Triumph

  The months go by--bleak March and May-day heat--  Harvest is over--winter well-nigh done--  And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."  MAY PROBYN

The Little Red Doctor sat on the far end of my bench. Snow fringed thebristling curve of his mustache. He shivered.

"Dominie," said he, "it's a wild day."

I assented.

"Dominie," said the Little Red Doctor, "it is no kind of a day for anold man to be sitting on a bench."

I dissented.

"Dominie," persisted the Little Red Doctor, "you can't deny that you'reold."

"Whose fault is that but yours?" I retorted.

"Don't try to flatter me," said the Little Red Doctor. "You'd havelicked my old friend, Death, in that bout you had with him, without anyhelp of mine. And, anyway, you were already old, then. You're a toughold bird, Dominie. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here in a Marchblizzard staring at the Worth mansion and wondering what really happenedthere three years ago."

"Your old friend, Death, beat you that time," said I maliciously.

The Little Red Doctor chose to ignore my taunt. "Look your fill,Dominie," he advised. "You won't have much more chance."

"Why?" I asked, startled.

"The wreckers begin on it next month. Also a nice, new building is goingup next door to it on that little, secret, walled jungle that Ely Crouchused to misname his garden. I'm glad of it, too. I don't likeanachronisms."

"I'm an anachronism," I returned. "You'll be one pretty soon. Our Squareis one solid anachronism."

"It won't be much longer. The tide is undermining us. Other houses willgo as the Worth place is going. You'll miss it, Dominie. You love housesas if they were people."

It is true. To me houses are the only fabrications of man's hands thatare personalities. Enterprise builds the factory, Greed the tenement,but Love alone builds the house, and by Love alone is it maintainedagainst the city's relentless encroachments. Once hallowed byhabitation, what warm and vivid influences impregnate it! Ambition,pride, hope, joys happily shared; suffering, sorrow, and loss bravelyendured--the walls outlive them all, gathering with age, from grief andjoy alike, kind memories and stanch traditions. Yes, I love the oldhouses. Yet I should not be sorry to see the Worth mansion razed. It hasoutlived all the lives that once cherished it and become a dead,unhuman thing.

That solid square of brown, gray-trimmed stone had grown old honorablywith the honorable generations of the Worths. Then it had died. In onesmiting stroke of tragedy the life had gone out of it. Now it stoodstaring bleakly out from its corner with filmed eyes, across the busysquare. Passing its closed gates daily, I was always sensible of a qualmof the spirit, a daunting prescience that the stilled mansion stillharbored the ghost of an unlaid secret.

The Little Red Doctor broke in upon my reverie.

"Yes; you're old, Dominie. But you're not wise. You're very foolish.Foolish and obstinate."

Knowing well what he meant, I nevertheless pampered him by asking: "Whyam I foolish and obstinate?"

"Because you refuse to believe that Ned Worth murdered Ely Crouch. Don'tyou?"

"I do."

"Then why did Ned commit suicide?"

"I don't know."

"How do you explain away his written confession?"

"I don't. I only know that it was not in Ned Worth's character willfullyto kill an old man. You were his friend; you ought to know it as wellas I do."

"Ah, that's different," said the Little Red Doctor, giving me one of hisqueer looks. "Yes; you're a pig-headed old man, Dominie."

"I'm a believer in character."

"I don't know of any other man equally pig-headed, except possibly one.He's old, too."

"Gale Sheldon," said I, naming the gentle, withered librarian of abranch library a few blocks to the westward, the only other resident ofOur Square who had unfailingly supported me in my loyalty to the memoryof the last of the Worths.

"Yes. He's waiting for us now in his rooms. Will you come?"

Perceiving that there was something back of this--there usually is, inthe Little Red Doctor's maneuvers--I rose and we set out. As we passedthe Worth house it seemed grimmer and bleaker than ever before. Therewas something savage and desperate in its desolation. The cold curse ofabandonment lay upon it. At the turn of the corner the Little Red Doctorsaid abruptly.

"She's dead."

"Who?" I demanded.

"The girl. The woman in the case."

"In the Ely Crouch case? A woman? There was never any woman hinted at."

"No. And there never would have been as long as she was alive.Now--Well, I'll leave Sheldon to explain her. He loved her, too, inhis way."

In Gale Sheldon's big, still room, crowded with the friendly ghosts ofmighty books, a clear fire was burning. One shaded lamp at the desk wasturned on, for though it was afternoon the blizzard cast a gloom likedusk. The Little Red Doctor retired to a far corner where he was all butmerged in the shadows.

"Have you seen this?" Sheldon asked me, pointing to the table.

Thereon was spread strange literature for the scholarly taste of ourlocal book-worm, a section from the most sensational of New York'sSunday newspapers. From the front page, surrounded by a barbarousconglomeration of headlines and uproarious type, there smiled happilyforth a face of such appealing loveliness as no journalistic vulgaritycould taint or profane. I recognized it at once, as any one must havedone who had ever seen the unforgettable original. It was VirginiaKingsley, who, two years before, had been Sheldon's assistant. Thepicture was labeled, "Death Ends Wanderlust of Mysterious Heiress," andthe article was couched in a like style of curiosity-piquingsensationalism. Stripped of its fulsome verbiage, it told of the girl'srecent death in Italy, after traveling about Europe with an invalidsister; during which progress, the article gloated, she was "vainlywooed by the Old World's proudest nobility for her beauty and wealth,"the latter having been unexpectedly left her by an aged relative. Herinexorable refusals were set down, by the romantic journalist, as due tosome secret and prior attachment. (He termed it an "affair de court"!)

Out of the welter of words there stood forth one sentence to tempt theimagination: "She met death as a tryst." For that brief flash thereporter had been lifted out of his bathos and tawdriness into a clearerelement. One could well believe that she had "met death as a tryst." Forif ever I have beheld unfaltering hope and unflagging courage glorifiedand spiritualized into unearthly beauty, it was there in that picturedface, fixed by the imperishable magic of the camera.

"No; I hadn't seen it," I said after reading. "Is it true?"

"In part." Then, after a pause, "You knew her, didn't you, Dominie?"

"Only by sight. She had special charge of the poetry alcove, hadn'tshe?"

"Yes. She belonged there of right. She was the soul and fragrance of allthat the singers of springtime and youth have sung." He sighed, shakinghis grizzled head mournfully. "'And all that glory now lies dimmed indeath.' It doesn't seem believable."

He rose and went to the window. Through the whorls of snow could bevaguely seen the outlines of the Worth house, looming on its corner. Hestared at it musing.

"I've often wondered if she cared for him," he murmured.

"For him? For Worth!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Were they friends?"

"Hardly more than acquaintances, I thought. But she left very strangelythe day of his death and never came back."

From the physician's corner there came an indeterminate grunt.

"If that is a request for further information, Doctor, I can say that onthe few occasions when they met here in the library, it was only in theline of her duties. He was interested in the twentieth-century poets.But even that interest died out. It was months before the--the tragedythat he stopped coming to the Library."

"It was months before the tragedy that he stopped going anywhere, wasn'tit?" I asked.

"Yes. Nobody understood it; least of all, his friends. I even heard ithinted that he was suffering from some malady of the brain." He turnedinquiringly to the far, dim corner.

Out of it the Little Red Doctor barked: "Death had him by the throat."

"Death? In what form?"

"Slow, sure fingers, shutting off his breath. Do you need furtherdetails or will the dry, scientific term, epithelioma, be enough?" Thevoice came grim out of the gloom. No answer being returned, itcontinued: "I've had easier jobs than telling Ned Worth. It was hopelessfrom the first. My old friend, Death, had too long a start on me."

"Was it something that affected his mind?"

"No. His mind was perfectly clear. Vividly clear. May I take my lastverdict, when it comes, with a spirit as clear and as noble."

Silence fell, and in the stillness we heard the Little Red Doctorcommuning with memories. Now and then came a muttered word. "Suicide!"in a snarl of scornful rejection. "Fool-made definitions!" Presently,"Story for a romancer, not a physician." He seemed to be canvassing aninadequacy in himself with dissatisfaction. Then, more clearly: "Lovefrom the first. At a glance, perhaps. The contagion of flame for powder.But in that abyss together they saw each other's soul."

"The Little Red Doctor is turning poet," said Sheldon to me in anincredulous whisper.

There was the snap and crackle of a match from the shadowed corner. Thekeen, gnarled young face sprang from the darkness, vivid and softenedwith a strange triumph, then receded behind an imperfect circle, cloudedthe next instant by a nimbus of smoke. The Little Red Doctor spoke.

Ned Worth was my friend as well as my patient. No need to tell you men,who knew him, why I was fond of him. I don't suppose any one ever camein contact with that fantastic and smiling humanity of his withoutloving him for it. "Immortal hilarity!" The phrase might have beencoined for him.

It wasn't as physician that I went home with Ned, after pronouncingsentence upon him, but as friend. I didn't want him to be alone thatfirst night. Yet I dare say that any one, seeing the two of us, wouldhave thought me the one who had heard his life-limit defined. He was assteady as a rock.

"No danger of my being a miser of life," he said. "You've given me leaveto spend freely what's left of it." Well, he spent. Freely andsplendidly!

The spacious old library on the second floor--you know it, Dominie,smelt of disuse, as we entered, Ned's servant bringing up the rear witha handbag. Dust had settled down like an army of occupation overeverything. The furniture was shrouded in denim. The tall clock in thecorner stood voiceless. Three months of desertion will change any houseinto a tomb. And the Worth mansion was never too cheerful, anyway. Sincethe others of the family died, Ned hadn't stayed there long enough at atime to humanize it.

Ned's man set down the grip, unstrapped it, took his orders for somelate purchases, and left to execute them. I went over to open the twodeep-set windows on the farther side of the room. It was a still, closeOctober night, and the late scent of warmed-over earth came up to me outof Ely Crouch's garden next door. From where I stood in the broadembrasure of the south window, I was concealed from the room. But Icould see everything through a tiny gap in the hangings. Ned sat at hisdesk sorting some papers. A sort of stern intentness had settled uponhis face, without marring its curious faun-like beauty. I carry thepicture in my mind.

"What's become of you, Chris?" he demanded presently. I came out intothe main part of the room. "Oh, there you are! You'll look after a fewlittle matters for me, won't you?" He indicated a sheaf of papers.

"You needn't be in such a hurry," said I with illogical resentment. "Itisn't going to be to-morrow or next week."

"Isn't it?" Something in his tone made me look at him sharply. "Sixmonths or three months or to-morrow," he added, more lightly; "what doesit matter as long as it's sure! You know, what I appreciate is that yougave me the truth straight."

"It's a luxury few of my patients get. Their constitutions won't standit."

"It's a compliment to my nerve. Strangely enough I don't feel nervousabout it."

"I do. Damnably! About something, anyway. There's something wrong withthis room, Ned. What is it?"

"Don't you know?" he laughed. "It's the sepulchral silence of OldGrandfather Clock, over there. You're looking right at him and wonderingsubconsciously why he doesn't make a noise like Time."

"That's easily remedied." Consulting my watch I set and wound theancient timepiece. Its comfortable iteration made the place at once morelivable. Immediately it struck the hour.

"Ten o'clock," I said, and parted the draperies at the lower window tolook out again. "Ten o'clock of a still, cloudy night and--and the devilis on a prowl in his garden."

"Meaning my highly respected neighbor and ornament to the local bar, theHonorable Ely Crouch?"

"Exactly. Preceded by a familiar spirit in animal form."

"Oh, that's his pet ferret and boon companion."

"Not his only companion. There's some one with him," I said. "A woman."

"I don't admire her taste in romance," said Ned.

"Nor her discretion. You know what they say: 'A dollar or a woman neversafe alone with Ely Crouch.'"

"My dollars certainly weren't," observed Ned.

"How did he ever defend your suit for an accounting?" I asked.

"Heedlessness on my side, a crooked judge on his. Stop spying on myneighbor's flirtations and look here."

I turned and got a shock. The handbag lay open on the desk, surroundedby a respectable-sized fortune in bank-notes.

"Pretty much all that the Honorable Ely has left me," he added.

"Is it enough to go on with, Ned?" I asked.

He smiled at me. "Plenty for my time. You forget."

For the moment I had forgotten. "But what on earth are you going to dowith all that ready cash?"

"Carry out a brilliant idea. I conceived it after you had handed downyour verdict. Went around to the bank and quietly drew out the lot. I'veplanned a wild and original orgy. A riot of dissipation in giving. Thinkof the fun one can have with that much tangible money. Already to-dayI've struck one man dumb and reduced another to mental decay, by thesimple medium of a thousand-dollar bill. Miracles! Declare a vacation,Chris, and come with me on my secret and jubilant bat, and we'llwork wonders."

"And after?" I asked.

"Oh, after! Well, there'll be no further reason for the 'permanentpossibility of sensation' on my part. That's your precious science'sbest definition of life, I believe. It doesn't appeal to one as alluringwhen the sensation promises to become--well, increasingly unpleasant."

There was no mistaking his meaning. "I can't have that, my son," Iprotested.

"No? That's a purely professional prejudice of yours. Look at it from mypoint of view. Am I to wait to be strangled by invisible hands, ratherthan make an easy and graceful exit? Suicide! The word has no meaningfor a man in my condition. If you'll tell me there's a chance, one mere,remote human chance--" He paused, turning to me with what was almostappeal in his glance. How I longed to lie to him! But Ned Worth was thekind that you can't lie to. I looked at him standing there so strong andfine, with all the mirthful zest of living in his veins, sentencedbeyond hope, and I thought of those terrible lines of another manunder doom:

  "I never saw a man who looked  So wistfully at the day."

We medical men learn to throw a protective film over our feelings, likethe veil over the eagle's eye. We have to. But I give you my word, Icould not trust my voice to answer him.

"You see," he said; "you can't." His hand fell on my arm. "I'm sorry,Chris," he said in that winning voice of his; "I shouldn't plague youfor something that you can't give me."

"I can tell you this, anyway," said I: "that it's something less thancourage to give up until the time comes. You didn't give your life. Youhaven't the right to take it; anyway, not until its last usefulnessis over."

He made a movement of impatience.

"Oh, I'm not asking you to endure torture. I'd release you myself fromthat, if it comes to it, in spite of man-made laws. But how can you tellthat being alive instead of dead next week or next month may not make aneternal difference to some other life? Your part isn't played out yet.Who are you to say how much good you may yet do before the curtain isrung down?"

"Or how much evil! Well, as a suitable finish, suppose I go down intothat garden and kill Ely Crouch," he suggested, smiling. "That would bea beneficial enough act to entitle me to a prompt and peaceful death,wouldn't it?"

"Theoretically sound, but unfortunately impracticable," I answered,relieved at his change of tone.

"I suppose it is." He looked at me, still smiling, but intent. "Chris,what do you believe comes after?"

"Justice."

"A hard word for cowards. What do I believe, I wonder? At any rate, inbeing sport enough to play the game through. You're right, oldhard-shell. I'll stick it out. It will only mean spending this"--heswept the money back into its repository--"a little more slowly."

"I was sure I could count on you," I said. "Now I can give you thetalisman." I set on the desk before him a small pasteboard box. "Paystrict attention. You see that label? That's to remind you. One tabletif you can't sleep."

"I couldn't last night."

"Two if the pain becomes more than you can stand."

He nodded.

"But three at one time and you'll sleep so sound that nothing will everawaken you."

"Good old Chris!" Opening the box, he fingered the pellets curiously. "Ablessed thing, your science! Three and the sure sleep."

"On trust, Ned."

"On honor," he agreed. "Then I mustn't expunge old Crouch? It's adisappointment," he added gayly.

He pushed the box away from him and crossed over to the upper window.His voice came to me from behind the enshrouding curtains.

"Our friend has finished his promenade. The air is the sweeter for it.I'll stay here and breathe it."

"Good!" said I. "I've five minutes of telephoning to do. Then I'll beback."

Nobody can ever tell me again that there's an instinct which feels thepresence of persons unseen. On my way to the door I passed withinarm's-length of a creature tense and pulsating with the most desperateemotions. I could have stretched out a hand and touched her as shecrouched, hidden in the embrasure of the lower window. It would seem asif the whole atmosphere of the room must have been surcharged with theterrific passion of her newborn and dreadful hopes. And I felt--nothing.No sense, as I brushed by, of the tragic and concentrated force of willwhich nerved and restrained her. I went on, and out unconscious.Afterward she was unable to tell me how long she had been there. It musthave been for some minutes, for what roused her from her stupor ofterror was the word "Suicide." It was like an echo, a mockery to her, atfirst; and then, as she listened with passionate attention to whatfollowed, my instructions about the poison took on the voice of aministering providence. The draperies had shut off the view of Ned, norhad she recognized his voice, already altered by the encroachments ofthe disease. But she heard him walk to the upper window, and saw me passon my way to the telephone, and knew that the moment had come. From whatshe told me later, and from that to which I was a mazed witness on myreturn, I piece together the events which so swiftly followed.

A wind had risen outside or Ned might have heard the footsteps sooner.As it was, when he stepped out from behind the draperies of the upperwindow those of the lower window were still waving, but the swift figurehad almost reached the desk. The face was turned from him. Even in thatmoment of astonishment he noticed that she carried her left arm close toher body, with a curious awkwardness.

"Hello!" he challenged.

She cried out sharply, and covered the remaining distance with a rush.Her hand fell upon the box of pellets. She turned, clutching that littlebox of desperate hopes to her bosom.

"Good God! Virginia!" he exclaimed. "Miss Kingsley!"

"Mr. Worth! Was it you I heard? Why--how are you here?"

"This is my house."

"I didn't know." Keeping her eyes fixed upon him like a watchful animal,she slowly backed to interpose the table between herself and a possibleinterference. Her arm, still stiffly pressed to her side, impeded herfumbling efforts to open the box. Presently, however, the cover yielded.

He measured the chances of intervention, and abandoned the hope. Hisbrain hummed with a thousand conjectures, a thousand questions centeringupon her obvious and preposterous purpose. Suddenly, as her fingerstrembled among the tablets, his thoughts steadied and his stratagemwas formed.

"What do you want with my tonic?" he asked coolly.

"Tonic? I--I thought--"

"You thought it was the poison. Well, you've got the wrong box. Thepoison box is in the drawer."

"In the drawer," she repeated. She spoke in the mechanical voice of onedesperately intent upon holding the mind to some vital project. Hernerveless hands fumbled at the side of the desk.

He crossed quickly, caught up the box which she had just relinquished,and dropped it into his pocket.

"Oh!" she moaned, and stared at him with stricken and accusing eyes."Then it was the poison!"

"Yes."

"Give it back to me!" she implored, like a bereft child. "Oh, give it tome!"

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

She looked at him in dumb despair.

"How did you get here?" he demanded.

"Your fire escape."

"And to that from the garden wall, I suppose? So you were Ely Crouch'scompanion," he cried with a changed voice.

"Don't," she shuddered, throwing her right arm over her face.

"I beg your pardon," he said gently. "Take a swallow of this water.What's the matter with your arm? Are you hurt?"

"No." Her eyes would not meet his. They were fixed obstinately upon thepocket into which he had dropped the poison.

"It's incredible!" he burst out. "You with your youth and loveliness!With everything that makes life sweet for yourself and others. Whatmadness--" He broke off and his voice softened into persuasion. "We werealmost friends, once. Can't I--won't you let me help? Don't you thinkyou can trust me?"

She raised her eyes to his, and he read in them hopeless terror. "Yes, Icould trust you. But there is only one help for me now. And you've takenit from me."

"Who can tell? You've been badly frightened," he said in as soothing atone as he could command. "Try to believe that no harm can come to youhere, and that I--I would give the blood of my heart to save you fromharm or danger. You said you could trust me. What was your errand withEly Crouch?"

"Money."

"Money!" he repeated, drawing back.

"It was our own; my sister's and mine. Mr. Crouch had it. He had managedour affairs since my father's death. I could never get an accountingfrom him. To-day the doctor told me that Alice must go away at once foran operation. And to-day Mr. Crouch made this appointment for to-night."

"Didn't you know his reputation? Weren't you afraid?"

"I didn't think of fear. When I told him how matters stood, he offeredme money, but--but--Oh, I can't tell you!"

"No need," he said quickly. "I know what he is. I was joking when Ispoke of killing him, a little while ago. By God, I wish I had killedhim! It isn't too late now."

"It is too late."

Her eyes, dilated, were fixed upon his.

"Why? How--too late?" he stammered.

"I killed him."

"You! You--killed--Ely--Crouch?"

"He had a cane," she said, in a hurried, flat, half-whisper. "When hecaught at me, I tried to get it to defend myself. The handle pulled out.There was a dagger on it. He came at me again. I didn't realize what Iwas doing. All I could see was that hateful face drawing nearer. Then itchanged and he seemed to dissolve into a hideous heap. I didn't mean tokill him." Her voice rose in the struggle against hysteria. "God knows,I didn't mean to kill him."

"Hush!"

His hands fell on her shoulders and held her against the onset. Energyand resolution quickened in his eyes. "Who knows of your being inthe garden?"

"No one."

"Any one see you climb the wall and come here?"

"No."

"Or know that you had an appointment with him?"

"No."

"Will you do exactly as I tell you?"

"What is the use?" she said dully.

"I'm going to get you out of here."

"I should have to face it later. I couldn't face it--the horror andshame of it. I'd rather die a thousand times." She lifted her arms, thecoat opened, and the cane-handled blade dropped to the floor, androlled. She shuddered away from it. "I kept that for myself, but Icouldn't do it. It's got his blood on it. When I heard the doctor speakof the poison, it seemed like a miracle of Providence sent to guide me.Oh, give it to me! Is it"--she faltered--"is it quick?"

"Steady!" Stooping he picked up the weapon. "It needn't come to that, ifyou can play your part. Have you got the courage to walk out of thishouse and go home to safety? Absolute safety!"

She searched his face in bewilderment. "I--don't know."

"If I give you my word of honor that it depends only on yourself?"

"How?"

"Pull yourself together. Go downstairs quietly. Turn to your left.You'll see a door. It opens on the street. Walk out with your head up,and go home. You're as safe as though you'd never seen Ely Crouch.There's no clue to you."

"No clue! Look down the fire escape!"

He crossed the room at a bound. Beneath him, its evil snout pointedupwards, sat the dead man's familiar spirit.

"Good God! The ferret!"

"It's been sitting there, watching, watching, watching."

"The more reason for haste. Pull yourself together. Forward, march!"he cried, pressing his will upon her.

"But you? When they come what will you say to them?"

"I'll fix up something." He drew back from the window, lowering hisvoice. "Men in the garden. A policeman."

"They've found him!" She fell into Ned's chair, dropping her head in herhands. For an instant he studied her. Then he took his great and tenderresolution. His hand fell warm and firm on her shoulder.

"Listen; suppose they suspect some one else?"

"Who?"

"Me."

"You? Why should they?"

"Circumstances. The place. The weapon here in my possession. My knowntrouble with Ely Crouch. Don't you see how it all fits in?"

She recovered from the stupor of surprise into which his suggestion hadplunged her. "Are you mad? Do you think that I'd let you sacrificeyourself? What am I to you that you should do this for me?"

"The woman I love," he said quietly. "I have loved you from the firstday that I saw you."

It was at this moment that I returned and halted at the door, anunwilling witness to the rest, only half understanding, not daring tomove. I saw the splendid color mount and glorify her beauty. I saw herhands go out to him half in appeal, half in rejection.

"Oh, it's madness!" she cried. "It's your life you're offering me."

"What else should I offer you--you who have given life its real meaningfor me?"

He caught her hands in his and held them. He caught her eyes in his andheld them. Then he began speaking, evenly, soothingly, persuasively,binding her to his will.

"What does my life amount to? Think how little it means. A few moreweeks of waiting. Then the suffering: then the release. You heard Dr.Smith. You know. You understand. Didn't you understand?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Then you must see what a splendid way out this is for me. No morewaiting. No pain. Death never came to any one so kindly before. It's mychance, if only you'll make it worth while. Will you?" he pleaded.

"Oh, the wonder of it!" she whispered, gazing on him with parted lips.But he did not understand, yet. He pressed what he thought to be hisadvantage.

"Here," he cried, suddenly dropping her hands and catching up the billsfrom the valise. "Here's safety. Here's life. For you and your sister,both. You spoke of Providence a moment ago. Here's Providence for you!Quick! Take it."

"What is it?" she asked, drawing away as he sought to thrust the moneyinto her hands.

"Twenty thousand dollars. More. It doesn't matter. It's life for both ofyou. Have you the right to refuse it? Take it and go."

She let the bank-notes fall from her hands unnoticed.

"Do you think I would leave you now?" she cried in a voice of thrilledmusic. "Even if they weren't sure to trace me, as they would be."

This last she uttered as an unimportant matter dismissed withindifference.

"There will be nothing to trace. My confession will cover the ground."

"Confession? To what?"

"To the murder of Ely Crouch."

Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. Butthey were too engrossed to hear.

"You would do even that? But the penalty--the shame--"

"What do they matter to a dying man?" he retorted impatiently.

She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but nowshe came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So theystood face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as Isit here speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face.When she spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of thatwhich had passed silently between them.

"Do you love me?"

"Before God I do," he answered.

"Take me away! There's time yet. I'll go with you anywhere, anywhere!I'm all yours. I've loved you from the first, I think, as you have lovedme. All I ask is to live for you, and when you die, to die with you."

Fire flashed from his face at the call. He took a step toward her. Ashout, half-muffled, sounded from outside the window. Instantly thelight and passion died in his eyes. I have never seen a face at once sostern and so gentle as his was when he caught the outreaching handsin his own.

"You forget that they must find one of us, or it's all no use. Listencarefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid you.Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. Itwon't be hard." He took the little box from his pocket. "It will bevery easy."

"Give it to me, too," she pleaded like a child. "Ah, Ned, we can't partnow! Both of us together."

He shook his head, smiling. The man's face was as beautiful as a god'sat that moment or an angel's. "You must go back to your sister," he saidsimply. "You haven't the right to die."

He turned to the table, drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote fourwords. You all know what they were; his confession. Then his hand wentup, a swift movement, and a moment later he was setting back the glassof water upon the desk whence he had taken it.

"Love and glory of my life, will you go?" he said.

"Yes," she whispered.

Not until then did the paralysis, which had gripped me when I saw Nedturn the pellets into his hand, relax. I ran forward. The girl criedout. Ned met me with his hand against my breast.

"How much have you heard?" he said quickly.

"Enough."

"Then you'll understand." His faith was more irresistible than athousand arguments. "Take her home, Chris."

I held out my hand. "Come," I said.

She turned and faced him. "Must I? Alone?" What a depth of desolation inthat word!

"There is no other way, dearest one."

"Good-bye, then, until we meet," she said in the passionate music of hervoice. "Every beat of my heart will bring me nearer to you. There willbe no other life for me. Soon or late I'll come to you. You believe it.Say you believe it!"

"I believe it." He bent and kissed her lips. Then his form slackenedaway from the arms that clasped it, and sank into the chair. Apoliceman's whistle shrilled outside the window. The faintest flicker ofa smile passed over the face of the sleeper.

I took her away, still with that unearthly ecstasy on her face.

       *       *       *       *       *

The glow of the narrator's cigar waxed, a pin-point of light in a worldof dimness and mystery. Subdued breathing made our silence rhythmic.When I found my voice, it was hardly more than a whisper.

"Good God! What a tragedy!"

"Tragedy? You think it so?" The Little Red Doctor's gnarled face gleamedstrangely behind the tiny radiance. "Dominie, you have a queer notion ofthis life and little faith in the next."

"'She met death as a tryst,'" murmured the old librarian. "And he!'Trailing clouds of glory!' The triumph of that victory over fate! Onewould like to have seen the meeting between them, after the waiting."

The Little Red Doctor rose. "When some brutal and needless tragedy ofthe sort that we medical men witness so often shakes my faith in mykind, I turn to think of those two in the splendor of their last meetingon earth, the man with the courage to face death, the woman with thecourage to face life."

He strode over to the table and lifted the newspaper, which had slippedto the floor unnoticed. The girlish face turned toward us itsirresistible appeal, yearning out from amidst the lurid indignitiesof print.

"You heard from her afterward?" I asked.

"Often. The sister died and left her nothing to live for but herpromise. Always in her letters sounded the note of courage and ofwaiting. It was in the last word I had from her--received since herdeath--set to the song of some poet, I don't know who. You ought toknow, Mr. Sheldon."

His deep voice rose to the rhythm.

  "Ah, long-delayed to-morrow! Hearts that beat  Measure the length of every moment gone.  Ever the suns rise tardily or fleet  And light the letters on a churchyard stone.--  And still I say, 'To-morrow we shall meet!'"

"May Probyn," the librarian identified. "Too few people know her. Awonderful poem!"

Silence fell again, folding us and our thoughts in its kindly refuge.Rising, I crossed to the window and drew the curtain aside. A surgingwind had swept the sky clear, all but one bank of low-lurking, westerncloud shot through with naming crimson. In that luminous setting theancient house across Our Square, grim and bleak no longer to my eyes,gleamed, through eyes again come to life, with an inconceivable glory.Behind me in the shadow, the measured voice of the witness to life anddeath repeated once more the message of imperishable hope:

  "And still I say, 'To-morrow we shall meet.'"

THE END