Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of the busy wheels beneath his coach.

This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned to account. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence the gain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home to the accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, else the girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. In addition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matter to its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anything to conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain of preparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would be but a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with the elements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled by her infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother.

The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyond dispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he been possessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation, but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollar note thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, The Dutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware that Alan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospect of winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken it for this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would have taken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to some bookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note. The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutive numbers, B 67,482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at the time; it was the middle one, B 67,483, that was missing. So he had a possible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentally he followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew of his winnings over Lauzanne.

Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse, had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him, and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed two horses in the same race—had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one to cover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. He would either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand to cover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note if possible. Faust would be the man for this commission.

Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust, asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of the Brooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said, “I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67,483. I think it was betted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse.”

Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. “I didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race,” he said.

“What are those flgures,” asked the other, pointing to two consecutive numbers of one thousand each.

“That was the other way about,” answered the Bookmaker; “that was pay. A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know 'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years.”

The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, appealed to Crane's fancy. “You remember the man who made this bet, then?” he asked.

“Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin' the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen first-time luck with him, for he cashed.”

“Can you describe him?”

The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's operations was working out.

“Now find this thousand-dollar note for me,” he said; “take trouble over it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to me.”

“There may be a chance,” commented Faust, scratching his fat poll meditatively; “the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer it.”

The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued note in his possession. He had been successful. “I give a dozen of 'em a turn,” he said, “before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money.”

“Does he know who bet it?”

“Not his name—some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says.”

Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed getting hot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. He had expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; his fortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal he sought.

“I'm much obliged to you,” he said to Faust. “I won't trouble you further; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address.”

That evening the Banker saw Farrell. “There was a little crooked work over that thousand Faust got from you,” he said, “an' if you could find time to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you could identify the guilty party.”

“I can go with you,” Farrell answered, “but it's just a chance in a thousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell you the truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out a bit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em next week. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane.”

In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield.

“I won't go to the bank with you,” Crane said; “I wish you would go in alone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if the man you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel.”

In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell.

“Well?” he asked.

“He's there, right enough.”

“A short dark little chap?” questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting Alan Porter forward as a feeler.

“No. A tall fellow with a mustache.”

“You are sure?”

“Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother.”

Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence that would satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration over the discovery—he had been so sure before—yet his hand was strengthened vastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this must convince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. There was also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of his sister's suspicion.

How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come up in its own proper place at the right time, no doubt.

“We can go back now,” he said to Farrell; “we may as well walk leisurely to the station; we can get a train”—he pulled out his watch—“in twenty minutes.”

Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself—plan his course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis Porter.

As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting.

Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane. His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both.

“You understand,” he said, quite simply, “that Alan is like a brother—” he was going to say “son,” but it struck him as being unadvisable, it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified Mortimer as the man who had betted the money.

“It clears Alan,” he said, seeking furtively for a look into the drooping face.

The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying.

“I'm sorry,” he offered as atonement. “Perhaps I shouldn't have told you; it's too brutal.”

The head drooped still lower.

“I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness that has taught me to love you.”

“Don't,” she pleaded; “I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see—can't you understand?”

“Yes, I know—you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his trust in the bank. You must consider yourself—you must give him up; you can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from the penitentiary because of your influence.”

“Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think that what you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? You know what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tells me that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he has had no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn't love him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't help it—I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and my love doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it would be even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would please my mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent, wouldn't your life be embittered—wouldn't it be terrible for you to be tied to a woman who loved another man?”

“But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so.”

“And I know that he is innocent.”

“Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy.”

“My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart is still true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't—don't stab me to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and only gives me pain. I must wait—we must all wait, just wait. There is no harm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep your promise?” she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

“Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it was only to clear your brother.”

They had come to the station by now.

“Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?” Crane asked. “You are taking my word.”

“No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do.”

“Don't think me cruel,” Crane said, “but the wait will be so long.”

“It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your—for your goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If you can—if you can—make it easier for Mortimer—I know he'll feel it if you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe him as—dishonest—will you, for my sake?”

It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at his inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl, he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism, what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had simply said, “Spare of censure this man for my sake.” In thankfulness rather than in condescension he promised.

Even in disgrace—a felon—how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless love.

A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on the incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts.

“Good-bye, and thank you,” said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane.

“Good-bye,” he repeated, mechanically.

What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears rang the girl's words, “Wait, wait, wait.” Irresponsibly he repeated to himself, “All things come to them that wait.”

Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a man chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection.

With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat upright—Philip Crane, the careful planner.

“You nearly missed the train,” said Farrell.

“Did I?” questioned Crane, perplexedly. “I thought I got on in plenty of time.”

Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation—a New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane. Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love; and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.

Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was equally hopeless in his hour of victory.

Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.

“Will it be a court case?” he queried.

“What?” asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.

“That high roller in the bank.”

“Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to.” Crane's caution always asserted itself first.

“Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit ticklish.”

Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now verifying his plans.

Farrell continued, “You see what I mean?”

“I don't,” answered Crane, shortly.

“You will if you wait,” advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his tone. “I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an' makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an' taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.' But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much like him, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing, pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken identity is like grabbin' up two kings an' a jack, an' playin' 'em fer threes.”

“Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man—that I've given you all this trouble for nothing.”

Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case had been made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertainty would destroy the value of identification.

“Not by a jugful!” ejaculated Farrell. “I'm just tellin' you this to show you that we've got to make it complete—we've got to get collateral to back up my pickin'.”

“You mean some one else to identify him also?”

“No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen, must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will be in line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of the badge this rooster wore.”

An inspiration came with Farrell's words—came to Crane. Why had he not thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number, Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered the hundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with the number in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed, the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth could question that evidence.

“It's a good idea, Farrell,” he said.

“Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my place to-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up.”

“I will,” Crane answered.