back to the detective and Mr. Thorpe.

In discussing the affair afterward, it was deemed probable that the
detective, finding his long vigil at the edge of the woods tiresome,
had unconsciously fallen asleep; though he indignantly denied it, and
during that time the dog had been taken on shore and tied to a heavy
piece of driftwood to give warning of the approach of strangers by
night, but the poor thing had become tangled in the brush, and in its
efforts to extricate itself had tightly twisted the rope about its
neck, and the heavy limb had rolled over and pinioned it to the
ground.

In the meantime Mr. Thorpe and the detective were engaged in low,
earnest conversation.

"Are you satisfied the child is my little Dorothy?" asked Mr. Thorpe.

"I am not positive, but I believe so. I have watched all the afternoon
in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Once I heard a child cry."

"Yet the child may not be Dorothy!"

"True!" replied the detective, "but whether the child be yours or not,
I am satisfied the little thing in that cabin is there against its
will."

"Did you note any visitors to the cabin this evening?"

"Yes; a man rowed over from the direction of 'Bundy's' about half an
hour ago. He is in there now."

"Do you think the Italian, his visitor and the child are the only ones
there?"

"I am positive they are the only ones in that cabin at this moment."

"Then let's wade out there," urged Mr. Thorpe.

"Careful!" cautioned Sam, who had just come up. "I know the Dago to be
a cunning and dangerous man. We could not wade out that far any way,
in the soft mud and tangled roots of that bottom. We must have the
small boat."

"What have you there?" It was the detective who spoke.

"Our first rescue. A mascot!" and then Sam related the incident.

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. "Its bark would have betrayed us."

The three then held a brief consultation. Shortly afterward Sam
retraced his steps along the trail, back to the steam launch, with the
"mascot" steadily recovering, but still under his arm.

CHAPTER XIV.

Within the cabin, so zealously watched by the detective prior to the
journey of Thorpe and Sam across the island, were the occupants--Jack
Shore and his little captive, Dorothy Thorpe. The child was carefully
and secretly guarded, and at the same time made as comfortable as the
limited quarters of her captor would permit.

Jack Shore was kind to the child, and though fully conscious of the
severe penalty of his desperate undertaking should he be discovered,
he nevertheless allowed her a certain freedom of the abode in which he
had placed her, of course always providing for securely bolted outer
doors.

During the preceding night she had been secretly and quietly removed
from her first hiding place to the cabin. Her silence was obtained by
the promise of being taken home should she be a good little girl, and
not make a disturbance. But as a precaution she had been wrapped up in
a manner so as completely to blindfold her, and in her childish
confidence was conveyed without any trouble, in the dead hour of
night, to the cabin.

The interior of the cabin was divided into two rooms. The small one
was used as a sleeping apartment, having two roughly-constructed
bunks, one above the other. On one wall was a small four-paned window
that gave light to the room. A small mirror, and a man's clothing hung
on the wall, and a short, well-worn strip of carpet covered the floor.
The large room served the purpose of a kitchen, dining room, pantry,
laundry and general utility combined. There was a small cook stove in
the corner near the dividing partition. One dishcloth and a couple of
towels hung on a line across the corner of the room over the stove. A
shallow box about three feet square, and nailed to the wall beside the
window, served as a cupboard for provisions. A table, an old chair, a
three-legged stool and a box constituted the remaining furniture.

At night a lighted lamp rested on a bracket above the table, and on
this particular night Jack's coat hung beside the lamp.

The main entrance door of the cabin was at the kitchen end, and opened
inward. There was also a door at the bedroom end of the cabin,
securely locked and bolted. The door in the partition between the two
rooms was in line with the other doors, and had a small pane of glass,
six by six inches, in the upper panel.

On this eventful night Dorothy was seated on the chair, her head
resting on her arms on the end of the table, indifferently watching
Jack. He, with a cigar in his mouth and in his gray shirtsleeves, was
standing in front of the table wiping a dishpan, the last of the
evening cleanup. Putting the pan away under the shelf, he hung the
dishcloth beside its mate on the line, and carefully stretched it out
to dry. Then, as he sat down on the stool at the end of the table
opposite Dorothy, a smile of satisfaction stole over his dark, swarthy
face when he surveyed the result of his work--a clean and tidy
appearing room.

"Eesa be so nice-a da clean. So bute-a da corner. Eesa like-a da
fine-a house. Tar-rah-rah! Tink-a eesa get-a da fote-da-graph of eet a
made. Put eem in-a Sunny da paper. Eh-a da Daize! What a use-a da
tink? Eh!"

Dorothy raised her head and looked at him in offended, childish
dignity.

"My name is not A da Daize; it is Dorothy!"

"Eesa like-a da Daize a bet! What youse-a tink? Eesa nicey da room, eh
Daize?"

Then the child indifferently looked at the corner with its stove and
adjuncts. She had been detained in his company now--for four days, and,
childlike, was intuitively quick in interpreting the broken, stumbling
Dago utterances of Jack.

"It is not so nice as our kitchen," she naively replied. "But maybe
the photo will make people think you are a good cook!"

"A da cook-a!--naw, eesa be damn! Turnoppsis! Carrotsis! Cababbages!
Black-a da boots"--

"Well, then," interrupted the child, pouting, "a rich man if you like;
I don't care."

"Eesa mores-a da bet," and he smiled approvingly. "And a Sunny-a da
paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze--A da
corner ova-a da dining room--maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet," he
muttered reflectively. "In deeze-a home ova-a a Signor George-a da
Golda--house-a dat, eh, a Daize?"

"Is that your name?" she inquired.

"Eesa good-a da name? A Daize."

"May I stay in here when the photo man comes?"

"Sure-a Daize!"

"Oh, good!" and the child clapped her little hands and laughed
gleefully.

Jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the
stool, took the child between his knees.

"Tell-a me, da Daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a
here, eh?"

"Cause!" she answered shyly.

"Cause-a da what? Speak-a Daize."

"I don't like to."

"A Daize! Youse a know I bees-a da friend, speak-a."

"Well, then my papa would know where to find me."

"I deez-a thought so. Daize, youse-a tink I beez a da bad-a man. Eh,
why?"

"'Cause you promised to take me home and you have not."

"Well-a Daize, your-a good-a da girl, and--eef-a da papa donn-a da come
bees-a da morn, we'll-a go for-a da fine him, eh! Now youse-a da
like-a me now? Eh, a Daize?"

"Oh, I like you ever so much for that, and we'll go home tomorrow?

"Sure-a Daize! Now tell-a me some-a ting about a da Virginia."

"If I do you'll sure take me home tomorrow?"

"Sure-a Daize! Eesa beez a da good a da woman, eh? Much a da like a
you. Eh, a da Daize?"

"Oh, yes; she would do anything for me, and I love my aunt, too."

"Eesa look a da nicey. Mose a beez a da rich, eh-a Daize?"

"My aunt does oil paintings, too."

"Eesa got a much a da mon, eh a Daize?"

"Oh, yes; a pocket full," replied the unsuspecting child.

"Everybody says that she is rich, and I guess that it must be true,"
muttered Jack, and he could not suppress a smile of satisfaction the
child's information gave him.

"Eesa time to go a da bed, a Daize. Kiss a me good a da night."

"If I do, you won't forget your promise?"

"What a da promise?"

"To take me home tomorrow."

"Sure a Daize. I donna forget."

Then the child kissed him, and at the contact of her soft, warm lips
with his--like a stream of sunshine, the child innocence of purest
lips, pierced his heart with a shaft of kindly sympathy.

"Good a da night, a Daize," he said in a voice soft and gentle. Then
he released the child and arose to his feet. It drew from her a look
of steady admiration, and then she replied:

"Good night!" On the threshold of the sleeping apartment she turned
and said:

"I shall pray for you tonight, Mister Golda. I shall pray for you not
to forget tomorrow." And she softly closed the door.

As Jack mildly stared at the child, the light in his eyes changed to a
look far off, and there gradually stole over his face an aspect of
infinite sadness, reminiscent of the days of his childhood.

On resuming his presence of mind, he went to the cupboard and took
from there a bottle. After removing the stopper he took a straight
draught of liquor, turned low the light and tip-toed to the bedroom
door, listened, and heard Dorothy say:

"Oh, dear Jesus, make George Golda good; help him remember his promise
to take me home tomorrow."

Jack was deeply moved by the child's sweet disposition, and he turned
away disgusted at the despicable role he was enacting, and muttered
reflectively: "Good God, that I should come to this! From
secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association to be a
kidnapper of babes!

"Jack Shore, the kidnapper! What a fall is here! Yes, I have sunk so
low as to abduct from a fond, suffering mother one of the purest gems
of flesh and blood that ever blest a home. And for what? The almighty
dollar! Only that, and nothing more! Curse the damned dollar that
drives men to crime!

"Curse it for cramming hell with lost souls. I'll wash my hands of
this whole business; I'll have no more of it; I'll take the child
home!"

The resolution was so cheering, so fruitful of kindly intent, and
urged on by the "still, small voice" within him to do right, that he
decided to fortify himself with a second drink of liquor. Then a
contra train of reflection seized him, and he whispered, as one
suddenly confronted with an appalling calamity:

"Ah, ah! What am I saying? And I have scarcely a dollar in the world!
Have gone hungry for the want of it--and here is twenty thousand of the
beautiful golden things actually in sight--almost at my finger tips!"
and with the thought blank concern spread over his face, and the
kindly purpose, the human compassion for his fellow being in its
transient passage to his heart, again took flight and the "still,
small voice" within him shrank abashed to silence.

"Out with this sentimental nonsense! The Thorpes can stand the loss of
a few thousand without a twitch of an eyelash."

The sound of a couple of gentle taps on the starboard side of the
cabin broke his train of audible thoughts and claimed his quick
attention.

The taps were repeated distinctly. He answered them with three light
taps on the wall, given by the joint of his finger. Then he quietly
opened the door, and Philip Rutley, with the collar of his coat turned
up closely about his face, stood in the opening.

"All skookum, Jack?" he questioned, in low tones, on entering.

"All skookum, Phil," answered Jack, as he locked and bolted the door.

"Good! I love to look at the little darling. Jack, she is a gold
mine." And, so saying, Rutley took the lamp from over the shelf and
cautiously opening the door, peered within.

"Isn't she pretty?" Then he quietly closed the door, replaced the lamp
on the shelf, turned down his coat collar and said in a low, pleased
voice: "Well, old boy, our troubles are nearly over. Virginia will
come tonight."

"Alone?" queried Jack, in low tones, and he looked significantly at
his colleague.

"Yes, and with the ducats! I caused her to be secretly informed that
she must meet you here by twelve o'clock this night, and prepared to
pay the ransom. Any liquor handy, Jack? I'm feeling a bit nervous
after that pull. The boat sogged along as heavy as though a bunch of
weeds trailed across her prow."

Jack smiled, but proceeded to the cupboard and produced a bottle,
together with a glass. Removing the cork, he offered both bottle and
glass to Rutley with the remark: "Old Kaintuck--dead shot! The best
ever. Help yourself!"

"That's an affectionate beauty spot about your right eye, Jack,"
remarked Rutley, taking the bottle and tumbler from him.

"You haven't told me how it happened."

"I was out on Corbett street when that damned Irish coachman of
Thorpe's sauntered along as though he had a chip on his shoulder, and
he had the nerve to ask me if I had seen the child."

"Do you think he suspected you?" queried Rutley, pausing with the
glass and bottle in his hands.

"No; it was a random shot. But it made me hot, and--well, the long and
the short of it was the doctor worked over me an hour before I was
able to walk."

"I see," commented Rutley, pouring some liquor into the glass and
setting the bottle on the table. "A sudden and unexpected attack, eh!
May the fickle jade smile on us tonight," and so saying, he drank the
liquor with evident relish, and handed the glass to Jack.

Jack, misunderstanding his quotation of the "fickle jade,"
interpreting it as meant for Virginia, at once replied:

"The jade may smile and smile, and be a villain, but she must 'pungle'
up the 'dough.'" And pouring some liquor in the glass he drained it.

Jack's misapplication of the popular quotation caused Phil to smile,
then to chuckle. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, the jade!"

Then he produced a couple of cigars from his vest pocket, and offering
one to Jack, continued: "She deserves no mercy."

"None whatever," replied Jack, as he took the cigar.

"If she had not weakened, we should never have selected her to pay the
ransom," resumed Rutley.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, as he put a match to the cigar. "Her
penitent mood makes her an easy mark. The price of her atonement'll be
twenty thousand dollars."

Again Rutley chuckled, chuckled convivially, for evidently the
softening influence of the liquor relaxed his tensely attuned nerves.
"Ha, my boy, she shall not enjoy the bliss of restoring the child to
her mother. I shall be the hero in this case," and he lowered his
voice. "After Virginia has paid the ransom, I shall take the child to
her father." Then he looked at Jack significantly and laughed--laughed
in a singularly sinister, yet highly pitched suppressed key.

Jack penetrated Rutley's purpose at once and the prodigious nerve of
the fellow caused him likewise to laugh. But Jack's laugh was
different from Rutley's, in so much that it conveyed, though
suppressed and soft, an air of rollicking abandon.

"And get the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for the child's
recovery."

"Precisely," laughed Rutley.

His laugh seemed infectious, for Jack joined him with a "Ha, ha, ha,
ha. And borrow ten thousand more from old Harris for being a Good
Samaritan to his nephew, Sam, eh! Have another, Phil," and again he
laughed as he offered the glass.

Rutley took the glass and filled it. "A forty thousand cleanup, Jack,
just for a bit of judicious nerve! He, he, he, he," and then his
laughter ceased, for the simple reason that his lips could not perform
the act of drinking and laughing at the same time.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, in response. "A damned good thing, eh,
Phil?" and he took the glass, filled it, and drank. "Has anybody heard
from Corway?"

"Shanghaied," laconically replied Rutley.

"He's off on the British bark Lochlobin. No fear of any trouble from
him for several months."

"How, in the name of God, did you do it?" asked Jack, fairly
enthralled with Rutley's nerve.

"Oh, it was easy. Fixed it up with some sailor boarding-house toughs,
but I only got $50 out of it all told, including his watch. But, my
dear boy, that is not all I have planned in this plunge. You know I am
desperately in love with the orphan?"

"Hazel!" exclaimed Jack. "Ho, that was plain long ago," and he laughed
again.

"She's the sweetest little girl in the world, Jack, and the best part
of it is, she has a cool hundred thousand in her own right."

"Marry her," promptly advised Jack.

"That is my intention, Jack, and the day after tomorrow I visit
Rosemont to persuade her to elope with me. Quite a society
thrill--don't you know?"

"Thrill!" replied Jack, astonished. "You mean sensation. Hazel eloped
with me Lord Beauchamp, Knight of the Garter. Have one on that, Phil."

"Oh, she's a darling, Jack, and now that Corway is out of the way--I
think she'd like--to wear the garter," and he grinned jovially.

"A garter is fetching, Phil."

"Success to the garter! May Lady Hazel never let it fall; ha, ha," and
Jack laughed merrily as he filled the glass.

"Evil be to him who evil thinks. My garter, Jack! He, he, he, he."
There was no mistaking the fact that the two men were verging on the
hilarious, and though fully aware of the importance of conversing in
low tones, they continued, because they felt satisfied the critical
period of their operations had passed and success was assured.

Again Rutley laughed. "Jack, I've had an itching palm today."

"So have I. See how red it is with scratching, and the sole of my left
foot has been tickled to fits."

"The signs are right, Jack. I congratulate you on your luck, and if it
is as good as your judgment of liquor--it is a damned good thing." He
laughed as he seized the glass. "This is the proof," and he forthwith
tossed it off, and handed the glass to Jack.

Jack's convivial spirits were quite willing. He took the glass, filled
it, and laughingly said: "What is good for the devil, applies to his
imp." Then he drained the glass and again laughed.

Rutley joined in. "You make me blush! Did you say your left foot
tickled?"

"Yes!"

"You will change domiciles. What do you say to secretary-treasurer of
the Securities Investment Association?"

"What? Resurrect the old S. I. A.?" Jack replied, and he stared at
Rutley with amazement.

"Yes! Thorpe and Harris put us out of business. Why not use their
'simoleons' to start up again?" And he chuckled with evident
satisfaction.

"Agreed, Phil! Start her up with a full page ad in a Sunday paper, eh?
Ha, ha, ha, ha--a damned good thing."

"Precisely! Ahem," coughed Rutley. "We are pleased to announce that
our former fellow townsmen, Mr. Philip Rutley and Mr. Jack Shore have
returned very wealthy."

"And were received with open arms," added Jack, and he laughed.
"Damned good joke, Phil; damned good joke. Have one on that!" And he
turned and picked up bottle and glass from the table and offered them
to his colleague.

Rutley always maintained a dignified bearing, yet his manners were
quite unconventional, and suave, and easy, and it must be understood
that neither of them on this occasion became boisterous. He took the
proffered bottle and glass, poured liquor in the glass, and after
setting the bottle on the table, said: "Thirty days later, a-hem! We
congratulate the stockholders of the reorganized Securities Investment
Association on the able and efficient management of your officers,
Manager Philip Rutley and Secretary-Treasurer Jack Shore." He then
drained the glass and handed it to Jack.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, as he took the glass and poured the
liquor in it, and pointedly added: "Addenda! It affords us much
pleasure to apologize for our former charge of wilful dishonesty
against the gentlemen above mentioned. Signed: John Thorpe, James
Harris, committee." And Jack drained the glass.

"He, he, he, he," softly laughed Rutley. "Very proper, my boy; quite
so!"

"It only needs the measly 'yellow goods' to make it practical,"
suggested Jack.

"My dear, ahem, Mr. Secretary, don't let that trifle worry you. The
'yellow goods' are coming as sure as day follows night."

"I hope the day will not again plunge us into night," laughed Jack.

"Oh, don't put it that way," testily rejoined Rutley. "Disagreeably
suggestive, you know--damned bad taste."

Rutley's supersensitiveness, in their present situation, was greeted
by Jack with a burst of suppressed laughter. "When Eve tempted and
Adam bit, he took his medicine without a fit. Have another, Phil."

Without accepting the bottle, and seemingly without heeding the
remark, Rutley inquired, a bit seriously: "Is the dog on guard?"

"Yes," replied Jack, standing stock still, with the bottle in one hand
and the tumbler in the other. "Tied to a stick of driftwood on shore.
No interlopers while Snooks is on watch. Why?" The question was asked
rather soberly.

"I received a tip that you are shadowed and trouble may come before
dawn. When it comes the little one must not be here."

"I agree with you," responded Jack. "I've lost that medal somewhere,
too."

"Ye Gods!" gravely replied Rutley, with an alarmed look. "If it falls
into the hands of a detective, it may serve as a clue. Curious, too. I
recall now that the dog didn't bark or growl when I approached the
cabin."

"I wonder!" exclaimed Jack. "Maybe Snooks has got loose and is
wandering about the island. We had better make sure."

Setting the bottle and tumbler on the table, he opened the cabin door
and stepped somewhat unsteadily on the platform. Closing the door, he
peered shoreward, then softly whistled. After listening intently, and
hearing nothing, he called, in a low voice:

"Snooks! Snooks!" Receiving no response, and being unable to identify
shapeless objects on the shore, through the darkness, he re-entered
the cabin, quietly as possible, and with a concerned look on his face.

"I believe the dog has got away. I'll go ashore and investigate."

"I'll go with you," assured Rutley. "Jack, better see that the child's
asleep."

Jack took the lamp from the bracket, opened the partition door, looked
in at the sleeping child, and closed the door as gently as he had
opened it. "Sound asleep," he whispered. Then he replaced the lamp,
blew out the light, and made his way out onto the platform,
accompanied by Rutley.

Quietly they stepped into a small boat, fastened to the logs, and
pushed off towards the shore.

It was then Jack remembered that he had not locked the door, and
wanted to return for that purpose, but Rutley demurred.

"Time is precious," he murmured, rather thickly. "Besides we shall be
gone only a few minutes, and it is unlikely that the child will stir
in the darkness."

CHAPTER XV.

They had scarcely reached the shore when another small boat came
gliding noiselessly along down toward the cabin. The boat contained
Virginia and Constance. As they approached near, propulsion ceased,
and the boat drifted along. Virginia turned half around on her seat,
listened intently, and looked at the dark cabin, with eyes that fairly
sparkled, in her effort to penetrate its interior. Slowly the boat
drew along the platform. Quietly and cautiously they stepped out, and
after fastening the line which held the boat to an iron ring which had
been driven into one of the logs for that purpose, Virginia took
Constance by the hand, which she felt tremble, and caused her to
whisper: "Courage, dear." Then she tapped gently on the door.

Receiving no response, she tapped again, then tried the knob, and, to
her amazement, the door opened.

For a moment they stood on the threshold, irresolute. A whiff of
tobacco smoke brushed their nostrils.

Virginia timidly stepped within, followed closely by Constance. The
darkness was intense, the stillness profound. "Whew!" Virginia
ejaculated, in a whisper. "The den reeks with tobacco smoke. He must
be asleep."

She softly closed the door and lighted one of the matches which she
had been careful to provide herself with.

"There is no one here," whispered Constance, in tones of terrifying
disappointment.

Up to that time she had religiously kept her promise to observe the
strictest silence, but when in the dim light produced by the match,
her eyes swiftly took in the untenanted room, her heart sank in chilly
numbness.

Virginia noted the famished, haunted look that had crept into her
eyes, and as she turned away with a fresh pang in her heart,
discovered the bottle and tumbler on the table.

It suggested a clue, and she replied, in low tones, and in the most
matter-of-fact manner, that, surprised herself, "He must be
intoxicated, the beast."

The coolness of the utterance had the effect, in a measure, of
reassuring Constance, who then, discovering a closed door directly in
front, breathlessly exclaimed: "That door must open to another room."

It was at that moment that the light died out. Virginia stood stock
still and listened. She pressed her left hand tight against her heart
to still the terrible throbbing.

She heard Constance grope her way to the partition door. She heard the
nervous fingers on the framework. She heard the latch click.

"Be careful, dear. Oh, be careful, dear!" admonished Virginia, in a
whisper of frenzied anxiety--and then she heard the door pushed open.

A moment of profound silence and then followed the sound of a step
within. Constance stood beside Dorothy--with only the deep darkness and
two feet of empty space separating them.

Who shall say that the subtle power which impelled the mother on in
the dense darkness, first to the door, then to open it, and then to
step within beside her child, was not magnetic intuition?

Virginia softly followed her to the door, produced a match and rubbed
it against the casing.

At that moment Constance was standing inside the threshold, her right
hand still on the open door latch; her back to Virginia. She was
looking straight ahead into the darkness.

The scraping of the match caused her to turn her head.

"Oh, Dorothy, darling!" was all that the poor heart-broken mother
could utter.

So sudden and great was the transport called forth by the discovery of
Dorothy quietly sleeping near her elbow, that her senses grew dizzy,
and as she sank to the floor on her trembling knees, convulsively
outstretched her hands to clasp the face of her child.

It was a favor of fate that placed them at that moment alone with the
child, for whom Virginia was prepared to sacrifice her life to rescue.
A decree that paid homage to the act of a heroine.

True, the unhappy cause that impelled her to act was indirectly of her
own making, and a sense of justice and remorse urged her to remedy it.
Nevertheless the act itself, for daring the rescue, was most heroic.

When Constance threw her hands out to clasp Dorothy, the child
awakened with a start, and at the same time the match light became
extinguished.

After her prayer, Dorothy laid down on the bunk without undressing, as
had been her custom, since in the custody of Jack, and almost
immediately fell asleep.

Her guileless little heart, cherishing confidence in his promise,
provoked a smile of spiritual beauty that settled on her sweet young
face--unflect by earthly misgivings. As she slept there came into her
dream a vision of terraces, grown over with lovely flowers, and there
were green, grassy plots and gorgeous colored butterflies darting in
and out among the flowers and golden sunshine. And out from somewhere,
in the serene hazy distance, came the silvery song of her own canary
bird. Where? And as she looked and listened, a butterfly, oh, so large
and beautiful, with semi-transparent rose, pearl wings dotted and
fringed with emerald gems, hovered tantalizingly near her. She was
tempted to catch it, but each time, though perilously near, it evaded
her tiny clutch, and so drew her on over velvety lawns and grassy
slopes to a babbling brook.

The prismatic winged thing fluttered over some pebbles and alighted on
a slender willow twig. She stood on a stone, reached out to clutch the
beauty, and just as her little fingers were about to close on it, the
voice of her mother rang out in frantic warning--"Dorothy! Dorothy!"

And then her foot slipped, and as she was falling she felt herself
suddenly clasped in strong arms, and borne upward, to awake with the
cry of "Dorothy" ringing in her ears.

For a moment or two the child lay perfectly still, then gradually to
her returning senses, the room smelled of tobacco smoke, and supposing
that it was her captor's hand that clasped her face, said: "Oh, Mr.
Golda, the room is full of smoke!"

"Hush, dear," cautioned Virginia. "Your mother and Aunt Virginia are
here."

"Oh, Mamma and Aunty!" joyfully exclaimed Dorothy, for she recognized
Virginia's well-known voice, and sitting up, said:

"You've come to take me home, haven't you?"

Again the match light faded out.

The voice of Dorothy seemed to thrill Constance with new energy, for,
with a frantic effort, she partially recovered her composure. She
struggled to her feet, and in a rapture of thanksgiving, folded the
child to her heart.

"Oh, my darling, my darling, please God, they shall never take you
from me again. No, never again." And she kissed her with a passionate
joy, such as only a fond mother can feel for her helpless infant.

"Oh, mamma, I am so glad," responded Dorothy, clasping her little arms
about her mother's neck.

"Dorothy, dear, where is he?" questioned Virginia, in a whisper.

"He was in the room when I came to bed, Auntie."

"He is not there now. He must be away." And a prospect of getting the
child away without a struggle nerved her to instant action.

"Come," she exclaimed, "we must go at once. Don't speak, sweetheart.
Silence; come, Constance, quick!"

"Yes, yes; go on," was Constance's almost hysterical reply.

And so, with the child in her arms and Virginia pulling at her sleeves
to guide and hasten her, they groped as cautiously as possible in the
darkness, towards the cabin door.

They had proceeded a few paces when Virginia, in her eagerness, rubbed
against the table; she stepped aside to clear it, and in doing so,
jolted Constance.

It was then, under the strain of the stiffled emotions of the past few
days, and the great excitement attendant on the present enterprise,
together with the sudden reactionary joy of again clasping her child,
that the first symptom of the mother's mental breakdown occurred.

"Oh," she faintly screamed, "the boat rocks," and she would have
fallen to the floor had not a chair, the only one in the cabin,
luckily stood nearby. She stumbled against it and sank upon the seat,
with Dorothy tightly clasped in her arms.

Unable in the darkness to comprehend the pause, Virginia tugged
urgently at Constance's sleeve.

"Come along, dear, we must be quick."

"Very well! Why don't you use the paddles?" replied Constance, in an
altered tone, a strange metallic ring in her voice, and with less
agitation than she had recently displayed.

Still unable, or rather refusing herself to think anything was wrong,
and with a panicky impatience to be gone from the den, Virginia again
urged Constance to hasten.

"Don't sit there, dear! Come along! We have not a moment to lose.
Shall I carry Dorothy?"

The answer startled her; a new terror had appeared.

"Don't you see that I am holding my heart tight. I cannot let go to
help you. Make the boat go faster. Why don't you paddle."

Virginia's heart leaped to her throat. "Her mind is giving away," she
exclaimed, with a gasp.

There, then, the typhoid aftermath, which had been predicted would
develop in time in Constance some strange and serious ailment, had
found a lodgement, and now, bursting into life, lay siege to nature's
most wonderful creation, the human brain. A moment of terrifying
consternation followed.

"What shall I do now?" Virginia distractedly exclaimed.

"Paddle, paddle, paddle," feebly responded Constance.

Unmindful of the reply, Virginia stood as if transfixed with despair.
She racked her brain for a way out. The situation was fast verging on
the tragic.

"I will barricade the door!" she determined. "No, he may smash in the
roof or sink us; I must get them away somehow."

"Oh, Constance, dear, try to be strong. Fight down this weakness. The
boat is waiting. We must escape. Help me! Oh, God, help! Help!"

Her voice began in a subdued, frantic appeal, and ended in a sob of
heart-rending despair for succor.

Like a shaft of sunshine bursting through a rift in the dark, lowering
clouds of dismay, came the answer from Constance:

"I will! I will! Let me think! Oh, yes, we had better go now. Lead on!
Hasten!" And she arose from the seat.

"Thank Heaven. The dark spot has gone," Virginia fervently exclaimed.
"Her brain has cleared again."

How joyfully she struck another match further to accelerate their
passage.

"Keep close to me, dear. Are you tired? Let me help you." And she
placed her right arm about the waist of Constance, the match held
forward in her left hand lighting the way. They had proceeded a few
steps when the door opened. She drew back with a slight, terrified
exclamation: "Oh!"

Jack Shore stood in the doorway.

CHAPTER XVI.

The men had been ashore, had found the rope cut in several places, and
the dog gone. The circumstances were so suspicious and frought with so
much danger to them, that they decided upon the immediate removal of
the child. On their return toward the cabin, Rutley discovered a faint
glimmer of light within, and in a whisper, called Jack's attention to
it.

"I am sure I blew it out," Jack whispered, alarmed.

"Do you think the child awakened and struck a match?" again whispered
Rutley.

"No; no matches within her reach. Perhaps Virginia has come. Hello! A
strange boat here."

"The light moves," continued Rutley, in a whisper.

"I will get out here," whispered Jack, and he sprang out of the boat
quietly onto the platform. "Take the boat to the other end of the
cabin."

As he opened the door, the profile of the women and child appeared,
dimly outlined by the match light held in Virginia's hand.

As she staggered back, surprised and terrified, for the moment, Jack
pushed his way in, closed the door, bolted and locked it, and put the
key in his pocket. Then he struck a match and lighted the lamp.

[Illustration: "Virginia drew back with a slight terrified exclamation,
'Oh!' Jack Shore stood in the doorway."]

After surveying the group, he gruffly laughed.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, Signora make a da bold a break in a da house, eh?
Ha, ha, ha, ha. Eesa try tak a Daize from a da nicey home, eh? Ha, ha,
ha, ha."

"Yes," she replied, without hesitation or a qualm of fear in her
voice. "That was my intention, but the devil's emissary has blocked
it."

Without a trace of fear, quietly and strangely free from agitation,
Constance made her way to the door, and laid her hand on the bolt to
unfasten it.

Jack took hold of her small, round wrist, turned her about and pushed
her back a few paces. "Note a beez in a da hurry, Signora."

"Who are you?" she timidly asked.

"Ha, ha, ha, hic, Eesa compan-e-on say I beez a da devil," Jack
laughed jeeringly.

"Oh, very well," she replied, mildly. "The devil is always hungry for
someone. Who do you want now?"

"A Daize, a da Daize. Yous a lak a me, eh, a Daize?"

"No, no; the devil shall not have my heart. My precious darling now."
And Constance shrank from him, pressing the little form tighter to her
breast.

"But you may have money," she indifferently added.

Jack smiled and bowed obsequiously.

"Ten-na years eesa sella da banans, turnoppsis, carrottsis,
cababbages--mak a da mon, naw! Now eesa steal a da kid, do anyting for
a mak a da mon. Da mon, da mon," he repeated slowly three times, with
deep-toned Dago emphasis. "Then eesa-go back a da sunny Italia," a
phrase that escaped his lips as though shot from a rapid firer.

In the meantime Rutley had entered from the other door, locked it, and
softly crept to the partition door, where he stood listening and
noting, through the small glass panel, the situation within.

Scorning preliminaries, Virginia said:

"I have brought you all that I could get. Take it!" And she laid a
package of crisp banknotes on the table. Jack's eyes bulged and
glistened at the sight of so much money within his grasp. He eagerly
picked up the package, which was fastened in the middle by a band of
paper, flipped the ends of the banknotes back and forth with his
finger, then proceeded to count the money. His action was
business-like.

Without unfastening the band, he held one end of the package firmly
down on the table with the knuckles of his left hand, doubled the
other end back, and held it with his fingers and let each note slip
back separately to a flat position on the table, until he counted them
all.

Meanwhile Virginia had gently pushed Constance to the seat, and as she
watched him she muttered, as though speaking to herself: "I could get
no more than ten thousand dollars. If that will not satisfy him, then
let fate come to the rescue, for a life hangs on the issue tonight."

"Turnoppsis, Carrottsis, Ca-babbages, Ta-rah-rah. Eesa fat a da pack,"
said Jack, as he thrust the package of money inside his vest. "Saw da
ood, hic"--But it appearing loose and risky to keep it there, he took
it out, rolled it up and forced it in his trousers' back pocket.
"Black a da boots, hic." Still feeling dissatisfied with the security
of either pocket he at last put it in the inside pocket of his coat,
hanging near the lamp over the table. And then he turned to Virginia.

"Eesa part a da mon? Hic. Much a beez a da tanks, Signora."

"You will now liberate the child?" she pleaded, in faltering speech.

"Ta-rah-rah! You sa fetch a me only a da half!" exclaimed Jack,
feigning surprise at her request.

"Yousa da rich. Gotta da mon a plent. Go, Signora, get a moores a da
mon. Leave a Daize a da here."

"Mr. Golda, I'll not stay. I am going home with mamma!" and Dorothy
pouted indignantly.

Seeing him obdurate, and fearing the effect of a forcible separation
from her mother now so fondly clasped in her arms, Virginia resolved
to try persuasion once more, before putting into execution the plans
she had matured as a last and desperate resort. With blanched face,
its very seriousness compelling attention, she said, in a faltering
voice:

"If your heart is human you cannot look upon that stricken mother
without feeling that in the last great day the Judge of all will judge
you as you now deal with her."

He turned from her without a word, derision betrayed in his face,
contempt in his action. It, however, placed Jack in a dilemma. There
the mother, for whom he felt a kindly interest, quietly resting with
her lost darling in her arms, yet ever and anon a scared, haunted look
flitted from her eyes.

He looked at the girl a moment, then broke into low, derisive
laughter.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Eesa fine a da lady. He, he, he, he. Signora beez a
da accomplice ova da conspirator to break a up a da brodder's home,
eh? Signora good a da lady."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," and suddenly lowering his voice, said:

"Turnoppsis, Carrottsis, Ca-babbages," then paused and picked up the
bottle to take a drink. "If the child goes home now," he thought,
"Phil gets no reward; no," and he set the bottle down on the table
with a bang, without taking the premeditated drink.

"No, Ma sees a Daize a beez a da safe. Ma sees no a da harm come a
Daize."

"I have brought you all the money I could obtain, and now I demand
that you release the child," Virginia said, firmly.

"Eesa be damn! Yous a fetch a me a da mon, a da rest, ten a thous, an
an--a Daise beez a da liber. Eesa da late a now, Signora. Much a bet
for a youse a da go home, hic."

Virginia's blanched but resolute face indicated that the critical
moment had arrived. Then her voice quivered slightly, as with
suppressed, quiet dignity, she said: "I shall give you no more."

The declaration aroused Constance. She looked up. "Yes, oh, yes; give
him more!" she exclaimed, in plaintive alarm. "He shall have a
million, two million; I will get it for him."

The extravagant offer, the soft, troubled, pensive stare, caused Jack
to straighten up and gaze directly at her.

Virginia's alert eyes at once caught the superstitious fear that had
suddenly betrayed itself in his face.

"Don't you see her mind is giving way!" she exclaimed, and while he
stood staring at Constance, she seized the occasion as one favorable
for escape.

"Come dear," she urged, "he will not stop us now."

"It is dangerous," was the soft, helpless reply. "The clouds are
thickening, and the storm will soon burst."

"Courage, dear, the clouds will soon roll by. Come," Virginia urged,
half lifting her to her feet.

"Oh, very well, we must go," was the indifferent response.

A step forward, and again that timid, startled, fawn-like terror
overcame her. "Oh, dear," she plaintively exclaimed, "the boat rocks;
hold fast to me, sweetheart." And she halted with a swinging motion,
as though her limbs were incapable of firmly sustaining her.

With distended eyes. Jack stared at her. "Heavens!" he thought; "I
cannot separate that poor mother from her child. I cannot do it. If
Phil wants the reward he must take the child home himself."

The thought was scarcely developed when the voice of his partner rang
out from the other room, hoarse, disguised, and peremptory:

"What's the matter with you? Separate them! Take the kid and turn the
woman out."

Then it was Virginia realized that she had two men to deal with
instead of one.

Undaunted, her courage arose to the occasion. She had come prepared
for trouble of a most serious nature, and in her determination to
succeed, it mattered little, now that she had shaken off the first
trembling of fear, whether one or more men stood in her way.

She stepped over close to Jack, bent forward and looked up sideways in
his face, a magnetic fire scintillating from her eyes that seemed to
pierce his inmost thought, and slowly drew his gaze to her. Under the
spell Jack forgot his assumed character, for once he forgot to use the
Dago dialect.

"Don't look at me in that way; it was not all my work," he said,
apologetically.

He had spoken in plain English. Yet in Virginia's tensely excited
frame of mind it passed unchallenged.

"You acknowledge a share in it. And if you lay a hand on her child,
I'll call down upon you the blasphemy of a madhouse."

The art she employed to play upon his heightened imagination was
intensely eloquent, and exquisitely enacted. On the impulse of the
moment the threat served to unnerve him completely and had Jack been
the only one to deal with, their escape at that moment would have been
certain.

A prey to his own secret superstition, though openly ridiculed
theosophy, Jack stood spellbound, his fear distorted by the influence
of the liquor he had drunk.

True, Rutley had braced him some, but Virginia threw about him a glow
of such awesome consequences that he again weakened and unconsciously
repeated under his breath: "The curse of a madhouse! Oh, I can't do
it! I'm a bit human yet."

Then came a second roar from Rutley, impatient and contemptuous.

"Separate them, you chicken-hearted knave! Separate them, damn you,
and be quick about it, too!" A slight jar at that moment struck the
cabin.

Jack came out of his semi-trance with a shudder and, recovering his
nerve, seemed to be disgusted at his momentary weakness, and forthwith
he attempted to get between the women and the cabin door, addressing
the child:

"A Daize a mus stay a dare. Yous a lak a me, eh a Daize?"

"Wretch, stand back!" Virginia commanded. She realized that the
supreme moment had come.

Jack leered at her. Without further heed he addressed the child:

"A Daize, yous a da know I beez a kind to you," and he took hold of
her arms. "Let a da go Eesa say hic. Let a da go da kid."

"No, no!" Constance cried, as she resisted his effort to separate
them. "You shall not have my darling! You shall not take her again."

"Take your villainous hands off!" ordered Virginia, and at the same
time she dealt him a stinging blow in the face, which caused him to
loose his hold on Dorothy and stagger back.

At that moment, too, he was startled by footsteps on the roof. He
paused with a confused idea whether the sound on the roof had not
really emanated from Rutley in the other room. Concluding in favor of
the latter, he continued: "Yous a da defy a me eh, hic, sacramente!
Eesa mak a da let a go da kid, or eesa break a da arm."

Meanwhile Virginia had placed herself between Constance and Jack and,
drawing a revolver from under her jacket, leveled it at him.

Utterly reckless of her own danger, and her eyes ablaze with daring
she exclaimed in a voice low and thrilling with intense determination,
"Stand where you are, you vile epitome of a man! Dare try to bar our
way out, and witness heaven, I'll rid the earth of a scoundrel too
long infesting it!"

A quaking pause followed, more trying to her nerves than the peril of
the situation itself, and she backed toward the door.

Her action provoked an exclamation from Jack. "God, the girl's game!"
He stood mentally measuring the space that separated them, while a
cunning leer developed on his face. He was about to spring, when Sam's
shuffling on the roof became distinct.

"Another accomplice! God protect the child!" murmured Virginia. And
then in the moment of her dismay, Jack sprang forward and grasped her
pistol hand. She fired, but the excitement had unnerved her, and the
bullet went wide of its mark.

In the struggle that ensued he forced her down on her knees, wrenched
the weapon from her hand. As he was placing it in his pocket, it
slipped from his grasp and slid along the floor, where it lay beyond
his reach, near the partition door. Then he leered at her, and
pinioned her hands behind her. "Now kiss a da me."

Notwithstanding the danger of her position, she managed to suppress
her terror, and she exclaimed defiantly, "Never!" and with one
concentrated desperate effort in which all the suppleness, strength
and agility of youth were called into action, succeeded in breaking
his grasp, and sprang to her feet.

Deprived of her revolver, yet she had foreseen such a contingency, and
had provided a last means of defense. She produced a small dagger from
her corsage. Her fingers tightened convulsively around the handle, and
she said in a trembling voice:

"Back, you ruffian! The point is poisoned! Beware!"

The action was so quick, and the blade glittered aloft with such
deadly intent, that Jack leaped back.

Meanwhile Rutley's attention had been absorbed by the struggle going
on between Jack and Virginia, but when he heard the footsteps on the
roof his alarm became manifest. "I must get the child at once, or all
will be lost," he muttered.

Hastily taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he tied it about the
lower part of his face, then he swung open the partition door and
entered, the same instant that Jack had forced Virginia to her knees.

Without a pause, he promptly made for Constance, grasped the child and
tried to tear her from her mother.

Constance, too affrighted to scream, resisted with all her might.

"Let go, damn you--let go, or I'll drown her!" and with savage hands he
wrenched Dorothy away from her. Trying to escape with Dorothy in his
arms, Rutley confronted Virginia.

"Release her!" she demanded.

He looked at the dagger, quivering ominously in her hand, and Dorothy
dropped from his nerveless hands and he jumped back beside Jack,
hoarsely exclaiming, "God, she's a tartar!"

"Run to your mother, Dorothy! To the boat, Constance, quick!" urged
Virginia, as she stood erect, fearless and tragic between the men and
their prey.

"Are we curs to be daunted by this Oregon girl, this slip of a woman?"
exclaimed Rutley hoarsely.

"Beware! The edge is sharp, the poison deadly!" cautioned Virginia, in
a voice that thrilled and which left no doubt as to her determination
to use the weapon to the limit of her ability.

Jack laughed--laughed low, hoarse and sarcastically. "He, he, he, he,
he. Scarce da fine a lady--wid a da white a nice a hand. Mak-a eem all
a da carmine, eh? He, he, he, he, he, he."

She made no reply, yet there darted from her eyes a lightning flash of
desperate purpose.

Rutley clearly understood the sign and, leaning over close to Jack,
whispered: "We must get the knife from her at all hazards."

"Signora, good a da lady, eh! Mak a da bloody fista, eh!" Jack leered
as he concentrated his gaze upon the girlish form drawn up to her
fullest height before him.

Again he laughed low and hoarsely:

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eesa know a da way to fix 'em!"

Swiftly opening the partition door, he thrust in his hand, pulled a
covering off from the bunk, then after closing the door, he proceeded
rapidly to tie the corners together, muttering meanwhile, "Eesa mak a
da loop, lak a da bag. See! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

To Virginia the trap appeared so simple and ingenious, its application
so promising of success, that as she watched its preparation her heart
leaped to the opportunity presented as a last chance.

"Attack them now--attack them now!" urged her judgment with startling
force. Louder it seemed to grow, till at last, maddened by the very
repugnance of its conception, a sickening sense of fear overpowered
her, her nerves suddenly collapsed, and she seemed to lose the power
of action.

Having completed the snare, which had taken only a few moments to
prepare. Jack bent forward, showing the white of his teeth as a wolf
of its fangs when about to spring on its prey.

"Now together!" he whispered.

Virginia saw her danger and realized the crisis of all her efforts to
make atonement for the wrong she had caused Constance was at hand.

Again the affrighted despairing cry burst in an audible whisper from
her lips.

"Help! Help! Oh, God in heaven, help!" Just what Jack would have done
in his fury it is impossible to say, for the liquor had frenzied him,
and Virginia's stubborn resistance had aroused in him a latent devil.
His intention, whatever it may have been, was frustrated by Sam, who
at that moment smashed in the window, covered him with his revolver
and shouted, "Throw up your hands!"

The crash of broken glass arrested Jack's attention, and upon looking
around he discovered the muzzle of a large caliber revolver thrust
through the broken window and leveled straight at him.

So sudden was the surprise, so unexpected and imminent the danger,
that he automatically flung up his hands.

Upon crossing the island, after leaving Thorpe and the detective at
the edge of the wood, Sam had immediately boarded the launch, and
stowing the dog in a comfortable position on cotton waste in the
"fo-castle," directed the engineer to proceed to the north end of the
island.

On arriving at the point agreed upon, aside from the cabin's range of
city lights, Sam got into a small boat, provided for the occasion, and
pushed ashore, after having conveyed Thorpe and the detective on board
the launch.

A consultation was held, and it was arranged that the detective and
Smith, who had remained in the launch, should go in the small boat,
assail the south door and cut off escape in that direction, while
Thorpe and Sam in the launch would take a position at the main door of
the cabin.

After securing an axe from the launch, the detective and Smith
proceeded as quickly as possible on their mission. Instead of rowing,
they paddled along, Indian fashion, the dip of the blades scarcely
disturbing the silence that enveloped them. The launch steamed slowly
along in the boat's wake, and just as noiselessly, and was the first
to touch one of the logs which supported the cabin.

They heard voices within that seemed feminine and familiar to both Sam
and Thorpe, though uncertain on account of the low tone.

As prearranged, Sam stealthily clambered up on the roof and crawled to
the starboard side, where he lay flat on his stomach, and peered head
down, in through the loose curtained four-paned window. What he saw
prompted him to instantaneous action, and the crash of broken glass
followed.

Rutley immediately grasped the situation as one fraught with the
gravest peril. He saw that Sam's revolver covered Jack, and saw, too,
that a few feet nearer the partition door would place him in a
position out of line of Sam's aim, as the small cupboard, beside the
window, formed an angle that sheltered that part of the room. On the
instant, therefore, he leaped toward the partition door. As he sprang
toward the door, his eyes fastened on Jack's coat. To secure the
package of money from its pocket was, for his deft fingers, but the
work of a moment; then into the sleeping room he darted and closed the
door.

While Jack's hands were up, Thorpe called from the outside to open the
door. At the same time he shook it violently, and began to batter it
with the axe.

During this time Constance stood with her back to the wall, her arms
straight down by her side, with the palms of her hands flattened
against the boards, as one seeks support at times on a ship at sea.
She appeared insensible alike to fear or position. Yet the horror of
the affair shone in her distended eyes.

"The boat rocks, the storm is upon us," she muttered.

At the moment Smith commenced to batter the other door of the cabin,
Jack took the chance, and sprang to one side, out of line of Sam's
revolver.

"It's the police!" he exclaimed wildly, and in the panic that seized
him he quite forgot his assumed character.

He picked up the revolver that he had wrenched from Virginia, and
which lay upon the floor, and his attitude became so threatening and
malignant as to cause her to utter a slight terrified scream.

Even Dorothy's large innocent eyes blazed, and she struck at him in
defense of Virginia. "Mr. Golda, you're a bad, bad man."

The child's voice raised in Jack a "forlorn hope," for he muttered,
"Dorothy shall be my guarantee of escape."

Simultaneously the door flew open under Thorpe's blows, and he stood
in the entrance.

"Oh, papa, papa!" cried Dorothy, as she ran toward him.

Seeing his opportunity, Jack desperately clutched the child with his
left hand. Swinging Dorothy in front of him, and before her father, he
pointed the revolver at her head, and in that position addressed him
in a sort of screeching yell, "Stop!"

Thorpe stood horror-stricken. His heart leaped to his throat. "My God!
madman, what will you do?" he hoarsely exclaimed, and motioned as if
to rescue the child.

With a tighter clutch, and a more maddening menace, Jack again
addressed him, "Stop, not a step nearer!" And to emphasize his
purpose, he placed the muzzle of the revolver close to her head.

Observing the desperate peril in which Dorothy was placed, and with a
courage born of horror and despair, Virginia stole to Jack's back, and
with a wild frantic scream of "Save her!" seized his pistol hand
between both her own, and in the struggle that immediately ensued, and
in which all her strength was exerted, the weapon fell to the floor.

And then Sam tore open the broken window, swung himself through to the
floor, and instantly grappled with Jack.

Virginia's attack forced Jack to release Dorothy, who was immediately
gathered in her father's arms.

"Safe, my blessed child, safe!" he fervently exclaimed.

And then poor Virginia, courageous, strong-minded, kind-hearted,
passionate Virginia, having sustained the frightful nervous strain
till the last moment, swayed, and sank to the floor in a swoon.

Meanwhile Constance stood beside the cabin door, staring at the men in
a dazed and vacant manner. She had heard Virginia, and repeated
mechanically, "Save Dorothy!" and now repeated after Mr. Thorpe, in
tones as though a very dear voice had kindled a spark calling back
loving recollections. She drew her hand across her brow, as though
trying to clear away some web that obscured her memory, and stared at
her husband like one suddenly awakened from a dream. A moment after
and she whispered with awe in her voice, "John! John!"

Almost immediately Rutley had returned to the room without the child,
but with Jack's money, the door near him was being battered. He at
once concluded that the game was up, and his own safety necessitated
an immediate escape. How? He must decide at once.

How many surrounded the cabin? Ha! If he only knew, and then the hatch
occurred to him.

He knew the big logs upon which the cabin was built raised it some ten
or twelve inches above water. There lay his way--out--quick. He lifted
the cover, and silently sank beneath the floor between the logs.

Then he let the trap door fall back in position above him, just as the
cabin door gave way and the detective entered, followed by Smith, who
handled an axe.

It was then that Constance seemed to recover suddenly her reason, for
she rushed toward her husband with outstretched arms, exclaiming in a
voice fraught with rapturous thanksgiving, "John! John and Dorothy!"
An inexpressible joy shone in her eyes.

But her advance was met with a cold, stern frown and a backward wave
of the hand. Not a word escaped him.

For a moment she stood irresolute; then she passed the tips of her
fingers across her brow again and again--"Oh, this horrible dream that
I cant' shake off!" Again she seemed to recover her reason and her
voice, soft and sobbing, said, "John, you don't believe me shameless
and debased, do you? You can't believe it, for it is false, false, I
say! and the boat won't clear from it! Let me help"--and her voice
hardening, she went on--"Give me a paddle. We must escape. Save
Dorothy!" and she threw out her hands to him appealingly.

A swift compassionate look swept across Thorpe's face. The first doubt
of his wife's guilt had seized upon his brain, and he said chokingly,
"My God, is it possible my wife is innocent?"

He had half turned around to her, but on remembering the ring, his
face again set stern, then without another word he waved her back with
a single motion of his hand.

But the sound of his voice had once more stirred up a filament of
intelligence and she sobbed, "John! John!" She got no further. She saw
him turn away and, placing her hand to her side, trembled, and with a
moan on her lips, sank down beside Virginia.

And at that moment the detective appeared in the partition doorway and
was followed closely by Smith, who, upon seeing the prostrate woman,
senseless on the floor, at once concluded a foul crime had been
committed, and exclaimed, with horror and rage on his face:

"Oh, the murtherin' blackguard!"

In the struggle Jack broke from Sam and stooped to pick up the
revolver. But Sam, coached in Texas, had him covered with his own
revolver in a twinkling, and with the characteristic side movement of
his head, said with a grin of satisfaction, "If you touch it, I'll
send a bullet through your brain!"

CHAPTER XVII.

After Jack Shore had been securely handcuffed, and after a hasty but
bootless search for his partner in crime, Detective Simms hustled him
into the launch, and desiring to get him behind the prison bars
without delay, ordered the engineer to run the boat across the river
at once so as to avoid any attempt at release by possible
confederates.

A hasty examination of both Constance and Virginia convinced Mr.
Thorpe that they were not seriously hurt, and were rendered senseless
only by a shock of great mental excitement.

To remain until after their recovery would only add torture to a
painful situation; he therefore made them as comfortable as the
limited means at hand would allow, and then taking Dorothy with him,
boarded the launch, leaving Sam and Smith to watch over and care for
his wife and sister until the arrival of a physician, whom he intended
to dispatch to their aid as quickly as possible. Dorothy objected to
leaving her mother, but was sternly overruled and awed into submission
by her father.

Ten minutes after her rescue the boat was speeding toward Madison
Street landing with John Thorpe and Dorothy, Jack Shore and Detective
Simms, taciturn and grave.

As the boat drew away, both Sam and Smith silently contemplated the
two insensible women on the floor. For some moments neither spoke a
word, profoundly absorbed in a grave contemplation of the questionable
necessity of the two women undertaking so dangerous a mission.

To Sam it appeared plain they had very recently learned of Dorothy's
place of captivity; but why they had not imparted the information to
some of their male friends, why they had kept her place of concealment
secret, and why, also, they had undertaken her release just prior to
the arrival of her father on the scene, was a mystery. It only
resulted in a suspicion that they had somehow heard of John Thorpe's
premeditated attempt at rescue, and were alarmed lest Dorothy should
fall into his hands.

Smith's mind was not of an analytical nature; in fact, he did not
think their presence was attributable to anything other than a
mother's natural heart-breaking longing to recover her darling as
swiftly as possible, and in the enterprise Virginia had joined her.

And as he thought of the indifference and cruel desertion of John
Thorpe with her child, for whom she had made such a sacrifice, a
solemn, serious look of sadness gathered on his face and deepened into
contempt and anger. And the compassion in his heart welled up and at
length broke from between his lips, in unconscious mutterings. "Sure,
he tuk her darlint from her an' left her lyin' there, too, so he do,
on the hard flure, wid her sinses gone out from her hid complately.
The heartless man!"

"The trouble between them is serious," Sam replied, as he knelt down
beside Virginia and commenced to chafe her hands.

"Sure, don't I know it, so I do!" rejoined Smith, as he followed Sam's
example and set to chafing Constance's hands between his own. "An'
he's broke her heart entirely, so he ave," he went on, "an' her hands
do be numb wid no life in thim at all."

Then he was silent for a time and worked industriously to bring back
into her hands the warmth that had fled.

Suddenly he asked Sam in an eager, anxious whisper, "Do yees belave
she'd do wrong?"

"No!" Sam promptly replied.

"Naither do I. Indade she's as swate an' innocint a lady as wan ave
hivin's angels. Sure, she cudn't do wrong at all, at all."

"Not at all!" responded Sam gravely.

"An' the mister shud ave better sinse than to trate her so unkind,
don't yees think so now?"

"Thorpe is a damned fool, I guess!" Sam answered gloomily.

"Indade, I do belave it, too, so I do!"

Again there was silence. Again it was broken by Smith, who said in a
low, confidential tone: "I'll tell yees, I belave it do be some
attracious divil ave come betwain thim."

"You do!" Sam snapped at him, as though he interpreted Smith's
allusion a direct reference to Virginia.

"Indade I do, so I do!"

"Why do you think so?" Sam asked, a tinge of annoyance at Smith's
persistence still appearing in the manner of asking.

"Isn't she an angel? An' it's only the divil cud sipporate an angel
from her husband. Sure, man, dear, what more do yees want to prove
it?"

A twitching of Virginia's eyelids at that moment caught Sam's
attention. It was nature's first harbinger of approaching
consciousness. He held up his hand for Smith to be silent. The
twitching, however, ceased, and her eyelid remaining closed, again
became motionless.

"A false alarm!" he muttered, and proceeded to chafe her hands more
industriously than before. It was evident that Sam liked the
occupation; for this young lady had unconsciously woven a mesh of
enthralling servitude about his heart, and his idolizing; passionate
fondness had at last been rewarded by unexpectedly finding himself
permitted to caress her at will; to stroke her hair, to contemplate
her fair face, to press her hands between his own.

Sam shrewdly suspected that Virginia was somehow the cause of Thorpe's
estrangement from his wife, but wherefore and why, were parts that she
alone could explain, and her lips were sealed.

That she was also mysteriously connected with the abduction of the
child, he felt was a moral certainty. And her meeting with the Italian
in the lonely park at dead of night could have offered no other
solution. It had acted as a temporary restraining factor upon the
ardor of his love and admiration. But now, as she lay so still and
insensible in his care and protection; now, as he gazed on her fair
features, all his doubts of her chastity and loyalty to those she
loved vanished, and an all conquering fondness suddenly burst in a
flood of radiance upon him, sweeping away all his misgivings before
it, irresistible and impetuous as the flight of an avalanche.

It was very quiet at that moment; so still that the rippling water, as
it lapped along the logs which supported the cabin, sounded very
distinct. Smith imagined he heard a splash, and assuming a listening
attitude, said cautiously, "Phwat may that mane?"

After a pause, Sam alertly remarked, "We have not kept a lookout. What
if the dago's partner should steal in on us?"

Smith's eyes blazed with anger. Laying Constance's hand down, he
sprang to his feet. "Be the power ave justice," he exclaimed between
his teeth, "sure, an' it do be a divil ave a bad job the rogue'll take
on, to boord us now."

"If you see anybody lurking near, call me," said Sam.

"Niver yees moind! Just lave the thavin' blackguard to me! I'll attind
to him!" Smith answered, a savage joy betrayed on his face, and,
seizing hold of the axe, he crept softly to the door. After listening
a moment, he opened it and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Again there was silence. Again Sam tenderly smoothed away Virginia's
abundant silky black hair from her face, and fondly chafed her
temples. And as he thought of her swift recovery, a recovery that
would place a great gulf between him and this one girl who could make
him the happiest being on all God's green earth, he muttered; "Oh, for
one touch of those ruby colored lips--even if it be stolen."

Virginia's face was very close to him, and as he looked at her he
detected a faint warmth in her cheeks; noted the fine mold, the
delicate tracery of blue veins through her clear white skin--the
temptation was very great. His heart thumped wildly and then--unmindful
of the impropriety, or unwilling to resist the natural inclination of
his arm to slip under her full, round, snowy neck--raised her head and
touched her lips with his. The contact germinated a magnetic spark
that raced through her veins and instantly awoke her to life.

She sprang to her feet, the red blood of active youth flushing her
face to crimson. For one moment she looked indignant, fully conscious
of the liberty he had taken. Sam bent his head abashed, and said
apologetically--said in tones and manner that left no mistake as to his
honest love and deep respect for her--"You looked so beautiful
that--really now--I could not help it--forgive me!"

Her mobile face, that had set in a shock of alarm, indignation and
scorn, softened and, as the events of the night flooded her memory,
changed to a smile. For one moment it loitered in her eyes and on her
lips, and then again changed to a grave, serious look that developed
tears in her beautiful blue eyes. She held out her hand to him. Were
his eyes deceiving him? Could he believe it? Yes, and he stood dazed
with overpowering joy that she was not offended at the liberty.

He took her hand and gently carried it to his lips. Then she turned to
the aid of Constance, knelt beside her, felt her hands, her face, her
neck, and asked him. "Who was so mean to strike her down?"

For answer he sadly shook his head, and replied gravely, "She sank to
the floor after John Thorpe refused her."

Then bitter tears trickled down Virginia's face as she continued to
chafe her hands; but finding her efforts to restore warmth were
unavailing, the same gripping at her heartstrings again possessed her.
She raised her eyes to him, a frantic pleading in her voice, "Help me,
Sam; oh, help me bring back the life that has nearly fled!"

"Help you!" he repeated proudly, as he stood in front of the girl who
had for the first time asked of him a favor in her distress, the favor
of a "good samaritan."

And then, looking straight at her, he said, very seriously, as he
knelt and took Constance's other hand, "The strength that God has
given me is at your service, now and forever!"

She understood, and he noted with pleasure that no swift questioning
glance of anger, no look of weariness and turning away, as once
before, followed his magnanimity.

At that moment Smith, who stood on the platform just outside the cabin
door, was heard to say in a loud voice:

"Move on there! The channel be over beyant, in the middle ave the
water! Kape yees head more sout be aste!" Then he was heard muttering
indistinctly, with only such disjointed words as "blackguard,"
"whillip" and "divilish rat," clearly audible.

It was soon, however, followed by angry words delivered in an
aggressively belligerent voice: "Be hivins, don't yees come near us!
Kape off, sure, d'yees moind, yees blackguards, or I'll put a hole
through yees bottom that'll sink yees down to the place where yees do
belong, so ye do!"

Suddenly changing his voice to an anxious tone, said, "Phwat d'yees
want? Phwat's that? Doctor, sure! Praise be to God! Oh, we've been
waitin' for yees, doctor dear, till our hearts do be broken entirely.
Be me soul, it's the thruth; not wan bit more nor less. Come, dear,
yees do be wanted quick!"

A lurch at the cabin told that the launch had arrived. The door was
hastily opened and Smith pushed the doctor in.

"There they be, sure, lyin' en the flure wid no sinse in thim at all,
at all. Do yees be quick, doctor, and hivin'll reward yees!"

Skillful application of proven restoratives, however, failed to
produce sensibility, and the doctor considered the case so grave that
he ordered Constance be removed to her home as quickly as possible.

She was, therefore, tenderly taken on board the launch and conveyed
home.

The sun's rays had burst through and dispersed the early morning mists
before Constance recovered from the shock, but, alas! with the shadow
of a wreck enveloping her.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The next morning Sam determined upon a personal interview with the
prisoner. Upon arrival at the County jail, where the prisoner had been
transferred, Sam encountered Smith, who was standing on the curb
talking to a policeman.

"How dy yus do, Sor?" was Smith's greeting.

"Getting along as fast as could be expected," he answered.

"It do be surprisin' the number ave blackguards there do be infesting
the straits ove Portland after dark these days. Houldups, an'
'break-o-day Johnnies' an' 'shanghoin' an'--an' kidnappin'--an' what
bates me, all the worrk to be had at good wages the while--whill wan
ave the rogues do be off his bait for a time, so he do!"

"Sure, Smith, no mistake about that," Sam laughed. "We slipped it over
him in fine shape last night. Have you seen him this morning?"

"Indade oi 'ave, Sor, and he's the very wan that run the soule ave his
plexis ferninst me hand the other day for spakin' disrespectful ave a
lady."

"I came to see him," Sam said, with a smile at Smith's chivalry.

"Indade! Sure yees'll not recognize him as the wan we tuk last night
at all, fir the color ave hair do be turnin' from black to a faded
straw, so it do."

"Through terror of his position, I suppose."

"Not wan bit, sor. It came out in the wash. It do be this way. Yees
see, the orficers cudn't get him to spake wan worrd an' no sweatbox or
other terror ave the force did he fear, at all, sure! So they turned
the water on him, after takin' off his clothes with the aid of two
'trustys,' and it was raymarked by the jailer that his skin do look
uncommon fair, an the hair on his limbs was a sandy color, an' not
black, like the hair on his hid, and his mustache oily black, too, so
it do."

"Artificial coloring," suggested Sam.

"Sure, that's jist phat the jailor sid, the very same worrds, although
do yees naw the color blend av his nick from the color bone up was a
beautiful bit of worrk, as nate an' natural as anything yees would
want to see."

"He is possibly an Italian artist."

"Sure, he's no Italian at all, fir the trustys soaped an' lathered an'
scrubbed all the Dago off ave him. He raysisted loike a madman, but it
was no use, and whin they held him under the shower bath his heavy
black mustache fell off onto the floor. Wan ave the trustys picked it
up and said, says he: 'By jimminy, he's no Dago at all; he's a
scoogy.' An' I say so, too, so I do. And the jailer raymarked it was
just as he expected, and then he tould them to get the scoogy into his
duds."

"I will try and get permission to see him."

Sam then entered the office, followed by Smith. They were readily
allowed to see the prisoner, and upon approaching his cell, Sam
recognized him at once, and the Sheriff wrote on the record, opposite
the name of George Golda--"Alias, Jack Shore."

An hour later Sam Harris was closeted with Detective Simms, in his
office.

"I believe the fellow who escaped from the cabin last night," said
Sam, "was Jack Shore's partner Philip Rutley, otherwise known as 'Lord
Beauchamp'."

"Why do you suspect the lord to be Philip Rutley?" inquired the
detective.

"Because they were partners in business, and inseparable chums
socially," replied Sam. "And where one was to be found, the other was
not far away."

"You say he got ten thousand dollars from the bank on your uncle's
indorsement?" inquired the detective.

"Yes," replied Sam, "and tomorrow afternoon he is to be uncle's guest
at Rosemont."

"Well, tonight my lord will attempt to leave the city, but he will
find it impracticable," remarked the detective, dryly. "I desire you
to keep strictly mum on this matter for twenty-four hours, and I
promise you positive identification of his lordship."

Later, Detective Simms, smoking a cigar, sauntered carelessly into the
"sweatbox," where Jack Shore was still confined, and dumb as a stone
statue on the question of kidnapping.

After silently looking at Jack for a time, he said with a smile: "If
you had been shrewd you would not be here. You were sold."

"Then I am either a knave or a fool?" interrogated Jack, carelessly.

"To be frank," laughed Simms, "you are both. A knave for trusting
Rutley, and a fool for doing his dirty work. I suppose you will think
it is a lie when I say he 'tipped' us to the cabin for the ten
thousand dollars reward offered by Mr. Thorpe for recovery of the
child, and a promise of immunity from imprisonment."

"Who is Rutley?" nonchalantly asked Jack.

"Why, your partner; that fellow who has been masquerading as a lord."

"Lord who?"

"Come, now," Simms laughed. "Why, me Lord Beauchamp! Surprised, eh?"
and again Simms laughed and looked at Jack questioningly. "Well," he
continued at length, "you must be a cheap guy to believe that fellow
true to you. See here, he gave the whole thing away. Don't believe it,
eh? Well, I'll prove it. We knew the time Miss Thorpe was to be at the
cabin. We knew the dog was on watch and removed it. We knew the exact
time Rutley was to be with you, and arranged for him to get away
without your suspicion. Why, our man was waiting with a boat as soon
as he got out of the cabin."

"Did he get away?" It was the first question that Jack had asked,
though non-committal, in which Simms detected a faint anxiety. Simms
was the very embodiment of coolness and indifference. "Not from us,
no; but he is out on bail."

That assertion was a masterstroke of ingenuity, and he followed it up
with the same indifference. "Would you like to know who his sureties
are?"

Jack maintained a gloomy silence.

"Just to convince you that I am not joking, I will show you the
document." And Simms turned lazily on his heel and left him. Returning
a few moments later with a document, he held it for Jack to look at.

"Do you note the amount? And the signatures?--James Harris, John
Thorpe. You must be familiar with them," and the detective smiled as
he thought of the trick he was employing to fool the prisoner, for he
had himself written the signatures for the purpose.

"Jack's breathing was heavier and his face somewhat whiter, yet by a
superhuman effort he still maintained a gloomy frown of apparent
indifference.

"The reward was paid to him this morning," continued the detective,
between his puffs of smoke.

"How much?" asked Jack, unconcerned.

"Ten thousand dollars!"

"Quite a hunk!" Jack said, carelessly. For he thought of the package
that Rutley had deftly abstracted from his pocket in the cabin, and he
was glad of it, for it would be used in his defense. And then he
muttered to himself: "This 'duffer' is slick and thinks he can work
me, but I'll fool him."

"The fellow is pretty well fixed," continued the detective, as he eyed
Jack inquisitively.

"Clear of this case with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket."

"What!" exclaimed Jack, for the first time amazed, and then checking
himself, said negligently:

"I understood you to say the reward was ten thousand dollars?"

"So I did. Ten thousand reward and that ransom money of Miss
Thorpe's."

"The devil he has!"

Jack was beginning to waver. He thought of Rutley holding back the
"tip" that he was shadowed, and also about the dog not barking at his
approach, for some time after he had entered the cabin. Either of
which incidents, had it been mentioned immediately upon entry, would
have made escape possible. It seemed to corroborate the detective's
assertion--that he was sold. His jaws set hard.

"Can you prove that to me?"

"Sure!"

CHAPTER XIX.

On the afternoon of the second day following the rescue of Dorothy,
Mr. Thorpe, accompanied by his child, visited Mr. Harris by urgent
invitation. The trees were still dressed in their leafy glow of autumn
glory and, with the luxuriant green velvety grass of the lawn, invited
a pause for contemplation of the entrancingly serene and happy
condition earth intended her children to enjoy. Above was a clear,
infinitely beautiful blue sky, through which the radiant orb of day
poured down its golden shafts of light in masses of exuberant splendor
and warmth.

It was an environment singularly touching and persuasive in its appeal
to human nature for "Peace on earth and good will toward men."

As John Thorpe and his child walked up the path toward the house and
arrived near the spot where his quarrel with Mr. Corway had taken
place, just one week previous, he could not but halt, sensitive to the
insidious influence so softly streaming about him--so gentle, yet so
powerful in contra-distinction to the unhappy change that had so
recently come into his life. Oh, for something to banish the bitter
memories conjured up as his gaze riveted on the "damned spot" where
his wife's inconstancy had been told to him.

And as he looked, a far-off dreamy stare settled in his eyes, as there
unrolled before his vision the sweet bliss of happy years fled--gone,
as he thought, never to return.

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed, overwhelmed with sudden emotion, and he
clapped his hand to his forehead as an involuntary groan of anguish
welled up from his heart.

His composure slowly returned to him, but the eroding effect of his
smothered anguish would not obliterate, and he found himself thinking,
"It was unwise to come to this place--here where memory is embittered
by recollections of what has been. Terrible revelation! Terrible!
Yet--I could not have been brought to credit it but for the evidence of
my eyes."

These words seemed to startle him with a new light, for he paused, and
then in a voice almost reduced to a whisper, fruitful with eager
doubt, said, "What have my eyes proved to me? Is there room for a
possibility of a mistake? No, no! The ring is evidence of her guilt.
Oh, Constance, when I needed you, the world owned no purer or more
perfect woman; but now--fallen, fallen, fallen!"

While deeply absorbed in sad reflection, Dorothy stole to his side
and, looking up, wistfully, in his face, said:

"Dear papa, isn't mama here, either?"

The question from the child, uppermost in her mind, aroused him from
his heart-aching reverie. He looked at her sternly. "Mama," he
repeated; "child, breathe that name no more! Banish it from your
memory! Oh, no, no, no! I did not mean that!" and he turned his head
aside with downcast eyes, shocked and ashamed at his passionate
outburst in the presence of his little child.

He sat down on a bench and put her on his knee, and as he did so
became conscious of the child again looking wistfully in his eyes.

"Well, you are sorry for leaving mama in that old cabin, aren't you?"

It forced him to turn his eyes away from her, and with a tremor of
pain in his voice, muttered: "Twenty times the child has said that to
me today," and, turning to her, he said gently and with infinite
compassion:

"Dorothy, you are too young to comprehend. It is my intention to
remove you from the home of your birth, to take you East, and educate
you there. Now, don't trouble me with questions, dear," and he kissed
the fair young brow and, looking into her sweet innocent brown eyes,
he saw reflected in them her mother's.

Then he turned his head aside and muttered: "So much like her mother!
Oh, Constance! Constance! My judgment condemns you, but my heart--my
heart will not leave you!"

Down from the house leisurely strolled Mr. Harris and Hazel.

"His Grace has just communicated to me the most amazing information
about Virginia. It is so absurd that I felt quite angry with him for
mentioning it," Hazel said quite seriously.

"And what did he tell you?" inquired Mr. Harris. "If it is no secret?"

"He told me that it is common talk that she was found in the cabin
with Constance at the time of Dorothy's rescue by her father, having
just rewarded the Italian for abducting the child, and that they both
swooned when uncle found them there."

"Lord Beauchamp must have been misinformed," broke in Mr. Harris, with
a grave face. "If such were the case Sam would have told me. All idle
tattle--mischievous gossip!"

"Ah! Mr. Thorpe and Dorothy!"

"Oh, darling!" exclaimed Hazel, and she gathered the child in her
arms, kissed her, and flew off to the house with her.

"Well, John, I am glad to meet you again," shaking his hand, "though
to tell the truth, I did not expect you."

"It has cost me bitter memories, Mr. Harris."

"I have long since discovered," continued Mr. Harris, "that while time
cannot heal a deep-rooted sorrow, it softens many of its asperities.
When do you depart for the East?"

"I have made arrangements to leave tomorrow."

"You are doing just what would prompt any man in like position to do.
I trust we shall hear from you occasionally."

"It is now my purpose, after arranging for Dorothy's education, to
travel abroad for an indefinite period, but I shall endeavor to keep
in communication with you."

Linking his arm in that of his guest, Mr. Harris said: "Come, John,
let us join Mrs. Harris on the piazza. She is anxious to have a chat
with you."

Turning in the direction of the house, to their surprise they
confronted Virginia. Mr. Thorpe at once withdrew his arm from that of
Mr. Harris, and stepping aside with an offended dignity, remarked
reproachfully:

"I was not aware of having merited the honor you do me."

Mr. Harris threw up his hands deprecatingly. He understood the purport
of the allusion and was dumb. He had been quite unaware of the
presence of Virginia, and knowing of the estrangement between brother
and sister, felt embarrassed. He was rescued from his dilemma by
Virginia, who addressed him in a grave voice.

"Please leave us, Mr. Harris."

His respect and esteem for her was sincere and great. Her good sense
and becoming modesty had often impressed him as a woman of sterling
qualities. Utterly disbelieving and discrediting the insinuations and
innuendoes which Rutley had set afloat to his own advantage concerning
her antagonistic relation with her brother, he conceived her to be the
unhappy subject of a combination of circumstances over which she had
no influence. A prey to anxiety, she retained little of the color and
less of the vivacity formerly so conspicuously her heritage; yet her
broad brow glistened white with an intellectuality that beautified her
with spiritual chastity.

He was struck, too, with her very serious and pallid face, and his
heart went out to her. He bowed low in answer to her request, and
without a word gravely turned away and left them.

John Thorpe saw that Virginia was suffering from some great mental
strain, nevertheless he chose to appear icily indifferent. He
attributed her contrite appearance to the fact that he had surprised
her and Constance in the cabin with the abductor of his child. He
could conceive of no reason for them being there other than collusion
with the Italian, for he believed they were cognizant of Dorothy's
place of imprisonment all the time, and while it was possible the
Italian held the child for ransom, they kept her place of concealment
secret, under the belief that she was safer from seizure by Thorpe
than at home or with friends, and also that it would draw the sympathy
of acquaintances to Constance, and though Dorothy told him in her
childish way that Virginia had given George Golda money, a minute
search of his clothes and about the cabin failed to disclose it, and
John Thorpe interpreted her defense of Dorothy as an unexpected
contingency arising from the frenzied fury of the Italian to save
himself from capture when he found escape cut off.

When Virginia swooned, it mercifully relieved her from a most
embarrassing and painful position.

Such were his thoughts as he directed a stony stare of freezing
haughtiness upon her--the woman, his sister, whom he now regarded as
beyond the pale of blood relationship.

"I did not expect to meet you here," he said in a voice grave with a
sense of the worry from which he was suffering and from which wrong he
could not, no matter how he reasoned, disassociate the name of his
sister.

"I have tried to find you--to meet you--to--in short, to demand an
explanation of this affair; but until now I have been unsuccessful."

She spoke hesitatingly and with a slight tremor in her voice,
otherwise there was no indication of the great emotion that she was
laboring under. In short, her demeanor, while firm and of simple
dignity, was of the gravest character imaginable.

"You have broken all ties between us," he answered slowly.

"John, John! Don't turn away! Stop!" and she held up a warning finger
as, stepping in front of him, she barred his way.

"You shall hear me. For I believe what I have to tell you is of the
utmost importance. But first, what cause have you for divorcing
Constance?"

"You ask that question?" he slowly emphasized.

"Yes, I ask that question," as steadily and definitely she regarded
him.

"If on my return from China you had not concealed from me her
infatuation for that man--that fellow Corway--this unhappy trouble would
have been over long ago."

"I have concealed nothing from you! John, I am sure it is all a
mistake."

"All a mistake?" he angrily repeated. "You concealed nothing from me!
When her notoriety was of such common gossip that strangers were
familiar with details!"

"If you had not degraded Constance by so meanly believing the palpable
artifice of a--a stranger," quietly and gravely replied Virginia--"if
you had but given her an opportunity to defend herself, you would have
found no cause for divorce; no cause even to fear the tainted breath
of scandal could ever attach to Constance. Oh, John, it is all wrong!
Constance is innocent! She has never been untrue to you!"

Excitedly he turned to her, his face ablaze with the fervor of his
amazement, as he repeated:

"Innocent--Constance! Constance innocent!"

"Yes," promptly responded Virginia. "I who know it, swear it is
true--swear it is the truth in the sight of that high throne before
which we shall all stand in the Judgment Day.

"It was I who originated the dreadful insinuations against Mr.
Corway."

"Yes, yes! That may be true--but--" and Thorpe's manner again relapsed
to a heart-aching resignation, as he sadly added: "He wore my wife's
ring!"

"Yes, that is true, John, but unknown to her and most assuredly
without her consent," eagerly asserted Virginia, and she related the
manner Corway obtained the ring, and how she subsequently had
indiscreetly informed Beauchamp it was "your gift to Constance."

Those of poor wayward humanity who, in moments of great passion have
done a great wrong, know what torture is silently endured as day and
night, in moments awake and in dreams asleep, the crime haunts them,
and knocks, knocks, knocks, without ceasing, upon the soul's door for
release of the secret.

Such were Virginia's feelings, and the sweet happiness experienced
when she confessed her sin shone in her face with convincing
truthfulness.

John listened to her with ever increasing amazement, and when she had
concluded, his cold, austere demeanor had perceptibly softened. Yet
Thorpe breathed hard.

"You vilified Corway's character and I have heard recently of his--of
her mad infatuation for him and of his frequent visits to our home
while I was away in China."

"The source of your information was a lie. You received it
gratuitously from Beauchamp, did you not?"

"I have not mentioned the source of my information. Why do you think
he was my informant?"

"Because he hated Corway."

"And you conspired with him to ruin my home," quickly interrupted
Thorpe, and again coldly turned from her.

"You shall hear me!" and Virginia insistently gripped his coat sleeve
and turned him toward her. "I have sought you too long to explain this
unhappy affair, and now that I have found you, you must hear me out."

Smothering his impatience, Thorpe said: "Well!"

"I loved Corway, oh, so fondly!--but, alas, too well, and I allowed
myself to cherish the belief that in his endearing manifestations he
reciprocated my love. But on my premature return from the farm, I
unexpectedly heard him declare his passion for Hazel. Then an all
absorbing desire for revenge possessed me.

"I resolved to break their engagement and first endeavor to estrange
him--from your friendship. To accomplish that end I traduced his
character and created a suspicion that his attention to Hazel was
insincere and mercenary, expecting that after Corway was denied access
to your home, I could smooth over the unpleasantness between you and
Hazel and eventually annul his betrothal to her. But your informant
juggled the names, made Constance the subject of Corway's affection
instead of Hazel, and led you to believe the ring was a love token
from her to him."

"He insisted and repeated that Constance was the guilty one and not
Hazel," dubiously commented Thorpe.

"I understand now, it was out of revenge," she laconically replied.

"Revenge! What wrong have I done Lord Beauchamp?" questioned Thorpe,
amazed at Virginia's disclosures.

"You will understand when I disclose, as I have recently learned that
he is Philip Rutley, masquerading as Lord Beauchamp."

"God of our fathers!" exclaimed Thorpe, clapping his hand to his white
forehead, to still the pain of sudden doubt of his wife's inconstancy,
that had seized him.

"What punishment is this inflicted on me?"

Then turning to Virginia with fierce light in his eyes, he sprang at
her. In one bound he clutched her by the wrist, glared in her eyes,
and said:

"And you, my only sister, have known all this and permitted him to
wreak his vengeance upon my innocent wife, who never bore him malice,
or did him wrong by thought, word or deed."

"I did not think that harm would fall on Constance." Yet even before
she had finished speaking, a change came over Thorpe, and his grip on
her wrist loosened. A victim of doubt and suspicion, his moods were as
changing and variable as the coloring of a chameleon. Apparently he
was not yet satisfied of the complete innocence of his wife or of the
truthfulness of his sister, for he said, in a voice saddened by
reflection: "That does not explain your connection with the abduction
of Dorothy."

"I have them with me," she muttered, appreciating the importance of
clearing herself. "Yes, they are here," and she hastily produced from
her corsage an envelope having had the foresight to preserve them as
most precious testimony in case of need.

The moment had come and found her prepared. Handing him the two notes,
with a winsome expression of thankfulness, she said:

"Read them, John, this one first, and you will know why I was in the
cabin."

She had handed to him the two notes received from George Golda, though
in reality they had been penned by his colleague, Rutley. The first
note asked for a meeting in the City park. The second demanded the
amount of ransom that night on penalty of removal of Dorothy.

"The time was urgent in the extreme," she continued. "Unable to secure
the amount of ransom demanded, I resolved to go alone to the cabin,
determined to rescue Dorothy."

"You entered then."

"But you were not alone; Constance was with you," he corrected.

"When I told her my purpose, she pleaded so hard. Oh, so hard to go
with me, that I could not deny her. I have told you all."

John Thorpe was not the only listener to Virginia's pleading.
Intensely interested, neither of them noticed Sam Harris approach, and
with him the little Scotch terrier, which had completely recovered
from its painful experience on the launch at Ross Island. When he
first caught sight of them confronting each other, he gave a low
whistle of surprise, and then, as he drew near to address them,
involuntarily he heard her last words. His eyelids twitched with
pleasure as he listened to the idol of his heart vindicate Constance.
Smothering a cry of joy, he turned and at once withdrew, muttering to
himself: "Lord, how light my heart feels! Virginia is doing the right
thing now, I guess. Come, Doctor"--the name he had given to the
dog--"we'll leave them for awhile, eh?" And the brown eyes of the
grateful canine looked up at him with almost human intelligence and
affection.

John Thorpe's demeanor had undergone a great change in the few minutes
he had listened to Virginia. His frigid haughtiness had softened,
through successive stages, to a gentleness bordering on compassion.

"I will take care of these," said he, in a voice of tenderness, as he
placed the notes in his pocket. "But, oh, God in Heaven! What shall I
say to my beloved wife?"

"You believe me, John?" Virginia cried, in a tone of heartfelt
thankfulness--her eager gaze fastened on his face. Her pleading touched
him deeply. He took her in his arms, gently kissed her fair brow, and
in a broken voice, said:

"Virginia, we are only human, with human failings; but in your honor
and truthfulness of this dreadful affair, God bear witness to my
faith!"

A devout joy flushed the pallor of her beautiful face, as she
responded with a thankful heart, purified as gold with fire: "My
prayers are answered, and my brother is himself again."

"Yes, Virginia," he continued, with the fervor of family pride, as he
thought of the part she had taken in Dorothy's rescue--"And in that
book which shall be opened in the last great day, there will be
pointed out by the Recording Angel--my sister's atonement." Then,
without releasing her, he went on in an altered, anxious voice: "And
my darling wife! Where is Constance? Tell me, Virginia, that I may go
to her at once and plead her forgiveness."

"What shall I say?" she whispered, awestruck, caught in a moment of
forgetfulness of the woman who suffered for it all. "I must not tell
him where she is. No, no, no! Not yet!" and she battled to subdue her
agitation that she might invent some plea to postpone the meeting with
his wife. "Not now; not now, John," and drawing away from him,
unconsciously put out her hand as though to ward off some impending
evil.

"Why not?" he asked in surprised tones. "I must see her. I must know
where my darling wife is at once!"

A flash of pain shot athwart the girl's features as she muttered under
her breath: "Oh, dear! What shall I tell him, what shall I say? What
shall I do now?"

Thorpe hastily stepped forward to her assistance, and with concern in
his voice, said: "Virginia, you are ill!"

"Let me rest for a moment or two"--trying her utmost to appear
unperturbed, and as she sank on a bench, continued brokenly: "I shall
be all right presently. The long walk--the terrible strain"--

"My dear sister, you need assistance," interrupted Thorpe. "You must
let me help you to the house and obtain proper care for you," and he
tenderly attempted to lift her to her feet.

"No, no, no!" she quickly responded; "I--shall be better in a few
moments. Just a little--quiet rest, John, and alone, please. I shall
soon be well again."

"As you desire, Virginia; but I shall tell Mrs. Harris."

"No, no, John! Don't tell her! I wish to be alone for awhile."

"Very well, dear; as I have a message for Mr. Harris, shall seek him
at the house; but I will return in a few moments," and then,
considerate for her wish to be alone, he left her.

Helpless to resist the impetus of her consuming desire to reunite John
and his wife, Constance, she yet dreaded the aftermath of the shock
his discovery must surely produce. Virginia knew not which way to turn
or what course to pursue.

"Oh, Auntie! Auntie! I'm so glad you've come. Mamma is coming to see
me, too. Isn't she?" and Dorothy, having caught sight of Virginia, ran
to her, and then, not to be denied, in her childish way climbed up on
the bench beside her and affectionately clasped her little arms about
her neck.

"Papa doesn't like her," she proceeded, in a low, serious,
confidential manner, "and wants me not to like her, too. But I shall
like her. I shall always love-dear mamma-as-long-as-I-live!" The last
few words were uttered in a quivering voice, but with a decision that
appeared marvelous in one so young.

Folding her arms about the child, Virginia fondly looked into her
eyes. "God bless you, sweet, winsome soul!" And then they kissed.

"Aunty, won't you take me to mamma?" pleaded the child. A ray of light
had at last unexpectedly illumined a path for Virginia to pursue.
Suddenly releasing the child, she arose to her feet and said, with
animation: "Some good may come of it. I will seek Mrs. Harris and have
her detain John while I bring Constance--and Dorothy together--before he
meets her. Yes, darling," she said, taking Dorothy's hand; "you shall
see your mother."

CHAPTER XX.

On a low point of land formed by a bend in the Willamette, a couple of
boys were playing at what is termed "skipping." The exercise consisted
in throwing a stone so as to make it skim along the surface of the
water in a series of long skips, the greater number of skips attesting
the skill of the thrower. The surface of the river was very smooth and
placid, which was a factor in tempting the boys to the exercise. They
had been at it for some time and, boy-like, in their enthusiasm, had
overdone it, and consequently were beginning to fag, when one of them
suddenly spied an exceptionally smooth, round flat stone, suitable for
the purpose, and stooped to pick it up. The other boy, a short
distance behind him, seeing his opportunity, cried out in a
frolicksome spirit:

"Hi! Gene! Hold, there." And he immediately ran and, placing his two
hands on the stooping boy's back, lightly leaped over him, straddle
fashion, and then himself took a stooping position further on, subject
to a like performance.

At once the sport known as "leap-frog" was entered into with zest by
the boys. It carried them some distance along the river shore, and
they were so engrossed with the new exercise, which sustained in their
case, at all events, the old adage that, "A change of occupation is a
good recreation," as to be entirely oblivious of approaching a
solitary woman dressed in sober gray, sitting on a stump of driftwood
near the water's edge and gazing vacantly on the river.

One of the boys, named Gene, big-limbed, loose-jointed and clumsy, in
doing his turn, and while astraddle the "frog," lost his balance and
tumbled sideways, dragging the under boy over with him. The smaller
boy, named Spike, got to his feet first, and with a fire in his eye,
angrily said: "Youse do it again and I'll smash you one."

"I couldn't help it. It was your fault, anyway, Why didn't you hold
steady," replied Gene.

"You big lubber; youse done it on purpose." said Spike, rubbing his
shin. "I'm not going to play any more," and as he turned away,
muttered to himself: "I've a notion to soak him one."

"Oh, look!" cried Gene. "A woman's agoing in swimming with her clothes
on!" The boys at once forgot their differences, drew close together
and watched her with much curiosity.

"Say, but the water is cold. I was in yesterday and couldn't stay a
minute," said Gene. "Gee, but I got my clothes on quick! I was near
froze."

"She's skeart already; see how she's looking about--must-a lost
somethin'."

"Let's ask her," said Gene.

"Youse shut up, won't you."

"She's saying something. Hear?"

"Sounds like 'Dorothy,'" said Spike. "Look at her dig them hands in
the water."

"Say, she's crazy, sure!" whispered Gene.

At which they drew back awe-struck, yet fascinated by the grotesque
buffoonery inseparable from the insane.

"Somebody'd better go and phone the cops," whispered Spike, excitedly.
"She'll get drowned, and then we'll get in a bar'l of trubble."

"I'll go," said Gene, half frightened, and glad of an excuse to get
away from the uncanny spectacle. "Who's got a phone near here?" he
asked.

"Up at the big house, yonder. Harris'. They's got one, but youse don't
want to leave me here alone with that crazy woman. She's coming
ashore. Kin youse hear what she's saying?" They listened intently.

"I'm sure I saw her," she said in tones strangely pitiful. "Her golden
hair floated on the surface like a silken mesh--then sank down,
down--ah, there it is again." And she outstretched her hand and tried
to grasp something.

"Gone again! Oh! I wish someone would help me get her. I am so tired
and the river is so deep and cold," and as she stepped out from the
water onto the shingle, her frame shivered as with a chill. She sat on
the stump of driftwood, fatigued by exertion.

"Let's go and talk to her," whispered Gene.

"Youse better not. Youse can't tell what them crazy people will do
sometimes. They ack queer mighty sudden."

"Say! She wouldn't hurt anything. Ain't she nice looking! I'll bet she
was kind when she was all right," said Gene.

"Talks of golden hair. Must be her baby drowned has made her crazy,"
said Spike.

"I'm going to speak to her, anyway," and so saying, Gene boldly
approached her.

"Say, lady! What are you looking for?" he asked, as he timidly stood
in front of her.

"Dorothy," she softly answered, and then slowly shifted her wistful
eyes from the water to the boys.

"Whose Dorothy?" asked Spike, with an air of quiet respect, as he
joined Gene and stood in front of her.

"The sweetest babe in all the world. See, in this--her likeness," and
she drew from the bosom of her dress a medallion and held it for the
boys to look at.

"Sure! She's a beaut!" exclaimed Spike, admiringly.

"Say, that picture is just like you," remarked Gene, looking over the
medallion at the face before him.

"Yous dress is wet, Missus," said Spike.

"Were you looking for your baby there?" queried Gene, nodding toward
the river.

She suddenly arose to her feet and listened, meanwhile tenderly
replacing the medallion in her corsage.

"I must not rest longer. The storm will soon be on us. The boat
rocks."

She paused in a listening attitude: "Her voice! I hear it again. She
is calling, 'Mamma, papa, help! Save me!' There! There!"--and she
pointed over the water. "See that golden web glistening in the
sunshine. It's her hair. She's beckoning me! Give me the paddles!--the
paddles, quick!" And then she cried out with a gasp that sounded very
much like a sob: "Save Dorothy!"

CHAPTER XXI.

When John Thorpe left Virginia in search of Mr. Harris, he found him
in conversation with Sam, at the foot of the piazza steps. Above them,
on the piazza, was seated Mrs. Harris.

"I understand," remarked Mr. Harris to Sam, "that there was another
man in the cabin, but somehow he escaped."

"There was another man there," replied Sam, "but he went down through
a trap door in the floor, Uncle."

"Did he drown," questioned Mr. Harris.

"Oh, no! The logs raised the floor of the cabin about a foot above the
water. He got away between them and swam ashore. We didn't find it out
until he had made good his escape."

It was then Mr. Thorpe addressed Mr. and Mrs. Harris. It being the
first opportunity presented to perform a duty, that was clearly
incumbent on him, and without further hesitation, he said: "Mr. and
Mrs. Harris and Sam, who heard me abuse Mr. Corway on this ground last
Wednesday night, I wish now to recall what I then said. If an entire
misapprehension of facts can be an excuse for the animosity with which
I then spoke, I am anxious to apologize for my behavior, as
circumstances have made me aware how unjust were my aspersions. I
regret that Mr. Corway is not present to receive my apology and to
shake hands with him, for there is not a man in Oregon for whom I have
greater respect."

Mr. Harris was unable to conceal his gratification at the sudden
ending of an unpleasant dilemma, and exclaimed: "John, I heartily
congratulate you on the agreeable termination of an ugly affair."

"Dear me! I am really delighted," added Mrs. Harris, who, having
gotten up from her chair at the first few words uttered by John
Thorpe, and leaning forward on the piazza railing, stared at the men
below in rapt attention. And Sam joined in the general joy by
exclaiming, with a broad grin and a whirl of his hat: "Whoop! Let's
celebrate the burial of the hatchet, eh, Auntie."

"How vulgar," quietly remarked Mrs. Harris, as she straightened up,
and with severity plainly graven on her face, said: "Sam, I desire a
word with you after dinner."

"Ya-ah! May good digestion wait on appetite, eh Auntie! I guess so,"
replied Sam, with a roguish twinkle of his eye and the inimitable side
movement of his head.

"Dear me," continued Mrs. Harris, "I may as well be resigned to the
inevitable, for I fear the 'Texas brand' will never groom out."

"I must go home," exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. "My impatience to meet
Constance is consuming me. Mrs. Harris and gentlemen, pray pardon my
haste," and, lifting his hat, he withdrew.

Then Sam related in detail the bath and discovery of Jack Shore at the
jail.

"Fact, Uncle," he continued, "a regular fiend."

"What! Jack Shore, of the Securities Investment Association!"
exclaimed Mr. Harris, with surprise.

"The same identical chap, Uncle."

"Dear me; who was his confederate?" questioned Mrs. Harris.

"We have yet to discover, but suspect a certain person well known to
you."

"Whom do you suspect?" sharply demanded Mrs. Harris.

"A much-honored member of society," replied Sam, with fine sarcasm.

"But we must have his name," insisted Mrs. Harris. She was promptly
supported by Mr. Harris, who said: "By all means, we must know who he
is."

"My Lord Beauchamp!" Sam answered, with emphasis.

"Dear me," gasped Mrs. Harris. "What a shock!" and then, recovering
herself, she repeated doubtfully: "Lord Beauchamp an imposter?"

"He's a villain anyhow, Auntie!" exclaimed Sam. "The same 'gent' who
ran me down when I was tracking the Dago up there near the City
park--thought he put me out of business."

"What proof have you that he is an imposter?" demanded Mrs. Harris,
sternly.

"Yes, proof, proof! That is what we want!" exclaimed James Harris,
visibly agitated.

"To satisfy himself the detective cabled our Ambassador at London to
make inquiry. This morning he received a reply." And so saying, Sam
took from his pocket an envelop containing a cablegram and handed it
to Mr. Harris, with the remark: "Uncle, the detective turned it over
to me at noon."

Mr. Harris took from the envelop the cablegram, and adjusting his
eyeglasses, read aloud:

"There's only one Lord Beauchamp in England's peerage, and he, with
whom I am personally acquainted, was at the embassy yesterday."

It was signed "White."

Then Mr. Harris looked over the paper in his hand--over the eyeglasses
into nothingness, with an expression on his face of deep chagrin, and
in a low voice, as though muttering to himself, indiscreetly said:

"Damn the luck! The fellow is into me for ten thousand dollars."

The words had scarcely escaped from his lips when Mrs. Harris, her
eyes staring with astonishment, sharply exclaimed:

"Ten thousand dollars! Why, James Henry, you must have been
hypnotized!"

It caused Sam to smile, and remark with a look of reproach: "Auntie!"

"He came to me with a plausible story and many regrets, unexpectedly
ran short of funds; produced a cablegram purporting to come from his
brother, the Duke Villier, only yesterday, authorizing him to draw for
two thousand pounds. To oblige him I indorsed the draft, went with him
to the bank, and it was immediately honored. I will phone for a
policeman at once," and Mr. Harris turned away to put his purpose into
effect, when Sam intercepted him.

"Stay, Uncle; I have taken upon myself the duty of swearing out a
warrant for his arrest, and in order there shall be no possibility of
his escape, I have arranged with detectives, having Jack Shore in
charge, to identify and arrest him."

"James, do not wait a moment!" impatiently exclaimed Mrs. Harris.
"Have him arrested at once."

"Auntie, he cannot escape the officers, who are concealed, waiting
signal," Sam assured her.

And then, as if fate had so ordered, the object of their anathemas--in
the company of Hazel, complacently sauntered from the tennis lawn,
and, rounding the angle of the house, suddenly appeared close to the
group.

"It was so stupid of me. I am sure your lordship did not enjoy the
game at all," said the girl. It was at that game of tennis that Rutley
found opportunity to propose marriage to Hazel, for he believed that
she was so disappointed at Corway's disappearance, and which he took
care to insinuate was through cowardice, and that she was so impressed
with his rank, wealth and manners, that it would be easy to persuade
her; but he found the girl repelled his advances so firmly and
decisively that he at once abandoned the idea of attempting to entice
her to elope, and abruptly ended the game. And so, because of his love
for this girl, he had delayed his purpose to escape from the city, and
jeopardized his chances accordingly.

When Rutley's eyes first rested on James Harris, he involuntarily
started at the change in his looks, but though seemingly perturbed for
an instant, his self-possession never really deserted him. Straight on
to the broad steps he strode with a suavity of manner quite in keeping
with his usual phlegmatic bearing. Whatever distrust or apprehension
may have troubled his thoughts, no exterior indication was visible.
His face was impassive and inscrutable as the "Sphinx." His nerves
were steel, his acting superb.

"I find in Miss Brooke an expert tennis player," he said, addressing
Mrs. Harris, who was leaning forward, her hands resting on the rail,
staring at him.

"It's an outrage, sir! A damned outrage!" explosively exclaimed Mr.
Harris, who was unable to control his indignation.

Still unperturbed, Rutley turned to Mr. Harris and said: "I quite
agree with you, Sir, for the scandal is deplorable, and Corway should
be punished." Turning to Mrs. Harris, he continued:

"Indeed, Mrs. Harris, you Americans seem to excel in most everything
where skill and brains are essential."

There was not a flaw or tremor in his voice to betray an uneasy mind
or prescience of a coming storm. It was then, however, he realized
that something was wrong, for he noticed that they were looking coldly
at him. Slowly drawing himself up with a haughty bearing, he carefully
adjusted the monocle in his left eye and turned slowly about as he
stared at each of them, and said in slow, sharp, biting accents:

"It's deuced--draughty--don't--che--know!"

"Yes, quite chilly, isn't it, old chappie! I guess so!" declared Sam,
patronizingly.

"I demand, sir, the return of ten thousand dollars that you swindled
me out of yesterday," said Mr. Harris, with indignation flushing his
face.

"And I demand, in the name of the law, ten thousand dollars that you
stole from--a--George Golda, while in the scow-dwelling night before
last," said Sam.

Still unperturbed, Rutley merely shifted his eyes from one to the
other without moving his head or a muscle of his body, much in the
manner of an automaton, and answered with a drawl:

"Aw, a money swindle! And a--a--theft of money from a scow-dwelling!
Really, gentlemen, this is--a--a--a--deuced good joke!" And then he
laughed, laughed in a shrill, screechy falsetto key, unnatural, and
chilling as an icy breath from the Arctic.

"This is no joke, sir, as you will soon realize."

"You have been detected. Your villainy is exposed, and your damned
rascality is at an end," said the irate Mr. Harris.

"For twenty years in the pen at Salem, eh, old chappie!" said Sam,
with a grin of satisfaction.

"Curse the luck," muttered Rutley to himself. "What a fool I was not
to have vanished last night. It's deuced ugly, don't-che know," he
continued aloud, in the same cutting accents. "Let me warn you,
gentlemen, there is a limit to one's forbearance!"

"You are a cheat, a villain, an imposter!" fumed Mr. Harris. "And
there is the proof," and he flourished the cablegram in Rutley's face.
"You are imposing on the public under the cloak of an assumed title,
and unless you immediately hand over to me ten thousand dollars I
shall give you into custody."

"Of the officers of the law, eh, Auntie?" and as Sam uttered the last
words, up went his right hand extended straight with the index finger
pointing aloft.

It was the signal agreed upon for the officers to appear, and
forthwith they emerged with Jack Shore between them, and Smith
following, from a vine inclosed arbor, partially concealed by a group
of trees a few rods down the hill.

Pretending not to notice the approach of the officers and their
prisoner, Sam grinned at Rutley and banteringly said:

"Come now, own up, you intentionally put me 'out of business' with the
automobile. But it was a bungled job, wasn't it, old chappie?"

Rutley yielded not an iota of his haughty bearing. Totally
unsuspecting the near approach of the officers from behind, he
directed a frigid, steady, contemptuous stare at his accusers, and
with an air of puzzled understanding, said:

"What is the meaning of this insult to my honor? I again warn you,
gentlemen, of your liability for libel."

"Law is a venturesome sport, my lord," ironically exclaimed Sam. "Let
me introduce Mr. George Golda"--

Rutley leisurely turned and stared at Jack.

--"Alias, Jack Shore," continued Sam, with a laugh.

"Well, my poor man. What is your mission?" interrogated Rutley.

Jack stared steadily at Rutley, but kept silent.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," derisively laughed Rutley. Then turning to the
group, said: "What new joke is this, gentlemen?" Again he turned
toward Jack in pretense of a closer scrutiny.

That Rutley was surprised was quite evident, and he stepped forward
with some object in view. Mr. Harris seemed to imagine some purpose in
Rutley's movement, and stepping in front of him, said: "Hold, your
little game is up!"

"I guess so," quickly added Sam, who stood ready to assist.

Realizing he was at bay, Rutley recovered his self-possession as
quickly as he had lost it.

Again he laughed in that high-pitched, screechy key of ineffable
disdain. "He, he, he, he," and turning to Mr. Harris said,
sarcastically: "The idea! You, a retired merchant, a successful
business man; experienced in the qualities of keen perception, of fine
discrimination, of the most perfect discernment and adroitness, to
support this outrage," and he waved his hand toward Jack. And again
drawing himself up erect, haughtily fixed his cold gray eyes steadily
on Mr. Harris, and continued in a drawl: "It's deuced ugly, don't-che
know; deuced ugly, by Jove."

While Rutley had been speaking, Virginia appeared on the scene. "Ha,
Virginia," sharply called out Mrs. Harris, and she beckoned to her to
hasten. "Now we shall prove his villainy."

"Ha, ha," sneered Rutley. "Now you shall realize how foully you have
slandered me. The lady will prove that I am Lord Beauchamp."

As Virginia approached near, Mrs. Harris being unable to contain her
impatience, again addressed her: "Virginia, dear! Can you enlighten us
as to that man's identity?"

Rutley tried to catch her eye, and at last, having succeeded, lifted
his eyebrows meaningly, then nearly closed his eyes as he fixed on her
a stare of glittering concentration.

"Madam," he ejaculated significantly, "beware! These gentlemen and
ladies have dared to question my right to the title of Lord Beauchamp,
and I have assured them that you know me, of course you do, and will
tell them so." His manner was confident and insinuating, but he had
over-rated his power of hypnotic influence over the girl.

She looked at him steadily, in which freezing haughtiness, contempt
and pity were commingled. Her fear of him had passed. She did not
falter now.

"Yes, I know you; and you are known to all present, but, unhappily,
not as thoroughly as you are known to me."

"Who is he?" demanded Mrs. Harris.

"Beware!" cautioned Rutley, "for what you say you must prove in a
court of law."

Defiant, the girl spoke, her enunciation clear and faultless. "His
name is Philip Rutley, and he is masquerading as my Lord Beauchamp for
fraudulent and unlawful purposes."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Rutley, sarcastically. "Delightfully refreshing,
gentlemen."

"Oh!" came from Hazel, and then, as if doubting the announcement,
exclaimed: "But the color of Rutley's hair is on the pumpkin order."

"When the dye is washed out it will be on the pumpkin order again,"
laughed Sam.

"He of the investment company?" questioned Mrs. Harris, with a puzzled
expression of countenance.

"The very same chap, Auntie," said Sam.

"Dear me, such ingratitude!" and Mrs. Harris looked disgusted. "Why,
the rascal promised never to return if we would not prosecute him."

"He, he, he, he, how very funny," derisively laughed Rutley, in that
high-pitched, screechy falsetto key he was so well trained in, and at
times he nervously stroked his Vandyke beard.

"I shall at once bring an action at law against you for malicious
libel," upon which he started to pass Mr. Harris. His purpose was
understood and frustrated by Sam, who promptly seized him by the
collar. "I guess not!"

"Well done, Sam!" exclaimed Mrs. Harris.

"Take your hands off!" demanded Rutley, who began to scuffle violently
with Sam.

"Hold him fast, Sam," cheerfully encouraged Mr. Harris, who rushed to
Sam's assistance, followed by Smith.

"I guess so."

At that moment, by a dexterous movement, Rutley slipped out of his
coat, swiftly turned, and exclaimed:

"Damn your eyes, take that," and violently struck at Sam, who adroitly
dodged the blow, dropped the coat and squared up to him.

"I'm your huckleberry; I guess. Good time to square that little
run-down now. Come down the hill out of the sight of the ladies."

"I'll go wid yees," volunteered Smith. "Sure, an' I'll see fair play,
an' may the divvil take me lord."

Mr. Harris picked up Rutley's coat and there fell out of one of the
pockets two packages of banknotes. He let the coat fall and picked up
the packages. Flourishing them about his head, he laughed--"Ha, ha, ha,
ha."

The detective turned to Jack and said, quietly: "You wanted the proof:
there it is," and he pointed to the money held by Mr. Harris. "He will
be pinched, but Mr. Thorpe is to secure his release."

"Why, there are twenty thousand dollars here!" exclaimed Mr. Harris,
examining the packages of money.

"Now you believe me, don't you?" said the detective to Jack.

"Yes," replied Jack, "you were right," and then he stepped forward
alone, close to Rutley, and with a sneer on his face, confronted him.
"So, my noble partner! You gave me the kiss of 'Judas' for ten
thousand shekels, eh?"

Rutley was amazed, but maintaining his imperturbability, exclaimed:
"You propound a riddle, my poor man. I don't know you."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, bitterly. "The riddle should be plain
with the key in your keeping. But I know _you_, me Lord Beauchamp,
alias Philip Rutley. Now, damn you, take the medicine your treachery
awards you."

Rutley straightened up, his mortification was very great. Naturally
astute, shrewd and alert, for once he had been caught napping. With
distended, staring eyes, he whispered, aghast: "Jack, Jack," and then,
recovering himself, composedly said: "A--my poor fellow, you are
mistaken; I don't know you," and then he swung himself about and
laughed in that peculiar, high-pitched key--"He, he, he, he; he must be
crazy."

"Crazy, eh!" and Jack laughed low, hoarsely and derisively. "Ha, ha,
ha, ha. The detective told me you had sold me for the reward offered
for recovery of the child, but I would not believe him. Now! I know he
told the truth. For the proof is there," and he pointed to the money
in the hands of Mr. Harris. "The proof that you betrayed your
partner"--

"You lie! You lie! Damn you, you lie!" exclaimed Rutley bitterly, as
he swiftly turned to Jack, and then muttered to himself: "Ye Gods, I
have been trapped by a fluke." Then, with marvellous nerve, declared:
"Oh, this is preposterous; I will immediately bring some friends and
prove that you malign me," and so saying he turned to move off.

"Detective Simms, he is your man; arrest him!" said Mrs. Harris.

On seeing his chance of escape lessening every moment Rutley abandoned
all idea of further defense, and made a grab for his coat.

Quick as was his action, he could not outmaneuver Sam, who promptly
threw himself upon Rutley's back, and locked his arms about him,
pinioning him as in a vice. And while in that position the detective
slipped on the handcuffs.

On releasing him, Sam turned with a broad grin of satisfaction to his
aunt--"How is that for the Texas brand, eh, Auntie?"

He got for his answer a smile, and an exclamation that pleased him
immensely. "Splendid, Sam."

"The neatest bit of work done since his partner tried to find a soft
spot on Carbit strait pavement," added Smith, with a look of
admiration.

In the meantime Mr. Harris had been examining the packages of money,
turning them over and over, looking first at one and then at another.
Of a sudden his face lit up with a smile, as he exclaimed: "Why, this
is mine; the identical package that he obtained from the bank on my
indorsement. I can swear to it. But this?" And he looked meaningly at
Virginia.

"It looks like the package of notes I gave the Italian for Dorothy's
ransom," she replied.

"He never sold me after all," muttered Jack, who became painfully
astonished on hearing Mr. Harris declare that Rutley had obtained one
of the packages of money from the bank on his indorsement. And as the
plan by which he was tricked into betrayal of his accomplice became
evident, his chagrin deepened to grief. He turned to Rutley and said,
brokenly: "Phil, I take it all back," and then he muttered absently as
he realized the futility of regret. "But it is too late--I have been
tricked into a confession."

"The jig is up," replied Rutley. "I shall take my medicine like a
man."

"That money must remain in the custody of the police until the court
decides for the owner," said the detective.

"Certainly," affirmed Mr. Harris, who handed him the two packages.

"This one is mine, and contains ten thousand dollars. And this
contains a like amount and belongs to Miss Thorpe. I shall apply to
the court for restitution tomorrow," remarked Mr. Harris.

"Very well, sir. Now please hand me that coat and we will go," said
the detective.

Mr. Harris picked up the coat and handed it to the detective.

"Keep it, old man," advised Rutley, with lofty disdain. "Keep it as a
memento of how you were once charmed by one of England's nobility," he
laughed derisively.

"I will have no gift from a thief," indignantly exclaimed Mr. Harris,
as he handed over the coat. "Officers, away with them."

"Good-bye Charles, Reginald, De Coursy, West-ma-coate Cosmos, me Lord
Beauchamp. Fare thee well," said Sam, with a grin.

It was at that time that the little Scotch terrier began to sniff at
Jack's trouser legs inquisitively. The dog had wandered near him,
attracted by the sound of his familiar voice, and though it evidently
scented something intimate, could not recognize his former master in
the changed appearance resultant on his enforced bath. And so the dog
sniffed and sniffed while the glint of its upward turned eyes
ominously resented any friendly overture.

Jack had noticed the dog about, and now that it was sniffing at his
leg, he softly spoke to it, saying: "Good-bye, Snooks," whereupon to
his surprise the dog growled at him. Again he said, soothingly: "Good
bye Snooks," putting out his hand to fondle it, but the dog, in one of
those singularly unsympathetic moods rare to its nature, would have
none of him, and barked at him furiously.

It was the finishing stroke to his shame and degradation. "An outcast,
a stranger, so low I have fallen that my own dog barks at me."

"Come along," urged the detective to Rutley and Jack. But Rutley
halted and turned to Hazel, with the same marvellous air that had won
for him confidence in critical moments of "my lord's" career.

"Ta, ta, pet," said he, in his softest blandishment to Hazel. "That
was a ravishing kiss you gave me in the conservatory awhile ago. Ta,
ta," and he threw her a kiss with his free hand and followed it with a
tragic scowl at Sam.

"The horrid man," indignantly exclaimed Hazel.

"Good-bye, Virginia," and he smiled patronizingly at her. "You
'peached' on your pal, but rogues do that sometimes. Tra-la."

"Officer, away with them," ordered Mr. Harris, with disgust.

"Get a move on, old chappie," said Sam.

"Come along," urged the detective.

But Rutley balked, and looking at Mrs. Harris, laughed, the same
high-pitched, uncanny laugh he had used previously.

"I had almost forgotten you, Auntie," he drawled in his most suave and
engaging manner. "You know that it is bad form to take one's leave
without saying 'adieu,' and believe me," and he again laughed, "I
thank you for your lavish reception in honor of the fake lord."

"Officer, away with them," stormed Mr. Harris.

Though Rutley was forced away a step or two he still kept his eyes
fixed on Mrs. Harris, and managed to hold his ground long enough to
add, ironically: "Adieu, Auntie! Ta, ta!"

"March yees blackguards, march," said Smith, pushing the men along.

"How very rude! I have never had anything so scurrilous said to me
before in my life."

"He wasn't a real lord, Auntie. Only tried to act like one, eh, I
guess so," and Sam inwardly chuckled at the balm he offered for her
discomfiture.

"Sam, you had better assist the officers to the railway station,"
suggested Mr. Harris.

"Oh, quite to my fancy, Uncle!" and Sam immediately proceeded after
the detectives and their prisoners.

The silence that fell on the group as they watched the prisoners move
down the hill was broken by Hazel, who, turning to Mr. Harris, said:
"It was clever of Sam. Indeed, Uncle, it seems to him is due the honor
of breaking the spell of a pretender."

"I am satisfied now that my lord will serve a 'spell' with his partner
in the state penitentiary," replied Mr. Harris.

"A fate that deservedly overtakes adventurers and imposters," remarked
Mrs. Harris.

"And a most pungent warning to the frantic race society runs to
entertain titled swindlers!" added Mr. Harris, gravely.

At that moment Sam hurriedly reappeared and approached Mr. Harris, who
hastened to meet him. "What is wrong, Sam?" "Has he got away?" was the
anxious inquiry.

"I guess not, Uncle," replied Sam, who seemed excited, and then