Part 5 (1/2)

”Well, what then?” inquired Doc Madison easily.

”They'll yell 'fake!' and swear out warrants,” said Helena, her dark eyes studying Doc Madison.

”Not according to statistics,” replied Doc Madison, and his lips twitched quizzically at the corners. ”According to statistics they'll buy another crutch and come back to buck the tiger again. Say, Helena, to-morrow, you go up to the public library and read up on shrines--they've been running since the ark--and they're running still.

You never heard any howl about them, did you? What's the answer to those cures?”

”That's different,” said Helena. ”That's religion, and they've got relics and things.”

”It's faith,” said Doc Madison, ”and it doesn't matter what the basis of it is. Faith, Helena, _faith_--get that? And we're going to imbue them with a faith that'll set them crazy and send them into hysterics. And talk about relics! Haven't we got one? Look at the Patriarch! Can't you see the whole town yelling 'I told you so!' and swopping testimonials hard enough to crowd the print down so fine, if you tried to get it all into the papers, that you'd have to use a magnifying gla.s.s to read it, once we've pulled off the miracle? Don't you worry about the getaway. If there's any sign of anything like that, you and I, Helena, will be taking moonlight rides in the gondolas of Venice long before it breaks.”

Helena choked--and began to laugh deliciously.

Doc Madison stared at her for a moment whimsically--then he, too, burst into a laugh.

”Oh, Lord!” he gurgled. ”It's rich, isn't it?” And sweeping Helena off the couch and into his arms, he began to dance around and around the table. ”Ring-around-a-rosy!” he cried. ”We haven't done so bad in the misty past, but here's where we cross to the enchanted sh.o.r.e and play on jewelled harps with golden strings and--”

”Is that all?” gasped Helena, laughing and breathless, as at last she pulled herself away.

”No,” panted Doc Madison. ”There's a table I've reserved up at the Rivoli that's waiting for us now. We're about to part for days and days, lady mine, that's the tough luck of it, but we'll make a night of it to-night anyway--what?”

”You bet!” said Helena, doing a cake-walk towards the door. ”Come on!”

--III--

NEEDLEY

”Needley?”

It wasn't wholly an interrogation--it seemed to Madison that there was even sympathy in the parlor-car conductor's voice, as the other took his seat check.

”Health,” said Madison meekly. ”Perfect rest and quiet--been overdoing it, you know.”

”_Needley_!”--the train conductor of the Bar Harbor Express, collecting the transportation, threw the word at Madison as though it were a personal affront.

The tone seemed to demand an apology from Madison--and Madison apologized.

”Health,” he said apologetically. ”Perfect rest and quiet--been overdoing it, you know.”

”We're five minutes late now,” grunted the conductor uncompromisingly and, to Madison, quite irrelevantly, as he pa.s.sed on down the aisle.

Somehow, this inspired Madison to consult his timetable. He drew it from his pocket, ran his eye down the long list of stations--and stopped at ”Needley.” Needley had an asterisk after it. By consulting a block of small type at the bottom of the page, he found a corresponding asterisk with the words: ”Flag station. Stops only on signal, or to discharge eastbound pa.s.sengers from Portland.”

John Garfield Madison went into the smoking compartment of the car for a cigar--several cigars--until Needley was reached some two hours later, when the dusky attendant, as he pocketed Madison's dollar, set down his little rubber-topped footstool with a flourish on a desolate and forbidding-looking platform.

Madison was neither surprised nor dismayed--the parlor-car conductor, the train conductor and the timetable had in no way attempted to deceive him--he was only cold. He turned up his coat collar--and blew on his kid-gloved fingers.

As far as he could see everything was white with a thin layer of snow--he kicked some of it off his toes onto the unshovelled platform.

The landscape was disconsolately void of even a vestige of life, there was not a sign of habitation--just woods of bare trees, except the firs, whose green seemed out of place.