Mrs. Gregory pa.s.sed on her way, and when she reached the farther end of the hall, an old hymn which she had been humming, broke into audible words. Fran s.n.a.t.c.hed the sheet from the typewriter, and bent her head to listen. The words were soft, full of a thrilling faith, a dauntless courage--

"Still all my song shall be Nearer my G.o.d to Thee, Nearer--"

A door closed. She was gone. Gregory dropped his head with a groan.

It seemed to Fran that the voice of this wife who was not a wife, lingered in the room. The hymn, no longer audible, had left behind it a fragrance, as sometimes lingers the sweet savor of a prayer, after its "amen" has, as it were, dropped back into the heart whence it issued. Fran instinctively held out both arms toward the direction of the door just closed, as if she could see Mrs. Gregory kneeling behind it.

"Almost," she said, in a solemn undertone, "thou persuadest me to be a Christian."

Had any one but Mrs. Gregory been singing that hymn, had any one but Fran been the one to intrude upon the library scene, Grace must have been overwhelmed. As it was, she stood quite untouched, resolving to stay in order to prove herself, and to show Gregory that they must sacrifice their love for conscience' sake.

Gregory, however, was deeply touched by Fran's yearning arms. He rose and stood before her.

"Fran, child, we promise that what you saw shall never happen again.

But you mustn't tell about it. I know you won't tell. I can't send Grace away, because I need her. She will not go because she knows herself to be strong. We are going to hide our souls. And you can't tell what you've seen, on account of _her--"_ He pointed in the direction of his wife.

Fran knew very well what he meant. If she told the secret, it would disgrace Mrs. Gregory. The revelation might drive Grace away, though Fran did not think so, but certainly whether Grace went, or stayed, it would break the heart of the one she loved best in that home. Gregory was right; Fran could never betray him.

She turned blindly upon Grace: "Then have you no conscience?--you are always talking about one. Does no sense of danger warn you away? Can't you feel any shame?"

Grace did not smile contemptuously. She weighed these words at their real value, and soberly interrogated herself. "No," she declared with deliberation, "I feel no sense of danger because I mean to guard myself after this. And my conscience bids me stay, to show that I have not really done anything--" But she could not deny the feeling of shame, for the burning of her cheeks proved the recollection of hot kisses.

"But suppose I tell what I have seen."

"Well," said Grace, flashing out defiantly, "and suppose you do!"

Gregory muttered, "Who would believe you?"

Fran looked at him. _"Then"_ she said, "the coward spoke." She added, "I guess the only way is for you to make her leave. There's nothing in her for me to appeal to."

"I will never tell her to go," he a.s.sured her defiantly.

"While, on the contrary," said Grace, "I fancy you will be put to flight in three or four days."

Fran threw back her head and laughed silently while they stared at her in blank perplexity.

Fran regained composure to say coolly, "I was just laughing." Then she stepped to her father's chair and handed him the sheet she had drawn from the typewriter. The upper part was an unfinished letter to the Chicago mission, just as Grace had left it in her haste to get rid of Fran. At odd variance with its philanthropic message were the words Fran had pounded out for the deception of Mrs. Gregory.

Hamilton Gregory glared at them at first uncomprehendingly, then in growing amazement. They read--

_"Ask her why she sent Bob Clinton to Springfield."_

He started up. "What is this?" he exclaimed wildly, extending the paper toward Grace.

She read it, and smiled coldly. "Yes," she said, "the little spy has even ferreted that out, has she! Very well, she won't be so cool when Mr. Clinton returns from Springfield."

"From Springfield!" echoed Gregory, aghast. "From Springfield. Mr.

Gregory, I have made the discovery that this Fran, whom you imagine only about sixteen years old, and the daughter of an old friend, is really of age. She's nothing but a circus-girl. You thought her joking when she called herself a lion-tamer; that's the way she meant for us to take it--but she can't deceive me. She's nothing but a show-girl pretending to come from Springfield. But I know better. So I've sent Mr. Clinton there to find out all about the family of your friend, and in particular about the girl that this Fran is impersonating."

"You sent Bob Clinton to Springfield!" gasped Gregory, as if his mind could get no further than that. Then he turned savagely upon Fran-- "And did you tell her about Springfield?"

Fran smiled her crooked smile.

Grace interposed: "You may be sure she didn't! Do you think she wanted her history cleared up? Mr. Gregory, you have been blind all the time; this girl never saw Springfield. She's a complete fraud. Since you are so blinded by what she says that you won't investigate her claims, I decided to do this for your sake. When Mr. Clinton comes back, it's good-by to this circus-girl!"

Fran looked at her father inscrutably. "I believe, after this," she said, "it will be safe to leave you two together."

CHAPTER XVII

SHALL THE SECRET BE TOLD?

Fran had expected Robert Clinton's return in four or five days, as had Grace Noir, but secrets that have been buried for many years are not picked up in a day. However, had the chairman of the school-board returned the day after his departure, Abbott Ashton would have met him at the station. Twice, in the opinion of Fran, the young man had failed her by allowing Grace's mind to flash to important discoveries along the path of his insulated remarks about the weather. This third test was more equal, since he was to deal with no Grace Noir--merely with a man.

As Littleburg had only one railroad, and it a "branch", it was not difficult to meet every train; moreover, Miss Sapphira's hasty notes from her brother kept Abbott advised. At first, Miss Sapphira said, "It will be a week;" later--"Ten days more--and the business left like this!" Then came the final bulletin: "I may come to-morrow. Look for me when you see me."

What the secret was that Abbott must prevent Clinton from divulging, he did not care to guess; doubtless the picture of Gregory's past, with its face to the wall, might be inscribed, "Some other woman." For surely Grace Noir was some other woman. Having admitted the truth to himself, he wondered that all the world did not see--or was it that all the world needed a Fran to open eyes willfully blind?

With these thoughts, Abbott met the evening train, to see Robert Clinton hastily emerge from the solitude he had endured in the midst of many.

Robert was in no pacific mood, and when he found himself almost in the arms of Abbott, his greeting was boisterous because impatient at being stopped. Abbott, knowing that Robert was not ordinarily effusive, thought, "He has the secret!"

Robert shook hands without delaying progress toward the waiting hack, bearing Abbott along on waves of greeting.

"But surely you are not going to _ride!"_ Abbott expostulated.

"Business--very pressing--see you later."

"But I have business with you, Mr. Clinton, that can't wait. Come, walk with me to town and I'll explain; it'll delay you only a few minutes."

Like a restive horse on finding himself restrained, Robert Clinton lifted a leg without advancing. "Oh, very well," he agreed. "In fact, I've something important for _you,_ old fellow, and I'll explain before I--before the--yes, _before,"_ he ended, turning his back upon the hack with a smothered growl.

They penetrated the silent by-streets of the outskirts of Littleburg, Robert going as fast as he could drag his companion, and Abbott walking as slowly as he could hold back the other.

"Lucky I was at the station," Abbott exclaimed, "since you've something to tell me, Bob. What is it?" In thus addressing his old friend as "Bob" the young man was officially declaring that their relationship as teacher and school-director was for ever at an end, and they stood as man to man.

Clinton spoke rapidly, with his wonted bruskness: "Guess you know I've been knocking about the country for the last three or four weeks--saw a good many old friends--a fellow can't go anywhere without meeting somebody he knows--curious, isn't it? Well, I've got an opening for you. You know how sorry I am because we had to plump another teacher on to your job, but don't you worry if Fran _did_ hold your hand--just you keep your hands in your pockets after this, when there's danger-- Say! I've got something lots better for you than Littleburg. School out in Oklahoma--rich--private man behind it--he owns the whole plant, and he's determined to run it to suit the new ideas. This rich man-- chum of mine--went West, bought land, sat on it, got up with his jeans full of money. Wants you to come _at_ once."

Abbott was elated. "What kind of new ideas, Bob?" he asked joyously.

"Oh, that impractical nonsense of teaching life instead of books--I guess it's as much an advance over the common thing, as teaching words instead of a, b, c's. You know what I mean, but I don't think _I_ do.

Don't worry about it now--something terrible's on my mind--just awful!