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 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW
 
 ll' i
 
 ^^t%Jitii£t ([no€V »• • 
 
 And . . . and after all I've done!" he said thickly. 
 '*After all I've said/''
 
 THE 
 MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 BY 
 
 HOLWORTHY HALL 
 
 Author of "Henry of Navarre, Ohio,*' **Pepper/ 
 
 "Paprika/* "What He Least Expected," 
 
 *'Dormie One,'* etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1919
 
 COPTRIOHT, 1918, 
 
 By DODD, mead and company, Inc. 
 
 First edition printed Dec. 6, 1918. 
 Second edition printed Jan. 11, 1919. 
 Third edition printed Jan. 17, 1919. 
 
 Fourth edition printed Jan. 28, I919.
 
 TO 
 MARNIE AND JEAN akd JOHN 
 
 2136192 I
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "And . . . and after all I've done! " he said thickly. 
 " After all I've said! '' Frontispiece 
 
 tAGE 
 
 Shocked and horrified^ she was gazing at the picture 
 postcard he had snatched from under his pillow . 7 
 
 " Now we've got to hurry/* he said. " Come, dear ! " . 167 
 
 Angela had sprung between them: Hilliard saw that 
 her cheeksi were tear-stained 250
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 IN" the beginning of things, he was merely a number; 
 but even that was creditable, because his number 
 was low enough to signify that he had responded pretty 
 promptly to the rallying call. After that, and with 
 the cataclysmic suddenness which marked all changes 
 of military status on the Western front, he became, one 
 frosty morning, a Case, and got himself roughly classi- 
 fied (and tenderly handled) as a Stretcher Case, a 
 Grand Blesse, and, in consequence, a proper temporary 
 inmate of a field hospital on the Belgian plains. 
 
 There, he was unofficially known as a Joyeux, or 
 Joyous One ; not because he displayed a very buoyant 
 disposition — far from it ! — but because he belonged 
 to the Foreign Legion ; and in the course of another 
 day or two he was routine-ticketed as an Evacue, and 
 provided with a lukewarm hot-water bottle and a couple 
 of evil-smelhng cigarettes to console him on the road to 
 the base hospital at Neuilly. 
 
 At Neuilly he became, for the first time since his en- 
 listment, an Individual, and at the very outset he was 
 distinguished by certain qualities which had passed 
 unnoticed in the frying pan and fire of the trenches. 
 For one thing, he was obviously immune to kindness; 
 and for another, he was apparently immune to hope. 
 He was a man of inveterate silence ; not the grim silence 
 of fortitude in suffering (which is altogether too com-
 
 a THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 mon a virtue in base hospitals to earn any especial 
 merit), but rather the dogged reticence of black moods 
 and chronic bitterness. To be sure, speech was phys- 
 ically difficult for him, but other men with similar mis- 
 fortunes spoke blessings with their eyes, and gave back 
 gratitude in voiceless murmurs. Not so the Joyous 
 One. From the day of his arrival he demanded noth- 
 ing, desired nothing, but to brood sullenly aloof; and 
 so, when he became an Individual, he also became a mys- 
 tery to the nursing staff. It was rumoured that he was 
 an implacable woman hater, and there seemed to be 
 something in it. 
 
 The wound in his knee was healing admirably ; the 
 bullet wound in his right forearm was inconvenient 
 rather than dangerous ; and as for his third and by far 
 the most serious of his injuries — a glancing drift of 
 shrapnel across his face — the surgeons had promised 
 faithfully to nullify it in due time. But in spite of their 
 professional optimism, and regardless of the care of 
 the American nurses (all hoveringly attentive to one 
 of their own nation who had fought for France), his 
 spirit remained abysmal, and clouded in gloom. Only 
 twice, in the initial month of his confinement, did he 
 betray the weakness of an ordinary emotion; on each 
 occasion a gold-laced general had come to salute, in the 
 name of the Republic, one of the Individual's neighbours, 
 and to deliver a bit of bronze which dangled from a 
 ribbon striped red and green. It was said (and 
 doubted by those who hadn't seen it) that at these 
 ceremonies the Individual had grown feverish, and let 
 tears come to his eyes, but subsequently he had relapsed 
 into still greater depths of stoicism than before: his 
 own bed-jacket was innocent of cross or medal, and his
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW S 
 
 depression was apparent, and acute. The nurses, 
 arguing that perhaps his pride was wounded as seri- 
 ously as his flesh, offered quick condolence, and got 
 themselves rebuffed with shrugs of the Individual's 
 shoulders, and inarticulate sounds which had all the 
 earmarks of suppressed profanity. He didn't even 
 soften when Pierre Dutout, a hard-hit Territorial in 
 the next bed, squandered a day's supply of energy to 
 lean across and whisper sympathetically to him : " Old 
 man . . . Vieucc espece de choux-croute ... I know 
 how it is . . . and I haven't got any friends either. I 
 want you to take my Croix de Gicerre, . . . When I go 
 nowhere." 
 
 Nor did he waver in his flintlike isolation when Dutout, 
 one sunny morning, struggled half erect and gave the 
 world the last of his countless smiles, and said, quite 
 distinctly : ** Le moment s'approche . . . liberie . . . 
 egaUte . . . fraternite , . , et vive la France! " And 
 died, still smiling — and still unthanked — trying to 
 unpin the war cross he thought would please his mel- 
 ancholy neighbour. 
 
 Liberty ! — and the Individual chafed in the hard- 
 won liberty of his soul. Equality ! — and he had shared 
 the ideals of all civilization, and the privilege of de- 
 fending them with all his might. Fraternity ! — and 
 if he had never sensed the warmth of it before, he had 
 its glowing proof in Pierre Dutout, and in the corps 
 of altruists and angels who had daily ministered to 
 them both ; and yet, even when speech returned to him, 
 he was a man of curt responses and stinging mono- 
 syllables — a problem to the surgeons, a problem to 
 the nurses and (if the expression in his eyes meant 
 anything), an overwhehning problem to himself. It
 
 4 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 appeared that, after all, it wasn't simply women that 
 he hated — it w^as the universe. 
 
 His military book implied that he had no parents, 
 no close relations, no friends to notify, no fixed abode. 
 He received no visitors, no letters, no packages 
 freighted with magical delight. But to those who 
 pitied him in all his loneliness, he was utterly con- 
 temptuous ; he even went so far as to fillip sidelong 
 to the floor a religious postcard tendered him by a 
 devout and sentimental passer-by, and he did it in her 
 presence, unashamed. Later, when a smiling orderly 
 picked up that postcard, and tucked it under his pillow, 
 he was no less contemptuous in permitting it to remain. 
 But the one stupendous fact which, more than all else 
 combined, made him an object of bewildered curiosity 
 was this — that of the scores and scores of men with 
 head-wounds who were reborn at Neuilly that spring 
 and summer, he was the only one who had never asked 
 for a mirror. 
 
 This, of itself, wouldn't have been astonishing as 
 long as he delayed in the preliminary stage of recov- 
 ery, for now and then a man with head-wounds proves 
 to be super-sensitive; but in the second stage it was 
 remarkable, and in the third stage it was unique. The 
 staff held it to be extraordinar}^ from a social as well 
 as from a pathological viewpoint, that a man so ter- 
 ribly disfigured should have no interest — not even 
 a morbid interest — in his own appearance. And it 
 wasn't that the Individual was simply indifferent to the 
 mirror; on the contrary, his aversion to it was active 
 and energetic : he flinched, and motioned it frantically 
 away as though the mere conception of seeing himself as
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 5 
 
 others saw him was too repellent, and too unthinkable 
 to endure. At first, they fancied that he might have 
 picked up, during some phase of liis delirium, one of 
 those unexplainable illusions which attach themselves 
 to wandering minds, and by gentle advances they tried 
 to educate him. Later on, when they realized that his 
 actions were quite intentional and sane, they stopped 
 the advances, except for an occasional trial or two to 
 discover if the puzzling inhibition had yet left him. 
 Eventually — and this was as soon as he could speak 
 with clearness — they discontinued all experiments, and 
 let him be as unusual as he pleased. They only watched 
 him, wondering when a normal itch of self-conceit would 
 take effect upon him. They watched the moon around, 
 and then they forgot. He had never relented; and 
 even angels in women's clothing are likely to pay the 
 most of their attention to people who meet them half 
 way. 
 
 There came a day in April when a photograph was 
 requested of him. Surely he knew where there was a 
 likeness of himself, didn't he? His old passport photo- 
 graph, which had mysteriously disappeared, or — 
 
 The Individual glanced up from his present task; 
 the wound in his arm was still anno^ang, and he was 
 absorbed in learning to write with his left hand. 
 
 " What for? " he muttered. 
 
 " Why," said the nurse, cheerfull}^, " for a model. 
 To help the surgeons. They'll take your picture for a 
 guide and make you look almost exactly the way you 
 did before." 
 
 The Individual from America sat up straight, so 
 that the nurse was startled by his animation, which was
 
 6 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 without a parallel in his local history. His breath 
 came faster, and the pencil dropped from his thin 
 fingers. 
 
 " What! " he said, 
 
 " Certainly ! " The nurse spoke in the tone one 
 uses to an ailing child. " You've known that, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 The Individual's voice was queerly unmanageable 
 and strained. " You mean to say they're going to 
 make me look the way . . . Could they do that? 
 Could they? Even norv? " 
 
 " Why, of course," she assured him. 
 
 " You never told me that ! " he said, passionately. 
 "Why didn't you? Why couldn't you have told me! 
 And here I've been . . ." He put his hands to his 
 bandaged face, and seemed to shrink within himself. 
 Then all at once he burst out : " Well, there's nothing 
 to prevent . . . Then they could make me not look 
 like it then, if they wanted to! Isn't that so? " 
 
 She regarded him in vast perplexity, and thought of 
 summoning a surgeon, for the man had begun to 
 quiver as though from shell-shock — which he hadn't 
 undergone. 
 
 " Why, I don't understand what you mean," she said 
 soothingly. "But if you'll just be calm and — " 
 
 The Individual gestured with fierce impatience. 
 
 " If they can do what you say, and make me look 
 like any old thing they choose to, then what in the 
 devil are they asking me for a photograph for? " 
 
 " Why, to go by," she said, helplessly. " You want 
 to look like your old self, don't you ? " 
 
 ''No, I don't!'' 
 
 The nurse gasped. His tone had been churlish, but
 
 
 
 q>\t^0^AiH_^3^^u^ 
 
 Sliocked and horrified, she was gazmg at the picture 
 postcard he had snatched from under his pillow
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW If 
 
 the echo of it vaguely suggested triumph and relief. 
 His symptoms had subsided . . . could it be that he 
 actually was relieved? Dumfounded, she made another 
 effort to convince him. 
 
 " But you must want to look just as nearly like — " 
 
 " Don't you suppose / know what I want ? " he in- 
 terrupted rudely. 
 
 " But haven't you a photograph, anyway, that I 
 can—" 
 
 " No, I haven't ! " he snapped, and then in the next 
 moment a cold light flamed in his eyes, and his pupils 
 dwindled to needle-points and he was staring up at her 
 in miserable, cruel cynicism. Involuntarily she stepped 
 backward, and her cheeks went scarlet. *' No," he 
 repeated, with vicious emphasis, " I haven't." It was a 
 lie ; the passport photograph was in the lining of a 
 certain wallet, and he had hid it there for reasons of 
 his own. But now that one great danger was definitely 
 past, and a still further bulwark of protection offered, 
 if the nurse spoke truth, the Individual could afford to 
 come out from ambush. " And I don't want to look the 
 way I did before, and what's more, I never did ! But 
 if your doctors are half as smart as they think they 
 are, let 'em make me look like that! Or anything else 
 either — / don't give a damn ! " 
 
 Shocked and horrified, she was gazing at the picture 
 postcard he had snatched from under his pillow and 
 thrust upon her. It was a reproduction of a religious 
 painting by Rembrandt. It was the radiant face of 
 the Christ.
 
 n 
 
 NINE O'CLOCK on a night in June — not a June 
 evening, heavy-starred on velvet — but a furious 
 June night, with Stygian blackness looping overhead, 
 and Stygian water battering and boiling against the 
 hull-plates. The wind was blowing less than half a 
 gale, but clammy cool and threatening, out of the south- 
 east ; the head sea, slapping and spitting forth at the 
 liner's bow, gave way reluctantly to the sturdy bulk, 
 and rushed astern in savage impotence. The ship 
 was dark as the night itself ; blind dark, without a single 
 ray to play the traitor. On deck, a solitary venturer 
 hugged the rail, and apathetically watched the waves 
 tear past. 
 
 Out of the warmth and cheer and the vitiated at- 
 mosphere of the smoking-room came Martin Harmon, 
 big, florid, exuberant; and as the raw air reached to 
 his lungs, he took it rapturously ; his eyes sparkled, and 
 he inhaled with prodigious gulps, revelling in the strong 
 restorative. A heaving lift of the deck sent him lurch- 
 ing sidewise ; he saved his balance by struggling toward 
 the rail, when suddenly the slope was reversed, and he 
 shpped, and slid to the barrier of safety, clutched it, 
 and found himself at arms' length from the lonel}^ 
 watcher, who hadn't stirred, or even turned his head. 
 
 " Hello ! " said Harmon, his surprise tinctured with 
 easy familiarity. " Some night ! " His natural voice 
 was resonant enough to carry against the wind with 
 scarcely an effort. 
 
 " Yes, it is." The tone of the response was curt, 
 
 8
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 9 
 
 so curt that Harmon instinctively leaned forward to 
 discover what expression of countenance went with it. 
 The night was so black that he might as well have 
 tried to penetrate a curtain of solid fabric. 
 
 " Seen any U-boats yet? " he asked humorously. 
 
 " Not yet." The taciturn one moved a trifle away ; a 
 man less thin-skinned and less dined and wined than 
 Harmon would probably have taken the hint, and re- 
 moved himself. 
 
 " Hardly their kind of weather, anyway. . . . Been 
 over on business, have you? " 
 
 The other man snuggled deeper into his coat. " Yes 
 — on business." 
 
 " So've I. Wasted my time. Oh, I'm glad I've seen 
 a bit of it, of course, — gives you something to talk 
 about — but as for getting anywhere — nothing doing. 
 -46-so-luteIy nothing doing! . . . How about you? " 
 
 " About the same." The taciturn passenger had 
 vitriol on his tongue, but Harmon, clinging tight to the 
 rail as the ship bucked heavily through the oncoming 
 seas, was imperturbable. 
 
 "So? No luck at aU?" 
 
 " None at all." 
 
 "Come over to sell something, did you?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Oh ! " Harmon nodded his head sagely. " I'll 
 take two guesses, and guess right the second time, 
 maybe. Buying for somebody, then?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Not the least disconcerted by his seven rebuffs, 
 Harmon deliberately courted the eighth. His was an 
 inquisitive disposition, and he never attempted to curb 
 it — he was the sort of travelling companion who makes
 
 10 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 kind and Christian citizens reflect upon the definition of 
 justifiable homicide. 
 
 "What is jour line, anyway?" he iiiquired, after a 
 pause. 
 
 The other man laughed queerlj. 
 
 *' The first ... if it makes so much difference to 
 you." 
 
 "Beg pardon .f^ I don't quite get you. You 
 said . . ." 
 
 " I said the first line. I meant the first line trenches. 
 I've been in it." 
 
 Harmon jerked his head upward in comprehension. 
 
 " Oh, I see ! You mean the war ! And you've been 
 right on the spot where the fighting is? Is that a 
 fact!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I couldn't see whether you had a uniforai on, or 
 not," said Harmon, half in apology. " But you 
 haven't, have you? No wonder I couldn't guess . . . 
 Jiminy, but it's getting nasty out here, isn't it? . . . 
 Where were you? " 
 
 " Flanders." 
 
 " Is that so? Pretty lively up there, isn't it? Some- 
 thing stirring most all the time? " 
 
 " I imagine so." The other man's accent was amaz- 
 ingly diffident, and Harmon peered at him, incredulous. 
 
 " Good Lord, don't you know? " 
 
 " Not a great deal. I happened to get hit the 
 first day I was in the trenches." 
 
 "Really? That's an odd one! When was that?" 
 
 " Sixteen months ago." 
 
 " But you got in it again afterT7ards, I suppose? I'll 
 bet you did!"
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 11 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What ! You never got back at all? Just one day, 
 and you're through? " 
 
 " Yes. After I was discharged from hospital, I was 
 discharged from the army, too. Permanently unfit." 
 
 "English Army.?" 
 
 " No — French." 
 
 " Well, that's some record ! " said Harmon apprecia- 
 tively. " I . . . Look out ! Duck your head, son ! 
 Say, that was a he-wave, wasn't it.'^ Well — you got 
 hit the first day, and it was all over! That certainly 
 is some record ! Not to say tough luck — the toughest 
 kind. Never heard of anything like it, or anywhere 
 near like it. Going back home, I take it.? " 
 
 " Looks that way, doesn't it.? " 
 
 Harmon ignored the sarcasm. 
 
 " Back to work, eh.? What did you say your line 
 is.?" 
 
 *' I didn't say. I haven't any just now." 
 
 Harmon pondered a second. 
 
 "Oh! Gentleman of leisure? Soldier of fortune, 
 eh? That's how you happened to get into it? Gad! 
 If I were fifteen years younger myself — " 
 
 The young man's dignity was superb. " Not exactly 
 that, either. And if you'll be so good as to tell me —" 
 
 Harmon laughed with abandon ; the conversation had 
 become very near to a conflict of wills, and he loved 
 to get what he started after. Also, he was suflBciently 
 mellowed to consider the interview in the light of 
 comedy. 
 
 " Oh ! don't get excited ! People interest me. Only 
 way to live — make friends as you go along. I al- 
 ways like to hear what the other fellow has to say for
 
 1ft THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 himself. That's how to get the best slant on life in 
 general." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir 1 And it don't take me such a terrible 
 long time to size up a man, either. Sort of a knack 
 — it comes by itself. Now take you, for instance ; 
 know what I make out of you.^ I'd take a chance off- 
 hand — just from what you've said and the way you've 
 said it — that you might be a young man who's sacri- 
 ficed a good deal to get over there, and you thought 
 you'd get some glory and hurrah-bo3's out of it, and 
 then you had all that tough luck, and now you're sort 
 of worrying about what's waiting for you behind the 
 Statue of Liberty. You don't know exactly whether 
 you're afoot or horseback. That's all. Well, now — 
 Am I right, or am I wrong .'^ " 
 
 The young man lifted his shoulders. 
 
 " Go ahead — if it pleases you." 
 
 " Well, it does. Come pretty near hitting the nail 
 on the head, didn't I.'' Custom of mine. Comes in 
 handy in my business . . . Well, I wouldn't worry if 
 I were you. You're disappointed; that's natural . . . 
 but the world hasn't come to an end yet. Of course, it 
 is something like a come-down to leave the army, and 
 get into harness again, but after all, there's plenty of 
 excitement right in the United States. Big work to be 
 done, son! Big money to make. And it helps the 
 war along, too. I tell you, there never was a bigger 
 opportunity to make money than there is right this 
 minute. Business is big, and profits are big, and 
 they're going to get bigger and bigger all the time . . . 
 the hard job isn't to find the scheme, it's to find the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 13 
 
 men to run it. Don't you worry . . . you'll land some- 
 thing right off the bat ! " 
 
 " Thanks for the compliment ! " 
 
 " Oh, it's no compliment ! Anybody can make money 
 these days. It's a plain statement of fact . . . Say, 
 don't you think the wind's getting a bit too breezy.? 
 Let's go in and have something." 
 
 " I don't think so — thank you." 
 
 Harmon took him firmly by the arm. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will. What you need is to be braced 
 up. Don't hang around and grouch at everything; 
 come in and be sociable. What you want's a drink. 
 Am I right or am I wrong. ^^ " 
 
 " Well — " 
 
 " And that's what the doctor ordered ! Come on ! 
 It's on me." 
 
 The other man hesitated, and at last succumbed, out 
 of sheer unconcern, to a companionship he realized in 
 advance would be distasteful . . . but tonight it was 
 better than nothing, especially since the talkative per- 
 son had volunteered to buy. 
 
 " All right," he consented briefl}^ ; and together, 
 arm-in-arm, they stumbled and tacked across the 
 treacherous deck, and presently crossed the threshold 
 into the hazy light of the smoking room. A small 
 table in the corner was unoccupied ; they made for it, 
 and dropped into opposite chairs. Harmon, smiling 
 broadly, wiped the brine from his smarting eyes. 
 
 " Now then," he said, " what particular brand of 
 poison do you — " And broke off short, and stared, 
 fascinated, at the extraordinary young man in front 
 of him.
 
 14 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 He was anywhere from twenty-flve to forty, this 
 American from the distant trenches, and his age was as 
 hard to guess as a clever woman's ; there ^as something 
 about him peculiar to youth and yet, when his face was 
 in repose, he might easily have claimed two score of 
 years, and gone undisputed. It was a face which sug- 
 gested both the fire of immaturity, and the drain of 
 experience; there was breath-taking gravity about it, 
 a hint of the dignity of marble, of ageless permanence. 
 It was a slightly thin face, scarred by a heavy line or 
 two, and indelibly stamped with the evidence of in- 
 tense thought, and inward suffering; but it lacked the 
 hollows which, at the first glance, should have sup- 
 ported the evidence. It was a thin and oval face, with 
 a mouth of large and sympathetic sweetness ; a fore- 
 head white and high ; a prominent, delicate nose ; and 
 irises of clear, luminous gray. It wasn't altogether 
 an Anglo-Saxon type of countenance, nor was it defi- 
 nitely European ; it seemed rather to have taken aU 
 the better qualities from several races. It was a face 
 to inspire immediate trust, and confidence, and re- 
 spect, and Harmon, despite his lack of practice in all 
 three of these reactions, was evidently attracted by 
 it. Unwittingly, he sat up straighter ; and he compre- 
 hended, without going very far in the way of analysis, 
 that he had run across a person worth remembering. 
 
 " Vichy-Celestins for me," said the old-young man, 
 indifferently. 
 
 " I'll ... I guess I'll have vichy, too," said Harmon, 
 relaxing. His assurance slowly returned ; nevertheless, 
 as he continued to study his remarkable guest, he 
 dropped a fraction of his familiarity. " If it wasn't 
 for something I can't just describe, I'd say . . . well,
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 15 
 
 never mind. Er . . . what business have you been 
 in, by the way? " 
 
 The younger man's reply was tardy, and not par- 
 ticularly gracious. 
 
 " Why, the longest time I ever put in at any one busi- 
 ness was selling insurance. The last thing I did was 
 to sell bonds. Why?" 
 
 Harmon stiffened. " A salesman ! Good Lord \ 
 That's the last thing in the world I'd have . . . but, 
 say ! You must have been a whirlwind ! " 
 
 The younger man's calmness under flattery was dis- 
 concerting. Indeed, his lips twitched as though he 
 were mentally charging off the whole account. 
 
 "What makes you think that!" 
 
 " Why, there's only two kinds of men that make 
 good in insurance: the aggressive devils and the per- 
 suasive ones. And dealing with women — ' and older 
 men . . . the way you have to, Lord, what an asset 
 you've got ! " He motioned towards himself. ** And 
 in my line . . . why, a man with a presence like yours 
 would hardly have to open his mouth! You've got a 
 sort of . . . I'll be hanged if I know what to call it 
 . . . but a kind of feeling^ if you know what I mean. 
 Salesman ! Why, all you need is an introduction and 
 a dotted line ! " 
 
 The young man laughed, rather forlornly, and sipped 
 his vichy. 
 
 " Just at present, I haven't either." 
 
 Harmon's gaze was unfaltering, and his interest 
 and admiration bounded higher. Mechanically, in ac- 
 cordance with his habits, he was striving to discover 
 how this new acquaintance might be put to practical 
 use. " Was I right, or was I wrong? Playing in hard
 
 16 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 luck don't strengthen a man's courage much, even if 
 he tries to bluff himself into thinking it does. I didn't 
 say that getting licked every once in a while isn't a 
 good thing for a man ; I said ' hard luck.' I sort of 
 imagine you've had a big dose of it, lately. Not just 
 getting hurt, but all along the line. Right?" 
 
 The young man nodded slightly. " Somewhat." 
 
 " You understand I'm not trying to poke into your 
 private affairs, but — " 
 
 " Still," said tlie young man, his lips twitching 
 again, " I owe you something for your hospitality — 
 and the only currency I've got about me is informa- 
 tion." 
 
 " Don't feel any obligation ! Pleasure, I assure 
 you . . . Now, to get back to the mutton, as the 
 French say . . . you better cheer up and start think- 
 ing about the future. Cut out the regret stuff; that's 
 7ny advice, and you can take it or leave it. Forget 
 all that tough luck you had over here, and get busy 
 figuring out how you're going to cash in on all 3^our 
 experience. That's my policy — capitalize your bad 
 luck. Get something out of it." He beamed, like a 
 reformer in the presence of one to be reformed. 
 " America's full of chances — ^^ou'll land something 
 big in no time. Can't help it if you try. Salesman! 
 Son, you're carrying your best recommendation right 
 on top of your own shoulders ! " 
 
 The young man gave him back a wry smUe, and 
 finished his vichy. 
 
 " I only hope it comes true," he said. 
 
 Harmon looked at him steadily, and falling under 
 the spell of those radiant features, stared and stared 
 until he came to himself, and all at once brought his
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 17 
 
 fist down on the table, so that the glasses rang again. 
 
 " Well, why shouldn't it ? As a matter of fact, 
 why shouldn't it ? " 
 
 The younger man's expression hadn't changed. 
 " Meaning what ? " 
 
 " Meaning," said Harmon, deliberately, " that the 
 first thing I've got to do when I get home is to hunt up 
 a couple of good salesmen myself. I said that before, 
 didn't I ? No ? It's a fact, anyhow. Well — are you 
 hunting for a good job, or aren't 3-0U? " His manner, 
 — considering that a moment ago he had pounded the 
 table — was elaborately casual. It was as though an 
 inspiration had seized him, and now he wanted to hide 
 it pending further developments. 
 
 "Aren't you a little hasty? " The young man's in- 
 tonation was sardonic. 
 
 " I've cleaned up most of my mone}^," said Harmon, 
 very slowly to the ceiling, " by making quick decisions. 
 I make up my mind pretty fast. I like old Bob Fitz- 
 simmons' rule for fighting — he said the place to hit 
 from is wherever your hand is . . . Well, if you can 
 interest me on short notice, you can interest other peo- 
 ple. Mind you, we're just discussing this — sort of 
 thinking out loud. No obligation on either side. 
 Doesn't do any harm to talk about it, does it? " 
 
 " Then suppose," said the young man placidly, " you 
 define your idea of a good job. I'm rather particular." 
 
 " How's that? Are you in any position to be par- 
 ticular? " 
 
 " Certainly. I am." 
 
 " But you admit you're out of luck, and — " 
 
 " But you admit I'm a whirlwind." The young man 
 smiled with faint amusement.
 
 18 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " I said you ought to be — with training." 
 
 " Did you mention the training part of it." 
 
 " No, but that was understood." 
 
 " Oh! Who understood it.? " 
 
 " Why, 7 did. Because if you had been as good as 
 you ought to be, you wouldn't have anything to worry 
 about now you're coming back, would you? Am I 
 right, or am I wrong.? " 
 
 The young man's mouth turned upwards at the cor- 
 ners. 
 
 '* Go ahead and describe the job." 
 
 Harmon never ceased to study him. 
 
 "Well, my idea of a pretty sweet job for a man 
 of your age is — to start, of course — about twenty a 
 week, and commissions." 
 
 " Yes ? What percent commission .? " 
 
 " Oh ! eight to ten percent." 
 
 The young man glanced at Harmon, and laughed 
 quietly. 
 
 " You're a broker, of course, but that doesn't sound 
 much like conservative investment securities to me. 
 What is it — industrials.? " 
 
 Harmon grimaced. 
 
 " Yes, I'm a broker." He set down his glass and 
 fumbled for a card. " There ! But I was thinking 
 more about stocks than bonds. Some new Montana 
 properties — copper and zinc. Metals are the big 
 noise these days. I guess you realize that, don't you? 
 Munition work. Copper's close to thirty cents now, 
 and when you went across, it must have been about 
 twelve." 
 
 The younger man glanced at the card. " My name is 
 Hilliard. Well — is competition so keen you can af-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 19 
 
 ford to pay that high for business, or is the stuff just 
 hard to sell?" 
 
 Harmon, who had begun to nod assent to the first 
 question, looked rather blank at the second, but rallied 
 quickly. 
 
 " Competition. But there's money in it, and you'll 
 get your share of it, too — believe me! " 
 
 " I? Aren't you taking my part of it pretty much 
 for granted? " 
 
 The stout man spoke with telling gravity and caution. 
 
 " I'm trying to get an angle on you. I've got a 
 sneaking suspicion that you and I can do business to- 
 gether. Want to consider it?" 
 
 " AU this on such short acquaintance? Aren't you 
 taking a fearful chance? " 
 
 Harmon saw that the young man's irises were ex- 
 tremely luminous and clear ; he leaned forward seriously. 
 " I'm simply backing my hunch, son. In the long run, 
 it pays me — pays me well. I've sort of taken a fancy 
 to you — for one thing you don't tell all you know 
 to any stranger that happens to come along. That's a 
 good sign, provided you can loosen up when the time 
 comes, and I've got an idea you can. Now, as far as I 
 know, you may be the rottenest salesman in the whole 
 United States ; I wouldn't hire your experience without 
 some references and maybe a surety company back of 
 you ; but I'd hire that face of yours, and your manner, 
 and your voice, offhand. I'd hire your front — not 
 your past ! And let me tell you right now, son, I never 
 made a trade as fast as this before in my life. But 
 there's something about you that . . . well, to be spe- 
 cific, I'm thinking of a pet list of prospects I've got. 
 I'd guarantee you could go out and sell one out of every
 
 20 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 five people on it if you didn't even remember to tell 'em 
 the name of the mine. Sell 'em on your front — your 
 approach. Provided you can loosen up and talk when 
 the time comes . . . Well ? " 
 
 The young man was thoughtful, and unblinking. 
 
 " You're actually making me a proposition, are 
 you.?" 
 
 " Absolutely," Harmon's fist on the table provided 
 the exclamation point. " Here — I don't know you, 
 and you don't know me, but if you're hunting for a 
 job, you've found it. . . . It's your next move." 
 
 The young man's lips parted in grave humour ; Har- 
 mon was spellbound at the effect. 
 
 *' I'll try not to keep you waiting. This speed of 
 yours rather entices me. Besides, if my face is my 
 fortune, I'd better find it out as soon as possible. This 
 organization of yours is in New York City, isn't it.? " 
 
 " My headquarters are, but I'd want you to work 
 outside. I've got one special town in mind — up the 
 state. That's where this list is. It's always been one 
 of our hardest markets, and it's got money to burn. 
 Can't swing it somehow — they don't respond to any 
 ordinary selling-talk, they're too hide-bound conserva- 
 tive. You know the kind. Government-bond crowd. 
 And for a year or so they've been making war jjrofits 
 till you can't see 'em for dust. Manufacturing town. 
 And I'd like mighty well to ship you up there for a 
 month or two ; give you time enough to get your bear- 
 ings ; and turn you loose. You ought to do great work 
 in a place like that — forget the cut-and-dried meth- 
 ods, and sell your personality. You'd have a lot of 
 magnetism if you let yourself go — I can see that with- 
 out half trying. They need a chap like you —
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^1 
 
 Confound it ! " He halted abruptly, and shook liis 
 head in great bewilderment. " I can't make it out at 
 all ! You've got the appearance of a . . . well, a 
 sort of a strait-laced youngster, if you know what I 
 mean, and yet the way you say things, I — " 
 
 The young man gestured blandly. 
 
 " And the town you have in mind.^^ " 
 
 " It's Syracuse, New York." 
 
 "Syracuse.''" The young man's chin was squared 
 by a ruler, and noticeably thrust forward. 
 
 "Yes; know anybody there? " 
 
 Hilliard laughed unpleasantly, and resumed his 
 former attitude. 
 
 " Why, it so happens," he said, biting the words off 
 sharply, " that I was born and brought up in Syracuse, 
 and if there's any one place in the world I care less 
 about than any other place, that's the one . . . I'm 
 sorry, but I'm afraid we're at cross-purposes from 
 here on." 
 
 Harmon showed his vexation. " What's the mat- 
 ter? Haven't you kept on good terms with your old 
 friends? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Harmon frowned. 
 
 " Well, is it so bad you couldn't do any business 
 there? How do they remember you? " 
 
 The young man regarded him stonily for an instant; 
 then gradually a far-away expression crept into his 
 eyes; he started; and caught his breath. 
 
 " I'll let you judge for yourself." He brought out 
 a flat leather wallet, from which he extracted a tiny 
 photograph, torn from an old passport. " What do 
 you think of that ? "
 
 22 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Harmon scanned it superficially. 
 
 *' Nice looking boy. Who is he? " 
 
 " It was taken about two years ago," said Hilliard, 
 resting his elbows on the table. " You wanted to know 
 how they remember me, so I'm showing you. That's 
 a photograph of me — taken two years ago." 
 
 " Impossible ! " Harmon snorted it. " That doesn't 
 look any more like you than . . . than / do ! Let's 
 omit the comedy ; I'm talking business ! " 
 
 The young man's mouth curled. " Don't be mis- 
 taken, Mr. Harmon — there's ver}'^ little joking in me 
 when I ever mention Syracuse." Harmon shivered at 
 the tone, but waved the photograph in scoffing accusa- 
 tion. 
 
 " You're not trying to sit there and tell me — " 
 
 " I told you I was in hospital for nearly a year, I 
 believe," said Hilliard icily. " It was shrapnel — 
 across the face. As a matter of fact, I didn't have 
 much of any face left. Oh — I'll spare you the de- 
 tails — don't worry." Harmon had turned white. 
 " But the surgeons — they're pretty clever. Yes — 
 they're clever ! " Hilliard's eyes were needle-points. 
 " They've got so they can take almost any old kind of 
 foundation, and build up on it. They make a man 
 over from his own photograph. In my own case, I pre- 
 ferred it differently. So when they asked me for some- 
 thing to use as a pattern in remodelling me, I gave 'em 
 this ! " He tossed out a picture postcard, soiled and 
 frayed. " Well, that's where the trouble began. They 
 cursed me up and down for a . . . still, that part of 
 it won't interest you!^^ His eyes were blazing now, 
 and his voice shook with passion. " Naturally, I hadn't 
 meant it as damned literal as all that . . . but they had
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 23 
 
 me under ether before I could help mjself . . . and 
 thej went through with it . . . and cursed me some 
 more afterwards. . . . Thej couldn't copy it exactly, of 
 course, but they did the best they could. . . . Gloated 
 over it! Took infinite pains to make it perfect . . . 
 and sneered at me while they did it ! Sneered — and 
 laughed. Not when they thought I could hear, but 
 to themselves ! Laughed, and then stopped laughing, 
 and called me things that gentlemen don't say. . . . 
 Well, you've got the results in front of you. That's 
 what I was — and that's what I am ! What's your 
 opinion now? " The last sentence came snarling 
 through set teeth. 
 
 The broker's respiration had quickened, and horror 
 was tugging at his hair-roots. His pupils had dilated 
 grossly ; his eyes wandered vacantly from the photo- 
 graph to the postcard and back to Hilliard's face. 
 His whole imagination was pinned down and crushed; 
 he swore softly under his breath, and wet his lips. 
 
 " It's a ... a miracle ! " he stammered. " A 
 miracle ! . . ." 
 
 " The photograph," said Hilliard harshly, " is the 
 way they remember me up in Syracuse. Do you think 
 they'd ever recognize me now? ** 
 
 " It's a miracle . . . it's paralysing ! . . ," Har- 
 mon swallowed hard, and looked down almost fearfully 
 at the time-worn postcard. " There's so much differ- 
 ence, , . . nobody'd ever think of it without knowing 
 . . . but when you see the original . . . ! It ... it 
 knocks me all in a heap! It's staggering! And 
 they did that to 3'ou! Good God! Just to think 
 they could do that to you! , . . I've got to have a 
 driiik!"
 
 24 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Hilliard motioned impatiently, but his fit of rage 
 was slowly going down. 
 
 " There's no miracle about it at all. It was good 
 plastic surgery. If they'd sent me out looking as I 
 used to, you wouldn't call it a miracle, would you? 
 No. It's only what they did do that makes it stag- 
 gering. But it's clever — oh, yes, — clever 1 Hellishly 
 clever ! And you can see for yourself how few marks 
 of it there are." He drew a long breath, and managed 
 to smile again ; but the effect was shocking, for while 
 his features were composed and kindly, his eyes were 
 venomous. " Well, I certainly never intended to go 
 to Syracuse again for pleasure, but if there's enough 
 compensation to pay for the risk, I'm not afraid to 
 tr}' it on . . . business." His accent sent cold chills 
 coursing up and down Harmon's spine. " In fact, now 
 that I think of it, it ought to be rather . . . amus- 
 ing!" 
 
 The broker was striving to pull himself together. 
 
 " But why on earth didn't you have 'em use your 
 own picture for a copy ... if they're as clever as . . . 
 Oh ! " He stopped short, and his chin dropped. 
 " Oh! Is that the answer." 
 
 " Yes," said Hilliard, reclaiming the two photo- 
 graphs. " That's the answer. I didn't mind start- 
 ing over again, only — " He sighed and inhaled might- 
 ily. *' Only take my advice, Mr. Harmon, and don't 
 lose your temper just before an operation." 
 
 Harmon breathed more freely, but he was still in 
 violent intellectual distress. His round face was vapid 
 with awe, and he was tongueing his lips in constant 
 nervousness, for the complete possibility of the situation 
 was creeping over him.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 25 
 
 " If that's the case," he ventured, " why . . . they 
 surely needn't recognize your name either, Mr. Hilliard, 
 need they? I mean, if you had any idea of going back 
 to your home town incognito, as it were — " 
 
 " They wouldn't recognize anything about me," said 
 Hilliard dryly. His teeth, showing at the moment, 
 were white and regular as a young wolf's. " We won't 
 discuss that side of it just now, though. But if I go 
 back, I'm incognito — and don't make any mistake 
 about it. That's what appeals to me — that's why 
 I'm listening to you. Is that quite clear? " 
 
 Harmon swallowed again. 
 
 "They'd recognize your voice, wouldn't they?" 
 
 " I had to get used to this one myself. Something 
 went wrong with my vocal chords, and the antrum on 
 both sides was hurt ; it seemed to have an effect like 
 changing a sounding-board." 
 
 " So ! And you used to be fatter in the face, didn't 
 you? How about your general size, and so on?" 
 
 " I've taken on twenty-five pounds ; my face is a 
 lot thinner, but there's a reason. It hasn't grown on 
 me; it was manufactured. Incidentally, while I think 
 of it mj^ stride's shortened six inches. That's another 
 identification gone. Bullet in my knee. I don't ex- 
 actly limp, but — " 
 
 Harmon was beaming now, and flushed with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "That's great! Oh! that's wonderful! Wonder- 
 ful! Nobody '11 know you from Adam! Thunder and 
 lightning, what a chance — what a chance ! Hold on 
 — how well do you know the big men in Syracuse? 
 Well enough to know what their weak points are? 
 Well enough to know how to approach 'em? Know
 
 S6 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Cullen? Know the Durants? Know Embree and ^Ic- 
 Eachern and Cooke? Know — " 
 
 " At one time," said Milliard, with sudden tragcd}^ 
 in his eyes, " all those people you've just named were 
 about the closest friends I had in the world." 
 
 " Well, if you've got nerve enough to try to pass 
 yourself off as a stranger^ wliy — " 
 
 " Just a moment ! " The 3'oung man's gesture, al- 
 though calm, was nevertheless commanding. " Is that 
 a genuine offer you made me a while ago ? " 
 
 " It's as good as gold until you turn it down. And 
 if you're willing to go up there, and — " 
 
 " That'll do. Now listen ! I lived in ^,'racuse 
 twenty-six years ! If I ever had any friends there I've 
 lost 'em now. I — " 
 
 "Whose fault was it?" 
 
 "Whose fault? Don't make me laugh!" 
 
 "Not yours, then?" 
 
 " Partly — not altogether. That isn't the point." 
 
 "Not a question of money, was it?" 
 
 " Not that — thank the Lord ! " 
 
 "Booze?" 
 
 " Why — " Hilliard's pupils were concentrated. 
 " That's immaterial. The point is that my friends and 
 I aren't on speaking terms." 
 
 " Go ahead," said Harmon, satisfied. " Do they 
 know you went to France? " 
 
 " They don't know anj^thing. I left betvveen two 
 days, I've never written anybody so much as a line 
 to tell w^here I was, or what I was doing. I went over 
 on a tramp. A French lieutenant got me into the 
 Army, and I didn't give a damn whether I got killed 
 or not — and then I got this." His hand was on his
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^7 
 
 cheek, where a long scar crossed ifc. " And for over a 
 jear I've been hoping that somehow, some time, I could 
 get back at a few of those men . . . principally Cullen 
 and Durant and McEachern. Get back hard — you 
 understand! Perhaps this suggestion of yours will give 
 me the opening. Perhaps it will. That's \vliat I'm 
 wondering. I'm thinking it over. That's all." 
 
 Harmon controlled himself ; his voice, when it came, 
 was low and seductive. 
 
 " Well," he said, " could you get back any harder at 
 people who haven't treated you right than by going 
 back up there and making good.'* By putting some- 
 thing over on 'era, — something big, you understand — - 
 and making those fellows look cheap? By establishing 
 yourself first, and keeping what's happened to you a 
 secret, and building yourself a new reputation around 
 your new looks? And getting solid with the folks on a 
 new basis? Start fresh, and be somebod}^? And make 
 a pile of money for yourself in the meantime? That's 
 better than using a club on 'em, isn't it? Coals of 
 fire, man, coals of fire ! Show 'em what you can do — 
 and take your satisfaction in that. Don't fight your 
 enemies — you don't have to ! Make a profit out of 
 'em! And then ... oh well, I don't care what you 
 do after that — come out in the open and give 'em the 
 ha-ha or not, just as you like. Could anything be a 
 neater little come-back than that? More sort of 
 Biblical and thorough? Poetic justice? Could it?" 
 
 Hilliard was still alert and rigid. 
 
 " There's a good selling argument? And something 
 good to sell? " 
 
 " As straight as a shoestring, and as sure as you're 
 a foot high. And if you can't do business on this
 
 «8 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 basis, you couldn't sell gold eagles for a dollar apiece! 
 That's flat!'' 
 
 "So I could go back — and honestly make good? 
 All the way? Prove what I can do? And not have 
 any back-fire in it? " 
 
 " And have a chance," said Harmon, nodding, " to 
 put yourself in right again. That's what my whole 
 idea was." His intonation, as he watched the wonder- 
 fully appealing face across the table, was positively be* 
 seeching. " You'll never have the opportunity again. 
 You might meet somebody you know tomorrow, and give 
 yourself away — and then it's gone ! If you're going 
 to cash in on your hard luck, boy, you've got to speak 
 up. That's viy policy. Cash in on this thing the 
 doctors did for you ! Let's play it together, son. If 
 it's a sort of whitewashing you want, I'll help you. . . . 
 I'U give you the bucket and the brush, and you go up 
 and go to work. I don't care a continental what you 
 did to get in wrong in Syracuse — it's success that 
 counts. Nothing else but success. And that's meas- 
 ured by the money you make, and how you make it. 
 You know the crowd, and they don't know you, and 
 you can create your success. Then after that — 
 whatever you please. ... Is it a bargain?" 
 
 Hilliard shut his teeth tight; reflected; yielded ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " It's a bargain I " he said. " I'm with you ! " 
 
 "Good! Now—" 
 
 " One moment ! Let's be frank with each other. 
 Don't get any impression that I've done anything 
 that's — " 
 
 " Mr. Hilliard, you don't have to talk like that to me! 
 I've had you sized up from the start, haven't I ? "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 29 
 
 " Yes, but I wanted you to know — " 
 
 " But I do know, son ! Wild oats, sort of. Am I 
 right, or am I wrong? That's why I'm banking on 
 you. People turned up their noses, maybe. Said 
 things. Gossip. / know that sort of business. And 
 you're sore — naturally. Well, this'll poultice every- 
 body, including yourself. Go on back to your old 
 friends. You're a new man: they won't know you. 
 Make 'em new friends — and there you are." 
 
 Hilliard, tremendously excited in spite of himself, 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 " It's better than what I'd planned to do, Mr. Har- 
 mon. I — " 
 
 " Yes — you'd have wanted to start a riot, I sup- 
 pose. What good would that do.'^ Oh, here's another 
 suggestion. What would you say to no salary at all, 
 twenty percent commission, and no limit to your ex- 
 pense account.'' But you pay back half of your ex- 
 penses out of your earned commissions. On — say, a 
 three month's try-out. How does that strike you ? " 
 
 ** It . . . why, I don't see what you're driving at." 
 
 " Because," said Harmon, " you're worth more than 
 I thought you were. How do I know.^* I've watched 
 your eyes, son! You're going into Syracuse with the 
 finest plan, the finest front and the finest opportunity 
 I've ever dreamed of in all my life ! And besides that, 
 you've got a spur that even / couldn't give you. . . . 
 How are you fixed for money ? " 
 
 " I'm not fixed at all. I'm broke." 
 
 Harmon fished for his bill-book, and folded two notes 
 into a small compass. 
 
 *' Here ! Bind the bargain. Don't worry — it's an 
 advance. I know who I can trust — that's ray longest
 
 30 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 suit, son. Give me a receipt, if you like. Better not 
 speak to me again until we land. Never know who's 
 aboard that might see 3^ou later. Come to my office 
 at ten o'clock the morning after we're docked. And — " 
 He laughed in patent relief. " You know, son," he 
 said, " I'm a pretty wise old bird, and there's not much 
 that fools me, but . . . right up to the last second, I 
 wasn't quite sure whether you'd take that job or not. 
 If the surgeon that mended you could only have doc- 
 tored your eyes, son — if he could only have doctored 
 your eyes ! Whew ! " He stared again at Hilliard, and 
 nodded soberly. " Wonderful — perfectly wonderful," 
 he said, fascinated. " When you smile at me like that, 
 I sort of feel as though I ought to get up and take 
 off my hat and apologize to you, and I'm hanged if I 
 know what for. . . . Perhaps they overdid it a trifle 
 . . . copied that picture too well . . . why don't you 
 see if you can't grow a moustache ... ? ^^
 
 Ill 
 
 ACCORDING to the railway schedule, the journey 
 from New York should have taken about six 
 hours; as a matter of fact, it took seven, and yet to 
 Hilliard, who hadn't once left the observation plat- 
 form, it was accomplished with the speed of a projectile. 
 The dramatic value of his purpose had seized him, and 
 partly on this account, and partly because he was go- 
 ing home, he was temporarily relieved of perceptive 
 judgment, whether of time, space, or attendant circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Harmon, very masterful and confident, had accom- 
 panied him uptown in a taxicab, and filled each mo- 
 ment to its brim with counsel and encouragement. 
 
 " Now, whatever else you do, son," Harmon had 
 adjured him, " stick to the story! First, last, and al- 
 ways — you stick to the story! It's your own busi- 
 ness, in a way; and in another way, it's my business; 
 but you keep your head clear and don't let anybody 
 shake you on the facts, and we're both all right. Of 
 course, you're starting out by lying — but it's a good 
 lie. You're justified. As far's the rest of the world's 
 concerned, you're a new man. You're just born. Well, 
 you've got a perfect right to be whatever you want to 
 be. Nobody can prove you aren't what you say you 
 are. And it isn't everybody that gets a second shot at 
 life, either — but if they all did, I guess about a hun- 
 dred and one percent of us would try almighty hard 
 to be pretty different. . . . Now a salesman's got a 
 
 31
 
 82 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 sort of poetic license, son. You've got to build up a 
 reputation, and you'll certainly have to do some quick 
 thinking not to ball up your story. But stick to it! 
 Stick to it no matter if you have to overdraw your 
 imagination every hour in every day. Be consistent. 
 And don't lose your nerve, because the thing's abso- 
 lutely sure. . . . Hello! Didn't realize we'd come up 
 so fast. . . . No, you fumble, and I'll pay I . . ." 
 
 " All I'm afraid of," Hilliard had said, as they fol- 
 lowed the porter down to the crowded ramp, " is the 
 first two days. After that, I won't lose my nerve — I 
 can't! But ... it isn't going to be easy, Mr. Har- 
 mon — not for the first two days." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Where's the flaw in it ? " 
 
 *' Well — nowhere that / can see." 
 
 " Nor I, either. ... I won't go down to the train 
 with you, Hilliard, I'll say good-bye here. . . . Well, 
 don't forget you can't lose, provided you keep your 
 head clear. You've got money enough to last a month ; 
 don't be too close with it. Write when you want more. 
 . . . Now, just a word of suggestion; I wouldn't drink 
 much of any, and — " 
 
 " I don't intend to drink at all." 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't go that far, son! Be cosmopoli- 
 tan. Mix with all classes — drink just enough so you 
 won't be a wet-blanket and not enough so you're a 
 sponge. Sort of betwixt and between. And don't you 
 worry about things. You're inclined to worry; I've 
 noticed that. But in view of what 3^our intentions are, 
 every inch of this scheme's justified. Poetic license, as 
 I said before. Be a good salesman. And, by the way, 
 good salesmen report pretty often to the main office." 
 
 " I'll keep you posted, Mr. Harmon."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 33 
 
 " I know you will. Well, it's close to train-time. 
 . . . Just remember these three things: One, capital- 
 ize your experience, and fill 'em fuU of war-talk — 
 they'll love it ; Two, capitalize your position, and stick 
 to your story — they'll swallow it whole, and never 
 dream of the answer; Three, capitalize your face, and 
 smile, man, smile! " Here he had planted his hand be- 
 tween Hilliard's shoulder-blades with a thump which 
 was meant to be fraternal and heartening. " And 
 we'll both make good until the cows come home — and 
 I think I hear 'em coming. Don't forget — they can't 
 stop you! It's your second shot at life, and you've 
 got the cards stacked the way you want 'em. Think of 
 that, boy — you're pla3ang it alone with a pat hand, 
 and they cant stop you ! " 
 
 " The only thing," HHhard had said, " is the . . . 
 the story ! " 
 
 ** Damn it, Hilliard, what's the matter with you.'^ 
 Aren't you justified? " 
 
 " Y-e-e-s, but — " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " So much of it sounds unnecessary to me — every 
 now and then. I wish we could have thought up some- 
 thing else, that's all." 
 
 "Well, Ji<i we.?" 
 
 " No, but — " 
 
 " Then don't be a rank quitter ! It was your own 
 idea ; and / say it's darned clever ; stand up to it. You 
 will, won't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'll do that, Mr. Harmon. I've got to." 
 
 "Yes, you've got to. And just keep smiling, son; 
 that's all. That's what I hired you for — start ofF 
 smiling, and the battle's half won already. . . . That's
 
 d4t THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 it ! Keep your nerve, son ! . . . Good-bye ! " And 
 here he had staggered Hilliard by another friendly 
 buffet between the shoulder blades, and swung him 
 cordially into the runway, and disappeared in the 
 general direction of the Biltmore bar. 
 
 On the observation platform, Hilliard had ensconced 
 himself behind a newspaper and a cigar, and tried 
 to hold his emotions and his imagination in check. But 
 the newspaper had lost its interest for him before the 
 last of the numbered streets had flitted by, and as for 
 the cigar, its flavour staled in less than a quarter mile. 
 His thoughts had turned sharply inward ; there was no 
 need of any divertisement to keep his mind completely 
 occupied. His whole consciousness, while apparently 
 distilled upon the passing landscape, was circling end- 
 lessly about his own distractions ; and yet, although 
 he had intermittent spasms of conscience, lie entertained 
 no plan of surrender to them. Each milestone by the 
 right-of-way was as a monument to his self-respect, 
 which had died a fortnight ago, and yet (even in his 
 apprehension) he was as resolute as when he had 
 planned its burial. 
 
 His purpose, now that it was crystallized, brought 
 him no aftermath of shame for what he was about to 
 do — he was conscience-stricken only in respect to 
 what he had done already, long ago ; and his nervous- 
 ness was due merely to his fear that he might fail in 
 his purpose. 
 
 Fortunately, he had the observation-platform to him- 
 self. The solitude, and the still beauty of the Hudson 
 and the hills beyond, loaned him at length a calmer 
 spirit and a sturdy resolution. He found himself trans- 
 lating the valleys and uplands into the topography of
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW S5 
 
 war; he laughed inwardly, and was relieved by the 
 discovery that he could mentally relax. After all, 
 what was there to discourage him? He had worked out 
 a system of campaign as clear, as definite, and as in- 
 exorable as any field-marshal could ever hope to devise 
 — and perfect. There was nothing for him to regret, 
 and little for him to dread. He was simply bringing 
 home one vital principle of trench fighting — to rely 
 on indirect fire. That was it — to fight ! To fight 
 for reputation lost, and to defend his new advantage 
 gained. It was nothing but a question of tactics. It 
 was nothing but a matter of expediency. The end 
 would ampl}^ justify the means ; or — if the end by any 
 chance proved to be disastrous, why, there was another 
 principle he must remember — no quarter given or 
 asked for. And as Albany dropped behind, and Am- 
 sterdam fled into the East, and Utica went out of sight 
 in the gathering dusk, he was increasingly steadfast in 
 his warlike determination. 
 
 " I'll teach 'era," he said unsmilingly to the blurred 
 landscape. " P\\ show 'em whether I can make good or 
 not ! Time ! Time ! That's all I want — time ! " 
 
 To his vast perplexity, however, he had a very differ- 
 ent and a very disquieting sensation when the train 
 slowed for East Syracuse, where numerous factories and 
 furnaces crowd in upon the right of way. They were 
 hideous infernos, these stewing, belching factories, and 
 he had always loathed them ; but tonight, to his disen- 
 franchised soul, they were suddenlj^ a visible part of the 
 community he once had lived in, and he looked upon 
 them with a strange throb of homesickness in his breast. 
 And then the express was running through twin lines of 
 w^orkmen's houses, shabby and sordid, but capable of
 
 S6 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 stirring up forgotten memories in Hilliard's brain, for 
 this was the main entrance to the city, from the East. 
 It was a grimy portal, but a portal nevertheless. And 
 then the City Hall, bidding him its brief, impersonal 
 welcome ! The quadruple lamps of the cross streets ! 
 The jeweller's, where once he had bought a ring . . . the 
 canal, where, at the end of a headlong walk one des- 
 perate night, he had later hurled it! The familiar, 
 sooty, roaring, confusing station ! It was Syracuse — 
 the city which had shamed him into war ! And as he 
 descended calmly to the splintered platform, he was 
 amazed and baffled by the realization that he loved it ! 
 
 At the nearest curbstone, among the private cars and 
 taxicabs, a motor omnibus bore on its side the name of 
 the newest hotel, which was his immediate objective; but 
 for reasons which he couldn't have explained, he avoided 
 it, and signalled to a taxi. He had all an ardent lover's 
 desire for privacy at this first meeting after many 
 months ; his glance, as it fell upon the least romantic of 
 his surroundings, was eager, caressing. He sat upon 
 the edge of the seat, devouring with his eyes each fa- 
 miliar landmark that he passed, and finding that the 
 mere recognition carried pain. The speed of the jour- 
 ney distressed him - — he could have prolonged it infi- 
 nitely, and feasted his recollection upon the details that 
 a year or two ago he had scarcely noticed. He craned 
 his neck, staring at passers-by, and struggling to detect 
 a face he could remember. He was so swayed by his un- 
 expected emotions that even a display-window in a shop 
 he had liked to patronize gave him sensations which 
 earlier in the afternoon he had thought he had discarded 
 for ever. 
 
 As the car came to a standstill at the motor entrance
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW S7 
 
 to the hotel, he managed by great exercise of will-power 
 to regain his mood of arrogant conquest, and it was 
 imperative for him to regain it, inasmuch as his first 
 ordeal was so soon to come. More than that, he had an 
 ancient grudge against this hostelry, for it had succes- 
 sively declined to continue his credit, refused to honour 
 his checks, and, towards the last, had politely suggested 
 that he refresh himself somewhere else. One of his most 
 galling memories was connected with this very entrance ; 
 his cheeks grew hot as he fought the vision down. 
 
 ** Now! '* said Hilliard, on the outer threshold. His 
 feeling, as he went into the brilliant lights of the cor- 
 ridor, was as though he had plunged from a spring- 
 board into deep water. 
 
 He knew, from meticulous study and practice, the full 
 effect of his manner, which was distinguished, patrician. 
 He knew the almost irresistible magnetism which had 
 befallen him by accident. He had been prepared — in 
 his own imagination — for the battery of interest which 
 was promptly trained upon him. And yet, as he pur- 
 sued his luggage towards the desk, he faltered in his 
 pride, he felt as though the sorrowful eyes of all Syra- 
 cuse were riveted upon him ; the well-recalled surround- 
 ings unmanned him, and he was impelled to halt, lift up 
 his hands in token of surrender, and to cry out : " This 
 is not I ! This is not I ! It is the man I might have 
 been — if you and I had understood each other ! " So 
 great was his anguish that in that moment he honestly 
 believed that it was the equal fault of the city, and of 
 himself, that he had gone forth discredited. 
 
 Behind the desk stood a clerk and — Hilliard's heart 
 tripped — the manager who had tendered him the ulti- 
 matum. Hilliard's pen spilt a blot of ink on the reg-
 
 38 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 ister ; his ears were tuned for the speech of recognition 
 which would blast his dreams of triumph, and send him 
 off again in multiplied disgrace. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the clerk with extreme deference, 
 " and about what price, sir? " 
 
 The manager, who had been scrutinizing Hilliard in- 
 tently, whispered something to the clerk ; the clerk bit 
 his lip and looked up sharply ; the prodigal winced, and 
 stiffened. " Parlor C — ten dollars? " asked the clerk. 
 " Very comfortable room, sir. . . . Front ! " 
 
 The manager, as Hilliard retreated, said impatiently 
 to the clerk : " What's the matter with you, Jimm}', 
 anyway? Don't you know how to size up a man yet? 
 Don't ask a man like that what he'll have — tell 'em 
 what we've got ! " 
 
 Upstairs, Hilliard went limp from the reaction. He 
 had been positive of himself, he had gone over the com- 
 parisons time and time again ; he knew that he was a 
 stranger in figure, in gait, in voice, in countenance ; still, 
 at the instant of trial he had shuddered in guilty appre- 
 hension, and heard in fancy the voice of accusation. 
 He had doubted what he knew — and this was proof of 
 his lack of innocence. But tlie manager — who two 
 years ago had called him by his first name — the man- 
 ager had looked him full in the face, and made not the 
 faintest sign of recognition ! Hilliard smiled weakly at 
 himself in the mirror, and wondered if he could dare to 
 take the victory as an omen. He thought lie could. 
 
 It was in improved confidence, then, that he went down 
 to dinner ; and deliberately chose a central seat in the 
 most popular of the three available rooms. He was 
 actively eager to be observed; now that he had passed 
 his first examination, he craved test after test ; no inqui-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 39 
 
 sition could be too urgent for him. And at the nearest 
 table sat a busincss-raan he knew, and a girl he knew; 
 from their matter-of-fact attentiveness, he judged that 
 they had been married during his absence; they gazed 
 interminably at him, but only in admiration. He men- 
 tally checked off his list — that made a trio of old ac- 
 quaintances who failed to know him. Facing him, a 
 dozen feet away, sat a man who had been Hilliard's em- 
 ployer for an epochal six weeks — this man, too, was 
 obviously interested, but unenlightened. Four ! A din- 
 ner party, comprising six girls and six young men, 
 filed gaily past him; every one of the twelve he had 
 known well, some of them intimately; they looked down 
 at him in passing, and, without exception, went on in 
 ignorance. A tiny roseleaf of a girl was rather notice- 
 abh^ attracted to him ; she spoke to her partner, who 
 turned, and stared, and nodded in tlie bored fashion of 
 any escort to whom a handsome stranger is pointed out; 
 and Hilliard could have laughed aloud at the irony of 
 the incident. They had known each other for a dozen 
 years, that girl and HiUiard ; in the dozen and first, her 
 mother had forbidden him her house, — and that made 
 sixteen victims, and there was hardly any use of count- 
 ing further. 
 
 He was suffused b}' the consciousness of dramatic suc- 
 cess, and he would have given much to have had a con- 
 fidant to share it. The whole situation was immense; 
 there was comedy in it, but there was seriousness in it, 
 too; in one moment, he was silently convulsed; in the 
 next, cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. 
 He was playing for stakes which a buffoon ought not to 
 afford ; and at the same time, he had created an atmos- 
 phere which wasn't comfortable for a culprit. If Har-
 
 40 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 raon had only been there ... if there were only some 
 one to talk to, some one to act as counterfoil. It was 
 all so diabolically public — and Milliard was so entirely 
 unprotected. He was reasonably safe now, and yet — 
 being at heart a culprit — he always had a nagging in- 
 hibition to provide him with unrest, uncertainty. 
 
 Nevertheless, he dined with considerable leisure, and 
 smoked a cigar almost to the end before he left the table. 
 When he quitted the room, it was with practical assur- 
 ance that his gravest fears were groundless, but for an 
 additional precaution he read an evening paper in the 
 lobby (and how the format and the contents clutched 
 him !) and endured in safety the inspection of a score 
 of men who had known him well enough to refuse to loan 
 him money. 
 
 At half-past eight, vastly heartened and refreshed, he 
 equipped himself with certain documents from his suit- 
 case, and called for a taxicab. The address he gave the 
 driver was high on the eastern hills ; during the last half 
 mile, Hilliard was peering out at the shaded lights of 
 houses where he had played in his earlier youth. The 
 names of the freeholders came automatically to his 
 mind ; sometimes he smiled spontaneously, sometimes he 
 frowned at an incident of sinister recollection ; twice his 
 pupils contracted, and his chin thrust out in thoughtful 
 aggressiveness. Then the car stopped; Hilliard went 
 up a stone-flagged walk, up broad stone steps, guarded 
 by graven beasts with tufts on their tails (they had 
 seemed humorous to him once, but they were beasts of 
 portent now), and stood on a huge veranda. He was 
 calm, and yet his knees were disconcertingly unsteady ; 
 he was determined, and yet his heart was pumping in 
 uneven beats ; for the moment, his throat was dusty dry.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 4fl 
 
 As he gained the level of the veranda, there was a stir 
 of activity off to the right, and an erect, middle-aged 
 man clambered out of a Gloucester hammock, and came 
 briskly forward. Back in the shadows Hilliard could 
 detect the soft outlines of a white dress. 
 
 " Yes ? " The middle-aged man was politely brusque ; 
 and Hilliard, at the sound of that incisive voice of his, 
 started in spite of himself, and swallowed. 
 
 "Is this . . . Mr. Cullen? Mr. James Cullen.? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " The middle-aged man was very con- 
 vincing about it. " Yes, sir. What can I do for 
 you?" 
 
 •Hilliard bowed stiffly from the hips — a touch of 
 foreign courtesy which had its effect. 
 
 " If you're at leisure, Mr. Cullen, I should like very 
 much to have a word with you. On — I think I may 
 call it so — urgent private matters. My name is Hil- 
 liard." 
 
 '* Er . . . business ? " Cullen's voice held a rising 
 inflection which intimated that commercial affairs should 
 be confined to commercial hours. 
 
 " No — and not altogether pleasure." Hilliard's 
 own voice dropped a semitone. " In brief, I've come up 
 from New York today to bring you a letter from a 
 young man named Richard Morgan." 
 
 " Morgan ! " said the older man sharply, " Dick Mor- 
 gan ! " Back in the shadows there was a sudden rustle. 
 " Where's he? " 
 
 " He's dead," said Hilliard. " He died in France." 
 Mr. Cullen stood perfectly still, and Hilliard, watching 
 him intently, was overcome by resentment at the knowl- 
 edge that two years ago this man had held Hilliard's 
 fate in his thick fingers.
 
 42 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 "xYo/" said Mr. CuUen. "Of all things! Well» 
 what d'jou know about that ! Dicky Morgan dead ! " 
 There was surprise, but little poignancy in his tone. 
 " Isn't that terrible ! And over in France ! . . . An- 
 gela, did 3'OU hear that?" He produced a huge silk 
 handkerchief, and blew his nose energetically. 
 
 More rustling from the shadows, and a slim figure 
 stepping out of them into the foreground; it was 
 Angela Cullen, just over the brink of seventeen, ex- 
 quisitely small and blonde, and profoundly agitated by 
 the news. Hilliard bowed mechanically ; he had remem- 
 bered her as a vivid little hoyden. Queer, that his heart 
 should skip a beat or two at beholding her now. Queer, 
 that his tongue should falter, and that he should stand 
 dumb. But she had brought the first remembrance of 
 untroubled days back to him, and the contrast hurt — 
 abominably. 
 
 " Oh, Dad! *' she said, with a quick intake of her 
 breath. " Oh . . . Dad! " And clung to him for 
 refuge, staring the while with wide and fearful eyes at 
 the tall stranger who had delivered the laconic message. 
 
 Cullen held her close, and cleared his throat. He was 
 in the common-enough situation of a man who feels that 
 he ought to be deeply moved, and isn't, and wonders 
 why ; and his transparent effort to be funereal was 
 slightly overdone. 
 
 " It's a great shock to us — of course," he said, 
 speaking slowh^ " A great shock. ... Oh ! Mr. Hil- 
 liard — m}^ daughter. Well, I must say I. . . . Sup- 
 pose we sit down and talk this over — " 
 
 Hilliard bowed again; Mr. Cullen, his arm encircling 
 Angela, led the way to the Gloucester hammock and its 
 reinforcement of wicker chairs. The trio was seated;
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 43 
 
 Hilliard coughed delicately, and after that, there was a 
 brief silence. Gradually, the air was charged witli con- 
 straint. 
 
 " You've just come up from New York, Mr. Hil- 
 liard? " 
 
 " This afternoon, sir." Hilliard was mentally col- 
 lecting the details of his mission ; but as he looked across 
 at the two Cullens, his nerve wavered, and he was sick- 
 ened by the fear that, after all, he might not be able to 
 resist the subtle influence of his own emotions. Here 
 he was, and there was Angela and Mr. CuUcn — all of 
 them a little older, all of them a great deal more re- 
 pressed, but even so, here they were, these three, just 
 as they had sat in the same place, on the same sort of 
 summer evenings, when Dicky Morgan wasn't yet an- 
 athema, and when . . . 
 
 *' This . . . this thing happened some time ago, did 
 it.?* You were abroad yourself.'' " 
 
 " Yes, I was." 
 
 " I want to hear about Dick," said Angela in a dry 
 little voice. " Please ! And . . . and who are you, 
 Mr. Hilliard?" 
 
 " Angela ! " said her father, reproachfully, but Hil- 
 liard, coughing with great vehemence, felt a sudden in- 
 rush of triumph which gave him confidence. It was the 
 triumph of dramatic success ; the consciousness that 
 whatever might come next, he had actually appeared 
 before people who knew him best, and that they saw a 
 stranger. He was unexpectedly miserable at this junc- 
 ture; he was very seriously distraught and depressed; 
 nevertheless . . . Hilliard smiled, as a churchman 
 smiles. 
 
 *' All I pretend to be is a friend of Dick's. I — "
 
 M THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Oh ! A friend ! " Cullen's intonation was curi- 
 ously warped. 
 
 " Yes, sir. If I weren't, I shouldn't have made this 
 journey in quite this way." Again, a surcharged si- 
 lence. 
 
 " Go on, please." Cullen's attitude had changed ; he 
 was sitting more nearly upright, and his demeanour was 
 that of a jurist rather than of a mourner. Angela, 
 however, was tense; and so it was to her that Hilliard 
 directed his recital. 
 
 " Perhaps you'll understand better if I go back to 
 the beginning," he said hesitantly. " Shall I? " 
 
 " Do." Cullen motioned him carte-blanche, and Hil- 
 liard took a long breath, and began. 
 
 " Back in May, 1915," he said, " I went to England 
 and then to France to arrange some government con- 
 tracts for copper and copper products. In France, I 
 was stunned — as every one is — by the back-lash of 
 the war. And like every one else, I did what I could on 
 the spot . . . bought tobacco for the soldiers, and all 
 that sort of thing. It isn't a question of charity, once 
 you see the circumstances — you simply look, and real- 
 ize that the most you can do is so trivial in comparison 
 with what there is to be done that you . . . well, you do all 
 you can and wish to Heaven it were ten thousand times 
 more. And then you try to find out where your mite 
 will do the most good, and it staggers you because there 
 are so many places where they need everything you 
 have and everything everybody else has. It so hap- 
 pened that a friend of mine was in one of the American 
 jf surgical units at Neuilly. I couldn't spread my own 
 little contributions over all the institutions that needed 
 it — there wouldn't have been enough to notice, so
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 45 
 
 naturally I spent most of my time and most of my 
 money at Neuilly. It's the largest strictly surgical base 
 hospital in France, you know; the Red Cross was run- 
 ning it then, in the buildings built originally for the 
 Pasteur Institute. Well, the cases there are all severe. 
 The men need more help than the average, and there was 
 one ward in particular ... I won't describe it to you, 
 but the first time I ever set foot in it, I knew I'd found 
 the place to take all I had to give. And it was there 
 that I met this man Morgan." He paused a moment. 
 " And Morgan needed me more than any one else in the 
 ward." 
 
 " Was he . . . hurt so badly ? " The girl's voice 
 was taut with feeling, and although Hilliard knew that 
 she had cherished a juvenile affection for Dicky Morgan, 
 he really marvelled that it had so endured. 
 
 " Yes, badly," he said, " but that wasn't the point. 
 He was alone. He was friendless. He was under the 
 darkest cloud that ever man can live under. You know 
 what it was, Mr. Cullen." 
 
 The older man nodded tardily. 
 
 " I have an idea," he conceded. 
 
 " Well, there he was — wounded, and marooned in 
 France, and with a bad conscience. Perhaps you can 
 understand why he got my sympathy." 
 
 " Poor Dick ! " said Angela, barely above a whisper, 
 and Hilliard, looking across at her, was stirred by vague 
 intuitions which rendered him guiltily uncomfortable. 
 It was a full two years since last a tender sentiment had 
 exercised any power over him, and he had thought him- 
 self immune to women for ever; but as the picture of 
 war-drenched Neuilly rose before him, and through it, as 
 through a filmy veil of unreality, he saw this serious
 
 46 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 young girl in all her sweet compassion for the man he 
 once had been, he was chastened and humiliated, and liis 
 words tripped in his throat. 
 
 He sat motionless, idly closing and unclosing his 
 fingers. The peace and quiet of the night were robbing 
 him of rancour, and his tumbling thoughts were sud- 
 denly gentle and quite unselfish. Indeed, he was won- 
 dering whether he had gone so far that retreat was im- 
 possible ; he was wondering wliether certain other friends 
 of his would take the news as Angela took it, for if so, 
 there was little necessity for the stratagems he had 
 planned, and less excuse for them. It had simply never 
 occurred to him in announcing the death of a man who 
 had run away from Syracuse in disgrace, he might find 
 pity and forgiveness waiting for expression. Was it 
 too late already to retract.^ Had he said so much that 
 explanation was in vain? Was there still an opportun- 
 ity for him to change his tactics, to admit that it was 
 only the unrcgencrate soul and the outward countenance 
 of Dicky Morgan that had perished, and to maintain 
 that a new being, a penitent and resolute being, had 
 arisen phcenix-like to make atonement for the wasted 
 years that had been ended by shrapnel-fire from the 
 Huns.'* And suppose he did so, what would they say? 
 If public opinion were to model itself upon the sorrow 
 of poor little Angela CuUen, was it not better to confess 
 at once, to wipe the slate clean, and to begin afresh? 
 Had he said so much that the pathway to truth was 
 closed — or was a lie well stuck-to better than the truth, 
 half told? 
 
 Morals, which are nothing but negative virtues any- 
 way, hang on trifles. HiUiard was tottering on the ut- 
 termost edge of decision — and Mr. Cullen flung the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 4<7 
 
 weight of an aimless charge against liim, and settled the 
 matter out of hand. 
 
 " He certainly had plenty to be sorry for," said Mr. 
 Cullen. 
 
 " Oh, Dad! " said Angela, with a quick intake of her 
 breath. 
 
 Virtuous, was Mr. Cullen. A church-goer and a com- 
 municant, was Mr. Cullen. A giver of alms, and a 
 friend to his friends — but in forgetting that the evil 
 that men do shouldn't rightfully be allowed to live on 
 after them, and in remembering, perhaps too clearly at 
 that moment, the final interview he had held with Dicky 
 Morgan, Mr. Cullen throttled repentance into a state 
 of furious helplessness, and brought back Hilliard to his 
 senses. 
 
 " Yes," said Hilliard, " he had plenty to be sorry for, 
 and he was. First and last, he told me a good deal 
 about himself. Of his troubles here, I'm not capable of 
 sitting as judge. Instead, I sat as confessor. So that 
 you'll be more interested in that part of his life which 
 you evidently haven't known about, and I have. He 
 left here, I think, in December. Ho hadn't any fixed 
 purpose ; all he wanted was to find a place where he 
 could begin over again on a fresh basis, and make a man 
 of himself. . . . For that much, at least, you can give 
 him credit." 
 
 " And I do," said Cullen, approvingly. 
 
 Hilliard, swept again by the nearness of deliverance 
 from his deceits, leaned forward. A strong endorse- 
 ment of Morgan's ambition at this juncture might yet 
 have brought about a recantation. 
 
 " I'm glad you do, Mr. Cullen. ... I think myself it 
 was the only course he could have taken." He hung
 
 48 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 perilously upon the response ; it would either justify or 
 condemn his present attitude. 
 
 " That's probably why he took it," said Mr. Cullen. 
 " Oh, I'm fair enough to him, Mr. Milliard, but as for 
 judgment — '* He shook his head firmly. " What 
 made him go to France ? " 
 
 Hilliard sat back — it was more than likely, then, 
 that the public would reflect the opinion of Angela's 
 father, and not of Angela. The gates of truth clanged 
 shut. 
 
 " That came to him as the logical course," he said 
 shortly. *" He'd met with some brother adventurers in 
 New York, and they put the idea into his head. He had 
 no money, so that he worked his passage across on the 
 MouettCy a French tramp, in January, 1915. On the 
 other side, he met a lieutenant of artillery who took a 
 fancy to him. As you undoubtedly know, he spoke 
 French like a native, and that made it easy for him. 
 France is a land of papers, and of records ; and papers 
 and records can be created, altered, shuffled — when 
 there's a reason. The reason was that the Republic 
 needed men — and the lieutenant was willing to be a 
 forger if that were a condition to his being a patriot. 
 His conception of patriotism was to enlist every able- 
 bodied man in the service of France. But at that time, 
 the war was still rather exclusive as far as Americans 
 were concerned. So that Dicky Morgan disappeared 
 from earth — and there was a new soldier of the 69th 
 Territorials by the name of Pierre Dutout ... * Peter 
 Nobody.' " 
 
 " What! " said Mr. Cullen. 
 
 Hilliard shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I said he told me much about himself. He sailed
 
 THE IMAN NOBODY KNEW 49 
 
 under his own name, and I dare say you can verify that 
 in New York. But when he landed, he took an alias. 
 To be sure, that was primarily to get him into the 
 service as quickly as possible, but there was another 
 reason, too. I've already intimated what it was ; and 
 the two ideas dove-tailed perfectly. He had wanted to 
 start over again, unhampered. Nothing could have 
 been more opportune than this chance. See what it 
 gave him! He simply dropped out of the world! . . . 
 And although it was a clear case of coincidence, still, his 
 life here must have been anything but successful to drive 
 him as far as that — because if he had cared to wait a 
 little, he could have enlisted honourably, in his own 
 name. . . . No, I think it was the possibility of losing 
 himself utterly that first appealed to him. And there 
 must have been a good cause." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Cullen absently. " There was. 
 But, . . . always theatrical, Dick was. That was so 
 like him — to do just that sort of thing, and to do it 
 just that way." 
 
 ** As nearly as I could gather," said Hilliard, " he 
 had been practically . . , er . . . ostracized here. Is 
 that correct.?" He noted that Angela flinched at the 
 suggestion, and that her head was drooping very low. 
 
 "Why, I'd hardly say that, but—" 
 
 " At least, he had lost many of his former friends, 
 hadn't he?" 
 
 " Y-e-e-s, but there was a good reason for it." 
 
 " Oh ! Dad! " said Angela, pleadingly, below her 
 breath. " Please don't say things 1-hke that — I can't 
 stand any more — " 
 
 " What his offence may have been, I don't know," 
 said Hilliard, plunging doggedly into his narrative.
 
 50 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " But he left town, so he told me, in a tremendous revul- 
 sion of feeling. His one ambition was to make some- 
 thing of himself, to wash out the past — to justify his 
 existence. And he went overseas not merely in a spirit 
 of adventure — I hope I didn't give you that impres- 
 sion — but with the idea of genuine service and sacri- 
 fice. And very soon, terribly soon . . . during a night 
 attack . . . they got him." Hilliard paused effec- 
 tively. " There wasn't a chance in a hundred for liim 
 to recover, and he knew it. And then it came to him, 
 blindingly and desperately, that the world — that is, the 
 world which had known him in his failures — would 
 never hear what he had done. He had made his sacri- 
 fice, and it was useless. In hospital, he was Pierre 
 Dutout, you see . . . and between that character, and 
 his own, was the barrier of the subterfuge he had 
 grasped so eagerly — his alias, and his false record. 
 It was so complicated that no one would ever search out 
 the truth. No one would have any reason to doubt that 
 he wasn't what he purported to be. He craved to tell 
 some one; to send back a message to his old friends; 
 and I happened to be there — and he confided in me. 
 And here I am, Mr. Cullen. Bringing credentials. 
 Now, in the first place, I have a photograph of him, 
 taken from his original passport." He produced it 
 from his pocket, and offered it to Mr. Cullen. " Is 
 there any mistake, sir.'^ Or is it the Dick Morgan you 
 know?" 
 
 Mr. Cullen switched on a standing lamp; Angela hid 
 her face, and shrank back from the white electric glare. 
 
 " Yes — yes." He gave the tiny picture to his 
 daughter. " There's no question about it, Mr. Hil- 
 Uard."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 61 
 
 " That's Dick ! " said Angela agonizedly. 
 
 " With his signature, of course — you recognize it, 
 do you ? " 
 
 ••' It's his handwriting fast enough," conceded Mr. 
 Cullen. He looked up at Hilliard, and his brows were 
 furrowed, as though he were struggling to coinprehend 
 what all tliis had to do with the Cullen family. " Yes, 
 there's no question about that, either. Very character- 
 istic — you couldn't ever mistake those flourishes. 
 Dramatic boy, he was — always. Shows — don't it.^ " 
 
 " Dramatic — yes. That is — imaginative. Ven- 
 turesome. And it's a quality that sometimes makes 
 heroes, Mr. Cullen. . . . Would you have called him 
 brave? " 
 
 " I'm not sure of that, sir. I — " 
 
 " I would ! " said Angela. " / would ! " 
 
 " Foolliardy, often. But brave . . ." 
 
 " Wait, then ! " said Hilliard, motioning. He was 
 transfixed by the vision of Angela Cullen, who had 
 started up in passionate defence of an old-time play- 
 mate ; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were shining, 
 she was ineffably appealing in her tearless grief and 
 in her loyalty. For the first time, Hilliard could see 
 how the passing years had brought out the woman in 
 her ; he could see, under the dazzling light of the 
 porch-lamp, what an adorable champion he had left 
 behind him. Her vehemence thrilled him ; his own cheeks 
 reddened, and his heart was abruptly quickened at the 
 sight of her at the same time that it congealed from her 
 father's estimate. " You know," he said, " that brav- 
 ery under fire has a peculiar reward. It's called a 
 citation. In orders. You think that Morgan wasn't 
 brave, Mr. Cullen. But there's a proof. A proof that
 
 52 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 even you must recognize." He tempered his voice. 
 " For here^'* he said, whipping a folded paper into view, 
 *' is what the Republic of Erance says about him ! 
 Here is the record that will endure as long as France 
 does. Here, Mr. Cullen, is Dicky Morgan's cita- 
 tion! . . ." 
 
 Dead quiet — for second after second. Angela had 
 turned pale ; she was winking hard. 
 
 " His . . . citation ! " Mr. Cullen mopped his fore- 
 head. 
 
 " His own copy of it was lost, but I brought the 
 official journal . . . shall I translate.? 
 
 " * Pierre Dutout, private of the 69th Territorials, 
 during the battles of the fourth of May and the days 
 following, has made exhibit of the highest devotion and 
 the greatest courage; and especially by carrying out a 
 volunteer duty, under heavy fire on the night of the 
 sixth of May, has given to his whole detachment an 
 extraordinary example of loyalty and heroic sacri- 
 fice.' " 
 
 He gave the newspaper to Mr. Cullen. " And here 
 — is his Croix de Guerre.'*' On impulse, he handed it 
 not to Mr. Cullen, whose palm was ready for it, but to 
 Angela. 
 
 She had taken the decoration half-fearfully, and she 
 had glanced at Hilliard with an expression so curiously 
 combined of awe and joy and jealousy that his own 
 eyes wavered, and he had momentarily averted his gaze. 
 When he had ventured to turn to her again, she had 
 carried one hand to her breast, pressed tightly, she 
 was looking down at the bronze cross in her lap, and 
 her shoulders were shaking perceptibly. Hilliard
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 53 
 
 gripped the arms of his chair, and every muscle of him 
 was drawn tense ... his farce was sudden tragedy, 
 and horror clutched at him. Angela was crying . . . 
 stoical, by supreme effort, at the news of Morgan's 
 death, she was crying, now that she believed he had died 
 gloriously. It was a hard problem for him to analyse 
 ... it was so magnificently complimentary and incon- 
 sistent . . . 
 
 " It would seem to me," said Mr. Cullen, somewhat 
 thickly, " that he wiped the slate clean enough for all 
 practical purposes, anyway." He took the war cross 
 from Angela's reverent fingers, and examined it curi- 
 ously. He looked at Angela, and slipped his arm 
 around her ; she sat up straighter, and drew a shivering 
 breath. " I may have been wrong in my judgment," 
 said Mr. Cullen soberly. 
 
 Hilliard, who had been moodily sunk in revery, 
 fumbled a third time in his inner coat pocket. 
 
 " He sent you a letter," he said. " I suppose you've 
 been wondering, under all the circumstances, what 
 brought me up here to you. It wasn't to eulogize him 
 particularly; it was to bring you his message. He 
 sent it to you because for some reason or other he 
 thought he owed it to you especially. And perhaps 
 I'd better say now that he made me read it . . ." 
 
 With Angela peering hard over his shoulder, Mr. 
 Cullen strained to decipher the uneven penmanship; 
 which, combined with the Continental transparency of 
 the paper, forced him finally to resort to a pair of 
 tortoise-rimmed spectacles. He began to read aloud: 
 
 " Dear Mr. Cullen : 
 
 ** I am asking Mr. Henry Hilliard to bring you this
 
 54> THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 letter personally. I want him to tell you what I'm not 
 writing, too. And you can tell other people, if you 
 care to. 
 
 " I want 3'ou to know that since I've had time to 
 think, I've changed my mind about a good many things. 
 I've come to the conclusion that 3'ou were right and I 
 was wrong. Maybe you won't remember the last talk 
 we had together, but I do. You told me then that 
 I didn't have it in me to make good unless I learned 
 that I was about the most worthless young man in 
 town, and the one with the hardest row to hoe in order 
 to make something out of myself, and set out from there. 
 Well, I've learned it. I had to. Of course, I couldn't 
 agree with you at the time. That wouldn't have been 
 expected. But over here I've had one lesson after 
 another. Some of them were pretty bitter, but they've 
 all helped. And since May, when I was hurt, I've had 
 lots of time to think them over. 
 
 " I never deserved your kindness, and now I can't 
 ever repay it. But it may please you to know that 
 this war has taught me what you tried to, and couldn't 
 
 — that I was as close to zero value at home as a man 
 could be. It's onh' through this war that I've got any 
 pride in myself, and I'm sort of like Kipling's gentle- 
 man-ranker — I'm proud of myself because I've done 
 away with all the other kinds of pride I used to have. 
 And I believe I've made good — not as a great general, 
 but as a private soldier. That was the trouble at home 
 
 — I w-as only fit to be a private, and I thought I could 
 be a general off-hand. You said I'd do well if I learned 
 that, and I have. They gave me the Croix de Gmrre. 
 and in a way, that proves it, doesn't it? Notice that 
 they didn't even mike me a corporal, though! That's 
 all right — I haven't had enough training yet to be a 
 corporal! It's curious that I'll admit that, isn't it? 
 
 " I want you to know that I've thought of you a
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 55 
 
 great deal. I don't blame you for letting me go. I 
 did once, but I don't now. Please think of me, though, 
 as a man who came through at the finish, even if he'd 
 been pretty hopeless before. 
 
 "Hilliard, the best man in the world, has promised 
 to bring you this letter. I hope you'll be glad to see 
 him, and to hear his side of the story. This is my 
 apology and my blessing, if that's worth anything to 
 you. I send a kiss to Angela. 
 
 " R. C. M." 
 
 Mr. Cullen ended with a falling inflection, and let the 
 hand which held the letter drop to his knee. 
 
 " The letter, as you might guess from the looks of it," 
 said HiUiard, " was written at several different times — 
 according to his strength. I want you to realize, too, 
 Mr. Cullen, that it was no small effort for him to write 
 it. And then I was in Switzerland when he died, and 
 his possessions had all gone to one of those tape-bound 
 bureaus, so that I had a fearful time to identify my- 
 self and get what he had meant me to have, and after 
 that, I had to make a sudden trip to Russia, and back 
 to England again. There were delays — delays. I 
 was ill for several months myself; I had typhoid in 
 London. I should have mailed these things to you long 
 ago, but he had begged me to come in person, and I 
 had promised. And every day I expected that in an- 
 other week or two I should start for home. I feel that 
 I owe you this explanation and a great plea for for- 
 giveness for what must seem to you like gross indif- 
 ference on my part. But I landed hardly two weeks 
 ago, and I came up to you at the earliest possible mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " In some ways, he was a most remarkable young
 
 56 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 man," said Mr. Cullen, irrelevantly. " Nobody ever 
 understood wh}^ he turned out such a black sheep. 
 Came from a fine old family. I suppose his father was 
 one of the most loved men in Onondaga County. Dick 
 lived for years on his father's reputation, after people 
 stopped noticing him on his own account. Just took 
 advantage of the fact that nobody could quite bear 
 to be harsh to his father's son. But he was alwaj^s a 
 wild young chap, — nothing very bad, except that just 
 too much of anything — including liquor — was just 
 enough for him! Had too quick a temper to be dip- 
 lomatic enough to hold a job, and didn't care much 
 about working hard, and finally the tide turned, and 
 he began to get treated just as if his father hadn't 
 been a sort of popular idol, and then his disposition 
 soured, and he made some bad mistakes. I gave him 
 the last job he ever had in Syracuse, but I had to let 
 him go . . . and I told him some plain facts when 
 I did. That's what he refers to." 
 
 " I assumed," said Hilliard, hesitantly, " that at 
 one time he had been what you might call . . . disap- 
 pointed in love ? Something was weighing on him — 
 he practically admitted . . . but that was one point 
 that he didn't appear to want to confess, even to me." 
 
 " He was engaged to Carol Durant." Angela had 
 taken the cross again, and held it like a precious relic. 
 " She broke it off, just before he went away." 
 
 " The day before," added Mr. Cullen. " That was 
 one of the two reasons why he went." 
 
 Hilliard nodded. 
 
 " I see. ... On account of his habits .'* " 
 
 "That was the gossip," said Mr. Cullen heavily. 
 " Dr. Durant was supposed to have — "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 57 
 
 "Didn't he write to her? " asked Angela, raising her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Not that I . . ." He stopped quickly. " I trust 
 you'll forgive me, but I'd imagined from various re- 
 marks he made at different times, that he was really 
 . . . that he was greatly attached to you.'' This last 
 was addressed to Angela, who was both dignified and 
 shaken by the suggestion. Her father, however, nodded 
 in the negative. 
 
 " Angela wasn't much more than fifteen, sir. They 
 were great friends ; he was very fond of her. No, it 
 was Carol Durant he was engaged to. Didn't he ask 
 you to see her? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 " But you will, I hope, won't you? I can appreciate 
 how you might feel about it, but — " 
 
 " How are my feelings to enter into this, Mr. Cullen? 
 My responsibility is to do what ought to be done. And 
 if you'll tell me the people you think I ought to see 
 about this — " 
 
 " You can see Carol here tonight, if you care to," said 
 Angela, uncertainly. " She and . . . and a friend of 
 hers are coming over to talk about another Red Cross 
 drive. Carol's on the committee. They ought to be 
 here any minute now." 
 
 " Yes," said Hilliard. " If I'm going to see her, I 
 think I should rather — see her here." 
 
 Mr. Cullen sighed stertorously. 
 
 " Well, perhaps it's better . . . and I shall want to 
 telephone this to the Herald if you don't object. It's 
 the least we can do, all things considered." . . . He 
 reflected a moment. " How long are you staying in 
 town, Mr. Hilliard?"
 
 68 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " I've made no plans whatsoever," he said, after a 
 shght pause. " I sold my interests to a British syn- 
 dicate of bankers two months ago. My home is where 
 my baggage is. And, as a matter of fact, that's where 
 it's always been. I ran up from New York to deliver 
 my message to you, and beyond that, I haven't any 
 schedule or any duties. I'm thinking of taking a day 
 or two to see certain of Dick's friends — the ones he 
 talked about most — and after that, the future is on 
 the knees of the gods." 
 
 Mr. Cullen regarded him with sincere respect. 
 
 " It would give me great pleasure," he said, a trifle 
 pompously, " if you would be my guest for the time 
 you're here, Mr. Hilliard. I feel as though you'd got 
 a sort of claim on us . . . coming like this — and it 
 would please me very much indeed." Hilliard's heart 
 pounded. 
 
 " And me too," said Angela, gently. Hilliard's heart 
 threatened to suffocate him ; not entirely because the 
 game was going so infinitely better than he had dared 
 to hope, but also because it was Angela who entreated 
 him. 
 
 " It's wonderfully good of you," he protested, " but 
 I couldn't disturb you to that extent. Thank you 
 but—" 
 
 Mr. Cullen stopped him by an inclusive gesture. 
 
 " You won't disturb us in the slightest ! It's a big 
 house ; and Angela and I are all there are in the family. 
 I wish you'd come with us, Mr. Hilliard. I should 
 feel much better than having you stay down town." 
 
 " Well — " said Hilliard, dubiously. His soul was 
 filled with unholy joy, but his outward demeanour was 
 deprecatory. " It's ever so kind of you ; still — "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 69 
 
 " As a favour to me," urged Mr. Cullen. 
 
 " As a favour to tw^,'* echoed Angela, and Hilliard 
 looked attentively at her, and was obvious!}^ swayed. 
 She noted it ; he had intended her to notice it. He gave 
 her a smile which had the power, even in her sombre 
 mood, to draw a faint response in kind. 
 
 " If you're sure it won't be a hardship to you — " 
 
 "Nonsense! It's settled, then, is it.^^ I'll send one 
 of ray cars down for your things." 
 
 Hilliard's eyes flickered at the ingenuous vanity ; he 
 had recently learned that Mr. Cullen had made more 
 money during the past twelve months than during the 
 previous twelve years. 
 
 " Well," he said, '' if you're so charitable as to in- 
 sist — " 
 
 " I do, sir, I do ! . . . You're at the Onondaga, of 
 course.'* " 
 
 Angela, who had been listening intently, started up 
 at the unmistakable echo of footfalls on the walk. 
 
 " Here comes Carol ! " she gasped. " And . . . and 
 Jack ! Oh, Mr. Hilliard ! Oh, Dad ! Who's going to 
 tell her!" 
 
 As Mr. Cullen flinched, Hilliard put out his hand in 
 a motion of supreme restraint. His voice was low and 
 pulsing; and laden with a curious quality which engen- 
 dered calm and confidence. 
 
 " Whatever Dick Morgan may have been at home," 
 he said, " I knew him after he off'ered his life for a 
 great ideal, and I'm proud that he called me his 
 friend. I'll tell Miss Durant myself, please. It's my 
 right." 
 
 And turned to face the girl he had tried to die for, and 
 failed.
 
 IV 
 
 SHE had already been, when he last saw her, the 
 outstanding beauty of Syracuse, but he was as- 
 tounded to behold what the interval of two years had 
 done for her. The traditional Greek purity of line had 
 always been hers, and the Latin purity of colour as 
 well ; moreover, she bore herself precisely as he last re- 
 membered, with her head carried high — not in imper- 
 iousness, but with surpassing interest in the surrounding 
 world. She had, however, taken upon herself a new 
 maturity; her figure, exceptionally graceful, was still 
 slender ; but suggestive of a more womanly, a more in- 
 clusive charm. Hilliard, at sight of her, was visited 
 by a twisting pain, part hatred for what she had 
 ceased to be to him, and part concern for the ideal he 
 had adored, and found improved. 
 
 He was being presented to her ! He, who had kissed 
 her a thousand times, was undergoing the ritual of 
 presentation ! — and she was smiling at him with those 
 grave, sweet eyes of hers, and calling him by his 
 adopted name! His mask of protection had never 
 seemed so slight, so insufficient; the fragrance of her, 
 and the illusion caused by this, threatened his bal- 
 ance and set his nerves on edge; fortunately, the rou- 
 tine of the conventions intervened to save him from 
 his inarticulateness. For one thing, there was the rite 
 of introduction to Armstrong, and after that there 
 was a dash of promiscuous conversation, with not a little 
 weather-philosophy in it. Then came the inexorable 
 
 60
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 61 
 
 hush caused by the presence of a stranger whose fads 
 and fancies are still a matter of conjecture, and out of 
 that hush, a question, and Hilliard was suddenly visited 
 by a species of self-hypnosis. 
 
 If he had been moved at all by the sight of Angela, 
 whom he had loved as a younger sister, he was, by 
 comparison, shaken as by a whirlwind by the sight of 
 Carol Durant, whom he had loved as a woman. To be 
 sure, he was relieved of the necessity of choosing his 
 course of conduct — he had done that, irrevocably, half 
 an hour ago — and to that extent, his mental strug- 
 gle had lessened ; but not on the train, not at the hotel, 
 not even when he witnessed Angela's severe grief, had 
 he remotely conceived that this instant would be so 
 difficult to surmount. What in New York had seemed 
 a regeneration, and earlier on this same evening had 
 appeared a very dubious deception, was rapidly taking 
 upon itself the colour of irremediable wrong. His im- 
 agination was aroused beyond belief; and as he stared 
 in dumb suspense at Carol, recalling a thousand epi- 
 sodes and a thousand privileges of the long ago, he was 
 preyed upon by a slow-stealing grimness of despair 
 which left him sick with misery. 
 
 She was waiting for an answer — and the others were 
 waiting, too, and watching him ... he felt surrounded 
 and borne down upon by a crushing weight of accus- 
 ing personalities. He felt that guilt was stamped on 
 his every feature ... he felt that every thought of his 
 must be as crystal to the four who waited for him to 
 speak. 
 
 He was himself and he was not himself; he was os- 
 tensibly Henry Hilliard, a man in whom it couldn't be 
 suspected that the heart and soul of Dicky Morgan
 
 62 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 were embodied ; he was a transcendentalist ; a spectator 
 at his own funeral. The emotional appeal of it got 
 him in its grasp; when he glanced at the telling letter 
 which he himself had written, he was pushed to the brink 
 of hysteria ; the sight of the Croix de Guerre of poor 
 Pierre Dutout, who in bequeathing that impressive bit 
 of bronze to him, hadn't dreamed that he was leaving 
 a heritage of chicanery along with it, engendered in 
 HiUiard a thrill which nearly found its outlet in a 
 paroxysm of wild laughter. And the newspaper, with 
 Dutout's most genuine citation in it! Poor, generous, 
 warm-hearted, sentimental old Dutout in the next bed! 
 And the old passport photograph which he had hidden 
 for fear that his real name, endorsed on it, might be 
 cabled home, together with proof to the world that he 
 hadn't been a hero — that he had failed in this, as in 
 every other undertaking of his life. And all the dates 
 in accuracy! And if any one cared to trace back the 
 story, where was the flaw? Where was there a loop- 
 hole? And who would recognize Dick Morgan in his 
 cloak and mask of utter miracle? 
 
 Who had? 
 
 Lightning-like, his brain included all the salient items 
 of the picture in a single flash. There was Dicky Mor- 
 gan, sailing away to France — which could be proved. 
 There was a Number, and a Name attached to it, and 
 — since Hilliard's sturdy defence of Dicky Morgan had 
 had a grain of truth in it, and one of the steps of his 
 many-sided progress carefully omitted — a Name had 
 really been assumed, and had endured from the date of 
 enlistment to the date of discharge. It was the In- 
 dividual's recorded name in the army and at Neuilly — 
 and it wasn't Morgan and it wasn't Hilliard and it
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 63 
 
 wasn't Dutout. No one here knew it, or ever would 
 know it ; even Harmon didn't know it ; it was the first 
 sobriquet of a shell-torn Individual who had been taken 
 to Neuilly, and been made whole again. No one at 
 Neuilly had ever set eyes on Dicky Morgan s face! 
 But a certain man named Dutout had been decorated 
 and died, and that could be proved — was proved ! 
 Hilliard had borrowed Dutout's name in perfect safety ; 
 and the trail was cold. And here was a fourth man, 
 Hilliard — - to take his word for it — and the world is 
 larger than the curiosity of sincere people to encom- 
 pass. 
 
 No — if a Neuilly surgeon ever told as one of the 
 mysterious chapters of the war what had happened to a 
 certain gloomy Individual that summer, the name would 
 suggest nothing. And as far as checking up the visits 
 of a mythical Hilliard to a very real Dutout was con- 
 cerned, who would profess to remember.? The testimony 
 of any single witness would be immaterial. 
 
 The voice of Carol Durant was echoing in Hilliard's 
 ears, and Hilliard, yielding to a tidal wave of reck- 
 lessness, and of swelling anger at imaginary wrongs, 
 looked squarely into Carol's eyes, and spoke with win- 
 ning urgency. 
 
 " Yes," he said. '* I have news of Morgan. In 
 fact, I'm here in Syracuse solely because I have it. 
 I've just been telling Mr. Cullen — and Miss Cullen — 
 that I was with him when he died." 
 
 She didn't speak, at first; she merely looked at Hil- 
 liard and grew very white, and her lips quivered. She 
 stood there, still with the shadow of a smile arrested in 
 its place, and presently she swayed a little, and reached 
 out with her hand towards the back of a convenient
 
 64 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 chair. Armstrong stepped towards her, and Angela 
 Cullen slipped an arm around her waist. 
 
 "He's . . . dead?" she repeated, and her tone was 
 not yet free from a certain incredulity, as though the 
 fact were of itself impossible, and the statement of it 
 subject to discussion. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Durant." 
 
 She moistened her lips; her eyes were very bright, 
 unnaturally bright, so that Hilliard was fascinated, 
 and appalled. 
 
 " You. . . . You know that.? " she asked, again with 
 that queer inflexion of amazed doubt. 
 
 " Yes, I know it." 
 
 The others were standing as statues; Mr. Cullen, 
 snatching at the first idea of consolation to present it- 
 self, fumbled for his daughter's other hand, which still 
 retained the trophy a better man had won. 
 
 " Here's what they gave him, Carol ! Look ! The 
 Croix de Guerre! Don't let's think of anything but 
 what he . . . let's be proud of him ! I — " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said inertly, and took the cross in 
 her palm. She dropped her eyes for a moment, then 
 raised them to the level of Hilliard's. Her calmness was 
 almost that of stupor, but in the choking silence Hilliard 
 imagined he could sense the exertion she was making 
 to retain her balance. " Didn't he send some word to 
 me.?" 
 
 ** No." Hilliard's nod was very ministerial. " No, 
 I'm sorry, but — " 
 
 Her eyebrows lifted, and her nostrils dilated the 
 merest trifle. Her breath was coming more rapidly 
 now; she was nearing the breaking-point of her re- 
 sistance, and all of them knew it. The moment was
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 65 
 
 agonizedly prolonged. Hilliard, gazing without a 
 quaver at the girl he had thought he loved beyond all 
 else in this world or the next, was singularly relaxed 
 as he observed her symptoms. She had really cared, 
 then ... so much the greater pity that she hadn't kept 
 him caring ... as she might. 
 
 "Can that be possible.?" she said, hardly above a 
 whisper. 
 
 " I'm sorry — but — " 
 
 " I wouldn't have believed it could be true." She 
 gave a long, tremulous breath, and looked about her, 
 half-dazed and half-perceptive. Her eyes strayed back 
 to Hilliard. " Tell m'e about it," she said, almost in- 
 audibly. 
 
 " Carol, dear ! " Angela was stimulated to active 
 sympathy. " Sit down — please! Oh, Mr. Hilliard ! " 
 
 " No — yes, I . . . I'll sit down ! " Her ej^cs seemed 
 magnetized to HiUiard's. " Only I want to hear — I 
 want to hear ! " 
 
 " Tell her from the beginning," said CuUen, mopping 
 his forehead. " Tell her just the way you told us a 
 little while ago. And let's all of us sit down — and. 
 Jack, you know the lay of the land, don't you? Get 
 a glass of water . . . anything else, Carol ? " 
 
 She shook her head. "Tell me!" she said. "I 
 want to know! " 
 
 So that Hilliard, inspirited by the realization that 
 he was under the protectorate of the shadows, and 
 gathering fresh assurance with every sentence, went 
 through that tragic narrative a second time. The in- 
 spiration of it was doubly strong; his love of the 
 dramatic and his sense of boundless injury kindled 
 in him an ardour which served as colouring to his words ;
 
 66 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 the nearness of Carol to liim was no longer a deter- 
 rent, but rather an incentive, because, now that the 
 initial shock of the meeting was over, he was again in- 
 fected by the wrongs that he had suffered — wrongs 
 for which he had always felt that Carol Durant was 
 finally to blame. Once she had pulled his bleeding heart 
 to bits ; he found himself, to his own wonderment, 
 revelling cruelly in the opportunity for reprisal. His 
 rapid changes of sentiment astounded him ; only a few 
 minutes ago he had been ready to repent, now he was 
 implacable — and this was after the arrival of the only 
 woman he had ever loved. It was inconceivable, and 
 yet it was a fact — and Hilliard made the most of it. 
 And as he told the tale of Dicky Morgan, he was greatly 
 engulfed by the surge of Dicky Morgan's grievances ; 
 his voice trembled with righteousness ; he gradually lost 
 his loathing for the part he played, and played it with 
 every atom of his energy ; he was a defendant, and a wit- 
 ness and a judge for Dicky Morgan all in one — and 
 his verdict was for acquittal. There was no mistaking 
 his earnestness ; it rang with every syllable, and it rang 
 true, because now, at last, his resentment to the in- 
 justice he fancied to have suffered, was fully concen- 
 trated — and there was nothing of pity or of gener- 
 osity left in him. His pupils, diminished to pin-pricks, 
 were grey and cold as the northern seas ; Miss Durant's 
 eyes had never left his face. 
 
 " And that," she said presently, *' is all there is to 
 tell?" 
 
 " That's the end," said Hilliard simply. And in the 
 long hiatus which followed, he was wondering . . . won- 
 dering . . . vague aimless thoughts, with no begin- 
 ning and no conclusive outcome, but the central figure,
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 67 
 
 flitting, elusive, was always Carol Durant. He could 
 turn away from her in diffidence, but he was incapable 
 of shutting her out of his mind ; strive as he would, the 
 images of ancient days kept crowding back to haunt 
 him. ... He told himself fiercely that he hated her, 
 that for two vengeful years he had hated her, that he 
 had come back to Syracuse primarily to see her again, 
 and to rejoice in the fall of her pride ... he hated her 
 with his whole soul for the wounds in his heart, the 
 wounds of his body, still . . . O God ! why couldn't the 
 surgeons have cut away his memory, and left him peace ! 
 
 He was prodigiously relieved when Mr. Cullen, well- 
 meaning but awkward, blurted out a paradox of eulogy. 
 Armstrong, eager to relieve the congested ways of 
 thought, ventured into the realm of platitude — and 
 something in his manner caught at Hilliard's attention. 
 The man was actually possessive — and Hilliard, hav- 
 ing no envy of his possession, cursed him on general 
 principles nevertheless. And then Hilliard was again 
 in demand ; there was a flood of incoherent questioning, 
 and he was giving details, answering queries, volunteer- 
 ing information which might never have been asked, 
 describing Ncuilly, the hospital, the surgeons, the 
 nurses, the wholly indescribable atmosphere of France in 
 war-time. He was strengthening his position, phrase by 
 phrase; his insouciance redoubled; he had laid a rock 
 foundation never to be successfully assailed. There 
 came an abrupt pause ; Miss Durant rose, and came to 
 him, and he was on his feet to meet her. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, giving him her hands. His 
 heart missed a beat ; his blood ran gelid. " Thank 
 you. If you can ... I wish you'd talk to me again 
 before jou go . . . alone ... I wish it very much.
 
 68 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 You've made me ... at least, I can be glad you were 
 there ... to help him, but I want to know so mucli 
 more ... so infinitely much more . . ." 
 
 The others had risen, too, and stood a little apart, 
 talking meaningless things with considerate disregard 
 of the two at the veranda railing. A fleeting impulse 
 clawed at Hilliard's judgment; he yielded to it blindly. 
 It meant the alteration of his plan of action, it meant 
 a trifle more of danger ; and a gratuitous risk at that, 
 but it was genius — genius 1 
 
 " Miss Durant ! " He made sure that the others 
 were beyond the range of his voice. " Miss Durant ! 
 There's one more thing you must know ... I said he 
 sent no word to you; that was true as far as I knew 
 the truth, but there's one letter he started to write — 
 just at the last ... it wasn't addressed to any one; 
 I didn't know who it was for. I brought it with me 
 on the chance that I'd find out. I didn't want to speak 
 of it before every one, because if it's yours, I thought 
 you'd . . . you understand, don't you? . . . but from 
 what Mr. Cullen said just a minute before you came, 
 and from . . . from other things . . . I'm almost posi- 
 tive it was meant for you. It's only a few lines . . . 
 he wasn't ever strong enough to finish it . . . I've got 
 it at the hotel now. May I bring it to you to-morrow ? " 
 
 She held her breath for an instant ; her mouth quiv- 
 ered. She looked at him searchingly. 
 
 " Surely. I ... I live just across on the corner, 
 Mr. Hilliard. The brick house. Can you come 
 early?" 
 
 "How soon?" He was telling himself that his 
 former passions were atrophied; she was no longer able
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 69 
 
 to disquiet him. His inspiration was commercial — 
 strictly commercial. 
 
 " In the morning? At . . . eleven?" 
 
 " ril come gladly." 
 
 " And . . . and I want to thank you now," she said 
 in a tone which would have fallen as a blessing upon 
 the ears of any other man alive, " for speaking as 
 though you loved him. And for all you did for him. 
 And for . . . for coming to us. Because all that makes 
 you seem . . . how can I tell you, Mr. Hilliard? . . . 
 Perhaps you know already . . . perhaps you canH 
 know . . . but I'm trying to tell you, because he was 
 ... he was one of my very dearest friends." 
 
 His brain snapped; he bent down to her. 
 
 " You loved him — too ? " he said, uncontrollably. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " Once — I loved him, too ! "
 
 ALONE in the appointed guest room of the Cullen 
 home — for Mr. Cullen had been as good as his 
 word, and sent a car to fetch his visitor's belongings — 
 Hilliard lighted a King's size cigarette (an acquired 
 taste, but advisable as a minor deception, since he had 
 long been notorious for his taste in cigars) and grinned 
 expansively. He was spent by the force of his owti 
 fervency, but the reaction was pleasurable, and he had 
 no conscience to harass him. He strolled lazilj^ across 
 the room, examining with critical interest its costly and 
 horrendous furniture, solid and pre-Victorian, and pay- 
 ing especial heed to the old-fashioned rugs and hang- 
 ings. 
 
 " Cullen hasn't spent a dollar on the house," he said 
 reflectively. " Nothing new downstairs and nothing 
 new up here ... all he's done has been to buy the 
 infant some grand clothes, and hire a flock of servants, 
 and get a string of motors. So if he hasn't invested 
 everything, he's got all his war-profits yet. I ought to 
 nick him for twenty-five thousand easy! And when he 
 fired me he said I was a rotten salesman. Oh, I don't 
 know." 
 
 Leisurely he began to undress, but before his boots 
 were quite unlaced, he sat back comfortably in his chair, 
 and meditated. 
 
 " All serene so far," he said. " But when Carol came 
 in . . ." He shook his head vigorously. " Well, it's 
 over . . . anyway. The Doctor . . ." Hilliard's 
 
 70
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 71 
 
 face darkened. " There's the man / want to get at ! 
 Pious old hypocrite ! And he didn't think I desei'ved 
 to be in the family ! Sort of hate to let him make money 
 out of this deal, but it's all in the game. Coals of fire ! 
 But ten thousand's a lot from the Doctor . . . we'll 
 say ten thousand." 
 
 He closed his eyes dreamily; and his thoughts re- 
 verted from Dr. Durant to the Doctor's daughter. 
 
 " Carol — Carol ! " he murmured. ** One minute 
 there, I thought I'd crack. And I was ' one of her 
 dearest friends.' I was, was I.'^ And she loved me — 
 once. Once! Pity it wasn't twice ! Pity she and the 
 Doctor didn't say so the night they kicked me out so 
 neatly — ' only to meet again and share the inward 
 sweetness of the other's heart ! ' Well . . . business is 
 business . . . After they've made their money out of it, 
 and found out this man Hilliard's some little gold- 
 plated whirlwind all by himself . . . Gad! can't I see 
 their faces when they get the truth of it ! " 
 
 With the cigarette drooping from his lips, he stood 
 up, and swept a clear space on the table. From his 
 suitcase he exhumed a tablet of thin transparent writ- 
 ing paper of a kind not sold in America : it was the 
 paper on which the letter to CuUen from Richard Mor- 
 gan had been written, and it was sheer luck that Hil- 
 liard had brought the remainder of the tablet from New 
 York with him. He tossed a blob of ink from his 
 fountain pen, and inspected it critically. 
 
 " Too black," he decided, and went to the bath- 
 room, where he half-emptied the reservoir of the pen, 
 and re-filled it with water. 
 
 " That ought to be just about right . . . sort of 
 pale and mysterious and war-strength."
 
 72 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 He seated himself at the table, took the pen in his 
 left hand, and inscribed circles on the paper; scribbled 
 a meaningless sentence, and laughed gently. 
 
 " Funny how some people can be ambidextrous and 
 take so long to realize it. If I hadn't caught a bullet 
 in my arm, and tried to write left-handed in the hospital, 
 I'd give myself away up here in no time. Writing's 
 too blamed distinctive. But, as it is. Left Hand, very 
 large and plain, is Henry Hilliard — " Here he shifted 
 the pen to the other hand — " And Right — and, small 
 and curlicue, is poor, dead Dickj- Morgan — ' one of her 
 dearest friends.' I'm glad I killed that chap off — he 
 never amounted to a hill of beans anyway. But this 
 Hilliard person — a live wire, boy, a live wire ! " 
 
 And with a grin of sardonic humour, he wrote on the 
 flimsy paper, slowly and a little irregularly, as though 
 in physical discomfort: 
 
 " Neuilly, 7-19-15. 
 
 " No matter what you ever think, no matter what 
 you have ever thought, I have loved you." 
 
 He grimaced, pondered diligently, and made a cor- 
 rection. 
 
 " I have always loved you more than my own life. 
 You said my ideals had fallen — do you think so 
 now? I don't, dearest; I think they're almost what 
 you would have them. And it may be that simply 
 because of that, I've loved you more every day, 
 and — " 
 
 Hilliard sat back, and his eyes were softly luminous. 
 
 " Suppose, by the luck of the very devil, I should fall 
 
 in love with her again.'* " he said aloud. " Suppose I
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 7S 
 
 should ! " He tossed away his cigarette, and rested his 
 head in his hands. " Oh, Carol ! I did care ... ! " 
 His shoulders shook spasmodically ; then all at once he 
 flung himself out of the chair, and took to tramping the 
 floor in a hurricane of emotion. His face was set in 
 granite ; he caught sight of it in a mirror, halted, and 
 himself was stunned by the transcendant mask which 
 covered his soul in revolt. The work of the surgeons 
 was not far short of miraculous ; he couldn't upset it, 
 not by any effort of his will. The eyes might flash, or 
 lower, or chill — the other features were still calm and 
 strong in all their splendid glory. Even now, the 
 face which he saw reflected in the mirror was one to 
 convert the most hurried of all passing strangers to a 
 new, if unformed, assurance in the brotherhood of man. 
 
 " You dirty blackguard ! " said Hilliard, showing his 
 teeth. He went pensively back to the letter, studied 
 it, gazed at the floor. 
 
 " But after all," he said, " no matter what she or 
 anybody else did to me . . . and if I can kill two birds 
 with one stone, and be what I've wanted to be — all ex- 
 cept this damnable way of going about it. . . . She 
 acted as though this infernal lying letter would please 
 her — that's not the point; it's a quicker way to get at 
 the Doctor. . . . Well, it gets her a letter I never in- 
 tended to write . . . and Dutout's war cross, too . . . 
 that'll make it all the easier. . . . I'll give her that. 
 Angela was going to have it, still. ... So I was ' one 
 of her dearest friends,' was I? What's that worth to 
 Henry Hilliard, bringing back the news from the 
 front?" He sniff'ed scornfully. *' Ten thousand dol- 
 lars — I hope. And the Doctor'll make twenty out of 
 it. . . . Gad! that's turning the other cheek with a
 
 74* THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 vengeance ! Hanged if I don't almost wish he'd lose his 
 rotten money ! But that can't be helped — I'll get some 
 satisfaction somehow." 
 
 He re-read the unfinished note, folded it, creased it 
 heavily for verisimilitude, and gave it the final exam- 
 ination. 
 
 " Business ... is business," he said, musing. 
 " That was a pretty sporty thing for me to do . . . to 
 tell her there was a letter. Bit of a chance, too. And 
 after smashing our engagement, she could stand there 
 and tell me . . . oh, rubbish ! So suppose we say . . . 
 fifteen thousand from the Doctor ! But confound it — 
 the better salesman I am, the more I get out of hiiriy the 
 more he makes ! Whew ! Where's the satisfaction in 
 that! . . ." 
 
 His pupils had narrowed again, giving the lie to the 
 sweetness of his smiling mouth. Then the smile faded, 
 and Hilliard was staring fixedly at the document in his 
 hands. 
 
 " I wonder who in thunder that man Armstrong is," 
 said the masquerader who had prided himself that he no 
 longer cared.
 
 VI 
 
 HE wakened early; and in that state of half- 
 conscious revery which has less of worldliness in 
 it than perhaps any other state of human existence, he 
 relaxed utterly, and gave himself over to his random 
 thoughts. He had no real sensation of thinking; his 
 mind was merely a rendezvous in which a train of phan- 
 toms, one by one, could rest an instant before they 
 passed on as they had entered, aimlessly. And as long 
 as he lay thus vegetating, he was subtly aware that he 
 was very peaceful and content ; but presently, when his 
 brain had yawned and stretched itself, and begun to set 
 about its usual functions (or, in other words, when Hil- 
 liard was sufficiently aroused to resume his usual intro- 
 spectiveness) he was extremely unhappy, and not in the 
 least vainglorious. 
 
 At the outset, he couldn't account for the basic cause 
 of this unhappiness ; sleep had so cleared away the ac- 
 cumulated dust of his troubles that for a puzzled inter- 
 val he was as sincere and innocent as though he had 
 never tempted fate, nor planned an ambush for society. 
 Indeed, there was an appreciable space during which his 
 memory failed to include the events of the last few 
 days — he was lying there and thinking the thoughts of 
 Dicky Morgan, racking his intellect to know why he 
 should wake up with such a heavy burden of regrets. 
 Then suddenly, stunningly, the whole kaleidoscope was 
 spinning out its vivid forms before him, and Hilliard 
 groaned, rolled over towards the light, and began, dully, 
 to remember. 
 
 75
 
 76 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 He was gloomy, and the taste of ashes was in his 
 mouth, but simultaneously, now that his mind was 
 active once more, he had a momentary burst of pride for 
 his recent craftsmanship — it was a pride in which the 
 dominating element was a sort of professional regard 
 for his own ability as a protagonist, rather than conceit 
 for the results attained. But as for genuine con- 
 trition — never ! The world was committed to the doc- 
 trine of give and take — and just as formerly it had 
 given to him of its bitterness, so could it take in turn 
 what Milliard had to offer it. 
 
 But there were fresh grievances to brood over ... he 
 scowled, and struggled to remember what it was that 
 had risen out of thin air and angered him last night, 
 at the very instant of his dropping off to sleep. Not 
 the Cullens, nor Carol herself, nor Armstrong . . . but 
 wait a moment ! 
 
 It came to him, then, accompanied by a slight accel- 
 eration of his pulses, that he had resented the proprie- 
 tary manner of this stranger Armstrong : not that Arm- 
 strong had actually said an3'thing or done anything to 
 cause remark, but that he had carried himself with such 
 an indefinable assurance towards Carol — an assurance 
 which was aU the more significant because it wasn't 
 pushed forward, wasn't conspicuous. He wondered, 
 with a recurring spasm of logic, what justification he 
 possibly had for resentment, or even casual criticism 
 of Armstrong's behaviour. He was no dog in the 
 manger ! His old relations with Carol Durant were 
 over ; why in the name of Heaven should he resent Arm- 
 strong.'^ 
 
 But ... as long as he was on the subject . . . who 
 was Armstrong.? Whence and wliither, Armstrong.? A
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 77 
 
 newcomer to S^^racuse (that is, within two years) and 
 already proprietary — Milliard frowned, and rubbed 
 his eyes, and wondered anew. He was a trifle amused 
 and a trifle ashamed of himself ; was it credible that he 
 could be jealous of a man who had merely appropriated 
 what Hilliard had no further interest in? How incon- 
 sistent . . , and yet how superbly characteristic of 
 human nature! Hilliard chuckled to himself in recog- 
 nition of it, and dismissed the proposition as unworthy 
 of further attention. Dismissed it, yes ... as a child 
 dismisses a rubber ball with an elastic cord attached 
 to it. . . . 
 
 From below stairs, a Japanese gong chimed softly, 
 and Hilliard, without delaying another instant, leaped 
 to the floor. Half an hour later, bathed, shaved and 
 dressed, he descended complacently; the second day of 
 his remarkable performance was begun. 
 
 The Cullens, father and daughter, were waiting 
 patiently for him in a breakfast-room which was partly 
 a summer porch, or a summer porch converted into a 
 breakfast-room, depending on your first impression as 
 you entered it. They greeted him cheerfully; and he 
 was glad that grief hadn't clung to their eyelids ; he 
 would have felt depressed, even although he would have 
 sensed the hidden compliment. After all, Morgan 
 hadn't exactly been beloved by Mr. Cullen, and Angela 
 had the mental resiliency of youth — it was better so. 
 And Hilliard, quick to grasp the nearest handle of di- 
 plomacy, saw that cheerfulness on his own part would 
 help the situation, for now that his duty as a courier 
 was over, there was no need for long protracted melan- 
 choly. 
 
 It was a cheerful trio, then, that finally sat down to
 
 78 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 breakfast; there was no exhilaration about it, but at 
 least there was no sombre cloud of mourning. Angela, 
 behind the coffee urn, had occasional moments of pen- 
 siveness, but that was to be expected, and condoned; 
 indeed, Hilliard held himself to be greatly favoured 
 by even this. And he was favoured not only by the evi- 
 dence of her regard for the man he once had been ; as 
 time went on, he* came to understand that she was 
 mildly interested in his present self. Her brief, un- 
 studied glances showed this ; and Hilliard, now that the 
 fear of exposure had largely gone from him, encouraged 
 her — partly because it was good business, and partly 
 because it pleased him to be mischievous. 
 
 She was imaginative, and Hilliard's pose was calcu- 
 lated to appeal to a lively imagination. He had been in 
 France, he had seen a corner of the great adventure ; he 
 had about him an aura of unusual accomphshment, and 
 he had a face which was supernaturally attractive. 
 These factors aided him in the beginning, and to them, 
 with keen accuracy' of design, he added a fifth which was 
 perhaps the most efficacious of all five — he treated her 
 not as a young girl, but with the respectful deference 
 which belongs to a mature woman, a mistress of a house- 
 hold, and a hostess in her own right. She was charmed 
 and captivated, and so was her father — most assuredly 
 he was ! So charmed, in fact, that instead of leaving 
 for his office at half-past eight, he lingered until half- 
 past nine^ so captivated, that as his limousine slid 
 quietly down the long, steep hill of James Street, he 
 found himself ascribing a new degree of credit to Dicky 
 Morgan for the simple reason that Dicky Morgan had 
 gained the full esteem of such a friend as Hilliard. 
 Such a substantial, polished, earnest, worldly friend!
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 79 
 
 A man with such a fund of general knowledge, and of 
 such great vigour in imparting it. A man who asked 
 such intelligent questions, for example, about the com- 
 mercial possibilities of Syracuse, and comprehended 
 all the intricacies of the labour problem, the raw- 
 materials problem, the transportation problem, the pro- 
 duction problem. A man who, in addition to his under- 
 standing of the war, and international politics, and 
 financial matters, could also talk the language of a man- 
 ufacturer . . . and how could Cullen dream that Hil- 
 liard was cleverly dragging into conversation the self- 
 same theories, the selfsame data, which, on innumerable 
 occasions, he had heard from Cullen's very lips not 
 many months ago ! 
 
 A mighty nice young man, thought Cullen. A man of 
 soundest judgment, through and through. A man of 
 briUiant intellect and razor-edged analysis. Had he 
 not said, and furnished illustrations from his broad ex- 
 perience, exactly what Cullen himself had said, in regard 
 to labour, and materials, and transportation, and pro- 
 duction, these half a dozen years.? Cullen sat back and 
 smiled triumphantly. It does a man good to hear his 
 pet convictions approved, expanded, and laid down as 
 axioms by another wise man. 
 
 Back on the wide veranda, Angela had curled up com- 
 fortably in the Gloucester hammock, and beside her, 
 Hilliard was enjoying a King's-size cigarette. He was 
 enjoying, too, this rare interlude of respite; he looked 
 across at Angela, and thanked his stars for the invita- 
 tion which had made this quiet hour possible. She was 
 so ineffably innocent, so free from any taint of specious 
 worldliness, that her mere presence refreshed and 
 cheered him ; he felt a delicious release from the strain
 
 80 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 of yesterday, and he enjoyed it to the full, knowing 
 the limitation that must necessarily be put upon it. 
 
 She lifted her eyes, caught Hilliard smiling at her, and 
 blushed furiously, not for any shame accruing to her, 
 but because she had arrived at the age of easy blushes. 
 
 " I . . . suppose you're going over to Carol's pretty 
 soon," she said, constrained to say something, and 
 grasping at the first available idea. 
 
 " So anxious to get rid of me? " he asked, amused. 
 
 " Oh, no! " Horror was in her tone, and mortifica- 
 tion. " Only ... I was thinking . . . this can't be 
 the pleasantest morning in the world for you." 
 
 " No — and almost yes," said Hilliard, soberly. " I 
 hope I haven't yet reached the stage where I can't agree 
 with Walt Whitman — remember where he says that if 
 you keep your face to the sunlight, the shadows will all 
 fall behind you? Or aren't you acquainted with the 
 gentleman? " 
 
 " N-no," she said dubiously. " I'm not. But I can 
 see the point, just the same. . . . It's awfully curious, 
 but ever since I woke up this morning, I've had the 
 queerest sensation — almost glad about something. 
 It's made me feel so wicked — I can't make it out at all." 
 She regarded him seriously. " I suppose you think I'm 
 heartless," she said. 
 
 " On the contrary." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Really." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad of that,"' she said, relieved. *' Be- 
 cause I didn't think anybody on earth could understand 
 but me. . . , You don't mind talking about Dick, do 
 you?"
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 81 
 
 <' No." Hilliard shook his head, but instinctively he 
 went on guard again. 
 
 «< You see," she said, swinging gently, '* I never had 
 any of my friends ... I mean, I . , . you know. I 
 can't quite say it — it sounds sort of sacrilegious, some- 
 how. But everybody else is still here. I should think 
 I ought to feel ever so much worse than I do . . . 
 wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " Not necessarily." Hilliard's brows furrowed. 
 " There are always two ways of looking at it." 
 
 « Yes, I know. And I'm looking at it the other way." 
 She hesitated, and suddenly glanced up, and leaned for- 
 ward. Her lips were parted slightly, and in her eyes 
 there was awe-struck wonder, not without a certain 
 mistiness, and a certain calm. " I . . . I'm almost 
 glad,'' she said, under her breath. " I don't understand 
 me at all, Mr. Hilliard ... he was the nearest to a 
 brother I ever had . . . and I always did want a big 
 brother. And when he went away I cried ray eyes out. 
 And last night, I ... oh, it was awful! " She sighed 
 as though in exquisite care. " But this morning, when 
 it's so sunshiny and quiet, and I've had a chance to think 
 . . . and remember a lot of things you never even heard 
 of, why—" 
 
 " What things ? " he demanded quickly. 
 " I'd rather not say." She sat up a little straighter, 
 and stopped swinging. "But I can't cry any more. 
 That part of it's all gone. And I'm happy, in a funny 
 solemn sort of way. You don't suppose there's any 
 Elsie Dinsmore in me, do you? " 
 
 Hilliard's mouth twitched, but he controlled himself 
 as he perceived her very genuine seriousness.
 
 82 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " No," he said. " Far from it. . . . Go on, please." 
 
 " That's all. It's so unlike me, I'm almost scared. 
 But I can't help feeling . . . you've read ' A Tale of 
 Two Cities,' haven't you? And what Sydney Carton 
 said — I mean what it says he would have said if he'd 
 been a prophet? About his going to do a better thing 
 than he'd ever done — and all that? " 
 
 " Yes," Billiard nodded. " ' It is a far, far better 
 thing that I do, than I have ever done ; it is a far, far 
 better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.' " 
 
 " That's it 1 " she said softly. " WeU, that's how I 
 feel about Dick . . . and you couldn't cry if you felt 
 that way about anybody, could you? " 
 
 " No," said Hilliard. ^ " If you really do." 
 
 " I do," she said steadily. " I do. And it's just the 
 way he'd have wanted to ... to have things work out. 
 A little excitement, and a little danger, and a little 
 glory, and a little . . . praise. There's really not 
 much else anyway, is there? " 
 
 " Not very much," he agreed, presently. 
 
 " I wanted to talk to you before you saw Carol," she 
 said. " Because Carol doesn't ... I don't think she'll 
 exactly feel as I do about this ... I know she won't. 
 Maybe it's because Dick and I were chums, and she and 
 Dick were . . . oh, you know. It's different. You 
 ought to take that into consideration — when you talk 
 to her, I mean. I don't mean I don't care, because I 
 do — terribly — but I ... I can see what it meant to 
 Dick . . . and how it's sort of fitting, this way — as 
 long as it had to come some way — and all I've got left 
 is a heart-ache and a big, glad thankfulness that he 
 could go in and do something to help out . . . and I 
 know how he'd have loved it, and picked this out of every
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 88 
 
 possible way to ... to end things, but Carol . . . 
 she's different." 
 
 *' How? " Hilliard's voice was even, but very low. 
 
 " Older," she said, looking away. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " And . . . and they were going to marry each other 
 sometime." 
 
 " But wasn't that broken off? " 
 
 " Yes, but she was waiting." 
 
 "Waiting?" 
 
 " Why, of course." 
 
 Hilliard's breath quickened. 
 
 " I should have guessed that this Mr. Armstrong — ^" 
 
 " Oh, but that wasn't until she thought Dick wasn't 
 ever coming back. And besides, she isn't really crazy 
 about him — just lonesome." 
 
 " Indeed." Hilliard compelled himself to relax. 
 " So you think she'll be . . . hurt? " 
 
 " Hurt ! " Angela's voice was thin with emphasis. 
 " Rather ! " 
 
 " If there's anything you think I'd better say, or not 
 say — " He rose, out of sheer inability to endure this 
 ingenuous estimate of Carol's heartache. " Perhaps 
 you'll tell me — because it's time for me to be going 
 over." 
 
 Angela had risen, too, and stood beside him. Her 
 features were composed, but still suggestive of inward 
 emotions a little too tender to convey. Her eyes were 
 very soft, just then, and into them had crept a spark of 
 that all-embracing devotion and compassion which, 
 when it comes to its full expression, is called maternal. 
 It startled Hilliard; he had never regarded Angela in 
 exactly this light. It stirred him; for two years ago,
 
 84. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 his dashing little friend had been anything but altru- 
 istic. She had, instead, been rather the reverse. The 
 tomboy. 
 
 " If there's anybody in the world," she said, " who 
 could give Carol any consolation just now, it's you. . . . 
 Carol isn't the kind of girl who'd go tell her troubles to 
 a minister . . . but she's going to need a whole lot of 
 talking to, or she'll just wilt. . . . Dad and I were 
 going over it this morning, before you came down. . , . 
 I don't suppose you ever were a minister, but you look 
 as though everybody could come to you and tell 'most 
 everything, and you'd help . . . anyway, you'd try to. 
 So I wish you'd . . . you'd sit and listen .... 
 Carol's got to talk to somebody, and when you're hurt 
 the way she is, you can't talk to your family . . . and 
 you were a friend of Dick's. And . . ." She swal- 
 lowed, and went on more slowly. " You can use your 
 own judgment, of course, but if / were in your place, — 
 I'd lie." 
 
 " Lie ! " he repeated, aghast. 
 
 " Yes, I would ! He ... he must have sent her some 
 word, Mr. Hilliard ! He must have ! " She w(*s des- 
 perately serious now, and thoroughly aroused. " It 
 means the whole world to her ! It's everything ! Why, 
 even /'ve got more than she has, and she was waiting for 
 him to come back to her ! I'd lie myself black in the 
 face, but I'd tell her ^OTW^thing — tell her anything I 
 could think of to make her believe he hadn't stopped 
 caring! It can't do any harm now. It can't hurt 
 you. And 7 won't even ask you whether you do or not. 
 Only you're here, and she'll trust you — " 
 
 "Wnishe.?"
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 85 
 
 "How could she help it? And . . . and that's all. 
 Please don't let her think he didn't care ! " 
 
 Hilliard stood irresolute ; chaos in his brain. Beside 
 him, Angela looked up in supreme appeal, intent upon 
 the charity she had begged for another. There was no 
 blot on her conscience; she had asked for a lie, but a 
 splendid, forgiving lie, and she was fearful only that 
 Hilliard's rectitude would forbid the utterance. 
 
 " I'll . . . see," he said with difficulty. " I'll see." 
 
 "Won't you promise me.'^ I won't ask you after- 
 wards, if you — " 
 
 " Does it mean so much to you-f* " 
 
 " Ever and ever so much. . . . Won't you please 
 promise.? " 
 
 He gazed at her a moment, yielded with a show of 
 reluctance. 
 
 " Very well — I promise." 
 
 " I knew you would ! " she cried, exultant. 
 
 "Did you? How?" 
 
 " Because you would," she said enigmatically. 
 " That's the kind of man you are. I knew. You'd do 
 anything in the world for a friend of yours — " 
 
 " And you think I'm doing this for you? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she said, withdrawing slightly. " I . , • 
 I'm not as conceited as that! It's for Dick." 
 
 " No," said Hilliard. " For you." 
 
 " But rm not ... I mean, I thought — " 
 
 " My newest friend is a friend just the same." 
 
 " Then you wouldn't have . . . have told even a kind 
 lie like that for Dick?" 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 "Or to help Carol?"
 
 86 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Would you suspect it of me? " 
 
 " Then I don't see — " She was inextricably 
 puzzled. 
 
 " Because you've asked it," he said, " and because it's 
 the dearest, most generous, most thoughtful thing I 
 ever heard of in all my life. . . . And after that, can't 
 we be truly friends? " 
 
 Flushed, perplexed, honoured, she gave him her hand 
 with a hesitancy which betrayed the deep sense of com- 
 pliment she felt. 
 
 " I don't think I could be prouder of anything that 
 could possibly happen to me," she said. 
 
 Was it worth the blatant mummery he had conceived 
 and executed? Was it not worth that, and infinitely 
 more? 
 
 She was proud of his friendship . . . and she shared 
 that distinction with no one else in the entire universe. 
 
 Proud of it! Hilliard was fulsomely abased. 
 Abased, — yes, and simultaneously glorified. He had 
 come to make the city proud, ignorantly proud, of the 
 man whose deeds had merited no renown. Here, at the 
 very inception of his plans, a seventeen-year-old girl 
 was proud of him as he was. Courage. Inspiration. 
 Resolve. 
 
 He had won her respect by the promise of a lie ; and 
 in this instant he vowed to deserve, by other and increas- 
 ing lies if need be, the prestige he was unalterably com- 
 mitted to gain, whereby the past should be as nothing, 
 and the future should be a magnificent citadel of recon- 
 quered dreams. 
 
 She was proud of him, and she had approved the lie 
 in behalf of Dicky Morgan's memory. Unwittingly, she 
 had sanctioned the very purpose of his coming, and the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 87 
 
 method of his approach. She had confirmed his own 
 intentions, and given him the will to advance. He was 
 to act as the staunch defender of her playmate perished, 
 and to make of himself a new and a better man, worthy 
 of the eulogies which, as trustee, he now accepted for the 
 unworthy Morgan. He consecrated himself to this end. 
 Told himself fiercely that he would succeed. And she 
 was proud of him I It was another omen.
 
 vn 
 
 IT was eleven o'clock to the minute when Hilliard, not 
 quite so blithe as a wedding guest, and j^et not 
 altogether as doleful as a mourner, waved his hand to a 
 slender girl who stood on the veranda of a house diag- 
 onally across the street, and went slowly up the Durants' 
 brick walk. He had anticipated the effect of this pil- 
 grimage upon his nerves, he had discounted it ; and 
 Angela's advice had given him an artificial stimulus for 
 the moment ; nevertheless, as the front door opened to 
 him, and he saw, over the head of a smirking maid- 
 servant, a hallway and a vestibule unchanged, his 
 breath came a little faster than usual, and his cheeks 
 went a little darker. It was, so to speak, a return to a 
 shrine, and a normal man might easily be pardoned for 
 a little sentiment on the side, no matter how often he 
 had changed his religion during the meantime. 
 
 The maid, having deposited him in the living room, 
 disappeared in a quick flurry of skirts ; Hilliard, stand- 
 ing at the end of the long, high-roofed apartment, found 
 himself surrounded by a thousand goads to remembrance. 
 Not an item was out of place ; not an item was otherwise 
 than as he had often recalled it ; his memory had been 
 photographic. It was a room furnished comfortably 
 rather than luxuriously ; it suggested good taste rather 
 than great riches ; but here and there, concealed under 
 the delicate veiling of good taste, was a rug or a vase or 
 a bit of furniture which Hilliard knew, from persona] 
 knowledge, to be comparatively priceless. The Durants 
 
 88
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 89 
 
 were the sort of people whose ancestors had bought and 
 builded for posterity; the Durants' heirlooms reflected 
 distinguished credit on the ancestors. 
 
 At the opposite end of the room, flanking the black- 
 marbled fireplace, was a graceful, swan-necked sofa, 
 beautifully carved and splendidly upholstered: Dr. 
 Durant had once remarked that Carol represented the 
 fifth successive generation of her family to be courted 
 on it. And evening after evening, in the ages that had 
 gone before, Hilliard had sat there and dreamed and 
 loved ; and sometimes when Carol had slipped away from 
 him he had sat there and dreamed and loved and 
 smoked, while she played Chopin and Rubinstein and 
 Moscowski to him. Old-fashioned she had called him; 
 ultra-conservative, impossible ; but he had still held out 
 for melody instead of mathematics in music, and begged 
 for simplicity in place of de Bussy, and got it. And 
 the piano — somewhat battle-scarred but withal a mas- 
 ter instrument — was still over in its accustomed place, 
 with the Military Polonaise perched open on the rack. 
 
 And then an antique clock caught his attention, and 
 gazing at its queer, hand-painted dial, he recalled how 
 on a certain New Year's Eve he and Carol, after the 
 Doctor had considerately left them, had watched its 
 tremulous hands feeling toward midnight, while their 
 own clung together in what they imagined was eternal 
 understanding. Familiar paintings hung upon the 
 walls; and Hilliard, who in his callow immaturity had 
 looked upon them with critical disdain, found himself 
 strangely affected by the native sincerity of Cantwell, 
 and Walker, and Miss Scott. He had argued that no 
 great works could come out of Syracuse, and here he 
 was discovering that a man who has looked upon old
 
 90 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 masters and remained apathetic, can readily grow im- 
 pressionable before a canvas depicting nothing more 
 significant than a snow-storm in Amber, Onondaga 
 County, New York. How should it happen? Sincerity 
 — that was it ! That was what appeared to him in 
 this, and in every other detail of the home. Sincerity 
 in the pictures, the furnishings, the whole tone of the 
 room and of the house . . . sincerity everywhere, save 
 in the man who stood there to observe it. But even as 
 he sensed this stinging fact, his pupils narrowed to grey 
 necks of ice ; for memory, by one of those tricks against 
 which there is no defence, told him that he had stood in 
 this same position, in exactly this same spot, when two 
 years ago the Doctor had pronounced his sentence, and 
 Carol, in terrible silence, had then and there confirmed 
 it. His imagination conjured up that scene again; his 
 blood chilled ; he could fancy that Carol and the Doctor 
 were actually before him, and that he was staring at 
 them in the flesh, and feeling the lash of the Doctor's 
 quiet peroration. . . . 
 
 To break the spell, he went ahead a step or two, and 
 paused at the massive table where always a few books 
 were ready for immediate diversion. Not parlour- 
 books, Roycroft and others for display, but books to 
 be picked up and enjoyed in random minutes — "The 
 Cambridge Apostles," and Boswell's " Johnson," and 
 " The Cruise of the Cachalot,'' and " Tristram Shandy," 
 and "Mr. Dooley " and "Roughing It" and "The 
 Ordeal of Richard Feverel " and " Plays, Pleasant and 
 Unpleasant " and " Whispers About Women " and other 
 volumes by Stephen Leacock and Henry Harland and 
 Alfred Noyes and Gilbert Chesterton and John Mase- 
 field and Robert Grant — such a collection as no f am-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 91 
 
 ilj but the Doctor's, or one with equal breadth of experi- 
 ence and appreciation, could possibly put on the living- 
 room table except as the result of chance, or a sale of 
 remainders. 
 
 At the threshold, then, there was a faint rustle of 
 fabric, and Hilliard turned. Carol! His hands went 
 out mechanically, and hers to him ; and Hilliard, tasting 
 the acid of his sombre mood, smiled benignly. 
 
 " I mustn't keep you waiting," he said, dropping her 
 hands. " I've brought you the letter I spoke about." 
 He gave it to her, and coughed his embarrassment. 
 " I'm positive it's for you. And I'm sure you don't 
 want anything to prevent you from reading it at once, 
 so if you'd rather prefer to have me come back later for 
 the talk you wanted — " 
 
 He was already moving toward the doorway ; she re- 
 strained him gently, although her eyes couldn't be 
 dragged from the folded paper he had given her. 
 
 " No," she said, " please don't go. I particularly 
 want you to meet my father, Mr. Hilliard. He's 
 anxious to see you, too. Won't you wait while I call 
 him?" 
 
 He inclined his head ; followed her with his eyes to the 
 hallway, strained his hearing, and knew that she had 
 opened the letter as soon as she was out of his sight. 
 His lips twitched cynically — and then, as he remem- 
 bered Angela's injunction, straightened. After all, this 
 much was pure charity. Down the hallway, there was 
 the reverberation of a closing door, and silence. 
 
 It was perhaps five minutes before that door was 
 reopened, and during the interval, Hilliard had an 
 opportunity to wonder if the Doctor had revised his 
 office hours; otherwise, he should now be down in the
 
 ^ THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Physicians' Building, receiving patients. It occurred 
 spontaneously to Hilliard that both Carol and her 
 father were conceivably harassed by contrition, but as 
 he estimated the extent to which their sorrow might 
 go . . . judging by Carol's distress of last night, and 
 the potential truancy of the Doctor today — he was 
 possessed of gripping emotions. Had they cared so 
 deeply for him then? Angela and Carol had said so; 
 but he had doubted what he most wanted to believe. 
 Was this additional proof? Had the Doctor cared so 
 deeply that in order to hold converse with Dick Mor- 
 gan's sole executor, he would interrupt the sacred rou- 
 tine of his practice? Too late! Too late to care, too 
 late to sympathize, only the winter-garment of repent- 
 ance was left for them! Hilliard couldn't comprehend 
 why, when he had risen this morning so refreshed in 
 mind and body, he should now be so unutterably wearied 
 in both. 
 
 Carol returned, followed by a gentleman of sixty; 
 and as the Doctor entered, the room was suddenly 
 permeated by an atmosphere of calm, and kindly peace. 
 He was a large man, large of feature, and large of in- 
 stinct; his forehead was that of an intellectualist ; his 
 eyes were those of a dreamer; his chin denoted rugged 
 capabilities, and the stubbornness of unswerving ethics. 
 The hand he offered Hilliard was the hand of an artist ; 
 a strong, and well-fleshed hand, generous, sensitive, 
 soothing — it was more than the hand of a mere artist ; 
 it belonged to a fine physician. 
 
 " Mr. Hilliard? " His voice was pitched low, but its 
 resonance was striking. Thirty years ago the Doctor 
 had been a famous baritone; and there was still one
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 93 
 
 church in town which dated its musical supremacy from 
 the choir he had organized and directed. 
 
 " Dr. Durant ! " The two men clasped hands firmly. 
 Hilliard, experiencing the dreaded sinking sensation 
 which came upon him as often as he exposed himself to 
 yet another old acquaintance, hardened as he perceived 
 no recognition in the Doctor's eyes. The inevitable re- 
 action left him momentarily weak. 
 
 " It was good of you to take this trouble, Mr. Hil- 
 liard. I appreciate it." 
 
 Hilliard's denial was highly courteous ; it was harder 
 to hate the Doctor than he had planned. 
 
 " No, Doctor — it would only have been blamable 
 if I hadn't." 
 
 The Doctor, motioning him to a seat, remained stand- 
 ing, near the table. 
 
 " I insist that it's good of you. . . . You knew Dick 
 intimately, I understand." 
 
 Hilliard nodded. 
 
 " Very intimately, sir, considering the length of 
 time." He perceived that Carol was holding the letter 
 lightly folded in her hands ; she intercepted his glance, 
 and coloured proudly. 
 
 " It ... it did belong to me," she said, subdued. 
 " And I can never thank you enough . . . never ... ! " 
 
 " My daughter," said the Doctor, presently, " has 
 told me the one great fact." He paused, then went on 
 gravely. " I accept it, and it needs very little comment. 
 It's one of those realities that contains itself, and all 
 the attending circumstances. What most concerns me 
 now is to know the lesser facts. I have some hope, 
 Mr. Hilliard, that you can make the lesser seem the
 
 94t THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 greater ; and the greater, the less. I want you to clear 
 up the one cloud that still dims our knowledge. I hope 
 you can tell us something about Dick's reasons for 
 doing this tiling — for going abroad at all, and for 
 enlisting, and for — " 
 
 Hilliard winced ; the Doctor's autopsy on his charac- 
 ter was considerably more disconcerting that Mr. Cul- 
 len's had l>een, and furthermore, Hilliard had been pre- 
 pared for another series of eulogies, and not for psycho- 
 analysis. 
 
 " Dr. Durant, I can't think it's fair to put Dick's 
 motives under the microscope like that! Why not for- 
 get everything but the attending circumstances to the 
 one great fact. He — " 
 
 " I'm not unfair," said the Doctor slowly. " I've 
 never been unfair if I could help it, and certainly not to 
 this man above all others. But my greatest weakness 
 has always been a tendency to let my heart run away 
 with my judgment. Here is a case in which a man who 
 left us most unheroically comes back to us, in spirit at 
 least, as a hero. The particular thing he did is a fact. 
 I'm proud of him for it — and so far, for that, and for 
 that only. But it isn't true that by itself alone it made 
 him a hero. And when I said that I'm interested in the 
 lesser facts, I mean that Dick's reasons for going into 
 the war at all may be the proof that he was a hero — 
 and that any physical bravery he may have shown has 
 nothing whatsoever to do with it. Do you see what 
 I'm getting at?" 
 
 " Not exactly, sir ! " Hilliard was red and resentful. 
 
 " Simply that there are two kinds of heroes, Mr. Hil- 
 liard. It isn't merely the excitement of the hour that 
 counts — it's the quiet resolution, formed beforehand,
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 95 
 
 and lived up to. It's the motive behind the resolution. 
 To be a hero — which is to say, not to fear death — 
 can be atheism or it can be aphasia, or it can be what I 
 want it to be — conscious duty, self-abnegation. And 
 Dick's motive, which may seem to you a very slight con- 
 sideration, means more to me than his physical bravery, 
 which may seem to you the only item of importance. I 
 knew him beforehand, you see. So that I should be hap- 
 pier if I heard that he had gone with inspiration, and 
 not —" 
 
 " You're afraid he made a virtue out of necessity.? " 
 Hilliard's lip curled. 
 
 " That's exactly what I fear — and I'm hoping that 
 you can persuade me to the contrary." 
 
 " And that appears to you to be more vital than 
 what he did? " 
 
 " Bravery under fire," said the Doctor, " means in- 
 finitely less to me than bravery during a man's struggle 
 with his soul. . . . Please don't misjudge us. We're 
 not trying to belittle anything Dick did ; it's neither fit- 
 ting nor possible. But what we want to know is where 
 the credit lies — with Dick, a reasoning, inspired, deter- 
 mined man, or with Dick, intoxicated by danger. In the 
 latter case, his heroism would appeal to us as a detached 
 incident, having no relation to his earlier life or to our 
 own; it would be something to bring us pride for that, 
 but for nothing else. In the other case, the knowledge 
 of the why, in addition to the what, would bring us . . ." 
 
 " You'd argue, then, that even if a man's deco- 
 rated — " 
 
 " Nine times out of ten, if the truth were known," 
 said the Doctor, " the decoration ought to have gone to 
 some one else. Perhaps a comrade — perhaps a wife
 
 96 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 five thousand miles away. Unfortunately, there aren't 
 many decorations for purely moral courage. . . . But 
 about Dick.^" 
 
 " You can be happy, then," said Hilliaxd uneasily, 
 " because he went over, I believe, in the firm conviction 
 that every man has two countries — his own, and 
 France." 
 
 " Yes.? " The Doctor sat down abruptly. 
 
 ** As long as j^ou're interested in what he did before 
 he was wounded — " 
 
 " And afterwards, Mr. Hilliard." 
 
 *' — Rather than how he was hurt, let me assure you 
 that as far as I know, from the first day he landed, I 
 don't believe he thought once about his own misfortunes. 
 He had them, I know. But if you've got any manhood 
 in you, you can't think of your own troubles, over there. 
 It's too fearful. The Carrel-Dakin solution heals all 
 sorts of wounds, Doctor Durant, all but the worst wound 
 of all — and that's what every man who has any human- 
 ity and any sympathy about him gets when he first sees 
 France. His heart is torn clear out of him. He can't 
 sleep, he can hardly live with his own thoughts. And 
 that quiet resolution you speak about — it's enough if it 
 comes to a man there! I don't care what he had in his 
 mind when he left you ; I don't care what it was that led 
 him to go overseas ; I don't care what his purpose was 
 when he sailed; I know that when he stood on French 
 soil there wasn't an atom of selfishness or self-pity in 
 him. It wasn't a question of adventure; it wasn't a 
 question of drowning his sorrows ; it was a question of 
 his doing anything and everything he could do to help 
 out. He felt that by throwing himself into the situation 
 with all his might he could make up, to some extent, for
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 97 
 
 the not very helpful life he'd had here. Let me tell you 
 something." Hilliard sat on the edge of his chair. 
 " It's possible that you never thought of Dick Morgan 
 either as a martyr or a fatalist. Nor do 7 think he 
 was. But when he was brought to Neuilly, there was 
 among his papers a little sort of field diary — I'm sorry 
 it was lost, so I haven't it to show to you, but I saw it 
 often — and under the date of his first tour of duty in 
 the front line trenches was scribbled this, quoted from 
 Rousseau : * The dead carry to the grave, in their 
 clutched fingers, only that which they have given away.' 
 And below that : ' All I've got is me ! Tenez moi done — 
 et Vive la France! ' Dr. Durant, Dick went into this 
 war in the belief that the only w^ay to reclaim his life 
 was to sacrifice it. Does that answer your question.'^ " 
 
 There was an utter stillness. It had been a superb 
 fiction, but Hilliard, thinking obliquely of Angela, was 
 only partly sentient of his baseness. 
 
 " Thank you," said the Doctor, and glanced at his 
 daughter. " Yes." 
 
 " So that you're satisfied on both scores." 
 
 " Satisfied — it's a weak word," said the Doctor, 
 hushed. " He had the making of a splendid man. I 
 knew his parents and his grandparents. His career in 
 Syracuse hadn't anything to do with his heredity, Mr. 
 Hilliard ; it was the result of badly chosen environment. 
 He chose it himself, and he had all a young man's inter- 
 est in temptation. But when those temptations were 
 removed, when he was free to revert to his family tra- 
 ditions, why, then he could — " 
 
 *' You're taking it for granted," demanded Hilliard, 
 ^' that the temptations mere removed." 
 
 " Well — weren't they ? "
 
 98 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Hilliard failed to reply promptly ; for in meeting the 
 Doctor's gaze he had undergone once more that devas- 
 tating terror which made him feel that his whole soul 
 w^as revealed in his eyes, and that his subterfuge was so 
 hopelessly futile that he must be in delirium, even to 
 imagine that it could succeed. He wondered if he could 
 actually be alive. He wondered if this situation could 
 exist, save in the mind of a madman. And yet , . . 
 
 " No, Dr. Durant. Let me tell you flatly from my 
 personal acquaintance with him — they were not. But 
 he overcame them." 
 
 The Doctor nodded repeatedly. 
 
 " The more credit to him — You're strengthening 
 us every moment in our belief that Dick was the hero 
 we wanted to think. Because now that we can see that 
 it wasn't purely an instant's recklessness, but — " 
 
 Hilliard wavered, and again he wished that he could 
 have sought the accomplishment of his desires by less 
 shameful means. 
 
 " It would please me a great deal more, though, Doc- 
 tor, if you looked at him independently and maybe a 
 little less academically — if you didn't go so far beyond 
 the actual facts." 
 
 " How do you mean? " 
 
 " Why," said Hilliard, " for one thing, in laying so 
 much stress on his grandparents. Dick was the one who 
 went overseas; his grandparents didn't! And his 
 grandparents didn't go into action on the Western 
 Front singing Stevenson's ' Requiem ' at the top of their 
 lungs, and knowing that it was mighty appropriate, 
 and Dick did! " 
 
 "What?" said Carol, straightening. "What's 
 that? "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 99 
 
 " No." The Doctor's negative was quiet, but de- 
 cisive. " A man doesn't rise to heights of glory with- 
 out some reason for it, Mr. Hilliard. But a man can 
 resist his inheritance for a good many years, and sud- 
 denly stop resisting and revert to his family type. He 
 can do it voluntarily or involuntarily. It's what we 
 call atavism. If you had known Dick's father and 
 mother, and his grandfathers and grandmothers as I 
 did, you'd concede the point without a second's de- 
 bate." He paused, and smiled sadly. " The pity of 
 it," he said, " is that in spite of his having failed in 
 everything he tried to do in Syracuse, he would have 
 made us proud of him, sooner or later, if he had stayed 
 on here. I'm positive of that." 
 
 " Pity ! " Hilliard straightened. This was the 
 third time in two days that he had caught the intimation 
 that he could have come home decently and humbly, and 
 been forgiven. 
 
 " Not that I pity him for what he accomplished, or 
 what it cost him," warned the Doctor. " I don't ; I was 
 very fond of that boy, Mr. Hilliard, but I wouldn't for 
 the world have had him do anything else than what he 
 did. No — but I do pity him because he can never 
 know what we think; because he can never know how 
 much we gladly forget ; because he can never know why 
 we are proud of him." 
 
 " Of course," said Hilliard, still rigid, with the con- 
 sciousness of tragedy that perhaps he had burned his 
 bridges needlessly, " the best way for you to have 
 showed that was to have told him before he left." 
 
 " It was impossible — he hadn't earned it." 
 
 Hilliard's pupils were distended. 
 
 " You were rather harsh with him, Doctor, as I — "
 
 100 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " We were just^ Mr. Hilliard." 
 
 *' But if you recall the gist of Portia's speech . . ." 
 
 "I do ! " The Doctor regarded him pacifically. 
 " And it's very seldom that mercy is asked to temper 
 justice except after it's become evident that justice is 
 actually going to be just. Let's not deceive ourselves. 
 And let's not put each other in the position either of at- 
 tacking or defending Dick. It's not the time for that 
 now. He's done all that any man can do, and he was 
 a most lovable boy — most lovable." 
 
 Hilliard nervousl}^ addressed himself to Carol, who 
 had sat intently listening, without betraying any eager- 
 ness to join in the conversation. 
 
 " I hope you agree with your father. Miss Durant — 
 that eventually he'd have succeeded in Syracuse.'' " 
 
 " I never doubted it," she said loyally. 
 
 And then the three of them fell simultaneously to 
 musing, and for the space of a minute or two there was 
 quiet; the sort of quiet which comes just after the bene- 
 diction. It was the benediction which Carol had be- 
 stowed upon a wretched sinner who sat there wonder- 
 ing how he could ever escape from the toils of his own 
 cleverness. 
 
 " How long are you to be in town, Mr. Hilliard.'' " 
 inquired the Doctor, irrelevantly. 
 
 " That I can't say, sir. I had no other errand than 
 this." 
 
 "You've never been here before? That is, you 
 haven't friends here? " 
 
 He had expected this question, and prepared for it. 
 
 " Several years ago," he said casually, " I came to 
 Syracuse half a dozen times one winter — on business. 
 I suppose I could find my way around even now, if I
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 101 
 
 had to. But comparatively speaking, I'm a stranger." 
 
 " You're a business man then, Mr. Hilliard.'^ " 
 
 " I told you he was, dear," said Carol. 
 
 Hilliard nodded. 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Durant. That is, — I was. I have no 
 business connections now. That's why my plans are so 
 uncertain." 
 
 Again a heavy silence. Hilliard was cursing the 
 impetuous haste which had caused him to lie himself into 
 an invulnerable network. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said the Doctor, rising abruptly, " but 
 I've a consultation at half-past twelve. Thank you 
 again, Mr. Hilliard, for coming to us ; you've lightened 
 my heart tremendously. And I'm glad you were a 
 friend of Dick's ; this is going to be an era of new 
 and strong friendships, with new ideals for cement. I 
 hope we shall see you again before you go." 
 
 " I hope so," said Hilliard, dully. He was whipping 
 his brain to find a way out ; but how could he explain 
 those manifold, cruel falsehoods which once he had 
 thought to be his retribution? 
 
 The Doctor gave him a cordial smile, a parting pres- 
 sure of the hand, and went out directly, leaving the two 
 young people quite alone. 
 
 Hilliard, impelled to go and equally constrained to 
 stay, fidgeted in his vacillation. He was uncomfort- 
 able and unhappy, yet curiously enough he had no in- 
 clination to depart. He felt chained to his chair; 
 weighted down with indiscretion. He assured himself 
 that he cared not the snap of his finger for Carol 
 Durant ; on the contrary, he was intolerant of her very 
 presence ; still he lingered, wishing that he hadn't stulti- 
 fied himself. At length she looked across at him, and
 
 102 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 for the first time since they had met last night, he de- 
 tected a glimmer of personal interest in her eyes. It 
 was the tiniest, faintest glimmer imaginable, but it 
 roused him instantly. 
 
 " And you really came all the way up here just to be 
 kind to us ? " she asked, a trifle f orlornlj'. 
 
 " Just to be kind to Dick," he corrected, with keen 
 diplomacy. " Why, yes ... of course, if I'd known 
 how much you cared — I mean, I — " But the slip was 
 past redemption; and keen diplomacy had dissolved in 
 tactlessness. Carol was winking hard; and Hilliard 
 sprang to his feet. He could never bear to see a woman 
 cry ; it was immaterial to him who she was, or what the 
 circumstance ; he was powerfully affected — distraught. 
 His single aim was to console her — it was a selfish aim 
 designed primarily to relieve himself. 
 
 " But it's easy to see," he said desperately, " why he 
 was so anxious to have me come. I ... I have twice 
 as many reasons to envy him now, Miss Durant. ... I 
 really have. And . . . and, unlike* your father, I can 
 pity him, too, for — " 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, smiling tremulously up at him 
 through the misty veil of her tears. " But y-you see, 
 Mr. Hilliard . . . you're quite mistaken ... I ... I 
 wasn't pit^'ing Dicky ; I was pitying me ! " 
 
 He bit his lip sharply. No reproach could have gone 
 deeper, 
 
 " That was your letter, you said? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said. " It c-couldrit have been for 
 any one else! Thank you so much . . . for bringing 
 it . . ." 
 
 He was trying to analyse the emotions which stirred 
 him. He had told himself over and over again that his
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 103 
 
 love for her was numb; and yet here he was . . . un- 
 steadily balanced . . . tormented by her grief . . . 
 and lying to her in the next sentence — to protect his 
 previous lies, and to give her what comfort he could. 
 
 " I want you to have his war cross, Miss Durant. . . . 
 I think it belongs to you more than to any one else. 
 I . . .'* He stopped, and stood irresolute ; for she had 
 broken down completely. He watched her, and slowly 
 the blood burned in his cheeks ! He thought then that 
 he would gladly have given his life to win a similar 
 cross, if he could have known that she would look upon it 
 so tragically. He tried to order his thoughts, to select 
 his action ... if he still loved her, he was there to con- 
 sole her ; if not ... he ought in all humanity to console 
 her just the same, even if it took another of those inex- 
 cusable deceptions. For an instant he was on the point 
 of succumbing to a wild impulse to blurt out the truth, 
 and take the consequences . . . 
 
 He started ; for she had motioned to him — motioned 
 him away. He hesitated . . . was it love, or repent- 
 ance, or only his disquiet to see a woman cry? She mo- 
 tioned again, hysterically . . . 
 
 Hilliard's brain snapped; Syracuse had sung his 
 praise too late. The Doctor with his isms and dissec- 
 tions was too late — Carol herself was too late with 
 tears. His jaws came together; he glanced at her once 
 more, and then, in obedience to her gesture, he turned, 
 and tiptoed quietly from the room. The front door 
 closed quietly behind him. The danger of succumbing 
 was over, and, he believed, permanently and yet . . . 
 
 " Even Stephen ! " he whispered as he went down the 
 steps. 
 
 But on the sidewalk, when he realized that he should
 
 104 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 never have another opportunity to break the thread of 
 his chicanery, he had few of the musings of a hero. In- 
 stead, he knew the first faint debility of a timid crim- 
 inal. He was committed definitely to a living death. 
 Confession now was impossible ; his watchfulness must be 
 to avoid discovery. 
 
 A passer-by wondered idly what this saintly-looking 
 person was muttering under his breath. His face was 
 radiantly placid, but his shoulders were swearing.
 
 vni 
 
 BRING a problem, a tremendous, highly-ramified 
 problem, into any man's life, and if his powers of 
 concentration are strongly enough developed, his world 
 separates into two parts — the problem, and a perfect 
 blank. And to Hilliard, whose life had suddenly become 
 the apotheosis of introspection, there was a period of 
 twenty-four hours during which he scarcely knew what 
 he did, or what he said. 
 
 He could vaguely remember, afterwards, certain un- 
 related occurrences, but that was all. He could re- 
 member going back to Angela, and saying, in effect: 
 " Well, I did it ! " and he had a hazy impression that she 
 had thanked him with rather incoherent extravagance, 
 and made him violently uncomfortable. In the after- 
 noon, he had set out for a solitary walk, and had re- 
 turned at dusk, with a splitting headache and no appe- 
 tite for dinner — unable to state where he had been, and 
 indifferent to Mr. Cullen's declaration, based on a 
 fragment or two of Hilliard's recollection of landmarks, 
 that he must have walked all of twenty miles. 
 
 He had, next, a dislocated sort of memory of an 
 
 evening on the veranda, with Mr. Cullen doing most of 
 
 the talking, and doing it cheerfully and sticking with 
 
 great zeal to shop-talk. Hilliard had maintained a 
 
 steady willingness to suffer in silence, and had smiled 
 
 interminably at Angela, who thawed visibly beneath this 
 
 evidence of friendliness. 
 
 He hadn't slept, but had passed the night in a sensi- 
 
 105
 
 106 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 tized form of coma, and had reported for breakfast in 
 such palpable distress that Angela had mothered him 
 to her heart's content, and Mr. Cullen had brilliantly 
 diagnosed his ailment as nerve-fag from the disinte- 
 grating nature of his errand, and, prescribing complete 
 rest and recreation for a day or two, shown the utmost 
 hospitality, and commanded Angela to drive him to 
 Skancateles and cheer him up. 
 
 Angela had complied; and Angela had found that he 
 was immersed in a Problem, and guessed what it was. 
 Her guess was fully as correct as it had any right to be 
 (she deduced that his interview with Carol had com- 
 pletely demoralized him) and she adored him for it. In 
 addition, she was practical; as soon as she had discov- 
 ered his need of recuperation, she had taken him home, 
 and ordered him sternly to lie down and close his eyes, 
 and not bother about anything. 
 
 He had obeyed inertly, and had been wakened by the 
 advent of three pert young reporters, who mistook his 
 apathy for the diffidence of greatness, and interviewed 
 him deferentially for fifteen minutes, after which Angela 
 had expelled them, and treated Hilliard like a small boy, 
 or an invalid. And he had obe^^ed her gratefull}^ even 
 to the extent of using menthol. 
 
 Then, thoroughly worn out, he had slept. He had 
 closed his eyes when the sun was hardly past its zenith ; 
 he opened them in the violet light of late afternoon. 
 His brain was clear, his muscles were placid ; the events 
 of the past twenty-four hours were as evasively thin as 
 the plot of a two-dajs'-old dream.
 
 IX 
 
 AT six o'clock that afternoon Hilliard, freshly 
 bathed and dressed, strolled lazily down to the 
 garden behind the Cullen house in search of mild diver- 
 sion. It wasn't a large garden, but what there was 
 of it had charm and background, as well as seclusion. 
 There was a rectangle of asters and foxglove and Can- 
 terbury bells, and within it, a square of close-cropped 
 lawn bordered by mignonettes, and in the centre of 
 that, a slender marble fountain whose thin little jet 
 seemed always to be struggling to rise just another inch 
 higher than it possibly could. And there beside the 
 fountain, on the grass, stood Angela, a vision of sum- 
 mer daintiness in a little rose-coloured frock of gingham, 
 with white little frills of fascination at the neck and 
 sleeves. Her own colour, too, was roseate, and, as she 
 waved her hand to Hilliard, her eyes were sparkling. 
 
 " Hello ! " she said. " How's the invalid? " 
 
 " Ashamed," he responded, truthfully enough. 
 " There isn't an apology half big enough to — " 
 
 " Please don't ! " she interrupted. 
 
 " But think of it ! " he protested vigorously. " First 
 I saddle myself on you in this outrageous fashion, and 
 then I—" 
 
 " Hush ! " said Angela, with mock sternness. " Or 
 I'll be ashamed of you, . . . Feeling better.'* " 
 
 " Yes, but — " 
 
 " Careful ! " Her tone changed subtly. " You don't 
 seem to realize that we owe you something, too, Mr. Hil- 
 
 107
 
 108 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Hard. Men don't know how to take care of themselves 
 — that's what women are for! You just stop fussing, 
 and behave yourself." 
 
 " You're kinder to me than I deserve," said Hilliard, 
 and meant it literally. 
 
 She blushed at that, and bent down to pluck a purple 
 aster for him. 
 
 " Perhaps that's because we like you so much," she 
 said, and gave him the aster. " Shall I fix it for you? " 
 
 " Please do ! " He watched her closely, and took 
 an esthetic pleasure in the sight. Her fingers bungled 
 at the lapel, and she blushed again; her skin was ex- 
 quisitely fair and translucent; Hilliard marvelled at it. 
 " There ! " She gave the flower a final touch. " Now 
 you're all dressed up ! " She dusted her fingers prettily, 
 and smiled up at him. 
 
 Hilliard looked down at her, and smiled in response. 
 He was thinking what a child she was — how the irre- 
 pressible hoyden of two years ago was merely veneered 
 by the first coat of higher education, which is general 
 deportment. He was thinking that by all the prece- 
 dents, she should have had a kiss in barter for the bou- 
 tonniere; she had well earned it; and the reward would 
 have been as natural as her coquetry. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear," said Hilliard, with an infini- 
 tesimal sigh which was partly for the veneering, and 
 partly because she had recovered so swiftly from her 
 sorrowing for the man who stood beside her. Still, he 
 argued, grief is short-lived in the best of us, and she had 
 outgrown Morgan in his absence. But her grief had 
 been so sweet to him ! 
 
 She was beheading a stray nasturtium as she stood 
 half turned from him, her head drooping.
 
 THfc. MAN NOBODY KNEW 109 
 
 " I don't like you at all — now," she declared, with- 
 out convincing emphasis. " You said that — and you 
 looked — just as though I'm a little girl! And I'm 
 sure I've acted pretty differently to you. Haven't I.^^ '* 
 
 " Perhaps that's the way I intended to look," he said. 
 " At any rate, it was meant for a compliment." 
 
 " I wish I thought so," she protested, pouting ador- 
 ably. 
 
 Hilliard, who was completely captivated by her 
 luscious youthfulness, spoke in the same tone he had used 
 before. 
 
 " You'll have to take my solemn oath for it. . . . 
 And only see how you've spoiled that nasturtium ! " 
 
 Her lips curved reluctantly at first, and then in swift 
 surrender to him ; her delicious smile was part shy con- 
 sciousness, and part the spontaneity of eager friend- 
 ship ; she glanced at him out of the corner of one eye, 
 an ingenue coquette, and he was satisfied, then, that some 
 of her sorrow for Morgan had dissolved, because it left 
 a space in her sentiments which Hilliard himself could 
 fill. Also, she had never coquetted with Morgan ; she 
 hadn't known how. 
 
 " I'll take your word for it, then," she said, and gave 
 him a tantalizing glimpse of her piquant features. 
 " And I suppose you think you're a regular patriarch ! " 
 This was provocative — slightly impertinent. Hilliard 
 was inwardly convulsed. 
 
 " Old enough to be respected, anyway," he said. 
 There was a bantering gravity in his voice, but also a 
 trace of something serious. Her rejoinder was in pre- 
 cisely the same spirit. 
 
 " Oh, but I never respect people — never in the least." 
 
 "No.? Not even ministers, or movie-actors, or mil-
 
 110 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 lionaires?" The relief from the strain of yesterday 
 was incalculable; nothing could have been more revivi- 
 fying than this harmless conflict of words ; he could feel 
 his whole soul relaxing under the influence of it. 
 
 " Not a respect ! " she said, with an odd little combi- 
 nation of defiance and humour. " Men are just babies. 
 That's all they are; just babies. I have to laugh at 
 'em." 
 
 " Indeed ! So you're laughing at me, are you, too ? 
 I'll admit I gave you something of an opportunity." 
 
 " Not yet — but I will sometime, of course. And I 
 wish you wouldn't make fun of my trying to take care of 
 you — that's different. You needed it." 
 
 Hilliard burst out laughing, and laughed immoder- 
 ately. 
 
 '' If eventually, why not now ? " he inquired, still con- 
 vulsed. To his astonishment there were sudden depths 
 in those big delft-blue eyes of hers : and her answer was 
 made without the least remaining vestige of humour. 
 
 " Well," she said, " I can't put it in words exactly, 
 but so far, you are different. I haven't laughed at you 
 yet because the one thing in the world I don*t laugh at is 
 experience. I ... I cant! And you look as though 
 you'd had just heaps and heaps. So, I won't laugh at 
 you until I've found you out. And it won't be when 
 you're tired, or sick, or something, either." 
 
 Hilliard shook his head. 
 
 " Don't you know any one else who's had what you 
 call experience? " 
 
 Angela shook her head. " Not like yours. I feel 
 all the time as though you'd lived so much more than 
 anybody else I've ever met. It isn't anything you do 
 or anything you say — it's just there. Perhaps it's the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 111 
 
 war. Or . . . you've travelled a lot, haven't you? I 
 know you have. That may be it; that's what counts 
 most." 
 
 " Yes," he said indifferently, " I've chased rainbows 
 pretty much all over the world. It's been a busy life, 
 Angela, but looking back on it I don't believe it's been 
 half as happy as yours." 
 
 " As mine! " she gasped, and the shock had driven 
 every atom of self-consciousness out of her. " Why, 
 whatever do you mean? " 
 
 " Just that," said Hilliard. " What else? " 
 
 " And you've been everywhere and seen everything — 
 and you expect to say that and have me believe it? " 
 
 " No — but that doesn't make it any less true. You 
 don't get happiness by doing what you want to ; you 
 get it by doing what you particularly donH want to. 
 That's preachy, of course, but it happens to be true. 
 Honestly. Cross my heart." 
 
 " You actually think I'm happy here, do you? " 
 
 " Why, aren't you ? " he asked, genuinely taken 
 aback. 
 
 In her confusion, she had moved very near to him; 
 her flushed little face, lifted to his, was almost expres- 
 sionless with incredulity. Her breath was quickened, 
 and the colour in her cheeks was indescribably lovely. 
 Hilliard found himself regarding her not as an old and 
 tested playmate, but as a new and, as yet, an un- 
 fathomed friend. 
 
 " You think I could be happy vegetating in this — 
 this miserable old dump? " 
 
 " What ! " said Hilliard. « You don't like it? " 
 
 " This? " Angela's voice was girlishly shrill with 
 repugnance. " Why, I loathe it ! Why Mr. Hilliard,
 
 112 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 I've never been anywhere! Never anywhere at all! 
 Just Syracuse — cloudy and sooty and cold and rainy 
 and slushy and humid — and you've been all over the 
 whole wide world — and then you compare — " Her 
 voice broke. " You compare your life with this ! I — ■ 
 Vm living in a horrid old prison ; you re free! '* 
 
 He had a strong intuition that Angela had been 
 reading a book ; but he forbore to ask her. 
 
 " I should think you'd be very contented here," he 
 began condolingly. 
 
 " Wliat with? " she flared and Hilliard was reminded 
 of nothing so much as a fluffy kitten grown belligerent. 
 
 " Why, my dear child, your father gives you every- 
 thing you want, and — " 
 
 " That shows how little you know about it ! " she 
 flamed. " I don't want to hang around here all my 
 life ! there's nothing here he can give me ! I want to 
 go abroad — everywhere. I want some experiences, I 
 want to travel, too. London, and Paris, and Russia, 
 and Japan, and Honolulu, and Bermuda, and India, and 
 Egypt, and ~" 
 
 " But the war, my dear — the war ! " She drew 
 herself up with immense dignity. 
 
 "Well, I could be a nurse or something, couldn't I.'^ 
 Everybody says I've got magnetic hands ! " 
 
 " Haven't you friends enough to keep you amused.'' " 
 he asked, avoiding tlie complication of an answer. 
 
 " Friends ? Oh, in a way — " 
 
 " No nice young men to play with — and laugh 
 at.?" 
 
 " No," she denied. " Not many. And the only one 
 I ever really cared much of anj'thing about — until a 
 little while ago — »was — was Dick Morgan."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 113 
 
 Hilliard began to feel a tightening in his throat. 
 
 *' But he was ever so much older than you are, wasn't 
 he?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said. " He was almost middle-aged." 
 Hilliard started. " But — he understood. That's all 
 — he just understood." 
 
 " Understood what, Angela ? " 
 
 She was plucking intently at the frills of one of 
 her sleeves. 
 
 *' My wanting to go to places, and see things. And 
 have — sort of adventures. And — " She glanced up 
 suddenly, and her pupils swelled. "Why — why, you 
 understand, too — doTi't you?" she said breathlessly. 
 
 Hilliard's expression was unaltered. 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " By the way you're looking at me — " In absolute 
 unconsciousness of self, she had seized a lapel of his 
 coat in either hand ; she was standing almost on tiptoe 
 in her endeavour to read his thoughts. She was a 
 lovely, restless, highly excited child, and Hilliard was 
 not at all immune to beauty. " What have you done? " 
 she demanded imperatively, wide-eyed. " How did you 
 do it? How did you get away from things? You 
 have done it — I know you have — you've got the same 
 sort of far-off look in your eyes that Dicky had when 
 he used to tell me stories ! " Her eyes were liquid won- 
 der. " That's why I liked him so much. And you re- 
 mind me of him a lot. Tell me ! " 
 
 " Do I? " Hilliard was quaking internally ; he strug- 
 gled to break the continuity of her imagination. " Do 
 you know what you remind me of? " 
 
 Her vanity refused to yield to the suggestion, and 
 Hilliard trembled at the thought of what a ghastly
 
 114 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 anticlimax might result from any recognition now. 
 
 " On the outside, you're not like him at all," she said, 
 " but you give me an awfully creepy feeling when you 
 look at me like that. It's like — transmigration of 
 souls, you know. As though ... as though Dicky 
 sent me a message through your eyes ... to go with 
 the one he sent by your hands. It's awfully creepy ! " 
 
 HiUiard tried to laugh. 
 
 *' I don't believe in supernatural things ; do you ? " 
 
 She released him, but lost none of her attentiveness. 
 
 *' I never did before," she said. 
 
 Hilliard found himself unable to tear his eyes from 
 her : the danger fascinated him. All his early confidence 
 had gone unstable, and he was shivering at the prospect 
 of detection. Nevertheless, he knew that this was no 
 time to compromise; he must brazen it out. 
 
 " You don't mean to saj that you do now? " 
 
 " But it's all so queer," she said, perplexed. " You're 
 so unlike him, and yet. ... I wish I could describe it, 
 Mr. Hilliard. If I'd had my back turned when you 
 spoke to me, I ... I think I'd have called you ' Dick ' 
 without ever thinking about it. I suppose I seem aw- 
 fully silly to you." 
 
 " No." And in fact, he was afraid of her because 
 she was so exactly the opposite. " You're only very 
 sensitive, Angela." He saw the chance to capitalize 
 her doubt, and seized it avidlj- . " Perhaps it's because 
 your friend and I had the same sort of penchant for ad- 
 ventures." 
 
 She shook her head. " No, that can't be it — • loads 
 of people have that. Why, even Dad does — and still 
 he can't see why I should." 
 
 " Somehow I hadn't thought of him as an adven-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 115 
 
 turer," said Hilliard lightly. He was as shaken as a 
 man who has been snatched back from vertigo on the 
 edge of a precipice. 
 
 " Oh, but he is I He's too busy to go and do it, but 
 right here in town he does some of the funniest 
 things — " 
 
 "For instance?" Hilliard dared to breathe affain. 
 
 " Why," said Angela, " he can't very well go off 
 buccaneering, you know, but any business that's sort 
 of romantic, he just simply can't keep his hands off of ! 
 He's put money in oil wells and submarines and he's 
 backed a plan to raise a ship that was sunk early in the 
 war, and he — " 
 
 " Your father," said Hilliard, smiling in limp re- 
 lief, " must be a very rich man ! " 
 
 " Oh, he is ! " said Angela carelessly. " And if he 
 could go and superintend those things liimself, he'd 
 be perfectly crazy about it. He's a bigger baby than 
 anybody else I know ! But when / say a word — " 
 
 " He doesn't respond? " 
 
 " No! He says I'm silly ! He says it's spring fever, 
 or something. And he's actually scouting for things 
 to do all the time himself ! He's thinking about putting 
 some money in a gold mine this minute. And going out 
 to stay in Arizona two or three months and watch 
 it! He says it's business, but / know it's Arizona. 
 He—" 
 
 "He is, is he!" Hilliard frowned slightly. "If 
 he's interested in mining, I could give him some good 
 advice myself." 
 
 She was instantly alert. 
 
 "Why, do you own a gold mine?" Her tone was 
 almost reverential.
 
 116 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " No, but I own part of a copper mine." 
 
 " Oh, I wish I could see it ! " she said, with exquisite 
 envj. " I wish I could. Where is it? " 
 
 " Montana. And perhaps you can, sometime." 
 
 " Honestly? " The veneering over her eager youth- 
 fulness was very thin. 
 
 " I'd love to have you. It's in a beautiful country, 
 too." 
 
 "Could . . . could Dad be in it, too?" 
 
 " Why," said Hilliard, " I'm not trying to sell any- 
 thing to — " 
 
 " Oh, I know, but he's crazy about those things ! " 
 She clasped her hands in fervent and premature excite- 
 ment. " And so am I. Now you just listen! It isn't 
 as though he werenH interested in — " 
 
 " But, my dear child ! " he protested, humorously. 
 " Your father wouldn't bother his head about my 
 schemes, even if I'd let him. He — " 
 
 "But he wotdd! That's just where you're wrong! 
 Dad'Il bite at anything ! " She was belatedly conscious 
 of the slip, and blushed furiously. " I didn't mean 
 that — you know." 
 
 " Of course," said Hilliard. 
 
 "I mean, he's just like a boy — about schemes and 
 things. Adventures. And 3^ou'll talk to him, won't 
 you? Please? To please me?" 
 
 " Why," said Hilliard, " I don't exactly know what 
 you want me to talk to him about, but — " 
 
 " Why, about your mine, and mining in general, 
 and . . . don't you see? Don't you see where / come 
 in? Don't you see what a lot you could do for me? 
 Aren't you willing to do even that much? Couldn't we 
 aU go out there sometime — couldn't we? "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 117 
 
 " Well — " Hilliard was slightly off his balance at 
 the unexpected aid flung towards him. 
 
 " Hark ! " she said, with her head to one side in a 
 singularly birdlike attitude. " There's the Packard 
 now ! There's Dad ! Come on ! " 
 
 Impetuously, she caught his hand, but her intended 
 flight was cut short when Hilliard remained stockstill. 
 She glanced back inquiringly ; Hilliard smiled down at 
 her. He continued to hold her hand; she stared at it, 
 and then at Hilliard in some bewilderment. And pres- 
 ently he lifted it to his lips ; and Angela, equally 
 alarmed and transported, blushed still more rosily, and 
 backed away. 
 
 " I didn't give it to you for that," she said, with 
 ingenuous primness. 
 
 " I know you didn't," he conceded. " But — " 
 Here her wide and expressive eyes met his own, and clung 
 to them. " But let me give you now the one — he 
 sent you," said Hilliard soberly. And kissed her hand 
 again, as though it had been a queen's. 
 
 As they started up the incline towards the house, 
 he told himself that he should have to be very cautious 
 with Angela after this. He knew, from the way she 
 had looked at him, that Continental courtesies had 
 heretofore been lacking from her young experience.
 
 ORDINARILY, Mr. Cullen was satisfied to bring a 
 single evening paper home with him, and when he 
 laid it on the hall table, it was generally creased down 
 the financial page; but tonight, he brought two, and 
 each of them had wrinkles across the market reports 
 and were folded so as to feature the departments de- 
 voted to local news. The Journal had beaten the 
 Herald by two sticks and a subhead, but the Herald 
 had honoured Dicky Morgan with a kindly editorial and 
 both papers had stated explicitly where Hilliard was 
 making his headquarters. Mr. Cullen had a broad- 
 gauge disposition, and Mr. Cullen had prestige which 
 nothing short of a cataclysm could disturb, but Mr. 
 Cullen was so nearly one hundred percent normal that 
 if The Average Man ever really existed, outside of 
 political arguments and tables of statistics, Mr. Cullen 
 might almost have passed for a specimen of this in- 
 teresting genus. Therefore, it stands to reason that 
 Mr. Cullen wasn't wholly displeased, even under such 
 melancholy auspices, to be included in the spotlight 
 of publicity. Indeed, he would have been seriously 
 offended if he hadn't been mentioned at least once in 
 each paper ; and this is no more a reflection upon his 
 vanity than the fact that he cherished a lively anticipa- 
 tion for what the Post-Standard was going to say about 
 the case tomorrow morning. It was merely a matter 
 of local prerogative: and he was entitled to it. It 
 was a mark of his standing in the community — His 
 
 Name in Print. 
 
 118
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 119 
 
 Nevertheless, there was a fly in the ointment — not 
 verj much of a fly, to be sure, but still appreciable; 
 and after all, it isn't the size of the invader that counts. 
 Mr. CuUen was generous ; Mr. Cullen was hospitable ; 
 but Mr. Cullen was also the tiniest bit of a snob — 
 not a carping, contemptuous, supercilious snob, but a 
 healthy, hearty, open-spirited snob, frank in his liking 
 for the things he liked, — and one of them was to he 
 somebody, and have the neighbours know it. He liked 
 to fraternize with important men; he liked to see his 
 name in the paper now and then ; he liked to feel superior 
 — just one harmless little degree more consequential — 
 than his next-door neighbour. And the neighbour, of 
 course, had to share this conviction, or there wasn't 
 any purpose in it. 
 
 And Mr. Cullen, with all this ingenuous weakness for 
 prominence, hadn't known until the evening papers told 
 him so, hadn't even suspected (although now he was 
 trying busily to persuade himself that he had sus- 
 pected it all along, from one thing and another) that his 
 guest was a mining engineer of international reputa- 
 tion, and independently wealthy to boot. It was enough 
 to discomfit any host! It was enough to annoy any 
 man, whether average or not, who prided himself (and 
 most of us do) that he had unusual discernment, and 
 was a Good Judge of Human Nature. That is — it 
 was enough to irritate any trustworthy individual who 
 didn't realize that the avid young reporters had simply 
 taken Hilliard's word for it, and scurried back to their 
 offices to turn out readable copy as fast as they con- 
 veniently could. 
 
 Curiosity gnawed at him, for he was a man who 
 liked to get his data at first hand, and not to have to
 
 no THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 take it in the form of stew, after he had missed the 
 original roast; he liked the authority of confidential 
 information. And so, when he met the pair of young 
 people at the head of the garden, he began to fire away 
 pointblank at Hilliard; and this was barely after the 
 greetings, and a question as to the state of Milliard's 
 health, and before Angela had found an opportunity to 
 get a word in edgewise. It wasn't altogether an op- 
 portune moment, but the Average Man never stands 
 on ceremony. 
 
 " Understand you're a mining man, Mr. Hilliard," 
 he said, pleasantly. 
 
 " I used to be," said Hilliard, with a glance for 
 Angela. " I've retired. I thought I told you so the 
 first night I was here." 
 
 " Oh, 3'es — you did say something about it, but — " 
 Mr. Cullen laughed with the fulness of one who has 
 unearthed secrets. " It took some of our bright young 
 newspaper crowd to ferret out the facts. You're too 
 modest — that's what the matter with you ! " 
 
 As Hilliard smiled in deprecation, Angela, crowing 
 triumphantly, snatched for the papers. 
 
 "Where is it?" she cried. "Where ... oh!" 
 And relapsed into beatific calm, devouring the none too 
 conservative paragraphs with all her might. The 
 cold-typed repetition of the well-known story sobered 
 her considerably; still, it was for Hilliard's and her 
 father's names that she gloated; and as for the 
 panegyric of Morgan, that was only an added garland 
 to the wreath which was already his. 
 
 "Russian and English syndicate, wasn't it?" asked 
 Mr. Cullen, not too absorbed in the answer to refrain 
 from giving the garden his usual brief inspection, and 
 finding it attractive.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 121 
 
 " Yes," said Hilliard. " English and Russian." 
 
 Mechanically, he began to rehearse the technical 
 subtleties which he hadn't expected to find use for within 
 a brace of fortnights. It was well, however, to be pre- 
 pared; and the time to plant the seed of desire is when 
 the prospect is willing, 
 
 *' Mighty interesting game — mining," said Cullen. 
 " Let's wander down by the fountain; shall we? ... I 
 don't know why it is, but it sort of fascinates me — 
 guess it does everybody. More romance in it than most 
 lines," Here Angela looked up sharply, and gurgled 
 with wicked satisfaction, and sent a lifted eye-brow 
 signal across to Hilliard. 
 
 " Yes," said Hilliard, " but there's more tragedy 
 too. I suppose that's the law of compensation getting 
 to work. Big profits call for big risks." 
 
 This was for sand in Cullen's eyes ; and it had its 
 effect. 
 
 " Oh, but the ratio's the same in almost any business, 
 Mr. Hilliard, isn't it? It's about the same theory. 
 Savings banks pay three to four percent, but they 
 never made a man rich yet. But copper has ! " 
 
 "I'll have to admit," said Hilliard lightly, "that 
 the odds are on the side of the experts. But as for 
 the romance — " He smiled at Angela and wondered 
 if he dared begin so soon to build up the framework of 
 his mission. " I've been telling Angela that it's mostly 
 hard work. Once in a while you do run into something 
 lurid, of course — romantic, if you want to call it so. 
 I remember one bit out of my own experience." Angela 
 had dropped the papers, and was listening as closely 
 as her father. " A few years ago some friends of mine 
 bought up an old abandoned property out in the Butte
 
 122 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 region; bought it for a. song, and it was a very quiet 
 peaceful little song at that, because metals had been 
 dull, and — to continue the metaphor — mj friends 
 weren't in particularly good voice just then. But after 
 they'd taken title, they realized that they'd only sung 
 the first verse to the soiig, and there were a lot more 
 verses and a pretty strenuous chorus. There was a 
 shaft to be unwatered and a lot of timber-work to 
 be done ; they were in for a big expense, and their credit 
 had tucks in it, and the outlook wasn't any too rosy. 
 But thirty yards from the main workings there was a 
 fairish sort of tunnel, with the start of a winze — that's 
 a blind shaft running down obliquely from a horizontal 
 tunnel — and it pointed straight towards the main 
 shaft, and it occurred to them that they could continue 
 that winze another few feet, strike their main shaft 
 at about the hundred and fifty foot level, and save a 
 lot of labour and expense that way by getting a clean 
 approach to the shaft instead of taking a lot of bother 
 with it in its decrepit condition. Well, they began to 
 go down that winze, and inside of ten feet they struck a 
 brand new and unsuspected vein — there hadn't been 
 any outcrop showing; it was sheer, unadulterated luck. 
 Then they had credit — they certainly did ! To make 
 a long story short, they pawned their futures, and 
 begged and borrowed every penny they could lay their 
 hands on, and they developed that property to the 
 last cent, and when they had perhaps two hundred 
 thousand or so tons of four percent copper in sight, 
 and there were indicated ore reserves of another lialf 
 a million tons, they sold that property to a group 
 of New Yorkers for an utterly phenomenal price, with-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 123 
 
 out ever having so much as touched the origmal shaft 
 for which they'd bought the property 1 " 
 
 "Ouch!" said Cullen, and "Goodness!" said 
 Angela. 
 
 " And," said Hilliard, smiling reminiscently, " if the 
 original owners had pushed that winze for a couple of 
 days more than they did, or if my friends hadn't de- 
 cided to go at the problem in exactly that way . . . 
 well, as I say, what's one man's romance is another 
 man's tragedy. My friends got their investment back 
 in something less than four months, and after that it 
 was all velvet. And the selling price was in the neigh- 
 bourhood of two hundred times what they'd paid 
 for it. That's mining history, Mr. Cullen." And in- 
 deed it was — and the only fabrication about it was 
 Hilliard's claim of friendship for the lucky owners. 
 This, as he assured himself, was salesman's license — • 
 every successful operator is a " friend " of any sales- 
 man. 
 
 Cullen nodded thoughtfully ; his eyes were very bright. 
 Angela was alternately regarding him with indulgent 
 pity, and sending I-told-you-so messages to Hilliard. 
 
 " Where was this — in Montana ? " 
 
 " Silverbow County. Near Butte. Yes, there is 
 romance in that country, Mr. Cullen. It's in every tree 
 and every rock, and in every hill and valley and under 
 the ground. And I'm afraid I'm just enough of a 
 realist to find most of my own under the surface." 
 
 " To save my life," said Cullen, " I can't help think- 
 ing of that region as a Mark Twain sort of country 
 — sombreros and six-shooters and Vigilantes and stage 
 coach hold-nps and gold dust as a medium of exchange.
 
 124. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 I know it's childish, but I've never been out there, and 
 it's hard to get over what we learned at school." He 
 surveyed his vaunted garden less arrogantly ; the foun- 
 tain, which in his moments of complacence had all the 
 attributes of a geyser for him, was suddenly a feeble 
 faucet, and the tidy lawn was no more seductive than 
 a window-box. 
 
 " The up-to-date schoolbooks," said Hilliard, laugh- 
 ing, " have a good many changes in them. The West 
 of the early eighties is all gone, the atmosphere is all 
 gone, the old-style miners are all gone ; you used to 
 see some picturesque sights even ten years ago, but 
 nowadays you best realize how the industry has changed 
 when you see a couple of pals hunting for work in a 
 Ford. Drive up to a camp, ask for a job, get it, park 
 the Ford, take the tools out of the delivery body on 
 behind, and pitch in. And 3^ou can imagine the other 
 changes that accompany that one. Of course, that's 
 especially typical of Arizona, but we get it in Montana, 
 too. I'm not saying that the colour has gone out en- 
 tirely, because it hasn't, but in the old days the West 
 was the West, and now it's moving East as fast as it 
 conveniently can, so that if you want to get the pure 
 spirit of it, as it is today, you'll have to go down to 
 Wall Street. That's where it lives." 
 
 " Mining — mining ! " mused Mr. Cullen. " Sounds 
 adventurous just to say it! " He gazed fixedly at the 
 tenuous fountain. 
 
 " And no industry is less understood — even b}^ in- 
 telligent men, Mr. Cullen. As a matter of fact, the pub- 
 lic doesn't even understand most of the commonest 
 terms. The buying public doesn't even know what
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 125 
 
 it is buying. That's why it's so easy to sell worthless 
 stock." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. HiUiard!" 
 
 " For instance," he said. " I spoke of a certain 
 number of tons of ore in sight, and that's one of the 
 very commonest expressions in a fake prospectus. I 
 suppose you know you couldn't see it, don't you? " 
 
 " Why, no ! " said Mr. Cullen, blankly. " Couldn't 
 I? " 
 
 " You might actually see a few thousand dollars' 
 worth." 
 
 " Why," said Angela, surprisedly, " I thought it 
 stuck right out on the walls ! In gobs ! And you 
 knocked it off with a pickaxe ! And shovelled it up ! " 
 
 " Not exactly that," said Hilliard, kindly. " Some- 
 times you go at an ore body with steam shovels, and 
 other times you don't. But when you remember that 
 three or four pounds of copper to every hundred pounds 
 of rock means a very handsome profit, if your costs 
 aren't excessive, you have some idea of how little you 
 could knock off a wall. No — you tear down the whole 
 mass. You go at it wholesale." 
 
 " What I meant by romance," said Mr. Cullen, 
 " wasn't necessarily luck. And besides, this yarn 
 you've just told us doesn't illustrate what I call a busi- 
 ness proposition. What I'm trying to get at is that 
 you've got an occupation that isn't a cut-and-dried 
 one like the average. There's breadth to it — vision. 
 There's drama. There's the outdoor side to it. 
 There's — " 
 
 " Don't forget," Hilliard warned him, " that I pur- 
 posely gave you that illustration, and I think you've 
 missed the moral. It was a business proposition. My
 
 126 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 friends bought the mine for the values they knew were 
 there. They'd have made money if they'd gone ahead 
 unwatering and timbering and developing the old shaft 
 — so that it wasn't all bull luck, not by any means. 
 And I claim that the romance and the drama and the 
 excitement is in the combination of business sense with 
 that wonderful possibility of accident. You don't go 
 in at random ; you use your best judgment, and expect 
 about ten percent on your money — and it's the chance 
 of getting a thousand percent that keeps the game 
 alive. Some men don't even get the ten . . . mighty 
 few ever get the thousand. I'm satisfied, and more than 
 satisfied, that the gods have been good to me, and put 
 me somewhere in between." 
 
 Mr. Cullen's interest in the garden had dwindled to 
 zero. 
 
 " I suppose for the people on the inside," he said, " a 
 mining proposition is just as safe and business-like as 
 anything else. And as you say, when luck's with it, 
 it's unbeatable. The trouble comes in knowing when 
 a mine's a mine, and when it's a swindle, and I guess 
 you have to be a metallurgical shark to know that any- 
 way. But the way things have been going for the 
 last year or two, with all this speculation in the metals, 
 and all the fortunes that have been made, sort of set 
 me to thinking that with good advice, you — " 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Hilliard quickly. 
 " There's been mighty little speculation in metals, 
 Mr. Cullen ; but there's been a tremendous amount of 
 speculation in stock. The difference between West and 
 East; the diflPerence between insider and outsider; the 
 difi^erence between the capitalist and the gambler is this 
 !— the East, the outsider and the gambler buy stock;
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 127 
 
 the West, the insider and the capitalist buy mines. 
 Buy them outright and develop them first and exploit 
 them afterwards. If they're good, the West keeps them 
 to itself and pockets the profits ; if they're shaky, the 
 West sells stocks to the East, and gets its profit that 
 way, and calmly steps out from under. And more than 
 that, sir, the average man who buys mining stock doesn't 
 know what he's getting into. The public doesn't real- 
 ize how much it's paying for what it gets. The art 
 and science of underwriting . . ." 
 
 " Now you just wait a second," interrupted Angela, 
 who had been fidgeting and playing with her wrist 
 watch. " Dad — Mr. Hilliard ! This is awfully in- 
 teresting, but dinner's in just a few minutes, and — " 
 
 " Plenty of time," said CuUen, waving her off. 
 " Plenty of time ! Go ahead, Mr. Hilliard. This is too 
 good to miss. Smoke a cigarette for an appetizer.''" 
 
 " Thank you." Hilliard, having decided to take com- 
 plete advantage of the present opportunity, marshalled 
 his salient details as he held a match for his host. 
 " Well, perhaps I can show you best by an actual ex- 
 ample. I'm out of the game entirely, as I said, but I 
 was invited a day or two ago to join a New York 
 syndicate in financing a property I appraised myself 
 in 1914. It's in the same district as the romantic mine 
 I've just told you about; I don't mean to imply that 
 it'll have the same sort of history, but it looks like a 
 good, substantial tiling. It's owned at present by four 
 boys with a shoe-string apiece. They can't finance it 
 themselves, so they need help, and they've come to Wall 
 Street and whispered their secret through a megaphone. 
 Now suppose, just to make it clear all around, that 
 you and I and Angela are to form a syndicate to under-
 
 us THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 write the compan3\" He was sustained by the reflec- 
 tion that even though he came in the guise of a mounte- 
 bank, there was nothing dishonourable about the wares 
 he had brought to sell. 
 
 " Ooh ! " said Angela, joyously. " Thanks ! " 
 
 Simultaneously her father gave her a little frown 
 of affectionate remonstrance, and Hilliard gave her a 
 little smile of affectionate esteem. 
 
 " Now the boys who own it," said Hilliard, '* are in 
 such straits that we can practically dictate our own 
 terms. I don't mean to imply that we'd take too great 
 an advantage of them, but it's a plain case of supply and 
 demand, and we're naturally interested in a bargain. 
 The first thing to do, before we decide any of the de- 
 tails, is to look over the situation and find out exactly 
 what it is we're asked to buy. So we go over the 
 mine very carefully, and find that although it isn't 
 actually producing any copper just j^et, because the 
 owners ran out of money before they could get that 
 far, it has enough ore reserves to guarantee at least ten 
 thousand tons a year for twenty years, provided the 
 necessary equipment is bought and put into operation. 
 That tonnage, with the price of copper where it is now, 
 — around thirty cents, — and the cost of production 
 what it is now, and other factors what they are now 
 would eventually mean a net profit of about a quarter of 
 a million dollars a year. So first we have these present 
 owners organize a corporation, capitalized at two mil- 
 lion dollars." 
 
 Cullen smoked violently, and looked puzzled. 
 
 " You're getting out of my depth. How do you 
 arrive at that? " 
 
 ** That's so as to insure ten percent dividends. And
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 1£9 
 
 the mine can pay ten percent, provided we can arrange 
 to get the capital. You see, Mr. Cullen, a copper mine 
 isn't like a factory, and you can't figure it the same 
 way, because a factory runs on indefinitely, and if you 
 simpl}' replace the machinery whenever it wears out, 
 there's nothing to prevent the same plant from keeping 
 on making the same sort of product for a hundred 
 years. But every pound of ore you take out of a mine 
 leaves that much less for the future, and eventually 
 your ore's going to be all gone. And if this particular 
 mine is going to be exhausted in about twenty years, 
 it stands to reason that it's being exhausted at the 
 rate of one-twentieth, or five percent, a year. You 
 must take that always into consideration. And there- 
 fore, every stockholder is entitled to get back at least 
 five percent of his money each year to cover that de- 
 preciation, in addition to whatever he ought to get for 
 ordinary profits, which is another five percent. Other- 
 wise — " 
 
 " Oh ! I see ! " cried Angela. 
 
 " Prove it ! " commanded Hilliard indulgently. 
 
 " Why, if the company just paid five percent for 
 twenty years, and at the end of it, your ore was all 
 gone, the people would only just have got their money 
 back, and they wouldn't have made any real profit at 
 aU!" 
 
 " Exactly ! " said Hilliard. " So the company must 
 pay at least ten percent — half for bona-fide dividends 
 and half for depreciation." 
 
 " Oho 1 " said Cullen, opening his eyes. " Is that 
 why the big mining companies pay such big dividends? 
 I thought it was all clear profit ! " 
 
 " No, sir. That's what I told you ten minutes ago —
 
 130 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 the average investor doesn't know what he's buying. 
 The dividends of a mining company have to be very 
 high to be attractive at all; they have to make good 
 that depreciation. Well, we make the boys incorporate, 
 as I said, for two million dollars, on which we can pay 
 ten percent. I'll show you what the set-up looks like." 
 He wrote on the back of an old envelope; CAPITAL- 
 IZATION $2,000,000 — ^00,000 shares at $10 each. 
 
 " Now, the company ( and you must remember that 
 so far we haven't any official connection with it), agrees 
 to take over the property, and pay the present owners 
 for it with 80,000 shares of stock, and it also agrees to 
 sell to you and Angela and me the other 120,000 shares 
 at a dollar apiece, or $120,000, of which we agree to 
 pay half in cash, and the balance in about ninety 
 days." 
 
 " Is that all they get ? " demanded Angela. " Why, 
 how stingy ! " 
 
 " But — it's robbery ! " gasped Mr. Cullen. 
 
 " Hardly that," said Hilliard, smihng. " The boys 
 haven't a penny, and they've got to raise money or 
 the mine's no good to them, because they couldn't 
 develop it anyway. We've agreed to provide the 
 money, and we'll let them manage the business just as 
 before. Besides, don't forget that they've been paid by 
 the corporation for their interest with 80,000 shares 
 of stock, and that what we do later will make it worth 
 a fortune. And don't think that the $120,000 we've 
 promised to pay goes to the boys personally, because it 
 doesn't ; it goes into the treasury of the company to be 
 used for machinery and labour." He wrote again.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 131 
 
 Stock Paid to Individual 
 
 Owners 80,000 shares 
 
 Stock Sold to Syndicate. . 120,000 shares 
 
 Total 200,000 shares 
 
 " Now, then," he said, " we own 120,000 shares for 
 which we've paid, and agreed to pay $120,000. That 
 is, we've underwritten these shares for a dollar apiece, 
 and paid down half the amount. I ask you to remem- 
 ber that on our first conservative estimate, the value of 
 each share was ten dollars: but the value isn't there 
 until our brains and our work and our investment has 
 created it. Now let's begin to look at it from the 
 public's standpoint. Here's a mine with plenty of ore ; 
 and a company with cash enough on hand to begin 
 producing at a profit very soon — although nobody 
 pretends that it's actually producing now. It has 
 $60,000 in the bank, and another $60,000 due in ninety 
 days. It can go ahead and contract for machinery and 
 workmen, and it does, and you and Angela and I are 
 still letting the former owners manage it, but since we're 
 in control of the stock, we either elect ourselves as di- 
 rectors, or elect other people whose names carry weight 
 with the public, so that we can always direct the gen- 
 eral policy, and see that it's careful and conserva- 
 tive. From every angle, then, financial and moral, the 
 venture looks like a big success. So you and Angela 
 and I go to a good broker, or to a group of brokers, 
 and make them a proposition. We convince them of the 
 value we have ; we let them send their own engineers 
 out to make a report, and as evidence of good faith, 
 we pay all their expenses ; we let them go over our books.
 
 132 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Everything's fair and square and above-board. And 
 we agree that these brokers will take some of this stock 
 off our hands to sell to the public (because they've got 
 a selling organization alreadj' established, and plenty 
 of customers who look to them for advice) and it's 
 agreed that they'll pay us — say, four dollars a share 
 for what they think they can sell. Now we're getting 
 down to simple arithmetic." He gestured, as a school- 
 master gestures. " How many shares have we got to 
 place with the brokers, at four dollars apiece, to get 
 back the $60,000 we've already advanced, and the addi- 
 tional $60,000 that's due in three months.?" 
 
 " Thirty thousand," said Angela briskly- . 
 
 " Thirty thousand," corroborated her father. At 
 this juncture, a bell was ringing persistently from the 
 direction of the house, but no one noticed it. 
 
 "Right!" Hilliard made the notation on the back 
 of the envelope. " And as an added inducement, we'd 
 have to give the brokers a rather long option on some 
 more stock — they insist on it, and it's customary. If 
 they take up the option, we're paid cash, and if they 
 don't, we'll keep the stock for ourselves anyway. Also, 
 we arrange to pay all our own lawyers, and experts, 
 and all the commissions, and so on, in stock, to save 
 cash. That's customary, too, when the proposition's so 
 evidently honest. The brokers then do some advertis- 
 ing, send out their circulars and bulletins and pamphlets 
 to their customers, and sell that stock to the public 
 for an3rv\^here from six to eight dollars a share. That 
 is, the public is glad enough, when the prospect's a good 
 one, to pay seven or eight dollars (because every share's 
 going to be worth ten) for what cost the broker four 
 dollars, and cost us one dollar — which we've already
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 133 
 
 got back from the brokers, and we've still got the half 
 of those 120,000 shares of ours left besides ! So here's 
 the final balance sheet ! " He hastily totalled the list, 
 and handed it over to Cullen. 
 
 Capitalization $2,000,000 — 200,000 shares 
 
 at $10. 
 Stock Paid to Individual 
 
 Owners 80,000 shares 
 
 Stock Sold to Syndicate 
 
 FOE $120,000 120,000 shares 
 
 Total 200,000 shares 
 
 Of Our 120,000 shares 
 We sell to brokers 30,000 shares 
 
 Leaving 90,000 shares 
 
 We give brokers a 2 year 
 
 option at $5 apiece on . . 20,000 shares 
 
 Leaving 70,000 shares 
 
 We pay lawyers, experts, 
 
 etc 10,000 shares 
 
 Leaving 60,000 shares 
 
 " And that balance of 60,000 shares," he said, " be- 
 longs to us three. The brokers are making a market 
 and establishing a price ; and in order to protect them- 
 selves, they can't afford to let the stock sell under the 
 price theyWe charging the public — because if they 
 did, the public wouldn't buy up the rest of what the
 
 134 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 brokers have to sell, but they'd buy it in the open 
 market. So the brokers protect the market, by what's 
 considered perfectly legitimate means, although some 
 folks call it manipulation, and they keep the price up 
 by main strength until the first dividend is paid, and 
 after that they don't have to worry, because now every- 
 body sees what a good thing it is, and flocks in to take 
 advantage of it, and the quotations jump up to twelve 
 or fifteen. Everybody's made money ; the brokers have 
 made theirs ; the public's making theirs, and when the 
 price is right the syndicate sells in open market the 
 60,000 shares it had left, and you and Angela and I have 
 each made a quarter of a million dollars without really 
 risking a single cent! Because, as I said, we got our 
 money back right at the beginning." 
 
 Angela, who had followed the intricacies of the set-up 
 with the liveliest interest, turned pale; and Cullen's 
 jaw sagged. Hilliard, returning his fountain pen to 
 his pocket with the utmost nonchalance, had no more 
 apprehension left in him, for Cullen had swallowed the 
 bait whole. Cullen, Average Man that he was, — a 
 good enough manager of his own small enterprise, but 
 woefully ignorant of the financial world at large — 
 Cullen coughed raspingly. 
 
 " It's a very pretty picture, but suppose the market 
 never goes up? " 
 
 " It will as soon as there's a dividend in sight ; that's 
 inevitable. And even if it stays pegged at seven or 
 eight, there's a huge profit for us, isn't there.'* " 
 
 " But suppose there's never a di^adend ? " 
 
 " Don't we know there will ha? Didn't I say we con- 
 trol the Board of Directors .'^ " 
 
 " But suppose you can't find brokers to — "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 135 
 
 Hilliard gesticulated broadly. 
 
 " Why, as a matter of fact, we don't care very much 
 if we don't! That's the commoner method, and that's 
 the way to get our money back almost at once, and 
 then play on velvet. But if instead of working through 
 brokers, we were willing to tie up our capital a little 
 longer, we'd make considerably more money in the long 
 run, as you can plainly see. We'd advance our him- 
 dred and twenty thousand dollars, wait until dividends 
 could be declared, and then get the stock listed on the 
 Curb and begin to feed it out to the public through 
 a fiscal agency. There'd be twice as much in it for us, 
 but we wouldn't be in that perfectly delightful position 
 of owning a lot of valuable stock which literally hadn't 
 cost us anything. Or, of course, we could oifer some 
 of the shares to our personal friends at a fair price, 
 and reimburse ourselves that way. Knowing that it's 
 worth ten or fifteen, we wouldn't feel very guilty about 
 selling it to personal acquaintances at eight or nine, 
 would we? Why not — when we know for a certainty 
 that it ought to go up to fifteen? They'd bless us for 
 it!" 
 
 " But the main point ; the staggering thing about 
 it, is—" 
 
 " Is that if the public gets ten or fifteen percent 
 dividends," said Hilliard, " or buys at ten and sells a 
 few dollars higher, it thinks it's lucky; and in the 
 meantime, the underwriters make anything up to a 
 thousand percent, and get it in a few months. And 
 I've known some of these syndicates to turn over in a 
 few days." 
 
 " Oh, I want to do it ! " said Angela ecstatically. " I 
 want to do it! Dad! Let's be a syndicate and go
 
 136 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 out to Montana until it's over ! Come on ! Let's ! " 
 Hilliard laughed cheerfully at her. 
 
 " In this particular case," he said, *' the syndicate's 
 about half formed. Nothing final, but it's pending. 
 And it is good — so good that I doubt if any layman 
 could break into it with a cold chisel." Again, he 
 excused himself on the ground of salesman's license. 
 " But that's the fundamental idea, Mr. Cullen — that's 
 how the thing is done, and that's how the public carries 
 the whole burden of financing, and doesn't know it. Do 
 you wonder I say that the spirit of the modern West 
 is down in Wall Street? " 
 
 He assumed an attitude of easy unconcern. Angela, 
 her breath coming rapidly, was regarding him with 
 awe-struck eyes. Mr. Cullen, his mouth drawn to a 
 perfectly straight line, was gazing spellbound at the 
 orderly array of figures on the envelope. 
 
 "And this — is a genuine mine?" he managed pres- 
 ently. 
 
 " In my opinion, it's a very wonderful prospect," 
 said Hilliard, and he believed every word of that solemn 
 statement. 
 
 Mr. Cullen folded the envelope, and then suddenly, 
 as though too cautious to betray his profound absorp- 
 tion (which he had been betraying frankly for at least 
 twenty minutes), tossed it back to Hilliard. 
 
 " When you've got a syndicate that'll let me in for 
 say, thirty cents," he said, with elaborate humour, 
 " just pass along the good word, will you? " 
 
 " I never try to do business with my friends," said 
 Hilliard, with the most delicate touch of reproof. 
 
 " \ good principle, too, but — " Mr. Cullen glanced 
 at his watch. " It's dinner time, and more too. We'd
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 137 
 
 better get along up to the house, or the first thing you 
 know, we'll have servant troubles in our midst. And 
 jou didn't bring up that subject anyway — / brought 
 it up." He took Angela's arm paternally. " Just as 
 a matter of fact," he said, clearing his throat. " As 
 a matter of fact, Mr. Hilliard — whereabouts did you 
 say this property is located.'' " 
 
 Shortly after dinner Angela, who had fled to the 
 telephone in answer to a peremptory summons, came 
 back complacent. 
 
 " Dinner at the Durants' on Sunday," she announced. 
 " All three of us. Very quiet, Carol said. So I ac- 
 cepted — and that means you've got to stay with us 
 two days more anyway, Mr. Hilliard. Do you mind 
 ver^' much? " 
 
 " Mind! " Hilliard had risen half out of his chair. 
 His tremendous yearning to see Carol again, and his 
 violent reaction at the prospect, had greatly influenced 
 his voice, which was strident, explosive. The Cullens 
 were laughing aloud at his confusion. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Hilliard!" said Cullen, jocosely. "Is 
 our own cooking as bad as all that.''" 
 
 "He's blushing!" crowed Angela. "Look at him I 
 Look at him ! " 
 
 Indeed, he was crimson to the temples. Sunday — 
 forty-eight hours ! How he had spurned her ! — and 
 how he had suffered from that moment until now! To 
 see her again . . . merely to see her ! Business was 
 business, and the farce must go on ; no matter what else 
 happened, he must hew out his success ; he had ceased 
 to love her, and he bad come prepared for guerilla war- 
 fare . . . but to see her again ! To hear her voice !
 
 138 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 To watch that smile of hers, and remember the tears 
 she had shed for Dicky Morgan ! 
 
 Sunday — forty-eight hours ! 
 
 The Cullens were still laughing at him, and in ^ngeia's 
 soprano there was a note of feminine resentment, but 
 Hill'ard's ears were suddenly stone deaf.
 
 XI 
 
 ^^TV/TUSIC," said the Doctor absently, "must be very 
 •*-^-*' unmoral." 
 
 From the piano, Carol laughed quietly, and went on 
 playing, and playing beautifully, his hackneyed old 
 favourite, the Rachmaninoif Prelude in C Minor. 
 
 "Why?" she asked. 
 
 " Because morality," said the Doctor, blowing smoke 
 at the fireplace, " isn't much more than the crushing 
 down of impulses that we wouldn't try to crush down 
 at all if we weren't what we're pleased to call civilized. 
 Therefore it's unmoral to attempt to arouse those im- 
 pulses. But some kinds of music have the power of 
 depriving some kinds of people of the freedom of the 
 will. And so I say it must be unmoral, because it's 
 seductive, and because it makes people stop being ob- 
 jective, and makes them subjective, and at the mercy 
 of the particular emotion that's stirred up." 
 
 A pause. The chords rose, and died to pianissimo. 
 
 " Does it make any difference to you," inquired Carol 
 presently, " that I haven't the faintest idea what you're 
 talking about.? " 
 
 The Doctor sighed comfortably. 
 
 " I'm only thinking," he said, " that as far as I'm 
 concerned music has all the qualities of any other drug." 
 
 "Drug.'^" Her intonation was one of perplexity. 
 
 " Drug," said the Doctor. " Narcotic ; stimulant. 
 When a man's under the influence of alcohol, he's a dis- 
 grace; if he eats hasheesh, he's boycotted; but if he 
 
 139
 
 140 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 takes music unto himself, and loses his volition un- 
 der—" 
 
 "Don't be a silly!" she reproved him. "That's 
 a very far-fetched comparison. . . . What shall I play 
 now? " 
 
 " Anything you like . . . but I insist it's unmoral." 
 
 Carol swung towards him. 
 
 " WTiatever's got into you tonight.'' Am I boring 
 you?" 
 
 " Quite the contrary." 
 
 " Then what is it ? What's all this nonsense about 
 drugs and things ? " 
 
 The Doctor smiled reassuringly. 
 
 " I'm perfectly serious, my dear. Music, in its emo- 
 tional aspect, has had a great deal to do with the his- 
 tory of the world. It affects some types of men, espe- 
 cially rather ascetic men, as no other influence ever 
 could. It does me. It always has. And I was think- 
 ing how unreasonable we are, when we've got such a 
 power all ready to use, not to make more out of it. It 
 isn't used in any of the modern cults, it never had a 
 place in any of the mental cures that I remember, and 
 yet it's a nerve tonic, and a vitalizer, and an opiate, 
 and —" 
 
 " Doctor ! You're saying it's unmoral, and then 
 you — " 
 
 " Certainly. Just as I say that tobacco's a poison, 
 but it's the pleasantest poison there is. Just as I 
 say, more seriously, that morphine is an unmoral sub- 
 stance, but if it's used with discretion, it's invaluable." 
 
 " Well, what music is like tobacco ? Answer me 
 that!" 
 
 "Mendelssohn has about the same effect," said the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 141 
 
 Doctor, placidly. " Mendelssohn's a clear Havana ; 
 and Grieg's similar, but Grieg has a Connecticut wrap- 
 per — pardon the discrimination." 
 
 "But—" She breathed impatiently. "The idea 
 of comparing music with . . . well, with anything! 
 And you're comparing it with everything. The next 
 thing, you'll say it's a beverage 1 It's ridiculous ! 
 Why not compare it with whiskey? Whiskey makes 
 men do azcful things. . . . You never heard of a man 
 getting so intoxicated on music that he killed any- 
 body, did you.'^ " 
 
 " There was a time," said the Doctor, " when I think 
 I could have killed the man who wrote Narcissus, and 
 never had a qualm. And I should hate to have heard 
 The Merry Widow Waltz another dozen times, and 
 then met the composer in a dark alley. . . . What I 
 really meant, of course, was that if you get a listener 
 who's really sensitive, you can play on his emotions by 
 music more effectively than by any other means I know 
 of. I was thinking of the unmorality of it in that sense 
 — of the possibilities. And you'll find examples in 
 literature — as far back as the Bible - — and in the his- 
 tory of every country in the world. The human voice 
 and the violin, separately, are the two most potent in- 
 fluences for good or evil that I can imagine; and col- 
 lectively, an orchestra has more possibilities than an 
 apothecary's shop on the man who's responsive enough. 
 . . . Please go ahead." 
 
 Over her shoulder, as she turned back to the instru- 
 ment, Carol flung a playfully biting comment. 
 
 " I think you're proving your theory, all right," she 
 said. " You've had about one too many, / think." 
 
 " No," said the Doctor, " and not nearly enough.
 
 U2 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 As it happens, you're soothing me very nicely. But 
 when I was younger, I never could bear to hear certain 
 people sing — especially contraltos. A contralto could 
 have wrecked my home, if anybody could. And then 
 if the right conductor and the right orchestra had 
 played the Intermezzo from Cavalleria (before the hand 
 organs got hold of it), I should have reformed. . . . 
 What's that?" 
 
 " A descriptive tone-poem . . . guess what it's sup- 
 posed to be? " 
 
 "Moonlight in a boiler factory.?^" 
 
 " Stupid ! It's a revery." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " A revery . . . like it ? " 
 
 " Nux vomica," said the Doctor, judicially. " Or 
 ... or aspirin. Swallow it quickly, and — " 
 
 " If you're not good, I'U stop I I will ! " Never- 
 theless, she switched suddenly to another of his hack- 
 neyed favourites, the Marche MHitaire. The Doctor 
 held his cigar poised, until it went out. He sat mo- 
 tionless, reflective. He stirred scarcely an eyelash un- 
 til Carol, an appreciable moment after she had finished, 
 turned again. 
 
 "Well?" she said at length. 
 
 " Unmoral — unmoral," said the Doctor, under his 
 breath. " And next to an orchestra, comes the piano. 
 . . . You do play beautifully, Carol. You put such 
 curious thoughts into my mind ... as though you were 
 speaking to me in counterpoint ; saying what you never 
 would say in words . . . and then, again, there's the 
 composer talking to both of us. . . . Doesn't it make 
 you think of the hymn —
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 14>a 
 
 Mourir pour la patrie 
 C'est le sort le plus beau 
 Le plus digue d'envie — 
 
 It does me. . . . And of so many other things — and 
 people." 
 
 " Yes," she said. " It does that — of course." 
 
 The Doctor stretched himself, and tenderly relighted 
 his cigar. 
 
 " I've seen a man," he said irrelevantly, " who's on 
 the ragged edge of nervous exhaustion. He needs a 
 lot of things — peace, and religion, and love, and en- 
 couragement, and sympathy . . . and some day, some 
 fool of a physician is going to soak him in tonics and 
 blood-builders, and make him worse. I've been won- 
 dering if you care to do some volunteer nursing." 
 
 "I?" she exclaimed. "Why, 1 can't—" 
 
 " Everything I've mentioned," he said, " you can 
 give him with your ten fingers, I think. Because I'm 
 pretty thoroughly convinced that he's as sensitive a 
 young fool as I am an old one. So I'm wondering if 
 you'd have any objection to letting him come around 
 here rather often, and listening to you play." 
 
 " You're not serious ! " 
 
 " Oh, but I am ! " he said. " He's friendless, and 
 he's so desperately impressionable that you could preach 
 him sermons, and give him refreshment, and clear the 
 cobwebs out of his brain, and put his mentality in or- 
 der, and probably send him home to shed a few tears 
 on his pillow — just as you can do to me sometimes. 
 And none of us can possibly talk to him, and the drug- 
 store hasn't anything that'll do him any good, and I 
 want you to try. Just to please me; just for an ex- 
 periment. Will jou? "
 
 144 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 "But . . . how funny!" 
 
 " No," said the Doctor, " merely the line of least 
 resistance. I'm prescribing . . , well, about the same 
 program you played tonight. Carol, it isn't humor- 
 ous — music can make a man relax quicker than almost 
 anything else I know, and to relax is what this man 
 needs most. If he'd thoroughly break down for a quar- 
 ter of a minute, the job's done. He'll break sooner or 
 later, but the right sort of break is going to help him, 
 and the wrong sort is going to harm him. So I want 
 to try what you might call indirect psychic magnetism 
 on him. After that, it might be time to take up some 
 other method of treatment, but as I've told you so 
 often, the practice of medicine is chiefly the practice 
 of substituting something else for medicine. It's an 
 experiment, but I want to make it." 
 
 " Well — who's the patient.? " 
 
 " He isn't a patient of mine — not even a friend. 
 That's why there's so much chance of success — he 
 won't suspect that he's being treated. I merely want 
 you to play on his emotions — to bring out all the 
 sentiment there is in him. Melt him." 
 
 "Well — who i5 it.?" 
 
 " It's Mr. Hilliard," said the Doctor, slowly. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 The Doctor smoked with close attention to the ash. 
 
 " Of course, I may be wrong . . . but Cullen told me 
 today that yesterday he was very seriously upset. 
 Organically, I believe he's sound. But he's been under 
 a strain, and he can't seem to relieve himself of it, so 
 that it'll have to be done for him. He's alone ; terribly 
 alone. He's as sensitive as I am — perhaps even more.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 145 
 
 Cullen tells me that he reacts to the simplest kindnesses 
 as though he'd had a bad-tempered stepmother. His 
 ego is all clogged up with inhibitions that he can't get 
 rid of. He's apparently going to stay here indefinitely, 
 and — we have a very evident debt to him. I'm not his 
 adviser, nor his physician, but I've made a diagnosis 
 just the same, for humanity's sake, and at the worst, 
 we can't harm him. . . . Shall we try it.^ " 
 
 Carol, whose eyes had been on the floor, nodded 
 assent. 
 
 *' Yes," she consented, quietly. '^ I'm willing ; if 
 you really think it's worth while. . . . Just what was 
 it you wanted me to do ? " 
 
 " Simply to have him come here," said the Doctor, 
 " and sit and smoke . . . and you play . . . well, about 
 the same sort of things you used to play to Dick and 
 me . . . before the war. . . . You remember how you 
 could always manage Dick that way, don't you? " 
 
 Her head had sunk very low, and her voice was all 
 but inaudible. 
 
 " But I couldn't — save him from himself, could 
 I.'' " she said, tremulously. 
 
 "Who knows?" said the Doctor. "Under the cir- 
 cumstances, maybe you did. Somebody did. Or — 
 at least that's what I gather from what Mr. Hilliard 
 says . . . and Dick was saved in the larger sense, 
 wasn't he? " 
 
 " Y-yes, if — " 
 
 " Who else in town ever sang Stevenson's Requiem 
 to him beside you?" asked the Doctor gently. "And 
 why do you suppose it came to him — as Mr. Hilliard 
 says it did — when he went into action ? . . ."
 
 146 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 He tossed away the cigar, and held out his arms to 
 
 her. 
 
 "Here, dear," said the Doctor compassionately. 
 
 " Here — always ! "
 
 xn 
 
 SINCE Friday night, Hilliard had lived only for Sun- 
 day ; his whole existence had been tuned to Sunday, 
 and when at last the morning dawned, his greatest fear 
 was that he might not live until dinner-time. At 
 church, where the Cullens had taken him as a matter 
 of course, he heard nothing whatsoever of the sermon ; 
 his first real consciousness of his own being was when, 
 as he rose at the end of the service, he discovered to his 
 unutterable chagrin that the Durants had been sitting 
 a scant six pews behind him. The belated knowledge 
 suffocated him; he felt as though his ignorance had 
 robbed him of a precious hour which could never be re- 
 gained ; and the thought of how little he could have done 
 in that hour never occurred to him. This, too, is one 
 of the signs. . . . 
 
 On reaching Carol's side, he was both awkward and 
 incoherent ; and he failed to derive encouragement from 
 the realization which gradually stole over him, that the 
 Durants had asked a number of other guests to dinner. 
 Armstrong was waiting patiently in the aisle, and keep- 
 ing closer to Carol than Hilliard liked, and there was 
 also a bright-faced boy of nineteen or twenty who had 
 promptly attached himself to Angela — his name was 
 Waring, and he was the grandson of the patriarchal 
 clergyman, with the head of Moses and the spirit of 
 youth, who presently came down to join the little group, 
 and complete it. So that altogether there were nine 
 people who finally sat down to table; and Hilliard's 
 
 147
 
 148 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 dream of quiet progress and harboured conversation 
 was shattered in a twinkling. To be sure, he was next 
 to Carol, but Armstrong was on her other side, and 
 Armstrong was attentively discursive. Hilliard was 
 forced to devote himself mainly to Mrs. Durant; and 
 she said afterwards that he was one of the most absent- 
 minded men she had ever talked at. 
 
 It was all very homelike, and all very friendly, but to 
 Hilliard, sitting there between Carol and her mother, 
 the occasion was peculiarly acute. He had long since 
 discarded any residue of his active fears ; he was con- 
 fident in his disguise to the point of recklessness, for he 
 had covered the windings of the trail by an infinite va- 
 riety of methods ; and yet without having any tangible 
 facts to grasp, he was subtly warned to remain on sentry 
 duty over his poise. As he glanced around the table, 
 he could see no one whom, directly or indirectly, in per- 
 son or by hearsay, he had failed to propitiate and 
 disarm ; and yet he was conscious that his nerves irked 
 him. To reassure himself still further, he catalogued 
 the party, one by one; Angela adored him, ;ind Mr. 
 Cullen (especially after Hilliard's mild but repeated 
 refusals of yesterday and the day before to talk what 
 Mr. Cullen called " brass tacks ") was somewhat be- 
 wilderingly a friend ; the venerable clergyman had noted 
 Hilliard's presence at church, and thanked him for it; 
 and had heard what pains he had taken to come to 
 Syracuse as a bearer of tidings, however sombre, and 
 thanked him for that. Dr. and jMrs. Durant were 
 supremely cordial, and Carol, if not demonstrative, was 
 at least appreciative. Only the two young bachelors, 
 Armstrong and Waring, showed even the remotest signs 
 of reserve, and Hilliard, knowing exactly why, and not
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 149 
 
 blaming them in the slightest, exerted himself to smile 
 upon them as warmly as he could, and to convey the 
 impression that he was interested in Angela and Carol 
 only as individuals to whom he had been directed to 
 report, and not as lovely young women on their own 
 account. But even so, he knew that his restlessness 
 wasn't due primarily to any lurking opposition on the 
 part of Waring or of Armstrong, and although he 
 occupied himself for the moment in an endeavour to 
 mollify them, he never ceased his attempt to analyse his 
 uneasy mood, and to take steps to replace it. He 
 met, however, with unvarying failure. 
 
 He was gratified that the conversation, after one 
 natural enough eddy, was whirled away from the vicis- 
 situdes of Dicky Morgan, for he had talked his fill on 
 that particular subject. And when the eddy had 
 straightened itself out, it became a rather sprightly sort 
 of general conversation, all things considered; and to 
 Hilliard, in spite of his minor intuitions, it was a dis- 
 tinct relief to sit for once as a mere listener and 
 spectator. For a time, he amused himself by watching 
 Angela and Waring playing their world-old game across 
 the table; after that, he paid a little polite attention 
 to Mrs. Durant, and to the clergyman; and then 
 snatching an opportunity unlooked for, he gave his 
 kindest smile to Carol, and for an instant, took the 
 monopoly from Armstrong. And he had hardly looked 
 down once into her October-brown eyes before the mys- 
 tery of his restlessness was as clear as crystal, and 
 Hilliard was thoroughly dumbfounded, and confused. 
 
 It had come upon him, a quarter of an hour ago, 
 as they exchanged their first superficial sentences, that 
 he was lonelier than he had ever imagined, but he hadn't
 
 150 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 realized, until this immediate contingency, that this 
 sensation had carried over until now. He was pre- 
 vented, by the very limits of the project which had 
 brought him here, from releasing any of his true emo- 
 tions or from putting forward any of his sincere 
 thoughts ; he hadn't comprehended, until he had learned 
 the truth just now by actual experience, that loneli- 
 ness is nothing but an aggravated state of self-repres- 
 sion. He was prevented from being even moderately 
 spontaneous; he couldn't permit his true personality 
 to find an outlet. Never in all his life, not even when 
 he had lain for months in hospital in France, had he 
 been as lonely as today, and at this moment, when he 
 was surrounded by people he knew intimately, and when 
 he was enjoined from sharing in their community of 
 mind. He suffered as though he had suddenly been 
 stricken dumb. 
 
 Carol, looking up at him with what wasn't exactly a 
 smile, but was at least a cousin to it — that well-remem- 
 bered flash of sympathetic interest — Carol spoke to 
 him under cover of the general conversation. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts.'^" she proffered. 
 
 " They aren't worth it," said Hilliard. " I was 
 thinking about myself." He continued to regard her 
 steadily, and he was alarmed to discover that he was 
 losing one of the abilities which had made him so sure 
 of himself. A day or two ago he had been able to gaze 
 at her with profound indifference ; since their last meet- 
 ing, however, he had thought so constantly of her that 
 he was involuntarily softened, and made more plastic; 
 but still, he had refused to yield entirely to his voli- 
 tions ; now, he was grudgingly compelled to admit that 
 she was no less desirable than formerly. He continued
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 151 
 
 to hold that she had treated him shabbily, mercilessly ; 
 but notwithstanding that, as he gazed at her, and per- 
 ceived the sweet naturalness which was developing out 
 of last week's shock, he was secretly perturbed. In 
 spite of himself, he began to see, as though by camera 
 obscura, dim visions of the past; he was righteously 
 annoyed that they should rise to torment him, and still 
 the visions came. 
 
 " But after all that you've been through," she said, 
 *' I should think your thoughts about yourself would 
 be extremely interesting ! " 
 
 " I'm afraid they're rather gloomy, Miss Durant, 
 whenever they touch on what I've been through. And 
 when anything like this gathering here today builds up 
 a comparison. . . . I'm sorry, but I oan't always mas- 
 ter it." 
 
 " You mean the difference between a family over 
 here and a family over there ^ " 
 
 " Exactly," he said. " Down to the last detail — 
 what we eat, and where we live, and what we talk 
 about, and what we think about — everything." 
 
 " I've thought of that, too," she said soberly. " But 
 I'll have to confess that it wasn't until you came — it 
 wasn't until after that first night at Angela's — that 
 the great difference came home to me. It's made me 
 feel that it's almost wrong — almost unendurable — 
 that we should be so warm and comfortable, and well- 
 fed, when over on the continent . . . well, I wonder 
 whether we won't have to pay for this, sometime." 
 
 Hilliard's lips came together. 
 
 " Yes, we will. We'll pay for it three or four times 
 over. The world's on a big balance sheet, and the
 
 152 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 United States is one of the overdue accounts. We've 
 got an extension of time just now, but a reckoning's 
 coming. And there's no use shutting our eyes to it, 
 because it'll come." 
 
 " But don't jou think some good is coming out of 
 the war in the end.'* " 
 
 His answer was delayed, and, in the meantime, silence 
 had run around the table, and he had an audience of 
 eight instead of one. 
 
 " I wish I could answer that the way you evidently 
 want me to, but I'm not sure. Let me explain. In the 
 first place, the mental condition of every one who's 
 been in this war, or even seen it from near by, is upside 
 down. Nothing's normal, nothing's the way you're 
 used to thinking it is. The whole structure of living's 
 changed. All the values are different. Human life 
 doesn't mean anything; and when 3'ou've lost that as a 
 basis of value, you haven't very much left. If you 
 knew how men are handled — well, it sort of breaks 
 up your faith in humanit3\ For instance, here's a de- 
 tachment of a hundred men somewhere near the front 
 line trenches, and there's an artillery offensive going 
 on. Those hundred men don't represent a hundred sepa- 
 rate personalities ; nobody thinks of them as personali- 
 ties or treats them like personalities ; they're a tactical 
 unit to be shunted around like a hundred sand-bags or 
 a hundred shells for general purposes. They don't 
 exist as men; they exist as material. They're there 
 to act as a bulwark for another unit, and that other 
 unit is a bulwark for still another unit, and so on clear 
 back to the people who eat Sunday dinners in peace, 
 just as we're doing now. . . . 
 
 " All around them it looks and sounds as though the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 153 
 
 whole universe has turned into a mediaeval conception 
 of hell, and then suddenly — pouf ! and a hundred men 
 aren't there any more ! And it isn't that so many per- 
 sonalities have been eliminated; it isn't that perhaps a 
 thousand other people back home are going to be af- 
 fected all the rest of their lives ; it isn't that the suffer- 
 ings of the whole lot of them is even going to be con- 
 sidered ; it's just a matter of so much war-material gone. 
 It's a loss, but it's a loss that's figured almost in terms 
 of merchandise. Casualties are casualties, and they go 
 down on a daily report, and the statisticians work over 
 them just as though they were figures of crops, or steam- 
 ship tonnage, and that's where the thing ends! You 
 can think yourself crazy about it ; and a lot of men do. 
 Where does the individual belong? What does he count 
 for? What's the standard, when a good sand-bag is 
 worth any two men in the line? An American minister 
 I met over there said that the most frightful thing about 
 it isn't that we're fighting this sort of war, or that such 
 things happen, but that we've got ourselves into such a 
 state that we have to fight it ! And it's because we are 
 in such a state that I have my doubts about the future. 
 If Germany could start this war . . . why, some day 
 there might be another one. The world isn't as far 
 advanced as we thought it was. And I can't see how 
 any good can ever come out of anything so terribly 
 futile. I can't see how we're ever going to get a nor- 
 mal perspective. Because all this fearfulncss isn't go- 
 ing to prove anything, except to demonstrate which 
 side has its stronger resources. It can't establish any- 
 thing but the facts as to which side has the more food, 
 or fuel, or credit. And when we can risk the whole 
 world for that — "
 
 154 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 *' Pardon me, sir ! " This was the venerable clergy- 
 man on the other side of Mrs. Durant. " Don't you 
 acknowledge any moral benefits to come out of tliis war? " 
 
 " No, sir," said HiHiard bluntly, " I don't ! " 
 
 "You're not a pacifist, are you?" demanded Arm- 
 strong, nervously chewing his moustache. 
 
 " Hardly ! " Hilliard's vehemence was checked as 
 soon as he perceived that the question wasn't intended 
 to affront him. " But as long as the moral question 
 has come up, I don't mind saying that one point that's 
 always troubled me is this ; every nation in this war 
 is praying to the same God. Nobody'll admit, of 
 course, that there's more than one to pray to. All 
 the nations in it profess to be Christian. Now I'm 
 not here to get into any theological discussion, but 
 what I want to know is how we're going to reconcile 
 some of our old creeds if Germany wins ? " 
 
 " But Germany won't win! " Armstrong, who had 
 said this, explosively pounded the table for emphasis. 
 
 " That," said HilHard, " is what I hope just as much 
 as you do, and probably more, because I've seen enough 
 to realize what it would mean ; but I want to tell you 
 here and now that unless Germany is going to win, 
 she's got to be opposed by all the rest of civilization. 
 The United States has got to get into it, too. As the 
 situation stands today the Allies are beaten to a stand- 
 still. You don't believe that — partly because you 
 don't want to believe it and partly because you aren't 
 convinced of what's evident to Italy and France and 
 England, and has been for months. But it's the truth 
 — and, to go back to the main issue, and supposing that 
 Germany wins — " 
 
 " There's always the possibility," said the clergyman,
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 165 
 
 " of a nation — even Germany — awakening after vic- 
 tory to a comprehension of the wrong it had — " 
 
 " But you can't find any precedents in history, sir 1 
 The winner always gets more imperialistic and the 
 loser always sulks and waits for revenge. That's why 
 I'm afraid that this isn't the last war — nor the worst. 
 And I can't believe that this war is anything but futile, 
 or can be unless, when it's over, we all get together and 
 change the whole social and political scheme of the 
 world from the ground up. And so far, that hasn't 
 even been discussed. All that's been done is to make 
 after-the-war plans on the same old theories of govern- 
 ment. You people over here don't know what's com- 
 ing — maybe after the war, and maybe before it's fin- 
 ished. But I want to tell you as forcibly as I can that 
 the only really fundamental changes in sight — so far 
 — are going to make more trouble than ever. And 
 bring on a war ten times as big as this is, because it 
 won't be simply international, it'll be universal." 
 
 "What are those changes, Mr. Milliard.? " The 
 clergyman was mildly tolerant. 
 
 " There's going to be a step backward instead of a 
 step forward. We're going to have the old conflict 
 between church and state, instead of between nations. 
 That is, unless the United States joins the Allies." 
 
 The resultant silence was electrical. The Doctor 
 broke it forcibly. 
 
 " Mr. Hilliard — if that were anything like a fact — " 
 
 " It is a fact, Dr. Durant. I've just told you that 
 you're not getting the sort of information that would 
 help you to understand what's really happening over 
 there. Trivial gains and losses on the military side; 
 rows in the ministries — that isn't a circumstance to the
 
 156 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 things that aren't passed by the censor. In France, 
 the church as a political organization threatens to be 
 more of a menace to the future of the world than — " 
 
 ** Mr. Hilliard ! " The clergyman was apoplectic. 
 " I can't, I simply can't allow you to imply — " 
 
 " It isn't an implication, sir, it's a direct statement. 
 The church in France aims eventually to dominate 
 the civil government, and take control again. It would 
 have its members recognize the church today as superior 
 to the state. Presumably, to prevent war." Hilliard 
 was growing dynamic. " The Bishop of Nantes has 
 preached sermons about it already. And I understand 
 that Russia and Italy are wavering about it too — and 
 if the church does get what it wants, there'll be a Ger- 
 man victory now, and another big war later — unless 
 we get together for the future, and America comes in 
 to help. And that doesn't mean simply getting to- 
 gether for more militarism. It means a community of 
 aims ; it means that the church will realize its position 
 and withdraw. It means that America will write the 
 peace terms, and that they'll be final. I believe in 
 fighting it out to the finish, but always with a definite 
 aim ; and that aim would be to prevent any one man, 
 or any body of men, in any civilized country, from ever 
 again having the power to start a war like this." 
 
 " I should imagine," said the clergyman dryly, " that 
 the supremacy of the church might be a very good 
 thing, then." 
 
 " Oh, but the church never prevented any war in 
 history from starting, did it.? Understand, I'm not 
 doubting their motives over there; the church simply 
 wants the war to stop. And if it stops now, it'll be 
 a tremendous disaster for all of us. We need a new
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 157 
 
 basis to live on, and unfortunately the very nature of 
 the church keeps it from being progressive. It has to 
 be conservative; that's the strength of its foundation. 
 That's why I want the United States to get into it — 
 to bring new energy to bear. That'll save the whole 
 situation. Then I can see where good will come out of 
 it!'^ 
 
 Carol touched his sleeve. 
 
 " Can't you see any bright spots ? " 
 
 " Why, the first thing," he said, " is to conquer Ger- 
 many. After that, we've got to conquer ourselves, or 
 nothing's gained. I'm not sure that we'll do the first, 
 unless something happens to give the Allies more power, 
 or unless America joins in. But please don't call me a 
 pacifist, or a socialist either. I'm not. I'm a pro- 
 war, anti-Prussian repubhcan. Only I want to see the 
 'purpose in this fight ; and a blind victory is as good as 
 nothing. I want to see a common purpose that'll make 
 victory seem only like a single step in advance. And 
 that means that the church mustn't be allowed to stop 
 the war until a>^'ve had time to join in." 
 
 The clergyman was profoundly distressed. 
 
 " You speak of the church as though it were a serious 
 drawback to civilization, sir ! " 
 
 " I speak of the church as an organization which 
 couldn't prevent the war. Therefore, I object to hav- 
 ing it bring about a peace which would leave us worse 
 off than before. In this particular case, the ' cloth ' is 
 pretty much like a wet-blanket. What I hope is that 
 we'll go ahead and complete this job, always with the 
 idea of reorganizing afterwards on principles which will 
 leave the church where it belongs, once and for all." 
 
 " You have a strong contempt for religion, Mr. Hil- 
 liard."
 
 158 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Not for religion — but for church politics. And 
 I have that ; and I'm not ashamed of it. Religion can'f 
 have politics ; and as soon as the church recognizes that 
 it's got to let politics alone, and let events take their 
 natural course, the sooner we can begin to build defi- 
 nitely for the future. And that brings rae back to the 
 starting point. All these nations at war are supposedly 
 Christian. But the war itself isn't a Christian war, 
 is it?" 
 
 " On the side of the Allies, it is," said Armstrong. 
 
 "But that isn't reasonable either, Mr. Armstrong! 
 That's exactl}^ what the Prussians say about themselves. 
 I believe that they believe it too. Think of the German 
 battle-slogans ! Well, now, are you going to claim that 
 God has been naturalized in any one country? Are you 
 going to admit that He approves of what's happened 
 to Poland? And Belgium? And Armenia and Syria? 
 Or are you going to concede that He's a Lutheran? " 
 
 " It seems to me," said the clergyman, much agitated, 
 " that we must believe that out of it there'll come a 
 great good to all the nations — the regeneration of man- 
 kind by trial — " 
 
 " Could any soldier," interposed Dr. Durant, " go 
 through the trials of these present campaigns, and come 
 out of them spiritually unaffected? " 
 
 " Why, no." 
 
 "Affected in what way — better or worse? Spirit- 
 ually, I mean." 
 
 " Why, better." 
 
 " In spite of his own part in it? " 
 
 " Surely."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 159 
 
 " Well, then," said the Doctor, " isn't that answer 
 enough? What is mankind, Mr. Milliard? Isn't it the 
 sum total of all the individuals? And I don't care who 
 the man is, or what his nationahty is, I can't believe that 
 any one, after tliis thing is over, and the reaction has 
 set in, won't be a better man than he used to be, no mat- 
 ter how he conducted himself personally during the war. 
 The war itself — that's barbarous. You've got to con- 
 sider it all by itself. But Christian people can — and 
 do — fight over un-Christian things. Still, the indi- 
 vidual who comes out of it — he's going to be finer, 
 and stronger, and more valuable to himself and to his 
 country. It's inevitable; socially, morally, politically 
 — whether the plan is made in advance, or whether the 
 change comes spontaneously. Total all the nations 
 and there's your ultimate good; and when that time 
 comes, there won't be any struggle between church and 
 state, because right-minded men will pay allegiance to 
 both. And neither one of them will try to undermine 
 the other, because they'll have learned that they're in- 
 separable. This agitation you speak of isn't a menace ; 
 it's a promise. It shows the beginnings of exactly what 
 you say you haven't seen — a determination to remould 
 the world on better lines. It's a trifle untimely, and 
 that's the worst we ought to say about it." 
 Hilliard felt the blood rising in his cheeks. 
 « Well," he said, " I certainly hope you're right." 
 " How else can it be? " Dr. Durant was deeply seri- 
 ous. "Look at the one example we have before us 
 now — Dicky Morgan. His own viewpoint of life was 
 transformed almost in an hour. His manliness, his 
 courage, his devotion — all the best qualities in him 
 came to the surface, and stayed there, as soon as he
 
 160 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 knew the ideals he had to fight for. What would he 
 have done — how would he have guided the rest of his 
 life, having learned all that he had learned — if he had 
 lived?" 
 
 The question was unexpected and there was a moment 
 of painful silence; Mrs. Durant came to the rescue 
 with a piously immaterial rejoinder; the conversation 
 picked up again, and flowed away in less philosophical 
 channels. Hilliard, however, remained mute; Carol 
 whispered aside to him. 
 
 " I told you they were worth more than a penny,'* 
 she said. 
 
 Stj-uggle as he would, he couldn't retain his protective 
 shield of rancour and resentment; he felt it slipping 
 incontinently away from him, and as it slipped, his 
 loneliness increased a hundredfold. 
 
 " I'll grant that they are now," he said, under his 
 breath, " because I'm thinking about you." He saw 
 Armstrong, who had unfortunately overheard him, look 
 up sharply, and he hated Armstrong, who was at least 
 sincere. 
 
 « About me, Mr. Hilliard? " 
 
 " No one else." To his own amazement, he said this 
 headily ; his heart had taken over the dominant control 
 of his tongue. 
 
 " Can you tell me about it ? " Ever;y word she spoke, 
 every gesture she made, every tiny mannerism of hers, 
 all at once possessed its former power to thrill him. A 
 magnetic current began to flow between Carol's eyes 
 and his ; he was conscious of resisting it, and resisting 
 fruitlessly. His nerves tingled. 
 
 " That depends." 
 
 "I — I suppose I'm to ask what it depends on? "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 161 
 
 ** I'd be bitterly disappointed if you didn't. Miss 
 Durant, how old do you imagine I am? " 
 
 She smiled a trifle constrainedly. 
 
 " That's always an embarrassing question. Besides, 
 you haven't given me any clue how you'd like to have it 
 answered." 
 
 " I want your honest opinion." 
 
 " Thirty? " she guessed. " Thirty-one? " 
 
 HilHard drew a deep breath. 
 
 " That's very flattering, but it's also rather a 
 damper, Miss Durant." 
 
 *' Truly?" 
 
 " Because," he said, " if you'd guessed forty, I would 
 have gone ahead quite brazenly, but — well, thirty and 
 forty have to speak to twenty-two in entirely diff'erent 
 languages." 
 
 " If it'll help you out at all," she said, frankly, 
 " I'm twenty-four." 
 
 He caught Armstrong's eye, and rejoiced at Arm- 
 strong's patent wrath. 
 
 " Then I'll be brazen," he said. 
 
 It was at tliis juncture that Mrs. Durant rose; and 
 Hilliard, with keen foresight, and with full knowledge 
 of Armstrong's restlessness, cannily guided Carol after 
 her mother into the living-room, made for a familiar 
 piece of furniture, and pre-empted it ; it would seat two 
 people, and no more — there wasn't the slightest use in 
 Armstrong's loitering disconsolately in the neighbour- 
 hood; it had a maximum capacity of two. Further- 
 more, it was removed by several feet from the nearest 
 listening post. 
 
 He was so close to her that their sleeves touched ; he 
 looked into the beautiful eyes which were so clear, so
 
 16.^ THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 unsuspecting; and his will swayed perilously. Had he 
 prepared so long and savagely for his requital, only to 
 lose his impetus at almost the first glance of those 
 brown eyes? He reflected that there was nothing to 
 prevent him from being a good salesman, and from re- 
 newing his predilection for Carol at the same time. The 
 idea of courting her again, in his false character, was 
 highly dramatic . . . 
 
 " If you had tliought me older," he said, " and, mind 
 you, I haven't confirmed your guess, I could have put 
 this very differently. And if you had thought me 
 older, you'd probably take it differently. You see, 
 there are so many things I want to say to you, and our 
 time's so limited, and Mr. Armstrong over there is so 
 unhappy. . . . But first, I want to tell you how very 
 much it has meant to me to know you, even in this super- 
 ficial way." 
 
 "There's no age in that, Mr. Hilliard!" She 
 smiled at Angela and young Waring in the corner. 
 
 " No, but I haven't finished. You see, I came up 
 here to Syracuse on a definite errand." He paused 
 briefly. " And ... I can't feel that it would be quite 
 fitting of me to use this occasion for anything personal 
 to myself. If I should do that, I should feel as though 
 I had committed a breach of trust." He loathed him- 
 self, but above all, he must maintain his reputation. 
 
 " You're — conscientious," she said. *' I should 
 have known that." 
 
 "Would you, really.?" 
 
 " Any one would know it." 
 
 " That's the greatest compliment you could give me." 
 He was the victim of strange, unrelated impulses. 
 " But — I do want to come here to see you again."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 163 
 
 *' I shall always be glad to have you," she said, and 
 her voice was low, almost inaudible. 
 
 " Mr. Cullen has asked me to be his guest for a few 
 more days. I'm hesitating." His throat was dry, 
 arid ; the lie was choking him, and yet he was compelled, 
 for the sake of consistence, to utter it. " If I accept, 
 it'll be because I count on seeing more of you. So it 
 rests largely with you whether I stay in town or not." 
 
 She looked at him searchingly. 
 
 " What can I possibly have to do with it.'^ " she asked, 
 gently. 
 
 " I know you won't misunderstand me," he said, his 
 heart shaking, " and I hope that you won't consider it 
 as too presumptuous — but — the other day you spoke 
 of Dicky Morgan as a very dear friend of yours. Miss 
 Durant, I want to do everything in the world I can for 
 you, and he was my dear friend as well as yours. I'm 
 not disloyal to him, or to you, or to myself — but I 
 should like more than I can ever tell you to feel that I 
 had done my utmost to take his place. No one can do 
 that literally — I am not so vain — but if I could 
 give you the slightest pleasure, the slightest consola- 
 tion, by staying here, I intend to stay — and somehow 
 I feel, and I have felt from the time we met each other, 
 Dicky would have wanted us to be friends." There 
 was a tremble in his voice as he ended. " The reason I 
 mentioned my age ... why, I didn't want you to mis- 
 understand, that's all. ... I wanted you to know that 
 I'm old enough to see things as a younger man can^i 
 see them ; to act as a younger man canH act ; to — " 
 
 " That's — that's wonderfully thoughtful of you," 
 said Carol, softly. " And . . . and I think he would 
 have wanted that ... if he'd known. . . ." Her
 
 164 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 eyes were suspiciously dim, and Hilliard's loneliness dis- 
 solved into a great spasm of longing which held him, 
 and shook him, and left him weak with impotence. 
 
 " Then I'll stay," he said abruptly. *' Provided — 
 provided you won't be offended if I do have to want to 
 know you for yourself — just a little selfishly. I'm 
 afraid that isn't very clear — it's difficult to separate 
 it — but you see — " 
 
 '* Don't try to explain," she said, subdued. " I 
 know how hard all this must be for you — and I think 
 perhaps you need my friendship as much as I need 
 yours." 
 
 Before he could reply, there was a flutter of indescrib- 
 able gracefulness before them: Angela was courtesying 
 in mock obeisance to the floor. Behind her. Waring was 
 watching her possessively. 
 
 " If your majesties will wake up half a second," she 
 said, " everybody's going to walk up around the Sedg- 
 wick Farm tract to get some fresh air. Coming? " 
 
 As they stood up together, drenched with regret for 
 the confidences that might for ever remain unsaid, a 
 maid appeared in the doorway. 
 
 " Please, ma'am," she said breathlessly, ** it's the 
 Western Union — for Mr. Hilliard." 
 
 " Right in my study," called the Doctor, hurrying. 
 " Just across the hall. There you are ! " And ush- 
 ered him into the sanctum, and considerately closed the 
 door. 
 
 Despite the urgent summons which the average person 
 feels under such circumstances, Hilliard was astonish- 
 ingly tardy in sitting down to the receiver. For one 
 thing, he was still vibrating from his recent stress of 
 passion ; for another, he knew pretty certainly what the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 165 
 
 message was going to be, and for a third, he was some- 
 what emotionally under the spell of the Doctor's room. 
 It was a room he had always loved ; it had strong char- 
 acter about it ; its rows and rows of books were human- 
 ized by tobacco smoke. Hilliard had spent a hundred 
 hours in it — pleasant hours, so that involuntarily 
 yielding to its kindly atmosphere, and all that the 
 atmosphere implied, he took time to survey all four walls 
 before he took up the receiver. And after he had 
 listened to the telegram, and ordered a copy mailed to 
 him in care of Mr, CuUen, he took time to survey those 
 walls again, more closely ; and this was partly for their 
 intrinsic significance, and partly because his feelings 
 were so fresh and tender that he dreaded to return at 
 once to the gathering which, as a whole, couldn't be ex- 
 pected to defer to them. His eyes fell upon the Doc- 
 tor's desk, wandered and suddenly focussed hard and 
 piercingly. He went over to the desk, and slowly put 
 out his hand, and lifted up a small photograph in a 
 met^^l frame. 
 
 "Well, I'll be darned!" said Hilliard, just above a 
 whisper. The turning of the door-knob roused him ; he 
 wheeled with the photograph still in his hand. 
 
 " Hello ! " said Dr. Durant, cheerfully. " Get your 
 message all right.'' What's that you've found .'^ Oh, 
 yes — Dick's picture." 
 
 Hilliard swallowed hard, and found that his voice was 
 queerly out of control. 
 
 " It's — it's the same one — " 
 
 " Yes — it's the same as the one you brought back. 
 I've had it there ever since he gave it to me." 
 
 He took it gently from Hilliard's hand; replaced it 
 on the desk. " How that boy would have made good if
 
 166 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 he had lived ! " said the Doctor, in an undertone. 
 ** Well — they're waiting for us. . . . But I do hope 
 you can find time to come in and have a quiet hour with 
 me some evening soon, Mr. Hilliard. I think we can 
 understand each other very easily." 
 
 Hilliard, following him outside, encountered the two 
 Cullens in the hall, and at sight of his florid host, he 
 collected his wits, and resumed his part in the play. 
 
 "Oh!" he said. " I — I ~ that was from one — 
 that was a telegram from the manager of the syndicate, 
 Mr. Cullen ; he said it's decided not to tr}^ to re-syndi- 
 cate any stock, but to hold it ourselves for the long 
 pull — everything's put off for three or four weeks any- 
 way. I'm having a copy mailed to the house — there's 
 some news in it I thought you might like to see." 
 
 "Good! That leaves you free, doesn't it? You'll 
 stay on with us then? Don't say no. I insist on it! " 
 
 " No, I couldn't do that ! It's awfully kind of you, 
 but—" 
 
 " You talk to him, Angela ! " laughed Mr. Cullen. 
 " You make him stay. You've got more influence over 
 him than I have, anyhow. And don't you dare to let 
 him get away without a promise — understand? " He 
 passed on, and left them together. Angela's arm was 
 through Hilliard's, and her piquant little face was up- 
 turned in mimic ferocity. 
 
 " You walk along with me, sir ! " said Angela, im- 
 perially. " And you'd better behave yourself — I'm 
 fierce ! " 
 
 At the same moment that he looked yearningly 
 towards Carol, who up ahead by the doonvay was al- 
 ready captive to the wily Armstrong, young Rufus 
 Waring was glaring belligerently^ towards Hilliard.
 
 > 
 
 o
 
 \
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 167 
 
 The masquerader smiled in defeat, then smiled with 
 sudden realization of the woman-child clinging to him. 
 His heart was so malleable, just then, that he could 
 aknost have loved the whole world — and so it was that 
 he gave expression of his mood to Angela, who was the 
 nearest to share it. He squeezed her arm out of sheer 
 affection. 
 
 " Your gallant cavalier'U cover me with horrid w^elts 
 and bruises for this ! " he said warningly. " Don't 
 make him jealous, now ! " They were now bringing up 
 the rear of the procession in the hallway. 
 
 " I'll make 'em well again," said Angela. " I am a 
 good nurse, aren't I.^ " 
 
 He was convulsed by her air of conquest. 
 
 "By the old-fashioned method?" He could hardly 
 believe that this was the girl he had taught to climb 
 trees, and make slingshots. 
 
 "I'll—" She stopped and blushed. The others 
 were all on the steps ; these two were in the dusky vesti- 
 bule. Waring was fretting impatiently outside. 
 
 " Would you? " asked Hilliard. He intended only to 
 tease her ; but all at once her head came up, and he 
 could see that her eyes were big and soft and frightened. 
 She was hardly seventeen, and to Hilliard she had 
 never ceased to be the child of two years ago. He bent 
 and kissed her ; her lips were trembling, expressive. 
 
 " Now we've got to hurry," he said. " Come, dear! " 
 
 It was the tone he would naturally use to a child, but 
 he had an uneasy feehng that he had used it to a 
 woman. Children's lips aren't expressive. 
 
 And he had another intuition — still more upsetting 
 to him — which was that he had been observed. For 
 on the threshold of the outer door Carol and Armstrong
 
 168 THE ]\1AN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 and Rufus Waring, as though turned back to inquire 
 into the cause of Milliard's and Angela's delay, were 
 standing. . . . 
 
 He could not tell, of course, whether they had actually 
 seen him. It was possible that in the dusk of the hall- 
 way he had escaped ; certainly there was nothing in the 
 manner of any one of the three, when Hilliard joined 
 them, to convince him one way or the other. But he 
 knew that he was in a critical situation; he knew that 
 to any reasonable person who had seen him at that 
 spontaneous little outburst of sentiment, his motives 
 wouldn't appear to be very opaque. 
 
 No, the manner of those three who had stood on the 
 threshold was astonishingly casual. Perhaps too 
 casual. . . . Hilliard frowned, and tried to glimpse 
 their various expressions. Ah! Waring, striding 
 stiltedly ahead, had thunderclouds on his forehead, and 
 as for Carol . . . 
 
 She turned to speak to Armstrong, and Hilliard knew. 
 
 For the remainder of the first stage of that walk, he 
 spoke not a word to Angela, who trudged along by his 
 side with God knows what tumults in her bosom. He 
 thought not of Angela, nor concerned himself with the 
 storm he had stirred within her. He was absorbed 
 solely with the puzzle which lay before him, which was to 
 detach Carol as soon as possible, and to explain himself. 
 Otherwise, his reputation w^as ashes even now. 
 
 And, to his unbounded joy, the opportunity came 
 soon — at the end of the road, where the party halted 
 for a moment, to take a referendum as to the route. 
 Armstrong strayed a yard or two too far. and on the 
 instant Hilliard was at Carol's elbow. She said noth-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 169 
 
 ing, nor did he; but when the march was resumed, he 
 was beside her — and beating his brains for an introduc- 
 tory remark. He had to convince her he had been 
 trifling with neither herself nor Angela, and he walked 
 a good furlong before he could devise so much as an 
 opening sentence. At length he cleared his throat. 
 
 " I've just decided," he said, " that I'm growing old, 
 no matter what your estimate is." 
 
 " Yes ? " She was immeasurably sweet and distant, 
 and Hilliard's courage faltered. 
 
 " I have indeed." 
 
 They went half a block in silence. Ahead of them 
 Armstrong, who was walking with Angela now, was 
 turning his head at frequent intervals. 
 
 " How does one come to that decision, Mr. Hilliard? " 
 
 " In various ways," he said. " But primarily by 
 the attitude of younger people." 
 
 " Oh ! " Her tone wasn't reassuring. 
 
 " I've made a most touching discovery. . . , Do 1 
 look grandfatherly, Miss Durant.^ " 
 
 " No ; I'd hardly say that." 
 
 He made a gesture of gratitude. " You've earned 
 my permanent thanks. And you're consistent, too; I 
 was afraid that when you guessed I'm only thirty you 
 were being intentionally flattering. But I am growing 
 old. How do I know.'' Didn't you ever read Leigh 
 Hunt?" 
 
 " Just a little." There was a trace of warmth creep- 
 ing into her voice. Hilliard held his breath : 
 
 "Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; 
 
 Say that health and wealth have missed me; 
 Say I'm growing old, but add — 
 Angela kissed me ! "
 
 170 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 He had spoken the lines magnificently, with the pre- 
 cise humour and pathos which go to make them im- 
 mortal. " I'm glad she fits into the meter," he said 
 thoughtfully, "because I can understand just how 
 Leigh Hunt felt about Jennie." 
 
 " And — how do you think that was? " 
 
 " Very sensitive," said Hilliard, " and perhaps a little 
 repressed and — decrepit." He smiled reminiscentl}'. 
 " I suppose there are very few things in life that make 
 a man feel more mindful of his own crudity and general 
 worthlessness than to have a child's spontaneous affec- 
 tion." It was the testing venture. She looked at him 
 sidewise. 
 
 " More than if — if it weren't a child? " 
 
 " I think so." His tone was faultless. *' It's the 
 combination of beautiful innocence and beautiful ig- 
 norance — which aren't always synonyms, j\Iiss Du- 
 rant. A woman can make a man feel like Romeo, but 
 it takes a very j^oung girl to make him feel like Launce- 
 lot — at m}^ age." 
 
 " She is adorable, isn't she? " His heart jumped at 
 her cordial acceptance of his statement. *' Only — 
 she's seventeen, Mr. HilHard." 
 
 " I know," he said gravely. " And that's why I'm 
 so conscious of my own senility. Because all that beau- 
 tiful innocence and ignorance is doomed. Miss Durant — 
 who knows that I'm not the very last person to see it? 
 Today, I'm only a much older man, some one she likes ; 
 tomorrow, I may be a man without the * only,' and the 
 more she liked me, the less she'd show it. But there's 
 been mighty little of that sort of thing for me in the 
 last few years from anybody, and I do appreciate it, and 
 I'm not ashamed of it, either."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 171 
 
 " No," she said, " you couldn't be. You're too hu- 
 man." She smiled at him, and he was transported at 
 the proof of her sympathy. " If I were in your place, 
 I'd want to feel the same way about it." 
 
 He thanked her in his heart. He had saved both 
 Angela and himself, and held his pristine advantage. 
 
 But there was no disputing the fact that he had made 
 an active enemy out of Waring, and an alert rival out 
 of Armstrong. He smiled grimly as he looked at the 
 man ahead. 
 
 " Mr. Armstrong seems to be very nervous," he said. 
 
 "Does he? I haven't noticed it." 
 
 " Not that I can blame him for wanting to be in my 
 place. On the contrary, I'm sorry for him." 
 
 " That shows a very good disposition," she said 
 demurely. 
 
 " Perhaps it does, and perhaps it doesn't. I believe 
 every man owes it to himself to get what he wants. If 
 he does, he's a success ; if he doesn't — it's his own 
 fault." 
 
 As he said this, they came abreast of the others, and 
 Armstrong, who had heard the final sentence, whirled 
 toward Hilliard. 
 
 " Regardless of methods ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Why — to some extent," laughed Hilliard. " Why 
 not?" 
 
 Armstrong delayed, so that the two men were a few 
 paces behind the rest of the group. " I'm interested to 
 know just how far you'd carry that theory." 
 
 " As far as Syracuse, at any rate." 
 
 "Is that your regular creed, Mr. Hilliard?" 
 
 " My creed isn't composed of words, Mr. Armstrong, 
 but of actions."
 
 172 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 They had spoken so quietly that no one perceiving 
 them would have remotely suspected that a challenge 
 had been offered and accepted. 
 
 " Actions do speak louder, of course." 
 
 " Mine," said Hilliard, " will give you no offence. 
 But — I generally get what I want." 
 
 "So do I. Shall we shake hands on it?" Arm- 
 strong was very affable, but tremendously in earnest. 
 
 " With pleasure. I can count on your generosity, 
 I see." 
 
 " And I on your courtesy." 
 
 ^* Thank you. He went complacently forward ; but 
 inwardly he was steeped in perturbation. The man 
 was so deadly sure of himself. Could it be that he was 
 tacitly engaged to Carol, in spite of what Angela had 
 surmised, or so nearly on the road to an understanding 
 with her that Hilliard was only making a fool of him- 
 self.? 
 
 Armstrong laughed gently. It was like a dagger 
 thrust in Hilliard's heart.
 
 XIII 
 
 MR. RUFUS BRISSENDEN WARING (he was 
 especially fond of the ham in that sandwich) oc- 
 cupied, during business hours in the summer months, 
 the smallest cubicle of the largest suite in the White 
 Memorial building. Mr. Rufus Brissenden Waring 
 was fond of legal words and technical expressions ; he 
 would have told you quite naturally that he was an 
 alumnus in Arts of Colgate University of the Class of 
 1914 ; and he would also have said that he had matricu- 
 lated at Syracuse University, in the College of Law, 
 last autumn, and that he was pursuing the prescribed 
 course leading to the degree of L.L.B. His ambition, 
 then, was to become an attorney and counsellor-at-law, 
 master in chancery, and member of the New York bar. 
 He was exactly twenty-one years old; a youthful 
 prodigy, and not entirely unconscious of it. At present 
 (to explain his connection with the White Memorial 
 building) he was serving during the long vacation, as 
 the youngest clerk in a very successful law firm, with 
 nothing but the office-boy between himself and oblivion. 
 To judge from his attitude and from his ignorance 
 that a man was laughing at him from the doorway, he 
 was engaged in matters of the last importance. Be- 
 fore him on the scarred desk, a score of calf-bound 
 volumes, ranged in toppling piles, awaited his atten- 
 tion. Here and there, other books were propped open, 
 ready to hand; on the side of the desk, a thick pad of 
 yellow scratch paper was placed conveniently. Young 
 
 173
 
 174. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Mr. Waring, his pencil gripped firmly, sat in rapt con- 
 centration on the brink of his swivel chair, studying 
 cases. The month was August; Mr. Waring was deli- 
 quescent from the heat. Now and then, as his intellect 
 swooped down upon some unprotected fact, he scrawled 
 a note on the topmost of the yellow sheets ; scrawled it 
 without taking his eyes from the printed page ; detached 
 the sheet, and added it to the heap of similar notes be- 
 side his blotter. They were cabalistic memoranda, but 
 they seemed to be highly inspirational, for young Mr. 
 Waring's eyes gleamed wherever he caught one. 
 
 Pittsburg Mining Co. vs, Spooner 74 Wis. 307. 
 
 Veiser vs. U. S. Board & Paper Co. 107 Fed. Rep. 34.0. 
 
 Lomita vs. Robinson 154 Cal. 36. 
 
 The man in the doorway grinned more broadly. 
 
 **Busy, Rufe?" 
 
 Mr. Rufus Brissenden Waring fairly bounded from 
 surprise. 
 
 " Oh ! — Jack ! " He exhaled mightily in relief. 
 " You scared the daylight out of me ! Come on in." 
 
 " Had to see your boss a minute," said Armstrong. 
 " Just thought I'd stop and pass the time of day with 
 you. But if you're busy — " 
 
 " Oh, come on in." He removed the books from a 
 second chair. *' I want to talk to you anyway." He 
 went to the door and closed it. " I was going to tele- 
 phone over to you tonight. But as long as you're 
 here — " 
 
 " Something very hush? " asked Armstrong, amused. 
 
 " 'RsL-ther! " Young Mr. Waring sat down hard. 
 " Look here, Jack, what's your private opinion about 
 this man Hilliard? " 
 
 " It's a broad question, counsellor."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 175 
 
 " Well, go ahead and answer it." 
 
 Armstrong regarded him quizzically. 
 
 "Any ulterior motive?" 
 
 " You said something ! Please answer me, Jack. 
 This is serious." 
 
 Armstrong stopped grinning. 
 
 " Excuse me, Rufe ; I didn't know. Why, I think 
 he's a mighty pleasant, affable sort of a person — and 
 a wonderfully good mixer. Everybody in town seems 
 to like him very much." 
 
 Waring leaned back; pressed the tips of his fingers 
 together; frowned judicially. 
 
 " All right ; proceed." 
 
 "Isn't that enough?" 
 
 " No ; make it explicit. Go into details." 
 
 *' Well — he's extremely generous and — " 
 
 " Sure? " snapped Waring. 
 
 " Well, he gave a thousand dollars to the Red Cross, 
 and—" 
 
 "Honest? That's news to me." 
 
 " He did it just the same. And he's promised to 
 contribute again if we can't make up the quota. And 
 he's given a lot to the other war funds, too. He's got 
 bales of money. He — " 
 
 "Sure he's got bales of it? Any proof?" No 
 member of the Appellate Division could have been more 
 critical of the evidence. 
 
 " He must have, Rufe. Since he went down to the 
 Onondaga, it's costing him a tremendous pile to live, 
 and he's given away such a lot besides, and he's bought 
 a car — you ought to have seen the way he bought it ! 
 Carol and. I were with him. He went into the Franklin 
 place and took a roadster with about as much fuss as
 
 176 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 I'd make buying a cigar. Just wrote out a check and it 
 was all over. People who haven't money don't do busi- 
 ness that way ! " 
 
 " Humph ! How much do you think he's got? '* 
 
 Armstrong began to be really attentive. 
 
 " What's on your mind, Rufe? " 
 
 *' I'll tell you later ; answer the question." 
 
 Armstrong's native conservatism made him pause. 
 
 " Why, I'd judge he's living at the rate of twenty- 
 five thousand a year at the minimum. And he's retired, 
 too ; so I should say he'd need half a million or so to 
 keep up that gait." 
 
 " All right ; how old do you think he is ? " 
 
 " Why — thirty-seven or eight. What's all this 
 about, anyway ? " 
 
 " Humph ! What do you think he's hanging around 
 Syracuse for? " 
 
 Armstrong reddened. 
 
 " Why, he says he likes it. He hasn't any home — 
 maybe he'll settle down here. I know he's looked at 
 some real estate up by the Sedgwick Farm tract." 
 
 " So this is about the way you size him up — rich, 
 retired, nothing to do, generous, affable, popular, char- 
 itable and hanging around Syracuse because he likes it. 
 That about right?" 
 
 "Pretty nearly. Why?" 
 
 Waring inhaled powerfully. 
 
 " Remember that Sunday we had dinner at Carol's 
 house? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Ever since that day," said Waring, also growing 
 red, " I haven't liked that man. I — well, never mind, 
 but I've got a darned good reason not to. And you
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 177 
 
 know how it is, Jack — when you've got good and suf- 
 ficient grounds for not liking a man, you sort of take 
 that as presumptive evidence that he's got other defects 
 you don't know anything about. And — I don't like 
 him. And I said something to Angela about it, and we 
 had a — a misunderstanding. She's crazy about him. 
 Perfectly crazy. And she was pretty much upset, or 
 she probably wouldn't have let this out, to judge from 
 what she said afterwards, but it seems that this man 
 HilHard has been talking to her father about some of 
 his mining schemes — and Cullen's going to put up 
 some money. And I don't like the looks of it." 
 
 " What ! " Armstrong was no longer quizzical. 
 
 " Angela said so. She said it's an underwriting 
 scheme. She said Hilliard's going to make her father a 
 multi-millionaire or some rot like that. Now of course 
 it may be all right. Jack, but I don't like it. If this 
 man Hilliard has such bales of money, what's he picking 
 up small change from Mr. Cullen for? And if his 
 scheme's any good, why doesn't he take it to New York, 
 where money's raised for big deals .^^ " 
 
 "You're excited, Rufe!" 
 
 " Sure I am ! Here's this man coming into town, and 
 going to church, and batting around with all the differ- 
 ent crowds, and shelling out contributions to charity, 
 and acting like a bloated bondholder — and then collect- 
 ing money from Mr. Cullen. Angela hinted it was 
 thirty thousand. And — " 
 
 " But Rufe ! You haven't any cause to imagine it 
 isn't straight business. He's under obligations to Mr. 
 Cullen ; why wouldri't he let him in on a good thing, if 
 he had one? And if Hilliard had any idea of getting 
 anything from Cullen dishonourably, wouldn't he have
 
 178 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 stayed on as their guest? Wouldn't he have used every 
 last hold on Cullen he could get? I happen to know 
 that he wouldn't think of it. You're all stewed up be- 
 cause Angela — " 
 
 " Well, I'll have to give him credit for that much," 
 conceded Waring. " Going down to live at the Onon- 
 daga when he could have sponged on l:he CuUens — and 
 I've only got my private opinion anyway, Jack, and 
 nothing to back it up with. But you know when you 
 once get a suspicion — and 3'ou and I are pretty much 
 in the same boat — " 
 
 " How do you mean? " demanded Armstrong quickly. 
 
 " You aren't deaf and dumb and blind, are you? " 
 
 " No, Rufe — not by a mile." 
 
 " Well — Carol and Angela. He's after one or the 
 other of 'em, and I don't know which. Neither does any- 
 body else. That's why I thought I'd like to have this 
 conference with you. We're in the same boat. So 
 I've been getting up the law on promoters." 
 
 Armstrong, stirred more by the reference to Carol 
 than by his young friend's suspicions, put out a calm- 
 ing hand. 
 
 " Rufus, you're much too excited. Let's start fresh 
 from the beginning. Henry Hilliard had a good reason 
 for coming up here, didn't he ? And a mighty friendly 
 reason, too." 
 
 " Yes, I'll have to concur in that." 
 
 " And you can't blame hi.n for having the Cullens 
 like him, can you ? " 
 
 « No-o." 
 
 " And everybody's been pretty nice to him, haven't 
 they?" 
 
 " Why, I'd say so."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 179 
 
 " Any reason why he shouldn't stay here if he enjoys 
 it? " 
 
 " Well — '' 
 
 " So all you're rioting about is his letting Mr. Cullen 
 in on a business deal? " 
 
 " If he — " 
 
 " And you'd never think twice about it if it weren't 
 for some misunderstanding of yours with Angela." 
 
 " Well, even if I waive — " 
 
 " And so you're suspicious of all his best qualities ! " 
 Armstrong laughed kindly. " Why, Rufe, there's noth- 
 ing to be disturbed about ! The one thing you do have 
 to keep in mind is this: it doesn't do the least good in 
 the world to despise your — er — your enemies. You 
 never know what they're thinking about you. The best 
 way to handle it is to remember that the other fellow is 
 probably just as much fussed up about it as you are, 
 and maybe more. And you haven't anything to worry 
 about, anyway." 
 
 " Why haven't I ? " asked Waring, doggedly. 
 
 " Because I have." 
 
 The embryo attorney and counsellor-at-law (master 
 in chancery and member of the New York bar) looked 
 feelingly at his heap of miscellaneous notes. 
 
 " I'm not telling all I know, Jack — not even to you. 
 But I think you're wrong. I — I've got some evi* 
 dence . . . only I can't figure out what it means." 
 
 " Circumstantial? " 
 
 ** No ; direct. Evidence of my own eyesight. It's 
 conclusive." Armstrong brightened, remembered that 
 he was between two fires, and sobered instantly. 
 
 " But let's give Hilliard the benefits of all the doubts 
 there are — You know, Rufe, one of the platitudes
 
 180 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 that makes me maddest is that old one about everything 
 being fair in love and war — it's so untruthful. Fair- 
 ness is fairness, no matter where you find it. Look at 
 this war, and see what's come of that platitude ! Let's 
 you and I be fair to ourselves, and him too. I've been 
 playing square with him for a good many weeks, and I 
 like him better all the time. He's a good sort — really. 
 Let's give him the benefit of all the doubts. Bar- 
 gain?" 
 
 Waring sighed dispiritedly. 
 
 " Oh, I suppose that's the way it would look to a 
 reasonable man — I'm not reasonable about it, some- 
 how." 
 
 Armstrong rose, and put out his hand. 
 
 " There's enough real trouble in the world without 
 any one trying to dig up any more, Rufe," he said. 
 " Cheer up ! And — don't let this weigh on you. Just 
 pull yourself together and forget it. Will you ? " 
 
 " I'll do the best I can, Jack." 
 
 The law-student watched his older friend out of the 
 door, and turned back to his disordered desk. He 
 picked up the last sheet of his notes, relinquished it, 
 selected an intermediate sheet and read slowly : *' Veiser 
 vs. U. S. Board and Paper Co. 107 Fed. Rep. 340. The 
 promoter of a company stands in the relation of a trus- 
 tee to it, and to those who became subscribers to its 
 stock, as long as he retains the power of control over it." 
 He replaced the memorandum in its proper order, and 
 reflected profoundly. 
 
 " If it isn't a corporation, it's a partnership," said 
 Waring, " and if it isn't a partnership, he's acting as 
 an individual. Any way you look at it he's personally 
 responsible. And — " He thought judicially of what
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 181 
 
 Armstrong had said to him. " Oh, well," said Waring, 
 dropping into his chair. " I guess it won't do me any 
 harm to know the law, anyway ! '" 
 
 He propped another book open and began to con- 
 centrate.
 
 XIV 
 
 IT had been a difficult problem for Hilliard, a difficult 
 and an exhausting problem, and although he had 
 often solved it to his satisfaction, it possessed the irri- 
 tating quality of refusing to stay solved. Once or twice 
 each day he was compelled to attack it anew, to lock 
 and grapple with it and master it ; and after each bout, 
 which came invariabl}^ to the same result, he dismissed 
 the problem from his calculations, and deluded himself 
 into arguing that it was never to return. And just as 
 often as he considered that it was expelled for ever, it 
 somehow gathered up its dissipated strength, and 
 crawled indomitably back to lock with him again. 
 
 For thirty days he had listened to the eulogies of his 
 secret self. He had heard from a hundred sources the 
 same belief repeated, that Dicky Morgan, given time 
 and counsel, would have made the city as proud of him 
 for his intrinsic worth as it now was proud of him for 
 his mihtary valour. This praise of Dicky Morgan had 
 at first stunned Hilliard ; after that, it had exalted him ; 
 still later, it had abrased his soul. He had longed, 
 ceaselessly, during that third period of his introspec- 
 tion, to take the city to his heart, to reveal himself, to 
 answer for Dicky Morgan's faikires and to pledge him- 
 self anew to the achievement which Dicky Morgan's 
 friends had prophesied ; and then he had been over- 
 whelmed by the recollection that he had made this 
 course impossible. He had established himself too 
 strongly ; there was no defending the glamour he had 
 
 182
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 183 
 
 spread so thickly over the name of Dicky Morgan ; 
 there was no explaining the myriad of deceits which 
 went to make up the entity called Hilliard. If he had 
 only known that all his deceptions were needless! If 
 he had only known that Dicky Morgan could have come 
 home, and been forgiven ! What anguish he could 
 have saved — and what repentance ! And the problem 
 was still the same — should he continue, safe in his 
 masquerade, to the goal he had set for himself, or should 
 he risk the worst, and salve his conscience by renuncia- 
 tion ? 
 
 But as it was, he was curiously thrilled by the new 
 repute which was slowly attaching to him. He had an 
 unaccustomed sense of civic uprightness quite apart 
 from his sense of shame for the methods which had 
 brought it about; he knew that he was looked upon as 
 a steady churchman ; that he was supposed to be a lieu- 
 tenant, if not actually a captain of important industry ; 
 that his democratic instincts were marked and ap- 
 plauded; that he passed current as a philanthropist and 
 a plutocrat. This novel reputation was wonderfully 
 sweet to him; he cringed to think what a storm of fury 
 would gather against him if he should lose, voluntarily 
 or involuntarily, the position he had gained, and, in 
 assuming his proper character, take with it the censure 
 for having hoodwinked a whole community by a scheme 
 so indefensible, and so loaded with egotism. Syracuse 
 was loud in its praise of Dicky IMorgan ; and Syracuse 
 was deeply respectful to Henry Hilliard ; but if Syra- 
 cuse ever came to know that they were one and the same 
 person, biographer and outcast, the career of both 
 would wither and die in the burning atmosphere of dis- 
 grace.
 
 184. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 He had never felt so sinful as he did now ; and he 
 had never been so proud in all his life. And it was pride 
 which chiefly governed him, and he was proud, not of 
 anything he had accomplished materially, but of what 
 he had accomplished spiritually ; he was proud of the 
 personality with which he was credited, and which he had 
 hot originally possessed, but which was slowly moulding 
 itself upon him. He still retained the inner sensibili- 
 ties of Dicky Morgan; the identity of Hilliard was a 
 thing apart, a deliberate creation, a piece of handi- 
 vrork — real and alive, and yet subliminal, detached. 
 He fiercely admired that shell of mystery which was 
 Hilliard ; he — with the perceptivity of Dicky Morgan 
 — was devoted, and more than devoted, to the ideal 
 he had dragged out of the abyss of failure. He fairly 
 worshipped Hilliard ; worshipped him for the fictitious 
 qualities which made him respected by others. Regard- 
 ing Hilliard in the mirror, he was himself held spellbound 
 by those features which fascinated men and won)e.n alike ; 
 he was almost fanatical in his gratitude to the surgeons 
 who had fashioned them. 
 
 And he was fiercely proud of Hilliard's very modesty, 
 and repression, and kindness — he gloried in these at- 
 tributes which, at first, were merely assumed as part of 
 his disguise. He gave away Hilliard's mone}^ to char- 
 ity, not with any qualm for the premeditated strata- 
 gem, but with quickening pleasure in Hilliard's ready 
 generosity. Sometimes, at odd moments, he was struck 
 by the realization of his own uplifting — that he could 
 still admire the virtue of his apparent self, and still 
 comprehend that it was the virtue and not the deception 
 that he admired. 
 
 And then, little by little, he had seemed to feel the
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 185 
 
 soul of Dicky Morgan merging with the body of Henry 
 Hilliard, so that what he did, and what he said, was 
 no longer deception, but the true expression of his char- 
 acter; he was aware that now and then he thought of 
 the two persons as one — and the one was Hilliard. At 
 this point, his pride was higher and his guilt was less — 
 and then the problem darted out from ambush, to be 
 wrestled with and mastered all over again. For it was 
 indisputable that if he chose to be actively sincere, he 
 should have to betray himself, and that if he didn't, he 
 could never expect to sleep peacefully of nights — and 
 his varying motives were most woefully intertwined. 
 
 By far the most distressing factor in this puzzle was 
 his relationship to Carol Durant. He had seen her 
 only half a dozen times during the month, and never 
 alone — the fates and Armstrong had circumvented him 
 — but he was head over heels in love with her again, 
 and he sensed, from fugitive glances and a stray word 
 or two on her part, that she wasn't entirely averse to 
 him. Not that she was yet committed to solid friend- 
 ship, but she was holding him in suspense. In time, 
 there might be a ray of hope . . . and he should enjoy 
 the delirious ecstasy of courting her again, with no past 
 derelictions to account for. That is — provided the 
 problem would somehow stay solved. But what would 
 Carol think if she knew that this grave and tender 
 stranger was hiding behind the wraith of Dicky Mor- 
 gan? And yet, after thirty days of falsity on falsity, 
 how could he admit his identity.? If she had truly been 
 in love with Dicky Morgan — it was a thousand times 
 the worse ! If she were ever truly in love with Henry 
 Hilliard, it was impossible ! 
 
 And then there was little Angela Cullen —
 
 186 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 And in addition, there was the serious business of 
 making good ; he was no longer impelled to it bj resent- 
 ment, but rather by unadulterated ambition; this, too, 
 he would see destroyed by any admission of his deceit. 
 To continue in the game was to lose his probity; to 
 relinquish it was to lose all else; and even now, his 
 joy and pride was contained in precisely those things 
 which he must give up, if he decided to tear off the 
 mask of hypocrisy ; and his self-respect was rising out of 
 the mud of what he never should have done at all. 
 
 When he thought of his worldly ambitions, he was 
 profoundly regretful that he had talked professionally 
 with Mr. CuUen. To be sure, the matter had come up 
 casually and naturally, and the opening had seemed too 
 good to be missed; at the same time, Hilliard couldn't 
 help reflecting that it had been premature. Diplomacy 
 required that he display no element of haste, no trace 
 of eagerness to launch his stock campaign ; he was now 
 compelled, by what had gone before, to put Mr. Cullen 
 off, to whet his appetite, to play him carefully, and wait 
 for the precise moment when one timely victory would 
 pave the way for others. It might prove, eventually, to 
 have been exactly the proper course to produce results ; 
 it might be that Cullen would become so impatient that 
 he couldn't be restrained, and would leap without look- 
 ing, and leap further than he intended, and j^et, ever 
 since that preliminary interview, Hilliard had known 
 that he had made a breach in his own fortresses ; that he 
 had rendered it possible for an informal (and logical 
 enough) investigation to begin, or for mild suspicion to 
 arise and gain momentum before he had devised the 
 means of combating It. He knew that in all prudence 
 he should have delayed for at least another month any
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 187 
 
 reference to his business affiliations ; and then the story 
 should have gone out shyly, and by degrees ; and become 
 assimilated with equal slowness ; it should first have been 
 nourished by strangers, and aftei'wards adopted and 
 supported by its foster parents ; a rumour with no defi- 
 nite origin. And although Hilliard believed implicitly 
 in the goods he had to sell, he knew the difficulty of the 
 market; he knew how timorous is the average investor; 
 and he knew that there might very easily come a time 
 at which his long harangue would be remembered, and 
 remembered adversely. 
 
 In this connection, he was irritated by the tone of 
 Harmon's letters to him from New York. Harmon was 
 enthusiastic, and confident ; he was relying sturdily on 
 Hilliard to break through the acumen of the up-state 
 capitalists; but he thought that Hilliard was making 
 haste too slowly ; he opined that all Hilliard needed to 
 do was to devote himself to a hard onslaught against 
 Mr. Cullen, and, after that, to gather subscribers where 
 he chose. He said that Hilliard was wasting time, and 
 ought to begin to collect signatures. Harmon mixed 
 his metaphors badly, but his meaning was ver}^ plain. 
 " They'll follow Cullen like a flock of sheep," he wrote, 
 " so you get busy on the decoy duck. And don't pass 
 up the little pitcher, either." Hilliard had mentioned, 
 in a moment of indiscretion, the assistance which An- 
 gela had unconsciously given him, and Harmon had ap- 
 praised it highly ; but it angered him, when he saw this 
 reference written down in Harmon's letter, to have her 
 name brought into the instructions, even by implica- 
 tion. Still . . . had he not invited this upon himself? 
 
 It was in a dizzying quandary, then, that HDliard 
 kept his next appointment at the Durants'. The prob-
 
 188 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 lem had grown so many branches, sent forth so many 
 tentacles of bewildering confusion, that he hardly knew 
 what to say, where to turn. There was apparently 
 nothing for him to do but to follow his selected pro- 
 cedure, and yet the incessant growth of barriers in the 
 path was tripping him at almost every stride. His one 
 consolation was that the miracle which had been per- 
 formed upon him had given him a mask of impenetrable 
 calm. At least, he didn't have to wear his forebodings 
 on his countenance. 
 
 And yet, almost the first words Carol said to him 
 were : " Something's troubling you, Mr. Hilliard." 
 
 He was momentarily demoralized, and came near 
 showing it — tried to pass it off with a laugh. 
 
 " Did I make it as plain as all that? " 
 
 " No," she said, " it wasn't plain at all." 
 
 His laugh was remarkably hollow, but he persisted in 
 it. 
 
 " Why, how did you think of it, then.'' " 
 
 " Just from your eyes," she told him. " What's the 
 matter? Anything I could help straighten out for you? 
 Or couldn't I listen? That helps a lot, sometimes — " 
 
 Hilliard made a heroic effort to fling off his mood. 
 
 " It's nothing but every-day worries," he said. " I'm 
 sorry I made it so apparent." 
 
 She looked up quickly ; liis symptoms were unmistak- 
 able. And the lines of pain around his mouth and on 
 his forehead gave him an expression which took her 
 breath away, — it was so poignant in its evidence of 
 suffering. She dropped her eyes, and the colour deep- 
 ened in her cheeks. 
 
 "Isn't there an3^thing I can do?" she said. "Or 
 ... or that Father could? You frighten me. . . ."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 189 
 
 " I'm sorry. . . . No, please don't think of it. I 
 ought to be shot if I've made, you unhappy." 
 
 The bitterness in his voice was acute; and, by para- 
 dox, it was caused mainl}' by her sweet concern for him, 
 and his realization of how little he deserved it. 
 
 " You always seem to be pushing the world away 
 from you," she said, after a pause. " Why do you, 
 Mr. Hilliard? " 
 
 " I didn't know that I do," he said dispiritedly. 
 " And it would be a queer thing for me to do deliberately, 
 when I want your friendship more than an3^thing else I 
 can possibly imagine — wouldn't it ? " 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " I've wanted to know you better, too," she said 
 finally. " But . . . had you ever noticed that we're 
 always talking in the present tense. Often I feel as 
 though I don't know anything about you at all. And 
 people never can be more than chance acquaintances 
 until they've shared some of the life they had before 
 they met each other." 
 
 Hilliard shuddered. 
 
 " It may be because there are so many things in 
 my life I prefer to forget." 
 
 " Not your whole life, surely ? " 
 
 " Almost my whole life," he said, without wisdom. 
 " It hasn't been so happy that I want to brag about 
 it. . . . And, besides that, what would I really gain 
 if I should draw the curtain? " 
 
 " But a woman," said Carol slowly, " almost always 
 has to be a confidante before she becomes a friend. . . ." 
 
 They sat without stirring while the clock ticked off a 
 dozen seconds. Hilliard, scarcely knowing what he 
 did — and, if he knew, indifferent — had put both hands
 
 190 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 to his forehead, as though to calm the vicious throbbing 
 within. 
 
 Presently, and so quietly that he never heard her, 
 Carol was gone — she had slipped across the room, to 
 the piano. ... 
 
 A breath of music, light, dreamy, caressing. . . . 
 
 And there, on the sofa where Dicky Morgan had sat, 
 and smoked, and taken his happiness with the utmost 
 nonchalance, sat Hilliard, in tensest desperation of 
 soul, strained to the tenuous melody which floated across 
 to him, — an echo of youth and gladness which mocked 
 him, derided him, indicted him ... a translation of 
 the unutterable sadness which welled up in his throat 
 and choked him. . . . She was playing the *' Liebe- 
 straum." 
 
 His shoulders went up convulsively, and he was 
 chilled to the heart. Liebestraum! It was a taunt, a 
 savage cynicism, a challenge to his inward self. The 
 waves of it battered his unresisting conscience; the 
 piercing tenderness of it damned him, while it awoke 
 his dormant passion, and set his will to vibrating. 
 Liebestraum — and the dream of his love was a phan- 
 tasm which his brain reeled to contemplate ! The lump 
 in his throat came near to strangling him. 
 
 The music was painting fairy pictures for him now 
 ... he could see, as though at an immense distance, 
 vignettes of platinum-shadowed water in the moonlight, 
 graceful branches wavering against the sky, the dark 
 masses of rock and bush at the lake shore, and Carol 
 . . . always Carol. . . . 
 
 Contrast — and the black and red of a world tor- 
 tured by bursts of hideous flame and smoke. . . . Con- 
 trast, and the dead stillness before the storm . . . and
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 191 
 
 again vignettes, and the sound of tiny waves breaking 
 upon the pebbles, and the scent of the summer night in 
 his nostrils. . . . 
 
 His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavil3\ 
 Liebestraum — after all these years ! She was playing 
 for him again; playing as he had forgotten she had 
 played ! It was the renewal of the least shameful hours 
 he had ever known. It was a scene from the life he 
 had spurned, and spat upon. It was a flight to yester- 
 day, to the innocence and affection which had withered 
 in the heat of his intended vengeance. She had always 
 been able to enthral him, when she liked; and she had 
 known that Liszt was as strong wine to his soul. The 
 picture — the picture ! Himself — and Carol . . . 
 when the world was all at peace, and he need have no 
 loathing for him.self because he loved her. The familiar 
 notes could almost hurt him physically, his senses were 
 so keenly alert to the lovely melody. . . . And all at 
 once, while Hilliard's heart stopped beating, the 
 terminal phrases, questioning, appealing, agoniz- 
 ing. ... 
 
 It seemed to Hilliard that hours must have elapsed 
 before he had the strength to rise, and cross the room. 
 His brain was buffeted by wildly giddy passions ; he was 
 only partly aware that Carol, trying to rise from the 
 bench, was wide-eyed with intuitive apprehension. Voli- 
 tion had gone from him ; he was acting without reserve, 
 without premeditation. 
 
 " Tell me ! " he said thickly. " Have I got a chance.? 
 One in a hundred.? One in a thousand.? But a 
 chance? " 
 
 "Oh! . . . Mr. Hilliard!" Her plea was to his 
 chivalry, and had to be.
 
 192 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Tell me . . . Tcould I have ... if I should share 
 everything you — " 
 
 One hand was pressed close to her breast ; the other 
 was outstretched, defensive. 
 
 "Don't! Dont! Don't spoil what was — " 
 
 " You'll have to answer me. ... I can't wait any 
 longer. I'm not worth your little finger and I know 
 it . . . but I want a chance . . . just a fighting chance 
 . . . you've got to answer me, Carol . . ." 
 
 She was trembling within reach of him, but it never 
 occurred to him to touch her, and if it had, he would 
 have refrained, out of sheer consciousness of liis lack 
 of right. It wasn't the present moment that absorbed 
 him ; it was the potentiality- of the future — the course 
 by which he could earn the privilege that he asked. 
 Plis face, working tragically, awed her. 
 
 " Yes," she said, hardly above a whisper. " There's 
 . . . one chance in a thousand. There's . . . that 
 much, anywa}'." 
 
 His arms went out to her — stayed — dropped. He 
 stepped backwards, out of the danger zone. 
 
 " Then I'll take it," he said. 
 
 She had given him a chance, on an implied condi- 
 tion which he could never meet. She had given him a 
 chance — and what in the name of Heaven could he do 
 with it.?
 
 XV 
 
 FROM the marbled dignity of the Trust and De- 
 posit Company, where he had bought a New York 
 draft for fifteen thousand dollars, and smaller ones for 
 ten and seven, Hilliard emerged presently to South 
 Warren Street, and stood there on the sidewalk for a 
 moment, numbed by the first galvanizing consciousness 
 of success. The September morning was clear and 
 fresh and brilliant ; he took it inclusively to himself, and 
 thrilled not less to the world around him than to the 
 joyous tumult within his own brain. He felt a sudden 
 fraternity towards every passer-by ; he was infatuated 
 by every aspect of the city which had once rebuffed, 
 then welcomed him. 
 
 He had come back to it resolved to win, in his second 
 trial, the position he had failed to approximate in his 
 first; he had set himself a commercial standard, and, 
 gauged by it, he was advancing rapidly, for today's 
 trio of subscriptions, added to Mr. Cullen's check of 
 yesterday (and Mr. Cullen had acted as though he had 
 gained a personal victory in persuading Hilliard to 
 accept it), made up a glittering total, a stupendous 
 total ; and already Hilliard's earned commissions formed 
 a sum to gloat about. As he stood there on the side- 
 walk, he felt that inrushing sense of dominant power 
 and broad authority which only the acquisition of 
 money, by individual effort, can give ; but he had too, a 
 finer, and a more uphfting thrill of triumph than money- 
 success can ever give — the triumph over early fail- 
 
 193
 
 194 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 ures. Despised as a salesman, he had sold to four im- 
 partial business men the commodity hardest in all the 
 world to sell. Scorned for his behaviour, he had made 
 his sales on the basis of a character which hadn't been 
 questioned since the day of his arrival. His mind and 
 his muscles clamoured alike for action; to relieve the 
 pressure of his spirits, he set off vigorously, swinging, 
 exultant. The best of it, as he assured himself over 
 and over again, was that he had sold his project strictly 
 on its merits as an investment ; the cards had all been 
 on the table ; he had nothing in this transaction to re- 
 gret. 
 
 On impulse, he crossed the street for the purpose of 
 patronizing a florist's, where, ignoring the conventional 
 measure of the even dozen, he ordered a prodigal arm- 
 ful of American Beauties for Carol Durant. This done, 
 and feeling very rich and independent, he rounded the 
 righthand corner, and got himself greeted by two 
 citizens of standing and importance who, in hailing 
 him, displayed a deference not ordinarily granted to 
 the average resident of Hilliard's age. Would Hilliard 
 condescend to speak at the next meeting and dinner 
 of the Chamber of Commerce on France in wartime.'* 
 Hilliard would. And this indication of his new-won 
 status fired him afresh; he was exhilarated beyond his 
 most feverish dreams of conquest ; he was certain now 
 that the time was coming when, with magnificent achieve- 
 ment and an impeccable new career to rely upon, he 
 could fling aside the cloak of his disguise, and mount 
 the pedestal of distinction which was so surely build- 
 ing for him. He could explain his acts when he could 
 also extenuate them; was it not possible that the join- 
 ing of the ways was near?
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 195 
 
 And then a dowager from the Solvay side of town 
 beckoned to him from her limousine, and held him for 
 a brief discussion of the financial needs of the Memorial 
 Church; and after that, a matron from the most ap- 
 proved location on James Street waylaid him openly, 
 and demanded him for dinner on the coming Friday. 
 There was a Senator, she said, she wanted him to meet. 
 Every step he took was another stride towards glory ; 
 he had never remotely fancied such pride and satisfac- 
 tion as this ; he radiated a warmth of spirit which was 
 irresistible. There was none of Morgan's weakness 
 in him now, none of Morgan's wild irresponsibility; he 
 was Hilliard — with only one thing to be ashamed of, 
 and that was simply that he hadn't been born Hilliard, 
 instead of becoming Hilliard by re-birth. 
 
 And, logically enough, his swirling thoughts followed 
 a well-worn trail which led him straight to Carol; and 
 for the thousandth time he tried to set a future date, 
 depending on the outcome of his mission here, at which 
 he could confess, and ask forgiveness for his mummery, 
 and simultaneously ask credit for his regeneration. He 
 was at least on even terms with Armstrong; perhaps 
 a pace ahead; and when Carol once knew. . . . The 
 drama of it intoxicated him. 
 
 At this juncture, he was aware that some one had 
 arrested him. It was Angela's youthful suitor, who 
 had been peering enviously at the gorgeous haberdash- 
 ery in Goettel's exclusive window, and turned away just 
 in time to catch Hilliard by the sleeve. 
 
 "Oh — hello. Waring 1" said HiUiard cheerfully. 
 " How's crime? " 
 
 The student of law flushed at the lively salutation, 
 which appealed to him as a reflection upon the majesty
 
 196 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 of the bar. Also, his sense of humour was temporarily 
 atrophied. 
 
 " We don't handle criminal cases," he responded 
 shortly. " Say, when can you and I have a conference 
 together, Mr. Hilliard?" 
 
 " Why, the sooner the quicker," laughed Hilliard. 
 "What's it about?" 
 
 Waring coughed unnecessarily. " Business." 
 
 " The time to talk about business is all the time — 
 isn't it?" 
 
 Waring hesitated, and finally stepped into the shelter 
 of Goettel's doorway, drawing Hilliard with him. 
 
 " I don't suppose it'll seem like a very important 
 thing to you," he said, rather awkwardly, " but it's 
 important enough to me, Mr. Hilliard, to be worth 
 taking time over — to be perfectly frank with you, I've 
 got five hundred dollars I want to put in some high- 
 class, gilt-edged speculation. And I've asked several 
 people's advice — not to shift the responsibility, but 
 just for instance — and — to make a long story short, 
 Mr. Cullen gave me some pointers, and now I'm in- 
 terested in your copper mine. Only — and this is 
 where the hitch comes in — I've sort of got into the 
 swing of the law, you know, and that makes men — 
 well, what you might call judgmatical. You get so 
 you want to look at everything from all four sides. 
 And I thought maybe because of the — the attending 
 circumstances — you'd be kind enough to explain the 
 whole thing to me. Would you?" 
 
 Hilliard, who didn't know whether to be touched or 
 amused, compromised by nodding gravely. 
 
 " There's one thing I'll have to tell 3'ou, though," 
 he said ; " I don't advise any one to gamble in copper
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 197 
 
 mines, or anything else, Waring, unless that person 
 could actually afford to lose his whole investment, and 
 not be hurt. And in this particular case, since I 
 happen to control the situation, I won't permit it. 
 Does that hit you, or doesn't it? " 
 
 The young man's mouth opened in amazement. He 
 had been priming liimself to be a clever investigator, 
 and to pick yawning flaws in Hilliard's underwriting, 
 and here his thunder was stolen before he had had a 
 chance to stake the segis of his cleverness. 
 
 "Why — it isn't a gambley is it? I understood — 
 Mr. Cullen said — " 
 
 " It's safer to figure it as a gamble. Waring. It's 
 safe to figure all these things that way. Of course, we 
 think it's a wonderful prospect, and a practically posi- 
 tive success, but I don't mind telling you that so far I 
 haven't allowed a man who couldn't afford to lose his 
 whole subscription — and didn't understand very 
 clearly that he might — to come in for so much as a 
 plugged nickel. And that would apply to you, too." 
 
 The law student gasped, incredulous. 
 
 " You don't mean to say it isn't a sure thing? " 
 
 " Is any speculation? You see I'm not working very 
 hard to take your five hundred away from you. Waring. 
 I don't mind your coming in if you want to, and I'd 
 make it as easy for you as I can, but I don't want 
 you to be under any misapprehension, not for one 
 second." 
 
 The boy scowled. 
 
 " That's different — I suppose it's really too small 
 for you to bother with. Is that what you're driving 
 at?" 
 
 HiUiard smiled cordially.
 
 198 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " It is, and it isn't. From any one I didn't know, 
 I'd rather not touch it. It isn't a good plan, ordi- 
 narily, to have a lot of small stockholders — the ob- 
 jection is simply that it complicates action, and action 
 is what we want. But from you, — and if it isn't more 
 than you ought to risk — " 
 
 Waring snatched at the straw. 
 
 " Well, seeing you're who you are, and I'm who I 
 am, would you be willing to give me just as much in- 
 formation as you would if I had twenty times as much 
 to put in.'^ " 
 
 " Come up to the room," said Hilliard impulsively ; 
 and he was actuated solely by the obligation he felt 
 towards all of Mr. Cullen's friends. " You come along 
 up to the room, and I'll show you everything I've got. 
 Maps — plans — figures — estimates — everything. 
 Will that do?" 
 
 At the last words, the amateur detective had bright- 
 ened. 
 
 " I can't come now very well. But maybe I could run 
 up this evening, if that's all right for you." 
 
 "That'll be just as good. Eight o'clock? Fine." 
 He held out his hand. Waring took it limply. 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm causing you a lot of bother," he 
 said, " but it is a pretty big thing for me ; I'd like to 
 know just as much about it as you want to give 
 me. ... I hope you don't think it's anything per- 
 sonal ... I mean my not just taking it for 
 granted — " 
 
 " Not at aU. Business is business. I'll expect you 
 at eight, then." Hilliard nodded good-humourcdl}^ 
 and went on north. A quaint intuition overcame him, 
 and he glanced back over his shoulder. Fifty yards
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 199 
 
 away the law-student was also glancing over his 
 shoulder, and Waring, having less of self-possession 
 than the adventurer, blushed and jerked his head to 
 the front ; Hilliard chuckled and continued his stroll. 
 
 Having completed the four sides of the square in a 
 solitary little procession of triumph, he entered the 
 Hotel Onondaga from the east, and headed across 
 towards the news-stand. Out of a red and gold chair in 
 the spacious lobby, a gentleman rose to meet him — 
 a gentleman who in appearance was a very fair replica 
 of the well-known Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford, except 
 that he was somewhat more refined and less obese. He 
 was beaming humorously and complacently; and his 
 manner showed the paternal regard of an elderly em- 
 ployer for a bright salesman, who is breaking records. 
 His animation was obvious, but he delayed to remove 
 both his grey suede gloves before he offered to shake 
 hands with Hilliard. 
 
 " Well ! " said Martin Harmon, effusively, " you're 
 looking great! Must agree with you up here, what.'* 
 Didn't expect me, did you.'^ " 
 
 " No ! " Hilliard's expression was a study ; he had 
 dealt so long with Harmon at a distance that he had 
 almost forgotten what the broker looked like. " Why 
 didn't you wire me you were coming?" 
 
 Harmon waved a fat hand in deprecation; it was a 
 gesture to imply magnificent events in the background. 
 Hilliard noticed (and wondered how he had happened 
 to overlook this before) that the broker wore a diamond 
 ring of better than sixty candle-power. 
 
 " Didn't know it myself until pretty near train-time 
 — spur of the moment. Well, got any business yet.'' " 
 
 Involuntarily, Hilliard smiled, and the smile spread
 
 200 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 wonderfully, until Harmon caugkt the contagion of 
 it and beamed more royally than ever. " The man 
 you called the ' decoy duck ' — remember when 3'ou 
 wrote that to me? — well, he quacked yesterday." 
 
 Harmon put his hand on Hilliard's shoulder; it was 
 an accolade. His round face lengthened into compara- 
 tive seriousness. 
 
 ''Redly? How much.?" 
 
 "Thirty." For the life of him Hilliard couldn't 
 resist a slight forward thrust of his chest. 
 
 Mr. Harmon's eyes glazed for an instant. 
 
 " Good — good ! That's clever work, son ! Clever 
 and quick. But I knew you'd do it. Thirty.? That's 
 finel An3'body else.? " 
 
 Hilliard laughed exultantly, and lowered his voice. 
 
 " Yes, three more — a total of sixty-two. I mailed 
 you a draft yesterday morning; the others are in m^^ 
 pocket now. I've just come from the bank." 
 
 " Great work, son ! " Mr. Harmon breathed raptu- 
 rously. " That puts us pretty nearlj^ where we belong. 
 Sixty-two thousand ! It's a running start for the big 
 race ! You certainly didn't get left at the post, Hil- 
 liard ! Deducted your commissions yet?" 
 
 " No ; I thought you'd rather do the bookkeeping in 
 your own office and send me a check. I've still got 
 twelve hundred left out of my expense mone}^" 
 
 Harmon's approval was manifest. 
 
 " You show me the drafts, and I'll write you a check 
 this minute. Let's go sit down in the grill, and have 
 something. This is fine work, now I want to tell you ! " 
 
 " I rather thought so myself." Hilliard had led the 
 way to the grill, and commandeered a side-table. " In 
 fact — " He lowered his voice. " In fact, as things
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 201 
 
 have worked out, Mr. Harmon, I almost wish I hadn't 
 tried to play it just this way. I mean — " 
 
 But Harmon had already grasped the point. 
 
 " Oho ! Is that so ? You must have made a hit. 
 And all your old friends you were so het up about — 
 weren't they as peevish at you as you thought ? " 
 
 " No." Hilliard grew warm. " I'd give a good 
 deal," he said soberly, " if I hadn't tangled myself up 
 in all that imitation history. I never liked the idea 
 of it from the first. But after I'd once got involved 
 in it — " 
 
 " Now don't criticize your boss," said Harmon, good- 
 naturedly. " That was my own idea from start to 
 finish." 
 
 " Only it wasn't. That is, it was your thought for 
 me to go straight to Cullen, of course, but the story 
 I told him . . . you don't know how far I went, and 
 I'm not going to tell you. But all I'd intended to do 
 was to furnish an alibi, and instead of that, I got into 
 a sort of wholesale business." He smiled ruefully. 
 " Well, I'm in for it now. I've published so much that 
 I didn't need to — I'm wondering how in thunder I can 
 ever get out of it when the time comes. That was the 
 idea, you remember — coals of fire. What's bothering 
 me is that there's nobody to tend the furnace." 
 
 " But I thought you were so anxious to keep in 
 the shade.?" 
 
 " Yes, but I didn't need to crawl in a hole, and 
 pull it in after me! Well, we'll wait and see. That's 
 my funeral; not yours. After I've gone a little fur- 
 ther — and of course, you know I've hardly scratched 
 the surface yet — " 
 
 " I know you haven't." The big man tucked his
 
 202 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 gloves into his breast pocket, and brought out a silver 
 cigarette case. " Have one? " 
 
 " Thank you. And you might take these drafts 
 now; three of 'em. Right .^ Good. Well — any de- 
 velopments ? " 
 
 " What? " Harmon tapped his cigarette case in 
 the palm of his left hand. " Oh, you mean the mine. 
 Why, I brought up another engineer's report for you; 
 little bit better than the last one; shows a fine area 
 of mineralized schist, with disseminated iron and cop- 
 per values — " 
 
 Hilliard nodded. " Yes, but what I meant was, have 
 you gone any further with the shaft yet? Two or 
 three of the more cautious men are holding back un- 
 til something happens with that. I'm hoping you can 
 give me the ammunition to bring 'em down with." 
 
 " Shaft? " Harmon was puzzled. " What shaft? " 
 He placidly stowed away the drafts. " I'm not sinking 
 any new shafts at this stage of the game." 
 
 It was Hilliard's turn to be puzzled. 
 
 " Why, I mean the old shaft on Silverbow No. 1. 
 Have you gone any further with it? I've told these 
 people we were just starting. That's right, isn't 
 it? " 
 
 Harmon laughed noisily. 
 
 " Oh, that shaft ! Don't you think it's a little early 
 to begin on that? Say, about ninety thousand dollars 
 too early? " 
 
 As Hilliard sat gazing at him in profound bewilder- 
 ment, a waiter slid up alongside him and coughed for 
 his attention. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " demanded Harmon, roughly. 
 The waiter ignored him.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 203 
 
 " Gentleman wants to speak to you outside, Mr. Mil- 
 liard. In the lobby. Says it's important." 
 
 " Oh ! " Billiard drew the back of his hand across 
 his forehead. " Tell him I'll come right out. Will 
 you excuse me a moment, Mr. Harmon.'^ " 
 
 " Sure ! Go ahead." The promoter sat back com- 
 fortably, and gave him a wave of dismissal. Hilliard, 
 his pupils narrowing, went out to the doorway. A pace 
 or two distant, one of the vice-presidents of the Trust 
 and Deposit Company — a friend of Cullen's, and a 
 very good man to know — was loitering restively. At 
 sight of Hilliard, his face cleared, and he stepped for- 
 ward quickly. 
 
 " Hello, Hilliard," he said, wrinkling his forehead. 
 "How are you? Look here, it's none of my business, 
 of course, but I couldn't help wondering how much you 
 know about that chap you're sitting with. Don't be 
 offended ; it's a friendly question. Simply my interest 
 in you as one of our clients." 
 
 " Why, I know a good deal about him." Hilliard 
 wasn't exactly affronted, but he was annoyed, and 
 showed it. 
 
 The banker continued solemnly. 
 
 " You probably know a lot more about him than I 
 do, then, but just the same, I wanted to make sure. 
 That's all." He turned, but Hilliard stopped him. 
 
 " Well, what do you know about him.'' " 
 
 " Before I answer that — is he a friend of yours? '* 
 The question was too blunt to be diplomatic, and too 
 suggestive to be disregarded. 
 
 " Not exactly that ; he's a rather good acquaintance, 
 though. In a business way only — what he is socially 
 I don't know, and I don't think I much care."
 
 204. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " So you don't need any advice about his business con- 
 nections? " 
 
 " Why, I think not." He was nettled by the banker's 
 manner. 
 
 " The only thing about it," said the vice-president, 
 nettled in his turn by Hilliard's brevity, " is that if 
 you'd said you didn't know him very well, I'd have 
 offered you some suggestions. I'd have expected you 
 to thank me — I really would. Under the circum- 
 stances, I can't very well go any farther than this. 
 It was just that I hoped you knew what j^ou're doing. 
 Sorry I interrupted you." 
 
 " No, but wait a minute ! I — " 
 
 The vice-president's refusal was firm and definite. 
 
 " I can't say another word. Not another one. If 
 you know him, that's sufficient." And strode away 
 across the lobby, leaving Hilliard dumbfounded. 
 
 Mr. Harmon, smiling broadlj^, half arose from his 
 chair as the masquerader came slowly back to the table 
 and sat down hard. 
 
 "Well," he said. "More business.?" 
 
 Hilliard shook his head. 
 
 " On the contrary." His voice in it had a curious 
 dulness which the broker was quick to catch. 
 
 " No bad news, I hope.'^ " 
 
 Hilliard shivered. 
 
 " I'm not sure. Let's go on discussing the mine." 
 He rested his elbows on the table, and his pupils were 
 needle-points. 
 
 "Not much else to discuss, is there? It's the same 
 old mine." He looked intently at Hilliard. " What's 
 got into you, anyway, in the last couple of minutes?
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 205 
 
 You've lost all your pep. You look as though you've 
 seen a ghost." 
 
 " Maybe I have," said Hilliard, with a short laugh. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Hilliard regarded him with an odd intermingling of 
 respect and alarm. The respect was a hold-over from 
 the past — from the early impression he had formed 
 from Harmon's resplendent oiSBces in New York, and 
 Harmon's contempt of money. He had considered his 
 employer, at worst, a weak -principled vendor of legit- 
 imate securities. 
 
 " Mr. Harmon," he said reluctantly, " I'm in a 
 mighty awkward position. . . . But all our relations 
 have been so confidential, — and I'm representing you 
 in Syracuse now — we can't afford to let anything spoil 
 this campaign, can we? " 
 
 " Not if we can very well help it. What's bother- 
 ing you ? " 
 
 " For over ten weeks now," he said at length, " I've 
 been building up a reputation — you know what I've 
 been doing; you know how much depends on it. I've 
 handled everything according to your instructions — 
 or rather, to our agreement — your name hasn't been 
 mentioned once; I've been selling this thing on my own 
 personality — holding myself out as the principal. 
 Well, the man who called me outside just now — and he's 
 one of the solid banking crowd up here — he spoke of 
 you as though he knew you. In fact — to be per- 
 fectly frank — he called me out there to ask me about 
 you. Now I don't know what dealings you've ever 
 had with him, or with any one else up here, but it 
 struck me that if there is anything between you and
 
 g06 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Syracuse, or any of its fairly big men, perhaps it 
 would be better if I knew it. You see, this thing I'm 
 selling is so darned personal — " 
 
 " Who was he? " Harmon's voice rasped. 
 
 " Embree — of the Trust and Deposit Company." 
 
 " Oh, yes." Harmon smoked reflectively. " Yes, we 
 know each other. What did he have to say ? " 
 
 " It wasn't so much what he said as the way he said 
 it. But in view of the particular sort of work I'm do- 
 ing, and — " 
 
 " I understand all that." Harmon brought his 
 brows together. "I'm trusting your judgment up to 
 the limit, son. Just between ourselves, I ain't any too 
 popular with this crowd, and I'm glad of it. Never 
 mind ancient historj^ — stick to the present. If you 
 think it'll do any harm to the proposition if you hang 
 around here with me, why, we can go up to your 
 room. If you're so blamed high-browed that your 
 friends can't stand me, why — " 
 
 " Nothing in that," said Hilliard, quickly. " If any 
 harm's to be done, it's done dlvQd.dy. I don't suppose 
 there is — at least, I can't see why there should be — 
 I only wanted to have the story all ready if the subject 
 ever comes up. I suppose you've had some disagree- 
 ment with these people? " 
 
 " Some disagreement," admitted Harmon, grinning. 
 " These up-State farmers and I love each other like a 
 couple of strange bulldogs. Still — " 
 
 " If it isn't objectionable to j'ou," said Hilliard, 
 hesitating, " I'd rather hke to know a bit about it, 
 Mr. Harmon. As I said before, the subject might 
 come up later. It's almost sure to, now that Embree's 
 seen you and spoken to me about you. And if you've
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 207 
 
 had any quarrel with this crowd, even if it wasn't 
 jour fault, and if it came out that I'm working for you, 
 and there was any talk about it, you can see how I'd 
 have to be on the defensive. ... So if you could just 
 give me a faint idea — " 
 
 " Plain English is a lot better than a faint idea," 
 said Harmon carelessly. " I floated some steel bonds 
 up here once. Prettiest bonds you ever saw in your 
 life, too." 
 
 " Oh ! And they didn't turn out well ? " 
 
 Harmon's eyes twinkled, and his shoulders shook with 
 dry humour. 
 
 " Not exactly. The company was too much like 
 Silverbow, I guess — all float and no lode." 
 
 For a moment, Hilliard thought that he hadn't 
 heard aright. 
 
 "What was that you said?" he managed. 
 
 Harmon reiterated it. 
 
 " Too much like Silverbow. Only they pumped the 
 water out of it sooner than we will. That was five 
 years ago." 
 
 At first, Hilliard was untouched by the shock ; the 
 force of it seemed to pass over him entirely; then all 
 at once, as he was caught by the drift of it, his hands 
 began to tremble violently ; and his palms were clammy 
 with sweat. His stomach seemed to drop out of him, 
 and he was nauseated by the tremendous purport of his 
 employer's cynicism. 
 
 " Mr. Harmon ! " he panted, under his breath, " Mr. 
 Harmon ! " 
 
 The New Yorker looked at him in genuine surprise. 
 
 " What's tlie matter, Hilliard? You look sick! Or 
 . . . damn it, man, if that's another one of your bluffs,
 
 ftOS THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 you're wasting your time. You haven't worked up 
 such a holy disposition you believe in this mine, have 
 you? " He moved uneasily. " I wish you'd wipe that 
 pious expression off your face — or is it glued on?" 
 He laughed fitfully. " Say, are you doing it on pur- 
 pose, «r is that some more of your Christly miracle? " 
 
 Hilliard's voice shook uncontrollably. 
 
 " You have the nerve to sit there and tell me — " 
 
 " Nerve? " Harmon's eyes flashed. " Yes, I've got 
 plenty of nerve. Lost yours? I'll lend you some." 
 
 Hilliard put his quaking hands on the table, as 
 though to steady himself. 
 
 " This . . . this mine ! " he stammered. " You told 
 me—" 
 
 " I'll stand by everything I've ever told you, Hilliard. 
 I'll prove it. It's an area of mineralized schist with 
 disseminated copper values. And we've got over a hun- 
 dred acres of it. And part of a shaft, too." He 
 laughed noiselessly. " Of course, altogether there's 
 about five hundred square miles of that same sort of 
 land in the same State, but what's the odds as long's 
 you're happy? Tell 7^ you aren't wise? Rot! Why, 
 you knew all about it when we were on the boat ! " 
 
 Hilliard's muscles were working in hysterical jumps, 
 and his face was distorted. 
 
 " Y-you . . . y-you're sa3dng . . . y-3'ou're saying 
 I've been selling . . . s-selling to my friends a piece 
 of damned worthless property? Are you? Because if 
 that's true, by God, I'll — " 
 
 " Shut up ! " The big man was dominant, ugly. 
 "Understand me? You keep your mouth shut if you 
 know what's good for you! Didn't you come up here
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 209 
 
 to get square with your 'friends'? Your friends!''' 
 His accent was superlatively contemptuous. " You 
 knew it wasn't a producing mine, didn't you? " 
 
 "You told me it was a wonderful prospect! 
 You — " 
 
 « Well — it's still a prospect. Don't you know the 
 difference ? " 
 
 Hilliard fought desperately for his poise. 
 
 " I know what you told me ! ... I know it was a 
 long shot, but I thought there was some value there 
 ... a lot of it .. . and you said the shaft . . . you 
 always said the shaft was — " 
 
 Harmon reached for another cigarette ; there was un- 
 disguised perplexity on his face. 
 
 " Son, if you aren't a mighty good actor, you're 
 . . . are you going to claim you didn't know what 
 this mine is? After all that whining and squealing of 
 yours about your getting even? Then what in thunder 
 did you want to come back here for ? " 
 
 " To make some money — to get some fun out of it — 
 to make good first and . . . and get even by — " 
 
 " Then why in the devil did you agree to all that 
 bunk about your dying in France, and — " 
 
 " Don't ask me! I can't tell you ! It was part of 
 the game ! I wanted to make fools of people ; I didn't 
 want to swindle anybody ! I thought I was giving 'em 
 something for their money ! I — " 
 
 Harmon Hghted his cigarette, none too complacently. 
 
 " The funny part about it," he said slowly, " is that 
 I don't honestly believe you're bluffing. ... Of course, 
 that face of yours — But you knew it was only a 
 prospect."
 
 210 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 *• But I thought it was a good prospect ! Never 
 mind — " He made as though to rise. " You've said 
 enough. I'm through with you ! " 
 
 The big man's jaw thrust out belligerently, and he 
 caught Hilliard by the arm. 
 
 "Now, stop right there! Sit down! Sit down! 
 Maybe you thought it was a good prospect and maybe 
 you didn't, but you're not through with me yet — not 
 until / say so. Don't you make any mistakes like that, 
 ^y boy. Don't you go off half -shot — not yet! 
 Remember our contract? Ever heard of promoter's 
 liability.? I'd certainly hate to see you get into trouble, 
 but if you've made any wild statements about ma- 
 terial facts — " 
 
 Hilliard was straining half across the table. 
 
 " You told me the ore was there! And I thought 
 the worst that could happen would be to tie up this 
 money for a few years — that's why a prospect's so 
 hard to sell! I knew darned well it wasn't any whirl- 
 wind right now, but I did think they'd . . . they'd at 
 least make something good out of it . . . eventually 
 . . . even if it . . ." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Harmon, sneering, " but you had every 
 opportunity to learn the facts — ev-e-ry opportunity. 
 It's not my fault if you went off half-cocked. / don't 
 know what you've represented to your gang up here. 
 rm not responsible. All I know is that you've col- 
 lected sixty-two thousand dollars, and turned it over 
 to me, and I'm to give you stock for it, and pay you a 
 rebate in cash. Maybe you caU it a commission . . . 
 it's a rebate! Read the contract. Read it carefully, 
 while you're about it. Take it to a lawyer; I don't 
 care. Any lawyer you like. If you've gone beyond
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 211 
 
 the facts, I'm mighty sorry for you, but I don't see 
 how it affects me any. Do you? " 
 
 Hilliard had slumped wretchedly into his chair; his 
 cheeks, which had been scorched with shame, were 
 blanched with misery. He was sickened and abased 
 to the point of utter prostration ; his thoughts were 
 running aimlessly about the grim axis of his chicanery. 
 
 " And . . . and after all I've done ! " he said thickly. 
 " After all I've said! Oh, my God ! " His chin sank 
 low, and his grip on the table relaxed. 
 
 Harmon was less at ease than he pretended. " Well, 
 if you aren't bluffing," he said presently, " you sure are 
 the biggest baby for a man's-sized man / ever saw. 
 Brace up, there ! You — " 
 
 Hilliard pulled himself erect with a final effort, and 
 his fist gestured his accusation. 
 
 " You know what I'm going to do about it, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes." Harmon nodded, as he drew the smoke deep 
 into his lungs. 
 
 " I'm going straight back to those four men, and — " 
 
 " No." Harmon wagged his head. " No, you can't 
 very well do that, either — even if you're as shocked as 
 you look. Not unless you're ready to tell the whole 
 truth, and I hardly think you are. Look at it just a 
 minute . . . look at our contract. There's some loop- 
 holes for me you could drive a motor-truck through ; 
 but you haven't got one as big as a knitting needle. 
 No, son, the best thing for you to do is to take a brace, 
 and go get another sixty thousand while the getting 
 is good." 
 
 " Not necessarily ! " Hilliard's high-pitched laugh 
 was brittle.
 
 212 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Harmon allowed the smoke to eddy gently from his 
 nostrils. " Yes, — necessarily." 
 
 " You think I'll raise my finger after this, except to 
 . . . what do you take me for? " 
 
 " I take you," said Harmon deliberately, " for a 
 short-sighted young man in a mighty bad spot. You 
 don't want these folks up here to know the "whole 
 truth, do you.'' You don't want CuUen to get wise to 
 this, do j'ou.'^ Or Dr. Durant.'^ It wouldn't hurt me 
 any — but after the record you made here before you 
 got yourself kicked out two years ago. ... Oh ! don't 
 jump! You don't think I've been asleep, do you.? . . . 
 I don't believe you'd get much sympathy. Not much ! 
 And I've invested a lot of money in you. ... I want 
 some big returns. And I pretty generally manage to 
 get what I want. . . . Look me in the e3^e, son. I 
 want you to calm down. Now there's only three parties 
 to this deal — you and me and the world. You and 
 me — and the world. Get that.? And you and 1 have 
 got to play straight with each other. No matter what 
 else happens, you and I have got to play straight with 
 each other. You help me get the money, and I'll help 
 you get whatever you want. But when you throw me 
 down, I throw you down, and we'll see who comes out 
 ahead. I'll bet I do. \^Tiat do you bet.? " 
 
 Hilliard shook his head helplessl3^ 
 
 " You've got to remember," said Harmon in sardonic 
 consolation, " that you're an awful easy man to de- 
 scribe. You can slip out of Syracuse just as easy as 
 you please, and try your damnedest to make a getaway, 
 and you'd have pretty hard work to keep away from 
 the Pinkertons for twenty-four hours. And I've got
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 213 
 
 the evidence that would put 'em after you. So don't 
 you plan to run away, son — don't do it." 
 
 Hilliard's judgment was tottering. Where did he 
 stand in relation to Armstrong now? 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Harmon snatched at the sign of weakness, and was 
 instantly persuasive. 
 
 " Staj on another six weeks ; make the rest of your 
 killing. You've gone half way ; run out your hit. I 
 always like to see a man run like the devil to first base 
 on a fly ball — the outfielders might muff it ! After 
 this is over, do what you please. That was our agree- 
 ment, wasn't it? You'll have money enough to suit 
 yourself. I'm playing straight with you . . . aren't 
 I? " 
 
 " Yes," said Hilliard, with withering sarcasm, " you 
 are ! " 
 
 Harmon glowered at him. 
 
 " Don't you accuse me of double-crossing you, son ! 
 It's the other way round." 
 
 " You aren't fool enough to expect me," said Hil- 
 liard shakil}^, " to keep on trying to sell more of this 
 rotten stuff! You aren't enough of a fool for that — " 
 
 " I can, and I do. Y'ou're in for it now, Hilliard, 
 and you can't very well go back. Y^'ou've collected 
 money ; you can't get your hands on it again ; you can't 
 make any restitution. You've lied your head off al- 
 ready; you can't do any better now than to stick to 
 your first story, because the truth's a good deal worse. 
 The truth'U blow you higher than a kite. The big 
 damage is all done. Isn't it? What else is there? 
 You'd better make your killing and make it quick.
 
 214 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 And if you open your head for just one little peep 
 , . , flooey, flooey, and the fat's in the fire. You want 
 to live like a gentleman, don't you? You want money 
 and friends and a big position somewhere, don't 
 you ? Somewhere quiet — after the storm's over ? 
 Well . . ," 
 
 Hilliard's head was splitting with the horror of it ; he 
 was passionately young, and passionately eager for 
 success; he had revelled in the consciousness of his 
 new achievements ; and now, abruptly, he was on a lower 
 plane than the lowest of his former failures. He saw, 
 in a whirling vision of dread, the people of the city 
 rising to denounce him; not merely for his inexcusable 
 masquerade, so grotesquely built upon the dream of 
 regeneration, not only for his vast abuse of personal 
 confidence, not only for the base hypocrisies he had 
 practised upon his quondam sweetheart, but also for 
 this grossly profitable fraud. Dimly, he argued just 
 as Harmon claimed, he couldn't be in harder straits. 
 The worst was here ; the present moment was the climax, 
 and the catastrophe. A spasm of reckless fatalism 
 shook him. 
 
 Harmon, who had been inspecting him critically, took 
 out his fountain pen. 
 
 " I'll write you your check for commissions — shall 
 I.?" He held the pen poised insinuatingl3\ "And 
 then we'll forget this little misunderstand, and 
 start fresh. Shall I?" 
 
 Hilliard, rubbing his aching forehead and his seared 
 eyeballs, felt life slip away from him as it had slipped 
 when the monstrous cone at Neuilly had begun to sever 
 him from consciousness, drop by drop. 
 
 *' Let's see," said Harmon, with great attentiveness
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 215 
 
 to the figures. " Your twenty percent is twelve thou- 
 sand four hundred, and that, less half expense . . . 
 call 'em five thousand even . . . that's seventy-four 
 hundred." He tore a sheet from his pocket check-book, 
 dried the ink by waving it in the air, and flirted it 
 over to Hilliard. " Put it away, and let's have some 
 lunch. If you're afraid to have your friends see me 
 down here, let's have it upstairs. Vm not sensitive, 
 son; it don't pay." 
 
 " No," said Hilliard, dully, '' and I guess it never 
 will." 
 
 " That's the idea ! Now you're talking sense ! 
 Come on up. I'll give you the new reports. They're 
 working like beavers on the claim right next to Silver- 
 bow ; know it ^ " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Trying to locate a faulted vein," said Harmon, 
 getting to his feet. " But the old vein didn't run the 
 right way for us, anyhow. Almost parallel to our 
 boundary line. Still, if you leave that out, it ain't such 
 a bad talking point at that. I'll write you a memo. 
 Come on, son, buck up and let's have some lunch. . . ." 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening, when Rufus Waring 
 knocked at Hilliard's door, it was opened by a man 
 with a face to remember afterwards. There were deep- 
 cut lines — almost furrows — by the mouth and eyes ; 
 and the eyes themselves were startingly luminous, and 
 drawn. The man's complexion was chalk-white. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Hilliard ! " exclaimed Waring. " What 
 on earth's the matter with you? " 
 
 " Come on in," said Hilliard, and his smile was 
 ghastly. ** I've been waiting for you."
 
 XVI 
 
 HE was waiting, hoping, praying for a blow from 
 fate, but fate, which at other times had been 
 ready enough for fisticuffs, and often premature with 
 them, refrained from striking. The interview with 
 Waring had passed without friction (and Hilliard had 
 so contrived to present his data that Waring had finally 
 declined the risk) and the night passed and the morn- 
 ing came, with its accompanying horde of old regrets 
 and a new and sweeping inrush of fresh hallucinations. 
 Hilliard was grim and haggard ; sleep had divorced him, 
 and his brain was hot and inaccurate. His motions 
 were forced, mechanical; he dragged himself out of 
 bed, and ordered coffee served in his room ; he shrank 
 from association with the clean, ingenuous world. 
 
 To his tortured imagination, he was a greater para- 
 dox than even Jek3dl and H3'de ; for he was Hilliard 
 and Dicky Morgan, the living and the dead, without 
 the boon of the supernatural to separate them. And 
 yet he felt that the wickedness of what he had done 
 was the wickedness of Dicky Morgan, and that he, Hil- 
 liard, the soul, was sitting in impartial judgment on 
 Dicky Morgan, the flesh. He conceded the wrong; he 
 conceded the penalty; nevertheless, his youth cried out 
 to him for mercy. He wavered pitiably; and then, as 
 he felt himself grasping for strength, stretching out 
 the arms of his soul for courage and counsel, his eyes 
 fell accidentally upon a book on the telephone table, 
 and he stared at it blankly. 
 
 216
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^17 
 
 " Placed here by The Gideons " . . . hm ! He had 
 heard of the Gideons, that organization of commercial 
 travellers which places Bibles in every room of all im- 
 portant hotels. Curious ... he had never noticed 
 this one before. Was it . . . could it be possible that 
 he could find comfort here? Absurd ! Sceptically, he 
 picked it up. " A lot of help this is ! " he said, aloud, 
 and bitterly. The volume opened in his hands. Prov- 
 erbs. . . . 
 
 Bread of deceit is sweet to a mariy hut afterwards his 
 mouth shall he filled with gravel. 
 
 He peered at the words, and flinched. His eyes wid- 
 ened; he hastily turned over several pages. 
 
 It is as sport to a fool to do mischief, hut a man of 
 understanding hath wisdom. 
 
 The fear of the wicked, it shall come upon him; hut 
 the desire of the righteous shall he granted. 
 
 As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more; 
 hut the righteous is an everlasting foundation. 
 
 As vinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so 
 is the sluggard to them that send him. 
 
 The fear of the Lord prolongeth days; hut the years 
 of the wicked shall he shortened. 
 
 The hope of the righteous shall he gladness; hut the 
 expectation of the wicked shall perish. 
 
 The way of the Lord is strength to the upright; hut 
 destruction shall he to the workers of iniquity. 
 
 The book, which Hilliard had dropped incontinently 
 on the telephone table, fell sprawling to the floor. Hil- 
 liard himself, engulfed by the resistless surge of the 
 Prophet's accusation, stood smiling weakly.
 
 218 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " ' As the whirlwind passeth ! ' " he said aloud. " ' So 
 is the wicked no more ! ' " He laughed shrilly, and 
 reached out to the larger table, and endeavoured to 
 pour for himself a cup of coffee. The scalding fluid 
 tasted lukewarm; his palate, like his heart, was numb. 
 
 " It is as sport to a fool to do mischief . . ." 
 
 Hilliard sat down limply, and buried his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 Liebestraum !
 
 XVII 
 
 AT the maid's announcement, Dr. Durant, who had 
 been occupied with nothing more momentous than 
 filling a pot-bellied calabash, rose hastily and went 
 out into the hallway. 
 
 " Come in, Hilliard ! " he said cordially. " Carol's 
 off looking at somebody's trousseau . . . somebody's 
 always getting married in Syracuse . . . she'll be in 
 directly. Come smoke a pipe with me, and be sociable." 
 
 Hilliard, lingering nervously by the outer door, 
 started at the kind voice. 
 
 " Why . . . why, that's very kind of you . . ." he 
 stammered. Into the Doctor's eyes came a glint of 
 greater interest ; not in amusement at the oddly formal 
 response, but in compassion for something not yet 
 manifest. He put out his hand instinctively. 
 
 " Not kind at all — it's selfish," he said. " I need 
 company. Good company. Drop your hat somewhere 
 and come in." 
 
 "You're not busy?" 
 
 " Busily composing my mind," said the Doctor. He 
 ushered Hilliard into the comfortable old study and 
 motioned towards a squat little smoking stand. " All 
 kinds of poison there," he said. " Cigar — cigarettes 
 — pipe tobacco. Suit yourself." 
 
 Hilliard laughed affectedly. 
 
 "You call it poison.'' And you a doctor — and 
 
 smoking? '* 
 
 219
 
 ggO THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Ah, but it's the pleasantest poison there is. . , , 
 I'm always having to explain that to Carol. • . . 
 Matches? Well, what have jou been doing to your- 
 self? " 
 
 " I? " Hilhard didn't look at him. " Nothing im- 
 portant, Doctor." 
 
 "But that's not quite true, is it?" The tone was 
 gentle, but it filled Hilliard with portentous qualms. 
 " You see, my boy, you're one of those transparent 
 people who carry the burden of their discontent where 
 every one else can see it. You've been enjoying a little 
 attack of insomnia, haven't you? " 
 
 Hilliard winced. 
 
 " Why — yes. As a matter of fact — " 
 
 The Doctor attempted a smoke ring, and smiled at 
 the dismal failure. 
 
 " I'm sorry. Business worries? " 
 
 " Why — in a way, yes." 
 
 The Doctor achieved a perfect circlet, and beamed 
 at it. 
 
 " Something else? " 
 
 " A good deal else," said Hilliard, abstracted. " Bui 
 that's no reason for me to bother you with it. I 
 didn't know it was so apparent." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " It's not my habit," said the Doctor presently, " to 
 offer any advice unless I'm asked for it. Gratuitous 
 advice never did anybody an}' good. And nobody takes 
 it unless it costs something — and not often then And 
 I'm neither your regular physician nor your confessor. 
 But if I had to make a diagnosis at this present minute 
 I'd saj' that you need a preacher a great deal more than 
 you do a doctor."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW S21 
 
 " I ... I do," said Hilliard, looking up sharply. 
 " Only . . . it's out of the question. Just personal 
 things, Doctor — nothing I can very well talk about." 
 
 The Doctor made no immediate rejoinder; in a mo- 
 ment or two he took a pamphlet from his desk, and 
 fingered it thoughtfully. 
 
 " Here's a little article," he said, " you ought to 
 glance over some time, even if I did write it. It's a 
 reprint from a medical journal, but it isn't about medi- 
 cine. It's about psychology — I hate that word, but 
 it's chained fast to my profession, so I have to use it. 
 I don't think it could possibly do you the least harm. 
 It concerns exercise." 
 
 " Exercise ! " said Hilliard, dubiously. 
 
 The Doctor nodded assent. 
 
 " I wonder if it ever occurred to you," he said, " that 
 the effect of exercise on the human being is mighty con- 
 sistent. All it does is to increase capacity, but the 
 right sort of it can increase any kind of capacity. 
 Muscles, for instance, increase in bulk ... or take the 
 voice ; that gains strength, quality, flexibility. Or even 
 character . . ." The Doctor was intent on a wisp 
 of smoke. " Well, the character is just as much a 
 part of the human being as the voice or the biceps." 
 He regarded Hilliard paternally. " Didn't you ever 
 feel your own character growing round and sweet and 
 sound by exercising it — in the interest of other peo- 
 ple?" 
 
 " Perhaps I did, but . . ." 
 
 " Or," said the Doctor, " felt it growing the opposite 
 by the exercise of the emotions of hate or fear.? It's 
 rather a hobby of mine." Here he gave the pamphlet 
 to Hilliard. " This little essay is more of a preachment
 
 ^22 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 than a medical document," he said, " but at least I 
 know there's nothing in it to hurt you, because I 
 wrote it myself. It's a sort of plea to cultivate all the 
 more peaceful emotions by giving them regular train- 
 ing, and to let the distressing ones die of slow atrophy 
 by not giving them any exercise." He smoked placidly. 
 
 " You'd make it an ideal world to live in," said Hil- 
 liard moodily. " But you don't seem to take into 
 consideration the fact that our ideals are always a 
 darned long way ahead of us. Too long to be much 
 use — practically." 
 
 The Doctor smiled faintly. 
 
 " If they weren't," he said, " they wouldn't be ideals. 
 The whole point is to try to grow up to them, and to 
 realize all the time that you can't ! Because they, too, 
 grow by exercise . . . it's a habit they have. And 
 that's the way it should be, isn't it? Perpetual strug- 
 gle, perpetual improvement, but never perfection." 
 
 Hilliard caught his breath. 
 
 " Something else that's futile, then . . ." 
 
 " No, I don't think so." The Doctor's denial was 
 very gentle. " Because if we were ever capable of 
 reaching those ideals, we'd probably be so well satisfied 
 with ourselves that we'd stop trying . . . and that 
 in itself would seem to come near proving us incapable 
 of any further effort." He gave Hilliard a glance of 
 deep comprehension. " Like you," he went on, " I've 
 never lived one single day up to my ideals of what I 
 ought to be, and do. I never expect to. It's too much 
 for any one man to expect. And also, like you, when I 
 drop so far below my own possibilities, it gets on my 
 nerves . , . I'm blue . . . melancholy . . . introspec- 
 tive . . . black . . . and all the rest of it. But — I'm
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 223 
 
 helped by the desire to try again. . . . Aren't you? " 
 
 Hilliard, very worn, very baffled, very wretched, and 
 somewhat more unmanned by the Doctor's kind phi- 
 losophy than by all the buffets of fortune which had 
 preceded it, found this analj^sis of human nature almost 
 a tangible support to lean on ; found the Doctor's quiet 
 sympathy almost a material bulwark. He drew^ a very 
 deep breath, and was relaxed a trifle. . . . 
 
 " Yes," he said. " Yes, Doctor." A new conception 
 of his own future course of action was slowly taking 
 form in his mind. 
 
 " Now, your own trouble," said Dr. Durant, " isn't 
 physical as much as it is spiritual. It's nothing but 
 taut nerves. It's nothing but your struggle against 
 the restraints you put upon yourself. How do I know? 
 You've told me so . . . every time I've seen you. It's 
 in your face, my boy. It's in your eyes. Constantly. 
 And I won't prescribe for you until you ask me, but 
 I'll make you a present of my pamphlet, if you'll prom- 
 ise to have the courage to read it. It isn't technical 
 — take my word for it. And will you promise? " 
 
 "Yes, Doctor," said Hilliard, "I'll read it." 
 
 " Good ! And let me know what you get out of it. 
 And it looks as though the conference is about over 
 . . . because if that isn't Carol coming up the steps, 
 my ears aren't half as good as they used to be." 
 
 Both men were on their feet as she came in, swirling. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried to Hilliard. " I didn't know you 
 were coming up tonight ! Suppose I'd missed you ! " 
 
 He merely smiled, and made no answer; nor did he 
 speak to her until after the Doctor, protesting a sud- 
 den desire for solitude, had waved them hospitably out 
 of the study into the living room. Carol was in the
 
 224. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 old familiar corner of the sofa; Milliard was standing 
 by the fireplace, peering down into the empty grate. 
 He coughed harshly, and an expression of utter hope- 
 lessness crept into his eyes. He turned abruptly. 
 
 "Well," he said, " jujt how much would you have 
 cared if you had? " 
 
 There was a stately old lamp standing at height 
 behind the sofa ; its shadows were gracious and its light, 
 as it crept through a shade of painted vellum, touched 
 Carol softly, in a delicacy of radiance which was in- 
 finitely caressing. She seemed herself to glow in re- 
 sponse to it; she was a tender radiance all by herself; 
 she was palpitatingly young and living and vital, and 
 yet she gave Hilliard, as he turned to stare gloomily 
 down at her, an unusual impression of phj^sical aloof- 
 ness, as though the flesh were reticent of its charms, 
 and conscious in its modesty. Her hands were lying 
 idle in her lap; she bent her head, and viewed them 
 studiously. 
 
 " Why, I should have cared a great deal," she said. 
 " I'm always disappointed when I miss seeing a friend 
 of mine. What makes you so pessimistic, all of a 
 sudden.'' " 
 
 Hilliard reddened, and his e3'es grew brighter. He 
 resumed his survey of the fireplace. 
 
 " Friendship ! " he said tardily. " What an accor- 
 dion-like sort of thing that is ! " 
 
 " Why, Mr. HilHard ! " Her tone was at the same 
 time interrogatory and reproachful. 
 
 " Oh, I'm not speaking of you*' he said. " Only 
 of the thing itself. . . . It's big or little, close or dis- 
 tant . . . and it hasn't anything to say about it . . .
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^5 
 
 You'll have to excuse me — I was thinking out 
 loud . . ." 
 
 " Please do ! " she said. " You were on the way to 
 be interesting. Think out loud some more." 
 
 Hilliard glanced sharply at her. 
 
 " Don't laugh at me ! " he said, almost roughly. 
 " For Heaven's sake, don't you know that the one time 
 you shouldn't laugh at a man is when he deserves it.f* " 
 
 Carol's attitude was vaguely less suggestive of 
 ease. 
 
 " I wasn't laughing at you," she said, " truly. But 
 what you said was so ... so queer." 
 
 " Oh, yes." Hilliard's accent was very flat. " I 
 suppose it was. It must have been." 
 
 She looked at him keenly, and was still a trifle less 
 calm. Her natural impulse was to soothe him, to di- 
 vert him, and yet she felt intuitively that he was in one 
 of those illogical moods in which no satisfaction is so 
 great as that of suff'ering undisturbed. 
 
 " You're very unhappy tonight, aren't you.'* " 
 
 " No-o . . . it's not that, so much. . . . I've been 
 talking to your father." 
 
 " He hasn't made you this way, has he? " she asked, 
 sweetly humorous. In the next instant, as their eyes 
 met, she expected to be rebuked again for levity, but 
 he forgave her, and showed his irritation only by his 
 abruptness. 
 
 " Hardly ! But he set me thinking . . . and I had 
 plenty to think about even before that. Heaven knows! 
 ... I always seem to be more or less up in the air 
 when I come to see you, don't I? The last time we 
 talked about friendship — " 
 
 " But that was at least a month ago," she said
 
 226 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 hastily, " and in the meantime, you've been just as nice 
 and cheerful as anybody. I thought you were all over 
 your troubles." 
 
 " Cheerfulness wasn't what you asked for." Hilliard 
 swallowed hard. " I ... I came up here. Miss Du- 
 rant, to have a really serious talk with you . . . really 
 serious. It's been delayed too long already. It took 
 me two solid days to get my courage up to it. And 
 . . . and now I'm here, I don't even know how to be- 
 gin." 
 
 She carefully interlaced the fingers of one hand with 
 those of the other ; her heart was beating storm warn- 
 ings, but she realized that she had arrived at a con- 
 tingency which couldn't be avoided, and therefore, she 
 arrived as quietly as she could. 
 
 " Why not at the beginning, Mr. Hilliard? " 
 
 " Because I can't — and that's what makes it so 
 awkward." He scowled heavily into the vacant fire- 
 place, and held out his palms with a mechanic gesture 
 as though to warm them at an imaginary blaze. " You 
 know," he said absently, " your father is a very 
 extraordinary man. Very." 
 
 The compliment to the Doctor had its invariable ef- 
 fect upon her ; she glowed under it. 
 
 " I've always known that . . . I'm glad you realize 
 it, too." 
 
 He stood erect, and faced her. " I do ... it came 
 to me, when I was talking to him, what a great privilege 
 it must be for you to have his advice — and his sympa- 
 thy . . . when you need it. And there are so few — so 
 incredibly few — people who make you feel like that. 
 One in a thousand. Or, one in ten thousand. People 
 who lift you clear out of your trivial little self — and
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 227 
 
 make you think in terms of principles, and not of your 
 own selfish ideas — and still don't jDreach. ... It must 
 be a privilege." 
 
 " It isn't only for me," she said. " He has enough 
 sympathy for any one who asks for it. He isn't very 
 worldly — you've noticed that? No — in some re- 
 spects he's the most innocent man I've ever known in 
 my life! He can't believe that anybody, or anything, 
 is really bad . . . and perhaps that's why people come 
 to him so. Of course, it may be that just because he's 
 my father, I — " 
 
 " No." Hilliard shook his head. " I've seen a good 
 many fathers, and next to mine. . . . My own was a 
 wonderful man, too, but I never appreciated him. And 
 seeing the Doctor has made me wish . . . oh, it's too 
 childish to talk about ! " 
 
 " If you were really as old as you try to be," she said 
 gently, " you'd know that it isn't ever childish to be 
 serious about such things as that. On the contrary! 
 And yet there was a time when you wanted me to think 
 you were well over thirty. Why, Mr. Hilliard, you're a 
 hoy! " Nevertheless, she regarded him . . . not as one 
 would regard a mere youth, but with appreciably more 
 uncertainty. 
 
 Hilliard had flushed warmly. 
 
 " That was when I wanted you to think a good many 
 things that weren't true." 
 
 "About you?" Her inflection was an invitation to 
 further confidences, and it drew Hilliard incontinently 
 along the path he had planned — and feared — to take. 
 
 " Some of them," he admitted. " And some were 
 about you. The fact is, I . . . I've come on a peculiar 
 errand." He cleared his throat violently ; his eyes sud-
 
 228 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 denlj adored her. " I've come to straighten all that 
 out. Please don't imagine I've suddenly gone crazy 
 or ... or anything . . . and please don't take any- 
 thing I say tonight to mean weakness . . . because, 
 honestly, I've thought about this so much that it's rather 
 disintegrated me . . . but I've got to tell you some 
 things I don't want to." His shoulders squared in 
 resolution ; and at the look of pain in his eyes, of pain 
 and despair, her whole womanliness went out to him — 
 and had to be crushed, because she was, after all, a 
 woman. " The first . . . and I'm going to stand just 
 here to say it, please don't be frightened ... I — I 
 don't know if I even dare to say it , . . now . . ." 
 His arms went beseechingly out to her — and fell limp. 
 " I haven't even the right to think of it any more," he 
 said wretchedly. 
 
 Her look to him was first of astonishment at his 
 surrender, and, after that, of swift, ineffable pity for 
 the unnamed forces which were influencing him. 
 Womanliness hung in the balance ; and then, in a flash 
 of perfect comprehension of his plight, she knc^ that 
 she could speak to him without reserve. He had passed 
 beyond the bounds of conventionality; she put herself, 
 mentally, at his side. 
 
 " If it hurts you to say it," she said, " I've known 
 you've been . . . fond of me. How could I help it? 
 And why shouldn't you have the right to think of it.'' 
 Why shouldn't you have the right to be ^^ourself ? Why 
 shouldn't 3'ou have the right to talk to me, and to ex- 
 pect me to hear you, and try to understand.? You 
 haven't thought that my father is the only one of us to 
 do that, have you.''" The reproof was exquisite. 
 
 " Ever since that day ... the time you played to
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 me," he said, " I've fought against it — fought like the 
 very devil, and — " 
 
 " I've known that, too — and you've come to see me 
 so seldom. I'd hoped at least that you'd give yourself 
 the chance you said you wanted." 
 
 He stiffened heroicall3^ " You forget there was a 
 condition ... an imperative condition . . . and it's 
 only fair to you to tell you that it's a condition I can't 
 ever meet. Ever. That's why I'm here. I had to tell 
 you. And even now, I might not have been strong 
 enough to say it ... I might not have had the courage 
 even after I had come to you. ... I might have gone 
 on drifting and drifting, and hating myself for being a 
 contemptible coward ... if it hadn't been for the 
 Doctor . . . just now, before you came in." 
 
 There was a profound stillness. 
 
 " Can't you explain? " she said at last. " I wish you 
 would. You're making me feel very badly, Mr. Hil- 
 liard. You owe it to me — " 
 
 He had to exert his utmost will to make the beginning. 
 " All I can explain is that I've made another mis- 
 take . . ." After the first great effort, the words came 
 tumbling passionately, unchecked. " It would have 
 been so infinitely better for both of us if I'd never met 
 you at all. . . . My life has been a whole series of mis- 
 takes ; this is the worst. . . . The worst. ... Of 
 course, it would be absurdly simple if I were going away 
 from Syracuse, if I were going to leave you here, and 
 go — but I'm not. I'm going to stay here. And I 
 can't think it's decent not to tell you now that if you 
 . . . knew all I know . . . what I've been, what I've 
 done . . . you wouldn't marry me if I were the last man 
 left to ask you! . . ." He gestured impatiently.
 
 230 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " We're childishly hopeful sometimes ... all of us 
 . . . hoping for what we know is impossible . . . what 
 we know always will be impossible. . . . I've been like 
 that — and what I hoped was that you could take me 
 on the basis of what I've been for the last few months 
 . . . since July . . . because that's the way I take 
 myself. Just a man — a man — like Jack Armstrong. 
 I hoped we could simply eliminate the past, and ... I 
 can't get away from it. It's on my heels every minute. 
 It's what I am, now . . . but if I went much further 
 back than that, you and the Doctor would both think 
 just what I do about myself . . . and I'd have to say 
 good-bj^e to you anyway . . . just as I'm doing to- 
 night. I hope you can see that I'm not telling all this 
 to you from any other motive except to be quite honest 
 with you. Quite honest — for once. It may be that 
 nothing else could possibly show how much I do care for 
 you . . . that I'm willing to save you from another 
 minute's mis judgment of what I am. And — and I 
 care too much about you to let you live another day 
 without knowing that I can't go on — it's over. . . . 
 I'm not fit to be even your friend. That's all." 
 
 She sat motionless. Milliard had turned back to the 
 fireplace. 
 
 " Were you as bad ... as that.'' " she whispered. 
 
 " Once," he said bitterly, over his shoulder, " I used 
 to be a gentleman. But that was a long time ago." 
 
 She raised her head. " Nothing could ever make me 
 believe," she said, " that you haven't always been just 
 as I've known you — since July. Nothing can, and 
 nothing will. What you may think about yourself 
 makes no difference to me. / — "
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^31 
 
 " Don't ! " he said, and his tone was agonized. 
 " Don't you see — " 
 
 " I don't believe you," she said steadily. 
 
 Hilliard's voice was unstable with his great bitter- 
 ness of failure. " You flatter me," he said harshly. 
 " And besides — you're wrong." 
 
 She was up, and beside him, smiling bravely into his 
 eyes, and he was flogging his will to keep his hungry 
 arms from snatching her, from sweeping her close to 
 him, and . . . 
 
 "What do you think women are?" she demanded, 
 with sweet imperiousness. " Nothing but marble 
 statues — or putty ones? Just made to stand around 
 and let the world go past, without having anything to 
 say about it? " 
 
 He retreated to the wall in self-defence. " Don't ! 
 Don't! I'm the one who's driven myself into this cor- 
 ner — not you ! " 
 
 " But you don't have to stay in it always, do you? " 
 
 He stared at her in mystification. 
 
 " Don't be silly," she said, " and don't be unreason- 
 able ; I'm not ! " She touched his sleeve ; his expression 
 was unchanged. " Don't make me think you are un- 
 reasonable ! " she said compassionately. " If you're 
 not satisfied, why can't you make yourself what you 
 want to be? Instead of brooding over the past, that 
 you can't help, why don't you think about things you 
 can help? Why can't you go ahead a little longer, and 
 do a little more, and try to be happy as you go along? 
 Living is about all there is to live for, isn't it? " 
 
 He drew in his breath perilously. " But I'm letting 
 you go," he said, dazed.
 
 282 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 She stamped her foot in tremulous severity, " No, 
 you're not; I won't allow it! Can't you see why? Do 
 I have to tell you that ? Well . . . because I want you 
 for a friend even if you don't want me." 
 
 " Want you ! " he cried, and remembered himself, and 
 froze to immobility. " Oh — as a friend ! " The note 
 of hopelessness was in his voice again; he thought to 
 detect a trace of Platonism in her statement — and he 
 was cruelly put in mind of Armstrong. Armstrong — 
 who had no closeted skeleton to rattle its grewsome 
 bones in solitude. 
 
 " Surely, as a friend — what else did you think I 
 meant .'^ " 
 
 The young man shook his head. , 
 
 " I don't know. Only I came up here to tell 3'^ou I 
 haven't any right to your friendship. I can't tell j^ou 
 why. ... I haven't as much callousness as all that 
 . . . but if I did tell you, your last atom of faith in me 
 would be gone. And you can't afford to have me even 
 for a friend — now that I've said that, can you? " 
 
 " Yes," she said steadfastly, " I can afford it." 
 
 " When . . . when I've told you . . ." His lips 
 were parted in amazedness, his eyes roved dully. " I 
 can't under — ... I'm telling you I'm not worth the 
 powder to blow me to Hades." He laughed oddly. 
 " That's proved already, over and over again. . . . 
 Don't you understand? . . . Carol . . ." His voice 
 broke. " Why, Carol . . . I'm not fit to talk to you. 
 That's proved, too. . . . I'm proving it now! I'm 
 saying it — don't you hear me? I'm saying it now. 
 And you — " He put his hand to his forehead, and 
 brushed back his hair, which was strangely wet. " I
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 2SS 
 
 can't make it any plainer," he said, with helpless 
 finality. 
 
 " No matter what's happened," she said earnestly, 
 " I can't believe it isn't coming out all right. I'm not 
 just a fair-weather sort of person; some day you'll 
 reahze that. And I know it'll all be quite right for 
 you in the end — because you're going to make it so. I 
 know you are. So if you'll just keep on living, and 
 working, and trying . , . and . . ." Here her eyes 
 were so appealing that his own dimmed to behold them. 
 " And 3^ou haven't been so very dreadful after all, have 
 you?" 
 
 Hilliard retreated once again, not trusting those 
 hungry, lawless arms of his. 
 
 " I happened to read some of the Book of Proverbs 
 the other day," he said, thickly. " There's a whole 
 page there I don't think I'll ever forget. Did you ever 
 run across that part ... * The fear of the wicked, it 
 shall come upon hirriy hut the desire of the righteous 
 shall he granted 'f " 
 
 " Yes." Her eyes were frightened. 
 
 ** I'm just wondering," said Hilliard, with a terrible 
 smile, which was entirely devoid of mirth, " if a man 
 happens to be in a . . . a sort of transition period, you 
 know — half way between ... I wonder what's com- 
 ing to him. I wonder what is coming to him. ... I 
 wonder if the whirlwind doesn't get him both ways." 
 
 After the street door had closed behind him, Carol 
 went slowly along the corridor to the Doctor's study 
 and knocked, out of sheer habit. His pleasant baritone 
 came to her reassuringly.
 
 2S4f THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Are jou busy, dear ? " Few men, on hearing her 
 voice, with that suggestive catch in it, would have con- 
 fessed to a previous engagement. 
 
 " Not when you're around," said the Doctor, appear- 
 ing on the threshold. His tone altered suddenly. 
 " What's wrong.'' " he said. 
 
 " Daddy," said Carol, " he's gone. . . . You saw 
 him, too . . . what is it ? What is it ? " She was 
 trembling violently; the big Doctor gathered her up 
 in his arms without ceremony and carried her over to 
 his favourite leather chair. 
 
 " Fires burning," said Dr. Durant, quietl3\ " Burn- 
 ing and burning and burning . . . like the ones you've 
 seen down in the blast furnaces . . . white hot, and 
 crucible steel comes out of them . . . strong enough to 
 make permanent things out of . . ." He smoothed her 
 hair, and she sighed shiver ingly, and lay still. " And 
 the steel lasts ten thousand times as long as the fires 
 that made it. I don't know what's blowing the flames, 
 dear, but he'U do — he'll do."
 
 XVIII 
 
 HALF way down James Street, Milliard, driving 
 his runabout in utter disregard of the traffic rules, 
 was reliving, moment by moment, and word by word, 
 the two epochal conversations of the earlier evening. 
 He had gone to Carol with the sturdy intention of be- 
 traying himself manfully and in detail ; but in the Doc- 
 tor's study he had perceived another, and what seemed 
 to him a more unselfish method of achieving the same 
 end. He had fancied that if he could preserve intact 
 the memory of Dicky Morgan, if he could prevent the 
 world — and especially that part of it personal to the 
 Cullens and Durants — from knowing what a despicable 
 thing it was that Dicky Morgan had done, he could save 
 a modicum of pain for those who would otherwise be 
 most affected. That is, he could save their pride, and 
 their faith. This conception had interfered to make 
 his talk with Carol somewhat aimless ... he had been 
 under the dual necessity of damning Hilliard, without 
 implicating Morgan. And how bunglingly he had ac- 
 complished it ! How inefficiently — how unsuccessfully ! 
 But it was better to have done it bunglingly than not 
 at all. Few people would sorrow for the crashing down- 
 fall of Henry Hilliard, but there were scores to grieve 
 — and notably the Cullens and Durants — if the name 
 of Dicky Morgan were dragged back from glory into 
 sordidness. And so, to anticipate the whirlwind, he 
 had tried to prepare Carol for the crash, and she, in all 
 
 235
 
 236 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 her sympathy, had made the future harder still for him, 
 because she had offered him hope. 
 
 On impulse, he checked the speed of the car, and 
 swerved to the left; he was actuated by a sudden de- 
 sire to run over to the University Club and see Arm- 
 strong. He had no definite plan as to what he should 
 say or do ; he merely craved to meet his rival face to 
 face, and have it out with him. Man to man — and this 
 time there should be no bungling. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong, it seemed, was in the library . . . 
 and would come down directly. Indeed, he followed 
 almost on the heels of the messenger. 
 
 " Why, hello, Hilliard," he said, rather stiltedly. 
 " Did you want to see me ? That's too bad — I've got 
 to leave here in just a couple of seconds to catch my 
 train. I'm going West tonight." 
 
 " I'll take you over," said Hilliard, shortly. 
 " That'll save you a minute or two — and give us time 
 to chat. My car's outside." 
 
 " Why — under the circumstances . . ." Arm- 
 strong's glance was diverted. " I don't think I can let 
 you do that. Take me over, I mean. It's mighty kind 
 of you, but — " 
 
 " What circumstances.?* " Hilliard, jumping at con- 
 clusions, was wildly apprehensive. 
 
 Armstrong looked him full in the eyes. " I'm going 
 West on a business trip," he said slowly, " and I don't 
 think it would be very appropriate for you to — " 
 
 " Oh — you are ! " Hilliard felt streaks of ice cours- 
 ing along his spine. " How far West? " 
 
 Armstrong consulted his watch nervously. 
 
 " Hilliard," he said, " I like to do things out in the 
 open. There are just two reasons why I don't think
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 237 
 
 vou reaUy want to invite me to ride down to the 
 station with you. If I'm wrong, it's up to you to say 
 so One of 'em is that Rufus Waring has asked me to 
 stop ofF at Butte — I'm going a good deal further than 
 that — and look up some matters for him.^ I guess you 
 know as well as I do what they are. ..." 
 
 HiUiard fumbled his hat. "I see. And — the 
 
 other reason.'" . 
 
 Armstrong suddenly straightened ; and his voice had a 
 curious ring to it -a ring which electrified H.lhard, 
 and awoke the most petrifying alarms within him. 
 
 "But does one ordinarily mention — certain kinds 
 of people — in a men's club? I don't know how it is 
 where you come from — but here, we don't." 
 
 HUliard smiled vapidly; it was the utmost perversity 
 of emotion, for he knew now why Carol had been so 
 explicit in her sympathy ... why she had been so 
 meticulous to let him realize that she wanted hmi as a 
 friend; only as a friend ... and here was Armstrong, 
 concealing with difficulty the triumph he was hinting 
 
 * '"No," he said harshly. " One doesn't, but there 
 isn't anything to keep us from^ mentioning anybody we 
 like outside the club, is there? " 
 
 " Why — not that I — " .,„■„• j 
 
 « Then I'll take you down anyway," said Milliard. 
 « And let's see if we can't try to understand each other." 
 It took a brave man to accept the offer, for H.lhard s 
 eves held httle to recommend their owner as a prudent 
 driver, or as a very pleasant companion. Armstrong, 
 however, was already putting on his hat. 
 
 They had driven over to the station in silence. HU-
 
 ^38 THE J\IAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Hard, parking the runabout carefully, turned to his 
 passenger. 
 
 " We've got ten good minutes," he said. " Your 
 train isn't even in yet — go ahead and talk." 
 
 Armstrong shrugged liis shoulders. " Don't you 
 think it would be a little better for you to do the talk- 
 ing yourself ? " 
 
 "I.'*" Hilhard laughed cheerlessly. "Anything I 
 could say would be pretty conventional — under the 
 circumstances." 
 
 Armstrong, after a momentary delay, put out a con- 
 ciliating hand. " Old man," he said, " let's play the 
 rest of this out like two sensible people. We won't get 
 anywhere by bickering, and I suppose it won't do any 
 harm for us to put all the cards on the table, and know 
 exactly where we stand. Of course, you haven't known 
 me very long, and I haven't known you . . . but sup- 
 pose, just to help along the understanding, we take 
 each other at face value." 
 
 Hilliard winced. 
 
 " Well — suppose we do. Then what.? " 
 
 " Then you can't hold it up against me for stopping 
 off at Butte on my way out. / haven't any motive in it 
 — I promised to do it as a favour to Rufe Waring. It 
 isn't a personal issue at all. I know exactly how it 
 must appear to you, but . . . I'm not that sort of man, 
 Hilhard. I wouldn't have dreamed of it myself. 
 That's straight ! " 
 
 The masqucrader regarded him earnestly — and 
 yielded to his evident sincerity. 
 
 " Way down deep," lie said, at length, " I know 
 you're not, but . . . what's that for?" He referred 
 to Armstrong's outstretched hand. " Oh ! . . . all
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW S39 
 
 right." They shook hands solemnly. " At the same 
 time, it would have been so perfectly natural for you to 
 feel like getting whatever leverage you could — " 
 
 " There's no need of that — now," said Armstrong. 
 His smile was proud and brilliant, and Hilliard withered 
 under it. 
 
 " Well, I wasn't sure." ' 
 
 " I don't deny," said Armstrong slowly, " that at 
 first sight this is a queer thing for me to do — to check 
 up your property, I mean — when you and I have had 
 such an intimate relationship as opponents. And I 
 wouldn't for the world have agreed to it if it could have 
 had the slightest connection with . . . with our own 
 private affairs. It hasn't — it can't have. I give you 
 my word on that ; it's been settled without the slightest 
 reference to anything else. But since it hasn't, and 
 since Rufus asked me as a favour — and promised to 
 tell 3^ou about it — and it's absolutely commercial — " 
 
 " That's enough. I'm glad you're going to do it." 
 Hilliard's voice was gruff; it was a tribute to his com- 
 panion's code of ethics. " Know anything about min- 
 ing? " 
 
 " Not a thing. But I'm to go to a law firm in 
 Butte — and of course it's only a formality, anyway. 
 I'll probably find it's better than you ever claimed. 
 But Rufe asked me." 
 
 " I see. Well — now about this other matter . . ." 
 
 Armstrong was watching the West-bound express as 
 it felt its cautious way through Railroad Avenue to 
 the station. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Hilliard was suddenly ashamed of himself; he was 
 forced to concede that his rival had the advantage of
 
 840 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 him in poise and aJtruism. He shook himself free of the 
 savage resentment which was stealing upon him. 
 
 " We're only human — both of us. Perhaps — un- 
 der the circumstances — the best thing we can say is to 
 say nothing . . . except that I wish you all the luck 
 in the world. I don't pretend it isn't a hard thing to 
 say — but I'm trying to mean it. And you certainly 
 deserve it." 
 
 " And to you," said Armstrong, cheerfully. " And 
 no bad feelings on either side. And I hope your mine 
 makes a million dollars for you." 
 
 "Thanks," said Hilliard, grimly. "I'll need it. 
 But don't be afraid to send Rufus your honest opinion 
 — will you ? " 
 
 " No — and I'll send it to you, too. That's only 
 fair. . . . I'd better be starting." 
 
 They shook hands again aci*oss the wheel, 
 
 " You're a good sport, Armstrong . . . don't think 
 I've got any resentment left . . . except a bit that I 
 can't quite swallow on such short notice. . . ." 
 
 " / know. But you don't need to worry, old man. 
 Your future's bright enough — as I hope to wire Rufus 
 about Saturday." 
 
 Too late, Hilliard perceived that they were talking at 
 cross-purposes — for Armstrong was evidently thinking 
 about the mine. But there was time only for a last 
 gesture of farewell ; and Armstrong had disappeared in 
 the depths of the train-shed. Armstrong . . . the vic- 
 tor, and the inquisitioner . . . was on the road to 
 Butte!
 
 XIX 
 
 WORK, hard work, the panacea and the salvation 
 of those who are sore distressed, even this cheap- 
 est relief was denied hiin. He was left alone with his 
 problem, wrestling with it once more in the black dark- 
 ness of despondency, and knowing neither a means of 
 simplifying it, nor a counsellor to whom he could turn 
 for aid. 
 
 But out of the years of his testing, he had slowly and 
 steadily builded for himself a background against which 
 that problem, now that it was critically emergent, stood 
 out in sharp-cut clarity. At first, he had been wholly 
 ignorant of this ; he wasn't sufficiently self-visioned to 
 realize it. But his virtual expulsion from Syracuse two 
 years ago had made upon him an indelible impression 
 not confined solely to his passions ; it had gradually 
 hardened him where, in his egotistical being, he was most 
 flaccid — in his contemptuous indifference to all judg- 
 ments but his own. At the outset, it had made him 
 bitter, but it had also opened his eyes, as time went on, 
 to the infallibility of justice; it had compelled him to 
 admit, however grudgingly, and however late, that he 
 couldn't expect to mould the world to his heart's desire 
 without first remoulding himself to fit the standards of 
 the world, and he had sensed this most clearly on that 
 recent morning when he had thought himself victorious 
 over himself. 
 
 And beyond that, the tremendous mental pressure 
 which the war had exerted upon him, the irresistible 
 
 241
 
 242 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 power of his own sensitive reflections, the staggering 
 conceptions of the littleness of the individual, and the 
 greatness of the goal to which the individual is crawl- 
 ing, century by century, — these furnaces of thought 
 had tempered his soul still further. Abroad, he had 
 looked so often upon human suffering that it had 
 ceased to affect him merely as suffering; it was the 
 chastening of humanity, of which each of the living 
 sons of Adam must bear his part. His own share, there- 
 fore, was inevitable ; and until Harmon had lately come 
 to scourge him, he had accepted the results of his dis- 
 semblance as just and due results, chargeable to him- 
 self, and to be paid for without whimpering. 
 
 In France, he had never thought of this great reality 
 in terms of practical religion ; indeed, he had never 
 thought of it at all, except to admit the reality of it, 
 and to curse the Prussian oligarchs who had brought it 
 to the point of demonstration ; and even now, when his 
 moods were plastic enough to receive the most finely- 
 drawn impressions, he was slow to comprehend that 
 religion had anything to do with it. For once, he gave 
 himself less credit than he deserved ; he thought of him- 
 self simply as a man who had tried, and failed, and be- 
 come a fatalist in consequence. 
 
 But fatalism had never been equal to the regeneration 
 w^hich had been wrought in Hilliard, and when he at 
 last suspected this, he was then incredulous of his own 
 sincerity. He could understand without the least diffi- 
 culty how he could have gambled his life — which is to 
 say, his body — for an abstract ideal ; but he found it 
 almost impossible to believe that he could deliberately 
 discount his personal desires, and ambitions, and vani- 
 ties for the sake of an ideal which concerned only his
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 243 
 
 own respect for himself. He was afraid that he had be- 
 come a hypocrite; he didn't comprehend that he was 
 merely an illustration of pure logic. His confusion was 
 pardonable; many a man who, at the last gasp, would 
 freely offer his life to his country, declines to buy his 
 proper allotment of Liberty bonds the day before. 
 
 And yet, finally, his spiritual vision was clear, and 
 unimpeded. Against the merciless background of the 
 war, his problem was swept free from complications. 
 That background of suffering and sacrifice — and Hil- 
 liard had both sacrificed and suffered — it was like the 
 background of a master painting, which draws incon- 
 sequential details into the obscurity of itself, and throws 
 the dominant qualities of the subject into light. Hil- 
 liard's ambitions, and desires, and vanities — those were 
 the inconsequential details; and because he was still 
 young, and timid of his own philosophy, he feared that 
 he was a hypocrite because he saw only the things 
 which were vital. It was a tribute to his youth, as well 
 as to his experience. 
 
 At Neuilly, he had deduced that the care given to a 
 wounded soldier isn't primarily on account of the 
 soldier's personal feelings, but because of the sol- 
 dier's potential value to the mass. He had come to be- 
 lieve that the individual has no value at all excepting 
 in his relation to other individuals. He had come to 
 look upon sacrifice as the only natural and normal out- 
 come of the whole procedure of the war; and after he 
 had ceased to be a part of the war, he had transferred 
 this belief so that it applied to all the world. This con- 
 viction, the result of his training on the Western front, 
 had put him in possession of theories which were the 
 exact opposite of hypocrisy, for in his intention of im-
 
 m4i THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 raolating himself, he was simply carrying out the orders 
 of his conviction. In the face of machine-gun fire, he 
 had gone over the top without even realizing that he 
 had a soul . . . today, he realized it, and was shy in its 
 presence, and thought it was counterfeit emotion. 
 
 He conceded that there was only one thing for him 
 to do, and he intended to do it, but he was harassed 
 because he had so much time to think about it. Not 
 since the first sickening shock of Harmon's revelation 
 had he doubted his own purpose ; it was merely the ma- 
 chinery of it which perplexed him. His confidence in 
 himself gradually returned; he was abnormally calm 
 and determined; he had no more idea of resisting his 
 impulses than he would have had, in Flanders, of dis- 
 obeying his orders. The thing was there to be done, 
 and he, regardless of his own future, was there to do it. 
 So had it been on the night of the wiring-party. . . . 
 
 Overnight, he had occupied himself with some ele- 
 mentary accounting. 
 
 With Harmon's check, his outstanding balance for ex- 
 penses, and what money he could raise by selling his 
 runabout and a few personal possessions, he had on 
 hand a matter of ninety-six hundred dollars; Syracuse 
 had entrusted him with sixty-two thousand. To com- 
 promise pro rata with his creditors — this was appar- 
 ently his only resource, and yet how insufficient a repa- 
 ration it was ! He knew that it had been his duty to 
 investigate the Montana property before he began to 
 exploit it; he knew that his self-introduction to Syra- 
 cuse had been blatantly inexcusable, and that not even 
 the fact that he had been carried away by the drama 
 of it could ever be excused. His intricate fabric 
 of deception, now that he inspected it from this differ-
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 245 
 
 ent viewpoint, was flimsy — shoddy. He could be 
 traced — if any one cared to spend the time, and the 
 energy. If Armstrong — or Rufus Waring — cared 
 to spend it, for example. Of course, there was always 
 the refuge of flight, but in Flanders, men learn not to 
 desert their posts, and Hilliard had learned that lesson 
 among the first. Loyalty to the cause of fighting had 
 grown automatic; flight was simply inconceivable to 
 him. 
 
 Yes, he could gather his resources and place them, 
 together with himself, in the hands of his subscribers, 
 and their vengeance would be twofold; once for their 
 loss out of pocket, once for the loss out of faith. He 
 had deserved no leniency, and he expected none. But 
 as for those who, without the financial entanglement, 
 bad respected him, and honoured him, as for Carol 
 Durant and Angela . . . 
 
 Well, as for Carol, he was at least relieved of the ter- 
 rific mental convulsion which would surely have fallen 
 upon him if he had had reason to believe that she loved 
 him. As it was, he had merely his own subjective 
 canker — only the pangs of his own sublime defeat. 
 Her shock at his disaster would be tempered by Arm- 
 strong's sane philosophy ; at most, she would lose in Hil- 
 liard a friend of only a few months — a man she had 
 wanted to retain as a friend, but — by her own admis- 
 sion — as that, and no more. This was a consolation 
 , . . trifling and fragile, to be sure, but something 
 saved out of the wreck. She would have more pride in 
 Armstrong by the comparison. And Hilliard would 
 have died for her . . . and now he was destined to live 
 for her, but in what grewsome penitence ! 
 
 As to Armstrong — Hilliard, marvelling somewhat
 
 246 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 at his oAVTi tolerance, wished him joy. Armstrong was 
 fine and clean and manly; he had well merited his vic- 
 tory. As to Mr. Cullen — Hilliard was torn with re- 
 gret, but after all, Cullen's gullibility was what had 
 made the campaign so childishly simply. As to Angela 
 . . . who had really loved him . . . 
 
 "Oh, the poor little kid!" said Hilliard softly. 
 " The poor httle kid. . . ." 
 
 And perhaps he had never loved Carol Durant so 
 much as when, at ten o'clock that sunny morning, he 
 went up the steps of Angela's house to destroy a little 
 girl's regard for him before it could be destroyed by 
 others. Nothing could have been more in evidence of 
 the moral awakening which Dr. Durant had x)rophe- 
 sied to come from the moral abyss of war. Nothing 
 could have proved more conclusively that in due time, 
 even without the intervention of that war, the city would 
 have been proud of Dicky Morgan. Because he was 
 afraid, desperately afraid, that she was in love with 
 him. . . . 
 
 On the door-step, he found strength in the memory of 
 poor Pierre Dutout, whose last thought had been for 
 his neighbour, and not for himself. In a way, Hilliard 
 felt that he, too, was giving up his life as Dutout had 
 given his . . . with a smile for the fate, and a blessing 
 for the future. Because he was afraid, unnervedly 
 afraid, that Angela, after all, was in love with him — 
 and when he put a stop to that, it was the beginning of 
 the end.
 
 XX 
 
 As he crossed the threshold of the long, over- 
 decorated drawing-room, he knew intuitively that 
 he had blundered upon a climax. This he sensed from 
 the attitude of the three who turned towards him as he 
 entered — sensed it before he saw what was in their 
 eyes. . , . The atmosphere was vibrant, as though from 
 sound waves which had passed beyond, and yet left 
 traces of the swell behind them. The room was silent; 
 but of a silence more confounding than a deafening 
 turmoil. 
 
 Hilliard, standing on the threshold, was himself the 
 centre of this atmosphere ; he felt it partly because his 
 mood was so flexible and partly because the three who 
 faced him had simultaneously thrown their fixed atten- 
 tion on him, thrown it directly and challengingly, in- 
 cluding him in the finale of the climax, while they stood 
 motionless as statues. Unwillingly, he was a part of 
 this finale and he knew it; he was dragged into it, en- 
 meshed. He looked at Waring, whose expression was 
 defensively acute; he looked at Angela, flushed, palpi- 
 tant, and excited ; he looked at Mr. Cullen, tight-lipped 
 and frowning; and Hilliard caught his breath, as a 
 swimmer who launches himself to a high dive, and 
 walked composedly into the drawing-room. 
 
 " I hope," he said gravely, " I'm not intruding. Am 
 1? " 
 
 The trio was galvanized into action; Cullen fairlj 
 
 247
 
 248 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 leaped at him. *' Hilliard ! " he said, "thank the 
 Lord ! You're the very man we want ! " 
 
 Hilliard smiled straight into Cullen's eyes. 
 
 " That's why I'm here," he said. 
 
 Waring laughed loudlj^ — too loudly ; and the laugh 
 stopped short, for CuUen was towering over him — Cul- 
 len blazing with indignant wrath, and with a hand rest- 
 ing on Milliard's shoulder. 
 
 " Now go on," said Cullen commandingly. " We 
 don't want any underhanded work around here, Rufus. 
 I've told you that once already. Go on! say it to his 
 face ! " 
 
 The boy glanced back waywardly; glanced at Hil- 
 liard, and lost a fraction of his bravado. 
 
 " Why, I don't know that I'm under any obligation 
 to—" 
 
 Cullen's mouth twitched sharply. 
 
 " Go on! You're conversational enough behind his 
 back — say it to his face ! Either you tell him or I 
 will! " 
 
 The boy wiped his forehead. Beads of sweat stood 
 out on it. 
 
 "Mr. Cullen ... it isn't ... it isn't fair . . ." 
 
 " Fair! " Angela's soprano had risen to a half- 
 scream. " Rufe Waring, after what you've been say- 
 ing, you talk about being fair! Why if you — " 
 
 " Hush ! Angela ! " Her father's admonition was 
 peremptory enough to quell her instantl3\ He 
 wheeled back to Waring. " We're going to get at the 
 bottom of this sooner or later — and the sooner the 
 better. I'm waiting for you to repeat what you just 
 told us, Rufus." 
 
 There were tears of anger in the law student's eyes —
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW M9 
 
 of anger and of impotence. His credibility was weighed 
 down bj the maturer personalities surrounding him, and 
 he felt the burden, and weakened under it. He gave 
 Angela a look of superb disdain, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " Well, that settles that! " he said, and as Angela 
 gave a gasp of understanding, and turned angrily 
 white, he laughed metallicly. 
 
 Cullen moved nearer to him. 
 
 "Are you going to speak up or not.'^ Because if 
 you aren't . . ." 
 
 Waring folded his arms ; but he still failed of the pose 
 he planned, because his eyes and his muscles were traitor 
 to him. 
 
 " No, I'm not ! Not until I'm ready to ! I'm not 
 afraid of the whole crowd of you ! I'm not going to be 
 bullied and bulldozed into — " He attempted to brush 
 past Cullen, the older man caught him by the arm. 
 " Take your hands off me ! " 
 
 " You stay where you are ! " stormed Cullen. " Until 
 you can — " 
 
 " If you lay your hands on me once more, Mr. Cul- 
 len, I'll . . . don't you forget / know what this means ! 
 I'll have you — " 
 
 " Oh, your law! " Cullen snorted it contemptuously. 
 " For God's sake, don't snivel about it . . . stand up 
 and take it like a man, if you've got any manhood in 
 you! For a law student you're . . . well, don't tr^- to 
 run awa}^ from it, then. . . . Are you going to tell 
 him, or am I? " 
 
 The answer was delayed ; Cullen swung around to Hil- 
 liard. " Then I'll tell you myself. Know what this 
 boy's been saying about you.'' Coming up to us when
 
 250 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 you're not here, and trying to knife you when you're 
 not looking? " 
 
 Hilliard, who had been standing paralysed, found 
 voice. 
 
 " Why, I can guess," he said, curiously calm. " And 
 don't be harsh with him, Mr. Cullen. As a matter of 
 fact — " 
 
 Angela had sprung between them; Hilliard saw that 
 her cheeks were tear-stained. 
 
 "It's nothing but jealousy!" she cried vehemently. 
 " He's said horrible things about you ! He's always 
 saying things about you ! He's said — " 
 
 " Angela! *' Cullen almost fairly shouted it. " I 
 tell you, this is my house, and I won't have any more 
 of this infernal nonsense in it! Hear me.'' I've had all 
 the nonsense I'm going to stand from anybody ! Rufus, 
 you stay right there! Angela, you keep quiet!" He 
 turned to HilHard. " If you'd come in a half minute 
 sooner, you'd have heard this young whipper-snapper 
 trying to make you out a swindler! Trying to class 
 you with fake promoters and mining sharks ! Yes — 
 that's what he did! You! And look at him! Look at 
 him ! I want to tell you, Hilliard, it'll take more than 
 his say-so to start anything around here! Don't you 
 open your mouth, Rufus . , . you had your chance 
 and you wouldn't take it ! And I want to tell you right 
 here and right now — " 
 
 " Wait a minute." Hilliard was deadly quiet ; the 
 only quiet member of the quartet. " There's no use 
 in telling all the neighbours just yet." He regarded 
 Waring kindly. " Do 3-ou mind repeating precisely 
 what 3^ou did say, Rufus.'' Don't you think I'm entitled 
 to that much.'' "
 
 0) 
 
 be 
 
 s
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 251 
 
 The boy flushed agonizedlj ; he was the accuser, and 
 yet he couldn't meet Hilliard's eyes. It wasn't guilt; 
 it was mere intellectual inferiority ; and yet it gave 
 exactly the opposite impression. 
 
 " Well," he said desperately, " I know hearsay evi- 
 dence is no good, so I got it first hand — in your own 
 room in the Onondaga, didn't I ? You won't deny that, 
 will yon? I didn't just pick up rumours — I got it 
 from you. Didn't I come there and ask you questions, 
 and didn't you give me the data? Show me figures and 
 everything? And I told i\Ir. Cullen the very next day, 
 it didn't look good to me." His voice rose stridently. 
 " All right, I'll say to him, and I'll say it to you, and 
 I'll say it to anybody that'll listen to me! It didn't 
 look good to me then, and it doesn't now, I told him 
 you acted darned funny about it. And just now I've 
 been telling him I don't believe it's straight. I've got a 
 right to my own opinion, haven't I? Well, I don't be- 
 lieve it is straight! You're too blamed sketchy about 
 it, and it's got all the earmarks of a bum promotion! 
 There , . . Cullen ! " The omission of the prefix to 
 the father of his idol was the worst insult he could con- 
 ceive. 
 
 Cullen's hand was still on Hilliard's shoulder and it 
 was Hilliard whom he addressed, explosively, and with 
 that particular sort of muffled fury which rises best 
 from a set of circumstances not thoroughly under- 
 stood. 
 
 " What this is all about is beyond me! Only, if this 
 law minnow has gone as far as this . . . We've got to 
 get to the bottom of it . . . you know that as well as 
 I do, Hilliard. Naturally. The boy's as wild as a 
 hawk. Heaven knows how far he'd go outside. This
 
 S52 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 has got to get cleared up ! We'v€ got to pound some 
 sense into him. We — " 
 
 Hilliard was smiling vacuously ; now that the blow had 
 actually fallen, and the complaint officially lodged, he 
 felt deliciously relaxed, content. Before he could con- 
 trive a reply Waring was strident again. 
 
 " Yes." The student's voice was thin with acerbity. 
 " Yes, you think you're pretty smart — all of you. 
 Don^t you? I come in here to do you a kindness that 
 anybody else, it seems to me, would take as a favour, and 
 you and Angela jump all over me — why doesn't he 
 deny it? That's what / want to know! Why doesn't 
 he sa2/ something ! " 
 
 Cullen looked at Hilliard, and made a swift deduction, 
 and spoke it. 
 
 " He's waiting for the rest of it. Go on — you're 
 only half through the yarn you told us." 
 
 " Oh, very well." Waring gathered courage. " You 
 can have all you want — maybe more than you want. 
 You'd have had it sooner if you hadn't started yelling 
 at me. I know what I'm talking about; you people 
 don't seem to realize I'm in the law! 1 don't go off 
 half-cocked. I wrote to a law firm in Butte, Montana, 
 that's what I did. I found out what was the biggest 
 firm there, and I wrote 'em a letter. They answered it, 
 too. I got my information right from the ground. 
 I've got a letter that says — " 
 
 Cullen swayed forward, his hand outstretched, palm- 
 upward, in a direct challenge of Waring's truthfulness. 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 The boy withdrew a step, and stammered : " I left 
 it home."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 255 
 
 " Oh, you did ! " Cullen's laugh was stinging. 
 "That's likely!" 
 
 " Yes, that's exactly what I did ! Think I'd bring 
 an original letter out of my office — let it out of my 
 hands until it's time to make it of record? Not on your 
 life! I've got it all right. And it isn't the only in- 
 formation I've got, or all I'm going to have, and don't 
 lose sight of that, either. It says the Silverbow Mining 
 Corporation owns some acreage, fast enough, but there 
 isn't a mine on it — " 
 
 Cullen vented his abandon of rage on the empty air. 
 
 " Well, who in the devil ever said there was? '* 
 
 " Why . . . didn't you? " The appeal was to Hil- 
 liard ; and it was made in a tone of astonishment which 
 would have been ludicrous if there hadn't been tragedy 
 behind it. 
 
 " No." Hilliard shook his head. " You can't ac- 
 cuse me of that, at least. . . . The only mine we ever 
 mentioned was one in prospect. I always said it was a 
 prospect, with an old shaft on it, didn't I.'' And so it 
 is ! But an old shaft isn't a producing mine, necessar- 
 ily. And — please let him finish, Mr. Cullen ! " 
 
 " Well . . ." The boy had twin discs of hectic flame 
 in his cheeks. " That's only a detail, anyway . . . 
 they said it was . . . undeveloped . . . they said the 
 shaft had been abandoned more than two years ago, 
 because it wasn't worth much of anything — " 
 
 Cullen's hands were closing and unclosing apoplec- 
 tically, 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, who ever said it wasn't! two 
 years ago ! We all know that ! Give us some news, 
 young man, give us some news ! "
 
 254. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 Waring was breathing hard, and his interest had 
 switched to Angela, who stood adamant. Indeed, he was 
 suddenly transformed to the status of a suppliant 
 rather than that of a prosecuting witness. 
 
 " Well . . . they said it was offered . . . two years 
 ago ... to anybody who'd take it . . . for ten thou- 
 sand dollars . . . and nobody 'd take it as a gift . , ." 
 
 " Oh, good Lord ! " Cullen was near to bursting. 
 " Doesn't the fool know what a prospect is? Hasn't 
 he seen the reports ? And still he — " 
 
 " And . . . and the land next to it was . . . had a 
 mine on it, the XLNC mine, that's in pretty fair shape, 
 but that didn't signify anything. . , ." He paused for 
 a moment. " And there hasn't been any work done on 
 it, to speak of, for two years. . . . And the corporation 
 report I got shows that a fellow named Martin Har- 
 mon's the president of it, and Harmon's a cheap Wall 
 Street man in New York. The Butte people don't con- 
 sider him reliable. And I've written to him four times 
 — and he won't answer." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Hilliard, startled. 
 
 "Well?" Cullen repeated his challenge. 
 
 " That's all." He gazed beseechingly at Angela, who 
 sniffed, and turned her head away. 
 
 " All ! " Cullen breathed stertorously. " And with a 
 flimsy lot of rot like that 3^ou've got the unmitigated 
 gall to start a slanderous story like this about Henry 
 Hilliard ! You've got the nerve to — " 
 
 " The astonishing part of it," interposed Hilliard, 
 with coolness which astonished even himself, " is that 
 every single item of it is true! Don't blame him, Mr. 
 Cullen. It's true — every word." 
 
 Cullen shook himself.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 265 
 
 "Of course it's true! Isn't it what you've told us 
 yourself, in a different way ! It's the telling of it that 
 counts 1 " 
 
 " Now listen to me a moment ! " Hilliard was im- 
 passively serious : the way to the denouement was open- 
 ing clear before him. He need only offer himself for 
 judgment, and the future would take care of itself. 
 " My purpose in coming up here this afternoon was to 
 talk to you about this same property, Mr. Cullen. I 
 ... I had some rather important things to tell you 
 about it. But in view of this new attitude of Waring's, 
 I'm going to act differently. This won't stop here, 
 and I prefer to have somebody look into it before it's 
 any worse. I'm going to put myself in your hands. 
 Rufus and Angela, I want you both to witness this. . . . 
 Mr. Cullen, I'm going to give you a check for eight 
 thousand dollars ; it's my whole balance at the Trust 
 and Deposit Company, less what I'll need to live on for 
 a few days. I'm going to turn over to you twentv thou- 
 sand shares in the Silvcrbow Mining Corporation to 
 keep for me — it's my own personal holding. I'm going 
 to turn over to you my contract with the owning corpo- 
 ration, which calls for the delivery of all the rest of the 
 corporate stock on payment of a hundred and twenty 
 thousand dollars, of which we've already paid sixty-two. 
 I'll give you the corporation's receipt to me for that 
 amount. And I give you my word of honour not to step 
 foot outside of the city of Syracuse, nor to be for one 
 single hour out of your reach until you've investigated 
 the whole proposition from beginning to end. I insist 
 that you make that investigation. That's on condition 
 that Rufus won't mention this again, either here or 
 anywhere else, until he's collected the facts! And I'll
 
 256 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 tell you right now Rufus has given you the truth ! " 
 
 " My dear man ! " Cullen's tone was conciliating. 
 " We know all that ! We've gone into this with our 
 eyes oi^en. We're not buying a productive mine; we're 
 buying a good prospect." 
 
 " Since I saw you last," Hilliard's voice broke, " I've 
 reason to fear that it isn't as good as we hoped." 
 
 *' There! " Waring was jubilant. "Listen to that, 
 now! What did I tell you.?" 
 
 " We went into it with our eyes open," said CuUen, 
 after a pause. " You told us from the very first it 
 wasn't an absolute certainty — good Lord, what busi- 
 ness proposition ever is? Besides — " He sent a 
 flash of scorn to Waring. " I don't care who knows 
 where / stand on this deal or any other. I don't buy 
 properties ; I back men. I'm banking on you, Hilliard. 
 I'm putting my money back of you. I'm counting on 
 you to make good — if this Montana thing falls down 
 cold, I know you'd make it right with me — if I'd let 
 you. But I wouldn't. When I'm sold, I'm sold for 
 keeps, and I'm sold on you. I'm taking the risk just as 
 you are. So . . ." 
 
 " Thank you." Hilliard's appreciation was in the 
 nature of a stiff bow. " I'm afraid you're exaggerating 
 a little, though. . . ." 
 
 "Not one syllable!" 
 
 Hilliard was patently grateful. 
 
 " At any rate, I'm going to do as I said . . . you'll 
 keep those things as a favour to me, won't you.'' As 
 securit}^ or evidence of good faith, or whatever you 
 want to call it.? " 
 
 " Nonsense ! For a flare-up like this? Ridiculous ! " 
 
 " But I insist," said Hilliard. " And I want you to
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 257 
 
 make an investigation — a thorough one." He smiled 
 grimly ; Dicky Morgan was safe for ever. " I know 
 in advance what you'll find." 
 
 " So do I. Oh, well, I know how you feel. If you 
 want to be whitewashed, I suppose I'll have to act as a 
 sort of trustee for you — it's tommyrot, but if you 
 want it, I won't refuse. Send me the stuff and I'll put 
 it away for you where it'll be safe. And Rufus here — " 
 They turned together to the law student, who was defi- 
 antly abject. " Rufus, I hope you've got enough sense 
 left not to go peddling any more idiotic rumours until 
 there's some foundation to 'em. We're going to give 
 you every chance in the world to back up what you've 
 said, but if you can't — '* He paused significantly. 
 
 " You let me do the investigating," said Waring dog- 
 gedly. " /'ll get at the foundations for you." 
 
 " Do it, and welcome ! " This from HiUiard. " I'll 
 take Armstrong's report if you will — or you can go 
 just as much further as you like." 
 
 Cullen had detected Waring's start of astonishment 
 and chagrin, and his interest quickened at the by- 
 play. 
 
 " What's Jack Armstrong got to do with it? " 
 
 " Oh, he's going to take a look at it on his way 
 West," said Hilliard, diffidently, and added, with more 
 generosity tlian Waring had anticipated. " Rufus and 
 I both asked him to." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Cullen, failing to interpret correctly 
 Waring's reaction to this last statement. " Well, if 
 you're really serious about wanting an inquiry — and I 
 suppose if I were in your place, I'd demand it, too — 
 I'm with you. Are you serious? " 
 
 " I've never been more serious in my life. Let Rufus
 
 ^5S THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 — and Jack — handle it together. Between them, 
 tliej'li make rather an exhaustive study, don't you 
 think? And they might turn up something that all of 
 us would want to know." 
 
 "That's right! It's a thought." He coughed sol- 
 idly. " Well — was there something really important 
 you wanted to see me about, Hilliard? " 
 
 " Why, not now." 
 
 " W^ell, I wanted to see you. As a matter of fact, 
 I was going to hunt you up this morning — when this 
 merry little party started. I've got a couple of men 
 down in my office who want a bite of this scheme . . . 
 say five thousand apiece. . . . What do you want to do 
 about it?" 
 
 Hilliard laughed unaffectedly, and Rufus stared at 
 him, and envied him his composure. 
 
 " You keep the money until after the investigation," 
 he said. " For all you know, I may be in Sing-Sing 
 before they could have the funds read3\" 
 
 "Well—" Cullen looked at his watch. "I can't 
 waste any more time on this tomfool business. I ought 
 to have been in the office an hour ago. Anybody going 
 downtown ? " 
 
 " I am — but I'll walk," said Waring sullenly. 
 
 " Can I stay? " asked Hilliard of Angela, in an un- 
 dertone. 
 
 " I want you to," she said. Her eyes followed War- 
 ing to the doorwa}^ 
 
 After they had been alone for a full minute, and 
 neither of them had uttered a syllable, it came to Hil- 
 liard that the chief difficulty in being evil is to make an 
 end of it, but that the chief difficulty in being virtuous 
 is to begin. His brain was active, and his emotions were
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 259 
 
 placid ; but to his mild perplexity he had no compelling 
 desire to make a start. There was no restraining im- 
 pediment working against him, as on the occasion of his 
 interview with Carol ; his impulses were merely lazy. 
 Indeed, he was rather highly gratified at the course of 
 things this morning; he argued that Waring's zeal and 
 Armstrong's itinerary had reh'eved him from any neces- 
 sity of an out-and-out avowal of his innocent fraud; 
 it was much more satisfactory, since all the issues were 
 so confused, to turn his aiFairs over to Cullen, and to 
 await the inevitable verdict on an impersonal basis. In 
 the meantime, he was deeply touched by Cullen's confi- 
 dence in him; Cullen and Carol Durant alike had re- 
 fused to believe the obvious truth ; he wondered stolidly 
 what it would have meant to him to have had such a 
 reputation from his youth onward ; the gratification now 
 would have been superlative — provided only that he 
 had been entitled to his pride. 
 
 " He's jealous of you," said Angela abruptly. 
 " That's all — he's jealous. Simply wild with it. You 
 know that — don't you? " 
 
 Hilliard started ; for it wasn't an emboldening begin- 
 ning. Not the least so; it implied exactly the sort of 
 rivalry which he had feared, and which he had corat to 
 relinquish. 
 
 " Who is? Oh ! Rufus Waring? " 
 
 " Terribly jealous. Perfectly crazy with it. That's 
 what all this whole mess is about." She tossed her head 
 wilfully. *7 don't care ; do you ? " 
 
 The unreserved bluntness of it nearly took him off his 
 feet; renewing the devastating suspicion that Angela 
 had grown to care too much for him — too much for her 
 own good.
 
 260 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Why, Angela ! " he said lamelj. " Of course I do. 
 It hurts me." 
 
 She hammered a gold-emboidered sofa-cushion with 
 one tiny fist. 
 
 " Oh, he's jealous of everything and everybody. 
 That doesn't count any more. Only it made me per- 
 fectly furious. ... I wanted to scratch him . . . the 
 very idea of his daring to say anything like that about 
 you ! Even if you do like me a lot ! " She sighed 
 heavily. " And yet if you stop to think about it, it 
 was sort of brave, too — standing up to all of us when 
 it was three to one, and he was wrong — poor dear ! " 
 
 Hilliard looked down at her with deep affection, and 
 troubled relief. 
 
 " As long as I've a defender hke you, I wouldn't 
 worry," he said, " but I'm afraid it won't be for so very 
 long, Angela, that you'll feel like defending me." 
 
 "Why not?" she asked. 
 
 " Just a notion of mine. It strikes me that you're 
 fonder of Rufus than 3^ou let yourself think. And 
 he needs a champion worse than I do ; I'm more used to 
 taking care of myself." 
 
 The corners of her mouth were peculiarly sensi- 
 tive. 
 
 " Such a queer notion ! " she said. " Where'd 3'ou 
 ever get it ? " 
 
 " Oh, it came of its own accord. . . ." 
 
 " It's been such a funn}^ day," she said, musing. 
 " Rufus was funny, and Dad was funny, and you're so 
 funny, and Carol was funny this morning and I'm 
 funny now, and — " 
 
 " Carol ! " he echoed involuntarily. 
 
 She laughed at him, enjoying his discomfiture with
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 261 
 
 the sweet insolence of a naughty juvenile; and it was 
 noteworthy that her arraignment of Waring stopped 
 short at this point. 
 
 " I know something about you! " she taunted wick- 
 edly. 
 
 "What do you know, bright child?" he demanded, 
 red to the temples. 
 
 "/ know!" Her tone was singing. "So do you! 
 Look at the man blush! Why, you guilty thing! 
 Why, you red geranium! " 
 
 He sat down beside her, staring at her vivid, flower- 
 like face. 
 
 " Angela, you little demon, stop laughing at me ! " 
 
 It was fresh incentive; she only bubbled the more. 
 
 " I told you I'd laugh at you sometime," she re- 
 minded him triumphantly, " and this is the time ! " 
 
 "Think so.?" 
 
 " I know so I " All at once, she became demurely 
 sober. " I'm awfully glad, honestly ... it isn't out 
 yet, of course, but everybody knows about you and 
 Carol, especially since Jack Armstrong lost out, and 
 went out West, just the way they do in novels. I'm 
 just as glad as I can he. Only you might have given 
 me a wee little hint — just to me, you know, mightn't 
 you.?" 
 
 " Angela ! " He caught at her hand. 
 
 " Oho ! That wakes you up, doesn't it.? " Her man- 
 ner changed to the maternal; if Hilliard had been in a 
 different frame of mind, it would have convulsed him. 
 " Now just be calm and tell me all about it," she in- 
 structed him indulgently. " Tell me everything — I 
 won't repeat it to a single soul! I'm awfully excited 
 about it. Please tell me."
 
 262 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Angela ! Where did jou — " 
 
 She pouted instantly. 
 
 "Not just plain * Angela ' — put some trimming on 
 it." 
 
 " Well — Angela dear . . . what's that about Jack 
 Armstrong? Say that again — and tell me everything 
 you know about it. Be serious for once. That's a 
 good girl ! " 
 
 Her eyes were mischievously tender; somehow she 
 reminded Hilliard of that moment in the hallway of the 
 Durants' house — the most precious of all his recent 
 memories. 
 
 " Will you tell me if I tell you? " 
 
 " Yes. I guess so." 
 
 Her finger was upraised in warning. 
 
 « Say ' Yes, dear.' " 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Hilliard, writhing. 
 
 She settled herself with a little flounce of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Well . . . Jack's asked her, and she refused him. 
 . . . Flat as a pancake. That's gospel truth ! She 
 told me she'd refused him, and he told me the pancake 
 part. And everybody's glad of it — he's a nice boy ; 
 awfully nice — but nowhere near as nice as you are. 
 And he's just naturally gone away to get over it. And 
 you're the only one left. So — that's finished ; you 
 tell me:' 
 
 He stared at her unblinkingly. Had he really been 
 at such cross-purposes with Armstrong at the station, 
 then? The conception was illuminating. 
 
 " Everybody? " he repeated, red and white by turns, 
 and mightily hushed. "What does that mean?" 
 
 " Just that. Everybody. That is — " Her accent
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 263 
 
 was deliciouslj superior. " That is, all the people one 
 knows." 
 
 " They think . . . they think Pm the . . . the one." 
 
 "Silly!" She patted his head. "I didn't believe 
 you'd try to camouflage me. No — honestly — isn't 
 it true?" 
 
 He studied her for a moment. " What would you say 
 if it were? " he asked soberly. 
 
 She returned his gaze with engaging frankness. 
 
 " Oh, I want it to be — I want it to bo ! " she said. 
 " Carol's the sweetest thing in town, and as for you 
 . . . well, sometimes I almost wish I could marry you 
 myself!" 
 
 His heart leaped dangerously. One complication the 
 less! Oh, the respite of it! Angela removed from the 
 problem and — he sank back wearily — Carol coming 
 into it again, and irrevocably. 
 
 " ' Almost? ' " he queried mechanically. 
 
 She looked at the floor ; when she raised her eyes 
 he saw the well remembered depths in them. She was 
 half-child ; half-woman — and the woman was speaking 
 with the child's tongue. Her hand covered his; the 
 warm, timid pressure was very assuaging. 
 
 " Yes, ' almost ' . . . I suppose I can really talk 
 to you, can't I? I always thought I could . . . well, 
 when you first came here I was perfectly crazy about 
 you ... I am yet, in a way, only sort of boiled down 
 . . . you know. Not like a sister at all, but . . . not 
 the other sort, either. I thought it was going to be, 
 once, but ... I ... I like you better than any- 
 body else in the whole world — all but two. You don't 
 mind my telling you, do you? I know j^ou've thought 
 I'm a baby, sometimes ... I suppose I am. ... I
 
 264 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 ... I liked to be kissed ... by people I like . . . 
 and . . . and . . . you know it's sort of like sunlight; 
 I need lots of it. People have always fussed over 
 me . . ." Here she gave a poignant sigh for her lost 
 youth. " Only . . . it's funny, too . . . but one of 
 the two people I do like better than I do you ... in 
 a different way ... is ... is Rufe Waring. He's 
 jealous as a ... a torn cat . . . but somehow I don't 
 mind it from him ; I almost like it ... it i^ funny, isn't 
 it? We're having perfectly terrible riots all the time 
 now, but it's only because I've teased him . . . and then 
 he was so frightfully jealous about 3^ou, and 1 ... I 
 teased him about that. He's just gone on a rampage 
 today ; he doesn't know what he's saying. He'll be 
 sorry for it ; he'll apologize to you, and me, and 
 Dad, and we'll have to forgive him . . . please don't 
 hate him if you can help it. It was just because he 
 thought you weren't quite good enough for me, I guess. 
 And you've got to give him credit for that, now, haven't 
 you? . . . And . . . I hope you and Carol'll be awfully 
 happy together." 
 
 " Dear girl ! " said Hilliard gently. 
 
 " Do you understand? " Her eyes were very plead- 
 ing, very misty, and Hilliard, being a right-minded man 
 at this stage of his progress, was awe-struck at stand- 
 ing in the presence of consummate girlhood, woman- 
 hood-to-be, crystal and virginal and delicate as the 
 petal of a shaded wild-flower. 
 
 "Understand? — yes. Can I wish you happiness, 
 too?" 
 
 " Not yet," she said, adorably prim. " He hasn't 
 . . . oh, we both know about it, but he's got to graduate 
 from law-school first, and — after that . . . maybe I
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 265 
 
 can . . . travel a little." She blushed shamefully. 
 " You needn't grin like a Cheshire cat — I guess I'll 
 see Niagara Falls, anyway ! " 
 
 " I wasn't ' grinning,' " he said. " I was smiling at 
 you right out of my heart. . . . But I do wish happi- 
 ness for you — always and always. And for Rufus, 
 too — only that isn't necessary, because it's one of the 
 great certainties. And I'm happier myself than I've 
 been for ages . . . dear . . ." He stopped, swamped 
 by the recollection that it was Waring who was to 
 share in the demonstration of his perfidy. To wish 
 happiness to an executioner — and not be a hypocrite.? 
 Incredible — 3^et true. Hilliard wished him happiness. 
 
 "What is it.?" she demanded, alert to his altered 
 expression. 
 
 " Nothing. . . . I'm just sorry I'm not a Mormon ! " 
 
 "You're fibbing! Still . . ." 
 
 Hilliard rose hastily. 
 
 " Wait ! " she said. " You can't go until you've 
 told me one more thing . . . you don't honestly think 
 Rufe's underhanded, now, do you? " 
 
 ^' No — oh, no, Angela. A man can be so upset 
 that he can — " 
 
 "You know we were just shocked and surprised — 
 and Dad's awfully quick tempered. And it was so 
 sudden! We didn't stop to talk it over; we sailed right 
 into him, and all of us got excited, and then you came 
 in. We didn't know how frightfully jealous Rufe could 
 be — he's been bad enough before, but this time was 
 the limit — and it's only because he's a boy. It's 
 . . . sort of primeval. You know." 
 
 " Yes, dear — 3^es ! " 
 
 " And . . . and he did know us long before he ever
 
 266 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 knew you. He thought he was protecting us. It was 
 just an obsession — ^" 
 
 "It's all right — quite all right. Please!" He 
 touched her hair lightly. " I wish I were as sure you'd 
 always defend me as I am that you'll stick to him, 
 Angela." 
 
 " That's twice you've said that . . , and you know 
 what / think ! I've told you. And . . . are 3^ou go- 
 ing off without telling me an3'thing at all ! " Her voice 
 betrayed the irreparable injury of it. 
 
 Hilliard moistened his lips. 
 
 " Angela, dear, next to one other person I love you 
 better than any one else on earth." 
 
 " That's nice," she said, with a sigh of perfect con- 
 tent. 
 
 He bent to her, but she eluded him. 
 
 " Oh, no! " she gasped in fluttering protest. " Even 
 if you . . . but I've told you about Rufe now — you 
 haven't told me about Carol, but it's plain as day — 
 it wouldn't be right! " 
 
 " Angela ! " 
 
 She relented swiftly ; his voice w^as something to 
 rely on. 
 
 "Well — just my cheek, then. Honestly, I . . ." 
 
 " No, dear," said Hilliard. He compelled her chin 
 upward, and smiled down into her lovely, startled eyes, 
 and stooped and kissed her forehead . . . then her 
 lips. 
 
 " That's for good-bye," he said, " to the dearest 
 little girl I ever knew. . . . We're both growing up, 
 aren't we ? "
 
 XXI 
 
 TN the colourless days that followed, he listlessly 
 1 set about the ordering of his final plans For- 
 tunately, there were few of them; his mmd would never 
 have been equal to intricate detail. 
 
 It was a' shght consolation to him to realize that 
 the city had a habit of judging men by personal rather 
 than by financial standards; for all its pride and 
 wealth, it would censure him more for his wrecked per- 
 Lality than for whatever money losses he had caused. 
 He was prepared to endure that censure ; and because 
 he understood the provocation behind it^ he was a 1 the 
 xnore eager to aid in the salvage. There would be 
 more saved from the underwriting project, he thought, 
 than from his character. 
 
 He had deposited with CuUen all he owned, except 
 for his private belongings, his Franklin runabout, and 
 a triviaf sum for current expenses The -nabou h 
 would offer for sale; it meant a few hundred doUais 
 more to be divided among his contributors. Beyond 
 Zt there was nothing else he could restore to them. 
 A o his own immediate behaviour, he was irresolute. 
 It had gratuitously occurred to him that perhaps the 
 only convincing exodus for such a complete failure, such 
 In infectious ne'er-do-well, was one of violence, self- 
 "flicted; but he had dismissed the thougM as unworthy 
 ven of himself. He didn't belie.e that Harmon - d 
 ever carry out his promised betrayal; not that he had 
 fa th in Harmon's code of ethics, but because he
 
 268 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 trusted Harmon's horse-sense. If Hilliard were alone 
 to be accused, Harmon would gain nothing and might, 
 if he offered any adverse testimony, even implicate 
 himself. Indeed, if Harmon should say enough to 
 establish the proof of HiUiard's identity, Harmon would 
 place himself in the dangerous status of an accessory 
 before the fact. No . . . this was the sane procedure ; 
 to let the memory of Dicky Morgan rest in peace, and 
 to let the brunt of anger fall on Henry Hilliard, who was 
 a nobody from nowhere, with a lying face, a lying 
 tongue, and no claque to mourn at his exit. 
 
 But then there was Angela's startling allegation 
 . . . she had declared that " everybody " in town knew 
 all about Hilliard and Carol. " Everybody " regarded 
 him as the victorious contender, and yet he knew, in 
 secret, that he was the vanquished, and without honour. 
 Besides, in a day or two " everybody " would have a 
 different opinion. He had tried to explain himself 
 to Carol, and he had failed ; and in the light of Angela's 
 revelation, it was difficult to decide whether Carol her- 
 self, in protesting that she wanted to retain him as a 
 friend, had meant that and nothing more, or that and 
 a great deal more. But no matter what she had in- 
 tended to convey, no matter what she had intended to 
 conceal, he dared not go to her again, he dared not 
 see her and speak to her, for if he lied to her . . . but 
 he couldn't lie to her now, and every word of truth 
 would prove a boomerang. He was trapped; and al- 
 though his heart was breaking for the love he had al- 
 most won a second time, he remained steadfast to the 
 ideals he had created. If Carol were to lose him as a 
 suitor, she should never know that her first and fore- 
 most suitor had gone to the devil.
 
 THE JVIAN NOBODY KNEW 269 
 
 He told himself fiercely that was the one definite and 
 permanent way out of it. . . . Nobody would then 
 have cause to gossip about Dicky Morgan ; no one — 
 after the first natural flood of excitement and de- 
 nunciation — would remember very much about Henry 
 Hilliard. It would save such a deal of needless trouble ; 
 it would save such a wearisome amount of shame. 
 
 But against the pitiless background of the war, self- 
 destruction as a means of avoiding personal difficul- 
 ties, self -caused, seemed curiously repellent — curiously 
 cheap. 
 
 No ... it was a part of his own grievance that Carol 
 and the others must grieve, too ; he had a dual re- 
 sponsibility to society. He had no right to leave these 
 matters clouded by any uncertainty of motive. Syra- 
 cuse had a right to know the facts; and if the facts 
 brought pain to those he loved, why, that was some- 
 thing he should have thought about in June, and not 
 in November. 
 
 As he clung comfortless to the last slipping hours 
 of the reputation he had so carefully builded, he knew 
 that it wasn't the punishment of the law that he dreaded, 
 it was the ostracism which would accompany it. It 
 wasn't his own shame which gripped him, it was the 
 consciousness of the shame which would attach to his 
 friends. And so, for a day or two, all his faculties were 
 strung upon the attitude of the public towards him ; 
 he was watching frantically for the first faint signs of 
 adverse demeanour, and bracing himself for the shock 
 which was unavoidably to come. For secrets will out, 
 and although he had no reason to expect Waring to 
 break his pledge, he knew that when rumour smould- 
 ers among as many as four people, there comes — there
 
 «70 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 always comes — a moment in which it bursts forth in 
 spontaneous combustion. 
 
 And presently he sensed a subtle super-charging of 
 the atmosphere whenever he met a male acquaintance; 
 he couldn't deny that the greeting of his bankers was 
 suddenly less informal, more impersonal ; he perceived, 
 with a sinking spasm of foreboding, that fewer people 
 stopped to chat with him on the street and that those 
 who still were willing to halt and pass the time of day 
 were uncommonly restive about it. Even at church, 
 he was conscious that his arrival created a little stir 
 of unecclesiastical interest, and he imagined that as he 
 dropped his golden contribution in the plate, the holder 
 of it turned his nostrils from the tainted money. Syra- 
 cuse hadn't yet arrayed itself officially against him, and 
 a part of Syracuse was outwardly as pleasant as ever, 
 but there wasn't the slightest question that the story 
 had leaked out, and that it had got itself adherents. 
 The end was plainly in sight; Armstrong's report was 
 due. Only the Cullens and the Durants and one or two 
 other of the James Street families were quite as cordially 
 attentive as formerly ; and to Milliard's vast chagrin, 
 they rather overdid it ... he seemed to feel in the 
 steady warmth of their friendship a sort of blindly un- 
 seasonable resolution to support him, whether or no. 
 This, infinitely more than the cooling manner of the 
 majority, galled him incessantly. It was as though 
 they rallied to his defence before the need of it . . . 
 it was as though they conceded in advance the neces- 
 sity of such a defence. 
 
 So Hilliard waited, waited . . . smiling upon the 
 world his hollow smile, carrying through the city the 
 body of a knave and the face of a martyr and the soul
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 271 
 
 of a gentleman . . . and in the watches of the night, 
 he was perplexed to find that his eyes were sometimes 
 wet, but never when he was thinking of himself — al- 
 ways when he was thinking of Angela, or Carol, or — 
 unexplainably — of a common-enough representative of 
 the French bourgeoisie named Pierre Dutout. 
 
 ( 
 
 On the eighth day, he chanced to meet Dr. Durant 
 by accident in front of the Physicians Building at high 
 noon. 
 
 "Hello, there! You're just in time," said the Doc- 
 tor, cheerfully. " I'm going over to the University 
 Club for lunch. Won't you join me? " 
 
 Hilliard reddened ; his raw sensibilities told him that 
 the Doctor wasn't actuated by hospitality alone. 
 
 " Why," he said, " I'd like to, but — " 
 
 " I want your advice," declared the Doctor, ignor- 
 ing the implied objection. " I'm the worst business 
 man in the world — you probably know that by this 
 time. And I trust m}^ friends for friendship; but 
 when I want advice, I go to an expert. So you qualify 
 on both counts. Come along over." 
 
 Hilliard was flattered, but not deceived, 
 
 " I'm not sure that my advice is worth anything 
 half as expensive as a luncheon. Doctor." 
 
 The older man took him by the arm, and impelled 
 him across the street. 
 
 " That depends on 3^our appetite," he laughed. 
 " Come along, and help me out on a decision I've got to 
 make. About an investment." 
 
 Hilliard hung back for a moment, while suspicion 
 dawned on him. 
 
 " What sort of investment. Doctor.'' " he queried.
 
 27S THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " You come and sit down," urged the Doctor, se- 
 ductivel3\ " And we'll talk it over later. But first 
 of all — " He patted his waistcoat. " Let's eat." 
 
 Hilliard was almost too grateful to speak; the Doc- 
 tor's stratagem was patent, but in all chivalry the 
 invitation couldn't be declined. Once inside the doors 
 of the club, however, he became panicky; for his first 
 sweeping reconnoissance included half a dozen men 
 whose late behaviour had indicated that they knew. 
 And Hilliard had all a metropolitan's sensitiveness to 
 the spirit and to the ethics of a men's club. He fal- 
 tered on the very threshold ; and if any other man than 
 Dr. Durant had been his sponsor, he would have fled 
 incontinently, so as not to disturb that rare, inde- 
 scribable atmosphere which only clubmen understand 
 and respect. 
 
 But the Doctor was inexorable; he drew Hilliard 
 under the mantle of his own unassailable position, and 
 ploughed ahead with the utmost serenity. He nodded 
 here and there, he spoke to members right and left; 
 he bowed across the room ; always his personality, rather 
 than his person, seemed to be escorting and guarding 
 Hilliard; and Syracuse couldn't decline to acknowl- 
 edge a man who was under the Doctor's adequate pro- 
 tection. Those who spoke to the Doctor also spoke 
 to Hilliard ; there was no way out of it, and they spoke 
 as casually as they could. They also nodded to him, 
 and bowed, but when his back was turned, they became 
 low-voiced and communicative, and he knew it. When 
 at length the pair had gained the table nearest the 
 window, Hilliard felt that he had undergone a strenu- 
 ous ordeal ; he was consumed by gratitude to his im- 
 placable host, but he had no inclination to repeat it.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 273 
 
 The Doctor was scrutinizing the menu ; Hilliard, who 
 faced the window, threw a glance over his shoulder. As 
 he had fancied, the eyes of the room were upon him. 
 They reminded him, oddly enough, of machine-gun bat- 
 teries. 
 
 " The table d'hote's good enough for me," said the 
 Doctor presently. " And you? " 
 
 " And for me, too," said Hilliard. 
 
 " Anything to drink ? " 
 
 « No, thanks." 
 
 The Doctor dropped the card ; and sat up straighter. 
 
 " Well, I won't keep you in suspense — I want some 
 advice. As I said, I'm the worst business man in the 
 world, Hilliard. I'm a mere child in your hands — 
 so please treat me tenderly." He regarded his com- 
 panion with mingled humour and seriousness. " James 
 Cullen has been telling me about a wonderful plan of 
 yours to make a nice shiny gold eagle grow where only 
 a silver quarter grew before. In fact, he talked so 
 enthusiastically that he's got me thinking about it, 
 too. ... I rather reseni: your not telling me about 
 it yourself." 
 
 Hilliard recoiled. 
 
 "You shouldn't do that!" he said. "I ... I 
 wouldn't have tried to interest you in it. Doctor, be- 
 cause — " 
 
 " Oh, I can see your reasons," deprecated the Doc- 
 tor, smilingly. " You didn't want to trespass on a 
 purely social relationship. I appreciate that. But the 
 point is, I've got a few thousand dollars I don't exactly 
 know what to do with. It's a rather extraordinary 
 situation for a professional man, isn't it.'* I'll have 
 to admit I'm puzzled about it myself. And the novelty
 
 274. THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 might lead me into temptation. So I thought I'd ask 
 your advice." 
 
 " You can have the best I've got," said Hilliard, 
 averted. " But I'm not guaranteeing that it has much 
 value, Doctor." 
 
 The Doctor nodded; drummed on the table. 
 
 " Do you ever let friendship interfere with busi- 
 ness.'^ " 
 
 " Often, sir." 
 
 " Will you let it interfere now — if you think you're 
 justified?" 
 
 " Yes, Doctor. ... I can promise that much, any- 
 way." 
 
 The Doctor showed his approval. 
 
 " Well, tell me perfectly frankly, then, — is yours 
 the sort of proposition you'd let a man invest in, if 
 you knew he had precious little money to lose.^^ But 
 if you also knew that he were quite willing to take the 
 same chance as the rest? " 
 
 Hilliard shook his head slowly, and continued to 
 shake it as he replied. 
 
 " I can't say that it is. Doctor. On the contrary 
 — I don't think it's that sort of proposition at all." 
 
 Dr. Durant's brows were contracted. 
 
 " But in the ordinary run of commerce, Hilliard — 
 suppose the question of friendship didn't enter into this, 
 and I hadn't brought up that subject — would you, in 
 choosing 3^our list of subscribers, and selecting the peo- 
 ple you'd like to have share the plan with you, put a 
 man like myself on any different footing than James 
 Cullen? Or wouldn't you? " 
 
 " Doctor Durant," Hilliard's voice was slow, " is 
 it possible you haven't heard the . . . the criticism
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 276 
 
 that's been fljlng around town about this syndicate of 
 mine? Haven't jou heard that there's some question 
 whether it's quite sound? " 
 
 " I've heard it — jes." The Doctor was amazingly 
 indifferent. 
 
 " Well — do you still think this is any time to dis- 
 cuss the possibility of your coming in with us? " 
 
 The Doctor's voice was strong, encouraging. 
 
 " I think it's the best time, and the only time — for 
 me, that is. I've lived too long to be affected by chance 
 rumours. And besides, I've got the money now." 
 
 " But are 3^ou sure you know what it's all about? 
 The criticism, I mean." 
 
 " I don't know anything about it at all. That's 
 exactly why I'm coming to you for advice." 
 
 " On . . . what grounds?" 
 
 The Doctor gesticulated. 
 
 " Why, the only grounds I could have. You cer- 
 tainly ought to know more about it than any one else 
 does. And therefore, I'd take your word for it before 
 I'd take the rumour. I want to know if you'll accept 
 me as one of the members of your syndicate." 
 
 Hilliard gasped and pushed himself back from the 
 table. 
 
 " Doctor! " 
 
 " In a way," said Dr. Durant genially, " I'm putting 
 you at a great disadvantage — I know that. But, as I 
 said, I'm not a business man. I have to be guided more 
 or less by instinct. Your business is to know all about 
 these things. So I'm coming to you for your honest 
 opinion, and I know 3^ou'll give it to me ... do you 
 think I'm quite eligible? " 
 
 Hilliard's heart was in his mouth.
 
 276 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Why," he stammered, " at this particular time 
 — I can't advise jou — " 
 
 " Now, don't be too cautions," warned the Doctor. 
 " All I want is 3'our expert opinion, without any quali- 
 fications attached. I'm not asking 3'ou if this is the 
 best investment the world has ever seen — I'm asking 
 if it's reasonably safe, as such things go, with a chance 
 of something really good if your best expectations 
 work out as you hope." 
 
 Hilliard's throat was dusty, and his reply came with 
 some difficulty. 
 
 " In spite of . . . everything, you'd . . . you'd take 
 my word for it, Doctor.'' " 
 
 " Yes, I would, and I've got Cullen and my own 
 daughter to agree with me. I don't think that the 
 three of us would make the same mistake about the 
 same man at the same time. One of us might, but not 
 all three! Certainly I'll take your word for it. 
 Would you let me invest say . . . seventy-five hundred 
 dollars.?" 
 
 Hilliard gulped. 
 
 " Not now — no, sir." 
 
 The Doctor expressed a mild astonishment. 
 
 " Suppose I'd asked you a week ago — before this 
 miserable story began to go the rounds.? " 
 
 " I'd have taken it then — perhaps." 
 
 The Doctor's eyes snapped. 
 
 " You're retiring under fire — are you.? " 
 
 " No, sir — ^ digging in." 
 
 "Simply because of a fatherless report?" 
 
 " No, its parents are pretty lively. And the . . . 
 the recent developments haven't been what we . . . ex- 
 pected. It isn't on account of the rumours that I can't
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 277 
 
 let you in, Doctor — it's on account of the facts." 
 
 The Doctor remained silent until the waiter had 
 served thcni, and departed. Then he looked keenly 
 across the table. 
 
 " Cullen isn't going to lose his money, is he.'' " 
 
 " Not all of it, anyway." 
 
 "Some of it?" 
 
 " You never can tell." 
 
 " And are you obligated in any way to make good 
 his loss.'' You personally, I mean.'' Either legally or 
 morally.? " 
 
 Hilliard sighed dispiritedly. 
 
 *' Why, seeing that not one of these men ever saw 
 the property, or knows anything about it, or about 
 copper mining in general, except what I told them, I 
 feel morally responsible for every cent that's lost, 
 whether I've any legal responsibility or not. That 
 is, I'd make it good — if I could. Of course, I'm hop- 
 ing that nothing will be lost, but — " 
 
 The Doctor's ej^es brightened. 
 
 " Do Cullen and his friends understand that you hold 
 yourself responsible? " 
 
 " I think not. I haven't said so to them yet." 
 
 " It isn't a part of your bargain? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " They're paying you a brilliant compliment, then." 
 
 " I realize that fulh^," said Hilliard, writhing. The 
 Doctor toyed with his fork. 
 
 " You'd do the same for me, I suppose, if I were one 
 of your group? " 
 
 " Why, of course — if you had been." 
 
 ** But you wouldn't advise me to go into it, you 
 say, under present conditions? "
 
 278 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " No, sir, I wouldn't. I wouldn't permit it." 
 
 " I thought you wouldn't." The Doctor sipped a 
 glass of water thoughtfully. " And that leaves me 
 with seventy-five hundred dollars I still don't know 
 what to do with. Well, if you can think of any reason- 
 able use for it within the next few weeks, let me know, 
 will you? I'll keep it intact until I hear from 3'ou." 
 
 Something in his tone snatched at Hilliard's heart, 
 he went as white as paper. 
 
 " Dr. Durant ! " 
 
 The Doctor smiled sllghtlj^ " Any reasonable use, 
 I said. Any form of investment that — " 
 
 Hilliard was practically tongue-tied. 
 
 " Dr. Durant ... if I ... if I see what you mean 
 ... I ... if you're willing to take my advice, 
 why — " 
 
 " I'm sixty-three years old," said the Doctor, calmly, 
 " and I've made a fool of myself in every conceivable 
 way but one. . . . That's in my own field; I'm a di- 
 agnostician. I've watched you very carefully, young 
 man. ... I think perhaps you need as much advice as 
 I do, of a different variety. So here it is — when you 
 — want encouragement, or a medical prescription, or a 
 good cigar and a chat, or a quiet evening with an old 
 man and a girl who plays the piano rather pleasantly? 
 or seventy-five hundred dollars which you've already 
 shown you won't let me invest unwisely, come and see 
 me. Now let's drop business. Not another word: 
 I'm tired of it. You're through as an expert ; let's 
 get back to old-fashioned friendship. Speaking of com- 
 ing to see me, — Carol's wondering if you're trying to 
 slight her. We've seen very little of you lately.? It's
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 279 
 
 a week now, isn't it? And you've never even told me 
 how you liked my pamphlet? " 
 
 When, sustained and soothed by that peaceful hour, 
 by the Doctor's trust in his integrity, and by the 
 sedative of a long and untroubled stroll out over the 
 hills to eastward, he returned to the hotel, the room 
 clerk greeted him with faint superciliousness. 
 
 " Somebody's been keeping after you on the tele- 
 phone all the morning," he said loftily. " New York 
 call. Couldn't locate you. And here's some telegrams 
 for you . . ." 
 
 There were three of them; at sight of the signature 
 of the first, Hilliard's eyes narrowed. 
 
 ARRIVING SYRACUSE 4.15 PLEASE MEET ME 
 AT TRAIN AND STOP ALL WORK IN THE MEAN- 
 TIME LilPERATIVE 
 
 HARMON 
 
 Hilliard's eyelids fluttered ; this was evidently the 
 initial result of Rufus Waring's efforts, and of those 
 many letters he had written Harmon. He tore open the 
 second envelope ; the message was again from the broker, 
 sent obviously from the Grand Central Terminal just 
 before train-time. 
 
 MOST IMPORTANT NEWS RECEIVED AM JUST 
 LEAVING HAVING WIRED YOU MEET ME AT 
 STATION 4.15 FIND OUT WHO ROB WARING 
 IS AND WHAT HE WANTS DO ALL YOU CAN 
 TO STAVE OFF FURTHER INQUIRY ABSOLUTELY 
 IMPERATIVE NOT TALK TO ANY ONE UNTIL
 
 280 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 I SEE YOU HAVE CONTRACT AND ALL OTHER 
 DATA WITH YOU SHALL HAVE TO LEAVE 
 ON SHORT NOTICE HARMON 
 
 And the third was from Albany : 
 
 LOCATE ROB WARING IF POSSIBLE AND 
 ARRANGE MEETING SEVEN TONIGHT URGENTLY 
 IMPERATIVE HARMON 
 
 Hilliard folded the three sheets methodically and put 
 them in his pocket. He glanced at his watch; it 
 showed a quarter to four. He had no dependence on 
 Harmon, and no fear of him; he felt no obligation to 
 Harmon, no sense of duty. To be sure, he had a 
 cynic's curiosity to see what was in the middle of the 
 whirlwind, but that of itself wasn't strong enough to 
 send him to a rendezvous with a man he despised and 
 loathed. 
 
 " If I go," he said to himself, " I'll be sorry ; and if 
 I don't go . . . why, if I don't go, I'll always wonder 
 if it would have done any good ! " 
 
 For himself, there was nothing promising in the situa- 
 tion. But on the millionth chance that something of 
 benefit to his subscribers might come out of it — on 
 the millionth chance that Harmon might be frightened 
 or persuaded into compromise — 
 
 So he went.
 
 XVII 
 
 THE very first passenger to reach the platform was 
 Harmon; indeed, he had been fretting in the 
 vestibule for half an hour, intent on saving a useless 
 fraction of a second when the train stopped. At sight 
 of HiUiard, he beamed beneficently — all his earlier bel- 
 ligerence forgotten. 
 
 " Hello ! " he said. " Glad to see you, son. Got all 
 my messages, did you? " 
 
 He shook hands with great urbanity ; Hilliard's grasp 
 was hardly responsible. 
 
 " I got three," said Hilliard, dignified and non-com- 
 mittal ; and he continued to inspect his employer with 
 ill-concealed disfavour and distrust. 
 
 " Well, that's all I sent. Now, where can we go sit 
 down and talk, for a couple of hours? There's a lot 
 to go over, but I want to take the 9.40 west. Not to 
 the Onondaga — I'd rather go somewhere quieter. Got 
 your car here? " 
 
 Hilliard shook his head. 
 
 "No. How about the Kirk? That's the nearest 
 place that's any good." 
 
 " Suits me all right if it does you." 
 
 " Any luggage ? " They were crossing the tracks 
 to the waiting-room; and Hilliard, in spite of himself, 
 couldn't refrain from the solicitude which any right- 
 minded resident of a city feels for the transient just ar- 
 rived. 
 
 " Only this Gladstone. I can check that here, I 
 
 281
 
 ^2 THE IVIAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 guess. Well, I'm certainly glad to see j'ou. Sa}^ were 
 you able to make a date with this Waring person? It 
 was pretty short notice, but you're such a live wire — " 
 
 Milliard, fully comprehending the nature of the com- 
 pliment, smiled faintly. The jjerson of the broker was 
 physically repulsive to him ; unconsciously he edged fur- 
 ther away. 
 
 " Not yet. But I've left word at his house for him 
 to call me at the hotel, and I'll telephone to the in- 
 formation clerk from the Kirk where he can reach me. 
 He's sure to be in around five or half past." 
 
 " I hope so." Harmon swung his heavy bag to the 
 brass-lined counter, and tossed out a dime with a 
 philanthropic gesture which made the attendant glare 
 at him. "Who in thunder is he, anyhow?" 
 
 Hilliard had reason to be reticent with his facts, 
 and he preferred not to be too specific at the outset, 
 
 " He's a law student — an old friend of the Cullens. 
 He's looking after some of their interests, in one way 
 and another." 
 
 " Oh ! Working up a practice 1 Am I right or am 
 I wrong? Well! the way he's been bombarding me 
 with fresh letters, you'd think he was on a congressional 
 investigating committee ! Say ! There's one tiling I'd 
 like to find out — how'd he know /'m in the thing? 
 You didn't tell anybody, did you? Our agreement — " 
 
 Hilliard was guiding him to the street. 
 
 " Why, he probably got hold of your name when 
 he wrote to some law correspondents of his in Butte 
 about the property ; and they looked it up for him. I'd 
 judge they must have gone into it rather thoroughly." 
 
 " They did ! Humph ! " The broker's tone held less
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^83 
 
 of rancour and more of disappointment than Hilliard 
 would have expected. " And they made an unfavour- 
 able report on it, did they? " 
 
 " Unfortunately, for you, they did . . . as you very 
 
 well know." 
 
 Harmon turned on him sharply. ^ ^^ 
 
 " What do you mean ' unfortunately for me '? 
 
 Hilliard turned into a wide doorway. 
 
 « We go in here. . . . Why, it puts the quietus on 
 any last hope of yours that there's still some business 
 to be done in Syracuse, doesn't it.? I should think 
 that's about as plain as dayhght." 
 
 Harmon's brows went up. 
 
 " Wha-a-t? " he said, and then, promptly. Oh, yes 
 — of course. But you've been such a live wire from 
 start to finish, I thought the harder the proposition, 
 
 the better you'd — " ., . . ui 
 
 " Oh, don't make me wish I hadn't taken the trouble 
 to meet you!" snapped Hilliard. He shpped mto the 
 first unoccupied booth; Harmon followed him stupidly. 
 « The thing's done for, and you know it. Don't act 
 so innocent, Mr. Harmon — it isn't becoming to you, 
 and it isn't helpful to me. We're in a position to talk 
 English, I should imagine." 
 
 Harmon's eyes were very small and bright. 
 
 " No, but . . . what's he been saying around here? 
 
 « Saying it's a fake promotion. What else would 
 he say ? He's quite intelligent. That's why it's unfor- 
 tunate for you, and that's why we don't need to fool 
 ourselves any further — isn't it? " 
 
 As Harmon removed his hat, he appeared to be some- 
 what warmer than the temperature warranted. His
 
 ^84 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 round face was now preternaturally blank ; but his ur- 
 banity had increased until he was on the verge of fawn- 
 ing. 
 
 " So he's been giving out a pretty bad story, has 
 he?" 
 
 " Only the bare facts. And if you don't know it 
 already, I'll tell you now that he's got a representative 
 out there on the ground, so that — " 
 
 Harmon bit his lip. " A representative? When did 
 that happen? " 
 
 " Nearly a week ago. It's about time to hear from 
 him, and then the goose will be cooked." 
 
 The broker reflected diligently. 
 
 "Haven't seen him today, have you? I mean this 
 Waring man." 
 
 " No, I haven't." 
 
 "Or yesterday?" 
 
 " No ; not for nearly a week." 
 
 Harmon sat back, and massaged his forehead ab- 
 sent-mindedly. 
 
 "Well — has this made much difference to you?" 
 
 "How could it help it?" HiUiard grimaced. 
 " This isn't New York City, or a deaf and dumb asylum. 
 News doesn't have to travel fast to make the rounds. 
 Everybody who's ever heard my name knows it by 
 this time." 
 
 Harmon leaned forward on his elbows, and drew a 
 quick, nervous breath. His eyes, now slightly dilated, 
 sought for Hilliard's, found them, darted away again. 
 
 "That's tough . . . mighty tough. ... I ... I 
 came up here thinking I might do something about it. 
 Save the situation, you know. Too late, is it? " 
 
 " A good deal too late,"
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 285 
 
 Harmon exhaled lengthily, and fumbled for his in- 
 variable cigarette ; Hilliard observed, without particular 
 deduction, that his hands lacked certaint}^ 
 
 " That does sort of burst the bubble, doesn't it? 
 Well ... I suppose the next step you want to take 
 is to get out of town." 
 
 " No," said HiUiard, " I'll stay till it's over with." 
 
 Harmon gasped. 
 
 " Stay? Stay here after the news is out? What 
 /or?" 
 
 " I hardly think you'd understand what I'm stay- 
 ing for, Mr. Harmon." 
 
 The fat broker shook his head in vigorous protest. 
 
 " Now, look here ! " His voice was paternally kind, 
 " You've been a fine sport through this whole busi- 
 ness, except once, and we won't let that bother us now. 
 As a salesman, you've been a holy wonder. You've 
 done all I ever expected you'd do, or could do, and 
 then some. And your flare-up last time I was here don't 
 hurt you with me one little bit. But here we are at the 
 finish. The game's played out, and there's no use 
 hanging around the table to watch the waiters clean 
 up. M}^ suggestion to you is to pack your duds, and 
 get out. Call it a day, and quit. There's better busi- 
 ness somewhere else. And if you'd like to plant your- 
 self in some other good town, say, Detroit, and — " 
 
 " No, thanlcs." Hilliard's smile was out of genuine 
 humour. 
 
 " Well, aren't you open to conviction ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think I am. Please don't argue — 
 that's final." 
 
 Harmon lighted the cigarette, and studied the first 
 cloud of smoke attentively.
 
 286 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Well, you're sure you can't do any more here, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 " Not a nickel's worth — even if I wanted to. And 
 would 3'ou mind getting down to brass tacks? Other- 
 wise, I can't see any benefit to either of us from pro- 
 longing this interview; can you?" 
 
 Harmon inspected him carefully ; and seemed to be 
 struck with an inspiration. 
 
 " I'm not sure of it at that — look here now ! I've 
 got an idea ! Let's try to get some benefit out of it. 
 Suppose you got clear of this mess. Suppose we 
 straighten it out from top to bottom. Everybody 
 satisfied. Suppose you got out of it absolutely clean; 
 do you think 3'ou could take your experience and your 
 front and your energy, and cash in on some better 
 business ? " 
 
 Hilliard exclaimed aloud; he could hardly credit his 
 ears. 
 
 "What's that?" he managed. "I don't under- 
 stand ! " 
 
 The broker's eyes brightened. " It's easy enough 
 if you put your mind to it. I've told 3-ou before," he 
 said impressiveh^, " I'm out for results. That's my 
 middle name — R-E-sults. And not results from min- 
 ute to minute, but results in the long run. Now it 
 does seem to me like an awful shame to have you come 
 up here, and spend all this time and money flub-dubbing 
 around, and then have it all over with, and nothing 
 to show for it but a lot of beUy-aching customers. 
 Of course we've made a little money, but when we let 
 this scheme wind up in a big howl from everybody 
 we've got into it, we're losing the cumulative value of 
 you. And it's you that was the backbone of the whole
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 287 
 
 idea. Now — this is only a passing thought, but let's 
 consider it — which way would be the best for us in 
 the long run, to close up this deal and get out from 
 under, and take a little profit and be in dutch here for 
 ever, or to be a couple of philanthropists and play 
 strong for the future? " 
 
 " How do you mean? " Hilliard was afire with hope. 
 
 The broker's smile was every moment more broadly 
 ingratiating. 
 
 " Why, suppose I should hand you back every cent 
 you've collected and paid in. This is just a suggestion 
 — I want your opinion on it. You go 'round to your 
 subscribers ; tell 'em the mine isn't as promising as 
 you thought it was ; you're going to make good ; give 
 'em their money back. Now — if you did that, and 
 left a first-class impression everywhere, could you start 
 from scratch all over again, and sell enough honest- 
 to-goodness conservative stuff — municipals, or like 
 that — to those same people to make up the differ- 
 ence.^ " He was studj^ing his companion keenly. 
 
 Hilliard's eyes blazed; the audacity of the suggestion 
 was obscured by the posslbilit}^ of honour that it con- 
 tained. " Yes! " he said thickly. " Yes! You bet 
 I could!" 
 
 " And you wouldn't be afraid to keep on working for 
 me? That is, if we got this Silverbow scheme all 
 laundered clean before we started something else? " 
 
 " Not if you — " 
 
 " Then listen ! " The broker's voice was soft and 
 homiletical. " You've thought some hard things 
 about me. Maybe you had some cause; I'm not dis- 
 puting that. But I guess you've forgotten something. 
 Something I told you when we first got together. I
 
 ^88 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 told you if you got me what I wanted, I'd help you get 
 what you want. Well — you've done your best. I got 
 to give you credit. And maybe you've changed some of 
 my ideas, too. Mayhc you've sort of worked me around 
 to believing I haven't given you a square deal. Well — 
 let the past bury its dead. I've got more than one 
 string to my bow; I'm sort of tired of the old line of 
 stuff; I'm thinking seriously of cutting it all out, and 
 going in for the safe and sane. It isn't so juicy, but 
 it's safe. Am I right or am I wrong .^^ All the cards 
 on the table — I'm no fool, Hilliard — and the bottom's 
 falling out of the promotion game. So if you think 
 you can blossom out into a legitimate salesman of high- 
 grade bonds — of course there wouldn't be nearly as 
 much in it for you — I've got more than half a mind 
 to give you the chance. It's a risk, but I guess I owe 
 it to you." He slid his pudgy hand across the table, 
 and smiled pacifically. " I've taken a strong fancy 
 to you, son — let's be respectable together. What do 
 you say to that ? " 
 
 In his feverish joy, Hilliard was willing to ignore 
 the obvious fact that the broker's repentance was con- 
 siderably overdue, and that it was founded on expedi- 
 ency and not on principle. And he wasn't thinking so 
 much of his own exculpation, or of his own potential 
 fortune, as he was of the protection to Cullen, and to 
 Cullen's friends. The thought of working longer for 
 Harmon — even if the securities he had to sell in future 
 were most conservative — filled him with nausea ; but 
 if that were the only way to save the situation, how 
 could Hilliard decline.'^ How, in view of his late moral- 
 ity, could he put his own tastes above the security of 
 his trusting clients ? How, in his duty to himself, could
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 289 
 
 he refuse to work again for Harmon, if this were the 
 only means to save his friends their money already 
 lost? He felt his veins throbbing to his agitation. 
 
 "Is ... is that a hona-fide offer?" he faltered. 
 
 Harmon's hand slapped the table for emphasis. 
 
 " Straight as a string. To tell the truth, you're 
 sort of on my conscience. You're with me? All right! 
 Then as far as I'm concerned, the contract's cancelled 
 here and now. There's no use shadow-boxing when the 
 main bout's finished. Got it with you? " 
 
 " No, I — " 
 
 The broker's face darkened. " Where is it ? " 
 
 Hilliard was disinclined to tell how and why he had 
 entrusted it to Cullen. " It's safe," he said. He could 
 hardly contain himself ; he looked and looked at Harmon, 
 trying faithfully to reconcile the man and his ap- 
 pearance and his principles, and he failed — but here 
 was the great reality confronting him — and the mil- 
 lionth chance had magically come true. It was warped 
 honesty, but it was honesty no less. 
 
 Harmon licked his lips. 
 
 " Well, we'll clean up the whole transaction today, 
 and start with a new deal. That's settled. Oh, don't 
 carry on like that, Hilliard. — Now about this chap 
 Waring — " 
 
 " Oh, you still want to see him, do you? " 
 
 Harmon hesitated. " Sure ! Give him a little sur- 
 prise, eh? If he's the man who's been bombarding us, 
 we'll spike his guns first. — What? " He laughed nois- 
 ily, and Hilliard was almost too excited to dislike the 
 laugh. " Don't bother to telephone the Onondaga ; 
 we'll just walk over." 
 
 " But I thought you wanted to stay away from
 
 290 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 there?" Hilliard was displaying many of the symp- 
 toms of intoxication. 
 
 *' Oh, not when everything's going along so smooth 
 and nice! We can go up in your room, and have 
 Waring up there, and be just as private as anywhere 
 else." 
 
 Accordingly^ and to the chagrin of a hovering 
 waiter, they quitted their booth and went out to the 
 open air. They reached the Onondaga ; they arrived 
 at the mezzanine floor; they were safe in Hilliard's 
 apartment. 
 
 "My!" said Harmon jocosely. "I wish I could 
 afford to live like this ! But you've got a rich backer, 
 and I haven't." He rubbed his hands in great good- 
 nature; his eyes were sparkling, and his fat body was 
 aquiver with vitality. " Well, the first thing to do. 
 . . . Where did you say you keep that contract of 
 ours hidden? " 
 
 " Is there an}^ hurry about that now ? " Hilliard 
 was fairly beside himself with joy. 
 
 " Well — " The sudden whirr of the telephone buz- 
 zer seemed to ruffle the broker's nerves ; for he started 
 violently. "Who's that?" 
 
 " Just a moment. . . ." Hilliard took down the 
 receiver. "Yes? . . . Oh, yes, have him ... no ; 
 hold the wire — " He beckoned hilariousl}^ to Harmon. 
 " Waring's downstairs now ! You're ready to see him, 
 aren't you? " 
 
 The broker was suddenly plunged into uncertainty. 
 
 "Yes — no! No!'' 
 
 " What's wrong? " Hilliard was visited by an un- 
 welcome chill; he tried to analyse it, and couldn't. 
 
 The big man was breathing with difficulty. " I . . .
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 291 
 
 you go down and . . . no, that wouldn't do, either. 
 ... I want to see him alone. I want to get him to 
 call off his investigator, so when we begin a new cam- 
 paign we won't have any verified report against us on 
 
 the old — " 
 
 "No, sir!" Milliard shook his head smilmgly. 
 " I'm the man who's had to stand the gaff so far ; I'm 
 going to be in on any conferences. That's my pay!" 
 
 Harmon licked his lips again, and swallowed re- 
 peatedly. 
 
 " Well . . . it's ... if you let me do the talking, 
 
 then . . . or . . ." 
 
 Hilliard turned back to the transmitter. 
 
 " Ask him to come right up," he said. He replaced 
 the instrument, and looked alarmedly at the broker. 
 "You're not well!" 
 
 "Yes, I am . . . now let's get at that contract! 
 There's no sense talking new business until that's can- 
 celled, is there ? " 
 
 As Hilliard stared at him, an icy wave of suspicion 
 swept him from head to foot. 
 
 " What's your hurry? It's my funeral, isn't it.? " 
 
 " There isn't any hurry, but — " 
 
 " You are anxious, though ! Harmon, I — " 
 
 "No ... no hurry at all. Only as long as I'm 
 here ... and the game's played out ... as a favour 
 to me . . . let's cancel it. Where is it? I . . . 
 Good God, son, don't you want that thing out of the 
 way? It's no good with an alias on it! ' I'll put up 
 
 the money — I — " 
 
 A sharp rap on the door stopped him short. Hil- 
 liard turned the knob ; Waring and Mr. Cullen burst in. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Cullen!" he said in astonishment.
 
 293 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Thej didn't tell me you were here ! Hello, Rufus." 
 
 " Hilliard ! " CuUen's face was red and excited. 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ! " He had seen Harmon. 
 
 Hilliard, taken utterly by surprise, began to phrase 
 the introductions; he had only just begun when Har- 
 mon interrupted — Harmon with a set jaw and blaz- 
 ing cheeks. He was standing by the writing table, and 
 one hand was resting heavily upon it. His manner 
 was curiously apprehensive, curiously desperate. 
 
 " Ah ! . . . Mr. Cullen . . . most happy, I'm sure 
 . . . and Mr. Waring . . . delighted ! " His voice was 
 silken in its throatiness. " Gentlemen, I have the 
 honour to be president ... of the Silverbow Mining 
 Corporation . . ." He paused ; his hands weaved aim- 
 lessly. " Of Montana. . . . Gentlemen. ... I hear 
 there's been some adverse criticism of our propert}^ 
 . . . you're stockholders, I understand . . . not used 
 to criticism . . ." He flung his head erect. " / offer 
 you personally ... to relieve you ... of any and 
 all obligations . . . and pay back penny for penny." 
 Here his knees shook, and he swaj^ed appreciably. He 
 was holding himself upright only by tremendous, visi- 
 ble effort. 
 
 " The man's sick ! " Cullen stepped towards him. 
 Waring and Hilliard were standing fascinated. The 
 broker warded off Cullen with both hands. 
 
 " No, I'm not sick ! . . . Contract calls for delivery 
 of ninety-nine percent of capital stock ... on pay- 
 ment of a hundred and twenty thousand dollars . . . 
 before December first. . . . You've paid sixty-two . . . 
 I'm here . . . case of dissatisfaction ... to write 
 checks for the full amount paid down to date ... I 
 release you . . ."
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 293 
 
 ** Release us ? " Cullen all but yelled it, and with 
 a note of exultation which was electrical to Hilliard. 
 
 " Release you . . . get a notary . . ." He sat 
 down limply. " My check-book, Hilliard — for 
 Christ's sake, get me my . . . check-book ! " All at 
 once he seemed to collapse ; his head hung low, and his 
 breathing became stertorous. His cheeks puffed 
 queerly. 
 
 Hilliard sprang to him. " Rufus ! Call the office ! 
 Get the house doctor ! " 
 
 Cullen had raced to the bath-room for a glass of 
 water ; he raced back again, spilling Imlf of it. Hil- 
 liard was chafing the broker's wrists. " Pulse like a 
 trip-hammer ! " he said, distracted. " He ought to be 
 lying down ! Help me with him ! " The three men 
 strained at the unwieldy, unresisting bulk, while leaden 
 fear clutched at their hearts. 
 
 The house physician bustled in to find the broker 
 lying on the bed in a profound coma ; liis reflexes had 
 gone from him ; he couldn't be roused. There was no 
 need of a stethoscope. 
 
 " Order an ice bag," said the man of medicine sharply. 
 He himself was rattling among his vials for the calomel. 
 Rufus was at the telephone. 
 
 "Anything I can do?" asked Hilliard earnestly. 
 His suspicions had crystallized ; and he was bitterly 
 aware that the broker had planned not justice, but 
 some new brand of perfidy ; nevertheless, the man was 
 unquestionably in danger — and revenge could wait. 
 
 *' Nothing — just give me plenty of room." 
 
 As the three stood watching painfully, Cullen put 
 out his hand to Hilliard, and spoke under his breath. 
 
 ** Henry — when did he come ? "
 
 294 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Only just now. An hour ago." 
 
 " Hadn't he told you? Or hadn't you heard? " 
 
 "Heard what?" 
 
 Cullen motioned to Waring. 
 
 " Give it to him, Rufus . . . oh, I see; I see — " 
 
 The law student, without a word, produced a yellow 
 blank, and thrust it at Hilliard. He flashed a glance 
 of indescribable contempt at the supine broker; his 
 eyes had lost some of their anxiety. 
 
 " Oh, the big crook ! " he said, boyishly. " The big 
 crook! " 
 
 " Sh-h-h ! Rufus ! " Still, Hilliard, at heart, agreed 
 with him to the letter. 
 
 The boy stood close to the masquerader. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Hilliard ... it came at four this after- 
 noon . . . we'd been hunting for you ever since . . ." 
 
 Hilliard wasn't interested. 
 
 " I'll wait until — " 
 
 Cullen signed to him peremptorily. 
 
 " No ! Read it now! " 
 
 " But, Mr. Cullen — " 
 
 " Read it, I tell you ! . . . It'll give you a slant on 
 him ! " 
 
 Hilliard peered over the foot of the bed; Harmon 
 was still lying inert. The physician nodded sidewise. 
 
 " Nothing for you to do," he said grimly ; and Hil- 
 liard, only partly aware of what he was doing, gave 
 heed to the yellow blank. 
 
 The fourth telegram of the day was from Butte, 
 Montana, addressed to Waring. 
 
 ARRIVED HERE LAST NIGHT AFTER DELAY IN 
 CHICAGO THIS MORNINGS PAPERS CONTAIN
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^95 
 
 INFORMATION AS FOLLOWS THE FAULTED VEIN 
 ON XLNC PROPERTY ADJOINING SILVERBOW 
 CLAIM NUMBER ONE HAS BEEN LOCATED ABOUT 
 TWENTY FEET FROM SILVERBOW BOUNDARY 
 INDICATIONS ARE ORE BODY RUNNING AT 
 LEAST EIGHT PERCENT AVERAGE AND SOME 
 PLACES HIGH AS TWENTY ALSO SOME ZINC 
 AND SILVER AND TRACES OF MANGANESE T'HIS 
 EVIDENTLY EXTENDS WELL INTO SILVERBOW 
 WHERE GREATEST VALUES ARE UNDOUBTEDLY 
 LYING AND JUDGING FROM RECORDS OF OLD 
 XLNC VEIN ITS A TREMENDOUSLY BIG STRIKE 
 UNDERSTAND XLNC OWNERS OFFERING LARGE 
 SUM SAID TO BE WELL OVER HALF MILLION 
 FOR A CONTROLLING INTEREST I STRONGLY 
 ADVISE ALL OF YOU TO GET ABOARD FOR AS 
 MUCH AS HILLARD WILL LET GO AM SENDING 
 THIS FROM OFFICE OF COOLEY BENJAMIN AND 
 RUSSELL WHO WILL NOT SEND SEPARATE 
 REPORT UNLESS YOU WANT IT THIS IS WON- 
 DERFUL NEWS AND MINE IS SURE WINNER 
 EVEN IF ONLY A FRACTION AS LARGE AS 
 REPORTED PLEASE SHOW THIS MESSAGE TO 
 HILLIAUD SIG J J ARMSTRONG 
 
 Hilliard sat down in the nearest chair. The lump 
 in his throat was choking him ; the moment was so big 
 that his feelings were primitive ; his expression of 
 them very simple. He only smiled; the meaningless, 
 vacuous smile of an infant. That smile embraced the 
 entire universe; it was indicative of a happiness so 
 limitless, so perfect, that it was almost foolish. So 
 Harmon, knowing from his own sources of the sudden 
 strike, had rushed to Syracuse to pose as a man of 
 honour! So Harmon had wanted to meet Waring —
 
 ^96 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 and find if Waring had jet heard the news, and, if he 
 hadn't, stop the . investigation by apparent frankness 
 and ready restitution. So Harmon had been eager to 
 destroy the contract, to promise Hilhard anything and 
 everything to repay the money that was subscribed al- 
 ready — and then, as sole owner, to take an enormous 
 profit for himself. 
 
 No one in the whole world — and least of all, Waring 
 and Cullen — could have remotely fathomed the 
 thoughts that were eddying in Hilllard's brain. They 
 were not for his own aggrandizement ; they were for the 
 Cullens and Durants and for the others who need 
 never know the acid of disillusionment. Thej were for 
 the ideals he had struggled towards ; they were for the 
 friends who had stood by him. And there was one 
 very especial and very manly thought for Jack Arm- 
 strong, who had been so courageous in his defeat, and 
 so neutral in his behaviour afterwards, and who now 
 had sent the generous news winging eastward, with the 
 request that Hilliard should learn at once of his vin- 
 dication. 
 
 And as Hilliard sat there, smiling out into the silent 
 room, and struggling to visualize the extent of for- 
 tune which had so abruptly smitten him, there was a 
 dry murmur from the bed where Harmon lay, and a 
 resulting silence so pregnant with meaning that the 
 smile faded, and Hilliard was on his feet, open-e3^ed with 
 the present horror brought back to him. 
 
 The physician was rising slowly from cramped knees. 
 
 " It's all over," he said ; paused, and added : 
 " Apoplexy." 
 
 The only man in all America who could have testified 
 to Hilliard's simulation had ceased to breathe.
 
 XXIII 
 
 As Dr. Durant, having already given counsel this 
 morning to seven patients, appeared at the door 
 of the ante-room to signal to the eighth, he was pal- 
 pably astonished at the presence of the young man 
 who sat next to the door. The Doctor was very human ; 
 the Doctor was very adaptable; but for thirty years 
 he had managed to keep the social and professional 
 phases of his Hfe entirely apart, and at the very first 
 glance he was aware that Hilliard hadn't come to 
 consult with him professionally. Nevertheless, he 
 raised his finger in the usual sign; HilHard followed 
 him to the inner room. 
 
 It was Hilliard's introduction to the Doctor's morn- 
 ing manner; and even in his own exalted spirit, he 
 yielded slightly to the restraint in the atmosphere. 
 The Doctor was bland, smiling, approachable, and yet 
 not at all the same man as he appeared at the house 
 on James Street. The husk was the same but the kernel 
 was different. He seemed detached from the hamper- 
 ing littlenesses of a household ; there was no air of in- 
 tentional repose about him. Hilliard, in spite of the 
 importance of his mission, felt apologetic; he felt as 
 though he were unwittingly robbing science of its most 
 valuable asset, which is Time. 
 
 " I know this isn't exactly the proper thing to do," 
 he said, " but I'm leaving town in an hour or so . . . 
 I thought you might spare me five minutes, Doctor, 
 even if it is a little irregular. Can you.? " 
 
 297
 
 298 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 "What seems to be the trouble?" The Doctor's 
 tone was a mild invitation to squander nothing on pre- 
 liminaries. 
 
 " Mr. Cullen and I are running down to New York 
 today. . . . You've seen the morning papers, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes." The Doctor nodded. "And Cullen tele- 
 phoned me last night. Was Mr. , . . what was his 
 name: Harmon? . . . was he a close friend of yours, 
 Hilliard? " 
 
 " No ; just a business associate ... I didn't know 
 him very well personally — socially, I should say. But 
 it changes some of my plans . . . Mr. Cullen and I 
 have to go to New York for a few days and after that 
 we're going out to Montana together." 
 
 The Doctor tapped his desk thoughtfully. 
 
 " On account of this ? " 
 
 " Partly, and partly not. The whole perspective's 
 changed ; we've got to get to work. Now, the last time 
 I saw you . . . why, that was only yesterday ! " He 
 broke off, laughing at himself. " It seems so much 
 longer ago than that! Why, you said then that if I 
 ever needed any one of several different things, includ- 
 ing seventy-five hundred dollars, to come to you. And 
 you spoke as though you really meant it. Doctor. . . . 
 So I've come ! " 
 
 The Doctor regarded him steadily for a moment, and 
 resumed tapping the glass pad on his desk with a 
 meditative forefinger. 
 
 " You've reconsidered, have you ? " 
 
 " Not that so much — but we've had fresh informa- 
 tion. Jack Armstrong's out there, indirectly repre- 
 senting Mr. Cullen, and we've heard from our own
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW ^99 
 
 lawyers besides. So on the whole, I'm willing to let you 
 in if you're willing to come, in spite of what I said at 
 lunch yesterday." 
 
 The Doctor hesitated. 
 
 " Not that I doubt you at all," he said, " but when 
 CuUen telephoned me last night, he said that you and 
 he had raised all the money you needed in half an hour 
 after j^ou went out to look for it. You see, I have 
 some channels of information myself! So I can't help 
 wondering why you need this now." Nevertheless, he 
 was hunting for his check-book. 
 
 " We don^t need it — I simply insisted on keeping a 
 place open for you, on the chance that you hadn't 
 changed your mind." 
 
 " You're fully satisfied it's the right thing for me to 
 do?" 
 
 "Yes, Doctor, I am." 
 
 The Doctor held his pen poised in the air. " Then 
 I'm not sure I'm really entitled to it. Doesn't it 
 really belong to some one who was on the spot last 
 night?" 
 
 Hilliard's eyes twinkled. 
 
 " You're fond of talking about motives, Doctor. 
 . . . You'd have let me have that money yesterday, 
 wouldn't you? " 
 
 "Didn't I offer it to you?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; you did. But was it because you thought 
 you'd make a big profit, or was it just to help me?" 
 
 "Why—" 
 
 " You see," said Hilliard cheerily, " if you're go- 
 ing to have these mercenary motives, you've got to let 
 me have some, too. I've let friendship interfere with 
 business twice in two days. And you're not the only
 
 300 THE ]\IAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 one I held a place open for — Rufus and Jack are in 
 it, too. It was my privilege to make that condition 
 — and I did." 
 
 The Doctor scribbled rapidly. 
 
 " Then I'll keep my promise. . . . But would you 
 mind telling me what it is I'm buying? " 
 
 " Here's your receipt, Doctor." Hilliard laid a 
 slip of paper on the desk ; took up the check, and 
 scrutinized it carefully. " What you've bought," he 
 said, " is a twentieth interest in a new syndicate formed 
 last night. We'll assume the stock control in New 
 York, when we get there, by paying in some more cash 
 (and we've got more than we need alread}') and after 
 that, we may possibly sell out, or we may go ahead and 
 develop the mine ourselves. I don't know yet which ; 
 that's what Mr. Cullen and I are going West to de- 
 cide. But you'll be protected anyhow ; I'll see to that. 
 And if you're in any hurry to get your money back — " 
 
 " How soon do j'ou think it'll be? " 
 
 Hilliard laughed outright; a laugh of utter happi- 
 ness. " Right now, if you say so." 
 
 The Doctor puzzled. 
 
 " You don't make it clear," he said. 
 
 " Then I will. Mr. Embree, down at the Trust and 
 Deposit Company, was one of the men who wanted to 
 get in with us, and couldn't. He was just too late. 
 But when I told him what I was saving out for you, 
 he authorized me to make you an offer. I'm acting as 
 his agent, that is, and I've got his check here, and if 
 you want to endorse that receipt over to him, you can 
 have this." He presented the banker's check ; the Doc- 
 tor started; it was payable to himself, signed by Em- 
 bree, and written for fifteen thousand dollars.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 301 
 
 " Why, Hilliard ! " he said, blankly. " Is that good 
 business? For Embree? What's behind this?" 
 
 Hilliard fairly beamed his delight. " Well, if you 
 want my advice, don't take it ! I told him I'd have 
 to explain it to you, and he agreed." He sat straighter, 
 pridefully. " Jack Armstrong sent another wire this 
 morning — and the XLNC crowd, who own the property 
 next to ours, know that I've had this contract for all 
 the Silverbow stock, and they've made us a flat proposi- 
 tion of " — he caught his breath — '* four — hundred 
 — thousand dollars for the contract ! And your twen- 
 tieth share would be worth twenty thousand dollars if 
 we took it ! But we're not going to — because it's 
 worth still more, and we know it. Lots more — twice 
 as much — so — " 
 
 The Doctor's expression altered slightly ; his chin 
 sank a little, and he sighed, almost in regret. 
 
 " That hardly seems fair," he said slowly. " That 
 hardly seems fair." He smiled fitfully, and sighed 
 again. " For years and years," he said, " ever since 
 I first began to practise, I've been working and waiting 
 and hoping to reach the point where I could give up 
 office-work, and do some research. . . . And here, in a 
 few minutes, you dangle a two years' income in front 
 of me — for no services of mine at all . . . for no 
 labour on my part . . . not, as I'd hoped, the result of 
 service, but — " 
 
 " I own a quarter of the mine myself," said Hilliard, 
 with equal gravity. " And I'm not thinking how I got 
 it, Doctor ; I'm thinking how much good I can do with 
 it . . . can't you look at it that way, too?" 
 
 The Doctor nodded presently. 
 
 " I suppose that has to be the answer. Well — "
 
 SOa THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 "I'll tell Embree you didn't accept." Hilliard 
 reached for his hat. " And I mustn't bother you any 
 more this morning ; we've both too much to do. I only 
 wanted to see you a moment, and tell you the news, and 
 get your check. But when Cullen and I come back — " 
 His smile was glorious. 
 
 They were shaking hands at the door of the ante- 
 room. 
 
 "That'll be before the holidays, won't it? We ex- 
 pect you to take Christmas dinner with us, of course. 
 Mrs. Durant and Carol would never forgive you if you 
 didn't — and neither would I." 
 
 Hilliard flushed with pleasure. 
 
 " Nothing would please me better . . . and you'll 
 tell Mrs. Durant and Carol how grateful I am . . . 
 and how sorry I am I can't even stop now to say good- 
 bye, won't you? " As a matter of fact, he wasn't go- 
 ing to stop because he knew that if he did, he might 
 never get to Montana. And there was need of quick 
 action against Harmon's cut-throat partners in New 
 York. 
 
 " Surely I will. And I'll also tell them what an al- 
 truist you are. I still don't feel exactly right about 
 it, — but the world's the world. . . . And I'm not going 
 to refuse an investment just because there happens to 
 be money in it ! Good-bye ! Good luck, my boy ! "
 
 XXIV 
 
 ALREADY at daybreak it was a white Christmas; 
 white underfoot, white overhead, dancing, swirl- 
 ing white of snow in the winter air. Hilliard, lifting 
 himself on his elbow to watch it from the car window, 
 was unreservedly thrilled by the appropriateness of 
 it. Nature, which had been sulking for a week or more, 
 had finally consented to dress the season. But the 
 thrill dissolved, and anxiety took its place when he 
 discovered that it was past eight o'clock, and this was 
 only Buffalo ! His watch, and the railway folder, 
 gave him indigestible food for thought, and the snow, 
 taking upon itself the role of a barrier to traffic, was 
 suddenly less agreeable to look at. Wreaths in the 
 windows of nearby houses, holly berries and red ribbon, 
 glimpses of feathery fir boughs and tinsel through the 
 curtains — all these awoke within him a new and a 
 disturbing fancy that at the end of two thousand miles 
 of visioning he might be irretrievably late ! lUogically 
 he made haste to rise; he wanted to flavour his impa- 
 tience by counting landmarks. 
 
 The diner was half filled when he arrived for break- 
 fast ; and the train was still standing in the yards. As 
 the conductor wished him a perfunctory Merry Christ- 
 mas, Hilliard smiled obliquely. 
 
 " Not unless you make up some speed between here 
 and Syracuse," he said. 
 
 " Not much chance of that," said the conductor, 
 punching the order slip. " It's deep snow from here 
 
 303
 
 304» THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 on, sir. Lucky if we're in in time for jour turke}^!" 
 Hilliard sighed, brightened as the train dragged it- 
 self into sluggish motion, and gave his attention to the 
 landscape. It was typically a scene from a Christmas 
 card; all it needed, at any moment, was a few lines of 
 engraving in the foreground to be a very fair counter- 
 part of the cards which Hilliard had ordered sent out 
 from Billy Foote's to all his friends. He mentally re- 
 viewed the list ; as soon as he had realized how long the 
 western business would detain him, he had written to 
 Foote's, and forwarded a model card, and fifty town 
 addresses. He smiled again, expansively, at the con- 
 ception of what the name of Hilliard on those cards now 
 meant to Syracuse. Communities are always fiddling 
 with the telescope of esteem — - looking at success 
 through the big lens, and failure through the small one, 
 and exaggerating the facts. They were undoubtedly 
 magnifying his grandeur now ; he knew enough of human 
 nature to realize that in his home-coming he was certain 
 to be greeted as a multi-millionaire. And it wasn't 
 multi — it was only the possibility of a single one ! 
 
 The thought of riches turned his mind to the individ- 
 uals who would share in them ; Dr. Durant, who, unless 
 he chose, need never keep office hours again — he could 
 devote himself to the research he loved; Cullen, whose 
 blind, bulldog faith had made him for ever independent, 
 even Rufus Waring, whose modest contribution, ac- 
 cepted out of spleenless commiseration, had swelled to 
 the dignity of four figures, and given him the means to 
 show the world to Angela. And Hilliard himself had 
 made far more than all the other venturers combined 
 . . . not in money, perhaps, but in dividends payable in 
 the medium of his self-respect.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 306 
 
 And yet, as the realities stood, now, he was sensitive 
 to the nothingness of his triumph, until such time as he 
 had some one to divide it with him. For there is little 
 pleasure in a monopoly of happiness ; not even a joke is 
 fully established until some one appears to share it; a 
 secret is delectable only when it's repeated, a conquest 
 is empty without the popular acclaim, or the arrival of 
 the historian. He felt this keenly ; he reflected that of 
 all the syndicate, he alone was without a beneficiary. 
 And today, when he had steeled himself to speak to 
 Carol . . . Like countless generations of men before 
 him, he began vaguely to wonder what he should do if 
 she refused him. 
 
 What would be left? Only the shell of achievement. 
 Would he go back to France? or would he remain in 
 America, and struggle for success by endowing war 
 charities out of his glorious income-to-be? Also . . . 
 and this was enervating . . . what should he say to 
 her? It is given to few men to propose twice, in dif- 
 ferent characters, to the same girl. 
 
 The train ploughed and panted through the thicken- 
 ing drifts ; Hilliard's watch was coming out of his 
 pocket at five-minute intervals ; here was Rochester at 
 last . . . three hours late . . . and there, shining 
 dimly through banked clouds, was the sun ! The train 
 seemed warmed to greater effort by its mere appear- 
 ance; Hilliard, who had measured time by weeks, then 
 by days, and more recently by reluctant hours, began to 
 mark the minutes from his mental calendar. 
 
 And then after an interminable century of impatience, 
 the outlying villages, grey and smoky ; the flat wastes of 
 Solvay ; the roads slowlv becoming streets ; the buildings 
 adding height . . . Syracuse !
 
 306 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 His feet were on the platform ; he was hurrying for- 
 ward. Ahead of him . . . and in his excitability he 
 stumbled heavily . . . there, coming toward him . . . 
 Carol and the Doctor, befurrcd and rosy ... no ques- 
 tion of the welcome they were bringing him ! 
 
 His own initial remarks were grossly incoherent. 
 There were no words to fit the situation ; perhaps he did 
 it greater justice by the disconnected sounds he made. 
 And then he was entering the Doctor's closed car ; they 
 were bouncing over the cobbles of the lower city ; they 
 were attacking the grade of James Street, and he was 
 peering out in an ecstasy- of memory at the houses where 
 he had played in boyhood. 
 
 Two o'clock ... on time for dinner to the second! 
 A house hanging with evergreens ; a Christmas spirit 
 permeating every nook and cranny ; Christmas odours 
 — not all of evergreen — drifting in tantalizing whifFs 
 to meet him. 
 
 A joyous interlude; a gay procession; a hush; a 
 gravely spoken blessing — Oh, that Christmas ! 
 
 There came a time, early in the evening, when Hilliard 
 found himself alone with Carol. He had a vague recol- 
 lection that they had been sent to look for something 
 . . . a corn popper, or some other equally futile 
 article . . . and for an instant, he marvelled at tlieir 
 expecting to find it in the sun-parlour, where they had 
 wandered. But the sun-parlour was happily unoccu- 
 pied ; and there were comfortable chairs in it ; and some- 
 thing very green and red and seasonable in all the win- 
 dows ; so that they both delayed prodigiously, and ex- 
 changed a number of highly inconsequential remarks 
 about the decorations. Presently, without so much as a
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 807 
 
 transient thought for the corn-popper, they sat down 
 with one accord. From a distance, the murmur of 
 cheerful voices in the living room was an adequate ac- 
 companiment to their thoughts. 
 
 Hilliard's head was dropped low ; his revery was so 
 profound, that not even Carol's voice could rouse him — 
 not until she spoke a second time. 
 
 " I said — a penny for them," she repeated, amused. 
 
 " Oh ! " Hilliard's awakening was explosive. 
 " Why, that's queer ... I was just thinking about 
 that myself! I mean the first Sunday I ever came up 
 here to dinner. You said the same thing then. Re- 
 member it.? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed . . . and they were a wonderful bar- 
 gain at the price ! " He didn't seem to recall that she 
 had ever looked so mischievous. 
 
 " They are now, then," he said. " Because it's just 
 as it was before — I was thinking about you." Regard- 
 ing her, he was transported anew by her loveliness. 
 And it wasn't only her external loveliness that he adored, 
 it was what she had of sympathy, and kindness, and 
 sweetness of disposition. A very womanly girl she 
 was . . . not a flaming character to blaze and die, but 
 a steady and enduring soul . . . such as he craved . . . 
 
 She turned her head away. 
 
 " I was very angry at you this morning," she said ; 
 " I thought you'd forgotten about me entirely." 
 
 Hilliard affected alarm. " How could that happen? " 
 
 " Not even so much as a little card with ' Merry 
 Christmas ' on it," she said. " Father and mother had 
 one from you, but as for me — " She opened her hands 
 in emptiness. " I looked over every one of them twice." 
 
 Hilliard felt his pulses quicken.
 
 SOS THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 " Doesn't mj coming to you make up a little for it? " 
 
 " No, I'm afraid it doesn't, — not in that way. I'm 
 still very childish about Christmas. I have to see it — 
 even if it's only in the tiniest little remembrances. I'm 
 very much hurt. I've been telling myself it must be the 
 postman's fault." 
 
 He denied it bravely. " It wasn't the postman's — 
 it was mine. Because I didn't intend to send you a re- 
 membrance at all — I intended to bring it. I planned 
 to give it to you before dinner, but when I was so late, 
 and everybody was waiting — " 
 
 She turned with gratifying quickness. 
 
 " Did you bring it? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I brought it. I'm not quite sure 
 whether you'll like it or not — " 
 
 " I'll like anything you brought ! " The pronoun 
 had an infinitesimal emphasis all to itself. 
 
 Hilliard cleared his throat. 
 
 " When I was young — " 
 
 " I beg your pardon ? " 
 
 He laughed at high pressure and began over again. 
 
 " When I was 3'oung, Mother Grundy had a very 
 small selection to choose from — books and candy and 
 flowers. If Vd sent you anything by mail, I think I'd 
 have had to obey the rules, yiy early training was 
 pretty severe. But I thought if I brought it myself, 
 perhaps I could be more original." 
 
 "How original?" she asked, with pretty animation. 
 
 His heart was pounding relentlessly ; he had lost the 
 elaborate recital which he carefully prepared; and it 
 was gone without a trace. He had to depend on pres- 
 ence of mind.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 309 
 
 ** Since I couldn't keep to my schedule, I've been sav- 
 ing it up to give you when everything was propitious." 
 He tendered her a package, tied with holly ribbon ; it 
 was smaller than a book, and smaller than any orthodox 
 carrier of confection. " Don't open it just yet, 
 please . . ." 
 
 She looked at it, pinched it, dropped it in her lap, 
 and laughed softly. 
 
 " Is there such a mystery about it.'' " 
 
 " Yes, there is." Hilliard felt himself begin to go 
 with the current of his mood. He sat up awkwardly. 
 " All that you could ever think of asking about me . . . 
 where I've been and what I've done ... is in that box. 
 It's everything ... a biography, and a history . . . 
 and it's my gift to you, too. But before you open 
 it . . ." He had to pause to collect himself. " I'll 
 have to make an explanation." He fought with it, and 
 found his lips strangely sealed. 
 
 " Is it so ver}^ hard to make? " she asked at length. 
 
 "'Almost impossible . . ." He was seeing black and 
 red. Even if " everybody " had expected him to do this 
 thing (as Angela had long since assured him) what 
 reason did he have to hope for pardon? " What would 
 you think," he asked, perilously, " of a man who cared 
 enough about you to risk everything he had in the world 
 . . . not his valuables in the sense of money . . . but 
 all his ambitions for everything; all his dreams; all his 
 ideals; all his hopes ... on a Christmas gift? What 
 would you? " 
 
 She frowned adorably. 
 
 "And . . . he's not just a little bit quixotic?" 
 
 " Not at all . . . suppose he did it deliberately, and
 
 310 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 after a great deal of thought. Just on the chance that 
 it might please you? Wlien it would either do that — 
 or end our friendship ? " 
 
 She fingered the small package over and over. 
 
 " Why, I should think that if this . . . mythical per- 
 son were so very anxious to please me, he wouldn't take 
 quite so much risk." 
 
 " But when I'm the mythical person myself — that's 
 different, isn't it?" 
 
 " Why should it be ? " She gave him no opportunity 
 to see her face. 
 
 " You've forgotten a great deal. I told you once 
 that if you knew all that I've been ... all that I've 
 done . . . you might not be so willing to have my 
 friendship, anyway." 
 
 " No," she said, subdued. " I've not forgotten, but 
 you have ! I said that I didn't believe you." 
 
 " You're holding it all in your hands," said Hilliard. 
 His expression, as he gazed at her, was infinitely yearn- 
 ing ; but his voice was even and low. " I spent a good 
 many hours over this . . . wondering whether it was 
 right for me to take such a risk on this day, above all 
 others . . . and finally, I thought it out this way; if it 
 pleases you, it ought to make the day better yet ... if 
 it doesn't, it would have been just as unwelcome to you 
 at any other time. Understand, I'll never attempt to 
 excuse anything . . . we're beyond that. All I can do 
 is to wait. I'm giving you . . . will you open it now, 
 please? " 
 
 Her fingers bungled ^vith the knot, and he made as 
 though to httlp her. 
 
 " No," she said, holding the package away from him, 
 " I want to open it all myself ! "
 
 THE MAX NOBODY KNEW 311 
 
 Hilliard, rigid, watched her. A phrase was beating 
 heavily against his consciousness . . . one of tlie 
 Proverbs . . . something about the bread of deceit, and 
 ashes . . . 
 
 The knot gave way ; and the tissue wrapping, falling 
 aside, disclosed an oblong pasteboard box. Carol 
 lifted the lid and Hilliard caught his breath. There 
 were two cabinet photographs ; uppermost was a very 
 excellent likeness of Hilliard himself. She looked at 
 him perplexedly; he was getting out his fountain pen. 
 His hand was cold, unstead3\ 
 
 " It lacks something, doesn't it? " he said, in an un- 
 dertone. " Let me have it a moment." While she fol- 
 lowed his every movement, he wrote, with his left hand 
 and somewhat painstakingly, an inscription; and gave 
 back the picture. 
 
 "'Christmas, 1916," she read, "'with love from 
 Henry Hilliard.' " She flushed hotly. 
 
 " Now look ! " he said, ignoring her reaction. " The 
 . . . the next one." Mechanically she took out the 
 second photograph ; it was a duplicate of the picture of 
 Dicky Morgan on the Doctor's desk. Her cheeks were 
 suddenly devoid of colour, she stared fearfully at him 
 without speaking. 
 
 " That lacks something, too," he said : and his voice 
 was yielding to the tremendous strain upon him. With 
 conspicuous care he shifted the pen to his right hand ; 
 held it poised for a moment, gave her a smile of ineffable 
 pathos, closed his teeth liard. " I have a very useful 
 little trait," he said; " I'm ambidextrous." And wrote 
 his message. 
 
 She had the evidence before her — the inimitable, un- 
 mistakable, ornamental script of another personality.
 
 312 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 "Christmas, 1916 — and love /from Dick to Carol." 
 
 " The real gift is underneath," lie said, and his diction 
 now was foreign even to himself. " But . . . no, no, 
 go on . . ." 
 
 Her uncertain, exploring fingers had touched a 
 smaller box; it sprang open in her palm; within, was a 
 gorgeously flashing, scintillating, living gem, set in 
 platinum. Her hands, unsteady now as were his own, 
 closed over it as though to guard and shelter it. Her 
 eves sought his, and held them — fright w^as meeting 
 fright. 
 
 " And in my thought," he said, " are all the sweet 
 memories I have of 30U . . . and all the fragrance of 
 you . . . and in the stone there . . . there's a story 
 for you to read . . . bigger than any book could 
 hold . . ." She still made no answer ; she was holding 
 her three gifts tightly, and staring at him, staring . . . 
 not in the revulsion he had imagined, not in the measure- 
 less contempt he had feared, but with the wraith of a 
 smih} trembling on her pale lips. " Only one of the pho- 
 tographs is to keep," he said thickly. " One of the two 
 . . . I'm giving you the chance to say which it is . . . 
 which one of the two you want to live ... if you want 
 either of those men to go on loving you . . . or if you 
 want them both to go away — for always ! " 
 
 In her eyes, there was another miracle : her eyes were 
 soft, and indicative of a great relief, ratlier than of a 
 great shock: and as he watched, spellbound, he saw that 
 tears were creeping into them, and not of sorrow but of 
 great joy. In that moment his most stupefying dis- 
 covery was made, and the magnitude of it, the porNnt 
 of it, set his brain at naught, and left him destitute of 
 reason.
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 313 
 
 " Carol 1 " he said, petrified. " Carol! " 
 
 Mute, she shook her head. Looking him full in the 
 eyes, she flinched suddenly, and a great sob burst in her 
 tliroat. The photograph of Dicky ]Morgan was in her 
 hand; she held it a moment, trembling, and then, while 
 her breath came faster and her shoulders quivered, she 
 tore it across and across, finer and finer, until only frag- 
 mentary scraps remained — and these she let fall in her 
 lap, uniieeded. The likeness of Hilliard, — the lying, 
 radiant face of the man nobody knew — this she had 
 seized, and this she had clutched to her breast, spasmod- 
 ically, as though in fear to have it snatched away from 
 her. 
 
 Hilliard was ver\^ close to her; and his whole being 
 was concentrated in his eyes. 
 
 " Carol ! " he said to her again in that stranger's 
 voice. " Carol . . . You . . . you kneic! " 
 
 Tardily, unwillingly, she raised her head. 
 
 " From the very first day," she said brokenly. 
 " Both Dad and I . . . and no one else ; not even 
 Mother . . . your eyes told us both, and we've trusted 
 you so . . . and waited so surely ... we knew it 
 would come out all right in the end, somehow . . . and 
 . . . and . . , 1 do like my gift ! It does make the 
 day better . . . Henry ! " 
 
 She had called him " Henry " and even in the spell 
 of his confusion, he throbbed to the significance of it. 
 
 The lover was eager, but the prodigal was startled 
 back from the very threshold of love. 
 
 " From the first day ! " he breathed, electrified. 
 *' And you trusted me like that . . . when you knew 
 what I was doing — " 
 
 She was laughing and crying at the same time; his
 
 SU THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 
 
 hungry arms went out to her and found her ; words were 
 coming tumultuously to him and he said them as they 
 came. Somehow the ring was on her finger; and she 
 had kissed it there. Between them, partnered, a sacred 
 understanding as imperishable as bronze had arisen ; 
 they both knew, without the necessity of prolonged 
 speech, what his future was to be. They both knew in 
 what capacity he was to face the world ; they both knew 
 the brimming fulness of her pardon and the brimming 
 fulness of his regret. These truths were mutually con- 
 firmed ; the shabby past was indistinguishably merged 
 with the fresh and vivid present ; their pledges to this 
 end were upon their lips. The world was lying helpless 
 at their feet . . . the wonderful, sensitive, receptive 
 world which had respected and honoured and admired 
 him in the days of his regeneration, and would continue, 
 paying the reward of his conquest. 
 
 In an irresistible passion of humility and shame and 
 courage, he tried to tell her the sums of his deceits ; her 
 lips prevented him. 
 
 " You mustn't ! " she murmured. " Never ! You let 
 me choose — I want it this way." 
 
 Dazed, triumphant, he was re-living bygone incidents, 
 seeing faint clues develop into mighty revelations, com- 
 prehending at last the supreme love and supreme faith 
 of the two who had waited for his victory, and kept his 
 secret shut within their hearts, that he might stand the 
 ordeal, and prove triumphant. And now, the reputa- 
 tion that was already his . . . the loftier reputation 
 which he should consecrate himself to build . . . not 
 only for the pleasure of the building, but also because 
 there were those to whom he owed it . .
 
 THE MAN NOBODY KNEW 315 
 
 Behind them, a firm footfall. Hilliard was on his 
 feet, his arm instinctively protecting Carol. Dr. 
 Durant was smiling on them from the doorway . . . 
 grave, benevolent, paternal. He, too, became a com- 
 mon partner to the understanding; an interchange of 
 glances was sufficient. He came in swiftly ; his hands 
 outstretched, his head lifted high in the pride of a 
 father who has looked upon his children, and found them 
 true to each other, and to him. 
 
 " What ! " he said. " Have you proved it already — 
 my son? " 
 
 THE END
 
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