BEHIND THE BARS.

Why should I blame poor Daly for doing what his profession and the law he followed dictated plainly? Why should I blame my Uncle Dugald for putting me under guardianship, after I was supposed to have reached the years of discretion?

These are indeed pregnant questions. If the reader has had neurasthenia and only partially recovered, he will know that the victim of that malady needs no legitimate reason for any fancies that possess him. It is plain to me—now—that in sending Daly on my track, my Uncle was acting the part of a considerate and thoughtful relation.

It is equally clear to me—now—that the conduct of Daly, from first to last, deserves the highest praise. Instead of demurring for an instant at his bill I would have done well to add $500 to it as a present.

At the moment he was to me like a blistering plaster, making me think of nothing but the irritation and pain. It is little consolation to be told, under any circumstances, that one has played the part of a fool.

I went to dinner at the club moodily, and on returning to my apartments set myself to consuming as many cigars as possible in a given time. They were cigars I had bought from a Kingston manufacturer and were decidedly better than many sold under the name of "Havanas," since the troubles began in Cuba. I must have smoked at least twenty of them before I paused, put on my hat and light overcoat, and went out of doors, to see if the open air would have any effect in clearing the mist that hung over my brain.

I walked aimlessly for some time, in various directions, and found myself standing opposite my own windows an hour after I began. I wondered if I would be able to sleep if I went into the house. Unconsciousness was the thing most to be desired, it seemed to me. As I had about come to the conclusion to try it, a low voice called my name and its tones filled me with a thrill that was indescribable.

"Mr. Camran!"

"Yes," I replied, laconically.

"I know," said the voice, and I saw the outlines of the figure I remembered so well, "I know—that I have no right—to appeal to your pity—or to ask your aid. I have, unfortunately—no other resource—and—I beg you—as you hope for mercy at the bar of Heaven—give me—a few minutes—where I can speak to you—in private."

That form was bent, the tears in that voice were real; she was not acting now.

"Will you come up to my rooms?" I asked.

"I should be so thankful!"

"Come, then."

We went in together, astonishing the hallboy somewhat, for to do myself justice, he had never seen me enter at that time of the evening so accompanied. When we were in my sitting room, and the door shut—I did not turn the key, remembering her aversion to locked doors—she began to speak, slowly and tremblingly:

"I am overcome with shame—I am plunged in a despair that only you can lighten. I know well—that I deserve nothing—at your hands. I—I have robbed you, insulted you—done everything to earn your hatred and contempt; and yet—"

"And yet," I interrupted, for her attitude touched me deeply, "and yet—you have not succeeded in earning either."

She sprang up with the evident intention of threwing herself at my feet, but I caught her by the hands—those hands whose touch had given me such delight only a week ago! How cold they were!

"Let us come to the point," I said, when she was again seated. "Your husband is in jail; you found it out after you sent me that confession; and you want me to free him."

She rocked herself backward and forward.

"You have known what it is to love," she moaned. "You have not known what it is to be wedded. That man is my very life! If they condemn him to a long term in prison they will, at the same time, condemn me to death. I realize how little right I have to appeal to you—but there is no other way. If you testify against us, we are ruined irreparably. Oh, Mr. Camran—Don!—if there is one bright memory in your heart in all the days you and I passed together, let that one plead now for a most unhappy woman!"

I did not want her to suffer. I had no desire to punish her. Had she been unmarried I would have offered her my hand again—yes, after all I knew!

"It was not by my wish that your husband was arrested," I said, gently. "In fact, I only learned of it an hour ago."

"But you can save him—you, and you alone!" she cried. "What does it mean to you, the money you have lost by us? The check you gave him was never paid, not even the sum for which you wrote it. I know—I know he struck you, he tried to kill you—I know it all! but you escaped unharmed. As for me, I swear to send to-morrow every article you bought—yes, I will get even the money you have paid for my passage and hotel bills. Every penny shall be put into your hands before noon—if you will have mercy on us."

"Marjorie," I answered, "I do not know what I can do, but let me assure you I will do all I can. If any act of mine will set your husband at liberty you may rely on me to perform it."

She seemed hardly able to believe that she heard aright. She laughed through her tears, discordantly.

"You will do this!" she exclaimed. "You are in earnest? And what are your stipulations? Oh! Remember how little I have left of womanly honor, and ask nothing I cannot grant."

A whiteness had come to her lips at the sudden thought that alarmed her.

"I only ask," I answered, shakingly, "that you carry out the purpose of which you spoke in your last letter; that of going far away from this part of the world—where I shall never set eyes on you again. You are to me like a dream that is past: a beautiful dream I must blot from my brain. Within a week I shall have forgotten the thorns and recall only the perfume of roses. A year later I hope to forget the roses themselves. Marjorie, you are the wife of another man. You are, by your own admission, a woman with whom it would be suicide to link my life. But I love you yet. No, do not start. This is my last word on that subject. After all, you have done something for me. From this day the love of woman will never be esteemed a light thing in my mind. A young rouÉ has had a shock that he will not forget. His idle search for pleasure is ended. I shall be another and a better man—even because I have known you."

"And you will save Jack?" she said, entreatingly.

"I will do all I can—'perjure myself like a gentleman'—if necessary. I think you may be sure of having him set free within a very few days."

"What can I do to thank you?" she asked, the tears streaming again from her eyes.

"Nothing," I said, after a moment of hesitation.

For a second I had thought of asking one pure kiss, on the lips. I knew, before the next second had passed that she would refuse it, though her husband's freedom depended on the issue.

"Nothing," I repeated.

As she rose and held out her hands to me in the attitude of parting, I affected not to see the movement. "Good-by," I said, huskily. "No; say no more. Good-by."

At the door to which I allowed her to go alone, she had an instant of doubt.

"You would not be so cruel as to deceive me?" she said, trembling.

I waved my hand in a negative, but I could not trust myself to speak. I was afraid, terribly afraid, that if she did not go at once I should clasp her, willing or unwilling, in my arms, and crush her mouth with my own. And that I would not have done for the world.

As early the following morning as I could expect to find Harvey Hume in his office I was there. Having nothing whatever to do, as usual, he drew me into a private room, closed the door and asked to what he was indebted for a call at that hour.

"I want to consult you on a legal matter," I said, gravely. "Now, do not get excited, for you will need all your wits. Listen!"

I told him that a man was lying in jail under the charge of having raised the figures on a check of mine; that it was my desire that the man should go free; and that I wanted him to tell me how to accomplish that result.

"He is unjustly accused?" he said, interrogatively.

"Whether he is or not doesn't matter. I want him set at liberty."

Hume thought deeply for some moments.

"Did you give him the original check?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then, of course, you remember the figures it bore at that time."

"I wouldn't like to swear to them," I said, evasively.

"They can't convict him unless you do, if he is well defended."

"But," I said, "I don't want him tried at all. I want him released now. Isn't there some way to accomplish that?"

Harvey thought a little longer and finally said he would arrange it. He was to go at once to the jail and unveil his scheme to "Edgerly," and afterwards turn up about noon at the district attorney's office.

As the clocks were striking twelve I met Daly on the steps of the courthouse. He complimented me on my promptness, with a keen look that showed he scented his prey. As we were entering the room of the dispenser of justice, Hume came along and addressed me.

"I say, Camran," he remarked, careful that Daly should hear every word, "I am engaged to appear for a poor chap who is up for raising a check of yours. I was just going in to see the district attorney. I must say, the man seems as innocent of wrong as any fellow I ever met."

"Will you kindly introduce me to this gentleman?" asked Daly of me.

When this was done, he informed Hume that Hazen was a well known sharper and that in the present case there was no doubt whatever of his guilt.

"Mr. Camran gave him a check for $350 to settle the balance of a game of cards that I will swear was a swindle, for I watched it; and when the check was brought into the bank it had been raised to $3500. Luckily I got word that the check had been given in time to put the bank people on their guard by cable and he was arrested on the spot."

"Is this true?" asked the lawyer, of me.

"I don't know," I responded, carelessly. "I gave him a check—certainly—but for what amount I am absolutely unable to swear. I was confused at the time—a little put out, naturally—"

Daly was surveying me with a look of rage.

"So you're going to throw it up, are you?" he asked, gutturally. "And one of the prettiest cases I ever worked on, too."

"I will mail you the amount of your bill this afternoon," I said, impudently.

"The amount of my—" he repeated, dolefully. "Yes; but the gain to my reputation that would have resulted—who will compensate me for that? Gad, I'll never take hold of another case that has a woman in it! They can knock over the best of us. You can let your check-raiser go, for all of me," he said to the district attorney, as that gentleman came to the threshold. "The evidence seems to have petered out."

Mr. Hume and I talked the matter over with the official, explained the part he took in the affair, and it was arranged that the case would not be brought before the Grand Jury at all.

"I want to say I think you've played it a little low down on a man that interfered to save your life," said Daly to me, as he left the building. "But I'll watch for that fellow and you can bet I'll get him on something yet before he dies."

I had no wish to argue with him. He was undoubtedly right, from his standpoint.

It was enough for me to know I had succeeded in accomplishing what would put the roses into Marjorie's cheeks once more.