LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 V
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAINING MILLIONS OF MEN 
 
 a Hovel 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD FULLER 
 
 " Tlie complaining millions of men 
 Darken in labour and pain " 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1 893
 
 Copyright, 1892, by EDWARD FULLER. 
 
 Copyright, 1893, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All righte reserved.
 
 WITH THE SINCERE REGARDS OF ONE OK HIS MANY PUPILS 
 
 IX THE PROFESSION OF JOURNALISM, WHICH HE HAS 
 
 DOXE SO MUCH TO MAKE HONOURABLE
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. FRANCIS BARETTA . . ,. 1 
 
 II. ARUAGON STREET 10 
 
 III. TERRA INCOGNITA 22 
 
 IV. " NEVER IS A LONG WORD " 34 
 
 V. THE ENEMIES OF SOCIETY 42 
 
 VI. POOR MAUD ! 53 
 
 VII. " UNDER WHICH KING, BEZONIAN ?" 66 
 
 VIII. MILDRED IS DOUBTFUL 76 
 
 IX. BARETTA IS CONFIDENT 85 
 
 X. " NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU AS I DO !" 96 
 
 XI. PLAYING WITH FIRE 107 
 
 XII. AN EXPLOSION 115 
 
 XIII. BARETTA LEAVES ARRAGON STREET 125 
 
 XIV. DAISY IS GLAD TO SEE PHILIP 135 
 
 xv. DAISY'S STRATAGEM 146 
 
 XVI. THE NOBLE HOUSE OF SMOLZOW 155 
 
 XVIJ. "IT WILL BE A GREAT CHANGE" 166 
 
 XVIII. THE LION OF THE HOUR 176 
 
 XIX. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 186 
 
 XX. A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 195 
 
 XXI. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD 206 
 
 XXII. " LA LUTTE POUR LA VIE " 219 
 
 XXIII. BARONIAL HOSPITALITY 234 
 
 XXIV. " YOU HAVE MADE ME WHAT I AM !" 247 
 
 XXV. AN EMISSARY 257 
 
 XXVI. "HOW CAN SHE ENDURE HIM?" 269 
 
 XXVII. THE DIPLOMACY OF HERR EMIL .... . 278
 
 CHAP. PAOB 
 
 XXVIII. BARETTA REFUSES TO YIELD 288 
 
 XXIX. HERR EMIL SETS A TRAP 297 
 
 XXX. A FRUITLESS MISSION 306 
 
 XXXI. MAUD BECOMES ALARMED 31C 
 
 XXXII. A DESPERATE HOPE 327 
 
 xxxiii. BARETTA'S HUMILIATION 335 
 
 xxxiv. BARETTA'S REVENGE 344 
 
 XXXV. " THERE ARE BLIND WAYS PROVIDED " 354 
 
 XXXVI. "I WILL SAVE HIM!" 364 
 
 XXXVII. A CRY FOR HELP 373 
 
 XXXVIII. Mill) HEARS THE TRUTH 382 
 
 XXXIX. HEMMED IN 390 
 
 XL. THE WAY OUT 399 
 
 XLI. MRS. CADWALLADER'S PROPHECY . , . 407
 
 THE COMPLAINING MILLIONS OF MEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 FRANCIS BARETTA 
 
 "You must come to me on Thursday ; there are so many peo- 
 ple I want you to meet." 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Chilton," said the young man, flushing 
 slightly. " I shall be very grateful for the privilege." 
 
 " Oh, don't take it too seriously." Mrs. Chilton gazed anxious- 
 ly down the street a rather dingy thoroughfare, choked with 
 traffic. " Isn't that my car coming a yellow one ?" 
 
 " There seems to be a blockade a big cart is standing across 
 the track." 
 
 " I believe Charles Street is just the very worst street in Boston. 
 I can't remember getting a Belt Line car without having to wait 
 and wait. That is the trouble with living at the South End. Oh, 
 of course you know my number, Mr. Baretta 37 Pembroke 
 Square. Do you think you can find it?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you ; I am beginning to know Boston well in these 
 days some parts of it, I dare say, that few Bostonians know." 
 
 "Ah, your work all my friends will be anxious to know 
 about that." 
 
 " It isn't among them " began the young man, with a frown 
 which made his dark face more forbidding than it was by nature. 
 But Mrs. Chilton interrupted him. 
 
 " Now don't say anything rude. Wait until Thursday then 
 you may be as rude as you like. They will like you the better 
 for it. Well, there is my car at last." Mrs. Chilton turned a 
 
 A 1
 
 cheerful face, with some reminiscences of rouge and powder about 
 the eyes, towards her companion, and put out her hand in token 
 of farewell. " Thursday 37 Pembroke Square." 
 
 Baretta lifted his hat, then waved to the driver of the ap- 
 proaching conveyance to pull up his horses. " At what time ?" 
 he asked, as the car came to a stop. 
 
 Mrs. Chilton turned on the step and looked back at him. 
 " Oh, any time after four," she said, with a look and tone which 
 expressed surprise. 
 
 Baretta lifted his hat a second time, and fell back to the curb 
 with a conviction that somehow he had made a mistake, and that 
 Mrs. Chilton would have snubbed him if she had had a better 
 opportunity. He was always making mistakes when he was 
 talking with people of her sort, who placed a higher value, it 
 seemed to him, upon the accessories of human intercourse than 
 upon the essentials. He could never get used to picking and 
 choosing his words to thinking whether what he did was the 
 right thing or not. There were more important matters to con- 
 sider than these. It Avill be seen that this young man had but 
 a slight acquaintance with that order of society in which certain 
 observances come by instinct and are taken for granted. He 
 thought that good-breeding had to be acquired, like Latin, by a 
 painful mental process. Consequently he experienced some 
 qualms at the prospect of appearing at Mrs. Chilton's on Thurs- 
 day. Mrs. Chilton held no formal receptions, but she was always 
 at home to her friends on that day. She was a woman who 
 liked to see people ; and she enjoyed the desultory and harmless 
 gossip that diffused itself around her with each fresh arrival. 
 She had won no inconsiderable reputation in literature. She 
 wrote bad stories and good poems. Youth and beauty were 
 long ago things of the past Baretta had observed the traces of 
 rouge and powder as he talked with her but she was still fond 
 of both, and usually managed to gratify her fondness. She 
 understood perfectly how to be agreeable to those who were 
 inexperienced enough to be just a little awed by her eminence. 
 There was always a pretty girl or two at these informal gather- 
 ings to pour tea, and young men who were trying to make their 
 way on the newspapers and magazines invariably received from 
 
 2
 
 her a cordial welcome. She had her little vanities, her small 
 weaknesses, but her kindness of heart was unfailing. 
 
 Baretta had an exaggerated idea of her importance he had 
 so often seen her name in the society journals and he felt 
 that it was a great triumph to be admitted to anything like 
 intimacy with her. Few experiences in his life hitherto had 
 been calculated to flatter his vanity, which even without encour- 
 agement was very great. He felt that he possessed more than 
 ordinary mental powers, but that circumstances had been against 
 their fullest exercise. His childhood had certainly been depress- 
 ing enough. His father was a barber a man of uncertain 
 nationality, although he called himself a Hungarian. His mother 
 had been a factory-girl in a New England town she died when 
 Francis was only five years old and her lineage was worse than 
 inconspicuous. As long as he could remember his life had been 
 uncertain and migratory. The elder Baretta had experienced 
 more than his share of the changes of fortune. But he had a 
 cheerful temperament, and he never made any difficulty about 
 seeking fresh fields and pastures new. In this wandering life 
 Francis shared, acquiring much experience of men and things at 
 the expense of that confiding simplicity which is properly char- 
 acteristic of youth. A cheap boarding-house and the succes- 
 sion of these in the boy's experience went on with dreary unre- 
 mittingness is not an ideal place either for moral or for 
 intellectual development. But some faculty within him, de- 
 rived from one knows not what remote ancestor, made him inde- 
 pendent to a very striking degree of his environment. His days 
 at school were few and irregular ; but he learned to read and to 
 write, and he accumulated facts and drew inferences from them 
 almost without learning. Thus he early discovered that he was to 
 all intents and purposes a waif and stray upon the turbid current 
 of the world, and that whether he sank or swam depended en- 
 tirely upon himself. He recalled his first resolution to cut loose 
 from the wretched parental wreck with singular vividness on 
 this bright afternoon in early April, as he walked up Beacon 
 Street in the glowing sunshine. Perhaps this was because the 
 memory of the few words with Mrs. Chilton seemed to justify 
 that first plunge of long ago. He shuddered as he thought of 
 
 3
 
 the darkness of the waters in which he had struggled. Well, 
 he had at least proved his right to live ; and there were great 
 things in the future for him of that he felt confident. On 
 Thursday afternoon he might take the first step towards achiev- 
 ing some of them. 
 
 Another young man coming down the steps of that courtly 
 stone mansion which is now the Bowdoin Club stopped as he 
 saw Baretta approaching and held out his hand. 
 
 " How are you ?" he asked, cordially. " Where have you been 
 keeping yourself for the past two months ?" 
 
 Instead of answering this question, Baretta stared first at the 
 speaker and then at the house from which he had come. " Do 
 you belong to the Bowdoin ?" was what he said at last. 
 
 Baretta's manner was abrupt, and the other young man flushed 
 suddenly as if he felt that it was also offensive. "No, I don't," 
 he answered shortly. u Do you?" 
 
 " Me !" cried Baretta. He had done much to educate himself, 
 but there were times when he lapsed from the correct use of his 
 mother-tongue. " Don't be absurd, Yates." He paused a mo- 
 ment, and then he added, with an assumption of carelessness 
 which was not quite free from embarrassment, " Of course, I 
 didn't mean to offend you." 
 
 "Offend me !" repeated Yates, with a laugh. " My dear 
 fellow, it's a great thing to belong to the Bowdoin. But as 
 for myself, I sometimes wonder that they let me into the Pil- 
 grim." 
 
 " I dare say there are differences which it takes you swells to 
 comprehend." 
 
 " See here, Baretta !" Yates had turned to walk up the street 
 with his companion, but as he spoke he stopped suddenly and 
 faced him. " I wish you'd drop that nonsensical talk. Rave 
 against capital all you like, but for Heaven's sake respect the 
 boundaries between Society and Bohemia, and remember that 
 I live in Bohemia." 
 
 " I will remember," said Baretta. He had apparently taken 
 the rebuke in good part, but there was a sudden gleam of anger 
 in his eyes. "Perhaps," he added, presently, " you will see me 
 in Bohemia before very long." 
 
 4
 
 " Oh, so you are going on an exploring expedition in the en- 
 emy's country before you destroy it." 
 
 " It is you who are talking nonsense this time, Yates," said 
 Baretta, calmly. " But you are like all the rest. That is why 
 when Socialism wins it must be destructive rather than construct- 
 ive. The partisans of the established order misrepresent its 
 aims so completely, and oppose them so bitterly, that it has no 
 choice between surrender and war to the death. And the So- 
 cialists will never surrender." 
 
 " I suppose that you have talked that sort of stuff so long you 
 really believe it." 
 
 " Stuff ! Oh, well, they called the talk about popular rights 
 stuff once. And then came the French Revolution." 
 
 " The French Revolution ! That's the final, convincing argu- 
 ment. I never knew you fellows to fail to bring it out. But it 
 isn't half so efficacious a threat as you think. We've had An- 
 archists and bomb-throwers and Johann Most since then, and 
 we've found out what arrant cowards the whole gang are. No, 
 Baretta, don't talk about the French Revolution. Threaten us 
 with Nationalist clubs that will be worse." 
 
 " There is no use in discussing the subject with you," retort- 
 ed Baretta. " And I don't want to lose my temper." 
 
 Yates laughed again. He was a tall, fair young man, with 
 keen blue eyes and a sweeping blond mustache. " Well, let 
 us agree that I am unsympathetic and stupid, and tell me about 
 this excursion into Bohemia." 
 
 " Oh, that !" said Baretta, contemptuously. " It is nothing 
 worth talking about." 
 
 " That must be the reason that it interests me," Yates de- 
 clared. The two young men had now reached the corner of 
 Park Street, and Yates turned to go down the hill towards Tre- 
 mont Street. " Come over to my rooms, Baretta, and let me hear 
 the whole story." 
 
 " I haven't any story to tell." 
 
 " That's what Canning's knife-grinder said, but I am not phi- 
 lanthropist enough to kick over your wheel." 
 
 Baretta laughed, although he did not understand the allusion 
 in the least. But he made it a rule never to confess ignorance 
 
 5
 
 of anything. He had educated himself, and he did not like to 
 admit that there were any imperfections in the work. " Oh, 
 well, I will come with you," he said, " but I can tell you in a word 
 what I mean. I am going to Mrs. Chilton's on Thursday." 
 
 " Mrs. Chilton ? She writes that gush in the Trumpet, doesn't 
 she f 
 
 Baretta looked at Yates in astonishment. This was worse than 
 not knowing who Canning's knife-grinder was. " Do you mean 
 to say, Yates, that you have never read Mrs. Chilton's stories 
 or her poems ?" 
 
 " Dreadful, isn't it ?" said Yates, smiling. " But there's so 
 much that I haven't read. Look out ! there's an electric coming. 
 I hate those cursed things ; I know I shall be run over by one of 
 them some day." 
 
 Yates's rooms were in Livingstone Place. To reach them one 
 entered a narrow hallway and climbed three flights of steep 
 stairs. " I think it's rather pleasant when you get here," Yates 
 said, as he threw open the door and waited for his companion to 
 enter. 
 
 " Very pleasant indeed," assented Baretta, looking about him. 
 It was a large square apartment into which he was ushered, with 
 two windows looking upon the Place, and two upon Tremont 
 Street. The furnishings were comfortable rather than luxurious. 
 A big desk, strewn with books and papers, occupied the centre 
 of the room. There were well-filled bookcases all around the 
 walls ; photographs, framed and unf ramed ; a few busts, one or 
 two good paintings, an ebony cabinet in one corner with a dis- 
 play of china ; crossed foils and gloves above the mantel, and 
 near the fireplace a morris-chair, drawn close to a small table 
 with a lamp upon it. There was a doorway curtained with a 
 Turcoman portiere which led to the bedroom beyond. Baretta, 
 with a feeling of bitterness, which showed itself in the corners 
 of his mouth, thought of his own stuffy little chamber in a 
 squalid part of the city, and wondered what Yates would say if 
 he should invite him to visit it. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Chilton's fame has only reached me through the 
 Trumpet" said Yates. " But if she is a friend of yours I shall 
 have to make her further acquaintance in print. Sit down, 
 
 6
 
 Baretta, and make yourself comfortable. You'll find some cig- 
 arettes on the desk." lie went to the cabinet and paused with 
 his hand on the door. " Will you have maraschino or curaoa ?" 
 
 " Neither I don't drink." 
 
 " Nor smoke ?" 
 
 " No ; I can't afford to do either." Baretta spoke aggressively, 
 as if he expected to be disputed. But Yates merely shrugged 
 his shoulders, and came away from the cabinet without opening it. 
 
 " What a lot of books you have," said Baretta, after a moment 
 of silence, seeing that the other intended to make no reply to his 
 last observation. " I envy you those." 
 
 " I don't know how they have accumulated so rapidly. A 
 good many of them are not of much account. That set of Brit- 
 ish Poets is rather a good one, and there's a second edition of 
 Dodsley in half calf that I picked up at a bargain. Are you in- 
 terested in old plays ? Here is a remarkably fine set of Bell's 
 Theatre that I had bound up with some extra plates." 
 
 Baretta looked vaguely at the backs of the volumes indicated 
 and shook his head. u My reading hasn't been much in that 
 line although, of course, I've dipped into them ; oh yes, I've 
 dipped into them. But I've had too much else to do and to 
 think of. I must make all my reading serve one purpose." 
 
 " Ah, it's a great thing to be so terribly in earnest. How is 
 it you've found time for Mrs. Chilton's poetry ?" 
 
 " Well, don't you know," replied Baretta, in an embarrassed 
 sort of fashion, " I hunted it up and read it after I had met her." 
 
 Yates laughed. " I see you're guilty of these little bits or 
 social finesse like the rest of us. And so you are going to roar 
 for her on Thursday." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 " Don't take offence it's a compliment, I assure you. Mrs. 
 Chilton is fond of lions I know that much about her -and you 
 are to be the latest exhibition." 
 
 " If I thought she asked me merely to be stared at by a gap- 
 ing crowd " 
 
 " Oh, you misunderstand me. It's an honour. Boston so- 
 ciety all but the very best is chiefly devoted to the pleasures 
 of the chase, and noble game is essential." 
 
 1
 
 " Well," said Baretta, rather irritably, " I confess that I don't 
 understand you. It's absurd to suppose that Mrs. Chilton invited 
 me because she fancied I had any pretensions to eminence." 
 
 " Far be from me, Baretta, to destroy your guileless confidence, 
 but I should like some time to give you a little lecture upon 
 Boston and the Bostonians, and how to succeed among them." 
 
 " Success of the sort you mean is what I do not want." The 
 young man took a few turns up and down the room, his brows 
 meeting in a thoughtful frown, and a strange light flashing from 
 his eyes. " You would laugh at me if I should confide to you 
 my real ambition. You would call me a dreamer and an enthu- 
 siast no, you would call me a fool. But I should like to have 
 you think that I am sincere." 
 
 " My dear fellow !" cried Yates, in a tone of remonstrance. 
 
 " I suppose you have heard of Matthew Arnold," Baretta went 
 on, still walking up and down. " I don't mean to be sarcastic ; 
 I dare say you have read his books, which is more than I have 
 done. But I once came across a poem of his I've forgotten 
 what it was all about now only two lines seemed to burn them- 
 selves into my memory they seemed to tell me all at once what 
 my life work was to be. They must be familiar to you : 
 
 . " ' The complaining millions of men 
 Darken in labour and pain. 1 
 
 That's all but what a picture of human life it gives ! Well, 
 Yates, it's to the complaining millions that I have dedicated my 
 poor powers. When I come to die I want to feel that I have 
 done my best to wipe out that monstrous injustice which men 
 call law, or government, or society it's just as bad by any 
 name." 
 
 " I see, I see," murmured Yates, as Baretta paused and looked 
 at him. " But I think you are going to work the wrong way." 
 
 " The right way is not palter and compromise, at all events," 
 declared the other, vehemently. " That has been tried a good 
 many years, and it has never led to anything but failure." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; but can the labour and pain be abolished even if 
 you tear down the whole social structure ? That's the point." 
 
 " One can do no more than try." 
 
 8
 
 "And when you are sitting in the ruins, how do you propose 
 to rebuild ?" 
 
 " Oh, one needn't cross a bridge before one comes to it." 
 
 " You are like all the rest," said Yates. " It is impossible to 
 pin you down to anything definite. You ask us to close our 
 eyes and swallow the medicine you give us without a grimace. 
 But come, you haven't told me about Mrs. Chilton yet." 
 
 Baretta threw himself into a chair with an air of relaxation 
 which was in striking contrast to his former mood of pas- 
 sionate intensity. " You bring me down to the solid ground 
 again with a vengeance," he said. " As to Mrs. Chilton, there's 
 really nothing to tell except that I have met her two or three 
 times at the house of some people who have been very kind to 
 me, the Lawrences ' 
 
 "The Lawrences!" cried Yates. 
 
 "Oh, do you know them? I never heard them speak of 
 you. Well, and so when Mrs. Chilton met me on the street 
 this afternoon she asked me to come on Thursday." 
 
 " No it is probably some one else that I am thinking of," 
 Yates said, in a curiously constrained manner, ignoring the ex- 
 planation about Mrs. Chilton for which he himself had asked. 
 " The name has unpleasant associations for me, that is all. 
 And Mrs. Chilton she is as charming as her poetry, I dare say." 
 
 " I thought you had not read her poetry," said Baretta, star- 
 ing at him. 
 
 " My dear fellow," answered Yates, gayly, " I take your word 
 for it. And I am really beginning to envy you your opportu- 
 nities." 
 
 A peculiar smile appeared on Baretta's face. " What would 
 you say, I wonder, if you could see Miss Mildred Lawrence ?" 
 
 The book which Yates had taken up fell to the desk with a 
 bang. 
 
 " You do know them ?" cried Baretta, rising from his chair. 
 
 " How careless of me !" said Yates, with an air of vexation. 
 He looked up, and the eyes of the young men met. " Oh, I beg 
 your pardon," he added ; " I was thinking of something else. 
 No, Miss Mildred Lawrence is that the name ? is an entire 
 stranger to me."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 ARRAGON STREET 
 
 BARETTA felt certain that Yates must at some time have 
 known Mildred Lawrence, in spite of his .denial ; and when he 
 came away from his friend's rooms he was still wondering what 
 the connection between them might have been. That it was a 
 disagreeable recollection there could be no manner of doubt. 
 Miss Lawrence herself must have had some motive for reticence, 
 because he was sure that he had more than once mentioned 
 Yates's name in her presence, and she had certainly given no in- 
 dication of recognizing it. Baretta vaguely determined that if 
 there were any mystery here he would get to the bottom of it. 
 He was rather fond of mysteries ; he made his own career one, 
 although the main facts of it were tolerably simple. 
 
 It was when he was about twelve years old that he had taken 
 his resolution to cut loose from the disagreeable associations 
 among which he had been brought up. With a keenness of 
 perception beyond his years he had realized the fact that a 
 drunken father was an incumbrance, and that he must get on in 
 the world by his own efforts. At this time the elder Baretta 
 was enjoying a sober interval, and was working at his trade in 
 Portsmouth. He was not a bad parent, according to his lights ; 
 he always treated the boy kindly, and when he had any money 
 bestowed dimes and nickels upon him with great generosity. 
 Francis hoarded these gifts, and managed to add to the sum by 
 carrying parcels for a chemist in the place and by holding the 
 horses of men who resorted to the hotel for a cocktail or a 
 whiskey-and-soda. When he had accumulated five dollars. he 
 bought a ticket for Boston, and thus disappeared from the New 
 
 10
 
 Hampshire town forever. It was a hazardous undertaking, but 
 the boy's confidence in himself was justified by events. On the 
 very morning of his arrival he was attracted by a placard in the 
 window of a clothing-shop, which announced that extra sales- 
 men were wanted. He entered and applied for a position. 
 The man to whom he was directed looked at him and laughed. 
 
 " I guess you're hardly big enough, sonny," he said. 
 
 Francis drew himself up with an air of importance. " I may 
 not be very big," he observed, " but I know a thing or two." 
 
 The man laughed again, more loudly than before. " You've 
 got cheek, at any rate. Where do you come from ?" 
 
 " From Springfield," answered the boy. " My father's dead, 
 and the folks I was with didn't treat me right, and so I ran 
 away." 
 
 This falsehood ran so glibly from his tongue that the head 
 clerk accepted it as truth. " How old are you ?" he asked. 
 
 " Sixteen," said Francis. 
 
 " You're pretty small for your age." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I'll grow." 
 
 " Have you any references ?" 
 
 The demand puzzled him for a moment. This was a contin- 
 gency for which he had not provided. But he quickly came to 
 the conclusion that if he got on at all it must be by sheer au- 
 dacity and nothing else. " I can write to Springfield," he said, 
 confidently, " but I don't want to. They might make me go 
 back." 
 
 " Have they any legal claim upon you ?" asked the clerk. 
 
 "I I don't know exactly what you mean. They ain't no 
 relations." 
 
 The man looked at him a moment with a contemplative air. 
 " It's against the rules to hire a boy without references," he said 
 at last ; " but I like you, young feller, and as one of our boys 
 has been taken sick, I am going to give you his place until he 
 comes back. Be here to - morrow morning at eight o'clock 
 sharp." 
 
 In this extraordinary fashion Francis began his career of in- 
 dependence. After having got his start by misrepresentations, 
 he resolved to be faithful to his employers, and he kept his reso- 
 
 11
 
 lution. His early experiences had not been calculated to devel- 
 op in him the finer virtues ; but he had no innate love of evil, 
 and so long as it was not necessary to his advancement he could 
 be scrupulously honest. He never acquired any of those vices 
 which most boys thrown upon the world at his age acquire, lie 
 did not swear, or use vile language, or smoke cigarettes, or 
 gamble. He was prompt and energetic and courteous, although 
 his flashing eyes betrayed a hot temper, and he resented rough 
 pranks with a virulence of passion which rather frightened 
 those who played them. In fact, he mingled little with boys of 
 his class. He disliked them because he felt himself to be their 
 superior, and they disliked him because they recognized and 
 resented this assumption of superiority. Consequently he made 
 no friends, and was thrown entirely upon his own resources ; 
 which, perhaps, was just as well. His lonely life enabled him 
 to become acquainted with books and to save money. lie re- 
 mained at the clothing - shop two years. Then he went to a 
 huge dry-goods establishment, beginning with the humble oc- 
 cupation of tying up parcels. In two years more when he was 
 in fact sixteen, the age which he had assumed at the outset of 
 his business career he was promoted to a place behind the 
 counter. He might fairly by this time be called a young man, 
 so few boyish traits were left to him. His popularity among 
 his fellows had not increased meanwhile. He held himself 
 aloof from them, and instead of going to the theatre or lounging 
 about bar-rooms spent his evenings in the public library. Thus 
 several years more passed in an uneventful fashion. When he 
 was twenty he fell in with the man whose influence chiefly 
 helped to determine his future career. 
 
 Baretta had told Yates that the inspiration for the work he 
 was now doing came from two lines of Matthew Arnold's which 
 he had quoted. This was, perhaps, in some measure true ; they 
 may have stimulated in him an imminent desire to identify him- 
 self with the complaining millions. He felt that he, too, had 
 some cause for complaint. Was he not gifted with powers be- 
 yond his fellows and at the same time denied the opportunity 
 of developing them? What could be more tragic than to be 
 conscious of one's capacity for a great career and to spend one's 
 
 12
 
 days in selling ribbons and laces ? These things were in his 
 mind before the time came for his release from the establish- 
 ment of Jackson & Moore. But they would never have taken 
 any definite shape had it not been for the Rev. Henry Dit- 
 ton. Of him something will be said hereafter. He may be 
 introduced briefly here as one who had been a minister in tho 
 Methodist Church, but whose interest in charitable work haJ 
 first diverted him from his religious obligations and then had led 
 him to renounce them altogether. He did a great deal of good 
 by helping to alleviate the distresses of the people among whom 
 he worked and a great deal of harm by preaching Socialism to 
 them. It was while he was holding forth to an audience on the 
 Common one Sunday morning that Baretta, who was sauntering 
 by, stopped to listen. Something in the tirade against wealth 
 and luxury fell in with the young man's mood. He was con- 
 scious of the stirrings of ambition, and he saw no way to give 
 them scope. He had read and studied just enough to make 
 him discontented with his daily labour, but too little to fit him 
 for any higher occupation. Like others in the same situation, 
 he blamed circumstances rather than himself. He thought that 
 he was not having a fair chance in the world ; and, this being 
 the case, the world itself was necessarily all wrong. When he 
 said that he must get on, there was no cynic by to express a 
 doubt as to the necessity. The quality of egoism was very 
 strongly developed in this young man. It had early found ex- 
 pression in his separation of himself from his father, and it had 
 directed all his subsequent career. His love of knowledge arose 
 primarily from his recognition of the truth of the old maxim 
 that knowledge is power. Ditton's preaching suggested to him 
 the way in which he might use this power to the best advan- 
 tage. The majority of men are willing to adhere blindly to 
 the established order of things. But the man who boldly an- 
 tagonizes it may make himself respected and even feared. 
 Baretta listened to -these Socialistic harangues week after week, 
 each time with a fuller appreciation of their potency. He lin- 
 gered in the outskirts of the crowd, and sometimes took part in 
 the discussions that went on there. His constancy attracted 
 Ditton's attention, and one day Ditton followed him as the audi- 
 
 13
 
 ence was dispersing, and spoke to him. Never had a teacher 
 found a more apt pupil. Baretta's was one of those intellects 
 which are as facile as they are superficial. He quickly became 
 familiar with all the jargon of Socialism ; it appealed strongly 
 to his feeling of personal injustice. Ditton was shrewd enough 
 to play upon this string until he had bound the young man irrev- 
 ocably to his cause. 
 
 Reminiscences of those days were floating through Baretta's 
 mind as he walked across the Common on this warm April after- 
 noon. He was now twenty-four years old, and his association 
 with the Socialist preacher was no longer a novelty. He con- 
 sidered that his assistance had been of the greatest value to 
 Ditton, and that the burden of gratitude did not rest upon his 
 shoulders. He had given up his situation with Jackson & 
 Moore to devote himself to the work, depending for his support 
 upon the contributions which were collected from the enemies 
 of society. This work was partly propagandist and partly chari- 
 table. Ditton's idea was to relieve as much human misery as 
 he could, and then to insist that this misery would not exist 
 were it not for the laws enacted by the rich to grind the faces 
 of the poor. Such an argument struck Baretta as unanswerable. 
 Perhaps his zeal was stimulated by the fact that there was more 
 excitement in this hand-to-mouth agitation than in standing be- 
 hind a counter and earning a weekly salary. It was gratifying, 
 at all events, to feel that one was becoming a power in the world. 
 Even the depressing surroundings of a stuffy little room in 
 Arragon Street could not obscure this important feature of the 
 situation. 
 
 Arragon Street lies between two widely-known thoroughfares, 
 although it is itself practically unknown. The houses which 
 front upon it are low-browed and squalid, for the most 'part 
 only three stories high, with narrow doorways separated from 
 the pavement by only a single step. .Madrid Street, into which 
 Arragon Street empties, is much more pretentious. It boasts 
 no less than three apartment-houses the St. Glair, the Beau- 
 mont, and the Plantagenet, the names being inscribed in gilt 
 letters on the glass over the door. Here there are lace curtains 
 in the windows, and sometimes a Rogers group or a large family 
 
 u
 
 Bible* resting upon a marble-top stand. And although the men 
 in Madrid Street do not seem to differ materially from their 
 neighbours in Arragon Street, but sit without their coats in the 
 full view of the public, the women, on the other hand, devote 
 a great deal of attention to their personal appearance, and are 
 often to be seen issuing forth in very gorgeous raiment indeed. 
 It is frequently intimated in Arragon Street that this finery is 
 not always honestly come by, but with that cruel slander we 
 need not concern ourselves. No doubt some of those who utter 
 it are no better than they should be. Baretta could have told 
 many queer stories of the people among whom he passed his 
 days if he had chosen. His faculty of observation was very 
 keen, and he saw much that others might not have seen. He 
 had chosen his lodgings, in the first place, because they seemed 
 to promise unusual opportunities for understanding this vast 
 problem, to the solution of which he had devoted himself. The 
 dirt and squalor were not agreeable to him. His income was 
 both narrow and uncertain, but it would have afforded to him 
 better quarters if he had chosen. Perhaps he had something 
 of the conscious pride of martyrdom in remaining where he 
 was. Now, however, he was thinking with resentment of the 
 inequalities of human existence. There was Yates, for example 
 why should everything be made so smooth for him ? He 
 failed to reflect, as most of us do on similar occasions, that no 
 man knows where another's shoe pinches. 
 
 The sun was sinking below the roofs of the city when Baretta 
 turned into Arragon Street, and the warmth of the early after- 
 noon was yielding to the chill which the air of spring always 
 holds in reserve. The place looked unusually squalid to his 
 discontented eye. It was near the hour of supper, and various 
 children who had been despatched to the bake-shop for a loaf of 
 bread or a pint of milk were lingering on the reeking pavements 
 to swear at one another, taunts in many cases leading to shrieks 
 and blows. Two or three dishevelled women, with dirty shawls 
 thrown over their heads, were hurrying home with pitchers and 
 cans. These had been, in the parlance of the neighbourhood, 
 " working the growler ;" in other words, they were returning 
 from a near-by saloon with beer. These sights and sounds 
 
 ]5
 
 struck Baretta with an unusual sense of loathing. As he entered 
 the doorway of one of the dingy houses something like a shud- 
 der convulsed him for a moment. 
 
 The odour of frying onions greeted him as he ascended to 
 his room. Peter Dolan, his landlord, was very fond of onions ; 
 they went well, as he said, with tripe or liver, or with a piece of 
 round-steak, cut thin and done brown. Dolan had little to say 
 to his tenant. He did not like his foreign looks, as he told 
 Mrs. Dolan. When he was drunk, which happened about twice 
 a week, he expressed this dislike with oaths and curses. These 
 were not addressed directly to Baretta, of whom Dolan was a 
 little afraid. lie knew that he could knock the young man 
 down with a single blow of his ponderous fist. But the trouble 
 with these foreigners was that they would not fight fair. Dolan 
 respected the knife which his imagination had concealed some- 
 where about Baretta's person. He told his wife that " dagoes " 
 always carried knives, and that this lodger of theirs was un- 
 doubtedly a " dago." This legend had one result which added 
 considerably to Baretta's comfort. It kept the younger members 
 of the Dolan family at a distance. Only at rare and furtive in- 
 tervals did they dare to rummage his room, and if they took any- 
 thing of his with a view to converting it to their own use, the 
 image of that sanguinary knife soon became vivid enough to 
 induce them to return it. Poor Mrs. Dolan, to do her justice, 
 was an honest and kindly woman, who tried to bring up her 
 family as decently as her own limited ideas and the conditions 
 of life in Arragon Street would permit. But the legend of the 
 knife was no doubt more effectual than the maternal discipline. 
 
 " It's tripe to-night !" shouted one of the children from the 
 creaking stairway to the third story as Baretta paused on the 
 second and fumbled in the darkness for the key-hole to the 
 door of his room. He locked up his belongings when he was to 
 be away for any length of time. " You ain't drunk, are you ?" 
 continued the voice. 
 
 "No what do you mean by that?" retorted Baretta. He 
 threw open the door and a ray of light penetrated the gloom of 
 the passage. " Which young one are you ?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm Alice. I thought you might be drunk, because dad 
 
 10
 
 was drunk last night. My !" The girl screamed with mingled 
 fear and delight at the recollection. 
 
 " You shouldn't talk like that, Alice." 
 
 " I guess I'll talk anyway I please." The legendary knife 
 had not exercised any appreciable influence upon the manners or 
 conversation of the young Dolans. 
 
 " No, you won't, miss not to Mr. Baretta," said another voice. 
 It was that of a young woman who had come unobserved from 
 the other end of the dim passageway. " I'm ashamed of you." 
 She hesitated a moment, and then added, impulsively, " Oh, Mr. 
 Baretta, what must you think of us all ?" 
 
 The young man stood in the doorway, looking at her with ad- 
 miring eyes. She was a pretty girl in the way that so many 
 girls are pretty and as their glances met, she smiled brill- 
 iantly. She had black hair and eyes, a fresh complexion and 
 a rather luxurious figure. Probably by the time she was 
 forty she would be red-faced and fat; but at twenty the impres- 
 sion which she made upon the masculine eye was distinctly 
 agreeable. 
 
 " You know what I think of you," said Baretta, smiling back 
 at her. 
 
 " Oh, come now !" She tossed her head defiantly. 
 
 " Say, Maud !" called the small girl on the stairway. " Is he 
 your beau !" 
 
 " Alice !" 
 
 " Because," continued the shrill marplot, relentlessly, " I heard 
 pa tell ma last night that if he wasn't he'd better stop making 
 up to you. P'raps 'twas only because he was drunk." 
 
 The young woman's face flushed crimson with mortification. 
 " Alice !" she gasped again, helplessly. 
 
 Baretta, who was still standing by the open door, took up the 
 conversation at this point. " Alice," he said, severely, " if you 
 plague your sister like this do you know what will happen to 
 you ?" He frowned at the offender, who almost instantly van- 
 ished into the obscurity of the floor above. His countenance 
 was rather lowering at all times, and it was not surprising that 
 this simulated anger should be terrifying. " Miss Maud," he 
 added, after a moment of hesitation, with an impulsiveness that 
 B 17
 
 betrayed his foreign blood, " I wish I wish very much that I 
 could help you." 
 
 " Me !" cried the girl, bitterly. " Oh, I ain't worth the trou- 
 ble." 
 
 "You shouldn't mind what they say. As Alice remarked, 
 your father was that is, he didn't mean it." His dark eyes 
 swept her face for a moment. " I don't see why we shouldn't 
 be friends." 
 
 " Friends ! You can go among the swells for them." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by that," said Baretta, coldly. 
 "Of course, if you wish me to mind my own business and leave 
 you to yourself " 
 
 He stepped inside the threshold, but she followed him and 
 put one hand on his shoulder beseechingly. " Don't be angry 
 with me, Frank. There, I ought not to have called you that, 
 but it slipped out, somehow." She looked about the room with 
 the air of one who is venturing upon unknown territory. " I 
 suppose it ain't proper for me to be here, but I don't care. Why 
 should I set up to be any better than the rest ?" 
 
 " Maud !" cried Baretta, turning suddenly, and grasping both 
 her hands in his, " it hurts me to hear you talk like that. I 
 know how hard everything is for you. But but it can't last 
 forever. You wrong me when you talk about my going among 
 the swells. What do they care for me, or I for them ? I only 
 follow my work where it leads me. But you I want you for a 
 real friend." 
 
 The only reply which the girl made to this appeal was to burst 
 into tears. Then, without a word, she turned and fairly ran 
 from the room. 
 
 Baretta gazed after her, hardly knowing whether to be grati- 
 fied or piqued. He was sincerely sorry for her, and lie was anx- 
 ious to help her, as he said. How far her youth and good looks 
 influenced him in this wish we need not too curiously inquire. 
 To do him justice, it must be said that he had never consciously 
 made love to her, although he admitted to himself that he was 
 fond of her. He had lived in Arragon Street for three years, 
 and had watched her as she developed into womanhood with a 
 good deal of interest. The other members of the Dolan family 
 
 18
 
 were not attractive. Maud was the oldest. Then came two 
 boys, Peter and Patrick, sixteen and eighteen years old, three 
 girls, another boy, and the youngest girl, Alice, who was nine. 
 It was a large family, and Mrs. Dolan had a hard task of it in 
 trying to bring the children up respectably. The example of 
 the husband and father was certainly not elevating. Dolan was 
 a mechanic, and a fairly good workman when he was sober. But 
 his fondness for bad whiskey led to periods of enforced idleness, 
 when the household finances ran very low indeed, and the out- 
 look became particularly gloomy. Things were somewhat better 
 now that four of the children were earning something. They 
 had been able to stay in Arragon Street, although threats of evic- 
 tion had been uttered from time to time by an indignant agent. 
 Baretta paid two dollars a week for his room, however he was 
 always careful to give the money to Mrs. Dolan and this was a 
 great help. It was a high rent for that quarter of the city, but 
 the young man paid it willingly. Were not these people among 
 the complaining millions whose lot he had sworn to ameliorate ? 
 There were times when he felt that he must go that the con- 
 ditions of existence in Arragon Street were wellnigh intolerable. 
 But he made the resolution only to break it. Possibly his in- 
 terest in Maud was a controlling influence. 
 
 " Poor girl !" he sighed, closing the door gently after her 
 abrupt departure. He was thinking of the question " Why 
 should I set up to be better than the rest ?" The problem of 
 " the rest " had often haunted him. He was not sure what place 
 these wretched creatures would have in his scheme of a regen- 
 erated society. He regarded them with a profound pity. He 
 could understand why vice which at first is seldom a creature 
 of dreadful mien should attract them. During these three 
 years he had known of more than one girl who had got tired of 
 being better than " the rest " and had gone to the bad. Their 
 homes were like Maud's, or even worse. To them recreation 
 meant escaping from these squalid dens to wander up and down 
 the brilliantly-lighted streets which lay within easy reach. After 
 that the first false step was so perilously inviting. He said to him- 
 self that Maud should not take it, so long as he was by to prevent. 
 She was really a very good sort of a girl. She had been to the pub- 
 
 19
 
 lie schools, and had added to her native intelligence aspirations 
 distinctly beyond the life she was now leading. He did not 
 feel sure that these aspirations were intellectual ; he had observed 
 that her reading was mostly confined to novels ty " The Duch- 
 ess " and Bertha M. Clay, and although his own knowledge of 
 literature was limited, he knew that these were trash. This, 
 however, was a weakness that could be remedied. Possibly he 
 had thought of himself as her future guide, philosopher, and 
 friend. If this were the case he had not looked forward to the 
 more prosaic question as to how he could become all these un- 
 less he married her. And, at all events, it was not on his con- 
 science that he had ever led her to credit him with such an in- 
 tention. He had never even kissed her, although at more than one 
 episode in their intercourse it had occurred to him that she would 
 not have resented it if he had. "Poor girl !" he now said to 
 himself, thinking of Alice's revelation of the sentiments expressed 
 by Mr. Dolan. Of course the man had been drunk when he said 
 that Baretta was making up to his daughter, but the words must 
 have expressed a sentiment dormant in his mind at sober mo- 
 ments. The young man felt sure, now that the case was put to 
 him thus definitely, that nothing had been further from his in- 
 tention. 
 
 Yates had asked his caller to stay and dine with him, but Ba- 
 retta had refused on the plea of having too much to do. Yet 
 now that he was in his room he remained absolutely idle for a 
 long time. He sat in front of a flat table a shabby black- 
 walnut affair that he had picked up cheap at an auction-room 
 and gazed moodily at the scattered papers, many of them circu- 
 lars and pamphlets, which strewed its surface. He even forgot 
 that it was time to go to the dingy restaurant in Tremont 
 Street where he usually dined when he was alone. The noise of 
 Dolan's arrival in the entry below might have reminded him of 
 the omission if he had been disposed to pay any heed to it. 
 Dolan was evidently sober this evening, but he was also in a very 
 bad temper. Baretta heard the noise of falling objects with a 
 half-unconscious recognition of the fact that the head of the 
 family was kicking over the chairs in his disgust at having to 
 wait a few minutes for his tripe and onions. " When a man 
 
 20
 
 comes way from South Boston, he's hungry," was Dolan's com- 
 ment, although he garnished this statement with oaths that it is 
 not necessary to repeat. " Poor girl !" said Baretta once more. 
 Mrs. Dolan was as much to be pitied as anybody, but she was a 
 less interesting object of sympathy than her daughter. 
 
 Presently Baretta arose and lighted his lamp. When he had 
 done this he took up a book that was lying on the table, and 
 opening it at the title-page looked at it long and earnestly. Per- 
 haps what interested him so singularly was the name on the fly- 
 leaf opposite. This was written with a stub pen in that scrawl- 
 ing and angular hand which women affect nowadays. The 
 name was " Mildred Lawrence." He sighed again, but this time 
 he did not say " Poor girl !" What he did was rather curious. 
 He raised the book softly to his lips, then closed it and put it 
 back on the table. And then, after another interval of silent 
 contemplation, he put on his hat and went away to his dinner. 
 Peter Dolan was cursing and swearing with unusual vigour as 
 he closed the front door behind him. 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER III 
 TERRA INCOGNITA 
 
 THERE were only three people in the room when Baretta en- 
 tered it. One of these was Mrs. Chilton herself, who smiled as 
 she gave him her hand and observed that it was really very 
 good of him to come. She added that she was afraid her 
 friends were going to forget her to-day. 
 
 " Perhaps they know I am to be here," said the young man 
 with a lightness of manner that did not sit easily upon him. 
 
 " Oh no !" said Mrs. Chilton, rather coldly. There was a mo- 
 ment's silence, during which Baretta felt painfully conscious of 
 having made a blunder. 
 
 " I did not mean " he began. 
 
 " Do you know Miss Tredwell ?" asked Mrs. Chilton, inter- 
 rupting him. She glanced at a pretty girl who sat by the tea- 
 table listening with a bored expression to the conversation of 
 the remaining occupant of the room. This was a man past 
 his first youth, but still young who rose as Mrs. Chilton spoke, 
 although it seemed impossible that he could have heard her, 
 and came towards them. 
 
 " I am not going to let you monopolize Miss Tredwell," said Mrs. 
 Chilton. " Besides, I am sure she wants to know Mr. Baretta." 
 
 The other man said something that sounded like " Haw !" 
 and stared at the new-comer in what he thought was an insolent 
 way. Baretta flushed, and looked at Mrs. Chilton as if he were 
 expecting an introduction. When, instead of gratifying this 
 expectation, she took him across the room to Miss Tredwell, he 
 felt more uncomfortable than ever. Was the stranger some 
 
 O 
 
 one too important for him to know ? 
 
 22
 
 "Oh yes, I have heard all about you from Mildred Law- 
 rence," said Miss Tredwell, smiling at him. Baretta stood by 
 awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. Mrs. Chilton had 
 moved away after presenting him, and was now talking with 
 her other caller. 
 
 " Miss Lawrence she is very kind," stammered Baretta. 
 
 " Why don't you say you admire her ? They all do." Miss 
 Tredwell smiled again. 
 
 " Oh, I I wouldn't dare." The question seemed to him a 
 very bold one to ask, and it disconcerted him still more. 
 
 " Really, now ! How modest there aren't many young men 
 like that." Miss Tredwell poured some hot -water from the 
 samovar into a cup, and dipped a silver ball into it two or three 
 times, the water taking a deeper discolouration at each immer- 
 sion. The process was new to Baretta, and he wondered vague- 
 ly what strange decoction it was that she was preparing. " Two 
 lumps ?" she asked, suddenly, looking up at him. 
 
 " Oh, why is it for me?" 
 
 " Don't you take tea ? I know some men don't care for it." 
 
 "Tea? Thank you." Baretta sat down helplessly in the 
 chair nearest this self-possessed young woman with a crushed 
 sense of his own lack of self-possession. It was a new sensa- 
 tion to him. He was used to being a dominating influence over 
 the people among whom he went. He recalled, with something 
 like bitterness, Maud Dolan's remark, that he was making 
 friends of the " swells." What would she think if she could 
 see him now ? 
 
 " I think it's rather nice, because it gives one an excuse for 
 seeing people. One hates making calls, but if one's friends 
 have an afternoon, it is so easy to run in for a cup of tea, and 
 say a word here, and two words there, and run out again. Peo- 
 ple don't have half the chance to get tired of you that they 
 would otherwise. Don't you agree with me ?" 
 
 " I ? Oh yes. I think so." Baretta was hardly conscious 
 of what she was saying. The feeling that he was out of place, 
 that he was probably making an ass of himself, was quite too 
 humiliating. He had a wild desire to escape ; he measured the 
 distance to the door as if he were calculating whether he could 
 
 23
 
 run the gantlet of Mrs. Chilton and of two ladies who had just 
 arrived and reach it in safety. 
 
 " Are you looking for Miss Lawrence ?" asked Miss Tredwell, 
 following the direction of his eyes. "That isn't very polite, 
 you know, when you have the privilege of talking to me." She 
 smiled at him again, and he noticed how very blue her eyes 
 were and how brilliantly golden almost red the hair was, 
 which, growing in a bushy mass, framed the mischievous little 
 face. "But I am getting quite used to it oh yes! You 
 needn't apologize ; I shouldn't believe you if you denied it." 
 
 All this was bewildering enough to Baretta ; but he was not 
 a dull young man, and he began to see that Miss TredwelPs re- 
 marks were not to be taken too seriously. lie pulled himself 
 together with a resolution to stick out the ordeal as best he 
 could " Well, then," he said, " I won't apologize." 
 
 " I like your frankness. I shall tell Miss Lawrence that you 
 were looking for her all the afternoon, and that you were very 
 rude to me." 
 
 " Oh, I beg you " he began. Bat he found that Miss Tred- 
 well had suddenly turned to speak to a tall, dark young man, 
 good-looking, and (as it seemed to him) elegantly dressed, who 
 had approached unobserved. 
 
 " Will you give me a cup of tea for Mrs. Stauwood ?" asked 
 the young man. 
 
 "Mrs. Stanwood?" Miss Tredwell nodded and smiled at a 
 lady across the room. " I didn't see her come in. You are a 
 very great stranger, Mr. Wyman." 
 
 " I appreciate the compliment implied in your consciousness 
 of the fact," said Mr. Wyman. He took the cup which the girl 
 held out to him. " Will you let me come back by-and-by and 
 show you that I am grateful ?" 
 
 Baretta sat by while this was going on with a feeling that he 
 was being snubbed. Who were these people, and why didn't 
 Mrs. Chilton introduce him to them ? Was he expected to sit 
 in the corner all the afternoon with this chattering young wom- 
 an who was doubtless poking fun at him perhaps to be stared 
 at as a curiosity, but with no chance to make any impression 
 upon the unfamiliar world which he had been asked to enter ? 
 
 24
 
 He began to think that he had made a mistake in coming, 
 at all. What did any of Mrs. Chilton's friends care about 
 him or his schemes for ameliorating the lot of humanity ? 
 They had never known the pinch of want or the pangs of 
 misery, and why should they concern themselves with creatures 
 less fortunate ? He had been a fool to imagine that Mrs. Chil- 
 ton had any genuine interest in him or his career. Still, she 
 had invited him to her house, and she ought not to neglect him 
 entirely. 
 
 " May I trouble you to take this to Miss Linley ?" The ques- 
 tion interrupted these bitter meditations, and he turned* to see 
 Miss Tredwell holding out a cup towards him. He rose to 
 take it, and then he looked at her hesitatingly. " But I don't 
 know who Miss Linley is," he said. " I haven't been intro- 
 duced to any one except you." 
 
 "And I don't count is that it, Mr. Baretta? Oh, don't 
 take the trouble to deny it; I know when a man is bored. 
 That is Miss Linley on the sofa. I dare say you and she will 
 find enough to talk about. She goes to the Annex." 
 
 All this increased the young man's confusion. To go up to 
 a young woman one didn't know and plunge into conversation 
 with her that was a strange thing to do. But Miss Tredwell 
 seemed to take it quite as a matter of course, and it was to be 
 supposed that she knew what was proper. Then once more the 
 determination to make the best of it came to his aid. He 
 reached for the plate of biscuit with his free hand, and thus 
 equipped crossed the room. 
 
 " Miss Tredwell sent me," he said, pausing in front of Miss 
 Linley. She was a pale, thin girl, rather forbidding of aspect, and 
 she regarded him inquiringly through her eye-glasses. " I I 
 am Francis Baretta." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said Miss Linley, taking the tea and declin- 
 ing the biscuit. " Charming weather, isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 " Mrs. Chilton has been telling me about you." She gathered 
 her skirts about her, and Baretta interpreted this as an invitation 
 to be seated. "You must tell me all about your work. I am 
 greatly interested in it." 
 
 25
 
 * " Oh," he said, awkwardly, " I didn't suppose that Mrs. Chil- 
 ton had told any one about me." 
 
 " It's too bad this is her last Thursday. One always meets 
 such clever people here, and Socialism is something new. But 
 you might give some lectures next winter. You could have our 
 parlour for the first one. Mamma always likes to have things. 
 There's so little that is really intellectual going on." 
 
 " I hadn't thought of anything of that sort. I go in for prac- 
 tical work." 
 
 " You don't mean bomb-throwing, do you ?" 
 
 Baretta stared. " I think you must have a very queer idea 
 of what Socialism is," he said. 
 
 " Then you must tell me. Oh, really, I am very anxious to 
 learn." 
 
 " I'm afraid that would take more time than you are likely to 
 wish to spare. You see, it isn't mere talk alone that's going to 
 help humanity. Of course you've got to show them how bad 
 the present system is. But it's more important to construct 
 than to destroy. When the present social system is overthrown 
 we've got to have something to take its place." 
 
 " And what will that something be ?" asked Miss Linley. 
 " Plato's ideal republic ?" 
 
 " Plato ? He isn't one of those German fellows, is he ? I 
 never took much stock in them." 
 
 " You don't mean to say " Then Miss Linley paused and 
 looked at him helplessly. 
 
 Baretta laughed. " It was a very bad joke, wasn't it ?" he 
 asked. He could not bear to confess the truth that he had 
 never heard of Plato ; although, considering how well he had 
 improved in other directions his limited opportunities, it was, 
 perhaps, nothing to be ashamed of. 
 
 " I am afraid that I don't appreciate jokes," said Miss Linley, 
 coldly. The young man's air struck her as offensive, and she 
 began to think that she had gone much too far in an acquaint- 
 ance with him. " Perhaps," she added, rising and handing him 
 back the cup, " the lectures wouldn't do any good, after all. Is 
 that Mr. Pinkerton ? Oh, you do not know him ?" 
 
 Then her face became as absolutely expressionless as it is 
 
 26
 
 possible for a human face to become, and Baretta recognized 
 the fact that he was dismissed. He went back to Miss Tredwell 
 with mingled feelings of rage and shame. He would get out of 
 this at once. 
 
 " Oh no don't say you are going !" cried Miss Tredwell. 
 There were two or three young men about her, and she was 
 beaming impartially upon them all. " Why, there are so many 
 people who haven't met you. Mrs. Chilton," she called, as that 
 lady drifted by, " you mustn't let Mr. Baretta go yet." 
 
 Mrs. Chilton looked at the young man's flushed face and took 
 in the situation at a glance. She had been rather thoughtless ; 
 she was so used to having her callers look after themselves that 
 she had forgotten the embarrassment of his position as a new- 
 comer, to whom even the simplest social observances must be 
 strange. " Oh, I cannot think of letting you get away yet," she 
 said, laying a detaining hand upon his arm. " When so many 
 arrive all at once, one is apt to forget about the rest. And I 
 was talking about that wonderful poem of Browning's, ' Mr. 
 Sludge the Medium,' with Mr. Pinkerton. You must know 
 who Mr. Pinkerton is Albert Hazard Pinkerton. He reads 
 Browning exquisitely. He was with Miss Tredwell when you 
 came in. He wants to know you." Mrs. Chilton cast a 
 rapid glance about the room. "Oh, he is talking to Miss 
 Linley. How did you like Miss Linley ? She's a remarkable 
 girl. She's at Harvard in the Annex, you know. They 
 say she is a wonderful mathematician. Here comes Mr. Allen. 
 Oh, you must meet him Mr. Orrin Fox Allen, who got out 
 that lovely book, ' Round the Zodiac in Rhyme.' Have you 
 seen those articles of his on * The Confusions of Sex' in the 
 Northern Review ? I don't agree with him, but they are im- 
 mensely clever ; you ought to read them. Mr. Allen, I have 
 been warning Mr. Baretta not to believe what you say against 
 us women." 
 
 " Mr. Baretta will not believe that I could say anything against 
 some women," said Mr. Allen with a bow. Then he extended 
 his hand to the young man. " I'm glad to make your acquaint- 
 ance," he said. 
 
 " Mr. Allen is interested in Socialism as an intellectual rnove- 
 
 27
 
 ment," said Mrs. Chilton. Then some one came up to speak to 
 her, and the two men were thus left together. 
 
 " Yes, I want to have a long talk with you on that question," 
 said Mr. Allen. " We haven't much of a chance here. You 
 must come out to Brookline and see me." 
 
 " I am afraid that I'm a poor hand at paying visits," said Ba- 
 retta. The other man's cordial manner had put him more at 
 his ease than he had been hitherto, but he thought of his former 
 blunders and resolved to feel his way discreetly. 
 
 " Oh, well, you will find time some day. I hear you do a 
 great deal of good among the lower classes. Of course that's 
 the thing, after all practical help. With all due respect to yon 
 and the rest, I don't think we shall see the Socialistic reorgan- 
 ization of society in our day." 
 
 " It may be nearer than most people think. If you could come 
 with me among the lower classes, as you call them, and under- 
 stand all the miserable conditions of their existence, you might 
 be more willing to credit them with seeing the way of escape." 
 
 " Ah, yes if you are sure that it is a way of escape. But 
 pardon me for offending you by my ill-judged phrase. It's sim- 
 ply the conventional fashion of putting it, don't you know." 
 
 " I know," exclaimed Baretta, somewhat bitterly. " It's one 
 of the things we are going to abolish." 
 
 Mr. Allen laughed good-humouredly. " I would go in for So- 
 cialism if it would abolish some things." His eye took in the 
 figure of Albert Hazard Pinkerton, who was now talking lan- 
 guidly to a faded - looking lady of uncertain age. "There's 
 Pinkerton, now his Browning readings ought to be abolished. 
 Your regenerated world won't have any need of them, or of the 
 paragraphs which he writes for the society papers. In fact," 
 added Mr. Allen, laughing again, " if there isn't any society 
 there won't be any society papers. That woman he's talking to 
 is Mrs. Medora Watt-Jones. She spells her name with a hyphen 
 no one could ever find out why. Probably you've heard 
 of her." 
 
 " What does she do ?" asked Baretta, whom this satiric com- 
 mentary upon his neighbours was beginning to mollify. 
 
 "Oh, that is what a good many of us would like to know. 
 28
 
 AH these women in Boston who write make a tremendous cack- 
 ling at times, but somehow or other the nest always seems to be 
 empty." 
 
 "I hope you don't include Mrs. Chilton in that category." 
 
 "One always excepts one's hostess," said the other man, 
 gravely. He glanced about the room again. " There's Miss 
 Lawrence just coming in. She is what I call a nice girl. I like 
 her immensely, although I don't think she returns the compli- 
 ment. Of course you've never heard of her. Well, she isn't 
 a celebrity like you and me," he added, smiling. 
 
 " It happens that I know Miss Lawrence very well," said 
 Barctta, proudly. 
 
 " Indeed ! Then you must agree with me that she is charm- 
 ing." 
 
 " Yes." Baretta was aware that this cold assent sounded un- 
 gracious, but he felt that he could not discuss Mildred Lawrence 
 with a stranger." How exquisitely beautiful she looked in that 
 close-fitting, fawn-coloured gown. How sweet was the face under 
 the wide-brimmed hat ! This was the silent comment (perhaps 
 too favourable) of an impressionable young man. To other eyes 
 Miss Lawrence was a rather pretty girl, with soft brown hair and 
 brown eyes, finely -cut features, a complexion just a little too 
 pale, and a tall and well-formed figure. But what mere catalogue 
 like this ever did justice to any woman possessing a fair share of 
 good looks? You cannot imprison the Ewig-AVeibliche in a 
 photograph much less in cold print. 
 
 " I dare say, now, one would call Hamilton Wreath a celeb- 
 rity," Mr. Allen continued, indicating a man who was standing 
 near the doorway. " That is he, talking with Miss Varian you 
 must have seen Miss Varian at the Lyceum ; she's a delightful 
 actress you can see that by the way she pretends to be inter- 
 ested in Wreath's talk. He comes from the wild and woolly 
 West ; he writes those stories in the Aurora all about life on 
 the prairies and that sort of thing. He's one of the realists. 
 Oh, you ought to know him ; I am sure he is interested in So- 
 cialism. I wish he'd trim that straggling beard of his and take 
 a bath. But I beg your pardon perhaps you do know him." 
 
 " No," said Baretta, stiffly, " I haven't that pleasure." 
 
 29
 
 " A man who will wear a frock-coat and a white tie oh, well, 
 perhaps Mr. Wreath is a genius, after all, and it's impertinent to 
 criticise him. I really think you ought to know him, though. 
 Perhaps you could put him in the way of something realistic for 
 his next story. I am sure he won't find any material here. 
 We're all too conscious too artificial. Ah, there is Mrs. Huns- 
 don. Do you know Mrs. Hunsdon ? One can always remember 
 her by her elbows. She uses them with great effect; they're 
 sort of exclamation points in her conversation, don't you know. 
 Mrs. Malaprop would have called her a fine example of female 
 punctuation. She is signalling to me to come and talk with her. 
 I'm very glad I met you ; we must have a long talk together 
 some day. Don't forget to come and see me in Brookline." 
 
 Then the two drifted apart. Baretta had already come to the 
 conclusion that he did not like Mr. Allen. He had a feeling that 
 if he made fun of others he would make fun of him ; and the 
 young man was very sensitive to ridicule. He recalled now that 
 remark about the frock-coat and the white tie, with an uneasy 
 consciousness that his own frock-coat it was the best he had 
 might be out of place. He had been regretting before he came 
 his lack of what he called a dress-suit ; but the fact that no one 
 in the room wore one gave him some comfort. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Chilton came up again , and one or two people 
 whose names he did not remember wanted to talk with him 
 about his " mission." Baretta was usually fond of his own elo- 
 quence on this point ; but the idle chatter of those whom he felt 
 sure had no interest in the Socialistic movement somehow an- 
 noyed him ; he thought that they were only trying to get a little 
 amusement for themselves. Indeed, no one seemed to be very 
 much in earnest about anything. He had heard that all intel- 
 lectual Boston came together at Mrs. Chilton's. He now said to 
 himself that intellect did not seem to be much in evidence just 
 at present. The harshness of this judgment was perhaps a little 
 mollified after a time, as he intercepted nods and glances which 
 were evidently aimed in his direction, and thus came to the flat- 
 tering conclusion that Mrs. Chilton's friends had heard of him, 
 after all, and that she had not asked him to come only to ignore 
 him. And while these thoughts were passing through his mind, 
 
 30
 
 and he was exchanging casual words with this person or that 
 the painful shyness that had possessed him at first was passing 
 away he was wondering if he should have a chance to speak to 
 Miss Lawrence. She had smiled and nodded at him across the 
 room. Now she was in the corner with Miss Tredwell, and sev- 
 eral young men were hanging over the two with what seemed to 
 Baretta to be unnecessary solicitude. His dark face took on 
 the scowl which made it so unattractive, as he watched them. 
 
 " He's a most extraordinary looking man, Mrs. Chilton," whis- 
 pered Mrs. Medora Watt-Jones to her hostess. " Of the Italian 
 brigand type," she added, as she saw the scowl. " Oh, I'm sure 
 I wouldn't want to get his ill-will. I should be afraid of the 
 vendetta, and that sort of thing, you know. Is he an Italian ? 
 it's an unusual name." 
 
 " He is a Hungarian, I am told," said Mrs. Chilton, " and of 
 good if not noble family. His father was a political refugee." 
 
 " Ah a companion of Kossuth ! How romantic ! I suppose 
 he is really Count or Prince, or something of that kind." 
 
 " Oh no I think not. I met him at the Lawrences ; I only 
 know what they told me. Indeed, judging by what I have ob- 
 served, I should say " 
 
 " Well ?" asked Mrs. Watt-Jones, expectantly. 
 
 " Nothing at all," said Mrs. Chilton, hastily. She was a good- 
 natured woman, and she did not want to say that Baretta's 
 manners had not struck her as bearing out the theory of his 
 superior birth. " I dare say," she added, " he is a gentleman. 
 You must ask Miss Lawrence if you want to know more." 
 
 "I assure you the young man has not aroused the slightest 
 interest or curiosity in me," declared Mrs. Watt -Jones, in- 
 wardly resolving to discover, if she could, something to the dis- 
 advantage of this adventurer whom Mrs. Chilton had seen fit to 
 introduce. 
 
 During this dialogue Baretta had worked his way into the 
 neighbourhood of the tea-table, and now Miss Lawrence looked 
 up and spoke to him over the shoulder of one of the obnoxious 
 young men, who had turned to speak to Miss Tredwell. " Oh, 
 Mr. Baretta !" she said. 
 
 It was not exactly a brilliant remark, but it had the effect of 
 
 31
 
 smoothing out the frown in Baretta's face. He edged along a 
 little farther until he had reached her side. 
 
 " Mrs. Chilton told me you were coming," she remarked. 
 
 " And is that why you came ?" 
 
 The girl's countenance took on an expression of reserve in 
 striking contrast to its previous friendliness. " I don't think 
 you quite realize what you are saying, Mr. Baretta." 
 
 " I am making a mess of it all round !" the young man ex- 
 claimed, savagely. " I think I had better go back to my natural 
 level among what you would call the lower classes." 
 
 " You are unjust. But but it was I who was to blame for 
 misunderstanding you." 
 
 " Oh, I see what a mistake I have made : I ought never to 
 have come at all." 
 
 " I do not think that," said Miss Lawrence, gently. " But, 
 there let us forget this silly dispute, and say that we were both 
 to blame. Miss Tredwell tells me that she had quite a conver- 
 sation with you. Don't you think she's a charming girl ?" 
 
 " Oh yes very," said Baretta, vaguely. 
 
 Here their conversation was interrupted, and Baretta was 
 again left to his reflections. The fact that he had been rude 
 to Miss Lawrence filled him with dismay, and added to his con- 
 viction of the folly of trying to make his way among people 
 with whom he could naturally have little in common. It was 
 quite true that he had better go back to Arragon Street and 
 Maud Dolan. He could marry Maud ; of that he felt sure. 
 But Mildred Lawrence he might break his heart for her ; she 
 was infinitely above him. Certainly all her friends would say 
 so. In spite of all those foolish hints he had given out con- 
 cerning the importance of his family in the country from 
 which his father came, they would look upon him as a mere 
 adventurer ; and they would be justified in doing so. His fa- 
 ther might have been a refugee, for all he knew, but he was 
 pretty sure that he had not fled from political oppression. 
 What would be said of him if the truth were known ? It was 
 idle to talk about one man being as good as another; he might 
 preach this doctrine, but instinct told him that it was false. 
 
 .Miss Lawrence rose as if to go, and Baretta rose, too. He 
 
 32
 
 was conscious of a strange throbbing at his heart as he stood 
 waiting for her to pass, and he hardly heard what Daisy Tred- 
 well was saying, although she was obviously talking to him. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Mildred, gently, turning and holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 " But I have so much I want to say to you," declared the 
 young man, following her. " May I not walk along with you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed !" she cried, hastily. Then, as she saw the 
 blood mount to his face at this rebuff, she added, " I have an- 
 other call to make, Mr. Baretta. But I shall be at home to- 
 morrow afternoon, and, of course, I shall be very glad to see 
 you." 
 
 Five minutes afterwards Baretta had taken a confused fare- 
 well of Mrs. Chilton and had left the house.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 " NEVER IS A LONG WORD " 
 
 PHILIP YATES was profoundly dissatisfied with himself and 
 his prospects at this period of his career. He felt that he had 
 not improved his opportunities as he should have done, which 
 is upon the whole worse than not having had any opportunities 
 to improve. Laying the blame for failure upon circumstances 
 induces a kind of vicarious satisfaction ; but nothing is more 
 miserable than the conviction that one's direct personal respon- 
 sibility does not admit of such an excuse. And Yates had no 
 desire to indulge himself in pleasing fictions regarding his own 
 conduct. When one has been a fool, and others are aware of 
 one's folly, it is idle to deny it. In such a case honesty is em- 
 phatically the best policy. 
 
 But, after all, the folly of which Yates had been guilty was 
 not so very culpable. Hundreds of young men do worse things 
 and live to be reputable citizens. He had neither vice nor dis- 
 honour to lament. It was only because so much had been ex- 
 pected of him, and he had done so little to satisfy expectation 
 that the tribunal of his own conscience condemned him. Many 
 men would have taken the verdict more lightly. But there was 
 a personal reason why it should go hard with Yates. He was 
 separated from the woman whom he loved. He had not been 
 quite frank with Baretta in telling him that Mildred Lawrence 
 was an utter stranger ; and yet he knew that if he should meet 
 her in the street she would go by him with downcast eyes. 
 There had once been such a meeting, and this was what had 
 happened. Philip felt that he was being very hardly used ; 
 surely if she had ever loved him she could not have had the 
 
 34
 
 heart to do it ; but after a time he began to see that the blame 
 was his. All the happiness for which he had once believed 
 himself to be destined he had thrown away forever. His was 
 an essentially genial nature, and this habit of morbid introspec- 
 tion was new to him ; its recurrences were therefore sporadic, 
 and nothing would have surprised some of his friends more 
 than to tell them that Yates was cherishing a secret grief. His 
 fair complexion, his broad shoulders, his erect carriage, his easy 
 striding gait all these characteristics somehow combined to 
 impress upon the observer a conviction that he was prosperous 
 and cheerful. One could not argue anything but the perfection 
 of mental and moral health from his redundant physical vigour. 
 Men liked him and women adored him for this superb mas- 
 culinity. Sometimes those less abundantly gifted, like Baretta, 
 envied him. 
 
 Philip's history may be briefly narrated here. He came of 
 an old family one that had been honourably identified with 
 the early history of New England, although in these days its 
 eminence had been somewhat obscured by the lack of the wealth 
 which is essential to social leadership. Still, a Yates had ad- 
 vantages which it would be idle to decry. Philip had told 
 Baretta that he lived in Bohemia, but this was clearly an ex- 
 aggeration. If he was not seen in certain places, it was rather 
 because he chose to hold himself aloof than because entrance 
 would be denied him if he sought it. The fact is, that having 
 a modest income, he was too proud to associate with those who 
 had large incomes except upon equal terms. They might over- 
 look the difference, but he could not. And, indeed, he found 
 Bohemia a pleasant country. In spite of the fact that he had 
 been a rather noted athlete during his college days, his taste led 
 him to books rather than to sport. He had as yet done noth- 
 ing in literature turning off reviews for the newspapers did 
 not count but he had not quite abandoned all hope in this di- 
 rection. He had wasted the years of his youth, it is true ; but 
 when a man is only thirty it is hard to believe that his career 
 is behind him. He was alone in the world, and he could sup- 
 ply his own wants whatever happened. That was the one 
 source of consolation which he had. It was not much to a 
 
 35
 
 man who had started out with great ambitions, and had been 
 unwilling to admit that they were not likely to be satisfied, 
 even when others had recognized their futility. 
 
 Philip's boyhood was passed mainly at the old homestead in 
 Lexington, a handsome mansion of the colonial type, surrounded 
 by ample grounds. He had fitted for Harvard at the famous 
 school at Exeter, where, in addition to his feats at foot-ball, he 
 had shown promise of noteworthy mental achievement. During 
 his Freshman year at Cambridge he might have passed for a fine 
 example of the mens sana in corpore sano. Then the change 
 came. It was not so much the time he took as one of the Var- 
 sity eleven, as his pursuit of branches of learning not provided 
 for in the catalogue, which brought him to the point of just 
 barely escaping being dropped at the end of the Sophomore 
 year. He fell into the habit which is most fatal to scholarship 
 that of general reading. Very possibly he had a more intel- 
 ligent appreciation of the subjects which he studied than some 
 men who left Harvard with a mayna cum ; but intelligent appre- 
 ciation does not get a man " marks." Philip had no memory 
 for small details, and he did not try to cultivate one ; so that a 
 few inconvenient questions put by the examiner were sure to 
 trip him up. Of course there was a good deal of disappoint- 
 ment over the result at home. His father was a shy, studious 
 man, and he could not understand this strange mixture of brill- 
 iancy and stupidity. Philip was very sorry, and next year he 
 really did better. But on Commencement Day his name was 
 pretty far down in the list, and his mother and sisters were de- 
 nied all hope of seeing him on the platform of Sanders Theatre 
 in the gown which they felt sure would be so becoming to him. 
 The worst of it was that he had written his part, and that one 
 of his tutors told him it would surely have been accepted for 
 delivery had not the very poor showing which he made in the 
 rank-list prejudiced the committee against him. He took the 
 rebuke philosophically enough ; it was only the mortification of 
 the people at home that troubled him. Unfortunately, the im- 
 pression that he " didn't amount to so very much " gained 
 ground among his acquaintances when he dawdled through the 
 Law School for two years more, and finally left without taking 
 
 36
 
 his degree. He declared, of course, that he had no taste for 
 the legal profession. But the question why he had not found 
 this out before was an obvious one ; and he was not very suc- 
 cessful in answering it. Meanwhile Mr. Yates the elder had 
 died, and Philip had now a small income of his own sufficient 
 to relieve him of all concern in la lutte pour la vie; which may 
 possibly have been a bad thing for him. He did not go to Lex- 
 ington very much after this ; he felt that he was in bad odour 
 at home not because he had done anything wrong, but because 
 he had done nothing at all. Women will oftener forgive down- 
 right vice than inconspicuous failure. If Philip had been 
 " wild," Mrs. Yates would have shed many a tear. But tears at 
 least relieve the o'erfraught heart. When a son does neither 
 well nor ill a mother is denied the solace of grief no less than 
 the comfort of joy. Philip had continued in this uncomfortable 
 state for so long that all hope of his emerging from it had been 
 abandoned. Mrs. Yates told her friends vaguely that he was 
 devoting himself to literature ; but when they pressed her for 
 particulars, she could only say, " Oh, for the magazines." She 
 had a single article signed with his name, which she could show 
 to unbelievers. He sent her marked copies of the weekly paper 
 for which he wrote now and then. But to these contributions 
 there was no name attached, so that the result seemed to her to be 
 almost too intangible to mention. Once he told her to wait until 
 his novel was published. She took the saying for a jest, however, 
 and still thought of his prospects with gentle melancholy. 
 
 Baretta's reference to Mildred Lawrence had affected Philip 
 strangely. It brought back all his old love for her with bitter 
 intensity. He knew that it was hopeless, but he went on cher- 
 ishing it just the same. If ever he tried to forget, a chance 
 allusion like this would bring back the memories of the past in a 
 resistless tide. Oblivion is, alas! impossible to humanity this 
 side of death. Each experience leaves its ineffaceable mark. 
 When what is gone seems gone beyond recall, a glimpse of sky 
 or sea, a strain of music, a familiar voice, a dimly recollected 
 face, will bring it all back. There is a poignant truth in the 
 old saying that one will forgive but not forget. Forgiveness is 
 within our power, but forgetfulness is an impossibility. Philip
 
 knew that if he should see Mildred to-morrow, and she should 
 greet him with the old half-shy, half-welcoming smile, there 
 would still be something between them which could never be 
 obliterated. Sometimes he thought that she had treated him 
 badly ; it is not in human nature to accept without question all 
 the responsibility for having made a wretched failure of life. 
 Since Baretta had mentioned her name, Philip had made her 
 preference for " that fellow " the point of numerous unuttered 
 epigrams. How the deuce did she come to know him, anyway ? 
 He felt an absurd, unreasoning jealousy of the young man. 
 There was something incongruous in a friendship between those 
 two. He himself had made Baretta's acquaintance in a curious 
 way. In his pursuit of novel experiences he had a vague idea 
 that he would " write them up " some day he had gone to one 
 of the meetings of a Socialist club of which he had heard. A 
 foreign-looking young man, who seemed to be one of the lead- 
 ing spirits of the occasion, had denounced with great fervour 
 the tyranny of capital. His impassioned earnestness had at 
 once aroused and interested Yates, who took pains to get a 
 chance to talk with him. Baretta was always willing to ex- 
 patiate upon his plans for the redemption of humanity to any 
 one who would listen ; and Yates struck him as a man whom it 
 would be worth while to convert. It is true that he had made 
 no great progress in this direction during the year which had 
 elapsed since that evening. But perhaps he was a little proud 
 of knowing one whom he had set down as a " swell." At all 
 events, he urged Yates to come to the club again, and was very 
 polite to him when he came ; and once or twice, when the meet- 
 ing was over, he had accompanied Yates down-town, and had 
 accepted his request to come and take supper with him. Thus 
 the two young men fell into something approaching intimacy, 
 for Philip was good-natured and tolerant, and liked to meet 
 people on a plane of democratic equality. He called Baretta 
 " my dear fellow," and bade him drop the absurdity of address- 
 ing him as " Mr. Yates." But when he heard this man from 
 nowhere speak of Mildred Lawrence in that familiar way he 
 resented it ; when he came to reflect upon the matter afterwards, 
 it seemed to him almost an insult. He muttered something 
 
 38
 
 about a beggar on horseback, and resolved that he would cut 
 Socialist meetings and Socialist orators. 
 
 He was thinking of Miss Lawrence, and of Baretta's inex- 
 plicable association with her, on this bright spring afternoon, a 
 few days after that young man's visit to his rooms, as he strode 
 up Commonwealth Avenue under the overarching elms, now 
 faintly green with the promise of foliage. Suddenly his heart 
 seemed to stand still, and a sensation akin to faintness came 
 over him. What slender figure was this approaching him 
 through the sunlit vista of the long mall ? Was it indeed 
 Mildred herself ? She was advancing in apparent unconscious- 
 ness of his presence. He hesitated for a moment, with a half- 
 formed resolution to avoid her. Surely a meeting could only be 
 a source of pain. But, no what had he done that he should 
 shrink away like a thief? He was willing to acknowledge that 
 their separation was for the most part his fault. And yet she 
 might have forgiven him. That she had not done so showed 
 him clearly enough that she had never really loved him. Well, 
 he would meet her face to face he would let her see that he 
 bore his hurt without wincing. The two drew nearer. Her 
 eyes were averted from him. Perhaps she did not see him 
 perhaps she was trying not to see him. Philip walked on, look- 
 ing squarely at her. In another moment he would have passed 
 her. But then a sudden resolution took possession of him, and 
 he stopped and called her name. 
 
 " Mildred !" 
 
 The girl looked up quickly; and now her usually pale face 
 was flooded with sudden colour. 
 
 " Arc you unwilling to speak to me ?" he asked. 
 
 " I do not think it would be any use," she said. But she did 
 not hurry away, as he had feared she might. She waited as if 
 to learn what it was that he wanted of her. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," said Philip, rather bitterly. " But I 
 am going to ask you to let me say a few words, and then well, 
 it shall be as you decide." 
 
 " I have decided." 
 
 "And you condemn me without a hearing! You are unfair 
 unjust !" 
 
 39
 
 "Did you stop me to tell me that?" The words sounded 
 harshly, but in her face were only sadness and regret. 
 
 " Will you let me walk with you a few steps ?" Philip went 
 on, with a sudden assumption of calmness. " I must not keep 
 you standing here." Then, as he saw her hesitation, he added, 
 " I have done nothing so disgraceful that you need fear being 
 seen in my. company." 
 
 To this Mildred made no reply. She bowed slightly and 
 walked on by his side with downcast eyes. But, as he looked 
 at her, he saw that her lips trembled, and that a single tear 
 glistened on her long dark lashes, 
 
 " I only wish to express my sorrow," Philip continued, " for 1 
 the bitter things I said to you that day when when we parted. 
 I was quite unjust; I acknowledge it frankly. I am a wretched 
 failure a disappointment to myself no less than to all my 
 friends. But but I think I could have given you some reason 
 to have confidence in me I think that I might now make more 
 of my opportunities if all that would render it worth while 
 were not lost. You were a little hard with me, Mildred oh, I 
 am not complaining ! and your words stung me so that I re- 
 torted too sharply ; and so we had our quarrel, and the end 
 came. If if I ever had a hope that we might be friends again, 
 what you have said to-day has dispelled it. Yes, I was an idle, 
 worthless fellow ; you were right in thinking that I would have 
 made a bad husband for a girl who had ambitions. And yet 
 God knows I would have tried to make you happy !" 
 
 " It was not that altogether," said Mildred, in a low voice. 
 " Well, since we have met once more I will tell you something 
 which perhaps I ought to leave unsaid. If I reproached you 
 with your idleness if I seemed harsh and cruel it was not be- 
 cause I despised you, as you think, but because I believed you 
 capable of better things. And then then you took everything 
 amiss and spoke the bitter words that parted us." 
 
 " Mildred !" cried the young man, with a new light of joy in 
 his face. "Can you will you forgive me? I tell you I regret- 
 ted the words as soon as I had said them I ask your forgive- 
 ness from the bottom of my heart." 
 
 "Ah, yes I ought not to have spoken; I should have known 
 
 40
 
 you would misunderstand me. Don't you see, Philip, that it 
 isn't regret, or anything in this world, that could blot out the 
 past from my memory, or even from yours ?" 
 
 " Oh, you are quite wrong you are quite mistaken. It is 
 absurd that a few hasty words should separate us. If you ever 
 loved me " 
 
 " Yes, I did love you," said Mildred, calmly. " I I love you 
 now what is the use of pretending otherwise?" Again her lips 
 trembled, and a blush swept over her white and delicate face. 
 
 " And if you love me " 
 
 " I am sorry I told you. But you could not understand me, 
 no matter what I said." She stopped, and held out her hand. 
 " I will shake hands with you, and say good-bye." There was 
 a look of something like agony -in the mysterious depths of 
 her eyes, but her voice was firm and clear. 
 
 Yates took the hand in his, although he hardly saw it for the 
 sudden mist which blinded him. "Good-bye!" he said. "And 
 and you wish to be strangers?" 
 
 " Yes that will be best." 
 
 " Oh, Mildred !" Then, as she drew her hand away, he real- 
 ized where he was, and that chance passers-by might be regard- 
 ing them curiously ; and a resolution to bear this blow like a 
 man took possession of him. " Well, I yield to your decision. 
 I shall not speak to you again. Is that your wish ?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " And I need not hope that you will forgive me ?" 
 
 " No," she said, quite gently ; " I think that I can never do 
 that." 
 
 He gazed at her a moment in silence, as one might gaze at 
 a dead face before the black earth shuts it away forever. It 
 was by the open grave of his love that he was standing. " Nev- 
 er ?" he repeated, in the voice of one who is dreaming. " Never 
 is a long word !" 
 
 41
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE ENEMIES OF SOCIETY 
 
 THE room was not a large one, and it was crowded with ta- 
 bles, around which men were sitting, with glasses of beer before 
 them. The air was thick with tobacco-smoke, and to Yates, 
 who was looking in through the doorway, it seemed at first in- 
 tolerable. He was half inclined to go away, but just then one 
 of the waiters beckoned him to a vacant seat, and so he made 
 his way thither, nodding at one or two familiar faces as he sank 
 into it. lie felt that it was absurd in him to come, considering 
 that he had resolved to have no more to do with Baretta and 
 his friends. But he was in the mood to welcome anything that 
 promised even a moderate degree of diversion. 
 
 Baretta had not yet arrived. Indeed, he often stayed away 
 from these gatherings. He felt that a lot of men drinking beer 
 in the back room of an Eliot Street saloon would never accom- 
 plish the great ends which he was seeking, or get beyond a vague 
 expression of their individual grievances. He had often sug- 
 gested this view of the matter to his friend and teacher, the 
 Rev. Henry Ditton, and had been told by him that you must 
 take men as you find them, and that there was no knowing when 
 the truth might strike home. Ditton was already in the room. 
 He stood in one corner, talking with Stephen Luck, the labour 
 agitator. He was an impressive figure, even in the shabby black 
 coat which he wore tightly buttoned across his chest, the limp 
 and not too spotless collar, the greasy white tie, the voluminous 
 black trousers bagging at the knees and frayed at the bottom, 
 the patched shoes guiltless of blacking. His face was furrowed 
 and worn, a three days' stubble of beard covered his chin, and his 
 
 42
 
 keen gray eyes peered out from their penthouse lid of shaggy 
 brows. He afforded a striking contrast to Luck, who was fat, 
 red-faced, red-haired, and indescribably vulgar. 
 
 " Phwat are yous doin' here ?" said a voice in Philip's ear. 
 
 The young man looked up sharply at this offensive inquiry. 
 An Irishman with a hard, square face and a curiously mottled 
 complexion had taken a seat beside him, and was staring at 
 him with a look that seemed aggressively impertinent. 
 
 ."I don't know that it is any concern of yours," answered 
 Philip, coolly. 
 
 " Ain't it, now ! I'm a working-man, an' this is a working- 
 man's club, and we don't want any gintlemen about prying into 
 what we're after doin'. See ?" 
 
 " Look here, my friend, I advise you to keep a civil tongue 
 in your head." Philip took up the glass of beer which the 
 waiter had placed before him, and drank off a part of the con- 
 tents. " This isn't the first time I've been here, but I don't re- 
 member seeing you before." 
 
 " Shure, yer honour, I meant no offinse," said the man, with 
 an obsequiousness which was not especially ingratiating. " May- 
 be ye're some friend of Mr. Baretta's. It's him that got me to 
 come." 
 
 This fact seemed to Philip to need no comment, and conse- 
 quently he made none. 
 
 " It's Mr. Baretta who's the great orator. Them f urriners 
 mostly are, though I'm dommed if I'd trust one of 'em. I 
 worked with some dagoes on the railroad once, when I was out 
 of a job at my trade, and ivery son of a gun among 'em carried 
 a big knife. They don't fight fair wid their fists or wid a 
 good club." 
 
 " I don't think Mr. Baretta carries a knife." 
 
 " Who knows ?" asked the other, shaking his head, solemnly. 
 "It wasn't whiskey ye were goin' to send for, was it, to cile- 
 brate this j'yous meetin' was it, yer honour ?" 
 
 " Oh, well, whiskey let it be, then," said Philip, good - nat- 
 uredly. 
 
 " Thank ye. To pay for the drinks is the mark of a true 
 gintleman. It's too bad Mr. Baretta isn't here to jine us, though 
 
 43
 
 it's a dom proud one he is ; he'll live in a man's house for years, 
 an' niver once be social like, except," added the man, frowning, 
 " with them he'd better lave alone." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that Mr. Barctta lives in your house ?" 
 
 " He does that ; quare for a swell like him, ain't it 1 But 
 Peter Dolan don't kape him there. Dom him !" cried Mr. Do- 
 Ian, savagely. " I'd like to pitch him into the strate to-morrer." 
 
 " I suppose," observed Philip, " the fact that he pays his rent 
 restrains your ardour." 
 
 " Hint !" exclaimed Dolan, after gulping down the whiskey 
 and wiping his mouth upon his sleeve. " Do ye suppose I don't 
 care more for my gyurl than for the dirty rint ? It's him that's 
 puttin' all sorts of notions into her head by makin' up to her, 
 and pretendin' to be a gintleman." 
 
 Knowing little or nothing of Baretta's manner of living he 
 had spoken vaguely of a room at the South End once or twice 
 this revelation of his landlord's sentiments regarding him 
 was in the nature of a surprise to Yates. But if the allusions 
 to the daughter stirred his curiosity, he had no wish to obtain 
 any further information from this source. 
 
 " Mr. Ditton is going to speak," he said, presently. 
 
 " Who's he ? The feller standin' on the chair ?"' 
 
 "Yes; listen." 
 
 Ditton had rapped the rather noisy crowd to order by pound- 
 ing on the table with a stick, and from the eminence which he 
 had mounted he now addressed them. 
 
 " As I was on my way hither to-night, my friends," he be- 
 gan, " I passed a church. The doors were open, and they wre 
 evidently holding services inside. I tell you, it made me sick 
 at heart to think of all that idle mummery. I said to myself 
 that the man who preaches religion is a dangerous man. 
 ' Why ?' you ask. ' Isn't religion what we were taught at our 
 mother's knee ? Isn't it what we teach our children ? Isn't it 
 what we shall all want when the time comes for us to die ?' I 
 thought so once. Yes, my friends, I was a parson, apd I went 
 around with a sanctimonious face preaching hell and damna- 
 tion to those who didn't agree with me. It's the truth that 
 was just what I did. But now I see how wrong I was, and I 
 
 44
 
 tell you and I want you all to remember it that the man who 
 preaches religion to you is your worst enemy. Why ? Because 
 religion leads to temperance. * Ah !' you will say, ' temperance 
 is a good thing.' I deny it. Now don't misunderstand me ; I 
 don't mean that you ought to get drunk." 
 
 . " Be jabers ! some of us will," cried a voice from the unknown 
 murky depths of smoke that surrounded the speaker. 
 
 " No, my friend, no ; I hope you'll have more sense. Drink 
 all the beer you want, but don't put into your stomach a lot of 
 bad whiskey and go home and beat your wife. When I say 
 temperance is a bad thing I mean that the man who never drinks 
 at all gets to saving up money. Well, what is saving up money ? 
 It's economy, isn't it ? And when a man tries to be economical, 
 what does he become ? Why, industrious, don't he? ' Oh yes,' 
 you say, ' but industry is a good thing. Every step in human 
 progress has been gained by industry.' Are you so sure of 
 that? Is what these rich employers of yours call over-produc- 
 tion is that progress ? Over-production ! It's a nice word ; it 
 means shutting down in the mills and the shops, so that they 
 can be drawing interest from their money instead of paying it 
 out to you so that they can buy houses and charge you high 
 rents for living in them. Yes, perhaps it is progress towards 
 the workhouse !" 
 
 Here a loud stamping and clicking of glasses greeted Mr. 
 Ditton's eloquence. 
 
 " Over-production! The working-man's enemy and the poor 
 man's curse ! If that's the kind of progress you want, God 
 help you !" 
 
 " He's right !" exclaimed Dolan, looking first at Yates and 
 then at his empty glass. "There's to be a shut-down at the 
 works next wake, bad cess to 'em. An' what's a poor man to 
 do then?" 
 
 " Drink less whiskey," answered Philip, unsympathetically. 
 " Ah, that fat, red-headed fellow is going to speak." 
 
 Luck had mounted the chair in Ditton's place, and now 
 launched forth into an angry tirade against the bloated capital- 
 ists who were sucking the life-blood of the poor. It was a far 
 more fiery harangue than Ditton's had been, and it aroused the 
 
 45
 
 audience to greater enthusiasm. " This nation," he cried, after 
 he had excoriated certain local firms, " has been brought by the 
 men who call themselves your masters to the verge of moral, 
 political, and material ruin. Corruption dominates the ballot- 
 box, runs riot in Congress, elects Presidents, and makes Judges. 
 The gold-bugs of Wall Street have the machinery of govern- 
 ment by the throat yes," he added, with a touch of pride in 
 this effective metaphor, " by the throat. And the people you 
 and me, all of us are ground to dust beneath the iron heel of 
 monopoly. What do we work for ? What becomes of the toil 
 of millions ? It's stolen stolen to build up colossal fortunes, 
 such as the world has never seen before ; and the owners of 
 them despise us and scoff at liberty. Some of you came from 
 a land which British misgovernment has made a hell upon 
 earth" here he had to pause until the shouts and cheers had 
 died away " some of you came from a country where an enor- 
 mous standing army swallows up the flower of the young men ; 
 but what is this New World, where you thought every man had 
 a chance ? There are two classes to be found here paupers 
 and millionaires. I guess there ain't many of the millionaires 
 here to-night." 
 
 "Ach, nein !" cried a raucous German voice. " Ve vas none 
 of us dose tings." 
 
 " My friend is right," said Luck, mopping his brow with a 
 dirty handkerchief. " Why is it ? I will tell you it is because 
 the national power to create money is used to enrich bondhold- 
 ers ; because the supply of currency is abridged to fatten usurers, 
 to bankrupt enterprise, and to enslave industry. We're just as 
 badly off here as they are in Europe. A vast conspiracy against 
 mankind has been organized on two continents, and is taking 
 possession of the world. It must be met and overthrown. The 
 working-man has the power ; let him use it. Let him combine 
 everywhere to protect his own interests, by peaceable means if 
 possible, by force if necessary. Let no one shrink from the 
 conflict. You and I can secure our children's heritage, even if 
 we baptize the soil of our country with our own blood." 
 
 " Good ! You're right, Steve !" came from a dozen throats 
 in answer to this appeal. 
 
 46
 
 "And remember this, my friends we've got to fight this 
 battle alone. The newspapers are subsidized there's a big 
 capitalist at the elbow of every editor. The men you send to 
 the City Hall and the State House and to Washington are 
 against you they've been bought up by the men who build 
 fine houses on Commonwealth Avenue ah ! isn't that a satirical 
 name for the place where the millionaires live ? They don't 
 want you to organize for self-protection they don't want the 
 pauper labour of the Old World shut out. Not they ! What do 
 they want ? They want to make you slaves !" 
 
 Beer and eloquence had by this time combined to rouse the 
 company to a high pitch of enthusiasm, and in the din which 
 followed the further remarks of the speaker were heard imper- 
 fectly by Philip in his corner. Dolan, seeing that no more 
 whiskey was forthcoming, had moved to another table. Philip 
 himself, more exasperated than amused by the wild harangues 
 to which he had been listening, and more than ever convinced 
 of the absurdity of his position, was making up his mind to 
 go, when his eye caught that of Baretta, who had just entered, 
 and who was edging his way through the crowd towards 
 him. Philip had no special desire to see the young man just 
 then, but he felt that it would be rudeness on his part to avoid 
 him. 
 
 " I didn't suppose you would be here to-night," Baretta said, 
 after they had shaken hands. 
 
 " Oh, you can never count upon my movements," was the 
 answer. " I have been rewarded by a good deal of fiery elo- 
 quence from that red-headed man who's trying to make himself 
 heard above this infernal din." 
 
 " You don't like him, then. Well, he's a good deal of a hum- 
 bug. His name is Luck Stephen Luck. He is a walking del- 
 egate for some organization or other, but he does more talking 
 than walking. It's fellows of that sort who injure the move- 
 ment." 
 
 " I take it, then, that you don't agree with all the rot about 
 bloated capitalists and subsidized newspapers." 
 
 " Well, no only up to a certain point. But it isn't his ideas 
 to which I object so much as the character of the man. He the 
 
 47
 
 working-man's friend ! He takes mighty good pains to be well 
 paid for his friendship that's all I can say. It's a great thing 
 to fight society when you drink champagne and smoke Ha- 
 vanas, and drive about in carriages." 
 
 " Oh, that's the kind of a reformer he is, eh ?" laughed Yates. 
 " Well, one might readily suspect as much." 
 
 " Ditton, now," went on Baretta, " he's earnest he's sincere. 
 I believe, Yates, that he's poorer to-day than I am, and Heaven 
 knows that's saying a good deal. But I keep a roof over my 
 head, though a poor one, while he why, I've known him to 
 wander about the streets all night because he didn't have the 
 money in his pocket to pay for a night's lodging. I think I'm 
 sincere, but I couldn't quite go that. You see, he gets money 
 enough we chip in money all round at these meetings, and 
 when he preaches on the Common he takes up a collection but 
 the first case of misery he comes across, why it's all gone. 
 That's the kind of man he is." And there was a note of genu- 
 ine admiration in Baretta's voice as he said it. 
 
 "Ah, yes one can respect a man when he gives up every- 
 thing to an idea. Speaking of a roof over your head, is that 
 person see, at the second table really your landlord ? That 
 is what he has been telling me." 
 
 Baretta coloured, and hesitated a moment before replying. 
 "Oh ah you mean Dolan. Landlord! Well, that's a big 
 word for a man who rents you a single room in his house. I 
 suppose you are disgusted to think of associating with one who 
 lives in such quarters." 
 
 " Didn't you just hear me say what I thought of men who 
 can make great sacrifices ?" 
 
 " Thanks !" exclaimed the other, rather bitterly. " I appre- 
 ciate the compliment." He looked frowningly at the table 
 for a moment ; then he lifted his eyes to Yates's face. " What 
 did Dolan have to say about me ?" he asked. 
 
 ' Surely, you cannot expect me to betray any confidences 
 which a gentleman may have reposed in me." 
 
 " Come, Yates, this is no jest with me. I know the fellow 
 dislikes me if it wasn't for his poor wife I would cut the place 
 to-morrow." 
 
 48
 
 " All I can say is," observed Philip, calmly, " that your dislike 
 for Mr. Dolan seemed to be fully reciprocated." 
 
 " Then he did talk about me !" Baretta frowned again and 
 bit his lips. " See here, Yates," he began, suddenly. Then he 
 paused in an embarrassed way, as if he did not know exactly 
 how to go on. 
 
 " Oh, well," said Philip, with a look of surprise, " if you are 
 really so much concerned to learn the tenour of Dolan's re- 
 marks, I don't mind telling you that they were brief and 
 pointed, and seemed to be based upon the theory that you were 
 ' putting notions into the head of his gyurl ' doubtless a mis- 
 conception on his part." 
 
 " Dolan is a fool ! That comes of taking an interest in peo- 
 ple of trying to do them a kindness." 
 
 " You pay the penalty of being too attractive to the gentler 
 sex, Baretta." 
 
 " At any rate," said Baretta, angrily, " if I know a person I 
 don't try to deny it." 
 
 " Indeed ! And may I ask you what precise bearing that 
 remark has upon the subject of our conversation ?" 
 
 " You know very well what I mean. Other people than your- 
 self walk in Commonwealth Avenue." 
 
 " Oh !" The colour mounted to Philip's face, but he pre- 
 served his impassive attitude. " It seems to me, Baretta, if you 
 will permit me to say so, that you are rather impertinent." 
 
 " How dare you talk to me like that ?" cried the other, with 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 " Let me give you a piece of advice you seem to be in need 
 of a judicious friend. ' Dare ' is an ugly way to put it. Your 
 Socialistic dispensation hasn't come yet. You had better keep 
 your temper." 
 
 Baretta glanced at him in a fashion which, oddly enough, 
 reminded Philip of Dolan's theory that every foreigner carried 
 a knife. His lips were white with vindictive passion, and his 
 nostrils expanded like those of a frantic horse. " I'll pay you 
 out for this yet ! You are in the conspiracy against me with 
 the rest. You lied to me when you said you didn't know Miss 
 Lawrence, and then you try to prejudice her against me." 
 B 49
 
 " I don't know whether it will be more charitable to conclude 
 that you are drunk or that you are crazy," said Yates. 
 
 Baretta's anger seemed to die away as suddenly as it had 
 arisen. " I say, Mr. Yates," he began, in an embarrassed way, 
 " I wish you would forget all this. I I hardly knew what I was 
 saying. But when you told me that you did not know Miss 
 Lawrence, and when I saw you talking to her the other after- 
 noon, why, of course, I I " 
 
 " It hardly strikes me as necessary to drag her name into this 
 conversation. Since, however, you have brought up the subject, 
 I will tell you frankly that the lady in question and I are are 
 not on good terms, and that I was perfectly justified in telling 
 you we were strangers. You will greatly oblige me by not re- 
 ferring to this again." 
 
 " Oh, of course just as you like." He glanced about him, 
 and saw that Luck was no longer speaking. " If you will excuse 
 me, I will see what Mr. Ditton proposes to do next." He started 
 to go, then turned and addressed Yates again. " I really hope 
 that you'll overlook what you call my impertinence." 
 
 " Let us say no more about it, Baretta. I think I must be 
 going now. I dare say I shall see you again very soon. Good- 
 night." 
 
 Baretta walked away with only a nod. He was enraged with 
 himself for having given way to such an outburst of anger, and 
 he was also furious to think that Yates should have undertaken 
 to rebuke him for it. His plea that he must speak with Ditton 
 was of course only an excuse for escaping from an unpleasant 
 situation. He saw that he had blundered in alluding to Miss 
 Lawrence at all, and especially in letting Yates know that he had 
 witnessed their meeting or rather their parting the afternoon 
 before. It was his luck always to be making mistakes of this 
 sort. Intercourse with people who doubtless thought themselves 
 better than he seemed to be full of pitfalls. He knew, of course, 
 that they were not better that few of them were so clever or of 
 so much consequence to the world. But the aggravating feature 
 of the situation was that they took their own superiority for 
 granted with the utmost calmness, and that he, when he was with 
 them, found himself tacitly admitting it. He was vexed now 
 
 60
 
 because he had apologized to Yates ; and yet somehow an apology 
 had seemed the most natural thing under the circumstances, not- 
 withstanding the fact that justice was on his side. Oh yes 
 Yates was like the rest in scoffing at him, in trying to keep him 
 down ! Fortunately he had talents which would enable him to 
 rise in spite of everything. Perhaps some day Miss Lawrence 
 would be proud of his acquaintance. He saw himself in imagi- 
 nation the object of her shy and silent admiration, and he for- 
 got for the moment the fumes of bad tobacco, the odour of stale 
 beer, and the raucous voices around him. 
 
 " There's going to be trouble over at the South Boston works," 
 said Ditton, as Baretta came up. " Luck has been telling me 
 about it." 
 
 " Well, Luck ought to know," remarked the young man. 
 " He's probably responsible for it." 
 
 " What do you mean by that?" demanded the agitator, excit- 
 edly. " Do you think I make the trouble ?" 
 
 " You ? Oh, I bring no accusations ; if the coat fits I suppose 
 you may put it on." 
 
 " See here, Baretta," cried Luck, shaking his pudgy fist, "you'll 
 get into trouble if you ain't careful." 
 
 " If you think I'm afraid of you, my good man, you're might- 
 ily mistaken. All I say is that a strike isn't going to do us a 
 particle of good. That way of going to work was shown to be 
 a failure long ago." 
 
 " You know an awful pile, you do," sneered Luck. 
 
 " Come, come !" interposed Ditton. " We'll have no quarrel- 
 ling. That isn't the way to succeed, at any rate. If the men 
 are not getting their rights, why, they must demand them, that's 
 all. It's better to strike than to submit tamely to injury and 
 oppression." 
 
 " That's all very fine," argued Baretta. " But what is to be- 
 come of the families of the men meantime ?" He glanced about 
 the room, and his eye fell upon Dolan, who was just then swal- 
 lowing another drink of whiskey. " Take the case of fellows 
 like Dolan, now," he went on. " Just as soon as they're out of 
 work they'll spend all their time getting drunk, instead of a part 
 of it." 
 
 61
 
 " Well, you'll have to look out for his family," said Luck. " I 
 guess you do that with some members of it now." 
 
 " You're a damned dirty loafer, Luck that's what you are," 
 said Baretta. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, re- 
 gardless of the volley of oaths that followed him. 
 
 52
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 POOR MAUD 
 
 THE home of the Dolan family was not an enlivening place at 
 any time, and on a rainy afternoon in spring it seemed particu- 
 larly dismal. From the window of the front room on the first 
 floor, where Maud was sitting with her sewing, the outlook was 
 not inviting. The only living thing in sight was a shivering cat, 
 who cowered close to the grating of a cellar window opposite. 
 Through the dingy panes of the blank row of houses not a single 
 face peered, and all the doors with the greasy imprints of thou- 
 sands of fingers about the latches were tightly closed against the 
 storm. In the roadway the dust and refuse characteristic of 
 Arragon Street in pleasant weather.had been turned by the cease- 
 lessly falling drops into an oily black mixture, thick and slab, like 
 the ingredients of the witches' caldron. 
 
 Maud sewed on with a discontented scowl. She had never 
 taken things easily, as the other children did, and of late her cir- 
 cumstances had been peculiarly hateful to her. She felt that 
 she disliked her father and despised her mother. This might be 
 very wicked ; but it was the truth, and what was the good of 
 pretending ? She was sure that the one had done, and the other 
 could do, nothing for her. When a man who might have earned 
 good wages, and made a home for his children in some neat cot- 
 tage out of the city, threw away his money in drink and com- 
 pelled them to live in a squalid street in the slums, he forfeited 
 all right to respect or affection even from those nearest to him. 
 As for her mother, she was honest and kind-hearted, to be sure, 
 but also stupid and ignorant, and no companion for a girl who 
 had been half-way through the high -school. Besides, wasn't 
 
 53
 
 she vicariously to blame, as it were, for marrying such a hus- 
 band ? Maud Dolan did not argue it out with herself precisely 
 in this way, but feelings of this nature were at the bottom of 
 her dissatisfaction with her environment. Sometimes she felt 
 that she must get away from Arragon Street at any cost. But 
 just at present no feasible method of escape offered itself. She 
 had figured out her resources many a time, but had never been 
 able to satisfy herself that they would warrant her in leaving 
 home for good. Nothing could be gained, certainly, by leaving 
 a place where, after all, she had the freedom of a house, to coop 
 herself up in some wretched stuffy room in a neighbourhood 
 scarcely more agreeable. She wanted to live in a " genteel " 
 boarding-house this was the adjective which expressed her 
 social aspirations where the quality alike of the food and of 
 the grammar was better than in Arragon Street, and where there 
 were nice young men who did not confound the functions of 
 knife and fork, or sit about in their shirt-sleeves with unbut- 
 toned waistcoats. She had seen such young men behind the 
 counter at Jackson & Moore's. " I wonder how he can stand 
 it," she murmured, breaking her thread with a jerk. 
 
 Perhaps it is needless to add that " he " referred to Baretta. 
 The girl would have denied indignantly an accusation that she 
 cared for him more than for another. But her fancy had ideal- 
 ized him sufficiently to make his approval a matter of some mo- 
 ment. When she put on a new gown, which was rarely enough, 
 or tied a fresh knot of ribbon at her throat, it was with a tacit 
 hope that he would observe how becoming it was. To these 
 intangible coquetries, however, Baretta had not been very re- 
 sponsive, although his manner to her bore the stamp of a chival- 
 rous tenderness real or assumed which was about as danger- 
 ous as outspoken adoration. Thus Maud came to feel that their 
 lodger was of a finer clay than the coarse and commonplace young 
 fellows whom she knew, and whose conversation was mostly slang 
 and chaff. She was regarded by these, and by others who would 
 naturally have been her intimates, as " stuck up " the sort of 
 girl, as one of them said, who would just as likely as not slap 
 your face if you hugged her. Indeed, Maud despised the amor- 
 ous pleasantries that marked social intercourse in Arragon Street. 
 
 54
 
 Perhaps it was pride rather than delicacy that influenced her. 
 Baretta, it will be remembered, had on several occasions thought 
 that she would not have resented a kiss from him. But then he 
 was not a red-faced young Irishman with a three-days' growth 
 of bristling beard, and he did not eat onions and indulge in daily 
 potations of whiskey. Her compliance on this point, however, 
 had not been put to the test. She simply felt that she had a 
 friend in this young man, and that life would be inexpressibly 
 more dreary than it was if she were separated from him. Again 
 and again she had wondered why he stayed. With his aspira- 
 tions for the regeneration of society she had little sympathy. He 
 had never talked to her very freely about them, and in any case 
 she might not have understood them. She knew what a terrible 
 thing it was to be poor ; but she pitied not so much the wretched- 
 ness and misery around her as herself for being involved in them. 
 If she could free herself from her present life she would not have 
 much time for thinking of those who had been left behind. 
 
 The dull afternoon waned as Maud mused and sewed. Just 
 as the gathering dusk warned her to put aside her work, she 
 heard the front door open, and then a step on the stairs which 
 she recognized as Baretta's. She rose and went to the passage 
 now almost as black as night and stood there a moment irres- 
 olutely. " Yes I will !" she murmured at last, defiantly. " I 
 must talk to some one." Then she glided up the narrow flight 
 and rapped lightly on Baretta's door. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Maud is it you ?" His manner betrayed confu- 
 sion, and as he threw open the door the girl speculated vaguely 
 as to the cause of it. In another moment her quick eye had 
 caught a glimpse of an open valise on one chair and a number of 
 books piled up on another. 
 
 " You are going away ?" she cried, starting back with an irre- 
 pressible look of dismay. 
 
 " Why should you care for that ?" asked Baretta. " Why 
 should any one care ?" he added, bitterly. 
 
 Maud felt the hot tears pressing against her lids. But, no 
 she would not cry and make a fool of herself ! Why, indeed, 
 should she care ? " I'm not good at guessing conundrums, Mr. 
 Baretta," she said, with a laugh. 
 
 55
 
 The retort touched the young man's vanity to the quick. 
 " You have managed to answer my question very effectually, at 
 any rate," he remarked, with an assumption of indifference which 
 the sudden flood of colour in his face belied. " But I beg your 
 pardon will you come in ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't talk like that I can't bear it !" cried the girl, with 
 a sob. And now a big tear rolled slowly down her cheek. " You 
 know how much your going will be to me. I suppose you'll 
 despise me for saying so, but I don't mind that or any- 
 thing." 
 
 " My dear Maud !" he said, very gently, with a sudden revul- 
 sion of feeling. He took her hand and drew her inside the door. 
 " I didn't mean to speak harshly ; I know I have a friend in 
 you. It is that which makes me sorry to go." 
 
 " Yes but why do you go ?" She took out her handkerchief 
 and pressed it to her telltale eyes. " What a fool I am !" she 
 cried, smiling at him tremulously. 
 
 " What a brute I am !" He turned his back abruptly and 
 walked to the window. He felt strangely moved by her emotion, 
 as well as fearful of its possible consequences. 
 
 " You haven't told me what is the matter," said Maud, after a 
 moment *of silence. " Have I annoyed you by asking ?" 
 
 Baretta crossed the room again. " Won't you sit down ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, no ; I mustn't stay but a moment." 
 
 " I wish people would mind their own business," the young 
 man cried, savagely, after another pause. " No don't think I 
 mean you. But there has been something said that has made 
 it unpleasant for me to stay." 
 
 " Who said it ?" 
 
 " Well, never mind that. I had some words last night with 
 your father, and " 
 
 " Oh yes !" interrupted the girl, angrily. " I see it all now. 
 He has insulted you, and said things you can't forgive, and so 
 and so " 
 
 "Perhaps he was right. We won't blame any one. And 
 don't talk as if we were parting forever." 
 
 " It is much the same thing. What is the use of trying to 
 
 56
 
 pretend that it isn't ? And and all will be so different here 
 when you are gone." 
 
 She looked very pretty as she said this, and Baretta took her 
 hand again. "I shall see you often," he said, eagerly. " Sure- 
 ly no one can object to that." 
 
 " I don't care ; I won't stay here myself much longer. I am 
 tired of it all. There's no good in living if you've got to live 
 like this. Oh, Frank, can't you help me to go away ?" 
 
 " I wish I could. Don't you like it at the shop ?" 
 
 " The shop !" cried Maud, scornfully. " It's the shop that 
 keeps me here just like a slave. Oh yes, to go in the morning 
 and sometimes in the evening to sell newspapers, and candy to 
 dirty children, and make out the bills when the first of the 
 month comes round, and then have a miserable three dollars 
 every Saturday night, and be stared at by rude men, and per- 
 haps insulted coming home ! Oh, that's a nice life for a girl, 
 isn't it, Frank ?" 
 
 " Damn them !" cried Baretta, with sudden fury. " Damn the 
 rich men who have made this world a hell on earth ! There 
 excuse me I didn't mean to say that," he added, seeing that 
 she had shrunk back, and was regarding him with some alarm. 
 " But when I think of the terrible injustice to which society 
 owes its very existence well, we must all have patience for a 
 little longer. They have been conspiring against me, too." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Yes, there's Stephen Luck 'twas he made the trouble be- 
 tween me and your father and Ditton oh, he'll look out for 
 himself, I warrant you !" cried the young man, with a harsh 
 laugh. " But I didn't think it of Yates that he would lie to 
 me and then go and try to prejudice her against me." 
 
 The only part of this tirade that was intelligible to the lis- 
 tener was the feminine pronoun. " Her ! Who do you mean 
 by her?" 
 
 " Nothing no one at all." 
 
 " As if you expected me to believe that !" 
 
 " Well, then Mrs. Chilton. Are you any wiser now ?" 
 
 " I suppose she's one of the swells," said Maud, doubtfully. 
 
 " I mean that they're jealous of me that they don't like to 
 
 57
 
 see me getting ahead, because they're afraid of my ideas. Mrs. 
 Chilton is the lady who asked me to her house the other after- 
 noon to meet a lot of people." 
 
 " I remember," said Maud. Baretta had, indeed, told her 
 something about a reception to which he had been invited, and 
 she was compelled to accept this explanation of his sudden 
 emotion as the true one. Yet she could not rid herself of the 
 suspicion that it was not Mrs. Chilton of whom he was think- 
 ing when he let slip that reference to " her." 
 
 After this there was a moment of rather awkward silence be- 
 tween them. Baretta finally broke it by saying, " But you came 
 to see me about something, didn't you, Maud ?" 
 
 " Oh, never mind now, Frank. I was feeling wretched and 
 miserable, and I wanted to tell you that I couldn't stand it any 
 longer, and that I must find work to do that would take me 
 away from here. But if you are leaving well, I won't trouble 
 you now." 
 
 She turned to go, but he called her back. " Don't say that, 
 Maud !" he cried. " I want so much to do all I can for you." 
 He walked up and down the room silently, while she stood there 
 motionless, one hand upon her heart as if to stay its violent 
 beating. Then in a sudden flash of passion he grasped the 
 valise and threw it upon the floor. " By Heaven !" he cried, " I 
 swear I won't go as long as you want me to stay !" 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" cried the girl, catching her breath. His out- 
 burst had frightened her for the moment. She turned to him, 
 holding out both hands, and looking at him with eyes that were 
 again full of tears. " Oh, Frank !" she repeated, softly, " how 
 can I ever thank you ?" 
 
 Baretta took her hands and drew her closer. Then he bent 
 down and kissed her full upon the lips. " Oh, Frank!" she 
 whispered once more, colouring to the roots of her hair. But 
 she did not repulse him. 
 
 " It is a promise," he said, gravely. 
 
 At that moment the door opened below and a heavy footstep 
 was heard thumping on the stairs. " It's father !" Maud said, 
 under her breath, clinging to him in a frightened way. 
 
 " He must not find you here," said Baretta, gently pushing 
 
 58
 
 her aside. " Go !" He followed her to the door, and then 
 added, in a louder voice : " Oh yes, Miss Maud thank you very 
 much. I will read it and return it to you in a day or two." 
 
 A growling sound came from the head of the stairs at this 
 juncture. " Phwat's this ?" broke in the voice of Dolan. He 
 seized his daughter roughly by the arm as she was hurrying by. 
 She screamed aloud, more in fear than in pain. 
 
 " How dare you ?" came to Baretta's lips involuntarily. He 
 had stepped over the threshold and was now facing the other 
 two in the narrow passage. 
 
 " Dare, is it ?" cried Dolan. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Baretta !" sobbed Maud. 
 
 " Get along down-stairs wid ye !" Dolan released her with a 
 push that sent her reeling against the wall. " I'll settle with 
 this dom villain." 
 
 But Baretta, thinking he had struck the girl, leaped forward 
 in blind fury, letting out right and left. He had no great 
 physical prowess, and the big Irishman, who was sober enough 
 just now, could have picked him up bodily and thrown him out 
 of the window if he had not been so entirely taken by surprise. 
 " You coward, to strike a woman !" shouted the young man, 
 bringing his fist down with a whack on Dolan's shoulder. 
 
 All of a sudden, to Baretta's intense amazement, Dolan burst 
 out in a roar of laughter. This furious but futile onslaught ap- 
 pealed to his sense of humour, and thus averted consequences 
 which might have been highly disastrous. " Ye're a dom fool," 
 he said, throwing out one muscular arm to ward off the blows. 
 " Kape quiet I didn't strike her." 
 
 Thereupon Baretta stepped back to the doorway, breathing 
 rapidly with the exertion he had been undergoing. To Maud, 
 who, white and shivering with alarm, had watched the begin- 
 ning of what seemed to her to be a terrible conflict, there was 
 nothing absurd in what he had done. It was all for her. 
 
 " What's the book you was givin' him ?" demanded Dolan, 
 turning to his daughter. 
 
 " Oh, I I don't know" 
 
 " Dunno ? That's a loikely story. Bring it here now, young 
 man." 
 
 59
 
 " Oh, well, Dolan," said Baretta, assuming a careless air, " if 
 it will keep peace in the household to give Miss Maud back 
 her book I shall be only too glad to do so." He went to his 
 desk, and made a random selection from several volumes lying 
 there. In the growing obscurity of the evening he could not 
 read the titles. " But I think it's a pity I can't exchange a 
 few words with your daughter without all this fuss. It's an in- 
 sult to her and to me." 
 
 Dolan took the book without replying, and handed it to 
 Maud. "You go down -stairs," he said. Then he advanced 
 into Baretta's room. " I'd just loike a word or two with you, 
 misther," he added. 
 
 " Well ?" asked Baretta, regarding him impatiently. He felt 
 that he had been placed in a ridiculous position and he resented 
 it. He was a little angry even with Maud. Why need she 
 have come to his room at all ? It was really nothing important 
 that she wanted to say to him. 
 
 " Ye took offinse last night, and said ye'd be going. Well, I 
 don't care a dom whether ye go or stay. But the old woman 
 has been taking on about it." 
 
 " I have made up my mind to stay." 
 
 " Oh, ye have? Thin we've got to have an understandin' 
 loike. See ?" 
 
 " I must confess that I don't." 
 
 " I'm an honest man, I am, an' my gyurl's an honest gynrl. 
 If you intend to make up to. her you must do it on the square. 
 See ?" 
 
 The forbidding scowl gathered once more between Baretta's 
 eyes. " I'm not accustomed to treat women dishonourably, if 
 that is what you mean," he said. 
 
 " Well, there's been too much talk, and I ain't goin' to have 
 no more of it," said Dolan, doggedly. " I'd rather ye'd lave her 
 alone. But I tell ye what, my fine feller, ye've got to lave her 
 or take her." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," demanded Baretta, " that if I 
 don't marry your daughter I can't speak a civil word to her ?" 
 
 " I mane that, just. I ain't partial to furriners loike yerself, 
 but I sha'n't stand no nonsense moind that !" ' 
 
 60
 
 Then Dolan turned on his heel and went thumping down the 
 stairs, where Baretta could presently hear his voice raised high 
 in argument with his family. 
 
 The young man was too angry to appreciate the ludicrous 
 features of the situation in which he found himself placed. An 
 hour ago he could have told Dolan that he had no intention 
 whatever of "making up to" his daughter, and then have carried 
 out his threat of leaving the house. But now he was in a me'as- 
 ure bound by a promise to the girl herself a promise which 
 had been made under circumstances that might justify her in 
 cherishing hopes it would be unmanly on his part to shatter. 
 What a fool he had been to kiss her ! He was not in the least 
 in love with her, he told himself; but she had raised her shining 
 dark eyes to his, and in them he had read so much gratitude, to 
 say nothing of a warmer feeling, that the response had been 
 spontaneous. Now it was too late to cherish idle regrets. His 
 honour was pledged and he must stand by the bargain. He knew 
 very well who it was that he loved. But that was a vain fancy. 
 She was as far above him as the heavens were above the earth. 
 She had always been kind ; that was her nature. If he had ever 
 dared to whisper his wild aspirations, however, she would have 
 banished him from her presence forever. She would think him 
 impertinent even to hint of love. What was he in her eyes but 
 a humble dependent one whom she felt obliged to treat with 
 distant kindness ? The social order which he had bound himself 
 to destroy had set up artificial barriers between them ; and he 
 realized, with hopeless rage, that so far as they were concerned 
 these barriers could never be broken down. When the great 
 revolution came it would be against the class to which she 
 belonged that the struggling mass of mankind would have to 
 fight. And even if she might have the courage to take a true 
 man for what he was, had he not by his own act made that im- 
 possible ? There was little tenderness in his heart for Maud as 
 he thought of this. 
 
 And Maud herself ? When her father came down-stairs again 
 she looked up from the corner where she had seated herself with 
 something like terror. She was holding the book tightly, as if 
 it somehow connected her with Baretta. She, poor girl, had no 
 
 61
 
 longer any doubt as to his feelings towards her. There had 
 been something fine and romantic in his behaviour. The hero 
 of a " Duchess " novel would have promised to stay because she 
 wanted him to stay, just as he had done. His kiss still burned 
 upon her lips. Perhaps she had not made it quite clear to him 
 that she was not offended. She could not recall that any of the 
 countesses of whom she had read had ever been placed in a 
 precisely similar situation, and therefore she had no precedent 
 in the light of which to view her own conduct. Arragon Street 
 was not a place which conduced to exalted ideas of life, and 
 Maud had always been forced to draw upon the fiction of which 
 she was fond for examples. Perhaps she was actually of no finer 
 clay than those about her. But at this particular period in her 
 career she certainly cherished aspirations which, if fulfilled, 
 might have fitted her for a somewhat more refined environment. 
 At least she was not hopelessly vulgar, like most of the girls 
 whom she knew. They were content with the coarse pleasures 
 at hand, while she was always dreaming of those "genteel" 
 circles in which she imagined the young men at Jackson & 
 Moore's moved. She knew that the " swells " with whom Baretta 
 associated were beyond her, and she always thought of them as 
 a hostile influence. She wanted him merely to be "genteel," 
 and to take her away from Arragon Street. She did not at all 
 understand his outbursts against society, although she could un- 
 derstand why he should be dissatisfied with his present sur- 
 roundings. As we have seen, she had wondered how he could 
 endure them. Now, as she reflected upon the promise that he 
 had made so solemnly, she thought that she knew. Oh, she 
 would be so fond of him so proud of him ! He would never 
 regret that he had given up his swells for her sake. She knew 
 that she would lay down her very life for him. What could she 
 not endure with the hope of release at last ? It was the thought 
 that she might never be able to escape from her present sur- 
 roundings which was so maddening. She had often said to 
 herself that she would rather go to the bad altogether, as other 
 girls in Arragon Street had done, than live on in wretchedness 
 and squalor and become some day a mere household drudge like 
 her mother. No doubt she betrayed in this a lamentable lack 
 
 62"
 
 of moral principle. But virtue is so easily practised by those 
 who have no temptation to vice. And the unrewarded virtue 
 of a woman like Mrs. Dolan seemed somehow contemptible to 
 one who had been half-way through the high-school, and who 
 recognized the mental superiority conferred by this distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 " I've given that dom cuss a bellyful," announced Dolan, draw- 
 ing a chair up to the supper-table, and contemplating with pleas- 
 ure the dish of sausages before him. " Here, Theresa," he 
 added, addressing one of the younger girls, " take that pitcher 
 and get us some beer. Here's the money." 
 
 " Don't be afther sendin' her," pleaded Mrs. Dolan. " Let 
 one of the b'ys go." 
 
 " The b'ys is tired, like meself. What's a gyurl for, if she 
 can't run errands ?" 
 
 Mrs. Dolan sighed. "Do as yer father says, Theresa, but 
 moind ye don't be gone long." 
 
 " Oh, there's a daisy young man at Toomey's now," remarked 
 the girl, taking the pitcher. 
 
 "You jist let the young men alone," said her father. " There's 
 too many of 'em round here, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "'Tis hard to bring up a gyurl decent nowadays," observed 
 Mrs. Dolan, as Theresa disappeared. 
 
 " Small thanks to you, old woman," grumbled the head of the 
 family. 
 
 " I don't know what ye mane by that, Peter." 
 
 " Ask that dom furriner tip-stairs, then." 
 
 " It's Mr. Baretta who's been a good friend to us," protested 
 Mrs. Dolan. 
 
 "Och, he's a great feller among the women hey, Maud?" 
 cried Dolan, looking over at the corner where the girl sat. 
 " Why don't ye spake ?" he went on, as she said nothing. " Is 
 it dumb ye are all of a suddint ?" 
 
 " Father !" cried the girl, with a sudden blaze of anger, " you've 
 no right to speak to me in that way." 
 
 "No right, ye hussy ! It's a foine thing ye have a father to 
 look afther ye." 
 
 " What was it you said to him ?" Maud rose, and her face was 
 
 63
 
 very pale, but she felt all the courage of the hunted creature 
 at bay. 
 
 Dolan roared with laughter and swung a sausage triumphantly 
 aloft upon his fork. " Ye've learnt yer lesson of imperence well," 
 he said. " Ask him if ye'd loike to know." Then he roared 
 again. 
 
 An angry red succeeded the whiteness in the girl's face. She 
 stepped close to the table and faced her father defiantly. " Oh, 
 how I hate you !" she said in a low voice, but so distinctly that 
 every word pierced the air like a knife. " How I hate this life !" 
 And before he could recover from his astonishment she had 
 rushed from the room, slamming the door so violently that the 
 dishes on the table rattled. 
 
 Dolan was too completely taken aback to resent this unheard- 
 of insolence in his usual emphatic way. " That gyurl '11 come 
 to a bad end," he muttered, making a savage slash at his sau- 
 sage. " Shut up yer dom whimpering, old woman, and give me 
 a piece of bread !" 
 
 But Maud hurried through the dark passage with a swelling 
 sense of misery which manifested itself in choking sobs. For 
 several minutes she stood by the open door, looking out at the 
 gloomy street, chill and dripping with rain. Oh, if she could 
 but get away from the dismal life she was leading ! What hope 
 was there for her so long as she remained ? Even the consola- 
 tion of Baretta's presence brought her only fresh trouble. Then 
 she thought of the book he had given her, and glanced at it 
 idly ; for she had been holding it tightly all this time, as if it 
 were the one link that bound her to possible happiness. It was 
 a book of poems. Maud had never cared much for poetry; it 
 struck her as silly stuff, and she wondered how grown people 
 could waste their time over it. But the name on the title-page 
 arrested her attention. " Laura Hastings Chilton " that must 
 be the Mrs. Chilton that Baretta had spoken of. If she was 
 married, of course it was foolish to be jealous of her ; but Maud 
 wondered whether she was young and beautiful, and perhaps 
 admired and flattered this young man. Then a name written in 
 the fly-leaf, in a woman's hand, caught her eye. "Mildred Law- 
 rence "^there it was in bold decisive letters. A sudden pain 
 
 64
 
 shot through her heart as she looked. It was an unfamiliar 
 name, but a supreme feeling of misery came over her at the 
 sight of it. He had never spoken of any Mildred Lawrence 
 oh no ! But now she understood whom he had meant by "her." 
 She crept softly up-stairs and laid the book against Baretta's 
 door. Then she crept down again, and catching a hat and cloak 
 from a hook in the entry, put them on and went out into the 
 dripping, dismal evening. 
 
 E 65
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 "UNDER WHICH KING, BEZONIAN?" 
 
 " I'M glad I found you at home ; I want to have a long talk 
 with you." Baretta's visitor stepped in from the narrow entry, 
 holding at arra's-length a dripping umbrella. " Where shall I 
 put this ? It's raining cats and dogs outside." 
 
 " Take this chair, Mr. Ditton you will find it more comfort- 
 able," said Baretta. " Though there isn't a great deal of luxury 
 to be had in Arragon Street," he added, with a rather bitter 
 laugh. 
 
 Ditton looked at him earnestly a moment before replying. He 
 had a vague feeling that his influence over this young man, which 
 had hitherto seemed to him to be all pervasive if not all power- 
 ful, was in some mysterious fashion dying away ; and it dis- 
 turbed him. Perhaps he had inherited a love of spiritual au- 
 thority from his ministerial days. He was making converts 
 now to a religion in which authority was denied, but he always 
 half unconsciously addressed his followers from the elevation 
 of the pulpit. 
 
 "You were wrong to quarrel with Luck," said Ditton, pres- 
 ently. "He has a very ugly temper, and he doesn't forget 
 things easily." 
 
 " If you think I am afraid of him " cried Baretta. 
 
 " No I don't want you to be. But you ought to understand 
 that dissensions in our own ranks only weaken us in our fight 
 against the enemy." 
 
 Baretta, who had seated himself by the table, drummed with 
 his fingers upon the wooden surface and scowled. " Well, I 
 think he's one of the enemy," he said, at last.
 
 " I don't see why you should say that. Mind you, I admit 
 that he is capable of doing harm as well as good. But he's a 
 great organizer, and organization is what we want." 
 
 " Yes, he can organize strikes, if that is what you mean. I 
 have never been able to see, however, that making fifty or a 
 hundred men knock off work for a month or two, and loaf 
 around the street-corners and in the saloons, is bringing us any 
 nearer to the equalization of social conditions. In fact, it seems 
 to me to have just the opposite effect." 
 
 " Oh, you look at it from too narrow and personal a point of 
 view, Baretta. The thing to consider is that these fifty or a 
 hundred men are not getting their rights. They have a few 
 hundred dollars a year while their employers have a hundred 
 thousand. Now the increase they may ask for isn't much in 
 comparison with the whole amount of the profits; but it's some- 
 thing, and enough to mean the difference between beggary and 
 comfort to them. And they've got to make a stand somewhere 
 they've got to make the capitalists feel that they have the 
 power if they choose to use it." 
 
 " That's all very well," said Baretta, irritably ; " but demon- 
 strating their own power is precisely what they don't accom- 
 plish. They spend a month of idleness until their money is 
 all gone, and they are in debt to the grocer, and have begun to 
 go to the pawnshops to get money for drink and then they 
 go to work again at the employer's terms. Meanwhile fellows 
 like Luck have been taxing other workmen to support the strik- 
 ers and themselves." 
 
 "You're talking like a capitalist yourself now; where did you 
 pick up such ideas ?" 
 
 " I suppose you mean that I'm a fool !" cried Baretta. " Thank 
 you for your high opinion of me." 
 
 " See here, my dear young man," said Ditton, fixing his pen- 
 etrating gray eyes upon his companion's face. " Are you han- 
 kering for the flesh-pots of Egypt already ?" 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Mr. Ditton. I think I'm at 
 least as true to the cause as that man Luck is. And I'm not 
 saying that the working-man is treated right. Good God ! don't 
 I live here among working-men and see things every day that 
 
 67
 
 make my blood boil ? But I still insist that strikes of the kind 
 engineered by the professional agitator are utterly useless. We 
 can never get ahead by making demands that we can't en- 
 force." 
 
 " Ah, yes we may fail now. But some day there will be a 
 combination of every trade, and it will succeed because it is ir- 
 resistible. Think of it ! That's the sort of strike we'll have 
 yet. And when the capitalist feels the hand of honest labour 
 at his throat he'll disgorge fast enough don't you imagine he 
 won't." 
 
 " Oh, a combination of that sort might be irresistible. But 
 mercenary loafers like Luck will never bring it about. Besides, 
 the trouble with the working-men always has been that they 
 can't hold together for any length of time.** 
 
 " See here !" interrupted Ditton, suddenly. " Are you think- 
 ing of playing traitor to the cause? Because if you are I 
 don't want anything further to do with you." 
 
 " You've no right to ask such a question !" cried Baretta an- 
 grily, springing to his feet. 
 
 " Yes, I have. I want to know the kind of man I'm dealing 
 with and what to expect." 
 
 " Well, then, I refuse to answer. If that is your opinion of 
 me, you are welcome to it." He walked to the window and 
 stood gazing down into the blackness of the street, through 
 which at distant intervals the lamps sent forth an uncertain 
 blur of light. " Good God !" he cried, after a pause, " haven't 
 I had enough to annoy me to-day without this ?" 
 
 Ditton, who had kept his seat with apparent calmness, ran his 
 fingers through his hair contemplatively before replying. " I 
 didn't mean to offend you," he said at last. " The question was 
 a natural one. But I believe that you mean well that you 
 have only the natural impatience of youth." 
 
 " You are exceedingly kind," said Baretta, sarcastically. 
 
 " Come, now, don't get miffed about it. What has happened 
 to annoy you ?" 
 
 " Oh, various things ; they wouldn't interest you." 
 
 " Don't be so sure of that. Have you had any trouble with 
 Dolan ?" 
 
 68
 
 "Why should I have any trouble with Dolan?" asked Baretta, 
 turning from the window and facing his visitor. 
 
 " I only know what Luck said about his daughter." 
 
 " Luck is a damned officious fool !" cried the young man 
 savagely. 
 
 "That may be, my friend. But let me advise you, just the 
 same, not to get yourself tangled up with women. It doesn't 
 pay." 
 
 " Don't you think I'm able to look out for myself ?" asked 
 Baretta, seating himself at the table again. 
 
 Ditton uncrossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and once 
 more ran his fingers through his hair. " I think too much of 
 you, Baretta," he said, " to let you quarrel with me. Yes, I 
 dare say you are able to look out for yourself in most things. 
 You're an uncommonly brilliant fellow. But I don't believe 
 you're past needing good advice now and then, any more than 
 the rest of us." 
 
 " Thank you !" 
 
 " Come, come, drop that sneering tone, and listen to me. I 
 beg your pardon for what I said about being a traitor to the 
 cause. I have no reason to believe that of you, and I don't be- 
 lieve it. But there is always some danger of the best of us be- 
 ing led off on false scents. I thought you might have struck 
 the wrong trail." 
 
 " Of course, if you would rather stick to Luck than to me " 
 
 " Don't be absurd. The work we have to do is big enough 
 for all the workers. Only don't get into any more rows with 
 him. And let Dolan's daughter alone." 
 
 " See here, Mr. Ditton," said Baretta, flushing, " you seem to 
 have got some queer ideas about me. Let me tell you exactly 
 how things stand. I like the girl very well. But I'm not in 
 love with her, if that's what you mean." 
 
 " I'm very glad to hear it, Baretta very glad indeed." 
 
 " Dolan is such an old fool, though ! He kicks up a row if I 
 look at her, and Heaven knows it's only because I pity her, and 
 want to help her to help them all. Ask Mrs. Nolan if she's 
 got any reason to complain of me. Look there," he added, 
 pointing to the books piled up on the floor, and the valise lying 
 
 69
 
 open on the bed, " I had made up my mind to cut the place al- 
 together, only only that they asked me to stay." 
 
 " They ?" repeated Ditton with a smile. " Don't you mean 
 1 she ?' I don't believe you'd stay for Mrs. Dolan." 
 
 " Both," said Baretta. lie did not think it necessary to de- 
 scribe the scene of two hours ago, or to refer to the interview 
 which followed it, " And I said that I would stay for the 
 present. If the works shut down, or the men go out as Luck 
 wants them to, I guess they'll need a friend." 
 
 "Well, well I dare say you'll do what's right." Ditton 
 hesitated a moment, and then added, "But there's one other 
 matter I wanted to talk to you about. What's your idea in go- 
 ing to see those other women ?" 
 
 " What other women ? I don't understand you." 
 
 " Oh yes, you do. I mean these people that have receptions 
 and things and ask you to them. Certainly they can't do you 
 any good if you mean to stick by us." 
 
 " Perhaps I can do them some good. If you mean Mrs. 
 Chilton, she's interested in Socialism." 
 
 Ditton grunted. " Now I don't know anything about your 
 upper crust here in Boston. I was born and brought up in 
 Vermont, and before I found what my true call was I preached 
 up there, and in New Hampshire, to plain, every-day country 
 people. But I can tell you one thing. They're not in earnest 
 not one of them. They're only trying to amuse themselves 
 with you." 
 
 " Well, I know one or two who arc in earnest. There's Mr. 
 Sibley Lawrence I suppose you've heard of him." 
 
 " One of the very worst of the whole lot !" cried Ditton, 
 thumping the arm of his chair. 
 
 " Why, there isn't a man in Boston who's more interested in 
 the poor !" 
 
 " Yes, confound him that's why he does so much mischief. 
 Oh, I know the breed ! He poses as a philanthropist, and thinks 
 that if a man will live in one of his model tenements and pat- 
 ronize his cheap coffee-house, he ought to be contented with his 
 lot. That's no way to help men to rob them of their inde- 
 pendence." 
 
 70
 
 "But that's just what Mr. Lawrence doesn't do," said Baretta, 
 eagerly. "His idea isn't charity, but practical assistance. He 
 says that the men who have money ought to be ashamed to ask 
 the rents they do for miserable rat-traps, and that if they offer 
 the working-men decent homes they can get a fair return on their 
 investment, which is all they have a right to expect." 
 
 " Oh, it's the old story. Do you recollect what I said the 
 other night ? That's the worst thing you can do for the work- 
 ing-man make him content and get him to save up money, and 
 all that sort of thing. Then he's on the side of society, and 
 becomes a part of the monstrous injustice that we're trying to 
 overthrow." 
 
 " Well, it seems to me that anything which makes the poor 
 man more comfortable is to be encouraged as a step in the right 
 direction." 
 
 To this argument Ditton made no reply. He threw his head 
 back and gazed reflectively at the ceiling for a moment. " How did 
 you get acquainted with Sibley Lawrence ?" he asked, presently. 
 
 " At the Young Men's Social and Literary Association. I go 
 there sometimes to get the books I want. Is there anything 
 wrong in that ?" 
 
 " Ah, yes that's one of his philanthropic schemes." 
 
 " You talk as if you didn't approve of it." 
 
 " I don't." 
 
 " See here, Mr. Ditton," said Baretta, rising again and be- 
 ginning to^pace restlessly up and down. "I might as well 
 tell you the whole story from beginning to end. I'm sorry if 
 you dislike the Association, but it's better than the Public Li- 
 brary, in some respects, for a fellow who wants to read and 
 study. They have all the magazines and reviews there, and a 
 good many books, and you can get at them without any bother. 
 A man I used to know at Jackson & Moore's took me there 
 first. I don't care anything about the religious meetings, or 
 the lectures on politics and literature, but you're not obliged to 
 go to those. And it only costs two dollars a year to belong. 
 Well, Mr. Lawrence takes a great interest in the Association, 
 and he often looks in of an evening, and talks in a pleasant way 
 to the young men who are there." 
 
 71
 
 " Yes," interrupted Ditton. " Your real philanthropist is al- 
 ways mighty patronizing." 
 
 " He wasn't patronizing to me," said Baretta, sharply. " I 
 don't like that sort of thing any better than you do. But we 
 got into conversation once or twice, and he seemed to be in- 
 terested in my ideas. After that he always spoke to me when 
 he came in, and in that way we got to be pretty well acquainted." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Ditton, with a dry laugh. "You have a 
 faculty for getting on with the swells. Your father must have 
 been a duke at least before he came to this country." 
 
 " You are unfair to me, Mr. Ditton," protested Baretta. " A 
 man can't help his birth," he added, with an air which intimated 
 that he might be descended even from princely stock. 
 
 Ditton lay back in his chair again and laughed aloud. " Oh, 
 you amuse me !" he cried. " Why do you want to be a Socialist 
 at all ? Why don't you go back to the old country and claim 
 your title ?" 
 
 " You'll be sorry some day for talking to me like this," said 
 Baretta, that livid scowl displaying itself between his eyes. 
 
 " Come, come, my boy, don't get mad. Go on and tell me 
 about Lawrence." 
 
 " There's nothing to tell. One day he offered to lend me a 
 book which wasn't in the Association library, and asked me to 
 call at his house for it ; and when I called he asked me in and 
 talked with me there." 
 
 " And so you became a friend of the family. I thought the 
 Lawrences were too proud to know any one who didn't come 
 over in the Mayflower. But I suppose your title helped you." 
 Ditton laughed again, and rose as if to go. 
 
 Baretta said nothing. His heart was afire with rage, and he 
 was afraid that if he spoke he would lose all control of himself. 
 
 " Well, well, I beg your pardon," said Ditton, thrusting his 
 big hands into his pockets, and strolling carelessly to the win- 
 dow. " Raining still, isn't it ?" he continued, looking out, 
 "Look here, Baretta, forgive and forget. I think a good deal 
 of you, and I don't want to see you led astray by false lights. 
 These people may take you up to amuse themselves, but they 
 will drop you like a hot cake when they get tired of you. And 
 
 72
 
 don't you make the mistake of thinking you can really interest 
 them in our work. Why, man, it's like asking them to assist at 
 their own destruction. As for Sibley Lawrence, he means well ; 
 but I don't like that kind. I suppose he wants to push you 
 forward as a great prodigy from the ranks of us common people 
 discovered by him. Has he asked you to dinner yet to meet 
 the big bugs of State Street, or the professors out at Harvard ?" 
 
 " Mr. Lawrence has been very kind to me so have all his 
 family. If you don't like my idea of bringing our cause to the 
 notice of those who at least are willing to listen to it, why, then, 
 there's nothing more to be said. Only you have no right to 
 charge me with treachery because I thought I could do some 
 good in that way." Baretta spoke coldly enough ; but there 
 was still that burning sense of anger and indignation within 
 him. Why had this man joined the conspiracy to crowd him to 
 the wall? Was it because he was jealous of him because he 
 recognized in him a dangerous rival? 
 
 " Try your scheme if you like, Baretta. Only bear in mind 
 that I warn you what will come of it. These new friends of 
 yours are more likely to convert you than you are to convert 
 them." 
 
 "You are down on me, Mr. Ditton, like the rest," said the 
 young man, glowering at his visitor. 
 
 "Down on you? What are you talking about? There's no 
 one down on you that I know of, unless it's Luck, and you 
 must admit that he has some reason. But I see you don't want 
 to talk to me any longer." Ditton reached for his hat and 
 umbrella. " Come and see me when you've got over your mad," 
 he added, with a quizzical smile. 
 
 Baretta made no effort to detain him. " I don't know why 
 you should treat me in this way," he said, sullenly. He pre- 
 ceded Ditton to the door and opened it. " The entry is dark as 
 usual. I'll go down with you. Mind that first step." 
 
 At the foot of the stairs Ditton stopped and held out his 
 hand. " Well, well, you and I can't afford to quarrel. We've 
 got enough to do to fight the enemy. I didn't mean to hurt 
 your feelings, and I don't want to interfere with vour plans. 
 If you think you can do any good by going to see Sibley Law- 
 
 73
 
 rence, go by all means. But keep a level head on your shoulders 
 that's all." 
 
 " Oh, I may never meet any of them again," said Baretta, 
 gloomily. "They don't care for me I know that well 
 enough." 
 
 " Well, well !" Ditton opened the front door, and held out 
 his hand again. " Keep up your courage ; all these things will 
 be set right some day." 
 
 Baretta, peering out into the blackness, heard his departing 
 footsteps echoing along the silent street. This young man was 
 still in anything but an amiable mood. He resented bitterly 
 Ditton's counsel, which seemed to him to have been influenced 
 by purely selfish motives. Small minds, he argued, were always 
 envious of great. There was a time when he had been content 
 to follow the Socialist preacher implicitly. But now he felt 
 that he was too well able to make his own way in the world to 
 follow any one. In any case it was absurd and unjust for 
 Ditton to suspect his motives to assume that he was ready to 
 desert to the other side. He repudiated the idea that he had 
 been patronized by Mr. Lawrence ; if there had been any pat- 
 ronizing it was on Ditton's part. " Come, come, my boy, don't 
 get mad !" He recalled his visitor's words with the conviction 
 that they were intended to imply superiority. He would not be 
 addressed as "my boy " again as if he were a petulant child 
 that had to be soothed. Was he not conscious of powers stir- 
 ring within him which would some day make him known and 
 respected of all men ? And was an obscure Socialist orator a 
 man who had only been a country parson to try to dictate to 
 him ? The people at Mrs. Chilton's had recognized his impor- 
 tance at once. He had forgotten for the time those feelings 
 of humiliation which his experiences with them had at first en- 
 gendered. 
 
 " Why, Maud !" Baretta started back in surprise as he saw 
 the girl standing before him. In his absorption he had not ob- 
 served her approach. 
 
 " Let me pass, please !" she said. Her voice sounded hoarsely, 
 and in the darkness her face, which she now lifted to his, 
 seemed as white as the face of one who is dead. 
 
 74
 
 " You are dripping wet. Why have you been out in this 
 storm ?" He stepped back to allow her to enter the door. 
 
 To this question she made no answer. But as she hurried by 
 he put out a detaining arm. 
 
 " Maud ! What is the matter ? Why won't you speak to 
 me ?" 
 
 "Let me go !" She twitched herself free from his grasp and 
 vanished up the narrow stairway.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 MILDRED IS DOUBTFUL 
 
 PERHAPS the most striking characteristic of the sex misnamed 
 the gentler, or weaker, is inconsistency. Vergil's " varium et 
 mutabile semper" has been taken to mean that it is always a 
 woman's prerogative to change her mind ; if so, she exercises it 
 to the full. Mildred Lawrence, after telling Philip that she 
 could never forgive him, went home and wondered if he would 
 ever forgive her. She did not for a moment admit that she had 
 deceived him as to the true state of her feelings ; indeed, she 
 felt that she had been quite too frank in letting him understand 
 that, although everything was over between them, her love was 
 not yet a thing of the past. But she kept thinking of his dec- 
 laration that she had been a little hard with him, and wonder- 
 ing if indeed she was to blame in that" respect. She had been 
 very indignant with him for disappointing that ideal conception 
 of his character which she had once cherished ; she was still too 
 young to accept as inevitable the process of disillusion which 
 comes some time to all women regarding the men they love. 
 The attachment between these two young people had not been 
 of sudden growth. They had known each other from child- 
 hood. The Lawrences had come from Lexington, too, although 
 Sibley Lawrence and his family spent little time there. The old 
 homestead was about a mile beyond the Yates house, on the 
 Concord Road, and it was at present occupied by Alfred Law- 
 rence, a bachelor cousin of Sibley's a man of fifty, who did 
 not keep up much of an establishment nor do anything to en- 
 tertain the neighbourhood, but contented himself with having a 
 male friend or two down from the city now and then. But in 
 
 76
 
 Mildred's younger days, when Alfred was abroad there was a 
 mysterious gap in his life during which this was practically the 
 sole fact known concerning him Sibley Lawrence had spent 
 several successive summers in Lexington, and thus the intimacy 
 between the Lawrences and the Yateses grew and flourished. 
 That Mildred and Philip would some day marry was taken for 
 granted long before there was anything like a definite engage- 
 ment between them. For a time they drifted apart, especially 
 during the years of the young man's residence at Cambridge. 
 This was not because there was any conscious estrangement ; 
 up to this time, indeed, there had been no conscious love-making. 
 Mildred was hardly more than a child when Philip entered Har- 
 vard ; at the time of his graduation she was just about to 
 emerge from that conventional nursery in which young girls are 
 supposed to exist until society has formally made their acquaint- 
 ance. His Glass Day was one of the first functions of any con- 
 sequence that she had been permitted to attend. After this his 
 attentions to her began to take on a definite meaning. Neither 
 could have told precisely how it happened, but some three years 
 later the engagement between them was announced. 
 
 Hitherto affairs had run so smoothly with them that no one 
 who knew them would have predicted what afterwards hap- 
 pened. The match, as all the relatives on both sides said, was 
 obviously^ suitable. The Yateses were not so wealthy as the 
 Lawrences, but Philip would have enough, with what Sibley 
 Lawrence would undoubtedly settle upon his only child, to get 
 along very comfortably. The house at Lexington would belong 
 to him when his father died ; and then Mildred's father would 
 undoubtedly expect the young people to spend at least a part 
 of each winter with him in Boston, in the handsome old-fash- 
 ioned mansion in Mount Vernon Street. Besides, Philip was 
 such a brilliant fellow everybody admitted that. To be sure, 
 his career at Cambridge had been rather disappointing, and he 
 had abandoned his legal studies as uncongenial ; but then, many 
 young men find it difficult to make up their minds at the start. 
 Mildred herself made these excuses for him at first ; but by- 
 and-by she recognized the fact that they were mere evasions, 
 and that the great things he had promised to do were as far 
 
 77
 
 from being done as ever. After his father's death Philip's 
 course seemed to become more irresolute than ever. Perhaps 
 the possession of an assured income was not an unmixed bless- 
 ing in his case. He took the rooms in Livingstone Pla.ce, and 
 devoted himself to the mysterious pursuit of literature with 
 what results we have already seen. Although the house in Lex- 
 ington was his he went there very little, it being understood 
 that his mother should have the use of it during her life. His 
 two sisters had incomes provided for them out of Mr. Yates's 
 personal estate ; and as one of them was married, and the other 
 soon to be married, there was no cause for anxiety concerning 
 their future. Thus there was no spur beyond personal ambition 
 to prick the side of Philip's intent. Mildred Lawrence had not 
 yet told him that she despised him as an idler who would never 
 accomplish anything worth accomplishing. Yet this was finally 
 what she said one day in an exasperated mood that day when 
 they quarrelled and separated forever. Of course she had not 
 meant to be so severe as all that. But his indifference, his way 
 of laughing at her indignation over his failure to fulfil her ex- 
 pectations, had exasperated her thoroughly ; and so she had 
 used that word " despise " to him. Then in a moment all was 
 over between them. Philip, usually so equable, grew furious at 
 the taunt. Ah, she could hardly recall his words now ; it 
 seemed only a moment until she had found herself alone and in 
 tears, and had heard the door closing behind him. Then there 
 had been a cold note from her to him breaking off the engage- 
 ment, and a colder one from him to her accepting her decision. 
 Under any other circumstances the young man might not have 
 yielded so quickly. But that word " despise " rankled in his 
 heart ; if she had ever loved him she could not have said it. 
 And Mildred herself felt quite as strongly that reconciliation 
 was impossible. Perhaps she had not quite meant to say that 
 she despised him. She was none the less intensely dissatisfied 
 with his failure to achieve any of those things which she felt 
 that he was capable of achieving ; and she was piqued because 
 her influence over him apparently amounted to so little. She 
 did not think that this realization of his faults was any dispar- 
 agement of her affection for him, although he chose to take it 
 
 78
 
 that way. All that happened a year ago, and she knew that she 
 loved him still not rapturously or passionately, perhaps, not as 
 they love in plays and novels, but with a constant tenderness of 
 sorrowful recollection. Now, however, she was regretting that 
 confession to him under the trees in Commonwealth Avenue. 
 He would take it amiss indeed, had she not seen that he had 
 done so ? He could not understand why she should still love 
 him and yet not be able to forgive him. Well, possibly she 
 could hardly understand it herself. And yet down deep in her 
 heart she felt that it was the truth, and that her resolution was 
 a wise one. The time might come when she could look more 
 leniently upon the folly of a wasted career ; but she could never 
 forget her disappointment, and the remembrance would have 
 imbittered all their future. It is its irrevocableness that makes 
 a tragedy of life. 
 
 There was one person who thought that this quarrel was an 
 exceedingly absurd one. The relatives on both sides had been 
 shocked, and had protested ; but finding both Philip and Mil- 
 dred resolute, and having affairs of their own to interest them, 
 they had come to the sensible resolution that it was none of 
 their business, after all. If Sibley Lawrence didn't interfere, 
 why should^ any one else ? But Daisy Tredwell still clung to 
 the idea of a reconciliation. If two people cared for each other, 
 she thought, they were dreadfully foolish to let a mere whim 
 separate them. Daisy admired Philip Yates immensely. She 
 didn't care whether he was brilliant or not; she was sure that 
 he was a man of whom any girl might be proud. She did not 
 hesitate to tell Mildred so, and to scold her for treating him so 
 harshly. " Your notions are altogether too lofty," Daisy said. 
 
 Mildred bore with Daisy's gibes in patience ; but she did not 
 confide in her on this subject, at least although she was very 
 fond of her. She said nothing to her this afternoon of having 
 met Philip. 
 
 " I thought I would run in just for a moment," said Daisy, 
 " though it is almost five o'clock, and I ought to be getting 
 home." 
 
 " I'm glad you didn't come earlier. I have just been making 
 calls. It's a relief to think that summer is almost here." 
 
 79
 
 " Ob, I don't mind when people have afternoons, and one 
 doesn't have to spend all one's time talking to those one goes 
 to see." She looked at Mildred curiously, with her head droop- 
 ing slightly towards her right shoulder a characteristic atti- 
 tude of hers. " Do you know," she said, after a pause, " you 
 are the queerest girl in the world !" 
 
 " If I don't, it isn't because I have never been told so. What 
 have I done to vex you now ?" 
 
 " I wouldn't say ' vex ;' that would mean that I am angry. 
 Suppose I say that you have annoyed me." 
 
 Mildred leaned back in her chair and smiled at the earnest 
 little face before her, framed in its tangled aureole of gold-red 
 hair. " Well, Daisy," she asked, " why don't you tell me what 
 it's all about ?" 
 
 Miss Tredwell examined the handle of her parasol intently for 
 a moment, then looked up suddenly. " Why have you taken up 
 Mr. Baretta ?" she demanded. 
 
 The unexpectedness of this question brought a sudden colour 
 to Mildred's cheeks. " It will be my turn to be annoyed if you 
 talk like that. I don't know what you mean by such a remark." 
 
 " Come, Mildred, don't try to humbug me. I say you have 
 taken him up. Would Mrs. Chilton ever have asked him to come 
 and see her if it hadn't been for you ?" 
 
 " She met Mr. Baretta here," said Mildred, with great dignity. 
 " But it was papa who asked him not I. Papa says he is a re- 
 markably intelligent young man." 
 
 " He may be intelligent, but he doesn't know how to behave. 
 Why, you ought to have seen him when he came into the room 
 at Mrs. Chilton's. He was even afraid of me. Fancy that !" 
 And Daisy laughed. 
 
 " I don't see anything strange in that ; you're a dangerous per- 
 son, you know." 
 
 " Well, but everything showed that he was not a gentleman." 
 
 " You are very unkind, Daisy," said Mildred. 
 
 " Oh, I suppose it's a mean thing to say. But isn't it true ?" 
 Daisy fixed her bright blue eyes on her friend as she spoke, with 
 a look of challenge. 
 
 No I don't think it is." 
 
 80
 
 " Ah, but if he were a gentleman there would be no thinking 
 about it. You would know at once." 
 
 " What has prejudiced you so against Mr. Baretta, Daisy ?" 
 
 " Only himself." Daisy laughed as she said this, and then 
 went on with great earnestness, " No, don't think it's prejudice, 
 Mildred. I'm willing to allow something to your odd ideas of 
 doing good in the world, and all that. Your father is so dread- 
 fully charitable that I dare say you inherit it from him. But I 
 am positive that Mr. Baretta isn't honest or sincere, and that you 
 will both regret ever having had anything to do with him." 
 
 " Daisy, you are too absurdly unjust !" cried Mildred. " I will 
 not allow yod to talk like that. You have no reason for your 
 suspicions." 
 
 " Oh, I know that. But instinct is often better than reason. 
 He's not a gentleman." 
 
 " But people who are not gentlemen can be honest." 
 
 " Not if they pretend that they are gentlemen," said Daisy, 
 with an air of triumph over the irrefutable nature of her logic. 
 " And Mrs. Chilton says that he told you he was a Hungarian of 
 noble family." 
 
 " Oh no he has said nothing to me on the subject at all. I 
 think that papa has gathered something of the sort from chance 
 remarks of his. And I'm sure, Daisy, I think it's very nice of 
 him to be so unassuming." 
 
 " You are perfectly ridiculous, Mildred. Noble family !" 
 
 " Well, his father was a refugee at the time of the revolution. 
 Mr. Baretta has said that much, and I believe him." 
 
 " Oh, so do I. Don't think I would dispute that. I wonder 
 whether it was the sheriff or the hangman that he took refuge 
 from." 
 
 " Daisy !" cried Mildred, sharply. 
 
 " Yes, get angry with me, do !" said Daisy, with a little mock- 
 ing laugh. " A rude, scowling, unknown foreigner is worth quar- 
 relling over, isn't he ?" 
 
 " There !" said Mildred, trying to smile herself, but not suc- 
 ceeding very well. " Let us agree to say no more about it. I 
 am not so much interested in Mr. Baretta that I can talk of noth- 
 ing else as you seem to be." 
 * 81
 
 " Oh, you amuse me when you try to be disagreeable. It isn't 
 in you." Daisy went over to her friend and gave her a friendly 
 squeeze. " You haven't a bad temper, like mine, and a tongue 
 that is always saying things it ought not to say." 
 
 After Daisy had gone, however, Mildred thought of this con- 
 versation more than once. It was strange, indeed, that it should 
 make any particular impression upon her. Everybody knew 
 that Daisy was a great chatterer and full of all sorts of fancies. 
 Perhaps it was because some instinct told her that her friend was 
 right in saying that Baretta was not a gentleman. She had her- 
 self observed his ignorance of social usages, but had tried to 
 excuse him by bearing in mind such facts in his career as he had 
 imparted to her. She felt how difficult the struggle must have 
 been, and this feeling tempered either resentment or amusement 
 at his mistakes. Still she recalled, now that the question came 
 definitely before her, more than one instance in which he had 
 said things it was hard to think that a man of good birth would 
 say or do, no matter under what stress of circumstances he had 
 been placed. She was a little indignant even yet as she remem- 
 bered how he had asked her at Mrs. Chilton's if she came because 
 she knew he was to be there. Yes, it might be that Daisy was 
 shrewder than she in reading this strange young man's character. 
 Her father had a very good opinion of him, and possibly she was 
 influenced by this, although she recognized her father's general 
 attitude towards the world, which was that of absent-minded 
 good -nature, as interfering slightly with his competence as a 
 judge. No one could answer a question of the sort more effec- 
 tively than he if it were put to him directly ; but he was too con- 
 stantly in an abstracted mood to put any questions to himself. 
 He thought Baretta was a promising young fellow, who deserved 
 better opportunities than he had hitherto enjoyed, and it was a 
 part of his general philanthropy to give him those opportunities 
 so far as he could. When he asked Baretta to stay to dinner it 
 was because he wanted to talk with him to draw him out, to 
 give his intellectual nature a chance to expand. Of course he 
 thought that this Socialistic crusade in which the young man had 
 enlisted was all nonsense. But in his large-hearted tolerance he 
 could content himself with only a vague protest against even 
 
 82
 
 Socialism. It was a foolish theory, no doubt, but it wasn't likely 
 to do much harm. The thing to do was to get this apostle of 
 the new creed interested in something else. It was for this rea- 
 son that lie had taken pains to have him meet Mrs. Chilton, of 
 whose position in the world of literature he had perhaps an ex- 
 aggerated idea. Mr. Lawrence was a cultivated man, but he was 
 too busy with his humanitarian schemes to know much about 
 modern authors. He used to say that Fielding and Swift, Addi- 
 son and Pope, were contemporaries of his. Yet it was charac- 
 teristic of him that his house should be one of the very few 
 among the "best houses" where people like Mrs. Chilton peo- 
 ple who wrote or painted or acted for a living could be met on 
 terms of equality. There was no Mrs. Lawrence to institute a 
 " salon " Mildred's mother would have had a horror of such an 
 institution if she had been alive but in a casual fashion people 
 with something more than birth or money to commend them 
 were made welcome at the fine old house in Mount Vernon Street, 
 and Mildred grew up without those prejudices of exclusiveness 
 which so many of her friends inherited. They thought she was 
 " the queerest girl in the world," although not for the same 
 reason that Daisy Tredwell did. 
 
 Mildred was well enough acquainted with her father's pecu- 
 liarities to know that the question which she asked him that 
 evening would quite take him aback ; nevertheless some potent 
 impulse urged her to ask it. 
 
 " Papa," she said, thoughtfully, " do you think Mr. Baretta is 
 a gentleman ?" 
 
 " Eh ? What ?" cried Mr. Lawrence, looking at her in aston- 
 ishment. They two were dining together, which was something 
 that did not happen very often. It was impossible for Mr. Law- 
 rence to resist inviting the most unexpected people at all sorts of 
 times and on all sorts of occasions. 
 
 " I mean, do you believe that he was ever really the son of some 
 Hungarian count or prince, as he says ?" 
 
 " Well, Mildred," said her father, with a rather disturbed ex- 
 pression, "it's singular that you should think of such a question 
 as that. To tell the truth, the young man has never said anything 
 about it, one way or the other. I only know what what he has 
 
 83
 
 implied in his conversation. Ah, I must ask him to give an ac- 
 count of himself." 
 
 " Oh !" said Mildred, with a little cry of dismay, " I didn't 
 mean to make you think I doubted his word." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear; not at all," said Mr. Lawrence, blandly. 
 " Only one can't be too careful, you know, in making acquaint- 
 ances, especially with foreigners." And it never occurred to 
 him that, as a father, he might have recognized this important 
 truth before. 
 
 84
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 BARETTA IS CONFIDENT 
 
 SEVERAL weeks passed away before Philip Yates saw Baretta 
 again. Once or twice he wondered vaguely what had become 
 of him, but it must be confessed that he did not care very much. 
 A man must be an ass, he thought, to talk as Baretta had talked 
 at their last meeting. What perplexed him most was how Mil- 
 dred Lawrence could tolerate such a fellow. It was just like 
 her father to pick up all sorts of odd acquaintances; but surely 
 he need not introduce them to his daughter. The explanation 
 occurred to him that possibly Baretta might have exaggerated 
 the degree of intimacy which he enjoyed, and this gave him a 
 melancholy consolation. Philip felt that he was in need of con- 
 solation of some sort. He was not the man to mope or to com- 
 plain to others ; but youth does not readily bear its burdens 
 with the silent patience characteristic of age. If he could not 
 talk about the pain which was gnawing his bosom, he would 
 have liked, nevertheless, to have some one understand without 
 talking how bitter it was. No doubt the Spartan boy was sus- 
 tained by the belief that his heroism would not pass unwept, 
 unhonoured, and unsung. Philip, however, had no friend of 
 either sex to give him tacit sympathy at this crisis. He had 
 fallen out of the way of confiding in his mother or his sisters ; 
 the knowledge that they thought his career a failure made this 
 impossible ; and in any case a man does not say much to his 
 relatives about his love affairs, because their attitude is pretty 
 sure to be one of disapproval. They had liked Mildred and 
 had felt that it was a very suitable match ; but when she broke 
 it off they were very angry with her. Mrs. Yates had even said 
 
 85
 
 that she had hoped she would never see the girl or hear her 
 name again. Perhaps the fact that she recognized the justice 
 of Mildred's feeling about Philip made her all the more angry. 
 It was obvious, therefore, that she would not have much pa- 
 tience with her son for cherishing the folly of loving Mildred 
 still. As for other women there were few with whom Philip 
 was on intimate terms. He was a more or less frequent visitor 
 at the houses of several young married women who were not so 
 devoted to their husbands as to find no enjoyment in the com- 
 panionship of other men sufficiently good - looking and agree- 
 able ; but these acquaintances were too superficial to admit of 
 any sentiment more serious than elusive and flattering homage. 
 Besides, what woman cares to be told by a man how much he 
 admires another? Women are sometimes made victims in this 
 way, and then they retaliate by compelling their tormentor to 
 transfer his affections to them. The men whom Philip knew 
 best, too, had never been made the recipients of his confidence 
 as to his personal concerns. He had a frankness of manner 
 which made him popular with them, but this did not interfere 
 with his capacity for keeping his own secrets. It was known, 
 of course, that he had been engaged to Miss Lawrence, but spec- 
 ulations upon the cause of their separation were not broached 
 in his presence. And thus he bore his hurt in silence. 
 
 Of course, if Philip had been a hero, he would have achieved 
 some great feat of mental prowess at this particular juncture, and 
 convinced Mildred of the injustice of her treatment of him ; and 
 then she would have been repentant and sorrowful, and he would 
 have been magnanimous and forgiving. But events in these 
 days seem to have some difficulty in attaining heroic size, how- 
 ever large one's ambitions may be. Cleverness of one sort or 
 another is so common that even genius is depressed by it. " Go 
 where glory waits thee," is brave advice ; but suppose one looks 
 in every direction and doesn't discover glory waiting anywhere ? 
 Philip knew that he had a certain amount of talent, but he saw 
 no way of exercising it that would make him famous. Even 
 signed articles in the magazines confer only a limited distinction. 
 Then he laughed at his own folly in assuming that anything he 
 could do would win back Mildred now. She had seen very 
 
 86
 
 clearly what a worthless fellow he was. Perhaps she might 
 come to think better of him some day, but there would still be 
 the memory of his bitter words, which she had said she could 
 never forgive, to separate them. Ah, why should he persist in 
 the folly of loving her ? This was a question which he often 
 asked himself, and he could only answer it by saying that love 
 was a wholly involuntary emotion. 
 
 The worst of it was that he was justifying Mildred's reproaches 
 by an utterly idle and vacuous mode of life. It was hardly an 
 excuse to say that success was beyond his reach, or that since 
 he was parted from her it had no charms for him. The casuist- 
 ry of such an argument was only too obvious. Nevertheless, he 
 kept postponing the task of making a break, as he called it. 
 Perhaps he would have more energy when autumn came. It 
 was all nonsense for a man to make a. slave of himself during 
 the hot weather, when he could just as well take a long holiday. 
 Philip was in perfect health, but he began to persuade himself 
 that his physical rather than his intellectual system needed brac- 
 ing. He was confirmed in this belief when the editor of the 
 Mail wrote him a note saying that his last batch of reviews 
 hardly came up to the mark. If he couldn't do hack work like 
 that something must indeed be wrong with him. It was on a 
 warm evening early in June when he got this note. He had 
 gone to his rooms after a pull on the river to dress for dinner, 
 and in the intervals of his leisurely toilet he reflected upon the 
 editor's decision, and was more than ever convinced that he 
 needed a change. He would get away from everything and 
 everybody ; he would go where he could find some sort of ex- 
 citement. It was in this frame of mind that he issued forth 
 into Livingstone Place, where the first person he saw, standing 
 on the pavement directly before the door, was Baretta. 
 
 "Oh, were you coming to see me?" asked Philip. The 
 young men had not parted last on very good terms, but Philip 
 was not a man to cherish resentments. Besides, in his present 
 mood almost any one's companionship was preferable to being 
 alone. 
 
 Baretta looked confused. " No not exactly. I I was just 
 strolling about." 
 
 87
 
 " You were the last man I expected to see." 
 
 " Why ?" Baretta gave a laugh in which there was not much 
 merriment. " Well, I suppose I am off my beat," he added. 
 " I belong in the slums." 
 
 " See here, Baretta, I wish you'd cut all that. I don't know 
 whether you want to quarrel with me, or what you mean, but I 
 am going to be so confoundedly good-natured that you can't 
 doit." 
 
 " Quarrel with you ? I assure you I had no such idea. I 
 was only afraid you would forget the difference in our station." 
 Baretta drew down the corners of his mouth as he spoke, and 
 the ominous scowl which was so characteristic of his face even 
 in moments of abstraction gathered between his eyes. 
 
 Philip made a mental note of the fact that Baretta was more 
 of an ass than he had supposed, and then reflected that if he 
 wanted diversion here was his opportunity. He was coming 
 actually to dislike this young man, and yet he was conscious of 
 an indefinable feeling of interest in him. Was this because he 
 associated him in his mind with Mildred Lawrence ? Surely such 
 an association must be productive rather of pain than of pleas- 
 ure. But whatever the reason, he paid no heed to this taunt. 
 " Come along and dine with me," was what he said. 
 
 " Oh, I I can't," stammered Baretta, rather taken aback by 
 this proffer of hospitality in response to his rude speech. 
 
 "Nonsense I want to have a talk with you. I sha'n't ask 
 you again ; I am going away from Boston in a few days." 
 
 " For good ?" The frown gave way to something like a smile 
 as Baretta asked this question. 
 
 " You look as if you wanted me to say yes. But although I 
 won't quarrel with you I can't be quite so obliging as all that. 
 Come over to the club." 
 
 " Well, you are very kind," said Baretta, rather awkwardly. 
 " I didn't suppose they let outsiders in." 
 
 Philip stared at him. " Oh, you are my guest," he said. " I 
 dare say you'll be such a celebrity before long that one will 
 have to speak for you a week ahead." 
 
 " Oh no not quite that. But my plans are coining on very 
 well very well indeed." There was a note of triumphant sat- 
 
 88
 
 isfaction in his voice which Philip could not very well resent, al- 
 though somehow he fancied that his companion regarded him 
 as one of the conquered. 
 
 "Ah," he said, dryly, "you and Mrs. Chilton have got on well 
 together." 
 
 " Mrs. Chilton has gone to Europe, but I have other friends 
 left." 
 
 " No doubt. Don't you enjoy a walk across the Common at 
 this time of year and this time of day ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, very pretty. As I was saying," went on Baretta, 
 raising his voice, and seeming actually to swell physically with 
 a sense of his own importance, "I have been getting on re- 
 markably well. I find the city ripe for Socialism to a surpris- 
 ing extent, and in the most unexpected quarters." 
 
 Philip laughed. " That's to be the new fad, is it ?" 
 
 " Fad ? What do you mean by fad ? Why should you call 
 it that ? If you think I'm not in earnest you're very much mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " My dear fellow, I don't dispute your earnestness for a 
 moment. It's the others I am thinking about." 
 
 " You're just like Ditton. He doesn't think I can do any 
 good among the upper classes as they call themselves." 
 
 " Well, candidly, I agree with Ditton. Just think what 
 you're doing, Baretta. You're asking them to assist at their 
 own destruction." 
 
 " On the contrary, I am trying to save them. If they see 
 what Socialism really means they may take a friendly and 
 reasonable attitude towards it before it is too late." 
 
 " Oh, I see ; it's a flag of truce that you carry." Philip 
 laughed again. " Don't think I wish to discourage you. But 
 make your hay while you can and try to be content with a light 
 crop." 
 
 When they sat down to dinner at the Pilgrim Club they 
 had a small table by the window, and between them were two 
 long candlesticks with tiny red shades, reflecting with a cheer- 
 ful glow the soft light from the burning tapers, which mingled 
 pleasantly with the fading light of day Baretta gave Philip 
 a rapid outline of his plans. It was, of course, too late in the 
 
 89
 
 season to do much now ; through the summer he would stick to 
 his old work at the Socialist meetings and in the slums. But 
 Mrs. Chilton had encouraged the idea of his giving lectures in 
 the autumn, and had said she would speak about it to all her 
 friends. And a man whom he had met at her house, Mr. Allen, 
 wanted him to come out to Brookline and talk to the Tuesday 
 Afternoon Club. Of course Yates had heard of Orrin Fox 
 Allen. And then there was the Zola Society those people 
 would be interested in Socialism from the realistic point of 
 view. Oh, there would be a great field for missionary efforts, 
 Baretta thought. 
 
 " I shall have to come and hear you," said Philip, smiling. 
 " Don't you care for claret ? What will you have ?" 
 
 Baretta was not devoted to the pleasures of the table which 
 was fortunate for one who so seldom enjoyed them and he 
 answered truly enough that he did not care. He added that he 
 never drank wine. 
 
 " Oh, well, I will send for a bottle of Apollinaris. You don't 
 miss much in refusing this," said Philip, setting down his glass. 
 " I don't see why a decent claret need be quite so hard to get 
 in this country. They'll be wanting to make you a member of 
 the Zola Society, you know, Baretta. Socialism will just suit 
 them." 
 
 " I should not join," said the young man promptly, taking 
 this remark seriously. " I can do my work best as an outsider. 
 Mr. Lawrence thinks that. Oh !" he added, turning red, " I I 
 beg your pardon." 
 
 Philip, too, changed colour, but he faced without wincing the 
 awkward situation produced by Baretta's blunder and his in- 
 excusable lack of tact in aggravating it. " Ah, I suppose you 
 mean Sibley Lawrence," he said, blandly. " I didn't fancy that 
 he would go in for Socialism." 
 
 " He doesn't," said Baretta. It surprised him that Yates 
 should be willing to talk about the Lawrences in this way ; he 
 had been anticipating an angry protest at this chance mention 
 .of Mr. Lawrence's name. It will be seen that Baretta's concep- 
 tions of the character of a gentleman were still somewhat in- 
 adequate. " That is," he went on, " he thinks that I go too 
 
 90
 
 far. But he believes that some things in the present social 
 structure are radically wrong, and that it can do people no 
 harm to hear the extreme view. ' I want them to believe about 
 a quarter part of what you say ' that's the way he puts it." 
 
 " They will believe more than that at first." 
 
 " If they think that we are not in earnest they will find out 
 their mistake," declared Baretta. " But I have still another 
 opening, and I wanted to ask your advice about that. I met 
 Mr. Binney, the editor of the Mail, a few days ago, and he sug- 
 gested a series of articles on Socialism." 
 
 " Oh, write them, by all means," said Philip. He did not think 
 it necessary to add that he himself had suggested writing a sim- 
 ilar series, and had been told by Binney that the public was not 
 interested in that sort of thing. But he could not help think- 
 ing that this young man seemed destined to be an unconscious 
 rival of his at every step, and he was aware of a curiously im- 
 personal desire to know how the rivalry would end. 
 
 " Yes, I think I might do that," said Baretta, complacently. 
 
 Philip smiled again rather bitterly, and led the conversation 
 to other subjects. But when, an hour later, his guest took his 
 leave, excusing himself on the plea of an engagement for the 
 evening, he recurred to Binney's proposition, and told Baretta 
 that it was a great opening for him. " I don't mean that you 
 will make many converts," he said, " but that it will be an im- 
 mense advantage for you personally. And when you get your 
 chance don't throw it away, as I have done." 
 
 " Oh, you !" exclaimed Baretta, turning in the doorway and 
 looking back at him. " You don't need to have chances." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" Philip reflected a moment, as if the 
 question were really a very grave one. " Well, that's very 
 lucky for me," he added. " Good-night, Baretta. Come and 
 see me in the fall." 
 
 Baretta turned the corner by the Pilgrim Club and ascended 
 the hill in the direction of Mount Vernon Street with a swelling 
 sense of his own superiority to the rest of the world. Here was 
 Yates, one of the men whom he had envied, actually envying him. 
 Yates was a mighty good fellow, of course, even if now and then 
 he was unconsciously patronizing, but he was not brilliant ; and
 
 if he had had to make his own way in the world he would hardly 
 have commended himself to the notice of Mr. Lawrence and 
 Mrs. Chilton and the editor of the Mail. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence was at home, the grave man-servant told him 
 when he rang the bell at the house in Mount Vernon Street. 
 After waiting a moment in the reception-room at the left of the 
 hall he was bidden to come up-stairs to the library. Here he 
 found that gentleman, sitting at a capacious mahogany table 
 which occupied the centre of the room. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Baretta," he said, looking up. " Pardon me a 
 moment while I finish this note. Take that chair you will 
 find it more comfortable." 
 
 " Perhaps I disturb you," said the young man, hesitating. 
 
 " Oh no not at all." The pen scratched over the paper a 
 minute longer; then the writer folded the note and addressed 
 it. " Now, my dear sir, I am quite at your service." 
 
 "I only came for the book you were going to lend me The 
 French Revolution, you know." 
 
 " Ah, yes Carlyle. You'll find him picturesque, but you 
 must take what he says with a grain of salt." Mr. Lawrence 
 rose and selected the volumes from the case. "There they are; 
 you needn't hurry about returning them. But don't go I 
 should like to have a little chat with you. Have you decided to 
 give those lectures ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, if you think best." 
 
 " Don't put the responsibility upon me," said Mr. Lawrence, 
 smiling. " You might fail, and then you would blame me for it." 
 
 Oh, I don't think I shall fail." 
 
 " Well, well, confidence is the main thing, after all. I don't 
 mean to doubt your success." 
 
 " There is another matter I want to tell you about, sir," 
 Baretta continued. " The Mail has made me an offer to write 
 a series of articles on Socialism." 
 
 " Indeed ! A very good idea of Binney's. Do you know 
 him ?" 
 
 " He asked me personally. I met him at Mr. Allen's Mr. 
 Orrin Fox Allen." 
 
 " I see, I see." Mr. Lawrence gazed reflectively at the ceil- 
 
 92
 
 ing a moment, and then added : " I think you will get on, Mr. 
 Baretta ; yes, I think you will get on." 
 
 " I am glad to have your approval, sir yours and your 
 daughter's." 
 
 " Ah !" Mr. Lawrence recalled at this point his conversation 
 with Mildred about Baretta's antecedents, and looked at the 
 young man a little less genially than before. " You have 
 spoken to her about this ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " She goes away to-morrow I dare say you will not see her 
 again. But I shall be very pleased to tell her of your good- 
 fortune." 
 
 Baretta did not receive this news with a joyful countenance. 
 To be sure, he did not see her very often, but he felt as if her 
 absence would somehow make a great difference to him. 
 " Where does she go ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, to Beverly, as usual ; we have a house there." But Mr. 
 Lawrence did not add, " You must come and see us," as Baretta 
 was insanely hoping that he might. Indeed, it seemed to the 
 young man as if he turned the conversation into another chan- 
 nel rather abruptly by asking, " Do you still keep up those 
 Sunday meetings on the Common ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, but I haven't been much of late. That is Mr. 
 Ditton's field of work." 
 
 " And you and he follow different lines, eh ?" 
 
 "He doesn't believe in the lectures at all. But one could 
 hardly expect that he would. He is a rather rough sort of 
 person, don't you know." 
 
 " Ah ! I had supposed he was an educated man. He is or 
 was a clergyman, I believe." 
 
 Baretta coloured, and wondered if this were meant for a. re- 
 proof. "Of course I did not mean to prejudice you against 
 him, Mr. Lawrence." 
 
 "By-the-way, Mr. Baretta," Mr. Lawrence began suddenly, 
 ignoring this last remark, " you have never told me much of 
 anything about yourself." 
 
 " About myself ?" asked the young man, flushing again. " Oh, 
 well there isn't much to tell." 
 
 93
 
 " Your father was a Hungarian, you once said. I suppose he 
 came over here at the time of the trouble in 1848." 
 
 " Yes, sir, yes that was it," answered Baretta, with an eager- 
 ness which struck his listener as rather odd. " There were 
 complications of a political nature." 
 
 "I see, I see. He must have known Kossuth and Gorgei 
 and the rest of them." 
 
 " I I dare say he did. He never talked much to me about 
 the about those matters. It was when he was quite young 
 long before I was born." 
 
 " His experiences must have been most interesting. But his 
 family did he not communicate with them afterwards ? I had 
 the impression that there was an estate involved I don't recall 
 now exactly how I obtained it." 
 
 " Oh yes, something of the sort I never understood myself. 
 There were family complications, and some doubt about the 
 the succession." 
 
 " There was a title involved ?" Baretta said nothing, and Mr. 
 Lawrence took his silence to mean assent. " Well, you ought to 
 go over and look into it. There Avould be no difficulty now. It 
 is too bad that your father did not live to see Austria and Hun- 
 gary reconciled." 
 
 " Yes it is," said Baretta. The turn which the conversation 
 was taking made him very uneasy. He was willing that people 
 should cherish exaggerated ideas of his family connections, but 
 still he wanted to be able to say that he never indulged in direct 
 untruths on this point. He had been obliged to draw upon his 
 imagination in calling his father a political refugee. That, how- 
 ever, was a comparatively venial falsehood ; nor was he respon- 
 sible for the inferences of other people. 
 
 At this moment the door opened suddenly and Mildred came 
 into the room. " Oh, papa " she began. Then she saw Baretta, 
 and blushed, and stopped short. " I beg your pardon for being 
 so abrupt; I thought you were alone. How do you do, Mr. 
 Baretta ?" she added, turning to the visitor. 
 
 Baretta rose and extended his hand before he observed that 
 she had not extended hers. He dropped it to his side instantly, 
 with a bitter pang of humiliation. She was no longer going to 
 
 94
 
 be kind to him was that it ? Who had been prejudicing her 
 against him ? For a moment he thought of Yates ; but that was 
 clearly absurd. He felt certain, however, that some adverse in- 
 fluence was at work. 
 
 " Your father tells me you are going away," he murmured, 
 unconsciously clenching his fist. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mildred. " It is quite time to be out of the 
 city. We have had several very hot days already." 
 
 " Some of us manage to live through them just the same," 
 cried Baretta, bitterly. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence and his daughter both looked at him when he 
 said this with an expression of astonishment. In the moment 
 of silence which followed Baretta wished that the earth would 
 swallow him. Now he had indeed offended her forever. 
 
 " It's a notion of course it's a notion," said Mr. Lawrence. 
 " I will come to you in the drawing-room in a minute, Mildred. 
 Yes, yes one can be quite comfortable here in Boston." 
 
 " I I must be going," stammered Baretta, reaching out for 
 his hat. Then his eyes met Mildred's with an appealing glance. 
 " Good-bye," he said. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mr. Baretta." But she did not even then offer 
 to shake hands with him, nor did she say anything about his 
 coming to see her in the autumn. 
 
 95
 
 CHAPTER X 
 "NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU AS I DO" 
 
 THE day had been intensely hot, as days in June often are, 
 and even after the sun had gone down the dusty pavements and 
 the close brick walls seemed to reflect its burning rays. In Ar- 
 ragon Street doors and windows were flung wide open ; and 
 from them issued blasts of warm air, mingled with the sickening 
 odours of refuse in the primary stages of decay. It was Sunday 
 evening, and the women had let the dirty dishes accumulate in 
 the kitchen sink unwashed, where the buzzing of flies, no less 
 than the stench, attested their presence. Some of these women 
 were now sitting in the doorways or leaning out of the windows 
 their coarse red arms bared to the elbows and their gowns in 
 various stages of disarrangement. Many of the younger ones 
 had gone, attired in cheap finery which added to their discom- 
 fort and emphasized their unattractiveness alike to nose and eye, 
 to stroll slowly eastward in the direction of the Common, and 
 the more fortunate among them were riding westward with their 
 " fellers " in the open cars in the direction of Franklin Park. 
 These young men, too, would not have commended themselves 
 to persons of delicate perceptions. Their faces were red, and 
 constant streams of perspiration had made them greasy. They 
 had generally discarded their waistcoats or had put on thin ones 
 in various stages of soilure ; and as collars were uncomfortable 
 they had dispensed with those useless adornments, and had 
 tucked handkerchiefs of a suspicious hue about their reeking 
 necks. The men who stayed at home for the most part fathers 
 of families and smoked dirty clay pipes or chewed tobacco, 
 sitting in groups about the door-steps, had neither coats nor 
 
 96
 
 waistcoats to encumber them, their sole concession to the pro- 
 prieties of the day being a brassy-looking stud in the neckband 
 of the shirt. 
 
 Peter Dolan was one of these. He had left the shelter of his 
 own vine and fig-tree and was visiting his next-door neighbour, 
 Finnerty, who was also employed in the iron works at South 
 Boston. He could hear the shrill voices of his own younger 
 children, and when they grew too loud, or when quarrelling 
 reached the acute stage of fisticuffs, he was able to restore a 
 semblance of order by a few loud oaths. Mrs. Dolan sat in the 
 darkness within the doorway, but her protests had little effect. 
 It was only when she threatened to send them all to bed that 
 they paid any attention to her, and her failure to execute the 
 threat soon robbed it of its terrors. On the same principle, 
 Dolan's oaths were frequent enough to lose their force. But he 
 had a way of laying about him with his fists that was very un- 
 pleasant, and when he was only a single door away the contin- 
 gency of his doing so could not be considered a remote one. 
 
 " So it's ordered out we all are in the mornin', Dolan," said 
 Finnerty. 
 
 Dolan plastered the extreme edge of the curb with a generous 
 supply of tobacco-juice before he spoke. " Yes, dom 'em !" he 
 said at last, gruffly. 
 
 " It's hard whin a poor man has to give up his job loike 
 that." 
 
 " They'd been afther lockin' us out next wake if we hadn't 
 struck this, Finnerty. Don't ye make no mistake about that." 
 
 " That's what Luck says, I know, but the boss has allus been 
 a fair man to me I'll say that fer him." 
 
 " Och, you haven't no gumption !" said Dolan, contemptuously. 
 " Phwat the divvle do we care for the boss ? It's him that's 
 ready to turn us out and put in a lot of dom scabs fer the sake 
 of twinty-five cints a day. Let him go to hell that's what I 
 am afther sayin'." 
 
 " That don't help a poor man to pay the rint," persisted Fin- 
 nerty, doggedly. 
 
 " Luck '11 look afther that, my bhoy. Ain't it the juty of the 
 Union to support the mimbers whin they are shtandin' up fer 
 
 a 97
 
 their rights ? Wut's a Union fer if it ain't ? That's \vut I'd 
 loike to know." 
 
 " If they'll only kape it up. Whin a poor man's lost his 
 job" 
 
 " Dom you, Finnerty !" cried Dolan. " Yer haven't the cour- 
 age av a flea. Them fellers '11 have to give in to us evenchooly. 
 It's allus the way." 
 
 " Well, well !" murmured Finnerty, feebly. He knew that he 
 was getting the worst of the argument, but nevertheless he 
 could not share Dolan's cheerful confidence that the owners of 
 the works would give in. He mopped his face with a red 
 handkerchief much the worse for wear, and looked vaguely 
 down the dusty street. " Here comes Mr. Baretta," he said, 
 presently. 
 
 " Dom him, too !" cried Dolan, fiercely. " He's one of them 
 as is agin us." 
 
 " Wut makes ye think that, Dolan ?" 
 
 " If it's not belavin' me ye'd be, ask Luck." Dolan once 
 more directed a volley at the curb, and then nodded in a surly 
 fashion as Baretta came up. 
 
 u So the strike's on, is it ?" asked the young man. " Good- 
 evening, Mr. Finnerty." 
 
 " Yes, sir, we wint out yisterday afthernoon," said Finnerty, 
 seeing that Dolan obviously intended to make no reply. 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry for it, to tell the truth." 
 
 " Who cares whether ye're sorry or not ?" growled Dolan, 
 without looking up. 
 
 " Not you, at any rate," retorted Baretta. " But a good many 
 of the strikers will have reason to feel sorry before the thing is 
 over. And so will their families." 
 
 " You lave my family alone ! I can take care of 'em myself." 
 
 " Perhaps you can," observed Baretta, with a sneer ; " but you 
 don't not when you go into a strike of this sort at the order 
 of a scoundrel like Luck." 
 
 " You can talk moighty big you can !" 
 
 " Well, I sha'n't talk about this strike now it's too late for 
 that. It's none of my affair anyway." He waited a moment, 
 and, when neither of the men made any further remark, added, 
 
 98
 
 " You won't succeed remember what I say." Then he went 
 on and entered Dolan's door, stumbling over the children on the 
 steps. 
 
 Mrs. Dolan was still sitting in the entry, and the young man 
 stopped to speak to her. " I'm sorry about this strike," he said. 
 But Mrs. Dolan merely shook her head and groaned. There 
 was some one sitting on the stairs, and as Baretta turned to go 
 up this person silently rose to let him pass. It was Maud. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Baretta, rather awkwardly, looking at her. 
 He hesitated a moment. " Won't you come a little ways with 
 me ?" he asked at last. 
 
 Maud shook her head in silence. 
 
 " Do," said Mrs. Dolan. " It'll do ye good afther bein' hived 
 up here all day. I'd go myself if I wa'n't so fat." 
 
 There was another pause, during which Baretta continued to 
 look at the girl entreatingly. " Oh, well !" she cried at last, 
 petulantly, " I suppose I must. Wait till I get my hat." 
 
 " Let us go towards Park Square," said Baretta, as they came 
 out upon the pavement. " It isn't far, and we can take a car 
 there for Chestnut Hill." 
 
 " I don't see why you should want to be seen with me." She 
 nodded as she passed her father and Finnerty, and Dolan called 
 out, " Moiud ye don't be gone long now." Then, as the young 
 man made no answer, she added, " However, there ain't much 
 chance of her seeing us, is there ?" 
 
 " Her !" repeated Baretta, " who do you mean by her ?" 
 
 " What's the use of trying to deceive me, Frank ? Do you 
 suppose that I haven't got eyes ?" 
 
 " If it gives you any satisfaction to make yourself and me un- 
 comfortable, I dare say you have a right to do so. Only I don't 
 think it's fair, considering all I'm doing for your sake." 
 
 The girl stopped and faced him. " For my sake !" she cried, 
 with a laugh in which there was not much merriment. 
 
 " Do you think I stay on here for any other reason ?" 
 
 "Well, then," she retorted, with another laugh, "you can 
 go." 
 
 The ugly scowl came over Baretta's face. " Oh, if you want 
 to get rid of me " 
 
 99
 
 " We're going out to Chestnut Hill, ain't we ?" interrupted 
 Maud, walking on. 
 
 " See here, Maud," continued Baretta, trying to speak more 
 pleasantly, " it's foolish for us to quarrel. 1 don't know what 
 extraordinary notion you've got in your head. If you mean 
 that any of the people you like to call my swell friends will now 
 come between us, that shows how little you know them or me. 
 I told you once I would stay in Arragon Street for your sake, 
 and I will keep my word. Of course if you no longer care for 
 me" 
 
 "What do you want to say that for?" she burst out passion- 
 ately. " Do you want to lower my pride my self-respect ? To 
 be sure, I haven't got much. How could I have ? No girl who 
 thought anything of herself would tell a man that she how 
 much she cared for him." She paused a moment, and then 
 went on: "Well, it's the truth I ain't ashamed of it. She 
 wouldn't say that." 
 
 The sincerity of this declaration at once confused and ex- 
 plicit touched him. " Maud, dear," he said, very gently, " you 
 know I love you. And I wish you wouldn't talk as if there was 
 any one else." 
 
 She regarded him a moment through eyes that glistened with 
 unshed tears. " Oh, but there would be if things were differ- 
 ent," she said. " I'm only a second best. Do you suppose I'm 
 such a fool as not to know that ?" 
 
 Baretta offered her his arm and drew her closer to him. They 
 had now turned the corner from Madrid Street into Columbus 
 Avenue. " I know what you mean, Maud, but you are wrong 
 there. It is quite true that one or two people have been very 
 kind to me. One of them is a young lady, the daughter of 
 Mr. Lawrence ; you have heard me speak of him. And I I 
 admire her very much ; you would, if you knew her. But 
 well, just you go to her and tell her I am in love with her and 
 see what she would say. Why, if I should hint at such a thing 
 her father would turn me out of the house. You see," he add- 
 ed, bitterly, " it's all very well to take up with common folks 
 like us, but we mustn't make the mistake of forgetting our 
 station." 
 
 100
 
 "You are not common, Frank. Your father was a great man 
 in his own country." 
 
 " Oh, well !" cried Baretta, irritably, for somehow her implicit 
 belief in his pretensions annoyed him for the moment, although 
 not sufficiently to lead him to tell her the truth ; " that doesn't 
 make any difference here. I'm an unknown adventurer that's 
 the way they look at me. They're only taking me up to amuse 
 themselves. Yates says so." 
 
 " But you said they had a great interest they were going to 
 help you." 
 
 " I say that Yates thinks that not that I do. But he has a 
 reason." 
 
 " What reason ?" 
 
 " How curious you are, Maud. He's jealous of me he envies 
 - me my opportunities. Yates is a good enough sort of fellow, 
 but he don't amount to much, and it annoys him to see me get- 
 ting on." 
 
 " Well, he must be a mean thing, Frank !" 
 
 " Oh no Yates isn't mean. I don't expect you can under- 
 stand, exactly." 
 
 " There's so much I can't understand," said Maud, mourn- 
 fully. "But I'll tell you what I wish." 
 
 " Well ?" he said, encouragingly, seeing that she hesitated. 
 
 " I wish that you could get away from all these people like 
 like us and do something for yourself. You're too smart 
 for them. You can find enough to do without going round with 
 men like Ditton and Luck. That's why I think you ought to 
 to give me up." 
 
 This speech penetrated even Baretta's egotism, and touched 
 him. "My dear Maud, I'll never give you up. I'll take you 
 away with me." 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" she whispered, gratefully. Perhaps she had 
 not been quite sincere in her offer of renunciation ; at all events, 
 his refusal to accept it flooded her heart with sudden rapture. 
 "Oh, Frank!" she repeated, "no one will ever love you as I do." 
 
 After that neither said anything until they were in the car 
 and on their way to Chestnut Hill. It was worth while, Baretta 
 thought, to have heard Maud say she loved him, even although 
 
 101
 
 there was another whom he could have loved more than he did 
 her. But since Mildred had said farewell to him so coldly he 
 had recognized fully the impossibility of his aspirations in that 
 direction. He had found some consolation in projecting him- 
 self in imagination into the scene of his future achievements, 
 which were to make him famous enough to aspire to anything. 
 These, however, were as yet impalpable, and meanwhile he felt 
 the need of feminine sympathy. Besides, he was so far bound 
 to Maud that he would not throw her over, especially when 
 there was the risk of getting no one else if he did. And he 
 really was fond of her. Those occasional moments of estrange- 
 ment between them on the whole increased this fondness. A 
 man less impressionable than Baretta would have been moved 
 by Maud's fervid devotion. 
 
 "You ought to live in a house like that," said Maud, presently, 
 as the car whizzed along the broad boulevard. She pointed to 
 a pretty villa, perched upon a bank above the -road, and half- 
 hidden in clambering vines. 
 
 " Oh, that ! Why, it's Allen's house," said Baretta. " I was 
 out there not long ago. It's closed now. I suppqpe he's gone 
 away for the summer with the rest of them." 
 
 " Who is he?" asked Maud. " I don't think if I had a house 
 like that I'd want to go away." 
 
 " Didn't you see how they were all boarded up back on 
 Beacon Street? Oh yes, they go away to to Beverly, and 
 never think once of those that stay behind shut up in stifling 
 tenements on a day like this !" 
 
 " Yes, it's hard that some people should have everything," 
 said Maud. " But why should they think of the others ?" 
 
 " Oh, well, you wait ! When we have our rights, people 
 won't live in Arragon Street while places like these are empty." 
 
 " But do you think that time will ever come, Frank ? Be- 
 cause I don't." 
 
 " It's what I'm working for it's what I'd give my life for !" 
 said Baretta. 
 
 " Don't !" said Maud. A man on the seat in front had 
 turned around, and she fancied that he had heard. " I want 
 you to keep your life for me," she murmured, nestling a little 
 
 102
 
 closer to him. In Arragon Street they took manifestations of 
 affection in public as a matter of course. Maud, to be sure, 
 had never been a 'girl to allow indiscriminate familiarity. But 
 Baretta stood in a different relation to her than the rest. She 
 withdrew herself again, however, when she saw that he made no 
 response, and that sudden chill of conviction that he did not 
 really love her once more took possession of her heart. 
 
 " Do you see the man on the second seat in front ?" asked 
 Baretta, heeding neither movement. " That is Mr. Allen him- 
 self. I wonder we didn't see him get in." 
 
 " Oh, well !" said Maud, with an air of pique, " if you are 
 more interested in him than in me, why didn't you go and talk 
 to him !" 
 
 "Don't be foolish!" said the young man, impatiently. At 
 this moment Mr. Allen turned partly in his seat and caught 
 sight of him. 
 
 " Ah, I want to talk with you," he said, as he swung himself 
 into the seat directly in front. Then he looked at Maud and 
 lifted his hat. " I beg your pardon I thought you were alone." 
 
 "This is Miss Dolan," said Baretta, looking confused, and 
 mumbling the name in the hope that Mr. Allen would not get a 
 very accurate idea of it. To be found with Miss Dolan was too 
 hopelessly plebeian. Maud looked very pretty she had on a 
 simple white dress that she had washed and ironed herself only 
 the day before, and a knot of dark-red ribbon at the throat and 
 a band of the same about her waist. But any one could see that 
 she was not a lady ; this conviction made her companion feel 
 quite miserable. 
 
 Maud blushed slightly under Mr. Allen's scrutiny and ex- 
 tended her hand. Baretta thought he detected an amused 
 smile on Mr. Allen's face as he took it a moment, bowed, and 
 then said, " I am very pleased to meet you, Miss er " 
 
 " Dolan," said Maud, with unmistakable clearness. 
 
 " Ah, Dolan. I am a dreadfully bad hand at catching names, 
 don't you know," said Mr. Allen, pleasantly, while Baretta 
 scowled and ground his teeth in helpless rage. " What a 
 frightfully hot day it has been ! I've had the house closed 
 tight, but somehow the heat got in." 
 
 103
 
 " We saw your house as we came by," said Maud, smiling, 
 " and Frank Mr. Bare.tta said you must be gone away for the 
 summer." 
 
 Baretta scowled again, more fiercely than before. But nei- 
 ther of them saw him. He was humiliated by that unconscious 
 confession of familiarity on Maud's part in using his first name, 
 and he was also annoyed to think why, he could not exactly 
 tell that she should let Mr. Allen know they had been talking 
 about him. 
 
 " Oh no I don't sail until Saturday." 
 
 " You are going on a boat ?" asked Maud, who seemed to 
 have no feeling of shyness at all in the presence of this young 
 man, who had such an agreeable voice and who addressed her 
 with so much courteous deference. 
 
 " To the other side, you know," he said, smiling again. " I 
 go every summer. I was sorry not to sail last month," he 
 added, turning to catch Baretta's eye. " Mrs. Chilton went 
 then, and I am very fond of Mrs. Chilton." 
 
 Maud thought that this was a queer way of speaking of a 
 married lady ; but she concluded that it must be one of those 
 customs of society of which she knew nothing. " I guess I've 
 heard of Mrs. Chilton," she said. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! She has a great admiration for our friend. She 
 expects him to do wonderful things with his lectures." 
 
 " He's awful smart !" assented Maud, with a laugh which be- 
 trayed an immense satisfaction in that fact. 
 
 " That's a compliment worth having. I sha'n't agree with 
 you, though, because Baretta's vain enough already." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't say such things." Baretta spoke 
 calmly enough, although in truth he was anything but calm. 
 
 " Which of us is that meant for ?" asked Mr. Allen. Then, 
 with ready tact, he changed his tone. He felt that they might 
 be getting upon dangerous ground. " Well, Mr. Baretta, I hope 
 you'll get on with those lectures; I shall be quite anxious to 
 hear them. By-the-way, have you begun your work for the 
 Mail yet? It was that which I wanted to speak to you 
 about." 
 
 " I sent Mr. Binney the first article yesterday." 
 
 104
 
 " Well, you must make him let you sign it ; I should make a 
 point of that." 
 
 " So Mr. Yates said. Do you know him Philip Yates ?" 
 
 " Not very well. He's a good sort of fellow, though. By- 
 the-way, he was once engaged to your friend Miss Lawrence. 
 I dare say you knew that." 
 
 Baretta's heart throbbed with sudden emotion when Mr. 
 Allen said this ; but although this emotion was in some measure 
 reflected in the dull red flush that overspread his face, he af- 
 fected an air of calmness. " To Yates? I oh yes, I may have 
 heard something of the sort and forgotten it." 
 
 Maud, watching him, was not deceived by his tone. Oh, it 
 was only too true, she told herself, that he was in love with this 
 young lady, who would look down upon him who would not 
 admire him as she did. She felt angry with this unknown Miss 
 Lawrence, forgetting that she wanted Baretta for herself, and 
 had every reason to be grateful to one who did not want him. 
 
 " Miss Lawrence doesn't like me," Mr. Allen Avent on ; "I re- 
 member telling you that at Mrs. Chilton's. But I am magnani- 
 mous enough to admire her very greatly. Are you going as 
 far as the Reservoir ? It's a pleasant night for a ride. One can 
 keep cool in an open car if anywhere. I get off at the next 
 street. Good-evening good-evening, Miss Dolan." He lifted 
 his hat to Maud and nodded cheerfully to Baretta as the car 
 slackened speed, and then swung himself from the high step. 
 
 "Is he a great friend of yours?" asked Maud, looking after 
 him as the car rolled on. 
 
 " No," answered Baretta, curtly. 
 
 " He was very nice, anyway. I don't think you acted very 
 polite to him." 
 
 " As you and he did all the talking, I don't see how I could be." 
 
 " Why, Frank, you ain't mad with me because I spoke to him ?" 
 
 " No, no ; of course not." Baretta could not explain to 
 Maud why he had been annoyed by the meeting, and he was 
 anxious not to hurt her feelings by letting her see that he was 
 annoyed at all. Having put Mildred Lawrence out of his mind 
 altogether, as he thought, he was determined to make the best 
 of his relations with this other girl one, he thought bitterly, of 
 
 105
 
 his own station in life. But still the wound was there, and it 
 gave him moments of wellnigh unendurable pain. Ho was 
 thinking now of what Mr. Allen had told him. So he had 
 found out why Yates and Miss Lawrence were strangers ! They 
 had been lovers, and something had happened to part them. He 
 made up his mind that he would find out what it had been. He 
 did not dislike Yates ; as Mr. Allen had said, he was a very 
 good sort of fellow. But he was conscious of a curious feel- 
 ing of exultation in the knowledge that he and Miss Lawrence 
 had quarrelled, as well as of a wild hope that it would somehow 
 be an advantage to himself. This was inconsistent in him after 
 he had determined to marry Maud, but the operation of the 
 human mind in such cases often is inconsistent. 
 
 " Miss Lawrence must be very pretty you all seem to be 
 gone on her." 
 
 Maud's remark awoke him from his reflections. It also irri- 
 tated him. 
 
 " Oh, don't let us be everlastingly talking about her," he said. 
 " She's nothing to you or to me." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! You said she was kind to you." 
 
 " See here, Maud ! I won't let any of them patronize me. 
 The time has gone by for that. I've got a start and I'm able to 
 make my own way. And Yates, confound him ! and all the 
 rest of them, needn't put on any more airs !" 
 
 The car had stopped at the entrance to the Reservoir. " It 
 won't go back for ten minutes," said Baretta, as he helped the 
 girl alight. " Come, let us walk for a little." 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" cried Maud to him piteously, as they went 
 along the white road under the trees, where already the summer 
 evening, fresh and sweet out here far from the hot pavements, 
 was turning to dusk, " is it really me you care for ?" 
 
 She put out her hand, and he took it in his. "Really," he 
 said ; and perhaps for the moment he believed it. At all events, 
 he drew her farther into the shadow, and bent down and kissed 
 her. As their lips met she gave a passionate shudder, and 
 threw her arms about his neck. " It would kill me to lose you 
 now !" she said. And when he looked in her eyes again he 
 saw that they were full of tears. 
 
 106
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 PLAYING WITH FIRE 
 
 MAUD was very quiet all the way home. Perhaps she re- 
 gretted that impulsive confession. She was very much in love 
 with Baretta and very proud of him ; but she could not help 
 feeling that the heroines of whom she liked to read would not 
 have done anything so undignified. To be sure, they were 
 ladies of rank, who inspired undying devotion in handsome cap- 
 tains or wealthy earls, and it was comparatively easy for them 
 to accept homage passively. The audacious ones, those who 
 sprang at men and kissed them, always came to some bad end. 
 Usually it was death by drowning, or something of that sort, 
 and then those who had despised them, or who had believed 
 evil of them, went away and never smiled again. Maud did not 
 think that anything which could happen to her would afflict 
 Baretta so deeply as that. She knew, as she said, that she was 
 only second best. But she worshipped him so that even with 
 this much she was content. By-and-by he might see that she 
 deserved the first place. It was the truth, she felt sure, that no 
 one would ever^love him as much as she did. 
 
 A man who could inspire an affection like this, even in a 
 poor and half-educated girl like Maud Dolan, might well have 
 regarded the trust imposed upon him as something sacred. It 
 is doubtful, however, if Baretta had any such feeling. He was 
 touched by the evidence of her passionate love, of course, and 
 perhaps for the moment it kindled in him an answering flame. 
 But he had bound himself to her with misgivings, and these 
 were more potent than any charm which her fresh young beauty 
 might exercise over him. He had not meant to bind himself at 
 
 107
 
 all. But when he had promised not to go away from Arragon 
 Street he had taken a step from the consequences of which he 
 could not escape. After that it was so easy to fall into the 
 position of a lover, especially when there was a man like Dolan 
 to reckon with. His daily association with her of itself meant 
 that there must be something definite between them. There 
 had been times, indeed, when it seemed as if Maud herself were 
 determined to break off their relations altogether. He remem- 
 bered how, for several days after his promise to her to stay, she 
 had ^resolutely avoided him, and had almost refused to speak to 
 him. And there had been occasions since when he had felt 
 that she would not care whether he stayed or went. Now, how- 
 ever, the bond was inevitable. Well, what better could he ask, 
 knowing as he did the utter hopelessness of that wild dream of 
 his ? Maud might be queer, and she certainly was not a lady ; 
 but she was a good girl and fond of him. Why should a man 
 ask more ? He looked at her as she sat beside him, and thought 
 with satisfaction how pretty she was. Of course she could 
 never appeal to the intellectual part of his nature. But the 
 warm, rich colouring of her cheek, her glistening dark eyes, the 
 gracious fulness of her figure, the strong feminine magnetism 
 of her presence, filled him with a certain sensuous delight 
 which it was worth while to experience. 
 
 " Maud," he said, after a time, " I am worried about that 
 strike." 
 
 The girl had been dreaming of vague impossibilities in which 
 he was always the central object, and she gave a little shiver of 
 impatience at being thus suddenly recalled to the solid ground 
 of fact. " Oh, bother the strike !" she said. ",What harm can 
 it do us ?" 
 
 " A good deal, I should say, if your father is out of work for 
 weeks and weeks, and spends his time in the saloons." 
 
 " Why do you want to remind me of the disagreeable things ?" 
 she asked, petulantly. " All the happiness I have is in thinking 
 that you are going to take me away from them." 
 
 " That is all very fine," said Baretta, irritably, " but I can't 
 take you away to-morrow, and meanwhile " 
 
 " Oh, don't let us think of meanwhiles ! Let us have to-night 
 
 108
 
 all to ourselves. I want you to just feel that you are mine, 
 and that no one can come between us, and that all the past is a 
 horrid nightmare." 
 
 To this Baretta made no reply. It struck him that she was 
 very selfish, and he wondered once more if marrying her would 
 drag him down to her level, and thwart all his great plans for 
 humanity. Why had Mildred Lawrence said good-bye to him so 
 coldly ? It was that which had led him to renounce all his hopes, 
 and to try to satisfy himself with Maud. He felt as if he had 
 suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of fate. And when 
 they were in Arragon Street once more, back in the heat and 
 the foul odours, it seemed as if soul as well as body were 
 stifling in a miasmatic atmosphere. He stopped at the door 
 the children had gone to bed and the step was deserted and 
 ' looked vaguely down the narrow thoroughfare with an unutter- 
 able longing for some way of escape. 
 
 " Ain't you coming in, Frank ?" asked Maud. " Oh, well, 
 don't think I care whether you do or not," she added, as he 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I thought it might be cooler here," he said, controlling his 
 inclination to speak sharply. " Of course I'm coming in." 
 In the darkness of the entry he put his arm about her waist 
 and drew her closer to him. 
 
 " Don't !" she cried, trying to repulse him. 
 
 " But Maud, dear !" He lifted her face with gentle force to his. 
 
 " Are you sure you love me, Frank ?" she asked. 
 
 " Sure !" He kissed her again and again, trying to convince 
 himself, perhaps, as well as her of his sincerity. " Don't go up- 
 stairs yet, Maud. Sit here a while with me." 
 
 She could not resist this entreaty: whatever her doubts might 
 be she loved him too entirely to deny him anything. And 
 .when, sitting by his side on the stairs, her head sank upon his 
 shoulder and he bent over and kissed her again, she was con- 
 scious of a delicious feeling of peace and security. Nothing 
 could distress her more, now that he was wholly hers. But she 
 would make him go away from Arragon Street as soon as they 
 were married. She wanted to have that dark chapter in her 
 life closed at once and forever. 
 
 109
 
 The problem of existence for Baretta, however, could not be 
 settled so easily as that. lie recurred to the subject of the 
 strike when he saw her the next morning, and said that he was 
 going to see if the dispute between masters and men could not 
 be settled. He would talk to them at the club that night about 
 it. A fellow like Luck had no right to throw a lot of working- 
 men out of employment to gratify his own spite. 
 
 " I wish, Frank, you'd let them all alone," interrupted Maud 
 at this point. " They ain't none of them good enough for you." 
 
 " Abandon my work ! What then would I do ?" 
 
 " Something that would bring you in more money. I'm sure 
 your newspaper editor you told me about would give you some- 
 thing to do." 
 
 " I think I am the best judge of my own affairs," retorted 
 Baretta. Then, as he was going out, he came back to kiss her 
 good-bye. " Don't think I'm cross," he added. " But you must 
 try to sympathize with me in this great scheme of mine. It 
 means something more than mere bread and butter." 
 
 He went to see Ditton that afternoon, and tried to argue him 
 into his way of thinking. " We want to get rid of that man 
 Luck, Mr. Ditton," he said. " I feel positive about that." 
 
 " Well, Baretta," said Ditton, " I can't help thinking that you 
 feel positive about a good many things." 
 
 " I suppose you mean that for a gibe at me," cried the young 
 man. 
 
 " I mean it for a friendly hint, and I hope you won't take it 
 amiss. After all, Baretta, I have lived longer in the world than 
 you have, and perhaps I have some right to advise you, aside 
 from any question of personal interest." 
 
 " Do you consider me ungrateful to you for all your kindness? 
 Is that what you would say ?" 
 
 Ditton took a few turns up and down the stuffy little room 
 before he replied. The Socialist preacher had no fixed habita- 
 tion. When he had money enough he would hire a lodging at 
 some fourth-rate hotel like this a not over-tidy house in Beach 
 Street, of which the chief business was liquor selling. The 
 lodgers were seldom reputable, and almost never clean. But 
 Ditton often found himself without a penny in his pockets, and 
 
 110
 
 on such occasions, unless lie happened to think of some friend 
 near by, he would pass the day on a bench on the Common and 
 the night in the streets. Most of the policemen knew him, and 
 helped him out by allowing him to slumber undisturbed beneath 
 some convenient shelter. Several times Baretta had come across 
 him in this homeless state and had taken him along to Arragon 
 Street. 
 
 "You are trying to be unreasonable," said Ditton at last. 
 "No hold on a minute; let me have my say out and then I will 
 listen to you. You will make a great mistake if you get into a 
 quarrel with Luck. It will be a bad thing for you personally, 
 and it will be a bad thing for us. Mind you, I share something 
 of your prejudice against the man. I think he is for Luck first 
 and the working-man second. But then you have got to take 
 men as you find them. Unselfishness is a fine quality, but it's 
 one in which most of us are deficient. As for this strike, I 
 don't care whether it's for Luck's own advantage or not. The 
 point is whether it's for our advantage for the benefit of the 
 struggling masses whose battle we've undertaken to fight. You 
 and I certainly don't care a rap for the bloody capitalists who 
 own the works. They have got rich out of the sweat of other 
 men's brows, and for them to cut down wages is infamous 
 simply infamous. Luck is helping the men to make a stand for 
 their rights, and why should we why should you turn against 
 him?" 
 
 " Because, as I told you the other day, I don't think the men 
 will get their rights in the end, and because every useless dem- 
 onstration weakens instead of strengthens the cause." 
 
 " You can't weaken the cause by showing these legalized rob- 
 bers that you have a little courage," cried Ditton. 
 
 " Ah, if you call it courage !" said Baretta. " For my part, I 
 can't see that doubling up your fists does any good unless you 
 are going to knock the man down." 
 
 " I see very well, Baretta, that you want to draw out that 
 you are getting tired of the work." 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Ditton !" cried the young man, hotly. " You've 
 told me that before, and I don't intend to stand it not from 
 you nor from anybody. I'm willing to give my life for the 
 
 111
 
 cause if only I can feel that it's not thrown away. All I say 
 is, don't strike the blow until you can make it a heavy one." 
 
 "And meanwhile, I suppose, you will try to convert your 
 swells." 
 
 " Well, is there any harm in getting all the help you can ? If 
 I can find people to listen to me I'm ready to talk to them, 
 whether they live in Beacon Street or at the North End." 
 
 "Help from some quarters is a hinderance, Baretta. But I see 
 that you're bound to have your own way. Don't hurry," he 
 added, as Baretta took up his hat. " Are you coming to the 
 meeting to-night ?" 
 
 " Yes I shall be there." 
 
 " Well, for Heaven's sake keep your mouth shut and don't 
 raise a row." 
 
 " Oh yes !" cried Baretta, turning in the doorway. " You're 
 bound to down me, too ; I might have expected it ! But you 
 can't do it !" he continued, with angry vehemence. " No one 
 can do it! I shall be there, and I shall have my say !" Then he 
 went, banging the door behind him. 
 
 The room was crowded when Baretta entered it that evening, 
 and the conversation at the small tables had already become 
 very noisy. Most of the men, being now out of work, were 
 spending more than the usual amount of money for drink. Dit- 
 ton was speaking, his strident voice rising high above the rest, 
 and compelling now and then a lull in the individual discussions 
 going on around him. 
 
 " I want you to listen to this," he shouted, waving a news- 
 paper. " It's an item of a few lines in this evening's Trumpet.' 1 ' 1 
 
 "Damn the Trumpet!" came from the murky atmosphere. 
 
 " I accept the amendment. It's bought and paid for by the 
 bloody thieves who have bound you all hand and foot. But I 
 want to read you a few lines from it just the same." He 
 pounded the table vigorously. " I wish you'd all listen to this," 
 he said. 
 
 The room was intensely close it was so crowded, and the 
 atmosphere was vitiated by the smoke of bad tobacco, the fumes 
 of whiskey, and the foul breath from a hundred throats and 
 Ditton mopped his face with his handkerchief as he stood there 
 
 112
 
 waiting for them to be silent. " I'm not going to talk to you 
 long," he said, at last. " The time for talking has gone by ; it's 
 time to act. This is what I want to read you from the Trumpet" 
 he cried, waving the paper. " It's the story of a suicide of a 
 man who jumped off a Sound steamer the other night. 'Oh, 
 that's a common thing,' I hear you saying ; ' why does he want 
 us to hear about that ?' Yes, curse 'em, it's a common thing ! 
 Perhaps it's what some of us may do if we can't get justice 
 from the blood-hounds who are tracking us down." 
 
 Here shouts and oaths interrupted the speaker, and he was 
 forced to pound upon the table again before he could go on. 
 
 " This man, my friends, left a letter behind him. It was ad- 
 dressed to his sister the only near. relative he had in the world. 
 Now just keep quiet a minute and I'll read you the letter. The 
 Trumpet has printed it the editor didn't see it in time to cut it 
 out. Hear what poor Thomas Morgan wrote to his sister. 
 ' When this reaches you ' I'm reading exactly what's printed in 
 the Trumpet ' I shall have done with life. Extreme poverty 
 has driven me to this desperate step. I could not earn anything, 
 and I did not wish the labouring man to pay taxes to support 
 me.' " 
 
 " That's where he was right !" cried some one in the crowd. 
 
 " Hold on, my friends !" continued Ditton. " Here's a few lines 
 marked ' Later.' No doubt they were written just before the ag- 
 onized and desperate man threw himself overboard. ' I am now 
 hungry,' Morgan wrote, ' but I shall get over that before mid- 
 night. When I throw myself off the boat that will finish the 
 job.' Yes," said Ditton, " that finished the job. So Thomas 
 Morgan settled the problem. So he died, while thousands around 
 him were revelling in luxury." 
 
 " Damn 'em !" came from the murky depths of the room. 
 
 " Yes, damn 'em ! damn 'em !" repeated Ditton, with sudden 
 fury. He threw the paper aside with an angry gesture and 
 leaped upon the table, gesticulating wildly. " There are thou- 
 sands of men in this country who kill themselves every year 
 because they are poor. Right at the doors of the fine houses 
 on Beacon Street where men sit drinking their wine and 
 women blaze in diamonds they kill themselves, and still the 
 
 H 113
 
 laughter goes on. Water, rope, or bullets do it, and they make 
 their appeal from a pitiless world to God. God ? is there a God, 
 I wonder, to permit such things? I used to believe in Him once, 
 but I didn't know then one-half the sorrow and sin and shame 
 there is in the world. Curse the rich men who make such things 
 possible ! Curse the system that is crushing us all down to a 
 hopeless bitter life that is worse than death ! Curse " 
 
 Here Ditton's voice was overwhelmed in the torrent of inar- 
 ticulate execrations which rose from the crowd. Some of the 
 men had perhaps taken too much whiskey to know exactly what 
 they were saying; but it was obvious that some one was to blame 
 for their poverty, and for the fact that most of them were now 
 out of work. 
 
 Baretta looked on at all this with something like a pitying 
 smile. Yes, it was all true, what Ditton had said. In a regen- 
 erated society no man would be richer than another, and the in- 
 dustrial conditions which economists defended with .their feeble 
 prate about supply and demand would no longer exist. But 
 somehow or other he was no longer in sympathy with these wild 
 denunciations ; he was not in the cursing mood. And this was 
 not, he told himself, because he was growing lukewarm towards 
 the cause, as Ditto"n had hinted ; there was no one there who 
 could be willing to make greater sacrifices than he. Nevertheless 
 he saw the supreme folly of simply crying out " Curse them !" 
 That could not advance the cause a bit. Curses were not tangi- 
 ble things. Ditton was a good deal of a fool, after all. He 
 ought to know that this strike would be futile. With a fellow 
 like Luck concerned in it, what could you expect? He now 
 caught a glimpse of Luck, standing near Ditton and listening 
 with a certain look of triumph on his red, brutal face to these 
 whirling words. And presently he saw Ditton step down and 
 Luck take his place. At this a sort of blind rage came over him. 
 Why should that fellow have everything his own way ? He 
 pressed forward through the crowd until he stood close by tha 
 table. Then he raised his voice high above the din and shouted, 
 " Don't listen to that man until you have heard me !" 
 
 1H
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 AN EXPLOSION 
 
 THIS sudden appeal was followed almost instantly by a dead 
 silence. Men in the act of drinking set their glasses down un- 
 tasted, and others removed their pipes from their mouths in 
 their eagerness to discover what was up. All had that instinct- 
 ive consciousness of what they called a " row," which led them 
 to yield everything for the moment to curiosity. And perhaps 
 something in Baretta's appearance a little awed as well as star- 
 tled them. He had sprung into a chair, and although Luck still 
 stood upon the table, he seemed somehow to tower above him. 
 His face was white with passion, and his black eyes blazed with 
 excitement ; nor had that habitual scowl ever been more intense, 
 more livid. He raised his fist and shook it at Luck. " You 
 haven't any right to speak to decent men, you scoundrel !" he 
 cried. 
 
 " Scoundrel !" sputtered Luck, his face redder than ever, 
 cowering a little, as if he had received a blow. 
 
 But Baretta's words had broken the spell of silence, and now 
 voices were heard in all directions, many of them in angry pro- 
 test. " Give every man a chance," was the burden of several. 
 " No, no we won't have no fighting here !" " Sit down, Ba- 
 retta !" " Sit down, ye young fool !" These were the cries that 
 came from the crowd. 
 
 " I want you to listen to me just give me a chance to prove 
 my words !" cried Baretta. 
 
 Here Ditton interfered. " Luck has the floor," he said. 
 Then, turning to Baretta, " When he's done, you can talk all 
 you want to," he added, roughly. 
 
 115
 
 The listeners stamped and shouted approval, and some of 
 them were so delighted that they had their glasses filled once 
 more. They didn't mind a row as a rule, even if it were a rather 
 violent one. But just now they were inclined to object, because 
 they suspected that the end of it would be their ejection from 
 the place ; and they were immensely comfortable over their 
 pipes and beer, and listening to the story of their thraldom. 
 
 As it turned out, however, Luck had very little to say that 
 was to the point. Perhaps Baretta's onslaught had discon- 
 certed him. Baretta was now sullenly standing a little back 
 from the table, leaning against the wall with folded arms. His 
 face was still distorted by the workings of passion, and he shot 
 glances of angry disdain both at Luck and at Ditton from under 
 his heavy eyebrows. He was already beginning to regret that 
 sudden outburst. It was all true ; Luck was a scoundrel that 
 he knew very well. But proof is often difficult where accusation 
 is easy. He felt that it was at once too soon and too late to 
 argue that the strike was a piece of folly. They might believe 
 him after they had been out of work for several weeks, or they 
 might have done so before their decision had been taken. Now 
 things must run their course, and he had only thrown himself 
 into the breach to be battered down by the force of circum- 
 stances. He could denounce Luck, of course ; indeed, that was 
 what he must do. He could tell this excited half -drunken 
 crowd that the man was simply playing upon their necessities 
 for his own advantage that it was because they paid their as- 
 sessments into the Union that he and his kind were able to find 
 the occupation of stirring up trouble between employers and 
 employed sufficiently remunerative. But this, after all, was a 
 reflection upon themselves as well as upon Luck. The working- 
 man is seldom logical, but he might be trusted to make such an 
 obvious deduction. Oh no ; he would get no thanks for trying 
 to enlighten them ; he would not even have the satisfaction of 
 triumphing over a man whom he hated. He was very sure of 
 this as he stood there glowering upon them all. Nevertheless, 
 he would go through with it ; he would say his say when the 
 opportunity came. He knew now that he could expect no aid 
 from Ditton, who had taken Luck's side rather than his. Ditton 
 
 116
 
 was jealous of hint meanly and contemptibly jealous. Had he 
 not all along been trying to keep him down ? Baretta told him- 
 self that he was not such a fool as not to recognize the meaning 
 of it. The friendship of people who would not have noticed 
 Ditton at all had aroused this jealousy. Ditton had tried to 
 keep him away from them by professing to believe that he was 
 a traitor to the cause he who had turned his back on all the 
 allurements of society, and had gone to live in Arragon Street. 
 At other times Baretta had felt that Mrs. Chilton and the rest 
 looked down upon him, and had been as furiously angry with 
 them as he now was with his present associates ; but it was 
 quite as easy to persuade himself that he was mistaken as to 
 believe that he was right. He was fully conscious, at any rate, 
 of his own mental superiority to either set, and confident of his 
 ultimate success in showing it. A man like him was bound to 
 make his way in spite of all. 
 
 Luck was maundering on about the rights of the labouring 
 man, and the way in which these rights were disregarded by 
 the capitalist. " You have as good a claim to your labour," he 
 was saying, "as your employers have to their mills and factories. 
 When they make money you are entitled to your share of it. 
 They have no more right to reduce your wages than you have 
 to reduce their dividends. Ain't you making them rich by the 
 sweat of your brow ? What would their property be worth 
 to them if it wasn't for you ? Suppose every working-man in 
 this city should quit to-morrow, where would your capital be 
 then ? It's what you fellows have got to do yet, if you want to 
 teach the rich that the poor have rights they are bound to 
 respect. Why should they spend in a day what you earn in a 
 year ? Answer me that !" 
 
 The agitator went on in this strain for some time, beiig fre- 
 quently interrupted by the applause of his hearers, v\o perhaps 
 did not follow his arguments very closely, but who recognized 
 the fact that he was giving it to the other side. As to the par- 
 ticular strike in hand he had little to say beyond advising the 
 men " to stick it out," and assuring them that the company 
 would " weaken " first. " They're making a great bluff," said 
 Luck, " but we've got the upperhand of them just the same. 
 
 117
 
 Our pickets say there hain't been a scab shown up at the works 
 to-day. Some of you men are working still at other shops, but 
 every one of you would throw up his job to-morrow to help us 
 out, wouldn't you ?" 
 
 Several voices cried, " Yes, yes !" loudly, in response to this 
 appeal. Nevertheless, there was some shaking of heads over 
 this hint of a " sympathetic " strike. " A man who's got a job 
 likes to keep it if he can," growled one. 
 
 " That's just the way some damn fools talk !" cried Luck, re- 
 plying to this unwelcome suggestion. " Your job looks big to 
 you, no doubt, but if you could get not only your rights, but 
 those of thousands of other honest working-men, by throwing it 
 up, would you hesitate long ? I hope there ain't many men in 
 this room who would." 
 
 " Chuck out the traitors !" The man who tendered this ad- 
 vice rose unsteadily from one of the tables at the back of the 
 room, swinging a beer mug in his right hand. " Chuck 'em out, 
 I say !" 
 
 At these words a malignant smile came over Luck's face. " If 
 you're looking for traitors," he shouted, his voice rising high 
 above the din which the suggestion had aroused, " why don't 
 you begin with him ?" And he pointed to Baretta, who was still 
 surveying the scene with folded arms. 
 
 Instantly a profound silence fell upon the crowd. It was like 
 the hush that precedes the storm. At first it seemed as if no 
 one quite realized the full meaning of the words. Then Baretta, 
 white to the very lips, sprang forward. 
 
 " I demand a hearing !" he cried, in high-pitched staccato tones. 
 
 The spell was broken. The reply was a dull roar from the 
 cr,';\vd a confusion of angry voices uttering muttered threats 
 and e<?crations. But the young man faced his enemies without 
 flinching,' and something like admiration for his courageous atti- 
 tude kept them from advancing upon him. 
 
 " Come, now, no hOB.sense no fighting here !" Ditton had 
 hitherto been watching the proceedings in silence, but he now 
 stepped forward with the authoritative air which he was accus- 
 tomed to use in dealing with his followers. " You've no business 
 to say a thing like that," he went on, addressing Luck. 
 
 118
 
 " What I say I can back up," retorted Luck, sullenly. As he 
 spoke he stepped down from the table. " If Barotta ain't a trai- 
 tor, let him prove it, that's all." 
 
 " Traitor !" cried Baretta. " It's you that's a damned scoun- 
 drel deny it if you can !" 
 
 " Look here !" interrupted Ditton again. His rugged counte- 
 nance was stern and set, and his eyes flashed as he spoke. " We've 
 had enough of this calling names. If you have any charges to 
 bring against Luck, young man, or any answer to make to his, 
 now is your chance." 
 
 " Young man !" It seemed to Baretta as if Ditton had pur- 
 posely tried to insult him by calling him that ; and for a moment 
 wrath choked his further utterance. Nothing was more obvious 
 than the fact that his former friend and counsellor was taking 
 sides against him. Because he would no longer submit unques- 
 tioningly to his authority, Ditton was determined to crush him. 
 But he would show them all that he was superior to their petty 
 malice. " Yes, I suppose I am a young man," he said, trying to 
 regain his self-control, " but you've been mighty glad to have 
 my help all the same. And I think I've done more for every 
 man in this room than that fellow, who gets his living out of the 
 wages of honest workmen. I don't drink champagne every day 
 and drive about in carriages." 
 
 " You're a dirty liar !" interjected Luck, promptly. 
 
 " Well, you'll have hard work to prove me one. Listen to me !" 
 he cried, as the ominous murmur of anger arose once more from 
 the crowd, most of whom had risen from the tables and were 
 pressing nearer to the speaker. " I want you to have your rights 
 as much as any man here. I'd go out and blow up the works 
 and shoot the manager if it would do you any good. I'm in 
 favour of strikes or of anything that will get the workman his 
 rights. Don't make any mistake about that. But I say that a 
 man who goes about as he does, just stirring up trouble, and or- 
 dering you to quit whenever he takes the notion, and getting two 
 men's wages and his expenses every day from the Union " 
 
 " Hear him ! He's down on the Union he wants you to work 
 with a lot of damned scabs." Luck drew his sleeve across his 
 forehead to wipe away the perspiration, which had gathered upon 
 
 119
 
 it in beady drops. " Why don't you wipe up the floor with his 
 bloody carcass ?" 
 
 " Stop !" Ditton's rough voice again subdued the rising din 
 of rage. " Violence is no argument. You'd better keep quiet, 
 Luck, and for the rest of you, if it comes to that, I'm going to 
 see that Baretta has fair play." 
 
 " We're tired of his lip !" cried some one in the crowd. 
 
 " You won't have much more of it, then," retorted Baretta, 
 " if you fellows mean to let a low-down scoundrel yes, a scoun- 
 drel lead you about by the nose, and live in luxury off your earn- 
 ings, while you starve. No, I'm not saying a word against the 
 Union. Where would you be without it ? The only way you 
 can bring the capitalist to terms is to combine among yourselves 
 do you think I don't know that ? But do you call this combin- 
 ing to any purpose ? What good can a few hundred of you do 
 by stopping work ? I know you've not been treated right, and I 
 hope you'll get higher wages before you go back. I tell you, 
 though, you can't do anything by a strike here and a strike there. 
 What you must do is to make a combination so strong that noth- 
 ing can resist you not even the whole power of the United 
 States. Then you'll get somewhere and do something." 
 
 " And might I ask," inquired Ditton, " how you propose to 
 form such a combination ?" 
 
 " Oh, my plans are not all developed yet, Mr. Ditton. I'll 
 leave that to your superior genius. All I have to say is this 
 that if every workman in the country, from Boston to New Or- 
 leans and New York to San Francisco, should become members 
 of a single organization, no man living would dare to stand up 
 against them. Their moral force would be irresistible, because 
 it would be backed by physical force. The tools of Wall Street 
 would know then that our threats meant something. And if 
 they didn't well, powder is cheap, and that sort of argument 
 would be very effective." 
 
 " Damn all this fine talk 1" broke out Luck, impatiently. " Are 
 you a traitor or ain't you ? That's what we want to know." 
 
 " You're right, Luck that's what we want to know." And 
 the crowd pressed a little nearer to Baretta. He had never been 
 especially popular with them ; they disliked what they called his 
 
 120
 
 haughty way. Perhaps Dolan had stimulated this dislike. Ba- 
 retta saw him now, standing in the very fore-front of his hostile 
 audience. Furthermore, he felt that the decision would go 
 against him. The explanation which he had given of his atti- 
 tude seemed very lucid to himself, but it had evidently been 
 rather confusing to the rest. He had never had the gift of strik- 
 ing the popular note. Indeed, in this Socialist propaganda he 
 had almost invariably left the public speaking to Ditton, his own 
 field being the individual argument. Perhaps his lack of author- 
 ity over these uneducated men was due to his hardly disguised 
 contempt for them. Ditton often spoke to them roughly, but 
 still it was with a fraternal feeling which they were quick to ap- 
 preciate. 
 
 " Isn't my word as good as his ?" demanded Baretta, in answer 
 to this accusation of bad faith. " What do you mean by being 
 a traitor, anyway ? Who have I betrayed ? Haven't I given my 
 life to working for you ? For one thing, I don't get any four 
 dollars a day and expenses. Perhaps you think because I've 
 got a few friends among the rich that I'm going back on you. 
 Well, I'm not all that I want to do is to make them your friends, 
 too. We don't any of us care about fighting people who are 
 willing to come to our terms." Baretta paused a moment to 
 note the effect of his words. Perhaps he imagined that he was 
 really moving his hearers a little that he was bringing them 
 about to his way of thinking. But he was soon undeceived upon 
 this point. Luck had been working his way into the midst of 
 the crowd during the last few minutes, and now he raised his 
 voice again this time to some purpose. 
 
 " We've had about enough gab, boys," he cried. " Down with 
 him !" 
 
 With a roar of passionate animosity far more terrible than the 
 first outburst had been, the furious mob surged forward. Ba- 
 retta fell back trembling before the onset. He was no coward, 
 but the impulse of flight was a natural one under such circum- 
 stances. But when he saw how completely hemmed in he was 
 he turned and faced his antagonists boldly. They might kill 
 him, but he would sell his life dear. A sudden paroxysm of 
 wrath swept over him, and one or two of the leaders actually 
 
 121
 
 fell back a step or two when they looked into his livid face and 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 " Down with the dirty villain !" howled Dolan, noting their 
 hesitation. "Hit him on the head look out for his dom 
 knife !" 
 
 But here this one man against many had the aid of an un- 
 expected ally. Ditton had been disposed to take Luck's part 
 rather than Baretta's in the preceding dispute, and perhaps he, 
 too, believed that Baretta was playing his associates false ; it 
 will be remembered that he had hinted as much on a previous 
 occasion. But that question was of little account when a possi- 
 ble murder was the issue. No one there might have any inten- 
 tion of killing the young man, but in a crowd like that, angry 
 and revengeful, who could tell what would happen ? So Ditton 
 sprang to Baretta's side. 
 
 " Back, back !" he cried. " Leave him alone !" 
 
 " Down with him jump on the dom cuss !" It was Dolan 
 who had taken Luck's place as ringleader, and it was obvious 
 that he intended to do all the mischief he could. Besides, the 
 pressure from behind was now so great that those in front were 
 forced forward. Baretta braced himself for the inevitable onset, 
 keeping his eyes on Dolan. He had grasped the back of a chair 
 as if for support. Now suddenly he raised it aloft and brought 
 it down with all the force he could command upon Dolan's head. 
 The man fell heavily to the floor with a loud groan. 
 
 " What the devil did you do that for ?" whispered Ditton in 
 his ear. " Now's your chance run ! run !" 
 
 "I'll not run I'll stay if they kill me!" shouted Baretta. 
 His action in felling Dolan seemed to have increased rather than 
 diminished his fury ; when a man has once lost control of him- 
 self in that way a blind physical courage is instinctive. It was 
 quite true that he had a chance to escape. The way to the door 
 was clear, the crowd being for the moment apparently dazed by 
 the suddenness of the attack on its leader. But it was only a 
 chance, and it was gone almost immediately. Two men stopped 
 to drag Dolan out of the way. Two more made a dash at Ba- 
 retta. It was out of the question that he should hold his own 
 against them. He was slightly built, and not in the least mus- 
 
 122
 
 cular, and although he struck out savagely, he was no formidable 
 opponent. In a minute he was down, pinioned on each side, in 
 spite of his struggles. 
 
 " Kick him !" " Knock the guts out of him !" " Smash his 
 bloody head !" These were the directions which came from the 
 excited men. Ditton was trying to push them back by main 
 force. He gesticulated and argued, and even threatened. But 
 they were in an ugly temper by this time, and the yells of Luck 
 and one or two others for revenge upon " the dirty scab " Ba- 
 retta being characterized in this phrase because of the odium it 
 conveyed rather than because of any fitness in it under the pres- 
 ent circumstances were sufficient to counterbalance even Dit- 
 ton's authority. 
 
 " Try that agin will ye ?" cried one of those who were hold- 
 ing down the prostrate and panting young man. " Take that !" 
 Ha hit him a savage blow in the face, drawing blood. 
 
 " Take that and that !" Another of the crowd was kicking 
 him furiously, and when Ditton sprang forward to drag the as- 
 sailant away, he himself was seized from behind and firmly held. 
 " Let the fellow go there'll be murder if you don't look out !" 
 cried Ditton, struggling to free himself. " Let me alone how 
 dare you hold me ?" 
 
 But what Ditton could not do was done by a waiter, who, at- 
 tracted by the tumult, rushed in at this juncture. " The cops !" 
 he shouted. 
 
 Perhaps even then the exasperated men might not have 
 paid much attention except that the gas was suddenly shut 
 off, which led every one to stop crowding forward to the cor- 
 ner where Baretta lay, and to ask his neighbour what was 
 up. The answer to this question was given in the voice of the 
 proprietor of the place, who came in from the public bar ad- 
 joining. 
 
 " Youse fellers had better git," he said, calmly, but with an air 
 of determination from which no one ventured to appeal. "An* 
 if youse can't behave yersel's better'n this, youse can go somers 
 else nex' time. See ?" 
 
 " It's all right, Tim," said some one. " The young feller ain't 
 hurt much." 
 
 123
 
 " Well, youse all pay up and git out. See ?" He turned at 
 the door into the bar to add : " Ther' ain't no cop, but there'll be 
 a dozen on 'em damn quick if youse ain't lively. Turn on the 
 lights agin, Max." 
 
 124
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 BARETTA LEAVES AHRAGON STREET 
 
 BARETTA opened his eyes to find himself lying on a lounge in 
 an unfamiliar room, small and dimly lit. At first he thought that 
 he was alone, but when he looked up a second time he saw Dit- 
 ton bending over him. At the same moment he became con- 
 scious of a queer paiu in his temples, and putting up his hand 
 found that his head was bandaged. 
 
 " Sh, sh !" commanded Ditton. " Keep as quiet as you 
 can. I'll get a carriage to take you home when you feel strong 
 enough." 
 
 " What's the matter ? What have- 1 been doing ?" murmured 
 Baretta, He had an indistinct notion that he had been address- 
 ing a great crowd of men, and that suddenly they had all rushed 
 at him, knocking him down and trampling on him. But he could 
 not imagine what it meant or how it had happened. 
 
 " If you hadn't knocked Dolan down you could have got away 
 all right. It was that which made them so mad." 
 
 " Oh it was Dolan, was it ?" A dim recollection of the scene 
 was beginning to drift back into Baretta's mind. " Maud's fa- 
 ther poor Maud !" he muttered, indistinctly. 
 
 " What's that you say ?" asked Ditton. He applied some more 
 cold water to the young man's forehead with a sponge and patted 
 the bandage gently. " Does it pain you much now ?" 
 
 " Well, there's a good deal of thumping and throbbing going 
 on. Who the deuce hit me such a blow as that ?" 
 
 " Ah, you don't remember ?" 
 
 " I'm beginning to," said Baretta, after a moment of silence, 
 " It's all that damned Luck I" 
 
 125
 
 " Well, if you care for my opinion, I must say that you brought 
 it on yourself. What did you mean by calling him a scoundrel ? 
 I think you must have been beside yourself with rage." 
 
 "I only told the truth; you'll find it out yourself some day." 
 
 To this prediction Ditton made no reply. He stood surveying 
 the young man for some time with a puzzled expression. " I 
 wish I knew what to make of you," he said at last. 
 
 " Of me ?" 
 
 " You can't come to our meetings again ; of course you realize 
 that." 
 
 " Well, who wants to come ?" 
 
 " Ah, I'm afraid Luck was right." Ditton shook his head 
 rather sorrowfully. Then, as Baretta said nothing in reply, he 
 added, " You just stay there till I come back. I'm going to 
 get a carriage you never can walk home in the world." 
 
 Was he, then, very much hurt? Baretta asked himself after 
 Ditton had gone. That pain in his temples was the worst, but 
 when he tried to move he found that one shoulder was stiff and 
 aching, and that his legs were sore with bruises. His notion that 
 he had been knocked down and trampled upon was obviously 
 not an imaginary one. How had it happened ? He remembered 
 now that he had rushed forward to denounce Luck, and that Dit- 
 ton had refused to allow him a hearing. Perhaps his wrath was 
 hotter against Ditton than against Luck just at present. The 
 talk about treachery came back to him, and he felt that it was 
 his old master who had been the traitor. Nothing but jealousy 
 could have prevented him from taking the part of so faithful a 
 disciple. Of course that mob of ignorant fools had taken their 
 cue from their real leader, not from Luck. Baretta was not in 
 the least grateful to Ditton for his efforts to prevent the scrim- 
 mage that had taken place. If they had been sincere they would 
 have been more successful. He began to recall now with more 
 distinctness the events which had preceded his fainting away 
 under the cruel kicks and cuffs of his assailants. No doubt they 
 would have killed him if they had not been interrupted. He 
 could see once more the evil glance in Dolan's eyes. Dolan ! 
 he had fallen with a groan. Was he dead, and was he himself 
 a murderer ? " Maud's father poor Maud !" he murmured once 
 
 126
 
 more. What awful shadow had come between them now ? 
 Poor Maud, indeed ; he knew too well what a burden of suffer- 
 ing this would throw upon her. Poor Maud ! who had loved 
 him so passionately ! He groaned aloud. This agony of the 
 mind was worse than bodily pain. 
 
 "The carriage is here," said Ditton, returning presently. " We 
 can take you through the side door. There is no one in the 
 back room now. Wait a minute you can't walk; we must 
 carry you out." 
 
 " Where will you carry me ? To jail ?" 
 
 " What nonsense are you talking now. You want to get 
 home and have a doctor look at that cut. By-the-way, have 
 you any money?" asked Ditton, running his hands into' his 
 pockets. " I haven't but fifty cents." 
 
 " Well, why don't you tell me the truth ?" demanded Baretta, 
 impatiently. "Is is he dead?" 
 
 " Is who dead ?" 
 
 x " Why, I thought I might have killed him wasn't it Dolan 
 that I struck ?" 
 
 " I guess Dolan's got a sore head, but it ain't half as 
 bad as yours. Where do you carry your money? In this 
 pocket? Let me see how much you've got." Ditton fumbled 
 about and finally drew out a roll of bills. "You're better 
 fixed than I am," he said, rather bitterly, beginning to 
 count it. " Twenty dollars ! Well, you are one of the capital- 
 ists." 
 
 " I was paid that this morning for my two articles in the 
 Mail. You needn't jeer at me there wouldn't have been 
 much of it left by to-morrow. But I suppose you won't take 
 anything from me now." 
 
 " You'll want it all before you get through. Well, I suppose 
 you can pay the hackman half a dollar for taking you to Ar- 
 ragon Street. I'll pay for myself." 
 
 " No, you won't, Mr. Ditton. You needn't go at all if you 
 don't like." 
 
 " You acted like a fool, Baretta, but I ain't the kind of a 
 man to go back on you when you're in trouble." He went to 
 the door leading to the bar, and called to some one on the 
 
 127
 
 other side. " Come in and lend a hand, can't you ? He'll 
 have to be carried out." 
 
 u But, see here, Ditton I can never go back to Arragon 
 Street," 
 
 " Nonsense ! Where else can you go ?" 
 
 " Anywhere but there. Get me a room somewhere." 
 
 " Are you afraid of Dolan ?" 
 
 " I'm not afraid of anybody. But I'll never enter his house 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, well, I don't know as I blame you. You take him on 
 that side, Max, and I'll take him on this." As the two 
 men lifted him a cry of pain escaped Baretta's lips. " Are you 
 as badly hurt as all that?" asked Ditton, anxiously. 
 
 " I can stand it I can stand anything," groaned Baretta, 
 with set teeth. 
 
 But he was very pale and faint as he leaned back in the 
 carriage, and at every jolt over the rough pavements he drew in 
 his breath sharply. " Where are we going ?" he asked, after a 
 few minutes. 
 
 " To my room it's near at hand," replied Ditton. 
 
 " Oh, but I mustn't give you that trouble. Send me some- 
 where else." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Baretta. I've told you I ain't the sort of 
 man to go back on a friend when he's in trouble." 
 
 "I didn't suppose you considered me a friend. You seemed 
 willing enough to back up Luck." 
 
 " See here, you're too badly hurt to quarrel any more 
 with me or anybody else. You just keep quiet that's my 
 advice." 
 
 And, indeed, when Baretta had been undressed and put to 
 bed it was advice which he was very glad to follow. The doc- 
 tor came presently and dressed the wound in his forehead, and 
 wrote a prescription for some liniment to bathe the bruises, ex- 
 pressing the opinion that the patient would be about again in a 
 few days, but that the blow on the head had come literally with- 
 in an inch of killing him. He furthermore advised the young 
 man to keep out of bar-room fights in the future a caution 
 which was hardly necessary in this case, and which rather ir- 
 
 128
 
 ritated the recipient of it, who nevertheless did not try to clear 
 his reputation by explaining. 
 
 Poor Maud ! It was of her whom Baretta was thinking 
 most when he was left alone in the darkness and the silence. 
 Ditton had gone to Arragon Street to get some things of his 
 which he needed, and, of course, he would tell them there ex- 
 actly what had happened. Besides, Dolan must have been 
 taken home by this time. The young man felt that his late 
 landlord's story would not be favourable to him ; but he knew 
 pretty well how Maud would feel about it, and whose side she 
 would take. To do him justice he was unselfishly anxious at 
 least, for the moment in her behalf. The fervour of her love 
 for him and the sincerity of her belief in him had touched him 
 greatly ; sometimes they had almost consoled him for the sting 
 of his defeated aspirations elsewhere. Maud, at any rate, would 
 be sorry for him, lying on his couch of pain the poetical 
 phrase struck him as happily descriptive and would even shed 
 tears for his sake. Well, of course, Miss Lawrence would pity 
 him too, if she knew ; she was always kind ; but he could not 
 discover, even in imagination, any tears in her eyes. No doubt 
 she would grieve far more if anything happened to her dog, a 
 wretched, snarling, apoplectic pug ; he wondered what people 
 could see to like in dogs. Would she, indeed, ever know ? 
 "A bar-room fight" those where the words the doctor had 
 used ; that was the way the occurrence would get into those 
 confounded newspapers. He would have liked to pose in her 
 eyes as a wounded hero ; perhaps in that case she might be a 
 little proud of him ; she would remember that Yates had never 
 been a hero at all. But a bar-room fight ! Baretta shed a few 
 hot tears of self-pity and turned his face to the wall. 
 
 He must have fallen asleep, for the room was darker and 
 stiller than ever when he opened his eyes again. How his 
 head ached how his temples were throbbing ! Did Ditton 
 mean to leave him all alone all night ? Could he not have gone 
 to Arragon Street and got back in all these hours ? Baretta 
 had not the remotest idea what time it was, but he fancied 
 that it must be long past midnight. The noises of the street 
 were few, although the windows were open. To be sure, traffic 
 
 1 129
 
 was not very heavy in that neighbourhood after nightfall ; but 
 there were enough loungers about, and they were usually fully 
 in evidence. He threw up his arms impatiently, and the sharp 
 pain in his injured shoulder made him cry aloud. At this mo- 
 ment the door opened, and his cry seemed to be echoed by some 
 one coming in. 
 
 " Frank, dear, where are you ? Oh, how dark it is !" 
 
 " Maud ! Is it you ?" 
 
 " Wait until I strike a light." Ditton fumbled about the 
 mantel-piece as he spoke, and presently a tiny blue flame pene- 
 trated the darkness. He crossed the room, protecting its feeble 
 glimmer by a covering hand. " I couldn't keep her away, 
 Baretta. She insisted on coming back with me." 
 
 " But Maud so late as this !" Her hand was in his now, 
 and she was bending over to kiss him, with a little sob, half of 
 pity, half of alarm, as she saw by the gaslight how pale he was. 
 " Oh, Frank ! how could they do it !" 
 
 " It isn't very late it's only ten o'clock," said Ditton. " But 
 I couldn't have kept her away if it had been midnight." He 
 smiled somewhat grimly, and then, as neither spoke, went to 
 the door. " I guess you don't want me," he added, as he left 
 them together. 
 
 " But your father how is he ?" asked Baretta, regarding the 
 girl anxiously. " Is he much hurt ?" 
 
 " Don't speak of him !" she cried, angrily. " Oh, I never 
 want to see him or hear his name again. He would have killed 
 you if he could he said so. I'm glad you hit him first per- 
 haps he won't be so fresh another time." 
 
 "I was afraid I'd killed him. What could I do, though, with 
 the whole crowd against me ?" 
 
 " I hate him oh, how I hate them all !" Maud had sprung 
 to her feet, and she now stood looking down at him with flash- 
 ing eyes. " You mustn't ever come to that house again. You 
 must stay away, and and, oh, Frank ! let me stay with you." 
 
 " Maud ! Maud ! You don't know what you're saying. How 
 could that be ?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose you don't want ine. You're thinking that 
 she wouldn't say a thing like that. But I don't care I'll never 
 
 130
 
 go back there ! I'll walk the streets first ! Perhaps," she add- 
 ed with a bitter laugh, " that's what I'll have to do if you turn 
 me out." 
 
 "Turn you out? I'm likely to do that, lying here !" 
 " I'll go the moment you speak the word," said Maud, with a 
 queer assumption of dignity, " but be sure I'll never come back 
 to bother you." 
 
 Baretta sighed impatiently. It was all very well to have a 
 girl so fond of you, but there were times when it was embar- 
 rassing. He was not anxious to have any more trouble with 
 Dolan, and he knew what construction that irate father would 
 put upon his further association with Maud. Still, he could not 
 tell her to go ; that would be ungrateful after all she had sacri- 
 ficed in coming to him. He could imagine Dolan's rage when 
 he discovered what she had done ; perhaps the door would be 
 shut in her face even if she went back now. But to stay here 
 to defy even the none too rigid moral sentiment of Arragon - 
 Street that was something which was not to be thought of. 
 He might send out for a clergyman and marry her on the spot. 
 She would think there was something romantic in that, in spite 
 of the obvious inconveniences involved. 
 
 " We had better ask Mr. Ditton," he said, at last. 
 " Mr. Ditton ! What can he tell us that we don't know." 
 " But, Maud, you don't understand, you don't see " 
 " I see all there is to see, Frank. You don't want me that's 
 plain enough. Well, I was a fool for coming." She turned 
 away to hide the tears that rose to her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, I want you indeed I do. I appreciate your goodness 
 in coming; there isn't one girl in a thousand who would have 
 cared as much as that. And Heaven knows I want to take you 
 away from that place as soon as I can ! I'd like to marry you 
 this moment, Maud, and go away somewhere, and never see one 
 of them again no, not a single soul I know. I've been giving 
 my whole life to them, and this is what has come of it. But I 
 can't I won't let you sacrifice your good name by leaving 
 your home for me until until I can give you a better one. 
 Don't you see, Maud ? It's because I love you that I want you 
 to go back, if only for a few days." 
 
 131
 
 " That's all very fine, Frank, but I'll never, never set foot in 
 that house again ! Do you hear me ?" she cried, stamping her 
 foot angrily. " Never never, so long as I live !" 
 
 " Well, I suppose you'll do as you like," said Baretta. He 
 turned irritably upon his pillow, and the movement elicited a 
 stifled cry of pain. 
 
 " Oh, are you so badly hurt ? And I am making it worse by 
 talking to you ! That's just like me." She bent over the bed 
 with an anxious look as she spoke. 
 
 " I don't feel much like quarrelling with you, to be sure. But 
 no no ! I'm not much hurt. Don't fuss over me, whatever 
 you do." 
 
 " I guess you're sorry I came," said Maud, with a rather bitter 
 laugh. " I might have known how it would be. Well, here's 
 Mr. Ditton now," she added, as the door opened. " He'll take 
 me back, I suppose." 
 
 " Then you will go back ?" asked Baretta. 
 
 " Back yes ; but not there." 
 
 " I guess we've talked enough to our patient," said Ditton, 
 coming forward. " Of course you'll go home, Miss Maud. I 
 feel responsible for you, since I brought you here." 
 
 " I'd have come without any bringing, and I'll go away again. 
 I ain't the kind to stay where they don't want me." 
 
 " Sh, sh !" said Ditton, softly. " Don't say anything to ex- 
 cite him. Just bid him good-night. Miss Dolan is going now, 
 Baretta. She wants to say good - night to you." He turned 
 away with the notion that the girl wished to kiss her lover, and 
 might not like to do it while he was looking on. 
 
 " Yes, I only want to say good-night, Frank." Maud touched 
 his forehead gently with her hand, but she did not offer to kiss 
 him. " I hope you'll feel much better in the morning." 
 
 " But, Maud, you'll come back then ? And you'll go home 
 now ?" 
 
 " I guess there ain't much telling what I'll do, is there, Mr. 
 Ditton ?" Her laugh was a joyless one, and her eyes had in 
 them an expression more of crying than of laughing. " Oh, you 
 needn't mind bothering with me," she added, as Ditton took up 
 his hat. 
 
 132
 
 But Ditton held the door open with something of his habit- 
 ual air of authority, and the girl allowed him to follow her from 
 the room without any further protest. 
 
 Baretta sighed again as the door closed behind them. It was 
 very kind of Maud to come, as he had told her, and yet he some- 
 how wished that she had stayed away. He recognized the fact 
 that her claim upon him was one important factor in the prob- 
 lem which now confronted him, but he nevertheless felt inclined 
 to eliminate it for the present at least, in imagination. He cer- 
 tainly could do nothing to help her until he was able to help 
 himself. Of course she must recognize the folly of leaving her 
 home at this crisis, with no other place to go to. He was 
 willing to marry her some day, although for the present that 
 day seemed a long way off. What he feared was that she would 
 not be willing to wait that she would do something rash to 
 compromise them both and lead them into some dilemma, either 
 means of escape out of which would be perilous. It was just 
 like her to come away from Arragon Street with Ditton and 
 declare that she would never go back. But how was he to sup- 
 port a wife, lying here bruised and beaten, and cut off irrevo- 
 cably he recognized that from all the old associations? 
 Twenty dollars from the Mail, and after that perhaps nothing ! 
 It was not a brilliant outlook for youthful genius, which has to 
 live in just the same fashion as ordinary humanity. Baretta 
 had no doubt as to his ultimate success, but he hardly saw his 
 way clear to support himself meanwhile on anticipation. The 
 worst of it was that all the people who were interested in his 
 work, who would read his writings and come to his lectures, 
 were out of town, and would not return for several months yet. 
 They had gone to Europe and to Beverly and such places to 
 forget the wants of the complaining millions, of whom this young 
 man now felt himself in truth to be one. As to the editor of 
 the Mail, perhaps he would not care for any more letters ; Ba- 
 retta knew well enough that " space work " was uncertain, al- 
 though remunerative, and that unless a man had more than one 
 newspaper to depend upon his income was likely to be slender 
 as well as irregular. Altogether it was a very gloomy outlook 
 as he viewed it, lying in this dim and dingy room alone and in 
 
 133
 
 pain, and without a friend in the world except Maud, of course ; 
 she was something more than a friend. But Maud could do 
 nothing for him nothing at least which could be of any use to 
 him. And she might do so much harm not meaning it, but 
 carelessly and impulsively, and with the best intentions in the 
 world, which would make it all the harder to bear. This was 
 the last thought in Baretta's mind before he fell asleep. 
 
 131
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 DAISY IS GLAD TO SEE PHILIP 
 
 THE breeze had died down since morning, and it was so light 
 that, although every stitch of canvas was set, the yacht moved 
 over the shining stretch of sea slowly and with only a faint 
 ripple of water at her bows. The sun was so hot that Yates, 
 who was at the helm, was glad to have the protection of the 
 huge white main-sail, in the shadow of which he was sitting. 
 He had the deck all to himself ; the others had gone below 
 after luncheon in a drowsy mood, and were now stretched out 
 in the cabin asleep. Now and then a faint rattle from the 
 tiny compartment forward, which was dignified by the name of 
 galley, reminded him that the man of all work mate, steward, 
 seaman; he might be called all three was still busy with the 
 pots and pans. 
 
 The Princess of Thule was a sloop-rigged boat a " forty- 
 six-footer" in racing parlance, although she was built rather for 
 cruising than for racing, her sail area being comparatively small, 
 and her spars and other fittings being of the substantial kind 
 which will stand rough weather. Her owner, compelled to 
 make a flying trip across the Atlantic, had loaned her for a few 
 weeks to Yates and his friends two men, who like himself 
 were familiar figures at the Pilgrim Club and this was the 
 fourth day of their trip. They had started out from Boston 
 harbour the day after the great national holiday for it was now 
 July, and an oppressive season of heat brooded over all the 
 Eastern coast and had taken a run to Plymouth, thence to 
 Provincetown ; now they were heading across the bay to Marble- 
 head, from which place they proposed to sail north-easterly to 
 
 135
 
 tbe Shoals, to Mount Desert, and as far as the waters of the 
 Passamaquoddy. On this warm afternoon the horizon was dim 
 with haze, and although the Princess of Thule was now not 
 many miles from Marblehead, she might as well have been in 
 mid-ocean for all that could be seen from her deck. Occasion- 
 ally the flash of some distant sail in the sunlight met the roving 
 eye ; but that was all ; except that once Philip, looking south- 
 ward, saw the long line of black smoke left by an outgoing 
 ocean steamship. This vague and mysterious silence this iso- 
 lation from the world was on the whole rather grateful to him. 
 There were many things which he wanted to forget ; so at least 
 he told himself. Nevertheless, he often took a kind of mourn- 
 ful pleasure in remembering them. Inconsistencies of this sort 
 are not uncommon to poor humanity, although novelists and 
 historians have taken a great deal of trouble in trying to explain 
 them away. Philip believed that he was rapidly reaching a state 
 of mind which would enable him to think of Mildred Lawrence 
 with indifference, although everything that reminded him of her 
 still had its association of discontent/ He had quite given up 
 hoping that she would ever forgive him. He did not think that 
 his offence ought to be considered irreparable, but since she 
 evidently considered it so, he understood well enough that there 
 was nothing more to be said. Perhaps he might have been 
 angry with her, and thus have forgotten her more easily, had it 
 not been for her confession that she still loved him. He him- 
 self thought of love as always meaning forgiveness. Women, 
 however, had a great many strange ideas. One of Mildred's 
 strange ideas had been the belief that he was capable of great 
 achievements. Why she should ever have held it, he could not 
 imagine. He knew that he was clever enough in a way, but 
 cleverness is too common a quality nowadays to call for much 
 remark. If a man had only the courage he could make more of 
 a reputation by becoming phenomenally stupid. Women have 
 done that, but the masculine intellect is not capable of such 
 subtleties. Just at present Philip was not even trying to be 
 clever. He had locked up his rooms in Livingstone Place and 
 had come away from the city in disgust. Of what use were his 
 amateurish efforts to win literary distinction when even his book 
 
 136
 
 reviews for the Mail were pronounced by the editor hardly up 
 to the mark ? Idleness was more profitable than that kind of 
 industry. Here in this shining world of sky and sea a man 
 could sometimes forget that he had ever been ambitious, and 
 let life drift by as it would. 
 
 "You don't look as if you were enjoying it very much, Yates." 
 It was young Lawrence Harding who spoke, surveying him from 
 the companionway. "We seem to be running into a dead calm," 
 lie added, as the sail gave an ominous flap. 
 
 " You are so confoundedly cheerful yourself, Lawrence," said 
 Philip. 
 
 " I have to be cheerful enough for two when you're around." 
 He came aft, yawning. "Ain't you tired of this? We might 
 as well let her drift." 
 
 Philip gave the wheel into Harding's hands without a word, 
 and gazed blankly over the dead surface of the water. " I 
 dare say I'm tired of everything," he muttered. 
 
 " Oh, I say, Phil !" cried Harding. " Yoa ought to take a 
 brace. It's no good brooding over things." 
 
 Yates turned and looked at him sharply. " See here, Law- 
 rence," he said, " I like you, but there are some matters I don't 
 want you to talk about." 
 
 "What matters? Your long face?" asked the young man 
 with a laugh. He was related to the Lawrences his mother and 
 Sibley Lawrence were cousins and he knew very well of what 
 the other was thinking. He was not offended by Philip's 
 brusqueness, because, as he afterwards told George Linley, the 
 third member of their party, the poor devil had been hard 
 hit. He had very little patience with Mildred, who, if she 
 couldn't appreciate a thoroughly good fellow, deserved never 
 to marry at all. But he did not put the case in this way just 
 then. 
 
 " That's the worst of a sailboat," Philip went on after a mo- 
 ment. "You can't get anywhere when you want to." 
 
 " Oh, well, what's the hurry ? Jack won't want his boat for 
 a month. When a fellow goes over there he always stays longer 
 than he expects." 
 
 But to this Philip made no reply. Instead, he went forward, 
 
 137
 
 and presently stretched himself out at full length on the deck, 
 gazing upward into vacancy. 
 
 It was no wonder that young Harding should afterwards con- 
 fide to Linley his opinion that Yates had been hard hit, express- 
 ing at the same time a sarcastic wish to see the girl who could 
 break him up like that. 
 
 " I call it a deuced shame," said Linley. " Oh, I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 " Don't mind, because she's my cousin, George ; I gave her 
 my opinion some time ago. She won't hardly speak to me 
 now." 
 
 " Women are a queer lot, anyway," said Linley, philosoph- 
 ically. It was evening, and the sun was going down upon a 
 glassy sea. Hardly a breath of air could be felt, and the great 
 sail lay useless like a broken wing. " See how that match 
 burns not a flicker," he added as he lit his pipe. " I dare say 
 we'll have to stay where we are until morning. I'd like to get 
 into Marblehead, if only to stretch my legs a bit. Yes, they're 
 a queer lot," he continued, watching the smoke curl slowly up- 
 ward. " There's my sister, now ; what can you make out of a 
 girl like that, who goes to the Annex and takes honours in 
 mathematics ? What good is analytics to her ? Didn't you get 
 conditioned in them the Freshman year? I did, anyway. Hullo, 
 Yates ! Why don't you throw away that beastly cigarette and 
 have a pipe ? Lawry and I have just agreed that we can't 
 understand girls." 
 
 Philip reddened with the consciousness that this conclusion 
 had been the result of a discussion of his own experience. But 
 he merely said, " Well, that ought to save you a good deal of 
 worry." 
 
 " Oh, we like them just as much ; in fact, it's the mystery 
 that makes them charming. Don't you know how quickly a 
 married man gets over any sentimental fondness for his wife ?" 
 
 " You're a hardened man of the world, George we all know 
 that." 
 
 " I dare say you mean that for chaff, Yates," retorted Linley, 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 But the discussion of the baffling problem of the Ewig- 
 
 138
 
 Weibliche was dropped at this point. It was really a more in- 
 teresting question just then to know when they would get to 
 Marblehead. There was no answering it that night, however. 
 Linley and Harding sat up until past twelve o'clock over their 
 pipes and beer, while Philip, whose watch on deck it was to be 
 until the man relieved him at four, turned in for a few hours of 
 sleep below. At that time the black surface of the sea scarcely 
 moved, except with the slow swinging motion of the ebbing 
 tide. But as the eastern sky began to lighten a fresh breeze 
 sprang up, and before Philip went below again he could see 
 streaks of rippling shadow on the gray waste of waters. 
 
 It was finally a good stiff breeze which carried them into 
 Marblehead early in the forenoon, and the wind was blowing 
 half a gale when they started out again late in the afternoon. 
 
 " We shall get plenty of it to-night," said Linley. And in- 
 deed it looked that way, as the little vessel dashed forward 
 bravely into the tumbling waves, flinging the spray from her 
 bows. It was from the east that this stiff breeze came, and 
 they were running into it close-hauled, making a long tack a 
 little to the south. 
 
 " Now she begins to show up to advantage," observed Har- 
 ding, scanning the yacht critically from bowsprit to top-mast. 
 " She isn't much good in a light breeze, but in weather like this 
 she's a dandy." 
 
 " Oh yes, she'll do very well," said Linley. " But I think 
 Madcap could beat her. Have you ever been out in her ?" 
 
 "Madcap that's Carver's boat, isn't it?" asked Yates. 
 
 " Madcap /" cried young Harding. " Why, she simply isn't 
 in it with the Princess. Anyway, she's a bigger boat a seven- 
 ty-footer, ain't she, Yates ?" 
 
 " If it's Carver's boat, I should think she was more than 
 that." 
 
 "Oh yes Carver still owns Madcap," said Harding. "I 
 think lie and his wife took a long cruise in her last fall went 
 to the Mediterranean or somewhere." 
 
 " Nonsense a woman crossing the ocean in a sailboat ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Carver would go anywhere ; she's just the jolly 
 sort of woman I like," declared Harding. " There's no foolish- 
 
 139
 
 ness about her as there is about most girls," he added, 
 sagely. 
 
 Linley laughed. " Wait till one of them catches you, my 
 boy." 
 
 But Lawrence Harding, who was still a very young man, 
 smiled contemptuously at the thought of any woman who could 
 catch him. That the chief feminine pursuit was masculine 
 game he did not for a moment doubt. 
 
 " You'll find girls enough at the Shoals," put in Yates, pres- 
 ently, looking up from the paper he was reading. It was a 
 copy of the morning's Mail which he had bought at Marble- 
 head. 
 
 " Shoals of them eh, George ?" asked Lawrence, making this 
 atrocious jest with an unabashed countenance. 
 
 But Linley very properly ignored his friend's would-be wit. 
 " My sister is there, for one," he said, " if you can call an Annex 
 girl who has taken honours in mathematics a girl at all. And 
 so is Daisy Tredwell." 
 
 " Daisy Tredwell ? Oh, I like her immensely. She's the 
 jolly sort, too." 
 
 " Well, you look out for her then, Lawry, because she's a con- 
 founded little flirt." 
 
 " She's no worse than the rest," said Lawrence. " What do 
 you say, Yates ?" 
 
 " How's that ?" asked Philip, looking up from hj.s paper. " I 
 didn't hear what you said." 
 
 " I couldn't find anything to interest me," observed Lawrence, 
 " not even in the report of yesterday's game." 
 
 " Oh, well, I was reading an item about a fellow 1 know 
 which which amused me a good deal." But truth to tell the 
 expression upon his face was not precisely one of amusement. 
 
 " Let us have the joke, then," said Linley. 
 
 " I dare say you don't know him it is of no particular ac- 
 count, after all," said Philip, folding up the paper and thrusting 
 it in his pocket. " He's a queer sort, but clever ; the Mail is 
 glad to print his stuff, at any rate," Philip added, with a curious 
 sense of personal injury. " Only if you knew him you would 
 be amused to hear that he was a stray baron in disguise." 
 
 140
 
 " What has he been a waiter or a barber ?" asked Lawrence, 
 jocosely. 
 
 " He's been a Socialist." 
 
 " By Jove ! I wonder if it's the fellow my sister was talking 
 about one day," broke in Linley. " She met him at some liter- 
 ary feed or other. I don't remember where ; I never pay much 
 attention to those things. But she was telling about a Socialist 
 whom she wanted to have come and talk some rot or other at 
 our house, and then didn't want because he was too much off 
 colour even for her taste. It must be the man." 
 
 " Oh yes I fancy it was Baretta," said Philip. " He's be- 
 ginning to go to 'literary feeds,' as you call them though 
 where there's the most literary provender there's the least sub- 
 stantial food." 
 
 " Daisy Tredwell goes in for that kind of thing," said Har- 
 ding. " She thinks they're great fun. She was telling me about 
 Mrs. Chilton's afternoons. But I should think Mrs. Chilton 
 might be rather a jolly sort, too, I dare gay you know her, 
 Yates." 
 
 "What's this about Baretta is that his name?" asked 
 Linley. 
 
 " If you are so much interested in him I'll read you what the 
 Mail says about him," replied Philip, pulling the paper from his 
 pocket. " Oh, here it is. ' Readers of the interesting series of 
 letters on Socialism in the Mail, by Francis Baretta, will be in- 
 terested to learn that Mr. Baretta, who is recovering from his 
 recent severe illness and whose interesting sketch of the Social- 
 ist preacher Ditton is printed in another column, is a Hungarian 
 of the noble family of Smolzow, a name familiar in Magyar 
 annals, and the rightful inheritor of the title of Baron Smolzow 
 his father, a cousin of the late baron, having come to this coun- 
 try during the troubles in 1848.' What will your sister think 
 of Baretta now, Linley ?" 
 
 " Oh, when she takes a dislike you can't convince her. She'll 
 probably insist that he's no baron at all." 
 
 " As to that, I confess I have my own doubts. But no," 
 added Philip, quickly, " that's hardly fair. I have no reason 
 for disputing it," 
 
 141
 
 Nevertheless, when he came to think it over, he could not 
 dismiss quite so easily his feeling of incredulity. He could not 
 escape the conviction that Baretta was not a gentleman, although 
 he would have hesitated to put this conviction into words. 
 How could Mildred endure him ? That was the question which 
 he was asking himself. The thought occurred to him once 
 more that perhaps Baretta had exaggerated his intimacy with 
 the Lawrences. No doubt they had been kind to him. Sibley 
 Lawrence was always picking up proteges at those Working- 
 men's Clubs and Mutual Improvement Unions ; his philanthro- 
 py was perfectly undiscriminating. But a man had no right 
 to take every clever adventurer into his house, especially when 
 he had a young and pretty daughter. If Mrs. Lawrence had 
 lived it would have been quite different. Philip could under- 
 stand why Mildred should find a good many of her natural as- 
 sociates stupid and should want to go to houses like Mrs. Chil- 
 ton's, where the intellectual atmosphere, if not always the most 
 exhilarating, was at least not dense. Philip did not know Mrs. 
 Chilton, but he had been to enough teas and " evenings " to 
 know how semi -Bohemian, semi -fashionable Boston conducts 
 itself on such occasions. They varied from the decorous recep- 
 tions of Mrs. Cadwallader, the wife of the celebrated artist, to 
 the fearful revels held on Sunday nights by Mrs. Grayling, the 
 wife of the learned professor of paleontology, where the women 
 drank beer and smoked cigarettes with the men. He was sure 
 that Mildred would not care for the beer and the cigarettes 
 indeed, she did not like Mrs. Grayling at all ; but he understood 
 exactly how meeting artists and musicians and actors and 
 actresses and literary people would amuse her much more than 
 going to the elaborate " social functions " that was what they 
 were called in the society papers of her own set. Neverthe- 
 less, she ought to remember what her position was and be chary 
 of unwise intimacies. As for Baretta what was this rot about 
 his being Baron Smolzow ? It was probably some absurd story 
 devised by the Mail newspapers nowadays were always up to 
 that sort of thing. The story seemed more incredible to Philip 
 because Baretta had never said much of anything to him con- 
 cerning his reputed ancestry. This may have been because the 
 
 142
 
 occasion had never arisen, or it may have been because Baretta 
 could not at the time see any especial advantage in it. The 
 young man was, as we have seen, anxious to avoid the reproach 
 of making his way by false pretences, and when he allowed the 
 Lawrences to draw false deductions it was rather from anxiety 
 to meet the standards by which they judged people than from 
 a wilful determination to deceive them. Philip's good -will 
 soon came to have little importance to him, although he had 
 been flattered by his notice at first. But when a man has begun 
 to get on, why should he waste any time upon those who can no 
 longer help him? 
 
 So Francis Baretta was Baron Smolzow ! The idea in all its 
 incongruity kept forcing itself into Philip's mind, while he half 
 listened to the desultory talk of his companions, gazing seaward 
 all the time, and bracing himself firmly as he stood by the wheel 
 and held the staggering yacht to her course. Philip smiled 
 rather bitterly as he thought how much a title would mean to 
 the young man. All sorts of doors would be open to him now 
 that had hitherto been tightly closed against him. It could not be 
 a mere adventurer's trick to gain recognition ; he might dislike 
 Baretta, but he would not accuse him of that. If the story in 
 the Mail were not an idle romance, it must have some substan- 
 tial basis there must be proofs of its truth. Well, it was a 
 strange revolution of Fortune's wheel. For one thing, it would 
 probably dispel the young man's dreams of a coming order of 
 social equality ; the concrete is so much more convincing than 
 the abstract. Philip found himself vaguely wondering what 
 Baretta would do, what form his elevation would take. It was 
 curious how the subject interested him. Baron Smolzow ! Per- 
 haps it was an empty title, and brought nothing more substan- 
 tial with it than a little temporary glory. A baron who had to 
 work for his living, and who occupied a dingy room in a squalid 
 street with a drunken Irishman for a landlord, was worse off 
 than if he were no baron at all. Philip had never been in Arra- 
 gon Street, but after his conversation with Dolan at the Social- 
 ist Club he could imagine precisely how depressing Baretta's 
 surroundings must be. Poor devil ! The ungenerous feeling 
 of envy gave way to one of compassion. But still the re- 
 
 143
 
 membrance of Baretta's allusions to Mildred Lawrence vexed 
 him. 
 
 " We had better run straight out and not try to make the Shoals 
 before morning what do you say, Yates?" Linley's voice in- 
 terrupted his reflections, and he turned with a sigh to answer 
 him. 
 
 " Oh yes just as you like," he said. " It will be pretty rough 
 to-night; perhaps we had better put back into Marblehead." 
 
 "Pooh! who minds a little blow like this? I think we'd 
 better run down the flying-jib, though, and take another reef in 
 the main-sail. And, I say, I'm getting hungry. Isn't it about 
 dinner-time ?" 
 
 The cosey little cabin presented a very cheerful aspect when 
 presently they were all three sitting about the table, Peter, the 
 mate (this was what they called him when he was on deck), 
 having taken the helm. Philip quite regained his good spirits 
 before the meal was over. It was not in his nature to be mo- 
 rose, however great his private griefs. And, besides, he was 
 really beginning to accept Mildred's decree of perpetual banish- 
 ment with something like resignation. The beautiful past was 
 over forever ; he would make the most of the present. If he 
 must feel his grief as a man he could also endure it like one. 
 
 Then, after a wild, tumultuous night came a fair, shining 
 morning with a steady breeze from the south-west, before which 
 the Princess of Thule sped buoyantly on her course, plung- 
 ing and dipping with the slowly subsiding swell of huge green 
 waves that the gale had created. Surely this was not a time 
 for vain regrets ! They could now see the tall shaft of White 
 Island Light on the clear horizon, and all about them were the 
 sails of the fishing fleet making for Gloucester. A mile or two 
 off the starboard bow a steam-yacht was steadily pushing its 
 way eastward. It was a day to make one grateful for the gift 
 of mere existence. And how could any one enjoy it more than 
 Philip was doing? He even joined with young Harding in 
 chaffing Linley about some imaginary Dulcinea, and declared 
 that he knew very well it was not anxiety to see his sister which 
 had brought that young man to the Shoals. " We shall have to 
 stay at least a week on your account, George," he said. 
 
 144
 
 " More likely on Lawry's," said Linley, indifferently. " Didn't 
 you hear him saying that he thought Daisy Tredvvell was a jolly 
 sort of girl ?" 
 
 " Oh, there's nothing sentimental in the wind between us," 
 declared Lawrence. " But she is jolly, just the same. I like a 
 girl who has some sense and doesn't expect too much." 
 
 " Lawry has a way of disappointing people who expect much 
 from him, you see," said Linley, cynically. " He disappointed 
 Georgiana but she has learned to look for that from my 
 friends. I say, Yates, what humbug it is for a girl to go in 
 for the higher education and all that sort of thing." 
 
 The Princess of Thule now got into smoother water under 
 the low -lying rocks of Appledore, but for a time it seemed 
 doubtful if they would be able to make a lauding at the pier. 
 They could see that an interested group of spectators, mostly 
 women, had gathered there. Presently they could make out 
 one or two whom they knew Daisy Tredwell among them. 
 One could always recognize Daisy quickly ; perhaps it was be- 
 cause she had such brilliant golden hair. Lawrence Harding, 
 who was swinging his legs over the bowsprit, took off his cap 
 and waved it, and Daisy fluttered her handkerchief. Then 
 Philip looked again, and his heart gave a great leap. Was not 
 that Mildred herself? Certainly he had seen a figure that re- 
 minded him of her standing by Miss Tredwell's side. No, no 
 what folly to think of it ! Why should she be here ? There 
 was a movement among the people on the pier, and even Daisy 
 herself seemed to disappear for a moment. And as the yacht 
 came closer and closer the figure that had reminded Philip of 
 Mildred was no more to be seen. 
 
 But this was a strange thing which Daisy did when at last the 
 young men had landed at Appledore. For to Linley and Har- 
 ding she merely nodded and said, "Oh, we have been expecting 
 you," with her mischievous little laugh. But there was a hint of 
 something else than laughter in her bright blue eyes as she 
 turned to Philip and gave him her hand. " I am so very glad 
 you came with them," Daisy said. 
 
 K 145
 
 " OH, I don't want you to interrupt me ; I want to talk to Mr. 
 Yates." 
 
 " But, I say, (Miss Tredwell !" remonstrated young Harding. 
 " i)o you intend to cut a fellow altogether ?" 
 
 " Yes if he persists in being a nuisance," said Daisy, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " I don't understand you," declared the young man, frowning. 
 
 " Of course not ; how could one expect that you would ?" 
 
 " Oh, very well, Miss Tredwell, if my room is better than my 
 company, as I plainly see " 
 
 " Don't be so silly !" interrupted Daisy, laughing again. 
 " You will understand some day." And she went over to the 
 corner of the piazza where Yates was sitting alone, leaving 
 Harding utterly mystified. Even the radiant glance, half 
 serious, half malicious, which she cast at him over her shoulder 
 did not in the least enlighten him. Yates ! Why the deuce 
 should she make a dead set at Yates ? It was absurd it was 
 unmaidenly. So Harding walked away in a very sulky mood. 
 
 But Miss Tredwell was serious enough when she came up to 
 speak to Philip. Indeed, she blushed a little as he lifted his 
 cap and rose to greet her, and for a moment she stood looking 
 at him rather stupidly. " I I wanted so much to see you," 
 was what she said at last. And then she blushed again more 
 deeply. 
 
 Philip had been conscious of the warmth of her greeting 
 on the pier, earlier in the day. " I am so very glad you came 
 with them," she had said. This was flattering, no doubt, but 
 
 146
 
 why should Miss Trcdwell care so much more for his coming 
 than for the coming of the others ? It might have been Lawry, 
 or even George Linley, that she wished especially to see ; that 
 would have been intelligible enough, although even then one 
 would hardly have expected her to admit it so frankly. But 
 why him ? That was what Philip could not make out. She had 
 not explained her meaning at the moment, and he soon forgot to 
 puzzle over it. Now again she emphasized her gladness at seeing 
 him ; which was something he did not even try to make out at all. 
 Of course, Daisy and he had always been good friends, although 
 perhaps her intimate association in his mind with Mildred had 
 made him avoid rather than seek her society of late. 
 
 " Ah, it is worth while to be told that," said Philip, looking 
 at Daisy and wondering why she blushed. 
 
 " You mustn't flatter yourself too much don't let it make 
 you conceited." Her embarrassment, whatever was the cause of 
 it, had vanished, and she was once more her frank, audacious 
 self. " One welcomes almost any prospect of diversion, you 
 know, at a place like this." 
 
 " Ah, now you are taking down my conceit with a ven- 
 geance !" 
 
 " Perhaps you're not so very conceited, after all," said Daisy. 
 " At all events, I'm going to hope you're not, because I came to 
 ask you if you didn't want to explore the island with me before 
 dinner ?" 
 
 " How can you doubt but that I should be most happy ?" 
 
 " Does it shock you that I should ask, Mr. Yates ? Well, you 
 know, I have a reason." 
 
 " A woman's reason ?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 "What is a woman's reason? something absurd? I shall 
 leave you to find it out, whatever it is." 
 
 " That will at least give me something to do. Shall we start 
 on our trip at once ?" 
 
 " Oh, it won't be a long one." They walked down the long 
 piazza together, but just as they were about to go up the hill 
 behind the hotel Daisy turned to him rather doubtfully. " Are 
 you sure you have nothing else that you want to do ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 147
 
 " Quite sure. How could there be anything that I wanted to 
 do more ?" 
 
 " I didn't ask for compliments." 
 
 " Well, you must be used to receiving them without the ask- 
 ing." 
 
 " Oh, you are incorrigible !" Daisy cried. " You haven't 
 changed a bit." 
 
 " Haven't I ?" Philip smiled rather bitterly as he spoke, 
 knowing how much the world had changed for him, although a 
 frivolous girl could see nothing of it. The reflection was unjust 
 to Daisy, but man's conceptions of woman from the social point 
 of view usually are unjust. There are complexities in her nature 
 which it is not for him to fathom. Philip despised the fashion 
 of wearing one's heart upon one's sleeve, but yet he was some- 
 what provoked with Daisy for not understanding just a little how 
 much he had suffered. She was Mildred's intimate friend, to 
 be sure, but nevertheless she might have offered him a degree 
 of tacit sympathy, especially since she had shown so plainly 
 that she wished still to be his friend as well. 
 
 " No not the least," said Daisy. They had climbed the low 
 ascent, and now were surveying from its summit the broad sur- 
 face of the sea, out of which these grim and desolate ledges 
 arose, with ragged bases of rock which gave a touch of stern- 
 ness even to the rich greensward and the brilliant flower-gardens 
 in the heart of the island. 
 
 " It must be a cheerful place in winter," observed Philip. 
 
 " It's dull enough at all times. How long will you stay with 
 us?" 
 
 " That's as the others say. You must try your powers of 
 persuasion upon them." 
 
 (f I ? Why should I care whether they stay or go ?" 
 
 " I think we are to start out again this evening." 
 
 " This evening ? Oh !" cried Daisy. Then she added, with 
 a fine assumption of.dignity, " How could one really expect you 
 to stay in such a stupid place ?" 
 
 " As I am forbidden to pay compliments, I really cannot an- 
 swer that question." 
 
 But Daisy had turned to gaze seaward, and Philip was not 
 
 148
 
 sure that she heard this last remark. lie thought for a moment 
 that her eyes had tilled suddenly, as if with tears. But this was 
 a supposition so absurd that he dismissed it instantly. Never- 
 theless, there was something about her whole manner that he 
 could not in the least understand. 
 
 " I think it's rather silly to walk about like this, after all 
 don't you ?" she said, presently. And as she faced him he saw 
 very clearly that she was smiling. " There's the little steamer 
 coming that makes the trip around the islands. Wouldn't you 
 like to go ? Have you ever been on Star Island ? The rocks 
 there are really worth seeing." 
 
 " You have only to command, Miss Tredwell." 
 
 " Have I? I wish I could believe that." This time her lips 
 trembled a little, but not with a smile. Philip saw, too, that her 
 face was very pale. 
 
 " But are you not too tired to go ? I don't want you to sacri- 
 fice yourself for me," said he. 
 
 " Is that a way of saying that you don't care to go yourself ? 
 Oh, of course you don't how rude I have been ! I don't know 
 what's the matter with me this afternoon." 
 
 " How can I convince you that your suspicions are unjust, 
 Daisy ?" he asked. " I used to call you that, you know forgive 
 me for letting the name slip out in the old familiar way." 
 
 Daisy laughed, this time with genuine merriment. " I think 
 we're a pair of fools, Philip. Why shouldn't we be just as good 
 friends as we ever were ? I'm going around the. islands, and 
 and you can come if you like." 
 
 And indeed was it not much like old times to be sitting here 
 in this tiny craft by Daisy's side? Philip had always liked 
 Daisy immensely, although she was not in the least the kind of 
 girl he would want to marry. If she had been, he might not 
 have liked her half so well. She was not remarkable in any way 
 not for beauty, nor for wit, nor for anything at all. People 
 spoke of her as a rather pretty girl with red hair, who attracted 
 the young men by her good spirits. As Lawrence Harding had 
 said, she was " a jolly sort," which phrase was perhaps more ex- 
 pressive than any other would have been. Daisy's good spirits 
 seemed fully to have returned to her now, as she sat in the stern 
 
 149
 
 of this ridiculous little steamer with Philip. It was a wonder- 
 ful afternoon never was the sun brighter or the water bluer 
 and this radiant little figure seemed to Philip somehow to be 
 a part of it. 
 
 " Would you really like to land and walk over to the rocks ?" 
 asked Daisy, as the boat ran up alongside the pier at Star Island. 
 " They're quite worth seeing, if one has never been. And, be- 
 sides " then she stopped abruptly. 
 
 " Besides what ?" asked Philip. " Of course I should like to 
 see the rocks. I am enjoying this trip more than anything else. 
 But what did you mean by ' besides ?' " 
 
 " Oh, nothing really nothing," replied Daisy, laughing, and 
 yet with a conscious air which did not escape his notice. " Let 
 us turn to the right and avoid that staring crowd at the hotel. 
 Don't you hate a staring crowd ?" 
 
 " I am never stared at when I am alone." 
 
 " Really ? Are you so sure of that ? If you would come to 
 Mrs. Chilton's some day I would promise you plenty of atten- 
 tion." 
 
 " Ah, but I am not a celebrity, as every one else who goes there 
 is." 
 
 " Well, wouldn't that be a good reason for staring at you ? 
 That's why I get any notice. Do come I mean it in earnest. 
 You are an author, you know." 
 
 " Please don't be sarcastic, Daisy. Mrs. Chilton will have 
 higher game to bring down next winter. Why, I think that 
 even Mrs. Cadwallader, who is rather particular, will want a real 
 baron. I think I will earn her lasting gratitude by introducing 
 him." 
 
 " A real baron ? Whom do you mean ?" 
 
 " Haven't you met him"? He's been at Mrs. Chilton's. Oh, 
 you must have met Baretta." 
 
 " Mr. Baretta !" cried Daisy. " That person ! Oh, you surely 
 don't believe that foolish story, too." 
 
 " I, too ! Why, have you seen it in the papers already ?" 
 asked Philip. He regretted now his introduction of Baretta's 
 name, partly because he thought that it might be associated with 
 Mildred's in Miss Tredvvell's mind no less than in his own. And 
 
 150
 
 although he had been blaming her for not sympathizing with him, 
 he felt just now as if sympathy, however delicately expressed, 
 were what he could not bear. 
 
 " The papers ? I have seen nothing in the papers. But that 
 was what they said about him at the first. I wouldn't believe 
 them I don't now. But do you know him ? Oh, perhaps he 
 is a friend of yours." 
 
 " No, he is no friend of mine. I have met him only as Fran- 
 cis Baretta, not as Baron Smolzow." 
 
 " Baron Smolzow ! How ridiculous ! So he actually has the 
 presumption at last to invent a title for himself." 
 
 " Oh, I can't say that he invented it. But, then, what does 
 it matter to us ? A fellow must get on in one way or another." 
 
 " Baron Smolzow !" said Daisy again, with a disdainful expres- 
 sion. " Oh, I have no patience with her !" Then she added, 
 rather breathlessly, and with a quick look at her companion, 
 " With Mrs. Chilton, I mean." 
 
 " Yes," was all Philip said. Yet he had grown a trifle pale, 
 and his eyes had an absent expression as they swept the far ho- 
 rizon. He was not deceived by Daisy's explanation. He knew 
 only too well whom she had in mind, and the knowledge cost 
 him an almost intolerable pang of anguish. It was true, then, 
 that she the woman he had loved, and for whom he was not 
 good enough was really interested in that adventurer, really 
 cared for a fellow who was not even a gentleman ! He thought 
 he had steeled himself to his separation from her, but this sus- 
 picion seemed to make it more intolerable than ever. 
 
 " But Mr. Baretta I won't admit that he is a baron at all 
 is hardly worth talking about, is he ? Can't you tell me some- 
 thing about yourself instead ? I am interested in what you do, 
 and it is so long since I have had a talk with you." 
 
 " I thank you for the interest ; but I am doing nothing. I 
 never did much, you know ; but even that little seems to be im- 
 possible to me." 
 
 Daisy stole a pitying glance at him as he said this. Yes, 
 Mildred had treated him very badly much worse than he de- 
 served, she was sure, whatever he had done. It will be remem- 
 bered that she had not hesitated to tell Mildred so ; which, per- 
 
 151
 
 haps, was not the wisest way to convince her, after all, since 
 there is nothing like opposition to confirm one in one's opinions. 
 But now Daisy only said, " I am sure there are many people, 
 Philip, who believe in you." 
 
 Yates was immensely touched by this confession of faith. 
 Only a moment ago he had felt that he could not endure to 
 let even her see how painful his wound still was, and yet now 
 he was conscious of an almost irresistible impulse to give her 
 the confidence which he felt sure she would respect. But all 
 he could say was, " Thank you," which seemed to him a stupid 
 acknowledgment of her kindness. 
 
 They had now reached the jagged ledges of rock which form 
 the western side of the island, and for a time nothing more was 
 said by either as they picked their way cautiously from one 
 treacherous foothold to another. As they descended behind 
 the frowning crest of one irregular summit they found them- 
 selves apparently alone in this wild and desolate world of gray 
 crags beaten furiously by the upleaping waves at their base. 
 On both sides sheer walls arose and hemmed them in, and below 
 the cliff fell away abruptly in broken masses. And before 
 them, as far as eye could reach, stretched the limitless plain of 
 the sea. Daisy was the first to speak. 
 
 " It is a favourite spot of ours I mean of mine," she said. 
 " There is nothing so lovely on Appledore. But I I " Here 
 suddenly she hesitated, and Philip, looking at her, saw that she 
 was regarding something beyond them in a frightened way. 
 
 " What is it ?" he began. Then he turned and confronted 
 Mildred Lawrence. She was very pale, and she trembled visibly, 
 but after one quick glance she averted her face. 
 
 " Oh, Mildred !" cried Daisy. " Why, how you frightened us 
 it was as if you had risen right out of the sea. Why, we 
 didn't know there was a soul anywhere about. Where were 
 you behind that rock ? Is that your book you have dropped ?" 
 
 Philip stooped to pick up the volume ; then he handed it to 
 Mildred mechanically, without a word. " Thank you," she said. 
 And she turned to go. 
 
 " Oh, Mildred !" cried Daisy, desperately. 
 
 The girl looked at her angrily. She knew now what her 
 
 152
 
 friend had done, why she had brought Philip here. But she 
 could not reproach her then. " I think it must be almost 
 dinner-time," she said, coldly, and sprang up the tortuous path 
 towards the summit of the cliff, leaving the other two staring 
 blankly at each other. 
 
 Philip, too, had begun to realize the full significance of this 
 meeting. Daisy's exclamation had enlightened him, although 
 not so quickly as it had enlightened Mildred. But now he re- 
 called those chance phrases of hers which had puzzled him at 
 the time, and he began to understand them. His first emotion 
 was also one of anger. It was a silly trick just what might 
 be expected of a girl like Daisy Tredwell. 
 
 " Did you know she was here ?" he asked, sternly. 
 
 " Why, Philip, I I thought" 
 
 " Did you know she was here ?" 
 
 " You're just as mean as you can be both of you !" Then 
 she sat down, and hid her face in her hands and sobbed. 
 
 All men hate to see a \voman cry. It is a thoroughly illogical 
 argument, but it inevitably puts them in the wrong. So when 
 Philip spoke again it was in a gentler tone. " I beg your par- 
 don," he said ; " I dare say you don't understand what you 
 have done." 
 
 The only reply to this was further sobs. 
 
 " I can't do more ihan beg your pardon," said Philip. Then 
 he, too, sat down and looked gloomily out over the tumbling, 
 sparkling waves. Their very brightness seemed to mock him. 
 It was like going back to the grave of one who is dead to come 
 face to face with Mildred Lawrence in that way, and realize with 
 a sharpness only possible in her presence how impassable was 
 the gulf between them. It was her figure, then, that he had 
 seen upon the pier that morning ; his eyes had not deceived 
 him. What accursed fate was it that led him to the very place 
 which of all others he would have avoided if he had known ? 
 And of course she would blame him ! She would think that he 
 had come with Daisy expecting to find her, and perhaps hoping 
 that some vulgar " scene " would set everything right. What a 
 hideous suspicion for her to cherish, who thought so badly of 
 him even as it was ! His heart was hot with rage against the 
 
 153
 
 intermeddler who had placed him in such a position. And the 
 fellows on the yacht they, too, would know that Mildred was 
 here, and they would talk everything over behind his back. 
 This was a ridiculously petty annoyance to be concerned about 
 at such a time, but it had a sting for him perhaps hardly less 
 sharp at the moment than that much greater grief. Confound 
 all officious women ! who could never be happy unless they 
 were trying to act the part of a special providence, and who 
 never learned anything from failure. 
 
 Presently he was conscious of the rustle of a woman's dress, 
 and he looked up to find Daisy standing beside him. She was 
 no longer crying, but her face wore a penitent expression which 
 melted him a little in spite of himself. " I am so sorry," she 
 said. 
 
 " It is I who should be sorry ; I had no business to speak to 
 you in that way." He rose wearily, but turned once more to 
 look at those mocking waters. Daisy, with a womanly instinct 
 of sympathy, laid her hand gently on his. " Oh, Daisy, if you 
 knew how hard it is !" cried he, with a despairing groan. At 
 last his resolution to bear his hurt in silence had broken down ; 
 that touch had somehow unmanned him. 
 
 " Philip," said Daisy, her eyes filling with tears again, " I 
 meant to be your friend I meant to help you. I did, indeed !" 
 
 The young man made no reply, but he held her hand in his 
 a moment. 
 
 " And and Philip ! I shall help you yet !" 
 
 " You are very kind to me," he said at last, gravely. " Shall 
 we go now ?" 
 
 154
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 THE NOBLE HOUSE OF SMOLZOW 
 
 DITTOS was so kind to Baretta during the days that he lay 
 helpless on his bed that the young man's feeling of animosity 
 was greatly softened. Baretta still thought that Ditton should 
 have taken his side rather than Luck's, but he now did him the 
 justice to admit that he had done his utmost to save him from 
 the violence of the mob. And how could one quarrel with a 
 man who brought one books and papers, and delicacies to tempt 
 the appetite, and who never met fretfulness and impatience with 
 harsh words ? 
 
 " You mustn't do so much for me," said Baretta on one 
 occasion. 
 
 " Well, I don't have an invalid on my hands every day," re- 
 plied Ditton. 
 
 " But you have no reason for it in my case, Mr. Ditton. In- 
 deed, I thought you considered me an enemy." 
 
 " You seem to have been thinking a good many foolish things, 
 my boy." 
 
 " Don't you see why I should suppose that ?" asked Baretta. 
 
 " It wouldn't have been the part of a friend to back you up 
 in that foolish attack on Luck, or to approve of all that nonsense 
 about interesting your swells in our cause." 
 
 " Why do you call them my swells ? They don't care any- 
 thing for me," said the young man, bitterly. 
 
 " That's what I've been telling you all along. I'm glad you 
 see it at last." 
 
 But perhaps Baretta did not quite see it, after all. He had 
 plenty of time to make plans for his future mission as a prophet 
 
 155
 
 in society, warning it of its destruction, and these plans seemed 
 golden to him. One thing which confirmed him in his resolu- 
 tion was the impossibility of going back to his old work. Even 
 if he could make up his mind to do it, his usefulness would 
 be destroyed ; and he felt that he could not make up his mind. 
 He had no longer any quarrel with Ditton. How could he have 
 now ? But even Ditton had become jealous of his ability to get 
 on by himself ; of that he was very sure. And one day Maud 
 brought him a letter, addressed to him at Arragon Street, which 
 confirmed him in his resolution to follow his own course. 
 
 Maud came to see him every day, usually in the afternoon, 
 because her mornings and evenings were occupied at the small 
 shop where she sold newspapers and lead-pencils, and candy, 
 and kept the accounts that shop of which she had often com- 
 plained so bitterly. She had gone back to her home, after all, 
 in spite of her passionate declaration that she had left it forever. 
 If Baretta had only asked her to stay, she would have stayed 
 in spite of everything ; but he did not love her as she loved him. 
 To her ill-regulated mind, educated beyond her environment but 
 not beyond its influences, and fed upon the silly fiction which 
 reflected anything but life as poor humanity finds it, love was 
 an emotion that did not consort with reason. It was a fine ro- 
 mantic fervour to which nothing was impossible. She pictured 
 to herself how differently events would have come about if the 
 Duchess had gone to the Captain to tell him that she had aban- 
 doned everything for his sake. Maud could have played the 
 part of the Duchess if her lover had been willing to play that 
 of the Captain. When she found that he was not, it was com- 
 paratively easy for Ditton to persuade her to go back to Arragon 
 Street. Her mother was sitting up for her, and let her in with 
 trembling hands, beseeching her to go up-stairs softly, lest her 
 father should know where she had been. But she would not 
 promise not to see Baretta again. She packed his things the 
 next day, looking among his books for the volume which had 
 the name of Mildred Lawrence written on the fly -leaf; this, 
 however, she did not find, and she wondered whether he had 
 returned it to the owner, or carried it with him as something too 
 precious to part with. " She ain't nursing him now he's sick," 
 
 156
 
 said Maud to herself, half angry, half exultant. " I guess she 
 don't care for him enough for that." After the young man's 
 belongings had been carried away Peter Dolan had made two 
 or three ineffectual threats of pitching them into the street 
 she cried over a half-worn necktie which she had found upon 
 his bureau, and had taken away to lock up among her scanty 
 hoard of treasures. She had nothing else to remind her of him, 
 not even a lock of his hair. The only present he had given her 
 was a ring with a tiny pearl, and this somehow did not seem to 
 be a tangible memorial of his presence. But over that dingy 
 bit of silk she shed many tears ; which was because she had an 
 ill-regulated mind. 
 
 The letter which Maud brought to Baretta was from Binney, 
 the editor of the Mail. In it that arbiter of so many destinies 
 expressed satisfaction with the young man's previous contribu- 
 tions, and asked if he could not send something in a slightly 
 different vein. Sketches of some of the leaders in the Socialistic 
 movement would interest the public. These must be bright and 
 crisp, giving the salient characteristics of the men and the pict- 
 uresque points in their careers. Mr. Binney further suggested 
 that something autobiographical would make good " copy," and 
 offered to spare his correspondent's modesty by putting this in 
 the form of an " interview," if the material were furnished to 
 one of the Mail's young men. 
 
 " See that," Baretta said, handing the letter to Maud when he 
 had read it. " Doesn't that look as if I would get on ?" 
 
 " How badly he writes, Frank," was the girl's comment. " You 
 tell me what it's about. Do you think it's such a big thing just 
 to be on a paper ?" she added, when the nature of Binney's offer 
 had been explained to her. 
 
 "It's a beginning can't you see how much it means 
 to me ?" asked Baretta, fretfully. " Well, no ; I suppose you 
 can't." 
 
 " Yes, I'm stupid, Frank I ain't like her. Why don't you 
 go and marry her, if you're getting to be such a great man ?" 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't talk like a fool." He limped across 
 the room he was no longer obliged to stay in bed, although he 
 was still very lame and sat down at a table by the window. 
 
 157
 
 " It's enough of a chance for me to jump at, anyway," he said, 
 as he began to write his reply. 
 
 Maud's eyes filled with tears, but she accepted the rebuke in 
 silence. Of late she had become almost humbly anxious to 
 please him. 
 
 " I didn't mean to be rude to you," said Baretta, looking up 
 presently. " Only I want you to have faith in me to believe 
 that I am going to make my way in the world." lie sealed the 
 letter and wrote the address. " And take you with me, Maud ; 
 don't forget that." 
 
 " I ain't so likely to forget it as you are," said the girl. There 
 was no bitterness in her tone ; it was rather as if she had re- 
 signed herself to the inevitable. 
 
 Perhaps some latent consciousness that she had spoken the 
 truth made Baretta eager to protest. But if he convinced him- 
 self he did not convince her. The mournful presentiment that 
 this episode in her career must come to an end sooner or later 
 continued to oppress her. Unfortunately it increased rather 
 than lessened the strength of her devotion. Some women re- 
 sent the treachery of their lovers ; others it only makes more 
 fond. Maud felt that to stop caring for Baretta was something 
 which she could not do under any circumstances. She even 
 resented his getting well because it separated him from her, and 
 put an end to those afternoons which she had found so sadly 
 sweet. Baretta, as soon as he was able, had found a new room 
 for himself, in a better neighbourhood than Arragon Street. 
 Since to go back there was impossible, he conceived a singular 
 distaste for living longer in the slums. He took a small fur- 
 nished chamber in a house in one of the South End squares. 
 It would cost him three dollars a week, which was a good deal 
 for one whose income was nothing, and who depended upon 
 chance crumbs from the Mail's table. But his confidence that 
 he would get on stimulated him to take the risk of being able 
 to pay it. Maud went with him to see the place once, and it 
 struck her as being actually luxurious. There were lace curtains 
 at the window, and a black -walnut set, and the wash-stand 
 boasted of a marble top. It was so much better than Arragon 
 Street that how could he care any longer for a girl who lived 
 
 168
 
 there ? When she thought of him as in Manchester Square he 
 seemed to be farther away from her than ever. 
 
 Ditton went with Baretta on the day that he moved his mod- 
 est possessions into his new quarters these were little more 
 than a valise full of clothing, and a few books, and the table at 
 which he did his writing but he made no remark concerning 
 the changed nature of the surroundings. Indeed, it is quite 
 likely that he never noticed it. Any four walls that provided a 
 shelter were all the same to the preacher, who, as we have seen, 
 often found himself with no shelter at all. But Ditton irritated 
 Baretta in another way, and that was by refusing to take a 
 penny from him in payment of the expense to which a visitor 
 had put him. 
 
 "It's absurd, Mr. Ditton I can't allow it," said Baretta. 
 " Why, I've been with you for over a week, and I haven't even 
 paid for my meals or anything." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! I paid my bill this morning and gave up the 
 room, and what difference does it make ?" 
 
 " But look here I have twenty dollars don't you remember 
 finding it that night ? and it's absurd for you to act in this 
 way. I've no doubt you haven't left yourself a cent." 
 
 " Oh yes, I have," said Ditton, thrusting his hand into his 
 pocket and producing two or three silver coins and some pen- 
 nies. " Look here, there's seventy -five eighty -five why, I have 
 ninety-six cents. What can a man want more ?" 
 
 " I tell you I won't have it !" cried Baretta, impatiently. " I 
 insist on paying." 
 
 " I don't know how you can insist, my boy, if I won't take 
 it," 
 
 " But you have no right to put me under such an obligation 
 to you." 
 
 "What good is money to me?" argued Ditton. "I've got 
 enough for my dinner, and if I can't do anything else I'll come 
 back here and sleep with you. Keep your twenty dollars, Ba- 
 retta. This newspaper work of yours won't last, and you'll be 
 glad to have it to fall back upon." 
 
 " I'll go halves with you I insist upon that." 
 
 " No, no when some poor devil needs a little and I haven't 
 
 159
 
 any for him, I'll call on you, and if you can spare a dollar or two 
 then, well and good. I won't take it now ; I might lose it." 
 
 " Yes, or give it away to the first beggar you come across. 
 But I tell you it's yours, and I won't take it back. There it is 
 on the table, and if you don't take it with you I'll lock it up and 
 keep it until you come again." 
 
 After Ditton had gone this incident struck Baretta as so char- 
 acteristic of the man that he incorporated it with that sketch of 
 him which he was writing for the Mail. He was not at all sure 
 that his former master he had already detached himself in his 
 own consciousness from his discipleship would be pleased with 
 the notoriety thus thrust upon him. But, then, why should he 
 object ? It was to be a friendly sketch, written altogether in 
 sympathy with the cause. Baretta would not admit that because 
 he had taken up his own line the great principles in which Dit- 
 ton had educated him were any less dear to him. Indeed, was 
 it not because he could better advance them in this way that he 
 had taken it up at all ? If this were a deceptive argument it at 
 least deceived himself. He worked diligently at his article, and 
 when on the evening of the second day he took it in person to 
 Mr. Binney he was immensely pleased with it, and thought it 
 was by all odds the cleverest thing he had done, lie had to 
 wait in an outer office a long time so it seemed to him before 
 he was admitted to the presence of the editor, 
 
 " Oh, how are you, Mr. Baretta ?" said Binney, looking up from 
 his littered desk, and hastily shoving aside a bulky manuscript 
 and several galleys of proofs. " I don't often see any one in the 
 evening, but I made an exception in your case." He pulled out 
 his watch in a nervous way, and then touched an electric-bell 
 and lifted to his ear a tube that hung by the desk. " It's after 
 nine o'clock I didn't know it was so late. Mr. Smith," he called 
 through the tube, " hurry that B matter, and let me have the re- 
 vises as soon as you can ! Now, Mr. Baretta, I can give you five 
 minutes." 
 
 "I am sorry to intrude," began the young man, flushing; "I 
 didn't realize you would be so busy." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right ; I'm always busy. We liked your last 
 articles very much. They have attracted a good deal of atten- 
 
 160
 
 tion. What do you think of my idea of writing up the leaders 
 in the movement? I suppose you're not all so equal that yon 
 don't have leaders ?" 
 
 " I've begun with a sketch of Mr. Ditton. I know him very 
 well." 
 
 "Ditton Ditton; the name strikes me as familiar." 
 
 " Perhaps you've heard of his preaching on the Common, sir." 
 
 " Ah, yes, yes Ditton, the Socialist preacher that's the 
 man. Well, that ought to be interesting. Just leave the copy 
 and I'll look it over to-morrow." 
 
 "And and when," asked Baretta, rising to go, " may I send 
 you another ?" 
 
 " Oh, when you like. I can't promise to publish them as fast 
 as you send them ; we're always crowded with more stuff than 
 we can use. But I should think that perhaps once a fortnight, 
 or every three weeks " 
 
 Once a fortnight ! Why, even if all his articles were taken, 
 and he got ten dollars apiece for them, that would only be five 
 dollars a week. Baretta made this simple computation almost 
 instantaneously. Five dollars a week ! How could he live on 
 five dollars a week ? 
 
 " I I am greatly obliged to you, sir," he stammered. Mr. 
 Binney was not a formidable person, but somehow his position 
 as an editor made him seem so to Baretta, and he quite lost his 
 usual air of confidence in his presence. " There is no other 
 opening there is nothing else I could do ?" 
 
 " Why, no, I think not," replied the editor, leaning back in 
 his chair and smiling faintly. " There is no vacancy on our 
 staff at present, and if there were one there would be a dozen ap- 
 plicants for it. Perhaps you might find a chance on the Trumpet 
 I'll give you a note to Carson, if you like or on the Ban- 
 ner. But we shall always be glad to hear from you. The same 
 address ? No ? Well, send it with the next batch of copy. 
 Good-evening, Mr. Baretta. Oh, by the way," Mr. Binney called 
 out, as the young man was fumbling at the door in a disconcerted 
 way, " here's something that may interest you. It's a despatch 
 from Vienna came down in the proofs a few moments ago 
 and, of course, I thought of you at once." 
 L 101
 
 Baretta took the printed slip and drew a few steps nearer to 
 the light to read it. There were only half a dozen lines in the 
 item, but the young man's hands trembled so that at first he 
 could hardly gather their meaning. " M. Paul Baretta-Smolzow, 
 Baron Smolzow, is dead," it ran. " He was sixty-eight and un- 
 married, and it is believed that the nearest heir to the estates is 
 a cousin who went to America a great many years ago, and has 
 never been heard of since. Baron Smolzow had lived in retire- 
 ment for some time, although formerly he was well known in the 
 diplomatic world." 
 
 For a moment the room seemed to spin before the young man's 
 eyes. He sat down again, feeling sick and faint. Paul Baretta- 
 Smolzow ! His father's name was Paul Baretta his father, a 
 drunken barber, a worthless scapegrace who had married a fac- 
 tory-girl ! It was absurd to imagine that there could be any con- 
 nection between the two men. What could be more common 
 than a coincidence of this sort a man of ignoble birth bearing 
 a noble name ? And yet Mr. Binney had thought that it might 
 interest him the son of a barber. He could not tell the editor 
 how absurd such a supposition was. Would the Lawrences, and 
 Mrs. Chilton, and the rest think it absurd ? Then he thought 
 how much their belief in it might mean to him. 
 
 "Of course," Mr. Binney was saying, "you could hardly be 
 the cousin who came to this country many years ago. You were 
 born here, were you not ? But the name Baretta ; it isn't a com- 
 mon one at least, in these parts." 
 
 My my father came from Hungary in 1848, when he was 
 a very young man," said Baretta, wiping the cold sweat from his 
 forehead. 
 
 " Why, of course then you must be Baron Smolzow." Bin- 
 ney spoke jocosely, and Baretta, although he could not make up 
 his mind to yield to the temptation which had assailed him, re- 
 sented the implication that such a thing was at all incredible. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Binney, as to that I can't say." He resolved to 
 tell nothing more than the truth and leave the other to draw his 
 own inferences. Surely there could be nothing wrong in that ! 
 " My father's name was Paul Baretta, and he came here in 1848, 
 during the troubles in Hungary the Kossuth rebellion, you 
 
 162
 
 know. At least," he added, with a scrupulous regard for the 
 comfort of his conscience, " so he used to tell me." 
 
 " Why, why, this is worth looking into ! Your father must 
 have left some papers something to prove his identity. Did 
 he never give you a hint of anything of this sort ?" 
 
 Baretta hesitated. He saw that he stood now at the parting 
 of the ways, and that if he denied any suspicion of former an- 
 cestral glories it would be difficult to pass hereafter for anything 
 more than plain Francis Baretta. And she who had not even 
 shaken hands with him when she bade him good-bye she would 
 still think of him as one infinitely beneath her, one to whom 
 kindness would be condescension. He made up his mind which 
 way to take. 
 
 " Well, sir, I won't say that he didn't," he said, with a rather 
 tremulous effort to appear at ease. 
 
 " This is interesting it is, indeed. And you think he may 
 have had some proofs of his birth ?" 
 
 " Proofs ? What would be proofs ?" Baretta looked at Mr. 
 Binney curiously, as if anticipating suspicion. 
 
 " Well, you know," laughed the editor, " you can't get those 
 estates by merely saying you are Francis Baretta can you 
 now?" 
 
 " Oh, the estates ! I had forgotten the estates." 
 
 " They're a good deal more important than the title, to my 
 mind. What is it Baron Smolzow ? You Hungarians pro- 
 nounce your ' ows ' in that way ' off,' don't you ?" 
 
 " I I believe so, sir. But you may be mistaken it may be 
 only a coincidence. A very queer one, to be sure," Baretta 
 added, fearing lest he might be laying too much stress upon this 
 point. 
 
 " I should look it up if I were you," said Mr. Binney, reach- 
 ing for the proofs which had just been shot out of a pneumatic 
 tube close at hand. " Come in to-morrow or next day, and talk 
 to one of our men about it. Oh, we must have that interview 
 with you now. Good-night, Mr. Baretta ; I won't call you Baron 
 until I am sure of it, you know." And he laughed with the air 
 of one who is used to having his wit appreciated. 
 
 Baretta pressed both hands excitedly to his forehead as he 
 
 163
 
 stepped out into the cool night air ; his brain still whirled with 
 the tumult of emotion which that insignificant despatch from 
 Vienna had aroused. Surely it was a strange coincidence, what- 
 ever way one looked at it. Baron Smolzow ! Had he, indeed, 
 any right to claim that title? He saw as in a dream all that 
 might come if he should claim it, right or no right. No longer 
 a poor, unknown, struggling foreigner, with only his brains to 
 help him, but, instead, a man with an ancestral name of which 
 he might well be proud ; more than the equal of those who had 
 hitherto regarded him with hardly concealed condescension. 
 Francis Baretta, the surviving heir of the noble house of Smol- 
 zow ! He had never heard of Baron Smolzow in his life, but he 
 went on inventing all sort of dignities and honours for him. 
 Francis Baretta Baron Smolzow ! What proof would there be 
 that he was not the man ? "A cousin who went to America 
 many years ago, and has never been heard of since " the 
 words of the despatch seemed to be printed on his brain in fiery 
 letters. Suppose it were impossible to find him. Who could 
 then say that he was not the son of this cousin ? Of course 
 some effort would be made to acquaint the heir of those estates 
 with the good-fortune that had befallen him. The estates ! The 
 late baron had no doubt been a wealthy man, and now all his 
 money was going begging for some one to inherit it. If the 
 cousin were not found, who would step in to claim them ? There 
 must be somebody, of course. 
 
 Proofs ! proofs ! Binncy had said there must be proofs. The 
 words recurred to him with mechanical iteration as he walked 
 up Tremont Street towards Manchester Square. What proofs 
 could be wanted ? how could he give any ? He tried in vain 
 to recall distinctly anything that his father had ever said of his 
 career in the land of his birth ; but he was too much agitated 
 now to put such hints together and make a connected story, even 
 if he had ever received them. Besides, that was a long time ago, 
 and how could a mere boy, as he was then, be expected to re- 
 member ? Half unconsciously he began to invent for himself a 
 tale to bridge the gap. The elder Baretta had come to America 
 in 1848 ; there, at least, was a starting-point. But when did 
 the cousin who had never been heard of since come ? It was 
 
 164
 
 essential to know that. Proofs ! proofs ! How ridiculously 
 brief that despatch had been. It didn't even tell where Baron 
 Paul had died, or where his estates were. If he were to have 
 recollections of early splendours described by his father he must 
 surely know something more than the papers had told him. 
 Could he gain this knowledge before it was too late, or must he 
 come forward now and say, " I am Francis Baretta, son of Paul 
 Baretta, who came to America years ago, and mine are the es- 
 tates and title." Let the others so he vaguely thought of pos- 
 sible claimants at home show that his assertion was false if 
 they could. Baron Smolzow ! Perhaps those who knew him 
 would accept the assertion for proof. But no ; how could he 
 tell a lie like that and look into her pure eyes ? If she despised 
 him now, would she not despise him the more when she discov- 
 ered the truth ? And yet was there any other way of making 
 himself her equal one whom she would talk with freely and no 
 longer regard with a kind of gentle scorn? It was unjust to 
 Mildred, indeed, to say that she had ever scorned him, but per- 
 haps the young man was in no mood to be just. Baron Smol- 
 zow ! How those who despised him now would fawn upon him 
 then. Would he not be a fool to let the opportunity go by ? 
 Probably the cousin who had come to America was dead by this 
 time, or, if he were alive, he might never know. Why shouldn't 
 he himself enjoy these honours, and perhaps this wealth, if they 
 remained unclaimed? Baron Smolzow ! Proofs! proofs! The 
 words were still keeping up a kind of rhythmical chant in his 
 brain as he let himself into the house in Manchester Square and 
 stole softly up-stairs to his narrow room. It had seemed to him 
 luxurious after Arragon Street, but now it struck him as a shab- 
 by retreat for the heir to a title and estates. Baron Smolzow ! 
 who had less than ten dollars in his pocket and was writing 
 about Socialism for a newspaper ! The conjunction was so in- 
 congruous that he gave a discordant laugh, which somehow star- 
 tled himself as he heard it. Why should he laugh like that? 
 There was nothing to laugh at. His head must have been turned 
 a little by this unexpected news. 
 
 165
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 "IT WILL BE A GREAT CHANGE" 
 
 IT was rather by the force of circumstances than by his own 
 will, after all, that Baretta became confirmed in the possession of 
 his newly-acquired title. That paragraph in the Mail which ac- 
 companied his sketch of Ditton the paragraph which Yates had 
 seen brought a score of reporters and correspondents down upon 
 him; so that M. Paul Baretta-Smolzow, Baron Smolzow, had more 
 fame on one side of the ocean in his death than he had ever en- 
 joyed while he lived. Baretta gave the Mail "the first hack," as 
 the young man from that journal who came to see him expressed 
 it, and after that talked freely to all who would listen. It was 
 quite true that he didn't have any very definite information to 
 impart. But there was that strange coincidence to be got over 
 by any one who disputed his claim to be considered the late 
 Baron Srnolzow's heir. The Banner, which vaunted itself upon 
 being more enterprising than any of its competitors, had ordered 
 its correspondent at Berlin to proceed to Vienna and hunt up 
 the history of the Smolzow family, and particularly of the 
 erratic cousin who came to America so many years ago. The 
 correspondent obeyed post-haste, and went not only to Vienna 
 but to Budapest, where he gained much valuable information. 
 The estates, he found, were- at Bataszek. They were not large, 
 but the family residence was in the highest degree picturesque, 
 and all that any baron could ask. Besides, the late baron, 
 after a youth spent in extravagance, had become extremely 
 economical, and it was supposed that he had left a tidy sum of 
 money invested in good securities. As for the lost cousin, he 
 had fled from his native land as a consequence of complicity in 
 
 166
 
 the Kossuth rebellion. His name, too, was Paul. What more 
 cogent proof could Francis Baretta, the son of Paul Baretta, an 
 exile of 1848, ask to have? It was all wonderfully direct and 
 plain. Unfortunately, a court of law would want documents, 
 and these did not seem to be forthcoming. 
 
 But meanwhile why should any one doubt that Francis Baretta 
 was really Baron Smolzow ? The humble position in life which 
 his father had occupied was known only to himself, nor did he 
 confide in any one the suspicion that the name of Paul Baretta 
 might not have been rightfully his. He excused this reticence 
 by saying that he had put forth no pretensions to the title. He 
 admitted the strangeness of the coincidence, and left it to others 
 to draw what inferences they pleased. Perhaps such an attitude 
 was more convincing than any amount of protestation ; and it 
 had the further advantage of enabling him to disclaim any in- 
 tentional deceit if the Paul Baretta who was cousin to the late 
 baron, or any heir of his, should turn up. In that case he could 
 simply say that his father had been Paul Baretta, and if he were 
 not related to the house of Smolzow then the coincidence must 
 be regarded as stranger still. It took him some time to argue 
 out the matter in this way ; but after many hours of anxious 
 thought such was the conclusion that he reached. He had no 
 chance for the present to try to obtain the estate, although he 
 intended to make his existence known to the other heirs in 
 Hungary, and let them undertake the task of showing that he had 
 no claim. Meanwhile this shadowy succession to the title would 
 be worth something to him. Baretta took occasion to state his 
 position very clearly in another " interview," which appeared in 
 the Banner after the energetic correspondent at Berlin had sent 
 the results of his researches into the family history of the 
 Smolzows, and had described with much vividness of detail the 
 ancestral seat at Bataszek. If sometimes his conscience re- 
 proached him, despite all his sophistries, he did his best to quiet 
 it by saying that the deception harmed no one, and that a man 
 situated as he was must use whatever means he could to get on. 
 And the immediate consequence was that he got on very well. 
 The people who could help him in his social aspirations were 
 still out of town, but meanwhile his earning capacity as a jour- 
 
 167
 
 nalist was immensely increased. He continued to provide his 
 sketches for the Mail, and began a series of articles on the 
 needs of the poorer classes for the Banner. His education had 
 been imperfect, but he had a certain degree of facility with the 
 pen, and where he was ignorant he was clever enough to conceal 
 it. Besides, newspaper readers are not always critical. He 
 found this out when he sent an article on Socialism to one 
 of the magazines and had it promptly returned to him as 
 unavailable. Perhaps the editor did not know that Fran- 
 cis Baretta was Baron Smolzow, or he would have decided 
 differently. 
 
 But there were more vexatious matters than this to consider 
 chief among them his relations with Maud, which had always 
 been incongruous and were now clearly impossible. How could 
 the heir to an ancient title marry the daughter of an ignorant 
 Irish mechanic? He forgot, when he asked himself this ques- 
 tion, that his own father had been a barber and his mother a 
 factory-girl. He remembered it afterwards, and had the grace 
 to be ashamed for the moment of the disingenuousness of the 
 argument ; but he soon came to see that in following the course 
 he had marked out for himself scruples of this sort would be 
 out of place. Francis Baretta might have married Maud Dolan, 
 though even then it would have been a sad mesalliance ; Baron 
 Smolzow could not do it under any circumstances. In conse- 
 quence of this decision he said nothing at all to Maud concern- 
 ing his altered fortunes. Since he had taken the room in 
 Manchester Square he had been in the habit of meeting her 
 every evening as she came away from the shop, and walking 
 with her as far as the corner of Arragon Street. For a week 
 after his eventful call upon Mr. Binney he continued the custom. 
 Then for a whole week she did not see him at all. Of course 
 he knew perfectly well that he could not disappear from her 
 horizon in this way. Bnt many a man in the success of tem- 
 porary expedients forgets the inevitable failure when these are 
 exhausted. 
 
 And Maud ? At first she thought he had forgotten, and was 
 angry ; then that something had kept him, and was sorry. -When 
 a fourth evening came and he was still missing, the conviction 
 
 168
 
 that he was staying away on purpose struck a sudden chill to 
 her heart. She went home with a stoic resolve to endure this 
 latest buffet from the hand of Fate without complaining, but the 
 gift of self-control had been denied to her, and so she broke 
 down utterly and sobbed herself to sleep. At last it occurred to 
 her that he must be ill, and she reproached herself bitterly for 
 ever thinking anything else, and for leaving him to suffer alone. 
 The next afternoon she set out for Manchester Square. Very 
 possibly he would scold her for coming ; it wasn't the thing to 
 do at all ; but she didn't care for that if he needed her. She 
 fancied that the woman who came to the door looked at her 
 suspiciously as she asked her to be seated in the large and lofty 
 parlour, desolate enough in the tawdriness of its furnishings, 
 which opened from the hall. 
 
 " Is he sick ?" began Maud, breathlessly, pausing on the thresh- 
 old. " Can't I go straight up ?" 
 
 " You set there, miss. No, he ain't sick that I know of," the 
 woman added, with a more surly air than ever. 
 
 Maud knew what this reply meant and blushed angrily. " I 
 guess it's all right," she said, with a toss of her head. " I'm 
 his girl we're going to be married." 
 
 " Going to ain't is. If Mr. Baretta's in he'll come down and 
 see you." 
 
 This epigrammatic if ungrammatical reminder of the uncer- 
 tainty of natural events and the vanity of human wishes in- 
 creased the nervous tension under which the girl was labouring. 
 She sat in this doleful parlour for what seemed to her a long 
 time. Frank must be at home or the woman would have come 
 back to tell her he wasn't. Why, then, did he keep her waiting? 
 Did he hope that she would go away without seeing him at all ? 
 Well, that was what she would do in about a minute. He was 
 not ill, and yet he had neglected her for a whole week. Hadn't 
 she good cause to be angry ? She rose to her feet impatiently 
 as she caught a glimpse of him coming down the stairs and 
 hurried to the door to meet him. 
 
 Baretta started back when he saw who his visitor was. " Oh 
 why, Maud is it is it you ?" he stammered. 
 
 " Me ! who else should it be ?" cried the girl. 
 
 169
 
 " Well, I was only told a young person wanted to see me, and 
 of course I I " 
 
 " Of course you'd forgotten any young person you hadn't 
 seen for a week." Maud laughed bitterly, but there was a 
 choking sensation in her throat, and she turned away to hide 
 from him the tear which slowly trickled down her cheek. 
 
 "Don't be silly," said Baretta. He knew that he was treating 
 her badly, and the knowledge made him irritable. 
 
 " I won't be silly any more, Frank," replied Maud, as calmly 
 as she could. " I won't be silly enough to think any longer that 
 you care for me." 
 
 "You shouldn't say that," he began, paltering even yet with 
 the decision which he believed he had reached. " You know 
 that I care for you I always shall, whatever happens. I I 
 was going to meet you to-night to tell you unless, indeed, you 
 saw it in the papers " 
 
 " Bother the papers I don't read them. What should I see 
 in the papers ? But perhaps it's something you've been writing, 
 Frank." 
 
 " It will be a great change for me for us both." She looked 
 at him questioningly as he said this, and his eyes dropped be- 
 fore her gaze. "Won't you come in?" he added, advancing 
 into the parlour and drawing forward a chair. 
 
 She followed him mechanically and sat down, but her lips 
 were trembling and her face was very pale as she waited to 
 hear what he had to say. What she was thinking was that he 
 had not once kissed her and after a whole week, too. 
 
 " I I thought you might have seen it in the papers," said 
 Baretta at last. " My father's cousin at least I suppose he's 
 that has died, and I " 
 
 " Yes, and you ?" interrupted Maud, impatiently. 
 
 " I I am Baron Smolzow." He threw himself into an atti- 
 tude which he fancied a chance spectator would have found 
 very impressive. " Baron Smolzow," he repeated, waving his 
 hand airily. 
 
 The girl simply gazed at him with uncomprehending eyes. 
 The announcement seemed to convey to her no meaning at all. 
 
 " Baron Smolzow," said Baretta again, after a moment of si- 
 
 170
 
 lence. " Don't you understand ? The news came from Vienna 
 in the papers. My father was Paul Baretta the cousin who 
 came to America in 1848 and whom they are looking for now." 
 As Maud still gave no sign of understanding him, he added : 
 " Why, I've often told you about my family don't be so 
 stupid." 
 
 " I I guess I am rather stupid, Frank," said Maud, slowly. 
 She started to rise, but the room seemed to be turning around, 
 and she sank back into the chair again. 
 
 But Baretta noticed nothing. He was too much intent upon 
 trying to impress her with an adequate sense of the ancestral 
 glories which had descended upon him. " Of course I should 
 have told you all about it, Maud," he added, graciously. " We 
 neither of us thought, did we, that things would turn out so ? 
 You often said that I ought to that ray family was different 
 from yours I don't want to hurt your feelings, Maud, but you 
 know what I mean." 
 
 He paused, but she made no answer, which increased his irri- 
 tation. It was not a pleasant position he was in, at best, and 
 she might do something to help him out. But he had often felt 
 that she was selfish. 
 
 " Well, it's quite a long story," said Baretta, " and as you don't 
 seem to be much interested in it " 
 
 " I am listening, Frank. What is there for me to say ?" 
 
 " Oh, if you take it that way ! I thought you would be glad 
 to hear of my good-fortune. You've told me so many times 
 that I ought to cut loose from every one I mean from Ditton 
 and those fellows, of course and associate with people of my 
 own class " 
 
 Maud was not a lady, to be sure, but perhaps she behaved as 
 nearly like one then as at any time in all her life. The blow 
 was so crushing, she felt its consequences to be so irrevocable, 
 that she was fairly numbed by it into a kind of dull acquies- 
 cence in her fate. And she wanted to get away before he had 
 shamed himself any further before her. It was this noble im- 
 pulse of magnanimity which lifted her for the moment above 
 her natural level, and showed how much she might have achieved 
 for herself under happier conditions. 
 
 171
 
 " I suppose you will shake hands with me and and say 
 good-bye," said Maud, rising once more, resolved to permit no 
 foolish feminine weakness to overcome her. 
 
 " Good-bye ? Why should you say good-bye ?" asked Baretta, 
 taking the out-stretched fingers in his. He was immensely re- 
 lieved to find that she did not intend to make a "scene," but 
 he was still anxious to delude himself with the belief that if 
 they separated it would be her doing. " No, no, Maud I shall 
 come to see you in a day or two. It isn't good-bye yet." 
 
 "Don't!" she cried, sharply, releasing herself as he bent for- 
 ward to kiss her. She walked quickly to the door, but turned 
 at the threshold. " I I guess you'll be happy, Frank. I shall 
 like to think of you as a great man, that wasn't too proud to go 
 about with the likes of me !" 
 
 "But, Maud ! Maud ! you don't know what you're saying " 
 
 The closing of the front door cut short this remonstrance. 
 He stood gazing blankly at the spot where she had been stand- 
 ing only the moment before ; and a pang half sorrow, half re- 
 proach invaded his heart when he remembered all that this 
 parting meant. And yet what had he said, what had he done, 
 that was unkind ? He was relieved to think there had been no 
 " scene." But he felt somehow as if things would go all the 
 harder with Maud on this account. He tried to excuse him- 
 self by saying that he had not wanted to make so abrupt an 
 ending of their relations. He hoped that she would see the 
 folly of looking forward to marrying him, but meanwhile he 
 would have continued for the time, at least the semblance of 
 devotion to her. It was like a woman to take a man too literally. 
 Perhaps the knowledge that he had lost her stirred in him a 
 little revival of kindly emotion that was almost love ; so that 
 he made up his mind at last not to give her up quite so 
 easily. He was sure that he had only to go to her to win her 
 back. 
 
 It was before he had an opportunity to do this, however, that 
 Ditton came to sec him. Baretta was actually a little lonely at 
 this period of his career, having cut loose from old associations 
 before he had found new ones, and he was glad to receive a 
 visit from his old leader. He flung the door of his chamber 
 
 m
 
 open wide in response to Ditton's knock. ll Well, this is pleas- 
 ant," he said. 
 
 " Is it ?" asked Ditton, dryly. He stepped inside, ignoring 
 Baretta's out-stretched hand. " What did you mean by writing 
 that stuff in the Mail about me ?" he said. 
 
 " Why why, didn't you like it ?" stammered Baretta. 
 
 " Like it ! How can you ask the question ? See here, Baret- 
 ta, I've got just about two words to say to you, and I'll say 'em 
 quick, and then I'll go." Ditton paused for a moment ; but as 
 the other stared at him in silence, went on in measured tones, as 
 if the matter were one in which he had no interest whatever : 
 " I've read all that stuff about you and your rubbishy title, and 
 I'm prepared to lose you as a helper in the cause. I've felt for 
 some time that you wouldn't hold out. Well, perhaps that's all 
 right. After the row you were fool enough to have with Luck 
 I don't know what you could do, anyway. But I didn't think 
 the time would ever come when I should refuse to take 
 your hand because I had found you out to be a mean skunk. 
 That's plain English, ain't it ? And that's all I have to say to 
 you." 
 
 Baretta, amazed at the outset by the suddenness of the at- 
 tack, now turned upon his accuser a face livid with rage and 
 hate. " Oh, I knew it would come I knew you'd show your- 
 self in your true colours. So you hate me, do you ?" he screamed, 
 shaking his fist and stamping his foot. " You call me a skunk 
 me? after all I've done for you. Why, I I wrote about 
 you, you fool, because I wanted to help you " 
 
 " Yes, and that was the lowest trick of all," interrupted 
 Ditton. 
 
 "Trick! It's you that played the trick pretending to be 
 my friend, and then setting a lot of drunken devils on me to 
 kill me. Do you think I don't know it? Why, I heard you 
 and Luck planning it all Damn you, there you are shaking 
 your head now and muttering that you'll down me yet ! You 
 you! How dare you call me names? Who's the traitor now ? 
 Not me not Baron Smolzow !" He dropped panting into a 
 chair, his eyes rolling terribly and his mouth distorted in a kind 
 of frenzy. 
 
 173
 
 " Good heavens, man ! are you mad or drunk ?" cried Ditton, 
 looking at him with a strange sense of horror. 
 
 Baretta rose to his feet again, and, rushing across the room, 
 unlocked a drawer in his desk and drew out a bank-note. " There 
 it is !" he cried ; " there's the money you wouldn't take from me 
 the dirty ten dollars. Well, you'll take it now. I can get 
 plenty more in spite of you all. Take it !" He thrust the note 
 into Ditton's hand, but Ditton let it drop to the floor. " Oh, 
 you won't take it?" cried Baretta, stooping to seize it. "Well, 
 I want you to see that I don't use it." He fluttered the note 
 wildly in the air a moment. " Ten dollars ! Now is your last 
 chance. There there there there !" At each word he tore 
 the note, only stopping when it had been reduced to pieces so 
 minute that no one could ever put it together again. " Are 
 you satisfied now ?" he asked, flinging up both arms and laugh- 
 ing loudly. 
 
 To this frantic tirade Ditton made no reply. If he had come 
 to see this young man with feelings of anger, it was with a sor- 
 rowful heart that he left him. What did it all mean ? Was Ba- 
 retta out of his head ? Ditton stood with his hand on the knob, 
 looking at him in a puzzled way for a moment. Then he said, 
 " Well, I'm sorry to have a bad opinion of you, Baretta, but I 
 can't help it," and so went away. 
 
 Baretta walked up and down the room in a bewildered sort 
 of fashion for some time after this. He could not recall exactly 
 what had taken place at first ; there was only a confused sense 
 of wrath in his mind. Then Ditton's opprobrious epithet came 
 back to him, and he shook his fist and stamped his foot once 
 more, although there was no one by to see. He was being very 
 unfairly treated. Maud first, and then Ditton, had tried to put 
 him in the wrong. But, after all, he had done nothing to be 
 ashamed of. They were the ones who ought to reproach them- 
 selves for their injustice to him. Well, let them all conspire 
 against him ; he would get the better of them yet. This was 
 the idea which kept recurring to him the idea that there was 
 some conspiracy of which he was the object. Perhaps it was 
 unfair to connect Maud with it, but of Ditton's hostility he no 
 longer had any doubt. But he would rise he would rise in 
 
 174
 
 spite of all. Baron Smolzow would make a greater name for 
 himself than even Francis Baretta could have done. He had 
 almost forgotten that there was any doubt about the reality of his 
 title. His past seemed somehow to be separated from him by 
 a gulf which it would be impossible to recross. Was it not 
 best, indeed, to forget it altogether ? Then he thought of Maud 
 again. Poor Maud ! he had been very fond of her, after all. 
 The recollection of his fondness seemed to dissipate the wild 
 wrath he had been cherishing. As he walked up and down he 
 grew calmer, and the livid look of rage in his face died out. 
 Poor Maud ! He must see her once more and try to explain 
 things to her a little more clearly. Then he seemed to hear 
 that strange discordant laugh of his again on the night that he 
 had first learned of the death of M. Paul Baretta-Sinolzow, Baron 
 Smolzow. 
 
 175
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 THE LION OF THE HOUR 
 
 YATES was a little late in reaching Mrs. Cadwallader's, and he 
 found her pretty rooms crowded. No one noticed him when he 
 came in, for which he was thankful. Ever since he had prom- 
 ised to be present he had regretted it, and if he could have 
 thought of any good excuse for staying away he would have 
 availed himself of it. He knew that Mildred Lawrence would 
 be there, and he did not wish to meet her again. Perhaps he 
 was now a little vexed with her, as well as grieved by her per- 
 sistent refusal to forgive him. He remembered how coldly she 
 had regarded him when Daisy Tredwell tried to bring them to- 
 gether once more, and he began to think that her resentment 
 was unwomanly. Even Daisy herself, Mildred's own intimate 
 friend, had sympathized with him. Thus the danger of inter- 
 meddling in the quarrels of lovers was again demonstrated. 
 
 But Philip could not refuse Mrs. Cadwallader's invitation sim- 
 ply because he was not on good terms with one of her guests. 
 Mrs. Cadwallader was one of his oldest friends, and his liking 
 for her was very hearty and genuine. Besides, her house was 
 always a pleasant one to visit. Literally speaking, it was not a 
 house, but a flat. The rooms were small and somewhat incon- 
 veniently arranged ; but the taste displayed in their adornment 
 was perfect. Modern notions of decoration prevailed, although 
 they were not allowed to run riot. There were draperies and 
 folding screens, little tables and tete-a-tete sofas, and number- 
 less cosey corners ; and yet one could move about perfectly well 
 without tripping over rugs or kicking one's shins against the 
 furniture. There was the usual variety of colour, but everything 
 
 176
 
 was so placed that one was never conscious of contrasts remind- 
 ing one of a crazy-cushion ; and the prevailing tint, that to which 
 all the others seemed to be subdued, was a soft yellow. Thus 
 on the gloomiest days one could almost fancy that the sun was 
 shining somewhere. 
 
 There were so many of Mrs. Cadwallader's acquaintances in 
 the rooms on this bright October afternoon that the surround- 
 ings formed only a vague background to a mass of well-dressed 
 men and women. A young lady was at the pianoforte when 
 Philip entered, singing one of Tosti's vapid ballads. He stood 
 at the back of the room until she had finished. Then he edged 
 towards a corner where there was a vacant chair. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do, Mr. Yatcs ?" said a voice in his ear. He 
 turned to find that the lady of whose back he had caught a glimpse 
 when he sat down was Miss Linley. " I haven't seen you since 
 you were at the Shoals with George," she added, amiably. " Did 
 you enjoy your trip ?" 
 
 " Immensely I dare say your brother told you all about it." 
 
 " One's brother never tells one anything." Then she leaned 
 slightly forward and asked in a mysterious whisper, " Is he a 
 friend of yours, Mr. Yates ?" 
 
 " Your brother ? I I don't quite understand." 
 
 " How stupid you are ! I mean the Baron, of course." 
 
 " The Baron ! Oh yes I am rather stupid." 
 
 "You think that he is a baron this Mr. Baretta? And he 
 didn't know who Plato was fancy that ! I met him at Mrs. 
 Chilton's," explained Miss Linley. 
 
 " Well, as to that you know what the newspapers say." 
 
 " But Mrs. Cadwallader says that she holds you responsible 
 for him." 
 
 " Holds me responsible ! Oh, she can't do that, Miss Linley. 
 She asked me to bring him to see her, and I was very glad to do 
 so ; but now he must shift for himself." 
 
 " Then you don't like him you don't believe in him ?" 
 
 " Pardon me that was not what I meant at all," said Philip. 
 He was irritated at this questioning about Baretta, whom he con- 
 tinued somehow to distrust, in spite of all resolutions not to do 
 
 so. " I know nothing against him. I dare say that he's a very 
 M 177
 
 good sort of fellow. He is clever, at all events. Haven't all 
 these people come to hear him ?" 
 
 " Oh, well, I only came out of curiosity," said Miss Linley, 
 rather stiffly. "I prefer something that's more intellectual. But 
 it was I who suggested this to him." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 "Yes; didn't you know? I told him-at Mrs. Chilton's that 
 marnma liked to have things. Of course, when I saw how ig- 
 norant he was, I had to give him a hint. But people of that sort 
 push themselves forward so on the slightest encouragement." 
 
 " Ah, but he will have encouragement enough now !" exclaimed 
 Philip, rather bitterly. " He will be quite the lion of the 
 season." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" asked Miss Linley. She hesitated a mo- 
 ment and then added, " Perhaps we shall have to ask him to 
 Cambridge, after all." 
 
 Philip was more certain than ever that Baretta would be 
 lionized to his heart's content when he observed how Mrs. Cad- 
 wallader's guests crowded around him after the lecture was 
 over. It annoyed him strangely to see that Mildred Lawrence 
 and her father were among those who shook hands with him 
 and congratulated him. Why the deuce should people make 
 such a fuss over a commonplace diatribe against society ? There 
 was something ludicrous, even disgusting, in it. Baretta had 
 certainly proclaimed no new truth ; he had not even put old 
 ones in a new way. His lecture had simply been a rather in- 
 genious rechauffe of the familiar Socialistic arguments. It was 
 creditable, of course, considering how few opportunities the 
 young man had enjoyed ; but it was not remarkable. However, 
 a baron was not to be judged too critically. Perhaps Francis 
 Baretta would have been a lion, but as Baron Smol/ow his roar- 
 ing was irresistible. It was not every protege of Mrs. Chilton's 
 who found himself admitted to the more august doors of Mrs. 
 Cadwallader. A satiric smile crept into the corners of Philip's 
 mouth when he saw that Charlie Radford and Lord Shetland 
 were also shaking hands with Baretta. These two young Eng- 
 lishmen were visitors to the city whom everybody was dying to 
 know. Perhaps neither would have attracted much attention 
 
 178
 
 just for himself. But Lord Shetland was the son and heir of the 
 Marquis of Thurso, and Charlie Radford was his intimate friend. 
 Philip wondered how Baron Smolzow would get on with them, 
 and he was not surprised, a little later, to hear Charlie charac- 
 terize him as " a queer sort." 
 
 " Queerness goes a long way in Boston," said Philip. 
 
 " Well, then, he ought to reach all around the city," said 
 Charlie. " What the deuce do they call him Baron for ?" 
 
 " Have you never heard of Baron Smolzow of the great 
 Hungarian family of Baretta ? My dear fellow, where have you 
 been 2" 
 
 "Ah, one of those foreigners !" exclaimed Radford, contempt- 
 uously. 
 
 " Oh, here you are !" said Mr. Orrin Fox Allen, coming up as 
 Charlie turned to talk with a young lady in blue to whom Philip 
 had presented him. "Mrs. Cadvvallader has been asking after 
 you." 
 
 " I am only waiting for my chance," said Philip. " One likes 
 to have one's hostess to one's self, if only for a minute." 
 
 " I fancy you'll have to wait quite a while, then. Did you 
 ever see such a crush ?" 
 
 " Is it Baron Smolzow or Lord Shetland that is the drawing 
 card ?" asked Philip. 
 
 " Oh, don't you like the fellow ? Neither do I Baretta, I 
 mean," added Mr. Allen. " I rather took to him at first, but 
 this baron business pooh!" And he waved his hand con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 " Why should we doubt it ?" It was true that Philip himself 
 was by no means certain of the reality of Baretta's pretensions, 
 but he was nevertheless inclined, curiously enough, to admit 
 them to others. 
 
 " Oh, it all seems to be plain enough ; but you can't always 
 tell. I myself don't think much of barons when they come from 
 the slums. Besides, the fellow is a cad." 
 
 " That's a little harsh." 
 
 " Don't think I blame a man for being poor, Yates. But I'll 
 tell you why I think he's a cad. Oh, I dare say he's forgotten 
 her now he acted as if he were ashamed of her then." 
 
 179
 
 " Her !" exclaimed Yates. " Whom do you mean by her ?" 
 
 " She was rather a pretty girl, too Miss Dolan. You should 
 have heard how he mumbled the name when I met him on the 
 street-car with her. But she wasn't ashamed of it, not much. 
 Oh, of course, she was a common sort of girl, but then a fellow 
 has no right to act like a cad." 
 
 " Dolan oh yes," murmured Philip. He recollected now the 
 words which Baretta's landlord had let drop about his " gyurl " 
 that evening at the Socialist Club. 
 
 " Have you seen her?" asked Mr. Allen. "Well, you know, 
 it was amusing the way he behaved immensely amusing. It's 
 really too good a story to keep; I must tell Mrs. Chilton about it." 
 
 " No, don't do that," said Philip, quickly. Then, as Mr. Allen 
 stared at him, he added, " Of course, you know, it's none of my 
 business, but I rather pity the poor devil, after all." 
 
 " Pity him ! He wouldn't thank you for that." 
 
 " I dare say not. Perhaps I don't pity him. Did you say 
 that Mrs. Cadwallader had asked for me?" 
 
 And in truth Baretta would have been very much surprised 
 to be told that any one thought of pitying him. He had begun 
 to think of himself as a person to be greatly envied. There was 
 a great difference between the friendless young man who had 
 lived in Arragon Street, and the heir to a title and estates, whom 
 a great lady like Mrs. Cadwallader had invited to her house. 
 Perhaps he exaggerated Mrs. Cadwallader's social importance 
 somewhat, as he had Mrs. Chilton's ; but there was no doubt of 
 its reality and of its value to an outsider. When Lord Shet- 
 land came up and shook hands with him he felt that he was in- 
 deed being recognized by his own order; he had almost de- 
 ceived himself, it will be observed, in trying to deceive others ; 
 the days of his association with Ditton and with Maud Dolan 
 already seemed to belong to a remote past, with which Baron 
 Smolzow had nothing to do. A glimpse of Yates making his 
 way slowly through the crowd, however, reminded him that 
 there was one link connecting him with that past which he 
 could not break. But he ignored the unwelcome suggestion, 
 and put out his hand with a rather condescending smile. "Ah, 
 Yates," he said. " How did you like it?" 
 
 180
 
 " Like it ? Oh, the lecture ?" replied Philip. Something in 
 Baretta's manner annoyed him. " It was very well," he added, 
 " though of course you can't expect me to believe what you 
 said." 
 
 " I think I shall make converts, however," Baretta said, airily. 
 " His lordship congratulated me." 
 
 " Who the deuce are you talking about ? Lord Shetland ?" 
 
 " Oh, is that what you call him ?" asked Baretta, scowling. 
 " Well, how can I be expected to know all these things ? Of 
 course, it's very kind of you to tell me. I haven't had your 
 advantages." 
 
 " See here, Baretta, you'd oblige me infinitely if you would 
 drop that rot. I didn't intend to be rude if you mean that. 
 And as for advantages why, what more could a man want than 
 you have now ?" 
 
 " Oh, now ! Well, perhaps I have a chance. But the least I 
 ought to do is to thank you for having brought me here for 
 having introduced me to Mrs. Cadwallader." 
 
 "Don't thank me !" cried Philip, sharply, recalling what Miss 
 Linley had said about Mrs. Cadwallader holding him responsible. 
 " She asked me to bring you." 
 
 " I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble," retorted 
 Baretta. He was wondering if Yates was in a bad temper be- 
 cause he envied him his present importance. He could quite 
 understand why this should be the case. Yates had always 
 looked down upon him, and no doubt it was galling to have to 
 treat him as an equal. 
 
 "Come, Baretta, don't be absurd," was all Philip said. Then 
 some one came up, and he moved on to find his hostess. 
 
 " I am so glad you are here," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "I want 
 to talk to you. Don't hurry away stay and dine with us." 
 
 "Thank you. That is an invitation which you know I cannot 
 resist." 
 
 " What did you think of the lecture ? It struck me as very 
 absurd," she went on. "The only thing that pleased me was 
 that Mr. Pinkerton didn't like it." 
 
 " From which I gather that you don't like Mr. Pinkerton ?" 
 
 " I detest him ! It's awful to talk that way about a man when 
 
 181
 
 he's in your own house. But I excuse myself by reflecting that 
 I didn't ask him." 
 
 " I admire his coolness in asking himself." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Mrs. Cadwallader, smiling, " perhaps I am 
 unjust to Albert Hazard. You know he gave a Browning read- 
 ing here once, and ever since then he has taken it for granted 
 that he may come. And, indeed, why shouldn't he ? I can't 
 tell him that I don't like him. In fact, I wouldn't dare to do 
 so. I know it's very foolish, but I should hate to have him put 
 me into those ' Social Sketches ' of his. He's a dreadfully ill- 
 natured person if you offend him." 
 
 " It's a pleasant way he has, isn't it ? to go to people's houses 
 and then satirize them in the society papers." 
 
 " Mr. Cadwallader detests him worse than I do. He is actually 
 rude to him." 
 
 " I can quite sympathize with Mr. Cadwallader," said Yates. 
 " And so poor Baretta will be the next victim, will he ?" 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I couldn't say. Mr. Pinkerton simply con- * 
 fided to me that the lecture was ' awful rot.' But I should think 
 that Mr. Baretta oughtn't I to call him Baron Smolzow ? was 
 very clever." 
 
 " Clever ? I dare say he's clever enough. It's exceedingly 
 kind of him, anyway, to give us all fair warning before he blows 
 us up with dynamite or murders us in our beds. But you mustn't 
 ask me about him you must judge for yourself." 
 
 " Oh, I can't do that ; I shall have to take your word for it. 
 One mustn't inquire too curiously, I suppose, when so famous a 
 person is concerned." 
 
 " It is kind of you to have him here it will be a great help 
 to him." 
 
 " Perhaps he may not think so. You see, in a republican 
 country we are dreadfully fond of an aristocracy. Do you think 
 that Mr. Baretta really, it is so hard to call him anything else 
 will get those estates, as well as the title ?" 
 
 " Those estates ?" said Philip. " Do you mean his castle in 
 Spain ?" 
 
 Mrs. Cadwallader laughed, but he afterwards reproached him- 
 self with being ungenerous to Baretta. It was no affair of his 
 
 182
 
 whether the young man's sudden elevation was based on a de- 
 lusion or not. His question had been more a protest against 
 being held responsible than anything else. He had been amused 
 by Baretta's flamboyant Socialism in the early days of their ac- 
 quaintance, even although at the same time he was impressed by 
 the sincerity of it. But Baretta as Baron Smolzow seemed to be 
 part of a masquerade, and not sincere at all. Philip's indigna- 
 tion may have been heightened by the reflection that the part 
 was being played on the same stage with Mildred Lawrence. 
 He saw that she was talking with Baretta now, and he stepped 
 into the adjoining room in order to avoid recognition. He was 
 sure that she did not know he was there, and he wished to spare 
 her even the annoyance of finding it out. But the very first 
 person he met as he drew back the portiere was Mildred's 
 father. 
 
 " Ah, Yates," said that gentleman, beaming cordially upon 
 him. " What a great stranger you are !" 
 
 " I oh, yes how do you do, Mr. Lawrence ?" stammered 
 Philip. 
 
 " Now this is really a delightful occasion, isn't it ?" There 
 was absolutely no constraint in Mr. Lawrence's manner. Possi- 
 bly the unimportant fact that this young man's engagement with 
 his daughter had been broken off, and that the two were no 
 longer on speaking terms, had quite escaped his memory. " Our 
 friend Baretta has done very well very well indeed. Of course, 
 you know, I don't agree with him ; he carries his theories a little 
 too far just a little too far. But when you come to think of 
 it, there's a good deal of truth in what he says, after all. No 
 doubt our society needs reorganization, eh ?" 
 
 " Reorganization is a rather mild word for revolution, isn't it, 
 sir ?" asked Philip, who had regained in some measure his self- 
 control. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think our friend is exactly a revolutionist. Per- 
 haps he says just a little more than he means. I dare say that 
 his new position in the world will sober him. He's been very 
 modest about it that's one thing I like in him. He never 
 boasted about his family. In fact, you know, I took him at 
 first for one of a far different class. He used to come to our 
 
 183
 
 Union, you know. A most intelligent young man a most clever 
 young man." 
 
 " I dare say," observed Philip, rather dejectedly. 
 
 " Don't you find his conversation remarkably interesting ?" 
 
 *' Yes oh, of course. I I suppose you see a good deal of 
 him ?" 
 
 " Well, we have been away all summer, you know. But, as I 
 said, we take a great interest in him." 
 
 Philip studied the pattern of the rug on which he was stand- 
 ing intently a moment before he spoke again. " Ah, that is quite 
 natural," he said at last. He felt that it was a banal remark, but 
 no other occurred to him. Perhaps he was thinking how bit- 
 ter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's 
 eyes. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence waited a moment to see if he had anything fur- 
 ther to say, and then, finding he had not, moved on with a bland 
 bow. He must have had the impression, however, that Yates, 
 and not himself, had done most of the talking ; for when he 
 drifted back into the next room and found his daughter still 
 with Baretta, he plunged into the conversation by saying, " Oh, 
 you have made a great hit a great hit. Yates has just been 
 talking about it you know Philip Yates ? He has a high opin- 
 ion of you ; he thinks you're immensely clever." 
 
 Mildred flushed crimson, the more as she felt that Baretta's 
 eyes were fixed upon her with an inquiring gaze an impertinent 
 one, she thought it. 
 
 " Oh, does he ?" asked Baretta. " That's exceedingly kind of 
 him." 
 
 Mildred looked up suddenly and detected the sneer which 
 played about his lips as he spoke. But still she said nothing. 
 
 " He's clever himself," said Mr. Lawrence. " His praise is 
 worth something." 
 
 " No doubt, Mr. Lawrence, no doubt," said the young man, 
 hastily. " Oh yes, I have known Yates very well. I like him ; 
 I think he will succeed some day. But I fancied that you 
 thought that you would not care " He felt that Miss Lawrence 
 was staring at him haughtily, and that, singularly enough, she 
 was not pleased with this depreciation of the man who had be- 
 
 184
 
 haved so badly to her. He was quite convinced that Yates had 
 behaved badly. 
 
 " Every one is saying the same thing ; every one is delighted ;" 
 observed Mr. Lawrence, beginning to understand that his allu- 
 sion to Yates had been unfortunate. " You will be quite the 
 lion of the hour I really think you will. But I want to have 
 a long talk with you. Come home and dine with us." 
 
 " 1 I thank you," stammered Baretta. " If if you are sure 
 it will be convenient if Miss Lawrence " he added, turning to 
 Mildred. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that I dine out to-night, Mr. Baretta," said 
 that young lady, coldly. " But I am sure that my father will be 
 glad of your company." 
 
 She nodded rather stiffly and turned to speak to Miss Tred- 
 well, who had just tapped her on the shoulder and whispered a 
 word in her ear. Baretta felt that he hated Miss Tredwell, and 
 he scowled at her as she drew Miss Lawrence away. " You're 
 very kind, Mr. Lawrence ; I'll come with pleasure," he said. But 
 there was not much pleasure in his look." He suspected that 
 Miss Lawrence's engagement to dine out had been very hastily 
 made. 
 
 185
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 
 
 NEVERTHELESS, Baretta came away from Mrs. Cadwallader's 
 in high spirits. The incense of flattery was very exhilarating, 
 and he had enjoyed a great deal of it. He had always felt con- 
 fident that he would succeed, but the realization of his hopes 
 was even beyond expectation. He did not question the genuine- 
 ness of the polite applause which followed his lecture. He was 
 sure that all these people were immensely interested in what he 
 had to say, because they were immensely interested in him. 
 The rebuff that he had received from Mildred Lawrence made 
 him very angry for the moment. Afterwards he was rather in- 
 clined to pity her for not appreciating his society at its true 
 value. The day would come, he told himself, when she would 
 be proud to know him. Baron Smolzow was a very different 
 person from Francis Baretta. As for that impertinent Miss 
 Tredwell, he would get even with her yet. She was a friend of 
 Yates he had seen them talking together and of course she 
 was his enemy. He had told Yates that he ought to thank him 
 for his introduction to Mrs. Cadwallader ; but in truth he was 
 not in the least grateful. He was no longer in a position where 
 he could be patronized by anybody. He was not the unknown 
 adventurer who had thought it a great thing to be asked to one 
 of Mrs. Chilton's afternoons. Just now he was flying for higher 
 game than that. 
 
 Mrs. Cadwallader had been very gracious when he called with 
 Yates, and he soon felt quite at his ease with her, in spite of 
 what had seemed to him the oppressive elegance of her sur- 
 roundings. In the necessities of his early training the aesthetic 
 
 186
 
 side of his nature had been somewhat neglected, and all these 
 screens and easels and vases and scarfs and draperies had some- 
 what bewildered him. The difference between the life which he 
 had led and the life which he wanted to lead had never before 
 impressed him so strongly. He saw now how many things of 
 which the dwellers in Arragon Street knew nothing were re- 
 garded as necessities in the great world how that world had 
 an atmosphere of its own which one must, as it were, learn to 
 breathe. He felt that his perception of life had been immensely 
 enlarged by his appreciation of this fact ; if the finer distinc- 
 tions, the smaller details, were still vaguely outlined in his mind, 
 that was because he had not yet had time to study them. That 
 time was all he needed he did not doubt. While Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader and Yates talked he listened intently, although he found 
 many of their allusions incomprehensible. It seemed to him, as 
 he thought it over afterwards, that they had talked nothing but 
 nonsense ; which was an easy way to dismiss things one did not 
 understand. Perhaps Mrs. Cadwallader even found her Socialist 
 baron a rather stupid lion, and began to doubt whether she had 
 done wisely in asking Yates to lead him into the arena. Baretta 
 came away, however, feeling that he had at least made no 
 blunder, and was slighty patronizing to Yates, as a man who was 
 gotting on had a right to be to a man who amounted to nothing in 
 particular. Yates, indeed, bade him good-bye rather curtly, and 
 did not offer to take him to any more of the " best houses," an 
 omission which, after all, was not a serious one now. Baretta 
 went again to see Mrs. Cadwallader, alone this time, and made a 
 much better impression. He talked about himself, a subject 
 upon which he was always eloquent, and of his work and his 
 economic ideas things which Mrs. Cadwallader found enter- 
 taining because of their novelty. Therefore she concluded that 
 this new lion would roar loudly enough for a single season, and 
 that she might ask people to come and hear him. In le monde 
 ou Von s'ennuie anything that promises a sensation is not to 
 be lightly spurned. Her decision was a great piece of good- 
 fortune for Baretta, although, perhaps, he did not appreciate it 
 fully. There were plenty of houses where even less conspicu- 
 ous persons than he were welcome, and to go to which conferred 
 
 187
 
 the immortality of newspaper paragraphs. Mrs. Chilton, for 
 example, represented one social cult. But at Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader's alone Society and Upper Bohemia met on common 
 ground. She had the gift of reconciling these usually jarring 
 elements. There were those of greater consequence than Albert 
 Hazard Pinkerton or Georgiana Linley who came to hear him 
 talk about Socialism. He did not quite recognize this fact at 
 the time, although he was duly impressed at meeting the son of 
 a marquis ; he had not been a baron long enough to treat titles 
 as familiar things. 
 
 The company this afternoon was composed of rather more 
 miscellaneous elements than usual, and Baretta had compar- 
 atively scant opportunities of making new acquaintances. Talk- 
 ing to people one didn't know was still a difficult task ; indeed, 
 it was the apparent informality of the very formalities of society 
 which perplexed him most. Of course one could brush such 
 things aside as foolish, and take refuge in the reflection that 
 reorganized humanity would not want them ; still, that was not 
 very satisfactory as a temporary expedient. Baretta wandered 
 off into a corner after he had accepted Mr. Lawrence's invitation 
 to dinner, and glared unamiably at the swaying and murmuring 
 throng as it swept by. One has lonely moments even when one 
 is getting on in the world and has become a lion, or perhaps a 
 whelp that promises to be a lion some day. Baretta was not 
 sorry presently to see drifting in his direction Mr. Hamilton 
 Wreath, whom he had met at Mrs. Chilton's, and whom he re- 
 membered as being interested in Socialism from a realistic point 
 of view. He observed that Mr. Wreath still wore the frock- 
 coat and white tie that Mr. Allen had made fun of, but he 
 fancied that the hair and beard of the great realistic author 
 were less unkempt than usual. Mr. Wreath had eyes of peculiar 
 brightness, and a habit of fixing them very intently upon any 
 one with whom he talked ; for which he would apologize by 
 saying that he was a student of human nature, and that to 
 portray it accurately one must observe it closely. He fixed his 
 eyes upon Baretta now with something of the air of one who 
 has discovered a new specimen. 
 
 " You have had great opportunities, Baron," said Mr. Wreath, 
 
 188
 
 placing one hand in the breast of his tightly buttoned coat and 
 brushing back his black locks with the other. " I dare say they 
 have given you a sense of consecration to the cause of suffering 
 humanity. Ah, that is what we all those of us who ponder 
 deeply upon the underlying principles of life all have deeply 
 at heart. I recognize you as a coworker, Baron." 
 
 "Oh !" exclaimed Baretta, scowling slightly. " I didn't know 
 that you had done any practical work in that direction." 
 
 " Practical ah, practical !" said Mr. Wreath with a depreca- 
 tory smile. " That is a word which means so much or so 
 little." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I don't know what you mean. To any one 
 who understands what the condition of the poor in our large 
 cities is there isn't any doubt of the way to set at work to help 
 them." 
 
 " Are you so certain of that ? It's an interesting point : you 
 will see how I have worked it out in my new story, if you will 
 take the trouble to read it. I have called it ' Jared Evans, an 
 Every-day Man ' it is studied from life, I assure you. Oh, I 
 walked up and down a place called Arragon Street a half an 
 hour, to get the local colour." 
 
 " Arragon Street !" Baretta could not help exclaiming. 
 
 "Oh, do you know it? Of course, of course your work 
 must have taken you there at some time. Well, now, I tried to 
 fancy what lives those people must lead what wretched lives, 
 full of misery and filth and sin. Ah ! ah !" wailed Mr. Wreath, 
 lifting his eyes to the ceiling, " my heart bleeds for them it 
 does indeed." 
 
 Baretta scowled again. " That's exceedingly kind of you." 
 
 " Now why," continued Mr. Wreath " why should not my 
 story be as practical as your work ? It attracts the attention of 
 the public that's the main thing. One who reads it cannot 
 help feeling that it is terribly true. There's no romantic non- 
 sense about it. The New Art, of which I, as well as Mr. Nowells, 
 am proud to call myself a disciple, sticks to the hard, grim, un- 
 compromising truth. In fact, I think I go rather beyond Mr. 
 Nowells. You won't find any flowers of fancy, any mere orna- 
 mentation of style, in ' Jared Evans.' Oh, it has made an im- 
 
 189
 
 mensc sensation ; people see in it the dawn of a new literary 
 era. Isn't that the case, Mr. Black ?" added the novelist, turn- 
 ing to a tall young man with a languid and somewhat supercil- 
 ious air, who was drifting by. " This is ray friend Mr. Black, 
 the eminent critic, Baron Smolzow. I dare say you have read 
 that charming department of his in the Massachusetts Magazine 
 ' In an Attic at Podsnap's.' No ? Oh, you must read it." 
 
 " Mr. Wreath flatters me," said Mr. Black. 
 
 " No, no ; I am not the only one who appreciates your talents 
 highly," protested Mr. Wreath. " Our hostess admires your 
 work. ' Do you know Mr. Black Mr. V. Hartburn Black ? 
 You must bring him with you to hear Baron Smolzow ' those 
 were her very words." 
 
 "Oh, I dare say I sometimes manage to shine a little by re- 
 flected light from Mr. Wreath." The eminent critic's manner 
 was more complacent than his words, and he looked at Baretta 
 as if he expected to be contradicted. But as Baretta said noth- 
 ing he went on : " Perhaps you are not interested in the New 
 Art and, if I may say so, in the New Criticism. You should 
 be ; one with your practical knowledge of the dark problems of 
 life would find our way of dealing with them immensely sugges- 
 tive. Our friend Wreath, now you might call him the apostle 
 of scientific realism in literature. His stories do not aim simply 
 to amuse ; they are practical disquisitions in sociology. That 
 is the truth I am trying in my poor way to impress upon the 
 public ; but the public, alas ! is a stupid animal." 
 
 " Very likely," admitted Baretta. " But all this sort of thing 
 seems to me like child's play. What do your millionaires care 
 for the struggling masses so long as they have the power ? And 
 what good can a little cheap philanthropy do, anyway ? No ; the 
 millions must do something more than complain ; they must 
 make themselves felt ; they must say, ' We are the masters and 
 you are our servants.' Then they will accomplish something." 
 
 " That is all very well," said Mr. Wreath. " But if my stories 
 don't do any good, what will your lectures amount to ?" 
 
 " I didn't come here to be insulted !" cried Baretta, angrily. 
 He hesitated a moment, glaring at the offending novelist with 
 something of the look of a wild animal. " I guess I've had 
 
 190
 
 enough of you," he added, curtly, turning his back and walking 
 away. 
 
 Mr. Wreath looked at Mr. Black and Mr. Black looked at Mr. 
 Wreath. " Well !" exclaimed the critic. 
 
 " He'll do for my next story," said the novelist. 
 
 "What can you expect of a fellow from the slums?" asked 
 Mr. Black. 
 
 Baretta felt that he had made a mistake, and he blamed him- 
 self for losing his temper. No man could afford to make ene- 
 mies unnecessarily. After all, why should he have resented so 
 bitterly what was at most a slight impertinence ? Somehow or 
 other it took very little to upset him in these days ; his nerves 
 seemed to be getting altogether beyond his control. It must be 
 that his changed fortunes had unsettled him. 
 
 And how greatly, how very greatly, they had changed ? lie 
 thought of this as he walked home to Manchester Square that 
 evening after dining with Mr. Lawrence. He got away from 
 Mrs. Cadwallader's a little before six, flattered to the top of his 
 bent by congratulations the sincerity of which he did not ques- 
 tion. Why should he ? Did not he himself know better than 
 any one else how well deserved they were ? His moral propor- 
 tions were coming to be truly heroic in his own eyes. How 
 much he had sacrificed for the welfare of humanity ! Baretta 
 was honestly beginning to believe this ; so much depends upon 
 the point of view. He kept projecting his present into his past, 
 as it were, and thinking of the Francis Baretta who had lived m 
 Arragon Street as the Baron Smolzow who delivered lectures on 
 Socialism in Mrs. Cadwallader's drawing-room ; by which means 
 the old associations took on as much incongruity m reminiscence 
 as they would have had now if they had never been broken off. 
 It was Baron Smolzow who had thought of marrying Maud Do- 
 Ian because he was not good enough for Mildred Lawrence 
 Baron Smolzow, who had all Boston at his feet (this was his 
 somewhat exaggerated way of putting it), and who was good 
 enough for anybody. He had assumed the title without contra- 
 diction, although he had not yet established any legal claim. 
 Those proofs which the editor of the Mail had said he ought 
 to have were still missing. He had made his existence known 
 
 191
 
 to the Austrian Government through the United States Legation 
 at Vienna, and the correspondent of the Banner, who had writ- 
 ten that glowing account of the estates at Bataszek, was most 
 earnest in his endeavours to impress the official mind with the 
 credibility of the coincidence. But there was an anxiety to trace 
 the history of Paul Baretta after his flight from Hungary in 1848, 
 with which the Banner correspondent did not sympathize, but 
 which interfered with any official recognition of the claims of 
 his putative son. The amiable advocate who represented the 
 noble house of Smolzow smiled when he was told that the claim- 
 ant had already assumed the title, but declared that, although 
 this could not be helped, the property most certainly would not 
 be given up by the next of kin on the strength of a mere asser- 
 tion. Perhaps the breezy letter in the Banner on the stupidity 
 of foreigners, particularly Austrians, will be recalled by some 
 readers ; it was widely copied by the American press, and was 
 the subject of editorial comment in several journals from the 
 Jacksonville Clarion to the Los Angeles Eagle. However, all 
 the satire in the world could not advance the case of Baron Smol- 
 zow a single jot. The proofs were still wanting. Baretta had 
 come so near to believing in his own pretensions that he was 
 actually angry to think that his father had been so careless. His 
 father! Perhaps his father might be alive, and might be able 
 to give him some information which would be of service to him. 
 He really could not think that there was no connection whatever 
 between the Hungarian noble and the Hungarian barber of the 
 same name, who had both come to America in 1848. But he 
 shrank from trying to find a relative of whom his recollections 
 were not pleasant, and who he was sure would be no credit to 
 him now. Once or twice desperate suggestions of devising false 
 documents crossed his mind ; but he rejected them, not so much 
 from any moral scruples, as because in his ignorance of what 
 such documents ought to be he was fearful of committing some 
 gross and fatal blunder which would at once expose him as a 
 pretender. No one could call him that so long as he was con- 
 tent simply to say, " I am the son of Paul Baretta, and if I am 
 not Baron Smolzow, who is ?" Such a position was unassailable, 
 and he felt that he was wise in sticking to it. 
 
 192
 
 At the same time this young man, who was getting on so rap- 
 idly in the world, had other problems to consider. It was all 
 very well to deliver lectures in drawing-rooms and write for the 
 newspapers ; but, after all, these were not fitting avocations for 
 a scion of the noble house of Smolzow. He had, indeed, an- 
 other object in view, although he was chary of admitting it even 
 to himself. This was to marry Mildred Lawrence. Once he had 
 realized that such an ambition was in the highest degree pre- 
 sumptuous. She was out of his star, and he could only worship 
 her in silent adoration. But now everything was changed. Why 
 was not he an equal match for her, at least so far as the world 
 knew ? That the world did not know the truth was a very potent 
 factor in the situation ; but he disregarded it and never once re- 
 proached himself with doing anything dishonourable. He was 
 aware of a certain coldness in Miss Lawrence's manner for which 
 he could not account ; but he did not think that it meant dis- 
 like. Perhaps some of her friends were trying to prejudice her 
 against him. It would be just like that odious Miss Tredwell to 
 try to do something of the kind. He felt an unreasoning ani- 
 mosity to Miss Tredwell, who would no doubt think that Yates, 
 who was really a very ordinary sort of fellow, was a better match 
 for her friend. He was confident, however, that Mr. Lawrence 
 thought highly of him, and would be impressed with the honour 
 of having a baron for a son-in-law. After all, what did these old 
 New England families, with their exaggerated pride in their an- 
 cestry, amount to ? Mr. Lawrence had treated him quite as an 
 equal at dinner a circumstance which he regarded as significant, 
 because he did not even yet wholly understand the ways of gen- 
 tlemen. Baretta still preached social equality, but his manner 
 towards those whom he regarded as his inferiors was one of con- 
 descension. It never occurred to him that he had been at all 
 ungrateful to his old associates to Ditton, to Maud Dolan, and 
 the rest. As for Ditton, it was he himself who had brought 
 about the breach between them, out of his own petty jealousy 
 and spite. He had been a little troubled about Maud at first. 
 The poor girl was certainly very fond of him, and it seemed 
 cruel to abandon her altogether. But then was it not really her 
 own fault ? Of course the time must have come when she would 
 
 N 193
 
 see the futility of expecting that he would marry her. Never- 
 theless, he had not intended to break off their relations absolutely. 
 He would have been best pleased if he had been given an oppor- 
 tunity to declare his willingness to sacrifice himself for her. It 
 would be a sacrifice ; he would have had to admit that if she had 
 asked him, and then she would have seen how impossible it was 
 that he should make it. Maud had not let him play any such 
 role as that. She had not even attempted to keep him ; she had 
 cut the tangled skein at a stroke, and had gone away feeling, no 
 doubt, that she had been very badly used. He could hardly help 
 taking the same view of the case at first ; but afterwards he con- 
 vinced himself that his behaviour had been irreproachable, and 
 that this abrupt severance was altogether Maud's fault. It was 
 like a woman not to give a man any chance to explain. He had 
 intended to see her again, to set himself right in her eyes ; but 
 the convenient moment had never come. Perhaps it was best, 
 after all, that they should not meet. 
 
 It was nearly ten o'clock when Barctta ascended the stairs to 
 his room. When he reached the landing he was surprised to see 
 a light shining through the chink under the door. Who could 
 be calling upon him at that hour ? and why should his visitor be 
 waiting? He hesitated a moment outside with a curious sensa- 
 tion, half of alarm, half of fear. Pooh ! He did not believe in 
 presentiments of evil, as people called them. He opened the 
 door and entered boldly. 
 
 His visitor was a stranger a man past middle age, with long 
 gray hair and a curly gray beard. He rose as Baretta entered 
 and smiled blandly. Baretta simply stared and did not speak. 
 
 " I see you haf forgotten me," said the man, smiling again. 
 " Veil, it ees a long time a long time." 
 
 That voice, with its queer foreign accent was it not familiar ? 
 A confused flood of memories seemed to surge through Baretta's 
 brain as he listened. " I I'm sure I don't remember," he stam- 
 mered at last. 
 
 " Oh, ho ! You haf forgotten. It was because you veeshed 
 to forget. You run away you tink you never see your old 
 fader again. But here he ees ! I am he !" 
 
 194
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 
 
 "You !" cried Baretta, falling back a step and gazing at the 
 intruder with a look in which scorn and fear were strangely 
 mingled. " You !" he repeated, after a moment of silence, dur- 
 ing which his father's face wore an expression of amused ex- 
 pectancy. " Why why, I should never have known you I did 
 not think you were living." 
 
 "And haf mourned for me bittairely ees it not so? Ach! 
 ja I guess !" And the unwelcome visitor laughed scornfully. 
 
 " How do I know now that you are my father ?" demanded 
 Baretta, beginning to regain his self-control, and trying to meet 
 this unexpected situation calmly. 
 
 " Mein Sohnf haf not die Natur spik ?" The elder Baretta 
 raised both arms with a theatrical air. " II ne nous reste qu'une 
 chose afaire. Embrassons nous /" 
 
 " What gibberish are you talking now ?" asked the young 
 man, impatiently. 
 
 " Ah, you understand not la langue Fran$aise? Verstehst du 
 nicht Deutsch ! wie ? nur ein ivenig ? You haf neglect your 
 studies we shall haf to see to those. And after all dese years 
 you are not glad to see your fader !" 
 
 " I wish you would talk sense. Why should I be glad to see 
 you ? What have you ever done for me ?" 
 
 " You nefer gafe me the chance. You run away at twelve 
 I search and search, and nefer see you more. But we will for- 
 geef each other." Mr. Baretta suddenly sprang forward and 
 threw his arms about his son's neck. " Ah ! it brings tears to 
 the eyes, mein Sokn!" 
 
 195
 
 Baretta met this paternal appeal by shaking himself free and 
 scowling savagely. " Well, what do you want of me ?" he asked, 
 throwing aside his hat and coat. " Because I haven't any mon- 
 ey," he added. 
 
 " Money !" cried the other, angrily. " I ask you not for 
 money. Gott im Himmel ! I come to see you after so long 
 years and you tell me you haf no money. Tarn your money !" 
 
 " Well, we can't do any good by quarrelling. If you are my 
 father, and can prove it " 
 
 " Prove it ! prove it ! Why, look here, do you tink you can 
 peetch me ofer like dees ? Your face tells me that you know 
 me what proof need I ?" 
 
 And indeed to this question Baretta could frame no answer. 
 Why had he not anticipated such an obvious emergency as this ? 
 He might have known that some time the parent whom he had 
 abandoned would seek him out. He looked at the old man 
 his father seemed to him to be old, although he could not have 
 been much over sixty and wondered what his object in coming 
 had been. 
 
 " So you are a great man Baron Smolzow ! I haf read it 
 all in the papers." Mr. Baretta laughed again as if the idea 
 were highly amusing. 
 
 Baron Smolzow ! the name somehow recalled Binney's re- 
 mark about the need of proofs. Might it not be well for him, 
 after all, that his father had turned up just at this crisis ? Oh 
 no there could be no doubt that he was his father; Baretta 
 saw in his face, despite the gray hair and beard, a dim reflection 
 of his own worn and marked by years and dissipations, but still 
 his own. " Won't you take a seat ?" he said at last, more gen- 
 tly than he had yet spoken. " I I was a little confused by the 
 suddenness of it all ; I didn't mean to be rude to you." 
 
 " Ah, you are kind vous etes vraiment trap aimable." Mr. 
 Baretta drew out the only arm-chair which the room contained 
 and stretched himself at length in it. " Je suis charme defaire 
 votre connaissance, mon fils. But I forgot you spik only Eng- 
 lish?" He shook his head with an air of gentle melancholy. 
 " You haf neglect so much ; you have no kind fader's care. 
 West trap fort" 
 
 196
 
 " A father's care !" exclaimed the young man, scowling. 
 " What good would it have been to me ? I have made my way 
 by my own efforts. No one has helped me no one. But what 
 use is it all," he added, bitterly, " if you have come to drag me 
 down at the last ?" 
 
 " To drag you down !" repeated the other, mockingly. " I 
 Baron Smolzow ! It ees your honour to be my son." 
 
 "You!" exclaimed Baretta. "Why do you call yourself 
 that ?" 
 
 " Ees it possible you do not understand ? Pardon, but haf 
 you any veesky ? No ? It was ordered for me by my physician 
 but nefare mind. Ah, Francois, I am a seeck man I am not 
 long for dis world. You hate me you vish me tedt. You haf 
 not long to wait eh, bien /" 
 
 " I don't wish you dead. Why should you say that 2" 
 
 " So ? Do I mistake ? But you know, du verstehst, that you 
 cannot be the Herr Baron Smolzow until I die. What ! It ees 
 I, Paul Baretta, who follows my cousin. Ah, ah ! It ees a 
 grandt day for me after all dese years." Mr. Baretta rose, smil- 
 ing, and held out his hand. " Forget and forgif the past you 
 vill not run avay from your fader, der Herr Baron eh ?" 
 
 " Damnation !" cried Baretta, stung to sudden fury by what 
 seemed to him to be his father's insolent air of triumph. He 
 saw in a moment what a fool he had been. Of course if the 
 Paul Baretta who came to America in 1848 was still alive, it was 
 he, and not his son, who would inherit the estate. But who 
 would have thought that this drunken barber such was the 
 image of his father which Baretta had carried in his mind all 
 these years would care enough about an empty honour to put 
 in a claim for it. The young man was sure that it would be an 
 empty honour so far as Paul Baretta was concerned that he 
 could not pass, as his son could, for a creditable member of the 
 Hungarian nobility. Very possibly he underrated his newly- 
 found parent's cleverness, although he realized sufficiently that 
 he was clever enough to make an uncomfortable antagonist. 
 The son walked up and down the room scowling, while the fa- 
 ther, still with extended hand, smiled blandly. " Damnation !" 
 muttered Baretta a second time. 
 
 197
 
 " You do not seem to be gladt," observed Mr. Baretta. " Do 
 you tink not to shake hands mit me, to spik to me ?" He wait- 
 ed for his son to reply, but finding that he said nothing, went 
 on, " You haf not treated me as I expect, Francois. You haf 
 gifen me no velcome you show me no affection. Well so ! 
 I go as I come. But if I go, you will nefare be Baron Smolzow 
 nefare while I leef !" 
 
 Francis stopped and looked at his father angrily. " What do 
 you mean by that ?" 
 
 " Ah, ah ! you vill see mon Dieu ! you vill see !" 
 
 " Do you threaten me ?" 
 
 Mr. Baretta shrugged his shoulders, and walking towards the 
 table in the centre of the room, picked up his hat. " You haf 
 no veesky ? Das thut mir leid it is goot for my troat. Ah, I 
 haf been many times seeck, with no one by to peety me." He 
 waved his hat slowly back and forth with an air of subdued mel- 
 ancholy. " My son my only son left me alone in my old age 
 I who haf suffaired so mooch !" 
 
 " Left you alone !" cried Francis. " Where would I have 
 been if I had stayed with you ?" 
 
 " You are ungrateful. It ees the vicked son who spiks thus 
 to his fader." Mr. Baretta put his hat on his head and folded 
 his arms. " But I forgeef you," he added ; "I forgeef you." 
 
 All this was very exasperating, but it occurred to the young 
 man that his father was, in a position to injure him a good 
 deal if he chose, and that however burdensome his presence 
 might be, it was much more endurable than a vague presentiment 
 of evil in his absence. " I do not wish to treat you badly," he 
 said, rather sullenly. " Won't you sit down ?" 
 
 " Ah, my son ! my son !" exclaimed Mr. Baretta, taking off his 
 hat and laying it upon the table once more. " I am a foolish 
 old man I forget all the past I take you to my heart if I 
 had the veesky for my troat." 
 
 " See here I'll go out and get you some if that is what you 
 want, though I don't think it's good for you. Will you wait 
 till I come back ?" 
 
 " Oh yes I wait ; I am not beesy dese days." He thrust 
 his hand into his pocket and drew out a few coppers. " See ! 
 
 198
 
 'tis all the geld I haf oh, I haf been so seeck it was notings I 
 could do to keep the volf from the door." 
 
 " Well, I'm poor enough," said Baretta, ungraciously. Poor ! 
 he muttered to himself when he was in the street. Had his fa- 
 ther sought him out in the hope that he was rich and would be 
 able to supply him with the luxuries that a man with more fond- 
 ness for whiskey than for work would expect ? If this was his 
 object he must be made to see at once how futile it would be. 
 When a man has no money one certainly can't get money out 
 of him. Baretta thought that if his father were once made to 
 understand this thoroughly he might be willing to go away and 
 trouble him no more. What could he gain by staying? This 
 was really the important point, because it was not at all likely 
 that the author of his being had sought the young man out 
 simply because he was anxious to be reunited to him. He had 
 had time enough for that in all these years, if he had really 
 cared. It was true enough, Baretta told himself, that his father 
 could annoy him a great deal. His very existence in this tan- 
 gible form was a menace to all his plans. Baron Smolzow ! 
 Of course, when you came to think about it, the title belonged 
 to the father and not to the son. Baretta had hitherto thought 
 of his father only as a drunken barber of whom he was well rid ; 
 but he began to suspect him of being almost as clever as him- 
 self of being able to devise and carry through schemes in his 
 own interest. This was a contingency which he had not con- 
 templated, and which threatened to alter his position distinctly 
 for the worse. Clever the elder Baretta might be, but no one 
 would even for a moment be deceived into thinking him a gen- 
 tleman and the heir of the noble house of Smolzow ; so that the 
 good impression which the younger had made would go for 
 naught, and all his hopes of even being a pretender to the title and 
 estates would be dashed to the ground at once. It would be 
 maddening to fail on the very threshold of success ; indeed, the 
 young man felt that he could not stay to face failure that his 
 career would be over as soon as the blow fell ; and therefore the 
 question was how to avert the blow altogether. He wished that 
 he could find out exactly what his father's object was in coming 
 to him. It did not seem likely that mere love of mischief had 
 
 199
 
 impelled him. Was it to claim the title ? Baretta thought that 
 the assertion of this right had been made by the elder man 
 chiefly as a threat that he had no real intention of trying to 
 make it good. If this were the case how could he be persuaded 
 to keep out of the way ? It would be absurd to have Paul Ba- 
 retta, who disappeared from the view of the family of Smolzow 
 so many years ago, and whose own son believed him dead, res- 
 urrected in this sudden fashion. Absurd was hardly the word, 
 this son thought, in view of what it would imply. The wreck 
 of all his aspirations would be tragic. 
 
 There was another way to look at it a way which occurred 
 to Baretta as he was returning to Manchester Square with the 
 flask of whiskey which he had set out to purchase for his fa- 
 ther's immediate needs. His father might be as well able to 
 help him as to ruin him. He thought again of his need of 
 proofs to establish his claim to the title of Baron and the es- 
 tates at Bataszqk. Was it not possible that Paul Baretta, being 
 dead, might yet speak and divulge some information of value to 
 his heir? That his father was really the cousin of the late 
 baron he did not for a moment believe. There had been times 
 when he had half persuaded himself that he was what he im- 
 personated when he thought of the deception which he was 
 practising as a venial sin, as hardly a deception at all. But 
 somehow his father's return had given it an uglier aspect. As 
 he thought of gaining information from that source he felt like 
 a criminal who needed an accomplice. " Why should I struggle 
 against Fate at all ?" he asked himself ; and perhaps for a mo- 
 ment there was a half-formed resolution in his mind to abandon 
 all that he had been working for, and to be content with life 
 under the old conditions. What was the use of the struggle? 
 These people whose doors he had begun to enter merely toler- 
 ated him. Besides, nothing that he could do would bring Mil- 
 dred Lawrence any nearer. He had better go back to Arragon 
 Street and to Maud. Poor Maud ! would she forgive him 
 would she tell him once more that no one could ever love 
 him as she did? His heart was torn with self-pity as he 
 realized that he had really missed Maud during all these 
 weeks. Oh yes it would be better for him to go back ! He 
 
 200
 
 mounted the stairs to his room again feeling curiously sick at 
 heart. 
 
 " Ah, the veesky !" cried his father, rising quickly as he en- 
 tered. " Ach, mein Sohn, bist du are you seeck ? You are so 
 pale so bleich." He opened the flask when Baretta handed it 
 to him % and sniffed at it critically. " Here, trink some," he said, 
 holding it out. 
 
 " No, no I am quite well ; I am only a little tired," said Ba- 
 retta, impatiently. 
 
 " Dot means you vas tired of me. It ees a cruel ting to say. 
 It means you scorn me you do not veesh me to help you. 
 But no mataire." He raised the glass to his lips and hastily 
 swallowed the contents. " Ah, it is goot for my troat !" 
 
 " Help me ?" cried the young man. " How can you help 
 me ?" 
 
 "It is no mataire. If you would trink some veesky you 
 would be a different man. But you scorn me. Eh, bienf you 
 know best." 
 
 Baretta took a few turns up and down the room before he 
 spoke. " See here, father," he said at last, " there is no reason 
 in the world why we should quarrel. I did not mean to scorn 
 you, as you call it. Indeed, I am very glad to see you, though 
 of course it upset me a little at first your coming so unex- 
 pectedly. I don't suppose you minded very much my running 
 away from you twelve years ago. Anyway, I've looked after 
 myself pretty well, and I think I can say that I have a pretty 
 good chance now." 
 
 " Oh, ho ! a chance. Jawohl, mein Sohn, a goot chance. 
 Your fader is der Herr Baron Smolzow." 
 
 " Yes, yes I suppose you are. But what good is the title to 
 you ? Now in my case it is different. No one knows of you 
 they all think you are dead and that I am the heir. Look here, 
 I wouldn't drink too much of that stuff, if I was you ; it won't 
 do you any good." 
 
 "My troat, my poor troat," murmured Mr. Baretta, as he 
 drained the glass for the second time. " And so dey tink me 
 dead, eh ? It ees vat you veesh, no doubt, but I do not find it 
 agreeable." 
 
 201
 
 " Why should any one know you were alive ? I did not 
 know it myself. But that isn't the point. You have seen the 
 story in the papers " 
 
 " Ah, mein Vetter, der Herr Graf- my cousin, Baron Smolzow. 
 I read it all. Do you not see ? I am all in black." 
 
 " If you wouldn't keep interrupting me !" cried the young 
 man, petulantly. " What I was going to say was this : it can't 
 be any particular advantage to you to be the Baron, whereas to 
 me it is everything everything !" 
 
 Mr. Baretta laughed boisterously. "Ho! ho! it is a great 
 plot. You pay to bury me naturlich." 
 
 "You understand, then ? I haven't much money, but " 
 
 "Ah, mein Sohn, der funeral sharge are heafy." 
 
 " Oh, well !" cried the young man, impatiently, " if you think 
 you can bleed me indefinitely, there's an end of it there's no 
 use in discussing the matter at all. You can tell your story all 
 over town, if you like. What difference does it make to you if 
 you destroy all I have done, if you put me back where I was 
 when I left you to make my own way in the world ?" 
 
 Mr. Baretta sighed. " It is stranche to me where you get 
 your hartness of heart, Francois," he said. " It was from your 
 moder not from me. I am a veak fool. My gootness has 
 been my ruin." 
 
 " Ruin !" exclaimed his son, bitterly. " You do well to talk 
 of ruin. That's what you're bringing to me." 
 
 " Ah ! you tink so ?" Mr. Baretta stroked his beard thought- 
 fully for several minutes, studying the scowling countenance 
 opposite to him with an air of impartial interest. " Dat is for 
 you to say," he observed at last, smiling blandly. 
 
 "For me? What have I to do with it? I suppose you'll 
 please yourself." 
 
 " You cannot be der Herr Baron Smolzow because you veesh 
 it because you say so ; fela ne pent pas etre. You have tried 
 ees it not so ? and found it impossible. Eh, bien ! now you 
 come to me, and I say I help you si fela vous est agr cable" 
 
 " I wish you'd drop all that lingo ; I can't understand what 
 you say." 
 
 " Ah. so?" Mr. Baretta smiled again, but not quite so 
 
 202
 
 blandly. " Veil, I will make myself plain. Here I am moi, le 
 Baron Smolzow. Oh, you do not spik the tongue quel mal- 
 heur ! I will remembaire. Veil, you cannot be the Baron while 
 L stand in your way. So ? I take myself out of your way. 
 Pouf !" he cried, blowing at an imaginary feather, " I am gone. 
 You are Baron Smolzow !" 
 
 " But I am no more the Baron than you are," cried the young 
 man, irritably, " unless I have some proofs." 
 
 " Proofs ! Ah, mein Sohn !" Mr. Baretta tapped his chest 
 mysteriously. " If you knew what papers I haf !" 
 
 " Papers ! proofs ! You really have a claim ? You are his 
 cousin ?" 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! See, now, how you would deceive. You tink 
 you are no baron I am no baron and you still veesh to be 
 baron, nicht wahr? Ah, Francois, ees it the vay I brought you 
 up to lie and sheat people ?" And a tear glistened in the fond 
 parent's eye. 
 
 " Of course you're not his cousin," said Baretta, scornfully, 
 regaining his self-possession. " I'm not quite such a fool as to 
 think that. Look here, now, father," he went on, "I've been 
 turning the matter over in my mind, and this is what I want to 
 say to you. Are you listening ?" 
 
 " Pen m'importe: but I hear you I leesten." 
 
 " Give the papers you speak of to me, and let me prove my 
 claim." 
 
 " To you ? and what for give dem to you ? But pah !" cried 
 Mr. Baretta, with a gesture of disgust, " it ees no sense at all dat 
 we are talking." 
 
 The scowl deepened between the young man's eyes, and his 
 mouth twitched nervously as he walked to and fro like some 
 caged wild animal. Indeed, his position seemed to him not un- 
 like that of the hunted creature at bay. He had thought he 
 was conquering the world that world of indifference and sus- 
 picion and jealousy which turns so stern a face to rising genius 
 and now here was a new enemy to grapple with, an attack 
 from a quarter so unexpected that he seemed to have no means 
 of defence. His father could demolish at a stroke the airy 
 structure which he had been weaving ; and why should he with- 
 
 203
 
 hold his hand? What inducement could the son offer? He 
 had no money he had absolutely nothing for a bribe. His 
 only argument was that whereas the title was worth nothing to 
 his father, it was worth a good deal to him. But he felt that such 
 an argument was rather banal that the author of his being 
 would find a certain satisfaction in pulling him back to the level 
 from which he had started. It even struck him that the smile 
 on his visitor's face it had been almost constant from the out- 
 set was beginning to change into a sneer. So he raged up 
 and down the room for several minutes without speaking, 
 stifling with an immense effort the wrath that threatened to 
 overpower his self-control. " I will try to show you it is sense," 
 said he, at last, facing his father as calmly as he could. " But I 
 wish you wouldn't interrupt me." 
 
 " I am dumb. I spik not," Mr. Baretta leaned back in his 
 easy-chair, and sighed luxuriously. " Eh, bicn /" he cried, find- 
 ing that the other said nothing, "avez-vous quelque chose a me 
 dire ? You veesh to tell me sometings ? Vill you pass me de 
 veesky my troat is very bad to-night. Merci, Francois. Go 
 on spik : I hear everytings." 
 
 " You speak about papers about proofs," the young man 
 went on. " Well, if you have them, mustn't you be the Paul 
 Baretta who came to America in 1848 the missing cousin? 
 And how could I know that you were not ?" His father shook 
 his head thoughtfully as these questions were put to him, but 
 made no reply ; and indeed it may have been as an argument 
 addressed to his own conscience that Baretta asked them at all. 
 " Now as long as he remains missing that is, as long as you 
 remain missing who can dispute my claim ? They say over 
 there I mean in Austria that he was undoubtedly next of kin, 
 and that if I am his son and heir the title and estates are mine. 
 I don't know that I would have to prove his death ; but proofs 
 of some sort I must have. If you have such proofs, and could 
 give them to me " 
 
 " Also ?" murmured Mr. Baretta, gently, as his son paused. 
 
 " Why," continued the young man, flushing slightly and stam- 
 mering, "I I would look after you there would be money 
 enough " 
 
 204
 
 " Monfils!" cried Mr. Baretta, springing to his feet, "so you 
 do tink of your fader in his old age. You, der Herr Baron 
 Smolzow, will have enough for two ees it not so? Schon! 
 schon ! you will be a better baron as I ; you will be credit to a 
 great house." He tapped his breast once more. " I haf papers 
 here," he said. " You vill see dem oh, soon very soon. But 
 I must tink over the mataire." He took up the bottle of whis- 
 key and held it to the light. " I trink champagne to your Ex- 
 cellence to-morrow, eh ?" 
 
 But his son merely looked at him and said nothing. There 
 was not much exultation in his face. 
 
 205
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD 
 
 PEOPLE are fond of saying that this world is a sceptical 
 place ; but that is one of those traditional cynicisms which will 
 not bear the test of critical examination. As a matter of fact, 
 the world is delightfully credulous ; any one who is moderately 
 clever can convince it of almost anything. Of course every 
 man has his enemies ill-conditioned fellows who will persist in 
 putting the worst construction upon his acts. But if he knows 
 enough to take the current when it serves he need not worry 
 about them ; and if he doesn't he ought to lose his ventures. 
 The young Socialist who a few months ago was living in a single 
 squalid room in Arragon Street had good reason to believe that 
 he had embarked his fortunes at flood tide. 
 
 When he went to Mrs. Chilton's nowadays it was with a 
 sense of condescension, not with a feeling of awe. Mrs. Chilton 
 was a very nice sort of woman, and one certainly did meet 
 agreeable people at her house. But it was different, after all, 
 from Mrs. Cadwallader's. That distinguished leader of fashion, 
 Mrs. Tom Gregorson, had never found her way to Pembroke 
 Square. Mrs. Tom had heard of the South End, of course, 
 but she had shrugged her shoulders when Baretta told her that 
 Mrs. Chilton lived there, and had professed equal ignorance of 
 Pembroke Square and of Mrs. Chilton herself ; nor did it occur 
 to him that Mrs. Tom was a very clever woman and was prob- 
 ably amusing herself at his expense. A man who is trying to 
 get on cannot afford to cultivate such an intellectual luxury as a 
 sense of humour. Baretta only saw in Mrs. Tom's raillery 
 another example of the narrowness of the Bostonian point of 
 
 206
 
 view. But perhaps it had its effect in teaching him to look 
 down a little upon Mrs. Chilton and her friends. 
 
 " I have heard of you much oftener than T have seen you," 
 said Mrs. Chilton one Thursday afternoon, when he took the 
 trouble to call. " But it is good of you to come. You know 
 Mr. Pinkerton, don't you, Baron ?" 
 
 Baretta recalled the circumstances of his first meeting with 
 the eminent reader of Browning, and how supercilious so he 
 thought at the time that gentleman's reception of him had 
 been. " Ah, yes, I dare say I have met Mr. Pinkerton," he ob- 
 served. " But one sees so many people that one forgets." 
 
 " Yes, Baron," retorted Mr. Pinkerton, with a smile of pecul- 
 iar malignancy, " I should fancy one might find a short memory 
 extremely convenient at times. Mrs. Hunsdon wanted me to tell 
 you how sorry she was not to be able to come to-day," he add- 
 ed, addressing his hostess and turning his back upon Baretta, 
 who flushed and bit his lip, and then after a moment of hesita- 
 tion walked away. 
 
 " Oh, I always miss her so much," said Mrs. Chilton. " Why 
 do you dislike the Baron ?" she added, after a pause. 
 
 " Dislike him ? Oh no I don't give myself that trouble," 
 replied Mr. Pinkerton. " It would be nearer the mark to say 
 that I don't believe in him." 
 
 " Do you believe in anybody ?" 
 
 " Ah, now you are giving me a Roland for my Oliver. But 
 you can't make me quarrel with you about that fellow. You 
 don't know how good-natured I can be when I try." 
 
 " And do you often try ? But that isn't a very polite way of 
 putting it," said Mrs. Chilton, smiling. " You mustn't take 
 more than half of what I say in earnest." 
 
 " Which half ? That is the important question." Mr. Pink- 
 erton smiled too, but something in his look showed that the 
 shaft had gone home. 
 
 Meanwhile Baretta was fuming inwardly at the insult so he 
 chose to regard it which he had received. It seemed to him 
 that he had shown a wonderful amount of self-control in not re- 
 senting it then and there. Perhaps he forgot that gentlemen do 
 not as a rule make a lady's drawing-room the scene of hot words 
 
 207
 
 or personal encounters. And then there may have been fear as 
 well as rage in his heart. What did that fellow mean by talking 
 about a short memory ? Did he know or suspect the truth ? It 
 had been more than a chance shot ; of that the young man was 
 certain. And yet what could he know ? Hadn't the proofs that 
 Francis Baretta was the only son of Paul Baretta been ample 
 enough ? To be sure, he hadn't entered into the possession of 
 those estates yet ; the official mind is dreadfully slow in its op- 
 erations. But all that would come in time. Why should Mr. 
 Pinkerton talk about a short memory ? 
 
 " It's really cruel of you, Mr. Baretta, to make me feel my in- 
 significance so keenly," said a voice in his ear. 
 
 " Oh, indeed I beg you pardon !" he said, with a start. It 
 was Miss Tredwell who had spoken, and who now stood smiling 
 at him. 
 
 " And yet you were looking straight at me," said Daisy. 
 " Oh, I haven't forgot how you snubbed me the first time I met 
 you." 
 
 "I I think you must be mistaken," stammered Baretta. 
 He disliked this young woman intensely, and it irritated him 
 thus to lose his self-possession to show himself deficient in 
 the gift of raillery, which was apparently the first requisite for 
 conversation in the higher circles of society. " I didn't see you, 
 anyway," he added, bluntly. 
 
 " Oh, that makes it much worse that is really dreadfully 
 rude." 
 
 " I guess I can't please you whatever I do," said the young 
 man, scowling. 
 
 Daisy shot a sudden glance of dislike at him a glance which 
 he did not observe at all and then seated herself and looked 
 up at him smilingly. " When I want to talk to people I can 
 forgive their being rude," she said. 
 
 " And do you want to talk to me ? I can't imagine why." 
 
 Daisy shook her fluffy golden head mysteriously. " I dare 
 say imagination isn't your strong point, Mr. Baretta. Won't 
 you sit down ? There is room enough." She drew her skirts 
 aside and nodded at the vacant place on the sofa beside her. 
 
 " You are too kind. It isn't rude to say that, is it ?" But 
 
 208
 
 what he was thinking was why in the world this young woman 
 should pretend to care for his conversation at all. He felt pos- 
 itive that she disliked him that she was his secret enemy. 
 And he for his part absolutely hated her. She was the last per- 
 son in the room he would willingly talk to. If it was not friend- 
 ship that impelled her, what was the motive ? He resolved that 
 he would be very cautious. A man who wants to get on has to 
 look sharply for pitfalls. 
 
 " You can afford to spend a few minutes in enlightening my 
 ignorance, I know," said Daisy, graciously. "One must know 
 all that is going on mustn't one ? And I am so stupid that I 
 didn't understand everything you said at Mrs. Cadwallader's." 
 
 "Do you mean by that, Miss Trod well, that you are really in- 
 terested in in my lectures ?" 
 
 " Interested in Socialism ? Why not ? Here in Boston on-e 
 has to be interested in everything. And then, I am sure, 
 Baron " Daisy made a little grimace unseen by Baretta " that 
 the work you are carrying on is different from some other 
 things. It means so much to humanity." 
 
 Something in this last phrase struck her listener as odd, and 
 he looked at her keenly, as if he suspected that she was not 
 quite sincere. But her bright blue eyes had never been more 
 honest her smile never more artless. "Oh, well, of course," 
 said Baretta at last, hesitatingly ; " you are right quite right. 
 But I didn't suppose people like you cared much for that." 
 
 Daisy laughed. " Oh, Mr. Baretta, your rudeness is diverting, 
 positively diverting. Forgive me, but I forget to call you by 
 your proper title when you talk like that. I dare say you don't 
 always remember yourself, do you ?" 
 
 Again he scanned her face. " Well, it was all very sudden," 
 he said, " and very wonderful. But fortunately I had no diffi- 
 culty in proving my claim to the title. And, of course, the es- 
 tates must come later." 
 
 " Later oh yes, later," repeated Daisy. " Many things will 
 come later. Tell me, however, do you really intend to stick to 
 Socialism, now that you are such a great man ? To Socialism 
 and all your old associations ?" 
 
 " My old associations ? W'hat do you mean by that ?" The 
 
 o 209
 
 question had come upon him so suddenly that he had lost his 
 self-control just for a moment ; and thus she had seen the look 
 of terror in his eyes. 
 
 " Well, if you don't know !" said Daisy, laughing again. 
 " Every one has associations of some sort, even if they're noth- 
 ing more than relatives." 
 
 " My father died when I was a mere boy my mother I never 
 knew." Baretta scowled as he said this, and turned away, half 
 angrily. 
 
 " So you have said," observed the girl, calmly. " Oh, I hope 
 you don't think I mean to be impertinent ; I hope you are not 
 angry," she added, touching his arm lightly, and leaning for- 
 ward with a look of entreaty. 
 
 " Of course not ; it isn't worth making a fuss about. But I 
 don't know why you should have so poor an opinion of me, Miss 
 Tredwell why you should think I am not in earnest in my 
 work." 
 
 " Ah, you take too much for granted ! I never said I had a 
 poor opinion of you. Besides," added Daisy, rising, "my opin- 
 ion wouldn't count. There is Miss Linley corning in you ought 
 to try to convert her." 
 
 Baretta was greatly puzzled by this conversation, which kept 
 recurring to him all through the afternoon, even while he was 
 talking with other people. Some of Miss Tredwell's remarks 
 had seemed to have a double significance. What had she meant 
 by old associations ? It was not possible that she had ever heard 
 of Arragon Street and of Maud. The recollection of Maud 
 struck him with a sudden chill. Poor Maud ! who had been so 
 very much in love with him, and whom he had promised to 
 marry. No doubt if Miss Tredwell knew of that episode in his 
 career she might make things disagreeable. But how could she 
 know ? And yet, somehow he felt that her remark had been in- 
 tentional. Perhaps she had only been trying to make him com- 
 mit himself to entrap him into some confession which would 
 injure him with Miss Lawrence. She had spoken about rela- 
 tives, too, and had as good as intimated that she did not believe 
 his story about his parents. But how could she really know 
 anything ? No one knew except himself. Confound all prying, 
 
 210
 
 impertinent women ! Miss Tredwell was a friend of Yates's, 
 too ; he had seen them talking together at Mrs. Cadwallader's. 
 It would be just like Yates to make mean insinuations, to per- 
 suade her to enter into a plot against a rival. Baretta had no 
 reason, of course, to suspect such a thing, but he was apt to be 
 unreasonable when his own interests were concerned. Miss Law- 
 rence had been very kind to him of late, but he was not at all 
 sure of her feelings towards him. She was not like Maud. 
 Even when she was kindest there was something in her manner 
 which seemed to bid him keep at a distance. Sometimes he 
 half regretted those old days, when Maud had told him how 
 much she loved him. He woke in the night with the touch of 
 her lips upon his, and found he had been dreaming of the past, 
 which seemed sweeter in retrospect than it had been in realiza- 
 tion. He would not have gone back to her if he could ; and yet 
 he missed her. Sometimes there was a touch of self-reproach 
 in his musings. And yet, surely, it was she who had put an end 
 to everything between them, and not he. Such a thing as mar- 
 riage was impossible, but he had never told her so ; she had 
 taken it all for granted. Poor Maud ! What did Miss Tred- 
 well know of Maud ? Why should she speak of old associations ? 
 These questions made him supremely uncomfortable. There are 
 thorns in the cushion even when one is being courted and flat- 
 tered. 
 
 Miss Linley, now, whom he had been told that he ought to con- 
 vert she was much more gracious than she had been once. She 
 smiled as she saw him approaching across the room, and fixed her 
 glasses a little more firmly upon her nose in preparation for the 
 intellectual fray. Baretta recalled the time when she had dismissed 
 him so insolently, and his manner was even more triumphant 
 than usual as he returned her greeting. " It's a great pleasure, 
 I'm sure," he said. 
 
 " Oh, really, Baron ! It's good of you to say that, because 
 there are so many things I want to talk to you about. There's 
 scarcely any one here, is there ?" asked Miss Linley, " so you 
 can't have any excuse for running away." 
 
 " Wouldn't you call Mr. Pinkerton an excuse ?" 
 
 " Mr. Pinkerton ? I think he's odious." 
 
 211
 
 " Well," said Baretta, " you were glad enough to talk to him 
 once." 
 
 "What do you mean by that? You're very rude I hope it 
 isn't a part of Socialism to be rude." 
 
 " Oh, if you have forgotten !" he exclaimed. " But as to us 
 Socialists well, I suppose we shall have to be what you call 
 rude. We're not likely to get our rights by asking for them 
 hat in hand." 
 
 " I wish you would really explain what you think your rights 
 are," said Miss Linley. " Of course you can't expect me to be- 
 lieve your theories ; still I should like to understand them. I 
 think it is one's duty to understand things. The intellectual 
 tendencies of the time should be of as much interest to woman 
 as to man. The day is past when the higher education is the 
 privilege of one sex." 
 
 " Still, you know, women can't fight ; and we have got to do 
 that." 
 
 " But you must make your appeal to reason first, Baron ; 
 really, you must do that. I think that it is much grander to 
 conceive of Socialism as an intellectual movement than as an 
 argument of brute force. I didn't know you advocated force. 
 Couldn't you give a lecture at Cambridge ? You could have our 
 parlours mamma is always pleased with the society of great 
 minds. That's why she likes to live in Cambridge. And, then, 
 it's so convenient to the Annex." 
 
 Baretta did not, however, accept at once Miss Linley's offer. 
 He told her that he would be glad to come to Cambridge if he 
 found that he could do so. He wanted to find out first if it 
 would be any advantage to the cause which he had at heart, and 
 incidentally, of course, to himself. Besides, he had not quite 
 forgiven her for snubbing him once. It made a great difference, 
 he told himself, whether a man was plain Francis Baretta or Baron 
 Smolzow. But people must expect that the one would avenge 
 the slights which the other had received. Magnanimity was an 
 expensive virtue for a man who had his own way to make. It 
 is true that he thought Miss Lawrence had also snubbed him, 
 but he had a reason for forgiving her. He went to see her the 
 very next afternoon, having previously devoted more time than 
 
 212
 
 usual to his personal adornment. Once he had paid very little 
 attention to the subject of dress. Fashionable clothes marked 
 one of those distinctions which would be abolished when the 
 time arrived for the true brotherhood of man. Nevertheless, 
 it did make a difference when one had a position to maintain. 
 Titles and class distinctions were odious; but so long as they 
 lasted it would be sheer quixotic folly not to enjoy them. Be- 
 sides, to be Baron Smolzow was an advantage to him in his 
 work ; it gave greater force to his appeal to Society. This was 
 the final argument which he addressed to his conscience. And, 
 of course, if he was to be a baron, he could not go about looking 
 like a costermonger. He thought that he looked extremely well 
 in his silk hat and buff top-coat, which he wore unbuttoned the 
 better to display his neatly fitting black cutaway-coat and laven- 
 der trousers, and the big plated chain and seals that dangled 
 from his waistcoat. The patent-leather shoes, the tan-coloured 
 gloves which he carried in his right hand, and the red satin 
 necktie with its Rhine-stone pin, were, he flattered himself, ex- 
 tremely neat ; he was especially proud of the red necktie. He 
 gave the man who opened the door a haughty glance, and asked 
 for Miss Lawrence with the air of command which sat so well 
 upon members of the aristocracy. There was nothing like let- 
 ting these servants know their place, he told himself ; the man 
 had been rather patronizing to him, he thought, in his humbler 
 days, and perhaps did not even yet realize his true rank and po- 
 sition. " That young bloke from the slums has come again, 
 rigged out like a sport," was the man's comment when he went 
 below stairs. "I don't see how they can abear him," said the 
 cook. Perhaps Baretta's efforts to be impressive were not ex- 
 actly successful, after all. He was only " that young bloke from 
 the slums " to the servants, and his baronial honours were as 
 nothing to them. It is an awful tribunal before which a man 
 sits in his own house, and his guests also come under its juris- 
 diction. Baretta's history was perfectly well known in the Law- 
 rence household ; everything always is perfectly well known, 
 even although not a living soul has breathed a word about it. 
 There are birds of the air to carry the matter. 
 
 Baretta was annoyed to find that Miss Lawrence was not 
 
 213
 
 alone. He could hardly have expected that she would be, of 
 course ; but that did not make his annoyance any less. How 
 was he ever to make any progress to fall into any real inti- 
 macy ? These fine ladies were too notional too fond of con- 
 ventions : they were not like Maud, who had told him that no 
 one would ever love him as she did. The phrase drifted across 
 his memory with uncomfortable persistence ; he kept thinking of 
 it at all sorts of times, even when he was in the presence of Miss 
 Lawrence herself. Surely this pale, cold, self-possessed young 
 lady was not likely to love him at all ! She was talking with a 
 languid young man as Baretta entered the drawing-room, and 
 she only rose to shake hands with him. He scowled fiercely at 
 the languid youth, who had stared at him, as he thought, in an 
 impertinent way, and to whom his hostess had not presented him. 
 Baretta was enough used to the ways of society by this time to 
 know that no slight was intended by the omission ; and yet 
 somehow it chafed him. How could one help feeling awkward 
 in such a case ? The entire indifference of the other man was 
 exasperating. This was not the treatment which so eminent a 
 personage as Baron Smolzow ought to receive. 
 
 " Ah, yes, Miss Lawrence," the languid young man was saying, 
 " you ought to have been there you really ought, you know. 
 Everybody was there." 
 
 "Do you mean," asked Mildred with a smile, "that I am 
 nobody." 
 
 " Nobody ? I oh, ha ! ha ! certainly not didn't mean that 
 at all. Fahncy any one saying that Miss Lawrence was nobody. 
 But it was a first-rate meeting, really ; some good hurdle racing, 
 don't you know. I dare say hurdles are rather alarming when 
 you don't understand how the thing is done ; but oh, I am sure 
 you'd have enjoyed it. Our fellahs do some capital riding, 
 don't you think ?" 
 
 At this point the young man turned his eyes towards Baretta, 
 who nodded curtly, and then got up and walked across the 
 room, pretending to examine a minute bit by Wouvermans that 
 hung on the opposite wall. How can she endure such an idiot ? 
 was Baretta's thought. But what can women not endure? 
 Whom can they not like ? Confound all women, anyway ! he 
 
 214
 
 said to himself angrily. This uncharitable sentiment was 
 strengthened when he discovered that one of two persons whom 
 he had seen indistinctly when he came in was Miss Tredwell. She 
 had been talking with a tall girl in black, and when he turned 
 she smiled and nodded. Why should she give herself that 
 trouble ? he wondered. Of course she hated him ; of that he 
 was very sure. And he felt that she somehow stood between 
 him and Miss Lawrence, and so he hated her. But after she 
 had recognized him thus cordially he could do no less than go 
 over and speak to her. 
 
 " I can't say you are a great stranger, can I ?" said Daisy, 
 still smiling. " I suppose I ought to say it's an unexpected 
 pleasure." 
 
 "Don't feel obliged to compliment me," said the young man, 
 brusquely. " I ain't I'm not used to it." 
 
 " But one gets used to so many things, Baron even to a title. 
 Oh, Miss Prime, do you know Baron Smolzow ?" 
 
 The tall girl remarked that she hadn't that pleasure, and 
 made some perfunctory observation regarding the state of the 
 weather, to which Baretta paid little heed. He was wondering 
 what in the world Miss Tredwell meant by sneering at his title ; 
 he was sure that it was a sneer. She had made him feel very 
 uncomfortable by what she had said at Mrs. Chilton's. To be- 
 gin again in this way was like a challenge. Well, she should 
 find him a formidable enemy. He did not intend that his 
 career should be wrecked by anything that a foolish young 
 woman could say or do. Nevertheless, it was annoying to find 
 that Miss Lawrence's own intimate friend suspected him. 
 
 " You you don't seem to be fond of titles," he said at last, 
 meeting Miss Tredwell's glance defiantly. 
 
 " Oh, I am an American girl why should I be fond of them?" 
 
 " Is that a conundrum ? I'm not good at conundrums." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Daisy, with a little shrug. 
 
 " Or mysteries either," he added. 
 
 " Really ! I should have said just the opposite." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" asked Baretta, scowling. 
 
 "Perhaps I may be able to tell you when I know myself." 
 A mocking smile glimmered for an instant about her lips ; then 
 
 215
 
 she turned to Miss Prime and said : " You will want to hear 
 some of the Baron's lectures ; he's a dreadful Socialist he 
 wants to murder us all in our beds, or blow us up with 
 dynamite." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Miss Prime, with a little shiver of apprehension. 
 " What horrid things you say, Daisy ! Of course, Baron, yon 
 know I wouldn't believe her." 
 
 " Wouldn't you ? Well, I guess no one will," said Baretta. 
 
 Daisy rose and started to cross the room to where Mildred 
 was sitting. " I wouldn't be too sure of that," she said, looking 
 back at him. 
 
 The young man bit his lip savagely, and turned away from 
 Miss Prime with an abruptness that was certainly extremely 
 rude, and which led her to say afterwards that the only re- 
 markable thing about Baron Smolzow was his remarkably bad 
 manners. But Baretta was not in the mood to mind being 
 made the occasion of disparaging epigrams like this. He was 
 furiously angry with Miss Tredwell. What did she know ? 
 What could she know ? And yet she persisted in talking as if 
 she knew everything and was only waiting an opportunity to 
 expose him. It was something more than mere insolence the 
 insolence of one who disliked him, who was conspiring with 
 Yates against him. Yates ! Well, there was satisfaction in 
 thinking that Yates, at least, was out of the running that he 
 could not be by to poison Miss Lawrence's mind against a rival 
 whom he had reason to fear. 
 
 " Oh do, do get that extraordinary baron of yours out of the 
 way ! What a figure he makes with that dreadful coat and the 
 red necktie !" This was what Daisy was whispering in Mildred's 
 ear while Baretta stood watching them with an angry scowl. 
 
 " Daisy ! I am ashamed of you," said Mildred. She felt the 
 truth of her friend's words ; she had thought that Baretta 
 looked ridiculous in his flamboyant costume when he first came 
 in. But she knew that Daisy disliked him, and as she saw him 
 standing there, alone and obviously in a bad temper, she came 
 to the conclusion that Daisy had been very rude to him, as she 
 could be to those she disliked. " He is at least my guest," said 
 Mildred, with a lofty air ; and then she approached him with a 
 
 216
 
 look of more than usual friendliness a look which at once 
 brought back to his mind all those absurd ambitions he was 
 fond of cherishing. 
 
 " I did not see you yesterday, and I I thought you would 
 not mind if I came to-day," said Baretta, beginning to forget 
 that she had neglected him on his arrival. 
 
 " Yesterday ?" 
 
 " At Mrs. Chilton's I looked in there a few minutes," ex- 
 plained Baretta, his manner implying that it was a great compli- 
 ment to Mrs. Chilton. " I hoped you would be there." 
 
 " Thank you although I'm not vain enough to take your 
 compliment too literally." 
 
 "It wouldn't be vanity, Miss Lawrence. And I want you to 
 believe everything I say." 
 
 "Everything! Oh you must make half do! you cannot ex- 
 pect more than that. People always exaggerate so much." 
 
 " I don't exaggerate," declared Baretta. He wondered what 
 Miss Tredwell had been saying to her if she, too, were begin- 
 ning to distrust him. Of course such a suspicion on his part 
 was baseless. Mildred had, indeed, gone very far in taking him 
 at his own valuation, and had resented Daisy's innuendoes with 
 much warmth on previous occasions. She could not help feel- 
 ing that he was unused to many things which in her circle of 
 acquaintances were taken for granted ; but that was simply his 
 misfortune. His poverty had been a sufficient explanation or 
 at least it ought to have been ; perhaps she was not so very 
 sure that it was. The reality of his title she did not now for a 
 moment question. He had established his claim quite clearly ; 
 the proofs were wellnigh incontestable. It was odd, almost in- 
 explicable ; nevertheless it was true. The young man whom 
 her father had befriended, whom she had treated with an un- 
 acknowledged sense of condescension, was the heir to a title 
 and estates in a foreign land. It was all like a romance a Jin 
 du siecle Thaddeus of Warsaw. 
 
 " No, don't think I exaggerate," repeated Baretta. 
 
 " Well, then I won't, since you are so much in earnest about 
 it." 
 
 " Thank you oh, thank you ! I want you to believe in me. 
 
 217
 
 Every man has enemies those who won't believe in him, who 
 try to misrepresent what he does, who think all sorts of evil 
 things about him. Don't let them prejudice you." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Mr. Baretta I beg your pardon, but 
 the old name is much " 
 
 " Call me that !" he cried, interrupting her. " What is a 
 trumpery title compared with But if you believe in me, why, 
 then I can defy them all." 
 
 " I I think yon are a little too sensitive," said Mildred. 
 She was somewhat puzzled by his manner ; apprehensive, too, 
 of she knew not what. And yet she did not wish to offend 
 him. " I am sure you have no reason to think me anything but 
 a friend," she added, " and always glad to hear of your success." 
 
 " Oh, you will hear of it !" said Baretta, confidently. 
 
 218
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 "LA LUTTE POUR LA VIE" 
 
 THE little shop where Maud helped to sell newspapers and 
 candy, and footed up the small accounts with the customers 
 in the neighbourhood, was a stuffy place ; and she came home 
 one evening not only tired but with a bad headache. It was 
 quite a distance that she had to walk, and through a part of the 
 city which was not pleasant. She too often had to face imper- 
 tinent stares even in coming along Tremont Street, where the 
 lights burned brilliantly, and she had no reason to fear. But 
 when she turned into the dingy tangle of thoroughfares which 
 led her across the railway bridge and thence to Arragon Street, 
 she could not help feeling nervous. She had been followed by 
 strange men more than once, and sometimes they had spoken to 
 her ; and one fellow had even dogged her to her very door, trying 
 to whisper endearing epithets, every one of which was an insult. 
 There was a time when Baretta used to come to the shop to 
 meet her, and then she did not care. But that was long ago 
 oh, so very long ago ! Sometimes Maud repelled unwelcome 
 advances by an angry stare. She could not do as other girls 
 did " chaff " these men, and give them as good as they sent ; 
 and she was trying too hard to be a lady even to notice them. 
 And then at times she would ask herself what was the good of 
 try ing to be anything? There was no happiness left for her in life 
 unless that mad reckless race to death were happiness ; a race 
 of bacchantic exultation, of hot riot, with only the misery of the 
 black waters at the end. Oh no ! anything anything would be 
 better than that ! Anything but living on forever in Arragon 
 Street, and going back and forth from the stuffy little shop ! 
 
 219
 
 Things had been going very badly indeed in the Dolan house- 
 hold. It was a wonder that they still had a roof over their 
 heads. Baretta's departure had made a vast difference to Mrs. 
 Dolan, who had so long been used to counting upon the two dol- 
 lars which he paid to her every week, that without it she hardly 
 knew how to provide for her large family at all. Two dollars 
 was not such a very great sum, and yet it seemed to make all 
 the difference between comfort and want. So many things could 
 be bought on Saturday evening when one actually had the mon- 
 ey in one's pocket. To be sure, the two older boys paid some- 
 thing for their board, and there was Maud's three dollars, which 
 she turned into the common fund, making over her own dresses 
 and only buying a ribbon now and then. But the two dollars ! 
 it was like losing a fortune. Dolan's own contributions had be- 
 come more and more irregular. The strike at the works had 
 been a long and tedious affair ; and of course when a man had 
 nothing to do, how could he go on giving money to his wife ? 
 Dolan's way of looking at it was that the butcher and grocer could 
 wait. But it was very little credit that could be got from either, 
 and so when Dolan found that the meals to be obtained at home 
 were scanty he stayed away altogether. He would come home 
 just before midnight, usually very drunk, and tumble into bed 
 with muttered oaths and curses, to sleep until the next noon ; 
 and when he awoke it was in a very bad temper indeed, which 
 manifested itself in more oaths and curses and blows for his 
 wife or the children if they came in his way. There was some 
 money every week from the Union, but a poor man out of work 
 had to spend that on himself ; his whiskey and his tobacco were 
 the only consolations left to him. It was not so much of a con- 
 solation to know that the works remained closed, for there were 
 reasons for believing that the owners could make more money 
 during the dull summer season in this way than if they had a 
 long pay-roll to provide for. Luck kept on talking of their suc- 
 cess and how the " scabs" had been frightened away. But some 
 of the strikers had got other jobs, and these insisted that the 
 works could open again any day and find all the help they want- 
 ed. Somehow or other these bloody capitalists always managed 
 to get the upperhand. And the last week in August brought 
 
 220
 
 rumours of their starting up once more, coupled with the assur- 
 ance that none of the strikers would be taken back. " Let 'em 
 try it, that's all !" cried Luck. They did try it ; and although for 
 a few days the new men had to go back and forth under police 
 protection, it was not long before everything was running as 
 smoothly as if the strike had never been. But it didn't occur 
 to any of the old men to blame Luck. It was only a part of the 
 general injustice of the world that they could not get their 
 rights. 
 
 " I told ye 'twould be that way," said Mrs. Dolan plaintively, 
 one evening, when her husband came home at supper-time. He 
 was in a surly mood, but he had been drinking less than usual, 
 and she realized that the opportunity had come to " have it out " 
 with him. 
 
 " Shut up, dom ye," was Dolan's reply. " Phwat the divvle 
 do you know about my business ?" 
 
 " Shure, I know ye wor a fool to quit work, an' I'm afther 
 thinkin' yez orter go back. There ain't but sivin cints in the 
 house, and where there's ony more to come from is more'n I 
 know." 
 
 " Sivin cints be dommed ! Has that furriner of yours been 
 round puttin' ijeers in your head ? I'd loike to break his dom 
 skull that's what I'd loike to do !" 
 
 "What furriner do ye mane, Peter? There's no furriners 
 here." 
 
 " Makin' up to our gyurl and then goin' off without a word ! 
 You an' her is fools," said Dolan. 
 
 " Oh, is it Mr. Baretta ? Who drove him off, tell me that ?" 
 
 " Well, it's a good riddance he is, an' I'd loike it if he'd taken 
 the gyurl wid him a dom hussy that's too stuck up for the 
 loikes of us." 
 
 " Arrah, Peter Dolan ! ye're a hard man on yer own daughter 
 the poor crayther. Many's the time I've seen her cryin' whin 
 she thought I waVt afther lookin'. It was a bad day when he 
 left this house, that it was." 
 
 " Go to hell wid ye !" retorted Dolan, cutting off the discus- 
 sion. " Are ye goin' to fry that liver or ain't ye ? I'm dom 
 hungry." 
 
 221
 
 Nevertheless, Mrs. Dolan's words had some effect. Dolan 
 had at first been only too glad to have Baretta out of the house. 
 He wanted to pay him out for the blow he had struck on that 
 evening in the saloon when he had brought the chair down upon 
 Dolan's own head, thereby forestalling the operation of pum- 
 melling which Dolan had intended to bestow upon him. At the 
 same time he thought it was more prudent to have the object of 
 his future vengeance elsewhere than under his own roof. Baretta 
 might in that case again forestall him, and this time perhaps 
 with the knife that he had not had a chance to use then. Do- 
 lan much preferred to wait for an opportunity to take his foe at 
 a complete disadvantage, when he could make short work of him. 
 That Baretta had abandoned his " gyurl " that she was crying 
 in secret for him only added fuel to the flame of his hatred. 
 He himself might call her a hussy ; he might swear at her and 
 abuse her ; but he was her father, which made all the difference 
 in the world. No other man should make her cry with impunity. 
 She was well rid of such a fellow, but that was no excuse for his 
 leaving her. It was a heavy score which he had to settle with 
 his former lodger. His ideas of Baretta's present occupation 
 were of the vaguest. Luck had told him once that the young 
 man was " up to some new game," and was calling himself Baron 
 Something-or-other ; but what this meant he did not precisely 
 understand. " Him a baron !" was his contemptuous reply. It 
 must be something in the confidence line ; which showed, of 
 course, what a scamp the fellow was. " An' the impidence of 
 him," cried Dolan, " to lave my gyurl to cry her eyes out for 
 him, the dirty baste !" 
 
 It was on the evening when Maud came home from the shop 
 with a bad headache that her father met her in the entry and 
 tried to question her about Baretta. " Where's that dom cuss 
 now ?" he asked. 
 
 " Who do you mean ?" retorted the girl, with a toss of her 
 head. " I wish you'd mind your own business," she added, 
 crossly. 
 
 " Look here, don't ye talk loike that to me," said her father, 
 roughly, seizing her by the arm. 
 
 " Let me go !" She tried to free herself, but he held her fast. 
 
 222
 
 " I'll let ye go when I dom plase ! It's that f urrin cuss I 
 mane, that came smoilin' an' shlobberin' round ye, until you 
 couldn't spake a dacent wurrud to yer own father, an' thin wint 
 off wid another gyurl thot's what he did, an' deny it if ye can." 
 
 " I sha'n't deny anything I've got nothing to say. You're 
 hurting me," said Maud, beginning to sob. " Let me go my 
 head aches fit to split." 
 
 " Hussy !" cried Dolan, accompanying the epithet with a vol- 
 ley of oaths. " Do ye talk loike thot to me ?" He grasped her 
 arm more tightly than ever and thrust her against the wall. " Ye 
 dom fool, I'll make ye talk !" he cried. 
 
 Maud cowered and shrunk for a moment before this sudden 
 violence, then, in a blind spasm of rage, she lifted her free arm 
 and with all the force she could command slapped her father in 
 the face. The movement took him so entirely by surprise that 
 at first he staggered back ; then he seized her again, and with a 
 curse dealt her a blow that sent her headlong to the floor. " Try 
 that again, ye dom hussy !" he shouted. 
 
 The girl picked herself up slowly, and faced him once more. 
 " You coward oh, you coward !" she said. Her eyes were 
 blazing with passion, but her voice was singularly low, her man- 
 ner almost rigidly calm. " Don't mind, mother," she added, for 
 Mrs. Dolan had come to the head of the stairs, where she stood 
 wailing and wringing her hands. " Don't mind it's the last 
 time he'll ever strike me." She stood irresolute a moment, then 
 turned and went up-stairs and into her own room, disregarding 
 her mother's sobs and entreaties, and, indeed, locking the door 
 in her face. 
 
 " Oh, Peter, Peter !" wailed Mrs. Dolan. 
 
 " Shtop yer whimperin', ye old fool ; I didn't mane to hurt 
 her, but she give me a whack first it shtings loike the divvle," 
 muttered Dolan. 
 
 Poor Maud threw herself headlong on the bed and buried 
 her throbbing head in the pillow. This was the crowning in- 
 dignity to be struck like that. The coward ! the brute ! Her 
 own father, but no longer any father to her ! " Oh, Frank, if 
 you could see me now !" she moaned. He would pity her yes, 
 he would do that. He had never loved her ; he had thrown her 
 
 223
 
 over heartlessly enough when his fortune came ; but still he had 
 always been kind. She had come away from that final interview 
 full of all the bitterness of renunciation. She had even tried to 
 be angry with him, to dismiss him from her thoughts ; but no 
 such easy relief from her misery was possible. She could not 
 forget how much she had cared for him. Although she had un- 
 derstood so clearly that all was over between them, and would 
 have sent him away if he had come, she was tortured for many 
 days with the expectation that he might after all refuse to give 
 her up. He must have understood that it wellnigh broke her 
 heart to say good-bye to him. But there had only been a long 
 silence ; and now that the worst had come she had not a single 
 friend in the world to whom to turn. She could no longer stay 
 at home ; her father should never have the opportunity to strike 
 her again. Home ! was it home at all ? this place where a 
 drunken brute abused wife and children, and left them to shift 
 for themselves while he lounged about all day and guzzled in 
 saloons. The dirty loafer ! some one ought to teach him better 
 manners. This was not very nice language for a girl to use, to 
 be sure ; but in moments of excitement Maud was apt to forget 
 her education in the public schools and fall back upon the current 
 coin of Arragon Street. " Oh, Frank ! I guess you'd feel sorry 
 for me," she sobbed. He would not know, of course ; he was 
 too happy to think of her, and she would never of her own will 
 see him again. He was a great man now. Doubtless he would 
 marry that girl whom he had really loved all the time, but who 
 never had cared for him. Maud felt that she hated her for her 
 unconscious share in directing her own destiny. She had seen 
 at once that she must give up Baretta, but still with that incon- 
 sistency characteristic of her sex she hated Baretta's future 
 wife. 
 
 Maud had little to take away from Arragon Street with her. 
 She had not been able to buy any new clothes for a long time, 
 and she finally decided upon keeping only a single gown in ad- 
 dition to the one she wore. She got up very early in the morn- 
 ing to make her preparations for departure, intending to steal 
 away when all the family were at breakfast. Not a soul should 
 know where she had gone. No one but her mother would care, 
 
 224
 
 anyway, and she felt that she could not at present undergo the 
 ordeal of encountering Mrs. Dolan's screams and reproaches; the 
 habit of " making a scene " was growing upon that well-inten- 
 tioned but vulgar woman. Maud resolved to write a line to 
 Arragon Street by-and-by to let them know that nothing had 
 happened to her ; and, perhaps, if she prospered, she might 
 some day go back and let them see for themselves how advan- 
 tageous her departure had been. It was a foolish scheme, no 
 doubt, and Maud was foolishly elated by it. She almost forgot 
 the reason for the perilous step she was taking in the delight of 
 anticipated freedom. It would be everything not to have to 
 come home to Arragon Street every evening. She did not even 
 stop to calculate how far her three dollars a week would go in 
 providing her with a decent lodging somewhere else, and plenty 
 of palatable food, and still have something for a new gown now 
 and then. She hummed brief snatches of familiar songs as she 
 gathered her belongings into an awkward parcel, secured with 
 pins in lieu of string. To be free ! it meant so much. She 
 went to the head of the stairs and listened intently ; and when 
 she heard the clatter of knives and forks below she stole quietly 
 down, with the parcel under one arm, and, closing the front 
 door gently behind her, hurried along the gray street it was 
 raining and all the neighbours were in-doors with a guilty ex- 
 pectation that she might yet be followed and compelled to re- 
 turn. 
 
 She went first to the little shop, and it was not until she had 
 been there half an hour that she realized how necessary it was 
 that she should find work somewhere else. This aspect of the 
 case struck a sudden chill to her heart. Would she, then, have 
 to abandon her purpose altogether ? Oh no ; that was some- 
 thing which she could not do ! She would rather beg she 
 would rather starve than live under her father's roof any more. 
 All her courage, all her cheerfulness, deserted her. She sat 
 down behind the counter and cried ; her sense of desolation 
 seemed to be supreme. And then she recalled the fact that she 
 had eaten no breakfast, and that she had no money to buy any. 
 She dried her eyes hastily, and went up to the woman who 
 kept the shop. 
 
 r 225
 
 " Can I have my money to-day ?" she asked. 
 
 " To-day ? To-day is Friday," said the woman, counting over 
 the cash in the drawer before her. 
 
 " Yes, I know," answered Maud, " but I need it very much, 
 and as to-morrow is Saturday " 
 
 " And Saturday is pay-day. You forgot, didn't you ?" added 
 her employer, with a disagreeable laugh. " What brings you 
 round so early ? Dust them shelves, as long as you're here." 
 
 Maud forced back the angry retort which rose to her lips. 
 But when the woman went into the room behind to eat her own 
 breakfast, and some one came in to buy a paper and offered a 
 dollar-bill in payment, she went to the drawer and took out two 
 dollars and a half, which she slipped into her pocket. " I guess 
 that ain't stealing," she said to herself ; " I don't charge her for 
 to-morrow, anyway." She smiled grimly, and putting on her 
 hat and taking up her parcel, went out into the rainy morning 
 once more. She ate something in a dingy restaurant near by, 
 and then spent several dreary hours in trying to find a furnished 
 room. She wanted to be far enough away so that she would 
 run little risk of meeting those who knew her, and she walked 
 almost to Roxbury before she began to make any inquiries. 
 She found herself at last in a quarter mainly given over to cheap 
 tenements, and here she thought that she might find something 
 within reach of her slender means. But her experiences were 
 very discouraging. The untidy women to whom she preferred 
 her request were naturally suspicious of a young person with a 
 single parcel. Even the wretched plight she was in she had 
 been walking through the rain without an umbrella could not 
 disguise the fact that she was good-looking, which added to 
 their suspicions. " We don't let no rooms here," was the usu- 
 ally surly response. But she would not abandon the search ; 
 she would not go back to Arragon Street. She found her way 
 at last to a dingy grocer's shop, where she bought some sweet 
 biscuit, for she was beginning to feel hungry again, and asked 
 the man behind the counter if he knew of any respectable lodg- 
 ings in the neighbourhood. He hesitated a moment and 
 
 O CT 
 
 scratched his head reflectively. 
 
 " Oh, well," he said at last, dubiously. " I guess Mrs. Jack- 
 
 226
 
 son, at Number Twenty, might take you in. I heard her say 
 yesterday she'd got a room she didn't exactly need for her 
 folks. It's the fourth house on this side." 
 
 Maud thanked him and went to find Mrs. Jackson a slat- 
 ternly woman in a faded and greasy wrapper, who opened the 
 door just far enough to allow her to put her head out, while she 
 listened with an indifferent air to Maud's story. 
 
 " I expect to have some work in a few days," said Maud, 
 " but I want a quiet place to stay in, and the grocer just below 
 said you might have a room for me." 
 
 " Oh, the grocer said that, did he ?" replied Mrs. Jackson, un- 
 graciously. " Well, I'll just thank him to mind his own busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Then I guess I needn't trouble you," said Maud, with an 
 angry flush, turning to go down the steps again. 
 
 " Hold on !" cried the woman, opening the door a few inches 
 farther. " I hain't said I wouldn't take you, have I ? It's a 
 small room perhaps it wouldn't suit you. Where did you 
 come from, anyway ?" she asked, abruptly. 
 
 Maud tried in vain to speak ; there was a sudden choking 
 sensation in her throat which she could not overcome. It was 
 such a wretched plight to be in she was so tired, so hungry, 
 so wet, so thoroughly miserable. She stood looking blankly at 
 her questioner for a moment ; then sank half-fainting to the 
 step and burst into tears. 
 
 " Lor' sakes !" cried Mrs. Jackson, throwing the door wide 
 open. She was a soft-hearted person, in spite of her belligerent 
 manner, and this unspoken appeal for sympathy touched her. 
 " You jest come in an' git dry, anyway," she said, stooping 
 down and half dragging the girl over the threshold. " There's 
 a fire in the kitchen ; come in here." She led the way through 
 a dark and narrow entry into a small and not over-clean rooin, 
 which contained a rusty range, on which a teakettle hummed 
 and a stewpan gave forth odours of boiling onions ; a sink, 
 piled high with dirty dishes, two chairs without backs, and a 
 wooden table grimy with the marks of immemorial dinners. 
 " You set down," said Mrs. Jackson, pointing to one of the 
 chairs. 
 
 227
 
 " You'll think I'm a fool !" exclaimed Maud, at last, trying to 
 stifle her sobs. " I guess the walking and the rain was too 
 much for me. I'll tell you how it was," she said, sitting up and 
 looking at Mrs. Jackson almost defiantly. " I ran away from 
 home. My father beat me, and I wouldn't stand it. I can get 
 work enough, and I'll pay you a week in advance now, but I 
 won't go back there again." 
 
 " It'll be a dollar, then. What's your name ?" 
 
 " Maud." 
 
 " Maud ? Maud what ?" 
 
 " Vivian." She gave the first name which occurred to her. 
 It was a name which had pleased her in a novel she had read 
 only the day before. Gladys Vivian was the heroine, and she 
 had married Lord Harold Beaumont, the younger son of the 
 Earl of Mount Avon. Maud Vivian was not likely to marry 
 anybody, but it was a lovely name. 
 
 " Maud Vivian sounds like one o' them stage names," was 
 Mrs. Jackson's comment. " That ain't my affair, though. I 
 guess you're a decent girl ; if you ain't you don't stay, that's 
 all. You better see your room, an' put on some other clo'es, 
 an' let me hang these down here to dry off. Another thing 
 you'll have to pay in advance you know you said you would," 
 added Mrs. Jackson, hurriedly. " You see, of course, a poor 
 woman like me " 
 
 " It's quite right," interrupted Maud, pulling the money from 
 her pocket. " I might forget and spend it ; I ain't used to hav- 
 ing so much." She laughed rather bitterly as she followed her 
 new landlady up-stairs. 
 
 But if Maud had thought that her troubles were over she was 
 soon convinced of her mistake. She spent several dreary days 
 in trying to find employment. In most cases she was dismissed 
 with a curt refusal. Sometimes the explanation was vouchsafed 
 that no more help was needed just at present, but that in a 
 couple of months or so, when the holiday trade set in, there 
 might possibly be a chance for her. A couple of months ! and 
 meanwhile how was she to live on nothing ? On the morning 
 of the fourth day she had just ten cents left. She had eaten 
 very frugally, in spite of a healthy appetite, but somehow or 
 
 228
 
 other her money had dwindled away, and now she had but ten 
 cents, and this she spent on her way down-town for a cup of 
 coffee and a sandwich. She vaguely wondered as she ate where 
 her next meal would come from. There was no one to whom 
 she could go. She had few acquaintances among the girls who 
 lived in the neighbourhood of Arragon Street. She had always 
 rather despised them, and they in turn had stigmatized her as 
 " a stuck-up thing." The girl whom she had known best, and 
 whom she had really been fond of, had disappeared from home 
 two years ago. Nothing was now definitely known of her 
 whereabouts, but it was understood that she had " gone to the 
 bad ;" such disappearances were not uncommon. Poor Jenny ! 
 she wasn't a bad sort, Maud had often said. She was thinking 
 of Jenny now as she walked down Washington Street in the 
 warm, bright September morning. Was she still alive and still 
 in the 'city? she wondered. And then Maud remembered how 
 once she had asked Baretta why she herself should be any bet- 
 ter than the rest? Jenny at least must have plenty to eat, what- 
 ever else she had lost. Oh no ! the sacrifice was too great; she 
 would resist that temptation, no matter what happened. It 
 made her sick with loathing to think of the lives which girls like 
 that must lead. And yet how was one who could get no work 
 to live ? She had no better success this morning than before ; 
 it was the same answer everywhere. She wandered about until 
 long past noon, when she grew too faint and tired to wander far- 
 ther. How hungry she was ! and yet she had no money, and 
 no prospect of any. She tramped wearily, through Temple 
 Place to the Common, where she flung herself down upon one 
 of the benches in a mood of utter despair. What was to be- 
 come of her now ? Perhaps Mrs. Jackson might give her some 
 dinner; the woman was kind-hearted in spite of her repellent 
 manner. But she could not ask that, because if she did the 
 whole truth would come out, and then at the end of the week 
 she would be homeless as well as hungry. Oh, it was hard it 
 was very hard ! The tears came to her eyes as she sat there. 
 
 Presently she rose, holding to the bench for a moment to 
 steady herself the intensity of her hunger made her dizzy 
 and looking vaguely about her, as if some modern miracle might 
 
 229
 
 be performed to release her from her anxieties. And perhaps 
 it was a kind of miracle that a woman passing by should stop, 
 with a curious look of inquiry, of uncertainty, and then sudden- 
 ly step forward and take her by the arm. " I guess you're sick, 
 ain't you ?" the woman said. 
 
 "Thank you I can get on all right," replied Maud. The 
 voice seemed familiar to her, but she did not look up. She had 
 been pitying herself intensely, but somehow she instantly re- 
 sented pity from another. 
 
 " You don't know me, do you ? Well, I don't blame you," 
 continued the woman with a harsh laugh, dropping her arm. 
 
 " Jenny !" cried Maud, lifting her eyes and recognizing the 
 girl of whom she had been thinking only a little time before. 
 
 " Oh, you do know me !" said Jenny, laughing again. " I'll 
 go, I guess, before you take that back." 
 
 " No don't go," said Maud, faintly, as Jenny turned her 
 back, " I I never said any harm of you I never thought you 
 meant it " and here she sank upon the bench again and began 
 to cry. 
 
 " Here, now, you come along with me !" Jenny spoke roughly, 
 but there was no nnkindness in her voice or manner as she took 
 Maud by the arm and led her along the Mall. She thought she 
 knew what that crying meant. So poor Maud, who had thought 
 herself so fine, had made a slip, too ! Jenny's mouth curled 
 sarcastically. It seemed very dreadful now t6 the girl, but she 
 would soon get used to it, as she herself had done. The times 
 were few when Jenny allowed herself to experience any feelings 
 of regret ; at those times she was sure to get into a maudlin 
 state, the result of gin rather than of tears, which in sober mo- 
 ments she saw to be very silly. A girl in her business needed 
 to have all her wits about her. 
 
 " Where are you going ?" asked Maud, at last. 
 
 " To dinner, and you're to have a bite with me." 
 
 " Oh, but I can't I'm not hungry, really I have something 
 to do" 
 
 " Look here, Maudie !" interrupted Jenny, brusquely, " I know 
 I ain't the kind of a girl you want to be seen with yet. But 
 you're the first one of the whole lot that's spoke to me decent, 
 
 230
 
 and I'm going to look out for you damned if I ain't. There 
 I didn't mean to swear, but it comes natural nowadays," she 
 added, with a grim smile. " And I guess you can't fool me by 
 telling me you ain't hungry. So come along !" 
 
 And Maud could resist no longer. All power of resistance 
 seemed to be taken from her by that deadly faintness ; she 
 walked blindly on, hardly conscious of any volition in the mat- 
 ter. " I guess we might as well have a good lay-out," Jenny 
 was saying. " I'm pretty flush to-day, and I'm hungry myself." 
 They had crossed Tremont Street, and were now making their 
 way along a narrow alley that led from Temple Place to Winter 
 Street. After passing by a gorgeous bar-room they came to a 
 door marked " Ladies' Entrance," which Jenny pushed open 
 with a familiar air. A flight of stairs led to the floor above. 
 
 " Look here !" said a waiter as they reached the landing, fac- 
 ing them as if to prevent them from advancing farther. 
 
 "Don't you be so fresh !" retorted Jenny, sharply. " Me and 
 my lady friend want some dinner. That's straight." She 
 laughed, and brushing by him entered a small room at the right 
 where a table was set for two. " It ain't any of your business," 
 she added, turning defiantly to the waiter, who had followed 
 them. 
 
 It was like a dream to Maud, and she half-expected to awake 
 from it and find herself hungry and miserable again. She had 
 a guilty feeling that she ought not to be here that association 
 with a girl like Jenny was degrading j perhaps once she, too, 
 would have passed her by with a shrug and a sneer. But a few 
 kind words were too much for any pride she might have cher- 
 ished upon this point. And everything tasted so good ! She 
 did not know what she was eating ; she still felt dazed, half be- 
 tween sleeping and waking ; but it tasted good. The wine 
 which Jenny ordered, too Maud had never drunk wine before, 
 and she could not classify it more specifically somehow warmed 
 and cheered her, although she sipped it reluctantly and really 
 did not like it at all. To be eating dinner here with Jenny, a 
 girl who had gone to the bad ! She could not understand it at 
 all ; nor could she afterwards understand how it was she was 
 led to tell Jenny her story. Jenny cried a little perhaps she 
 
 231
 
 had been drinking rather more than was good for her and 
 swore several times with a good deal of vehemence. Then she 
 tried to make Maud take some money, which Maud persistently 
 refused to do. 
 
 " I guess you think 'twas got in a bad way," said Jenny, at 
 last. " Well, I'm bad and you ain't," she went on, sobbing 
 again. "Don't you give in no, never, so long as you 
 live. Do you think I don't know how different it is ? Who 
 cares for me ?" cried Jenny, with another oath. " What'll be- 
 come of me ? tell me that. Why, I ain't good enough for you 
 to take my money am I, Maudie ? Don't touch me ; it might 
 spoil you." She rang the bell, and then filled her glass again 
 and drained it at a single gulp. " Gimme a piece of paper and 
 a pencil," she said to the waiter. " Come, freshy, don't stand 
 staring at me. Don't you know a real lady when you see one ? 
 You're too damn fresh, you are. I want to give you my ad- 
 dress, Maudie. I don't live there, but they'll always know 
 where I am. Oh, of course I ain't fit to be seen talkin' with 
 you now, but the time may come I hope it won't ! I hope it 
 won't !" And she began to cry again. 
 
 This outburst rather frightened Maud, and it also had the 
 effect of making her realize her position. That she should 
 have been eating dinner with Jenny ! a girl to whom no decent 
 person would speak ! It was a humiliating thought, and Maud 
 flushed scarlet as she fell back towards the door, where she 
 stood looking uneasily at her companion. 
 
 " Go, go !" screamed Jenny. " I don't want to see you again. 
 What are you staring at me for ?" 
 
 " Oh, Jenny !" cried Maud, not wishing to part in anger from 
 one who had, after all, been kind to her. But Jenny would pay 
 no attention, and, after a moment of hesitation, Maud went down 
 the stairs to the street alone, feeling very miserable indeed. 
 " To come to that !" she said to herself after a time. The din- 
 ner which she had eaten seemed somehow to choke her. Oh, 
 better to be hungry, to be homeless, to endure anything rather 
 than come to that ! thought Maud, with a sob. 
 
 She went back to the Common and wandered aimlessly about 
 for a time. Then she heard the clock on Park Street Church 
 
 232
 
 strike three, and awoke with a start to the fact that the day was 
 passing, and that she was in reality no better off now than she 
 had been in the morning. She turned in the direction of 
 Washington Street once more, and after a few more fruitless in- 
 quiries at the smaller shops, went in a desperate mood to the 
 one large dry-goods establishment which she had left untried. 
 She asked with a listless air for the manager, and was hustled 
 by a surging crowd from one man to another, until at last, in 
 one corner of the vast building, some one came out from behind 
 a railing and began to question her. 
 
 "Come round at eight to-morrow morning eight sharp, 
 mind and try it," said this man in a peremptory tone, and with 
 a suddenness that wellnigh took her breath away. " It isn't 
 often we give a girl such a chance as that, but you " he gave 
 her a rather insolent leer as he spoke " you'll do pretty well, I 
 guess. Four dollars a week beginning to-rnorrow morning." 
 
 " Four dollars !" said Maud. It was better than starvation, 
 but it seemed so little when one had no home to go to. " I 
 suppose," she added, timidly, " that if I do well " 
 
 " Four dollars a week as long as you stay or we keep you. 
 If that don't suit you " here he leered at her again " you'll 
 have to find some friend." 
 
 " Some friend 2" repeated Maud. " What do you mean by 
 that?" 
 
 The man laughed. " As pretty a girl as you ought to know 
 what I mean," he said, as he turned on his heel and walked 
 away. 
 
 233
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 BARONIAL HOSPITALITY 
 
 "You shall leaf it all to me: I know I know!" said the 
 Baron Smolzow's confidential adviser, authoritatively. " Your 
 fronts come to see you they will find you a great man. Eh, 
 bienf It ees so you shall receif them. Haf you not reason to 
 trust me ? to do what I tell you ? I haf made you Baron Smol- 
 zow, and I am notings. Ees that not true ?" 
 
 " Well, you have reminded me of it often enough," retorted 
 -Baretta, ungraciously. " But see here, I don't think you ought 
 to be around when they come. People are so curious they 
 ask so many questions." 
 
 " Ho, ho !" laughed his father. " You veesh to hide me away 
 you veesh dem not to spik with me." 
 
 "There's no good in running any risk," said the young man, 
 scowling. " I've never thought much of your appearing in the 
 matter at all." 
 
 " And vare vould you haf been ? It vas der old frent of your 
 fader who brought you papers who told you he vas tedt, and 
 you were his son. His old frent, zat you are helping from the 
 gootness of your heart, nicht wahr ?" 
 
 " Well, well !" said Baretta, impatiently. " There's no good 
 in going into all that again. Of course you will do as you like 
 as you think best. Only it's as much for your advantage as 
 for mine that no one should even suspect " 
 
 " Jawokl," interrupted the older man calmly, " it ees to my ad- 
 vantage. I understand. And I vill do as I like ; oh, yes, I vill do 
 as I like." He hovered about the door a moment with a bland but 
 suggestive smile ; then he went out, closing it softly behind him. 
 
 234
 
 " Confound him !" muttered Baretta. His impotence was 
 very galling. He felt that he no longer had the direction of 
 his own career. When he had made that compact with his 
 father he had sold himself into perpetual slavery. The king- 
 doms of the world were his, but he had bent the knee to Satan. 
 A man cannot always get on without making sacrifices which 
 cost as much as the prize is worth. There were times when 
 Baron Smolzow was inclined to recall with envy Francis Baretta, 
 who had lived in a mean little room in Arragon Street. The 
 Baron had some very handsome apartments. They were quite 
 as good as those of Yates's, which had once aroused in him 
 feelings of bitter envy ; and they were in a more fashionable 
 neighbourhood. Even Manchester Square was not a suitable 
 place for a man of his rank and prospective wealth. His private 
 secretary, his confidential adviser, who had been the means of 
 enabling him to substantiate his claim, had at once advised the 
 change. The good Herr Emil, who was as deeply attached to 
 Francis Baretta as he had been to Paul, had argued with much 
 force that if he wanted people to accept him as a baron he must 
 live like one ; and he had answered the young man's objections 
 on the ground of expense by saying that he himself would look 
 out for that. Of course there was great force in this reasoning, 
 but, after all, one must have money. Baretta was doing very 
 well just now with his lectures and his newspaper work. But 
 money goes rapidly when one has a private secretary whose 
 physician insists upon his drinking whiskey, and who smokes 
 countless cigars and is inclined to be fastidious about his diet. 
 It was exasperating to have to supply such luxuries, but, under 
 the circumstances, remonstrance was both useless and impolitic. 
 How, then, with this drain upon his resources, could Baretta 
 afford to abandon his room in Manchester Square for a suite in 
 Huntington Avenue ? " You vill haf the money some day," 
 said the pertinacious Herr Emil. 
 
 The new rooms there was a study and a bedroom, with a 
 bath-room between were furnished very comfortably indeed, 
 and all through the indefatigable exertions of Herr Emil ; noth- 
 ing, in his opinion, was too good for the heir of the noble house 
 of Smolzow. Herr Emil, in a new suit of black, was a very re- 
 
 235
 
 spectable looking person indeed, and he had the most insinuat- 
 ing manners. Thanks to the newspapers he was almost as well 
 known as the Baron himself. His career had been a strange 
 and interesting one. Like the cousin of the late Baron, he had 
 fled from his native land in 1848 because of complicity in the 
 Kossuth rebellion. He was of humble extraction himself, but 
 he had known Paul Baretta ; he had, in fact, crossed the Atlantic 
 in the same ship, and had been a loyal friend to the unhappy 
 nobleman in all his subsequent career, which had not been 
 fortunate. Penniless and unknown, what could a refugee ex- 
 pect? The struggle of life in a foreign country had been too 
 much for Paul Baretta. He had given music lessons for a time 
 he was a fine performer on the violin ; but even this resource 
 failed him at last, and after that there was only want and misery. 
 But he managed to live somehow, always attended by the faith- 
 ful Emil, until the Civil War broke out, when he hastened to 
 offer his services to the country which had done so little for 
 him. He was a brave soldier, and he fell at Antietam, desper- 
 ately wounded. Emil had nursed him back to life, but his con- 
 stitution was shattered, and he was never the same man again. 
 He fell in love, however, with a poor American girl in New 
 York or perhaps she fell in love with him ; at all events, they 
 were married, and presently a son was born to them. Two 
 years after Paul Baretta died, and within six months his wife 
 followed him to the grave. He had left mother and child to 
 Emil's care, and had also confided to him the papers which dis- 
 closed his identity, the photographs of himself and his family, 
 the marriage certificate, the proofs of the birth of his son. He 
 had separated himself entirely from his native land, but he had 
 wished this son to know his history, to be able, in the future, 
 to claim the privileges of his rank. Herr Emil had endeavoured 
 to be faithful to his trust ; he had cared for the heir of the 
 house of Smolzow ; he had taken Baretta's name, and taught the 
 child to call him father, thinking it best to conceal from him 
 for a time the secret of his birth. But one day, alas ! the little 
 Francis strayed away, and no amount of search availed to dis- 
 cover him. Herr Emil had been frantic with grief, but presently 
 he was forced to conclude that Francis was dead. And then, 
 
 236
 
 years after, this story of the young man who thought he must 
 be the son of Paul Baretta had come out in the papers. It was 
 all very wonderful, but the evidence was complete. All that 
 Francis had to do was to account for the interval between his 
 disappearance when he was ten years old and his reappearance 
 at twelve as a friendless youth seeking employment. The ex- 
 planation was that he had not been lost, as the good Herr Emil 
 had fancied, but that he had run away, fired with a boyish love 
 of adventure ; and when, afterwards, he came to realize his 
 folly, it was too late to mend it. As to the identity of the 
 young man of twenty-five with the boy of ten, Herr Emil had 
 his photograph, taken at the age of nine, in which the resem- 
 blance was quite obvious. There might be some missing links 
 which the legal mind, which is always hard to convince, would 
 insist on recovering; but no fair-minded man, surely, would 
 question that Francis Baretta was the son of Paul Baretta, and 
 therefore now Baron Smolzow. Herr Emil had made it all very 
 clear, and consequently Herr Emil was something of a personage 
 in his way, too. His coming forward to devote himself to the 
 son of his old friend and master was a touching proof of his 
 fidelity. He had a lively recollection of the glories of the 
 Smolzows and the splendours of their ancestral estates at 
 Bataszek. And it would all be so soon the possession of this 
 young man ! No wonder that tradesmen smilingly furnished 
 the supplies necessary for the maintenance of baronial state 
 and did not press for the payment of their bills. Herr Emil 
 always dressed in black, as we have said, and was a most re- 
 spectable-looking man. Besides, the Baron was received every- 
 where in the very best homes in the city. It was worth while 
 to have such a customer. 
 
 Baretta had to admit that his father's assistance had been in- 
 valuable, although he did so with a very bad grace. It was not 
 agreeable to discover that there was another person in the world 
 almost as clever as one's self. Perhaps from a strictly intel- 
 lectual point of view his father was not clever at all ; he could 
 not have delivered lectures on Socialism, nor would he ever have 
 been admitted to the best houses. But his powers of imagina- 
 tion and invention were very great, and it is doubtful if his son 
 
 237
 
 would have got on very well at this period of his career without 
 him. As a confidential adviser Herr Emil was unsurpassable. 
 Such is the ingratitude of the human heart, however, that his 
 presence annoyed and vexed the Baron extremely, who was im- 
 patient of authority, as an ardent Socialist ought to be. Every- 
 thing, Herr Emil thought, must be left to him ; and although 
 the young man might resent his interference, he inevitably sub- 
 mitted in the end. What else, indeed, was there for him to do ? 
 It was not once only that his father had told him he would do 
 as he liked. Quarrelling was useless ; besides, his father was 
 too obstinate even to quarrel. Sometimes when he was alone 
 Baretta would break forth in wild fits of anger, cursing the folly 
 that had led him to barter his independence even for the sake 
 of making good his new pretensions. But it was too late now 
 for repentance ; that he realized fully. Perhaps, after all, he 
 would not have repented in any case, although it was a kind of 
 gratification to his conscience to think so. 
 
 However, the satisfaction of having handsomely furnished 
 rooms and of getting one's acquaintances to come there to drink 
 tea was something which could not be taken from him, and which 
 was in a way infinitely consoling. Mrs. Tom Gregorson had sug- 
 gested the idea to the young man. Mrs. Tom had rather made 
 fun of him when he was presented to her at Mrs. Cadwallader's ; 
 she had even pretended not to know who Mrs. Chilton was Mrs. 
 Laura Hastings Chilton, Baretta had said, impressively. But he 
 had interested her, and taking him up which was the phrase 
 she used promised to give her a new sensation ; and she liked 
 in any case to be gracious to the lion of the hour. Society bored 
 Mrs. Tom ; it had so little variety, it was so commonplace. And 
 the proofs that Baretta was Baron Smolzow were so substantial 
 that there seemed to be no possibility of making a mistake in 
 encouraging him. 
 
 " Would you come ?" asked Baretta, when she first suggested 
 that he ought to ask his friends to those charming rooms of his 
 of course they must be charming, for every one knew what 
 good taste he had. 
 
 " Oh, that is quite another matter," said Mrs. Tom, smiling. 
 "It would depend upon whom else you asked." 
 
 238
 
 " I would leave that to you," he said. 
 
 "You want too much ; I couldn't think of it." 
 
 " But you will come ? I shall be doing it for your sake." 
 
 "You are a very audacious young man," said Mrs. Tom. "I 
 don't think I ought to promise you anything. One has to be 
 very careful about the people one meets." 
 
 "Of course, if you think my friends are not good enough " 
 
 " Oh, you are delightfully rude !" she cried. But in the end 
 she promised to come, and Baretta went away, not knowing 
 whether to feel angry or gratified. He thought it was she who 
 had been rude. 
 
 He was decidedly ill at ease when the afternoon arrived. What 
 his father might do was a source of no little anxiety to him. He 
 knew that his father's help had been useful to him, but he did not 
 want him in the way when Mrs. Gregorson came. There was never 
 any telling what he might say or do. Baretta felt that the worst 
 thing which could happen to him was to be made ridiculous ; he 
 took himself very seriously, and he wanted others to do the same. 
 It was useless, however, to make suggestions ; his father invari- 
 ably ignored them. Fortunately, on this occasion, the respect- 
 able Herr Emil saw that it was his duty to remain in the back- 
 ground. His role was that of the humble retainer of the noble 
 house of Smolzow. When the first of the Baron's guests ap- 
 peared Herr Emil withdrew deferentially to the inner room, ap- 
 pearing now and then on the threshold with an apologetic cough 
 and a look of inquiry at his young master. Nothing could have 
 been more impressive more in keeping with the traditions of a 
 great family. 
 
 " Your secretary is a most remarkable man," observed Mr. Or- 
 rin Fox Allen, who was among the early comers. Mr. Allen had 
 once told Yates that the Baron was a cad, but nevertheless he 
 felt immensely interested in him. " I can't help thinking how 
 odd it is," he added, " that he should have found you out after 
 all these years." 
 
 " Odd !" exclaimed Baretta. " What should there be odd 
 about it ? Every one read the story in the newspapers." 
 
 " Ah, I dare say. Still, it was a coincidence, you know. Miss 
 Lawrence looks charming this afternoon, doesn't she ? I must 
 
 239
 
 ask her to give me a cup of tea, by-and-by. It's very strange, 
 but that man's face seems somehow familiar to me your secre- 
 tary's, I mean." 
 
 " I don't know where you could have seen him," said Baretta, 
 scowling. For the first time the dread of possible discovery 
 chilled him to the heart. Of course there was a resemblance ; 
 he had traced his own features in his father's on the evening of 
 their first meeting. What a fool he was to run any risks ! After 
 Mr. Allen left him, to speak to some one else, he moved towards 
 the doorway, where his father was still standing. " You must 
 be careful," he said. 
 
 "Careful? For vat ?" 
 
 " They will see who you are they will think we look alike." 
 
 " Pouf ! vat a coward you are !" muttered Herr Emil. " I 
 shall do vat I bleese," he added. 
 
 Baretta could not say more then and there, although he ground 
 his teeth in helpless rage. What was the good of making the 
 struggle, only to be defeated at last by such folly as this ? He 
 turned to meet Mrs. Gregorson, who had just made her appear- 
 ance, with a rather forced smile. Mrs. Gregorson had nodded 
 to Miss Lawrence at the tea-table, and to one or two others whom 
 she knew, and now stood in the centre of the room with a look 
 of bland expectancy. 
 
 " This is indeed an honour," said the young man, bowing. 
 He felt very nervous, now that this gre#t lady was actually his 
 guest, and he pulled forward a chair with an air of perturbation 
 which the accident of stumbling over a rug did not diminish. 
 
 " Who are all these people ? Do I know them ?" asked Mrs. 
 Gregorson, putting up her lorgnette as she sank back among the 
 cushions. " Oh, there is Mr. Allen. How do you do, Mr. Al- 
 len?" she added, as that gentleman drifted in her direction. 
 " Isn't it charming of the Baron to ask us all ? Do you really 
 know any one here ?" As she asked this question she let her 
 voice sink to a whisper. 
 
 " Oh, one or two of them," said Mr. Allen, with a laugh. This 
 part of the conversation did not reach Baretta's ears, but he was 
 quick to suspect that they were talking of him. He felt humil- 
 iated and insulted, but he did not know how to resent their con- 
 
 240
 
 duct. So he remained standing near Mrs. Gregorson's chair, cast- 
 ing uneasy glances at his other guests, who had separated into 
 groups of twos or threes, and who had apparently quite forgot- 
 ten his existence. 
 
 " Is that Mrs. Chilton ?" continued Mrs. Gregorson. " Oh, 
 she is matronizing the affair or chaperoning which is 
 the word those dreadful society papers use? How disap- 
 pointing ! She doesn't look at all like a woman who writes 
 poetry." 
 
 " How should people who write poetry look ? You know I'm 
 guilty of that." 
 
 " Oh, well, with a man it's different. They say the Baron is 
 greatly interested in Miss Lawrence. It looks that way, doesn't 
 it, when she pours tea for him ? I don't remember the pretty 
 girl with her. Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mr. Allen, here's that tire- 
 some Mrs. Stanwood coming. Don't deliver me up a prey to 
 her ; she would really talk one to death." 
 
 Baretta, finding that Mrs. Gregorson was so interested in her 
 conversation with Mr. Allen that she turned her back to him, 
 went over to the table where Miss Lawrence was sitting. The 
 pretty girl with her was Annie Linley, a younger sister of the 
 learned Georgiana just " out," and with no ambition beyond 
 securing plenty of masculine attention. "I don't think it's 
 much of a success," he said, gloomily. " You're kind to stand 
 by me, anyway." 
 
 " Not when Mrs. Tom has come ?" asked Annie, with a pert 
 little grimace. 
 
 " Well, she's interested in Mr. Allen more than any one else," 
 said Baretta, bluntly. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think you quite understand," said Mildred, gen- 
 tly, meaning to soften his wounded pride, and yet fearing to of- 
 fend him. " One always neglects some one unintentionally 
 where there are so many. Won't you take a cup of tea to her ?" 
 added Mildred, looking up at him and smiling. 
 
 " Oh yes," he said. Then he suddenly bent forward and 
 murmured in her ear, " You are always kind ; I thank you you 
 shall not find me ungrateful." 
 
 "You make too much of it," said Mildred, more gravely. She 
 
 Q 241
 
 was a little vexed by this demonstration ; it looked so absurd 
 that he should assume before a whole room full of people that 
 he had something to say to her alone. 
 
 " The Baron is coming to Cambridge next week," said Annie 
 Linley, as he took the cup and moved away. " Mamma is inter- 
 ested in that stuff about the rights of the poor, but I think it's 
 perfectly silly, don't you ?" 
 
 " No, it isn't silly," said Mildred. " One ought to have more 
 sympathy with poor people and make their lives easier. That 
 is what papa is always saying." 
 
 " Oh, your father ! Every one knows how much good he 
 does. But getting the poor to kill the rich is quite another 
 thing, I should say." 
 
 "Whatever put that into your head? Does Baron Smolzow 
 look as if he wished to kill anybody ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know what they want, and I don't care much," 
 said Annie. "Georgy can tell you more about such things. 
 There she is, laying down the law to the Baron now. Goodness 
 gracious ! here are four men all at once. Oh, Mr. Cadwallader," 
 she said, shaking her head playfully, "I can't let you have 
 any tea unless you promise to be good." 
 
 Baretta was not so much interested, however, in the conversa- 
 tion of Annie's sister as to be oblivious of what was going on 
 around him ; and when he saw Mrs. Gregorson rise from her 
 chair, he excused himself and hastened to intercept her. " I 
 I want you to meet Mrs. Chilton," he said. 
 
 " How rude you have been !" said Mrs. Gregorson. " How 
 you have neglected me !" 
 
 " But, really " he began, taken aback by this salutation. 
 
 " Oh, don't think I blame you," she interrupted, thinking 
 what a very stupid young man he was ; an impossible person, 
 even for a baron, she said afterwards. " You know what Ham- 
 let said to his mother when he was lying at Ophelia's feet. Mrs. 
 Chilton ? I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Chil- 
 ton." The two ladies bowed, each rather distantly, and Mrs. 
 Gregorson added, " I have often heard Baron Smolzow speak of 
 yon." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Mrs. Chilton, coldly. She thought that Mrs. 
 
 242
 
 Gregorson intended the remark to be disagreeable to imply 
 that her literary reputation was unworthy the attention of so 
 exalted a person. 
 
 Baretta did not understand the meaning of Mrs. Chilton's 
 " Indeed !" and thought she was rather ungracious ; but as Mr. 
 Cadwallader came up at this moment nothing further was said. 
 Mr. Cadwallader was glad to find some one he knew as well as 
 he did Mrs. Gregorson. An afternoon tea was not exactly his 
 metier, and the irrelevant chatter going on all about him bored 
 him extremely, lie would not have come at all had it not been 
 for his wife, who was not going herself, and who said that the 
 family ought to be represented. " I don't think I take very 
 much to Mr. Yates's friend," Mrs. Cadwallader had said ; " but 
 one of us ought to go." Thus it will be seen that she had put 
 upon Philip the responsibility of introducing Baretta, after all. 
 She asked her husband that evening if Mr. Yates had been at 
 the Baron's, and expressed surprise to find that he had not. It 
 did not occur to her, of course, that he would stay away on Mil- 
 dred Lawrence's account ; that was an old story now, and people 
 were near forgetting it entirely. Baretta himself, however, 
 was not likely to forget it. He had asked Yates to come, not 
 because he enjoyed his society in these days, but because he 
 wished him to be a witness of his triumph. No one else, he 
 thought, would realize quite so keenly how great that triumph 
 was. But he had stayed away, and Baretta's expectations in 
 this respect were unfulfilled. He thought it was extremely dis- 
 agreeable of Yates, who ought to be ashamed to show his jeal- 
 ousy so plainly. What would he say now, to see Miss Law- 
 rence in his successful rival's rooms, pouring tea while he 
 entertained his friends ? Baretta glanced at her from time to 
 time with a swelling sense that she was becoming connected 
 with his fortunes, at least in the minds of others, however un- 
 conscious she might be of the relation herself. He was think- 
 ing of this when he sat down by her side after Mrs. Gregorson 
 had made a triumphal exit he himself had seen her to her car- 
 riage, the door of which his respectable secretary in black had 
 opened with a very low bow and asked her to fill his cup once 
 more. " I am living on my nerves just now," he said. 
 
 243
 
 " But that is a very bad way to live," answered Mildred. " I 
 shall have to turn lecturer now." 
 
 " I wish you would, Miss Lawrence. Nothing would be more 
 delightful." 
 
 " Oh, you would change your mind about that," she said, cool- 
 ly. " But you shall have your tea just the same, if you won't 
 let me give you chocolate instead. Do you know," she added, 
 " I think you ought to congratulate yourself. It has been most 
 charming ; Mrs. Gregorson kindly gave me that piece of infor- 
 mation." 
 
 "Mrs. Gregorson !" repeated Baretta. " I care much more for 
 what you think." 
 
 " Then you are not as wise a person as I took you to be. But 
 don't say such things, please." 
 
 Baretta stirred his tea in silence for a moment. Then, with- 
 out looking up, he said : " I'm sorry my friend Yates didn't 
 come. I wanted you to meet him." Mildred gave him a quick 
 glance, but made no reply. " He's a good sort of fellow. You 
 don't know him, do you ? I thought you didn't when your fa- 
 ther was speaking about him the other day." 
 
 The girl coloured angrily. This was intentional impertinence 
 on his part, she thought ; it was not the first time he had talked 
 of Mr. Yates in her presence, as if he were curious to know what 
 she would say about him. And yet she could not resent it ; 
 she could not assume that he knew anything whatever of their 
 past relations. " One always knows every one else here in 
 Boston," Mildred said at last, with an air that was unconscious- 
 ly haughty ; " one is a cousin or something of the sort to half of 
 them." 
 
 " I see," he retorted, with a short laugh ; " that shuts me out." 
 He felt that he was taking a course which would injure him in 
 her eyes, but his anger at her repulse made him reckless. Con- 
 found the pride, the narrow intolerance, of these people ! he said 
 to himself. Was Baron Smolzow a person to be snubbed even 
 by the daughter of Sibley Lawrence ? 
 
 "You purposely misunderstand me," said Mildred, in a gen- 
 tler tone. She, too, felt that her patience was being rather se- 
 verely tried, but she would not quarrel with him she who was 
 
 244
 
 his guest. " Isn't it getting late ? Some of them are going. 
 And you must not neglect any one else for me. Miss Annie 
 and I," she said, smiling faintly, " are useful and not ornamental 
 persons this afternoon, you know." 
 
 But Baretta came back afterwards as she and Mrs. Chilton 
 were standing together, waiting to bring up the rear of the line 
 of departing guests. " I am going to take Mrs. Chilton home 
 with me," said Mildred, as if she must explain why she lingered. 
 " Don't trouble yourself to go down with us. Oh, I assure you 
 we have enjoyed coming so much." 
 
 Of course he insisted that he would go down. And he called 
 to Herr Emil to find out if Miss Lawrence's carriage were at the 
 door. He felt that he had behaved very badly, and he endeav- 
 oured to atone for it. " You are very kind, Miss Lawrence," he 
 said, " but you always were that." 
 
 " I don't see how," answered Mildred. It was not an espe- 
 cially significant remark, but her eyes met his with a friendly 
 look a look that set his heart to beating loudly, that sent the 
 hot blood to his face. 
 
 " Then," he said, in so low a tone that Mrs. Chilton could not 
 hear, " you will forgive me ?" 
 
 " Forgive you ? I have nothing to forgive." But when he 
 put out his hand impulsively she extended hers to meet it, and 
 he remembered how once she had not shaken hands with him 
 at all. 
 
 It was while she and Mrs. Chilton were coming down the 
 steps, and Herr Emil was holding open the door of the carriage, 
 as he had done earlier in the afternoon for Mrs. Gregorson, that 
 a young woman coming along the pavement suddenly stopped to 
 look at them. Neither of the ladies saw her, but Baretta, who 
 was following them, did; and he started back with a sudden 
 look of terror and a muttered execration. 
 
 " If you blease," said Herr Emil, with a profound bow, sud- 
 denly addressing Miss Lawrence, and stepping forward so quick- 
 ly that if she had turned she would have noticed nothing unu- 
 sual. " So !" he cried, closing the carriage door sharply as soon 
 as she and Mrs. Chilton were inside, and pressing very close to 
 the window. " Retty, coachman." 
 
 245
 
 But Baretta, with eyes as of one gazing at a spectre, was still 
 standing at the foot of the steps. It was the young woman 
 who held his attention, not the departing carriage. " Maud !" 
 he cried at last, and anger and fear were strangely mingled in 
 his tone " Maud ! what brings you here ?" 
 
 "246
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 "YOU HAVE MADE ME WHAT I AM" 
 
 " I GUESS I've as good a right as anybody to walk along the 
 street," said Maud, sullenly, in answer to this question. She 
 had turned very pale when she saw him first. But womanlike, 
 she had looked away at once to scan the faces of the two who 
 were coming down the steps with him ; and when she had dis- 
 covered that one was young and pretty and " real stylish " 
 perhaps she noted this last fact first it was upon this one that 
 she had bent a curious and intent gaze, until the gray-bearded 
 man who was holding open the carriage door had stepped be- 
 tween. Then when she heard the rumble of departing wheels 
 she turned to Baretta again. " I didn't come to see you, any- 
 way," she said, finding that he made no reply to her first retort. 
 
 " Bitte, Fraulein" said the man whom she did not know, lay- 
 ing a hand upon her arm as she attempted to walk by. " Vill 
 you not come in ? to talk it ofer nicht so ?" 
 
 " Who are you, anyway ?" cried Maud, shaking herself free, 
 " and what have you got to talk to me about ?" 
 
 " You know der Herr Baron, eh ? He vas your frent ? But 
 it is kolt in der shtreet," added Herr Emil, smiling blandly. 
 
 " Come, don't let's have any nonsense," interrupted Baretta. 
 " I beg your pardon, Maud I didn't expect to see you I 
 thought perhaps " 
 
 " You thought perhaps you were rid of me for good and all," 
 cried Maud, bitterly. " Well, you will be soon." 
 
 The crafty Herr Emil took in the situation at a glance. Ah, 
 it was sad, very sad, that a young man should betray and aban- 
 don a girl like that so handsome a girl, too ! But Baron Smol- 
 
 247
 
 zow mustn't get into a wretched wrangle with her on the street. 
 " Mein schones Frdulein" said Herr Emil, taking her by the arm 
 once more, " es ist sehr kolt ach, Grott ! you will haf your 
 death." 
 
 And like one in a dream Maud yielded to him and allowed 
 herself to be led inside. It was true, as she had told Baretta, 
 that mere chance was responsible for this meeting. She had 
 made no effort to seek him out, even when matters were at the 
 worst with her. She had accepted their parting as something 
 inevitable ; she was trying to forget him, trying to persuade 
 herself that indifference if not oblivion was possible. And now 
 she had found out her mistake. All the dreary weeks and 
 months between had been swept away by a huge tide of emo- 
 tion. She had answered him defiantly, although she could have 
 cried half in joy, half in anguish, at seeing him once more. But 
 it was true that she had not sought him out that she was even 
 now wishing their first parting had been their last. 
 
 "Ach, das arme Madchen!" cried Herr Emil, when they were 
 in the Baron's rooms and he had closed the door. " It ees 
 shameful," he said. "Dese young men haf badt hearts." 
 
 " You shut up !" said Baretta, savagely. " How dare you 
 talk that way ? I never injured this young woman, if that is 
 what you mean. We were engaged in a kind of fashion," he 
 went on, hesitating over this declaration and looking at Maud, 
 who kept her eyes fixed on the ground and said nothing. 
 " Why don't you tell him the truth ?" he cried at last, " that 
 you broke it off yourself ?" 
 
 " Yes I broke it off myself ; I guess that's right." Maud 
 laughed bitterly. " What do you want of me ?" she asked, 
 turning to Herr Emil. 
 
 " Moi /" he cried. " I vant notings. I haf been told to 
 shut up told by him to shut up. Gott im Himmel ! vare vould 
 he be now midout me ? Novare no baron at all. And I haf 
 been told to shut up." 
 
 " Look here !" broke in Baretta, excitedly, " there's no use in 
 having a row. I didn't mean to insult you. But when you be- 
 gan to talk as if I had been to blame " 
 
 " No, he ain't to blame," said Maud. " You couldn't expect 
 
 248
 
 a great man like him to go about with the likes of me. Who 
 are you, anyway ?" she asked, suspiciously. 
 
 " Oh, it ees no mataire ; I am of no account whatefer. But I 
 tell you one tings," Herr Emil went on, addressing the Baron, 
 " I safed you from der oder seeing notings. fa ne fait rien, 
 you say. You are not grateful das weiss ich wohl. Die leddies 
 saw notings." 
 
 It was quite true what his father said ; Baretta remembered 
 now how adroitly he had hurried Miss Lawrence and Mrs. Chil- 
 ton into the carriage, how he had prevented Maud from making 
 any disturbance before them even if she had wished to do so. 
 lie himself would not have thought of that. Indeed, the un- 
 expected meeting had quite deprived him of his presence of 
 mind. 
 
 " Oh, well, I thank you I know how much I owe you," said 
 Baretta. " I guess you won't let me forget it in a hurry. But 
 I should like to have a few words with this young lady alone, if 
 it's all the same to you." 
 
 Herr Emil held up both hands and shook his head despond- 
 ently. "Ach, der Jugend !" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Well, I'm going !" exclaimed Maud. " I don't see why I 
 should stay, or what you can have to say to me, Frank. I've got 
 to be back at the store before six. They don't often let me out 
 like this they sent me up this way with some laces to match 
 for one of their swell customers. I guess her house would just 
 about suit you, Frank. You'll excuse a poor girl's calling you 
 that, won't you ? I can't remember your new name." 
 
 " Why are you still so angry with me, Maud I You would 
 never give me a chance to explain you went away so quickly " 
 
 " And I wasn't worth bothering about after that, was I ? Oh 
 no !" she added, hastily. " I ain't mad with you. How could 
 I expect anything else ? I didn't want you to come. *I didn't 
 want to see you at all." Her colour rose as she spoke, and Ba- 
 retta, looking at her, thought that she was handsomer than ever. 
 " And I ain't going to stay here any longer." 
 
 But Baretta intercepted her as she hurried towards the door. 
 " You must stay a minute you must listen to me," he cried. 
 " Why can't you leave us to ourselves ?" he added, irritably, glan- 
 
 249
 
 cing at his father, who had been a silent spectator of this scene, 
 and who now, with an expressive shrug, turned and walked slowly 
 into the next room. " Maud, please be reasonable please give 
 me a chance to explain." 
 
 His hand was upon her arm, but she threw it off angrily. 
 " How dare you touch me ? How dare you try to keep me ?" 
 she cried, her voice growing harsh and shrill. " Haven't you 
 hurt me enough already ? O God !" cried poor Maud, suddenly 
 bursting into tears, "how can I bear it? how can I bear it?" 
 
 " Maud ! dearest Maud !" Baretta, too, was completely un- 
 hinged by this tempest of passion. The old love, that he had 
 thought dead and buried, seemed suddenly to awake again ; for 
 the moment his whole nature was swayed by an impulse to go 
 back to her, to give up everything for her sake. How true it 
 was that no one would ever love him as she did. And she was 
 so very pretty even in her wrath even with the hot tears cours- 
 ing down her face. Miss Lawrence, if she were also shabbily 
 clad, would look pale and inconspicuous beside Maud Miss 
 Lawrence, who, though she had taken his hand at parting, did 
 not love him. " Oh, you are unjust to me," he went on ; "I 
 have never forgotten you, though I have tried to. Maud, dear- 
 est Maud ! No, don't turn from me ; I have been a fool, but I 
 won't give you up now." He seized her arm again and drew 
 her, still struggling, closer to him. '" Maud ! we won't be sep- 
 arated again, not if you yet care for me." 
 
 " Care for you !" cried Maud. " Oh, Frank, Frank !" She 
 threw herself passionately upon his breast, trembling like a leaf ; 
 as their lips met her eyes closed, and she sank heavily backwards 
 in a dead faint. 
 
 " You should leaf everytings to me," said Herr Emil, while he 
 and Baretta bent over the unconscious girl, one bathing her fore- 
 head with cold water, the other holding a bottle of camphor to 
 her lips. " Vat for you kees her ?" 
 
 " Oh, you have been spying, have you ?" cried Baretta, furi- 
 ously. 
 
 " Spy ! I haf to spy. You could not be the Herr Baron one 
 single day ven I not look after you. Haf you no sense ? Ilaf 
 you forget the schones Frdulein you are to marry ? Oh, ho ! I 
 
 250
 
 know sometings ! it ees fool zhoke to look at me so. You sail 
 marry her I vill see to it moi /" 
 
 " Well, it's no time to talk of that now," said Baretta, sullenly. 
 " You had better go ; she won't care to see you here when she 
 comes to herself." 
 
 " Oh, I leaf her to you. But no more keesing eh, bien ?" 
 llerr Emil laughed knowingly. " I haf to go out you shall haf 
 das Mddchen to take home. Ho ! ho ! but no more keesing !" 
 Herr Emil's face was distorted by a smile that was perfectly ma- 
 lignant in its suggestion of evil. " If it ees money she vants, I 
 vill feex it ach,jaf I vill feex it." 
 
 Baretta drew a sigh of relief when the older man closed the 
 door behind him. It was as much as he could do to keep from 
 bursting forth into an angry retort ; the suggestion had been so 
 inexpressibly vile and cowardly. He experienced an absolute 
 sense of loathing for his father. Poor Maud ! that any one should 
 think for a moment he was coward enough to take advantage of 
 her helplessness. This young man had his faults ; but whatever 
 they were, he would have been incapable of that. To do him 
 justice he had never thought of anything but marrying the girl 
 when he told her that they should not be separated again. He 
 had not realized how much the fulfilment of this renewal of his 
 vows to Maud would cost him until his father had reminded him: 
 Oh yes, he said to himself bitterly, he had forgotten that he wanted 
 to marry Miss Lawrence. But what was the use of remembering 
 now ? Why had Maud come into his life again to turn its cur- 
 rent all awry ? Her dark eyes, once more opening as the colour 
 surged back to her face, were fixed upon him with a vaguely pit- 
 eous look, but half unconsciously he avoided meeting them. 
 
 " You will not leave me, will you, Frank ?" she murmured, 
 presently. 
 
 " Leave you, Maud ? No, no !" 
 
 " I suppose I'm a big fool. But I can't help it." As she spoke 
 a tear slowly trickled down her cheek. 
 
 " Look here, dear, you mustn't talk just yet." 
 
 " Mustn't I?" she asked, smiling faintly. " How good you are 
 to me !" 
 
 " Good ! It's you that's good, Maud, to come back to me. ' 
 
 251
 
 And perhaps after all, he thought, this solution of the problem 
 of life was best. What advantage had his ambitions been to 
 him ? These people who courted and flattered him did not care 
 for him in the least. If they knew the truth they would only 
 despise and deride him. Maud was the one human being on 
 earth whom nothing could estrange. If he could only forget 
 Miss Lawrence, who would so easily forget him, he might find 
 with Maud at least a measure of happiness. He could not ques- 
 tion the sincerity of her devotion ; it flattered him now to think 
 that she loved him no less than ever, although she had every 
 reason to think that he no longer loved her. And why should 
 he not marry her ? His hopes of winning that other were very 
 shadowy and unsubstantial. Her kindness might have meant 
 nothing. But Maud loved him, and she would not care whether 
 he was Baron Smolzow or only Francis Baretta. If the time 
 ever came when he could go across the ocean to claim those 
 estates he might as well take her as any one else. Over there 
 it would make no difference. The estates ! he was sick of all 
 this pretence. He would rid himself of his father's presence 
 and go back to obscurity and be happy in his own way. 
 
 " I guess I'm feeling better now," said Maud, presently. She 
 tried to rise from the sofa where she was lying, but he pressed 
 her back with gentle force. 
 
 " Wait a little longer," he said. " You don't look quite 
 yourself yet." 
 
 " Don't I, Frank ? But I am all right I really am. And, 
 Frank, I didn't mean what I said. I know it's foolish to think 
 that I can ever be anything to you again. Was that her ?" she 
 added, after a moment of silence, looking up at him piteously. 
 
 " Her !" repeated Baretta, vexed by the question. " What do 
 you mean by her ? The ladies you saw were Mrs. Chilton and 
 and Miss Lawrence. They have been here this afternoon with 
 other friends of mine.'" 
 
 " Oh !" said Maud. " Well, I don't see that she's so very 
 pretty," she added. 
 
 " I wasn't aware that I ever told you she was pretty. But I 
 don't know why you talk in that way. Miss Lawrence is noth- 
 ing to me I've told you so any number of times." 
 
 252
 
 "You've told me a good many things. Don't look cross, 
 Frank, but I can't help feeling jealous." 
 
 "Oh, you annoy me, you aggravate me !" he cried, impatiently, 
 rising and walking away. " See here," he added, " you must for- 
 get all that ; you mustn't make yourself miserable over an imag- 
 inary rival. I tell you that she is nothing to me that I love 
 you that I'll marry you ; and why can't you be content ?" 
 
 "Don't get mad about it, Frank." She sighed faintly ; then 
 she sat up, and put one hand to her head. " Oh, what a fright 
 I must be ! My hat is all crushed in, and my hair must be a 
 sight. Haven't you got a glass somewhere ?" 
 
 " You women are always thinking of your looks." 
 
 " Well, I ain't got much looks to think of. Oh, I'm a good 
 deal better than I was," said Maud, rising to her feet. " What 
 a fool I was to faint ! I guess it was because I was tired. You 
 don't get much chance to rest in the store they won't let you 
 sit down." 
 
 " In the store 1 What store ?" 
 
 " You didn't know I was at Brown's, did you ? Well, I had 
 to do something, and when I didn't have any home to go to " 
 
 " Have you left your home ?" asked Baretta, abruptly. " What 
 did you do that for ?" 
 
 " Well, I thought after my father called me names and knocked 
 me down it was time to go." 
 
 "Knocked you down, the brute!" cried Baretta. " Oh, I've 
 got an account to settle with him !" 
 
 " No, Frank," said Maud, coming near, and laying an appeal- 
 ing hand upon his arm. " Promise me you won't ever have 
 anything more to say to him. It ain't worth while it would 
 only get you into trouble." 
 
 " I won't promise anything. It was he who set them all on 
 me he and that scoundrel Luck." 
 
 " But I want you to promise," she persisted. " You might 
 do that much to please me." 
 
 " Oh, very well, then ; I promise." After all, he thought, 
 would it not be rather beneath the dignity of Baron Smolzow 
 to pursue a quarrel with so low a wretch as Peter Dolan ? A 
 low wretch that indeed he was ; and Baron Smolzow was to 
 
 253
 
 marry his daughter. Maud would never understand how great 
 the sacrifice was. And yet once she had said good-bye to him 
 and had gone away without a murmur. Perhaps he was acting 
 like a fool, after all to throw away all his chances because a 
 girl had cried and had fainted in his arms. 
 
 "Do I look all right, Frank?" asked Maud, turning from 
 the mirror and facing him. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes I suppose so," he answered. " Where do you 
 live now ?" 
 
 " In Roxbury. But you needn't bother to come with me. 
 I've got to go back to the store first. Mercy !" she cried, look- 
 ing at the clock, " it's after six now, and it '11 be closed. Won't 
 I get it in the morning !" 
 
 "Well, you can tell them the truth that yon were sick. 
 Look here, Maud, I don't like the idea of your working in such 
 a place as that. It's wearing you out. Besides, it isn't a fit 
 place for any girl. I know how they treat them the damned 
 canting humbugs ! who brag about their kindness to the poor." 
 
 "That's all very fine, but I don't see how I can live on air. 
 You needn't come with me, Frank, unless you want to. I guess 
 I can find my way." 
 
 " Of course I'm coming." He disappeared into the inner 
 room, and returned in a moment with his hat and coat. " I 
 don't know how we'll manage it," he said, " but we'll have to 
 manage it some way." 
 
 "Manage what? Oh, you needn't worry about me; I can 
 take care of myself," said Maud, bravely. Did he understand, 
 she wondered, how hard her task had been? how she had 
 counted every penny, and denied herself every pleasure, to live 
 honestly on four dollars a week? And now there was to be an 
 end of that. She felt a guilty pleasure in the thought. He 
 was throwing away everything for her ; but although she had 
 been capable of giving him up once, the second temptation was 
 too strong. How she had misjudged him ! If she had had a 
 little patience, they need not have been separated at all. " I 
 ain't sure that you mean what you say, Frank," she said, smiling 
 at him that he might know she was only joking. 
 
 " How pretty you look !" was Baretta's rather irrelevant reply. 
 
 254
 
 " Maud, I do love you, even if " He hesitated a moment ; then 
 he took her in his arms and kissed her with fervour. Possibly 
 he felt the need of convincing himself as well as her. 
 
 He was very far from convinced, at all events, as he rode 
 back from Roxbury in the street-car alone. It was a great sac- 
 rifice that he was making, and he was not at all sure that it was 
 inevitable. What a fool a man will sometimes make of himself 
 for a pretty face ! Maud was undoubtedly pretty now. The 
 confinement for so many weary hours in the big store might 
 have robbed her of her old look of abounding health, but it had 
 somehow added a touch of refinement had made her look 
 more like a lady. That neat black gown, too, was infinitely 
 more becoming than the gaudier costumes in which she had 
 been wont to array herself. Nevertheless, no one could deny 
 that it was a great sacrifice ; and it irritated him that the oppor- 
 tunity for making it had arisen. When she had cried in that 
 way, what was a man to do ? Of course he had missed her ; 
 even to a man who is getting on in the world the thought that 
 he has no one to love must bring a pang ; one's self is an un- 
 substantial idol. And yet if she had not cried and thrown her- 
 self upon his breast and kissed him he might have borne an- 
 other parting from her. He could explain things better, could 
 set them in their proper light, when she listened quietly, as she 
 had done on that afternoon when he told her he was Baron 
 Smolzow. After all, it was incongruous it was absurd that 
 they should marry. His father's insidious suggestion occurred 
 to him, but he thrust it aside impatiently. He would not have 
 her ruin on his conscience ; he had enough to trouble him al- 
 ready. Although this young man had certainly not been over- 
 scrupulous in most things during his career, he had his stand- 
 ard of honour. There were some sins which he could not 
 commit. 
 
 He dined at a French table d'hote, so that it was nearly nine 
 o'clock before he got back to his rooms, where he found his fa- 
 ther reading the evening paper. He glared angrily at the com- 
 placent figure lolling in an easy-chair. Herr Emil had a pipe 
 in his mouth, and there was a bottle of whiskey and a soda- 
 siphon on a convenient table. 
 
 255
 
 "1 wish you wouldn't drink so much," was his surly greeting. 
 
 " Oh, ho !" cried Herr Einil, looking up. " So we haf been 
 rait our scharmer, eh ? My troat is bad to-night der viskey is 
 what I needs." 
 
 " I wish I'd never seen your face !" Baretta burst forth. " I 
 wish you'd go away and never come back to trouble me again !" 
 
 "You are a tarn ungrateful son," replied Herr Emil, coolly. 
 
 " What good has it all been ? What am I now but an im- 
 postor a fellow that not one of them would speak to if they 
 knew the truth? And they will find it out that fellow Allen 
 saw you this afternoon, and trust him for talking." 
 
 " I tink you are upset, Franois, by our leetle girl vat you 
 call her Maudt? She is a bretty girl, but not so bretty as 
 Miss Lawrence. You haf been gone mit her a long time." 
 
 " Well, that's none of your business." Baretta threw off his 
 coat and hat, and sank wearily into a chair. He felt baffled 
 and helpless. Rage as he might against his father, he could not 
 stir him a jot. 
 
 Herr Emil helped himself to another glass of whiskey-and- 
 soda, although a certain thickness in his speech indicated that 
 he had already taken quite enough. " You are tarn ungrateful," 
 .he repeated. " I do every tings for you, and you treat me like a 
 tog. But I forgeef you," said Herr Emil, sniffling with his emo- 
 tion. " I do everytings for you still. I haf made you vat you 
 are." 
 
 His son looked at him in silence for a moment. He was 
 wondering if there was really any way of escape, after all, from 
 the net in which he was entangled. " Yes," he said at last, sul- 
 lenly, " you have made me what I am." 
 
 256 
 

 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 AN EMISSARY 
 
 WAS she, then, to be happy in spite of everything? This 
 was the question which Maud asked herself that evening as she 
 sat alone in her dingy and desolate little room. It was not a 
 happy life that she had been leading of late. There wasno 
 pleasure for her, none of the joys which belong to youth ; only 
 a dreary round of daily work, a dull recurrence of a never- 
 ending task. Yet it was a life from which she had seen no 
 hope of escape, no promise of deliverance. Marriage was some- 
 thing that seemed to her to be no longer even a possibility. In 
 giving up Baretta she had given up her whole future. What- 
 ever happened she could never forget that she had loved him. 
 It was useless for her to try to forget. There are women who 
 can be faithful to an ideal long after it h.as crumbled away. 
 Maud's environment was not exactly calculated to develop deli- 
 cacy of feeling, but nevertheless this quality of fidelity was hers. 
 Sometimes, it is true, she reflected that Baretta had treated her 
 very badly ; but he never was discharged from the tribunal of 
 her memory without a verdict of forgiveness. And now and 
 now ! He had told her that nothing should separate them 
 again. How could she maintain even a semblance of anger 
 when he said that? Was he not giving up everything for her 
 sake ? Perhaps she ought to refuse to accept the sacrifice ; per- 
 haps she ought to send him back to Miss Lawrence. Would he 
 ever have b'een hers again except for the strange chance of the 
 afternoon ? It was Miss Lawrence of whom he was thinking, 
 to whom he was devoting liimsejf, when she came along the 
 pavement. Maud knew who the younger of the two ladies was
 
 before she asked him. Miss Lawrence ought to look like that 
 dainty, trim, with that air of high breeding which is none the 
 less obvious for being indefinable, which even a girl brought up 
 in Arragon Street could not fail to recognize. And to give up 
 a real lady just for her ! That was the very climax of heroism 
 in Maud's mind. She could not bear to tell him that he must 
 not make the sacrifice. Once she had been generous with him ; 
 but she had suffered too much since to be generous now. " Oh, 
 I will be so good to you, Frank !" said Maud, talking to herself, 
 as people who live much alone are wont to do. " I guess you'll 
 be sorry some day, but I can't help it if you are." 
 
 Indeed, just at this time Maud would have grasped at almost 
 any way of escape from the life she was leading. She had be- 
 gun to think that it was even worse than being in Arragon Street. 
 To be shut up night after night in a mean and stuffy box of a 
 place, with not a soul to speak to ! The only resource she had 
 was reading, and one could not forever fall back on that. Even 
 the marriage of Gladys Vivian to the son of the Earl of Mount 
 Avon could not console Maud Vivian for lodging with Mrs. Jack- 
 son. She had kept the name she had so hastily assumed partly 
 because she wished to avoid a stringent catechism from the worthy 
 landlady, whom she felt always kept a suspicious eye upon her 
 actions. Mrs. Jackson was poor, and she wore very dirty dresses ; 
 but she was rigidly virtuous. On the rare occasions when Maud 
 had extended interviews with her she invariably emphasized her 
 determination to have nothing to do with a girl who was not 
 "decent." Mrs. Jackson had young children, and her deter- 
 mination was no doubt a worthy one. Perhaps it was also on 
 Mr. Jackson's account that she Insisted so strenuously upon this 
 point. Mr. Jackson looked much yoiroger than his wife, and 
 his ideas of virtue were considerably more vague. He was a very 
 facetious person, which was trying to his wife, who had a slender 
 sense of humour. One reason why Maud kept so much by her- 
 self was Mr. Jackson's propensity to make eyS. at her a pro- 
 pensity which Mrs. Jackson detected and resented. He used to 
 annoy her by furtively squeezing her hand or slipping his arm 
 about her waist when he met her alone in the dark and narrow 
 entry. Once he went so far as to try., to kiss her, and when she 
 
 258
 
 indignantly told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself, he 
 burst into a laugh and accused her of being afraid of the old 
 woman. It was not at all pleasant to be treated like this, and 
 so Maud stayed alone more and more in her cheerless room at 
 the top of the house. She often wished that she could escape 
 as easily from other unwelcome attentions. But in tftie store she 
 was a prisoner behind the long counter, and when the manager 
 sat down on one of the stools in front and leered at her with a 
 satyr-like grin there was no way of escape. The other girls used 
 to laugh and tell her that she had a great " mash " on Foxy, such 
 being the epithet which they applied to Mr. Thomas* B. Fox. 
 But she retorted that she didn't want to have a mash on any- 
 body. The girls would not believe that ; all of them had* some 
 mash of their own ; and it appeared that Foxy had " made up 
 to " them all in turn. 
 
 " He ain't so bad as young Mr. Brown, though," said a short, 
 curly-haired, impertinent-looking girl named Dolly. " Him you 
 saw me talking to yesterday one of the firm," she added. 
 
 " Well, I guess Dolly knows how bad he is !" exclaimed Clara, 
 who was Dolly's chum. It was just after eight o'clock in the 
 morning, when customers were few, and the young women were 
 chattering in a group at one end of the counter. 
 
 " You mean thing !" cried Dolly. But she did not look very 
 greatly displeased. 
 
 " Perhaps he knows something about them diamonds we saw 
 her wearing the other evening at the theatre," said a third girl, 
 who had a coarse face and a disagreeable laugh. 
 
 " Well, that ain't any of your business," retorted Dolly. 
 
 " I guess the diamonds was Rhine-stones," observed Clara. 
 
 "Oh, I know what's' the trouble with you; you're jealous," 
 said Dolly, with a laugh. " Don't you ever mind what she says 
 to you," she added, turning to Maud. " But you're one of the 
 quiet .kind and don't let on, anyway." 
 
 " Let on !" repeated Maud, sharply. " What is there to let on 
 about?" 
 
 " You're too innocent by half !" sneered Clara. She after- 
 wards told Dolly, however, that she thought that Vivian girl 
 was really pretty straight. " I guess she don't know yet how 
 
 259
 
 hard it is to keep straight," Clara said. " What's the good ? 
 I'm going to have my fun while I can, you bet." 
 
 Dolly laughed once more, although for a moment there was 
 something suspiciously like tears in her eyes. Perhaps she was 
 thinking of the time when she had no diamonds to wear, but 
 when her heart was lighter than it often was now. 
 
 Maud could not be very friendly with these girls. Conversa- 
 tion like this filled her with a sense of loathing ; she felt ashamed 
 for all women that any of them should lead vicious lives. Pos- 
 sibly she did not quite realize the strength of the temptation to 
 which they had succumbed. In spite of her pride in her good 
 looks, her hatred of the sordid conditions with which she had 
 hitherto been environed, her desire to be loved and her capacity 
 for a passionate devotion, she had a strong instinct of purity, a 
 disdain of contamination, which were more powerful incentives 
 to virtue than any conventional " goodness " could have been. 
 She might fall for love in the hour of her weakness ; she would 
 never sell herself for diamonds. And yet she knew that in this 
 painful struggle for existence youth and beauty must soon wear 
 away. All the girls were not like Dolly and Clara. Many a 
 drama of patient heroism had been played in that huge, noisy, 
 crowded human hive. One could read the final act in the pale, 
 patient, careworn faces. And there were other girls who had 
 been prosperous, whose cleverness had been recognized in a sub- 
 stantial way, who could say that their good-fortune had been 
 honestly come by. But at best it was a hard life, and Maud was 
 not patient. The confinement, the din, the unkindness of floor- 
 walkers, and the impertinence of customers all fretted her. 
 When she was alone in that dingy room at Mrs. Jackson's she 
 shed many a tear. And she had nothing to console her no, 
 nothing. Even the man she loved had forgotten her. 
 
 But now what a change was this ! She had seen him by a 
 strange chance, and although she had tried to repulse him, he 
 had told her that they should never be separated again. He 
 loved her still he would give up everything for her sake. How 
 she had misjudged him ! She tried to persuade herself that she 
 had misjudged him, that he had not treated her badly when he 
 had told her how greatly his circumstances had altered. And 
 
 260
 
 yet, perhaps, she was not quite convinced. She had known all 
 along that he did not love her as she loved him. He might yet 
 be sorry that he had come back to her. It must be that the 
 other girl was fond of him, too ; at any rate, she no longer looked 
 down on him, since she came to see him in her carriage and 
 with her coachman and all. Maud was conscious of a bitter 
 sense of inferiority as she recalled how the two ladies had come 
 down the steps with that strange man bowing and scraping be- 
 fore them. Who was he ? Evidently a person of some impor- 
 tance, and yet Frank had never spoken of him. It was all very 
 puzzling. She could hardly believe that the great happiness she 
 had thought was gone forever was still to be hers. Such things 
 happened in stories but hot in real life. Why should Frank 
 give up his swells just for her sake ? She did not doubt that he 
 could marry Miss Lawrence now if he wished. She didn't un- 
 derstand exactly how it was, but he had become a swell himself, 
 and could marry any one he chose. And he would choose her. 
 How could she help being grateful to him for that ? Surely, he 
 had not meant to be hard and cruel when he told her that here- 
 after he must associate with people of his own class. At all 
 events, she could no longer cherish any resentment against him. 
 He had promised to take her away from the surroundings which 
 she so hated. And whether it was too great a sacrifice on his 
 part or not, she could not give him up a second time. She had 
 suffered so much in the past that her present happiness made 
 her selfish. To get away from the store, from the customers 
 who spoke sharply to her, and the girls who made fun of her 
 she would do anything for that. Yet somehow it was impossi- 
 ble to free herself from the apprehension that it was all a mis- 
 take that he would come by-and-by to tell her she must give 
 him up. And then, oh, then ! what would she do ? How could 
 she bear once more the hopeless life she had been living after a 
 single rapturous glimpse of the way to escape ? It was drearier 
 out here in a shabby tenement in Roxbury than it had been even 
 in Arragon Street. But she would never go back; whatever 
 happened, she would not do that. She often wondered how 
 they were getting on at home, and if they missed her. A few 
 days after her sudden departure she had sent to her mother a 
 
 261
 
 postal-card saying that she was well, and telling her not to wor- 
 ry. But she had given no address, so that none of the family 
 could seek her out. She now resolved that when she was mar- 
 ried she would go to see them and let them know how well she 
 was getting on. Perhaps they would think that she had gone 
 to the bad, which was the usual destination of girls who left Ar- 
 ragon Street suddenly. It did not occur to her that she was 
 doing them any injury by keeping them in suspense. Her moth- 
 er would " take on," to be sure ; but she was always taking on 
 about something or other. 
 
 And, indeed, Peter Dolan had undergone more than one bad 
 quarter of an hour since Maud's departure. He did not, as a 
 rule, pay much attention to his wife's grumblings ; an oath or a 
 blow usually put an end to them. But even he cowered a little 
 under the repeated accusation that he had driven his own daugh- 
 ter out into the streets. 
 
 " Maud was niver a bad gyurl," Mrs. Dolan would say, sob- 
 bing. "She had her notions, but she wasn't a bad gyurl. An' 
 it was yerself, Peter Dolan, that druv her away from her home." 
 
 " Dom you and your whirnperin' !" Dolan burst out on one oc- 
 casion. " Is a man niver to have any pace at all for the likes 
 o' ye ?" 
 
 " Arrah ! it's no pace I have thinkin' of her," cried poor 
 Mrs. Dolan. 
 
 " I didn't mane to drive her away," said Dolan, sulkily. " If 
 she hadn't give me her impertinence dom the furriners who 
 put all sorts of ijees in a dacent gyurl's head." 
 
 " She was that proud, Maud was," Mrs. Dolan said. 
 
 Her husband rose from his chair with a curse. " You'd be 
 afther drivin' a saint crazy," he said, putting on his hat. " Isn't 
 it bad enough for a man to be out of wurruk widout you rowing 
 all the time ?" 
 
 " Wurruk is it ? an' perhaps ye're lukin' for wurruk now ?" 
 
 " Shut yer mouth an' be dommed to you !" was Dolan's ami- 
 able reply as he left her. 
 
 This was in the autumn, after Maud had been gone some 
 weeks, and the head of the family was still trying to exist with- 
 out earning any regular wages. How he got the money to buy 
 
 262
 
 so much whiskey was a mystery which Mrs. Dolan could not 
 fathom. He slouched away now in the direction of Eliot Street. 
 This was one of the nights when the club met, and he was sure 
 of a comfortable shelter for as long as he chose to stay, even al- 
 though he had only money enough in his pocket for a single 
 glass. Pie counted on borrowing tobacco to fill his pipe ; no 
 one could refuse that request, even although he always borrowed 
 and never lent. He had begun to think that in other respects 
 the club wasn't much good. Those fellows were always talking 
 about dividing up the wealth of the men who lived in Beacon 
 Street and Commonwealth Avenue, but here he was still out of 
 work and with no prospect of getting any. He wouldn't have 
 minded that so much if the money had come without working, 
 which was what he thought Ditton and the rest intended to 
 bring about. 
 
 The room was not more than half full when Dolan got there. 
 He shuffled along to one of the obscurest tables, feeling half 
 ashamed to be seen when he had so little to spend, and remem- 
 bering how long it wj-3 since he had dropped even a penny in 
 the hat which was passed around at each meeting. Only a few 
 of the men were as shabby as himself. Most of those who were 
 concerned in the strike of last summer at the works had found 
 other jobs by this time ; some of them came no longer to the 
 meetings, perhaps because Socialism was less attractive when 
 they were earning good pay. There was no speaking going on 
 just yet, although Ditton and Luck were both present, talking 
 earnestly together at the opposite end of the room. Luck had 
 been away for several weeks, conducting a strike at Worcester, 
 which was now settled by the action of the manufacturers in 
 granting the advance demanded by their men ; a result which 
 gave the agitator an increased air of importance, and also led 
 him to sport a very flashy diamond in his brilliant purple and scar- 
 let necktie. Dolan watched him with an angry feeling that some- 
 thing must be wrong when one man could be so prosperous and 
 another so hard up. Where did he come in, anyway ? he asked 
 himself. " Gimme a whiskey a good stiff un," he said, beck- 
 oning to a waiter, and putting down his sole remaining dime. 
 
 It was while he was drinking this that Luck came over to 
 
 263
 
 his corner and sat down beside him. " Well, Dolan," he asked, 
 cheerfully, " how are you getting on ?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm a regerler Jay Gould, I am !" said Dolan, sarcasti- 
 cally. " I'm a gintleman of laysure, livin' on me money." 
 
 " You hain't found another job, then ?" 
 
 " No, I hain't, an' be dommed to you !" Dolan growled, setting 
 down his empty glass. 
 
 " What are you blaming me for ?" demanded Luck. " Come, 
 now, have another glass with me. I want to talk with you." 
 
 " Talk away, then," said the other, but not quite so gruffly. 
 The prospect of more whiskey was distinctly mollifying. 
 
 " It wa'n't my fault the strike didn't succeed. But never mind 
 that, now. I've got another job for you." 
 
 " Who said I was afther wantin' a job ?" 
 
 "Well, I guess you'll want this," said Luck, with a rather 
 vindictive laugh. " Have you seen Baretta lately ?" 
 
 " Baretta ? No, dom him, an' if I do, I'll punch his bloody 
 head !" 
 
 " That's the way to talk the damned sneak ! Oh, I ain't 
 through with him yet ; I'll teach him to call me a scoundrel. 
 See here, Dolan," Luck went on, leaning forward, and speaking 
 in a lower tone, "you don't like the fellow any better than 
 I do." 
 
 Dolan's reply was a volley of oaths and curses. " Loike him, 
 is it ?" he sputtered at last. " Whin he tuk my gyurl away 
 from me, and her a dacent gyurl !" Dolan cried. 
 
 " Oh, he did that, did he ? And he hit you over the head, too 
 don't you remember? What would you say to a chance to 
 pay him out?" 
 
 More oaths and curses followed this question. 
 
 " Let's have another drink," said Luck, an evil smile playing 
 for a moment about his lips. "I guess you'll like the job I've 
 got for you." 
 
 " Is it murther ye mane ?" asked Dolan, sinking his voice to a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Oh, don't you get scared, Dolan ; it's nothing that can bring 
 you into any trouble. It's only to find out a few things I want 
 to know. But I ain't sure you can do it," he added, dubiously. 
 
 264
 
 " You've got to keep a level head on you no getting drunk or 
 street rows, or anything of that sort." 
 
 " Dhrunk ? I can kape as sober as ony man whin I loike 
 I'd have ye know that." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you can. Anyway, I think you're the man I 
 want. ]STow, see here, Dolan," Luck said, taking a bank-note 
 from his pocket; "there's five dollars. It's yours if you do 
 what I tell you and keep your mouth shut." 
 
 " Foive dollars !" cried Dolan, putting out an eager hand for 
 the money. It was a long time since he had owned five dollars. 
 
 " Hush, you fool ! I don't want these fellows to hear. And 
 mind not a word to Ditton." 
 
 " Thrust me," said Dolan, pocketing the money. " Have a 
 whiskey wid me." 
 
 " No, no keep your money. Besides, you've got to keep 
 sober if you're going to help me. It's just like this," Luck 
 said, bending over the table again after a cautious glance about 
 the room; "that cuss is playing some game, though I don't 
 know what it is. I don't believe your girl's with him ; but that's 
 neither here nor there. Baron Something-or-other he calls him- 
 self. But you and me know better 'n that, I guess." 
 
 " The dom f urriner !" growled Dolan. 
 
 " He's in with all the nobs, anyhow ; I seen him coming out 
 of a house over on Beacon Street yesterday. What's his game ? 
 That's the thing. Who says he's a baron. I read a lot of stuff 
 in the papers about his castle at some jaw-breaking place over 
 on the other side ; but that was a plant any damn fool could 
 see as much. What's he after among the swells the dirty 
 scoundrel ? And him calling me a scoundrel me ! I'll bet I'm 
 as honest a man as him." 
 
 " How do I be afther knowin' ?" asked Dolan. " What is it I 
 can do ? I s'pose ye want me to stip up and ring the dure-bells 
 and tell them he's a dom loafer." 
 
 " Don't talk like a fool, Dolan !" said Luck, sharply. " I tell 
 you it's a plant, and I want to find out what. I don't care 
 whether the nobs let him in the front door or the back ; that's 
 their lookout. But I'm going to pay him out for what he said 
 to me, don't you forget it." 
 
 265
 
 " Oh, bother yer payin' him out. Tell me what ye're afther 
 wantin' me to do to him ?" 
 
 " I don't want you to do nothing to him. I want you to 
 watch him." 
 
 " Watch him, is it ? Sure, that would be aisy done, if I knew 
 where he was." 
 
 " I can tell you that. I've got the number here," said Luck, 
 producing a rather greasy piece of pasteboard. " It's a girl I 
 know got his card from the tray in the hall. He comes hanging 
 round her young missus that's what he does, the bloody beast ! 
 I saw him coming out of the house, and I buzzed her about it." 
 
 " Ye're a rale gaynius, Luck !" exclaimed Dolan, admiringly, 
 as he examined the card. " And so yer gyurl give yer this, did 
 she? The durrty furriner !" added Dolan, referring to the Baron 
 Smolzow, and not to Luck's friend in the servants' hall. 
 
 "She is only a lady friend of mine," said Luck, anxious to 
 correct any misapprehension as to his relations with that young 
 woman. " I have a good many lady friends," he added, adjust- 
 ing his diamond in his necktie by an imaginary looking-glass, 
 while a condescending smile was visible for a moment on his 
 red and puffy face. 
 
 " An' phwat am I to do when I find the place ?" Dolan asked, 
 being more interested in the object of his mission than in Luck's 
 lady friends. 
 
 " Do ! why, watch him, of course, that's all. Just keep out 
 of the way, but watch him. You needn't hang round all day, 
 of course, but have an eye on him. See ? And find out who 
 the other foreigner is that's hanging around. I bet they've got 
 an eye on somebody's silver and him to call me a scoundrel !" 
 
 " Another furriner ? how them dom cusses hang togither 1" 
 
 "Well, don't you get into any row with them see? It 
 would spoil the game. I don't know as you're the right man, 
 anyway, but I guess you hate him about as bad as I do, and 
 that's something. I would be mighty careful in the daytime; 
 he might spot you. The old chap looks foxy knows more 
 than the young one, I bet. Hang round there evenings that's 
 the best plan. And when you bring me some news I'll give 
 you some more money." 
 
 266
 
 " A mon can't live foriver on foive dollars," grumbled Dolan. 
 
 " Well, if you're smart you won't need to. Look in Thursday 
 night and let me know. Hold on, though, meet me on the cor- 
 ner of Tremont and Boylston streets at eight. That's better 
 we mustn't be seen together too much. There's Ditton looking 
 at us now. And keep straight, or it will be worse ft>r you see ?" 
 added Luck, in a bullying manner, as he rose from the table and 
 walked away. 
 
 Dolan was inclined to resent the tone of this last piece of ad- 
 vice, but he remembered the five dollars in his pocket, and 
 came to the conclusion that nothing would be gained by yield- 
 ing to this impulse. He ordered another glass of whiskey, and 
 flung down the note in a lordly way before the astonished 
 waiter, who took it with an unfounded suspicion that it must 
 be counterfeit. Dolan's ideas of what he was to do were still 
 very vague, and he thought that more whiskey might perhaps 
 clarify them. He did not pay much attention to Ditton's talk 
 that evening, or to Luck's boastful account of the successful 
 strike at Worcester. He was thinking of his revenge upon that 
 " dom f urriner." He would have some sort of revenge, after he 
 had found out what Luck wanted to know. He walked home 
 rather unsteadily that night the whiskey had not had a clarify- 
 ing effect, after all but when he awoke the next morning he 
 surprised his wife by giving her a dollar and telling her he had 
 got a job. When she asked him if they had taken him back at 
 the works he roughly advised her not to be a fool ; nor would 
 he enlighten her in any way as to the nature of his employment. 
 It seemed a good deal like a fool's-errand to go and hang about 
 the house where Baretta lived. He kept it up two days, and 
 only had the satisfaction of seeing the man whom Luck had 
 called the other foreigner go in and out several times. But on 
 the third day, shambling along just after dark on the opposite 
 side of the street, he saw the door open and two persons come 
 out. One was Baretta. He did not need to look twice to rec- 
 ognize him. But who was the woman? Dolan crossed the 
 street stealthily and followed them a few steps. When they 
 came to a corner they stood waiting for a street-car, and as the 
 woman turned to speak to her companion the gaslight fell full upon 
 
 267
 
 her face. Maud ! no one else but Maud. Dolan fell back with 
 a smothered curse, clinching his fist* It was true that the young 
 man had taken away his girl, that she was living with him here. 
 Dolan was not a tender father ; he himself had driven away his 
 daughter from her home. But this confirmation of the worst 
 that could htppen stirred in him a fury of remorseful wrath 
 that might have vented itself then and there had not the street- 
 car come along just at the moment. " The dom villain !" mut- 
 tered Dolan, staggering back with a despairing groan. Then he 
 hurried after the car and swung himself upon the front platform, 
 turning up his coat-collar so that he could not easily be recog- 
 nized, although in the darkness there was not much danger of 
 that. " The dom villain !" repeated Dolan. There would be 
 news enough to tell Luck to-night. 
 
 268
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 "HOW CAN SHE ENDURE HIM?" 
 
 YATES heard of the success of Baron Smolzow's " afternoon " 
 from one of the Baron's guests. He had not once thought of 
 going himself. His distrust of the Baron was something which 
 he could not overcome. He tried to argue himself into feeling 
 that it was unfounded, as indeed it appeared to be. But in- 
 stinct in this case was stronger than reason. However badly he 
 had been brought up, the heir of a noble house would at least 
 have been a gentleman. Perhaps Philip did not scrutinize his 
 motives for holding this view any too closely ; few of us do 
 when our motives are not unimpeachable. He would have re- 
 sented the imputation that he was envious of Baretta's success. 
 At the same time that curious sense of rivalry continued to 
 possess him a rivalry that was hopeless, since he himself was 
 a failure. He had given up his literary ambitions just as he 
 had given up all hope of a reconciliation with Miss Lawrence. 
 But his annoyance was intense whenever he heard her name 
 coupled with Baretta's, as it had been several times of late. 
 Why should she throw herself away upon such a fellow as 
 that ? What were her friends thinking of that they permitted 
 it ? He could not have thought of such a thing with patience 
 even if he had believed in Baretta's honesty, as he had done be- 
 fore this preposterous claim to a title had been advanced; al- 
 though, of course, if there had been no title in question, no one 
 else would have thought of irt. 
 
 Mr. Allen gave him an account of the Baron's social triumph. 
 He was not at all anxious to listen, but Mr. Allen kept on with 
 amiable persistence, and would not be shaken off. The author 
 
 269
 
 of Ro^nd the Zodiac in Rhyme seldom came to the Pilgrim ; he 
 preferred, as a rule, the companionship of the gentler sex. He 
 found women more appreciative, more sympathetic, than men, 
 and this in spite of the fact that he had lately taken to im- 
 peaching their manners in the Northern Review. He liked to 
 talk of literature and art, on which occasions the fellows at the 
 club were apt to guy him. But he had some of the weaknesses 
 of humanity after all, and a love of gossip was one of them. 
 
 " You ought to iave been at our friend the Baron's yester- 
 day," said Mr. Allen, coming up behind Philip as he stood at 
 one of the long windows in the front of the club-house gazing 
 indifferently across the Common. " It would have amused you 
 immensely." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't imply that he is my friend," said 
 Philip, rather sharply. 
 
 " Oh, have you washed your hands of him ? Well, I dare say 
 that's the wise thing to do. Still, you know, Mrs. Gregorson has 
 taken him up. She was there in her most patronizing mood." 
 
 " I don't go in for that sort of thing very much." 
 
 " Well, I fancied you might make an exception in this case, 
 because you are interested in him. But, of course, if you are 
 no longer on good terms with him " 
 
 " See here, Allen," said Philip, " I can't understand why 
 every one is forever throwing the fellow in my face." He was 
 thinking of Mrs. Cadwallader as he spoke ; but Mr. Allen did 
 not know this, and so he concluded that something had put 
 Yates in a deuce of a temper. " Good heavens !" Philip went 
 on, " what do I know of him more than any of the rest of you ? 
 It's true that I got acquainted with him some time ago, and 
 that he interested me at first ; and I dare say I may have asked 
 him here to dinner once or twice. But I have nothing to do with 
 this baron business ; I wouldn't even pretend to give an opinion 
 about it." 
 
 " Oh, I understand that, Yates ; I quite appreciate your po- 
 sition. But then, you know, people will insist on putting the 
 responsibility upon somebody." 
 
 " Well, let them choose some one else. Mind you, I wouldn't 
 say a word against him or his claims ; I don't really know more 
 
 270
 
 about either than you do. What folly it is to drag me into it, 
 anyway ! He has enough influential friends now let them de- 
 cide for themselves." 
 
 " Ah, that is all very well," said Mr. Allen, " but we know 
 what these people are. I dare say he's Baron Smolzow fast 
 enough ; that was a mighty clever story in the papers. And yet 
 I'd be willing to bet that there's something behind we don't un- 
 derstand. At all events, if I were Sibley Lawrence I wouldn't 
 let my daughter " 
 
 " We won't discuss Mr. Lawrence's affairs, if you please," in- 
 terrupted Philip, curtly. 
 
 " You seem to be in a devil of a temper, Yates. What has 
 put you out so much ? Of course, as you say, these people can 
 mix themselves up with the fellow's affairs all they please ; it 
 will be no one's fault but their own if anything disagreeable 
 comes of it." 
 
 " I dare say, I dare say," murmured Philip, vaguely. " I beg 
 your pardon, Allen I am a little out of sorts to-day." 
 
 " That's the trouble you don't go about enough, you don't 
 take all the enjoyment out of life that you ought. Do you sup- 
 pose that I fancy these affairs ? that I like weak tea and dry 
 biscuit in the middle of the afternoon ? I wouldn't dare say so 
 to everybody, but I know you won't give me away. But it's a 
 sort of duty, don't you know, to study the human race under all 
 conditions and circumstances at least, when you're going in 
 for literature. Why don't you try it ?" 
 
 " Ah, but you see I don't go in for anything just now." 
 
 " Well, you missed it by not turning up at the Baron's. Mrs. 
 Tom came, after all, and stared at the animals a while. Well, it 
 was a queer crowd," Mr. Allen went on with a laugh. " Every 
 one was all right enough, of course, only there were so many 
 people who didn't know one another. By-the-way, Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader sent her husband to represent her. He stood in a corner 
 most of the time, and looked as if he were at a funeral. I be- 
 lieve he did manage to have a few words with Mrs. Tom. Miss 
 Lawrence and Miss Annie Linley she's a much prettier girl 
 than her sister sat at the table in a solemn way and poured tea, 
 and Miss Varian have you seen her in the new piece at the 
 
 271
 
 Lyceum ? she's really charming talked nearly all the afternoon 
 with a red-headed German in the Symphony, and looked bored 
 to death. However, that's the usual thing, don't you know. 
 The real joke was the Baron himself. By-the-way," said Mr. 
 Allen, suddenly perceiving that Yates was not listening very 
 intently, " there's something queer about that secretary of his 
 you remember the story in the papers, don't you ? He looks 
 enough like the Baron to be his father. It's a striking likeness. 
 I couldn't imagine at first whom it was he reminded me of, but 
 afterwards it came over me like a flash. By Jove ! Yates it 
 might be his father !" 
 
 " I don't understand you. His father died years ago." 
 "But he might come to life again, eh? Anyway, it's an ex- 
 traordinary resemblance." 
 
 Mr. Allen's suggestion kept recurring to Philip afterwards, 
 although he tried to treat it at the time as a foolish one. He 
 knew that Mr. Allen had a lively imagination, and he sincerely 
 hoped that it had misled him in this case. It was a melan- 
 choly satisfaction, at best, to find his own distrust of Baretta 
 confirmed in this unexpected manner. The worst of it was 
 that Mildred was likely to be involved in any scandal. He 
 would do a good deal to prevent that ; and yet, after all, 
 what was it that he could do ? Why did her friends let 
 such a fellow as that draw her into his schemes ? What 
 were they thinking of ? Some one ought to tell Mr. Lawrence 
 what people were saying. When he found a note from Daisy 
 Tredwell at his rooms the next day, asking him to come and see 
 her, he wondered if she, too, had heard this idle gossip, and if 
 he might not appeal to her. He felt that she would understand, 
 that she would not misinterpret his motives. He had quite 
 forgiven her for the unlucky interference that had made him so 
 angry at the time. Somehow or other he was very grateful for 
 her sympathy. He was not one to wear his heart upon his 
 sleeve, and yet sympathy meant so much to him, who had so 
 little of it. " I shall help you yet," Daisy had said. He took 
 a ridiculous satisfaction in recalling her words, although he 
 knew that what she promised was impossible. Who could help 
 him in such a case ? and Daisy least of all. Nevertheless he 
 
 272
 
 was grateful. If it had been Daisy whom he had loved instead 
 of Mildred perhaps he would have been happier than he could 
 now ever hope to be. But was it not a part of the irony of fate 
 that the one woman who had understood him, who had said that 
 she still believed in him, he did not love at all ? He hoped that 
 the day would come when the old wound would no longer throb 
 with pain, but he knew that he must go down to his grave bear- 
 ing the scar. To love any one but Mildred, even after he had 
 ceased to love her, was something so impossible that he put it 
 out of his head altogether. 
 
 " I hope you'll forgive me for troubling you," Daisy said, 
 when she saw him. She held out her hand, and he took it in 
 his, while he stood looking down into her blue eyes, which were 
 very soft and appealing just then. " But, oh ! I did want to 
 talk to you so much ! And I knew you would understand." 
 
 " You are very kind to me, Daisy," said Philip, gravely. 
 They sat down near a window looking upon the Mall, facing 
 each other, and for a moment neither spoke. 
 
 " I'm a dreadful blunderer," said Daisy, at last, " and if I hurt 
 your feelings in any way you must forgive me. But there is no 
 one else who cares as much as we do, and and oh ! we must pre- 
 vent it ! I am so angry that I don't know what to do, and yet 
 she won't listen to a word from me. You must help me, Philip 
 you must tell me how to save her. A person like that ! It's 
 really too dreadful !" 
 
 This was not a very lucid explanation, to be sure, but Philip 
 understood it. " Do you mean to tell me," he asked, pale and 
 serious, "that there is really anything in it?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ! I don't know ! Sometimes I think there 
 isn't, but then she will never hear a word against him. And to 
 go to his reception, and make herself so conspicuous pouring 
 tea and all that, making every one talk oh, I will never forgive 
 Mrs. Cbilton for it never, never !" 
 
 " It is hardly Mrs. Chilton's fault. I dare say she believes 
 that he is what he pretends to be, and that others, as well as 
 she herself, can decide for themselves. And, after all, Daisy, 
 we know nothing to the contrary." 
 
 " It isn't that, altogether ; it's himself. How can any one 
 
 s 273
 
 think that he is even a gentleman ? But I know that it's all a 
 deception I am sure of it. He is afraid that the truth will 
 come out. He suspects me he shows very plainly that there 
 is some secret that he doesn't wish to have discovered. If I 
 only knew what it was ! Don't you know, Philip 1 Oh, if you 
 do, it isn't right to keep silence any longer." 
 
 " I know nothing nothing !" 
 
 " But you have seen more of him than the rest of us he 
 used to be a friend of yours." 
 
 "And do you think it would be honourable, even if I did know 
 anything, to make use of my knowledge ? What would you 
 think of me ? What would she say ?" 
 
 " I was sure you could help me !" cried Daisy, laying a trem- 
 bling hand on his. " And surely you won't refuse what I ask 
 for her sake." 
 
 " I could refuse nothing in reason to you or to her," Philip 
 answered. " But you are quite wrong to think that it is in 
 my power to interfere." He turned away his face as he spoke, 
 and his eyes rested upon the leafless trees in the Mall. He was 
 thinking of that day in spring when he spoke to Mildred for 
 the last time out there, and she told him that she could never 
 forgive him. " Never is a long word," he heard himself saying. 
 And now what could he do to save her ? 
 
 " It is only pride on your part it is not a question of honour 
 at all !" Daisy said. " Because you fear that some one will 
 misconstrue your motives, you will not say a word. Don't yon 
 realize how terrible it would be ? to have things go on like 
 this, and then to find out the truth ? Anything would be better 
 than that. People are beginning to talk already oh yes, I 
 know what they say ! And to think that she can be deceived 
 by his pretences for a moment." 
 
 " You are a little unjust, Daisy," said Philip, after a moment 
 of silence. 
 
 " Unjust ! It is you who are unjust ! There, forgive me 
 I knew I should offend you. But I am so fond of her, and it 
 drives me fairly wild that I can do nothing." 
 
 " Don't consider me ungrateful." Philip rose and walked up 
 and down the room several times, his hands clasped behind him, 
 
 274
 
 his brows knitted in anxious thought. " Daisy," he said at last, 
 " I will do anything I can. But believe me, that I know abso- 
 lutely no more than you do. He never talked to me particularly 
 about his past ; all this story is as new to me as to every one 
 else. Why should I say it isn't true ?" 
 
 " And yet you believe it isn't." 
 
 " Yes. I don't know why, but that is so. And yet I am the 
 last man in the world who should say anything. If I could go 
 to her and warn her but what is the use of thinking of that ?" 
 Philip cried, bitterly. 
 
 " Philip !" said Daisy and were there not tears in the 
 piteous blue eyes? "it may not be quite so hopeless as 
 you think. She cares for you yet oh, I am sure that she 
 does !" 
 
 " Do you understand what you are saying ?" he asked. " If 
 I am to help you or her you must put that notion out of 
 your head. I do not deceive myself for a moment. And I 
 must ask you not to speak of it again." 
 
 " I told you what a blunderer I was," said Daisy, penitently. 
 " But I shall remember your promise to do anything you can. 
 You must come if I send for you." 
 
 She remained deep in thought long after Philip had left her. 
 Then she arose and went up-stairs and dressed for the street. 
 " I don't care if she never speaks to me again," Daisy thought. 
 " I will have my say first." Oh, how exasperating it was that a 
 girl like Mildred should be capable of such folly ! To throw 
 over a man like Philip for this low-born foreign adventurer ! 
 And what wrong had Philip done ? None absolutely none. 
 She herself would not have treated him so. Perhaps she did 
 not realize that she might cherish for him some stronger feeling 
 than sympathy. If this were so she was playing a generous 
 part just now. " She does not deserve him," Daisy said to her- 
 self, angrily, as she walked up Mount Vernon Street in the 
 waning November afternoon. 
 
 " I am going to have a very serious talk with you," was what 
 she told Mildred. She had resolved to be as diplomatic as pos- 
 sible, to say nothing of Philip, to give her friend no reason to 
 suspect why she had come. She recalled the curious fact that 
 
 275
 
 in her conversation with Philip neither Mildred's name nor Ba- 
 retta's had once been mentioned. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! that's a formidable beginning," said Mildred, 
 smiling. " What have I done to offend you now ?" 
 
 " Why should you think I am offended ? Does your con- 
 science trouble you ? I wish some other people had consciences 
 to trouble them," Daisy added, rather spitefully. 
 
 " Well, if I'm not in your bad graces, Daisy, who is ?" 
 
 " I didn't say any one was. Isn't it an awfully dismal kind 
 of day. Oh !" cried Daisy, suddenly, with a fine assumption of 
 carelessness, "did you enjoy yourself at the Baron's yester- 
 day ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mildred, coolly. She suspected now why it was 
 that her friend had threatened a serious talk. How absurdly 
 unjust Daisy was to those she didn't fancy ! 
 
 " Of course every one was there. Mrs. Chilton and all the 
 tribe and Mr. Pinkerton did he go ? he doesn't love the Bar- 
 on and Mr. Allen, of course ; he goes everywhere." 
 
 " Mr. Cadwallader and Mrs. Gregorson looked in for a little 
 while." 
 
 " Mrs. Tom ? Really ? Oh, what fun it must have been ! The 
 Baron will be at the top of the heap now." 
 
 " Daisy ! You're getting to be very slangy." 
 
 " And who poured tea ?" 
 
 "Annie Linley and I." 
 
 " You ! Oh, Mildred, I didn't really think you'd go quite so 
 far as that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself !" Daisy cried, 
 forgetting that she had resolved to be very diplomatic. 
 
 " I think you are forgetting yourself," said Mildred, haughtily. 
 " I cannot help it if you choose to ridicule and malign Baron 
 Smolzow, but at least you can refrain from insulting me." 
 
 " Insulting you ! Who would insult you unless he would ? 
 Oh, 1 don't care if you never speak to me again. I will tell you 
 the truth now. Baron ? he's no baron at all ; he's a low advent- 
 urer, and he's trying to compromise you so that you can't refuse 
 him. Yes," cried Daisy, as Mildred rose from her chair with an 
 angry flush, " that's just what he's doing, and you needn't pre- 
 tend to misunderstand me by thinking I mean more than I do. 
 
 276
 
 He wants people to talk about your being engaged to him, and 
 all that, and then he thinks he can trap you. Baron Smolzow ! 
 Why, I tell you that when I have said things to him I have seen 
 him start back, half scared to death afraid of me that I had 
 discovered something. You know yourself that he isn't a gen- 
 tleman, and yet you go on encouraging him. Oh, Mildred !" 
 Daisy said, stamping her foot impatiently, " I'd just like to 
 shake you until you come to your senses ! And I'm not the 
 only one who asks, ' How can she endure him ?' " 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you for talking me over with 
 with others," retorted Mildred, still angry, but with tremulous 
 lips that showed how she was moved by this appeal. " I haven't 
 forgotten your interference once before." 
 
 " Oh, how I detest you when you talk like that !" 
 " And if you have come again as a messenger " 
 " A messenger !" cried Daisy, hotly. " Well, if I did, it would 
 be from some one whom you don't deserve no, you don't, you 
 don't ! But I'll never, never say another word. You can make 
 just as big a fool of yourself as you choose, for all me." 
 
 " Thank you, dear !" said Mildred, sneeringly. " And if any 
 one is in need of consolation, why don't you do the consoling ?" 
 " Oh !" cried Daisy, with something that was neither a laugh 
 nor a sob, but a strange mingling of both. She gave her long 
 fur boa a rapid twist and picked up her muff. " I never thought 
 that you could say such a mean thing as that," she said. She 
 hurried to the door, but at the threshold she turned and flung 
 back a final shot. " You deserve to live and die an old maid, 
 and I hope you will !" 
 
 277
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 THE DIPLOMACY OF HERR EMIL 
 
 " PAH ! You make me madt. You arc a tarn fool dat's 
 vat you are !" Herr Emil was striding up and down the room 
 impatiently, his brows knotted, his face flushed with anger. 
 " Ees all I haf done to go for notings notings ? Ach, der 
 Dummkopf! der Narr!" Suddenly he halted and stamped his 
 foot. " Vy not you spik ? Vy not you say sometings ?" he cried. 
 
 "What should I say?" asked Baron Smolzow, in a sullen tone. 
 " I am not accountable to you for my actions." 
 
 " I make you der Herr Baron you forget dat." 
 
 " Well, then, unmake me. I don't care ; I am sick and tired 
 of the whole business. Nothing goes right every one is against 
 me. There's that fellow Allen ; he'll find out the truth some 
 day, and I might as well give in now." 
 
 " Gif in ! And what will become of me ?" 
 
 " I don't care what becomes of you ; I wish I had never seen 
 you !" cried Baretta. " You can go to the devil, if you like !" 
 he added, angrily. 
 
 His father laughed ; but it was not a pleasant laugh to hear. 
 " Oh !" he said. " And I tell you one tings ven I go I take 
 you mit me." He laughed again ; then he put on his hat and 
 left the room. 
 
 It was true that he did not care, that he was sick and tired of 
 everything, Baretta said to himself when he was alone ; and he 
 wished most heartily that his father might go away and never 
 come back to trouble bim. It was the day after Maud's unex- 
 pected visit to his rooms, and he had told his father bluntly that 
 he intended to marry the girl. He thought that he had at last 
 
 278
 
 quite made up his mind to this sacrifice. After all, Maud loved 
 him as he would never be loved by any one else, and his painful 
 struggles for social eminence had left him unsatisfied and lonely. 
 For a time, indeed, he had been supremely content with himself 
 and his prospects. It was so much to be Baron Smolzow, and 
 to go to houses like Mrs. Cadwallader's, and to be taken up by 
 Mrs. Gregorson ! The contrast to life in Arragon Street was 
 wellnigh bewildering. Naturally enough, he had regarded it 
 as the height of folly longer to think of Maud, in spite of that 
 queer fondness for her, of which he was conscious whenever the 
 memories of the old days came back to him. But to sit alone 
 in luxuriously furnished rooms was not so very much of a pleas- 
 ure ; and to have his father's company that was worse than all. 
 He had nothing else to look forward to no, nothing. Somehow 
 he could not win friends. He suspected every one of distrust- 
 ing him, of plotting against him. More than that, he was re- 
 minded in a hundred ways of the differences between him and 
 these new acquaintances differences which being a baron did 
 not overcome in the least. Society had an atmosphere of its 
 own, and mere resolution did not seem to go far in making one 
 a gentleman. Thus he experienced the unwelcome sensation of 
 receiving numberless slights even while he was being flattered 
 and lionized. Most of them were not meant for slights, but 
 they cut none the less deeply for all that. The self-esteem of 
 this young man, as the reader has already perceived, was very 
 great ; and to injure that was to strike him in a vital part. 
 Often he came back to his rooms with a bitter sense of failure, 
 of humiliation, and vowed that he would abandon forever the 
 effort to hold his own with those who continued to look down 
 on him despite his title. But of course it was a resolution 
 which he never carried into effect. " Colours seen by candle- 
 light will not look the same by day," Mrs. Browning says some- 
 where. Besides, how could he give up his hopes in one direc- 
 tion his ambition to marry Miss Lawrence ? He was not sure 
 that he was really so fond of her as he had been of Maud, al- 
 though once he had thought otherwise, and Maud had been to 
 him, as she herself had felt, only a " second best." Miss Law- 
 rence was too proud and cold, and he knew that even if he suc- 
 
 279
 
 ceeded in marrying her he would not be happy ; but for a man 
 who wants to get on there are things more important than hap- 
 piness. If he had not seen Maud again, he would never have 
 abandoned his hopes in that direction, faint as he was sometimes 
 forced to admit they were. Now he hardly regretted his pro- 
 spective withdrawal from the race. What was the use, he asked 
 himself, so long as his father was by to keep him in perpetual 
 torment ? It was better, much better, to end everything by a 
 single stroke. 
 
 Herr Emil came back presently, having apparently got rid of 
 his anger by exercise in the open air. " I spik too harshly, mon 
 fils" he said, in his most benignant manner. "I do not mean 
 you are a tam fool." 
 
 " Well, there's no use talking," replied Baretta. " I have 
 made up my mind." 
 
 u So ? And Mees Lawrence vat she say ?" 
 
 " It won't make any difference to her !" exclaimed the young 
 man, rather bitterly. " Look here," he added, " you might as , 
 well understand first as last that I never had any chance. I dare 
 say she's still in love with that fellow Yates." 
 
 " Yates ? Who is Yates ?" asked Herr Emil. " I do not know 
 him." 
 
 " Anyway," said Baretta, not answering this question, " what 
 difference does it make ? I don't want to stay here in Boston. 
 If I get those estates we can go over there." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh !" cried Herr Emil, beginning to pace up and 
 down the room again. " You do not spik sense. Do you tink 
 dey efer gif you der money ?" 
 
 " Then what good are the papers you showed me ? Do you 
 mean to say there is no truth at all in your story that you 
 never even knew Paul Baretta ?" 
 
 " Knew him ? Oh yes, I knew him. Am not I Paul Baretta 
 who died and was buried so long ago ?" 
 
 " I wish you would be honest with me that you would tell 
 me all," said Baretta, impatiently. 
 
 "Eh, bien, Francois ! you haf no reason in what you say. 
 Leesten, and do not be foolish. I know Paul Baretta ; oh yes, 
 I know him goot. He comes to America; he fights in der great 
 
 280
 
 war ; he is wounded im Schlacht bei Antietam. Oh yes and 
 he marries die schone Amerikanerin. He has a son, who is now 
 der Herr Baron Smolzow, nicht wahr ? Vat more do you veesh ?" 
 " But you if I am the son of Paul Baretta, who are you?" 
 " Moi ? You are stupide, Frangois. You are my son." 
 "Oh, I am out of all patience with you !" cried Baretta. " I 
 know very well that you have played some devil's game, and 
 that if I am your son I am no more Baron Smolzow than you are. 
 Well, I refuse to carry out my part of it ; I will have no more 
 to do with you. I don't care how soon you tell them that it is 
 all a fraud a lie. I don't know how you got Paul Baretta's 
 papers, but 1 know you are not Paul Baretta. Perhaps you 
 are not my father ; but even if I am the rightful heir I will give 
 up my claim. Nothing can be gained by putting it forward ; 
 you say yourself that I need not hope to have it recognized. 
 Well, then, I give it up. Do you hear ?" he cried, angrily ; " I 
 give it up. You can do what you like, and go where you please; 
 I'll have nothing more to do with you. I tell you that I'm sick 
 and tired of the whole thing. The truth will have to come out 
 some time. There's Yatcs go and tell your story to him. He'll 
 be pleased enough he'll pay you well for it, I'll be bound ! I 
 guess you can get more money out of him than out of me. 
 Now I'm going away. I hope I shall never see you again. 
 You'd better go before I come back. Perhaps I sha'n't come 
 back at all. Good God !" cried Baretta, with a sudden access 
 of fury, " what do you stand grinning at me like that for? Do 
 you think I'm not in earnest? You'll see whether I am or not !" 
 But Herr Emil kept on smiling even after the young man had 
 rushed out, slamming the door behind him. " Oh, ho ! I see 
 how it ees !" he muttered. " It ees that tarn Maudt." Herr 
 Emil's smile was not at this moment an agreeable one. " Ja, 
 ja f" he said, presently ; " it ees that tarn Maudt." Then he, 
 too, went out, but he did not slam the door. "Ja, jaf" he said 
 again when he was in the street. Somehow or other this un- 
 
 O 
 
 grateful young man's folly must be checked before it had gone 
 too far and wrought irreparable mischief. Herr Emil was sure 
 that he had thought of a way to check it, and he nodded with 
 satisfaction several times as he turned from the avenue into a 
 
 281
 
 side street, from which access could be gained to a foot-bridge 
 crossing the line of the Old Colony Railway, and providing a 
 short cut into Columbus Avenue. He professed to be a stranger 
 in the city, but he knew the way to Roxbury very well. The 
 address which he had in his pocket was in a neighbourhood per- 
 fectly familiar to him. He had copied it that morning from a 
 card which he liad found lying upon the Baron's dressing-case. 
 There was no name upon the card, only a street and number in 
 the Baron's handwriting. He was pretty sure whose address it 
 was. 
 
 " Ees Mees Maudt zu Hause .2" he asked in his most insinuat- 
 ing manner of the untidy woman who came to the door. 
 
 " Miss Maud what ?" asked Mrs. Jackson. " She told me her 
 name was Vivian," added the good woman, suspiciously. " But 
 I thought it wasn't her name." 
 
 " Oh, yes it ees her name," said Herr Emil, politely. " Mecs 
 Veevian. I veesh to see her." 
 
 " Well, she ain't in. She don't git home till seven o'clock or 
 after." 
 
 " So ? Ich komme bald zuruck I vill come again." 
 
 " What do you want of her, anyway ?" Mrs. Jackson asked. 
 " You're a furriner, ain't you ?" 
 
 " Ja, ja, madame ; an old frendt. She vill be glat to see me. 
 Ohja, I vill come again." Hcrr Emil raised his hat politely and 
 turned to go down the steps. 
 
 " Well !" cried Mrs. Jackson, banging the door. She felt 
 that something must be wrong. " What did he call her?" she 
 said to herself. " I knew she didn't give her real name. If 
 there's anything wrong, out she goes to-morrow." And with 
 this charitable resolve she went back to the kitchen, where she 
 had left a pan of rolls just ready to put into the oven. 
 
 " Some foreigner ?" repeated Maud, vaguely, when Mrs. Jack- 
 son told her of her caller. 
 
 " He said he was an old friend, but I guess that wa'n't so. 
 Say, what is it all about ?" Mrs. Jackson asked. " I can't have 
 no queer goings-on here." 
 
 " What do you mean by queer goings-on ?" exclaimed Maud, 
 indignantly. " Why are you always talking as if you suspected 
 
 282
 
 me ? If that's the way you feel, I guess I'd better go, any 
 way. My week will be up to-morrow." 
 
 " You needn't git mad. I ain't a suspicious person. But I 
 don't hold by furriners, and when that gray-bearded old man 
 came round askin' for you by some f urrin name " 
 
 " Oh, he had a gray beard ? Very well, Mrs. Jackson, I know 
 who it is," said Maud, with dignity. " If he comes again I will 
 see him. And of course I will go to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson stared after her as she swept proudly up- 
 stairs. " Well, what are you gittin' mad about ?" called out the 
 astonished woman. " I hain't told ye to go yet, have I ? My !" 
 she added, as she returned once more to her pots and pans, 
 " that gal needs takin' down a peg. She's too much of a high- 
 flyer for me !" 
 
 But Maud might have broken down and cried had any one 
 been by to sympathize with her. The feeling of exultation in 
 the promise of a new life the hope that her lover really meant 
 they should not be separated again had naturally enough been 
 followed by a reaction. In the cold, dull light of morning that 
 happy parting of the evening before already seemed to be some- 
 thing remote and unreal. It must be that her hopes were de- 
 lusive. When he came to see how much he would have to sac- 
 rifice he would again be convinced that he must give her up. 
 But she could not submit quietly to hef fate this time ; after a 
 renewed glimpse of happiness it would be impossible. And if 
 in the end she should have to submit oh, she could not think 
 of that ! she would not believe it ! She felt that she had already 
 endured as much as it was in human nature to endure. Poor 
 Maud ! who even yet had not tested her full capacity for suffer- 
 ing. Few of us do that, however bitter seems the burden that 
 is laid upon us. 
 
 And now that man who had been with Frank yesterday after- 
 noon that man whom she instinctively hated had been try- 
 ing to find her. What did he want? Why should he come 
 except as a bearer of evil tidings ? She had told Airs. Jackson 
 she would see him if he came again, because she was angry 
 with her landlady for daring to suspect her of anything wrong ; 
 but she had a miserable dread of him and his errand. She re- 
 
 283
 
 membered that he had a cruel face in spite of his smile. Why 
 should he come to see her? What had he to do with her or 
 with Frank ? Who was he. ? She kept on asking herself these 
 questions although she knew there was no way of answering 
 them. It could not be that Frank himself had sent him Frank 
 who had left her only last evening with a kiss and a whispered 
 fond word. Oh, he could not mean to give her up like that to 
 send this stranger to tell her that her dream was so soon at an 
 end ! She ought not even for a moment to suspect such a thing. 
 But it is one thing, alas ! to love a person, and another to trust 
 him. She remembered that she had never been quite sure of 
 Frank. The tears were running down Maud's face now as 
 all these wretched doubts and fears assailed her. She started 
 violently and wiped them away when she heard a gentle tap at 
 the door. 
 
 " Pardon," said Herr Emil's voice. " I come up because le 
 concierge said you expect me. II est tres curieux, le concierge, 
 and I veesh to spik rait you alone." Herr Emil coughed as he 
 closed the door softly behind him. " Pardon monsieur down- 
 stairs smokes fery badt tabac." 
 
 " What do you want of me ?" cried Maud, rising and facing 
 him with an air of defiance. She would not let him see that 
 she was afraid, even although she felt strangely weak and was 
 trembling like a leaf. 
 
 " Je suis tout seul you need not fear. I am kvite alone. But 
 perhaps you, too, spik only the English ? So ? Ah !" Herr 
 Emil signed gently, and smiled at her encouragingly. " It ees 
 no mataire. But do you not ask me to take a seat ? J2h, bien ! 
 do you not veesh to see me ? C'est a regretter /" 
 
 " I guess you can sit down if you like," said Maud. " Did 
 did Frank know you were coming ? Did he send you ?" 
 
 " Frank ? Oh, ah ! der Herr Baron Smolzow. Yes, he send 
 me. It gifs him sorrow that he cannot come himself." 
 
 " Cannot come ? Then he must be ill. Oh, tell me that it 
 isn't that !" cried Maud, clasping her hands imploringly. 
 
 " Mein schones Fraulein, you excite yourself too much. He 
 is veil." 
 
 The words somehow struck a chill to the girl's heart. She 
 
 284
 
 sank into a chair, her face pale, her eyes fixed vaguely upon the 
 man standing before her. It was true, then, that all was indeed 
 over between them, that his brave words about their never being 
 separated again had meant nothing. Oh, why, why had he told 
 her that, only to shatter her hopes more remorselessly than ever ? 
 " He is well ?" repeated Maud, in the mechanical tone of one who 
 is learning a lesson. " What is it you have to say to me that 
 he couldn't say himself ?" 
 
 " I greef for you, Fraulein," said Herr Emil, softly, flourish- 
 ing a handkerchief, previous to wiping away an imaginary tear. 
 " It ees my veakness I am too sympathetique. I am sorry that 
 you take dese tings so mooch to heart. The Herr Baron is dis- 
 tressed, too. He ees sorry that you understand him not. The 
 Herr Baron has too mooch vat you say eempulse. He luf 
 you oh, ja y he luf you. But " here the Baron's confidential 
 adviser waved his hand impressively "there are reasons. Sie 
 verstehen? ' Sist unmoglich it ees impossible." 
 
 " What is impossible? What do you mean? How dare you 
 come and talk to me like this ?" Maud rose from the chair ; 
 the colour rushed back to her face ; her eyes dilated and flashed 
 with sudden anger. " I won't listen to you ; I don't believe a 
 word you say. He never sent you here. Who are you, any- 
 way i" 
 
 "Moi?" Herr Emil smiled again. He was perfectly calm, 
 and an observer would have said that he was rather enjoying 
 the scene, in spite of his professions of distress. " Moi ?" he re- 
 peated. "I am his fader." 
 
 " You ? That's a lie. His father is dead." 
 
 " Dedt oh, ja ; I am dedt. It ees our little zecret. I am 
 dedt ; I am buried. Der funeral sharge was heafy. But ven I 
 lif again he is no more der Herr Baron. He is mint he lose his 
 money everytings. And I am not dedt ven you not gif him 
 up. Oh, ja dey did not bury me deep enough. And you do 
 not give him up. Quel malheur!" 
 
 " It's a lie it's all a -lie !" sobbed Maud. " I don't know 
 what you mean. I won't believe a thing unless he tells 
 me. He loves me he don't love her, that other girl who 
 tried to take him away from me. How can you be his father ? 
 
 28o
 
 I won't believe it 1 Oh, why don't he come to tell me it's all 
 a lie ?" 
 
 " My dear Fraulein, you excite yourself. It ces true. I am 
 sorry, but I cannot help it. I haf a duty to perform ; I haf al- 
 ways been a slafe to duty. You vill not belcef me ? So ? I go 
 to him, and I say, ' It ees all ofer. You are ruint. She vill 
 not gif you up.' Ja,ja it ees a great pity." 
 
 " You his father ! I will not listen to you any longer ; I know 
 he didn't send you to tell me that. Why don't you go away ?" 
 cried Maud, stamping her foot. " I'll have you put out of the 
 house if you don't." 
 
 "So?" Herr Emil said, with a sneer. "Oh, I vill go yes, I 
 vill go. But you vill veesh I had not gone. Adieu, Fraulein." 
 He took up his hat and was about to open the door, but paused 
 with his hand on the knob. " Man kommt" he muttered. 
 Then he quickly drew the door back, shutting himself behind it 
 as it swung inward towards the wall. 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! Frank !" It was indeed he who appeared at the 
 threshold, and Maud ran forward to meet him, throwing herself 
 into his arms and beginning to cry bitterly. " Oh, Frank ! have 
 you come back to me ? It is not true that you want to leave me 
 again. I told him so I told him so !" 
 
 " Told who so ?" asked Baretta, bewildered. " Why are you 
 crying ? and what has happened ? Who said I wanted to leave 
 you ?" 
 
 But Maud could not answer just then. She hid her face on 
 his shoulder and let the tears flow freely. She had known it 
 was all a lie that he would come back to her that he still 
 loved her as much as ever. Surely it was for very joy that she 
 cried. 
 
 " What is it ? what has happened ?" repeated Baretta. 
 
 " Oh, send him away send him away !" 
 
 " Send who away 1 There is no one here." He thought that 
 Maud must be out of her head that perhaps she was ill, and 
 had let some feverish fancy take possession of her. As he held 
 her closer to him, and gently stroked her hair, he realized how 
 unkind he had been to her, how much she must have suffered 
 during all these months. Poor Maud ! He would make it up 
 
 286
 
 to her at any cost to himself. It gave him a glow of virtuous 
 satisfaction to think of so noble a piece of self-sacrifice. "I 
 guess you've been dreaming," Baretta said. " The room is 
 empty no one is here but us." 
 
 Maud lifted her face and pointed to the door. " He's behind 
 there," she said. 
 
 " Behind there ?" Baretta advanced a step or two, but at that 
 moment heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, and 
 both listened involuntarily. " You seem to be holding a sort of 
 reception," he said, grimly. Then he started back with a look 
 of alarm, for it was Dolan who came rushing into the room. 
 
 " Ye dom villain !" Dolau cried, advancing with uplifted fist. 
 " I'll tache ye to play yer durrty thricks with a dacent gyurl !" 
 
 But Maud with a piercing shriek threw herself between them. 
 " He'll kill you, Frank ! he'll kill you !" she screamed. 
 
 " Shtand asoide it's him I'm reckonin' wid." He flung her 
 off impatiently and again advanced on Baretta, who had been 
 staring at him, apparently incapable either of speech or action. 
 " To trate a dacent gyurl loike that !" he cried, with a curse. 
 " But I'll fix yer I'm her father, and I'll fix yer !" 
 
 " At this point Herr Emil walked out from behind the door. 
 Hh, bien f her fader ?" he said, calmly. " So ? Veil, I am his !" 
 
 287
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 BARETTA REFUSES TO YIELD 
 
 " THE other f urriner !" cried Dolan, turning to confront this 
 unexpected intruder. He stared stupidly at Herr Emil, not in 
 the least understanding even yet who he was or what he was do- 
 ing here. " Phwat the divvle !" he muttered, helplessly. 
 
 " Oh yes I am his fader," said Herr Emil, blandly. " And 
 ven you vill leesten to me it ees very goot frendts ve vill be." 
 
 But here Baretta, whose astonishment at the interruption had 
 been almost as great as Dolan's, stepped forward, his face white 
 with rage. " You villain ! you traitor ! what are you doing here ? 
 How dare you interfere in my affairs in this way ? It's a lie 
 you're not my father ; I defy you to prove it !" 
 
 Herr Emil shrugged his shoulders. " Ve vill keep dis leetle 
 mataire to ourselves," he said, as he closed the door, almost in 
 the face of Mrs. Jackson and her worthy husband, who had been 
 attracted to the scene by the sound of voices loud in dispute. 
 " M. le Concierge smokes tarn badt tabac," he added, coughing. 
 
 " What has he been saying to you, Maud ? Was it him that 
 made you cry ?" demanded Baretta, forgetting his grammar in 
 his excitement. " As for you," he said, turning to Dolan, " you're 
 all wrong. I haven't harmed your daughter ; she'll tell you that 
 I haven't. I never saw her after she left your house until yes- 
 terday did I, Maud ? I tell you I can prove it, if you don't be- 
 lieve me. But what's that to you, anyway, you damned low- 
 down brute ! you that struck her and drove her out into the 
 street? By Heaven ! I have my own account to settle with you 
 yes, and with him, and with them all !" Baretta said, his dark 
 eyes blazing with passion. 
 
 288
 
 " Oh, Frank ! Frank !" exclaimed Maud, who was crying again, 
 and looking in a bewildered way from one man to another. What 
 did it all mean ? How had her father found her out I and why 
 did this stranger, who had said he was Frank's father, come to 
 make things worse ? 
 
 Meanwhile, Dolan, although he was still far from understand- 
 ing the situation, remembered that his first duty was to have his 
 revenge upon the fellow who had taken his girl away. Of course 
 he did not believe Baretta's denial. Hadn't he himself seen 
 Maud coming out of his house with him? and who could tell 
 how long it had been going on ? " I'll tache ye to play yer thricks 
 on a dacent gyurl !" he cried, once more rushing at the young 
 man. His heavy fist sent Baretta staggering backward, but be- 
 fore he could repeat the attack, before Maud, who was too much 
 frightened even to scream, could interpose, his eye fell upon the 
 gleaming barrel of a revolver. 
 
 " It ees a bretty tings," said Herr Emil, who had stepped for- 
 ward quickly, and who now stood between Dolan and the object 
 of his vengeance. " It was gifen to me by der Herr Baron Paul 
 ach, ja ! it was his own. I haf a badt way of carrying it 
 loadted. I should not veesh it to go off by mistakes. Das 
 wurde schrecMich sein, nicht wahr?" Herr Emil lowered his 
 weapon as he spoke and gazed at it affectionately. 
 
 " Oh, put that thing away my God ! put it away !" cried 
 Maud, with a woman's instinctive dread of fire-arms. 
 
 But Dolan and Baretta both stared helplessly at Herr Emil. 
 They had not reckoned upon a diversion of this sort, and neither 
 knew exactly what to do in the face of it. 
 
 " You haf a leetle kvarrel," Herr Emil said, taking advantage 
 of their silence ; " oh,ja,ja dere vill be time for dat but not 
 before a ladty. Fraulein, I respect your veeshes." He bowed 
 and put the revolver back in his pocket. " I tink ven you hear 
 vat I say we can settle our leetle mataire. Mees Maudt, wollen 
 Sie gefalligst ein Platz nehmen ? vill you sit down ? No ? Pre- 
 sent me to your fader I know not his name." 
 
 " You mind your own business !" interrupted Baretta, savagely. 
 He was so exasperated by all that had happened that he was 
 oblivious to all the dangers that might follow taking matters 
 
 T 289
 
 into his own hands. He was in the midst of his enemies his 
 father was the worst enemy of all and he must fight for him- 
 self. What did he care for threats? What if the truth were 
 known to all the world ? Maud loved him and believed in him ; 
 Maud was the only friend he had on earth. Let the rest con- 
 spire against him if they chose ; he would stand by Maud. 
 
 "Oh, I mind my own beesness !" said Herr Emil, mockingly. 
 " So? It vill be your beesness, you tarn ungrateful shcoundrel !" 
 
 " Do you think I care for your threats ? Do your worst ! 
 Don't cry, Maud I'll never give you up, let them say what they 
 please. As for you, you brute !" cried Baretta, turning to Do- 
 Ian, " you needn't think that I'll forget to pay you for what you 
 did that night, or just now or to her, either!" he added, re- 
 membering that it was Maud who had suffered most from Do- 
 lan's outbreaks of wrath. " But if you think that either of us 
 is responsible to you, you're mistaken, that's all. What affair 
 is it of yours ? You drove her out of your house with your 
 cruelty, and she's taken care of herself ever since. And I I " 
 here he hesitated a moment, then burst forth, " I'm going to 
 marry her in spite of you both and you can do your worst if 
 you like. I don't care what comes of it. I'm going to marry 
 her. I guess I won't go back on that now." He laughed irri- 
 tably, then added: " I wish you'd both get out of this and leave 
 us to ourselves. You've no right here, either of you. Do you 
 understand?" cried he, stamping his foot. "Why don't you go?" 
 
 "The imperence of the durrty baste!" muttered Dolan, as- 
 tounded at the turn things were taking. But he did not resume 
 active hostilities. He prided himself on being a handy man with 
 his fists, and was confident that he could have knocked out any 
 two foreigners with tho utmost ease. A revolver, however, was 
 a weapon with which he had only a limited acquaintance, and he 
 felt that Herr Emil's possession of one was a factor in the situ- 
 ation not to be disregarded. 
 
 "You make a tarn fool of yourself," said Herr Emil, taking 
 up the conversation at this point. " I forgeef vat you say to 
 me if you listen and be reasonable now. It ees because I am 
 so veek zat I forgeef," he explained, with a glance at Maud, who 
 was still standing with a bewildered gaze that wandered from 
 
 290
 
 one man to another as each spoke ; and then at Baretta and at 
 Dolan one defiant, the other merely sullen. " Monsieur le pere 
 de Mademoiselle you haf not present me it can all be settled. 
 Der Ilerr Baron has not run away mit your daughter ; she came 
 to see him yesterday for the first time I svare it on my honour. 
 You mistake ; there ees no harm whatefer. The Herr Baron 
 veeshes to marry her oh, goot ! goot ! Er ist ein edler Mensch, 
 aber I say it ees impossible. II est fiance it ees another Friiu- 
 lein he ees to marry ; you vill see it all in de papers. Oh, I 
 know, I know ! But no harm has been done. Mees Maudt vill 
 see that no harm has been done ; she vill be gladt to know of 
 her old friendt's good-fortune. She knows that if he marry her 
 he vill no longer be the Herr Baron at all," said Herr Emil, with 
 a quick glance at the girl. " So ? she knows dat she remem- 
 baire vat I tells her. Eh, bien / she remembaire. But if it ees 
 money oh, ve are not reech, but ve vill find a vay " 
 
 " How dare you stand there and talk like that ?" broke in Ba- 
 retta. " Don't you pay any attention to him, Maud. I shall do 
 as I choose, and he can say what he likes." 
 
 " Av coorse," began Dolan, looking first at Baretta and then 
 at Herr Emil, " if he's afther marryin' her and makkin' a leddy 
 av her " 
 
 " You are a tarn fool, too !" cried Herr Emil, impatiently. 
 " He can make no ladty of any one but Mees Lawrence oh, I 
 shall tell all, and you can stamp your foot all you like," he added, 
 with a glance of disdain at his son. " It ees der troot he vill 
 not deny it. He is no baron he is my son, and no baron at 
 all. But I haf the papers I tell lies for him and make him 
 baron. I do that moi, son pere ! and he treats me as a dog. 
 But I do it to help him marry the reech Mees not you, Friiu- 
 lein, charming as you are. So you perceif ? Ven he marry you 
 I make him vat he was before. He lose everytings. Vy, he 
 go to prison for fraudt. Oh, jaf you perceif, nicht wahr ?" 
 
 " Prison !" cried Maud, catching at the one word in this 
 harangue which really conveyed some definite meaning to her 
 mind. " Prison ! and for me ? Oh, no, no !" said Maud, burst- 
 ing into tears, " anything but that, Frank I will not have you 
 do that. Leave me oh, leave me before I'm sorry I said it. I 
 
 291
 
 will not marry you. Do you hear me, Frank ? I won't marry 
 you as long as I live ; no, never ! Why don't you go when I 
 tell you that ? Oh !" poor Maud cried, " if you would only all 
 go and leave me to myself !" 
 
 " Sie haben recht, Frdulein you spik sense. You see, Mees 
 Maudt is no fool. Come, Francois, we go ; it ees no use we are 
 here ?" 
 
 " Go ?" retorted Baretta. " Maud, let him do his worst. I 
 shall stand by you. Yes, I tell you I will," he said, as his father 
 burst into a mocking laugh. " I am sick of you and your 
 schemes ; I am sick of trying to rise in the world with you at 
 hand to pull me down. What good has it all done me ? what 
 good can it do me ? I give it all up ; I'm going back where I 
 belong. Don't cry, Maud for Heaven's sake, how easily you 
 women cry ! there's nothing to cry about. As for your talk 
 about prison was there ever such rot ? Prison ! I guess you'd 
 go there before me. As for you, Dolan, you'd better clear out, 
 too. I haven't forgotten what I owe you, and I'll pay you out 
 yet. So will I all of them, all all ! You, and you and that 
 damned Yates, and Allen, and her the girl who laughed at 
 me and calfed me no baron at all. They'll know the truth now, 
 but I'll be even with them and with you !" he cried, with an- 
 other look of vindictive hatred at his father, " with you most of 
 any one ! Tell everything, if you like, but it will be the bitter- 
 est day's work for yourself that you ever did. Maud, you're 
 the only friend I have in the world, and I'll stand by you !" 
 
 " So !" said Herr Emil, vindictively. " You cast me off ? 
 Goot very goot ! You vill find out sometings before long. 
 And you," he added, turning to Maud, " you let him do it you 
 veesh him to be mint for you ? Goot very goot !" 
 
 " No, no !" Maud sobbed. " Haven't I told him not to think 
 of me any more ? to go away and never come back ? But, oh, 
 Frank! it was cruel to make me forget that you were so far 
 above me to make me think that everything was the same as 
 if we had never parted." 
 
 " Phwat the divvle are yez all droivin' at, I'd loike to know ?" 
 interrupted Dolan. " I can't make head or tail of these dom 
 furriners at all. I'd have ye know that she's a dacent gyurl, 
 
 292
 
 and if it ain't marryin' he manes he'll have me to dale with an' 
 in a way he won't be afther forgettin' moind that," Dolan said, 
 menacingly. He still thought that it was his duty/ to give 
 Baretta a good pummelling, upon general principles, ^but recol- 
 lections of the revolver restrained his ardour. There/was never 
 any knowing what these dagoes would do. He sMll persisted 
 in regarding Baretta as a " dago," and of course ih'is man who 
 called himself Baretta's father must be of tli^same breed. He 
 would not voluntarily have chosen a dago tor a son-in-law, but 
 he felt that in this case the choice was forced upon him. He 
 did not even attempt to understand Baretta's explanations. 
 Whether he had taken her away from Arragon Street or not, 
 here he was keeping company with her, and the honour of the 
 Dolans demanded that he should marry her. That was the 
 main point; all else was confusion. 
 
 " I will not go, Maud ; I'll stand by you !" said Baretta again. 
 " Let him," he cried, pointing to his father " let him do his 
 worst ! I defy him I defy them all ! I'll show them how I 
 can revenge myself. You're a fool, Dolau. Your daughter is 
 of age she can do whatever she likes. And she is going to 
 marry me. Pah ! do you think I'm afraid of either of you ?" 
 
 " Oh no ; you are not afraidt." Herr Emil laughed scornfully, 
 and went up to Dolan, and took him by the arm. " Come," he 
 said, " der young beeple do not vant us ; de faders are in de vay. 
 Come." He led Dolan, who was stillUoo much confused to re- 
 sist, to the door. At the threshold he\tu"rned and looked at his 
 son. " You vill be sorry for dis, you tarn fool," he said. 
 
 As the door closed behind the two men, Maud sank into a 
 chair and covered her face with her hands. " Go, go !" she 
 murmured. " I ain't worth it, Frank. Oh !" she cried, looking 
 up for a moment, " what will he do to you ?" 
 
 " Maud ! darling Maud !" Baretta knelt anxiously by her 
 side, putting one arm about her waist. " He can't do anything 
 to me. Don't cry like that I hate to see you cry. You won't 
 think now that I don't care for you, will you ?" 
 
 Indeed, he thought that he had displayed a wonderful amount 
 of courage, and that she ought to be very grateful indeed to 
 him for the sacrifice which he had made. He did not yet re- 
 
 293
 
 gret it, although perhaps there was already some anticipation in 
 his mind of the time when he would do so. It was so much, 
 so very much, that he had given up for her sake ! He could 
 hardly appreciate this aspect of the case, to be sure, while he 
 was with Maud, and conscious of the first virtuous glow of 
 thinking himself a hero. Besides, it was a great relief to be 
 rid of his father, the burden of whose society had been of late 
 almost too heavy to be borne. It was not worth while even to 
 be Baron Smolzow at such a cost. Baron Smolzow ! the young 
 man smiled grimly as he reflected that hereafter he would be 
 plain Francis Baretta again. The glory which he had risked 
 everything to gain had been brief enough. But, after all, would 
 his father dare say anything ? What could he say without com- 
 promising himself ? Pooh ! those were idle threats. Let him 
 do his worst ! 
 
 " Frank, dear, I can't help crying," Maud was saying. " I 
 know it's silly of me, but, oh ! I have been so unhappy thinking 
 that I should lose you, after all. And I know now that I have 
 no right to think of of anything in the future. I guess you'd 
 better go, Frank." 
 
 " Maud ! I wish you'd make an end of that nonsense." He 
 seized her hands, which she was still holding before her face, 
 and, drawing them away, kissed her passionately. " I won't have 
 any more talk about it," he said ; " I'll marry you to-morrow." 
 
 " No oh no ! Not so soon as that !" Maud freed her hands 
 from his and covered her face again. " You ain't sure you care for 
 me," she whispered. " I don't want you to be sorry afterwards." 
 
 " I'll marry you to-morrow," Baretta repeated, uncovering her 
 face and kissing her again. " I tell you I will. What's the use 
 of waiting ? They can't take you away from me then, and I'll 
 defy them all. Maud, you must say ' yes.' " 
 
 He pleaded with an ardour that deceived himself as well as 
 her. It was so easy in this moment of self-sacrifice to resolve 
 to do all sorts of things that one's cooler judgment might shrink 
 from sanctioning. And then, to be here at her feet, holding her 
 close to him, drinking in her fresh young charm, her palpitating 
 beauty, with eager eyes what would not one say, what not 
 promise, under such conditions? 
 
 294
 
 But Maud, with that shrinking delicacy which girls of every 
 class feel when a decision like this is forced upon them, would 
 promise nothing. " Oh no ! not to-morrow !" she said, again 
 and again. 
 
 " There's nothing to wait for. Indeed, there's every reason 
 why it should be at once. The day after to-morrow, then." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 " The next day ? the next ? See here, Maud !" cried he, rising, 
 and looking down at her with a frown ; " I didn't think you'd 
 act like a foolish child about it. Why should we wait ? Some- 
 thing might happen, and then Oh, very well !" Baretta said, 
 irritably. " All is, don't blame me." 
 
 Maud rose, too, and went up to him, and laid her hand upon 
 his arm. " Frank, dear," she said, gently, " I will say next Mon- 
 day, if that will please you. I guess you know well enough," 
 she added, smiling through her tears, "that I ain't likely to 
 blame you." 
 
 He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and when they 
 parted there was no hidden bitterness in her heart at least. 
 The young man went away, indeed, wondering just how it had 
 all happened, and why he was so very much in love with this 
 girl, who was far beneath him. Even if he were no longer to 
 be Baron Smolzow he would have to think that. She could not 
 sympathize with his intellectual aspirations ; she could not ap- 
 preciate, except vaguely, his mental superiority. And although 
 she was pretty enough, certainly, and very fond of him, she was 
 no prettier than hosts of other girls. But she was the one 
 friend he had in the world, and she would believe in him what- 
 ever happened ; he kept repeating this formula as if it might be 
 a consolation for his defeated hopes in other directions. Some- 
 how, now that he was no longer with Maud, he began to realize 
 that there would be need of consolation. Yes, it was very much 
 that he was giving up. He had been courted and flattered, and 
 had become an important personage. If only his father had 
 stayed away and left him to himself ! What, after all, did these 
 documents amount to the papers which he was by no means 
 sure were genuine? He would have got on almost as well with- 
 out them ; no one had yet turned up to dispute his claim, and in 
 
 295
 
 any case the estates were obviously as far away as ever. lie felt 
 that he had been deluded and cheated, not reflecting at the mo- 
 ment that he had wanted to delude and cheat others. And Miss 
 Lawrence Mildred ! what would she think of it all ? This was 
 the question in his mind when he let himself into his own rooms, 
 and gazed curiously about, with a sense that the possession of 
 them had already passed away from him. Mildred ! who would 
 learn that he had never been Baron Smolzow at all. He threw 
 himself into a chair, and sat there for a long time in the dim 
 light, hardly stirring except now and then to press his hands to 
 his throbbing temples. The fire in the grate burned very low, 
 and still he sat there. When he heard the hour of midnight 
 counted out by a neighbouring clock, he rose with a half-sup- 
 pressed groan and went to bed. It was some time after that 
 before his father came home, and Baretta had fallen asleep and 
 did not hear him. 
 
 296
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 HERR EMIL SETS A TRAP 
 
 "On yes ; you shall get even rait him some days," Herr Emil 
 was saying. As soon as he saw that longer argument was hope- 
 less he had taken Dolan by the arm and had led him from the 
 room. " It ees true vat he says ; you haf no right to touch her. 
 You vill get into trouble. Oh yes I know! But ven you 
 leesten to me I vill show you a vay." It was then that he had 
 hurried Dolan, dazed and helpless, down the stairs. " You vill 
 find it very comique," he said to the worthy Jacksons, who were 
 still lying in wait below with the hope of satisfying their curi- 
 osity. He half dragged, half pushed, his companion through 
 the door ; then he stood on the pavement looking back at fhe 
 house. " Oh yes ; you shall get even mit him some days," 
 Herr Emil said. 
 
 " She's a dacent gyurl I'd have ye know that," cried Dolan, 
 starting to go up the steps again. 
 
 " He vill marry her ; oh yes, he vill marry her. I am his 
 fader, and I vill see to dat. You come avay ; it ees no goot you 
 can do. And I vant to tell you some tings. You must leesten 
 to me." 
 
 " I'll take her away, an' be dommed to ye ! Lave me alone ! 
 I'll knock ye down if ye don't," Dolan said, trying to free him- 
 self from Herr Emil's grasp. 
 
 " Do not you be a' fool, too. It ees no goot you can do, I say, 
 by going back. If you vill come mit me I haf a plan to tell 
 you. Oh, it ees a great plan you shall see." 
 
 " The durrty blackguard ! I mane to punch his dom head, 
 that I do." 
 
 297
 
 " Ja, Ja ! It vill be so ven you leesten to me." Hcrr Emil 
 took Dolan by the arm again. " Vare do you go ? I veesh to 
 talk it ofer mit you." 
 
 Dolan hesitated. " If ye're afther playin' any tricks on me " 
 he began. 
 
 " No, no it ees no trick. Mon Dieu ! I am his fader, and 
 he despise me he defy me ! I vill make him sorry. Come 
 I veesh you to help me." 
 
 After all, Dolan thought, more might be gained by listening 
 to this strange man than by going back. He had come to see 
 Maud in spite of Luck's command that he should not do so, 
 and he was a little uncertain as to the outcome of it all. When, 
 after tracking Maud and Baretta to the house in Roxbury, he 
 had told Luck of his discovery, he had been made to promise 
 that he would do nothing further until he was bid. He had 
 grumbled at this, but another five dollars had quieted his scru- 
 ples for the time. The more he thought it over, however, the 
 hotter his rage against the young man became. Why should 
 he lose a chance to pay him out, just to please Luck ? There 
 was no satisfaction in a promise of vicarious vengeance. Dolan 
 brooded over his wrongs all day, and in the evening went out 
 to Roxbury again. He saw Baretta enter the house, and then, 
 after a moment of hesitation, rushed up the steps and rang the 
 bell. " I want to see my gyurl," was the only explanation which 
 he vouchsafed to Mr. Jackson, as he brushed by him and stumped 
 up the stairs, guided by the sound of Maud's voice above, crying 
 out apparently in fear. And now he hadn't succeeded in getting 
 even with anybody, but was being led away by this persuasive 
 stranger the other foreigner, who said he was Baretta's father. 
 
 " If you're decayvin' me it '11 be the worst day's work yous 
 ever did," Dolan said, turning to Herr Emil, as they walked down 
 the street. 
 
 " Deceif you ? Oh no ! I vill tell you vat I do," replied 
 Herr Emil, blandly. 
 
 "Ye'd better tell Luck." The situation was quite beyond 
 Dolan's comprehension, but it occurred to him that Luck, who 
 hated Baretta so vindictively, would know how to deal with it. 
 " Are ye a frind to the poor man ?" Dolan asked. 
 
 298
 
 " De poor man ?" repeated Herr Emil. 
 
 " Eecaze I could take ye to our society," continued Dolan. 
 
 " Your society ? Oh, it ees for poor men, nicht wahr ? I see, 
 I see." 
 
 " Do ye ? Well, we don't want no tliraitors, moind that. 
 We pitch them into the shtrate, the way we did him an' dom 
 him for the whack he gave me !" 
 
 "And Luck? Who is Monsieur Luck?" asked Herr Emil. 
 " And pardon ! who are you ?" 
 
 " I'm Peter Dolan, I am, and a bad un to handle whin I'm 
 mad. Just you remember that, Misther Furriner !" 
 
 " Ah, Dolong ! cher Dolong ! I am Emil der fader of der 
 Herr Baron Smolzow. You ask, vy I am Emil, and he der Herr 
 Baron ? You vill know some days. It ees our leetle zecret. 
 But, oh yes you vill know some days. And who is Monsieur 
 Luck ?" 
 
 " His name's Steve, not Moosyear, Mr. Emil," said Dolan. 
 " An' it's that b'y of yours he's afther fer callin' him a bloody 
 scoundrel. Him and me is frinds." 
 
 " Ah, ha so ! so ! I learn mooch from you, Dolong ; it 
 ees a goot ting ve shall haf to do. Dolong, vare is Stefe- 
 Luck ?" 
 
 " I'll take ye there if ye're a rale frind to the poor man." 
 Dolan added, suspiciously. 
 
 Thus it was that Luck, in the midst of a violent harangue to 
 the crowd gathered thickly about the tables of the familiar back 
 room in Eliot Street, saw Dolan entering with a person whom he 
 immediately recognized as the crafty-looking foreigner who was 
 associated with Baretta. He was a good deal disconcerted, but 
 after a moment of incoherence he went on with his remarks. 
 What foolish piece of business had Dolan done now ? he asked 
 himself. Why had he gone beyond his orders, which were to 
 watch and report, but do nothing, nor make his presence known 
 in any way ? Luck was furious at this interference with his 
 plans an interference that might bring them to naught. What 
 an ass he had been to trust Dolan at all ! Perhaps it was this 
 reflection that gave added energy to his denunciation of the 
 manufacturing firm he was attacking. "Fight 'em with their 
 
 299
 
 own weapons, the dirty villains !" Luck cried. " Don't you 
 know that every foreman in the shop carries a revolver ? that 
 the superintendent by pressing a button can have fifty damned 
 cops to shoot you down ? But when it comes to shooting the 
 best man is the fellow that shoots first just you remember 
 that." 
 
 " No, no, Luck !" cried Ditton, interrupting him at this point. 
 "You don't quite mean that." 
 
 " It's what I do mean, Mr. Ditton !" retorted Luck, angrily. 
 " Would they spare us ? Why should we spare them ?" 
 
 A sudden burst of applause came from the corner where Herr 
 Emil and Dolan were sitting. Luck glanced in that direction, 
 and saw that the foreigner was clapping his hands with the ut- 
 most enthusiasm a discovery which partially moderated his 
 wrath against Dolan for disobeying orders. Perhaps Dolan had 
 not been such a fool, after all. 
 
 " No, no !" said Ditton again. " Look here, my men, you 
 know that I want you to have your rights yes, and by force if 
 necessary. But that sort of thing is nothing but murder you 
 can't call it war unless you shoot them in self-defence." 
 
 At this point a strange interruption occurred. "Vill der 
 shentleman leesten to me ?" cried Herr Emil, rising from his 
 seat in spite of Dolan's efforts to pull him back. 
 
 " You ! who the devil are you ?" Luck retorted. 
 
 " I vill make it plain," said Herr Emil, blandly. He came 
 down between the tables towards the head of the room. " I 
 beg your pardon," he said, bowing first to Luck and then to 
 Ditton. " It ees a place for free spiking nicht wakr I" 
 
 " Who are you ?" repeated Luck. " What do you mean by 
 interfering ?" 
 
 " Pardon ! you do not veesh me to spik ? I come from 
 Oesterreich vat you call Austria and I haf seen many things. 
 It ees the landt vare der beeple are crushed. But pardon. I 
 spik not." 
 
 " We shall be glad to hear you speak, sir, when our friend 
 Luck has finished," said Ditton, courteously. " I am sure you 
 will have something interesting to tell us." 
 
 "Ja-jjaf sehr interresant /" murmured Herr Emil. " Par- 
 
 300
 
 don !" And he sat down and looked up at Luck with ^ air of 
 expectation. 
 
 " I've had so many interruptions that I guess I mi bi .i as well 
 stop now," observed Luck, with an air of disgust. 
 
 " Go on, go on," urged Ditton. " I didn't mean to put you 
 out." 
 
 " Well, you did, whether you meant it or not," was the un- 
 gracious retort. " What's this foreigner got to say, anyway ?" 
 Luck added, suspiciously. He could not at all understand why 
 Dolan had brought him here, or what his coming forward to 
 speak meant. If anything happened in consequence, he would 
 teach Dolan a lesson, that was all. The drunken fool ! who 
 couldn't keep anything to himself, not even when he was well 
 paid for it. " He'll never get another five dollars out of me," 
 Luck said to himself. But here was the foreigner at his elbow, 
 bowing and apologizing. " No, I've got nothing more to say," 
 he told Hcrr Emil, curtly. " You and Ditton know a heap more 
 than I do, and I'll give up to you." He laughed in a disagree- 
 able way, and turned his back upon the protesting visitor. 
 
 "Dummkopff" muttered Herr Emil, with a sudden malicious 
 glance. Then he turned to the expectant audience at the tables 
 with an extremely confidential smile. " I tell you sometings 
 you vill be gladt to hear," he said. " It ees a badt place vare 
 I come from ven you hear how badt you vill tink keeling too 
 goot for dem." With this preface Herr Emil launched forth 
 into a vivid description of the evils which poverty had to en- 
 dure under the crushing dominion of the Hapsburgs the ty- 
 rants, he told his hearers, against whom the good Kossuth had 
 fought in vain. Even Luck began to look a little less surly. 
 This was the right kind of talk, he told himself ; and he kept 
 wondering more and more who this foreigner was, and why 
 Dolan had brought him here. And yet Luck's attitude was 
 one of suspicion. Any man who was in with Baretta ought to 
 be watched pretty closely. That was a point which had not oc- 
 curred to him before, but the more lie reflected upon it the 
 more reasonable it seemed. Yes, that was it ; there was some 
 scheme on foot, and this crafty old fox was working in Baretta's 
 interest. What a fool Dolan was ! and what a fool he himself 
 
 301
 
 had been to trust Dolan ! He scarcely heard Herr Emil's de- 
 nunciations of Austrian tyranny for thinking of this. 
 
 " Eh, bien /" Herr Emil exclaimed at last, " it ees a leetle his- 
 tory I vas veeshing to tell you, my frendts a history zat 
 makes my heart bleedt. It vas a young man oh, a fine young 
 man ! who took up der pattle of der poor against der reech. 
 He come to meetings he say goot vorts how he die for his 
 brethren in der great fight for Freiheit. Mon Dieu f how he 
 talk ! Some of you know such a young man, eh ?" 
 
 Luck caught this last question, and as the speaker paused 
 called out, " Well, I guess there's one young man I know and 
 what he's up to." 
 
 " So?" asked Herr Emil, in no wise disconcerted. " Ve come 
 to dat, Monsieur Stefe-Luck, ve come to dat." 
 
 "Who the devil are you?" cried Luck, jumping up, "and 
 what do you call me that for?" 
 
 " Oh, you vill see who I am," said Herr Emil. By this time 
 everybody in the room, suspecting that something unusual was 
 to come, was keenly interested. The hum of conversation had 
 entirely died away. Men even forgot to drain their glasses as 
 they leaned forward with a hand behind one ear, so as not to 
 lose a syllable. Ditton, who had not paid any especial heed to 
 the earlier part of the harangue, was now gazing steadily at the 
 speaker, his eyes sparkling under his knitted black brows. As 
 for Dolan, who had indirectly been the cause of Herr Emil's 
 appearance, he sat tilted back against the wall in open- 
 mouthed amazement. "The cheek of the dommed furriner!" 
 he muttered once or twice. Wouldn't Luck give it to him if 
 he knew! 
 
 "You vill see who I am," repeated Herr Emil, looking around 
 upon his audience with a pleased smile. " Monsieur Stefe-Luck 
 will be gladt vy I came. Eh, bien ! I ask, some of you know 
 such a young man. He tell you how great a frendt of yours he 
 vas ; den he leaf you for der reech, der svells. Eh ? eh ? And 
 he knock down der good fader of Mees Maudt. Oh, yes you 
 know der Herr Baron Smolzow you know Herr Baretta. And 
 he vas a traitor a tarn traitor ; I tell you dat !" 
 
 Luck sprang to his feet again with an oath. " You're right 
 
 302
 
 there !" he cried, " and him to call me a scoundrel ! What is it 
 you know of Baretta ? Why do you call him a traitor ? He's 
 all that fast enough, damn him ! but what do you know about 
 it ? and why do you come here to tell us ? Oh, you needn't 
 play any of your foreign tricks on me. I know you you're his 
 pal ; you're up to some plant, and you've come here to spy upon 
 us. Men," cried Luck, turning to the now excited crowd, " why 
 don't you chuck the dirty foreigner out ?" 
 
 " I guess we had about enough of that sort of talk from you, 
 Luck, once before," said Ditton, coolly, but with an air of au- 
 thority which no one ventured to dispute this time. On that 
 other occasion, when they had followed Luck's lead, instead of 
 Ditton's, the result had not been altogether satisfactory, the 
 disturbance having very nearly cost them this extremely com- 
 fortable meeting place. Consequently there was laughter and 
 applause when Ditton spoke, and several cries of " That's so !" 
 and "You bet!" 
 
 But Herr Emil, who still had his revolver in his pocket, had 
 not been greatly alarmed by Luck's threat. " Monsieur Stefe- 
 Luck," he said, smiling, " you mistake. I am no friend to that 
 tarn Baretta. I come here " and his smile became vindictively 
 malicious as he spoke " to tell you all vat tings he do. He 
 say he vas Baron Smolzow he leaf you and go into der fine 
 houses, vare he lif like a brince, and trink der wein and eat of 
 goot tings. He haf a story in de papers oh, you see it! 
 Baron Smolzow ! he is no baron he is a fraudt, a sheat, a low 
 scamp, who tries to steal der fine landts and goots of a great 
 house ! He a Smolzow ! Pah ! it makes me seeck ! Vy don't 
 you show him up ? Vy not tell de papers about it ? Everytings 
 is goot for de papers in America." 
 
 " Yes, show him up put it in the papers !" cried several 
 men. But in truth the most of Herr Emil's listeners had a very 
 vague idea of the nature of the charge against Baretta. They 
 had expected some great sensation, and they now felt that they 
 had been deluded. They cared very little for Baretta's defec- 
 tion, anyway. They understood that he had got some money 
 somehow and called himself a baron. But what concern was 
 that of theirs ? Most of them had never liked him, and so had 
 
 303
 
 felt that they were well rid of him. " Is that all it is ?" said one 
 to another. 
 
 Herr Erail's story, however, had rather more interest for Dit- 
 ton and for Luck, and before the evening was over he had 
 given them a number of interesting details, and had told the 
 circumstances of the rise of Baron Smolzow more coherently. 
 " I am sadly disappointed in that young man," was Ditton's 
 comment ; and that was all which he would say. But Luck, 
 when the meeting broke up, insisted that Herr Emil and 
 Mr. Dolan should come with him to a quiet little place that he 
 knew of, where they could sit and drink as late as they pleased. 
 " I guess we'll want to talk matters over," Luck said ; " and I 
 hope you'll take no offence, Mr. Emil, at anything I said before 
 I knew who you were." 
 
 " Eh, bienf Monsieur Stefe-Luck," cried Herr Emil, gayly. 
 " Ve are all frendts now, nicht loahr?" 
 
 This friendship was pledged so deeply that Herr Emil came 
 home with an unsteady step, but he had learned to take such 
 incidents philosophically, and knew how to get to bed almost as 
 softly as if he were sober. Thus his son slept on undisturbed, 
 although the fond father went to the bedroom door once or 
 twice and amused himself by shaking his fist at the unconscious 
 young man. " The tarn ungrateful fool !" he muttered. 
 
 It was not until nearly noon of the next day that Herr Emil 
 had an opportunity to speak to the Baron, although there was 
 one most important matter he wished to impart. The Baron 
 had dressed and gone out when his confidential adviser arose, a 
 little after nine, and thoughtfully munched his toast and drank 
 his coffee ; he had a way of taking his simple breakfast, sent 
 up from the lower regions when he rang for it, quite without 
 ceremony, in the easy costume of a long bath-robe. " Eh, bien /" 
 said Herr Emil, thoughtfully. " There vill be der teffel to pay." 
 The idea evidently amused him, for he grinned several times 
 and said once more, " Oh yes der teffel vill be to pay." 
 
 When he had finished his breakfast he proceeded to drag out 
 from the bedroom a good-sized box, covered with leather and 
 stamped with the name Smolzow. This he carefully erased with 
 the aid of a sharp penknife ; then he began to pack into the 
 
 304
 
 box various articles of clothing, and certain small objects of value 
 which he selected from time to time after meditative glances 
 around the room. The Baron had carelessly left his very hand- 
 some gold watch lying upon his desk, and when Herr Emil saw 
 this he dropped it into his pocket, murmuring, " He ees a care- 
 less young man !" with a smile that was blandly benevolent. 
 He unlocked the desk with a key from his own ring, and after 
 hastily rummaging through the contents, found a package of 
 bank-notes and some papers, which he placed in an inner pocket. 
 Then he rang the bell and requested the small boy who answer- 
 ed it to get an expressman at once. Herr Emil contemplated 
 the leather box with a good deal of satisfaction after he had 
 locked it, and strapped it tightly, and while he was waiting for 
 the expressman to arrive. " Der teffel vill be to pay," he said 
 once more, shaking his head and smiling. 
 
 It was while the box was being carried down the stairs that 
 Baretta came in. " Where are you going now ?" he asked his 
 father, curtly. 
 
 "Going? Nevare you mind vare I am going. You vill not 
 see me again." 
 
 " What !" Baretta cried, a little agitated in spite of himself 
 at this unexpected declaration. "You are going, and not com- 
 ing back ?" 
 
 " Vy should I come back ? You defy me you cast me off ; 
 you say I can go to the teffel for vat you care. You make a 
 tarn fool of yourself about Maudt. Pah ! I am seeck and tired 
 of it. I go forevare." Then Herr Emil pointed dramatically 
 towards the open door, through which his box was at that mo- 
 ment disappearing. " I go oh yes ; but you vill hear from 
 me." He burst into a laugh, which, somehow, seemed to 
 mock the young man who stood gazing at him. "You vill hear 
 from me, Frangois." He touched his fingers to his lips, and 
 gayly blew a kiss. "Oh, it ees a grief to both of us, nicht 
 wahr? Adieu, Francois." He laughed again, and Baretta 
 heard him humming a tune as he went down the stairs and out 
 into the street. 
 
 u 305
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 A FRUITLESS MISSION 
 
 Two days after this, Yates, coming out of the Pilgrim Club, 
 met one of the young men employed upon the Mail with whom 
 he had a slight acquaintance. He had been thinking rather 
 gloomily of his promise to Daisy Tredwell. What was there 
 that he could do ? If Mildred really cared for Baretta, why 
 should any one interfere ? After all, there was nothing but sus- 
 picion against him, and suspicion was a dangerous guide in such 
 a case. To say that he was not a gentleman was an argument 
 which one would be rather ashamed to urge. In these days of 
 social equality that, at any rate, was what we called them it 
 was really no argument at all. And yet if it were a question of 
 saving Mildred from future unhappiness, what would he not do ? 
 
 "I'm working up something that ought to interest you," said 
 young Parker. " Walk along over the hill with me, and I'll tell 
 you all about it." 
 
 " Some new sensation, I dare say," observed Philip, languidly, 
 obeying this injunction, nevertheless. " You fellows are always 
 knocking down some one's house of cards." 
 
 " Ah, but it's a whole castle this time. See here, Mr. Yatcs, 
 if I give you a hint, you must keep it quite to yourself. I want 
 to scoop the town on this story." 
 
 " Oh, well, why trust me at all ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you'll see why when I tell you whose castle it is. 
 Have you heard," young Parker asked, looking at him suddenly, 
 " of the ancestral estates at Bataszek ?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" Philip asked. 
 
 " Oh !" said Parker, with a laugh. " I see you have heard of 
 
 306
 
 them. Well, I should say the prospect was that they would go 
 to the next of kin. Baron Smolzow is likely to find it extreme- 
 ly inconvenient to push his claim. It's rather rough on him, 
 for I hear that he's been cutting a pretty wide swath of late." 
 
 " Baron Smolzow ? Then he has no right to the title at all?" 
 
 " That's about what it means. Oh, it's quite a story. They'll 
 read the Mail on the Back Bay the morning it comes out. Why, 
 Mr. Yates, the man is a swindler. That precious secretary of his 
 is his real father he's no more a baron than I am. There un- 
 doubtedly was a Paul Baretta who came to this country, and 
 that fellow Emil fell in with him somehow and got his papers. 
 But the Baron, as he calls himself, is Emil's own son." 
 
 To say that Philip was astounded by this piece of news would 
 be to put it mildly. He had suspected Baretta all along, and 
 yet the truth was a shock to him. " Are you sure of this ?" he 
 asked, at last. " It would be an outrageous thing to print such 
 a story unless you were sure." 
 
 " Sure ? Oh, don't you worry about that. Emil himself has 
 given the business away. I can't see why he did it, but that's 
 of small consequence. The worst of it is that Emil can't be 
 found. But there's no doubt as to his confession. I have sev- 
 eral witnesses who can swear to that." -, 
 
 " Who are they ? How did you know of it ?" 
 
 " Well, really, Mr. Yates, you'll have to excuse me. I couldn't 
 tell you that ; I couldn't, indeed. I got a clew two days ago 
 from a fellow named Luck one of those agitators that I under- 
 stand Baretta used to be in with and I've been following it up 
 ever since in various ways. Of course," Parker added, in a rather 
 embarrassed fashion, " there's a good deal of back - stairs gos- 
 sip about it, but it doesn't do for us newspaper men to be too 
 particular. But, I say," he went on, " if you could spare me 
 half an hour, and let me read you my notes " 
 
 "Oh, I won't have anything to do with it," said Philip, 
 promptly. 
 
 " But he was a friend of yours at least you knew him," Par- 
 ker said. " And the thing is bound to make such a sensation, 
 don't you know, that I would like to be sure my story is as 
 nearly correct as possible. You see, they've been lionizing him 
 
 307
 
 a good deal. And then that paragraph in the Weekly Packet 
 this morning about his engagement to Sibley Lawrence's daugh- 
 ter" 
 
 " What !" cried Philip, angrily. " How dare you mention 
 her name in such a connection ?" 
 
 " See here, Mr. Yates," said Parker, looking aggrieved, " you're 
 rather unjust. Pm merely telling you what I saw in the Packet. 
 I don't say it's true." 
 
 " True ? No, of course it isn't true. Don't put that in your 
 story." 
 
 " Well, of course, if it's any favour to you " Parker began, 
 reluctantly. 
 
 True ? Philip was saying to himself. How could it, oh, how 
 could it be true ? Yet some wretched scribbler had published 
 the idle tale, and all the city would be talking about it. Such 
 a thing would have been bad enough in any case, but to have it 
 happen now, to have her name mixed up with this vulgar scan- 
 dal that was worst of all. " Why not suppress the whole 
 story?" said Philip. "Come to my rooms they're near by, in 
 Livingstone Place and talk the matter over." 
 
 " Suppress the whole story !" exclaimed the reporter, rather 
 irritably. " I dare say that seems to you to be a very small 
 thing ; but I have my living to make, and it's worth everything 
 to me to get a scoop like this. Of course," he added, diplomat- 
 ically, reflecting that, after all, Yates might have something of in- 
 terest to say, or might at least make some unconscious confes- 
 sions which would be of use to him, " I shall be very glad to 
 spare a few minutes, if you wish." 
 
 But no amount of talking it over could sway Parker from 
 his determination to give the readers of the Mail this choice 
 morsel of gossip. The most that he would do was to promise 
 Yates to let him know just when the story would be published. 
 " I must look out that none of the other fellows get ahead of 
 me," Parker explained, " and I may have to spring it pretty sud- 
 denly, but I will give you what notice I can. And I won't say 
 anything about Miss Lawrence although I have an interview 
 here with the Lawrences' coachman, and with the grocer's boy 
 who's keeping company with one of the house -maids. You 
 
 308
 
 needn't look as if you'd like to murder me ; it's what we fellows 
 have to do if we want to keep up with the procession." 
 
 " In that case," said Philip, repressing as well as he could the 
 indignation which he felt, " I think I'd stay behind." 
 
 Young Parker slipped his note-book into his pocket as he 
 rose, and laughed pleasantly. "Don't be too hard on us, Mr. 
 Yates," he said. " A man has a natural prejudice in favour of 
 making a living, after all. If we all could do as we please, no 
 doubt we'd change a good many things." 
 
 Philip thought afterwards that possibly an appeal to the edi- 
 tor himself might be more successful, and he was tempted to 
 see Binney at once. Then he reflected that perhaps he had no 
 right to make any movement in that direction until Parker gave 
 him the word. But meanwhile something must be done. How 
 could he stand by and see this misfortune impending and do 
 nothing? What gave him the most anguish was the thought 
 that the paragraph of which Parker had spoken might be true. 
 Perhaps there might be some entanglement he could not use 
 the word love without a curious sense of profanation and Mil- 
 dred felt bound in honour, if not in inclination, to keep a prom- 
 ise the full significance of which she had not understood. Such 
 a theory might be absurd, but nothing could be so absurd as to 
 suppose that she really cared for the fellow. The preference 
 of the loved one for another is always inexplicable, even to the 
 least vain of men. 
 
 No doubt it was folly to go to Baretta himself, but this it was 
 which Philip at last determined to do. Surely if the story were 
 false it was only fair to give the victim of it some warning. 
 There would be no treachery to Parker in that. But if it were 
 true ? He hardly dared ask what he should do in that case, so 
 menacing were the possibilities that loomed up in his imagina- 
 tion. The only thing that was clear in his mind was the urgent 
 need of saving Mildred from humiliation. He had no more 
 hope of regaining her love, and if he had he would have been 
 the last man in the world to go this way about it. But at least 
 he would save her from an unworthy lover if he could. He 
 had little confidence that Baretta would be able to make an 
 effective denial. Upon what ground, indeed, could he ask for 
 
 309
 
 any explanation at all ? And yet he made up his mind to go to 
 Baretta. There was nothing else left for him to do. He waited 
 until evening, and then went to the rooms in Huntington Av- 
 enue. 
 
 " Oh, Yates, is it you ?" Baretta said, nonchalantly, rising to 
 receive his visitor. " I began to think that you intended to cut 
 me." 
 
 " I hope it won't come to that," said Philip, gravely. 
 
 " Take off your coat, Yates. I don't smoke, so I can't offer 
 you a cigar; but if you have one of your own, pray make your- 
 self quite at home. You'll find this a comfortable chair. How 
 do you like my quarters, eh ?" Baretta asked, with an air of con- 
 descension that ignored the time when he had lived in a single 
 shabby room in Arragon Street. Yates had never visited him 
 there, but he had known him in his days of poverty, and it was 
 desirable to impress him with a consciousness of the complete- 
 ness of the change. "I'm a little put out this evening," con- 
 tinued Baretta, " because my man left me very suddenly day 
 before yesterday, and I haven't yet found anybody to take his 
 place. Those fellows are an ungrateful lot. I had done every- 
 thing for him, and so had my father, while he was alive. You're 
 looking rather pale, ain't you ? I hope nothing's the matter." 
 
 " Oh no ; I am perfectly well. See here, Baretta " Philip 
 burst forth. Then the embarrassment of the situation over- 
 whelmed him and he stopped short and turned away. 
 
 " I prefer to be called by by my proper title," said Baretta, 
 rather curtly. " Of course in an old acquaintance the other 
 name is quite pardonable." He was wondering what in the 
 world Yates had to say to him, and why he was so reluctant to 
 say it. He did not for a moment suspect the real cause of his 
 visit. He had not thought of his father's parting words as a 
 threat, and the feeling of relief at being rid of an extremely an- 
 noying companion had made him positively light-hearted. The 
 one cloud in his sky was his promise to marry Maud. He had 
 no intention of breaking it, but still it was hard to give up his 
 aspirations to the hand of Miss Lawrence. And it would not 
 be so easy as he thought, after having tasted the sweets of so- 
 cial adulation, to go back to the old life of inconspicuous labour 
 
 310
 
 for the good of mankind. What he was anxious to do was to 
 devise some way of marrying Maud and still retaining his posi- 
 tion as Baron Smolzow. It could not be, he argued, that all 
 those papers which he had in his possession were worthless. 
 His father had said that, trying to frighten him. But he was 
 no such fool. " Oh yes, indeed," he said to Yates, " it seems 
 very queer to be called anything but Baron Smolzow." 
 
 " This is no time for titles or anything else," Philip retorted, 
 brusquely. " I I beg your pardon," he went on, " but there's 
 no use beating about the bush. A very queer story about you 
 came to my knowledge to-day, and I'm going to ask you 
 frankly whether it's true. Perhaps I need not add that I ex- 
 pect you to answer me frankly." 
 
 Baretta turned very pale. A queer story ! What could it be 
 but the one story which he had hoped would never be known ? 
 The moment of danger had taken him unawares, in spite of 
 his knowledge that his father had proclaimed the truth before 
 Maud and Dolan. But what had that amounted to ? Maud 
 would never betray him, and Dolan was too stupid to understand 
 the meaning of the declaration. Now for the first time the 
 possible significance of his father's departure occurred to him. 
 " I guess I don't exactly understand you," he said at last. 
 
 " I don't want to offend you, but when I tell you what the 
 story is you will see that it is a kindness to give you the chance 
 to deny it. I cannot tell you how it reached me. But it is 
 likely to appear in the newspapers at any moment ; and, false 
 or true, you ought to know of it." 
 
 " Yes ? Well, if you would tell me what the story is," said 
 Baretta, rather irritably, " perhaps I might be able to judge. I 
 don't say I'll answer any impertinent question you may feel in- 
 clined to ask," he added. " I don't recognize your right to ask 
 any questions at all understand that." 
 
 " You are taking a very unfortunate tone," Yates said. " I 
 make no demands I simply tell you that it is for your interest 
 to answer one question. What right have you to the title of 
 Baron Smolzow ?" 
 
 " What right ? Every right. But I won't talk about it to 
 you !" Baretta cried. He knew now well enough what story 
 
 311
 
 it was that Yates had heard, but he would not betray the terror 
 which he felt. 
 
 " Oh, very well that is for you to decide. I didn't come in 
 any hostile spirit. I should be glad to know that you could de- 
 fend yourself against the charges that are to be brought against 
 you." 
 
 " Charges ? Whose charges ? Let them try to prove that I 
 am no baron. I have the papers do you hear me ? I have the 
 papers. But what is the use of talking to you about it ? You 
 know perfectly well that this is some trick got up, I suppose, 
 by that man of mine whom I discharged for his cursed imperti- 
 nence. And don't you think that I don't know why you came 
 to me with this silly bugbear !" Baretta exclaimed, angrily. " Oh, 
 I'm not quite such a fool as that. You've always hated me 
 don't deny it ! ever since 1 began to get on in the world. You 
 wanted me to be a poor devil that you could patronize. Why, 
 damn you, do you suppose I was such a fool as not to see that ? 
 You to patronize me a fellow with nothing but your money 
 and your notion that you were a little better than anybody else ! 
 Oh yes ! I laughed at you even while I was poor and unknown. 
 And I got the better of you I can go to houses where they 
 would show you the door. Oh, you know that, do you ? To 
 Miss Lawrence's house, who wouldn't look at you Miss Law- 
 rence " 
 
 " You cad ! You cur !" To hear Baretta bring Mildred's 
 name into the dispute in this way filled Philip with a sudden 
 fury. " By Heaven " 
 
 "Cur!" shrieked Baretta. He picked up a sharp steel paper- 
 knife, which happened to be the object nearest to his hand, and 
 hurled it at Philip's head. It missed the mark, however, and, 
 whizzing by, struck a picture on the wall, shattering the glass 
 into fragments. Before he could repeat the attack Philip had 
 rushed forward and seized him by the arms, pinioning him se- 
 curely. 
 
 " Let me alone ! let me alone !" Baretta plunged wildly, but 
 he was no match in strength for Yates. Finally he yielded and 
 made no further effort to escape. " What are you going to do 
 with me ?" he asked, in a husky voice. 
 
 312
 
 ' Well," said Philip, " I think you ought to be dropped out 
 of the window." His easy victory had disposed him to be gen- 
 erous, and he was already regretting that he had lost his temper, 
 great though the provocation had been. " But I hope it won't 
 quite come to murder." Then he released Baretta, and stepping 
 back, picked up his hat. 
 
 " Murder !" Baretta cried, glaring at him. " Oh, well, murder 
 would serve some people just about right. See here," he cried, 
 as Philip moved towards the door, " what did you call me cur 
 for ? If it hadn't been for that I wouldn't have lost my tem- 
 per so." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, I'm afraid that I can hardly explain or 
 apologize. I see very clearly, however, that there is no use in 
 prolonging this interview. I came to you to do you a good 
 turn, although you may not think so. Now, let the whole thing 
 come out ; I wash my hands of all interference." 
 
 " But, see here ! What is the whole thing ? You haven't 
 told me yet. I think you are treating me very unfairly to come 
 here with tales about my being no baron at all, and then give me 
 no chance to defend myself. If you hope to slander me to 
 others " 
 
 " I have said nothing to any one I shall say nothing only 
 to one person." 
 
 " And that is who ?" 
 
 " Pardon me, but I decline to answer. If you had told me 
 that this story of that fellow Emil's I believe you call him that 
 was false, and given me some reason to think so, no one would 
 have been more willing than I to help you. I admit that I have 
 never believed you to be Baron Smolzow or anything else, but 
 at least I have kept my mouth shut about it. Now I shall take 
 such measures to to protect others as I think best. I tell you 
 once more that this is a serious matter, and that it will be made 
 public I can't tell when ; perhaps to-morrow, for all I know 
 unless you can in some way fully establish your claim and re- 
 fute the assertions of the man who says he is your father. I 
 don't doubt but that you will have the chance, for the editor of 
 the paper which has the facts is an honourable man. And that," 
 said Philip, with his hand on the knob, ''is all I have to say to you!" 
 
 313
 
 What folly it had been to go to Baretta at all! This was 
 what Philip was thinking as he came away. He no longer had 
 any doubt of the truth of the revelations which Parker was 
 "working up" for the Mail : perhaps it would be more accurate 
 to say that he had never had any doubt at all. He reproached 
 himself with his error in letting Baretta see that. He might 
 have accomplished his mission if he had been politic. What a 
 fool a man was to lose his temper ! Philip felt somehow as if 
 he had put himself on Baretta's level by that sudden outburst 
 of wrath. There was no excuse, after all, for calling even this 
 low-born adventurer a cad and a cur. But the impudence with 
 which he had vaunted his intimacy with the Lawrences had 
 been simply maddening. " I really believe the fellow is more 
 than half crazy," Philip said to himself. Certainly there had 
 been murder in his heart when he hurled the knife at Philip's 
 head. Philip was no coward, but nevertheless he could not re- 
 press a shudder when he recalled Baretta's wild white face and 
 glaring dilated eyes. It reminded him of the beast of prey 
 about to spring upon his victim. Then he tried to laugh this 
 impression away. 
 
 But the task which he had undertaken was by no means a 
 light one. He had failed to get Baretta to admit anything, to 
 promise to abandon his pretensions and leave the city. This 
 was what he had hoped to do when he made his appeal to him. 
 Surely that would have been the best thing for everybody. 
 Now, however, there was no hope of that. He must save Mil- 
 dred, if he was to save her, in some other way. But what other 
 way was there ? He could think of only one, and that was to 
 go to Daisy Tredwell with the story. Under ordinary circum- 
 stances he would have shrunk from doing this. It seemed to 
 him to be a mean act, unworthy of a gentleman. And yet 
 Baretta's own conduct had left him no alternative. He could 
 not stand by and see Mildred involved in the impending catas- 
 trophe simply because he was reluctant to tell the truth about 
 a swindler and adventurer. He would not recognize the fact 
 that his feeling of rivalry with Baretta a feeling which he had 
 been forced in the past to admit, hateful as the notion was 
 had anything to do with this reluctance. It was altogether ab- 
 
 314
 
 surd to think about rivalry at all. Nothing could be more clear 
 than that he had given up all hopes of a reconciliation with the 
 woman whom he loved. If he interfered now it was because he 
 still wished to save her from unhappiness, however unhappy he 
 himself might be. She had not been generous to him, but he 
 would be generous to her. After all, perhaps she had never 
 really loved him. He was a fool to waste the best years of his 
 life in regretting what was irremediable. He would forget an 
 episode that was best forgotten. It was not the first time that 
 he had formed this resolution only to break it. But now he 
 had quite made up his mind. Perhaps what he really needed 
 was a change of scene. When once he had rescued Mildred 
 from the dangers that threatened he would go away, and then 
 all that happened would be like some bad dream that a new 
 dawn dispels. He was sure that Daisy, who had tried to help 
 him, would say that this was wise. Daisy had insisted that 
 Mildred still cared for him ; but that was absurd ; how could 
 she know ? Nevertheless, he was very grateful. There was one 
 person in the world, at least, who understood him, who sym- 
 pathized with him. He had never thought of such a thing as 
 falling in love with her, but now he vaguely wondered if in that 
 case he might not have been happier. It was an idle fancy, of 
 course ; why should he be thinking of falling in love at all ? 
 He was a man past the first flush of youth, and why should he 
 be mooning like a school-boy over any girl ? To marry Daisy 
 Tredwell ! the idea was quite too absurd. He was in no mood 
 to marry anybody. He had dreamed his dream, and it was over, 
 and now let him face life as it was, untinged by the false glow 
 of sentiment. But he must save Mildred ; so much, at least, 
 should be done for the sake of an unreal and delusive past. And 
 Daisy, who was so kind and true, whose volatile nature could 
 not conceal a warm and tender heart, would help him. Had 
 she not already made a piteous appeal to him to do his utmost 
 for Mildred's sake ? Yes it was to Daisy that, he must go now 
 for counsel. 
 
 315
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 MAUD BECOMES ALARMED 
 
 " WHAT has happened ? Oh, Frank, tell me what it is !" Maud 
 cried. She hurried to meet him with a vague foreboding of 
 evil ; his face was pale and haggard, and there was a feverish 
 brightness in his eyes. " Oh, Frank, I hope you ain't going to 
 be sick ! You don't know how dreadful you look." 
 
 " It's foolish for you to leave this place. Can't you get along 
 without having rows ?" asked Baretta, brusquely. " There's noth- 
 ing the matter with me it's only your imagination. That wom- 
 an down-stairs is insolent, but still you might get along with 
 her." 
 
 " I am leaving to-morrow, Frank. You wouldn't want me to 
 stay, would you, after she had talked to me as she did? The 
 idea of her saying I wasn't respectable ! She's no lady, and I 
 told her that myself. But, Frank, you must be ill. You're as 
 white as a sheet and for Heaven's sake, don't sit there rolling 
 your eyes at me like that ! You make me nervous." 
 
 " Nonsense !" retorted Baretta, rising and walking up and 
 down the little room, like a wild animal pacing its narrow cage. 
 " I have a lot to think of, that's all. Oh yes, a lot to think of. 
 But you'd better have stayed here at least, for a time. There's 
 never any telling what may happen." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," Maud said. His manner 
 alarmed her. She was sure that he must be ill in spite of his 
 denials; or perhaps some fit of sickness was coming on she 
 had heard that people talked and acted strangely in such cases. 
 
 " You don't know !" cried the young man, with a sneer, stop- 
 ping and facing her. " Well, there's a good deal you don't 
 
 316
 
 know that nobody knows. And they never will know!" 
 Baretta exclaimed. " Let him do his worst ? I tell you, Maud, 
 I defy him to do his worst. What do I care now ? But, Maud," 
 he went on, " don't you join the gang that's working against 
 me. By Heaven, if you did, I believe I'd kill you !" 
 
 " Frank ! Frank ! do you know what you're saying ? Oh, 
 Frank, you must be sick ! I guess I'd better get a doctor for 
 you." 
 
 " Doctor be damned ! See here, Maud, if you can't talk sen- 
 sibly to me, I might as well go. I thought you'd help me 
 against them. But there it is you're on their side, too. You're 
 ready to go back on me like the rest of them. You'll believe 
 anything a worthless scamp that I turned out of doors says, 
 but you won't believe me. Good God !" he cried, suddenly, 
 throwing himself heavily into a chair, and bursting into tears, 
 " how I've been deceived in you, Maud !" 
 
 Oh, what should she do ? poor Maud asked herself. He was 
 out of his head, he was going to be dangerously ill, and what 
 should she do ? She dared not leave him alone, and there was 
 nobody whom she could call upon for help. And even if she 
 had been on friendly terms with Mrs. Jackson, Baretta would 
 undoubtedly have resented the intrusion of a stranger. All 
 that was left to her was to try in some way to quiet him. " I 
 guess you'll be more comfortable if you lay down on the bed, 
 Frank," she said, soothingly. " I ain't deceiving you, dear, and 
 I know you don't mean that. You've been working too hard, 
 or sitting up late or something." 
 
 " I'm as well as you are," Baretta said, looking up angrily. 
 
 " Well, there's a difference between being tired and being 
 sick, and I guess you're only tired. You lay down, anyway." 
 
 Baretta staggered to his feet and drew one hand slowly across 
 his forehead. " It aches like the very devil," he said. " What 
 was it I was talking about, anyway ? It's good of you, Maud 
 I love you more than ever. You'd think I loved you if you 
 knew what had happened and all because of that. Do you 
 know, Maud," he went on with a strange laugh, " I almost hit 
 him with that paper-knife. It was a close call for him. No, I 
 won't lie down let me alone ! I tell you I won't ! You're 
 
 317
 
 mighty good to me, though, Maud; I'll do anything for 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, dear, but just lay down a minute to rest your head." 
 " Well, you give me a kiss and I will. Ah !" sighed Baretta 
 as he fell back on the pillow. " You're the only friend I have 
 in the world, Maud ; and I'm going to marry you don't you 
 forget that. But I'll have my revenge on her along with the 
 rest of them." 
 
 " Yes, dear." Maud turned away to hide the tears that were 
 running down her face, the while she stroked his forehead 
 gently, in the hope of quieting him. This was the worst blow 
 of all. It must be something serious when he was out of his 
 head. He had always talked a good deal about his enemies ; 
 but this was mere incoherence about throwing knives and re- 
 venge upon " her." Why should he wish to be revenged upon 
 Miss Lawrence, of all people, whom he had always admired so 
 much, and of whom even yet Maud could not help feeling bit- 
 terly jealous ? Oh, it must be that he did not know at all what 
 he was saying ! Maud kept on stroking his forehead, while he 
 muttered vague imprecations, so indistinctly that she could not 
 understand what he said. And then, after one or two convulsive 
 tremours, he was silent, lying staring at the ceiling, apparently 
 oblivious of her presence. She was very much frightened ; he 
 had such a ghastly look ; his upturned face was like the face 
 of one dead. But she would not leave him while her presence 
 seemed to soothe him ; she felt that it was wiser to stay than to 
 hurry away after a doctor. He reached out after a time and 
 took her free hand in his ; and thus presently he fell asleep. 
 
 Maud arose, withdrawing her hand gently, so as not to wake 
 him, and tiptoed to the door. A clock in the dim silence be- 
 low suddenly struck the hour. Maud heard it with a start. 
 Ten o'clock ! and what could she do as late as this ? She could 
 not rouse him and send him away ; she could not stay alone 
 watching him. She peered over the rail of the landing and 
 saw that an oil -lamp was still burning in the entry below. 
 Then she crept down-stairs and knocked at the door of the un- 
 tidy room which Mrs. Jackson called her parlour. 
 
 " Hullo !" Mr. Jackson said, coming to the door in his shirt- 
 
 318
 
 sleeves. " What's the row ? You look as if you'd seen a 
 ghost." He took her hand in his and squeezed it with the 
 amiable intention of reassuring her. 
 
 " I want to see Mrs. Jackson," said Maud, snatching her hand 
 away. 
 
 " Well, you can't," came the voice of that worthy woman from 
 within. " I'm jest beat out, and ready to go to bed, and nothin' 
 on but a wrapper." 
 
 " I tell you I must speak to you !" cried Maud, desperately. 
 Then she burst into tears. " Oh, Mr. Jackson !" she cried, 
 " won't you go for a doctor, or something ? Mr. Baretta's dread- 
 fully sick. He was out of his head when he came, and I've just 
 made him lay down and got him off to sleep. Oh, I must have 
 a doctor I'm scared to death." 
 
 " Why, of course I'll go," Mr. Jackson said. " Don't you 
 cry." He was not a bad man in his way, in spite of his in- 
 clination towards unwelcome gallantries, and he patted Maud 
 reassuringly on the shoulder as he spoke. It was unfortunate, 
 however Mr. Jackson's intentions being in this case quite inno- 
 cent that Mrs. Jackson should at this very moment come to 
 the door. 
 
 " You mis'ble hussy !" she shrieked, visiting her wrath upon 
 the victim of her husband's affectionate disposition, and not upon 
 the offender. " I'll teach yer to play yer tricks ! Yah !" With 
 a sudden snarl like a cat, the angry woman threw herself, both 
 claws extended, upon Maud. But Mr. Jackson, who had seen 
 her in such humours before when the bottle of gin which she 
 kept in a cupboard had been rather rapidly lowered, such being 
 this virtuous woman's one failing grasped her wrists so quick- 
 ly that the object of the assault, which was to injure the beauty 
 of a suspected rival, was not attained in this case. 
 
 " Just go back up-stairs," said Mr. Jackson, " and I'll get the 
 doctor for you in a few minutes. She has these tantrums about 
 once in so often. Don't you mind her," he added, taking a 
 firmer hold, and raising his wife's arms to such a height that her 
 nails could not be used as weapons upon him ; " she'll forget 
 all about it by morning." He thrust her back, still struggling, 
 then closed and locked the door. 
 
 319
 
 " What's the trouble ?" asked some one coming down the 
 stairs. Maud turned with a quick cry. It was Baretta himself. 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" Maud cried. " Go back !" 
 
 " Hullo !" Mr. Jackson said. " She's been asking me to go 
 for the doctor for you." 
 
 " Doctor ! I don't want any doctor," Baretta said, sharply. 
 " How did I come to be lying on your bed ?" he added, turning 
 to Maud. " And what's all this row, anyway." For Mrs. Jack- 
 son was vigorously thumping on the door and emitting a series 
 of piercing screams. 
 
 " Only one of her tantrums," explained Mr. Jackson, grinning. 
 " I guess I'd better tend to her now. She needs a doctor more 
 than him." Mr. Jackson grinned again, leered knowingly at 
 Maud, then unlocked the door and went inside, where his voice 
 could be heard in expostulation with his angry spouse. 
 
 "But what's all the row?" repeated Baretta, impatiently. 
 " What are you doing down here, Maud ?" 
 
 " I I came to speak to Mrs. Jackson, but she's well, you see 
 what's she like. But you are you better? Oh, you hadn't 
 ought to have got up ! And you have your hat in your hand. 
 You don't mean to go, do you ? Oh, I won't let you go !" 
 
 "Won't let me go? What nonsense are you talking now, 
 Maud? Why was I lying up there alone? Was was anything 
 the matter with me ?" 
 
 " Oh, well," said Maud, evasively, " you seemed feverish, and 
 and out of your head " 
 
 " Out of my head !" 
 
 " And so 1 made you lie down, and you fell asleep. But are 
 you sure you are strong enough to go out, Frank ?" Maud asked 
 anxiously. " You still look very pale, and if anything should 
 happen " 
 
 " Pooh ! what can happen ? Oh, well, I dare say I may look 
 a little pale I have-had a good deal to bother me. And that's 
 why I wasn't quite myself, perhaps, when I came. But I know 
 what to do now I'm all right, and you needn't worry. I'll 
 fight to the last !" he cried. " And you will you stand by me 
 whatever happens ?" 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! you know that without the asking." She threw 
 
 320
 
 her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately. " You're 
 sure you ain't sick, Frank ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes how you women worry! I say, Maud, I shall 
 come to-morrow or the next day and tell you all about it. 
 Something's going to happen, but if you stand by me " 
 
 " Frank ! Frank ! you look as if you were going to do some- 
 thing desperate." 
 
 " Nonsense ! what a notion ! Only they're trying to cheat me 
 out of my rights to say that I am not Baron Smolzow ; think 
 of that, Maud ! Would you mind if I were not ?" 
 
 " Mind ! Oh, I think you would be happier to give up every- 
 thing, and and " 
 
 " And marry you, Maud," JBaretta said, kissing her. " Well, 
 that's what I'm going to do. " Suppose I should come to- 
 morrow and say ' Come off with me now, and we'll leave this 
 place forever ' what would you do ?" 
 
 " Do ? Why, go with you of course ! But if I am not here " 
 
 " Well, you must stay here. Oh, you can manage that what's 
 the difference for only a day or two ? And and don't you go 
 to the store, either. Have you got any money ? Here's some 
 oh, take it, it's only ten dollars and you may want to buy some 
 things. Take it, I say ! We're going to be married right off, 
 and what's the difference? Now you wait, Maud, till you hear 
 from me. Good-bye." Again he held her closely in his arms, 
 and their lips met. " Oh, Maud !" he cried with a strange 
 choking sob, " if anything should happen, remember it was you 
 I loved at the last." He strained her wildly to his bosom; then 
 he suddenly flung open the door and rushed out into the 
 darkness. 
 
 " Frank ! Frank !" called Maud. But he did not hear her ; or 
 if he did he made no response. The sound of his hurrying 
 footsteps grew fainter and fainter as the girl stood listening by 
 the open door. Presently she closed it with, a shiver and glided 
 softly up-stairs. . 
 
 Her mind was full of apprehension her heart throbbed with 
 a great dread as she sat alone in her room and recalled all that 
 Frank had said. What was the terrible thing that had hap- 
 pened to him ? and why had he come to her looking so wild 
 
 x 321
 
 and haggard, and talking so strangely, quite out of his head ? 
 There was a great deal which she could not understand. She 
 could not help being worried. She felt sure that something 
 very serious was impending. He loved her she no longer 
 had any doubt of that ; he had told her to remember that he 
 loved her at. the last. But the phrase frightened her. Why 
 should there be any last, when they were about to be married 
 and never be separated again ? And it was so strange to hear 
 him talk about revenging himself upon " her." He could only 
 mean Miss Lawrence by " her " Miss Lawrence, whom she was 
 sure he had always worshipped, and of whom she could not yet help 
 being jealous. There was something very strange about it all ; 
 and she, who loved him best of any one in the world, was not to 
 be told. It was cruel to keep her in suspense. Maud had only 
 the vaguest idea of the means by which Baretta had become 
 Baron Smolzow, or perhaps his ravings would have been more 
 intelligible to her. She found it natural enough to think of him 
 as a swell. She had always looked upon him as her superior ; 
 as far back as the days of his first coming to Arragon Street he 
 had seemed to her to be, in spite of his poverty, far more " gen- 
 teel " than any other young man she had ever known. To be 
 genteel was in Maud's opinion the next best thing to being a 
 swell. It was the goal which she hoped to attain when she 
 married Baretta. He was a real gentleman, at any rate, and she 
 felt that she knew how to behave like a real lady. The girls at 
 Brown's, like the girls in Arragon Street, regarded her as " stuck- 
 up," which was one characteristic of real ladies. She did not care 
 whether Baretta was the Baron Smolzow or not, because she was 
 so very sure that they would be genteel. She had told him that 
 he would be happier if ho gave it all up a piece of advice 
 which was perhaps founded upon her perception of her own un- 
 fitness to be the wife of so exalted a person as a baron, whose 
 position was quite beyond that of gentility. She was not so 
 ignorant as to confuse this obvious distinction. She was famil- 
 iar with lords and ladies through the novels which she had read, 
 and she knew that she would feel very much out of place if ever 
 she were introduced to their society. She thought that a baron 
 must be a lord, but she was not quite sure. In most of the 
 
 322
 
 novels the barons were foreigners, and also, unfortunately, high- 
 ly disreputable persons; which was an added reason why she 
 was just as well satisfied that Frank should not be one. Oh yes 
 she was glad to know that he was angry with all those people 
 who had taken him away from her ! and yet she wished that he 
 had not talked about revenge, and throwing knives at people. 
 She knew that he had a furious temper, and she recalled various 
 cases where men with furious tempers had been led to all sorts 
 of dreadful things even to committing murder. Who could 
 tell what Frank might do when he was in that state not him- 
 self, but altogether out of his head ? For a long time that night 
 she lay awake. It had begun to rain, and the heavy drops 
 driving against the windows made her nervous. Oh, where had 
 he gone ? and what did he intend to do ? Her anxieties came 
 back to her with redoubled force, driving away all those harm- 
 less fancies about being genteel, and about lords and barons. 
 Thus poor Maud tossed and turned on a restless pillow, and shed 
 many a bitter tear. 
 
 It was daylight before she fell asleep, so that she awoke late 
 in the forenoon. The rain had ceased and the sun was shining 
 brightly in at the window. How late it must be ! was her first 
 thought. She jumped out of bed, and ran hastily across the 
 room to look at her alarm-clock, which she had forgotten to 
 wind the night before. It was still ticking feebly. Half-past 
 ten ! and what would they say at the store ? Then she recalled 
 her promise to Baretta that she would give up the store. Under 
 ordinary circumstances she would have welcomed the opportu- 
 nity, but now she felt that something to do would be a welcome 
 distraction. However, let it be as he said ; he must have his 
 reasons, and he would doubtless explain them to her in good 
 time. But she wished that he had not rushed away telling her 
 half the story, which was so much worse than telling her noth- 
 ing at all. Why should he want her to wait for him, to be ready 
 to go away with him at any moment ? What was he about to 
 do ? or what had he done ? It was terrible to be left thus a 
 prey to vague anxieties. 
 
 " Seems to me you're pretty late," said Mrs. Jackson, when 
 Maud went down-stairs. She poked her head out of the par- 
 
 323
 
 lour door and made this observation. " When are you going 
 to move out ?" 
 
 " I think I shall stay another week," said Maud. " I ain't 
 anxious to, but we're to be married so soon that Mr. Baretta 
 thinks I'd better." 
 
 " Well, I like that !" Mrs. Jackson exclaimed, coming out into 
 the entry, and regarding her lodger with arms defiantly akimbo. 
 " An' you makin' up to my man the way you do !" 
 
 " It's a lie! He makes up to me. But I won't endure it. I 
 hate him ! And I'm glad to get out of your house, and I'd go 
 this moment if I could. But I promised Frank to stay, and I 
 will stay. I guess you won't try to put me out." 
 
 " Oh, you're a high-flyer and no mistake !" Mrs. Jackson said, 
 sarcastically. " Comin' here with your airs, and too good to say 
 a word to any one. Maud Vivian ! do you s'pose I didn't know 
 all the time you was lyin' to me ? Such goin's-on in a decent 
 woman's house and furriners comin' and askin' after ye, and a 
 great dirty Irishman calling you his girl. What does it all mean, 
 I'd like to know ? And so you'll stay, will you ? Well, the rent's 
 gone up. It's two dollars I want, and you can just pay over the 
 money now or it's in the street you'll be." 
 
 " Two dollars ! here's your old two dollars!" said Maud, taking 
 out one of the bills which Baretta had given her. 
 
 "Oh, you're rollin' in money, ain't you? Well, out of my 
 house you go a week from to-day, or it'll be four dollars. I told 
 you when you come that I wouldn't have anything to do with 
 any one but a decent girl." 
 
 " How dare you talk to me like that !" Maud flashed out an- 
 grily. " I told you my father had treated me badly, and you 
 blame me because he found me out and made a row. Decent ? 
 I guess I'm as decent as a woman that gets drunk." And with 
 this parting shot Maud hurried away. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson stood for a moment quite dazed by this attack ; 
 then she went back into her parlour, slamming the door furi- 
 ously. " The jade !" she muttered. She was naturally a kind- 
 hearted woman, except during her "spells," or when she was 
 recovering from the effects of one, and under ordinary circum- 
 stances she would have treated Maud with more consideration. 
 
 324 v
 
 Now she was wishing that she had not taken the two dollars, so 
 that she might have had the pleasure of dumping all of poor 
 Maud's scanty belongings in the street. " She'll go next week, 
 sure," Mrs. Jackson said, rattling angrily at the air-tight stove 
 which she was replenishing with coals. " I wouldn't have her 
 for forty dollars." 
 
 Maud, for her part, was wishing that Frank had not made her 
 promise to stay. How she hated the woman, who treated her 
 so meanly, and all for nothing at all, except that she was jealous 
 of her worthless husband ! "As if I'd have anything to do .with 
 the likes of him !" Maud said to herself. However, she soon 
 gave over thinking about Mrs. Jackson in her absorption in more 
 important matters. She took a car down-town she felt rich 
 with ten dollars in her shabby little pufse and went to the store 
 to tell them that she was going to leave. 
 
 " Oh, you'll catch it!" Dolly said, grinning amiably, when Maud 
 walked in. " Foxy's down on you now, because you won't have 
 nothing to say to him." 
 
 " Well, let him be ; I'm going to leave, anyway. I'm going 
 to be married," Maud added, with a touch of conscious pride. 
 
 "Married? I didn't think you was such a big fool. Oh yes, 
 we have some that comes cheaper," she said, condescendingly, 
 turning to a customer. 
 
 But Mr. Thomas B. Fox didn't seem to 1 care in the least whether 
 Brown's lost the services of Miss Vivian or not. He heard her 
 story with an indifferent air. " You can come round and get 
 half a week's pay on Saturday," he said, gruffly. " We don't 
 like to have girls leave us in this sort of way I presume they'd 
 make a row if we bounced them without notice. But I saw 
 some time ago you wouldn't do, so it's just as well." 
 
 " Wouldn't do ?" cried Maud, glad to be released, and yet in- 
 dignant at this aspersion upon her capacity. " I guess I've 
 worked hard enough." 
 
 " Oh, you've worked hard enough," said Mr. Fox, with a sneer. 
 " I suppose you've found some one now who won't let you 
 work." 
 
 " Yes !" Maud said, with an angry look. " The man I'm going 
 to marry. And now that I'm going, I'll tell you that you are a 
 
 325
 
 a dirty loafer !" cried Maud, relapsing into the dialect of Ar- 
 ragon Street. And then she rushed away from Mr. Fox and 
 Brown's like a miniature whirlwind. They could keep their 
 miserable two dollars ! she would never go back there any more. 
 
 But it was ill waiting for Frank with nothing to do, nothing 
 to occupy her thoughts. She kept very closely to that dingy 
 room, in anxious expectation of the coming of her lover to take 
 her away forever. Her mind was full of miserable forebodings. 
 She dwelt upon his random words, but she could not under- 
 stand them at all ; she had only a conviction that something 
 was wrong, that a crisis was at hand for both. Oh, why did 
 not Frank come to explain ? What could it be that was keep- 
 ing him away so long ? On the afternoon of the third day she 
 could stand it no longer,* but walked over to Baretta's rooms in 
 Huntington Avenue to find some answer to her questions. It 
 must be that he was really ill out of his head again, perhaps, 
 with no one by to take care of him. Her heart was beating 
 violently when she rang the bell. 
 
 " Lor', miss," said the man who came to the door, " the Baron 
 ain't been here these two days. He packed up and went off 
 without telling a blessed soul where he was goin'. / don't know 
 I wish I did," he added, dryly. 
 
 326
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 A DESPERATE HOPE 
 
 BAKETTA had told his father that he was sick of acting a lie, 
 and had defied him to do his worst ; and yet when the blow 
 came it completely overwhelmed him. The reality too often 
 differs widely from the anticipation. It seemed an easy thing 
 to do to resolve to give up his ambitions, to become a nobody 
 again and marry Maud ; but when he no longer had any choice 
 he felt that he had chosen ill. What a fool he had been ! and 
 all because a girl had cried and fainted in his arms. He chose 
 to attribute his defiance of his father wholly to Maud, although 
 even before she had come back to remind him of the past his 
 position had grown extremely irksome. His father's presence 
 had made all the difference in the world. What would the win- 
 ning of Miss Lawrence do to rid him of that? And there had 
 been so many humiliajtions, so many petty anxieties ! " Nought's 
 had, all's spent, when our desire is got without content," he might 
 have said, had he been more familiar with the greatest of dram- 
 atists. 
 
 When Yates left him, Baretta buried his face in his hands 
 and groaned aloud. Yes the blow had fallen, and he was be- 
 ginning to realize how heavy it would be. The man who hated 
 him most, who had been against him from the first, was the first 
 to know the truth ; and he had come to threaten him, and no 
 doubt to exult over him. It was some satisfaction to recall that 
 he had told him nothing, that he had defied him to do his worst. 
 And now how was he to have his revenge ? It was against Yates 
 that his anger burned hottest. His father seemed to be beyond 
 his reach ; but Yates was where he could reach him and strike 
 
 327
 
 him down. And he would do it; he would get even with him 
 in some way. He could not think of a way just yet, but that 
 would come later. He did not doubt that Yates was concerned 
 in the ruin which was preparing for him. How else would he 
 have known about it? Hypocritical expressions of regret did not 
 deceive him in the least ; the fellow had shown himself in his 
 true colours when he called him a cad and a cur. Baretta's 
 wrath blazed up anew as he remembered these epithets. And 
 now Yates would go to Miss Lawrence and tell her all, exulting 
 over the rival whom he hated. There was no suspicion in his 
 mind that a gentleman would be incapable of this ; it was pre- 
 cisely what he would have done himself under similar circum- 
 stances. And she would believe it oh yes, he was sure of 
 that. She was not like Maud, who had clung to him in spite of 
 everything. He would make it up to Maud the only friend 
 he had in the world. And yet he could not help remembering 
 that but for her his secret might still have been safe. What a 
 fool he had been ! and the only thing left was to make the best 
 of his folly. 
 
 He rose after a time and began to walk up and down the 
 room, determined in one way or another to come to a clearer 
 understanding of the situation, to see if there were not yet some 
 chance of saving himself. This dull mechanic exercise might 
 perhaps help him to think. But what was there that he could 
 do ? He was utterly in the dark as to theumanner in which the 
 story had reached Yates. It was to come out in a newspaper, 
 Yates had said, and of course he himself had gone to the editor 
 with it. That was just what a jealous rival would be sure to do. 
 He remembered now that he once or twice mentioned Yates to 
 his father, and had even angrily told him that he ought to go to 
 Yates with his revelations. But of course it was impossible 
 that his father could have done this. He knew nothing of the 
 young man, and had probably forgotten the name. Everything, 
 however, was to come out in the papers ; that was undoubtedly 
 true ; the papers would publish eagerly a sensation so fertile as 
 this. It was too late to do anything now. But was it too late ? 
 If he only knew what paper it was. The editor was an honour- 
 able man, Yates had said. The Mail Binney ! why hadn't he 
 
 328
 
 thought of this obvious answer to his question before? It was 
 the Mail for which Yates had written, and Binney was a friend 
 of his. He saw the whole plot now. They had talked it all 
 over at the club, and now Yates was writing the sensational arti- 
 cle that must blast his career forever. Oh, the plot was only 
 too plain ! How dull he must have been not to suspect it at 
 once ! His course was clear enough. He would go to Binney 
 and deny the whole outrageous accusation. It was a desperate 
 hope, but it was the only one he had left, and he must save him- 
 self in some way. He had defied his father to do his worst, and 
 he had tried to persuade himself that when once he had aban- 
 doned all his aspirations and had married Maud and gone away 
 somewhere, to a place where no one knew him, he would not 
 care what happened. But now that everything was slipping 
 away from him, he realized how bitter the change would be. 
 And Miss Lawrence would despise him ! That was worst of all. 
 Was it indeed she that he loved, or only Maud ? 
 
 He remembered that Mr. Binney did not like to see callers in 
 the evening, but his errand was too important to be postponed. 
 Delay might be fatal ; perhaps the story was already prepared 
 for the consumption of an avid public. Somewhat to his sur- 
 prise, he was admitted to the inner room at once. 
 
 " I was going to send one of our young men up to see you," 
 said Mr. Binney, nodding rather curtly as Baretta entered. 
 
 "It it was something important?" stammered the young 
 man, although he knew very well what it was. 
 
 The editor fumbled among the papers on his desk a mo- 
 ment, and then drew out two long printed slips. " If you'll step 
 into the other room and read that, Mr. Baretta," he said, " you 
 will understand why I was going to send to you." He nodded 
 again and began to write very hastily ; then he looked up and 
 added, " Of course you understand that the Mail could not 
 print such a story if it were not true, and and I have no doubt 
 you will be able to deny it effectively." 
 
 " I know quite well what it is," said Baretta, pausing at the 
 doorway with the slips in his hand. " And it's a lie every 
 word of it !" he cried, vehemently. 
 
 " Well, well!" Mr. Binney said, nervously, " you'd better read 
 
 329
 
 it through, after all. Our reporters are very careful ; the Mail 
 isn't like the Banner, you know. And really, Mr. Baretta, it's 
 rather extraordinary that you should deny a matter like that be- 
 fore you have read our story. I can't help thinking that your 
 course only adds to the gravity of the suspicion." 
 
 " Oh, if you've made up your mind that it's true !" Baretta 
 exclaimed, bitterly. " Why shouldn't I know what the story is ? 
 Do you think I'm a fool ? I guess I'm pretty well acquainted 
 with your reporter, Mr. Binney, though I never heard you call 
 him that before." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Baretta, I must decline " 
 
 " Baron Smolzow, sir I'll stick to the title as long as it's 
 mine, anyway !" Baretta cried. " Perhaps if you knew his mo- 
 tives you'd be less eager to believe him. Why, I tell you he 
 hates me that he has always tried to down me. You yourself 
 made him jealous by printing my work instead of his. But it's 
 all a damned plot I can prove that it's a plot. Send for 
 Yates and let me face him, and I'll show you. And I guess my 
 word's as good as his," said Baretta, with a strange laugh in 
 which there was little merriment. 
 
 The editor sat back in his chair and stared at him. " I must 
 beg you to be a little more more temperate in your remarks," 
 he said at last, coldly. "I don't understand your allusion to 
 Mr. Yates. He had nothing whatever to do with the article 
 which you have in your hand and which I should advise you 
 to read before you say anything further." 
 
 " Oh, that's his damned malice that's the kind of sneaking 
 cur he is ! I I beg your pardon, Mr. Binney," he added, with 
 an obvious effort to control himself, " but the whole thing is 
 such a diabolical trap. Why, sir, Yates himself came to me 
 and threatened me with exposure I mean, with these silly lies 
 unless I yielded to his threats and gave up " Here he looked 
 at the slips, and saw on the first of them, " Is he Baron Smol- 
 zow ?" set forth in large type. " I'll read what it says here, 
 Mr. Binney," Baretta said, " but of course you see now how I 
 knew exactly what it was. ' I knew Yates would come to 
 you." 
 
 But he sat for a long time staring at these fatal bits of paper 
 
 330
 
 and making no sense at all out of the printed words, which, 
 danced before his eyes and seemed to dazzle them. He was 
 thinking of that evening when Binney had read to him the 
 despatch from Vienna about Herr Paul Baretta-Smolzow, and 
 how suddenly and irresistibly temptation had come upon him. 
 And he had done it all for her, who did not care what became 
 of him, and whom he had never had any hope of winning! It 
 was maddening to think that the defeat of all his aspirations 
 was complete, that there was no hope of regaining what he had 
 lost. He was quite sure that no one would believe his bare 
 denial, and what else had he to offer ? He forced himself at 
 last to read the story through. It was very direct very con- 
 vincing. His father had explained everything only too clearly. 
 He had accounted for his possession of Paul Baretta's papers. 
 The cousin of the late baron had died in New York years ago, 
 and Emil, whom he had befriended and who was with him at 
 the last, had stolen them from him. 'Emil confessed his own 
 misdeeds with the utmost cynicism. He had always had in 
 mind the possible advantage of having possession of such docu- 
 ments, although it was not until he had seen in the papers an 
 account of his son's pretensions that he had decided to make 
 use of them. He had taken Paul Baretta's name for various 
 reasons, which he did not specify ; one could imagine that they 
 were not very creditable to him. It was as Paul Baretta that 
 he had married a factory-girl, with whom he had soon quarrelled, 
 and who very speedily drank herself to death. With the rest 
 of his career his son Avas tolerably familiar. He had tried to 
 disassociate himself from it years ago. He had run away from 
 the guardianship of this drunken barber, and had made his own 
 way in the world. Then ambition had led him to his ruin ; .the 
 rest of the narrative was only too familiar. It was horrible to 
 see it set down here so remorselessly, written out with such 
 convincing minuteness. 
 
 " It's all a lie," Baretta said, throwing the slips on Mr. Bin- 
 ney's desk. " Don't you dare to print it !" 
 
 " We won't talk about daring, if you please," the editor said. 
 " If you can convince me that it is false, that will be sufficient. 
 If not" 
 
 331
 
 " You'll print it, will you, and blast my whole future ?" cried 
 the young man, angrily. 
 
 " A story that is false cannot hurt you. And as I have said, 
 if you will deny it in any effectual way, if you will give me any 
 reason beyond a bare assertion for suppressing it, I shall be 
 only too glad to spare you annoyance. Whether you do so or 
 not, I shall of course add your denial." 
 
 " It's a lie, I tell you, and if it comes out in the Mail " 
 
 " Oh, you needn't take the trouble to threaten me with a libel 
 suit," Mr. Binney interrupted. " I quite understand that you 
 will bring one, and I am prepared to run that risk especially in 
 view of the attitude which you are taking," he added. He took 
 up the slips and glanced them over in a mechanical sort of way. 
 " There is another thing," he said, " and that is this story about 
 your your engagement to to a young lady. It is not referred 
 to here for various reasons. Nevertheless, it is an additional 
 reason why you should clear yourself, if you can. Mr. Lawrence 
 is one of our foremost citizens " 
 
 " Mr. Lawrence !" Baretta exclaimed. " What has he to do 
 with it ? Oh, I understand well enough now," he added, " who 
 it is that has been concocting this precious yarn. You needn't 
 think you can shield him." 
 
 " You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion. Mr. 
 Lawrence has a good deal to do with it if you are engaged to 
 be married to his daughter." 
 
 " Me !" cried Baretta. " Engaged to Miss Lawrence !" 
 
 " I suppose you have seen the announcement in the Packet ? 
 But, really," Mr. Binney went on, rather irritably, " I see no use 
 in prolonging this interview. If you can disprove these rather 
 serious charges you shall have every opportunity. Otherwise 
 well, you can't expect me to become your accomplice in deceiv- 
 ing the public. That isn't a pleasant thing to say, but I might 
 as well be frank with you. It's a painful situation, Mr. Baretta. 
 Of course if the report of your of the engagement is false " 
 
 " But it is true," said Baretta, eagerly. He saw that here was 
 a possible chance to save himself, and his situation was too des- 
 perate to permit him to be over-scrupulous. " It is quite true. 
 I am to marry Miss Lawrence. And I warn you," he added, 
 
 332
 
 " of the consequences of publishing slanderous tales about me. 
 I am able to defend myself, sir ; and Mr. Lawrence " 
 
 "We will have no threats, if you please. You have only to 
 satisfy me that you are really Baron Smolzow, that the story 
 told by this man who says he is your father is unworthy of 
 credence, to stop the whole thing right here and now. But 
 nothing else can stop it nothing. I advise you to reflect upon 
 the matter calmly. This article will not appear until the day 
 after to-morrow. Good-night." 
 
 " But, Mr. Binney " 
 
 " I am too busy to talk any further on the subject this even- 
 ing. Good-night." And the editor bent over his desk and be- 
 gan to write very rapidly. 
 
 " I'll have my revenge I'll pay you out for this !" Baretta 
 shouted. " You will rue the day that you took sides with my 
 enemies against me !" Then he rushed from the room, bang- 
 ing the door behind him. 
 
 He would get the better of them all yet. This was what 
 Baretta was saying to himself as he hurried along the street. 
 The night was cold and windy, but he buttoned his coat tightly 
 about him and strode on. Oh yes they need not think that 
 he would tamely submit ! Everything was at stake, and he 
 would fight to the last. Binney would not dare to print this 
 malicious gossip about the future son-in-law of Sibley Lawrence. 
 It was very clear to him now that he must win Mildred if he 
 could. Perhaps she had already seen the announcement in the 
 Packet to which Binney had referred. It would annoy her, of 
 course. But if he should ask her to make it true what then ? 
 It was at least a possibility worth calculating upon, and he could 
 not disregard any possibility now. When a man was fighting 
 for his life he must use any weapon that he could find. He 
 knew very well that Mildred did not love him ; but she might 
 consent to marry him, if she knew that her name was publicly 
 connected with his. He had a vague notion that what he in- 
 tended doing was dishonourable. Clearly, however, it was no 
 time to indulge in mere delicacy of feeling. Everything was at 
 stake, he told himself again. Oh yes he would go to Miss 
 Lawrence ; it was the only chance left to him. After all, a title 
 
 333
 
 was a title, and to be Baroness Smolzow was a prospect that 
 might well appeal to her ambition. She had been kind to him 
 of late, certainly ; and it might be that she really was beginning 
 to care for him. Why should she not? she who had once 
 actually been engaged to that fellow Yates. There was no rea- 
 son why a woman should not care for him. Maud worshipped 
 the very ground he walked on. Poor Maud ! whom he was 
 going to give up in spite of his protestations. He could not 
 fail to experience a pang of self-reproach at the thought, per- 
 haps also of regret ; he was very fond of Maud, who loved him 
 as no one else did. But, surely, if she understood all, she would 
 herself be ready to make the sacrifice. Had she not pleaded 
 with him to give her up, when he had defied his father, and had 
 sworn that he would marry her, no matter what befell ? Oh, he 
 had been a fool ! He had been his own worst enemy all along ! 
 Why had he not foreseen how unbearable the defeat of all his 
 aspirations would be how tragic the ruin of all his hopes ? 
 
 And there was Yates he would have his revenge upon 
 Yates. It was he who had planned all this, who had taken the 
 story to Binney. Why should he believe Binney's denial? 
 The case was only too plain. He hurried towards Livingstone 
 Place, with a wild hope that somehow he might achieve his 
 purpose then and there. He saw a light in Yates's windows 
 from the corner of the street, and stood staring at it, muttering 
 unintelligible imprecations and shaking his fist. If only he 
 could strike him dead, so quietly and quickly that no one 
 should know, that no wild cry should betray him ! The thought 
 seemed to burn like fire into his brain. For a long time he 
 watched the lighted windows. He was chilled through and 
 through ; he shivered, and his teeth chattered, but he was hard- 
 ly aware of it. To strike Yates dead, and let no one know, 
 and thus be rid of this malignant enemy forever ! He laughed 
 aloud a horrible mocking laugh as he turned away and hur- 
 ried home. 
 
 334
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 BARETTA'S HUMILIATION 
 
 ALL night he was haunted by feverish dreams dreams so wild 
 and desperate that more than once he awoke with a sudden cry 
 and lay trembling in the darkness with a hideous foreboding of 
 evil. He was constantly pursuing a shadowy figure that ever 
 escaped him ; when he reached out to grasp it he stumbled and 
 felt himself falling into a dizzying abyss. Sometimes there was 
 a gleam as of a shining blade luring him on ; and then the air 
 seemed to be filled with fire and red like blood. He rose at last 
 in the cold and dismal dawn, and dressed himself, and sat for a 
 long time like one stupefied, his head buried in his arms, which 
 he crossed upon the desk before him. It grew lighter, and the 
 sounds in the street became more frequent ; but still he sat un- 
 heeding. 
 
 "Good Gawd, y'r 'ighness ! what's the matter?" It was the 
 voice of the janitor, who, after rattling vainly at the door, had 
 opened it with his key and entered. " Is y'r 'ighness ill ?" he 
 added, as Baretta lifted his head and gazed at him vacuously. 
 
 " I I couldn't sleep," said Baretta at last, rousing himself. 
 " How cold it is ! You'd better build a fire, Thompson. Ill ? 
 no, I ain't ill." As he spoke he caught a glimpse of his drawn 
 and haggard face in the glass and started back. " I I do look 
 pretty badly, but I ain't ill." 
 
 " Y'r 'ighness had better take precious good care of yourself, 
 or you will be." Thompson said "tyke" and"kyer," being a 
 thorough-bred cockney. For the same reason he always remem- 
 bered that his lodger had a title, though only a foreign one. 
 Thompson had once been a stable-boy on the estate of a "dook" 
 
 335
 
 in his native land, and he didn't think much of foreign titles. 
 But he felt that as long as "y' grace" or "y' ludship" didn't 
 sound just right "y'r 'ighness" would be a happy substitute. 
 
 " I couldn't sleep," Baretta repeated. " Send me up some 
 strong coffee, Thompson, and a couple of eggs. I feel faint, but 
 I haven't any appetite. But for Heaven's sake don't tell me 
 I'm ill!" he added, irritably. " I'd be all right if I could sleep." 
 
 He went into the chamber while the janitor was labouring 
 over the fire, and presently reappeared with one of his razors in 
 his hand. " Look here, Thompson," he said, " do you think it 
 would hurt a man very much to cut his throat that is, after the 
 first moment of pain ? Could he be sure of killing himself in- 
 stantly of losing consciousness at once ? Or would a revolver 
 be better? That scamp Emil has left his revolver behind him. 
 What would you advise, Thompson ?" 
 
 " For Gawd's sake !" cried the frightened janitor, jumping to 
 his feet and wrenching the razor from Baretta's hand. " Are 
 you hout of your 'ead ? A suercide, y'r 'ighness, and in this 
 'ouse !" 
 
 " Don't you worry, Thompson," said Baretta, with a wild and 
 discordant laugh. "Oh, I'm not going to hurt myself. Give 
 me back that razor, you fool ; I want to shave, that's all. Don't 
 I look as if I needed it ? Give it to me, I say !" 
 
 " If y'r 'ighness is sure " 
 
 " Sure ? Of course I'm sure. I was only trying to scare yon. 
 It won't be in your house don't you worry about that." 
 
 Thompson yielded this possible weapon very reluctantly, 
 nevertheless, and was inexpressibly relieved, when he came back 
 with the toast and eggs, to find the Baron seated calmly before 
 the fire reading the morning paper. " I 'ope y'r 'ighness won't 
 give me such a start again," he said. 
 
 " What start ? Oh, about the razor ! Don't be a fool." 
 
 The man deposited the tray upon the table, and hovered 
 about as if uncertain whether to stay or go. " I 'ope there's 
 nothing troubling y'r 'ighness," he said at last. 
 
 " No, no of course not ! You mind your own business, 
 Thompson." 
 
 " It was only a friendly hinterest," Thompson said, reproach- 
 
 336
 
 fully. He went to the door, then came back again. " The 
 hagent was 'ere yesterday about the rent," he said, with an 
 apologetic cough. 
 
 " Well, well, I will attend to that. And if you will kindly 
 leave me to myself until I have eaten my breakfast " 
 
 " Cert'nly, y'r 'ighness." And Thompson went away, not 
 without an uneasy backward glance at his lodger. 
 
 Baretta pulled himself together, and ate his eggs and drank 
 the coffee with an effort. He was in truth a little alarmed about 
 himself. His mind was clear enough now, but he recalled those 
 wild dreams of the night with a shudder. What did it all mean 
 that he was losing his wits under the heavy pressure of mis- 
 fortune ? How could that be possible, when there was still hope 
 that he might get the better of all his enemies? If he had an 
 ally like Sibley Lawrence on his side, Binney or anybody else 
 would be mighty careful about attacking him. And this was 
 what he must do to save himself. He smiled as he thought 
 what a triumph it would be to have defied his father and yet to 
 marry Miss Lawrence and remain the Baron Smolzow after all. 
 He would not then fear anything that any one, even his father 
 himself, might do. Let him spread his idle tale abroad ; no one 
 would believe it of Siblev Lawrence's son-in-law. And he had 
 the papers safely locked up in his desk. It would be hard work 
 to prove that they were not genuine ; let Yates and the rest try 
 it if they dared. Yes, he was very sure the papers were gen- 
 uine, however his father might have come by them. They were 
 safe enough along with the money which he had received for 
 some lectures over at Cambridge at two dollars a ticket. What 
 had Thompson bothered him for in that way about the rent? 
 Confound the fellow ! but he would give him the money. He 
 went to the desk and unlocked it, and pulled out the drawer 
 where he kept his bank-notes, his papers, and other valuables. 
 It was empty. 
 
 The discovery completely unnerved him. He fell back in his 
 chair with a strange choking sob. This was the worst blow of 
 all ; it destroyed his hopes completely. Everything was gone 
 his money, and the papers that he had relied upon to enable him 
 to prove his claim in spite of all the accusations which might be 
 
 v 337
 
 brought against him. And now they were gone ! Stolen by 
 the vile thief who had been mean enough to take his watch and 
 his slender stock of plate and a few costly pieces of china and 
 the little mementos that had been given him by his admirers. 
 Gone gone ! What a fool he had been not to suspect at once 
 when he discovered the other thefts. But his desk had been 
 locked as if that would make any difference to a clever rascal 
 like his father ! The papers that he had risked so much to gain, 
 on which he now depended as a forlorn last hope, were no 
 longer in his possession. To lose them was worse than to lose 
 the money, badly as he needed that. And his father had taken 
 them away. It was the consummation of an infamous plot 
 against him. For a long time he sat before the open drawer, 
 dazed and with a stupefying consciousness of impotence. There 
 was nothing now that he could do but yield to fate and go away 
 forever. Then a fresh realization of how much this would 
 mean came upon him, and he started up muttering that he would 
 balk them all yet. He strode up and down the room with 
 clinched fists ; and there was a bitter scowl upon his face. 
 There was at least one enemy within reach who should feel the 
 fury of his revenge. 
 
 He was still very pale, and there was the same unnatural light 
 in his eyes, when, on the afternoon of this same day, he rang 
 the bell at the house in Mount Vernon Street. His hand was 
 trembling violently when he gave his card to the man who 
 came to the door, and who stared at him disapprovingly as he 
 asked him into the drawing-room. He suspected the Baron of 
 having been drinking more than was good for him a suspicion 
 which would have been strengthened had he waited to see the 
 visitor walking nervously abeut the room, his hat and gloves 
 still in his hand, and at intervals shaking his head and mutter- 
 ing to himself. 
 
 " Miss Lawrence Mildred !" Baretta cried, turning sudden- 
 ly as she entered. He had been waiting a long while, as it 
 seemed to him ; and he had began to wonder if by any chance 
 his enemies had been before him, if she would refuse to see him 
 at all. " Oh, forgive me !" he added, " but I was afraid I might 
 never see you again. You will forgive me, won't you, when 
 
 338
 
 you understand how much I have suffered ? Good God ! Mil- 
 dred what is it ? why don't you speak to me ?" 
 
 " Mr. Baretta !" said Mildred, shrinking from him. " You are 
 forgetting yourself. I I don't know what right you have to 
 address me in that manner. Will you be seated ?" she asked, 
 indicating a chair near by. " I I thought I would see you, 
 Mr. Baretta," she went on in an embarrassed way, " because I 
 would not condemn you unheard." 
 
 " Oh, they have come to you already, have they ?" exclaimed 
 the young man, rising hastily and sending his chair half across 
 the room with the vehemence of the movement. " They have 
 tried to poison your mind against me with vile stories that are 
 false, I tell you ! every word of them is false !" 
 
 " Unless you can control yourself better than this, Mr. Baretta, 
 I cannot listen to you at all." Mildred had risen, too, and her 
 face was pale as if with fear ; but nevertheless her voice was 
 firm and her manner coldly determined. " I do not want to be- 
 lieve ill of you ; I hope it is all a mistake." 
 
 " It's a lie that's what it is ! That fellow is a scoundrel a 
 villain ! I sent him away, and this is his revenge. Why, he's 
 a thief he stole my watch, my money, when he went. He even 
 took the papers which prove that I am Baron Sraolzow. But 
 no one can prove that I am not." 
 
 " I I wish I knew what to think." 
 
 " It's a lie, I tell you ! Isn't my word as good as his ? Oh, 
 I know very well who has been slandering me to you. He 
 came and threatened me, and I defied him to do his worst. 
 But you know his motive you will not let him come between 
 us. Miss Lawrence," Baretta went on, " you must listen to me. 
 You must have seen that I love you I adore you. I will do 
 anything if I may have the hope of making you my wife." 
 
 " Mr. Baretta, I beg you to say no more. It is very distress- 
 ing to me ; it must be distressing to you. I will try to forget 
 it to believe that you do not realize your position." 
 
 " My position !" he cried. " I suppose you mean that it is 
 presumption on my part." He gave a scornful laugh. " Pre- 
 sumption ! Well, if I am Baron Smolzow, I don't see why. 
 And I tell you I am ! What have you heard to the contrary 
 
 339
 
 except a lot of idle gossip ? It was a low trick and do you 
 think I don't understand the motive ? If you really cared for 
 me you would not heed it for a moment." 
 
 " I do not care for you in the way you wish," Mildred said. 
 
 " That is no answer at all. Why won't you say that you 
 don't believe his lies? A fellow who has always hated me, 
 who is jealous of my success ! Oh yes you have listened to 
 Yates, but you will not listen to me !" 
 
 " We will end this conversation, if you please," said Mildred, 
 haughtily. " I have tried to be patient, but there is a limit to 
 everything. Will you excuse me ?" 
 
 She moved towards the door, but Baretta placed himself be- 
 fore it and intercepted her. "You must listen to me !" he cried ; 
 " I tell you that you must !" 
 
 " Will you have the goodness to let me pass ?" 
 
 " No not till you have heard what I have to say. Oh, for- 
 give me, Mildred, but I am desperate my love for you is driv- 
 ing me wild. I tell you that you must listen ! Why do you 
 treat me with scorn, as if I were the dirt under your feet ?" he 
 asked, bitterly. " Is it because you are still in love with him 
 with that fellow Yates, who isn't worth your love ? I guess I'm 
 as good as he ! It's all a lie, I tell you the story that I have 
 no right to the title and estates. I can give you an honourable 
 name I can make you rich. Why should you look down on 
 me ? I might have been nobody when you knew me first, but 
 that's all over now. Mildred, my whole future is in your hands. 
 If you throw me over well, you'll see what I will do. I won't 
 be cast aside for him just you remember that ! Yes," he cried, 
 menacingly, " if it comes to murder the blood will be on your 
 head I" 
 
 " Will you let me pass ?" 
 
 " Not till you've heard me out. Don't think I'd hurt you, 
 Mildred why, I love every hair of your head. I'd lay down my 
 life for you. Look at this !" he cried, drawing Herr Emil's re- 
 volver from his pocket. " There's a bullet here for some one, 
 and it's as likely to be me as anybody." 
 
 Mildred turned very pale at the sight of the weapon, but she 
 would not show she was afraid. " I used to try to think you a 
 
 340
 
 gentleman," she said, angrily, " but I know now that you are 
 not. Will you let me pass, or shall I ring for the servants ?" 
 
 " The servants ! Oh, you will have me put out of the house, 
 will you?" Baretta's eyes dilated with sudden fury as he 
 spoke. " The servants ! Let one of them touch me, that's all ! 
 So it's war you want, is it ?" he went on. " You despise me 
 you refuse me ; you think that the slanders which Yates has 
 been pouring into your ears are true. I suppose you haven't 
 thought how some stories would sound about yourself, have 
 you ? Oh, that hits home I guess you read the Packet / Well, 
 if I'm disgraced, you'll be disgraced, too. You can marry me 
 or not, but people will think you wanted to." 
 
 " You coward !" was Mildred's contemptuous response to his 
 wild harangue. 
 
 " Coward !" Baretta shrieked. " Say that again just you 
 say that again !" He flourished his revolver, but Mildred only 
 looked at him with eyes full of contempt and loathing. " Oh, 
 I'll have my revenge for this ; I won't be ruined all alone." 
 
 But here an unexpected interruption occurred. " What does 
 this mean ?" Mildred's father asked, suddenly flinging open the 
 door. 
 
 " Oh, papa !" and the girl who had faced her peril bravely 
 enough, but who was quite unnerved by her deliverance from it, 
 threw herself into Mr. Lawrence's arms and burst into tears. 
 
 " I have just one thing to say to you," Mr. Lawrence said, 
 with a sternness all the more impressive because it came from 
 so mild a man, turning to Baretta: " Leave this house instantly." 
 
 Baretta looked at him blankly a moment ; then he picked up 
 his hat. " I'll pay you all for this yet !" he cried, furiously, as 
 he rushed out. 
 
 There was nothing left but that nothing but revenge. This 
 was the one idea that possessed him as he wandered desperate- 
 ly about the streets, neither knowing nor caring where he went. 
 His brain was in a whirl, but this single point was clear enough. 
 Revenge upon them all it would be sweet indeed. His last 
 desperate hope was gone, but he would not suffer alone. First 
 of all there was Yates ; it was Yates who had done this. What 
 could be plainer? He had come to him with threats, and then 
 
 841
 
 he had gone to Miss Lawrence and told her all. Baretta could 
 not see how futile this assumption was. He could not under- 
 stand that others should be more scrupulous than himself. Oh, 
 it was all so very obvious ! And now Yates should be the first 
 to suffer. He could strike at Miss Lawrence through Yates, 
 whom she still loved ; he had accused her of loving him, and 
 she had not denied it. If it hadn't been for that she would have 
 believed him when he told her that the story was all a lie. Now 
 there was no one to believe him ; even the wretched papers for 
 which he had risked everything had been stolen from him. No 
 one would believe him no one but Maud ! whom he had been 
 willing to abandon in order to save himself. Perhaps this was 
 not the least humiliation which he had to undergo. It was a 
 hideous thing to sell one's honour and then be cheated out of 
 the reward. But he loved Maud, and he would be faithful to 
 her now whatever happened. He did not ask himself how 
 much such fidelity was worth. 
 
 Night was coming on, and he began to realize that a feeling 
 of irrepressible weariness was overtaking him. He could no 
 longer think even of revenge ; only a succession of confused 
 and uncertain images were projected upon the retina of his 
 brain. He found himself at last sitting in a doorway near 
 Manchester Square, pressing both hands to his throbbing tem- 
 ples. Why had he wandered here ? Was it because fancy had 
 carried him back to the old days, before these cursed ambitions 
 had taken possession of him ? And Maud was his friend now 
 as then. Oh yes he would go to Maud ; she, at least, would 
 be kind to him. He walked on to Roxbury, and found the 
 dingy tenement, and climbed with feverish haste the steep and 
 narrow stairs. Ill ? why should he be ill ? He heard himself 
 asking Maud this question, and he knew then that she was try- 
 ing to soothe him, to persuade him to lie down and rest. Ill ! 
 but he felt well enough. Then presently he awoke, all alone in 
 the dim room, and hurried down-stairs. There was a woman 
 screaming somewhere, and pounding on a door. What did it all 
 mean ? But how foolish it was in Maud to talk of sending for 
 a doctor; he was as well as any one. It was because Maud 
 was so fond of him. This was the one consolation that he had. 
 
 342
 
 And it was she whom he had 'loved at the last. He seemed 
 to hear himself telling her that as he hurried away through the 
 darkness once more. He knew now what it was that he must 
 do. He placed his hand instinctively upon the revolver in his 
 pocket as he walked along. 
 
 343
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 BARETTA'S REVENGE 
 
 " IT is no more than I expected," Daisy had said, when Philip 
 went to her with this strange story about the Baron Smolzow. 
 " Oh, it isn't because I want to say, ' I told you so.' But I 
 knew that he wasn't a gentleman, and his absurd pretences 
 about his title showed very plainly that he was an adventurer." 
 
 " I'm afraid there's no doubt of that now," said Philip, 
 gravely. 
 
 " How stupid in everybody to be taken in ! Oh yes, nearly 
 everybody was taken in, although now they'll find out that they 
 suspected him from the first. It's always the way. I dare say, 
 Philip, you think I was taken in, too, in spite of what I say." 
 
 " I wouldn't dispute your word in any case, Daisy. But I 
 haven't forgotten how frank you have been in your dislike of 
 him. I had hoped it was all prejudice on our part." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad he's been found out. Is that very horrid of 
 me? Perhaps it is, but I can't help hating him. And oh, 
 Philip, to think what people will say about her after that silly 
 gossip in the Packet! Have you seen it?" 
 
 " Yes," Philip said. " That is why I came to you because 
 some one must let her know. This story that is coming out in 
 the Mail well, they will keep her name out of that. But she 
 must be told beforehand. I hated to come to you, Daisy ; it 
 seemed somehow mean and underhanded. And and of course 
 you will let no one know that I interfered in any way. It 
 might be rather distressing under all the circumstances." 
 
 " Oh, I have no patience with her !" Daisy cried. " And 
 you," she said, as he rose to go and she gave him her hand, 
 
 344
 
 "you have too much patience. I I wish Well, good-bye, 
 Philip. I can't promise never to betray you." 
 
 But she did promise, after all, because Philip made such a 
 point of it. After he had gone she sat in the drawing-room 
 until one of the servants came in with lights, and started back 
 with an apology at finding her alone before the fire. " Oh yes, 
 Mary," Daisy said, " I was thinking of ringing. I am not at 
 home for the rest of the afternoon." How very short the days 
 were, she thought ; only half-past four and it was quite dark. 
 She went up-stairs to put on her hat and jacket, and she stood 
 rather longer than usual before the mirror, gazing at herself 
 very critically. " I wish I was really pretty. Some people 
 might think me passably good-looking, but I'm not my style of 
 girl at all. Isn't it horrid to have red hair ? If mine were only 
 as dark as hers ! Oh, I have no patience with her !" 
 
 Meanwhile Yates had gone away wondering if he had done 
 right after all, and what would be the result of his interference. 
 He was very anxious that Mildred should not know that he had 
 any hand in warning her. She would suspect him of motives 
 which he did not have, and either exaggerate his services or else 
 be unjust to him. He smiled rather bitterly as he reflected 
 that the latter alternative was the more probable. But what 
 did it matter to him ? He had quite done with all that non- 
 sense. A woman needn't expect to have a man's heart forever at 
 her feet to trample on. His hurt had been a grievous one, but 
 he had endured it as manfully as he could ; and now if the pain 
 grew less, if the old wound ceased to burn and throb, let him 
 be grateful for that. It was surprising how much comfort he 
 found in the thought that Daisy understood him and sympa- 
 thized with him. Perhaps it was even absurd, because Daisy 
 was not, after all, an extraordinary girl in any way. She was 
 nice enough, but he could not imagine why any one should fall 
 in love with her more than with a dozen other girls. Then he 
 impatiently told himself that this was a foolish train of thought ; 
 and he went to the club for the diversion of a few games of pool 
 before dinner. 
 
 It was the next evening when Parker came to his rooms in 
 Livingstone Place to tell him that the story about Baretta would 
 
 345
 
 appear in the Mail on the following morning. " The Baron lias 
 been in to see the old man," Parker said, " and I guess he 
 threatened him with a libel suit, because he told me to be sure 
 and verify every single statement ; and he treated my stuff with 
 a dose of blue pencil, confound him ! But it's going to come 
 out to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, well, I dare say you have the facts all right. I am much 
 obliged to you for letting me know, but there's nothing I can 
 do now." 
 
 " I've done as I promised, at any rate. And you'll find 
 that I've kept out the names of the Lawrences and all those 
 people." 
 
 " I suppose you owe me a grudge for that, but I had a very 
 good reason for asking you," Philip said. " I am sure Mr. Bin- 
 ney would say I was right. Oh, don't hurry away. Won't you 
 have a cigar?" 
 
 " Thanks I'll smoke it by-and-by, but I really must go now. 
 Good-night, Mr. Yates. There'll be a big demand for the Mail 
 in the morning, I guess." 
 
 Philip gave a sigh of relief after Parker had gone, not because 
 that young man's society bored him, but because he was thank- 
 ful to have Baretta and his concerns off his mind. He pitied 
 the poor devil, to be sure ; but at last he had rid himself of the 
 responsibility which so many people had insisted in thrusting 
 upon him, and he knew that Mildred had by this time been 
 made acquainted with the truth. His sympathy with the young 
 man might have been more active had not the recollection of 
 his last interview with him been so fresh in his mind. That 
 had shown him in his true colours a fellow who was unprin- 
 cipled and reckless. There had been murder in his eye when 
 he threw that knife. " Pah !" said Philip to himself. " Why 
 can't I dismiss him from my mind ?" Yes, it was very clear 
 that he needed some distraction something to take him out of 
 his past and give life a fresh aspect to him. Even if he had 
 succeeded in teaching himself to forget Mildred, he would not 
 have been happy. He felt the need of new interests, of other 
 hopes. Simply to be content with an acknowledgment of fail- 
 ure was moral and mental death. And it ought to mean so 
 
 346
 
 much just to live when one is still young, with good health and 
 with money enough to keep one from want. 
 
 How long he sat before the fire reflecting thus he did not 
 know, but the sound of a knock at the door reminded him that 
 it was very late, and he arose to answer it, vaguely wondering 
 who his visitor could be. He started back in amazement when 
 he saw that it was Baretta. " You !" he cried. 
 
 "Yes, me why shouldn't it be me?" Baretta said, coming in. 
 " I guess you'll listen to me this time." He brushed by Yates 
 and flung himself into a chair. " Don't you try to put me out !" 
 he cried. 
 
 Philip stared at him. Baretta's face was pale and his lips 
 twitched nervously, but his eyes were unusually bright. He 
 laughed in a mocking fashion when he saw how he had aston- 
 ished his enemy. " Oh, I'm all right," he said. " Don't you 
 be afraid. It's a matter of business I've got to settle with you, 
 and there's no time like the present, is there ?" 
 
 " I think you had better come some other time for that," 
 Philip said, still holding the door open. 
 
 "Oh, do you think you can turn me out? Well, you can't. 
 But see here," Baretta went on, with a sudden change from de- 
 fiance to entreaty, " why should you want to be rough on me, 
 Yates? When a poor devil is down it's hardly fair to give him 
 a kick. It ain't what I expected of you. I I beg your pardon 
 for coming in as I did," he said, rising and laying his hat upon 
 the table, " but I've had so much to endure so many enemies 
 to fight that I felt almost desperate. If you knew how my 
 head aches here ! And yet she refused to listen to me. No 
 one will listen to me but you and you must do that. Do you 
 think I'll go down without a struggle, and let you all jeer at 
 me ? No, by Heaven ! I won't do that ! But I say, Yates, you 
 must forgive me if I talk a little wild. I've had so much to 
 endure. Why, there are a dozen men outside there shaking 
 their heads and laughing at me. I heard them saying He's 
 not Baron Smolzow ' as I came up the stairs." 
 
 "Oh, well, I wouldn't think of that," said Philip, sooth- 
 ingly. Pie closed the door, and came back to the fireplace, 
 on one side of which his unexpected visitor was now sitting. 
 
 347
 
 " You just stay here a little while, and perhaps they will go 
 away." 
 
 " Go away ? They'll never go away." 
 
 " I will look out for that. You are tired, and you need a lit- 
 tle rest." 
 
 Baretta leaned back, in the chair with a sigh and closed his 
 eyes. Philip remarked once more how intense his pallor was, 
 how his whole hearing was that of a man who had collapsed 
 under an intense strain. Of course he could not send him away 
 while he was out of his head ; there was no telling what harm 
 he might do to himself. Philip had been little inclined, as we 
 have seen, to sympathize with Baretta in his humiliation and 
 ruin, but it was impossible to cherish unkindly feelings against 
 one with whom Fate had dealt so hardly as this. Surely the 
 blow had been a heavy one far heavier than he had supposed 
 it could be in the case of one guarded by the armour of an in- 
 tense egoism, which usually offers more consolations than all the 
 religion in the world. 
 
 " I I guess I am tired," Baretta said, presently. " I've had a 
 great deal on my mind. A man doesn't lose a title and estates 
 every day. No doubt you're glad of it " 
 
 "I'm not glad of it !" Philip cried. " I wish you'd get rid of 
 that foolish idea, Baretta," he went on, forgetting that if his 
 visitor were indeed out of his head it would be idle to argue 
 with him. " You've thrown it in my face a hundred times ; but 
 it isn't true it never was true." 
 
 " I know a good deal more than you think," said Baretta, with 
 a cunning smile. " Why, look here, she turned me out of her 
 house to-day actually turned me out of her house. Whose do- 
 ing was that ? Do you suppose I am a child to be deceived by 
 your pretences ? That's what I wanted to talk to you about 
 if those damned fellows down -stairs would only go away and 
 leave me in peace." 
 
 " Oh, I think they're going. But we can discuss that some 
 other time when you are not so tired. What you must do is 
 to forget all about that Baron story and begin again. It will 
 seem hard at first, but things will come around all right in time. 
 And I dare say you will be happier working on in the old way, 
 
 348
 
 When you feel quite rested I'll walk along with you. A good 
 night's sleep is what you want more than anything else." 
 
 "There'll be time enough for sleep." He sighed again, and 
 his head fell forward languidly upon his breast. 
 
 Philip stood looking at him in silence, quite undecided how 
 to act in this unexpected emergency. It was strange that Ba- 
 retta's affairs should be thus thrust upon him, despite his anx- 
 iety to have no more to do with them. There must have been a 
 touch of insanity in Baretta all along ; so that perhaps he was 
 less to blame than circumstances had indicated. It was the 
 most charitable explanation of his conduct, at any rate. 
 
 Half an hour passed and Baretta still sat with closed eyes, 
 while Philip wandered nervously about the room. He was 
 tempted once or twice to call upon the man across the entry for 
 help ; but when he went to the window he saw that several cabs 
 stood on the corner, and so he decided that the best thing to do 
 was to get Baretta down-stairs presently, and depend upon the 
 assistance of a cabman to take him home. He hated to disturb 
 him, for he hoped that he would awaken of his own accord, and 
 perhaps with his faculties fully restored. But was he asleep ? 
 His eyes were closed, but Philip was not sure. At the end of half 
 an hour he went over and touched him lightly on the shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, yes !" said Baretta, starting up. " Oh, is it you, Yates? 
 Well, see here," he went on, in an aggrieved tone, "you've 
 played a mean trick on me, and that's the matter I want to set- 
 tle with you." 
 
 " I think you'd better go home. There's a cab below. I'll 
 go along with you. I'm afraid you're not feeling very well." 
 
 " I'm as well as I ever was. Why do you all harp on my be- 
 ing ill ? There was Maud she said the same thing. You don't 
 know Maud, do you ? Well, she'll stand by me ; you haven't 
 had the chance to go to her with your damnable lies. You went 
 to Mildred, and she turned me out of the house. But you 
 needn't think you'll escape. That's the matter I've come to set- 
 tle with you." He arose as he spoke, and confronted Yates with 
 a malignant scowl. u Yes, and I'll settle it for good and all," 
 he cried. 
 
 " Not to-night, Baretta ; it will do just as well to-morrow. But 
 
 849
 
 you're mistaken. It isn't my fault that the story has come out. 
 And if you'll take my advice, and bear your trouble like a man, 
 I'll help you." 
 
 " Help ! I don't want your help I despise you and your 
 help. What you must do is to come out and fight me do you 
 understand ? fight me. We can go off somewhere to a quiet 
 place, and you can try to finish your work by killing me unless 
 I kill you. Do you understand me now ?" 
 
 Clearly the young man was quite crazy, and there was noth- 
 ing to do but to humour him. " Oh yes, I understand you," 
 said Philip. " But who ever heard of a duel without seconds ? 
 You go home, and in the morning send some friend of yours to 
 me, and then the whole thing can be arranged." 
 
 " Ah, I see your trick ! You think you can be off in the 
 morning, and that I can't find you then. No, it's now or never. 
 Come, come no more nonsense about it !" 
 
 " Well, we can talk that over on your way home. I'll go with 
 you. We can't fight here, at any rate." 
 
 " Don't imagine you'll escape me, though." Baretta took up 
 his hat, and started towards the door ; but suddenly he stag- 
 gered slightly and pressed his hand to his forehead with a cry 
 of pain. " It aches ! it aches !" he muttered. Then he turned 
 to Yates again. " What was it I was saying ?" he asked. " My 
 head feels a little queer." 
 
 " Oh, it was nothing of any consequence. You'll feel better 
 when you get home." 
 
 " Who said I was ill ?" demanded Baretta, in an angry tone, 
 but with the air of one who has all his wits about him. " I'm 
 not in the least ill I don't see why you should all insist that I 
 am. However, that's not the question. You've treated me abom- 
 inably, Yates, and I've come here to tell you that I know it, and 
 to warn you that I intend to strike back. Why wouldn't you 
 listen to me the other day? You gave me no chance to explain. 
 You swallowed all that fellow's lies about me, and then rushed 
 off to Miss Lawrence and poisoned her mind against me. By 
 Heaven ! I'll have my revenge for that." 
 
 " I I don't quite know what to make of you," Philip said. 
 "Are you in your right mind or not?" 
 
 350
 
 " In my right mind ? Of course I'm in my right mind. What 
 the devil are you driving at ?" 
 
 " Then why do you come here in this fashion with your in- 
 coherent rubbish about revenge ? It looks as if you'd been play- 
 ing off crazy on me." 
 
 " You seem to be a little touched yourself !" said Baretta, 
 contemptuously. " I can't understand your talk on any other 
 supposition. But we've had enough of this sort of thing. I say 
 again that you have slandered and maligned me, and I intend to 
 make you answer for it." 
 
 " It is not I who have slandered and maligned you if you 
 call telling the truth about you slandering and maligning. I 
 came to you the other day because I wanted to save you as 
 well as others. You treated me in such a manner that I had no 
 other course left than the one I took." 
 
 " Which was to go to Miss Lawrence " 
 
 " We will leave her name out of the discussion, if you please," 
 interrupted Philip. " You have said quite enough about her. 
 If I hadn't supposed you were out of your head But I didn't 
 realize that you were such a fine actor. Really," Philip said 
 with a sneer, " now that the Baron business is played out you 
 ought to go on the stage." 
 
 " Damn you !" cried Baretta, furiously. " I suppose you think 
 that because I arn down you can kick me safely. But you'll 
 find out your mistake just remember that. Do you suppose I 
 believe you when you tell me you had no hand in this vile con- 
 spiracy against me ? Pah ! you lie you're a damned liar, that's 
 what you are !" 
 
 " Leave this room !" Philip said, sharply, exasperated beyond 
 endurance by this outbreak of insult and intemperate anger. 
 " Leave this room ! If you come here again you'll get a broken 
 head. That's all I have to say to a fellow of your stamp. Do 
 you hear what I say ? Why don't you go ?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm going," said Baretta, with a mocking laugh. " I'm 
 going. I know now perfectly well who my enemy is. You've 
 shown yourself in your true colours. Don't blame me if 
 anything happens." He laughed again, bowed very low with 
 exaggerated courtesy, and went away closing the door loudly 
 
 351
 
 behind him. Philip heard him laugh a third time on the 
 stairs. 
 
 " After all," Philip said, when the first feeling of anger had 
 begun to die away, " it was a little below the belt to talk about 
 the Baron business and the stage." He was rid of him at last, 
 however ; those vapourings about revenge were too ridiculous to 
 be considered seriously. But what an absurd piece of business 
 it was for a man to pretend that he was out of his head ! Was 
 it pretence ? It must be that, since Baretta was certainly sane 
 enough when he went away. And yet Philip was not sure. It 
 had been marvellously real. " I hope he will get home all right," 
 Philip thought. After all, what concern was it of his ? Since 
 Baretta had apparently come to his senses, at any rate, he had 
 no right to interfere. It was a responsibility of Avhich he was 
 glad to be relieved. Nevertheless, he strolled to the window 
 presently with a vague idea that Baretta might still be lingering 
 about. There was no one in the place below ; even the cabs on 
 the corner had disappeared. " Probably he rode home," was 
 Philip's conclusion. It struck him that the air was close in 
 the room, and he threw up the sash and leaned out for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Baretta laughed as he went down the stairs, and when he 
 reached the pavement he looked back and shook his fist mena- 
 cingly. " If I had only done it then !" he muttered. " I'm a 
 coward a coward ! I talk and talk, but when the time comes 
 to act pah ! what a coward I am !" He walked to the corner, 
 keeping in the shadow ; then he stopped short, and looked back 
 once more. " What did he mean by my playing off crazy ? 
 Is there anything wrong with me ? What should there be 
 wrong ? My head aches, but any number of people have trouble 
 of that sort. What a coward I was not to do it then ! Still, 
 there would have been a risk." He glanced cautiously about 
 him. " From that doorway across the street, now it's dark in 
 there and no one would see. There's that cabman shaking his 
 head at me and saying I'm not Baron Smolzow. I must get out 
 of his sight, anyway. Damn you, I'll fire at you if you don't 
 stop shaking your head." He went on thus with incoherent 
 mutterings for several minutes, and more than one passer-by 
 
 352
 
 stopped to stare at him. Then he crept back under the shadow 
 of the building, and after a moment of hesitation, crossed over 
 and hid himself in the shadow of the doorway opposite. He 
 could see the windows of Yates's rooms plainly from where he 
 stood. Curse the fellow ! who had hated him from the first, and 
 had worked against and finally ruined him ; and who would live 
 in luxury among the swells, while he married Maud and went 
 back to shabby lodgings. There was no justice in it. But this 
 was an unjust world, in which the weakest went to the wall. 
 
 His father's revolver was still in his pocket, and he took it 
 out and gazed at it affectionately. " He left me this anyway, if 
 he did take my papers and my money. I guess it may be just 
 as much use." He chuckled to himself at the thought. It 
 was a fine thing to be able, simply by moving a finger, to put 
 an enemy out of the way. It gave one such a sense of power. 
 Only a coward would worry about the consequences. That cab- 
 man out there would be shaking his infernal head again and 
 calling him a coward. He peered cautiously from the doorway, 
 but there was no one in sight. The cabman must be around the 
 corner. At that moment he heard the noise of an opening win- 
 dow and looked up quickly. By Heaven ! it was Yates ; his 
 figure was sharply outlined in the yellow glow from within. 
 Baretta took up his revolver once more and pointed it at his 
 unconscious victim. How easy it would be ! He had only to 
 move a finger, and then all that he had suffered would be amply 
 avenged. He heard some one whispering in his ear that he was 
 a coward. A coward ? He would show them whether he was a 
 coward or not. 
 
 Then a shot rang sharply out in the still night air. 
 
 z 353
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 "THERE ARE BLIND WAYS PROVIDED" 
 
 IT seemed to him as if he had been wandering for whole days 
 and nights, neither eating nor sleeping only hurrying through 
 some vague, misty, unknown country where all the shapes he 
 met were grizzly spectres. He had raised his revolver and fired, 
 and then he had slunk away in the shadow. He remembered 
 hearing voices, and seeing two or three hurrying figures. But 
 no one had noticed him, no one interfered with him as he came 
 out into the light and walked rapidly away. He could not 
 quite realize what he had done. He had seen Yates stagger 
 and fall backward ; afterwards everything became dim before 
 his eyes. The two squares of light that he had been watch- 
 ing flamed out red. He shivered and buttoned his coat tightly 
 about him ; the wind seemed to pierce him through and through 
 as he hurried on. One thought only was in his mind to go 
 where his enemies could not reach him. He had nothing to 
 stay for now that he had punished the worst enemy of all. He 
 could not revenge himself upon Mildred, who had called him a 
 coward. And yet if she loved Yates still, this would be strik- 
 ing her through him. Perhaps that was the completest ven- 
 geance of all. They could ruin him if they would, but he had 
 made others suffer ; whatever happened it would be sweet to 
 know that. But now he must go away before they found him 
 before the hideous story was ringing in everybody's ears as it 
 rang in his own. 
 
 What was the thing he had heard that Pinkerton fellow read 
 one day the man whom he hated, and who hated him ? Curse 
 him ! why was there no way of shooting him down, too ? And 
 
 354
 
 Mildred herself the revolver had been in his hand when she 
 called him a coward, and still he had not used it. That would 
 have been the fitting ending of all, to take her life, and then his 
 own ! It was too late now ; but why had he not done it ? Sure- 
 ly life was drawing to a close for him. He had shot down 
 Yates, but his own time was coming ; this throbbing in his tem- 
 ples, the red light that dazzled his eyes were they not fatal 
 premonitions? Oh yes, he would find some refuge from his 
 troubles at the last. Strange that he could not recall the lines 
 that Pinkerton had read ! he whose memory was so good. It 
 must be the pain he was suffering that bewildered him. There 
 were blind ways provided oh, he knew the lines now ! Where 
 was he ? Here were the naked branches of the trees wailing 
 above his head ; it was like some great scene in a theatre. 
 
 " There are blind ways provided, the foredone, 
 Ileart-weary player in this pageant world 
 Drops out by, letting the main masque defile 
 By the conspicuous portal." 
 
 What did it all mean ? The words were meaningless enough to 
 him. Poetry was poor stuff ; there was no consolation in talk- 
 ing about players and masques when one had played his own 
 part merely to be hissed off the stage. What did the poets 
 know about it ? It was a poet who had aroused him to pity 
 the complaining millions of men, who darken in labour and pain ; 
 and how much good had he been to them or to . himself ? He 
 had wasted a great career, and he had not even gratitude to 
 show for it. The complaining millions had turned against him. 
 Ditton and Luck and all the rest were his enemies, too. Per- 
 haps he might have a chance to revenge himself upon them, he 
 thought, as he thrust his hand into his pocket and grasped the 
 revolver once more. That would be better than dropping out 
 by the blind ways provided for 'the heart-weary player. Pah ! 
 couldn't he get that nonsensical stuff out of his head ! Curse 
 all poets and poetry ! he had other things to think of. Oh, 
 there were opportunities yet for many things. If only that 
 throbbing in his head would stop for a moment, that he might 
 think clearly. 
 
 355
 
 Was not this the dawn coming up grimly out of the east ? 
 Surely there was a cold gleam of light upon the deserted pave- 
 ments, and the orange lamps were turning a sickly yellow. But 
 how cold it was, and how the wind cut him to the very heart ! 
 He was a fool to be wandering about the streets of the city in 
 this fashion. Why didn't he go home and go to bed ? It was 
 sleep that he needed sleep to still the pain and the misery. 
 What had he done that he should wander about like a vaga- 
 bond ? He had no reason to be afraid. No one would suspect 
 him. Dead men tell no tales. Dead] who knew that Yates 
 was dead? He had seen him stagger and fall, but no one could 
 say that he was dead. Nothing but failure even his revenge 
 might be that ; and then he would have to drop out by one of 
 the blind ways. It was maddening to think that all his life had 
 gone completely astray that even in its last moments it was 
 miserably futile. For was not this the end of all ? It would 
 be better to die than to live an object of scorn to one's self and 
 to all the world. The whole bitter struggle would be over if he 
 put the weapon he was fondling to his head ; and then it would 
 not matter what was said of him. Perhaps it was the only 
 revenge he could take. Some of those who persecuted him 
 who were determined to drag him down might have the re- 
 morseful conviction that they had driven him to it. This an- 
 ticipation was an emotional luxury that helped to console him 
 for what he had suffered. 
 
 But, no why should he acknowledge defeat before it was in- 
 evitable ? He had revenged himself upon Yates, and upon the 
 woman who had spurned him, but who loved Yates. That was 
 something worth thinking of ; even if they traced the deed to 
 his hand he could still exult. Pah ! what folly it was to fancy 
 that the truth must come to light. No one had seen him ; he 
 was sure of that, or he would have been followed and taken. 
 And although he had threatened Yates, and had left Livingston 
 Place in anger, so that they might suspect, he need not be afraid 
 of mere suspicion. Besides, if his aim had been true, if his enemy 
 were really dead, no one would know of his visit at all. " A 
 Mysterious Murder !" the words seemed to dance before his 
 eyes in big black letters, just as they would appear to the 
 
 356
 
 startled gaze of all the city in the morning. Why, it was morn- 
 ing now, and the story had already gone forth from the great 
 hurrying presses ! And what would be said if he should 
 be found here, wandering about with the very weapon in 
 his pocket ? What a fool he was ! Could it be true that he 
 was losing his wits ? He must get home at once. The gray 
 light glimmered along the dull rows of blank and tenant- 
 less windows as he hurried along. As he turned into Hunt- 
 ington Avenue from the tangle of South End streets in which 
 he had lost himself, he came face to face with a solitary po- 
 liceman. Curse the fellow ! why should he stare at him in 
 that fashion? Was there anything strange in a gentleman 
 going home rather later than usual after a little game of cards 
 somewhat unduly prolonged ? ' The excuse rose to his lips al- 
 most without premeditation, as he reflected that he might have 
 to account for himself because of the testimony of that one wit- 
 ness. But whose business was it where he had been ? Suspi- 
 cion and proof often lie a long way apart ; and proof would 
 surely be impossible, and he did not care if they suspected him. 
 He had lost so much that losing a little more did not count. 
 Everything was gone, and his only friend in the world was 
 Maud, whom he had been willing to throw over in order to save 
 himself. Poor Maud ! but he would make it up to her. She 
 would be waiting for him, and she would go to the end of the 
 world with him. 
 
 He let himself into the house very softly, and crept up-stairs 
 to his own rooms. When he was well inside he fell helplessly 
 into a chair, realizing for the first time how utterly exhausted he 
 was. Curse that clock ! why did it tick so loudly, beating into 
 his brain like the strokes of a hammer ? His conscience did not 
 accuse him ; it was mere justice that he had wrought upon the 
 enemy who had betrayed him ; and yet the clock was like an 
 accusing conscience. He would stop it by-and-by, when his 
 head ceased to swim and his heart to beat so violently. If he 
 could only find oblivion as easily as he could do that ! Oh 
 yes ! there were blind ways provided but his part was not yet 
 played. When the shock of all that had happened was over, 
 and he could think more clearly, he would know what to do. 
 
 357
 
 But they must not find him here these enemies of his, who 
 would try even yet to track him down. He rose presently and 
 wandered about the room, putting together a few things that he 
 must take with him. Curse the clock ! He seized it in a sud- 
 den fury and hurled it to the floor. There was a confused rattle, 
 and the sharp sound of a bell ; then it was silent. He gave a 
 sigh of relief to find himself free from its unspoken monitions; 
 a conscience like that would be maddening. Oh, it was clear 
 that he must get away from everything which reminded him of 
 what he had done. He went into his chamber, and brought out 
 a large travelling-bag, and began to pack his clothing in it. He 
 had paid more attention to clothes of late than had been his 
 wont in the old days. He had a handsome suit of evening 
 clothes, and he knew their use flow. He also had a black frock- 
 coat faced with silk and elegantly made not the ill-fitting gar- 
 ment he had worn on the occasion of his first appearance at Mrs. 
 Chiltc-n's. These he tumbled rather recklessly into the bag, 
 throwing scarfs, collars, shirts, and other articles of apparel after 
 them in dire confusion. What was the use of being too par- 
 ticular? He had more important matters to occupy his mind. 
 He did not yet know where he was going. But why should he 
 hurry ? he asked himself, presently. No one had suspected him 
 yet ; no one was likely to interfere with him. Perhaps the 
 story would not come out in the Mail, after all. The story ! 
 this was the morning it was to appear ; he had forgotten that. 
 He must send out and buy a paper when the sun rose and the 
 world began stirring again. And if the story were there what, 
 then, should he do ? He had a vague foreboding of the conse- 
 quences of reporters from the other papers coming to " inter- 
 view " him ; of acquaintances passing him with a curt nod or 
 cutting him dead ; of that confounded Thompson rushing up full 
 of voluble curiosity; of all the sickening chatter which so great a 
 scandal would create. No, he could not face all that ; it would 
 drive him wild. 
 
 But the feeling of utter exhaustion overcame him again, and 
 he flung himself, still dressed, upon the bed, where he lay for an 
 hour or more, perfectly conscious, but incapable of speech or 
 motion, in a kind of waking trance. Vague phantoms flit- 
 
 358
 
 ted through his imagination, and yet he saw with perfect dis- 
 tinctness the first rays of the sun striking the curtained panes, 
 and heard the cheerful tumult increasing in the street without. 
 The story would be told to all the city by this time. He must 
 get away before any one found him ; oh yes, he must do that. 
 He rose again, and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, 
 saw how pale his face was, how wild and haggard his aspect. 
 If any one should meet him now well, he would put that quite 
 out of the question. He took the bag which he had packed so 
 hastily and crept down-stairs again. He heard a door close and 
 looked back, expecting to see Thompson hurrying after him 
 but no, there was no one ; he would escape without being seen. 
 He hurried down the steps and turned sharply into a by-street 
 which would lead him across the railway into one of the main 
 thoroughfares, where a man walking along with a bag would at- 
 tract no attention at all. He had gone some distance before he 
 remembered that he had no money that his father had stripped 
 him of everything. He thrust his hands into his pockets with 
 tremulous haste. Nothing but a little silver ! and how could 
 he leave the city with only this ? Why, he must eat and sleep 
 somewhere ; the pangs of hunger were becoming very keen at 
 last, in spite of the agitations which had for a time caused him 
 to ignore them. And he had nothing his father had robbed 
 him relentlessly. He gave a groan of helpless rage at the 
 thought. He could not stand here lamenting, however ; he 
 must walk on, he must get somewhere beyond the reach of his 
 enemies. 
 
 "How much you vant for it?" It seemed as if he were 
 still in a dream when this black-bearded, ill-looking man leaned 
 over the counter to ask him this question. " Veil, veil how 
 much ?" 
 
 Oh yes, he knew now ; he was trying to pawn the clothes in 
 his bag so that he might have the money to go far from this 
 vile city where every man's hand was against him. "How 
 much ?" Baretta repeated. " I don't know how much." 
 
 " I give you four tollars and a kevarter for de whole lot." 
 
 " No, you don't," said Baretta, roused to some consciousness 
 of what he was doing by this shameless effort to overreach him. 
 
 359
 
 " Five tollars, and it is shust the very pest I can do." 
 
 " I ain't in the mood for charity," the young man said, an- 
 grily, as he took up his bag and left the shop. 
 
 A little farther on he came to a sign which read, " Second- 
 Hand Clothes Bought and Sold," and it occurred to him that he 
 might as well sell his possessions outright, since he would surely 
 never come back to redeem them. 
 
 The dealer was a mild-mannered man, but he examined the 
 garments with a coldly critical eye. "Dress-suits are hard to 
 do much with," he said, plaintively. " My kind of customers 
 don't wear 'em much." 
 
 " Well, it cost eighty dollars it ought to be worth some- 
 thing." 
 
 " I can only give you what it's worth to me. Now, this other 
 suit I might do better with that. The buttons is a little worn, 
 and there's a spot on the vest but it ain't a bad suit. I might 
 allow you eight dollars on it." 
 
 " Eight dollars !" Baretta cried. " I don't appreciate that kind 
 of joke." 
 
 "Joke, young feller? There ain't a man in the business 
 would give you as much. I'm only doing it as a kind of favour 
 understand ? If you don't want to leave 'em, take 'em away." 
 
 "But the dress-suit the bag everything? How much 
 would that be ? I'm in a hurry, and I've left my money at 
 home. Perhaps vou'd rather lend on them. I'll buy them 
 back." 
 
 " Oh, well, if I ain't to have my profit I can't give you so 
 much. You sell 'em to me, and you can buy 'em back to-mor- 
 row or when you like, just like anybody else. See?" 
 
 " Well, well give me a decent price. Good God, man ! you 
 don't want to crush me, too, just because every one else is con- 
 spiring against me. Twenty-five dollars for everything come, 
 that's cheap enough." 
 
 " Twenty-five dollars ! Look here, you're lucky to get fifteen. 
 And that's more than I'd offer to any other man." 
 
 " Fifteen ? Well, give me fifteen," Baretta cried, impatiently. 
 He took the money as it was slowly counted out to him with a 
 trembling hand. " Oh, you old fraud !" he said, as he flung 
 
 360
 
 down the bag and rushed out, slamming the door behind 
 him. 
 
 But fifteen dollars would take him away, and after that well, 
 perhaps he would not care what might happen to him. Where 
 should he go ? This was the question which he asked himself as 
 he ate his breakfast in an obscure restaurant not very far from Ar- 
 ragon Street, a place where he had been well known in the old days 
 of poverty and self-sacrifice. He had bought a Mail, and the 
 black line " Is he Baron Smolzow ?" was staring him in the 
 face. He read the story over although he had read it once in 
 Binney's office with a morbid fascination. Oh yes, it was all 
 so very plain, so entirely convincing. He might call it a lie, 
 but no one would believe him. His head seemed to be quite 
 clear now ; all the wild fancies of the night had vanished ; he 
 could think calmly of what he must do. And Yates ? he found 
 a short item about him. " Mysterious Shooting Case !" there 
 were only a few lines announcing that a well-known member of 
 the Pilgrim Club had been shot while standing at the window of 
 his room in Livingstone Place, and that the police had not yet 
 found any clew to the assailant. Of course they had not ! Ba- 
 retta said to himself, with a triumphant conviction of his own 
 cleverness. But although he was safe enough on that score, he 
 must get away from the city ; too many disagreeable episodes 
 would follow the discovery that he was not Baron Smolzow. 
 
 Yes, he would take the boat to New York that night it was 
 the cheapest way he could go, and with only fifteen dollars he 
 must look after every penny. It was after eight o'clock when 
 he left the restaurant, and he walked over to Park Square Sta- 
 tion to buy a ticket. He found that the boat -train did not 
 leave until six in the evening. How could he occupy himself 
 until then ? And would there not be danger in lingering so 
 long ? Some one might be on his track already. Perhaps 
 Yates was not dead the account in the paper only spoke of him 
 as being wounded and he might suspect who it was that had 
 fired the shot. Oh no, they should not find him ; he would go 
 away at once. He consulted the time-table, and saw that a train 
 for Fall River left at 9.30. He would take it and spend the day 
 at a place where surely no one would think of looking for him. 
 
 361
 
 When he had come to this resolution lie went into the waiting- 
 room and took a seat in a remote corner, pulling his hat over his 
 eyes and holding the newspaper which he had been carrying so 
 as to hide his face. He was wishing that there was some way of 
 letting Maud know. She would come with him if he asked her 
 of that he was sure ; and loneliness was terrible when one was 
 haunted by evil dreams. Maud would love him, no matter what 
 he had done ; she was not cold and proud and unforgiving like 
 that other woman. Oh, if he could only have Maud to console 
 him ! He ought to have gone to her sooner. Well, why should 
 he not go now ? There was time enough. No one would find 
 him there ; no one would think of looking for him in a dingy 
 tenement in Roxbury. He would run the risk oh yes, he 
 would do that for Maud's sake. He started up full of this new 
 purpose. But before he had got to the door he remembered 
 that he had only fifteen dollars in his pocket. How could he 
 care for Maud with that ? not knowing, too, where he was to 
 get any more when it was gone. His first plan was the best 
 to go away alone and send for her afterwards. She would 
 follow him ; she would be faithful to the last. Poor Maud ! 
 whom he had been so willing to abandon. 
 
 The motion of the train made him drowsy. He leaned back 
 in the luxurious seat and closed his eyes. But was this sleep 
 this hideous procession of spectres dancing before his eyes? 
 There was a red light over everything ; and then a shot rang out 
 in the still air. After that he fell down down over the face 
 of some unfathomable abyss with the dark waters roaring be- 
 neath. He awoke with a start to find that the train had stopped, 
 and that some of the passengers were getting out. 
 
 " Is this Fall River ?" he asked of a man in front of him. 
 
 " No, Taunton," was the reply. 
 
 Baretta looked at the man a second time and saw that he was 
 shaking his head. Confound the fellow ! what did he mean by 
 that? "Oh, you're not Baron Smolzow," he heard him saying. 
 
 " I am Baron Smolzow !" he cried angrily, leaning forward. 
 Then he remembered that no one must know where he was go- 
 ing, and corrected himself. " No, I'm not," he added. 
 
 The man stared at him amazed. " I don't care who you are," 
 
 362
 
 lie said, gruffly, changing bis seat. He afterwards told the brake- 
 man that the dark foreign-looking chap was crazy. 
 
 But Baretta scowled furiously, and muttered that here was 
 another enemy upon whom he would have to revenge himself. 
 Perhaps it was some one who was dogging his footsteps, who 
 would by-and-by accuse him of killing Yates and try to take 
 him away. But he knew how to get even with him, he thought, 
 as he patted affectionately the revolver in his pocket. His father 
 had done him one service, at least, by leaving that behind. All the 
 people in the car were shaking their heads at him, damn them ! 
 but he would have his revenge upon them all. He was Baron 
 Smolzow still, whatever they might say. 
 
 Then all things were as a dream a dream that lasted for days 
 and nights together. 
 
 363
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 "I WILL SAVE 
 
 MAUD went back to her dismal room at Mrs. Jackson's with a 
 heart full of wild anxieties and fears. What could have hap- 
 pened ? He had gone away, and had left no word. It was cruel. 
 He knew that she was waiting for him, and still he went away 
 without letting her know. What had she done to be treated 
 like this ? She was very angry at first, and tried to forget this 
 faithless lover, who had deceived her for the second time. But 
 no such easy way of relief was open to her. " It was you I 
 loved at the last " he had said as he rushed out into the darkness, 
 oblivious to her appealing cry ; he told her to remember that, 
 as if she were likely to forget. And now he had gone, and no 
 one knew where, and had sent her no message at all. Some- 
 thing very terrible must have happened. Perhaps he was out 
 of his head again, and wandering about unconscious of what he 
 was doing. Maud conjured up hundreds of alarming contin- 
 gencies, and shed many a bitter tear of anguish. Every morning 
 she bought a newspaper and scanned its columns with dismal 
 forebodings. But there was nothing nothing! Oh, he did 
 not realize how cruel it was to leave her thus without a word. 
 
 Of course she knew all about the story that he was not Baron 
 Smolzow. The Mail had made its expected sensation, and its 
 rivals were diligently employed in trying to pick up fresh de- 
 tails. Baretta's conduct was scrutinized with pitiless severity. 
 Some of the people who had known him told in "inter- 
 views" how they had always suspected him, had always thought 
 him to be an adventurer. Mr. Orrin Fox Allen was especially 
 voluble. The reporter from the Banner obtained very full de- 
 
 364
 
 tails from him, including a vivid description of the Baron's bad 
 manners on various occasions. Mr. Allen drew attention to the 
 fact, which reflected great credit upon his powers of discern- 
 ment, that he himself had noticed the singular resemblance be- 
 tween the Baron and this Herr Ernil, and consequently had been 
 fully prepared for the revelation. Incidentally he permitted the 
 reporter to describe with great fulness his own charming house 
 at Brookline, as well as to convey to the readers of the Banner 
 a vivid picture of his methods of literary work, and an outline of 
 his plans for enriching still further the intellectual world. Maud 
 remembered Mr. Allen, and how agreeable she thought he was 
 that evening when she met him in the car on the way to Chest- 
 nut Hill. But now she felt that she detested him. How mean 
 he was to Frank, to say those horrid things about him ! The 
 point of some of Mr. Allen's refined sarcasm was lost on Maud, 
 but she understood well enough that it was horrid. Was this 
 why Frank had gone away, because he could not endure such 
 accusations as these ? He ought not to care ; he would be far 
 happier to give up all these people who only made fun of him. 
 She pitied Baretta rather than blamed him. Her moral nature 
 was defective in some respects, perhaps, and she could not 
 realize the enormity of his offence. He had only tried to be a 
 baron in order to put himself upon terms of equality with the 
 swells, to whom he was really so far superior. It was silly of 
 him, but where was the great harm in it, after all ? Her judg- 
 ment might not have been quite so lenient had she loved him less. 
 There were some things in the papers, however, which cut her to 
 the heart. It was the Banner which she read, and that journal was 
 the most active of all in its efforts to outdo the Mail by adding 
 to the sensation. Consequently it took the paragraph in the 
 Weekly Packet which had been so offensive to the friends of 
 Miss Lawrence and constructed out of it a very touching ro- 
 mance. The Banner did not care for the opinions of the Back 
 Bay ; it made no pretensions to " tone," like the Mail. So Mil- 
 dred's name, despite the attempt of Yates to prevent it, was 
 dragged into the story and made the subject of idle or mali- 
 cious comment. The pain of knowing it was spared to Philip, 
 but others were not so fortunate. Yet perhaps not even Mildred 
 
 365
 
 herself suffered more acutely under this affliction than Maud 
 did. Oh, how could it be true? she asked herself. But, of 
 course, it was not true that he had been as good as engaged to 
 Miss Lawrence all the time he was protesting fidelity to her ! 
 Had he not thrown away all his prospects, defied his father and 
 everything, simply for her sake ? and why should he have done 
 that if he had not loved her? She would not believe those lies 
 in the paper for a moment. Nevertheless, she felt herself forced 
 after a time to yield an unwilling credence to the tale. So much 
 that Baretta had said and done confirmed it. Oh yes he had 
 loved her at the last, but it was only when he saw himself alto- 
 gether without hope of winning any one else. Poor Maud could 
 not follow in imagination all the workings of her faithless lover's 
 heart, but she seemed to have somehow an intuitive perception 
 of just what he meant by the wild words that had come from 
 his lips as he rushed out into the darkness. At the last ! he 
 had loved her only at the last, when everything had slipped 
 from his grasp ; he would not have loved her if he had been 
 free to choose. This was the bitterest pang of all. And yet 
 how could she suspect him, when he had sacrificed so much for 
 her sake at a time when he might have chosen ? Thus her 
 thoughts travelled in a never-ending circle of alternate hope and 
 doubt. But whether he loved her or not, she loved him ; and 
 she would do anything to help him if he would come back to 
 her and end this miserable suspense. Oh, where was he ? and 
 why had he left her without a word ? 
 
 " Well, are you goin' to-morrer, or ain't you ?" Mrs. Jackson 
 asked her one evening. " No, I can't come in. Goodness ! how 
 them stairs do tucker me out." 
 
 " Going ? Well, I guess I'll have to go. I can't stay and pay 
 no four dollars a week that's what you said you were going to 
 charge me." 
 
 " Hm ! I thought you was waitin' for your beau," was Mrs. 
 Jackson's comment. " It ain't no four dollars," she added. " I 
 was put out when I said that." 
 
 " But I must go somewhere I must do something !" cried 
 Maud. " And I don't propose to stay with a person who says I 
 ain't decent." 
 
 366
 
 " Bother !" Mrs. Jackson cried, sharply. She had not sought 
 the solace of the gin bottle since the evening when she had had 
 one of her " tantrums," as her husband called them, and her not 
 unkindly natural disposition had reasserted itself. " What's the 
 good in takin' a body up so short ? You're all straight enough 
 do you s'pose I can't tell the difference 1 But what's become 
 of your beau, anyway ?" 
 
 Maud's lips quivered and the tears rose to her eyes. " Oh, 
 I don't know, I don't know !" she cried. " And I'm so miser- 
 able ! Oh, Mrs. Jackson, do you think anything has happened 
 to him ?" 
 
 " How do I know ?" But in spite of the unsympathetic form 
 of the response the worthy landlady's interest was awakened. 
 She advanced over the threshold a few steps, and after a mo- 
 ment of hesitation sat down on the edge of the bed. " P'raps 
 if I knew more about it " Then she paused and looked at 
 Maud expectantly. 
 
 No doubt the girl would have preferred another confidant, 
 but it was quite impossible that she should keep all her worries 
 to herself any longer. It would drive her wild to stay on here 
 day after day, tormented by vague fears, yet hoping against 
 hope. And so in a confused and uncertain way, but still plainly 
 enough, she told her story. 
 
 " My ! my !" was what Mrs. Jackson said when she had heard 
 it. " Well, if I was you I wouldn't have nothin' to do with a 
 feller like that." 
 
 " How do you know he's to blame ?" asked Maud, indignantly. 
 " I think they've treated him shamefully pretending to think 
 so much of him, and then putting things in the papers about him 
 just because he isn't a baron. You'd think to hear that Mr Allen 
 talk that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth the mean thing ! 
 to say what he did about Frank. And then, there's Mr. Yates, 
 who 's always hated him and tried to ruin him. Frank has told me 
 all about it hundreds of times." 
 
 " Yates where did I hear something about a feller named 
 Yates. That was the name, sure." Mrs. Jackson slowly 
 rubbed one hand back and forth over the pillow, as she tried to 
 remember. " Oh, that's the man as was shot," she said, looking 
 
 367
 
 up. " My husband was readin' all about it to me. He used to 
 work once on his place to Lexington ; that's how he was so in- 
 terested." 
 
 " Shot ? Mr. Yates shot ?" gasped Maud, turning very pale. 
 " Oh, there must be some mistake." 
 
 " Well, I guess not. It's all in the paper. An' he knows the 
 family well enough." 
 
 Maud sank back in her chair trembling, and hid her face in her 
 hands. What horrible suspicion was this which had assailed her ? 
 It was too full of terror to be put into words. And yet he had 
 talked so often of revenge upon Yates he had gone away that 
 night in such a desperate mood so unlike himself ; quite out 
 of his head. But he had gone, and he had not come back. 
 Why should he stay away unless he had some awful secret to 
 hide ? " I I'm feeling kind of queer," she said, looking up 
 with frightened eyes. She rose to her feet, staggered, and fell to 
 the floor in a dead faint. 
 
 Oh, how could she think of such a thing ? She would not be- 
 lieve it for a moment. This was what she told herself presently, 
 after Mrs Jackson had left her lying upon the bed, with a stern 
 injunction not to try to get up until she came back. " You're 
 jest beat out with all this worry," Mrs. Jackson had said. It 
 must be because she was beat out that she should cherish such 
 wild ideas, give way to such improbable surmises. Frank 
 could not have done that. He was not a murderer ; the very 
 word made her shudder. She would get the papers and read 
 the whole story ; it was strange she had not noticed it before : 
 the name of Yates was as familiar to her as it was to Mrs. 
 Jackson. Surely, everything would be explained in the papers. 
 They might have found out by this time who the murderer was, 
 since it could not be Frank. Oh, how wicked she was to sus- 
 pect him at all, without knowing anything of the circum- 
 stances ! The man who had treated Frank so badly must have 
 other enemies. But where was Frank himself all this time ? and 
 why did he torture her so ? She could not keep back the tears 
 as she lay there thinking how wretched she was. 
 
 " I guess you'll want to read that about Mr. Yates," Mrs. Jack- 
 son was saying. Maud opened her eyes with a start. She must 
 
 368
 
 have been dozing- a little, and yet it seemed but a few minutes 
 since the landlady had left her. " You seem to know him." 
 
 " Oh no ! but I have heard of him," said Maud, eagerly. 
 
 " I wondered how you was a friend of his. But you seem to 
 have a good many friends among the men. Well, well!" 
 Mrs. Jackson added, seeing the girl flush angrily ; " I didn't 
 mean no harm by that. You're awful touchy. You can git the 
 whole story I keep the paper a good while, and here it is for 
 a week back. The' ain't any satisfaction to me in readin' to- 
 day's news until I've caught up, and sometimes I'm a whole 
 week behind." 
 
 " Thank you," Maud said. "It's strange I didn't notice it my- 
 self." 
 
 " So it's your beau that's the Baron they're talkin' about, is 
 it ? Well, I should say he was a bad lot, and it's my advice to 
 you to have no more to do with him." 
 
 " Why do you say that ?" cried Maud, sitting up. " You've 
 only read those those lies." 
 
 " Oh yes, stick up for him do ! Such fools as women is. 
 Oh, I've seen 'em do it afore an' they was allus sorry enough 
 arterwards. Don't tell me !" said Mrs. Jackson, sharply, as she 
 turned to go down-stairs again. 
 
 Such fools as women were ! Well, perhaps she had been one, 
 Maud thought ; but if that were so her folly had wrought her 
 misery enough. She had suffered everything for Frank's sake, 
 who did not care for her at all. If he had cared he would not 
 have left her without a word. No, it was that other girl 
 whom he had really loved all along. Even the papers were talk- 
 ing about it, and why should she believe his denials ? She re- 
 called, with a heart full of bitterness, the afternoon when she had 
 seen Miss Lawrence coming down the steps her carriage wait- 
 ing for her, and that horrible man who called himself Frank's 
 father bowing low before her. A girl like that, rich and real 
 stylish how absurd it was to suppose that Frank would give 
 her up ! It had been nothing but a pretence all the time. He 
 had shrunk back with a look of terror when he saw her coming 
 along the pavement. She had been a fool to be deluded even 
 for a moment. And now Miss Lawrence had cast him off ; 
 
 2 A 369
 
 there had been an indignant denial of the report of their engage- 
 ment amid the flood of idle gossip in the Banner. Well, he de- 
 served it she was not sorry for him the least bit. " But oh, 
 Frank, how could you treat me so ?" she moaned. 
 
 The shooting of Yates ! she was forgetting about that. She 
 took up the printed sheets with a trembling hand and scanned 
 them eagerly. There was little in them, after all. It was posi- 
 tive that he had been shot by some one in the street. The wound 
 was in his breast, and he had obviously been standing at the 
 window which was open where he had fallen. He had been 
 unconscious, and part of the time delirious, ever since, and it was 
 impossible to get any information from him. Then followed 
 descriptions of his engaging personal qualities, the popularity 
 which he enjoyed at his clubs, his fine estate at Lexington, and 
 the amount of money he had inherited from his father. " It 
 was not known," asserted the reporter, " that Mr. Yates had an 
 enemy in the world." Thus the case was a very strange one 
 throughout. No one had seen any visitors entering or leaving 
 his rooms during the evening of the "tragedy" this was a 
 favourite word with the Banner although the man who occu- 
 pied the adjoining room suddenly recollected that he had heard 
 loud voices not long before the shot was fired. But he had not 
 paid much attention ; it was no business of his to interfere in 
 his neighbour's quarrels. It was the shot which had first 
 startled him ; and then rushing out he had found Mr. Yates, 
 bleeding and unconscious, before the open window. lie was 
 very sure that the weapon must have been fired from the street. 
 Both the cabmen who had rushed up-stairs in response to his 
 summons were of the same opinion ; and they were positive 
 that they had seen or heard no one leaving the building, although 
 they had hurried in from the corner of the street before they 
 were called, the noise having naturally at once attracted their 
 attention. There were others who had more or less to say 
 about the affair, but their remarks were not enlightening. Thus 
 the space occupied by Philip's affairs dwindled from day to day. 
 The statement that the ball had missed the left lung, but that 
 the recovery of the patient was still doubtful, was the bulletin 
 of yesterday. And this morning ? Oh, she would have to wait 
 
 370
 
 until night, when Mr. Jackson brought home to-day's paper, to 
 know. He might die ! was the awful thought that haunted 
 Maud ; and could it, oh, could it be Frank who had killed 
 him? 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock when she heard Mrs. Jackson's voice 
 calling her from below, and hurried down-stairs in response to 
 the summons. "There's another feller this time," Mrs. Jackson 
 said, grimly, " settin' in my parlour waitin' for you. I wa'n't 
 goin' to send him up don't you think it." 
 
 Maud's heart beat so violently at this announcement that she 
 hardly noticed the slur. She went to the parlour door, but 
 paused a moment with her hand upon the knob. She was con- 
 scious of a miserable foreboding of evil. What could any man 
 want with her, unless he had something to say about Frank ? 
 
 " I'm sorry to trouble you, miss," said her visitor, politely, as 
 she entered. " You're Maud Dolan, I presume ? Well, do you 
 know a man who calls himself Baron Smolzow ?" 
 
 " I know Mr. Baretta," said Maud, stiffly. She was trembling 
 with fright, but she would not let him know, whoever he was. 
 
 " Well, it's the same fellow, I guess. Do you know where 
 he is ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Now, look here, miss," said the man, " I don't want to make 
 you any trouble, as I say, but this is a serious case. I'm an in- 
 spector of police " 
 
 But Maud interrupted him with a scream. " Oh, he didn't do 
 it ! I'm sure he couldn't have done it !" 
 
 " Ah !" the inspector said, dryly. " It looks rather black for 
 him, I must say. We'll have to summon you as a witness 
 when we've got him. But I tell you, miss," he went on, in a 
 kindly tone, " it'll be better for you to tell me the truth." 
 
 " The truth ?" asked Maud. She was very pale, but her lips 
 were firmly set, and she looked at her questioner defiantly. 
 " There ain't no truth about it. I don't know where Mr. Baretta 
 is, or what you want him for. And if I did I wouldn't tell." 
 
 " It's a serious charge, you know shooting a man, who may 
 die any minute. Oh, I like your pluck, young woman, but you 
 can't fool me." 
 
 371
 
 " I haven't seen Mr. Baretta for a week. I don't know where 
 he is. And I won't believe anything you say against him." 
 
 " Very well," said the inspector. " You'll have to tell some 
 day. Good-evening. I shall know where to find you," he add- 
 ed, coming back. " Just you remember that. I'm sorry, miss, 
 that you ain't willing to help us." 
 
 But there was some one whom she was willing to help, Maud 
 said to herself after the inspector had gone. She had almost 
 forgotten all her doubts about her lover's fidelity in the pres- 
 ence of this new danger. It was terrible to think of him as a 
 murderer; she felt that she should shrink from him with dread 
 and loathing if he ever came back. Oh, it was better, far bet- 
 ter, never to see him again ! But they must not find him ; that 
 would be worst of all. There must be some way to prevent it 
 something that even a poor girl like her could do. She went 
 back to her room and pondered long and deeply. Then sud- 
 denly she arose with a desperate look, and putting on her hat 
 and sacque went out into the street. " I guess she'll be sur- 
 prised," Maud muttered bitterly as she hurried along, " but I will 
 save him !" She did not notice that a man who had been stand- 
 ing on the pavement was now following her. She had forgot- 
 ten all about the inspector's remark that he would know where 
 to find her. 
 
 372
 
 " OH, you needn't tell me !" Daisy said, her eyes glistening 
 with tears and her voice trembling as she spoke. " I know per- 
 fectly well who did it that miserable Baron of yours ! whom 
 you've all made fools of yourselves about, though Philip was a 
 gentleman, and he wasn't. And now he's dying, and and he'll 
 never know how we feel about it," she went on, with a sob. 
 " Oh, Mildred, I'd like to shoot the wretch myself !" 
 
 " I I don't think you're very kind, Daisy," said Mildred, very 
 humbly, and in a voice that trembled a little, too. " If I have 
 made a mistake, I have been punished for it more than any of 
 the rest of them. You don't suppose I like to have my name 
 bandied about in the papers, do you ? As for Phil Mr. Yates 
 you've no right to hint that it is my fault." 
 
 " I didn't hint any such thing. I don't suppose you knew 
 your Baron was a murderer as well as a swindler." 
 
 " Daisy !" Mildred cried. " We don't know anything about 
 it we have 'no right to suspect him. It's bad enough with- 
 out that. And now that Philip Mr. Yates may be dying 
 Oh, Daisy !" and here Mildred began to cry, " he will never 
 know " 
 
 " That you forgave him, dear," said Daisy, gently. " That is, 
 if there was anything to forgive," she could not help adding. 
 
 But Mildred rose hastily, and dried her eyes, a little angry 
 that she should thus have betrayed herself. " That isn't what 
 I meant at all," she murmured faintly. She remembered now 
 that she had of late more than half suspected Daisy of being in 
 love with Philip herself, and the recollection was an additional 
 
 373
 
 source of embarrassment. It would be a part of the irony of 
 Fate if this were so. 
 
 Perhaps Daisy, too, was a little vexed with her friend, for 
 some reason or other. It could not be because Mildred still 
 cared for Philip, and suffered so acutely from the reflection that 
 she had been unkind to him. She had herself been trying to 
 reconcile them all along. And yet she was conscious of a 
 wretched feeling of dissatisfaction. " I never could xinderstand 
 you," Daisy said a little sharply as the two went off to dress for 
 dinner. 
 
 But even Daisy did not know all that Mildred had suffered on 
 Philip's account. If she had really misjudged him, she had 
 atoned for it. She had loved him all along, although she had 
 said that she could not forgive him. It is commonly thought 
 that love must mean forgiveness, in spite of numberless instances 
 to the contrary. Our bitterest judges are our friends, not our 
 enemies ; because in disappointing the ideal which our friends 
 have cherished of us we do them a wrong hard to overlook, 
 while our enemies have no such ideal, and take a certain satisfac- 
 tion in finding their suspicions justified. He was a wise man 
 who said that a man's worst foes shall be they of his own house- 
 hold. It was the very sincerity of her love for Philip which had 
 made Mildred's disappointment in him so keen, which had made 
 first his indifference and then his anger so exasperating. It was, 
 perhaps, impossible that he should see why a single quarrel must 
 separate them forever, but it had set its ineffaceable mark upon 
 her soul ; and what was the use of merely pretending that one 
 could forget ? But in the shadow of death all the perspectives 
 of life, all its relative values, seem somehow to be changed. To 
 think that Philip was dying, and that he would never know how- 
 much she loved him ! this it was that tortured Mildred, who 
 was helpless to save him. She did not understand the change, 
 but she knew that she would give all she had in the world to be 
 able to whisper in his ear her brief but potent confession. If 
 he should live, after all ! but that was something which seemed 
 to her anxious imaginings quite incredible. Oh yes she had 
 been punished only too severely, and there was no escape from 
 her punishment. The doctors had pretended to be hopeful; 
 
 374
 
 they said he had a good constitution ; but what did they know 
 how could they tell ? And he would die and never know this 
 was the burden of that half confession to Daisy. 
 
 What she did not tell Daisy was that she had been to Philip's 
 rooms, and that Philip's mother had rebuffed her cruelly. It 
 was one of those opportunities for revenge which only the 
 weaker sex is strong enough to take advantage of. Daisy had 
 been twice to inquire after him, and had seen Mrs. Yates, who 
 had come in from Lexington because Philip could not be moved 
 at present. But Mildred's anxiety could not be satisfied by her 
 friend's reports. She felt that she herself must go ; perhaps 
 she thought of it as in some way an atonement for the past. 
 It was not a pleasant task, but she would not shrink from it. 
 She knew that Philip's mother cherished no amiable feelings 
 towards her, but surely at such a moment the past might be 
 forgotten. Once, at least, she and Philip had loved each other, 
 and it would be monstrous if she should let him go down to his 
 grave and make no sign of reconciliation. But no, oh no ! it 
 could not be so bad as that! he would live, and would know 
 that she had forgiven him. 
 
 It was anything but easy, however, to go to Livingstone Place 
 and ask for Mrs. Yates. Mildred waited below in the carriage, 
 sending up the footman with a bunch of roses and a note. 
 " Dear Mrs. Yates," it ran, " may I see you just for a moment ? 
 I am very anxious this is a great grief to all his friends." It 
 was not very coherent, but when Mrs. Yates looked at the signa- 
 ture she knew what it meant, and for a moment she had an 
 inclination to relent. Perhaps she had been somewhat unjust 
 to the girl, after all ; she knew herself what it meant to be dis- 
 appointed in Philip. Then the thought that this terrible thing 
 might never have happened but for Mildred hardened her heart 
 again. The broken utterances of Philip's delirious moments 
 had made it all very plain to her. Just who the would-be mur- 
 derer was, or what his motive had been, she did not know ; but 
 it was for Mildred's sake that her son had incurred his enmity. 
 It was this girl who had changed him so, and who might be the 
 means of taking him away from her forever. So Mrs. Yates sat 
 down and wrote, " I beg you will excuse me," and sent the man 
 
 375
 
 back with this answer. She would have liked to bid him return 
 the roses, only that she could not humiliate Mildred before a 
 servant. But she threw them into the fire and saw their fresh 
 loveliness shrivel and blacken with the sweet consciousness that 
 she was having her revenge. 
 
 Poor Mildred ! she drove away with burning cheeks, angry 
 with Philip's mother, and with herself for inviting this rebuff. 
 How cruel, how unjust it was to treat her so ! and now he would 
 never even know that she was sorry. She shed a few hot tears 
 of mingled grief and vexation. Of course she would not tell 
 Daisy what had happened ; she would a thousand times rather 
 suffer under the imputation of being cold and unforgiving. But 
 it was a little hard that Daisy should have had a privilege which 
 she had been refused. Philip would think that only Daisy 
 cared enough for him to come and ask after him. But what 
 difference did that make ? If he lived, it would be Daisy's part 
 to console him. If he lived ! oh, but he must live ; she could not 
 bear to think of that other dreadful possibility. And then to 
 have Daisy reproach her for not caring ! No wonder that she 
 was vexed with her friend, and went down to dinner feeling very 
 miserable indeed. "A young person?" she repeated, mechan- 
 ically, when the man came in just as dessert was being served. 
 " And waiting in the hall ? Take her into the reception-room, 
 and say I will see her presently. Perhaps it is one of your pen- 
 sioners, papa," she added, trying to speak lightly. 
 
 Meanwhile Maud was waiting for her with anxious expect- 
 ancy, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously and listening 
 with a throbbing heart to the solemn ticking of the tall clock at 
 the foot of the staircase. The strange luxuriousness of her sur- 
 roundings oppressed her. Perhaps she had done wrong in com- 
 ing. And yet how could she stay away when so much was at 
 stake ? It was all she could do for Frank's sake to appeal to 
 this young lady whom he had loved, and who was rich and power- 
 ful and could help him. Maud hated her because she had tried 
 to take him away ; nothing could make her believe that she had 
 not tried to do that. Nevertheless, she would save him by ap- 
 pealing to Miss Lawrence. Oh, it was impossible that Frank 
 could be a murderer ! But he was poor and friendless, and the 
 
 376
 
 law was never just to such as he. How very rich Miss Law- 
 rence must be to live in such a beautiful house ! Maud reflect- 
 ed bitterly upon the hopelessness of her own position as she sat 
 there and waited. Was it strange that Frank should have want- 
 ed to give her up ? But he had loved her at the last oh yes, 
 she would always remember that. And she would tell her so 
 the girl who had despised him, although she had been so will- 
 ing to rob another of his love. When Mildred came into the 
 room, however, she merely rose and stared at her, incapable of 
 speech Miss Lawrence was so dignified, she was so far above 
 the level of a poor shop-girl. 
 
 '_' What can I do for you ?" Mildred asked, graciously. 
 
 Then Maud's long pent-up emotion found utterance. " For 
 me ? Nothing !" she said, with a glance of sullen defiance. 
 " Do you think I'd come to you for that ? But, oh, it's him 
 that's in trouble there's been a man looking for him, and if 
 they find him He didn't do it ; I tell you he didn't ! You took 
 him away from me, and I hate you !" Maud cried, stamping her 
 foot passionately ; " and once I thought I'd rather have died 
 than come to you to ask for anything. But to think that he 
 should be in trouble like this, and all for my sake and no one 
 knows where he is he may be dead, though you wouldn't care 
 for that ! Oh, can't you do something to help me find him and 
 save him from them ?" 
 
 This wild appeal was quite unintelligible to Mildred. Her 
 first thought was that this strange young woman must be crazy. 
 " I I don't xmderstand you," she said at last, faintly. " You 
 must have made some mistake." 
 
 " Don't turn away from me hear what I have to say. I 
 guess you ain't such a great lady that it will hurt you to listen. 
 They think he shot Mr. Yates, but it ain't true I tell you it ain't 
 true !" And Maud began to cry bitterly. 
 
 " Shot Mr. Yates ? Who shot Mr. Yates ? And who are you, 
 and why do you come here and talk to me like this?" 
 
 " Because I love him ! Oh, I ain't ashamed of it not one 
 bit. He's worth more than all the fine gentlemen in the world. 
 I don't care if he ain't a baron that's not his fault. But you 
 what do you care whether he's alive or dead ? I guess I 
 
 377
 
 might as well go," said Maud, with a pathetic assumption of 
 dignity, " since you won't do anything to help me." 
 
 No wait," Mildred said, putting out a detaining hand. " It 
 must be Mr. Baretta you are talking about. You are rather im- 
 pertinent," she added, coldly, " but I suppose you hardly realize 
 it. If you would tell me the whole story " 
 
 " Impertinent !" cried Maud. " Well, I don't care if I am. 
 Oh yes," she went on angrily, " you were willing enough to 
 take him away from me once, but now you don't care what be- 
 comes of him." 
 
 " I can do nothing to help either you or him while you go on 
 in this way. If he is in trouble well, I am sorry for you both. 
 And and if it was he who shot Mr. Yates," exclaimed Mildred, 
 wrath flaming from her eyes, " I hope he'll be made to suffer 
 for it ! What did you come to me for ? I'll do nothing, no, 
 not the first thing, for a swindler and a murderer !" 
 
 "How dare you? how dare you talk so about him?" Maud's 
 voice was loud and shrill as she asked the question, and Daisy, 
 coming through the hall, heard it and stopped. " He was fool 
 enough to care for you that's all the harm he did. But I'll 
 save him in spite of you ! No matter what any one says, I love 
 him and I'll save him though I am a poor girl and not a fine 
 lady." 
 
 And Maud turned to go. She would humiliate herself no 
 more, she thought, trying to choke back the sobs that convulsed 
 her, to wipe away the tears that blinded her. All the world 
 was alike ; there was no pity for those who fell by the way. 
 Why had she come, only to be repulsed? She might have 
 known how it would be. But at the door some one took her 
 by the arm and held her back. 
 
 " You poor girl ! what is the matter ?" Daisy asked. 
 
 " Nothing let me go," said Maud, trying to free herself. 
 
 " Mildred ! don't you understand ?" cried Daisy. " I couldn't 
 help hearing what she said. She has something to tell us about 
 Mr. Baretta and no matter what he has done, I'm sorry for her. 
 Don't go away ; Miss Lawrence didn't quite understand." 
 
 Maud looked np and saw through her tears two piteous blue 
 eyes gazing into hers. Who was this other girl, not like her, 
 
 378
 
 but kind and sympathizing? " Oh, it's nothing to you!" she 
 sobbed. 
 
 But Daisy put her arm about Maud, and tenderly led her back 
 and made her sit down. " I know Mr. Baretta," she said, " and 
 if he treated you badly " 
 
 " He didn't treat me badly. I wasn't good enough for the 
 likes of him once ; but I'll save him, no matter what you say. 
 They're trying to find him they say he shot Mr. Yates. But 
 you mustn't believe it. How could he do that ? He was out of 
 his head he came to see me like that, and then he went away 
 and- oh ! he may be dead or something, for no one knows 
 where he is." 
 
 " There there ; don't cry so," said Daisy, soothingly. She 
 saw at once what Mildred had not seen, perhaps because her 
 sympathies were so much more easily aroused. This was some 
 girl in his own class whom Baretta had loved, and whose fidelity 
 to him had survived every shock. It was pitiful to think how 
 she had been deceived. But whatever he had done it was not 
 her fault, and surely a way might be found to help her. She 
 was a little vexed with Mildred for not understanding the case 
 better. " The poor girl isn't to blarne," Daisy said, looking up. 
 She had been bending over Maud, gently stroking her hand 
 with an irresistible impulse of consolation. 
 
 "You are so heedless, Daisy," Mildred said, shrugging her 
 shoulders. " I'm sorry for her but what can we do ? I don't 
 suppose you want to interfere if he is really guilty." 
 
 Daisy, however, was a very inconsistent person. She had all 
 the feminine dislike of logic ; and although she had expressed 
 her willingness to shoot Baretta herself, and was very indignant 
 when she thought how much Philip was suffering through him, 
 she could not turn this forlorn girl away without trying to help 
 her. " I want to interfere for her sake," Daisy said, defiantly. 
 " Of course, if you don't wish her to stay, she can come home 
 with me." 
 
 " Nonsense !" said Mildred, irritably. She was really begin- 
 ning to feel a little sorry for her strange visitor, although she 
 was at a loss how to show it. She could go and talk to poor 
 people easily enough, and take them food, or give them money. 
 
 379
 
 But a common girl who had been impertinent to her and who 
 knew that she wasn't a bad girl ? was much more difficult to 
 deal with. " I think we had better go up-stairs," Mildred ob- 
 served presently, " and if this this young woman can tell us a 
 connected story I'm sure I tried hard enough to get her to do 
 that but she wasn't exactly respectful " 
 
 " Come," said Daisy, taking Maud's hand, " Miss Lawrence 
 didn't quite understand, at first; but she will help you we both 
 will." 
 
 So Maud came away feeling somewhat comforted, after all. It 
 seemed much easier to talk to this other young lady, who was 
 not so cold and dignified as Miss Lawrence, but who listened 
 with encouraging nods, as if she had known about Arragon 
 Street and the Dolan family all her life. She didn't act a bit 
 like one of the swells, although the card which Maud took with 
 a promise to go and see her soon had Commonwealth Avenue 
 on it ; Maud was not skilled enough in social exigencies to see 
 that it was an even number, and that one who lived on that side 
 of the street might not be so very much of a swell, in spite of a 
 fine house. Miss Tredwell Frank had never spoken of her, al- 
 though she said that she knew him. But Maud could see easily 
 enough that she didn't like him that she didn't believe in him. 
 How unjust of her ! and yet Maud liked her, because she was so 
 kind. She had cried a little over Maud's story, and had kissed 
 her when she said good-bye. Perhaps all the real ladies were 
 not stuck up, as she had thought. No one would doubt that 
 Miss Tredwell was a real lady. Miss Lawrence had tried to be 
 kind, too, and she was no longer angry with her. She wasn't so 
 pretty as Baretta tried to make out ; Maud's sense of rivalry still 
 lingered and disposed her to be unjust ; but she, too, had been 
 sorry, and had promised to do anything she could even for 
 Frank, if it could be proved that he was innocent. Innocent ! 
 Maud repeated to herself. Of course he was why should they 
 suspect him ? And Miss Tredwell had told her that Mr. Yates 
 would surely get better, though perhaps this was only to console 
 her. And yet down deep in her heart there was anything but a 
 feeling of confidence. She remembered only too well what 
 Frank had said about getting even with his enemies. And she 
 
 380
 
 knew what a dreadful temper he had. But to kill a man ! could 
 she love him if he had done that ? Oh no, no ! she said to her- 
 self with a shudder ; or if she still loved him, she could not for- 
 give him. He would never do such a thing never ! unless he 
 were quite out of his head. And he had been that when he 
 rushed away in the darkness on the evening when Mr. Yates was 
 shot. They wouldn't punish him if he was out of his head. 
 That, however, did not make the situation any less miserable. 
 And where was he now ? dead himself, perhaps, and she would 
 never see him again. Her heart ached with its burden of grief 
 as she wearily climbed the stairs to her dismal little room. 
 
 It was not until she had lit the gas that she turned and saw 
 Baretta sitting there. She started back with a shriek, like one 
 whose imagination conjured up some awful spectre. " Frank ! 
 oh, Frank !" she cried, when at last she was capable of speech, 
 " where have you been ? and what have you done 1" 
 
 381
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 MAUD HEARS THE TRUTH 
 
 SHE read his answer in his face before he spoke. His whole 
 look was that of the hunted criminal ; so white and haggard 
 was he, so full of anguish and despair. His eyes were dull, his 
 lips twitched nervously ; and his hand trembled as he pushed 
 back his hair from his forehead with a gesture of utter ex- 
 haustion. " I've been in hell," he said at last. 
 
 " Oh, Frank, Frank !" Maud cried, helplessly wringing her 
 hands, " why did you come here ? You must get away at once. 
 They'll find you, and then oh, tell me it isn't true ! say it isn't 
 true, and I'll believe you and go anywhere with you !" 
 
 " True ? what isn't true ? See here, Maud, I I've been sick. 
 I didn't know what I was about, and I wandered off. Who's go- 
 ing to find me ? I haven't done anything to be afraid of. You 
 you don't seem very glad to see me, Maud." 
 
 " But I have been so worried about you. Why did you go 
 away, and never let me know? And, oh, Frank ! if you haven't 
 done anything wrong, why why should you look like that ?" 
 
 " Like that ?" He rose then, and went to the glass and gazed 
 anxiously at the image of himself that he saw there. " Well," 
 he said, rather fretfully, " any one could see I'd been sick. A 
 week a whole week wandering about the devil knows where. 
 And not myself all the time," he added, with a cunning smile. 
 " How do I know where I've been or what I've been doing ?" 
 
 A feeling of loathing oppressive, deadly overcame Maud 
 as she saw that smile. She could not understand it at all. She 
 loved him oh, what had she not been willing to do for him ? 
 but now she shrank from him and loathed him. 
 
 382
 
 " Well, Maud," Baretta said, advancing towards her, " aren't 
 you going to come with me now ? I said I'd come back, you 
 know and I've kept my word, haven't I ? You don't seem to 
 understand yet, but I will explain everything to you oh yes, 
 there will be plenty of time for that. Maud ! what's the mat- 
 ter ?" he cried, as she eluded his out-stretched hand. 
 
 " Don't touch me !" she gasped. " Oh, Frank, I don't know 
 what it means, but when you come near me Why don't you 
 tell me the truth ? Why do you keep me in misery ?"" 
 
 " The truth ? Look here, Maud, are you out of your head, 
 too ? What's the matter with you, that you shrink away from 
 me ? Damnation !" cried Baretta, in a sudden burst of anger, 
 " have you gone back on me listening to their vile stories, in- 
 stead of believing what I tell you ? Very well, then, I'll go. 
 I'll leave you for good, and you'll never see me again. I 
 Avouldn't marry you now if you got down on your knees to 
 me no, by Heaven ! I wouldn't. I suppose," he added, 
 with a sneer, " some new fellow has turned up since I've been 
 gone." 
 
 " How dare you talk of such a thing, Frank ?" she went on, 
 trying to be calm. " I see it all, now. I wouldn't believe it at 
 first, but something tells me it was you." 
 
 Baretta flung himself down in the chair with a gesture of im- 
 patience. " I'll stay just long enough to find out what in 
 thunder you mean." 
 
 " You must go, Frank ; they may track you here any minute. 
 Oh, why didn't I think of that sooner ?" Maud cried, greatly 
 agitated. " The man came here once the policeman and per- 
 haps he knows you are here now. Oh, go, go, Frank ! Get 
 away somewhere ! Don't let them take you to prison ! I I 
 will try to help you afterwards. Write to me when you are safe 
 but go now !" 
 
 " I'll be damned if I stir a step ! Go ? I guess I've had 
 enough of going don't you see how tired I am ? Why should 
 policemen come here to find me ? There's no reason to be 
 afraid of them," Baretta said, defiantly. Nevertheless, there 
 was a look of fear in his eyes. "You wouldn't betray me, 
 would you ?" he asked. 
 
 383
 
 " Oh, I'll help you but go ! They have found out, somehow, 
 and they will take you to prison." 
 
 " No doubt you want to get rid of me, but I sha'n't go until 
 I'm good and ready. I don't think it's very kind of you, Maud, 
 to treat me like this." 
 
 " Kind !" cried Maud, piteously. " Frank, Frank, you are 
 breaking my heart ! Oh, if you'll tell me that it isn't true what 
 they say, I'll believe you. I'll do anything for you I'll go any- 
 where with you." 
 
 " How can I tell what you're driving at ? Why don't you 
 speak out ?" 
 
 Maud wandered irresolutely about the room before she re- 
 plied. Then she faced him once more. "Did you shoot Mr. 
 Yates ?" she asked. 
 
 The question took him by surprise, and for a minute he lay 
 back in the chair staring at her. " Yates ? What the devil do 
 you know about Yates ?" he said at last, petulantly. 
 
 " Was it you who shot him ?" 
 
 " Well, what if I did ?" He rose with fury in his face, and, 
 seizing her by the shoulder, shook her violently. " By Heaven ! 
 I'll shoot you, too, if you betray me." 
 
 " Let me alone ! how dare you ?" cried Maud, angrily. Oh, 
 how she had been deceived in him all along ! That he should 
 threaten even her, who had loved him and had been faithful to 
 him in spite of everything ! She had tried so hard not to 
 think ill of him to believe that if he had really committed any 
 crime it was because he was out of his head. It was a bitter 
 thing to have all her illusions thus swept away ; and the bitter- 
 ness of it increased her wrath. "Oh, you dirty coward!" she 
 burst forth ; " how dare you touch me ?" 
 
 " Coward !" It was the word which Mildred had used, but 
 somehow on Maud's lips it stung him even more than it had 
 then. "Coward! Til teach you a lesson how to treat me 
 decently next time !" He seized her once again, so roughly that 
 she could not help crying out; then hurled her staggering 
 against the wall. " I'll show you what it is to betray me !" he 
 cried, furiously. 
 
 But Maud had fallen to the floor, and she still laid there help- 
 
 384
 
 lessly, staring up at him with a white face, in which there was 
 pain but no terror. " Well, why don't you shoot me too, as you 
 said you would ?" she asked, suppressing the moan that rose to 
 her lips. " I don't care now," she added, with a piteous sob. 
 
 Baretta's wrath had had time to cool. He realized what he 
 had done what a brute he had been. " I I didn't mean to 
 hurt you, Maud," he muttered, in a shamefaced way. " Con- 
 found it, I don't know what's the matter with me everything 
 upsets me. But what business had yon to call me a coward? 
 I should think you were the coward, to go back on me when I'm 
 in trouble. Maud, why don't you get up instead of lying there 
 and looking at me so ?" 
 
 "I I can't get up I'm hurt so my foot " And then 
 poor Maud fainted away. 
 
 " How did it happen ?" Mrs. Jackson asked, as she responded 
 to Baretta's summons. " Here, you run for the doctor," she 
 said to Mr. Jackson, who had followed her into the hall. " How 
 did it happen ?" she repeated. 
 
 " Oh oh, she fell she must have stumbled against some- 
 thing" 
 
 " I guess 'twas your fist, then," Mrs. Jackson said. " Why 
 don't you stay away and leave her alone ? She says you're goin' 
 to marry her, but if she's wise she'll send you about your busi- 
 ness. I don't see but what she gets into trouble every time you 
 come. Oh, I hain't no patience with these furriners !" she mut- 
 tered as she hurried up-stairs. 
 
 Baretta's dark face flushed with anger at Mrs. Jackson's 
 words, but he made no reply. The result of his latest outburst 
 had indeed frightened him. That he should have struck Maud 
 and hurt her so bSdly ! Maud, who had never had anything but 
 love and kindness for him. It was true that she had provoked 
 him ; but then he ought not to have minded. Some one had 
 been prejudicing her against him. She had spoken about a 
 policeman coming. A policeman ! then they must suspect him 
 already. He had laughed to think that there was no clew, but 
 now this certainty had vanished. How had they found out? 
 who could have told them ? Maud knew, and wanted him to go 
 away at once. Oh yes, no doubt she would be glad to be rid of 
 
 2 385
 
 him now ! She cared for him no longer ; she had as good as 
 told him so. But he would stand his ground. Let them arrest 
 him if they dared. No one had seen him fire the shot, and he 
 was not afraid of mere suspicions. Besides, he was not sure 
 that he wished to escape. Even Maud had deserted him. He 
 had no friend but that tiny weapon his father had left him, 
 which might still do him a service. 
 
 He had to help Mrs. Jackson lift Maud to the bed, although 
 the girl, who had quickly recovered consciousness, shuddered 
 and closed her eyes as he touched her. He saw this and ground 
 his teeth in useless fury. That Maud should shrink from him 
 in this way, as if there were infection in his presence ! Per- 
 haps it was the bitterest humiliation of all that he had suffered. 
 He walked to the window and stood there looking out while 
 Mrs. Jackson bent over Maud and asked her how she felt now. 
 
 " My boot take it off ! oh, be careful !" 
 
 "You'll have to cut the leather," said Baretta, coming for- 
 ward and offering his pocket-knife. 
 
 " All right, young man," Mrs. Jackson said, sharply. " And 
 you jest go down-stairs and wait till you're wanted or leave if 
 you like. I'm goin' to undress her and git her so as she'll be 
 comfortable." 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Maud. " There it's easier now the 
 boot is off. I I want to speak to him all alone before he 
 goes," she added, looking up with eyes full of entreaty. 
 
 " Oh, that means you don't want me." And Mrs. Jackson 
 gave vent to a short hard laugh. 
 
 " Don't be mad about it, Mrs. Jackson. It's it's only a word 
 and I may not ever see him again." 
 
 " Why not ? what are you talking about ?" TBaretta cried, im- 
 patiently. He waited nntil Mrs. Jackson had left the room, clos- 
 ing the door behind her, and then said, "You know I didn't mean 
 to hurt you, Maud. I was angry, and didn't realize what I was 
 doing. I I have been ill my head troubles me I don't un- 
 derstand why, but it aches oh, how it aches !" 
 
 "I am sorry for you, Frank," said Maud, faintly; "and I 
 cannot talk muck now. All I want to ask you is, if if you shot 
 him? Oh, Frank, I don't want to believe it I don't, indeed !" 
 
 386
 
 Baretta scowled at her resentfully before he answered. "He 
 was my enemy I had my revenge on him," he said, at last. 
 " If you intend to go back on me " 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" Maud said again ; and there were tears rolling 
 slowly down her cheeks. " To think that you should do that !" 
 
 " Curse him !" Baretta cried, furiously. " I'd do it again 
 yes, I would, no matter what the consequences were. It was ho 
 that was against me all along that went to her with his foul 
 lies and ruined me. It was just and right that I should punish 
 him for it. And you who pretended to love me " 
 
 " I guess you are the one that did the pretending, Frank," said 
 Maud, smiling bitterly. "But what's the use of talking about 
 it now ? I'll help you any way I can, though I don't see how 
 what can a poor girl like me do ? and she Miss Lawrence 
 perhaps she'll help you, too. She or Miss Tredwell." 
 
 Baretta scowled more savagely than ever when he heard this 
 name. " Miss Tredwell ? what do you know about her ?" 
 
 " I went to see her her and Miss Lawrence. Oh, I could not 
 bear to sit here and wait, and not try to do anything for you." 
 
 " What ! you went to them ? Curse you, you've done me 
 more harm than all the rest. Why didn't you send for the po- 
 lice at once ? The police ! Oh, I dare say they'll be here soon. 
 I suppose you want me to wait for them." 
 
 " No, no !" Maud said, trying to rise, but sinking back with a 
 sharp cry of pain. " Oh, I had forgotten no, you must go at 
 once, before they find you. Go, go ! and send me word some- 
 how where you are, and we will I will help you. Oh, Frank, 
 it breaks my heart to say good-bye to send you away like this 
 but what else can I do ? I would not have believed it no, 
 not for a moment if you hadn't told me. Go I can't talk to 
 you any more !" cried poor Maud, with a sob. 
 
 He stood looking down on her for a moment. There was an 
 expression of devilish malignity on his face that made her cower 
 and tremble before him. " Oh, I'll pay you up, too !" he hissed 
 at last. " Damn you ! if I go to hell I'll take you with me !" 
 
 Maud saw the gleam of the revolver as he aimed it at her. But 
 she was too much overcome by terror even to scream. A hun- 
 dred wild imaginings possessed her in that single moment ; her 
 
 387
 
 supreme thought was that death, however fearful, would at least 
 bring all her miseries to an end. Then suddenly a piercing 
 shriek was heard and voices Mrs. Jackson's voice, and her 
 husband's, and that of a strange man. The tumult aroused her 
 suspended faculties, and once more she tried to rise. " Oh, save 
 him ! save him !" she cried. 
 
 But Baretta, turning quickly, and flourishing his weapon, 
 made a bolt for the door. Mrs. Jackson screamed again, and 
 Mr. Jackson showed remarkable agility in stepping to one side. 
 The stranger alone tried to interfere, and Baretta, by a sudden 
 flank movement, managed to elude his grasp, and so gained the 
 stairway in safety. Another curse, a wild cry of rage, burst 
 from his lips as he hurried down. Then the banging of the 
 door was heard below. 
 
 " Chase him ! Oh, you stupid brute, why don't you catch 
 him ?" Mrs. Jackson cried, addressing her husband. 
 
 " I don't see any good of that now," grumbled he. 
 
 " No," interrupted the other man, " the best thing you can 
 do is to inform the police. He is a dangerous person to have 
 at large, I should say. And now," he added, turning to Maud, 
 " we will look at this young lady's foot, if you please. I am the 
 doctor," he said, in a kindly tone. " Is the pain very great ?" 
 
 But after the doctor had gone, and Mrs. Jackson had dis- 
 cussed the exciting episode from every possible point of view, 
 and had gone down-stairs to wait for her husband, in order to 
 discuss it again, Maud, lying alone in the dim light of a single 
 candle, was saying to herself that now, indeed, everything that 
 made life worth living was over for her, and that death would 
 be a welcome relief. But not by his hand ! though she had 
 thought of it as that, even while his arm was raised to kill her, 
 she was only too thankful that he had been prevented from com- 
 mitting that crime. " Oh, Frank, Frank !" she moaned, feeling 
 how powerless words were to relieve the pent-up tide of emotion, 
 and yet unable to withstand it in utter silence. " Oh, Frank, 
 Frank ! that you could have the heart to do it." The culmina- 
 tion of all her anxieties was far more tragic than her wildest 
 fancies 'could have predicted. A murderer! not out of his 
 head, but sane enough, and a murderer ! What could be worse 
 
 388
 
 than that? How could there be any more poignant misery for 
 her to endure ? 
 
 Poor Maud ! It was not strange that she should think the 
 worst had befallen, that she should imagine the future to hold 
 for her no share of happiness whatever. Her love for Baretta 
 had been the controlling motive of her life for so long, that in 
 the first shock of finding it suddenly taken away all the world 
 seemed to fall about her in ruins. Oh, there was nothing more 
 for her to live for no, nothing. She had given him up once, 
 to be sure ; but then she had this love to console her, and the 
 memory of what had been sweet as well as bitter in the past. 
 But now there was no hope of consolation at all. She could not 
 now think of him as happy in some sphere higher than her own. 
 He had thrown everything away in his passion love and per- 
 haps life itself. They were hunting him down because he was 
 a murderer : he had tried to kill her, who had been faithful to 
 him while he himself was faithless, who had wanted to save him 
 in spite of all. To think she might have died by his hand! 
 She was not afraid of death what more had life to offer her? 
 but to die in that way would have been an intolerable agony. 
 She was thankful that he had not that sin upon his soul. But 
 now what did it matter to her whether she lived or died ? It 
 was natural enough that she should ask herself this question. 
 She could not realize how impossible her dream of happiness 
 with him would have been under any circumstances ; she could 
 not yet be grateful for the very rudeness of the awakening. 
 But she had passed through the blackest crisis of her whole ca- 
 reer, and who should say that happiness would never come to 
 her hereafter? Existence might have an altered meaning, but 
 at twenty hope seldom flees forever. Poor Maud ! She cried 
 herself to sleep that night, and she awoke in the morning with 
 a heavy heart. And there was still another moment of supreme 
 anguish to come the moment when she learned Barctta's fate. 
 Nevertheless, although we mortals are fond of saying that this 
 or the other circumstance is unendurable, we somehow manage 
 to endure it ; and if the scar remains, if the old wound throbs 
 again with pain, we live and laugh and sometimes even love 
 once more. 
 
 389
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 HEMMED IN 
 
 BARETTA ran down the street, with the revolver still in his 
 hand, casting now and then a backward glance in the fear of pos- 
 sible pursuers. It was not until he was some distance from the 
 house, and had turned into one of the main thoroughfares, that 
 he thrust the weapon into his pocket, and slackened his pace to 
 a rapid walk. His heart was beating violently, and the perspi- 
 ation was streaming down his face. Where should he go now ? 
 What should he do ? One thing was certain he Would not wait 
 for his enemies to hunt him down. And yet how could he escape 
 them ? He had no money ; he no longer had any friends. Even 
 Maud was false to him. Maud ! he had tried to kill Maud, but 
 they had prevented him. He was rather glad of that, because, 
 after all, she had loved him once. The worst of it was that a 
 woman had screamed, so that all the world might hear. Oh 
 yes, they would have reason enough to accuse him now, to 
 call him a murderer, as Maud herself had done ! A murderer ? 
 how was it that Baron Smolzow had become a murderer ? 
 He could not understand it at all. And to try to kill Maud, 
 who was in pain and trouble, who had told him that he was 
 breaking her heart ! Surely he was not quite himself to think 
 of such a thing. And now he had nowhere to go, no place of 
 refuge, but must die like a rat in a trap. Death! the word had 
 a horrible sound ; why should he be thinking about death ? 
 Maud was not dead ; he had done her no harm. Oh yes, he 
 was glad of that ; he could not have borne the thought that he 
 had killed Maud. It was different with Yates, who was his en- 
 emy and who had deserved his fate. Justice demanded that he 
 
 390
 
 should die, and although he was still alive, justice would surely 
 be satisfied. But not Maud ! no, although she had treated 
 him so badly. 
 
 The night was chilly, and a fine mist was driving in his face, 
 but he did not mind that. Curse these people ! how they jostled 
 against him as they hurried along the pavement. What were 
 so many of them doing in the streets ? What evening was it ? 
 He had lost all count of time, that vague, wild dream of his had 
 lasted so long. Oh, he knew now ; it must be Saturday evening 
 all the shops were still open. He was dreaming no longer. 
 He had work to do that would keep him awake. And yet had 
 he slept at all since he had seen that black figure outlined 
 against the square of yellow light, and ,had heard the shot ring- 
 ing out in the still night air ? Then everything had become 
 vague and indistinct. He was wandering about in the darkness, 
 under the black walls of the sleeping housos. Then there were 
 great branches tossing in the wind above his head, and he heard 
 a voice telling him of the blind ways that were provided for such 
 as he. 
 
 This pale, cold glow this gray, uncertain light was it the 
 dawn ? They must not find him here. No, he would go away, 
 and without Maud, whom he had loved at the last. The bare, 
 brown fields went flying by as he gazed from the window of the 
 car. But he must get away from these people who were shak- 
 ing their heads at him and saying that he was not Baron Smol- 
 zow. It was all a lie why should they believe a fellow like 
 Yates ? But Yates would tell no more lies. How that yellow 
 light blinded him ! The black figure was there no longer, and 
 how it blinded him ! Now it was turning to red all the air was 
 red about him ; and he was walking on and on, somewhere 
 through a desolate land without a human habitation. Well, he 
 was rid of those people who shook their heads at him ; he heard 
 no longer the roar of the train. It was quiet oh, as still as 
 death out there in the fields ; quiet only for those whispers all 
 around him from invisible lips. He is not Baron Smolzow 
 curse them ! how do they know ? 
 
 It is warm in here in this drowsy corner of the little coun- 
 try inn. Yes, how very drowsy it is. Sleep that is what he 
 
 391
 
 needs. Now he is climbing some quaint old stairs. He keeps 
 on climbing even in the darkness that follows. . . . Ah, how 
 much better he feels ! how clear his brain is at last ! There are 
 no more voices whispering to him : no one says that he is not Bar- 
 on Smolzow. The days go by ; he likes to linger here, where no 
 one will think of finding him. But one night the fit is on him 
 again and he wanders out, and when he comes to himself he is 
 far away, faint and weary, in a strange place. What has hap- 
 pened to him? Perhaps Maud would know Maud whom he 
 loves and whom he had almost forgotten. Maud ! he will go 
 to her. . . . And now he is in the street, and she is lying there 
 in pain because he hurt her he who loved her. What had 
 he done that for ? Poor Maud ! whom he would never see 
 again. 
 
 Oh yes it must be Saturday night, Baretta said to himself, 
 as he walked down the brilliantly lighted street. He heard a 
 clock striking ten, but the shops were still open, and men and 
 women were going in and out, rich for the time in a week's 
 wages. And it was for them he had wanted to sacrifice 
 all for the complaining millions who surged by him in a 
 pitiless procession, with no thought of the misery he had under- 
 gone. They had a week's wages, while he walked on with 
 empty pockets, faint and despairing for lack of food. He had 
 spent his very last cent that morning for a single roll, and here 
 it was night, and he was hungry and homeless. There was no 
 one in all the world to whom he could go : his last friend was 
 Maud, and he had lost her. It would have been sweet to die 
 with her ; but now he must die alone. How, indeed, could he 
 live ? He was young, it is true, and able to work ; but that was 
 what they would not let him do these people who were con- 
 spiring against him. Maud had said they were trying to find 
 him, because they knew that he had shot Yates. How could 
 they know, when no one had seen him do it? Well, it was 
 no matter ; he would baffle them all yet. They had hemmed 
 him in, but he knew of a way out. The police ! let the police 
 try to take him if they dared ! 
 
 Now a strange feeling of giddiness began to overcome him, 
 and he staggered slightly, running against a man with a basket 
 
 392
 
 on his arm, who was coming in the opposite direction. " Look 
 out ! you damn drunken fool !" cried the man sharply. 
 
 " Drunk !" retorted Baretta, striking out savagely with his 
 right arm, " I'm no more drunk than you are." 
 
 But the blow missed its mark, and the very exertion so weak 
 was he sent him reeling against the wall. The man stared at 
 him contemptuously a moment and then passed on ; while Ba- 
 retta, after steadying himself with difficulty, groped his way 
 to the next doorway, where he sank down upon the step, and 
 huddling wretchedly in the darkest corner hid his face in his 
 hands. He could feel the tears trickling between his closed 
 ringers as he sat there. Oh, it might make any one cry to be so 
 wretched ! And he had done nothing to deserve his wretched- 
 ness nothing except wreaking vengeance upon his enemy, as 
 he had a right to do. 
 
 The noise of laughter aroused him presently. Two girls had 
 stopped directly in front of the doorway, and in a minute two 
 men joined them. The girls might have seemed attractive at a sin- 
 gle glance ; they had bright eyes and red cheeks ; the hair of one 
 was bright auburn in hue, while the frizzled locks of the other 
 flamed out in a suspiciously radiant yellow. The men were 
 young of the type that Baretta had seen so often in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Arragon Street. They wore ill-fitting slop clothes, 
 highly-coloured neckties, and round-top hats several seasons out 
 of date. Their ungloved hands were red, their faces covered 
 with irregular blotches. 
 
 " Hullo, Jenny !" cried one. " What are you doing here ?" 
 
 " Well, what business is that of yours, freshy ?" asked Jenny. 
 
 " This is Mr. Watson," the young man continued, plucking 
 his companion by the sleeve. " I say," he added, in a stage 
 whisper, " who's your lady friend ? Come and have something 
 to drink on me." 
 
 "Well, now you're shoutin' ain't he, Blanche?" Jenny cried, 
 approvingly. "You must have struck it rich up your way." 
 
 " Oh, I don't hang out at Arragon Street now, Jenny. Say, 
 I guess you wouldn't go back there, would you ?" 
 
 "You're too damn fresh," was Jenny's retort. "Come on 
 with you do you think me and my lady friend can stand here 
 
 393
 
 all night gabbing with the likes of you ? Oh, say," Jenny add- 
 ed, clutching at her skirt as he awkwardly stuck out his elbow 
 in token of his willingness to escort her, " do the Dolans live there 
 yet? I saw Maud on the street not long ago " 
 
 Maud ! Baretta started at the name, but Jenny's voice died 
 away in the distance, and his eyes rested only on vacancy. 
 Maud ! Who was the girl who had been talking about Maud ? 
 a common creature like that, too. He was conscious of a 
 queer feeling of compunction as he wondered if Maud herself 
 would ever have to come to this to the final degradation which 
 was the lot of so many of the complaining millions. Oh no ! 
 no ! Maud was a good girl, though she had gone back on him at 
 the last. What did it matter, after all ? He was through with 
 friendship, with love yes, with life itself. His enemies had 
 hemmed him in, and there was but one way out. And yet it 
 was strange, he told himself, as he stumbled to his feet, that a 
 girl like that should have been talking about Maud. It would 
 have been better, far better, if that tiny weapon in his pocket 
 had had time to do its work. Ah, that was the only way in 
 which the problem of existence could be settled ! And it was 
 so simple, so effectual ! " There are blind ways provided " 
 yes, and one hemmed in by his enemies could find such a way 
 easily enough. Yes, yes ! Baretta muttered, shaking his head, 
 as he came out into the light again, stronger somehow in the 
 anticipation of the thing that remained for him to do. He 
 would find one of the blind ways ! but first there was one more 
 enemy nay, two to be punished. And he knew how to reach 
 them ; oh yes, he knew that well enough ! 
 
 " Look out there !" some one was shouting. Then some one 
 else plucked him sharply by the arm and held him back as a 
 cab rattled by. " Do you want to be run over ?" He heard the 
 question, but he did not answer it. The mist was thicker now, 
 and the glare of the electric lights gave it a dazzling radiance. 
 The huge street-cars proceeded slowly along with clanging notes 
 of warning, the carriages wound in and out between them, 
 and two meeting throngs of theatre - goers homeward bound 
 blocked the narrow pavements. Baretta cast a bewildered 
 glance about him and then turned back. Had he forgotten 
 
 394
 
 where he was going ? If it were indeed Saturday night there 
 would be a crowd of men in a certain dingy back room in Eliot 
 Street. Oh yes they might close the bar and draw the blinds, 
 but the men in the back room would not go until long after 
 midnight. There was time enough yet time enough and to 
 spare. 
 
 Ah, one could breathe more freely here around the corner, 
 away from that surging mass. It was strange that he should 
 be so weak that he should tremble so. But he would have 
 strength enough for that which was left him to do. What was 
 this ? flashing out as a ray of light from the door of a saloon 
 shot across the street. Silver ! he picked it up eagerly. A half- 
 dollar piece was a fortune to a man without a single penny, who 
 had eaten nothing since morning. And yet, in spite of the 
 faintness that oppressed him, he did not feel hungry. But he 
 was chilled through and now everything swayed before his 
 eyes. He stood irresolute, fingering the coin. Then he turned 
 and entered the saloon. 
 
 " Whiskey yes, whiskey," he said, flinging himself down at 
 one of the little tables in the rear of the room. Half a dozen 
 fellows were lounging before the bar, with half-drained glasses, 
 and they all turned and stared at him silently. "You needn't 
 be shaking your heads at me," he muttered, defiantly. " It ain't 
 any of your business." Then he seized the glass that was set 
 before him and drained the contents at a single gulp. How his 
 throat burned ! but that awful sense of faintness was gone. 
 
 What were these men at the next table talking about? " What 
 yer givin' us ?" said one. " Lots o' fellers ha' been murdered 
 an' no one the wiser. De police ? Wat's de good o' de police ? 
 Dem cops ain't no flyer 'n you or me." 
 
 " Most on 'em gets jugged, just the same," was the reply. 
 
 " Does dey ? Well, I know better. I can go right out now 
 'n' slug a feller, an' if dey don't see me dey'll never nab me. 
 Youse can betcher sweet life on dat !" 
 
 " Some o' youse fellers think yer damned smart," observed 
 another man with a sneer. 
 
 " Look at dat feller as was shot over in Livingstone Place," 
 said the first speaker, unmoved by this taunt. " Dey haven't 
 
 395
 
 found who did the job yet, have dey ? No, nor won't," he 
 added. 
 
 " No, no they won't find him oh, they won't find him !" 
 Baretta cried, leaning forward with flushed cheeks and eyes that 
 were strangely brilliant. 
 
 The others turned and looked at hint with astonishment. 
 " What in hell do you know about it, young feller ?" asked the man 
 whose estimate of the ability of the police was so contemptuous. 
 
 " Never mind what I know," answered Baretta. " Oh, you'll 
 find out to-morrow, perhaps. Yes, yes you'll have some- 
 thing to talk about to-morrow. But he was my enemy. Why 
 shouldn't a man kill his enemy ? Good God !" he cried, rising 
 to his feet, " do you understand how I have suffered ? and not 
 a friend left in the world not one." He took up his glass and 
 held it high above his head. " But I'll grind them all to pow- 
 der I'll smash them like this !" Then he threw the glass upon 
 the floor with a furious gesture, shattering it into a hundred 
 fragments, and rushed out. 
 
 "Yes, yes I will smash them," he was saying as he hurried 
 along to the familiar room in Eliot Street where so many of his 
 old acquaintances must now be gathered together. His brain 
 seemed to be on fire, but he was no longer faint and weak. He 
 knew what he had to do, and he would be strong enough for 
 that. When he reached the place he paused for a minute, gaz- 
 ing like one in a dream upon the motley crowd as it drifted by. 
 Some roistering young fellows were singing ribald songs, and 
 chaffing a wretched woman who, with a shawl thrown over her 
 head, was snivelling in all the maudlin grief of intoxication. 
 Then a rough-looking man came along and told them with an 
 oath to let the poor creature alone ; but when they were gone 
 and she turned to him for sympathy in her woes, he too hurried 
 away and left her standing there. The complaining millions ! 
 oh yes, they had reason enough to complain, Baretta was say- 
 ing to himself. And he had given the best years of his life to 
 them, and without avail. He would leave them no better off 
 than he had found them. Everything had been a failure ; his 
 own career was completely wrecked, and his great work was un- 
 done. A horrible phantasmagoria seemed to dance before his 
 
 396
 
 eyes dim figures from the past mixing with the figures surging 
 by upon the pavement. And Maud's face was as distinct as 
 that of the seedy fellow who, shambling along, stopped for a 
 moment to light his pipe, hollowing his hand against the wind 
 to protect the spattering blue flame of the match. Baretta 
 gazed vacantly at the rusty silk hat which he wore, at the greasy 
 and threadbare black coat which, in lieu of some warmer gar- 
 ment, he had buttoned tightly about him. Suddenly the man 
 turned and saw Baretta standing there. 
 
 " Cold, ain't it ?" he observed, withdrawing sociably into the 
 doorway. 
 
 " Yes, yes it's very cold. But it will be warm enough by- 
 and-by." 
 
 " Next summer," said the man, with a grunt. " Whew !" he 
 added, with a shiver, " and I didn't mind the cold once. You 
 wouldn't think to look at me now, would you, that I once had 
 plenty of money?" 
 
 " Money? Oh, there's enough that have money. Damn them, 
 I say !" Baretta cried. 
 
 " What's the good of damning them ? If a man's got money, 
 he'd better stick to it. That's what I do," he said, with a laugh. 
 " I shall stick to the ten cents in my pocket because it will buy 
 me a breakfast in the morning. The only thing that worries me 
 is that I sha'n't have a red cent to put in the contribution box. 
 I'll have to take a back seat at church to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, I can help you out," said Baretta, with a magnificent air 
 of patronage. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and took out 
 the change from the half-dollar which he had found. "Here's 
 forty cents take it." 
 
 " I ain't no beggar," the man said, angrily. But the next mo- 
 ment he stretched out his hand for the money. " God bless 
 you, young man," he said, with a sob. " I was a gentleman once, 
 and look at me now. I had money enough but look at me. 
 Drink, sir drink and women." 
 
 " Women ! they're false they throw you over at the last. 
 Look here !" Baretta cried. " I tried to kill her by Heaven, I 
 did ! but I'm glad now they prevented me. It's an awful thing 
 to kill any one it's worse than having no money. You can't 
 
 397
 
 forget it you see them before you always here here !" His 
 voice sank to a hoarse whisper. 
 
 The man whom he had befriended looked at him in a fright- 
 ened way. "It's kinder cold standing here," he said, hastily. 
 Then he stepped ' out into the street again and hurried off. 
 " Crazy as a loon," he muttered to himself. " But I'm forty 
 cents in, anyway." 
 
 Baretta did not notice his desertion. "Always always," he 
 muttered. " But no it will be over soon. They can't find 
 me then not one of them." He stood a moment in the dark 
 recess with his hand upon the knob. Then he opened the door, 
 and entering, closed it behind him. 
 
 398
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 THE WAY OUT 
 
 " IT ees no free country," Herr Emil said. "You are slafes 
 and do not know it. Oh, I can tell you sometings about dat. I 
 come here more as forty years ago, and I see greadt shanges. 
 Vat our frendt Stefe-Luck says is true. You vill nefer haf your 
 rights miclout you fight for dem. .It ees so badt as Oesterreich. 
 Ah, 'sist schrecklich /" 
 
 Herr Emil was in an unusually eloquent mood. lie did not 
 rest content with this simple statement of facts. He warmed 
 up as he proceeded, and his language became extremely vi- 
 tuperative. It was quite to the taste of most of his hearers. 
 They had just received their pay, and could afford to be revolu- 
 tionary. In a few days they would be wanting capital to go un- 
 punished, at least until the end of the week : so much depends 
 upon the point of view. Now they thumped their beer mugs 
 with vigour when Herr Emil predicted bloodshed and anarchy. 
 They were decidedly impressed with this new friend of Luck's, 
 of whom such queer stories were told. His presence gave their 
 meetings new zest. They were a little too much afraid of Dit- 
 ton to be really fond of him, while Luck soon grew tiresome. 
 But the variety of Herr Emil was infinite. His broken English 
 was in itself a revolt against the established order which pleased 
 them. It was almost as good as sitting in the gallery of a cheap 
 theatre to hear him talk. And Herr Emil's childlike enjoyment 
 of his own popularity was delightful to behold. 
 
 His absence from the city had been brief, after all. When he 
 went away he had not intended to come back. He had an idea 
 that his revelation of the true history of Baron Smolzow might
 
 somehow incriminate himself. He could watch the denouement 
 quite as well from a safe distance. Besides, there was no doubt 
 that at his departure he had appropriated for his own use money 
 and other valuables which did not belong to him. This might 
 be justifiable, from a moral point of view, considering all he had 
 done, or tried to do, in behalf of his son the Baron ; but the law 
 is inclined to be highly unphilosophical. So he contented him- 
 self at first with reading the accounts of the explosion which his 
 hand had directed. Everything had gone well yes, very well 
 indeed. It was rather a pity, however, that the chief actor for 
 Herr Emil regarded himself as the real hero of the adventure 
 should have to be away from the scene ; especially when the op- 
 portunities for mischief were perhaps not quite exhausted. But 
 there was great news for Herr Emil one day. The disappear- 
 ance of the Baron Was something he had not counted upon ; it 
 changed the aspect of affairs. " Vare der teffle has he gone ?" 
 Herr Emil asked himself. It then occurred to him that if his 
 son had reasons for leaving the city there was nothing to keep 
 him from going back. He would have no awkward questions to 
 answer about the money he had taken. And then he was really 
 very curious to learn certain details with which even the news- 
 papers did not acquaint him. He could construct the outlines 
 of the story well enough, but there must be several little episodes 
 more or less interesting, of which he knew nothing. Where had 
 the young man gone? He did not care much, except that he 
 wanted to be sure there was no chance of his coming back. 
 Francis had a very bad temper ; it was one of the things he had 
 inherited from his mother ; and Herr Emil was anxious that 
 there should be no violence. Then there was Maud had he 
 taken her away? "That tarn Maudt !" Herr Emil muttered, 
 vindictively. 
 
 It was natural enough that he should pay no particular atten- 
 tion to the story about Yates. He read it with languid interest. 
 At first he could not recall why the name was so familiar ; but 
 afterwards he remembered some of his son's chance allusions to 
 the man whom he seemed to regard as his especial enemy. Yes, 
 yes that was it. Francis had bade him take his revelations to 
 Yates. But he had discovered excellent reasons for taking them 
 
 400
 
 elsewhere. Oh yes his little plot had been very successful. 
 Still it was so much better to see for one's self. He had no in- 
 terest in Yates ; and yet it was odd that the name should keep 
 recurring to him. Pah ! that was a commonplace tale a man 
 shot, and no one knew by whom. It was not until he was on his 
 way back to Boston that the possible connection between this 
 mysterious crime and the disappearance of Baron Smolzow was 
 suggested to him. It came upon him like a sudden blow ; then 
 he execrated himself for being so stupid as not to have suspected 
 before. Of course it was all plain enough now : the web of 
 conjecture put forth in the copy of the Banner, which he had in 
 his hand, was most ingenious. " Mon Dieu ! quelle betise /" Herr 
 Emil muttered. Yes, yes it was very plain. His coup had 
 been more fertile in results than he had anticipated. He was 
 more eager than ever to get back to Boston, and talk things 
 over with his friend Stefe-Luck, who was a fool, to be sure, but 
 for that reason all the more useful. And yet possibly Stefe- 
 Luck was not altogether a fool after all. He had at least dis- 
 covered a solution to one very important problem that had long 
 vexed Herr Emil's existence. He had learned how to live well 
 even luxuriously without the necessity of working or the 
 risk of breaking the law. Ah, that Stefe-Luck was a clever man, 
 after all : tres adroit, to have discovered what had baffled so 
 many people. Yes, yes, he must see Stefe-Luck again. 
 
 Thus it was that Herr Erail was enabled to play his part in 
 the redemption of the complaining millions from the bondage 
 under which they suffered. The only obstacle still in his way 
 was the dislike which Ditton felt for him Ditton, who was no 
 doubt inspired by envy of his.immense talent for oratory. The 
 Socialist preacher was even now regarding him with knitted 
 brows from the corner where he sat. Herr Emil's sentiments 
 were unobjectionable, but he himself did not inspire confidence. 
 Ditton set him down as a rascal ; in which, as the reader has 
 reason to believe, he was not without justification. But he 
 knew his followers too well to take them into his confidence. It 
 was well to give even a rascal plenty of rope, if one took care to 
 be in the neighbourhood when it was time for the hanging. 
 
 " <7a, ,/ffl/" Herr Emil cried, waving his arms violently. "It 
 
 2o 401
 
 somehow incriminate himself. He could watch the denouement 
 quite as well from a safe distance. Besides, there was no doubt 
 that at his departure he had appropriated for his own use money 
 and other valuables which did not belong to him. This might 
 be justifiable, from a moral point of view, considering all he had 
 done, or tried to do, in behalf of his son the Baron ; but the law 
 is inclined to be highly unphilosophical. So he contented him- 
 self at first with reading the accounts of the explosion which his 
 hand had directed. Everything had gone well yes, very well 
 indeed. It was rather a pity, however, that the chief actor for 
 Herr Emil regarded himself as the real hero of the adventure 
 should have to be away from the scene ; especially when the op- 
 portunities for mischief were perhaps not quite exhausted. But 
 there was great news for Herr Emil one day. The disappear- 
 ance of the Baron tvas something he had not counted upon ; it 
 changed the aspect of affairs. " Vare der teffle has he gone ?" 
 Herr Emil asked himself. It then occurred to him that if his 
 son had reasons for leaving the city there was nothing to keep 
 him from going back. He would have no awkward questions to 
 answer about the money he had taken. And then he was really 
 very curious to learn certain details with which even the news- 
 papers did not acquaint him. He could construct the outlines 
 of the story well enough, but there must be several little episodes 
 more or less interesting, of which he knew nothing. Where had 
 the young man gone ? He did not care much, except that he 
 wanted to be sure there was no chance of his coining back. 
 Francis had a very bad temper ; it was one of the things he had 
 inherited from his mother ; and Herr Emil was anxious that 
 there should be no violence. Then there was Maud had he 
 taken her away ? " That tarn Maudt !" Herr Emil muttered, 
 vindictively. 
 
 It was natural enough that he should pay no particular atten- 
 tion to the story about Yates. He read it with languid interest. 
 At first he could not recall why the name was so familiar ; but 
 afterwards he remembered some of his son's chance allusions to 
 the man whom he seemed to regard as his especial enemy. Yes, 
 yes that was it. Francis had bade him take his revelations to 
 Yates. But he had discovered excellent reasons for taking them 
 
 400
 
 elsewhere. Oh yes his little plot had been very successful. 
 Still it was so much better to see for one's self. He had no in- 
 terest in Yates ; and yet it was odd that the name should keep 
 recurring to him. Pah ! that was a commonplace tale a man 
 shot, and no one knew by whom. It was not until he was on his 
 way back to Boston that the possible connection between this 
 mysterious crime and the disappearance of Baron Smolzow was 
 suggested to him. It came upon him like a sudden blow ; then 
 he execrated himself for being so stupid as not to have suspected 
 before. Of course it was all plain enough now : the web of 
 conjecture put forth in the copy of the Banner, which he had in 
 his hand, was most ingenious. " Mon Dieu, ! quelle betise /" Herr 
 Emil muttered. Yes, yes it was very plain. His coup had 
 been more fertile in results than he had anticipated. He was 
 more eager than ever to get back to Boston, and talk things 
 over with his friend Stefe-Luck, who was a fool, to be sure, but 
 for that reason all the more useful. And yet possibly Stefe- 
 Luck was not altogether a fool after all. He had at least dis- 
 covered a solution to one very important problem that had long 
 vexed Herr Emil's existence. He had learned how to live well 
 even luxuriously without the necessity of working or the 
 risk of breaking the law. Ah, that Stefe-Luck was a clever man, 
 after all : tres adroit, to have discovered what had baffled so 
 many people. Yes, yes, he must see Stefe-Luck again. 
 
 Thus it was that Herr Emil was enabled to play his part in 
 the redemption of the complaining millions from the bondage 
 under which they suffered. The only obstacle still in his way 
 was the dislike which Ditton felt for him Ditton, who was no 
 doubt inspired by envy of his,immense talent for oratory. The 
 Socialist preacher was even now regarding him with knitted 
 brows from the corner where he sat. Herr Emil's sentiments 
 were unobjectionable, but he himself did not inspire confidence. 
 Ditton set him down as a rascal ; in which, as the reader has 
 reason to believe, he was not without justification. But he 
 knew his followers too well to take them into his confidence. It 
 was well to give even a rascal plenty of rope, if one. took care to 
 be in the neighbourhood when it was time for the hanging. 
 
 "Ja,jaJ" Herr Emil cried, waving his arms violently. "It 
 
 2o 401
 
 ees no free country at all. Ve are slafcs to the men who go on 
 piling up their tollars. Vat dey care for you, for me ? De tol- 
 lars dey pile dem up, and ve take a leetle few pennies. Mein 
 Gott ! vare do ve arrive presently ? Let me tell you a story. I 
 go one day to see a reech man. He haf a fine house oh, schon, 
 schon he haf everytings he veesh. And who gafe it to him ? 
 Vy, you did you men who vork and labour ; who lif in rags 
 and haf notings to eat, so that der reech can pile up de tollars ! 
 It ees shame to you to permit it !" 
 
 " He's right !" Luck cried at this point, rising to his feet. 
 "What he says is true every damn word of it. Look here! you 
 know how those poor fellows in Lynn were locked out the other 
 day because they wanted a raise of ten cents a day. Well, what 
 do you suppose the owners of the mills the men who didn't 
 care whether their employes starved or not what do you sup- 
 pose they get out of it ? I tell you, every one of them is worth 
 his millions ground out of the sweat and blood yes, the blood 
 of the working-man. And blood for blood, I say !" 
 
 "JSien, bienf" Herr Emil cried. "It ees blood we veesh." 
 
 " Oh, you like to talk !" said Ditton, sneeringly. He rose and 
 came down the room towards the speaker. " But I guess if it 
 ever comes to fighting you will take precious good care to keep 
 out of the way." 
 
 " Moi ! I know what it ees to fight. I haf been in battle in 
 mein own landt I vas fighting for your country ven you vas 
 safe at home." 
 
 " Well, what's the good of fighting among ourselves ?" inter- 
 posed Luck. " You seem to think, Mr. Ditton, that no one's got 
 no right to speak but you. My friend Emeel knows what he's 
 talking about see ?" 
 
 "Ja,ja, Stefe-Luck. I know, I know." 
 
 " And when he says we must have blood he tells the truth. 
 We can't do no good by setting round and gassing about it," 
 Luck went on. " How many working-men are there in this city ? 
 Thousands of 'em, and if every one stands out like a man, 
 armed and ready to fight for his rights why, do you sup- 
 pose we're afraid of the police ? miserable, skulking cowards ! 
 Half of 'em would be on our side if they thought we were 
 
 402
 
 going to come out on top. Blood ! Why shouldn't we have 
 blood ?" 
 
 At this moment the outer door was flung open. " Blood ! 
 By Heaven, yes ! But hear me first !" And Baretta, with a 
 white and wild face, burst in upon the astonished assembly. 
 " Hear me ! you shall hear me !" he shrieked. 
 
 Instantly the whole room was in confusion. Some of the 
 men, being new-comers, had never seen him before, and these 
 looked at their neighbours blankly for an explanation of so 
 strange an interruption. But the rest rose to their feet, and 
 something like one huge menacing growl seemed to rise from 
 their lips. 
 
 " Hear me !" Baretta repeated, shutting the door behind him 
 and standing against it. " You shall not go except over my 
 dead body. Fools ! it is for your sakes I am here. There 
 is danger yes, danger, out there and I am here to warn 
 you." 
 
 Then it was that Ditton rose and called upon the men in ring- 
 ing tones to remain seated. " I will attend to this person," Dit- 
 ton said, motioning to Luck to come with him. Luck had been 
 the first to give utterance to execrations at the sight of Baretta, 
 the man who had been an enemy to him and a traitor to them 
 all. But upon Herr Emil, on the other hand, this unexpected 
 episode had exercised a curious effect. At the sound of his 
 son's voice he had turned very pale, and after one quick glance 
 had sat down, covering his face with one hand. If anybody had 
 been watching him he would have observed that the hand trem- 
 bled visibly. 
 
 " I'll put him out !" Luck cried, with a curse. The audi- 
 ence made way for the two men as they advanced. But sud- 
 denly they stopped, and Luck threw up both hands abjectly. 
 " Don't shoot ! for God's sake, don't shoot !" 
 
 For Baretta had drawn his revolver, and was now flourishing 
 it wildly. " Stand back ! I tell you you must hear me ! It 
 won't be for long," he added, with a wild laugh, " but you 
 must hear me." 
 
 " We're through with yow," said Ditton, facing him calmly 
 after a scornful glance at Luck. " When a man goes back on 
 
 403
 
 us once we never trust him again. There's nothing you can say 
 that we want to hear. Now go ! before you're put out." 
 
 " Go !" Even Ditton shuddered and quailed a little before 
 the fiery glare of madness in Baretta's eyes. " Go ! not till 
 you've heard me. Oh, I know you, Ditton ; I know Avhat a friend 
 you've been to me. Curse you ! You thought you could throw 
 me aside and trample on me, but I'll have my revenge yet. Why 
 did you believe that man's stories ? He's not my father I am 
 Baron Smolzow, and I defy you all to prove that I'm not. It 
 was a conspiracy that's what it was. Oh yes, I'm not such a 
 fool as not to know that." 
 
 " How long are you going to listen to his gab ?" asked Luck, 
 taking good pains to keep Ditton's gaunt figure between him- 
 self and the gleaming barrel of the revolver. 
 
 "Oh, that's you, is it, Luck?" Baretta cried. "Damn you! 
 do you suppose I'm going to let you escape ? You, who went 
 to Yates with your lies? See here all of you listen to me. 
 It's justice that I want. Don't stand there muttering that I'm 
 not Baron Smolzow. I am, I tell you ! Do you forget all I've 
 done for you ? Why, I sacrificed everything to help you, and 
 see where I am now. Not a friend in the world left -not even 
 Maud. And I tried to kill her too. But Yates he'll die fast 
 enough. Yes, I say I gave up my life for you, and how have 
 I been rewarded? I've come now to warn you, and you only 
 laugh at me. There's men outside hundreds of them waiting 
 to come in and kill you. All the rich men in the city they've 
 got a cannon out there. Run ! run ! every one of you. All but 
 Luck, and you, Ditton ! Oh yes, he left me this," Baretta cried, 
 flourishing the revolver again, " and I mean to kill you both !" 
 
 " Lord !" Luck's teeth chattered and his knees knocked 
 together as he spoke. " Look out for him ! Grab him some- 
 body ! Why don't somebody grab him ?" 
 
 Ditton still stood his ground, calm and fearless. He under- 
 stood now what the penalty was that Fate had inflicted upon 
 the young man how far beyond the reach of human vengeance 
 he was. " I don't think you quite understand what you're say- 
 ing, Baretta. Come and talk it over quietly. We're not your 
 enemies we're your friends." 
 
 404
 
 " Oh no !" Baretta said, with a cunning smile. " I know 
 better than that. Yes, yes the time has gone by for deceiving 
 me. I know who my friends are and who my enemies. And 
 to think that I should have sacrificed my whole life for you ! 
 They're waiting for me outside there, too. The police are after 
 me ; Maud told me so. They say I killed Yates. Damn him ! 
 why shouldn't I kill him ? But he was your enemy as well as 
 mine. It's he who sent all these men. But he'll die oh yes, 
 he'll die! I don't care now. She threw me off she loves 
 him still, and she threw me off." He raised the revolver once 
 more and patted it affectionately. " This is the best friend I've 
 got in the world yes, yes !" 
 
 It was at this point that Herr Emil made the mistake of tak- 
 ing away the hand that hid his face. The conversation was be- 
 coming extremely interesting to him, and he quite forgot the 
 necessity of effacing himself. At the same moment Ditton 
 moved forward a step or two, and the glances of father and son 
 met. 
 
 " Baretta, you are mistaken," Ditton began. But the young 
 man interrupted him with a wild cry and dashed headlong down 
 the room, the crowd falling back in instinctive terror and giving 
 him a free passage. 
 
 " You devil ! you devil !" Baretta cried, while Herr Emil 
 sprang up and tried to escape by leaping over the table at which 
 he had been sitting. " You here ! you ! who ruined me with 
 your vile lies. You you !" 
 
 He aimed his revolver at his father's head and fired. At this 
 a dozen men tried to pinion him, but he eluded them all. " Yes," 
 he cried, wildly, " and you, Luck ! and you, Ditton !" 
 
 Two more shots rang out, and the blue smoke seemed to fill 
 the room, and somehow to stifle even the loud voices crying out 
 in a vague tumult of alarm. But as it cleared away they all 
 saw Baretta standing with a smile upon his face, with the muz- 
 zle of his weapon pressed close to his temple. "I '11 get the 
 better of you all !" he cried. Then there was another shot, and 
 the dark form swayed and fell. 
 
 It was Ditton who bent over him, vainly trying to call him 
 back to life. " Go for a doctor call the police some of you !" 
 
 405
 
 he said, in the sharp tone of command habitual to him. But 
 there' were tears in his eyes as he gazed upon the dead face. 
 He had only pity and regret now for the young man whose life 
 had ended so tragically. His hopes in him had faded long 
 ago, and yet there was a touch of sympathy in his heart. He 
 could not forget that he once had cared for him and believed in 
 him. There could be nothing more awful than the spectacle of 
 a life thus wrecked that had promised so much. His mind went 
 back to the early days of their intercourse, and he saw only his 
 old friend and pupil lying there that ghastly smile frozen upon 
 his face, the dark blood oozing from his lips. To die like that ! 
 was it not a cruel expiation for his sins ? " Poor fellow !" Dit- 
 ton said to himself. 
 
 " He's dead, is he ?" asked Luck, coming forward with a swag- 
 ger. Now that there was no danger he could afford to affect 
 the reckless bearing of a man who holds life cheaply. " Well, 
 he was a crazy fool and no mistake." 
 
 " The less you say, Luck, the better," Ditton retorted. 
 
 " So ! so !" interrupted the voice of Herr Emil, who had ap- 
 proached unobserved. He felt the contempt in Ditton's face 
 when the preacher looked up at him for a moment, but he chose 
 to ignore it. " Mein Gott ! he made a fool of himself." Then 
 he saw the revolver lying in his son's nerveless grasp, and, stoop- 
 ing down, took it from him. " So !" Herr Emil said once more, 
 rubbing it with his sleeve. " It ees mine." 
 
 406
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 MRS. CAD WALL ADER'S PROPHECY 
 
 " OH, I made him promise to come, and I am sure he will not 
 forget." Mrs. Cadwallader laughed and glanced at Mildred, 
 who was talking to Mr. Cadwallader. She was sure that Mildred 
 coloured a little, although she pretended not to hear. " It's the 
 first time he has been anywhere, but you know I am an old 
 friend." 
 
 " Of course," Daisy said, laughing, too ; " we know he would 
 do anything for you." 
 
 " Only for me ? They say that we married women are danger- 
 ous, but that's a mistake. But he will stay and dine with us, 
 and then " 
 
 " Every one is so pleased, to be sure," interrupted Daisy, 
 hastily. " It ought to be very flattering to Philip to Mr. 
 Yates to find himself so popular." 
 
 Mrs. Cadwallader was an observant person, and she had no 
 difficulty in deciding that Daisy was blushing now. How stu- 
 pid she was not to have suspected the truth before ! she said to 
 herself. It added an emotional complication to the situation 
 which was immensely interesting. She had supposed that the 
 quarrel between Philip and Mildred would now be made up. It 
 was the way everything would end in a novel, and it would be 
 most unnatural if the result were otherwise in real life. She 
 never had understood just what the cause of their quarrel had 
 been. Philip was a dreadfully nice fellow, and they were very 
 good friends ; but he had never chosen to confide in her ; he 
 was unsympathetic in some respects, as all men are apt to be. 
 She knew that he had suffered keenly ; he had not succeeded 
 
 407
 
 in concealing that fact from her. As to Mildred's feelings she 
 was less sure. Mildred was a self-contained girl ; not like 
 Daisy, who had moments of expansive confidence, although 
 she, too, had kept one secret pretty well. Mrs. Cadwallader 
 was very fond of Daisy, but perhaps she was a little disap~ 
 pointed, none the less, at the turn affairs were taking. Mildred 
 was the prettier, to her mind, and she had greater distinction 
 of manner, which was something on which a man choosing a 
 wife ought to lay stress. And then it was so aggravating to be 
 cheated out of the proper ending to the romance ! not at all like 
 a novel in any way. 
 
 " Yes, indeed we all like him," Mrs. Cadwallader said, reply- 
 ing to Daisy's remark. " Oh, he will be made quite a hero of ; 
 we shall hardly get a chance to speak to him. That's why I 
 made him promise to stay to dinner. I dare say," she added, 
 " that things will be the same now " she dropped her voice to 
 a whisper " as they were once." 
 
 It was rather a vague speech, but Daisy understood it. " Oh 
 yes," she said, rather tremulously, " it was all so so absurd." 
 
 " What are you two conspirators whispering about ?" Mr. 
 Cadwallader asked, coming up to the table where his wife was 
 sitting. " Come, now, pour a cup of tea for Miss Lawrence. I 
 want to take her off in a corner and monopolize her society 
 while I have a chance." 
 
 "Oh, Mildred, Mildred!" Mrs. Cadwallader sighed. "Do 
 you hear my husband's shameless confession ?" 
 
 " It's a modest confession, anyway," said Mr. Cadwallader. 
 " It implies a fitting sense of my lack of ability to make myself 
 entertaining." 
 
 " Have you really found that out?" And having made this 
 malicious remark, Mrs. Cadwallader looked away to greet two 
 new arrivals. " Ah, Mrs. Stanwood so kind of you to come. 
 And Miss Linley why didn't you bring Annie with you ?" 
 And after that there was, indeed, no chance to monopolize any- 
 body's society. It was Mrs. Cadwallader's last afternoon for 
 the season, and all her friends were out in force. 
 
 Philip felt the exhilarating influence of the warmth and 
 brightness of this clear spring day as he drove from his rooms 
 
 408
 
 in Livingstone Place to Mrs. Cadwallader's charming apartments. 
 Even in March there is warmth and brightness sometimes. Mrs. 
 Cadwallader had made him promise to come, as she had told 
 Daisy ; otherwise he might have been inclined to stay away. 
 He was conscious of a curious feeling of shyness a feeling 
 which was absurd even when one had been cut off from the 
 world so long. It was not because he dreaded meeting Mildred 
 that was one of the follies which had passed away during his 
 long illness ; upon this point he was very positive. No, they 
 must meet as formal acquaintances ; it was the only solution 
 of the difficulty ; it was the only way of teaching the world to 
 forget that they had ever been more than that. Ah yes one's 
 whole point of view alters so greatly after weeks of pain and 
 imprisonment. And Mildred had not even cared enough to 
 send him a single message of sympathy ! Even when they said 
 he was dying her heart was not touched, although once she had 
 loved him. Pooh ! what did women know about love ? he said 
 to himself, bitterly. If she had ever cared for him at all she 
 would at least have sent him a single message then. Even 
 Daisy had come to ask after him. It will be seen that his 
 mother had given him no hint of the episode which had caused 
 Mildred so much humiliation. She would not have told him a 
 falsehood, of course, if he had asked any questions ; but she 
 carried out this tacit deception without scruple. She felt that 
 she would be very glad to have her son forget Miss Lawrence 
 altogether. He had never been the same man since that unfort- 
 unate love affair. She regarded it as quite providential, on the 
 whole, that she had been there to intercept the note and the 
 flowers, so eager are we fools of Nature to interfere with the 
 decrees of Fate. Thus Mildred's name was never mentioned be- 
 tween them. Why, indeed, should it be, since Philip had van- 
 quished so completely the folly of loving her ? 
 
 And yet it certainly was a little hard to think that his interfer- 
 ence in her behalf had nearly cost him his life, and that she was not 
 grateful enough to make a single friendly overture in acknowl- 
 edgment. Of course he had expected nothing; he had made 
 Daisy promise not to tell Mildred what he had done. But he 
 was somehow sure that Mildred must know. The fact that Ba- 
 
 409
 
 rctta had fired the shot was no longer any mystery to the world ; 
 the clew had been revealed by Philip's iteration of his name, by 
 a hundred other utterances of his delirium, and the sensational 
 ending of Baretta's life had completed the chain of evidence. It 
 was comparatively easy for any one, knowing a part of the story, 
 to surmise the rest. There was much, of course, that Philip him- 
 self did not understand much that was buried in the grave of 
 the strange and miserable young man who was perhaps not un- 
 worthy of pity as well as rebuke. During the days of his con- 
 valescence, however, this or that hint came to him. Daisy had 
 written a long letter in which she told poor Maud's story, and 
 how at the last she had wished to save the man she loved. " I 
 shall try to be a true friend to her," Daisy had said. A true 
 friend ! Ah yes, Daisy was that always ; not like other women, 
 who were hard and unforgiving even in the shadow of death. 
 But he had succeeded in the task he undertook, and if success 
 had cost him bitter suffering, what did it matter, after all ? 
 There was something which the wretched newspapers did not 
 know, at all events, and never should know. It is silence that 
 one finds in the grave ; and Baretta was dead. Poor devil ! 
 Philip was conscious of a pang of pity as he reflected upon 
 that tragic episode, in spite of the fact that death by Baretta's 
 hands had nearly been his portion, too. 
 
 But such a day as this was no time for gloomy thoughts. 
 Philip leaned back in the carriage and drank in the soft air lux- 
 uriously. He was profoundly grateful for life the life that 
 had once seemed to him so empty and dreary. There was, per- 
 haps, no such thing as happiness in this world. One, however, 
 could be comfortable and contented. To feel the blood pulsing 
 through one's veins after weeks of pain and languor gave one 
 the keenest pleasure. He was not quite himself yet, to be 
 sure ; his wound had been dangerous enough to make recovery 
 slow. Even now it might be months before all his old strength 
 came back to him. He was going away in a few days ; his 
 doctor had recommended a sea-voyage, and he had decided to 
 take one of the Norddeutscher Lloyd steamships to Genoa, and 
 when the warmer weather came move slowly northward. He 
 would spend the first part of his holiday in the Riviera ; then 
 
 410
 
 perhaps he would go to Homburg, and in August to Scotland. 
 Surely his health would be fully restored by that time, and 
 Lord Shetland had promised him some good shooting if he 
 would come. It would be the best thing, in any case, to get 
 away from all the old associations ; there was little satisfaction 
 in renewing them now. Let it be as if, indeed, his life had 
 been taken from him by Baretta's hand. Oh yes ! across the 
 wide Atlantic one could forget so easily. Perhaps he was a 
 fool to go to Mrs. Cadwallader's this afternoon. It would be a 
 bore if people talked to him about the episode which he was so 
 anxious to blot out altogether. But he could not very well re- 
 fuse when Mrs. Cadwallader had made such a point of it. And, 
 after all, it was worth while to be able to go anywhere. Why 
 should he worry over what people might say or think ? what did 
 he care ? 
 
 There were a good many visitors in the dainty rooms which 
 all artistic Boston raved over, and Philip, whose face was hag- 
 gard despite the slight glow which the air had brought to his 
 cheeks,-succeeded in entering unobserved except by one or two 
 who knew him and who came up to shake hands with him. But 
 after that it was of course impossible that he should escape the 
 attentions from which he shrank. People might not know ex- 
 actly what Baretta's motive had been, but the whisper had gone 
 forth that Philip had incurred his vengeance by interfering to 
 save some one from scandal, that he had even tried to save 
 Baretta himself, although that well-meant effort had failed so 
 signally. There was a mystery, anyway, and that was enough 
 to make the central figure in it a temporary object of pursuit 
 by lion hunters. It was said that Miss Lawrence was in some 
 way connected with the episode ; no one, however, could tell 
 exactly how. Of course that report of her engagement to the 
 dreadful Baron was false. But where there was so much smoke 
 there must be some fire. And Mr. Yates he had been engaged 
 to her once, and the affair had been broken off, no one knew 
 why. Oh, there was a good deal of a mystery here, if one could 
 only find out what it was ! Those who did not like Philip in- 
 timated that a low feeling of jealousy had prompted him to ex- 
 pose the Baron, and that he was the real author of the first 
 
 411
 
 startling story in the Mail. The world in general, however, 
 would not accept this theory ; it was in the mind for a little 
 hero worship, and it defended the sanctity of its idol. They 
 call it a censorious world, but it is capable of the most genial 
 optimism when it is in the mood. And so Mrs. Cadwallader's 
 guests made much of Philip. His hostess bade him sit by her. 
 " I intend to treat you as a distinguished invalid," she said. 
 
 " Ah, but I am neither," replied Philip. He was very glad, 
 however, to obey her injunction. " It makes a man feel like a 
 fool to have to coddle himself all the time." 
 
 " We are only too glad to have you with us again on any 
 terms, Philip. Has your mother gone back to Lexington? I 
 hoped she would come with you this afternoon." 
 
 " You're very kind but she went yesterday. I shall go out 
 to-morrow and stay until I sail. I'm going to take a run across, 
 you know." 
 
 " Oh, we shall see you there. We go this year earlier than 
 usual in May. I fancy that Mr. Cadwallader will want to stay 
 at Trouville for a month or two. Why can't you come there ?" 
 
 " I can I will, since you ask me. Would you mind giving 
 me another cup of tea ? How are you, Allen ? I suppose you, 
 too, will soon be taking flight with the rest of us." 
 
 " Ah, I have some important literary work on hand," Mr. 
 Allen said, patronizingly. " Something that I can't do in this 
 country. Delighted to see you out again, Yates, I'm sure. It 
 was a narrow squeak. I told them all along that the fellow was 
 no baron at all. Wasn't it immensely clever of me, Mrs. Cad- 
 wallader, to suspect it from the first ?" 
 
 " And how clever, too, to conceal your suspicions so well !" 
 Mrs. Cadwallader said. " Would you mind taking this to Miss 
 Linley ?" 
 
 Mr. Allen walked away, not quite sure whether Mrs. Cad- 
 wallader had meant to be sarcastic or not. He thought sarcasm 
 was a nasty trick, especially in a woman. Of course, if one had 
 exceptional powers in that way, it was different. " You'd hardly 
 know Yates, would you ?" he said to Miss Linley. " It was a 
 beastly thing to do ; just what one might have expected from a 
 cad like that." 
 
 412
 
 " Oh, the Baron !" said Miss Linley, with a shrug of her intel- 
 lectually angular shoulders. " Don't speak about the horrid 
 creature ! I can never forgive myself for permitting mamma to 
 ask him to Cambridge. In our parlours, you know and he 
 had never even heard of Plato. Fancy that ! I disliked him 
 from the first. I saw that he wasn't really intellectual. How 
 is your book getting on, Mr. Allen ? I enjoyed your article in 
 the last Northern Review so much. I don't care what they say 
 women are silly ; they don't care for intellect in the least. 
 And the men are just as bad some of them." 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad you agree with me. Of course, I've been 
 attacked bitterly," Mr. Allen said, with conscious pride, " but 
 one must expect that. I flatter myself I've given them some- 
 thing to think about. And the book ? Oh, that is progressing. 
 I run over to London in a few weeks to gather more material. 
 It will create a sensation when it is published. I let Professor 
 Bagshaw read the manuscript of the first two chapters, and 
 he says it will be a brilliant piece of work. Isn't that Pink- 
 erton coming in? What a conceited fellow he is! I hate 
 conceit." 
 
 " So do I," said Miss Linley. Nevertheless, she was very glad 
 to have Mr. Pinkerton come over and talk to her presently. He 
 was a mine of information on those slighter social topics which 
 even she, in all her might of intellect, did not despise. He did 
 not always do his powers full justice in the paragraphs which 
 he wrote for the society papers. Sometimes it was unfortunate 
 to know too much about people whom you did not want to at- 
 tack from a quarter that would disclose the identity of their 
 assailant. But in conversation one could say so much and not 
 be held to account for it. 
 
 " Yates seems to be quite the hero of the hour," Mr. Pinker- 
 ton said, with a sneer. " There was something very queer 
 about that whole affair, but then " And he shook his head 
 mysteriously; 
 
 " Oh, really !" said Miss Linley, leaning forward with a look 
 of expectation. " Tell me all about it." 
 
 " I dare say you wouldn't care to hear all." 
 
 "Ah, I supposed there was something beneath the surface," 
 
 413
 
 she said, calmly. " You can't trust any one. I knew he was an 
 adventurer." 
 
 "Who Yates?" asked Mr. Pinkerton, with a look of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " The Baron, of course ; how can you be so stupid ? And I 
 am so sorry mamma asked him to Cambridge." 
 
 " Ah, the Baron certainly ; I wasn't thinking of him when I 
 spoke. Although, of course, there was his engagement to Miss 
 Lawrence " 
 
 " I thought that was denied." 
 
 " Oh yes it was denied," Mr. Pinkerton said, with a smile. 
 " What amazes me, however, is that she should be willing to 
 meet Yates again." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 Mr. Pinkerton shook his head mysteriously. " Oh, I can't 
 tell you that, Miss Linley really, I can't. But you remember 
 about their broken engagement there was a very queer connec- 
 tion between that and the shooting business which people seem 
 to be making such a fuss over just now. Oh, very queer ! Of 
 course, Yates is a good enough sort of fellow, but some women 
 would find it hard to overlook those little irregularities I don't 
 say it's any crime to be a little the worse for wine, or to to in- 
 dulge in other things " 
 
 " You mean like keeping a mistress ?" said Miss Linley, with 
 a coolness that rather dazed him. " Oh, I had heard of that 
 at least, I gathered from some remarks of Miss TredwelFs about 
 a certain Maud they weren't intended for my ears, I assure 
 you, but Miss Lawrence looked distressed, and of course one 
 couldn't help suspecting " 
 
 " Maud ! Oh, was that the name ?" Mr. Pinkerton asked, 
 blandly. He had not expected to strike this trail of informa- 
 tion, but instinct led him to follow it up. There was little, how- 
 ever, that Miss Linley could tell him. Indeed, she wasn't quite 
 sure whether it was Mr. Yates or that dreadful Baron who had 
 been acquainted with a young woman whose character was not 
 unimpeachable. " Maud ! it's an improper sort of name, don't 
 you think ?" Miss Linley said. 
 
 But. Philip's interview with Mildred has been of the briefest, 
 
 414
 
 and even if Mr. Pinkerton's suspicions had been justified there 
 would have been nothing in it to stimulate curiosity. Mildred, 
 too, had come to the conclusion that the past had better be ig- 
 nored. She had once told him that she preferred they should 
 be strangers to each other, but she was by no means sure just 
 now that her attitude had been either wise or right. At all 
 events, she felt that she could maintain it no longer. Philip 
 had done so much for her, although she had treated him so 
 badly. He was right in thinking that she knew something of 
 the truth. Daisy had kept her promise in the face of every temp- 
 tation to break it. But Baretta's own wild outburst in her pres- 
 ence, his rage against a suspected rival, had been a sufficient 
 enlightenment. Oh yes it was all her fault ! This was what 
 she told herself when she realized how unjust she had been. 
 It was because Philip had tried to save her from the conse- 
 quences of her own folly that he had nearly lost his life. She 
 had no means of knowing what he had done, but her sur- 
 mises, fed by vague hints, took the shape of certainty in her 
 mind. She was very grateful to him, very severe in her judg- 
 ment of herself. And he would think that she was ungrateful 
 that she had not cared enough even to send him a single 
 friendly message. So when she went up to him and he rose to 
 shake hands with her, she felt confused and stupid. " I am 
 glad you are better," she said, with trembling lips. 
 
 " Thank you," he answered, gravely. 
 
 She looked at him a moment with piteous eyes, and then 
 turned away. How cold and formal her words were ! and yet 
 her heart was full of tender sympathy. And he would never 
 understand that at all. Surely her punishment was more 
 than she could bear. She sat down in one of the cushioned 
 window-seats, where she was half hidden behind the draperies, 
 and gazed drearily into the street below. Daisy could go and 
 talk to him. freely Daisy, who she was sure cared for him more 
 than she would acknowledge, and whom he might well learn to 
 love out of very gratitude. She had no cause to blame him for 
 that. Why should she expect him to go on loving her ? She 
 saw Philip and Daisy together presently, and a bitter sense of 
 loneliness invaded her heart. Men consoled themselves so easily, 
 
 415
 
 she said to herself. Why should she stay any longer, and 
 endure this torture ? But before she could go Daisy intercepted 
 her. 
 
 " Of course you're not going," Daisy said. " Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader asked you especially to stay to dinner she would be 
 greatly offended." 
 
 " She will excuse me. I I have a headache." 
 
 " It isn't very kind to Philip. You have hardly spoken to 
 him. And and I think you might forgive him now." 
 
 "Daisy, I will not permit you to say such things!" Mildred 
 cried, angrily. " I don't think," she added, " that it is a matter of 
 great consequence to any one." 
 
 " Oh, but I told him how anxious you were how you called to 
 ask after him. You see," Daisy went on, hastily, " his mother 
 mentioned it to me, and I knew " 
 
 " I wish you would be so good as not to interfere in my 
 affairs." 
 
 She turned away, but her friend laid a detaining hand upon 
 her arm. " You can be just as horrid as you choose, Mildred, for I 
 know you don't mean it. Do you suppose I can't understand 
 how she treated you ? But I wouldn't let him think you were 
 so heartless as not to care." 
 
 " You're a very strange girl," was Mildred's reply. " There 
 I will stay just to please you. But you must put all those no- 
 tions out of your head. Everything is quite over between " 
 She paused perhaps it was a sob that she was choking back 
 then added, with a faint smile, " You ought to know who it 
 is that that he cares for." 
 
 " What nonsense are you talking now ?" asked Daisy, with a 
 blush. " I never saw a girl so obstinate as you are. But you 
 will learn the truth by-and-by." 
 
 " By-and-by ?" Mildred repeated, vaguely. She gave a hasty 
 glance about the room. " Here is Mr. Allen coming I don't 
 want to talk with him now. Oh yes, I will stay. We shall be 
 very good friends I mean, Philip and I. But you mustn't 
 imagine that we shall be more than that. Oh yes," she added, 
 smiling again, " so many things may happen by-and-by." 
 
 So it was a pleasant enough little party after all, although 
 
 41C
 
 Mildred was placed at quite a distance from Philip when they 
 sat down at the dinner-table, and indeed said very little all the 
 evening. It was a consolation, she felt, to know that Philip 
 could no longer fancy that she was altogether heartless, that she 
 had been unable to forgive him even when she thought he was 
 dying. But of course he would realize how foolish it was to 
 think that they could ever be more than friends. 
 
 Perhaps she would have been less consoled had she overheard 
 a remark which Mrs. Cadwallader made to her husband after 
 her guests had gone. " I think it will be Daisy, after all," Mrs, 
 Cadwallader said. 
 
 " Daisy ! what do mean by that ?" he asked. " Is it some 
 mystery about Miss Tredwell ? I must ask her to sit to me. 
 I'd like to paint that red hair of hers." 
 
 " Oh, you men are so stupid !" his wife replied, with a laugh. 
 " Yes, every one of you !" And no doubt this was all the 
 answer he deserved. 
 
 THE END
 
 BY MARY E. WILKINS. 
 
 JANE FIELD. A Novel. Illustrated. I6mo, Cloth, Orna- 
 mental, $1 25. 
 YOUNG LUCRETIA, and Other Stories. Illustrated. Post 
 
 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 GILES COREY, YEOMAN. A Play, Illustrated. 32mo, 
 
 Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents. 
 A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. 1 6mo, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, $1 25. 
 A HUMBLE ROMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 The pathos of New England life, its intensities of repressed feeling, its 
 homely tragedies and its tender humor, have never been better told than 
 by Mary E. Wilkins, and in her own field she stands to-day without a 
 rival. Boston Courier. 
 
 It takes just such distinguished literary art as Mary E. Wilkins possesses 
 to give an episode of New England its soul, pathos; and poetry. N. Y. 
 Times. 
 
 The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set them apart in 
 a niche of distinction where they have no rivals. Literary World, Boston. 
 
 The author has the unusual gift of writing a short story which is com- 
 plete in itself, having a real beginning, a middle, and an end. Observer, 
 N. Y. 
 
 A gallery of striking studies in the humblest quarters of American 
 country life. No one has dealt with this kind of life better than Miss 
 Wilkins. Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, 
 sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures'. JV*. Y. Tribune. 
 
 The charm of Miss Wilkins's stories is in her intimate acquaintance and 
 comprehension of humble life, and the sweet human interest she feels and 
 makes her readers partake of, in the simple, common, homely people she 
 d raws. Springfield Republican. 
 
 The author has given us studies from real life which must be the result 
 of a lifetime of patient, sympathetic observation. . . . No one has done 
 the same kind of work so lovingly and so well. Christian Register, 
 Boston. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 g= The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage pre- 
 paid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 BY MARIA LOUISE POOL. 
 
 KATHARINE NORTH. A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Orna- 
 mental, $1 25. 
 
 " Katharine North " is, from an artistic and literary stand-point, Miss 
 Pool's best work, and will take high rank among the novels of the year. 
 The story is an intensely interesting one, and is most skilfully constructed. 
 Boston Traveller. 
 
 One of the best novels given the reading public for a long time, and its 
 character sketching is wonderful, clear, yet well defined ; like the etching 
 of a master. Her characters are not wooden men and women ; they 
 seem to work out their own salvation or destruction in their own particu- 
 lar style. St. Louis Republic. 
 
 MRS. KEATS BRADFORD. A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 Miss Pool's novels have the characteristic qualities of American life. 
 They have an indigenous flavor. The author is on her own ground, in- 
 stinct with American feeling and purpose. JV. Y. Tribune. 
 
 The dialogues are very natural, and the book is very wholesome reading. 
 No one who begins it will be able to give it up until the last page has been 
 reached and mastered. W. Y. Journal of Commerce. 
 
 The pictures of life in the New England village arc drawn with a hand 
 of unusual cleverness. Boston Courier. 
 
 ROWENY IN BOSTON. A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Orna- 
 mental, $1 25. 
 
 Is a surprisingly good story. ... It is a very delicately drawn story in 
 all particulars. It is sensitive in the matter of ideas and of phrase. Its 
 characters make a delightful company. It is excellent art and rare enter- 
 tainment. N. Y. Sim. 
 
 Like Roweny at her brush, Miss Pool may be said to have the " touch." 
 By a few lively strokes of her pen, her characters are made clear in out- 
 line, and are then left to explain themselves by their own words and ac- 
 tions. Nation, N. Y. 
 
 DALLY. A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 A delightful story. . . . The story is alive from the first to the last 
 chapter, and is of absorbing and intense interest. Watchman, Boston. 
 
 There is not a lay figure in the book ; all arc flesh and blood creations. 
 . . . The humor of "Dally" is grateful to the sense; it is provided in 
 abundance, together with touches of pathos, an inseparable concomitant. 
 Philadelphia Ledger. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 SW The above worlcs are for sale, by all booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage 
 prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 17761 
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed. 
 
 JUL 3 1995 
 
 
 2 WEEK LOAN 
 
 " ID-URL 

 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000 676 276 9