The Rose in the Ring

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"He told me, over there in the police station, three years ago, that
he had won your love, that you lived for him alone. He lied. I could
kill him once for that lie. He told me, in the next breath, that you
and he were going to sell Christine to a certain French nobleman, who
already had a wife and family. He lied again. I could kill him once
more for that lie. He told me--"

"Don't! Don't! For God's sake, don't tell me any more," she groaned,
horror-stricken.

He went on. "He taunted me, he laughed at me. I was up there for three
years. In all that time his damned sneers and laughter were never out
of my mind. He laughed at me because the drunken bargain I had made
with him had turned out to his credit, after all."

"The sale?"

"Yes."

He looked away. The expression in her eyes cut him like a knife.

"I ought to have been shot for that, Mary," he said.

"Yes," she agreed mechanically.

His hand went to his mouth suddenly, as if to steady the lips.

"I'm not asking you to overlook it. Maybe you'll spare Christine the
knowledge of it--not for my sake, but for hers."

"Tom, don't you feel that you owe _me_ something?" she asked
steadily.

"Everything. I'm going to pay, too. I took you from a home like this
and--Oh, well, it won't do any good to bring it all up again. Let's--"

"You owe me a little happiness and peace, Tom, after all these years."

"Oh, I'll go away all right. This is the last time you'll ever see
me."

"It isn't that that I ask. There was a time when we were happy, you
and I. I do not forget the old days, before you--I mean, when we were
working together, you and I, to get control of the circus. Not that I
liked the life--God knows I did not! but that we were striving for
big, good things. I--"

"You got your money back," he broke in weakly. "That's more than I
did."

"What had I ever done to you, Tom, that you should sell me as if I
were a concubine to--"

"Didn't I tell you it was whiskey--and cards?" he cried fiercely.

"True. You _did_ tell me that," she admitted, closing her eyes.
He looked at the lowered lids for a moment and then swore softly to
himself--not an oath of anger but of despair. She opened her eyes and
caught the fleeting look of shame and remorse. "Ah," she cried, "you
_have_ a heart, after all. I saw it then. Tom, you _did_ love me, years
ago--you were fine and strong and true. You were yourself. You have
changed, but I can still see something of the strong, manly Tom
Braddock _I_ loved in those wonderful days."

He was scowling again, but she had seen through the mask. She went on
eagerly: "You are obsessed by this idea of vengeance. What can it mean
to you, after all is said and done? You say you are going to end your
own life, as well. You will escape the consequences, as any coward
would, and you are _not_ a coward. Who stays behind to suffer all
the pain and anguish? Not you! Oh, no! I am the one--as if you had not
already done enough. Christine and I! We--"

"I won't listen to you!" he cried, his breast heaving.

"You are listening! You can't help it. Come! You must sit down here
beside me. This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life."

[Illustration: "This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life"]

He drew back and permitted an irrelevant question to break from his
lips: "Why didn't you divorce me?"

"Because I married you, Tom, that is why! I'll always be your wife. I
--I can't live with you--but I--"

"Mary, you are the grandest woman in all this world," he cried,
amazement in his eyes. "And to think of it! I am the one to have
married you,--a thing like me!"

She was trembling all over. "Will you do this for me, Tom?"

"Do what?"

"You know what, Tom."

"You mean, give up the one thing I've lived for all these awful
years?"

"Yes."

"I--I can't do it, Mary. It's got to be, sooner or later. That man and
I can't live on the earth at the same time."

"Oh! Won't you give me something to thank you for after all I've--"

"Wait a minute! Let me think!" He began pacing the floor again. She
watched him with bated breath, a half-hope in her heart. He stopped
before her once more. His eyes were bright with a new, strange light.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mary,--for you and Christine. I'll put an
end to myself. That's the best way out of it. I can't live if he does.
Wait a minute! It's the simplest, surest way. Don't breathe a word of
this to any one. I'll go down to the river to-night. That will be the
end of it all. I swear to you, I won't hunt up Grand,--on my word of
honor, if you will believe that I have any honor. There is some sort
of integrity in a man who can fight the battle I have--and without
wavering or whimpering. I'll do that for you, Mary. It's the safest
way."

She had heard him at first with a sickening horror in her soul. It was
a frightful compromise that he proposed. She knew he meant it, that he
would keep his word. She understood how great the sacrifice would be
on his part, how bitter the defeat; and she realized that he was doing
it to justify himself in her eyes. As he got deeper into his amazing
proposition, her clearing brain began to discern the rift in his
armor. Not that she saw a sign of weakness beyond, but that the
humanness of his strength was being revealed to her. There was an
authority in his offer that dispelled all doubt as to the cloudiness
of his mental vision. He was seeing things clearly. His sacrifice lay
in the willingness to forego the joy of killing another man before he
carried out his original design to make way with himself. She studied
his face for a moment before speaking. There was something like
gladness there--a truly bright glow that told of the relief he had
found in at last doing something to please her!

"Is there no other way, Tom?" she asked, so quietly that his eyes
narrowed with a curious intentness.

"It's the only one," he said grimly.

She walked over to the window and looked down into the area-way. Her
heart was throbbing loudly.

"To-night?" she asked in muffled tones.

"If I don't do it to-night I'll do something worse to-morrow," he
said.

"You promise me,--on your word of honor?"

He started. "Certainly. I'll do it."

She turned to face him, her back to the light. He could not see the
expression in her eyes.

"You will do this for me, Tom?"

He nodded his head, that was all.

"Take your own life?"

"I was going to do it anyway. Before they could hang me."

Both were silent for a long time. Neither had changed position.

"You won't tell Christine that I did it, will you? Just say that I
went away--to South America, I guess."

"I will not tell her, Tom."

"Is she going to marry David Jenison?"

"I hope so."

"Well, she'll feel easier in her mind if she knows I'm gone for good,
then. Maybe you'd better tell her I'm dead."

He said it as calmly as if he were announcing the time of day, but he
was none the less earnest.

"There is one alternative, Tom," she said, at last coming to the plan
she had had in mind from the beginning.

"You're not thinking of--of taking me back," he said, aghast at the
very thought of it.

"No. I'm going to make an offer that will give you greater
satisfaction than that. Will you go away from New York forever, if I
pay over to you every cent that I received for my share in Van
Slye's--"

"No!" he almost shouted. "You can't _buy_ me off. I was willing to do
the right thing a minute ago. Now, you've gone and spoiled it all." He
clapped his hands to his eyes; his big frame shook with rage.

She went quickly to him.

"Now, I _know_ you are a man--a big man, Tom. I am prouder of you now
than I ever was in all my life."

He looked bewildered. "You mean, you did that to _try_ me?"

"To try myself," was her enigmatic response,

"Well?"

She stood back and looked at him intently.

"I still have your promise. You _will_ do it to-night?"

He stared at her as if he could not believe his ears, but he said
resolutely:

"Of course, I will."

CHAPTER VIII

COLONEL GRAND AND THE CRONKS

She walked away from him and sat down in one of the big chairs, as if
her limbs suddenly had lost the power to support her. He pulled his
crumpled hat from his pocket and fumbled it for a few moments. She sat
there, looking at him, her lips parted.

"Well," he began, "I guess I'd better be going."

"Going? Where are you going?" she demanded, suddenly alert.

"Oh, out somewhere. I've got ten or twelve hours to kill."

She struggled to her feet.

"Tom, you are not going to leave this house until to-night."

He drew back, amazed.

"What?"

"I am going down to the river with you."

Comprehension was slow in filtering into his brain. A ghastly pallor
spread over his face.

"What did you say?"

"I am going to the river with you. But you must stay here until to-
night. You are not to go out into the streets. Do you understand?"

"You can't mean that--Why, you must be crazy. You? Why--why, I'm doing
it so that you can _live_. You can't mean what you're thinking of--" He
could not complete the sentence. A heavy sweat broke out on his
forehead.

She forced a miserable smile to her lips. "You do not understand me,
Tom. I am going down to the river with you, but I am coming back
alone."

He slowly grasped the meaning of it.

"You--you're going down to see that I do make an end of it?" he cried.

"I want to be sure, for Christine's sake," she said, quite steadily.

He was glaring at her now. "Oh, I see. You don't trust me," he
exclaimed bitterly. He put out his hand to steady himself against the
library table. "I can't say that I blame you, either. But I won't stay
here. I would, if it would do any good, but how can it? The police are
likely to pile in here any minute with a warrant for me. That would be
fine, wouldn't it?" He strode to the window and tried to look through
the passage into the street. "I don't want to be pinched now. Go and
look out of the front windows--go on! See if there's any one out
there."

She did not move.

"Ain't you going to look?" he demanded.

"The police?" dropped from her lips dully. She had overlooked the
danger from that direction, although her mind had been so full of it a
little while before. "He won't send them here, Tom--"

"Of course, he will," he broke in irascibly. "He's crazy mad, and
he'll act quickly to head off Jenison's warrant. I can't stay here--
not another minute. Can't I get out the back way? They may be laying
for me in front. Don't look like that, Mary! I can give 'em the slip.
It won't do to have them nab me here. Just think of the newspapers!
Wake up! Don't you see? And listen: I'll do what I said I would--to-
night. I swear it. You can trust me, Mary. Now, quick, show me the way
out--and don't let me bump into Christine. I--I couldn't stand that. I
don't want to lose my nerve."

She left him and ran into the next room to look out into the avenue.
He followed rapidly.

"There are two men standing at the corner," she whispered in alarm. He
would have looked out if she had not dragged him away.

"It would be terrible if they were to come in here," she was saying
distractedly. "Yes, you must go." She grasped his arm. "Tom, you may
go if you'll promise to come back tonight."

"What's that for?"

"Because I insist. At ten o'clock--or any time you may choose. Only
you _must_ come back."

He studied her face curiously. Something stirred in his heart, but it
had been so long since anything had touched that organ that he failed
to credit himself with an emotion. Whatever it was, it impelled him to
submit to her demand.

"I'll come," he said uneasily. "I don't see any use in it, though. We
can say goodby now."

"No!" she exclaimed. "It must be to-night."

"All right, then. I'll come at ten,--_the back way_."

Without another word she hurried him through the intervening rooms to
the servants' entrance. They passed Brooks in the rear hall. He bowed
stiffly to Braddock. Brooks had been listening at a keyhole.

She opened the door and pointed the way with a trembling hand.

"There is the alley, Tom,--through the little gate. Be very careful."

He did not respond. Turning his face away resolutely, he stalked down
the narrow steps, and, without so much as a glance behind, hurried off
toward the alley-gate. She watched him pass through it, a strange
cramp of disappointment in her heart because he had resisted the
temptation to look back at his judge. How long she stood there stark
and silent she did not know.

Brooks, the footman, was speaking to her.

"Miss Christine is ill, ma'am," he said, from somewhere behind her.
"The housekeeper thinks she has fainted, ma'am."

Colonel Grand was in a quandary. He was not afraid of the Braddocks,
but he was distinctly alarmed over the intervention and attitude of
David Jenison. That aggressive, determined young man had made a threat
which struck something like terror to his heart. The more he thought
of it, the more insistent became the conviction that Jenison held the
whip hand over him. It was not altogether incomprehensible, this
amazing turn of affairs. He _had_ drawn a revolver, and he had put
himself in a decidedly uncomfortable position, with at least four
witnesses against him, three of whom he could not hope to buy off in
case of an inquiry.

His first thought on driving away from the Portman house was to rush
over to the nearest police station and set the officers of the law on
the track of the man he feared and hated, in the hope that he might
forestall any action on Jenison's part. On second thoughts, he decided
that it would be wiser to make haste slowly. He was in the unhappy
position of having to consider his own daughter as one of the
witnesses. His brain was working rapidly despite the fact that his
daughter was doing all in her power to distract it by an unrestrained
flow of invective against--not the Braddocks, but David Jenison!

To her surprise and subsequent rage he suddenly broke in with the
announcement that she was to take the first afternoon train out of the
city. He had some difficulty in making it plain that her speedy
departure was necessary to her own as well as to his personal comfort.
While she was still arguing and pleading to be allowed to stay and
fight it out with him he stuck his head through the window and
instructed the driver to take them to his hotel instead of to the
police station, as first directed.

With characteristic decisiveness he directed Roberta to begin her
packing as soon as she reached her room. She entreated him to come
away with her before Jenison could carry out his threat, but he
sharply refused, already having in mind a plan of action, desperate
but effective. His first step, however, met with an unexpected rebuke.
On the arrival at the hotel he took the cabman aside and deliberately
offered him a large sum of money on condition that he would swear that
Braddock drew or attempted to draw a revolver. The cabman thought it
over. Then he refused.

"Money won't tempt me," he said doggedly, "although God knows I need
it. You pulled a gun on him, and he didn't have any that I could see.
That young feller took my name and number. He'd catch me in the lie,
sure as shootin'. And, say, they sent a couple of guys up for perjury
just last week, pals of mine, they were. Not for me, guv'nor. I'll
stick to the truth, just to see how it feels."

"But the man has sworn to kill me!"

"You pulled a gun on him," retorted the driver surlily. "I don't like
that kind of business. And I guess, if they happen to ask me, I'll
just mention that you tried to buy me off, too. Ta-ta! Maybe I'll see
you later." And away he went, less virtuous than nature intended him
to be, but wholly satisfied that he possessed a conscience, after all.

The Colonel, grim and furtive, accompanied Roberta to the station and
saw her safely off. By three or four o'clock in the afternoon he began
to feel reasonably certain that Jenison had failed in his attempt to
secure a warrant, or had been turned from his purpose by that cool-
headed, far-seeing woman, Mary Braddock. He remained in his rooms,
disdaining flight or subterfuge. All through the long, hot afternoon,
he paced the floor or sat in the windows, nervously awaiting the
descent of the officers. They did not come. His spirits took wing
again as the close of the day drew down upon him. He had waited, with
all the stoicism of the born gambler, for the crash and it had not
come; he had taken the chance; to use his own expression, he "stood
pat."

At six o'clock he threw away his half-smoked cigar and sauntered forth
from the hotel. The Colonel was very punctilious in that respect: he
made it a point not to smoke in the street.

Although he was now quite comfortably sure that there was no immediate
danger of arrest, he still was confronted by the ugly certainty that
Tom Braddock was hard upon his heels and that no amount of persuasion
could have turned him from his purpose. His blood went cold from time
to time when he permitted himself to recall the set, implacable
expression in the man's face, and the tigerish strength that marked
every repressed movement of his body. Robert Grand knew that
Braddock's sole object in life now was to kill him. He knew that the
meeting could not long be deferred; and when it came, he would not
have one chance in a thousand against this wily, determined giant.
Braddock would accomplish his end, of that he was as sure as he was
certain that the sun would rise in the morning. It was in the cards.
He knew. He was a true-born gambler, with all the instincts, all the
wiles, all the insight of one who courts Chance and fights it at the
same time. Such men as Robert Grand go on defying Fate to the bitter
end, but they know that there will be an end, and in the end they are
bound to lose.

This man, a lifelong tempter of Fate, had learned early in the game
that the gravest errors in the category of crime came under that
lachrymose heading, "wasted energy." Men of his stamp make it a point
never to do anything that may be safely left undone, nor are they
guilty of overlooking the act that should be performed. They think
quickly and soundly, and they act at the proper time: never too soon,
never too late.

He had an object in remaining in his rooms during the afternoon, just
as he had a purpose in venturing forth at six. That was the hour when
the streets were crowded to their capacity by restless homeward-bound
pedestrians, and the saloons, by those who paused in their haste. His
tall, slightly stooped figure moved through the hurrying throng until
he came to one of the most famous of the sporting bars. He entered,
and, without looking to right or left, made his way to the small cafe
in the rear. A man seated at one of the little tables looked up and
nodded. Grand took the chair opposite to this person and, after an
exchange of greetings for the benefit of the waiter, ordered oysters
and a pint of musty ale. The Colonel had his principal meal at
midnight.

"Do you know where Braddock is?" he demanded as soon as the waiter had
left the table.

"Sure," said the man opposite. "He's laying low in that dive over on--
"

"Nothing of the kind," interrupted Grand sharply. Fixing him with his
cold, steady eyes, he went on: "You are a wonderful spotter, you are.
So you've been watching that place over there all day, have you? And
you are sure he's there, eh? Well, let me tell you how damned
worthless you are. I expected you'd have him behind the bars before
ten o'clock, but--"

"Say, Colonel, on the square, the police here are the slowest bunch
of--"

"Never mind," snapped the Colonel. "He's still at large, and he's not
over there at Dick Cronk's. So much for your fine detective work."

The man was an operative for one of the biggest private detective
agencies in New York. It was his duty, and had been for years, to
_watch the police_ in order that Colonel Grand's _sub rosa_ interests
might be preserved from the fatal inconstancies of a greedy department.

Just now he was devoting his time to Tom Braddock, laying the trap for
the one man his employer feared more than he feared all the laws of
the land and all the authorities behind them.

The Colonel related his experiences of the morning. The private
detective perspired freely. He realized how near his employer had been
to death, and all through him. All efforts to explain his unhappy
mistake met with curt interruptions from the Colonel.

"Now," said that worthy, in conclusion, "I want you to find out if
Braddock has returned to Cronk's place. Naturally the police could not
find him this afternoon. He wasn't there. But he may go back to-night.
His wife won't be able to hold him under her thumb. Find this Cronk
fellow--the deformed one, I mean--and tell him I want to see him. Tell
him it is worth just one thousand dollars to him, and possibly five
times that amount. Send him up the rear stairway at Broadso's. I'll be
in room five until twelve o'clock to-night. Any time after eight he
will find me there--alone. You know where he lives; go and find him.
Then make sure that Braddock is at Dick Cronk's room. That's all."

At half-past eight o'clock that evening Ernie Cronk stole up the
stairway in the rear of Broads's saloon. He slunk down the narrow,
dimly-lighted hallway until he came to a door which bore the numeral
five. For a full minute he stood there irresolute, held inactive by
the two mental elements that bear such close kinship to each other--
apprehension and greed. At last, with a stealthy glance at the lighted
transoms down the hall, he tapped on the panel of the door. Colonel
Grand himself opened the door and held it ajar that he might enter.

The hunchback glanced quickly around the room. He had never been there
before, but he knew in an instant where he was and what manner of
traffic was carried on in this small, close room with the green-
covered table in the center, over which was suspended a fully lighted
chandelier. The door closed gently behind him and a key was turned in
the lock. Like a trapped rat, he whirled at this ominous sound.

Colonel Grand, smiling suavely, stood between him and the door.

"Don't be alarmed, Ernie," said he in his oiliest tones. "Sit down, my
lad. We're quite alone and we won't be disturbed. I am master of the
hall, as they would say in England."

He motioned to a chair beyond the table, and, bowing politely, settled
himself in one nearer the door.

"What's the game?" demanded Ernie Cronk, his long, bony fingers
fumbling his flat derby hat. "Brown said you wanted to see me."

"Where's your brother Dick?" asked the Colonel irrelevantly, leaning
forward a trifle.

"Dick? Why, he's--he's--I don't know where he is. He's got a place of
his own somewheres. I don't see much of him these days. I can't afford
it, to be honest, Colonel."

"His reputation, eh? Well, I don't blame you. He didn't come over here
with you, did he?"

Ernie started. His gaze wavered ever so slightly, but the Colonel
noted the change.

"I haven't seen him in a week," said the hunchback steadily.

"You are lying, Ernie. He's across the street now, waiting for you."

"So help me God, Colonel--" began Ernie, but the Colonel checked the
denial without ceremony.

"I am just as sure that he came over here with you to-night as I am
sure that you are sitting there. I thought you'd bring him. That's why
I sent for you. I knew it was the easiest way to get him here. He
wouldn't come if I sent for him, but he'd go anywhere on earth if you
asked him to. We'll wait a quarter of an hour, Ernie, before we
proceed to business. At the end of that period I'll open the door
suddenly and we'll find Artful Dick Cronk standing in the hall. To
make it all the more interesting I'll present you with ten dollars if
he isn't there."

Ernie's ferret-like eyes blinked in sheer amazement. Down in his mean
little heart there always had been a dark fear of this rather imposing
man; in his mind there was a no uncertain estimate of the Colonel's
almost supernatural power to read the thoughts of others.

"If he's outside there I don't know it," he said doggedly.

"You told him I had sent for you, Ernie. Don't lie. I know you did.
It's all right. So, you see, my little strategy worked out
beautifully. I want to see Dick quite as much as I do you. We'll wait
until he comes up to see what's happened to you."

Ernie hesitated, then broke out with an uneasy note in his voice. "You
said it would be worth a thousand and maybe more to me. Well, I'm
square with Dick. He divides with me. I want to let him in on anything
good that comes my way."

"I see. You are willing to divide with him, so you are going to let
him in on condition that he will do _all_ the dirty work while you sit
back and boss the job. I see. You are a great financier, Ernie."

"You ought to see my new flat over in Eighth Street," said Ernie
proudly, quite taken in by the Colonel's none too gentle sarcasm.

"You don't share that with Dick, I imagine."

"Well, hardly!" ejaculated Dick's brother. Suddenly his uneasiness
developed into a sort of whining protest. "Say, if you got anything to
say to me, say it. I got to be moving along. If I can make a thousand
honestly, I'm on the job. What's--"

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