He learned that David Cass had sent a letter, with a quick-delivery stamp on it, to William Cass, at A B C, East Fourteenth Street, New York, at 3:30 p.m., on June 12. So far as guilt or innocence was concerned there was nothing left to discover; the connection between these two men was demonstrated. Farrell's misidentification established another truth—they were brothers. The letter, hastening to its destination, had contained the stolen money. Mortimer would not give it to Cass to send away; even if he had done so he would not then have gone to Gravesend. Alan Porter had also gone to Gravesend; if he had stolen the money he would have taken it with him.
David Cass, the unsuspected, was the thief. Mortimer, condemned, having restored the money—having taken upon himself with almost silent resignation the disgrace—was innocent. And all this knowledge was in Crane's possession alone, to use as he wished. The fate of his rival was given into his hands; and if he turned down his thumb, so, better for Mortimer that he had been torn of wild beasts in a Roman arena than to be cast, good name and all, to the wolves of righteous humanity.
As a dog carries home a bone too large for immediate consumption, Crane took back this new finding to his den of solitude in New York. At eight o'clock he turned the key in his door, and arm in arm with his now constant companion walked fitfully up and down, up and down, the floor. Sometimes he sat in a big chair that beckoned to him to rest; sometimes he raced with swift speed; once he threw himself upon his bed, and lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for hours. What mockery—hours! on the mantelpiece the clock told him that he had ceased his strides for a bare five minutes.
Then he thrust himself back into a chair, and across the table opposite sat Wrong, huge—grinning with a devilish temptation; not gold, but a perfume of lilacs, and the music of soft laughter like the tinkle of silver bells, the bejeweled light of sweet eyes that were gray, and all the temptation that Wrong held in itself was the possession of Allis Porter.
And Crane need commit no crime, unless inaction were a crime—just leave things as they were. In the eyes of the world Mortimer was a thief; he would never claim Allis so branded.
Crane with a word could clear the accused man; he could go to David Cass and force him to confess. But why should he do it—sacrifice all he held dear in life? Everything that he had valued before became obliterated by the blindness of his love for the girl. Yet still the love seemed to soften him. Into his life had come new, strange emotions. The sensuous odor of stephanotis, that had not repelled in the old life, had come to suggest a pestilence in his nostrils, made clean by the purity of lilac. As he swayed in contention, the face of Wrong fronting him became the face of Sin—repellent, abhorrent; how could he ruin her life, and by a criminal act?
Hour by hour the struggle went on, until, exhausted, Crane flung himself upon his bed to rest a few minutes, and sleep, unsought, came and hushed the turmoil of his heart.
Without decision he had cast himself down; his mind, tortured in its perplexity, was unequal to the task of guiding him. So wearied he should have slept for hours, but, as the first glint of sunlight came through the uncurtained window, he sprang from his couch with the call of an uncompleted something in his ears.
But calm had come to him in his sleep; the question of right or wrong had been settled. He tried to remember how he had come to the conclusion that was alone in his rested mind. It must have been before he slept, though his memory failed him, for as he slumbered Allis Porter had come with the big gray eyes full of tears and asked him once again to spare Mortimer humiliation for her sake. And he had answered, “He is innocent.” God! he remembered it, even now it thrilled through his frame—she had bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Yes, that was what had wakened him. What foolish things dreams were. He had won just a kiss and had paid the price of his love; and now waking, and in the calm of a conflict passed, he had won over the demon that had tempted him with the perfume of lilacs. He had striven to the point when further strife became a crime. He had lost; but he would prove himself a good loser.