"I have called to see Mr. Van Ostend, by appointment," said Father HonorÉ to the footman in attendance at the door of the mansion on the Avenue.

He was shown into the library. Mr. Van Ostend rose from the armchair to greet him.

"I am glad to see you, Father HonorÉ." He shook hands cordially and drew up a chair opposite to his own before the blazing hearth. "Be seated; I have given orders that we are not to be interrupted. I cannot pretend ignorance as to the cause of your coming—a sad, bad matter for us all. Have you any news?"

"Only that he is here in New York."

Mr. Van Ostend looked startled. "Here? Since when? My latest advice was this afternoon from the Maine detectives."

"I heard yesterday from headquarters that he had been traced here, but he must be in hiding somewhere; thus far they've found no trace of him. I felt sure, from the very first, he would return; that is why I came down. He couldn't avoid detection any longer in the country, nor could he hold out another week in the Maine wilderness—no man could stand it in this weather."

"How long have you been here, Father HonorÉ?"

"Three days. I promised Mrs. Googe to do what I could to find him; the mother suffers most."

"I know—I know; it's awful for her; but, for God's sake, what did he do it for!"

"Why do we all sin at times?"

"Yes, yes—I know; that's your point of view, but that does not answer me in this case. He had every opportunity to work along legitimate lines towards the end he professed to wish to attain—and he had the ability to attain it; I know this from my experience with him. What could have possessed him to put himself in the place of a sneak thief—he, born a gentleman, with Champney blood in his veins?"

Father HonorÉ did not answer his question which was more an indignant ejaculation.

"You spoke of my 'point of view,' Mr. Van Ostend. I think I know what that implies; you mean from the point of view of the priesthood?"

The man on the opposite side of the fire-lighted hearth looked at him in surprise. "Yes, just that; but I intended no reflection on your opinion; perhaps I ought to say frankly, that it implied a doubt of your powers of judgment in a business matter like the one in question. Naturally, it does not lie in your line."

Father HonorÉ smiled a little sadly. "Perhaps you may recall that old saying of the Jew, Nathan the Wise: 'A man is a man before he is either Christian or Jew.' And we are men, Mr. Van Ostend; men primarily before we are either financier or priest. Let us speak as man to man; put aside all points of view entailed by difference of training, and meet on the common ground of our manhood, I am sure the perspective and retrospective ought to be in the same line of vision from that standpoint."

Mr. Van Ostend was silent. He was thinking deeply. The priest saw this, and waited for the answer which he felt sure would be well thought out before it found expression. He spoke at last, slowly, weighing his words:

"I am questioning whether, with the best intentions as men to meet in the common plane of our manhood, to see from thence alike in a certain direction, you and I, at our age, can escape from the moulded lines of our training into that common plane."

"I think we can if we keep to the fundamentals of life."

"We can but try; but there must be then an absolutely unclouded expression of individual opinion on the part of each." His assertion implied both a challenge and a doubt. "What is your idea of the reason for his succumbing to such a temptation?"

"I believe it was the love of money and the power its acquisition carries with it. I know, too, that Mrs. Googe blames herself for having fostered this ambition in him. She would only too gladly place anything that is hers to make good, but there is nothing left; it all went." He straightened himself. "What I have come to you for, Mr. Van Ostend, is to ask you one direct question: Are you willing to make good the amount of the embezzlement to the syndicate and save prosecution in this special case—save the man, Champney Googe, and so give him another chance in life? You know, but not so well, perhaps, as I, what years in a penitentiary mean for a man when he leaves it."

"Are you aware that you are asking me to put a premium on crime?" Mr. Van Ostend asked coldly. He looked at the priest as if he thought he had taken leave of his senses.

"That is one way of putting it, I admit; but there is another. Let me put it to you: if you had had a son; if he were fatherless; if he had fallen through emulation of other men, wouldn't you like to know that some man might lend a hand for the sake of the mother?"

"I don't know. Stealing is stealing, whether my son were the thief or another man's. Why shouldn't a man take his punishment? You know the everyday argument: the man who steals a loaf of bread gets nine months, and the man who steals a hundred thousand gets clear. If the law is for the one and not for the other, the result is, logically, anarchy. Besides, the man, not he of the street who steals because he is hungry, but the one who has every advantage of education and environment to make his way right in life, goes wrong knowingly. Are we in this case to coddle, to sympathize, to let ourselves be led into philanthropic drivel over 'judge not that ye be not judged'? I cannot see it so."

"You are right in your reasoning, but you are reasoning according to the common law, man-made; and I said we could agree only if we keep to the fundamentals of life."

"Well, if the law isn't a fundamental, what is?"

"I heard Bishop Brooks once say: 'The Bible was before ever it was written.' And perhaps I can best answer your question by saying the law of the human existed before the law of which you are thinking was ever written. Love, mercy, long-suffering were before the law formulated 'an eye for an eye,' or this world could not have existed to the present time for you and me. It is in recognition of that, in dealing with the human, that I make my appeal to you—for the mother, first and foremost, who suffers through the son, her first-born and only child, as your daughter is your only—" Mr. Van Ostend interrupted him.

"I must beg you, Father HonorÉ, not to bring my daughter's name into this affair. I have suffered enough—enough."

"Mr. Van Ostend, pardon me the seeming discourtesy in your own house, but I am compelled to mention it. After you have given your final decision to my importuning, there can be no further appeal. The man, if living, must go to prison. Mrs. Champney positively refuses to help her nephew in any way. She has been approached twice on the subject of advancing four-fifths of the hundred thousand; she can do it, but she won't. She is not a mother; neither has she any real love for her nephew, for she refuses to aid him in his extremity. I mentioned your daughter, because you must know that her name has been in the past connected with the man for whom I am asking the boon of another chance in life. I have felt convinced that for her sake, if for no other, you would make this sacrifice."

"My daughter, I am glad to inform you, never cared for the man. She is too young, too undeveloped. It is the one thing that makes it possible for me to contemplate what he has done with any degree of sanity. Had he won her affections, had she loved him—" He paused: it was impossible for him to proceed.

"Thank God that she was spared that!" Father HonorÉ ejaculated under his breath. Mr. Van Ostend looking at him keenly, perceived that he was under the influence of some powerful emotion. He turned to him, a mute question on his lips. Father HonorÉ answered that mute query with intense earnestness, by repeating what, apparently, he had said to himself:

"I thank my God that she never cared for him in that way, for otherwise her life would have been wrecked; nor could you, who would lay down your life for her happiness, have spared or saved her,—her young affections, her young faith and joy in life, all shattered, and Life the iconoclast! That is the saddest part of it. It is women who suffer most and always. In making this appeal to you, I have had continually in mind his mother, and you, the father of a woman. I know how your pride must have suffered in the knowledge that his name, even, has been connected with hers—but your suffering is as naught compared with that mother's who, at this very moment, is waiting for some telegram from me that shall tell her her son is found, is saved. But I will not over urge, Mr. Van Ostend. If you feel you cannot do this, that it is a matter of principle with you to refuse, there is no need to prolong this interview which is painful to us both. I thank you for the time you have given me." He rose to go. Mr. Van Ostend did likewise.

At that moment a girl's joyous voice sounded in the hall just outside the door.

"Oh, never mind that, Beales; papa never considers me an interruption. I'm going in, anyway, to say good night; I don't care if all Wall Street is there. Has the carriage come?"

There was audible the sound of a subdued protest; then came a series of quick taps on the door and the sound of the gay voice again:

"Papa—just a minute to say good night; if I can't come in, do you come out and give me a kiss—do you hear?"

The two men looked at each other. Mr. Van Ostend stepped quickly to the door and, opening it, stood on the threshold. Something very like a diaphanous white cloud enwrapped him; two thin arms, visible through it, went suddenly round his neck; then his arms enfolded her.

"Oh, Papsy dear, don't hug me so hard! You'll crush all my flowers. Ben sent them; wasn't he a dear? I've promised him the cotillon to-night for them. Good night." She pecked at his cheek again as he released her; the cloud of white liberty silk tulle drifted away from the doorway and left it a blank.

Mr. Van Ostend closed the door; came back to the hearth; stood there, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his head bowed. For a few minutes neither man spoke. When the clock on the mantel chimed a quarter to nine, Father HonorÉ made a movement to go. Mr. Van Ostend turned quickly to him and put out a detaining hand.

"May I ask if you are going to continue the search this evening; it's a bad night."

"Yes; I've had the feeling that, after he has been so long in hiding, he'll have to come out—he must be at the end of his strength. I am going out with two detectives now; they have been on the case with me. This is quite apart from the general detective agency's work."

"Father HonorÉ," Mr. Van Ostend spoke with apparent effort, "I know I am right in my reasoning—and you are right in your fundamentals. We both may be wrong in the end, you in appealing to me for this aid to restrain prosecution, and I in giving it. Time alone will show us. But if we are, we must take the consequences of our act. If, by yielding, I make it easier for another man to do as Champney Googe has done, may God forgive me; I could never forgive myself. If you, in asking this, have erred in freeing from his punishment a man who deserves every bit he can get, you will have to reckon with your own conscience.—Don't misunderstand me. No spirit of philanthropy influences me in my act. Don't credit me with any 'love-to-man' attitude. I am going to advance the sum necessary to avoid prosecution if you find him; but I do it solely on that mother's account, and"—he hesitated—"because I don't want her, whom you have just seen, connected, even remotely, by the thought of what a penitentiary term implies. I don't want to entertain the thought that even the hem of my child's garment has been so much as touched by a hand that will work at hard labor for seven, perhaps fifteen, years. And I want you to understand that, in yielding, my principle remains unchanged. I owe it to you to say this much, for you have dealt with me as man to man."

"Mr. Van Ostend, we may both be in the wrong, as you say; if it prove so, I shall be the first to acknowledge my error to you. My one thought has been to save that mother further agony and to give a man, still young, another chance."

"I've understood it so."

He went to his writing table, sat down at it, and, for a moment, busied himself with making out his personal check for one hundred thousand dollars payable to the Flamsted Granite Quarries Company. He handed it to Father HonorÉ to look at. The priest read it.

"Whatever bail is needed, if an arrest should follow now," said Mr. Van Ostend further and significantly, "I will be responsible for."

The two men clasped hands and looked understandingly into each other's eyes. What each read therein, what each felt in the other's palm beats, they realized there was no need to express in words.

"Let me hear, Father HonorÉ, so soon as you learn anything definite; I'll keep you posted so far as I hear."

"I will. Good night, Mr. Van Ostend."

On reaching the iron gates to the courtyard, the priest stepped aside to give unimpeded passage to a carriage just leaving the house. As it passed him, the electric light flashed athwart the bowed glass front, already dripping with sleet, and behind it he caught a glimpse of a girl's delicate face that rose from out the folds of a chinchilla wrap, like a flower from its sheath. She was chatting gaily with her maid.

II

The night was wild. New York can show such in late November. A gale from the northeast was driving before it a heavy sleet that froze as it fell, coating the overhead wires and glazing the asphalt and sidewalks.

It lacked an hour of midnight. From Fleischmann's bakery, the goal of each man among the shivering hundreds lined up on Tenth Street, the light streamed out upon a remnant of Life's jetsam—that which is submerged, which never comes to the surface unless drawn there by some searching and rescuing hand; that which the home-sheltered never see by daylight, never know, save from hearsay. In the neighboring rectory of Grace Church one dim light was burning in an upper room. The marble church itself looked a part of the winter scene; its walls and pinnacles, already encrusted with ice crystals, glittered fantastically in the rays of the arc-light; beneath them, the dark, shuffling, huddling line of humanity moved uneasily in the discomfort of the keen wind.

At twelve o 'clock, each unknown, unidentified human unit in that line, as he reaches the window, puts forth his hand for the loaf, and thrusting it beneath his coat, if he be so fortunate as to have one, or under his arm, vanishes....

Whither? As well ask: Whence came he?

Well up towards the bakery, because the hour was early, stood Champney Googe, unknown, unidentified as yet by three men, Father HonorÉ and two detectives, who from the dark archway of a sunken area farther down the street were scanning this bread-line. The man for whom they were searching held his head low. An old broad-brimmed felt hat was jammed over his forehead, almost covering his eyes. The face beneath its shadow was sunken, drawn; the upper lip, chin, and cheeks covered with a three weeks' growth of hair that had been blackened with soot. The long period of wandering in the Maine wilderness had reduced his clothes to a minimum. His shoes were worn, the leather split, showing bare flesh. Like hundreds of others in like case, he found himself forced into this line, even at the risk of detection, through the despairing desperation of hunger. There was nothing left for him but this—that is, if he were not to starve. And after this, there remained for him but one thing, one choice out of three final ones—he knew this well: flight and expatriation, the act of grace by which a man frees himself from this life, or the penitentiary. Which should it be?

"Never that last, never!" he said over and over again to himself during this last month. "Never, never that!"

It was the horror of that which spurred him to unimaginable exertion in the wilderness in order to escape the detectives on his track; to put them off the scent; to lead them to the Canada border and so induce them to cross it in their search. He had succeeded; and thereafter his one thought was to get to New York, to that metropolis where the human unit is reduced to the zero power, and can dive under, even vanish, to reappear only momently on the surface to breathe. But having reached the city, by stolen rides on the top of freight cars, and plunging again into its maelstrom, he found himself still in the clutch of this unnamable horror. Docks, piers, bridges, stations were become mere detective terminals to him—things to be shunned at all cost. The long perspective of the avenues, the raking view from river to river in the cross streets, afforded him no shelter from watching eyes—in every passing glance he read his doom; these, too, were things to be avoided at all hazard.

For four nights, since he sought refuge in New York, he had crawled into an empty packing-box in a black alley behind a Water Street wholesale house. Twice, during this time, he had made the attempt to board as stowaway an outward-bound steamship and sailing vessel for a South American port; but he had failed, for the Eyes were upon him—always the Eyes wherever he went, whenever he looked, Eyes that were spotting him. In the weakness consequent upon prolonged fasting and the protracted exposure during his journey from Maine, this horror was becoming an obsession bordering on delirium. It was even now beginning to dull the two senses of sight and hearing—at least, he imagined it—as he stood in line waiting for the loaf that should keep him another day, keep him for one of two alternatives: flight, if possible to South America, or ...

As he stood there, the fear that his sight might grow suddenly dim, that he might in consequence fail in recognition of those Eyes so constantly on the lookout for him, suddenly increased. He grew afraid, at last, to look up—What if the Eyes should be there! He bore the ever-increasing horror as long as he could, then—better starve and have done with it than die like a dog from sheer fright!—he stepped cautiously, softly, starting at the crackle of the ice under his tread, off the curbstone into the street. So far he was safe. He kept his head low, and walked carelessly towards Third Avenue. When nearing the corner he determined he would look up. He took the middle of the street. It cost him a supreme effort to raise his eyes, to look stealthily about him, behind, before, to right, to left—

What was that in the dark area archway! His sight blurred for the moment, so increasing the blackness of impending horror; then, under the influence of this last applied stimulus, his sight grew preternaturally keen. He discerned one moving form—two—three; to his over-strained nerves there seemed a whole posse behind them. Oh, the Eyes, the Eyes that were so constantly on him! Could he never rid himself of them! He bent his head to the sleeting blast and darted down the middle of the street to Second Avenue.

He knew now the alternative.

After a possible five seconds of hesitation the three men gave chase. It was the make of the man, his motion as he started to run, the running itself as Champney took the middle of the street, by which Father HonorÉ marked him. It was just such a start, just such running, as the priest had seen many a time on the football field when the goal, which should decide for victory, was to be made. He recognized it at once.

"That's he!" He spoke under his breath to the two men; the three started in pursuit.

But Champney Googe was running to goal, and the old training stood him in good stead. He was across Second Avenue before the men were half way down Tenth Street; down Eighth Street towards East River he fled, but at First he doubled on his tracks and eluded them. They lost him as he turned into Second Avenue again; not a footstep showed on the ice-coated pavement. They stopped at a telephone station to notify the police at the Brooklyn Bridge terminals, then paused to draw a long breath.

"You're sure 't was him?" One of the detectives appealed to Father HonorÉ.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"He give us the slip this time; he knew we was after him," the other panted rather than spoke, for the long run had winded him. "I never see such running—and look at the glare of ice! He'd have done me up in another block."

"Well, the hunt's up for to-night, anyway. There's no use tobogganning round after such a hare at this time of night," said the other, wiping the wet snow from the inside of his coat collar.

"We've spotted him sure enough," said the first, "and I think, sir, with due notifications at headquarters for all the precincts to-night, we can run him down and in to-morrow. If you've no more use for me, I'll just step round to headquarters and get the lines on him before daylight—that is, if they'll work." He looked dubiously at the sagging ice-laden wires.

"You won't need me any longer?" The second man spoke inquiringly, as if he would like to know Father HonorÉ's next move.

"I don't need you both, but I'd like one of you to volunteer to keep me company, for a while, at least. I can't give up this way, although I know no more of his whereabouts than you do. I've a curious unreasoning feeling that he'll try the ferries next."

"He can't get at the bridge—we've headed him off there, and it's a bad night. It's been my experience that this sort don't take to water, not naturally, on such nights as this. We might try one of the Bowery lodging houses that I know this sort finds out sometimes. I'll go with you, if you like."

"Thank you, I want to try the ferries first; we'll begin at the Battery and work up. How long does the Staten Island boat run?"

"Not after one; but they'll be behind time to-night; it's getting to be a smothering snow. I don't believe the elevated can run on time either, and we've got three blocks to walk to the next station."

"We'd better be going, then." Father HonorÉ bade the other man good night, and the two walked rapidly to the nearest elevated station on Second Avenue. It was an up-town train that rolled in covered with sleet and snow, and they were obliged to wait fully a quarter of an hour before a south bound one took them to the Battery.

The wind was lessening, but a heavy snowfall had set in. They made their way across the park to the "tongue that laps the commerce of the world."

Where was that commerce now? Wholly vanished with the multiple daytime activities that centre near this spot. The great fleet of incoming and out-going ocean liners, of vessels, barges, tows, ferries, tugs—where were they in the drifting snow that was blotting out the night in opaque white? The clank and rush of the elevated, the strident grinding of the trolleys, the polyglot whistling and tooting of the numerous small river craft, the cries of 'longshoremen, the roaring basal note of metropolitan mechanism—all were silenced. Nothing was to be heard, at the moment of their arrival, but the heavy wash of the harbor waters against the sea wall and its yeasting churn in the ferry slip.

Near the dock-house they saw some half-obliterated tracks in the snow. Father HonorÉ bent to examine them; it availed him nothing. He looked at his watch; at the same moment he heard the distant hoarse half-smothered whistle repeated again and again and the deadened beat of the paddle wheels. Gradually the boat felt her way into the slip. The snow was falling heavily.

"We will wait here until the boat leaves," said Father HonorÉ, stepping inside to a dark wind-sheltered angle of the house.

"It's a wild goose chase we're on," muttered his companion after a while. The next moment he laid a heavy hand on the priest's arm, gripping it hard, every muscle tense.

A heavy brewery team, drawn by noble Percherons, rumbled past them down the slip. On it, behind the driver's seat, was the figure of a man, crouched low. Had it not been for the bandaged arm and the unnatural contour it gave to the body's profile, they might have failed to recognize him. The two stood motionless in the blackness of the inner angle, pressing close to the iron pillars as their man passed them at a distance of something less than twelve feet. The warning bell rang; they hurried on board.

After the boat was well out into the harbor, the detective entered the cabin to investigate. He returned to report to Father HonorÉ that the man was not inside.

"Outside then," said the priest, drawing a sharp short breath.

The two made their way forward, keeping well behind the team. Father HonorÉ saw Champney standing by the outside guard chain. He was whitened by the clinging snow. The driver of the team sang out to him: "I say, pardner, you'd better come inside!"

He neither turned nor spoke, but, bracing himself, suddenly crouched to the position for a standing leap, fist clenched....

A great cry rang out into the storm-filled night:

"Champney!"

The two men flung themselves upon him as he leaped, and in the ensuing struggle the three rolled together on the deck. He fought them like a madman, using his bandaged arm, his feet, his head. He was powerful with the fictitious strength of desperation and thwarted intent. But the two men got the upper hand, and, astride the prostrate form, the detective forced on the handcuffs. At the sound of the clinking irons, the prisoner suffered collapse then and there.

"Thank God!" said Father HonorÉ as he lifted the limp head and shoulders. With the other's aid he carried him into the cabin and laid him on the floor. The priest took off his own wet cloak, then his coat; with the latter he covered the poor clay that lay apparently lifeless—no one should look upon that face either in curiosity, contempt, or pity.

The detective went out to interview the driver of the team.

"Where'd you pick him up?"

"'Long on West Street, just below Park Place. I see by the way he spoke he'd broke his wind—asked if I was goin' to a ferry an' if I'd give him a lift. I said 'Come along,' and asked no questions. He ain't the first I've helped out o' trouble, but I guess I've got him in sure enough this time."

"You're going to put up on the Island?"

"Yes; but what business is it o' a decent-looking cove like youse, I'd like to know."

"Well, it's this way: we've got to get this man back to New York to-night; it's the boat's last trip and there ain't a chance of getting a cab or hack in this blizzard, and at this time of night, to get him up from the ferry. If you'll take the job, I'll give you fifteen dollars for it."

"That ain't so easy earned in a reg'lar snow-in; besides, I don't want to be a party to gettin' him furder into your grip by takin' him over."

"Oh, that's all right. He's got a friend with him who'll see to him for the rest of the night."

"Well, I don't mind then. It's goin' on one now, an' I might as well make a night o' it on t' other side. It's damned hard on the hosses, though, an' it's ten to one I don't get lifted myself by one o' them cussed cruelty to animil fellers that sometimes poke their noses into the wrong end o' their business.—Make it twenty an' it is done."

The detective smiled. "Twenty it is." He patted the noble Percherons and felt their warmth under the blankets. "You're not the kind they're after. What have you got in your team?"

"Nothing but the hosses' feed-bags."

"That'll do. We'll put him in now in case any one comes on at Staten Island for the return trip. You don't know nothing about this, you know." He looked at him knowingly.

"All right, Cap'n; I'd be willin' to say I was a bloomin' idjot for two saw-horses. Come, rake out."

The detective laughed. "Here's ten to bind the bargain—the rest when you've landed him."

III

The brewery team made its way slowly up from the ferry owing to the drifting snow and icy pavements. From time to time a plough ran on the elevated, or on the trolley tracks, and sent the snow in fan-like spurts from the fender. The driver drew rein in a west-side street off lower Seventh Avenue. It was a brotherhood house where the priest had taken a room for an emergency like the present one. He knew that within these walls no questions would be asked, yet every aid given, if required, in just these circumstances. The man beneath the horse-blankets was still unconscious when they lifted him out, and carried him up to a large room in the topmost story. The detective, after removing the handcuffs, asked if he could be of any further use that night. He stepped to the side of the cot and looked searchingly into the passive face on the pillow.

"No; he's safe here," Father HonorÉ replied. "You will notify the police and the other detectives. I will go bail for him if any should be needed; but I may as well tell you now that the case will probably never come to trial; the amount has been guaranteed." He wrote a telegram and handed it to the man. "Would you do me the favor to get this off as early as you can?"

"Humph! Poor devil, he's got off easy; but from his looks and the tussle we had with him, I don't think he'll be over grateful to you for bringing him through this. I've seen so much of this kind, that I've come to think it's better when they drop out quietly, no fuss, like as he wanted to."

"I can't agree with you. Thank you for your help."

"Not worth mentioning; it's all in the night's work, you know. Good night. I'll send the telegram just as soon as the wires are working. You know my number if you want me." He handed him a card.

"Thank you; good night."

When the door closed upon him, Father HonorÉ drew a long breath that was half a suppressed groan; then he turned to the passive form on the cot. There was much to be done.

He administered a little stimulant; heated some water over a small gas stove; laid out clean sheets, a shirt, some bandages and a few surgical instruments from a "handy closet," that was kept filled with simple hospital emergency requirements, and set to work. He cut the shoes from the stockingless feet; cut away the stiffened clothing, what there was of it; laid bare the bandaged arm; it was badly swollen, stiff and inflamed. He soaked from a clotted knife-wound above the elbow the piece of cloth with which it had first been bound. He looked at the discolored rag as it lay in his hand, startled at what he saw: a handkerchief—a small one, a woman's! With sickening dread he searched in the corners; he found them: A. A., wreathed around with forget-me-nots, all in delicate French embroidery.

"My God, my God!" he groaned. He recalled having seen Aileen embroidering these very handkerchiefs last summer up under the pines. One of the sisterhood, Sister Ste. Croix, was with her giving instruction, while she herself wrought on a convent-made garment.

What did it mean? With multiplied thoughts that grasped helplessly hither and thither for some point of attachment, he went on with his work. Two hours later, he had the satisfaction of knowing the man before him was physically cared for as well as it was possible for him to be until he should regain consciousness. His practised eye recognized this to be a case of collapse from exhaustion, physical and mental. Now Nature must work to replenish the depleted vitality. He could trust her up to a certain point.

He sat by the cot, his elbows on his knees, his head dropped into his hands, pondering the mystery of this life before him—of all life, of death, of the Beyond; marvelling at the strange warp and woof of circumstance, his heart wrung for the anguish of that mother far away in the quarries of The Gore, his soul filled with thankfulness that she was spared the sight of this.

The gray November dawn began to dim the electric light in the room. He went to a window, opened the inner blinds and looked out. The storm was not over, but the wind had lessened and the flakes fell sparsely. He looked across over the neighboring roofs weighted with snow; the wires were down. A muffled sound of street traffic heralded the beginning day. As he turned back to the cot he saw that Champney's eyes were open; but the look in them was dazed. They closed directly. When they opened again, the full light of day was in the room; semi-consciousness had returned. He spoke feebly:

"Where am I?"

"Here, safe with me, Champney." He leaned over him, but saw that he was not recognized.

"Who are you?"

"Your friend, Father HonorÉ."

"Father HonorÉ—" he murmured, "I don't know you." He gave a convulsive start—"Where are the Eyes gone?" he whispered, a look of horror creeping into his own.

"There are none here, none but mine, Champney. Listen; you are safe with me, safe, do you understand?"

He gave no answer, but the dazed look returned. He moistened his parched lips with his tongue and swallowed hard. Father HonorÉ held a glass of water to his mouth, slipping an arm and hand beneath his head to raise him. He drank with avidity; tried to sit up, but fell back exhausted. The priest busied himself with preparing some hot beef extract on the little stove. When it was ready he sat down by the cot and fed it to him spoonful by spoonful.

"Thank you," Champney said quietly when the priest had finished his ministration. He turned a little on his side and fell asleep.

The sleep was that which follows exhaustion; it was profound and beneficial. Evidently no distress of mind or body marred it, and for every sixty minutes of the blessed oblivion, there was renewed activity in nature's ever busy laboratory to replenish the strength that had been sacrificed in this man's protracted struggle to escape his doom, and, by means of it, to restore the mental balance, fortunately not too long lost....

When he awoke, it was to full consciousness. The sun was setting. Behind the Highlands of the Navesink it sank in royal state: purple, scarlet, and gold. Upon the crisping blue waters of Harbor, Sound, and River, the reflection of its transient glory lay in quivering windrows of gorgeous color. It crimsoned faintly the snow that lay thick on the multitude of city roofs; it blazoned scarlet the myriad windows in the towers and skyscrapers; it filled the keen air with wonderful fleeting lights that bewildered and charmed the unaccustomed eyes of the metropolitan millions.

Champney waited for it to fade; then he turned to the man beside him.

"Father HonorÉ—" he half rose from the cot. The priest bent over him. Champney laid one arm around his neck, drew him down to him and, for a moment only, the two men remained cheek to cheek.

"Champney—my son," was all he could say.

"Yes; now tell me all—the worst; I can bear it."

"I can't see my way, yet." These were the first words he spoke after Father HonorÉ had finished telling him of his prospective relief from sentence and the means taken to obtain it. He had listened intently, without interruption, sitting up on the cot, his look fixed unwaveringly on the narrator. He put his hand to his face as he spoke, covering his eyes for a moment; then he passed it over the three weeks' stubble on his cheeks and chin.

"Is it possible for me to shave here? I must get up—out of this. I can't think straight unless I get on my feet."

"Do you feel strong enough, Champney?"

"I shall get strength quicker when I'm up. Thank you," he said, as Father HonorÉ helped him to his feet. He swayed as if dizzy on crossing the room to a small mirror above a stand. Father HonorÉ placed the hot water and shaving utensils before him. He declined his further assistance.

"Are there—are there any clothes I could put on?" He asked hesitatingly, as he proceeded to shave himself awkwardly with his one free hand.

"Such as they are, a plenty." Father HonorÉ produced a common tweed suit and fresh underwear from the "handy closet." These together with some other necessaries from a drawer in the stand supplied a full equipment.

"Can I tub anywhere?" was his next question after he had finished shaving.

"Yes; this bath closet here is at your disposal." He opened a door into a small adjoining hall-room. Champney took the clothes and went in. While he was bathing, Father HonorÉ used the room telephone to order in a substantial evening meal. After the noise of the splashing ceased, he heard a half-suppressed groan. He listened intently, but there was no further sound, not even of the details of dressing.

A half-hour passed. He had taken in the tray, and was becoming anxious, when the door opened and Champney came in, clean, clothed, but with a look in his eyes that gave the priest all the greater cause for anxiety because, up to that time, the man had volunteered no information concerning himself; he had received what the priest said passively, without demonstration of any kind. There had been as yet no spiritual vent for the over-strained mind, the over-charged soul. The priest knew this danger and what it portended.

He ate the food that was placed before him listlessly. Suddenly he pushed the plate away from him across the table at which he was sitting. "I can't eat; it nauseates me," he said; then, leaning his folded arms on the edge, he dropped his head upon them groaning heavily in an agony of despair, shame, remorse: "God! What's the use—what's the use! There's nothing left—nothing left."

Father HonorÉ knew that the crucial hour was striking, and his prayer for help was the wordless outreaching of every atom of his consciousness for that One more powerful than weak humanity, to guide, to aid him.

"Your manhood is left." He spoke sternly, with authority. This was no time for pleading, for sympathy, for persuasion.

"My manhood!" The bitterest self-contempt was voiced in those two words. He raised his head, and the look he gave to the man opposite bordered on the inimical.

"Yes, your manhood. Do you, in your supreme egotism, suppose that you, Champney Googe, are the only man in this world who has sinned, suffered, gone under for a time? Are you going to lie down in the ditch like a craven, simply because you have failed to withstand the first assaults of the devil that is in you? Do you think, because you have sinned, there is no longer a place for you and your work in this world where all men are sinners at some time in their lives? I tell you, Champney Googe,—and mark well what I say,—your sin, as sin, is not so despicable as your attitude towards your own life. Why, man, you're alive—"

"Yes, alive—thanks to you; but knocked out after the first round," he muttered. The priest noted, however, that he still held his head erect. He took fresh courage.

"And what would you say of a man who, because he has been knocked out in the first round, does not dare to enter the ring again? So far as I've seen anything of life, it is a man's duty to get on his feet as quickly as he can—square away and at it again."

"There's nothing left to fight—it's all gone—my honor—"

"True, your honor's gone; you can't get that back; but you can put yourself in the running to obtain a standard for your future honor. Champney, listen;" he drew his chair nearer to him that the table might not separate them; "hear me, a man like yourself, erring, because human, who has sinned, suffered—let me speak out of my own experience. Put aside regret; it clogs. Regret nothing; what's done is done past recall. Live out your life, no matter what the struggle. Count this life as yours to make the best of. Live, I say; live, work, make good; it is in any man's power who has received a reprieve like yours. I know whereof I am speaking. I'll go further: it would be in your power even if you had been judged and committed."

The man, to whom he was appealing, shuddered as he heard the word "committed."

"That would be death," he said under his breath; "last night was nothing, nothing to that—but you can't understand—"

"Better, perhaps, than you think. But what I want you to see is that there is something left to live for; Champney—your mother." He had hesitated to speak of her, not knowing what the effect might be.

Champney started to his feet, his hand clenched on the table edge. He breathed short, hard. "O God, O God! Why didn't you let me go? How can I face her and live!" He began to pace the room with rapid jerky steps. Father HonorÉ rose.

"Champney Googe,"—he spoke calmly, but with a concentrated energy of tone that made its impression on the man addressed,—"when you lay there last night," he motioned towards the cot, "I thanked my God that she was not here to see you. I have telegraphed her that you are alive. In the hope that you yourself might send some word, either directly or through me, I have withheld all detail of your condition, all further news; but, for her sake, I dare not keep her longer in suspense. Give me some word for her—some assurance from yourself that you will live for her sake, if not for your own. Reparation must begin here and now, and no time be lost; it's already late." He looked at his watch.

Champney turned upon him fiercely. "Don't force me to anything. I can't see my way, I tell you. You have said I was a man. Let me take my stand on that assurance, and act as one who must first settle a long-standing account with himself before he can yield to any impulse of emotion. Go to bed—do; you're worn out with watching with me. I'll sit here by the window; I promise you. There's no sleep in me or for me—I want to be alone—alone."

It was an appeal, and the priest recognized in it the cry of the individual soul when the full meaning of its isolation from humankind is first revealed to it. He let him alone. Without another word he drew off his boots, turned out the electric light, opened the inner blinds, and laid himself down on the cot, worn, weary, but undaunted in spirit. At times he lost himself for a few minutes; for the rest he feigned the sleep he so sorely needed. The excitation of his nerves, however, kept him for the greater part of the night conscious of all that went on in the room.

Champney sat by the window. During that night he never left his seat. Father HonorÉ could see his form silhouetted against the blank of the panes; his head was bowed into his hands. From time to time he drew deep, deep, shuddering breaths. The struggle going on in that human breast beside the window, the priest knew to be a terrible one—a spiritual and a mental hand-to-hand combat, against almost over-powering odds, in the arena of the soul.

The sun was reddening the east when Champney turned from the window, rose quietly, and stepped to the side of the cot. He stood there a few minutes looking down on the strong, marked face that, in the morning light, showed yellow from watching and fatigue. Father HonorÉ knew he was there; but he waited those few minutes before opening his eyes. He looked up then, not knowing what he was to expect, and met Champney's blue ones looking down into his. That one look was sufficient to assure him that the man who stood there so quietly beside him was the Champney Googe of a new birth. The "old man" had been put away; he was ready for the race, "forgetting those things that are behind."

"I've won out," he said with a smile.

The two men clasped hands and were silent for a few minutes. Then Champney drew a chair to the cot.

"I'd like to talk with you, if you don't mind," he said.

IV

In the priest's soul there was rejoicing. He was anticipating the victorious outcome of the struggle to which, in part, he had been witness. But he acknowledged afterwards that he had had not the faintest conception, not the remotest intimation of the actual truth. It remained for Champney Googe to enlighten him.

"I've been digging for the root of the whole matter," he began simply. His hand was clenched and pressed hard on his knee, otherwise he showed no sign of the effort that speech cost him. "I've been clearing away all obstructions, trying to look at myself outside of myself; and I find that, ever since I can remember, I've had the ambition to be rich—and rich for the power it apparently gives over other men, for the amplitude of one kind of living it affords, for the extension of the lines of personal indulgence and pleasure seemingly indefinitely, for the position it guarantees. There has been but one goal always: the making of money.

"I rebelled at first at the prospect of the five years' apprenticeship in Europe. I can see now that those six years, as they proved to be, fostered my ambition by placing me in direct and almost daily contact with those to whom great wealth is a natural, not an acquired thing." (Father HonorÉ noted that throughout his confession he avoided the mention of any name, and he respected him for it.) "On my return, as you know, I was placed in a position of great responsibility, as well as one affording every opportunity to further my object in life. I began to make use of these opportunities at once; the twenty thousand received from the quarry lands I invested, and in a short time doubled the sum. I was in a position to gain the inside knowledge needed to manipulate money with almost a certainty of increment; this knowledge, I was given to understand, I might use for any personal investment of funds; I took advantage of the privilege.

"I soon found that to operate successfully and largely, as I needed to in order to gain my end and gain it quickly, I must have a larger amount of cash. For this reason, I re-invested the forty thousand on the strength of my knowledge of a rise that was to be brought about in certain stocks within two months. This rise was guaranteed, you understand; guaranteed by three influential financiers. It would double my investment. They let it be known in a quiet way and in certain quarters, that this rise would occur at about such a date, and then forced the market up till they themselves had a good surplus. All this I know for a fact, because I was on the inside. Just at this time the syndicate intrusted to me three hundred thousand as a workable margin for certain future investments. My orders were to invest in this prepared stock only after October fifteenth. Meanwhile the manipulation of this amount was in my hands for eight weeks.

"I knew the forty thousand I had purposely invested in these stocks would double itself by the fifteenth of October; this was the date set. I knew this because I had the guaranty of the three men behind me; and, knowing this, I took a hundred thousand of the sum intrusted to me, in order to make a deal with a Wall Street firm which would net me twenty thousand within two weeks.

"I knew perfectly well what I was doing—but there was never any intention on my part of robbery or embezzlement. I knew the sum eighty thousand, from my personal investment of forty thousand, was due on October fifteenth; this, plus the twenty thousand due from the Wall Street deal, would insure the syndicate from any loss. In fact, they would never know that the money had been used by me to antedate the investment of the three hundred thousand—a part of the net yearly working profits from the quarries—intrusted to me."

He paused for a moment to pass his hand over his forehead; his eyebrows contracted suddenly as if he were in pain.

"The temptation to take this money, although knowing well enough it was not mine to take, was too great for me. It was the resultant of every force of, I might say, my special business propulsion. This temptation lay along the lines on which I had built up my life: the pursuance of a line of action by which I might get rich quick.—Then came the crash. That special guaranteed stock broke—never to rally in time to save me—sixty-five points. The syndicate sent out warning signals to me that I was just in time to save any part of the three hundred thousand from investment in those stocks. Of course, I got no return from the forty thousand of my personal investment, and the hundred thousand I had used for the deal went down too. So much for the guaranty of the multi-millionaires.—Just then, when everything was chaotic and a big panic threatened, came a call from the manager of the quarries for immediate funds; the men were getting uneasy because pay was two weeks overdue. The syndicate told me to apply the working margin of three hundred thousand at once for this purpose. Of course there was a shortage; it was bound to be discovered. I tried to procrastinate—tried to put off the payment of the men; then came the threatened strike on account of non-payment of wages. I knew it was all up with me. When I saw I must be found out, I fled—

"I never meant to rob them—to rob any one, never—never—" His voice broke slightly on those words.

"I believe you." Father HonorÉ spoke for the first time. "Not one man in ten thousand begins by meaning to steal."

"I know it; that's what makes the bitterer cud-chewing."

"I know—I know." The priest spoke under his breath. He was sitting on the side of the cot, and leaned forward suddenly, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his palms, his eyes gazing beyond Champney to something intangible, some inner vision that was at that moment projecting itself from the sensitive plate of consciousness upon the blank of reality.

Champney looked at him keenly. He was aware that, for the moment, Father HonorÉ was present with him only in the body. He waited, before speaking, until the priest's eyes turned slowly to his; his position remained the same. Champney went on:

"All that you have done to obtain this reprieve, has been done for me—for mine—"; his voice trembled. "A man comes to know the measure of such sacrifice after an experience like mine—I have no words—"

"Don't, Champney—don't—"

"No, I won't, because I can't—because nothing is adequate. I thought it all out last night. There is but one way to show you, to prove anything to you; I am going to do as you said: make good my manhood—"

Father HonorÉ's hand closed upon Champney's.

"—And there is but one way in which I can make it good. I can take only a step at a time now, but it's this first step that will start me right."

He paused a moment as if to gather strength to voice his decision.

"I should disown my manhood if I shirked now. The horror of prospective years of imprisonment has been more to me than death—I welcomed that as the alternative. But now, the manhood that is left in me demands that if I am willing to live as a man, I must take my punishment like a man. I am going to let things take their usual course; accept no relief from the money guaranteed to reimburse the syndicate; plead guilty, and let the sentence be what it may: seven, fifteen, or twenty years—it's all one."

He drew a long breath as of deliverance. The mere formulating of his decision in the presence of another man gave him strength, almost assurance to act for himself in furthering his own commitment. But the priest bowed his head into his hands and a groan burst from his lips, so laden with wretchedness, with mental and spiritual suffering, that even Champney Googe was startled from his hard-won calm.

"Father HonorÉ, what is it? Don't take it so hard." He laid his hand on his shoulder. "I can't ask you if I've done right, because no man can decide that for me; but wouldn't you do the same if you were in my place?"

"Oh, would to God I had!—would to God I had!" he groaned rather than spoke.

Champney was startled. He realized, for the first time, perhaps, in his self-centred life, that he was but a unit among suffering millions. He was realizing, moreover, that, with the utterance of his decision, he had, as it were, retired from the stage for many years to come; the curtain had fallen on his particular act in the life-drama; that others now occupied his place, and among them was this man before him who, active for good, foremost in noble works, strong in the faith, helpful wherever help might be needed, a refuge for the oppressed of soul, a friend to all humanity because human, his friend—his mother's, was suffering at this moment as he himself had suffered, but without the relief that is afforded by renunciation. Out of a great love and pity he spoke:

"What is it? Can't you tell me? Won't it help, just as man to man—as it has helped me?"

Father HonorÉ regained his control before Champney ceased questioning.

"I don't know that it will help; but I owe it to you to tell you, after what you have said—told me. I can preach—oh yes! But the practice—the practice—" He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"What you have just told me justifies me in telling you what I thought never to speak of again in this world. You have done the only thing to do in the circumstances—it has taken the whole courage of a man; but I never for a moment credited you with sufficient manhood to dare it. It only goes to show how shortsighted we humans are, how incomprehensive of the workings of the human heart and soul; we think we know—and find ourselves utterly confounded, as I am now." He was silent for a few minutes, apparently deep in meditation.

"Had I done, when I was twenty years old, as you are going to do, I should have had no cause to regret; all my life fails to make good in that respect.—When I was a boy, an orphan, my heartstrings wound themselves about a little girl in France who was kind to me. I may as well tell you now that the thought of that child was one of the motives that induced me to investigate Aileen's case, when we saw her that night at the vaudeville."

He looked at Champney, who, at the mention of Aileen's name, had started involuntarily. "You remember that night?" Champney nodded. How well he remembered it! But he gave no further sign.

"I was destined for the priesthood later on, but that did not stifle the love in my heart for the young girl. It was in my novitiate years. I never dared ask myself what the outcome of it all would be; I wanted to finish my novitiate first. I knew she loved me with a charming, open, young girl's love that in the freedom of our household life—her grandfather was my great-uncle on my mother's side—found expression in a sisterly way; and in the circumstances I could not tell her of my love. It was the last year of my novitiate when I discovered the fact that a young man, in the employ of her grandfather, was paying her attention with the intention of asking her of him in marriage. The mere thought of the loss of her drove me half mad. I took the first opportunity, when at home for the holidays, to tell her my love, and I threatened, that, if she gave herself to another, I would end all—either for myself or for him. The girl was frightened, indignant, horrified almost, at the force of the passion that was consuming me; she repelled me—that ended it; I took it for granted that she loved that other. I lay in wait for him one night as he was going to the house; taunted him; heaped upon him such abuse as makes a man another's murderer; I goaded him into doing what I had intended. He struck me in the face; closed with me, and I fought him; but he was wrestling with a madman. We were on the cliff at Dieppe; the night was dark; intentionally I forced him towards the edge. He struggled manfully, trying to land a blow on my head that would save him; he wrestled with me and he was a man of great strength; but I—I knew I could tire him out. It was dark—I knew when he went over the edge, but I could see nothing, I heard nothing....

"I fled; hid myself; but I was caught; held for a time awaiting the outcome of the man's hurt. Had he died it would have been manslaughter. As it was I knew it was murder, for there had been murder in my heart. He lived, but maimed for life. The lawyer, paid for by my great-uncle, set up the plea of self-defence. I was cleared in the law, and fled to America to expiate. I know now that there was but one expiation for me—to do what you are to do; plead guilty and take my punishment like a man. I failed to do it—and I preach of manhood to you!"

There was silence in the room. Champney broke it and his voice was almost unrecognizable; it was hoarse, constrained:

"But your love was noble—you loved her with all the manhood that was in you."

"God knows I did; but that does not alter the fact of my consequent crime."

He looked again at Champney as he spoke out his conviction, and his own emotion suffered a check in his amazement at the change in the countenance before him. He had seen nothing like this in the thirty-two hours he had been in his presence; his jaw was set; his nostrils white and sharpened; the pupils of his eyes contracted to pin points; and into the sallow cheeks, up to the forehead knotted as with intense pain, into the sunken temples, the blood rushed with a force that threatened physical disaster, only to recede as quickly, leaving the face ghastly white, the eyelids twitching, the muscles about the mouth quivering.

Noting all this Father HonorÉ read deeper still; he knew that Champney Googe had not told him the whole, possibly not the half—and never would tell. His next question convinced him of that.

"May I ask what became of the young girl you loved?—Don't answer, if I am asking too much."

"I don't know. I have never heard from her. I can only surmise. But I did receive a letter from her when I was in prison, before my trial—she was summoned as witness; and oh, the infinite mercy of a loving woman's heart!" He was silent a moment.

"She took so much blame upon herself, telling me that she had not known her own heart; that she tried to think she loved me as a brother; that she had been willing to let it go on so, and because she had not been brave enough to be honest with herself, all this trouble had come upon me whom she acknowledged she loved—upon her and her household. She begged me, if acquitted, never to see her, never to communicate with her again. There was but one duty for us both she said, guilty as we both were of what had occurred to wreck a human being for life; to go each the way apart forever—I mine, she hers—to expiate in good works, in loving kindness to those who might need our help....

"I have never known anything further—heard no word—made no inquiry. At that time, after my acquittal, my great-uncle, a well-to-do baker, settled a sum of money on the man who had been in his employ; the interest of it would support him in his incapacity to do a man's work and earn a decent livelihood. My uncle said then I was never again to darken his doors. He desired me to leave no address; to keep secret to myself my destination, and forever after my whereabouts. I obeyed to the letter—now enough of myself. I have told you this because, as a man, I had not the face to sit here in your presence and hear your decision, without showing you my respect for your courage—and I have taken this way to show it."

He held out his hand and Champney wrung it. "You don't know all, or you would have no respect," he said brokenly.

The two men looked understandingly into each other's eyes, but they both felt intuitively that any prolongation of this unwonted emotional strain would be injurious to both, and the work in hand. They, at once, in tacit understanding of each other's condition, put aside "the things that were behind" and "reached forth to those that were before": they laid plans for the speedy execution of all that Champney's decision involved.

"There is one thing I cannot do," he spoke with decision; "that is to see my mother before my commitment—or after. It is the only thing that will break me down. I need all the strength of control I possess to go through this thing."

The priest knew better than to protest.

"Telegraph her to-day what you think best to ease her suspense. I will write her, and ask you to deliver my letter to her after you have seen me through. I want you to go up with me—to the very doors; and I want yours to be the last known face I see on entering. Another request: I don't want you, my mother, or any one else known to me, to communicate with me by letter, message, or even gift of any kind during my term, whether seven years or twenty. This is oblivion. I cease to exist, as an identity, outside the walls. I will make one exception: if my mother should fall ill, write me at once.—How she will live, I don't know! I dare not think—it would unsettle my reason; but she has friends; she has you, the Colonel, Tave, Elvira, Caukins; they will not see her want, and there's the house; it's in her name."

He rose, shook himself together, drew a long breath. "Now let us go to work; the sooner it's over the better for all concerned.—I suppose the clothes I had on are worth nothing, but I'd like to look them over."

He spoke indifferently and went into the adjoining bath closet where Father HonorÉ, not liking to dispose of them until Champney should have spoken of them at least, had left the clothes in a bundle. He had put the little handkerchief, discolored almost beyond recognition, in with them. Champney came out in a few minutes.

"They're no good," he said. "I'll have to wear these, if I may. I believe it's one of the regulations that what a man takes in of his own, is saved for him to take out, isn't it?"

"Yes." An hour later when Father HonorÉ disposed of the bundle to the janitor, he knew that Aileen's handkerchief had been abstracted—and he read still deeper into the ways of the human heart....

Within ten days sentence was passed: seven years with hard labor.

There was no appeal for mercy, and speedy commitment followed. A paragraph in the daily papers conveyed a knowledge of the fact to the world in general; and within ten days, the world in general, as usual, forgot the circumstance; it was only one of many.