"Mum's the word," he whispered. "That's not my name down here."

"Yes, I know," I smiled. "I've seen it in the papers."

"Oh! You saw that? And guessed?" he grinned. Then gave some word to the Scoutmaster and led me to his office--a small room beside the entrance at the front of the building--and closed the door. In this better light I had the opportunity to examine him at my leisure while he talked. He was a little thinner in face and body, but not spare or lean. There were no shadows in his eyes, which were finely lighted by his new enthusiasm. The new fire had burned out the old. He was splendid with happiness.

"Oh! You've no idea of the fun I'm getting out of the thing, Roger.

It's simply great! These boys are fine to work with. They only need a chance. I've got several hundred of 'em lined up already, all nationalities ready for the melting-pot--Jews, Italians, Irish, all religions. I've got the families lined up, too, been to see 'em all personally. Rough lot, some of 'em--and dirty! Why, Roger, I never knew there was so much filth in all the world. I'm starting to clean up the boys, inside and out, getting them jobs and keeping the idle ones off the streets. Oh! It's going to take time, but we're going to get there in the end. You've seen the new building? Isn't it a corker?

I haven't been idle, have I?"

"But how on earth," I asked, "have you managed to preserve your anonymity?"

"Oh, I keep pretty dark. I don't go uptown at all. I made a visit one night to Ballard Senior and made a clean breast of things and at last he gave in. You see he had given me up as an office possibility. In three years, you know, I'll come in--to all the money. In the meanwhile we've fixed things up to provide for our immediate needs down here."

"_Ours?_" I queried with a smile. He colored ever so slightly but went on unperturbed.

"Yes, you know Una's helping me. I couldn't have done a thing without Una. Her experience in dealing with these people has been simply invaluable. I thought--" he stopped to laugh--"I thought that all I had to do was just to spend the money and everything would work out all right. I made a lot of mistakes with these families at first, did a lot of harm in a way, offending the proud ones, spoiling the weak ones and all that, but I've learned a lot since I've been down here.

We've devised a plan--a scientific one. It's really beautiful how it works. We're going to make these boys all self-supporting and give 'em an education at the same time: manual training, industrial art and science and all the rest of it. Here! you must go over the building with me. I've got just half an hour."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his cap and we went around the corner, going over the building from cellar to roof, Jerry explaining breathlessly and I listening, wondering whether to be most astonished at the extraordinary change in his mode of thought or at the initiative which could have planned and executed so great a project. He spoke of Una constantly, "Una wanted this," or "Una suggested that," or "We had an awful row over the location of this thing, but Una was right." And then as an afterthought, "But then, she almost always is."

He wanted to give her all the credit, you see, and I think she must have deserved a great deal, but I saw in the newborn Jerry enough to convince me of his strength, intelligence and force. All his personality--and I had long known that he had one--had been poured into this fine practical work which at every turn bore the impress of a man's force, plus a woman's intelligence.

To the G.o.d from the machine (for as such, in spite of many unG.o.dlike illusions, I still continued to regard myself) it seemed to me that all was going beautifully toward the consummation of my heart's fondest desire. And it was not until the following evening, when Jerry at last managed to find a chance to have a long talk with me, that I learned the truth.

It was a hot night in June. We had climbed to the roof of the new building for a breath of air, forsaking Jerry's small bedroom in the temporary quarters of the club where we had both been perspiring profusely. We sat upon the parapet smoking and talking of Jerry's plans and, since Una and the plans seemed to be a part of each other, of Una.

"I see her constantly, Roger," he said joyously. "We have regular meetings three times a week, sometimes at the Mission--and sometimes at the club, and when there isn't enough daytime--up in Washington Square. She has a wonderful mind for detail--carries everything in her head--figures, everything."

"And you're happy?" I asked.

"Need you ask?" he laughed. "I've never known what life was before.

It's great just to live and see things, good, useful things grow under your very eyes, so personal when you've planned 'em yourself."

"And Una?"

"Oh, she's happy too. But then she's always happy, always was. It's her nature. I sometimes think she works a little too hard for her strength, but she never complains." He paused and looked down the side street to where the East River gleamed palely in the dusk night. "You know, Roger, I sometimes wish that she _would_ complain. She just goes along, quietly planning--doing, without any fuss, accomplishing things where I fume and fret and get angry. She puts me to shame. She's a wonder--an angel, Roger." He smiled. "And yet she's human enough, always poking fun at a fellow, you know. I'm no match for her; I never was or will be." He grew quiet and neither of us spoke for a long while. We felt the life of the City stirring under us, but overhead were the stars, the same stars that hung above the peace of Horsham Manor, where in the old days we had dreamed our dreams.

"You care for her?" I ventured softly at last.

He did not speak at once. His gaze was afar.

"Care for her?" he murmured after awhile, "G.o.d help me! I love her with all the best of me, Roger. I always have loved her. It's so strange to me now that I never knew it before--so strange and pitiful--now when it is too late."

"Too late, boy?" I said with a smile. "Life for you, for you both, is just beginning."

"No, Roger; I would give everything in the world to be able to go to her and ask her to marry me. But I can't--" his voice sank and broke, "after _that_. I'm a beast--unclean."

He rose and took a pace away from me. "We mustn't speak of that--again. It makes me think of what I owe to--the other."

"You owe her nothing. She has refused you. She doesn't care. Her whole life avows it. She has forgotten. Why shouldn't you?"

"I can't forget. And I can't look in Una's eyes, Roger. They're so clear, so trusting; she believes in me--utterly. It's a mockery, to have her near me so much and not be able to tell her--"

"Tell her!" I broke in as he paused, "Waste no time. Tell her that you love her. Don't be a fool. She loves you. She always has. I know it."

He turned quickly, caught me by the shoulders and peered closely into my face. "You think so, Roger? Do you?" he said.

"I'm sure of it; from the very first."

Slowly his hands relaxed and he turned away. "No--I--can't. I would have to tell her all. I owe her that. She would despise me."

"You might at least give her that opportunity," I suggested dryly.

"No," he said softly. "I wouldn't dare. It would make a terrible difference between us. I couldn't."

And then his hand grasping my arm as he pushed me toward the stairway, "Never speak of this again, Roger--do you hear? Never." I nodded and said no more, for he had set me to thinking deeply, and I walked all the way uptown to my hotel turning the matter over in my mind, arriving, before sleep came, at a decision.

In the morning at half-past seven I dared to call Una upon the telephone. I knew her habits and she answered at once, agreeing to give me an hour before she went down town. When I reached the Habberton house she was ready for the street, and when I told her that I had something of importance to talk about, led the way over into the square where we found a deserted bench in a shady spot. It was a joyous morning of flickering sunlight and a pleasant commotion of hurrying people and moving traffic was all about us, in the midst of which we seemed unusually isolated. As I have related, there was a warm friendship between us. The girl knew that her mission at the Manor during Jerry's darkest hour had been an open book to me, but the fact that I knew that she had failed in it had made for no loss of pride. She knew too, I am sure, that I was aware of the real nature of her feelings for Jerry, but my own interest in and affection for them both had given me privileges in her friendship possessed not even by Jerry himself.

I wasted no words, though I chose to be careful in my use of them.

With some deliberation, born of the difficulties of this second emba.s.sy, I told her all that I knew of Jerry's affair with Marcia Van Wyck, beginning with the parts of it which she knew, and leading by slow degrees to the moment when Jerry had abandoned his guests at the Manor and gone on his madman's quest of vengeance through the woods. I recalled to her the state of his mind, the indubitable evidences of his innocence, and then told of Jerry's meeting with Marcia and Lloyd by the spring in the pine wood. She sat, leaning slightly forward, her gaze on the sunlit arch, her finely-drawn profile clearly outlined against the shadows of the bushes, saying nothing, listening as though to a twice-told tale. I could not tell all, but something in her calmness advised me that she had already guessed. There was knowledge in her eyes, not the hard knowledge one sees in the eyes of the women of the streets, but knowledge tempered with pity; wisdom tempered with charity for all sin, even for Jerry's. She did not speak for a long while and by this token I think she wished me to take her understanding for granted.

"Mr. Canby," she said at last softly. "I know something of the world, more, I think, in a way than you do, and the more I learn, the less I am inclined to judge. But of all the women in the world with whom I come in contact, the most dangerous, the most difficult to help, is the hypocrite. When a woman is weak one can pity. When she is defiant one can even admire, but the hypocrite is beyond the pale. She will fawn while her heart is untouched, she will a.s.sent while her mind is eluding you. And the worst hypocrite is the one who wears the mask of decency over a filthy mind. She is diseased, a moral leper--at large to contaminate. Jerry was helpless from the first. Oh, the pity of it!"

"It was my fault; mine is the blame," I muttered hoa.r.s.ely.

"No," she said, gently putting her hand over mine. "I would not have you relinquish your idyl even now. Jerry is translated, but he is not changed. It is curious--you will think it strange--but I cannot find it in my heart to judge him. He has suffered much. Perhaps, G.o.d knows, a man cannot grow to his full stature except through knowledge of evil! Jerry has grown. He is a man--a man!"

Her eyes sparkled softly and my spirits rose.

"You care for him, Una? You can forgive him?"

"I--I care for him," she murmured. "You know I have, always."

"Can you forgive him?" I repeated. She remained silent and her gaze which sought the distant buildings was troubled. But I had gone too far to pause now.

"He worships you, Una," I blurted out. "He has told me. But he cannot speak. He is unclean, he says. Have pity on him, Una. Forgive him, forgive him--"

She turned toward me, her slate-blue eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with moisture. And then with one of those sudden transitions that were her greatest mystery and charm, she rose and with a quick touch of her fingers to mine, left me swiftly and in a moment was gone.

I stood a moment bewildered. Then I fingered in my pocket for Miss Gore's new address. That remarkable woman would discern what Una's conduct meant. Queer creatures, women! But interesting, strangely interesting....