"Now I know something of the family history, in spite of the fact that I have but recently become a citizen of the town. There was a brother, you perhaps know this also, who went west many years ago, and disappeared soon after. They suppose he died long ago, and very likely he did, but for our purposes we will say he died last week. He was on his way back to Kentucky, to see his brother once more in the flesh. He reached St. Louis, and was taken ill. His sickness assumed a malignant turn, and he realized that he must die. He sent for a reliable lawyer, who happened to be my college friend and chum, Will Porter. While not attaining riches, this brother, Arthur Dudley, had something over two thousand dollars in cash with him. The surplus was enough for his board, doctor bill, lawyer fee and burial expenses, and he had Porter purchase a draft with the two thousand left, payable to his brother in Kentucky. This draft Porter forwarded to Major Dudley, with a brief letter explaining all the circumstances. Now if you don't think I'm a first-class rascal with a long head for schemes I don't know why. Can you find a flaw in this skein of base duplicity?" Dillard rose to his feet and slowly shook his head. "You're a marvel. You've got it. When are you going to do this?" "Tonight. Now. We'll have to explain the whole thing to Porter, but he's true as steel, and will do his part without fail. Two days for my letter to go to St. Louis; two for his to get back. Major and Miss Dudley will be relieved of their financial embarrassment the fourth day from tomorrow!" John took a pen and endorsed the draft to the order of his western friend in a firm, bold hand, free from flourishes. Ten minutes later Dillard was gone, and by the light of a smoky lamp a man sat driving a pen frantically across sheet after sheet of paper. He had to make things plain, or Porter would think his mind had gone wrong. He wrote feverishly, and soon the message was done, sealed and addressed, with the draft inside. He looked at the envelope for several moments fixedly, then suddenly he sighed, cast his arms across the table and let his face fall in them, his laced fingers writhing and an inarticulate prayer falling from his lips. The old phantom had returned, even as he wrote--that dread night visitant which had robbed him of so many hours of sleep, and planted gray streaks about his temples. It came tonight with its eyes of languor and its scented hair and its smile of temptation--to drag him back! Its power was awful; its presence so real. Would not his present act be some expiation for his past weakness? Would it not serve to help banish this haunting vision which still sought to claim him? CHAPTER XI