"I don't think it matters much," he answered, despondently; "things are as bad as they can be, I suppose."

He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed of no shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes had a.s.sured him that she knew it. As they pa.s.sed through the door it creaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weird complaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the village street was deserted; there was no one to listen.

"What is this dreadful thing all about?" and she laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of amity, of a.s.sociation. Her touch thrilled him; she had never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveled at her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand lifted him to a pedestal-her eyes deified him.

"A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of taking it," he answered, bitterly.

"You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so."

He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberate earnestness, "I did not steal the money."

"Some one took it?"

"Yes."

"And you know who it was?"

"I do not."

"But you suspect some one?"

He did not answer.

"Did you put the money back?"

He nodded his head.

"To protect somebody's good name?"

"Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it," he broke in, vehemently; "all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe that I don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circ.u.mstantial evidence that I took it," he added, bitterly, "and nothing that I can say will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, thank G.o.d, you don't; and I am not; G.o.d knows I am not. Beyond that I will say nothing; it is useless--worse than useless; it would be criminal--would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. I don't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They may arrest me as a felon--at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bank and go away. It won't make much difference.--I am as I was before, an honest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as I thought it would be; I feared perhaps that you--"

She stopped him with an imploring gesture.

"Let me finish," he said. "I must go back to the office. I thought that you might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much."

"You cared for my poor opinion?" she asked. The quiver in her voice caused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded in tears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin.

"Yes, I care," he answered; "and it seemed all so dark before you brought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me; somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. But I must go back to--my prison it seems like now--when I leave you;" this with a weary attempt at brave mockery.

Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand that had guided Lauzanne to victory. "If anything happens, if you are going away--I think you are right to go if they distrust you--you will see me before you leave, won't you?"

"Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?" The word came very hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; he wanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy.

"Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away," she answered.

"Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make my life your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when a good woman believes in him."

The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: "Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you going back to Ringwood?" and he nodded toward Allis's buggy.

"Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer," and she held out her hand.

Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his own. Without speaking, he turned and pa.s.sed into the bank.

"May I go with you?" asked Crane; "I want to see your father."

"Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over," the girl answered.

XLI

When they had pa.s.sed the edge of the village the Banker said: "I doubt if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew--I mean, he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank.

In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole it."

"I do know of this terrible thing," she answered. "I shook hands with him because I believe him innocent."

"You know more than we do?" It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful inquiry.

"Mr. Mortimer could not steal--it is impossible."

"Have you sufficient grounds for your faith--do you happen to know who took the money, for it was stolen?"

The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been one of implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all that was good and n.o.ble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; she had not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her it was morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane's questions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan's accusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motive possibilities.

She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarter with the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed.

Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience.

Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer a question so unanswerable. He waited.

Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mind tabulated--she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip--it was to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, that he would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person, her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumped a little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip.

Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend?

It must have been to see Alan--the boy was there. If he had discovered that the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he would do this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made the matter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once, because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed to find Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her this much, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why he had bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, had helped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, with which he had replaced the thousand dollars.

The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of action to sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought to shield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herself and Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her as fixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured before her eyes.

She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? If the boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense to a simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she do except give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward for his heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, and to follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother, cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extreme hopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accused of others as a thief, and one--her own brother--charged by her reason with the crime.

Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almost oblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave no sign of a desire to pursue the discussion.

"Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent,"

hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that he felt must be of profit to himself. This a.s.sertion of Crane's was only a.s.similatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he should wish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimer for the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the younger man removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude his aspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt sure that she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her mother and marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief.

Allis answered his observation--he distinctly felt the vibration of pain in her voice--with a startling depth of a.n.a.lytical discernment:--

"While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe in it, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circ.u.mstantial evidence about him, trying to shield some one else, that--that--it is too terrible!" she broke off, pa.s.sionately--"he is innocent. For G.o.d's sake, Mr. Crane"--she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on his arm, pleadingly--"for G.o.d's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. You can do it--you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. The money has been paid back."