Putting the note into his pocket, Michael stolidly faced his companion. "Of course it does not concern me," he faltered, "but somehow you talk and act like—?" He went no further.

"Oh, you are afraid I'm off on another spree, eh?" Charles laughed. "But I'm not, Mike. It is business, this time, and serious business at that."

The servant was not satisfied, as was evident from his unsettled glances here and there, now on the young man's face, again on the suitcase or the floor.

"You may have forgotten it, sir, but only the other day you spoke of wanting to go away for a long stay, and the little unpleasantness at your club and the police court—"

"I see, I see, you don't forget things. You put two and two together," Charles interrupted. "What is that?"

It was a child's startled scream from Mrs. Browne's room, followed by the assuring tones of the mother.

"It is Ruth," Michael explained. "She screams out like that now and then when she is dreaming."

"I wish I could see the little thing," Charles seemed to be speaking to himself now. "They are a beautiful pair—that mother and child. Ah, and they have been sweet and good to me!"

"Now, I am afraid, sir. Indeed, I am," Michael said, with feeling.

"Afraid of what, Mike?"

"I am afraid it is not Springfield you are going to, sir."

"Ah, you are suspicious!" Charles said, in ill-assumed lightness.

"I haven't known you from boyhood up for nothing, sir," Mike said, with emotion. "Ever since your talk Sunday I have been afraid you'd leave."

"Well, then, what if I am going, Mike? The world is big and full of opportunities, and I am tired of this—I really am."

"But why leave like this, sir?" Mike demanded, gently. "Surely you won't go without telling your folks of it and saying good-by! Why, this note to your brother looks as if—as if—"

"Well, I do want to slip away, Mike, and I'm going like a thief in the night. You will understand to-morrow. Everybody in Boston will. As for that, Mike, a drinking-man will do many things that he ought not to do, and—and I handle money at the bank. Don't push me further now. Let's drop it. I have to go, and that settles it."

Michael failed to understand, for he was thinking of something else. "You will need the money I owe you, sir, and I've been trying to get it up. I see a chance now, sir. My sister out West feels that she owes at least half of that debt to you, and her husband has been doing well. She wrote me—"

"Drop that, Mike," Charles cried. "I don't need that money. You shall never pay it—never. I've given that to your mother, do you understand, not to you, but to her?"

"It shall not be that way, sir," the other pleaded. "I will send it to you. But as for your doing anything wrong at the bank"—Charles's statement was dawning on him slowly—"nobody on earth could make me think so."

"Well, never mind about that, Mike. The fact is that I must go—now and at once. Let me out at the front door."

"Do you want a cab, sir?"

"A cab?" Charles smiled. "Not to-night. In fact, I am going through the darkest streets I can get into. I know every alley in this old town. Good-by, Mike. Deliver the note to my brother in the morning."

CHAPTER VI

It was near midnight when he reached the station. He had met no one on the way whom he knew. He was tired and his arm ached from the weight of the bag, for he had taken a long, roundabout way to avoid being seen. Few persons were at the station, for it was not a popular train that he was to take. He bought his ticket at the little window, glad that the clerk was too busy to look up as he pushed the exact fare in to him. This done, he took up his bag and hastened for the train. He sought the smoking-car, feeling that he would be less conspicuous there than in the coaches set aside for the accommodation of women and children. He had the car almost to himself and was glad of the fact. Seated in one corner, he lighted a cigar. Somehow he was impatient for the train to move. He was not guilty of the crime he had shouldered, but he had a guilty man's fear of detection at that moment. He almost felt as if he and William were identical, for, after all, would not William's arrest and exposure have been quite as painful to him? The train did not start. He was becoming seriously alarmed now. He went to a window and looked out. An attendant with a lantern stood close by.

"What is the delay?" Charles asked.

"Accident ahead," the man answered. "Train off the track ten miles away. The wrecking-train has gone on. They will have the road clear before long. May as well wait here as farther on."

Charles went back to his corner. Why was he nervous? he argued. What was there to fear, since the exposure would not be made till the following morning after the bank opened? Why, nothing—nothing at all. He puffed at his cigar. The only thing was to avoid being seen by any passing acquaintance; but his face was known to many of all classes and he must be careful. He pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes; he raised the collar of his light overcoat above his ears, and crouched down as low as possible. The train still lingered. His watch told him that it was two o'clock. He stretched his legs out on the seat in front of him and tried to sleep. He was quite fatigued, and yet his brain was too active to permit it. He thought of little Ruth. Again he heard her startled cry and pictured the child as lying in his arms and being soothed back to sleep. A sob filled his throat. Was it possible that she was going out of his life forever? Was it possible that he was actually renouncing home and home ties and going out into a new world in which he would be absolutely unknown, a veritable babe of mature age born among strangers? A mood of deep dejection was on him and it seemed to thicken and become more depressing as the hours stretched along. Then terror filled him, for he had a facile imagination which reached out for the disagreeable as well as the pleasant. What if the train were not to go for hours? What if the dawn of day found him still in Boston? He sat up. He rose and went to the platform of the car. The brakeman with the lantern was chatting with a man at a trunk-truck several car-lengths away. He descended and sauntered up to them.

"Any news?" he asked the man with the light.

"Yes. We will move soon," was the answer. "I see you are sticking to it. Most of the passengers went home, to take a morning train. You could take it yourself, if you are bound for New York, and get there almost as soon as by this train."

"Oh, I'm here now and will go this way," Charles answered. He turned away, for he realized that he had made his first serious mistake in talking to the man about his destination. The fellow might remember it later. He might even give the information to the police when they got on his trail. If the train were delayed between Boston and New York a telegram might be sent on and he would be arrested upon his arrival. He shuddered—not for himself, but for his brother. How the news would stagger William! He would confess, then. He would tell it all rather than permit the punishment to fall where it was not merited. Poor haggard, nerve-torn William! He would kill himself, and the black tragedy would settle upon the old home. Charles went back to his seat in the corner. His brain was whirling and pounding like that of a madman capable of half reasoning. Another hour passed. It was three o'clock. A desperate idea flashed into his mind. What if he should leave the train and take to the country roads? Might he not escape arrest in that way? He was about to resort to it when he heard a shout outside:

"All aboard!" A bell on the locomotive rang. Steam was heard escaping. The cars began to jerk one against the other, then to move steadily and to pick up speed. He looked through the open window. Through a shower of fine cinders and wisps of steam and smoke he saw the