A new name

by Grace Livingston Hill

And then the door opened, and half a dozen clean-shaven successful-looking men entered, followed almost immediately by several more, and the conference convened.

He was given a chair at the far side of the table away from both window and door, and surrounded by strong, able-bodied men, who acknowledged the introductions to him with pleasant courtesy, and the right hand of welcome. Before he knew it, he found himself glowing with the warmth of their friendliness, and his heart aching almost to bursting that he could not stay and take refuge behind all this genial welcome. If only he were sure that that bird Allan Murray was dead, really dead so he could never come to life and turn up inconveniently any old time, he believed he would chance it. He would take his name and his place and make a new spot for himself in the world, and try to make something of himself worth while. A tingle of ambition burned in his veins. It intrigued him to watch all these business men who seemed so keen about their part in the work of the world. He had never touched the world of business much. He had not supposed it would interest him. He found himself wondering what his superior, sarcastic father would think of him if he should succeed in business some day and, having made a fortune, should return home and let him know what he had done. And then it came to him that even if he did make a new name and fortune he would never dare return. He would only bring shame and disgrace upon father and mother, because he was a murderer, and even if they tried to protect him they would have to do it by hustling him off out of the world again where he would be safe.

A wave of shame brought the color into his pale face, and he looked quickly around the group of earnest men to see if any of them had noticed him, but they were intent upon some knotty discussion that seemed to have to be decided at once before they could proceed with the day’s program, and he retired into his own thoughts once more, and tried to plan an escape to be put into effect as soon as he should be freed from the zealous watchfulness of these men who thought he was their new teller. There was that Emory Hale, too, they had talked about, who was supposed to have been with him in France. He must get away before he turned up.

Two hours later he thought his moment had come.

They had all just come down in the elevator, and he was about to be shown to the scene of his new duties. He came out of the elevator last, and noticed an open door at the end of the hall but a few feet away, and an alcove with a chair obviously for the comfort of the elevator boy in seasons of relief. Deftly he swung himself back into this alcove till the other men had passed and the boy had clashed the steel door of his car shut and whirled away into the upper regions for another load. For a brief instant the coast was clear, and he glided to the doorway and was about to pass out into the sunshine, regardless of the fact that he was hatless. A second more and he could have drawn a full breath of relief, dashed around a corner and speeded up till he was somewhere out of town in the wide-open country.

But in that instant’s passing he came face to face with Jane, smartly coated and hatted in green, with brown fur around her neck, the color of her eyes and hair, and unmistakable joy in her eyes.

“Why, Allan Murray!” she cried. “Good-morning! Where are you going without your hat? You look as if you were running away from school.”

He came to himself with a click in his heart that reminded him of prison bars and bolts, and stood to salute her.

Somehow he summoned a smile to his ashy lips.

“Not at all,” he answered gaily, glancing back of him at the still empty hallway. “I was—ah—just looking for the postman.” A door opened somewhere up the hall, and footsteps came out briskly.