A MAN'S HONOR
"Well?"
The monosyllabic challenge bit through the silence of the room. It was hard, cruel, and full of unmistakable menace.
The man at the desk leaped from his seat and faced about, glaring in the direction whence the voice had proceeded.
The Man Leaped from His Seat and Faced About
He faced the accusing figure of Alexander Hendrie with a desperate, hunted look in his widening eyes, and, curiously, in the horror of the moment, amid the turmoil of alarm that filled his heart and brain, he found himself surveying the intruder with a closeness of observation only to be expected in moments of perfect tranquility.
His eyes caught the man's mane of hair, slightly graying at the temples. He noted the cold gleam of the gray eyes leveled straight at his. He realized the meaning of the harsh, tightly compressed mouth, and the gripping muscles of the wide, bull-dog jaw. There was a peculiar hunch to the man's broad shoulders, which suggested nothing so much as an animal crouching to spring. All these things he saw, and read, and he knew that a merciless fury was raging behind the calm mask of this husband of his mother.
In a flash his own nerve steadied, and a desperate calmness succeeded the first shock of horror.
"Well?" he retorted, and moistened his parching lips.
To an on-looker, undisturbed by the tension of the moment, a curious realization must inevitably have occurred. It was the extraordinary likeness existing between these two. The older man displayed the maturity of his years in his increasing bulk, but the likeness was scarcely lessened by it. There was the same hair, the same cast of feature. The younger man's eyes were blue and his height was greater, but the breadth of shoulder, the bone and muscle were similar.
Yet neither of them realized the likeness. All their thought was eaten up by a growing antagonism, antagonism in one that was well-nigh murderous, and in the other, simply that of a man, who finds himself pre-judged, found guilty and sentenced for some crime of which he is wholly ignorant and innocent.
Hendrie caught at the retort with lessening restraint. He pointed at the open safe and the bundle of notes which Frank still clutched in his hand.
"Red-handed," he said. Then as the incredulous youth made a movement of protest, the other's hand slipped round to his hip pocket with a movement not to be mistaken. "Don't move," he said quickly.
Hendrie's command had instant effect. Frank stood quite still. Then his appalled amazement found sudden and violent expression.
"Good God!" he cried. "What do you mean? Do you take me for—a low-down thief?"
Hendrie's eyes never once relaxed their cruel stare.
"What are you then?"
Frank glanced at the open safe, and his horrified eyes came back to the pile of notes he was still grasping.
"You mean——" he began. Then indignation overcame every other feeling. "This money was——"
Again he broke off, and this time a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead. Only just in time did he realize what the admission he was about to make would entail. Suddenly he beheld the hideous trap gaping to ensnare him.
To say that his mother, this man's wife, had given him the money, that her hand had unlocked the safe, that he and she had been in that room together, would be to betray her secret and yield up to the last man in the world whom she wished should learn it, the story of—her shame.
His throat had dried up suddenly, and an awful sickness pervaded his stomach. His imagination became fired. What could he do? The possibility of such a situation had never entered his head. He was helpless. Explanation was denied him. He could only stand there, a convicted felon, caught, as Hendrie had so mercilessly declared, "red-handed." Not for one moment did he dream of taking the other course. To betray his mother, the woman who had devoted her life to him, it was out of the question. His nature was incapable of such a thing. Cost him what it might—even life itself—her honor was safe with him.
As the realization of his terrible position came to him, a fresh anxiety grew; an anxiety that was wholly unselfish. He dreaded lest she should return. He knew her goodness, her generosity. That painful secret she had hugged to herself for all these long years would be promptly yielded up to save him. He prayed that her return to the room might be delayed until—until——
He looked into the merciless eyes of his accuser whose harsh voice broke the silence—
"You were going to say it was given you. Go on."
But Frank had no answer. A dogged silence seemed to be the only thing possible, and Hendrie was left to do the talking.
"You were going to say that that money had been given you by some one—my wife?" He laughed without mirth. "Guess you'd best finish your story. Shall I send for my wife to corroborate it? How'd you fancy that? I'd think a thief would have a better yarn than that. The money was given you!"
The man's sarcasm goaded his victim beyond endurance, and dogged silence gave way before it.
"You lie," he cried passionately. "I am no thief!"
The younger man's sudden heat was not without its effect upon Hendrie. A flush crept over his level brows. It dyed his cheeks, and added a fresh gleam of malignant hatred to the cold cruelty of his eyes. He drew a step nearer, and pointed at the chair.
"Sit down!" he commanded. And Frank found himself mechanically obeying.
After a moment's pause, Hendrie went on with a deliberation that contained an infinitely greater threat than any passionate outburst could have conveyed.
"You're a thief," he cried. "Do you get me? A thief. You're a low-down, dirty cur of a thief, not half as good as the man who steals money. Say, you're the sort of skunk who steals in through back doors chasing other men's womenfolk. You came to steal my wife. You've been at the game weeks. You've been watched—both of you—you and your paramour. Back!"
In a wild fury Frank precipitated himself from his chair to choke the filthy accusations in the man's throat. But he was brought to a stand by the shining muzzle of a revolver, held at his body.
He dropped back to his chair.
"Say, you can quit that right here," Hendrie went on. "I'm ready for any play that way. You see, I fixed this trap for you. Guess I was wise to your being here. Say, you're going to pay for your gambol, my friend. Maybe you don't know what you're up against. You're going to pay—and pay bad. Maybe you don't know what my money can do. It can do a heap, and I'm ready to spend my last cent so you get the dose I want you to get.
"But you've made it easy for me. Plumb easy. I find you here with my safe open, and a pile of money taken from it. A safe robber, eh? The money in your hand, and you got in through this window. Get me? Burglary. House-breaking. Safe-robbing. When the law's fixed you right for that, and you've served your term—then, why, I guess there's more to follow. Say, you're going to get it good for just so long as we both live. I'm going to beat you down, down, down, till I've crushed you out of your rotten existence.
"Oh, I know you've not stolen that money," he went on savagely. "I know that. I recognize you for the man whose picture I tore up in my wife's rooms before I married her. You're her lover, I know, but you're going to be treated just as hard as the law can fix you for—those other things."
Under the merciless lash of the millionaire's tongue Frank grew steadily calmer. But it was the calm of despair. Full well he saw the hopelessness of his position. He had been trapped beyond all chance of escape, and even ill luck had worked for his undoing. As Hendrie paused he felt, though he knew denial was useless, that he must make a final effort.
"I tell you, you are wrong—utterly wrong," he cried desperately. "I have never stolen anything in my life. As for your wife, if you would only put this madness out of your head you would see that there is only one man in all the world she loves, and that man is you. Oh, I know it's useless to deny anything while you are in this state of mind. But it is as I say. You can do your worst with me. You can employ your millions as you choose for my hurt, but I tell you the day will come when you will regret it, regret the wrong you are doing your wife—me, and would give your right hand to undo the mischief you have wrought through this—this insane jealousy."
The millionaire gazed at the earnest young face, and slowly a smile grew in his eyes, a smile which only rendered their expression more tigerish.
"Come," he said, in his level tones, "that's better. If what you say is true guess the whole thing's up to you. You'll have your opportunity in the prisoner's dock. Just explain things to the court, to the press reporters, waiting to telegraph the news all over America. Just tell 'em what your relations with the wife of Alexander Hendrie are. Call her a witness that she gave you that money. Do this. I'll be satisfied for you to do it. But remember when you get through with the court, you're not through with me."
He crossed the room and drew the curtains apart while Frank's desperate eyes followed his movements. There was no thought in the youngster's mind of anything but the absolute fiendishness in the man's final proposal. The heartless subtlety of it was tremendous.
Call his mother a witness! Call her a witness with a ravening horde of reporters gasping for scandal. He understood that Hendrie believed he would expose her to the shame of this liaison, and so punish her by such a process. He knew how little the man guessed the awakening such a course would in all probability bring him.
In that moment Frank saw more clearly than ever the necessity for silence and submission. But, realizing these things, he saw, too, an added danger.
"One moment," he said, with studied calmness. He had half read the other's intention as he moved the curtains. "What will happen when—Mrs. Hendrie hears of my conviction. Have you considered that?"
The millionaire glanced over his shoulder. A triumphant light shone in his eyes.
"Guess I've considered everything. Your—paramour—after to-night, will never see or hear of you again—unless you call her as a witness at your trial."
He waited for the anticipated outburst. But it did not come. To his surprise his victim's face was smiling, and the sight of it set him searching for its cause.
Frank nodded.
"Right," he said, almost cheerily. "You can call your man. I have no intention to resist—now."
The next moment a man stepped into the room through the parted curtains. Frank surveyed him almost indifferently. He recognized him as Douglas, the Sheriff of Everton. It was a recognition that told him, had he needed to be told, that the millionaire's purpose was no "bluff."
His heart sank, but his determination remained unaltered. He thought of Phyllis, he thought of the farm he was to have purchased, he thought of a hundred and one things, and, though he gave no outward sign, he felt he could almost have wept.
Presently he was roused by their touch as the cold irons were slipped upon his wrists, and he heard Hendrie delivering his charge to the sheriff.
Then he found himself standing up. Somebody passed him his hat. Then he knew that he was walking beside the sheriff, and passing out of the room by the window through which he had entered it.
Alexander Hendrie gazed after the two retreating figures until the ground seemed to swallow them up as they dropped down to the lower level of the river-bank, where the trail for Everton ran along it. Then he turned back to the room.
He crossed swiftly to the safe and closed it. He thrust the packet of money into an inner pocket of his coat. Then he set the chair at the desk straight. After that he passed out through the window, carefully closing it behind him.
Ten minutes later a high-powered automobile was approaching Deep Willows by the Everton trail. It only had two occupants. The chauffeur was in the driving seat. Behind him, surrounded by his baggage, and enveloped in his heavy traveling coat, sat Alexander Hendrie.