OAKLEY had told his father he was going to call at the Emorys'. He wanted to see Constance once more. Then it didn't much matter what happened.

As he passed up the street he was conscious of an impudent curiosity in the covert glances the idlers on the corners shot at him. With hardly an exception they turned to gaze after him as he strode by. He realized that an unsavory distinction had been thrust upon him. He had become a marked man. He set his lips in a grim smile. This was what he would have to meet until the silly wonder of it wore off, or a fresh sensation took its place, and there would be the men at the shops; their intercourse had hitherto been rather pleasant and personal, as he had recognized certain responsibilities in the relation which had made him desire to be more than a mere task-master. The thought of his theories caused him to smile again. His humanitarian-ism had received a jolt from which it would not recover in many a long day.

The hands already hated him as a tyrant, and probably argued that his authority was impaired by the events of the morning, though how they arrived at any such conclusion was beyond him, but he had felt something of the kind in Branyon's manner. When the opportunity came it would be a satisfaction to undeceive them, and he was not above wishing this opportunity might come soon, for his mood was bitter and revengeful, when he recalled their ignorant and needlessly brutal insolence.

Early as he was, he found, as he had anticipated when he started out, that Ryder was ahead of him. The editor was lounging on the Emorys' porch with the family. He had dined with them.

As Dan approached he caught the sound of Constance's voice. There was no other voice in Antioch which sounded the same, or possessed the same quality of refinement and culture. His heart beat with quickened pulsations and his pace slackened. He paused for an instant in the shadow of the lilac-bushes that shut off the well-kept lawn from the street. Then he forced himself to go on. There was no gain in deferring his sentence; better have it over with. Yet when he reached the gate he would gladly have passed it without entering had it not been that he never abandoned any project simply because it was disagreeable. He had done too many disagreeable things not to have outlived this species of cowardice.

The instant he saw him, the doctor rose from his seat on the steps and came quickly down the walk. There was no mistaking the cordiality he gave his greeting, for he intended there should be none. Mrs. Emory, too, took pains that he should feel the friendliness of her sentiment towards him. Constance, however, appeared embarrassed and ill at ease, and Dan's face grew very white. He felt that he had no real appreciation of the changed conditions since his father's story had become public property. He saw it made a difference in the way his friends viewed him. He had become hardened, and it had been impossible for him to foresee just how it would affect others, but to these people it was plainly a shock. The very kindliness he had experienced at the hands of the doctor and Mrs. Emory only served to show how great the shock was. In their gracious, generous fashion they had sought to make it easy for him.

Oakley and the editor did not speak. Civility seemed the rankest hypocrisy under the circumstances. A barely perceptible inclination of the head sufficed, and then Ryder turned abruptly to Miss Emory and resumed his conversation with her.

Dan seated himself beside the doctor on the steps. He was completely crushed. He hadn't the wit to leave, and he knew that he was a fool for staying. What was the good in carrying on the up-hill fight any longer? Courage is a fine quality, no doubt, but it is also well for a man to have sense enough to know when he is fairly beaten, and he was fairly beaten.

He took stock of the situation. Quite independent of his hatred of the fellow, he resented Ryder's presence there beside Constance. But what was the use of struggling? The sooner he banished all thought of her the better it would be for him. His chances had never been worth considering.

He stole a glance at the pair, who had drawn a little to one side, and were talking in low tones and with the intimacy of long acquaintance. He owned they were wonderfully well suited to each other. Ryder was no mean rival, had it come to that. The world had given him its rub. He knew perfectly the life with which Miss Emory was familiar, his people had been the right sort. He was well-born and well-bred, and he showed it.

It dawned upon the unwilling Oakley slowly and by degrees that to Constance Emory he must be nothing more nor less than the son of a murderer. He had never quite looked at it in that light before. He had been occupied with the effect rather than the cause, but he was sure that if Ryder had told her his father's history he had made the most of his opportunity. He wondered how people felt about a thing of this kind. He knew now what his portion would be. Disgrace is always vicarious in its consequences. The innocent generally suffer indiscriminately along with the guilty.

The doctor talked a steady stream at Oakley, but he managed to say little that made any demand on Dan's attention. He was sorry for the young man. He had liked him from the start, and he believed but a small part of what he had heard. It is true he had had the particulars from Ryder, but Ryder said what he had to say with his usual lazy indifference, as if his interest was the slightest, and had vouched for no part of it.

He would hardly have dared admit that he himself was the head and front of the offending. Dr. Emory would not have understood how it could have been any business of his. It would have finished him with the latter. As it was he had been quick to resent his glib, sneering tone.

But Dan's manner convinced the doctor that there were some grounds for the charges made by the hands when they demanded Roger Oakley's dismissal, or else he was terribly hurt by the occurrence. While Dr. Emory was reaching this conclusion Dan was cursing himself for his stupidity. It would have been much wiser for him to have remained away until Antioch quieted down. Perhaps it would have been fairer, too, to his friends, but since he had blundered he would try and see Miss Emory again; she should know the truth. It was characteristic of him that he should wish the matter put straight, even when there was no especial advantage to be gained.

Soon afterwards he took his leave. The doctor followed him down to the gate. There was a certain constraint in the manner of the two men, now that they were alone together. As they paused by the gate, Dr. Emory broke silence with:

“For God's sake, Oakley, what is this I hear about your father? I'd like your assurance that it is all a pack of lies.”

A lump came into Dan's throat, and he answered, huskily: “I am sure it is not at all as you have heard; I am sure the facts are quite different from the account you have had—”

“But—”

“No, I can't deny it outright, much as I'd like to.”

“You don't mean—Pardon me, for, of course, I have no right to ask.”

Dan turned away his face. “I don't know any one who has a better right to ask,” he said.

“Well, I shouldn't have asked if I'd thought there was a word of truth in the story. I had hoped I could deny it for you. That was all.”

“I guess I didn't appreciate how you would view it. I have lived in the shadow of it so long—”

The doctor looked aghast at the admission. He had not understood before that Dan was acknowledging the murder. Even yet he could not bring himself to believe it. Dan moved off a step, as if to go.

“Do you mean it is true, Oakley?” he asked, detaining him.

“Substantially, yes. Good-night,” he added, hopelessly.

“Wait,” hastily. “I don't want you to go just yet.” He put out his hand frankly. “It's nothing you have done, anyhow,” he said, as an afterthought.

“No, but I begin to think it might just as well have been.”

Dr. Emory regarded him earnestly. “My boy, I'm awfully sorry for you, and I'm afraid you have gotten in for more than you can manage. It looks as though your troubles were all coming in a bunch.”

Dan smiled. “My antecedents won't affect the situation down at the shops, if that is what you mean. The men may not like me any the better, or respect me any the more for knowing of them, but they will discover that that will make no difference where our relations are concerned.”

“To be sure. I only meant that public opinion will be pretty strong against you. It somehow has an influence,” ruefully.

“I suppose it has,” rather sadly.

“Do you have to stay and face it? It might be easier, you know—I don't mean exactly to run away—”

“I am pledged to put the shops and road on a paying basis for General Cornish. He'd about made up his mind to sell to the M. & W. If he does, it will mean the closing of the shops, and they will never be opened up again. That will wipe Antioch off the map. Not so very long ago I had a good deal of sympathy for the people who would be ruined, and I can't change simply because they have, can I?” with a look on his face which belonged to his father.

The doctor stroked his beard meditatively and considered the question.

“I suppose there is such a thing as duty, but don't you think, under the circumstances, your responsibility is really very light?”

Dan laughed softly.

“I didn't imagine you would be the first to advise me to shirk it.”

“I wouldn't ordinarily, but you don't know Antioch. They can make it very unpleasant for you. The town is in a fever of excitement over what has happened to-day. It seems the men are not through with you yet.”

“Yes, I know. My father should have gone back. It looks as if I'd yielded, but I couldn't ask him to when I saw how he felt about it.”

“You see the town lives off the shops and road. It is a personal matter to every man, woman, and child in the place.”

“That's what makes me so mad at the stupid fools!” said Oakley, with some bitterness. “They haven't the brains to see that they have a lot more at stake than any one else. If they could gain anything from a fight I'd have plenty of patience with them, but they are sure losers. Even if they strike, and the shops are closed for the next six months, it won't cost Cornish a dollar; indeed, it will be money in his pocket.”

“I don't think they'll strike,” said the doctor. “I didn't mean that exactly, but they'll try to keep you on a strain.”

“They have done about all they can in that direction. The worst has happened. I won't say it didn't bruise me up a bit. Why, I am actually sore in every bone and muscle. I was never so battered, but I'm beginning to get back, and I'm going to live the whole thing down right here. I can't have skeletons that are liable to be unearthed at any moment.”

He took a letter from his pocket, opened it and handed it to the doctor.

“I guess you can see to read this if you will step nearer the street-lamp.”

The letter was an offer from one of the big Eastern lines. While the doctor knew very little of railroads, he understood that the offer was a fine one, and was impressed accordingly.

“I'd take it.” he said. “I wouldn't fritter away my time here. Precious little thanks you'll ever get.”

“I can't honorably break with General Cornish. In fact, I have already declined, but I wanted you to see the letter.”

“I am sorry for your sake that you did. You are sure to have more trouble.”

“So much the more reason why I should stay.”

“I am quite frank with you, Oakley. Some strong influence is at work. No, it hasn't to do with your father. You can't well be held accountable for his acts.”

Ryder's laughter reached them as he spoke. Oakley could see him faintly outlined in the moonlight, where he sat between Constance Emory and her mother. The influence was there. It was probably at work at that very moment.

“I wouldn't be made a martyr through any chivalrous sense of duty,” continued the doctor. “I'd look out for myself.”

Dan laughed again. “You are preaching cowardice at a great rate.”

“Well, what's the use of sacrificing one's self? You possess a most horrible sense of rectitude.”

“I would like to ask a favor of you,” hesitating.

“I was going to say if there was anything I could do—”

“If you don't mind,” with increasing hesitancy, “will you say to Miss Emory for me that I'd like to see her to-morrow afternoon? I'll call about three—that is—”

“Yes, I'll tell her for you.”

“Thank you,” gratefully. “Thank you very much. You think she will be at home?” awkwardly, for he was afraid the doctor had misunderstood.

“I fancy so. I can see now, if you wish.”

“No, don't. I'll call on the chance of finding her in.”

“Just as you prefer.”

Oakley extended his hand. “I won't keep you standing any longer. Somehow our talk has helped me. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

The doctor gazed abstractedly after the young man as he moved down the street, and he continued to gaze after him until he had passed from sight in the shadows that lay beneath the whispering maples.