Quite suddenly Hendrie turned about and faced her. His face was thrown into the shadow by the light of the window, which was now behind him.
"These are past days, Mon," he said, in his decided fashion. "We have to do with errors, faults of the present. I must get to work at once to repair something of the damage I have done. You employed detectives.
Who?"
"The Redtown Agency."
"Good. I will see them at once. You must dine alone tonight. I will report later."
The man moved suddenly across to his desk, and one hand fell heavily upon the carved mahogany of it. He looked across into the face of the woman he loved, and the fire of a great purpose shone in his eyes.
"Thank G.o.d I am the rich man I am!" he cried. "Thank G.o.d for the power of wealth. You shall see, Mon, you shall see! Leave me now, for I must--work. Hark!"
The deep note of the dinner gong rang out its opulent song in the hall.
"Dinner!" Hendrie remained standing. "You had better go--now."
Monica reluctantly moved toward the door and opened it.
"Very well, dear," she said. "You will tell me all you have done--later. Thank G.o.d, there is no more need for secrecy between us."
The brilliant light of the hall silhouetted her figure as she stood.
But for once, though his eyes took in every detail of the picture she made, Alexander Hendrie remained wholly unappreciative.
His mind was already far away, moving swiftly over other, long past scenes. He was not even thinking of the innocent victim of his jealousy. He was traveling again the long, lean, cruel winter trail. He was once more toiling amid the snows of the bitter north.
"You are sure, sure--it can be done?"
The spell was broken.
"Sure," the man replied, with a heavy sigh.
The door closed. The darkened room was still and silent. For some moments the man remained standing where he was. Then he slowly moved over the soft rugs to the light switch on the wall, and his hand rested upon it. He hesitated. Then, with an impatient movement, he pressed the bra.s.s k.n.o.b, and the room was flooded with light.
He stared out across the sumptuous furnishings, but did not attempt to move. His face was ghastly in the glare of light. His eyes were full of horror and straining.
Presently he moved a step toward the desk. It was only one step. He halted. Slowly his look of horror deepened. He raised one great hand and pa.s.sed the fingers of it through his mane of tawny hair. It was the movement of a man half dazed. Then his lips moved.
"Audie!" he murmured, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Audie!"
CHAPTER III
TWO LETTERS
Number "Forty-nine" was standing just inside and clear of the door of his cell. It was dinner time in the Alston Penitentiary. On the gallery outside the faint hubbub of the distribution of food just reached him.
He was hungry, even for prison fare.
"Forty-nine" heard the trolley stop at the door of the next cell. He heard the click of the lock as the door was opened. Then came the sodden sound of something moist emptied into a pannikin, and then the swish of liquid. The door clicked again, and he knew his turn was next.
The trolley stopped. His door opened. A man, in the hideous striped costume, like his own, of a fellow-convict, winked up into his face. It was the friendly wink of an evil eye. The man pa.s.sed him in a loaf of black bread. Then, with a dexterity almost miraculous, a second loaf shot into "forty-nine"s" hands, and was immediately secreted in the rolled hammock, which served for a bed.
The whole thing was done almost under the very eyes of a watchful warder. But he remained in ignorance of it. The double ration was a friendly act that was more than appreciated, however evil the eye that winked its sympathy. The prisoner"s shining pannikin was filled, and a thin stream of cocoa was poured into his large tin cup. Then the trolley and its attendants pa.s.sed on, and the door automatically closed.
"Forty-nine" glanced about him, and, finally, sat on the floor of his cell. He sniffed at the vegetable stew in his pannikin, and tasted it.
Yes, he was too hungry to reject the watery slush. He took a loaf, tore it in shreds with his fingers and sopped it in the liquid. Then he devoured it as rapidly as the hard black crust would permit. After that his attention was turned to the cocoa. The same process was adopted here, and, by the time his meal was finished, and the process of cleaning his utensils was begun, his appet.i.te was fully appeased.
It was a hideous place, this dreadful cell. It was bare from the ceiling above to the hard floor on which he was sitting. In one corner a hammock was rolled up to a universal pattern adopted throughout the prison. There was a small box in one corner in which cleaning materials were carefully packed, and close by were placed two books from the prison library. For the rest there was nothing but the bare walls, in which, high up, was set a grated aperture to admit light and air.
After cleaning up his utensils in orthodox fashion "forty-nine" went to his box and produced a lump of uneatable, half cured bacon fat, left from his breakfast. With this he calmly set to work on a process of ma.s.saging his hands. The work of the convict prison was cruel. In a short while hands would become a mere mockery of their original form.
To obviate this, the fat bacon process had been adopted, and "forty-nine" had learned it from the fellow-convicts, more familiar with the ways and conditions of prison life.
"Forty-nine"s" self-appointed task was just completed when, without warning, the door of his cell suddenly opened, and the burly form of a rubber-shod warder appeared.
"Forty-nine! For the governor. Right away!"
There was just a suspicion of softening from the warder"s usual manner in the order.
"Forty-nine" looked up without interest. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks drawn. A deep, hopeless melancholy seemed to weigh upon his whole expression. A year of one of the hardest penitentiaries in the country, with the prospect of years of service yet to complete, left hope far beyond the reach of his crushed spirit. He stood up obediently. His manner was pathetically submissive. His great frame, little more than frame, towered over his guard.
The man stood aside from the doorway and the convict pa.s.sed out.
The governor looked up from his desk in the center of a large, simply furnished hall. Behind a wrought iron cage at the far end of the apartment stood number "Forty-nine," with the warder close behind.
The governor turned to his secretary and spoke in an undertone. He was a youngish, baldheaded man who had acquired nothing of the hardness of visage to be found in his subordinates. Just now there was something almost like a kindly, sympathetic twinkle in his eyes as he opened out a sheaf of papers, evidently to do with the man just ushered into his presence.
The secretary rose from his seat and walked over to the iron cage.
Unfastening a heavy lock he flung it open. To the prisoner, full of the bitterness of his lot, it almost seemed as though he were some wild beast being suddenly released from captivity.
The secretary signed to the warder to bring his charge into the room.
This unusual proceeding left the astonished warder at a loss. And it required a sharp order from the governor himself to move him.
"Forty-nine" was conducted to the far side of the desk, and the governor looked him in the face.
"I am pleased to be able to inform you--er--a free pardon has been--er--extended to you."
The announcement was made in formal tones, but the look in the eyes of the speaker was the only human thing to be found in the notorious Alston Penitentiary. Even the worst criminals who were brought into contact with Governor Charles Raymond had, however grudgingly, to admit his humanity, which only left it the greater mystery that the methods of his prison were all so directly opposed to his nature.
"Forty-nine" started. For a moment the settled melancholy of his cadaverous face lightened. A hand went up to his head as though to ascertain that he was not dreaming. It came into contact with the bristles of his cropped hair, and dropped at once to his side.
"I"m to go--free, sir?"
"That"s precisely what I"m telling you."