"Did you think, Kate, that he permitted us to leave the carriage?" I asked.

"I didn't think anything about it; I was so frightened I couldn't think."

"I hope he is not badly hurt," I added, musing.

"Badly hurt! Why, what do you mean, Ernest Thornton?" she asked, her terror renewed by my words.

"Don't be alarmed, Kate; he deserved all he got, and more too, if the blow didn't kill him."

"Why, Ernest Thornton!"

"Do you see this?" I added, holding up the wrench, which, from an instinct of self-preservation, I had kept in my hand.

"What is it?"

"An iron wrench. I struck Tom Thornton over the head with it, and he fell from the drivers box on the backs of the horses."

"O!" groaned she.

"It could not be helped, Kate."

"I hope he is not much hurt."

"I hope not; but I can't help it if he is," I replied, desperately, for I had many fears in regard to the result, and was not half so confident of the future as I tried to appear. "There is a car, Kate," I added, throwing the wrench away. "Now be calm, and try to look as though nothing had happened."

She covered her face with a thick veil, and we entered the horse car.

Riding in silence for a long hour, we reached the Park, where, taking a stage, we proceeded to the hotel. It was nearly eleven o'clock when we went into the parlor, where Kate sank exhausted upon a sofa. I found that Mrs. Macombe had retired, but I called her up. The poor girl's nerves were fearfully unstrung, but the good woman ministered to her like an angel. She slept with her, and was all that a loving mother could be to her.

For my own part, I ate a hearty supper, and went to bed. It was not without the fear that the police would visit me before morning, that I lay on my couch thinking of the startling events of the evening. Yet, as I repeated my prayer that night, I felt that I had done no more than my duty--my duty to Kate, my mother, and myself. I would have given half the money in my belt to know whether Tom Thornton was dead or alive. I had not injured him from malice or for revenge, only in self-defence; and I felt that a just G.o.d would burden him, rather than me, with the consequences of the blow I had struck. I went to sleep at last, with the prayer in my heart, that Tom Thornton would recover from the injury he had received.

Kate was quite ill in the morning; but Mrs. Macombe cared for her tenderly, and a.s.sured me nothing serious would result from the terror and excitement to which she had been subjected. After breakfast I hastened to the store of McKim & Loraine. Kate's uncle had returned the preceding evening, and I waited till he came down town. In as few words as possible, I told him what Kate's situation had been at the house of her step-mother, what abuse she had suffered, and in what manner she had escaped. He was indignant, and insisted that she should immediately make his house her home.

Then I showed him the note signed with his name, which the hackman had brought for Kate. It was a forgery, and Mr. Loraine could hardly control his anger. I related to him our adventure at Harlem, and described the scene on the top of the hack.

"Served him right!" exclaimed he.

"I may have killed him," I added.

"I hope you did," replied he, bluntly. "I will go and see Kate at once."

On our arrival at the hotel, we found the hackman there who had driven us out to Harlem.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH ERNEST VISITS MADISON PLACE.

"I'M waiting for you," said the hack-driver, as I entered the office of the hotel with Mr. Loraine.

"What do you want of me?" I demanded, supposing the villain was charged with the execution of some further design upon me.

"I want my money," he growled.

"What money?"

"For driving you out to Harlem."

"Do you expect me to pay that?"

"As the gintleman didn't pay me, I expect you to do so," he replied, with refreshing coolness.

"Where is the gentleman now?" I asked; and, wishing to obtain some information in regard to Tom, if I could, I did not decline to pay his demand.

"I don't know where he is."

"What became of him?"

"With the help of some people I found in the bar-room, I took him into the public house. Bedad, it was a hard crack you guv him," added the hackman, in a low tone. "If you pay me the tin dollars, I won't say anything agin you."

"You carried him into the public house," I repeated. "What then?"

"Wait till I tell you. Begorra, I thought he was kilt, sure," he replied, in confidential whispers. "A bad sc.r.a.pe it was, and I didn't want to be in it; so I jumped on my box and druv off telling 'em I was goin' for a docther."

"Don't you know what became of him?"

"Faix, I do. Two hours afther, I sent a frind of mine, one Michael Mallahy, that lives convanient to the public house, to go and drink a gla.s.s of beer at the bar-room, and inquire for the man that was hurted.

Now pay me my tin dollars, and I won't say a word."

"Did your friend find out about the man that was hurt?" I inquired, putting my hand into my pocket.

"Faix, he did. The gintleman wasn't kilt at all. He came out of it with only a sore head, and left the public house all alone by himself."

"Haven't you heard of him since?"

"Not one word; and I don't know where in the world is he."

"And he didn't pay you?" I added, withdrawing my hand empty from my pocket.

"He did not thin."

"He served you just right, then," I continued.

"Aren't you going to pay me my tin dollars?" said he, looking uglier than usual.

"I am not--not I."