The Delafield Affair

by Florence Finch Kelly

  CHAPTER XVI

  A DOUBLE BLUFF

  Alexander Bancroft read Conrad's defiant letter, duly forwarded by hisBoston attorneys, with a nearer approach to desperation than he hadknown in years. He had hoped so much from that money; and it had beenthrown away! The man was inflexible, and to attempt to turn him from hisdeadly purpose by peaceful means would be a waste of time. And time wasprecious, for, now that he and his detective knew so much, one clew thatthey might discover any day would throw the door wide open. He must befoiled before he had time to make another move. Bancroft laid on hisdesk the letter he had been reading, feeling to the bottom of his heartthat he would be justified in taking any course that would halt the feetof his pursuer.

  A clerk came to ask his presence in the outer room, and he went outhastily, intending to return at once. But a man with business in whichboth were interested awaited him, and after a moment's conversation theywent to find a third who was concerned in the same matter.

  They had only just gone when Lucy came in and asked for her father. Shelooked sweet and dainty in a white gown with a wide white hat tied underher chin, her curls clustering around a face all aglow with warm brownsand rich reds. The clerk who pressed forward with pleased alacrity toanswer her question was one of her ardent admirers. Mr. Bancroft hadjust gone out, probably for only a few minutes; wouldn't she wait? Itwas of no consequence, she said; she only wished to see if he had anymail for her. But she looked disappointed, and the clerk suggested thatas he had left his office door unlocked she might go in and wait. Shesaw a pile of unopened letters on her father's desk and glanced throughit, finding two for Miss Dent and one for herself. "I'll just sit hereand read mine," she thought, "and maybe daddy will be back by thattime."

  A little gust of wind came through the open window, blowing a sheet ofpaper from the desk to the floor. Her eye caught the signature as shepicked it up. "Curtis Conrad!" she read. "Oh, how like him his writinglooks!" she exclaimed, a wave of color surging into her cheeks. "Why, itseems as if I just knew it would be like this! How easy it is to read!"She was looking at the letter, her attention absorbed in the fact thatit had come from Conrad's own hand, when Delafield's name stood out fromthe other words.

  "Delafield! Sumner L. Delafield! I remember that name. It's the name ofthe man that ruined his father--why, it's a receipt for that money! Howdoes daddy happen to have it?" Her eyes ran eagerly along the lines."It's just like him! I'm glad he wouldn't take the money! What a horrid,wicked man that Delafield must be! I wonder how daddy happens to havethis letter, when it was written to Tremper & Townsend, in Boston!" Herglance fell on the torn envelope bearing the imprint of the Boston firm,addressed to her father, and thence to their letter beside it. With mindintent upon the bewildering problem her eyes rushed over the briefmissive:

  "As you requested, we deposited your check for five hundred dollars to our account, and forwarded our check for the same amount to Mr. Curtis Conrad. We enclose his letter in receipt, which he evidently wishes sent on to you."

  Lucy dropped the sheet of paper and sprang to her feet, her mind awhirlwith protest. No, no! this could not be meant for her father--he was notDelafield--it was impossible! But--something clutched at her throat, andher head swam. She must go home; she must think out the puzzle. Suddenunwillingness to meet her father seized her. He must not know she hadbeen there, that she had seen anything. She was not yet thinkingcoherently, only feeling that she had thoughtlessly surprised somesecret, which had sprung out at her like a jack-in-the-box, and that shemust give no sign of having seen its face.

  She sped homeward, her brain in a turmoil, and it was not until she hadshut herself in her room that she began to think clearly. A troop ofrecollections, disjointed, half-forgotten bits and ends of thingsswarmed upon her. The shock had roused her mind to unusual activity, andlittle things long past, forgotten for years, again came vividly intoher memory.

  So suddenly that it made her catch her breath there flashed upon her therecollection of how once, when she was a tiny child, some one had haltedbeside her mother and herself in a city street and exclaimed "Mrs.Delafield!" Her mother had hurried on without noticing the salutation,and had satisfied her curiosity afterward by explaining that the personwas a stranger who had mistaken her for somebody else. But Lucy hadthought the name a pretty one and used it in her play, pretending thatshe had a little playmate so called. Their wanderings during herchildhood came back to her, when they had gone often from one place toanother, at first in Canada, afterward always in the West. Much of thetime she and her mother were alone, but her father came occasionally tospend with them a few days or weeks. Her devotion to him dated fromthose early years, when she thought so much about him during his longabsences, wished so ardently for his return, and enjoyed his visits withunalloyed delight.

  With new significance came the recollection of the beginning for them ofthe name of Bancroft. While she was still a little girl her mother hadtold her their name would no longer be Brown, but Bancroft, because theyhad been allowed to change it. She had liked the new name much better,had accepted it with the unquestioning acquiescence of childhood, andthe old name had soon become but a dim memory.

  Like a blow at her heart, because of the conviction it brought, theremembrance rushed upon her of an occasion not long after the change ofname. She had wakened in the night and, drowsily floating in and out ofsleep, had heard snatches of talk between her parents. Somethingregarding danger to her father had won her attention. He had repliedthat it would be quite safe, because only when he visited them would hebe known as Bancroft, and that henceforth he would probably be able tospend more time with them. Her mother had feared and questioned, but hehad reassured her and insisted that Lucy must be kept more steadily inschool and that both mother and daughter must have a settled home. Shecould not remember all that he said, but meaningful scraps came backwhich had impressed her because they were concerned with that vagueperil which her mother seemed to fear. He had said something about therebeing "no danger now," "nobody would recognize him," "everybody hadforgotten it by this time"; finally, her childish anxiety assured thathe was not really in jeopardy, she had sunk back happily into sleep andthought little more about it. After that she and her mother lived partof the time in Denver and part in San Francisco, and her father was withthem more than before.

  Every recollection that emerged from that dubious past strengthened thefear that had gripped her heart with the reading of the letters. One byone she was forced to give up the suppositions with which she tried toaccount for her father's possession of those letters. With all herstrength she fought against the one evident conclusion. But at last theconviction fell upon her with chill certainty that they were on herfather's desk because they were meant for him, and that he was theSumner L. Delafield of that long past, disgraceful affair.

  With hands clenched against her heart, which was aching with thesoreness of bruised flesh, she whispered, "To take the money of allthose people, and ruin them; and it killed some--oh, daddy, daddy, itwas you who did it!" All the world had suddenly become one great,enveloping pain that wrung her heart anew with every recurringrealization that her adored father had been so wicked--to her mind soabominably wicked. It was significant of her youth and inexperience, andalso of her moral quality, that she did not attempt to palliate orexcuse his offence. He was guilty of wrongdoing, as Dellmey Baxter wasguilty, but in a far worse measure, and the fact that he was her fatherwould never temper her condemnation of his sin. In the midst of heranguish she grew conscious that her feeling toward him had changed, andknew that the life had gone out of her old honoring, adoring love. Itwas as if half her heart had been violently torn away. For the firsttime sobs shook her, as she moaned, "Daddy, daddy, I loved you so!"Forlorn and anguished, her longing turned back to the dead mother withimperious need of sympathy, understanding, and companionship.

  Then came the thought that her mother had known this dreadful truth, andyet had stanchly held by him and shared its consequences. The
sense ofduty arose within her, trembling, apprehensive, but insistent. It seemedalmost as if her mother had bequeathed this secret to her keeping thatshe might the better fill her place beside him with daughterlysolicitude. The idea crystallized into whispered words as she tossedback her head and dried her eyes, "My mother stood by him, and so shallI!"

  He must never even suspect that she knew this horrible thing; she feltinstinctively that it would cut him to the heart to learn that she haddiscovered his secret. For a moment she broke down again and moaned,"Why did I go into his office this morning! I wish I hadn't, I wish Ihadn't! And then I wouldn't have had to know!" She quickly put asidethis useless repining, to face the grim, painful fact once more. No; hemust never guess that she knew he was other than he seemed, and he mustnever feel any change in her manner toward him. She must hide the secretdeep, deep down in her heart, and she must keep their mutual life as ithad always been. And there was Dearie--but she must know nothing of it;oh, no, never in the world must Dearie learn the least thing about thistrouble!

  Lucy felt very much alone, quite shut off, in her poignant need, fromevery one who might give her help, advice, or sympathy. As she satthere, encompassed by her loneliness and pain, her thoughts turned halfunconsciously toward Curtis Conrad with instinctive longing for hisprotecting care and strength. Then she remembered. With a sharp flashthat made her wince it came back to her that he meant to have revengeon Delafield; that she had heard him say he was on the man's trail, andwould track him down and kill him! For a moment it staggered her, with afierce new pain that struck through the keen ache in her breast, makingher catch her breath in a gasping sob. But all her heart rose in quickdenial. A faint smile held her trembling lip for an instant as shethought:

  "Oh, no; he wouldn't! He wouldn't hurt daddy; and he wouldn't killanybody! I know he wouldn't!"

  She almost feared to meet her household; it seemed as if this awfulknowledge which had come to her must be writ large upon her countenance.Would it be possible to take up the daily life again as if nothing hadhappened? A chasm so horrible had riven it, since the morning, thatsurely it could never be the same again. But when she finally summonedher resolution and went down to take up her daily duties, she found itnot so hard as she had feared. That benign routine of daily, commonplacelife, with its hourly demands upon thought and feeling and attention,which has saved so many hearts from breaking, met her at the very doorof her room. She quickly learned to lean upon it, even to multiply itsdemands. At the outset it gave her the strength and courage to passthrough her ordeal steadfastly; and after the first day it was not sohard. She began to feel pity for her father and a new tenderness as shethought of the years through which he had lived, knowing who he was andwhat he had done, and dreading always to be found out. But all her pity,tenderness, affection, and the old habit of lovingness that she wasresolute to sustain were not always sufficient to overcome the revulsionthat sometimes seized her.

  One of these moments of revolt came to her as they lingered over thebreakfast table a few days after her discovery. She made an excuse toattend to something in the kitchen, and hastily left the room. Herfather had told them at the table that he was going to Las Vegas thatmorning. He waited, expecting her to return and go with him to the gate,and wave a last good-bye as he looked back on his way down the hill. Shedid not reappear, and at last he told Miss Dent that he would have to goor lose his train. Louise watched him from the window with yearning eyesthat would not lift themselves from his figure until it disappearedfrom her view.

  As he waited at the station Lucy rushed breathlessly to his side. "I wasso afraid I should be too late!" she panted as she slipped her handthrough his arm, "I ran all the way down the hill."

  She clung so affectionately to him and looked up into his face with anappeal so wistful that he was touched, thinking only that she wassorrowing over his going away. It was the first time he had beenseparated from her since she had come to make her home with him. Theconductor called, "All aboard!" and he kissed her tenderly, saying,"I'll be back day after to-morrow, little daughter."

  She went home with that "little daughter" ringing in her ears and herheart. It brought back a wealth of memories of those childish, happy,longed-for times when her father came, so glad to see his "littledaughter" that the days were not long enough to hold all the pleasureshe wished to give her. It filled her breast with tenderness and a sortof yearning affection, more maternal than filial in quality, and mademore ardent her desire to stand by him with perfect loyalty. But theold, joyous love that had been rooted deep in admiration, esteem, andhonor no longer stirred within her. She knew that it would never fillher life again with its warmth and gladness, and that now and again shewould have to struggle with that same aversion which had sent her thatmorning to hide herself in her room against his accustomed affectionatefarewell. Nevertheless, she was pleased that a returning tide oftenderness, which was almost remorse, had swept over her in time for herto join him at the station.

  Lucy's breathless rush to overtake him and the appealing tenderness ofher manner during their moment together were sweet thoughts inBancroft's mind as the train bore him northward. Dear little daughter!she grew dearer every day, and so did his pride and happiness in her. Helonged to give her all the pleasures that his money could buy, just ashe used to fill his pockets for her delight when she was a little girl.Once past these threatening dangers, they should have good timestogether. All his business enterprises were promising well; it would notbe long before money would be plenty. Then, with clear sailing ahead andno ominous clouds, he could ask Louise to marry him.

  They would have to give up Lucy some time, but not for many a day. Shewas the sort of girl that is always attractive to men--why, half theyoung fellows in Golden were already dancing devoted attendance!--butshe was very young; he and Louise still had many years in which to enjoyher, to travel with her and show her the world. Once past thesethreatening dangers, how fair was the world beyond! He would vanquishthem yet, by whatever means might come to his hand! Each day's anxietyfor the present and its longing for the fair future made his heart moredesperate and reckless. He was hopeful that this coming interview withRutherford Jenkins would make things easier for him in that quarter.Money would always keep Jenkins quiet, but to give up money to ablackmailer was like pouring it down a rat hole; if he kept it up theprocess was sure to cripple him in time.

  Jenkins received him with smiling cordiality. "I'm very glad to see you,Mr. Delafield--oh, I beg your pardon!--Mr. Bancroft. I always think ofyou as--ah, by the other name--and I sometimes forget in speaking."

  "You'd better not forget again," Bancroft interposed. "And, speaking offorgetting, there is a little matter concerning you that I'm willing tolet drop out of my memory. You know, of course, about the case of JoseMaria Melgares. Doubtless you know, also, how Melgares happened to stealCurtis Conrad's horse; and you could tell to a cent--to a jury, ifnecessary--how much money was given to Melgares in the rear of the BlueFront saloon to induce him to undertake the theft. I take it, however,that you would not care to have it brought into court, as a convictionon a charge of conspiracy would be sure to follow. I have all theevidence in my possession--quite enough to convict. I got it fromMelgares' wife in the first place, and I have since secured hisaffidavit. But I have stopped her mouth, and his, and nobody else knowsanything about it. I am quite willing to forget it myself if you willshow equal courtesy concerning--certain other matters."

  Jenkins grinned and licked his lips. "Really, my dear Mr.Delafield--excuse me--my dear Mr. Bancroft--I don't know what you aredriving at! I suppose you mean that Melgares has been saying that Ihired him to steal Conrad's horse. The thing is as false as it isabsurd. If it were to come into court I should deny it absolutely,exactly as I do now. And the word of Rutherford Jenkins would stand forconsiderably more with a jury than that of a Mexican horse-thief."

  "You are probably the only man in the Territory, Mr. Jenkins, who holdsthat opinion. Unless you take a more reasonable view of the matter Ishal
l feel it my duty to see the district attorney as soon as I gethome."

  "See him, and be damned!" Jenkins broke out. "If you do, Curtis Conradshall know before the week is out that you are Sumner L. Delafield."

  Bancroft's eyes fell, but his reply came quickly enough: "Well, and whatis that to me?"

  "I guess you know what it will mean to you," Jenkins answered with asneer. He did not know himself what it would mean to the banker, but hefelt sure that it would answer quite as well to make pretence ofknowledge. He watched his antagonist furtively in the momentary silencethat followed.

  "You don't seem to understand the full significance of the attitude youare taking," Bancroft presently went on. "Of course, I do not wish, justnow, to have Conrad, or any one else, know all the events of my pastlife. I have been living an honorable life in this Territory, and youcan very well comprehend that I do not wish my reputation and businesssuccess smashed--by you or anybody else. That is the only reason why Iwas willing to enter into an understanding with you. But my affairs aregetting in such shape that I can soon snap my fingers at you or any onewho tries to disclose my identity. At best, you'll be able to get littlemore out of me, and I am amazed that you should be willing to risk thistrial, with its certain disgrace, conviction, and sentence to thepenitentiary, for the sake of the few hundred dollars of--blackmail--letus call it by its right name--that you may be able to extort from me."

  "I am quite willing to take whatever risk there is," Jenkins interposed,"especially as my counsel could readily bring out the fact that you hadtried to--blackmail--let us call it by its right name--to blackmail mebefore you gave the information. Do as you please about going to thedistrict attorney; I don't care a damn whether you do or not. But, ifyou do, you'll have to settle with Curt Conrad before the week is out!"

  Bancroft arose, perceiving acutely that the only course left for himwas to make a strong bluff and retreat. "Very well," he said, with anindifference he was far from feeling, "do as you like about that. Onlydon't delude yourself by supposing that Curt Conrad's knowing about thatold affair will mean any more to me than anybody else's knowledge. Whenyou think this proposal of mine over carefully I'm sure you'll changeyour mind, and I shall expect to hear from you to that effect."