The best man

by Grace Livingston Hill

“You see, the little mother had something to say to Celia alone, so I saw I was de trop, and thought I better come with you,” he declared as soon as he could get his breath.

“Gee, but you can run!” added the panting youth. “What’s the hurry? It’s ten whole minutes before the train leaves. I couldn’t waste all that time kicking my heels on the platform, when I might be enjoying my new brother-in-law’s company. I say, are you really going to live permanently in Chicago? I do wish you’d decide to come back to New York. Mother’ll miss Celia no end. I don’t know how she’s going to stand it.”

Walking airily by Gordon’s side, he talked, apparently not noticing the sudden start and look of mingled anxiety and relief that overspread his brother-in-law’s countenance. Then another man walked by them and turning looked in their faces. Gordon was sure this was the thick-set man from Holman’s. He was eying Gordon keenly. Suddenly all other questions stepped into the background, and the only immediate matter that concerned him was his message, to get it safely to its destination. With real relief he saw that this had been his greatest concern all the time, underneath all hindrances, and that there had not been at any moment any escape from the crowding circumstances other than that he had taken, step by step. If he had been beset by thieves and blackguards, and thrown into prison for a time he would not have felt shame at the delay, for those things he could not help. He saw with new illumination that there was no more shame to him from these trivial and peculiar circumstances with which he had been hemmed in since his start to New York than if he had been checked by any more tragic obstacles. His only real misgiving was about his marriage. Somehow it seemed his fault, and he felt there ought to be some way to confess his part at once—but how—without putting his message in jeopardy—for no one would believe unless they knew all.

But the time of danger was at hand, he plainly saw. The man whom he dared not look closely at had turned again and was walking parallel to them, glancing now and again keenly in their direction. He was watching Gordon furtively; not a motion escaped him.

There was a moment’s delay at the checking counter while the attendant searched for the suit-case, and Gordon was convinced that the man had stopped a few steps away merely for the purpose of watching him.

He dared not look around or notice the man, but he was sure he followed them back to the train. He felt his presence as clearly as if he had been able to see through the back of his head.

But Gordon was cool and collected now. It was as if the experiences of the last two hours, with their embarrassing predicaments, had been wiped off the calendar, and he were back at the moment when he left the Holman house. He knew as well as if he had watched them follow him that they had discovered his—theft—treachery—whatever it ought to be called—and he was being searched for; and because of what was at stake those men would track him to death if they could. But he knew also that his disguise and his companion were for the moment puzzling this sleuth-hound.

This was probably not the only watcher about the station. There were detectives, too, perhaps, hired hastily, and all too ready to seize a suspect.

He marvelled that he could walk so deliberately, swinging his suit-case in his gloved hand at so momentous a time. He smiled and talked easily with the pleasant fellow who walked by his side, and answered his questions with very little idea of what he was saying; making promises which his heart would like to keep, but which he now saw no way of making good.

Thus they entered the train and came to the car where the bride and her mother waited. There were tears on the face of the girl, and she turned to the window to hide them. Gordon’s eyes followed her wistfully, and down through the double glass, unnoticed by her absent gaze, he saw the face of the man who had followed them, sharply watching him.