Agatha Webb - Anna Katharine Green (rm book recommendations txt) 📗

escaped his own lips in the forest, it produced an effect upon him which was only second in intensity to the terror of the discovery that the money he had so safely hidden was gone.

Trembling in every limb, he dashed down the hill and confronted the person standing there.

“You!” he cried, “you!” And for a moment he looked as if he would like to fell to the ground the man before him.

But this man was a heavyweight of no ordinary physical strength and adroitness, and only smiled at Frederick’s heat and threatening attitude.

“I thought I would be made welcome,” he smiled, with just the hint of sinister meaning in his tone. Then, before Frederick could speak: “I have merely saved you a trip to Boston; why so much anger, friend? You have the money; of that I am positive.”

“Hush! We can’t talk here,” whispered Frederick. “Come into the grounds, or, what would be better, into the woods over there.”

“I don’t go into any woods with you,” laughed the other; “not after last night, my friend. But I will talk low; that’s no more than fair; I don’t want to put you into any other man’s power, especially if you have the money.”

“Wattles,”—Frederick’s tone was broken, almost unintelligible,— “what do you mean by your allusion to last night? Have you dared to connect me–”

“Pooh! Pooh!” interrupted the other, good-humouredly. “Don’t let us waste words over a chance expression I may have dropped. I don’t care anything about last night’s work, or who was concerned in it. That’s nothing to me. All I want, my boy, is the money, and that I want devilish bad, or I would not have run up here from Boston, when I might have made half a hundred off a countryman Lewis brought in from the Canada wilds this morning.”

“Wattles, I swear–”

But the hand he had raised was quickly drawn down by the other.

“Don’t,” said the older man, shortly. “It won’t pay, Sutherland. Stage-talk never passed for anything with me. Besides, your white face tells a truer story than your lips, and time is precious. I want to take the 11 o’clock train back. So down with the cash. Nine hundred and fifty-five it is, but, being friends, we will let the odd five go.”

“Wattles, I was to bring it to you to-morrow, or was it the next day? I do not want to give it to you to-night; indeed, I cannot, but—Wattles, wait, stop! Where are you going?”

“To see your father. I want to tell him that his son owes me a debt; that this debt was incurred in a way that lays him liable to arrest for forgery; that, bad as he thinks you, there are facts which can be picked up in Boston which would render Frederick Sutherland’s continued residence under the parental roof impossible; that, in fact, you are a scamp of the first water, and that only my friendship for you has kept you out of prison so long. Won’t that make a nice story for the old gentleman’s ears!”

“Wattles—I—oh, my God! Wattles, stop a minute and listen to me. I have not got the money. I had enough this morning to pay you, had it legitimately, Wattles, but it has been stolen from me and—

-”

 

“I will also tell him,” the other broke in, as quietly as if Frederick had not uttered a word, “that in a certain visit to Boston you lost five hundred dollars on one hand; that you lost it unfairly, not having a dollar to pay with; that to prevent scandal I be came your security, with the understanding that I was to be paid at the end of ten days from that night; that you thereupon played again and lost four hundred and odd more, so that your debt amounted to nine hundred and fifty-five dollars; that the ten days passed without payment; that, wanting money, I pressed you and even resorted to a threat or two; and that, seeing me in earnest, you swore that the dollars should be mine within five days; that instead of remaining in Boston to get them, you came here; and that this morning at a very early hour you telegraphed that the funds were to hand and that you would bring them down to me to-morrow. The old gentleman may draw conclusions from this, Sutherland, which may make his position as your father anything but grateful to him. He may even—Ah, you would try that game, would you?”

The young man had flung himself at the older man’s throat as if he would choke off the words he saw trembling on his lips. But the struggle thus begun was short. In a moment both stood panting, and Frederick, with lowered head, was saying humbly:

“I beg pardon, Wattles, but you drive me mad with your suggestions and conclusions. I have not got the money, but I will try and get it. Wait here.”

“For ten minutes, Sutherland; no longer! The moon is bright, and I can see the hands of my watch distinctly. At a quarter to ten, you will return here with the amount I have mentioned, or I will seek it at your father’s hands in his own study.”

Frederick made a hurried gesture and vanished up the walk. Next moment he was at his father’s study door.

XIII WATTLES GOES

Mr. Sutherland was busily engaged with a law paper when his son entered his presence, but at sigh of that son’s face, he dropped the paper with an alacrity which Frederick was too much engaged with his own thoughts to notice.

“Father,” he began without preamble or excuse, “I am in serious and immediate need of nine hundred and fifty dollars. I want it so much that I ask you to make me a check for that amount to-night, conscious though I am that you have every right to deny me this request, and that my debt to you already passes the bound of presumption on my part and indulgence on yours. I cannot tell you why I want it or for what. That belongs to my past life, the consequences of which I have not yet escaped, but I feel bound to state that you will not be the loser by this material proof of confidence in me, as I shall soon be in a position to repay all my debts, among which this will necessarily stand foremost.”

The old gentleman looked startled and nervously fingered the paper he had let fall. “Why do you say you will soon be in a position to repay me? What do you mean by that?”

The flash, which had not yet subsided from the young man’s face, ebbed slowly away as he encountered his father’s eye.

“I mean to work,” he murmured. “I mean to make a man of myself as soon as possible.”

The look which Mr. Sutherland gave him was more inquiring than sympathetic.

“And you need this money for a start?” said he.

Frederick bowed; he seemed to be losing the faculty of speech. The clock over the mantel had told off five of the precious moments.

“I will give it to you,” said his father, and drew out his check-book. But he did not hasten to open it; his eyes still rested on his son.

“Now,” murmured the young man. “There is a train leaving soon. I wish to get it away on that train.”

His father frowned with natural distrust.

“I wish you would confide in me,” said he.

Frederick did not answer. The hands of the clock were moving on.

“I will give it to you; but I should like to know what for.”

“It is impossible for me to tell you,” groaned the young man, starting as he heard a step on the walk without.

“Your need has become strangely imperative,” proceeded the other. “Has Miss Page–”

Frederick took a step forward and laid his hand on his father’s arm.

“It is not for her,” he whispered. “It goes into other hands.”

Mr. Sutherland, who had turned over the document as his son approached, breathed more easily. Taking up his pen, he dipped it in the ink. Frederick watched him with constantly whitening cheek. The step on the walk had mounted to the front door.

“Nine hundred and fifty?” inquired the father.

“Nine hundred and fifty,” answered the son.

The judge, with a last look, stooped over the book. The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten.

“Father, I have my whole future in which to thank you,” cried Frederick, seizing the check his father held out to him and making rapidly for the door. “I will be back before midnight.” And he flung himself down-stairs just as the front door opened and Wattles stepped in.

“Ah,” exclaimed the latter, as his eye fell on the paper fluttering in the other’s hand, “I expected money, not paper.”

“The paper is good,” answered Frederick, drawing him swiftly out of the house. “It has my father’s signature upon it.”

“Your father’s signature?”

“Yes.”

Wattles gave it a look, then slowly shook his head at Frederick.

“Is it as well done as the one you tried to pass off on Brady?”

Frederick cringed, and for a moment looked as if the struggle was too much for him. Then he rallied and eying Wattles firmly, said:

“You have a right to distrust me, but you are on the wrong track, Wattles. What I did once, I can never do again; and I hope I may live to prove myself a changed man. As for that check, I will soon prove its value in your eyes. Follow me upstairs to my father.”

His energy—the energy of despair, no doubt seemed to make an impression on the other.

“You might as well proclaim yourself a forger outright, as to force your father to declare this to be his signature,” he observed.

“I know it,” said Frederick.

“Yet you will run that risk?”

“If you oblige me.”

Wattles shrugged his shoulders. He was a magnificent-looking man and towered in that old colonial hall like a youthful giant.

“I bear you no ill will,” said he. “If this represents money, I am satisfied, and I begin to think it does. But listen, Sutherland. Something has happened to you. A week ago you would have put a bullet through my head before you would have been willing to have so compromised yourself. I think I know what that something is. To save yourself from being thought guilty of a big crime you are willing to incur suspicion of a small one. It’s a wise move, my boy, but look out! No tricks with me or my friendship may not hold. Meantime, I cash this check to-morrow.” And he swung away through the night with a grand-opera selection on his lips.

XIV A FINAL TEMPTATION

Frederick looked like a man thoroughly exhausted when the final echo of this hateful voice died away on the hillside. For the last twenty hours he had been the prey of one harrowing emotion after another, and human nature could endure no more without rest.

But rest would not come. The position in which he found himself, between Amabel and the man who had just left, was of too threatening a nature for him to ignore. But one means of escape presented itself. It was a cowardly one; but anything was better than to make an attempt to stand his ground against two such merciless antagonists; so he resolved upon flight.

Packing up a few necessaries and leaving a letter behind him for his father, he made his way down the stairs of the now darkened house to a door opening upon the garden. To his astonishment he found it unlocked, but, giving little heed to this in his excitement, he opened it with caution,