When Alvin Mulrady reentered his own house,he no longer noticed its loneliness.Whether the events of the last few hours had driven it from his mind,or whether his late reflections had repeopled it with his family under pleasanter auspices,it would be difficult to determine.Destitute as he was of imagination,and matter-of-fact in his judgments,he realized his new situation as calmly as he would have considered any business proposition.While he was decided to act upon his moral convictions purely,he was prepared to submit the facts of Slinn's claim to the usual patient and laborious investigation of his practical mind.It was the least he could do to justify the ready and almost superstitious assent he had given to Slinn's story.
When he had made a few memoranda at his desk by the growing light,he again took the key of the attic,and ascended to the loft that held the tangible memories of his past life.If he was still under the influence of his reflections,it was with very different sensations that he now regarded them.Was it possible that these ashes might be warmed again,and these scattered embers rekindled?
His practical sense said No!whatever his wish might have been.Asudden chill came over him;he began to realize the terrible change that was probable,more by the impossibility of his accepting the old order of things than by his voluntarily abandoning the new.
His wife and children would never submit.They would go away from this place,far away,where no reminiscence of either former wealth or former poverty could obtrude itself upon them.Mamie--his Mamie--should never go back to the cabin,since desecrated by Slinn's daughters,and take their places.No!Why should she?--because of the half-sick,half-crazy dreams of an old vindictive man?
He stopped suddenly.In moodily turning over a heap of mining clothing,blankets,and india-rubber boots,he had come upon an old pickaxe--the one he had found in the shaft;the one he had carefully preserved for a year,and then forgotten!Why had he not remembered it before?He was frightened,not only at this sudden resurrection of the proof he was seeking,but at his own fateful forgetfulness.Why had he never thought of this when Slinn was speaking?A sense of shame,as if he had voluntarily withheld it from the wronged man,swept over him.He was turning away,when he was again startled.
This time it was by a voice from below--a voice calling him--Slinn's voice.How had the crippled man got here so soon,and what did he want?He hurriedly laid aside the pick,which,in his first impulse,he had taken to the door of the loft with him,and descended the stairs.The old man was standing at the door of his office awaiting him.
As Mulrady approached,he trembled violently,and clung to the doorpost for support.
"I had to come over,Mulrady,"he said,in a choked voice;"I could stand it there no longer.I've come to beg you to forget all that I have said;to drive all thought of what passed between us last night out of your head and mine forever!I've come to ask you to swear with me that neither of us will ever speak of this again forever.It is not worth the happiness I have had in your friendship for the last half-year;it is not worth the agony I have suffered in its loss in the last half-hour."Mulrady grasped his outstretched hand."P'raps,"he said,gravely,"there mayn't be any use for another word,if you can answer one now.Come with me.No matter,"he added,as Slinn moved with difficulty;"I will help you."He half supported,half lifted the paralyzed man up the three flights of stairs,and opened the door of the loft.The pick was leaning against the wall,where he had left it."Look around,and see if you recognize anything."The old man's eyes fell upon the implement in a half-frightened way,and then lifted themselves interrogatively to Mulrady's face.
"Do you know that pick?"
Slinn raised it in his trembling hands."I think I do;and yet--""Slinn!is it yours?""No,"he said hurriedly.
"Then what makes you think you know it?"
"It has a short handle like one I've seen.""And is isn't yours?""No.The handle of mine was broken and spliced.I was too poor to buy a new one.""Then you say that this pick which I found in my shaft is not yours?""Yes.""Slinn!"
The old man passed his hand across his forehead,looked at Mulrady,and dropped his eyes."It is not mine,"he said simply.
"That will do,"said Mulrady,gravely.
"And you will not speak of this again?"said the old man,timidly.
"I promise you--not until I have some more evidence."He kept his word,but not before he had extorted from Slinn as full a description of Masters as his imperfect memory and still more imperfect knowledge of his former neighbor could furnish.He placed this,with a large sum of money and the promise of a still larger reward,in the hands of a trustworthy agent.When this was done he resumed his old relations with Slinn,with the exception that the domestic letters of Mrs.Mulrady and Mamie were no longer a subject of comment,and their bills no longer passed through his private secretary's hands.
Three months passed;the rainy season had ceased,the hillsides around Mulrady's shaft were bridal-like with flowers;indeed,there were rumors of an approaching fashionable marriage in the air,and vague hints in the "Record"that the presence of a distinguished capitalist might soon be required abroad.The face of that distinguished man did not,however,reflect the gayety of nature nor the anticipation of happiness;on the contrary,for the past few weeks,he had appeared disturbed and anxious,and that rude tranquillity which had characterized him was wanting.People shook their heads;a few suggested speculations;all agreed on extravagance.
One morning,after office hours,Slinn,who had been watching the careworn face of his employer,suddenly rose and limped to his side.
