"He hasn't been there. Miss Dundas called at the rectory as well, and after a short visit returned home on foot. Evidently, she is getting information from his relatives. It has occurred to me that she'll possibly write to him, addressing him by some other name. Can you, therefore, arrange to have her letters posted by some--some responsible servant who will take copies of all the addresses?"

"I have no doubt that can be done. The housekeeper at the colonel's is a very good friend of mine. I have tipped her handsomely. The letters are all posted in a letter-box in the hall, and cleared by the same servant every day."

"We have endeavored to approach the servants at the rectory, but--no go.

They are of course stanch and loyal to their young master. That is only natural. Mrs. Swinton has been shadowed, and she has made no attempt to meet her son. Our only danger is that he may get out of the country again. Every port is watched."

"What puzzles me is the visit of Miss Dundas to Herresford," said Ormsby, thinking of his letter of dismissal, with the old miser's monogram on it.

"She evidently went there to see him," said the detective, "and heard from him the news of the young man's escape. That, perhaps, accounted for her high spirits."

"Briefly, then, your labors have had no result, and you are as far from the scent as on the first day."

"Not exactly that, sir. We'll nab him yet."

"As for the people at the rectory," Ormsby said, decisively, "I'll tackle them myself."

"Be guarded, sir. We don't want them to suspect that they are watched."

"They probably know that already. I'm going to offer them terms. If they'll advise their son to give himself up, seven thousand dollars shall be paid by some 'friend,' and he will get off with a light sentence. It isn't as though I wanted him sent up for any great length of time. I only want him put in the dock. The whole United States will ring with the scandal, and the country'll be too hot to hold him, even if he should be acquitted. He's a reckless young fellow. There's no knowing what he might do. He might--"

Ormsby did not finish the sentence. The detective muttered one comprehensive word.

"Suicide."

Ormsby nodded.

"And the best thing, I should think," grunted the detective.

The upshot of this conversation was a prompt visit to the rectory by Ormsby, whose arrival caused no little consternation in the household.

The rector was fl.u.s.tered and ill at ease. He would have liked to deny the visitor, but was afraid. He knew the banker slightly, well enough to dread the steady fire of those stern eyes.

Ormsby offered his hand in friendly fashion, and took stock of the trembling man before speaking.

"You can guess why I have come, Mr. Swinton."

"It is not difficult to guess, Mr. Ormsby. It is the sad business of the checks. I hear you have issued a warrant for my son's arrest, and you can scarcely expect to be received as a welcome guest in this house. What have you to say to me?"

"Only this, Mr. Swinton. If your son likes to give himself up, we will deal with him as leniently as possible to avoid delay and--expense.

There'll be no question of refunding the money. My co-directors are willing to put in a plea for the unfortunate young man as a first offender, on certain conditions."

"And the conditions?"

"That he undertakes not to molest or in any way pursue Miss Dora Dundas."

"Molest is rather a hard word, Mr. Ormsby. I am aware of the rivalry between you and my son, and I recognize that he has made a dangerous enemy. Surely, Miss Dundas is the best judge of her own feelings?"

"Miss Dundas would have married me but for the return of your scapegrace son," cried Ormsby, flashing out. "He has seen her, and has upset all my plans."

"Yes, he has seen her--" The words slipped out before the clergyman knew what he was saying.

"Ah, he has seen her," cried Ormsby, sharply. "So, he's either at Asherton Hall--or here."

"I--I didn't say that!" gasped the rector. "This house is mine--you have no right--Dear, dear, I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm saying."

"You have said enough, Mr. Swinton. Your son is in this house. I have him, at last."

"My son is ill, Mr. Ormsby. You must give him time. This dreadful matter may yet be set right."

"It is in the hands of the police. Good-day."

John Swinton was powerless to say a word in his son's defense. He led Ormsby from the room and out of the house, without another word of protest. On his return, he sank down in his writing-chair, groaning and weeping.

"Oh, what have I said! What have I done! I've doubly betrayed him. n.o.body can help him now, unless--unless--"

He clasped his hands upon the desk as if in prayer, looking upward. He saw his way, clear and defined. Even as Abraham offered up his son at the call of G.o.d, so he must deliver up his guilty wife, and cry aloud his own sin. Ay, from the pulpit. It would be the last time his voice would ever be raised in the house of G.o.d. His congregation would know him for a sinner, a liar, a coward. He had remained silent when scandalous tongues were busy defaming his son's reputation; and not a word of protest had fallen from his lips. He had gone to the pulpit, and, with an expectant hush in the church, they had waited for him to speak of his dead son who had died gloriously--and no word had pa.s.sed his lips, because only one declaration was possible. Either he must deny the foul slander, or by his silence give impetus to the rumor of guilt. The hue and cry had been openly raised for his son, and he had done nothing. The devil had demanded d.i.c.k, even as G.o.d demanded Isaac. And the traitorous priest had been under the spell of a woman. It was hard to deliver up to man's justice the wife of his bosom. It was no longer a choice of two evils; it was an issue between G.o.d and himself.

He prayed for strength that he might be able to go out of the house now--before his wife returned--and declare her guilt to the police and his own condonation of it; after that, to call together his own flock and make open confession of his sin, and say farewell to the priesthood.

Then--chaos--poverty--new work, with d.i.c.k's help--but work with clean hands.

The way was clear enough now--while Mary was away out of the house--while her voice no longer rang in his ears and the soft rustle of her skirts had died away. But, when she came back with her pale face and care-lined eyes, her soft voice and caressing hand, pleading, pathetic, seeking protection from the horrible contact of a jail, would he be able to hold out?

His face was strained with mental agony, and his fingers worked convulsively on one another. He spread his arms upon the table and bowed his head as though racked with physical pain. The clarion voice of duty was calling; but, when the woman's cry, "I am your wife, John, your very own--you and I are one--you cannot betray me!" next broke on his ear, would he be strong then? If he could bear the punishment with her, and stand in the dock by her side, it would be better than suffering alone, tortured by the thought of the hours of misery to be endured by a gently-nurtured woman in a cruel prison. Perhaps, they would take him, too, for his share in the fraud. d.i.c.k was right when he said a man could more easily bear the hardship of prison than could a woman. If it had been possible, he would gladly have borne his wife's burden.

As usual, he did nothing. He put off the evil hour, and waited for Ormsby to act.

CHAPTER XXVI

MRS. SWINTON HEARS THE TRUTH

The junior clerk of Messrs Jevons & Jevons carried Mrs. Swinton's card to the senior partner, a h.o.a.ry-headed old man, well stricken in years. When the card was scrutinized, he could not recall the personality of Mrs.

Swinton. He sent for his confidential clerk, who was also at a disadvantage, yet they both seemed to remember having heard the name before.

At last, however, the client was ushered in, and Mr. Jevons hoped that his eyes would repair the lapse of his memory. A pale, dark-eyed, slender woman, wrapped in furs, entered.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Jevons?"

"Ah! now I hear your voice, I remember. You are the daughter of Mr.

Herresford."

"You were once my mother's lawyer, Mr. Jevons," said Mrs. Swinton, plunging at once into business.

"I had that honor. Won't you sit down?"

"It is twenty-five years ago--more than that."