"Mr. Porter."

It was the cashier's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer's low, pleading tones.

Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, "Will you step into my office for a minute?"

The cashier's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and when Alan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him.

Had he denied taking the money? My G.o.d! the full horror of Mortimer's hopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroying forest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusation of himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor; now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that he possessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor to save the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, but without hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would it profit him to denounce the boy.

Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw that everything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered; but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadful crime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of her son if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against his friend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis?

Mentally his argument, his a.n.a.lysis of the proper course to pursue was tortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; but the one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he must take his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so strongly to shield the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all its degradation had accrued to him.

At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in him was bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly the whole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that had swept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had kept from his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tightening on the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained over twenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane's financial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened.

That was the other happening.

Crane was closeted with the cashier not more than ten minutes when Mortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeply interested in his affairs.

The cashier's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution of evidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother being ill to him at the race course. From Alan the cashier had learned that Mortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that he had won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer's words had been contorted into that reading in their journey through two personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak of his betting transactions. He had denied taking the money--that was but natural; he had been forced to admit replacing it--that was conclusive.

Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterly impossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circ.u.mstances were drawn about the accused man.

"Let us question him?" said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor hate, nor compa.s.sion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter.

Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded eyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon.

The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Ca.s.s?--but that was impossible.

Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answered nothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it--because he was responsible for its custody.

"Can't you see," cried Crane, impatiently, "that this simple denial of yours is of no value as against so much that points to your--" he hesitated--"your implication?"

XL

While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's note.

The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that was all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her father, the power to pay off his indebtedness--all these had turned that day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled her fancy. "You're like a caged bear, Alan," she cried, with a smile of impertinence; "I should hate to be shut up a day like this--no wonder you're cross, brother."

"I'm busy," he answered, curtly. "I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I want to see you."

"I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance," she flung back, with the swagger of a capitalist.

"It's paid, Allis."

"Paid! I thought--"

"Wait, I'll come out;" and opening a door in the rail, he pa.s.sed around to the girl.

"Father's note is paid," he resumed, "but there's fierce trouble over it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he stole"--the boy's voice lowered to a hoa.r.s.e whisper--"a thousand of it to bet at Gravesend."

"That's not true, Alan; G.o.d knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't steal."

"Yes, he did," persisted the brother, "and he begged of me to take the blame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything to me. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!"

"Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The money will be found somewhere."

"It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace the money if he had not stolen it?"

"Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?"

The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office.

"Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anything else; they caught him putting the money back."

Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course.

"Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet," she said.

"Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knew about it, he begged me to say nothing--practically admitted that he had taken the money, and was going to put it back."

"Why should he tell you that, Alan?"

"I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away; or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that he didn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, Allis, and you ought to cut him."

"I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is--I don't care what they say. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it."

She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes--not that she was accusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth.

"Do you mean it was to shield me--that I took it? No one could have taken the money except Mortimer or myself."

"I don't know," answered the girl, wearily; "it's all so terribly new; I only know that Mortimer did not steal it."

While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier's office, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as a half-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal in his face was a look of troubled gravity.

When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant.

He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother.

Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself that the evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there was nothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of pain over Alan's ingrat.i.tude; the latter must know that he had put his neck in a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, why did not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter--they were a hero breed--and accept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behind this terrible bulwark of circ.u.mstantial evidence which topped him, the innocent one, on every side.

As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignant detestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimer was irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; his att.i.tude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl's face. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, "Behold, here is Barabbas!"

A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was the first touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, and sorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery; no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance of reproval--nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's look had angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrifice seem too great when repaid with ingrat.i.tude, all these thoughts vanished in an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In the hour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm.

She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He had undertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell no one on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with the faith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgment of all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he have taken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he had incurred it.

Mortimer heard the brother say, "I think you had better not," then the girl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, "I will, I must."

In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to the wicket, said, "Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, I want to speak with you."

He pa.s.sed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closeted in the latter's office.

"Let us go out into the sunshine," Allis said. "Can you--will it make any difference?"