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"Where--" he could not catch his breath--"where did you get that idea?"

"In the night--in the long, horrible night." Though she was alive to the dramatic import of her words and this scene, she was speaking with sincerity, and she shuddered.

Eades stood and looked at her. He could do nothing else; he could say nothing, think nothing.

In Elizabeth's heart there was now but one desire, and that was to get away, to bring this horror to an end. She had come to save her brother; now she was conscious that she must save herself; she felt that she had hopelessly involved the situation; it was beyond remedy now, and she must get away. She rose.

"I have come here, I have humiliated myself to ask you to do a favor for me," she said. "You are not ready to do it, I see." She was glad; she felt now the dreadful anxiety of one who is about to escape an awful dilemma. "To me it seems a very simple little thing, but--"

She was going.

"Elizabeth!" he said, "let me think it over. I can not think straight just now. You know how I want to help you. You know I would do anything--anything for you!"

"Anything but this," she said. "This little thing that hurts no one, a thing that can bring nothing but happiness to the world, that can save my father and my mother and me--a thing, perhaps the only thing that can save my poor, weak, erring brother--who knows?"

"Let me think it over," he pleaded. "I'll think it over to-night--I'll send you word in the morning."

She turned then and went away.

XXVII

Elizabeth let the note fall in her lap. A new happiness suddenly enveloped her. She felt the relief of an escape. The note ran:

DEAR ELIZABETH:

I have thought it all over. I did not sleep all night, thinking of it, and of you. But--I can not do what you ask; I could not love you as I do if I were false to my duty. You know how hard it is for me to come to this conclusion, how hard it is for me to write thus. It sounds harsh and brutal and cold, I know. It is not meant to be. I know how you have suffered; I wish you could know how I have suffered and how I shall suffer. I can promise you one thing, however: that I shall do only my duty, my plain, simple duty, as lightly as I can, and nothing now can give me such joy as to find the outcome one perhaps I ought not to wish--one which in any other case would be considered a defeat for me.

But I ask you to think of me, whatever may come to pass, as

Your sincere JOHN EADES.

She leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes; a sense of rest and comfort came to her. She was content for a while simply to realize that rest and comfort. She opened her eyes and looked out of the window over the little triangular park with its bare trees; the sky was solid gray; there was a gray tone in the atmosphere, and the soft light was grateful and restful to her eyes, tired and sensitive as they were from the loss of so much sleep. She felt that she could lie back then and sleep profoundly. Yet she did not wish to sleep--she wished to be awake and enjoy this sensation of relief, of escape. After that night and that day and this last night of suspense, it was like a reprieve--she started and her face darkened,--the thought of reprieve made her somehow think of Archie Koerner. This event had quite driven him out of her mind, coming as it had just at the climax. She had not thought of him for--how long? And Gusta! It brought the thought of her, too.

Suddenly she remembered, with a dim sense of confusion that, at some time long ago, she and Gusta had talked of Archie's first trouble. Had they mentioned Dick? No, but she had thought of him! How strange! And then her thoughts returned to Eades, and she lifted the note, and glanced at it. She recalled the night at the Fords', and his proposal, her hesitation and his waiting. She let the note fall again and sighed audibly--a sigh that expressed her content. Then suddenly she started up! She had forgotten Dick--the trouble--her father!

Marriott knew what she had to say almost before the first sentence had fallen from her lips.

"I'll not pretend to be surprised, Elizabeth," he said. "I haven't expected it, but now I can see that it was inevitable."

He looked away from her.

"Poor boy!" he said. "How I pity him! He has done nothing more than to adopt the common standard; he has accepted the common ideal. He has believed them when they told him by word and deed that possession--money--could bring happiness and that nothing else can!

Well--it's too bad."

Elizabeth's head was drooping and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. He pretended not to see.

"Poor boy!" he went on. "Well, we must save him, that's all."

She looked up at him, her gray eyes wide and their lashes drenched in their tears.

"How, Gordon?"

"Well, I don't know, but some way." He studied a moment. "Eades--well, of course, he's hopeless."

She could never tell him of her visit to Eades; she had told him merely of Hunter's interview with the prosecutor. But she was surprised to see how Marriott, instantly, could tell just what Eades would do.

"Eades is just a prosecutor, that's all," Marriott went on. "Heavens!

How the business has hardened him! How it does pull character to shreds! And yet--he's like Dick--he's pursuing another ideal that's very popular. They'll elect Eades congressman or governor or something for his severity. But let's not waste time on him. Let's think." He sat there, his brows knit, and Elizabeth watched him.

"I wish I could fathom old Hunter. He had some motive in reporting it to Eades so soon. Of course, if it wasn't for that it would be easy.

Hm--" He thought. "We'll have to work through Hunter. He's our only chance. I must find out all there is to know about Hunter. Now, Elizabeth, I'll have to shut myself up and do some thinking. The grand jury doesn't meet for ten days--we have time--"

"They won't arrest Dick?"

"Oh, it's not likely now. Tell him to stay close at home--don't let him skip out, whatever he does. That would be fatal. And one thing more--let me do the worrying." He smiled.

Marriott had hoped, when the murder trial was over, that he could rest; he had set in motion the machinery that was to take the case up on error; he had ordered his transcripts and prepared the petition in error and the motions, and he was going to have them all ready and file them at the last moment, so that he might be sure of delay. Archie had been taken to the penitentiary, and Marriott was glad of that, for it relieved him of the necessity of going to the jail so often; that was always an ordeal. He had but one more visit to make there,--Curly had sent for him; but Curly never demanded much. But now--here was a task more difficult than ever. It provoked him almost to anger; he resented it. It was always so, he told himself; everything comes at once--and then he thought of Elizabeth. It was for her!

He thought of nothing else all that day. He inquired about Hunter of every one he met. He went to his friends, trying to learn all he could.

He picked up much, of course, for there was much to be told of such a wealthy and prominent man as Amos Hunter, especially one with such striking personal characteristics. But he found no clue, no hint that he felt was promising. Then he suddenly remembered Curly.

He found him in another part of the jail, where he had been immured away from Archie in order that they might not communicate with each other.

With his wide knowledge and deeper nature Curly was a more interesting personality than Archie. He took his predicament with that philosophy Marriott had observed and was beginning to admire in these fellows; he had no complaints to make.

"I'm not worried," he said. "I'll come out all right. Eades has nothing on me, and he knows it. They're holding me for a bluff. They'll keep me, of course, until they get Archie out of the way, then they'll put me on the street. It wouldn't do to drop my case now. They'll just stall along with it until then. Of course--there's one danger--" he looked up and smiled curiously, and to the question in Marriott's eyes, he answered:

"You see they can't settle me for this; but they might dig up something somewhere else and put me away on that. You see the danger."

Marriott nodded, not knowing just what to say.

"But we must take the bitter with the sweet, as Eddie Dean used to say."

Curly spoke as if the observation were original with Dean. "But, Mr.

Marriott, there's one or two things I want you to attend to for me."

"Well," consented Marriott helplessly, already overburdened with others'

cares.

"I don't like to trouble you, but there's no one I like to trust, and they won't let me see any one."

He hesitated a moment.

"It's this way," he presently went on. "I've got a woman--Jane, they call her. She's a good woman, you see, though she has some bad tricks.

She's sore now, and hanging around here, and I want her to leave. She's even threatened to see Eades, but she wouldn't do that; she's too square. But she has a stand-in with McFee, and while he's all right in his way, still he's a copper, and you can't be sure of a copper. She can't help me any here, and she might queer me; the flatties might pry something out of her that could hurt me--they'll do anything. If you'll see Danny Gibbs and have him ship her, I'll be much obliged. And say, Mr. Marriott, when you're seeing him, tell him to get that thing fixed up and send me my bit. He'll understand. I don't mind telling you, at that. There's a man here, a swell guy, a banker, who does business with Dan. He's handled some of our paper--and that sort of thing, you know, and I've got a draw coming there. It ain't much, about twenty-five case, I guess, but it'd come in handy. Tell Dan to give the woman a piece of it and send the rest to me here. I can use it just now buying tobacco and milk and some little things I need. Dan'll understand all about it."

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