ARTTHOU
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ?
 
 s
 
 THEY TURNED AND STUMBLED IN A PANIC 
 DOWN THE STAIRS."
 
 Art Thou the 
 Man ? 
 
 By 
 
 Guy Berton 
 
 Illustrations By 
 Charles R. Macauley 
 
 New York 
 
 Dodd, Mead and Company 
 1905
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905, 
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 (All rights reserved) 
 Published, March
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " They Turned and Stumbled in a Panic down 
 
 the Stairs " Frontispiece 
 
 Facing 
 Page 
 
 " The Officers .... Shuddered and Stood 
 
 Silent " 10 
 
 " They Don't Know .... That's Certain. 
 
 They Don't Know Yet ' " 76 
 
 Marcia 106 
 
 " ' La ! Some One is There ' " 192 
 
 " The Trooping in of the Shadows to Envelope 
 
 Him " 200
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Cry " Murder ! " in the market place, and each 
 Will turn upon his neighbour anxious eyes 
 That ask "Art thou the man?" 
 
 RTTDYARD KIPLING. 
 
 A WHISPER went through the Quarter; at first 
 formless, undefinable, and thin. It penetrated 
 the walls of the gambling-houses, siftingly, like 
 dry cold. The men at play lifted their heads 
 listened; silently pushed their stacks of chips 
 toward the dealers, shoved back their chairs; 
 without a word went out into the street. It 
 crept between the swinging-doors of the saloons 
 like an ugly presence. Men with glass on 
 lips paused, waited, put down their drink 
 untasted quickly left these places. It per- 
 meated the dance-houses; women shivered and 
 paled without knowing why; checked the rav- 
 ings of the pianos ; looked at one another with 
 vague awe, then stealthily barred the windows 
 ad doors. It stole up and down the street; 
 loungers halted suddenly on the sidewalk; po- 
 licemen thrust their inadequate clubs into their 
 belts, felt the handles of their revolvers; and 
 over every person in the Quarter, that night,
 
 2 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 there came a sudden dread, a feeling of suspi- 
 cion, and the most uncouth, hardened soul was 
 disturbed incomprehensibly. 
 
 In the office of the Denver Record, the tele- 
 phone bell rang sharply, peremptorily. An- 
 swered by Armstrong, the city editor, a voice 
 shouted excitedly : 
 
 " Another woman strangled." 
 
 "Who? Where?" 
 
 " Gisquette Gringoire French Quarter ! " 
 
 " Where are you at their club ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " All right, Murphy '11 join you," Arm- 
 strong replied. Hanging up the receiver, he 
 whirled around and sung out to a man, already 
 getting into his overcoat: 
 
 " Hurry down to the French Club, Murphy ! 
 Simmonds says the strangler is at work again ! " 
 The reporter grabbed his hat and vanished 
 through the door. 
 
 The city editor resumed his work, and bar- 
 ring a few desultory exclamations, the local 
 room " as it was in the beginning, is now, and 
 ever shall be," as the church reporter once said 
 in a burst of irreverent levity returned calmly 
 to its usual routine; for even on these tempes- 
 tuous nights when murders, suicides, scandals, 
 wrecks, and fires seem by their number and coin-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 3 
 
 cidence to announce a coming cataclysm, its 
 serenity is seldom clouded. 
 
 Here, adventitious shades of blotting-paper 
 concentrate the lights of many electric lamps 
 on the tables where the reporters, in various 
 phases of dishabille, write in every known degree 
 of feverishness. From one wall, a clock with a 
 jaundiced face at least twenty years old 
 stares down with the insolent admonition that 
 time is short ; upon a second wall, a brazen fire- 
 alarm gong is fairly tingling with expectancy; 
 opposite the clock, the telephone, militant and 
 instantaneous, holds infinite possibilities of sen- 
 sation. Elsewhere lithographs in profusion 
 portraits of Presidents, pugilists, actresses, 
 parades, and local celebrities. 
 
 In the left-hand corner of the room stands 
 the desk of the city editor. It is of black wal- 
 nut, old-fashioned, battered and begrimed, yet 
 staunch and brave after its many years of ser- 
 vice. City editors have come and gone; but 
 it has endured " the insolence of office and the 
 spurns " and bears its scars like a soldier. The 
 old desk, fragrant with memories, is a catacomb 
 of genius, mummied in manuscript and the home 
 of a thriving family of cockroaches ; in its 
 drawers and pigeon-holes there is a haggis of 
 nondescript and transient articles that, if you
 
 4 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 but knew their stories, would introduce you 
 to a vocation strange and unconventional. 
 Here also, treasured most of all, are the 
 old assignment books fourteen of them, 
 holding flavours of romance like chronicles 
 of the Round Table or relics of bygone min- 
 strelsy. 
 
 For fourteen years so laggard is promo- 
 tion Armstrong, by day and by night, has 
 assigned the brisk young men of his staff to their 
 respective duties of news-gathering; and you 
 might trace their names, as they have come and 
 gone, upon the pages of these books. Two you 
 will find there continuously : Simmonds and Mur- 
 phy, patriarchs who have earned their patent 
 of nobility in the fourth estate. They can tell 
 you many a merry tale, many a sad one, and 
 prove it by these records. 
 
 A few nights after the murder of Gisquette 
 Gringoire, the patriarch Murphy strode into 
 the local room, slamming the door behind him. 
 His hat and coat were dripping wet. Without 
 stopping to remove them, he at once confronted 
 the city editor. There was on Murphy's face 
 an expression of defiance mingled with cha- 
 grin, so unmistakable and so unnatural to 
 that buoyant soul, that every other reporter in
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 5 
 
 the room paused in his work to look at him. The 
 city editor raised his head. 
 
 " Well? " he asked, briefly. 
 
 " Well," answered Murphy, dejectedly, " I'm 
 dead tired beaten up a stump. If you've 
 got anybody here who thinks he'd make a bril- 
 liant detective, I wish you'd turn him loose on 
 this story, that's all." 
 
 Armstrong dropped his blue pencil, looked 
 calmly at the intrepid chronicler of the world's 
 miseries, and inquired: 
 
 " What's the matter, Murphy ? You haven't 
 fallen down on the strangling story, have you? " 
 
 In the city editor's tone there was just the 
 suggestion of solicitude and appeal to pride re- 
 quired to make the reporter's discomfiture com- 
 plete. Murphy flushed, looked at the wall in con- 
 fusion, and then leaned upon the desk unmind- 
 ful of the little stream of water that trickled 
 from his sleeve across a pile of manuscript. 
 His voice dropped as he related the circum- 
 stances of his failure; and only an occasional 
 expletive, or a morsel of slang, tossed out of 
 the current of his hurrying narrative, reached 
 the straining ears of the other men. All were 
 curious to learn how this star reporter, hitherto 
 so confident and sure, had failed on the biggest 
 story they had ever known.
 
 6 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 " Day and night," said Murphy, with empha- 
 sis, " since that last girl was strangled, I have 
 sleuthed with the detectives made friends with 
 every Frenchman I could induce to take a drink 
 hung around the place where the * Compa- 
 gnie ' make its headquarters, till to-night they 
 almost threw me out. Why? Simply because 
 I couldn't convince them that I was not dig- 
 ging up evidence trying to drive them all out 
 of the country." 
 
 Murphy was exasperated, humiliated. The 
 more he thought of it all, the angrier he be- 
 came. 
 
 " And what have I found out ? " he exclaimed, 
 furiously. " Just this : Diane Therdier was 
 strangled about midnight, August 30. Marga- 
 ret Valois, about midnight, September 30. Gis- 
 quette Gringoire, about midnight, October 30. 
 That's about all I know and about all anybody 
 knows." 
 
 "What about Richard Therdier?" asked 
 Armstrong. " The police think 
 
 "Idiots!" interrupted Murphy. "They 
 haven't any evidence against him. They locked 
 him up because Diane Therdier was his wife, 
 and the first of the three women strangled. 
 They took him in on general principles. They're 
 great on principles ! They can't convict Ther-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 7 
 
 dier! Granting that he did strangle his wife, 
 in a scrap, what the devil did he kill the other 
 two for? They were not robbed. A man isn't 
 going around killing women without some mo- 
 tive, is he? " 
 
 The city editor and Murphy talked long and 
 earnestly. Finally, Murphy straightened up, 
 and said, resignedly : 
 
 " Can't help it, Mr. Armstrong. I've done 
 my best, and haven't found the slightest clue." 
 
 Armstrong turned again to his work. 
 
 Murphy, with an air of almost comical aban- 
 don, tossed his overcoat upon a chair, threw 
 himself desperately into another, put his feet 
 on a desk, lighted a long cigar, and began an 
 intent and quizzical study of the dirty ceiling. 
 Silence fell upon the room, intensified by the 
 fluttering of loose sheets of paper and an occa- 
 sional suppressed ejaculation. Outside, the 
 rain tapped a dreary monotone on roofs and 
 pavements; and at short intervals, a street-car 
 gong interjected a muffled clang. Suddenly 
 Murphy glanced almost affectionately at a 
 young man at work across the room. In- 
 stantly the expression on his face changed. 
 At least, he seemed to have solved a vexatious 
 problem. He lighted a fresh cigar, and ad- 
 dressed Armstrong, in a low voice.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 I say, Mr. Armstrong " 
 
 " Yes," replied the editor, without looking 
 up from his papers. 
 
 " Would you mind a suggestion from me? 
 A favour, if you will ? " 
 
 Armstrong was surprised. The request was 
 unusual. He glanced inquisitively at the speaker. 
 
 " Out with it ; but you know you'll have to 
 write something, Murphy." 
 
 " Why not give the youngster a show ? " Mur- 
 phy almost whispered, nodding significantly. 
 " A little new blood might turn the trick I'll 
 steer him." 
 
 Armstrong reflected a moment. He was not 
 ignorant of the semi-paternal interest that the 
 Patriarch had for the newcomer. 
 
 " All right, I'll give him a try," he said, not 
 unkindly, and then went on somewhat brusquely, 
 " Go ahead anyhow roast the police for their 
 incapacity intimate that more hustling and 
 less theorising would be a good thing for the 
 welfare of this community." Armstrong smiled 
 grimly upon delivering this last instruction, 
 then looked across the room. " Mr. Drake, 
 come here, please." 
 
 A young man who had been writing dili- 
 gently, with barely a recognition of the scene 
 that had attracted the curious attention of the
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 9 
 
 other reporters, arose and approached the city 
 editor's desk. He was about twenty-seven 
 years old, of medium height and muscular build, 
 with broad shoulders and a suggestion of 
 athletic training in his movements. 
 
 "Are you about up, Mr. Drake?" asked 
 Armstrong. 
 
 " All but one short item," he replied. 
 
 " Hurry with it, then. I want you to take 
 the strangler story. I'll talk it over with you 
 presently." 
 
 The last sheets of copy for the early mail edi- 
 tion had just gone up to the composing-room 
 when Armstrong stopped before the young 
 man's desk, and said : 
 
 " Here's an opportunity for good work, 
 Drake. This mystery seems impenetrable. 
 There is something uncanny an inexpressible 
 horror about it. Why, even the officers, when 
 they entered the bedchamber of the third vic- 
 tim, that night, shuddered and stood silent as if 
 oppressed by the shadow of a terror. Besides, 
 the victims were young, pretty, and there was no 
 apparent motive for the crimes." 
 
 " What's your theory ? " inquired Drake, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I'm undecided. At times, I think the mur- 
 derer is a second Whitechapel fiend ; then again,
 
 10 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 I'm almost convinced that Therdier is guilty. 
 The police think that he killed the others to 
 divert suspicion from himself. You will recall 
 that, although arrested for the murder of his 
 wife, he was out on bail when the other crimes 
 were committed." 
 
 " Yes, I remember and at intervals of a 
 month almost to the very hour." 
 
 Armstrong pursued his train of thought. 
 " He must have been a man of amazing physical 
 strength. In none of the cases was there the 
 least evidence of a struggle ; and a single scream 
 would probably have betrayed him." 
 
 " Evidence ! " exclaimed Drake. " Is there 
 any such against Therdier ? " 
 
 " None whatever. He says he was at the 
 French Club playing cards, on the night Diane 
 Therdier, his wife, was killed. He returned to 
 his house at midnight, but did not go to her 
 room. About ten o'clock the next morning, he 
 arose and went to market. In the meantime, a 
 servant had discovered the woman dead. The 
 officers came and arrested him." 
 
 " Therdier, it seems to me," declared Drake, 
 " is just the sort of a man who would murder 
 his wife." 
 
 " Precisely, and yet all he would admit was 
 that, after he had gone to sleep, he was half
 
 "THE OFFICERS .... SHUDDERED AND 
 STOOD SILENT."
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 11 
 
 awakened by a noise, very like a scream ; but in 
 his semi-conscious state, he thought it was a 
 dream and fell asleep again. Then there is a 
 theory," continued Armstrong, " that is ex- 
 tremely plausible and bad for Therdier. His 
 brother Jacques, the owner of the French Club, 
 is the head of the ' Compagnie.' Suppose these 
 women had learned some of their secrets, and 
 the society determined to put them out of the 
 way?" 
 
 " It's going to be difficult to get anything 
 out of the ' Compagnie,' " asserted Drake. 
 
 " Yes, they are extremely suspicious, and will 
 protect Therdier, not only with money, but with 
 all the resources of a versatile race. There is 
 one peculiar thing about Therdier," said Arm- 
 strong, in conclusion. " It has no direct bear- 
 ing on the case, but it impressed me. Although 
 French-born, his early life was passed in Con- 
 stantinople and other parts of the Orient where 
 little value is placed on human life particu- 
 larly women." Returning to his desk, he added : 
 " Therdier's lawyer, Henry Woolford, is an ex- 
 traordinary man a keen student of criminol- 
 ogy. First, I think I'd go to see him." 
 
 A few minutes later Drake and Murphy 
 were seated at a table in their favourite corner 
 at Dupree's. After they had ordered supper,
 
 12 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 the Patriarch unbosomed himself. Murphy's 
 chief characteristics were red hair, a red waist- 
 coat, and a vocabulary that might with figura- 
 tive accuracy also be called red. This vocabu- 
 lary was made up, for the most part, of several 
 varieties of slang, each excelling the others, it 
 seemed, in picturesque indifference to the rules 
 of speech. How Murphy managed to write 
 English fit to be printed was a subject of con- 
 tinual speculation among the other members of 
 the staff. The city editor and his assistant 
 might have enlightened them; but the most 
 either had ever said on this point was a remark 
 Armstrong made one night, in the stress of 
 hurry and impatience, to the effect that " Mur- 
 phy's contempt for verbs was positively sub- 
 lime." Whatever his failings were in this re- 
 spect, Murphy was chivalrous in his brazen 
 way, generous, and true. 
 
 " I don't envy you your job, old man," said 
 Murphy, with a fetching frankness, by way of 
 beginning the conversation. 
 
 "Don't you?" responded Drake, invitingly. 
 
 " No, I'm damned if I do ! " reiterated Mur- 
 phy, still more frankly. Then he proceeded with 
 great wealth of detail and with many copious 
 extracts from his own volume of experience to 
 explain why he had failed to run down the
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 13 
 
 quarry, and why he was content to let Drake win 
 all the glory there might be in the undertaking. 
 
 As Drake walked homeward, his brain was 
 busy with all the disconnected details of the 
 case, toiling to classify them. Only a few fitful 
 drops of rain fell now; wet stars began to leak 
 tricklings of light through the wrack of flying 
 clouds ; thin streamings of vapour rose from 
 warm spots on the pavement. Thinking and 
 walking rapidly, his blood flowed hot; he re- 
 moved his raincoat and checked his athletic 
 stride. 
 
 It was late when he reached home. His mother 
 was awake, as she always was when he came 
 in. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he related to 
 her the occurrences of the night. 
 
 " I'd rather you were not obliged to work on 
 such stories, Allan," she said, with gentle depre- 
 cation ; " but some one must, I suppose." 
 
 " Mother, dear," he said, kissing her good- 
 night, " you want me to succeed well, here'8 
 my chance."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 " Inscrutable by nature or device, 
 While all men doubted whether he might be 
 Profoundly frigid like the bitter sea, 
 Or a volcano lapped in Arctic ice." 
 
 HENRY WOOLFORD, the famous criminal law- 
 yer, retained by Jacques Therdier to defend his 
 brother Richard, lived in a large house in Vine 
 Street. It was set far back in a wide lawn, and 
 in summer was half concealed by superb maple 
 trees whose limbs were now like latticework, 
 paintless and in decay. 
 
 The following afternoon, Drake, having 
 vainly attempted to gain an audience of the 
 lawyer at his office, proceeded to obtain it at 
 his home. A woman past the middle age, grey- 
 haired, erect, one of the vanishing type of ser- 
 vants, came to the door. She seemed, in some 
 impressibly subtle way, to be a proper part of 
 the establishment, as she led him into the dark- 
 ened reception hall. 
 
 A minute later when he was ushered into the 
 
 library, he found two persons there. One, a man 
 
 whom he knew at once to be the lawyer ; the other 
 
 was a girl. They had been seated at a massive 
 
 14
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 15 
 
 table which was covered with books and papers. 
 The light from the table-lamp fell bright upon 
 them ; a green shade kept the rest of the room 
 in shadows, save for the fitful crimson glow that 
 came from the open fireplace. Drake was aware 
 of certain dim, painted faces staring solemnly 
 out of the wall; of tall, black cases filled with 
 books ; of grim armour in one dark recess ; of a 
 heavy sword suspended above the mantelpiece; 
 of old-fashioned chairs and a damask couch. 
 It was only an impression, to be sure, but some- 
 how, trained to quick perception, he felt at 
 once an undefinable sensation come upon him 
 not readily shaken off. He was familiar with 
 the true culture that effaces as well as with the 
 new wealth that displays itself. Here was 
 something different occultation and a meaning 
 too fine for instant understanding. 
 
 Henry Woolford was thirty-eight years old, 
 dignified, cold, and courteous in his greeting. 
 He was, in physique, a man such as the stupid- 
 est observer would turn to look upon a second 
 time. It was not merely that he was comely, that 
 he was strong ; but rather that in his comeliness 
 and strength there was some rare quality of suf- 
 ficiency of separateness of isolation. He was 
 six feet in height, compactly built, virile, in- 
 tense, with nerves of steel the kind of steel they
 
 16 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 make mainsprings of as well as rifle barrels and 
 armour plate. Above a broad white forehead, 
 his hair, light in colour and fine of grain, was 
 thinning. His face, pale, but not unhealthy in 
 its hue, invited scrutiny; his lips delicate, mo- 
 bile, downward-curving; nose long and sensi- 
 tive; jaws massive in the sweep from ears to 
 chin ; eyes grey-blue, cold, unsympathetic, hold- 
 ing in their depths a peculiar potency that 
 sometimes repelled, as often fascinated. 
 
 Woolford's dress was of the best material 
 and latest cut. It had the appearance of hav- 
 ing been put on carelessly, as if he had pur- 
 chased his clothes with close attention to detail, 
 and had forthwith ceased to think of them. In 
 manner, he was quick and nervous, but withal 
 easy and reserved a kind of inexplicable con- 
 tradiction. It was not until he spoke, however, 
 that he revealed the chief secret of his influence 
 over men. He had a marvellous voice sweet, 
 musical, resonant; rich in coaxing tones and in 
 seducing melodies. It was the voice of an ora- 
 tor, flexible, under absolute control; a voice to 
 move audiences to passion and juries to unrea- 
 son ; the voice of an angel, a tempter, an accus- 
 ing spirit, as the mood might be. With a voice 
 like that, and a mind to give it matter, a man 
 may speak of cube roots and logarithms as
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 17 
 
 common men of stars and bramble dew ; may 
 easily contrive of sticks and stones a glistering 
 pageant of imagination. 
 
 What is it this magic of the human voice? 
 The eyes have been called, with poetic aptness, 
 the windows of the soul; but what exaggerations 
 of the fancy, and what refinement of mere words, 
 can fitly designate the deep significance of full- 
 throated speech ! Detailed pedigrees tell much ; 
 faces in keen analysis may reveal a diagram of 
 family history; manners give continual testi- 
 mony to good breeding, or quick exposure of the 
 want of it; but the voice, truer than all these, 
 has the cunning gift to place its owner, indu- 
 bitably and beyond appeal, in his predestined 
 place. All the voices of his ancestry sweet or 
 bitter, dissonant or symphonious; prayers and 
 curses ; costermongering yells, or drawing-room 
 cadenzas; sadness and gaiety, misery and joy; 
 culture and ignorance; taint of darkness or 
 touch of light all the voices of his ancestry are 
 composite in the throat of every man that parts 
 his lips to speak. Time may obliterate the brand 
 of Cain, but only eternity can sweeten the vow- 
 els of the murderer ; and though " one sad losel 
 may spoil a name for aye," a life of ignoble 
 deeds can little more than harden the timber 
 of a noble nature's accent.
 
 18 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Henry Woolford's voice, could it have been 
 analysed, as the sun's rays are broken in the 
 spectroscope, would have revealed his story of 
 heredity. The two lines of his ancestry, paral- 
 lel some two hundred years and then converged 
 in him, were distinctly intellectual. Henry's 
 father in '61 had left a lucrative law practice 
 to lead a regiment of Union volunteers, and, a 
 few years later, had died of wounds received in 
 battle. His grandfather was a governor of Ver- 
 mont. His great grandfather was a leader in 
 Congress a fiery Whig in the days when argu- 
 ment and oratory were the familiar weapons of 
 political antagonism. His mother was a woman 
 of the South. Generation after generation, the 
 men of her family had held high office on the 
 bench all successful in that leisurely South- 
 ern way that adds to sterling character so fine 
 a flavour of distinction. Thus from both lines 
 Henry had inherited legal talents, acumen, and 
 psychological powers, concentrated, purified to 
 the very essence of mentality. It was a note- 
 worthy fact that despite the versatility and the 
 capacity of the Woolford mind, no member of 
 the family had distinguished himself, or even 
 sought distinction in any business or profession 
 other than the law save only the battlefields 
 pf politics and war. Moreover, no collateral
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 19 
 
 branch of the Woolfords had endured for long, 
 or won remembered recognition. The man and 
 his sister were " all the daughters of their 
 father's house and all the brothers, too." 
 
 Henry Woolford had become the foremost 
 criminal lawyer of Colorado a specialist. 
 From the beginning of his career he had centred 
 all the faculties of his mind upon one branch of 
 his profession ; he had steadily narrowed and 
 deepened his researches ; and had gradually re- 
 stricted his practice to certain exceptional 
 phases of criminal defence. In the conduct of 
 a case he displayed a genius for details, for 
 seizing at once upon the vital point and discard- 
 ing the trivial ; for discerning every bearing of 
 a question and weighing it judicially; for bal- 
 ancing evidence against evidence with the skill 
 of a prestidigitator; for demolishing a theory 
 with a word and establishing a new one with 
 another ; for dealing with intricate motives and 
 complex emotions. To him the human heart and 
 the immortal soul of man were, it seemed, but 
 maps and diagrams laid before him in red-limned 
 nakedness. Heredity, environment, the acci- 
 dents of formative influences were no longer 
 mysteries to him, but were the very implements 
 of his craft. It was not strange, then, that 
 men feared him ; that the criminal classes, while
 
 20 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 they sought him, quailed before him; that even 
 his own clients, whose lives he saved, trembled in 
 his presence, cowed beneath the searching of his 
 eyes, and felt the probing of his silver tongue 
 in their very hearts to be a punishment little 
 less insufferable than the condemning sentence 
 of a judge. Among his fellows of the bar, 
 Woolford was not popular. He was too unso- 
 ciable to be liked. He was aloof, distant, iso- 
 lated ; a glacial mountain towering in chill lofti- 
 ness above the mere rotundities of his sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Henry and his sister lived quietly, almost in 
 seclusion. They were fond of each other, and 
 cared more for each other's company than for 
 the pleasures of society. He took his sister into 
 his confidence ; discussed with her the deep prob- 
 lems of human frailty that were his study and 
 his recreation; and with her help prepared his 
 cases for trial. They were deep in the intrica- 
 cies of the strangling case, when Drake was 
 ushered into the library, that chill November 
 evening. 
 
 " From the Record? " said Woolford. " This 
 is my sister, Mr. Drake." 
 
 In the faint warm glow of the firelight the 
 reporter saw a girl of perhaps twenty years, 
 in a flowing house-gown of white, with a wealth
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 21 
 
 of hair of the colour of burnished bronze, with 
 half-lights flashing from their curves and coils ; 
 he saw that her cheeks glowed; that her eyes 
 were dark, large, shining, frankly meeting his 
 own swift look. 
 
 The girl started to move away from the table. 
 
 " You needn't go, Marcia," said the lawyer. 
 " That is you want to talk about the stran- 
 glings, perhaps? " 
 
 " Yes," Drake answered. 
 
 " Then stay, please, Marcia. My sister," 
 turning again toward Drake, " assists me in all 
 my cases."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 As the strong man exults in his physical ability, de- 
 lighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, 
 so glories the analyst in that moral activity which dis- 
 entangles. 
 
 EDGAB ALLAN POE. 
 
 WOOLFORD plunged at once into the interview. 
 
 " I am glad you came," he said, " because I 
 want the Record to publish the facts in these 
 strangling cases. There is a mystery in them 
 that has led the newspapers to print all sorts of 
 wild, impossible, and idiotic theories in their 
 efforts to outdo one another, and to furnish sen- 
 sational reading for the public." 
 
 " The city editor tells me you have refused to 
 be interviewed," answered Drake, a little nettled 
 by the lawyer's words. 
 
 " That's true. I don't try my cases in the 
 newspapers. Nevertheless, in this instance I 
 have a mind to set you right, for the reason 
 that these columns of idle conjecture and mis- 
 chievous confusion keep the community stirred 
 up, and do a great injustice to my client, 
 Therdier." 
 
 " The Record is eager to publish everything 
 22
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 23 
 
 you will say," said Drake. " It has already 
 printed fully the police side of the case." 
 
 " That is the very thing I most complain of," 
 responded Woolf ord. " The police ! What do 
 they know of the science of crime! But the 
 newspapers I had thought more intelligent and 
 discriminating." He paused as if preparing his 
 thoughts for utterance, paying little attention 
 to the man before him, who concealed with diffi- 
 culty hi-s disagreeable impression; then, with a 
 sweeping gesture, he pointed to an oaken cab- 
 inet standing in a recess near the fireplace. 
 
 " There," said he, " is a cabinet, divided into 
 twelve compartments for as many classes of doc- 
 uments. These papers here, on the table, are the 
 answer in a case being prepared for trial; and 
 from that fact I know that they belong in a cer- 
 tain one of those compartments. That is simple 
 enough, is it not? " 
 
 " Certainly," answered Drake, impressed not 
 so much by the lawyer's words as by his manner, 
 which was peculiarly positive and significant. 
 
 " Well, you can classify all crimes as easily. 
 First strip them of the impossible, then examine 
 the known facts ; and you know the kind of crim- 
 inal that did the work in every case." 
 
 "In every case? Can you analyse these 
 strangling cases in that way ? " asked Drake.
 
 24 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " It is possible to analyse every crime in that 
 way. But I am not through with the illustra- 
 tion. My office boy can place properly nine of 
 these twelve classes of papers, because to do it 
 requires only the ability to read. The remain- 
 ing three I must study over, else I may put them 
 in the wrong compartments. So we may sepa- 
 rate crimes into two general classes the ordi- 
 nary and the extraordinary. Nine out of twelve 
 crimes are ordinary. Leave them to the police, 
 and the probability is that the dullest patrolmen 
 will stumble upon the criminal ; for the luckless 
 culprits unconsciously will be doing their ut- 
 most to assist in their own capture." 
 
 " And the other three ? " said Drake. 
 
 " They are beyond the powers of the police. 
 They are the extraordinary. It is to this class 
 that these cases belong. Have you ever seen 
 Therdier?" 
 
 " Yes, I have talked with him." 
 
 " What sort of a man did you take him to 
 be?" 
 
 " An ordinary Frenchman, unscrupulous 
 cruel." 
 
 " You are right. He is an ordinary French- 
 man, and probably is capable of an ordinary 
 crime; but that he could be the strangler is im- 
 possible. Look at these crimes! The motive is
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 25 
 
 concealed; the audacity of the criminal amazes 
 you; the apparent contempt for human life ap- 
 pals you ; and, as you go deeper into the mys- 
 tery, facts are revealed that confound you. 
 These murders were committed at an hour when 
 the French Quarter was thronged with people. 
 The women lay not ten feet from a street 
 crowded with passers-by. One outcry one mis- 
 calculation on his part, even in the smallest de- 
 tail of his work, would have betrayed him. It 
 was as if an invisible hand had smitten the very 
 heart of the Quarter, and taken a life. The 
 assassin left but one clue; and that marked the 
 crime as extraordinary, proved that Therdier 
 was innocent, and told even more plainly than a 
 photograph could, the character of the stran- 
 gler. This clue the police passed by unnoticed." 
 
 The lawyer spoke with calmness and delibera- 
 tion. His words, manner, and voice fascinated 
 Drake, at the same time mystified him. As 
 often as he had tried to take his eyes off Wool- 
 ford's face, to look at the lawyer's sister, his 
 gaze had been drawn back by the strange mag- 
 netism in the man. 
 
 " In the meantime," Woolford continued, 
 " the poh'ce are preparing a surprise for us. 
 In an ordinary case, it would not be bad ; but in 
 this why, I'll show you how much I think of
 
 26 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 it by revealing the whole secret to you. What 
 do you think of an eye-witness actually, an 
 eye-witness ? Ha ! " 
 
 Woolford laughed. 
 
 " The eye-witness is a negro boy, twenty 
 years old, ignorant, simple-minded. He will say 
 he passed the Therdier window at ten o'clock 
 the night of the murder ; he heard voices and the 
 sound of a struggle; he looked in, and saw 
 Therdier, with one hand clasped around the 
 woman's throat, dragging her toward the door 
 leading into the second room. He will say that 
 for a whole month he was too frightened to tell 
 anything about what he had seen; that finally 
 he confided to his mother; that she told other 
 negro women ; that she and they at last pre- 
 vailed upon him to go to the police with his 
 story. Well, the boy is a liar! The negro is 
 naturally superstitious. His mind is open to 
 suggestions. He sups full with horrors and 
 rather likes the feast. Under the influence of 
 terror, such as spread over the neighbourhood 
 of Therdier's place terror that grew with the 
 repetitions of the fiendish deeds the negro 
 brain was tortured by illusions and hallucina- 
 tions which, with long and careful nursing, have 
 grown to the dignity of facts. The boy did 
 not see Therdier kill the woman could not have
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 27 
 
 seen him kill her, because Therdier is not the 
 strangler ! Every particle of testimony that 
 will be introduced against Therdier will help to 
 acquit him. The prosecution will assume that 
 this is an ordinary murder. The common, pal- 
 try motive the sordid quarrel the coarse, 
 common character of the man whom they 
 accuse why, all these things are essential ele- 
 ments of the ordinary crime of murder." 
 
 A faint smile passed over Woolford's lips, and 
 he shot a significant glance at Marcia, who sat 
 silent on the other side of the table. Then he 
 went on: 
 
 " I'll give you a peep into the case of the de- 
 fence. Do you know that after each of these 
 three women was strangled, a bunch of red car- 
 nations was found lying by the side of her body? 
 You had not heard of that, had you? Ask the 
 detectives. Perhaps they will recall the circum- 
 stance ; and if they do, they'll say, * Yes, there 
 were some flowers there, but have you heard of 
 our latest discovery in Therdier's record ? ' And 
 they'll think no more about the carnations. 
 Why, right there is the material for Therdier's 
 acquittal those three bunches of red carna- 
 tions, exactly alike, peculiarly tied with similar 
 strings. 
 
 " Would Therdier lay red carnations at the
 
 28 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 side of his victims? He never bought a red car- 
 nation in his life. Furthermore, I challenge you 
 to go to-night and find me a single red carna- 
 tion in the whole French colony. Why, red pop- 
 pies, thrice distilled, couldn't put a man to sleep 
 quicker than those flowers will smother all the 
 theories of the prosecution in this case. No, 
 sir," he continued, as he settled himself back in 
 his chair ; " it will be plain that an extraordi- 
 nary criminal, from a strange and possibly in- 
 sane motive, deliberately planned these crimes. 
 We'll show how an exceptional person, for an 
 extraordinary reason, killed these women, and 
 left them lying cold in death with blue marks on 
 their white throats, their tongues swollen and 
 protruding, a fading look of horror on their 
 fixed faces and red carnations, fresh, pecu- 
 liarly tied, carefully placed by their sides. 
 That's my case. You wonder, perhaps, that I 
 speak so frankly. Why, no court will convict 
 Therdier. As for the police? Bah! They do 
 not attain to the importance even of a good 
 joke."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame 
 Of midnight torches burns; mysterious dame, 
 That ne'er art called, but when the dragon womb 
 Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, 
 And makes one blot of all the air. 
 
 MILTON'S Comus. 
 
 IF you will leave behind you the gathered, 
 garish lights of Sixteenth Street, and over your 
 left shoulder keep the owl-like face of the Union 
 Depot clock; if you will walk far enough, be- 
 yond the last bright show-window, beyond the 
 pawnshops, beyond Isaac's second-hand store, 
 and beyond the Mansion Stables, you shall 
 come at length to the shadow-line where respec- 
 tability, long hesitating, halts ; where commerce 
 takes the taint of infamy; where leering vice 
 unveils, and reaches out a leprous hand to vir- 
 tue gone astray. 
 
 Here is The Place of Banished Things. Here 
 you shall find, if you have the courage to look, 
 banished weakness, banished sin, and banished 
 ugliness; banished sights and sounds and 
 odours ; banished old pianos that lament in 
 tinny tones their fall from pleasant places ; ban- 
 29
 
 30 ART THOU THE MAN t 
 
 ished violins that pule on in mended misery; 
 banished songs that lost their freshness long 
 ago; banished oak and tinsel; banished histories, 
 and banished memories; banished men and wo- 
 men, all quite cast away. Banished things of 
 every kind have gathered herewith some strange 
 instinct of segregation, like that which makes 
 a gruesome colony of cripples and like that 
 which lays the boundaries of the fastidious 
 Hill. The very atmosphere, having yielded up 
 its oxygen and become satiate with refuse and 
 miasma, might seem to have been banished to 
 this place for ever, so foul and alien is it, so 
 different from the air this side the shadow-line. 
 
 Here are no half-tones, no nuances of sound 
 and colour. When the bold lights go out, they 
 go out in darkness that plausibly has weight 
 and measure; and when the strident noises 
 cease, they yield to a tingling silentness. Not 
 a minor chord is heard. The voice of the 
 place is high and shrill. Not a touch of gentle 
 colour can be seen. All is black and red and 
 white; black for the background of the 
 noisome street; red on the lamps and the door- 
 ways; white in splashes here and there the 
 ghosts of women. 
 
 Down this thoroughfare and back a motley 
 rabble jolts and staggers, for the sidewalks are
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 31 
 
 rough and treacherous, and the spirit of un- 
 steadiness is in the very air. The gutter is 
 filled with filth ; the street is unpaved, neglected, 
 strewn with trash. At intervals the wheels of 
 a night-hawk cab rattle over tin cans, and 
 sink deep into heaps of rubbish. Doors slam 
 viciously, and drunken men stumble out into 
 the night with their fumbling hands upon their 
 pockets. Through the scene runs the whole 
 gamut of vice, from Bacchanalian levity to 
 soulless, calculating sin. The sober imagina- 
 tion, infected with the exhalations of the gut- 
 ter and fed upon the heavy horrors of chiaros- 
 curo, might sanely people the picture with 
 monsters and with monsters' progeny. Here a 
 shutter hisses, as if it contained a Medusa's 
 head ; yonder the faces of a hydra smile out of 
 the contorted night; everywhere chimeras dire 
 start capering from the shadows. It is all like 
 " a phantasma and a hideous dream." 
 
 Around this place of banished things, the 
 electric spirits of exposure have thrown a noose 
 of light, as if to hold the pestilential blot in 
 its allotted place. It is left in central gloom, 
 like the black spot beneath an arc-lamp, while 
 a radiant circle beats upon the sky. Surely 
 the foul fiend's votaries, like some red-robed, 
 fallen Richelieu, know how to draw a magic
 
 32 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 ring inside which their persons are immune and 
 their power is supreme. Civic virtue, imper- 
 sonated by an oblivious policeman, swings its 
 idle club, and muses on the inherent wickedness 
 of man ; a little Baptist mission around the 
 corner chants faint hymns, and closes early ; 
 and a block away the street-cars convoy the 
 smug and respectable citizens toward their 
 homes. And though faces disappear, and 
 pianos in time go to the junk-pile, and violins 
 get broken in the middle of a tune, still will 
 new faces and new instruments take their 
 places ; for decrees of banishment are issued 
 every day in the convenient way society has of 
 eliminating the weak and the ugly and the old. 
 
 Into this place came Drake and Murphy, ac- 
 cording to agreement. It was nearly mid- 
 night when they approached the French Quar- 
 ter. 
 
 " Denver's slums don't cover a lot of terri- 
 tory," said Murphy, " but just tell me where 
 outside of Whitechapel they've ever had such 
 murders as our triple strangling! Now that 
 you are here, I suppose you'll want to meet 
 some of these people, won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Drake, " I want to follow 
 up the tips Woolford gave me the carnations 
 and the story of the negro boy."
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 33 
 
 " I hardly think the latter is on my list of 
 acquaintances," returned Murphy, smilingly, 
 " but I'll introduce you to some of Therdier's 
 friends." 
 
 The houses they were passing, as they walked 
 down the street, were of two classes in appear- 
 ance. They may be assorted, in a general 
 way, as large and small, pretentious and 
 shabby, all strung together without uniformity 
 of design. Presently, Murphy stopped in 
 front of a building that, both in its architec- 
 ture and in its pretension to exclusiveness, com- 
 pletely dwarfed, with its magnificence, the 
 squat houses on either side. It was built of cut 
 stone with profuse ornamentation, and con- 
 trasted boldly with the houses around it, all 
 built of red brick, long since begun to crumble. 
 The windows of this edifice were closed and 
 heavily curtained. The plate glass of the 
 oaken door was draped on the inside with crim- 
 son silk, which let a red flood of light into the 
 street. This was the French Club. 
 
 " Here we are ! " announced Murphy, cheer- 
 fully, and then, with the easy certainty of 
 familiarity, pulled the bell. 
 
 The door was quickly opened. A negro ser- 
 vant in livery bowed them in. A brilliantly 
 lighted hallway extended through the house,
 
 84 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 and about midway of it a broad staircase led 
 to the floor above. The hall and stairs were 
 carpeted in a deep rich red, and the walls were 
 frescoed in gaudy variations of the same bright 
 hue. Everywhere were incandescent lamps; 
 the place was all afire with colour. Mirrors 
 multiplied the figures of many men talking in 
 little groups. Interlacing all the noises was 
 the incessant clicking of the chips and the 
 monotonous call of a croupier. 
 
 Drake followed Murphy to where the most 
 insistent sounds came from. A long room was 
 filled with gaming apparatus ; near the door 
 was a roulette wheel around which half a dozen 
 men were playing. The man in charge nodded 
 pleasantly to Murphy. After watching the 
 ball roll a dozen times or more, Murphy crossed 
 to where the faro layout and poker tables were 
 surrounded by players. The room contained 
 perhaps two score of men, all equalised by the 
 gambling mania and sufficient money to gratify 
 it. Some of them, polished, pale-faced, were 
 in evening dress; others wore the incoherent 
 and somewhat egregious garb that proclaimed 
 them to be mine-owners, down from the moun- 
 tains for recreation. One or two more, in 
 coarser clothing, were evidently prospectors 
 who had recently sold their mining-claims
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 35 
 
 eagerly ridding themselves of their too sudden 
 wealth. A few typical gamblers rounded out 
 the assemblage. The people playing were of 
 varied nationality, American for the most part. 
 Those in charge of the' games were all French- 
 men, watching with keen eyes and speaking 
 with quiet courtesy, without noise or agitation. 
 Such slight noise as there was came from the 
 players and from the other persons scattered 
 through the house. Men were constantly 
 coming and going; servants busied themselves 
 here and there for the comfort of the guests. 
 Above all, the clicking of the chips the monot- 
 onous calling of the roulette man " Two 
 black!" "Thirty-six red!" "Double O!" as 
 the ball rolled. 
 
 After wandering idly about, greeting a few 
 acquaintances, Murphy wrote something on a 
 card and handed it to a servant. Presently 
 the man returned and, bidding them to follow 
 him, passed through a side door leading to a 
 separate part of the building, mounted a flight 
 of stairs, touched an electric bell, and left 
 them. 
 
 " What on earth are you up to now, 
 Murphy ? " inquired Drake, as obediently he 
 followed his friend. 
 
 " Introduce you to the most fascinating
 
 36 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 woman in Denver," whispered Murphy. " Just 
 you wait ! " 
 
 " But look here ! Suppose I don't want to? " 
 " Remember the old saying, my boy," ex- 
 claimed Murphy, " ' Cherchez la femme! ' She 
 can help you if any one can and if ever a 
 femme belies the reputation of her sex and can 
 keep her mouth shut, she's the lady. Hush! 
 some one is coming ! "
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 In the draperies' purple gloom, 
 In the gilded chamber she stands. 
 
 I catch a glimpse of her bosom's bloom, 
 And the white of her jewelled hands. 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 OLD nature, commonly so true to her own stern 
 laws, loathing prodigies and hating paradoxes, 
 now and then delights in a riotous thauma- 
 turgy. She plants the edelweiss in cold cran- 
 nies x)f Alpine rocks; she hangs her rarest 
 orchids amid the poisons and the fumes of 
 antipodean jungles; and she administers a 
 rebuke to pride when she rears a lily out of 
 excrement and glorifies a dunghill with a violet 
 crown. 
 
 Nature seemed to sanction vice and to suffer 
 violation when she allowed Elise Du Vivier to 
 bloom in the noxious atmosphere of the Ther- 
 dier establishment. And, as if in defiance of 
 all reason, and in scorn of all tradition, she had 
 grown into full and sensuous beauty. How well 
 this exotic flower would have endured the test 
 of more orderly conditions of contrast with 
 normal womanhood need never be conjectured. 
 87
 
 38 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Elise was seldom seen outside her own sump- 
 tuous surroundings. From somewhere she had 
 inherited a spirit and, more than that, an art 
 which had been no more subdued than her good 
 looks had been by the strange conditions of her 
 life. All the graces of coquetry and plenary 
 powers of fascination were her especial heritage 
 from the gods. 
 
 Elise was neither large nor small, as stand- 
 ards go, but was of that medium height which, 
 as the mood may urge, permits of queenly dig- 
 nity or kitten playfulness. She was exquisitely 
 moulded ; every movement of her lithe body was 
 the embodiment of languid grace; every pore 
 of her soft, white skin breathed warm, volup- 
 tuous life. Her face was a perfect oval; her 
 lips were cherry-ripe ; her cheeks laughed rouge 
 to scorn. The most innocent little dimple in 
 the world, just away from the left corner of 
 her mouth, pleaded for admiration. Around 
 the pink and white perfections of her face was 
 draped a veritable silken canopy of jet-black 
 hair, brushed up and away from her forehead. 
 Her eyes, to complete the picture, were large 
 and violet, with limpid deeps where slow fires 
 fumed uneasily; and they were shadowed by 
 dark lashes that, when she let them droop, 
 seemed to sweep her cheeks.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 89 
 
 Elise lived in luxury. All the physical in- 
 dulgence, all the sensuous comforts that money 
 could command, were hers. Costly apparel, 
 which is, after all, the final consolation the 
 dream of undiverted women, she possessed in 
 extravagant variety, and wore with wasteful 
 and capricious skill. 
 
 The protegee of Jacques Therdier wanted for 
 nothing. A man of refined taste himself, it 
 pleased him to see her always adorned; it satis- 
 fied the inherent business qualities of the gam- 
 bler, well aware of the part her equipment must 
 play, as assistant to his schemes. He knew, as 
 well as she, the potency of a becoming gown, the 
 subtle influence of rustling silk, the charm that 
 a half-hidden bit of lace exerts upon the senses. 
 All these airy accessories the woman managed 
 with fine abandon, or with amazing modesty, to 
 suit the occasion and the mood. 
 
 When Drake and Murphy were ushered in 
 by the maid, Elise was snugly settled down 
 among the pillows of a divan. She was lightly 
 and brightly arrayed in green and scarlet 
 soft silken garments that clung to her undulous 
 figure as if they loved to embrace her. She 
 had a red rose in her hair, and her eyes shone 
 as if the merry fires of a carnival were newly 
 lighted in them.
 
 40 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur Murphy! Coquin! " she ex- 
 claimed, half rising from her lounging position, 
 and coquettishly pointing her finger at him. 
 " You are no good, as you Americans say. Did 
 I not listen patiently to your new system did 
 you not go down to try it, promising to re- 
 turn and tell me the wonderful result? En 
 fin de compte, you never came back, and I 
 waited for you." 
 
 " Oh, it didn't work," answered Murphy, 
 sheepishly. " You needn't make fun of that 
 system, though it's all right. I was twenty 
 dollars ahead once before I went broke; but I 
 say, here's another newspaper man a friend 
 of mine. He's very anxious to meet you, 
 Mam'selle Elise, and a right good sort he is, 
 too." 
 
 Elise reached out a jewelled little hand and 
 clasped Drake's warmly. Then, with an in- 
 viting movement, she flipped her flimsy skirts 
 aside to make room for him beside her, show- 
 ing her dainty slippered foot and a bit of black 
 silk stocking. 
 
 " So you are a newspaper man, are you ? " 
 she exclaimed. " You don't play a system, I 
 hope? Now, Monsieur Murphy would be quite 
 interesting if he would talk of something be- 
 sides systems, murders, and the morgue. By
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 41 
 
 the way," she said suddenly to Murphy, with 
 a mock seriousness in the shaking of her pretty 
 head, " I have a friend who is looking for you. 
 I taught him that last system of yours." 
 
 " Oh, you did, did you ? " retorted Murphy, 
 with scorn. " Well, he didn't play it right, or 
 he wouldn't have lost. I suppose that's the 
 trouble with him, isn't it? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Elise, who seemed to be 
 enjoying Murphy's discomfiture. " I told him 
 to increase every bet, the same rat Jo, and stick 
 to sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen ; and while 
 he might lose for a long time," she went on, 
 smilingly, " when he did win, it would only take 
 a few bets to make him even." 
 
 "Well, did he?" inquired Murphy, with 
 some curiosity. 
 
 " Oh, he stuck to it, all right played until 
 he lost five hundred dollars without winning a 
 bet ; then he quit in disgust. Apres! the very 
 next roll, the ball dropped into seventeen." She 
 uttered a little shriek of merriment at the recol- 
 lection. 
 
 " Of course ! " exclaimed Murphy, in deep 
 disgust. " He didn't have the nerve to stay 
 with it." 
 
 " C'est fa! Just what I told him," assented 
 Elise, " and so he went back and tried it again.
 
 42 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 He lost another five hundred straight, and 
 swore he would kill the man who invented the 
 system. Helas! he hadn't got to the door to 
 hunt you out when the dealer called, ' Seventeen 
 r-e-d ! ' And as he slammed the door, again 
 the voice of the dealer floated out into the hall, 
 * Repeater ! Seventeen r-e-d ! ' " 
 
 " What did I tell you ! " declared Murphy, 
 excitedly. " You've got to have nerve. Now, 
 if he had stuck to the system and continued on 
 the seventeen, it would have put him ahead of 
 the game; but, Allan, old man, I'll leave you 
 with Mam'selle Elise take that five you lent 
 me, and try my luck." 
 
 Murphy went downstairs whistling a ragged 
 bar of the last popular song. Drake and Elise 
 watched him, highly diverted by the man's abso- 
 lute faith in his system. 
 
 " You have not been down here before," 
 began Elise, leaning forward with one hand 
 supporting her chin and looking upward into 
 Drake's serious face. 
 
 " No," answered Drake, earnestly, " though 
 I've often wanted to meet you. I've heard 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Elise, and added, a trifle 
 bitterly, " A protegee of Jacques Therdier is 
 apt to be discussed. Qu'importe! What do 
 they say of Elise? "
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 43 
 
 " It was Murphy," replied Drake, " who told 
 me about you. He gave you the highest praise 
 known in his vocabulary, and if you know 
 Murphy, you should appreciate that." 
 
 Elise laughed lightly, and then more soberly 
 said : " Well, Monsieur Murphy is all right. 
 Anyhow, I like him. He is good-hearted, malin, 
 understands things, and is a lot better than 
 most of the men I meet." 
 
 " Yet you see some of the best men in town, 
 don't you? " And, watching her curiously, 
 " Therdier has the reputation of being square." 
 
 " Certainement, plenty of prominent men 
 come here. Lawyers, lots of them, doctors, 
 and business men," Elise rejoined, naively. 
 Then, with a sigh, " That's all very well ; but 
 play brings out the worst that is in them." 
 She uttered this bit of ancient wisdom with a 
 decisive nod of her head to emphasise her words. 
 " It doesn't take long to discover their special 
 weaknesses and vanities. I have a fair idea of 
 them to start with, and know how to manage 
 most of them." 
 
 " But," protested Drake, hesitatingly, not 
 wishing to be presumptuous, " why, then, do 
 you live in a place like this a gambling- 
 house ? " 
 
 " Et, pourquoi pas? " answered Elise, with
 
 44 
 
 a change of expression and a shrug of her 
 shoulders. " Women love luxury, beautiful 
 gowns, and flattery you ought to know that 
 well enough. Well, I have them all here. Oui, 
 tout" She cast a sweeping, satisfied glance 
 at herself and surroundings, and settled herself 
 comfortably among the pillows. Suddenly her 
 mood changed ; she grew contemplative, serious. 
 " I hardly know why I should," she went on 
 rather sadly ; " but I'll tell you about myself. 
 I was born in France. My mother was a 
 Frenchwoman an actress. My father an 
 Italian nobleman. After a year he deserted 
 her and returned to Italy, and soon after she 
 died in abject poverty. Jacques Therdier, a 
 distant connection of hers, adopted me. He 
 ran a gambling-house then as now, and as I 
 grew older I became valuable to him. Men 
 said I was beautiful raved over me came 
 there lost their money. I had offers of mar- 
 riage from a lot of foolish men could even 
 have been a countess." This Elise emphasised 
 with a prideful lift of her little head, and coyly 
 waited until she considered her visitor was suffi- 
 ciently impressed; then resumed in a subdued 
 tone : " One night a wealthy young man, fou 
 de moi, in love with me, shot himself in our 
 rooms because I would not marry him. His
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 45 
 
 father was a how shall I say it? a big man 
 in France, and we were forced to fly from Paris. 
 We went to London. The authorities drove 
 Therdier from there. We came to New York, 
 and finally to Denver, because Therdier had 
 heard of the fabulous sums hazarded at play 
 by rich mine-owners. Voila! " 
 
 Drake was looking at her in fascinated si- 
 lence. He even forgot to mention the subject 
 foremost in his mind the object of his visit. 
 
 " Allans! Monsieur Drake, never mind me." 
 Elise rose and crossed the room with easy, list- 
 less grace. On a table were some roses, and, 
 stopping to arrange them, she said with anima- 
 tion: 
 
 " Why not go for our friend, the amusing 
 Monsieur Murphy? Bring him up here and 
 have a little supper with me." 
 
 Drake was about to protest, but Elise, with 
 an airy, insisting wave of the hand, would not 
 listen to him. After he had gone she seated 
 herself, her head in her hands, her elbows on 
 her knees, and remained for some time in deep 
 thought. A strange look of sadness, weariness, 
 was on the beautiful face. Something about 
 Drake attracted her; he was different from 
 most men that she had met. The entire absence 
 of any flattery or devotion in his manner was
 
 46 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 a novelty. Instinctively she felt that here was 
 a man that could be a friend, not in the sub- 
 meaning of the word, but in its highest sense. 
 Lovers were plenty always at her feet. They 
 bored her. A friend she longed for. Quickly 
 arousing herself from her revery, she touched 
 a bell; a maid entered. 
 
 " Christine ! " she ordered, " bring in here 
 serve on this table un petit souper. There 
 will be three of us." 
 
 Drake found Murphy on the point of placing 
 his last dollar on the zero the system dis- 
 carded. As it was swept away by the insatiable 
 rake, Murphy, blissful, as if he had won in- 
 stead of lost, followed Drake, and was soon 
 drinking the health of Elise and in the best of 
 spirits. 
 
 Elise presided with alternate moods of play- 
 fulness, dignity, and languor. An hour later, 
 as they walked homeward, Drake silently ac- 
 quiesced in Murphy's exclamation: 
 
 " Isn't she a dream ! "
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Ah! but a juice too pure hath now been poured 
 In a dark and ancient wine; and the cup seethes. 
 
 STEPHEN PHILLIPS. 
 
 "MARCIA! Do please come and eat your 
 dinner ! " 
 
 The old servant stood in the doorway of the 
 living-room and spoke coaxingly, yet command- 
 ingly, with an ominous shaking of her fine grey 
 head that betokened deep solicitude as well as 
 subdued protest against such liberties as were 
 being taken with the established order of things 
 in the Woolford household. 
 
 " Wait just a little longer, Mollie, and if 
 he doesn't come, then I'll dine alone." 
 
 " Dearie me ! I wouldn't wait. Seems to me 
 he's old enough to take care of himself. He's 
 so busy these days, too; doesn't half eat when 
 he does sit down. Just like his father there. 
 He forgot to eat lots of times, thinkin' over 
 them law cases. That's before he went to the 
 war, and " 
 
 Mollie's voice died away into the regions of 
 overdone roast beef, whither she went to preach 
 47
 
 48 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 to the cook the Christian virtues of patience 
 and humility. 
 
 Henry was late for dinner later than usual ; 
 for he seldom left his office in time to reach 
 home when expected. Marcia sat at a window 
 that commanded a view of the street, watching 
 for a sight of her brother's tall form strid- 
 ing homeward. Darkness a quick November 
 gloom had long since night-robed the earth; 
 a dry wind tore the last dead leaves from the 
 trees, and sent them, in panic-stricken multi- 
 tudes, scurrying up the avenue. The arc- 
 lamps, swaying in the breeze and creaking dole- 
 fully, played pale rainbow- rings upon the pave- 
 ment, and pretended thus to illuminate the 
 world. There is something egotistical and 
 petty, like the absurd garrulity of an ignorant 
 old man, in the sputtering glare of an arc- 
 lamp. The sun, moon, and stars go about their 
 lantern business with large indifference, but 
 the best lamp ever made requires that it be 
 petted, coaxed, and noticed like a spoiled 
 baby, else it will go out and sulk in darkness 
 till some tired man with a ladder comes to 
 shake it back into usefulness and good beha- 
 viour. 
 
 When Henry came at length, it was with 
 swift and nervous step. He brought with him
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 49 
 
 a little gust of chilling wind that buffeted 
 Marcia as she hurried to meet him. She saw 
 that his face was paler than usual, though per- 
 haps the strong light in the hallway heightened 
 the pallor. His manner, ordinarily serene, was 
 now disturbed; his eyes burned in their deep 
 recesses, like the fires of a furnace seen far 
 through the night; and Marcia, filled with a 
 vague anxiety, knew somehow that her dread 
 was not unfounded; that her brother was in 
 one of those strange moods of his, which 
 troubled her more than she had dared to con- 
 fess, even to her inmost self. He devoted such 
 mighty efforts to his cases that at times he 
 seemed to live in them, to suffer the agonies of 
 the accused ; and Marcia feared, because of the 
 incessant toil involved in his application to 
 these tasks, that his health would break under 
 the strain. 
 
 She helped him to remove his coat. When 
 she spoke, her voice, always soft and low, was 
 caressing in its melody, and gave no hint of the 
 disquietude she felt. Some women's voices 
 some women's very presence can sweeten and 
 assuage, like certain phases of a symphony 
 played pianissimo on a great cathedral organ. 
 This was Marcia's gift. 
 
 " Well, little girl, it's been a long day.
 
 50 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Many annoying things have happened, and I'm 
 tired," said Woolford, stroking his sister's 
 forehead affectionately. " We're late for our 
 dinner, but never mind! I'll enjoy your sun- 
 shine sunshine still when the sun's gone down. 
 Ah ! not many men can look forward to that 
 after a day of gloom. It's gloomy, that's what 
 it is, Marcia, this living to save the lives of 
 fools. What is it that Macbeth says? 'To- 
 morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow '- 
 what's that ? ' And all our yesterdays have 
 lighted fools the way to dusty death.' Come 
 on ! Let us sit down." 
 
 " You study too hard, Henry," Marcia 
 remonstrated. " If you don't rest, you'll be ill. 
 Indeed you will." 
 
 " Never fear, my dear," responded Henry, a 
 tende'r light coming into his eyes as he looked 
 into her upturned face. " Never fear. These 
 moods of mine don't come from overwork. 
 Work ! Why, these cases are mere child's play. 
 And yet they call it work these lawyers who 
 plod along, wrapped in their self-conceit. 
 Why, Marcia, sometimes a wild notion strikes 
 me to give up my profession and live henceforth 
 apart from men a recluse in some deserted 
 place, where I should never have to see people. 
 Oh, how unendurable they become ! "
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 51 
 
 Marcia was silent. Henry reflected a mo- 
 ment, and then went on: 
 
 " Work, labour, power. They are relative 
 terms, after all. It has been said that no one 
 can set a limit to the accomplishments of nerv- 
 ous force. Nervous energy it's that which 
 enables a delicate, frail woman, in a passion, to 
 twist and break iron bars with her naked hands ; 
 which gives a man the strength, in some mighty 
 rage, to snap asunder chains, to overpower men 
 of many times his physical capacity, like toys 
 and wisps of straw. There are times when I 
 understand when I can feel this tremendous 
 force. It's after I've been thinking, with every 
 faculty of my mind engaged upon the subject, 
 whatever it may be. Gradually the difficulties 
 disappear ; the knots untie themselves ; the tex- 
 ture unweaves itself ; the whole thing dissolves ; 
 the details are there in absolute simplicity ; 
 nothing is concealed from me nothing." 
 
 While he talked his look of weariness van- 
 ished. A glow came upon each cheek, which 
 before had been almost cadaverous. His words 
 began to flow like a torrent. He spoke not so 
 much to Marcia as to some imagined audience 
 perhaps chiefly to himself. 
 
 " The mood is the thing, after all. Give me 
 but the will to do it the spell of single in ten-
 
 52 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 tion rthe desire and the determination and 
 there is nothing I could not do. They all said 
 I'd fail in that last case, Marcia. Half the 
 lawyers in Denver chuckled and triumphed in 
 advance over my certain failure in the convic- 
 tion of my client. They said the evidence 
 against him was positive and complete. They 
 were willing, yes, eager, to witness the 
 young lawyer's downfall; those old men, im- 
 pregnated with musty theories and perked up 
 in the tinsel glories of the ancient code. How 
 little they knew, poor idiots ! " 
 
 Woolford leaned forward in his chair, his 
 deep-set eyes flashing, his lips curved with a 
 scorn that was almost terrible. He was con- 
 fidence incarnate, contempt in apotheosis. 
 
 " When I stood at last before that jury," he 
 continued, " the evidence in, the case against 
 me, the judge resolved, the lawyers all expect- 
 ant they thronged the courtroom that day 
 I said within myself that I would win. From 
 that instant there was no doubt of it. My 
 client might that very minute have been allowed 
 to walk from the courtroom free. The case lay 
 in my mind as clear as feldspar, as logical as 
 truth itself. I had but to marshal the facts, 
 move them in stately procession, colour them 
 with meaning, and the jury would be over-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN? 53 
 
 whelmed. As I talked I felt lifted up, inspired, 
 exhilarated. The whole range of human emo- 
 tions was spread out before me like the key- 
 board of a mighty organ. I played, and 
 played, and played, shifting from the little 
 treble notes of fancy and phantasm to the deep 
 bass chords of passion, pity, and pain. Ah! 
 that was glorious. 
 
 " I remember the judge pompous, preten- 
 tious, and pranked out in all the petty dignities 
 of his position. On his face was the look 
 of one that bears the burden of the world 
 the air of an Alexander who ' assumes the 
 god, affects to nod, and seems to shake the 
 spheres.' 
 
 " There was the prosecuting attorney, nerv- 
 ous and aggressive, half afraid that he had not 
 impressed the jury (and the audience) with his 
 oratorical abilities in the speech he had just 
 concluded; half fearful that he had neglected 
 some important point that would have told 
 against the prisoner; almost pitying the poor 
 wretch whose body he had consigned to the gal- 
 lows because, forsooth, it was his duty ; and, at 
 the mere thought of duty, becoming himself 
 again, in smug self-satisfaction. 
 
 " Then there was the prisoner at the bar, his 
 head bent to one side, as if he practised to
 
 54 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 dodge the rope that dangled almost within his 
 vision, shifting his bulging eyes from judge to 
 jury, from prosecutor to the man whose words 
 might yet save him from death. 
 
 " And, last of all, there was the jury, honest 
 men enough, but mostly stupid, convinced by 
 the lawyers that they were paragons of virtue 
 and exemplars of wisdom, resolved upon doing 
 justice, every man according to his light, such 
 as it was. I almost laughed as I thought of 
 the child's game I was playing with those pup- 
 pets. But it was a serious business, as human 
 business goes serious surely to the poor devil 
 in the box. I conserved my power. I practised 
 carefully on those twelve keys before me, and 
 studied the responses that I got. My client 
 should be acquitted. That is what I told them 
 told them told them so that they could 
 not doubt it. One by one I felt them coming 
 under my influence. Steadily I mastered them. 
 One was stubborn beyond the rest. It was a 
 keen delight to draw him, play with him, compel 
 him, subdue him. Finally I was the master of 
 them all. This I knew to the very bottom of 
 my soul. Besides, the judge knew it and the 
 prosecutor knew it, for I could see the knowl- 
 edge in their faces. Then, knowing that I had 
 won, I put forth all the reserve of energy that
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 55 
 
 was in me. I lifted that jury to the heights of 
 virtue, and dropped them into the depths of 
 pity; carried them far into the pure realms of 
 civic duty, and back through the worlds of dis- 
 appointment and of tears. No power on earth 
 could then have wrested a verdict of guilty 
 from those twelve men." 
 
 In the fever of his strange soliloquy Wool- 
 ford had risen from his chair and had taken 
 to pacing the room. He now seated himself 
 again, and, with a long indrawing of his 
 breath, turned half-smiling toward his sister, 
 who through the latter part of his speech had 
 sat spellbound. Well as she knew his intensity 
 and the workings of such moods as this, she was 
 more amazed at every recurrence of them. 
 Composing herself, she came up to her brother, 
 placed her arms around his neck, and pleaded 
 with him. 
 
 " Why, you're all in. a fever, Henry," she 
 said. " Please don't make yourself ill." 
 
 Woolford stood up, shook himself as if he 
 were awaking from a sleep; and the gaunt, 
 tired look came back into his face. 
 
 " I suppose I do forget myself, sister. 
 ' Something too much of this,' as Hamlet would 
 say. Hamlet would say so many things that 
 fit, you know. But come! We'll have no
 
 56 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 more of these cases to-night. You shall read to 
 me, Marcia. Where were we? I think a little 
 of old Antoninus would be good now unless 
 you'd rather finish * Lammermoor ' with me. 
 Come."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 We are no other than a moving row 
 Of Magic Shadow- shapes that come and go 
 Round with the Sun-illumin'd Lantern held 
 In Midnight by the Master of the Show. 
 
 FITZGERALD'S Omar. 
 
 IN the two weeks that followed the night of 
 Drake's visit to the Therdier establishment he 
 had been unable to obtain any substantial clue 
 to the mystery. 
 
 " Cultivate Woolford," had been the Patri- 
 arch's constant advice. " He broke loose once 
 and talked, and he'll do it again." 
 
 Drake was reluctant, for he felt in approach- 
 ing Woolford a hesitancy such as he had never 
 before experienced. In this dilemma there 
 came to him a happy thought. Dr. Hammond, 
 his mother's physician, and once his father's 
 closest friend, was also the Woolfords* trusted 
 doctor. He could give him the requisite per- 
 sonal introduction. Drake shrank a little 
 from this scheme, but finally told Dr. Hammond 
 frankly what he wanted, and gave his reason 
 for desiring to know the lawyer socially. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the old doctor, with a twinkle 
 57
 
 58 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 in his eye. " You met Marcia, too, did you, 
 when you interviewed him? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Drake, confused ; but the 
 cause of it he could not in that instant have 
 explained, even to himself. 
 
 " Are you sure your only purpose in seeking 
 Woolf ord's acquaintance is business ? " contin- 
 ued the physician, quizzically. " Now own 
 up, sir! Hasn't that pair of very bright 
 eyes and that lovely face something to do with 
 all this, eh? I'm afraid you're very like your 
 father, Allan." 
 
 Drake protested honestly enough that only 
 his enthusiasm in the case had prompted this 
 request; but he could not save himself from 
 stammering a little, and he was sure his face 
 had coloured deeply. 
 
 " Well, well, Allan ! Liking Marcia is noth- 
 ing to be ashamed of. She is about the best 
 and sweetest girl that ever lived. Mary and 
 I have been married forty years, and the other 
 night she said to me, ' John, I've never had any 
 cause to be jealous; but I declare if it ain't 
 getting scandalous how you adore that girl 
 Marcia ! If you weren't nigh onto seventy 
 years old I'd be getting kind o' worried.' ' Dr. 
 Hammond laughed till he hiccoughed, and held 
 his sides with his hands.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 59 
 
 "All right, Allan," he said at last. "I'll 
 ask Henry and Marcia to dinner, and you and 
 your mother can meet them. I'll tell Henry 
 he's got to help you out on this thing. If 
 you're bound to be a newspaper man, we've got 
 to put you on top of the heap." 
 
 After the dinner at Dr. Hammond's home, 
 the lawyer responded with such courtesy and 
 friendliness to the physician's warm recom- 
 mendation that only a few days later Drake 
 was invited to dine with Henry and his sister. 
 Marcia was in buoyant spirits that evening. 
 She wore a pale blue gown that harmonised in 
 some unusual way with the deep, sunset hues of 
 her hair a combination of colours that, when 
 successful at all, compensates amazingly for 
 the hazard of it. 
 
 Several times while they were at table Drake 
 found himself looking at Woolford, as if com- 
 pelled. The lawyer's talk was singularly in- 
 teresting, perhaps more because of his manner 
 than what he said. They were talking of the 
 part chance plays in the ordering of men's lives. 
 Woolford became silent and ruminative. After 
 a short interval, lifting his eyes from the table, 
 he said in a low, slow tone: 
 
 " The spectacle of human life is to me like 
 some fantastic scene in which a rabble of har-
 
 60 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 lequins, buffoons, and mountebanks are strug- 
 gling, pushing, hurrying along a broad high- 
 way, knowing no more whither they go than 
 whence they came; but all are forced on con- 
 tinually, as if by some invisible and irresistible 
 power, some strange and unknown purpose." 
 
 He paused, and his attitude reminded Drake 
 of a tragedian who has become so identical 
 with the heavy part he plays that he is uncon- 
 scious of his audience. 
 
 " Now and then one of the mob," the lawyer 
 continued, " emerges to one side, out of the 
 pathway of the human stream. He halts, looks 
 ahead, and as far as the eye can reach are the 
 contending thousands ; he gazes backward, and 
 out of illimitable distance pours the current of 
 contorted and distorted humanity. As he is 
 constituted for sorrow or for mirth, he is sud- 
 denly overcome by g.'ief or laughter; and he 
 would fain lay down his burden. But the iron 
 prod of the inevitable goads him on, and once 
 more he is swallowed up in the helpless, inco- 
 herent mass of fools these zanies who are to 
 go on for ever, fantastic in their griefs, ridic- 
 ulous in their joys." 
 
 As he concluded, Drake was at once struck 
 with the resemblance of his metaphor to that 
 grotesque procession in " Notre Dame," and of
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 61 
 
 a scene in Hawthorne; but somehow the im- 
 agery employed by Woolford, old though it may 
 have been, took on a strange freshness and a 
 sinister meaning that made it new. 
 
 " I do not at all agree with my brother's 
 philosophy," said Marcia, a little later. " The 
 extremes of life have little attraction for me, 
 except for the lessons they teach. It is so 
 much nicer to take a happy view of things. 
 Don't you think so, Mr. Drake? " 
 
 " To be able to do that all the time is to have 
 a special gift from the gods," answered Drake, 
 app reci ati vely . 
 
 " If one could go right down the middle of 
 life, and escape the extremes of joy and sor- 
 row, wouldn't that be the fortunate thing?" 
 continued Marcia, a bright smile lighting up 
 her face. 
 
 " ' As honour, love, obedience, troops of 
 friends,' " added Drake. 
 
 "That's it!" exclaimed Marcia. "But 
 Henry doesn't want troops of friends prefers 
 troops of enemies, I think," said the girl, half 
 mischievously. 
 
 " I'm somewhat indifferent as to that," re- 
 marked the lawyer. 
 
 The contrast between brother and sister was 
 a little puzzling to Drake. Marcia was cheer-
 
 62 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 ful in disposition, broadly sympathetic, and 
 filled with health and vigour. Henry seemed 
 to be impelled by a cold, harsh cynicism. 
 
 As time went on, and Drake became a fre- 
 quent and welcome visitor at the Woolford 
 home, the vague feeling of antipathy that had 
 come to him that night when he first met Henry 
 had magically disappeared, save that when he 
 now and then encountered the lawyer in one of 
 his sombre moods the old sensation mastered 
 him again. With Marcia he was always at 
 ease and happy. 
 
 In the library one day they were searching 
 many books for a certain disputed passage. 
 Drake, sitting in a low chair, with his head 
 bent low, and with his mind intent upon his 
 purpose to settle the controversy, was slowly 
 turning the leaves of a volume. Marcia, in a 
 kind of girlish abandon to the fever of the 
 pursuit, was seated plump upon the floor, her 
 face flushed with the exercise, a score of old 
 books scattered around her. Like a fair 
 flower, all pink and golden, blooming in some 
 ancient quarry, among stained but imperish- 
 able fragments hewn centuries ago, Marcia's 
 fresh and shining presence there in the library 
 gave a touch of lively pathos to those chron- 
 icles of dead men's thoughts.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 63 
 
 " Do you know," Marcia said, impulsively, 
 as she brushed back a vagrant lock of hair, " I 
 think we get along famously together." 
 
 " Strange that I was thinking of the same 
 thing," Drake rejoined, secretly gratified. 
 
 " Before you came to our house," continued 
 Marcia, regretfully, " we rather discouraged 
 callers. Henry isn't fond of society." 
 
 " Neither am I. I dislike the set affairs of 
 society as much as your brother does, I fancy," 
 Drake said, earnestly. " I like to meet you in 
 this manner to come and go like a nomad to 
 wander along the way we do; and I can't tell 
 you how much I enjoy these talks we have 
 you and I." 
 
 Drake watched her smile suddenly grow 
 serious. 
 
 " Have you found any clue to the stran- 
 gler ? " she asked, abruptly changing the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " I haven't despaired, though it seems an 
 endless task." 
 
 Marcia watched the clouds come and go 
 across his face. " Sometimes I almost hope he 
 will escape," she confessed, with a shudder. 
 " I have a greater dread of that case than any 
 other my brother has had." 
 
 " That's like a woman wanting a murderer
 
 64 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 to escape," Drake said, with gentle reproof. 
 And then, after a pause : " The farther I go 
 into the case the more important those flowers 
 the red carnations your brother told about 
 seem to me. I wonder " 
 
 " I think Henry looks for them to solve the 
 mystery." 
 
 " I believe they will," continued Drake, 
 growing interested. " The other day I took a 
 piece of the cord they were tied with you will 
 remember hearing that all three bouquets 
 were tied with exactly similar string to every 
 florist in the city. It was common twine, such 
 as is generally used in grocery stores. Not a 
 single florist in town used cord of the same 
 thickness, texture, or colour. Strange ! " he 
 concluded. " Everything I touch in this case 
 everything, gives back a suggestion of in- 
 scrutability. As you say, something weird 
 and exasperating." 
 
 Drake rose from his chair; and Marcia, 
 scrambling to her feet, exclaimed with a merry 
 laugh : " We haven't found that passage yet ! " 
 
 " No, it's almost as hard to locate as the 
 strangler," said Drake, joining in the laugh. 
 " You may be right ; but if Montaigne said it, 
 the translator has put more music into the 
 words than translators usually give to the fine
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 65 
 
 sayings of those old fellows. It fairly sings 
 in my head now, only I can't quite grasp it all. 
 * A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
 but ' something or other. It sounds to me 
 like Shakespeare a common quotation, too, I 
 suppose. At any rate, I'm going to take this 
 volume of Montaigne home with me, if you 
 please, and give you all the chance in the world 
 to be right."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Go, stalk the red deer o'er the heather, 
 
 Ride, follow the fox if you can. 
 But for pleasure and profit together, 
 
 Allow me the hunting of man, 
 The chase of the human, the search for the Soul 
 
 To its ruin, the hunting of Man. 
 
 RUDYAED KlPLING. 
 
 THE following evening, as Drake walked 
 towards the French Quarter, he reflected with 
 a passing qualm of self-reproach upon the 
 anomalies and contrasts with which his life was 
 filled. Last night, Marcia ; to-night, Elise and 
 Therdier. He felt the blood painting a pro- 
 test in his cheeks, and quietly checked it with 
 a laugh. 
 
 " See here, old man," he said to the inmost 
 Drake, " this won't do. There is no place for 
 tender scruples in your business. This sudden 
 modesty ! But how easy it is to justify every- 
 thing thoughts, wor'ds, deeds on a business 
 basis ! No wonder some men envy us our im- 
 munities; covet our privileges to go every- 
 where; to know anybody even Richard Ther- 
 dier." 
 
 66
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 67 
 
 There was a great difference between the 
 brothers Richard and Jacques Therdier. 
 Naturally, in a city like Denver, where the 
 French population is not very large, they were 
 bound to have some acquaintances, business 
 relations, and interests in common. It was 
 perhaps in outward appearance that they were 
 the more dissimilar; Richard was stout, coarse, 
 slovenly in appearance. He and his wife, 
 Diane, had never risen above the majority of 
 their compatriots, or knew the better class of 
 Frenchmen or Americans. 
 
 Jacques, on the contrary, was an acknowl- 
 edged leader. Well-read, courteous, refined, 
 careful as to his dress, he dominated his coun- 
 trymen, and had many friends in the city. 
 The fact that he owned a gambling-house, as 
 might be expected, debarred him from certain 
 circles that, had his business and environment 
 been otherwise, would have welcomed him as a 
 desirable acquaintance. He had never married. 
 His relations with his ward, Elise, were more 
 like father and daughter, and as such he re- 
 garded her. He adored, petted, and spoiled 
 her, but never for one instant forgot the value 
 of her services as an attraction that lured and 
 cajoled men to gamble with him. 
 
 The murder of Diane Therdier, although
 
 68 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 there had never been any familiar relations be- 
 tween the two establishments, followed by the 
 accusation against his brother, aroused all the 
 intense fighting spirit that was in the man. 
 He at once took charge of the case, retained 
 the services of Woolford, and, as the leading 
 spirit of the secret organisation, called out all 
 its resources. 
 
 " Compagnief " What was this inscruta- 
 ble, mysterious society? Drake experienced 
 anew the unpleasant feeling compounded of 
 dread and fascination that the name always 
 bred in him. In his newspaper experiences he 
 had encountered its members many times; and 
 as well as an outsider could, he knew its wealth 
 and power ; that its actual name, " Le Cercle 
 Fraternel," but always referred to by both 
 French and Americans as the " Compagnie," 
 was a convenient, serviceable title an ex- 
 pansive blanket to cover its operations ; that it 
 was composed solely of Frenchmen; that what- 
 ever its hidden purpose and object, secrecy was 
 always maintained, its members were under 
 oath, disregard of which met with swift and 
 terrible reprisals. 
 
 Drake, on his way to Therdier's, revolved in 
 his mind many plans. He was convinced that 
 only through this society could this maze of
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 69 
 
 murder be made clear. He must find a way 
 into their secrets, and could devise no better 
 plan than to go straight to Elise, tell her pre- 
 cisely why he had come, and ask her cate- 
 gorically if the " Compagnie " knew anything 
 about the crimes. He did not expect a frank, 
 truthful answer, but hoped that thus taken 
 by surprise, she might unwittingly, by some 
 action, word, or look, give him the hint he 
 sought. 
 
 Jacques Therdier and Elise were alone in 
 their apartment. The latter, gowned in vivid 
 crimson, a string of superb jewels clasped 
 around her throat, the usual red rose in her 
 hair, was listening attentively to him. A 
 casual observer would scarcely have noticed 
 the slightest tension in their relations; yet the 
 man, in full evening dress, smoking cigarettes 
 incessantly, was visibly nervous had some- 
 thing very acute disturbing him. 
 
 " Yes, it is only natural that I should be a 
 trifle worried," Therdier was saying rapidly in 
 French. " Richard's trial is only a short time 
 off, and in spite of the supreme confidence of 
 his lawyer that he will clear him, the fact that 
 we cannot find this man who committed the deed 
 exasperates me." 
 
 Elise made no reply. Therdier remained for
 
 70 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 some time in deep thought. He was regarding 
 her intently. 
 
 "Elise!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Diane Therdier and you never were friends, 
 that I know ; but did you ever hear of any one 
 paying her special attention ? " 
 
 " None that I can remember. Why do you 
 ask? " There was nothing but idle curiosity 
 in the question. 
 
 " Because one of my men has heard some 
 rumours terribly vague, to be sure that 
 there had been some one." 
 
 For a second only the face of the girl paled 
 slightly ; but the voice that replied was steady. 
 
 " It is evidently nothing but a stupid repeti- 
 tion of all the other stories. Bah! Imbe- 
 ciles!" 
 
 Jacques Therdier rose. Apparently, he was 
 relieved. " I must be going," he announced, 
 looking at his watch. " We have a meeting to- 
 night. You have nothing further to tell me? " 
 
 " No, I have been quite by myself, lately. A 
 friend of Monsieur Murphy is about the only 
 new face I have seen; probably just as rich," 
 she replied with an insinuating gesture. 
 
 " Then, good-night ! " Therdier went out. 
 The moment the door closed, a look of anxiety
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 71 
 
 crossed the girl's face; a slight tremble passed 
 over her frame. 
 
 " A meeting to-night ! " she repeated to her- 
 self. " I must find out what they are doing ! " 
 The electric bell rang; it startled her; but by 
 the time Drake entered, she was thoroughly 
 composed, and lazily reclining in a great arm- 
 chair. She did not attempt to conceal her sur- 
 prise at seeing him. 
 
 " I thought you had forgotten all about me." 
 She spoke in a tone suggesting something of 
 pique and a little of reproach. 
 
 " No," answered Drake, apologetically. " I 
 haven't been down this way lately." 
 
 " Quoi? You are not at work on your mys- 
 terious case? " 
 
 "That wasn't it," protested Drake. "I 
 didn't suppose you would care especially to 
 see me." 
 
 " I didn't say I wanted to see you ! Jamais! " 
 retorted Elise, elevating her chin. " I have 
 been triste, to-day, and I am glad you came." 
 
 She drew a chair for him close to her own, 
 and settled down to be amused. Drake was not 
 in the mood to coax the pampered beauty into 
 a good humour; and in disdain of her fascina- 
 tions, promptly set to work to accomplish the 
 object of his visit.
 
 72 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " Mam'selle Elise," he said, pleasantly, but 
 with determination, " I came here to-night to 
 speak with you about these crimes." 
 
 This cool, straightforward declaration struck 
 an ominous little spark from the girl's eyes. 
 Ignoring it, he went on : 
 
 " I would like to talk openly with you about 
 the strangling case. You know that I am work- 
 ing on it, and wish to find the man who killed 
 these women. I don't ask you to reveal any 
 important secret betray your friends. It 
 means a great deal to me; and won't you say," 
 he lowered his voice almost to a whisper, 
 " whether the ' Compagnie ' know anything 
 whether Richard Therdier is guilty or not ? " 
 Drake spoke slowly, with a significance that she 
 could not mistake ; watching her closely, hoping 
 for some incriminating sign or gesture. 
 
 Elise remained passive, her eyes downcast 
 upon a bit of lace at which her taper fingers 
 were picking. Presently, her lips curled ever so 
 little, and she looked up coldly to meet Drake's 
 steady scrutiny. 
 
 " Alors, that's what you came for, is it?" 
 she said, in a low, hard tone. " You are not 
 flattering, Monsieur Drake." 
 
 Both remained silent. Drake continued to 
 look into her countenance searchingly ; Elise re-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 73 
 
 newed her attack upon the frill. It seemed a 
 long time to him before she lifted her eyes 
 again, and said more softly than she had yet 
 spoken : 
 
 " I can assure you of one thing, and that is, 
 that Jacques Therdier knows his brother to be 
 innocent, and will spend every cent he has, if 
 necessary, to prove it." 
 
 Another silence followed. Suddenly, she 
 looked into Drake's eyes, her own afire with an 
 emotion he could not analyse; then she sprang 
 to her feet. 
 
 " Come with me ! " she exclaimed, impulsively. 
 She stepped into an adj oining room and quickly 
 reappeared, throwing a dark long mantle over 
 her head and shoulders. 
 
 " Come ! " she cried again. 
 
 Surprised, with every nerve tingling, Drake 
 followed her in silence. She led him through 
 the hall to a back stairway, narrow and steep. 
 Descending, they entered a kitchen where men 
 in caps and aprons were busy around a huge, 
 hot range. Some of them merely glanced; 
 others did not look up from their occupation. 
 The girl opened a door, and stepped out into 
 the darkness. For a brief interval, they stood 
 still until their eyes became adjusted to the 
 blackness of the night. Dark vapours arose
 
 74 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 from beneath their feet ; they were in a muddy, 
 murky alley. A few feet away was a dimly 
 lighted street, where a few people loitered; 
 looking far down the other direction, as if 
 through a tunnel, was the feeble illumination 
 of another thoroughfare. From both ways, 
 from overhead, from the very walls and the 
 ground beneath their feet, came the character- 
 istic noises of the Quarter: distant laughter 
 that was strident even in its f aintness ; the sing- 
 song cries of tamale-men; harsh shouts and 
 screeches; the muffled dissonance of instru- 
 ments and voices a medley of madly merry 
 men and women, all desperately engaged in 
 draining the last purple dregs from their shal- 
 low cups. 
 
 Drake felt Elise's warm hand steal into his 
 and grasp it firmly. " Allans! Allons vite! " 
 she exclaimed. Unerringly she picked her way 
 over the mud and the rubbish, still clutching 
 tightly Drake's hand to guide him. Men 
 passed them at intervals. Drake could not see 
 their faces, but Elise whispered, as one stepped 
 out of their way, " Keep close to me ! Pay no 
 attention to any one ! Those were some of them ! 
 The * Compagnie ' has its spies everywhere ! 
 You must not be recognised ! " 
 
 Something in her voice caused Drake to
 
 ART THOU THE MAN 9 7ft 
 
 look swiftly toward her; but the darkness 
 hid her face. She puzzled him more and 
 more. 
 
 They were midway of the alley now. To 
 their left, the rear walls of five- and six-story 
 business blocks rose sheer above them. Feeble 
 lights struggled here and there through un- 
 washed window panes. On the right, were tall, 
 jagged fences, whose irregularities left obscure 
 vacancies which, to Drake's straining fancy, 
 appeared to be alive with sombre shapes and 
 shadows. At last they came to a spot, almost 
 at the alley entrance, where a patch of light 
 lay upon the ground. It came from the open 
 rear door of a barroom. Across the alley from 
 this door was the rear entrance of a ram- 
 shackle building, four stories high. Here, they 
 entered a little hallway. Through a door that 
 stood ajar, Drake could see a group of pale 
 Frenchmen playing cards. Further toward the 
 front, another group stood around a billiard 
 table. 
 
 Elise conducted Drake up a crooked stair- 
 way, through a long low passage, which had 
 many smaller passages leading away from it; 
 up another tortuous stair and along another 
 hall ; and finally led him into a small room near 
 the front of the building.
 
 76 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " Stay here till I come back," she said, 
 quietly, and closed the door behind her. 
 
 Drake leaned against the wall and waited 
 waited a long time, so it seemed to him in the 
 darkness. Presently, the door was opened 
 softly ; Elise whispered to him to follow her. He 
 thought there would never be an end to the dark 
 passages. After a while, they approached a 
 spot where he could see, through a window, an 
 arc-lamp, like a star, far away in the night; 
 and near the window a faint rectangle of yel- 
 low light upon the wall. At the sound of voices, 
 they stole forward on tiptoe, till they reached 
 an angle, where the passage turned abruptly 
 to the right. Elise grasped Drake's arm, drew 
 him cautiously beyond the angle, and not dar- 
 ing to speak, pointed. 
 
 Drake looked sharply in the direction she 
 indicated. Scarcely a dozen feet away, four 
 men around a table were playing cards and 
 talking in low tones. The door of the room 
 stood open, and a lamp lit up the faces of two 
 of them. Drake could not recollect having seen 
 either of them before. He was studying their 
 dark countenances when Elise gripped his arm 
 tightly, and quickly pulled him with her into 
 the window's deep recess. The sound of foot- 
 steps had reached her ears, and soon a man came
 
 THEY DON'T KNOW .... THAT'S CERTAIN 
 THEY DON'T KNOW YET.' '
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 77 
 
 hurrying toward them. As he passed beneath 
 the kerosene lamp that furnished the sole illumi- 
 nation of the hallway, Elise whispered: 
 
 " Jacques Therdier." 
 
 She moved closer to Drake, and clutched his 
 shoulder with both hands. Pressing as hard as 
 they could against the window-panes, their 
 bodies were barely within the shadow of the 
 recess. They held their breath while Therdier 
 passed so near, that he might have felt their 
 presence, had he not been so intent upon his 
 business. 
 
 When Therdier had joined the men, the door 
 was left wide open, as if no thought of possible 
 listeners had occurred to them. The cards were 
 put aside, and all entered into animated conver- 
 sation; their voices, though low and guarded, 
 were clearly audible. Elise bent eagerly for- 
 ward, straining to catch the words. 
 
 " Well, what have you found ? " inquired 
 Therdier, brusquely, in English. 
 
 " Nothing yet," answered one ; " but we think 
 we're on the right track." 
 
 Drake felt a little tremor pass through 
 Elise's body. He wondered if she feared they 
 might reveal too much to him. Another man 
 spoke; this time, in French. The men huddled 
 around the table. Elise, holding her breath,
 
 78 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 leaned forward in front of Drake, one hand 
 resting on his knee, the other upon his arm. 
 Her hair brushed his mouth, and he felt the 
 tremulous rise and fall of her bosom against 
 his arm. Gradually the men spoke louder, their 
 words accompanied by angry gestures. Sud- 
 denly Elise brought her face round to his, so 
 that she could look into his eyes. 
 
 " You do not understand, n'est-ce pas ? " she 
 muttered in a low voice, quivering with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " No, not one word." 
 
 Her hands perceptibly loosened their grasp; 
 she breathed a deep sigh. Instinctively, Drake 
 felt that it was a relief to her. 
 
 The men at the table once more became quiet, 
 listening to the earnest utterances of one of 
 their number. He spoke calmly, and with pre- 
 cision. Elise was scarcely breathing, so intent 
 was she on hearing everything said. Once, she 
 could not restrain herself. 
 
 " Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! " exclaimed the ter- 
 rified girl. Finally, the conference ended. 
 Therdier rose to go. 
 
 " Well," he concluded, dropping back into 
 English, " find that man before my brother's 
 trial comes off, and you shall have the money." 
 
 " We'll do it," said one of the four.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 79 
 
 Therdier left them; and in the room the 
 card game was resumed. Elise waited until 
 Therdier had again passed, and the sound of 
 his footsteps had died away before she 
 cautiously beckoned Drake to follow her; and 
 then together the breathless pair made their 
 escape undiscovered. 
 
 " Who was the man they meant? " whis- 
 pered Drake as they stole through the alley. 
 
 Elise was silent, and there was a shadow upon 
 her face. 
 
 " They don't know," she answered, in an 
 absent manner, " that's certain. They don't 
 know yet."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod; 
 And there is in this business more than nature 
 Was ever conduct of: some oracle 
 Must rectify our knowledge. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S The Tempest. 
 
 AFTEB the night expedition with Elise, Drake 
 determined to see Woolford and confer with 
 him regarding the latest developments. He 
 was eager to ascertain his opinion about the 
 discovery that the Frenchmen themselves were 
 hunting the strangler. He knew that the dis- 
 trict attorney and the police were now quite 
 satisfied with the imposing wall of circum- 
 stantial evidence that they had built around 
 Richard Therdier. He decided to tell the law- 
 yer what he had heard. His purpose was two- 
 fold : he wanted to help him free Richard Ther- 
 dier, and at the same time to be assisted in his 
 own investigations. 
 
 When Drake entered the lawyer's office, he 
 found him alone and hard at work. Turning 
 from his books and manuscript, he greeted him 
 with outstretched hand a sign to Drake that 
 he was in a gracious mood. He listened atten- 
 80
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 81 
 
 tively to his story and heard him to the 
 end. 
 
 " Yes," he said, quietly, " that was a very 
 good night's work, Drake; but I knew it all 
 before. They have no clue none, at any rate, 
 that amounts to much." 
 
 " You are sure of that ? " asked Drake, some- 
 what crestfallen. 
 
 " Perfectly sure." 
 
 " Well, those fellows think they're going to 
 earn that money." 
 
 Woolford laughed and, rising, began to 
 gather up the papers that littered his desk. 
 " Come up to the house to-night, Drake," he 
 said, presently. " I'm going to take a final trip 
 over the ground to be ready for the trial. You 
 can go with me if you like." 
 
 " I'll be very glad to go," responded Drake, 
 eager and grateful for the opportunity to 
 study the case in the company of a man who 
 could with such amazing ease discount his every 
 effort, however artful or fortuitous, to unravel 
 the tangled threads of this mystery. Was there 
 any limit to the man? he asked himself. Was 
 there anything Woolford did not know about 
 these crimes, committed with diabolical delibera- 
 tion and in astounding secrecy? What were 
 the sources of his information? Could it be
 
 82 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 that the lawyer was gifted with some sixth 
 sense of instinct or perception which led him 
 straight and swiftly to what common men must 
 toil to reach? Drake's wonder grew with every 
 minute he spent in Woolford's company. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock when they left the 
 Woolford home and set out for the scene of the 
 stranglings. The night was cool and clear, 
 and the air was a tonic for tired nerves. From 
 the south a light breeze blew, and in the west, 
 where the radiant moonlight fell full upon 
 them, white peaks sparkled above the blue mists 
 of the foothills. Drake remarked that he had 
 never seen a more lovely night; and he noticed 
 that Woolford's eyes were bright and his step 
 elastic, as if he too had been medicined with 
 nature's magic remedies. The lawyer was in- 
 deed more frank and companionable than Drake 
 had ever known this sombre, self-contained, and 
 unsociable man to be. As they walked he 
 poured out a stream of talk that led presently 
 to the subject that was, at that time, paramount 
 in the minds of both. 
 
 " When I was in college," said Woolford, 
 " we had a professor of higher mathematics 
 who was known to have worked on a problem 
 forty-eight hours without ceasing, for the pure 
 satisfaction of having solved it. Mathematics
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 83 
 
 was his chief pleasure, his hobby, if you 
 please, as crime is mine. Unless you have gone 
 into this case deeper than people who write so 
 glibly about these things usually do, you can- 
 riot know the fascination there is in the study of 
 crime the spur that the motives and the moods 
 of men can give to mental effort. And the 
 true method is simple " 
 
 "The true method! What is it?" asked 
 Drake, astonished. 
 
 " Thoroughness that's the word. Leave 
 nothing unquestioned or unanswered. When 
 you have mastered all the points of the de- 
 fence in your client's case, go over to the side 
 of the prosecution and find out what there is 
 in it. Place yourself in the shoes of the de- 
 tectives; warp your mind to their attitude of 
 disbelief and brutal incredulity. Then, when 
 you have studied every phase of the crime, from 
 every point of view, go back to your client 
 knowing how he stands, what you may expect 
 for him and against him, and so be prepared 
 for every possible emergency. A good way to 
 prove that your client is not guilty is to find 
 the guilty man." 
 
 " But that sort of preparation isn't it 
 pretty difficult in a case so unique and so in- 
 fernally baffling as this one ? "
 
 84 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " All the more fascinating, then," responded 
 the lawyer. " Here is the very masterpiece of 
 the extraordinary criminal. Here is a crime 
 conceived, planned, and executed with almost 
 superhuman cunning. And yet cunning may 
 be overcome may even overreach itself, and 
 point the way to its own undoing. Reason 
 cold, hard logic! What can mere craftiness 
 avail in a contest with the mental force that 
 moves from premise to conclusion as unerringly 
 as Tell's arrow, and as relentlessly as a Jug- 
 gernaut. Let us match our reasoning powers, 
 our capacity for pure, concentrated thought, 
 against the cunning and the craft of the 
 strangler, and we shall win. The contest may 
 be long, for craft is resourceful and cunning, 
 as elusive as the wind; but in the end, when 
 we have freed Therdier so that no man shall 
 doubt his innocence, then, Drake, we shall reveal 
 the real criminal." 
 
 All this he uttered in a voice and with a 
 manner of such inscrutable assurance that 
 Drake, for all that he knew, or thought he 
 knew, the intensity of the lawyer's nature, 
 turned a look of astonishment upon him. They 
 were just then in the full glare of an arc-lamp, 
 and he could see that Woolford's face was set 
 in a kind of straightened calmness, albeit there
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 85 
 
 was in his eyes the burning he had marked there 
 many times before. 
 
 It was with a changed voice that the lawyer 
 presently continued : 
 
 " That was a good point you made the other 
 day I mean about the string around the car- 
 nations. You found that not a single florist in 
 the city uses that kind of string on the flowers 
 he sells. It was very good work, Drake, but 
 you didn't go far enough." 
 
 " How is that? " asked Drake. 
 
 " If you had studied the carnations them- 
 selves you would have discovered that they were 
 unusually large, and that they had certain 
 qualities found only in flowers grown in a hot- 
 house. I made a more thorough investigation 
 than you, and learned that common grocery- 
 store twine, like that with which the flowers 
 were tied, is not used in any department, for 
 any purpose, in any of the floral establishments 
 of this city. It is plain, therefore, that he 
 substituted common twine for the string that 
 held those carnations when they left the green- 
 house." 
 
 " Couldn't the substitution have been mere 
 chance, and not deliberate intention ? " asked 
 Drake. 
 
 " It might have been," said Woolford, read-
 
 86 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 ily, " if the substitution had been made only 
 in the first case; but recollect, Drake, that the 
 carnations were in every case precisely similar, 
 that there were thirteen flowers in every bunch, 
 and the string was always the same in size, 
 colour, and texture." 
 
 " But he might have got the carnations from 
 some other place out of the city, perhaps, 
 or " 
 
 " No. They were fresh when found lying by 
 the bodies. They could not have been brought 
 from a distance. And while they were very 
 common species of carnations, they could not 
 have been grown in any other atmosphere than 
 that of a hothouse. They were grown either 
 in a public greenhouse or in a private conserva- 
 tory. If in the first, common twine was not 
 used in tying them together. As for the 
 second, there are few private conservatories in 
 Denver, and their owners and the other persons 
 who have access to them are entirely above 
 suspicion. You can prove that for yourself, 
 if you want to." 
 
 "Well, then!" exclaimed Drake, "what 
 about the substitution? What is your deduc- 
 tion? Does it add anything to your conclu- 
 sions? Is it " 
 
 " Why, man, it is everything ! " replied
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 87 
 
 Woolford. " The incident of the carnations 
 showed that the criminal is an extraordinary 
 man, but the substitution of the string marks 
 him for a master in cunning. It suggests the 
 most subtle design the human mind is capable 
 of. It is a glaring signboard pointing the 
 way to the murderer. It eliminates with one 
 word every ordinary man from our considera- 
 tion and singles out from the extraordinary a 
 very small class. It enables you to draw a 
 mental picture of him, and it gives you an in- 
 sight into his character. When we come upon 
 the guilty person I shall know him on the in- 
 stant and beyond the possibility of mistake. 
 In those carnations the cunning of the man has 
 overreached itself, if we but use our brains to 
 interpret their significance." 
 
 They were nearing Therdier's place, and the 
 lawyer spoke more hurriedly, as if to finish 
 quickly what he had in mind to say. 
 
 " You will readily recall the details of the 
 Whitechapel murders," he went on. " That fiend 
 left on each of his victims a peculiar bloody 
 mark that proved him to be a brute thirsting 
 for blood. The method of his crimes, together 
 with their horrible surroundings, showed almost 
 beyond question that he was some sailor insane 
 with a lust for butchery. But no man ever
 
 88 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 discovered a single clue to his identity. So in 
 this case; the carnations are a token of a man 
 of intellect, education, and I will even say, 
 refinement. He strangled his victims, and there- 
 fore he did not want to see blood flow. He 
 carried nothing away, though there was money 
 on the person of each of his victims ; and so 
 his motive was not robbery. The carnations 
 signify that he carefully planned each crime 
 planned it with calculating, cold-blooded craft. 
 That he was utterly fearless, you cannot doubt ; 
 and so I might go on from one characteristic 
 to another till I had given you his portrait 
 complete in every essential detail, and framed 
 in the tarnished, ugly gilt of these surround- 
 ings." 
 
 The lawyer, upon uttering these last words, 
 made a sweeping gesture with his arm, indi- 
 cating the scene before them. 
 
 They were in the midst of the French Quar- 
 ter, and the vicious activities of the slums were 
 under full headway. Noises of revelry filtered 
 through the worm-eaten walls, and harsh 
 sounds burst unimpeded through open door- 
 ways. Paltry, painted lamps dropped a dim, 
 disreputable blend of colour upon the street, 
 and turned the moonbeams to a sickly yellow. 
 Men and women in all the stages of intoxica-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 89 
 
 tion jostled one another, and bandied coarse 
 abuses back and forth. And permeating all 
 was the indescribable odour of the Quarter, 
 pungent, sickening, and suggestive. A bit of 
 burning punk in a Chinese shop filled Drake's 
 nostrils with a grateful perfume, and touched 
 to his memory an incongruous vision, like a 
 sweet interlude in a nightmare's agony, a 
 fleeting fancy of a distant church, and pale, 
 pure light falling upon the heads of worship- 
 pers, but in another instant he had stubbed 
 his toe upon a jagged flagstone, and turning 
 an involuntary malediction into a question, he 
 asked : 
 
 " Do you know any one whom your descrip- 
 tion fits?" 
 
 Woolford was silent. When he finally re- 
 plied, his brow was knit, his voice low and 
 sibilant. 
 
 " There is a man, Drake, a man who might 
 be a murderer, a strangler of women. He has 
 accumulated great wealth, is splendidly edu- 
 cated, speaking fourteen languages ; a painter 
 of more than ordinary skill ; a musician ; no 
 man in Denver a better chess-player; and is 
 well-read in the best literature. At his best, he 
 is a finer grained and brainier man than the 
 Dr. Jekyll of Stevenson ; yet, I can easily fancy
 
 90 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 him a veritable Hyde in crime. Now, mark 
 you, I believe this man is capable of having 
 committed these murders; but I have not one 
 scrap of evidence against him." 
 
 " You don't mean " Drake was pointing 
 
 towards the house they were fast approaching. 
 
 Woolford hesitated. " Yes. Jacques Ther- 
 dier."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 How life was naught but ray of sun, that 
 Clove the darkness thick and blind, 
 
 The ravings of the reckless storm, the 
 Shrieking of the rav'ning wind. 
 
 The Kasidah. 
 
 THE trial of Richard Therdier had lasted full 
 three weeks. It was now the final day of the 
 stubborn, strenuous contest. None equal to it 
 in virulence could be recalled by the oldest offi- 
 cers or by the most faithful frequenters of the 
 criminal court of Arapahoe County. Stung to 
 desperation by the taunts of Henry Woolford, 
 the police had marshalled their witnesses in a 
 manner that drew forth sensational allegations 
 of perjury and persecution; while the district 
 attorney, spurred by the great reputation of 
 the counsel for defence, and deceived a bit, per- 
 haps, by Woolford's demeanour, which was cold 
 and seemingly indifferent through it all, had 
 surpassed himself in his manipulation of the 
 testimony and in his arraignment of the pris- 
 oner at the bar. Every day the courtroom had 
 been packed by curious, prurient spectators; 
 and on this terminal afternoon the crowd was 
 91
 
 92 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 dense, expectant, impatient to gloat on the con- 
 victed and condemned Therdier the strangler 
 of women. 
 
 The judge had lunched well, and was now 
 settled in his big, leathern chair, resigned to 
 hours of oratory. The jurors had lunched, not 
 quite so well, but to their satisfaction; their 
 countenances wore more cheerful aspects than 
 they had lately known. The prisoner, sur- 
 rounded by phlegmatic bailiffs, had eaten 
 scarcely at all, and now sat limp and pale, 
 with eyes downcast. A beam of sunlight broke 
 through a window-shade, and fell upon the 
 white face of Woolford, where he sat quiet and 
 introspective at the lawyers' table. He moved 
 his head a trifle, and looked at a bailiff, who was 
 at that instant absorbed in an admiring study 
 of the judge. Feeling the lawyer's gaze upon 
 him the bailiff turned precipitately; and hur- 
 ried to adjust the blind. Nothing escaped the 
 hungry eyes of the spectators, over whom there 
 came presently a hush, when the district at- 
 torney rose, and began to arrange the papers 
 on the green cloth before him. 
 
 " You may begin, sir," said the court. 
 The state's attorney certainly was at his best. 
 He had studied the case with thoroughness ; he 
 had sifted the evidence with skill, and, more im-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 98 
 
 portant than all else, had convinced himself that 
 Therdier was guilty. His speech to the jury 
 was masterly, impassioned, and, as it seemed, 
 convincing. As he progressed in his narration 
 of the crime a narrative collaborated from the 
 testimony of many witnesses, and unified with 
 all the adroitness of a practised pleader his 
 words touched the very soul of his hearers ; and 
 drew from all that volatile assemblage, muffled 
 exclamations of horror, loathing, and hate 
 against the prisoner. So great was the com- 
 motion when, at the end of two hours, he sat 
 down, mopped his brow and sank wearily into 
 his chair, that the bailiff was compelled to ham- 
 mer violently on a table to check the applause 
 and the chorus of exultant cries. At that out- 
 burst the pallor on Therdier's face deepened 
 to the livid, sickly hue of fear; for it was not 
 so much an ejaculation of approval by men and 
 women, as it was the panting, passionate utter- 
 ance of wild beasts moved by the lust for blood 
 the sort of incoherent cry the swooning cul- 
 prit hears when the mob hurries him to the 
 stake. 
 
 The mask of innocence or bravado, or what- 
 soever thing it was, had long since fallen from 
 Therdier's face. He was abject. The jurors 
 looked at him shrivelling there in his chair. In
 
 94 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 that scrutiny they seemed to find the evidence 
 they sought, and asked themselves : " Would 
 the innocent wear a countenance like that ? " 
 
 Henry Woolford stood up to answer the in- 
 terrogation. Through all the district attor- 
 ney's arguments, appeals, and denunciation, he 
 had sat unmoved. His face was as still and as 
 chill as a mountain lake at evening ; his manner 
 quiet, almost indolent ; only a menace in his 
 deep grey eyes showed that he was not inert. 
 He cast a slow and comprehending look around 
 the room, looked at the posing judge, at the 
 cowering prisoner, at the tumultuous crowd. A 
 sardonic smile tortured his lips. He watched 
 the spectators till one by one they caught his 
 gaze and felt suddenly impelled to silence; and 
 then, when the noise had died away, he faced the 
 jury and began to speak. 
 
 It was a gentle, caressing voice, almost list- 
 less, and so very low at first that the jurors 
 leaned forward to hear him; but for all its 
 dulcet softness, the tone had some thin fibre 
 in it that shivered and tingled on the ear like 
 singing slivers of steel. The state's attorney 
 had flattered and thanked the jury; but Wool- 
 ford used no cajoleries. With a few simple, 
 sterilising sentences, he swept away the heated 
 mass of sentiment and heroics that had been pre-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 95 
 
 pared to feed the jurors' virtuous prejudices. 
 He compelled them to realise that justice does 
 not thrive on vicarious sacrifice; that she does 
 not demand the blood even of the vilest wretch, 
 if that wretch be guiltless of the particular 
 offence for which revenge is sought. He did 
 not attempt to canonise his client, did not try 
 to magnify his virtues, did not seek to minimise 
 his faults; but told the jury just who and 
 what his client was a foreigner, ignorant and 
 brutal. 
 
 His voice, by imperceptible degrees, had 
 changed, hardened, lifted. As he went on, he 
 was transformed. His muscular figure became 
 erect ; his eyes glistened ; and the little red spot 
 kindling in his cheek was like the glow of a 
 furnace door, which tells of melting energy 
 within. Bit by bit, he took the testimony and 
 threw it all away. He held the police up to 
 such convulsing ridicule that the judge must 
 hide his face. The audience tittered; the dis- 
 trict attorney gnawed the edges of his lip. He 
 made a pitiable joke of the negro boy the 
 proud eye-witness of the murder. Of all the 
 prosecution's elaborate structure of circum- 
 stantial evidence, he left not one stick or stone 
 in place, but wrecked, demolished, and ground 
 it to powder. Then he shifted from sarcasm,
 
 96 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 ridicule, and invective; his voice dropped to its 
 lowest register, and he dealt in terms of vice, 
 misery, and horror. Faces around him sobered, 
 blanched, twisted, as he told of the utter absence 
 of reason for the death of Diane Therdier. 
 With consummate skill he combated the theory 
 that Diane Therdier had obtained secrets so im- 
 portant that it was deemed necessary to make 
 away with her. He took his hearers to the scene 
 of the murder, and into the house of Richard 
 Therdier. He explained thoroughly the way it 
 was arranged, and showed conclusively the ease 
 with which the prisoner or his confreres could 
 have taken the body out of the house, through 
 the alley, and beyond, where it would never have 
 been heard of again. After that, he dwelt 
 on the outre features of the stranglings the 
 secrecy, the mystery; the flowers, the string; 
 the terror and unreality of it all. 
 
 While his hearers sat amazed, transfixed, and 
 breathless he walked over to a table on which 
 were displayed all the ghastly evidences of the 
 crime. He looked at the stain upon the pillow ; 
 lifted the silken gown with two fingers held it 
 a minute, and let it fall again; then, as if his 
 imagination had been heightened, in a solemn, 
 vibrating voice, he drew for them the picture of 
 a madman, impelled by an insane desire to kill.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 97 
 
 " An impulse," he said, " overpowering and 
 all-compelling a force, as irresistible and as 
 frigid as a glacier, seized the man to kill to 
 kill a woman. We may suppose that for days 
 he fought and struggled with it; that his soul 
 revolted. Impossible, it was too strong. It 
 grew, and raged, and pressed down upon his 
 reason, till it crushed and dominated him. 
 Then he ceased to resist yielded and began 
 to plan the crime with all the cunning of a 
 maniac. And while he planned, whether he slept 
 or waked, always there was before him the vision 
 of a woman, beautiful, voluptuous, with great 
 moist eyes, and with red lips quivering with 
 emotion, urging, pleading, imploring him to do 
 this thing to kill her. 
 
 " The hour approached when he must. He 
 had not neglected the slightest detail of his 
 subtle, wily design. He selected his victim with 
 deliberation. He passed Diane Therdier's house ; 
 the woman was alone. He entered; then the 
 demon in him broke loose. The moment had 
 come. His blood ran hot and cold ; his eyes 
 flamed with frenzy ; the room swam around him ; 
 a mist enveloped everything everything but 
 the white neck of the woman the white and 
 pleading neck of his vision. He seized her by 
 the throat. She tried to scream; the sound
 
 98 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 died away in a death-rattle. He threw her on 
 the bed ; his fingers tightened around her throat ; 
 his sinews were like steel ; his body quivered with 
 exultation. He was doing well the thing he had 
 to do. The woman's limbs relaxed, her breath- 
 ing ceased, the tongue protruded. It was all 
 over. No, not yet! A little crimson stream 
 burst from her mouth. The sight of it was re- 
 pugnant was alien to the preconception of the 
 deed. Coolly and deftly he bound a handker- 
 chief around her throat; then he looked at her 
 long and critically, one knee still upon the bed 
 beside her, leaned over and put his ear upon her 
 breast. Her heart was still. He stood erect, 
 passed his hand across his brow and felt his 
 blood receding, his nerves becoming firm. He 
 stepped before the mirror, and while adjusting 
 his cravat, saw that his face was pale. He had 
 passed through a frenzy, a convulsion, a cruci- 
 fixion. Now, he was himself again. And be- 
 fore leaving that house to disappear in the even- 
 ing's heedless throng, he did not forget to make 
 his signature to attest the deed to mark the 
 method in his madness. He placed a bunch of 
 thirteen red carnations by her side." 
 
 Men paled; women's faces were distorted 
 with hysteria, and a long-drawn sigh quavered 
 through the courtroom. The twelve men in the
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 99 
 
 box, long since convinced by his magnetism and 
 eloquence, were now spellbound and helpless, 
 like the fantastically posed subjects of a hyp- 
 notist. No evidence could have moved them 
 now. 
 
 Woolford, placing his hands on the railing 
 of the jury-box, looked into the rapt and dis- 
 tracted faces before him, and concluded in a 
 voice that was filled with total weariness and 
 infinite appeal: 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury! I have told you 
 this strangler was a madman. Look at the 
 prisoner! Is he mad? Look at him, I say, 
 and tell the world that Richard Therdier is not 
 guilty!" 
 
 He stood still, searching the faces of the 
 jurors, while they obeyed him, and looked be- 
 yond him at the prisoner, Therdier. All eyes 
 but Woolford's followed their gaze all eyes 
 obeyed, and saw by what magic who can tell? 
 the face of Therdier altered, immaculate 
 shining as the sun. The prisoner sat erect, his 
 eyes calmly meeting all that concentrated 
 scrutiny, his whole self declaring hope aye, 
 the certainty of salvation. He too was under 
 the spell of that oratory. 
 
 Woolford sat down. The prosecution had 
 the closing speech; but not once again did the
 
 100 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 district attorney hold the attention of the jury- 
 men. He made a gallant effort to destroy the 
 stark impression Woolford's speech had made; 
 he strove to recall to the jury's minds the testi- 
 mony offered ' against the prisoner, and to re- 
 mind them of the simple demands of justice. He 
 endeavoured to be humble, and to stand there 
 as the instrument of the law, rather than the 
 ambitious lawyer, striving for mere victory ; but 
 all in vain. The jurymen, as often as he ap- 
 pealed to them more vehemently, turned their 
 gaze again toward Woolford. It is doubtful 
 if they followed the reasoning, or were even 
 touched by the pleading of the district attor- 
 ney, in his closing speech. Woolford had set- 
 tled the thing for them long before. 
 
 In despair, preserving his poise with difficulty, 
 the district attorney took his seat. The jury- 
 men retired in the bailiff's care, and the audience 
 was numb and voiceless, still beneath the spell. 
 The judge looked mechanically at his watch, 
 then at the clock upon the wall ; and even as he 
 looked, and when the hands had marked off 
 scarce three minutes' time, and while the spec- 
 tators were still breathing hard, the jury came 
 in again, and was seated. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed 
 upon a verdict? " asked the judge.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 101 
 
 " We have," said the foreman, rising to his 
 feet. 
 
 " The clerk will read the verdict." 
 
 "Not guilty!" 
 
 The audience, for half a minute, was as still 
 as a forest before a storm. In that interval, 
 the bailiff adjourned the court; and in an- 
 other instant the storm had broken loose. Men 
 and women, who a little while before were eager 
 to tear the prisoner to pieces, now howled their 
 approval and shrieked their mad delight. The 
 shout that went up shook the building. 
 
 In the midst of the confusion, Woolford 
 slipped away.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the day but one; 
 Yet the light of a whole world dies 
 
 With the dying sun. 
 
 BOURDILLOK. 
 
 " I WAS just wishing you would come," said 
 Marcia, " when the bell rang and it was you 
 exactly like a good spirit in the Arabian 
 Nights." 
 
 " I hope I'll always have the good sense to 
 respond when you rub the magic lamp," Drake 
 replied, as she pressed his hand to welcome him. 
 He noticed, at a glance, that all the familiar 
 animation was gone from her face; that there 
 were traces of tears ; and he felt a sudden 
 prompting to take her in his arms and tell her 
 how truly sorry he was. " You're very tired, 
 aren't you? " he asked, uneasily. 
 
 " I'm worn out," she cried, dejectedly. " Let 
 us sit out here on the verandah, the night is 
 warm ; " and she settled back in a comfortable 
 chair. 
 
 Drake, seating himself beside her, asked, in 
 a voice that was filled with solicitude : " What 
 102
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 103 
 
 is it? Tell me I'd like to help you. May 
 I? " 
 
 " I don't know how, unless unless you tell 
 me a story, as you would to a child in the nurs- 
 ery, whose tears you would drive away." She 
 laughed, and then added somewhat sadly: 
 " Henry has been at home since the trial, and I 
 have hardly left his side. He has not been able 
 to sleep till a little while ago; but he's resting 
 now. The doctor says he'll sleep several hours. 
 Oh, I'm so glad that dreadful case is settled! 
 How I have hated it ! " 
 
 Both were silent till Drake spoke again. He 
 was thinking not so much of Henry's suffering 
 as of Marcia's distress. He halted, searching 
 for the right words to express his sympathy; 
 but he could only gaze at her and trust that she 
 would know. 
 
 " But we must all have our share of unhap- 
 piness," she continued ; " and I suppose a little 
 sorrow is good for us. It makes us look seri- 
 ously at things, and drives some of the selfish- 
 ness away." 
 
 They sat a long time in silence watching the 
 summer sunset, while the mountains changed 
 from sunny picture to purple silhouette ; watched 
 while the sun, like a red-cheeked boy, all tired 
 out from his day's romp across the world, turn-
 
 104 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 bled into his gorgeous bedchamber in the west; 
 watched while the winds from the opiate Orient 
 packed his couch with cloud-pillows as rich and 
 evanescent as the Golden Fleece; watched while 
 the night, old nature's immemorial nurse, drew 
 the silken curtains of his aerial bed in success- 
 ive folds of flame, saffron and violet; watched 
 while the after-glow, the tired boy's good-night 
 smile, faded from salmon-pink to rosy pearl, and 
 went out at last in a silvery blue oblivion. 
 
 " ' Behind the hills, that's where the fairies are; 
 Behind the hills, that's where the sun goes down.' " 
 
 It was Marcia speaking softly. She had 
 leaned forward in her chair, with her elbows on 
 her knees, her chin supported by her half- 
 clasped hands, her dark eyes darkening more, 
 as with the shadows of a dream. The sun's 
 touch lingered in her hair long after the sun 
 himself had gone to sleep. Drake, studying 
 her mood, made the inward comment that he 
 liked her thus best of all. To-night, more than 
 ever, he felt moved to tell her many things he 
 had never told her before had never thought of 
 telling. Perhaps it was because she had suf- 
 fered and was still in trouble. 
 
 " Behind the hills ! " she exclaimed. " We'd 
 all like to know what is behind the hills. I read 
 once, somewhere, that we're all, in our hearts,
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 105 
 
 no different from our primaeval ancestors all 
 nomads. We're only staying a little while, 
 that's all. Moving, seeking, never resting, 
 never truly finding. Don't you always feel as 
 if you must jump on the train when you see it 
 starting for well, for anywhere? " 
 
 Drake did not answer quickly ; but leaned over 
 and put one hand on the back of Marcia's chair. 
 The breeze had loosened a few tresses of her 
 hair, and his fingers touched them. Then he 
 said, almost in a whisper : 
 
 " ' Over the world and under the world, 
 And back at the last to you.' " 
 
 For a minute Marcia was still. Then, she 
 threw back her head and laughed ever so softly. 
 
 " That's a Romany lass and a Romany lad 
 you're speaking of. I'm not a gipsy, sir ! " 
 
 " But the trail holds true, Marcia, the wide 
 world over." 
 
 She did not laugh this time, but after a slight 
 pause, went on somewhat hastily : " I wonder 
 what there is in a sunset that makes us want 
 things long for we know not what ache for 
 something that we know in our hearts is not to 
 be had by us. Now, a sunrise never makes me 
 feel that way, and I have seen it rise over the 
 mountains, out of the sea, and in all sorts of 
 places. It is all so strange ! "
 
 106 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " It has been a long time since I have seen a 
 sunrise, except sometimes from the wrong side 
 of it." 
 
 " The wrong side of it ? " repeated Marcia, in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Yes. I'm often at work all night, and 
 don't get to bed till after the sun is up. That's 
 seeing it from the wrong side, isn't it? " 
 
 " How very queer it must seem," Marcia said, 
 laughing. 
 
 Drake mused a little. 
 
 " Do you remember what Charles Lamb says 
 about night ? " he asked, presently. " He's a 
 favourite of yours, and you should remember. 
 Something about the miseries of our ancestors 
 wintering in caves. Night was a horrid thing 
 then, I'll admit. Who could be merry when 
 you couldn't distinguish the olives from the 
 oysters ! Lamb says jokes came in with candles. 
 Let us go on and say that song came with the 
 oil-lamps, good-fellowship was ushered in by 
 gaslight, and the after-dinner speech owes its 
 perfection to the incandescent." 
 
 " Then the progress of man may be meas- 
 ured by the successive steps in artificial light- 
 ing? Is that it? " broke in Marcia. 
 
 " Quite so. We have cheated the night," 
 continued he, " in much the same way the Hoi-
 
 MAR CIA
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 107 
 
 landers cheated the sea." Suddenly he rose to 
 his feet. " If you want to realise what a 
 wonder-worker artificial light has been, just 
 imagine that none has ever been invented. Look 
 down yonder now : Denver at night ! " 
 
 Drake gave his hand to Marcia and she stood 
 beside him. They looked a minute or two, and 
 then walked down the path to the middle of the 
 lawn and stood there to gaze upon the enchant- 
 ing scene. Below them, where the massive busi- 
 ness buildings lay piled one upon another in the 
 night, few lights were visible; but a blue-white 
 mist shivered along the house-tops. On the left 
 of this huge patch of glowing shadow, a street 
 stretched straight away before them for miles 
 and miles, its arc-lamps dwindling like gradu- 
 ated diamonds on a dangled strand. Here and 
 there to the north and south, little clusters of 
 lights peeped from among the houses and the 
 trees like jewels among the laces of a woman's 
 bosom. But far beyond the city proper, 
 against the heaving background of the moun- 
 tains, where the suburbs perched upon the hills 
 there the lamps dotted the horizon with fan- 
 tastic figures: circles, serpents, spangles, and 
 many eccentric designs, all of a hue the blue- 
 white, chill and scintillating hue of the electric 
 spark.
 
 108 ART THOU THE MAN t 
 
 " I have looked at it night after night, and 
 I think it is beautiful," said Marcia, with en- 
 thusiasm ; " but electricity to me somehow seems 
 depressing, cheerless." 
 
 " And yet, it is more generous than the sun," 
 ventured Drake, neatly. " Under the shaded 
 lamp my lady's wrinkles disappear, and the 
 lashes of her dreamy eyes grow darker. 
 The " 
 
 " The moon and the stars, the shadows, and 
 even sleep are all friendly to our gentler selves," 
 broke in Marcia, gaily. 
 
 " Sleep ! " repeated Drake ; " the only good 
 thing I can say for that old villain Macbeth 
 is that he murdered it. What a pity he didn't 
 make a better job of it! Life is so short, 
 Marcia, and there are so many things one 
 might do, see, and know, if one only had time 
 enough." 
 
 " Yes. Think of the books unread, and the 
 pictures unseen," declared Marcia. 
 
 '* And the fortunes that are unfound, the 
 fame that beckons us in vain, the songs unsung, 
 of all that is missed and lost by us for ever, be- 
 cause we must snore away one-third of our 
 precious hours. And, in spite of all this, most 
 of us go tumbling into our beds every night as 
 if sleep were about to be abolished, and we were
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 109 
 
 compelled to store up a supply against the' 
 years." 
 
 " And there is really little need to worry 
 about it," remarked Marcia, dreamily ; " there 
 is plenty of it coming at the end." 
 
 A stillness fell upon them. Drake, looking 
 at her, saw all the lights of the city, of the sky, 
 and another light that " never was on sea or 
 land " pure and steadfast in her eyes. Her 
 face was flushed, her lips parted, tears glistened 
 in her eyes. He seized both her hands in his ; 
 and she did not resist. Her gaze quickened 
 and fascinated him ; and for many a day there- 
 after her face, as it looked at that moment, was 
 before him. It haunted his dreams the sweet- 
 est and loveliest vision he had ever known. 
 
 " You are hurting my hand ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Her voice seemed to be a long way off, as if it 
 came lifting over many odorous fields of sum- 
 mer to rouse him where he slept upon a bank 
 of violets, by a chiming stream, dreaming the 
 most beautiful dreams. Slowly, he realised that 
 he was crushing her fingers in his grasp ; and he 
 dropped her hands reluctantly. 
 
 A long silence followed, broken at last by the 
 servant calling and saying that Henry had 
 awakened. Drake grudgingly led her to the 
 door and bade her good-night.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 " But 'e run 'is 'and up to the top button of 'is shootin'- 
 coat an' loosed it. ' Thank you, sir,' I sez. ' I'd like that 
 very well,' I sez, an' both our coats was off an' put down." 
 
 RtTDYAED KlPLIXO. 
 
 HERO-WORSHIP is not one of the notable traits 
 of character in newspaper reporters, but loy- 
 alty and enthusiasm are common qualities that 
 need but the fit occasion for the proving. 
 Drake never sought to be popular, and, indeed, 
 had even neglected to take the first steps 
 toward popularity; yet, about this time, there 
 occurred an incident which led his fellows to 
 discover an unexpected phase of his character, 
 and made of him, willy-nilly, an idol of at least 
 a day and an hour. 
 
 It was nearly one o'clock, and in the local 
 room the reporters were handing in the last 
 pages of their copy, when Murphy limped 
 laboriously through the door. His clothing 
 was disordered ; his shirt was torn and bloody ; 
 one lip was disreputably swollen, and one eye 
 was closed. 
 
 "What's the matter, Murphy?" cried the 
 110
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? Ill 
 
 sporting editor, who sat near the door, leaping 
 to his feet in alarm. " You haven't been fool 
 enough to get mixed up with a trolley-car, have 
 you?" 
 
 " Nothin' the matter," answered Murphy, 
 suppressing a groan. " Just had a little dif- 
 ference of opinion with a gentleman, that's all." 
 
 " Who ? " exclaimed half a dozen eager re- 
 porters. 
 
 " O'Hoolihan." 
 
 " Not that big, raw-boned policeman on the 
 tenderloin beat ? " said the sporting editor. 
 
 " Yep." 
 
 All stared at Murphy in curious amazement 
 as he fell into a chair. 
 
 " What was the trouble ? " asked Arm- 
 strong. 
 
 " I called him a liar." 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 " I may have emphasised it a little," admitted 
 Murphy. " Think I did add a few other 
 names." 
 
 He put his red-stained handkerchief ten- 
 derly on his lip, and looked as critically as he 
 could with one eye to see if the blood had ceased 
 to flow. 
 
 "But what did he do?" asked the religious 
 editor.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 " Can't you see, you fool ! " retorted 
 Murphy, with acid emphasis. 
 
 " I don't mean that. I mean what did you 
 call him a liar for?" explained the religious 
 editor, in some confusion. 
 
 " NothinV 
 
 " But he must have done something to " 
 
 " Look here, you fellows ! " cried Murphy, 
 with a slight show of resentment, " I didn't 
 come up here to be cross-examined. I came to 
 tell Mr. Armstrong I want to go home. If 
 you want to know what happened, ask O'Hooli- 
 han. He'll tell you." 
 
 Armstrong hastily provided Murphy with 
 an order for a carriage, after having learned 
 from him that the police surgeon had examined 
 his wounds and found none of them to be 
 serious. Then, when Murphy had gone, he 
 despatched a reporter to the police station to 
 find out what had occurred to bring such com- 
 plete discomfiture to Murphy. Twenty min- 
 utes later the reporter, breathless with hurry- 
 ing and almost speechless with indignation, re- 
 turned, and related to the group around the 
 city editor's desk the sad, brief story of the 
 disaster. 
 
 " You see, O'Hoolihan has been crazy over 
 the roasts he's been getting, and to-night, after
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 113 
 
 he'd read Drake's article in this morning's 
 I mean yesterday morning's paper, he came up 
 to headquarters, and tore around, and called 
 the man who wrote the stuff everything he 
 could turn his tongue to. Murphy stood it 
 for quite a while; but finally, when O'Hoolihan 
 had repeated for the twentieth time that the 
 reporter who wrote the article was a liar, a 
 coward, a skunk, and several other things, 
 Murphy got excited, and I guess he did tell 
 O'Hoolihan some things in picturesque and 
 forcible language. Anyway, before the other 
 policemen could interfere, he had beaten 
 Murphy all up and kicked him down a flight 
 of stairs. The big stiff! We've got " 
 
 " Can't we have him arrested? " suggested a 
 young reporter, in wrathful simplicity. 
 
 " Naw. You can't do anything to a police- 
 man ! " said another. 
 
 " Can't we make it so hot for him the police 
 commissioners will have to fire him ? " sug- 
 gested the sporting editor. 
 
 " That wouldn't just do," said Armstrong. 
 " He may have a family to support." 
 
 Drake, who up to this time had remained 
 silent and thoughtful, now moved toward the 
 door, and took his hat from its hook on the 
 wall.
 
 114 ART THOU THE MAN? 
 
 " There is only one thing to do," he said, 
 quietly, " and that is to go down there and 
 give him as bad a licking as he gave Murphy; 
 and I'm the one to do it. It was my stuff in 
 the paper that caused the trouble." 
 
 " But he'd kill you ! " was the chorus of ob- 
 jection. 
 
 " I guess it wouldn't be as bad as that. At 
 any rate, it's got to be done ; and I'm going to 
 try it." 
 
 "Well, wait till the paper's off, and we'll 
 all go down there," suggested the city editor; 
 and to this Drake assented. 
 
 His coolness half reassured the others; but 
 nevertheless it was with great doubt and fore- 
 boding that the entire local staff, as soon as 
 the paper had gone to press, proceeded to the 
 police station. When Drake announced his 
 mission to the night captain, that good- 
 natured officer simply laughed. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Drake," he said, " O'Hoolihan 
 'd make ye look as if ye'd gone through a 
 threshing machine; and besides, I've repri- 
 manded him, and it won't occur again." 
 
 " I'm sorry, captain, but I must see O'Hooli- 
 han ; and if you won't let me, we'll wait on the 
 sidewalk till he comes out." 
 
 " Well, if ye're bound to git a lickin', boy,
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 115 
 
 come back into the exercisin' room, an' we'll 
 stand by, and see he don't hurt ye too much. 
 But mind, now, I warned ye. He'll sure bate 
 ye up so your own mother won't know ye." 
 
 In the exercise-room they found O'Hoolihan, 
 with several other officers of the night reserve. 
 Four of them sat at a confiscated gambling- 
 table engaged in a mild game of seven-up; two 
 others were talking politics, and the rest of 
 them lounged about the room trying to keep 
 awake. The coming of the captain and the 
 solemn reporters was a welcome diversion. 
 When the captain told O'Hoolihan that a boy 
 from the newspaper office had come down to 
 square the account for Murphy, the muscular 
 Irishman uttered a guffaw, and the other 
 policemen joined uproariously in the mirth. 
 But Drake stepped forward, looked O'Hooli- 
 han over, from head to feet, and then said, 
 coolly and distinctly: 
 
 " Mister O'Hoolihan," with a goading 
 stress on the long-drawn " mister," " I want 
 you to know that I am the reporter who wrote 
 that stuff. I am convinced that you lied on 
 the witness-stand in the Therdier trial; that 
 you were bribed, and that you have shown 
 yourself to be a coward and a thief." 
 
 There was silence. For a minute O'Hooli-
 
 116 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 han stood still, and looked at Drake. Then 
 the full meaning of Drake's words became clear 
 to him, and his red face blazed with anger. He 
 started to reply, but the oaths stuck in his 
 throat, and he was incoherent with swift rage. 
 Suddenly he lunged forward, and his right fist 
 swung out for Drake's head with a force that, 
 had the blow landed, would have ended in- 
 stantly all his aspirations to chastise police- 
 men. But Drake ducked his head barely in 
 time, and the momentum of the misspent blow 
 carried O'Hoolihan staggering across the 
 room. Bellowing with fury, O'Hoolihan gath- 
 ered himself to fall upon Drake and annihilate 
 him; but before he could reach the reporter, 
 several policemen had grabbed him, and others 
 had surrounded Drake. 
 
 " Look here, young fellow ! " said the cap- 
 tain, " ye've insulted O'Hoolihan, and now 
 ye've got to take a lickin' unless he wants to 
 call it off. As he doesn't seem to be very for- 
 givin' just now, we'll see it's all done regular, 
 and ye don't get hurt too bad. Boys, make 
 a ring, and if the kid lasts three minutes we'll 
 call it a round, and make 'em rest three; and 
 then they can go at it again till the young 
 man learns to respect his elders." 
 
 In that brief interval of preparation Drake
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 117 
 
 had time to make a swift review of his athletic 
 achievements; and as he stripped to meet the 
 O'Hoolihan, he marvelled vaguely at the fore- 
 sight he had displayed in learning certain 
 tricks with his hands, which now had suddenly 
 become the most important things in the world. 
 They stepped into the ring improvised for 
 them by the circle of policemen and reporters; 
 and O'Hoolihan glowered upon Drake in the 
 manner in which he was accustomed to inspire 
 terror in the heart of every living thing that 
 crossed his beat. O'Hoolihan started the bat- 
 tle with a rush. Drake stepped aside, and 
 as the big fellow went past, landed the first 
 blow squarely on his mouth. The policeman 
 staggered a little; an expression of surprise 
 and pain appeared upon his face; and as he 
 whirled to meet Drake again his huge arms 
 went up more cautiously. Once more he 
 rushed, and again Drake hit him ; but this time 
 O'Hoolihan turned quickly, and his big right 
 fist struck Drake's shoulder, dropping him full- 
 length upon the floor. If this mighty blow 
 had struck Drake's head or a vulnerable part 
 of his body, the fight would have ended then 
 and there. As it happened, the blow did riot 
 hurt much, and Drake was on his feet in an 
 instant, none the worse for the knockdown.
 
 118 ART THOU THE MAN? 
 
 Again and again O'Hoolihan rushed, and every 
 time Drake ducked or sidestepped to avoid the 
 worst of the vicious swings. At every charge 
 Drake watched his antagonist more closely, 
 and presently the blows he planted on the big 
 man's face and over his heart began to tell. 
 Meanwhile, Drake was not escaping punish- 
 ment. Already his nose was bleeding, and 
 there was a gash over his right eye. When 
 the police captain stepped between them, and 
 announced that one round was ended, both men 
 were dazed and struggling for breath. 
 
 "You're groggy, O'Hoolihan! The kid's 
 lickin' you ! " yelled a policeman. 
 
 " Naw, he ain't ! He's just play in' with the 
 boy ! " declared another. O'Hoolihan said 
 nothing. 
 
 The Record contingent was jubilant. Drake 
 had lasted one round, at any rate, and that 
 was more than even the most hopeful of his 
 friends had dared to expect. They ministered 
 to his wounds, and encouraged him in low 
 tones, and exhorted him, for the honour of the 
 staff, to make an object-lesson of O'Hoolihan. 
 Drake smiled grimly, and abstained from 
 boasting. 
 
 The second round began all the policeman's 
 way. He got Drake into a corner, and with a
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 119 
 
 veritable avalanche of savage blows beat him to 
 the floor. 
 
 " It's all over ! " exclaimed the sporting edi- 
 tor; and O'Hoolihan thought so too. But 
 almost before the words were spoken, and be- 
 fore the Irishman could place himself again in 
 a defensive posture, Drake leaped to his feet, 
 rushed, for the first time since the fight had 
 started, and landed what the sporting ed- 
 itor later described as " a beautiful left hook " 
 fairly on the policeman's jaw. Instantly 
 he followed it up with a straight right-hand 
 blow that hit O'Hoolihan full in the pit of 
 the stomach. A look of ludicrous and pitiable 
 agony twisted the face of O'Hoolihan; paral- 
 ysis limbered his knees; the weight of his fists 
 was too much for his arms to bear. As he 
 began to collapse, Drake dealt one more 
 quick jab with all his strength on the police- 
 man's half -open mouth and sent him toppling 
 over. 
 
 But O'Hoolihan was not whipped. Before 
 the captain could count ten, he was on his feet 
 and tearing at Drake like a wild beast. For 
 two minutes they fought around the ring, 
 Drake landing blow after blow with apparently 
 no effect, O'Hoolihan marking Drake every 
 time he hit him. The round ended with Drake
 
 120 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 badly battered up, but still confident and 
 strong. 
 
 The third and last round was a terrific one. 
 The Record men lost control of themselves, and 
 danced and yelled in fine frenzy, while the police 
 were sounding the slogan for O'Hoolihan. 
 
 " Smash him, O'Hoolihan ! " 
 
 "Hit him, Drake!" 
 
 "You're lettin' a kid lick you, O'Hooli- 
 han!" 
 
 " Finish the big lobster, Drake ! " 
 
 " You're a disgrace to the force, O'Hooli- 
 han!" 
 
 Thus cried the excited spectators, while back 
 and forth the battle raged; Drake, agile and 
 keen, watching for an opening; O'Hoolihan 
 stumbling and charging in a fury, aiming 
 sledge-hammer blows in every direction. 
 
 " Five to one on Drake ! " shouted the sport- 
 ing editor, forgetting himself; and there was 
 no taker. ,Both O'Hoolihan's eyes were now 
 closing, and his face was puffed and raw; but 
 he still fought on. Now and then he sent 
 Drake reeling under one of his vicious drives, 
 and finally he struck him on the jaw and sent 
 him to the floor; but the reporter was quickly 
 up again. O'Hoolihan was dazed, and stag- 
 gered wildly after his fallen but too nimble
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 foe. Drake saw his chance, and as the Irish- 
 man came on, gathered all his powers for the 
 last desperate effort. There was a crack like 
 a pistol-shot; then a slow, soft thud. Drake 
 had landed neatly on the point of his antag- 
 onist's jaw, and O'Hoolihan struck the floor 
 squarely on his shoulders. 
 
 " One two three," counted the captain. 
 O'Hoolihan tried to roll over, but his shoulders 
 stuck to the floor like lead. 
 
 " Four five six," tolled the solemn num- 
 bers. O'Hoolihan fell back into his first posi- 
 tion. 
 
 " Eight nine ten !" O'Hoolihan did not 
 stir. Silently his comrades lifted him on their 
 brawny shoulders and carried him into the 
 police surgeon's room. Drake, in the same in- 
 stant, was hoisted upon the shoulders of the 
 excited reporters; and yelling, howling, and 
 capering, they bore him out of the police sta- 
 tion and up the middle of the streets to the 
 Record office. Murphy was avenged; many 
 an old score was wiped out; and Allan Drake 
 was all right, for he had whipped a policeman.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
 A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou 
 
 Beside me singing in the Wilderness 
 Oh! Wilderness were Paradise enow! 
 
 FITZGEBALD'S Omar. 
 
 " W^HAT'S to be done now ? " exclaimed Mar- 
 cia, in a tone half dismay, half amusement. 
 
 " We will have to leave the machine here, 
 make our way home as best we can, and send 
 for it later." 
 
 It was one of Drake's weekly holidays a 
 day off; and as was their habit lately, they 
 were spending it exploring the country in her 
 electric runabout. 
 
 Midday had found them twenty-five miles 
 away from the city, in the shadow of a sparse 
 little grove of cottonwood, on the banks of 
 Cherry Creek, hungrily interested in the lunch- 
 eon Marcia had prepared with her own hands 
 for the occasion a dainty labour she always 
 would perform, in spite of Mollie's protests; 
 and they were now, late in the afternoon, home- 
 ward bound. The day was late in September, 
 and the glow of autumn was upon the earth. 
 122
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 123 
 
 In the dry, blue desert of the sky there was not 
 a cloud oasis to be seen ; and the sun lumbered 
 like a dusty caravan down the last ethereal 
 leagues of his long day's journey. 
 
 The road they had travelled a true prairie 
 road stretched straight away before them, 
 smooth, dry, and hard, its dusty scourings 
 crunching with musical monotony beneath the 
 rubber tires. On their left, and far behind 
 them, rushing backward as they sped, were the 
 sad, sallow plains, teeming with silence and un- 
 dulating drearily to a reluctant meeting with 
 the sky. On the right, down its mile-wide de- 
 pression, historic Cherry Creek known of the 
 Indians, its sands heavy with gold too fine to 
 profit panning, its sluggish, meagre flow now 
 innocent of its mad spring ravings crawled 
 Platte-ward with scarcely a ripple left to tell 
 of its summer's struggle with drought, evap- 
 oration, and greedy irrigating ditches. Be- 
 yond the creek, northwestward, Denver lay, in 
 the sunlight, like a mirage with three long 
 serpent-things of sulphurous smelter smoke 
 lurking along on its eastern edges. And still 
 beyond this were the mountains, purple and 
 silent, with patches of snow in the rifts of 
 rocks, like a forlorn vanguard holding out for 
 winter's promised reinforcements.
 
 124 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Drake pulled the runabout out of the road- 
 way. Something had gone so radically wrong 
 with it that an hour's hard tinkering had 
 failed to disclose the trouble. 
 
 " I don't know what the deuce is the mat- 
 ter," he said at length, surveying the machine 
 in deep, deliberate disgust. " It's most ex- 
 asperating ! " 
 
 Marcia could not help smiling at his annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 " Isn't that a ranch-house yonder? Sup- 
 pose we see what can be done there ! We'll ask 
 for a drink of milk." 
 
 With a parting glance at the obdurate 
 machine, they walked briskly foward until they 
 came to a branching road that led them to the 
 ranch-house in the valley. As they approached, 
 a sheep-dog gave them a vociferous greeting, 
 and a sunburnt, pleasant-faced woman came 
 to the door. 
 
 " We've met with an accident our auto- 
 mobile has broken down. Is there any way to 
 get a team to take us to town ? " Drake asked, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " And may I have a glass of milk, please? " 
 Marcia added, pleasantly, without waiting for 
 an answer to the more momentous question. 
 
 " Sure, you can have all the milk you want,"
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 125 
 
 the woman replied ; " but as. to the 'team, you'll 
 have to wait, if you don't mind, until my hus- 
 band comes home. He won't be long." 
 
 Presently she reappeared with the milk in a 
 tin bucket, and gratefully they drank from a 
 polished dipper. 
 
 After some time Marcia proposed to Allan 
 that they climb a little hill close by and see 
 the view. They started, followed by the 
 friendly sheep-dog, to whom visitors were evi- 
 dently rare and welcome. On gaining the 
 top, they looked back with wondering curiosity 
 at the squat, unpainted, lonely home, from 
 which came the clean smell of new bread and 
 the sound of a baby's contented cooing; then 
 beyond, at the sere and melancholy plains. 
 
 " A penny for your thoughts ! " observed 
 Drake, as he watched the girl gazing dreamily 
 into the distance. 
 
 " I was thinking of something something 
 an old man on Doctor Hammond's ranch once 
 told me. ' I'm a Kentuckian,' said he, ' Miss 
 Marcia from the Blue Grass country. Once 
 it was God's country, but it isn't any more. 
 It's too rich too easy, now. His country is 
 not a tropic forest, where men decay in idle- 
 ness ; not an island in the southern seas, where 
 nature's bounty discounts labour; not any fair
 
 126 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 and plentiful land, where lullabies of wind and 
 sun and shower soothe the energies of man 
 and wrap their ambition in forgetfulness. No, 
 this is God's country, right here in Colorado 
 these dry plains and yon hard mountains ! ' 
 
 " Your friend's definition of God's country 
 is hardly a Garden of Eden," ventured Drake, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Evidently not, and yet, surely not as 
 lonely." 
 
 " Speaking of loneliness, take those people 
 there." Drake indicated with a gesture the 
 little ranch-house below them. " If they're the 
 right sort, they are much happier than the 
 jostling multitude in the city." 
 
 " The right sort ! " repeated Marcia, inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " Yes. People who can live without excite- 
 ment. I like companionship yours, Marcia, 
 more than any other ; but I thank Heaven I am 
 not so bored with myself that I cannot sit down 
 and be happy alone." 
 
 " I understand," Marcia said, sadly, " be- 
 cause I have been alone a great deal in my life, 
 and " 
 
 " But you're different, Marcia," quickly in- 
 terrupted Drake, laying his hand on hers. 
 " You're the right sort. You don't demand
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 127 
 
 more than you give. Few women know how to 
 be comrades, and at the same time be women." 
 
 In silence they looked over the level land, all 
 inscrutable and brown, waiting sullenly for 
 man to rescue it. At last Marcia withdrew 
 her hand, and said nervously : 
 
 " I wish this man would come. It's getting 
 late." 
 
 " Here he comes, now." 
 
 Drake started forward to meet the ranch- 
 man, who, advancing toward them, asked if he 
 might be of any assistance. 
 
 Drake explained their predicament. 
 
 " We'll get you to town some time to-night," 
 said the stranger, cheerfully ; " but where is 
 your automobile? I might be able to find out 
 the trouble. I was a machinist before coming 
 West." 
 
 Together they walked to where the machine 
 lay; and it was not long before he had solved 
 the difficulty and put it in running order. 
 
 The road for a mile clung to the crest of a 
 ridge, and then dropped into the valley, where, 
 after a little winding, it led to a deserted town. 
 A dozen houses stood there, all empty and for- 
 lorn; a store building with its pine boards, 
 loosed and warped by the sun into multiplied 
 parentheses ; small dwellings half unroofed and
 
 128 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 marked with divers insults of marauding boys ; 
 a few thin stumps of dead and denuded trees, 
 isolated ash-heaps, rusty tins, and fragments 
 of forgotten furniture all getting " back to 
 the earth again," after the manner of every 
 created thing. 
 
 " What stories these deserted houses could 
 tell ! " exclaimed Marcia, thoughtfully. " How 
 melancholy ! " 
 
 " And yet, there is another way of looking 
 at it," argued Drake. " The deserted village 
 is typical of the Western spirit that moves men 
 to build, to abandon, to flit away generally 
 farther and farther westward and to build 
 again. No doubt this town has served its pur- 
 pose." 
 
 They peeped into one of the dwellings. The 
 sun stared boldly through a big hole in the roof 
 and mocked the dirty desolation of the room. 
 
 " You might take this, Allan, for the quiet 
 habitation you think you would like all alone," 
 suggested Marcia, archly. 
 
 " ' And Thou beside me singing in the Wil- 
 derness,' ' quickly returned Drake, looking 
 into her eyes. 
 
 Marcia blushed. 
 
 The sun by this time was near its setting, 
 and a chill was creeping out of the west.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 129 
 
 Presently they came to a spot where a road 
 branched off from that they were travelling. 
 
 " I wonder if that isn't a shorter way to 
 town?" 
 
 " I don't know," answered Drake. " Shall 
 we try it ? " 
 
 Marcia steered into the road, and rapidly 
 they sped down the long, smooth incline towards 
 the creek. At the end of a two-mile run they 
 discovered, to their chagrin, that there was no 
 bridge. 
 
 " It's only a ford ! " said Drake. 
 
 " How provoking ! " Marcia, plainly dis- 
 turbed, looked at the creek, then at Drake. 
 
 " It isn't deep, but it might as well be a 
 river," continued Drake v peering into the 
 stream. " We can't get across ! " 
 
 "What shall we do?" She turned and 
 looked back over the way they had come. 
 
 " It's a long way around to the bridge we 
 crossed this morning, and you're tired, Mar- 
 cia." Drake reflected; then suddenly he cried: 
 " What an idiot I am ! Jump out and wait 
 here for me; I'll be back presently." 
 
 Before Marcia could realise that she was on 
 the ground, Drake had turned the machine 
 around, flying back to the deserted village. 
 After a few minutes, she sat down and calmly
 
 130 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 proceeded to take off her shoes and stockings. 
 Her feet were drawn up beneath her skirt when 
 Drake returned with several good-sized planks 
 on the back of the machine. 
 
 " What on earth are you up to ? " he in- 
 quired. 
 
 " I am going to wade," she announced, coolly. 
 
 "Wade? Nonsense! I'll carry you." And 
 Drake directed towards Marcia a questioning, 
 half-merry look, between a challenge and a 
 plea. 
 
 " Allan ! " she cried, colouring deeply. 
 
 Drake plunged into the water, which seemed 
 deliciously cool and refreshing after the dusty 
 ride, and set to work laying the planks across 
 the stream. With considerable difficulty he 
 managed to run the machine over in safety. 
 
 " Come, Marcia ! Your turn, now ! " 
 
 " Sir ! " she cried, haughtily, with seeming 
 indignation. " It's not deep. You keep ahead 
 and look for the shallow places." 
 
 Drake laughed, and reluctantly turned 
 around. 
 
 " Now, eyes front ! " commanded Marcia, as 
 she skipped lightly down the bank. " You're 
 only a soldier, and must obey orders, if you 
 know how." But he was also a man, and as she 
 stepped into the water with a gasping little
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 131 
 
 shriek, he boldly picked her up, half-strug- 
 gling, and carried her across. 
 
 " Allan, I told you not to," she protested, not 
 very severely ; though her cheeks were aflame as 
 he placed her on the opposite bank, where she 
 squatted in a heap. 
 
 " Honestly," said he, with averted face, " it 
 was much deeper than you have any idea. You 
 could not have waded it." 
 
 Whether she believed him or not, the fact 
 that he was wet through distressed her. " I 
 think you had better see if there is anything 
 further the matter with our chariot," she said, 
 sweetly. " Please." 
 
 On his honour as a gentleman he did as he 
 was bidden. Marcia was soon ready, and pres- 
 ently gaining the main road, they were once 
 more on the final run for home. 
 
 " Anyhow, that was better than going 
 around, wasn't it ? " asked Drake, a trifle anx- 
 ious as to her attitude towards him. 
 
 " It wasn't very nice of you when you knew 
 
 I preferred " She broke off abruptly in a 
 
 little laugh. 
 
 Drake looked at her covetously, so beautiful 
 and happy was she in the orange after-glow 
 of the sun's warm setting. 
 
 " If you would only "
 
 132 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Marcia interrupted him with a sharp cry of 
 alarm. " What's that ?" 
 
 Drake was startled, and listened. 
 
 From far behind them came a low, rumbling, 
 whirring, throbbing sound that every second 
 grew louder and louder. Quickly turning, he 
 saw the great gleaming bull's-eye lights, ever 
 broadening, piercing the darkness, and ap- 
 proaching with terrific speed. The road was 
 narrow. 
 
 " Open her up ! Push her ! " he cried, ex- 
 citedly. " An automobile is coming at a fear- 
 ful rate ! We must get out of his way ! " 
 
 Marcia turned on the power, and they flew 
 ahead. Again Drake looked anxiously behind. 
 The searching eyeballs of fire were almost upon 
 them. " Faster, Marcia ! Faster ! " 
 
 On they rushed. The road was widening. 
 Instantly Drake ordered Marcia to steer clear 
 over to one side. 
 
 She obeyed, bringing the machine to a stand- 
 still; and almost instantly, with a deafening 
 roar, a huge automobile, barely missing them, 
 whizzed past ; and covering them with dust and 
 dirt, disappeared, showing, as it vanished in the 
 gloom, a tiny red light like a spark. 
 
 " By Jove ! That was a close shave ! " cried 
 Drake, angrily. " I'd like to take a shot at
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 133 
 
 that fellow. It's d n outrageous for a man 
 
 to drive like that ! " 
 
 Marcia sat strangely still. At last she 
 spoke, in a strained, broken voice. 
 
 " It was Henry ! Since the trial, Allan, he 
 spends most of his spare time recklessly, madly 
 tearing over the prairie. It seems to give him 
 fierce enjoyment rest." She sighed deeply. 
 " Oh, look yonder at the lights coming up in 
 the city ! Denver is counting the beads of her 
 rosary."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Alas! how is't with you, 
 
 That you do bend your eye on vacancy 
 
 And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 FROM the day of his undertaking to defend 
 Therdier, to the hour when he saw him free, 
 Henry Woolford's nerves were strained to their 
 utmost tension by the ordeals he contrived for 
 them. All his life he had been a tireless worker. 
 His was the kind of nature that, if food be not 
 provided, will feed upon itself. Work was play 
 to him ; play he would ever turn to work. Such 
 energy of spirit as was his, unless approved 
 and supported by the physical powers, meets an 
 early limitation. Woolford had not only will 
 but physique also; and he could and would do 
 things that would have wrecked the nerves of 
 any man less triumphantly equipped. No ex- 
 cess of effort ever had exhausted him; and 
 often after days of labour he had spent whole 
 nights toiling at his desk. With his habits thus 
 fixed it was not strange that, on taking up the 
 strangling cases, he had doubled and even 
 trebled his exertions. More than ever then he 
 184
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 135 
 
 was sought after by men who were in peril of 
 their liberties or their lives. It seemed that no 
 criminal action of importance could go to trial 
 without Henry Woolford's appearing as coun- 
 sel, or at least as advisory counsel, for the de- 
 fence. And to every subject that came before 
 him he gave the same degree of thought that 
 he bestowed upon the defence of Therdier. In 
 his office he denied himself to all visitors except 
 his clients. He laboured there from morning 
 until night; and at home, save on rare occa- 
 sions, he went to his study directly from the 
 dinner-table, and sat at his desk or paced the 
 floor till dawn. Still, contrary to all Marcia's 
 fears for him, he did not break down before the 
 trial was successfully concluded. 
 
 In the earlier days of his connection with 
 the strangling cases, Woolford had permitted 
 Marcia to help him, had regularly sought her 
 aid; but gradually, as the time for the trial 
 drew near, he became secretive and reserved. 
 This habit of concealment grew until he came 
 at last to spend his evenings in his study all 
 alone, almost oblivious, it seemed, to Marcia's 
 presence in the house. Before that time, how- 
 ever impatient and severe he may have been 
 with others, she had never known him to be 
 aught but kind to her; but in the few later
 
 136 ART THOU THE MAN 9 
 
 months before the trial, he hurt her often with 
 his neglect, or spoke harshly to her when he 
 noticed her at all. And strange moods came 
 over him which Marcia could not understand. 
 
 All this time, from the very day he was re- 
 tained in the strangling cases, Woolford had 
 experienced a mental exaltation which, it 
 seemed, goaded him on to effort, lifted him out 
 of himself, transformed every desire and every 
 tendency of his being into one concrete, absorb- 
 ing purpose to surpass himself in the defence 
 of Therdier. That ambition realised, the bench 
 and the bar amazed, the city ringing with his 
 name, he had gone home to bed, indifferent to 
 all things. 
 
 For days he was ill. Marcia gave him the 
 most loving care, and she was delighted beyond 
 measure to find him, in his recovering, much the 
 same dear brother who had all her life, till 
 lately, been so near to her. He was buoyant, 
 communicative, and gentle now, and, save for 
 an indefinable tinge of sadness in his demeanour, 
 and an occasional lapsing into sober silence, he 
 was himself again. This change, after the 
 months of anxiety she had experienced, was to 
 Marcia tonic and sweet. They had many 
 happy evenings together happy in their own 
 special way, sometimes working over Henry's
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 137 
 
 briefs, sometimes reading to each other out of 
 the books they loved, forgetful always of other 
 people in the world of all save one, the image 
 of whose face would now and then shape into 
 Marcia's sight. These were precious nights, 
 remembered in the after-time with many a pang. 
 
 There came an evening when at dinner Henry 
 was a little more restrained than was his wont 
 in these later pleasant times. He did not enter 
 into the spirit of Marcia's blithe and careless 
 talk; and when he had finished dining, he went 
 into the library, drew an easy-chair before the 
 fire for autumn's touch was in the air and 
 was soon absorbed in a book. Marcia followed 
 him presently, and stood looking at him with 
 tender solicitude growing in her eyes. After 
 hesitating a minute she stole up behind him and 
 leaned over his shoulder; her two warm, round 
 arms encircled his neck, and very gently took 
 the book out of his hands. 
 
 " Brother, dear, you look worried and tired 
 to-night," she said, with earnest insistence. 
 " I'm going to bathe your head, and then I'll 
 read to you. May I ? " 
 
 Marcia turned the book in her hand and 
 glanced at the author's name. It was a treatise 
 by Krafft-Ebbing. At once a shudder went 
 through her; and Henry saw a swift horror
 
 138 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 drive the colour from the face that lay upon 
 his shoulder, close to his own. He studied her 
 in silence. 
 
 " Henry, I don't know why I suppose I am 
 very foolish ; but, brother," she faltered, " I 
 don't like to see you reading this. You've tried 
 to hide the book from me yes, you have, dear ! " 
 
 Marcia burst into tears. 
 
 " There, there, little one ! " said Henry, tak- 
 ing her in his arms. " Don't worry over that. 
 Don't, Marcia ! " 
 
 He wiped away her tears. For a long time he 
 sat in silence, with one arm around his sister, 
 and the other supporting his bowed head, while 
 he looked grimly into the fire. Marcia's sobs 
 were slowly hushed; but she lay quite still and 
 did not speak. 
 
 The fire in the grate burned low. The old 
 clock in the hall ticked off the ponderous min- 
 utes. At length Woolford spoke in low tones 
 such as he seldom used tones like some of those 
 in the middle register of a violoncello, only far 
 clearer and sweeter. 
 
 " Sister, dear," he said, " no mortal can 
 realise how I love you. We are all that are left 
 in the world of our family, you and I. So far, 
 little one, our lives have been sunshine mostly 
 sunshine, haven't they? "
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 139 
 
 Marcia nodded in appreciative acquiescence. 
 
 " You and I have been happy together," 
 Henry continued. " Our days have been peace- 
 ful as peaceful as anybody's days can be. We 
 have loved each other, and love each other still, 
 and not for many years has sorrow stolen be- 
 neath our roof. But, Marcia, none of us can 
 realise perfect happiness in this world even 
 what we call happiness until we have learned 
 how to suffer. Oh, the suffering there is in life ! 
 Always suffering; but the more terrible the 
 storm, the more satisfying is the calm that fol- 
 lows. That is some consolation." 
 
 He paused, for Marcia trembled in his em- 
 brace; and he turned his face away from her 
 that she might not see the anguish he knew was 
 depicted there. 
 
 " Don't fear, little one," he said, and his voice 
 shook in spite of all his self-control. " Don't 
 fear. Henry's arm is around you. You have 
 always been so courageous you will be, won't 
 you, dear? I have hurt you I must hurt you 
 more; and the thought of it is tearing at my 
 heart. But, Marcia, I must tell you I must, 
 because you know we are all that is left, you and 
 I ; and if anything should happen to to one of 
 us " 
 
 Marcia's breath came fast, and her eyes
 
 140 ART THOU THE MAN 9 
 
 opened wide from the vague fear her brother's 
 words inspired. Then she put her arms around 
 his neck, and whispered : 
 
 " Go on, Henry. What is it? " 
 " I've thought it all out these last two weeks, 
 sister thought it all out, as nearly as I can. 
 There is only one thing for us to do, and that is, 
 to go hand in hand down through the fury of 
 the storm, down through the fury of the 
 storm, if there is to be one; hand in hand 
 up to the sunlight, on the other side, if there is 
 to be any other side." 
 
 He spoke more firmly by this time, regaining 
 his self-poise as he went on, his voice that mar- 
 vellous voice gathering up more sweetness with 
 every word. 
 
 " Now, don't worry, Marcia ; everything will 
 come out all right in the end. We'll take a long 
 journey, for I must have rest. I did not realise 
 what these moods meant. They come on me 
 when least expected. Doctor Hammond says 
 they are only temporary; but, my dear, you 
 must know be prepared for them." 
 
 He rested his head upon Marcia's cheek ; and 
 a sob a man's unwilling, tearless sob shook 
 his iron frame. Marcia caressed him ; seeing his 
 distress, all her faculties had come back to her ; 
 and she was calm and patient.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 141 
 
 " Why, Henry," she said, coaxingly, " you 
 have thought and worked so hard that you have 
 worried yourself into a fever. You exaggerate 
 it all! We'll take a long rest, as you suggest, 
 and Doctor Hammond shall make you well 
 again. Now, stop, and let us talk of something 
 else." 
 
 Woolford lifted his head again. His face 
 was grey and lifeless, like the ancient print of a 
 face in volcanic ash. For a little while he stared 
 into the fire, and the solemn, remorseless ticking 
 of the old clock in the hall was the only sound. 
 Then, with the tightening of his blue lips, he 
 said: 
 
 " No, it is for the best. I must tell you, little 
 sweetheart, for your sake for mine." 
 
 Again his head sank low, and again the terri- 
 ble sobs ravaged him sobs like monstrous tidal 
 waves of emotion sweeping over him. 
 
 " Don't talk that way, brother," pleaded the 
 girl, frightened; but holding herself together 
 with an effort of the will, tears streaming down 
 her cheeks. " You are nervous, dear. Let me 
 please let me make you something hot to drink, 
 and then go to bed and sleep. You'll be better 
 to-morrow, I know you will." 
 
 She stroked his hair and begged him to cease 
 his troubling. At last he checked her, raised
 
 142 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 his head, took her arms from around his neck 
 and held her at arms' length away from him, 
 looking at her fixedly, as if measuring her 
 strength to receive the blow. His muscles be- 
 came rigid, his mouth opened stiffly, his eyes 
 were round and starting from their deep re- 
 cesses, and his voice was hollow, still, and dead. 
 
 " Marcia ! " 
 
 "Henry!" 
 
 There was a world of pathos and bravery in 
 the way she spoke the name. It seemed to re- 
 lieve him, yet determined his action. Very 
 gently he led her to the sofa and seated her 
 there. Tenderly, he wound his arm around her 
 waist, then turned his head away from her. 
 
 " Marcia, you must understand. I can keep 
 it to myself no longer I feel I know I am 
 going mad ! " 
 
 A little gasp of horror came from the girl's 
 lips, and unconsciously she drew away from her 
 brother, recoiling from his touch; and as he re- 
 leased his hold upon her, she fell backward, but 
 caught herself with one groping hand upon the 
 floor; and half sat, half lay there, limp and 
 stricken. For a minute her eyes, fastened on 
 Henry's face, were filled with helplessness and 
 awe. The clock ticked again ; a tiny cinder in 
 the grate fell with a mighty crash, like a tern-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 143 
 
 pie coming down in ruin; then the banished 
 blood mounted to her head again. A flush of 
 shame at her cowardice spread over her face as 
 she gazed at the beloved head, the well-remem- 
 bered lips, the cheeks she used to kiss, the thin 
 blond hair upon his pallid forehead. 
 
 " Henry ! " She cried the name again ; but 
 now it was a sob a wave of love from her heart 
 love finding its voice again. Slowly she raised 
 herself from the floor, her streaming eyes intent 
 upon her brother's face, but filling now with the 
 lights of pity and love. 
 
 "Henry, dear!" 
 
 She crept nearer to him, reached out her 
 arms, stretched her fingers, hungrily, and 
 touched his face; then, weeping, she threw her- 
 self into his arms and put her own around his 
 neck. Henry sat quite still, and did not bow his 
 head, but let the tears roll down his cheeks upon 
 her shining hair. They remained a long time 
 thus brother and sister Marcia, soothing, 
 caressing, finally minimising, ridiculing his 
 fears. Presently he was calm; and she began 
 to outline plans for the future. He must give 
 up his practice ; she would take him for a long 
 sea voyage. They would go to places and see 
 things; would hear music in old, old cities; 
 would see the Southern Cross above their heads ;
 
 144 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 would watch the lights in the Mediterranean; 
 would drop their troubles all their troubles 
 into the Ocean's deep and leave them there. 
 Just as the dawn touched the curtains of her 
 bedroom windows, Marcia went to sleep after 
 one final prayer that Henry might be restored 
 to health; and the thought that lay last in her 
 consciousness was this: she vowed that hence- 
 forth she would devote her life to her brother.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Wind of the North, 
 
 Wind of the Norland snows, 
 
 Wind of the winnowed skies, and sharp, clear stars 
 
 Blow clear and keen across the naked hills, 
 
 And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, 
 
 And blur the casement square with glittering ice, 
 
 But go not near my love. 
 
 CHARLES HENRY LUDERS. 
 
 IT was a Sunday late in November. An end of 
 golden days had come, and the predictions of 
 an early winter were, it was plain, near to their 
 fulfilling. The city had gone to sleep beneath 
 sedate stars ; and had awakened to find windows 
 muffled with wet snow, and the north wind 
 clamouring at doors. 
 
 Drake slept late. It was full noon when 
 first he heard, in sleepy curiosity, the unfamiliar 
 howling of the blast. He listened, then arose, 
 and went to the window. As he raised the cur- 
 tain, an involuntary " Whew ! " escaped him. 
 Through the flaked window-pane, he saw a 
 ragged vista of white housetops, swirls of smoke 
 and snow pirouetting over them; and far be- 
 yond, the mountains, huddling low in the storm, 
 145
 
 146 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 fresh snow sharpening the outlines of their 
 peaks. 
 
 " Denver always wears a look of pained sur- 
 prise when the first storm hits her," Drake said 
 to himself. " She's a spoiled child, Denver is, 
 and gets so used to being petted by the sunshine 
 that she forgets there's such a thing as winter's 
 sudden spank." 
 
 His mother had breakfast ready for him when 
 he went downstairs. The two morning papers 
 lay beside his plate. He picked up one, but 
 dropped it reluctantly. It was a pet rule of his 
 never to look at a newspaper on the one day in 
 every week that was his own. 
 
 Drake finished breakfast at his leisure, telling 
 his mother the while, as his habit was, of all the 
 doings in the office the day and night before; 
 and touched up the various incidents in a way 
 that brought a gleam into her eyes and set her 
 to laughing, and laughing again long after 
 he had finished the stories and had left the 
 house. 
 
 " I sent a note to Miss Woolford that I'd 
 come up this afternoon," Allan said at the ex- 
 piration of an hour. " I'll go now, I think. I 
 may not be home to dinner, but I'll not be out 
 late, mother," he added, then buttoned his heavy 
 ylster, and went out into the storm.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN 9 147 
 
 The electric motors toiled and grumbled in the 
 snow, and Drake had plenty of time for thought 
 while he journeyed up the grades that tempestu- 
 ous afternoon. He now found himself worry- 
 ing somewhat vaguely about Marcia, and fan- 
 cied that she had borne a changed demeanour 
 lately. One evening he had found her in tears 
 and almost hysterical. She had refused to con- 
 fide in him, but had responded a little to the 
 efforts he had exerted to amuse her. Since that 
 night, he had seen her several times five times, 
 he counted them and had noticed in her man- 
 ner an occasional abstraction that disturbed 
 him. She was annoyed, pained, troubled by 
 something, he was sure, and as that conviction 
 grew upon him, he began to feel an odd emotion 
 that was anger and pity mingled anger, at 
 the cause of her suffering, pity for her for his 
 Marcia. This thought of ownership checked 
 him at first; but the more he considered it, the 
 more natural and right it seemed. And, in that 
 instant, all the dislike for Henry that had lain 
 long latent in his bosom, grew into a real and 
 ugly thing. Was Henry causing this distress 
 in Marcia's heart? Was there something 
 wrong? The lawyer was not well, he knew 
 had not been in good health since the trial, Mar- 
 cia had said. Was he venting his ill-humour
 
 148 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 upon her? Then Drake reflected more soberly, 
 and decided that he was trying to guess too 
 much. He knew that Henry loved and cared 
 for her tenderly. If he were ill, it was nat- 
 ural enough that she should be grieving. And 
 yet and yet there was that inchoate suspi- 
 cion in his mind, and he could not quite dis- 
 miss it. 
 
 The week that followed that awful night had 
 indeed been one of suffering for Marcia a week 
 of suffering, we say, as if with our petty forms 
 of speech we could measure grief like the phases 
 of the moon, the length of days, the progress 
 of the seasons. 
 
 Pain is the positive, happiness the negative, 
 in our lives. The most pitiful thing of all is that 
 the heart once stricken, can never be itself again. 
 Comfort, acquiescence, love's fulfilment, all may 
 be ours in the later years; but still there is the 
 memory of the hurt, the cicatrice, the haunting 
 fear. The kiss on the burning scar is sweet; 
 but there is the scar. 
 
 The week passed somehow, and before it went, 
 Marcia had become aware that Henry was on 
 the eve of another attack. She had learned 
 that when he worked with such dogged and 
 feverish intensity, as now marked his daily occu- 
 pation, without mercy upon himself, or upon
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 149 
 
 others, his soul was in turmoil. His practice, 
 at this time, demanded no such extraordinary 
 efforts. The case that was set for trial, at an 
 early date, and in which, as counsel for the 
 defence, he was associated with two other law- 
 yers, did not require unusual acumen or sur- 
 passing labour ; yet, in his daily conferences 
 with his colleagues, he amazed these learned men 
 by the depth of thought and the lambencies of 
 imagination with which he would explain details 
 of evidence that seemed, to their more practical 
 and plodding minds, trivial and inconsequential. 
 Nevertheless, they saw nothing unnatural in his 
 conduct, but accepted all his utterances, how- 
 ever extraordinary, as the characteristic ex- 
 pressions of Henry Woolford Woolford, the 
 enigma they had long since given up. 
 
 Not so, with Marcia. She understood this 
 rhapsody, particularly when Henry came home 
 of an evening, tired and morose, but yet suffi- 
 ciently aggressive to be contemptuous. Day by 
 day, all that week, Woolford had grown steadily 
 more irritable. Marcia occasionally saw him 
 at meals, but he was always sullen, gruff, and 
 taciturn, proof against her brave and appre- 
 hensive attempts to converse with him. 
 
 Marcia came to the door while Drake was 
 shaking the snow from his shoulders.
 
 150 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " I saw you coming," she said, greeting him. 
 " Hurry in ! You'll freeze ! " 
 
 " It isn't that bad ; but it's going to be cold," 
 he answered, lightly. " This is not a blizzard, 
 but it's one of a blizzard's brood, out for a 
 gambol." 
 
 Drake, going over to the window seat, where 
 she had been sitting, picked up a small volume 
 bound in wine-coloured leather. 
 
 " Omar ! Isn't this a trying kind of a day 
 for Omar? Red roses and grey days don't go 
 well together, Marcia." 
 
 " But I couldn't think of anything else I 
 wanted to read," she explained. " And even 
 Omar doesn't help me to-day. There isn't a 
 word of encouragement not a word of hope 
 in all he says." 
 
 " Hope ! Perhaps not ; yet he speaks the 
 truth. The lives of ninety-nine persons out of 
 every hundred teach a more melancholy lesson 
 than you find in the Rubaiyat, or in any other 
 book, for that matter." 
 
 " But, at any rate," declared Marcia, " Omar 
 was resigned to the inevitable, and had quit 
 worrying about it." 
 
 " Yes," assented Drake. " And only now 
 and then, among the millions will you find a 
 man who has found out what fun it is to
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 151 
 
 laugh at misfortune and death as Stevenson 
 laughed." 
 
 " How many people are resigned to anything 
 even to happiness ? " asked Marcia. 
 
 "True," he allowed. "They are like flies, 
 so busy struggling to get out of the pot that 
 they never stop to ascertain whether it's filled 
 with molasses or with vinegar." 
 
 " There are just two quatrains that do not 
 make me feel the worse for reading them," 
 Marcia went on, a little later. 
 
 " I can guess them." 
 
 " Try." 
 
 " ' With me along the Strip of Herbage 
 Strown'?" 
 
 " Yes, that is one," interrupted Marcia ; " the 
 other is the one you would not let me finish quot- 
 ing, that day when we peeped into the deserted 
 house." 
 
 Drake leaned forward and looked signifi- 
 cantly into her eyes. Marcia bowed her head 
 and was silent. Then he continued : 
 
 " Omar always responds to me. He has 
 a mood for every mood of mine sad or 
 gay; studious or indifferent. He has a bully 
 way of telling you that everything the 
 world calls good does not really amount to 
 beans."
 
 152 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " Ah ! But does he offer you anything in its 
 place ? " persisted Marcia. 
 
 " No, unless it be courage to realise that there 
 is no absolute happiness." 
 
 " But there is, Allan, somewhere. I know 
 there is." 
 
 Marcia leaned her chin on her hand and 
 looked out into the storm. The naked little 
 limbs of a shrub, punished by the wind, clawed 
 at the window-pane, scrawling its story on the 
 sheet of clinging snow. Drake watched it, then 
 he went and stood by her chair, and dared 
 to fondle a lock of her hair that played 
 truant upon her forehead. Marcia sat quite 
 still. 
 
 " You're in a solemn mood again to-day, 
 Marcia," he began. " Something is troubling 
 you. Can't you tell me about it ? " 
 
 " There is nothing to tell," she responded, 
 continuing to stare out of the window. " I'm 
 afraid something is going to happen to Henry," 
 she ventured to say. 
 
 " You only imagine that," protested Drake. 
 
 " No, no ! He is upstairs in his study now. 
 Since yesterday he has not left the case he is 
 working on. I've carried all his meals to his 
 room. He will not touch a thing but bread and 
 coffee. He worked at his desk all night, except
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 153 
 
 a couple of hours just before daylight, when he 
 walked the floor. He " 
 
 " And you lay awake and worried ! " Drake 
 cried, indignantly. 
 
 " I couldn't sleep, Allan, indeed I couldn't." 
 
 " Can't you induce him to go away for a 
 long rest? " suggested Drake. 
 
 " He says he will. It's all planned for him 
 for us to go. But he keeps putting it off." 
 
 " But you can influence him to do anything." 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 " I always could till now," she said. " He 
 will not listen to me. Lately when I have 
 talked to him, I have suddenly discovered that he 
 was thinking of something else, and not hear- 
 ing a word I said. And several times he has 
 been impatient with me, and and that almost 
 breaks my heart." 
 
 She was crying softly now, hiding her face in 
 her hands. Drake was silent, the strange anger 
 in his heart storming up to his lips ; but he re- 
 strained himself and tried to coax her back to 
 peace. 
 
 " He thinks a great deal of you, Marcia, you 
 know that." 
 
 " I know he does ; but " 
 
 She raised her head, parted her lips to speak, 
 but they quivered, and Drake saw the tears dry-
 
 154 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 ing on her cheeks. At last she lifted her hands 
 and clasped one of his in both her own. 
 
 " There are things I cannot tell you, Allan," 
 
 she said, piteously. " But " She stopped 
 
 suddenly, and whispered quickly : " Hush ! 
 Here he comes ! " 
 
 Woolford's steps were heard rapidly descend- 
 ing the stairs. He came hurriedly into the 
 room. 
 
 " I cannot find that treatise ! " he exclaimed, 
 irritably ; and noticing Drake, shook hands with 
 him, saying absently, without any leading up 
 to the subject, evidently what was on his 
 mind : 
 
 " Oh, these lawyers are nothing but scho"bl- 
 boys ! They know law that's all they do know. 
 Law is a small part of a successful lawyer's 
 equipment. Men ! Men ! Men ! Why don't 
 they study men ! What do they know of men ? 
 Of me? " He laughed bitterly, and departed 
 as quickly as he had come, forgetting all about 
 the missing book. 
 
 Drake was shocked ; but determined not to 
 show his feelings before Marcia, and abruptly 
 changed the subject. 
 
 The afternoon had spent itself, and the night 
 was near. After one of the long silences that 
 often sweeten companionship, Marcia leaped to
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 155 
 
 her feet, and swept her hand bewilderingly 
 across her eyes. 
 
 " I suppose it is foolish of me," she remarked, 
 with a slight tremor in her voice. " Here I've 
 spoilt our afternoon. It's Mollie's day out. I'm 
 going to cook you something nice to eat, and 
 then, sir, you're going to talk to me. ' And 
 don't you go till I come,' " she quoted. 
 
 " 'And don't you make any noise,' " he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 With that she tripped toward the kitchen, 
 smiling back at him as she went. Drake stood 
 staring after her, half amazed, and wholly cap- 
 tivated by this swift transition. What a plucky 
 little woman. The weaker sex ! Weak, perhaps, 
 where man is obviously strong; but how brave 
 and ready to set a shining face against the 
 world, to dissemble sorrow, to rise above defeat, 
 to conceal humiliation, to smile while her heart 
 is breaking ! Drake thought Marcia's fears for 
 Henry were exaggerated, but he knew they were 
 genuine ; and to see her dash them away with her 
 tears, and in a minute to be her cheeriest self 
 again, filled him with admiration. 
 
 A few minutes later Marcia stood in the door- 
 way, lifting the draperies above her head. Her 
 face was aglow, and her hair seemed to have 
 stolen all the richest lights from the fire she had
 
 156 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 been bending over. She wore one of Mollie's 
 white aprons, and made a radiant picture 
 against the dark background of the hallway. 
 
 " Come, and let me see if I have driven your 
 appetite away. It's just a snack I've got for 
 you, as Mollie says, but don't you dare to com- 
 plain ! " 
 
 In the shadows of the hall, while he followed 
 her merry leading, Drake came to a sudden 
 resolution. He would tell her, that very 
 evening tell her how much he loved her. 
 
 After tea, and while Marcia arranged things 
 in the dining-room, so they would not shock 
 Mollie's well-regulated sensibilities, Drake re- 
 turned to the library, under orders, and heaped 
 the grate fire with pinon. 
 
 " Make it bright ! " commanded Marcia ; and 
 he succeeded so well that, by the time she came 
 in, the room was yellow with the light, and fra- 
 grant as a forest of pines. 
 
 " Let's not have any other light, just yet," 
 Drake suggested. " Let's sit by the fire 
 and talk; or, play something for me, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Marcia, joyously. "This 
 will be a night in a lifetime. We'll try to for- 
 get everybody except ourselves, for a little 
 while." *
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 157 
 
 Drake drew forward a large chair before the 
 fire for himself, as she took a seat before the pi- 
 ano. Her fingers wandered over the keys, softly, 
 slowly, then louder, and more quickly as if in 
 unison with her varying thoughts. Drake listen- 
 ing, as in a dream, thought he had never before 
 heard her play with so much feeling. Finally, 
 all his finer nature was aroused, when in a dul- 
 cet, contralto voice, she sang Nevin's " When 
 the Land was White with Moonlight." 
 
 When the notes had died away, he rose and of- 
 fered her the chair he was occupying; but she 
 playfully declined it and made him keep it for 
 himself. Then laughing, she plumped down on 
 a hassock, and leaning forward gazed into the 
 fire. 
 
 " We're closer now than we have ever been, 
 Marcia," Drake intimated, softly. 
 
 " Yes, you are having your own way for 
 once," she admitted, smiling up into his face. 
 " Now tell me something something about 
 yourself." 
 
 " Past, present, or future? " he asked, half 
 seriously. 
 
 " All anything everything," demanded 
 Marcia, all attention. 
 
 " Well, to begin with," Drake replied, slowly, 
 " there is nothing in the past that would be in-
 
 158 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 teresting to you." When he spoke again, after 
 a short silence, there was a wistful look in his 
 eyes. " I used to build air castles. I wanted 
 to be rich, and powerful; but the years have 
 taught me things. I still have ambitions, but I 
 am not deceived, and can forget them, if need 
 be. All are futile and unworthy, unless they 
 can bring one happiness. And, Marcia, I have 
 my notions of happiness." 
 
 Silence fell upon them again. 
 
 The wind was up, charging with sullen, surly 
 menace in its tones. As Drake and Marcia lis- 
 tened, there came a sound of distant-seeming 
 footsteps, tramping back and forth upon the 
 floor. Marcia heard it, and raised her head 
 to listen. Drake did not notice the sound, or 
 see the shadow that crossed her averted face. 
 He leaned forward and put one arm around her 
 shoulders with a gentle pressure. She turned 
 and looked into his face, frankly, fondly, 
 unabashed. In that long look into each 
 other's eyes, their souls met, mingled, under- 
 stood. 
 
 " Sweetheart," he declared, tenderly ; and the 
 word the first endearing one he had yet spoken 
 to her sent a thrill through every nerve of the 
 girl, " you have taught me a new life a new 
 hope. I'm willing to let the world have all the
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 159 
 
 other things it calls precious. I have discovered 
 how to be happy. I want you, Marcia. Don't 
 you think we could be happy together ? " 
 
 Marcia had gazed at him, mute and trans- 
 fixed, while he spoke these last words. Suddenly 
 there came upon her face an expression of fear 
 and pain, so pitiable that he felt his heart check 
 as if it were about to stop its beating. She 
 reached out her hands towards him, and a ris- 
 ing sob shook her. When Allan clasped her in 
 his arms, she did not resist; but nestled there; 
 and wept. 
 
 After a time, she listened to his pleading. 
 
 " Oh, Allan ! You do not know ! " she cried. 
 " You do not know ! It cannot be no, no, 
 Allan, I can't ! " 
 
 Drake, amazed, looked down at her distracted 
 countenance. 
 
 " I thought don't you love me ? " he man- 
 aged to say. 
 
 " How can you ask me that ? " she replied, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 " Then why not ? I want you, Marcia." 
 
 " Allan, if you care for me, do not ask me why." 
 She struggled out of his embrace and got upon 
 her feet. " No, no ! Don't ask me why ! " she re- 
 peated, the frightened look again in her eyes. 
 " Go, Allan ! Please go, before I Can't you
 
 160 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 see how I am suffering ? Go ! If you love me, 
 go!" 
 
 " But Marcia ! " Drake pleaded. " You are 
 not driving me away for ever ! " 
 
 " No ! You may come to see me some time 
 yes, yes, you must but don't punish me any 
 more now Allan dear ! " 
 
 For an instant longer, they stood apart, gaz- 
 ing at each other. Then, with a cry, Marcia 
 threw herself into his arms. 
 
 " I love you, Allan ! I love you ! " 
 
 For one sweet, brief minute, she clung to him ; 
 then bravely, almost imperiously she drew away 
 again, stood erect, her eyes shining, and reach- 
 ing out her hand, led him unresisting to the 
 door. He passed out without a word. 
 
 Drake did not see the door flung open again, 
 or Marcia come out, gaze at his retreating 
 figure, stretch her hands toward him, and cry 
 out : " Allan ! Henry ! God help me ! " Then 
 returning to the deserted library, she fell on her 
 knees, buried her head in the armchair before 
 the ashes of the fire, and sobbed herself to sleep. 
 
 All that night the restless footsteps beat in- 
 cessantly upon the floor of Henry Woolford's 
 chamber.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, 
 When our deep plots do pall. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE Patriarch Murphy was impatiently wait- 
 ing in the Quarter, walking nervously to and fro 
 in front of a restaurant where " Open all 
 Night " is a sign superfluous ; where business 
 languishes by day; and where the first sputter 
 of the electric lamps is the signal for the real 
 awakening. For the activities of the Quarter 
 are nocturnal, chiefly because the habits and the 
 prejudices of the contributing outside world 
 have made them so. 
 
 It had been one of Murphy's lazy afternoons. 
 A ten-dollar bill rolled up in a little ball, in the 
 left-hand pocket of his trousers, was all that 
 remained of his preceding week's salary ; and 
 all that day, whenever his hand had sought 
 his pocket, and touched it, he had been moved 
 to make just one more experiment with his fa- 
 vourite roulette system. Finally he yielded and 
 walked out of the office with the purpose to play 
 five dollars of the money, and if he lost, to play 
 161
 
 162 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 no more. At the first corner, he stopped and de- 
 bated with his doubts. 
 
 " I know as sure as fate that if I begin, I'll 
 not quit till the whole ten is gone," he mused to 
 himself. 
 
 He wavered; but the clicking of the ball on 
 the roulette wheel was in his ears, and beckoned 
 him on. " It's about my time to win," he went 
 on, " and " 
 
 Thus Murphy permitted himself to be an 
 arena of these combating impulses ; but all the 
 while he was walking more and more rapidly in 
 the direction of Therdier's. 
 
 He entered. At nearly every table men were 
 playing, but there chanced to be no players 
 around Murphy's favourite wheel. A white- 
 haired old Frenchman, who had been sitting idly 
 before Murphy's entrance, now stood, and set 
 the ball to rolling. 
 
 "Hello, Pete!" cried Murphy. He had 
 known old Pete for a long time, and always 
 chose his table, when he came to Therdier's to 
 play. 
 
 Pete nodded, and did not speak. 
 
 Murphy played with great care, according to 
 the system he had devised. It was not long be- 
 fore all the chips were gone. He stood silently 
 watching the little marble spinning enticingly,
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 163 
 
 dropping persuasively into the numbered com- 
 partments of the wheel, holding possibilities of 
 good luck in every stop it made. 
 
 He again thrust his hand into his pocket, held 
 it there for a minute, and then, with reckless 
 disregard of all his vows, tossed the remainder 
 of his money upon the table. With an impas- 
 sive face, Pete counted out the chips, and once 
 more spun the white ball. It rolled rolled ; lost 
 its impetus; dropped upon the edges of the 
 pockets ; rattled over several of them ; bounded 
 into one and out again ; and finally settled with 
 a sharp click. Murphy remained still, in a sub- 
 missive, disappointed silence. 
 
 " I'd give it up, young man," said Pete, with 
 averted eyes and in a low tone. 
 
 Murphy looked up at him, and laughed. 
 
 " Oh, I've been just a bit unlucky lately," he 
 contended. " My turn '11 come." 
 
 " That's what I thought when I was a young 
 fellow like you." Pete spoke in subdued, re- 
 morseful tone. " And I didn't stop. I lost 
 everything. Business, wife, all, for that. You 
 see what I am now ! My hair is white before its 
 time I haven't a friend on earth." 
 
 He twirled the ball twice without speaking. 
 It was not an invitation to Murphy simply 
 habit, and a reminder to others that the game
 
 164 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 was still open. Presently he looked up. There 
 was no one near them. He glanced swiftly 
 around the room, and then leaned over, as if to 
 pick up something from the table. 
 
 " Would it help you very much if you could 
 get on the trail of the strangler? " Pete asked, 
 with some concern in the question. 
 
 Murphy bent forward to look steadily into 
 the unflinching eyes. " Help me ! " he repeated. 
 " Great Caesar, man, it would make me ! Why, 
 Pete, I'd " 
 
 " Sh ! Not so loud ! " cautioned Pete, mak- 
 ing a sudden great ado of whirling the ball. 
 Murphy, though burning with eagerness, re- 
 strained himself. The gambler reflected a few 
 moments, and then very quietly said : " Come 
 around here later to-night. I'll be through 
 with my table then. Meet me outside we'll go 
 some place, and I'll give you the particulars." 
 
 Murphy leaped to his feet, overturning a 
 chair in his eagerness. The ball rolled again 
 with its monotonous whirr, as he hurriedly left 
 the house. 
 
 " To find the strangler ! " he muttered, and 
 grew more and more excited. In swift review, 
 there flitted through his mind all the incidents 
 of that night a year ago, when the city editor, 
 at his suggestion, had given the case to Drake.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 165 
 
 He had not succeeded either. Drake was a good 
 fellow he liked him better than any one else. 
 They had been friends from the start ; and many 
 good turns of his were not forgotten. Neverthe- 
 less, he longed to vindicate himself to make 
 good with his paper. 
 
 The restaurant where Murphy and old Pete 
 met a little later, was up to the requirements of 
 the Quarter, and no more. Daylight never 
 could have found its way through the dirty 
 windows, and gaslight, accustomed as it is to 
 suffocating air and noisome odours, was almost 
 strangled there ; but struggled on in dim dis- 
 couragement. The room was small and unven- 
 tilated, with a black haze hanging to the ceiling 
 and the smell of the kitchen paramount. 
 
 " Now, Pete; tell me who he is? " asked Mur- 
 phy, unable to check his impatience. 
 
 The gambler ordered something to drink, be- 
 fore replying; even waited for them to be 
 served. 
 
 " Look here, Murphy ; go slow. I asked you 
 if it would help you if I gave you some inside 
 information. Didn't say I could." 
 
 Murphy's eyes glistened with anger. He 
 spoke in a harsh voice. " What's this you're 
 telling me ? I thought you ' 
 
 The gambler raised his hand warningly and
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 glanced in alarm around the room. " Not so 
 loud ! " he murmured. 
 
 Murphy regained his composure. He per- 
 ceived that the man knew something, and he 
 must let him tell it his own way. Pete again 
 called the waiter, ordered more to drink and 
 something to eat; then, he leaned crouchingly 
 across the table, and indicated with a slight 
 movement of the hand the house across the 
 street. 
 
 Murphy instinctively followed the man's mo- 
 tion, and glanced at the gambling-house. 
 
 " There's trouble over there," Pete whispered. 
 
 Murphy started. "At Therdier's? What 
 the devil is up there ? " 
 
 The old gambler was thoroughly enjoying 
 the situation. His secret gave him an impor- 
 tance that he had not felt for years. He smiled 
 at the earnestness in the other's face, as he 
 asked : 
 
 " You don't mean Jacques and Richard are 
 at odds'again ? " 
 
 Pete shrugged his shoulders. " Yes ; and 
 they are all jumping on Richard, and " 
 
 "But he has been acquitted," interrupted 
 Murphy. 
 
 " All the same, a lot of them believe that he 
 did it," he maintained; and then with a more
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 167 
 
 knowing air said : " It cost Jacques a pile of 
 money. And there has never been much love 
 wasted between them. Richard has been hint- 
 ing some ugly things." 
 
 " Go on, man ; hinting at what ? " Murphy's 
 patience was fast getting exhausted. 
 
 " Well, last night," Pete went on slowly, not 
 in the least hurried by the anxiety of his ques- 
 tioner, " Richard came into the club. He was 
 drunk and inclined to be quarrelsome; and as 
 was his wont, blustering and bragging about 
 what he was going to do. Presently Jacques 
 arrived, and fastened those steely eyes of his on 
 his brother. On perceiving his condition, he 
 very quietly ordered him to leave. Richard re- 
 fused ; angry words followed ; all play at the 
 tables ceased. Both men always go armed, 
 and it looked like trouble. Jacques said some- 
 thing in a low tone; but it was impossible to 
 hear what it was. Richard was instantly cowed 
 and slunk away like a whipped cur. I, alone, 
 distinctly heard his parting words : 
 
 " ' If you want to know who the man is, ask 
 Elise.' " 
 
 " Elise ! " Murphy stared in perplexity. 
 
 " Jacques turned pale," Pete continued ; " and 
 never answered a word. There were none but 
 Americans playing, and the croupiers were not
 
 168 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 close enough to hear. The incident was soon 
 forgotten. It was a big night, and Jacques was 
 very busy. He did not get away to go upstairs 
 till very late; then there was an awful scene in 
 their apartments, and " 
 
 " How did you know that ? " 
 
 ** It leaked out through the woman, Christine 
 Elise' s maid. She told her husband; he told 
 me." He paused and looked around apprehen- 
 sively, and then hurried on to say, " Jacques in- 
 formed Elise what Richard had said, and in- 
 sisted on knowing whom he meant. She denied 
 everything accused Richard of always having 
 been her enemy, and went so far as to say that 
 she believed he would have charged her with hav- 
 ing killed his wife, were it not for the other mur- 
 ders. Jacques could find out nothing. Elise 
 was immovable, and at last he left the room in a 
 rage." 
 
 " Does this Christine know who the man is ? " 
 Murphy asked, in an unguarded tone, that 
 caused Pete again to caution him. 
 
 " I think not. She says Elise has been acting 
 strangely, of late ; is overwrought, nervous, ex- 
 citable, sees more people than formerly, and 
 hates to be alone." 
 
 Pete told all this with a positiveness that 
 convinced the listener of the man's sincerity.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 169 
 
 Whether or not they were illusions, at least he 
 had given a clue. For another half-hour Mur- 
 phy plied him with questions ; but was unable to 
 elicit anything of importance. 
 
 " Now that's all I know ! " the old gambler 
 concluded, in a tone of finality. " I saw you were 
 in hard luck, and wanted to do you a good turn. 
 But you'd better go slow before you do any- 
 thing. You must not use my name. I'd lose 
 my job, if nothing worse happened. You'll 
 promise that, won't you? " 
 
 " Oh, I'll keep you out of it, all right," Mur- 
 phy promised, readily enough, for the informa- 
 tion was a distinct disappointment. Once more 
 he had been over-confident. 
 
 He rose from his seat at the table, where his 
 supper remained untasted, heartily thanked 
 Pete, and left. The restaurant by this time 
 was thronged with people, all clamouring to be 
 waited on, and Murphy was forced to push his 
 way through the crowd. He walked the distance 
 of a block, crossed to the other side of the 
 street, and hastened to Therdier's. 
 
 The servant was some time in bringing an 
 answer from Elise ; and Murphy was wondering 
 how he should approach her. He realised per- 
 fectly that he was dealing with a clever woman 
 one skilled in all the artifices of her sex. How
 
 170 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 could he force her to reveal matters necessarily 
 of such vital interest to her to conceal? No 
 plan, or clever stratagem, suggested itself. All 
 must be left to chance. 
 
 At a glance he noticed, on being ushered into 
 her presence, that she was not looking well ; that 
 she was pale; that her eyes had a questioning, 
 disturbed look. 
 
 Elise welcomed him cordially, and with some- 
 thing of her former gaiety of manner; yet, to 
 the observant man, it seemed forced. 
 
 Murphy was straightforward, almost blunt. 
 His very embarrassment at the undertaking led 
 him to plunge at once into the business that 
 brought him there. He began by saying that 
 he had heard that there had been words between 
 the brothers. Elise listened disinterestedly, 
 though Murphy, watching her, detected a sud- 
 den revengeful glint come in her eyes at the 
 mention of Richard. He continued his story 
 without disclosing the name of his informant, 
 and was about to repeat Richard's reply to 
 Jacques, on being ordered to leave the club, when 
 Elise cut him short. She had been pondering, 
 her eyes on the ground, and as she straightened 
 herself in her chair, she asked, haughtily: 
 
 " Monsieur Murphy, what did you come here 
 for? "
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 171 
 
 The direct question disconcerted him. He 
 hesitated, attempted to answer ; but she did not 
 give him the time. 
 
 " Bah ! I am surprised at your listening to 
 an old gambler's yarn. Peu importe! " she ex- 
 claimed, indignantly. " No, no ! " she took the 
 words from his lips ; " do not deny it. I know 
 who told you these things." 
 
 For the moment, Murphy's heart seemed to be 
 making explorations at the bottom of his shoes. 
 His hopes for a successful interview were vanish- 
 ing further and further away ; but defeat made 
 him all the more eager. He would try again, on 
 another tack appeal to her generosity. 
 
 " I say, Mam'selle Elise, can't you give me 
 a lift some little bit of news ? " 
 
 Elise regarded him mockingly. " About 
 what? About the man who comes to see me? " 
 She shrugged her shoulder and laughed cyni- 
 cally. " Mon cher Murphy, there are too 
 many." After a moment, a slight frown 
 crossed her face, then she went on : " Perhaps 
 Christine meant your friend Monsieur Drake. 
 He often used to come here. By the way, 
 where is he now ? " 
 
 She gazed into vacancy, and so seemingly un- 
 conscious was she of having asked a question 
 that Murphy did not at once reply, but took the
 
 172 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 occasion to collect his scattered thoughts and 
 prepare his campaign. Like a flash, it occurred 
 to him that she was infatuated with Drake. 
 His own visions of glory fled ; and loyally, he 
 turned to his friend. Drake ! Could it be pos- 
 sible that he was interested in her? Then he 
 thought of Pete, and that Drake, in all prob- 
 ability, was the man the old gambler referred 
 to. The idea was too much for the fun-loving 
 Patriarch, and he burst with muffled laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Elise was now watching him, and an angry 
 flush spread over her face. 
 
 " You seem mirthful," she said, irritably. 
 
 Murphy checked his laughter. " Pardon me, 
 Mam'selle Elise," he choked forth. " You asked 
 me about Drake? I haven't seen him lately. I 
 think he's in love." 
 
 Murphy's cleverness had returned, and was 
 about to be tested. Should he tell her of Drake's 
 devotion to Miss Woolford and rely on her 
 j ealousy ; or, rather flatter her vanity ? He 
 anxiously awaited her next question. It was 
 soon forthcoming. 
 
 " Who is she? " she inquired, confusedly, but 
 offhand. 
 
 Murphy thought there was a shade of pas- 
 sion in the words. It decided for him.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 173 
 
 " Marcia Woolford." 
 
 She was unable to conceal her agitation ; and 
 flushed and paled in quick succession. 
 
 " Grand Dieu! " she cried, starting to her 
 feet. " Henry Woolford's sister ! " Then she 
 burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 
 
 Murphy was alarmed; and for a moment 
 thought that the woman had lost her senses. 
 Gradually, she calmed down ; but not before the 
 hysteria had turned to tears ; then exhausted, 
 she sank back with studied negligence among 
 the cushions, regarded him fixedly, and said : 
 
 " You must excuse me, mon ami, I have been 
 upset lately. I was angry when you came." 
 Then she arose, walked over to him and placed 
 her hand on his arm. " You must go now." She 
 spoke with nervous haste. " But first, I want 
 to ask you to do me a favour." She dropped 
 her eyelids expressively, and then glanced up 
 again. " Will you ? " 
 
 " Certainly," Murphy answered, looking 
 down very tenderly into her upturned face. 
 " Name it." Afterwards, he realised how com- 
 pletely he had been under the charm of her fas- 
 cination. Though he could not have refused 
 her anything, intuitively he anticipated that she 
 was going to ask that which he was most anxious 
 to grant.
 
 174 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 A tear, that she could not prevent, glimmered 
 in the corner of her eye, when at last she ven- 
 tured, very low : 
 
 " Tell Monsieur Drake that I wish to see 
 him."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 And over all there hung a shadow and a fear; 
 
 A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 
 And seemed to say, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
 
 " The house is haunted." 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 IT was late when Drake reached home after his 
 evening with Marcia. All the hours of the night 
 he toiled futilely up the hills of dream, and 
 tumbled back upon the hard levels of wakeful- 
 ness. At last, near daybreak, he fell into a 
 heavy sleep, and when, toward noon, he was 
 aroused from this, it was to feel a vague and 
 ominous expectancy, as if he were awaiting a 
 blow and found himself surprised that it did not 
 come. He lay still, and for a few seconds waited, 
 slowly wakening; then there came storming a 
 troop of recollections of all the night's events, 
 knocking at his reason's gates. With little re- 
 sistance, he let the whole mob in, to trample and 
 subdue him. When they had hurt him till he 
 would cringe no more (for even keenest weapons 
 of regret and retrospection dull with use), they 
 vanished, one by one, till there were but two 
 two captain memories: one, of sweet and gentle 
 175
 
 176 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 aspect; the other, truculent and menacing, 
 strange allies in the siege. 
 
 Marcia had said she loved him. As with the 
 freshness of a summer morning, the thought 
 invigorated and solaced him ; the other, staying 
 recollection would not so shape itself to his con- 
 tent. At intervals it intimidated him. Finally, 
 he knew it could be repulsed no longer. It must 
 be faced and dealt with. 
 
 Marcia had refused to marry him; had de- 
 clined to give any reason ; had begged, if he 
 loved her, to leave her with her sorrow. The 
 cause of her refusal was not wholly a mystery 
 to him, for the short time Woolford had been 
 in the room last evening had confirmed his im- 
 pression that the man was utterly unstrung, 
 overworked if nothing more. Perhaps it was 
 the fear of its being something worse that was 
 troubling Marcia. Insane ! What ? He shrank. 
 The word had a gruesome sound. Henry insane 
 mad ? There was a possibility of it. No won- 
 der she had refused him. A certain dull, appall- 
 ing horror of what it meant to her to them 
 grew upon him. In despair, he sank back among 
 the pillows, and moaned. 
 
 For a long time he lay there with his hands 
 pressed to his face. Gradually hope asserted 
 itself. Something must be done; Woolford
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 177 
 
 might come out all right. Marcia loved him ! 
 Ah, there was such sweetness in that. It gave 
 him strength; his doubts and fears vanished. 
 Presently his mother knocked at the door, to 
 tell him it was time to get up. He leaped from 
 the bed, dressed, trying all the while to form 
 some plan of action. 
 
 From his home he went direct to Dr. Ham- 
 mond, to whom he related the events of the pre- 
 vious night: his love for Marcia Woolford's 
 actions all. 
 
 The old doctor listened in silence, his white 
 head bowed in thought. His brows were firmly 
 knit, and there came a worried expression over 
 his features. 
 
 " Allan, my dear boy, I am very glad you 
 came to me," he said, very quietly. " I have 
 studied Woolford's case, and have tried to help 
 him. In the first place, when he was in college, 
 he had an amazing capacity for study, devel- 
 oped an exceptional memory, and had the most 
 evenly balanced mind I ever knew. I was cer- 
 tain that some day he would astonish the world, 
 for with all his gifts he had a cheerful, opti- 
 mistic disposition. Well, he was attacked by 
 meningitis, and came out of the fever after I 
 had given up all hope of his recovery ; but, from 
 that time he has always had a tendency to mel-
 
 178 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 ancholia. His mind, by a strange process, 
 seemed to have concentrated all its powers into 
 one function, and that is: the ability to pene- 
 trate the veils of speech, the manners that men 
 wear, and to read their inmost thought, motives, 
 and character. From the very ideal of broad 
 and mighty intelligence he was transformed into 
 the incarnation, I may say, of logic and analy- 
 sis, as applied particularly to the study of the 
 abnormal and the criminal in man. As a crimi- 
 nal lawyer, you know what he has done, and 
 will readily understand what I mean. He con- 
 fined his researches to law, philosophy, and psy- 
 chology. For a time he was so zealous that I 
 feared his mind would give way under the 
 strain ; but his wonderful physique accounts for 
 this endurance. 
 
 " However, I soon noticed one thing : he devel- 
 oped an antipathy to other men a resentment 
 of anything that resembled an attempt to influ- 
 ence him. He refused absolutely to listen to 
 suggestions or advice, even from me, his physi- 
 cian and oldest friend. I think, all this time, 
 he has had a keen and true appreciation of his 
 own condition. I say this, because he has read 
 my entire library in search of professional dis- 
 cussion and treatment of such cases as his 
 own,"
 
 ART THOU THE -MAN ? 179 
 
 The doctor hesitated a moment, and then de- 
 clared, emphatically : 
 
 " I think the fever, followed by his tremen- 
 dous amount of work, has left his mind in a con- 
 dition to breed hallucinations ; but for patho- 
 logical reasons, and from what I know of Henry 
 Woolford, I can assure you with the utmost 
 certainty that, in my mind, he is not insane 
 probably never will be, and, what will please you 
 also, that I have never been able to discover any 
 traces of insanity in his family." 
 
 Drake gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 " But the cure ? " he asked, anxiously. 
 
 " I cannot tell," was the reply ; then he spoke 
 feelingly, and with growing interest. " I want 
 Henry to go away consult the specialists of 
 Paris and Berlin." The doctor paused and 
 shook his head. " My theory may be all wrong. 
 I've had theories smashed before. We're smash- 
 ing several old ones every day. However, I am 
 confident that Henry can be saved. We must 
 save him, if only for Marcia's sake. God bless 
 her ! " 
 
 Both men had risen. The doctor, leading his 
 visitor to the door, stopped and laid his hand 
 on the boy's shoulder, and said: 
 
 " If you win her, my boy, you'll get a 
 treasure."
 
 180 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Drake left the doctor's office and strode 
 along the streets in a far happier frame of 
 mind. The mass of care and anxiety was no 
 longer with him. The doctor had given him re- 
 newed hope. Before he had gone very far he 
 encountered Murphy. The latter, since his in- 
 terview with Elise, had been thinking the matter 
 out and was on the lookout for Drake. It was 
 evident that if Elise would give any informa- 
 tion, it would be to Drake. She undoubtedly 
 was interested in him, and this fact would have 
 to be turned to account. 
 
 " See here, old man," he blurted out. " If 
 you're not in a hurry, I want a few words with 
 you." 
 
 " Fire away," was the instant rejoinder. 
 " I'm deuced glad to see you. Where have you 
 been keeping yourself lately? " 
 
 Murphy related briefly what had happened. 
 His conversation with Pete, his interview with 
 Elise, her evident reticence, denial, and, lastly, 
 his belief that the only thing now was for him 
 to see her at once. 
 
 " All right. But why should she tell 
 me?" 
 
 " Well," Murphy replied, lingering over the 
 word, and then lurching ahead ; " because I 
 think she has taken a fancy to you."
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 181 
 
 " What rot ! " Drake sneered. 
 
 " Yes," Murphy went on, jokingly, " it's 
 strange, I'll admit, but it's a fact. It's a big 
 chance to get at the bottom of this strangling 
 business. You'd better cinch it." And after a 
 few words of good-natured banter, he fled, leav- 
 ing Drake somewhat irresolute and strangely 
 reluctant. 
 
 Absorbed in Marcia and her suffering, Drake 
 could think of nothing else. Somehow, he felt, 
 although it was a matter of business, that to 
 see Elise would not be treating Marcia exactly 
 right ; but he could not afford to allow anything 
 to stand in the way of unravelling this mystery, 
 in which a renewed interest seemed suddenly to 
 have been awakened. Elise undoubtedly knew 
 more than she had ever revealed, and, although 
 he paid little attention to the real purport of 
 Murphy's words with regard to himself, it put 
 an end to hesitation. 
 
 That night found him with Elise. She was 
 clad in a cream-coloured kimona of the softest, 
 clinging Asiatic silk, with little clouds of lace 
 in the flowing sleeves and peeping from the 
 edges on her bosom. A bit of her white neck 
 showed ; her cheeks were red ; the inevitable rose 
 was in her hair, and while her eyes were lan- 
 guorous and still in their violet shadows, they
 
 182 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 revealed night-black depths where warm con- 
 stellations swam and whirled. 
 
 Elise led him direct to her own apartments. 
 These consisted of three rooms on the second 
 floor, running straight back from the front of 
 the house. The double doors between the first 
 and the second rooms were wide open, making 
 them essentially one room, spacious, brilliantly 
 lighted, richly furnished. The walls were fres- 
 coed in buff and pearl, delicate greens and 
 touches of vanishing pink. Here and there were 
 pictures, some in oil and a few old prints. At 
 first the harmony and artistic excellence that 
 prevailed surprised Drake ; but a second later he 
 recalled what Woolford had told him about 
 Jacques Therdier. He was thinking of him 
 when Elise, without a word, led him through the 
 partly open doors into the third room her bou- 
 doir. Drake expected to find opulence there, 
 but was unprepared for the riotous extrava- 
 gance of this room. The decorative abandon of 
 it was not in indisputable taste; but there could 
 be no denial of its effect upon the senses. He 
 felt as if he were suddenly being ushered into a 
 garden of roses, and the daring use of colour 
 gave him an indescribable sensation a feeling 
 of intoxication and irresponsibility. 
 
 The carpet under his feet was deep and yield-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 183 
 
 ing, and its pattern was a conglomerate of 
 fallen petals of the rose. Presently there came 
 to him the recollection of an old-fashioned rose- 
 bush he had once seen the velvet rose, they had 
 called it, because of its singularly dark hue and 
 velvety texture. This carpet looked and felt as 
 if a dozen such rosebushes had, on a summer 
 evening, shed all their curling, dewy blooms 
 upon the floor, and it seemed to Drake that he 
 should tread lightly there, not to crush them. 
 
 The walls were covered with the heaviest silk, 
 also in rose tints. Up to the height of five or 
 six feet, there was a quilted, silken wainscoting, 
 if it might be so called, of the colour of the 
 richest hothouse rose and studded with golden- 
 tufted nails. Above this the silken fabric hung 
 loosely in mounting masses of colour, paling up- 
 ward, tint by tint, till, at the ceiling's marge, 
 the shade was that of the wild rose in early 
 June. In all this drapery there was no evidence 
 of design ; but the silk fell here in negligent 
 folds ; there in sweeping loops ; again in a care- 
 less tangle. The ceiling was covered with a 
 loosely woven web of silk in all the blended tints 
 of rose that the most persistent florist ever got 
 by grafting and interbreeding; and heightened 
 and relieved with interweavings of old gold and 
 palest yellows all brilliant, artificial, and bewil-
 
 184 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 dering. In all the room there was not a sharp 
 angle to be seen, not a spot of hard wall, not a 
 thing that might suggest resistance or inter- 
 rupt a dream. Everything was silken, soft, and 
 voluptuous. Even the lamps that illuminated 
 this fictitious rose garden, save for one, in ornate 
 bronze, upon the dressing-table, were hidden 
 away in the folds of draperies, their radiance 
 softened and subdued. In a corner was a couch 
 upholstered in rose-coloured velvet, with a great 
 quilt in tender yellow thrown over its foot, and 
 fallen upon the floor. 
 
 There was but one picture on the wall a 
 copy in oil of " Bacchante." It was in the orna- 
 mentation of the large dressing-table that, with 
 its full-length mirror, occupied almost half one 
 side of the room, that Elise had let her fancy 
 have unrestricted play. Here, as well as on the 
 rosewood table, were innumerable trinkets and 
 precious bric-a-brac: statuettes in ivory and 
 ebony ; fantastic images in silver and gold ; mini- 
 atures a dozen of them on ivory; golden 
 chains and strings of gems ; tiny sketches in oil 
 and water colours, all heaped and thrown negli- 
 gently about, as if not one of them could amuse 
 Elise for longer than a vagrant minute. On 
 one end of the dressing-table was a lamp in the 
 form of a bronze Mercury; on the other, an
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 185 
 
 ugly Chinese god, exquisitely done in old ivory 
 and gold, held up a smoking pastille from which 
 the cloying odour fell heavily upon the room, 
 to complete the sensuous enchantment. 
 
 Elise gave him both her hands. He took 
 them, held them a moment and quickly dropped 
 them again ; then found a seat on the couch. 
 Her gaze did not for an instant leave his face. 
 She watched every expression, for she did not 
 underestimate his indifference. As men were 
 drawn to her, so was she attracted to him. It 
 was her turn now ; and in that very thought she 
 found a new, thrilling, revolutionary joy. At 
 last, for the first time in her life, she had met 
 one who seemed to mean something to her, and 
 enchained her; and in the desire to please him 
 she felt emotions heretofore unknown, and mar- 
 shalled all her forces to conquer him. 
 
 " You look used up ? " Very sweetly she said it. 
 
 " But I'm not only tired." Drake answered 
 in a tone close to resentment. 
 
 " May I get you something to drink ? " 
 
 Drake shook his head. 
 
 " Tiens, I have it ! " she said. " I'll make you 
 some Russian tea. I used to drink it in Paris, 
 when I felt bouleversee " and, catching her- 
 self, " out of sorts." And going to fetch the 
 things, she turned and remarked, lightly : " Do
 
 186 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 you know that you have not been to see me in an 
 age? How long it seems since that night, you 
 remember, when we watched the spies of the 
 ' Compagnie.' ' She did not wait for an answer, 
 but flitted out of the room. 
 
 Drake, left alone, allowed his gaze to wander 
 about him. He felt there was too much of 
 everything. Too much silk, too much colour, 
 too much perfume, too much warmth; that it 
 was false, tinged with Oriental extravagance, 
 and unhealthful. And yet, presently, he felt 
 stealing over him an influence singularly sooth- 
 ing, oddly enervating. Then, the rustling of 
 silken garments reached his ears and arrested 
 his revery, as the hiss of a snake among the 
 grasses breaks the lounger's dream. 
 
 " It won't do for me to stay here long," he 
 acknowledged to himself, and walked over to 
 the rosewood table to look at a high-keyed oil 
 that had caught his eye. It was the picture of 
 a smiling, black-haired imp of a girl, in whose 
 dark eyes was the old challenge irresistible. It 
 was so well painted that Drake looked at it long 
 and critically. It was signed, " Therdier " ; 
 and on the back these lines, from Rossetti's 
 "Jenny": * 
 
 " Lazy, laughing, languid Jenny, 
 Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea."
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 187 
 
 He was still studying it when Elise returned 
 with the samovar and accessories and placed 
 them on a small table. 
 
 " Just one of Therdier's. He paints well, 
 n'est-ce pas ? " 
 
 Drake put the picture down and looked long 
 and admiringly at her. As she busied herself 
 at the table he found himself trying to analyse 
 her beauty. No wonder she fired the blood of 
 men ! There was nothing lacking to the eye. 
 The Creator had given to her physical perfec- 
 tion and that ineffable thing called charm. What 
 heights within her power, had she been placed 
 in a different sphere ! But, beautiful as she 
 was, he could remain passive to her fascinations. 
 
 Elise was now pouring the tea. She raised 
 her downcast eyes, and, with a smile which said 
 many things at the same time, broke the silence : 
 
 " I have never met any one quite like you. 
 You are so so sympathique" 
 
 " Indeed ! " he answered, briefly. 
 
 The girl winced a little, then presently laid 
 down her cup, arose and stood before him, her 
 hands clasped behind her, a faint smile on her 
 lips. Something in her eyes told Drake that he 
 was hurting her with his indifference. A slight 
 pang of regret stirred in the man, and uncon- 
 sciously he stretched out his hand. She took a
 
 188 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 step forward, hesitated, and then retraced her 
 steps to the table. Sinking back in her chair, 
 she drew a deep breath. 
 
 " What is it, Mam'selle Elise? " Drake asked, 
 melting somewhat. " Is anything serious 
 troubling you? " 
 
 " No. I was thinking of you," was the sim- 
 ple answer. 
 
 " Well? " 
 
 " I told you a great deal about myself once," 
 she went on, slowly. " I think it was the first 
 time we met." 
 
 Drake did not answer. It was as if he had 
 not heard. 
 
 "Eh, quoi! You have forgotten?" She 
 shrugged her shoulder with annoyance. 
 
 " Elise," he began, " Murphy gave me your 
 message." 
 
 The man's manner had suddenly changed. 
 He was looking at her intently. 
 
 Elise flushed with satisfaction at the more 
 intimate tone. 
 
 " I wish to be your friend," he continued. " I 
 am your friend." 
 
 Elise was staring down at the floor where her 
 white-slippered feet were buried in the rose- 
 leaves. She raised her eyes and met his gaze. 
 For a time she seemed to be debating his mean-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 189 
 
 ing. Should she trust him? She longed to lay 
 her heart bare to him. 
 
 " Isn't there something you wish to tell me ? " 
 he asked, feelingly. 
 
 Slowly, she opened her red lips, and said, 
 with some agitation: 
 
 " There is nothing to tell, except, perhaps, 
 that I am upset over some angry words I had 
 with Jacques about a man, unknown to him, who 
 comes here to see me." 
 
 Drake looked at her searchingly. He was 
 growing excited. Was the crucial moment at 
 hand? Instinct warned him to be prudent. The 
 secret could not be wrenched from her ; it must 
 come voluntarily. 
 
 Whatever the question he may have decided 
 to put to her, it was forestalled by a wave of 
 her hand. 
 
 " You do not know him," she continued, and 
 then added, with bitterness, " Oh, how I hate 
 him!" 
 
 " Then why do you allow him to come here? " 
 was Drake's natural rejoinder. 
 
 " Oh, what difference does it make ! Le jeu 
 ne vaut pas la chandelle," she said, deject- 
 edly. 
 
 " Don't be foolish. You are young and very, 
 very beautiful. Why, most women would con-
 
 190 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 sider themselves extremely fortunate if they 
 possessed half of your beauty." 
 
 Elise was transformed with ecstasy. 
 
 " You think I am beautiful? " she cried, joy- 
 fully, while the lights of vanity and love drove 
 the shadows from her eyes. 
 
 " Yes. How could anybody help seeing 
 it? " 
 
 Elise failed to perceive that Drake's answer 
 was in a tone devoid of any warmth; that he 
 merely stated facts. 
 
 " Look ! " she exclaimed, and quickly stood be- 
 fore him. With swift movements of her hands 
 she loosed her glorious hair and shook it till it 
 fell around her like yards of wonderful silk veil. 
 She unfastened her gown at the throat and 
 untied the heavy cords that bound it around 
 her waist, so that the thin fabric hung loosely, 
 but with the singular fidelity of silk, to her 
 rounded figure. Then she parted her hair away 
 from her face, and her throat and neck were 
 bare, and, looking down at him with radiant 
 eyes, she cried: 
 
 " Look ! Is any woman more beautiful 
 than I? " 
 
 " No," said Drake, quickly, his eyes wide with 
 appreciation of her loveliness. Murphy's words 
 came back to him, and he flushed guiltily. Sud-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 191 
 
 denly, at the recollection of Marcia, he bowed 
 his head and his face burned. 
 
 Elise paused, moved closer to him, and laid 
 one hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Allan ! " Her whisper was scarcely a breath, 
 though there was feeling enough in her tone to 
 melt a heart of ice. 
 
 The man did not lift his eyes or answer. 
 
 Elise's hands fell hopelessly at her side, and 
 there was a fast-growing look of despair on her 
 face as she comprehended her impotence to 
 arouse any responsive chord. 
 
 Drake made a movement to go. 
 
 " Pas encore," she pleaded. Then, in sudden 
 desperation, " I'll tell you everything." 
 
 Drake's head whirled. Conflicting emotions 
 arose within him ; the blood clogged in his heart ; 
 a wave of fright, horror, and awe swept over 
 him and left him cold and inert. The rose room 
 became suddenly blood-red and menacing, as if 
 the strangler himself were there. He was 
 dumb; his instincts slow in reviving. Then he 
 seized her almost brutally by the shoulders. 
 
 "Who is he?" he cried, hoarsely. "Tell 
 me " 
 
 " Not to-night," she protested, feebly. 
 
 Elise paled from the touch of his hands upon 
 her shoulders; paled still more from the thrills
 
 192 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 that ravished her; but she did not move, and 
 soon she did not feel the pain. Drake's touch 
 was stirring her blood to violence; her cheeks 
 blazed ; her eyes were wide. 
 
 The excitement of the moment, the perfume- 
 laden air, the breath of the girl hot upon his 
 cheek threw Drake into a delirium. He looked 
 at her the fairest woman he had ever seen. 
 Looked at her; and his breath came short. 
 
 Elise saw that look; heard the quick breath- 
 ing, and, with a swift motion of rapture, threw 
 her warm, bare arms around his neck. Drake's 
 head fell forward slowly, and he drew her to 
 him. 
 
 At that instant there came to both the in- 
 stinct which gives warning of impending peril; 
 the peculiar consciousness of an unnatural in- 
 fluence; an alien presence, which was immedi- 
 ately verified by the sound of a soft, stealthy, 
 cat-like tread. 
 
 Elise pushed him violently from her, and, 
 pointing, cried : " La! Some one is there ! " and 
 rushed into the next room in time to see the 
 figure of a man disappearing through the door. 
 
 " Who is it? " Drake asked, quickly following 
 her. 
 
 Elise did not answer, but for some moments 
 clung desperately to him, as if determined to
 
 "'LA! SOME ONE is THERE!"
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 193 
 
 prevent any pursuit. Then, as suddenly, he felt 
 her gripping fingers relax their hold and in 
 amazement he saw her stagger back from him 
 and sink exhausted into a chair, covering her 
 face with her hands, as if to shut out from sight 
 seme calamitous and appalling apparition. Un- 
 certain what to do, and himself strangely 
 affected by the contagious apprehension of 
 peril, vaguely sentient of something uncanny in 
 the situation, he tried to elicit some information 
 from her; but Elise would not speak, and, at 
 last realising the futility of his efforts, he sum- 
 moned a servant to her aid and promptly de- 
 parted.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have 
 ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than 
 I have ever known." 
 
 DICKENS. 
 
 IN a gelid cavern of the North, a wind was 
 born. Wrapped in its swaddling-clothes of 
 snow, it drooled among the matron pines, whose 
 sombre lullabies were ineffectual to bring it 
 sleep. The baby cougars cuddled contentedly 
 among the rocks ; the caribou kept to the close- 
 ness of sheltered hollows ; the grizzlies, wallowed 
 and waited patiently for spring ; but the infant 
 wind, ugly, and distempered from its birth, 
 puled peevishly in its cradle, and would not be 
 gently ruled. Like a monster born to complete 
 depravity, it never was really young; but 
 bounded one day from its cradle, and was up 
 and away to vent its spite upon the earth and 
 its inhabitants. The world was -before it : great 
 fields invited it to havoc; cities and hamlets 
 tempted it to ravage them; mountains offered 
 great stepping-stones, where it might leap from 
 peak to peak, and start avalanches to bury 
 clinging camps in ruin : the world was before it 
 194
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 195 
 
 a world that was full of things to feed its 
 fury, to gratify its malice, to satiate the crav- 
 ings of this rabid giant of the North. Oh, to 
 be away across the world ! The hollows and the 
 rocks of home could no longer please it; the 
 songs of the pines were monotonous and galling 
 to this fretful thing ; the playmates in the caves 
 but enraged it with their happiness. So the 
 wind snarled a short farewell to home and kin 
 and country, and was off, like any wild ma- 
 rauder, punitive and keen, with a breath that 
 blasted, and blows that shattered; and a tread 
 that left frozen footprints, measuring league on 
 league. Bellowing a challenge to the universe, 
 and rioting in destruction, it went its way; it 
 bounded from range to range of mountains and 
 tore the forests to pieces ; it stooped into quiet 
 valleys, and smote the frail fabrics of the towns ; 
 it caught a camp of miners in Montana unpre- 
 pared, and left them starving in the snow; it 
 swooped upon the Red Desert of Wyoming, and 
 buried a hundred herds of sheep in whited sepul- 
 chres ; it strode across the plains of the Dakotas, 
 and laughed while the cattle bunched themselves 
 in the shallow ravines, and died. Weary at in- 
 tervals, it whimpered sullenly over fields of thin, 
 grey grass, and mocked the wolf's long howl; 
 and then it rose up again, and shrieked in anger,
 
 196 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 and with frosty hands sowed snow and sleet 
 upon the stricken earth. For days and days it 
 scourged the lands, and charged like a howling 
 dervish across the States ; wiped out boundaries, 
 and levelled landscapes, and spread a pall upon 
 the sun itself. But it became tired at last of 
 evil-doing; and satiated with destruction, and 
 wrapped in melancholy, it bent its heavy steps 
 toward the south, to vent its senile temper upon 
 the bandaged orchards of the Arkansas, and to 
 stir up strife among the zephyrs of the South- 
 land. And in its passage over Colorado, it 
 whined day after day like a savage thing shorn 
 of its strength, impotent in rage. It clawed at 
 the spires of Denver ; it daubed the houses with 
 chimney soot ; it waited at corners to slap the 
 pinched faces of pedestrians ; it filled the town 
 with chill discomfort and discontent. And it 
 was evil from its birth until its end came amid 
 anathemas and pain. 
 
 All day Henry Woolford sat at his study 
 window, looking without seeing, hearing, or 
 heeding anything at all. He did not see the 
 bare trees shivering and cringing beneath the 
 lashing of the storm; he did not see the thin, 
 dry snow heaping up behind the fences and the 
 angles of the houses ; he did not hear the demo-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 197 
 
 niacal grieving of the wind, nor the dolorous 
 creaking of the maples on the lawn; he did not 
 feel the raw coldness in the air ; he did not seem 
 to heed the dejection of the day, or the nervous 
 irritation there was in the hard and arid atmos- 
 phere. The room itself was cold. In the grate 
 were the ashes of last night's fire. Henry had 
 risen early, but had eaten neither breakfast 
 nor midday meal, and had refused to permit 
 the servant to make a fire, or to place the room 
 in order. He sat in his chair all day; and his 
 mood, heavier than the day's, was beyond ame- 
 lioration and beyond increase. All day he 
 scarcely stirred, and to break the utter stillness 
 of the study there was nothing but the occa- 
 sional rattling of the windows, and the sorry 
 scraping of a maple bough across the window- 
 pane. 
 
 For a week past Henry had not once been in 
 his office. His mail had accumulated amazingly 
 and day by day was arranged in heaps by his 
 assistants. Visitors had called again and again ; 
 but in vain. Through his failure to appear in 
 court, two cases, for which long preparation 
 had been made, were continued to another term. 
 He was missed from his accustomed places, but 
 his associates commented only that nothing 
 Woolford ever did or failed to do surprised
 
 198 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 them. When he left the house, that week, it was 
 only to take long walks ; and save for these brief 
 respites, he was shut up in his study with his own 
 sufficient and implacable soul. Marcia, in the 
 few glimpses she had of him that week, had 
 watched him carefully. It relieved, yet dis- 
 turbed her to see that he was so self -controlled 
 and natural. There was no pacing the floor, no 
 outbreak of passion or discontent, no chafing, 
 and no raging at mankind. He was not in one 
 of his dreaded moods ; but in some strange leth- 
 argy or transport that was above and beyond 
 comprehension. The expression of his face was 
 profoundly melancholy, and his demeanour still 
 and grave. The effect of all this upon Marcia 
 was more saddening than anything she had ever 
 felt in the most violent of his moods. Late in 
 the afternoon, she could refrain no longer, but 
 stole softly into Henry's room, and slipped into 
 a chair in a corner far away from him. If he 
 heard her enter, he gave no sign, but sat mo- 
 tionless in his chair with his face toward the 
 window. The wind was failing now, with the 
 coming on of darkness. The sky shut out the 
 sun, as with a roof of slate; and there was no 
 streak or glow to mark its setting. Night came, 
 as if the roof were settling down upon the world, 
 crowding the vapours, thickening the atmos-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 199 
 
 phere, and forcing even the malignant wind to 
 flight. Such twilight is a burden to the cheer- 
 iest souls, and a load too heavy upon one 
 beset. 
 
 The leaden minutes toiled along and brought 
 no change. Henry sat in adamantine stillness, 
 and Marcia did not stir. The wan light crept 
 slowly from the room to join the departing 
 spirits of the day; and the shadows, as if em- 
 boldened by the silence, stole out of the corners, 
 slipped along the walls, and crawled like spies 
 around the furniture. Henry minded neither 
 departing light nor advancing shadows, but sat 
 immovable. In that hour, Marcia realised how 
 little the most loving heart can prevail against 
 sorrow and pain, and understood the impotence 
 of sympathy. She could only fold her hands 
 and wait among the shadows. The shadows ! 
 They crept from behind the bookshelves, and 
 dropped from the hangings, and hung from the 
 edges of the pictures, and trooped from every 
 nook and corner, skulking, grimacing, and ges- 
 turing. They crawled toward Henry, where 
 he sat with his still figure outlined against the 
 square of feeble light ; and they surrounded him, 
 and made him prisoner ; and it appeared to Mar- 
 cia's frightened fancy that they were about to 
 lift him and bear him away. When she checked
 
 200 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 such foolish imagining, she was stricken with a 
 horrible premonition ; for this was like a proph- 
 ecy, this shadow-play the vanishing of the 
 light, and the trooping in of the shadows to en- 
 velop him shadows, shadows, shadows. She 
 could be still no longer. She must speak. 
 
 But Henry was the first to say a word. 
 
 " You are missing your dinner, I think, Mar- 
 cia," he said. He had been conscious of her 
 presence then, all the while. He spoke as natu- 
 rally and as evenly as if they had been talking 
 together all this time. 
 
 " I'm not hungry, brother, but I'll eat if 
 you'll let me bring you something too. We can 
 dine together here." 
 
 Henry did not answer. The servant knocked, 
 and Marcia softly bade her enter and light the 
 lamps. Henry gave no sign that he noticed; 
 but Marcia was strangely relieved when the 
 shadows fled to their hiding-places. The servant 
 noiselessly retired. 
 
 After a brief interval Henry continued, as if 
 their talk had been but interrupted : 
 
 " I want you always to keep the books that 
 are in this room, Marcia. All through my 
 life they have been the very best friends I have 
 had. I love them all. From the time I was a boy 
 in grammar school, one after another, each in
 
 THE TROOPING IN OF SHADOWS TO 
 ENVELOP HIM ."
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 201 
 
 turn has always been close to me. They have 
 been true and patient." 
 
 He had not yet moved from the position he 
 had occupied before the window for many hours ; 
 but now he rose from his chair, and walked 
 across the room to one of the large bookcases 
 which filled all the wall space in the study. His 
 manner presented a singular inconsistency. He 
 was calm to the degree of serenity, steady in 
 his speech, natural and familiar in his atti- 
 tude, as he strode across the floor and stood in 
 front of the bookcase. But beneath all this there 
 was a hint of something that had been quelled, 
 killed, and buried. The grass upon a grave may 
 be as fine and as sweet as that upon the virgin 
 hillside; but it is not the same, and can never 
 be, though the thing beneath shall no more stir 
 nor start nor shiver. So there was a disquiet- 
 ing quality in the serenity that was upon Wool- 
 ford now; and Marcia, though she denied it 
 bravely, knew instinctively that there was a 
 fault, an incompleteness somewhere. She lis- 
 tened eagerly, hopefully, and yet in awe. 
 
 " I've wondered often why some books are 
 favourite books," he said. " Of course, I know 
 why they are, and yet there is a pleasant mys- 
 tery about it all. There are many books here, 
 and many more down in the library great
 
 202 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 books, nearly all of them books of the masters, 
 histories of the great ones, symbols of thoughts 
 that have lived through the ages undenied. And 
 yet they have no equality in our affections. We 
 pass by one with a glance, and seize upon an- 
 other. There are books we like, and books we 
 love; books we honour, and books we cherish; 
 books we admire upon the shelves, and books we 
 thrust beneath our pillow when we go to sleep. 
 Some one has said that we have ancestors of the 
 intellect as well as ancestors of the body, and a 
 lineage of the spirit as clearly marked as a fam- 
 ily tree. Here are my other ancestors here 
 in my favourite books. I've kept them here be- 
 cause I could not bear to have them banished in 
 the library downstairs. They have watched me 
 at my work, they have kept wakeful through the 
 long, long nights, and they have been close when 
 I slept. And they have been tyrants, too, for 
 they have kept me awake of tener than they have 
 talked me to sleep. Pleasant, precious com- 
 rades, these." 
 
 One by one he took them in. his hands, and 
 looked wistfully at them, and caressed them. 
 Many were worn and ragged from much read- 
 ing, and they opened in his hands, as the soul of 
 a man opens to the touch of his friend. Be- 
 tween certain leaves were thrust slips of paper
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 203 
 
 covered with Henry's handwriting; and on the 
 margins were scribbled notes. Here and there, 
 as he saw familiar passages, the light shone in 
 his eyes. There was a Byron that was old enough 
 to have earned respect, and it was almost a 
 wreck; but rich in associations and memories. 
 It opened in his hand at about the middle of 
 the third canto of " Childe Harold." Henry 
 cast his eye upon the page, and read aloud, 
 slowly and without special accent: 
 
 " ' He who ascends to mountain tops shall find 
 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
 Must look down on the hate of those below.' " 
 
 When he had finished reading he stood look- 
 ing at the page for several minutes, but made 
 no comment. Then he closed the book, and 
 turned it over and over, in his hands, and at 
 last gently placed it in its case. Near to the 
 Byron was an old volume of Emerson's essays, 
 in a cover that had once been green, but was 
 now faded and blackened to an indeterminate 
 hue. Henry took this, and fondled it. 
 
 " What a grand old mystic ! " he said. " Lit- 
 tle fellows who have not been able to under- 
 stand him, or to dream with him, have dared 
 to sneer at Emerson; and have subjected his 
 mighty symphonies to the test of their ordinary
 
 204 ART THOU THE MAN 9 
 
 intelligence. We may never expect to under- 
 stand him. The reason we can read him again 
 and again, is that we can read new meanings 
 into his words at every perusal. If there are 
 passages that baffle us, it is not because they 
 are meaningless, but because we have not grown 
 enough to reach him, or because mere words 
 never can express the thoughts he had. With 
 all our refinement of language, there are 
 thoughts that never can be told thoughts that 
 ever must be the sole property of the thinker, 
 and that lie in the grave with him until they 
 come again in the brain of some other chosen 
 one." 
 
 There was more of pity than contempt in his 
 tone that night, for he was not angry with the 
 world, but only sorry for it. 
 
 Henry kept the book in his hand, and walked 
 over to where Marcia sat silent in her chair. 
 He rested the hand that was disengaged gently 
 upon her head. 
 
 " Marcia," he said, " much as you have loved 
 your brother, helped him, studied with him, I'm 
 afraid you have understood him little better 
 than the other people who have known him. I 
 do not care now what the others think ; but I'd 
 like, Marcia, if you would understand if you 
 would know what Henry Woolford thinks of
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 205 
 
 himself. I couldn't tell you before, but I can 
 now. I have always believed in myself till this 
 hour. I thought I was one of the doers in the 
 world. I knew, Marcia, that I could think with 
 them, could live their life of the intellect and 
 the soul. I could look above the levels up- 
 ward, as Ibsen says, ' upward toward the stars, 
 toward the great silence.' I worked hard, 
 Marcia, as you have known these many years 
 worked myself into a fever, and lived, against 
 the fateful dictum of the physicians, to go on 
 with my great purpose. It was a great pur- 
 pose ; and I have come so near to completing it 
 to realising all my aims so near so near 
 that well, Marcia, one tiny cell of this brain 
 has failed to do its work. No machine is proof 
 against an accident; none can be guaranteed 
 to have no fault. Even God's works where 
 do we find them perfect! Perhaps our imper- 
 fections were his great intent. We have seen 
 
 men who wait " He went to the bookcase 
 
 again, and placed the Emerson back upon its 
 shelf. Then he brought forth his Shakespeare, 
 tattered, soiled, and marked with myriad pen- 
 cillings. Opening it, he turned quickly to 
 " Hamlet," and read : 
 
 " ' So, oft it chances in particular men, 
 
 That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
 
 206 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 As, in their birth (wherein they are not guilty 
 Since nature cannot choose his origin), 
 By their o'ergrowth of some complexion, 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ; 
 Or by some habit that too much o'erleavens 
 The form of plausive manners; that these men, 
 Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect; 
 Being nature's livery or fortune's star, 
 Their virtues else (be they as pure as grace, 
 As infinite as man may undergo), 
 Shall in the general censure take corruption 
 From that particular fault.' 
 
 " Well," he went on, " it would have been 
 worth while in a world that is so little worth 
 the while to stand upon the topmost peak, and 
 * look down on the hate of those below.' Peaks 
 are barren, lonely places. Few men could be 
 happy there few who do not want the babble 
 of the street. I think I could amid the light- 
 ning and the vapours and the thunderbolts. 
 Besides, the winning of the peak ! That is the 
 greatest glory. It was mine; I was beginning 
 to feel it, when " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, but broke off 
 abruptly in a manner that betokened an end of 
 things, and held all the pathos of the incom- 
 plete. Tears rolled down Marcia's cheeks, and 
 she wrung her hands. For a little while the 
 silence was unbroken; then Marcia found her 
 voice again.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 207 
 
 " Don't despair, Henry ! " she pleaded. 
 " You have gifts the greatest gifts in the 
 world. You have always won. Don't give up 
 now!" 
 
 Henry shook his head, and did not reply. 
 
 " You've won every fight with the world and 
 with other men," said Marcia. " You are 
 not going to be beaten in this fight with your- 
 self!" 
 
 Henry walked to the window, and looked out 
 into the night. Far across the city and the 
 low hills, the bulging outlines of the mountains 
 were barely visible. Vague blurs of white in the 
 gloom showed where the snow lay on the peaks. 
 As he looked, the grey-black blanket of the 
 clouds was torn by some vagrant wind; and 
 through the rift a pale star shone for a few 
 seconds, and was hid again. Henry saw it 
 come and go; and as if moved to a sudden 
 thought by it, he turned abruptly, and once 
 more stood by the bookcase. With the cer- 
 tainty of familiarity, he placed his hand upon 
 a small volume of the last poems of Tenny- 
 son. He did not look at his sister ; but opened 
 the book at the last page, gazed at it a min- 
 ute or more, and then read deliberately and 
 quietly, as if they were a prayer, these two 
 stanzas :
 
 208 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 " ' Sunset and evening star, 
 
 And one clear call for me; 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 When I put out to sea. 
 
 " ' Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark; 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell, 
 When I embark.'" 
 
 Marcia was sobbing softly, in her shadowed 
 corner of the room.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 O most delicate fiend! 
 
 Who is't can read a woman? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S Cymbeline. 
 
 THE storm was at its height. Drake's brain, as 
 he looked through the windows at the fury of 
 the blast, was filled with the happenings of last 
 night. Who was this unknown visitor who came 
 so stealthily upon them, and disappeared as fur- 
 tively as he had come? What was the appari- 
 tion that had so completely overpowered Elise? 
 Was it possible that he had been in close vicinity 
 of the mysterious murderer? He shuddered in- 
 wardly at the recollection of it. And then 
 Elise. Why had fate intervened at the critical 
 moment and prevented the one person who 
 might, by some look or word, have betrayed, re- 
 vealed, put an end to this unfathomable enigma ? 
 Finally, his thoughts reverted to Marcia, and 
 he was filled with a futile anger when he found 
 himself making comparisons between the woman 
 he loved and Elise. 
 
 Marcia was good, true, lovable, and had such 
 a sunny disposition. He did not want Elise. 
 He did not love her.
 
 210 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 Drake left the office. In the alley doorway 
 he stopped to button his overcoat, for the wind 
 was up in fury. The incandescent lamp, sus- 
 pended there under its hood of tin, blinked like 
 a frightened firefly that had been tricked, like 
 many other summer folk, by autumn's golden 
 promises. The snow was falling rapidly; but 
 even now warm gusts of air combated with the 
 sleety blasts, as if old Autumn, breathing hard, 
 fought on with his face to the wintry foe. 
 
 Drake stepped down into the alley, and, on 
 the first motion, halted in his tracks. He 
 thought some one had called his name. He 
 looked around and peered into the huddling 
 dark; but no form was there that he could see. 
 After an instant's pause, he started on again; 
 but he had gone scarcely half a dozen paces 
 when he felt a touch upon his arm. Turning, he 
 saw, by the dim and troubled light, the figure 
 of a woman at his side slender and thinly, but 
 brilliantly arrayed; her silken skirts clinging* 
 to her shivering legs; her feet clad in crimson 
 slippers that were already soaking wet; her 
 head and shoulders covered by a bright cloak 
 clutched tightly at the throat by a jewelled 
 hand. She let him look at her for a few waver- 
 ing seconds, and then drew back the hood. It 
 was Elise.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 211 
 
 " I wanted to see you," she said, in a low, 
 timid tone. 
 
 "What's the trouble? What brings you 
 down here? " asked Drake. 
 
 She hesitated, ceased looking desperately into 
 his eyes, and quickly dropped her gaze. Her 
 fingers meanwhile fumbled nervously with the 
 folds of the loosened cloak. 
 
 " Well ? " he asked, impatiently. 
 
 She looked up at him again, and even in the 
 faint light of the tossing incandescent, he could 
 see a look of terror in her eyes. 
 
 " I came for you," she said, getting her voice 
 again. " I'm frightened. Come up to the 
 house, come! You'll not refuse me so little a 
 thing, will you? " 
 
 Drake did not respond immediately. 
 
 Elise did not suspect the reason for his silence 
 and she took courage from his hesitation, all the 
 while watching the changes on the man's face. 
 
 " You will? " she asked, more bravely, but 
 with touching reticence, and then, before he had 
 time to reply : " You must ! " And, drawing 
 nearer to him, went on quickly : " Please, you 
 surely don't want me to implore you ? " 
 
 At that juncture there came the sound of 
 hurrying footsteps. He felt Elise's hand steal 
 into his, and he let her draw him into the deeper
 
 212 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 shadow. A minute they stood there, hardly 
 breathing. A man, with head bent low and his 
 feet splashing in the slush, passed them and 
 entered the building. 
 
 " You'll come," said Elise, entreatingly, and 
 pressed his hand warmly. " Elise wants you for 
 a little while. You are not afraid of Elise, are 
 you?" 
 
 Without further discussion Drake suffered 
 himself to be led away mechanically by her side. 
 
 When they emerged from the alley the wind 
 hit them with all its force, and they must bend 
 their bodies to meet it. Elise shivered and drew 
 her cloak closer around her head and shoulders. 
 Without the exchange of a word, they turned 
 down the street and quickened their steps. At 
 the first corner an electric car had just stopped 
 with an impatient clanging of its gong, to pick 
 up a quartette of rounders, and was now hurry- 
 ing suburbward. Its departure left the street 
 to Drake and Elise and a cheerful cabman 
 whistling softly to himself in a doorway. A 
 block further away they turned a corner and 
 were a little sheltered from the wind. Then she 
 straightened up, settled her arm more comfort- 
 ably within the bend of Drake's and looked into 
 his face, which, in the blue light from the arc- 
 lamps, was cold, hard, and unresponsive. Yet
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 213 
 
 Elise felt no cause to be disheartened; he was 
 obeying her. True, she had sought him out; 
 and braved the storm to find him; waited for 
 him, bedraggled, dishevelled, deplumed. 
 
 When a woman does that for a man, let not 
 that man be puffed with vanity or triumph; 
 rather let him be on his guard against the time 
 when he shall pay for that well-remembered hu- 
 miliation. Elise proceeded to complete her own 
 abasement and to prepare for his. 
 
 " I have been expecting to see you all the 
 morning. After last evening," she went on, pet- 
 ulantly, " I thought you would be anxious 
 that you might have inquired." 
 
 Drake answered absently, with a monosyllable. 
 Though seemingly unconscious of her words, all 
 the faculties of his mind were keenly on the 
 alert. The feeling, partaking of disinclination 
 and aversion, that he had experienced the first 
 few moments Elise and he were together, had 
 entirely disappeared and given way to a deter- 
 mination not to leave her until her secret was 
 his. 
 
 When they reached her apartments Elise flung 
 herself just as she was, wet and dripping, on 
 the divan in the room of roses ; and from one of 
 her slippers trickled, unheeded, a discolouring 
 stream upon the robe.
 
 214 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " Won't you sit down ? " she asked, persuas- 
 ively, motioning to the place beside her. 
 
 He obeyed in silence. 
 
 " You didn't want to come," went on Elise, 
 poutingly. 
 
 " Of course I did," he stammered, " but I 
 must be off soon." 
 
 At this a little tremor passed over the girl 
 and left her looking at Drake with a touch of 
 that same terror in her eyes that he had seen 
 before. It disconcerted him, but the next mo- 
 ment it had disappeared, and Elise was speak- 
 ing in a steady tone. 
 
 " Tres bien, if you must ; but first, let me 
 remove these wet things." 
 
 She passed by him and went into an alcove 
 which he had not perceived before, so cleverly 
 was it concealed by draperies. Presently, she 
 emerged as beautifully arrayed as she had been 
 the night before; but, somehow, there was a 
 subtle, indefinable difference in her, in him, in 
 everything. She sat beside him on the couch, 
 looking at him beseechingly. Her evident at- 
 tempts to conceal her distress were futile. She 
 was plainly nervous and unstrung, and almost 
 instantly cast a furtive glance over her shoul- 
 der, as if something threatened her. So irresist- 
 ibly ingenuous did she seem to Drake as he
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 215 
 
 looked at her sitting there that he could hardly 
 suppress a longing to take her in his arms, to 
 comfort her as he would a frightened child. 
 
 " Elise," he began, presently, forcing him- 
 self to be stern, " why did you come for me 
 to-night?" 
 
 The girl took some time to reply, and the 
 man noticed that she shuddered and grew 
 ghastly pale. 
 
 " I have a terrible presentiment that some- 
 thing is going to happen to me to-night. I 
 don't much care; but, somehow, I felt that I 
 must see you." 
 
 "Bosh! What could happen to you?" 
 
 " The man," she said, slowly, " that came 
 here last night " 
 
 Drake started at the words, and interrupted 
 her impatiently : " What about him ? " 
 
 " He came to kill me." She spoke calmly ; 
 but the sound of her words seemed to frighten 
 her, for again she started and glanced nerv- 
 ously around her. 
 
 "A hundred times during the night I awoke 
 in a cold sweat," she went on, hurriedly. " All 
 day I have been terrified, trying to think try- 
 ing to make up my mind what to do wondering 
 if I cared. To-night, some strange influence 
 seemed to hold me, chain me to these rooms. It
 
 216 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 was all I could do to drag myself away to seek 
 you." 
 
 There was a cynical smile on Drake's lips. 
 He remained outwardly incredulous, hoping 
 thus to precipitate an avowal from her. 
 
 " You don't believe me ? " she cried, quiver- 
 ing with excitement. "Ah, quel homme! You 
 don't know him." 
 
 " But why don't you tell me who the man is, 
 if you expect anything of me? " 
 
 " No, no, impossible ! The thought of him, 
 even with you here at my side, makes me cold." 
 
 " Come, now, Elise, it can't be as serious as 
 all that. You are unnerved, overwrought, and 
 exaggerate the thing." 
 
 Elise was silent for a long time; quite 
 abruptly the terror seemed to leave her, though 
 she was grave and serious. Drake, watching 
 the varying expressions on her face, wondered 
 at her kaleidoscopic nature. 
 
 " Allan," she finally said, dropping her voice 
 a note, " are you in love with Marcia Wool- 
 ford? " 
 
 Drake was astonished. While inwardly he 
 felt resentment and irritation at the question, 
 he was fully aware that in the interrogation 
 there was more than idle curiosity. He did not 
 answer.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 217 
 
 " Are you going to marry her? " Elise pur- 
 sued, very gently, with averted face. 
 
 After a long pause, Drake slowly answered: 
 " I want to I hope to." 
 
 Elise shrank away from him, muttering 
 something he could not understand. 
 
 Drake found his voice. " This man," he be- 
 gan, " is a Frenchman has threatened to kill 
 you and because you will not marry him. Is 
 that it? " 
 
 Elise looked up quickly, and nodded sadly. 
 
 " And you do not care for him ? " 
 
 " No," she replied, with a shake of the head. 
 *' I was born to please, so it seems ; but not the 
 one I love." She covered her face at the humili- 
 ation of her confession, and wept bitterly. 
 
 "Don't! Don't! Everything will be all 
 right. Don't feel so badly." The sight of her 
 emotion affected him singularly. He wanted 
 to say some reassuring, comforting word to 
 her; but instead he tenderly placed his arm 
 about her, and taking her hands stroked them 
 till her tears had ceased. 
 
 After a long time the girl looked up implor- 
 ingly into his face, and asked : " You do care 
 for me, don't you, Allan? " 
 
 She leaned her head on his shoulder for a 
 moment, and then slowly slipped from the couch
 
 218 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 to the floor and knelt at his feet, resting her 
 arms on his knees, and, looking caressingly, 
 steadfastly at him, her eyes wandering for a 
 long time on every feature of his countenance, 
 finally lingering on his eyes, which, she saw with 
 a pang, did not glisten beneath her gaze. Still, 
 she looked at him, and the soul of the girl was 
 pictured naked to him, so that he could not fail 
 to understand. 
 
 " I wish to say something to you, Allan," she 
 murmured, faintly. 
 
 Drake had never known her to speak so 
 softly, pathetically as now. 
 
 " Probably I shall not see you after to-night 
 for a long, long time. I may as well tell you all. 
 When I first met this man I liked him. It was 
 not long before I discovered that I could wind 
 him around my finger. I grew to care for him 
 more and more, because, well, he treated me 
 kindly. Then, after a while, I discovered that 
 his influence over me was becoming greater than 
 mine over him ; but I always gave in to him, some- 
 how, no matter how hard I tried, and I tried 
 very, very hard sometimes, for yielding to a man 
 is no way to keep him infatuated. Well, he came 
 to see me often. Sometimes, I think I loved him. 
 Things went on that way till a few months ago, 
 when he began to threaten me, and I became
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 219 
 
 afraid of him. I would have dismissed him en- 
 tirely, had I dared, but every time I tried to tell 
 him not to come again, the words stuck right 
 here and wouldn't come out." Elise put her 
 hand to her throat and clutched it. 
 
 " When he asked to see me," she went on, " I 
 could not, for the life of me, refuse. It's been 
 that way all the time. I simply had to do the 
 things he told me." Her voice broke in a sob. 
 
 " You mustn't let him influence you that 
 way," said Drake. " Go away do anything 
 but don't let him see you again." 
 
 " Oh, you don't know all ! But never mind 
 me. I didn't mean to make you feel badly. 
 This is the last time Elise is going to talk to 
 you. I am going away. Bear with me just a 
 few minutes longer, for don't you see, I I 
 love you." 
 
 Her voice was little louder than a whisper; 
 yet Drake, though he felt her trembling with 
 emotion, did not look down at her. 
 
 " You haven't understood," she went on. 
 " I've loved you all the time." She paused. 
 " Allan, tell me one thing : If I had been in a 
 home just like your Marcia's, and well, just 
 that sort of a girl would you have loved me ? " 
 She leaned forward to look into his troubled 
 face.
 
 220 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " I think I was born unhappy," she said. 
 " God put a wrong streak in me. I've had to 
 live Therdier's kind of a life ; but many a night 
 I'v% dreamed of a little home and a husband 
 just like you would be, Allan. A home all 
 my own our own; where there would be no 
 servants, and no crowds, and with my own 
 fingers I should work for him and our children. 
 These pretty hands! What good are they in 
 the world?" 
 
 She looked at her tapering hands, all white 
 and jewelled, and put them behind her, out of 
 sight. 
 
 " You must forget me, Elise," Drake said, 
 after a silence. " I don't want to be the cause 
 of any unhappiness. I will always be your 
 friend. Some day you'll find the man who will 
 make you happy." 
 
 Drake faltered a little, feeling the insuffi- 
 ciency of words like these ; but he was doing the 
 best he could. 
 
 " Do you think I could ever care for any one 
 else?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " he said, hoarsely. " I am not 
 the kind of man that would please you you 
 would tire of me you scarcely know me. 
 You'll soon forget me."
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 221 
 
 " I don't blame you," she replied, shaking 
 her head with sad slowness. " You could not 
 help it. But you'll think of me, sometimes, 
 won't you ? Ah, I love you ! " She sighed 
 deeply, and put her arms around his neck. 
 She clung to him, kissing him again and again. 
 " I love you, yes, I love you ! " 
 
 At that moment there came from the adjoin- 
 ing room a low, thin cry, a crash, and the un- 
 mistakable thud of a falling body.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Oh, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See, 
 How I convey my shame out of thine eyes 
 By looking back what have I left behind 
 'Stroyed in dishonour. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 W^OOLFORD replaced his Tennyson on the book- 
 shelf with loving care; then his mood instantly 
 changed. His speech turned to a variety of 
 subjects law, crime, social problems, and even 
 religion. His monologues, although slightly 
 incoherent, were amazing in their brilliancy 
 and profundity. It seemed to Marcia that his 
 voice had lost none of its power, but rather had 
 gained new qualities from the striving of his 
 soul, as the ecstasy of pain invokes new tones 
 for its expression. Marcia could not but listen, 
 singularly fascinated. Gradually she became 
 anxious, for she observed that, whatever the 
 vagrancy of his mind, it was surely reverting 
 to his familiar theme contempt for mankind. 
 He hated people ; he loathed and despised them ; 
 they were weak, puny, and execrable. He 
 strode up and down the room, gesticulating, 
 hurling bitter, contemptuous words upon the 
 222
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 223 
 
 imagined heads of men. It was as if he was the 
 reincarnation of that Roman emperor who 
 wished that all mankind had but one neck that 
 he might sever it at a blow. And yet, in the 
 midst of this arraignment, he paused, and, 
 looking keenly at Marcia, an expression of 
 acute pain, almost shame, crossed his noble face. 
 Then he went on again with his terrible denun- 
 ciations. 
 
 Marcia could no longer endure the strain. 
 She tried to convince herself that she imagined 
 his condition to be more alarming than it really 
 was ; but this fond casuistry would not suffice. 
 She could not conceal from herself the truth, 
 or suppress her agitation. He was perceptibly 
 growing worse. Quietly she slipped away, 
 reached the telephone, which for just such pur- 
 pose had been placed in her room, and called 
 up Dr. Hammond. She longed for the sym- 
 pathy, advice, and presence of the kind old 
 man. He agreed to come immediately, on the 
 pretence of a friendly visit, and comforted her 
 with cheering words. 
 
 Marcia sat alone, waiting. For a brief in- 
 stant her thoughts turned to Drake. She loved 
 him. The full knowledge of it had come to her 
 months before, like a storm in summer, over- 
 whelming, chilling, electrifying her. It had
 
 224 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 brought in its wake such freshness and delight 
 of living that all the earth was green, and all 
 the vistas were in flower. And then, a little 
 later, the real storm descended upon her. 
 Henry was ill. Indeed, she was in the valley 
 of the shadow now, tossed, torn, beaten by the 
 tempest. Drake's love was but a fleck of sun- 
 light, elusory and sad upon a distant hill. 
 Marriage! No, that was impossible even if 
 Henry should get well. It might be inherited ; 
 and her children! Never! She beat the word 
 into her heart into her brain as Flagellants 
 lash their naked flesh with whips. 
 
 When Dr. Hammond arrived, it required 
 all his skill and tact to quiet the lawyer raging 
 at the world and its follies. 
 
 " You haven't been sleeping well, Henry," 
 said the doctor, pleasantly ; " that's what's the 
 matter with you." 
 
 " I haven't been sleeping at all," answered 
 Woolford. The dark lines around his eyes 
 gave support to that pathetic assertion. 
 
 " But I told you to rest," persisted the physi- 
 cian, watching his patient narrowly. 
 
 " Rest ! " Henry exclaimed, with a metallic 
 
 laugh. " How can a man rest, when " He 
 
 did not finish the sentence, but made a gesture, 
 the very secret symbol of despair.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 225 
 
 It was late when the doctor took his leave, 
 after prescribing a sleeping draught; but 
 Henry would have none of it, saying : 
 
 " No, I'll have none of it. If anything, I am 
 more afraid of drugs than of myself. Do not 
 worry about me. Alone I'll go to the bitter end ! " 
 
 There was that in the man's tone that for- 
 cibly emphasised the aloofness, separateness, 
 oneness of his nature. 
 
 On parting with Marcia at the door, the old 
 doctor told her that he thought Henry would 
 be quiet now, and that in a few days he would 
 take him to his ranch ; but after that they must 
 delay no longer, and start on the trip they had 
 planned. The poor girl stifled, as well as she 
 could, the sob that struggled to come forth with 
 her good-night. 
 
 Henry was sitting in an easy-chair when 
 Marcia returned, and permitted her to read to 
 him. She was careful to select nothing that 
 would excite or annoy him. She chose, after 
 some deliberation, " David Copperfield," be- 
 cause it was one of his favourite books. She 
 read a long time, and was in the middle of the 
 chapter in which is related Micawber's denun- 
 ciation of Heep, when suddenly she was im- 
 pelled to look up from the printed page. She 
 was startled to find Henry's eyes fixed upon
 
 226 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 her, but with a far-away look in the distended 
 pupils. There was, too, something in that 
 gaze that horrified her. 
 
 " Henry ! " she called, cautiously. 
 
 He did not answer; and it was plain that he 
 had not listened to her reading. She spoke 
 again a little louder. This time he heard her, 
 but the expression in his eyes was not altered. 
 And when he began to speak, his words had no 
 relation to what she had been reading to him. 
 He had been, and still was, in his own world of 
 thoughts and things; and though he spoke her 
 name, he was, it appeared, but vaguely con- 
 scious of her. 
 
 " Then there was Antony," he said, uttering 
 aloud the continuation of his thought. " What 
 a type of the conquered conqueror he was ! ' I 
 am dying, Egypt, dying ! ' All the petty 
 pathos known of all the little men since Adam's 
 fall cannot touch such heights of sadness and 
 of pity. Tragedy? Why, Marcia, there is 
 no other tragedy but this the tragedy of 
 greatness thrown at a woman's feet. Princes, 
 founders of nations, saviours of their country, 
 builders of empires, strong men, heroes, con- 
 querors, men whose wills have overridden earth 
 and peoples, men whose purposes and whose 
 power have stormed at the gates of Heaven,
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 227 
 
 how many a one of even these has breathed away 
 his might upon a woman's bosom, and has 
 gladly bartered glory for a harlot's kiss." 
 
 Henry paused ; and Marcia sank lower in her 
 chair. Soon he went on: 
 
 " What is it what can it be this subtle 
 power there is in some women ! If they all had 
 it, God pity the world! The lodestone draws 
 and compels and holds the finest-tempered steel. 
 Just as surely and inexplicably some women at- 
 tract and fascinate all men. From their lips, 
 eyes, hair, every tiny pore of their fragile 
 bodies, there issues a vapour, heavy with cloy- 
 ing perfume, sweet as the air the angels 
 breathe, pungent with all the fires of hell. Let 
 him breathe it who dares, and, however strong 
 and great he be, I care not. If the woman 
 wills, then farewell honour, glory, power, am- 
 bition, everything everything but her! Men 
 have died for her ; temples, palaces, and gibbets 
 have been built for her; armies have marched 
 for her; fire and sword have swept the lands 
 for her; empires have fallen for her; schools 
 of art, systems of philosophy, and vast domains 
 of intellect have been stepping-stones for her; 
 the earth has trembled yes, and angels have 
 fallen for her." 
 
 Marcia by this time was almost dumb with
 
 228 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 dread. She could not understand what this 
 perfervid eloquence in him meant. Woolford's 
 flesh burned as with a fever, but sickly, yellow- 
 ish lines began to show around his mouth and 
 eyes in deathly contrast with the hue of his 
 flaming cheeks. 
 
 " And what an end there is," he went on, 
 " when greatness meets its conqueror ! Oh, 
 Antony, Antony! The multitude of fools cry 
 out, mourn, and sigh when a great man falls 
 at a woman's feet. Pooh! They feel the 
 trembling of the sphere, but they do not know 
 the compensation. They do not know that, in 
 finding a being who can conquer his will and 
 fascinate him, he has gained more than he has 
 lost in his fall. They cannot understand that 
 he has made a glorious bargain in his exchange 
 of the hollow mockery of greatness for some- 
 thing tangible, actual, of flesh and blood the 
 greatest thing in the world a fascinating 
 woman. Why, to common men, passion is but 
 sordid lust, love an ideal never to be realised. 
 What can they know of emotions by the side 
 of which honour, ambition, rank, and power 
 are meaningless mere empty words ! What is 
 the reward of great achievement at the hands 
 of the mob the people? Praise, praise, 
 praise! Hysterical acclaim, a great bowing
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 of heads and stretching of necks ! The crowd 
 chokes with the dust of a triumph one day, and 
 spits on the ground the next; and the man of 
 that triumph is fortunate if he come not in 
 the way of the spittle. No man is truly great 
 till he comes to know the mockery, the silly in- 
 consequence of the plaudits of the throng. 
 And then what weight can this adulation of the 
 humanity he spurns have, when placed in the 
 balance against a woman's witchery ! The 
 woman who fascinates ! She too can praise, 
 can flatter, can oh, but her eyes are orbs of 
 light, her touch is fire, her hair is yellow flame, 
 her breath is hot from the scorching of hearts, 
 her kiss is the seal of oblivion ! " 
 
 Woolford had leaped from his chair, and 
 was now pacing the floor with nervous, reeling 
 steps. His face was flushed, his eyes were afire, 
 his gestures wild and sweeping. He stopped 
 suddenly, and bent on Marcia a frenzied, un- 
 recognising look. 
 
 " I know a woman," he said, " a woman of 
 that same race the race of Helen and Cleo- 
 patra and the rest. You never saw her of 
 course you never saw her. She she is calling. 
 I must go. Three times I have been there 
 three times, and failed to find her. Now I'll 
 not fail!"
 
 230 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 He was in a delirium. All sense of time, ties, 
 and self had vanished. Marcia took him by 
 the arm and tried to lead him to a chair. He 
 would not be led, but shook her off as if he knew 
 her not. She implored him to be calm. He 
 did not look at her, and paid no heed even when 
 with a despairing cry she fell to the floor, 
 hurled there by his violence. In the library 
 doorway he stopped, clutched the drapery in 
 one hand, passed the other over his brow, and 
 stood for an instant hesitating. Once he turned 
 his contorted face upon Marcia, who was rising 
 from the floor, haggard and wild-eyed. Then 
 he swayed backward and forward, still grasp- 
 ing the drapery in his tightening hand. 
 
 " I'm coming," he said, in yielding, tuneful 
 cadence. " Don't look at me so don't, dear ! 
 There is suffering in your eyes. Your neck 
 your lips are yes, queen, I come ! " 
 
 He stepped into the hallway, and the heavy 
 curtain, torn from its fastenings, fell in a heap 
 behind him. Marcia by this time was up and 
 stumbling after him. She flung her arms 
 around his neck, and clung to him; but the 
 strength of her despair was nothing to his 
 strength in rapture. He was going to his 
 queen. Mind and body knew one purpose; 
 nothing else could touch him. He pushed her
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 231 
 
 rudely from him and did not look at her again, 
 but took his hat and coat from the rack and left 
 the house without another word. 
 
 Marcia was transfixed with terror. The min- 
 utes passed as she stood there trying to think. 
 She put her hand to her brow bewildered. 
 Where was he going? What could she do to 
 stop him? Who was there to help her? Dr. 
 Hammond could not return in time. Drake? 
 She shrank within herself at the thought of 
 going to him and acknowledging all. Mollie? 
 No, she must not call. She would follow him 
 alone. There was no time to lose. Already 
 her brother's hurried stride was carrying him 
 far down the street. 
 
 With a sobbing cry that tore all doubt and 
 hesitation from her heart, and put her fears 
 into God's keeping, she snatched a cloak from 
 the rack, plunged into the night, and followed 
 Henry's leading.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 As I came through the desert thus it was, 
 As I came through the desert. 
 
 THOMPSON'S The City of Dreadful Night. 
 
 MARCIA hastened on with a purpose strong 
 enough, but with a plan so vague, so pitiably 
 vague, that she dared not think of what she 
 was about to do. Indeed, she could not think. 
 Her brain was inert, her senses numbed, her 
 heart alone remained on duty. Somehow, with- 
 out feeling it, she knew the night was raw and 
 cold, the avenue wind-swept and deserted; and 
 she was sure, without really having seen him, 
 that, as she came out upon the sidewalk, her 
 brother had just passed beneath the arc-lamp 
 almost a block away. Precipitately she gath- 
 ered up her skirts, and ran. That effort, the 
 wind upon her face, the lapse of time, served 
 a little to revive her. She did not halt, did not 
 think of halting. Nothing but bewilderment 
 or mishap could have stopped her now, for the 
 mind had heard the summons of the heart, and 
 was obeying it. Henry's stride was swift, but 
 as long as he should not run, she, running at 
 232
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 233 
 
 intervals, could keep up with him. To follow 
 him was easy at that hour of the night. The 
 storm had driven almost all wayfarers home; 
 and block after block 1 they went, these two, un- 
 heeded and unseen. All the length of a long 
 street, northward of home, they travelled thus, 
 Henry striding on, with never a look around 
 him or behind him, his coat unbuttoned and 
 flying unheeded in the wind; Marcia half a 
 block away, her eyes intent upon him lest he 
 turn to right or left and be lost to her, one 
 hand holding the cloak tight around her shoul- 
 ders, the other looping up the long skirts that, 
 like perverse imps, tugged at her slender 
 ankles ; an incongruous, inexplicable, tragic 
 sight, these two strange pursuer and more 
 strange pursued. But the night has many 
 secrets such as this that the firesides never 
 know! 
 
 In a little while Marcia was aware that the 
 streets were no longer familiar to her. They 
 had left the neighbourhood of stately mansions 
 and well-kept walks ; and, having turned into a 
 street that veered slightly to the eastward, they 
 were now passing dwelling-houses of more un- 
 pretentious aspect, with here and there a dark- 
 ened shop, and an all-night drug store, and a 
 sombre church that promised nothing of help
 
 284 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 or consolation. Soon in their turn these dwell- 
 ings dwindled to meagre cottages, and the shops 
 increased, and saloons contested with the drug 
 stores for the vantage corners. The sidewalks 
 became rough and treacherous; and what with 
 these, and the appearance of people now and 
 then, some loitering and some hurrying, and the 
 increasing violence of the storm, Marcia found 
 the pursuit growing toilsome and precarious. 
 She drew up a little closer to her brother, and 
 panted from that additional exertion. Fears 
 assailed her fear of the storm, fear of the 
 midnight city, fear most of all of failing in the 
 end. Once a man who had been lurking in a 
 doorway started to follow her, and she nearly 
 cried aloud for help. Again, a gang of 
 drunken ruffians came suddenly upon her, and 
 with difficulty she checked a frantic impulse to 
 run with all her might and throw herself in her 
 brother's arms. But the fear of him, and the 
 fear that she might thus sacrifice all her chances 
 of saving him, were greater than all her other 
 fears, and nerved her to her duty. 
 
 By this time their surroundings had entirely 
 changed. All Marcia's senses reported to her 
 the strange, vulgar, unkempt character of the 
 streets they trod, skirting the business centre 
 of the city : little shops, market-places, stables,
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 235 
 
 smithies, bar-rooms, negro- and poor-white 
 habitations intermingled, all emitted odours 
 that almost nauseated her; uncurtained win- 
 dows revealed interiors that frightened her; 
 the wind brought to her straining ears a ragged 
 medley of harsh, wicked, and stunning noises 
 that appalled her. But on and on, down and 
 down, they went, Henry never checking his 
 speed or looking to right or left ; Marcia falter- 
 ing a little, but calling up all her reserves of 
 courage and determination. The wind blew 
 fiercer, the fine snow gathered on Marcia's 
 shoulders, the wetness of the stones penetrated 
 her thin shoes, and she was chilled through and 
 through. A shiver, a sob, a stifled moan; a 
 swaying in the wind, and an aimless catching 
 at a bleak, black wall; and then a brave and 
 final effort, and onward again onward, for 
 Henry was still in sight. 
 
 They crossed street after street which were 
 almost emptied of people; long vistas of swirl- 
 ing blue-white lights, with fringes of incan- 
 descent yellow, and the headlight of a cable-car 
 far yonder like a warm, red star of comfort 
 pointing to some the happy homeward way. 
 Finally, one block further down, Henry turned 
 a corner to the left. Marcia hastened after 
 him, fairly stumbled around the corner, and
 
 236 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 there stopped short, gasping for breath, nearly 
 fainting from weariness, drooping, wilting, 
 shrinking from sheer horror and shame. For 
 now, all at once, like a fabled leper island lift- 
 ing out of the uncharted sea, she saw as she 
 sped the French Quarter rising from the 
 shadows of the slums to meet her. That reali- 
 sation thrilled her, and then chilled her, and at 
 last sent the blood burning through her veins 
 to paint with humiliation the whiteness of her 
 face. 
 
 Marcia had learned from the books she had 
 read and her talks with Henry upon the most 
 material themes, that there was a half-world, 
 a place of banished things ; and yet the knowl- 
 edge had not sophisticated her ; familiarity with 
 her brother's probings had not tainted her; 
 tales of the slums had not impressed her as 
 aught but tales of a twilight land, peopled with 
 dreadful spectral figures. 
 
 After all, how near at any moment are these, 
 the purest and the best, to the vilest and the 
 worst that God has made! Guard the home 
 as you may ; set cordons of police around the 
 place of banished things ; erect barriers between 
 the virtuous and the vile; and yet, there shall 
 come a day yes, many a day when the scar- 
 let and the white shall meet, to blend or to sepa-
 
 rate again but shall meet for an instant, for 
 an hour, or for all time, as fate shall order them. 
 Daily do skeletons stalk from locked and bolted 
 closets ; daily do black sheep plague and dis- 
 grace the gentle fold; daily does the past give 
 up its buried sins, and the future unroll its 
 dreaded destinies. There is no heaven but has 
 had its angels fallen, no hell without some loved 
 one there. 
 
 Vice lacks the fine fortitude of virtue ; it can- 
 not endure adversity; it falters before priva- 
 tion; it whines like a whipped cur beneath the 
 lash of punishment; it droops its painted head 
 and surrenders meekly to the storm. All the 
 gay and lightsome look was gone from the 
 street that night: the buildings confessed their 
 worst dilapidation ; the gutters, filled with mud 
 and snow, gave out their most disgusting 
 smells; the wind charged up and down to find 
 out every decaying cornice, and to rattle every 
 patched shutter and every broken door. If the 
 sound of laughter came from within the bat- 
 tered walls, it was but cold and perfunctory; 
 if some wretched hireling hammered on a piano, 
 it was plain the piano was out of tune; if men 
 and women appeared upon the sidewalk, it was 
 only to hurry somewhere, as if by grim want 
 driven. The place that night was the picture,
 
 238 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 the symbol, the confession of sordid, ugly, mis- 
 erable Sin. 
 
 Woolford had gone but a little distance from 
 the corner, and had mounted the stone steps of 
 the bravest-looking house that was to be seen. 
 Marcia crept along, with one hand upon the 
 clammy wall of brick, and watched Henry ring 
 the doorbell. She saw a negro open the door 
 and bow her brother in. She tried to shout to 
 the servant, but her voice was only a sorry 
 whisper. The door slammed, and Marcia stood 
 alone, trembling and exhausted, upon the side- 
 walk, till her temples throbbed as if they were 
 about to burst. Then a purpose seized her 
 an impulse an inspiration. She walked 
 bravely to the house, mounted the steps, and 
 rang the bell. As she listened to its clanging 
 and its reverberations, a new terror clutched 
 her. She would have fled away in panic, but 
 the recollection of her brother held her there. 
 
 Presently the door was opened by the same 
 servant who had admitted Woolford. Marcia 
 was shaking from head to foot, but mustered 
 up her courage, and without raising her head, 
 said : 
 
 " I wish to see " 
 
 The negro, thinking she wanted to see Elise, 
 interrupted her; and in a voice which, like her
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 239 
 
 own, seemed to come from a long distance, said 
 hurriedly, as he pointed to the stairs: 
 
 " Straight ahead one flight up." 
 
 Without a second's faltering Marcia started 
 up the stairs, not knowing whom she would find 
 there. The negro, as she passed him, looked 
 after her doubtfully, and started forward to 
 prevent her; but the bell brought him to his 
 work again, and Marcia was permitted to 
 go on. 
 
 Woolford, in the meantime, had gone 
 straight to the gambling-rooms. The long 
 walk through the biting wind had cooled his 
 blood, and for the time at least he was rational 
 and self-possessed. 
 
 The girl, without looking to right or left, 
 followed the direction indicated and rapidly 
 walked up the stairs. At the first door, which 
 chanced to have been left ajar, she knocked 
 timidly. No answer came. Waiting a moment, 
 she ventured in. No one was there. Her foot- 
 falls made no sound as she walked unsteadily 
 across the floor, looking timorously around 
 the bright room. She caught a glimpse of her- 
 self in a mirror a pale, wild-eyed, lovely crea- 
 ture, with many locks of rich auburn hair 
 astray, and garments all disordered. She 
 started back with a short gasp, not knowing
 
 240 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 for an instant that it was herself. Then she 
 moved on again, trying to hasten, and at length 
 passed through other open doors, stepped into 
 the middle of the second room, and stood there 
 staring. Her eyes wandered from wall to wall, 
 slowly comprehending; and finally they rested 
 upon a great mirror. In the mirror there was 
 a reflection of a half-open door, and through 
 the door the vision of a gorgeous, rose-coloured 
 room, and in the room a man and a woman. 
 She could see that the woman there was beauti- 
 ful, and that her white, bare arms were around 
 the man's neck. 
 
 Marcia leaned forward and peered timidly; 
 then peered again. Something fell upon her 
 heart, and crushed it in her bosom till it lay 
 quite still. Her lips parted, and a little whim- 
 pering cry passed them. Her brain, already 
 tired out, refused to toil any more. Still she 
 looked. And at last she saw, and knew. The 
 man was not her brother, was not Henry; it 
 was Allan Drake. 
 
 She stood there very quiet, a long time it 
 seemed to her. Would they never come and 
 lead her away? Was she to stand there thus 
 for ever? Her parched tongue sought her lips 
 and burnt them. She grew cold, and shivered 
 miserably. She tried to raise her hand, and to
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 241 
 
 arouse herself from this awful dream. The 
 room was growing smaller; the walls, the floor, 
 the ceiling, were closing in. But she could not 
 save herself, could not take her gaze off the 
 mirror. Then the walls, the mirror, and every- 
 thing began to dance around her. She grew 
 faint, ill, and sharp pains shot through her 
 head. She staggered, swayed backward, and 
 caught herself; held on a few seconds longer; 
 and then, with a moaning cry, fell to the floor 
 unconscious. 
 
 Drake and Elise started up; listened for 
 other sounds, but heard no more; and rushed 
 into the room whence these significant noises 
 came. Elise, looking at the girl prone upon 
 the floor, did not for a minute understand; but 
 Drake, seeing Marcia lying there, with white 
 face upturned, felt a great sickness of horror 
 and dismay. Quickly kneeling at her side, he 
 raised her limp, lifeless form upon his knee, and 
 called her name: 
 
 " Marcia ! Marcia ! What is it, dear ? Tell 
 me!" 
 
 Elise stood watching him. Instinctively she 
 felt that he was lost to her, saw that she was 
 nothing in the presence of that pale girl lying 
 there, so still and so beautiful, in Drake's arms. 
 As the full realisation of her failure dawned
 
 242 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 upon her, there swept over her face a look of 
 anguish, stiffening swiftly into hate. Only a 
 minute did she permit herself to suffer thus in 
 silence. She laughed scornfully; and then, 
 drawing herself up to her full height, she 
 sneered : 
 
 " So your sweetheart has followed you ! A 
 pretty thing to do ! " 
 
 Drake did not answer, but lifting Marcia in 
 his arms, rose and started for the door. Elise 
 watched him going going from her; then all 
 her confessed desire for him returned, re- 
 doubled, intensified, and the fiery passion in her 
 blood changed to a steely impulse of revenge. 
 She sprang forward and grabbed him rudely 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 " Go ! " she hissed. " Go, and take your 
 sweetheart with you ! Bon debarras! Her 
 brother is the strangler ! " 
 
 Drake's face blanched and the strength went 
 out of it. He turned and gave Elise one long, 
 searching look, and then, without a word, 
 carried Marcia, still unconscious, down to the 
 street, and they were driven swiftly to her 
 home.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Yet each man kills the thing he loves, 
 
 By each let this be heard, 
 
 Some do it with a bitter look, 
 
 Some with a flattering word, 
 
 The coward does it with a kiss, 
 
 The brave man with a sword! 
 
 OSCAR WILDE'S Ballad of Reading OaoL 
 
 ELISE, left alone, remained where she stood like 
 one petrified. Suddenly, her body undulated 
 slightly ; her breast heaved ; her eyes glistened 
 wildly, and then, in a voice filled with despair, 
 she cried : 
 
 " Tout est fini! " and flung herself upon the 
 couch, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed. 
 
 Presently, she was startled by the sound of 
 footsteps. Before she had time to compose her- 
 self, Woolford entered the room, unbidden. 
 She saw at once a look in his eyes different from 
 anything she had ever seen there before; but 
 gave no sign that she noticed it. With daring 
 fearlessness, she took his hand and drew him 
 down among the pillows of the couch, caress- 
 ingly. He was silent and unresponsive, and 
 looked steadily at her with the peculiar ex- 
 243
 
 244 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 pression becoming plainer in his eyes. At last, 
 in a voice that she was gratified to know was 
 calm, and with a tilting of her pretty head that 
 was just a reminiscence of her coquetry, she 
 asked : 
 
 " You will give me a few minutes ? " 
 Woolford did not answer; but his fixed gaze 
 never for a second left her when she rose and 
 walked to her writing-desk. Taking a sheet of 
 tinted paper, she wrote a few words, hurriedly ; 
 then the hand that held the pen halted. Slowly 
 she turned and faced him. His eyes still 
 gloated with maniacal intent ; but her gaze met 
 them unflinchingly, and remained thus riveted 
 while her thought, after a brief resting on the 
 man before her, eliminated him and passed on 
 to the man she loved. Should she conceal the 
 truth? Yes, it were better that he should not 
 know. Surely it would add to his happiness. 
 Again she resumed her writing, murmuring the 
 words very softly to the end; then lifting 
 the letter to her lips, kissed it, put it in an 
 envelope, addressed it, carefully sealed it, and 
 imprinted her monogram upon the molten wax. 
 Now she rose, and laid it upon the desk where it 
 could not fail to be seen; and as she did this, 
 her fingers touched a slender paper-knife, 
 shaped like a dagger, with a long steel blade
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 245 
 
 and a curiously wrought handle of gold. She 
 picked it up and toyed with it; then her lips 
 parted, her breath came quickly, and the 
 shadows and lights came and went across her 
 face like the sunshine and clouds of a windy 
 April day. But when she walked across the 
 room to Woolford, the lights had gone and the 
 shadows were heavy and there was upon her 
 lips only the recollection of a smile. Sadly, 
 sweetly, she put her left arm around his neck. 
 He had not spoken a word since entering the 
 room. 
 
 " I know why you have come," she said, at 
 last. " But you couldn't kill me if you wanted 
 to." She spoke with tender plaintiveness, but 
 without a quiver. " To-night, I have no fear," 
 she went on, " because I do not care for you. I 
 never have loved you." Her eyes met his stead- 
 fastly ; and when Woolford raised his hand, she 
 put her own upon it, and his arm fell to his side. 
 
 " I have just written a letter," she concluded, 
 with deliberate emphasis; but when the words 
 passed they took away the rubies from her h'ps. 
 " It lies there, on my desk. If they should 
 blame you, that letter will clear you." 
 
 She paused ; their eyes still met in a look that 
 was understanding, challenge, and smouldering 
 fires of memory and love a look that was also
 
 246 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 resignation and farewell. Then, a new spark 
 kindled far down in the depths of Woolford's 
 eyes; and Elise saw it and watched it glow. 
 And when she saw that it was about to burst 
 into flame, she lifted her right hand, which held 
 the tiny dagger, and so quickly that he barely 
 saw the gleam of the steel, she plunged the blade 
 into her breast. Before Woolford realised what 
 had happened, or could catch her, she fell face 
 downward upon the floor. For a few seconds 
 he stared at the prostrate figure, then knelt be- 
 side her. Slowly a faint gleam of compre- 
 hension seemed to develop in the disordered 
 brain as he leaned over and looked at her. He 
 hardly understood ; but presently began to see 
 that she had anticipated his intent ; that he had 
 driven her to this, and a vague horror tore at 
 his heart. 
 
 Elise's maid heard the sound of the fall and 
 ran into the room. Upon seeing some one bend- 
 ing over the body of her mistress, she thereupon 
 turned, and ran through the house, screaming: 
 " Elise ! The strangler ! The strangler ! " 
 Men from the gambling-rooms rushed up the 
 stairs; but were met at the top by Woolford. 
 His face was distorted, and there was such wild- 
 ness and menace in his eyes that, with one ac- 
 cord, they turned and stumbled in a panic down
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 247 
 
 the stairs and out into the street. In another 
 minute, he was alone in the house alone, save 
 for the figure of the girl, prone upon the roses 
 that were now taking a redder stain than they 
 had ever known.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 For none can tell to what red Hell 
 His sightless soul may stray. 
 
 Ballad of Reading Oaol. 
 
 ONCE more a whisper went through the Quar- 
 ter. A tamale peddler bearing a steaming can 
 and singing his unmelodious song, emerged from 
 an alley two blocks away from Therdier's. He 
 was an outcast, subdued by recklessness and 
 want to the lowest purposes of commerce; he 
 sold hot and greasy delicacies, so called, to the 
 inhabitants of the Quarter and their guests, 
 receiving food and lodging for his services; his 
 face was disintegrated and his soul dissolved by 
 drink and by exposure ; he was a type of the hu- 
 man dregs of the city. This man, coming out of 
 the alley, stopped, and listened. He heard 
 something that was unusual ; and, turning, hur- 
 ried back through the alley to the dirty factory 
 where his wares were made. 
 
 " Something wrong down there," he said to 
 
 the man in charge; and putting down his can, 
 
 hastened toward the street in front of Ther- 
 
 dier's. He found men standing in every door- 
 
 248
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 249 
 
 way, listening and looking. From side streets 
 came other persons of various description, but 
 uniformly evil : tramps with disordered clothing 
 and unkempt hair ; saloon hangers-on, with blear 
 eyes and cringing gait ; ruffians with scarred 
 countenance and wary mien; the ragtag and 
 bobtail of the shanties and the sheds and the 
 box-cars. These joined the groups of pale 
 gamblers, sleek bartenders, and half-intoxicated 
 visitors in the Quarter, as they formed slowly 
 under the arc-lamps, all turning their heads to 
 right and to left, with eyes watchful and 
 oblique, nudging one another, and questioning 
 in tones inexplicably subdued. The tamale-man 
 attached himself to the first group he reached, 
 and added his whisper to the general sibilation. 
 He got no answer to his query, for there was 
 only a shaking of heads, and a puzzled look of 
 dread. 
 
 It is not always the finest nature that most 
 subtly feels; for there is in the breaking down 
 of reason, and in the degradation of soul and 
 body, some singular return to nature that re- 
 vives in man the primary instincts of the brute. 
 All the achievements of the boasted sixth sense 
 of refined and selected nature cannot match the 
 acuteness of animal suggestion that marks the 
 gathering of a mob.
 
 250 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Suddenly, there was a commotion. From the 
 direction of Therdier's came a cry, terrible, 
 maddening, hoarse with anger and fear; and 
 as the groups here and there parted a little, and 
 the men strained their ears and bent their heads 
 to listen, there appeared a man running, waving 
 his arms, and crying out almost incoherently 
 a name that froze the groups to granite. The 
 stumbling, shrieking man, hatless, and with 
 clothing all awry, was old Pete, the gambler. 
 
 " The strangler ! The strangler ! " were the 
 words that tore his lips. 
 
 He was seized, held, and madly questioned. 
 
 " The strangler ! " he shrieked ; and put his 
 hands in terror upon his face. 
 
 ** The strangler ! Where ? " was the rising 
 cry, when the men had got their senses and their 
 tongues again. 
 
 " Therdier's ! Elise ! " the trembling wretch 
 exclaimed. 
 
 The words were taken up by individuals, by 
 groups, by crowds, by the gathering mob. 
 
 " Elise ! Elise is dead ! " 
 
 " The strangler is out again ! " 
 
 At the first hearing of the hateful word, 
 every man and every group was stopped and 
 stilled, as if with a lightning shock that left 
 them standing stark statues in the night.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 251 
 
 " The strangler has killed Elisel " 
 Numbness of terror yielded to sullen rage, 
 and rage to a hunger for revenge. Men found 
 their voices, their hearts, and such brains as 
 were theirs. The cries of horror were welded 
 into a brazen chorus. Instinctively the groups 
 united, began to move, formed into a solid mass, 
 and, with old Pete in the centre, swayed and 
 surged towards Therdier's. In front of the 
 gambling-house this throng met another, which 
 had assembled around the stricken cluster of 
 pallid gamblers and dumb negro servants, who 
 had been driven pell-mell from the place of 
 death. With aimless gesture and disconnected 
 sentences, they told what had happened. The 
 strangler was there in the house now, and it was 
 death to any one who should dare to enter. The 
 story, gathering details as rapidly as the shiver- 
 ing servitors were encouraged by the crowd to 
 speak, spread from circle to circle of the mob, 
 to be embellished with fresh horror at every 
 leap it made. 
 
 The rabble now filled the street from curb to 
 curb. It was a heterogenous mob, yet unified by 
 fear and anger and a purpose of revenge. With 
 the ruffians and the ragamuffins, the gamblers 
 and the barkeepers, there was gradually mingled 
 a contingent of sturdy working men from cer-
 
 252 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 tain humble but respectable streets near by; 
 shopkeepers who had heard the tumult and had 
 closed their doors to hurry to the Quarter ; well- 
 dressed men who might have found it difficult to 
 explain their so-sudden appearance there ; and a 
 full quota of those persons who appear on pub- 
 lic occasions of whatever character, and who are 
 The People in comedy, in tragedy, and in every 
 kind of play. 
 
 One thing was strange and yet by no means 
 strange: there was no woman there not a 
 scrubwoman, not a greasy housewife, not a 
 dancer from a beer-garden, not a painted out- 
 cast ; not one woman was in that throng. The 
 women were assembled in the far back rooms of 
 the Quarter, where the lights were low, and the 
 doors and shutters bolted, locked, and barred. 
 That name, which had silenced for a few min- 
 utes the swarming men out there on the streets, 
 had stunned the women, congealed their blood, 
 and renewed in them all the known fears and 
 all the unknown forebodings that afflict these 
 banished ones, spite of all their veneer of insen- 
 sibility. They were numb and dumb with 
 terror. 
 
 The mob became compact ; its courage grew ; 
 its understanding of what had taken place bred 
 in its thousand hearts a mad desire to kill. A
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 253 
 
 mob is a monster, having all the human passions 
 and desires, but no certain brain. It is whim 
 incarnate, force unwieldy, brutality in extreme. 
 It neither reasons nor plans, but only craves, 
 and, with guttural exclamation, waits for any 
 guidance. Till the mind is given it, a mob is 
 just a monster, which may lunge against a build- 
 ing and wreck it, or crush out a few lives in 
 undirected rage, but cannot do its will. Some- 
 times it is wearied with its own fury, and slinks 
 away in harmless discontent, muttering, and 
 licking its unsatisfied and hanging lips. Some- 
 times a leader is given it a man with nerve and 
 brain, who leaps full-armed and loud-voiced into 
 action, like a lithe deity of battle from the head 
 of a ponderous god. Then the mob no longer is 
 a monster merely, but a thing with a purpose, 
 dire, complete, and capable of anything. 
 
 This mob, waiting before that house of 
 horror, had found its voice but no brain to guide 
 its fury. The cries and shouts redoubled and 
 multiplied. The tamale-man, swaying near the 
 centre of the crowd, cried, " Kill him ! Kill 
 him ! " till his tongue was swollen and his voice 
 hoarse. Old Pete, with the image of the dead 
 Elise burning deep into his long-stagnant brain, 
 shrieked with rage. The ragged hoodlums 
 from the railroad yards, revelling in the ruffian
 
 254 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 glory of the scene, bellowed like beasts, mad with 
 sight of blood. There was one who yelled con- 
 tinually, " A rope ! A rope ! " Another's de- 
 sire was centred upon red flame, and cried for 
 wood and torches. Still another fumed, and 
 swore he would cut out the strangler's heart. 
 But all the cries were evidently to no purpose; 
 and though the rabble yelled till every voice was 
 hoarse, with the indistinctness that gives a pecu- 
 liar quality of barbarity to human utterance, 
 yet did the man in Therdier's maintain his si- 
 lence and hold the house. Closer and closer 
 pressed the mob ; and now and then a wave of fear 
 swept over the forward lines of men, as if the de- 
 stroyer was at their throats ; and there was a 
 frantic scrambling backward, and the impulse 
 of self-preservation checked the fury for a little 
 while. But steadily, when time passed and the 
 strangler did not appear, the mob grew bolder, 
 and pressed forward till the foremost members 
 of it touched the walls of the grey-stone build- 
 ing. From the two ends of the block, the elec- 
 tric lamps cast a wavering whiteness upon the 
 upturned faces, and showed them pallid and 
 drawn ; but the red light from the door and the 
 windows of Therdier's repainted the crimson 
 and the blue of swollen veins and bloated faces. 
 Grimaces and leers and all the distortions of
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 255 
 
 passion loosed, made of the assemblage a huge 
 exaggeration and a monstrous show, as if a con- 
 gregation of gargoyles from some mediaeval 
 cornice, or the demon shapes of a sad poet's 
 Hades, had been summoned there for purposes 
 untold of men. 
 
 And then, when the fury of the mob had 
 reached the climax, and the blood of every man, 
 from workingman to vagabond, was heated till 
 it burnt the flesh, and stretched the nostrils, and 
 reddened the straining eyes at the supreme mo- 
 ment of the night, there came the leader the 
 man with the ability to turn all this savage 
 possibility into action. From the very centre 
 of the mob he came, suddenly, inexplicably, it 
 seemed. He pushed through the stinking press, 
 and was aided by eager hands and shoulders in 
 his passage to the front. Not only in his looks, 
 but in his voice and touch, there was command. 
 Every man around him felt it; and the spirit 
 of the leader flashed like a spark of life into and 
 through that inert throng; and long before he 
 had reached the place where he could be fairly 
 seen, every unit in the monster of a mob knew 
 that there was a brain, a presence, and a voice 
 which they could hear, see, follow. 
 
 The leader, self-appointed, but speedily ac- 
 cepted at his own estimate of himself, with
 
 256 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 amazing celerity won to the front, and mounted 
 the stone steps of the Therdier establishment. 
 Two thousand men looked at him, and not one 
 knew him. He was a man of medium height, 
 with long grey hair and gray mustache of the 
 military fashion. His clothing was ill-fitting 
 and much worn; his face, though red and 
 bloated from hard living, was yet in some way 
 resolute; and his blue eyes were bold and chal- 
 lenging. A soft, black hat shadowed his face 
 when he first climbed the steps, but was soon 
 pushed back so that all could see his features 
 flaming in the mingled lights. In the very fact 
 that he was unknown to all that crowd; in the 
 suddenness of his appearance there ; and in his 
 manner of command, were all the elements 
 mystery, timeliness, and conviction to make his 
 leadership complete. A murmur greeted him; 
 and then there fell a silence the first that had 
 visited this wild scene. Not having heard his 
 name the rabble could not shout it; so they 
 waited for him to speak. 
 
 " Men ! " he said, in a voice that surely had 
 got somewhere the quality of command, " the 
 strangler is in this house. This is his fourth 
 victim! You all know what we should do with 
 men who murder women. Let's get to work! 
 There are machines shops yonder. Bring
 
 ART THOU THE MAN? 257 
 
 sledges and axes. Down there in the railroad 
 yards you will find a steel rail. Get it! We 
 must batter down this door ! " 
 
 With a yell that shattered the pregnant 
 silence, a crowd of men left the main body and 
 went to obey his orders. From the huge con- 
 course that remained, a savage cheer was raised. 
 The military-looking man took off his hat, 
 wiped his brow, and calmly waited. But the 
 strangler kept his secret in the house ; and dead 
 Elise in her room of roses was not more still 
 than he. 
 
 In the meantime, the city had become aware 
 that there was trouble in the slums. On Six- 
 teenth Street late loiterers heard the sounds, 
 and listening, moved toward the Quarter. 
 Along every business thoroughfare, there was an 
 accumulating movement in that direction, doubt- 
 ful and slow at first, but accelerated by the lif t- 
 ing of the tumult. The theatres now dis- 
 charged their laughing throngs ; and above the 
 chatter, merriment, and rustle of silken skirts, 
 rose the surly murmur of the mob. Over these 
 people there fell a curious silence. Women 
 shuddered, and their escorts led them hastily 
 to cars and carriages; while men and boys, 
 alone or in small parties, listening and wonder- 
 ing, swelled the stream of humanity that poured
 
 258 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 toward the Quarter. At this time certain cab- 
 men on the corner leaped into their seats, and 
 drove rapidly away. The whisper from the 
 Quarter spread far and far. Out on the Hill, 
 and in distant suburbs, women appeared at 
 doors and windows to question the mumbling 
 voices that came on the fitful wind, now but 
 a multitudinous whisper, now a low muttering, 
 like the sound of water on the rocks, now rising 
 to a roar like the warning of a storm. 
 
 In the office of the Record, word had just 
 come over the wires of the tumult down in the 
 bottoms. 
 
 " A mob in the French Quarter ! " announced 
 Armstrong ; and upon seeing Drake entering at 
 that moment, hurried on with, " What does it 
 mean ? " 
 
 Drake's expression changed. He had just 
 come from Marcia, who was slowly recovering 
 under Mollie's loving care. To relieve the poor 
 girl's fears, he had telephoned the French 
 Club to ascertain if Woolford was there. The 
 inquiry, not without some difficulty, brought the 
 answer that he had departed. Marcia, re- 
 assured and convinced by this that the delirium 
 must have passed off, had dismissed him without 
 giving or asking any explanations. Drake 
 wisely accepted the situation, and hastened on
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 259 
 
 to the office. The directness of the question; 
 its close connection with his own thoughts ; the 
 accusation of Elise ringing in his ears confused 
 him. 
 
 " It may be the strangler ! " he exclaimed. It 
 was the merciless conclusion of his mind, and 
 before he was aware of the significance of his 
 utterance. 
 
 Was it possible that he could believe this 
 thing? Henry Woolford the strangler? Im- 
 possible ! Monstrous ! Then an awful dread 
 of the possibility of its being the truth assailed 
 him. He started for the hat-rack, when the 
 telephone rang again, and the reporter who had 
 relieved Murphy for an hour, yelled into the 
 instrument a message that was loudly authentic : 
 
 " Riot call from Market Street ! " he shouted. 
 " Both wagons going ! " 
 
 " You stay and watch that end of it," Arm- 
 strong replied, and then, turning to Drake: 
 " Take all the men here and cover the mob. 
 When anybody else comes in, I'll send him down 
 to you. And, Drake, you'll write the main 
 story, as you know the case. The others will 
 help you as you order them. You can have all 
 the space you will be able to fill." 
 
 Drake and the other men hastened out of the 
 office ; while Armstrong went to the composing-
 
 260 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 room to " kill " all the local copy there was 
 in sight, and to provide space for the big story 
 that was to come. 
 
 " If it's the strangler again," said Arm- 
 strong to the managing editor, " it is the big- 
 gest story of the year. I've put Drake in 
 charge of it, and have given him all the men he 
 can use. He'll spread himself on the story." 
 
 Drake and his little squad heard the roar of 
 the mob as soon as they reached the street ; and 
 they set off at a run. They were quickly joined 
 by many other men running, for by this time 
 the rumour of a lynching had traversed the 
 city, and men by thousands were gathering in 
 the Quarter. The reporters were still three 
 blocks away from the centre of the disturbance 
 when they began to find progress difficult. 
 There was not much clamour here, but every 
 man was struggling to force his way ahead, 
 asking repeatedly and uselessly what was going 
 on. Trained to this sort of labour, Drake and 
 his fellows made better progress than all the 
 others, and were soon within half a block of 
 Therdier's. Here they stuck fast in the solidi- 
 fying mass of humanity. In front of them, 
 sounds arose that were filled with promise of 
 things it was their business and their duty to 
 see ; and they chafed in helplessness. A patrol
 
 ART THOU THE MAN f 261 
 
 wagon with a dozen policemen in it, came smash- 
 ing through the crush, and was stopped by the 
 wall of men. Drake watched their futile efforts 
 to break their way through the mob; and he 
 realised that strategy was his only recourse 
 now. He racked his brain for a plan. 
 
 " You go back to the office ! " he shouted into 
 the ear of one of the reporters. " Tell Arm- 
 strong what the situation is. Then write what 
 you have seen here, and come back. We'll get 
 through to the front somehow." 
 
 At that instant there was a movement of the 
 crowd in the direction of a side street, and pres- 
 ently there came running from that place a 
 gang of rough men, bearing on their shoulders 
 a steel rail they had picked up in the railroad 
 yards. With yells and curses, they dashed into 
 the crowd, and it parted for them. Drake was 
 quick to see the opportunity. 
 
 " Get next to that rail ! " he cried to the three 
 men who were still with him. " Help carry it ! 
 And don't quit till you get to the front! I'm 
 going around to the rear of the house." 
 
 With much difficulty he retraced his steps, 
 reached the corner of the sidewalk at the inter- 
 section of the streets, pressed himself closely 
 against the walls of the buildings on the cross 
 street, and after a long struggle, forced his
 
 262 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 way into the alley at the very spot where he 
 and Elise had one night entered the building 
 where the hirelings of the " Compagnie " had 
 met Jacques Therdier. The thought had come 
 to him that he could find the way they had 
 taken that evening on their return to her room. 
 The hesitancy he had then felt was not present 
 in him now; for a greater dread overwhelmed 
 it. He had not taken time to speculate on what 
 had happened. No one had told him that the 
 murder had been done, or the strangler found, 
 in Therdier's. In all the cries of the mob no 
 name he knew had struck his ears. From the 
 point he had reached in the packed thorough- 
 fare, he had not been able, visually, to deter- 
 mine what was the objective place of the furious 
 mob. Indeed, so changed had been the char- 
 acter of the gathering by the coming of men 
 from all parts of the city, that none except 
 those thousand or two in the densest part knew 
 the true meaning of all that violence. The one 
 cry that rose out of the tumult was, " The 
 strangler!" a cry terrible enough to justify 
 everything. It was enough for Drake. He 
 did not care to learn more then. Elise's out- 
 burst had prepared him for anything ; and there 
 was in his brain a dull understanding of it all, 
 and in his heart a dread he dared not analyse.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 268 
 
 To get into the house of Therdier was the pres- 
 ent business ; and he knew in his soul that he 
 would be too late. Yet he must be there, 
 quickly. 
 
 The alley, though men hurried through it in 
 both directions, was not crowded like the street. 
 But it was dark, and Drake had no gentle hand 
 to guide him now; and he found the going 
 difficult. Tripping over rubbish, splashing 
 through pools of mud and water, stumbling 
 against jagged fences and swinging gates, he 
 came at last to a door which he thought was 
 the rear entrance to Therdier's. He turned the 
 knob, and stepped into a dimly-lighted kitchen. 
 But it was not the Therdier kitchen; for upon 
 his appearance without warning there, three 
 women who had been huddling around a stove, 
 leaped to their feet with shrieks of fear, and 
 cowered against the wall. Drake stayed long 
 enough to reassure them, and then hurried 
 away. Creeping cautiously along, he came, 
 after what seemed to him hours of toil, to the 
 place near the end of the alley where he knew 
 the door of Therdier's house must be. This part 
 of the alley was now almost free from people; 
 but the street before him, like that which he had 
 left, was a mass of raging humanity. So ab- 
 sorbed were these men in their mad desire to reach
 
 264 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 the street where the centre of the mob was, that 
 they paid no attention to the alley ; and Drake 
 was able to reach the shadowed door unnoticed. 
 He stumbled up the low wooden step, and fum- 
 bled around the door till his hand fell upon 
 the knob. The door was locked. He shook it 
 violently, but though it appeared to be not 
 very solid, still it would not yield. Baffled 
 and dismayed, Drake stood for a few seconds, 
 trying to think. Then he stepped into the 
 alley again, and surveyed the rear of the build- 
 ing. A dim light came through the win- 
 dows. The silence of the house was deadly 
 and chill, in contrast with the roaring of the 
 mob. As Drake scanned the wall and the win- 
 dows, he heard the noise in the street suddenly 
 increase in volume, and then as suddenly die 
 away into a silence that was more terrible than 
 the turmoil. Maddened almost by anxiety, and 
 made desperate by this new phase of the savage 
 horde's career, Drake rushed to the single win- 
 dow that was within his reach, and tried to open 
 it. He could not move it. Raging under such 
 defeat, he stepped back to the middle of the 
 alley, measured the distance between him and 
 the door, and ran and hurled himself against it 
 with all his might. The fastenings of the lock 
 gave way, but still held sufficiently to bar his
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 265 
 
 entrance effectually. Once more he retreated, 
 and again hurled himself against the door. 
 This time it yielded, flew open with a crash, and 
 banged against the wall of the kitchen. Drake 
 fell headlong upon the floor, and lay there a few 
 seconds, stunned. When he arose, he could 
 hardly stand because of the pain in his shoulder ; 
 but he gathered himself together, and stumbled 
 up the stairs leading to the second floor. 
 
 In the meantime, the three reporters whose 
 duty it was to follow the steel rail, did their 
 work well and arrived at the front of the 
 clamouring multitude with the men who had 
 brought it from the railroad yards. The grey- 
 haired leader called to them to hurry. One end 
 of the rail was pushed up to him. He reached 
 for it, and hundreds of hands clawed the air in 
 eagerness to have a part in breaking down the 
 door. The shouting now was deafening; the 
 rage of the mob was at white heat; and it 
 seemed that the hundreds of frantic men would 
 with one impulse hurl themselves upon the house, 
 and with their naked hands tear it to pieces. 
 
 At that instant the red-curtained door was 
 flung wide open ; the light from the interior was 
 shed brilliantly upon the faces of the wild and 
 hungry pack; and Henry Woolford stepped 
 quietly and with dignity out upon the steps.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 He is up 
 
 There like a Roman statue! He will stand 
 Till death hath made him marble! 
 
 CIIAPMAX. 
 
 FOR almost a minute Woolford looked curiously 
 upon the scene before him. One hand was 
 thrust into the pocket of his coat, and the other 
 hung listlessly at his side. He was serene. His 
 countenance showed no trace of the awful delir- 
 ium through which he had passed. His clear 
 eyes swept over the mob; and thereupon the 
 shouting ceased; a hush came upon the rabble, 
 and every man near enough to see, stood still. 
 The man they had cursed and sought for hours 
 to slaughter was there before them, alone and 
 helpless, and yet there was something so com- 
 pelling in that tall, grand figure that they were 
 inspired with awe; and even the determined 
 leader on the steps was moved to dumb sub- 
 mission. 
 
 When the silence was complete, save for the 
 hurried breathing of a thousand men, and in- 
 distinguishable sounds from the outskirts of the 
 crowd, Woolford raised his arm commandingly. 
 266
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 267 
 
 The straining eyes of all that rabble were upon 
 him; bearded lips were parted in amazement; 
 bloated faces were relaxed; and vengeful arms 
 became inert and purposeless. Woolford held 
 his arm aloft till he had fixed the attention of 
 every man within his sight. Then he began to 
 speak, in tones that crashed and rang like the 
 shock of steel on steel. 
 
 " What do you mean by this exhibition ? " he 
 cried. 
 
 He paused, as if waiting for a reply. A 
 blear-eyed ruffian near the steps found his voice, 
 and cried out, " We want the strangler ! " 
 
 Woolford looked down upon him, and the fel- 
 low quailed, and shrank back behind another. 
 
 " Are you mad ? " the lawyer continued. " Is 
 your lust for blood so hot that you cannot 
 think? Are you cowards that in your frenzy 
 you would murder an innocent man ? " 
 
 His words, though slow and calm, hurt like 
 the flat of a sword upon their backs. The 
 white-haired leader started angrily toward 
 Woolford, and lifted his arm, and began to 
 shout a curse. Woolford did not stir, but bent 
 upon the man a look so threatening and black 
 that the curse died in the man's throat, and he 
 slunk away again, and hung his head. Raising 
 his right arm deliberately, and pointing a finger
 
 268 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 at him, Woolford, in a voice that carried to the 
 utmost limit of the throng, and was so charged 
 with accusation and contempt that the men near- 
 est him recoiled, cried out : 
 
 " Do you people know this coward who is 
 leading you? Ten years ago this very month 
 he murdered, in cold blood, his poor, sick wife. 
 He came to me, and lied to me, and I defended 
 him. I saved him from the gallows this brute ; 
 and when it was too late to punish him, I dis- 
 covered that a mad dog is more worthy of mercy 
 than he is. You, yes, you you murderer ! " 
 
 " It's a lie ! It's a lie ! " shrieked the old man, 
 while his face first paled, and then blazed with 
 fury, and his body shrivelled up with fear. 
 " It's a He ! Damn you ! I never saw you be- 
 fore!" 
 
 But he did not move, and could not keep his 
 gaze off Woolford. Stirred by the lawyer's 
 words, the men whose minds had been quite made 
 up a little while before, were now confused, and 
 looked from Woolford to the man, and back to 
 Woolford, muttering angrily the while. 
 
 Having thus disposed of the leader of the 
 rabble, Woolford now turned his attention to 
 the worthy citizens that composed it. His voice 
 now changed. There was just a touch of 
 pathos in it, but no note of pleading, and not a
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 269 
 
 hint of fear. It was borne like a simple melody 
 over the congregation of distorted faces. 
 
 " I am Henry Woolford, the lawyer," he said. 
 " Whom do you seek? " 
 
 " We want the strangler ! " shouted a man far 
 back in the crowd. 
 
 The cry was repeated here and there. On 
 the edge of the assemblage, near the stone wall 
 of the house, another man raised his arm, and 
 cried : 
 
 "You are the man!" It was Pete, the 
 gambler. 
 
 " Seize him ! Kill him ! Hang him ! " 
 
 The ferocity of the mob, checked for the mo- 
 ment, was now rising again. The mutterings 
 and shouts increased, there was a surging move- 
 ment, and the heavy faces showed the storm 
 was up again. But Woolford's expression did 
 not change. The men nearest him were stilled ; 
 and more slowly than before, the noise subsided 
 until there was only a fragmentary clamour 
 far out on the uncertain edges of the throng. 
 When he spoke again his voice was low and mel- 
 low, and was weighted with such sadness and 
 pity that even those sordid and degraded men 
 were touched and a little shamed. Never since 
 he began to speak was the silence so intense as 
 now.
 
 370 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " In this house, in a gorgeous room all roses, 
 amid her silks, her gold and her jewels, lies the 
 body of a poor girl. She sleeps in a pool of 
 blood. An hour ago, she was fair beyond the 
 dreams of other women ; now, her beautiful body 
 stiffens and grows cold. Death has stolen away 
 the roses from her cheeks, the diamonds from her 
 eyes, and the rubies from her lips. In a little 
 while you shall see her, cold still dead. You 
 shall " 
 
 "Her murderer! Where is he?" one man 
 cried ; and the rabblement took up the query. 
 
 " Where is he ? Let us have him ! " 
 
 " The man you want is beyond your reach and 
 beyond your power. When you go up there, 
 you will find him lying dead across her body." 
 
 Henry's voice was now thin and sweet as the 
 plaintive creeping of the fifes when fresh flowers 
 are put upon the graves. A shiver ran through 
 the mob, and some men moved uneasily. 
 
 " Prove what you say ! " shouted one fellow 
 with bloodshot eyes, and a face on which no 
 vestige of human comeliness remained. He had 
 a huge club in his right hand, and he brandished 
 it as violently as the density of the crowd around 
 him would permit. Woolford cast one glance 
 at him. 
 
 '* Patience, fellow ! The dead will not escape
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 271 
 
 you. What has this poor girl what has this 
 man done that in the peacefulness of death, a 
 howling, cursing, violating horde of worse than 
 beasts should desecrate that chamber, and cry 
 for blood that is already growing cold! It 
 were better that you make a funeral pyre of this 
 cursed house, and make a winding-sheet of flame 
 for these two unhappy ones. Fire is good when 
 the brain is tired, and when the body chills. 
 And the fire that warms their poor, cold limbs 
 will cool your bestial fury." 
 
 " Into the house ! Into the house ! " was now 
 the cry. 
 
 " Let us see for ourselves ! " rose the morbid 
 clamour, far and near. 
 
 There was a mighty forward movement that 
 appeared this time to be final and irresistible; 
 but Woolford, still in command, with a ges- 
 ture silenced them. His lips curled. A rage 
 greater than the crowd's had ever been, glowed, 
 leapt, and spread in his eyes. 
 
 " Curs ! " he cried, in tones that scorched. 
 " You don't dare to touch me ! Dare to lay a 
 hand on me, and I tell you that within an hour, 
 this very mob will take that man, and, like a 
 pack of jackals, will tear him, rend him, and 
 howl to see his blood sprinkle their clothing. 
 Back, you cowards ! Back, I say ! "
 
 272 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 Astounded, cowed, and expectant, the mob 
 halted, and stared at that fiery figure on the 
 steps. He was alone there now, for the whilom 
 leader had long since slipped down and hid him- 
 self. Woolford's face was pale, but still serene, 
 save for the anger in his eyes and the curling of 
 his lips. His head was thrown back, and his 
 form erect and proud. 
 
 " I haven't finished with you yet, you ver- 
 min ! " he sneered. " You are quite used to 
 being walked upon. Men, a thousand times less 
 than I, use you every day of your lives for their 
 own purposes. Oh, I know you! It's only 
 when you meet in a mob like this that you sud- 
 denly grow so brave; and find in your burnt- 
 out souls a little spark of courage a spark 
 that I can blow out with a breath. If I wanted 
 to walk out through this crowd unharmed, do 
 you think I could not do it ? Bah ! You would 
 open a passage for me would cringe away 
 from me and would shout my name as any 
 rabble does when it is permitted to see a real 
 man pass by. Do you think Henry Woolford 
 would accept his life from such as you? " 
 
 This was too much to be borne even by that 
 insensate herd; and the besotted souls, though 
 still afraid, were stirred to rage by these insults 
 heaped upon them with such daring.
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 273 
 
 " Lynch him ! Lynch him ! " they yelled. 
 
 " A rope ! Get a rope ! " they fairly 
 screamed in their frenzy. 
 
 As they pushed and struggled there was an 
 ominous sound like that of hungry swine chew- 
 ing on the husks. Woolford again attempted 
 to speak, but this time his effort was in vain. 
 The tumult grew. Yells, curses, and bellow- 
 ings of incoherent passion mingled and were 
 transformed into a roar like that of some great 
 furnace under draught. Men in their anger 
 fought and struggled with one another. Even 
 in the heat of their one intent, there was a mad 
 discordance. The men in the centre and in the 
 rear of the throng pushed upon those in front, 
 who, under the stern and challenging eyes of 
 Woolford, were stricken with sudden panic, and 
 strove to retreat. The result was that the 
 opposing waves of fury and of fear mingled, 
 met, and clashed. Men were trampled under 
 foot. Screams of pain and fright were added 
 to the general tumult. Woolford, calm and 
 contemptuous, stood and watched the swaying, 
 cursing, disordered mass of humanity; and be- 
 neath the scorn and the condemnation that were 
 depicted upon his countenance, there appeared 
 a little touch of pity. It lingered there a mo- 
 ment, like a thought of mercy in the heat of
 
 274 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 battle. Then, from somewhere across the 
 street, a report sounded faintly above the roar, 
 and a bullet went crashing through the door. 
 Woolford felt it fan his cheek; and a smile 
 cynical, cold, and merciless came upon his lips. 
 A minute longer he looked upon the scene ; then 
 turned, and walked into the house. 
 
 While the mob still tore itself, Woolford 
 went straight to Elise's room. He paused at 
 the door, and looked around slowly looked at 
 the splendid hangings, at the lights shining 
 through the silken ceiling, and at the rosewood 
 dressing-table. He walked over to the table, 
 and glanced over the array of trinkets. In the 
 midst of them stood a waxen candle in its stick 
 of gold. He picked this up, held it in his hand 
 a minute, and then threw it into a heap of silken 
 draperies, where they fell thickest from the wall 
 upon the floor. For a few seconds he fixed his 
 eyes upon it where it lay feebly flaring. Then 
 he turned, and walked over to the body of Elise, 
 where she lay upon the floor, in her gown of 
 white. One tiny foot protruded from beneath 
 the silken robe. A bit of her gleaming neck 
 was visible ; but there were flecks of red upon it, 
 and a great stain was upon the white, flimsy 
 garment. He knelt beside the body, raised it in 
 his arms, and pressed his lips once, twice, three
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 275 
 
 times, upon the frozen forehead. Then he 
 gently laid the stiffening form back upon the 
 roses of the carpet; and without rising to his 
 feet, drew a revolver from his pocket, placed it 
 carefully to his breast, and with steady pressure 
 pulled the trigger. The ball went true; and 
 Henry fell forward upon the body of the girl. 
 
 At the instant that the mob found courage to 
 enter the front door, Drake burst into the 
 kitchen in the rear. He was the first to enter 
 the room of roses. With a pang in his heart, 
 he knelt, and raised Woolford in his arms, and 
 found that he was still breathing. 
 
 " Henry ! " he called to him, softly, beseech- 
 ingly. 
 
 Woolford's eyes opened, and a faint smile of 
 recognition came and dwelt upon his face. 
 
 " Allan ! " he whispered, almost inaudibly. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " answered Drake, in a broken 
 voice, putting his ear close to the lips that were 
 already blue and almost too cold to shape the 
 words. But with a final effort, just as the eye- 
 lids drooped wearily, and closed, never to open 
 again, the dying man murmured : 
 
 " Tell Marcia it is better so. I leave 
 her to you." 
 
 He was dead. 
 
 The mob, a few seconds later, rushed into the
 
 276 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 room. Drake stood over the bodies of Wool- 
 ford and Elise ; and told them who he was, and 
 what had happened. The man who had taunted 
 them and held them at bay, was dead. They 
 could not harm him further. Awed, they 
 turned, stared at the gorgeous surroundings, 
 and then slowly quit the room. The word was 
 passed along, down the stairway, out into the 
 street, and through all the cooling crowd that 
 the lawyer had spoken the truth. 
 
 Drake, watching until the last ragged ruffian 
 stole out of Elise's apartments, dully recalling 
 all that had happened there, slowly realised the 
 tragedy. His wandering eyes suddenly lit upon 
 the letter Elise had left lying on her desk. He 
 picked it up, saw that it was addressed to him- 
 self and was about to open it, when his gaze 
 was drawn by something that chilled him and 
 held him spellbound for minutes where he stood. 
 On the great mirrored dressing-table was a tall, 
 slim vase, and in it a bunch of deep red, and 
 very large carnations. Unconsciously he found 
 
 himself counting, " one," " two," " three " 
 
 There were thirteen of them. As he looked at 
 this appalling thing, he became aware of an- 
 other object that dragged his reluctant gaze 
 away from the carnations, and held it even 
 more irresistibly. It was beyond them in a
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 277 
 
 corner of the room, and of even a brighter hue 
 than the brilliant flowers. It had long, up- 
 right leaves that lengthened and shortened, bent 
 and curled, twisted and writhed and grew. 
 Looking fixedly upon it, he saw strange blossoms 
 bloom among the leaves, like magic flowers in a 
 Hindoo miracle. They blossomed roundly, beau- 
 tifully, and spread and burst into a radiance. 
 Then suddenly the leaves were eaten up by the 
 flowers, and the flowers themselves became a 
 great leaping flame ; and wreaths of blue, pur- 
 ple, and orange vapour curved toward the 
 ceiling. 
 
 Drake, uttering a cry of alarm, thrust the let- 
 ter into his pocket, and rushed into the hall- 
 way. 
 
 " Fire ! " he shouted, frantically ; heard the 
 cry taken up in the hall below and outside the 
 house ; and stumbled back into the room of roses, 
 of blood, and of fire.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 They burnt a corpse upon the sand 
 
 The light shone out afar; 
 It guided home the plunging boats 
 
 That beat from Zanzibar. 
 Spirit of Fire, where'er Thy altars rise 
 Thou art Light of Guidance to our eyes ! 
 RITDYABO KIPLING. 
 
 IN the few seconds of Drake's absence from the 
 room of roses the fire had made amazing head- 
 way. When he returned it was with the pur- 
 pose to drag the bodies out of the burning 
 room, through the two other rooms, and into 
 the hallway, where he hoped by that time to 
 have assistance. He was confronted by a 
 sight that held him in the doorway helpless and 
 gasping for breath. The rose hues were now 
 beaten and discredited by the sweeping brushes 
 of the fire, furiously painting. Three sides of 
 the room were blazing. Long silken draperies 
 turned from rose to flame, and dropped in ashes 
 on the floor. Nervous tongues shot out, licked 
 the roses off the ceiling, laid bare the walls, and 
 fed upon the pictures on the dressing-table. 
 The smoke that lifted in blue wreaths toward the 
 278
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 279 
 
 ceiling was not heavy smoke, but had a faintly 
 aromatic odour, which sickened Drake before it 
 began to smother him. He stood but an in- 
 stant in the doorway, and then rushed for- 
 ward toward the bodies upon the floor. He 
 grasped the collar of Woolford's coat and 
 began to pull the body toward the door. But 
 even as he toiled, the flames reached the divan, 
 and a long, slim serpent of fire squirmed and 
 wriggled with incredible swiftness along the 
 edge of the orange robe and came to Elise's 
 foot, licking at her slipper with its many- 
 forked tongue, and swallowed it with a horrid 
 little lapping sound of greed. In another in- 
 stant it was in her lace and silken skirts, writh- 
 ing and hissing intolerably. He watched it till 
 a broad streamer of smoke floated from some- 
 where across his face, and hid the body from 
 sight. When he looked again, her clothing 
 was on fire from waist to hem, and the long, 
 slim serpent was at her throat. Drake uttered 
 a cry of horror, which was quickly changed 
 to one of dismay and pain ; for the flames now 
 leaped upon him, and he felt his clothing catch- 
 ing afire. He stepped back, and with one final 
 vision of the red serpent coiling itself among 
 the black rings of Elise's hair, and gasping for 
 breath, half-blinded, he staggered from the
 
 280 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 room and fell down the stairs. Upon reaching 
 the street, he hastened to the nearest drug store 
 to telephone a message to Marcia, who, through 
 all the excitement and horror of the night, had 
 been present in his thoughts. When kneeling 
 with Woolford in his arms and hearing his last 
 words, Drake's first impulse had been to go to 
 her; but that was then impossible, for the mob 
 was already in the house. Later, when he had 
 sent the ruffians away, and again when he had 
 gone out into the hallway to give the alarm of 
 fire, it was his intention to force his way from 
 the house and hasten to the Woolford home; 
 but immediate duty held him. Having failed 
 in his effort to save the bodies from the fire, he 
 was now free to go to Marcia. How could he 
 tell her what had happened? He would post- 
 pone it for a little while. Then an expedient 
 occurred to him. He got the night chief 
 operator, and secured a ready promise that the 
 Woolford telephone be disconnected for the re- 
 mainder of the night; he called up the night 
 captain of police and caused two detectives to 
 be sent to watch the Woolford home lest some 
 one might carry to her the news of her brother's 
 death. And finally he wrote the poor girl a 
 short note telling her that Henry was with him ; 
 that he was quite calm, but that he would take
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 281 
 
 him to Dr. Hammond's and leave him there. 
 Having accomplished all these things, Drake 
 walked rapidly to the Record office, his dom- 
 inating thought then being that he must write 
 the story of Henry Woolford's death. 
 
 When he reached the local room the other 
 men were writing furiously, but all stared at 
 him as he entered. His coat had been burnt 
 through in several places, and one sleeve was 
 gone. His hair was singed short on one side 
 of his head, his face was flushed and raw as the 
 result of its close contact with the flames, and 
 from under his singed eyebrows his eyes shone 
 feverishly and without meaning. He did not 
 speak, but went to his desk, arranged his 
 writing-paper, and grasped a pencil clumsily 
 in his bandaged hand. 
 
 " Henry Woolford is dead. He died " 
 
 He stopped, looked vacantly at the sentence, 
 and tore up the sheet of paper on which it was 
 written. He began once more, and destroyed 
 the next sheet as he had the first. Again and 
 again he tried in vain. The city editor came 
 and stood by his desk. 
 
 " Write as much as you can, Drake," he 
 said. " Yours will, of course, be the main 
 story three or four columns, I should say. 
 The others are writing features in detail."
 
 282 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 He looked sympathetically at Drake, but said 
 no more. It was not a time for personal solici- 
 tude. Drake stared a b'ttle longer at the sheet 
 of blank paper. Somehow he could not write 
 could not frame a sentence. In his brain there 
 was only a mad jumble of visions: Elise, Wool- 
 ford, the fire, Marcia. Mechanically he drew 
 his notebook from his pocket, and from between 
 the leaves dropped a letter. Slowly he opened 
 it and read: 
 
 Mon bien aime: 
 
 Elise lied to you to-night. You will not think un- 
 
 kindly of her, will you, Allan? Woolford is here. Do 
 
 not let them blame him. I am going to end it all in a few 
 
 moments. Le Bon Dieu will be merciful will pity me. 
 
 Je t'aime Je t 'adore Adieu, 
 
 Into the reddened eyes of Drake tears came 
 unwillingly. Poor girl! he said to himself, re- 
 membering how she had looked in the pride of 
 her beauty the laughing, tantalising crea- 
 ture. And she had loved him! He put the 
 thought aside to hasten with his writing, that 
 he might soon go to Marcia. How could he 
 ever tell her! And how could he write that 
 story! The lawyer was her brother, and his 
 friend. To parade their tragedy before the 
 curious eyes that would on the morrow devour
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 the pages of the paper ! It was bad enough 
 that somebody must feed the morbid hankerings 
 of the public with grief so private and so 
 humiliating as this; but that he Drake, the 
 friend the trusted friend, should do that 
 should sit there and with vivid words describe 
 the fall of Henry Woolford, and the pitiable 
 distress of the girl, the sister whom he loved 
 that was too much. He dropped his pencil; 
 then slowly picked it up again. The paper! 
 He had never dreamed that he could ever be 
 recreant, be disloyal, be found wanting there. 
 Must he now write that story, though it be with 
 his own heart's blood? 
 
 " A mob, fired by the rumour that the 
 strangler " 
 
 Again he stopped and looked around the 
 room. The other men were writing rapidly, 
 and in silence. Armstrong, chewing the stub 
 of a cigar, read page after page of copy, and 
 sent it to the composing-room. Upstairs the 
 linotypes rattled and jarred as the story of the 
 tragedy and of the mob went into type. The 
 night editor came in, looked anxiously at the 
 clock, and had a whispered conference with 
 Armstrong. It was now 2.15 o'clock. 
 
 Suddenly Drake ceased to stare about him, 
 bent forward, and wrote these words :
 
 284 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 I can't do it, Mr. Armstrong. This is my resignation. 
 
 ALLAK DRAKE. 
 
 Then he arose from his chair. His face, 
 still red from the effect of heat, was blotched 
 with pallor, and there was a look of anguish 
 in his eyes. He staggered out of the room, 
 almost unnoticed by the busy men around him. 
 Murphy saw him go, and stood up as if to fol- 
 low him; but hesitated, and finally sank back 
 into his seat. A reporter came in to say that 
 the fire was under control, but that the interior 
 of the building had been destroyed, and the 
 bodies of Elise and Woolford reduced to ashes 
 amid the ruins. 
 
 Presently Armstrong noticed that Drake was 
 not in the room. He walked over to the vacated 
 desk, looked for the heaped-up manuscript that 
 should have been there, and found only the pen- 
 cilled resignation. He became red with anger, 
 but did not speak till the flush had left his face, 
 and his voice was calm. 
 
 " Murphy," he said, " Drake is ill. You'll 
 have to write an introduction. Make it a col- 
 umn, if you can. It puts us in a bad hole, 
 but "
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 And I think in the lives of most women and men, 
 There are moments when all would go smooth and even, 
 
 If only the dead could find out when 
 To come back, and be forgiven. 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
 IT was October again. From the broad ve- 
 randah of Dr. Hammond's ranch-house, perched 
 high up in the foothills of the Rockies, Mar- 
 cia was watching the trees with their leaves 
 dipped in the sunset's overflow, and flaunting 
 their colours like little children vain of their 
 finery; and ever and anon glancing upward at 
 the towering peaks with their tops covered with 
 snow. The kind old doctor had offered the 
 place to them, and Drake gladly accepted that 
 which was practically a command from the 
 physician to enable Marcia to rest and regain 
 her health. Absorbed in the wonderful view 
 and her thoughts, she did not hear the foot- 
 steps behind her, and it was not until two 
 arms were put around her neck that the girl 
 cried : 
 
 " Why, Allan ! What made you so late ? I 
 expected you on the early train." 
 285
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 
 
 " Dearest, I missed it met Murphy 
 and " 
 
 " Always that Murphy," answered Marcia, 
 with a happy laugh. 
 
 " You had better not run down Murphy for 
 he's your friend," retorted Drake. 
 
 " Indeed ! And how so ? " 
 
 " Told me this morning that he never could 
 make out why you consented to marry me." 
 
 " Perhaps I had to have some one to take care 
 of me," she replied, coyly. 
 
 Drake smiled. 
 
 " As to that, it looks now as if I had married 
 quite an heiress. I saw Doctor Hammond yes- 
 terday. He expects the court to discharge him 
 as the executor of the estate this week. He has 
 done very well, considering how tangled things 
 were. You will own the house, a half-interest 
 in a good mining property and quite an amount 
 in gilt-edged securities, not counting 
 
 " My chief possession," Marcia broke in, 
 quickly. 
 
 Drake looked puzzled. 
 
 " ' A loaf of bread and thou,' " she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 They were silent a long time, their hands 
 tight in each other's grasp. Presently, as night 
 began to fall, he drew her into the " living-
 
 ART THOU THE MAN ? 287 
 
 room," where a sudden flaring of the flames in 
 the huge fireplace threw a gleam across her face, 
 heightening the colour there, burnishing the 
 rusty places the shadows had made in her hair. 
 
 As Drake regarded her thus, his thoughts 
 reverted to those terrible, ever-present days of 
 her sorrow. How she must have suffered ! How 
 she trusted and believed in him ! 
 
 " I love you, Marcia, dear," he said, simply. 
 
 " And you have quite forgotten that beauti- 
 ful girl? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And was she in love with you ? " 
 
 " No. No, dear, no ! If you knew all about 
 the poor girl you would understand feel very 
 sorry for her sad end." 
 
 Marcia dropped her hand from his and 
 pushed back some loosened locks of hair. There 
 was something in her attitude so sweet and wist- 
 ful that it keenly touched him. 
 
 " Shall I tell you about her, Marcia? " 
 
 The young wife did not answer at once ; but 
 for a while kept her eyes downcast, and her 
 fingers twitched nervously. Then, with swift, 
 final decision, she lifted her face up to him, and 
 there was a look upon it that he would treasure 
 even to the last moment of his life. 
 
 " No."
 
 288 ART THOU THE MAN f 
 
 " And you believe me ? " 
 
 " I love you ! " 
 
 Drake reached forward quickly and caught 
 her to him. Gently, almost reverently, he kissed 
 her, and there was much peace. 
 
 " If Henry were only here," said Marcia, 
 with intense emotion. 
 
 Drake did not answer, but fondled and 
 soothed her until, in a voice that trembled, she 
 murmured : 
 
 " That awful night, when Henry first told 
 me of his trouble, he said that we must, hand in 
 hand, go down through the fury of the storm 
 and, hand in hand, up to the sunlight on the 
 other side. Allan, dearest, this must be the 
 other side.** 
 
 THE END
 
 A 000132608