Part 21 (1/2)

”Well?” snapped Mark, exasperatedly.

”From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced into every open compartment as we pa.s.sed through the coaches. In the second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a clear view of the people inside, and--” the speaker's tone became impressive--”one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the other was--your lady of the tree.”

Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.

”Don't do that; there may be others to notice.”

”Ruth? You saw Ruth?”

”I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the d.u.c.h.ess, whichever she is, and the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree is on this train.”

It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths.

Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular breathing as they pa.s.sed his section. Both were relieved, for they dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal it from him altogether.

Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand d.u.c.h.ess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love pa.s.sage between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it?

There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her ident.i.ty in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before.

He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly abducted as the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, she was even now free, and attended by her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train kept saying:

”You love her--you love her--” in monotonous cadence. And he knew that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.

Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke.

He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:

”Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed.” Cries began to arise outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The pa.s.sengers rushed out, all white with fear.

Saunders was beside Mark. ”The Padre! Where is he?” he cried.

”In his berth; he may be hurt.”

They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid him down in the air. He opened his eyes.

”What--what is it?” he asked.

”Wreck--there was a collision,” answered Saunders.

Father Murray struggled to arise. ”Collision? Then I must go forward, if it is forward--where the people are--maybe dying.”

Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him to silence.

”Let him go, Saunders,” he said. ”Perhaps his whole life has been a preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with G.o.d's ways.”

So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and splintered freight cars of the other train.

”The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?” he asked of the frightened conductor.

The man pointed to the heap of splinters. ”In there,” he answered.

The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it.

”My G.o.d!” he cried to Mark; ”they may need me. And I cannot get to them.”