"I'll get rid of Montecastello," he said, and his voice had the metallic rasp of a file in it. "I'll undertake, too, that my daughter shall be free to marry Philip Lindsay, or any other man of her choice. I suppose it will be Lindsay. I'll invite him here, and make up for my rather emphatic dismissal the other day. But if you impose terms, so do I. To avoid a scandal, to keep my daughter's love during the remaining years of my life, I yield to you on the major point. On my side, I stipulate that not one penny of your money goes to either Lindsay or Nancy. They must owe everything to me, not to you. Further, you must undertake to go out of my daughter's life completely. You have contrived to do that in the past; you must manage it in the future as well."

"You mean that I am never voluntarily to see or speak to her again?"

"Yes."

"I promise that."

Power spoke in a low tone, but a note of unutterable sadness crept into the words. Even his bitter and resentful hearer caught some hint of anguish, of final abandonment, of a dream that was dispelled.

"Now, about these papers," he said, striving to a.s.sume a business-like air. "I shall write to Mowlem & Son telling them that the Willard trust has attained its object. Sometime I shall endeavor personally to get them to hand over any doc.u.ment in their possession. They are only agents. They can be bought. As to these," and he tapped the sheets in Power's handwriting, "I shall keep them until you have carried out your share of the deal."

"Better not. You may die suddenly. Then they would be found."

"Die, may I? And what about you?"

"I shall not die until the future of Nancy's child is a.s.sured. In any event, I have taken steps to safeguard her secret."

Marten hesitated. Ultimately he applied a lighted match to the papers, threw them into a grate, and watched them burn and curl up in black spirals. When they were still ablaze he gathered the bits of crackling heather, and burnt them, too.

"That, then, is the end," he said.

"The beginning of the end," said Power, turning to leave the room. It was a very large apartment, and there were windows at each end. Through those on the landward side he saw Nancy riding toward the gates in company with a young married couple who had joined the house party recently.

"With your permission, I will wait a few minutes," he said. "Your daughter is just crossing the park; but she will soon be out of sight.

I'll dismiss my carriage, and walk home by the cliff path."

"Your" daughter. So he really meant to keep his word in letter and spirit! Marten thought him a strange man, a visionary. He had never met such another--undoubtedly, he was half mad!

In a little while Power walked out. Then Marten noticed, for the first time, that he moved with a slight limp; the result of some accident, no doubt. Curse him, why wasn't he killed? Then Nancy Marten would have become a princess, with no small likelihood of occupying a throne. For that was Marten's carefully planned scheme. A certain princ.i.p.ality was practically in the market. It could be had for money. Money would do anything--almost anything. Today money had failed!

Power planned to take MacGonigal by surprise. He wrote with purposed vagueness as to his arrival in London, meaning to drop in on his stout friend unexpectedly. He arrived about six o'clock in the evening at the big hotel where Mac was installed, and was informed that "Mr.

MacGonigal" was out, but might return at any moment. He secured a suite of rooms, and was crossing the entrance hall, with no other intent than to sit there and await Mac's appearance, when he almost cannoned against a woman--a woman with l.u.s.trous, penetrating brown eyes. What was worse, he stood stock still, and stared at her in a way that might well evoke her indignation.

But, if she was annoyed, she masked her feelings under an amused smile.

"You don't recall me, of course, Mr. Power," she said; "but I remember you quite well--even after twenty years!"

"Meg!" he cried.

She reddened somewhat. Though wearing a hat and an out-of-doors costume, she was unveiled, and there was no trace of scar or disfigurement on her face.

"Marguerite Sinclair, at any rate," she answered.

"Sent here by the G.o.ds!" he muttered.

"Your G.o.ds are false G.o.ds, Mr. Power. I, for one, don't recognize them as guides."

"Marguerite Sinclair!" he went on. "So you are unmarried?"

"And you?" she retorted.

"I? I am free, at last."

"Free?"

"Yes. Come with me. We can find a seat somewhere. If you have any engagement, you must break it."

She dropped her veil hurriedly. If there are tears in a woman's eyes, she does not care to have the fact noticed while she is crossing the crowded foyer of a hotel. Manlike, Power attributed her action to the wrong cause.

"Why hide your face?" he said, striving hard to control an unaccountable tremolo in his voice. "What have you been doing? Praying at Lourdes?"

She did not pretend to misunderstand: "A French doctor worked this particular miracle. The chief ingredients were some months of suffering and the skin of eggs. It was not vanity on my part. I was tired of the world's pity."

"Then, thank Heaven, I loved you before your scientist doubled your good looks!"

They had found two chairs in a palm-shaded corner, and Marguerite raised her veil again. Then he saw why she had lowered it.

"Derry," she said, and her lips quivered, "why were you so cruel?"

"I'll tell you. May I?"

"Not now. I couldn't bear it."

"Can you bear being told that I have never ceased to love you--that you have dwelt constantly in my thoughts during all these slow years?"

She bent her head. For a long time neither spoke. Plucking at a glove, she revealed a ring on her left hand--his ring! Then Power began his confession. He did not tell her everything--that was impossible. Nor was it necessary. In the first moment of their meeting he had said what she had been waiting thirteen long years to hear.

So, as the outcome, it was MacGonigal who surprised Power. A clerk at the key office gave him the name of the gentleman who had been inquiring for him, and, although taken aback by finding Power deep in talk with a lady, Mac "b.u.t.ted in" joyously.

The two stood up, and Power took his friend's hand.

"Mac," he said, "this is Miss Marguerite Sinclair. You'll soon be well acquainted with her. She becomes Marguerite Power at the earliest possible date."

Now, MacGonigal had formed his own conclusions, owing to the urgency of the message for that sealed packet. Anxiety, and not a desire to see life, had drawn him from his sh.e.l.l in Bison. Power's words had answered many unspoken questions, solved all manner of doubts. His face shone, his big eyes bulged alarmingly. He mopped a shining forehead with, alas!

a red handkerchief.

"Wall, ef I ain't dog-goned!" he vowed. "But I'm glad, mighty glad.

You've worried me, Derry, an' that's a fact." He turned to Marguerite, little guessing how well she knew him. "Bring him to the ranch, Ma'am, an' keep him thar!" he said. "It'll look like home when you come along.

An' that's what he wants--a home. I don't know whar he met you, nor when, but I kin tell you this--he's been like a lost dog fer thirteen years, an' it's time he was fixed with a collar an' chain. Anyhow, when he's had a good look at you, he'll not need the chain."

"Mac," said the woman with the shining eyes, "you're a dear!"

And from that moment the firm of Power and MacGonigal acquired another partner.

THE END