# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 30/Number 6/Nothing Venture, Nothing Have

Extracted from The Red Book Magazine magazine, 1918 April, pp. 57–62, 128–134. Accompanying illustrations by Frank Streetmay be omitted.
A house of mystery! You who so enjoyed “The House of a Thousand Candles” well know what magic Meredith Nicholson can weave about a place of that sort. This story is in his best vein.
Nothing Venture, Nothing Have
By MEREDITH NICHOLSON
Illustrated by FRANK STREET
BURTON was Satisfied that the old gentleman in the brown fedora was following him. Several times he had tested the matter by abruptly changing his course and walking briskly in a new direction, only to find that the strange pursuer kept close at his heels. He swung round so quickly that he brushed against the old gentleman and for a moment found himself gazing into a pair of gray eyes that regarded him with keen scrutiny.
“I beg your pardon!” the stranger murmured courteously.
“Certainly, sir,” Burton replied ironically, and lifted his hat.
They were at the edge of the pond in Central Park; the sun had disappeared beyond the Hudson.
“I have just finished this yarn,” remarked the stranger, holding up a copy of “Wreckage,” a novel that bore Gayland Burton's name upon the title-page. “You were in the shop when I bought it, and the clerk pointed you out as the author. I come here on fair days to do my reading, and oddly enough, you passed the bench where I was sitting just as I finished the tale. I've been sauntering along behind you ever since. My acquaintance with authors has been limited, and I took the liberty of observing you a little. I apologize, sir, for what I hope you will excuse as a pardonable curiosity.”
Burton caught hopefully at the idea that the stranger's motives were amiable and that at last he was to hear a friendly word as to the merits of a book he had written with much labor.
“I hope the book didn't bore you, sir,” he remarked.
“On the whole, I was rather interested in it,” the old gentleman replied with a slight smile. “I have read all three of your novels, and am quite familiar with your method. But—broadly speaking—I think such tales pernicius. I am morbid on the question of causing unhappiness, depressing people and making them dissatisfied and cynical. You grow more harsh, more bitter, as you go on. 'Wreckage' left a bad taste in my mouth, so you must pardon me if I dispose of it now and here.”
He drew back his arm and flung the book from him; it fell with a splash into the lake, where the swans and ducks, outraged by so wanton a disturbance of their privacy, protested with a flutter of wings and resentful squawks.
“You evidently feel deeply about it,” said Burton, laughing at the man's violence. “I suppose I couldn't persuade you that the world needs to know the truth, that we of America are peculiarly blind to our weaknesses—the hard realities we've got to face one of these days unless we perish as a nation.”
“Don't talk to me about perishing!” the old gentleman exclaimed with a laugh. “My name is Saybrook—Walter B. Saybrook. I live only a square or so from here—quite alone. I am dining at home; suppose you join me, and we will talk comfortably.”
Burton hesitated; then, on impulse, he decided to go.
“Very well—thank you!” he said, and fell into step with Saybrook, who received his acceptance with a careless nod.
Burton had never spent a drearier day. “Wreckage” had been acclaimed as a work that showed growing power, but it had sold only a few thousand copies more than his previous novels. He had chosen Chicago as the scene of his tales, and had succeeded in producing a chronicle that was as frightful as anything in Russian fiction. Burton realized that he could hardly expect to sustain himself by these writings, and had spent the afternoon debating whether “Wreckage” should not be his last effort.
“This is where I lodge,” said Saybrook, drawing out his latchkey before a handsome house on Eighty-seventh Street. “Bangs will show you to a room. You will find me in the library at seven-thirty.”
Illustration: “”When Ledyard became engrossed in the performance of a dancer, Alice met Burton's gaze. He was not prepared for her first words. “I know very few people, Burton; I have o friends, men or women. I am greatly in need of help.”
Burton noted with a twinge of resentment. the expensive appointments of the rooms. possible only to possessors of the wealth he despised. The walls of the suite to which he had been conducted were hung with etchings and paintings instantly recognizable as works of value and distinction. He turned away with an impatient shrug, sat down with a new volume of criticism and became so absorbed that he failed to notice the passing of time until Bangs announced dinner.
THE dining-room shared in every way the good taste of the rest of the house. Carved in the paneling over a wide fireplace were these words in old English letters:
Nothing Venture—Nothing Have
“That's my motto,” explained Saybrook, following Burton's glance of interest, 'and I commend it to you.”
The butler served the dinner with a deliberation encouraged by his master's manner.
“You may remove Bill for the present, Bangs,” said Saybrook, indicating a parrot that was attempting to participate in the conversation. “Bill Bones usually talks to me, and he doesn't understand just how you come to be here,” he explained with a smile as the bird retired chattering.
“I share his feeling!” laughed Burton.
“I merely pay tribute to a man of genius,” Saybrook replied, “or, if you please, I am quite selfishly giving myself a pleasure. And to be frank about it, now that you have your legs under my table, I have designs upon you!”
He gazed at Burton quizzically, and the gaze was so prolonged that Burton dropped his eyes.
"Let us be frank with each other,” said Saybrook. “Men in your profession often do not prosper. Reputation, fame even—yes; but the mere matter of daily bread, ease of mind—” He finished his summary with a gesture.
“I have no money; to tell the truth about it, I'm in debt,” Burton replied bluntly. “In getting my education incurred obligations, and have added others since.”
"You are indeed frank, and I assure you I appreciate your confidence. I assume the debts are not pressing?”
“No—hardly that. Something like ten thousand dollars has been advanced by a Chicago trust-company at the instance of a person unknown to me.”
“That person,” said Saybrook with his quizzical smile, “is myself. And I may say,” he added casually, “that I became your benefactor when I was laboring under the delusion that you were my son!”
Burton drew out his handkerchief and passed it slowly across his forehead.
“I don't understand you,” he faltered.
“Naturally not!” cried Saybrook. “In order that you may be sure I am not trifling with your credulity, I will state that the total amount I have advanced through the Great Lakes Trust Company of Chicago—a city I detest in spite of the fact that it is the source of my income—is exactly ten thousand, four hundred and eighteen dollars.”
Burton drank his champagne at a gulp. Bangs gravely his glass, and at a sign from Saybrook left the room.
“Let us be economical of speech,” said Saybrook crisply but kindly. “I was married at thirty-five to a girl of twenty. She was beautiful, light-hearted, sensitive, gentle!” Burton, groping for clues with a deepening sense of the unreality of the situation, noted a softening of the lines in host's face. “She remained with me six months and then left abruptly, unable to bear my harshness, my lack of sympathy with her youth. I was bent upon making money in those days, and—I made it!” he added with a glance that swept the spacious room.
“She disappeared utterly, and I have spent a fortune to trace her. Where her child—my child—was born, whether son or daughter, I don't know. You came under my eye just twenty years ago when one of my agents persuaded me for a time that you were quite possibly the child of that marriage. I know your history perfectly. You were orphaned in infancy; the uncle who took charge of you was a man of small means; and as you had interested me, I became, we will say, your benefactor.”
Given a choice in the matter, Burton would not have chosen Saybrook as his benefactor. He had been led by his uncle to believe that a distant kinsman in California had supplied the funds for his education.
“It occurs to me,” Saybrook resumed, “that you and I may be of assistance to each other. I too have made many people unhappy by being cynical and harsh. I sought a fortune, gained it, and found my hands full but my heart empty! I learned all too late that the world is full of romance, that sentiment enters very largely into all human affairs. Having made a sorry mess of my own life, I want now to help others to happiness—special cases, you know, that appeal to me. Incidentally I want to save you! You are leading a dull, morbid existence, brooding over sordidness and misery—even exulting in it at times. What I propose, Burton, is to make you my agent as the promoter of romance, the helper of those whose affairs go badly. The thought of adventure in the old romantic sense is abhorrent to you; you have gone even further and declared in your essays that it is an anachronism. But my dear boy, we are surrounded by romance; the newspapers are full of it; the houses all around us are full of it. The slums you describe with so much bitterness are full of it. Let me ask you this: have you ever been in love?”
Burton's face expressed his scornful rejection of the idea before his lips uttered an emphatic no.
“Ah!” cried Saybrook. “You shall know love! Love shall make you suffer. You shall know adventure, and adventure shall make you strong, brave, self-sacrificing! If for a year you will write no more of!your dreary rubbish but serve me in such ways as I suggest, I will pay you twenty thousand dollars; and I promise excitement, variety and opportunity to serve, the possibility of experiencing the love you affect, in your ignorance, to despise. You have penetration, insight, wisdom of a sort, but your experience of life has been gained from books; your trouble is that you approach the study of society with preconceived ideas. You find what you are looking for. And a man who has never known love still gropes in darkness, grossly ignorant and unfit to write for the instruction of others.”
Burton shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Saybrook was ridiculous; what he proposed was absurd. He felt, strongly impelled to fling his napkin in his singular host's face and leave the house; but he was conscious of a motive behind these disclosures, and his curiosity was a-dance as to the nature of Saybrook's real business with him.
COFFEE was served in the living-room, and when it had been disposed of, Saybrook rose from a long table where he had seated himself and handed Burton a slip of paper; it was a check for twenty thousand dollars.
“You take much for granted,” said Burton.
“Tut! Don't be silly! You will at once begin your first adventure. We will loaf along to the Mizzen Top, where an old friend of yours is awaiting us, Shepherd,—William G.,—a club acquaintance of mine. Remember, he knows nothing of what has passed between us, but I suggest that you report to me when you have solved the riddle that he will bring to your attention to-night. -Our coats, Bangs.”
At the Mizzen Top they were conducted to a table where Shepherd was already established,—Billy Shepherd, in- deed,—whom Burton had seen only a few times since they were graduated in the same class at Yale. The entertainment was of the usual roof-garden variety, and when an occasional vociferous clash blurred conversation, Burton frowned his displeasure.
In one of these interruptions his roving eyes fell upon a man of middle age and a young girl who were seating themselves at a neighboring table. The man—small, dark, with delicate, cameolike features—first attracted his attention. The man espied an acquaintance as he was about to take his seat and bowed elaborately. There was an easy, insinuating grace in him. The girl was tall, dark, with the rounded cheeks and bright coloring of healthy youth. While her companion was giving his order, she turned her head and glanced about slowly, indifferently, with a suggestion of disdain for her surroundings.
“You have seen the finest eyes in America,” remarked Shepherd, “—and, I might add, the unhappiest!”
Burton acquiesced with a nod, his gaze bent still upon the girl.
“Father and daughter,” Shepherd explained. “Ledyard is the name. He has a place in the Adirondacks and lives there most of the year—a question of his lungs, I heard.”
Saybrook looked at his watch and rose, remarking:
“You two seem to hit it off very well together. I'm going to ask you to excuse me; scratch my name on the check—will you, Shepherd?”
Illustration: “Frances has gone,” she said. “It was necessary to confer about those men who are coming. They're coming, you know, for their share of the spoils!”
It had been tn Burton's mind to ask Shepherd about Saybrook, but now that they were left to themselves Shepherd seemed deeply preoccupied. He turned in seat that he might the more easily watch the Ledyards. The name had wakened some chord in Burton's memory, and he started when Shepherd suddenly remarked in a low tone:
“You knew Tommy Porter—he was in a class below ours, a fine fellow, the very best sort; the papers were full of the case six months ago.”
“It was at Ledyard's place that Porter disappeared?” asked Burton, lifting his head quickly.
“Exactly,” Shepherd assented. “A number of us who knew Tommy and loved him have exhausted every means of finding him. His only relative, a sister who lives in California, has just gone home. I must say for Ledyard that he acted very decently about the whole business—gave the detectives a free hand to ferret out the mystery. And of course Tommy may be at the bottom of Lake Mayhapo,—the generally accepted solution,—but it wasn't like Tommy to drown himself.”
“Just who is Ledyard, and what was Porter doing at his place?” Burton asked.
“Ah! You've got to the crux of the matter at the first try! He was in love with this girl! He met the Ledyards in Colorado, where he had business interests. In our efforts to get a line on Ledyard, we've found him to be a free spender; his father was a highly respectable silk-importer. This chap, Eugene, lived abroad for years and married there. He was a little conspicuous at Monte Carlo at times, and once or twice mixed up in rather queer financial schemes in London and Paris, but nothing was ever fastened on him. On the face of it, he's a cultivated gentleman, an invalid, who lives on an income that must run to fifty thousand a year or such a matter. He asks people to his place-from time to time—men of substance and some social standing, usually. It's been said that these house-parties are an excuse for gambling on a big scale, by men who are good losers. From what we have been able to karn, the conventions are strictly observed at Lost Trail Lodge.”
“You think, then, that Porter is dead?” asked Burton.
Shepherd frowned and gazed into his wineglass as though seeking the answer there. His quiet reply caused Burton to start.
“That's for you to find out! Saybrook suggested you as Specially qualified for the job. He's an odd chap, as you doubtless know. Your meeting me here is the result of a conspiracy he initiated to arouse your interest. I'm only a cog in his little machine, chosen because Ledyard doesn't know me from Adam—nor does he know you. In a few minutes you will be put through the next degree. A man named Farnam will drop in here; he knows Ledyard, and will introduce-you. Saybrook merely told me Farnam was an old friend and under some obligations to him. There's Farnam tow, coming this way. I'll introduce you and fade out of the picture.”
But I don't know—” began Burton.
“Oh, you know everything I know!” exclaimed Shepherd. “Of course it's queer, and so is the extinction of Tommy st queer! But Saybrook has manipulated the whole thing and we all appear to be playthings in the old boy's hands!”
Nothing could have been more natural than the manner Shepherd excused himself, leaving Burton alone with Farnam, a man of thirty, who threw into the meeting a casual air well calculated to deceive an onlooker. Ledyard nodded to him, the careless nod of familiar acquaintance; the girl turned a moment later, hesitated as though not immediately recognizing him, and then smiled and bowed. The smile faded quickly, and for a moment her glance lingered upon Burton with what he interpreted as veiled inquiry. Farnam slowly sipped a cordial.
“Do you care to meet the Ledyards?” he asked. “I believe I was to bring you together, but I'm not forcing the matter. They are different; you will find them interesting. The daughter is a wonder—a musical prodigy, I believe.”
Burton, befuddled by the rapidity with which he was being passed from one hand to another, murmured a faint acquiescence. At the end of the act Farnam rose and shook hands with the Ledyards, talked to them a moment and presented Burton.
“You ought to be acquainted—similar tastes and all that,” he said easily. “This is Burton, the writer.”
“Mr. Burton is not more welcome for being famous,” said Ledyard pleasantly. “Alice and I finished 'Wreckage' just before we came to town—a book of power, undeniably. It's clear, Mr. Burton, that you know life!”
“That's something no one can ever be sure of,” Burton replied as Ledyard called a waiter and asked that chairs be brought.
Miss Ledyard was at Burton's left, her face toward him, and he was conscious that she was studying him in a long, leisurely scrutiny. Farnam addressed Ledyard directly, referring to some earlier meeting. Burton turned quickly, hearing the girl's voice.
“You think,” she said, smiling gravely, “that no one can really be sure of—life?”
The pause before she uttered the last word, the cageyness with which she waited for his reply, checked the the answer half formed on his lips. e
“I suppose we may never be sure of the things we covet most,” he answered. “There's gays the vanishing goal to keep us going.”
“The people in your novels don't keep going—they die, or kill themselves,” she laughed. “Would you prescribe that solution for all of us?”
“Certainly not! Pardon me for being personal, but you are too young to be interested in solutions; you are at the age of experiment!”
“An evasive answer! There's no time in our lives when we are not interested in the answers. The baby that discovers the moon for the first time and tries to grab it through the window learns very definitely that he can't have the moon.”
“But he finds other moons with other names,” Burton suggested.
“Ah, but you are not helping me at all!” she complained, and it occurred to him that there might be some hidden purpose in her questions. As they talked, half banteringly, half seriously, he felt her eyes searching him, perhaps for sympathy—even, possibly, for aid.
Farnam rose unhurriedly. “Sorry, but I must run along. Here's hoping we may all meet soon again.”
Ledyard talked well; he talked well of many things, with an occasional reference to his daughter for corroboration. He spoke of Burton's books in flattering conjunction with the writers Burton most admired. He was clever, diabolically clever. If Shepherd had not so frankly confessed his part in Saybrook's scheme, Burton would have believed the whole matter prearranged even to a rehearsal of this conversation.
When Ledyard became engrossed in the performance of a dancer who was just then the talk of the town, Alice met Burton's gaze with a smile that suggested relief. She had fully wakened all his powers of discernment and analysis, but he was not prepared for her first words:
“I know very few people, Mr. Burton; I have no friends, men or women. I am very greatly in need of help.”
For a moment her great eyes brightened with tears—tears that vanished instantly. She glanced at Ledyard, to make sure he was not overhearing her.
“If he asks you to come, you—you will not refuse?”
“Where—what?” The inquiry died on his lips as he saw how intently she awaited his reply. “No—whatever you ask,” he answered.
She nodded, and raised her voice slightly to speak of Sorolla, whose work was just then on exhibition at the Metropolitan. A moment later the room rang with applause. It was the end of the program. Ledyard praised the dancing eloquently as they passed out and found their wraps.
The night was fine; Ledyard readily acquiesced to the girl's request that they walk home. They had an apartment for such times as they were in town, he explained. Burton crossed with them to the Avenue, Miss Ledyard setting a leisurely pace and talking rapidly as though to hold him. She spoke of the North Woods, of the coming of winter.
“You should know our woodlands! Ah, there would be a place for a writer to feel, to ponder, to work!”
Her purpose was transparent enough. She was throwing Ledyard the clue to ask Burton to his house.
“People who write,” she persisted, “must be very sensitive to their surroundings. For that matter, I suppose we are all influenced by environment.”
“The spirit of man needs room! I need air—I must have air!” Ledyard struck the pavement sharply with his stick.
There was something like a cry in his voice. Burton felt the girl's hand for a moment on his arm; but Ledyard recovered himself and began talking of places identified with the composition of musical masterpieces.
When they had reached the Ledyards' apartment-house, Burton declined an earnest invitation to enter, promising that he would call upon them at some other time.
“Ah, but you've got me started now; there's no end to the things I want to discuss with you, and we fly back to the woods to-morrow,” protested Ledyard. “Alice!” he ejaculated, “what do you say to asking Mr: Burton to go up with us to-morrow night? Give us the week-end or a month—as you will, Burton. Really, we should take it as a great compliment.”
“We should be most happy, I'm sure!” replied the girl with a tremulous eagerness that did not escape Burton.
“You are more than kind; I shall be glad to go,” said Burton.
He bade them good night and walked away; regretting that he had yielded....
Lost Trail Lodge proved to be a big house with the woods behind it and the lake stretching away from its front windows. As Burton unpacked, he reflected seriously upon his status in a house to which he had been cordially welcomed but where he was under obligations to spy upon his host. He was still amazed that he had accepted Ledyard's invitation. And the twenty thousand rankled. For all he knew, he might have sold himself to the devil.
At noon he went downstairs, and seeing no one about, went for a walk. He discovered now what had escaped him on his arrival—a bungalow set farther back in the woods the matter of a hundred yards from the big house, but evidently a part of Ledyard's property. As he reached the bungalow, Alice came out on the veranda, followed by another young woman, and waved her hand.
“So you've been taking the air! We thought of course, you'd hide yourself till luncheon. Miss Shipley, Mr. Burton. I'd forgotten to explain that I have a shack of my own, where Miss Shipley and I live like hermits when we like. You see, we make a great noise with our piano, and Father built the built the bungalow for me two years ago, so I can make all the row I want without fear of disturbing anyone.”
“Miss Ledyard is an incorrigible night owl,” remarked Miss Shipley. “She doesn't begin to get interested in her music until midnight.”
Miss Shipley was tall, fair and somewhat older than Alice, Burton judged, with a wealth of brown hair, and blue-gray eyes. He was wondering as to his position in the Ledyard ménage when, as though to set his mind at rest, she remarked easily:
“To chaperon a girl in a lonely place like this is a sinecure, and often when Alice runs away, she doesn't take me along.”
“Oh, you caught me when I was still young enough to scold, so I don't need watching any more,” laughed Alice.
The Lodge certainly offered ample room for Ledyard's daughter and her companion without the bungalow annex, and the explanation that Alice's devotion to the piano made it convenient for her to live in a house of her own left Burton wondering.
Ledyard greeted them from a desk by one of the living-room windows, and they went to luncheon. Burton became immediately conscious that Miss Shipley was an important factor in the household. Ledyard, with a word of apology to Burton, asked her about some of the bills which, it seemed, it was her duty to pass upon.
Illustration: “I've had it—ever since that if I got desperate.”
The talk became brisk, Miss Shipley taking her full part. Several times it occurred to Burton that Tommy Porter had probably occupied the very seat at table to which be had been assigned. Possibly, he reflected, he had been asked to the Lodge to assist in overcoming any doubts or prejudices aroused by Porter's disappearance, and this thought was disconcerting. He was talking directly to Alice when, turning his head quickly, he surprised Ledyard and Miss Shipley in a telegraphic exchange. She had frowned and shaken her head as though in rejection of something he had silently expressed to her. She saw that Burton had detected her, and said at once:
“Oh, you caught me! Alice and I watch Mr. Ledyard very carefully at table. His doctor holds him to a strict regimen, and I was trying to tell him as politely as possible that he can't have a second chop!”
It was a neat bit of work, but Burton, schooled in the definite and actual, felt an unfamiliar stirring of the intangible, the mysterious. As though anxious to ingratiate herself, Miss Shipley engaged him in a brisk debate on the merits of “Madame Bovary,” which she thought a much overrated novel.
“If you should feel like taking a walk, Mr. Burton, I'm ready whenever you are!” suggested Alice when they had returned to the living-room. Her manner was the most casual; she was turning over the pages of a book when she spoke. Ledyard, who was gazing moodily out of the window, turned and involuntarily, it seemed, lifted his eyes .for a glance at Miss Shipley. She ignored him and said to Burton:
“That will be fine; it's a lovely afternoon for a walk.”
LEDYARD resumed the examination of the papers on his desk with a murmur of assent.
“I'm quite ready,” said Burton. “I'll change my shoes and be down in a second.”
When he returned, he was conscious of a vague tensity in the air. They had been talking about him, he knew from the eagerness with which they immediately addressed him, chaffing him about his walking powers.
Alice struck off at a quick pace, plunging into the woods along a trail which she said was a favorite of hers. She had drawn on an orange sweater and capped her head with a tam-o'-shanter to match. For a time she was silent, and in furtive glances Burton saw that her lips were tightly compressed and there was a determined look in her eyes. He tramped beside her, or followed her where the path narrowed, anxious not to break in upon her mood. He was utterly unprepared for the suddenness with which, after nearly an hour, she stopped at the edge of a ravine slashed through the hills and faced him. Her eyes betrayed deep agitation.
“I'm sorry—I'm more sorry than I can tell you, that I let you come!”
“But I wanted to come! It was not your urging; it was an urging of the spirit, let us call it,” he said lightly.
“No, no! You were tricked into it! I made it hard for you to refuse! I wanted some one here I could rely on—some one who may help! And you can see already that they suspect you! That woman is abusing Father now for having brought you. He's enormously afraid of her.”
These revelations, uttered rapidly, were less staggering for what they actually revealed than for the vast range of the unknown that they suggested.
“Let us sit here,” she continued indicating a flat boulder. “It was an old haunt of ours; it was here that I wanted him to go; and it was here that we made our vows. We were to have gone away the very next day. I never saw him again after dinner that night.”
She hadn't mentioned Porter directly, but it was sufficiently clear that it was of him she spoke.
“I know only what the newspapers printed about him. There can be no question, I suppose, that he is—”
“If he were alive,' she said bravely, “he would come back; he would not leave me here. He knew too much of what I suffered. He could never have doubted that I loved him.”
She said this calmly, as though there were nothing remarkable in such a confession to a man she had met only two days before. Nothing had ever so moved him as her confidence, her trust in him.
“I should like to know all you know,” he said.
“I went to the bungalow that evening,” she began, “and Frances remained for a while at the Lodge. Oh, yes, she's a partner in the game, the more dangerous because she doesn't look the part. She's a master-hand at cards, and the plan was to ruin Tommy. After I met him in Colorado, he came to the Lodge repeatedly. To see me it was necessary for him to come here and let himself be victimized. But it wasn't just gaming; it was a deep-laid scheme to get some stock away from him that was necessary to control an enormously rich mine in Nevada. There were others in the plot. I was afraid to tell him the web that was being woven round him. It's not an easy thing to tell the man you love that your own father is bent upon robbing him. And when I got the courage to tell him, it was too late!
“You will understand the sort of life I've led when I tell you I've never known women; I scarcely remember my mother; so quite literally I've never known woman except Frances. My father is a born gambler; I can never remember a time when he didn't live by gaming. In Europe we moved from one hotel to another like fugitives. Poor Tommy! He knew it all and was so happy in the thought of getting me out of it!”
“Miss Shipley has been kind to you?” suggested Burton. “You seem the best of of friends.”
The girl was silent for a moment, then she answered brokenly:
“It was Tommy who changed all that! He interested her at once; she fell madly in love with him. She knew perfectly well why he kept coming back. But I have no right to say that she knows any more of what happened that night than I do. They had a game of cards, which was the usual program. Frances came to the bungalow at midnight. About ten o'clock the next morning there was a great uproar because Tommy had gone, he vanished utterly. His things were in the
room; there was nothing to show why he had left.”
“The men—the other guests—”
“They all told the same story; their statements agreed in every particular. Detectives worked on the case for weeks. There were unpleasant hints about Papa in the papers; and I didn't escape. Now that I have told you everything I know, you can see how pitifully little it is, and “there is nothing you can do! You were generous to come; I am very, very grateful. But to-morrow I want you to go. I've done enough evil,” she ended despairingly; “and if any harm came to you—”
“No harm will come to me, and I shall not go,” he said.
ALICE'S intimation that jealousy might have been a contributing factor in Porter's disappearance had greatly roused Burton; but Frances' serenity, the impression she gave of a well-bred, cultivated woman, did not encourage the feeling that she had connived at the destruction of a man who had passed her by to give his love to another woman. Whatever annoyance Burton's appearance at the Lodge had caused her, she appeared to have overcome it.
Coffee was served, after dinner, before the living-room fireplace.
They had hardly settled themselves before the snapping logs when the knocker at the front door sounded, and the butler appeared with a telegram which Ledyard took with an assumption of indifference belied by, his shaking hand.
“The impertinence of telegrams!” laughed Frances, who was composedly filling the cups.
Ledyard walked to the fireplace, half crumpling the paper, and then with a muttered “Pardon me” dropped it on the table.
“Oh, how nice!” Burton heard Miss Shipley exclaim as she read the message. “Mr. Fairfield and Mr. Wands are coming up!”
Alice, stirring her cup, laughed a little harshly, Burton thought.
“Really! How very nice!” she murmured with a slight mockery of Miss Shipley's tone.
“Suppose we go to the bungalow and have some music,” suggested Frances presently. “This is just the night for Chopin!”
“I'll come over later,” said Ledyard, who was plainly relieved at being left alone.
Alice began playing immediately when they reached the bungalow. Burton settled himself in an easy-chair and was at once swept into far fields of reverie. He forgot Frances' presence; once he heard her stirring somewhere, but the music had obliterated her. Alice played for an hour in which no word was spoken: then, still Playing, she swept the room with a glance, and with a slight movement of the head called him to the piano.
Frances has gone,” she said. “She left soon after we came. It was necessary for them to confer about those men who are coming. They are not welcome, you understand. They're coming, you know, for their share of the spoils!”
She shivered; her shoulders twitched as though cut by an invisible lash.
“They're planning for to-morrow?” he inquired. “They've got a situation to met—is that it?”
“That's precisely it. Those men were dogging Father in New York, and 'he fell in with the idea of having you up because he thought if they followed you'd be in some sense a protection—to him! I've said all that I can say to you aboutthe danger. I don't know what may happen to-morrow; anything may happen! You will remember, wont you, that I urged you to go?”
“Yes; but you would hate me if I went. Certainly I would hate myself if I left you here.”
She nodded her head slowly. Her breath came in little gasps; there were tears in her eyes. Then she walked to a music-cabinet and drew out a pistol.
“I want you to take this: I've had it—ever since that night—to end the whole if I got desperate. This man Fairfield—” She shivered, and a look of fear crossed her face. “I can't be quite sure of Papa; when he needs money—”
She did not flinch under this confession of her fear of Ledyard. She implied unutterable things so frankly that his blood chilled.
“When you go back, don't—don't see anything. Go directly to your room and Ilock the door.”
The hand she gave him at the door was as cold as the steel of the automatic he had thrust into his pocket. His mind was in a whirl a reached the open. He hurried to the Lodge and found the door unlocked. The living-room fire had burned out, and: the vast calm of the woods lay he house. He mounted the stairs and reached his room without seeing anyone.
AT eight o'clock he woke to the ominous murmur of a steady downpour of rain. He dressed and went down, to find Alice and Frances waiting for him in the living-room.
“Breakfasting alone on a gray morning isn't very cheerful, so we took pity on you and came over to keep you company,” remarked Frances. “I really meant to see you again night, but Mr. Ledyard's been troubled about the household accounts, and I came over to do a little auditing.”
Ledyard came to the breakfast-table with an assumption of gayety that bewildered Burton.
“I've rather promised myself the pleasure of a game of billiards with Mr. Burton,” said Frances. “And if that doesn't exhaust him, and I don't bore him too much, I'm keen for a tramp this afternoon. The rain's about over, and the roads will dry quickly. Maybe Alice will go along!”
“You will find Frances a far cheerier comrade than I proved; you may be sure I sha'n't spoil your party,” said Alice with a glance that conveyed to Burton the idea that he was to accept the invitations.
Frances evidently intended to make it easy for Ledyard alone with his new guests, and Burton thought it wise to meet her wishes.
Billiards served to keep Burton ocupied until noon, and he got his first glimpse of the newcomers in the living-room. Ledyard introduced them with an offhand air of good fellowship. Fairfield was of Ledyard's own type—small, precise, rather dandified. Wands was short; florid and stout, with a yellowish beard. It was evident that they wished to convey the impression of intimacy of old friends of the house. Alice and Frances appeared for luncheon a moment later. Frances welcomed the men cordially; Alice's manner was reserved.
Frances announced her walk with Burton as they were leaving their seats, in such manner that there was no detaining her. As they set out, Frances' liveliness was that of one who has escaped from something very disagreeable.
“Bores, both of them!” was her way of speaking of Wands and Fairfield. “Mr. Ledyard made the mistake of asking them up once, and they brought bad luck! Dear Tommy Porter, you know! Those men were here that night. Of course, no one was responsible; but it was most inconsiderate of Mr. Porter to run off in that fashion, and leave us—” She shrugged her shoulders. “But I'm so grateful for your being here. You and Alice hit it off together splendidly! The dear child is so triste; it breaks my heart to see her so unhappy. Of course, she loved Tommy dearly; but you have had a cheering effect on her; she's almost her old self since she came back. I've wondered sometimes .whether she doesn't hope against hope that Tommy is still alive!”
He was instantly on guard, aware that she was feeling him out as to what Alice might have said to him.
“Of course she would say nothing to me,” he answered. “The thought that Porter may be alive is too startling; it hadn't occurred to me. After so many months—how long has it been?”
He thought a smile quivered on her lips at his evasion. She stopped in the woodland path and pondered for a moment.
“It was—just six months ago, and just before the winter's last fall of snow. I remember of thinking that if the snow had come a day earlier, we might have had some way of tracing him.”
NO one could have been more companionable; they got along famously. The shadows were falling before she asked the hour and led the way homeward. They would barely have time to dress for dinner, he estimated, wondering just how far she would go in her determination not to be left alone with the three men.
He left her at the bungalow and hurried to the Lodge, where the men, already dressed, were having a cocktail. He judged from Ledyard's nervousness and the sullen appearance of Wands and Fairfield that the afternoon at the Lodge had not been a happy one. Dinner would have been a gloomy affair but for Frances' amusing attempts at frivolity, the neatly pointed ironies with which she gibed Wands and Fairfield. And then, as the tray was carried out after the ceremonial serving of coffee in the living-room, she complained languidly of fatigue and suggested that Alice and she would carry Burton to the bungalow for some music promised him.
Wands and Fairfield were on their feet before she could rise, and they strode to the coffee-table menacingly.
“You are not going to leave this house! Do you understand, Miss Shipley—you remain right here!” cried Wands, beating the table sharply.
“Oh, you really wish me to stay?” she asked with an air of surprise. “How very nice of you!”
Her gaze passed insolently from Wands to Fairfield and on to Ledyard, whose face twitched with excitement. Burton, uncertain what to do, walked toward the glass doors that opened upon the veranda. Alice stood there; indeed, she had been there with her face pressed against the pane for several minutes.
“You are making a fool of yourself,” cried Ledyard shrilly. “There are things we've got to talk to you about!”
Burton resolved to get Alice away from the house as quickly as possible. He was about to speak, when he saw her gasp and totter. Then, suddenly aroused, she opened the door and passed out. Burton followed, closing the door. He still heard the strident clamor. From their tone it seemed that the men meant to restrain the insolent Miss Shipley by force if necessary.
Alice had darted to the veranda-rail and was peering down into the garden.
“It was a face at the window,” she faltered, seizing his hand. “It was—it was—so like him!”
FIFTY yards away they heard the sound of some one brushing through the wall of shrubbery, and an electric lamp's quick flash cut the dark. The little automatic she had given Burton was in- his pocket; he suspected that all the men at the dinner-table that night had been armed!
“Leave this to me,” he said, and grasping her arm, ran with her down the steps. “I'll see what the light means. Go to the bungalow quickly, and don't admit anyone till I come.”
Her murmur of assent reached him faintly as he plunged into the garden. Crossing it, he came to the trail followed by Alice in their walk, and advanced boldly through the woods. He stumbled over a root; before he regained his balance, a man sprang at him from the dark and flung him heavily to the ground. The automatic flew into space as he fell. His captor's. knees gripped him tightly. The man groped for his lamp, found it and snapped the light in Burton's face.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded in a tone that betrayed disappointment. Again the lamp flashed, and he repeated his question: “Be quick about it. Who are you?”
“You've had your look at me,” Burton answered “Suppose you turn the light on your own countenance. I don't think we have any quarrel with each other.” And then he added: “You've gained weight, Tommy, since we used to box in the college gym.”
The light clung to Burton's face as his captor scrutinized him closely.
“Gay Burton! Good Lord!” he exclaimed. He jumped up and dragged Burton to his feet. “May I ask just what you are doing in that den of thieves?”
“Looking for you, if you must know it! It would be nearer the truth if I said that I came up to find out who murdered you.”
“The Class—some of the fellows—sent you?”
“Not at all; the spirit of adventure—my anxiety to find romance!”
“You must have changed a good deal, then, since your last depressing book! I sent for it to cheer me during my convalescence.”
“Thanks! But we've got to move quickly,” said Burton. “There's no time to waste. I was going to get Alice away to-night.”
Porter's hand fell heavily upon his shoulder.
“She's well; she still believes in me?” he cried eagerly. “I caught just a glimpse of her through the door.”
“She's well, and you needn't question her love for you, Tommy,” said Burton. “But there's a great row on at the Lodge; Wands and Fairfield are there.”
“Oh, I know they are all there! That's what I've been hanging about for, to make sure! I've got to face them together. And now, by George, is the accepted time!”
“You can't go back there,” Burton protested. “We've got to be off at once.”
“I'm going to settle my accounts with them first!” said Porter firmly. “We may need your gun. I'll take a minute to find it.”
HE recovered the automatic with the aid of the lamp, and they set off for the Lodge. “I fell into this game,” he explained, “merely that I might be near Alice. Id relinquished all my available cash when they made a bold play for some mining-stock—my whole fortune, in fact. Alice had warned me to go, but I hadn't perfected my plans for marrying her and making a clean get-away. Wands and Fairfield had some shares in the mining company, and we'd talked of the mine on earlier visits; they had asked me to bring up my certificates with a view to buying me out—a big syndicate and all that large talk. Just to be accommodating, I did so, and found that their game was the rather dashing one of gambling me out of my holdings.
“There was a jolly row, with pistols, and I got a piece of lead in my left lung and a crack over the head that laid me out. When I came to, I was lying in the bottom of a ravine twenty miles from here. Luckily a deputy game-warden found me the next morning; he proved to be an old Adirondack guide I'd done my first hunting with as a boy. He smuggled a doctor up to his cabin, and his wife. nursed me. I kept in hiding primarily for Alice's sake; and besides, I wanted those fellows to believe they had killed me, until I was able to deal with them myself.”
They were nearing the Lodge, and Porter paused to finish his story.
“After I got mended, I had a long siege of typhoid; I wasn't discharged until a week ago, and I've been living here in the woods with the old guide. Wands and Fairfield have been lying low before dividing the spoils, to make sure I didn't turn up. Fairfield's an expert forger and quite capable of indorsing my certificates. But they're in the trap now, just where I want them. The sheriff of this county and half a dozen men are scattered over the premises. But first and always I don't want you mixed up in this thing. Please go to the bungalow and have everything ready when I holler!”
“Don't be foolish! I'm here to help you!” said Burton, and led the way toward the Lodge.
They reconnoitered the living-room from the veranda windows and found it empty. Burton opened the door, and they stood inside listening.
“Stand here,” whispered Porter, “and watch the billiard-room door. They're probably in the gaming-room back of it.”
He moved with deliberate certainty to the front door. In a moment he was back, followed by three men, big, bearded fellows, who stationed themselves as he directed.
“I'll go in first,” Burton suggested “I am a guest here, and they can hardly shoot me for looking up my host.”
PORTER demurred, but they stole down the hall with Burton leading He opened the billiard-room door softly. From the room beyond, which he had never seen, there came a low hum of voices. Burton walked to the door and knocked. There was an instant's silence; then the door was thrown open, and Miss Shipley stood smiling on the threshold.
“How unkind of us to shut ourselves up! But we thought you went home with Alice. We were about to indulge in a little whist. Please take my place—I'm really glad to quit!”
They had not been playing; Burton saw Ledyard furtively seize a pack of cards and begin shuffling them, while Wands slipped into a chair and feigned absorption in his cards.
Reassured by Burton's manner, the men chorused a boisterous greeting to cover their discomfiture.
“You must pardon me, Burton; I really thought you'd gone to the bungalow for another evening of music,” remarked Ledyard pleasantly. “Miss Shipley is bored; do play her hand.”
“Thank you,” said Burton, walking carelessly toward the table, “but it has just been my privilege to welcome another guest, an old friend—”
“A very old friend indeed!” interrupted Porter, standing suddenly beside him.
Ledyard sprang to his feet, staring wildly, and then with a groan toppled backward and fell heavily to the floor.
“None of that!” cried Porter, leveling a revolver at Fairfield, whose hand flashed to the pocket of his dinner-coat. Burton pointed his automatic at Wands, who had fallen back against the wall and stood there gaping.
“Guns on the table, gentlemen, Burton ordered. “And Miss Shipley,” he admonished, as he saw the girl retreating slowly toward a door at the rear, “will you be kind enough to remain where you are? Thank you!”
Porter drew a sheathed knife from Ledyard's pocket and tossed it on the table.Ledvard's collapse was absolute. He was deathly pale, and he lay very still.
“I see,” remarked Porter, advancing to the table and brushing the cards aside. “I some documents here that have a familiar look. You've had ample time tocompare your shares with mine, Mr. Fairield; and I see,” he went on, turning over the certificates, “that you've already done a very neat forgery.”
“It was Ledyard!” shouted Wands. “The whole game was his idea!”
With the swiftness of lightning Fairfield seized a chair and flung it at Burton's head.
“Duck!” warned Porter, at the same moment intercepting Fairfield and dealing him a smashing blow in the face. “Now, Mr. Wands, and Miss Shipley, won't you please behave yourselves? The sheriff is in the living-room, but I'm not disposed to be ugly. I've got what I caeme for, and I shall tell him not to trouble you.”
Ledyard turned uneasily and moaned. The perspiration streamed down Wands' face.
“You mean—you mean? he gulped.
“I mean,” said Porter with a smile, “that I'm not going to prosecute you for attempted murder and robbery, or for maintaining a gambling-den. My friends outside will watch you till I'm well out of the way. Alice goes with me. Please say to Ledyard that we are to be married immediately.”
BURTON was watching Frances. The girl stood listlessly, with her arm flung along the mantel. At Alice's name, her frame shook. Then she lifted her head and walked with regal dignity to the table. Her mockery, her cool insolence, had vanished.
“I want you to know my part in this!” she said in a low tone, so low that Wands and Fairfield craned their necks to hear. “It was I who struck you down—that blow on the head from behind! It was villainous; it was horrible! I never loved any man but you,” she went on steadily. “I was madly jealous! That is all. I really I do not ask for mercy, but I want you to know that I'm as bad as the rest.”
Porter's hand that held the pistol upon Wands fell to his side. He bowed gravely.
“I never thought so well of you as I do now,” Porter said. “Any harm you have doe me is forgotten in my gratitude for all that you have done for Alice. You have been immensely kind to her; you protected her from—from such scoundrels as these! She is sweet and clean of body and soul, because the real woman in you kept guard over her! After I have gone, the men I brought with me will see that no harm comes to you, and if you wish to leave, they will give you safe-conduct”
“She betrayed us! She's tricked us!” whined Fairfield, nursing his bruised mouth.
“She has done nothing of the kind,” said Porter, wheeling upon him. “Be careful what you say, now and hereafter! I believe that is all, Burton!”
As they left, Frances was still standing as when she made her confession, with the tips of her fingers resting on the table.
“I will go for Alice. Pack your bag and be quick about it,” said Porter. “We will cover a lot of distance before morning.”
ALL night they drove toward the south, Porter relieving his chauffeur from time to time. The pace was furious, and only now and then were any words spoken. At eight o'clock they were in a little town where Porter drove to the house of a minister, another of his college class. They were married in the study of the parsonage, with the minister's wife and Porter's chauffeur and Burton as witnesses.
As the last words of the service were spoken, Porter clasped his wife in a long embrace. Then she turned, smiling through her tears, to Burton, laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.
“We owe everything to you! You came at just the right moment. I couldn't have stood it without you! It was wonderful that I knew so instantly that night that I could trust you!”
“You're a part of our lives now and forever!” said Porter with deep feeling.
When they had gone, Burton went to the telegraph-office, where he filed a message Alice had written to her father announcing her marriage. Then to Saybrook he sent this:
    I have known Adventure, and seen Romance victorious.
Three hours later he had the reply:
    Thanks and congratulations, Nothing venture—nothing have. May Adventure and Romance never know defeat.
There was a new and disturbing loneliness in his heart, and he was surprised to find that he shrank from returning to New York and his old way of life. He went to his room with a bunch of time-tables and studied them diligently.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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