"It's not that, quite. I mean that people seem to think in a bigger way.

I suppose it comes from having so much s.p.a.ce around one."

The train was now pa.s.sing through the endless miles of forest-land and tangled hills on the route to Fort William, with scarcely a sign of human habitation except by the occasional wayside stations. Now and again the train would thunder over a high trestle bridge above a leaping torrent-river. Dean waved his hand vaguely to include the primeval vastnesses around them.

"That's right," answered the minister. "There's no cramping here. Room for everyone. Room for spiritual growth as well as material growth. I know the feeling you have. When I was a young man about your age I came to Canada from the slums of Liverpool. I had been twice in jail in Liverpool. It was for theft. In England I should probably have developed into a chronic thief. There's little chance for a man who has once been in prison.... But Canada gave me my chance. Canada didn't bother about my past. Canada only wanted to know what I could do in the future."

Dean's eyes widened at this frank avowal. He had never seen or heard of a man--and especially a man in the ministry--who would openly confess to a prison-brand upon him.

"No wonder you like Canada," was his lame answer.

"Tell me, my friend, why you left my chapel so hurriedly last night."

Dean flushed. "I was feeling a bit faint," he returned.

"That's conscience."

"Oh, I don't know. The chapel was very packed and hot."

"It was conscience. Why won't you be frank with me?"

"There's nothing to be frank about."

The minister looked steadily at him, and Dean flushed still further and fidgetted uncomfortably.

"I must be getting back to my carriage," he murmured.

"The Lord has brought you to me a second time. There may never be a third time. The Lord has----"

A sudden jerk of the car threw them both off their feet. They were pa.s.sing now over a high trestle bridge above a foaming torrent. There was a horrible grinding and jarring and crashing. The tail-car of the train flicked out sideways and hung half over the river, dragging with it the cars in front. For an age-long second it seemed as if the whole train would be precipitated into the water.

Then the couplings parted.

The end car, turning over and over, struck the river a hundred feet below and impaled itself on a jagged spur of rock hidden under the swirl of waters.

Dean had been battered to insensibility before the car reached the rocks.

He awoke to consciousness through the agonized dream that fiends were staking him down under water and torturing him by letting the water rise higher and higher, until finally he would be drowned by inches.

He awoke, struggling frantically, to the reality which had dictated the dream.

Waters were swirling around him, and his legs were pinned fast in the wreckage of the car tilted up on end amongst the sunken rocks. Burning pains shot through him. Far up above on the bridge men were shouting and rushing wildly.

He screamed out for help. A wave dashed at him and choked the scream on his lips. He struggled to free himself from the wreckage that pinned him fast, and blinding pain drove him to unconsciousness again.

As he awoke for the second time, a groan near by made him twist his head to see who it might come from. It was the minister, held fast amongst the splintered wreckage of the car, his face streaming red from a jagged gash in his grey head.

"I can't get to you! I'm helpless!" cried Dean.

The minister answered very simply: "My friend, see to yourself. The Lord has called me to his side."

With a sudden jerk the car settled deeper in the torrent. Only by straining to the uttermost could Dean keep his mouth to the air above the swirl of waters.

"Help!" he screamed to the bridge above. "I'll be drowned! Help!"

The minister began to pray aloud: "Lord, Thou hast been pleased to call me, and I come. Receive my soul in pity, and forgive me my many sins.

And, oh Lord G.o.d, grant that this my young friend may live to see the light and to worship Thee. Let this be his hour of repentance. Start him upon a new path, and keep his feet from straying. In thy mercy save him that he might live to Thy glory. Show him what Thou hast shown me, and----"

The minister's hand dropped suddenly forward, and the waters closed over him with a snarl.

From the bridge far above a man was being lowered on a rope, like a spider hanging from a thread.

Dean watched him with paralyzed tongue. The strain to keep his head above the waters was racking him like a torment of the Inquisition. The horror of the situation grew with every second. Why did they lower so slowly? Would release ever come in time to save him?

His hour of repentance! Yes, the preacher was right. This was his punishment for the part he had taken in the fraudulent personation of Clifford Matheson. It came to Dean like a blinding flash of light that G.o.d was demanding of him whether he would repent or no--whether he would vow to run straight for the future.

The man on the rope was growing larger. His face held the solemnity of an Eternal Judge. In his two hands were scrolls marked Riches and Poverty. He held them out towards Dean, demanding his instant choice.

The young man begged for a moment to consider. He shut his eyes against the decision thrust upon him. A voice thundered in his ears....

CHAPTER XXIII

LARSSEN'S MAN ONCE AGAIN

Of the eleven pa.s.sengers in the car that plunged over the bridge, Arthur Dean was the only one saved. Nine had been drowned in the interior of the car when it crashed amongst the rocks of the torrent. Only Dean and the minister, standing in the observation platform at the rear of the car, had had a chance of life, and the minister had died before help had reached him. The shock affected Dean more seriously than his injuries, which were nothing worse than severe bruises and cuts. He knew that he had had a miraculous escape, and the horror of the peril wove in and out of his thoughts as he lay in hospital at Fort William, haunting dreams and waking thoughts alike.

When he left the hospital he was a changed man--white and gaunt of face, and resolved in purpose to tell Lars Larssen at once that he would serve him no longer.

He made for New York, and went straight to the shipowner's offices.

These were situated at the very beginning of Broadway, overlooking Battery Park, on the tip of the tongue of Manhattan Island. Inside, they were very much on the same lines of the London offices--in fact, the latter were modelled on them. Above the dome of the building stretched the antennae of Larssen's wireless.

To his intense disappointment, Dean was informed that the chief was away from New York, by the bedside of his little son at his school in Florida.

The young fellow had worked himself up to the point of handing in his resignation; he had fixed on just what he would say to his employer; and this check threw him back on his haunches. To travel down to Florida would cost money, and he did not feel justified in paying for the journey out of the expenses allowance given him by Larssen. To explain by letter was too difficult. After some thought he decided to take a return ticket by day coach, and to pay for it out of his own pocket.

Golden Beach, where the school was situated, was a fashionable winter resort on the Florida coast. In one of its several palatial hotels, Larssen had engaged a suite of rooms and had made himself a temporary office. Dean carried his modest portmanteau to the hotel, and waited in the piazza until Larssen should return from a visit to his boy.

It was late in the afternoon when the shipowner came striding along the white, palm-shaded road, purpose and masterfulness in every movement.

When he caught sight of Dean waiting on the piazza, he came up with a hand outstretched in cordial greeting.

"Well, Dean, how are you feeling now? The accident must have given you a terrific shake-up."

"Much better, thank you, sir."

"Looks to me you could do with a fortnight's complete holiday," said Larssen, surveying critically the gaunt white face of the young man.

"Say so, and it's yours."