"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly.

"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced into every open compartment as we pa.s.sed through the coaches. In the second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a clear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone became impressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the other was--your lady of the tree."

Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.

"Don't do that; there may be others to notice."

"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"

"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the d.u.c.h.ess, whichever she is, and the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree is on this train."

It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths.

Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular breathing as they pa.s.sed his section. Both were relieved, for they dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal it from him altogether.

Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand d.u.c.h.ess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love pa.s.sage between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it?

There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her ident.i.ty in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before.

He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly abducted as the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, she was even now free, and attended by her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train kept saying:

"You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knew that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.

Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke.

He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:

"Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The pa.s.sengers rushed out, all white with fear.

Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried.

"In his berth; he may be hurt."

They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid him down in the air. He opened his eyes.

"What--what is it?" he asked.

"Wreck--there was a collision," answered Saunders.

Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, if it is forward--where the people are--maybe dying."

Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him to silence.

"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with G.o.d's ways."

So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and splintered freight cars of the other train.

"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the frightened conductor.

The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered.

The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it.

"My G.o.d!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to them."

A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest bent low to catch the words.

"Father--don't--risk--trying--to get me--out--before you hear--my confession."

"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly."

"The only--chance--I want--is my--confession. Quick--Father."

With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened.

The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution.

"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out."

The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and unexpected contentment.

Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked freight, lying beside the tracks--both dead. Then they went to the lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each rec.u.mbent form. At some he just glanced, and pa.s.sed on, for they were dead. For others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul.

Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders.

Quickly pa.s.sing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for the same face. It was not there. Yet _she_ had been in the wrecked coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight track, as Mark turned to a brakeman.

"Are there any others?"

"Yes; two--across the track."

Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville were lying there--both dead.

The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see through his tears--but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her now in but one setting--a great empty church at the end of springtime, crowds pa.s.sing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew.

He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears.

Saunders aroused him.

"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet.

He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it."

Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from the wrecked car, just as the priest came up.

"Are there others?" the priest asked.

Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent.

"No, Father, no others."

"But these--" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies.

"They are--already dead, Father."

"G.o.d rest them. I can do no more."