CHAPTER VIII.
A DAY OF RECKONING.
Hilton Field was first taken to Sands Point, but on a message from Elmer Greer, brought by the Jew, Moses, he was suddenly removed.
The men in charge threw their captive into a small sailboat and headed for the Connecticut shore.
The night was fine, but large cakes of ice were met with, which they had difficulty in avoiding.
The rascals gave their captive an old suit of clothes and a heavy overcoat, and Mr. Field was quite comfortable, as concerned warmth.
It was many hours before they made the shore, but finally, after several hours of groping along the coast, they reached the point at which they tried to disembark.
They ran the boat ashore in a sheltered cove a few miles from Norwalk.
It was broad daylight now, and the rascals feared that their movements might be observed and themselves stopped and questioned.
They had taken so many risks that it would have been most galling to lose their prize now.
“Moses,” said Mackrell, “are you sure we are at the right place?”
“Of course I am,” replied the Jew. “Do you see that house yonder, among the trees—the yellow house with the green blinds?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Sophie lives there,” said Moses.
It was a neat cottage to which Hilton Field was conducted, and so innocent were its exterior and surroundings that the passer-by would most certainly scoff at the suspicion that it was anything else but what it looked—a gentleman’s country residence.
Romping on the lawn were three fine-looking children, and they did not even discontinue their play when the party walked down the broad avenue to the house.
Seated in the parlor, a lady, in the prime of life, but still beautiful, listlessly turned over the leaves of a classical work, while at a piano opposite her was a young lady, evidently her daughter, drumming the keys in a careless fashion.
The bell was rung in a peculiar manner, and at its sound the young woman left the room.
The lady tossed her book upon a table, just as the parlor door opened, and Mackrell and the others were ushered in.
“So, this is our banker friend,” said the woman, who was addressed by her visitors as Sophie, inclining her head toward Mr. Field.
“Oh, lady,” said the wretched captive, “you are a woman; you will have pity on me and save me from these ruffians.”
“Ruffians! What ruffians? you surely do not mean those gentlemen who are with you?” remarked Sophie. “You are tired; I will excuse you this time for speaking so disrespectfully of my friends.”
She touched a silver gong that stood on the piano, and told the servant, an ill-looking colored man, to bring some brandy and wine.
“You will have wine, I know,” Sophie said, filling out a large glass of the liquor and handing it to the banker.
Hilton Field was chilled, and the wine was most acceptable.
He had hardly swallowed it when a sleepy feeling came over him, and he knew that the liquor was drugged.
Dick Denton took the banker’s arms within his own, and, leading him to a lounge, told him to rest himself.
Leaving Denton and the woman alone, Mackrell and Moses went downstairs, not forgetting to take the bottle of brandy with them.
“Where is Wilbur?” Dick asked, when the door closed behind his friends.
“Over in Norwalk; he will be here inside of an hour,” replied Sophie. “But why do you ask?”
“I was thinking, perhaps, he might upset our plans.”
“Not he; why he was tickled to death when he heard of Greer’s success. Don’t you know, it was Wilbur who first broached the scheme to Elmer Greer?”
“No; I didn’t know it,” answered Denton. “There is one thing I do know, and that is, heaps of money are being made by Greer, and some others on the outside, while me and my pals are doing the work and taking all the risks.”
“Haven’t you received anything?”
“Yes, a paltry five hundred dollars, and the promise of more,” replied Dick.
“Greer dare not go back on you. Brodie will soon make him come to terms,” remarked Sophie.
“Yes, but Brodie is in jail, worse luck,” said Denton.
“You are in error. Skip got away yesterday; so the morning paper states.”
“Now, things will work smoothly, or I’ll eat my head,” said Denton, joyfully. “I must go downstairs and tell that to Mackrell and Moses. I suppose the old gent won’t wake up for an hour or two?”
“I will call you if he does.”
Sophie was left alone with the banker.
She bent over him, until her face was close to his, and she could count every wrinkle in his pale face, had she so desired.
There was not a spark of pity in her breast for him.
Instead, she was exultant.
“Hilton Field,” she said, “you turned me from your door, but you did not recognize in the richly dressed woman the poor ballet girl when you came here this morning. For every heartache you caused me, you shall suffer a hundred. Your milk-and-water daughter weeps for you, and it will be long until she dries her eyes.”
The banker slept on, and his breathing was as regular as that of a tired child.
Sophie heaped threat after threat upon the sleeper.
Had she had her way, the woman would have him killed—indeed, she would not hesitate committing the deed herself.
This beautiful woman possessed the heart of a demon.
Black-hearted and unforgiving, there was no crime so dark that she would not engage in, if the commission of it served her purpose or brought with it revenge.
She still bent over the banker, when a hand was placed upon her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s you, Wilbur!”
“They have brought him here, I see,” remarked the newcomer. “He looks badly shaken up. I guess the boys must have given the old fellow rough treatment.”
“And are you sorry for that?” she asked, bringing her face close to his and looking him straight in the eyes.
He hesitated a moment and then answered: “It won’t do for him to die.”
Wilbur walked into the adjoining room, where there was a desk, and, seating himself at it, he began to figure on a sheet of paper.
Sophie followed, and, while he was at work, leaned over him.
“You have heard from the city to-day, or you would not be figuring,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, “Smith telegraphed me. He has put out every cent he could get hold of, and has invested all ours, too. We shall clear an immense sum. The stock is a drug on the market, and can be got for almost nothing.”
“What does he advise?” Sophie asked.
“He telegraphed that Greer would bring things to a climax.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Why, stupid, to return the old man,” answered Wilbur, “and then unload. He don’t know but what Greer still has him.”
“And——”
“I don’t know what to do, Sophie. What would you advise?”
“Keep the old man; remove him to some other place, sell this house, and invest the money in the bonds of the railroad. And, above all things, cut Greer.”
“You are a trump, Sophie,” said Wilbur. “You don’t suppose I intend to share with Elmer? Smith engaged him and let Smith pay him. I will have nothing to do with him.”
“Perhaps it might be as well,” suggested the woman, “that you led him to believe he was to receive a share of the profits.”
“What’s that?”
“The old man has awakened,” replied Sophie, going to the door. “You do not wish to see him, I suppose?”
“Why not?”
“I thought——”
“Never mind what you thought,” said Wilbur, “leave me alone with him.”
Sophie went downstairs, and Wilbur walked into the parlor.
At sight of him the banker was greatly startled.
“My son!” he gasped, rubbing his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a dream.
“You make a mistake, sir,” replied the other, “you have no son.”
“Wilbur!”
The gray-haired banker fell on his knees and lifted his hands imploringly.
“You had a son and how did you treat him? Answer me that, old man?”
Hilton Field did not speak; his lips moved, but no sound came from them.
“Because,” continued Wilbur, “he married the woman he loved, you drove him from your house, and made a villain of him. Your blue blood revolted against receiving a ballet girl as your daughter.”
“You forged my name for large amounts,” said the banker, rising to his feet; “had you not done so, I might have forgiven you.”
“Was I to starve while you rolled in plenty?” asked the son. “You publicly announced that I was no longer a son of yours. Look at your work and be proud of it, if you can”—he stretched forth his hands—“they are dyed in blood. The son of Hilton Field, banker, is a murderer and a thief. Tremble, old man, for it is you, not I, who will have to answer one day for me.”
Wilbur had worked himself up to a high pitch of excitement, and his father quailed beneath his eye.
“I will atone for the past,” said Hilton Field.
“It is too late, old man!” exclaimed the son. “I can never be other than I am, a thief, the friend of thieves, a counterfeiter, a forger and a murderer.”
“Think of your mother!”
“Did you think of her, or did you pay any heed to her appeals when you turned me from your door?” cried Wilbur. “Did you not threaten her, that if she extended any aid to me that you would cast her off? Do I not speak the truth, old man? What do your millions and that blue blood that has always been your boast avail you now? Downstairs are men that at a word from me would take your life.”
“I repeat,” said the father, “that I will atone for the past. I will recognize your wife and children—I believe you are a father—and take you back. Think of your sister, how she suffers because of me.”
“Bah! you taught her to hate me long ago,” said Wilbur.
“Give up this life,” pleaded the banker. “I will give you half of what I possess.”
“I want it not,” was the rejoinder; “all your millions could not make white my blood-stained soul. Some day I may reach the gallows, and it will read nicely in fashionable society that the son of the banker, Hilton Field, was hanged for murder.”
Once more the gray-haired old men knelt at his son’s feet.
“Have you no pity?” he cried. “I always loved you until——”
Wilbur did not allow him to finish the sentence.
“Until,” said the son, “you turned him adrift. I could throttle you.”
Hilton Field, the stern, hard, money-getter, bowed his head and wept.