Three People

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Pliny glanced up from his dish of soup, and opened his eyes wide in
pretended surprise.

"One would suppose, sir, that you were not particularly grateful to the
fellow for his rescue of your daughter from an untimely grave," he said,
demurely.

"Untimely fiddlestick!" was Mr. Hastings' still more irritable reply.
"He thinks he is a hero, and presumes upon it to intrude himself in a
most insufferable manner. I have no doubt Jonas would have got along
without any of his interference."

Dora's face flushed and then paled, but the only remark she made was:

"Papa, you ought to have been there to see."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXI.

MIDNIGHT WORK.

"Ting-a-ling-ling," said Mr. Stephens' door-bell just before midnight.
Mr. Stephens glanced up in surprise from the paper which he was studying
and hesitated a moment. Who could be ringing his bell at that late hour?
Presently he stepped out into the hall, slipped the bolt and admitted
Theodore Mallery. The young man followed his employer into the
brightly-lighted library; it was the same room, with the same
furnishings that it had worn that evening when he, a forlorn, trembling
boy, had made his first call, and at midnight, on Mr. Stephens.

"What unearthly business brought you out at this hour?" said the
wondering Mr. Stephens.

"Premonitions of evil," answered Theodore, laughing. "Do you believe in
them?" And he glanced about the familiar room, and dropped himself into
the great arm-chair, where he remembered to have seated himself once at
least before.

"What is the matter with this room?" he asked, as his eyes roved over
the surrounding. "Something looks different."

"I have been having a general clearing out and turning around of
furniture since you were in--moved the books and rubbish out of that
corner closet for one thing, and prepared it for those closed ledgers.
Good place, don't you think?"

"Has it strong locks?" asked Theodore, glancing around to the closet in
question.

"Splendid ones, and is built fire-proof."

Theodore took in both the lock and the fact that the key was in it.

"An excellent place for them," he answered. "Is there anything in it
now?"

"No, empty. What brought you here, Mallery? I hope you have no more work
for me to do to-night. I was just thinking of my bed."

"A very little, sir. I have those papers ready for your signature, and
it occurred to me if you could add that to-night I could get them off by
the early mail."

"What an indefatigable plodder you are to get those papers ready so
soon, and an unmerciful man besides to make me go over them to-night.
What will ten or a dozen hours signify?"

"I don't know," answered Theodore, gravely. "Great results have arisen
from more trivial delays than ten or a dozen hours." Then he looked
straight before him, apparently at the mirror, but really at the closet
door. It was closed when he looked before; it was very slightly ajar
now. Wind? No, there _was_ no wind within reach; it was a surly November
night, and doors and windows were tightly closed.

"Then there is really no escape for me?" yawned Mr. Stephens, in an
inquiring tone.

"None whatever," answered Theodore, playfully. "It won't take you half
an hour, sir, and you know it is a very important matter, involving not
only ourselves but others."

"True," said Mr. Stephens, more gravely. "Well, pass them along."

And while Theodore obeyed the order, and appeared engrossed in the
papers, he was really watching that closet door. It certainly moved,
very slightly and noiselessly, and it certainly was not the wind, for
the wind had no eyes, and at least one very sharp eye was distinctly
discernible in the mirror, peering out at them from that door! The owner
of the eyes seemed to have forgotten the long mirror, and Theodore's
convenient position for seeing what passed behind him. Whose eye was it?
and why was the possessor of it shut up in that closet? Theodore
watched it stealthily and sharply. It grew bolder, and the door was
pushed open a little more, a _very_ little, just enough to reveal the
shape of the forehead and a few curls of black hair. Then suspicion
became certainty--they belonged to the young man whom he had disliked
and distrusted since the day in which he had first entered the employ of
Mr. Stephens, six months before. Very strange and just a little
unreasonable had seemed his distrust. Mr. Stephens had tried sober
argument and good-humored raillery by turns to convince his confidential
clerk that he was prejudiced. All to no purpose. Theodore could give no
tangible reasons for his unwavering opinion; but his early living by his
wits, among all sorts of people, had so sharpened his ideas that he felt
almost hopelessly certain that a villain was being harbored among them.
Now while he tried to answer coherently Mr. Stephens' questions, he was
thinking hard and nervously what was to be done. What was the man's
object in hiding at midnight in his employer's house? Was Mr. Stephens'
life in danger? Was the man a murderer, or simply a thief? What did he
know of their private affairs? What had Mr. Stephens in his house that
proved a special temptation? How should he get all these questions
answered? The hot blood surged to his very temples as he remembered Mr.
Stephens' departure from the store that very afternoon with twenty
thousand dollars for deposit. What if for some reason the deposit had
not been made, and was still in Mr. Stephens' possession--in this very
room perhaps! He remembered with a shiver that the young man in question
was in the private office during the making up of the money package, and
that Mr. Stephens talked freely before him, that they had gone out
together, that Mr. Stephens had directed his clerk to walk down to the
bank with him while he gave certain orders for the next day's business.
Should he risk a bold question and so discover the truth in regard to
the deposit, and perhaps at the same time discover to the thief its
present whereabouts? He saw no other way, and feeling that he had little
time to lose plunged into the question.

"By the way, Mr. Stephens, was the deposit all right?"

Mr. Stephens glanced up quickly.

"What possessed you to ask that troublesome question?" he said,
laughingly.

"Natural curiosity, sir. Were you in time?"

"I am almost afraid to answer you," said Mr. Stephens, still laughing,
"lest you will put me under lock and key at once as a person suspected
of insanity. If I must confess, though, I stopped with Winters ten
minutes to introduce him to the new librarian at the reading-room, and
thereby _just_ lost my chance at the bank."

Theodore promptly controlled the shiver that ran through his frame.
Winters, in the closet there, probably knew the facts, and all others
connected with the money, as well as Mr. Stephens did. He spoke in his
usual tone.

"What did you do with the money, sir? It was not in the safe when I
closed it for the night?"

"That I suppose is the very wickedest of all my wicked deeds. I was too
thoroughly tired, besides being too hurried, to tramp back to the store.
I came near intrusting the bundle to Winters to take back, but I had
respect for your ugly prejudices, and concluded to make a safe of my own
house for one night."

For an instant Theodore hesitated. Should he risk the possibility of
giving the inmate of the closet the information which he did not already
possess by asking what had been done with the money? His precaution was
in vain. Mr. Stephens continued his confession:

"I've locked it up though, _double_ locked it indeed, over in that iron
box, and put the key belonging to the box on the shelf in that closet
and locked _them_ up. Shall I bury that key in the cellar now?"

Now indeed Theodore's face paled. _Could_ anything be more fearfully
arranged? He asked but one more question:

"Where _is_ the key now?"

"_Here_ in my pocket; and I declare I'll deliver it over to you for safe
keeping. I shall feel ten degrees less wicked."

Theodore reached out his hand mechanically for the key, and turned it
over in cold fingers. Then a skeleton key had been used, for there was
the key in the lock at this moment. Winters must have been startled into
his retreat by some sudden noise, and have forgotten to remove the
evidence of his perfidy. Rapidly were several schemes turned over in his
mind. Should he walk over that way and attempt to lock the closet? No,
for then in view of all the conversation that had just occurred Winters
was sharp enough to know that he had been discovered, and desperate
enough, Theodore believed, to do anything. There was room enough in the
closet for two, or indeed three men, and perhaps the villain had
accomplices. Could he propose to Mr. Stephens that they carry the strong
box to his private room? No, for that would give the thief a chance to
escape if he chose through the library window; the same thing might
occur if he enticed Mr. Stephens from the room and told him the story.
Winters might suspect, was undoubtedly armed and ready for any desperate
action. All these thoughts flashed through Theodore's brain while Mr.
Stephens was reading down one page, and ere the leaf was turned he had
decided on his plan of action.

"Mr. Stephens," he said, speaking in his usual tone, and rising as he
spoke, "I have a little matter of business just around the corner from
here, which I think I will attend to while you are reading those
papers."

Mr. Stephens glanced up and laughed.

"I will recommend you for one of the night police," he said, gayly. "You
have business at all hours of the night in all imaginable places."

Meantime Theodore had been taking in the position of the strong box, and
decided that he could get a nearer view of it without exciting the
suspicion of Winters in the closet. It was, as he feared, unlocked and
empty! Now at all hazards the thief must not be suffered to escape.

"I will take your night-key, Mr. Stephens," said Theodore, quietly, "and
let myself in without ringing on my return."

A moment more and he stood alone on the granite steps. The night was
still and gloomy, the moon gave only a fitful glimmering now and then
as it peeped from between heavy clouds, the air was sharp and piercing,
but the young man on the steps felt in a white heat as he waited in
breathless anxiety for the advent of a policeman.

One thing he had determined upon, not to leave the steps where he stood
guard over the gray-haired unsuspicious man inside. There was no telling
how soon Winters might weary of his cramped quarters, and attempt to
escape by first shooting his employer. Would the policeman never come?
He heard steps and voices in the distance.

"Come out here, old moon, and give a fellow a little light on the
subject. What you pouting about, I'd like to know? You haven't got to
blunder along home in the dark. This is the most extraordinary street I
ever saw anyhow; it keeps whirling round and turning somersaults,
instead of walking straight ahead like a respectable street."

The voice that uttered these disjointed sentences was only too well
known to Theodore. He stepped down one step and spoke in a low tone:

"Pliny, what does this mean? Where are you going?"

"Going round like a top, first on my head and then on my heels. How are
you?"

Poor Theodore! the plot thickened. What should he do with this poor
drunkard? Could he endure to let him stagger to his home to that waiting
sister in this condition? A shrill, sharp, merry whistle broke at this
moment on his ear; that voice he knew too, and waited until its owner
came up; then addressed him still in low tones:

"Tommy, where are you going?"

"Going home--been to a fire--whole block burned down by the square, Mr.
Stuart's house and--"

Theodore checked his voluble information.

"Have you seen anything of McPherson?"

"Yes, sir; he was at the fire too. Just whisked around the corner below
here to go to his rooms. We came up together."

Theodore's listening ear caught the sound of an approaching policeman,
and he hastened his plans. Pliny had sunk down on the steps and was
muttering to himself in drunken, broken sentences.

"Tommy," said Theodore, addressing that individual, "there are empty
carriages coming around the corner; the train is in. Will you take this
young man in a carriage, drive to McPherson's door, and tell him to
drive to my rooms with you, and make this gentleman comfortable till I
come? Can I trust you, Tommy?"

"Yes, _sir_, every time," Tommy answered, proudly.

The policeman came up.

"What's all this?" he asked, gruffly.

Theodore turned to him and spoke a few words in a low rapid tone, and he
moved hastily away. Then Theodore came back to Pliny.

"Will you go and spend the night with me at my rooms, Pliny?" he asked,
gently.

"Well," said Pliny, trying to rouse himself from his half stupor, "I
_did_ promise Doralinda Mirinda that I'd come home, but seeing the
street has taken such a confounded notion to go round and round, why I
guess she will excuse me and I'll oblige you."

"This boy will call a carriage for you and make you comfortable, and I
will be with you as soon as possible. I have a little business first."

He gave a little shiver of relief as he saw Pliny stagger quietly away
with Tommy. All this time, and indeed it was but a _very_ little time,
although it seemed hours to the young man whose every nerve was in a
quiver, his ear had been strained ready for the slightest sound that
might occur in the room over which he was keeping guard; but the utmost
quiet reigned. Winters evidently suspected nothing, and was biding his
time. "The villain means to escape hanging if he can," muttered
Theodore, under his breath.

And now the dim moonlight showed the tall forms of three policemen
approaching. He advanced and held a brief whispered conversation with
them, then the four ascended the steps. Theodore applied his night-key,
and with cat-like tread they moved across the hall, and the library door
swung noiselessly open. They were fairly inside the room before Mr.
Stephens, intent upon his papers, observed them. When he did he sprang
to his feet, with a face on which surprise, bewilderment and
consternation contended for the mastery. "Theodore," he gasped, rather
than said; and it was Mr. Stephens' sorrow ever after that for one
little moment he believed that his almost son had proved false to him.
The next the whole story stood revealed. From the moment that Mr.
Stephens uttered his exclamation all attempt at quietness was laid
aside. A policeman strode across the room, flung wide the closet door,
and said to the cowed and shivering mortal hiding therein, "You are my
prisoner, sir," and from his pocket produced the handcuffs and proceeded
to adjust them, while another disarmed him. Theodore went over and stood
beside the gray-haired startled man.

"Don't be alarmed, sir," he said, gently and quietly; "the danger is
quite over now. His pockets must be searched," this to the policeman.
"He has twenty thousand dollars about him somewhere that belong to us."

"My boy," said Mr. Stephens, tremulously, and with utmost tenderness in
his tones, "what does all this mean? How did you learn of it?"

"By a special providence, I believe, sir," answered Theodore,
reverently.

Meantime the packages of money were found and in order.

"Have you special directions, sir, in regard to the prisoner?"
questioned the policeman.

Mr. Stephens broke away from Theodore's restraining arm and went toward
Winters.

"My poor, poor boy," he said, compassionately, "how _could_ you do it?"

Winters' eyes expressed nothing but malignancy as he muttered between
shut teeth:

"Because I _hate_ you, and that upstart who hoodwinks you."

Theodore came forward with quiet dignity.

"Mr. Stephens," he said, laying a gently detaining hand on the
gentleman's arm, "let me manage the rest of the business for you, you
are excited and weary. Secure the man in safe and comfortable quarters
for the night," he added, turning to the policeman, "and you will hear
from Mr. Stephens in the morning."

Five minutes more and Theodore and Mr. Stephens were left alone in the
library.

"No explanations to-night," said Theodore, with an attempt at
playfulness, as the other turned toward him with eager questioning eyes.
"I withdraw my prohibition, sir, as regards the papers, and will permit
you to retire at once."

"One word, Theodore, about the point that troubles me the most What
shall we do with the poor young man?"

Theodore's face darkened.

"The very utmost that the law allows," he said, sternly. "He deserves it
all. If you desire my advice on that point I should say--"

Mr. Stephens interrupted him, laying a quiet hand on his arm and
speaking gently:

"My boy, suppose you and I kneel down here and pray for him?"

All the heat and anger died out of Theodore's face. He remembered the
midnight interview which took place years before in that very room, when
Mr. Stephens was the judge and he himself the culprit. He remembered
that at that time Mr. Stephens had knelt down and prayed for _him_.
Reverently now he knelt beside the noble-hearted man, and heard him pour
out his soul in prayer for the "poor boy" who had tried so hard to
injure him. When they arose he turned quiet smiling eyes on his young
friend as he said:

"My dear boy, can you advise me now?"

"You do not need advice, sir," said Theodore, speaking somewhat huskily
and with a reverent touch in his voice. "Follow the dictates of your own
noble soul in this as in everything, and you will be sure to do the best
thing."

It was two o'clock when Theodore applied his own night-key and entered
his front door. The gas was still lighted in the back parlor, and
thither he went. It was not the back parlor that belonged to the little
cottage house near the depot; not the same house at all, but one larger
and finer, and on a handsomer street. The back parlor was nicely, even
luxuriously, furnished with that dainty mixture of elegance and home
comfort which betokens a refined and cultivated taste. Winny had grown
into a tall young lady with coils of smooth brown hair in place of the
crisp locks of her childhood. Her crimson dress set off her clear dark
complexion to advantage. The round table was drawn directly under the
gaslight, and she sat before it surrounded by many beautiful books and
writing material. She glanced up at Theodore's entrance, and he
addressed her in grave business-like tones:

"Winny, do you know it is two o'clock? You should not study so late at
night under any circumstances."

"You should not perambulate the streets until morning, and then you
would have no knowledge of my misdemeanors," answered Winny in exactly
the same tone, and added: "What poor drunken wretch have you and Jim in
train to-night?"

"Is Jim here?" said Theodore, eagerly.

"Yes, and has been for an hour. He stumbled up stairs with a poor victim
who was unable to walk, and domiciled him in your room. Remarkable
company you seem to keep, Mr. Mallery. Who is the creature?"

"The heir of Hastings' Hall," said Theodore, briefly and sadly.

Winny looked both startled and shocked

"Oh, Theodore! not Pliny Hastings?"

"Yes, Pliny Hastings. The admiration of half the young ladies in the
city, and they are industriously helping him to be what he is.
Good-night, Winny. Don't, for pity's sake, study any later," and
Theodore ran lightly up stairs and entered his own room on tiptoe. The
room was utterly unlike Tode Mall's early dream. No square of red and
green and yellow carpet adorned the spot in front of the bed--instead a
soft thick carpet of mossy green covered the floor, and Theodore had
pleased himself in gathering many a dainty trifle with which to
beautify this one room that he called home. To-night the drop-light was
carefully shaded, and in the dimness Theodore had to look twice before
he distinguished McPherson mounted on guard in the rocking-chair beside
the bed, while on it lay, sunken in heavy sleep, Pliny Hastings.

"Well!" was Theodore's brief greeting.

"Yes!" was Jim's equally laconic reply.

"What did you think had become of me that I could not attend to my own
business?" asked Theodore, dropping wearily into the nearest chair.

"Tommy said you were putting three policemen in jail, or something."

"It was _something_, sure enough," answered Theodore, smiling faintly;
and then he gave a rapid and condensed account of the midnight scene,
interrupted by many exclamations of horror and amaze from his listener.

"Had you much trouble in this quarter?" he asked presently, going to the
bedside and looking long and earnestly at Pliny.

"Very little. Tommy had some difficulty before they reached me; but he
is a plucky little chap, and was firmly resolved upon carrying out your
instructions to the letter, so he gained the day. Isn't it remarkable
that he should have been the one to assist in the rescue of Mr.
Hastings' son?"

"Isn't it?" said Theodore, emphatically. "And Mr. Hastings would not
lift one finger to assist in _his_ rescue."

"What in the world are you going to do next?" said Jim. "In this case I
mean," nodding his head toward Pliny.

"Going to keep on doing, and when I have done all that I can, give
myself up to patient waiting and hopeful praying," was Theodore's solemn
answer.

When he spoke again it was in a slightly hesitating tone, with a glance
at his watch.

"There is just one thing more which ought to be done to-night, Jim."

"All right," said Jim, promptly. "There's no special use in going to bed
to-night, or rather this morning. Too late to pay, so bring on your
business. What comes next?"

"They ought to know at Hastings' Hall where this young man is."

"Ho!" said Jim, with an astonished and incredulous air, "I don't imagine
there will be many sleepless eyes in that house if they don't hear of
his whereabouts until he appears again. I fancy they are too much
accustomed to it."

"There is one member of the family who will wait for him,
nevertheless."

"Who?"

"His sister. He remembered it himself, as bad as he was."

Jim looked searchingly at the half-averted face of his friend for a
moment; then seeming to have come to some conclusion, arose and began to
don his overcoat.

"Then if I understand you, Mallery, you think that his sister ought to
be apprised of his safety, and you judge it would be well, if possible,
to do so without disturbing any other members of the family?" This he
said after having waited a moment in vain for his friend to speak again.

Theodore turned toward him, and eagerly grasped his hand as he spoke:

"You understand everything, my dear fellow, better than I can tell it.
God bless you for your kindness and thoughtfulness."

CHAPTER XXII.

POOR PLINY!

The surliness of that November night broke into dazzling sunlight the
next morning, and the sun was nearly two hours high when Pliny Hastings
rolled himself heavily over in bed, uttered a deep groan, and awoke to
the wretchedness of a new day of shame and misery and self-loathing.

For he loathed himself, this poor young man born and reared in the very
hotbed of temptation, struggling to break the chain that he had but
recently discovered was bound around him, making resolutions many and
strong, and gradually awakening to the knowledge that resolutions were
flimsy as paper threads compared with the iron bands with which his
tyrant held him. After the groan, he opened his eyes, and staring about
him in a bewildered way, tried to take in his unfamiliar surroundings.

"Where in the name of wonders am I now?" he said at last and aloud.
Whereupon Theodore came to the bedside and said, "Good-morning, Pliny."

"What the mischief!" began Pliny, then he stopped; and as memory came to
his aid, added a short, sharp, "Oh!" and relapsed into silence.

"Are you able to get up and go down to breakfast with me?" questioned
Theodore. And then Pliny raised himself on his elbow, and burst forth:

"I say, Mallery, why didn't you just leave me to my confounded fate? I
should have blundered home somehow, and if that long-suffering sister of
mine had chanced to fail in her plans, why my precious father would have
discovered my condition and kicked me out of doors, for good. He has
threatened to do it--and that is the way they all do anyhow. Isn't it,
Mallery? _make_ drunkards, and when their handiwork just begins to do
them credit, kick them out."

"I think it would be well for you to get up and dress for breakfast,"
was Theodore's quiet answer.

"Why don't you give it up, Mallery?" persisted Pliny, making no effort
to change his position. "Don't you see it's no sort of use; no one was
ever more possessed to be a fool than I am. What have all my
everlasting promises amounted to but straws! I tell you, my father
designed and planned me for a drunkard, and I'm living up to the light
that has been given me."

"I see it is quite time you were ready for breakfast, Pliny. I am
waiting, and _have_ been for two hours, and I really haven't time to
waste, while you lie there and talk nonsense. Whatever else you do,
don't be foolish enough to cast all the blame of your misdeeds on your
father."

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