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X

As Marcus Gard stood upon the steps of Mahr’s residence, and heard the soft closing of its door behind him, he shut his eyes, drew himself erect and breathed deep of the keen, cold air.  A rush of youth expanded every vein and artery.  He experienced the physical and mental exultation of the strong man who has met and conquered his enemy.  The mere personal expression of his anger had relieved him.  He felt strong, alert, almost happy.  He descended to the street and turned his steps homeward.  At last something was accomplished.  The serpent’s fangs were drawn.  He experienced a cynical amusement in the thought that the path of true love had been smoothed by such equivocal means.  Neither of the children would ever know of the shadows that had gathered so closely around them.

But, Mrs. Marteen—­what of her?  Again the longing came upon him—­to know her awake to herself and to her own soul; to know the predatory instinct forever quieted, that upsurging of some remote inconscience of the race’s history of rapine in the open, and acquisition by stealth, forever conquered; to know her spirit triumphant.  The momentary joy of successful battle passed, leaving him deeply troubled.  All his fears returned.  The sense of impending disaster, that had withdrawn for the moment, overwhelmed him once more.

He entered his own home absently, listened, abstracted, to the various items Saunders thought important enough to mention, dismissed him, and turned wearily to a pile of personal mail.  His eye caught a familiar handwriting on a thick envelope.

From Mrs. Marteen evidently—­postmarked St. Augustine.  He broke the seal, wondering how her letter came to bear that mark.  What change had been made in her plans?  He hesitated, panic-stricken, like a woman before an unexpected telegram.  He withdrew the enclosure, noting at a glance a variety of papers—­the appearance of a diary.

“Dear, dear friend,” it began, “I must write—­I must, and to you, because you know—­you know, and yet you have made me your friend—­to you, because you love my little girl.  They are killing me, killing me through her.  I’m coming home, as fast as I can; I don’t yet know how, for I’m heading the other way, and I can’t stop the steamer, but I’m coming.  I received a message, the second day out.  It had been given to the purser for delivery and marked with the date—­that’s nothing unusual; I’ve had steamer letters delivered, one each day, during a whole crossing.  I never gave it a thought when he handed it to me, I never divined.  It seems to me now that I should have sensed it.  I read it, and—­but how to tell you?  I have it here; I’ll send it to you.”

A sheet of notepaper was pinned to the letter.  Sick at heart, Gard unfastened it.  Mahr’s name appeared at the bottom.  Gard read:  “Dear lady, you forgot to give your daughter the combination of the jewel safe and its inner compartment before you sailed.  I am attending to that for you, and have no doubt that she will at once inventory the contents.  We are always glad to return favors conferred upon us.”