"With dirty, blood-stained clothing, hair disheveled, and face begrimed, froth upon his lips, lay Paul upon the stone floor. Across Paul's breast was Pierre, pale and motionless.

"At first both were thought dead. It was soon discovered that Pierre had only swooned. Water was dashed upon his face. He revived and stared about vacantly. Slowly what had happened dawned upon his mind, but he seemed stupid, saying nothing.

"Pierre intently gazed at Paul's unconscious form, but looked blank when questioned by the officials.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THEN BEHOLDING PIERRE IRONED AND HELPLESS, PAUL BURST OUT IN A HYSTERICAL LAUGH."]

"After some time Paul showed signs of returning consciousness, slowly revived, and seeing his captors, became furious. Then beholding Pierre ironed and helpless, Paul burst out in a hysterical laugh, which was followed by frantic appeals for protection against his father's imagined wrath. Both were taken to prison.

"For various reasons Uncle Thomas then had procured the arrests. As news of that Northfield murder came through his agents, it was his duty to inform the proper officials. For months he and his employes had shadowed both Laniers, witnessing Paul's crazed acts, and it was known that they had done this. These a.s.sistants were in the immediate neighborhood of Northfield when this murder occurred. It would be inquired, why such continued shadowings, yet failure to prevent this crime? The whole matter would be thoroughly probed. This murder could not be concealed without guilty responsibility. Proof of Oswald Langdon's death was not conclusive. It never might be clearer with Paul hung or in a madhouse.

If we had taken proper action to restrain this madman, the murder never would have occurred. Better to take decisive steps and a.s.sist the officers than appear to condone crime. All we had planned and worked for would fare better through prompt procedure. Possibly out of this very tangle might come clearance of the unhappy, troubled past.

"Such motives prompted Uncle Thomas to decisive action in procuring these second arrests of Pierre and Paul Lanier.

"Just how or when my part in this drama is to be revealed neither Uncle Thomas nor I yet have decided. I greatly dread the trial.

"At times I seem standing, dizzy, bewildered, and speechless, upon the brink of a yawning chasm. Then appears a light beyond, beckoning me to try the plunge.

"Occasionally, in day-dreams, a hand, not spectral, but inspiringly real and familiar, seems drawing me toward new earthly life and joy; but such fancies are fleeting. The old dread of social ostracism and of suspicious aversion returns with increased power. I have no consciousness of wrong-doing, yet maidenly ideals have been shocked by my conduct, and the place for Alice Webster is outside the pale of social recognition.

"Afternoon of the day upon which occurred the arrests Uncle Thomas decided again to move. To show no attempt at privacy, we returned to the hotel. Both of us were surprised to see your family in the dining-room.

"Uncle Thomas could act unconcerned under any circ.u.mstances, but I felt so helplessly embarra.s.sed. As you and Esther looked so intently I was sure you saw through that simple disguise. A sense of shame at such conduct made me faint and heartsick. To escape this I quit the table, going to my room. Soon after, through the open connecting door, I saw you and Uncle Thomas enter, and then knew a crisis had come.

"Uncle Thomas related what you had said, and I was greatly puzzled. Your reasons for not promising to keep his proposed confidences then and ever since seemed unaccountable. He advised that we return to the inn, there to await clearing of increasing difficulties.

"What since occurred you well know. I hope to be forgiven for all my strange, unmaidenly conduct. The very worst has been told, except that words can never tell the painful experiences and sorrowful memories of the unhappy past."

Pausing, Alice gave a look of questioning appeal into the expressive, sympathetic face of Sir Donald Randolph. He seemed struggling with some unwonted emotional impediment to proper speech. Rising, he extended his hand, took that of this interesting young woman, and bowing low, in a husky voice said:

"Make no apologies, Alice! You are all right."

Alice felt much relieved, but the strain had been great. For a while she leaned back in wearied collapse.

Sir Donald suggested that she await her uncle, while he saw his family.

After the evening meal, he would esteem it a favor to have all meet at Esther's room.

This invitation was accepted.

Sir Donald notified Thomas Webster that Alice awaited him, adding:

"What a grand girl!"

CHAPTER XXIV

OSWALD IN NEW YORK

Oswald awakes early upon his first morning in New York. The significance of present surroundings dawns upon his mind. He is in the metropolis of that country about which so much had been written, told, and dreamed.

What vistas of destiny since that protest and affirmation received the sword's decisive arbitrament! With what sense of opportune occasion these two kindred nations are surely drawing toward that "modus vivendi," tentatively flexible, yet more potential, responsive, and insistent than treaty covenants, "triple alliances," or proscribed "spheres of influence."

But how capricious fate's fast-loose antics with individual destiny!

Not with complacent retrospect and cleared prospective does this intensely impressionable Englishman stand at the threshold of a new world's view.

That complex web remains intact, the dead lifts unavailing hands, justice is laggard, while the name of Langdon shrinks from pending odium.

Springing up, he soon descends to the hotel office. After breakfast he writes that promised letter. Not knowing anything of Sir Donald Randolph's present address or plans, Oswald writes him at Paris.

Being very curious as to the Lanier affair, and to avoid delay, he addresses copies to Calcutta and to Sir Donald's Northfield station. The letter is brief, announcing his safe arrival at New York, intention to remain until some report comes from Sir Donald, and explaining that similar copies will be mailed to each of places named. He would mail and receive all letters at the general postoffice. No reference is made to the Laniers, as he knows Sir Donald will not need such reminder.

That day Oswald remained at the hotel. The notes of a trained orchestra charmed his musical sense, while sight of superbly clad, richly bejeweled hotel guests was interesting diversion.

Next morning he dined at a restaurant near the corner of Thirty-third Street and Broadway. Taking an elevated Sixth Avenue car, he rides to Park Place, thence walking to the postoffice and mailing his three letters. This important move now made, he is ready for sight-seeing.

Standing by the statue of that young patriot whose life was so freely offered upon Freedom's altar, Oswald marveled at such unselfish infatuation as found voice in words:

"I regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."

Crossing to other side of Broadway, he narrowly escapes collision with an electric car. From the irritated conductor comes:

"Well, chump, you are just off of gra.s.s!"

This cheerful compliment is followed by another, more pointedly suggestive, from a wag who calls out:

"Indade yez a b.l.o.o.d.y jude from owld Loondin, but yez betther moind yer own way, or the polace will copper yez shoor!"

For a few moments the "modus vivendi" is much strained, but Oswald quickly recovers his self-control, and slowly strolls down street, pausing at St. Paul's Chapel.

Having read the chiseled memorial of that American officer who fell in attack upon Quebec, Oswald pa.s.ses on, turning at Trinity Church into Wall Street.

When at the corner of Na.s.sau, he stands for a few moments in front of the Sub-Treasury Building, looking up at the statue of America's first executive.

This heroic figure is fitting impersonation of successful revolt against oppressive exactions.

Oswald's sense of ant.i.thesis pictures in somber background that doomed spy hurried to his fate, and another swinging, strangling shape expiating through hangman's device the proven crime of "high treason."

Such diversions are not conducive to cheerful reverie. His spirits droop lower under the clammy handicap. Memory of those greetings from petulant conductor and guying wag again intrudes.

Oswald is nearly opposite the Custom-House when just before him that newsboy shrieks:

"All about the murder of a young girl! Body found in the river! Police on track of the murderer!"

Tragic memories of those eventful years, augmented by petty, suggestive, yet meaningless recent affronts, shaded by somber-hued reveries, congest about the center of Oswald's sensitive consciousness at the parrot-like yell of a child.