Gilder scrupulously followed the directions of the Police Inspector.Uneasily, he had remained in the library until the allotted time was elapsed.He fidgeted from place to place, his mind heavy with distress under the shadow that threatened to blight the life of his cherished son.Finally, with a sense of relief he put out the lights and went to his chamber.But he did not follow the further directions given him, for he was not minded to go to bed.Instead, he drew the curtains closely to make sure that no gleam of light could pass them, and then sat with a cigar between his lips, which he did not smoke, though from time to time he was at pains to light it.His thoughts were most with his son, and ever as he thought of ****, his fury waxed against the woman who had enmeshed the boy in her plotting for vengeance on himself.And into his thoughts now crept a doubt, one that alarmed his sense of justice.It occurred to him that this woman could not have thus nourished a plan for retribution through the years unless, indeed, she had been insane, even as he had claimed--or innocent! The idea was appalling.He could not bear to admit the possibility of having been the involuntary inflicter of such wrong as to send the girl to prison for an offense she had not committed.He rejected the suggestion, but it persisted.He knew the clean, wholesome nature of his son.
It seemed to him incredible that the boy could have thus given his heart to one altogether undeserving.A horrible suspicion that he had misjudged Mary Turner crept into his brain, and would not out.He fought it with all the strength of him, and that was much, but ever it abode there.He turned for comfort to the things Burke had said.The woman was a crook, and there was an end of it.Her ruse of spoliation within the law was evidence of her shrewdness, nothing more.
Mary Turner herself, too, was in a condition utterly wretched, and for the same cause--**** Gilder.That source of the father's suffering was hers as well.She had won her ambition of years, revenge on the man who had sent her to prison.And now the joy of it was a torture, for the puppet of her plans, the son, had suddenly become the chief thing in her life.She had taken it for granted that he would leave her after he came to know that her marriage to him was only a device to bring shame on his father.Instead, he loved her.That fact seemed the secret of her distress.He loved her.More, he dared believe, and to assert boldly, that she loved him.Had he acted otherwise, the matter would have been ****** enough....But he loved her, loved her still, though he knew the shame that had clouded her life, knew the motive that had led her to accept him as a husband.
More--by a sublime audacity, he declared that she loved him.
There came a thrill in her heart each time she thought of that--that she loved him.The idea was monstrous, of course, and yet---- Here, as always, she broke off, a hot flush blazing in her cheeks....Nevertheless, such curious fancies pursued her through the hours.She strove her mightiest to rid herself of them, but in vain.Ever they persisted.She sought to oust them by thinking of any one else, of Aggie, of Joe.There at last was satisfaction.Her interference between the man who had saved her life and the temptation of the English crook had prevented a dangerous venture, which might have meant ruin to the one whom she esteemed for his devotion to her, if for no other reason.At least, she had kept him from the outrageous folly of an ordinary burglary.
Mary Turner was just ready for bed after her evening at the theater, when she was rudely startled out of this belief.A note came by a messenger who waited for no answer, as he told the yawning maid.As Mary read the roughly scrawled message, she was caught in the grip of terror.Some instinct warned her that this danger was even worse than it seemed.The man who had saved her from death had yielded to temptation.Even now, he was engaged in committing that crime which she had forbidden him.As he had saved her, so she must save him.She hurried into the gown she had just put off.Then she went to the telephone-book and searched for the number of Gilder's house.
It was just a few moments before Mary Turner received the note from the hands of the sleepy maid that one of the leaves of the octagonal window in the library of Richard Gilder's town house swung open, under the persuasive influence of a thin rod of steel, cunningly used, and Joe Garson stepped confidently into the dark room.
A faint radiance of moonlight from without showed him for a second as he passed between the heavy draperies.Then these fell into place, and he was invisible, and soundless as well.For a space, he rested motionless, listening intently.Reassured, he drew out an electric torch and set it glowing.A little disc of light touched here and there about the room, traveling very swiftly, and in methodical circles.Satisfied by the survey, Garson crossed to the hall door.He moved with alert assurance, lithely balanced on the balls of his feet, noiselessly.At the hall door he listened for any sound of life without, and found none.The door into the passage that led to the store-room where the detectives waited next engaged his business-like attention.
And here, again, there was naught to provoke his suspicion.
These preliminaries taken as measures of precaution, Garson went boldly to the small table that stood behind the couch, turned the button, and the soft glow of an electric lamp illumined the apartment.The extinguished torch was thrust back into his pocket.Afterward he carried one of the heavy chairs to the door of the passage and propped it against the panel in such wise that its fall must give warning as to the opening of the door.His every action was performed with the maximum of speed, with no least trace of flurry or of nervous haste.It was evident that he followed a definite program, the fruit of precise thought guided by experience.
