Lillian's Vow

CHAPTER I.. Poor Lillian!

POOR LILLIAN!

“Help! Help!”

A hoarse groan, a stifled cry, then silence settled down. A clear, crisp wintery night, with the great city lying asleep beneath an opal-tinted sky, the rush and roar of the day’s turmoil temporarily suspended. It was late, and few people were abroad, especially upon this retired street, where a flickering, flaring electric light threw a yellow glare over the scene.

A man--old and white-haired, frail and feeble--was struggling in the grasp of strong hands, while a dark face, over which a broad-brimmed felt hat was slouched, so that his eyes and the upper part of his face were hidden from sight, bent over him, glaring down into the white, frightened countenance of his victim.

That this was no common case of garroting or highway robbery was apparent at a glance.

“Where is it?” hissed the assailant. “Give it to me at once, Gilbert Leigh, or, as sure as I live, I will kill you! Give me the book--the memorandum-book in your possession, with all its contents undisturbed! You must do it! You shall, Gilbert Leigh! You hold my liberty, my very life, in your hands. You must be mad to think that I would let you go until I have gained possession of the book! Give it to me, I say, or--”

The strong fingers of his right hand tightened their hold upon the old man’s throat, while the other hand went into the inner pocket of the thick, warm overcoat that the old man wore. Something was quickly transferred from the pocket to that of the assailant--something which proved to be a long, leathern book fastened with a band of stout elastic. The dusky eyes under the slouched hat sparkled with gratification, and low under his breath he panted swiftly:

“I have it! The book is mine! And so will perish every clew to my guilt! I would die before the truth should be known! Why, this old man held proofs which would have ruined me and ousted me from my high position! I would--”

“Stop!”

The word, gasped feebly, fell from the pale lips of the half-dead old man.

“Listen to me,” he went on, brokenly, as the hold of the other gradually relaxed from about his throat. “I have a word to say. In--in--my investigations among the books and papers of your office--investigations which I was commanded to make by my superiors--I have discovered that you are not only a forger and embezzler--a living disgrace to the time-honored name that you bear--but that you are--”

He bent his gray head and whispered a few words in the ears of the other man. With a savage howl, like a wild beast suddenly let loose upon its prey, he flashed about and grasped the old man once more by the throat. There was murder now in the dark eyes gleaming under the broad-brimmed felt hat.

“Die!” he panted, hoarsely, “you miserable old spy! Say your prayers now, for I am going to kill you!”

“By Jove! we’ll see about that!” cried a clear, ringing voice, as firm footsteps drew rapidly near, and a tall figure came to an abrupt halt. Crash! went a blow--a back-handed, powerful blow--which landed directly in the chest of the would-be assassin. There was a dull thud as a dark form dropped to the pavement, then the electric light went out in that sudden and exasperating way which electric lights are prone to do upon the smallest provocation, and when it flared up once more, the limp, lifeless form upon the pavement and the tall figure of the new-comer bending over it were the only objects in sight. The new-comer, the man who had struck the blow, was tall and handsome, with pale, olive complexion, soft, dark eyes and waves of dark hair. A face good to look at anywhere. He stooped and peered into the old man’s upturned countenance, a delicate patrician face, with clear-cut features, and a broad forehead with a fringe of soft white hair.

“I’m afraid he’s dead, poor fellow!” said the young man, ruefully. “Well, of course it will be another item for the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ and I wouldn’t be a hard-working journalist, with my fortune all to make, if I did not welcome an item.”

He was speaking lightly, as one accustomed to such scenes, but there was an under-current of feeling in his voice which revealed the kindly heart beating in his breast.

He drew from his pocket a policeman’s whistle and blew a shrill blast.

Silence for a moment, during which time the young man proceeded to tear open the old man’s shirt-collar, and lift the white head to give him a little air.

There was no sign of life. The chest did not move, the white hands lay limp and lifeless at his side.

Tramp, tramp, down the street, swift and straight, came the echo of heavy footfalls. A moment more the gleam of a silver badge, a blue uniform, and a gruff voice demanding sternly:

“Come, now! What’s all this? Why”--in a tone of satisfaction--“if it ain’t Mr. Lyndon!”

The young man grasped the hand extended.

“Jack Lyndon, of the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ at your service. Your name is McElroy, I believe? Yes; well, I found this old man just now in the grasp of a garroter, highway robber, whatever you may choose to call him. I struck the fellow a blow, he came down with a thud; but he got off somehow, and the old man is, I believe--McElroy, can he be dead?”

McElroy laid his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man, and a swift look of horror dawned upon his face, as the electric light flared up brightly, revealing the features plainly.

“Good heavens! it’s Mr. Leigh! Dear, dear! that’s awful now! And poor Miss Lillian, it will just kill her! I think, Mr. Lyndon--I really think and fear that the old man is gone! If it’s so, I tell you what, I wouldn’t like to face Lillian Leigh with his body. Mr. Lyndon, you never knew such a case in your life of father and daughter so wrapped up in each other that they could hardly bear to be out of each other’s sight. You see, there ain’t none of the Leigh family left but Miss Lillian and her father. She does type-writing at home, and old Mr. Leigh himself was an expert accountant, and some folks say a kind of spy in the big commercial house of Raleigh & Raleigh--to look after the interests of the firm in a quiet way, you know; it’s the biggest commercial concern in the whole state--to watch over slippery young clerks and wild fellows, to keep an eye upon all the employees, in fact. A number of them--I speak the plain truth--are sons of the best families here. They need watching, Mr. Lyndon”--shaking his head slowly and dubiously--“sure’s you are born, they need watching.”

All this time he had been chafing the thin, white hands, and trying to force a little brandy between the old man’s clinched teeth. He laid the white head back against Lyndon’s knee at last with a low sigh.

“’Tain’t no use! It really seems like ’tain’t no use, Mr. Jack. I--I--see--”

He arose to his feet and pointed to a row of buildings, all alike, with an air of quiet respectability. Their rows of shuttered windows, each house with its high, arched porch and white stone steps--the neat brass door-plates at every door--told, without words, that this was a neighborhood of boarding-houses and “apartments to let.” The policeman lifted his club and pointed to a side window in the second story of one of the houses, where a faint light gleamed like a star. Even while they gazed, the blind was opened softly, and some one peered out into the night below. McElroy groaned.

“Them’s their rooms up there, Mr. Lyndon!” he said, softly. “Who is going to bring the old man into the house? And who--” he flashed about with a tragic gesture--“Good God! Who’s going to tell Miss Lillian?”

The window-blind upstairs was closed softly, and the watching figure disappeared. A strange pang shot through Jack Lyndon’s big, honest heart. Years afterward, he was wont to look back upon that moment, and say that it was a presentiment of what was to come.

“Poor girl! My heart aches for her!” he muttered. “It will be a terrible blow to bear.” And then, before he scarcely realized it, Jack Lyndon found himself standing upon the white stone steps of No. 3 ----, McElroy at his side, ringing the door-bell in a peremptory summons. One! boomed from the tower of a church not far away. One! repeated a silvery-toned time-piece somewhere within the silent house at whose door they were standing. Silence--utter silence--broken at length by the opening of an upper window, and a masculine voice demanded sternly who was there, and what they wanted at that time of night.

A few words made clear the sad situation. The window was closed, and a little later the house-door was opened, and the gas-light burning dimly in the hall turned up to a cheery blaze. They bore him into the wide hall and laid him, limp and lifeless, upon a sofa there. Somebody telephoned for the nearest physician, and a group of half-dressed men and women gathered round the sofa, gazing, with horror-distended eyes, upon the sad spectacle. Then the physician bustled in; five minutes’ examination, and the verdict came. Gilbert Leigh was dead. He had died from the effects of strangulation.

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