CHAPTER XIX

"There--take a little water--you're much better now!" said the nurse,

soothingly.

The patient swallowed greedily the cooling drink handed to him, and,

tired even by that small effort, fell back on his pillows exhausted.

"Where am I?" he inquired of the comely young woman, who in neat

service uniform, hovered about the bed.

"You're in St. Mary's Hospital."

"In New York?" he queried.

"No--San Francisco----"

He was too weak to question further, but his hollow blue eyes followed

her as she moved here and there, attending skilfully and swiftly to the

duties of the sick room. Presently he made another venture:

"Have I been ill long?"

"Yes--very long."

"What's the matter?"

"Concussion of the brain, pneumonia and shock. You are much better

now, but you mustn't talk so much or you may have a relapse."

He asked no more, but passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered

sort of way. Presently, he began again:

"Does my wife come to see me?"

The nurse stopped in her work and looked at him curiously. In

surprise, she exclaimed:

"Your wife! Have you a wife?"

It was his turn now to be surprised. In somewhat peevish tone he said:

"Of course I've a wife--everyone knows that."

"What's her name?"

"Helen--Helen Traynor." Enthusiastically, he added: "Oh, you'd just

love my wife if you only knew her. She's the sweetest, the most

unselfish----"

The nurse looked at him curiously.

"So your name is Traynor, is it? We've tried to find out for a long

time. But there were no marks on your clothes when you were picked up.

We did not know who you were and so have not been able to communicate

with any of your friends. We guessed you were a man of social position

by your hands and teeth, and we knew your name began with a T because

of the monogram on the signet ring on your finger."

"Pick me up?" he echoed. "Where did they pick me up? What has

happened? Was it an accident?"

"You were found unconscious, drifting in the ocean, clinging to a spar,

and were brought here by a sailing vessel. You had a fracture of the

skull and you were half drowned. It is supposed that you were one of

the passengers of the _Abyssinia_, which took fire and went down two

days after leaving Cape Town, but as several passengers and officers

whose bodies were never found also had names beginning with T, it was

impossible to identify you."

As he listened, the vacant, stupid expression on his face gradually

gave place to a more alert, intelligent look. Indistinctly, vaguely,

he recalled things that had happened. Slowly his brain cells began to

work.

He remembered cabling to Helen from Cape Town telling her of his

sailing on the _Abyssinia_. He recalled the incidents of the first day

at sea. The weather was beautiful. Everything pointed to a good

voyage. Who was traveling with him? He could not remember. Oh, yes,

now he knew. François, his valet, and that other queer fellow he had

picked up at the diamond mines--his twin brother. Yes, it all came

back to him now.

Why had he gone to the diamond mines? Yes, now he knew--to take back

to New York the two big stones found on the Company's land. He had

them safe in a belt he wore round his waist next to his skin. The

second night out he went to bed about midnight and was fast asleep when

suddenly he heard shouts of "Fire! Fire!" Jumping up and looking out

of his cabin he saw stewards and passengers running excitedly about.

There was a reddish glare and a suffocating smell of smoke. Quickly he

buckled on the belt with the diamonds, and, slipping on his trousers,

went out. The electric lights had gone out. The ship was in complete

darkness. From all sides came shouts of men and screams of frightened

women. It was a scene of utter demoralization and horror. He was

groping his way along the narrow passage, when, suddenly, out of the

gloom a man sprang upon him, and, taken entirely by surprise, he was

borne to the deck before he had time to defend himself. He could not

see the man's face and thought it was one of the passengers or sailors

who had gone mad, but when he felt a tug at his belt where the diamonds

were, he knew he had to do with a thief. He fought back with all his

strength, but he was unarmed, while the stranger had a black jack which

he used unmercifully, raining fearful blows on his head. The struggle

was too unequal to last. Weak from loss of blood, he relaxed his grip,

and the thief, dealing one fearful parting blow, tore away the belt and

disappeared. His life blood was flowing away, he felt sick and dizzy,

but just as the thief turned to run he managed to get a glimpse of his

face. Now he remembered that face--it was the face of his twin

brother--the man he had rescued from starvation on the _veldt_.

Yes, it all came back to him now, like a horrible nightmare. What had

happened since then? How could he tell, since all this time his mind

had been a blank? Helen, no doubt, believed him dead. Mr. Parker and

all the others thought he had gone down with the ship. But what of his

valet, François, and his cowardly, murderous brother--were they saved?

If so, the thief had the diamonds, and had probably disposed of them by

this time. Perhaps there might still be time to capture the would-be

assassin and save the gems for the Americo-African Company. Brother or

no brother, he would have no more pity on the unnatural, miserable

cutthroat. The first step was to let his friends know where he was.

He must telegraph at once to Helen.

Yet, on second thought, it would not be wise to do that. If Helen

really believed him dead and was now mourning his loss, it might be

almost a fatal shock if suddenly she were to receive a telegram saying

he was alive. Such shocks have been known to kill people. A better

plan would be to get well as soon as possible, leave the hospital, and

go to New York. Once there, he could go quietly to his office and

learn how matters were.

The days passed, the convalescent making speedy progress toward

recovery, and in a few weeks more he was able to leave the hospital.

Making himself known quietly to a San Francisco business acquaintance,

he was quickly supplied with funds and immediately he turned his face

homeward.

The long, overland journey was tedious and exhausting, especially in

his present weakened condition, and even those who knew him well would

hardly have recognized in the pale emaciated looking stranger with ill

fitting clothes and untrimmed full growth of beard who emerged from the

train at the Grand Central Station, the carefully dressed, well groomed

Kenneth Traynor who, only a few months before, had sailed away from New

York on the _Mauretania_.

The noise and turmoil of the big metropolis, in striking contrast to

the quiet and seclusion of the sick room in which he had lived for so

many weeks, astonished him. The crowds of suburbanites rushing

frantically for trains, elbowing and pushing in their anxiety to get

home, the strident hoarse cries of newsboys, the warning shouts of

wagon drivers as they drove recklessly here and there at murderous

speed, the blowing of auto horns, the ceaseless hum and roar of the big

city's heavy traffic--all this bewildered and dazed him. At first he

did not remember just in what direction to turn, whether he lived in

the East or West side, uptown or down. But as he got more accustomed

to his surroundings, it all came back to him. How stupid--of course he

had to go downtown to 20th Street. Once more he was himself again.

Hailing a taxi, he started for Gramercy Park.

Conflicting emotions stirred his breast as he drew near his home. What

joy it would be to clasp Helen once more in his arms. How delighted

she would be to see him! Then he was filled with anxiety, a sudden

feeling of dread came over him. Suppose some misfortune, some calamity

had happened during his absence! Helen might have met with some

accident. Baby might have been ill. The worst might have happened.

He would never have heard. Perhaps he was only going home to find his

happiness wrecked forever.

The driver made his way with difficulty down Fifth Avenue, threading

his way in and out the entanglement of carriages and automobiles,

until, after a ten minutes' run, turned into Gramercy Park and pulled

up short on the curb of the Traynor residence.

Eagerly Kenneth put his head out of the window and scanned the windows

for a glimpse of the loved one, but no one, not even a servant, was

visible. The house looked deserted. His misgivings returned.

Stepping out hastily, he paid the driver, and, running up the steps,

rang the bell.

Roberts, the faithful old butler, who had been in the family service

for years, came to open. Seeing a rather shabbily attired person

outside, he held the door partly closed and demanded, suspiciously:

"Who is it you wish to see?"

Irritated at the manner of his reception, Kenneth gave the door a push

that nearly knocked the servant over. Angrily, he exclaimed:

"What's the matter, Roberts? Didn't you see it was me?"

The butler, who had recovered himself, and now believed he had to do

with a crank or some person under the influence of liquor, again barred

the way. Trying to push the unwelcome visitor out, he said soothingly:

"Come now, my good man, you've made a mistake. You don't live here."

Struck almost speechless with amazement at the brazen impudence of one

whom he had always regarded as a model servant, Kenneth turned round as

if about to make a wrathful outburst. As he turned, the light from the

open door fell full on his face and now for the first time Roberts saw

the visitor's features. With a startled exclamation the man fell

backward. For a moment he was so surprised that he could not speak.

Then, in an awe-stricken whisper, he cried:

"Who are you?"

For a moment Kenneth thought the man had suddenly become insane. For

his own servant not to know him was too ridiculous. At that moment he

caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror of the hat stand. Ah, now he

understood. The beard and emaciated face had made quite a

difference--no wonder the man failed to recognize him. Breaking into

laughter he exclaimed:

"No wonder you didn't recognize me, Roberts. I have changed a little,

haven't I? I've grown a beard since I saw you last and been through a

regular mill. But you know me now don't you--I'm your long lost

master."

The servant shook his head. Still closely scrutinizing Kenneth's face

as if greatly puzzled, he said:

"You're not my master, sir. Mr. Kenneth Traynor left the house some

ten minutes before you arrived."

Kenneth stared at the man as if he thought he had gone clean out of his

mind.

"I went out ten minutes before I arrived," he echoed. "What kind of

nonsense is that, Roberts?"

"I didn't say _you_ went out," replied the servant, beginning to lose

his patience. "I said Mr. Kenneth Traynor went out. You are not Mr.

Kenneth Traynor."

"Then who in the name of heaven am I?"

"I haven't the remotest idea," retorted the man. Condescendingly, he

went on: "I admit you look a little like the master." Impatiently he

added:

"You must excuse me. I want to close the door."

Instead of obeying the hint to withdraw, Kenneth strode further into

the house, the protesting and indignant butler at his heels.

"You must really go," said the servant.

Kenneth turned around.

"Roberts--don't be a fool. Don't you know me? I know why you don't

recognize me. You all think me dead, but I'm very much alive. I did

not go down on the _Abyssinia_. I was picked up and taken to San

Francisco and have been in a hospital there ever since. I have just

come home. Where's my wife?"

The butler stared and stood motionless, as if not knowing what to make

of it.

"But you came home long ago."

"Who came home?"

"You did."

"No, I didn't. I've been in San Francisco all the time. How could I

be here if I was sick in a San Francisco hospital?"

"Then who is the other Mr. Traynor?"

Now it was Kenneth's turn to be surprised.

"The other Mr. Traynor?" he echoed stupefied.

"Yes--the gentleman who looks more like you than you do yourself. He

arrived here a month ago. We all took him for you."

For the first time a light broke in on the darkness. Who was the

person who looked so like him that he could successfully impersonate

him? Who could it be but the man who left him for dead on the

_Abyssinia_ after murderously assaulting him? Suddenly a horrible

thought came to him. Grasping the butler's arm he exclaimed:

"My wife? Is she well?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Traynor's quite well."

"And Dorothy?"

"Quite well, sir."

"Thank God!"

The servant hesitated.

"That is--sir--Miss Dorothy----"

"Out with it, man. Out with it."

"Mrs. Traynor's being greatly worried sir, lately. Miss Dorothy was at

her aunt's in Philadelphia----"

"Yes, yes----"

"Someone's run away with Miss Dorothy. She's been kidnapped."

"My God!"

"But Mrs. Traynor has a clue. She got a letter yesterday, saying where

the child was. She wouldn't confide in any of us and she left here

only half an hour ago to go to the place."

Again Kenneth was seized by panic.

"Gone to a kidnapper's den. Great God! She's running a terrible risk.

Where has she gone? I'll go to her."

"I don't know, sir, but Mr. Steell may know----"

"Ah, that's right. I'll go and see Steell."

Not waiting to say more he rushed down the steps, and, hailing another

taxi, went off at full speed in the direction of Wilbur Steell's office.