The Shooting of Dan McGrew, A Novel. Based on the Famous Poem of Robert Service. Marvin Dana

to him, as likely to place restraint on the mother's expression of anger against him. … That he was right in his conjecture, the issue proved.

      At sight of Dan McGrew, riding to the door from which he had been so ignominiously spurned less than twenty-four hours before, Lou Maxwell sat in dazed amazement, which swiftly merged in anger, untinged by any thought of fear. That the man was dangerous, she knew. But she was no longer to be entrapped by a belief in the self-restraint of this lover. Moreover, she was on her guard now, not unsuspecting, as yesterday. And, too, there were servants within call. These things flashed upon her in the instant of perceiving him. So, she knew that she need not fear anything from him beyond the insult of his presence. But that he should dare thus to approach startled and confounded her by the sheer audacity of the act. She was stupefied by the effrontery of the man as he dismounted and ascended the steps toward her. She rose, under a sudden impulse of resentment, and stood regarding him with a level gaze, wherein was contempt that might have caused a weaker man to quail. But Dangerous Dan had the courage of his wickedness, and he was not to be intimidated, or swerved from his design, by her contumely, even though to win her favor was the dearest purpose of his heart. For the present, he must withstand stolidly the shafts of her disdain, to the end that he might entice her to his will against her own.

      Dan swept the cap from his head, and stood undaunted, yet with an air of humility that was disarming. There was something pitiful in the appealing glance of his eyes, something almost pathetic in the soft tone of humiliation with which he spoke.

      "I want you to forgive me, Lou—if you can forgive me—for a madness I couldn't help. … I'm sorry."

      Somehow, the woman was appeased, despite herself. Her wrath against the man who had affronted her so mortally was no whit lessened; yet, his manner of humble contrition touched her, against her will, to a feeling of compassion. She still loathed him; notwithstanding, her mood was unmistakably tinctured by commiseration. She hesitated for a moment, then turned toward Nell, who, with round eyes of wonder, was regarding her mother and their late visitor.

      "Run out in the rose-garden, dear," she said quietly, "and play there for a little while."

      The child went obediently enough, though with obvious reluctance, for her curiosity was aroused. She had passed from sight around the corner of the house before Lou spoke again. Then, she did not mince her words:

      "You have no right either to ask or to expect forgiveness," she said sternly. Her voice was very cold, charged with bitter contempt. "You have shown the kind of a man you really are. Nothing can change that. I despise you utterly. I hope I shall never set eyes on you again. I do not wish to hear another word from you. Your presence is hateful to me. Go! My husband may come at any moment, and, if he finds you here, he'll kill you on sight, as you deserve."

      With the last words, she turned from him, unheeding his exclamation of remonstrance, and went into the living-room.

      Dan did not hesitate to follow her.

      "Let me say this much, at least," he pleaded, still with utmost humility. "I sinned so because I loved you so. I could not hold myself back. Forgive me, Lou." His voice was tenderly entreating.

      The woman faced him resolutely. Her eyes were sparkling with wrath, her voice shook a little under the throb of emotion.

      "You, and your love!" she cried, in disgust. "Faugh! Must I summon the servants to put you out of the house?"

      Dan made an appealing gesture. He answered with a tone of deprecation.

      "No, Lou, you need not do that. I'll go in a moment, and never trouble you again. But, before I go, I must tell you one thing—why I lost my self-control yesterday. It was because I saw you so tender and fond and devoted and unsuspecting in your love for a man who is—unworthy!"

      Lou started involuntarily, then stood rigid, too astounded for speech. But, in another moment, she cried out in vehement rebuke:

      "How dare you speak like that of Jim!" Her tone was virulent; the dark-brown eyes, usually so limpidly soft in their light, flashed with the fires of her anger. "Jim is as clean as you are foul. How dare you insinuate anything against him! Almost, I wish I hadn't interfered to save your life yesterday. Oh, you beast! How dare you!"

      "Because it's true," Dan retorted. He felt now that the situation was well within his grasp, and there was an authoritative ring in his voice that somehow, against her will, caused a chill of apprehension in his listener. He went on speaking swiftly, with incisive earnestness, as one not to be denied. "You see, Lou, I know the truth, and you do not. For example, where is Jim this morning?"

      He shot the question at her with such unexpectedness that she answered involuntarily:

      "Why, Jim's out in the fields, of course." She realized suddenly the insolence of the question, and would have added a scathing rebuke.

      But Dan went on imperturbably:

      "Of course, you say that, because you do not know. But he was wise enough to tell you that he must go to town to-day, to attend the meeting of the directors of the bank."

      Lou smiled in derision.

      "To-day is the regular weekly meeting," she said, with an inflection of dawning curiosity, which Dan noted complacently. "He always goes to the bank-meeting. Why shouldn't he?"

      "No reason at all," was the suave response. "But there is every reason in decency why he should not go to another place, of which you know nothing." He spoke in a voice that was significant, grave, portentous. "That's where he is now."

      "You mean something—something nasty, I suppose," the wife exclaimed. Her tone was full of abhorrence for this traducer of the man she loved and trusted. "I'll listen to none of your lies against Jim, Dan McGrew."

      "I chanced on some information in the town last night," Dan persisted, undismayed by her outbreak. "I have heard gossip before. There's a woman—one of the sort you good women shrink from. She had been drinking too much. She let drop something about the rich man who was coming to visit her to-day, and she said his name was Jim."

      Lou felt a tremor of fear. The jealousy that sleeps or wakes in the heart of all lovers stirred within her for the first time. She sought to stifle it, ashamed of even a thought of doubt as to her husband's loyalty. It was monstrous that she should be thus moved by slanderous accusations of one for whom she had only contempt. Again, she would have spoken, but the man forestalled her.

      "The woman, whose name is Jess, was bragging in her cups that her lover, Jim, always came when she sent for him. And she said she had written him—Jim—to visit her to-day."

      The speaker's sneering assurance, his malignant emphasis on her husband's name, filled the measure of the wife's wrath full to overflowing. She advanced a step, raised her right arm, and with all her strength struck the palm of her hand across Dan's cheek.

      "Liar!" she cried, savagely.

      The man did not flinch under the blow. The eyes of the two clashed, and held steadily. Dan's cheek whitened where the stroke had fallen, then burned redly. It was the woman's gaze that dropped at last, and Dan smiled, cynically exultant.

      "I don't ask you to believe me," he said impressively. "I only ask you to open your eyes to the truth. I suppose Jim would take pains to destroy any note from the woman, Jess. But there's always a chance. Men get careless when they have wives that are so very trusting." His sharp eyes perceived a lessening tension in the woman's form, a growing listlessness in the expression of her face. He knew that there had come a reaction from the strain of her emotions, that her will was growing impotent, that now, at last, she would be pliant to his purpose.

      He strode to the desk, and drew out the letter-case, while Lou watched his every movement narrowly, as though she expected some trickery, while powerless further to combat him. Her loyalty to Jim was no less, but her powers of resistance had snapped. So, she looked on as Dan fumbled for a moment among the papers in the letter-case, and then held out to her the note that the woman had written in his room at the hotel, the night before.

      Lou took it