The Girl Who Had No God/Part 10

"He is sound asleep." she said smilingly. "He thinks I am someone named 'Elinor,' and he calls me that. As my own name is Sarah, it's rather pleasant."

Ward had been shot on Sunday night. By the following Wednesday he was out of danger.

On the same Wednesday the rector of St. Jude's brought himself and his rheumatism back to the parish.

For three days, Elinor had hardly ate or slept. Never once had she been in Ward's room, but always, day and night, she was just outside. When, on that Wednesday evening the doctor said Ward would live she went down once more into her garden.

Many times during those three days had Elinor tried to pray to Ward's  God and found herself voiceless and inarticulate. But now, out of the depth of her great relief, came welling the first prayer of her life. She stood waist-deep among her phlox and larkspur.

"I thank thee," she said. "I thank thee." ...

Nothing had been heard of Huff. The assault on the assistant rector of Saint Jude's had been of a line with the other mysterious happenings around the village. The little town was hag-ridden with fear. Extra constables had been sworn in, and from the hall, during her long night vigils, Elinor had seen many lighted windows, where there had been but the one.

The problem of her future began to obsess her. It was plainly impossible to stay on here—not that she feared exposure: she was quite past fear—but the thought of going on with her life was intolerable. To meet Ward, to see again the scorn and loathing in his eyes, more than all, to continue to deserve them—those were the things that to Elinor seemed worse than death itself.

All the philosophy that old Hilary had taught her failed her now. The revolt of the individual against laws made for the masses—what had it brought her but isolation and grief? Of what use was revolt? All must go through the mills of the gods. She knew that now. There were no exceptions. And something else she had learned: that if one is to live through great crises one must have a higher power to turn to for help. She had felt it vaguely at the time of her father's death. Sitting outside Ward's door she had known it. Every breath had been a prayer to something, she knew not what, to save him.

"I thank thee," she said again.

The phlox and larkspur quivered about her as if under the touch of a gentle hand.

Boroday had been free for three days, but beyond a telephone message announcing his release she had heard nothing of him. Over the wire he had advised extreme caution. She judged from that that things were not going  well.

She knew that Huff's reckless crime would demand a scapegoat. There were bound to be arrests. All this Elinor knew quite well. It was in such an atmosphere that she had drawn her earliest breaths—the play of cunning against cunning, wit against wit.

She did not send for Boroday. She dared not. But because the intimacy between her and the middle-aged Russian had always been very close, he seemed to feel her need. And so, on that Wednesday night, an hour or so after midnight, he came.

Old Henriette came down and tapped softly Elinor's door.

"Boroday," she whispered. "He has rung from the arbor."

That was one of old Hilary's devices; a hidden wire from the arbor to the house. It prevented collisions. Unless otherwise summoned, no member of his band ever came directly to the house.

Elinor went out and found him there. He bent over her hand and kissed it. It was his custom, and then, realizing she was crying, he held out his arms and she went into them. Very tender was the Russian with her that night, very fatherly. He put her into one of the arbor seats and sat down beside her.

"Now tell me," he commanded, "everything from the start. It was Walter, I know. But why?"

When she did not speak, the Russian nodded.

"Jealousy, of course, but what madness!"

There in the arbor, with her hand between two of his, Elinor sobbed out the story of the pearl and her attempt to return it. Huff's threat against Ward, Ward's evening visit, and the scene between them; and last of all, the shot that had nearly ended everything in the world for Ward and for her. Boroday listened quietly; better than old Hilary ever could, he understood. He had been reared on an ancient faith.

"He is recovering?"

"Yes."

"And he cares for you, of course?"

"No. I think, perhaps, before he knew—"

"Bah!" said the Russian, and rose. "What sort of love is that which changes? I have seen the man. If he cared at all, he still cares."

He stepped to the door of the arbor and drew a long breath. Over on the next hill, sleeping through all this turmoil, lay old Hilary. Under these same stars Huff fled the law, Ward tossed on his bed, Elinor sat despairing and ashamed. What did it all mean? What was the answer?

Perhaps, had he known it, old Henriette could have told him—Henriette, who had begun to measure her days from the end and not from the beginning, and who now sat on the edge of her bed mumbling. Between her fingers she ran the beads of an old rosary which she had found beneath a carpet.

"I had thought," said Elinor wistfully. "that if I could get away somewhere and start all over again, perhaps some day I might be good—like other women. I can never go back to things as they were before."

"No," said the Russian. "I can see that. But make no mistake. You are good as few are good."

"I could sell the house and—and I do not want the jewels. If only you and the others would divide them."

Boroday would not hear of this. To a certain extent he was reconciled to her going away. Things were closing in on the band. Before long they would probably all have to separate. It were better that Elinor be in safety.

So for a long time, they discussed ways and means, available money, the question of a home for old Henriette.

"In some ways," Elinor said, "I feel as though I am deserting him." She glanced though toward the graveyard where old Hilary slept. "But all I can think of now is to get away, to forget everything."

"When will they be able to move Mr. Ward?"

"In a week, I should think."

"Then, in a week," said Boroday, "where do you think of going Elinor?"

"I had hardly got so far. Anywhere but here."

"We shall have to plan for you."

He picked up his soft hat and Elinor rose.

"Good night, Elinor."

"Good night. I am always happier for having seen you."

He watched her back to the house, then went down the steps into the road.

There had been a dinner at the country club that night. The chief had attended it, unknown to hostess and guests, to the extent of sitting in the grillroom during the evening and carefully watching the men who came and went. He had dined quite alone in the grill. From where he sat he could see the dinner-party guests on the veranda. There were noticeably few jewels to be seen. Over his chop and lager beer the chief smiled grimly.

After that be shook dice for a short time with a young Englishman named Talbot, an interesting fellow. From him the chief got the club view of the jewel robbery.

"It's been coming to as for a long time," said Talbot, shaking the dice. "Long ago I advised some of the women who had famous pearls to have copies made and keep the originals in their banks, but they disliked the idea of wearing imitations."

"I see."

"Then a woman isn't satisfied to have a string of pearls; she must have it announced in all the papers. Of course crooks all over the country read about them, and naturally their fingers itch."

"I understand," said the chief, "that the Bryant pearl has been recovered."

"Yes, and good work on the part of the force," was Talbot's comment. If the chief smiled under his heavy mustache, if there was the faintest possible twinkle in Talbot's eyes, who was there to see?

Talbot took tho chief down to the station in his gray machine. They had chatted very pleasantly. But just opposite the steps from Elinor's garden they blew out a tire. The car swerved suddenly throwing the light from the lamps along the bank. Standing in the shadows, and thus unexpectedly revealed, was Boroday.

Talbot brought the car to a stop and umped out. The Russian had gone on down the hill.

"Awfully sorry," said Talbot. "Looks as if you'd have to walk down. Perhaps you will find another car to pick you up."

"I shall rather enjoy the walk," said the chief, eyes ahead in the darkness. "Whose place is this?"

Talbot glanced up and around.

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about the village." He opened the tool-box.

The chief took two or three steps along the road and turned. "About here, wasn't it, that the Episcopal clergyman was shot?"

"I cannot tell you that either. It was somewhere along this road."

"Good night," sang the chief cheerily, and started down the hill.

Boroday had come out of the Hilary Kingston place. He knew that. Right here, almost where he stopped, was where Ward had been found. Then, in spite of old Hilary's death, the band was still using his house! Things were closing up. Boroday tramped on down the road. About one hundred yards behind the chief followed.

Talbot, hammering at a recalcitrant tire, filled the air with the short, angry raps of his hammer on the rim....

The Russian had an almost uncanny sense of pursuit. More than once in his life it had saved him, and now he knew he was being followed. He made no attempt whatever to throw his pursuer off the track, but went directly to tee station. There he got an evening paper at the closing news stand and glanced over it, standing under an arc light. For all his engrossment he saw quite distinctly the figure of the chief as he crossed the track and took up his station behind a pillar of the train-shed. Boroday was thinking hard. It had been that unlucky swerving of a machine on the hill that had betrayed him. He knew that now. And he had just come out of the Kingston place. It was bad, very bad.

Boroday rode all the way into the city with the chief a dozen seats behind him. The chief did not follow him home. He knew where he lived, and he could lay his hand on him when he wanted him. He was going to want him now pretty soon. The Russian knew that, too.

When he had entered his apartment and turned on the light, he found Huff standing by a window. The boy ducked back as the light went up.

For a moment the two eyed one another. Huff was unshaven, sunken-eyed, dirty. The contrast between this wild-eyed boy and the tall Russian was strong.

"well?" said Huff defiantly.

"Sit down." Boroday's tone was kind. He went to a closet and got out a bottle of vodka.

"When did you have anything to eat?"

"I am not hungry."

Nevertheless Boroday forced on him a little bread and meat.

"I didn't know you were out until tonight," Huff said at last, pushing his plate away.

"Where have you been?"

"Drinking my head off in a dive on Fortieth Street," said Huff savagely. "I'm all right now."

"What got into you, Walter? For you to turn on us like that—to expose everyone of us, as you have—"

"She was in love with him. I wish I'd killed him."

Very patiently, Boroday told him what had happened. Over the matter of the Bryant pearl he passed as lightly as he could. But Huff realized the significance of Elinor's placing it in the almsbox. He went rather white.

"We would have got off with the country club matter well enough, but this murderous frenzy of yours has finished us all. We'll have to break up and get away. I want you to go out to Elinor's tonight."

"She will not see me."

"I think she will." said Boroday. "I want her get away the first thing in the morning. Let her empty the vault."

He hesitated. Elinor's fortune in jewels was becoming a menace. Whoever took them in charge was possibly putting a halter around his neck.

"Bring the jewels to me, if you have a chance. If it seems better, perhaps you'd better bury them out there."

"Where?"

"You might," said the Russian thoughtfully, "bury them in old Hilary's grave."