"I tell you it's all a matter of how much you pay them-and how much they imagine they're threatened. I could take not only a notary, but a couple of pretty tough lads I knew on the docks. If I were to go," he added.

"You'll go. Because I'm willing to pay the Phelans five thousand dollars-and whatever it takes above that to relocate them in another city. Someplace quite distant-out of Stovall's reach. New Orleans, St. Louis-"

Dourly, he said, "For five thousand, I imagine the Phelans would climb in your bed and put on a performance that would stop your heart with shock-and if you were still alive afterward, they'd hand you their souls in a white hanky."

"Go see them. Get me the statement. Prepare two identical copies."

"What are you going to do with the copies?"

"For the moment, nothing."

"But if you were to use them, how-?"

"Why, I expect one copy would go to Mr. Stovall-with a suggestion that the other might soon be delivered to his prospective bride. I just heard about her this evening. A very proper young woman, I'm told. He's in desperate need of her father's money."

He stared at her, disbelieving.

"I find your reactions damned annoying, Michael!"

"Be as annoyed as you please! I can't reconcile that"-he pointed to the display case holding the medal-"with what you're proposing. You told me once the Kents always took the high road-"

"There are times," she said angrily, "when the high road won't get you where you must go. I want Kent's! The statements are only insurance. I really think we'll be successful with the stock, so let's not quarrel-" She fanned herself. "My God, I can't stand this heat a moment longer. Is there anything else we need to discuss?"

"Well-"

"Speak up before I suffocate."

"It-it concerns Louis. I think I know why he's behaving oddly. I tried to suggest as much a while ago, but you were all caught up in Mrs. Ludwig's gossip."

"Go on."

"Professor Pemberton wishes an appointment. He sent round a note. Your son isn't performing satisfactorily in school."

"You mean he's failing?"

"It's not that he lacks interest or aptitude-he simply doesn't wish to do the work. So he doesn't. He's also indulged in a bit of scrapping-"

"A bit or a lot?"

"Well-the latter. You can read the professor's note. He says that when Louis doesn't get his way in some trivial dispute with his classmates, he swings a punch. Rather a mean one, too, I gather. You can be thankful you're not raising a coward, anyway-"

He tried to smile. The effort failed. The dispute about the Phelans had soured his mood.

She wondered sadly whether her own pattern of living was responsible for the way Louis was developing. The change in him dated from the time she'd tried to explain why she'd shot the man in the mining camp. Ever since, she'd had the uncanny feeling that her son was imitating her behavior, doing exactly as he pleased-just as she appeared to do. He didn't realize that every action she took had one motive: to see Kent and Son restored to its rightful owners. She'd have to try again to make him understand she was working toward a goal-a goal that mattered almost as much as life itself- She glanced up, aware of Michael studying her. He said nothing. But she felt accused. In concocting the scheme with the Phelan twins, wasn't she acting just as irresponsibly as her son? Taking what she wanted, regardless of the means-and regardless of who might be injured?

No! There is a difference! she thought.

But she was uneasy with the conclusion.

She didn't want Michael to see that. She spoke briskly. "Does Louis know about Pemberton's note?"

"No. When the boy dropped in here a while ago, I asked him one or two questions about school, that's all."

"How did he answer?"

"He said he was bored."

"Let me have the note."

He rummaged on the desk. "Oh-here's one more that arrived with the late mail. A solicitation of funds from Mr. Thurlow Weed in Albany. He's the newspaper publisher, isn't he?"

"And the power behind the Whig Party in the state-he and Seward. Should I read that?"

"It depends on whether you want to contribute funds to support the party's convention in Baltimore in June."

"I suppose I'm closer to a Whig than to anything else," she said. "I can't quite bring myself to be as rabid against slavery as the Free-Soilers. But I'll be damned if I'll give a penny to a party when I can't vote for it. Put that in a letter to Mr. Weed. Tell him the moment the Whigs support votes for women, he'll have my contribution."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do!" She looked rueful. "I also know it's impractical as the devil."

"You are a somewhat contradictory creature, Mrs. A."

"Did you ever know a person who wasn't?"

He inclined his head again, almost smiling as he agreed. Then: "Shall I or shall I not write Mr. Weed?"

"Yes, write him a polite note," she sighed. "Enclose a draft for a hundred dollars."

"Very well."

"And don't forget your trip to the Five Points."

"That would be impossible," he said. "May I plead with you once more not to-?"

"No."

"You can be a hard woman, Mrs. A."

"When it's necessary."

"You've never been hard with me before. Demanding, but not hard." He rubbed his knuckles across his upper lip. "You know how much I hated the tenements-and the crookedness on the docks. You know very well I'd sooner die than be forced back to either. You're taking advantage of that. Still, that isn't what bothers me the most. So far, everything you've done to get the firm is legal. Surreptitious, but legal. The Phelans, though-that's something else."

His steady gaze frightened her, blunted her anger. Her mind echoed with Bart's biblical warning, and Jephtha's- For remission of sin, the price was blood.

"That's my worry, not yours."

She started for the door, then swung back.

"Oh, yes-I'd better take Pemberton's letter. I want to read it before I talk to Louis in the morning."

"Here. Mrs. A?"

"Yes, Michael?"

"I really am glad you got home safely. That storm's growing nasty outside-"

With a dispirited smile, she held up the note from the headmaster. "It appears we've one of our own brewing inside, too."

iv

Amanda climbed the stairs slowly. She stopped on the landing to catch her breath beside the stained glass window. The window contained a small portrait of Lord Byron set above a pattern of figures representing the muses.

Under the gas fixture, she read what Pemberton had written. It was every bit as grim as Michael had hinted. Louis was willfully refusing to settle down to his studies- Damned if she'd wait till morning to have it out with him!

Instead of proceeding to her room, she turned the opposite way on the second floor, toward his. She frowned when she tried to open the door.

Locked.

She thought she heard a voice-not her son's-whispering inside. Curious and a little alarmed, she knocked.

"Louis?"

No answer.

"Louis, this is your mother. Why do you have the door bolted? Please open it at once."

Chapter VII.

The Box

i

AN IRRATIONAL DREAD SETTLED over Amanda while she waited for a reply. The wind whined across the roof. A door closed below, Michael leaving the library. In her son's room, she heard furtive footsteps and, if her ears weren't tricking her, that unfamiliar voice.

"Louis, unless you answer me-" she began, only to be interrupted.

"I'm here, Mother." The sound of a yawn-too exaggerated to be genuine. "What do you want?"

"I want you to open the door immediately."

"You woke me up."

He's lying, she thought, the knowledge a sickening shock. She'd never known her son to lie before. The other voice whispered again. This time she identified it as a woman's; the shock was instantly compounded.

Amanda had long ago realized Louis would probably have his first experience with a girl without her knowledge. She'd decided she would have little control over the time and place, and that about all she could do was exert her influence to see he didn't become involved with some diseased tart from the slums. But she hadn't expected the encounter to happen so soon. Nor in her own house- Who was with him?

Of all the females who worked for her, she suspected Kathleen McCreery. Kathleen was young, not unattractive. Who had taken the initiative, the boy or the maid? Kathleen didn't strike her as a scheming sort. But obviously the girl knew she was working in a wealthy household- Her mind a chaos of questions, Amanda finally realized the door was still closed.

"Louis, I'm not going to continue to speak to you this way. Let me in!"

The door opened. But not far.

That Louis had been lying to her was immediately apparent. He was still dressed. But he was barefoot. The tail of his shirt hung over his left hip. Far from sleepy, he was sweating.

"Mother, you woke me out of a sound-"

"The devil I did!" She shoved the door and rushed past him before he could stop her.

Beside the bed, looking utterly terrified, was the McCreery girl. She was clumsily trying to smooth her black skirt. And sure enough, there was the evidence: the rumpled bed with covers tossed back, a damp stain tinged pink at one edge- Louis started to speak. Kathleen was quicker. "Ma'am-please-believe me-he forced me-"

"What do you mean, forced?"

"Just-just that. I was fixing the room for the night. He came in-he said-ohhh-"

"For God's sake, Kathleen, don't start crying! I can hardly make sense of what you're saying as it is-"

Louis stormed between them. "Who cares what she's saying? Every bit of it's a lie! She practically begged me-"

Kathleen's face convulsed with shame and rage. "You filthy boy. You filthy, filthy boy-" To Amanda: "I've never been with a man before-God as my witness! He locked the door-"

"Shut your mouth!" Louis cried, running at her with his hand raised.

Amanda lunged, caught her son's wrist, flung his fist down to his side. He glared at her, tried to strike her- Amanda slapped him across his left cheek, then across his right.