Thoroughbreds Part 55

"I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness that has taught me to love you."

"Don't," she pleaded; "I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see--can't you understand?"

"Yes, I know--you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his trust in the bank. You must consider yourself--you must give him up; you can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from the penitentiary because of your influence."

"Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think that what you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? You know what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tells me that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he has had no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn't love him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't help it--I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and my love doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it would be even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would please my mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent, wouldn't your life be embittered--wouldn't it be terrible for you to be tied to a woman who loved another man?"

"But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so."

"And I know that he is innocent."

"Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy."

"My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart is still true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't--don't stab me to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and only gives me pain. I must wait--we must all wait, just wait. There is no harm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep your promise?" she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

"Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it was only to clear your brother."

They had come to the station by now.

"Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?" Crane asked. "You are taking my word."

"No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do."

"Don't think me cruel," Crane said, "but the wait will be so long."

"It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your--for your goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If you can--if you can--make it easier for Mortimer--I know he'll feel it if you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe him as--dishonest--will you, for my sake?"

It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at his inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl, he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism, what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had simply said, "Spare of censure this man for my sake." In thankfulness rather than in condescension he promised.

Even in disgrace--a felon--how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless love.

A sharp material whistle, screeching through its bra.s.s dome on the incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts.

"Good-bye, and thank you," said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane.

"Good-bye," he repeated, mechanically.

What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears rang the girl's words, "Wait, wait, wait." Irresponsibly he repeated to himself, "All things come to them that wait."

Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a man chooses to a.s.sume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection.

With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat upright--Philip Crane, the careful planner.

"You nearly missed the train," said Farrell.

"Did I?" questioned Crane, perplexedly. "I thought I got on in plenty of time."

Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation--a New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane.

Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love; and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.

Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong habits of a man. His callousness had been a s.h.i.+eld that had saved him troublous misgivings; behind this s.h.i.+eld, even in rapacity, he had experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was equally hopeless in his hour of victory.

Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.

"Will it be a court case?" he queried.

"What?" asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.

"That high roller in the bank."

"Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to." Crane's caution always a.s.serted itself first.

"Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but when it comes to swearing to a man's ident.i.ty in court, it's just a bit ticklish."

Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now verifying his plans.

Farrell continued, "You see what I mean?"

"I don't," answered Crane, shortly.

"You will if you wait," advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his tone. "I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an'

makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an'

taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.'

But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much like him, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing, pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken ident.i.ty is like grabbin' up two kings an' a jack, an' playin' 'em fer threes."

"Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man--that I've given you all this trouble for nothing."

Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case had been made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertainty would destroy the value of identification.

"Not by a jugful!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Farrell. "I'm just tellin' you this to show you that we've got to make it complete--we've got to get collateral to back up my pickin'."

"You mean some one else to identify him also?"

"No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen, must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will be in line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of the badge this rooster wore."

An inspiration came with Farrell's words--came to Crane. Why had he not thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number, Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered the hundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with the number in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed, the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth could question that evidence.

"It's a good idea, Farrell," he said.

"Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my place to-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up."

"I will," Crane answered.

XLIII.