PART IV

One late April afternoon—a chilly dismal day it had been, with a drizzle of rain—the maid knocked at his workroom door, and when he’d shut down the power on the drill he was using, she told him a lady and gentleman were at the door asking to see him, and they didn’t give any name.

“Busy,” he answered mechanically, and was turning back to his work.

“Excuse me sir, but the gentleman said, though you wouldn’t know him, he’s a near relative of old Mr. Cripps as used to live here.”

“Oh!” (Long pause.) “Relative.”

“Yes sir.”

“Lady with him, you say?”

“Yes sir, there is.” This maid, whose name was Hulda, had been there only a few weeks.

After a long consideration of the matter, turning it this way and that in his mind, Haworth abandoned hope of finding some way out of it, and told the maid to show them into the hall and say he’d come soon. He got out of his jumpers, washed his hands, and went upstairs.

Both the man and woman rose as he came toward them from the rear hall. The man stepped forward a little.

“Mr. Haworth?”

“Yes.”

“It’s very kind of you to see us, but perhaps you wouldn’t have done it if I’d sent in my name. I thought it was only right to give me a chance to explain.”

Haworth’s calm brown-eyed gaze was upon the man. “Explain what?” he asked, softly—almost timidly.

“You’ll know well enough when I tell you that I’m Augustus Findlay.... Yes, I’m Augustus Findlay,” he repeated, as the first announcement of the fact appeared not to have produced the effect expected, “an’ I’m not ashamed to own it!”

“What did you want to see me about?”

“That’s just what I expected! Just it, by God! It’s what I looked for, to be treated as a stranger!” And turning to his companion who was standing a little back of him, “Didn’t I tell you how it would be?” And to Haworth: “Of course the old man poisoned your mind against me. What else could you expect? He never had a kind word for me, Mr. Haworth—not one! It was pure animosity and hatred—and he my uncle, too!”

Haworth regarded him calmly for a moment.

“Who is your uncle?” he finally asked.

“Aw, what’s the good o’ pretending you don’t know who I mean! Pretty rank that is, if you ask me!”

And then, as Haworth said nothing in the pause allotted to him, he went on in a loud and blatant tone: “It’s old man Cripps I’m talking about—the one you’ve been living with for the last three or four years until he died and left you all his money—an’ this place along with it, I suppose!”

“I’m sorry,” Haworth murmured. And then, after a pause, “Did he know about you?”

“Know about me!” Findlay turned back to the young woman with a bitter laugh. “That’s pretty neat now, isn’t it?... Why,” (to Haworth) “I lived here in the house with him all my life until just before you came along! _All my life by God!_”

“And—you went away then?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly—I didn’t so much——You ain’t kiddin’ me, are you? Didn’t he ever tell you about it?”

Haworth shook his head slightly.

“Well” (turning to his companion) “can you beat that? The old man was——Oh, I beg your pardon! This is my wife, Edith. Mr. Haworth—Mr. _Charles_ Haworth, I believe it is!” The girl—for she was only that—put out her hand timidly and Haworth took it.

“Now we haven’t come here as beggars, Mr. Haworth. I said to Edith we’d never do a thing like that. Didn’t I say it?” turning to his girlish wife.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly and glanced down in evident distress.

“No, I should think not!” He, in a measure, answering for her. “Don’t run away with the idea we’re that kind! Never more mistaken in your life!” And Findlay went on, becoming rather loud about it. “Far from it! We’re not that sort! But I’ll say this much, Mr. Haworth,—that matters haven’t gone right with us for some little time. No, they haven’t, and that’s a fact! We’ve certainly been up against it at every turn of the cards and we’re pretty close to being up against it now.”

Haworth’s eyes were steadily on Augustus as he talked. Only once did they shift for an instant to the girl.

“Now I wouldn’t go to any stranger,” Findlay went on; “no, not even to an ordinary friend you know,—for—ah—for advice at such a time. But I lived here all my life, an’ owing to blind prejudice an’ slander—that’s what it was, Mr. Haworth—I lost out on the will. Everything went to you. God knows I don’t complain of that! But in a time of trouble like this it seems only proper and decent to come to you for advice.”

Haworth spoke after a little pause. “Advice?” (Almost in a whisper).

“Yes, Mr. Haworth, that’s what I want! I need some one to tell me what to do, for I don’t know which way to turn. Of course, if out of the fullness of your heart you can—help us a little—just till I get on my feet——”

He broke off to give Haworth a chance to say something, but the young inventor did not speak.

“Why it’s as bad as this, Mr. Haworth, though I hate like hell to tell you! We haven’t actually—we haven’t actually any idea where we’re going to sleep to-night! That’s God’s truth!”

“There’s plenty of room here,” Haworth murmured in a low voice.

“Why, but you——I—I’d no idea of such a——Edith dear, do you hear that?”

The girl smiled a little doubtfully, and looked at Haworth.

Augustus went right along piling words on top of Haworth’s implied offer as if hoping to bury it so deep it couldn’t be withdrawn.

“My God! But that’s a great relief! You’ve no idea! It’s certainly splendid of you, Mr. Haworth! You really mean we can put up here with you for a bit? Wouldn’t make you trouble for the world or impose on your kindness, but if—if you _can_ manage it—just till I get on my feet again—I can’t tell how much—how——”

“Come upstairs,” Haworth said, “and see which room you’d like.” He led the way to the floor above.

The large room at the front of the house on the south side (the north side wasn’t in use, you’ll remember) was finally decided upon for the Findlays. Haworth occupied a smaller one quite a distance back on the same corridor. There were several rooms and two or three bathrooms between.

When they came down he took them into the living room—that is to say, the room he used as such. It was a vast panelled apartment with a marble mantel and fireplace, and had been the dining room back in the old Cripps days. The chamber chosen by Augustus for the use of his wife and himself was directly above the front part of it.

Findlay now began a long recital of his misfortunes, telling with acrimony how he’d lost this position and that, always through no fault of his own. Now and then he managed to bring in references to his uncle, all tending to impress one with the idea that he had been most unjustly treated.

Haworth’s steady gaze, not for an instant leaving his face as he talked on, began to disturb Augustus. It gave him the feeling of being under calm and critical observation—which, in fact, he was. So before he’d gone far in his pathetic narrative he began to stumble about and lose track of what he was saying, and finally he rose suddenly, announcing that he’d completely forgotten about their trunks, which were at the South Station—for it seemed they had come in from somewhere—and he’d go and bring them out if Mr. Haworth didn’t mind.

Mr. Haworth didn’t mind at all and said so, and Findlay got his coat and hat and was just going out of the front door when he suddenly stopped, remembering something. Then he called back into the room asking Haworth if he could come out there just a moment—he’d like to speak to him.

“Awfully sorry, old chap,” he said in a carefully lowered voice when they were at the door together, “but could you—ah——You see I—I’m ashamed to say I haven’t got enough to pay an expressman. If I can once get the trunks out here we’ll be all right—if you don’t mind giving me a bit of a loan for that.”

“I see,” said Haworth, and he turned and went upstairs.

The moment he was out of sight Augustus stepped quickly to the door of the living room, and putting his head in, spoke to his wife in a sharp half whisper: “No monkey business now! If you give away anything you’ll be sorry for it!” And hearing steps near the top of the stairs he was instantly back at the front door again, waiting.

Haworth came down with a ten-dollar bill which he handed to Findlay, and the latter thanked him effusively and left the house. Haworth stood for a moment in thought, then went back into the living room. Edith Findlay looked up at him as he came in, and he stopped with his eyes on her, seeing that she was going to speak.

But it seemed hard for her to do so.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she finally said in a sort of breathless whisper.

He thought it over and then said, “Why?”

“I didn’t want to come—I tried to stop him.” Her voice had a soft huskiness that was strangely appealing. Her glance flitted painfully about the room, and she turned to him again.

“It’ll be so terrible for you!”

“You needn’t worry about me,” he said quietly, his eyes resting softly on her face.

“I can’t help it. I——No!” She suddenly stood up.

“We mustn’t stay, Mr. Haworth. I’ll find him and tell him so!”

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Oh, but I——Mr. Haworth you—you don’t understand!”

“Not very well,—but you’ll tell me I hope.... No,—sit down first—this chair.” And as he moved nearer she sank into the old upholstered chair he indicated.

“Where could you go?” he asked as he stood before her.

“Oh——” She waved her hand as if such a matter was of no consequence. “That’s—that’s nothing!”

“Nothing for him perhaps, but——” He broke off, looking down into her upturned eyes.

A little spasmodic shiver passed over her. Haworth stepped quickly to the fireplace where wood and kindlings were ready laid. He knelt there, lighting a match and holding it to the shavings and small splinters.

She seemed somehow like a child, sitting there so small and demure in the big armchair. A child in distress, for from her face you’d hardly think she’d had any sleep for a week, and her dress was pitifully worn and shabby.

As Haworth was kneeling at the fireplace he turned to ask her something. The quick flaming of the shavings and small stuff threw a bright light on her poor little run-over shoes. He stopped motionless looking at them, then leaned over without getting to his feet and touched one. At once he rose and walked around behind her chair, which he pushed and turned until her feet were as near the fire as he thought would do. Then he pushed an electric button near the door.

“You may not know it,” he said as he stood waiting, “but you’re going to drink some hot tea—something near two hundred and twelve in the shade. Also, you’re going to have dry things for your feet, even if you have to shuffle about in something of mine!”

The maid came and he told her to make tea—the hottest kind she ever heard of—and to bring things with it—toast or whatever it was—she knew. Then he went on to ask what she could do about footwear for Mrs. Findlay, who was cold and wet and also very tired; and wouldn’t Hulda please take charge of her and arrange things satisfactorily?

Hulda said she thought she could manage if the lady wouldn’t mind wearing some of her things, and Haworth said he was sure she wouldn’t—and over his shoulder toward Edith, “You wouldn’t, would you?” And he saw the top of her little round hat above the back of the chair shaking slightly for “no” and heard a very faint sniffle, and told Hulda it would be all right. Upon which the maid departed to attend to everything.

Haworth stood uncertain a moment, for the first sniffle had alarmed him, as he realized that he wouldn’t have an idea what to do if Mrs. Findlay was actually crying. He earnestly hoped she wasn’t, yet had a fairly trustworthy intuition that such a thing was at that moment transpiring; and it occurred to him that if this was so, the correct and possibly even the noble behavior might be to go away and leave her. On the other hand, something might be seriously the matter, and probably was, otherwise why should such a thing be going on?

This latter seemed the most sensible view, and on arriving at it he went over very quietly and stood by the marble mantel, which brought him quite near and almost in front of her.

She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief every now and then, and as the firelight flickered on the hand that was doing it, he couldn’t help seeing that it was a perfect dear of a little hand. He didn’t understand how he could be thinking of this at such a time, when she was in evident distress; but for a moment he couldn’t think of anything else. And the diminutive wad of crumpled handkerchief,—also the wet and worn-out little shoes, appealed to him in some peculiar way that brought on, deep down in his system, an almost unbearable ache.

Suddenly she looked up at him.

“Do you know what I ought to do?”

He shook his head as he stood looking down at her.

“I ought to run out of the house this—this very instant.”

She glanced anxiously about as if meditating flight, which, in fact, she was.

“What for?” Haworth asked.

“For you,” she said.

The shadow of a smile passed over Haworth’s face.

“That wouldn’t do _me_ any good.”

“Oh, it would—it would!” she cried out. “Because our being here is going to—to——” She was unable to go on.

“What is it going to do?” he finally asked.

She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then shook her head a little, but did not speak.

“Please tell me this: Is it true that your husband is Mr. Cripps’s nephew?”

“Yes, Mr. Haworth.”

“Then, even though it’s going to be so terrible, I’d rather have him stay. Mr. Cripps never said anything about having a nephew. I’m afraid there was some injustice done.”

Edith was looking up in his face, and there was something about it that he simply couldn’t stand. The only alternative seemed to be to go somewhere else as soon as he possibly could. Acting on this idea, he made a considerable effort and got his eyes away from her, and spoke quickly and mumblingly, addressing the floor.

“You know Hulda, the one you saw just now—she was here——”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“That’s the one. Well, she’ll take care of everything—tea, you know—and dry—and warm—and—your room—and—yes.”

He turned and walked rapidly past Edith and out of the room by one of the rear doors, thence through a back hall and down the basement stairs, making thus an instinctive retreat to his machine shop, the mechanical panacea for all his mental disturbances. At least he had found it so up to now.

* * * * *

Leaving Edith Findlay entirely in Hulda’s hands was precisely the effective way for getting results, though no thought of it as such entered Haworth’s mind. The maid, a neat, blue-eyed young woman of Scandinavian origin, was greatly pleased at being allowed to take entire charge of Mrs. Findlay, and proceeded to do so with enthusiasm. She brought the poor child (that’s what Edith Findlay seemed to her) hot tea and hot toast and thin sandwiches, and had her in dry stockings and warm slippers before anyone—provided only that he stammered badly—could have said “Jack Robinson.” At once after that she had an open fire burning in the room above and the covers of the furniture off and thorough sweeping and dusting done. Then she returned to Edith, and gave it as her opinion that the thing for her to do was to go to bed and rest herself. So positive was Hulda of the benefits to be derived from “just a few winks, Mrs. Findlay,” that Edith was swept to the room on the wave of her enthusiasm on the subject, and put snugly to bed.

But weary as she was, the realization of what must surely happen when Augustus returned, kept her in a condition of worried wakefulness. She knew so well what the interview at the door meant. He had got money from Mr. Haworth. There was no question in her mind as to what he would do with it, and, as a result, in what condition he would return to the house at two or three in the morning. If it could only be that he could come in and get to bed and to sleep without creating a terrifying disturbance, she would consider it serene and heavenly rest compared to what was to be expected, for he had reached the condition where alcohol came near to making a maniac of him. Shouts and curses and horrible songs; the throwing about of whatever came to his hand; the threatening of her, sometimes with a revolver—an enormous thing which he insisted on keeping under his pillow—all this was to be expected if he had money enough to buy drinks. And if Mr. Haworth had given him anything it was enough, for there were no trunks to spend it on; all that was pure fiction. Everything they owned had gone to the pawnshops long ago.

As it happened, however, her anxiety as to the home-coming of Augustus was misplaced. It should have been applied to future occasions. Findlay came in at a quarter before seven, a trifle electrified, to be sure, but not to a voltage that was shocking.

The three sat down to dinner in what had once been the breakfast room—opening off the present living room at its rear end, opposite the swing door of the butler’s pantry. It was, for that house, a rather small, cheerful place with a big bay window on the south side.

At this meal Augustus conversed with himself brilliantly. Haworth said little, but looked smilingly on in his detached way. Edith, who said hardly anything, stole an occasional glance at him. Hulda waited on them. A cat came in from somewhere and entered pleas for refreshments,—not in vain.

When dinner was over the three went back to the large room, Haworth sitting there with his guests for half an hour or so; then, excusing himself, and telling them that breakfast was whenever they asked for it (he remembered old Cripps used to tell his visitors that), he went down to his shop in the basement.

He had an unusual experience there—something quite unexpected for him. He found that, for some reason, he was utterly unable to keep his mind on his work—work which had always so completely engrossed him that he had often found it impossible, when he ought to have done so, to keep his mind away from it.

He had begun on the first rough draft of a problem that had been on his mind for days, and only that morning he had got it. Consequently he was more than eager to get it down on paper. But again and again after he had started on the sketch, he would suddenly rouse himself to find that he was sitting with pencil poised, doing nothing. He would seem to wake up from something and find himself in this extraordinary situation.

On making a startled inquiry of himself as to the cause of this unusual phenomenon, he realized at once that the chief trouble—or at least the chief diversion—was a pair of the most exquisite hands, though sometimes two tired little feet in worn-out shoes would share the guilt; and even an appealing face with dark troubled eyes looking up at him was now and again responsible. But why shouldn’t he have his guests on his mind? It was a most astonishing affair, this coming of Mr. Cripps’s nephew and his wife. Probably this accounted for everything.

Finally, after a couple of hours of useless effort, he gave up the struggle and allowed his thoughts to dwell in peace on Edith Findlay. He went over and over in his mind everything she had said or done and looked. What a pathetic and helpless little figure! And there was her husband—a most objectionable sort of thing. Most likely that was the trouble—something wrong with him. Liquor—drugs—it might be anything. Think of the fellow not bringing the trunks out with him, knowing his wife had nothing! He would see to it himself in the morning. Yet how wonderfully she had managed to transform herself in some way—her hair so becomingly arranged. Really, it was extraordinary. Perhaps Hulda had lent her some of the things. And now he thought of it, how nice it was of Hulda to take such an interest. He hadn’t really appreciated her before.

After a time it occurred to him that he ought to go up and see if there was anything he could do to make his guests, in the absence of their trunks, more comfortable for the night. Yes, it certainly was his duty as host to do what he could.

On reaching the living room, however, he found that they’d gone upstairs, so he stood awhile looking at the chair one of them had been sitting in, and remembering how she had looked up at him when he rolled that same chair, with her in it, close up to the fire. From that he went on to recall other things and to run the pictures over and over again in his mind. Finally, when he came to himself, it was very late indeed.

* * * * *

Haworth was an early riser, and the next morning Hulda, hearing him in his machine shop in the basement, took him down a pot of coffee with toast and a cereal, as she always did when he went down there before breakfast; for if he once got absorbed in his work the idea of coming up would never occur to him. She found him at his drawing board, apparently considering something very carefully before getting it down on paper. Hearing her come in, he roused himself and looked up blankly.

“Your coffee, sir,” she said; and placed the tray within his reach.

He thanked her and at once poured out some, for he’d been sitting there most of the night and felt the need of it, now the matter was brought to his attention.

As the maid was going out he stopped her with, “Oh, Hulda! It was—it was good of you to take care of Mrs. Findlay so—so nicely.”

“I was glad to, sir,” she responded after an instant of surprise, for Mr. Haworth so seldom noticed anything. “Indeed I was, sir, for she’s a sweet little body. If you’ll excuse me saying it, it must be awful for ’er with that man.”

Haworth turned, surprised, and looked at the maid.

“What do you know about him?” he asked.

“Well, I—I can see ’im, sir, an’ that’s something!”

Haworth was silent.

“And besides, cook tells me the cook before _her_ was saying things about a terrible person used to live here, until one day in the middle of the night ole Mr. Cripps threw ’im out o’ the house an’ kicked ’im down the front steps; an’ when I was putting towels in their bathroom yesterday I heard ’im telling ’er how different things was when ’e lived here, so I can’t but think it’s ’im.”

Haworth looked silently at her for a moment and then said: “Yes. Well, tell me when they’ve finished breakfast. I want to see them about their trunks.”

Some two hours later the maid came down and told him. But when he went upstairs Augustus had left the house and Mrs. Findlay had gone to her room. Haworth went up and knocked at the door. She opened it.

“Oh!” she said with a little gasp. “I was afraid you were angry!”

“Angry?”

“Yes.” She was looking down, but soon raised her eyes to his. Suddenly she thought of the disordered room and stepped out into the hallway beside him, closing the door after her.

“What made you think so?” he asked, after his eyes had rested on her in silence a moment.

“You didn’t come to breakfast at all!”

“Oh, _that_!” Haworth smiled. “I nearly always don’t.”

“Don’t you have any?”

“Yes, but when I’m down working Hulda brings it to me.”

“Oh!” She seemed relieved. “I was afraid it was because you—because we were here.”

He shook his head a little and muttered, “No.”

“It’ll be so some time,” she said, scarcely above a whisper.

“You’re mistaken about that,” he told her gently.

She looked at him with eyes showing gratitude, yet with it the painful conviction that she was right.

“Did Mr. Findlay take the checks with him?” he asked.

She looked at him, not understanding.

“The checks for the trunks,” he explained.

“Oh! No, he—he didn’t!”

“There’s a truckman over at Jamaica Plain,” Haworth said. “He often hauls for me—that is, he used to. He’ll have the trunks here by noon. So if you’ll give the checks——”

“I—I don’t know where they——” She stopped for an instant, then turned and looked him in the face. “There aren’t any checks,” she said in a low voice.

Haworth was silent, his calm gaze upon her.

“There aren’t any checks—or trunks—or _anything_!” Having made this sweeping confession, she stood guiltily before him as though she’d acknowledged complicity in a bank robbery.

“But you have some things—_somewhere_!” he finally asked in a gentle voice, trying not to hurt her.

She shook her head a little without looking up. “You see—you see, we _did_ have some trunks. We _had_ them—but——”

“Yes yes, I know,” he said softly, his hand touching her shoulder in sympathy for an instant. “It’s a tough thing for you, losing everything like that, but it’s simply wonderful for me! Yes, it is,” (seeing her look of amazement) “for it gives me the chance to do something that I—that I like doing so very much indeed!”

“I’m afraid I don’t exactly——What is it?”

“Why—why nothing at all, only to get you a few little things you’ll need. Hulda can do it; we’ll leave it all to her.... And then you’ll be wearing something that I——”

He stopped, seeing that Edith had turned away and was fumbling with the door knob.

“But Mrs. Findlay,” he said, quickly, “I didn’t mean to—won’t you please——”

But she was shaking her head as she finally got the door open, and he heard an indistinct, “No——I can’t!” as she fled blindly through it into her room, closing it quickly after her.

Haworth stood motionless before the door—which had almost been shut in his face, and a great fear nearly stopped his heart from beating—the fear that she was angry with him.

After standing some time quite unable to figure it out, he suddenly thought of Hulda, and hurrying down to the room on the left, rang the bell; after which he waited in a state of near-panic till she came.

“Hulda,” he said the instant she appeared, “I’ve offended Mrs. Findlay seriously! Yes, I’m afraid I have! Do you know anything that could be done?”

“What makes you think it, sir? Did she say anything?”

“No—not exactly; but while I was talking to her she turned and ran into her room and shut the door.”

“What were you saying to ’er, Mr. Haworth? That might be it.”

“It couldn’t be! I was only telling her that I was going to have you get her some things to—to wear you know—because all their trunks are lost, you see.”

“I don’t think she’s angry.” Hulda had a smile concealed somewhere. “It’s most likely just feelings, sir.”

“Feelings?”

“Yes sir—about you being that kind to ’er, I’d say.”

“Are you quite sure that was all?”

“Indeed I am, sir, but when she’s had a little time I’ll go up and see to the room—they got up so late it isn’t done yet—an’ then I’ll hear what she says.”

“Yes, do that! And if it _is_ so—as you think—and there’s no trouble of any kind, I want you to go to town with her as soon as you can and help about getting the things.”

“Yes sir. An’ what was you thinking of getting?”

“Oh yes. Well you’d know that, wouldn’t you? Things to wear, of course—dresses and—and—and so on. She must have things to use, too—brushes and combs and shaving soap—no, other soap, I mean—and hair things—you know, to hold it up and all that. Get whatever there is, Hulda; she hasn’t anything at all. That makes it quite simple, doesn’t it?”

“Yes sir; she wants to be fitted out.”

“That’s it—fitted out! And oh, there’s one thing—yes, shoes. Be very careful about that, Hulda! I want her to have some perfectly delightful shoes—the nicest you can get, and quite a lot of them—all she can use. And oh, another thing—gloves. Quite extraordinary gloves! Don’t forget those two things, Hulda—shoes—gloves. They’re really the most important of all!”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“And about the dresses—several different varieties—all of them the most satisfactory in every respect. And then—get the—the—” (making motions up and down his body to illustrate) “underthings, you know. Don’t fail to have them the nicest that are made. I’m sure this is a very important—er—phase of the matter.”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“And hats—of course she’ll need a few of those. And some fur things—don’t fail to get some fur things. She was shivering yesterday.”

“I’ll do the best I can, Mr. Haworth, but wouldn’t it be better to buy easy at first? Say, to-day a ready-made dress or two an’ a pair o’ shoes an’ a few things, an’ let the rest come gradual? I’m only thinking of ’er feelings as not being equal to it if all the things was to come at a jump, as one might say.”

“That’s perfectly true. Her feelings must be treated with the greatest care!” He glanced at the stairway through the open door.

“I’ll go upstairs now, sir; but I’m sure you needn’t to feel uneasy about it.”

And Hulda went up the stairway and a moment later could be heard gently knocking at Mrs. Findlay’s door.

When he finally heard Hulda coming down again his heart pounded so violently that he was sure it shook him. A mechanical notion flashed in his mind that his pumping plant was too powerful for the frame. He found himself, too, hardly able to turn and face the maid when she came to the door.

“It’s all right, sir,” she said. “An’ we’ll be going in as soon as I finish the rooms. An’ if you please, sir, she’d like to speak to you before we go.”

The relief was unspeakable. She wasn’t angry or offended. And she’d wear things that he gave her.

So everything was arranged and Haworth gave Hulda enough money for the first day, not noticing or thinking for an instant that he was making an ugly excavation in what was supposed to carry him on for a year. When the maid had gone for her hat and cloak, Haworth waited about in the hall. At last he heard Edith coming down and went to meet her at the foot of the stairs.

Seeing him, she stopped before she was quite down. The thought came to him that he wished she could stay there—on the stairs—a little above him—instead of going to town. Couldn’t that, perhaps, be put off until the next day? Her voice, slightly tremulous, interrupted his meditations.

“I’m awfully sorry I acted so,” was what she said. “Please forgive me.”

He looked up in her face, drinking in with his eyes something indescribable and inconceivable that came to him from hers.

“I’ll be so glad,” she went on after the briefest pause, “to wear anything that you——” suddenly putting out her hand, “oh, you’re so kind!”

It was incredible! At this time yesterday he had been unaware that she existed; now he was unaware that anything else did. But there was hardly time to realize it before the hand was gone and she was moving toward the door; and very soon Hulda came and the two went off together.

Haworth stood in the doorway and watched them go down the great stone steps and along the curved drive to Torrington Road. Then he came slowly in, closed the door, and stood thinking—or rather, remembering. Not one word had he said to her since she came down. Going over every smallest detail of what had occurred, he couldn’t find any place where he had said anything. But why should he? There didn’t seem to be anything to say. As a matter of fact he had no idea at all of what had happened to him.

From this you’ll understand why he had no slightest sense of guilt or trespass. It didn’t disturb him when Findlay came back from the city and borrowed twenty dollars—an amount, he told Haworth, that would enable him to take advantage of an extraordinary business opportunity which had presented itself.

* * * * *

Hulda brought Mrs. Findlay and a large number of packages home in a taxi about a quarter before five. Haworth was down in his workshop, where he managed, by the exertion of enormous will power, to do a few little pieces of manual labor on one of the lathes. His being unable to concentrate on his work had worried him quite a bit. But although he was entirely aware that Edith was tremendously attractive to him in many ways, it did not occur to him to connect that circumstance with what seemed to him a failing intellect so far as mechanics was concerned.

Hulda descended to the basement to report to Haworth on the shopping tour, which had resulted in not only what they had brought home, but several articles that were to be fitted later.

“Tell me what you did about the shoes?” he inquired, without the least effort to conceal his eagerness for information on that subject.

“Oh yes, sir! There’s lovely ones for the house an’ two kinds for the street, that’s most beautiful on ’er. Wait till you see ’em, sir!”

“I will,” said Haworth, and went on with his screw-cutting at the lathe, though his mind had absented itself entirely from mechanical pursuits. Fortunately the process was largely automatic, so no serious damage was done.

At half-past six he went to his room and got into a fairly good suit of clothes. He’d never given anything that could be called “thought” to what he wore, further than to have it clean, and so far as possible not torn or otherwise mutilated. Old Mr. Cripps, during the time the two were living together, had frequently taken him to his own tailor and ordered clothing for him in a most generous way. Since the old man’s death, however, Haworth had been to that place only once, on which occasion he had asked them to make him two suits, one thin, the other thick. But when they began to unroll the vast cylinders of “imported goods” before him, he had started for the door, muttering quite audibly that it was their business to find the stuff to make them of, not his.

Edith came down in a charming slip of a dress they’d found. It had needed no alteration, so she could have it for that evening.

Haworth, waiting in the living room, fixed his eyes on her in calm astonishment. He would hardly have known her. It wasn’t the dress alone, but everything, including herself.

She found herself standing still just inside the door, his steadfast gaze of amazement and admiration acting like an automatic signal set against her.

“Please sit here,” he said, after a moment of regarding her in silence, and indicating the big chair she’d been sitting in the day before when he lighted the fire.

She looked up at him from the depths of the chair with wide-eyed questioning.

After he’d stood looking at her a moment or two with a peculiar expression, he said, suddenly: “Come along—let’s have dinner!”

And she never got the answer—anyway not then—to her optical interrogation points. Which was, that he wanted to see her feet in their ravishing new slippers, just where he’d seen them the day before in the poor little worn and downtrodden shoes.

And there they were, these two by themselves, at dinner. Mr. Augustus Findlay, running true to form (about the only thing to which he did), failed to put in an appearance. He was otherwise engaged in low-lived haunts, with a twenty-dollar bill.

And there they were again, these two, sitting by the fire in the evening, quietly talking and occasionally silent for a space; going down to see his shop; then each apparently reading a book—though neither of them read a single word. And so it went on for a number of days.

Everything seemed to be against them—pushing them toward the edge of the precipice. Even the maid Hulda, who must have seen the danger, was assisting their approach to it instead of trying to hold them back; for which questionable behavior her opinion of Mr. Findlay was largely responsible, her sympathetic attitude toward what is roughly referred to as “romance” perhaps accounting for the rest.

* * * * *

But something shortly happened that not only showed them where they were going, but flashed them an idea of the distance they’d gone.

It was the night of the ninth day after the Findlays had arrived at the mansion. Augustus during this time, had made what were, for him, supreme efforts to control himself, knowing very well that a great deal depended on it. He and his wife had been taken in and provided with a home free of cost and containing among its other furniture a soft-hearted boob out of whom he could apparently squeeze what money he needed, if he was careful to handle it right. Haworth was certainly an utter fool, but even at that he might be troublesome if once aroused. Though by no means of powerful build, he was a bit too husky to take a chance on.

For a while Findlay managed to avoid displays of himself that would be positively objectionable. But as these nine days wore on he seemed to be losing his grip on himself, such as it was. He was coming home later and later each night and making more and more of a disturbance each time he did it.

Haworth had several times been awakened in the small hours of the morning by the slamming of doors and the shouting of oaths and lines out of what are called, for want of a worse name, songs. However, as the noise and uproar seemed to subside when Findlay finally got himself upstairs, Haworth waited for that relief, though with a sharp agony of pain at the thought of Edith having to endure the presence of the intoxicated loafer.

This had been going on for more than a week, and, as I say, growing steadily worse, when a night came that the raucous clamor failed to diminish on Findlay’s getting upstairs and into the room that he and his wife occupied. It was somewhat muffled after the door closed, but even then oaths and abuse could be heard, and violent demands for something.

Haworth’s room was farther back on the same corridor, and the old-fashioned transom above the door was open. At first he couldn’t make out what the half-crazy sot was trying to get from her, as he was evidently making an effort to keep his voice down; but soon excitement or anger made him raise it, and Haworth could hear his shouted demands for a key to something.

Edith was saying nothing. All that could be heard were the threats and imprecations of her husband. Suddenly this stopped, then a quick and frightened, “_Oh no!_” from Edith, followed at once by deeper threats and in the midst of them a subdued scream and the sound of the door flung open.

Haworth had sprung from his bed at the very instant of Edith’s scream and was through the door and out in the corridor just as she came running out of her room, followed by her husband. He was flourishing a big revolver and lurching this way and that as he came.

Haworth started up the hall toward them, but Edith had seen him and ran into his arms, terrified. He instantly swung her around behind him so that he was between her and Findlay, and without taking his eyes off the latter,—who had stopped not far from the door of his room and was staring with alcoholic malevolence at his wife and the man she was clinging to. The light that had been left on for him in the upper hall shone directly across them.

“Here!” he suddenly called out. “Thish has gone far enough!” And he flourished his weapon about. “Far enough!” he repeated, and went on mumbling threats and curses.

Haworth began gently to free himself from Edith’s frightened clinging, at the same time pushing her back toward the door of his room.

“Don’t worry,” he told her as they moved back; “he isn’t going to hurt anybody. I want to speak to him a minute.”

“Oh no! You mustn’t! No—_please_! He’s crazy! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Yes—well, I thought I’d tell him.”

They’d reached his door by now.

“Could you wait here a minute—just in the doorway?... That’s it. And please don’t come out in the hall.”

She obeyed and stood just within the door, but her eyes were looking at him with wide anxiety. He touched her shoulder soothingly, then turned away and walked easily up the corridor toward the liquor-crazed brute with the gun.

“Now you wait juss precishly ware you are or I’ll plug you!” Findlay’s speech was thick but his revolver was steady enough as he brought it down, covering Haworth.

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation, however, on the part of that young man as he calmly walked up to Augustus. “I’ll take that gun,” he said.

“What!”

“That gun—there in your hand.”

Augustus stood blinking at him several seconds, then slowly lowered his arm, and after another pause reached out the weapon toward Haworth. The young man took it and turning toward the front of the house, sent it crashing through the big east window of the upper hall. Then he stepped to the open door of Findlay’s room, and taking the key out of the inside keyhole, inserted it in the outside one. That done, he turned to Findlay and made a slight motion to him to go in. Nothing marked, no assumption of command, a mere side motion of the head with a turn of the hand.

Augustus did further vacant blinking. Then, seeming to comprehend something, he turned and walked unsteadily through the door, upon which Haworth closed it carefully and turned the key on the outside. After trying it to make sure the lock was holding, he went back to Edith.

She caught at him impulsively as he came to her in the doorway of his room, and he could hear her breathing deep relief. Almost without knowing it he had her in his arms, held close against him. He felt that her whole body was trembling. He looked down and noticed for the first time that she had on only a thin slip of a nightdress—one of the flimsy things that Hulda had bought her.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s only he——How did I know but—how did I know——”

“Tell me.”

“He might have—killed you!”

“There was no danger of that.—You’re shivering! Do you mind getting in there—in my bed—till I get some of your things?” And he pushed her gently back into the half-dark room. “You must get warm. You must, my—my dear.”

She still clung to him.

“Don’t go there again,” she whispered.

“But I want to get something warm for you—that fur thing.”

“You can’t. It’s locked in a drawer.”

“Where’s the key?”

“I—I——”

“Have you hidden it somewhere?”

“It’s on this string—around my neck. I didn’t want him to get it.”

“Get it! For what?”

She wouldn’t say any more. But even as he asked the question he knew—for the money he might raise on it.

“Let me have the key,” he said.

“No, please!” she remonstrated. “You mustn’t go—you mustn’t. When he drinks he’s out of his mind—a maniac; you don’t know what terrible things he might do.”

“He can’t do much now—his gun’s out there in the grass.”

She stared up at Haworth.

“Was that it—when the glass broke?”

He nodded.

After a moment she undid the string and gave him the key. But her hands were trembling.

“Does he do this often?” Haworth inquired.

“Not with—with one of those things.”

“Gun, you mean?”

He could feel her head nodding “yes” as it rested against him.

“But last night,” she went on, “he—told me—if I didn’t give him the key to-night he’d——” A slight shudder passed over her.

“Nothing like that’ll happen here, so please don’t worry.”

She looked up in his face, which she could just see—a whiteness in the gloom.

“I didn’t mind so much till he fired it once,—not—not _at_ me, but I didn’t know that, and ever since I can’t—seem to——” She shuddered again in his arms.

“He won’t fire it again.... Your hands are like ice. Do please crawl in there and pull the blankets over you.”

And he urged her toward the disordered pillows.

When she had turned and moved away in the dimness, Haworth went back to the Findlay room and unlocked the door. Taking the key out of the lock, he stepped inside, closed the door and locked it again, putting the key in the pocket of his pajamas.

Augustus was sitting on the bed. He appeared to be trying to figure out what had happened to him.

“You again!” he mumbled.

Haworth didn’t take the trouble to glance in his direction but went across to the bureau and unlocked the drawers with the key Edith had given him, then piled the contents across his left arm, leaving his right free for other purposes. On these things he tossed whatever articles of feminine apparel he could find about the room, including a pair of little fur-lined slippers which he handled with the utmost consideration. He also made a clean sweep of the toilet articles on the dressing table, managing to hold them on top of the other things with his left hand backward over them. Then he returned to the door and was taking the key out of his pocket with his free hand when Augustus spoke again.

“You wait!” he shouted, thickly.

Haworth turned to him.

“I shay wait—you there! Do I make myself plain?”

“What is it? I’m waiting.”

“Oh, you are, eh! You’re waitin’, eh! Well, I’m damn glad to know it! Now you juss tell me—I demand you tell me where my wife is! _You tell me that?_”

“I’ll inform you of one thing—she’s safe from you!” And Haworth turned back to the door.

“Now, you!” Findlay had risen heavily and was lumbering toward him. “Now juss one minute, my frien’—juss one minute! I’ll thank you to leave those things where they b’long!”

Haworth waited until Findlay had come blustering up to within a couple of feet of him and stopped. The two regarded each other in silence for a few seconds. Then the young inventor spoke in a low voice. “I’ve got a few words to say to you in the morning,” he said, and unlocking the door, went out, and closed and locked it again on the outside.

“Getting warm all right?” he asked, standing by the bed in the dimness of his room.

“I think so,” came the voice of Edith, muffled by the pillows.

He put down the clothing carefully on a chair.

“I think I found everything,” he said. “You must stay here and keep warm.” And he tried to pull the blankets closer round her neck.

“But if he comes with that—that——”

“He won’t. He’s locked in the room. And I’ll be just outside here in the hall, not ten feet away—not ten feet. I’ll get the big chair down the hall——”

“But—oh no—I can’t drive you out of your room like that! _I’ll_ stay out there.” She caught at his hand and clung to it.

“But wait. Listen, darling—darling—darling——” (Now that he’d found the word, he wanted to say it all the time.) “I’d so—so much—so tremendously much like being there watching while you’re asleep. You don’t know—it’s—it’s beyond words. So you must let me do that while you’re attending to the sleeping part.” He was accustomed to the near darkness now and could see her eyes wide open, fixed on him. “If you want a light”—he spoke rather hurriedly—“the switch is there by the door. Can you see it? And you’ll call me if you want anything, won’t you?”

He tried to disengage his hand, but as she wouldn’t let it go he lifted it so her hand came to his lips, and held it pressed against them for a little; then gently undid her fingers and tucked her arm under the coverlet.

“I’ll take these on the way,” he said, gathering up an armful of his own clothes from a chair and moving toward the door.

“I’m coming too!” she suddenly announced, throwing the bedclothes back and sliding out till her little white feet touched the floor. “If you’re going to sit out there I’m going to sit with you!” And she began to fumble among the things he’d brought from her room.

He stood in the doorway, considering. She surely ought to stay there and keep warm and rest. The house was chilly. She’d be sure to—she’d be——And at that point an idea came to him.

“I’ll build a fire downstairs if you’ll come and sit by it,” he said.

She straightened up from her search among the things on the chair and looked at him for a second; then:

“Are you coming too?”

“Oh yes!”

“Oh!—Then I’ll be down in just a minute!”

He reached in and snapped the light on for her, closed the door, and went downstairs. After putting on the clothes he had caught up while leaving his room, he built a huge fire in the fireplace of the living room.

Edith came before he’d quite finished, and he pushed the big chair around in front of the fire for her, and another for himself as near to it as its bloated old upholstery would allow. There was only firelight in the room, and the two were there in it without a thought of anything but that they were there—together. Haworth had her dear, precious, exquisite hands in his (I’m quoting from his thoughts) and when she fell asleep her head rested on his shoulder. Never had he imagined that such a miraculous night was within the reach of members of the human race—nor, indeed, had she.

* * * * *

Of course, they knew now. Perhaps not the strength of the current that was whirling them along, perhaps not precisely how far they’d already been carried by it, but enough. And the first idea in the minds of both Edith and Haworth when they came to think it over by daylight was to resist, to attempt to get out of the rapids.

With one accord and no words spoken they set to work on the following morning with the brave idea of behaving as though they were merely casual acquaintances, and not, as was the actual state of things, the custodians of each other’s lives. And they succeeded fairly well in acting this deceitful drama whenever they chanced to meet—which was necessarily quite often—and gave their performance as relentlessly when no audience was there to see, as they did in the presence of spectators. Moreover, they really tried, both of them, to avoid meeting. There was no attempted coldness; their relationship would have seemed to an observer to be of agreeable friendliness, nothing more.

And, as it happened, there _was_ an observer——and not only that, but a close and eager one.

When Haworth went in to say a few words to Findlay the morning after the latter’s revolver had been taken from him and flung through the window, he found the fellow silent and sullen. His ideas as to what had occurred during the night were hazy in the extreme, but these few quiet words from Haworth cleared his atmosphere in the space of a few seconds, and put him in the way of distinct realization of where he stood. He had threatened his wife with a gun (he remembered having intended to do so) and the weapon had been taken from him. He had been locked in his room (he was already aware of this from having made efforts to get out) and as the Haworth fellow gave it to him, not only was Mrs. Findlay to have a separate sleeping room, but she was to occupy it without interference or disturbance from him.

As for Haworth himself, he would sleep downstairs on a cot in his drafting room, as he had often done before. This would give them the entire floor to themselves. If, however, he started any of his rowdyism again, or mistreated his wife, or threatened her with mistreatment, he would be turned over to the police and locked up. That was all. Good morning.

It was the matter of his wife being given a room by herself that put a knife in him. A dull but furious jealousy began to rage somewhere in his interior. Though he had a horror of losing these comfortable and cost-free quarters, that aversion was as nothing beside the rabid fury generated by his suddenly aroused suspicion. The mere thought of what might be—when he allowed himself to project his imaginings on the subject as far as that—threw him into a fit of murderous passion. He’d keep his eyes open! He’d get on to it pretty damned quick if any funny business was going on. And if it was —— ——

From that time and for more than a week it could have been noticed—and probably was by Hulda—that Mr. Findlay went in to Boston with much less frequency than formerly, and that when he did so he arrived back at most unexpected times,—once coming in quite hurriedly by one of the rear entrances fifteen minutes after he had left the house at the front door, apparently departing for the day.

It so happened, though, that neither of the two people Findlay was endeavoring to surprise in some sort of misdemeanor, was in the slightest degree aware of his violent spasm of watchfulness. They were both fighting desperately to struggle out of the torrent that had swept them off their feet, and couldn’t be expected to take notice of other things. Naturally, under the circumstances, Augustus discovered nothing. There _was_ nothing. Even when they met alone, only a few commonplace words, if any, passed between them. He never once overheard the least thing that was out of the way when it happened that they were alone together and he could manage to listen, and when they both went out, as they did nearly every afternoon—Haworth for long walks on the railroad track, Edith to trudge about the suburban roads or sometimes to go in to Boston—and he followed one or the other of them, he never found that they met anywhere or came within miles of meeting.

As he was unable to gather fuel for his jealousy, it began to burn with diminished ferocity, and it wasn’t long before he revived his briefly interrupted custom of returning late at night from his alleged business trips to the city, bringing with him a heavy load of whatever intoxicant he could buy with the money he borrowed from Haworth. For a while, however, his subconscious department succeeded in keeping uppermost in his mind the idea that it would be well to control himself when he came in, and to get into bed as quietly as possible.

* * * * *

Something over a fortnight after the revolver episode and the night together by the open fire, the two unfortunates, caught in the merciless grip of a love trap and struggling with all the strength they could command to extricate themselves from it, had come very close to reaching the limit of what they could do. Was anything else to be expected? Completely out of their normal minds—mad—even quietly delirious—living there together in the same house—left to themselves most of the time, and trying to carry on as if they were casual acquaintances—wouldn’t that wear out the strength of anyone, or, to be more accurate, any two?

Haworth, one day along this time, came in from a tramp at dinner time and learned from Hulda that Mr. Findlay hadn’t come in. He and Edith would be alone together. It had happened several times lately, but to-night he had the feeling that he couldn’t manage to behave as an ordinary friend might; he didn’t think he could carry it through.

“When Mrs. Findlay comes down, ask her please to have dinner without me. I’ve got some important work to do—very important.”

When Hulda went into the hall she saw Edith near the top of the stairs and going up. She had come down and stopped near the door as she heard Haworth speaking, and couldn’t help hearing what he said. Upon which she fled up the stairs again, and a moment after the maid had caught sight of her she was back in her room with the door closed.

Hulda followed and knocked softly.

“Can’t I bring you up something, Mrs. Findlay?”

“No, nothing—_please_.”

Hulda left a tray on Haworth’s drawing table, before which he was sitting absently. But she knew, as soon as she saw him, that he wouldn’t touch anything.

It was a wicked evening for them both. Haworth sat in a corner of his workroom and stared before him, seeing nothing. Edith lay on her bed with her head pushed in among the pillows.

With her it was simpler—just plain misery, and longing, and hunger and thirst for him. But Haworth, while having all these feelings for her, was at the same time feverishly hunting for some way out, all the while knowing that nothing could be done without money, of which he was by this time nearly destitute. If he had had the means at hand, there isn’t the slightest doubt he’d have fled with her. But he hadn’t nearly enough for that, nor had he anything on which he could raise it. The amount that old Mr. Cripps had left to him (being probably the remains of the money obtained on the mortgage) had virtually disappeared.

Haworth wasn’t in the habit of thinking of these things; he’d always let them go until something happened. For himself what did it matter? But now ... Edith. And he went over the problem again and again, hoping each time to arrive at a better result.

It was very much later in the evening when Hulda came down and tapped at his door. After she had knocked three times he heard her.

“Come in,” he said, huskily.

“Mrs. Findlay asked me to say could she speak to you for a minute.”

“Yes—yes.” Haworth roused himself and cleared his throat. “Tell her I’ll go up there and—and see what she wants.”

“Yes sir.”

A moment later he knocked at Edith’s door and she opened it. They stood silent. Suddenly he snatched both her hands and held them pressed against him.

“Oh!” she breathed—a sort of whispered groan—and turned her head away for God knows what—perhaps a last feeble effort to avert the catastrophe she knew was coming. Soon she turned to him again and spoke unsteadily, almost whispering.

“This was what I—what I wanted to tell you,” she said. “I’ve been thinking it over, and now—you see—you see the way things are—I can’t——Don’t you see I’ll have to go?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“I couldn’t let you! How could I when I love you so!”

She was looking up in his face and her lips moved. Though no sound came from them, he could feel what she was trying to say—knew it almost before she began—and had her close in his arms, kissing her madly, blindly, impetuously; whispering brokenly the few words of endearment he knew.

It seemed hardly a moment, but it was in reality a large number of them, before the violent closing of the front door recalled Edith and Haworth to the surface of the earth. Not only were they made acquainted by this with the circumstance of Findlay’s return, but the demonstration following said closing gave a fairly reliable indication of his condition, consisting as it did of a burst of song and a bit of incoherent monologue.

“I’m going to lock you in,” Haworth whispered in Edith’s ear.

“Yes.”

He locked the door from the outside and put the key in his pocket. Then he went along the corridor to the rear of the house, down the servants’ staircase, and through the passage into the main hall.

Augustus was preparing to negotiate the stairs.

“Well, how-dy-do!” he said, supporting himself by one of the newel posts. “You see before you, Misser Haworth, a shinin’ ezample of the pernishus influences of too mush happinish!”

Haworth stood silently regarding him.

“I’m shorry,” he went on. “Deeply an’ shincerely—e—sinsherely shorry. But it was on account o’ shelibrashun! Yes, sir—shelibration! You’ll be d’lighted to hear th’ glad tidings that I got a posishun. Yes, sir—though I say it myself they took me on to-day at the Boshun Nalb’ny freight yards. You know men are very scarce!”

“They must be,” said Haworth; and turning away he went into the living room. From there he could hear Augustus finally accomplish the (for him) considerable feat of ascending the stairs, and from the summit of the same negotiate the short distance to his room. In a moment he heard him come out again and walk heavily down the corridor to the room occupied by Mrs. Findlay.

Haworth could hear his loud pounding on her door and boisterous demands to be let in, together with the shouted information as to his having been taken on by the railroad company and his urgent desire for further celebration of that event. This he kept up interminably, varying it with whining and begging that she open the door. But he eventually became tired of it and went shambling back to his room.

Haworth gave him about half an hour. At the expiration of that time he went upstairs and listened at his door. Loud breathing and raucous nasal reverberations were the only sounds that could be heard from within. The key was at his hand on the outside. He grasped it firmly so there should be as little rattling as possible, and slowly turned it in the lock. After listening a moment to make sure the slight click hadn’t disturbed the sleeper within, he turned and walked down the corridor, taking the other key out of his pocket as he went.

* * * * *

It proved to be the truth that Augustus had got a job at the Exeter Street freight yards. Whether to hustle boxes and barrels about or sit on a high stool and work at bills of lading he never told. But whatever it was, it obliged him to rise every morning at five-thirty and have breakfast at six.

After three mornings of this, Alma, the cook, appeared before Haworth and made the solemn declaration that she wouldn’t be staying there to get up and cook a special breakfast “for the likes o’ him.” Haworth, much disturbed, inquired of Hulda what he’d better do, and she told him that the only way to settle it was to turn that Findlay man out of the house and get rid of him “for good an’ all.” But of course if he did that Augustus would take Edith with him. No way to prevent it that he could see. He puzzled quite distractedly over the matter for some time, and then bethought him of an old woman who came in from somewhere once a week to clean. Mrs. Temple was her name, and several times in the past when she’d been working in the basement he had called her into his shop and got her to help him about something that needed an extra pair of hands; and twice since Michael Cripps’s death—there being no one else to do it—she had gone in to Boston to manage the matter of replacing servants for him. It now occurred to him to ask her what had better be done about Mr. Findlay’s new breakfast requirements.

Mrs. Temple was entirely equal to the occasion. She herself went to Mr. Findlay and notified him in not the politest terms, that if he wanted his breakfast before eight o’clock in the morning he’d have to get it somewhere else. There was no more trouble; Findlay got his breakfast somewhere else. And beginning about then Haworth came more and more to rely on the old woman for advice and assistance. She was a wise one, too, and had a perfectly clear idea of what she was about, which was particularly fortunate just at this period, for the young inventor was in a daze—a dream—an enchantment.

About this time the market where they bought provisions notified Haworth that it could not extend further credit because of unpaid bills. Following shortly, a grocery establishment did the same thing. And Haworth, having no idea what to do about it, as it appeared on investigation that he had very little money left—certainly not enough to pay what was owing—turned the matter over to the old woman, asking her please to attend to it in whatever way she thought best. This she forthwith did by opening accounts elsewhere. This would carry them along for a time at least, and after that “we’ll see.” Put that in quotes, because it was Mrs. Temple’s philosophy to do what she could at the time, and as to the future, “we’ll see.”

Where this old woman came from or when she came, no one seemed to know. Haworth himself hadn’t the faintest idea. She spoke very seldom and never about herself. Where she lived was also in the nature of a mystery. Of course it could have been solved if anyone cared to follow her, but no one did. And no one noticed it, either, when she began coming in twice a week instead of once as formerly. Nobody had asked her to, and she said nothing to anyone about an increase in wages.

* * * * *

Haworth and Edith Findlay were now making little or no effort to conceal the fact from Augustus—or for that matter from anyone—that they were together for the greater part of the time. They were in every way so utterly and completely taken up with each other that nothing else appeared to them of the slightest consequence. They talked and read together, and took long tramps in woods and fields and along country roads.

Findlay usually got home from his work about half-past five or six, often in plenty of time to see the two come in from an afternoon’s tramp, or to find them working in the old flower garden together, or something like that. And it was entirely open to observation—when anyone was there to observe it—that in the evening they were by themselves somewhere, reading together or engaged over chess or cribbage.

While all this, as I’ve said, could be seen without effort, Augustus had all the appearance of being unaware of it. But he had seen and heard enough in the course of a week or so, to rouse his most malignant passions. Without appearing to do so, he was watching every move they made.

When he first began work at the yards, Findlay had felt too tired on getting home at the end of the day, to go back to town again after dinner—or even to nearer places—for alcoholic consolation. This resulted in a much clearer mind than was normal with him. And once his overpowering suspicion was awakened the thought of drinking never crossed his mind.

As he became more and more aroused, at the same time gaining a stronger perception of the situation and harboring a more desperate desire to trap them, a scheme by which he could do so came into his mind, and he set to work to put it into practice. The first move was his failure to appear for dinner, which had not occurred since he got the job at the freight yards. Late that night he came in loaded—or apparently so. One would have supposed, if not too close an investigator, that the fellow was in a hopeless state of intoxication. And so, notwithstanding that his imitation of himself as a roistering inebriate was far from being a perfect one, it succeeded with the two people for whose benefit (and ultimate undoing) he was giving the performance; for, unfortunately, neither of them was in the mood to criticize it. He was enabled, therefore, eventually to stagger into his room with the impression successfully conveyed that he was drunk and disorderly to the furthest limit. Once there, and from the moment of his violently slamming shut the door, his vigil began.

He had tools with which to open the door should anyone lock him in, and the key was purposely left on the outside as a further blind. It was the fourth time that he set this trap before it closed on its victims.

* * * * *

Shortly before nine o’clock of the morning following the springing of the trap, Mr. Augustus Findlay drove up to the front portico of the mansion in a taxi, and with two small and exceedingly moderate-priced trunks set in front beside the driver. He’d gone out early and bought them at a place in Roslindale where they kept almost everything. The chauffeur lent a hand in taking them into the house, and about an hour later renewed the loan in bringing them out again.

Edith came slowly down the great stairway, pulling on her gloves. She wore the long fur coat that Haworth had given her; indeed, everything she had on came from him. She didn’t raise her eyes as she descended, seeming to be occupied with her gloves. The veil which was pulled down over her face failed to hide the paleness of it, which glimmered through like a small white cloud.

Haworth was standing back against the wall near the foot of the stairs, with the look of death upon him. It wasn’t so much the mortuary pallor of his countenance as the strained fixity of his staring yet unseeing eyes. He had gone to her room while Augustus was getting the taxi, and found it locked.

“Open the door! Open it quick!” he’d called to her in a half whisper as he knocked lightly, for to create a disturbance would defeat what he had made up his mind to do.

“Oh, I can’t!” she answered, coming as near to him as possible. “He’s taken away the key!”

Haworth turned and ran down the two flights of stairs to the basement, and was back in a moment with a heavy iron bar.

“Darling, are you there?”

“Oh yes—I’m right here—as near as I can get!”

“Well, stand away—stand away from the door. I’m going to break it in!”

“No no!—Please don’t! Oh wait Michael!”

“Get back by the window! You’re coming with me!”

“Stop! Michael—stop! _You’ll hurt me!_ I’m close to the door—right against it! Listen to me, dear—it’ll only make it worse! Yes, it will—whatever you do! He could stop us. There’d be police and, oh! reporters—and everything! I’m sure there would.”

Her low voice reached him clearly as she stood close against the door.

“What can we do?” he got out, hoarsely.

“Nothing now—nothing, dear, just now! I must go with him and you mustn’t do anything! Afterward, when it all quiets down, we’ll find some way!” This poor child was the wise and cool one through it all. Haworth was demented with the hurt of it and his helplessness.

“Don’t let him find you here!” she went on. “Let him have his way. Don’t say anything! Good-by, darling. I’ll be—I’ll be loving you always—always—and oh, so much!”

Haworth tried to speak, but couldn’t. After a time he moved slowly away.

And now she was coming down the stairs, buttoning one of her gloves and with her white face showing through the veil. He knew that she passed close to him and felt the thrill of her nearness. Then came the terrifying consciousness that she was going away from him. After that she was gone.

Findlay, waiting outside, saw her seated in the taxi; then he entered the house. Seeing Haworth near the stairway, he walked down the hall and got out between his teeth with a peculiar low-voiced malevolence: “You dirty loafer! You —— —— ——! Sometime—yes, by God! I’m going to get even with you.” Having delivered himself of which, he strode through the front door. A moment later the taxicab could be heard driving away.