CHAPTER XXX.

HOW ELWELL ESCAPED.

Conway and his friend had made a pretense of eating breakfast after parting with Norine. It was only a pretense, for neither of them could eat. But it was still too early to hope to find the lawyer; and as the time _had_ to be passed, they could get over some of it, while loitering over the breakfast table, to a better advantage than by wandering around, and, as Jim expressed it, “talking each other to death.”

Still, they were both glad when it was over and they could go to Coleman’s office with the hope of finding him there.

“You will introduce me as your friend,” Conway said, while on their way. “Let me hear the fellow talk for a while, and I will know better how to handle him.”

It was still early, but they found Coleman waiting for them. He looked a little doubtful when Conway was introduced, and scanned his visitor closely.

“Your friend is acquainted with the details of this affair, I presume?” he said, with a note of inquiry in his voice.

Jim assured him that he was.

“I did not know my friend was here until this morning,” he said, “and I thought he had better come with me.”

“Oh, yes; quite right--quite right,” replied Peter, evidently thinking it quite wrong. “And how is your sister this morning, my dear sir?”

“She is ill,” returned Jim coldly. “She has received a shock she will not recover from very soon. But enough of that,” he continued impatiently. “It is time we did something to avenge her wrongs. Let us get down to business;” and he drew a chair up to the lawyer’s desk, where Conway was already seated.

Peter shook his head sorrowfully and heaved a deep sigh, but made no attempt to get down to business. In fact, he was in great doubt as to how the business was to be proceeded with.

“Let us now understand each other,” said Jim, following the instructions he had received from Conway. “Are you open for a retainer from us in this case?”

“Why, my dear sir,” replied the lawyer suavely, “I hardly know. You see, I am already empowered by Morain and Elwell to purchase your land for them, at your own price;” and he laid significant stress on the last few words, and even repeated them. “At your own price; so you see I am, in a measure, in the employ of the other side.”

“Did they want to buy the land?” inquired Jim.

“Yes; I was acting for them when I wrote to you. You have only to name your price,” he added, smiling smoothly, “and we can soon settle that.”

“I can settle it without naming my price,” said Jim bluntly. “They can’t have it at any price.”

Coleman looked very uneasy. It would not pay them to have the land matter investigated.

“I do not see why you need mix this with the other matter at all,” he said. “This is merely a matter of business.”

“I have said they cannot have it,” replied Jim, as bluntly as possible, “and I mean what I say. Now, as that is settled, you can answer my question. Can you act for us in bringing this villain to justice?”

Poor Peter was in great perplexity. He thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and trotted up and down the room in an agony of doubt.

“These fellows are determined,” he thought, “and it’s all up with Elwell.”

He was no worse than his fellows. If he could have seen any chance for Elwell’s winning in the end, he would have preferred fighting on his side. But with this determined man to deal with, there did not seem to be any chance for the other side. It was mighty hard, he thought, to have to throw over a good connection--and a prospective good business--only to go down in the general wreck that was sure to follow.

But how could he help it?

Elwell would tell the whole story if he was pushed. And Peter knew how much _his_ reputation would suffer in the recital. So he could see no way out of it. He was in the same boat with Elwell, and there was no way of escape left open. It was a bad job all around, and his repeated furtive glances at Conway did not lessen his vexation.

There was something in that clean-cut, determined-looking face that made Peter very uneasy.

“Devil take him!” he thought irritably. “I wish I knew who he is, and what he is going to do.”

Conway had noted the lawyer’s distrust of him, and it amused him in spite of his wretchedness. He sat silent and impassive, while Jim drummed impatiently on the desk with his fingers.

At last Coleman stopped in front of them.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” he said, somewhat ruefully; “I am sorry I can not represent you. But we lawyers have to be very careful. And I am bound to say that, while I have as yet received no instructions from the other side, I expect they will rely on my services.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Conway quietly. “If you will read this note, I think you will see that your interests lie altogether with us;” and he handed him the note from Lettie that had called him to Chicago.

Peter took it, and as he glanced over it his face fell.

“Curse the girl!” he muttered heartily. Then turning to Conway, he asked: “What do you know?”

“A great deal,” replied that gentleman, smiling quietly. “Among other things, I know how that divorce was procured.”

“I _thought_ you meant danger,” was the lawyer’s mental comment, as he took another restless turn across the room.

He had to surrender, so he did it as gracefully as possible.

“I see there is no use of fighting,” he said quietly, as he resumed his seat. “So, gentlemen, I am with you from necessity. Just tell me what I am to do.”

“We do not want your help,” replied Conway sternly. “We simply want to know that you will not help him. Where can this Morain be found?”

“He and his daughter left for Grand Rapids early this morning. They know nothing about this.”

“Can you reach them by telegraph?”

The lawyer bowed.

“Very well. Telegraph them to return at once. But first write me a note to this rascal, and make it strong. Tell him that you will act in our interest from this out.”

Coleman drew some paper from his desk, and wrote as follows:

“ELWELL: It is all up. Mr. Conway, who will hand you this, knows everything. You cannot fight, and I am forced to act for them.

COLEMAN.”

“Will that do?” he inquired, handing the note to Conway.

“Yes, that will do,” replied the doctor, after reading the note and putting it in his pocket. “Now, when can Mr. Morain and his daughter return?”

“This afternoon.”

“Very well. Have them here as soon as possible.” Then, turning to Jim, he said: “I think you had better go with Coleman, and get out the necessary warrants at once. I will call upon this man myself.”

“Wait a minute,” said Coleman as they were leaving the room. “You had better understand about this land before you go.”

He had made up his mind that his only hope for safety lay in gaining the good will of these people, and since he _must_ help them, it would be better for him to help them all he could. So when they had returned to the desk, he went into a detailed account of the lumber steal.

It appeared, from his story, that the land Jim had supposed to be worthless was really pine land, covered with a heavy growth of that valuable timber, and adjoining a plot owned by Morain. Elwell, seeing the value of the timber on it, had endeavored to purchase it, but had been unable to find the owner. So, with his usual audacity, he had gone on cutting timber from the land, expecting, as soon as the campaign closed, to send some one to New York to see and deal with the owner, taking it for granted that this old woman was not likely to know the increase in value of the property. Then came Jim’s advertisement to sell this same land, and Peter had been instructed to answer it and get the land at any price.

Conway and his friend listened intently, but with different emotions. Jim was frantic with anger.

“The scoundrels!” he cried, “I wouldn’t sell them the land now at any price!” and he clinched his hands and walked the floor, red with indignation.

Conway said nothing; but his lips slightly parted in a grim smile.

“Lord help him now!” thought the astute lawyer as he watched Conway’s face. “There’s mighty little chance for him against _this_ man.”

After leaving some further instructions as to the warrants, Conway left to deliver the note to Norine’s husband.

“It will serve as a letter of introduction,” he thought grimly.

He had just reached the mill gate when he met Norine, and her story of the divorce, and evident belief in it, did not lessen his stern determination to punish this man.

After leaving her at the hotel, he returned to the mill and entered the office.

Clinton was there, with his head bowed down on the desk, and his hands covering his face. He did not at first recognize his visitor, and demanded roughly:

“What do you want?”

“Justice!” replied Conway sternly.

The other sprang to his feet.

“What have I done to you?” he demanded savagely. Then his tone changed, and a sneering smile came over his pale face. “I forgot that you were her lover,” he sneered. “But here is her liberty,” tossing the divorce at Conway’s feet. “Take it, in God’s name, and hers.”

Lester Conway paid no attention to the paper lying at his feet. He was very quiet, only that grim smile had returned to his lips.

“I forgot,” he said, “to give you my letter of introduction;” and he threw Peter’s note on the desk. “Perhaps when you read it you will understand.”

Elwell took the note, and as he glanced at it he staggered back, with a bitter curse; then he resumed his place at the desk, and buried his face in his hands.

Conway waited a moment for him to speak, but he maintained a sullen silence.

“Miss Morain and her father have been sent for; they will be here this afternoon,” he said sternly, at last: “and you will meet your dupes at Coleman’s office. The warrant is already out for your arrest, but we will leave you at liberty until they come.”

Still there was no answer, only the head seemed to writhe a little as it lay on the desk.

“Do not attempt to escape,” resumed Conway; “for it is impossible.” And again he waited for some sign of reply; but none came.

Conway looked at him, and for a moment that hard, stern look left his face.

“I am sorry for you,” he said; “sorry for any man in your position. You have lost everything that makes life dear. You will not have a kind word or a kind thought from any living being.”

The other lifted his white, haggard face at this.

“Curse you!” he cried bitterly. “Why should you taunt me? Don’t crow too soon. You have not won yet.”

“I have lost,” replied Conway; “lost her twice, through you.”

The other laughed mockingly.

“Yes, you have lost,” he said tauntingly. “I had forgotten that divorce was invalid.”

Conway made no answer to this, but that stern, set look came over his face again.

“You understand your position,” he said sternly. “Whether that paper were valid or not does not matter. You have lost her as well as I.”

“She is still my wife,” sneered his rival, snapping his fingers in Conway’s face; “and she will be my wife as long as I live.” And then he returned to his old position, and covered his face with his shaking hands.

Conway looked at him almost pityingly.

“Do what you will,” he said; “but remember, we wish to spare your dupes as much as possible; and remember, too, that you cannot escape us this time.”

And after he had gone, the words rang in the ears of the other, as he sat crouching over the desk: “You have lost all that makes life dear to any one; and escape is impossible.”

After leaving the mill, Conway found Jim, and together they returned to the hotel. It was noon now, and they must not leave Norine too long alone. So they returned to her, and told her as much as they thought best of what had passed.

“I cannot understand,” she cried. “Why should you send for his poor wife? If we are divorced, is not that enough?” And she looked sadly but affectionately at her lover. “It shall not prevent our being happy,” she said softly.

They could not undeceive her then. She had borne the blow and the consequent excitement bravely, but she had weakened under it; so it was understood between these two that they would spare her as much as possible until she was away from the place; and Jim was resolved to get her away as soon as possible.

They went through the pretense of eating again, with the same result as at breakfast.

“I will never be able to eat a meal in this cursed place,” said Jim impatiently, as they left the table; and then he went without his after-dinner cigar, that he might go up and encourage Norine to eat as much as possible.

Conway wandered around aimlessly. He could not join Norine. He knew the value of that bit of paper that had imposed on her, and her innocent expressions of affection were very bitter to him.

They were parted now--parted more certainly than this man’s death could have parted them, and all the bitterness of this separation was upon him.

He had loved this girl so ardently, and he had seen her carried away from him by a less timid wooer; then, when it seemed as if death had removed his rival, he still waited, being considerate of her widowhood. And at last, after all his pain and patient waiting, he had gained her love; after he had felt her soft arms around him, and knew that at last he had won his wife, then, that this man should again come between them and rob him of his treasure! Ah, it was bitter!

He knew Norine, and felt the sting of that villain’s words.

“She would be his wife as long as he lived.” Not that she loved him, or would give him aught but contempt--it was not that; but he knew her hatred for the publicity of a court of law, and her scornful contempt for those who rush into the divorce court to air their family troubles in the sight of all.

“Once a wife, always a wife,” she thought; “and if they made a mistake, let them abide by it and suffer silently.”

Her opinions were not “progressive”--God save the mark!--but they were noble and right, and Conway, in spite of his bitter pain, felt them to be so.

He was at the depot when the train came thundering in, and easily identified Fanny and her father from Lettie’s description. They looked worried, and Fanny was decidedly out of temper. She was overdressed and ill-mannered and superficial. But Conway pitied her sincerely; and his heart went out to her kindly, good-natured father in earnest sympathy.

“He looks _good_,” commented Conway mentally. “And she--well, God pity her, poor thing!--she is worse off even than Norine, for she is neither maid nor wife.”

And thinking moodily over the wrongs this villain had done, he strode gravely off on his way to Coleman’s office.

Jim was waiting for him, full of impatience.

“Where have you been, Lester?” he asked. “I have looked all over town for you.”

Conway explained that he had been to the depot, and reported the arrival of Morain and Fanny. Hardly had he done so, when a carriage stopped at the door, and father and daughter entered the office.

“What does this mean, Mr. Coleman?” cried Fanny shrilly, as they entered the room. “Where is my husband? Why is he not here to meet me?”

“If you will take a chair,” said Conway kindly, “I think he will be here soon, and Mr. Coleman will explain matters to you.”

“Who are you?” demanded Fanny, turning on him; “and where is that bold, bad woman? And what does it all mean?”

She sank into a chair, quivering with anger and excitement.

“It is not necessary to mention that young lady in those terms,” said Conway sternly. Then turning to honest Pat, who stood open-mouthed with amazement, he said quietly: “I am afraid we are bringing a great deal of trouble on you, sir. But there has been a great wrong done, and the innocent must suffer with the guilty. Your friend here will explain it to you.”

“Well, I think an explanation would be a mighty good thing,” replied Morain bluntly. “I’ve had the life bothered out of me the last two days. I can’t understand it at all.”

“Mr. Coleman will explain it all,” repeated Conway. And he and Jim moved over to the window to leave the rest alone together.

“I don’t think, Mr. Conway, that I can do it,” stammered the lawyer, frightened at the task. “Don’t you think, now, that Mr. Darling could do it better?”

And he looked beseechingly at Jim.

“In God’s name, man, spit it out!” roared Pat. “What’s the matter? Where’s Elwell?”

Peter backed into a corner in front of the irate lumberman; but before he could commence his explanation, the door was burst open by a white-faced man, who hurriedly whispered to Coleman and immediately left the room, as if afraid to meet the eyes of the others.

“What is it?” demanded Conway sternly. “He has not escaped?”

“Yes,” said Peter; “he has escaped.”

And he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

It was true--Elwell had escaped! There was one route that Conway had not been able to close, and the guilty man had taken it.

The glittering little revolver held one life less in its chambers now!