The Substitute Prisoner

The Substitute Prisoner, by Max
Marcin

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Title: The Substitute Prisoner
Author: Max Marcin

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Language: English
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THE SUBSTITUTE PRISONER
by
MAX MARCIN
Author of "Are You My Wife?" "Britz of Headquarters," etc.

Copyright, 1911, by Moffat, Yard and Company New York Published
October, 1911

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Mrs. Collins (Frontispiece)
He looked about him in a bewildered way
She felt herself seized with a desire to weep
She did not repel the arm

THE SUBSTITUTE PRISONER
CHAPTER I
Did she come to threaten or to plead?
The question, darting swiftly through his mind as his eyes took in the

unfamiliar outline of her figure, produced a storm of agitation which
left him gazing stupidly at her, with fixed eyes in which surprise and
terror mingled.
He had never seen her before--his first moment of survey impressed
that clearly on him. Yet her presence in his home at this compromising
hour signified that she was involved, remotely or intimately, in his own
tangled affairs. The thought impelled him to closer scrutiny of her.
She was pleasing to the eye. But whether her beauty was soft and
alluring or hard and repelling, his bewildered senses could not
determine. Her toilet, fresh and elegant, rich and clinging, harmonizing
with the velvet drapings and melting lights of the room, seemed to
invest her with an air of breeding, gave her an outward show of
refinement. Yet she betrayed certain signs of doubtful comfort, as if all
this magnificence had been borrowed for the occasion.
He came forward noiselessly, his footsteps deadened in the soft pile of
the Brussels carpet. She regarded his approach with cold, impassive
demeanor, nodding slightly as he paused near the carved rosewood
table above which hung an exquisitely wrought silver lamp, suspended
by four silver chains from the ceiling.
"Mr. Herbert Whitmore?" she asked, not without trace of anxiety in her
voice.
He observed that her skin had a warm and pearly tone, that her
abundant hair was of a dark reddish tinge, and that her eyes, of
turquoise blue, gleamed with a strange, impenetrable hue. He was still
gazing vacantly at her, but his mind was working furiously, striving to
answer the harrowing questions that presented themselves in
tumultuous succession before it.
Who was she? What motive prompted this visit at ten in the evening?
Did she come to plead a financial matter?--or was she here for purposes
of blackmail? Did she have knowledge of his incriminating conduct,
and was she sent to ensnare him into further complications? Above all,
what attitude should he adopt toward her?

"What can I do for you?" he inquired in a tone frigidly polite, yet not
devoid of an anxious note.
They regarded each other a moment.
"I hardly know how to begin," she said, lowering her eyes.
He did not credit her hesitancy. It was a deceit, he felt, a bit of
theatricalism,--the simulated modesty of a woman of experience.
"Begin by being seated," he said rather sharply, as if he meant to
convey that he penetrated her sham diffidence.
Ignoring his brusqueness, she dropped into one of the ornate rosewood
chairs near the table.
"It is such a delicate matter on which I have come," she began
timorously, eying him for a sign of encouragement. "Now that I am
here I wish I hadn't come--it's so difficult for me to begin."
His keen gray eyes narrowed on her, but she read no encouragement in
his glance. He had regained control of himself and assumed a
non-committal attitude, as of one ready to listen, but indifferent as to
whether she proceeded or withdrew.
"You haven't revealed the purpose of your visit as yet," he said,
crossing his legs. "If you regret having come, you are at liberty to go
without further explanation."
He hurled it at her as a challenge, but with a positive feeling that it
would not be accepted.
"I have come to warn you," she said with sudden resolution.
"To warn me of what?" His brow knitted in puzzled surprise.
"I have come to tell you that he knows and has worked himself