Thirteen

On Tuesday morning Edgar Thomson became president of the Pennsylvania Railroad. And on Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt visited the new president. He came breathing fire and threatening all manner of destruction and litigation upon everyone connected with the Pennsylvania Railroad.

His contention was that he had been defrauded, which could not be denied. It was Vanderbilt’s further contention that it was not just Patterson’s obligation to make the stock good, but the railroad’s, since Patterson had been acting as the railroad’s legitimate agent.

Thomson sat through the wealthy man’s tirade, listening but not committing himself one way or the other to Vanderbilt’s demands.

Then Thomson excused himself, leaving John Carlysle to entertain Vanderbilt, and went to consult the Pennsylvania’s legal counsel. The lawyer told Thomson that a case could be made stating the railroad was not obligated to make good Patterson’s frauds, but should the matter come to judgment, the railroad would likely lose.

So the lawyer suggested negotiating a settlement. Perhaps, he said, the Commodore would take fifty cents on the dollar? or even thirty?

Thomson meditated on that. But he also meditated on a more important matter—that of the identity of their chief enemy.

Could it be Vanderbilt? or his friend Drew? or both together? he asked himself. Would either of them have Come here today if he were involved in an intrigue or a conspiracy? Perhaps they would in order to disguise their intent, although Vanderbilt seemed too direct for such a Machiavellian ploy.

If Vanderbilt had no responsibility for the troubles, he’d be a good man to have on the railroad’s side. Especially if he could be persuaded to help us fight off the stock manipulation and the short sales.

Thomson was absent from his office for perhaps forty-five minutes. When he returned, he found Vanderbilt and Carlysle engaged in heated but friendly conversation. Vanderbilt had tremendous physical presence. In spite of that, he in no way overshadowed John Carlysle. John, Thomson was pleased to note, was dealing with Vanderbilt as a peer.

But when Thomson entered the room, Vanderbilt instantly turned the full force of his more than ample personality from John to the new president of the railroad. “Thomson, you’re back,” Vanderbilt said. “What have you brought for me from your law twister? Good news I hope?”

“He thinks you have no case,” Thomson said evenly, as he resumed his place behind his desk. “He believes the Pennsylvania line bears no responsibility to make good on any illegal acts of William Patterson.”

“What?” Vanderbilt shouted. “No case? Why that’s insane, by God! It’s absolutely unacceptable. I won’t stand for it. I won’t listen to it. If that’s your position, then I’ve no more time to spend with you.” And he stood as if to storm out.

“Wait, please,” Thomson said, still icily calm, “until I’ve finished. You will give me that courtesy, won’t you?”

And Vanderbilt, with a great show of reluctance, took his seat. But his reluctance was clearly all part of his performance. He expected Thomson had more to say to him, and he had no intention of leaving just yet.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“As I perceive it, you stand to suffer because of your association with my railroad.”

John Carlysle noted his use of “my.” It was the first time he had heard Thomson speak of the Pennsylvania Railroad as if it were his own possession.

“I do not intend,” Thomson continued, “to let you suffer from that association if I can prevent it.”

“And so,” Vanderbilt said, with scarcely hidden sarcasm, “you are prepared to offer me a settlement.”

“The lawyer suggested that,” Thomson said.

“And?”

“I’m not going to do it.”

Vanderbilt just stared, without comprehending what he was hearing.

“You’re not going to do that?” he asked finally. “You’re not going to fight me?”

“No. I’m going to make good on the stock.”

Vanderbilt just stared again. He didn’t know how to deal with this situation… In fact, he was beginning to suspect that Thomson was hiding something from him.

He was right. Thomson was. But not for long.

“I’m going to issue you good stock,” Thomson repeated. “And that will serve you as valid collateral against the loans that Patterson contracted. If you somehow recover the money, then you will naturally return the stock to us and not to him.”

“Fat chance that that will ever happen,” Vanderbilt said.

“I agree,” Thomson said. Then he turned away from Vanderbilt and lifted his eyes up to the ceiling. He kept his focus there for the space of several long breaths.

Finally, he said, “There’s something else you should know about that stock.”

“What’s that?” Vanderbilt asked, more than a little suspicious.

And Thomson told Vanderbilt about the massive short sales. After that, he asked John to tell the Commodore about the accidents and labor troubles the railroad had recently fallen victim to.

Vanderbilt listened to both men without comment until they had finished. But his face showed great interest, and even excitement. He was like a detective assigned to a fascinating and difficult case. He lit up with curiosity and eagerness. Then he spoke, “You’ve got somebody plenty smart mounting a major attack on this railroad.”

“That’s right,” John said. He had so far spoken little when both Thomson and Vanderbilt were present together. But now he decided that it was the right moment for him to begin taking part. “Someone has sold our stock short,” he continued, “after making sure that the railroad has suffered enough misfortunes to cause its stock to decline.”

“And that means,” Thomson said, “that the stock I’m making available to you may prove to be practically worthless.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Vanderbilt asked cautiously, suspiciously.

“For a time,” Thomson replied coolly, “I thought you were the one who was doing us all the damage.”

“Me?” Vanderbilt laughed. “I ain’t that smart,” he said, falling into the rough, uneducated speech that he sometimes used when the effect might suit his ends. “Someone like your man Carlysle here,” he pointed. “That’s a man who could of done shit like that—somebody that’s got his eddi-cation and upbringin’ in Europe. But me? I’m just a sea captain who’s made a little money by investin’ and workin’ hard.”

“You’re too modest,” Thomson said.

“I don’t know what to make of your assessment of me,” John said. “Should I be flattered… or should I challenge you to a duel?”

“Neither, Mr. Carlysle,” Vanderbilt said with an amused snort. “Neither. It was a sincerely meant compliment.” He looked at Thomson then, but he dipped his head in John’s direction. “I’ve heard some talk about the goings on up at your tunnel construction site in the mountains. And I realized after some talk with your man Carlysle here that he was the one who managed the affair up there. So while you was away talkin’ to your law twister, I twisted outta him a little bit about what he did up there. And, by God, I’m impressed by him.

“But like I said, a man who could do that could engineer the shit that’s gone wrong with your railroad. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that he did it.”

And then Vanderbilt turned his full attention back toward Thomson. “So why did you tell me about the stock going bad?”

“Because I want to stop that event from happening. And I think you can help us stop it.”

Vanderbilt dragged his fingers through his thinning hair. “You think I can help you?”

“Yes,” Thomson said, “especially now that you have cause to.”

Vanderbilt smiled. “You’re putting on me a little polite blackmail and extortion?”

“Nothing that nasty,” Thomson said. “It’s much simpler. If we stick together, we all stand to save ourselves considerable amounts of money. Even John here owns a fair amount of Pennsylvania stock.” He looked at John. “A thousand shares, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. A thousand.”

“Enough to hurt if it goes bad,” Vanderbilt said, sympathetically.

“Any amount is enough to hurt if it goes bad,” John said.

“Yer damned right!” Vanderbilt acknowledged. Then he turned instantly serious. “You know, I’m already tied up in ships… and in the Nicaragua thing.” He directed these last words to Edgar Thomson. “I don’t have much slack now to be playing with a railroad.”

Since 1849 Vanderbilt had been one of the chief promoters of a scheme to build a canal across Nicaragua. A route that would allow ships to bypass South America had for a long time been seen as necessary… and it would clearly now reap enormous profits for its owner, especially in view of California’s growing prosperity. But until recently, such a canal was out of the question. No one knew how to build it. Now, however, the explosion of engineering and construction technology had made such a route possible — if expensive. Current estimates for the Nicaragua Canal placed costs at $32,000,000. There was also competition: Many powerful people favored the Panama route.

“I am well aware of your commitments in Central America,” Thomson said. “I won’t ask you to extend yourself in any … financial… way to us. What I’m after from you is your knowledge, skill, and experience.”

But by now Vanderbilt was persuaded. “Yep,” he said, with a strongly affirmative nod of his head. “You’re right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I must know who is doing the stock manipulation.”

“Yep. I’ll check into that. It’ll be a few days.”

“We don’t have a great deal of time,” Thomson reminded him.

“It shouldn’t take me long,” Vanderbilt said. “I just have to ask around on Wall Street a bit… discreet like.”

And then he gave Thomson a sharp look. “But what makes you think I’m not the one that’s after you?”

Thomson grinned. “You came right away to try to make good on the bad stock,” he said, repeating for the others the thoughts he had had earlier. “Since I didn’t know about that before you came, it seemed to me a good reason to take you out of suspicion. But if you were shooting at larger targets, then you wouldn’t have said anything about the bad stock. You would not have come to me. You would have treated it simply as a small loss on the way to a large gain.

“I can’t imagine anyone so Machiavellian that he would do what you did in order to remove himself from suspicion.”

“Yep,” Vanderbilt agreed. “You’re thinkin’ clear.” And he was thinking, too. A moment later, he put his own thoughts into words. “I wasn’t the only one that took that bad stock as collateral.”

“I realize that,” Thomson said.

“Dan’l Drew was the other.”

“Yes.”

“Are you thinkin’ he’s the one?” Vanderbilt asked.

“He’s your friend,” Thomson said carefully. “Would a friend of yours do such a thing?”

“Yep. He’s my friend,” Vanderbilt said. “But Dan’l would do anythin’ to make a killin’.”

“So where is your own loyalty?” Thomson asked. Then he added pointedly, “My friend.”

“I’m loyal to my stock. And to my possessions.”

“Good. Then we might have a chance to get out of this thing without being hurt too bad.”

Vanderbilt rose to go. “I’ll say good-bye to you now. But I’ll see you in a few days.”

Thomson and John Carlysle rose, too, to see him out.

“And you, Carlysle,” Vanderbilt said. “If Edgar Thomson gets tired of you, call on me. I’ll find good use for you.” Then he looked at Thomson. “I might even just steal him from you,” he said.

The previous evening, Monday, during supper at Edgar Thomson’s home, John and Kitty had informed Kitty’s father that the two of them were considering a more serious and long-lasting relationship. Neither John nor Kitty offered to commit themselves beyond that rather diplomatic statement.

Nor did Thomson expect anything more. Their announcement did not come as a surprise to him. He liked and respected John Carlysle greatly. He could imagine no one whom he’d rather have as a potential son-in-law. And, deep within his soul, in chambers he would scarcely dream of entering, wounds were beginning to heal, wounds that had opened and festered over a year ago when Kitty had become dangerously involved with Francis Stockton.

After supper John and Edgar retired to Thomson’s study. And there, helped along by brandy and cigars, they talked late into the night.

In time their talk touched on Francis Stockton. From John’s point of view this conversation only added to his own feeling of mystery about what had actually occurred between Kitty and Francis. And yet, on the face of it, Thomson actually opened up to John about that affair more than he had ever opened up to anybody, including himself. Thomson actually admitted to John what he already knew, that it was the reason why Thomson hated Francis.

And yet, John was left with the undeniable feeling that there was more to the tale than he was being told. And so he was left in a quandary. Should he pursue the matter further? Or should he leave the whole thing alone, as something past and, hopefully, dead?

John, for his part, didn’t hide from Thomson that he had fears of his own about the relationship between Kitty and Francis.

“But,” John said, “Kitty says that there’s nothing between them now, and 1 believe her.”Then John gave Thomson details concerning the mission he had assigned to Stockton and his son Graham as well as his reasons for choosing to place such great trust in Francis.

“I would never have done what you are doing with that man,” Thomson announced.

“Do you think he’ll betray us out of jealousy? Because he sees me as a rival for Kitty?”

“I think he would betray us for the sport of the treachery. His rivalry with you would simply make the sport more piquant.”

“I don’t agree,” John had said.

And Thomson had no reply to that.

The next day, not long after Cornelius Vanderbilt had left, Francis Stockton appeared at the Pennsylvania’s headquarters. When it was announced to John that Stockton was outside waiting for him, John was with Edgar Thomson in Thomson’s office.

“So,” Thomson said to John with a mischievous twinkle. “Here is your Francis Stockton.”

“I’ll go take care of him, then,” John said, making as though to leave.

“No, no,” Thomson said. “Bring him in here. I’m sure he’ll have news that I will want to hear, too.”

John gave Thomson a look. “You won’t…” His voice trailed off.

And Thomson smiled at that. “I won’t try to make a fool of him,” Thomson said, “or be overtly aggressive. Is that what you couldn’t bring yourself to say?”

“Something like that.”

“No, John. Nothing like that. I promise to be on good behavior. And I promise to restrain myself from treating him like Benedict Arnold… until I see compelling evidence otherwise.”

Francis Stockton was ushered in. He was predictably ill— at-ease when he saw both men. But Edgar Thomson proved to be perfectly courteous and clearly eager to hear his story.

Could it be, John thought—and hoped—that Thomson is now satisfied that Kitty is in good hands? Could it be that whatever wounds he himself suffered might be starting to heal? John had already come to realize that Kitty was not the only one who had suffered from the relationship with Francis. Her father also had been hurt. And the nature of the hurt constituted another mystery for John.

The story that Francis told justified Thomson’s interest. And John Carlysle’s as well.

After Tom Collins and John Carlysle had surrendered to Egan O’Rahilly, Collins and Tom Henneberry had reunited. Apparently Collins did not place any great blame on Henneberry for deserting him earlier. The other guards, however, no longer wanted to have anything to do with either man. Then the pair were given horses, and they rode off toward Tyrone.

Graham Carlysle and Francis Stockton had followed them at a discreet distance. They were careful to stay well out of sight and earshot; and their care was justified though it hardly proved necessary, for Collins and Henneberry scarcely looked behind them after they left Gallitzin. They stayed for the night in Tyrone, while their two pursuers camped outside of town. And early Monday morning they set out along the main road down the Juniata Valley toward the Susquehanna and Harrisburg. They traveled quickly and purposefully, and Graham and Francis both began to think their journey might end in Philadelphia, but at the small town of Huntington they turned north and proceeded once more up into the mountains.

About five miles farther they reached a large, sprawling log-and-stone structure. At first the two pursuers, who had stationed themselves among the trees on the low ridge that overlooked the place, thought it might be an inn, for there were a number of horses and wagons gathered around it. But it was not an inn; it was too far off the main roads. There were also three or four men patrolling it. After Graham and Francis had thoroughly scanned the area, they began to realize that this was not merely a good, solid, sturdy structure; it was for all practical purposes fortified.

“What do you make of all this?” Graham asked at last.

“I think we’ve found what we’ve come looking for,” Francis said.

“But who,” Graham wondered, “would have a place like this?”

“We’ll watch and find out.”

Collins, of course, and Tom Henneberry had long been inside the building by the time Graham and Francis placed themselves on the ridge. Neither man showed himself outside again for a long time.

“Goddamn the guards,” Graham muttered about halfway through their wait. “I’d like to get closer.”

“You’d like to listen under a window?” Francis asked.

“Yes.”

“It wouldn’t work. That only works for children and suspicious wives.”

“Was it a suspicious wife who taught you that lesson?” Graham said, with a low, soft laugh.

“It was a husband,” Francis said, unsmiling.

It was late afternoon by the time anybody but the guards showed up. More than a dozen men poured out of the house; they had all evidently been drinking. Collins and Henneberry were among them. But there was someone else that Graham recognized—Matthew Kean. Francis recognized the older man who stood next to Matthew. It was George Kean, the most prominent of the Philadelphia teamsters.

“What does this tell you?” Francis whispered to Graham.

“The same thing that it tells you,” Graham said. “Here is the other side of our mystery. These have to be the people who are hurting the railroad.”

“Have you seen enough then? Should we go now?” Francis then moved on before he received an answer. “I wonder.”

“What do you wonder?”

“Look,” he pointed. Tom Collins and Matthew Kean were saddling horses. “What are they up to?”

“I wonder,” Graham said.

They decided to follow them. But on the way back to Huntington Graham and Francis decided to stop and question them.

Francis and Graham concealed themselves behind a large mass of boulders at a turn in the road. As Collins and Kean negotiated the turn, Francis and Graham rode out and confronted them. The rest was easy. Neither Collins nor Kean wanted to challenge a man with a gun pointed at his belly.

In no time both men were unable to move because rope bound their ankles and wrists.

Matthew Kean was relatively silent throughout all this activity. He was no ignoramus; he recognized instantly who had fallen on him. Graham interested him especially. He understood why Graham was there but kept his mouth shut and abided his indignity stoically.

But Collins chose the opposite tack. He protested. He complained. He made threats. Then he cursed.

But none of this did him any good. His two antagonists went about their business smoothly and efficiently without paying him any heed. First they made a fire—a small fire, so as not to attract undue attention. Then Francis inserted a large bowie knife he carried with him up to its hilt in the glowing coals.

“What’s that for?” Collins asked.

“You,” Francis said, matter of factly.

Matthew Kean just glared balefully.

“Is this something you learned at West Point?” Graham asked.

“Nope,” Francis said. “I learned it from a Cherokee in Texas after the war with Mexico.”

Then, with a rag wrapped around his hand as insulation, Francis withdrew the big knife. “We have a few questions for you,” he said to Collins, holding the red-hot knife half an inch from his cheek.

And Collins started talking without any more persuasion.

Graham lost the opportunity then to find out what Francis learned from the Cherokee in Texas. In fact, Francis didn’t even actually have to touch Collins with the knife… It turned out to be a very gentle piece of persuasion. And Collins told all he knew about the operation against the railroad, from his first meeting with Abraham Gibbon and George Kean to the present moment.

He and Matthew had been on their way to Philadelphia when Francis and Graham set upon them. They were going to see Gibbon, to find out what Gibbon’s superior would want them to do now that Collins was no longer part of the picture at Gallitzin.

When Collins finished explaining that, Francis turned his attention toward Matthew, whom he had so far ignored. “Why did you decide to go with Collins on this trip?” he asked. “His presence or absence doesn’t change what you and your father and the other teamsters do or don’t do.”

Kean shrugged. He looked as though he was debating whether to tell them anything at all. Then he seemed to relax, apparently having decided that it didn’t make much difference one way or another. “Do you know Gibbon?”

“No.”

“If you did know him, you’d know why my father wanted someone to be with Collins when they talk. I’d trust Collins in bed buck naked with my wife sooner than I’d trust him alone with Abraham Gibbon.”

Francis gave Graham a look.

“What do you think, Francis?” Graham asked. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Me, too.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

“Leave ‘em tied?” Graham asked.

“Yeah. They’ll work loose after a while.” Then he thought a second. “But we’ll take their horses. We can let ‘em go later. They’ll find their way back to wherever they belong.”

But then Matthew Kean spat out some of the venom he’d been holding back during the time they’d all been together.

“Carlysle, before you go listen to this.”

“What do you want, Matthew?”

“Just remember on this. Remember that you caught me not lookin’ this time. But next time it’s gonna be you.”

“I won’t forget.”

“And remember on this. Remember that you killed my brother.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“You’re gonna pay for that. Pay hard and pay dear. With somethin’ so vallible you’ll scream with pain every time you think on it for the rest of your miserable life. Do you got me?”

“I got you.”

“Let’s gag them,” Francis said.

“Yeah. Let’s,” Graham agreed.

So they gagged them both. Then they mounted their horses, and Graham returned to Gallitzin and Francis went on to Philadelphia to report to Carlysle.

Before they separated, Graham looked hard at Francis. “You have to tell me something,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s something 1 can’t live without knowing.”

“Fine, fine, what’s it you want to know?”

“What did you learn from that Cherokee in Texas?”

“There wasn’t any Cherokee in Texas…”

“You made that all up?”

“Yep.” Then he laughed. “Now it’s my turn.”

“All right.”

“It sounded to me like that big bastard Matthew Kean is putting together something that might have something to do with Teresa. What do you think?”

“I think the same thing. That’s why I’m going back to Gallitzin. You can handle my father well enough.”

“Watch yourself,” Francis said. “Be careful.”

“I’ll try.”

“So it’s the Keans and the teamsters,” Edgar Thomson said after Francis concluded his report. He called out to Sam his assistant to bring some liquid—amended to alcoholic— refreshments to wet Stockton’s and John’s, not to mention Thomson’s own, palates. “So it’s George Kean himself who’s been doing the physical damage to us. Goddamn him, I should have predicted that. George has more than enough reason to hate the railroad. It could kill his business.”

“You know Kean?” Carlysle asked. He only knew the name from his son’s encounter with the Kean family.

“I know him pretty well. He’s a hard, rough man—not a bad man,” Thomson was quick to add, “but as fiercely possessive of his territory as any clan chief. And his wagons are his fief. He’ll fight for them until there’s no more breath left in him. And then on top of that, he has plenty of reason to hate the Carlysles. Put all of that together, and we have much trouble. And danger… You better watch out, John. Watch out for your boys. Now that they no longer have reason to keep themselves concealed, they could go directly after them.”

John closed his eyes, thinking. He kept his eyes closed for a long time. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I can’t leave them alone. I have to return to Gallitzin immediately.”

“There’s a train in the morning,” Thomson said.

“Right. I’ll go then.”

“But,” Francis said, “are you just going to wait for the blow to fall?”

“What do you mean?”

“Collins and the Keans were not acting on their own. They were paid by someone else.”

“We knew that already.”

“You what? Already? If you already knew that, then why did you go through this huge charade with Tom Collins?”

John laughed. “Don’t worry, Francis, we needed you to do what you did. And we didn’t know any more than you did until a few pieces fell in place yesterday.” Then he told Francis about the short sales and the meeting with Cornelius Vanderbilt.

“Well I’ll be damned to the hottest hell,” he said when John had finished. “This railroad surely does have a few problems. And what do you intend to do about it next?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I said, are you going to sit around and wait for the next blow to fall?”

“Give me a plausible alternative,” Thomson said.

“At the military academy they claimed that sound military doctrine is to attack first.”

“Attack who?” John asked reasonably. “We don’t know who is Gibbon’s boss. That’s what Vanderbilt has promised to find out.”

“Have you thought of asking Gibbon?”

“No. Do you think he would tell?” Thomson asked.

“I think I’d like to find that out.”

Thomson looked at John, and John gave a short nod of agreement. Then Thomson returned his gaze to Francis. “Try it,” he said.

The following morning John Carlysle was on the train to Gallitzin.

Toward noon of that same morning, Francis Stockton appeared on Kitty Lancaster’s doorstep. And after an agony of indecision, Kitty decided to have him admitted.

She received him in her father’s study, even though this room was normally her father’s sanctum sanctorum, used only and solely by him. But Kitty felt that the room’s masculine atmosphere would better serve her own needs than the parlor, which was softer and more feminine.

She wanted a man’s strength now. Francis’s coming, she knew, was providential. There was a step she had to take with him, a boundary that had to be crossed. She hoped the crossing would go easily, but she doubted it. Their relationship had never been easy.

So, before Bridget led Francis into the room, she placed herself in her father’s leather chair, his massive desk acting as a barrier between her and Francis.

“G’morning, Kitty,” he said when Bridget announced him.

“Hello, Francis,” she said. “Would you like to sit down?” She motioned to the chair she intended him to sit in.

“Happy to,” he said, looking around the room. “You were always a subtle woman,” he said, as he sank into the seat.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Receiving me here, in your father’s study, behind his desk… A sturdy fortification, that desk.”

She gave him a wry look. “You were always painfully adept at seeing through my subtleties,” she said.

“It was part of what kept us—”

“Don’t say it, Francis.” She had no intention of letting him even begin to mention what had kept them together. That was part of the boundary she had to cross.

“Apart,” he said, finishing his thought with what might have been the trace of a wicked gleam in his eye.

“So why are you here?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question for hours.”

“Yes?”

“And I concluded that we had to talk.”

“What’s to talk about?” she asked nervously.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not what you’re afraid I’ll talk about.” And then he gave her a wistful, boyish look. “Not that I don’t want to do that.” It became a long, lingering look, and not at all boyish any more. “I’ve often believed it was a mistake for us to stop seeing one another.”

“Don’t talk about that.”

“I still believe that, I think.” He stared at her again. “I still love you; you know that don’t you?”

“Don’t!” she warned again. “Or I’ll ask you to leave.”

He laughed. “So you’re seeing John Carlysle now?” He changed the subject.

“Yes.”

“And you like him?”

“Yes. Very much.”

Suddenly he was serious once more. “I like him, too.”

It was her turn now to stare at him.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked. “Are you surprised?”

“No, actually, I’m not,” she said. “He told me he likes you. He even respects you.”

“You don’t respect me?”

“Don’t ask me questions like that, Francis.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t talk to you about such things. I won’t discuss like or respect or love. It’s forbidden ground.”

“Doesn’t that—the forbiddenness—make such things all the more attractive, then?”

“No,” she said. “Not since Boston.”

He looked at her, started to say something, then stopped.

“Anyhow,” he said, “what I came to tell you, Kitty, is that I’m glad you and John are together. I hope you’ll be happy with him.”

Her glance plummeted to the desktop. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Yes, my love, I truly do.”

Francis, near the edge of his reserve, had trouble keeping his own voice steady. But, with difficulty, he asked, “Do you think I’m here, Kitty, to try to get you back?”

“Aren’t you?”

He caught her eye and held it. “Well, my love, I’m not here for you. I’m here for him. I meant what I told you. I’m glad for the two of you.”

“And you have no regrets? About him?”

“Of course I have regrets, Kitty. I can’t deny that I still want you.”

Their eyes were still locked together, and hers were now glistening with tears.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Do you have anything to say to me?”

“No,” she said. “Should I?” But then words did come to her. “All right then, yes, I do. Thank you, Francis, for your … blessing.”

He looked at her.

“Well, what do you want from me now?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then perhaps you should leave.”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, please.”

“Was it Boston that turned you against me?”

“For God’s sake, Francis, go! I will not talk about Boston.’”

“Was it?” he persisted.

“No, Francis,” she said stiffly but spilling out what she had vowed never to say, trying—and succeeding—to make her voice hard and cruel. She wanted to hurt him now, knowing at the same time, obscurely, that the words that hurt him would hurt her even more. “I went to Boston because I knew I could never love you the way I needed to love a man. It wasn’t Boston, Francis, it wasn’t the child; it was you. I chose to go to Boston—in spite of the pain and the shame that came during and after it—because I chose to separate myself from you. And if I had chosen to keep the child, then there would have forever been that child to unite us.”

“And so you chose not to keep it? To give the child away?” he shouted.

“Yes! Goddamn you. There wasn’t any other way! If I did not give the child away, it would have always reminded me of you. And I needed more than anything else to forget you. Until I went to Gallitzin, I’d very nearly succeeded!” Then she flung herself out of her chair. “Now leave! This time! Get out!”

His voice was a whisper when he spoke next, “Don’t think you are the only one who’s suffered because of all this.” At that moment he finally chose to rise and leave.

As he proceeded to the door, she said, “I sincerely hope that I wasn’t the only sufferer. It pleases me that I wasn’t alone. I’m glad you were in pain, too.”

At that, he turned to face her. “You are, dear Kitty, hateful sometimes. You enjoy hurting your men, don’t you?”

“You are not one of my men,” she said fiercely. “And if I’ve hurt you this morning, you only have yourself to blame.”

“I came here to congratulate you and John Carlysle,” he shot back. “But now I think it’s more fitting to express my condolences—to him.”

“Did you really come here,” she cried, bursting at last into the sobs that she had been stifling, “to do that? Or was it to reopen all our old wounds? That’s what always happens when we’re together, Francis. Every time. Rip, rip, rip; tear, tear; gnaw, gnaw.”

He stood staring at her, momentarily transfixed. She had succeeded in breaking through the defenses of his spirit, and now his soul lay naked and defenseless.

“That was the reason for Boston,” she said. “That and no other.”

“I’m…” he started to say, then fell silent, all the fight out of him. All the words in him had drained away.

The fight was all out of her, too. Only the guilt remained. She knew she was at least as responsible as he was for the ugly moment they’d just had.

“Sit down again, Francis,” she said.

“What’s that?” he asked, uncomprehending.

“Please sit down. I don’t want us to part like… we were about to.”

“I should go.”

“No, please stay. A little longer.” And she rose from her chair and began to lead him back to where he’d been sitting. He made a show of resistance; but he was not in fact ready to leave yet. There was something between them that was unfinished; and now that the battling mood had left both of them, perhaps they could bring that thing to a conclusion.

There was also a question on his face, betraying doubt about her reasons for wanting him to remain. He was afraid she wanted to renew their battle. But that wasn’t her mind now at all. She was telling the truth. She didn’t want them to part bitter enemies.

“You do like John, don’t you?” she asked, once they’d both settled again >n their chairs. “You really do.” This last was a statement, not a question.

“That’s right.”

“Good. Thank you, Francis… for trying to tell me that.”

“We do put our knives in,” he said slowly, totally exhausted, “under each other’s skin, don’t we? You’re right about that.”

“Yes.”

“I wish …” he stopped.

“But it’s what we do, and I can’t stop myself when I’m with you.”

“I know,” he said with a long, grieving shake of his head.

“So what will you do?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Will you stay with the railroad?”

“Why not?” he shrugged. “Now that John Carlysle stands between me and your father, I might have a future with the Pennsylvania.” He said this last with more than a trace of his old wicked grin.

“I would have thought…” She left the thought unfinished.

“That I would leave?” he said, finishing it.

“Yes,” she said, “something like that.” She caught his eye. “I would help me. Make it easier.”

“I suppose,” he said, with another shrug. “And easier for John, too, I imagine. I’m sure my presence must make him uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But he would never say that to you. Not as long as he thinks you’re a competent engineer.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“About leaving?”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “I will.” And then he laughed. But it was a somber, sardonic laugh. There was no joy or play in it. “But then again, I might not have to make the decision to go or stay.”

“What do you mean?”

“There may not be a Pennsylvania soon.”

“You know … about… that.”

“All of it,” he nodded. “The shorting of the stock, the attacks, the sabotage.”

“Do you think—” she was edgy, agitated, frightened, “that there’s … hope, a chance … for us?”

“For the railroad, you mean?”

“For the railroad, yes.”

He smiled. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have stayed on. Or at least if I’d lived up to my reputation, I wouldn’t have stayed on. If I’d followed the script I’ve been labeled with, I would have run.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“I told you, I like John Carlysle. And I think if anyone can save it he can… and your father. Though don’t let him hear that I’ve given him an ounce of credit.”

“Why do you think they’ll pull it off?” she asked, still full of doubt and fear.

“Because we’re pretty damned close to knowing who is behind all the attacks. You’ve heard that Vanderbilt has joined us?”

“Yes, John told me.”

“He will be a huge help to us, I think. He’s going to lead the investigation into the source of the attacks.” And then he stopped, grinning. “And I’ve become one of the investigators.”

“You? A what?”

“An investigator. I’m checking into the doings of Mr. Abraham Gibbon. Gibbon is the man who hired Tom Collins and George Kean.”

“Why did he do that?”

“That’s what I aim to discover in my investigation.”

“Really? You’re telling the truth?”

“Would I lie to you, Kitty?”

She just stared at him without comment. Then she asked, “What have you found out so far?”

“Nothing. Abraham Gibbon seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“He left his office yesterday for home, and he never arrived.”

“So what will you do?”

“After I leave here, I’ll try his office again.”

“And then?”

“His home and the people he knows.”

“And then?”

“I’ll quit and find someplace where I can drink quietly and for a very long time,” he laughed, “as a reward for my failure… as an investigator. And,” he paused, “with you.”

“Francis, for God’s sake, don’t… go back to that.”

“I know. I should leave,” he said, lifting himself wearily out of the chair.

“I’ll show you out,” she said, agreeing. It was time, at last. The border had been finally and successfully crossed.

“Don’t bother. I know the way.”

“I insist,” she said. “I want to.”

He gave her a look. “Why?”

“You will forever ask questions, Francis Stockton. Would you stop being so inquisitive, and let me have my last whim?”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“There you go again.”

And then they were at the door.

“Good-bye then, Kitty,” he said. “I’m sorry that I caused you pain a few moments ago.”

She smiled at that, and her face softened and grew warmer. “I’m sorry, too,” she said, “that I… that we both can’t stop ourselves from… doing what we always do.

“But,” she added, “I am grateful to you, Francis, for wishing me and John well. I suspect that coming here and doing that took more than a little courage.”

He said nothing to that, for he had no ready answer.

“And,” she continued, opening the door, “in spite of everything, I think I’m glad that you came.”

“You’re what?” he said, incredulous.

“I needed to make an end to…” She stopped, began again, stumbled. “To finish with… I don’t know how to say it.”

“But whatever you can’t say is over and done?”

“Yes.”

“Good … I suppose,” he said. “Anyhow, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Francis.”

After he left her, he tried to do what he’d said he’d do. He tried to find Abraham Gibbon.

But Gibbon was nowhere to be found.