She awoke in the darkness with a start, trembling in every limb--to hear a lone hound howling from the stable.

CHAPTER XLII

THE MENDED ROAD

Dr. Ivany, the great Hungarian specialist, adept in the delicate adventurings of brain surgery, ceased his examination and refastened the light bandage upon his patient's head with a look of satisfaction.

"But yes," he said, in his concise French, "it goes well. I release you from my care, Monsieur. One thing, however, you must remember. No excitation. No anger. No prolonged mental labour for some months to come. Otherwise--the tiniest hemorrhage in the affected area--and all my surgery could not undo the damage again."

The spruce young secretary who stood at Craig's side translated.

"All right," said Craig. "Tell him I'm much obliged." He shook hands with the great man without emotion, and when the door had closed upon the latter he got upon his feet. "Have you arranged the rooms at the hotel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get me out of here. The sooner the better."

A half hour later he was in a suite of the hotel. "Now bring me the home papers," he commanded.

"To-day, sir?" ventured the secretary. "Do you think you are strong enough so soon--"

"Do as I tell you," was the curt reply. "I was shot on the ninth of May, last year. I want to begin with the tenth, and I want all of them!"

The secretary went into the adjoining room, to return presently with a file of newspapers, st.i.tched neatly together, their columns marked here and there in blue-pencil. He laid the great tome down on the table.

"That's all now," said Craig. "I'll call when I want you again. I'll dine here."

Alone, he drew a long breath. Then he set his teeth and a peculiar expression came to his face. A year, and more, had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from his life--this had been told him when it had been evident that the operation had restored his faculties unimpaired, and as soon as he had recovered sufficient strength. Beyond this, however, he had been told nothing: on this score the surgical authority had been adamant. So, for weeks, denied even the presence of his secretary, he had been constrained, albeit impatiently, to subsist on the merest a.s.surances cabled him from day to day that the interests which had been in his charge were adequately cared for, and to compel his stubborn resolution to patience. Now the embargo had been lifted; he was once more his own master. And before him, in black and white, lay the record of that vanished time, which to him was but a meaningless void thronged with vague and inchoate images, the story of the ignominy and downfall of the man who had tricked him and robbed him of the woman he desired!

The blood rose in his temples. His lips drew up from his clenched teeth and his fingers twitched as he reached for the newspapers.

There it was, the episode that excluded all else from his thought, the sensational headlines running half across the front page--the story, pieced together by the a.s.siduous reportorial pencil, of the burglars and the shooting, the unknown feminine visitor who had disappeared in the confusion leaving no clue behind her, the arrest of the single desperado, closing with the latter's confrontation with Craig himself.

An exclamation of satisfaction fell from his lips. He had said to Echo that there lived no man who could say that he had lied--a boast that had had a shameful aftermath. Yet he felt now no shade of remorse for the black perjury that had fastened the attempted murder upon Harry Sevier. Rather he felt disappointed that consciousness had failed him a moment too soon, so that his own lips had not placarded the other to his face. That joy had been denied him.

He turned the leaves, searching avidly for the headlines which should have flung broadcast the startling identification. The events of the great world, the larger happenings that had plunged two Balkan States into war and overturned a British Ministry, the loss of a great ocean liner--even a senatorial inquiry into the methods of the Distillery Trust--held no interest for him at this moment. His brain had linked onto the past where it had dropped it, and the empty gulf had laid no cooling fingers on his burning craving for revenge.

But the thing he sought was not there. "_Prisoner Refuses to Make Any Statement_"--"_Criminal Unknown to Police_"--"_Sticks Stubbornly to Policy of Silence_"--as he read, a dull flush overspread his face.

Fools! Was it possible that he--Harry Sevier--known to a thousand folk of a city a couple of hundreds of miles away, could hoodwink the police by the silly subterfuge of a newly-shaven chin? The papers shook in his vengeful clutch as he turned and turned, conning the progress of the trial. It ended with the conviction and the sentence; thereafter the headlines told of things of fresher public interest.

For a long time Craig sat perfectly still, staring into the grate whose fire-light danced in yellow shadows on the wall, with the page open on his knees. He had won the first trick, and Harry Sevier had played his lone trump of silence. But what of that? He was a jail-bird, chained to a cell for twenty years. His absence from home would long ago have raised a question, which in the end must become insistent. He, Cameron Craig, could answer that question! His lips curved in a cruel smile.

And Echo? She had profited by the situation--Harry had borne the brunt.

Her lover! A sinistrous rage caught him as he repeated the word to himself. No softer thought of her now lurked in the bitter chambers of his mind. She had mocked and fooled him and he hated her with the still, cold hatred which the strong and evil man feels for the weaker thing that defies him. Yet so far as she was concerned he was helpless. He could not deny his declaration that he had not known the woman in the library. Life was long and he knew the penalty that in the south awaited the man who wantonly attacked the character of a woman. All facts aside, his sober judgment told him that the act would bar against him every social door that now stood open.

But Harry Sevier was another thing. Harry Sevier, thief and house-breaker? Harry Sevier, a midnight a.s.sa.s.sin? Harry Sevier, the nameless convict in the State's Penitentiary? What a story! Fate held its compensations, after all. Now he would be able to figure, first hand, in the sensation that he should send sweeping over the south like a lurid flame!

He rose and set the newspapers on the table, parting the leaves further along, now that his main craving had been satisfied catching glimpses of other things: movements in the business world, and the new political alignment, the danger of which, to the interests with which he was identified, he had long ago discerned. So the Civic Club following had become a full-fledged party now--was reaching out toward a state-wide organisation!

Suddenly his gaze fixed itself and he bent over the page staring unbelievingly. A hoa.r.s.e e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n broke from him. What he saw was the line, in inch-high letters--

HENRY SEVIER FOR GOVERNOR!

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the file again and held it to the light. There was no mistake! Three months ago, while he had lain inert in the hospital above the river, the man he imagined the occupant of a prison-cell had been nominated for the highest office in the Commonwealth, the standard-bearer of the New Ideal!

For an instant a keen trepidation darted through him. His hand went up and touched the bandage. Could it be that he was--not himself? Was what he had imagined only the figment of a brain astray? With a fierce effort at self-control he sat down and beginning at the date at which he had left off his reading, began to scan the columns carefully and methodically, missing nothing.

For two hours he did this, and at length he came upon a paragraph at which his lowering face lightened with exultation. It chronicled in a dozen words the escape from the Penitentiary of the convict who was under imprisonment for the burglary of the Craig mansion and the shooting of its owner. The circle of evidence closed up. He was certain, now.

Craig laughed out loud, a grating laugh of sardonic amus.e.m.e.nt. Again the cards had fallen Harry Sevier's way. By some lucky chance he had freed himself, and with the effrontery of supposed security had resumed his old place and character, no one the wiser. Now he was actually running for Governor! Well, the higher the pinnacle the more spectacular the fall! The game was his, Craig's, for he held the highest trump!

He rang for his secretary.

"Bring me the steamer-lists," he said, "and have the servants pack my things. We are going to leave on the Nord-Express at midnight."

CHAPTER XLIII

THE PITFALL

"So you think it incredible, then!"

Lawrence Treadwell's glance at Craig was veiled as he replied, dryly:

"I am considering the evidence as you present it, that's all. This, it seems to me, is what it amounts to: Mr. Henry Sevier, a reputable citizen and a well known resident of this place, a year ago leaves for a vacation."

"In disguise," interrupted Craig.

Treadwell shook his head. "There is no evidence of that--it is mere allegation. He was seen here late one afternoon, as usual. There could be no mistake, for he's a characteristic enough individual. He had arranged for the closing of his office, had told his clerk, in fact, that he was going abroad. The same night, at midnight in your own house--two hundred miles away and in another state--a man is arrested, one of a gang of burglars. There were all the usual earmarks--open safe, black mask, an attempt at escape, with the shooting of yourself thrown in."

"I identified him an hour later, as soon as I regained consciousness."

"As the man who had shot you--yes. Your identification went no further at that time. And since then you have been able to give no evidence."

"Until now," said Craig grimly.

"The burglar," pursued Treadwell, "is tried. He is unknown to the local police. He refuses to tell his name. Naturally! He has served time before and has no hankering for a life-sentence under the 'habitual-criminal' act. He is sentenced to twenty years. After a period of incarceration, he escapes, as jail-birds will, and is not apprehended. Some months afterward, Mr. Henry Sevier returns from his vacation and resumes his popular career. He is just now in the public eye--very much so, indeed. Do you seriously believe a claim that the two men are identical will hold water?"

Craig had been staring at him from under his s.h.a.ggy brows. Anger was seething in his brain at the suspicion he felt was lurking behind the other's matter-of-fact logic. "Then you believe I am the victim of hallucination?" he asked, with forced calmness.

"Frankly," said Treadwell, "I think for you to allege such a thing openly would, at the very least, make you seem ridiculous. Man, don't you see? You've had a shock--a brain injury. You've been through a long period of mental illness, culminating in a major operation! Don't you realise--"

Craig struck his fist upon the table and his teeth snapped together.

"Look here, Treadwell," he flamed, "I'm as sane as you are, and you know it!"