Chapter XVI: The Unaccepted Renunciation

The doctor and the officers of the law now entered the outer office. Reluctantly the woman drew herself away from the man's arms, which were as reluctant to release her. In spite of the brave words that had been spoken by the woman the man could only see a long parting and an uncertain future. He realized it the more when old Colonel Illingworth entered the room in the wake of the others. After he had recovered himself he had hurried to the station in time to catch the next train and had come to New York, realizing at once where his daughter must have gone; besides his presence was needed in New York in view of the catastrophe.

He had brushed by the reporters, refusing to listen to them. Not anticipating what he saw as he entered the private office, the color faded from his face as he became aware of the big, prostrate, inert figure bending over the desk. It came again into his cheeks when he saw his daughter.

"My father is dead," said Meade as the doctor and the officers of the law examined the body of the old man. The son had eyes for no one but the old Colonel. "The failure of the bridge has broken his heart; my failure, I'd better say."

"I understand," said Illingworth. "He is fortunate. I would rather have died than have seen any son of mine forced to confess criminal incompetency like yours."

"Father!" protested Helen Illingworth.

"Helen," said the Colonel sternly, "you have no business to be here. You heard what I said when you left me. But you are my daughter, my only daughter. I was harsh, perhaps, and hasty. I came to fetch you. Are you coming with me or do you go with this man--this incompetent--upon whose head is the blood of the men who went down with the bridge, to say nothing of the terrible material loss?"

"Father," said the girl with a resolution and firmness singularly like his own. "I can't hear you speak this way, and I will not."

"Do you go with him or do you not?" thundered the Colonel.

It was Meade who answered for her.

"She goes with you. I love her and she loves me, but I won't drag her down in my ruin."

"It is he who renounces and not I," said the woman. "I am ready to marry him now if he wishes."

"I do not wish," said the man.

And no one could ever know how hard was the utterance of those simple words.

"I am glad to see honor and decency are in you still," said the Colonel, "even if you are incompetent."

"If you say another word to him I will never go with you as long as I live," flashed out Helen Illingworth.

"I deserve all that he can say. Your duty is with him. Good-by," said Meade.

"And I shall see you again?"

"Of course. Now you must go with your father."

Helen Illingworth turned to the Colonel.

"I shall go with you because he bids me, not because----"

"Whatever the reason," said the old soldier, "you go." He paused a moment, looking from the dead man to the living one. "Meade," he exclaimed at last, "I am sorry for your father, I am sorry for you. Good-by, and I never want to see you or hear of you again. Come, Helen."

The woman stretched out her hand toward her lover as her father took her by the arm. Meade looked at her a moment and then turned away deliberately as if to mark the final severance.

With bent head and beating heart, she followed her father out of the room. There he had to fight off the reporters. He denied that his daughter was going to marry young Meade. She strove to speak and he strove to force her to be quiet. In the end she had her way.

"At Mr. Meade's own request," she said finally, "our engagement has been broken off. Personally I consider myself as much bound as ever. I can say nothing more except to add that my feelings toward Mr. Meade are unchanged. If possible they are enhanced, but in deference to his wishes and to my father's----"

"Have you said enough?" roared the Colonel, losing all control of himself at last. "No, I will not be questioned or interrupted another minute. Come."

He almost dragged the girl from the room.

Within the private office the physician said that everything pointed to a heart lesion, but only an autopsy would absolutely determine it. Meanwhile the law would have to take charge of the body temporarily. It was late at night before Bertram Meade and old Shurtliff were left alone. Carefully seeing that no one was present in the suite of offices Meade turned to Shurtliff.

"You know the combination of the private safe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Open it."

The old man went to the door of the safe and discovered that it was not locked.

"It's open," he said.

"Get me that memorandum I wrote to my father. You know where he kept it."

"Yes, sir, separate from the other papers concerning the International, in the third compartment." He turned the big safe door slowly. The third compartment was empty. "It's gone," he said.

Meade looked at him sharply.

"The plans are there?"

"Yes, sir, in the other compartment just above it."

"Look them over."

"It's not here, sir," answered Shurtliff, making a bluff at going rapidly through the papers.

Meade went to the safe, a small one, and examined it carefully and fruitlessly. His letter was not there with the other papers, where it should have been if it were in existence. It was not anywhere.

"Father told me he was going to destroy it, but from indications he let drop I rather thought that he had changed his mind and was keeping it to have some fun with me when the bridge was completed," he said at last.

"Yes, sir, that was his intention. In fact, I know he did not destroy it at first. He told me to file it with the plans."

"And did you?"

"I did."

"Where is it, then?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Shurtliff, you knew my father better than anyone on earth, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, and loved him."

"Do you think he is the kind of man who would relieve himself at my expense, or at anybody's?" Meade almost shouted the words at the secretary.

"No, of course not."

"Where is it, then?"

"I don't know, sir. On second thoughts he must have destroyed it later. I haven't looked in this compartment for weeks."

"Well, it couldn't be anywhere but here unless it is in his desk at home. I'll look there and you search the office here. When it is found it must be destroyed. You understand?"

"I understand; trust me, Mr. Meade."

"I'll never forget the lie you told to back me up, Shurtliff. I can see you loved him as much as I."

"No one will ever know the truth from me, sir. You have saved your father's name and fame."

"I couldn't save his life, though."

"No, but what you saved was dearer to him than life itself."

"I think we had better search the office now. I wouldn't have that paper come to life for the world," said Meade.

Shurtliff was the most orderly of men. The care of the old engineer's papers and other arrangements had devolved upon him. The search was soon completed. The letter could not be found, and it never occurred to Meade to search Shurtliff!

"I guess he must have destroyed it," said the young man, "but to be sure I will examine his private papers at home. Good-night. You will be going yourself?"

"In a few minutes, sir."

"Come to me in the morning after the autopsy and we will arrange for the funeral," said the younger man as he left the office.

Shurtliff waited until his footsteps died away in the hall. He waited until he heard the clang of the elevator gate. Even then he was not sure. He got up and in his cat-like way opened the door of the office and peered down the hall. It was empty. He stood in the door waiting, while the night elevator made several trips up and down without pausing at that floor. He sat down at the dead man's desk. From his pocket he drew forth a packet of papers.

There were three of them. The letter the young man had written to his father, with the plan and the last note the old man had written to the papers. Shurtliff had not delivered them. He could not make up his mind to do it. He had correctly forecasted what Bertram would attempt to do. He had not gone near the _Gazette_ office. He had withheld these papers from the press. He had said nothing about them to anyone, in the hope that he and the young man could persuade the father to silence before the irreparable admission became known. And finally a Power greater than he and the son together could exercise had sealed the old man's lips forever.

In his hands the devotee held the fame and the honor of the dead man he had so loved. What that dead man would have had him do he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. He had not done it. He could not do it now. He had disobeyed. He had lied. He had a keen conscience, too, but the devotional habit of a lifetime was not to be altered for any other man. Meade could live it down. Shurtliff had lived down his failure. There would be some way. The young man was alive, he could fight. The old man was dead. The secretary would better destroy the papers.

He struck a match, held it to the two letters and the plan and then, as the paper broke into a tiny flame, he threw the match aside and crumpled it out in his hands. The well-remembered face of the dead man, the recollection of his commands, forbade him. He did not have to give up those papers but he could not destroy them. He put them back into the pocket of his coat and bent his head over the desk, his left arm extended across it and clenched just in the last position of the man he loved. He wished that he could die, too, and follow after, faithful servant and friend that he was--or was he traitor and recreant after all?