He did not consciously ask himself the one question: why not let the wreck come after all? He knew why. For a moment he thought of suicide and a dying note. No—they might ignore the warning and think him merely crazy. Already they were flying to make up lost time. No, he must live and spare no effort even to confession until he had stopped that train. First, warning—as a last resort, the bell-rope—and then—jail.
At any cost he must save the Princess and her great cause—God! They might even think her the criminal if anything happened on this train of death. And then he sensed by the silken rustle of garments that the Princess had finished reading and had arisen.
“Read my letter,” she said.
His hands shook as he read. She had received and read his reports. They were admirable and enlightening. Her own limited experiences confirmed them in all essentials. The Japanese had joined her and was quite converted. They realized the tremendous possibilities of the American Negro, but they both agreed with Mr. Towns that there was no question of revolt or violence. It was rather the slow, sure, gathering growth of power and vision, expanding and uniting with the thought of the wider, better world.
But she could not understand why he did not answer her specific questions and refused her repeated invitations to call. She wanted to thank him personally, and she had so many questions—so many, many questions to ask. She had twice postponed her return home in order to see him. Now she must go, and curiously enough, she was going to the Ku Klux Klan meeting in Chicago at the invitation of the Japanese, and for reasons she would explain. Would Mr. Towns meet her there? She would be at the Drake and always at home to him. She sensed, as did the Japanese, subtle propaganda, to discount in advance any possible colored world unity, in this invitation to attend this meeting and ride on this special train. They were all the more glad to accept, as he would readily understand. Would he be so good as to wire, if he received this, to the New Willard, Washington?
Matthew was dumb and bewildered. He could not fathom the intricacies of the tactics of the Japanese. His reports had been passed to the Princess, and yet all her letters to him stopped save this. Or had it been Perigua who had rifled his mail? Or the Indians?
But what mattered all this now? It was too late. Everything was too late. Around him like a silent wall of earth and time ranged the symbolic shoes—big and little, slippers and boots, old, new, severe, elegant. He spoke hurriedly. There was no alternative. She had to know all. Time pressed. It was nearly one o’clock, and a cold tremor gripped slowly about his heart. He listened—glanced back at the door. God! If the conductor should come! Then he hurried on.
“I shall stop the wreck; then I am going—away!”
The Princess gave a little gasp and came toward him. He started nervously and listened.
“I must not stay,” he said hurriedly, and in a lower voice: “This train will surely be wrecked unless I stop it. I did not dream you were aboard.”
She made a little motion with her hands. “Wrecked? This train?” she said, and then more slowly, “Oh! Perigua’s plan?” Then she stared at him. “And you—on it!”
He smiled. “Wrecked, and I—on it.” Then he added slowly: “It was to be a proof—to his Excellency and you. And it was to be more than that: it was revenge.” And he told her hurriedly of Jimmie’s death.
“But you must stop it. It is a mad thing to do. There are so many sane, fine paths. I was so mistaken. I had thought of you as a nation of outcasts to be hurled forward as shock troops, but you are a nation of modern people. You surely will not follow Perigua?”
“No,” he said quietly, “I will not. But let me tell you—”
Then she rose quietly and moved toward him. “And—Perigua must be—betrayed?”
“Never.”
“And if—” She stared at him. “And if—”
“Jail,” he said quietly, “for long years.”
She made a little noise like a sob controlled, but his quick ear caught another sound. “The conductor,” he whispered. “Destroy these handbills for me.” Quickly he stepped out into the corridor.
“Captain,” he said hurriedly, “captain—this train must be stopped—there is danger.”
“What do you mean? Is it them damned porters again?”
“No—not they—but, I say—there is danger. Where’s the train conductor?”
The Pullman conductor stared at him hard. “He’s up in the third car,” he said nervously, for it had been a hard trip. “Come with me.” Matthew followed.
They stepped in on the conductor in an empty compartment, where he was burrowing in a pile of tickets and stubs.
“Mr. Gray, the porter has a story for you.”
“Spit it out—and hurry up,” growled the conductor. The train flew on, and faster flew the time.
“You must stop the train,” said Matthew.
The conductor glanced up. “What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk?”
“I was never so sober.”
“What the hell then is the matter?”
“For God’s sake stop the train! There’s danger ahead.”
“Stop the train, already two hours late? You blithering idiot! Have all you black porters gone crazy?”
Matthew stepped out of the compartment and threw his weight on the bell-rope. The conductor swore and struck him aside, but there was a jolt, a low, long, grinding roar, and quickly the train slowed down. The conductor seized Matthew just as someone pounded on the window. A red light flashed ahead. Soon a sweating man rushed aboard.
“Thank God!” he gasped. “That was a narrow squeak. I was afraid I was too late to flag you. You must have got warning before my signal was lighted. There’s been an explosion on the trestle. Rails are torn up for a dozen yards.”
XV
Matthew Towns blackened shoes. All night long he blackened shoes, cleaning them, polishing them very carefully,
