round among all these good, kind, honorable people, passing myself off as
Herbert Strange when all the time I'm Norrie Ford--and a convict? But I'm
forced to. There's no way out of it."

"Because there's no way out of it isn't a reason for going further in."

"What does that matter? When you're in up to the eyes, what does it matter
if you go over your head?"

"In this case it would matter to Evie. That's my point. I have to protect
her--to save her. There's no one but me to do it--and you."

"Don't count on me," he said, savagely. "I've the right, in this wild
beast's life, to seize anything I can snatch."

He renewed his arguments, going over all the ground again. She listened
to him as she had once listened to his plea in his defence--her pose
pensive, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes pitiful. As far as she was
aware of her own feelings it was merely to take note that a kind of
yearning over him, an immense sorrow for him and with him, had
extinguished the fires that a few days ago were burning for herself. It
was hard to sit there heedless of his exposition and deaf to his
persuasion. Seeing her inflexible, he became halting in his speech, till
finally he stopped, still looking at her with an unresenting, dog-like
gaze of entreaty.

She made no comment when he ceased, and for a time they sat in silence.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding the packet toward her.

She shook her head wonderingly.

"It's what I owe you." She made a gesture of deprecation. "It's the money
you lent me," he went on. "It's a tremendous satisfaction--that at
least--to be able to bring it back to you."

"But I don't want it," she stammered, in some agitation.

"Perhaps not. But I want you to have it." He explained to her briefly what
he had done in the matter.

"Couldn't you give it to something?" she begged, "to some church or
institution?"

"You can, if you like. I mean to give it to you. You see, I'm not
returning it with expressions of gratitude, because anything I could say
would be so inadequate as to be absurd."

He left his chair and came to her, with the packet in his outstretched
hand. She shrank from it, rising, and retreating into the space of the
bay-window.

"But I don't want it," she insisted. "I never thought of your returning
it. I scarcely thought of the incident at all. It had almost passed from
my memory."

"That's natural enough; but it's equally natural that it shouldn't have
passed from mine." He came close to her and offered it again. "Do take
it."

"Put it on the table. Please."

"That isn't the same thing. I want you to take it. I want to put it into
your own hand, as you put it into mine."

She remembered that she had put it into his hand by closing his fingers
forcibly upon it, and hastened to prevent anything of that kind now. She
took it unwillingly, holding it in both hands as if it were a casket.

"That's done," he said, with satisfaction. "You can't imagine what a
relief it is to have it off my mind."

"I'm sorry you should have felt about it like that."

"You would have felt like that yourself, if you were a man owing money to
a woman--and especially a woman who was your--enemy."

"Oh!" She cowered, as if he had threatened her.

"I repeat the word," he laughed, uneasily. "Any one is my enemy who comes
between me and Evie. You'll forgive me if I seem brutal--"

"Yes, I'll forgive you. I'll even accept the word." She was pale and
nervous, with the kind of nervousness that kept her smiling and still, but
sent the queer, lambent flashes into her eyes. "Let us say it. I'm your
enemy, and you pay me the money so as to feel free to strike me as hard as
you can."

He kept to his laugh, but there was a forced ring in it.

"I don't call that a fair way of putting it, but--"

"I don't see that the way of putting it matters, so long as it's the
fact."

"It's the fact twisted in a very ingenious fashion. I should say
that--since I'm going to marry Evie--I want--naturally enough--to feel
that--that"--he stammered and reddened, seeking a word that would not
convey an insult--"to feel--that I--met other claims--as well as I could."

He looked her in the eyes with significant directness. His steady gaze, in
which she saw--or thought she saw--glints of challenge toned down by
gleams of regret, seemed to say, "Whatever I owe you other than money is
out of my power to pay." She fully understood that he did not repudiate
the debt; he was only telling her that since he had given all to Evie, his
heart was bankrupt. What angered her and kept her silent, fearing she
would say something she would afterward repent, was the implication that
she was putting forth her claim for fulfilment.

He still confronted her, with an air of flying humiliation as a flag of
defiance, while she stood holding the packet in both hands, when the door
was pushed open, and Evie, radiant from her walk in the cold air and fine
in autumn furs and plumage, fluttered in. Her blue eyes opened wide on the
two in the bay-window, but she did not advance from the threshold.

"Dear me, dear me!" she twittered, in her dry little fashion, before they
had time to realize the fact that she was there. "I hope I'm not
interrupting you."

"Evie dear, come in." Miriam threw the packet on a table, and went
forward. Ford followed, trying to regain the appearance of "just making a
call."

"No, no," Evie cried, waving Miriam back. "I only came--for nothing. That
is--But I'll go away and come back again. Do you think you'll be long? But
I suppose if you have secrets--"

Her hand was on the knob again, but Miriam caught her.

"No, darling, you must stay. You're absurd. Mr. Strange and I were
just--talking."

"Yes, so I saw. That's why I thought I might be _de trap_. How do you do!"
She put out her left hand carelessly to Ford, her right hand still holding
the knob, and twisted her little person impatiently. Ford held her hand,
but she snatched it away. "There's not the least reason why I should stay,
do you see?" she hurried on. "I only came with a message from Aunt
Queenie."

"I'm sure it's confidential," Ford laughed, "so I'll make myself scarce."

"You can do just as you like," Evie returned, indifferently. "Cousin
Colfax Yorke," she added, looking at Miriam, "has telephoned that he can't
come to dine; and, as it's too late to get anybody else, Aunt Queenie
thought you might come and make a fourth. It's only ourselves and--- him,"
she nodded toward Strange.

"Certainly, I'll come, dear--with pleasure."

"And I'll go," Ford said; "but I won't add with pleasure, because that
would be rude."

When he had gone Evie sniffed about the room, looking at the pictures and
curios as if she had never seen them before. It was evident that she had
spied the packet, and was making her way, by a seemingly accidental route,
toward it. Miriam drifted back to her place in the bay-window, where,
while apparently watching the traffic in the street below, she kept an eye
on Evie's manœuvres.

"What on earth can you two have to talk about?" Evie demanded, while she
seemed intent on examining a cabinet of old porcelain.

"If you're very good, dear," Miriam replied, trying to take an amused,
offhand tone, "I'll tell you. It was business."

"Business? Why, I thought you hardly knew him."

"You don't have to know people very well to transact business with them.
He came on a question of--money."

"No, but you don't start up doing business with a person that's just
dropped down from the clouds--like that." She snapped her fingers to
indicate precipitous haste.

"Sometimes you do."

"Well, _you_ don't. I know that for a fact." She was inspecting a vase on
a pedestal in a corner now. It was nearer to the packet. She wheeled round
suddenly, so that it should take her by surprise. "What's that?"

"You see. It's an envelope with papers in it."

"What sort of papers?"

"I haven't looked at them yet. They have to do with money, or investments,
or something. I'm never very clear about those things."

"I thought you did all that through Cousin Endsleigh Jarrott and Mr.
Conquest?"

"This was a little thing I couldn't trouble them with."

"And you went straight off to _him_, when you'd only known him--let me
see!--how many days?--one, two, three, four--"

"I've gone to people I didn't know at all--sometimes. You have to. If you
only knew more about investing money--"

"I don't know anything about investing money; but I know this is very
queer. And you didn't like him--or you said you didn't."

"I said I did, dear--after a fashion--and so I do."

"In that case I should think a good deal would depend upon the fashion.
Look here. It's addressed--_Miss Strange._ That's his writing. That's how
he scribbles his name. And there's something written in tiny, tiny letters
in the corner. What is it?" Without touching the envelope she bent down to
see. "It's _The Wild Olive_. Now, what in this world can that mean? That's
not business, anyhow. That means something."

"No, that's not business, but I haven't an idea what it means." Miriam was
glad to be able to disclaim something. "It was probably on the envelope by
accident. Some clerk wrote it, and Mr. Strange didn't notice it."

Evie let the explanation pass, while continuing to stare at the object of
her suspicions.

"That's not papers," she said, at last, pointing as she spoke to something
protruding between the rubber bands. "There's something in there. It looks
like a"--she hesitated to find the right article--"it looks like a
card-case."

"Perhaps it is," Miriam agreed. "But I'm sure I don't know why he should
bring me a card-case."

"Why don't you look?"

"I wasn't in a hurry; but you can look yourself if you want to."

Evie took offence. "I'm sure I don't want to. That's the last thing."

"I wish you would. Then you'd see."

"I only do it under protest," she declared--"because you force me to." She
took up the envelope, and began to unloose the rubber bands. "_The Wild
Olive_" she quoted, half to herself. "Ridiculous! I should think clerks
might have something better to do than write such things as that--on
envelopes--on people's business." But her indignation turned to surprise
when a small flat thing, not unlike a card-case, certainly, tumbled out.
"What in the name of goodness--?"

Only strong self-control kept Miriam from darting forward to snatch it
from the floor. She remembered it at once. It was a worn red leather
pocket-book, which she had last seen when it was fresh and new--sitting in
the sunset, on the heights above Champlain, and looking at the jewelled
sea. A card fell from it, on which there was something written. Evie
dropped on one knee to pick it up. Miriam was sorry to risk anything, but
she felt constrained to say, as quietly as possible:

"You'd better not read that, dear. It might be private."

Evie slipped the card back into the pocket-book, which she threw on the
table, where Miriam let it lie. "I won't look at anything else," Evie
said, with dignity, turning away.

"I want you to," Miriam said, authoritatively. "I beg you to."

Thus commanded, Evie drew forth a flat document, on which she read, in
ornamental letters, the inscription, _New York, Toronto, and Great Lakes
Railroad Company_. She unfolded it slowly, looking puzzled.

"It's nothing but a lot of little square things," she said, with some
disdain.

"The little square things are called coupons, if you know what they are."

"I know they're things people cut--when they have a lot of money. I don't
know why they cut them; and still less do I know why he should be bringing
them to you."

Miriam had a sudden inspiration that made her face beam with relief.

"I'll tell you why he brought them to me, dear--though I do it under
protest, as you say yourself. Your curiosity forces my hand, and makes me
show it ahead of time. He brought them to me because it's a
wedding-present for you. When you get married--or begin to get
married--you can have all that money for your trousseau."

"Aunt Helen is going to give me my trousseau. She said so."

"Then you can have it for anything you like--for house-furnishings or a
pearl necklace. You know you wanted a pearl necklace--and there's plenty
for a nice one. Each of those papers is worth a thousand dollars, or
nearly. And there are--how many?"

"Three. You seem very keen on getting rid of them."

"So I am--to you, darling."

Evie prepared to depart, looking unconvinced.

"It's awfully nice of you--of course. But still--if that's what you had
meant at first--from the beginning--you would have--Well, I'll tell Aunt
Queenie you'll come."

Left alone, Miriam made haste to read the card in the pocket-book.

_As deep calls to deep, so Spirit speaks to Spirit. It is the only true
communion between mutually comprehending souls. But it is
unerring--pardoning all, because understanding all, and making the
crooked straight._

She read it more than once. She was not sure that it was meant for her.
She was not sure that it was in Ford's own handwriting. But in their
situation it had a meaning; she took it as a message to herself; and as
she read, and read again, she felt on her face the trickling of one or two
slow, hard tears.




XVII



The result of the dinner that evening was that Evie grew more fretful.
After the departure of her guests, she evolved a brief formula which she
used frequently during the next few weeks: "There's something!" With her
quick eyes and quicker intuitions, it was impossible for her not to see
that Ford and Miriam possessed common memories of the kind that
distinguish old acquaintances from new ones. When it did not transpire in
chance words she caught it in their glances or divined it in the mental
atmosphere. As autumn passed into early winter she became nervous,
peevish, and exacting; she lost much from her pretty ways and something
from her looks. In the family the change was ascribed to the fatigue
incidental to the sudden round of lunches, dinners, dances, suppers,
theatre-parties, opera-goings, and "teas" with which American boys and
girls of a certain age are surfeited pitilessly with pleasure, as
Strasburg geese are stuffed for paté de foie gras. Ford, however,
suspected the true reason, and Miriam knew it. They met as seldom as might
be; and yet, with the many things requiring explanation between them,
frank conversation became imperative.

"You see how it is already," Miriam said to him. "It's making her unhappy
from the start. You can't conceal the truth from her very long."

"She isn't fretting about the truth; she's fretting about what she
imagines."

"She's fretting because she doesn't understand, and she'll go on fretting
till she does. I'm not sorry. It must show you--"

"It shows me the necessity of our being married as soon as possible, so
that I may take care of her, and put a stop to it."

"I agree with you that you'd put a stop to it. You'd put a stop to
everything. She wouldn't live a year--or you wouldn't. Either she'd
die--or she'd abhor you. And if she didn't die, you'd want to."

"I wish to the Lord I had died--eight years ago. The great mistake I made
was when the lumber-jacks loosed my hand-cuffs and started me through the
woods. They called it giving me a chance, and for a few minutes I thought
it was one. A chance! Good God! I remember feeling, as I ran, that I was
deserting something. I didn't know what it was just then, but I've
understood it since. It would have been a pluckier thing to have been in
my coffin as Norrie Ford--or even doing time--than to be here as Herbert
Strange."

She said nothing for the moment, but as they walked along side by side he
shot a glance at her, and saw her coloring. They had met in the park. He
was going toward the house in Seventy-second Street when she was coming
away from it. Seizing the opportunity of a few words in private, he had
turned to stroll back with her.

"I didn't expect you to be here as Herbert Strange," she said, as though
in self-excuse. "I had to give you a name that was like my own, when I was
writing letters about your ticket, and sending checks. I had to do
everything to avoid suspicion at a time when Greenport was watched. I
thought you might be able to take your own name or something like it--"

He explained to her how that had never been possible.

"Evie fidgets about it," he continued. "She puts together the two facts
that you and I seem to have known each other, and that my name is
identical with your father's. She doesn't know what to make of it; she
only thinks 'there's something.' She hasn't said more than that in words,
but I see her little mind at work."

"Evie isn't the only one," she informed him. "There's Mr. Wayne. He has to
be reckoned with. He recognized your voice from the first minute of
hearing it, though he hasn't said yet that he knows whose it is. He may do
so at any time. He's very surprising at that sort of thing. I can see him
listening when you're there, not only to your words, but to your very
movements, trying to recapture--"

"The upshot of everything," he said, abruptly, "is that I must marry her,
take her back to the Argentine, where I found her, and where we shall both
be out of harm's way."

"You wouldn't be out of harm's way. You can't turn your back on it like
that. You alone might be able to slip through, but not if you have Evie."

"That will be my affair; I'll see to it. I take the full responsibility on
myself."

"I couldn't let you. Remember that. You can't marry her. Let me say it
plainly--"

"Oh, you've said it plainly enough."

"If I've said it too plainly, it's because you force me. You're so
wilful."

"You mean, I'm so determined. What it amounts to is the clash of your
will against mine; and you refuse to see that I can't give way."

"I see that you must give way. It's in the nature of things. It's
inevitable. If I didn't know that, do you think I should interfere? Do you
think I should dare to run the risk of wrecking your happiness if I could
do anything else? If you knew how I hate doing anything at all--"

"But you needn't. You can just let things be."

"I can't let things be--with all I know; and yet it's impossible for me to
appeal to any one, except yourself. You put me in a position in which I
must either betray you or betray those who trust me. Because I can't do
either--"

"I profit by your noble-mindedness. I told you I would. I'm sorry to have
to do it--I'll even admit that I'm ashamed of it--and yet there's no other
course for me. I'm not taking you at an unfair advantage, because I've
concealed nothing from you from the first. You talk about the difficulty
of your position, but you don't begin to imagine mine. As if everything
else wasn't gall to me, I've got your disapproval to add wormwood."

"It isn't my disapproval; it's simply--the situation. My opinion counts
for nothing--"

"It counts for everything with me--and yet I have to ignore it. But, after
all," he flung out, bitterly, "it's the old story. I claim the right to
squeeze out of life such drops of happiness--if you can call it
happiness--as men have left to me, and you deny it. There it is in a
nutshell. Because other people have inflicted a great wrong on me, you
insist that I shall inflict a greater one on myself. And this time it
wouldn't be only on myself; it would be on poor little Evie. There's
where it cuts. No, no; I shall go on. I've the right to do it. You must
stop me if you can. If you don't, or won't--why, then--"

"I can stop you ... if you drive me to extremes ... but it wouldn't be by
doing ... any of the things you expect."

It was because of the catch in her voice that he stopped in his walk, and
confronted her. In spite of the little tremor he could see in her no sign
of yielding, and behind her veil he caught a gleam like that of anger. It
was at that minute, perhaps, that he became distinctly conscious for the
first time of a doubt as to the superiority of "his type of girl."
Notwithstanding the awakening of certain faint perceptions, he had
hitherto denied within himself that there was anything higher or more
lovely. But in this girl's unflinching loyalty, and in her tenacious
clinging to what she considered right, he was getting a new glimpse of
womanhood, which, however, in no way weakened his determination to resist
her.

"As far as I see," he said, after long hesitation, "you and I have two
irreconcilable duties. My duty is to marry Evie; yours is to prevent me.
In that case there's nothing for either of us but to forge ahead, and see
who wins. If you win, I shall bear no malice; and I hope you'll be equally
generous if I do."

"But I don't want to win independently of you. If I did, nothing could be
easier."

"Then why not do it?"

He tossed up his hand with one of his fatalistic Latin gestures, drawing
the attention of the passers-by to the man and woman talking so earnestly.
For this reason, and because she was losing her self-command, she hastened
to take leave of him.

Arrived at home, it gave her no comfort to find Charles Conquest--the
most spick and span of middle-aged New-Yorkers--waiting in the
drawing-room.

"I thought you might come in," he explained, "so I stayed. I have to get
your signature to the papers about that property in Montreal. I've fixed
the thing up and we'll sell."

"You said you'd send the papers--"

"That sounds as if you weren't glad to see me," he laughed, "but I'll
ignore the discourtesy. Here," he added, unfolding the documents, "you put
your name there--and there--near the L.S."

She carried the papers to her desk, and sat down to write. Conquest took
the liberty of old friendship to stroll about the room, with his hands
behind him, humming a little tune.

"Well," he said suddenly, "has he come back?"

He had not approached the subject, beyond alluding to it covertly, since
the day she had confided to him the confused story of her hopes. She
blotted her signature carefully thinking out her reply.

"I've given up expecting him," she said at last.

"Ho! ho! So that's out of the way."

She pretended to be scanning the documents before her so as to be able to
sit with her back to him.

"It isn't, for the reason that there's--no _way_," she said, after some
hesitation.

"Oh yes, there is," he laughed, "where there's a will."

"But I've no will."

"I have; I've enough for two."

"I'll tell you what you have got," she said, half turning and speaking to
him over the back of her chair. He drew near her. "You've got a great
deal of common sense, and I want to ask your advice."

"I can give that, as radium emits light--without ever diminishing the
original store."

"Then tell me. Has one ever the right to interfere where a man and a
woman--"

"No, never. You needn't give me any more details, because it's one of the
questions an oracle finds easiest to answer. No one ever thanks you--"

"I shouldn't be doing it for thanks."

"And you get your own fingers burnt."

"That wouldn't matter. I'd let my fingers burn to the bone if it would do
any good."

"It wouldn't. You may take my word for it. I know who you're talking
about. It's Evie Colfax."

She started, looking guilty. "Why should you suppose that?"

"I've got eyes. I've watched her, and I know she's a little minx. Oh, you
needn't protest. She's a taking little minx, and this time she's in the
right."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"What has Billy Merrow got to offer her, even if he is my nephew? Come
now! He won't be in a position to marry for the next two or three years.
Whereas that fellow Strange--"

"Have you heard anything about him?" she asked, breathlessly.

"It isn't what I've heard, it's what I see. He's a very good chap, and a
first-rate man of business."

"Do you know him well--personally?"

"I meet him around--at the club and other places--and naturally I have
something to do with him at the office. I like him. If Evie can snap him
up she'll be doing well for herself. I'm sorry for Billy, of course; but
he'll have time to break his heart more than once before he'll have money
enough to do anything else with it. If I'd married at his age--"

This, however, was venturing on delicate ground, so that he broke off,
wheeling round toward the centre of the drawing-room. She folded the
documents and brought them to him.

"You know why I didn't send them?" he said, as he took them. "I thought if
I came myself, you might have something to tell me."

"I haven't; not anything special, that is."

"You've told me something special already--that you're not looking for him
back."

"I'd rather not talk about it now, if you don't mind."

"Then we'll talk about what goes with it--the other side of the subject."

"There is no other side of the subject."

"Oh, come now, Miriam! You haven't heard all I've got to tell you. You've
never let me really present my case, as we lawyers say. If you could see
things as I do--"

"But I can't, and you mustn't ask me to-day. I'm tired--"

"It would rest you."

"No, no; not to-day. Don't you see I'm not--I'm not myself? I've had a
very trying morning."

"What's the matter? Tell me. I can keep a confidence even if I can't do
some other things. Come now! I don't like to think you're worried when
perhaps I could help you. That's what I should be good for, don't you see?
I could assist you to bear a lot of things--"

His tone, which was so often charged with a slightly mocking banter,
became tender, and he attempted to take her hand. For a minute it seemed
as if it might be a relief to trust him, to tell him the whole story and
follow his counsel; but a second's thought showed her that she could not
shift the responsibility from herself, and that in the end she should have
to act alone.

"Not to-day," she pleaded. "I'm not equal to it."

"Then I'll come another day."

"Yes, yes; if you like, only--"

"Some day soon?"

"When you like, only leave me now. Please go away. You won't think I'm
rude, will you? But I'm not--not as I generally am--"

"Good-bye." He put out his, hand frankly, and smiled so humbly, and yet
withal so confidently, that she felt as if in spite of herself she might
yield to his persistence through sheer weariness.

*       *       *       *       *

To her surprise, the next few weeks passed without incident bringing no
development in the situation. She saw little of Evie and almost nothing of
Ford. One or two encounters with Charles Conquest had no result beyond the
reiteration on his part of a set phrase, "You're coming to it, Miriam,"
which, while exasperating her nerves, had a kind of hypnotic effect upon
her will. She felt as if she might be "coming to it." Without calculating
the probabilities she saw clearly enough that if she married Conquest the
very act would furnish proof to Ford that her intervention in his affairs
had been without self-interest. It would even offer some proof to herself,
the sort of proof that strengthens the resolution and supports what is