Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

He was turned from these dismal channels of thought by a hospital orderly who summoned him to the adjutant’s quarters.

In civil life this officer had been a well known lawyer who had abandoned a large practice to take upon himself the over work and worries that always hurl themselves at an adjutant.

He had heard of the rescue of Lieutenant Devlin by a man of his company and was pleased to learn that it was an alumnus of his old college who had been recommended for a decoration on that account. He looked at Trent a moment in silence.

“When I last saw you,” he said, “you won the game for us against Harvard.” He sighed, “I never thought to see you in a case of this sort.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Trent answered him.

“For some reason or another,” the adjutant informed him, “Lieutenant Devlin has preferred charges against you which had better been left until this war is over in my opinion as a soldier.”

“I am still in the dark,” Trent reminded him.

Captain Sutton looked over some papers.

“You are charged,” he said, “with being a very remarkable and much sought after criminal. Devlin asserts you purloined a ruby owned by Mr. Dangerfield worth a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, and an emerald worth almost as much.”

“What a curious delusion,” Trent commented with calmness.

“Delusion?” retorted the adjutant.

“What else could it be?” the other inquired.

“It might be the truth,” the officer said drily.

“Does he offer proofs?”

“More I’m afraid than you’ll care to read,” Captain Sutton told him. “You understand, I suppose, that there are certain regulations which govern us in a case like this. I should like to dismiss it as something entirely irrelevant to military duties. You were a damned good football player, Trent, and they tell me you’re just as good a soldier, but an officer has preferred charges against you and they must be given attention. Sit down there for a few minutes.”

Devlin, feeling the hour of triumph approaching, lay back in his bed gloating. The hatred that he bore Anthony Trent was legitimate enough in its way. By some accident or another Devlin was enlisted on the side of the law and his opponent against it. One was the hunter; the other the hunted. And the hunter was soon to witness the disgrace of the man who had laughed at him, beaten him, cheated him of a coveted position. Naturally of a brave and pugnacious disposition, Devlin saw no lack of chivalry in hounding a man over whom he had military authority. If Trent had been his friend he would have fought for him. But since he was his foe he must taste the bitterness of the vanquished.

So engrossed was he over his pleasurable thoughts that he did not see the distress which came over the face of the nurse who took his temperature and recorded his pulse beat. Nor did he see the hastily summoned physician reading the recently marked chart over the bed. Instead he was filled with a strange and satisfying exaltation of spirit. Catches of old forgotten songs came back to him. He felt himself growing stronger. He was Devlin the superman, the captor of Anthony Trent who had beaten the best of them. It was almost with irritation that he opened his eyes to speak with the doctor, a middle-aged, gray man with kindly eyes.

“Lieutenant,” the doctor said gently, “things aren’t going as well with you as we hoped. You should not have exhausted yourself talking. It should not have been allowed.”

Devlin saw the doctor put his hand under the coverlet; then he felt a prick in his arm. Dully he knew that it was the sting of a hypodermic. Then he saw coming toward him a priest of his race and faith and knew he came in that dread hour to administer the last rites of the church.

“Doc,” he gasped, “am I going?”

It was no moment to utter lying comfort.

“I’m afraid so.”

Then he saw an orderly bringing the screen that was placed about the beds of those about to die.

When Captain Sutton and Anthony Trent came into the ward the priest had finished his solemn work and was gone to console another dying man and the physicians to make one of those quick operations unthinkable in the leisurely days of peace.

Trent had no knowledge of what had taken place during his absence. He saw that his enemy was more exhausted. And as he looked he noticed that the eyes of Devlin lacked something of their hate. But it was no time for speculation. Trent saw in the sick man only his nemesis, the instrument which fate was using to rob him of his liberty. He was not to know that here was a man so close to death that hate seemed idle and vengeance a burden.

“Lieutenant,” Captain Sutton began, “I have here a copy of your statements and the evidence given by Sergeant Austin of the British army. I will read it to you. Then I shall need witnesses to your signature.”

“Let me see it,” Devlin commanded and drew the typewritten sheets to him. Then, with what strength was left him, he tore the document across and across again.

Captain Sutton looked at him in amazement.

“What did you do that for?” he asked.

But Devlin paid no heed to him. He gazed into the face of Anthony Trent, the man he had hated.

“I made a mistake,” said Devlin faintly. “This isn’t the man.”

And with this splendid and generous lie upon his lips he came to his life’s end.

FINIS