t. 
 
 
 *mi*-*
 
 Cfceljm "^Tan Courtlanb 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY CARSON 
 
 Author of 
 
 "Hester Blair," "Tito," "Fool" 
 Etc., Etc. 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
 
 18 EAST SEVENTEENTH ST. 
 
 NEW YORK
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
 
 . C. 
 
 2134656
 
 EVELYN VAN COURTUND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "!F you believed a man innocent " 
 
 "My duty to the State is paramount. Though I 
 may indulge an opinion, I may not allow it to in- 
 fluence me." 
 
 The speaker, Wilton Le Moyne, looked into the 
 eyes of his companion. His voice was calm; in the 
 tone was a ring of authority. At the moment he was 
 the embodiment of his calling the District Attor- 
 ney. Manly strength, dignity and reserve power 
 were stamped on face and form. He was of the high- 
 est type of lawyer and gentleman a man with whom 
 one would entrust one's life. 
 
 Evelyn Van Courtland met his glance ; she smiled 
 quizzically. 
 
 "I am not on trial," she playfully retorted. 
 
 "True ; I had forgotten. Were such the fact, how- 
 ever, and I the judge, I would convict you of " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 9
 
 io d&jelpn Pan CourtlanD. 
 
 "Of premeditated indifference, yes, even with mal- 
 ice aforethought." 
 
 "Oh, those forbidding legal terms ! And the charge 
 unjust as law often is. For the past half hour, 
 with my customary success, I have been endeavoring 
 to force you to express an opinion." 
 
 "On legal subjects. And," he laughed with engag- 
 ing frankness, "I have never had so many questions 
 asked me in so short a time ; mostly, too, on subjects 
 in which women take but slight interest. Now, if 
 you would make yourself, instead of law, the topic 
 of discussion, you would find me responsive, even lo- 
 quacious." 
 
 Refusing to notice his reference to herself, she re- 
 plied, a touch of seriousness in voice and manner : 
 
 "Prosecutor ! A slight change makes the word one 
 of the most odious in the language persecutor." 
 
 "There is a vast difference between the two." 
 
 "Yet how narrow the dividing line. Duty might 
 demand that you prosecute, but that sense of duty 
 might be influenced by personal feeling ambition, 
 greed, revenge. You would not try to convict a man 
 of murder i^ you believed him innocent ?" 
 
 There was an incredulous note in her voice. 
 
 "A man is convicted, not by opinion, but by evi- 
 dence." 
 
 "Do you believe that ?" she asked doubtingly. 
 
 "Let us discuss a more cheerful topic." 
 
 "For example - ?"
 
 l^an CourtlanO* 11 
 
 "Yourself." 
 
 "Less worthy and wholly uninteresting," she re- 
 joined. Then, determined on pursuing the subject, 
 she continued: "I can understand the enthusiasm 
 with which a lawyer defends human life: his sense 
 of responsibility, his determination to succeed it is 
 grand, even to contemplate ; but to exert one's ability 
 to convict 
 
 Le Moyne smiled at her earnestness. There was 
 approbation, rather than censure, in his glance. Her 
 words fired dormant desires and ambitions. 
 
 "A woman's heart directs her judgment. She feels 
 deeply and acts quickly. She reasons at her leisure 
 leisure which, unfortunately, often embraces eter- 
 nity." 
 
 "To force you to give a direct answer seems hope- 
 less. I believe I must acknowledge failure." 
 
 "Why is it," he laughingly demanded, "that we 
 always discuss serious subjects?" 
 
 "We don't. You refuse. I presume you consider 
 a woman incapable of discussing legal matters." 
 
 "You should have studied for the Bar. You have 
 had me under fire of cross-examination all the even- 
 ing. The court now rules that I be excused. We 
 shall renew our wordy warfare when ?" 
 
 Before she could reply they were joined by another 
 guest, and the conversation became general. 
 
 Howard Van Courtland had gathered around him 
 a few congenial friends for an informal evening at
 
 12 Cfcelpn lan CourtlanD* 
 
 home. The time was near midnight in the spring 
 of 18 , the place New York City. 
 
 The host was of the class of American gentlemen 
 that look upon inherited wealth as a trust, the care ' 
 of which is a duty they owe to their natural heirs. 
 When he had reached the age of one and twenty, Van 
 Courtland came into possession of a vast fortune; 
 but this did not deter him from becoming the active 
 head of the banking house founded by his ancestors. 
 The cares of business had left him prematurely gray, 
 his face serious, its expression even forbidding. Few 
 men knew him well, and these held him in high es- 
 teem. His manner was reserved, even cold; in his 
 eyes, like a cloud that never lifts, was an habitual ex- 
 pression of pensiveness, amounting to abstraction. 
 But his appearance did not reflect the man's inner 
 nature. The impassive reserve challenged the judg- 
 ment of the observer. His eyes, though kindly, were 
 like wells of unknown depth, whose veiled surface hid 
 a seething tempest You caught a glimpse of a soul 
 held in restraint, escaping in unguarded moments, 
 only to disappear again behind a human mask. 
 
 Standing at the threshold of the library, which ad- 
 joined the drawing-room, his glance traversed the 
 length of the room till his eyes rested on his daughter. 
 Instantly the expression of his face changed tender- 
 ness and pride transforming his features. Instinc- 
 tively he turned to where his wife was conversing 
 with his junior partner, Marshall Harlan. The mask
 
 CourtlattD* is 
 
 was resumed ; the light in the eyes died ; and a gray- 
 ish pallor settled on his features. To those acquaint- 
 ed with the cause ; the change from an expression 
 of supreme tenderness to one of settled resignation 
 would have passed unnoticed; but the transition was 
 like the shadow of a tragedy. His daughter awak- 
 ened whatever interest life held for him; his wife's 
 beauty seemed to leave him barren of all emotion. 
 
 Yet Van Courtland's wife was a singularly beau- 
 tiful woman. There was a striking resemblance be- 
 tween mother and daughter ; they might, indeed, have 
 passed for sisters ; for the elder woman still retained 
 her youthful figure. Though seemingly engrossed 
 with her companion, Mrs. Van Courtland was too 
 clever a woman and hostess to neglect her other guests, 
 and she maintained a watchful interest for their en- 
 tertainment. She had also noted her husband's omi- 
 nous expression ; her bantering laugh had caused Har- 
 lan to look at her, surprised. 
 
 "It was nothing," she said evasively. "I was 
 amused at Mr. Le Moyne's attempt to interest Ev- 
 elyn. The dear child doesn't realize that he is mak- 
 ing desperate love to her. He is conducting his suit 
 according to the most approved rules of law, and in 
 quite a cold-blooded manner." 
 
 "Wilton is a brilliant fellow." 
 
 "True," she answered, banteringly, "yet Evelyn 
 hasn't the faintest idea that he is very much in ear-
 
 14 o&jeln $an CourtlanD, 
 
 nest. Like her father, she is wholly lacking in senti- 
 ment; in Wilton's case, even of a sense of humor." 
 
 "I am really fond of Le Moyne. He'd make an 
 ideal husband." 
 
 "Dear me," she answered, petutantly, "people have 
 the most absurd notions of what an ideal husband 
 should be. A man first considers another's bank ac- 
 count and position in life ; then he measures the pros- 
 pect for the other's advancement. This latter he views 
 in the light of future dividends. He never consid- 
 ers a woman's feelings. Should she entertain foolish 
 notions of love, in the eyes of the world she is re- 
 garded as sentimental. I detest the very name of 
 wealth, of social position. One hour, one moment of 
 love love that sets the pulses throbbing - " 
 
 "Hush! You were never more beautiful than at 
 this moment ; but your eyes talk too eloquently. Some 
 of your guests might not consider it rude to listen." 
 
 "Oh, I'm tired of it all! weary of the artificial- 
 ity. I suppose I should be demure, matronly, and 
 grow fat with becoming grace. Haven't I a marriage- 
 able daughter? IVe suppressed every emotion, and 
 shuddered through twenty years of torture. How 
 can things go on as they are now? It is intoler- 
 able!" 
 
 "Calm yourself. Your cheeks are flushed, and 
 twice I have seen Howard look this way. We must 
 be more circumspect. My relations with him are be- 
 coming strained. In the office we rarely speak."
 
 ^att CourtlanD, is 
 
 "Where is it to end and how ?" 
 
 To give her an opportunity to regain her com- 
 posure, Harlan remained silent. 
 
 The men had been associated in the bank for many 
 years. Van Courtland had given the best part of his 
 life to the upbuilding of their banking house and 
 the years had lain a heavy hand on him. Older than 
 his wife, when time had robbed her brilliant social 
 position of its glamour, both had been brought to a 
 realization of their disparity in age, taste and tem- 
 perament. It was the old story as old as the world's 
 history : his happiness was to be found in the accumu- 
 lation of wealth ; his wife was left to gratify her de- 
 sire for pleasure as she chose. It might seem that 
 their daughter should have drawn them into a closer 
 sympathy, that husband and wife would strive to 
 overcome an indifference that long since had grown 
 to mutual dislike; but such was not the case. The 
 father's love centered in his daughter; and the wife, 
 conscious of his neglect of herself, made no pretense 
 at disguising her growing repugnance he received 
 from her only contemptuous indifference. Though 
 aware of the tie that existed between his partner and 
 his wife, Van Courtland demanded only that she re- 
 spect her marriage vow. Jealous of his honor, main- 
 taining an authoritative, though silent, supervision 
 over her social life, his unspoken doubt was, to one of 
 her temperament, more exasperating than open cen- 
 sure.
 
 16 oftjelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 There had been stormy scenes, mutual upbraid- 
 ing, but, as yet, no open accusation; and Evelyn, 
 though a daily witness to their uncongenial life, was 
 far from suspecting the truth. Existing conditions, 
 however, could no longer continue. The wife had 
 thrown aside all semblance of caution, and seemed 
 desirous of courting an open rupture. It was also evi- 
 dent that Van Courtland could no longer maintain 
 friendly relations with his partner. 
 
 Before the guests began to arrive, Van Courtland 
 had expostulated with his wife, warning her that a 
 public scandal threatened. His reproof had been met 
 with maddening silence. Stung to the quick, he con- 
 trolled his anger ; and they received their guests with 
 their customary well-bred concern. 
 
 No breath of scandal had as yet touched his wife, 
 but love for his daughter, and fear for his own name, 
 had turned doubt into belief. He suspected the truth, 
 proof alone was lacking. 
 
 A general movement among the guests foreshad- 
 owed their departure. In the library, adjoining the 
 drawing-room, Mrs. Van Courtland was leaning over 
 a collection of drawings. Harlan stood beside her. 
 
 "They are going," he said. 
 
 "To-morrow," she whispered. 
 
 A nod of his head was the answer. 
 
 One word only, and the movement, that was all; 
 then, together, they entered the drawing-room. A mo- 
 ment later Harlan departed.
 
 OEtielpn $an CourtlanD* 17 
 
 An ashen pallor settled over the features of Van 
 Courtland, for the whisper and responsive nod he had 
 heard and seen. He stood in the hall, calm, cour- 
 teous, the cultured host, every line of his features de- 
 noting refinement; but with a heart and mind impa- 
 tient to avenge his honor. 
 
 The last guest had bidden host and hostess good- 
 night, and the servants, after turning down the lights, 
 sought their quarters to gossip of the world they 
 served. Evelyn Van Courtland, in one of the semi- 
 darkened parlors, lingered. 
 
 It was in the library that Van Courtland's wife 
 first noticed her husband's drawn features. They be- 
 lieved themselves to be alone. Had Van Courtland 
 known that his daughter was sitting where every 
 word fell with terrible distinctness on her ear, no hu- 
 man power could have induced him to speak. The 
 first horrible accusation left the girl stunned, unable 
 to cry out to her mother to deny the charge, to brand 
 what her father said as untrue. Through shame Eve- 
 lyn remained, helpless; the accusing voice, hoarse 
 with passion, was the only sound. 
 
 Van Courtland abruptly ceased speaking, and hur- 
 ried through the front hall to the street. The door 
 had closed after him when Evelyn's mother entered 
 the drawing-room. Even when she met her daughter, 
 and realized that she must have heard all that had 
 been said, she did not lose her composure. The young
 
 is <fceln $an Couctlantu 
 
 girl rose to go to her room, but her mother intercepted 
 her. 
 
 "Evelyn, you have heard what your father said !" 
 
 There was a note of fear in her voice. It was not 
 the mother who spoke, but the woman afraid before 
 tier kind. Evelyn did not reply, but again attempted 
 to pass into the hall. 
 
 "What have you heard? You shall answer me!" 
 Without waiting for reply, she continued: "You 
 you do not believe what your father said ?" 
 
 "Do not force me to reply." 
 
 "You must answer me." 
 
 Mrs. Van Courtland looked fearfully into the eyes 
 that met hers; the elder woman quailed. In her 
 daughter she recognized the latent power and de- 
 termination of the father. At that moment Evelyn 
 seemed to have entered the domain of womanhood. 
 
 "My father," she faltered, "would not unjustly ac- 
 cuse you. I believe him." Without further speech 
 she went to her room, closing and locking the door.
 
 $an CourtlanH, 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was when Evelyn was alone that she realized the 
 full import of the words to which she had listened. 
 She now saw clearly what, in her inexperience, had 
 before escaped her. Realizing that the scene between 
 her parents would lead to a separation, she pondered 
 the course, she, herself, should pursue. Acute as was 
 her own suffering, it was of her father she thought: 
 his shame and humiliation was what caused her pres- 
 ent agony of mind. Her mother ! the thought of her 
 only awakened a feeling of pity. Love and perfect 
 trust had never existed between mother and daughter. 
 Conscious of her mother's neglect, since childhood 
 Evelyn had looked to her father for sympathy and 
 affection. The years that had added to the young 
 girl's beauty, brought to the mother rankling jeal- 
 ousy, intensified by her husband's neglect. But re- 
 gardless of his feelings, she had plunged into social 
 excesses, until her attachment for Harlan made a 
 reconciliation impossible, and though Van Courtland 
 had expostulated, she had met his rebukes with mad- 
 dening silence or open derision. 
 
 For an hour or more Evelyn lay on a divan, filled
 
 20 OEtoelpn Pan Cotmland, 
 
 with an overwhelming sense of her position. Scenes 
 and incidents that, in the past, had made but little 
 impression on her mind, now rose before her with 
 new and revolting significance. Why had she been 
 blind to the facts? And her father, perhaps, lived 
 the past years with this secret doubt ! 
 
 Rising, in an agony of mind, she paced the floor. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 The one word, uttered in a hopeless voice, sounded 
 the keynote of her existence. Since childhood her fa- 
 ther had been her confidant and companion. It was 
 to him she had always gone for advice, and for the 
 past few years they had been inseparable. She had 
 inherited his firmness, even his chartcteristic traits 
 were reflected in herself his walk, his manner, his 
 cold reserve. Though a brilliant conversationalist, it 
 required tact to induce her to talk freely; and this 
 was accomplished only by those who were listened to 
 as authority. Suitors were drawn to her by her 
 beauty, but they received only slight notice or en- 
 couragement; it was the mind that attracted and in- 
 terested her. Men to whose opinion the world lis- 
 tened, who, by their energy or talent, had made for 
 themselves a name, found her responsive. But ad- 
 mirers were forced to content themselves with a 
 show of well-bred interest, a smile or a word of recog- 
 nition ; only one among them, Le Moyne, having suc- 
 ceeded in approaching terms of intimacy. He was 
 not, however, deceived: it was his profession, not
 
 CoimlanD* 21 
 
 himself, that awakened her interest. His calling had 
 furnished an excuse to seek and enjoy her compan- 
 ionship, and, unlike the others, he felt safe from a re- 
 pulse, and was content. 
 
 Her mother's voice, from the hall, roused her. 
 
 "Evelyn, I wish to speak to you. Will you open 
 the door ?" 
 
 "I cannot see you. Please leave me alone." 
 
 With an impatient exclamation her mother re- 
 turned to her own room. 
 
 Had she realized the battle the young girl was 
 fighting with the promptings of her own heart, the 
 knowledge might, perhaps, have had the power to 
 soften her feelings of resentment, and have influenced 
 their future. Evelyn was conscious that the time had 
 come when she must choose between her father and 
 her mother. The events of the past night made it im- 
 possible for them to remain under the same roof; it 
 was equally obvious that Evelyn must choose be- 
 tween them. Though she tried to persude herself that 
 she would consider the matter well, she had come to 
 a decision. It was now that her father would need 
 her sympathy; she could not, she would not, desert 
 him. 
 
 Besides, her mother's wrong was not to be readily 
 condoned. When Evelyn considered her own posi- 
 tion, when the thought arose that in her own veins 
 flowed her mother's blood, she was filled with a feel- 
 ing of guilty shame. The damning thought arose that
 
 22 eur I PIT $an C our thin D. 
 
 the curse of inheritance might be hers, making itself 
 felt in future years. She could never be free from 
 the fear that before its power she might be helpless. 
 k Was it a curse that may be transmitted ? Did it carry 
 with it its own punishment; or, by a caprice of na- 
 ture, did its avenging influence seek a victim in a 
 succeeding generation ? Bitter were the young girl's 
 thoughts. In the early evening she had descended to 
 the drawing-room, the embodiment of youth, of 
 beauty, her mind untainted by the knowledge of 
 things unclean ; she had returned a woman, her heart 
 filled with bitterness. 
 
 Again her mother's voice in the hall, the tones 
 querulous and uneven. 
 
 "Evelyn, will you speak to me ?" 
 
 A sudden feeling of pity took possession of the 
 young girl. She took a step towards the door to open 
 it, then stopped. 
 
 "Your blood is hers it is stained." 
 
 The words seemed to be whispered into her ear. 
 Her features hardened. 
 
 "No, I do not care to see you." 
 
 Leaning against the window she looked out upon 
 the street, unconscious of passing time. Aroused by 
 someone mounting the stoop, and recognizing her fa- 
 ther's step, she remained in a listening attitude, until 
 he had closed the outer door. After cautiously as- 
 cending the stairway to the second landing, he paused 
 for several minutes ; then noiselessly entered his pri-
 
 $an CourtlanD. 23 
 
 vate room. Almost immediately he began pacing the 
 floor, his footfalls being distinctly audible, his step 
 at times rapid, again uncertain; pausing at inter- 
 vals, only to resume his walk with nervous energy. 
 
 Listening, her heart beat in sympathy with his, for 
 she knew what he suffered. Should she seek to com- 
 fort him ? No, he must fight out the battle alone 
 it were better so. She knew that his thoughts were of 
 her; that his suffering was intensified by the fear 
 that, perhaps, she might condemn the course he would 
 pursue. Again and again she was on the point of go- 
 ing to him, for she was aware that in his present state 
 sleep would be impossible; but she crushed the de- 
 sire. 
 
 "He is best alone," she mused. "To-morrow, when 
 he is calmer, we can discuss the future." 
 
 Throughout the night, except for intervals of a few 
 minutes, the sound of his footfalls never ceased. 
 
 The noise of the servants beginning their labors 
 roused Evelyn. She had not slept. Eising from the 
 couch where she lay, she bathed her face and waited 
 impatiently for the breakfast hour. She longed to 
 see her father and speak to him. Would her mother 
 be present at the morning meal ? Shuddering, she de- 
 scended to the floor below.
 
 24 uelpn Uan CourtlanD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 COWTSAEY to Evelyn's expectations, her mother en- 
 tered the room and, after her customary greeting, 
 took her place at the breakfast table. They were 
 soon joined by Van Courtland, and the meal pro- 
 gressed in silence. When her father appeared, Ev- 
 elyn noted his extreme pallor on his face the hag- 
 gard expression of one who had not slept. After her 
 first glance she gave her attention to the meal. No 
 attempt was made at conversation, and but little pre- 
 tense at eating by any of the family. 
 
 A servant, as was his custom, laid the morning 
 papers on the table. Wishing to hide her evident 
 embarrassment, Mrs. Van Courtland glanced at one 
 of the papers. Scanning the headlines on the first 
 page, with an involuntary exclamation the paper fell 
 from her hand. Rising hastily, she directed a search- 
 ing look at her husband's face, then, without com- 
 ment, left the room. 
 
 Evelyn, surprised, picked up the paper and eagerly 
 read the words : "Murder of a prominent banker. The 
 body of Marshall Harlan found in his study in the 
 early morning by a servant. But few details can be
 
 $an Courtlantu 25 
 
 given. The last person known to have seen the un- 
 fortunate man alive is a clerk in the banking house 
 of Van Courtland Co., of which Harlan was a part- 
 ner. An arrest is soon to follow." 
 
 Silently, and with trembling hand, she gave the 
 paper to her father. Unable to speak or move, she 
 stood watching him while he read the article to the 
 end. On his face was the same inscrutable expres- 
 sion she had noted when he entered the room. Lay- 
 ing the paper on the table, he rose and stood beside 
 her chair. 
 
 "Evelyn, dear," he said in a calm voice, "try to be 
 brave. This is a great shock to you. Owing to my 
 past business relations with Mr. Harlan, I must take 
 active steps in this unfortunate affair. I depend on 
 my daughter's courage." 
 
 The sudden news, following so closely the events of 
 the past night, seemed to leave Evelyn incapable of 
 thought or action. Instinctively she seemed to regard 
 Harlan's tragic end as a sequence of the quarrel. 
 She was dazed, bewildered, and looked hopelessly into 
 her father's face. 
 
 "What can we do ?" she faltered. 
 
 "My dear, you can do nothing. I must act without 
 loss of time. Go to your room, child; I will send 
 your old governess to you." 
 
 "Please don't," she pleaded. "I would rather be 
 alone." 
 
 "You must allow me to judge in this matter. The
 
 26 dftjelpn $an courtlanD. 
 
 present is a trying time for us. I will go to the city 
 at once; but I shall return at the earliest moment." 
 
 After embracing her, he left for the city, and 
 Evelyn went to her own room. 
 
 As it was before his usual time for starting for his 
 place of business, and not wishing to wait for his car- 
 riage, Van Courtland, after procuring a later edition 
 of the paper, boarded a downtown car. In prominent 
 type was the news he sought. Shortly after the dis- 
 covery of Harlan's body, Hugh Malcolm, a clerk in 
 the employ of Van Courtland & Co., was placed under 
 arrest. The paper further stated that the accused, 
 who was a young man of brilliant promise, was known 
 to have been with Harlan after midnight. The article 
 went on as follows : 
 
 "Shortly after 11 o'clock, Malcolm rang the bell 
 at the home of the deceased banker, and inquired of 
 the servant if he could speak with the master of the 
 house. He was informed that Mr. Harlan was not 
 at home. The servant noticed that the young man ap- 
 peared unduly excited. At his request, after much 
 hesitation, the servant admitted him to the library, 
 which was on the ground floor, the windows opening 
 onto a broad piazza. She did not see him again, 
 but could hear him walking nervously about the 
 room. The master of the house returned about mid- 
 night, and nothing further was heard, for after his 
 arrival the servant had retired. 
 
 "In the early morning a man servant, seeing the
 
 $att CourtlanD* 27 
 
 windows open, looked into the library and discovered 
 Harlan's body. The arrest of Malcolm, who was 
 known to be in the employ of the banking house, fol- 
 lowed. The fact that the accused, after his arrest, 
 refused to discuss the subject of his interview with the 
 deceased, or in any way to explain his untimely visit, 
 is considered evidence of his guilt. Public opinion 
 inclined to the belief that the officers of the law have 
 the murderer in custody." 
 
 While reading the details of the finding of the 
 body of Harlan, Van Courtland's face betrayed not 
 the faintest evidence of emotion ; on his features was 
 his customary expression of calm, in his eyes coldness 
 and disdain. The man who now lay dead had 
 brought dishonor to a name that, in social or business 
 life, for more than a century, had been unsullied. As 
 lie read the grewsome details of what little was known 
 of the tragedy, he was moved by neither pity nor re- 
 gret. He remembered his partner as one who had 
 wrecked a home: one whose punishment had been 
 commensurate with his disregard of social laws. 
 These thoughts swayed Van Courtland while gleaning 
 such information as was known of the tragedy; but 
 when he read Malcolm's name, and the charge against 
 him, his features underwent a change. Despair 
 seemed to overpower him, the hand that held the 
 paper trembled ; as if moved by a sudden resolve, he 
 rose. His daughter's name on his lips, he cast a fur- 
 tive glance of alarm about him to see if he had been
 
 28 Cfeelpn tan CourtlanD, 
 
 observed, then sank into his seat. No, he must go 
 on it was already too late to retreat ; for himself or 
 the future he cared nothing ; but Evelyn must be con- 
 sidered. The past few hours had wrought a marked 
 change in his appearance. In his eyes was an expres- 
 sion strange to them resignation, fear, mute en- 
 treaty, followed by flashes of alarm that died into an 
 expression of hopelessness. With a nervous start he 
 scanned the face of each passenger entering the car ; 
 then, as though conscious of his excited condition, 
 again began reading the paper. 
 
 He did not proceed directly to his place of business. 
 Alighting from the car, he went to the office of the 
 District Attorney. Sending in his name, he was ad- 
 mitted without delay. It was only after entering 
 that he was informed that the District Attorney was 
 not in ; that officer's associates, however, divining Van 
 Courtland's business, were ready to confer with him. 
 
 What took place at the interview will never be 
 known. When Van Courtland returned to the street, 
 his appearance was that of one who had surrendered 
 to the inevitable. 
 
 After her father had left her, Evelyn remained in 
 her room, the door locked, her only desire to be left 
 alone. Servants came to inquire if she were in need 
 of their services; these she sent away. Should she 
 require them, they were told, she would ring. Her
 
 CourtlanD. 29 
 
 mother again demanded admission. At first she was 
 refused, but Evelyn finally yielded to her appeal. 
 
 When she entered, Evelyn calmly waited for her 
 to speak. They were strikingly alike both in face 
 and form the elder woman in the fullness of mature 
 beauty ; the daughter rivaling her, but possessing the 
 added charm of the delicate freshness and color of 
 youth. To the young girl belonged a personal distinc- 
 tion of manner and bearing that the other lacked an 
 authoritative pose that she inherited from her father. 
 It was this unconscious and indefinable trait, a mag- 
 netism that manifested itself more by its power over 
 the mind than by a direct appeal to the senses, that 
 lent an added charm to her. It was subtile but unas- 
 sertive. Her manner was gentle, high bred and con- 
 siderate ; but you felt her power. From a mental and 
 intellectual point of view there was little in common 
 between them. The mother had never understood the 
 young girl, but she had watched her approach woman- 
 hood with a pang of jealousy. In her own child she 
 beheld a rival one whose beauty was daily increas- 
 ing ; her own long acknowledged supremacy she main- 
 tained only by increasing effort. Besides, she feared 
 her daughter. Her frankness disconcerted the elder 
 woman. Evelyn, as though by instinct, seemed to 
 possess a knowledge of the world, together with a 
 power of insight into the human mind, before which 
 her mother quailed. Even to herself she would not 
 admit her daughter's mental superiority ; affectionate
 
 so dBtielpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 advances being brushed aside as affectation, and time 
 only added to a growing feeling of formality between 
 them. 
 
 "Evelyn," her mother said, "you are cruel." 
 
 The voice was tremulous. The eyes of the speaker 
 dwelt upon the reproachful face, then fell before the 
 calm, steady gaze. 
 
 "Cruel!" There was a tinge of sarcasm in the 
 voice. "Have you ever considered my father's feel- 
 ings?" 
 
 "He was unjust ! It is not of him I wish to speak. 
 I came to ask you why, without hearing one word of 
 explanation, you condemn your own mother ?" 
 
 She was regaining her customary composure; her 
 form straightened, and, to impress her listener, she 
 assumed the role of the injured. 
 
 "I do not wish to do you an injustice, but do not 
 force me to repeat what I have already said. I do not 
 believe my father would accuse you without cause. 
 Please do not press the subject further. Can you not 
 
 "Yes, I do see !" Her voice was pitched in a high 
 key; the blood mounted to her cheeks. "And you, 
 too, my own daughter, dare accuse me ! You, whom 
 we supposed to be above knowledge of such things, so 
 demure, so nun-like ! You have learned early in life 
 to judge such matters. After your father's accusa- 
 tion, followed by this shocking tragedy, I have de- 
 termined not to remain here. By the way," she con-
 
 l?an CourtlanO. 31 
 
 tinned hurriedly, her tone half bantering, half ma- 
 licious, "your father left the house last night and did 
 not return for two hours. Mr. Harlan was discovered 
 murdered early this morning." 
 
 The words were spoken with brutal abruptness. 
 For the first time during their interview Evelyn was 
 on the point of losing her composure. With an effort 
 she controlled her voice. 
 
 "My father went out as vou say " 
 
 t/ / */ 
 
 She paused as if the words stifled her. Her body 
 swayed slightly, and a convulsive twitching of the 
 muscles of her face betrayed her suffering. Again 
 and again she made an effort to speak, but each at- 
 tempt failed. Taking a step nearer, her words came 
 in hurried, confused tones. 
 
 "You cannot mean that surely you do not believe 
 what your words suggest?" 
 
 The other's light laugh, and a motion of the hand, 
 as though she would turn the subject aside as of no 
 moment, aroused the young girl to a frenzy of indig- 
 nation. 
 
 "Dear me, Evelyn, how impassioned you are be- 
 coming." Though the voice was calm, the words 
 were mocking. "I merely wish to remind you of 
 what, doubtless, you already knew your father was 
 away from home, leaving here shortly before mid- 
 night. This morning you know what followed." 
 
 Evelyn stood as if stunned. She could not mistake
 
 32 (Etoelpn $an Courtland. 
 
 her mother's inference; but she dare not trust her- 
 self to reply. 
 
 "Am I to understand that you intend remaining 
 with your father ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you believe his charges ?" 
 
 Evelyn remained silent. With increasing agita- 
 tion, the elder woman again spoke. 
 
 "I demand that you answer me." 
 
 Evelyn slowly raised her eyes to her mother's face. 
 There was pity rather than condemnation in her 
 glance. It was a silent duel of minds, of power of 
 will, and the young girl was the victor. Before the 
 look the mother quailed, and shrank, shuddering, as 
 if her moral weaknesses were laid bare her inquisi- 
 tor her own daughter. The insecurity of her po- 
 sition, the uncertainty of the future, flashed before 
 her mind ; for she appreciated to the fullest what her 
 social status would be without the protection of her 
 husband's name. She had never before seriously 
 considered her own child, nor had she taken pains to 
 measure her mental capacity ; and the knowledge that 
 she was, though silently, passing judgment on her, 
 caused the blood to rush to her cheeks. 
 
 How different were Evelyn's thoughts. Before her 
 she seemed to see her father's face, as it appeared 
 when she had left him in the early morning an ex- 
 pression in his eyes that she had never before seen in 
 them. His look of restless fear haunted her. What
 
 Courtlantu 33 
 
 was its import ? She could not understand it, neither 
 could she banish it from her mind. When he had em- 
 braced her, before starting for the city, there was 
 something in his manner so unusual, so foreign to his 
 customary candor, as to attract her notice. Believing 
 the quarrel to be the direct cause of his unhappy 
 state, knowing how deeply he would feel the sting of 
 his dishonor, she was in no mood to palliate or forgive 
 her mother's wrong. If momentary pity or compas- 
 sion threatened her resolve, before her rose the vision 
 of her father's face, as she had last seen him. Her 
 look of determination dispelled all doubt of her pur- 
 pose. 
 
 "I shall remain with my father," she said with 
 quiet dignity ; "further than that I refuse to discuss 
 the matter." 
 
 "Without a word her mother left her. 
 
 When she had gone, and Evelyn was alone, a real- 
 ization of her decision overwhelmed her. Yet to her 
 no other course seemed possible. Whatever might be 
 the outcome of present conditions, she determined to 
 devote her future to her father. His lot in life would 
 be hers ; her sympathy could, at least, make his suffer- 
 ing less keen. 
 
 Finding comfort in the thought, she wearily await- 
 ed his return.
 
 34 dEfeelpn $an CourtlanD. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "JEFFERSON COLERIDGE STRONG, Attorney at 
 Law," in black letters on a brass plate, told the man's 
 name and profession ; but to those who knew him, his 
 fine sounding name was lost. To high and low, rich 
 and poor, he was simply Major Strong. His worth, 
 even measured by the standard of great men, placed 
 him in the front rank of his profession, for he en- 
 joyed a practice that was national in extent. 
 
 There is an almost universal belief that lawyers 
 are a heartless class of human beings, and, when not 
 preying upon their clients for a livelihood, employ 
 their time and energy swindling each other. The 
 world voted Major Strong an exception to this general 
 theory. Had he no enemies, he would have been reck- 
 oned unworthy of the laurels he had won in many a 
 hard fought battle. Such enemies as he had made, 
 had come with his success, for success, to some peo- 
 ple, is an offence not easily forgiven. But the Major 
 laughed with the world, and the world honored him 
 for joining in its mirth; and his enemies, too dis- 
 creet to oppose opinion, that became more evident 
 each day, applauded the Major's success and growing
 
 OEfcelpn ^an CoimlanD. 35 
 
 popularity. He had one powerful argument in his 
 favor he won his client's cases. In fact, he won 
 nearly every case he tried. When he talked to a jury, 
 they listened ; when he addressed the court, the judges 
 paid him the honor of their undivided attention; 
 when he won his case, the Major smiled. It was a 
 quiet smile, wholly friendly, without a trace of malice 
 or sarcasm ; and even the opposing counsel could take 
 no offense. The moments of greatest pleasure to the 
 Major were not, as might be supposed, in contemplat- 
 ing his many triumphs at the bar, nor in the enjoy- 
 ment of the wealth which of late years had come to 
 him in increasing abundance. It was the hour or 
 more when, after the strain of an arduous trial, with 
 a few friends, lawyers like himself of the old school, 
 he sat in his private office, and, in the joy of listening 
 to the laughter of his companions, forgot the wrang- 
 ling and the bitterness of the day. 
 
 A week had passed since Harlan's untimely end 
 had startled the country. The mystery was as great 
 as ever. Hugh Malcolm had been held for the Grand 
 Jury. His reticence, his refusal to answer questions, 
 Or give information as to the object of his midnight 
 visit to the home of the deceased all this pointed to 
 his guilt. His means were limited his salary being 
 his only source of income. At the preliminary hear- 
 ing he had refused to employ counsel, and this unac- 
 countable fact, together with his seeming indifference,
 
 36 <toelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 only tended to make stronger the growing belief in his 
 guilt 
 
 On this particular day, late in the afternoon, the 
 Major was in a jovial mood. One of his compan- 
 ions had been recounting the peculiar appearance of a 
 witness in a celebrated trial. After he had finished, 
 the twinkle in the Major's eyes foreshadowed a story, 
 and the others, observing the signal, waited expec- 
 tantly. 
 
 Before he could begin, however, the door leading to 
 the outer office was opened wide enough to permit 
 Betts, the Major's confidential clerk, to thrust his 
 head into the aperture. 
 
 "Well ?" the Major interrogated. 
 
 "Lady to see you, sir." 
 
 It was a thin voice, like the tones of an instrument 
 out of repair a voice heard only when duty made 
 speech necessary. Betts had been in the lawyer's em- 
 ploy for many years, and time only increased the 
 Major's regard for his sterling worth. The clerk was 
 a being apart from ordinary human kind. Unlike any 
 other in appearance or manner, he lived within him- 
 self, and no man could say he knew Daniel Betts. 
 Conscious of his ill-favored appearance, he believed 
 that nature had willed that he be not like other men, 
 nor that he conform to the ordinary physiognomic 
 law. He went about his duties silently, seeking no 
 companionship, content with his work; but he en-
 
 Pan Cotmland, 37 
 
 joyed what many would have prized the absolute 
 confidence of his employer. 
 
 "Tell the lady I will see her presently," said the 
 Major quietly. 
 
 The head disappeared and the door closed. 
 
 "I haven't heard Betts speak for a month, and I 
 have been here nearly every day," remarked one of 
 the Major's friends. 
 
 "Good man, Betts," replied the Major. "Don't 
 know how I'd get on without him. Of course he's not 
 handsome " 
 
 "No," volunteered another, "no sane jury would 
 convict him of it. His very silence makes me nerv- 
 ous. Of course my managing clerk 
 
 "Yes, we've heard him," came the reply in a 
 chorus. 
 
 Again silence fell on the group, to listen to the 
 Major's story. 
 
 As he finished, Betts opened the door, his head, as 
 before, appearing in the opening. 
 
 "Lady is waiting, sir." 
 
 " 'Pon my word, I had forgotten all about her. Say 
 I'll be there directly." 
 
 The head disappeared. The Major turned to his 
 companions. 
 
 "Sorry, gentlemen. Business, you know." 
 
 "A lady waiting! Major, has the chivalry for 
 which you are noted deserted you ? I wonder if there 
 was a lady mixed up in the Harlan affair ?"
 
 "D'know," replied the Major, his countenance in- 
 stantly sobering, "but, unless old age has warped my 
 judgment, that young man, Malcolm, is no more 
 guilty than I am." 
 
 "There is a tremendous power working to prove 
 him guilty." 
 
 "So I understand. The entire secret service is en- 
 rolled. Innocent or guilty, short of a miracle, they 
 will convict him." 
 
 "There is money being used. Barrels of it. Who 
 furnishes it?" 
 
 "That's the question. Answer it and well, if you 
 don't discover the guilty one, at least you will know 
 who desires the young man's conviction." 
 
 "Gentlemen, you must rely on your own endeav- 
 ors for entertainment. Don't hurry away. Nothing 
 short of a divorce suit will detain me long." 
 
 Smiling, the Major went into the front office. 
 
 Evelyn Van Courtland, closely veiled, advanced to 
 meet him. Though he had previously met her at her 
 father's house, he did not recognize her. 
 
 "May I see you alone ?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 The Major led the way to a private office, and, 
 placing a chair, invited her to a seat. 
 
 As she removed her veil, he took her hand in his 
 own, and looked into the white face. 
 
 "Miss Van Courtland, this is a pleasure yet I 
 fear my surprise betrayed me." 
 
 A faint smile lighted up her features.
 
 OEtoelpn l^an Courtlantu 39 
 
 "I hardly thought you would recognize me," she 
 answered. "I am here to consult with you; to be- 
 come, in a measure, your client. Your daughter was 
 a dear friend of mine at boarding-school, and later in 
 college, so I feel as if I had always known you. I 
 must place myself, as well as the matter that brings 
 me here, unreservedly in your hands, relying on your 
 honor and your ability. Will you," she asked, look- 
 ing into the kindly eyes that, with a father's intuitive- 
 ness, read in the face before him the lines that recent 
 suffering had left, "will you accept me as a client ?" 
 
 "Most assuredly," was his quick rejoinder. 
 
 "Without questioning my motives ?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied, smiling indulgently at the ear- 
 nestness of the speaker. "You see," he continued, 
 "we, who might be termed lawyers of a school that is 
 fast dying out, take these things less seriously than 
 you young people. Did I not know that a trivial 
 matter would not move you so deeply, I would be in- 
 clined to wonder at your seriousness. Now, let us see 
 how I can be of assistance ?" 
 
 "There is a young man," she said, a tremor in her 
 voice, "accused of the murder of the late Mr. Harlan. 
 I wish to employ you to defend him." 
 
 The Major's complete mastery over his emotions, 
 the seeming impossibility of taking him by surprise, 
 had, since the beginning of his brilliant career, been 
 a subject of admiration and wonder. ~No one could 
 truthfully say he had ever seen him excited ; and the
 
 40 OEtoelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 adverse verdict of a jury, or a personal attack by op- 
 posing counsel, was met by the same quizzical smile 
 with which he might receive the extravagant words 
 of praise that followed his success. But as he listened 
 to Evelyn's request, when she mentioned Harlan's 
 name, his placid smile gave place to an expression of 
 astonishment 
 
 For some moments neither spoke. Directing a 
 questioning glance at the face before him, he tried to 
 read therein the answer to the surmises her request 
 had aroused. He had known Harlan for many years, 
 and long before the man's death he had heard his 
 name connected with that of Howard Van Court- 
 land's wife. Now before him sat Van Courtland's 
 daughter, asking him to defend the man accused of 
 Harlan's murder. With legal acumen, his mind 
 leaped from one conclusion to another, until some- 
 thing like a tangible chain presented itself conjec- 
 tures only, yet in after years, when time disclosed 
 the facts, he marveled how closely he had guessed the 
 truth. 
 
 What had she to do with the tragedy, he mused. 
 What was the part she was to play? Long experi- 
 ence had made acute his gift of divining the thoughts 
 and emotions of those with whom he came in contact 
 It was this marvelous gift, together with his enticing, 
 confiding smile, that had led unwary witnesses, un- 
 dergoing examination, into many a hopeless maze of 
 contradictions. The face of the ordinary human be-
 
 CourtlanD, At 
 
 ing told the keen-eyed lawyer more than tongue dis- 
 closed the shifting of the eye, each line of the face 
 told its tale. But the glance that unfalteringly met 
 his betrayed neither fear, agitation, nor the emotion 
 that might be awakened by the consciousness that she 
 was placing herself in a false, even a dangerous posi- 
 tion. 
 
 "She will disclose only so much as pleases her," 
 thought the Major ; "what she decides shall be secret, 
 no one will ever discover. She's an extraordinary, as 
 well as a beautiful, girl no, woman what those 
 eyes veil are years and years in advance of her age." 
 
 The Major remained silent, apparently in deep 
 thought. In reality, he was trying to fathom the 
 mystery, to determine what interest she had in the 
 life of the man accused of Harlan's murder. 
 
 "Well," said Evelyn, "is it so difficult to come to 
 a decision?" 
 
 The attorney marveled at the quiet composure of 
 the speaker, at her tone, which was that of one who is 
 master of the situation ; but the low musical voice re- 
 called him to the matter that had brought her there. 
 
 "No," he answered, a touch of guilty confusion in 
 his manner. To himself he mused "I wonder if she 
 is more successful in reading character than I am. I 
 feel as if she were in possession of every secret of my 
 life. No," he resumed, in answer to her question, 
 "but, you see, each case of prominence that comes 
 before an attorney affects him differently. One man
 
 42 Ctoelpn ^an CouttlanD, 
 
 might feel crushed by the honor, another by the fear 
 that he might lose the case ; with me well, I will ad' 
 mit that I am somewhat interested. I have given 
 some thought to the matter. An attorney regards a 
 new case, especially if it be an important one, much 
 as does a physician who meets new and strange symp- 
 toms in a patient. Professional curiosity is aroused. 
 In regard to Malcolm, I hardly know what to think ; 
 in fact, I have not dared entertain an opinion." 
 
 The speaker's eyes were still riveted on her face; 
 he was talking to gain time, and to further judge his 
 listener. His purpose did not deceive her. A faint 
 smile warned the Major that she read his thought. 
 
 "You wish to know my interest in this sad affair," 
 she said, her smile changing into an expression of ear- 
 nestness. "That I cannot disclose. I will state to 
 you very briefly my purpose, but I cannot tell you the 
 motives that influence me in wishing to retain you. I 
 have never seen the accused man ; I only know that hs 
 was in my father's employ. Further than that I can- 
 not explain. Enough that I wish every effort made 
 to clear him of this charge. There is only one condi- 
 tion that I demand, should you decide to undertake 
 his defense you and I alone are to know who is 
 moving in his behalf. Your word will suffice. I be- 
 lieve, during my grandmother's illness, you acted as 
 her legal adviser. By her will I was made independ- 
 ent. Say you will defend Mr. Malcolm, and draw on 
 me for any sum you please."
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* 43 
 
 The Major raised a deprecating hand. At that 
 moment money was far from his thoughts. 
 
 "Tell me more of the case, of what you know of it ; 
 also I must have some authority to present myself to 
 the young man as his counsel." 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 "I can tell you nothing. I dare say you know 
 more of the unfortunate affair than I do. Surely a 
 man in Mr. Malcolm's predicament would welcome 
 you gladly. But he must never know who furnished 
 the means. You will consent to defend him, will you 
 not?" 
 
 Her tone, which she made no effort to disguise, 
 was one of entreaty. 
 
 "I will gladly undertake his defense," he replied, 
 "assuming, of course, that Malcolm will accept me as 
 his counsel. From the first I have felt a strong in- 
 terest in the young man, together with a firm belief 
 in his innocence. I am, however, of the opinion that 
 his reticence has prejudiced his case. As for your in- 
 terest, your motives 
 
 He paused abruptly and again fell to studying her 
 features, as if expecting to find there an answer to his 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Trust me," she said, rising, and arranging the veil 
 over her face, "trust me. There is nothing that I 
 could tell you that might be of assistance only let no 
 obstacle that money can remove stand in the way of 
 your success. Use my means freely, lavishly, if need
 
 44 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 be. Should you wish to consult with me, I think it 
 safer that you write my visits here may cause com- 
 ment. Good-night, Major. Allow me to thank you 
 for your kindness." 
 
 She held out a daintily gloved hand. Leading the 
 way to the door, he bade her a fatherly good-night. 
 
 When she had gone he threw himself into an easy 
 chair, and Betts, who was still at work, was startled 
 by a prolonged whistle. This was followed by silence, 
 broken only by the turning of the leaves of a huge 
 ledger on which he was working. 
 
 "Call up the Tombs, Betts, and ask if Malcolm, the 
 man accused of the Harlan murder, will see me to- 
 night." 
 
 Betts delivered the message with his customary 
 precision, his language as methodical as were his 
 movements. 
 
 "He will see you," he said, in a voice that was 
 never known to depart from a subdued monotone, "at 
 any hour you may find it convenient to call." 
 
 "Very well, Betts, it is time for you to go for the 
 night. I will close the office." 
 
 The clerk did not reply. Taking his hat from the 
 rack, after carefully brushing it, and as carefully ar- 
 ranging the folds of his coat, with solemn gravity he 
 went into the hall, noiselessly closing the door be- 
 hind him. 
 
 "He's a mighty good man," mused the Major when 
 alone, "but at times his confounded calm jars on me.
 
 CotmlanD, 45 
 
 If the building were on fire, I believe he'd finish foot- 
 ing up a column of figures, should he happen to be en- 
 gaged on his books, before the thought of his own 
 safety would occur to him. Even then he would wait 
 to brush his coat. But I couldn't get on without him. 
 Now for Malcolm. If I am no more successful with 
 him than with the remarkable young woman who has 
 just left me, I may as well conclude that I am to 
 fight the Government unaided. I prefer, however, a 
 client who refuses to help me, to one who talks into 
 the hands of the other side. If I could even guess the 
 motive for Malcolm's foolhardy reticence, it might 
 clear up the matter. If I knew what Howard Van 
 Courtland's daughter knows, I could without a doubt 
 win the case. What a charming young woman she is ; 
 but the most extraordinary person I ever met." 
 
 An hour later he stood face to face with Malcolm. 
 They were a striking pair : one in the fulness of man- 
 hood, hair touched with silver, eyes that advancing 
 years had not dimmed, cheeks to which the rich blood 
 lent the color of youth, his step and carriage those of 
 a man twenty years his junior. The other, either 
 from lack of exercise, or because of mental depres- 
 sion, was slightly pale, but this only added a touch of 
 distinction to his features. He was of athletic build. 
 Long training, and a love of out-door exercise, had 
 given to his movements an easy grace. His well- 
 shaped head and sturdy neck gave him the appear- 
 ance of one whose strength was yet untested; the
 
 46 OEtoelpn l^an Courtlantu 
 
 eves and the under jaw proclaimed even to the casual 
 observer a man of unusual will power. Even in re- 
 pose there was a smiling, devil-may-care expression 
 on his features, to which the animation of speech lent 
 an added charm. The personal appearance of the 
 young man, who, in the dim light of the cell, made 
 a striking picture, appealed to the lawyer. He 
 warmed to him, and advanced with outstretched 
 hand. 
 
 "We have never met before, I believe ?" 
 
 "Not to my knowledge," Malcolm replied, taking 
 the proffered hand. 
 
 "You have a grip of iron," the Major laughingly 
 rejoined. "Prison fare doesn't seem to affect your 
 muscle." 
 
 "Not at all. Never felt better. Getting so I rather 
 enjoy it" 
 
 "Here," mused the Major, as he closely scanned the 
 pallid face, "here is a new character in my varied ex- 
 perience. I'll have trouble with this chap. Not 
 physically, but what a magnificent giant he is!" 
 Then aloud : 
 
 "Now to business - " 
 
 "My dear Major," Malcolm laughingly interrupt- 
 ed, "I intend no disrespect, but the thought of em- 
 ploying a lawyer of your prominence is quite too 
 touch. Why, I haven't enough money to well, I 
 might engage you for an hour at your regular rate."
 
 CourtlanD, 47 
 
 Again he laughed, softly this time, with just the 
 slightest touch of bitterness. 
 
 The Major was not impatient. Waiting until the 
 laugh subsided, he calmly surveyed his future client 
 for a full half minute. 
 
 "Suppose we eliminate the question of a fee, would 
 you then accept me as your counsel ?" 
 
 Malcolm did not immediately reply. He looked at 
 his visitor in evident astonishment. Attorneys of the 
 Major's prominence, he knew, were not, ordinarily, 
 volunteering their services, especially in cases that 
 gave little promise of remuneration. 
 
 "I can't quite understand " he began. 
 
 "It isn't at all necessary that you should under- 
 stand," the Major interrupted. "Look here, young 
 man, your position is not at all an enviable one. You 
 require counsel. Will you, or will you not, accept 
 my services ? My reputation at the bar is, I trust, a 
 sufficient endorsement." 
 
 "Major, I am overwhelmed by your offer, but the 
 cost must be considered." 
 
 "Not at all. That question, as I before stated, we 
 will not discuss." 
 
 The two men looked at each other for some mo- 
 ments, each bent on discovering the motives that in- 
 fluenced the other, while each was fully aware that he 
 was the object of searching, suspicious inquiry. Each 
 was conscious of his lack of candor; and, like chess 
 players, or legal opponents, were watching for an
 
 48 Ctoelptt $an Cotmlatttu 
 
 opening or sign of weakness. Malcolm was not ready 
 to accept the Major's half-truth that personal inter- 
 est alone prompted him to offer his services. He had 
 quickly come to the conclusion that the attorney was 
 to be paid ; and it was quite as obvious that he, him- 
 self, was not expected to demand information. He, 
 too, had a condition to exact a condition that might 
 end all professional relations between them. 
 
 "Allow me," he said abruptly, "to make a proposi- 
 tion, or rather a statement. If, after hearing it, you 
 still offer to defend me, then," a smile lighted up his 
 features, "I'll thank heaven for sending you to my 
 aid. It is this : I can give you little or no assistance 
 in this terrible affair, only the assurance that I am not 
 guilty; nor can I furnish you with further informa- 
 tion in regard to Harlan's death than has already 
 been stated in the papers. As you know, I had a 
 midnight interview with the unfortunate man. When 
 I left him he was alive ; how he met his death is as 
 great a mystery to me as it is to you. Now if you 
 care to undertake my defence, believe me I shall be 
 truly grateful." 
 
 His voice was earnest, and carried conviction ; but 
 it also confirmed the lawyer's previous opinion he 
 could look for no help from his prospective client. 
 That Malcolm was withholding information which, 
 could he be induced to disclose it, might be an abso- 
 lute defense, was apparent; but one glance at the 
 speaker convinced him that his will would not bend.
 
 $an Courtlantu 49 
 
 Some powerful motive impelled the accused man, 
 of that the other was satisfied, but he had little pa- 
 tience or sympathy to extend to one who, to uphold 
 a fanciful or a romantic notion, would literally court 
 death. He realized the difficulty of the task before 
 him ; he must depend upon his own efforts. But non- 
 success in eliciting the confidence of his client tended 
 only to arouse his spirit of battle. Instantly he was 
 the cross-examiner, before whom many an over-con- 
 fident witness had found his Waterloo. 
 
 "You visited Harlan's home at midnight?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," came the terse reply. 
 
 "You had an interview with him ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The Major met the speaker's glance to measure the 
 effect of the next question. 
 
 "What was the subject of that interview ?" 
 
 A slight flush stole over Malcolm's face. 
 
 "I have been expecting that question," he said in a 
 calm, courteous tone, "and it is here that our relations 
 as client and attorney may end. I cannot answer 
 it." 
 
 He bravely met the Major's eyes ; nor did the scowl 
 of disappointment disconcert him. 
 
 "Young man," the Major's tone betrayed his feel- 
 ing, "do you know you are toying with a noose that 
 may fasten about your neck ?" 
 
 "I fully appreciate my position."
 
 50 dftjelpn $an CouttlanD* 
 
 "If you were as conscious of your foolhardiness, it 
 would be an easier matter to handle your case." 
 Again the Major returned to the attack. "You were 
 the last person known to be with Harlan be/fore his 
 death?" 
 
 "That I only know by current report. The last 
 person with him was, no doubt, his assailant." 
 
 "Have you any reason to know or to suspect who 
 that person was ?" 
 
 A very faint movement of the muscles, an uncon- 
 scious knitting of the brow, an air of assumed sur- 
 prise, all of which, to the casual observer, would 
 have passed unnoticed, was the unconscious evidence 
 that the attorney was seeking. The Major had 
 scored. 
 
 "Em!" he ejaculated between closed teeth. 
 
 Again they mentally measured each other. Were 
 Malcolm a Government witness in open court, swear- 
 ing away the life of the Major's client, the attorn*. -\ 
 would not have returned to the combat with keener 
 zest. 
 
 "There was no quarrel ?" he asked sharply. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You parted with him amicably ?" 
 
 "Quite so." 
 
 "And you last saw him where ?" 
 
 "That I can answer with perfect candor: on the 
 piazza of his house, before 1 left him to return 
 home."
 
 CoimlattD. si 
 
 "What took place on the piazza ?" 
 
 "Simply a leave taking. He shook my hand and 
 bade me good-night" 
 
 "Now," began the Major, in measured tones, "after 
 you had taken leave of Harlan you went directly 
 home ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The color again mounted to Malcolm's cheek. He 
 anticipated the next question, and a slight movement 
 of irritation did not escape the Major. 
 
 "After leaving Harlan's home " 
 
 The speaker got no further. With an imperative 
 gesture, with eyes that flashed the intelligence that the 
 line had been reached where confidence, even infor- 
 mation, ceased, Malcolm replied: 
 
 "Major Strong, from the moment I left the house, 
 my connection with Mr. Harlan ceased. My inno- 
 cence or guilt must be proved by what took place be- 
 fore that time, not after. Do not look upon me as an 
 ingrate ; believe me, I fully appreciate the effort you 
 would make in my behalf. But I told you I had a 
 condition to exact before you decided to undertake my 
 defense. You now know it. From the moment I bade 
 Marshall Harlan good-night, my connection with him 
 ended. Regarding my subsequent movements no man 
 has a right to question me." 
 
 The voice was firm. The finely formed head, in 
 an unconscious attitude of defiance, was thrown 
 slightly back. At that moment he made a formidable
 
 52 (Gfteln pan CourtlanB* 
 
 picture that of outraged manhood on the defensive, 
 yet ready for the attack. The Major's eyes betrayed 
 his admiration ; then the feeling gave place to one of 
 resentment 
 
 "You talk like a child," was his unsympathetic re- 
 tort. "Do you believe that a jury will entertain any 
 such romantic twaddle? Think of your position. 
 You will be on trial for your life !" 
 
 "I believe in justice in the ultimate triumph of 
 right." 
 
 "Justice right! Our books are full of such 
 terms. Evidence is what our courts insist on having. 
 I am satisfied you are withholding it." 
 
 The lawyer's customary calmness was fast disap- 
 pearing. Their brief interview had convinced him 
 that he had met his equal. Stratagem alone could be 
 relied on. He was irritated by his failure to force 
 Malcolm to disclose what he knew, or to discover 
 even a clue upon which to build his defense. His 
 professional pride had received a humiliating shock, 
 and, with a show of resentment, which he made no 
 effort to disguise, he prepared to go. Malcolm 
 watched his movements, and an expression of en- 
 treaty shone in his eyes. 
 
 "You are going ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," the Major tartly rejoined, "with no more 
 information than I possessed before I came. Young 
 man, if you want an attorney to defend you, you 
 must learn one very important maxim confide in
 
 $an CourtlanD* 53 
 
 him. I shall not come again until you awake to that 
 very necessary condition. When you have relented 
 you may send for me." 
 
 His voice was harsh. As he neared the door, and 
 was about to go, Malcolm's voice arrested him. 
 
 "You believe me innocent?" he asked in a quiet 
 tone. 
 
 "Yes," the Major answered with savage emphasis. 
 
 "Then," the words and tone almost prophetic, "it 
 is you who will relent. You will come of your own 
 will, for you believe me I feel it, I know it. And 
 you will defend me, Major, and clear me of this 
 charge." 
 
 Making an effort to hide his chagrin, the Major 
 held out his hand, which Malcolm grasped. Without 
 further speech he went out, and the iron door clanged 
 after him.
 
 54 caelpn $an CoimianD* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE shadow of the tragedy had settled over the 
 home of the Van Courtlands. Mrs. Van Courtland 
 had gone South for a prolonged stay, and the banker, 
 to meet the requirements their social position de- 
 manded, as well as to counteract any ill-natured gos- 
 sip, allowed no interruption to his customary mode of 
 life. Each day at the usual hour he went to his place 
 of business, refusing to see anyone except his most in- 
 timate associates, remaining for hours alone in his 
 private office, taciturn, moody, and, what was most 
 unusual, betraying a highly nervous state. 
 
 To Evelyn, as well as to his close friends, Howard 
 Van Courtland was a changed man. Doubt, dread, 
 at times even fear, seemed to have taken possession of 
 him each emotion being reflected in the colorless 
 face, to be in turn supplanted by a look of entreaty, 
 amounting to abject terror. Evidence of these feel- 
 ings, whatever their cause, was noticeable only when 
 he was alone, or when he belived himself unobserved ; 
 for at the sound of a voice or of an approaching 
 footstep, his appearance underwent a change, his face 
 resumed its former expression, and in voice and 
 manner he was again the successful man of the world.
 
 Ctoelptt $att CourtlattD. 55 
 
 There was one he did not deceive. Without ex- 
 citing his suspicion, Evelyn watched him closely as 
 she noticed his changed appearance. Loss of sleep, 
 together with little or no food, was leaving its stamp 
 on face and form. His step was uncertain, his eye 
 lusterless, his general appearance that of one com- 
 pletely broken in health and spirit. This Evelyn at- 
 tributed partly to his fear that her mother's past rela- 
 tions with Harlan had become a matter of public 
 gossip. She could not understand, nor did she fully 
 appreciate, the strain under which her father was 
 laboring. Yet she was conscious that, though he 
 made every effort to hide from her his true condition, 
 he was suffering mental agony. Often, awakening 
 from a fitful sleep in the early morning hours, she 
 could hear his step as he walked the floor of his room 
 the sound filling her with nervous dread. 
 
 A week after her mother's departure she was vain- 
 ly trying to read, to compose her nerves and induce 
 sleep. It was long after midnight. She listened to the 
 sound of her father's footfalls, varied by low mutter- 
 ings, disjointed, rambling sentences followed by loud, 
 threatening tones, all of which filled her with alarm. 
 Stealthily she crept to his door, but the few intelli- 
 gible words that reached her hearing sent her, trem- 
 bling, back to her room, her heart and brain throb- 
 bing in an agony of fear. Throwing herself upon a 
 couch she lay quite still, while the sound of the foot- 
 falls, followed by outbursts of passion, continued.
 
 56 (Etoelpn Pan Courtland, 
 
 Unable longer to remain inactive, she again went into 
 the hall and rapped gently on the door of his room. 
 
 "Are you ill, father ?" she asked falteringly. 
 
 "No, no, Evelyn, dear. Why are you awake at 
 this hour ? I have a slight headache, that's all. Go 
 back to bed, child." 
 
 Evelyn returned to her room, and the sounds 
 ceased. 
 
 "Did I disturb you ?" her father asked the follow- 
 ing morning at breakfast. 
 
 "I feared you were not well," she replied, evading 
 his glance. "I thought, perhaps, you might need 
 me." 
 
 "A slight nervous attack," he calmly replied. "I 
 think I will have a bed placed in the study. My old 
 fits of insomnia have returned, and I would be more 
 at ease on this floor; besides, it adjoins the library 
 and, should I feel unable to sleep, I could read." 
 
 Evelyn offered no objection or comment Glancing 
 at the haggard countenance, she shuddered. 
 
 "Do you really believe you would be more com- 
 fortable on this floor?" she asked, after a moment's 
 thought, "you would be so entirely alone ?" 
 
 "Yes," he responded, brightening, "I wonder I 
 didn't think to make the change before." 
 
 "Could you not have James sleep in the library? 
 He would be within call should you need him ?" 
 
 "No, no," he protested excitedly. There was ter- 
 ror in his voice. Recovering himself, he continued in
 
 CourtlanO* 5? 
 
 a calmer tone : "I would not require him. You know, 
 child, when one is a trifle worked-out, tired, or a bit 
 nervous, there is nothing so restful for one of my age 
 as to realize one is absolutely alone." He made an at- 
 tempt to laugh that grated on the nerves of the lis- 
 tener, it so nearly approached a groan. "You can- 
 not appreciate that condition. Yes/' with childish 
 enthusiasm, "we will have a bed moved into the study, 
 dear ; then I know I shall sleep." 
 
 There were dark circles under his eyes, which the 
 grayish pallor of his face intensified. He had been 
 making but slight pretense of eating. Pushing his 
 plate from him, he drank his coffee, then motioned to 
 the servant to pour another cup. Asking his daugh- 
 ter if she would be helped to more, he nodded to the 
 servant to retire. 
 
 When they were alone, he leaned back in his chair. 
 His shifting glance wandered about the room. He 
 seemed strangely disturbed and spoke abruptly. 
 
 "Though it is a disagreeable subject, Evelyn, I 
 feel I should speak of Harlan's death, and what they 
 are doing to bring about a speedy trial of young Mal- 
 colm." 
 
 Had Van Courtland been entirely sane, and ordi- 
 narily observant, he could not have failed to note the 
 deathly color of the face before him, nor to see the 
 bosom of the young girl rise and fall. Her heart beat 
 tumultuously, her breath came in short gasps, until 
 she feared she would betray herself. His mind
 
 58 Ctoelptt $an CourtlanD, 
 
 seemed entirely absorbed in the subject he was dis- 
 cussing ; his eyes glowed with feverish brilliancy ; for 
 the moment he was but dimly conscious that he had a 
 listener. 
 
 "You see, my dear," there was a note of abstrac- 
 tion in his voice, "since Harlan's death, and the un- 
 happy events following it, we have been very much 
 alone. This is not good for you for one so young. 
 We should go more into society receive our friends 
 oftener. This sort of life is too dull too monot- 
 onous." 
 
 Evelyn was about to expostulate, to assure him she 
 was content with the quiet of their home life. 
 
 "I know, I know, my dear," he interrupted with 
 childlike petulance, "but I am the best judge of this 
 matter. Besides, your mother's absence" it was the 
 first time he had referred to his wife since her de- 
 parture "might occasion unpleasant gossip if we 
 ignore the duty we owe to society. Have you seen 
 Mr. Le Moyne recently ?" he asked abruptly, his tone 
 and manner changing. 
 
 Evelyn replied in the negative. 
 
 "Very bright young man," he exclaimed, his eyes 
 lighting up with new interest, his animation in 
 marked contrast to his dejected manner of a few mo- 
 ments before. "He has the Malcolm case well in 
 hand. We must see more of him, my dear, and it 
 will please me if, when you meet him, you manifest 
 some interest in the young man."
 
 $an CourtlanD* so 
 
 Without replying to her father's request, with the 
 plea that she was suffering from a slight headache, 
 Evelyn rose hastily and went to her room. 
 
 That night Evelyn and her father were to attend a 
 reception, at the home of one of Van Courtland's 
 business associates. They were certain to meet there 
 people prominent in the social and literary world a 
 set in which Van Courtland was one of the leaders. 
 Since Harlan's death Van Courtland had manifested 
 a feverish desire to appear in public, and, much to his 
 daughter's chagrin, insisted that she accompany him. 
 She could not understand his moods. Since her 
 mother's departure, and the unfortunate occurrence 
 leading up to it, she shrank from meeting her former 
 friends. The necessity of assuming an outward show 
 of interest, which she did not feel, while listening 
 to comments on the Harlan affair, that was so closely 
 allied to the tragedy in her own home, annoyed and 
 humiliated her. Yet by neither word nor sign did 
 she betray unusual interest or a disinclination to hear 
 the subject discussed. She listened with a consider- 
 ate show of sympathy, and not till she had returned 
 to her own home, and to the seclusion of her room, 
 did she betray the strain under which she was labor- 
 ing. Only by a determined will power was she able 
 to hide her true feelings ; but she had little fear that 
 her father would notice her altered appearance and 
 manner. When at home, he moved about aimlessly, 
 in manner and speech like one whose mind and in-
 
 eo OEtoelpn l^an Courtlantu 
 
 terest were far from bis immediate surroundings. If 
 his daughter addressed him, with a start he would 
 collect his wandering faculties, answer her at ran- 
 dom, or open a topic of conversation entirely foreign 
 to her remark or question. 
 
 The early evening found them at the Madison man- 
 sion Van Courtland in earnest conversation with 
 his host; Evelyn, almost upon her entrance, became 
 the center of a laughing, chattering group of young 
 people. It was not long, however, until, with a sense 
 of relief, she saw Le Moyne approaching. She held 
 out her hand in greeting. Gradually the others 
 moved away and left them alone. Of all her friends 
 there was no one who, at that moment, she would 
 have welcomed more gladly than the brilliant attor- 
 ney. 
 
 He possessed the power of interesting her, for he 
 was able to discuss a wide range of subjects with 
 equal facility. Never forcing nor intruding his own 
 opinions, he was, unlike many others who had at- 
 tained distinction in his profession, willing, even 
 eager, to listen to views that were opposed to his own. 
 
 There was another reason, however, why Evelyn 
 desired to talk with him. The subject that held her 
 attention day and night, her interest in which no hu- 
 man power could induce her to disclose, was Mal- 
 colm's coming trial. 
 
 Le Moyne had a complete knowledge of the Gov- 
 ernment's case, and the evidence relied on to convict
 
 Pan Coimlantr* ei 
 
 the accused man. From the newspapers Evelyn had 
 learned of the efforts the Government was making, 
 and her father's vague allusions had convinced her 
 that the officers of the Government were exhausting 
 every means to secure a conviction. 
 
 The young attorney was a man of the highest pro- 
 fessional integrity, and Evelyn realized the delicacy 
 of the task she had in hand. Her glance flashed him 
 a welcome, her touch thrilled him, until his eyes 
 glowed with unaccustomed elation. She felt his 
 power, but was not dismayed. Her mission was the 
 acquittal of a man she believed innocent a man she 
 had never seen, whose antecedents and personal worth 
 were, except what she had gathered from hearsay, 
 unknown to her. 
 
 "You appear particularly amiable to-night," he 
 ventured, as he led her to a seat, "you have decided 
 to erase the memory of our past differences of opin- 
 ion, and " 
 
 "Start all over from the beginning." 
 
 "What ! renew our wordy battles ? You can't 
 mean it." 
 
 She laughed quietly, and the glance she threw him 
 might have made any lover's heart beat with expect- 
 ancy. 
 
 "Seriously now," she said with coquettish aban- 
 don, "I shall never cease attacking your professional 
 heresy until I whip you into line. Tell me of this 
 new victim of your duty to the State."
 
 62 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanD. 
 
 "You refer to Malcolm ?" 
 
 "Yes; of course Mr. Harlan's death moved us 
 deeply." 
 
 He glanced quickly at her, but her features dis- 
 closed only calm, sympathetic interest Her eyes 
 sought his in a look of open candor. 
 
 His habitual caution prompted him to weigh every 
 word he uttered when his profession was mentioned. 
 Her face disclosed neither unusual interest, nor a 
 desire for knowledge that might be denied her. 
 
 "Is she acquainted with the gossip which connects 
 her mother's name with that of the deceased banker ?" 
 he mused. Then aloud : "I feel deeply for Malcolm," 
 he said, regret in his voice, "he was a classmate of 
 mine. I haven't recovered from the shock of his con- 
 nection with the unfortunate affair." 
 
 "You don't believe he committed the deed !" 
 
 Her eyes were on his face. Her assertion was 
 made with such abruptness that, taken by surprise, 
 he colored and started perceptibly. The evidence, 
 however slight, that her shaft had moved him, did not 
 escape her. In her eyes flashed a momentary gleam 
 of light, which quickly died. Before he could reply 
 she continued calmly: 
 
 "Of course my only source of information is the 
 newspapers." 
 
 "Circumstances, I regret to say," he replied in a 
 professional tone, "point to his guilt. He is strangely
 
 Pan CourtlanD. 63 
 
 silent, neither affirming nor denying facts that tend 
 to incriminate him." 
 
 "You have not answered my question," she said 
 playfully. 
 
 "Which one?" he asked, smiling. "Our inter- 
 course for months past has, on your part, assumed the 
 aspect of one continued interrogation mostly con- 
 cerning matters in which women in general take but 
 little interest." 
 
 His tone was bantering. Refusing to meet the 
 charge by a direct reply, she touched his hand lightly 
 with the soft fluffy texture of the fan she held. The 
 blood mounted to his cheeks and, as their eyes met, his 
 color deepened. She was in a mood approaching an 
 intimacy closer than, in any former intercourse, they 
 had ever reached. In the soft light she was strikingly 
 beautiful, and her manner, playfully tantalizing, yet 
 half serious, appealed to him as never before. Was 
 she aware that the man was madly in love with her ; 
 or that on the slightest encouragement he would de- 
 clare his passion ? Her face told nothing ; but with a 
 quaint little gesture, as if to check any impulse on 
 his part that might lead to embarrassment, she non- 
 chalantly asked him: 
 
 "You are to try the case for the Government?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, with some hesitation. 
 
 "Notwithstanding that you believe him innocent ?" 
 
 "My dear Miss Van Courtland, I have not ex-
 
 64 Cfcelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 pressed an opinion as to Malcolm's guilt or inno- 
 cence !" 
 
 "True, but you need not; I know it" 
 
 He looked into the eyes that laughed into his own. 
 She held his glance. 
 
 "As I told you, I have no right to an opinion." 
 
 "Perhaps; but you have one, nevertheless." 
 
 "I suppose," he replied musingly, "because of your 
 father's past relations with Harlan, you have an un- 
 usual interest in the case." 
 
 "Exactly, and the Government is exerting itself as 
 never before." 
 
 Her tone had unconsciously become shaded with 
 irony. Then, as if suddenly becoming conscious of a 
 lapse of caution, she laughed softly, and in the at- 
 tempt to emphasize her remark by a touch of her fan, 
 their hands met. The touch disconcerted him, and 
 before he could frame a reply, she asked abruptly : 
 
 "Should Malcolm be declared 'not guilty,' is there 
 any one else upon whom suspicion rests ?" 
 
 "That," came the reply, "I can answer readily 
 enough. No. Unfortunately for Malcolm, he is the 
 only one at whom suspicion points." 
 
 For a brief instant it seemed as if a sigh of relief 
 hovered on the air ; but when he looked quickly at her, 
 he met only a calm gaze of interest, and a smile that 
 invited confidence. 
 
 "You must keep me informed of the progress you 
 make in the preparation of your case," she said, while
 
 CouttlanD, 65 
 
 she made a fruitless attempt to close the fan she 
 carried. 
 
 Taking the fan from her, without apparent effort 
 he closed it; then made a pretense of looking at the 
 exquisitely carved ivory handle. As though its pos- 
 session gave him the right of common ownership, he 
 seemed loth to part with it until, holding out her han-1 
 to receive it, her white fingers closed upon his. Tl;e 
 touch sent the blood to his face, his fingers tremble 1 
 beneath hers. Not daring to trust his voice, he re- 
 mained silent. She was the first to speak. 
 
 "You once told me I had a legal mind. You re- 
 member?" He nodded in response. "And I will 
 have a voice to advise and to criticize," she continued 
 playfully, "doesn't that sound like woman's egot- 
 ism?" 
 
 She laughed while she felt the hand shake that held 
 the fan. Again he nodded a response, but remained 
 passive, speechless, while the touch of her fingers 
 lingered on his own. 
 
 "It is a bargain, then," she exclaimed, a slight 
 pressure emphasizing her remark. 
 
 "Yes," he murmured, "may I keep the fan?" 
 
 Her answer was a smile of acquiescence. 
 
 He touched the delicate ivory to his lips where her 
 fingers had rested. 
 
 "Keep it while your trust in me lasts ; should you 
 return it, I shall know your confidence in me no 
 longer lives."
 
 66 OEtielpn Van Courtlmto, 
 
 By a common impulse they rose and walked into 
 the drawing-room. A smile lighted up their features. 
 His face reflected hope of love returned; hers the 
 success of the first step in a desperate game un- 
 aided, alone. She had begun the battle for a human 
 life. Her methods? She need expect no quarter 
 from the enemy ; instinct told her that the world for- 
 gives those who woo it with success. She would, she 
 must, conquer. Conscience ? It was law, man's law, 
 she had to combat: a gigantic, human machine, with 
 all of man's weaknesses, autocratic, all powerful, deal- 
 ing justice according to the hand that guides it. Her 
 motive was pure; her method must be judged by a 
 higher court She was a woman. Nature endowed 
 her with weapons of defense. The question was not 
 one of their possession, but of her use of them. That 
 question time alone would solve.
 
 Courtianto. 67 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE morning of the third day following, Van 
 Courtland met his daughter at breakfast. With her 
 customary gentleness, Evelyn inquired if he had slept 
 well, and they took their places at the table. Know- 
 ing her father's aversion to anything approaching 
 sympathy, she made no reference to his health; but 
 she noted his increased pallor. As if to divert their 
 thoughts from the general air of gloom, that seemed 
 to affect even the servants, they made an effort at 
 conversation. 
 
 "By the way, Evelyn" his voice was pitched un- 
 naturally high "I have invited Mr. Le Moyne to 
 dine with us to-night. We need company. He is a 
 brilliant young man. Besides, he is prosecuting at- 
 torney, and I desire an opportunity to consult with 
 him." 
 
 At the mention of Le Moyne's name, Evelyn 
 flushed. 
 
 "You will not mind, dear ?" he queried. 
 
 "Quite the contrary. I shall be delighted," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 Her evident interest seemed to please her father, 
 and he continued with animation.
 
 68 OEtoelpn $an CotmlanD, 
 
 "I am glad of that. He is very clever. They tell 
 me he rarely loses a case." 
 
 "If one may measure his ability by his success, 
 praise is certainly due him." 
 
 "Quite so, my dear. I I should like the dinner to 
 be something out of the ordinary. Please speak to 
 James ; and, my dear, order some flowers. Don't be 
 sparing. Have everything appear bright." 
 
 "I shall attend to it," she replied cheerily. 
 
 With misgiving she noted her father's drawn fea- 
 tures, animated by a nervous, unnatural desire to ap- 
 pear unconcerned. His eyes glowed feverishly, his 
 whole attitude was that of repressed excitement 
 
 The remainder of the day Evelyn devoted to seeing 
 that her instructions for the dinner and the decora- 
 tions of the dining-room were carefully executed; 
 and, though her personal supervision was unneces- 
 sary, she welcomed the diversion. The room glowed 
 with color. A background of potted palms increased 
 the effect of the cut flowers, a pyramid of crimson 
 roses, banked by delicate white blossoms, forming the 
 base of the crimson shaft. The scent of flower and 
 palm, the glow of light, subdued, yet disclosing un- 
 suspected beauty in hidden nooks and corners of the 
 room, thrilled the senses. Evelyn's touch appeared 
 everywhere, for she possessed an inborn love for the 
 beautiful, and what she arranged semed to disclose 
 beauties not before revealed. 
 
 She had seen much of the world the leading cities
 
 $an CoimlanD* 69 
 
 of Europe were as familiar to her as was her own 
 birthplace. It was not art alone that engrossed her ; 
 social and political questions appealed to her sym- 
 pathy and interest. Owing to her mother's indiffer- 
 ence, she had enjoyed a personal freedom of action 
 that gave her an uncommon knowledge of men and 
 things. A glance, a tone of voice, disclosed to her, as 
 if by intuition, what others might learn when too late 
 the heart, the mind, the soul of their owner. Men 
 admired her beauty, but paid homage to her intel- 
 lect; without even the shadow of a contest, women 
 acknowledged her mental supremacy. 
 
 At seven o'clock her father, accompanied by Le 
 Moyne, entered the drawing-room. Glancing about 
 the room, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. 
 
 "Beautiful," Le Moyne remarked, as they took 
 their places at the table. 
 
 His one word had reference to the masses of flow- 
 ers ; but his eyes were fixed on Evelyn's features till 
 her increasing color warned him to lower his glance. 
 
 "You are late, father," she said, wishing to direct 
 Le Moyne's attention from herself. 
 
 "I'm sorry, my dear. I called for Mr. Le Moyne 
 at his office and well, we had to discuss a matter of 
 importance." 
 
 "My fault entirely," Le Moyne insisted, again al- 
 lowing his eyes to linger in unconscious admiration 
 on her face. 
 
 Evelyn was attired in a gown of soft, delicate ma-
 
 70 OEtielpn i^an CourtlanD* 
 
 terial, that clung in wavy folds to her graceful figure. 
 She wore no ornaments except at her throat, her col- 
 lar being fastened by a magnificent pearl, set in a 
 brooch, around which, from a slender hoop of rough 
 gold, flamed a circle of the purest white diamonds. 
 
 "Never mind, dear, we bring appetites as a recom- 
 pense for the delay. Le Moyne, try a little Bur- 
 gundy, some of my own importation. I will answer 
 for its age." 
 
 They raised their wine glasses. Under the exhila- 
 ration of the dinner, the conversation became ani- 
 mated. Van Courtland's features underwent a 
 change in manner and speech he was again the ideal 
 host, courteous, considerate, leading his guest into a 
 full enjoyment of the moment, while he, himself, ap- 
 peared to be the one entertained. 
 
 "My dear, our delay was occasioned by Mr. Le 
 Moyne going into the Malcolm case in detail. He 
 has most convincing proof against the young man. 
 His conviction seems a certainty." 
 
 Evelyn turned to her guest, her look as eloquent 
 as the unspoken words: "Remember our agree- 
 ment." 
 
 Her smile, her glance, was full of meaning; it 
 conveyed to him the assurance of a closer tie between 
 them. He understood; his color deepened. He was 
 thrilled by her beauty ; his eyes reflected his pleasure, 
 his gratitude, and conveyed the assurance that the
 
 t^att Courtland* n 
 
 compact of their last meeting was, on his part, to be 
 carried out. 
 
 "Knowing my interest," her smile was for Le 
 Moyne, though she addressed her father, "he will 
 surely not withhold the details of his progress from 
 me." 
 
 "State secrets, my dear. The Government jeal- 
 ously guards its information, but " 
 
 "Don't you think, Mr. Le Moyne, the district at- 
 torney's office would consider me worthy of confi- 
 dence ?" 
 
 Again the enticing smile, and an answering gleam 
 of pleasure in the eyes that sought hers. 
 
 "I fear I must consent," he replied. "And why 
 not ? We are arrayed together on the side of the Gov- 
 ernment. Anyway," he laughed, "I believe you 
 would wring the facts from me, so I may as well con- 
 sent. Do you think it safe?" he asked, addressing 
 Van Courtland with mock seriousness. 
 
 "Quite so, quite so," the elder man answered. 
 
 The dessert had been removed, and they lingered 
 over the coffee. The butler and the servants had been 
 dismissed; and Van Courtland, on the plea that he 
 had to send a message to the city, excused himself, 
 leaving Evelyn to entertain their guest 
 
 "I feared," she said, while she toyed with an 
 empty wine glass, "I feared you had forgotten our 
 agreement that your trust in me was waning. The 
 memory of the ordinary man is fickle."
 
 72 OEtoelpn pan CourtlanB, 
 
 "But I have the fan," he naively rejoined. 
 
 She laughed softly; then raised her eyes to his 
 face eyes in which subdued excitement and eager 
 anticipation smouldered. 
 
 Noting no false ring in her voice, he surrendered 
 to the charm of her beauty; her smile of encourage- 
 ment bewildered him and set his heart throbbing. 
 Had she at that moment asked for anything short of 
 his life, he would not have refused. 
 
 Was she conscious of her power? Was she aware 
 that, body and soul, he was hers, to make or to mar 
 for life, to shape his future, his destiny? Did she 
 consider that a man of his talent might attain any 
 honor that social or political life offers? Did she 
 realize that her slightest word had the power to fill 
 him with trembling delight, until his hopes and his 
 fears caused him hours of doubt, of torment? Or, 
 standing beside the table under the brilliant light, as 
 she fastened a crimson flower to his coat, did she feel 
 the tumultuous beating of his heart, or did his breath, 
 as it fanned her cheek, warn her that she was playing 
 with the emotions, the passions, of a strong man? 
 After arranging the flower to her liking, when she 
 was about to lead the way to the drawing-room, and 
 her hand for an instant lay in his, did the throbbing 
 pulse speak to her of the peril of unspoken hope held 
 out to him? Whatever her thoughts, her face told 
 nothing. She met his gaze with unflinching candor, 
 but with no evidence of emotion.
 
 CourtlanO* 73 
 
 "Let us go to the drawing-room," she said, leading 
 the way. "I am so anxious," she continued, after 
 they were seated, so near together that the folds of her 
 gown lay in a gauzy mass at his feet. "Tell me of 
 your progress in the Malcolm case. You know my 
 sympathy is always with the accused." 
 
 "But this is an exceptional case. Owing to Har- 
 lan's connection with your father's firm, he is nat- 
 urally the one most interested in the coming trial." 
 
 An expression of pain, of sudden alarm, was hid- 
 den under the drooping lids. 
 
 "Of course," she answered, "papa is anxious that 
 justice be done. Though Malcolm was, I under- 
 stand, a favorite clerk, one held in the highest esteem, 
 still papa feels that he owes a duty to the memory of 
 his late partner." 
 
 "Quite so. We must not allow our sentiment to in- 
 terfere with justice." 
 
 "But the evidence?" 
 
 "Is being accumulated every day." 
 
 "You believe, then, that there is sufficient to con- 
 vict?" 
 
 Her manner had become suddenly earnest. There 
 was an incredulous note in her voice, as though she 
 doubted the possibility of what she heard. 
 
 "I haven't the slightest doubt of his conviction," 
 he said, his tone that of the attorney, of one who is 
 master of himself and of his subject. He did not 
 observe that her face became a shade paler. She
 
 74 Ctoelpn $an CotmlanD* 
 
 laughed softly, but the jarring note passed un- 
 heeded. 
 
 "Men are heartless. Why, you speak as lightly 
 of convicting a human being of murder, as if you 
 were ordering your clerk to fill the ink-stand." 
 
 Her voice was low, but betrayed evident feeling. 
 He smiled at her earnestness. Like a gust of wind 
 fanning a smouldering flame into life, her manner 
 changed. 
 
 "I suppose women take these matters altogether too 
 seriously," she said, "and men well, men are quite 
 as much to blame in taking us seriously." 
 
 With easy grace she arranged the folds of her 
 dress and turned toward her companion. Her move- 
 ments, like her beauty, appealed to him. Her voice 
 and manner softened. Her arm and hand rested on 
 the cushioned side of the luxuriant easy chair in 
 which she sat, her close-fitting gown accentuating the 
 lines of her lithe, willowy figure. 
 
 "Now, I must know all all that you have done so 
 far what you hope to do. Of course," in her voice 
 a note of confidence, "this case will make you fa- 
 mous." 
 
 It was not her words that moved him. Every line 
 of her features breathed expectancy, confidence, en- 
 treaty, but with the graceful diffidence of one who 
 acknowledged superiority. Her eyes held his; and 
 though at first he began to speak with his habitual 
 caution, it was her glance, her swift changing ex-
 
 CourtlanD* 75 
 
 pression of encouragement, even of pride, that led 
 him on, until he had related every step in the web of 
 circumstantial evidence the Government was weav- 
 ing about the accused. While he was speaking, she 
 did not interrupt him. Her changing color, the ex- 
 pression of her eyes, told that the recital affected her. 
 Her feelings were those of a criminal, and a full sense 
 of her own baseness, because of the part she was 
 playing, threatened her composure. "What," she 
 thought, "would the man to whom she listened think 
 of her when time should disclose her motives ? Would 
 he not look upon her as one unworthy of the name of 
 woman ?" And she was wilfully encouraging his pas- 
 sion, leading him to hope that she might look upon 
 his suit with favor. She was startled by the boldness 
 of her deception ; humiliated when she considered the 
 use she intended to make of the knowledge thus ob- 
 tained. Yet two lives were at stake. Was she war- 
 ranted in her course ? Did the end justify the means ? 
 A guilty pang for an instant filled her with shudder- 
 ing remorse; followed, when she considered the pos- 
 sible result of the coming trial, with feverish deter- 
 mination to pursue her purpose to the end. 
 
 Her father ! A pallor overspread her features. Le 
 Moyne's expression changed to one of concern. 
 
 "This recital distresses you. What a brute I have 
 been." 
 
 She attempted to laugh away his fear, and her ef- 
 fort only, increased his alarm.
 
 76 OEtoelpn i?an CourtlanD* 
 
 "Really, you are ill," he insisted. 
 
 "It is only the odor of the flowers, I assure you. 
 Papa," she addressed her father, who had just en- 
 tered, "how long you have been !" 
 
 "I had a caller, my dear. You see," he addressed 
 Le Moyne, "we are never entirely free from busi- 
 ness." 
 
 His daughter watched him narrowly. In the short 
 time he had been gone, his animation and air of gay- 
 ety had given place to his customary expression of de- 
 jection. In an almost childish tone he asked Evelyn 
 to play something. 
 
 Without comment she seated herself at the piano. 
 
 "Play play lively music. I cannot," he addressed 
 Le Moyne, "endure slow music adagios. I know 
 but little of the art, but I know what I like, so Ev- 
 elyn plays lively music for me. Do you like slow, 
 draggy pieces ? They remind me of a funeral." 
 
 "Music of any kind pleases me," Le Moyne re- 
 plied. 
 
 Evelyn, who was a finished performer, dashed into 
 a brilliant waltz. 
 
 Van Courtland's appearance, also his tone and 
 manner, struck Le Moyne as somewhat peculiar ; and 
 while the music continued, he fell to studying the 
 features of his host. 
 
 "Strange," he mused, "I had not noticed his 
 changed appearance. Why, he seems like a different
 
 CourtlanD* n 
 
 person. This Harlan affair has completely upset 
 him. He needs rest and change of scene." 
 
 For a moment the music ceased. Van Courtland 
 squirmed uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "Play some more, dear." 
 
 She played only a few bars of a Chopin waltz when 
 her father interrupted. 
 
 "Not that, Evelyn. That's Chopin. He must 
 have had one great sorrow in his life, and he has told 
 it in every piece he wrote. Play something cheer- 
 ful." 
 
 Again the music gave Le Moyne an opportunity to 
 closely watch his host, and his former opinion was 
 confirmed. He was startled by the look of abject- 
 ness and dread; and as the music deflected attention 
 from Van Courtland, his caution relaxed. If ever 
 terror was stamped on the face of a human being, 
 while Le Moyne furtively watched him, it was de- 
 picted on the features of his host. His shifting glance 
 encountering Le Moyne's, his expression changed and, 
 as crumpled linen is smoothed by the hand, the fear- 
 ful lines and wrinkles disappeared. The remainder 
 of the evening they discussed the subject that was up- 
 permost in the mind of both. When some strong feat- 
 ure of the Government's case was touched upon, Van 
 Courtland became jubilant; again, as some doubtful 
 point in the evidence against Malcolm was men- 
 tioned, his manner abruptly changed to that of child- 
 ish insistence. For moments at a time his eyes would
 
 78 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanD. 
 
 . 
 
 rest on his daughter's face in a pitiful glance his ex- 
 pression of entreaty changing suddenly to that of 
 fear. This mood would be followed by a petulant 
 outburst until, becoming conscious that his excited 
 fancy was leading him into danger, with an effort he 
 would resume his outward calm. Le Moyne was mys- 
 tified. Could Harlan's death alone affect Van Court- 
 land in such a manner? Or were his strained rela- 
 tions with his wife the cause ? 
 
 Evelyn never allowed her father's excited state to 
 carry him beyond the bounds of reason. By gentle 
 tact, in a manner so entirely natural as to give no sug- 
 gestion of intent, she adroitly interjected a word or 
 turned the subject, when his lapse of caution war- 
 ranted it, allowing him time to recover himself. She 
 seemed, in fact, when she took the initiative, to con- 
 trol his mind, leading it into whatever channels his 
 safety demanded, and he, in turn, surrendered to her 
 will, her slightest word guiding him. 
 
 An hour later Le Moyne had departed and Evelyn 
 sat in her room. She likened the part she was play- 
 ing to the prelude to a tragedy, she, herself, being one 
 of the central figures; but there was a grotesque- 
 ness about it all that filled her with abhorrence. What 
 would be the result when the man, believing he had 
 won her love, discovered that he had been duped, 
 tricked by the woman on whom he had bestowed the 
 very essence of his life his love. Love? At the 
 thought she shuddered. She revered him as a man of
 
 OEfcelpn l^an CotmlanD, 79 
 
 honor and sterling worth, but he awakened no fur- 
 ther emotion no responsive chord had been touched. 
 She realized the wrong she was doing him, realized 
 that he might, with just cause, curse her, brand her as 
 a traitor. She tried to defend her course by arguing 
 that, should she turn from her purpose, a human life 
 would be the price of her weakness. She knew she 
 was forfeiting her self-respect, her right to the name 
 of womanhood ; but, when her heart sickened at the 
 thought of the future, before her the image arose of 
 the man. accused of the crime for which, though inno- 
 cent, he might be condemned. Then her thoughts 
 would again revert to Le Moyne, and she seemed to 
 hear his voice, when the future should disclose her 
 perfidy, raised in accusation "I trusted you and you 
 betrayed me." 
 
 "I must not falter ; if I do ? father !" 
 
 She whispered the words, but the sound seemed to 
 terrify her. Eising in affright she stood motionless, 
 confused, like a child that, suddenly waking, is on the 
 point of crying out. 
 
 After standing thus for some moments, as if 
 moved by a controlling impulse, she opened the door 
 into the hall and listened. 
 
 It was long after midnight and the servants slept. 
 She went into the hall, and crept to the stairs lead- 
 ing to the lower floor. Again she stood in a listening 
 attitude. A slight sound reached her and, breath-
 
 80 (Ctoclwt t?an CourtlanD. 
 
 less, her heart beating wildly, she heard some one 
 stealthily walking about in the drawing-room. 
 
 Silently, with cautious step, she crept down the 
 stairs. Reaching the gas jet in the hall, she turned 
 it on full. 
 
 It is not physical fear that gives the ordinary 
 mortal the greatest shock; it is fear when danger 
 threatens those we love, those whose lives are closely 
 interwoven with our own. The sight she beheld when 
 she entered the drawing-room filled her with horror. 
 Her father, his face livid, was standing in the center 
 of the room, his eyes staring, in his hands a revolver. 
 At a glance she realized that he was asleep, uncon- 
 scious of his acts, carrying out some prompting of a 
 dream, or reenacting some episode of the past. Fear- 
 ing to awaken him, she did not speak, but, breathless, 
 trembling, watched his movements. 
 
 The muscles of his face twitched convulsively as 
 though he were trying to control his anger his feat- 
 ures were livid, his attitude threatening. Turning 
 slowly about, he faced a large oval table, standing in 
 the center of the room, and carefully hid the revolver 
 in the folds of his dressing-gown. Then followed a 
 brief pantomime, with excited gestures, and he shook 
 a threatening finger at an imaginary person opposite 
 him at the table. Remaining silent for some mo- 
 ments, he was apparently listening to a reply. 
 
 When her father turned toward the table, Evelyn 
 walked to where she could observe his features, on
 
 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanD, si 
 
 which was depicted every shade of mortification, that 
 resolved into a settled expression of passionate anger. 
 She saw his lips move in a convulsive effort to 
 speak, and leaning forward, she listened to disjointed 
 sentences, uttered in an unnatural tone, half of weari- 
 ness, half of anger. 
 
 "Harlan disgrace my daughter !" 
 The words fell on the silence with a distinctness that 
 made the listener start with affright, for the sound, to 
 her excited imagination, seemed to ring through the 
 house like the clang of a bell. Beyond the circle of 
 dim light her distorted vision peopled the darkened 
 recesses of the room with a legion of ghostly forms 
 witnesses to her father's avenging act. Fearing the 
 consequence should she suddenly arouse him from his 
 sleep, she remained impassive. Doubt could no longer 
 exist as to the scene she was witnessing. Her heart 
 sank, and she helplessly waited the end. 
 
 Suddenly he took a step forward. Resting his left 
 hand on the table, he leaned across it, his features 
 convulsed, his lips framing words that, in his anger, 
 he was unable to utter; then the hand that clutched 
 the revolver was quickly raised. An instant the weap- 
 on was poised to make his aim certain, and through- 
 out the house rang the report of the pistol, which was 
 immediately followed by the crash of the heavy plate- 
 glass mirror at the end of the room falling to the 
 floor. Within the instant Evelyn was beside her fa-
 
 82 OEtoelpn tan CotmlanB* 
 
 ther, who, confused and trembling, stood looking at 
 the weapon. 
 
 Evelyn's mind leaped from the confused present to 
 the possible result that might follow. Already she 
 heard the scurrying servants, awakened by the pis- 
 tol report and the falling glass. Instantly her plan of 
 action matured. Stepping to the window, one of two 
 between which the mirror had rested, she raised it, 
 then returned to her father. She could hear the but- 
 ler's hurrying step. Fortunately fear retarded his 
 progress. 
 
 "Father," she said in an authoritative tone, "when 
 the servants come, let me explain. Do not speak till 
 I dismiss them." 
 
 Just as she finished her instruction, the butler ap- 
 peared at the door. Seeing that he was in the pres- 
 ence of members of the family, and had nothing to 
 fear, he entered with alacrity. 
 
 "~N"o one hurt, Miss, I hope ?" he asked excitedly. 
 
 "No, James. We are not hurt" 
 
 The other servants were appearing, in varying de- 
 grees of undress, their blanched faces, after the 
 danger had passed, adding a touch of the ludicrous to 
 the seemingly tragic midnight encounter. 
 
 "I was awakened," Evelyn's voice was as calm as if 
 she were ordering dinner, "by the noise of a chair 
 falling over. I called father. Taking his revolver, 
 we crept to the door and discovered a burglar in the
 
 CourtlanD, ss 
 
 room. Father fired as the man was about to make his 
 escape. The danger is over," she smiled, "and you 
 may return to bed." 
 
 "Is there nothing I can do, sir ?" inquired the but- 
 ler. "The glass " 
 
 "Can remain till morning, James," Van Court- 
 land replied. "We will attend to it then." 
 
 Though Evelyn detected a waver in her father's 
 voice, considering his bewildered condition of a few 
 moments before, he was remarkably calm. It was not 
 Evelyn's intention, however, to trust to his discre- 
 tion. Her quick "good-night" was a dismissal of the 
 group of servants, and they betook themselves to their 
 quarters, not, however, to sleep, but to exchange opin- 
 ions, gossip and comment on their fortunate escape. 
 
 "Father," in her voice was a note strange to it, 
 "have you quite recovered ?" 
 
 "Quite, dear. I must have been walking in my 
 sleep." 
 
 "You were. But it isn't safe to have firearms 
 near you. Give me the weapon." 
 
 Meekly he handed it to her. 
 
 "The servants will talk," she said. "You under- 
 stood my statement to them." 
 
 "Thoroughly," he rejoined. 
 
 "Lie down, father," she said gently, "and try to get 
 some sleep." 
 
 He did not answer, but, after embracing her, went 
 to his room.
 
 84 o&jelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 It was only when she was alone, when the nervous 
 tension of the past hour relaxed, that she gave way to 
 her grief. What she had witnessed left no room for 
 doubt Before her had been enacted the murder of 
 Harlan, with all its terrible detail. And another 
 than her father was accused of the crime. Who the 
 man was, whether of good or evil instinct, it mattered 
 not ; and the thought of the Government's determina- 
 tion to fix the crime upon him, a crime of which she 
 now knew to a certainty that her own father was 
 guilty, drove her into a frenzy of fear. Love for her 
 father prompted her to believe that, when he com- 
 mitted the deed, he was mentally unbalanced. His 
 appearance and conduct since the fatal night tended 
 to confirm that opinion; his overwrought nervous 
 state, together with what she had witnessed, had dis- 
 pelled all doubts. What was she to do ? What steps 
 should she take ? To denounce her father ? Impossi- 
 ble! But Malcolm - 
 
 "Alo," she exclaimed. "No! He must be cleared 
 he will be. My future it is his life I must con- 
 sider." 
 
 The light of the dawn was stealing through the 
 half curtained windows before sleep blotted out the 
 scene of the past night
 
 CotmlanD, 85 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MAJOE STRONG was comfortably seated in an easy 
 chair, his feet on the iron fender, and a newspaper 
 that he had been reading in his lap. Holding his 
 cigar between his fingers, he meditatively watched the 
 smoke curl upward. He was pleased with its flavor, 
 and was in a most amiable frame of mind. Though 
 the Malcolm case presented unlooked-for difficulties, 
 to a man of the Major's temperament its unfavorable 
 aspect only increased his determination to win it. 
 Annoyances, even the thought of possible failure, he 
 brushed aside. Mentally wrestling with knotty law 
 problems, he devised means to get around an appar- 
 ent weakness in his line of attack or resistance ; and, 
 when his own resources were exhausted, he had re- 
 course to Betts, for he respected the judgment of his 
 taciturn clerk. 
 
 They were alone in the office, the others having 
 gone for the day. 
 
 "Betts," the Major's voice was cheery, "what's your 
 opinion of Malcolm's case ?" 
 
 "Haven't one. Don't know the evidence for the 
 defense," answered the man of few words.
 
 86 OEtoelpn ^an CourtlanD, 
 
 "Evidence ! There is none. That's the rub. The 
 fellow is as dumb as an oyster." 
 
 "Frighten him." 
 
 The Major laughed. 
 
 "Frighten him! By threats? You might as well 
 threaten a streak of lightning !" 
 
 "Coax him!" 
 
 "You can neither coax nor drive him. He's 
 mulish." 
 
 "Woman in the case ?" 
 
 "Can't tell. He'll admit nothing." 
 
 "Man of fine sensibility far-fetched notion of 
 honor ?" 
 
 "Now you've hit it, Betts. He's one of those fel- 
 lows who'd sooner die than implicate some one he 
 wishes to shield." 
 
 Strong had had a second interview with the ac- 
 cused which, owing to the young man's obstinacy, was 
 even more unsatisfactory than the first. There were 
 two points upon which the Major demanded informa- 
 tion: The object of his client's visit to the deceased 
 man, and whether Malcolm had any knowledge of 
 any one entering the Harlan house or grounds after 
 his departure. 
 
 Both these questions Malcolm quietly but firmly re- 
 fused to answer. 
 
 With little regard for the feelings of his client, the 
 Major designated his refusal as nothing short of fool- 
 hardiness. Without comment Malcolm quietly lis-
 
 CourtlanU* sr 
 
 tened, but with the air of one who had weighed well 
 the consequence of his decision, and was prepared to 
 abide by the result. 
 
 "Young man," caustically remarked the Major, 
 when he had exhausted every method of gaining his 
 point, "you are simply courting death, and incident- 
 ally making yourself ridiculous. Do you expect me 
 to prove your innocence if you persist in your refusal 
 to tell me what you know ?" 
 
 "Really, Major, I expect nothing." 
 
 "Well," the Major retorted with savage emphasis, 
 "you may expect a verdict of 'guilty.' ' 
 
 If he expected his unfeeling frankness to make an 
 impression on his hearer, he was doomed to disap- 
 pointment. Malcolm betrayed not the slightest re- 
 sentment. Maddened by his failure to gain the evi- 
 dence he desired, the lawyer continued : 
 
 "Malcolm," he said abruptly, "you know who mur- 
 dered Harlan." 
 
 He watched the features of his companion, but 
 again failure awaited his effort not a muscle moved, 
 the glance that met his own was fearless, and, what 
 entirely upset the Major's equanimity, the eyes ex- 
 pressed a childlike candor. But hidden, veiled by the 
 eyelashes, was a suspicious twinkle of merriment. 
 
 "I wonder if the man is laughing at me ?" Strong 
 mentally queried. 
 
 His ire was roused. He decided to attack his client 
 at close quarters.
 
 88 oftjelpn $an CourtlanB* 
 
 "Look here!" he said brusquely, "you would re- 
 ceive your just deserts should I decline to go on with 
 your case." 
 
 "Of that I am painfully conscious." 
 
 The speaker's self-possession increased the Major's 
 wrath. 
 
 "Yet you go on jeopardizing your liberty, even 
 your life !" 
 
 "I have no alternative." 
 
 "That," replied the Major, in a tone of savage 
 abruptness, "is, to express it mildly, as far from the 
 truth as you could state it." 
 
 If the speaker expected to touch some rebellious 
 chord in the man's nature, he failed. He was re- 
 warded by a courteous silence. 
 
 "Now," continued the lawyer hotly, conscious that 
 his last shot had failed to score, "I shall not withdraw 
 from the case, for, before the day of trial, I intend to 
 wring from you the evidence I seek, or to obtain it 
 elsewhere." 
 
 No answer. The Major glared his resentment. 
 "Was this man made of adamant ?" he mused. Then 
 aloud : 
 
 "Judge how far I am from the truth: You were 
 either a witness to the tragedy, or, after leaving the 
 house or grounds, you saw the man enter who com- 
 mitted the deed. That someone is known to you he 
 is either an acquaintance or a friend ; and whichever 
 it may be, you have some sentimental reason for
 
 89 
 
 shielding him. You call that honor, don't you? I 
 call it rot sheer rot! Young man," the speaker 
 made no attempt to veil the sarcasm, "how far from 
 the truth am I?" 
 
 A faint color stealing into Malcolm's cheeks was 
 the only evidence that his outward calm was dis- 
 turbed. But had the astute lawyer the power to 
 read the mind of his listener, or to judge of its tur- 
 moil, he would have gone away rejoicing, and upon 
 his hypothesis would have planned his line of defense. 
 Though fear, while the Major was speaking, filled the 
 young man with a nervous dread, his self-control did 
 not desert him, and the lawyer again felt the sting 
 of defeat the face that he narrowly scanned for 
 some sign of assent to his surmises told him noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "He's an extraordinary person," was the Major's 
 mental estimate of his client ; "I can't help admiring 
 him ; but he'd provoke a saint." 
 
 The Major, conscious of defeat, so far as gaining 
 the information he desired was concerned, took his 
 departure; but his failure only whetted his deter- 
 mination to succeed. 
 
 "He deserves to be convicted," was his muttered 
 comment after parting with his client, "but he'll 
 play with the jury exactly as he plays with me. The 
 effect will be the same, and they'll get to admire the 
 young devil. He's like a thoroughbred that won't 
 take the bit. I'll put him on the stand in his own
 
 90 
 
 defense. The jury'll vow that his obstinacy deserves 
 a verdict of guilty; they'll finish by acquitting him." 
 
 What annoyed the Major more than all else was 
 the knowledge that powerful influence was arrayed 
 on the side of the Government to secure a conviction. 
 Who desired to fix the guilt on Malcolm? 
 
 Though to no attorney in the state were such 
 sources of information open as to the Major, he 
 was forced to content himself with conjectures only. 
 
 For some moments after the Major's reply to his 
 clerk's query concerning Malcolm's motive for with- 
 holding information, the attorney smoked in silence. 
 Betts awaited the next question. The case was suffi- 
 ciently mysterious to pique even his curiosity. 
 
 "Betts, suppose a man leaving Harlan's house had 
 seen someone enter whom he knew. The following 
 day the man leaving the house was arrested, and 
 refused to implicate the one he had seen entering 
 the house. Upon what theory would you base his 
 course of action ?" 
 
 To Betts sentiment was almost unknown. He 
 viewed men and things in a cold-blooded, methodical 
 manner. His worldly knowledge had been acquired 
 in the great school of experience, a school that had 
 been a severe teacher. He had worked in an atmos- 
 phere of human strife, amidst a conflict of human 
 wills. Within the four walls of the room where he 
 now sat, had been enacted countless social tragedies. 
 Nothing surprised him; from the lowest depths that
 
 OEtoelpn ^an Courtlana* 91 
 
 human degradation can reach, to the highest flight of 
 heroism all affected Betts in the same degree. To 
 the apple woman, who daily made the round of the 
 business offices, he not infrequently handed his frugal 
 lunch, believing, somehow, that she was more in need 
 of it than himself. For the newsboy he had an extra 
 penny, and a deep, though unexpressed, sympathy 
 for the world of poverty from which the urchin 
 had sprung. In his professional capacity, however, 
 sentiment played no part. Tears, threats, rejoicing, 
 he listened to with the same complacency. In the 
 line of his duty nothing escaped his observation ; but 
 to the great tide of humanity that it had been his 
 good or evil fortune to meet, he was as unresponsive 
 as was the wooden stool on which he now sat 
 
 "It is apparent," he replied, in answer to the 
 Major's question, "that Malcolm is shielding some- 
 one. Motive ? Love, honor, gratitude. Sure no 
 woman's in the case?" 
 
 "Quite so," was the Major's laconic reply. 
 
 "Look then to his nearest connections. Family?" 
 
 "No. So far as I can learn he is entirely alone; 
 not a relative living." 
 
 "Friends, chums ?" 
 
 "Only in a general way. Considered rather dis- 
 tant at his club." 
 
 Betts meditated. The Major smiled. He often 
 submitted to cross-examination at the hands of his 
 clerk. It was one of the lawyer's favorite methods
 
 92 dEtoelpn $an Courtlanto* 
 
 of sifting evidence, of suggesting new lines of 
 thought. 
 
 "Been long with the bank ?" 
 
 "Began as clerk. Worked up to cashier." 
 
 "Eelations with the firm pleasant?" 
 
 "Entirely so." 
 
 "Who is furnishing the money to insure his con- 
 viction?" demanded Betts abruptly. 
 
 "You are aware of that?" The Major's tone be- 
 trayed surprise. 
 
 "As well aware of it as I am that you are retained 
 for the defense by someone who does not care to be 
 known." 
 
 "You are right. I believe this is the first case that 
 I haven't taken you entirely into my confidence. I 
 am bound to secrecy." 
 
 "I understand, sir." 
 
 The Major's tone was apologetic; his voice mani- 
 fested an unusual degree of feeling. He held his 
 clerk in high regard; from long association, he had 
 learned to appreciate his sterling qualities of heart 
 and mind. After a brief pause, they resumed their 
 discussion of the case. 
 
 "Those most concerned in the tragedy were asso- 
 ciated with the banking firm," Betts remarked. 
 
 "As far as my information goes, yes." 
 
 "Any other members in the firm besides Van 
 Courtland and Harlan?" 
 
 "No."
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 93 
 
 "What were his relations with Harlan ?" 
 
 "Now," said the Major, turning round in his seat, 
 he had been sitting facing the fire "you have hit 
 upon the point I have long pondered. It was pub- 
 licly known, before Harlan's death, that their rela- 
 tions were somewhat strained. Gossip had unpleas- 
 antly associated the name of Van Courtland's wife 
 with that of the junior partner. But," asked the 
 Major, assuming the role of cross-questioner, "what 
 bearing has that on Malcolm's case ?" 
 
 Betts parried the question by asking another. 
 
 "Who was benefited by Harlan's death ?" 
 
 "Apparently no one, unless " 
 
 "Unless we can furnish a motive." 
 
 "Harlan attended the Van Courtland reception the 
 night of the murder." 
 
 "That proves nothing. Evening dress sometimes 
 breeds social tragedies. It is agreed that robbery 
 was not the motive." 
 
 "Unquestionably it was not." 
 
 "Then it must be jealousy or revenge." 
 
 It was plainly evident that the minds of both men 
 were working along parallel lines ; but each refrained 
 from giving expression to his thoughts. The entrance 
 of a brother attorney, one of the Major's close 
 friends, put an end to the discussion. 
 
 Betts' s line of -reasoning was but the echo of the 
 Major's previously conceived opinion. Since his 
 first interview with Evelyn Van Courtland, the
 
 94 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 thought that her father, directly or indirectly, was 
 connected with the crime, grew from vague impres- 
 sion into a belief. 
 
 "What ground," he argued, "had he on which to 
 base his opinion ? What evidence ? None." What 
 baffled him more than all else, was that the daughter 
 of Howard Van Courtland should appear in the case 
 as the champion of a man she had never seen. 
 What possible interest could she have in Malcolm? 
 She was not one who, when a young man of personal 
 or social prominence is charged with a crime, would 
 indulge in the sentimental extravagancies of her sex. 
 No, her motive had its birth in the belief in his 
 innocence; it was this belief that impelled her to 
 interest herself in his behalf ! Did she know that he 
 was not guilty ? If so, then she doubtless knew who 
 committed the crime. The Major's first duty was 
 to his client, and, conscious of the difficulties he had 
 to overcome, he directed his energy to the prepara- 
 tion of the coming trial. It was not the lack of 
 evidence, nor the fact that his client gave him little 
 or no assistance, that annoyed the keen witted lawyer. 
 He was well aware of the power of money in criminal 
 cases; and, while he deplored conditions that made 
 possible such a vicious system, he was fully alive 
 to the danger that threatened. If sufficient funds 
 were forthcoming, necessary evidence could always 
 be obtained. To be prepared for unexpected evi- 
 dence, to guard against surprise, he had called into
 
 CourtlanD* 95 
 
 the case two of the most competent men in the city, 
 men he had often employed. Their instructions 
 were to discover the evidence on which the Govern- 
 ment relied, and, more than all else, to ascertain if 
 what was termed "manufactured" evidence was to be 
 introduced. Thus slowly but surely the day of the 
 trial approached, and with patient, though inde- 
 fatigable effort, the Major marshalled his facts for 
 the defense.
 
 96 cuelpn l?an CoiirtlanD* 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 SEVERAL times Evelyn had been in Major Strong's 
 office, always at or near the close of the business day, 
 selecting an hour when she would be least likely 
 to encounter anyone who might recognize her. In- 
 variably her interviews with Strong were made by 
 appointment, the Major taking care that upon her 
 arrival she should be shown into a private office. 
 Besides the attorney, Betts alone knew of her visits ; 
 and if he suspected her identity, or her connection 
 with the Malcolm case, neither by word nor act did 
 he betray his knowledge. Once Evelyn suggested to 
 the Major that his clerk might become aware of her 
 interest in the case, but the attorney checked her. 
 
 "Give yourself no uneasiness," he had answered, 
 "I have had many important cases, and yours is the 
 only one with the details of which I have not made 
 him acquainted. Should he, however, guess the 
 truth, the knowledge would be safe. My trust in 
 him is absolute." 
 
 Her fears were not wholly allayed even by the 
 Major's explanation, and she took every precaution 
 to keep her identity a secret.
 
 $an CourtlanD, or 
 
 She never came to the attorney's office without 
 giving him some important information, a bit of 
 evidence that the Government had acquired, or the 
 name of a witness, together with the nature of the 
 testimony he was to furnish. 
 
 The Major was filled with amazement. 
 
 "Where did she acquire this knowledge ?" Some 
 of it that, to her, seemed important, he knew to be 
 immaterial; of this he made no note, nor did he 
 comment on it. But she had become acquainted with 
 facts in the Government's case of the most vital 
 nature facts which he realized she must have ob- 
 tained from that inner circle that zealously guards 
 such evidence. At one of these interviews she in- 
 formed Strong that the Government knew that 
 another besides Malcolm was seen entering the 
 grounds of Harlan's house the night of the murder. 
 
 Instantly her listener awoke to the importance 
 of the information. 
 
 "The Government has a witness, you say, who will 
 testify to that effect ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Can the witness identify the person whom he 
 saw go into the grounds ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 The answer came in a tone of relief that did not 
 escape the Major. 
 
 "How does he know that it was not Mr. Malcolm ?" 
 
 "He met Mr. Malcolm but a moment before."
 
 98 dEtoelpn $an CourtlanB* 
 
 "Then he knows him ?" 
 
 "Yes, the man is employed in an hotel where Mr. 
 Malcolm once lived." 
 
 "And he cannot identify the person he saw enter- 
 ing?" 
 
 "He says not. It was too dark to see the features ; 
 and he saw the man only as he entered the walk lead- 
 ing to the house." 
 
 The Major was silent for some seconds. 
 
 "If we could establish the identity of this person, 
 we should have little trouble in clearing Malcolm 
 of the charge. Will the Government use this evi- 
 dence ?" 
 
 "No," she replied, "it will not." 
 
 She had no sooner answered the question than she 
 realized her mistake. She was assuming knowledge 
 that might lead to conclusions too near the truth. 
 Whatever the Major thought, he refrained from 
 voicing his opinions; and the theory took firm hold 
 of his mind that she knew more of the tragedy than 
 she cared to admit. 
 
 The part Evelyn was playing filled her with re- 
 pulsion. Her meetings with Le Moyne had become 
 more frequent, and, having once entered upon her 
 line of action, each succeeding interview added to her 
 embarrassment. Yet she was powerless to retreat. 
 Neither did she for a moment falter in her resolve. 
 If she surrendered her self respect, and tacitly held 
 out hope to the man who no longer made an effort
 
 OEtoelpn $att CourtlanD* 99 
 
 to hide his growing passion, there remained to her 
 the consolation that her course was warranted by her 
 effort to save the life of an innocent man. 
 
 After an evening spent with Le Moyne, his impas- 
 sioned words still ringing in her ears, an overwhelm- 
 ing sense of guilt would take possession of her. She 
 realized to the fullest the wrong she was doing the 
 man with whose heart she was toying, over whose life 
 she had gained such ascendancy that, to him, her 
 lightest word or whim was a law. She trembled when 
 she thought that in years to come he might curse her, 
 and through her all womankind. As she realized 
 her growing power, the knowledge only tended to 
 awaken in her a feeling of repugnance. Had she 
 met with greater difficulty in accomplishing her pur- 
 pose, that of gaining his entire confidence, had he 
 set a higher price for his surrender, at least exacting 
 from her a recognition of his love, her respect for 
 him would not have been lessened, even if she could 
 not have met his advances with increasing favor. Her 
 conquest had been too complete, and was accom- 
 plished without that uncertainty which makes suc- 
 cess doubly sweet. Somehow, too, disdain mingled 
 with the respect he had formerly awakened. Passion 
 dulled discretion ; he lived but for her ; her mind and 
 her voice dominated his life. 
 
 Malcolm's trial was the first case of its nature that 
 Le Moyne had been called upon to conduct. His 
 reputation depended upon his success. No one appre-
 
 100 
 
 ciated this fact more than he. Fully alive to the 
 difficulties that confronted him, he did not fail to 
 recognize many weak points in the Government's 
 case. The guilt of the accused must be proved by 
 circumstantial evidence, and what caused Le Moyne 
 greater concern than all else was the knowledge that 
 Strong was to defend the accused. How had Mal- 
 colm been able to retain so prominent an attorney? 
 The Major had no greater admirer than the brillinat 
 District Attorney who, though he appreciated the 
 older man, feared him. There was another circum- 
 stance that both annoyed and mystified him. The 
 defence did not seem to lack funds. The agents of 
 the Government were being met at every turn by men 
 skilled in the art of unearthing evidence, of anticipat- 
 ing every move made by the prosecution in the prep- 
 aration of its case. Who was furnishing the money 
 that enabled the defence to acquire information 
 which only those directing the Government's case 
 should know ? Whose the master mind that, having 
 become possessed of the Government's strongest evi- 
 dence, was preparing to shake its worth or combat 
 it with other and material facts ? The young prose- 
 cuting attorney marveled, for he could no longer 
 ignore the humiliating truth that the defence was 
 in possession of some of the Government's strongest 
 evidence. 
 
 In their college days, Le Moyne had known the 
 accused man to be of unquestioned honor. Though it
 
 CourtlanD, 101 
 
 was the duty of the District Attorney to secure a 
 conviction, Le Moyne could not wholly reconcile him- 
 self to the belief of Malcolm's guilt. Personal 
 opinion, however, as to the probable innocence or 
 guilt of the accused, he put from him. 
 
 There was another, and a stronger, incentive for 
 his success. He had had many interviews with Van 
 Courtland, and, though no open declaration had 
 been made by him, he knew the banker regarded him 
 with favor. It was for his love he was battling. He 
 believed Evelyn's interest was divided between her 
 desire for a conviction, and such personal honor as 
 might be his, should he succeed. Their meetings had 
 become more frequent. From a confidant, she had 
 become, by an unconscious process, his adviser. When 
 together they went over the case even to its minutest 
 detail. Each new bit of evidence, its bearing upon 
 the guilt of the accused, and its probable worth in 
 the chain of circumstantial evidence, that, as the 
 trial approached, seemed complete, was discussed. 
 Evelyn listened, interjecting a word, suggest- 
 ing a line of thought, but with sympathetic 
 interest and infinite tact, leading the man on 
 till he had reached a point where her opinion or 
 counsel directed and controlled his own. 
 
 It was in one of these interviews, that, after learn- 
 ing of a line of evidence that the Government would 
 introduce evidence which she believed had no foun- 
 dation of truth that her incautious and impassioned
 
 102 (Etoelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 reply threatened to disclose her design. She was 
 shocked that the prosecution should try to strengthen 
 its case by evidence she knew to be false. Her innate 
 sense of justice was outraged, her instinct for truth 
 rebelled against the wrong contemplated. She be- 
 lieved Le Moyne to be a party to the scheme, or that, 
 at least, he gave to it his tacit approval. As she inter- 
 rupted his recital, in her voice there was mingled 
 irony and disdain. 
 
 "And you lend yourself to this outrageous false- 
 hood?" 
 
 Her tone was a reprimand; her eyes flashed un- 
 speakable scorn. 
 
 He flushed hotly. Her retort had come so sud- 
 denly that he was nonplussed. 
 
 "Falsehood !" he exclaimed, when he found voice. 
 "Why, this is evidence procured by competent offi- 
 cers." 
 
 "It is false every word of it!" she retorted. 
 
 His glance was one of searching, incredulous in- 
 quiry. 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 He was not the lover, but the cross-examiner 
 every faculty alert, ready to seize upon an unguarded 
 word, look or gesture; but she was quick to realize 
 her mistake and as quick to remedy it. Her features 
 underwent a transformation. The scorn in her eyes 
 melted into a glance of quizzical surprise, a wave 
 of merriment sweeping every line of disapproval
 
 $att CouttlanD* 103 
 
 from her features. Her mirth was infectious, and 
 brought a smile of pleasure to his lips. Leaning 
 toward him, her hand lay on his in a half caress, 
 her attitude one of mingled surprise and playful 
 abandon. 
 
 "Dear me !" she exclaimed. "How sensitive you 
 lawyers are ! Of course I know nothing of the evi- 
 dence; but it is delightful to rouse your spirit of 
 battle." 
 
 It was the touch of her hand, not her words, that 
 disconcerted him. A quaint little gesture of banter- 
 ing ridicule, that was all ; but he surrendered to her 
 charm of manner, his eyes too plainly telling his 
 unspoken love. Again she was master of herself and 
 her subject again she held dominion over the man 
 who listened, content to hear her voice. 
 
 In a manner so natural as not to excite his sus- 
 picions, she adroitly turned the topic of conversation, 
 and they again took up the line of evidence they 
 had been discussing. 
 
 "Do you know Major Strong ?" he asked abruptly, 
 "that is, intimately?" 
 
 "I have met him socially." 
 
 Her answer, like her glance, was evasive. 
 
 "What is your opinion of him ?" 
 
 "He is a charming gentleman." 
 
 "Unquestionably. It is your opinion of his legal 
 ability that I wish."
 
 104= dftjelpn IPan CourtlanD, 
 
 "He stands in the front rank of his profession, 
 does he not?" 
 
 "Yes. You know he is the opposing counsel." 
 
 "So I believe. Let us go into the music room. It 
 is close here." 
 
 They had been sitting in the drawing room. It 
 was late in the afternoon, and Le Moyne had called 
 to see Van Courtland, who had not yet returned from 
 the city. As the day set for the trial neared, the 
 young attorney found ample excuse for his daily 
 visits. He must consult with the banker on the forth- 
 coming trial. Always timing his visits when he 
 would be most likely to meet Evelyn alone, it was 
 with evident satisfaction he noted her growing in- 
 terest in the trial; he also believed that each suc- 
 ceeding day he was received with greater favor. 
 
 Never had she seemed more beautiful than now. 
 Motioning him to a seat near her, with bewitching 
 simplicity she led up to the subject of the evidence 
 against which she had protested. He sat in the full 
 light ; her chair was before the curtained window, her 
 face in the shadow. 
 
 "Do you attach much weight to this evidence?" 
 she asked lightly. 
 
 "Yes, I do. It is important." 
 
 "But suppose it weren't true ?" 
 
 "I have no reason to doubt it. It was furnished 
 by one of the most competent officers." 
 
 She looked at him for some moments without
 
 $art CouttlanD* 105 
 
 speaking. "No" she mentally concluded, "he be- 
 lieves it, and he will act upon the assumption that 
 it is worthy of credence." Aloud, she said : 
 
 "You knew Mr. Malcolm at college intimately, 
 I have heard you say?" 
 
 "Yes. That is the reason why at first it was diffi- 
 cult for me to believe in his guilt." 
 
 "And you are now entirely satisfied that he com- 
 mitted the crime ?" 
 
 Her eyes were on his face. Its expression was not 
 in harmony with his reply. She listened, still doubt- 
 ing him. 
 
 "It is the duty of an attorney, as it is that of a 
 jury, to base an opinion as to the guilt or innocence 
 of the accused on the evidence submitted. My first 
 impression was to doubt the probability of Malcolm's 
 guilt; considering the evidence, I am forced to be- 
 lieve he committed the deed." 
 
 Silence followed for some moments; then, rising, 
 she walked across the room and leaned against the 
 mantle. Her hand resting upon it, she toyed with 
 one of the ornaments on the marble slab. His glance 
 followd her movements, his eyes speaking the admira- 
 tion he dare not voice. With a sudden resolve he 
 crossed to her. Taking her disengaged hand in both 
 his own, he tried to speak. The color leaped to his 
 cheeks; he was unnerved, trembling with a passion 
 he had not the courage to declare. He would speak, 
 and end the uncertainty. A refusal of his love
 
 106 Oftjeln lan CotmlanD. 
 
 would be preferable to the doubt that made his life 
 a torment He could no longer bear to meet her 
 daily, without a word of encouragement or hope. The 
 touch of her hand maddened him, but the eyes into 
 which he looked did not soften before the fire of his 
 love there was no answering gleam, no melting of the 
 barrier that seemed to stand between him and 
 answering hope. He would remain silent no longer ; 
 discretion, even self-control, he had thrown to the 
 wind. 
 
 But the woman beside him read aright the expres- 
 sion in his eyes; her calm was undisturbed. To 
 listen to a declaration of love was then far from her 
 purpose. .With a light laugh she withdrew her 
 hand. 
 
 "You are going to the Wavily^s reception to- 
 night ?" she asked. 
 
 "Do you wish me to go?" 
 
 His voice was husky, his glance fell before her look 
 of calm interest 
 
 "Yes," she replied, with a voice of abrupt candor. 
 Then, in a lighter mood, "You see, if you are there 
 I shall be spared the effort of finding something to 
 say in the avalanche of small talk. How is it," she 
 queried with an arch glance, "that we continually 
 contrive to discuss disagreeable topics?" 
 
 "True," he said, brightening, "Let us substitute 
 a lighter one." 
 
 "For example - "
 
 OEtielpn $an CourtlanO. 107 
 
 "Love!" 
 
 Her tantalizing laugh filled the room. Seating 
 herself at the piano, she dashed into a brilliant pre- 
 lude just as her father entered the room. He greeted 
 Le Moyne warmly. 
 
 "Good," he exclaimed, as Evelyn finished. "That's 
 right, dear, play lively music. You will remain for 
 dinner," he again addressed Le Moyne. "You must," 
 he insisted, as the young man was about to excuse 
 himself. "Later we can go to Wavily's together." 
 
 Le Moyne smilingly agreed and, dinner being 
 announced, Van Courtland led the way to the dining 
 room. 
 
 During the meal Van Courtland appeared 
 strangely elated ; but his remarks were disjointed, his 
 manner nervous. He answered his guest at random, 
 or interjected a word or sentence entirely foreign to 
 the topic they were discussing. At first Le Moyne 
 failed to notice the peculiar manner and still stranger 
 language of his host, for Evelyn skilfully managed 
 to keep their guest interested. Finally it dawned on 
 the young man that Van Courtland was laboring 
 under acute mental excitement. Many times he re- 
 turned to the subject of the coming trial, and it was 
 while discussing it that he seemed to lose control 
 of his faculties. 
 
 Evelyn covertly watched her father with increas- 
 ing fear. She was aware that Le Moyne, though 
 listening with evident interest, was narrowly observ-
 
 108 OEtoelprt l^an CourtlanD. 
 
 ing his host. With delicate insistence, Evelyn re- 
 ferred to the reception, hoping to hold her father's 
 attention. Divining her purpose, Le Moyne entered 
 into an eager discussion of people whom they would 
 be likely to meet. Evelyn had asked their guest a 
 trivial question. Before he could reply, Van Court- 
 land interrupted : 
 
 "He should be convicted," he exclaimed, his eyes 
 aflame with excitement, "He must be." 
 
 "Father," Evelyn replied with evident feeling, 
 "dismiss the subject from your mind." 
 
 "Dismiss it!" he cried in a shrill voice, "You 
 don't realize, dear, what the outcome of this trial 
 means to me. Le Moyne," he directed a look of 
 mingled fear and entreaty to his guest, "remember I 
 depend on you." 
 
 With the fear that her father might compromise 
 himself by some remark, Evelyn rose, and they re- 
 turned to the drawing room. Van Courtland threw 
 himself into an arm-chair, leaving to his daughter 
 the duty of entertaining their guest. 
 
 Never had Evelyn made a more determined effort 
 than now to invite and hold the attention of the man 
 who listened, enraptured by her brilliant repartee, 
 smiling at her shafts of delicate irony, dissenting 
 from her views that he might invite rejoinders brist- 
 ling with the most powerful weapon of argument 
 wit Though she apparently held his interest, though 
 neither allowed the conversation to flag for an instant,
 
 OEtoelpn $att CourtlanO, 109 
 
 she was not deceived. While answering her, Le 
 Mojne would direct a quick, searching glance towards 
 her father, who appeared unconscious of his sur- 
 roundings. In her endeavor to entertain Le Moyne 
 and to deflect attention from her father, her 
 ingenuity was taxed to its utmost. The time was 
 nearing when they were to start for the evening 
 reception, and, with a feeling of apprehension, she 
 excused herself that she might make the necessary 
 preparations. In her father's present mental condi- 
 tion, she feared to leave him alone with Le Moyne. 
 iWhat if he should further excite the attorney's sus- 
 picions, or his unguarded or rambling comments lead 
 to conclusions verging on the truth ? 
 
 With nervous energy she directed her maid to lay 
 out an elaborate evening dress, and with critical care 
 she gave the finishing touches to her toilet. Return- 
 ing to the drawing room, she was surprised to find 
 her father sitting where she had left him, apparently 
 in a deep reverie, while Le Moyne was listlessly ex- 
 amining a collection of sketches. She flashed him a 
 smile of greeting. 
 
 "Have I been long ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, and no," he replied, advancing. 
 
 "Evelyn, dear," her father interrupted, "you won't 
 mind if I do not go with you ? I have asked Mr. 
 Le Moyne to represent me." 
 
 "Are you ill?" she asked with concern. 
 
 "Not at all, dear, only I don't feel quite equal to
 
 no OBtJelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 going. You won't mind 2" he asked, addressing the 
 young man. 
 
 "We can give up going," Evelyn answered, before 
 Le Moyne could reply. 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed Van Courtland. "You must 
 go. They will expect us. You can say that I am 
 indisposed, which is quite true. No, you and Mr. 
 Le Moyne shall go. I shall see you when you return, 
 dear." 
 
 His manner was excited, an unhealthy gray pallor 
 settled over his features and intensified the look of 
 restless fear in the eyes. 
 
 But instantly the expression changed when he 
 looked at his daughter. The flood of light seemed 
 to reveal new beauty of face and figure. Standing 
 in the centre of the room, she made a picture that 
 gladdened the eye and the heart. As she approached, 
 her father's glance mutely voiced his pride ; his chiv- 
 alric manner was that of former years. 
 
 "Evelyn, dear," a note of tenderness in his voice, 
 "sooner than disappoint you, I will make an effort 
 to go." 
 
 His tone and manner had undergone a marked 
 change. It was as though a magic wand had swept 
 every line of care from his features. 
 
 "No," she replied gently, "If you feel indisposed 
 you must remain at home. Mr. Le Moyne will con- 
 sent to represent you. Will you not ?" she asked. 
 
 There was arch inquiry in her glance. His look
 
 CourtlanD. 111 
 
 of pleasure preceded his words of assurance, and 
 betrayed his too evident desire for an evening with 
 her, unhampered by her father's presence To her, 
 too, Van Courtland's determination to remain behind 
 came as a relief. She feared the curious gaze or open 
 comment of those who might question the cause of 
 his present mental state. 
 
 A few minutes later the carriage was being driven 
 rapidly away, and Van Courtland was alone.
 
 112 oftielpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 COULD Evelyn have seen her father's face after 
 the carriage had gone and he had returned to the 
 drawing room, the satisfaction she felt at his refusal 
 to accompany them would have given place to fear. 
 The joy in his eyes died; lines of care changed the 
 contour of his features; a slight stoop of the shoul- 
 ders adding to his air of dejection. His step became 
 nervous, uncertain ; his right hand fumbled his watch 
 chain; his head was poised as though listening for 
 some expectant sound, for his name to be called, or 
 for the approach of someone who was late in coming. 
 Pausing suddenly, he would cast an alarmed glance 
 at the door or the window, a cry for an instant 
 trembling on his lips; then, with a gesture half of 
 disappointment, half of despair, resume his walk. 
 Again, startled, he would stop and listen to the noise 
 of carriage wheels, until the sounds died in the dis- 
 tance; with a sigh of disappointment or fear he 
 would struggle against a passing weakness a sickly 
 smile adding a touch of gruesomeness to his ghastly 
 features. 
 
 "They will convict him they must 1"
 
 OEtielpn $an CotmlanD. us 
 
 Throwing himself into a chair, he remained silent, 
 but the turmoil was going on within him with re- 
 newed force and increasing bitterness. 
 
 "And the dogs know him to be innocent I hear 
 it in their voices, I see it in their eyes, in their damn- 
 able eyes ; but there is no evidence against me none ! 
 They are content with the money the hounds! and 
 they will kill him, kill him! and their hands will 
 be as red with blood as are mine. That is their trade. 
 For money they barter human life. They will kill 
 him ! and I shall be twice a murderer. No, no !" 
 
 Shrieking the words, he leaped to his feet. He 
 stood trembling in terror, as if fighting against a 
 sudden resolve, his purpose well defined, yet power- 
 less to act. Gradually an expression of determination 
 swept all traces of fear from his features. The look 
 of dread in the eyes softened to that of resignation. 
 
 "It is not too late, I will save him." 
 
 There was a note of earnestness in his voice; his 
 form straightened; again he was possessed of the 
 courage of former years. 
 
 Could he at that moment have carried his purpose 
 into effect, a jury would never have been called to 
 pass upon the guilt or the innocence of the man who, 
 with unwarranted confidence, awaited the hour of 
 his trial; but with a vision of his daughter before 
 him, Van Courtland's impulse to declare his own 
 guilt died. As a candle light is snuffed by a night 
 breeze, so from his face every vestige of hope disap-
 
 114 OBuelpn $an CourtlanD. 
 
 peared: the haunted look returned to his eyes, and 
 the hopelessness of despair settled over him. 
 
 "Evelyn !" 
 
 It was a heart crv, lingering, resolving into an 
 echo that would ring forever. Van Courtland sank 
 into a chair. A knock at the door was immediately 
 answered, and James, the butler, stood on the thresh- 
 old. 
 
 "Did you call, Sir?" 
 
 "No, James." 
 
 "Excuse me, Sir. I was passing through the hall, 
 and thought I heard you call." 
 
 "I did not call. You may close the door, James." 
 
 His voice was low and natural, and when the ser- 
 vant had gone, rage drove all other emotion from his 
 mind. 
 
 "Sometimes I feel that even the servants know." 
 His eyes were on the door that the butler had just 
 closed; his voice half a whisper. "I see it in their 
 faces, I feel it in their glances, when, at dinner, they 
 stand behind my chair. Some of them are always 
 within call. They pass me on the stairway, they 
 come to the library on trivial excuses to spy on me. 
 Perhaps they are in the employ of the leeches of 
 the law, and a pittance of what I pay these dogs finds 
 its way into the pockets of my own servants. Blood 
 money! Stamped on the heart of the victim who 
 lives, yet who, each day, goes through the agony of 
 a thousand deaths."
 
 CourtlanD, 115 
 
 His features became convulsed, and he resumed 
 his walk, the sound of his footfalls on the soft carpet, 
 like the tramp of an encaged beast, dull and muffled. 
 Apart from the remorse that with fatal certainty was 
 undermining his reason, another, and a more power- 
 ful cause increased his fear. He kept himself in- 
 formed of the progress the prosecution was making, 
 and of the drift of public opinion. It was this latter 
 that, as the day of trial drew near, added to his 
 alarm. Directly after the discovery of the crime, the 
 public clamored for the conviction of the accused. 
 This hysterical outburst was followed by a period of 
 doubt. Then came the endless discussion as to the 
 motive for the crime, and it was this point that now 
 occupied the public mind. Abashed at their first 
 hasty judgment, public sentiment, finding voice 
 through the press, declared Malcolm innocent. Who 
 was the guilty one ? What was the motive for the 
 crime ? None could answer. There had been covert 
 allusions, carefully worded articles in the news- 
 papers, that had not escaped Van Courtland's atten- 
 tion. A word, line or paragraph suggested, more 
 than expressed, the possibility that Harlan's life had 
 not been without blemish; that, perhaps, if and 
 here, the writer's courage failing him, he would hide 
 behind a web of vague allusions. These shafts, which 
 approached the truth nearer than the writer dreamed, 
 struck deep into the mind of Van Courtland. Daily 
 he had read them, at each succeeding reading magni-
 
 116 OEtoelptt l^an Cotmianto* 
 
 fying their importance, until he saw in them a direct 
 allusion to himself. 
 
 Sitting in the dimly lighted room, the solitude 
 deepening as the night advanced, his brain conjured 
 the scenes and incidents of the past months. His 
 distorted vision peopled the semi-darkness of the far 
 corners of the room with the forms of those con- 
 cerned in the tragedy that had wrecked his own life. 
 Opposite him, in the fullness of ripe manhood, he 
 seemed to see the handsome features of his late part- 
 ner, as he had last appeared before the fatal shot was 
 fired. Tne accusing eyes of the officers of the law 
 glared at him, and their voiceless charge: "You are 
 guilty" filled him with terror. Though he closed his 
 eyes to shut out the sight, their jeering laugh rang 
 in his ears. Then the scene changed. The mocking 
 sound followed him as, journeying through the night, 
 he was borne along through intersecting streets, 
 struggling to free himself, but powerless to arrest his 
 progress. Iron doors were thrown open to admit him, 
 then clanged upon their hinges ; and he was forced to 
 enter some unknown stronghold, garrisoned by the 
 minions of the law, their accusing eyes taunting him 
 of his guilt. Hurried along through endless corri- 
 dors, with a crash, the walls before him parted. There, 
 sitting on the edge of a cot, was Malcolm, his head 
 buried in his hands. With a shriek of terror, Van 
 Courtland leaped to his feet The vision vanished. 
 In terror he looked about him. Nothing but the four
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* m 
 
 walls of the room, the luxurious furnishings, the aw- 
 ful silence, that was unbroken save by the wild beat- 
 ing of his heart, and the echo of the avenging voices : 
 "You are guilty, you, you !" 
 
 At the Wavily's Evelyn stood chatting with the 
 host. Le Moyne, much against his will, had been 
 dragged away by an elderly gentleman to act as 
 referee on a question of local civic government. With 
 the blindness, even the recklessness of a true lover, 
 except when exchanging greetings with his host, he 
 had devoted every moment to Evelyn; with chagrin 
 he had allowed himself to be led away. Evelyn wel- 
 comed the opportunity to talk with their host. She 
 felt that Le Moyne's unguarded manner might cause 
 comment, and for many reasons this was what she 
 least desired. 
 
 "I am sorry," Wavily was saying, "that your 
 father is indisposed. His close attention to business, 
 I fear, is telling on his health. He should go out 
 more, mix with the younger set. Do you know," his 
 eyes laughing, his whole expression that of boyish 
 exuberance, "I won't allow myself to grow old. 
 Never! Why, my grandson is a senior at Yale. 
 Would you believe it? No! of course not! My 
 formula is simple and as old well, as old as time! 
 I never permit anything to worry me. That's my 
 secret." 
 
 Evelyn smiled, but vouchsafed no reply. The
 
 118 dEtoelpn $an CottrtlanD* 
 
 kindly blue eyes told of frank admiration that it is 
 the privilege of the aged to express. 
 
 "You are very beautiful, my dear," he remarked 
 quietly, his glance still on her face. "In you I see 
 the reflection of your mother's beauty as I knew her 
 twenty or more years ago. You will excuse me, I 
 know, while I speak to Mr. Belmont," and he hustled 
 away, his white hair glistening, his step as elastic 
 as that of the youngest in the room. 
 
 His words and manner charmed her. With the 
 freedom of age, he did not pause to consider his 
 topic, nor his manner of expressing his views. His 
 abrupt frankness, however, found voice only when 
 his listener awakened his interest. 
 
 At the mention of her mother's name, Evelyn's 
 pleasure was at an end. Must she constantly be re- 
 minded, even by those she loved, of the tragedy in 
 her life ? Would this awful thing of guilt, of shame, 
 forever menace her future and her peace of mind, 
 and if, even for a moment, she dared to forget, would 
 some voice be ready to recall her to a realization of 
 her position ? that she was the daughter of a woman 
 who had given the world the right to trail her name 
 in the mire. Even now she listened against her 
 will. 
 
 "Cherchez la femme and if you don't discover 
 the motive for Mr. Harlan's death, you may unearth 
 a very pretty romance." 
 
 "Dear me," came the fretful reply, "I detest
 
 OEtielpn $an Cotirtlantu 119 
 
 French because I cannot speak it properly. How 
 could a woman possibly have anything to do with that 
 unfortunate affair ?" 
 
 Evelyn, who was sitting where she could observe 
 the others, flashed a glance of apprehension at the 
 first speaker. She noted the shrug of the shapely 
 shoulders; the uplifting of the eyebrows; the con- 
 scious smile that preceded the words : 
 
 "My dear, all men are well, if not exactly lack- 
 ing in moral rectitude, at least devoid of healthy 
 moral tone. Some women are indiscreet. A com- 
 bination of both entered into the Harlan affair." 
 
 "Do you really mean there was a ?" 
 
 "It will all come out at the trial. By the way, 
 as everybody knows, Major Strong is to conduct the 
 defence. Mr. Malcolm hasn't the means to employ 
 him. Who then 
 
 "Another woman in the case, of course. They say 
 he's handsome." 
 
 "So I've heard and brilliant. He moved in our 
 set, though I never met him. Never had the good 
 fortune. Sh ! not a word !" and the heads of the two 
 women sought a confidential range. 
 
 "I'm going to attend the trial I" 
 
 The other drew back becomingly shocked. 
 
 "You daren't!" 
 
 The voice was incautiously loud. After deliver- 
 ing a deserved reprimand, the first speaker continued : 
 
 "Yes, I do dare. They tell me Mr. Malcolm has
 
 120 dEDelpn i^an CotmlanD. 
 
 a perfectly elegant manner, and is quite incapable 
 of committing a crime. Oh, no one believes now 
 that he is guilty. There is a delicious scandal tucked 
 away, and 'twill all come out at the trial." 
 
 "But, dear, think of going to a horrid court room, 
 filled with all sorts of vulgar people." 
 
 "How simple you are! What is the annoyance 
 of meeting these people compared to what one will 
 hear ! Of course, Mr. Van Courtland will be put on 
 the stand, and then you may expect something worth 
 while. I would rather forego a season of opera than 
 miss this trial. And what a social lion Mr. Malcolm 
 will be should he be acquitted." 
 
 Evelyn, with flushed face, welcomed the return of 
 her host, who took a seat beside her. 
 
 "As I was saying, my dear," he began, as though 
 continuing an interrupted conversation, "It does not 
 do for one of my age to worry. I am nearly seventy. 
 Think of it! but I don't feel my years. Not at all. 
 Now your father has a highly nervous temperament. 
 He worries. That's not good. I have noticed re- 
 cently that he appears overworked. Take him abroad 
 for a month's rest Sea air will do him good." 
 
 Here then was the confirmation of her fears. Her 
 father's mental condition had become known to his 
 friends. It was but a matter of time till the public, 
 too, would become aware of his true state. What could 
 she do to avert the danger? Each succeeding day 
 added to the vagaries and delusions that were making
 
 Coiirtlanli* 121 
 
 his life a torment. How would it all end ? Might 
 he not in an unguarded moment betray himself? 
 She suppressed the shudder that came with the 
 thought. 
 
 "I have been concerned about Papa for some 
 time," she said quietly. "He confines himself too 
 closely to business." 
 
 "Exactly, my dear. The brain is like the most 
 delicate piece of mechanism, and quite as easily 
 thrown out of running. Of late I have noticed his 
 highly excited state. A few weeks of change is what 
 he needs. It will work wonders. Ah, Mr. Le Moyne, 
 sit here." 
 
 Le Moyne took the proffered seat. He greeted his 
 host with an air of charming deference, but with a 
 touch of seriousness that was foreign to him. Some- 
 thing had evidently disturbed his habitual tran- 
 quillity. Evelyn marvelled ; their host smiled. 
 
 "I take it, Le Moyne," his pale gray eyes were 
 dancing with mischief, "my guests have disposed of 
 the Malcolm case to their entire satisfaction. O, 
 I heard their arguments from a safe distance. They 
 have declared him innocent. Have they not ?" 
 
 "Yes," Le Moyne laughed, "and indicted me for 
 daring to prosecute. To what extremes the human 
 mind can reach !" 
 
 "The day after Harlan's death," "Wavily added, 
 "these same people would have hanged young Mal- 
 colm ; to-day" he turned to Evelyn "I believe this
 
 122 OEtoelpn l^an Couttland* 
 
 revulsion of feeling came with the discovery that the 
 young fellow is handsome. What is your opinion, 
 my dear, as to his guilt ?" 
 
 Evelyn's cheeks grew scarlet; then as quickly the 
 color receded. "I" she faltered, "I hardly think 
 my opinion would be of value. At any rate, I feel 
 it would not be just even to express it." 
 
 "Diplomatic, my dear, but the exact answer I 
 might expect from your father. Just what he would 
 have said." 
 
 Evelyn felt Le Moyne's glance. Though she strug- 
 gled to retain her composure, she knew the blood was 
 mounting to her cheeks. She made an attempt to 
 turn the conversation into other channels, but the 
 topic that engrossed the guests, and filled Evelyn 
 with nervous dread, had taken firm hold of Wavily's 
 mind. 
 
 "Now, seriously," he said, laying a fatherly hand 
 on Le Moyne's shoulder, "You don't believe you can 
 convict the young man ?" 
 
 "I most certainly do," was the confident reply. 
 
 "Upon the evidence?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 His voice had a ring of confidence. Hoping for 
 a word or a look of encouragement, he endeavored to 
 meet Evelyn's glance, but his attempt was futile. 
 
 "I admire your courage." The look Wavily cast 
 at the young attorney endorsed his words. "You go 
 about your work with proper spirit, but," he lowered
 
 IPan Courtland, 123 
 
 his voice to a confidential tone, "I hear it whispered 
 that suspicion now points to another than Malcolm." 
 
 In Evelyn's eyes a look of sudden alarm flashed, 
 smouldered and died; an involuntary movement, 
 quickly suppressed, and her power of will triumphed. 
 What mastery over emotion was hers ! Was it the 
 witchery of art, or the touch of nature, which, in 
 former years, had found its highest expression in 
 Van Courtland's every thought and act ? The young 
 girl's self-command seemed unnatural almost super- 
 human. Like a general marshalling his forces, after 
 being routed by a sudden attack, she soon had herself 
 under control. Wavily's head slightly inclined to- 
 wards his guest, his attitude one of expectancy. He 
 evidently expected Le Moyne to confirm the rumor he 
 had voiced. Evelyn did not see him. She looked 
 quickly into the face of the young attorney. What 
 did she read there? His features were sphinx-like 
 in their utter lack of expression. Again fear swept 
 over her. What did his stolid demeanor portend ? 
 Was it because of ? 
 
 "My dear Mr. Wavily," his voice was colorless, 
 "What you have heard are silly tales, hardly worthy 
 of a denial." 
 
 "But suppose Malcolm be acquitted ?" 
 
 "If such be the result of the trial, it is my belief 
 the case will be closed." 
 
 "O, you lawyers are a shrewd lot. Are they not, 
 Evelyn? Say yes, my dear. We must combine
 
 124 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 against the common enemy. They worm from us 
 all we know, then charge us a double fee, because 
 we haven't more to tell them. Perhaps the next 
 client tells them nothing, and they make a case out 
 of it, and they win it, too. That may sound para- 
 doxical, but it is a fact." 
 
 With a laugh he turned away. 
 
 For the remainder of the evening, Le Moyne 
 seemed to be existing in an atmosphere of strange 
 delight, bordering on ecstacy. Never tad Evelyn 
 been more brilliant, her manner so full of soft, se- 
 ductive little touches. His courage rose. The warm 
 glow in her cheek, the new light in her eye, the 
 resonant note in her voice, softly, mildly triumphant 
 surely he had a right to believe, he did believe that 
 his passion was awakening a response. Dare he 
 speak to her of his love ? No, not till he could come 
 to her glorified by victory. She would listen, he knew 
 else why her new tenderness of manner, half-timid, 
 half -confiding. What did it mean ? Did she read 
 in his eyes the struggle of a passion held in restraint ? 
 
 She smiled, conscious of a new feeling of security. 
 
 "You have had your hands full to-night," she 
 said. "The gentlemen seem to be arrayed against 
 you." 
 
 "That isn't the worst of it! The ladies have 
 taken up Malcolm's defence. The bank accounts of 
 at least ten are at the disposal of his attorney."
 
 $att CourtlattD. 125 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Malcolm doesn't require their aid," 
 she remarked lightly. 
 
 "It would appear not. In any case, he would re- 
 fuse it." 
 
 "Is he then such a chivalrous being?" 
 
 "Yes ; he was always an odd sort." 
 
 "Tell me more of him." 
 
 Her seeming indifference suggested only that the 
 recital might amuse her. 
 
 "At college he was prominent in athletics; but 
 in other ways wholly unlike the average student. 
 I can't say that I ever understood him. In fact, 
 no one did. It was said he paid his way through 
 college compiling material, working as a proof- 
 reader, for a law publishing firm. He was much 
 in demand as a private tutor also, for he was a front- 
 rank student. His standard of honor, what was 
 termed his 'far-fetched' ideas a romantic idealism 
 that belonged to the last century acted as a check 
 to anything approaching intimacy. It was under- 
 stood that he would take up the profession of law, 
 but through the influence of a student, who owed his 
 degree to Malcolm's tutoring, he was given a place 
 as clerk in your father's banking house. There is 
 nothing further to tell." 
 
 They were comparatively alone, the other guests 
 being grouped in and about the music-room, listen- 
 ing to a noted singer. 
 
 "This person, who said he passed Malcolm on the
 
 126 OEtoelpn ^an CourtlanD* 
 
 street the night of Mr. Harlan's death might he 
 not be mistaken?" 
 
 She was smoothing out a bit of lace on her gown 
 that had become disarranged. He could not see her 
 face; her voice was languid. 
 
 "Hardly/'" he replied. "He had reason to remem- 
 ber him. It was Malcolm's herculean strength that 
 once saved the fellow from instant death. An eleva- 
 tor accident of some sort No, the man is certain 
 as to the identity, but it really proved nothing." 
 
 A queer smile played about the corners of her 
 mouth; a glance that approached pitying scorn was 
 hidden by drooping eyelids. She turned to him with 
 an air of weariness. 
 
 "Come, let us go," she said. 
 
 They made their way through the crowded rooms 
 to their host. He met them with his customary 
 smile. 
 
 "You must come to see me, my dear, and bring 
 your father along. We'll have an evening all to 
 ourselves. Oh," he laughed, as he noted Le Moyne's 
 crestfallen air, "you may be one of the party, on 
 condition that you don't talk law to us, and this 
 is an after thought you don't convict that young 
 man." 
 
 His glance followed them to the street. 
 
 "Le Moyne is a lucky fellow," he mused. "What 
 a charming young creature she is! Van Courtland
 
 CoiirtlanD, 127 
 
 should be vastly proud of her. No doubt he is 
 
 but what a pity her mother " 
 
 He looked about him and shook his head. "It 
 requires an effort nowadays to retain one's faith in 
 human nature. But Evelyn is a beautiful girl. I 
 wonder if she really cares for Le Moyne."
 
 128 Cfcelptt $an CotmlattH. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 '^EIGHTEEN hours more ! Let me see ! It is now 
 four o'clock." Malcolm stood in the center of his 
 cell and again calculated the number of hours be- 
 fore the opening of his trial. "Yes, eighteen is 
 correct," he muttered. "A day or a week or what- 
 ever time it may please the Government to consume 
 in proving me guilty, will be a welcome diversion. 
 I may as well give up hope of seeing Major Strong 
 to-day. He is thoroughly disgusted with me. I 
 don't blame him how could I ? What a fine fellow 
 he is! He tries to be very harsh, but doesn't suc- 
 ceed his innate gentleness stands in the way. Who 
 has employed him to defend me? That's the ques- 
 tion ! When I am discharged " 
 
 For the first time since his arrest his sublime con- 
 fidence seemed to appeal to his sense of humor. He 
 laughed softly. "I suppose they have me hedged 
 in with a network of circumstantial evidence and 
 lies. But they have yet to reckon with the Major. 
 I must see more of him when I am free again. If 
 he puts me on the witness stand well, he already 
 knows all that I can or will testify to. This much
 
 OEtoelptt $an CourtlanD* 129 
 
 is certain they'll never find out from me more than 
 I have told the Major. I wish he'd come." 
 
 His tone was rueful. He paced his cell in medi- 
 tative silence for some moments, then paused in his 
 walk. 
 
 "I believe he is the only human being I ever 
 feared. His eyes seem to pry open every secret de- 
 pository of the mind, and my thoughts are laid bare 
 for dissection. When with him I feel he is aware 
 of every indiscretion of my past life. I'd like to 
 see him, and talk with him it does one's heart 
 good; but he strikes too near the truth in fact, I 
 believe he already knows it." 
 
 His cogitations were here interrupted by the 
 sound of steps in the corridor. He listened, a smile 
 of pleasure lighting up his features. The steps halt- 
 ed before the door which, after a moment's delay, 
 was thrown open. The Major entered briskly, his 
 face beaming with good nature. 
 
 "Well," he said, as Malcolm grasped the extended 
 hand, "how are you?" 
 
 His brusque tone and manner had no other effect 
 on his client than to increase his pleasure. His 
 smile broadened. 
 
 "Em!" the Major growled, "complacent as ever." 
 
 "I was worried," Malcolm rejoined, "fearing you 
 could not find time to come to-day." 
 
 "Worried! Quite so!" The tone was unsym-
 
 130 OEtoelpn $an Courtiantu 
 
 pathetic. "I believe you rather enjoy your position. 
 As for worry " 
 
 He laughed, then, after they were seated, asked 
 abruptly : 
 
 "You were something of an athlete at college ?" 
 
 "I kept in fair physical condition." 
 
 "What new line of attack is this?" he mused. 
 The Major was evidently preparing his next ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "There was an accident in a hotel where you 
 formerly lived. You saved one of the servants from 
 injury. When was that ?" 
 
 "Over a year ago. It was nothing, the fellow 
 wasn't hurt." 
 
 "Where did it happen ?" 
 
 Malcolm mentioned the name of the hotel, then 
 fell to conjecturing what direct connection lay be- 
 tween an elevator accident and his present predica- 
 ment 
 
 "You were instrumental in saving this man's 
 life?" 
 
 "Nonsense! I simply held the elevator while 
 they pulled him from beneath it" 
 
 "Em ! What's the fellow's name ?" 
 
 "My dear Major, what has a slight injury to a 
 servant to do " 
 
 "His name was what I asked for," the Major in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 "Carl. I've forgotten his other name."
 
 l^an CourtlanD* 131 
 
 "Is he still employed about the hotel ?" 
 
 "He was the last time I saw him." 
 
 "That was when ?" 
 
 "Let me see about a month before Harlan's 
 death, I believe." 
 
 "Now, you know this man pretty well ? You saw 
 him often about the hotel ?" 
 
 "Nearly every day for months." 
 
 "Tell me what you know of him his personality, 
 his history anything you may have heard from 
 him or from others." 
 
 "What possible interest can I have in this fel- 
 low's concerns?" 
 
 "You may have none ; I have." 
 
 Malcolm had expected, and waa prepared, for 
 open warfare, but he now feared the wily lawyer was 
 leading him into an ambush. With a wary eye on 
 the attorney, he cautiously proceeded to answer. 
 
 "I remember the man principally because he an- 
 noyed me by his extravagant expressions of grati- 
 tude. He believed I saved his life which was 
 absurd." 
 
 "Em!" growled the Major, then he mused: 
 "This man Carl is an ingrate. He either loves 
 money, or is in the power of the police, probably the 
 latter." 
 
 "Did you know of his having trouble with the 
 authorities ?" 
 
 The younger man thought a moment.
 
 132 OEtielpn ipan CourtlanD, 
 
 "Yes, there was some trouble, I've forgotten the 
 nature of it. Through the influence of the hotel 
 owner the matter was hushed up." 
 
 The Major smiled. "Xot a bad conjecture," he 
 mused. "That is all I want to know of Carl for the 
 present I think I will play on the young man's 
 nerves for a while. If I can provoke him, and break 
 his confounded calm, I may learn something." He 
 surveyed the man before him with a cold, calculat- 
 ing eye. 
 
 "You know who murdered Harlan! Why don't 
 you tell me?" 
 
 How the voice cut ! It was like a whip lash ! 
 And the glance that accompanied it, scoffing, satiri- 
 cal, implied knowledge held in reserve, of power yet 
 to be exercised. 
 
 Malcolm was as unprepared for the assertion as 
 he was for the brutal abruptness with which the 
 question was asked. His face became scarlet, and 
 he made an involuntary movement to rise. 
 
 "That shot told," was the Major's mental com- 
 ment. "It hurt, too." 
 
 "Major, I- 
 
 "You saw the man enter Harlan's grounds who, 
 later, killed him. You knew him when you passed 
 him for you did pass him. So far you may as 
 well admit that what I say is absolutely correct. 
 Now will you tell me his name?" 
 
 The set expression on the features of the two men
 
 $att Courtlantr* 133 
 
 was that of combatants arrayed in mortal conflict. 
 Only in this case, however, the unique spectacle was 
 presented of attorney and client the latter to be 
 tried for his life, the former endeavoring to wrest 
 from the accused man information that would be 
 an absolute defense. The ludicrous side of the situ- 
 ation had not escaped the Major. 
 
 "Well," he queried, chuckling inwardly, "will 
 you answer?" 
 
 "No !" Malcolm had taken time to recover. His 
 voice was calm. 
 
 "Em!" the Major tartly rejoined, "I didn't be- 
 lieve you would." 
 
 A sullen silence followed. Whatever the Major's 
 exterior showed, his line of thought was far pleas- 
 anter. His active mind galloped along into the fu- 
 ture; but he kept a furtive eye, meanwhile, on his 
 unresponsive client. 
 
 "If I clear this young devil," he thought, "and I 
 certainly shall, for no sane jury will fail to see that 
 he is shielding someone, I'll take him into my office. 
 That is, if he'll consent. Unquestionably, he is the 
 most stubborn proposition that I have ever en- 
 countered. Perhaps that is why I admire him." 
 
 Quick as a flash, and without warning, he 
 launched the next shaft. 
 
 "The man you are shielding is close to you in 
 business or social life?" 
 
 As Malcolm refused to reply, the Major resumed,
 
 134 (Etoelpn t^an CourtlanD* 
 
 a mild sneer behind his words, his tone and manner 
 pointedly offensive. 
 
 "You needn't trouble yourself to deny my state- 
 ment. University life may have taught you to lift 
 elevators, but the art of lying can't be so easily 
 acquired. Don't attempt it you'd be a pronounced 
 failure. Young man, to lie successfully requires a 
 greater degree of intelligence than it does to become 
 Prime Minister of England. What is more, one 
 must be born with the satanic gift. You are sin- 
 gularly deficient in it." 
 
 The speaker watched the flame of anger dancing 
 in the eyes of his listener. "Splendid!" he mused, 
 "I suppose my age and gray hairs alone save me 
 from being thrown into the corridor. I'll try a lit- 
 tle more vitriol stir the fire, as it were! I think, 
 though, I'll first give him time to cool down a bit. 
 What a magnificent picture he makes ! I'd fight for 
 his life physically, if occasion demanded." 
 
 A short silence followed, broken at intervals by 
 the sound from the corridors of muffled footfalls, a 
 suppressed groan, or a sigh that hovered on the air 
 as though loath to die. 
 
 "Don't imagine," the Major's voice was ominous- 
 ly distinct, "that you will succeed in your determina- 
 tion. The woman for whom - " 
 
 The Major got no further. Malcolm was on his 
 feet, his eyes aflame, his attitude threatening. 
 
 "Stop!" he said, hoarsely, endeavoring to control
 
 CourtlanD* 135 
 
 his anger. "Major Strong, you came with an offer 
 to defend me. I was grateful. But one word more 
 on the line you are pursuing, and I shall decline 
 your services and go to trial without counsel." 
 
 "Don't get excited, my dear Malcolm, another 
 word in that direction is quite unnecessary." 
 
 Malcolm walked nervously up and down the nar- 
 row cell. Appearances might indicate that attorney 
 and client were dangerously near an open rupture. 
 On the features of the young man was stamped a 
 look of dogged determination. The mouth was firm- 
 ly closed, the nostrils dilated, the step firm his 
 whole aspect that of one ready for physical encoun- 
 ter. The older man,- even in appearance, was the 
 embodiment of smiling complacency. 
 
 The result of his interview with his client might 
 appear, to one not familiar with legal tactics, of 
 doubtful worth ; but at that moment the lawyer was 
 filled with warm satisfaction. His client believed 
 that the Major had signally and ignominiously 
 failed to discover the evidence he sought; but the 
 keen lawyer was filled with the joy of success. He 
 could, at that moment, have named the murderer of 
 Marshall Harlan. 
 
 How aUke were the thoughts of the two men! 
 With what astonishing precision their minds moved 
 along parallel lines ! Somehow, by a mental process, 
 inexplicable, yet absolute in its certainty, each was 
 aware of what was revolving in the mind of the
 
 136 (Etoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 other. If their eyes met, the glance was as eloquent 
 as the unspoken words: 
 
 "Yes, I am considering the same subject I know 
 the facts as well as you. It is only your point of 
 view that differs." 
 
 The Major cast an impatient glance of disapprov- 
 al at the young man, which was met by a flash of 
 defiance. 
 
 "You're not particularly pleased with my method 
 of procuring evidence?" the Major suavely de- 
 manded. 
 
 "No, I'm not," was the terse reply. 
 
 "You see," the Major's manner had become pa- 
 cific, even courteous, "you see, we lawyers aren't 
 very particular how we get the evidence we want 
 if we only get it But we must do that, you know. 
 It's our business. If we don't get the evidence, we 
 don't earn our fee." 
 
 No sooner had he mentioned the word "fee" than 
 he realized his mistake. He had inadvertently 
 opened the subject, and Malcolm was quick to take 
 advantage of it. 
 
 "Now you mention the subject of fees," he said, 
 "I think we ought to discuss the question. Of 
 course, when I regain my liberty, I shall insist on 
 repaying the person, or persons, who have retained 
 you in my defense." 
 
 "Commendable, quite so. However, this is hard- 
 ly the time to consider the matter. My dear Mai-
 
 OEtoelpn $att CotmlanD, 137 
 
 colm, you lose sight of one very important point. 
 You are not free, neither are you making any serious 
 effort to assist me in obtaining that very desirable 
 result." 
 
 The justice of the attorney's remarks seemed to 
 strike Malcolm with new and overwhelming force. 
 The blood mounted to his cheeks. An impulse to 
 tell the Major what he knew took possession of him. 
 For an instant it swayed, controlled him. The 
 Major's interest in his behalf touched him deeply. 
 His tantalizing manner while questioning him had 
 not aroused his anger; it was the humiliating con- 
 sciousness that, with or without his assistance, his 
 companion suspected or knew the truth. Malcolm 
 was harassed, ill at ease, not knowing from what 
 point he would be next attacked, and suspense only 
 added to this feeling of irritation. 
 
 The Major suddenly rose. 
 
 "You are going ?" asked Malcolm. 
 
 "Yes, I can't see how I can accomplish anything 
 further." 
 
 As the Major prepared to go, did the wistful 
 glance that followed his movements escape him ? Or 
 when he walked toward the door, did he attach any 
 significance to the involuntary movement of the 
 young man, as if the impulse to detain him were 
 irresistible ? Perhaps so ; but whatever his thoughts, 
 the attorney's manner was not reassuring.
 
 138 dftjelpn $att Courtlantr* 
 
 "Don't think too harshly of me, Major. If I can- 
 not give you all the information you desire 
 
 "If you cannot give me!" The Major's tone of 
 mock surprise died into a chuckle. "My dear boy, 
 you have given it to me. Good-night." 
 
 "I wonder," mused the turnkey, as he let the visi- 
 tor out, "if the Major's laughing at one of his own 
 jokes ?" 
 
 "You cannot frighten that young devil," chuckled 
 the Major as he stepped into the street, "neither can 
 you rattle him. I nearly had him going before I 
 left. If I'd cared to get the story from him, I had 
 only to appeal to his sense of honor. Appeal is the 
 word. But what do I want of his story ? I already 
 know it." 
 
 A little before midnight Evelyn, after bidding her 
 father an affectionate "good-night" and begging him 
 to immediately retire, went to her own room. Early 
 in the evening she had sent a note of regret to Le 
 Moyne, who had arranged to call, pleading her 
 father's illness as an excuse for not receiving him. 
 Though her father's condition justified her course, 
 it was not the only reason that moved her. She had 
 reached a point where her deception filled her not 
 only with an increasing sense of loathing, but with 
 a nervous dread of discovery. During her last few 
 interviews with Le Moyne, an insane desire prompt- 
 ed her at times to throw off the mask, to confess to
 
 $an Courtlantu 139 
 
 him her deception. His words of reproach she 
 would have welcomed, knowing her deceit to be at an 
 end; her days and her nights would not be filled 
 with humiliating self-reproach. No longer need she 
 practice the arts, the petty devices, that sent the 
 blood to her cheeks, nor pursue a course that threat- 
 ened to cloud her name and her future with a stig- 
 ma that could never be removed. 
 
 On her lips trembled her mother's name. Her 
 father's accusation seemed to ring in her ears, and 
 she could hear her mother's voice demanding of her 
 if she had heard if she believed ? The lines of the 
 beautiful face hardened. The shadow of a smile 
 died upon the lips it had been the mirth of the 
 damned those who have surrendered all, and re- 
 joice that they have nothing further to lose. Men 
 who reacli that state of mind deliberately set about 
 destroying their body, their intellect, until nothing 
 is left but the shell even memory is dead. Women 
 pawn their souls.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 LONG before the hour set for the Malcolm trial, 
 the court room was crowded. Lawyers, court officers 
 and clerks filled the enclosed space set apart for 
 those concerned in the trial. Outside the railing 
 was massed a motley crowd. Young and old, rich 
 and poor, elbowed their way, and pressed forward 
 to a place of vantage crowding their neighbors, 
 fretful, impatient, wondering at the delay, their 
 minds filled with the sense of awe that Halls of 
 Justice inspire. 
 
 They whispered to each other under their breath, 
 clothing the empty seats of the judges with the mys- 
 terious sovereignty of the law. What appealed to 
 some as the safeguard of human rights, lending to 
 the imagination a sense of reverence, to others ap- 
 peared only as an all powerful, soulless abode of 
 oppression, where the poor were ignored, and liberty 
 regulated by an arbitrary enforcement of might. 
 
 When the coming centuries have divorced law and 
 wealth, and right is founded upon the conscience 
 of the human race, then law will be a most beautiful 
 and simple machine, not requiring the aid of an
 
 $an CotmiattD, 
 
 army of tinkers to repair the cogs in its present 
 rickety anatomy. 
 
 The court room presented a festive air. A man 
 was to be tried for his life. This fact, in itself, 
 might be supposed to lend a tone of seriousness to 
 the occasion, but it did not 
 
 You have seen a horse fall and lie prostrate in 
 the street. Immediately it is surrounded by a gap- 
 ing mass of people, watching the animal kick and 
 writhe in pain. What impels those who pause to 
 look at the animal? Curiosity simple, vulgar 
 curiosity. The same feeling moved the greater num- 
 ber that filled the court room. They had come to 
 see a fellow creature tried for murder. The specta- 
 tors were possessed of the morbid desire to look upon 
 the accused, watch him while the evidence unrolled; 
 see him smile or cringe observe the discomfort of 
 the witnesses, and wait for the climax of the great 
 life drama when the jury would pronounce him in- 
 nocent or guilty. 
 
 Mingled with the old guard, that had not missed 
 a murder trial for a decade, were those who had 
 never before entered a criminal court, Harlan's 
 friends and business intimates, men and women from 
 the upper walks of life, mingled with those who came 
 to be entertained or to gloat over the disclosures that 
 the trial promised. 
 
 "This is the seventeenth murder trial that I have 
 attended,"
 
 142 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 The speaker, a sedate, elderly man, sitting in a 
 front seat, was relating his experiences to his next 
 neighbor. His listener looked at him with a becom- 
 ing show of envy. 
 
 "You don't say," was the awed response. 
 
 "Yes, I never miss one of any note. Of course, 
 I don't bother with common, every-day defendants. 
 They can't hire a lawyer that amounts to anything, 
 and it isn't worth while wasting time to attend." 
 
 "Wait till Major Strong gets after some of the 
 Government's witnesses. Then we may expect some- 
 thing." 
 
 At that moment the Major entered through a side 
 door, and seated himself at the table reserved for 
 the defendant's attorney. His manner was the same 
 as if he were about to consult with Betts calm, 
 courteous, with just the suspicion of a twinkle in 
 the gray eyes. He appeared as he might had he 
 just seen the point of a joke which had before es- 
 caped him. 
 
 The buzz of recognition which swept the court 
 room subsided. The Major turned to a brother at- 
 torney, and conversed with him in low tones. 
 
 "That's the Major," spoke the man of many trials. 
 "He'll clear Malcolm, see if he doesn't. He knows 
 how to make the witnesses on the other side swear 
 that black is white then he has them swear the 
 color back again. He does it so cleverly that they
 
 OEtoelpn $an CotmlattD* 143 
 
 don't know what he's about, but the jury does. The 
 Major'll own the jury before the trial's an hour old." 
 
 An officer rapped loudly for order. Conversation 
 halted just so long as that august personage scowled 
 his disapproval. A moment later the suppressed 
 whispers grew into a murmur. A court messenger 
 handed a bundle of legal papers to the clerk of the 
 court; an officer motioned some newcomers into a 
 rear seat; and an ill-favored, poorly-dressed man of 
 middle age made an attempt to crowd into a front 
 row. 
 
 "Get back there," spoke the officer, gruffly, "those 
 seats are for the witnesses." 
 
 The spectator glared defiance, then shuffled back 
 to the rear. 
 
 "Order !" cried the officer. 
 
 The confusion of many voices sank to a whisper. 
 Betts entered through a door in the rear, and slowly 
 made his way to the table where his employer was 
 sitting. Placing his coat with methodical care on 
 the back of a chair, he seated himself beside the 
 Major. 
 
 Members of the legal fraternity who knew Betts, 
 looked at him with astonishment. They had never 
 before seen him in a court room. Settling himself 
 comfortably in his chair, he became absorbed in the 
 contemplation of the ceiling. The Major paid him 
 the tacit compliment of assuming that he would dis- 
 close his business at the proper time.
 
 144 dEtoelpn l?an CourtlanB. 
 
 "Order in the court !" 
 
 The tone was imperative; conversation ceased. 
 The crowd looked at the officer, then at each other, 
 and again resumed their chattering. Betts laid a 
 letter on the table before the Major, who glanced at 
 its contents. 
 
 "No answer," he said, placing the letter in the 
 inner pocket of his coat. 
 
 Without a word, or even a glance at his employer, 
 Betts placed his coat on his arm and glided from 
 the room. 
 
 "Good man," mused the Major, then in his eyes 
 a serious light replaced the customary twinkle. "I 
 wonder what Le Moyne would say if he knew the 
 contents of that letter." 
 
 The court officer rapped with resounding force. 
 
 "Court!" 
 
 The audience rose. The Judge was ascending 
 the bench, and the court was ready to begin the 
 business of the day. 
 
 Le Moyne had entered the court room just pre- 
 vious to the Judge's appearance. He greeted Strong 
 with genuine warmth. 
 
 "Everything in readiness?" asked the elder man. 
 
 "As far as I know," was the reply. 
 
 "How long will it take you to put in your case ?" 
 
 "My dear Major," smiled Le Moyne, "that de- 
 pends entirely on you. The direct testimony will 
 not require more than a day. Beyond that ;you
 
 OtourtlanD, 
 
 must judge by the extent of your cross-examination. 
 How many witnesses have you ?" 
 
 "One," answered the Major, "and the defendant." 
 
 "You will put him on the stand?" Le Moyne's 
 manner betrayed his surprise. 
 
 "Of course," was the terse reply. 
 
 Le Moyne cast a hasty glance at the face of his 
 opponent. It told him nothing. Quiet reserve, tran- 
 quillity, an entire absence of anything in the expres- 
 sion that might disclose the thoughts of the man who, 
 with calm courtesy, met the gaze of surprised in- 
 quiry. An absence of cunning, irony, or malice in 
 the lines about the mouth all this he saw in the 
 lawyer's face. Looking into the man's eyes was like 
 sounding unknown depths. What you saw was but 
 the reflection of the man's soul; you felt his power. 
 
 Le Moyne well knew that, if Malcolm were to go 
 upon the stand, such a course would be adopted only 
 from the Major's belief in his client's innocence, or 
 his conviction that he could give new and important 
 evidence unknown to the Government. 
 
 For some moments the District-Attorney went 
 into the minor details of the case with the Judge. 
 At a signal the Major joined them, and the spec- 
 tators, with breathless interest, waited the opening 
 of the trial. 
 
 The word was given. An officer opene'd a side 
 door and Malcolm entered. 
 
 There was a hush. All eyes were on the accused
 
 146 toelptt lart CouttlanU, 
 
 man, every head bent forward to stamp on mind and 
 memory every detail of his appearance, to speculate 
 on his guilt or innocence, to note if he faltered, to 
 attribute hesitancy to fear, calmness or self-posses- 
 sion to defiance. 
 
 As he walked with firm step and took a seat, what 
 was the judgment of those who saw him for the first 
 time?- the erect carriage, the finely formed head, 
 the clear-cut features, the air of proud, self-reliant 
 manhood ? Was he conscious of the concentrated 
 gaze of the hundreds of eyes turned toward him, of 
 the multitude of conjectures as to his probable guilt ? 
 Did those who sought to read on the impassive, 
 though strikingly handsome face thoughts and emo- 
 tions that they believed should be his, rebel at their 
 signal failure? Were they annoyed at the self-com- 
 mand of this man, accused of the greatest of crimes, 
 yet who, except for one hasty, sweeping glance, ap- 
 peared unconscious of their presence? Or, as his 
 eyes encountered the Major's glance, did they note 
 the flash of recognition and pleasure, and attribute 
 the look to bravado? 
 
 Those who saw the accused man were plainly dis- 
 appointed. They had expected something different 
 some manifestation of guilt or hesitancy. The 
 defendant's appearance dispelled their mental pic- 
 ture. Of course the law declares a man to be inno- 
 cent until he is proved guilty. Did the spectators 
 believe it? Not they! To ask the average individ-
 
 $an CourtianD* 147 
 
 ual to hold his judgment in abeyance till a jury de- 
 clares a man accused of a crime innocent or guilty, 
 is asking too much. Who dare say that legal ques- 
 tions are decided upon evidence? The ordinary 
 mind arrives at its own conclusions irrespective of 
 law or procedure. Evidence may influence, even 
 change opinions; but the human intellect rarely 
 waits for evidence upon which to found its belief. 
 Had Malcolm's appearance not upset their precon- 
 ceived mental portrait, had his behavior met their 
 estimate of a man justly accused of a capital crime, 
 they would have promptly pronounced him guilty. 
 They were nonplussed, and doggedly awaited de- 
 velopments. 
 
 There was one who, unnoticed, and taking ad- 
 vantage of the stir occasioned by Malcolm's en- 
 trance, had taken a seat within the enclosure re- 
 served for the members of the bar. Howard Van 
 Courtland sat as one in a trance, his eyes fixed on 
 the accused man, his countenance livid, controlling 
 the muscles of his face only by a superhuman effort. 
 Not for an instant did he remove his gaze his ex- 
 treme pallor being the only evidence of how deeply 
 he was moved. 
 
 Major Strong commanded a view of the door 
 through which Van Courtland had entered, and, 
 though he was taking part in a discussion with the 
 Judge, his eyes were on the banker. He saw the 
 latter's glance travel to the face of the accused; saw,
 
 148 OEueln ^an CourtlanD, 
 
 the start of recognition, followed by the look of fear. 
 For some moments, with the trained eye of one who 
 has learned to depend upon the human countenance 
 for the evidence he seeks, he watched the convulsed 
 features. With fatal certainty he read the thoughts 
 and emotions that controlled Van Courtland, who, 
 oblivious of his surroundings, seemed to have lost 
 all power of discretion or of action. 
 
 Malcolm's glance wandered slowly over the en- 
 closure, until it encountered the ashen gray features, 
 the look of mingled fear and entreaty fixed on his 
 own face. Did the expression in his eyes, as they 
 lingered on the white face for an instant, speak con- 
 demnation or pity? Even Strong, who alone ob- 
 served the look, could not answer. Van Courtland 
 met the glance, powerless to avoid it, his faculties 
 benumbed, his will as naught his gaze resting on 
 the face of the accused. 
 
 He sat as one transfixed. For the moment he was 
 unconscious of what was taking place about him; 
 neither did the close proximity of others have the 
 power to recall his bewildered faculties to life. His 
 brain was capable of only one impression he saw 
 only the face of the accused ; all else became a blur. 
 Would the vision always be before him ? He seemed 
 to see the lips move in the unspoken charge "Why 
 do you remain silent?" 
 
 A suppressed movement in the court room pro- 
 claimed the conference with the court at an end. Le
 
 CourtlmtD* 149 
 
 Moyne was speaking in a low voice to Van Court- 
 land, who was making an heroic effort to gather the 
 import of the brief remark. He made no reply and 
 the young attorney turned away. 
 
 Throughout the day the tedious task of selecting 
 the jury progressed, and it was late in the afternoon 
 when the twelfth man, who completed the panel, took 
 his place in the box. Of the men called to serve, not 
 one had been challenged by Strong. He appeared, 
 in fact, almost indifferent, but as each member an- 
 swered to his name, Strong directed a searching 
 glance at the face of the newcomer and passed him 
 without question or comment. The panel completed, 
 a recess was ordered by the court. 
 
 "You are satisfied with the jury?" Le Moyne 
 asked. 
 
 "Quite so," the Major replied. "Intelligence is 
 the first requisite. The jury appears to be above 
 the average." 
 
 "Should they declare the defendant guilty," Le 
 Moyne laughed, "I am inclined to believe that you 
 would change your opinion." 
 
 "They won't," retorted the Major. 
 
 The young man did not like the note of confidence 
 in the speaker's voice. He knew the Major was not 
 given to stating an opinion in positive terms, and, 
 though his words and manner were somewhat ban- 
 tering, in his tone there was quiet confidence. The 
 possible reason for the Major's seeming indifference
 
 150 CEtoelpn $an CotmlanD, 
 
 worried the young attorney. Was his opponent so 
 certain of an acquittal that he could afford to relax 
 his customary vigilance? He mentally argued that 
 the Major's confidence was founded upon evidence 
 in his possession. What was it ? Had the accused 
 some new defense in reserve ? Had he told all he 
 knew of the tragic events, or, under advice of his 
 counsel, was he to advance a different version than 
 he had before given of his interview with Harlan? 
 
 "Major," he asked, abruptly, "assuming that Mal- 
 colm be declared not guilty, are you aware of evi- 
 dence that warrants you in believing he knows the 
 guilty person?" 
 
 "That/' replied the Major, "is a question I dare 
 not consider ; but I do not hesitate to declare my be- 
 lief in Malcolm's innocence. And I expect to bring 
 the jury to my way of thinking." 
 
 "You are a doughty champion," was the laughing 
 response. 
 
 "A case is half won," observed the Major, "if we 
 bring ourselves to have faith in our side of it. Be- 
 fore I had ever seen the accused I did not believe 
 him guilty; after I had talked with him I knew it." 
 
 "Then his statements to you were more candid 
 than those he grudgingly gave at the preliminary 
 hearing." 
 
 "My dear fellow, my opinion was not founded on 
 what he told me, but what he refused to divulge.
 
 i^an CourtlanD, 151 
 
 Here is the court. You will finish your opening to 
 the jury to-day?" 
 
 "Yes," was the reply. 
 
 The jury took their seats, and without delay Le 
 Moyne began the statement to them of what the 
 Government intended to prove. In a low voice, but 
 with an earnestness that enlisted and held the atten- 
 tion of his hearers, he told of the visit of the ac- 
 cused to Harlan's home, of the midnight interview, 
 the discovery of the crime the following morning, 
 and the prisoner's subsequent arrest. The speaker 
 dwelt on the circumstance of the interview with the 
 deceased, and that Malcolm was the last person 
 known to have seen the unfortunate man before his 
 death. 
 
 His dispassionate voice, and the entire fairness 
 with which he stated the case of the Government, 
 made a deep impression upon his hearers. Yet with 
 all its seeming simplicity, his presentation was a 
 masterpiece of adroitness. Through it all ran a 
 subtle interrogation, by implication suggesting the 
 question which the rules of law and procedure for- 
 bade him to openly voice: "What business had 
 Malcolm with the deceased that made necessary his 
 midnight visit? If he were there for a legitimate 
 purpose, why should he refuse to explain away the 
 mystery ?" 
 
 The Major listened with a feeling of admiration
 
 152 (ZEtoelpn $an CourtlanD. 
 
 for the speaker's able outline of the case. He rec- 
 ognized the purpose of the Government, and he paid 
 a mental tribute to his brilliant opponent for the 
 masterly manner in which he brought the question 
 before the minds of the jury. 
 
 While the spectators listened to Le Moyne's ad- 
 dress, their eyes were on the face of the accused, 
 watching for some evidence of emotion, a look, a sign 
 that he was moved, or some gesture that they might 
 construe to be an indication of guilt Disappoint- 
 ment awaited them. Malcolm, silent, unmoved, was 
 unconscious of all else but the statement to which he 
 listened. One person alone enlisted his attention 
 the man who was laying the foundation of the case 
 against him ; and when the address was finished, his 
 face reflected his admiration. He had listened to 
 an able outline of the Government's case, and he 
 was quick to give Le Moyne credit for the earnest 
 effort he had made. 
 
 "How that fellow has improved since we were at 
 college," was Malcolm's mental comment. "I'd like 
 to congratulate him. He was always a decent sort, 
 though not particularly brilliant. The study of law 
 has done him a world of good. I really believe he 
 thinks I'm guilty." 
 
 A marked change had come over Van Courtland. 
 In his eyes shone a new light of confidence. Lines 
 and wrinkles had disappeared, and a faint flush on 
 either cheek had dissipated the extreme pallor. A
 
 CourtlanO, 153 
 
 feeling of exultation took possession of him. He 
 was impatient for the court to adjourn that he might 
 speak to Le Moyne, to thank him, to express his 
 pleasure at his success, which to him now appeared a 
 certainty. 
 
 The court gave the word, and the trial was ad- 
 journed to the following day. 
 
 Van Courtland hastily advanced to Le Moyne 
 with outstretched hand. 
 
 "Splendid," he exclaimed. "You must come and 
 dine with us. I will send word to Evelyn." 
 
 Together they left the court room.
 
 154 Ctoelpn $an CourtianD, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WITH a feeling of chagrin, Evelyn learned that her 
 father had invited Le Moyne to dinner. She was 
 heartsick at the thought that, for the present, she 
 must continue the deception, that she must still fur- 
 ther debase herself, and play the revolting part of 
 the traitor. It was a matter only of days, or of 
 hours, till he must know the truth. Perhaps even 
 now he suspected her. How could she know what 
 had transpired at the trial? He might meet her 
 with caution, watching her every word and look to 
 discover if he were justified in the belief that she 
 had betrayed his confidence sold him out, his pro- 
 fessional integrity, his honor. And even if he did 
 not yet suspect her, it was only delaying the hour 
 till he should become aware of her shameless course. 
 "Now that her task was completed, she saw no need 
 for continuing her deception. To further humiliate 
 or wound the man who had surrendered the honor 
 of his office to a useless, hopeless passion, was revolt- 
 ing to her sense of pity and decency. His love would 
 cost him more than he knew, more than he dreamed : 
 his faith in human nature. He was not blame-
 
 lan CoimlattD* 155 
 
 less, but his fault would appear trivial in the light 
 of her greater wrong. Did the end she wished to 
 accomplish justify the means employed ? If so, she 
 did not consider it an excuse, or plead it in exonera- 
 tion of her course. She knew, and anticipated, the 
 result of her determination to save Malcolm's life. 
 Should she succeed, it would be at the sacrifice of 
 her self-respect. Could she have known that she, 
 alone, was to pay the cost, her wrong would have 
 appeared less, her suffering have lost its acute sting. 
 Another was to suffer one whose love would die as 
 would his faith in womanhood. She could hear his 
 laugh of disdain at the suggestion of woman's loyal- 
 ty. Then with the thought would come a revulsion 
 of feeling. Why had he trusted her ? Why had he 
 divulged the professional secrets of his office ? Were 
 all men of his mould? Could they be led, cajoled, 
 played with, until, surrendering their right to com- 
 mand respect, they were content to become puppets, 
 their only reward a look, a word, or a loveless 
 caress? Why had this man allowed himself to be 
 so easily conquered ? Though he might not have 
 awakened an answering passion, he could, at least, 
 
 have commanded her respect Now 
 
 Her laugh was an answer to her thought. When 
 a man laughs with the bitterness worldly experience 
 teaches, if he be of an irascible nature, he sets about 
 finding someone with whom to quarrel. Usually he 
 succeeds. If his turn of mind is moody, he sulks,
 
 156 OEfcelpn i^an CourtlanU. 
 
 or, if bibulously inclined, he gets becomingly drunk. 
 A woman broods, and brooding is not good for the 
 soul. If she can, and will, she should weep, for 
 tears are soothing except to the beholder. If she 
 does not shed tears, she will act, and invariably she 
 does that which for her own peace of mind she 
 should not do. Evelyn's laugh was not good to hear. 
 With a composed air, a firm step, and a touch of un- 
 conscious hauteur, she went to her apartment to dress 
 for dinner. 
 
 An hour later she was alone in the drawing-room. 
 Almost immediately the bell rang and Mr. Wavily 
 was announced. He entered, smiling, faultlessly 
 dressed in black, the one youthful touch to his dress 
 a light-colored cravat. Evelyn advanced to meet him 
 with genuine pleasure. She divined that her fath- 
 er's old friend had been bidden to dinner with an 
 informality countenanced, even encouraged, by men 
 of their age and class. Here, then, was a deliver- 
 ance from an evening alone with Le Moyne. Never 
 had the debonair little man received a more genuine 
 welcome than she accorded him. He was pleased, 
 and quick to respond to her warm greeting. He led 
 her to a seat with tender grace. 
 
 "You see, my dear, your father didn't invite me 
 to dinner. He commanded me to report without de- 
 lay. So I present myself. Of course," he chuckled 
 merrily, "if you will take pity on a solitary old man, 
 and "
 
 OEtoelpn $an CouttlanO* 157 
 
 "Formally invite you!" she laughingly interrupt- 
 ed. "No, I, also, command. Really, I am very 
 glad you came. By the way, Mr. Le Moyne is to 
 dine with us. Another of papa's commands. You 
 will have an opportunity to discuss the trial." 
 
 "My dear," Wavily's voice became serious, "I be- 
 lieve this trial has engrossed your father's attention 
 to a greater degree than is good for him. You know 
 concentrated thought on these disagreeable subjects 
 makes us morbid. Now, I would suggest that we 
 make an effort to divert his mind from this subject. 
 What do you say, my dear, shall we conspire, and 
 refuse to discuss it?" 
 
 "Willingly," she answered with warmth. "I quite 
 agree with you. It is a grewsome topic. Could you 
 prevail on papa to leave business for a while and go 
 to some quiet place for a rest?" 
 
 "I will try," he answered. "But he must be made 
 to believe it is for your sake, not his own. Trust me, 
 my dear, I shall arrange it." 
 
 The entrance of Van Courtland and Le Moyne in- 
 terrupted their conversation. 
 
 "On time as usual," was Van Courtland's greet- 
 ing to his old friend. "My dear," he turned to 
 Evelyn, "Mr. Le Moyne will tell you all about the 
 trial. Come with me to the library," he said to 
 Wavily, "I wish to talk business before dinner is 
 announced." 
 
 With his guest he led the way to the library.
 
 158 (Ettelpn Pan Courtlatttu 
 
 Since morning Van Courtland's manner had un- 
 dergone a complete change. He had thrown off the 
 air of dejection that, for the past few weeks, had 
 become so marked as to cause general comment His 
 eyes shone with unusual brilliancy, but in them was 
 the smouldering light of a fevered brain. However 
 much his assumed air of gayety, his labored effort 
 to appear at ease, impressed his guest, his manner 
 did not deceive Evelyn. She was quick to penetrate 
 the mask, behind which he sought to hide the in- 
 tense strain under which he was laboring. There 
 was an unnatural ring in his voice, and, as the 
 library door closed after him, his forced laugh grated 
 on her nerves. Again she was face to face with the 
 man she most dreaded to meet Taking care that 
 he did not read in her face her feeling of repug- 
 nance, she must encounter his glance and control the 
 tones of her voice in her effort to still continue her 
 deception. Why did not the butler announce din- 
 ner? When the library door had closed, she turned 
 to Le Moyne. Would she read in his eyes what she 
 feared that he suspected her? No, her hasty 
 glance met only unrestrained, unguarded love not 
 the bold look of licentious passion, but the smoulder- 
 ing fire of a strong nature, of love that, by its mas- 
 terful force, deadened his finer instinct and judg- 
 ment Xever before had the thought of this man's 
 love filled her with such a sense of revulsion as at 
 that moment swept over her. His touch, his caress !
 
 $an CouttlattD. 159 
 
 The possibility maddened her her whole being re- 
 volted at the thought. Her hour of discovery, of de- 
 liverance, had not come; the result of her mission 
 was yet in doubt her part was still to be played 
 to a finish. She would not falter. 
 
 "Well," she exclaimed, with a light laugh, "I 
 needn't ask about the result of your day's work. 
 Your expression spells 'Success!' Am I right?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, with boyish bluntness, "it 
 was all I could ask for." 
 
 There was a winning enthusiasm in his frankness, 
 a youthful, though sturdy quality, a healthy mag- 
 netism that would have enlisted the admiration of 
 the ordinary woman. The excitement of the day, the 
 flush of anticipated victory, still clung to him. 
 
 "Tell me all about it" 
 
 With languid grace she sank on a circular divan, 
 her glance inviting him to a place beside her. 
 Flushing with pleasure, he took the proffered seat. 
 
 "Your father can tell you better than I," he said. 
 "He believed the jury were impressed by the outline 
 of the evidence to be presented. You know much 
 depends upon the start." 
 
 "I suppose so," she replied absently, "but about 
 the other side the defendant and his attorney ? Did 
 you completely crush them ?" 
 
 "No, no," he laughingly answered, "but I shall 
 pay my respects to them in my final argument" 
 
 "Do ladies attend the trial ?" she asked.
 
 160 Sftjelpn #an CourtlanD* 
 
 "Certainly," he answered quickly. "If you cared 
 to g o " 
 
 "No," she interrupted, "but I was thinking the 
 proceedings must be interesting. And Malcolm! 
 How did he appear ?" 
 
 "Quite indifferent," he replied, "I can't think of 
 him as a criminal, yet the evidence against him is 
 convincing." 
 
 The entrance of Van Courtland was followed by 
 the announcement of dinner. 
 
 Wavily, with the chivalric grace of a past age, 
 offered his arm to Evelyn; Van Courtland and Le 
 Moyne followed them to the dining-room. 
 
 It was the liveliest dinner party that had sat at the 
 host's board for many months. Wavily took upon 
 himself the task of directing the conversation. With 
 ready, but harmless wit, he launched his shafts of 
 satire at Le Moyne, at his profession, playfully abus- 
 ing him, but never approaching the border of offence. 
 Many times Van Courtland returned to the events 
 of the day, the proceedings of the trial, and as often 
 as he did so, Wavily met him with a witticism, a 
 brilliant bit of repartee, or a trite story. In the 
 laugh that followed, Van Courtland joined, but the 
 staring eyes told of a mind inflamed by exckement, 
 which he controlled, owing to the presence of his 
 guests. 
 
 "You should Have heard Le Moyne's outline of
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 the case," he said. "It was convincing. I watched 
 the jury. Every word told. It was masterly." 
 
 "Pooh," the old man replied, "the other fellow 
 will rip it all to pieces. That's their business. The 
 last one to have his say will win. It's always so. 
 
 / / 
 
 Lawyers, you know, have a set of speeches always on 
 hand. They select one to fit their case. The jury 
 ought to decide against them every time." 
 
 "The jury couldn't decide against both," was Eve- 
 lyn's smiling rejoinder. 
 
 "True, my dear," Wavily responded, "but they 
 ought to." 
 
 "Then," she retorted, after the laughter had sub- 
 sided, "to return to your first hypothesis, the last one 
 to address the jury should win. Which is it, Mr. 
 Le Moyne ?" 
 
 "The prosecuting attorney," he answered. 
 
 "Too bad, too bad!" exclaimed Wavily, "I want 
 to see the young man acquitted." 
 
 The color left Van Courtland's face. The wine 
 glass he held in his trembling hand clinked against 
 his plate. 
 
 "Why do you wish to see him acquitted?" he 
 asked excitedly. 
 
 His tone was abrupt and harsh. Evelyn's face 
 flushed. She could not interrupt without seeming 
 rudeness. The conversation had drifted into dan- 
 gerous channels.
 
 162 etieln $an CourtlanD* 
 
 "Why?" answered Wavily, his eyes dancing with 
 suppressed merriment, "so I could laugh at our 
 friend Le Moyne. If Major Strong were here, I 
 would include him in my vengeful desire. How 
 could defeat for both of you be brought about?" he 
 asked Le Moyne. 
 
 "Easily enough," was the answer, "by a disagree- 
 ment of the jury." 
 
 "A most desirable outcome," the old man re- 
 joined, "anything to beat the lawyers both of 
 them." 
 
 Evelyn was not deceived. She recognized the 
 speaker's intent. She flashed him a look of grati- 
 tude, and in the old man's eyes she read a tender 
 acknowledgement. 
 
 "A disagreement," protested Van Courtland, 
 "would necessitate - " 
 
 "My dear Van Courtland," interrupted Wavily, 
 "apropos of the subject of worsting the lawyers, per- 
 mit me a little story !" 
 
 "In Leadville, in the early seventies, a young 
 blacksmith was tried for killing a man. In those 
 days men indulged in the reprehensible habit of car- 
 rying concealed weapons. At the trial it was proved 
 that the accused acted in self-defense. He was ac- 
 quitted. Owing to his poverty, he could tender his 
 attorney only gratitude and a promise to repay him 
 at any time he might be called upon, by any means 
 in his power short of killing another man. .Well,
 
 l^an CourtlanD* 163 
 
 you know lawyers never cancel a debt even of 
 gratitude until it is paid. 
 
 "Some time after, it so happened that this same 
 lawyer had a doubtful case on trial and, to make 
 the result still more dubious, one of his witnesses 
 failed to appear. At that time, when the jury was 
 incomplete, they drew the talesman from among the 
 spectators who happened to be in the court room. 
 The lawyer was desperate. To try the case without 
 his witness meant certain defeat; yet the case must 
 be tried. He thought of the blacksmith. That debt 
 of gratitude had not been canceled. 'Sit in the 
 front row,' he said to the smithy, 'I will arrange 
 to have you drawn on the jury, and remember this 
 whatever way the other eleven vote, you vote against 
 them and stick to it.' 
 
 "The trial proceeded. The jury retired. After 
 hours of deliberation they brought in a verdict of 
 disagreement. The lawyer was delighted it was 
 all he had hoped for. The debt of gratitude had 
 been paid. But," the speaker laughed gleefully 
 "when he was leaving the court room he met one of 
 the eleven other jurors. 'Colonel,' said the jury- 
 man, 'eleven of us were for deciding in your favor, 
 because we didn't believe the witnesses on the other 
 side, but there was one blockheaded, stubborn mule 
 of a blacksmith on the jury, who said he'd be con- 
 sumed to the hottest corner of 'The Hot Place' be- 
 fore he'd agree with us. He didn't care which way
 
 164 OEtoeln $an CourtianD, 
 
 we voted, he said he was 'agin' us. So we were 
 forced to bring in a disagreement.' Later the black- 
 smith met his former attorney. 'Yer told me ter 
 vote agin' 'em,' he said, 'and if they hadn't quit 
 ther' game, I'd be there yet a-holdin' 'em up.' Good 
 for the smithy," concluded Wavily. "Anything to 
 beat the lawyers." 
 
 "Surely/' Evelyn retorted, "you will make an ex- 
 ception to your rule. There are some lawyers who 
 deserve to win." 
 
 "Em! Perhaps so, but opinions, like general 
 principles, should not be lightly surrendered. You 
 see, my dear, a lawyer first launches his client into 
 a sea of litigation, then, like a pirate, demands 
 half his victim's fortune to get him safely ashore. 
 They know all the tricks, and they practice them, 
 too." 
 
 "You will begin to-morrow, Le Moyne, putting 
 in the Government's case?" Van Courtland asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And," interjected Wavily, "when Major Strong 
 gets after your witnesses he will give them a dis- 
 agreeable half hour. He'll make it his business to 
 discover what particular branch of tne genealogical 
 family tree they adorn." 
 
 Van Courtland shifted uneasily in his seat His 
 guest's evident sympathy for Malcolm cut him like 
 a lash, but his innate courtesy forbade any outward 
 show of resentment. Evelyn, to prevent the subject
 
 ^att CourtlattD, 165 
 
 assuming a personal trend, rose and led the way to 
 the drawing room. 
 
 "Play something, my dear/ 7 the old man asked. 
 "Not what you call music of the 'Modern School' 
 play the old pieces, that I heard Jennie Lind and 
 Parepa Rossa sing. Do you know," he rattled on, 
 "I have heard opera sung in Castle Garden? Yes, 
 it is quite true! And between the acts we used to 
 run over to Fraunce's Tavern or the Stevens' House 
 for a mug of beer and a bite of cheese. Dear me ! 
 How long ago that was ! Then they moved the opera 
 uptown, and Patti's day came. Oh, but you can't 
 imagine what she was then! She is still young, be- 
 cause she doesn't worry. That's the secret. You 
 have heard me say that before. Yes, and I'll stick 
 to it. Never worry, my dear; have pleasant 
 thoughts, and your beauty, like Patti's voice, will 
 linger. You know you are beautiful, my dear. I 
 believe," he concluded with a merry laugh, "Le 
 Moyne knows it, too." 
 
 Evelyn flushed, but could not resist laughing. 
 Sitting at the piano she played bits of the old Italian 
 operas, the old man keeping time with his fingers, 
 his eyes dancing with pleasure, while he gave him- 
 self up to the enjoyment of the moment. 
 
 Le Moyne and his host were conversing in a far 
 corner of the room. Much as the District Attorney 
 was interested in the outcome of the trial, though he 
 appreciated the attention paid to him by his host, he
 
 166 <tiilpn Van CourtlanD. 
 
 was annoyed by the persistent discussion. He had 
 had little opportunity to speak to Evelyn alone, yet 
 during the few moments spent with her it seemed to 
 him that her manner had undergone a change. There 
 was something lacking. The color, the life in her 
 voice was deadened; the smile seemed forced, the 
 eyes as though a mist shut in the light, No, he 
 was not mistaken ! He could not help observing the 
 change. When he had entered, after her first search- 
 ing look of inquiry, she had refused to meet his 
 glance. She had been unresponsive, her customary 
 candor was lacking. Her strained manner, which 
 had at first escaped his notice, now stood out boldly in 
 contrast with her behavior during the dinner. While 
 listening to Wavily she had seemed another being; 
 her reserve had disappeared, her features had glowed 
 with animation. Doubt, for an instant, took pos- 
 session of him fear that he was mistaken in her 
 feeling toward him, and that his hope was founded 
 on his own desire. Then the memory of the past 
 months sent a thrill through his whole being. At 
 that moment he was again living past hours of hap- 
 piness the mad rapture of one who, compared with 
 the greatness of his passion, holds all else in life as 
 trivial. No, he could not be mistaken. The mem- 
 ory of the touch of her fingers sent the blood dancing 
 through his veins. Her interest, her sympathy, her 
 shy, trembling glance yes, these were the prompt- 
 ings of unspoken love. His courage rose. Would
 
 $att Couctlano* 167 
 
 he speak to her to-night ? Would he tell her that on 
 her answer depended his future, that his struggle for 
 fame was for her that his ambitions, his hopes, 
 lived upon her answer? Yes, he would speak to- 
 night. Yet were it not better to wait till, flushed 
 with victory, he could come to her and say: "It was 
 for you, love, I fought and won." 
 
 Yes, he must succeed, he would succeed. He had 
 prepared his case well, his first great case. Nothing 
 had been neglected. He had given it personal atten- 
 tion. No detail had been too trifling for him to con- 
 sider, no labor too arduous if, in the minutest de- 
 gree, it advanced his prospect of success. There 
 would be no failure, and when he had won 
 
 With a buoyant step and a light heart, he crossed 
 the room and stood beside the piano. Wavily was 
 speaking to their host, and Le Moyne seized the op- 
 portunity to talk with Evelyn. She had been listen- 
 ing, enchanted, to the simple, childish babble of the 
 old man. Her heart had gone out to him. His de- 
 light was contagious; to him every moment of life 
 was a joy, and he lived it to its fullest measure. 
 She was still playing, and as Le Moyne leaned to- 
 wards her and spoke, his voice was as soft, his tone 
 as tender as the strain from Bellini's Norma to 
 which he listened. 
 
 "You are yourself again," he said. "I can tell it 
 in your playing." 
 
 "Why again ?" she asked lightly.
 
 168 OEtoelpn |?an CourtlanD* 
 
 "Before dinner I thought you were indisposed, or 
 that, perhaps " 
 
 She laughed lightly. Then she had betrayed her 
 feelings ! At best she believed herself a poor actress. 
 She looked at him, her glance coquettish, protesting. 
 
 "You appeared cold, formal," he continued. 
 
 "And now ?" 
 
 He did not answer. Her smile dispelled all re- 
 maining doubt She was as he remembered her the 
 night she had fastened the flower in his coat play- 
 fully, bewitchingly tender. Suddenly she stopped 
 playing. The unfinished strain jarred upon the ear. 
 
 "How long before the trial will be finished ?" she 
 asked abruptly. 
 
 "It will take two or, at the most, three days. Are 
 you becoming anxious?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I wish it were all over !" 
 
 He looked at her surprised. The marked 
 change in her voice and manner came with the same 
 abruptness as had the sudden termination of the 
 music, and affected him as unpleasantly. What was 
 the meaning of her changing moods? She did not 
 give him time to dwell upon the question. 
 
 "Patience is not woman's predominant trait," she 
 said with a light laugh. "Come now, tell me what 
 you like best and I will play it for you for you, 
 alone." 
 
 Again the witchery of her glance drove all other 
 thought from his mind.
 
 CourtlanD, 169 
 
 "Your choice is mine," he answered gallantly. 
 
 He listened, enraptured. The music was in har- 
 mony with his thoughts. They were alone, for the 
 others had gone into the library. The quaint, be- 
 witching strain rose and fell, telling its story of love 
 and passion, of doubt and joy. It pictured a fairy- 
 land in the old world, some enchanted place in the 
 heart of great mountains, the summer sun glistening 
 on snow peaks that touched the blue heavens, while 
 below, through field and vale and! wood, he and 
 Evelyn wandered together, alone with the joy of 
 their great love. So many years they had lived 
 there so many, many years! Yet youth had re- 
 mained with them the blood was warm, and kept 
 alive the fires of love. Her hand lay in his. How 
 the touch thrilled him, again awakening love's first 
 flush of passion, but with the calm security that the 
 years had brought, for she was his, his alone. The 
 great world was beyond the mountain peaks, but 
 that world was one of doubt, of strife, of eternal 
 struggle, they lived undisturbed in the kingdom of 
 their love. 
 
 The music ceased, the picture faded; Le Moyne, 
 with a sigh of regret, became conscious of the sound 
 of Evelyn's voice. 
 
 "You are in the land of dreams," she was saying. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I wish the music could have 
 gone on forever." 
 
 "Then it would lose its power to charm, and we'd
 
 170 Ctoelpn $an Courtlano. 
 
 long for a discord to break the monotony. Tell me 
 now, of what were you thinking ?" 
 
 How he longed to tell her ! To pour into her ear 
 the story of his love, to speak of his hopes his 
 dreams of power, in which she was the central fig- 
 ure, at whose feet he would kneel, listening for her 
 word of praise that would spur him on to still 
 greater heights. Yet he dared not speak. Did she 
 read in his eyes his struggle? Her expression as, 
 rising, she turned to look for her other guest, was 
 one of calm concern. Wavily, who had entered, ap- 
 proached. 
 
 "I was listening in the library to the music," he 
 said, with his customary cheery smile. "Evelyn, my 
 dear, you look fatigued. I have been telling your 
 father that he should take you away with him on a 
 nice little trip. Health is everything, my dear." 
 
 Le Moyne looked quickly at Evelyn. Though she 
 felt his glance, she did not meet it 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said Van Courtland, "after the 
 trial is finished, I think a few months abroad would 
 do us both good. We might prevail on Mr. Le 
 Moyne to join us. Can you arrange it?" he asked 
 of him. "You can afford to rest on your laurels for 
 awhile. Your coming victory will warrant it." 
 
 Le Moyne waited to hear Evelyn second her fath- 
 er's invitation, but she remained silent 
 
 "I'll consider it," he answered evasively. 
 
 "Perhaps I'll drop in at the trial to-morrow," said
 
 CourtlanU* m 
 
 Wavily, "about the time the Major gets after your 
 witnesses. Ha! He'll make them forget their own 
 names. You needn't look for any sympathy from 
 me, young man/' he concluded with mock severity. 
 
 "Should I lose," answered Le Moyne quietly, "it 
 will be to the best criminal lawyer in the State." 
 
 "Well said," warmly rejoined the old man, "you 
 deserve to be on the winning side. Dear me," he 
 exclaimed, looking at the clock, "nearly midnight ! 
 Who would have believed it? Evelyn, my dear, I 
 have enjoyed myself greatly. Come along, Le Moyne, 
 I'll have a last word with you on our way home. I 
 wish you hadn't said such a nice thing of the Major 
 you quite took the wind out of my sails." 
 
 A few minutes later they had gone, and Evelyn 
 was alone in her room. Midnight found her father 
 pacing the floor of the library in moody silence. 
 
 In the early evening Major Strong was admitted 
 to Malcolm's cell. The young man was not expect- 
 ing him, and, though somewhat surprised by his 
 visit, he welcomed him with evident joy. To Mal- 
 colm the time had hung heavily. Wearily, and 
 with growing impatience, he had waited for the day 
 of the trial. His courage was that of youth, firm in 
 the belief of his acquittal; but he fretted under the 
 restraint, the silence, the general air of gloom, and, 
 more than all else, the loss of out-of-door exercise. 
 
 "You weren't expecting me," said the Major, after 
 they were seated.
 
 172 <gtieln $att CourtlanD* 
 
 "No," replied Malcolm, "but I'm glad you came 
 this confounded place gets onto one's nerves." 
 
 "It's better than Ossining," was the Major's dis- 
 comforting assurance. 
 
 Malcolm laughed. 
 
 "No doubt," he replied. "He's going to resume 
 his prodding," was his mental comment. "Anyhow, 
 I'll keep a rein on my tongue and my temper." 
 
 "How do you like the appearance of the jury?" 
 was the next question. 
 
 "That's introductory," thought Malcolm. 
 
 "I am quite well satisfied," he answered. 
 
 "Your former employer, Van Courtland, was 
 there," the Major remarked innocently. 
 
 Had he commented on the state of the weather, he 
 would have done so in the same tone; but his eyes 
 were on his companion's face, noting the effect of 
 his words. Malcolm, not to be outdone, answered 
 with equal indifference: 
 
 "Yes, I saw him." 
 
 "He's as well aware of my purpose as I am," 
 mused the Major. "Diplomacy is a waste of time. 
 He'd beat me at my own game. I must touch his 
 temper, rub him, as it were, the wrong way." 
 
 "When you are on the witness stand," he said, 
 "should I ask you if you saw, or had seen, in the 
 court room, the man who killed Harlan, what would 
 you answer?" 
 
 This was firing at close range. Before replying,
 
 CourtlanD, 173 
 
 Malcolm waited for the atmosphere to clear. For 
 an instant he was disconcerted and remained silent. 
 The Major, however, depended upon his eyes, and 
 not his ears, to gain his information. 
 
 "My answer would be, that I did not know who 
 killed Harlan." 
 
 "When the man who caused Harlan's death en- 
 tered the court room," the voice was low, the words 
 pointedly distinct, "you had, perhaps, only an opin- 
 ion, a belief; when he looked at you to-day, you 
 knew." 
 
 "That" inwardly chuckled the Major, "will rile 
 him. Well," he said aloud, as Malcolm did not im- 
 mediately reply, "what have you to say to that ?" 
 
 "Nothing," was the answer. "It's too absurd." 
 
 The Major regarded his client with admiration. 
 "In my time," he thought, "I have met all classes of 
 men, clever criminals, men of nerve, men of cool- 
 ness, judgment, men whom I knew to be thoroughly 
 bad, but who could almost make me believe they 
 were shining examples of moral rectitude. I have 
 seen men condemned to death whose courage never 
 deserted them, and those who could not be made to 
 surrender a principle, even one of unholy birth ; but 
 for an example of audacious effrontery this young 
 rascal before me is far and away in advance of any 
 of them. And he read Van Courtland's face as he 
 would an open book. I wonder if I dare mention the
 
 Cfcelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 daughter! ~No, it wouldn't be safe. Most likely 
 he'd tell me to go to the devil." 
 
 "Who comprises Van Courtland's family?" he 
 asked, his tone as courteous as if addressing the 
 court. 
 
 "My dear Major, you must remember that I was 
 a clerk in Mr. Van Courtland's employ in impor- 
 tance a step or two above the office boy." 
 
 "That line of information exhausted," quoth the 
 Major to himself. "Guess I may as well go home. 
 He knows, as well as I do, that Van Courtland has 
 an only daughter." 
 
 "Have you ever met any of the members of his 
 family?" he quietly asked. 
 
 "No," was the terse reply. 
 
 "Whether he has or has not met them," mused the 
 Major, "it's my opinion bosh, it's his life, not his 
 love affairs, in which I am concerned." 
 
 Preparing to go, he held out his hand, which Mal- 
 colm grasped. The younger man was somewhat 
 nettled. It was useless attempting to blind himself 
 to the self-evident fact: his attorney had come to 
 him to discover information and evidence; and with 
 or without the consent of his client, the astute law- 
 yer had accomplished his purpose. 
 
 "Good-night," said the Major cheerily, "eat and 
 sleep well, and, with Heaven's aid, most things will 
 come about as you order them." 
 
 In another moment he had gone.
 
 CoimlattD* 175 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 It lacked but a few minutes of ten o'clock. The 
 air of the court room was surcharged with excite- 
 ment. Late comers, seeking admission, were refused 
 at the door, for every seat was occupied by an eager, 
 curious crowd. Impatient, fretful, yet alert to all 
 that was going on, filled with consuming eagerness, 
 the spectators waited for the proceedings to begin. 
 In appearance the throng was composed of an en- 
 tirely different class than had attended the trial the 
 day previous. Ladies, richly costumed, bejeweled 
 and perfumed, were in the majority. What had 
 drawn this class within the four walls where grim 
 justice held sway? There was a young and very 
 handsome man to be tried for his life. Could this 
 be the reason for such a very remarkable display? 
 The bright colors and rich gowns lent an air of fes- 
 tivity that brought a smile to the faces of the court 
 officers. The wearers of all this finery were nervous 
 and ill at ease. They exchanged greetings and gossip 
 and declared they did not quite know why they had 
 come. Harlan, they declared, had been a friend or 
 an acquaintance, and they made it quite plain that
 
 176 OEtoelpn ^an CourtlanD, 
 
 it was not from idle curiosity they were present, 
 although they admitted that Mr. Malcolm was in a 
 predicament that was really romantic. The faces of 
 the group of ladies in the front seats were hidden un- 
 der a confused mass of plumes, aigrettes, and the fili- 
 greed high-class millinery. From the incoherent 
 murmur of voices, something like the following 
 reached their near neighbors : 
 
 "Yes, and the affair has been going on for years 
 of course, Mr. Van Courtland knew all about it. 
 Malcolm! They say he's just too nice! Of course 
 he's not guilty. That's Mr. Van Courtland just 
 sitting down. My ! Doesn't he look like a ghost ! O, 
 I'm dying to see Malcolm! Dear me, I wish the 
 trial would begin.." 
 
 "Order!" 
 
 The man of many trials was in his customary 
 seat His eyes and his coat were of the same color a 
 faded gray. His cravat, of the prevailing hue, had 
 done service since he had donned it for the first trial ; 
 his face, too, was the color of his coat, and its lines 
 and wrinkles were as devoid of life and expression. 
 Even his scanty hair, falling on his thin shoulders, 
 had faded from a pale yellow to a doubtful gray, as 
 though nature had lent her aid to complete the for- 
 lorn picture he presented. His mind dwelt on death ; 
 his whole appearance was in keeping with his 
 thoughts.
 
 $att CourtlanU, irr 
 
 "Witnesses," he was saying to the man beside 
 him, "you can get them to swear to anything; it's 
 simply a question of price. If they convict Malcolm, 
 it will be because he hasn't money enough to get 
 witnesses to swear to his side of the case, or to buy 
 off those for the Government. Harlan was a rich 
 man, so they must convict someone. These trials 
 are a great farce. You can buy all our public offi- 
 cials from the police up." 
 
 "Don't agree with you there," said the listener. 
 
 "You have a right to your opinion," the first 
 speaker said in a lifeless voice. "Once I believed as 
 you do, but I have seen, I have seen ! I don't believe 
 any more " 
 
 The voice died. Exhaustion seemed to have over- 
 taken the speaker. 
 
 The judge took his seat on the bench. Shortly 
 after, Malcolm was escorted to his place by the 
 court officer. 
 
 As on the preceding day, there was a craning of 
 necks to catch a glimpse of the accused man. The 
 plumes and feathers and silks became animated. 
 Open admiration lighted the fair faces of the wearers 
 of the silken gowns and, settling back in their places, 
 they mentally pronounced the prisoner innocent. 
 
 Malcolm, meantime, was holding a whispered con- 
 versation with the Major. 
 
 "Sleep well \" asked the Major.
 
 178 oftjelpn l^an Courtland* 
 
 "Like a top," was the answer. 
 
 "And breakfast! Appetite good?" There was a 
 laugh in the speaker's eyes. 
 
 "Appetite excellent. Of course, I could have 
 eaten more had it been furnished me." 
 
 "You'll do," chuckled the Major. 
 
 Le Moyne called his first witness. It was the man 
 who had discovered Harlan's body. His statement 
 did not vary from that given to the press. The Ma- 
 jor asked a few questions in cross-examination, then 
 the witness was excused. 
 
 The servant who admitted Malcolm to the house 
 was next called, and the Major warmed to his work. 
 He appeared transformed. His air of unconcern 
 vanished ; his expression was no longer one of smiling 
 good nature; his eyes were fixed on the face of the 
 witness iofra glance that never wavered, and noted 
 every passing emotion of fear, surprise, cunning. 
 In the drooping of her eyelids, the crafty lawyer 
 saw the uncertainty of the coming answer, or her 
 intent not to disclose all she knew. He watched the 
 slight, muscular twitching about the mouth, a char- 
 acteristic uplifting of the head, denoting fear of at- 
 tack or defiance. More than all else, he was sur- 
 prised to observe her wandering glance that, again 
 and again, was directed to a far corner of the court 
 room, always to the same place, among the spec- 
 tators. If a question were asked her by Le Moyne, 
 one she did not anticipate, or for which she had no
 
 CoitrtlanD* 
 
 answer prepared, unconsciously her eyes traversed 
 the length of the room. Shifting his seat, the Major 
 cautiously followed the quick, but crafty, look she 
 flashed over the heads of those seated within the en- 
 closure. One unskilled in grasping every detail, or 
 incident, however trivial, would have noticed noth- 
 ing unusual simply rows of upturned faces ex- 
 pectant, eager, ludicrous in their expression of in- 
 tense interest. Not so the Major. He had not spent 
 years as a trial lawyer without reaping the reward 
 of a large experience, and it was this faculty of see- 
 ing little things beneath the notice of the ordinary 
 lawyer that had contributed to his success. Otfcers 
 looked for greater things than chance presented, and 
 overlooked the lesser that, as rounds of a ladder, led 
 to heights to which they aspired. The Major never 
 refused to take advantage of the most trivial incident, 
 and it was by this method that he had often turned 
 threatened failure into victory. 
 
 What the Major saw was a man's face above the 
 heads of the others, his glance fixed on the witness, 
 and in his eyes an expression of censure, mingled 
 with fear. 
 
 "Well," mused the Major, "scientists would call 
 this a case either of mental telepathy or hypnotism. 
 Evidently this man is controlling the witness. Who 
 is he ? A lover or her husband ? What interest has 
 he in the case ?"
 
 180 oftjelpn $an CouttianD, 
 
 "After you admitted Malcolm to the house," was 
 Le Moyne's next question, "where did you go?" 
 
 "Into the dining room," she answered without hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 "Was there anyone else in the dining room, or 
 were you alone?" 
 
 Again the glance shot across the room. 
 
 "I was alone," she replied. 
 
 "No," was the Major's mental observation, "you 
 were not alone." 
 
 "How long did you remain in the dining room?" 
 was the next question. 
 
 "Till Mr. Harlan came home." 
 
 "Now state what you did after Mr. Harlan's re- 
 turn." 
 
 "I stayed downstairs for fifteen minutes or so, 
 then I went to my room and to bed." 
 
 "In what part of the house was your room ?" 
 
 "On the third floor back." 
 
 "Did you have to pass through any of the rooms 
 of the other servants to reach yours ?" 
 
 "O, no, sir. My room opened from the hallway." 
 
 "Now, after your master returned, and before you 
 went upstairs, state what you saw or heard." 
 
 Again she showed the hesitancy, followed by the 
 same searching look. She answered in a low voice. 
 
 "I was in the room next to the library. I could 
 hear them speaking. The voices were loud, as if 
 they were quarreling."
 
 ^att CourtlanD, isi 
 
 "So that's the Government's line of action," thought 
 the Major. "This girl has been bought, and the young 
 man in the rear is a party to the contract. She's go- 
 ing to marry him, and they'll set up housekeeping 
 on the price she gets for her evidence. If successful, 
 a very nice arrangement for them. Should I at- 
 tempt to interfere with their plans, I suppose she 
 would consider me anything but a gentleman." 
 
 "Can you tell me the subject of their quarrel 
 what they said?" asked Le Moyne. 
 
 A slight flush overspread her face; her glance 
 wavered. 
 
 "Well," she began hesitatingly, "I supposed " 
 
 "Wait a moment," blandly interrupted the Major. 
 
 "I asked you," said Le Moyne, "to state what you 
 heard, not what you supposed. Tell us what they 
 said." 
 
 Her color deepened. She was not wholly bad, she 
 realized the wrong she was doing, and the good in 
 her rebelled. The Major watched the struggle. On 
 the one side was a man's life; arrayed against it, 
 her lover, and the promise of a future home. Gradu- 
 ally her eyes lifted till they met the controlling 
 glance of the man for whom she had sold herself. 
 The look decided her. 
 
 In a tone that, after the first few broken sentences, 
 grew confident, she told of angry voices, charges and 
 counter charges between the two men. The subject 
 matter of her narrative was disconnected, as might
 
 182 OEtoelpn $an CoiirtlanD* 
 
 be expected from one who had listened in an adjoin- 
 ing room. There was art in her recital; but those 
 skilled in judging truth by a witness's voice and 
 manner, and not by his words, would not have been 
 deceived. It was apparent that she had been coached 
 too thoroughly she told her story too well. After 
 she had overcome her embarrassment, she spoke with 
 glib fluency, with too evident a desire to emphasize 
 that which would lend color to the Government's con- 
 tention that Malcolm's visit had resulted in a quar- 
 rel with a fatal termination. Unless her testimony 
 could be shaken, it was damning evidence against the 
 accused. 
 
 During the recital Malcolm watched the witness 
 with interest and increasing astonishment the only 
 evidence of his feelings being his heightened color. 
 Apart from this slight indication that he was moved, 
 his calm, dignified bearing was in keeping with his 
 air of reserve, of physical and mental power. 
 
 Unlike his attorney, he was shocked at the daring 
 of the recital. The extent to which the Government 
 would go to fasten the guilt upon him came as a rev- 
 elation. For the first time since his arrest he began 
 to fully appreciate the seriousness of his position. 
 The thought at once occurred to him that this igno- 
 rant girl could not have originated the story she had 
 told ; she could have no desire for his conviction, un- 
 less an incentive had been held out that appealed to 
 her greed. Neither could he bring himself to believe
 
 CourtlanD. iss 
 
 that Le Moyne was aware of the falsity of her state- 
 ment If the evidence of this witness was in keep- 
 ing with that to which the others would testify, what 
 might he not expect? What must be the condition 
 of Courts of Justice if such methods could be suc- 
 cessfully pursued? 
 
 The Major, were he disposed, could have enlight- 
 ened his client on many points that filled his mind 
 with doubts and misgivings. He could have laid 
 bare methods, in the conduct of the law, that would 
 tax the credulity of men less willing than Malcolm 
 to accept the theory that things are right because they 
 should be right. 
 
 Malcolm eagerly watched his attorney. The Gov- 
 ernment had finished with the witness, and the Ma- 
 jor, smiling, suave, and appearing to be wholly satis- 
 fied with the testimony, rose to begin his cross-exami- 
 nation. A voice from the jury arrested attention. 
 
 "Your Honor," said a juror, "may I ask the wit- 
 ness a question ?" 
 
 "You may ask it," replied the Judge. 
 
 "Why," asked the juror of the witness, "did you 
 listen in the adjoining room? What was your pur- 
 pose ?" 
 
 The voice was thin and irritable, the speaker's 
 manner not reassuring. 
 
 "Ha!" chuckled the Major, "there's one beside 
 myself who doesn't believe a word of her evidence." 
 
 The witness had come prepared to meet the ques-
 
 184 (Etoelpn $an CotmlanD, 
 
 tions of the attorneys. She realized she had yet to 
 undergo an exacting ordeal, to stand before one of 
 the ablest cross-examiners of the state, to have her 
 story tested by every art and device to entrap her into 
 an admission or statement that would lessen the force 
 of her evidence. Now a new inquisitor presented 
 himself. She was not prepared, and the juror's sim- 
 ple question threw her into a state of panic. She had 
 answered the attorney for the Government, encour- 
 aged by his gentle manner, with a feeling of security, 
 and a belief that she was under his personal protec- 
 tion. Now, with a suddenness that benumbed her 
 faculties, she became aware that twelve pairs of eyes 
 were directed toward her. The blood rushed to her 
 face, then receded, leaving her pale and unnerved. 
 She resented the juror's impertinence his implied 
 assertion that she had no right to listen. 
 
 Raising her eyes, she gathered courage by the 
 glance. 
 
 "I was busy in the drawing room and could not 
 help overhearing," she answered, after the juror re- 
 peated the question. 
 
 "Thank you," volunteered the intrepid juror. 
 
 "Busy listening," mused the Major. 
 
 He faced the witness. To give her time to recover, 
 he stood with his hands behind him, his eyes on the 
 floor, apparently considering his opening question. 
 Then he raised his head and, with a courtesy that
 
 OEfeelpn $an CourtlanD. 135 
 
 was inborn, a kindliness that immediately placed her 
 at her ease, he asked his first question. His tone was 
 such as he would have used in addressing the court. 
 In examining a woman witness, he had never allowed 
 himself to forget that he was in a Court of Justice, 
 and that the witness was a woman. 
 
 "I didn't quite understand your full name," he 
 said quietly, "will you please state it again ?" 
 
 "Nora Bradley," she answered with growing con- 
 fidence. 
 
 She flashed a look, a glance of self-assurance, 
 across the court room. The glance said almost 
 audibly "I have nothing to fear from this man." 
 
 The Major had seen the look. He had also ob- 
 served the smile, and read its meaning. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Bradley" how suave his manner, 
 how enticing the smile that accompanied the words ! 
 The witness beamed, then giggled at the Major's 
 blunder. 
 
 "I am not married," she answered coyly, with a 
 becoming blush. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the Major. "Not her 
 husband," he mused, "then the young man is her 
 lover." 
 
 She smiled her forgiveness, then awaited the next 
 question. She was beginning to enjoy the novelty 
 of her first experience as a witness. Fear? Never 
 had she been more self-possessed. She was amused,
 
 186 Ctoelpn t?an CourtlanU. 
 
 her expression plainly told her estimate of the de- 
 fendant's attorney. In the language of her kind, 
 she mentally pronounced him "dead easy." 
 
 "But you are engaged to be married ?" the Major 
 ventured. 
 
 Her ready blush preceded her faltering "Yes." 
 
 Quick as a flash came the next question, without 
 warning, but in the same courteous tone. 
 
 "To that young man near the door ?" 
 
 Le Moyne was on his feet with a quick objection, 
 but it was too late to defeat the Major's purpose. 
 The f .ice of the witness became livid, but the Major 
 paid no attention to her look of fear. For the mo- 
 ment he had transferred his attention to the man 
 who had lent encouragement to the witness, who, as 
 if moved by a sudden impulse, had risen in his seat, 
 thus attracting to himself the attention of both judge 
 and jury. 
 
 Le Moyne withdrew his objection, which the sud- 
 denness of the question, more than a serious desire 
 to exclude it, had prompted him to offer. 
 
 "Well," continued the Major, with the same smile 
 of interest, "is that the happy man ?" 
 
 "Yes," meekly answered the witness. 
 
 "What is the gentleman's name ?" asked the Major, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Phil. Donnolly," she replied doggedly. 
 
 "Now," continued the Major, refusing to notice
 
 tan CourtlanD. is? 
 
 her look of hate, "while Mr. Malcolm waited for your 
 employer, where were you?" 
 
 "In the dining room." 
 
 "Were you alone?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, but, as though unable to ex- 
 ercise her own will, her glance wandered across the 
 room. Realizing that the look might have betrayed 
 her thoughts, she flushed ; then, glaring her defiance, 
 awaited the Major's pleasure. His calm aggravated 
 her. She was nervously alert, not knowing what 
 form the next question might assume, or from what 
 quarter to expect an attack. 
 
 "Wasn't Mr. Donnelly with you?" the Major 
 asked, indicating by a motion of his head whom he 
 meant. 
 
 "No," she tartly replied. 
 
 "Are you prepared to swear he was not in the 
 house at the time ?" 
 
 The Major was pressing his point, and the witness 
 began to fully realize that he was leading her into 
 admissions and denials that later he might turn to 
 terrible account. She was becoming wary, and had 
 recourse to the answer that untold thousands before 
 her had called to their aid. It was a response that 
 had done service for the richest and the poorest, 
 from the king to the menial: 
 
 "I don't remember," she faltered. 
 
 "Well," thought the Major, "for one of her mental
 
 188 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanU* 
 
 capacity, she's doing famously. Think I'll try her 
 on another tack." 
 
 "You know Officer Walters ?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 The effect of this question seemed to threaten her 
 utter collapse. For several moments she remained 
 silent, as one dazed, then mumbled in the affirmative. 
 
 "You have agreed to accept a stipulated sum as 
 payment for giving your testimony in this case ?" 
 
 This she denied, but the effect of her direct testi- 
 mony had been shattered. Step by step the Major 
 led her on, until she found herself hopelessly en- 
 tangled in a maze of contradictory statements. He 
 referred to the time, the place, even the hour that 
 her interview with the officers or their agents had 
 taken place. He was in possession of her past his- 
 tory, and was aware of her present occupation, and 
 of every incident of any importance that concerned 
 her since the night of Harlan's death. His manner 
 while examining her was considerate, even courteous ; 
 but when he had finished, and she stepped from the 
 witness stand, to court and jury her value as the Gov- 
 ernment's chief witness had been destroyed. 
 
 Le Moyne was worried not so much by what his 
 opponent had drawn from the witness, as by his 
 complete knowledge of the Government's case, of 
 their officers and their methods of procuring evi- 
 dence. Though he allowed for the thorough manner 
 in which the Major prepared his cases, still his 
 knowledge of facts that he believed he, himself, alone
 
 CourtlanD* 139 
 
 knew, filled him with astonishment, even dismay. 
 How the Major had become possessed of the informa- 
 tion he could not conjecture, and he resigned himself 
 to the work before him. As each succeeding witness 
 took the stand, fitting in his link in the chain of evi- 
 dence, it became more and more apparent to the 
 District Attorney that the secrets of his office were 
 in the Major's keeping. Witness after witness fell 
 before the Major, usually at some vital point in their 
 testimony that turned their evidence to Strong's 
 advantage, or acted with the effect of a boomerang, 
 recoiling on the witness with telling effect. What, 
 however, annoyed and astonished Le Moyne more 
 than all else was the certainty that the Major's suc- 
 cess was made possible only by knowledge that had 
 come to him before the commencement of the trial. 
 
 "There is a leak somewhere," he thought. "He 
 knows secrets of my case that I would not intrust 
 to my subordinates. How has he learned them? 
 He seems to have clairvoyant power." 
 
 A witness known to the Major as a procurer of 
 evidence and a go-between, was put on the stand to 
 prove some minor detail. He was what is termed a 
 "sporting man," a high liver, and utterly unscrupu- 
 lous. His nose was of a suggestive carmine. 
 
 "Are you a drinking man ?" was the Major's first 
 question. 
 
 "That," answered the witness, with becoming in- 
 dignation, "is my business."
 
 190 dEtoelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 "Have you any other?" quietly asked the Major. 
 
 The jury chuckled, and the witness refusing to 
 answer, the Major resumed : 
 
 "You live at No. 90th Street ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You own the house you live in ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Also the adjoining property ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How much other property do you own ?" 
 
 "I can't tell, exactly." 
 
 "You are assessed for more than one hundred 
 thousand dollars ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you made it all as a private detective ?" 
 
 "I made it honestly." 
 
 The witness glared his defiance. The Major had 
 made no direct accusation but, unless he misjudged 
 the capacity of the jury, they thought deeply. 
 
 Van Courtland had been an eager listener. Noth- 
 ing had escaped him the impression made on the 
 jury by the witnesses, the effect of each bit of evi- 
 dence, the judge's appearance, the points brought out 
 by each of the attorneys, and their probable influence 
 on the case. His courage would rise or fall as the 
 evidence against the accused was strengthened by 
 the adroit handling of the prosecuting attorney, or 
 weakened by an equally brilliant move on the part 
 of the defendant's counsel.
 
 CourtlanU* 191 
 
 Early in the day, when the Bradley woman was 
 giving her direct evidence, Van Courtland was filled 
 with exultation. Then followed a feeling of revul- 
 sion a horrible, damning thought, that, should the 
 Government succeed, he would be as guilty of taking 
 Malcolm's life as if he had slain him. Fearing to 
 again meet the eye of the defendant, Van Courtland 
 selected a seat where Malcolm could not see him; 
 yet throughout the entire day he seemed to feel his 
 accusing eyes. When remorse touched him, and the 
 overwhelming consciousness of his own guilt and 
 cowardice flashed before him, his eyes would again 
 wander to the face of the accused man. An almost 
 uncontrollable desire to cry out his own guilt would 
 be arrested by a thought of his daughter, and, weak 
 and trembling, he would sink back into his seat. 
 Again his thoughts were of the wife who had tinged 
 the memory of the past years with bitterness, and of 
 the man who had brought dishonor to his home. Re- 
 sentment was yet keenly alive, unsoftened by pity or 
 regret. Remorse that made his days a torment, his 
 nights a sleepless horror, was not occasioned by the 
 crime by which he had thought to avenge his honor. 
 It was the wrong he was doing to the living that had 
 the power to move him. Malcolm's face haunted 
 him, and each succeeding day brought its new pang, 
 its new accusation. 
 
 "If it were only over! This trial, this O, it is 
 all such a farce!" he mused with bitterness. "Jus-
 
 192 (Etielrt $an CourtlauD. 
 
 tice ! The leeches, who, for the money I furnish, 
 are willing to swear away the life of an innocent 
 man ! They are as guilty as I, and I reek with the 
 infamy of hell !" 
 
 Dejection, even discouragement, had taken pos- 
 session of Le Moyne. He did not attempt to deceive 
 himself. During the months devoted to the upbuild- 
 ing of the Government's case, his ambition had been 
 fired by the thought of the reward success might 
 bring him Evelyn's love. Now he saw his case 
 crumbling; he felt it, knew it. Whichever way he 
 turned, he had been confronted by the defense 
 every move anticipated, every point in the evidence 
 met and parried and turned against him. What 
 mysterious power was behind the accused and his at- 
 torney? How had they become aware of the evi- 
 dence upon which he depended to prove his case? 
 Experience and example had taught him to guard 
 evidence closely, until he had occasion to use it at the 
 trial of a cause. No one, not even his most trusted 
 assistants, knew the evidence on which he depended 
 to convict Malcolm. No one except himself and 
 Evelyn. She was not one who, in an unguarded mo- 
 ment, like many another woman, would make a con- 
 fidant of one of her sex. He would entrust his 
 heart's secrets to her keeping. Yet, the fact re- 
 mained that he had been betrayed. How or by whom 
 it was impossible to conjecture. 
 
 What, meantime, were the thoughts, the emotions,
 
 OEfcelpn $att Cotmlantu 193 
 
 of the defendant? Was he moved by the evidence? 
 Did he betray his feelings of surprise, of astonish- 
 ment, as he heard the witnesses, one after another, 
 testify to what he knew to be without even the sem- 
 blance of truth ? His face told nothing. Unmoved, 
 he watched the progress of the case, his attention di- 
 rected to the witnesses, his modest and wholly un- 
 conscious bearing commanding admiration and re- 
 spect. The Major was filled with keen satisfaction, 
 for he did not underestimate the impression on the 
 jury of Malcolm's appearance. When the servant 
 had been testifying of the quarrel, every eye had 
 been directed to the face of the defendant, even the 
 Major had glanced at him with apprehension. One 
 look dispelled his fears the expression on the face 
 of his client was one of quiet confidence. 
 
 Le Moyne had finished with the last witness for 
 the day. It lacked but a few moments of the hour 
 of adjournment. He turned the witness over to the 
 Major for cross-examination. 
 
 "No questions," said the Major. The witness was 
 excused, and the trial declared adjourned.
 
 194 u&ielpn $an Coimianto, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 iWiTH what a conflict of emotions had Evelyn 
 passed the day! The hours dragged slowly hours 
 filled with misgivings, hopes and fears. When her 
 father had left for the city in the early morning, 
 she could not but note his changed appearance. His 
 step was buoyant, his manner almost gay; but his 
 was the mirth of one whose mind is in disorder, of 
 one who jests in the madness of delirium. It is the 
 mirth that jars, that racks the soul of those who are 
 forced to listen, and are powerless to bring relief 
 to the tortured brain. He had been encouraged by 
 the auspicious opening of the trial. The mind, after 
 a protracted period of gloomy forebodings, had 
 leaped to the other extreme. The effect was a men- 
 tal condition bordering on emotional frenzy. 
 
 Evelyn was not deceived as to his condition. For 
 weeks past she had watched him narrowly and, know- 
 ing that the uncertainty of the trial was the main 
 cause of his threatened mental collapse, she hailed 
 the approaching end, whatever its result, with a keen 
 sense of relief. 
 
 What would that result be? From her father's 
 state of mind as well as from what he had told her,
 
 OEfcelpn $an CourtlattD. 195 
 
 together with what she had overheard of his con- 
 versation with Le Moyne, she had formed the opin- 
 ion that the trial so far portended ill for Malcolm. 
 With the thought of this possibility came renewed 
 fears, that far outweighed the concern she felt for 
 her father. "How was it possible," she argued, 
 "that an innocent man could be convicted ?" True, 
 every circumstance connecting him with the crime 
 pointed to his guilt. It was one of the cases in 
 which chance intervened, placing the burden on the 
 accused man of proving his innocence. Thus through 
 the day she reasoned hope and fear in turn taking 
 possession of her mind. 
 
 Whatever the result, be it victory or defeat for the 
 Government, she felt that the taint of the traitor 
 would cling to her. What could she expect from the 
 man she had deceived ? Would she be in the eyes of 
 all men worse than the woman who barters her body ? 
 Would her own kind turn from her, as one unworthy, 
 and if she should ever love, would fate repay her in 
 her own coin ? 
 
 And the man for whom she had sold her woman- 
 hood, this man whom she had never seen! What 
 was he like was he worthy of the sacrifice she had 
 made, would he thank her, or, if he knew the price 
 she had paid for his life, would he, too, turn from 
 her, refusing to accept freedom bought with a lie 
 worse, at the cost of much that a man reveres in 
 woman ?
 
 196 dEfceln $an CourtlanU. 
 
 Filled with impatience, she counted the hours and 
 the minutes till her father would return. She was 
 possessed by a mad desire to go to the court room, to 
 look at the accused man, to judge for herself what 
 might be the result of the trial. Laughing at the 
 thought, she put it from her. As the dinner hour 
 approached she regained her composure. 
 
 From her room on the second floor, she heard her 
 father enter the house and go into the library. Din- 
 ner being announced, she entered the dining room 
 and waited for him to appear. Five, ten minutes 
 went by, and still he did not come. 
 
 "Rap on the library door, James, please," she 
 said to the butler, "and say that dinner is wating." 
 
 The man did as directed, and Van Courtland, after 
 a short delay, entered the room. 
 
 One glance, and Evelyn knew that the day had 
 brought disaster. His face was ghastly, its expres- 
 sion of inexpressible weariness of body and mind, 
 pathetic in its hopelessness, brought a moisture to 
 the eyes that met his. From exhaustion, he sank into 
 his seat before he spoke. 
 
 "Not such good results as yesterday, my dear," he 
 said. "One unfamiliar with criminal proceedings, 
 however, is not competent to judge. It's the argu- 
 ment that tells." 
 
 He made a pitiful attempt at cheerfulness, but 
 could not entirely control his voice. 
 
 His efforts did not deceive her. His look and man-
 
 $an Courtland, 197 
 
 ner told her that the day had been one of ill-success 
 for the Government Hope, then, was for the de- 
 fendant. Her flash of joy died into sympathy for 
 her father. She would not ask him of the trial. 
 She must, in fact, lead his mind away from the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 "Papa," she said gently, "I have been busy with 
 the preparation for our trip abroad. There are some 
 matters about which I must consult with you." 
 
 "Make any arrangement you like, my dear," he 
 answered somewhat impatiently; then, becoming 
 conscious of his tone, he added, "You know, Evelyn, 
 dear, I cannot now give these matters attention. I 
 shall arrange everything after the trial." 
 
 It seemed a hopeless task to divert his mind from 
 the subject, which it had dwelt upon for months. 
 Whatever topic of conversation she introduced was 
 merely a diversion that quickly merged into the one 
 great topic that engrossed his mind. Evelyn made 
 another attempt with similar result, then, rising, she 
 stood beside her father and, bending over him, lightly 
 touched his cheek with her own. 
 
 "Papa," she said, a slight tremor in her voice, 
 "will you grant me a favor ?" 
 
 "Willingly, my dear," he answered. 
 
 For the moment his thoughts were only of his 
 daughter. His features relaxed, the tense lines dis- 
 solved into a tender smile. 
 
 "Try to forget this trial," she said. "Drive it
 
 198 dEfcelpn l?an CourtianD. 
 
 from your mind. You will try," she entreated, "just 
 for my sake ?" 
 
 "I will do anything you ask," he said, rising. 
 
 Habit crushed his intention, however. Like the 
 muscles, the mind may become trained in a certain 
 direction, and refuse to be lightly turned aside from 
 a beaten track. Allow a horse to canter till the habit 
 becomes fixed, and he will change his gait only for 
 so long as you hold him down to it; relax your 
 vigilance, and he returns to his former habit. Van 
 Courtland would deny his daughter nothing within 
 his power to grant, but unconsciously he returned to 
 the subject of the trial. 
 
 "Mr. Le Moyne will make a great argument, I am 
 sure of that," he said, brightening. 
 
 "I have no doubt he will," she rejoined. Realizing 
 the fruitlessness of further effort at conversation, she 
 asked, "Shall I play for you, papa ?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied absently. 
 
 She sat at the piano and played till the evening 
 was well advanced. Her father was conscious of the 
 sound that was all. Mentally, he was going over 
 the scenes of the day, repeating the questions and an- 
 swers, arguing each point in favor of or against the 
 accused, living again the hopes and the fears that, 
 during the day, had wrought him to the highest de- 
 gree of excitement. His features were a play of 
 emotion, his color continually changing, his hands 
 and head emphasized his thoughts, his whole aspect
 
 Part CourtlanD. 199 
 
 that of one whose faculties were those of a child or a 
 madman. How long could the strain on the mind 
 continue ? Unless some change, quick and complete, 
 turned the current of his thoughts, there could be but 
 one result madness. 
 
 Evelyn stopped playing. Her father remaining 
 silent, she turned to him. .With a start he pulled 
 himself together. 
 
 "I am listening, my dear," he said, "play some 
 more." 
 
 Believing that the music diverted his thoughts, 
 she resumed playing. But above the sound she heard 
 his querulous voice, indistinct, but loud enough for 
 her to understand the muttered words, raised in pro- 
 test. His ramblings filled her with alarm fear that 
 his reason, after the ordeal of the past month, had at 
 last given way. Still she continued to play, that he 
 might not feel her anxious scrutiny. 
 
 What a change from the once brilliant man ! He 
 seemed a child once more. The senseless chatter, 
 the impotent rage, the unreasoning fear were the 
 promptings of an unbalanced mind. Terror con- 
 trolled him, deadening reason, distorting his features, 
 filling him with dread of impending and immediate 
 ruin. He seemed to hear himself accused in open 
 court, the same witnesses arrayed against himself, 
 and the spectators gloating and reviling him. Mal- 
 colm's face, too, rose before him, scoffing, disdainful ! 
 At last the man he had wronged was to have his re-
 
 200 
 
 venge. And he, himself, with his honorable record 
 in the business world, Tie would take the place of the 
 man who was now accused ; the officers who were even 
 then using his wealth to convict another would turn 
 against him. And Evelyn 
 
 A stifled cry, and the music, with a jarring dis- 
 cord, stopped. Evelyn hurried to her father's side. 
 He made a feeble effort to appear unconcerned, mum- 
 bled an incoherent excuse and, trembling, rose from 
 his seat 
 
 "I must have been dreaming," he said. "My dear, 
 I think I will retire early. There is another trying 
 day before us." 
 
 He kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 "Could I not read to you ?" she asked, fearing to 
 trust him to the solitude of his own room. 
 
 "Thank you, my child, not to-night I am not in 
 the humor and my head feels badly. A good sleep, 
 dear, is all I need. Good night" 
 
 When Evelyn was alone, she made an heroic effort 
 to control her emotion, but despite her efforts the 
 tears would come, and the sobs she could not repress. 
 She did not seek to blind herself to the truth her 
 father was no longer rational, no longer responsible 
 for his words or acts. What was before her ? How 
 would it all end ? Sorrow ? Yes, it was hers in its 
 fullness in its bitterness. It was for her father's 
 pitiable plight she grieved. A physical and mental 
 wreck was all that remained of the one who had been
 
 OEtoelpn $an Courtland* 201 
 
 her pride, on whom she had lavished her devotion. 
 It had been his love that had atoned for the indiffer- 
 ence and neglect of her mother, whom, even as a 
 child, it then seemed to her, she had never known. 
 Her mother! Yes, her act had set in motion the 
 train of disasters that had plunged their life into a 
 gloom that cast its influence into the future. What 
 was beyond, no one could tell. The future ? She 
 shuddered. What did the future hold for her ? Was 
 she, too, following in her mother's footsteps ? Would 
 the ruin of a man's love and life be laid at her door ? 
 Was the instinct for ruin in her blood, was it pre- 
 destined that she was to pay the penalty of her moth- 
 er's sin by some fearful atonement that would cleanse 
 her own soul of the stain ? Should it come, she would 
 be prepared, she would even welcome it hail it as a 
 deliverance, as a means of rehabilitating her woman- 
 hood. That was for the future. It was the thought 
 of the awful present that caused her heart to falter, 
 her lips to tremble, her courage to melt before the 
 ready tears. Where now was the pride that should 
 sustain her? Pride! What right had she to think 
 of pride ? She smiled at the thought. Had she not 
 by her own act placed herself without the pale of her 
 kind ? Should she hear her sex assailed, their prin- 
 ciples, their adherence to truth, questioned, would 
 she have the right to raise her voice to protest, to de- 
 fend ? No. It was not for her. She had surrendered 
 the sweetest of all gifts, the insignia of a pure mind,
 
 202 Ctoelpn tan CourtlanD* 
 
 that men, however base, demand of women con- 
 science. The mind must be of the purity of the body 
 unsullied. A Magdalene, in thought, may rise to 
 the level of the virgin. The body contaminated by 
 lust, defiles the earthly human structure; thought, in 
 its purity, may reach to the very gates of Heaven; 
 tempered by viciousness, it sinks to depths beyond 
 the power of the human mind to conceive. 
 
 Whatever were Evelyn's feelings of sorrow or re- 
 morse, a plain duty presented itself, rising above her 
 personal feelings, impelling her to immediate action. 
 She must get her father away from the influences 
 that were threatening his health and his reason. 
 There should be no delay, and, far away from the 
 scenes of the tragedy, she would nurse him back to 
 health. Happiness was not for him, she never could 
 hope for it; but she would devote her energy, her life, 
 to ease the remorse that she knew was his. 
 
 Listening at the door of his room, his deep breath- 
 ing reassured her. It was long after midnight. 
 Softly she stole to her own apartments, cheered by 
 the thought that her father slept
 
 OEtoelpn $att CouttlanD* 203 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE last day of the trial had come. Major Strong 
 had announced that he would require but an hour to 
 put in his defense. His argument ? He would agree 
 to limit the arguments to one hour for either side. 
 Should the Government require more time, he would 
 consent to an extension; for himself one hour was 
 sufficient. Besides the defendant, he had only one 
 witness. He saw no reason, if the Government so de- 
 sired, why the case could not go to the jury before 
 night. 
 
 Le Moyne, with an air of confidence that did not 
 reflect his true feelings, agreed to the Major's sug- 
 gestions, and prepared to resume the trial. But he 
 had lost heart. Who was the witness that Strong 
 would introduce? What the grounds for his quiet 
 confidence ? The Government having rested its case, 
 when the court opened the defense would be heard, 
 and he would not long be in suspense. 
 
 Since the adjournment of the court he had arrived 
 at one conclusion the evidence of the defense, per- 
 haps its only witness, would disclose what now baffled 
 him the methods by which his case had become
 
 known to Strong, and by whom he had been be- 
 trayed, for that his case had been given to the de- 
 fendant's attorney he could no longer doubt. It had 
 not been by any one bit of evidence, by any one wit- 
 ness, that he had formed his opinion; he judged by 
 the elder man's methods, viewed as a whole. After 
 this belief had taken possession of his mind, he, him- 
 self, in turn, anticipated the defendant's line of at- 
 tack upon the witness. By adroit questioning, his 
 opponent would lead up to an important point of 
 weakness in the testimony, which, if pursued too far, 
 might direct suspicion to the source of his informa- 
 tion, or place him in a position where retreat might 
 be embarrassing. At this stage he stopped, or gave 
 a new and quick turn to his line of inquiry. 
 
 Thus harassed by countless minor details, dis- 
 mayed by the unknown power that had contributed 
 to his foreshadowed defeat, Le Moyne awaited the 
 opening of the final day with a feeling of bitter re- 
 sentment. 
 
 The court room began to fill up as soon as the doors 
 were open, for the impression had got abroad that the 
 day promised unusual developments. The old guard, 
 with the wisdom of experience, came early, secured 
 their former places, exchanged felicitous greetings, 
 and joked at the experience of those less fortunate, 
 clamoring for admission at the door. 
 
 The man in the gray coat he of the faded eyes 
 and soulless voice whispered to his neighbor:
 
 Pan CourtlanD, 205 
 
 "These people act like a crowd of boys at a circus. 
 They look at the defendant as if he were an animal 
 in a cage and with much the same feeling. Do 
 you see those women? They were here yesterday. 
 They are of the class that send flowers to the ac- 
 cused, and write silly verses. I heard one of them 
 say she was dying to speak to him! They are af- 
 flicted with emotional insanity a harmless set of 
 idiots. With all their fine airs and gewgaws, they're 
 not ladies nor women I don't know what they 
 are." 
 
 He subsided into a contemplation of times that 
 were, and of the present, to which he did not appear 
 to belong. Those who had inspired his caustic com- 
 ment were exchanging opinions and commenting on 
 the proceedings of the previous day. 
 
 "Didn't Mr. Malcolm look distinguished!" one 
 was saying, "and that spiteful little wretch of a 
 maid ! How I would have liked to have shaken her. 
 I know there wasn't one word of truth in what she 
 said. She looked exactly as my maid does when she's 
 fibbing!" 
 
 The plumes and aigrettes nodded a simultaneous 
 approval, and their owners turned their attention to 
 Mr. Wavily, who was given a seat within the en- 
 closure. Le Moyne greeted him warmly. 
 
 "I thought I would drop in on you for half an 
 hour," Wavily was saying. "I gather from the 
 newspapers that young Malcolm will be acquitted.
 
 206 OEttelpn i?an Couttlanfc* 
 
 I'm glad of it Don't be offended. You're too good 
 a man to be mixed up with 'political machine' jus- 
 tice. The administration of justice, when controlled 
 by politics, is all wrong. That's the trouble with our 
 present form of government. I'm glad to see you" 
 he extended his hand to Van Courtland. "Sit here 
 I want to talk with you." 
 
 The Judge entered, and, without delay, the trial 
 proceeded. 
 
 Major Strong rose and, after bowing to the court, 
 turned to the jury to outline his defense. 
 
 Silence settled on the room, a silence that was a 
 tribute to the attorney, the orator. It was an uncon- 
 scious, simultaneous act of homage. He had won his 
 right to their respect by a professional career of in- 
 tegrity ; and their admiration was for his manly qual- 
 ities of head and heart. 
 
 He spoke in a voice devoid of passion, pvery word 
 distinct, every statement clear and concise. He 
 would show by a witness, he said, that the defendant 
 was not the only person who had visited Harlan's 
 home the night of the tragedy. He promised to pro- 
 duce a witness who knew Malcolm, and had passed 
 him on the street directly after he had taken leave of 
 Harlan. This was some minutes before the witness 
 saw another man, whom he could not identify owing 
 to the darkness, enter the house. He would further 
 show his voice, into which a shade of feeling crept, 
 became more resonant that the knowledge of this
 
 CourtlanD, 207 
 
 witness was in possession of the Government before 
 he had been summoned by the defendant to appear 
 and testify. He would also, he concluded, put the 
 defendant on the stand, that the jury might judge of 
 his guilt or innocence. 
 
 Le Moyne, with head bent forward, his eyes on the 
 jury, listened eagerly to the Major's opening words ; 
 but when the speaker mentioned the witness, Le 
 Moyne, startled, directed his attention to his oppo- 
 nent. Throughout the remainder of the address the 
 young attorney sat as one dazed. This witness ! 
 There could not be two who had known and passed 
 Malcolm. And the Major had stated that the wit- 
 ness he would produce was known to the Government. 
 Le Moyne, alone, was aware of the man's story, for, 
 through fear, the witness dare not repeat it there 
 was even now an indictment hanging over him. No, 
 the thing was impossible ! He must be another than 
 Johnson, the Swede. The Major was mistaken. 
 
 "Witness for the defense step forward," cried 
 the clerk. 
 
 "Carl Johnson," spoke the Major. 
 
 Had Le Moyne received a blow in the face, the 
 shock would not have been as great as when he saw 
 Johnson come from the rear of the room and hold up 
 his hand to be sworn. Besides himself only one per- 
 son knew the Swede's story Evelyn. Not even to 
 Van Courtland had he dared tell it. He had learned 
 Johnson's version of his meeting Malcolm quite by
 
 208 OEtoelpn i^an Couttlanti* 
 
 accident. The Swede had come to the office of the 
 District Attorney to consult with him in regard to 
 the subject of his indictment While there he had 
 told Le Moyne of meeting Malcolm, also of the man 
 he had seen enter Harlan's house. This important 
 information he had imparted to the District Attorney 
 to win his favor. Le Moyne had instructed the Swede 
 to remain silent. And now the man stood before 
 him a witness for the defense, and it had been inti- 
 mated to the jury that the Government had suppressed 
 his evidence. Well might Strong feel confident of 
 acquittal. With the Swede's evidence before them, 
 no jury could bring in a verdict other than "not 
 guilty." 
 
 "He and Evelyn alone knew of this evidence." 
 Again and again he repeated the words. Flashing 
 through his brain were thoughts and suspicions he 
 dare not entertain, that he crushed ere they assumed 
 tangible form. He could not he would not believe 
 it But his reasoning power worked independently 
 of his will. Inclination cried "It is impossible!" 
 Reason replied, "You and Evelyn alone knew!" 
 
 The witness was testifying. Le Moyne did not 
 hear, he did not care to hear. The words to which 
 he listened were ringing in his brain, and he stilled 
 them with a curse, reviling, taunting himself for the 
 fool that he had been. Her power, her beauty, still 
 controlled him; but damnable thoughts would rise 
 despite his will, forcing themselves into the clear
 
 $an Courtlanti, 209 
 
 light of reason. Had he been cajoled, tricked ? Could 
 he have followed his own inclination, he would have 
 laughed at it all as a ghastly joke. 
 
 "jSTow," the Major's voice forced itself on Le 
 Moyne's understanding, "you have stated that you 
 met Malcolm and recognized him. What time 
 elapsed after you passed him on the street before 
 you saw the man to whom you refer enter Harlan's 
 house ?" 
 
 "One minute," answered the witness. 
 
 "How did you know that the house this person en- 
 tered was Harlan's ?" 
 
 "I had occasion to go there once when Mr. Mal- 
 colm lived at the hotel where I worked." 
 
 "Could you identify the man you saw enter the 
 house ?" 
 
 At that instant Le Moyne's glance fell upon Van 
 Courtland. With staring eyes, his face livid, terror 
 stamped on every feature, he was leaning forward 
 to hear the witness' answer. He appeared panic 
 stricken, as if he were about to protest, deny, and 
 only awaited the reply of the witness before crying 
 out. Le Moyne watched him, and through the attor- 
 ney's mind flashed the memory of the man as he had 
 appeared in his own home his strange interest in 
 the result of the trial, his words and actions denoting 
 an unbalanced mind. And now this look of fear 
 
 "No," came the answer of the witness, "I could 
 not identify him."
 
 210 OEtoelpn l?an CourtlanU* 
 
 With a sigh that was half a groan, Van Courtland 
 sank back into his seat. His features relaxed, but 
 his extreme pallor remained. 
 
 On the white face was still fixed the glance of the 
 District Attorney, his brain active, thoughts and 
 scenes and forgotten words and looks that, in the 
 past, had made little or no impression, flashing with 
 terrible significance before him. The gossip that 
 linked the name of Van Courtland's wife with Har- 
 lan's, Van Courtland's fear that Malcolm might be 
 
 acquitted, Evelyn It seemed now so horribly 
 
 clear. Someone had to be sacrificed, and he, himself, 
 had been selected as the victim. 
 
 The witness was speaking. He was relating his 
 interview with the District Attorney. The jury were 
 evidently interested, but not in the witness, nor in 
 the defendant; their eyes were on Le Moyne. He 
 smiled grimly. 
 
 The Major turned to him. 
 
 "Your witness," he said quietly, and sat down. 
 
 Le Moyne rose to cross-examine. He had no fixed 
 purpose. Xo thought of how to proceed in attacking 
 the force of the Swede's testimony occurred to him. 
 He was impelled by habit, by an unconscious move- 
 ment of the mind along the line of duty. Was he 
 moved by a determination to gather together the 
 crumbling elements of the case, to give new life to it 
 before the jury passed on its merits ? No, that de- 
 sire was dead. A feeling of rage had taken posses-
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 211 
 
 sion of him, his spirit of battle was roused, and, as 
 he advanced toward the witness, an insane desire to 
 revenge his own wrong was paramount to all else. 
 Whatever his purpose, the result, though unsought 
 by him, was manifestly in his favor. 
 
 His manner was aggressive, and the witness, over- 
 whelmed by his unfortunate position, fearful that 
 his own liberty, because of the impending indict- 
 ment, would be the cost of his unwilling testimony, 
 was trembling with fear. Only that morning he 
 had been summoned to appear, and the Major had 
 taken the precaution to send an officer to insure his 
 attendance at the trial. 
 
 The questions came in such rapid succession that, 
 before the witness had time to recover from one, an- 
 other was asked. J^o consideration or mercy was 
 shown him. In the voice of the cross-examiner was 
 a covert sneer, by implication accusing the witness 
 of undue interest, of a purpose other than a desire 
 to tell the truth or to do justice to the accused. And 
 gradually, but with telling certainty, the impression 
 was being forced upon the minds of the jury: this 
 man is actuated by personal feeling, by a desire to 
 shield the defendant. 
 
 "You worked in the hotel where, at one time, the 
 defendant lived ?" asked Le Moyne. 
 
 "Yes," the witness answered. 
 
 "It was by his efforts that you were saved from 
 serious injury?"
 
 212 Ctielpn Pan CoiirtlanD* 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In fact, but for him, you would have lost your 
 life?" 
 
 "That is true," the witness answered with convic- 
 tion. 
 
 "You entertain, I presume, a proper feeling of 
 gratitude toward the defendant?" 
 
 The voice was cutting. The meaning of the ques- 
 tioner could not be misunderstood. 
 
 "I do," replied the witness with warmth. 
 
 "Of course your feeling of gratitude does not in- 
 fluence your testimony ?" 
 
 The words were harmless. It was the sneer that 
 accompanied them which caused the witness' face to 
 flush. 
 
 "It does not," he answered. 
 
 Someone has said that a smile is not sufficient 
 error on which to take a case to the Court of Ap- 
 peals; neither is a sneer something that can be en- 
 tered on the court record; but, nevertheless, both 
 have their power with the jury. When a judge, one 
 who is known to be openly in favor of defendants in 
 personal injury cases, says to the jury in his charge : 
 "Of course the plaintiff testifies so and so," it is not 
 his words that create havoc in the minds of the 
 jurors, it is the supercilious, insinuating smile that 
 influences them. The jury, believing the judge to 
 be infallible in matters of fact, as well as in matters 
 of law, promptly bring in a verdict for the defend-
 
 OEfcelpn $an CourtlanD* 213 
 
 ant. Such occurrences have happened such occur- 
 rences are happening every day in our courts of jus- 
 tice. 
 
 In his examination of the witness Le Moyne had 
 scored, and scored heavily. 
 
 When he had finished, he was conscious of a sense 
 of relief his feeling of chagrin and rage had sub- 
 sided. Not since the beginning of the case had his 
 chances of success appeared more promising. The 
 Major, in no wise disconcerted by the spirited at- 
 tack, rose to the occasion. 
 
 "How long a time is it," asked the Major, "since 
 the defendant lived in the hotel where you work ?" 
 
 "Over a year," was the answer. 
 
 "Since he left the hotel, have you talked with 
 him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Have you ever spoken with me about this case, 
 before you took the witness stand ?" 
 
 "I have not." 
 
 "When were you summoned to appear and tes- 
 tify?" 
 
 "This morning." 
 
 "Did you know before this morning that you were 
 to testify ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "That's all," said the Major. "Mr. Malcolm, take 
 the stand." 
 
 A movement, wave-like, animated the audience.
 
 214 OEtoelpn $an CouttlanD* 
 
 Then followed a hush, and every eye was directed 
 to the defendant He walked quietly and, stepping 
 into the witness stand, faced his attorney. His bear- 
 ing was self-possessed and courteous, his manner the 
 same as had characterized his appearance since the 
 beginning of the trial. Yet in the poise of the head 
 there was an aggressiveness, a touch of hauteur. His 
 whole bearing spoke of reserved strength, courage, 
 indomitable will power. The eyes were frank, fear- 
 less, ready to laugh, and as ready to flash a warning. 
 In their expression impetuous, imperious boyhood 
 still lingered. He calmly awaited the lawyer's 
 pleasure. 
 
 In an even tone, willing and not over-anxious, he 
 related the events of the night of the tragedy of 
 his visit to Harlan's home, his interview with the de- 
 ceased, and his final leavetaking. When he paused 
 in his recital, as though there was nothing further 
 to state, his attorney, by a question, had him explain 
 some detail which to the witness seemed too trivial 
 to mention. His statement contained nothing new, 
 no fact which he had not already told at the pre- 
 liminary hearing; and when he finished, a sigh of 
 satisfaction escaped his hearers. 
 
 Le Moyne began his cross-examination, but in a 
 different spirit than that with which he had sought 
 to discredit the last witness. He did not attempt to 
 confuse Malcolm, for he knew and fully appreciated 
 the mental capacity of the man he was examining.
 
 $att Courtlantu 215 
 
 On only two points he sought to wring an admission 
 one, "What was the subject of his interview with 
 Harlan," the other, "Was it within his knowledge 
 that another beside himself had visited Harlan after 
 he had left him?" 
 
 The first question Malcolm declined to answer. 
 His interview with Harlan was entirely of a business 
 nature. This answer militated against him, but he 
 was firm in his refusal. Concerning the second ques- 
 tion, he denied all knowledge of who had entered 
 Harlan's house. 
 
 "Did you meet the last witness, Johnson, as he 
 has described ?" asked Le Moyne. 
 
 "Not to recognize him," was the frank admission. 
 
 Le Moyne, by further questioning, could not hope 
 to injure his opponent's case more than the defend- 
 ant himself, in his answer to the foregoing ques- 
 tions, had done. Taking advantage of their unfav- 
 orable influence on the jury, he abruptly closed the 
 examination. 
 
 The case was ready for argument. Before pro- 
 ceeding further, the Court ordered a recess. 
 
 Immediately the pent up feelings of the spectators 
 found vent. They compared notes, each with his 
 neighbor, and out of a wide divergence of opinion, 
 something like the following evolved : 
 
 "If Malcolm were convicted, he would have only 
 himself to blame." Beyond question he was obsti- 
 nate, and altogether too frank and honest for one in
 
 216 (ZEtoelpn $an CotmlanU, 
 
 his predicament. Why did the Major put him on 
 the stand to testify? And, more than all, why did 
 he not admit meeting Johnson the night of the mur- 
 der ? That alone would have cleared him. They 
 were disappointed and incensed. They saw no reason, 
 if the Government's witnesses swore falsely, why 
 Malcolm should not at least have admitted that he 
 did meet the Swede. 
 
 He of the faded coat and sepulchral tones was 
 speaking sotto voce to his companion. 
 
 "It will all depend on the arguments. If Le 
 Moyne enters into a discussion of the case with the 
 same spirit as he attacked the Swede well, I be- 
 lieve his chances to be good. You see, you can never 
 tell what a jury will do. Usually in a criminal case 
 they can be bought, but Malcolm hasn't any money. 
 Then again, public opinion decides a case before it is 
 tried. Do you remember the case of the Barbary 
 girl ? She was an Italian and killed her lover. At 
 the first trial she was convicted. She was granted a 
 new trial. Then the public, somehow, took it into 
 its head that she mustn't be convicted. The female 
 portion of the community became hysterical on the 
 subject, and visited the woman in her cell, and sent 
 her flowers, and fed her and petted her. You know 
 when women do become silly, there is no limit to 
 their foolishness. Well, they made up their minds 
 that this Italian woman must be acquitted, and she 
 was. Do you understand? She was as good as
 
 CoimlanD* 217 
 
 found not guilty before she was tried. Public opin- 
 ion, at times, is like a mad horse ; it may run in any 
 direction, and when it starts you can't turn it aside. 
 So, you see, you can never tell what the verdict of a 
 jury may be. Malcolm did not kill Harlan, but the 
 jury may find him guilty." 
 
 Since early morning, Van Courtland had experi- 
 enced the most acute mental torture. From a high 
 state of elation, when the evidence seemed to strength- 
 en the Government's case, he would be plunged, by 
 some unfavorable turn, into a state bordering on col- 
 lapse, his whole appearance one of profound dejec- 
 tion. He was experiencing the extremes of emotion, 
 which, to one in his deplorable mental condition, 
 might, at any moment, bring about total aberration 
 of the mind, or, at his age, terminate fatally. Indi- 
 cations, unmistakable and ominous, were not lacking 
 that he was losing control of his faculties. The court 
 proceedings, the examination of the witnesses, the 
 suspense and the excitement of the trial, kept his in- 
 terest alive, his mind centered on some one object or 
 point. This interest, though abnormal, seemed to 
 collect and control his wandering faculties. While 
 this tension lasted he was safe. Fortunately the 
 progress and incidents of the trial deflected from 
 him the attention of those near whom he was seated ; 
 and, up to the present time, his unusual manner and 
 behavior had been unnoticed. 
 
 It is not good to look into the face of a man,
 
 218 d&jelrt $an CourtlanD* 
 
 whether old or young, when that face ceases to re- 
 semble that of a rational human being: when it as- 
 sumes the appearance of a rumpled mass, colorless, 
 lifeless, without expression, a void ; when in the star- 
 ing eyes is stamped the causeless, senseless terror of 
 vacuity, when the mind goes back to that of a child, 
 and the eyes, that cannot weep, tell of grief un- 
 speakable, and the muscles twitch as if from pain, the 
 pain of the dumb, of sorrow that cannot be imparted. 
 Then it is that Heaven, in its kindness, touches the 
 brain with oblivion. All becomes a blank and the 
 senses are at rest. 
 
 Van Courtland was nearing this condition. He 
 was paying the penalty for his crime, and who dare 
 say that his atonement was not complete. 
 
 The Judge was seated, and Major Strong was 
 about to open his argument for the defense. 
 
 With quiet dignity he began to speak. Kindliness 
 and simplicity were in his voice and word and ges- 
 ture. He was not only the great lawyer pleading 
 for a human life, able to sway the jury by his elo- 
 quence, to work upon their sympathies by arts of 
 'vhich he was master, or by his wit and sarcasm hold 
 the witnesses of the prosecution up to ridicule; he 
 was more the man and the gentleman. He ap- 
 pealed to their intellect, and not to their weakness. 
 The jury knew the power he could wield, they were 
 aware of his standing as a great criminal advocate; 
 they recognized his ability, and appreciated the
 
 $an CourtlanD, 219 
 
 honor he was doing them. While he was speaking, 
 they felt that they, themselves, were taking part in 
 his discussion of the evidence, his reasoning was 
 theirs, it was their opinion he sought on which to 
 found his own. Yes, they agreed with him, they 
 considered the evidence from his point of view, they 
 now saw that which before had escaped them, made 
 luminously clear by his exposition, his patience, his 
 gentle direction of their minds along the lines of his 
 own thought and reasoning. He did not assail the 
 credibility of the witnesses, nor heap abuse upon 
 them. For the jury's consideration, in brief terms, 
 well chosen, apt and vitally effective, he laid bare 
 the weak points in the witnesses' testimony. To 
 only one witness did he personally call attention 
 the Bradley woman. He requested the jury not to 
 judge her too harshly, but at the same time to con- 
 sider this question: "Was she under the influence 
 and direction of a stronger mind ? Was her evidence 
 controlled by other motives than a desire to tell the 
 truth? Had greed, or promises by others to better 
 her condition in life, colored her testimony? These 
 questions were for them to consider, and to give 
 such weight to her statements as their truth or falsity 
 warranted." But when he referred to the defend- 
 ant, there was added animation to voice and manner. 
 He spoke quietly, but with feeling. He had, he in- 
 formed them, put the defendant on the stand that 
 they might judge for themselves of his worth, of his
 
 220 OBtoelpn $an CourtlanH. 
 
 truthfulness. "Nature." he said, "has her own laws, 
 by which the heart and the mind disclose both 
 thought and emotion. Hidden motives find uncon- 
 scious expression in the voice, in the eyes, a move- 
 ment of the head or the body. There are untold 
 ways by which, surprised, thoughts make their es- 
 cape, and betray what the tongue seeks to hide. This, 
 in the language of the law, is termed unconscious evi- 
 dence. It is the most powerful because not controlled 
 by the will. It manifests itself without consent, and 
 the motives or desires of those who would deceive are 
 betrayed. Remember it is not what a witness says 
 that should influence your judgment; it is only that 
 part of the testimony which you believe." 
 
 The Major closed his argument as it had begun 
 quietly, but with convincing earnestness. There was 
 no peroration, no straining for effect. Its distin- 
 guished simplicity made it stand forth as an effort of 
 a master mind. Never had his fame been greater 
 than when he closed, and, taking his seat, settled 
 himself to listen to the summing up of the Govern- 
 ment's case. 
 
 With what different feelings did Le Moyne begin 
 his argument from those he experienced when he had 
 outlined his case to the jury. Then the rosy hue of 
 youth had enveloped everything. He saw before him 
 the realization of his hopes, and, with the ardor of 
 the passionate lover, he entered into the legal battle 
 with the spirit of one who will not consider failure.
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 221 
 
 His faith in his own power was founded on a great 
 love; and that love had been betrayed, trampled 
 upon, used as a means to accomplish his defeat. It 
 is by such methods that sirens lure their victims to 
 dishonor, to ruin. O, the bitterness of it all the 
 humiliation! And he had been blind blind with 
 the blindness of love that will not see. He had been 
 a puppet, a plaything, in the hands of the woman 
 to whom he had surrendered the innermost secrets 
 of his heart, in whose keeping he had placed his pro- 
 fessional honor. He was doubly dishonored, for he 
 had betrayed the trust of his office, and now he was 
 feeling the sting of a just punishment. What re- 
 mained for him ? Nothing but the rankling thoughts 
 of one who knew that all he had to offer, his love, 
 his manhood, had been trailed in the dust. 
 
 He stood before the jury. What could they know 
 of his heart-burnings ? Malcolm ! It was not of him 
 he thought. It was his own case that was in his 
 mind, in his heart. He plunged madly into his argu- 
 ment. 
 
 But though he reviewed the testimony, though his 
 scathing arraignment of the Swede filled his hearers 
 with astonishment, it was his own case, his own 
 wrong, that moved and controlled him. His words 
 were of the trial, of the truth or falsity of the evi- 
 dence, biting, terrible in their vindictiveness ; it was 
 his own feeling of bitterness that he was voicing. In 
 thought, he was delivering an anathema upon the
 
 222 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD. 
 
 woman who had deceived him; it was a final ar- 
 raignment of her who had killed his love, who had 
 wrecked his life at its outset. Though brilliant his 
 effort, he was unconscious of its power, indifferent to 
 its effect; and the silence that followed his final 
 words was one of mingled admiration, surprise and 
 astonishment. The effect on his hearers was startling 
 they had not been led to expect the passion, the 
 withering scorn as, with unrelenting certainty of pur- 
 pose, he demanded of the jury that they consider the 
 great crime that had been committed. His words 
 were of Harlan and the accused, but the thoughts and 
 emotions that gave them life and color were of him- 
 self. While listening to Strong he had considered 
 his own forthcoming argument simply in a spirit of 
 duty as part of the day's work. He had lost inter- 
 est in the outcome of the trial; but, unconscious of 
 the effect he was producing, he had advanced a pro- 
 found argument in proof of the guilt of the accused. 
 The judge began his charge to the jury. He ex- 
 plained to them the different kinds of evidence, 
 dwelling at some length on what is termed circum- 
 stantial, and pointed out clearly, and in concise 
 terms, its bearing and influence in the present case. 
 He directed their attention to the testimony, and 
 what weight they should give to it as bearing upon 
 the question of the guilt or innocence of the accused. 
 Referring to the responsibility that confronted them, 
 he explained the meaning of the term "reasonable
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD. 223 
 
 doubt," and what the evidence must be before they 
 would be justified in bringing in a verdict of 
 "Guilty." And here, while his discourse to the jury 
 progressed, we will return to Van Courtland. 
 
 Whatever the impression made upon his mind by 
 the attorneys, the witnesses, or the court proceedings 
 in general, it was intensified tenfold by the judge's 
 charge to the jury. What had been an opinion, or 
 fleeting fancy, now, to him, became a fact, trans- 
 forming a shadow into a substance, a doubt into a 
 certainty. Every word had a reference to himself. 
 In the judge's admonition to the jury Van Court- 
 land heard a direct reference to himself, thundering 
 in his own ears, reverberating through his brain till 
 the room seemed to ring with the sounds. He felt 
 that all eyes were turned to him, hundreds of eyes, 
 accusing and, by their baleful glance, enforcing their 
 cry that he was guilty, guilty, guilty. 
 
 He could not stand the torment; it was worse 
 than a thousand hells. He would fly from it; but 
 he could not, he was surrounded, they would not 
 permit him to escape. Furtively he looked about 
 him. "No, it was too late; they were watching his 
 movements, and the judge, still speaking, was thun- 
 dering accusation and reproach branding him as 
 the murderer. And now these people all knew, and 
 they cried to him to confess. If he did confess, 
 would the voices be stilled, and the eyes, that were 
 burning into his soul, be turned away? Yes, he
 
 224 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanU, 
 
 would confess; then, perhaps, he would have peace 
 of mind. How his brain throbbed! Like so many 
 drums beating in it! But above all he could hear 
 the judge's voice. He listened. 
 
 "And when you consider the evidence of the quar- 
 rel," the judge was saying, "should you find the ac- 
 cused - " 
 
 A suppressed moan died on Van Courtland's lips. 
 With whatever reasoning power was left him, he 
 realized that the judge was about to close his instruc- 
 tions to the jury. Soon it would be too late to speak, 
 and they would find Malcolm guilty the man he 
 had wronged. 
 
 'The blood rushed to his neck and cheeks. It 
 mounted higher and higher. The judge had finished 
 his charge his last words ringing in Van Court-* 
 land's brain: 
 
 " - and if on the evidence you find that Mal- 
 colm caused Harlan's death, then you will bring in 
 the verdict of 'Guilty.' " 
 
 The cry that Van Courtland uttered struck upon 
 the ear with startling effect. He stood erect. 
 
 "It is I who am guilty." 
 
 The veins in his head and neck stood out like 
 whip-cords. The heart sent the blood with a rush 
 to his brain. He swayed, tottered and fell to the 
 floor dead. 
 
 The judge ordered the trial adjourned. Officers 
 of the court carried Van Courtland's body into an
 
 $att CourtlattD, 225 
 
 adjoining room and laid it on a bench. The eyes 
 were open, staring in them an expression of the 
 terror of his last moments. 
 
 The death had only temporarily interrupted the 
 trial. The jury were called for further instructions. 
 
 "You must not," the judge said, "allow the late 
 occurrence to influence, or in any manner to bias 
 your judgment in arriving at a verdict. The state- 
 ment of the unfortunate man may have been caused 
 by over-excitement, resulting in insanity. His words 
 you will not consider. Your verdict must be arrived 
 at by the evidence in the case and that alone." 
 
 It was late in the day when the jury retired. Le 
 Moyne immediately left the court room; but Major 
 Strong remained. 
 
 Within an hour the jury returned. As the judge 
 was in waiting, they rendered their verdict of "Not 
 guilty." 
 
 Malcolm and his attorney left the court room to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Because of your confounded stubbornness, you 
 deserve to have been convicted," was Strong's cheer- 
 ing remark. "You knew who killed Harlan, and, 
 for that matter, so did I." 
 
 Malcolm did not reply.
 
 226 OBuelpn l?an CourtlanD, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT was late in the evening of the twentieth of Feb- 
 ruary, 189 , three years after the Malcolm trial. 
 The interior of the Russian Embassy, magnificent, 
 spacious, blazed with light. Ambassadors with their 
 suites, in bright uniforms, lent to the assembly an air 
 of festivity; and American gentlemen, substantial 
 of build, their sombre evening dress contrasting oddly 
 with the glitter and stately pomp of the Europeans, 
 gave a touch of democratic simplicity to what ap- 
 proached the grandeur of a royal court. The beauty, 
 however, that gladdened the eye, the beauty of face 
 and form, was that of the American women. 
 
 In the crowded rooms there was one more stately 
 than the rest, with a fuller beauty, a more authorita- 
 tive pose ; a touch of seriousness lending to her fea- 
 tures an air of refined distinction. Evelyn Van 
 Courtland's face betrayed strength of character in 
 every line. Her's was a beauty that commanded ad- 
 miration; for she possessed a personality that ap- 
 pealed to the intellect with even greater force than 
 to the senses. When a smile disturbed the repose of 
 her features, the suggestion of melancholy in the eyes
 
 CourtlanD, 227 
 
 never quite disappeared. People were attracted by 
 her loveliness as they would be drawn to look at a 
 master painting or work of art; only to turn away, 
 the eye satisfied, the mind disturbed. 
 
 Yet she had the power to draw men to her men 
 such as listened and waited for an opportune mo- 
 ment to exchange a word men of prominence in the 
 affairs of the nation. 
 
 "Senator," one of the gentlemen was saying, "Miss 
 Van Courtland will hardly agree with your views. 
 She is too well informed of the dangers attending 
 monarchical government to approve of our present 
 trend toward expansion. Besides, she is too thor- 
 oughly American." 
 
 This was a direct appeal to her recognition. With 
 a smile she disclaimed having an opinion. 
 
 "Diplomatic, if disappointing," was the great 
 man's comment to her reply. "But," he insisted 
 "you do not disapprove of our government seeking 
 to enlarge its realm of power, if the human race be 
 benefited by such an exercise of its will?" 
 
 "If I dare express an opinion, no," she answered, 
 "when such a step is not foreign to the fundamental 
 principles on which the existence of our government 
 depends." 
 
 "Again you're worsted, Senator," the first speaker 
 laughed. "Come now, admit that our women know 
 something of politics." 
 
 With what charming grace and simplicity she hehj
 
 228 (Etoelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 their attention! A word to one, a smile to another, 
 her manner that of one seeking information; her 
 knowledge of men and things as profound as that 
 possessed by those who listened. 
 
 "May I have the honor of presenting Mr. Mal- 
 colm ?" 
 
 The gentleman who approached waited expect- 
 antly. There was no outward evidence of emotion, 
 but the light in her eyes deepened. 
 
 "He is a member of the House," he added, "from 
 ]STew York your home." 
 
 The years that had intervened since his trial had 
 left their imprint on Malcolm. The eye was as 
 bright, the step as firm; but his manner had under- 
 gone a change. His former buoyancy of spirit was 
 lacking; his youthful self-confidence had given place 
 to an expression of seriousness touched, at times, with 
 melancholy. 
 
 The past three years had been a struggle to rise 
 superior to conditions and circumstances that would 
 have overwhelmed an ordinary man; but he had sig- 
 nally succeeded. Immediately after his acquittal, 
 at Strong's earnest entreaty, he had entered the Ma- 
 jor's law office. A year's preparation fitted him for 
 admission to the bar ; this accomplished, the Major's 
 law firm was known as Strong & Malcolm. But the 
 past three years had been a trying period years of 
 constant struggle, humiliation, and, at times, even 
 regret that he had surrendered to the Major's judg-
 
 $an Coiirtland, 229 
 
 ment. No day passed without a reminder that he 
 had once been tried for a capital crime. The world 
 does not easily forget; and it took pains to impress 
 on him the fact that, though a jury had found him 
 "Not guilty," the murderer of Marshall Harlan had 
 not been brought to justice. 
 
 By a tacit understanding between Strong and his 
 partner, the trial was a subject not open to discus- 
 sion or comment. Once only had Malcolm demanded 
 information of the Major as to who had retained 
 him for the defense. The answer was brief and 
 final: "You must be content with the knowledge 
 that I never demanded nor received a penny for my 
 services nor shall I." 
 
 Malcolm's first efforts at the bar, however, met 
 with immediate success ; and Strong was correspond- 
 ingly happy. It was in the second year of their 
 partnership that the Major, a power in his political 
 party, conceived the project of sending his partner 
 to Congress. The young man protested, but to no 
 avail; he was forced to yield to the Major's desire. 
 Perhaps the fact that Evelyn was at the home of her 
 aunt in Washington influenced him to accept the 
 proffered honor; but this he would not acknowledge, 
 even to himself. A heated contest followed. His 
 opponents unwisely depended on his past misfortune 
 to bring about his defeat; but the Major directed a 
 campaign that resulted in an overwhelming victory. 
 
 Only once since the trial had he met Evelyn.
 
 230 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 Shortly after his trial, having been called into con- 
 sultation by the administrator of her father's estate, 
 he had spent a few minutes alone with her. How he 
 cherished the memory! Something in her glance at 
 parting had betrayed an interest, the thought of 
 which was maddening; as he now stood before her, 
 the remembrance brought the blood to his cheek. The 
 others made way for the newcomer. Their parting 
 bow, as they moved away, Evelyn acknowledged 
 with a smile. 
 
 Her glance invited Malcolm to approach. She 
 held out her hand. 
 
 "We have met before," she said. "I am glad to 
 renew our acquaintance. So you are a member of 
 the House ?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "my first term." 
 
 For an instant her self-possession wavered. Mal- 
 colm's embarrassment, however, gave her an oppor- 
 tunity to recover her composure. 
 
 "I have read of your success," she said quietly. 
 "You are making a reputation. Are you deeply in 
 earnest, as would appear from a perusal of your 
 campaign speeches?" 
 
 "If one dare say life is earnest, yes," he answered. 
 
 She flashed a glance at his strong, handsome face. 
 How noble he looked, how frank his expression! 
 And as their eyes met, the thought came that perhaps 
 he knew the part she played in his life ; that he, too, 
 doubted her. Had he been aware of her connection
 
 $an Courtlanfc* 231 
 
 with the trial, would he have accepted his liberty at 
 the cost of a man's love, and that man one who had 
 trusted her? And him she had betrayed. No, the 
 man before her was not the one to buy his liberty at 
 such a cost. His nature would revolt Every line, 
 every feature, proclaimed a nobility of character, 
 principles that would not tolerate deceit, and a stand- 
 ard of honor that would sicken at the thought of the 
 fraud she had practised. Were he aware of the truth 
 he would turn from her in disgust. And with the be- 
 lief came a feeling of respect for his sturdy man- 
 hood. Power, self-reliance in every feature. Were 
 he one of the crowd that flitted into and out of her 
 life, did she recognize in him her mental inferior, 
 her sacrifice would have appeared less, and her sense 
 of shame greater. But now, as with a glance she 
 mentally weighed him, grand in the utter uncon- 
 sciousness of Nature's gifts, of his own worth and 
 power, a feeling of exultation swept over her. She 
 had saved him; he was worthy of the sacrifice, and 
 he would never know. She was safe safe from the 
 fear that he would ever learn what his life had cost 
 her. And, somehow, the thought that the life of 
 this man belonged to her palliated her wrong. In 
 her glance there was an expression that invited his 
 confidence. His face flushed with pleasure. 
 
 "You are exerting your energy," she said, "and I 
 note, so far, with success, to defeat the bill now be- 
 fore the House."
 
 232 oEtoeipn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 "Yes," he faltered, "I am interested in the bill." 
 
 His voice refused to answer to his will, and the 
 failure of his attempt at unconcern mortified him. A 
 schoolboy's embarrassment could hardly be more pro- 
 nounced. With a desperate effort he sought to turn 
 her attention from himself. 
 
 "You have but recently returned from Europe?" 
 he ventured. 
 
 "Within the past month. I had decided on going 
 South for the winter, but I find Washington too en- 
 tertaining to leave, at least until after adjournment. 
 You know I have many relatives in the South." 
 
 He mumbled an affirmative. He was mentally ac- 
 cusing himself of being a dolt. Had his wit, with 
 his power of speech, forsaken him? Surely she 
 would look upon him with pity as one unable to 
 say anything worthy of attention. 
 
 "You are a Southerner?" he said in desperation. 
 
 Her face clouded. 
 
 "On my mother's side, yes," she answered, "but 
 my father was, as you know, a native of New York." 
 
 He saw his mistake. In his confusion he had 
 blundered into the one topic he wished to avoid. The 
 effect of his error was to bring his faculties under 
 instant control. The power of concentration and di- 
 rection of the will, in the face of surprise or rout, 
 is a gift peculiar to minds subject to extremes. A 
 lover's perturbation had led him to open a subject 
 to which, of all others, he least desired to refer; it
 
 CouttlanD* 233 
 
 was his instinct for statecraft that came to his rescue. 
 He noted her emotion, and, as he spoke, he was com- 
 plete master of his own feelings. 
 
 "It is not, I imagine, a light task for one in social 
 life to meet the demands of a Washington season; 
 but," he laughed, "how should I be able to judge ! I 
 have only my work before me. I am here to-night 
 
 because " he hesitated, then, encouraged by her 
 
 glance, continued, "well, because it gives me an op- 
 portunity to advance the work in hand. But," in a 
 tone of apology, "all this can hardly interest you?' 
 
 Assuring him to the contrary, she led him to talk 
 of himself, of his work, and, more than all else, of 
 his effort to secure the defeat of the bill under dis- 
 cussion. She listened eagerly, enraptured with his 
 voice, his earnestness, his eloquence, interjecting a 
 word when he paused, or advancing a new line of 
 thought, until he forgot his diffidence and spoke with 
 the conviction of belief. Trembling joy was his. The 
 woman he loved was listening, her voice and manner 
 inviting his confidence. With the eagerness of one 
 who has found a new source of pleasure, she drank 
 in his words. He awakened her imagination, and 
 new thoughts and scenes and emotions seemed to rise 
 before her and take possession of her mind a new 
 and strange delight had suddenly been awakened. 
 Her mind flashed through the past to their short in- 
 terview, when, before she went to Europe, she had 
 spoken with him. And now his words revived her
 
 234 OEtoelpn i^an CourtlanD, 
 
 memory. Were her feelings and emotions those of 
 sympathy ? Did her mind go back to the time when 
 the possible result of her father's act had filled her 
 with alarm fear for the life of the man to whom 
 she now listened? Yes, it must be pity that moved 
 her. Yet there was a trembling note in his voice. 
 How strange it sounded to her ear. It possessed a 
 new power to move her, to carry her mind out of the 
 world in which she lived a world filled with the 
 insipient platitudes of social existence. 
 
 He finished speaking. With a sigh of regret came 
 the thought : "What new madness is this ? My in- 
 terest in this man is of the past, not of the present. 
 He has come into my life by accident; his advent is 
 simply an incident that, in a day or a week, will be- 
 come but a memory, to be in turn crowded aside by 
 others that make up my life." 
 
 "You will come to see me?" she said. 'And with 
 the request she was conscious of a feeling of amaze- 
 ment. Wliy should the thought of meeting him again 
 fill her with anticipation? "I am staying with my 
 aunt," she added, "my father's sister. We are 'At 
 Home' on Monday evenings." 
 
 He thanked her, assuring her that he would present 
 himself the following week, then, as others engaged 
 her in conversation, he passed on into the crowd. 
 His interview with Evelyn had occasioned comment 
 Who was this distinguished young man, with the con- 
 fident and somewhat haughty bearing? She had ac-
 
 CourtlattO* 235 
 
 corded him a good half hour, though others, whose 
 notice was a coveted honor, were forced to content 
 themselves with a smile or nod of recognition. Peo- 
 ple deemed her cold, distant ; admirers had found no 
 favor, titled lovers from the courts of the old world 
 had pleaded their suit with like result failure. 
 
 For the past two years her beauty and brilliancy 
 had given her an entry into the inner circles of the 
 highest European society. Her victory had been 
 complete; but she had returned with her heart un- 
 touched, cold, passionless, unmoved by conquests that 
 had been unsought, a believer in the talent of men, 
 though indifferent to their love. 
 
 A member of the cabinet stopped to exchange a 
 word. She received him with a smile of greeting. 
 
 "I had almost despaired," he said, laughing. "The 
 member from ISTew York had the floor, and he was 
 wise to hold his advantage." 
 
 "An old friend," she said lightly, "one whom I 
 have not seen for years." 
 
 "A young man who has a future before him. He 
 is already marked for higher things. Have you 
 known him long?" 
 
 "For a number of years," was her answer. 
 
 "If he has enlisted your interest he is fortunate. 
 Do you know," his tone was bantering, "that your 
 opinion on political matters is becoming drawing 
 room authority?" 
 
 She laughingly protested.
 
 236 (Qtotlpn Pan CourtlanB, 
 
 "Impossible," she retorted. "Woman's day and 
 power in politics ended with a 'coup d'etat.' Besides, 
 it is an art unknown to the ordinary American 
 woman." 
 
 "Ah, that perhaps is true. But there are excep- 
 tions. When women do enter politics well, usually 
 something happens. Now I shall watch young Mal- 
 colm. He interests you and 
 
 "Believe me," she protested, "you are altogether 
 in error. We met in the most unexpected manner." 
 
 "Nevertheless," he rejoined with warmth, as he 
 was about to take leave of her, "I shall keep my eye 
 on the young man." 
 
 She smiled in answer to his salute. He was an old 
 and privileged friend ; somehow, too, his parting jest 
 aroused a train of pleasurable emotions; and she 
 was far from resenting his frankness of speech. 
 
 "My dear Evelyn, I have been looking for you. 
 It is time to go. Are you quite ready ?" 
 
 The speaker, majestic of carriage, gowned in heavy 
 silk, her white hair coiled in fluffy masses under a 
 miniature square of dainty lace, stood beside Evelyn. 
 The old lady had long since passed her sixtieth year, 
 but her plump figure was yet graceful, and refused 
 to conform to the lines of advanced age. She was as 
 light of heart as of step her eyes glowing with 
 youthful spirit. Her whole bearing proclaimed her 
 determination to enjoy life to its utmost
 
 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanD, 237 
 
 "I am ready, aunt," Evelyn answered. 
 
 "You are not going?" 
 
 The speaker, with a profound courtesy, addressed 
 himself to the elder lady. He spoke English with a 
 distinct accent. Of commanding stature, his black 
 beard and foreign cast of features betrayed his na- 
 tionality. His full name was as formidable as his 
 appearance. At the Embassy, where he was received 
 with a formality due his rank, he was known as 
 Count Orrindorf. Rumor had it that, in Europe, 
 Evelyn had discouraged his suit, and that he had 
 followed her to America. He was enormously rich, 
 and had found favor in the eyes of Evelyn's aunt. 
 
 "My dear Count " began Mrs. Chesborough. 
 
 But here a Senator, near her own age, and old in 
 her affection, drew her attention to himself. The 
 Count addressed Evelyn in French. She seemed an- 
 noyed, but replied to his remarks in far purer French 
 than he had spoken. 
 
 For full five minutes the elder lady chatted with 
 her companion. Not to be outdone, the Count poured 
 a stream of indifferent French into Evelyn's ear. 
 She held his glance with a calmness, even a coldness, 
 of manner, that would have dampened the ardor of 
 the ordinary lover. Unabashed, he continued to talk, 
 regardless of her air of weariness, which she made 
 no effort to disguise. 
 
 Her aunt approached.
 
 238 OEtoelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 "Come, come, Evelyn," she chirped, the Senator 
 having left her in good humor, "we really must go. 
 Count, I shall expect you Monday evening next." 
 
 "I shall take upon myself the honor," he said in 
 the best English at his command. 
 
 "Evelyn," said her aunt, as they were being driven 
 homeward, "you behaved abominably to Count Or- 
 rindorf." 
 
 "That was my intention," Evelyn replied calmly. 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you intended to pub- 
 licly snub him ?" 
 
 "My dear aunt, the Count is not endowed with 
 sufficient intelligence to appreciate my repeated ef- 
 forts. I doubt very much if his comprehension of 
 any language, even his own, will admit of a snub 
 penetrating his understanding. I quite despair of 
 it" 
 
 "Evelyn, you shock me ! Besides, I learned, only 
 to-night, that he has a vast estate in Russia, a palace 
 in Poland, and mines in Siberia ' 
 
 "Which you discovered only to-night ? Why I could 
 have informed you of all that. He has told me of 
 his possessions so many times that I can, I believe, 
 recite the full list without omitting one." 
 
 "You don't mean that you have refused him ?" 
 
 "Three distinct times with a fourth in prospect. 
 As you were unwise enough to invite him to attend 
 your 'Evening,' I suppose he will take advantage of 
 the opportunity."
 
 CourtlanD* 239 
 
 "Evelyn, I can't understand you in the least." 
 
 "I can readily believe it," was her reply. "I can- 
 not quite understand myself. But I am more suc- 
 cessful with the dear Count. He has a most villain- 
 ous temper. A man who has a bad temper is un- 
 bearable, but I particularly detest one thus afflicted 
 who cannot control it. The first time I refused to 
 marry him he flew into a passion. With his sub- 
 sequent offers he never varied the monotony. Really, 
 my dear aunt, he even lacks the virtue of variety. 
 Here we are, at last." 
 
 When they entered the house, Evelyn laid aside 
 her wraps, and, notwithstanding the lateness of the 
 hour, settled herself comfortably to read. Her aunt, 
 complaining of fatigue, retired, leaving her niece 
 alone. 
 
 Though Evelyn held a paper in her hand, she did 
 not read it. Pondering the events of the night, her 
 meeting with Malcolm was prominent in her mind. 
 The vast assembly, which represented the best of 
 Washington, was only the background the setting 
 in which his face was framed. She had listened to 
 many, but it was his voice, his words, that had made 
 an impression. How strangely, and with what a tragic 
 introduction, had her interest in him been awak- 
 ened. Accused of a crime of which her father was 
 guilty, with a knowledge of the truth, yet powerless 
 to declare it, she had moved in his defence; with 
 equal certainty aware of his innocence, yet forced to
 
 240 
 
 secretly espouse his cause. Then, with a shudder, 
 the method she had pursued to assure his acquittal 
 rose before her in all its nakedness. Why could she 
 not have been spared the humiliation, the remorse; 
 for to-night the bitterness was as poignant as when, 
 following Malcolm's acquittal, she had received from 
 Le Moyne the fan the token that he knew of her 
 deception. How the words that accompanied it had 
 stung her: "I return the fan, knowing that it will 
 not increase your grief or shame." 
 
 Xo, it had not added to her shame. It could not 
 make greater her remorse. 
 
 Then came the years trying to forget that her 
 father's hands had been stained with crime, that her 
 mother 
 
 With the thought of her mother came a revulsion 
 of feeling the bitterness of truth that could not be 
 hidden. Then her mind dwelt on the years that had 
 passed since the tragedy. From an irresistible im- 
 pulse, she had flung herself into the excitement of 
 European social life, indifferent to her success, deaf 
 to the pleadings of lovers, for she had come to regard 
 herself as one who, by her own act, had forfeited 
 the right to the respect or the love of men. She had 
 listened to their praise, but their advances had awak- 
 ened no answering love; and suitors came to regard 
 her as one who was dead to all feeling. Beauty? 
 Yes, they acknowledged her great beauty, but her's 
 was the beauty that chills, that is without heart or
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 241 
 
 soul. In her no answering flame of passion lived 
 that could be awakened. 
 
 And now she had again met the man for whose 
 life she had battled, for whom she had suffered. 
 Often she had asked herself: "Is he worthy of it 
 all ?" and to-night had come the assurance, an an- 
 swering "yes." 
 
 A sweet satisfaction took possession of her being. 
 A soft flush suffused her cheeks, a smile giving 
 warmth and light to the expression of her eyes and 
 features. 
 
 Mechanically her glance fell upon the paper that 
 lay in her lap. With a delicious sense of languor 
 which the warmth and the silence invited, she looked 
 at the column of "Society Notes." She read only one 
 item, the first to attract her attention. "Mrs. How- 
 ard Van Courtland has returned from the South, 
 and will remain in town during the season." 
 
 It was as if a cold breath of wind had swept 
 across her features; the habitual expression of re- 
 serve returned. Rising, she walked slowly to the 
 mantel and leaned against it. Her manner was com- 
 posed, her expression that of one who confronts a 
 problem defying solution. A slight curling of the 
 lips, a compression of the lines about the mouth, 
 spoke of an inward struggle. Every instinct of her 
 nature combined against the voice within her that 
 cried: "Charity, she is your mother. Her blood 
 flows in your veins, it was she who gave you life.
 
 242 OBtoelpn $an CourtlanU* 
 
 Do not condemn, for you know not what the future 
 may have in store for you." 
 
 The promptings of her nature pointed to this as 
 the true way, a voice within her cried loudly to have 
 pity. Her heart melted with compassion, and, were 
 her mother at her feet, she would have been moved 
 to lift her gently, tenderly, breathing forgiveness. 
 But another voice cried : "Remember your father ! It 
 was he who suffered, he who paid the debt with his 
 life," and the remembrance crushed her impulse of 
 compassion. 
 
 "Why has she come here ?" she mused, "why could 
 she not have remained out of my life? No, it is 
 fate that has spoken, that now speaks." 
 
 In her veins was the taint of her mother's blood 
 a taint that might not be controlled, exerting over 
 her an influence that human will was powerless to 
 avert, impregnating the heart and the mind with its 
 baneful influence, that only sin and the destruction 
 of the soul could appease. And time would only in- 
 crease the craving. All moral restraint might relax 
 and be swept beyond control, nature would become 
 gross, deformed, and over her life would descend 
 the blackness of a living hell. 
 
 .Was her past treatment of Le Moyne but following 
 her natural instinct ? Was it the first step that was 
 to lead her where ? She dared not think what the 
 answer might be. The curse ! Already she had felt 
 its power. Had it not laid its imprint on her peace
 
 CourtlanD. 243 
 
 of mind ? Had not her father given his life a life 
 sacrificed to her mother's dishonor? But whatever 
 the past, and the tragedy so close to her, it was the 
 present that now confronted her. She must meet 
 her. She was certain to encounter her in their com- 
 mon social circle. It was destiny; she felt it, she 
 knew it it was the working out of the great plan of 
 life, complex in its design, unalterable in its ultimate 
 results.
 
 244 OBtoelpn $att CouttlanD* 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LATE in the morning of the following day, Evelyn 
 and her aunt were discussing the events of the past 
 night. Her niece's apparent indifference to her fu- 
 ture, her treatment of the Count and her refusal to 
 discuss present or past suitors, roused the ire of the 
 old lady, who could not understand what she desig- 
 nated inexcusable lack of appreciation. Mrs. Ches- 
 borough fretted, and mildly reproached Evelyn, re- 
 minding her that the Russian's great wealth, apart 
 from his title and social prominence, was a factor 
 that any young woman should consider. 
 
 "My dear aunt," was Evelyn's reply, "pray dis- 
 miss the subject from your mind. For me, marriage 
 is simply out of the question. I have decided to re- 
 main single, and, with Heaven's aid, become old with 
 distinguished grace like your dear self." 
 
 "There, Evelyn, you were always an adept at 
 pretty speeches. That is one reason why the gentle- 
 men are fond of you. But seriously " 
 
 "Life is all seriousness. Why deliberately add to 
 it? I shall not marry. Now tell me, fairy god- 
 mother, whom you expect Monday evening?"
 
 (Etoelpn $an CoimianD, 245 
 
 Instantly the old lady's patrician features 
 became animated. Her "Evenings" had with- 
 stood the clash of warring social elements. By 
 her consummate tact and acknowledged author- 
 ity, her drawing room had retained its old 
 time prestige. It was yet the neutral ground 
 where talent, brilliancy, and statesmanship, regard- 
 less of political creed or warring factions, fraternized, 
 and united in paying homage to the acknowledged 
 ability of the hostess. In her rooms had gathered 
 men who had made the history of the nation; great 
 movements had here been planned, and from here, 
 too, causes of vital moment to the Government had 
 been directed. Sumner, Lincoln, Grant these men 
 had been her friends ; so had been the great men that 
 had followed them. Unlike those who attempted to 
 attract and hold together men and women of talent 
 and brains, social leaders whose efforts had flashed 
 into life with meteoric brilliancy, only to die as 
 quickly, her "Evenings" had survived. 
 
 Evelyn had touched upon the one topic that had 
 power to kindle her aunt's pride and enthusiasm. 
 From memory, she recited a list of those who never 
 missed an "Evening." Then, more slowly, she 
 named the guests newly on her list; "and," she con- 
 cluded, "the last, which, by right of precedence 
 should be the first, is the Count." 
 
 "Dear me," observed Evelyn, "I neglected to in- 
 vite him. I had hoped that we might be free of him
 
 246 
 
 for one night at least. But I have taken the liberty 
 to invite Mr. Malcolm a new member of the House 
 from New York." 
 
 "Who is he?" her aunt demanded. "Is he some 
 one you know intimately ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where have you known him, my dear ?" 
 
 "In New York/' she answered. Then, as if she 
 feared further questioning, she hurried on: "I wish, 
 auntie, you would make him acquainted with some 
 nice people, some of your older friends who those 
 whose friendship would be of value to him. There 
 are so many " 
 
 "Ah, you seem to take a marked interest in the 
 young man. I shall want to learn more of him. 
 Can he talk?" 
 
 "You will find him agreeable," was the evasive 
 reply. "He is just now interested in a bill that is 
 before the House. Senator Dafue will be here. 
 You can manage to bring Mr. Malcolm to his notice. 
 Your introduction " 
 
 "Evelyn, I don't wish you to mingle in politics. 
 One of your age should not attempt it. Is this Mr. 
 Malcolm a protege of yours? Oh, I shall acquaint 
 myself with his history. Of course I shall be civil 
 to him, but I hope that, at least, he can converse in- 
 telligently. I cannot tolerate dull people." 
 
 "You will not find him dull. Already he has, I 
 understand, made something of a reputation. Any-
 
 OEtoelpn $an CotmlanO* 247 
 
 way, he deserves to succeed, and a word from you, 
 auntie, to the right people " 
 
 "My dear Evelyn, do you expect me to take this 
 young man under my wing ? Why, I have never seen 
 him. Of course I have heard the name before. Mal- 
 colm ! Why that is the name of the young man who 
 figured in the Harlan case. Surely, my dear, he 
 can't he the same." 
 
 Evelyn flushed. 
 
 "He is," she answered quietly. 
 
 "Astonishing! And you expect me, Evelyn, to 
 entertain him and introduce him to the most influ- 
 ential people that come to see me ? To act, in fact, 
 as his sponsor ?" 
 
 "He was honorably acquitted," said Evelyn in an 
 even tone. 
 
 "And that trial caused the death of your father 
 my dear brother Howard." 
 
 Every line of her refined, gentle face, was one of 
 protest The thought of receiving in her home a 
 man who had been accused of the crime of murder 
 shocked her sensibilities; but that the suggestion 
 should come from her own brother's child she al- 
 most doubted her ears. 
 
 "Auntie, dear, for my father's tragic death Mr. 
 Malcolm is no more responsible than I am. Our 
 own misfortune was great, but so was the wrong done 
 Mr. Malcolm. Surely you would not condemn a man 
 whose innocence was established."
 
 248 dEtoelpn $an CotirtlanD, 
 
 "But, my dear, the guilty one has never been dis- 
 covered." 
 
 "And I trust never will be." Evelyn's voice was 
 tremulous. Her arms stole about her aunt's neck. 
 "You will receive him, auntie ?" 
 
 "Well, my dear, I can't deny you, if you wish it. 
 But really I am at a loss to understand your moods 
 and your strange fancies. You are so like your 
 father ; yet so unlike him. What is it, James ?" 
 
 A servant had entered, holding a salver on which 
 lay a visiting card. The old lady put her glasses to 
 her eyes and, after glancing at the card, replaced it 
 on the salver. She had grown suddenly pale, but 
 otherwise appeared unmoved. 
 
 "The lady is waiting?" she asked. 
 "In the drawing room, ma'am." 
 The servant retired. 
 
 "Your mother," she said to Evelyn, in a trembling 
 voice. "I cannot see her. I will not see her." 
 
 At the mention of her mother, Evelyn rose in agi- 
 tation. 
 
 "Did you know she was in town ?" the old lady de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Yes," came the faltering answer. "Believing it 
 would annoy you, I did not mention it. You need 
 not meet her; I will speak to her." 
 
 A silence followed. The thoughts of both women 
 were of the father, of the wrong that had been done 
 him, and of the woman who had mercilessly driven
 
 CourtlanD, 249 
 
 him to commit the deed by which he sought to avenge 
 his honor. The knowledge of the elder woman was 
 confined to her brother's unhappy life; but Evelyn 
 was aware of the cause that had led to his tragic end. 
 In the daughter's eyes, her mother was as guilty as if, 
 with her own hand, she had struck a blow that had 
 caused her father's death. For the mental torture 
 he had endured, there could be no adequate atone- 
 ment. When living, each day, each hour, had added 
 its new terror, its new qualm of remorse. With a 
 mind distorted by fear, each succeeding night had 
 held its agony, the mind less capable of preserving 
 its balance, until the fatal climax was reached. Yes, 
 Evelyn was satisfied when death brought relief. The 
 body was at least free of torment ; the soul let those 
 who dare, judge him. 
 
 And now, for the first time since her father's 
 death her mother was in Europe at the time she 
 must meet the woman who was the cause of the 
 tragedy. The young girl called to her aid all her 
 power of self-control. She would meet her mother 
 in a spirit of gentleness, of forgiveness. She would 
 hide from her the grief that their meeting would call 
 to life, and crush the stinging sense of resentment 
 and shame that, even then, threatened her composure. 
 A filial duty was plainly hers a duty that, though 
 not prompted by affection, appealed to her womanly 
 instincts. She would stifle the burning words that 
 trembled on her lips ; and in her eyes there would be
 
 250 Ctoelpn lan Courtlanli, 
 
 no accusation. She crushed the thought that in her 
 own veins flowed her mother's blood, that by natural 
 descent there lurked in her own being dormant in- 
 stincts that might yet flame into life. It was this 
 thought, more than any other, that threatened her 
 self-control. Yet she would not give way she must 
 not. For the sake of her father's memory, she would 
 be brave and calm. Pity would temper her coming 
 interview; she would add no word to the sorrow and 
 the remorse that her mother must feel. 
 
 When Evelyn entered the drawing room, however, 
 every chastening impulse of pity, of compassion, 
 even respect, seemed to die within her. In her 
 mother's appearance and manner was the same calm, 
 high bred air, disdainful, repellant in its self-con- 
 fidence and entire lack of maternal feeling. She was 
 a woman dominated by passion passion that left 
 the heart untouched. She was faultlessly gowned. 
 Her figure was still youthful and, if possible, she was 
 more beautiful than when, three years before, Evelyn 
 had last seen her. At sight of her, a chill seemed to 
 clutch at the girl's heart. Before entering the room, 
 she was conscious of a dim hope that perhaps her 
 meeting with her mother would lead to a better un- 
 derstanding, and make a reunion possible. It had 
 been more an impression than a thought. Her moth- 
 er's first words dispelled it It was the woman who 
 spoke, not the mother. 
 
 "To see my own child," she said, "I am compelled
 
 OEtielpn l^an Courtland. 251 
 
 to come to the home of one who refuses to receive 
 me. I am shown into a room and obliged to wait 
 your pleasure. Where is your aunt?" 
 
 The tones were the same as of old, bantering, tan- 
 talizing; in her glance lurked scoffing disdain and 
 defiance. 
 
 "Be seated," said Evelyn. "You know my aunt's 
 feelings. She does not care to see you." 
 
 "Your frankness is refreshing. I suppose that 
 henceforth the servants will be instructed not to ad- 
 mit me. And you remain in a house in which your 
 mother is refused admittance. Am I to understand 
 that is your intention?" 
 
 "It is. I have no other home " 
 
 "And you refuse to live under the same roof with 
 me. I suppose, too, your esteemed aunt will carry 
 her warfare into society, and I may expect her 
 friends to take up her cause." 
 
 "My aunt has no such intention," Evelyn an- 
 swered. "It is better that you do not meet. She has 
 not yet recovered from the shock occasioned by my 
 father's death. Her grief is keenly alive. Surely 
 you have no desire to add to it." 
 
 "Again your aunt and her grief! / am not con- 
 sidered." 
 
 Evelyn's face flushed, but she held her resentment 
 in check. Her calmness tended to increase her moth- 
 er's anger. 
 
 "My aunt," Evelyn answered, "has no desire to
 
 252 (Etoelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 interfere with you, or to cause you any annoyance. 
 But she has feelings, and those feelings you should 
 respect. While my father lived, it was necessary for 
 you to meet to maintain, at least, the appearances 
 of friendly relations. His death changed all that. 
 Now no reason exists for prolonging an intimacy 
 that has always been as distasteful to you as to my 
 aunt" 
 
 "Evelyn, you talk like a simpleton! I care noth- 
 ing for her hate ; but I do for her notice. Her social 
 influence is greater than that of any woman in 
 Washington. Should it become known that I am not 
 received here, every person worth knowing would 
 simply cut me. I will not submit to it." 
 
 "And is that the only motive which moves you to 
 seek her friendship purely social recognition?" 
 
 "That, and that only! My personal opinion of 
 her remains unchanged. I think her a spiteful old 
 cat!" 
 
 "She is my father's sister. Need I add that I 
 dearly love her ?" 
 
 "Now it's your father's sister. Are you going to 
 force me to listen to a recital of the many virtues in- 
 herent in her family?" 
 
 The covert allusion to her father aroused Evelyn's 
 indigation; the laugh that accompanied the words 
 grated on her nerves. It was with the same aggra- 
 vating, taunting laugh that her mother had met her 
 father's charges. Evelyn's memory flashed back to
 
 $att Cotmlattlr* 253 
 
 the time when she had listened to the awful words. 
 She again heard her father's voice, the tones ringing 
 with passion ; and the scoffing laugh, to which she had 
 just listened, was as an echo of that fatal night. It 
 roused her to a sense of her loss, of her shame ; but, 
 more than all else, the wrong done her father rose 
 before her with avenging clearness. She had come 
 to meet her mother resolved to control her feelings, 
 to forget, so far as lay in her power, the suffering 
 that her mother's act had occasioned. But she was 
 human. With the reflection on her father and his 
 family, the disdainful laugh vibrating in her brain, 
 her determination to meet her mother in a spirit of 
 forbearance vanished. A full sense of her mother's 
 heartlessness roused every feeling of resentment in 
 her nature. 
 
 "While you remain," said Evelyn, calmly, "I 
 must ask you not again to mention my father's 
 name." 
 
 She spoke in a low voice, but there was a note of 
 warning in the tone. From her eyes there flashed a 
 gleam before which the other woman quailed. She 
 saw in it the courage and determination of Van 
 Courtland; but it roused her to a sense of the posi- 
 tion in which she was placed. A word from Evelyn's 
 aunt and she would face social ostracism. The 
 thought enraged her. Casting aside every vestige of 
 caution, or regard for her daughter's feelings, she 
 surrendered to her passions.
 
 254 Ctoelpn l^an CotmlanD* 
 
 "Does your aunt know who killed Marshall Har- 
 lan?" 
 
 Her voice ended in a hysterical cry, and the silence 
 that followed was broken only by the sound of her 
 heavy breathing. It was not the subject of her ques- 
 tion that had occasioned her present state of excite- 
 ment ; it was fear for her future, for her social posi- 
 tion, that found expression in her outburst of rage. 
 All that appealed to her understanding was that her 
 social status was menaced, her ambition to shine as 
 a leader was to be thwarted, her desire defeated by 
 the woman who had been the first to discover her in- 
 fatuation for Harlan. The thought had driven her 
 into a frenzy that had found vent in her excited out- 
 burst. 
 
 Evelyn was stunned as much by her mother's lack 
 of control, as by the brutal question and the charge it 
 implied. 
 
 All the sorrow and shame of the past years seemed 
 to take possession of her with overwhelming force. 
 Her mother's true character, as she asked the ques- 
 tion, seemed to be disclosed in all its selfishness and 
 lack of feeling. The young girl saw her in a true 
 light, stripped of her social veneer and scoffing dis- 
 dain : her disregard of the feelings of the living was 
 equaled only by her contempt for the memory of her 
 dead husband. But the elder woman had not paused 
 to consider the pride and the courage of her only 
 child. Evelyn's eyes flamed, her whole being palpi-
 
 OEtoelpn ^att CourtlanD, 255 
 
 tated with passion. Whatever sense of filial love or 
 respect had survived, at that moment died. She 
 stood erect, the avenger of her father's wrong, the 
 accuser of her own mother. 
 
 Her words fell upon the listening ear with terrible, 
 relentless distinctness, her language stripped of the 
 verbiage of conventional custom, her meaning clear 
 and unequivocal. She rent asunder the social band- 
 age that hid from the eye her mother's moral scar, 
 and laid it bare in all the infamy of its guilt and dis- 
 honor. The remembrance of her father's face, as 
 she had last seen him alive, was before her, impelling 
 her, until she lost sight of all else but the memory of 
 his haunted look. If the tie that existed between 
 them cried to her to have mercy, the thought was 
 crushed by the consciousness that the woman before 
 her had been incapable of pity. 
 
 At first, amazement kept her mother silent. This 
 was followed by defiance; then the torrent of re- 
 proach, invective and piercing truth, awakened in 
 turn fear, shame and appeals for mercy. Evelyn's 
 tones became subdued, and a note of sorrow crept in- 
 to her voice. 
 
 "Had you shown mercy to my father," she con- 
 cluded, "had you considered the name and the honor 
 that he gave into your keeping, he would to-day be 
 alive. You ask who killed Marshall Harlan ? I ask 
 you now who is responsible for my father's death? 
 Look into your own heart, and you will find there
 
 256 oftjeltt $att CourtlattD* 
 
 the answer. You struct at his honor, his peace of 
 mind, at all that a man of his character and sensi- 
 bility hold dear. You dragged his name in the mire, 
 and left to me the heritage of your own shame. Per- 
 haps in future years the blood in me that is yours 
 will awaken desires, to be appeased only by the sacri- 
 fice of a man's honor. Then then I shall revile 
 perhaps curse you." 
 
 The woman who had entered the room strong in 
 her arrogance and pride, left it crushed in spirit at 
 the sight of her inner self, her soul laid bare in all 
 its weakness, the mirror held before her eyes in its 
 revolting truthfulness by her own daughter. 
 
 At the door, Evelyn turned from her, sick at heart.
 
 OEtoelpn pan CourtlanD. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 From the moment of Malcolm's meeting with 
 Evelyn a new interest entered into his life. New 
 hopes and ambitions arose to direct and control him, 
 and his work moved forward with an ease that sur- 
 prised himself. Friends seemed to spring up, as un- 
 expectedly as they were unsought; new influences, 
 unobtrusive, yet, with quiet surety of purpose, far 
 reaching, were advancing his work, and extending 
 the scope of his power. He suddenly became aware 
 that his desires and plan of action were the same as 
 those entertained by an unknown and growing fol- 
 lowing : that, in short, his progress was made easy by 
 the silent, combined effort of a mysterious force that 
 kept in view his advancement. Difficulties, unknown 
 to him, stumbling blocks in the pathway of his steady 
 advance, pitfalls that lured the unwary to political 
 death, were anticipated by those that seemed to con- 
 stitute themselves his personal and political body- 
 guard. 
 
 He found himself being noticed and applauded 
 by men high in position and power men whose con- 
 fidence, though eagerly sought, was cautiously be-
 
 258 Cfcelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 stowed. With this came endorsement of his views 
 and methods, manifested by a friendly handshake, a 
 word of encouragement or congratulation. These lit- 
 tle incidents, trifling in themselves, innocent to all 
 appearance of premeditated intent, might appear, to 
 a casual observer, of no special import. But to one 
 entering upon a national political career, to one real- 
 izing their full meaning, they were golden in their 
 immediate effect. 
 
 Malcolm, who was by instinct and education thor- 
 oughly American, accepted the opportunities pre- 
 sented, turned them to his advantage, and fortified 
 his position without wasting his energies in futile 
 conjecture. He had political and social success to 
 attain. So long as the means to those ends were con- 
 sistent with honor, he did not question the source of 
 his new and growing power. 
 
 But his political life was not all plain sailing. At 
 every turn he was confronted by some reminder that 
 he had once been accused of a crime. This fact was 
 brought home in many ways, and by means that, at 
 times, roused his fiery young blood. His political 
 opponents made capital out of his trial. They ac- 
 knowledged the verdict that had proclaimed him in- 
 nocent; but they drew attention to the fact that the 
 guilty one had never been apprehended. A look, a 
 word, a covert allusion, constantly reminded the 
 young man that his connection with the Harlan affair
 
 t^att Courtlantu 259 
 
 was still a matter of interest and comment; but he 
 went about his duty with earnestness, and a knowl- 
 edge that success was meeting his efforts. 
 
 In ths early evening of the night of the reception to 
 which he was bidden to meet Evelyn's aunt, he had 
 left the Capitol and was walking briskly down Penn- 
 sylvania Avenue. Having attended a committee meet- 
 ing, he was now free for the balance of the night. A 
 keen January air was sweeping up the Avenue; the 
 night was clear, and the lines of light on either side 
 converged till they seemed to meet in the distance. His 
 step was buoyant, his spirits high, for things were 
 going well in his world. He was mentally berating 
 himself for daring to dwell on his meeting with 
 Evelyn. He considered it an impertinence. What 
 right had he to think of her? None whatever, he 
 declared, absolutely none; but the vista of lights, 
 capped by the blue arch above, framed his mental 
 picture, and, he argued, there could be no harm in 
 the sweet contemplation of it. His love could give 
 no offence so long as he did not declare it ; and revel- 
 ing in its possession, he was insanely happy. 
 
 "Young man," said a voice that he loved, "you 
 may succeed in reading your political future in the 
 stars, but in a public thoroughfare have some regard 
 for the rights of others," and Major Strong was 
 wringing his hand violently and chuckling at Mal- 
 colm's surprise. "I had some personal business to
 
 260 
 
 transact," he continued, as his companion seemed to 
 have lost his power of speech, "and I ran over to 
 attend to it" 
 
 All of which was without a shadow of truth, for 
 he had surrendered to a desire to see his young part- 
 ner, and had come to Washington solely for that pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Together they walked down the Avenue. 
 
 "How did you discover where I was?" Malcolm 
 asked. 
 
 "What a question to ask a lawyer. I inquired at 
 your hotel." 
 
 "Why didn't you take a carriage ?" 
 
 "Look here, do you mean to impugn my youth? 
 Old age and I are not on intimate terms. Besides, 
 I knew you would walk. Have you been inside a 
 carriage since you came to Washington?" 
 
 "Not once," laughed Malcolm. 
 
 "I thought as much. I have been more fortunate. 
 Mr. Wavily came on the same train with me from 
 New York, and I rode with him from the station to 
 the Willard. He is on his way to Florida. He is a 
 friend of the Van Courtlands, and is to attend one 
 of Mrs. Chesborough's 'Evenings.' She is Van 
 Courtland's sister, you know." 
 
 "Yes," Malcolm answered, "I have been invited." 
 
 "I was not aware you knew Mrs. Chesborough." 
 
 "I don't. Miss Van Courtland invited me." 
 
 "Whew! This is getting interesting," mused the
 
 CourtlanD* 26i 
 
 Major. Then aloud: "So you have been launched 
 socially." 
 
 "The people here are very kind to me. You know 
 Miss Van Courtland ; won't you go with me ?" 
 
 "Engaged to-night," the Major replied. "Shall 
 we dine together somewhere ? You'll have time, 
 won't you ?" 
 
 "Of course," was the reply. 
 
 Together they went into one of the exclusive cafes 
 where men of note, of national fame, fraternized. 
 The room being crowded, seats were found for the 
 two men near the door. At the far end of the room, 
 at one of the tables, Wavily was in earnest conversa- 
 tion with the senior Senator from ISTew York, and 
 neither had observed the entrance of Strong and his 
 companion. 
 
 "That's Strong," said a voice near Wavily, "just 
 sitting down with Malcolm, the 'New York member 
 of the House." 
 
 "He defended Malcolm, didn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, they are law partners now." 
 
 "Can't see how the Congressman gets on with that 
 old charge against him. Have you met him ?" 
 
 "I don't know him personally. After all, such 
 things must count against a man's chances in life." 
 
 This was all very interesting to Wavily, but he was 
 not pleased. 
 
 "Senator," he said, loud enough for the first 
 speaker to hear, "Major Strong came on the same
 
 262 Ctoelpn l^an CourtlanD* 
 
 train with me from New York. He is seated with 
 Mr. Malcolm near the door. I'd very much like to 
 know the young man. Would it be agreeable if I 
 invite them to our table ?" 
 
 "It would give me great pleasure," said the Sena- 
 tor warmly. 
 
 Great men do things in a manner that does not 
 appeal to the average mind. The ordinary man 
 would have sent his visiting card to the Major, invit- 
 ing him and his companion to places at his table. 
 That was what the Senator did not do. Excusing 
 himself to his guest, he went over to the Major, and 
 insisted that he and Malcolm become his guests at 
 dinner. Strong accepted the invitation for both, 
 and, with the Senator, joined Wavily. Again fate 
 seemed to be directing Malcolm's interests. The 
 Senator was the most noted man in the room. He 
 had divined Wavily's intention, and Malcolm, with- 
 out knowing why, was presently receiving from him 
 marked attention. 
 
 The Major swelled with pride and, over their coffee 
 and cigars, confided to the Senator that he considered 
 his partner one of the best lawyers at the New York 
 bar. 
 
 "We are watching his progress here with interest," 
 said the Senator. Then they plunged into political 
 confidences, for the Major was of the party that the 
 Senator represented. 
 
 Mr. Wavily, with his customary smile, was assur-
 
 OEfcelpn $an CourtlanD. 253 
 
 ing Malcolm that the pleasure of meeting him was 
 second only to the honor that was his. 
 
 "And I have kept track of you since your trial," 
 he was saying. "You did not know that I was there, 
 did you ? Oh, but I was. Pooh ! You were sure of 
 an acquittal from the start. The Government never 
 made a greater mistake. Your arrest did not harm 
 you, young man, not a bit ! I wish you would come 
 with me to-night, to meet a charming old friend of 
 mine, Mrs. Chesborough. She is a power, and I 
 want you to know her. She'd be delighted. Can't 
 you come along, and we'll take the Major. The Sen- 
 ator will be there, so will everyone of any note. If 
 you say no, I shall be disappointed." 
 
 "I intend going," Malcolm blushingly answered. 
 "Mrs. Chesborough's niece was kind enough to invite 
 me." 
 
 "You don't say so ! And you know Evelyn. She 
 is a charming girl, and beautiful !" He lowered his 
 voice to a confidential tone, while the face of his lis- 
 tener took on a bright scarlet hue. "The man who 
 wins her well, he must be of uncommon ability " 
 Malcolm's face clouded "for she knows men as few 
 women do. I like young people because I am young 
 myself. I'll tell you the secret of it I never worry ! 
 My maxim is let the other fellow do the worrying. 
 Then, young man, the other fellow will grow old, 
 which is no fault of yours, and you'll grow prosper- 
 ous, which is a duty you owe yourself. So, you see,
 
 264 Ctoelpn ^an CourtlanD. 
 
 you kill two birds with one resolution. Senator," he 
 addressed the host, "prevail on Strong to go with us 
 to Mrs. Chesborough's." 
 
 The Major expressed his regrets: some impor- 
 tant matters to arrange, an appointment to keep, etc. 
 
 The Major's important business was to write let- 
 ters, and his one appointment could have waited till 
 the following day; but this information he did not 
 consider it necessary to state. Not for worlds would he 
 place Evelyn in the embarrassing position of meeting 
 him in company with Malcolm. Although he had 
 not accepted money from her for defending his part- 
 ner, still a fine sense of delicacy prompted him to de- 
 cline tho invitation. After agreeing to meet his part- 
 ner on his return, the Major settled himself com- 
 fortably in the smoking room to enjoy a cigar. 
 
 Accompanied by the Senator and Wavily, Mal- 
 colm stood before Mrs. Chesborough and smiled with 
 pleasure. She was expressing her delight at meeting 
 him. Thanking her, he withdrew, and others in 
 turn paid their respects to the charming old lady. 
 Many eyes followed the young Congressman, who 
 had the double honor of being endorsed by the Sena- 
 tor, and the oldest and closest friend of the hostess, 
 Wavily, who now chatted and laughed with her, ap- 
 parently oblivious of all else. The Senator spoke a 
 few words and moved away. Evelyn, near at hand, 
 observed Malcolm's reception, and her eyes lighted
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 265 
 
 with pleasure. No one knew so well as she that his 
 sponsors had placed him at once in the good graces 
 of her aunt. The old lady revered the Senator as a 
 man of talent; but Wavily's endorsement of the 
 young man placed him high in her social esteem. 
 The judgment of her old friend she accepted without 
 question. Evelyn had noted the look of pleasure 
 with which Malcolm was received. She approached 
 Wavily and held out her hand. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "you don't know how glad I 
 am to see you again. And you have grown more 
 lovely ! Dear me ! I haven't seen you for so long a 
 time! How many years is it?" 
 
 "Three," she answered. "You don't look a day 
 older than when I last met you." 
 
 "Of course I don't! Neither do I feel a day 
 older. I won't allow myself. You know my rule, 
 and I stick to it." 
 
 It was with genuine pleasure that Evelyn listened. 
 They made the circuit of the rooms, her companion 
 keeping up a constant chatter, stopping to greet 
 friends and exchange a word, then passing on to the 
 next, picking up the theme of their conversation 
 where it had been interrupted. At last they encoun- 
 tered Malcolm. 
 
 "Now," said Wavily, with his customary abrupt- 
 ness plunging into the subject, "I want to know what 
 is between you young people. Mr. Malcolm informed
 
 266 Oftjelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 me at dinner," he turned to Evelyn, "that you 
 claimed the honor of presenting him to your aunt. I 
 must know about this." 
 
 Malcolm flushed. Evelyn, more composed, smil- 
 ingly assured the speaker that he had been correctly 
 informed. Malcolm did not dare meet her glance. 
 The old man laughed with delight. 
 
 "I got ahead of you, my dear. Perhaps I also 
 beat our young friend here. If I did, I am glad of 
 it ! He's a lawyer now, and I still maintain my old 
 principle anything to beat the lawyers. There's 
 the German Ambassador and his charming wife. I 
 must speak with them. You young people are alto- 
 gether too sedate for a man of my temperament." 
 And he hurried away to join the German Ambassa- 
 dor's wife, who was a very beautiful woman. With 
 all his eighty years, he still possessed a discerning 
 eye. 
 
 "You are fortunate," Evelyn remarked to Mal- 
 colm, "in possessing Mr. Wavily's friendship. He 
 stands high in my aunt's esteem." 
 
 "I can hardly presume to claim him as a friend. 
 I imagine it was from a desire to honor Major 
 Strong that he invited me." 
 
 "Is Major Strong in town ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," answered Malcolm. "Do you know him ?" 
 
 "I met him some years ago." 
 
 He saw her face cloud and he divined the feelings 
 that the mention of Strong's name awakened. His
 
 CourtlanD, 207 
 
 mind, also, went back to the time of his trial. How 
 vividly the scenes were stamped in his memory! He 
 could recall the feeling of horror that Van Court- 
 land's cry had awakened, "It is I who am guilty." 
 The words even now rang in his ears. The vision rose 
 of the look of terror in the man's eyes, as if he stood 
 awaiting sentence ; the features distorted, as he reeled 
 and fell to the floor. Mercifully, Evelyn had been 
 spared the sight, mercifully, too, he thought, she had 
 been saved from a knowledge of the truth of her 
 father's self-accusation. As he now looked at her, 
 how sad the expression in the eyes, as if she were 
 still grieving for the father she loved. 
 
 "You should have prevailed on Major Strong to 
 accompany you," she said. 
 
 Before he could reply they were joined by Evelyn's 
 aunt. 
 
 "I have been trying to find an opportunity to 
 speak to you," she said to Malcolm. How sweetly 
 maternal her manner! "Mr. Wavily had so much 
 to talk about. We have been friends for many years. 
 Count Orrindorf," the Russian was bowing pro- 
 foundly, "permit me to present Mr. Malcolm, a Mem- 
 ber of Congress." 
 
 The Russian stiffly acknowledged the young man's 
 salute. For the past ten minutes the Count had been 
 glaring at him. Honoring Malcolm with no further 
 attention, the Russian turned to Evelyn. Mrs. Ches- 
 borough came to his assistance.
 
 268 oStoelpn l^an CourtlanU. 
 
 "Mr. Malcolm," she said, "will you assist me in 
 finding Mr. Wavily." 
 
 With the grace of her years and her position, she 
 laid her hand lightly on his arm, and they moved 
 away. Evelyn flushed as she recognized her aunt's 
 purpose to surrender the field to the Count. Her 
 glance followed Malcolm, for she resented the Rus- 
 sian's treatment of him. 
 
 "Well," she said, addressing the Count in French, 
 "are you enjoying yourself?" Her instinct of hospi- 
 tality made her tone one of civility. 
 
 "When I have been unable to get a word with you ? 
 And the American " 
 
 "Follow his example, my dear Count, honor him 
 with no more attention than he has bestowed on you, 
 and, believe me, it will bring you peace of mind. 
 Besides, you'll have revenge." 
 
 Her eyes laughed. The more heroic he became, 
 the more she held him up to ridicule. He became 
 desperate. 
 
 "Will you listen to me ?" 
 
 "Listen to you ! What else have I been doing for 
 the past two years ? For variety ask me not to 
 listen. Mr. Wavily," she addressed the old gentle- 
 man who had approached, "the Count wishes to 
 know you." With a smothered imprecation in his 
 native tongue, the Russian turned away abruptly. 
 
 "My dear Evelyn," said the old man, "what has 
 that fellow been saying to you? I believe I know
 
 ^an Courtlana. 259 
 
 who he is. Your aunt has been speaking of him. 
 Now that I have seen him, I think I shall lecture 
 her." 
 
 Evelyn saw her opportunity. 
 
 "Do, I beg of you," she replied. "She will listen 
 to you." 
 
 There was a fatherly tenderness in his glance. 
 He was one whose sympathy she could lean upon; 
 and he in turn understood her. 
 
 "My dear," he said gently, "you have no one to 
 advise you but your Aunt Chesborough, and she is 
 biased. You won't mind if I speak plainly ?" Her 
 glance reassuring him, he continued: "When you 
 consider marriage, remember this no man but an 
 American understands American women. No man 
 not an American can make an American woman 
 thoroughly happy. Happiness is everything. My 
 dear, compare this Russian with any of our young 
 men say Mr. Malcolm." 
 
 The old man watched Evelyn's deepening color. 
 He laughed gleefully. 
 
 "It's surprising how we old chaps do blunder into 
 things. But seriously, he's a promising young man. 
 I have kept track of him ever since that unfortunate 
 Harlan affair. I have been giving him some very 
 good advice telling him not to worry. Nor do you, 
 my dear, and I'll promise to talk the name of that 
 coarse Russian off your aunt's visiting list" 
 
 Their conversation drifted into a lighter vein.
 
 270 OBtoelpn Pan CourtlanD. 
 
 He was one of the few persons who had power to 
 enlist Evelyn's attention. She confided in him as she 
 would in one of her own age. But with all the old 
 man's fund of good humor, there was an under-cur- 
 rent of genuine affection that permeated his thoughts 
 and language. Those who interested him felt its 
 power ; none perhaps more so than Evelyn, who treas- 
 ured his words as those of one dear to her. 
 
 Malcolm, impatient, yet fearing to intrude, 
 watched his opportunity to again speak with her. 
 In the few minutes she had given him had come 
 added courage he could now meet her with less fear 
 and new hope. The Russian, who seemed to be on 
 such intimate terms ! Malcolm could not understand 
 it He was a judge of men; to him faces were a 
 true index of character. It could not be that one of 
 Evelyn's refinement and high mental attainments 
 could care for this Russian. His every feature 
 breathed coarseness and brutality. But what right 
 had he to criticise, to censure ? He smiled at his own 
 presumption. Courage and self-esteem, however, 
 moved him to action. He would speak to her again. 
 Evelyn was laughing at one of her companion's 
 sallies. 
 
 "There, Mr. Malcolm," said Wavily, "I leave you 
 to entertain Miss Van Courtland. She has been good 
 enough to listen to my foolish chatter for full ten 
 minutes. Be serious now, and tell her you're getting 
 on in the House. Do you know, Evelyn, the Senator
 
 $an CouctlanD, 271 
 
 
 tells me this young man is doing famously. Get him 
 to tell you all about it. Then you can tell me, my 
 dear," and away he went, smiling at his own clever- 
 ness. 
 
 Again, as at their recent meeting, Evelyn led the 
 young man to talk of himself and of his work ; gently, 
 with true womanly tact, exploring the depths of his 
 mind. She probed into the heart and the brain of 
 the man beside her, who spoke, not from interest in 
 himself, nor egotism, but from a sense of pure joy. 
 Her tender concern unlocked the little cells of the 
 mind, that open only when their secret spring is 
 touched by a kindred thought or sympathy. Un- 
 conscious of her purpose, he was surprised into a 
 confession of his hopes and ambitions, and then, like 
 one taken unaware, blushed at his own frankness. 
 He was telling her what he had never yet confided 
 to a human being, thoughts that he hardly dare en- 
 tertain. And she listened eagerly, drinking in his 
 words, marveling at the tones of his voice, that, un- 
 guarded, sounded notes of passion that were as music 
 to her ears. His voice seemed to rouse strange long- 
 ings, his speech to awaken within her a responsive, 
 sympathetic harmony. It was not alone the im- 
 pulses of love than moved her; she experienced a 
 mental desire to be lifted out of herself by the mas- 
 tery of his mind a power greater and stronger than 
 her own. She seemed to feel the influence of his 
 manly vigor and intellect; she was awed; and her
 
 272 OEtoelpn l^an Courtiano, 
 
 mind followed his with the sweet obedience of one 
 content to reach no higher, of one whose heart is 
 satisfied. 
 
 In the main office of the hotel, seated near the en- 
 trance, the Major and Le Moyne sat smoking. The 
 young man had arrived on the night train, and had 
 spent the past hour with Strong, discussing legal in- 
 terests which they had in common. Malcolm, too, 
 had been the subject of comment on the part of the 
 former District Attorney. Le Moyne's admiration 
 for the man whom he had once tried to convict had 
 not been lessened by his own political defeat, and 
 his acknowledgment of the young Congressman's suc- 
 cess was as outspoken as it was genuine. The face 
 of his listener beamed with pleasure. If his partner 
 were his own son, his future could not awaken 
 greater interest than Strong felt in him; and Le 
 Moyne's hearty tribute was deeply grateful. Yet the 
 subject of his visit, which was known to the Major, 
 was in the interest of the party advocating the pas- 
 sage of the bill that Malcolm was endeavoring to de- 
 feat. But however much their politics differed, the 
 young men entertained a personal regard for each 
 other that was above political bickering or jealousy. 
 
 The trial was the topic to which neither of the 
 lawyers referred. The elder man respected the feel- 
 ings of his former adversary; for he was aware that 
 a tie of affection had existed between him and Ev- 
 elyn. He also knew that, since Malcolm's acquittal,
 
 273 
 
 Le Moyne and Evelyn had not met; and he could 
 not but note the strange coincidence that had brought 
 together nearly all of those directly concerned ia the 
 trial and its attendant tragedy. 
 
 A carriage stopped at the main entrance of the 
 hotel, and Wavily bustled into the office. As he ap- 
 proached the two men he held out his hand to Le 
 Moyne. 
 
 "Young man," said Wavily, "had you come on 
 the afternoon train, you could have gone with me to 
 Mrs. Chesborough's. Never have I seen so many 
 beautiful women. When did you arrive?" 
 
 "About an hour ago. I met the Major here, and 
 we have been spending an agreeable time together. 
 You are on your way South, I presume?" 
 
 "Yes, I shall be off to-morrow, but I was glad to 
 stop over here to see my old friend. By the way, 
 Evelyn \ r an Courtland is staying with her aunt. 
 You will see her, of course?" 
 
 Le Moyne flushed. 
 
 "My trip is strictly a business one," he said. 
 "How long do you remain ?" he asked of the Major, 
 to turn the subject of conversation. 
 
 "A few days at the most," was the reply. 
 
 "My dear Major/' said Wavily, "your young part- 
 ner, from appearances, seems to have met with im- 
 mediate social success. The ladies have taken him 
 up. It's no wonder, for he's a handsome young fel- 
 low. I left him making love to Evelyn. By the
 
 CourtlanD* 
 
 way, Le Moyne," he added, "at one time I thought 
 you were interested in that quarter." 
 
 Again Le Moyne colored, and, taking advantage 
 of the entrance of an acquaintance, excused himself, 
 leaving the old man and the Major together. 
 
 "A promising young fellow," was Wavily's re- 
 mark when Le Moyne had gone. 
 
 "That sentiment I can heartily endorse," was the 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "For a time after the Harlan trial he seemed to 
 go to pieces. Though I didn't see much of him, I 
 heard it talked." 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, "he felt severely the loss of 
 that case, yet I doubt if he ever believed in Mal- 
 colm's guilt. At any rate they are warm friends 
 now, though they differ in politics." 
 
 "The ending of the trial was most tragic. Van 
 Courtland took the death of his partner very much 
 to heart" 
 
 Strong did not reply, and the conversation, after 
 a pause, drifted to lighter topics. Spying another 
 acquaintance, the elder man prepared to join him. 
 
 "Say to your partner," he said, rising, "that I wish 
 to see him before I start for the South. He's a fine 
 young man," he added in a confidential tone, "and 
 he seems much interested in Miss Van Courtland. 
 Since her father's death, you know, I have nomi- 
 nated myself her guardian. Not that she needs one," 
 he laughed, "she is thoroughly; well equipped to take
 
 OEfcelptt ^an CourtlanD* 275 
 
 care of herself. I like Malcolm. There is something 
 frank and fearless about him. But his reticence at 
 the trial was extraordinary. I suppose you know 
 the reason for it Anyway, he is getting on famously. 
 Ah, here is the culprit now." 
 
 Malcolm, who approached, received a gentle pat 
 on the shoulder, while two pairs of eyes, keen, yet 
 mildly quizzical, were directed to his face. The 
 sharp night air had flushed his cheeks, for he had 
 walked briskly, and the light of a great joy ani- 
 mated his features. At that moment he believed 
 himself the luckiest and happiest of mortals. It 
 never occurred to him that any one might observe 
 his state of rapture and question the cause. 
 
 "Well," he said, addressing the old man, whose 
 hand lingered on his shoulder, "you arrived before 
 me." 
 
 "Yes," answered Wavily, "we young chaps must 
 keep good hours." 
 
 Malcolm laughed. 
 
 "You seem mightily content with yourself/' the 
 Major interjected, "you look radiant. Did anyone 
 leave you a fortune ?" 
 
 "It's the fine night, Major, beautiful outside." 
 
 "Fine night indeed! I've seen young men in 
 your mental state before. What do you think about 
 it, Mr. Wavily?" 
 
 "I don't blame him," was the laughing response. 
 "If I were his age and well, I'll tell no tales. I
 
 276 OEfcelpn i^an CourtlanD, 
 
 was once young. And, for that matter, not too old 
 yet to appreciate such beauty as I saw to-night In 
 that, apparently, I was not alone. I must see you 
 in the morning, young man, before my train leaves. 
 Now tell the Major all about the fine time you were 
 having when I left you at Mrs. Chesborough's." And 
 he turned away to join the senior Senator and lec- 
 ture him on the fatal result of worry. 
 
 Never since the Major had known his partner had 
 he seemed so full of hope, so confident of the future. 
 The elder man listened and smiled with satisfaction. 
 The world had taught him the wisdom of silence; 
 and nature had endowed him with the rare gift of 
 finding enjoyment in the happiness of those he loved. 
 He realized that merely social success, or satisfaction 
 at having enjoyed an evening of pleasure, was not 
 the sole cause for the ring of confidence in Malcolm's 
 voice, for the new light in his eyes. There is but 
 one power that can move men of Malcolm's strength 
 of character to an outward display of emotion, and 
 that power must enter deep into the heart and soul. 
 With them, love strikes deeply, and they surrender 
 themselves without reservation. Malcolm, thought- 
 less of consequence, believing he had no right to ex- 
 pect that his passion would awaken an answering re- 
 sponse, surrendered his heart and his life to his love, 
 and, whatever the result might be, the thought 
 brought him happiness. For years he had had but 
 one desire to tell the woman he had just left that
 
 CouttlanD* 
 
 he loved her, to tell her of the years, even before the 
 fatal tragedy had thrown them together, that her 
 image was before him. Yes, that had been his hope ; 
 and now, with her words filling him with a lover's 
 joy, her expressed determination to hear his coming 
 speech in the House, her tender sympathy, he gave 
 himself up to the happiness of a moment, content 
 with life and with the world. How could the shafts 
 of his opponents harm him now ? He scoffed at the 
 thought. The world might conspire against him, 
 but his love was impregnable; and the thought that 
 she was watching his progress would spur him on to 
 such efforts that success must come. 
 
 The Major was thinking of his interview with 
 Malcolm in the cell, of his reticence, his dogged de- 
 termination to risk his life and liberty for what, at 
 the time, the attorney had termed his unreasoning 
 obstinacy. Could the daughter of Howard Van 
 Courtland, he queried, have been the cause of the 
 sacrifice that the young man had made? Had love 
 for her influenced him? If his surmises were cor- 
 rect, what might be the result when Evelyn became 
 aware that Malcolm loved her ? 
 
 The old lawyer was not pleased with his new dis- 
 covery. Deep affection for his partner had made him 
 alert to the danger that threatened. He saw two 
 young people of a highly sensitive disposition, each 
 unconscious that the other possessed knowledge that 
 might make their union impossible, awakening to the
 
 278 oftjclpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 first ecstasy of love. The ruin of both their lives 
 might be the result. He knew Malcolm's ardent na- 
 ture, and realized that an attachment once formed, 
 should cause arise to mar it, would mean the ruin of 
 his future. Evelyn, too, had, since he had first met 
 her, impressed him as a woman of strong feelings 
 and principles. He was satisfied she knew who 
 killed Harlan, that she was aware, also, of her fath- 
 er's determination to fix the guilt on Malcolm; and 
 now the one who had suffered by her father's act had 
 come into her life as a suitor for her hand. She 
 would not deceive Malcolm; neither would she, the 
 Major argued, consent to a union that would be 
 cursed by the fear of future discovery. But he was 
 powerless to act or advise ; nor was the man who now 
 stood before him one whose love could be made a 
 topic for discussion. 
 
 "When do you deliver your speech?" he asked, 
 wishing to get away from the reference to the sub- 
 ject of his thoughts. 
 
 "The day after to-morrow," Malcolm answered 
 with interest. "You will be in town; but I should 
 rather you wouldn't hear it. You will expect too 
 much. Besides, I discovered long ago that I'm no 
 orator." 
 
 "My dear boy," was the suave reply, "if you have 
 discovered that much you have made rapid strides. 
 Somehow, if a man has an idea worth listening to, 
 it always makes itself heard. The people are not
 
 279 
 
 clamoring for orators ; but they do hunger for an oc- 
 casional gleam of wholesome common sense. In that 
 respect our politicians make a great mistake. They 
 become imbued with ijie notion that the public wish 
 to hear the quality of their voices. They appeal to 
 the ear, and not to the mind. If you have become 
 conscious that you are not a really gifted orator 
 well, when the time comes for your re-election, you 
 may hope to be returned to Washington. By the 
 way, Le Moyne is here. He came over on the night 
 train." 
 
 "Keally! Good fellow, Le Moyne." 
 
 "Well," growled the Major, "he gave you a pretty 
 close call once upon a time." 
 
 "So he did. Perhaps that's why I like him. He 
 did no more than I would under like circumstances." 
 
 "Think so ? I always considered his summing up 
 of your case a particularly vicious effort." 
 
 "Not, however, inspired by his desire to convict 
 me. He had other matter on his mind." 
 
 The Major flashed the speaker a searching glance. 
 Malcolm had never before referred to the subject 
 with equal candor. 
 
 "What ground have you for your belief?" 
 
 "I'll tell you," was the laughing response, "if 
 you will tell me the source of the information that 
 placed the Government's case in your hand even 
 before the trial." 
 
 The Major did not immediately reply. Though
 
 280 OEtoelpn tan CourtlanD* 
 
 not easily disconcerted, he felt the eyes of his com- 
 panion were on him. They had never before gone so 
 far in discussing the trial. The Major realized that he 
 must retreat. With Evelyn and Le Moyne in dan- 
 ger of a daily encounter with Malcolm, the Major 
 had no further desire to pursue the subject 
 
 "That's a dead issue," he said lightly, "and too 
 ancient to resurrect. Let's go to bed." 
 
 Malcolm laughingly acquiesced. 
 
 "No information there," he mused, "and he's as 
 touchy as the devil on the subject."
 
 CouttlanD, 28i 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 From lobby to corridor and to committee-room the 
 word was given that the young r member from New 
 York had the floor, and was offering an argument 
 worthy of attention. Members of the House, skep- 
 tical and fretful, moved listlessly to the door of the 
 chamber, listened a moment to assure themselves 
 they were not being imposed on by a false rumor, 
 then quietly took their seats, or grouped themselves 
 in the rear of the hall. The galleries began to fill 
 up, Senators and others dropped in to listen; and 
 they, too, remained to applaud, and the minutes mul- 
 tiplied into hours. 
 
 Malcolm had said he was no orator, and, as the 
 term is generally understood, this was true. Though 
 making no attempt to that end, his terse sentences 
 and clearly expressed thoughts were eloquent with 
 the charm of earnestness and a belief in his subject. 
 Words came freely, and in infinite variety, colored 
 by a happiness of phrase that made a homely simile 
 stand forth with striking effect. He was speaking 
 for the people and for their rights ; for their liberties, 
 as against the encroachment and the influence of
 
 282 dftjelptt $att Courtlantu 
 
 wealth'. His Heart was in his subject. The magic 
 power that comes from adherence to a principle was 
 his. To present his views cost him little or no effort, 
 for he was voicing thoughts that had become convic- 
 tions, expounding theories that were to him a faith. 
 
 Strong, who had haunted the galleries for the past 
 two days, that he might not lose the opening of the 
 speech, sat well back, but where he could command 
 a view of the speaker. He watched the increasing 
 number that came to listen and by the silence, no 
 less than by the applause, he rightly measured the 
 effect that was being produced. After the first few 
 sentences, when he realized Malcolm's perfect com- 
 mand of his subject, he was filled with gratification. 
 Perhaps no happening in his long professional career 
 had given him greater pleasure than he now experi- 
 enced. He was being repaid a hundred fold for his 
 faith in him; and he was so far human as to gloat 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 A hand was thrust before him from behind and a 
 voice said : 
 
 "Good, isn't it ? I always knew 'twas in him." 
 
 The Major grasped the hand of the speaker, and 
 Le Moyne sat beside him. 
 
 "He's doing himself justice. That satisfies me," 
 the Major answered. 
 
 "I always considered him an odd sort of chap. 
 'At college one couldn't get within a hundred miles 
 of him."
 
 CcurtlanD, 283 
 
 Then the two men turned an attentive ear to the 
 speaker. 
 
 Among the listeners were men of national fame, 
 who agreed that a new voice was being heard, one 
 that would command the attention of every true 
 American, regardless of section or political creed. At 
 a bound, this young man had forged to the front, not 
 only as a speaker of ability, but as a thinker who 
 could command respect. 
 
 Was it his subject alone that moved him to bursts 
 of unconscious eloquence, or did some unknown 
 power tell him that, in the ladies' gallery, two eyes 
 were directed at his flushed, handsome face; that a 
 heart beat in sympathy with the rise and fall of his 
 voice a voice whose deep sonorous tones thrilled 
 every nerve of her being. Evelyn, in her excitement, 
 casting aside the veil she wore, listened as we listen 
 to the voice we love, following his words breathless 
 and silent. She had no thought of time or place; 
 her world was then encompassed by the walls of this 
 hall of Legislature, and one central figure, to her 
 god-like, alone filled the eye. Even as she listened, 
 the scenes of the great trial rose before her. Per- 
 haps her act, her treachery, had made possible his ac- 
 quittal ; and as she saw him now, and heard the voice 
 which seemed to grow in beauty, a sweet sense of 
 contentment swept over her. The life of this man 
 belonged to her, it was hers ; for had she not traded 
 all but her soul that she might save him ? Yes, and
 
 284 oBtoelpn $an Courtlanlu 
 
 she had succeeded. And now, how beautiful this 
 life, how sublime! The effort she had made had 
 cost her many a blush of shame, it had cost a man 
 his love, and his faith in womankind ; but was it not 
 worth the price ? Yes, a thousand times yes. 
 
 For a moment his words seemed to die in her ears 
 and a cloud to lower before her vision, shutting out 
 the figure on the floor, while a voice within her whis- 
 pered "Love is not for you, nor for one of your 
 race; remember in your veins flows your mother's 
 blood." A chill swept over her, and, dimly conscious 
 of the tones to which she listened, she sat as one 
 transfixed. Then, with an effort, her faculties as- 
 sumed their normal functions; the speaker again 
 dominated and thrilled her, and she gave herself up 
 to the delight of listening, conscious only of a new in- 
 terest, a new hope, having entered her life. Whence 
 this feeling of exultation had sprung, whither it 
 might lead, she did not question; its overwhelming 
 influence was with her, controlling her thoughts, her 
 desires, and she surrendered to its power unmindful 
 of consequences. Why should she not love, even 
 though reason told her it was madness ? She recog- 
 nized the incongruity, the impossibility of it all. Did 
 Malcolm know the truth, she reasoned, he would loath 
 her, turn from her as the daughter of the man whose 
 act had clouded his life; and should she remain si- 
 lent, it would be only deferring the time when, with 
 the knowledge of the truth, he would confront her,
 
 $an CourtlanD* 235 
 
 accusation in his eyes, and the voice to which she 
 now listened would revile her. No, her father's 
 crime was a barrier beween them. Even should 
 Malcolm now forgive her, the thought would live, 
 and, ghost-like, rise without warning to confront 
 them. But she consoled herself with the assurance 
 that he would never learn the truth. Her lips would 
 be forever sealed, and he would never know that 
 she loved 
 
 The thought startled her. Was she mad? Why 
 should she think of love ? Was she a school-girl, to 
 surrender to the sound of this man's voice ? Yet she 
 would not renounce the thought. She clung to it as 
 one treasures some token of a life one is leaving 
 with the sweet sense that it was one's own and none 
 so powerful as to dispute its possession. There was 
 music in the words to which she listened, yet how 
 masterful the speaker appeared; how gladly would 
 she obey his command ; and her imagination pictured 
 him aroused to anger. She seemed to see his eyes 
 flash eyes that had talked love to her, when, at her 
 Aunt Chesborough's, she had eagerly drunk in his 
 words. Unskilled in the art, he had betrayed him- 
 self; but with her knowledge of men, and a world 
 in which she was old in experience, she had read his 
 feelings aright. And now the thought again filled 
 her with ecstasy: this man loved her, the man she 
 had saved, whose life belonged to her. 
 
 Again she listened. The speaker was about to
 
 286 Oftjelpn t^att CoiirtlanD, 
 
 close. His words became impassioned a note of 
 warning in his voice. Forceful as was his language, 
 his self-restraint impressed his hearers. "This man," 
 they whispered to each other, "is as sure of himself 
 as of his subject." 
 
 He was not, as he had told the Major, capable of 
 flights of eloquence that would appeal to the imagina- 
 tion; but the tribute to his effort was greater than 
 had been paid to many a noted speaker before him 
 on that same floor. He had started early in his career 
 to defeat the bill then before the House ; when he fin- 
 ished speaking and took his seat, the measure was 
 dead, and, so far as that session of Congress was 
 concerned, beyond hope of resurrection. 
 
 The excitement was intense, and prolonged ap- 
 plause followed his closing words. He knew he had 
 succeeded and, for an instant, his eyes instinctively 
 turned towards the ladies' gallery. What he saw 
 there sent the blood to his cheeks. Evelyn was stand- 
 ing, her eyes fixed on him, her attitude that of sup- 
 pressed excitement. A slight movement of her hand 
 had caught his attention. Yes, she was there, and 
 had seen him ; and, with a smothered exclamation of 
 joy, he turned to meet the congratulations of his fel- 
 low Congressmen. 
 
 The House was about to adjourn. Strong and Le 
 Moyne, who had remained together, rose to go. The 
 Major had not joined in the applause, but a moisten- 
 ing of the eyes was his tribute. He, too, recognized
 
 Courtlattd, 28T 
 
 Evelyn, and he had also seen the look flashed between 
 the lovers. Believing that the young Congressman's 
 steps would lead him to the ladies' gallery, Strong 
 decided not to wait for him. 
 
 "That's what I call a rattling good speech," said 
 Le Moyne. 
 
 The two men were standing in the corridor, in the 
 act of putting on their gloves ; the crowd was pushing 
 forward to the stairway. 
 
 "Yes," answered the Major, "it was good." 
 
 His kindly face was aglow with pleasure; at that 
 moment the world could offer him nothing to increase 
 his happiness. It was not in his nature to betray his 
 inner thoughts or feelings. A soft light in his eyes 
 was the only outward show, but his heart was thump- 
 ing for pure, holy joy. 
 
 The two men were about to descend the stairs. 
 They were intent upon the subject of Malcolm's suc- 
 cess, and, for a moment, stood at the head of the 
 stairway in earnest discussion. Without warning 
 they were suddenly confronted by the young Con- 
 gressman and Evelyn, so absorbed in each other that 
 the two men were unnoticed by them till the four 
 met at the stairway. Malcolm alone retained his 
 self-possession. For the others it was a moment of 
 confusion and conflicting emotions. To Evelyn, per- 
 haps, more than to the others, came an added sense 
 of humiliation. It was her first meeting with Le 
 Moyne since her father's death, and fate seemed to
 
 288 OEfcelpn $att CourtlanO. 
 
 have arranged this encounter as a punishment for the 
 wrong she had done him. From extreme pallor, 
 when she first recognized Le Moyne, her face became 
 scarlet. Her glance fell, and she stood before the 
 man she had wronged the personification of guilt. 
 Would he openly taunt her, and before those who 
 had a right to know, yet who, in all the world, were 
 the two persons from whom she most desired to keep 
 the truth, would he upbraid her and proclaim her 
 guilt? And the man beside her, whom she loved 
 for at that instant fear of losing him swept aside the 
 veil of self-deceit would he also turn from her, ap- 
 palled by the truth ? 
 
 The Major felt keenly for Evelyn, for the import 
 of the situation and a sense of her embarrassment 
 was plainly evident to him. But he did not share 
 Evelyn's fear of disclosure. He knew Le Moyne, 
 and expected him to act upon instinct; and that in- 
 stinct, he knew, would prompt him to do what would 
 be expected of a man of his sterling worth. 
 
 Le Moyne, raising his hat, stepped forward and 
 bowed io Evelyn. The Major, however, was quick 
 to rescue her from her embarrassment, and, after she 
 had returned Le Moyne's salute, she found her hand 
 in that of Strong's. He was telling her how de- 
 lighted he was to see her; and while Le Moyne was 
 congratulating Malcolm on his success, the Major 
 was leading the way with Evelyn through the ram- 
 bling corridors of the Capitol to the Pennsylvania
 
 CourtlanD, 289 
 
 Avenue entrance. To allow her time to regain her 
 composure, he spoke of Malcolm's success, and of 
 the years since he had last seen her. Smiling sadly 
 at his attempt to relieve her fears, she answered him 
 with increasing animation. At the end of the walk 
 they halted, and waited for the others. 
 
 "You will come to see me before you leave town ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 There was wistful entreaty in her voice. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I promise to see you before 
 I return to New York. You are staying with your 
 aunt ?" 
 
 "Yes; come any time, at any hour." 
 
 Further conversation was impossible. The two 
 young men had joined them. 
 
 "You will walk with me to the hotel ?" Le Moyne 
 asked, addressing the Major. 
 
 "Yes, if you don't go too fast. In my case it's no 
 use trying to disguise my age. When it comes to 
 walking I'm not nearly so young as our friend 
 Wavily." 
 
 Lifting their hats, the two men started up the 
 Avenue, and Evelyn and Malcolm were alone. What 
 could she say to hide her agitation? If she were 
 only in her aunt's home, where she could think ! 
 
 "Will you ride?" Malcolm asked. 
 
 "No," she answered, determined on conquering 
 her emotion, "the distance is short, and the air just 
 cold enough to make walking a pleasure. Come,
 
 290 OEtoelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 you'll find me no novice. I have walked the dis- 
 tance hundreds of times." Then, with a laugh: "I 
 believe I could run there without stopping ; but don't 
 be disturbed, I shan't attempt it." 
 
 Conscious of success fairly won, walking beside 
 the woman he loved; who rejoiced with him, Malcolm 
 might be pardoned for giving himself up to a com- 
 plete sense of joy. Together, with springing gait, 
 snuffing the air with keen delight, the lovers were 
 living moments of unalloyed happiness. Malcolm, 
 nevertheless, was conscious of something between 
 them: an intangible and disquieting sensation that 
 he could neither understand nor explain. He could 
 trace the birth of this feeling a doubt so slight as 
 to be founded on presentiment more than on fact 
 to the meeting between Le Moyne and Evelyn. He 
 felt, more than saw, evidence of strained relations 
 between them. Though it was over in an instant, 
 their conduct during the time following their mutual 
 recognition, until Evelyn had turned away with the 
 Major, had left its impression on his mind. 
 
 They went on through the dusk of evening, that 
 seemed to draw them into a closer bond of companion- 
 ship, the darkness veiling the light of love in their 
 eyes, their voices alone betraying an excess of happi- 
 ness. By a common impulse they put from their 
 minds the memory of the chance meeting, and thought 
 only of each other and the joy of being together. 
 But to Evelyn came the oft recurring thought:
 
 OEtoelpn $an CotmlanD, 291 
 
 What will be the end ? And again : You are sowing 
 the wind, rearing a lover's paradise, only to have it 
 swept away by a breath, a doubt knowledge, that 
 must, in time, come to the man you love. And then 
 desolation, agony of soul, and a heart that will for- 
 ever cry : "I love with a love that will not die, yet I 
 must not complain." 
 
 But the man beside her was so strong, so manly! 
 And his voice still swayed and controlled her. Gen- 
 tle though it was now, she quailed at the thought of 
 what it might be if raised in anger. Yet why should 
 she not love him secretly, paying to him the homage 
 that is a hero's tribute and he need never know. 
 
 Unconsciously they had increased their speed, their 
 feet keeping time with thought and fancy. 
 
 "You have taken me at my word," Evelyn said 
 with a breathless laugh, "you are actually running." 
 
 Her quick glance had surprised his passionate look. 
 
 "What a brute I am !" he exclaimed in a voice of 
 self-reproach, "yet I have an excuse I was tring to 
 keep up with you." 
 
 Laughing, they slackened their pace. They were 
 nearing Evelyn's home. 
 
 "You'll come in for a few moments?" she asked. 
 "You must apologize to my aunt for keeping the 
 dinner waiting. Seriously, though, Aunt Chesbor- 
 ough would be delighted if you would give her an ac- 
 count of your speech. You know she considers her- 
 self a sort of party whip."
 
 292 OEtoelpn $an CotmlanD, 
 
 "I will do so gladly," he replied. 
 
 Entering the house, he found himself confronted 
 by the great lady, who was eager to listen, plying 
 him meanwhile with questions, and interjecting mild 
 criticisms. He endeavored to dismiss the subject of 
 his speech in a few words; but he had not reckoned 
 on the interest of the questioner. When modesty 
 compelled reticence, she turned to Evelyn, who, as 
 much from a sense of personal embarrassment, as a 
 desire to spare Malcolm, grudgingly gave a partial 
 account of the reception accorded him. Why did her 
 aunt insist? Why could she not wait till they were 
 alone ? But the champion of many a noted speaker 
 would know then and there, till Evelyn blushed and 
 stammered, and Malcolm, whose face was a deep 
 scarlet, laughed. The old lady, somewhat appeased, 
 said: 
 
 "A man's first public speech is quite a serious 
 matter, and you young people take it in altogether 
 too frivolous a spirit. Mr. Malcolm, I shall con- 
 sider it a special honor if you will dine with me. 
 To-night we dine alone. Pray don't say you are en- 
 gaged, for I wish to hear more of your first effort in 
 the House. Evelyn, dear, speak to the butler." 
 
 Left alone with his hostess, Malcolm began to 
 fully realize the unique position of importance and 
 power that this venerable lady filled. As though he 
 had won his spurs, and was therefore worthy of con- 
 fidence, she spoke with such freedom and authority
 
 OEfcelpn $an Couttlanti* 293 
 
 that, familiar though he was with the machinations 
 and inner workings of political life, he was astonished 
 at the deep and comprehensive knowledge possessed 
 by this aged society leader. 
 
 Evelyn's return was the signal for dinner. The 
 meal, unduly prolonged, was a trial to Malcolm. For 
 thirty or more years the service had been essentially 
 the same. Whether dining alone or surrounded by 
 her friends, the custom of the autocratic old lady 
 never varied ; and dinner was served with a formality 
 in keeping with her station and manner of life. Her 
 impromptu invitation to dine was paying her guest 
 the highest compliment at her command. It was an 
 honor rarely bestowed, reserved for those who ap- 
 pealed to her affection. Yet conscious though he 
 was of the honor, he fretted and was ill at ease. His 
 hostess demanded and received his attention; but 
 his eyes and his thoughts were for Evelyn. The sig- 
 nal to return to the drawing room he hailed with de- 
 light. 
 
 "You are fond of music, Mr. Malcolm ?" his host- 
 ess asked. 
 
 "Yes, though my knowledge is limited," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Are you too tired to play, Evelyn ?" 
 
 "I was about to ask you the same question, auntie 
 dear." 
 
 It was when the old lady, after a brief prelude, 
 began Beethoven's moonlight Sonata, that her re-
 
 294 OEttelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 markable vitality was strikingly manifest. Only in 
 the movement of her arms, and a slight swaying of 
 her body, did she betray her age. Her touch was 
 sure, her execution flawless. It was with this same 
 delicacy and certainty that she had drawn about her 
 men that Nature had made great, and others who 
 by her tact and direction had placed themselves in 
 the front rank of public life. The power of her art, 
 as of her life, seemed to be at its fullest and ripest, 
 
 "There," she said as she finished, "now you can 
 say that you have listened to a real old lady play 
 the piano. Also one whose hearing is remarkably 
 acute. I heard you young people whispering." 
 
 Malcolm colored guiltily, and Evelyn protested. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Malcolm, I'll forgive you most 
 anything to-night, because I'm convinced you made 
 a good speech to-day. To win my favor you need 
 make but one, to retain it you must make many. Ah, 
 Senator," she rose to receive her new guest, "I'm 
 glad you have proved you haven't forgotten me." 
 
 The Senator protested against the imputation. An- 
 other guest of equal note was announced, and still 
 others came, till the rooms began to fill up. At last 
 Malcolm found his opportunity to speak to Evelyn. 
 How long the time had seemed to Elm ! But the few 
 moments accorded him alone were like a forgotten 
 joy newly discovered. Their formal reserve had re- 
 laxed, and they conversed with the freedom of friends 
 of long standing. But their shirking glances were
 
 OEtielpn Dan CourtlanD, 295 
 
 those of lovers, hesitant, fearing discovery one of the 
 other. Then before his mind again rose the strange 
 meeting with Le Moyne. 
 
 "You knew Mr. Le Moyne in New York inti- 
 mately, I believe. Does he call when in town?" 
 
 The color suffused her neck, then, receding, left her 
 pale and agitated. 
 
 "No," she answered briefly. 
 
 He said no more on the subject, but he noted the 
 tremor in her voice. 
 
 Again he was dragged forth to be introduced to the 
 newcomers, and congratulated on his recent effort. 
 
 "I shall, I fear, presently begin to regret having 
 made a speech," he remarked to Evelyn as he re- 
 joined her. 
 
 "You are paying the price of fame," she laugh- 
 ingly replied. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "do you visit, or embroider, or 
 do whatever occupies a lady's attention, during all 
 the day, as well as evenings ?" 
 
 He flushed at his blundering attempt to ascertain 
 when it would be possible to see her. 
 "Not diplomatic," she thought ; then, with a smile 
 
 "Frequently I go for a drive with my aunt ; some- 
 times I go alone for a walk." 
 
 "As, for example, when and where, and, if to-mor- 
 row, at what particular time? There will be little 
 to do in the House." 
 
 "When I walk, my objective point is the new li-
 
 296 OEtjelpn pan Courtlann* 
 
 brary. Usually I go at twelve o'clock. If," she con- 
 tinued, her glance falling before his steady gaze, 
 "you will promise not to refer again to our somewhat 
 embarrassing encounter in the Capitol to-day, I shall 
 go for a walk to-morrow." 
 
 "Agreed," he answered. "I, also, wait to-mor- 
 row. And now, what shall I say to Major Strong? 
 I have kept him waiting many hours." 
 
 "You may say to him that I send him greetings, 
 and that I, alone, am to blame. Perhaps he may for- 
 give you and me, also." 
 
 Ten minutes later a young man might be seen 
 walking briskly down Pennsylvania Avenue, his eyes 
 aglow, apparently intent on studying the stars, and 
 otherwise showing indications of mild insanity.
 
 $att CouttlanD. 297 
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 ELEVEN o'clock, the following day, found Malcolm 
 pacing nervously to and fro, within the shadow of 
 the Capitol. He was a full hour in advance of the 
 time set for his meeting with Evelyn, and, to relieve 
 his impatience, he looked at his watch every five 
 minutes, and congratulated himself upon his shrewd- 
 ness in being the first to arrive at the rendezvous. 
 In love matters, as in affairs of State, it is evidence 
 of sound judgment to take time by the forelock, and 
 anticipate great events; and he was quite sure that, 
 in his somewhat eventful career, his coming meeting 
 with Evelyn overshadowed any former happening 
 even to being tried for his life. Back and forth he 
 walked, making a desperate effort to appear uncon- 
 cerned, speaking to those he recognized with an off- 
 hand air, as if he had just finished his duties in the 
 House, and was taking a stroll to kill time. But 
 with the approach of noon came all sorts of fears and 
 forebodings. What if Evelyn should not come ? Per- 
 haps he had not arrived in time to meet her and, dis- 
 appointed, she had returned home. Impossible; he 
 had been an hour ahead of time surely no lover
 
 298 <tjelpn ^an CourtlanD. 
 
 could do more. Ah, twelve o'clock ! Smiling, he ar- 
 ranged his coat for the hundredth time, and strained 
 his eyes in an endeavor to transform a colored woman, 
 nearly a mile away, into a figure with the grace and 
 the carriage of the one he loved ; then, raging at his 
 own stupidity, he resumed his walk and the arrange- 
 ment of his coat Not, be it understood, that he was 
 vain; but it gave him an excuse to keep his hands 
 occupied. Twelve o'clock had passed three minutes 
 after the hour, and he was never before more certain 
 of anything than he was now certain that Evelyn 
 would not come at all. She had forgotten about the 
 meeting and had gone to drive. Yes, that was the 
 reason for her non-appearance. Then all the thunder 
 clouds that ever darkened the equitorial heavens 
 could not equal the blackness that obscured his world. 
 And very black thoughts also came. Why had she 
 exacted a promise that he would not refer to their 
 meeting with Le Moyne? What had Le Moyne in 
 common with her? Had she known him intimately 
 in New York? If so, there had been an estrange- 
 ment. What was the cause ? The Major, too ! He 
 had appeared quite unnatural. To-day he had not 
 seen Strong; a letter in the early morning had in- 
 formed him that his partner would be out of town, 
 with the further information that the writer would 
 meet him at the seven o'clock dinner. Yes, he mused, 
 he would demand of the Major what he knew of Le 
 Moyne's relations with Evelyn in New York. With
 
 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanB, 299 
 
 Van Courtland the former District Attorney had 
 been on intimate terms and, no doubt, the Major was 
 well informed of Evelyn's past relations with him. 
 Tour minutes past the hour five, six. At last ! 
 
 "Have you been waiting long?" Evelyn asked. 
 
 "A few minutes only," he answered. 
 
 At college and since those days, Malcolm's word 
 had never been questioned. Perhaps in the confusion 
 of meeting Evelyn he believed what he said. 
 
 "You are quite sure I did not keep you waiting ?" 
 
 "Quite," he unblushingly answered. 
 
 They walked slowly, each waiting for the other to 
 introduce a topic of conversation. The air seemed 
 to palpitate with their happiness. The thrill of 
 their meeting still remained, and, surprised at their 
 own joy, they were content with the silence. But 
 there were moments when Evelyn was affected with 
 the same sense of guilt as when, years before, she 
 had passively listened to Le Moyne. In what man- 
 ner did the cases of the two men differ ? Only in the 
 fact that one she wilfully deceived, and did not love. 
 The other she loved, and it was this knowledge that 
 made her pause, appalled at the wrong she was doing 
 him. But she could not summon sufficient courage 
 to renounce him, to say that forever he must go out 
 of her life. How sweet love was after her years of 
 sorrow, even punishment; for she had scourged her 
 soul in repentance for the wrong she had done Le 
 Moyne. And now, while the first throbs of love
 
 300 OEtoelpn pan CourtlanD, 
 
 were young, like the undisclosed beauty of the flower 
 while yet in bud, that is crushed beyond hope of life, 
 she must surrender the love that had come into her 
 life, so new, so strong, so beautiful. But she thought 
 not of herself alone. The suffering was for her, too, 
 but it was intensified by the wrong she was doing 
 him, and she could not explain that it was of him 
 only that she thought: that she had chosen her 
 course because she loved him, her hero, as a god 
 among men. Would she have the courage, when the 
 time came, and he should tell her of his love ? She 
 no longer tried to deceive herself, to allow maidenly 
 reserve to blind her judgment. She knew he loved 
 her, she read it in his glance. The touch of his hand, 
 trembling as it met hers, sent a thousand thrills and 
 messages only known to love. How, then, could she 
 break with this Heaven that had only now come to 
 her ? What was life, after all, but that one touch of 
 love! Compared with it all the pleasures of the, 
 world were as nothing. Why should she give him 
 up why, why ? And her brain whirled at the mad- 
 ness of her own thoughts. It was not her sin, her 
 crime, that stood between them. Why had Heaven 
 willed that she should suffer for a fault that was not 
 
 hers? If her mother 
 
 She looked at the strong, handsome face, the warm 
 blood touching either cheek with the glow of health, 
 the clear eyes dancing with expectancy and pleasure. 
 Surely he was a man who found enjoyment only in
 
 OEfcelpn $an CoitrtlanD, 301 
 
 the pure things of life. And his mind would revolt 
 at deception, at treachery; and should he discover in 
 woman that which aroused a doubt of her honor, his 
 love would end. How strongly the background of 
 light brought out every line, clear cut and firm, every 
 feature the perfection of manly beauty. And, per- 
 haps, he also would turn from her, with the same 
 look she had seen in Le Moyne's face as she had 
 passed him in the Capitol. In desperation she put 
 the thought from her. 
 
 "You have never told me of your college life," she 
 said, "and of how you came to enter politics." 
 
 "There was little romance connected with my 
 school life," he replied, "just hard work, with a con- 
 tinual struggle to make both ends meet. More 
 often," he laughed, "they didn't meet. That contin- 
 gency, you see, required a new set of promises to 
 creditors, and more hard work to make them good. 
 But the effort was productive of one result: I was 
 forced to learn some law while acting as head clerk 
 for an attorney who wrote law books, and, like my- 
 self, grew poor on it. But when I took up the law 
 as a profession, the experience helped me amazingly. 
 As for my political career, Major Strong pushed me 
 almost physically into it. He's to blame, not I. And 
 once launched, I found new friends who did the rest 
 and here I am." 
 
 "Your friends didn't mate your speech for you." 
 
 "Oh, that's really but an echo of school days.
 
 302 OEtoelpn tan CourtlanD* 
 
 Every young fellow does that sort of thing. If the 
 truth were told, you know, we like to hear ourselves 
 talk." 
 
 "And about your law business. You are, or were, 
 the partner of Major Strong." 
 
 "Yes, we are still partners. I couldn't get on 
 without the dear old Major. But we quarrel some- 
 times." 
 
 Evelyn laughed. 
 
 "I can't imagine anyone quarreling with Major 
 Strong. I really think him one of the noblest men 
 I ever met." 
 
 "We thoroughly agree in our estimate of him. I 
 have the best of reasons for believing in him; and 
 you you have known him long?" 
 
 Evelyn hesitated. They were discussing a danger- 
 ous subject 
 
 "No," she answered, "but his daughter was my 
 dearest friend at college. She died shortly after leav- 
 ing school. She was a sweet girl. When I last saw 
 the Major in New York he spoke of her. He was 
 deeply moved. Dear me, you are walking again as 
 if you were in a hurry to return. Force of habit, I 
 presume. Let me see, you were a famous athlete 
 in college, weren't you ?" 
 
 Malcolm laughed, and they loitered slowly home- 
 ward. 
 
 "Why should you think I was ever given to ath- 
 letics?" he asked.
 
 IPan CourtlanD* 303 
 
 "Didn't you tell me ?" 
 
 ".No ; surely not." 
 
 Confused, she made an attempt to change the sub- 
 ject, and, womanlike, her effort made her design all 
 the more apparent She colored, stammered, and, 
 when he laughingly quizzed her as to her informant, 
 in desperation she stumbled on the unfortunate re- 
 
 "I believe it was the Major who told me." 
 
 At once she saw her error. Whatever the Major 
 had learned of Malcolm's early career, the knowledge 
 had come to him after his arrest. 
 
 "Let us hurry," she said. "I promised my aunt 
 to make a call with her this afternoon." 
 
 They quickened their gait and, after half an hour's 
 walk, stood before the mansion that had been the 
 home of Evelyn's aunt for many years. 
 
 "You are going to the Vandervier's reception?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I have not received an invitation," he replied. 
 
 Simulated surprise was in Evelyn's tone and voice 
 as she replied: 
 
 "Really? And aunt particularly wished you to 
 play the part of escort." Evelyn did not add that 
 the good lady had seen to it that his name was added 
 to the invitation list, 
 
 After a smiling adieu she entered the house, and 
 Malcolm returned to his hotel.
 
 304 OEtoelpn i^an Courtland. 
 
 In his letter box, awaiting him, was the Vander- 
 vier invitation. 
 
 Seven o'clock found him seated with the Major at 
 dinner. The following morning Strong was to re- 
 turn to Xew York ; and the two men had much to talk 
 about, business to arrange, and plans for the future 
 to discuss. Since Malcolm's speech in the House, 
 which had been reported in every newspaper of prom- 
 inence in the country, the Major could with difficulty 
 repress his exultation. He had heard Malcolm's 
 effort discussed, and had taken pains to measure pub- 
 lic opinion. That opinion placed the young man high 
 as an orator, and as a statesman worthy of the notice 
 and admiration not only of his party, but of the coun- 
 try. The young man's modesty, the Major declared, 
 was commendable: but with an eye to his partner's 
 future, he naively maintained that a healthy political 
 growth required a judicious amount of good Ameri- 
 can thunder, and a due regard to the development of 
 one's self-esteem. In this latter respect he believed 
 Malcolm sadly lacking. Strong, himself, proposed 
 to furnish the thunder ; and it was his present fixed 
 purpose to impress his partner with the urgent ne- 
 cessity of awakening to a true sense of his own 
 greatness from the Major's point of view. 
 
 "Well," he said, during the dinner, "when do you 
 intend running on to New York ?" 
 
 "Can't say," his companion replied, "probably not 
 till after adjournment."
 
 CourtlanU* sos 
 
 "Finding Washington more interesting than you 
 anticipated? Strange how suddenly, at times, we 
 change our views. You're something of a social lion 
 now. I can scarcely get a word with you. What re- 
 ception next?" 
 
 Malcolm flushed. The Vandervier invitation was 
 in his pocket. He handed it to the Major. 
 
 "Em," was Strong's comment. "I suppose you 
 know the Vandervier family is one of the oldest and 
 most exclusive in Washington ? Their ancestors for- 
 merly owned half the land on which the city now 
 stands. It seems you're getting on. You must have 
 friends in court. How do you manage it?" he 
 queried, with the desire to rile his companion. 
 
 "I don't manage it," was the tart rejoinder. "If 
 these things come my way 
 
 "You'd be more stupid than I think you, should 
 you refuse them." 
 
 "That's one way of putting it." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, my boy. But " 
 
 "You couldn't improve on your remark, Major; 
 let it stand. Tell me how you discovered that I was 
 interested in athletics at college." 
 
 "Who has dared to say that I ever knew ?" 
 
 The Major's manner was mildly scoffing, and his 
 eyes laughed. 
 
 Quick as a flash came the reply to his bantering 
 question. Malcolm's tone was quiet but confident. 
 
 "Miss Van Courtland," he answered.
 
 306 OBtoelpn $an Courtland, 
 
 Long practice in the art of dissembling made it 
 possible for the Major to control his astonishment, 
 and to gather together his mental forces. Used 
 though he was to suqlden attacks in the practice of 
 his profession, to meet his present surprise with his 
 customary alertness was a tribute to custom more 
 than to instinct. But his mind acted from force of 
 habit, and, answering to well trained principles, re- 
 fused to be thrown out of running. The expression 
 of his face was one of quiet amusement. 
 
 "She did ?" he queried. "Well, you young people 
 have been quoting me with frivolous disregard for my 
 age and growing mental decline." 
 
 Holding up his wine glass, he continued with in- 
 terest, "This claret tastes a bit new and harsh. Don't 
 you think so? The label is French; but I believe I 
 could name the county in California where it was 
 made. Shall we try another brand ?" 
 
 Malcolm smiled at his companion's audacious 
 coolness. The Major's eyes laughed; and he turned 
 to the waiter with a request for a bottle of dry wine. 
 
 "Let me see," he resumed, as though the waiter 
 were to blame for the interruption, "we were dis- 
 cussing football or some other of your foolish college 
 games. What were we saying? Excuse my absent- 
 mindedness ; old age, you know." 
 
 Malcolm, however, was acquainted with the Ma- 
 jor's tactics when under fire. His companion's in- 
 difference, nevertheless, only confirmed his belief that
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* SOT 
 
 his reference to Evelyn disturbed his partner's tran- 
 quillity to an uncommon degree. Le Moyne was the 
 only person who was acquainted with his former life, 
 and he alone possessed a knowledge of his college 
 days and habits. The incident of saving the life of 
 the waiter in the hotel was known to the District At- 
 torney. This the evidence of the trial proved. The 
 Major had become possessed of facts before the trial. 
 Who had been his informant? Malcolm believed it 
 had not been Le Moyne; and Johnson, the Swede, 
 had disclaimed any knowledge of the Major, or ac- 
 quaintance with him, up to the day of giving his 
 evidence. Le Moyne had been friendly, even inti- 
 mate, with Van Courtland. Had Evelyn shared that 
 intimacy ? Some one had furnished the Major with 
 the Government's case before the trial and had also 
 told him the name of the Swede. And by this means 
 the Major had acquainted himself with his client's 
 past life. These conclusions Malcolm had arrived 
 at during the trial. Now circumstances again 
 brought the question prominently before him. Who 
 had furnished the Major with the information that 
 had made his success possible? Could Malcolm an- 
 swer that question, he would, he believed, know who 
 had employed Strong to defend him. But the artful 
 attorney was warned of Malcolm's Intent to probe 
 the subject further. At the mention of Evelyn's 
 name he scented danger. Malcolm, however, was 
 satisfied, for the present, to relinquish further effort;
 
 308 
 
 for he Had a high opinion of his partner's powers, 
 and he did not care to court certain defeat. 
 
 While Malcolm was mentally following his process 
 of reasoning, the Major's calculating eye was on him, 
 and he could have told to the second when the con- 
 clusions of the younger man were reached. But here 
 chance intervened in favor of Malcolm. Le Moyne 
 entered the cafe, and, seeing the two men sitting 
 alone, approached and offered his hand to Malcolm. 
 
 "Congratulations, old man," he said heartily. 
 "Rather late to tender them, but I haven't had a fit- 
 ting opportunity before." 
 
 He was invited to a seat. Much as the Major ad- 
 mired his former opponent, at that moment he was 
 not at all pleased to see him. Still, he determined 
 to make the best of the situation. Owing to Mal- 
 colm's state of mind, and his interest in the subject 
 they had been discussing, the Major felt as comfort- 
 able as if seated over a powder magazine. 
 
 Malcolm thanked his former rival with genuine 
 feeling. The praise to which he listened was graci- 
 ously proffered and was, perhaps, as welcome as any 
 tribute the young Congressman had received. Le 
 Moyne had dined, but joined them in a glass of wine. 
 
 The three men chatted and laughed, and good fel- 
 lowship ran riot. They were at peace with the 
 world, for the world was treating them kindly. The 
 Major informed the others that the business that 
 had brought him to Washington had been successful
 
 $an Couttlantr* 309 
 
 beyond anticipation he had come solely to see Mal- 
 colm, bat this he did not state. Le Moyne, too, had 
 been favored with success, and Malcolm had forgot- 
 ten his late triumph in the House, because his heart 
 was overflowing with happiness from another and 
 sweeter cause. The Major had a batch of new stories, 
 and, having reached the end, declared that dry wine 
 was productive of thirst, and beckoned to the waiter. 
 
 "By the way," said Malcolm, addressing Le 
 Moyne, "you have at some time given the Major the 
 impression that I was a sort of prize athlete at col- 
 lege?" 
 
 "It's coming," thought the Major. 
 
 "Not I," answered Le Moyne, but his face in- 
 stantly clouded. 
 
 A spark of fire, rightly placed, can start a con- 
 flagration that no human power can stem; a word 
 may set in movement thoughts and emotions not 
 easily quelled. Le Moyne was human. In his heart 
 he had rejoiced at Malcolm's acquittal ; but the refer- 
 ence to the trial brought before him humiliation and 
 suffering that the years had not wholly dulled. Mal- 
 colm noticed the evidence of feeling, but, as yet, he 
 could not connect his apparently innocent reference 
 to athletics with the cause of Le Moyne's evident 
 embarrassment. To the Major the situation appeared 
 critical. 
 
 "Have done with your school days," he said. "I 
 have no doubt both of you cribbed at examinations.
 
 310 OEtoelpn tpatt CourtlanD, 
 
 For myself, I know I should never have pulled 
 through if I hadn't cribbed. You return on the 
 morning train?" he addressed Le Moyne. "Yes? 
 Then we'll go together. What do you say to a game 
 of billiards? I haven't played for so long a time 
 that I doubt if I can properly hold a cue. I have 
 eaten and drunk altogether too freely for a man of 
 my age. The exercise of playing will do us both 
 good. Come along, Malcolm, you shall keep score." 
 
 The Major, bent on preventing a return to their 
 former topic of conversation, led the way to the bil- 
 liard room. Here he played as never before atroci- 
 ously poor billiards; and, the hour being late, de- 
 clared his intention of retiring. Agreeing to meet 
 Le Moyne at breakfast, he dragged Malcolm off with 
 him, for he had no intention of giving the two young 
 men an opportunity to re-open the subject of their 
 late discussion. 
 
 Malcolm smiled, for the Major's purpose was all 
 too evident, but he acquiesced and, bidding his part- 
 ner a cordial "good-night," sought his room. 
 
 To sleep? Far from it. Smoking, walking the 
 floor, pausing minutes at a time to think, or to men- 
 tally argue a point, he fitted together the bits of evi- 
 'dence on which to build a theory, and, supplying a 
 link: when the connection was interrupted, he con- 
 structed a plausible framework remarkable for its 
 consistency and detail; and, when he had finished, 
 had He known how near he had come to the truth, he
 
 $att CourtlanD, 311 
 
 would Lave marveled at his own ingenuity. Mentally 
 rehearsing his interview with Strong when, in the 
 cell, his attorney had shown such an intimate knowl- 
 edge of his past life, he again connected the informa- 
 tion with facts of which Le Moyne was cognizant. 
 And now his former belief was confirmed what was 
 known to Le Moyne before the trial had found its 
 way to Strong through a third person, and that per- 
 son was 
 
 "Impossible, it is impossible," he muttered aloud, 
 then resumed his walk and his conjectures. Again 
 and again the thought returned, the same name trem- 
 bling on his lips. 
 
 The few remaining hours of the night he tried to 
 sleep, but he tossed uneasily; and during the 
 snatches of slumber he went through the agony of 
 suspense, for he was again being tried for his life. 
 In his dreams, someone was whispering to him to 
 have courage, and. in the corridors of the prison, a 
 veiled figure seemed to be always waiting in some 
 dark recess, or he would meet it suddenly as he 
 turned in his walk. He could not see its face, which 
 was covered by a thick veil, and in despair he put 
 out his hand to grasp the form; but he clutched at 
 air the vision had vanished. But the whispered 
 words hung on the stillness: "Courage, courage." 
 He awoke, feverish and unrefreshed. It was morn- 
 ing.
 
 312 OEtoelpn pan CourtlanD, 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 EVELYN'S mother, resplendent in evening dress, 
 jeweled ornaments in her hair, and on her fair neck a 
 narrow band of pearls from which a diamond pen- 
 dant blazed, was the most observed, because the most 
 beautiful, woman in the Vandervier drawing room. 
 Her clinging gown of crepe de chine added to her 
 grace of bearing, and a fall of fine, rare lace soft- 
 ened the marble whiteness of her arms and shoulders. 
 The color of her cheeks was heightened by excite- 
 ment; her eyes were cold and disdainful: her 
 stately bearing made offensive by a touch of hauteur 
 amounting almost to indifference. She was beauti- 
 ful, with the beauty of a marble goddess; and her 
 expression was as cold as unfeeling. Her appear- 
 ance did not indicate the condition of her mind, for 
 she was ill at ease. She was not there in answer to a 
 direct invitation from the hostess; her presence 
 would, in fact, lead to a rupture between that very 
 aristocratic lady and one who had taken the respon- 
 sibility of inviting Mrs. Van Courtland. From a 
 social point of view, if Evelyn's mother expected to 
 command any degree of recognition, it was actually
 
 OEtoelptt $an CourtlanD, 313 
 
 essential that she be received by the lady of the 
 house. So she had set about accomplishing the seem- 
 ingly impossible and, if one did not scan too closely 
 the means she had employed, she had succeeded. She 
 was there that was the main thing. Should future 
 complications arise because of the presence of the un- 
 bidden guest, that was a question which concerned 
 the lady of the house and the head of one of the old 
 Southern families. But in bringing Mrs. Van Court- 
 land to the Vandervier home, her sponsor had pre- 
 sumed too far; and without loss of time it was 
 brought to her notice that there are limits even to 
 friendship. 
 
 If among the close friends of the hostess Mrs. Van 
 Courtland was treated with chilling tolerance, the 
 gentlemen unanimously pronounced her a most 
 charming woman. Smiling graciously, leaning on 
 the arm of the Secretary of a foreign legation, she di- 
 rected her energy and tact toward one object that 
 her own interests might be advanced. Social methods 
 of progress are much the same as military tactics of 
 modern warfare : both require the faculty of taking 
 advantage of the weakness of the enemy, and im- 
 proving opportunities that present themselves. 
 
 For some time past, Mrs. Van Courtland had been 
 the subject of ill-natured, even vicious gossip. 
 Whether she deserved it or was a much abused 
 woman is not for us to decide. Enough that people 
 talked, and the lady found many doors closed to her.
 
 314 1 OBUelpn t?an Courtlantu 
 
 Though her train of admirers now paid homage to 
 her, and men high in rank begged the honor of a pre- 
 sentation, she was filled with disquieting fears. Ev- 
 elyn and her aunt were expected, and her mother 
 listened, chatted amiably, and smiled on those eager 
 to pay court to the loveliest woman in the house ; but 
 she received their homage, however, with an alert 
 eye on the door. How would Mrs. Chesborough re- 
 ceive her? She must manage to get a word with 
 Evelyn, before she ran the risk of an encounter with 
 Van Courtland's sister. Ah, they had come! 
 
 Mrs. Chesborough, accompanied by Malcolm and 
 Evelyn, was conversing with the hostess. All eyes 
 had been turned to the venerable lady with the kindly 
 eyes and white hair, who moved with a stateliness 
 of one of royal blood. 
 
 Those who looked upon the mother with open ad- 
 miration, now turned to the daughter. Never had 
 Evelyn appeared more charming, her grace and 
 beauty more marked, than when she entered the 
 room. Many were the envious glances directed to- 
 ward Malcolm, whose air of unconsciousness added 
 distinction to his manly bearing. 
 
 The Count, in the early evening, had attached 
 himself to Mrs. Van Courtland, and, pleased by the 
 lady's graciousness, had devoted himself to her en- 
 tertainment. He appeared profoundly impressed by 
 her beauty, and endeavored to make the fact plain 
 to her mind. Judging from the pleasure she seemed
 
 $an CourtlanD* 315 
 
 to evince in his society, he had met with some de- 
 gree of success. But with the entrance of Evelyn 
 had come a change. He begged of his companion to 
 excuse him till he paid his respects to her charming 
 daughter. Filled with chagrin, Mrs. Van Courtland 
 was compelled to listen to the wife of one of the 
 Southern Senators, while she watched the Count's 
 heroic, tut futile attempts to interest Evelyn. 
 
 Mrs. Chesborough was making the rounds of the 
 room, leaning on Malcolm's arm. So far Mrs. Van 
 Courtland was safe, but she determined without loss 
 of time to speak to Evelyn. 
 
 "Allow me to introduce you to my daughter," she 
 said to the Senator's wife. 
 
 Together they approached Evelyn, who was wear- 
 ily listening to the Count's lament because of not 
 having seen her for many days. 
 
 Since their encounter at Mrs. Chesborough's, Ev- 
 elyn and her mother had not met, nor had her daugh- 
 ter any desire to see her. The elder woman was sat- 
 isfied that, however much Evelyn might wish to avoid 
 a meeting, she could depend on her not to create a 
 scene. But she was not so certain of her reception by 
 Mrs. Chesborough; indeed, should accident throw 
 them together, she was prepared to meet the cold 
 gaze of the elder woman fixed on her without a sign 
 of recognition. Such an act on the part of her dead 
 husband's sister would make her position unendur- 
 able. She determined to appeal to Evelyn. Should
 
 316 (gfeelpn $an CouctlanD, 
 
 her daughter refuse to listen to reason, she decided 
 to resort to other methods. She approached the young 
 girl with confidence. 
 
 "My dear Evelyn," she said sweetly, "I have been 
 waiting for you all the evening. You are late. Count, 
 may I ask you to leave us together for a few mo- 
 ments ?'' 
 
 With his characteristic bow, the Russian retired. 
 
 Not till Evelyn heard her mother's voice was she 
 aware of her presence. The color left the young 
 girl's cheeks, and a sudden faintness came over her. 
 It was for her aunt she thought, and the possibility 
 of her return. Remembering the last interview with 
 her mother, realizing her desperate mental state, her 
 disregard for conventionalities, utter hopelessness 
 seemed to take possession of Evelyn's faculties. Her 
 mother would stop at nothing to regain her former 
 position in the social world, and this could be accom- 
 plished only by Evelyn's aunt. Acutely conscious 
 that she could no longer maintain her equivocal social 
 status, Mrs. Van Courtland determined to make one 
 final effort to save herself. 
 
 "Come with me into the music room," she whis- 
 pered to Evelyn, "I must see you alone." 
 
 There was a note of desperation in her voice. Ev- 
 elyn quietly accompanied her, and they passed into 
 the adjoining room unnoticed. Assuring herself they 
 were alone, Evelyn's mother began speaking hur- 
 riedly.
 
 CourtlanO, 317 
 
 "Evelyn, listen to me," she said, "this is not a 
 time for mincing matters, but for plain language. I 
 will come to the point at once. Your aunt must rec- 
 ognize me. Do you hear she must. I no longer 
 ask it as a favor, I demand it. I am here to-night 
 simply by sufferance. I came with the Carltons be- 
 cause they saw no way of leaving me behind. I am 
 visiting them, and actually had to force myself upon 
 them. Do you understand ? Force is the only word. 
 All Washington knows that I am not received at your 
 aunt's house. I shall submit to this state of affairs 
 no longer. I demand instant and complete recogni- 
 tion. If it be not accorded me, I shall take means to 
 bring your aunt to a true realization of my power.. 
 You needn't look at me in that manner. If I fall 
 socially, I shall drag your aunt down with me. 
 Neither shall I longer tolerate your role of injured 
 innocence. You seem entirely capable of getting on 
 in the world. Everyone knows the Count to be your 
 latest conquest; no, your second last. Mr. Malcolm 
 is, of course, the latest." 
 
 Evelyn shrank from her. Her face became even 
 paler; then the blood mounted to her cheeks. Not 
 daring to trust her voice to reply, with increasing 
 fear she listened to the torrent of words. Watching 
 her narrowly, her mother gloated over the effect she 
 had produced; for terror and humiliation were 
 stamped on every line of the face before her. Noting
 
 318 cuelpn l^an CourtlanD, 
 
 the vantage she had gained by her reference to Mal- 
 colm, she was quick to press the subject 
 
 "What would your aunt's world say if they were 
 aware of the truth? You and I know it. I have 
 been on the defensive, blamed by your aunt, and con- 
 demned by her friends. Now," she continued with 
 growing anger, "unless she takes immediate steps to 
 make my social position secure, she will have cause 
 to regret it. You thoroughly understand me ? I 
 shall proclaim to the world that the murderer of Mar- 
 shall Harlan was - " 
 
 "Don't," cried Evelyn in suppressed tones, terror, 
 entreaty, in her voice, "for mercy's sake consider 
 
 "Consider," her mother answered with a laugh, "I 
 consider only my own humiliating postion! I want 
 your answer your promise. Refuse " again she 
 laughed, the sound more cutting, more heartless than 
 her words. The laugh died into a mirthless, scoffing 
 note of disdain. "I believe," she concluded, "the re- 
 cital of what I know might even interest Mr. Mal- 
 colm." 
 
 From faintness, Evelyn sank into a seat. Some- 
 how, since her mother's first words, she felt it was 
 through Malcolm she expected to enforce her de- 
 mands. Notwithstanding the fact that she had pre- 
 pared herself for her mother's course of action, the 
 words, brutally abrupt, overwhelmed her.
 
 $an CourtlanU* 319 
 
 "What do you intend to do," her mother asked, "or 
 better, what will you compel me to do ?" 
 
 "I cannot answer you now," Evelyn faltered. 
 
 "You must answer me now, Your aunt will deny 
 you nothing. I am not a fool. It is you I have to 
 deal with, not her." 
 
 In moments of great peril, the human mind, as if 
 by instinct, sees the climax, the result and the end, be- 
 fore it takes note of present or of immediate condi- 
 tions. At a flash it recognizes the difficulties that are 
 insurmountable, and divines the end by instinct more 
 than by a process of reasoning. At that moment Ev- 
 elyn saw the end. Hopes to which she had clung 
 faded, conditions and influences that she could not 
 overcome told her her love was doomed. Between 
 herself and Malcolm all was over: her mother's 
 words crushed any lingering doubt as to the course 
 she should pursue. The truth which she had tried 
 to stifle, delaying by her own weakness the moment 
 when the fallacy of hope should be laid bare, was 
 now brought home to her with sickening and terrible 
 clearness. She was stunned and mentally unable to 
 meet her mother's demand. 
 
 "I I must have time to consider," she said in a 
 trembling voice. "Within a week I shall give you 
 an answer." 
 
 "Why cannot you promise me at once ?" 
 
 "It is impossible. Say no more now. Hush! 
 Someone is coming."
 
 320 dEtoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 Evelyn, rising, turned to enter the drawing room, 
 where her aunt was talking with their hostess. 
 
 "Remember," her mother whispered, "I shall wait 
 for your answer. Should I not hear from you within 
 
 "I shall remember," Evelyn replied. Entering 
 the drawing room, she joined her aunt. 
 
 "My dear, where have you been?" Mrs. Chesbor- 
 ough asked. "I have a slight headache and think it 
 best to return home." 
 
 "I will go with you," Evelyn said. 
 
 "Go now ! Certainly not. It is quite proper that 
 I shoulJ leave early. Old age, my dear," she said to 
 her hostess. "But," she turned to Evelyn, "Mrs. 
 Vandervier will not excuse you." 
 
 "But I wish to go, auntie dear." 
 
 "And I wish you to remain. And you shall, my 
 dear. They have ordered the carriage for me. Mr. 
 Malcolm." she playfully continued, "you are to re- 
 turn this young lady to me at a reasonable hour. 
 But ' sotto voce. "not till after supper. There, 
 you may, if you will be so good, assist me to the car- 
 riage." 
 
 Accompanied to the door by her hostess, the old 
 lady, leaning on Malcolm's arm, descended to the 
 street where the carriage was waiting. 
 
 When Malcolm rejoined Evelyn, he cast a hasty, 
 searching glance at her face, which was still pale.
 
 CoimlanD, 321 
 
 He saw the troubled look, for love had made acute 
 his sense of fear. 
 
 "You are quite well?" he said, eagerly scanning 
 her features. 
 
 "Quite," she answered with a faint smile, "though 
 I should have preferred returning with my aunt. 
 Mrs. Vandervier, however, is one of her oldest 
 friends. For that reason, if for no other, I must re- 
 main." 
 
 "What has disturbed you ?" he insisted. 
 
 She tried to laugh away his fears ; but he was not 
 convinced. 
 
 They sat together in a quiet corner of one of the 
 many spacious rooms, undisturbed and unnoticed, 
 for Evelyn's mother had again laid siege to the Count. 
 Flattered by her notice, and captivated by her man- 
 ner, which still retained its youthful vivacity, he was 
 playing the role of admirer according to the approved 
 custom of his race. 
 
 Evelyn could not resist the influence of her lover's 
 presence, his voice ; his tender look of concern. This 
 might be their last evening together, and she put from 
 her thoughts and fears that were awakened by the in- 
 terview with her mother, and surrendered herself to 
 the joy of being near him, thrilled by his tender man- 
 ner, and the note of anxiety in his voice. For this 
 one night, passion should live unrestrained; she 
 would give herself up to the delight of knowing that
 
 322 tfBuelpn $an Courtlantu 
 
 she was loved. Why should she anticipate the mo- 
 ment when she must give him up when the present 
 hour of exquisite happiness should be but a memory, 
 made bitter by the thought that another's lips might 
 receive the caress that fate had willed could never be 
 hers. Why had she loved ? Was it a punishment for 
 the past? Then bitter and rankling thoughts ob- 
 truded, and she seemed to see her mother, even then 
 so near her, in all her dazzling beauty; yet in her 
 blood that fatal, damning taint that, since time be- 
 gan, had destroyed the mind and the soul of man; 
 until lips on which words of passion once burned 
 could only utter a curse ; and eyes which had talked 
 the language of love, turned with loathing on those 
 whose glance had once lighted the flame of passion. 
 
 With a shudder, Evelyn listened. Malcolm's 
 words were of a time that she, too, could not banish 
 from her mind. Again and again their conversation 
 drifted back to the years that had been fraught with 
 danger to him years that, to her, had been filled 
 with an agony of soul, of a battle against the belief 
 that the future held for her the punishment of the 
 sin of inheritance. As the moth returns to the flame, 
 so now she longed to hear him speak of his emotions 
 during the days when he had awaited his trial. She 
 was conscious there was danger in discussing the sub- 
 ject; but she could not resist her impulse. The 
 theme was alluring; it awakened a sweet conscious- 
 ness that she had sriven much to save the life of him
 
 CourtlanD. 323 
 
 whom she now loved. The thought was dear, and the 
 memory of the words to which she listened would re- 
 main with her. By that instinct that moves and com- 
 pels kindred impulses, he followed her line of thought 
 with a feeling of joy, and he longed to voice emo- 
 tions that had made the night one of doubt and mad- 
 ness. So, in guarded language, with tender concern, 
 never alluding to a fact or incident that would re- 
 mind her of her father's connection with the tragedy, 
 he spoke of the days of doubt, and of the mental tor- 
 ture of uncertainty. Gradually, and with the care of 
 one whose speech is controlled by habit, he ap- 
 proached the time of his first meeting with the Major. 
 He told of his surprise and joy when he found that 
 there was someone who thought of him, one whose 
 heart, even while he paced the narrow cell, throbbed 
 in sympathy with his own. How sweet had been the 
 knowledge that there was one who believed him inno- 
 cent; and with an earnestness, simple yet eloquent, 
 he told her of the mental portrait that had lived in 
 his heart and in his mind ; for, when the Major had 
 refused to disclose the identity of the person who had 
 retained him, he had conjured an image that made 
 sweet the hours of his confinement. In his solitude 
 he had pictured one who was beautiful, gentle, one 
 whose Leart beat with commiseration for his misfor- 
 tune, yet who, from the highest principles of woman- 
 hood, refused to make herself known. And he re- 
 peated the vow he had made, to devote his life to the
 
 324 Cfcelpn ^att CourtlanD. 
 
 task of discovering her identity, till he could say to 
 her: "My life belongs to you let me prove my; 
 gratitude." 
 
 Tears were in Evelyn's eyes; emotion was stifling 
 her. She did not speak, and to give her time to re- 
 gain her composure / he remained silent, his eyes on 
 the floor. Evelyn, controlling her voice, faltered: 
 
 "Suppose the woman," she said, "were unworthy 
 of such gratitude." 
 
 "She is worthy," he replied with conviction. "Were 
 she not, the knowledge would destroy every ideal I 
 ever conceived of beauty, of truth. Were she not 
 worthy, my heart would turn to gall life would lose 
 the charm that now makes it beautiful. Worthy? 
 Yes. Nothing could shake my faith in her." 
 
 There was a triumphant note in his voice ; but the 
 woman beside him shuddered. 
 
 "If, in her effort to save your life," she persisted, 
 "she had lent herself to a trick, a deception, even if 
 " her tone was desperate, she was forcing her- 
 self to speak the words "even if, to prove your inno- 
 cence, she sacrificed a man's love, then " again she 
 faltered "then would you forgive her, would you 
 think her still worthy of your regard ?" 
 
 She was fast losing her composure. He was 
 startled by the intensity of her tone. By an involun- 
 tary impulse, her hand had dropped upon her lap. 
 There was despair in the movement. His hand closed
 
 CourtlanD* 325 
 
 gently on hers. The soft, white fingers trembled at 
 the touch. Then, as his grasp tightened, her fingers 
 lay passive in his with an exquisite sense of security. 
 He did not reply, but his heart, through his throb- 
 bing pulse, was speaking to her with passionate elo- 
 quence. 
 
 "You have not answered me," she faltered when 
 she could trust her voice. 
 
 " I would rather give the life she saved than be- 
 lieve it," he said; "but why," he laughed softly, 
 j"try to shatter my little world of love? Remember 
 my castle was built after my own approved pattern. 
 I should not like to find a flaw in the foundation. 
 Shall I tell you how it appears? Even men, you 
 know, build dream castles." 
 
 "No, no," she caid rising. "It is late. Surely 
 my aunt would agree with me, that it is time to go." 
 
 During the short ride home, Evelyn was strangely 
 reticent, and Malcolm, respecting her evident desire 
 for quiet, did not speak. Yet her thoughts were of 
 him, and of their parting, which the events of the 
 night had made a certainty. No longer could she 
 entertain doubt as to the course she should pursue. 
 She owed a duty to herself and to him. She would 
 meet it. And if the years had nothing to offer but 
 the memory of her love, they would, at least, bring 
 tranquillity in the knowledge that she still retained 
 the respect of the man for whom she had made the 
 sacrifice.
 
 326 Ctoelpn ipan Couttlantu 
 
 The carriage had been dismissed and she was 
 about to enter the house. 
 
 "When may I see you again ?" he asked. 
 
 "I cannot say," she faltered. 
 
 She was about to leave him, then, with a sudden 
 impulse, held out her hand. 
 
 "Good-night good-bye," she said, with an effort 
 to control her emotion. "You will remember me?" 
 Without waiting for a reply, she hurriedly entered 
 the house. 
 
 He stood a moment silent, too surprised to move. 
 He controlled his desire to call to her to come back 
 and explain her meaning; but the impulse was but 
 momentary. Mechanically, he walked slowly in the 
 direction of his hotel. 
 
 What had been her meaning? Many times he 
 asked himself the question, but he could frame no 
 answer. To what had she alluded when, in discuss- 
 ing the subject of his trial, she had spoken of trick- 
 ery and deceit? "If a man's love had been sacri- 
 ficed in securing his acquittal!" In what manner 
 could the love of another enter into their lives? It 
 was all strange, with a mystery he could not com- 
 prehend ; and yet, Le Moyne ! How well he remem- 
 bered the bitterness of his address to the jury; but 
 the words had not been directed against him, the ac- 
 cused, or offered as proof of his guilt. This he had 
 felt at the time; and in later intercourse with the 
 District Attorney he had been confirmed in his be-
 
 OBtielpn $an CoimlanD, 327 
 
 lief: that Le Moyne's argument had been an ar- 
 raignment of another than himself. Who was that 
 other? He had asked himself the question before 
 times without number. Could it be possible ? With 
 an exclamation of impatience he increased his speed, 
 as if to leave the subject behind him. He deter- 
 mined to see Evelyn the following day ; he could not, 
 he would not, live in this suspense. He would go to 
 her aunt, who, he believed, would not refuse to see 
 him. And should Evelyn endeavor to avoid him, he 
 would insist on seeing her, and tell her of his love, 
 for he would no longer play the part of a coward. 
 Surely he had a right to hope; and when her hand 
 lay in his, did not her trembling fingers speak of 
 love returned ? And when he spoke of the days and 
 the months of suspense that had been mental torture 
 to him, did he not read in her eyes sympathy and 
 love ? Yes, and to-morrow he would put an end to 
 doubt, and know what life held for him. 
 
 With a light step, anticipating the joy that might 
 be in store for him, he entered the hotel.
 
 328 OEfcelpn Pan Coiirtlantu 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 CARRYING out his resolve of the previous night, 
 late in the afternoon Malcolm presented himself at 
 the Chesborough house and asked for Evelyn. She 
 was not at home. The two succeeding days he made 
 the same journey, with like results. He could no 
 longer doubt her purpose : she no longer wished to 
 receive him. At first he would not accept this view. 
 Knowing of no reason why she should summarily 
 dismiss him, he invented a hundred excuses that 
 would explain her conduct. That they should again 
 meet he looked upon as a certainty, for he would ac- 
 knowledge no power that could prevent him from 
 again seeing her. 
 
 By the end of the third day he had wrought him- 
 self into a feverish state bordering on frenzy. Though 
 he attended to his duties in the House with per- 
 functory, though dogged, attention to detail, he re- 
 jected all social advances, and, when not in the Cap- 
 itol, gave himself up to brooding and futile conjec- 
 ture. This did not tend to diminish his trouble, nor 
 did it satisfactorily explain the cause of Evelyn's 
 behavior; and the more he thought of the matter
 
 CourtlanD, 329 
 
 the more he blamed himself, and mentally desig- 
 nated his conduct as that of a brute. She was the 
 fairest and the dearest of all womankind, and he 
 taxed his brain to discover what act of his had 
 brought about this present unhappy state, but his 
 efforts only tended to discomfort and confusion. 
 Finally, however, he decided that the recital of his 
 trial had furnished the cause for her displeasure and, 
 with renewed energy, he condemned himself in 
 terms not lacking in power, but entirely unfit for ut- 
 terance or publication. Then he grew irritable, but 
 realizing that his associates were not to blame for his 
 tangled love affairs, he spent his time in tramping 
 through the outskirts of the city, alternately accusing 
 himself of being everything that a lover should not 
 be, and vowing he would win her in spite of the 
 world that had conspired against him. 
 
 With this saner end in view, he addressed a letter 
 to Evelyn, begging that she grant him an interview. 
 The letter despatched, he devoted his energy to com- 
 puting the time before a reply could reach him. One 
 fact was apparent: a night must intervene, and he 
 filled the time with speculations as to whether she 
 would reply at all, or, should she do so, would she 
 grant his request for an interview. 
 
 The night wore away, and, sleep being impossible, 
 hours before the time for the arrival of the mail, he 
 haunted the offi.ce of the hotel. To the smiling offi- 
 cial in charge, who, surprised at his early appear-
 
 330 OBtoelpn l^an CourtlanD, 
 
 ance, expressed anxiety for the state of his health, 
 Malcolm replied in a manner that discouraged fur- 
 ther exchange of civilities. Then, conscious of his 
 own discourtesy, he again, for the hundredth time, 
 vowed that he was a boor for allowing the state of 
 his nerves to cause him to lose his self-control; and 
 the clerk, after handing him the expected letter, and 
 receiving profuse thanks and apologies, was ap- 
 peased. 
 
 Before opening his letter, Malcolm went to his 
 room, for the letter was much too sacred to be opened 
 in a public place. 
 
 The letter was brief, its tone kindly but firm. 
 She must decline Lis request, and refuse to see him 
 again. It would be useless, she wrote, and begged 
 him not to write or call, for it would only cause 
 them unnecessary pain. 
 
 After reading the letter, he stood as if stunned, 
 trying to grasp the import of the few words; for, 
 though his failure to see her had filled his mind with 
 misgivings, he had not contemplated the sudden and 
 final termination of their friendship. Unable to 
 understand her action, he sought to discover in the 
 few, simple words some hidden meaning that had at 
 first escaped him. No, the letter was pointedly, 
 cruelly plain ; each word precise ; nothing in word or 
 phrase or line to which hope could cling. What did 
 it all mean ? There was some ulterior cause, of this 
 he was satisfied; he was equally convinced that she
 
 Couctlano* 331 
 
 was not moved by an impulse of pique ; and he knew 
 she would not dismiss him in this summary manner 
 without first having considered the step she was tak- 
 ing. Malcolm was not of the order of men that per- 
 mit their emotions to drive them to extremes. Though 
 keenly feeling his loss ; though his pride was hurt, his 
 love cast aside, he was not one to immediately sur- 
 render, without at least learning the cause that had 
 led to his dismissal. Besides, he loved with a pas- 
 sion that would not be quelled by a pen stroke, or a 
 few cold words, written, perhaps, with the intent to 
 disguise the real feelings of the writer. He would, 
 he must, see her, and hear her speak the words she 
 had written. Should he read in her eyes the truth 
 of what she had penned, then he would believe, but 
 not till then. If he gave her up, it would be only 
 when he knew she did not love him. 
 
 Pacing the floor, he went over the conversation 
 of their last night together; even the tone of her 
 voice he had treasured in his memory. When he 
 had spoken of the trial, he now remembered how 
 tender her glance had been, and with what compas- 
 sionate interest she had listened. And her tears had 
 touched him so deeply that it had been only by effort 
 he had been able to continue. Yes, he recalled 
 it all every word and look; and when her hand lay 
 in his own had he not felt the unspoken evidence of 
 love? Why had he not then declared his passion? 
 Why had his courage deserted him? And now,
 
 332 (guelpn i^an CourtlanD* 
 
 while the memory was still fresh, while he yet felt 
 the fingers, as they lay in his, flutter like the wings 
 of an imprisoned bird, without a word of regret or 
 explanation he was told that they must not meet 
 again, that all was at an end between them. She 
 could not know of her father's guilt; his self -confes- 
 sion at the trial had been accepted as the ravings of 
 a madman. With the exception of Strong, to whom 
 he had never admitted the facts, he, himself, alone 
 knew the truth. There was no possible way, he 
 argued, by which Evelyn could have become ac- 
 quainted with her father's connection with the crime. 
 
 He reasoned calmly, but with one purpose, a pur- 
 pose clearly defined and immutable: he would not 
 give her up. He loved her with the pure, unalter- 
 able passion of a man of strong nature, as men love 
 who believe and who do not lightly cast belief aside. 
 But he did not surrender to the hasty impulse. 
 Calmly he thought out the course he intended to pur- 
 sue, mentally arranging his plea, carefully choosing 
 the words to tell her of his love ; then, with pen and 
 paper before him, he began the letter. 
 
 The hours went by and he wrote page after page, 
 pouring out his heart in his story of love, laying 
 bare his soul, but in language as noble in its sim- 
 plicity as was the sentiment he expressed. He wrote 
 no word but what a mother or a sister might read 
 without a blush; every thought breathing a manly 
 passion, yet as tender as ever lover penned. Eead-
 
 $an CourtlanD, 333 
 
 ing the pages through, he sealed the letter and, call- 
 ing a messenger, directed that it be delivered to the 
 written address. This done, he went about his work 
 with his customary precision, the expression of his 
 face that of calm, dignified reserve ; but with a heart 
 bursting with impatience. 
 
 When Evelyn had parted with Malcolm the night 
 of the Vandervier reception, her purpose never again 
 to meet him as a lover was fixed in her mind. When, 
 with her "good-night," she had dismissed him, to 
 her it was a final leave-taking. After her interview 
 with her mother, and her later exchange of confi- 
 dences with her lover, had come her decision to part 
 with him. For weeks she had wrestled with doubt, 
 her mind warring with contending emotions. In a 
 moment of weakness, a voice within her cried that 
 she could not and would not surrender her love. In 
 this thought was her very existence. Her senses, her 
 emotions, concentrated their forces in one trembling, 
 burning desire: to be near the man to whom she 
 had given her heart. To feel the touch of his hand, 
 to meet his caress, to be allowed to love him with a 
 blind, unreasoning faith this desire became uncon- 
 trollable. Thoughts would take possession of her, 
 swaying, torturing her with a thousand pangs, for 
 behind them was the joy of the past few weeks, the 
 joy that must now end. Hope had resolved into 
 doubt, doubt into fear. Trembling anticipation 
 would be met and crushed by reason; the ecstasy^ of
 
 334 OEtielpn t?an CourtlanD* 
 
 the burning thougLt that he loved her, would be fol- 
 lowed by one of utter hopelessness and despair. Then 
 there followed a period of dejection, hours of bitter 
 resentment her faculties at war with fate. Thoughts 
 and impulses formed from which she turned, shud- 
 dering. She was filled with horrifying doubt of her- 
 self, of her power of will, of the possibility of influ- 
 ences dominating her, forcing her to defy the world 
 and its cant and convention. If the germ of dis- 
 honor were in her, subdued and controlled though it 
 be by the admixture of her father's blood, yet it was 
 but dominant, waiting to be called to life by the 
 warmth of a kindred passion, one upon which it 
 could exist It was a fatal stain, that waited upon 
 the caprice of fate, and might flame into life and 
 live its short day; but however brief its moment of 
 being, it would exact as a tribute the soul of her in 
 whose blood it had found life. 
 
 Bitter to Evelyn as were the weary nights, the 
 days were still more nerve-racking. Compelled to 
 meet her aunt's anxious, critical gaze, Evelyn's in- 
 genuity was taxed to frame excuses and subterfuges. 
 Her pallor she could not control, and her assumed 
 gaiety did not wholly appease her aunt's fears. The 
 old lady watched her with a concern prompted by 
 the tenderest affection, but tempered by the keen, 
 discerning eye of the woman of the world, one whose 
 judgment had been trained in a school of social and 
 human tragedy. Evelyn's excuse for her changed ap-
 
 OEfcelgtt $an CourtlanD* 335 
 
 pearancc Mrs. Chesborough at first accepted in good 
 faith; but her niece's continued refusal to see Mal- 
 colm aroused suspicion and conjecture that found 
 voice. 
 
 "Mr. Malcolm," she said, in her customary gentle 
 tone, "has promised me to drop in for an hour at my 
 next 'Evening.' I have arranged to have Senator 
 Walworth meet him. The Senator can be of great 
 assistance to the young man." 
 
 Evelyn started. The color mounted to her cheeks. 
 She was not aware that a searching glance had ac- 
 companied the remarks of her aunt. In her agitation 
 she keenly regretted her reply. 
 
 "He won't come," she said. Then, conscious of 
 her indiscretion, flashed an alarmed look at her com- 
 panion. 
 
 "No?" queried the old lady in assumed surprise. 
 "Really! It would be quite uncivil of him to dis- 
 appoint me. I believe him to be above such dis- 
 courtesy. Anyway, as I am set upon having Mr. 
 Malcolm meet the Senator, I shall drop a line to the 
 Congressman to remind him of his promise." 
 
 Evelyn flashed a startled look at the speaker, but 
 remained silent. Her mind leaped to a desperate 
 determination. 
 
 "Is the Count coming ?" she asked nonchalantly. 
 
 "I expect him," was the answer. "You will drive 
 with me this afternoon? Your color is not quite 
 what I should like it to be."
 
 336 OEtoelpn l^an Courtlantu 
 
 "Yes," Evelyn answered. "I think I will rest a 
 little before lunch." 
 
 Rising, she went to her room, taking with her the 
 book she had been making a pretence of reading. 
 
 Here the struggle was resumed. She must again 
 meet the man she loved. Even her aunt had con- 
 spired against her; innocently, to be sure, but forc- 
 ing her to adopt means to kill his love. She would 
 take steps to end the struggle : such as those of her 
 sex employ when they tire of a love that, because it 
 is so completely theirs, palls on them. Such methods 
 do they pursue who crush love under their heel, be- 
 cause their own passion is dead, or trade their love 
 for wealth or social position that make easier their 
 next conquest. To this class, a man's love is of no 
 more value than a gown of the past season, a worth- 
 less thing to be thrown aside for one of newer mode. 
 
 Evelyn shuddered as she thought of her lover. 
 Base as was her motive, it was kinder to place her- 
 self before him in a light before which his soul would 
 sicken, than to allow him to hope, and to keep alive 
 a love that would lead not only to the wreck of his 
 moral self, but of his political future. Marriage 
 with him ? She loved him too well. To her mind it 
 would be the act of a wanton. Time would bring 
 discovery, and then the horror of two lives joined : 
 one the victim, shrinking from the other's touch, his 
 accusing eyes ever proclaiming his unspoken charge 
 . You deceived me No, a thousand deaths before
 
 CourtlanD, 337 
 
 that. She would save him in spite of himself. She 
 knew his spirit of chivalry; she was aware, should 
 she lay bare her heart's secret, tell him what she 
 knew, and the impulses that controlled her, she would 
 still meet his declaration of love. But his love would 
 have to stand the test of time, of cooler judgment ; to 
 live, it must be free from the doubt that, even against 
 his will, would rise before him. It was the future 
 she feared, not the present. It was his happiness 
 she considered; for herself, she was but working out 
 a destiny that was preordained. 
 
 To answer his letter and refrain from even one 
 word or expression of love had cost her a struggle 
 that wrung her heart. No tear drop had stained the 
 pages, but many Lad fallen. Could she have told 
 him of her love, or have begged him to forgive her, 
 it would have eased the pain, and she could cherish 
 the memory, for then he would know: and the 
 knowledge that she, too, suffered, would move him to 
 forgive her. But she had crushed the desire, and 
 her formal words, that approached indifference, had 
 struck into her own heart with the same feeling of 
 despair that had moved the man to whom they were 
 addressed. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the day preceding her 
 aunt's reception, a messenger delivered a bulky letter 
 to the servant who answered the bell. Evelyn was in 
 her room when the letter was delivered to her. She 
 did not open it, for she knew its contents as well as
 
 338 OEtoelpn l^an CotmlanD* 
 
 if uhe had read it. Fear controlled her, dread of 
 reading the words that would only increase her agony 
 of mind; for his plea could not change her resolve. 
 An hour went by, then came the summons to lunch ; 
 and still the letter remained unopened. She believed 
 that if his words of love or of reproach were not be- 
 fore her, she could meet her aunt's gaze with greater 
 composure. 
 
 Lunch over, the two women entered the carriage, 
 an open one, for iLe day was fine, and the sharp air 
 again brought the color to Evelyn's cheek. 
 
 "That's all you need, my dear, to tone you up," 
 her aunt said on their return. "Nothing like fresh 
 air to preserve one's health. You must rest now till 
 dinner time. Lie down now, my dear, and catch a 
 nap, if only for ten minutes. And Evelyn, love, re- 
 member the motto of our old friend Wavily 'Don't 
 worry,' " and with a gentle, motherly caress, she 
 sent her to her room. 
 
 When Evelyn was alone in her room, she went to 
 the secretary and, unlocking it, took the letter in her 
 hand, examined the address, admired the bold char- 
 acter of the penmanship, and fondled the packet lov- 
 ingly; then, replacing it, she locked the desk. She 
 would not read it till night, when she could have an 
 opportunity to regain her composure before meeting 
 her aunt in the morning. Sleep! Smiling at her 
 aunt's suggestion, she sat down to think and plan for 
 the future, .Once more she was to see her lover, once
 
 Couttlantu 339 
 
 only, and for the last time. Anticipating the coming 
 ordeal, she trembled it had power to fill her with 
 fear for her own courage; yet joy also came with the 
 thought that she was again to see him. Blushing at 
 her own weakness, she crushed the feeling of rap- 
 ture. But again the thought returned. She would 
 again see his handsome face, hear his voice, and ex- 
 pectancy thrilled her. How noble he had appeared, 
 standing on the floor of the House, among the rep- 
 resentatives of the country, commanding their atten- 
 tion by his eloquence. How she loved him ! and she 
 must give him up. Why should she ? Why surren- 
 der her love the one love of her life ? 
 
 Maddened by the thought, she rose and rapidly 
 paced the room. The struggle was going on in her 
 heart and brain .1 battle that had been fought out 
 so many, many times in the history of the world. 
 Emotions had clashed ; thoughts that rose, clothed in 
 the flaming colors of passion, only to be met and 
 routed by cooler judgment, and the remembrance of 
 principles that the social world had adopted as its 
 code. She had before come to a decision ; but her re- 
 solve clashed with her desire her will rebelled. 
 She believed she had solved the question, but ele- 
 ments -.vithin her were still warring, elements of 
 doubt, and fears for her own power of will. 
 
 The time allowed by her mother, when she must 
 answer her demands, was drawing to a close. She 
 must act and act quickly. Of herself she did not
 
 340 <toelprt $an Courtlantu 
 
 think, but her aunt must be told. It was for her to 
 decide whether she would receive her mother or 
 learn with the world the truth of the Harlan affair. 
 For the sake of her aunt, Evelyn would have met 
 her mother's demands, but she knew her aunt'a 
 standard of self-respect the old lady would face ex- 
 posure ,ooner than receive in her home the woman 
 who had ruined her brother's life. 
 
 Dressing hastily, Evelyn descended to the draw- 
 ing room.
 
 Courtlantu 341 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IT was near midnight and Evelyn sat in her room, 
 Malcolm's letter in her hand, her expression unnat- 
 ural in its calm. Twice she had read the long letter 
 through to the end, though at the first reading she 
 knew that every word would live forever in her 
 memory. A strong man had declared his love in 
 words that sank deep into her heart. With him 
 there had been no striving for lover's language; it 
 was the heart speaking a heart overflowing with 
 the deepest and tenderest passion, finding vent in a 
 torrent of words simple and sincere, telling his story 
 of love without reservation or restraint. What she 
 read appealed to her with even greater force than if 
 she had listened to his voice, for he wrote with the 
 candor of a child. For the first time she learned 
 that his was a devotion of years. His love began 
 when, as a clerk in her father's employ, he had 
 watched for her periodical visits to the banking 
 house. It was then, years before their formal meet- 
 ing, that he had first loved her. How happy he had 
 been, content with a glimpse of her face as she went 
 to and from the office. And when the tragedy came
 
 342 OEtoelpn |?an CourtlanD, 
 
 that had cost Harlan his life, and he, himself, had 
 been accused, it was only for her that he thought: 
 his only fear that she might believe in his guilt. 
 
 Then, with Strong's appearance, came the first ray 
 of light, and the thought that, with his acquittal, she 
 would remember him as one who had been accused, 
 but who had cleared himself of the charge that 
 gave him courage. With it came new hope that, per- 
 haps, some time they would meet. When he knew 
 there was someone who believed in his innocence, 
 though he had no right, even in imagination, to 
 clothe his image with her features and form and 
 beauty, yet it was her own face that always rose be- 
 fore him. In the dreary nights he had conjured the 
 picture of one who had faith in him, and it was her 
 face that he saw, its expression all that was good and 
 beautiful ! How he had longed that it might be she ! 
 And were it true he could fall on his knees before her 
 and tell her his life belonged to her to do with as she 
 would. Then followed his acquittal, and her father's 
 tragic pad; and, realizing her great love for her 
 father, Le dwelt on his own sorrow and of how he had 
 grieved for her. Through the intervening years till 
 they again met years that to him had been a strug- 
 gle of love, it was for her that he fought the battle, 
 for her he had sought fame that he might lay it at 
 her feet and tell her of his love. How sweet the 
 hours they had lately spent together ! And at last he 
 knew the truth.
 
 OEtoelptt $an CourtlanD, 343 
 
 " And it was you who saved me," she read, 
 
 "you who believed in me and came to my rescue; 
 you who engaged Strong, and wrung from him a 
 promise not to disclose your identity. He has been 
 true to his word, and never betrayed you. Yes, you 
 it was, you, my love, my life. I know it now I 
 knew it when I last saw you. I could have clasped 
 you in my arms and, covering your face with kisses, 
 have died content." 
 
 "You are the goddess with whom, in imagination, 
 through the long months of imprisonment, I dwelt, 
 seeing your face, hearing your voice, for I had heard 
 you speak. The picture of fancy was dear to me, 
 and I thanked Heaven for the hope it gave; but hu- 
 man mind cannot measure my joy when I discov- 
 ered that in you I had found the original of the 
 image I loved. I had discovered the divinity of my 
 dreams, of my hopes, and in the flesh, as I had pic- 
 tured her, as my heart knew her; and it was you, 
 my life!" 
 
 "And now you ask me to surrender my love image ? 
 Never to see you again?" 
 
 "I answer yes, if you will again place me in the 
 cell, and give back to me the mental portrait that I 
 loved. You must do more than that! You must 
 blot from my mind all memory of yourself, leaving 
 to me the happiness of my dreams and the sweet face 
 that I loved. Think you it be possible? Yet you 
 ask me to do more ! To surrender you and the love
 
 344 
 
 that I have found! You asked me if I would have 
 accepted freedom at the cost of another's love, or by 
 deceit? Were you testing my faith in you? Even 
 now, with the despair of the past few days still 
 acute, I can but smile. Trust you! Should my 
 trust in you die, my faith in Heaven would go with 
 it" 
 
 It was these words that caused Evelyn to cry out 
 in agony. The letter dropped from her trembling 
 hand to her lap, and she kept repeating the words till 
 they seemed to mock her. He had pronounced her 
 sentence, her doom; there was nothing left but to 
 carry her purpose into effect 
 
 He had written a postscript to tell her that just 
 as he had finished writing he received a note from 
 her aunt to remind him of his promise to call on 
 her the following Monday. He begged her to meet 
 him on the same footing as when they had last met. 
 Till their next meeting he would hope; his faith 
 would live through her, and her alone. 
 
 She lingered over the words, then put the letter 
 aside and tried to think. But her mind was in a 
 turmoil, and her confused thoughts refused to an- 
 swer to her will. 
 
 From her state of mental incoherence one desire, 
 one purpose, dominated her. She must place dis- 
 tance between herself and her lover, get away from 
 the possibility of seeing him, from the danger of 
 forgetting her determination to end all. She feared
 
 CourtlanD. 345 
 
 herself, for, were he at that moment to stand before 
 her, she would surrender herself to his embrace, heed- 
 less of the cost. She loved him with all the passion 
 of her soul, as they love who, for an hour, a moment 
 even, of unrestrained passion, surrender their soul. 
 
 Toward morning she lay down to rest and sleep 
 came only when exhaustion forced the nerves and 
 the brain to quiet. She awoke and lay still, her 
 mind under the spell of his words, hopeless as are 
 those who cry out but whose power of speech has 
 forsaken them. She realized only too well that, were 
 she to remain within the sphere of her lover's influ- 
 ence, she would be helpless. Her will would bend at 
 his command, she would tremble at the sound of his 
 voice ; nor could she resist its power. He had but to 
 speak for her to obey ; she felt herself under the spell 
 of his magnetic will a will she could not resist. 
 
 There was sweetness in the thought. In her own 
 weakness she found solace it relieved her of the 
 sense of moral responsibility. 
 
 With a cry of pain she arose, startled, filled with 
 terror at the daring of her fancies and illusions. Her 
 mind had run riot, and she stood trembling with fear. 
 Moved by an impulse of childhood, she opened the 
 door into the hall, and, spectre-like, glided to her 
 aunt's room. The gray of the dawn stealing through 
 the windows, the stillness, the dim light from the hall 
 lamps all filled her with trembling terror. But 
 more than all else she feared herself it was as if a
 
 346 Ctoelpn .^an CourtlanD. 
 
 malignant spirit had taken possession of her human 
 frame, an incarnation that threatened her moral and 
 mental being. 
 
 Happing at the door of her aunt's chamber, she 
 waited trembling and expectant. A thousand years 
 seemed to roll by before she heard her aunt's .voice : 
 
 ".Who is it ?" 
 
 "It is I, Evelyn." 
 
 The sound of her own voice caused her to shudder ; 
 it was strained, unnatural, as though another stand- 
 ing beside her had spoken. The door was quickly 
 opened and her aunt's arms were about her. 
 
 "What is it, dear, are you ill ?" 
 
 "Xo, not ill, auntie ; but I I was frightened. Let 
 me stay with you till morning." 
 
 Gently her aunt led her to the bed and, forcing 
 her to lie down, soothed and caressed her. With 
 motherly instinct she did not seek to learn the cause 
 of Evelyn's nervous condition, and the young girl 
 remained silent. A new sense of security stole over 
 her, the strain of the past night relaxed, and she 
 slept. Her aunt, after slipping on her dressing 
 gown, sat beside the bed and watched the face of the 
 sleeper. How beautiful it was in repose! At in- 
 tervals, however, the muscles about the mouth 
 twitched, for the fevered brain of the sleeper was 
 still active, tortured by the struggle it refused to 
 suspend, even while the body was at rest. The head 
 moved, and the hand on which it rested was thrown
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanH, 347 
 
 on the coverlet. Dreams, vague but soul-disturbing, 
 brought a slight moan to the sleeper's lips. In her 
 sleep she was renouncing her lover, whose face she 
 recognized in a concourse of people; and his re- 
 proachful eyes were upon her. Then the scene shifted, 
 and she was alone with him, kneeling before him. 
 She could hear his voice raised in anger as he con- 
 fronted her with charges of guilt and dishonor. Once 
 before she had heard the same words words that her 
 mother had met with a laugh; scoffing, pitiless in its 
 utter disregard of the husband who spoke. Now it was 
 her lover to whom the sleeper listened. The end had 
 come, the end of his love, the end of all. It was she, 
 herself, who was guilty. 
 
 Shuddering in her sleep, she moved her hand in 
 an impatient protest, but did not awake. 
 
 Again the dream was renewed, with other forms 
 and among other influences. ~Now she was in despair, 
 meeting her lover in a final farewell. She could not 
 understand the cause she only knew that she must 
 part with him forever. Some unseen influence or 
 power was drawing him away from her. Clinging to 
 him, her arms were about his neck, her lips pressed 
 to his in a lingering caress. If she could only die 
 thus, in the madness of their embrace ! But he was 
 leaving her. She felt his breath on her cheek, that 
 was wet with her own tears. He was putting her 
 from him with force, unclasping her arms that en- 
 circled him. She struggled in her efforts to go with
 
 348 dEfceln ^an CourtlanD* 
 
 him: through life, or to death, it mattered not to 
 her so that she might be with him. Then came the 
 eternity of grief, of agony, mourning for his love. 
 She moved and opened her eyes. Her aunt spoke : 
 "Remain in bed, Evelyn, dear, I will send your 
 maid with a cup of coffee." 
 
 "Have you breakfasted, auntie ?" 
 "Not yet ; but I wouldn't rise if I were you." 
 "Send my maid to me, please, I will come down to 
 breakfast- I am quite refreshed, and feel well again. 
 Did I frighten you ?" 
 
 "We won't talk of it now, child. I'll send Lena 
 to you." 
 
 Twenty minutes later Evelyn entered the break- 
 fast room. There were important matters to discuss 
 with her aunt, and she must act without delay. The 
 meal progressed without reference to the events of 
 the past night. It was Evelyn's desire to spare her 
 aunt, bat she must lose no further time. The meal 
 finished, Evelyn at once opened the subject. 
 
 "Auntie, dear, I have delayed telling you of my 
 meeting with mother at the Vanderviers' ; but it is 
 necessary that I should now speak of it" 
 
 "No, my dear, it is not necessary. I know what 
 you would say. I left the Vandervier's early, be- 
 cause I did not wish to run the risk of an encounter 
 with her. She has since written to me, threatening, 
 unless I receive her in my house, to do all sorts of
 
 CourtlanD, 349 
 
 disagreeable things. Of course, Evelyn, it is impos- 
 sible for me to accede to her demands." 
 
 "She has threatened?" Evelyn asked, controlling 
 her agitation. 
 
 "I hardly know what she means. She makes 
 vague allusions to her married life, to your poor 
 father, and closed her communication by saying that 
 I must recognize her socially. That is, you know, 
 quite impossible." 
 
 Evelyn sighed with satisfaction. Her aunt did 
 not, as yet, know of her mother's intention. 
 
 "Might it not be better," she said, "to make some 
 slight concession if only to appease her pride ?" 
 
 "My dear child, she is your mother, hence I do 
 not wish to be unduly harsh ; but remember I am an 
 old lady. I have held the confidence and respect of 
 many great men, of their wives and of their daugh- 
 ters. I cannot consent to run the risk of losing their 
 good opinion. No, whatver she may choose to do, or 
 to say, will not influence me. My career will soon 
 end. I shall not mar it by an act for which I would 
 blush." 
 
 "But," Evelyn insisted, "suppose in a spirit of 
 revenge she should say something to to bring dis- 
 honor on my father's name. You would feel that 
 more keenly than you would the loss of your friends." 
 
 "You are right. It would grieve me deeply; but 
 it would not change my resolve."
 
 350 oftielpn i^an CourtlanD. 
 
 Further discussion of the subject Evelyn felt 
 would be useless. It answered one purpose that of 
 furnishing her with an excuse for leaving Washing- 
 ton. Before stating her determination to go she had 
 introduced the topic, hoping that, in some way, it 
 would make easier her task of telling her aunt that 
 she was about to leave her. She feared that her 
 abrupt departure would arouse her aunt's suspicions, 
 but she was anxious to have the ordeal over. 
 
 "Auntie, dear, I have decided to return to New 
 York at once." 
 
 Evelyn's face flushed; she was conscious that her 
 abrupt announcement would be met with a demand 
 for explanations. 
 
 "Why, Evelyn, what are you saying ?" 
 
 The old lady's voice betrayed her surprise. 
 
 "You know, aunt, since the interview with my 
 mother, I have realized how impossible it is for me 
 to remain here. I must, if I go out at all, meet her. 
 That I cannot do. Besides, I know that, if I were 
 not with you, she would feel less keenly your refusal 
 to receive her. Oh. I have thought it all out, and 
 considered it well," she went on, as her aunt was 
 about to interrupt her. "I have pondered the sub- 
 ject from every point of view. It is best that I go. 
 I can send a telegraph message to James to have the 
 house in readiness." 
 
 Her arms stole about her aunt's neck. She must 
 appeal to the motherly side of her nature.
 
 $an CourtlanD, 351 
 
 "All of last night," she continued, falteringly, "I 
 lay awake, till I came to your room. I could not 
 sleep. I have not slept for nights. I feel keenly the 
 position in which I am placed, living in the same 
 city with my mother, yet under a different roof. I 
 know what is said of it. It is a subject of public 
 gossip; yet I do not desire to renew my relations 
 with her. It sounds harsh, even unnatural for me 
 to say it, but I can't help it. I have tried to bring 
 myself to overlook her shortcomings, to forget what 
 my father suffered; but I would despise myself still 
 more were I to play the hypocrite. Dear aunt, can't 
 you see it is best for me, at least for the present, to 
 return to New York? I know you will be lonely, 
 but after adjournment you can come to me for a 
 long visit." 
 
 "Why this haste, my dear ? Surely it will require 
 some days for you to get ready. No, I can't consent 
 to your going on such short notice." 
 
 "Ah, if you only realized what I suffered during 
 the past few nights !" 
 
 Evelyn's cheek was pressed to her aunt's, and her 
 delicate fingers fondled the white hair. "I know," 
 she continued coaxingly, "you would not have me 
 ill, yet " 
 
 "There, there, child, you do upset me so! Of 
 course I would not have you work yourself into a 
 fever over this unfortunate affair. But to-morrow
 
 352 OEtoelprt $att Courtlantu 
 
 will be quite time enough. Why, what can I tell the 
 people that will be here to-night ? Impossible !" 
 
 "No, no, auntie, dear, it is not impossible. They 
 won't mind. You can say say business affairs made 
 it necessary that I should go. Oh, I want so much 
 to be there to rest, to sleep." 
 
 "There, calm yourself, my dear. I suppose we 
 can arrange it so that you may go on the afternoon 
 train. Lena will attend to the packing. I will send 
 the butler for your tickets and to engage your seats. 
 Ring for him, dear." 
 
 Evelyn did as directed. She listened to her aunt 
 with a feeling of joy while she gave the directions: 
 "Two seats in the Pullman car for the one o'clock 
 express. The carriage to be at the door at 12 :30 
 sharp ; lunch to be served at 12 o'clock." 
 
 The ordeal was over. She had succeeded with her 
 aunt far better than she had anticipated. A little 
 deception, true, yet the end justified it. At last she 
 was to go, her purpose was to be fulfilled. She would 
 leave behind all hope that the world held for her; 
 but she would be safe from the danger of meeting 
 her lover again safe from herself, and from the fear 
 of carrying out her resolve. 
 
 With a lighter heart she busied herself in prepara- 
 tion for the journey. At times she was swayed by 
 an impulse to steal quietly from the house, drive to 
 the Capitol and, from the gallery, look once more 
 at her lover's face. There could be but little danger
 
 OEtoelpn $an CourtlanD, 353 
 
 of being discovered. Many times she hesitated. Just 
 one look to treasure through the hopeless years that 
 were before her. But better judgment prevailed. If 
 she were to succeed in her renunciation of her lover 
 the present was the time to put her resolve to the 
 test. No, her courage would triumph. She would 
 not invite discovery by such an act; and a trembling 
 of the lip was the only outward evidence of what the 
 struggle cost her. 
 
 Lunch time came at last. Never had her art of 
 dissembling been taxed as during the meal: her 
 enforced gaiety meeting her aunt's glance of concern, 
 partaking of food, though emotion threatened to stifle 
 her. Her aunt had thought much since their conver- 
 sation of the early morning. From large experience 
 she had learned to look below the surface, and she 
 was quick to see that there was another reason than 
 a desire not to meet her mother that influenced Ev- 
 elyn. She suspected the true cause of Evelyn's sud- 
 den departure; but regard for her niece forbade her 
 offering advice. 
 
 The leave-taking was over. Evelyn, with her 
 maid, was in the carriage that was being rapidly 
 driven to the station. 
 
 "Go round by the Capitol, John, and down the 
 Avenue. There will be time, and the day is fine." 
 
 Moved by the vain hope of seeing Malcolm, she 
 had given the order. What possible chance of meet- 
 ing Lim was there in a drive by the Capitol ? One in
 
 354 1 o&jeln l^an CouttlanD* 
 
 a thousand, she thought, and smiled at the impulse 
 that had prompted her command. 
 
 But fate seemed to have guided her. As the car- 
 riage turned into Pennsylvania Avenue, Malcolm 
 was leaving the Capitol grounds. For an instant 
 only she leaned toward the window, then, as the car- 
 riage turned rapidly, sank back into her seat. In 
 the glimpse she had caught of his face, there was joy 
 which could not be taken from her. 
 
 At the station she was confronted by the customary 
 crowd and confusion, for an unusual number of so- 
 ciety people were going South. 
 
 A few minutes after she had arrived at the station 
 she boarded the train. From the window of the Pull- 
 man car in which she was seated with her maid, she 
 caught a last glimpse of the dome of the Capitol.
 
 $att CouctlanD, 355 
 
 CHAPTEK XXIV. 
 
 IN the well filled rooms of the Chesborough man- 
 sion the intelligence was passed from one to the other 
 than the hostess' niece, the beautiful Miss Van Court- 
 land, had suddenly departed for New York ; and, by 
 a strange coincidence, the Count also had left the 
 city. Within ten minutes after Malcolm's arrival, 
 the fact had reached his ears. 
 
 In the crush, he had had no opportunity to do 
 more than exchange greetings with his hostess, but 
 the few moments she gave to him were marked by an 
 expression of friendliness touched by genuine feel- 
 ing. The old lady had made no mention of Evelyn, 
 and he had moved on, and mingled among the other 
 guests, till, hearing her name spoken, he learned of 
 her departure, also of the fact that the Count had 
 left the city. 
 
 At the first opportunity, pleading a political ap- 
 pointment as an excuse, he took leave of his hostess, 
 who made no effort to detain him, for she divined the 
 reason for his sudden departure. Neither did she 
 speak of Evelyn, but, insisting that he present him- 
 self at her next "Evening," bade him good-night.
 
 356 dEtoelpn |an CourtlanU, 
 
 While he remained at the Chesborough house, by no 
 outward sign did he manifest that he was moved; 
 but once outside, the full measure of his loss swept 
 over him. 
 
 Evelyn had gone: without so much as a word, a 
 line of explanation or regret. She had not even con- 
 sidered his letter worthy of a reply a letter in which 
 he had poured forth his love, and laid bare the inner 
 thoughts and emotions of his soul. He had offered 
 all he had to offer; he had given her all that a man 
 can give; and she had trampled it under foot as 
 something unworthy even of notice. 
 
 It was not like her, he argued, wishing to find 
 some excuse for her act, in no way was it like her 
 nor was it an indication of her true character; but 
 the fact that she had gone could not be denied. She 
 scorned his love, and, by ignoring his letter, had 
 taken the most certain means of humiliating and si- 
 lencing him. Walking aimlessly toward the open 
 country, he set himself to arguing in her defence, 
 trying, meanwhile, to find some reason that would 
 excuse her conduct. But the task baffled his in- 
 genuity. His mind grasped the one overwhelming 
 truth: she had discarded him, and he was alone. 
 Then a sudden transition of feeling swept over him. 
 At that moment he could have lifted the giant Rus- 
 sian bodily and hurled him to the ground. Xot that 
 he believed that Evelyn had gone with him, that 
 part of the story he did not credit ; his rage was occa-
 
 OEfcelpn $an CourtlanD* 357 
 
 sioned by the fact that the Count had dared to love 
 her. This was sufficient to fill him with blind, un- 
 reasoning passion. Then calmer reason prevailed. 
 Realizing the distance he had walked, he turned 
 homeward. The more he considered his loss, the less 
 reconciled he became. Then a mad thought pre- 
 sented : would he follow her to New York, and, con- 
 triving to meet her, make a personal appeal de- 
 mand of her the cause of her refusal to see him. 
 When he had told her of his love, and that, with or 
 without her consent, he would devote his life to her, 
 he might induce her to listen. Realizing the vanity 
 of the thought, he smiled. No, he believed her de- 
 cision to be final. And, after all, why should he have 
 expected a different result ? She entertained for him 
 feelings of regard, of pity, yes, even love; but con- 
 sideration of her future had prompted her decision. 
 The shadow of a crime still hung over him; he had 
 once been accused. He knew the world knew that 
 it did not easily forget. With the individual it is the 
 same. Were she not to consider his position she 
 would not be human. Again he fell to inventing ex- 
 cuses; of proving to his own satisfaction that she 
 was right. And before entering the hotel, he had de- 
 luded himself into the belief that the woman he loved 
 had, under the circumstances, done w r hat any right- 
 minded woman would do refused his love. 
 
 This thought did not make him the happier, and,
 
 358 Cfcclmt Dan CourtlmiD* 
 
 when he entered his room, he sat himself down to 
 think it out all over again. 
 
 Love follows no rule; it conforms to neither plan 
 nor reason. Malcolm was old in knowledge of the 
 world, wise in the principles and the workings of 
 human law. To fathom human nature was, to him, 
 as easy as to understand an untutored, though cun- 
 ning child. The child measures the wit of others by 
 its own, failing to make allowance for the wisdom 
 that comes with age and experience. Malcolm was 
 considered a far-sighted, keen, reliable man of the 
 world; one, too, who would inspire confidence and 
 respect. But Malcolm in love was quite another be- 
 ing; and he immediately resolved into the ordinary 
 and hopeless human child. Wisdom entirely for- 
 sook him, and he believed that in all the world there 
 was not another so utterly miserable as himself. 
 Walking the floor, he smoked one cigar after an- 
 other, swore mildly as was becoming a Congressman, 
 and, when he found that lamenting his loss offered 
 no promise of bringing him nearer his love, he raved 
 at the Russian, and in the next breath scoffed at 
 what he had heard as being rank, futile gossip. Then, 
 to further ease his mind, he sat down to pour forth 
 his agony of soul in another letter to Evelyn. 
 
 At that moment, could he have seen the woman he 
 loved in a great house, every room sacred from the 
 associations of her girlhood could he have looked 
 at her, her face buried in the soft cushions of a divan,
 
 OEtoelpn $an Courtland* 359 
 
 fighting out the battle of her soul, then would he 
 have realized how a woman may love and suffer. 
 
 Evelyn had arrived in the early evening and found 
 everything in readiness. The house had been opened, 
 and the rooms, brilliantly lighted, presented a cheer- 
 ful and homelike aspect. She met the servants with 
 her customary gentleness, drank a cup of tea and, 
 refusing further service, requested that the lights be 
 lowered. She needed rest, she said, and quiet, and 
 dismissing her maid, she was left alone. 
 
 It was only by a firm resolve not to give way to 
 her grief that she controlled her emotion when she 
 first entered the drawing room. It was here she had 
 sat with her father, reading or playing for him, and 
 after the tragedy, soothing him as she would soothe 
 a child. It was here, too, she had first learned of 
 his death; so sudden, yet, in the light of events, so 
 merciful. She seemed to^hear his voice ringing with 
 passion, as she had heard it on that fatal night that 
 was the beginning of a tragedy that had not yet 
 ended. That was the beginning; by her, herself, it 
 must be brought to a close. Harlan, her father, Le 
 Moyne, and now she shuddered Malcolm! His 
 love, too, must be sacrificed. With a shudder, she 
 turned from the room. It brought before her thoughts 
 that struck terror to her heart, her courage sank, for 
 she felt that she was in the meshes of a power from 
 which she could not escape.
 
 360 (Etoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 An animal tugging at the end of a lariat plunges 
 and writhes until, exhausted, it falls. It is a lack 
 of wisdom that prompts the struggle which, from the 
 first, is hopeless. It is only a question of time till its 
 strength gives way to a superior force. The human 
 struggle that held Evelyn in its grasp was a struggle 
 of the senses, of the heart and the soul. She be- 
 lieved herself under the influence of fate she was 
 fighting a battle against the instinct of heredity. 
 
 When she was alone in her room she lay on the 
 divan, sobs shaking her frame, for at last, in her 
 loneliness, she had given herself up to her grief. 
 Here was a struggle that had been fought out times 
 unnumbered, through centuries of forgotten years 
 a struggle in which many had conquered, and many 
 had fallen. She believed that in renouncing her 
 lover, in flying from the danger of his presence, of 
 his personal appeal, she had triumphed over herself 
 and her longing, burning desire for his love. How 
 little she knew of the workings of the human heart 
 how sadly she misjudged herself and her own power. 
 At that moment her mind said "I have given him 
 up, to me he is lost forever." But the heart was cry- 
 ing with still greater agony, "I love him, he is mine, 
 mine; let the world talk it is my heart, my soul 
 that is in the balance. To feel his lips touch mine, 
 his breath on my cheek, to know that in all the world 
 no one could take him from me, that he was all mine 
 a day, an hour, a minute, of such happiness is
 
 $att Courtlantu SGI 
 
 more to me than a thousand years of life without 
 him. And if it be not so, what then is left for me ? 
 Years that will be a blank, except for the torture of 
 knowing that another is receiving the caress that is 
 of right mine. And he, too, would be false to his 
 vow, for his love forever belongs to me. And should 
 another's arms encircle him, his wedding day would 
 be cursed with thoughts unholy in their truth, for 
 his mind and heart would go back to me to his love. 
 And the kiss he would give would be carnal, of the 
 flesh, for his love would be for me alone." 
 
 She had dried her tears, and, rising, slowly paced 
 the room. She was calmer; the torrent of grief, of 
 sorrow, had spent its force; and now remorse 
 touched both heart and mind remorse for thoughts 
 that came unbidden and that would not be stilled; 
 impulses before which she was helpless. What 
 strange power was it that seemed to control her facul- 
 ties, till she bowed before it as to a superior will. 
 She tried to shake off the influence, laughing hyster- 
 ically as the possibility presented that it might tri- 
 umph. 
 
 Then her mood changed. Surrendering herself to 
 the joy of her last meeting with Malcolm, she rev- 
 eled in the memory. How gentle, how considerate he 
 had been. And his letter such tender passages! 
 
 Again she read his missive read it from begin- 
 ning to end, standing under the light, her beauty 
 never so full, so radiant as now, a flush of delight, of
 
 362 OBDelpn $an CourtlanD, 
 
 tender passion, suffusing neck and cheek. His letter 
 that he had touched was in her hand. In its sweet 
 possession she seemed to feel his presence and, with 
 a sigh of contentment, she lingered on the words, re- 
 peating the tender passages aloud, and, still unsatis- 
 fied, reading them again and again. How beautiful 
 were his thoughts, and how he must love her ! "And 
 here," she murmured aloud, "where he refers to my 
 father's death! How tenderly considerate. How 
 pure and noble must be his mind. Expressing his 
 sorrow for me, when I had turned him away, dis- 
 carded him without a word of excuse or explana- 
 tion." 
 
 Reading, she again came to the recital of the feel- 
 ings and emotions attending his trial, of the image 
 his fancy had framed. Tears dimmed her eyes, and 
 she could read no further. 
 
 Then fear overwhelmed her. Should he learn the 
 truth, that she was the daughter of a murderer, and 
 that, with the knowledge of what he had been made 
 to suffer for her father's act, she had encouraged his 
 love would he not then revile her ? And she could 
 offer no word in her own defence. 
 
 Returning to the letter, she again surrendered to 
 the delight of reading his words of love, giving her- 
 self up to their influence, steeping her being, her soul, 
 in the incense of passion. The words she had read 
 seemed to burn into her brain until reason was be- 
 numbed. Doubt again was in the ascendancy.
 
 Courtiantu 363 
 
 "Shall I give him up? Why should I crush my 
 own heart?" 
 
 Into her voice, scarcely audible, had crept a note 
 of desperation. The expression of her face was no 
 longer that of a young girl affrighted at her passion. 
 It was the calm, confident woman of the world who 
 spoke, with knowledge of her own power, and 
 strength of will to carry her purpose into effect. 
 
 "He loves me! Why should I turn from him? 
 Why mar his life and his love and my own ? If I 
 consent, I am but fulfilling my destiny." 
 
 Sinking into a chair before her desk, she mechan- 
 ically took up a pen, and placed note-paper before 
 her. So far her movements had been controlled by 
 force of habit. The brain had not been called upon 
 to exercise its functions. Dipping the pen into the 
 ink, she had placed her hand on the paper. Still no 
 mental effort had been employed. But she must 
 frame the first word, and the brain was set in motion. 
 The pen dropped from her fingers and, with a stifled 
 cry of horror, she drew back. For a full minute she 
 sat motionless, stunned by the thought of putting her 
 resolve into execution. Five minutes went by and 
 still she remained impassive, unable to spur herself 
 to take the step that would forever make retreat im- 
 possible. Delirious thoughts flooded her brain, rea- 
 son refused to be brought under subjection ; and out 
 of the conflict one impulse gradually assumed con- 
 trol: to pick up the pen and carry out her resolve.
 
 364 (gtoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 She must do it, or forever renounce the man she 
 loved. She began to write. Rapidly she penned the 
 words, begging him to come to her. On the instant 
 a full realization of her purpose possessed her. With 
 a cry she rose, and, holding the unfinished letter over 
 the gas jet, watched the charred remnant turn to 
 ashes. 
 
 As she threw herself on a couch the gray light of 
 dawn stole through the windows.
 
 $att CourtlanD* 365 
 
 CHAPTEK XXV. 
 
 MAJOR STRONG was alone in his office, a letter 
 from Malcolm in his hand. The few words it con- 
 tained informed the Major that his partner was de- 
 termined on giving up his public career, and return- 
 ing to New York and to the practice of law. The 
 letter also stated that the writer would start the fol- 
 lowing morning to confer with his colleague. 'No 
 reason for his sudden resolve was given; no excuse 
 offered ; but the fixed purpose of the writer was made 
 clear. 
 
 Strong was not pleased ; in fact, he was filled with 
 dismay and rage. ISTot that he believed the young 
 Congressman would succeed in carrying his purpose 
 into effect the old lawyer grimly declared he would 
 prevent it ; his anger was for the fate that threatened 
 the happiness of the lovers. He needed no explana- 
 tion to understand the true state of affairs. He had 
 anticipated just such a condition as now existed. But 
 he was rot prepared for the result Malcolm's declar- 
 ation that he would retire from public life. Strong's 
 interest was centered in his partner's career, and, he 
 argued, should the young man carry out his present 
 purpose, he would be ruined, politically, for all time.
 
 366 OBtjelpn ^att CourtlanU* 
 
 "Well," he mused, "it has come about as I ex- 
 pected. At any rate, the worst is over. Believing 
 he doesn't know the truth about her father and fear- 
 ing that he will some day discover it, she refused 
 him. He, the young devil, is too over-nice and high- 
 strung to make a clean breast of it, and so they're at 
 logger-heads. Now his heart is broken, and I must 
 gather the fragments and patch them up. I'd like to 
 have him here at this moment I'd cuff his ears." 
 
 A knock at the door and it was opened by Betts. 
 "Telegram, sir," said the clerk, handing it to his em- 
 ployer. 
 
 After Betts had returned to his desk, the Major 
 opened the telegram. 
 
 "Shall arrive on train due 3 :30. Please wait in 
 office." Signed "Malcolm." 
 
 "I'll wait," said Strong, aloud, "you bet I'll wait! 
 I think, young man, I can succeed in giving you an 
 interesting quarter of an hour !" 
 
 Again Betts presented himself. He handed a card 
 to the Major. 
 
 "Lady is waiting, sir." 
 
 "I will see her at once," Strong replied. "Evelyn 
 here!" he said aloud when Betts had gone. "What 
 consummate luck! It's now nearly 3 o'clock. I'll 
 keep her engaged for an hour or so. That young ras- 
 cal should be here within an hour. Ah, Miss Van 
 Courfland, I am delighted." 
 
 Evelyn, pale and weary, entered.
 
 OBtielpn $att CourtlanD. 367 
 
 The Major advanced with outstretched hands and 
 led her to a seat. 
 
 "This is somewhat of a surprise," he continued, 
 his face beaming with good nature. He evidently re- 
 fused to consider a lover's trouble from their tragic 
 point of view. "You're looking the picture of 
 health." 
 
 Though he noted her pallor and air of dejection, 
 he was not inclined to sympathize with her. 
 
 "I am in my usual health," she answered. "Quite 
 well enough to attend to business matters." 
 
 A tremulous uncertainty in her voice did not es- 
 cape her listener. 
 
 "She's neither in her usual health nor is she in a 
 condition to attend to business matters," was Strong's 
 mental conclusion. "Why," he mused, "do most 
 women foster the belief that, at all times and under 
 all circumstances, they are deceiving mankind? ' 
 Aloud Le said: 
 
 "I left you in Washington at the height of the sea- 
 son, with never a thought of business." 
 
 "True. I tired of it; so I have decided to go to 
 Europe for a protracted stay. I shall sail on Satur- 
 day. Before going, I wish to place my affairs in 
 your hands." 
 
 "Really, this is sudden," he replied with interest. 
 "You won't go on Saturday's boat if I can prevent 
 it," was his mental comment. Force of habit, more
 
 368 Ctoelpn $an CourtlanD* 
 
 than a desire to add to her evident distress, prompted 
 him to assume the role of cross-examiner. 
 
 "Mr. Malcolm was enjoying his usual health, I 
 presume, when you last saw him?" 
 
 "Yes," she faltered. "I have not, however, seen 
 him for several days." 
 
 The blood rushed to her cheeks. Her companion 
 was toying with Malcolm's letter, meanwhile measur- 
 ing the effect of his questions. 
 
 "She has cried her heart out," he thought. Then 
 aloud : 
 
 "He has, I presume, informed you of his intention 
 to retire from public life ?" 
 
 For a moment, surprise left her incapable of 
 speech. Then she faltered : 
 
 "Giving up his public career! You cannot mean 
 it It cant be true !" 
 
 "Quite true," he blandly answered. "I will read 
 you his letter." 
 
 He only read the part of the letter that referred to 
 the writer's determination to resign his seat. The 
 lines announcing Malcolm's speedy return to New 
 York he omitted. "A little suspense and uncertainty 
 might be productive of good," thought the Major. 
 
 While he read sorrow and despair were depicted 
 on her features, in her eyes, and by a hopeless move- 
 ment of her hand. Her companion's face was calm, 
 his manner unresponsive ; but he was deeply moved. 
 As he finished her glance of mute entreaty met his.
 
 CotirtlanD. 369 
 
 "He must not do it," she exclaimed. "Major, you 
 will prevent him from carrying out his intention." 
 
 "I prevent him !" he laughed softly. "It can't be 
 done. No, he says he'll resign his seat in Congress, 
 and he'll do it. Of course, it means ruin for him. I 
 wonder," he asked, meeting her glance, "what is the 
 cause of his rash resolve?" 
 
 Agitation threatened to overcome her. Her lips 
 trembled, and she made an involuntary movement to 
 rise; then sank back into her chair. Overwhelmed 
 with the. thought that she alone was to blame, believ- 
 ing the ruin of his career would be the result of her 
 refusal to marry him, a faintness came over her. 
 .What could she do ? How explain to Strong her po- 
 sition? Her expression of hopelessness touched 
 him. He resolved to strike quickly at the heart of 
 the matter. 
 
 "I presume," he said calmly, as if voicing a vague 
 conjecture, "that Mr. Malcolm finds it impossible to 
 overcome the after-effects of his trial. In many re- 
 spects he is peculiar. While defending him he never 
 made a confidant of me, only to assure me of his in- 
 nocence. That was unnecessary, for I knew it." He 
 glanced at her to measure the effect of his words. 
 "Have you ever considered that Malcolm, during his 
 trial, must have known who caused Harlan's death ?" 
 
 "No, no; impossible!" 
 
 Her tone was incredulous. The blood rushed to 
 her cheek. In her eyes there was sudden alarm.
 
 370 Ctjelpn l^att CourtlanD. 
 
 "I believe it," he said calmly ; "more, I know it !" 
 
 Though aware that he was inflicting pain, that his 
 words would awaken a double cause for sorrow, he 
 courageously resolved to pursue the subject to the 
 end. 
 
 "You know," he resumed, "the evidence at the trial 
 disclosed the fact that Malcolm was not the only one 
 who visited Harlan the night of the tragedy. Some- 
 one was seen to enter the house after Malcolm had 
 left it. That person was known to him. Of that I 
 am satisfied, though the young man has always re- 
 fused to acknowledge it, even to me. For reasons 
 known only to himself, he jeopardized his life to 
 shield the one who committed the deed. Why he re- 
 mained silent I cannot answer. It may have been 
 because of gratitude, or love - " 
 
 A suppressed moan interrupted him. He looked 
 at Evelyn. She was sitting motionless, deathly pale, 
 her eyes fixed on his face. Pity filled him, yet with 
 her future as well as his partner's at stake, the pres- 
 ent was not a time for weakness on his part As she 
 remained silent, he continued : 
 
 "Yes, I am satisfied he was impelled by the highest 
 motives, though one hardly expects in this practical 
 age to meet with such heroism. If it were love that 
 demanded such a sacrifice, his must have been a pas- 
 sion that few men know. The woman who could 
 awaken it should be very happy."
 
 CourtlanO. 
 
 "Don't, don't," she sobbed, unable longer to con- 
 trol her emotion. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said, deeply moved. "I should 
 have known my reference to the trial would distress 
 you." 
 
 Her sobs increased. He looked at her in alarm, a 
 moisture in his eyes speaking his compassion. He 
 realized that he was powerless to soothe her outburst 
 of grief. Her tears were not alone those of sorrow. 
 The man she loved knew the truth the truth that 
 she had feared. He had been aware of it from the 
 first and had never spoken. How sweet the thought, 
 and how great must be his love ! Her bitter sense of 
 shame was followed by a sigh of relief and content. 
 Then again fear controlled her. He was about to re- 
 nounce his public career to the ruin of his future, his 
 life ; and she alone would be to blame. With an ef- 
 fort she controlled Ler voice. 
 
 "Major, you will not allow him to take this step 
 you must not!" 
 
 "How can I prevent it?" he asked gently. "The 
 cause that led to his sudden resolve must be overcome. 
 I don't even know it. I am powerless in the matter." 
 
 She realized only too well the truth of his words. 
 It was for her to act, not for him. The fear that, per- 
 haps, it was already too late to prevent Malcolm from 
 carrying out his design impelled her. 
 
 "Major," she said tremulously, "you will help me 
 advise me. I I love him."
 
 372 OEtoelpn ^an CourtlanD* 
 
 He met her glance with a smile of satisfaction and 
 delight. 
 
 "The battle's won," he mused, "and the young ras- 
 cal's safe." 
 
 With fatherly tenderness he took her hand in both 
 his own, and soothed and comforted her. The re- 
 serve once broken, with a child's candor she told him 
 all, of her love, and of her refusal of Malcolm, be- 
 cause of the fear that the future might bring him re- 
 gret. The Major listened, silent and sympathetic, 
 knowing that the confession of her love brought with 
 it a sweet feeling of peace. 
 
 A step in the outer office caused the Major to as- 
 sume a listening attitude. Betts was answering a 
 question of the visitor. Strong, his eyes dancing 
 with expectancy, strode to the door and opened it. 
 Malcolm, at a sign from his partner, entered quickly. 
 
 "Evelyn!" 
 
 At the sound of his voice she uttered a cry of joy. 
 The Major had disappeared the lovers were alone. 
 
 Malcolm's arms were about her, his lips pressed to 
 hers. No word vvas spoken none was needed ; their 
 eyes told of love, perfect and supreme. 
 
 The Major, softly whistling, was descending the 
 stairs to the street. 
 
 Betts leaned over his books, a look of consternation 
 on his thin features, while the hand that held the pen 
 trembled. For the first time in many years he had
 
 $an CouctlanD. 373 
 
 made an error in figuring. Shaking his head sadly, 
 he readied for an eraser and rectified the mistake. 
 
 "Five o'clock," he said, in a strange voice. He 
 glanced at the door of the private office. A gleam of 
 elation shone in his kindly gray eyes. With his cus- 
 tomary deliberation he took his coat and glanced once 
 more at the clock. 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Malcolm will close the office," he 
 said softly. 
 
 With a sigh of satisfaction he went out. 
 
 THE END.
 
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