern
lent a note of sharpness to her reproach: “You're exhausted! You
should not have come to-night!”
“Couldn't pass up a dance at your house, could I?” he smilingly
rejoined. “Don't you worry about me. It's all right, long's I've got
that whole damn irrigation system worked out.”
“Ha! ha! old man!” chuckled Lord James. “That expresses it to a T,
as you put it. But wouldn't it be better form to say, 'the whole
irrigation dam system'?”
Blake smiled shamefacedly. “Did I make a break like—such as that?
'Scuse me, Miss Jenny. I'm sort of—I'm rather muddled to-night.”
“No wonder, after all you've done,” said Genevieve. She added, with
a radiant smile, “But isn't it glorious that you've finished such a
great work! Papa says that you've actually invented a new kind of
The silent footman had reappeared with another plate and glass of
wine. He glided around behind Blake, who had leaned forward again with
the right arm upon the edge of the table. Unconscious of the servant,
who placed the plate and wine glass near him on his left and quietly
glided from the room, the engineer responded to Genevieve's remark
with an animation that might have been likened to the last flare of a
“No,” he said, “it's not exactly a new kind of dam—not an
invention. I did work out once a modification of bridge trusses which
some might call an invention,—new principle in the application of
trusses to bridge structure. Allows for a longer suspension span on
“But this Zariba Dam,” remarked Lord James; “I've yet to learn,
myself, just how you worked it out.”
“Well, it wasn't any invention; just a sort of discovery how to
combine a lot of well-known principles of construction to fit the
particular case. You see, it's this way. There was only one available
site for the dam, and the mid-section of that was bottomless bog; yet
provision had to be made for a sixty-five foot head of water.”
“You take him, Miss Genevieve,” said Lord James. “They have no
solid ground to build on, and the water above the dam is to be
sixty-five feet deep.”
“I should think the dam would sink into the bog,” remarked
“That was one factor in the problem,” said Blake. “Solved it by
putting the steel reinforcement of the concrete in the form of my
bridge-truss span. The whole central section could hang in midair and
not buckle or drop. That was simple enough, long's I had my truss
already invented. The main difficulty was that deep bog. If you
studied hydrostatics, you'd soon learn that a sixty-five foot head of
water puts an enormous pressure on the bed of a reservoir.”
Absorbed in his explanation, Blake unconsciously grasped the wine
glass in his left hand, as he went on:
“That pressure would be enough to make the water boil down through
the bog and clear out under the deepest foundation any of the other
engineers had been able to figure out. Well, I figured and figured,
but somehow I couldn't make anything in the books go. At last, when I
had almost given up—”
“No! you couldn't do that,” put in Lord James.
Blake smiled at him, and paused to grasp again his broken thread of
thought. In the fatal moment when his wakeful consciousness was
diverted, and before Lord James could interpose to avert the act, his
subconsciousness automatically caused his left hand to raise the glass
which it held to his lips.
Before he was aware of what he was doing, he had taken a sip of the
wine. An instant afterward the glass shattered on the floor beside his
chair, and he clutched at the edge of the table, his face convulsed
and his eyes glaring with the horror of what he had done.
“Hell!” he gasped.
Genevieve rose and started back from the table, shocked and
frightened by what she mistook for an outburst of rage or madness.
Lord James rose almost as quickly, no less shocked and quite as
uncertain as to what his friend would do.
[Illustration: His jaw closed fast,—and in the same instant his
outstretched hand smashed down upon the wine glass]
“Tom!” he called warningly, and he laid his hand on Blake's
Almost beside himself in the paroxysm of fear and craving that had
stricken his face white and half choked him with seeming rage, Blake
shook off the restraining hand, and gasped hoarsely at Genevieve:
“Wine!—here—in your house! God! Shoved into my hand! Smell wasn't
enough—must taste it! God! Tough deal!”
“Lord Avondale!” cried Genevieve, and she turned to leave the room,
“Gad! old man!” murmured Lord James, staring uncertainly from Blake
to the angry girl, for once in his life utterly disconcerted and
bewildered. He was unable to think, and the impulse of his breeding
urged him to accompany Genevieve. After a moment's vacillation, he
sprang about and hastened with her from the room.
Blake sat writhing in dumb anguish, his distended eyes fixed upon
the doorway for many moments after they had gone. Then slowly yet as
though drawn by an irresistible force, his gaze sank until it rested
upon the half-filled wine glass left by Lord James. He glared at it in
fearful fascination. Suddenly his hand shot out to clutch at it,—and
as suddenly was drawn back.
There followed a grim and silent struggle, which ended in a second
clutch at the glass. This time the shaking fingers closed on the
slender stem. The wine was almost wetting his lips when, with a
convulsive jerk, he flung it out upon the rug beside his chair.
Shuddering and quivering, Blake sank back in the chair, with his
left arm upraised across his face as if he were expectant of a
crushing blow or sought to shut out some horrible sight. His right arm
slipped limply down outside the chair-arm, and the empty glass dropped
to the floor out of his relaxing fingers.
Yet the lull in the contest was only momentary. As his protecting
arm sank down again, his bloodshot eyes caught sight of the wine in
Genevieve's glass. Instantly he started up rigid in his chair and
clutched the edge of the table, as if to spring up and escape. But he
could not tear his gaze away from the crimson wine.
Again there came the grim and silent struggle, and again the fierce
craving for drink compelled his hand to go out to grasp the glass. But
his will was not yet totally benumbed. As his fingers crooked to
clutch the glass-stem, he made a last desperate effort to withstand
the all but irresistible impulse that was forcing him over the brink
of the pit. Beads of cold sweat started out on his forehead. His face
creased with furrows of unbearable agony. His mouth gaped. The serpent
had him by the throat.
The struggling man realized that he was on the verge of defeat. He
was almost overcome. In a flash he perceived the one way to escape.
For a single instant his slack jaw closed fast,—and in the same
instant his outstretched hand clenched together and upraised and
smashed down upon the wine glass.
Utterly exhausted, the victor collapsed forward, with head and arms
upon the table, in a half swoon that quickly passed into the sleep-
stupor of outspent strength.
CHAPTER XXVI. TURNING THE ODD TRICK
Thus it was Lord James found his friend when he came hurrying back
into the library. He did not rouse Blake to ask questions. One glance
at the shattered glass and Blake's bleeding hand was enough to tell
him what had happened. There could be no doubt that Blake had won. It
was no less certain, however, that the struggle had cost him the last
ounce of his strength. What he now needed was absolute rest.
With utmost gentleness, Lord James examined the cut hand for
fragments of glass and bound it up with his own handkerchief. As
quietly, he gathered up the broken glass and the dishes, and wiped the
blood and wine from the table. Another hour would see the end of the
ball. Many of the guests already had gone, and it was not probable
that any of those who remained would leave the ballroom or the
cardroom to wander into the secluded library. Yet he thought it as
well to remove the traces of Blake's struggle. He placed the bandaged
hand of his unconscious friend down on the chair-arm, in the shadow of
the edge of the table, and went out with the plates and glass, closing
the door behind him.
He had been gone only a few minutes when the door of the cardroom
swung open before a sharp thrust, and Mr. Leslie stepped into the
library, followed by Mrs. Gantry. Mr. Leslie closed the door, and each
took advantage of the seclusion to blink and yawn and stretch
luxuriously. They had just risen from the card table, and were both
cramped and sleepy. Also neither perceived Blake, who was hidden from
them by the back of the big chair.
“Ho-ho-hum!” yawned Mr. Leslie, in a last relaxing stretch. “That
ends it for this time.” He wagged his head at his sister-in-law, and
rubbed his hands together exultantly. “For once you'll have to admit I can play bridge.”
“For once,” she conceded, as she moved toward the table. “You're
still nothing more than a whist-player, yet had it not been for the
honor score, you'd have beaten us disgracefully. One is fortunate when
one has the honor score in one's favor.”
“H'm! h'm!” he rallied. “I'll admit you women can
honor, but the question is, do you know what honor is?”
“Most certainly—when the score is in our favor. One would fancy
you'd been reading Ibsen. Of all the bad taste—” Mrs. Gantry
stopped short, to raise her lorgnette and stare at the flaccid form of
Blake. “Hoity-toity! What have we here?”
“Hey?” queried Mr. Leslie, peering around her shoulder. “Asleep?
Who is he?”
Mrs. Gantry turned to him and answered in a lowered voice: “It's
that fellow, Blake. I do believe he's intoxicated.”
“Intoxicated?” exclaimed Mr. Leslie. He went quickly around and
bent over Blake. He came back to her on tiptoe and led her away from
“You're mistaken,” he whispered. “I'm certain he hasn't touched a
“Yes. Some one has spilled wine on the table; but his breath proves
that he hasn't had any. It's merely that he's worn out—fallen asleep.
“'Poor boy'?” repeated Mrs. Gantry, quizzing her brother-in-law
through her lorgnette.
“H'm. Why not?” he demanded. “I was most unjust to him. I've been
compelled to reverse my judgment of him on every point that was
against him. As you know, he refused everything I offered in the way
of money or position. He has proved that his intentions are absolutely
honorable,—and now he has proved himself a great engineer. By his
solution of the Zariba Dam problem, he has virtually put half a
million, dollars into my pocket.”
“I understood that you turned that project over to some company.”
“The Coville Company—of which I own over ninety-five per cent of
the stock. He would quit if he knew it, and I can't afford to lose
him. The solution of the dam is a wonderful feat of engineering.
That's what's the matter with him now. He worked at it to the point of
exhaustion—and then for him to come here, already worn out!”
“I'm sure he was quite welcome to stay away,” put in the lady.
Mr. Leslie frowned, and went on: “Griffith tells me that he can
stand any amount of outdoor work, but that office work runs him down
fast. But I'll soon fix that. We arranged to put him in charge of the
“In charge? How will you get rid of Lafayette? You've grumbled so
often about his having a contract to remain there as chief builder,
because he drew the bridge plans.”
“Copied them, you should say.”
“Ah, is that the term?”
“For what he did, yes—unless one uses the stronger term.”
“I quite fail to take you.”
“You'll understand—later on. Griffith and I are figuring that Tom
will take the bridge and keep it.”
“He has my heartfelt wish that he will take it soon, and remain in
personal possession for all time!”
“H'm. I presume Genevieve could come down to visit us
“Herbert! You surely cannot mean—?”
“Griffith has told me something in connection with this bridge that
proves Thomas Blake to be one of the greatest engineers, if not the
greatest, in America. I'd be proud to have him for a son-in-law.”
impossible! It can't be you'll withdraw your
“Not only that; I'll back him to win. I like your earl. He's a fine
young fellow. But, after all, Blake is an American.”
“He's a brute! Herbert, it is impossible!”
“They said that dam was impossible. He has mastered it. He's big;
he's got brains. He'll be a gentleman within six months. He's a
“Poof! He's a degenerate!”
“You'll see,” rejoined Mr. Leslie. He went back to the table and
tapped the sleeper sharply on the shoulder.
Blake stirred, and mumbled drowsily: “Huh! what—whatcha want?”
“Wake up,” answered Mr. Leslie. “I wish to congratulate you.”
Blake slowly heaved himself up and blinked at his disturber with
haggard, bloodshot eyes. He was still very weary and only half roused
from his stupor.
“Huh!” he muttered. “Must 'uv dropped 'sleep—Dog tired.” His
bleared gaze swung around and took in Mrs. Gantry. He started and
tried to sit more erect. “Excuse me! Didn't know there was a lady
“Don't apologize. That's for me to do,” interposed Mr. Leslie,
offering his hand. “My—that is, the Coville Company officers tell me
you've worked out a wonderful piece of engineering for them.”
Blake stared hard at the bookcase behind Mrs. Gantry and answered
curtly, oblivious of the older man's hand. “That remains to be seen.
It's only on paper, so far.”
“But I—h'm—it seems they are sufficiently satisfied to wish to
put you in charge of the Michamac Bridge.”
“How about Ashton—their contract with him?”
“That's to be settled later. I wish—h'm—I understand that you are
to be sent nominally as Assistant Engineer.”
“I am, eh? Excuse
“At double the salary of Ashton, and—”
“Not at ten times the salary as
“But you must know that Griffith's doctor has ordered him to
Florida, and with the work rushing on the bridge—He tells me it has
reached the most critical stage of construction—that suspension
“You seem mighty interested in a project you got rid of,” remarked
Blake, vaguely conscious of the other's repressed eagerness.
“Yes. I was the first to consider the possibility of bridging the
“Your idea, was it?” said Blake, with reluctant admiration. “It was
a big one, all right.”
“Nothing as compared to the invention of that bridge,” returned Mr.
“Your young friend Ashton sure is a great one,” countered Blake.
“The man who planned that bridge is a genius,” stated Mr. Leslie
with enthusiasm. “That's one fact. Another is that Laffie Ashton is
unfit to supervise the construction of the suspension span. I'll see
to it myself that the matter is so arranged that you—”
“Thanks, no. You'll do nothing of the kind,” broke in Blake. He
spoke without brusqueness yet with stubborn determination. “I don't
want any favors from you, and you know why. I can appreciate your
congratulations, long as you seem to want to be friendly. But you
needn't say anything to the company.”
“Very well, very well, sir!” snapped Mr. Leslie, irritated at the
rebuff. He jerked himself about to Mrs. Gantry. “There's time yet.
What do you say to another rubber?”
“You should have spoken before we rose,” replied the lady.
“There'll be others who wish to go. You'll be able to take over some
one's hand. I prefer to remain in here for a tete-a tete with
Blake and Mr. Leslie stared at her, alike surprised. The younger
man muttered in far other than a cordial tone: “Thanks. But I'm not
fit company. Ought to've been abed and asleep hours ago.”
“Yet if you'll pardon me for insisting, I wish to have a little
chat with you,” replied Mrs. Gantry.
At her expectant glance, Mr. Leslie started for the door of the
cardroom. As he went out and closed the door, Mrs. Gantry took the
chair on the other side of the table from Blake, and explained in a
confidential tone: “It is about this unfortunate situation.”
Blake stared at her, with a puzzled frown. “Unfortunate what?”
“Unfortunate situation,” she replied, making an effort to moderate
her superciliousness to mere condescension. “I assure you, I too have
learned that first impressions may err. I cannot now believe that you
are torturing my niece purposely.”
Blake roused up on the instant, for the first time wide awake.
“What!” he demanded. “I—torturing—her?”
“Most unfortunately, that is, at least, the effect of the
“But I—I don't understand! What is it, anyhow? I'd do anything to
save her the slightest suffering!”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Gantry, and she averted her gaze.
“Don't you believe me?” he demanded.
“To be sure—to be sure!” she hastened to respond. “Had I not
thought you capable of that, I should not have troubled to speak to
“But what is it? What do you mean?” he asked, with swift-growing
“I do not say that I blame you for failing to see and understand,”
she evaded. “No doubt you, too, have suffered.”
“Yes, I've—But that's nothing. It's Jenny!” he exclaimed, fast on
the barbed hook. “Good God! if it's true I've made her suffer—But
how? Why? I don't understand.”
Mrs. Gantry studied him with a gravity that seemed to include a
trace of sympathy. There was an almost imperceptible tremor in her
“Need I tell you, Mr. Blake, how a girl of her high ideals, her
high conception of noblesse oblige, of duty (you saved her life as
heroically as—er—as a fireman)—need I point out how grateful she
must always feel toward you, and how easily she might mistake her
gratitude for something else?”
“You mean that she—that she—” He could not complete the sentence.
Mrs. Gantry went on almost blandly. “A girl of her fine and
generous nature is apt to mistake so strong a feeling of gratitude for
what you no doubt thought it was.”
“Yet that morning—on the cliffs—when the steamer came—”
“Even then. Can you believe that if she really loved you then, she
could doubt it now?”
“You say she—does—doubt it? I thought that—maybe—” The heavy
words dragged until they failed to pass Blake's tense lips.
“Doubt it!” repeated Mrs. Gantry. “Has she accepted you?”
“Has she promised you anything?”
“No. She said that, unless she was sure—”
“What more do you need to realize that she is
not sure? Can
you fancy for a moment that she would hesitate if she really loved
you—if she did not intuitively realize that her feeling is no more
than gratitude? That is why she is suffering so. She realizes the
truth, yet will not admit it even to herself.”
“Blake forced himself to face the worst. “Then what—what do
“Ah! so you really are generous!” exclaimed Mrs. Gantry, beaming
upon him, with unfeigned suavity. “Need I tell you that she is
extremely fond of Lord Avondale? With him there could be no doubts, no
“Jimmy is all right,” loyally assented Blake. “Yes, he's all right.
Just the same, unless she—” He stopped, unable to speak the word.
“In accepting him she would attain to—” The tactful dame paused,
considered, and altered her remark. “With him she would be happy.”
“I'm not saying 'no' to that,” admitted Blake. “That is,
“Ah! And you say you love her!” broke in Mrs. Gantry. “What love is
it that would stand between her and happiness—that would compel her
to sacrifice her life, out of gratitude to you?”
Blake bent over and asked in a dull murmur: “You are sure it's
“Indeed, yes! How can it be otherwise?—a girl of her breeding; and
you—what you are!”
Blake bent over still lower, and all his fortitude could not
repress the groan that rose to his lips. Mrs. Gantry watched him
closely, her face set in its suave smile, but her eyes hard and cold.
She went on, without a sign of compunction: “But I now believe you are
possessed of sterling qualities, else I should not have troubled to
speak the truth to you.”
She paused to emphasize what was to follow. “There is only one way
for you to save her. She is too generous to save herself. I believe
that you really love her. You can prove it by—” again she
Blake bent over on the table and buried his face in his arms. His
smothered groan would have won him the compassion of a savage. It was
the cry of a strong man crushed under an unbearable burden. Mrs.
Gantry was not a savage. Her eyes sparkled coldly.
“You will go away. You will prove your love for her,” she said.
Certain that she had accomplished what she had set out to do, she
returned to the cardroom, and left her victim to his misery and
CHAPTER XXVII. A PACKING CASE
Already exhausted by the stress of the fierce fight that he had so
hardly won, Blake could no longer sustain such acute grief. Nature
mercifully dulled his consciousness. He sank into a stupor that
outwardly was not unlike heavy slumber.
Mrs. Gantry had been gone several minutes when the other door swung
open. Dolores skipped in, closely followed by Lafayette Ashton. The
young man's face was flushed, and there was a slight uncertainty in
his step; but as he closed the door and followed the girl across the
room, he spoke with rather more distinctness than usual.
“Here we are,
ma cher. I knew we'd find a place where you
could show me how kind you feel toward your fond Fayette.”
“So that's the way you cross the line?” criticised Dolores. “What a
get-away for a fast pacer who has gone the pace!”
“Now, Dodie, don't hang back. You know as well as I do—”
“Hush! Don't whisper it aloud!” cautioned the girl, pointing
dramatically to Blake. “Betray no secrets. We are not alone!”
Ashton muttered a French curse, and went over to the table.
“It's that fellow, Blake,” he whispered, over his shoulder.
“Mr. Blake?” exclaimed Dolores, tiptoeing to the table. “He's gone
to sleep. Poor man! I know he must be awfully tired, else he would
have waltzed with me again the last time I scratched your name.”
“What you and Genevieve can see in him gets me!” muttered Ashton,
with a shrug. “Look at him now. Needn't tell me he's asleep. He's
intoxicated. That's what's the matter with him.”
Dolores leaned far over the table toward Blake, sniffed, and drew
back, with a judicial shake of her head. “Can't detect it. But, then,
I couldn't expect to, with you in the room.”
She again leaned over the table. “See,” she whispered. “His hand is
tied up. It's hurt.”
“Told you he's intoxicated,” insisted Ashton.
The girl moved toward a davenport in the corner farthest from
“Come over here,” she ordered. “It's a nuisance to sit it out with
you, when it's one of the last waltzes. At least I won't let you
disturb Mr. Blake.”
“Mr. T. Blake, our heroic cave-man!” replied Ashton, as he followed
her across the room.
“How you love him!” she rallied. “What's the cause of your
“Who says I'm jealous?”
“Of course there's no reason for you to be. He's not interested in
me, and you're not in Genevieve—just now.”
“My dear Dodie! You know you've always been the only one.”
“Since the last!” she added. “But if it's not jealousy, what is
it?— professional envy? You've been knocking him all the evening. You
began it the day he came. What have you against him, anyway? He has
never wronged you.”
Ashton's eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth drew up.
“Hasn't he, though!” he retorted. “The big brute! I can't imagine
how your mother can allow you and Genevieve to speak to him, when she
knows what he is. And your uncle—the low fellow tried to blackmail
him—accused him of stealing his bridge plans. First thing I know,
he'll be saying I did it!”
“Did you?” teased the girl, as she seated herself on the heap of
pillows at the head of the davenport.
Ashton's flushed face turned a sickly yellow. He fell, rather than
seated himself, in the centre of the davenport.
“What—what—” he babbled; “you don't mean—No! I didn't!—I tell
you, I didn't! They're my plans; I drew them all myself!”
“Why, Laffie! what is the matter with you?” she demanded, half
startled out of her mockery. “Can it be you've mixed them too freely?
Or is it the lobster? You've a regular heavy-seas-the-first-day-out
He managed to pull himself together and mutter in assent: “Yes, it
must be the lobster. But the sight of that brute is enough to—to—”
“Then perhaps you had better leave the room,” sweetly advised
Dolores. “Mr. Blake happens to be one of my friends.”
“No, he isn't,” corrected Ashton.
“No. I won't have it. You needn't expect me to have anything to do
with you unless you cut him.”
“Oh, Laffie! how could you be so cruel?” she mocked.
He was so far intoxicated that he mistook her sarcasm for entreaty.
He responded with maudlin fervor. “Don't weep, Dodiekins! I'll be as
easy on you as I can. You see, I must inform you on such things, if
you're to be my fiancee.”
She was quick to note his mistake, and sobbed realistically: “
Fi-fiancee! Oh! Oh, Laffie! Bu-but you haven't asked me yet!”
He moved along the davenport nearer to her, and attempted to clasp
“You're a coy one, Dodiekins!” he replied. “Of course I'm asking
you, you know that. You can't think I don't mean it. You know I mean
“Of course! Haven't I been trying to get a chance to tell you, all
the evening? Of course I mean it! You're the fair maiden of my choice,
Dodiekins, even if you aren't so rich as some.”
“Fair?—but I'm a brunette,” she corrected. “It's Genevieve you're
thinking of. Confess now, it is, isn't it?”
“No, indeed, no!” he protested. “I prefer brunettes—always have!
You're a perfect brunette, Dodiekins. I've always liked you more than
Genevieve. You're the perfect brunette type, and you have all that verve—you're so
spirituelle. Just say 'yes' now, and let's
have it over with. To-morrow I'll buy you the biggest solitaire in
“Oh, Laffie!—the biggest? You're too kind! I couldn't think of
it!” she mocked.
“But I mean it, Dodie, every word, indeed I do!” he insisted,
ardently thrusting out an arm to embrace her.
She slipped clear, and sprang up, to stand just beyond his reach.
“So great an honor!” she murmured. “How can I deprive all the other
girls of the greatest catch in town?”
“They've tried hard enough to catch me,” he replied. “But I'd
rather have you than all the blondes put together. I mean it, every
word. I don't mind at all that you're not so rich as Genevieve. I'll
have enough for two, as soon as the old man shuffles off this mortal
coil. You'll bring him dead to rights on the will question. He likes
you almost as well as he likes Genevieve. You're second choice with
“Second!—not the third?—nor the fourth? You're sure?”
“No, second; and you can count on it, he'll do the handsome thing
by Mrs. Lafayette, even if he keeps me on an allowance. So now, say
the word, and come and cuddle up.”
“Oh, Laffie!—in here? We might disturb Mr. Blake.”
“Blake!” he muttered, and he looked angrily at the big inert form
half prostrate on the table. “He's intoxicated, I tell you—or if he's
not, he ought to be. The insolence of him, hanging around Genevieve! I
hope he is drunk! That would settle it all. We'd be rid of him
“'We'?” queried Dolores.
He caught her curious glance, and hastened to disclaim: “No, not
we— Genevieve—I meant Genevieve, of course!”
Dolores affected a coquettish air. “Oh, Mr. Brice-Ashton! I do
believe you want to get him out of the way.”
“I? No, no!” he protested, with an uneasy, furtive glance at Blake.
“Don't try to fool me,” she insisted. “I know your scheme. But it's
of no use. If she doesn't take the hero, she'll accept the earl. Ah,
me! To think you're still scheming to get Vievie, when all the evening
you've pretended it was I!”
In the reaction from his fright, he sprang up and advanced on her
ardently. “It is you, Dodie! you know it is. Own up, now—we're
just suited to each other. It's a case of soul-mates!”
“Oh, is it, really?” she gushed. He sought to kiss her, but she
eluded him coquettishly. “Wait, please. We must first settle the
question. If it's a case of soul-mates, who's to be the captain?”
“See here, Dodie,” he admonished; “we've fooled long enough. I'm in
earnest. You don't seem to realize this is a serious proposal.”
“Really?” she mocked. “A formal declaration of your most honorable
intentions to make me Mrs. L. Brice-Ashton?”
“Of course! You don't take it for a joke, do you?”
She smiled upon him with tantalizing sweetness. “Isn't it? Well,
it may not be. But how about yourself?”
“Dolores,” he warned, “unless you wish me to withdraw my—”
“Your solemn suit!” she cut in. “With that and the case you
mentioned, the matter is complete. A suit and a case make a suitcase.
You have my permission to pack.”
“Dodie! You can't mean it!”
“Can't I? You may pack yourself off and get a tailor to press your
suit. He can do it better. Run along now. I'm going to make up to Mr.
Blake for that waltz of yours that he wouldn't let me give to him.”
“You flirt!” cried Ashton, flushing crimson. “I believe your heart
is made of petrified wood.”
“Then don't ask me to throw it at you. It might hurt your soft
“Dolores!” he warned her.
“Yes,” she went on, pretending to misunderstand him. “Wouldn't it
be awful?—a chunk of petrified wood plunking into a can of woodpulp!”
“I wish you to remember, Miss Gantry—” he began,
“Don't fret,” she impatiently interrupted. “I'll not forget 'Miss
Gantry,' and I wish you wouldn't so often. 'Dodie,' 'Dodie,' 'Dodie,'
all the evening. It's monotonous.”
“Indeed. Am I to infer, Miss Gantry, that you are foolish enough to
play fast and loose with me?”
“You're so fast, how could I loose you?” she punned.
He muttered a French oath.
“Naughty! Naughty!” she mocked. “Swearing in French, when you know
I don't speak it! Why not say, 'damn it' right out? That would sound
“See here, Dodie,” he warned. “I've stood enough of this. You know
you're just dying to say 'yes.' But let me tell you, if you permit
this chance to slip by—”
“Oh, run along, do!” she exclaimed. “I want to think, and it's
impossible with you around.”
“Think?” he retorted. “I know better. What you want is a chance to
coquet with him.”
He looked about at Blake, with a wry twist in his lower lip.
“One enjoys conversing with a man once in a while,” she replied,
and she turned from him a glance of supreme contempt and loathing that
pierced the thickness of his conceit. Disconcerted and confused, he
beat a flurried retreat, jerking shut the door with a violent slam.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SHORTEST WAY
The noise of the door jarred Blake from his lethargy. He groaned
and sluggishly raised his head. His face was bloodless and haggard,
his bloodshot eyes were dull and bleared. He had the look of a man at
the close of a drunken debauch.
Dolores hastened to him, exclaiming, “Mr. Blake, you are ill! I
shall phone for a doctor!”
“No,” he mumbled apologetically. “Don't bother yourself, Miss
Dolores. It's not a doctor I need. I'm only—”
“You are ill! I'll call Genevieve.” She started toward the
“Don't!” he cried. “Not her—for God's sake, not her!” He rose to
his feet heavily but steadily. “I'm going—away.”
“Going away? Where?” asked Dolores, puzzled and concerned.
“Alaska—Panama—anywhere! You're the right sort, Miss Dolores.
You'll explain to her why I had to go without stopping to say
“Of course, Mr. Blake—anything I can do. But why are you leaving?”
“Your mother—she told me.”
“Told you what? I do believe you're dreaming.”
Blake quivered. “Wish it
was a nightmare!” he groaned. He
steadied himself with an effort. “No use, though. She told me the
truth about—your cousin. Said her feeling for me is only gratitude.”
“What! Vievie's?—only gratitude? Don't you believe it! Mamma is
rooting for Jeems. She may believe it; she probably does. She wants
to believe it. She wants a countess in the family.”
“She couldn't do better in that line, nor in any other,” replied
Blake with loyal friendship. “Jimmy is all right; he's the real
“Yes, twenty-four carats fine!”
“Don't joke, Miss Dolores. I know you don't like him, but it's
true, just the same. I knocked around a whole lot with Jimmy, in all
sorts of places. I give it to you straight,—he's square, he's white,
and he's what all kinds of people would call a gentleman.”
“But as for being a man?” she scoffed.
Blake's dull eyes brightened with a fond glow.
“Man?” he repeated. “D' you think I'd fool around with one of these
swell dudes? No; Jimmy is the real thing, and he's a thoroughbred.”
“Such a cute little mustache!” mocked the girl.
“It's one of the few things I couldn't cure him of—-that and his
monocle.” Forgetful of self, Blake smiled at her regretfully and shook
his head. “It's too bad, Miss Dolores. No use talking when it's too
late; but couldn't you have liked him enough to forget the English
part? You and he would sure have made a team.”
“Yes, isn't it too bad? A coronet would fit my head just as well as
Vievie's. But mamma is so silly. She never thought of that.”
Blake stared in surprise. “You don't mean—?”
“Mamma has been so busy saving Vievie from you, she's not had time
to consider me.”
“Say,” exclaimed Blake, “I've half a notion you do like him. That
would account for the way you keep at him with your nagging and
“You don't say!”
“Yes. That's the way one of my sisters used to treat me.”
“How smart you are!” cried the girl, and she faced away from him
petulantly, that he might not see her flaming cheeks. “Oh, yes, of
course I like him! I'm head over heels in love with him! How could I
help but be?”
“Some day you'll know such things aren't joking matters,” he
gravely reproved her.
She turned to him, unable longer to sustain her pretence. Her voice
quavered and broke: “But it's—it's true! I do!”
She bent over with her face in her hands, and her slender form
shook with silent sobs. He came quickly around to her, his eyes soft
with commiseration. “You poor little girl! So you lose out, too!”
She looked up at him with her tearful dark eyes, and clutched
eagerly at the lapel of his coat.
“Mr. Blake! He has told me how resolute you are. You must not give
up! I'm certain Vievie likes you. If only mamma hadn't meddled! She's
always messing things. It's just because she can't realize I'm in long
frocks. If—if only she had seen how much grander it would be to make
herself the mother-in-law of an earl, instead of a mere aunt-in-law!”
Blake's face darkened morosely. “That's the way things are—misdeal
all around. Your mother is right. You've lost out; I've lost out.
What's the use?”
“Surely you're not going to give up?” she demanded.
“I've never before been called a quitter; but—sooner I get out
from between her and Jimmy, the better,” he rejoined, and turning on
his heel, he started toward the door by which Ashton had left.
“But, Mr. Blake,” she urged, “wait. I wish to tell you—”
“No use,” he broke in, without turning or stopping.
She was about to dart after him, when the door opened, and Ashton
entered, carrying a bottle of champagne and a glass. He nodded
familiarly to Blake and approached him with an air of easy good-
Blake saw only the glass and the bottle. He glared at them, his
face convulsed with fierce craving. Then he forced himself to avert
his gaze. But as he started to turn aside, his jaw clenched and his
eyes burned with a sudden desperate resolve. He stopped and waited,
his face as hard as a granite mask. Dolores did not see his
expression. She was eying Ashton, whom she sought to crush with her
“Ho!” she jeered. “So you're going to drown your sorrows in the
flowing bowl. You ought to've remembered that absence makes the heart
To better show her contempt, she turned her back on him.
He instantly stepped forward beside Blake and began pouring out a
glass of the champagne. He smiled suavely, but his eyes narrowed, and
his full lower lip twisted askew.
“Look here, Blake,” he began, “I know you're on the water-wagon;
but you have it in for me for some reason, and I want to make it up
with you. Take a glass of fizz with me.”
Dolores whirled about and saw him with the glass of sparkling wine
outreached to Blake, who was eying it with a peculiar oblique gaze.
“Lafayette Ashton!” she cried. “Aren't you ashamed of yourself?—
aren't you ashamed?”
Ashton shrugged cynically, and urged the wine on Blake. “Come on!
One glass wouldn't hurt a fly. I've heard of your wonderful success
with the Zariba Dam. I want to congratulate you.”
“Congratulate—that's it!” replied Blake, in a harsh, strained
voice. “Best man wins. Loser gets out of the way. All right. I'll take
He reached out his bandaged right hand to take the glass. Dolores
darted toward him, crying out shrilly in horrified protest: “Stop!
stop! Mr. Blake! Think what you're doing!”
“I know what I'm doing,” he said taking the glass and facing her
with a smile that brought tears of pity to her eyes. “Your mother is
right. I'm in your cousin's way. I'm going to get out of her way, and
I'm going to do it in a fashion that'll rid her of me for keeps. Hell
is nearer than Alaska.”
“Wait! wait!” she cried, as he raised the glass to his lips. “For
her sake, don't. Wait!”
“For her sake!” he rejoined, still with that heart-rending smile.
“Here's to her and to him—congratulations!”
He tossed down the wine at a swallow before she could clutch his
She turned upon Ashton, in a fury of scorn and anger. “You—you
“Why, what's the matter?” he protested, feigning innocence. “What's
the harm in a glass of fizz?”
“You knew!” she cried, pressing upon him so fiercely that he gave
back. “You knew what it means for him to drink anything—a single
drop! You scoundrel!”
“There, now, Miss Dolores!” soothed Blake, patting her on the
shoulder. “What's the use of telling him what he is? He knows it as
well as we do. Anyhow, I didn't have to take the drink. I'm the only
one to blame.”
“Oh, Mr. Blake! how could you? How could you?” she cried.
“It was easy enough—doing it for her,” he answered.
“For her! How can you say it?”
“Well, it's done now. Good-bye. I'm not likely to see you again
soon. It's a long trip from hell to heaven,” he explained with grim
Great as was his fortitude, she caught a glimpse of the anguish
behind his mask. But his tone, as he swung Ashton around, repulsed
her. “Come on, Mephistopheles. You've turned the trick. We've less
than three hours before daylight. It's whiskey straight we're after.”
CHAPTER XXIX. LIGHT AND DARKNESS
Not unnaturally Dolores failed to realize at once the utter ruin
that Blake had brought upon himself by overthrowing the pillars of his
temple. She was too intent upon her own tragedy. With Blake out of the
way, Lord James would of course have no difficulty in winning
Genevieve. There was now no hope for her.
She flung herself down in a chair, with a childlike wail. “Why did
he do it? Oh! why did he do it? Oh, Jimmy! you'll never look at me
now! If only I could hurt mamma!”
She bent over, weeping with bitter grief and anger.
She was still sobbing and crying when, sometime later, Lord James
slipped hastily in from the cardroom. He closed the door swiftly and
hurried toward the table, his eyes widening with his attempt to see
clearly in the half light of the library.
“Tom, old man!” he called eagerly. “I'm now free to see you home.
We'll slip out the side entrance—” He stopped short, perceiving that
the big chair was empty, and that the figure in the chair across was
not a man's.
“Er—beg pardon!” he stammered. “I—er—expected to find my friend
here. Believe me, I would not have intruded—”
“So you d—don't consider me a friend!” retorted Dolores, vainly
striving to hide her grief under a scornful tone.
“Miss Gantry!” he exclaimed. “Is it you?”
“It's not Vievie, that's certain. The sooner you run along and mind
your business, the better.”
“Miss Dolores, I—I really can't see why you hold such a dislike to
me. I'll go immediately. I hadn't the remotest idea of intruding.
You'll believe that? Only, y'know, I left Tom—Mr. Blake—in here. I
came to go home with him. He was quite knocked-up. He should not have
“You knew it!—you knew it, and left him in here alone!”
“Why, what do you mean, Miss Dolores? You alarm me! I left him
asleep —fancied he'd not be disturbed in here—that an hour or so of
sleep would freshen him up for the drive home.”
“So you left him—alone—for mamma and that despicable creature to
do their worst!”
“Miss Dolores, I—I beg your pardon, but I quite fail to take you.
If anything has happened to Tom—”
“Regrets! What's the good of them, when it's too late?”
“Too late? Surely you cannot mean that he—?”
“Yes, the worst, the very worst,—and that miserable, detestable
creature knew it when he offered him the wine. I believe he brought it
in deliberately to tempt him.”
“Wine? He drank! How long ago? Where is he now? I must try to check
“If only you could! But it's too late. He went off with Laffie.”
“Not too late! The craving has been checked once—I've seen it
“But this time it's not the craving.”
“It's because he was driven desperate. He took it deliberately—
“Impossible! Tom would never—”
“He would! He did! I saw him. But don't you blame him. She's the
one. How could he know better, in his condition?—utterly tired out!
She drove him to it, I tell you.”
“She—Genevieve? I assure you—”
“No, no! mamma, of course! She told him a pack of lies—took away
all his hope. She made him think that Vievie had never really loved
“Impossible!—unless your mother herself believes it.”
“Oh, she believes it—or thinks she does. She's so anxious—so
anxious!” The girl sprang up and stamped her foot. “Oh! I wish she and
her meddling were in Hades!”
“My dear Miss Dolores!” protested Lord James, tugging nervously at
She whirled upon him in hysterical fury. “Don't you call me that!
Don't you dare call me that! I won't have it! I won't! I'm not your
dear! I tell you—”
His look of blank astonishment checked her in the midst.
“I—I—I didn't mean—” she gasped. “Oh! what must you think of
She turned from him, her face scarlet with shame. But in the same
instant she remembered Blake, and forgot herself in the disaster to
“How selfish of me, when he—Poor Mr. Blake! What can be done? We
must do something—at once!”
“If anything can be done!” said Lord James in a hopeless tone. “You
say he took it deliberately?”
“Yes. Can't you see? Mamma had stuffed him with a lot of rot about
gratitude—about Vievie sacrificing herself to him on account of
gratitude. It's easy enough to guess mamma's little game. Oh! it's
simply terrible! Of course he believed it, and of course he planned at
once to go away—that's the kind of man he is! He planned to go away—
run off—so that Vievie couldn't sacrifice herself.”
“And just then Laffie Ashton came back with the wine. I believe he
did it a-purpose—that he wanted to get Mr. Blake intoxicated!”
“The unmitigated cad! Yet why should he? It seems impossible that
“How should I know? He's vicious enough to do
what does that matter? It's Mr. Blake. Can't you see why he took it?
He was getting himself out of the way. I didn't understand then what
he said—about the bad place being nearer than Alaska—but now I do.
What he was determined to do was to get himself out of Vievie's way
for good. The quickest that he could do it was to start drinking—go
on a spree.”
“And now you stand here like a dummy, when there's a way to save
him.” “Yes, yes! I'll go after him!” He started alertly toward the
She sprang before him, “No! What good would that do? You know he's
set on saving Vievie. He'll not listen to you.”
“Gad! That's true. He's hard enough to handle, at best. With this
added—Yet I cannot but make the effort. I'll phone Mr. Griffith.”
“Griffith? What's the use of wasting time? There's just one person
who can save him, and you know it.”
“No, unless Griffith—”
“Are you absolutely stupid? Can't you see? It's Vievie alone who—”
“Now's the time for her to do something. She must prove her love.
That alone can stop him.”
“If she does love him.”
“Can you doubt it?”
“She has doubted it.”
“She may think she does. But it's all due to mamma's knocking and
suggesting. Vievie loves him as much as he loves her. Needn't tell me!
I know all about it. She made him fail—the time you took him up to
Michamac. This time it's all mamma's fault. Vievie has got to save
“Most assuredly it is hopeless unless she—”
“That's no reason for you to stand here gawking! You've got to go
and tell her. She wouldn't listen to me; but you're a man and his
friend. You can make her see the injustice of it all. She's to blame
as much as mamma. This never would have happened if it hadn't been for
Lord James paused before replying, his clear gray eyes dark with
doubt and indecision.
“My word!” he murmured. “Could I but feel certain—This second
failure, in so short a time! There is her future to be
considered, as well.”
“Her future as Countess of Avondale!” scoffed the girl.
“No, I assure you, no!” he insisted. “Can you believe I could be so
low?—and at such a time as this! It was of the consequences to her as
well as to him—He has failed again. Can he ever win out, even should
he have her aid?”
“You claim to be his friend!”
“For his sake, no less than hers—Consider what it would mean to a
man of his nature, unable to check himself in his downward course, yet
conscious that it was wrecking her happiness, possibly her life.”
“It won't happen, not if she really loves him. You don't half know
him. He could do anything—anything!—if she went to him and asked him
to do it for her sake.”
“Could I but be sure of that!”
“Pah! You pretend to be his friend. How long would you stand
here fiddling and fussing, if you didn't want her yourself?”
“That—it is too much!” he said, his face pale and very quiet. “I
had ventured to hope that I might overcome your dislike. Now I see
that it is as well that you have refused to regard me other than as
“Why, what do you mean? I—I don't understand.”
“You have always been candid. Permit me to be the same. The truth
is that I had begun to wish Tom success—not alone because of my
friendship for him. But now I realize that his fight is hopeless. I
shall do my utmost to make your cousin happy.”
Dolores stared at him with dilating eyes. “Jimmy!” she whispered.
“It can't be you mean that you—that you—?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Pardon me for saying anything about it. I
shall not bother you again.”
“Oh, thank you!” she scoffed. “So now you're going to stay quiet
and wait for Vievie to fling herself into your arms when she hears
about your rival.”
The young Englishman flushed and as suddenly became white, yet his
voice was as steady as it was low. “I shall do whatever she wishes, if
she finds that she does not love him.”
“And that's all?” she jeered. “You'll calmly keep out of it while
he commits hara-kiri, and then you'll step into his shoes.”
“No. I shall go to her at once and ask her to save my friend—if
she loves him.”
“You will!” cried the girl, her cheeks flushing and her black eyes
sparkling with delight—“You will! Oh, Jimmy!”
Even as the words left her lips, she became conscious of what she
had done, and her flush brightened into a vivid scarlet blush. She
turned and fled from him, panic-stricken.
He stood dazed, unable at first to believe what her tone and look
had betrayed to him. When, after some moments, his doubt gave way to
certainty, his face lighted with what might be termed joyous
“My word!” he murmured. “The little witch! I'll pay her out jolly
well for it all!”
But his blissfully exultant vexation was no more than a flash that
deepened the gloom with which he recalled the disaster to his friend.
“Gad!” he reproached himself. “What am I thinking of—with her and
He turned quickly to the door of the cardroom.
CHAPTER XXX. THE END OF DOUBT
When the Englishman entered the card-room, the last of the players
to linger at their table had risen and were taking their leave of
Genevieve. Her father and aunt were disputing over their last game.
But at sight of the newcomer, Mrs. Gantry bowed and beckoned to him,
instantly forgetful of her argument.
“You are always in time, Earl,” she remarked. “We are just about to
leave. May I ask if you have seen Dolores?”
“Not a moment ago. I daresay she has gone for her wraps.”
“Huh! Ran off from you, eh?” bantered Mr. Leslie. “She's a coltish
kitten. Didn't scratch, did she?”
“She misses no opportunity for that, the hoyden!” put in Mrs.
Gantry. “Ah, Earl, we are the last.” She rose and went to meet
Genevieve, who was coming to them from the farther door. “My dear
girl, I congratulate you! It has been a grand success!”
“Thank you, Aunt Amice,” replied Genevieve in rather a listless
tone. “Must you be going?”
“Lord Avondale has just come in to let me know that it is time.”
“Er—beg pardon,” said Lord James. “I wish to speak with Miss
Leslie before going.”
“Ah, in that case,” murmured Mrs. Gantry, with a gratified smile,
“you are excused, of course! Herbert, you may see me out.”
Mr. Leslie looked from Lord James to his daughter doubtfully. But
the Englishman was fingering a pack of cards with seeming nonchalance,
and Genevieve met her father's glance with a quiet smile. He shook his
head, and went out with Mrs. Gantry.
As they left the room, Lord James faced Genevieve with a sudden
tensity that compelled her attention.
“What is it?” she asked, half startled by his manner. “You said you
wished to speak with me?”
“If you'll be so kind as to come into the library. It's a most
serious matter. There'll be less chance of interruptions.”
She permitted him to lead her in to her former seat at the library
table. He took the big chair across from her.
“You look so grave,” she said. “Please tell me what it is.”
“Directly. Yet first I ask you to prepare yourself. Something has
She bent toward him, startled out of her fatigue and lassitude.
“You alarm me!”
“I cannot help it,” he replied. “Genevieve, matters have come to an
unexpected crisis. There can be no more delay. I must ask you to make
your decision now. Do you love Tom?”
You have no right to ask that. I did not give you the right. You
said you would wait.”
“I am not asking for myself,” he insisted. “It is for him. He has
the right to know.”
“The right? How?” she asked, with growing agitation. “I do not
understand. You spoke of some misfortune. Has papa—?”
“Quite the contrary. Yet Tom is in a very bad way, and unless
“Tom ill—ill?” she cried. “And I did not realize it! That I should
have been angered—should have left him—because I thought he was in a
rage—and all the time it was because of his suffering, his illness!
It was despicable of me—selfish! Oh, Tom, Tom!”
She covered her face with her hands, and bent over, quivering with
silent grief and penitence.
“You have answered me,” said Lord James, regarding her with grave
sympathy. “You love him.”
She looked up at him, dry-eyed, her face drawn with anxiety. “Where
is he? Why aren't you with him? He has a doctor? He must have the
“That rests with you, Genevieve,” he replied. “There is one person
alone who can save him—if she loves him enough to try.”
The truth flashed upon her. She stared at him, her eyes dilating
with horror. “It is that you mean! He has failed—again!”
He sought to ease her despair. “Believe me, it is not yet too
late— Permit me to explain.”
“Explain?” she asked. “What is there to explain? He has failed!”
Her voice broke in a sob of uncontrollable grief. “I tried to forget,
still hoping he was strong—that he would prove himself strong. How I
have hoped and prayed—and now!”
She bent over, with her face on the table, in a vain effort to
conceal and repress her grief.
Lord James leaned forward, eagerly insistent. “You must listen to
me. He has not had fair play. Such a gallant fight as he was making! I
believe he would have won, I really believe he would have won, had it
not been for that woman.”
“What woman?” asked Genevieve, half lifting her head.
“Pardon me,” he replied. “But your aunt—It was most uncalled for,
most unfair. It seems she sought him out—to-night, of all times!—
when he was pegged—completely knocked-up. You have seen that
yourself. This was after we deserted him.”
“Deserted? Yes, that is the word—deserted!”
“At the moment when he tasted the wine, quite unaware of what he
was doing. We deserted him at the time when he had utmost need of us.
What clearer proof of his great strength than that he fought off the
“Yet now you say—?”
“He fought it off then. He proved himself as strong as even you
could desire. When I hastened in I found him still where I am sitting,
but doubled over, utterly spent—asleep, poor chap. His hand was
bleeding. He had shattered your—he had crushed one of the glasses
with his fist.”
“Crushed a glass! But why?”
“To prevent himself from drinking what was in it. Can't you see?
The struggle must have been frightful; yet he won. Had I but foreseen!
I fancied he would be undisturbed in here—would get a bit of
refreshing sleep to pull him up. But your aunt came in. She took her
opportunity —convinced him that you did not love him; that your
feeling was only gratitude.”
Genevieve bent over, with renewed despair. “And for that he gave up
“He fought and won when we left him, when we deserted him in his
need. It was only after your aunt had convinced him that you did
“He foresaw that he would lose!” she cried. “He foresaw! But I—I
could not believe it possible!”
“But you do not understand. It was not that he really lost. He did
not give way because of weakness. He did it deliberately—”
“Deliberately?” she gasped. Surprise gave place to an outflashing
of scorn. “Deliberately! Oh, that he could do such a thing—
“No, no! I must insist. To cut himself off from you, that was his
purpose. He thought to save you from sacrificing yourself. However
mistaken he was, you must see how high a motive—how magnanimous was
But the girl was on the verge of hysteria, and quite beyond reason.
“You may believe it—I don't! I can't! He's weak—utterly weak!”
“Genevieve, no! There's still time to save him. A word from you, if
you love him.”
“Love him!” she cried, almost beside herself. “How can I love him?
He did it deliberately! I despise him!”
“You are vexed—angry. Pray calm yourself. I remember what you had
to say about him, there on the steamer, coming up from Aden. You loved
“But now—Oh, how could he? How could he?”
The Englishman failed to understand the real cause of her half-
frenzied anger and despair—the thought that Blake had ruined himself
deliberately. “But don't you see it was not weakness? He proved it
when he shattered the glass. His hand was cut and bleeding. He has
proved that he can master that craving. I've sought to explain how it
was. It is not yet too late. A word from you would save him, a single
“No. It is too late. I can't see it as you do. It was weakness—
weakness! I cannot believe otherwise.”
“Yet—if you love him?”
“James, it is generous of you—noble!—when you yourself—”
“That's quite out of it now. It's of him I am thinking, and of
“Never of yourself!” she murmured. She looked down for a short
moment. When she again raised her eyes, she had regained her usual
quiet composure. She spoke seriously and with a degree of formality:
“Lord Avondale, when you honored me with your offer, you asked me to
wait before giving you a final answer.”
He was completely taken unawares. “I—I—To be sure. But I cannot
permit you—Your happiness is my first consideration.”
“It is that disregard of self, that generosity, which enables me to
speak. As I told you, I can now give you no more than the utmost of my
esteem and affection. But if you are willing to take that as a
beginning, perhaps, later on, I may be able to return your love as you
“But you—I do not know how to say it—In justice to yourself, no
less than to him, you should make sure.”
“I have never been more sure,” she replied. “You have been most
generous and patient. It is not right or considerate for me to longer
delay my decision.”
“Er—very good of you, very!” he murmured, gazing down at his
interlocked fingers. “Yet—if you would care to wait—to make sure, y'
“But why should I wait? No, James, I am clear in what I am doing. I
know that I can trust you absolutely.”
Lord James slowly raised his head and met her gaze, too intent upon
repressing the stress of his emotions to perceive the big fur-clad
form that stood rigid in the doorway beyond Genevieve.
“Miss Leslie,” he said, speaking in the same formal and serious
tone that she had used in giving her decision, “I am then to
understand that you accept my proposal—you will marry me?”
“Within the year, if you desire,” she responded, without any sign
“It's very good of you!” he replied. “I shall devote myself to your
If his voice lacked the joyful ring and his look the ardent delight
of a successful lover, she failed to heed it. He rose and bent over
the table with grave gallantry to kiss the hand that she held out to
“'Gratulations!” said a harsh voice, seemingly almost in their
They looked up, startled. Blake stood close to them, at the end of
the table, with his soft hat in his half-raised left hand, and his
shaggy fur coat hanging limp from his bowed shoulders. He stood with
perfect steadiness. Only in the fixed stare of his bloodshot eyes and
the twitching of the muscles in his gray-white face could they
perceive the mental stress and excitement under which he was laboring.
“Tom!” stammered the Englishman. “You here!”
“Couldn't get Ashton started,” replied Blake. His voice was hoarse
and rasping but not thick. Though he spoke slowly, his enunciation was
distinct. “His man just carried him out. I've been waiting to slip
out, unseen, this way. I ask you to excuse me. Long's I'm here, I'll
make the best of it I can. Congratulations to you! Best man wins!”
While he was speaking, Genevieve had drawn her hand out of the
unconscious clasp of Lord James and slowly risen from her chair. Her
face was as white as Blake's; her eyes were wide with fear and pity
“You!—how could you do it?” she gasped. “When I had given you the
second chance—to fail again!” The sight of his powerful jaw, clenched
and resolute, stung her into an outburst of angry scorn. “Fail, fail!
always fail! yet with that look of strength! To come here with that
look, after failing again so utterly, miserably—in my house! You
“That's it,” assented Blake in a dead monotone. “Only pity is you
couldn't see it sooner. But you know me now. Ought to 've known me
from the first. I didn't get drunk there in Mozambique 'cause I hadn't
the stuff. You might have known that. But now it's settled. I've
proved myself a brute and a fizzle—been proving it ever since Ashton
got a bottle and showed me into a little room. We've been guzzling
whiskey in there ever since. His man took him out dead drunk. So far
“Tom!” broke in Lord James. “No more of that! Tell the truth—tell
her why you did it!”
“Tell her—when she's guessed already. But if you say so,
Jimmy—It's the first time I ever owned up I'm a quitter. Great joke
that, when all my life I haven't been anything else,—hobo, fizzle,
“Gad! Not that drivel! If you can't explain to her, then keep
“No, I don't keep silent till I've had my say,” rejoined Blake
morosely. “Needn't think I don't know just what I'm saying and what
I'm doing.” His voice harshened and broke with a despair that was all
the more terrible for the deadness of his tone. “God! That's why the
whiskey won't work. I've poured it down like water, but it's no use—
it won't work! I can't forget I've lost out!”
Genevieve leaned toward him, half frenzied, her face crimson and
her gentle eyes ablaze with scorn. “And you—you!—claiming to be
sober— come in here and say that to me!—that you've deliberately
sought to intoxicate yourself in my house—in my house! You haven't
even the decency to go away to do it! You must flaunt your shame in my
“I told you I meant to slip out unseen,” he mumbled, for the moment
weakening in his determination to vilify himself. “Didn't think you'd
give me the gaff—when it was all for you.”
“For me!” she cried, in a storm of hysteria—“for me! Oh! To
destroy all my love for you—my trust in the courage, the strength,
the heroism I thought was yours! Oh! And to prove yourself a brute, a
mere brute!—here in my own house!—my guest! Oh! oh! I hate you! I
She flung herself, gasping and quivering, into her chair, in a
desperate effort to regain self-control.
Blake bent over her and murmured with profound tenderness: “There,
there, little girl! Don't take on so! I ought to 've cleared out right
at first—that's a fact. But I didn't mean to bother you. Just
blundered in. But I'm glad to know you've found out the truth. Long's
you know for sure that you hate me, 't won't take you long to feel
right toward him. He's all I'm not. Mighty glad you're going to be
Genevieve had become very still. But she neither looked up at him
nor spoke when he stopped. He turned steadily about and started toward
the door of the cardroom. Lord James thrust back the heavy chair and
sprang to place himself before his friend.
“Wait, Tom!” he demanded. “Can't you see? She's overcome. Good God!
You can't go off this way! You must wait and tell her the truth—how
it happened—why you did it!”
Blake looked at him quietly and spoke in a tone of gentle warning,
as one speaks to a young child: “Now, now, Jimmy boy, get out of my
way. Don't pester me. Just think how easily I could smash you—and I'm
not so far from it. Stand clear, now.”
“No! In justice to yourself—to her!”
“That's all settled. Let me by.”
He stepped to one side, but Lord James again interfered. “No, Tom,
not till you've told her! You shall not go!”
The Englishman stood resolute. Blake shook his head slowly, and
spoke in a tone of keen regret: “Sorry, Jimmy; but if you will
His bandaged right fist drove out and struck squarely on the point
of his friend's jaw. His nerves of sensation were so blunted by the
liquor he had drunk that he struck far harder than he intended. Lord
James dropped without a groan, and lay stunned. Blake stared down at
him, and then slowly swung around to look at Genevieve.
She had risen and stood with her hands clutching the edge of the
table. Her face was distorted with horror and loathing.
“You coward!—you murderer!” she gasped.
“Yes, that's it,” he assented—“brute, drunkard, coward,
murderer—all go together. You're right to hate me! But you can't hate
me half as much as I hate myself. That's hell all right—to hate
Suddenly he flung out his arms toward her and his voice softened to
passionate tenderness. “God! but it's worth the price!—to save you,
Jenny! I'd do it all over again, a thousand times, to make you happy,
She shrank back and flung up her arm in a gesture of bewilderment,
which he mistook for fear.
“Don't be afraid,” he reassured. “I'm going.”
He turned hastily, stooped to feel the heart of the unconscious
man, and rose to swing across to the cardroom door. He passed out
swiftly and closed the door behind him, without pausing for a backward
Genevieve stared after him, dazed and bewildered by her half
realization of the truth. The door had closed between them—what
seemed to her an age had passed—when the full realization of what he
had done flashed in upon her clouded brain like a ray of glaring white
She flung out her arms and cried entreatingly: “Tom! Tom—dearest!”
She tried to dart around the table, but swayed and tottered, barely
saving herself from the fall by sinking into a chair. The heavy,
muffled clang of the street door came to her as from a vast distance.
The merciful darkness closed over her.
CHAPTER XXXI. A BRIDGE GAME
The cold snap at Michamac had been broken for nearly a month, and
work on the bridge was progressing with unprecedented rapidity.
Two days after the ball, Ashton had returned to the bridge sobered
and chastened. The change in him may have been due to another cut in
his allowance, or to a peppery interview during which Mr. Leslie had
sought to browbeat him into resigning his position.
Whatever the cause of his change of heart, Ashton had so far proved
himself almost feverishly eager to establish a record. Griffith, badly
shaken by the failure and disappearance of Blake, had been
peremptorily ordered South by his physician. Seizing the opportunity,
Ashton, instead of interfering with the work, as McGraw expected, had
astonished the phlegmatic general foreman by pushing operations with
utmost zeal and energy.
More mechanics and laborers had been hired, and the augmented force
divided into three eight-hour shifts. All day, in sun or fog or snow,
and all night, under the bluish glare of the arc-lights, the expert
bridgemen toiled away upon the gaunt skeleton of the gigantic bridge,
far out and above the abyss of the strait. Not a moment of the twenty-
four hours was lost.
But the Resident Engineer's brief spurt of energy had already
notably relaxed, when, one sunny day near the end of March, a man not
a member of the train crew nor a regular passenger came in on the
afternoon train. As he emerged from under a coal car, one of the
switchmen stared at him blankly, swore a few lurid oaths, and laughed.
The brake-rider had paid for his ride, though not in money. He
limped as he walked off, and the gray pallor of his unshaven face was
grotesquely shaded and blotched with coal dust. His shoddy clothes
were torn and mud-stained, his soft hat begrimed and shapeless, his
cheap shoes too far gone for repair. Yet for all his shiftless
footwear and his limp, his stride was long and quick.
A watchman caught sight of him, and hurried after, to warn him off
the grounds. The hobo disappeared behind a pile of girders. When the
watchman turned the corner, his quarry had disappeared. He shook his
head doubtfully at the bridge-service train, which was backing out
along the track before him with a load of eyebars and girders. There
was reason to believe that the hobo had boarded it; but if so, it was
under too speedy headway for the rheumatic watchman to follow.
His suspicions were well founded. As the train clattered past the
unlovely buildings of rough lumber and sheet iron clustered about the
bridge terminus, the stranger clambered up between two of the swaying
cars and perched himself upon the wheel-like top of the handbrake.
Seated thus, with feet dangling and hands thrust carelessly into the
pockets of his disreputable coat, he gazed intently about at the
bridge, regardless of the bitter sting of the lake wind.
The train rattled out across the shore span and along the anchor
arm of the south cantilever. The brake-rider scrutinized the immense
webs and lofty towers with the look of a father greeting his
first-born. The train rolled on out between the towers and beyond,
where swarms of carpenters and laborers were laying beams and
stringers and floor planking and piling up immense stacks of material
to be used farther out. The finishing gangs were following up the
steel workers as fast as they could be pushed.
Beyond them, out near the end of the extension-arm, the electro-
magnetic cranes of the huge main traveller were sorting and shifting
forward a great heap of structural steel. The material thus handled
came within the reach of the smaller traveller, which crouched upon
the top-chords like a skeleton spider, swinging out the steel as
wanted to the end of the unfinished suspension span.
At sight of the great heaps of structural steel and flooring
material and of the ponderous main traveller so far out toward the end
of the overhang, the glow in the sunken eyes of the brake-rider died
out, and his grimy brows gathered in a troubled frown.
The airbrakes hissed, the cars bumped and clanked, and the train
came to a laborious stop with the outermost cars beneath the lofty
latticed framework of the main traveller. At once the electro-magnetic
cranes began to descend, ready to swing off whole carloads of steel in
their magic monstrous clutch.
The brake-rider had slipped down and was walking rapidly outward
along the narrow plank footway. As he advanced he looked about him
with an anxious gaze, but it was at the unfloored substructure of the
bridge, not at the awesome spectacle of the swift-flowing, ice-covered
stream a hundred and fifty feet beneath. Once he paused and stooped
over to look closer at a rivet head.
He hurried on to where, under the smaller traveller, the
uncompleted south part of the central, or suspension, span poised
dizzily in space, over-arching the abyss. Many yards of gap still
yawned between its tip and the tip of the sections that strained out
to meet it from the end of the north cantilever.
The sections built on to the southern part of the central span had
brought the overhang still more dizzily out over the broad strait. The
wonder was that men could be found who were willing to work day after
day in a position of such real peril. Yet since Ashton's change of
attitude, McGraw had experienced no difficulty in securing and holding
enough and to spare of expert bridge-workers, who toiled and sweat at
their task with seemingly never a thought of the abyss that yawned
When the brake-rider left the train, the men of the evening shift,
just come on, were swarming about the end of the overhang like ants
upon the tip of a broken twig,—alert-eyed, quick-handed, cool-brained
“Sons of Martha,” who, balanced unconcernedly in mid-air on narrow
stringers, clenched fast the rivets in Death's steel harness. During
the lulls between the furiously rattling volley-blows of the electric
riveting-machines they grumbled about the deterioration of smoking
tobacco or speculated on next season's baseball scores.
With his beefy shoulders braced against the last top-chord post,
McGraw stood chewing the end of a fat black cigar while he watched the
placing of a bottom-chord of a new sub-panel. From the ox-like
unconcern of his stolid face and deepset eyes, his interest in the
proceedings seemed to be of the most casual nature. But at the
slightest gesture of his pudgy hand, cranes swung up and down, men
hauled upon guy ropes, riveters moved alertly forward with their
One of the men caught McGraw's eye, and jerked a thumb over his
shoulder. The general foreman looked about and saw the grimy stranger
standing on the plank walk a few yards back. McGraw stared, ruminated,
signed to a sub-foreman, and walked stolidly back along a string of
single planks to where the stranger stood waiting for him.
The soft hat of the brake-rider was now pulled down over his eyes,
and his chin was hidden in the upturned collar of his tattered coat.
As McGraw approached him, he drew back out of the deafening clatter of
the riveting-machines. McGraw followed, his heavy face of a sudden
grown truculent. He came up close to the stranger.
“You dirty bum!” he threatened. “What you doin' here? Get t' hell
outer here, or I'll trow you over!”
The stranger pushed back his hat, and met the other's menacing
stare with a grin. His pale blue eyes were twinkling. McGraw's heavy
jowl fell slack.
“Well, McGraw—thought you wouldn't forget me this soon. What's the
latest from Mr. Griffith?”
“Jacksonville—Holy saints! you've sure been lushin' some, Mr.
“Looks like it; but as it happens I haven't. Tried to turn loose,
but got switched. Instead of a spree, I've been on a bum—tour of the
“Bum?” repeated McGraw.
“Yes. Needed a change. Too much indoors work; so I got out.”
“Uh?” mumbled McGraw in slow astonishment. “No booze?”
“No. That's the funny part of it. Didn't touch a drop of anything.
I used to be afraid of it when I wasn't on a tear, but now I don't
even think of it. Seems as if I couldn't get up a thirst if I tried.
Can't make it out.”
“Sick,” commented McGraw.
“No. I'm eating like a horse, and getting my strength back, hand
“In your head,” qualified McGraw, touching his forehead.
“Guess that's it. Must be. Never before opened the throttle and cut
loose, to come to a dead stop this way. It's as if you got up a full
head of steam, and then drew the fire. Mighty queer, though,—my head
is as clear as crystal.”
“Huh,” grunted McGraw ambiguously. “Come to take your
Blake's face darkened. “No, just dropped by on my way to Canada.
Thought I'd have a look at my—” he paused, and altered his statement
—“that I'd see how your old scrap-heap is getting along.”
“But, long as I'm here, guess I'll take hold for a turn or two,
just to keep my hand in.”
“Good! Need an engineer.”
“I might as well earn enough for railroad fare. This brake-beaming
and riding the rods isn't as soft a snap as it used to seem when I was
“Soft? Y'look like a second-hand garbage-can!”
“Thanks. Where's your resident swell?”
“Quarters. Hit up the pace—work—been goin' some.” McGraw swept
his fat arm around in an explanatory gesture. “Laid down a'ready.”
“All right. I'm on the job. But I've got to get some sleep soon.
And say, just pick out a spry kid to steer me up against the
wash-house, will you?”
McGraw signed to the nearest man. “Pete—Mr. Blake, our 'Sistant
Engineer—t' my room.” He turned to Blake. “Help y'self. Safety razor
'n' tub handy. Clothes in locker. You c'n wear 'em over to commissary.
Guess you c'n git into 'em.”
He nodded, unaware that he had said anything humorous, and pivoted
around to return to his work. Blake limped briskly away after the
puzzled but silent Pete. At the bunkhouse Pete showed his charge into
McGraw's room, and went to order hot water for a bath.
When he returned, Blake, with half the stubble already shorn from
his lathered face, handed over a telegraph message addressed to
Eager to be of service to the Consulting Engineer, the man hurried
the message to the telegraph operator. The latter, no less friendly to
Griffith, corrected the address to the sick engineer's hotel in Tampa,
and wired the despatch “rush.”
The message could hardly have been more laconic:
On the job. Tom.
When Pete returned for further orders, he met the Assistant
Engineer at the door of the commissary, baggily draped in a suit of
McGraw's clothes, which fitted nowhere except across the shoulders.
Blake dismissed him, and went in to outfit himself with a costume
in keeping with his position. Almost asleep, he then went back to the
bunkhouse, stumbling and yawning, and stretched out in McGraw's bed,
CHAPTER XXXII. LAFFIE PLAYS—BLAKE
After an evening at poker with one of the new bridge-workers,
Ashton had retired at midnight. He had not heard of Blake's coming,
for McGraw had presumed that the Assistant Engineer had reported to
the office before turning in to sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was half way up the eastern sky. He yawned,
glanced at the sun, and rang for his breakfast. It was presently
brought in to him by his English valet, who, like the chef, was not
unused to the city social hours of his employer. Ashton did not
trouble to go into his elegant little dining-room, but ordered the
meal served at his bedside.
Sometime later, Blake, over in the bunkhouse, opened his eyes,
yawned, and sprang out into the middle of McGraw's unaesthetic room.
He had slept eighteen hours without a break. He awoke still stiff and
sore, but brimming over with energy, and hungry as a shark. He gave
himself a cold rubdown, jumped into his new clothes, and ran to the
cookhouse for a hearty meal.
When he came out again, he headed straight across the tracks for
the office of the Resident Engineer. He smiled ironically as he noted
the green and white paint and the trimmings of the verandahs with
which Ashton had endeavored to give a bungalow effect to the
shack-like structure. But as he swung up the steps into the front
verandah, the grimness of his look increased and the humor vanished.
His heavy tread through the weather vestibule announced his entrance
into the office. He took no pains to walk softly.
Ashton, attired in a lounging-robe of scarlet silk, was half
reclining in an easy chair. The big desk beside him was littered with
engineering journals, reports, and blueprints of bridge plans, topped
with detail drawings in ink of the long central span. The Resident
Engineer was not studying the plans. He was reading a French novel of
the variety seldom translated.
At Blake's entrance, he looked up, his delicate high-arched
eyebrows gathered in a frown of annoyance. Almost in the same moment
he recognized the intruder, and started to his feet in open alarm.
“How!—why!” he stammered. “You here? I thought you—that after—”
“Too bad, eh?” bantered Blake. “But you mustn't blame yourself. You
did your best. But accidents will happen.”
“Then you're—you're not—Yet you look—”
“Appearances often deceive,” quoted Blake lightly. “You gave me a
great start-off—had me going South. So I went.”
“Yes. But that's all by-the-bye, as my friend, the Right Honorable
the Earl of Avondale, would say. I'm here now for you to enter my
acceptance of the standing offer of the Assistant Engineership.”
“You—you agree to take it—under me?” cried Ashton in
“Why not?” asked Blake with well-feigned surprise.
“Why, of course if—You see, it's—it's rather unexpected,” Ashton
sought to explain as he regained assurance. “Old Griffith wrote me
about the way you had put through the Zariba Dam. After that I never
dreamed you'd accept any position as Assistant.”
“Well, I like to please Grif,” was Blake's easy reply. “He's been
worrying because office work uses me up. Nothing suits me better than
an outdoor job, and I happened to take a fancy to your bridge the
other time I came. It's a good deal like those plans of mine that got
mislaid. Of course you can't know that.”
“No, of course not!” assented Ashton, moistening his lower lip.
“Course not,” repeated Blake. “So I can't blame you if you find it
hard to believe that my plans would have been accepted before you drew
yours if they hadn't been mislaid.”
“Then you—no longer accuse Mr. Leslie of—having taken them?”
Ashton ventured to ask.
“Couldn't prove it on him, could I? No use
spilt milk. Well, you understand I'm on the job now; I've accepted the
“Ye-es,” reluctantly admitted Ashton. “Not that I see the use.
There's no need for another engineer.”
“That's no lie. One engineer is enough,” said Blake dryly. “You
sure proved yourself one when you planned this little old cantilever.
However, I'm short of cash. I'll hang around and do what I can. May be
able to save you bother by carrying orders out to McGraw or checking
over reports for you.”
He picked up the vellum-cloth drawings of the central span and some
of the blueprints, and began in a matter-of-fact manner to roll them
“Hold on!” sharply interposed Ashton. “What are you about?”
“I'm going to bunk with McGraw. Thought I'd take these over and try
to get in touch with the work.”
“No, you sha'n't! I can't allow you to take those. They're the
original drawings. They must not be taken out of my office.”
“Original drawings?” repeated Blake in a tone of perfect innocence.
“Excuse me. I took them for copies.”
“C-copies!” stuttered Ashton, turning white even to his lips.
“Yes. Hasn't Grif the originals?” asked Blake in a careless tone
that was barely touched with surprise.
Ashton rallied from his fright. “No, you're mistaken, completely
mistaken! These are the originals. I drew them myself. I couldn't
trust to a draughtsman.”
“Sure not, such important work as this span of yours. Grif tells me
there's never before been anything built like this suspension span,”
agreed Blake, bending over to study the drawings. “But you'll admit
some of these figures are rather slipshod for work on original
drawings put in to win a competition.”
“But I—I didn't compete. The idea came to me too late for that. I
tried my utmost to be in time for the contest. I was working fast to
get my plans drawn. That's why I made some errors—which you may have
Blake looked up with an ironical smile.
Ashton moistened his lips, hesitated, and asked in an uneasy tone:
“About—about how long do you expect to stay? I suppose you will stay,
“Well, three or four days, maybe. As you probably know, Grif
screwed the company up to offer me a stiff salary—on the strength of
that Zariba work, I suppose. I didn't intend to take the offer at all,
but my clothes were—they got rather out of repair on my Southern
tour, and I came on up here without stopping at my tailor's. Happened
to leave my checkbook, too, and it's a long walk to town.”
“Oh, if it's only that you're strapped,” Ashton hastened to reply;
“I'll be pleased to draw you a check—little loan, you know—anything
from a hundred to a thousand. No hurry about paying it back. I'm
“You're too kind!” said Blake dryly.
“It's nothing—nothing—a mere trifle!” assured Ashton, with a
touch of condescension. “You know I'll have scads of money to burn
some day.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a checkbook. “I
know you can't be anxious to hang around a dreary hole like this.
Suppose I make it five thousand? You can keep the money as long as you
wish. There's just time for you to catch the extra train we're sending
down to the junction for more steel.”
“Thanks. But I need a good rest,” said Blake.
“I'll think it over, and let you know. Maybe I'll decide to loaf
around with you a few days and save borrowing.”
“Oh, well, if you can stand this jumping-off place,” replied
Ashton, visibly disappointed.
He glanced down into the open drawer, and his eyes narrowed with a
look of furtive eagerness that did not escape Blake. In a corner of
the drawer was a squat black bottle and a tumbler. Ashton lifted them
out and poured a half-glassful of whiskey that was thick and oily with
“The real stuff!” he said, holding out the tumbler to Blake. “Older
than your grandmother. Let's wet your welcome to Michamac!”
“Here's how!” replied Blake, with a geniality of tone and manner
that diverted the other's attention from the glint in his eyes. He
took the glass and deliberately twisted his hand backward so that the
whiskey poured out on the bare floor in front of the desk.
“Look out! You're spilling it!” exclaimed Ashton.
“No, just pouring it,” explained Blake. “German custom. Next time
you're in a beer-garden do it, and they'll let you know what it
“Means?” echoed Ashton.
“In this case, it means I never drink when I'm on a job. One of my
rules. Told you I had accepted that standing offer, didn't I?”
“Yes. But I didn't know that you—”
“Well, you know now. I'm on this job.”
Ashton shot a covert glance at his square-jawed opponent.
“Then it's a mistake—the report that you refused to accept any
position from Mr. Leslie,” he murmured.
“Mistake? No,” curtly answered Blake. “Needn't try to fool me. Mr.
Leslie turned the bridge over to the Coville Company months ago.”
“Fool you?” sneered Ashton. “You're too easy! The Coville Company
is only another name for Papa Leslie.”
“Look here,” warned Blake. “You're apt to learn soon that some lies
“It's the truth,” replied Ashton, giving back a little, but
insistent on the facts. “It's a way he avoids responsibility. But he
owns ninety-nine per cent of the stock. Griffith must have told you
that. He knows all about it.”
This obstinate insistence, despite the young fellow's evident fear,
convinced Blake. He half raised his clenched fist.
“And I fell to it!” he muttered. “Let him bunco me into putting
through that dam for him! Scheme to make me take his money!”
“You as good as put half a million into his pocket,” jeered Ashton.
“What do I care about that?” rejoined Blake.
“It's that fifty thousand bonus. He'll be trying to force it on
Ashton thought he had misunderstood. “Don't fear he'll not pay up.
He's good pay when you have it in black and white. There's still time
to catch the train. You'll find your check waiting you at the offices
of the company.”
Blake did not reply. One of the dimensional figures on a blueprint
of the south cantilever had caught his glance, and he had bent over to
peer at it. A sudden stillness seemed to have fallen upon him.
After a perceptible pause, he asked in a tone that was very low and
quiet and deliberate: “Would you mind telling me if this blueprint was
made direct from your originals—from the original drawings used in
ordering the structural steel?”
“Yes, of course,” answered Ashton. “Why?”
“You are sure?”
“I'm certain. You don't think I'd let any one with a pen fool
around my drawings, do you?”
“Lord, no! Might correct your damn errors!” cried Blake, all his
stony calm fluxing to lava before an outflare of volcanic excitement.
“You fool!—Lord! Wasting time! Sit down—scratch off an order. That
cantilever must be relieved P.D.Q.—every ounce skinned off it!”
“What—what's that?” asked Ashton, staring blankly. He had never
before seen Blake agitated.
“You fool!” shouted Blake. “You've got that outer arm loaded down
with material 'way beyond the margin of safety. You damned fool, you
made an error here in the figures—over the bottom-chords and posts.
They'll hold anything, once the suspension span is completed, but now!
Lord! McGraw is a mule—he'll insist on a written order. Weather
report says wind. And another train loading to run out on the
overhang, when we ought to be hauling steel off!”
“Oh, we ought, ought we?” blustered Ashton, venturing bravado in
view of Blake's agitation. “Who d' you think is running this bridge,
you barrel-house bum? I'll give you to understand I'm the engineer in
charge here. You're my Assistant—my Assistant! D'you hear?”
“Yes, yes!” urged Blake. “Only scratch off an order! There's no
time to lose! I'll do the work. For God's sake, hurry! You've a
hundred men out there on that deadfall—a million dollars' worth of
steel-work! Those bottom-chords may buckle any second!”
From eager pleading, Blake burst out in an angry roar: “Damn you!
Get busy! Write that order!”
Seized with desperate fear of the big form that leaned menacingly
toward him over the desk, Ashton snatched an automatic pistol from the
top drawer, and thrust it out toward Blake.
“Stand back! Stand back! Keep away!” he cried shrilly.
Blake hastily stepped back. It was not the first time he had seen a
panic-stricken fool with a pistol. The quick retreat instantly
restored Ashton's assurance. He rebounded from fear to contempt.
“You big bluff!” he jeered. “Good thing you hopped lively. I'll
show you! Thought I wasn't armed, did you?”
“You doughhead!” rejoined Blake. “Can't you understand? I tell you
“Bah! You knocker! I see your game. You know now that it's
Papa Leslie's job; you want to get in charge—knock out my work—spoil
the record I'm making. That's it! You think you'll get my place, and
try to smooth things up with Genevieve.”
“Shut up!” commanded Blake, raising his fist.
Ashton hastily sighted the pistol, which he had half lowered.
“You— you—don't you threaten me! I'll shoot!” As Blake made no
attempt to attack, he went on viciously: “You'd better not! I'll show
you! I'm the boss here—get out of here! You're fired! Get out; keep
off my bridge; leave the grounds, or I'll have you kicked off!”
“You fool!” said Blake. He swung around and started off with stern
determination. But within three strides he faced about again. “You
dotty fool! I had intended to let you down easy.”
He came back toward the desk, grim-faced and very quiet. Ashton was
puzzled and disconcerted by this sudden change of front. The pistol
wavered in his trembling hand.
“Keep away! Don't you touch me! Don't you come near me!” he half
Blake advanced to the opposite side of the desk, and spoke in a
tone of cool raillery: “You're rattled. Better put up that gun. It
might go off.”
“It will in half a second!” snapped Ashton.
Blake leaned forward and transfixed him with a stare of cold
“You thief!” he said. “Your game is up. You sneak thief!”
Ashton lowered his pistol and cowered as though Blake had struck
him. “No, no! I'm not—I'm not! You haven't any proof—you can't prove
“Proof?” growled Blake. “When I've known it ever since I came up
before—knew it the first look. My bridge from shoe to peak—every
girder, every rivet—and my truss! Not another bridge in the world has
that truss. You dirty sneak thief!—Huh! you would, would you?”
Ashton had sought to raise and aim the pistol. This time Blake did
not step back. Instead, he flung himself forward, and his hand closed
in an iron grip on the wrist of the hand that held the pistol. The
weapon fell from the paralyzed fingers.
Ashton made a frantic clutch with his left hand to regain the
pistol, but he was jerked violently forward, up and over the desk. As
he floundered across in a flurry of rustling, tearing maps and papers,
he swore in shrill anger. Blake's left hand gripped his throat, His
anger gave place to terror. He sought to scream, but the fingers
tightened and throttled him. He was dragged across and down upon the
floor, choking and gurgling. Blake bent lower.
“Lie still!” he ordered. “I'm going to let go your throat. If you
squawk, I'll break your neck!”
He removed his grip alike of wrist and throat, and Ashton, gasping
and panting, felt gingerly of his throat with his soft fingers. He
could not see the dark marks left by Blake's terrible clutch, but he
could feel the bruises. He glared up, terror-stricken, into the pale
hard eyes that blazed down into his own with a light like that of
“You—you'll not—not murder me!” he panted.
“I'll break your neck if you don't keep quiet and mind,” menaced
Blake. He sprang erect. “Get up to your desk—quick!”
Ashton needed no urging. As lie scrambled around to the chair,
Blake picked up the automatic pistol and tested its mechanism with
“Don't! Don't!” implored Ashton, dodging down.
“Bah! Take that pen—write!” commanded Blake. Ashton
clutched at his pen and an order pad. “Steady, you fool! Now write,
'Bridge in danger. Strip bare. Blake in charge.'“ Ashton scribbled
with frantic swiftness. “Got that? Sign your name in full as Resident
The moment Ashton obeyed, Blake reached over and snatched up the
order pad and an indelible pencil. In his other hand he thrust out the
pistol to press its muzzle against Ashton's temple.
“Oh!—oh!—don't!” whimpered the coward.
“You skunk!” growled Blake. “Keep your mouth shut, or I'll smash
you like a rattlesnake. I'm going to save my bridge. Don't get in my
way!” He pointed with the pistol toward the rear door of the room.
“What's in there?”
“Get in there! Stay in! No yawping!” The terse orders ended in a
flash of grim humor. “You're sick. Mind you don't get worse.”
Ashton was already slinking into his apartment.
There was a rumble of freight cars outside. Blake spun about on his
heel and rushed out through the vestibule.
CHAPTER XXXIII. ABOVE THE ABYSS
A train loaded with steel was backing out to the bridge. Blake ran
down the track to the engine and swung up into the cab.
“Stop her!” he shouted.
The engine-driver was among the men who had been introduced to
Blake on his visit with Griffith. He recognized the engineer at the
“Hello, Mr. Blake!” he sang out. “You here?”
“Brakes!” cut in Blake so incisively that the driver closed his
throttle and applied the airbrakes with emergency swiftness.
Anticipating his questions, Blake tersely explained: “Bridge in
danger. I'm in charge. Have you a lot of empties handy?”
“How?—bridge?” queried the fireman, peering around at the
“Dozen empties—” began the driver.
“Good!” said Blake. “Clear these cars and—”
“What's this?” demanded the yardmaster, who had run up at the
sudden stoppage of the train. “Back on out, Jones. There's the coal to
“Damn your coal!” swore Blake. “Get a big string of empties out the
bridge, quick as you can!”
“Who the hell are you?” blustered the yardmaster.
“Engineer in charge,” answered Blake, holding out Ashton's order.
“Bridge in danger—error in plans—overloaded—and weather report says
wind! Jones, toot up your whistle—fire-call—anything! I want every
man of every shift out here in two shakes.”
Without waiting for orders from the yardmaster, Jones signed to his
fireman, reversed, and threw open his throttle. The fireman clutched
the whistle-cord and began jerking out a succession of wild shrieks
and toots. As the train started away from the bridge, Blake swung to
the ground to meet the excited men who came running from all
He held Ashton's order close under the nose of the yardmaster, and
shouted above the din of the engine whistle: “See that? She'll go when
the wind rises. Hustle out those empties, with every man you have.”
Impelled by the engineer's look, the yardmaster sprang about and
sprinted alongside the train, waving signals to his switch crew. Blake
no less swiftly sprang into the midst of the mob of off-shift men
streaming from the bunkhouse.
“I'm Blake—engineer in charge—from Griffith!” he shouted. “Bridge
overloaded—will go down when wind rises. We've got to clear her. She
may go down when the empties back out. Any yellow cur that wants to
quit can call for his pay-check. I'm going out. Come on, boys!”
He started along the service-track at a quick jog-trot. The men,
without a single exception, followed him in a mass, jostling each
other for the lead. Near the outer end of the approach span they met
the morning shift of carpenters and laborers, who were hurrying
shoreward in response to the wild alarm of the engine whistle. Blake
waved them about.
“Bridge in danger!” he shouted. “Volunteers to clear material.”
Few of the carpenters and none of the chattering Slovaks and
Italians caught anything except the word “danger.” But zeal and
fearlessness are sometimes as contagious as fear. A half-dozen or so
drew aside to slink on shoreward. All the others joined the silent
eager crowd behind Blake. Before they had gone a hundred feet every
man in the crowd knew that at any moment the huge cantilever might
crash down with them to certain destruction in the chasm, yet not one
A short distance beyond the cantilever towers they came to the
foremost of the on-shift steel workers, who had halted in their
shoreward run when they saw that the outcoming party showed no sign of
halting. But those in their rear and McGraw, who had been left behind
farthest of all in the race, were still moving forward.
Blake waved his pad to McGraw and called out to him over the heads
of the others: “Here's my order! I'm in charge. Take every man you can
handle, and work the main traveller to the towers. Hustle!”
“Your order!” wheezed McGraw stubbornly.
Blake was already close upon him. He had dealt before with men of
McGraw's character. He tore off Ashton's order, thrust it into the
other's pudgy hand, and paused to scribble an order to hold the train
on the shore span.
On occasion McGraw could be nimble both in mind and body. The
moment he had read Ashton's order, he wheeled about to rush back the
way he had come, and let out a bull-like bellow: “Hi, youse! clear f'r
trav'ller! Out-shift, follow me!”
The steel workers who had been on shift raced after and past him to
the main traveller. He followed at a surprisingly rapid pace,
bellowing his instructions. Blake, holding back in the lead of his far
larger party from the shore, began to issue terse orders to the gangs
of carpenters and laborers. They strung along the extension arm,
outward from the point where the floor-system was completed. Before
Blake could pass on ahead, tons of beams and stringers, iron fittings
and kegs of bolts and nails began to rain down into the abyss.
Having detailed half of the two shore shifts of steel workers to
clear the way for the inrolling of the huge traveller, Blake took the
other half out with him to the extreme end of the overhang. As soon as
the main traveller began its slow movement shoreward, he ordered the
smaller traveller run back several yards, in readiness to load the
heavier pieces of structural steel.
All his own men being now engaged in the most effectual manner, he
turned about to quiet McGraw, who, for once shaken out of his
phlegmatic calm, had been reduced to a state of apoplectic rage by the
inability of his men to perform miracles. Blake's cool manner and
terse directions almost redoubled the efficiency of the workers. The
main traveller began to creep toward the towers with relative
Blake walked ahead of it, to steady and encourage the gangs that
toiled and sweat in the frosty sweep of the rising wind. He came back
again to the overhang and stood for a few moments gazing across at the
outstretched tip of the north cantilever.
Suddenly his face lightened. He glanced over his shoulder at the
lofty towers behind him, nodded decisively, and hastened back to where
McGraw, once more his usual stolid taciturn self, was extracting every
ounce of working energy out of the men who swarmed about the main
“Goin' some!” he grunted, as Blake tapped his arm.
“Stop her fifty feet this side towers,” ordered Blake. “How many
central-span sections have you stacked up out here?”
“All 'cept four north-side 'uns. Last come this mornin'. In yards
“How long'll it take us to rig a cable tram from the traveller
across to the north 'lever?”
“Huh?” demanded McGraw blankly.
“We'll run the north-side steel across by tram, and push the work
from both ends. Once the central span's connected, this bridge'll
stand up under any load that can be piled on her.”
“Wind risin'—an' you figurin' on construction work!” commented
“If she doesn't go to smash in the next half-hour, we'll be O.K.,”
answered Blake coolly. “That train has waited long enough. You look to
the steel. Load the first sections for this end on the outermost car.
We can cut it off the train at the towers.”
At McGraw's nod, he scratched off an order and sent a man running
with it to the waiting train. Very shortly the three outermost cars
came rolling toward him, pushed by the switch crew and a gang of
laborers. Their weight was several times offset by the weight of
flooring material that had already been hurled from the bridge.
Blake tested the force of the wind, noted the distance that the
main traveller had moved shoreward, and promptly ordered the work of
destruction to cease. Some forty or fifty thousand dollars' worth of
material had already gone over into the strait, and he was too much of
an engineer to permit unnecessary waste.
The electro-magnetic crane of the smaller traveller was already
swinging up a number of pieces of structural steel to load on the cars
as they rolled out to the extreme end of the service-track. McGraw
came hurrying to take charge of the eager loading gang. Blake went out
past them to the end of the overhang, and perching himself on a pile
of steel, began to jot down figures and small diagrams on the back of
He was still figuring when a cheer from the carloaders caused him
to look up. The cars, which had been stacked with steel to their
utmost capacity, were being connected with the rear of the train by
means of a wire rope. In response to the signals of McGraw, the engine
started slowly shoreward.
Before the train had moved many yards the slack of the steel rope
was taken up. It tautened and drew up almost to a straight line, so
tense that it sang like a violin string in the sharp wind gusts. Then
the steel-laden cars creaked, started, and rolled shoreward after the
train, groaning under their burden. The men all along the bridge
raised a wild cheer.
Blake stepped back beside McGraw.
“Well, Mac, guess we've turned the trick,” he said.
“Close,—huh?” replied the general foreman, holding up his hand to
“Close enough,” agreed Blake. “She might have gone any minute since
we came out. Whee!—if I hadn't headed off that train of steel!
Well, a miss is as good as a mile. She'll stand now. Next thing is to
connect the span.”
“Huh?” ejaculated McGraw. “Ain't goin' t' tackle that, Mr. Blake,
'fore reinforcin' bottom-chords?”
“What! Wait for auxiliary bracing to come on from the mills? Not on
your life! Once connected, she'll be unbreakable—all strains and
stresses will be so altered as to give a wide margin of safety, spite
of that damned skunk!”
“Huh?” queried McGraw.
Blake's lips tightened grimly, but he ignored the question.
“We'll drive the work on twelve-hour shifts,—double pay and best
food that can be bought. Divide up the force now, and turn in with
your shift—those who most need sleep.”
CHAPTER XXXIV. “THE GUILTY FLEE”
In the midst of the wild flurry of work on the bridge, an engine
from the junction had puffed into the switching yards with a single
coach, the private car of H. V. Leslie.
Despite the shrill whistle that signalled its approach, no one ran
out to meet the special,—no workman appeared in the midst of the
sheds and material piles to stare at the unexpected arrival. Irritated
at this inattention, Mr. Leslie swung down from his car, closely
followed by Lord James.
“What can this mean?” he demanded. “Not a man in sight. Entire
place seems deserted.”
“Quite true,” agreed Lord James. “Ah, but out on the bridge—great
crowd of men working out there. Seems to be fairly swarming with men.”
“So there are—so there are. Yet why so many out there, and none in
“Can't say, I'm sure. I daresay we'll learn at the office.”
“Learn what, Mr. Scarbridge?” asked Dolores, who had popped out
into the car vestibule. Without waiting for an answer or for his
assistance, she sprang down the steps, waving her muff. “Come on,
Vievie. Don't wait for mamma.”
“What are you going to do?” demanded Mr. Leslie.
“Hunt for our heroic hero, of course,” answered the girl.
“You shall do no such thing,” said her mother, appearing
majestically in the vestibule.
Genevieve, pale and calm and resolute, came out past her aunt.
“We shall go to Mr. Ashton's office, papa,” she said, as Lord James
handed her down the steps. “If Mr. Blake is not there, Mr. Ashton will
know where to send for him.”
“Tom's out on the bridge,” stated Lord James.
“He is? How do you know?” queried Mr. Leslie.
“It's a hundred to one odds. That wire to Griffith—'On the job,'
y' know. He'll be where the most work is going on. I'll go fetch him.”
“If you will, James,” said Genevieve. “Tell him that papa—not
“Trust me!” He smiled, glanced appealingly at Dolores, met a frown,
and started briskly away out the service-track.
“Wait,” ordered Dolores. “I'll go, too. I've never been out on an
“You'll not. You'll stay ashore,” interposed her mother.
“Oh fudge! Trot along, then, Mr. Scarbridge.”
At her call, Lord James had halted and turned about, eagerly
expectant. As, disappointed, he started on again, she addressed Mr.
Leslie: “I'm not going back into that stuffy car, Uncle Herbert.
Where's the place you call the office?”
He pointed to Ashton's quarters, and she skipped forward, past the
engine, before her mother could interfere. The others followed her,
wrapping their furs close about them to shut out the bitterly cold
Dolores was still in the lead when the party reached the office,
but she paused in the vestibule for her uncle to open the door. When
he entered, she stepped in after him, followed by Genevieve and Mrs.
Gantry. Darting his glances about the office in keen search, Mr.
Leslie crossed the room to stare concernedly at the litter of torn
maps and papers on the floor in front of the desk. He hurried to the
inner door and rapped vigorously. There was no immediate response. He
The door opened a few inches, and Ashton's English valet peered in
at the visitors with a timid, startled look.
“Well?” demanded Mr. Leslie. “What d' you mean, sir, gawking that
way? What's the matter here?—all these papers scattered
about—everybody out on the bridge. Who are you, anyway?”
“M-Mr. Ashton's m-man, sir!” stuttered the valet.
“His man? Where is he?—out on the bridge?”
“N-no, sir; in his rooms, sir.”
“Tell him to come here at once!”
“Y-yes, sir, very good, sir. But I fear he'll be afraid to come
out, sir. Mr. Blake—he ordered 'im to stay in, sir.”
“Blake ordered him! Why? Speak out, man! Why?”
“He—he said the bridge—that it was about to fall, sir.”
“Bridge—about to fall?”
“Yes, sir. So he pulled Mr. Ashton across the desk by 'is neck—
manhandled 'im awful, and 'e told 'im—”
“What! What! Tell Ashton I'm here—Mr. Leslie! Tell him to come at
once—at once! D' you hear?”
As the valet vanished, Genevieve darted to her father, her eyes
wide with swift-mounting alarm. “Papa! Didn't you hear him? He said
the bridge—it's about to fall!”
“He did! He did!” cried Dolores, catching the alarm. “Oh, and
Jimmy's gone out, too!”
“'Jimmy'!” echoed Mrs. Gantry, staring.
The girl ran to the windows in the end of the room, which afforded
a full view of the gigantic bridge.
“Hurry! Hurry, papa! Do something!” cried Genevieve. “If the bridge
“Nonsense!” argued her father. “There can't be any danger. It's
still standing—and all those men remaining out on it. If there was
any danger—Must be some mistake of that fool valet.”
“Then why are there no men ashore? Why are they all out there?”
questioned Genevieve with intuitive logic. “Oh! it's true—I know it's
true! He's in danger! And James—both! They're out there—it will
fall! He'll be killed! Send some one—tell them to come ashore! I'll
She started toward the door.
“No, no, let me!” cried Dolores, darting ahead of her.
“Stop!—both of you!” exclaimed Mrs. Gantry. “Are you mad?”
“Stop!” commanded Mr. Leslie.
Genevieve paused and stood hesitating before the vestibule door.
Dolores darted back to the windows.
A voice across the room called out: “That's—that's right! There's
no need to go. It's all a fake—a pretence!”
Staring about, Mr. Leslie and the ladies saw Ashton beside the
inner door. He was striving to assume an air of easy assurance, but
the doorknob, which he still grasped, rattled audibly.
“You!” rasped Mr. Leslie. “What you doing in here—skulking in
Ashton cringed back, all the assurance stricken from his face.
“You—you believe him!” he stammered. “But it's not fair! You've
heard only his side—his lies about me!”
“Whose lies? Speak out!”
“His—Blake's! The big brute took me by surprise—half murdered me.
He came here, drunk or crazy, I don't know which. Pretended the bridge
was in danger.”
“Pretended? Isn't it?”
“All rot! Not a bit of it!”
“I tell you, it's all a put-up job—a frame-up. The brute thought
he'd get in with you again—you and Genevieve. He schemed to discredit
me, to get my place.”
“Blake?—he did that?” eagerly queried Mrs. Gantry.
“Yes!” cried Ashton, and he turned again to Mr. Leslie. “Don't you
see? He guessed that you were coming up. So he sneaked here ahead of
you—took away my pistol and threatened to murder me if I left my
Genevieve looked the glib relator up and down, white with scorn.
“You lie!” she said.
“But—but—I—” he stammered, disconcerted. He stepped toward her,
half desperate. “It's the truth, I tell you, the solemn truth! I'll
swear to it! It was there, right at my desk. You see the maps, torn
when he dragged me across—by the throat! Look here at my neck—at the
marks of his fingers!”
“You're in luck. He had good cause to break your neck,” commented
“Herbert!” reproved Mrs. Gantry, greatly shocked.
“Papa! Papa!” urged Genevieve, running to grasp her father's arm.
“You can't believe him! If Tom said the bridge was in danger—We stand
here doing nothing! Send some one! If the bridge should fall—”
“Fall?” sneered Ashton. “I tell you it's safe, safe as a rock. Look
for yourselves. It's still standing.”
“Then he has saved it,” snapped Mr. Leslie. “He's saved my
bridge—his bridge! While you, you skulking thief—”
Ashton cringed back as if struck. But Genevieve dragged her father
about from him. “Don't mind him, papa! What does that matter now? Send
some one at once!”
“They're all out on the bridge already,” he replied. “There's no
one to send. Wait! I'll go myself!”
“Oh! Oh! The train has started on shore again—it's coming clear
off the bridge!” cried Dolores. “It stopped part way, near this end.
They'll be on it, they'll surely be on it. Yes, yes! There he is!
She flung up a window-sash and leaned far out, waving her
handkerchief. Her mother turned to Genevieve, who stood as if dazed.
“My dear,” she said, “do you not understand? Lord James is
“Yes?” replied Genevieve vaguely.
“And Blake!” exclaimed Mr. Leslie. “He'll of course be coming, too.
I'm going to meet him—learn the truth.”
He cast a threatening glance at Ashton, and went out like a shot.
“Uncle Herbert, take me with you!” called Dolores, flying out after
“Blake!—coming here!” gasped Ashton. He ran to place himself
before Genevieve, who was about to go out. “Wait, wait, Miss
Genevieve, please! Save me! He—he said he'd smash me if I talked—he
did! He did! Don't let him hurt me! He threatened to kill me—it's
“Threatened to kill you?” repeated Mrs. Gantry. “Genevieve, call
back your father. If the man really is violent, as Lafayette says—”
“Aunt Amice!” remonstrated Genevieve. “Can you believe this
miserable creature for an instant?”
“But it's true—it
is true!” gasped Ashton.
“Mrs. Gantry, dear, dear Mrs. Gantry, you'll believe me! He will
kill me! Take me aboard the car! Please, please take me aboard the car
and hide me!”
“My dear Genevieve,” said Mrs. Gantry, “the poor boy is really
“Take him to the car, if you wish,” replied Genevieve. “He can
leave it at the junction.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss Genevieve!” stammered Ashton.
But Genevieve went out without looking at him. He followed with
Mrs. Gantry, keeping close beside her.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE FUTURE COUNTESS
As the fugitive and his protectress passed out through the verandah
and turned away from the bridge toward the car, they were relieved to
see that Blake was not yet in sight. Genevieve was hastening out the
track to where her father and Dolores and Lord James stood beside the
heavily loaded bridge-service train.
Before Genevieve could reach the others, Lord James and Dolores
came toward her, and Dolores cried out the joyful news: “It's safe,
Vievie!—the bridge is safe now! Mr. Blake will be ashore in a few
“You're sure, James?” asked Genevieve. “Quite safe?—and he—?”
“Yes, yes, give you my word! Perfectly safe now, he said, and he'll
be coming soon. Er—Miss Dolores, there's your mother going back to
“And Laffi with her!”
“Quite true—quite true. I say now—you've left your muff in the
office. You'll be chilled—nipping keen wind, this. We'd best go
inside while we're waiting.”
“Yes,” agreed the girl. “Come back in, Vievie.”
“No, no, dear. I'll come later. I'll wait here with papa.”
“Ah, if you prefer,” murmured Lord James. “But you, Miss Dolores—
really you should not stand out in this wind.”
“Oh, well, if you insist,” she acquiesced, with seeming reluctance.
“I do, indeed!” he replied, and he hurried her to the office.
When they entered, he led her to the big drum heating stove in the
corner of the room, and went across to the inner door. He opened it,
and called a terse order to Ashton's valet. He then closed the door
and locked it.
Dolores started to edge toward the outer door. But he was too quick
for her. He hastened across and cut off her retreat.
“No, no!” he declared. “You sha'n't run away.”
“Run away?” she rejoined, drawing herself up with a strong show of
“It's—it's the very first opportunity I've had—the first time
alone with you all these days,” he answered. “I must insist! I—I beg
your pardon, but I must find out, really I must! It seemed to me
that—that just now you waved to me, from the window.”
“To you? But how could I tell, so far off, that Mr. Blake was not
on the train?”
“So that was it?” he replied, suddenly dashed. “Very stupid of me—
very! Yet—yet—I must say it! Miss Gantry—Dolores, you've insisted
on showing me your deepened dislike even since that evening. But
you're so sincere, so candid—if only you'll tell me my faults, I'll
do anything I possibly can to please you, to win your regard!”
“Ho! so that's it?” she jeered. “Because Vievie threw you over, you
think I'll do as second choice—you think I'm waiting to catch you on
“You?” he exclaimed. “How could that be? You've always been so
frank in showing your dislike for me—how could I think that? But if
only I might convince you how desirous I am to—to overcome your
“Lord Avondale,” she said, “it is probable that you are laboring
under a misconception. I am not an heiress; I am not wealthy. We are
barely well-to-do. So, you see—”
“Ah, yes! And you—” he exclaimed, stepping nearer to her—“you,
then, shall see that it is yourself alone! If I can but win you! Tell
me, now—why is it you dislike me? I'll do anything in my power.
Forget I'm my father's son—that I'm English. I must win you! Tell me
how I can overcome your dislike!”
Dolores drew back, blushing first scarlet then crimson with
blissful confusion. All her ready wit fled from her and left her
quivering with the sweet agitation of her love.
“But it's—it's not true, Jimmy!” she whispered. “I don't—I'm not
what you think me! I'm not sincere or honest—I'm just a liar! I've
been pretending all along. It's not true that I ever disliked you!”
“Not true?” he asked incredulously.
She gave him a glance that answered him far more clearly than
words. He started toward her impulsively.
“Dolores!—it can't be!”
She avoided him, in an attempt to delay the inevitable surrender.
“Ware danger, your earlship!” she mocked. “I warn you I'm a
designing female. How do you know it's not the coronet I'm after?”
“Dearest!” he exclaimed, and this time he succeeded in capturing
the hand that she flung out to fend him off.
“Wait—wait!” she protested. “This is most—ah—indecorous. Think
how shocked mamma would be. You haven't even declared your
“My intentions,” he stated, “are to do—this!” He boldly placed his
arm about her shoulders, and bent down over her back-tilted head. “
My dear Miss Gantry, I have the honor of saluting—the future
Countess of Avondale!”
Instead of shrinking—from him, as he half feared, she slipped an
arm up about his neck.
With a blissful sigh, she drew back from the kiss, to answer him in
a tone of tender mockery: “The Right Honorable the Earl of Avondale is
informed that his—ah—salute is received with pleasure.”
“Wait,” she teased. “You have it all turned 'round. You've yet to
tell me the exact moment when. Vievie took second place.”
“My word! How am I to answer that? Really, it's quite impossible to
tell. You piqued my interest from the very first.”
“But did you still lo—like Vievie when you proposed to her?”
“Er—yes—quite true. That was the day after our arrival from New
“Of course. But I wished to make doubly sure that you were sincere
with her. Oh, Jimmy, to think I've got you, after all! I'm so happy!”
He promptly offered another salute, which was not refused.
The sound of quick steps in the vestibule startled them. Dolores
sprang away as Genevieve came hurrying in, too agitated to heed her
“Oh! I'm so glad you're still here!” she panted. “He's coming
ashore. I—I told papa to tell him that—but not that I'm here! I
must—I want to—”
“To play puss-in-the-corner with your Tom,” rallied Dolores. “Oh,
Vievie! who'd have thought it? You've lost your head! Hide over here
behind the stove.”
Greatly to her surprise, Genevieve instantly ran over and hid
herself in the corner behind the big stove. Dolores and Lord James
stared at one another. It was the first time that they had ever seen
“Why, Vievie!” exclaimed the girl, “I actually believe you're
“No, I'm not. It's only that I must have time to—to think.”
“Ah,” said Lord James, with sympathetic readiness.
“I shall go out and meet him—detain him a bit.”
“No, no. It's very kind of you, James. But there's no need. If only
you and Dolores will wait and speak with him. I—I wish to hear how
his voice sounds—first.”
“Well, of all things!” rallied Dolores. “Can't you imagine how it
will sound? He'll be hoarse as a crow, after shouting all his heroic
orders to save the bridge. Ten to one, he'll have a fine cold,
too—out there in this wind. Jimmy says it's really nawsty, y'know,
with the beastly zephyrs wafting through the bloomin' steel-work, and
the water so deuced far down below—quite a bit awful, don't y'know!”
“Don't tease, dear,” begged Genevieve. “But you said 'Jimmy'! Oh,
have you really—?”
Her face appeared around the bulge of the stove, flushed with
delight. But the sound of a heavy tread in the verandah caused it to
disappear on the instant.
Blake came in slowly and with anything but an elated look. It was
evident that Mr. Leslie had refrained from rousing his expectations.
He stared at Dolores in surprise.
“You, Miss Dolores?”
“What?” she teased. “You surely did not think it would be Vievie,
“Yes—with Jimmy.” She held out her hand to Lord James, who clasped
Blake caught the glance that passed between them. His face
“Her?” he muttered. “Didn't think you were the kind to play fast
and loose, Jimmy!”
“Tom! You can't believe that of me!” protested the Englishman.
“Couldn't explain matters out there among all your men, y' know, but
Genevieve insisted upon terminating our engagement the very morning
after. I had said nothing. She had already seen her mistake.”
“Mistake?” queried Blake.
“You men are so silly,” criticised Dolores, with a mischievous
glance toward the stove. “You ought to 've known she loved you, all
the time. Of course you won't believe it till she herself tells you.”
Blake looked about the room. Genevieve was close behind the stove.
He shook his head and muttered despondently: “Till she tells me!”
“Did you ever play puss-in-the-corner?” asked Dolores.
“You witch!” exclaimed Lord James. To divert her attention, he drew
her to him and slipped a ring on her slender finger. “Ha! Caught you
napping! It's on—fast!” She gave him an adorable look. “If it's ever
taken off, you'll have to do it.”
“That shall be—never!” he replied. Drawing her arm through his, he
led her toward the door. “We're on our way, Tom. See you later at the
car, I daresay. Must go now to break the news to 'Mamma.'”
“Won't she be surprised!” exulted Dolores. “It's such a joke that
you and Genevieve didn't tell her! She's so sure of her methods—so
sure. She'll find there are others who have methods, won't she, Lord
“Most charming methods!” agreed Lord James.
“S'long, Jimmy!” said Blake, gripping the other's carelessly
offered hand. “Here's congratulations and good luck to you! Tell
her—tell the others good-bye for me. I'll not come to the car. Tell
'em I'm too— too busy.”
“Right-o! But we'll look to see you in town before a great while,”
replied Lord James, and he hurried Dolores out through the vestibule.
From the verandah the girl's clear voice sounded through the closed
doors, free and merry, almost mocking.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE OUTCOME
Blake stood where the lovers had left him. Their sudden and
seemingly indifferent leave-taking had added its quota of depression
to his already sinking spirit. When he had come ashore and had been
intercepted by Mr. Leslie he already had begun to feel the reaction
from the strain and excitement of those interminable minutes and hours
on the bridge—the frightful responsibility of keeping all those
hundreds of men out on the gigantic structure, which at any second
might have crashed down with them to certain destruction.
Now even the remembrance that he had saved the bridge could not
stimulate him. Mr. Leslie's friendly praise, even his more than
cordial hand-grip, seemed meaningless. The world had suddenly turned
drab and gray. Her father had stated vaguely that some one was waiting
to speak with him in the office. He had hastened in, half hoping to
find her—and had found only them.
He had saved the bridge; he had found strength to do the square
thing by Mr. Leslie and even Ashton. And now they were all gone, even
Jimmy, and he was alone—alone! She had come with the party. He
was certain that some one had told him that. Yet she had not spoken to
him. She had not even let him see her!
He went heavily across the room to the desk, and dropping into a
chair, began methodically to gather up and fold the torn and rumpled
blueprints upon the floor. But even an almost automatic habit has its
limitations. A drawing slipped, half-folded, from his listless
fingers. He groaned and leaned forward upon the desk, with his face
buried in his arms.
Genevieve came out from her hiding place very quietly, and stood
gazing at Blake. It was the first time that she had ever seen him give
way to grief or suffering. Always he had stood before her firm and
unyielding, even when most certain of defeat. It had never occurred to
her that he could be other than hard and defiant over his own
struggles and sorrows.
All the mother-love of her woman's nature welled up from her heart
in a wave of tenderness and compassion. She went to him and laid her
hand softly on his dishevelled head.
“Tom!” she soothed. “Tom! You poor boy!”
The touch of her hand had stricken his body rigid with suspense.
But at the sound of her voice he slowly raised his head and fixed his
eyes upon her in an incredulous stare.
“It is I, Tom. Don't you know me?” she half whispered, shrinking
back a little way before the wildness of his look.
“You!” he gasped. He rose heavily. “Excuse me. I thought you
were with them—on the car.”
“Did not papa tell you?”
“He said something. I thought I had mistaken him. But you
“Yes. I—I waited to speak with you—to tell you—”
“You told me that night all that's necessary,” he said, averting
his head to hide the look of pain that he could not repress.
“I was beside myself!” she replied. “You should have known that,
Tom. How else could I have told you—told you—”
“The truth!” he broke in. “Don't think I blame you, Miss Jenny.
Don't blame yourself.”
“No, no, you do not understand!” she insisted. “Wait—what did you
and papa do?”
“Made it up. So that's one thing less to worry you. He did it
handsomely. Cracked me up for saving his bridge.”
“Your bridge, too!”
“What! You know that?”
“Yes, and that you're to be partner with Mr. Griffith—finish your
bridge, and build that great dam you invented, and—and if you wish,
be partner in some of papa's business.”
“That's too much. I told him I'd be satisfied with the credit for
my bridge truss.”
“Only that? Surely you'll not give up the bridge?”
“Well, 't isn't fair to kick a man when he's down. Ashton will have
a tough enough time of it, I guess, from what your father said. He's
to be allowed to resign, on condition that he acknowledges that he
borrowed my bridge truss.”
“Yes. It seems that his father is one of your father's particular
friends. So that's all settled.”
She looked at him with radiant eyes. “Tom! You're even bigger—more
generous—than I had thought!”
“Don't!” he muttered, drawing back. “It makes it so much harder.
You don't realize!”
“Don't I?” she whispered, the color mounting swiftly in her
down-bent face. “That night—that fearful night, I—Tell me—has James
explained how we searched for you?—everywhere, all those days! We
telegraphed all over the country. James searched the city, and papa
had all his private agents—Where did you go?”
“South? Oh, and all this time—But that's past now—all the
dreadful waiting and anxiety! Could you but know our delight when Mr.
Griffith telegraphed that you were here!”
“What! Then you came because—”
“Yes, yes, to find you. Don't you see? We should have been here
sooner, only the telegram was not delivered until after midnight, and
I had to persuade Aunt Amice. She refused, until after I said I'd come
anyway. But of course she doesn't know, even now. Oh, Tom! Tom!—to
think you're over that dreadful attack and—”
“Attack?” he inquired.
“The one that started that night—through my fault—mine!”
“Your fault?” he repeated. “How on earth do you make that out?”
“I should have seen—understood! James had tried to explain; but I
was overwrought. Not until you were going—But that is all past, dear!
I've come to tell you that now you must let me help you. It is not
right for you to fight alone—to refuse my aid, when I—when I—love
“Jenny! You can't mean it? After that night—after what I did that
“Yes,” she whispered. “If you—if you'll forgive me.”
“You can win! You proved it that night, when you crushed the glass.
I no longer fear, Tom. All my doubt has gone. Even without my help I
know that you—But I want to do my share, dear. If you're—you're
willing, we'll be married, and—”
“Jenny!” He stood for a moment, overcome. Then the words burst from
his deep chest: “Girl! Girl!—God! to think that I have that to tell
you! Yes, it's true—I proved it that night—I won out that night! Do
you hear, Jenny? I broke the curse! I proved it when I left you—went
out into the night—after drinking all that whiskey—went down into
the stockyards, past the worst saloons, all the joints. I went in and
stood about, in all the odor—whiskey, beer—one after the other, I
went in, and came out again, without having touched a drop. All the
time I kept remembering that I had lost you; but—I knew I had found
“When I had made sure, I went to the freight yards, got into a
fruit-car, and went to sleep. When I woke up, I was on the way to New
Orleans. Been hoboing ever since.”
“Best thing for me. Put kinks into my body, but took 'em all out of
my brain. About the drinking—it wasn't that night alone. I've kept
testing myself every chance—even took a taste to make sure. Now I
know. It's the simple truth, Jenny. I've won.”
“My man!” she cried, and she came to him as he opened his