Part 58 (1/2)

”Do you think there is poison in it?”

”I shouldn't be surprised,” he admitted.

She slipped the ring from her finger and gave it to him.

”There is poison in it; so be careful how you handle it,” she said.

The policeman accepted it gingerly and dropped it into his capacious pocket. It tinkled as it fell against the handcuffs.

At that moment the other policeman broke in the door.

”All right, Dolan; she's given up the game.”

”She didn't kill the man after all,” said Dolan.

”He's alive?” she screamed.

”Yes; and they've taken him off to the Tombs. Just a scalp wound.

He'll be all right in a day or two.”

”Alive!” murmured Olga. She had not killed the man she loved, then?

And if they were indeed taken to Siberia, she would be with him until the end of things.

With her handsome head proudly erect, she walked toward the door. She paused for a moment to look at the portrait of Hargreave. Somehow it seemed to smile at her ironically. Then on, down the stairs, between the two officers, she went. Her glance traveled coolly from face to face, and stopped at Florence's. There she saw pity.

”You are sorry for me?” she asked skeptically.

”Oh, yes! I forgive you,” said the generous Florence.

”Thanks! Officers, I am ready.”

So the Countess Olga pa.s.sed through that hall door forever. How many times had she entered it, with guile and treachery in her heart? It was the game. She had played it and lost, and she must pay her debts to Fate the fiddler. Siberia! The tin or lead mines, the ankle-chains, the knout, and many things that were far worse to a beautiful woman! Well, so long as Braine was at her side, she would suffer all these things without a murmur. And always there would be a chance, a chance!

When they heard the taxicab rumble down the driveway to the street, Hargreave turned to Florence.

”Come along, now, and we'll have the bad taste taken off our tongues.

To win out is the true principle of life. It takes off some of the tinsel and glamour, but the end is worth while.”

They all trooped up-stairs to Florence's room. So wonderful is the power and attraction of money that they forgot the humiliation of their late enemies.

Hargreave approached the portrait of himself, took it from the wall, pressed a b.u.t.ton on the back, which fell outward. Behold! There, in neat packages of a hundred thousand each, lay the mystic million! The spectators were awed into silence for a moment. Perhaps the thought of each was identical--the long struggle, the terrible hazards, the deaths, that had taken place because of this enormous sum of money.

A million, sometimes called cool; why, n.o.body knows. There it lay, without feeling, without emotion; yellow notes payable to bearer on demand. Presently Florence gasped, Norton sighed, and Hargreave smiled. The face of Jones (or Jedson) alone remained impa.s.sive.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AFTER THE STORM, THE SUNs.h.i.+NE]

A million dollars is a marvelous sight. Very few people have ever seen it, not even millionaires themselves. I dare say you never saw it; and I'm tolerably certain I never have, or will! A million, ready for eager, careless fingers to spend, or thrifty fingers to multiply! What Correggio, what Rubens, what t.i.tian, could stand beside it? None that I wot of.

”Florence, that is all yours, to do with as you please, to spend when and how you will. Share it with your husband-to-be. He is a brave and gallant young man, and is fortunate in finding a young woman equally brave and gallant. For the rest of my days I expect peace. Perhaps sometimes Jones here and I will talk over the strange things that have happened; but we'll do that only when we haven't you young folks to talk to. After your wedding journey you will return here. While I live this shall be your home. I demand that much. Free! No more looking over my shoulder when I walk the streets; no more testing windows and doors. I am myself again. I take up the thread I laid down eighteen years ago. Have no fear. Neither Braine nor Olga will ever return. Russia has a grip of steel.”