The Substitute Prisoner | Page 9

settle with him in full and still have enough to
look after you."
For several minutes she remained mute, evidently digesting his words.
"And would you marry without letting her know that you are ruined?"
she inquired in quivering tones. "Would you try to rehabilitate yourself
with her fortune? Do you think it fair?"
The words cut like saber thrusts. But when a man finds the walls of his
house about to fall on him he is apt to clutch blindly at anything which
promises to prop the tottering structure.
"It is cowardly, I confess," he said. "But what am I to do? Besides, I
love her. You know I would not marry without love, even to avert
financial ruin."
"I shall not interfere between you and your intended," she answered
icily. "Neither shall I permit the circumstances which you have
described to alter my determination."
The car now threaded its way through the maze of traffic in the city.
Presently it drew up before a huge, ugly factory that covered a square
block on the upper west side, near the river. Ward and his sister jumped
out of the tonneau and entered the building. They found themselves in a
busy office, consisting of a single room down the length of which a
wooden rail interposed between visitors and employés.
"I wish to see Mr. Whitmore," Mrs. Collins informed one of the office
boys.
"Hasn't come down yet," the boy replied.

"Is he often away as late as this?"
"No ma'am," said the boy. "He's usually here at nine o'clock."
"Has Mr. Beard been here this morning?"
"Not yet. But he telephoned he'll be here at twelve o'clock."
Ward consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He questioned the
boy but was unable to obtain any information as to the possible
whereabouts of his employer or his secretary. So he and his sister
decided to await them at the office.
The visitors looked sufficiently important to warrant the office boy
ushering them into Whitmore's private office. As they passed down the
railed corridor they elicited the further information that no one
answering Collins's description had called that morning.
"He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the
Grand Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.
They did not enter into further discussion of their impending financial
ruin while awaiting Whitmore. Immediately on dropping into a chair
Mrs. Collins seemed to draw within herself, surrendering to the
harrowing thoughts that filled her mind. Ward also became deeply
preoccupied with his own tangled affairs, his brain striving furiously to
find some solution of the dilemma into which he was plunged.
They took no note of the passing time; but the minutes sped swiftly
while they wrestled silently with the problems that had entered their
lives and when Ward suddenly looked up the hands of the little brass
clock on top of Whitmore's desk pointed to a quarter of twelve. An
instant later the door of the office was flung open and a tall figure,
clean-shaven, with clearly defined features, burst into the room.
On seeing the visitors the man paused, perplexed. It was plain that he
was under great stress of mind. His face was haggard, his eyes were
sunken, his mouth drawn, as if he had not yet recovered from some

great shock.
"Ward--Mrs. Collins!" he stammered.
The voice recalled the woman out of the dreamy state into which she
had lapsed. She scrutinized the man with eyes in which terror and
suspense mingled.
"Mr. Beard--why!--something has happened!" she gave voice to her
fear.
"Yes, something dreadful has occurred," he said, trying to avert his
face.
A great fear shook the woman's frame. For an instant she raised her
eyes imploringly, then lowered them.
"Then he has killed him--murdered him?" The words came as though
each syllable wrenched her heart.
"Killed him?" repeated Beard with rising inflection. "Why, what do you
mean?"
"My husband--Mr. Collins--he set out this morning to do it. For God's
sake," she implored, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what
happened."
By a violent effort Beard recovered sufficient calm to note the agitation
of the woman.
"Why, no," he said reassuringly, "Mr. Whitmore hasn't been killed."
"But what has happened?" demanded Mrs. Collins with a gesture of
impatience.
"I cannot tell you," answered the secretary. "But something has
occurred--a grave crisis has arisen in Mr. Whitmore's life. He will not
be at his office for some time--perhaps not for weeks, or months, or
years. But he asked me to communicate with you, to let you know that

he will notify you the moment he returns. Meanwhile, he asks you to
believe in him, even though he cannot write to you. More than that I
cannot tell you."
Ward and his sister exchanged bewildered glances.