At last the girl understood and with a shudder, rose to her feet.

"Madam, I thank you for your kindness; for you _have_ been kind; but I cannot stop here." She started toward the door, but the woman stopped her.

"My dear child; you cannot go out at this time of night again, and you could never find your way back to your lodging place. Stay here. You need not leave this room, and you may bolt the door on this side.

Tomorrow you may go if you will."

Amy could do nothing but stay. As she laid her tired head on the clean pillow that night, and nestling in the warm blankets watched the firelight as the flames leaped and played, she heard the sound of music and merry voices, and thought of the cold, poorly-furnished bed-room, with coa.r.s.e sheets and soiled pillows, at her lodging place, and of the weary tramp about the streets, and the unkind faces that refused her a chance for life. What would the end be when her money was gone, she wondered; and after all, why not this?

The next morning, when she awoke, she could not for a moment, remember where she was; then it all came back, just as a knock sounded on the door.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Your coffee, miss," came the answer, and she unlocked the door, admitting an old negro woman with a neat tray, on which was set a dainty breakfast.

Later, when she was dressed, Madam came. "And do you still feel that you must go?" she asked.

"Yes, yes, I must. Don't tempt me."

The woman handed her a card with her name and address. "Well, go, my dear; and when you are driven to the street, because you have no money and are cold and hungry, come to me if you will, and earn food and clothing, warmth and ease, by the only means open to you." Then she went with her to the street and saw that she took the right car.

As Amy said good-bye, the tears filled her eyes again, and oh, how lonely and desolate the poor girl felt, as she shivered in the sharp air, and how hopelessly she again took up her fight against the awful odds.

But the end came at last as Madam had said it would. Without money, Amy was turned from her boarding place. One awful night she spent on the street, and the next day she found her way, half frozen, and weak from hunger, to Madam's place.

CHAPTER XXI

That Frank Goodrich had managed to keep himself free from all appearance of evil since the night he so nearly became a thief, was not because of any real change in his character. He gambled no more. Not from a matter of principle, but because he feared the results, and he accepted Whitley's sarcastic advice about religious services, not because there was any desire in his heart for a right life, but because he felt it was good policy. Like many others, he was as bad as he dared to be; and while using the church as a cloak to hide his real nature, was satisfied if he could keep the appearance of respectability. In short, he was a splendid example of what that old Satanic copy-book proverb, "Honesty is the best policy" will do for a life if it be lived up to in earnest.

He was not a little alarmed over his sister's conduct, because he feared that Whitley, in a spirit of revenge, would demand payment of the notes; which could only mean his open disgrace and ruin. And his feelings reached a climax two weeks after d.i.c.k's return when he received a curt note from Jim saying:

"You will remember that I promised to surrender those notes of yours upon certain conditions. Those conditions now can never be met, and it becomes necessary for us to make other arrangements. You will meet me with a horse and buggy at Freeman Station tomorrow night, ten-thirty.

Wait for me at the crossroads south of the depot. If anyone learns of our meeting it will be all up with you."

Freeman Station was a little cl.u.s.ter of houses near the great hay farms twelve miles from Boyd City, and the drive was not one to be made with pleasure; but there was no help for it, and about dusk Frank set out.

It had been raining steadily for several days and the mud was hub deep, while in many places the road was under water. Once he was obliged to get out, and by the flickering light of his lantern, to pick his way around a dangerous washout. Several times he was on the point of giving up and turning back, but thoughts of Whitley's anger drove him on, and he at last reached the place, several minutes after the train had pa.s.sed on its way across the dark prairie. As he stopped at the corner, Whitley appeared by the side of the buggy, and clambered in without a word. Taking the lines from Frank, he lashed the tired horse with the whip and they plunged forward into the night.

Once or twice Frank tried to open a conversation with his companion, but received such short replies that he gave up and shrank back in the corner of the seat in miserable silence.

After nearly an hour, Whitley brought the horse to a standstill, and jumping out of the buggy, began to unhitch. Against the dark sky, Frank could see the shadowy outlines of a house and barn.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"At my place, nine miles south of town," Whitley answered. "Help me put up the horse, can't you?"

Frank obeyed.

"No, don't take the harness off," said Jim again; "you'll want him before long." And then he led the way to the house.

Taking a key from its hiding place beneath one corner of the step, he unlocked the door and entered; and while Frank stood shivering with the cold and wet, found a lamp and made a light. The room where they stood was well carpeted and furnished, and upon the table were the remains of a meal, together with empty bottles and gla.s.ses, and lying on the chair was a woman's glove.

Frank looked around curiously. He had heard rumors of Whitley's place in the country, but this was his first visit.

"Well," said Jim shortly, "sit down while I build a fire and get something to drink; things are not very gay here to-night, but we'll do the best we can."

When the room was warm and they had removed their wraps and outer clothing, and Jim had partaken freely from a supply of liquor on the sideboard, he stretched himself in an easy chair and spoke more pleasantly. "Well, I suppose you are ready to pay those notes, with the interest."

Frank moved uneasily. "You know I can't," he muttered. "I thought from your letter, that we might make other arrangements. Amy, you know, might come.--"

"Oh, cut that out," interrupted Whitley, with an oath; "your esteemed sister is out of this deal for good." Then, as he lit his cigar, "We might fix things in another way though, if you only had the nerve."

"How?" asked Frank, eagerly.

"That printer of Udell's has some papers in his possession that I want.

Get them for me and I'll turn over your notes and call it square."

Frank looked at his companion in wonder. "What do you mean?" he said at last.

"Just what I say. Can't you hear?"

"But how does that tramp happen to have any papers of value to you?"

"That is, most emphatically, none of your business, my friend.

All you have to do is to get them, or--" he paused significantly.

"But will he give them up?"

Whitley looked at him a few minutes in amused contempt, then said, mockingly, "Oh yes; of course he will be glad to favor us. All you need to do is to put on your best Sunday School manners and say sweetly: 'Mr. Falkner, Mr. Whitley would like those papers that you have in the long leather pocket-book tied with a shoe-string.' He'll hand them over instantly. The only reason I have taken all this trouble to meet you out here to-night is because I am naturally easily embarra.s.sed and don't like to ask him for them myself."

Frank was confused and made no reply, until Whitley asked: "Where does the fellow live now?"

"I don't know, but he's in old man Wicks' office every evening; has a desk there, and works on some fool a.s.sociation work."

Whitley nodded. "Then you will find the papers in Uncle Bobbie's safe."

"But how am I to get them?"

"I don't know; you can't buy them. You can't bluff him. And he won't scare. There's only one other way I know."

"You mean that I must steal them?" gasped Frank.

Whitley looked at him with an evil smile. "That's rather a hard word for a good Christian, isn't it? Let's say, obtain possession of the doc.u.ments without Mr. Falkner's knowledge. It sounds better."

"I'm no thief," snapped Frank.

Jim lifted his eyebrows as he skillfully flipped the ashes from his cigar. "Oh, I see; you did not rob the old gentleman's safe that night.

I saved you from committing murder. You only negotiated a trifling loan with your loving parent. You'll be telling me next that you didn't gamble, but only whiled away a leisure hour or two in a social game of cards. But, joking aside, I honestly believe, Frank Goodrich, that you are more kinds of a fool than any man I have ever had the pleasure to know. The case in a nutsh.e.l.l is this: I must have those papers. I can't go after them myself. You've got to get them for me."