A. Maynard Barbour

Spring had come again and Walcott's probationary year with Mr. Underwood had nearly expired. For a while he had maintained his old suavity of manner and business had been conducted satisfactorily, but as months passed and Kate Underwood was unapproachable as ever and the prospect of reconciliation between them seemed more remote, he grew sullen and morose, and Mr. Underwood began to detect signs of mismanagement. Determined to wait until he had abundance of evidence with which to confront him, however, he said nothing, but continued to watch him with unceasing vigilance.

Mr. Underwood, though able to attend to business, had never fully recovered from the illness of the preceding year. His physician advised him to retire from business, as any excitement or shock would be likely to cause a second attack far more serious than the first; but to this Mr. Underwood would not listen, clinging tenaciously to the old routine to which he had been accustomed. Kate, realizing her father's condition, guarded him with watchful solicitude from every possible worry and anxiety, spending much of her time with him, and even familiarizing herself with many details of his business in order to assist him.

In the months since Darrell's return east Kate had matured in many ways. Her tall, slender form was beginning to round out in symmetrical proportions, and her voice, always sweet, had developed wonderfully in volume and range. She had taken up the study of music anew, both vocal and instrumental, devoting her leisure hours to arduous practice, her father having promised her a thorough course of study in Europe, for which she was preparing herself with great enthusiasm.

Though no words were exchanged between Mr. Underwood and Walcott, the latter became conscious of the other's growing disfavor, and the conviction gradually forced itself upon him that all hope of gaining his partner's daughter in marriage was futile. For Kate Underwood he cared little, except as a means of securing a hold upon her father's wealth. As he found himself compelled to abandon this scheme and saw the prize he had thus hoped to gain slipping farther and farther from his grasp, his rage made him desperate, and he determined to gain all or lose all in one mad venture. To make ready for this would require weeks, perhaps months, but he set about his preparations with method and deliberation. Either the boldness of his plan or his absorption in the expected outcome made him negligent of details, however, and slowly, but surely, Mr. Underwood gathered the proofs of his guilt with which he intended to confront him when the opportune moment arrived. But even yet he did not dream the extent of his partner's frauds or the villany of which he was capable; he therefore took no one into his confidence and sought no assistance.

Kate was quick to observe the change in Walcott's manner and to note the malignity lurking in the half-closed eyes whenever they encountered her own or her father's gaze, and, while saying nothing to excite or worry the latter, redoubled her vigilance, seldom leaving him alone.

Affairs had reached this state when, with the early spring days, Mr. Britton returned from the East and stopped for a brief visit at The Pines. In a few days he divined enough of the situation to lead him to suspect that danger of some kind threatened his old friend. A hint from Kate confirmed his suspicion, and he resolved to prolong his stay and await developments.

One afternoon soon after his arrival Kate, returning from a walk, while passing up the driveway met a woman coming from The Pines. The latter was tall, dressed in black, and closely veiled,—a stranger,—yet something in her appearance seemed familiar. Suddenly Kate recalled the "SeÑora" who sent the summons to Walcott on that day set for their marriage, more than a year before. Though she had caught only a brief glimpse of the black-robed and veiled figure within the carriage, she remembered a peculiarly graceful poise of the head as she had leaned forward for a final word with Walcott, and by that she identified the woman now approaching her. Each regarded the other closely as they met. To Kate it seemed as though the woman hesitated for the fraction of a second, as though about to speak, but she passed on silently. On reaching a turn in the driveway Kate, looking back, saw the woman standing near the large gates watching her, but the latter, finding herself observed, passed through the gates to the street and walked away.

Perplexed and somewhat annoyed, Kate proceeded on her way to the house. She believed the woman to be in some way associated with Walcott, and that her presence there presaged evil of some sort. As she entered the sitting-room her aunt looked up with a smile from her seat before the fire.

"You have just had rather a remarkable caller, Katherine."

"That woman in black whom I just met?" Kate asked, betraying no surprise, for she felt none; she was prepared at that moment for almost any announcement.

"Who was she, Aunt Marcia? and what did she want with me?"

"She refused to give her name, but said to tell you 'a friend' called. She seemed disappointed at not seeing you, and as she was leaving she said, 'Say to her she has a friend where she least thinks it, and if she, or any one she loves, is in danger, I will come and warn her.' She was very quiet-appearing, notwithstanding her tragic language. You say you met her; what do you think of her?"

Kate had been thinking rapidly. "I have seen her once before, auntie. I am positive she is in some way connected with Mr. Walcott, and equally positive that he has some evil designs against papa; but why she should warn me against him, if that is her intention, I cannot imagine."

"Is there no way of warning your father, Katherine?" Mrs. Dean inquired, anxiously.

"Mr. Britton and I have talked it over, auntie. We think papa suspects him and is watching him, but so long as he doesn't take either of us into his confidence we don't want to excite or worry him by suggesting any danger. This woman may or may not be friendly, as she claims, but in any event, if she comes again, I must see her. Whatever danger there may be I want to know it; then I'm not afraid but that I can defend papa or myself in case of trouble."

For several days Kate scanned her horizon closely for portents of the coming storm. She saw nothing of the mysterious woman who had styled herself a friend, but on more than one occasion she had a fleeting glimpse of the man who on that memorable day brought the message from her to Walcott, and Kate felt that a dÉnouement of some kind was near.

Walcott's preparations were nearly perfected; another week would complete them. By that time the funds of the firm as well as large deposits held in trust, would be where he could lay his fingers on them at a moment's notice. At a given signal two trusted agents would be at the side entrance with fleet horses on which they would travel to a neighboring village, and there, where their appearance would excite no suspicion, they were to board the late express, which would carry them to a point whence they could easily reach a place of safety.

But his well-laid plans were suddenly checked by a request one afternoon from his senior partner to meet him in his private office that evening at eight o'clock. The tone in which this request was preferred aroused Walcott's suspicions that an investigation might be pending, and, enraged at being thus checkmated, he determined to strike at once.

At dinner Mr. Underwood mentioned an engagement which would, he said, detain him for an hour or so that evening, but having never since his illness gone to the offices in the evening, no one supposed it more than an ordinary business appointment with some friend.

He had left the house only a few moments when a caller was announced for Miss Underwood.

Kate's heart gave a sudden bound as, on entering the reception-hall, she saw again the woman whose coming was to be a warning of danger. She was, as usual, dressed in black and heavily veiled. Kate was conscious of no fear; rather a joy that the suspense was over, that there was at last something definite and tangible to face.

"SeÑorita, may I see you in private?" The voice was sweet, but somewhat muffled by the veil, while the words had just enough of the Spanish accent to render them liquid and musical.

Kate bowed in assent, and silently led the way to a small reception-room of her own. She motioned her caller to a seat, but the latter remained standing and turned swiftly, facing Kate, still veiled.

"SeÑorita, you do not know me?" The words had the rising inflection of a question.

"No," Kate replied, slowly; "I do not know you; but I know that this is not your first call at The Pines."

"I called some ten days since to see you."

"You called," Kate spoke deliberately, "more than a year since to see Mr. Walcott."

The woman started and drew back slightly. "How could you know?" she exclaimed; "surely he did not tell you!"

"I saw you."

There was a moment's silence; when next she spoke her voice was lower and more musical.

"SeÑorita, I come as your friend; do you believe me?"

"I want to believe you," Kate answered, frankly, "but I can tell better whether I do or not when I know more of you and of your errands here."

For answer the woman, with a sudden swift movement, threw back her veil, revealing a face of unusual beauty,—oval in contour, of a rich olive tint, with waving masses of jet-black hair, framing a low, broad forehead. But her eyes were what drew Kate's attention: large, lustrous, but dark and unfathomable as night, yet with a look in them of dumb, agonizing appeal. The two women formed a striking contrast as they stood face to face; they seemed to impersonate Hope and Despair.

"SeÑorita," she said, in a low, passionless voice, "I am SeÑor Walcott's wife."

Kate's very soul seemed to recoil at the words, but she did not start or shrink.

"I have the certificate of our marriage here," she continued, producing a paper, "signed by the holy father who united us."

Kate waved it back. "I do not wish to see it, nor do I doubt your word," she replied, gently; "I understand now why you first came to this house. What brings you here to-night?"

"I come to warn you that your father is in danger."

"My father!" Kate exclaimed, quickly, her whole manner changed. "Where? How?"

"SeÑor Walcott has an engagement with him at eight o'clock at their offices, and he means to do him harm, I know not just what; but he is angry with him, I know not why, and he is a dangerous man when he is angry."

Kate touched a bell to summon a servant. "I will go to him at once; but," she added, looking keenly into the woman's face, "how do you know of this? How did you learn it? Did he tell you?"

The other shook her head with a significant gesture. "He tells me nothing; he tells no one but Tony, and Tony tells me nothing; but I saw them talking together to-night, and he was very angry. I overheard some words. I heard him say he would see your father to-night and make him sorry he had not done as he agreed, and he showed Tony a little stiletto which he carries with him, and then he laughed."

Kate shuddered slightly. "Who is Tony?" she asked.

The woman smiled with another gesture. "Tony is—Tony; that is all I know. He and my husband know each other."

A servant appeared; Kate ordered her own carriage brought to the door at once. Then, turning on a sudden impulse to the stranger, she said,—

"Will you come with me? Or are you afraid of him—afraid to have him know you warned me?"

The woman laughed bitterly. "I feared him once," she said; "but I fear him no longer; he fears me now. Yes, I will go with you."

"Then wait here; I will be ready in a moment."

At twenty minutes of eight Kate and the stranger passed down the hall together—the woman veiled, Kate attired in a trim walking suit. The latter stopped to look in at the sitting-room door.

"Aunt Marcia, Mr. Britton said he would be out but a few minutes. When he comes in please tell him I want to see him at papa's office; my carriage will be waiting for him here."

Her aunt looked her surprise, but she knew Kate to be enough like her father that it was useless to ask an explanation where she herself made none.

Once seated in the carriage and driving rapidly down the street Kate laid her hand on the arm of her strange companion.

"SeÑora," she said, "you say you are my friend; were you my friend the first time you came to the house? If not then, why are you now?"

"No, I was not your friend;" for the first time there was a ring of passion in her voice; "I hated you, for I thought he loved you—that you had stolen his heart and made him forget me. I travelled many miles. I vowed to kill you both before you should marry him. Then I found he could not marry you while I was his wife; he had told me our marriage was void here because performed in another country. I found he had told me wrong, and I told him unless he came with me I would go to the church and tell them there I was his wife."

"And he went away with you?" Kate questioned.

"Yes, and he gave me money, and then he told me——" The woman hesitated.

"Go on," said Kate.

"He told me that he did not love you; that he only wanted to marry you that he might get money from your father, and then he would leave you. So when I found he wanted to make you suffer as he had me I began to pity you. I came back to Ophir to see what you were like. He does not know that I am here. I found he was angry because you would not marry him. Then I was glad. I saw you many times that you did not know. Your face was kind and good, as though you would pity me if you knew all, and I loved you. I heard something about a lover you had a few years ago who died, and I knew your heart must have been sad for him, and I vowed he should never harm you or any one you loved."

They had reached the offices; the carriage stopped, but not before Kate's hand had sought and found the stranger's in silent token that she understood.