CHAPTER IV.
DR. MEDJORA SURRENDERS

Madam Cora Corona watched the destruction of the old mansion in which she had last seen her lover, with mingled feelings of horror and of hope. At one moment it seems impossible that the Doctor could find a means of escaping from the flames, whilst at the next she could but remember the manner of man that he was, and that having told her of his intention to surrender to the police, he would scarcely have chosen so horrible a death whilst immediate safety was attainable by simply opening the door of the passageway before the flames enveloped the whole building. Besides, how did the fire occur? He must have started it himself, and, if so, with what object, except to cover up his escape? But love, such as she bore this man, could never be entirely free from its anxiety, until the most probable reasoning should become assured facts. So, with a dull pain of dread gnawing at her heart, she drove her horses home, holding the reins herself, and lashing the animals into a swift gait, which made their chains clank as they strained every nerve to obey their mistress's behest.

Reaching her sumptuous home on Madison Avenue, she hurried to her own room, passing servants, who moved out of her way awed by her appearance, for those who dwelt with her had learned to recognize the signs which portended storm, and were wise enough to avoid the violence of her anger.

Tossing aside her bonnet and mantle, regardless of where they fell, Madam Corona dropped into a large, well-cushioned arm-chair, and gazed into vacancy, with a hopeless despair depicted on her features. The death of Dr. Medjora would mean much to this woman, and as the minutes sped by, the conviction that he must have perished, slowly burned itself into her brain.

She was the widow of a wealthy Central American. Her husband had been shot as a traitor, having been captured in one of those ever-recurring revolutions, whose leaders are killed if defeated, but made governors if they succeed; rulers until such time when another revolutionary party may become strong enough to depose the last victors. Thus the chance of a battle makes men heroes, or criminals.

She had never loved her husband, and, with a sensual, passionate temperament, which had never been satisfied by her marriage, she welcomed her freedom and her husband's wealth as a possible step towards that love for which she longed. Exiled from her own country, because of the politics of her dead husband, she had come to the United States, the home of all aliens. Her estates had not been confiscated, for fear that the fires of the revolution, smothered but not quenched, might have been again stirred by a seeming warring against the woman. But the President had said to his council:

"Madam Corona is too rich, and she talks too much." So the hint had been given to her to depart, and she had acquiesced, glad enough to retain her fortune.

In New York she had been welcomed amidst the Spanish-Americans, and with a different temperament might readily have endeared to herself a host of true friends. But her selfish desire for a despotic sway over all who came near, and her extreme jealousy of attentions to others, imbued those who made her acquaintance with an aversion which was scarcely concealed by the thin veneer of the polite formalities of social life. So she knew that in the new, as in the old home, she had no friends.

One day she was taken ill, and sent for Dr. Medjora, of whom she had heard, though she had not met him. His skill brought about her rapid recovery, and, being attracted by his fine appearance, she invited him to visit her as a friend. He availed himself of this opportunity to become intimate with a wealthy patron, and called often. Very soon she became aware of the fact that here was a man over whom she could never hope to dominate, and so, as she could not make him her slave, she became his. Her whole fiery nature went out to him, and she courted him with a wealth of passion which should have melted ice, but which from the Doctor earned but little more than a warm hand-clasp at parting. Finally, to her utter amazement, as she was about to despair of ever attracting him, he came to her and asked her to marry him. She consented joyously, and for twenty-four hours lived in rapture.

Then her morning paper told of the death of Mabel Sloane, and connected the Doctor with the tragedy. She hurried to his office and heaped upon him vituperation and reproach, such as only could emanate from a heart capable of the deepest jealousy. He met the storm unflinchingly, and turned it away from himself by reminding her that he would probably be tried for murder, and that thus she would be rid of him. At once she changed her threats to entreaties. She begged him to fly with her. Her wealth would suffice, and in some other clime they could be safe, and she would forget, forgive, and love him.

He appeared to yield, and bade her be ready to come to him at his bidding. She returned home, only to write him a long urgent letter, containing money; the letter to which the Doctor had alluded during the conversation overheard by young Barnes. Then she had been summoned and had gone to him. And now? Now the longer she thought, the more certain did it appear to her, as the hours went by, that her lover was dead. And such a death! She shuddered and closed her eyes. But she could not shut out the vision of her beloved Doctor standing bravely, with folded arms, as the flames crept upon him, surrounded him, and destroyed him. She could not shut out the sound of a last despairing cry wrung from his unwilling lips, as with a final upflaring of the flame, the whole structure fell in.

Maddened by her thoughts, at length she started up and turned towards her basin, intending to lave her fevered brow, when with a cry she sprang back, for there, in her room, with arms folded as in her vision, stood what she could but suppose to be the wraith of the dead. She shrieked, and fell forward in a swoon, to be caught in the arms of Dr. Medjora, who had admitted himself, unknown to the sleeping servants, by a latch key furnished to him by her, when she had begged him to join her in flight.

When she recovered consciousness and realized that this was no spectre which had intruded upon her, she lavished upon him a wealth of kisses and caresses, which should have assured him of the intensity of her love and joy. She laughed and cried alternately, petted him and patted his cheeks, kissed him upon the hands, upon his face, his hair, his lips. She threw her arms around him and pressed him to her palpitating heart, the while crying:

"Alive! Thank heaven! Alive! Alive!"

"And did you think me dead, Cara mia?" He folded his arms about her, touched by the evident genuineness of her feelings, and moved to some slight response.

"Yes! I thought so! No! I did not! I knew you were too clever to die so. But then the flames! They ate up the whole building, and I did not see how – I could not imagine – and I was afraid! But now you are safe again! You are with me, and I love you a million times more that I have mourned your death!"

"Come, come, dear heart! I am alive and unhurt. I never was in danger.

I would not kill myself, you know. I love my life too well! And it was

I who set the fire!"

"I thought that too at times! You did it to baffle the police! I see it all! Oh, you are so clever! Now they will think you dead, and we can go away together and live without fear! Is it not so?"

"No, Cora! As I told you this afternoon, I shall give myself up to the police!"

"No, no, no! You must not! You shall not! What, risk your precious life again? You will not, say that you will not! If you love me, say it!"

She twined her arms about his neck, and held him tight as though he meditated going away at once. In the fear of this new danger, an agony welled up about her heart, and tears choked her utterance. But the Doctor remained impassive. He gently, but forcibly, disengaged himself from her embrace, and seating himself, drew her down to her knees beside him. Then he took her head in his hands, compelling her to look at him, and spoke to her in measured tones.

"Cora! Calm yourself! You are growing hysterical. You know me too well, to suppose that I would swerve from a fixed purpose. I will not leave this city. As I have told you, all my hopes for the future bind me here. Elsewhere I should be as nothing, here I will grow into greatness, – greatness which you shall share with me, if you be but brave!"

"But this trial! Suppose – suppose – oh! The horror of it!" She dropped her head upon his lap and wept. He stroked her beautiful black hair, which had become disengaged and now fell down her back, completely covering her shoulders. Presently when she was more quiet, only an occasional sob indicating that she was yet disturbed, he spoke to her, soothingly, caressingly, so that under the magic of his tones she gradually recovered her self-possession.

"My little one, have no fear! This trial is but an incident which scarcely gives me a troublesome thought. The worst is that I shall probably be in prison for some time awaiting trial. A meddlesome interference with the liberty of a man, which the law takes, offering no recompense when the accused is proven to have been innocent. This is one of the anomalies of a system which claims to administer equal rights and justice to all. I am accused of a crime. I am arrested and incarcerated for weeks, or months. I am tried and acquitted. I spend thousands of dollars in my defence. When I am released, I am in no way repaid for my loss of liberty and money. Indeed, innocent though I be, I am congratulated by a host of sympathizers because I was not hanged. But I have had full justice. I have been accorded an expensive trial, with learned talent against me, etc., etc. The law is not to blame, nor those who enforce the laws. I am the victim of circumstances, that is all. Well, so be it. A stupid doctor has warned the authorities that a woman has died of morphine poisoning, despite the fact that a more competent man has signed a certificate that she died of a natural disease. So I have been accused, and will undoubtedly be indicted and tried. But do you not see, that I have but to show that diphtheria caused death, and my innocence will be admitted?"

"Yes, but – !"

"No! There is no but? Now show me to a room, where I may rest unobserved, until the day after to-morrow. We must not rob the public of its sensation too soon. Think of it, I read my own holocaust in an afternoon paper!"

Madam Corona shivered at this, not yet fully unmindful of her own recent forebodings. Obediently she took him to a room, and left him, the single comforting thought abiding with her, that she would have him all to herself during the whole of the following day.

When Messrs. Dudley and Bliss learned from Barnes that he had followed Dr. Medjora, and had seen him go into the building which had been destroyed by fire, their hope that possibly the newspaper accounts were erroneous, was dissipated.

"I knew it!" began the junior member. "I knew that it was too good to be true. Think of that man's permitting himself to be burned to death just as we were about to get our chance. It's too exasperating."

"It is annoying, Robert, of course," said Mr. Dudley. "Yet there is some comfort in the thought that he had the courtesy to pay us a retainer. That five hundred is most acceptable."

"Oh! certainly, the money will come handy, but what is five hundred dollars to an opportunity such as this would have been?" Mr. Bliss was in a very bad humor.