The farmhouse, which stood on a little elevation some hundred yards from the tenant house, had undergone a complete transformation during the three weeks that Clayton and Mr. Philander had been there.
The former had imported a small army of carpenters and plasterers, plumbers and painters from a distant city, and what had been but a dilapidated shell when they reached it was now a cosy little two-story house filled with every modern convenience procurable in so short a time.
“Why, Mr. Clayton, what have you done?” cried Jane Porter, her heart sinking within her as she realized the probable size of the expenditure that had been made.
“S-sh,” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t let your father guess. If you don’t tell him he will never notice, and I simply couldn’t think of him living in the terrible squalor and sordidness which Mr. Philander and I found. It was so little when I would like to do so much, Jane. For his sake, please, never mention it.”
“But you know that we can’t repay you,” cried the girl. “Why do you want to put me under such terrible obligations?”
“Don’t, Jane,” said Clayton sadly. “If it had been just you, believe me, I wouldn’t have done it, for I knew from the start that it would only hurt me in your eyes, but I couldn’t think of that dear old man living in the hole we found here. Won’t you please believe that I did it just for him and give me that little crumb of pleasure at least?”
“I do believe you, Mr. Clayton,” said the girl, “because I know you are big enough and generous enough to have done it just for him—and, oh Cecil, I wish I might repay you as you deserve—as you would wish.”
“Why can’t you, Jane?”
“Because I love another.”
“Canler?”
“No.”
“But you are going to marry him. He told me as much before I left Baltimore.”
The girl winced.
“I do not love him,” she said, almost proudly.
“Is it because of the money, Jane?”
She nodded.
“Then am I so much less desirable than Canler? I have money enough, and far more, for every need,” he said bitterly.
“I do not love you, Cecil,” she said, “but I respect you. If I must disgrace myself by such a bargain with any man, I prefer that it be one I already despise. I should loathe the man to whom I sold myself without love, whomsoever he might be. You will be happier,” she concluded, “alone—with my respect and friendship, than with me and my contempt.”
He did not press the matter further, but if ever a man had murder in his heart it was William Cecil Clayton, Lord Greystoke, when, a week later, Robert Canler drew up before the farmhouse in his purring six cylinder.
A week passed; a tense, uneventful, but uncomfortable week for all the inmates of the little Wisconsin farmhouse.
Canler was insistent that Jane marry him at once.
At length she gave in from sheer loathing of the continued and hateful importuning.
It was agreed that on the morrow Canler was to drive to town and bring back the license and a minister.
Clayton had wanted to leave as soon as the plan was announced, but the girl’s tired, hopeless look kept him. He could not desert her.
Something might happen yet, he tried to console himself by thinking. And in his heart, he knew that it would require but a tiny spark to turn his hatred for Canler into the blood lust of the killer.
Early the next morning Canler set out for town.
In the east smoke could be seen lying low over the forest, for a fire had been raging for a week not far from them, but the wind still lay in the west and no danger threatened them.
About noon Jane started off for a walk. She would not let Clayton accompany her. She wanted to be alone, she said, and he respected her wishes.
In the house Professor Porter and Mr. Philander were immersed in an absorbing discussion of some weighty scientific problem. Esmeralda dozed in the kitchen, and Clayton, heavy-eyed after a sleepless night, threw himself down upon the couch in the living room and soon dropped into a fitful slumber.
To the east the black smoke clouds rose higher into the heavens, suddenly they eddied, and then commenced to drift rapidly toward the west.
On and on they came. The inmates of the tenant house were gone, for it was market day, and none was there to see the rapid approach of the fiery demon.
Soon the flames had spanned the road to the south and cut off Canler’s return. A little fluctuation of the wind now carried the path of the forest fire to the north, then blew back and the flames nearly stood still as though held in leash by some master hand.
Suddenly, out of the northeast, a great black car came careening down the road.
With a jolt it stopped before the cottage, and a black-haired giant leaped out to run up onto the porch. Without a pause he rushed into the house. On the couch lay Clayton. The man started in surprise, but with a bound was at the side of the sleeping man.
Shaking him roughly by the shoulder, he cried:
“My God, Clayton, are you all mad here? Don’t you know you are nearly surrounded by fire? Where is Miss Porter?”
Clayton sprang to his feet. He did not recognize the man, but he understood the words and was upon the veranda in a bound.
“Scott!” he cried, and then, dashing back into the house, “Jane! Jane! where are you?”
In an instant Esmeralda, Professor Porter and Mr. Philander had joined the two men.
“Where is Miss Jane?” cried Clayton, seizing Esmeralda by the shoulders and shaking her roughly.
“Oh, Gaberelle, Mister Clayton, she done gone for a walk.”
“Hasn’t she come back yet?” and, without waiting for a reply, Clayton dashed out into the yard, followed by the others. “Which way did she go?” cried
