Now, don't you go an' let on to your Aunt Sue, Lem,” Harvey told the boy that night when Lem came begging to be taken back. “You just keep your mouth shut, an' in a week or so you come to Burlin'ton an' hunt me up. You won't have no trouble findin' where the post-office in Burlin'ton is, an' when you git there you go to the window, an' ask if there's a letter for Lemuel Redding. It'll tell you where to find me, an' then you come to where it says.”

“I'd ruther go with you,” Lem said wistfully. “I ain't ever been on a train. I don't know how to do on a train.”

“You don't need to do nohow. You buy a ticket an' you git on the train an' sit down in a seat. That's all you do. When the conductor comes around, you hand him your ticket an' let him punch a hole in it, an' when you git to Burlin'ton you ask where the post-office is. That's all there is to it.”

“Why can't I go with you, pop? I'm sort o' scared of it.”

“I can't take no chances, Lem. If we was to go together, man an' boy, your aunt would sure think I took you an' she would n't rest until she fetched us back. She's got to think you've runned away. On your own hook. I got to keep clear of you awhile. If she got a notion I'd stole you out o' pawn she'd raise the dod-basted dickens against me. She'd make me hand over every red cent I've got, an' I need it to start the new business I aim to go into once I get away from here.”

He took a fat roll of bills from his pocket. “I'm goin' to give you twenty-five dollars, Lem,” he said solemnly. “That's more'n enough to see you through easy. Don't you lose it. An' don't you ever let on I give it to you.”

“I won't,” Lem promised.

Harvey had planned carefully. He meant to depart the next night, and the next day he trudged up the hill and paid Miss Sue twenty-five dollars on account of his debt. That might quiet her for a while in case she learned of his departure too soon.

Miss Sue took the money, and the severe expression she had worn when Harvey appeared softened.

“Well, I will say, Harvey, you've done better at keeping your word than I ever thought you would. Bein' a saint has n't hurt you any—I 'll say that. I'll mark this down on the back of your note, and keep good track of it, and I only hope you keep on the same way.”

“So do I,” said Harvey. “How's Lem carryin' on?”

“He's a trial,” Miss Susan said, “but I'll bear him.”

“You don't want I should take him away?”

“Harvey Redding, that boy stays until you get me paid the last cent you owe me. A bargain is a bargain.”

Harvey sighed.

“Well—” he said, and went away.

That night he departed from Riverbank and Miss Sue put the saint's five crisp bills in her purse.

A week later, Miss Susan, going to her room to retire after a hard day, picked up her purse. It was lying on her bureau. Lorna had just paid a week's board and Miss Sue took the money from her pocket and opened the purse. Her eyes saw at once that the purse was empty, the five crisp five-dollar bills Lem's father had given her were gone.

For a moment or two she stood, her hand laid along her cheek, thinking. No, she had not taken the money from the purse. She could remember putting it there, but not taking it out again. She opened her door and walked toward Lem's room.

At Lem's door she paused, for she heard the boy moving about. She opened the door suddenly.

Lem stood, as he had stood on that other night, fully dressed and his ragged straw hat on his head. In his hand was a handkerchief, tied together by the four corners and bulging with the food he had purloined to sustain him on his journey. As the door opened he leaped for the window, but Miss Susan overtook him and dragged him back into the room. He kicked and struck at her, but she held fast. Lorna and Henrietta came to the door, and a minute later Johnnie Alberson also came, all fully clad, for these pleasant nights all sat late. Freeman did not appear; he was with Gay, across the street, on her porch.

“You hold the little rat!” Susan cried, and Johnnie grasped the boy from behind. Miss Susan's hands felt the boy's pockets. Unlike that other time Lem did not struggle now.

“You leave me alone!” he kept repeating. “You better leave me alone!”

Not until Miss Susan took the five crisp bills from his pocket did he begin to cry.

“Don't you take that; that's my money, you old thief, you!” he sobbed helplessly. “You stole my dollar, and you want to steal everything, you old thief!”

“Quiet, Lem!” Henrietta said, but this time the boy paid no heed. If she meant to suggest that he “go stiff” again, the hint was lost. All the fight, all hope, all belief that anything would ever be right again in his unhappy life seemed to have deserted the boy. It was Johnnie Alberson who tried to comfort him.

“Oh, here! Come now!” he said, still holding fast to Lem, however. “Don't cry. That's not how big boys do. What's the trouble all about, anyway?”

“He stole from me,” said Miss Susan, holding up the money.

“I didn't! She's an old liar!” sobbed Lem, “and I don't care if I do say it! She wants to steal all my money all the time—”

“Look at him,” said Miss Susan. “All packed up and ready to run away! And my money in his pocket! This time there'll be no nonsense, I tell you. He'll go packing off to reform school, where he belongs.”

“That's all right,” said Johnnie soothingly. “We'll see about that in the morning. The reform schools won't all close to-night. I'll go bail for Lem to-night; I 'll take him into my room. If he gets away, Miss Susan, you can send me to reform school in his place.”

There seemed nothing better to do and Johnnie led the boy away.

“Good-night, Miss Bates,” Johnnie called to Henrietta, for the affair had interrupted their tÊte-À-tÊte on the porch. “I've got to keep this young man company.”

Henrietta went down. She sat in her dark corner of the porch, staring across the street at the porch where Gay and Freeman, she knew, were sitting, and waited for Freeman.

Henrietta and Freeman had had one heated interview that night. About ten o'clock, when Henrietta was still in her room, Freeman had thrown his cigarette end from the porch and had entered the house. Miss Susan was at work in the kitchen, where he heard her, and he went up the stairs softly. While smoking his cigarette on the porch, he had come to a decision.

It was clear to him that he could not long remain in Riverbank with Carter Bruce on his trail and ready to beat him up whenever they met. Just what Carter Bruce knew he could not guess with any certainty, but he had enough respect for the young lawyer's fists and enough dread of his own past to believe that if Bruce kept on, his whole situation at Riverbank would be as unpleasant as possible, and, being so hard put to it to raise any money whatever, he saw no satisfactory reason why he should remain in the town. He went up the stairs with a coldly formed and complete intention to see whether Miss Susan had left any money in her room. If she had left any there, he meant to take it and get away from Riverbank as quickly and as thoroughly as possible, and he meant to take Gay with him if she would go.

Freeman Todder was in Miss Susan's room and had already taken the money from her purse when Henrietta opened the door. Freeman turned to look at her.

“What are you doing here, Freeman?” Henrietta asked.

Her husband waved his hand carelessly.

“Tapping the till, dearest,” he said. “Breaking the bank. Getting the cash.”

Henrietta advanced into the room. She spoke calmly enough.

“Now, this I will not have!” she said. “You may be a thief and a rascal, but you must not play your tricks in this house. If you have taken anything, put it back. Freeman, did you take any money?”

“This,” he said defiantly, and he held up the fold of crisp bills, slipping it into his pocket again, but as he moved he looked past Henrietta and saw Lem, surprised and wide-eyed, standing in the doorway. Lem had come to the room to get his “other” shirt, preparatory to his departure.

“I found it,” said Freeman slowly. “Finders is keepers, you know, dear.” He let his eyes glare into Lem's. “And you know what I am when I am angry, Henrietta. Any one who tells on me I'll kill. I'm desperate, you see. I'll murder any one who tells on me.”

Lem slid back into the darkness of the hall and fled to his room. Nothing in this house brought him anything but trouble, and he only wanted to get away as soon as he could.

“That is nonsense,” Henrietta told Freeman. “You will never kill any one. You are too great a coward. Now, put that money back and get out of here before some one comes.”

For answer Freeman pushed past her.

“I 'll put nothing back,” he said. “I need this. You don't get any for me; I've got to get for myself.”

“Freeman!”

He had gone into the hall. She followed him, and he could not throw her hand from his arm without causing a struggle and a noise that he did not at all desire. His wife drew him into her room.

“All right, go on with the lecture,” he said, with a laugh, “but make it short. It won't do any good. I'm going to keep this money, and I 'm going to get away from here to-night. I 'm going so far you'll never see me again.”

Henrietta sat on the bedside and, with her eyes on his face, let her mind touch upon the possibilities. If Freeman went, and went forever, her lot in life would be far simpler, far easier! But, if he fled, and the money was gone, Miss Susan would know he had taken it, and she already knew he was Henrietta's husband. That would besmirch Henrietta even worse than she was now. It would be the last straw. And even if Freeman went, it would not mean perfect freedom for her, for he would always remain a menace, always liable to appear again to work his husbandly blackmail and make trouble for her. She felt unutterably depressed.

“You must put the money back now—at once,” she said wearily, “before any one knows it is gone.”

“Too late now, Et,” he said. “Somebody knows. The only thing for your little Freeman-boy to do is to skip out while the skipping is good. That Lem saw me.”

“Lem?”

“Yes. He was at the door while your back was turned. He saw, and heard, too. So there you are! Nothing left but to clear out.”

Henrietta pleaded with him.

“But not this way, Freeman! Wait. Take the money back and to-morrow I'll borrow some. I 'll coax it out of Lorna, or Gay. Or even Johnnie Alberson; I believe I could get some out of him. Please, Freeman!”

“Et, you make me tired,” Freeman said. “I've got the cash and I'm going to skip out before this night is over. That's flat, and if you don't like it, you can lump it, and if you don't like it lumped, you can roll it out and fry it. I'm sick of this and I'm going to vamoose. I'm going over to say good-bye to Gay and then I'm going.”

“Freeman!” she cried, “I knew you were a despicable creature, but I never, never, never thought you were quite as low as this!”

“Oh, cut the melodrama, Et!” he said, and while she sat looking at him helplessly he went out of the room.

It was after this scene that she had to sit listening to Johnnie Alberson, making conversation with him while her thoughts were on Freeman.

From where she sat she could see Gay's white dress as a spot against the dark brick of the house across the way, and that spot she watched, all her plans in chaos, knowing only that if the spot disappeared she must rush across and keep Gay safe, no matter what else happened. When she returned from Lem's room, she looked across with fear, and breathed her thanks, for Gay was still there.

Almost immediately Freeman came across the street. He was not in a pleasant mood.

“Freeman,” Henrietta said.

“My God! Again? What is it now?” he asked.

“What is it now? Throwing the blame for your thievery on that poor boy! Hasn't he enough to bear without that? You are low—that is the only name for it—low!”

“Fine! Fine and oratorical and everything, Et!” Freeman said carelessly. “Only—I did not throw any blame on him. Not that I care, you know,” he added.

“Freeman, don't lie to me. You put that money in his pocket.”

“Oh, no, I did n't!” Freeman laughed, and he held up Miss Susan's bank-notes. “I need this money. And I have this money, and I am going to keep this money.”

“I don't understand,” said Henrietta. “How did you get it again? Did you take it from her a second time?”

“Oh, quit it!” Freeman said disgustedly. “Don't be stupid. This is not the money Lem had. I've had this all the while. I don't know where the little devil got his. What does it matter? Maybe she had two wads. What do I care?”

“I care,” Henrietta said.

“I'm going to clear out,” Freeman said. “Last you'll ever see of me.”

He turned toward the door leading into the house.

“Freeman, what about Gay?”

“None of your dear business, Et,” he said. Henrietta heard him tiptoe softly up the stairs. She sat a minute longer, thinking, and then went into the house herself, and up the stairs.

There are times when heroic actions seem the only solution of great difficulties, but, however much a heroic act might add to the glory of this narrative, it was not Henrietta's fortune to rise to great heights now. She paused at Freeman's door and listened, then opened his door.

Freeman sat on a chair at the end of his bed, in shirt and underwear, changing his socks. On a chair close to Henrietta's hand lay his two pairs of trousers—the one pair crumpled on the seat of the chair; the other, newly pressed, laid carefully across the chair back. With a sweep of her arm Henrietta gathered up both pairs of trousers, backed from the room, and closed the door.

For a few moments, perhaps, Freeman did not realize the full extent of the catastrophe, but in another moment he did. What locked doors, tears, and pleadings cannot do, the loss of a man's trousers can do. In the dark hall, before Freeman could reach his door, Henrietta disposed of her gleanings.

“Et!” Freeman whispered: “Et! Bring those back!”

“Bring what?” she answered.

“My pants. Bring them back, and mighty quick.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” she said. “You must be drunk. I know nothing about your pants. Go to bed.”

From down the hall she heard the loud breathing of Johnnie Alberson—call it a light snore if you choose. Henrietta hesitated. Ill-fitting as Johnnie's short, wide trousers might be on slender-waisted Freeman, she knew a man will wear any garments in a crisis, and that Freeman would not be beneath stealing what he needed from the sleeper. Too, through her mind flashed the thought, “If John is awake, Freeman will not dare to make a loud fuss,” and she walked to Johnnie's door and rapped sharply upon it.

“We—well? Well?” came Johnnie's voice, slumber heavy. “What? What is it?”

“It's Henrietta,” she answered. “I want Lem. I want Lem to come to me.”

She heard Lem whine, “You leave me alone, you!” and then the reassuring voice of Johnnie, and the door opened a wide crack, and Lem, rubbing his eyes, stepped out. Freeman's door closed.

“Come with me, Lem,” she said, and led the half-awakened boy to her room. He staggered to her bed and threw himself upon it, asleep the moment he touched it.

“Lem!” she called sharply, standing over him.

The boy opened his eyes slowly, looking up into her face.

“Hello!” he said. “I—I been asleep, I guess—”

“Yes. That does n't matter. You will be all right presently. I want you to tell me the truth—the honest-to-God, cross-your-heart truth, Lem—about that money. Where did you get it, Lem?”

“I ain't goin' to tell you,” the boy said.

Henrietta took his hand. She spoke kindly. “Yes; you must tell me, Lem,” she urged. “Did you steal it?”

“No, I did n't steal it.”

“That's honest-to-God, cross-your-heart, Lem?”

“Yes. I did n't steal it an' anybody that says I did is an old liar, that's what she is, an' I don't care who knows it. She's a mean, old liar—”

“Wait, Lem. Maybe nobody is a liar. Can I believe that you did n't steal it? Can I bet my bottom dollar on that, Lem?”

“Yes; you bet you can bet your bottom dollar on it. You can bet your boots on it. I don't steal—only old junk. I don't steal money—”

“No, I know you don't, Lem. But Miss Susan found the money in your pocket, did n't she?”

“I don't care where she found it. I don't care what that old devil finds. I 'll get even with her!”

“Did she find it in your pocket, Lem?”

“Yes. Only that old Alberson had to hold me. I bet if he had n't held me—”

“Of course. And who put the money in your pocket, Lem?”

“None of your—I mean, I won't say.”

“Did you?” Henrietta urged. “Did you put it in?”

“I won't say.”

“But, listen to me, Lem. Somebody stole some of Miss Susan's money—”

“I know. He did it,” Lem said. “Freeman Todder did it.”

“But never mind that now. Miss Susan does n't know that. Did Freeman, here, put the money in your pocket?”

“I won't say. I tell you I won't say. Nobody can get me to say.”

“Lem,” said Henrietta seriously, “you don't understand what all this means. I'm trying to help you. If Miss Susan keeps on thinking you stole her money she will send you away. She'll send you to jail and to reform school and you'll be sad and unhappy all your life. I want you to be happy—”

“I 'll bust out of jail if she sends me, drat her old hide!” Lem declared.

“No; you can't. You'll be watched every minute. Boys never do break out of jail, Lem. They just stay there and are so miserable. So what I want to do is to help you now. So you need n't be sent away at all.”

“If she won't send me I'm goin'away, anyway,” Lem declared. “I won't stay in any old house with such an old hyena pickin' on me all the time.”

“Miss Susan doesn't understand you, Lem, and you don't understand her. But that does n't matter now. If you go away you must not go with the name of a thief fastened on you—” The door opened and Freeman Todder came into the room.

“Look here,” he said angrily, “I want my pants. I won't stand any nonsense. You give them to me.”

“You're insane!” said Henrietta. “I know nothing about them.”

“Oh! that's it, is it?” he said. “All right!”

He began searching the room.

“Well, I ain't a thief, an' I don't care who says I am,” Lem was saying. “I did n't take her old money. She took mine, an' she's an old thief, an' I'll tell her so to her face. An' I'll make her give it back to me. I 'll set the police on her.”

“Listen, Lem, won't you please try to help me? Won't you tell me where you got that money?”

“No, I won't!” the boy declared stubbornly. “But I 'll tell her who stole her money. I 'll tell her he stole it, an' when she searches him she'll find it.”

“I 'll be hanged if she will, unless she finds my pants,” Freeman growled.

“If you won't help me, I can't help you, Lem,” said Henrietta. “Just to tell on Mr. Todder will not help at all. Won't you just whisper to me where you got the money?”

“No, I won't! I'd rather be killed first!”

Freeman was throwing articles of clothing from Henrietta's closet upon the bedroom floor. She hardly glanced at him.

“Of course! I know where you got the money, Lem,” she said. “Your father gave it to you. Is n't that so?”

She saw the startled look in the boy's eyes.

“I won't say, I tell you!” he declared.

“Then your father did give it to you?”

“I won't tell you!”

“And I can tell Miss Susan your father gave it to you?”

“No. He said—no; I won't tell you who gave it to me! I won't tell you what he said!”

“What did your father say?”

“I won't tell you what he said! None of your old business what he said!”

“I see!” said Henrietta. “Your father is going away and he gave you the money to follow him. Is that it?”

“I won't tell you!”

“You need n't tell me, Lem,” Henrietta said. “No more, at any rate. You have told me all about it.” She turned to Freeman. “What you are hunting is not here,” she said, “and you are only making yourself ridiculous. Go back to your room. When I am ready I will give you what you are hunting, but first, Freeman, you will have to tell Miss Susan who took her money.”

Freeman looked at his wife with hatred in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and went out and into his own room. The moment her door was dosed, Henrietta took Miss Susan's money from her waist and hid it carefully, where she felt sure it would be safe.

Poor Lem was already sound asleep and Henrietta removed her shoes and a few of her outer garments, wrapped herself in her bathrobe, and in a minute she too was asleep.