Part 51 (1/2)

”Mr. Porter.”

It was the cas.h.i.+er's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer's low, pleading tones.

Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, ”Will you step into my office for a minute?”

The cas.h.i.+er's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and when Alan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him.

Had he denied taking the money? My G.o.d! the full horror of Mortimer's hopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroying forest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusation of himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor; now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that he possessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor to save the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, but without hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would it profit him to denounce the boy.

Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw that everything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered; but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadful crime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of her son if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against his friend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis?

Mentally his argument, his a.n.a.lysis of the proper course to pursue was tortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; but the one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he must take his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so strongly to s.h.i.+eld the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all its degradation had accrued to him.

At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in him was bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly the whole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that had swept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had kept from his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tightening on the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained over twenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane's financial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened.

That was the other happening.

Crane was closeted with the cas.h.i.+er not more than ten minutes when Mortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeply interested in his affairs.

The cas.h.i.+er's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution of evidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother being ill to him at the race course. From Alan the cas.h.i.+er had learned that Mortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that he had won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer's words had been contorted into that reading in their journey through two personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak of his betting transactions. He had denied taking the money--that was but natural; he had been forced to admit replacing it--that was conclusive.

Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterly impossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circ.u.mstances were drawn about the accused man.

”Let us question him?” said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor hate, nor compa.s.sion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter.

Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded eyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon.

The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, Cas.h.i.+er Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Ca.s.s?--but that was impossible.

Was it the cas.h.i.+er himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answered nothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it--because he was responsible for its custody.

”Can't you see,” cried Crane, impatiently, ”that this simple denial of yours is of no value as against so much that points to your--” he hesitated--”your implication?”

XL

While Mortimer was still in the cas.h.i.+er's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's note.

The suns.h.i.+ne seemed to come with her into the counting house that was all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her father, the power to pay off his indebtedness--all these had turned that day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled her fancy. ”You're like a caged bear, Alan,” she cried, with a smile of impertinence; ”I should hate to be shut up a day like this--no wonder you're cross, brother.”

”I'm busy,” he answered, curtly. ”I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I want to see you.”

”I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance,” she flung back, with the swagger of a capitalist.

”It's paid, Allis.”

”Paid! I thought--”

”Wait, I'll come out;” and opening a door in the rail, he pa.s.sed around to the girl.

”Father's note is paid,” he resumed, ”but there's fierce trouble over it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he stole”--the boy's voice lowered to a hoa.r.s.e whisper--”a thousand of it to bet at Gravesend.”

”That's not true, Alan; G.o.d knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't steal.”