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Title: The Black Bag
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</pre>
<center>
<h1><a name="THE BLACK BAG">THE BLACK BAG</a></h1>
<h3>By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE</h3>
<p><img border="2"
src="covers.jpg"
alt="Book Cover"></p>
<h4>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THOMAS FOGARTY</h4>
<h5>COPYRIGHT 1908 </h5>
<hr width="50%" size="1">
<h5>JANUARY</h5>
<hr>
<p>TO MY MOTHER</p>
</center>
<hr>
<h3 align="center">CONTENTS</h3>
<h4>CHAPTER</h4>
<table border="0"
width="100%"
>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">
<p>I. </p>
</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19">
</td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#I">DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED
GENTLEMAN</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="1%"
height="19" align="right">
<p>II.</p>
</td>
<td width="1%"
height="19">
</td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#II">"AND SOME THERE BE WHO
HAVE ADVENTURES THRUST UPON THEM"</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">III.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#III">CALENDAR'S
DAUGHTER</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">IV.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#IV">9 FROGNALL STREET, W.
C.</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">V.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#V">THE MYSTERY OF A
FOUR-WHEELER</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">VI.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#VI">"BELOW BRIDGE"</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">VII.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#VII">DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED
GENTLEMAN—RESUMED</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">VIII.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#VIII">MADAME
L'INTRIGANTE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">IX.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#IX">AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE"; AND
BEYOND</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">X.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#X">DESPERATE
MEASURES</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XI.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XI">OFF THE NORE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XII.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XII">PICARESQUE
PASSAGES</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XIII.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XIII">A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE
CRIME</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">
<p> XIV.</p>
</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19">
</td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XIV">STRATAGEMS AND
SPOILS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XV.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XV">REFUGEES</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XVI.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XVI">TRAVELS WITH A
CHAPERON</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XVII.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XVII">ROGUES AND
VAGABONDS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XVIII.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XVIII">ADVENTURERS'
LUCK</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right">XIX.</td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href="#XIX">i—THE UXBRIDGE
ROAD</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right"></td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href=
"#II--THE%20CROWN%20AND%20MITRE">ii—THE CROWN
AND MITRE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td width="9%"
height="19" align="right"></td>
<td width="3%"
height="19"></td>
<td width="102%"
height="19"><a href=
"#III--THE%20JOURNEY'S%20END">iii—THE JOURNEY'S
END</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr>
<center>
<h2><a href="#I">THE BLACK BAG</a></h2>
<h2><a name="I">I</a></h2>
<h3>DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN</h3>
</center>
<p>Upon a certain dreary April afternoon in the year of grace,
1906, the apprehensions of Philip Kirkwood, Esquire,
<i>Artist-peintre</i>, were enlivened by the discovery that he
was occupying that singularly distressing social position,
which may be summed up succinctly in a phrase through long
usage grown proverbial: "Alone in London." These three words
have come to connote in our understanding so much of human
misery, that to Mr. Kirkwood they seemed to epitomize
absolutely, if not happily, the various circumstances attendant
upon the predicament wherein he found himself. Inevitably an
extremist, because of his youth, (he had just turned
twenty-five), he took no count of mitigating matters, and would
hotly have resented the suggestion that his case was anything
but altogether deplorable and forlorn.</p>
<p>That he was not actually at the end of his resources went
for nothing; he held the distinction a quibble, mockingly
immaterial,—like the store of guineas in his pocket, too
insignificant for mention when contrasted with his needs. And
his base of supplies, the American city of his nativity,
whence—and not without a glow of pride in his secret heart—he
was wont to register at foreign hostelries, had been
arbitrarily cut off from him by one of those accidents
sardonically classified by insurance and express corporations
as Acts of God.</p>
<p>Now to one who has lived all his days serenely in accord
with the dictates of his own sweet will, taking no thought for
the morrow, such a situation naturally seems both appalling and
intolerable, at the first blush. It must be confessed that, to
begin with, Kirkwood drew a long and disconsolate face over his
fix. And in that black hour, primitive of its kind in his brief
span, he became conscious of a sinister apparition taking shape
at his elbow—a shade of darkness which, clouting him on the
back with a skeleton hand, croaked hollow salutations in his
ear.</p>
<p>"Come, Mr. Kirkwood, come!" its mirthless accents rallied
him. "Have you no welcome for me?—you, who have been permitted
to live the quarter of a century without making my
acquaintance? Surely, now, it's high time we were learning
something of one another, you and I!" "But I don't understand,"
returned Kirkwood blankly. "I don't know you—"</p>
<p>"True! But you shall: I am the Shade of Care—"</p>
<p>"Dull Care!" murmured Kirkwood, bewildered and dismayed; for
the visitation had come upon him with little presage and no
invitation whatever.</p>
<p>"Dull Care," the Shade assured him. "Dull Care am I—and
Care that's anything but dull, into the bargain: Care that's
like a keen pain in your body, Care that lives a horror in your
mind, Care that darkens your days and flavors with bitter
poison all your nights, Care that—"</p>
<p>But Kirkwood would not listen further. Courageously
submissive to his destiny, knowing in his heart that the Shade
had come to stay, he yet found spirit to shake himself with a
dogged air, to lift his chin, set the strong muscles of his
jaw, and smile that homely wholesome smile which was his
peculiarly.</p>
<p>"Very well," he accepted the irremediable with grim humor;
"what must be, must. I don't pretend to be glad to see you,
but—you're free to stay as long as you find the climate
agreeable. I warn you I shan't whine. Lots of men, hundreds and
hundreds of 'em, have slept tight o' nights with you for
bedfellow; if they could grin and bear you, I believe I
can."</p>
<p>Now Care mocked him with a sardonic laugh, and sought to
tighten upon his shoulders its bony grasp; but Kirkwood
resolutely shrugged it off and went in search of man's most
faithful dumb friend, to wit, his pipe; the which, when found
and filled, he lighted with a spill twisted from the envelope
of a cable message which had been vicariously responsible for
his introduction to the Shade of Care.</p>
<p>"It's about time," he announced, watching the paper blacken
and burn in the grate fire, "that I was doing something to
prove my title to a living." And this was all his valedictory
to a vanished competence. "Anyway," he added hastily, as if
fearful lest Care, overhearing, might have read into his tone a
trace of vain repining, "anyway, I'm a sight better off than
those poor devils over there! I really have a great deal to be
thankful for, now that my attention's drawn to it."</p>
<p>For the ensuing few minutes he thought it all over, soberly
but with a stout heart; standing at a window of his bedroom in
the Hotel Pless, hands deep in trouser pockets, pipe fuming
voluminously, his gaze wandering out over a blurred infinitude
of wet shining roofs and sooty chimney-pots: all of London that
a lowering drizzle would let him see, and withal by no means a
cheering prospect, nor yet one calculated to offset the
disheartening influence of the indomitable Shade of Care. But
the truth is that Kirkwood's brain comprehended little that his
eyes perceived; his thoughts were with his heart, and that was
half a world away and sick with pity for another and a fairer
city, stricken in the flower of her loveliness, writhing in
Promethean agony upon her storied hills.</p>
<p>There came a rapping at the door.</p>
<p>Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough
to say "Come in!" pleasantly.</p>
<p>The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on
one heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive
figure in the livery of the Pless pages.</p>
<p>"Mister Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded.</p>
<p>"Gentleman to see you, sir."</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded again, smiling. "Show him up, please," he
said. But before the words were fairly out of his mouth a
footfall sounded in the corridor, a hand was placed upon the
shoulder of the page, gently but with decision swinging him out
of the way, and a man stepped into the room.</p>
<p>"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood almost shouted, jumping forward to
seize his visitor's hand.</p>
<p>"My dear boy!" replied the latter. "I'm delighted to see
you. 'Got your note not an hour ago, and came at once—you
see!"</p>
<p>"It was mighty good of you. Sit down, please. Here are
cigars.... Why, a moment ago I was the most miserable and
lonely mortal on the footstool!"</p>
<p>"I can fancy." The elder man looked up, smiling at Kirkwood
from the depths of his arm-chair, as the latter stood above
him, resting an elbow on the mantel. "The management knows me,"
he offered explanation of his unceremonious appearance; "so I
took the liberty of following on the heels of the bellhop, dear
boy. And how are you? Why are you in London, enjoying our
abominable spring weather? And why the anxious undertone I
detected in your note?"</p>
<p>He continued to stare curiously into Kirkwood's face. At a
glance, this Mr. Brentwick was a man of tallish figure and
rather slender; with a countenance thin and flushed a sensitive
pink, out of which his eyes shone, keen, alert, humorous, and a
trace wistful behind his glasses. His years were indeterminate;
with the aspect of fifty, the spirit and the verve of thirty
assorted oddly. But his hands were old, delicate, fine and
fragile; and the lips beneath the drooping white mustache at
times trembled, almost imperceptibly, with the generous
sentiments that come with mellow age. He held his back straight
and his head with an air—an air that was not a swagger but the
sign-token of seasoned experience in the world. The most
carping could have found no flaw in the quiet taste of his
attire. To sum up, Kirkwood's very good friend—and his only
one then in London—Mr. Brentwick looked and was an English
gentleman.</p>
<p>"Why?" he persisted, as the younger man hesitated. "I am
here to find out. To-night I leave for the Continent. In the
meantime ..."</p>
<p>"And at midnight I sail for the States," added Kirkwood.
"That is mainly why I wished to see you—to say good-by, for
the time."</p>
<p>"You're going home—" A shadow clouded Brentwick's clear
eyes.</p>
<p>"To fight it out, shoulder to shoulder with my brethren in
adversity."</p>
<p>The cloud lifted. "That is the spirit!" declared the elder
man. "For the moment I did you the injustice to believe that
you were running away. But now I understand. Forgive me....
Pardon, too, the stupidity which I must lay at the door of my
advancing years; to me the thought of you as a Parisian fixture
has become such a commonplace, Philip, that the news of the
disaster hardly stirred me. Now I remember that you are a
Californian!"</p>
<p>"I was born in San Francisco," affirmed Kirkwood a bit
sadly. "My father and mother were buried there ..."</p>
<p>"And your fortune—?"</p>
<p>"I inherited my father's interest in the firm of Kirkwood
& Vanderlip; when I came over to study painting, I left
everything in Vanderlip's hands. The business afforded me a
handsome living."</p>
<p>"You have heard from Mr. Vanderlip?"</p>
<p>"Fifteen minutes ago." Kirkwood took a cable-form, still
damp, from his pocket, and handed it to his guest. Unfolding
it, the latter read:</p>
<p>"<i>Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good
coming back everything gone no insurance letter follows
vanderlip</i>."</p>
<p>"When I got the news in Paris," Kirkwood volunteered, "I
tried the banks; they refused to honor my drafts. I had a
little money in hand,—enough to see me home,—so closed the
studio and came across. I'm booked on the <i>Minneapolis</i>,
sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at
eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me
and see me off."</p>
<p>In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with
a thoughtful look, "You are sure this is wise?" he queried.</p>
<p>"It's the only thing I can see."</p>
<p>"But your partner says—"</p>
<p>"Naturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned
to paint well enough to support myself for a few months, until
he can get things running again. Perhaps I might." Brentwick
supported the presumption with a decided gesture. "But have I a
right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone? For Vanderlip
has a wife and kiddies to support; I—"</p>
<p>"Your genius!"</p>
<p>"My ability, such as it is—and that only. It can wait....
No; this means simply that I must come down from the clouds,
plant my feet on solid earth, and get to work."</p>
<p>"The sentiment is sound," admitted Brentwick, "the practice
of it, folly. Have you stopped to think what part a rising
young portrait-painter can contribute toward the rebuilding of
a devastated city?"</p>
<p>"The painting can wait," reiterated Kirkwood. "I can work
like other men."</p>
<p>"You can do yourself and your genius grave injustice. And I
fear me you will, dear boy. It's in keeping with your heritage
of American obstinacy. Now if it were a question of
money—"</p>
<p>"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood protested vehemently. "I've ample
for my present needs," he added.</p>
<p>"Of course," conceded Brentwick with a sigh. "I didn't
really hope you would avail yourself of our friendship. Now
there's my home in Aspen Villas.... You have seen it?"</p>
<p>"In your absence this afternoon your estimable butler, with
commendable discretion, kept me without the doors," laughed the
young man.</p>
<p>"It's a comfortable home. You would not consent to share it
with me until—?"</p>
<p>"You are more than good; but honestly, I must sail to-night.
I wanted only this chance to see you before I left. You'll dine
with me, won't you?"</p>
<p>"If you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together
not once but many times; as it is, I myself am booked for
Munich, to be gone a week, on business. I have many affairs
needing attention between now and the nine-ten train from
Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen Villas—"</p>
<p>"Please!" begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure
because of the other's insistence. "I only wish I could.
Another day—"</p>
<p>"Oh, you will make your million in a year, and return
scandalously independent. It's in your American blood." Frail
white fingers tapped an arm of the chair as their owner stared
gravely into the fire. "I confess I envy you," he observed.</p>
<p>"The opportunity to make a million in a year?" chuckled
Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"No. I envy you your Romance."</p>
<p>"The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years
ago.... No, my dear friend; my Romance died a natural death
half an hour since."</p>
<p>"There spoke Youth—blind, enviable Youth!... On the
contrary, you are but turning the leaves of the first chapter
of your Romance, Philip."</p>
<p>"Romance is dead," contended the young man stubbornly.</p>
<p>"Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed quietly, still
attentive to the fire. "Myself when young," he said softly,
"did seek Romance, but never knew it till its day was done. I'm
quite sure that is a poor paraphrase of something I have read.
In age, one's sight is sharpened—to see Romance in another's
life, at least. I say I envy you. You have Youth, unconquerable
Youth, and the world before you.... I must go."</p>
<p>He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious of his
age. The old eyes peered more than a trifle wistfully, now,
into Kirkwood's. "You will not fail to call on me by cable,
dear boy, if you need—anything? I ask it as a favor.... I'm
glad you wished to see me before going out of my life. One
learns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip. Good-by, and
good luck attend you."</p>
<p>Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his window. The
disappointment he felt at being robbed of his anticipated
pleasure in Brentwick's company at dinner, colored his mood
unpleasantly. His musings merged into vacuity, into a dull gray
mist of hopelessness comparable only to the dismal skies then
lowering over London-town.</p>
<p>Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken. There was
really nothing for Kirkwood to do but to go ahead. But one
steamer-trunk remained to be packed; the boat-train would leave
before midnight, the steamer with the morning tide; by the
morrow's noon he would be upon the high seas, within ten days
in New York and among friends; and then ...</p>
<p>The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirkwood more than
he cared to own. Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that
he would be practically useless in San Francisco; he could not
harbor the thought of going back, only to become a charge upon
Vanderlip. No; he was resolved that thenceforward he must rely
upon himself, carve out his own destiny. But—would the art
that he had cultivated with such assiduity, yield him a
livelihood if sincerely practised with that end in view? Would
the mental and physical equipment of a painter, heretofore
dilettante, enable him to become self-supporting?</p>
<p>Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to divine the
future, he doubted himself, darkly questioning alike his
abilities and his temper under trial; neither ere now had ever
been put to the test. His eyes became somberly wistful, his
heart sore with regret of Yesterday—his Yesterday of care-free
youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable, evanescent
glamour of Romance—of such Romance, thrice refined of dross,
as only he knows who has wooed his Art with passion passing the
love of woman.</p>
<p>Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots,
the storm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them,
gray, fairy-like, the towers of Westminster and the Houses of
Parliament bulked monstrous and unreal, fading when again the
fugitive dun vapors closed down upon the city.</p>
<p>Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow,
whispering subtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold
and cruel.</p>
<p>The gloom deepened.</p>
<p>In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was
psychological.</p>
<p>There came a rapping at the door.</p>
<p>Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough
to say "Come in!" pleasantly.</p>
<p>The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on
one heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive
figure in the livery of the Pless pages.</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded.</p>
<p>"Gentleman to see you, sir."</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat perplexed.
Encouraged, the child advanced, proffering a silver card-tray
at the end of an unnaturally rigid forearm. Kirkwood took the
card dubiously between thumb and forefinger and inspected it
without prejudice.</p>
<p>"'George B. Calendar,'" he read. "'George B. Calendar!' But
I know no such person. Sure there's no mistake, young man?"</p>
<p>The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was agitated
in vigorous negation, and "Card for Mister Kirkwood!" was
mumbled in dispassionate accents appropriate to a recitation by
rote.</p>
<p>"Very well. But before you show him up, ask this Mr.
Calendar if he is quite sure he wants to see Philip
Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"Yessir."</p>
<p>The child marched out, punctiliously closing the door.
Kirkwood tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and puffed
energetically, dismissing the interruption to his reverie as a
matter of no consequence—an obvious mistake to be rectified by
two words with this Mr. Calendar whom he did not know. At the
knock he had almost hoped it might be Brentwick, returning with
a changed mind about the bid to dinner.</p>
<p>He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a curious sort
of friendship—extraordinarily close in view of the meagerness
of either's information about the other, to say nothing of the
disparity between their ages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood
knew little more than that they had met on shipboard, "coming
over"; that Brentwick had spent some years in America; that he
was an Englishman by birth, a cosmopolitan by habit, by
profession a gentleman (employing that term in its most
uncompromisingly British significance), and by inclination a
collector of "articles of virtue and bigotry," in pursuit of
which he made frequent excursions to the Continent from his
residence in a quaint quiet street of Old Brompton. It had been
during his not infrequent, but ordinarily abbreviated, sojourns
in Paris that their steamer acquaintance had ripened into an
affection almost filial on the one hand, almost paternal on the
other....</p>
<p>There came a rapping at the door.</p>
<p>Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough
to say "Come in!" pleasantly.</p>
<p>The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on
one heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a rather rotund
figure of medium height, clad in an expressionless gray lounge
suit, with a brown "bowler" hat held tentatively in one hand,
an umbrella weeping in the other. A voice, which was unctuous
and insinuative, emanated from the figure.</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the name, so
detached had been his thoughts since the disappearance of the
page.</p>
<p>"Yes, Mr. Calendar—?"</p>
<p>"Are you—ah—busy, Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"Are you, Mr. Calendar?" Kirkwood's smile robbed the retort
of any flavor of incivility.</p>
<p>Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he would detain
his host but a moment, and readily surrendering hat and
umbrella. Kirkwood, putting the latter aside, invited his
caller to the easy chair which Brentwick had occupied by the
fireplace.</p>
<p>"It takes the edge off the dampness," Kirkwood explained in
deference to the other's look of pleased surprise at the
cheerful bed of coals. "I'm afraid I could never get acclimated
to life in a cold, damp room—or a damp cold room—such as you
Britishers prefer."</p>
<p>"It is grateful," Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading plump and
well cared-for hands to the warmth. "But you are mistaken; I am
as much an American as yourself."</p>
<p>"Yes?" Kirkwood looked the man over with more interest, less
matter-of-course courtesy.</p>
<p>He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable Mr.
Calendar; he was dressed with some care, his complexion was
good, and the fullness of his girth, emphasized as it was by a
notable lack of inches, bespoke a nature genial, easy-going and
sybaritic. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded, were active—curiously,
at times, with a subdued glitter—in a face large, round, pink,
of which the other most remarkable features were a mustache,
close-trimmed and showing streaks of gray, a chubby nose, and
duplicate chins. Mr. Calendar was furthermore possessed of a
polished bald spot, girdled with a tonsure of silvered
hair—circumstances which lent some factitious distinction to a
personality otherwise commonplace.</p>
<p>His manner might be best described as uneasy with assurance;
as though he frequently found it necessary to make up for his
unimpressive stature by assuming an unnatural habit of
authority. And there you have him; beyond these points,
Kirkwood was conscious of no impressions; the man was
apparently neutral-tinted of mind as well as of body.</p>
<p>"So you knew I was an American, Mr. Calendar?" suggested
Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"'Saw your name on the register; we both hail from the same
neck of the woods, you know."</p>
<p>"I didn't know it, and—"</p>
<p>"Yes; I'm from Frisco, too."</p>
<p>"And I'm sorry."</p>
<p>Mr. Calendar passed five fat fingers nervously over his
mustache, glanced alertly up at Kirkwood, as if momentarily
inclined to question his tone, then again stared glumly into
the fire; for Kirkwood had maintained an attitude purposefully
colorless. Not to put too fine a point upon it, be believed
that his caller was lying; the man's appearance, his
mannerisms, his voice and enunciation, while they might have
been American, seemed all un-Californian. To one born and bred
in that state, as Kirkwood had been, her sons are unmistakably
hall-marked.</p>
<p>Now no man lies without motive. This one chose to reaffirm,
with a show of deep feeling: "Yes; I'm from Frisco, too. We're
companions in misfortune."</p>
<p>"I hope not altogether," said Kirkwood politely.</p>
<p>Mr. Calendar drew his own inferences from the response and
mustered up a show of cheerfulness. "Then you're not completely
wiped out?"</p>
<p>"To the contrary, I was hoping you were less unhappy."</p>
<p>"Oh! Then you are—?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood lifted the cable message from the mantel. "I have
just heard from my partner at home," he said with a faint
smile; and quoted: "'Everything gone; no insurance.'"</p>
<p>Mr. Calendar pursed his plump lips, whistling inaudibly.
"Too bad, too bad!" he murmured sympathetically. "We're all
hard hit, more or less." He lapsed into dejected apathy, from
which Kirkwood, growing at length impatient, found it necessary
to rouse him.</p>
<p>"You wished to see me about something else, I'm sure?"</p>
<p>Mr. Calendar started from his reverie. "Eh? ... I was
dreaming. I beg pardon. It seems hard to realize, Mr. Kirkwood,
that this awful catastrophe has overtaken our beloved
metropolis—"</p>
<p>The canting phrases wearied Kirkwood; abruptly he cut in.
"Would a sovereign help you out, Mr. Calendar? I don't mind
telling you that's about the limit of my present
resources."</p>
<p>"Pardon <i>me</i>." Mr. Calendar's moon-like countenance
darkened; he assumed a transparent dignity. "You misconstrue my
motive, sir."</p>
<p>"Then I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"I am not here to borrow. On the other hand, quite by
accident I discovered your name upon the register, down-stairs;
a good old Frisco name, if you will permit me to say so. I
thought to myself that here was a chance to help a
fellow-countryman." Calendar paused, interrogative; Kirkwood
remained interested but silent. "If a passage across would help
you, I—I think it might be arranged," stammered Calendar, ill
at ease.</p>
<p>"It might," admitted Kirkwood, speculative.</p>
<p>"I could fix it so that you could go over—first-class, of
course—and pay your way, so to speak, by, rendering us, me and
my partner, a trifling service."</p>
<p>"Ah?"</p>
<p>"In fact," continued Calendar, warming up to his theme,
"there might be something more in it for you than the passage,
if—if you're the right man, the man I'm looking for."</p>
<p>"That, of course, is the question."</p>
<p>"Eh?" Calendar pulled up suddenly in a full-winged flight of
enthusiasm.</p>
<p>Kirkwood eyed him steadily. "I said that it is a question,
Mr. Calendar, whether or not I am the man you're looking for.
Between you and me and the fire-dogs, I don't believe I am. Now
if you wish to name your <i>quid pro quo</i>, this trifling
service I'm to render in recognition of your benevolence, you
may."</p>
<p>"Ye-es," slowly. But the speaker delayed his reply until he
had surveyed his host from head to foot, with a glance both
critical and appreciative.</p>
<p>He saw a man in height rather less than the stock size
six-feet so much in demand by the manufacturers of modern
heroes of fiction; a man a bit round-shouldered, too, but
otherwise sturdily built, self-contained, well-groomed.</p>
<p>Kirkwood wears a boy's honest face; no one has ever called
him handsome. A few prejudiced persons have decided that he has
an interesting countenance; the propounders of this verdict
have been, for the most part, feminine. Kirkwood himself has
been heard to declare that his features do not fit; in its
essence the statement is true, but there is a very real, if
undefinable, engaging quality in their very irregularity. His
eyes are brown, pleasant, set wide apart, straightforward of
expression.</p>
<p>Now it appeared that, whatever his motive, Mr. Calendar had
acted upon impulse in sending his card up to Kirkwood. Possibly
he had anticipated a very different sort of reception from a
very different sort of man. Even in the light of subsequent
events it remains difficult to fathom the mystery of his
choice. Perhaps Fate directed it; stranger things have happened
at the dictates of a man's Destiny.</p>
<p>At all events, this Calendar proved not lacking in
penetration; men of his stamp are commonly endowed with that
quality to an eminent degree. Not slow to reckon the caliber of
the man before him, the leaven of intuition began to work in
his adipose intelligence. He owned himself baffled.</p>
<p>"Thanks," he concluded pensively; "I reckon you're right.
You won't do, after all. I've wasted your time. Mine, too."</p>
<p>"Don't mention it."</p>
<p>Calendar got heavily out of his chair, reaching for his hat
and umbrella. "Permit me to apologize for an unwarrantable
intrusion, Mr. Kirkwood." He faltered; a worried and
calculating look shadowed his small eyes. "I <i>was</i> looking
for some one to serve me in a certain capacity—"</p>
<p>"Certain or questionable?" propounded Kirkwood blandly,
opening the door.</p>
<p>Pointedly Mr. Calendar ignored the imputation. "Sorry I
disturbed you. G'dafternoon, Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"Good-by, Mr. Calendar." A smile twitched the corners of
Kirkwood's too-wide mouth.</p>
<p>Calendar stepped hastily out into the hall. As he strode—or
rather, rolled—away, Kirkwood maliciously feathered a Parthian
arrow.</p>
<p>"By the way, Mr. Calendar—?"</p>
<p>The sound of retreating footsteps was stilled and "Yes?"
came from the gloom of the corridor.</p>
<p>"Were you ever in San Francisco? Really and truly? Honest
Injun, Mr. Calendar?"</p>
<p>For a space the quiet was disturbed by harsh breathing;
then, in a strained voice, "Good day, Mr. Kirkwood"; and again
the sound of departing footfalls.</p>
<p>Kirkwood closed the door and the incident simultaneously,
with a smart bang of finality. Laughing quietly he went back to
the window with its dreary outlook, now the drearier for
lengthening evening shadows.</p>
<p>"I wonder what his game is, anyway. An adventurer, of
course; the woods are full of 'em. A queer fish, even of his
kind! And with a trick up his sleeve as queer and fishy as
himself, no doubt!"</p>
<h2 align="center"><a name="II">II</a></h2>
<h3 align="center">"AND SOME THERE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTURES
THRUST UPON THEM"</h3>
<p>The assumption seems not unwarrantable, that Mr. Calendar
figuratively washed his hands of Mr. Kirkwood. Unquestionably
Mr. Kirkwood considered himself well rid of Mr. Calendar. When
the latter had gone his way, Kirkwood, mindful of the fact that
his boat-train would leave St. Paneras at half-after eleven,
set about his packing and dismissed from his thoughts the
incident created by the fat <i>chevalier d'industrie</i>; and
at six o'clock, or thereabouts, let himself out of his room,
dressed for the evening, a light rain-coat over one arm, in the
other hand a cane,—the drizzle having ceased.</p>
<p>A stolid British lift lifted him down to the ground floor of
the establishment in something short of five minutes. Pausing
in the office long enough to settle his bill and leave
instructions to have his luggage conveyed to the boat-train, he
received with entire equanimity the affable benediction of the
clerk, in whose eyes he still figured as that radiant creature,
an American millionaire; and passed on to the lobby, where he
surrendered hat, coat and stick to the cloak-room attendant,
ere entering the dining-room.</p>
<p>The hour was a trifle early for a London dinner, the
handsome room but moderately filled with patrons. Kirkwood
absorbed the fact unconsciously and without displeasure; the
earlier, the better: he was determined to consume his last
civilized meal (as he chose to consider it) at his serene
leisure, to live fully his ebbing moments in the world to which
he was born, to drink to its cloying dregs one ultimate draught
of luxury.</p>
<p>A benignant waiter bowed him into a chair by a corner table
in juxtaposition with an open window, through which, swaying
imperceptibly the closed hangings, were wafted gentle gusts of
the London evening's sweet, damp breath.</p>
<p>Kirkwood settled himself with an inaudible sigh of pleasure.
He was dining, for the last time in Heaven knew how long, in a
first-class restaurant.</p>
<p>With a deferential flourish the waiter brought him the
menu-card. He had served in his time many an "American,
millionaire"; he had also served this Mr. Kirkwood, and
respected him as one exalted above the run of his kind, in that
he comprehended the art of dining.</p>
<p>Fifteen minutes later the waiter departed rejoicing, his
order complete.</p>
<p>To distract a conscience whispering of extravagance,
Kirkwood lighted a cigarette.</p>
<p>The room was gradually filling with later arrivals; it was
the most favored restaurant in London, and, despite the radiant
costumes of the women, its atmosphere remained sedate and
restful.</p>
<p>A cab clattered down the side street on which the window
opened.</p>
<p>At a near-by table a woman laughed, quietly happy.
Incuriously Kirkwood glanced her way. She was bending forward,
smiling, flattering her escort with the adoration of her eyes.
They were lovers alone in the wilderness of the crowded
restaurant. They seemed very happy.</p>
<p>Kirkwood was conscious of a strange pang of emotion. It took
him some time to comprehend that it was envy.</p>
<p>He was alone and lonely. For the first time he realized that
no woman had ever looked upon him as the woman at the adjoining
table looked upon her lover. He had found time to worship but
one mistress—his art.</p>
<p>And he was renouncing her.</p>
<p>He was painfully conscious of what he had missed, had
lost—or had not yet found: the love of woman.</p>
<p>The sensation was curious—new, unique in his
experience.</p>
<p>His cigarette burned down to his fingers as he sat
pondering. Abstractedly, he ground its fire out in an
ash-tray.</p>
<p>The waiter set before him a silver tureen, covered.</p>
<p>He sat up and began to consume his soup, scarce doing it
justice. His dream troubled him—his dream of the love of
woman.</p>
<p>From a little distance his waiter regarded him, with an air
of disappointment. In the course of an hour and a half he
awoke, to discover the attendant in the act of pouring very hot
and black coffee from a bright silver pot into a demi-tasse of
fragile porcelain. Kirkwood slipped a single lump of sugar into
the cup, gave over his cigar-case to be filled, then leaned
back, deliberately lighting a long and slender panetela as a
preliminary to a last lingering appreciation of the scene of
which he was a part.</p>
<p>He reviewed it through narrowed eyelids, lazily; yet with
some slight surprise, seeming to see it with new vision, with
eyes from which scales of ignorance had dropped.</p>
<p>This long and brilliant dining-hall, with its quiet
perfection of proportion and appointment, had always gratified
his love of the beautiful; to-night it pleased him to an
unusual degree. Yet it was the same as ever; its walls tinted a
deep rose, with their hangings of dull cloth-of-gold, its
lights discriminatingly clustered and discreetly shaded,
redoubled in half a hundred mirrors, its subdued shimmer of
plate and glass, its soberly festive assemblage of circumspect
men and women splendidly gowned, its decorously muted murmur of
voices penetrated and interwoven by the strains of a hidden
string orchestra—caressed his senses as always, yet with a
difference. To-night he saw it a room populous with lovers,
lovers insensibly paired, man unto woman attentive, woman of
man regardful.</p>
<p>He had never understood this before. This much he had missed
in life.</p>
<p>It seemed hard to realize that one must forego it all for
ever.</p>
<p>Presently he found himself acutely self-conscious. The
sensation puzzled him; and without appearing to do so, he
traced it from effect to cause; and found the cause in a
woman—a girl, rather, seated at a table the third removed from
him, near the farther wall of the room.</p>
<p>Too considerate, and too embarrassed, to return her scrutiny
openly, look for look, he yet felt sure that, however
temporarily, he was become the object of her intent
interest.</p>
<p>Idly employed with his cigar, he sipped his coffee. In time
aware that she had turned her attention elsewhere, he looked
up.</p>
<p>At first he was conscious of an effect of disappointment.
She was nobody that he knew, even by reputation. She was simply
a young girl, barely out of her teens—if as old as that phrase
would signify. He wondered what she had found in him to make
her think him worth so long a study; and looked again, more
keenly curious.</p>
<p>With this second glance, appreciation stirred the artistic
side of his nature, that was already grown impatient of his
fretted mood. The slender and girlish figure, posed with such
absolute lack of intrusion against a screen of rose and gilt,
moved him to critical admiration. The tinted glow of shaded
candles caught glistening on the spun gold of her fair hair,
and enhanced the fine pallor of her young shoulders. He saw
promise, and something more than promise, in her face, its oval
something dimmed by warm shadows that unavailingly sought to
blend youth and beauty alike into the dull, rich
background.</p>
<p>In the sheer youth of her (he realized) more than in aught
else, lay her chiefest charm. She could be little more than a
child, indeed, if he were to judge her by the purity of her
shadowed eyes and the absence of emotion in the calm and direct
look which presently she turned upon him who sat wondering at
the level, penciled darkness of her brows.</p>
<p>At length aware that she had surprised his interest,
Kirkwood glanced aside—coolly deliberate, lest she should
detect in his attitude anything more than impersonal
approval.</p>
<p>A slow color burned his cheeks. In his temples there rose a
curious pulsing.</p>
<p>After a while she drew his gaze again, imperiously—herself
all unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on his
temperament.</p>
<p>He could have fancied her distraught, cloaking an unhappy
heart with placid brow and gracious demeanor; but such a
conception matched strangely her glowing youth and spirit. What
had she to do with Care? What concern had Black Care, whose
gaunt shape in sable shrouds had lurked at his shoulder all the
evening, despite his rigid preoccupation, with a being as
charmingly flushed with budding womanhood as this girl?</p>
<p>"Eighteen?" he hazarded. "Eighteen, or possibly nineteen,
dining at the Pless in a ravishing dinner-gown, and—unhappy?
Oh, hardly—not she!"</p>
<p>Yet the impression haunted him, and ere long he was fain to
seek confirmation or denial of it in the manner of her
escort.</p>
<p>The latter sat with back to Kirkwood, cutting a figure as
negative as his snug evening clothes. One could surmise little
from a fleshy thick neck, a round, glazed bald spot, a fringe
of grizzled hair, and two bright red ears.</p>
<p>Calendar?</p>
<p>Somehow the fellow did suggest Kirkwood's caller of the
afternoon. The young man could not have said precisely how, for
he was unfamiliar with the aspect of that gentleman's back.
None the less the suggestion persisted.</p>
<p>By now, a few of the guests, theater-bound, for the most
part, were leaving. Here and there a table stood vacant, that
had been filled, cloth tarnished, chairs disarranged: in
another moment to be transformed into its pristine brilliance
under the deft attentions of the servitors.</p>
<p>Down an aisle, past the table at which the girl was sitting,
came two, making toward the lobby; the man, a slight and meager
young personality, in the lead. Their party had attracted
Kirkwood's notice as they entered; why, he did not remember;
but it was in his mind that then they had been three.
Instinctively he looked at the table they had left—one placed
at some distance from the girl, and hidden from her by an angle
in the wall. It appeared that the third member had chosen to
dally a few moments over his tobacco and a liqueur-brandy.
Kirkwood could see him plainly, lounging in his chair and
fumbling the stem of a glass: a heavy man, of somber habit, his
black and sullen brows lowering and thoughtful above a face
boldly handsome.</p>
<p>The woman of the trio was worthy of closer attention. Some
paces in the wake of her lack-luster esquire, she was making a
leisurely progress, trailing the skirts of a gown magnificent
beyond dispute, half concealed though it was by the opera cloak
whose soft folds draped her shoulders. Slowly, carrying her
head high, she approached, insolent eyes reviewing the room
from beneath their heavy lids; a metallic and mature type of
dark beauty, supremely selfconfident and self-possessed.</p>
<p>Men turned involuntarily to look after her, not altogether
in undiluted admiration.</p>
<p>In the act of passing behind the putative Calendar, she
paused momentarily, bending as if to gather up her train.
Presumably the action disturbed her balance; she swayed a
little, and in the effort to recover, rested the tips of her
gloved fingers upon the edge of the table. Simultaneously
(Kirkwood could have sworn) a single word left her lips, a word
evidently pitched for the ear of the hypothetical Calendar
alone. Then she swept on, imperturbable, assured.</p>
<p>To the perplexed observer it was indubitably evident that
some communication had passed from the woman to the man.
Kirkwood saw the fat shoulders of the girl's companion stiffen
suddenly as the woman's hand rested at his elbow; as she moved
away, a little rippling shiver was plainly visible in the
muscles of his back, beneath his coat—mute token of relaxing
tension. An instant later one plump and mottled hand was
carelessly placed where the woman's had been; and was at once
removed with fingers closed.</p>
<p>To the girl, watching her face covertly, Kirkwood turned for
clue to the incident. He made no doubt that she had observed
the passage; proof of that one found in her sudden startling
pallor (of indignation?) and in her eyes, briefly alight with
some inscrutable emotion, though quickly veiled by lowered
lashes. Slowly enough she regained color and composure, while
her <i>vis-à-vis</i> sat motionless, head inclined as if
in thought.</p>
<p>Abruptly the man turned in his chair to summon a waiter, and
exposed his profile. Kirkwood was in no wise amazed to
recognize Calendar—a badly frightened Calendar now, however,
and hardly to be identified with the sleek, glib fellow who had
interviewed Kirkwood in the afternoon. His flabby cheeks were
ashen and trembling, and upon the back of his chair the fat
white fingers were drumming incessantly an inaudible tattoo of
shattered nerves.</p>
<p>"Scared silly!" commented Kirkwood. "Why?" Having spoken to
his waiter, Calendar for some seconds raked the room with quick
glances, as if seeking an acquaintance. Presumably
disappointed, he swung back to face the girl, bending forward
to reach her ears with accents low-pitched and confidential.
She, on her part, fell at once attentive, grave and responsive.
Perhaps a dozen sentences passed between them. At the outset
her brows contracted and she shook her head in gentle dissent;
whereupon Calendar's manner became more imperative. Gradually,
unwillingly, she seemed to yield consent. Once she caught her
breath sharply, and, infected by her companion's agitation, sat
back, color fading again in the round young cheeks.</p>
<p>Kirkwood's waiter put in an inopportune appearance with the
bill. The young man paid it. When he looked up again Calendar
had swung squarely about in his chair. His eye encountered
Kirkwood's. He nodded pleasantly. Temporarily confused,
Kirkwood returned the nod.</p>
<p>In a twinkling he had repented; Calendar had left his chair
and was wending his way through the tables toward Kirkwood's.
Reaching it, he paused, offering the hand of genial fellowship.
Kirkwood accepted it half-heartedly (what else was he to do?)
remarking at the same time that Calendar had recovered much of
his composure. There was now a normal coloring in the heavily
jowled countenance, with less glint of fear in the quick, dark
eyes; and Calendar's hand, even if moist and cold, no longer
trembled. Furthermore it was immediately demonstrated that his
impudence had not deserted him.</p>
<p>"Why, Kirkwood, my dear fellow!" he crowed—not so loudly as
to attract attention, but in a tone assumed to divert
suspicion, should he be overheard. "This is great luck, you
know—to find you here."</p>
<p>"Is it?" returned Kirkwood coolly. He disengaged his
fingers.</p>
<p>The pink plump face was contorted in a furtive grimace of
deprecation. Without waiting for permission Calendar dropped
into the vacant chair.</p>
<p>"My dear sir," he proceeded, unabashed, "I throw myself upon
your mercy."</p>
<p>"The devil you do!"</p>
<p>"I must. I'm in the deuce of a hole, and there's no one I
know here besides yourself. I—I—"</p>
<p>Kirkwood saw fit to lead him on; partly because, out of the
corner of his eye, he was aware of the girl's unconcealed
suspense. "Go on, please, Mr. Calendar. You throw yourself on a
total stranger's mercy because you're in the deuce of a hole;
and—?"</p>
<p>"It's this way; I'm called away on urgent business
imperative business. I must go at once. My daughter is with me.
My daughter! Think of my embarrassment; I can not leave her
here, alone, nor can I permit her to go home unprotected."</p>
<p>Calendar paused in anxiety.</p>
<p>"That's easily remedied, then," suggested Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"How?"</p>
<p>"Put her in a cab at the door."</p>
<p>"I ... No. The devil! I couldn't think of it. You won't
understand. I—"</p>
<p>"I do not understand,—" amended the younger man
politely.</p>
<p>Calendar compressed his lips nervously. It was plain that
the man was quivering with impatience and half-mad with
excitement. He held quiet only long enough to regain his
self-control and take counsel with his prudence.</p>
<p>"It is impossible, Mr. Kirkwood. I must ask you to be
generous and believe me."</p>
<p>"Very well; for the sake of the argument, I do believe you,
Mr. Calendar."</p>
<p>"Hell!" exploded the elder man in an undertone. Then
swiftly, stammering in his haste: "I can't let Dorothy
accompany me to the door," he declared. "She—I—I throw myself
upon your mercy!"</p>
<p>"What—again?"</p>
<p>"The truth—the truth is, if you will have it, that I am in
danger of arrest the moment I leave here. If my daughter is
with me, she will have to endure the shame and
humiliation—"</p>
<p>"Then why place her in such a position?" Kirkwood demanded
sharply.</p>
<p>Calendar's eyes burned, incandescent with resentment.
Offended, he offered to rise and go, but changed his mind and
sat tight in hope.</p>
<p>"I beg of you, sir—"</p>
<p>"One moment, Mr. Calendar."</p>
<p>Abruptly Kirkwood's weathercock humor shifted—amusement
yielding to intrigued interest. After all, why not oblige the
fellow? What did anything matter, now? What harm could visit
him if he yielded to this corpulent adventurer's insistence?
Both from experience and observation he knew this for a world
plentifully peopled by soldiers of fortune, contrivers of
snares and pitfalls for the feet of the unwary. On the other
hand, it is axiomatic that a penniless man is perfectly safe
anywhere. Besides, there was the girl to be considered.</p>
<p>Kirkwood considered her, forthwith. In the process thereof,
his eyes sought her, perturbed. Their glances clashed. She
looked away hastily, crimson to her temples.</p>
<p>Instantly the conflict between curiosity and caution,
inclination and distrust, was at an end. With sudden
compliance, the young man rose.</p>
<p>"I shall be most happy to be of service to your daughter,
Mr. Calendar," he said, placing the emphasis with becoming
gravity. And then, the fat adventurer leading the way, Kirkwood
strode across the room—wondering somewhat at himself, if the
whole truth is to be disclosed.</p>
<h2 align="center"><a name="III">III</a></h2>
<h3 align="center">CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER</h3>
<p>All but purring with satisfaction and relief, Calendar
halted.</p>
<p>"Dorothy, my dear, permit me to introduce an old friend—Mr.
Kirkwood. Kirkwood, this is my daughter."</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar," acknowledged Kirkwood.</p>
<p>The girl bowed, her eyes steady upon his own. "Mr. Kirkwood
is very kind," she said gravely.</p>
<p>"That's right!" Calendar exclaimed blandly. "He's promised
to see you home. Now both of you will pardon my running away, I
know."</p>
<p>"Yes," assented Kirkwood agreeably.</p>
<p>The elder man turned and hurried toward the main
entrance.</p>
<p>Kirkwood took the chair he had vacated. To his disgust he
found himself temporarily dumb. No flicker of thought
illuminated the darkness of his confusion. How was he to open a
diverting conversation with a young woman whom he had met under
auspices so extraordinary? Any attempt to gloze the situation,
he felt, would be futile. And, somehow, he did not care to
render himself ridiculous in her eyes, little as he knew
her.</p>
<p>Inanely dumb, he sat watching her, smiling fatuously until
it was borne in on him that he was staring like a boor and
grinning like an idiot. Convinced, he blushed for himself;
something which served to make him more tongue-tied than
ever.</p>
<p>As for his involuntary protégée, she exhibited
such sweet composure that he caught himself wondering if she
really appreciated the seriousness of her parent's predicament;
if, for that matter, its true nature were known to her at all.
Calendar, he believed, was capable of prevarication, polite and
impolite. Had he lied to his daughter? or to Kirkwood? To both,
possibly; to the former alone, not improbably. That the
adventurer had told him the desperate truth, Kirkwood was quite
convinced; but he now began to believe that the girl had been
put off with some fictitious explanation. Her tranquillity and
self-control were remarkable, otherwise; she seemed very young
to possess those qualities in such eminent degree.</p>
<p>She was looking wearily past him, her gaze probing some
unguessed abyss of thought. Kirkwood felt himself privileged to
stare in wonder. Her naïve aloofness of poise gripped his
imagination powerfully,—the more so, perhaps, since it seemed
eloquent of her intention to remain enigmatic,—but by no means
more powerfully than the unaided appeal of her loveliness.</p>
<p>Presently the girl herself relieved the tension of the
situation, fairly startling the young man by going straight to
the heart of things. Without preface or warning, lifting her
gaze to his, "My name is really Dorothy Calendar," she
observed. And then, noting his astonishment, "You would be
privileged to doubt, under the circumstances," she added.
"Please let us be frank."</p>
<p>"Well," he stammered, "if I didn't doubt, let's say I was
unprejudiced."</p>
<p>His awkward, well-meant pleasantry, perhaps not conceived in
the best of taste, sounded in his own ears wretchedly flat and
vapid. He regretted it spontaneously; the girl ignored it.</p>
<p>"You are very kind," she iterated the first words he had
heard from her lips. "I wish you to understand that I, for one,
appreciate it."</p>
<p>"Not kind; I have done nothing. I am glad.... One is apt to
become interested when Romance is injected into a prosaic
existence." Kirkwood allowed himself a keen but cheerful
glance.</p>
<p>She nodded, with a shadowy smile. He continued,
purposefully, to distract her, holding her with his honest,
friendly eyes.</p>
<p>"Since it is to be confidences" (this she questioned with an
all but imperceptible lifting of the eyebrows), "I don't mind
telling you my own name is really Philip Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"And you are an old friend of my father's?"</p>
<p>He opened his lips, but only to close them without speaking.
The girl moved her shoulders with a shiver of disdain.</p>
<p>"I knew it wasn't so."</p>
<p>"You know it would be hard for a young man like myself to be
a very old friend," he countered lamely.</p>
<p>"How long, then, have you known each other?"</p>
<p>"Must I answer?"</p>
<p>"Please."</p>
<p>"Between three and four hours."</p>
<p>"I thought as much." She stared past him, troubled. Abruptly
she said: "Please smoke."</p>
<p>"Shall I? If you wish it, of course...." </p>
<p>She repeated: "Please."</p>
<p>"We were to wait ten minutes or so," she continued.</p>
<p>He produced his cigarette-case.</p>
<p>"If you care to smoke it will seem an excuse." He lighted
his cigarette.</p>
<p>"And then, you may talk to me," she concluded calmly.</p>
<p>"I would, gladly, if I could guess what would interest
you."</p>
<p>"Yourself. Tell me about yourself," she commanded.</p>
<p>"It would bore you," he responded tritely, confused.</p>
<p>"No; you interest me very much." She made the statement
quietly, contemptuous of coquetry.</p>
<p>"Very well, then; I am Philip Kirkwood, an American."</p>
<p>"Nothing more?"</p>
<p>"Little worth retailing."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"Why?" he demanded, piqued.</p>
<p>"Because you have merely indicated that you are a wealthy
American."</p>
<p>"Why wealthy?"</p>
<p>"If not, you would have some aim in life—a calling or
profession."</p>
<p>"And you think I have none?"</p>
<p>"Unless you consider it your vocation to be a wealthy
American."</p>
<p>"I don't. Besides, I'm not wealthy. In point of fact, I ..."
He pulled up short, on the verge of declaring himself a pauper.
"I am a painter."</p>
<p>Her eyes lightened with interest. "An artist?"</p>
<p>"I hope so. I don't paint signs—or houses," he
remarked.</p>
<p>Amused, she laughed softly. "I suspected it," she
declared.</p>
<p>"Not really?"</p>
<p>"It was your way of looking at—things, that made me guess
it: the painter's way. I have often noticed it."</p>
<p>"As if mentally blending colors all the time?"</p>
<p>"Yes; that and—seeing flaws."</p>
<p>"I have discovered none," he told her brazenly.</p>
<p>But again her secret cares were claiming her thoughts, and
the gay, inconsequential banter died upon her scarlet lips as a
second time her glance ranged away, sounding mysterious depths
of anxiety.</p>
<p>Provoked, he would have continued the chatter. "I have
confessed," he persisted. "You know everything of material
interest about me. And yourself?"</p>
<p>"I am merely Dorothy Calendar," she answered.</p>
<p>"Nothing more?" He laughed.</p>
<p>"That is all, if you please, for the present."</p>
<p>"I am to content myself with the promise of the future?"</p>
<p>"The future," she told him seriously, "is to-morrow; and
to-morrow ..." She moved restlessly in her chair, eyes and lips
pathetic in their distress. "Please, we will go now, if you are
ready."</p>
<p>"I am quite ready, Miss Calendar."</p>
<p>He rose. A waiter brought the girl's cloak and put it in
Kirkwood's hands. He held it until, smoothing the wrists of her
long white gloves, she stood up, then placed the garment upon
her white young shoulders, troubled by the indefinable sense of
intimacy imparted by the privilege. She permitted him this
personal service! He felt that she trusted him, that out of her
gratitude had grown a simple and almost childish faith in his
generosity and considerateness.</p>
<p>As she turned to go her eyes thanked him with an
unfathomable glance. He was again conscious of that esoteric
disturbance in his temples. Puzzled, hazily analyzing the
sensation, he followed her to the lobby.</p>
<p>A page brought him his top-coat, hat and stick; tipping the
child from sheer force of habit, he desired a gigantic porter,
impressively ornate in hotel livery, to call a hansom. Together
they passed out into the night, he and the girl.</p>
<p>Beneath a permanent awning of steel and glass she waited
patiently, slender, erect, heedless of the attention she
attracted from wayfarers.</p>
<p>The night was young, the air mild. Upon the sidewalk,
muddied by a million feet, two streams of wayfarers flowed
incessantly, bound west from Green Park or east toward
Piccadilly Circus; a well-dressed throng for the most part,
with here and there a man in evening dress. Between the
carriages at the curb and the hotel doors moved others,
escorting fluttering butterfly women in elaborate toilets,
heads bare, skirts daintily gathered above their perishable
slippers. Here and there meaner shapes slipped silently through
the crowd, sinister shadows of the city's proletariat, blotting
ominously the brilliance of the scene.</p>
<p>A cab drew in at the block. The porter clapped an arc of
wickerwork over its wheel to protect the girl's skirts. She
ascended to the seat.</p>
<p>Kirkwood, dropping sixpence in the porter's palm, prepared
to follow; but a hand fell upon his arm, peremptory,
inexorable. He faced about, frowning, to confront a slight,
hatchet-faced man, somewhat under medium height, dressed in a
sack suit and wearing a derby well forward over eyes that were
hard and bright.</p>
<p>"Mr. Calendar?" said the man tensely. "I presume I needn't
name my business. I'm from the Yard—"</p>
<p>"My name is <i>not</i> Calendar." </p>
<p>The detective smiled wearily. "Don't be a fool, Calendar,"
he began. But the porter's hand fell upon his shoulder and the
giant bent low to bring his mouth close to the other's ear.
Kirkwood heard indistinctly his own name followed by
Calendar's, and the words: "Never fear. I'll point him
out."</p>
<p>"But the woman?" argued the detective, unconvinced, staring
into the cab.</p>
<p>"Am I not at liberty to have a lady dine with me in a public
restaurant?" interposed Kirkwood, without raising his
voice.</p>
<p>The hard eyes looked him up and down without favor. Then:
"Beg pardon, sir. I see my mistake," said the detective
brusquely.</p>
<p>"I am glad you do," returned Kirkwood grimly. "I fancy it
will bear investigation."</p>
<p>He mounted the step. "Imperial Theater," he told the driver,
giving the first address that occurred to him; it could be
changed. For the moment the main issue was to get the girl out
of the range of the detective's interest.</p>
<p>He slipped into his place as the hansom wheeled into the
turgid tide of west-bound traffic.</p>
<p>So Calendar had escaped, after all! Moreover, he had told
the truth to Kirkwood.</p>
<p>By his side the girl moved uneasily. "Who was that man?" she
inquired.</p>
<p>Kirkwood sought her eyes, and found them wholly ingenuous.
It seemed that Calendar had not taken her into his confidence,
after all. She was, therefore, in no way implicated in her
father's affairs. Inexplicably the young man's heart felt
lighter. "A mistake; the fellow took me for some one he knew,"
he told her carelessly.</p>
<p>The assurance satisfied her. She rested quietly, wrapped up
in personal concerns. Her companion pensively contemplated an
infinity of arid and hansom-less to-morrows. About them the
city throbbed in a web of misty twilight, the humid farewell of
a dismal day. In the air a faint haze swam, rendering the
distances opalescent. Athwart the western sky the after-glow of
a drenched sunset lay like a wash of rose-madder. Piccadilly's
asphalt shone like watered silk, black and lustrous, reflecting
a myriad lights in vibrant ribbons of party-colored radiance.
On every hand cab-lamps danced like fire-flies; the rumble of
wheels blended with the hollow pounding of uncounted hoofs,
merging insensibly into the deep and solemn roar of
London-town.</p>
<p>Suddenly Kirkwood was recalled to a sense of duty by a
glimpse of Hyde Park Corner. He turned to the girl. "I didn't
know where you wished to go—?"</p>
<p>She seemed to realize his meaning with surprise, as one,
whose thoughts have strayed afar, recalled to an imperative
world.</p>
<p>"Oh, did I forget? Tell him please to drive to Number Nine,
Frognall Street, Bloomsbury."</p>
<p>Kirkwood poked his cane through the trap, repeating the
address. The cab wheeled smartly across Piccadilly, swung into
Half Moon Street, and thereafter made better time, darting
briskly down abrupt vistas of shining pavement, walled in by
blank-visaged houses, or round two sides of one of London's
innumerable private parks, wherein spring foliage glowed a
tender green in artificial light; now and again it crossed
brilliant main arteries of travel, and eventually emerged from
a maze of backways into Oxford Street, to hammer eastwards to
Tottenham Court Road.</p>
<p>Constraint hung like a curtain between the two; a silence
which the young man forbore to moderate, finding more delight
that he had cared (or dared) confess to, in contemplation of
the pure girlish profile so close to him.</p>
<p>She seemed quite unaware of him, lost in thought, large eyes
sober, lips serious that were fashioned for laughter, round
little chin firm with some occult resolution. It was not hard
to fancy her nerves keyed to a high pitch of courage and
determination, nor easy to guess for what reason. Watching
always, keenly sensitive to the beauty of each salient line
betrayed by the flying lights, Kirkwood's own consciousness
lost itself in a profitless, even a perilous labyrinth of
conjecture.</p>
<p>The cab stopped. Both occupants came to their senses with a
little start. The girl leaned out over; the apron, recognized
the house she sought in one swift glance, testified to the
recognition with a hushed exclamation, and began to arrange her
skirts. Kirkwood, unheeding her faint-hearted protests, jumped
out, interposing his cane between her skirts and the wheel.
Simultaneously he received a vivid mental photograph of the
locality.</p>
<p>Frognall Street proved to be one of those by-ways, a short
block in length, which, hemmed in on all sides by a meaner
purlieu, has (even in Bloomsbury!) escaped the sordid
commercial eye of the keeper of furnished lodgings, retaining
jealously something of the old-time dignity and reserve that
were its pride in the days before Society swarmed upon Mayfair
and Belgravia.</p>
<p>Its houses loomed tall, with many windows, mostly
lightless—materially aggravating that air of isolate, cold
dignity which distinguishes the Englishman's castle. Here and
there stood one less bedraggled than its neighbors, though all,
without exception, spoke assertively of respectability
down-at-the-heel but fighting tenaciously for existence. Some,
vanguards of that imminent day when the boarding-house should
reign supreme, wore with shamefaced air placards of
estate-agents, advertising their susceptibility to sale or
lease. In the company of the latter was Number 9.</p>
<p>The American noted the circumstance subconsciously, at a
moment when Miss Calendar's hand, small as a child's, warm and
compact in its white glove, lay in his own. And then she was on
the sidewalk, her face, upturned to his, vivacious with
excitement.</p>
<p>"You have been so kind," she told him warmly, "that one
hardly knows how to thank you, Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"I have done nothing—nothing at all," he mumbled, disturbed
by a sudden, unreasoning alarm for her.</p>
<p>She passed quickly to the shelter of the pillared portico.
He followed clumsily. On the door-step she turned, offering her
hand. He took and retained it.</p>
<p>"Good night," she said.</p>
<p>"I'm to understand that I'm dismissed, then?" he stammered
ruefully.</p>
<p>She evaded his eyes. "I—thank you—I have no further
need—"</p>
<p>"You are quite sure? Won't you believe me at your
service?"</p>
<p>She laughed uneasily. "I'm all right now."</p>
<p>"I can do nothing more? Sure?"</p>
<p>"Nothing. But you—you make me almost sorry I can't impose
still further upon your good nature."</p>
<p>"Please don't hesitate ..."</p>
<p>"Aren't you very persistent, Mr. Kirkwood?" Her fingers
moved in his; burning with the reproof, he released them, and
turned to her so woebegone a countenance that she repented of
her severity. "Don't worry about me, please. I am truly safe
now. Some day I hope to be able to thank you adequately. Good
night!"</p>
<p>Her pass-key grated in the lock. Opening, the door disclosed
a dark and uninviting entry-hall, through which there breathed
an air heavy with the dank and dusty odor of untenanted rooms.
Hesitating on the threshold, over her shoulder the girl smiled
kindly upon her commandeered esquire; and stepped within.</p>
<p>He lifted his hat automatically. The door closed with an
echoing slam. He turned to the waiting cab, fumbling for
change.</p>
<p>"I'll walk," he told the cabby, paying him off.</p>
<p>The hansom swept away to a tune of hammering hoofs; and
quiet rested upon the street as Kirkwood turned the nearest
corner, in an unpleasant temper, puzzled and discontented. It
seemed hardly fair that he should have been dragged into so
promising an adventure, by his ears (so to put it), only to be
thus summarily called upon to write "Finis" beneath the
incident.</p>
<p>He rounded the corner and walked half-way to the next
street, coming to an abrupt and rebellious pause by the
entrance to a covered alleyway, of two minds as to his proper
course of action.</p>
<p>In the background of his thoughts Number 9, Frognall Street,
reared its five-story façade, sinister and forbidding. He
reminded himself of its unlighted windows; of its sign, "To be
let"; of the effluvia of desolation that had saluted him when
the door swung wide. A deserted house; and the girl alone in
it!—was it right for him to leave her so?</p>
<h2 align="center"><a name="IV">IV</a></h2>
<h3 align="center">9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C.</h3>
<p>The covered alleyway gave upon Quadrant Mews; or so declared
a notice painted on the dead wall of the passage.</p>
<p>Overhead, complaining as it swayed in the wind, hung the
smirched and weather-worn sign-board of the Hog-in-the-Pound
public house; wherefrom escaped sounds of such revelry by night
as is indulged in by the British working-man in hours of ease.
At the curb in front of the house of entertainment, dejected
animals drooping between their shafts, two hansoms stood in
waiting, until such time as the lords of their destinies should
see fit to sally forth and inflict themselves upon a cab-hungry
populace. As Kirkwood turned, a third vehicle rumbled up out of
the mews.</p>
<p>Kirkwood can close his eyes, even at this late day, and both
see and hear it all again—even as he can see the unbroken row
of dingy dwellings that lined his way back from Quadrant Mews
to Frognall Street corner: all drab and unkempt, all sporting
in their fan-lights the legend and lure, "Furnished
Apartments."</p>
<p>For, between his curiosity about and his concern for the
girl, he was being led back to Number 9, by the nose, as it
were,—hardly willingly, at best. Profoundly stupefied by the
contemplation of his own temerity, he yet returned unfaltering.
He who had for so long plumed himself upon his strict
supervision of his personal affairs and equally steadfast
unconsciousness of his neighbor's businesses, now found himself
in the very act of pushing in where he was not wanted: as he
had been advised in well-nigh as many words. He experienced an
effect of standing to one side, a witness of his own folly,
with rising wonder, unable to credit the strength of the
infatuation which was placing him so conspicuously in the way
of a snubbing.</p>
<p>If perchance he were to meet the girl again as she was
leaving Number 9,—what then? The contingency dismayed him
incredibly, in view of the fact that it did not avail to make
him pause. To the contrary he disregarded it resolutely; mad,
impertinent, justified of his unnamed apprehensions, or simply
addled,—he held on his way.</p>
<p>He turned up Frognall Street with the manner of one out for
a leisurely evening stroll. Simultaneously, from the farther
corner, another pedestrian debouched, into the thoroughfare—a
mere moving shadow at that distance, brother to blacker shadows
that skulked in the fenced areas and unlively entries of that
poorly lighted block. The hush was something beyond belief,
when one remembered the nearness of blatant Tottenham Court
Road.</p>
<p>Kirkwood conceived a wholly senseless curiosity about the
other wayfarer. The man was walking rapidly, heels ringing with
uncouth loudness, cane tapping the flagging at brief intervals.
Both sounds ceased abruptly as their cause turned in beneath
one of the porticos. In the emphatic and unnatural quiet that
followed, Kirkwood, stepping more lightly, fancied that another
shadow followed the first, noiselessly and with furtive
stealth.</p>
<p>Could it be Number 9 into which they had passed? The
American's heart beat a livelier tempo at the suggestion. If it
had not been Number 9—he was still too far away to tell—it
was certainly one of the dwellings adjacent thereunto. The
improbable possibility (But why improbable?) that the girl was
being joined by her father, or by friends, annoyed him with
illogical intensity. He mended his own pace, designing to pass
whichever house it might be before the door should be closed;
thought better of this, and slowed up again, anathematizing
himself with much excuse for being the inquisitive dolt that he
was.</p>
<p>Approaching Number 9 with laggard feet, he manufactured a
desire to light a cigarette, as a cover for his design, were he
spied upon by unsuspected eyes. Cane under arm, hands cupped to
shield a vesta's flame, he stopped directly before the portico,
turning his eyes askance to the shadowed doorway; and made a
discovery sufficiently startling to hold him spellbound and,
incidentally, to scorch his gloves before he thought to drop
the match.</p>
<p>The door of Number 9 stood ajar, a black interval an inch or
so in width showing between its edge and the jamb.</p>
<p>Suspicion and alarm set his wits a-tingle. More distinctly
he recalled the jarring bang, accompanied by the metallic click
of the latch, when the girl had shut herself in—and him out.
Now, some person or persons had followed her, neglecting the
most obvious precaution of a householder. And why? Why but
because the intruders did not wish the sound of closing to be
audible to her—or those—within?</p>
<p>He reminded himself that it was all none of his affair,
decided to pass on and go his ways in peace, and impulsively,
swinging about, marched straight away for the unclosed
door.</p>
<p>"'Old'ard, guvner!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood halted on the cry, faltering in indecision. Should
he take the plunge, or withdraw? Synchronously he was conscious
that a man's figure had detached itself from the shadows
beneath the nearest portico and was drawing nearer, with every
indication of haste, to intercept him.</p>
<p>"'Ere now, guvner, yer mykin' a mistyke. You don't live
'ere."</p>
<p>"How do you know?" demanded Kirkwood crisply, tightening his
grip on his stick.</p>
<p>Was this the second shadow he had seemed to see—the
confederate of him who had entered Number 9; a sentry to
forestall interruption? If so, the fellow lacked discretion,
though his determination that the American should not interfere
was undeniable. It was with an ugly and truculent manner, if
more warily, that the man closed in.</p>
<p>"I knows. You clear hout, or—"</p>
<p>He flung out a hand with the plausible design of grasping
Kirkwood by the collar. The latter lifted his stick, deflecting
the arm, and incontinently landed his other fist forcibly on
the fellow's chest. The man reeled back, cursing. Before he
could recover Kirkwood calmly crossed the threshold, closed the
door and put his shoulder to it. In another instant, fumbling
in the darkness, he found the bolts and drove them home.</p>
<p>And it was done, the transformation accomplished; his
inability to refrain from interfering had encompassed his
downfall, had changed a peaceable and law-abiding alien within
British shores into a busybody, a trespasser, a misdemeanant,
a—yes, for all he knew to the contrary, in the estimation of
the Law, a burglar, prime candidate for a convict's
stripes!</p>
<p>Breathing hard with excitement he turned and laid his back
against the panels, trembling in every muscle, terrified by the
result of his impulsive audacity, thunder-struck by a
lightning-like foreglimpse of its possible consequences. Of
what colossal imprudence had he not been guilty?</p>
<p>"The devil!" he whispered. "What an ass, what an utter ass I
am!"</p>
<p>Behind him the knob was rattled urgently, to an
accompaniment of feet shuffling on the stone; and
immediately—if he were to make a logical deduction from the
rasping and scraping sound within the door-casing—the
bell-pull was violently agitated, without, however, educing any
response from the bell itself, wherever that might be situate.
After which, as if in despair, the outsider again rattled and
jerked the knob.</p>
<p>Be his status what it might, whether servant of the
household, its caretaker, or a night watchman, the man was
palpably determined both to get himself in and Kirkwood out,
and yet (curious to consider) determined to gain his end
without attracting undue attention. Kirkwood had expected to
hear the knocker's thunder, as soon as the bell failed to give
tongue; but it did not sound although there <i>was</i> a
knocker,—Kirkwood himself had remarked that antiquated and
rusty bit of ironmongery affixed to the middle panel of the
door. And it made him feel sure that something surreptitious
and lawless was in process within those walls, that the
confederate without, having failed to prevent a stranger from
entering, left unemployed a means so certain-sure to rouse the
occupants.</p>
<p>But his inferential analysis of this phase of the
proceedings was summarily abrupted by that identical alarm. In
a trice the house was filled with flying echoes, wakened to
sonorous riot by the crash and clamor of the knocker; and
Kirkwood stood fully two yards away, his heart hammering
wildly, his nerves a-jingle, much as if the resounding blows
had landed upon his own person rather than on stout oaken
planking.</p>
<p>Ere he had time to wonder, the racket ceased, and from the
street filtered voices in altercation. Listening, Kirkwood's
pulses quickened, and he laughed uncertainly for pure relief,
retreating to the door and putting an ear to a crack.</p>
<p>The accents of one speaker were new in his hearing, stern,
crisp, quick with the spirit of authority which animates that
most austere and dignified limb of the law to be encountered
the world over, a London bobby.</p>
<p>"Now then, my man, what do you want there? Come now, speak
up, and step out into the light, where I can see you."</p>
<p>The response came in the sniffling snarl of the London
ne'er-do-well, the unemployable rogue whose chiefest occupation
seems to be to march in the ranks of The Unemployed on the
occasion of its annual demonstrations.</p>
<p>"Le' me alone, carntcher? Ah'm doin' no 'arm,
officer,—"</p>
<p>"Didn't you hear me? Step out here. Ah, that's better.... No
harm, eh? Perhaps you'll explain how there's no harm breakin'
into unoccupied 'ouses?"</p>
<p>"Gorblimy, 'ow was I to know? 'Ere's a toff 'ands me
sixpence fer hopenin' 'is cab door to-dye, an', sezee, 'My
man,' 'e sez, 'yer've got a 'onest fyce. W'y don'cher work?'
sezee. ''Ow can I?' sez I. ''Ere'm I hout of a job these six
months, lookin' fer work every dye an' carn't find it.' Sezee,
'Come an' see me this hevenin' at me home, Noine, Frognall
Stryte,' 'e sez, an'—"</p>
<p>"That'll do for now. You borrow a pencil and paper and write
it down and I'll read it when I've got more time; I never heard
the like of it. This 'ouse hasn't been lived in these two
years. Move on, and don't let me find you round 'ere again.
March, I say!"</p>
<p>There was more of it—more whining explanations artfully
tinctured with abuse, more terse commands to depart, the whole
concluding with scraping footsteps, diminuendo, and another
perfunctory, rattle of the knob as the bobby, having shoo'd the
putative evil-doer off, assured himself that no damage had
actually been done. Then he, too, departed, satisfied and
self-righteous, leaving a badly frightened but very grateful
amateur criminal to pursue his self-appointed career of
crime.</p>
<p>He had no choice other than to continue; in point of fact,
it had been insanity just then to back out, and run the risk of
apprehension at the hands of that ubiquitous bobby, who (for
all he knew) might be lurking not a dozen yards distant,
watchful for just such a sequel. Still, Kirkwood hesitated with
the best of excuses. Reassuring as he had found the sentinel's
extemporized yarn,—proof positive that the fellow had had no
more right to prohibit a trespass than Kirkwood to commit
one,—at the same time he found himself pardonably a prey to
emotions of the utmost consternation and alarm. If he feared to
leave the house he had no warrant whatever to assume that he
would be permitted to remain many minutes unharmed within its
walls of mystery.</p>
<p>The silence of it discomfited him beyond measure; it was, in
a word, uncanny.</p>
<p>Before him, as he lingered at the door, vaguely disclosed by
a wan illumination penetrating a dusty and begrimed fan-light,
a broad hall stretched indefinitely towards the rear of the
building, losing itself in blackness beyond the foot of a
flight of stairs. Save for a few articles of furniture,—a hall
table, an umbrella-stand, a tall dumb clock flanked by
high-backed chairs,—it was empty. Other than Kirkwood's own
restrained respiration not a sound throughout the house
advertised its inhabitation; not a board creaked beneath the
pressure of a foot, not a mouse rustled in the wainscoting or
beneath the floors, not a breath of air stirred sighing in the
stillness.</p>
<p>And yet, a tremendous racket had been raised at the front
door, within the sixty seconds past! And yet, within twenty
minutes two persons, at least, had preceded Kirkwood into the
building! Had they not heard? The speculation seemed
ridiculous. Or had they heard and, alarmed, been too
effectually hobbled by the coils of their nefarious designs to
dare reveal themselves, to investigate the cause of that
thunderous summons? Or were they, perhaps, aware of Kirkwood's
entrance, and lying <i>perdui</i>, in some dark corner, to
ambush him as he passed?</p>
<p>True, that were hardly like the girl. True, on the other
hand, it were possible that she had stolen away while Kirkwood
was hanging in irresolution by the passage to Quadrant Mews.
Again, the space of time between Kirkwood's dismissal and his
return had been exceedingly brief; whatever her errand, she
could hardly have fulfilled it and escaped. At that moment she
might be in the power and at the mercy of him who had followed
her; providing he were not friendly. And in that case, what
torment and what peril might not be hers?</p>
<p>Spurred by solicitude, the young man put personal
apprehensions in his pocket and forgot them, cautiously picking
his way through the gloom to the foot of the stairs. There, by
the newel-post, he paused. Darkness walled him about. Overhead
the steps vanished in a well of blackness; he could not even
see the ceiling; his eyes ached with futile effort to fathom
the unknown; his ears rang with unrewarded strain of listening.
The silence hung inviolate, profound.</p>
<p>Slowly he began to ascend, a hand following the balusters,
the other with his cane exploring the obscurity before him. On
the steps, a carpet, thick and heavy, muffled his footfalls. He
moved noiselessly. Towards the top the staircase curved, and
presently a foot that groped for a higher level failed to find
it. Again he halted, acutely distrustful.</p>
<p>Nothing happened.</p>
<p>He went on, guided by the balustrade, passing three doors,
all open, through which the undefined proportions of a
drawing-room and boudoir were barely suggested in a ghostly
dusk. By each he paused, listening, hearing nothing.</p>
<p>His foot struck with a deadened thud against the bottom step
of the second flight, and his pulses fluttered wildly for a
moment. Two minutes—three—he waited in suspense. From above
came no sound. He went on, as before, save that twice a step
yielded, complaining, to his weight. Toward the top the close
air, like the darkness, seemed to weigh more heavily upon his
consciousness; little drops of perspiration started out on his
forehead, his scalp tingled, his mouth was hot and dry, he felt
as if stifled.</p>
<p>Again the raised foot found no level higher than its
fellows. He stopped and held his breath, oppressed by a
conviction that some one was near him. Confirmation of this
came startlingly—an eerie whisper in the night, so close to
him that he fancied he could feel the disturbed air fanning his
face.</p>
<p>"<i>Is it you, Eccles</i>?" He had no answer ready. The
voice was masculine, if he analyzed it correctly. Dumb and
stupid he stood poised upon the point of panic.</p>
<p>"<i>Eccles, is it you</i>?"</p>
<p>The whisper was both shrill and shaky. As it ceased Kirkwood
was half blinded by a flash of light, striking him squarely in
the eyes. Involuntarily he shrank back a pace, to the first
step from the top. Instantaneously the light was eclipsed.</p>
<p>"<i>Halt or—or I fire</i>!"</p>
<p>By now he realized that he had been scrutinized by the aid
of an electric hand-lamp. The tremulous whisper told him
something else—that the speaker suffered from nerves as
high-strung as his own. The knowledge gave him inspiration. He
cried at a venture, in a guarded voice, "<i>Hands up</i>!"—and
struck out smartly with his stick. Its ferrule impinged upon
something soft but heavy. Simultaneously he heard a low,
frightened cry, the cane was swept aside, a blow landed
glancingly on his shoulder, and he was carried fairly off his
feet by the weight of a man hurled bodily upon him with
staggering force and passion. Reeling, he was borne back and
down a step or two, and then,—choking on an oath,—dropped his
cane and with one hand caught the balusters, while the other
tore ineffectually at wrists of hands that clutched his throat.
So, for a space, the two hung, panting and struggling.</p>
<p>Then endeavoring to swing his shoulders over against the
wall, Kirkwood released his grip on the hand-rail and stumbled
on the stairs, throwing his antagonist out of balance. The
latter plunged downward, dragging Kirkwood with him. Clawing,
kicking, grappling, they went to the bottom, jolted violently
by each step; but long before the last was reached, Kirkwood's
throat was free.</p>
<p>Throwing himself off, he got to his feet and grasped the
railing for support; then waited, panting, trying to get his
bearings. Himself painfully shaken and bruised, he shrewdly
surmised that his assailant had fared as ill, if not worse.
And, in point of fact, the man lay with neither move nor moan,
still as death at the American's feet.</p>
<p>And once more silence had folded its wings over Number 9,
Frognall Street.</p>
<p>More conscious of that terrifying, motionless presence
beneath him, than able to distinguish it by power of vision, he
endured interminable minutes of trembling horror, in a witless
daze, before he thought of his match-box. Immediately he found
it and struck a light. As the wood caught and the bright small
flame leaped in the pent air, he leaned forward, over the body,
breathlessly dreading what he must discover.</p>
<p>The man lay quiet, head upon the floor, legs and hips on the
stairs. One arm had fallen over his face, hiding the upper
half. The hand gleamed white and delicate as a woman's. His
chin was smooth and round, his lips thin and petulant. Beneath
his top-coat, evening dress clothed a short and slender figure.
Nothing whatever of his appearance suggested the burly ruffian,
the midnight marauder; he seemed little more than a boy old
enough to dress for dinner. In his attitude there was something
pitifully suggestive of a beaten child, thrown into a
corner.</p>
<p>Conscience-smitten and amazed Kirkwood stared on until,
without warning, the match flickered and went out. Then,
straightening up with an exclamation at once of annoyance and
concern, he rattled the box; it made no sound,—was empty. In
disgust he swore it was the devil's own luck, that he should
run out of vestas at a time so critical. He could not even say
whether the fellow was dead, unconscious, or simply shamming.
He had little idea of his looks; and to be able to identify him
might save a deal of trouble at some future time,—since he,
Kirkwood, seemed so little able to disengage himself from the
clutches of this insane adventure! And the girl—. what had
become of her? How could he continue to search for her, without
lights or guide, through all those silent rooms, whose walls
might inclose a hundred hidden dangers in that house of
mystery?</p>
<p>But he debated only briefly. His blood was young, and it was
hot; it was quite plain to him that he could not withdraw and
retain his self-respect. If the girl was there to be found,
most assuredly, he must find her. The hand-lamp that had
dazzled him at the head of the stairs should be his aid, now
that he thought of it,—and providing he was able to find
it.</p>
<p>In the scramble on the stairs he had lost his hat, but he
remembered that the vesta's short-lived light had discovered
this on the floor beyond the man's body. Carefully stepping
across the latter he recovered his head-gear, and then,
kneeling, listened with an ear close to the fellow's face. A
softly regular beat of breathing reassured him. Half rising, he
caught the body beneath the armpits, lifting and dragging it
off the staircase; and knelt again, to feel of each pocket in
the man's clothing, partly as an obvious precaution, to relieve
him of his advertised revolver against an untimely wakening,
partly to see if he had the lamp about him.</p>
<p>The search proved fruitless. Kirkwood suspected that the
weapon, like his own, had existed only in his victim's ready
imagination. As for the lamp, in the act of rising he struck it
with his foot, and picked it up.</p>
<p>It felt like a metal tube a couple of inches in diameter, a
foot or so in length, passably heavy. He fumbled with it
impatiently. "However the dickens," he wondered audibly, "does
the infernal machine work?" As it happened, the thing worked
with disconcerting abruptness as his untrained fingers fell
hapchance on the spring. A sudden glare again smote him in the
face, and at the same instant, from a point not a yard away,
apparently, an inarticulate cry rang out upon the
stillness.</p>
<p>Heart in his mouth, he stepped back, lowering the lamp
(which impishly went out) and lifting a protecting forearm.</p>
<p>"Who's that?" he demanded harshly.</p>
<p>A strangled sob of terror answered him, blurred by a swift
rush of skirts, and in a breath his shattered nerves quieted
and a glimmer of common sense penetrated the murk anger and
fear had bred in his brain. He understood, and stepped forward,
catching blindly at the darkness with eager hands.</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar!" he cried guardedly. "Miss Calendar, it is
I—Philip Kirkwood!"</p>
<p>There was a second sob, of another caliber than the first;
timid fingers brushed his, and a hand, warm and fragile, closed
upon his own in a passion of relief and gratitude.</p>
<p>"Oh, I am so g-glad!" It was Dorothy Calendar's voice,
beyond mistake. "I—I didn't know what t-to t-think.... When
the light struck your face I was sure it was you, but when I
called, you answered in a voice so strange,—not like yours at
all! ... Tell me," she pleaded, with palpable effort to steady
herself; "what has happened?"</p>
<p>"I think, perhaps," said Kirkwood uneasily, again troubled
by his racing pulses, "perhaps you can do that better than
I."</p>
<p>"Oh!" said the voice guiltily; her fingers trembled on his,
and were gently withdrawn. "I was so frightened," she confessed
after a little pause, "so frightened that I hardly understand
... But you? How did you—?"</p>
<p>"I worried about you," he replied, in a tone absurdly
apologetic. "Somehow it didn't seem right. It was none of my
business, of course, but ... I couldn't help coming back. This
fellow, whoever he is—don't worry; he's unconscious—slipped
into the house in a manner that seemed to me suspicious. I
hardly know why I followed, except that he left the door an
open invitation to interference ..."</p>
<p>"I can't be thankful enough," she told him warmly, "that you
did interfere. You have indeed saved me from ..."</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"I don't know what. If I knew the man—"</p>
<p>"You don't <i>know</i> him?"</p>
<p>"I can't even guess. The light—?"</p>
<p>She paused inquiringly. Kirkwood fumbled with the lamp, but,
whether its rude handling had impaired some vital part of the
mechanism, or whether the batteries through much use were worn
out, he was able to elicit only one feeble glow, which was
instantly smothered by the darkness.</p>
<p>"It's no use," he confessed. "The thing's gone wrong."</p>
<p>"Have you a match?"</p>
<p>"I used my last before I got hold of this."</p>
<p>"Oh," she commented, discouraged. "Have you any notion what
he looks like?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood thought briefly. "Raffles," he replied with a
chuckle. "He looks like an amateurish and very callow Raffles.
He's in dress clothes, you know."</p>
<p>"I wonder!" There was a nuance of profound bewilderment in
her exclamation. Then: "He knocked against something in the
hall—a chair, I presume; at all events, I heard that and put
out the light. I was ... in the room above the drawing-room,
you see. I stole down to this floor—was there, in the corner
by the stairs when he passed within six inches, and never
guessed it. Then, when he got on the next floor, I started on;
but you came in. I slipped into the drawing-room and crouched
behind a chair. You went on, but I dared not move until ... And
then I heard some one cry out, and you fell down the stairs
together. I hope you were not hurt—?"</p>
<p>"Nothing worth mention; but <i>he</i> must have got a pretty
stiff knock, to lay him out so completely." Kirkwood stirred
the body with his toe, but the man made no sign. "Dead to the
world ... And now, Miss Calendar?"</p>
<p>If she answered, he did not hear; for on the heels of his
query banged the knocker down below; and thereafter crash
followed crash, brewing a deep and sullen thundering to rouse
the echoes and send them rolling, like voices of enraged
ghosts, through the lonely rooms.</p>
<h2 align="center"><a name="V">V</a></h2>
<h3 align="center">THE MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER</h3>
<p>"What's that?" At the first alarm the girl had caught
convulsively at Kirkwood's arm. Now, when a pause came in the
growling of the knocker, she made him hear her voice; and it
was broken and vibrant with a threat of hysteria. "Oh, what can
it mean?"</p>
<p>"I don't know." He laid a hand reassuringly over that which
trembled on his forearm. "The police, possibly."</p>
<p>"Police!" she iterated, aghast. "What makes you
think—?"</p>
<p>"A man tried to stop me at the door," he answered quickly.
"I got in before he could. When he tried the knocker, a bobby
came along and stopped him. The latter may have been watching
the house since then,—it'd be only his duty to keep an eye on
it; and Heaven knows we raised a racket, coming head-first down
those stairs! Now we are up against it," he added brightly.</p>
<p>But the girl was tugging at his hand. "Come!" she begged
breathlessly. "Come! There is a way! Before they break
in—"</p>
<p>"But this man—?" Kirkwood hung back, troubled.</p>
<p>"They—the police are sure to find and care for him."</p>
<p>"So they will." He chuckled, "And serve him right! He'd have
choked me to death, with all the good will in the world!"</p>
<p>"Oh, do hurry!"</p>
<p>Turning, she sped light-footed down the staircase to the
lower hall, he at her elbow. Here the uproar was loudest—deep
enough to drown whatever sounds might have been made by two
pairs of flying feet. For all that they fled on tiptoe,
stealthily, guilty shadows in the night; and at the newel-post
swung back into the unbroken blackness which shrouded the
fastnesses backward of the dwelling. A sudden access of fury on
the part of the alarmist at the knocker, spurred them on with
quaking hearts. In half a dozen strides, Kirkwood, guided only
by instinct and the <i>frou-frou</i> of the girl's skirts as
she ran invisible before him, stumbled on the uppermost steps
of a steep staircase; only a hand-rail saved him, and that at
the last moment. He stopped short, shocked into caution. From
below came a contrite whisper: "I'm so sorry! I should have
warned you."</p>
<p>He pulled himself together, glaring wildly at nothing. "It's
all right—"</p>
<p>"You're not hurt, truly? Oh, do come quickly."</p>
<p>She waited for him at the bottom of the flight;—happily for
him, for he was all at sea.</p>
<p>"Here—your hand—let me guide you. This darkness is
dreadful ..."</p>
<p>He found her hand, somehow, and tucked his into it,
confidingly, and not without an uncertain thrill of
satisfaction.</p>
<p>"Come!" she panted. "Come! If they break in—"</p>
<p>Stifled by apprehension, her voice failed her.</p>
<p>They went forward, now less impetuously, for it was very
black; and the knocker had fallen still.</p>
<p>"No fear of that," he remarked after a time. "They wouldn't
dare break in."</p>
<p>A fluttering whisper answered him: "I don't know. We dare
risk nothing."</p>
<p>They seemed to explore, to penetrate acres of labyrinthine
chambers and passages, delving deep into the bowels of the
earth, like rabbits burrowing in a warren, hounded by
beagles.</p>
<p>Above stairs the hush continued unbroken; as if the dumb
Genius of the Place had cast a spell of silence on the knocker,
or else, outraged, had smitten the noisy disturber with a
palsy.</p>
<p>The girl seemed to know her way; whether guided by
familiarity or by intuition, she led on without hesitation,
Kirkwood blundering in her wake, between confusion of
impression, and dawning dismay conscious of but one tangible
thing, to which he clung as to his hope of salvation: those
firm, friendly fingers that clasped his own.</p>
<p>It was as if they wandered on for an hour; probably from
start to finish their flight took up three minutes, no more.
Eventually the girl stopped, releasing his hand. He could hear
her syncopated breathing before him, and gathered that
something was wrong. He took a step forward.</p>
<p>"What is it?"</p>
<p>Her full voice broke out of the obscurity startlingly close,
in his very ear.</p>
<p>"The door—the bolts—I can't budge them."</p>
<p>"Let me ..."</p>
<p>He pressed forward, brushing her shoulder. She did not draw
away, but willingly yielded place to his hands at the
fastenings; and what had proved impossible to her, to his
strong fingers was a matter of comparative ease. Yet, not
entirely consciously, he was not quick. As he tugged at the
bolts he was poignantly sensitive to the subtle warmth of her
at his side; he could hear her soft dry sobs of excitement and
suspense, punctuating the quiet; and was frightened,
absolutely, by an impulse, too strong for ridicule, to take her
in his arms and comfort her with the assurance that, whatever
her trouble, he would stand by her and protect her.... It were
futile to try to laugh it off; he gave over the endeavor. Even
at this critical moment he found himself repeating over and
over to his heart the question: "Can this be love? Can this be
love? ..."</p>
<p>Could it be love at an hour's acquaintance? Absurd! But he
could not laugh—nor render himself insensible to the
suggestion.</p>
<p>He found that he had drawn the bolts. The girl tugged and
rattled at the knob. Reluctantly the door opened inwards.
Beyond its threshold stretched ten feet or more of covered
passageway, whose entrance framed an oblong glimmering with
light. A draught of fresh air smote their faces. Behind them a
door banged.</p>
<p>"Where does this open?"</p>
<p>"On the mews," she informed him.</p>
<p>"The mews!" He stared in consternation at the pallid oval
that stood for her face. "The mews! But you, in your evening
gown, and I—"</p>
<p>"There's no other way. We must chance it. Are you
afraid?"</p>
<p>Afraid? ... He stepped aside. She slipped by him and on. He
closed the door, carefully removing the key and locking it on
the outside; then joined the girl at the entrance to the mews,
where they paused perforce, she as much disconcerted as he, his
primary objection momentarily waxing in force as they surveyed
the conditions circumscribing their escape.</p>
<p>Quadrant Mews was busily engaged in enjoying itself. Night
had fallen sultry and humid, and the walls and doorsteps were
well fringed and clustered with representatives of that class
of London's population which infests mews through habit, taste,
or force of circumstance.</p>
<p>On the stoops men sprawled at easy length, discussing short,
foul cutties loaded with that rank and odoriferous compound
which, under the name and in the fame of tobacco, is widely
retailed at tuppence the ounce. Their women-folk more commonly
squatted on the thresholds, cheerfully squabbling; from
opposing second-story windows, two leaned perilously forth,
slanging one another across the square briskly in the purest
billingsgate; and were impartially applauded from below by an
audience whose appreciation seemed faintly tinged with envy.
Squawking and yelling children swarmed over the flags and rude
cobblestones that paved the ways. Like incense, heavy and
pungent, the rich effluvia of stable-yards swirled in air made
visible by its faint burden of mist.</p>
<p>Over against the entrance wherein Kirkwood and the girl
lurked, confounded by the problem of escaping undetected
through this vivacious scene, a stable-door stood wide,
exposing a dimly illumined interior. Before it waited a
four-wheeler, horse already hitched in between the shafts,
while its driver, a man of leisurely turn of mind, made
lingering inspection of straps and buckles, and, while Kirkwood
watched him, turned attention to the carriage lamps.</p>
<p>The match which he raked spiritedly down his thigh, flared
ruddily; the succeeding paler glow of the lamp threw into
relief a heavy beefy mask, with shining bosses for cheeks and
nose and chin; through narrow slits two cunning eyes glittered
like dull gems. Kirkwood appraised him with attention, as one
in whose gross carcass was embodied their only hope of
unannoyed return to the streets and normal surroundings of
their world. The difficulty lay in attracting the man's
attention and engaging him without arousing his suspicions or
bringing the population about their ears. Though he hesitated
long, no favorable opportunity presented itself; and in time
the Jehu approached the box with the ostensible purpose of
mounting and driving off. In this critical situation the
American, forced to recognize that boldness must mark his
course, took the girl's fate and his own in his hands, and with
a quick word to his companion, stepped out of hiding.</p>
<p>The cabby had a foot upon the step when Kirkwood tapped his
shoulder.</p>
<p>"My man—"</p>
<p>"Lor, lumme!" cried the fellow in amaze, pivoting on his
heel. Cupidity and quick understanding enlivened the eyes which
in two glances looked Kirkwood up and down, comprehending at
once both his badly rumpled hat and patent-leather shoes.
"S'help me,"—thickly,—"where'd you drop from, guvner?"</p>
<p>"That's my affair," said Kirkwood briskly. "Are you
engaged?"</p>
<p>"If you mykes yerself my fare," returned the cabby shrewdly,
"I <i>ham</i>."</p>
<p>"Ten shillings, then, if you get us out of here in one
minute and to—say—Hyde Park Corner in fifteen."</p>
<p>"Us?" demanded the fellow aggressively.</p>
<p>Kirkwood motioned toward the passageway. "There's a lady
with me—there. Quick now!"</p>
<p>Still the man did not move. "Ten bob," he bargained; "an'
you runnin' awye with th' stuffy ol' gent's fair darter? Come
now, guvner, is it gen'rous? Myke it a quid an'—"</p>
<p>"A pound then. <i>Will</i> you hurry?"</p>
<p>By way of answer the fellow scrambled hastily up to the box
and snatched at the reins. "<i>Ck</i>! Gee-e hup!" he cried
sonorously.</p>
<p>By now the mews had wakened to the fact of the presence of a
"toff" in its midst. His light topcoat and silk hat-rendered
him as conspicuous as a red Indian in war-paint would have been
on Rotten Row. A cry of surprise was raised, and drowned in a
volley of ribald inquiry and chaff.</p>
<p>Fortunately, the cabby was instant to rein in skilfully
before the passageway, and Kirkwood had the door open before
the four-wheeler stopped. The girl, hugging her cloak about
her, broke cover (whereat the hue and cry redoubled), and
sprang into the body of the vehicle. Kirkwood followed,
shutting the door. As the cab lurched forward he leaned over
and drew down the window-shade, shielding the girl from half a
hundred prying eyes. At the same time they gathered momentum,
banging swiftly, if loudly out of the mews.</p>
<p>An urchin, leaping on the step to spy in Kirkwood's window,
fell off, yelping, as the driver's whiplash curled about his
shanks.</p>
<p>The gloom of the tunnel inclosed them briefly ere the lights
of the Hog-in-the-Pound flashed by and the wheels began to roll
more easily. Kirkwood drew back with a sigh of relief.</p>
<p>"Thank God!" he said softly.</p>
<p>The girl had no words.</p>
<p>Worried by her silence, solicitous lest, the strain ended,
she might be on the point of fainting, he let up the shade and
lowered the window at her side.</p>
<p>She seemed to have collapsed in her corner. Against the dark
upholstery her hair shone like pale gold in the half-light; her
eyes were closed and she held a handkerchief to her lips; the
other hand lay limp.</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar?"</p>
<p>She started, and something bulky fell from the seat and
thumped heavily on the floor. Kirkwood bent to pick it up, and
so for the first time was made aware that she had brought with
her a small black gladstone bag of considerable weight. As he
placed it on the forward seat their eyes met.</p>
<p>"I didn't know—" he began.</p>
<p>"It was to get that," she hastened to explain, "that my
father sent me ..."</p>
<p>"Yes," he assented in a tone indicating his complete
comprehension. "I trust ..." he added vaguely, and neglected to
complete the observation, losing himself in a maze of
conjecture not wholly agreeable. This was a new phase of the
adventure. He eyed the bag uneasily. What did it contain? How
did he know ...?</p>
<p>Hastily he abandoned that line of thought. He had no right
to infer anything whatever, who had thrust himself uninvited
into her concerns—uninvited, that was to say, in the second
instance, having been once definitely given his congé.
Inevitably, however, a thousand unanswerable questions pestered
him; just as, at each fresh facet of mystery disclosed by the
sequence of the adventure, his bewilderment deepened.</p>
<p>The girl stirred restlessly. "I have been thinking," she
volunteered in a troubled tone, "that there is absolutely no
way I know of, to thank you properly."</p>
<p>"It is enough if I've been useful," he rose in gallantry to
the emergency.</p>
<p>"That," she commented, "was very prettily said. But then I
have never known any one more kind and courteous and—and
considerate, than you." There was no savor of flattery in the
simple and direct statement; indeed, she was looking away from
him, out of the window, and her face was serious with thought;
she seemed to be speaking of, rather than to, Kirkwood. "And I
have been wondering," she continued with unaffected candor,
"what you must be thinking of me."</p>
<p>"I? ... What should I think of you, Miss Calendar?"</p>
<p>With the air of a weary child she laid her head against the
cushions again, face to him, and watched him through lowered
lashes, unsmiling.</p>
<p>"You might be thinking that an explanation is due you. Even
the way we were brought together was extraordinary, Mr.
Kirkwood. You must be very generous, as generous as you have
shown yourself brave, not to require some sort of an
explanation of me."</p>
<p>"I don't see it that way."</p>
<p>"I do ... You have made me like you very much, Mr.
Kirkwood."</p>
<p>He shot her a covert glance—causelessly, for her
<i>naiveté</i> was flawless. With a feeling of some slight
awe he understood this—a sensation of sincere reverence for
the unspoiled, candid, child's heart and mind that were hers.
"I'm glad," he said simply; "very glad, if that's the case, and
presupposing I deserve it. Personally," he laughed, "I seem to
myself to have been rather forward."</p>
<p>"No; only kind and a gentleman."</p>
<p>"But—please!" he protested.</p>
<p>"Oh, but I mean it, every word! Why shouldn't I? In a little
while, ten minutes, half an hour, we shall have seen the last
of each other. Why should I not tell you how I appreciate all
that you have unselfishly done for me?"</p>
<p>"If you put it that way,—I'm sure I don't know; beyond that
it embarrasses me horribly to have you overestimate me so. If
any courage has been shown this night, it is yours ... But I'm
forgetting again." He thought to divert her. "Where shall I
tell the cabby to go this time, Miss Calendar?"</p>
<p>"Craven Street, please," said the girl, and added a house
number. "I am to meet my father there, with this,"—indicating
the gladstone bag.</p>
<p>Kirkwood thrust head and shoulders out the window and
instructed the cabby accordingly; but his ruse had been
ineffectual, as he found when he sat back again. Quite
composedly the girl took up the thread of conversation where it
had been broken off.</p>
<p>"It's rather hard to keep silence, when you've been so good.
I don't want you to think me less generous than yourself, but,
truly, I can tell you nothing." She sighed a trace resentfully;
or so he thought. "There is little enough in this—this
wretched affair, that I understand myself; and that little, I
may not tell ... I want you to know that."</p>
<p>"I understand, Miss Calendar."</p>
<p>"There's one thing I may say, however. I have done nothing
wrong to-night, I believe," she added quickly.</p>
<p>"I've never for an instant questioned that," he returned
with a qualm of shame; for what he said was not true.</p>
<p>"Thank you ..."</p>
<p>The four-wheeler swung out of Oxford Street into Charing
Cross Road. Kirkwood noted the fact with a feeling of some
relief that their ride was to be so short; like many of his
fellow-sufferers from "the artistic temperament," he was
acutely disconcerted by spoken words of praise and gratitude;
Miss Calendar, unintentionally enough, had succeeded only in
rendering him self-conscious and ill at ease.</p>
<p>Nor had she fully relieved her mind, nor voiced all that
perturbed her. "There's one thing more," she said presently:
"my father. I—I hope you will think charitably of him."</p>
<p>"Indeed, I've no reason or right to think otherwise."</p>
<p>"I was afraid—afraid his actions might have seemed
peculiar, to-night ..."</p>
<p>"There are lots of things I don't understand, Miss Calendar.
Some day, perhaps, it will all clear up,—this trouble of
yours. At least, one supposes it is trouble, of some sort. And
then you will tell me the whole story.... Won't you?" Kirkwood
insisted.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid not," she said, with a smile of shadowed
sadness. "We are to say good night in a moment or two, and—it
will be good-by as well. It's unlikely that we shall ever meet
again."</p>
<p>"I refuse positively to take such a gloomy view of the
case!"</p>
<p>She shook her head, laughing with him, but with shy regret.
"It's so, none the less. We are leaving London this very night,
my father and I—leaving England, for that matter."</p>
<p>"Leaving England?" he echoed. "You're not by any chance
bound for America, are you?"</p>
<p>"I ... can't tell you."</p>
<p>"But you can tell me this: are you booked on the
<i>Minneapolis</i>?"</p>
<p>"No—o; it is a—quite another boat."</p>
<p>"Of course!" he commented savagely. "It wouldn't be me to
have <i>any</i> sort of luck!"</p>
<p>She made no reply beyond a low laugh. He stared gloomily out
of his window, noting indifferently that they were passing the
National Gallery. On their left Trafalgar Square stretched,
broad and bare, a wilderness of sooty stone with an air of
mutely tolerating its incongruous fountains. Through Charing
Cross roared a tide-rip of motor-busses and hackney
carriages.</p>
<p>Glumly the young man foresaw the passing of his abbreviated
romance; their destination was near at hand. Brentwick had been
right, to some extent, at least; it was quite true that the
curtain had been rung up that very night, upon Kirkwood's
Romance; unhappily, as Brentwick had not foreseen, it was
immediately to be rung down.</p>
<p>The cab rolled soberly into the Strand.</p>
<p>"Since we are to say good-by so very soon," suggested
Kirkwood, "may I ask a parting favor, Miss Calendar?"</p>
<p>She regarded him with friendly eyes. "You have every right,"
she affirmed gently.</p>
<p>"Then please to tell me frankly: are you going into any
further danger?"</p>
<p>"And is that the only boon you crave at my hands, Mr.
Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"Without impertinence ..."</p>
<p>For a little time, waiting for him to conclude his vague
phrase, she watched him in an expectant silence. But the man
was diffident to a degree—At length, somewhat unconsciously,
"I think not," she answered. "No; there will be no danger
awaiting me at Mrs. Hallam's. You need not fear for me any
more—Thank you."</p>
<p>He lifted his brows at the unfamiliar name. "Mrs.
Hallam—?"</p>
<p>"I am going to her house in Craven Street."</p>
<p>"Your father is to meet you there?"—persistently.</p>
<p>"He promised to."</p>
<p>"But if he shouldn't?"</p>
<p>"Why—" Her eyes clouded; she pursed her lips over the
conjectural annoyance. "Why, in that event, I suppose—It would
be very embarrassing. You see, I don't know Mrs. Hallam; I
don't know that she expects me, unless my father is already
there. They are old friends—I could drive round for a while
and come back, I suppose."</p>
<p>But she made it plain that the prospect did not please
her.</p>
<p>"Won't you let me ask if Mr. Calender is there, before you
get out, then? I don't like to be dismissed," he laughed; "and,
you know, you shouldn't go wandering round all alone."</p>
<p>The cab drew up. Kirkwood put a hand on the door and awaited
her will.</p>
<p>"It—it would be very kind ... I hate to impose upon
you."</p>
<p>He turned the knob and got out. "If you'll wait one moment,"
he said superfluously, as he closed the door.</p>
<p>Pausing only to verify the number, he sprang up the steps
and found the bell-button.</p>
<p>It was a modest little residence, in nothing more remarkable
than its neighbors, unless it was for a certain air of extra
grooming: the area railing was sleek with fresh black paint;
the doorstep looked the better for vigorous stoning; the door
itself was immaculate, its brasses shining lustrous against
red-lacquered woodwork. A soft glow filled the fanlight.
Overhead the drawing-room windows shone with a cozy, warm
radiance.</p>
<p>The door opened, framing the figure of a maid sketched
broadly in masses of somber black and dead white.</p>
<p>"Can you tell me, is Mr. Calendar here?"</p>
<p>The servant's eyes left his face, looked past him at the
waiting cab, and returned.</p>
<p>"I'm not sure, sir. If you will please step in."</p>
<p>Kirkwood hesitated briefly, then acceded. The maid closed
the door.</p>
<p>"What name shall I say, sir?"</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"If you will please to wait one moment, sir—"</p>
<p>He was left in the entry hall, the servant hurrying to the
staircase and up. Three minutes elapsed; he was on the point of
returning to the girl, when the maid reappeared.</p>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam says, will you kindly step up-stairs, sir."</p>
<p>Disgruntled, he followed her; at the head of the stairs she
bowed him into the drawing-room and again left him to his own
resources.</p>
<p>Nervous, annoyed, he paced the floor from wall to wall, his
footfalls silenced by heavy rugs. As the delay was prolonged he
began to fume with impatience, wondering, half regretting that
he had left the girl outside, definitely sorry that he had
failed to name his errand more explicitly to the maid. At
another time, in another mood, he might have accorded more
appreciation to the charm of the apartment, which, betraying
the feminine touch in every detail of arrangement and
furnishing, was very handsome in an unconventional way. But he
was quite heedless of externals.</p>
<p>Wearied, he deposited himself sulkily in an armchair by the
hearth.</p>
<p>From a boudoir on the same floor there came murmurs of two
voices, a man's and a woman's. The latter laughed prettily.</p>
<p>"Oh, any time!" snorted the American. "Any time you're
through with your confounded flirtation, Mr. George B.
Calendar!"</p>
<p>The voices rose, approaching. "Good night," said the woman
gaily; "farewell and—good luck go with you!"</p>
<p>"Thank you. Good night," replied the man more
conservatively.</p>
<p>Kirkwood rose, expectant.</p>
<p>There was a swish of draperies, and a moment later he was
acknowledging the totally unlooked-for entrance of the mistress
of the house. He had thought to see Calendar, presuming him to
be the man closeted with Mrs. Hallam; but, whoever that had
been, he did not accompany the woman. Indeed, as she advanced
from the doorway, Kirkwood could hear the man's footsteps on
the stairs.</p>
<p>"This is Mr. Kirkwood?" The note of inquiry in the
well-trained voice—a very alluring voice and one pleasant to
listen to, he thought—made it seem as though she had asked,
point-blank, "Who is Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>He bowed, discovering himself in the presence of an
extraordinarily handsome and interesting woman; a woman of
years which as yet had not told upon her, of experience that
had not availed to harden her, at least in so far as her
exterior charm of personality was involved; a woman, in brief,
who bore close inspection well, despite an elusive effect of
maturity, not without its attraction for men. Kirkwood was
impressed that it would be very easy to learn to like Mrs.
Hallam more than well—with her approval.</p>
<p>Although he had not anticipated it, he was not at all
surprised to recognize in her the woman who, if he were not
mistaken, had slipped to Calendar that warning in the
dining-room of the Pless. Kirkwood's state of mind had come to
be such, through his experiences of the past few hours, that he
would have accepted anything, however preposterous, as a
commonplace happening. But for that matter there was nothing
particularly astonishing in this <i>rencontre</i>.</p>
<p>"I am Mrs. Hallam. You were asking for Mr. Calendar?"</p>
<p>"He was to have been here at this hour, I believe," said
Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"Yes?" There was just the right inflection of surprise in
her carefully controlled tone.</p>
<p>He became aware of an undercurrent of feeling; that the
woman was estimating him shrewdly with her fine direct eyes. He
returned her regard with admiring interest; they were
gray-green eyes, deep-set but large, a little shallow, a little
changeable, calling to mind the sea on a windy, cloudy day.</p>
<p>Below stairs a door slammed.</p>
<p>"I am not a detective, Mrs. Hallam," announced the young man
suddenly. "Mr. Calendar required a service of me this evening;
I am here in natural consequence. If it was Mr. Calendar who
left this house just now, I am wasting time."</p>
<p>"It was not Mr. Calendar." The fine-lined brows arched in
surprise, real or pretended, at his first blurted words, and
relaxed; amused, the woman laughed deliciously. "But I am
expecting him any moment; he was to have been here half an hour
since.... Won't you wait?"</p>
<p>She indicated, with a gracious gesture, a chair, and took
for herself one end of a davenport. "I'm sure he won't be long,
now."</p>
<p>"Thank you, I will return, if I may." Kirkwood moved toward
the door.</p>
<p>"But there's no necessity—" She seemed insistent on
detaining him, possibly because she questioned his motive,
possibly for her own divertisement.</p>
<p>Kirkwood deprecated his refusal with a smile. "The truth is,
Miss Calendar is waiting in a cab, outside. I—"</p>
<p>"Dorothy Calendar!" Mrs. Hallam rose alertly. "But why
should she wait there? To be sure, we've never met; but I have
known her father for many years." Her eyes held steadfast to
his face; shallow, flawed by her every thought, like the sea by
a cat's-paw he found them altogether inscrutable; yet received
an impression that their owner was now unable to account for
him.</p>
<p>She swung about quickly, preceding him to the door and down
the stairs. "I am sure Dorothy will come in to wait, if I ask
her," she told Kirkwood in a high sweet voice. "I'm so anxious
to know her. It's quite absurd, really, of her—to stand on
ceremony with me, when her father made an appointment here.
I'll run out and ask—"</p>
<p>Mrs. Hallam's slim white fingers turned latch and knob,
opening the street door, and her voice died away as she stepped
out into the night. For a moment, to Kirkwood, tagging after
her with an uncomfortable sense of having somehow done the
wrong thing, her figure—full fair shoulders and arms rising
out of the glittering dinner gown—cut a gorgeous silhouette
against the darkness. Then, with a sudden, imperative gesture,
she half turned towards him.</p>
<p>"But," she exclaimed, perplexed, gazing to right and left,
"but the cab, Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>He was on the stoop a second later. Standing beside her, he
stared blankly.</p>
<p>To the left the Strand roared, the stream of its night-life
in high spate; on the right lay the Embankment, comparatively
silent and deserted, if brilliant with its high-swung lights.
Between the two, quiet Craven Street ran, short and narrow, and
wholly innocent of any form of equipage.</p>
<h2 align="center"><a name="VI">VI</a></h2>
<h3 align="center">"BELOW BRIDGE"</h3>
<p>In silence Mrs. Hallam turned to Kirkwood, her pose in
itself a question and a peremptory one. Her eyes had narrowed;
between their lashes the green showed, a thin edge like jade,
cold and calculating. The firm lines of her mouth and chin had
hardened.</p>
<p>Temporarily dumb with consternation, he returned her stare
as silently.</p>
<p>"<i>Well</i>, Mr.—Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam," he stammered, "I—"</p>
<p>She lifted her shoulders impatiently and with a quick
movement stepped back across the threshold, where she paused, a
rounded arm barring the entrance, one hand grasping the
door-knob, as if to shut him out at any moment.</p>
<p>"I'm awaiting your explanation," she said coldly.</p>
<p><br>
<br>
<br>
<img src="frontis2s.jpg"
alt=
""I'm waiting your explanation," she said coldly."
align="middle"></p>
<p>He grinned with nervousness, striving to penetrate the
mental processes of this handsome Mrs. Hallam. She seemed to
regard him with a suspicion which he thought inexcusable. Did
she suppose he had spirited Dorothy Calendar away and then
called to apprise her of the fact? Or that he was some sort of
an adventurer, who had manufactured a plausible yarn to gain
him access to her home? Or—harking back to her original
theory—that he was an emissary from Scotland Yard? ...
Probably she distrusted him on the latter hypothesis. The
reflection left him more at ease.</p>
<p>"I am quite as mystified as you, Mrs. Hallam," he began.
"Miss Calendar was here, at this door, in a four-wheeler, not
ten minutes ago, and—"</p>
<p>"Then where is she now?"</p>
<p>"Tell me where Calendar is," he retorted, inspired, "and
I'll try to answer you!"</p>
<p>But her eyes were blank. "You mean—?"</p>
<p>"That Calendar was in this house when I came; that he left,
found his daughter in the cab, and drove off with her. It's
clear enough."</p>
<p>"You are quite mistaken," she said thoughtfully. "George
Calendar has not been here this night."</p>
<p>He wondered that she did not seem to resent his imputation.
"I think not—"</p>
<p>"Listen!" she cried, raising a warning hand; and relaxing
her vigilant attitude, moved forward once more, to peer down
toward the Embankment.</p>
<p>A cab had cut in from that direction and was bearing down
upon them with a brisk rumble of hoofs. As it approached,
Kirkwood's heart, that had lightened, was weighed upon again by
disappointment. It was no four-wheeler, but a hansom, and the
open wings of the apron, disclosing a white triangle of linen
surmounted by a glowing spot of fire, betrayed the sex of the
fare too plainly to allow of further hope that it might be the
girl returning.</p>
<p>At the door, the cab pulled up sharply and a man tumbled
hastily out upon the sidewalk.</p>
<p>"Here!" he cried throatily, tossing the cabby his fare, and
turned toward the pair upon the doorstep, evidently surmising
that something was amiss. For he was Calendar in proper person,
and a sight to upset in a twinkling Kirkwood's ingeniously
builded castle of suspicion.</p>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam!" he cried, out of breath. "'S my daughter
here?" And then, catching sight of Kirkwood's countenance:
"Why, hello, Kirkwood!" he saluted him with a dubious air.</p>
<p>The woman interrupted hastily. "Please come in, Mr.
Calendar. This gentleman has been inquiring for you, with an
astonishing tale about your daughter."</p>
<p>"Dorothy!" Calendar's moon-like visage was momentarily
divested of any trace of color. "What of her?"</p>
<p>"You had better come in," advised Mrs. Hallam brusquely.</p>
<p>The fat adventurer hopped hurriedly across the threshold,
Kirkwood following. The woman shut the door, and turned with
back to it, nodding significantly at Kirkwood as her eyes met
Calendar's.</p>
<p>"Well, well?" snapped the latter impatiently, turning to the
young man.</p>
<p>But Kirkwood was thinking quickly. For the present he
contented himself with a deliberate statement of fact: "Miss
Calendar has disappeared." It gave him an instant's time ...
"There's something damned fishy!" he told himself. "These two
are playing at cross-purposes. Calendar's no fool; he's
evidently a crook, to boot. As for the woman, she's had her
eyes open for a number of years. The main thing's Dorothy. She
didn't vanish of her own initiative. And Mrs. Hallam knows, or
suspects, more than she's going to tell. I don't think she
wants Dorothy found. Calendar does. So do I. Ergo: I'm for
Calendar."</p>
<p>"Disappeared?" Calendar was barking at him. "How? When?
Where?"</p>
<p>"Within ten minutes," said Kirkwood. "Here, let's get it
straight.... With her permission I brought her here in a
four-wheeler." He was carefully suppressing all mention of
Frognall Street, and in Calendar's glance read approval of the
elision. "She didn't want to get out, unless you were here. I
asked for you. The maid showed me up-stairs. I left your
daughter in the cab—and by the way, I hadn't paid the driver.
That's funny, too! Perhaps six or seven minutes after I came in
Mrs. Hallam found out that Miss Calendar was with me and wanted
to ask her in. When we got to the door—no cab. There you have
it all."</p>
<p>"Thanks—it's plenty," said Calendar dryly. He bent his head
in thought for an instant, then looked up and fixed Mrs. Hallam
with an unprejudiced eye, "I say!" he demanded explosively.
"There wasn't any one here that knew—eh?"</p>
<p>Her fine eyes wavered and fell before his; and Kirkwood
remarked that her under lip was curiously drawn in.</p>
<p>"I heard a man leave as Mrs. Hallam joined me," he
volunteered helpfully, and with a suspicion of malice. "And
after that—I paid no attention at the time—it seems to me I
did hear a cab in the street—"</p>
<p>"Ow?" interjected Calendar, eying the woman steadfastly and
employing an exclamation of combined illumination and inquiry
more typically British than anything Kirkwood had yet heard
from the man.</p>
<p>For her part, the look she gave Kirkwood was sharp with
fury. It was more; it was a mistake, a flaw in her diplomacy;
for Calendar intercepted it. Unceremoniously he grasped her
bare arm with his fat hand.</p>
<p>"Tell me who it was," he demanded in an ugly tone.</p>
<p>She freed herself with a twist, and stepped back, a higher
color in her cheeks, a flash of anger in her eyes.</p>
<p>"Mr. Mulready," she retorted defiantly. "What of that?"</p>
<p>"I wish I was sure," declared the fat adventurer,
exasperated. "As it is, I bet a dollar you've put your foot in
it, my lady. I warned you of that blackguard.... There! The
mischief's done; we won't row over it. One moment." He begged
it with a wave of his hand; stood pondering briefly, fumbled
for his watch, found and consulted it. "It's the barest
chance," he muttered. "Perhaps we can make it."</p>
<p>"What are you going to do?" asked the woman.</p>
<p>"Give <i>Mister</i> Mulready a run for his money. Come
along, Kirkwood; we haven't a minute. Mrs. Hallam, permit
us...." She stepped aside and he brushed past her to the door.
"Come, Kirkwood!"</p>
<p>He seemed to take Kirkwood's company for granted; and the
young man was not inclined to argue the point. Meekly enough he
fell in with Calendar on the sidewalk. Mrs. Hallam followed
them out. "You won't forget?" she called tentatively.</p>
<p>"I'll 'phone you if we find out anything." Calendar jerked
the words unceremoniously over his shoulder as, linking arms
with Kirkwood, he drew him swiftly along. They heard her shut
the door; instantly Calendar stopped. "Look here, did Dorothy
have a—a small parcel with her?"</p>
<p>"She had a gladstone bag."</p>
<p>"Oh, the devil, the devil!" Calendar started on again,
muttering distractedly. As they reached the corner he
disengaged his arm. "We've a minute and a half to reach Charing
Cross Pier; and I think it's the last boat. You set the pace,
will you? But remember I'm an oldish man and—and fat."</p>
<p>They began to run, the one easily, the other lumbering after
like an old-fashioned square-rigged ship paced by a liner.</p>
<p>Beneath the railway bridge, in front of the Underground
station, the cab-rank cried them on with sardonic view-halloos;
and a bobby remarked them with suspicion, turning to watch as
they plunged round the corner and across the wide
Embankment.</p>
<p>The Thames appeared before them, a river of ink on whose
burnished surface lights swam in long winding streaks and oily
blobs. By the floating pier a County Council steamboat strained
its hawsers, snoring huskily. Bells were jingling in her
engine-room as the two gained the head of the sloping
gangway.</p>
<p>Kirkwood slapped a shilling down on the ticket-window ledge.
"Where to?" he cried back to Calendar.</p>
<p>"Cherry Gardens Pier," rasped the winded man. He stumbled
after Kirkwood, groaning with exhaustion. Only the tolerance of
the pier employees gained them their end; the steamer was held
some seconds for them; as Calendar staggered to its deck, the
gangway was jerked in, the last hawser cast off. The boat
sheered wide out on the river, then shot in, arrow-like, to the
pier beneath Waterloo Bridge.</p>
<p>The deck was crowded and additional passengers embarked at
every stop. In the circumstances conversation, save on the most
impersonal topics, was impossible; and even had it been
necessary or advisable to discuss the affair which occupied
their minds, where so many ears could hear, Calendar had breath
enough neither to answer nor to catechize Kirkwood. They found
seats on the forward deck and rested there in grim silence,
both fretting under the enforced restraint, while the boat
darted, like some illuminated and exceptionally active water
insect, from pier to pier.</p>
<p>As it snorted beneath London Bridge, Calendar's impatience
drove him from his seat back to the gangway. "Next stop," he
told Kirkwood curtly; and rested his heavy bulk against the
paddle-box, brooding morosely, until, after an uninterrupted
run of more than a mile, the steamer swept in, side-wheels
backing water furiously against the ebbing tide, to Cherry
Gardens landing.</p>
<p>Sweet name for a locality unsavory beyond credence! ... As
they emerged on the street level and turned west on Bermondsey
Wall, Kirkwood was fain to tug his top-coat over his chest and
button it tight, to hide his linen. In a guarded tone he
counseled his companion to do likewise; and Calendar, after a
moment's blank, uncomprehending stare, acknowledged the wisdom
of the advice with a grunt.</p>
<p>The very air they breathed was rank with fetid odors bred of
the gaunt dark warehouses that lined their way; the lights were
few; beneath the looming buildings the shadows were many and
dense. Here and there dreary and cheerless public houses
appeared, with lighted windows conspicuous in a lightless
waste. From time to time, as they hurried on, they encountered,
and made wide detours to escape contact with knots of
wayfarers—men debased and begrimed, with dreary and slatternly
women, arm in arm, zigzaging widely across the sidewalks,
chorusing with sodden voices the burden of some popularized
ballad. The cheapened, sentimental refrains echoed sadly
between benighted walls....</p>
<p>Kirkwood shuddered, sticking close to Calendar's side.
Life's naked brutalities had theretofore been largely out of
his ken. He had heard of slums, had even ventured to mouth
politely moral platitudes on the subject of overcrowding in
great centers of population, but in the darkest flights of
imagination had never pictured to himself anything so
unspeakably foul and hopeless as this.... And they were come
hither seeking—Dorothy Calendar! He was unable to conceive
what manner of villainy could be directed against her, that she
must be looked for in such surroundings.</p>
<p>After some ten minutes' steady walking, Calendar turned
aside with a muttered word, and dived down a covered, dark and
evil-smelling passageway that seemed to lead toward the
river.</p>
<p>Mastering his involuntary qualms, Kirkwood followed.</p>
<p>Some ten or twelve paces from its entrance the passageway
swerved at a right angle, continuing three yards or so to end
in a blank wall, wherefrom a flickering, inadequate gas-lamp
jutted. At this point a stone platform, perhaps four feet
square, was discovered, from the edge of which a flight of worn
and slimy stone steps led down to a permanent boat-landing,
where another gas-light flared gustily despite the protection
of its frame of begrimed glass.</p>
<p>"Good Lord!" exclaimed the young man. "What, in Heaven's
name, Calendar—?"</p>
<p>"Bermondsey Old Stairs. Come on."</p>
<p>They descended to the landing-stage. Beneath them the Pool
slept, a sheet of polished ebony, whispering to itself, lapping
with small stealthy gurgles angles of masonry and ancient
piles. On the farther bank tall warehouses reared square
old-time heads, their uncompromising, rugged profile relieved
here and there by tapering mastheads. A few, scattering, feeble
lights were visible. Nothing moved save the river and the
wind.</p>
<p>The landing itself they found quite deserted; something
which the adventurer comprehended with a nod which, like its
accompanying, inarticulate ejaculation, might have been taken
to indicate either satisfaction or disgust. He ignored Kirkwood
altogether, for the time being, and presently produced a small,
bright object, which, applied to his lips, proved to be a
boatswain's whistle. He sounded two blasts, one long, one
brief.</p>
<p>There fell a lull, Kirkwood watching the other and wondering
what next would happen. Calendar paced restlessly to and fro
upon the narrow landing, now stopping to incline an ear to
catch some anticipated sound, now searching with sweeping
glances the black reaches of the Pool.</p>
<p>Finally, consulting his watch, "Almost ten," he
announced.</p>
<p>"We're in time?"</p>
<p>"Can't say.... Damn! ... If that infernal boat would only
show up—"</p>
<p>He was lifting the whistle to sound a second summons when a
rowboat rounded a projecting angle formed by the next warehouse
down stream, and with clanking oar-locks swung in toward the
landing. On her thwarts two figures, dipping and rising,
labored with the sweeps. As they drew in, the man forward
shipped his blades, and rising, scrambled to the bows in order
to grasp an iron mooring-ring set in the wall. The other
awkwardly took in his oars and, as the current swung the stern
downstream, placed a hand palm downward upon the bottom step to
hold the boat steady.</p>
<p>Calendar waddled to the brink of the stage, grunting with
relief.</p>
<p>"The other man?" he asked brusquely. "Has he gone aboard? Or
is this the first trip to-night?"</p>
<p>One of the watermen nodded assent to the latter question,
adding gruffly: "Seen nawthin' of 'im, sir."</p>
<p>"Very good," said Calendar, as if he doubted whether it were
very good or bad. "We'll wait a bit."</p>
<p>"Right-o!" agreed the waterman civilly.</p>
<p>Calendar turned back, his small eyes glimmering with
satisfaction. Fumbling in one coat pocket he brought to light a
cigar-case. "Have a smoke?" he suggested with a show of
friendliness. "By Heaven, I was beginnin' to get worried!"</p>
<p>"As to what?" inquired Kirkwood pointedly, selecting a
cigar.</p>
<p>He got no immediate reply, but felt Calendar's sharp eyes
upon him while he manoeuvered with matches for a light.</p>
<p>"That's so," it came at length. "You don't know. I kind of
forgot for a minute; somehow you seemed on the inside."</p>
<p>Kirkwood laughed lightly. "I've experienced something of the
same sensation in the past few hours."</p>
<p>"Don't doubt it." Calendar was watching him narrowly. "I
suppose," he put it to him abruptly, "you haven't changed your
mind?"</p>
<p>"Changed my mind?"</p>
<p>"About coming in with me."</p>
<p>"My dear sir, I can have no mind to change until a plain
proposition is laid before me."</p>
<p>"Hmm!" Calendar puffed vigorously until it occurred to him
to change the subject. "You won't mind telling me what happened
to you and Dorothy?"</p>
<p>"Certainly not."</p>
<p>Calendar drew nearer and Kirkwood, lowering his voice,
narrated briefly the events since he had left the Pless in
Dorothy's company.</p>
<p>Her father followed him intently, interrupting now and again
with exclamation or pertinent question; as, Had Kirkwood been
able to see the face of the man in No. 9, Frognall Street? The
negative answer seemed to disconcert him.</p>
<p>"Youngster, you say? Blam' if I can lay my mind to
<i>him</i>! Now if that Mulready—"</p>
<p>"It would have been impossible for Mulready—whoever he
is—to recover and get to Craven Street before we did,"
Kirkwood pointed out.</p>
<p>"Well—go on." But when the tale was told, "It's that
scoundrel, Mulready!" the man affirmed with heat. "It's his
hand—I know him. I might have had sense enough to see he'd
take the first chance to hand me the double-cross. Well, this
does for <i>him</i>, all right!" Calendar lowered viciously at
the river. "You've been blame' useful," he told Kirkwood
assertively. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know where
<i>I'd</i> be now,—nor Dorothy, either,"—an obvious
afterthought. "There's no particular way I can show my
appreciation, I suppose? Money—?"</p>
<p>"I've got enough to last me till I reach New York, thank
you."</p>
<p>"Well, if the time ever comes, just shout for George B. I
won't be wanting.... I only wish you were with us; but that's
out of the question."</p>
<p>"Doubtless ..."</p>
<p>"No two ways about it. I bet anything you've got a
conscience concealed about your person. What? You're an honest
man, eh?"</p>
<p>"I don't want to sound immodest," returned Kirkwood,
amused.</p>
<p>"You don't need to worry about that.... But an honest man's
got no business in <i>my</i> line." He glanced again at his
watch. "Damn that Mulready! I wonder if he was 'cute enough to
take another way? Or did he think ... The fool!"</p>
<p>He cut off abruptly, seeming depressed by the thought that
he might have been outwitted; and, clasping hands behind his
back, chewed savagely on his cigar, watching the river.
Kirkwood found himself somewhat wearied; the uselessness of his
presence there struck him with added force. He bethought him of
his boat-train, scheduled to leave a station miles distant, in
an hour and a half. If he missed it, he would be stranded in a
foreign land, penniless and practically without
friends—Brentwick being away and all the rest of his circle of
acquaintances on the other side of the Channel. Yet he
lingered, in poor company, daring fate that he might see the
end of the affair. Why?</p>
<p>There was only one honest answer to that question. He stayed
on because of his interest in a girl whom he had known for a
matter of three hours, at most. It was insensate folly on his
part, ridiculous from any point of view. But he made no move to
go.</p>
<p>The slow minutes lengthened monotonously.</p>
<p>There came a sound from the street level. Calendar held up a
hand of warning. "Here they come! Steady!" he said tensely.
Kirkwood, listening intently, interpreted the noise as a clash
of hoofs upon cobbles.</p>
<p>Calendar turned to the boat.</p>
<p>"Sheer off," he ordered. "Drop out of sight. I'll whistle
when I want you."</p>
<p>"Aye, aye, sir."</p>
<p>The boat slipped noiselessly away with the current and in an
instant was lost to sight. Calendar plucked at Kirkwood's
sleeve, drawing him into the shadow of the steps. "E-easy," he
whispered; "and, I say, lend me a hand, will you, if Mulready
turns ugly?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," assented Kirkwood, with a nonchalance not
entirely unassumed.</p>
<p>The racket drew nearer and ceased; the hush that fell
thereafter seemed only accentuated by the purling of the river.
It was ended by footsteps echoing in the covered passageway.
Calendar craned his thick neck round the shoulder of stone,
reconnoitering the landing and stairway.</p>
<p>"Thank God!" he said under his breath. "I was right, after
all!"</p>
<p>A man's deep tones broke out above. "This way. Mind the
steps; they're a bit slippery, Miss Dorothy."</p>
<p>"But my father—?" came the girl's voice, attuned to
doubt.</p>
<p>"Oh, he'll be along—if he isn't waiting now, in the
boat."</p>
<p>They descended, the man leading. At the foot, without a
glance to right or left, he advanced to the edge of the stage,
leaning out over the rail as if endeavoring to locate the
rowboat. At once the girl appeared, moving to his side.</p>
<p>"But, Mr. Mulready—"</p>
<p>The girl's words were drowned by a prolonged blast on the
boatswain's whistle at her companion's lips; the shorter one
followed in due course. Calendar edged forward from Kirkwood's
side.</p>
<p>"But what shall we do if my father isn't here? Wait?"</p>
<p>"No; best not to; best to get on the <i>Alethea</i> as soon
as possible, Miss Calendar. We can send the boat back."</p>
<p>"'Once aboard the lugger the girl is mine'—eh,
Mulready?—to say nothing of the loot!"</p>
<p>If Calendar's words were jocular, his tone conveyed a
different impression entirely. Both man and girl wheeled right
about to face him, the one with a strangled oath, the other
with a low cry.</p>
<p>"The devil!" exclaimed this Mr. Mulready.</p>
<p>"Oh! My father!" the girl voiced her recognition of him.</p>
<p>"Not precisely one and the same person," commented Calendar
suavely. "But—er—thanks, just as much.... You see, Mulready,
when I make an appointment, I keep it."</p>
<p>"We'd begun to get a bit anxious about you—" Mulready began
defensively.</p>
<p>"So I surmised, from what Mrs. Hallam and Mr. Kirkwood told
me.... Well?"</p>
<p>The man found no ready answer. He fell back a pace to the
railing, his features working with his deep chagrin. The murky
flare of the gas-lamp overhead fell across a face handsome
beyond the ordinary but marred by a sullen humor and seamed
with indulgence: a face that seemed hauntingly familiar until
Kirkwood in a flash of visual memory reconstructed the portrait
of a man who lingered over a dining-table, with two empty
chairs for company. This, then, was he whom Mrs. Hallam had
left at the Pless; a tall, strong man, very heavy about the
chest and shoulders....</p>
<p>"Why, my dear friend," Calendar was taunting him, "you don't
seem overjoyed to see me, for all your wild anxiety! 'Pon my
word, you act as if you hadn't expected me—and our engagement
so clearly understood, at that! ... Why, you fool!"—here the
mask of irony was cast. "Did you think for a moment I'd let
myself be nabbed by that yap from Scotland Yard? Were you
banking on that? I give you my faith I ambled out under his
very nose! ... Dorothy, my dear," turning impatiently from
Mulready, "where's that bag?"</p>
<p>The girl withdrew a puzzled gaze from Mulready's face, (it
was apparent to Kirkwood that this phase of the affair was no
more enigmatic to him than to her), and drew aside a corner of
her cloak, disclosing the gladstone bag, securely grasped in
one gloved hand.</p>
<p>"I have it, thanks to Mr. Kirkwood," she said quietly.</p>
<p>Kirkwood chose that moment to advance from the shadow.
Mulready started and fixed him with a troubled and unfriendly
stare. The girl greeted him with a note of sincere pleasure in
her surprise.</p>
<p>"Why, Mr. Kirkwood! ... But I left you at Mrs.
Hallam's!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood bowed, smiling openly at Mulready's
discomfiture.</p>
<p>"By your father's grace, I came with him," he said. "You ran
away without saying good night, you know, and I'm a jealous
creditor."</p>
<p>She laughed excitedly, turning to Calendar. "But <i>you</i>
were to meet me at Mrs. Hallam's?"</p>
<p>"Mulready was good enough to try to save me the trouble, my
dear. He's an unselfish soul, Mulready. Fortunately it happened
that I came along not five minutes after he'd carried you off.
How was that, Dorothy?"</p>
<p>Her glance wavered uneasily between the two, Mulready and
her father. The former, shrugging to declare his indifference,
turned his back squarely upon them. She frowned.</p>
<p>"He came out of Mrs. Hallam's and got into the four-wheeler,
saying you had sent him to take your place, and would join us
on the <i>Alethea</i>."</p>
<p>"So-o! How about it, Mulready?"</p>
<p>The man swung back slowly. "What you choose to think," he
said after a deliberate pause.</p>
<p>"Well, never mind! We'll go over the matter at our leisure
on the <i>Alethea</i>."</p>
<p>There was in the adventurer's tone a menace, bitter and not
to be ignored; which Mulready saw fit to challenge.</p>
<p>"I think not," he declared; "I think not. I'm weary of your
addle-pated suspicions. It'd be plain to any one but a fool
that I acted for the best interests of all concerned in this
matter. If you're not content to see it in that light, I'm
done."</p>
<p>"Oh, if you want to put it that way, I'm <i>not</i> content,
Mr. Mulready," retorted Calendar dangerously.</p>
<p>"Please yourself. I bid you good evening and—good-by." The
man took a step toward the stairs.</p>
<p>Calendar dropped his right hand into his top-coat pocket.
"Just a minute," he said sweetly, and Mulready stopped.
Abruptly the fat adventurer's smoldering resentment leaped in
flame. "That'll be about all, Mr. Mulready! 'Bout face, you
hound, and get into that boat! D'you think I'll temporize with
you till Doomsday? Then forget it. You're wrong, dead wrong.
Your bluff's called, and"—with an evil chuckle—"I hold a full
house, Mulready,—every chamber taken." He lifted meaningly the
hand in the coat pocket. "Now, in with you."</p>
<p>With a grin and a swagger of pure bravado Mulready turned
and obeyed. Unnoticed of any, save perhaps Calendar himself,
the boat had drawn in at the stage a moment earlier. Mulready
dropped into it and threw himself sullenly upon the midships
thwart.</p>
<p>"Now, Dorothy, in you go, my dear," continued Calendar, with
a self-satisfied wag of his head.</p>
<p>Half dazed, to all seeming, she moved toward the boat. With
clumsy and assertive gallantry her father stepped before her,
offering his hand,—his hand which she did not touch; for, in
the act of descending, she remembered and swung impulsively
back to Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"Good night, Mr. Kirkwood; good night,—I shan't
forget."</p>
<p>He took her hand and bowed above it; but when his head was
lifted, he still retained her fingers in a lingering clasp.</p>
<p>"Good night," he said reluctantly.</p>
<p>The crass incongruity of her in that setting smote him with
renewed force. Young, beautiful, dainty, brilliant and graceful
in her pretty evening gown, she figured strangely against the
gloomy background of the river, in those dull and mean
surroundings of dank stone and rusted iron. She was like (he
thought extravagantly) a whiff of flower-fragrance lost in the
miasmatic vapors of a slough.</p>
<p>The innocent appeal and allure of her face, upturned to his
beneath the gas-light, wrought compassionately upon his
sensitive and generous heart. He was aware of a little surge of
blind rage against the conditions that had brought her to that
spot, and against those whom he held responsible for those
conditions.</p>
<p>In a sudden flush of daring he turned and nodded coolly to
Calendar. "With your permission," he said negligently; and drew
the girl aside to the angle of the stairway.</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar—" he began; but was interrupted.</p>
<p>"Here—I say!"</p>
<p>Calendar had started toward him angrily.</p>
<p>Kirkwood calmly waved him back. "I want a word in private
with your daughter, Mr. Calendar," he announced with quiet
dignity. "I don't think you'll deny me? I've saved you some
slight trouble to-night."</p>
<p>Disgruntled, the adventurer paused. "Oh—<i>all</i> right,"
he grumbled. "I don't see what ..." He returned to the
boat.</p>
<p>"Forgive me, Miss Calendar," continued Kirkwood nervously.
"I know I've no right to interfere, but—"</p>
<p>"Yes, Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"—but hasn't this gone far enough?" he floundered
unhappily. "I can't like the look of things. Are you sure—sure
that it's all right—with you, I mean?"</p>
<p>She did not answer at once; but her eyes were kind and
sympathetic. He plucked heart of their tolerance.</p>
<p>"It isn't too late, yet," he argued. "Let me take you to
your friends,—you must have friends in the city. But
this—this midnight flight down the Thames, this atmosphere of
stealth and suspicion, this—"</p>
<p>"But my place is with my father, Mr. Kirkwood," she
interposed. "I daren't doubt him—dare I?"</p>
<p>"I ... suppose not."</p>
<p>"So I must go with him.... I'm glad—thank you for caring,
dear Mr. Kirkwood. And again, good night."</p>
<p>"Good luck attend you," he muttered, following her to the
boat.</p>
<p>Calendar helped her in and turned back to Kirkwood with a
look of arch triumph; Kirkwood wondered if he had overheard.
Whether or no, he could afford to be magnanimous. Seizing
Kirkwood's hand, he pumped it vigorously.</p>
<p>"My dear boy, you've been an angel in disguise! And I guess
you think me the devil in masquerade." He chuckled, in high
conceit with himself over the turn of affairs. "Good night
and—and fare thee well!" He dropped into the boat, seating
himself to face the recalcitrant Mulready. "Cast off,
there!"</p>
<p>The boat dropped away, the oars lifting and falling. With a
weariful sense of loneliness and disappointment, Kirkwood hung
over the rail to watch them out of sight.</p>
<p>A dozen feet of water lay between the stage and the boat.
The girl's dress remained a spot of cheerful color; her face
was a blur. As the watermen swung the bows down-stream, she
looked back, lifting an arm spectral in its white sheath.
Kirkwood raised his hat.</p>
<p>The boat gathered impetus, momentarily diminishing in the
night's illusory perspective; presently it was little more than
a fugitive blot, gliding swiftly in midstream. And then, it was
gone entirely, engulfed by the obliterating darkness.<br>
<br>
<img src="illp115s.jpg"
width="462"
height="800"
border="0"
alt="The boat gathered impetus."></p>
<p>Somewhat wearily the young man released the railing and
ascended the stairs. "And that is the end!" he told himself,
struggling with an acute sense of personal injury. He had been
hardly used. For a few hours his life had been lightened by the
ineffable glamor of Romance; mystery and adventure had engaged
him, exorcising for the time the Shade of Care; he had served a
fair woman and been associated with men whose ways, however
questionable, were the ways of courage, hedged thickly about
with perils.</p>
<p>All that was at an end. Prosaic and workaday to-morrows
confronted him in endless and dreary perspective; and he felt
again upon his shoulder the bony hand of his familiar,
Care....</p>
<p>He sighed: "Ah, well!"</p>
<p>Disconsolate and aggrieved, he gained the street. He was
miles from St. Pancras, foot-weary, to all intents and purposes
lost.</p>
<p>In this extremity, Chance smiled upon him. The cabby who, at
his initial instance, had traveled this weary way from Quadrant
Mews, after the manner of his kind, ere turning back, had
sought surcease of fatigue at the nearest public; from afar
Kirkwood saw the four-wheeler at the curb, and made all haste
toward it.</p>
<p>Entering the gin-mill he found the cabby, soothed him with
bitter, and, instructing him for St. Pancras with all speed,
dropped, limp and listless with fatigue, into the
conveyance.</p>
<p>As it moved, he closed his eyes; the face of Dorothy
Calendar shone out from the blank wall of his consciousness,
like an illuminated picture cast upon a screen. She smiled upon
him, her head high, her eyes tender and trustful. And he
thought that her scarlet lips were sweet with promise and her
glance a-brim with such a light as he had never dreamed to
know.</p>
<p>And now that he knew it and desired it, it was too late; an
hour gone he might, by a nod of his head, have cast his
fortunes with hers for weal or woe. But now ... Alas and
alackaday, that Romance was no more!</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="VII">VII</a></h2>
<h3>DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN,—RESUMED</h3>
</center>
<p>From the commanding elevation of the box, "Three 'n' six,"
enunciated the cabby, his tone that of a man prepared for
trouble, acquainted with trouble, inclined to give trouble a
welcome. His bloodshot eyes blinked truculently at his alighted
fare. "Three 'n' six," he iterated aggressively.</p>
<p>An adjacent but theretofore abstracted policeman pricked up
his ears and assumed an intelligent expression.</p>
<p>"Bermondsey Ol' Stairs to Sain' Pancras," argued the cabby
assertively; "seven mile by th' radius; three 'n' six!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood stood on the outer station platform, near the
entrance to third-class waiting-rooms. Continuing to fumble
through his pockets for an elusive sovereign purse, he looked
up mildly at the man.</p>
<p>"All right, cabby," he said, with pacific purpose; "you'll
get your fare in half a shake."</p>
<p>"Three 'n' six!" croaked the cabby, like a blowsy and
vindictive parrot.</p>
<p>The bobby strolled nearer.</p>
<p>"Yes?" said Kirkwood, mildly diverted. "Why not sing it,
cabby?"</p>
<p>"Lor' lumme!" The cabby exploded with indignation,
continuing to give a lifelike imitation of a rumpled parrot. "I
'ad trouble enough wif you at Bermondsey Ol' Stairs, hover that
quid you promised, didn't I? Sing it! My heye!"</p>
<p>"Quid, cabby?" And then, remembering that he had promised
the fellow a sovereign for fast driving from Quadrant Mews,
Kirkwood grinned broadly, eyes twinkling; for Mulready must
have fallen heir to that covenant. "But you got the sovereign?
You got it, didn't you, cabby?"</p>
<p>The driver affirmed the fact with unnecessary heat and
profanity and an amendment to the effect that he would have
spoiled his fare's sanguinary conk had the outcome been less
satisfactory.</p>
<p>The information proved so amusing that Kirkwood, chuckling,
forbore to resent the manner of its delivery, and, abandoning
until a more favorable time the chase of the coy sovereign
purse, extracted from one trouser pocket half a handful of
large English small change.</p>
<p>"Three shillings, six-pence," he counted the coins into the
cabby's grimy and bloated paw; and added quietly: "The exact
distance is rather less than, four miles, my man; your fare,
precisely two shillings. You may keep the extra eighteen pence,
for being such a conscientious blackguard,—or talk it over
with the officer here. Please yourself."</p>
<p>He nodded to the bobby, who, favorably impressed by the silk
hat which Kirkwood, by diligent application of his sleeve
during the cross-town ride, had managed to restore to a state
somewhat approximating its erstwhile luster, smiled at the
cabby a cold, hard smile. Whereupon the latter, smirking in
unabashed triumph, spat on the pavement at Kirkwood's feet,
gathered up the reins, and wheeled out.</p>
<p>"A 'ard lot, sir," commented the policeman, jerking his
helmeted head towards the vanishing four-wheeler.</p>
<p>"Right you are," agreed Kirkwood amiably, still tickled by
the knowledge that Mulready had been obliged to pay three times
over for the ride that ended in his utter discomfiture.
Somehow, Kirkwood had conceived no liking whatever for the man;
Calendar he could, at a pinch, tolerate for his sense of humor,
but Mulready—! "A surly dog," he thought him.</p>
<p>Acknowledging the policeman's salute and restoring two
shillings and a few fat copper pennies to his pocket, he
entered the vast and echoing train-shed. In the act, his
attention was attracted and immediately riveted by the
spectacle of a burly luggage navvy in a blue jumper in the act
of making off with a large, folding sign-board, of which the
surface was lettered expansively with the advice, in red
against a white background:</p>
<p>BOAT-TRAIN LEAVES ON TRACK 3</p>
<p>Incredulous yet aghast the young man gave instant chase to
the navvy, overhauling him with no great difficulty. For your
horny-handed British working-man is apparently born with two
golden aphorisms in his mouth: "Look before you leap," and
"Haste makes waste." He looks continually, seldom, if ever,
leaps, and never is prodigal of his leisure.</p>
<p>Excitedly Kirkwood touched the man's arm with a detaining
hand. "Boat-train?" he gasped, pointing at the board.</p>
<p>"Left ten minutes ago, thank you, sir."</p>
<p>"Wel-l, but...! Of course I can get another train at
Tilbury?"</p>
<p>"For yer boat? No, sir, thank you, sir. Won't be another
tryne till mornin', sir."</p>
<p>"Oh-h!..."</p>
<p>Aimlessly Kirkwood drifted away, his mind a blank.</p>
<p>Sometime later he found himself on the steps outside the
station, trying to stare out of countenance a glaring electric
mineral-water advertisement on the farther side of the Euston
Road.</p>
<p>He was stranded....</p>
<p>Beyond the spiked iron fence that enhedges the incurving
drive, the roar of traffic, human, wheel and hoof, rose high
for all the lateness of the hour: sidewalks groaning with the
restless contact of hundreds of ill-shod feet; the roadway
thundering—hansoms, four-wheelers, motor-cars, dwarfed
coster-mongers' donkey-carts and ponderous, rumbling, C.-P.
motor-vans, struggling for place and progress. For St. Pancras
never sleeps.</p>
<p>The misty air swam luminous with the light of electric signs
as with the radiance of some lurid and sinister moon. The voice
of London sounded in Kirkwood's ears, like the ominous purring
of a somnolent brute beast, resting, gorged and satiated, ere
rising again to devour. To devour—</p>
<p>Stranded!...</p>
<p>Distracted, he searched pocket after pocket, locating his
watch, cigar- and cigarette-cases, match-box, penknife—all the
minutiæ of pocket-hardware affected by civilized man; with
old letters, a card-case, a square envelope containing his
steamer ticket; but no sovereign purse. His small-change pocket
held less than three shillings—two and eight, to be exact—and
a brass key, which he failed to recognize as one of his
belongings.</p>
<p>And that was all. At sometime during the night he had lost
(or been cunningly bereft of?) that little purse of
chamois-skin containing the three golden sovereigns which he
had been husbanding to pay his steamer expenses, and which, if
only he had them now, would stand between him and starvation
and a night in the streets.</p>
<p>And, searching his heart, he found it brimming with
gratitude to Mulready, for having relieved him of the necessity
of settling with the cabby.</p>
<p>"Vagabond?" said Kirkwood musingly. "Vagabond?" He repeated
the word softly a number of times, to get the exact flavor of
it, and found it little to his taste. And yet...</p>
<p>He thrust both hands deep in his trouser pockets and stared
purposelessly into space, twisting his eyebrows out of
alignment and crookedly protruding his lower lip.</p>
<p>If Brentwick were only in town—But he wasn't, and wouldn't
be, within the week.</p>
<p>"No good waiting here," he concluded. Composing his face, he
reëntered the station. There were his trunks, of course.
He couldn't leave them standing on the station platform for
ever.</p>
<p>He found the luggage-room and interviewed a mechanically
courteous attendant, who, as the result of profound
deliberation, advised him to try his luck at the lost-luggage
room, across the station. He accepted the advice; it was a
foregone conclusion that his effects had not been conveyed to
the Tilbury dock; they could not have been loaded into the
luggage van without his personal supervision. Still, anything
was liable to happen when his unlucky star was in the
ascendant.</p>
<p>He found them in the lost-luggage room.</p>
<p>A clerk helped him identify the articles and ultimately
clucked with a perfunctory note: "Sixpence each, please."</p>
<p>"I—ah—pardon?"</p>
<p>"Sixpence each, the fixed charge, sir. For every twenty-four
hours or fraction thereof, sixpence per parcel."</p>
<p>"Oh, thank you so much," said Kirkwood sweetly. "I will call
to-morrow."</p>
<p>"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."</p>
<p>"Five times sixpence is two-and-six," Kirkwood computed,
making his way hastily out of the station, lest a worse thing
befall him. "No, bless your heart!—not while two and eight
represents the sum total of my fortune."</p>
<p>He wandered out into the night; he could not linger round
the station till dawn; and what profit to him if he did? Even
were he to ransom his trunks, one can scarcely change one's
clothing in a public waiting-room.</p>
<p>Somewhere in the distance a great clock chimed a single
stroke, freighted sore with melancholy. It knelled the passing
of the half-hour after midnight; a witching hour, when every
public shuts up tight, and gentlemen in top-hats and evening
dress are doomed to pace the pave till day (barring they have
homes or visible means of support)—till day, when pawnshops
open and such personal effects as watches and hammered silver
cigar-cases may be hypothecated.</p>
<p>Sable garments fluttering, Care fell into step with Philip
Kirkwood; Care the inexorable slipped a skeleton arm through
his and would not be denied; Care the jade clung affectionately
to his side, refusing to be jilted.</p>
<p>"Ah, you thought you would forget me?" chuckled the
fleshless lips by his ear. "But no, my boy; I'm with you now,
for ever and a day. 'Misery loves company,' and it wouldn't be
pretty of me to desert you in this extremity, would it? Come,
let us beguile the hours till dawn with conversation. Here's a
sprightly subject: What are you going to do, Mr. Kirkwood?
<i>What are you going to do?</i>"</p>
<p>But Kirkwood merely shook a stubborn head and gazed straight
before him, walking fast through ways he did not recognize, and
pretending not to hear. None the less the sense of Care's
solicitous query struck like a pain into his consciousness.
What was he to do?</p>
<p>An hour passed.</p>
<p>Denied the opportunity to satisfy its beast hunger and
thirst, humanity goes off to its beds. In that hour London
quieted wonderfully; the streets achieved an effect of deeper
darkness, the skies, lowering, looked down with a blush less
livid for the shamelessness of man; cab ranks lengthened;
solitary footsteps added unto themselves loud, alarming,
offensive echoes; policemen, strolling with lamps blazing on
their breasts, became as lightships in a trackless sea; each
new-found street unfolded its perspective like a canyon of
mystery, and yet teeming with a hundred masked hazards; the air
acquired a smell more clear and clean, an effect more volatile;
and the night-mist thickened until it studded one's attire with
myriads of tiny buttons, bright as diamond dust.</p>
<p>Through this long hour Kirkwood walked without a pause.</p>
<p>Another clock, somewhere, clanged resonantly twice.</p>
<p>The world was very still....</p>
<p>And so, wandering foot-loose in a wilderness of ways,
turning aimlessly, now right, now left, he found himself in a
street he knew, yet seemed not to know: a silent, black street
one brief block in length, walled with dead and lightless
dwellings, haunted by his errant memory; a street whose
atmosphere was heavy with impalpable essence of desuetude; in
two words, Frognall Street.</p>
<p>Kirkwood identified it with a start and a guilty tremor. He
stopped stock-still, in an unreasoning state of semi-panic,
arrested by a silly impulse to turn and fly; as if the bobby,
whom he descried approaching him with measured stride, pausing
new and again to try a door or flash his bull's-eye down an
area, were to be expected to identify the man responsible for
that damnable racket raised ere midnight in vacant Number
9!</p>
<p>Oddly enough, the shock of recognition brought him to his
senses,—temporarily. He was even able to indulge himself in a
quiet, sobering grin at his own folly. He passed the policeman
with a nod and a cool word in response to the man's
good-natured, "Good-night, sir." Number 9 was on the other side
of the street; and he favored its blank and dreary elevation
with a prolonged and frank stare—that profited him nothing, by
the way. For a crazy notion popped incontinently into his head,
and would not be cast forth.</p>
<p>At the corner he swerved and crossed, still possessed of his
devil of inspiration. It would be unfair to him to say that he
did not struggle to resist it, for he did, because it was
fairly and egregiously asinine; yet struggling, his feet trod
the path to which it tempted him.</p>
<p>"Why," he expostulated feebly, "I might's well turn back and
beat that bobby over the head with my cane!..."</p>
<p>But at the moment his hand was in his change pocket, feeling
over that same brass door-key which earlier he had been unable
to account for, and he was informing himself how very easy it
would have been for the sovereign purse to have dropped from
his waistcoat pocket while he was sliding on his ear down the
dark staircase. To recover it meant, at the least, shelter for
the night, followed by a decent, comfortable and sustaining
morning meal. Fortified by both he could redeem his luggage,
change to clothing more suitable for daylight traveling, pawn
his valuables, and enter into negotiations with the steamship
company for permission to exchange his passage, with a sum to
boot, for transportation on another liner. A most feasible
project! A temptation all but irresistible!</p>
<p>But then—the risk.... Supposing (for the sake of argument)
the customary night-watchman to have taken up a transient
residence in Number 9; supposing the police to have entered
with him and found the stunned man on the second floor: would
the watchman not be vigilant for another nocturnal marauder?
would not the police now, more than ever, be keeping a wary eye
on that house of suspicious happenings?</p>
<p>Decidedly, to reënter it would be to incur a deadly
risk. And yet, undoubtedly, beyond question! his sovereign
purse was waiting for him somewhere on the second flight of
stairs; while as his means of clandestine entry lay warm in his
fingers—the key to the dark entry, which he had by force of
habit pocketed after locking the door.</p>
<p>He came to the Hog-in-the-Pound. Its windows were dim with
low-turned gas-lights. Down the covered alleyway, Quadrant Mews
slept in a dusk but fitfully relieved by a lamp or two round
which the friendly mist clung close and thick.</p>
<p>There would be none to see....</p>
<p>Skulking, throat swollen with fear, heart beating like a
snare-drum, Kirkwood took his chance. Buttoning his overcoat
collar up to his chin and cursing the fact that his hat must
stand out like a chimney-pot on a detached house, he sped on
tiptoe down the cobbled way and close beneath the house-walls
of Quadrant Mews. But, half-way in, he stopped, confounded by
an unforeseen difficulty. How was he to identify the narrow
entry of Number 9, whose counterparts doubtless communicated
with the mews from every residence on four sides of the city
block?</p>
<p>The low inner tenements were yet high enough to hide the
rear elevations of Frognall Street houses, and the mist was
heavy besides; otherwise he had made shift to locate Number 9
by ticking off the dwellings from the corner. If he went on,
hit or miss, the odds were anything-you-please to one that he
would blunder into the servant's quarters of some inhabited
house, and—be promptly and righteously sat upon by the
service-staff, while the bobby was summoned.</p>
<p>Be that as it might—he almost lost his head when he
realized this—escape was already cut off by the way he had
come. Some one, or, rather, some two men were entering the
alley. He could hear the tramping and shuffle of clumsy feet,
and voices that muttered indistinctly. One seemed to trip over
something, and cursed. The other laughed; the voices grew more
loud. They were coming his way. He dared no longer
vacillate.</p>
<p>But—which passage should he choose?</p>
<p>He moved on with more haste than discretion. One heel
slipped on a cobble time-worn to glassy smoothness; he lurched,
caught himself up in time to save a fall, lost his hat,
recovered it, and was discovered. A voice, maudlin with drink,
hailed and called upon him to stand and give an account of
himself, "like a goo' feller." Another tempted him with offers
of drink and sociable confabulation. He yielded not; adamantine
to the seductive lure, he picked up his heels and ran. Those
behind him, remarking with resentment the amazing fact that an
intimate of the mews should run away from liquor, cursed and
made after him, veering, staggering, howling like ravening
animals.</p>
<p>For all their burden of intoxication, they knew the ground
by instinct and from long association. They gained on him.
Across the way a window-sash went up with a bang, and a woman
screamed. Through the only other entrance to the mews a belated
cab was homing; its driver, getting wind of the unusual, pulled
up, blocking the way, and added his advice to the uproar.</p>
<p>Caught thus between two fires, and with his persecutors hard
upon him, Kirkwood dived into the nearest black hole of a
passageway and in sheer desperation flung himself, key in hand,
against the door at the end. Mark how his luck served him who
had forsworn her! He found a keyhole and inserted the key. It
turned. So did the knob. The door gave inward. He fell in with
it, slammed it, shot the bolts, and, panting, leaned against
its panels, in a pit of everlasting night but—saved!—for the
time being, at all events.</p>
<p>Outside somebody brushed against one wall, cannoned to the
other, brought up with a crash against the door, and, perforce
at a standstill, swore from his heart.</p>
<p>"Gorblimy!" he declared feelingly. "I'd 'a' took my oath I
sore'm run in 'ere!" And then, in answer to an inaudible
question: "No, 'e ain't. Gorn an' let the fool go to 'ell. 'Oo
wants 'im to share goo' liker? Not I!..."</p>
<p>Joining his companion he departed, leaving behind him a
trail of sulphur-tainted air. The mews quieted gradually.
Indoors Kirkwood faced unhappily the enigma of fortuity,
wondering: Was this by any possibility Number 9? The key had
fitted; the bolts had been drawn on the inside; and while the
key had been one of ordinary pattern and would no doubt have
proven effectual with any one of a hundred common locks, the
finger of probability seemed to indicate that his luck had
brought him back to Number 9. In spite of all this, he was
sensible of little confidence; though this were truly Number 9,
his freedom still lay on the knees of the gods, his very life,
belike, was poised, tottering, on a pinnacle of chance. In the
end, taking heart of desperation, he stooped and removed his
shoes; a precaution which later appealed to his sense of the
ridiculous, in view of the racket he had raised in entering,
but which at the moment seemed most natural and in accordance
with common sense. Then rising, he held his breath, staring and
listening. About him the pitch darkness was punctuated with
fading points of fire, and in his ears was a noise of strange
whisperings, very creepy—until, gritting his teeth, he
controlled his nerves and gradually realized that he was alone,
the silence undisturbed. He went forward gingerly, feeling his
way like a blind man on strange ground. Ere long he stumbled
over a door-sill and found that the walls of the passage had
fallen away; he had entered a room, a black cavern of
indeterminate dimensions. Across this he struck at random,
walked himself flat against a wall, felt his way along to an
open door, and passed through to another apartment as dark as
the first.</p>
<p>Here, endeavoring to make a circuit of the walls, he
succeeded in throwing himself bodily across a bed, which
creaked horribly; and for a full minute lay as he had fallen,
scarce daring to think. But nothing followed, and he got up and
found a shut door which let him into yet a third room, wherein
he barked both shins on a chair; and escaped to a fourth whose
atmosphere was highly flavored with reluctant odors of bygone
cookery, stale water and damp plumbing—probably the kitchen.
Thence progressing over complaining floors through what may
have been the servants' hall, a large room with a table in the
middle and a number of promiscuous chairs (witness his tortured
shins!), he finally blundered into the basement hallway.</p>
<p>By now a little calmer, he felt assured that this was really
Number 9, Frognall Street, and a little happier about it all,
though not even momentarily forgetful of the potential police
and night-watchman.</p>
<p>However, he mounted the steps to the ground floor without
adventure and found himself at last in the same dim and ghostly
hall which he had entered some six hours before; the mockery of
dusk admitted by the fan-light was just strong enough to enable
him to identify the general lay of the land and arrangement of
furniture.</p>
<p>More confidently with each uncontested step, he continued
his quest. Elation was stirring his spirit when he gained the
first floor and moved toward the foot of the second flight,
approaching the spot whereat he was to begin the search for the
missing purse. The knowledge that he lacked means of obtaining
illumination deterred him nothing; he had some hope of finding
matches in one of the adjacent rooms, but, failing that, was
prepared to ascend the stairs on all fours, feeling every inch
of their surface, if it took hours. Ever an optimistic soul,
instinctively inclined to father faith with a hope, he felt
supremely confident that his search would not prove fruitless,
that he would win early release from his temporary straits.</p>
<p>And thus it fell out that, at the instant he was thinking it
time to begin to crawl and hunt, his stockinged feet came into
contact with something heavy, yielding, warm—something that
moved, moaned, and caused his hair to bristle and his flesh to
creep.</p>
<p>We will make allowances for him; all along he had gone on
the assumption that his antagonist of the dark stairway would
have recovered and made off with all expedition, in the course
of ten or twenty minutes, at most, from the time of his
accident. To find him still there was something entirely
outside of Kirkwood's reckoning: he would as soon have thought
to encounter say, Calendar,—would have preferred the latter,
indeed. But this fellow whose disability was due to his own
interference, who was reasonably to be counted upon to raise
the very deuce and all of a row!</p>
<p>The initial shock, however shattering to his equanimity,
soon, lost effect. The man evidently remained unconscious, in
fact had barely moved; while the moan that Kirkwood heard, had
been distressingly faint.</p>
<p>"Poor devil!" murmured the young man. "He must be in a
pretty bad way, for sure!" He knelt, compassion gentling his
heart, and put one hand to the insentient face. A warm sweat
moistened his fingers; his palm was fanned by steady
respiration.</p>
<p>Immeasurably perplexed, the American rose, slipped on his
shoes and buttoned them, thinking hard the while. What ought he
to do? Obviously flight suggested itself,—incontinent flight,
anticipating the man's recovery. On the other hand, indubitably
the latter had sustained such injury that consciousness, when
it came to him, would hardly be reinforced by much aggressive
power. Moreover, it was to be remembered that the one was in
that house with quite as much warrant as the other, unless
Kirkwood had drawn a rash inference from the incident of the
ragged sentry. The two of them were mutual, if antagonistic,
trespassers; neither would dare bring about the arrest of the
other. And then—and this was not the least consideration to
influence Kirkwood—perhaps the fellow would die if he got no
attention.</p>
<p>Kirkwood shut his teeth grimly. "I'm no assassin," he
informed himself, "to strike and run. If I've maimed this poor
devil and there are consequences, I'll stand 'em. The Lord
knows it doesn't matter a damn to anybody, not even to me, what
happens to me; while <i>he</i> may be valuable."</p>
<p>Light upon the subject, actual as well as figurative, seemed
to be the first essential; his mind composed, Kirkwood set
himself in search of it. The floor he was on, however, afforded
him no assistance; the mantels were guiltless of candles and he
discovered no matches, either in the wide and silent
drawing-room, with its ghastly furniture, like mummies in their
linen swathings, or in the small boudoir at the back. He was to
look either above or below, it seemed.</p>
<p>After some momentary hesitation, he went up-stairs, his
ascent marked by a single and grateful accident; half-way to
the top he trod on an object that clinked underfoot, and,
stooping, retrieved the lost purse. Thus was he justified of
his temerity; the day was saved—that is, to-morrow was.</p>
<p>The rooms of the second-floor were bedchambers, broad, deep,
stately, inhabited by seven devils of loneliness. In one, on a
dresser, Kirkwood found a stump of candle in a china
candlestick; the two charred ends of matches at its base were
only an irritating discovery, however—evidence that real
matches had been the mode in Number 9, at some remote date.
Disgusted and oppressed by cumulative inquisitiveness, he took
the candle-end back to the hall; he would have given much for
the time and means to make a more detailed investigation into
the secret of the house.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was mostly his hope of chancing on some clue to
the mystery of Dorothy Calender—bewitching riddle that she
was!—that fascinated his imagination so completely. Aside from
her altogether, the great house that stood untenanted, yet in
such complete order, so self-contained in its darkened quiet,
intrigued him equally with the train of inexplicable events
that had brought him within its walls. Now—since his latest
entrance—his vision had adjusted itself to cope with the
obscurity to some extent; and the street lights, meagerly
reflected through the windows from the bosom of a sullen pall
of cloud, low-swung above the city, had helped him to piece
together many a detail of decoration and furnishing, alike
somber and richly dignified. Kirkwood told himself that the
owner, whoever he might be, was a man of wealth and taste
inherited from another age; he had found little of meretricious
to-day in the dwelling, much that was solid and sedate and
homely, and—Victorian.... He could have wished for more; a box
of early Victorian vestas had been highly acceptable.</p>
<p>Making his way down-stairs to the stricken man—who was
quite as he had been—Kirkwood bent over and thrust rifling
fingers into his pockets, regardless of the wretched sense of
guilt and sneakishness imparted by the action, stubbornly
heedless of the possibility of the man's awakening to find
himself being searched and robbed.</p>
<p>In the last place he sought, which should (he realized) have
been the first, to wit, the fob pocket of the white waistcoat,
he found a small gold matchbox, packed tight with wax vestas;
and, berating himself for crass stupidity—he had saved a deal
of time and trouble by thinking of this before—lighted the
candle.</p>
<p>As its golden flame shot up with scarce a tremor, preyed
upon by a perfectly excusable concern, he bent to examine the
man's countenance.... The arm which had partly hidden it had
fallen back into a natural position. It was a young face that
gleamed pallid in the candlelight—a face unlined, a little
vapid and insignificant, with features regular and neat,
betraying few characteristics other than the purely negative
attributes of a character as yet unformed, possibly unformable;
much the sort of a face that he might have expected to see,
remembering those thin and pouting lips that before had
impressed him. Its owner was probably little more than twenty.
In his attire there was a suspicion of a fop's preciseness,
aside from its accidental disarray; the cut of his waistcoat
was the extreme of the then fashion, the white tie (twisted
beneath one ear) an exaggerated "butterfly," his collar nearly
an inch too tall; and he was shod with pumps suitable only for
the dancing-floor,—a whim of the young-bloods of London of
that year.</p>
<p>"I can't make him out at all!" declared Kirkwood. "The son
of a gentleman too weak to believe that cubs need licking into
shape? Reared to man's estate, so sheltered from the wicked
world that he never grew a bark?... The sort that never had a
quarrel in his life, 'cept with his tailor?... Now what the
devil is <i>this</i> thing doing in this midnight mischief?...
Damn!"</p>
<p>It was most exasperating, the incongruity of the boy's
appearance assorted with his double rôle of persecutor of
distressed damsels and nocturnal house-breaker!</p>
<p>Kirkwood bent closer above the motionless head, with puzzled
eyes striving to pin down some elusive resemblance that he
thought to trace in those vacuous features—a resemblance to
some one he had seen, or known, at some past time, somewhere,
somehow.</p>
<p>"I give it up. Guess I'm mistaken. Anyhow, five young
Englishmen out of every ten of his class are just as blond and
foolish. Now let's see how bad he's hurt."</p>
<p>With hands strong and gentle, he turned the round, light
head. Then, "Ah!" he commented in the accent of comprehension.
For there was an angry looking bump at the base of the skull;
and, the skin having been broken, possibly in collision with
the sharp-edged newel-post, a little blood had stained and
matted the straw-colored hair.</p>
<p>Kirkwood let the head down and took thought. Recalling a
bath-room on the floor above, thither he went, unselfishly
forgetful of his predicament if discovered, and, turning on the
water, sopped his handkerchief until it dripped. Then,
returning, he took the boy's head on his knees, washed the
wound, purloined another handkerchief (of silk, with a giddy
border) from the other's pocket, and of this manufactured a
rude but serviceable bandage.</p>
<p>Toward the conclusion of his attentions, the sufferer began
to show signs of returning animation. He stirred restlessly,
whimpered a little, and sighed. And Kirkwood, in consternation,
got up.</p>
<p>"So!" he commented ruefully. "I guess I am an ass, all
right—taking all that trouble for you, my friend. If I've got
a grain of sense left, this is my cue to leave you alone in
your glory."</p>
<p>He was lingering only to restore to the boy's pockets such
articles as he had removed in the search for matches,—the
match-box, a few silver coins, a bulky sovereign purse, a
handsome, plain gold watch, and so forth. But ere he concluded
he was aware that the boy was conscious, that his eyes, open
and blinking in the candlelight, were upon him.</p>
<p>They were blue eyes, blue and shallow as a doll's, and edged
with long, fine lashes. Intelligence, of a certain degree, was
rapidly informing them. Kirkwood returned their questioning
glance, transfixed in indecision, his primal impulse to
cut-and-run for it was gone; he had nothing to fear from this
child who could not prevent his going whenever he chose to go;
while by remaining he might perchance worm from him something
about the girl.</p>
<p>"You're feeling better?" He was almost surprised to hear his
own voice put the query.</p>
<p>"I—I think so. Ow, my head!... I say, you chap, whoever you
are, what's happened?... I want to get up." The boy added
peevishly: "Help a fellow, can't you?"</p>
<p>"You've had a nasty fall," Kirkwood observed evenly, passing
an arm beneath the boy's shoulder and helping him to a sitting
position. "Do you remember?"</p>
<p>The other snuffled childishly and scrubbed across the floor
to rest his back against the wall.</p>
<p>"Why-y ... I remember fallin'; and then ... I woke up and it
was all dark and my head achin' fit to split. I presume I went
to sleep again ... I say, what're you, doing here?"</p>
<p>Instead of replying, Kirkwood lifted a warning finger.</p>
<p>"Hush!" he said tensely, alarmed by noises in the street.
"You don't suppose—?"</p>
<p>He had been conscious of a carriage rolling up from the
corner, as well as that it had drawn up (presumably) before a
near-by dwelling. Now the rattle of a key in the hall-door was
startlingly audible. Before he could move, the door itself
opened with a slam.</p>
<p>Kirkwood moved toward the stair-head, and drew back with a
cry of disgust. "Too late!" he told himself bitterly; his
escape was cut off. He could run up-stairs and hide, of course,
but the boy would inform against him and....</p>
<p>He buttoned up his coat, settled his hat on his head, and
moved near the candle, where it rested on the floor. One
glimpse would suffice to show him the force of the intruders,
and one move of his foot put out the light;
then—<i>perhaps</i>—he might be able to rush them.</p>
<p>Below, a brief pause had followed the noise of the door, as
if those entering were standing, irresolute, undecided which
way to turn; but abruptly enough the glimmer of candlelight
must have been noticed. Kirkwood heard a hushed exclamation, a
quick clatter of high heels on the parquetry, pattering feet on
the stairs, all but drowned by swish and ripple of silken
skirts; and a woman stood at the head of the flight—to the
American an apparition profoundly amazing as she paused, the
light from the floor casting odd, theatric shadows beneath her
eyes and over her brows, edging her eyes themselves with
brilliant light beneath their dark lashes, showing her lips
straight and drawn, and shimmering upon the spangles of an
evening gown, visible beneath the dark cloak which had fallen
back from her white, beautiful shoulders.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="VIII">VIII</a></h2>
<h3>MADAME L'INTRIGANTE</h3>
</center>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam!" cried Kirkwood, beneath his breath.</p>
<p>The woman ignored his existence. Moving swiftly forward, she
dropped on both knees by the side of the boy, and caught up one
of his hands, clasping it passionately in her own.</p>
<p>"Fred!" she cried, a curious break in her tone. "My little
Freddie! Oh, what has happened, dearie?"</p>
<p>"Oh, hello, Mamma," grunted that young man, submitting
listlessly to her caresses and betraying no overwhelming
surprise at her appearance there. Indeed he seemed more
concerned as to what Kirkwood, an older man, would be thinking,
to see him so endeared and fondled, than moved by any other
emotion. Kirkwood could see his shamefaced, sidelong glances;
and despised him properly for them.</p>
<p>But without attending to his response, Mrs. Hallam rattled
on in the uneven accents of excitement. "I waited until I
couldn't wait any longer, Freddie dear. I had to know—had to
come. Eccles came home about nine and said that you had told
him to wait outside, that some one had followed you in here,
and that a bobby had told him to move on. I didn't know
what—"</p>
<p>"What's o'clock now?" her son interrupted.</p>
<p>"It's about three, I think ... Have you hurt yourself, dear?
Oh, why <i>didn't</i> you come home? You must've known I was
dying of anxiety!"</p>
<p>"Oh, I say! Can't you see I'm hurt? 'Had a nasty fall and
must've been asleep ever since."</p>
<p>"My precious one! How—?"</p>
<p>"Can't say, hardly ... I say, don't paw a chap so, Mamma ...
I brought Eccles along and told him to wait because—well,
because I didn't feel so much like shuttin' myself up in this
beastly old tomb. So I left the door ajar, and told him not to
let anybody come in. Then I came up-stairs. There must've been
somebody already in the house; I know I <i>thought</i> there
was. It made me feel creepy, rather. At any rate, I heard
voices down below, and the door banged, and somebody began
hammerin' like fun on the knocker."</p>
<p>The boy paused, rolling an embarrassed eye up at the
stranger.</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, dear!" Mrs. Hallam urged him on.</p>
<p>"Why, I—I made up my mind to cut my stick—let whoever it
was pass me on the stairs, you know. But he followed me and
struck me, and then I jumped at him, and we both fell down the
whole flight. And that's all. Besides, my head's achin' like
everything."</p>
<p>"But this man—?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Hallam looked up at Kirkwood, who bowed silently,
struggling to hide both his amusement and perplexity. More than
ever, now, the case presented a front inscrutable to his wits;
try as he might, he failed to fit an explanation to any
incident in which he had figured, while this last
development—that his antagonist of the dark stairway had been
Mrs. Hallam's son!—seemed the most astounding of all, baffling
elucidation completely.</p>
<p>He had abandoned all thought of flight and escape. It was
too late; in the brisk idiom of his mother-tongue, he was
"caught with the goods on." "May as well face the music," he
counseled himself, in resignation. From what he had seen and
surmised of Mrs. Hallam, he shrewdly suspected that the tune
would prove an exceedingly lively one; she seemed a woman of
imagination, originality, and an able-bodied temper.</p>
<p>"<i>You</i>, Mr. Kirkwood!"</p>
<p>Again he bowed, grinning awry.</p>
<p>She rose suddenly. "You will be good enough to explain your
presence here," she informed him with dangerous serenity.</p>
<p>"To be frank with you—"</p>
<p>"I advise that course, Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"Thanks, awf'ly.... I came here, half an hour ago, looking
for a lost purse full—well, not <i>quite</i> full of
sovereigns. It was my purse, by the way."</p>
<p>Suspicion glinted like foxfire in the cold green eyes
beneath her puckered brows. "I do not understand," she said
slowly and in level tones.</p>
<p>"I didn't expect you to," returned Kirkwood; "no more do
I.... But, anyway, it must be clear to you that I've done my
best for this gentleman here." He paused with an interrogative
lift of his eyebrows.</p>
<p>"'This gentleman' is my son, Frederick Hallam.... But you
will explain—"</p>
<p>"Pardon me, Mrs. Hallam; I shall explain nothing, at
present. Permit me to point out that your position here—like
mine—is, to say the least, anomalous." The random stroke told,
as he could tell by the instant contraction of her eyes of a
cat. "It would be best to defer explanations till a more
convenient time—don't you think? Then, if you like, we can
chant confidences in an antiphonal chorus. Just now
your—er—son is not enjoying himself apparently, and ... the
attention of the police had best not be called to this house
too often in one night."</p>
<p>His levity seemed to displease and perturb the woman; she
turned from him with an impatient movement of her
shoulders.</p>
<p>"Freddie, dear, do you feel able to walk?"</p>
<p>"Eh? Oh, I dare say—I don't know. Wonder would your
friend—ah—Mr. Kirkwood, lend me an arm?"</p>
<p>"Charmed," Kirkwood declared suavely. "If you'll take the
candle, Mrs. Hallam—"</p>
<p>He helped the boy to his feet and, while the latter hung
upon him and complained querulously, stood waiting for the
woman to lead the way with the light; something which, however,
she seemed in no haste to do. The pause at length puzzled
Kirkwood, and he turned, to find Mrs. Hallam holding the
candlestick and regarding him steadily, with much the same
expression of furtive mistrust as that with which she had
favored him on her own door-stoop.</p>
<p><img border="0"
src="illp148s.jpg"
alt="He helped the boy to his feet, and stood waiting."
width="506"
height="800"></p>
<p> </p>
<p>"One moment," she interposed in confusion; "I won't keep you
waiting...;" and, passing with an averted face, ran quickly
up-stairs to the second floor, taking the light with her. Its
glow faded from the walls above and Kirkwood surmised that she
had entered the front bedchamber. For some moments he could
hear her moving about; once, something scraped and bumped on
the floor, as if a heavy bit of furniture had been moved; again
there was a resounding thud that defied speculation; and this
was presently followed by a dull clang of metal.</p>
<p>His fugitive speculations afforded him little enlightenment;
and, meantime, young Hallam, leaning partly against the wall
and quite heavily on Kirkwood's arm, filled his ears with
puerile oaths and lamentations; so that, but for the excuse of
his really severe shaking-up, Kirkwood had been strongly
tempted to take the youngster by the shoulders and kick him
heartily, for the health of his soul.</p>
<p>But eventually—it was not really long—there came the quick
rush of Mrs. Hallam's feet along the upper hall, and the woman
reappeared, one hand holding her skirts clear of her pretty
feet as she descended in a rush that caused the candle's flame
to flicker perilously.</p>
<p>Half-way down, "Mr. Kirkwood!" she called tempestuously.</p>
<p>"Didn't you find it?" he countered blandly.</p>
<p>She stopped jerkily at the bottom, and, after a moment of
confusion. "Find what, sir?" she asked.</p>
<p>"What you sought, Mrs. Hallam."</p>
<p>Smiling, he bore unflinching the prolonged inspection of her
eyes, at once somber with doubt of him and flashing with
indignation because of his impudence.</p>
<p>"You knew I wouldn't find it, then!... Didn't you?"</p>
<p>"I may have suspected you wouldn't."</p>
<p>Now he was sure that she had been searching for the
gladstone bag. That, evidently, was the bone of contention.
Calendar had sent his daughter for it, Mrs. Hallam her son;
Dorothy had been successful ... But, on the other hand,
Calendar and Mrs. Hallam were unquestionably allies. Why,
then—?</p>
<p>"Where is it, Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"Madam, have you the right to know?"</p>
<p>Through another lengthening pause, while they faced each
other, he marked again the curious contraction of her under
lip.</p>
<p>"I have the right," she declared steadily. "Where is
it?"</p>
<p>"How can I be sure?"</p>
<p>"Then you don't know—!"</p>
<p>"Indeed," he interrupted, "I would be glad to feel that I
ought to tell you what I know."</p>
<p>"What you know!"</p>
<p>The exclamation, low-spoken, more an echo of her thoughts
than intended for Kirkwood, was accompanied by a little shake
of the woman's head, mute evidence to the fact that she was
bewildered by his finesse. And this delighted the young man
beyond measure, making him feel himself master of a difficult
situation. Mysteries had been woven before his eyes so
persistently, of late, that it was a real pleasure to be able
to do a little mystifying on his own account. By adopting this
reticent and non-committal attitude, he was forcing the hand of
a woman old enough to be his mother and most evidently a
past-mistress in the art of misleading. All of which seemed
very fascinating to the amateur in adventure.</p>
<p>The woman would have led again, but young Hallam cut in,
none too courteously.</p>
<p>"I say, Mamma, it's no good standing here, palaverin' like a
lot of flats. Besides, I'm awf'ly knocked up. Let's get home
and have it out there."</p>
<p>Instantly his mother softened. "My poor boy!... Of course
we'll go."</p>
<p>Without further demur she swept past and down the stairway
before them—slowly, for their progress was of necessity slow,
and the light most needed. Once they were in the main hall,
however, she extinguished the candle, placed it on a side
table, and passed out through the door.</p>
<p>It had been left open, as before; and Kirkwood was not at
all surprised to see a man waiting on the threshold,—the
versatile Eccles, if he erred not. He had little chance to
identify him, as it happened, for at a word from Mrs. Hallam
the man bowed and, following her across the sidewalk, opened
the door of a four-wheeler which, with lamps alight and
liveried driver on the box, had been waiting at the
carriage-block.</p>
<p>As they passed out, Kirkwood shut the door; and at the same
moment the little party was brought up standing by a gruff and
authoritative summons.</p>
<p>"Just a minute, please, you there!"</p>
<p>"Aha!" said Kirkwood to himself. "I thought so." And he
halted, in unfeigned respect for the burly and impressive
figure, garbed in blue and brass, helmeted and truncheoned,
bull's-eye shining on breast like the Law's unblinking and
sleepless eye, barring the way to the carriage.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hallam showed less deference for the obstructionist.
The assumed hauteur and impatience of her pose was artfully
reflected in her voice as she rounded upon the bobby, with an
indignant demand: "What is the meaning of this, officer?"</p>
<p>"Precisely what I wants to know, ma'am," returned the man,
unyielding beneath his respectful attitude. "I'm obliged to ask
you to tell me what you were doing in that 'ouse.... And what's
the matter with this 'ere gentleman?" he added, with a dubious
stare at young Hallam's bandaged head and rumpled clothing.</p>
<p>"Perhaps you don't understand," admitted Mrs. Hallam
sweetly. "Of course—I see—it's perfectly natural. The house
has been shut up for some time and—"</p>
<p>"Thank you, ma'am; that's just it. There was something wrong
going on early in the evening, and I was told to keep an eye on
the premises. It's duty, ma'am; I've got my report to
make."</p>
<p>"The house," said Mrs. Hallam, with the long-suffering
patience of one elucidating a perfectly plain proposition to a
being of a lower order of intelligence, "is the property of my
son, Arthur Frederick Burgoyne Hallam, of Cornwall. This
is—"</p>
<p>"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I was told Colonel George Burgoyne,
of Cornwall—"</p>
<p>"Colonel Burgoyne died some time ago. My son is his heir.
This is my son. He came to the house this evening to get some
property he desired, and—it seems—tripped on the stairs and
fell unconscious. I became worried about him and drove over,
accompanied by my friend, Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>The policeman looked his troubled state of mind, and wagged
a doubtful head over the case. There was his duty, and there
was, opposed to it, the fact that all three were garbed in the
livery of the well-to-do.</p>
<p>At length, turning to the driver, he demanded, received, and
noted in his memorandum-book, the license number of the
equipage.</p>
<p>"It's a very unusual case, ma'am," he apologized; "I hopes
you won't 'old it against me. I'm only trying to do my
duty—"</p>
<p>"And safeguard our property. You are perfectly justified,
officer."</p>
<p>"Thank you, ma'am. And would you mind giving me your cards,
please, all of you?"</p>
<p>"Certainly not." Without hesitation the woman took a little
hand-bag from the seat of the carriage and produced a card; her
son likewise found his case and handed the officer an oblong
slip.</p>
<p>"I've no cards with me," the American told the policeman;
"my name, however, is Philip Kirkwood, and I'm staying at the
Pless."</p>
<p>"Very good, sir; thank you." The man penciled the
information in his little book. "Thank you, ma'am, and Mr.
Hallam, sir. Sorry to have detained you. Good morning."</p>
<p>Kirkwood helped young Hallam into the carriage, gave Mrs.
Hallam his hand, and followed her. The man Eccles shut the
door, mounting the box beside the driver. Immediately they were
in motion.</p>
<p>The American got a final glimpse of the bobby, standing in
front of Number 9, Frognall Street, and watching them with an
air of profound uncertainty. He had Kirkwood's sympathy,
therein; but he had little time to feel with him, for Mrs.
Hallam turned upon him very suddenly.</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood, will you be good enough to tell me who and
what you are?"</p>
<p>The young man smiled his homely, candid smile. "I'll be only
too glad, Mrs. Hallam, when I feel sure you'll do as much for
yourself."</p>
<p>She gave him no answer; it, was as if she were choosing
words. Kirkwood braced himself to meet the storm; but none
ensued. There was rather a lull, which strung itself out
indefinitely, to the monotonous music of hoofs and rubber
tires.</p>
<p>Young Hallam was resting his empty blond head against the
cushions, and had closed his eyes. He seemed to doze; but, as
the carriage rolled past the frequent street-lights, Kirkwood
could see that the eyes of Mrs. Hallam were steadily directed
to his face.</p>
<p>His outward composure was tempered by some amusement, by
more admiration; the woman's eyes were very handsome, even when
hardest and most cold. It was not easy to conceive of her as
being the mother of a son so immaturely mature. Why, she must
have been at least thirty-eight or -nine! One wondered; she did
not look it....</p>
<p>The carriage stopped before a house with lighted windows.
Eccles jumped down from the box and scurried to open the front
door. The radiance of a hall-lamp was streaming out into the
misty night when he returned to release his employers.</p>
<p>They were returned to Craven Street! "One more lap round the
track!" mused Kirkwood. "Wonder will the next take me back to
Bermondsey Old Stairs."</p>
<p>At Mrs. Hallam's direction, Eccles ushered him into the
smoking-room, on the ground floor in the rear of the dwelling,
there to wait while she helped her son up-stairs and to bed. He
sighed with pleasure at first glimpse of its luxurious but
informal comforts, and threw himself carelessly into a heavily
padded lounging-chair, dropping one knee over the other and
lighting the last of his expensive cigars, with a sensation of
undiluted gratitude; as one coming to rest in the shadow of a
great rock in a weary land.</p>
<p>Over his shoulder a home-like illumination was cast by an
electric reading-lamp shaded with red silk. At his feet brass
fire-dogs winked sleepily in the fluttering blaze of a
well-tended stove. The walls were hung with deep red, the doors
and divans upholstered in the same restful shade. In one corner
an old clock ticked soberly. The atmosphere would have proved a
potent invitation to reverie, if not to sleep—he was very
sleepy—but for the confusion in the house.</p>
<p>In its chambers, through the halls, on the stairs, there
were hurryings and scurryings of feet and skirts, confused with
murmuring voices. Presently, in an adjoining room, Philip
Kirkwood heard a maid-servant wrestling hopefully with that
most exasperating of modern time-saving devices, the telephone
as countenanced by our English cousins. Her patience and
determination won his approval, but availed nothing for her
purpose; in the outcome the telephone triumphed and the maid
gave up the unequal contest.</p>
<p>Later, a butler entered the room; a short and sturdy fellow,
extremely ill at ease. Drawing a small taboret to the side of
Kirkwood's chair, he placed thereon a tray, deferentially
imparting the information that "Missis 'Allam 'ad thought 'ow
as Mister Kirkwood might care for a bit of supper."</p>
<p>"Please thank Mrs. Hallam for me." Kirkwood's gratified eyes
ranged the laden tray. There were sandwiches, biscuit, cheese,
and a pot of black coffee, with sugar and cream. "It was very
kindly thought of," he added.</p>
<p>"Very good, sir, thank you, sir."</p>
<p>The man turned to go, shuffling soundlessly. Kirkwood was
suddenly impressed with his evasiveness; ever since he had
entered the room, his countenance had seemed turned from the
guest.</p>
<p>"Eccles!" he called sharply, at a venture.</p>
<p>The butler halted, thunderstruck. "Ye-es, s-sir?"</p>
<p><img border="0"
src="illp158s.jpg"
alt="Eccles"
width="418"
height="800"></p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Turn round, Eccles; I want a look at you."</p>
<p>Eccles faced him unwillingly, with a stolid front but shifty
eyes. Kirkwood glanced him up and down, grinning.</p>
<p>"Thank you, Eccles; I'll remember you now. You'll remember
me, too, won't you? You're a bad actor, aren't you,
Eccles?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," mumbled the man unhappily; and
took instant advantage of the implied permission to go.</p>
<p>Intensely diverted by the recollection of Eccles' abortive
attempt to stop him at the door of Number 9, and wondering—now
that he came to think of it—why, precisely, young Hallam had
deemed it necessary to travel with a body-guard and adopt such
furtive methods to enter into as well as to obtain what was
asserted to be his own property, Kirkwood turned active
attention to the lunch.</p>
<p>Thoughtfully he poured himself a cup of coffee, swallowing
it hot and black as it came from the silver pot; then munched
the sandwiches.</p>
<p>It <i>was</i> kindly thought of, this early morning repast;
Mrs. Hallam seemed more and more a remarkable woman with each
phase of her character that she chose to disclose. At odds with
him, she yet took time to think of his creature needs!</p>
<p>What could be her motive,—not in feeding him, but in
involving her name and fortune in an affair so strangely
flavored?... This opened up a desert waste of barren
speculation. "What's anybody's motive, who figures in this
thundering dime-novel?" demanded the American, almost
contemptuously. And—for the hundredth time—gave it up; the
day should declare it, if so hap he lived to see that day: a
distant one, he made no doubt. The only clear fact in his
befogged and bemused mentality was that he was at once "broke"
and in this business up to his ears. Well, he'd see it through;
he'd nothing better to do, and—there was the girl:</p>
<p>Dorothy, whose eyes and lips he had but to close his own
eyes to see again as vividly as though she stood before him;
Dorothy, whose unspoiled sweetness stood out in vivid relief
against this moil and toil of conspiracy, like a star of
evening shining clear in a stormy sky.</p>
<p>"Poetic simile: I'm going fast," conceded Kirkwood; but he
did not smile. It was becoming quite too serious a matter for
laughter. For her sake, he was in the game "for keeps";
especially in view of the fact that everything—his own heart's
inclination included—seemed to conspire to keep him in it. Of
course he hoped for nothing in return; a pauper who turns
squire-of-dames with matrimonial intent is open to the
designation, "penniless adventurer." No; whatever service he
might be to the girl would be ample recompense to him for his
labors. And afterwards, he'd go his way in peace; she'd soon
forget him—if she hadn't already. Women (he propounded
gravely) are queer: there's no telling anything about them!</p>
<p>One of the most unreadable specimens of the sex on which he
pronounced this highly original dictum, entered the room just
then; and he found himself at once out of his chair and his
dream, bowing.</p>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam."</p>
<p>The woman nodded and smiled graciously. "Eccles has attended
to your needs, I hope? Please don't stop smoking." She sank
into an arm-chair on the other side of the hearth and, probably
by accident, out of the radius of illumination from the lamp;
sitting sidewise, one knee above the other, her white arms
immaculate against the somber background of shadowed
crimson.</p>
<p>She was very handsome indeed, just then; though a keener
light might have proved less flattering.</p>
<p>"Now, Mr. Kirkwood?" she opened briskly, with a second
intimate and friendly nod; and paused, her pose receptive.</p>
<p>Kirkwood sat down again, smiling good-natured appreciation
of her unprejudiced attitude.</p>
<p>"Your son, Mrs. Hallam—?"</p>
<p>"Oh, Freddie's doing well enough.... Freddie," she
explained, "has a delicate constitution and has seen little of
the world. Such melodrama as to-night's is apt to shock him
severely. We must make allowances, Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>Kirkwood grinned again, a trace unsympathetically; he was
unable to simulate any enthusiasm on the subject of poor
Freddie, whom he had sized up with passable acumen as a spoiled
and coddled child completely under the thumb of an extremely
clever mother.</p>
<p>"Yes," he responded vaguely; "he'll be quite fit after a
night's sleep, I dare say."</p>
<p>The woman was watching him keenly, beneath her lowered
lashes. "I think," she said deliberately, "that it is time we
came to an understanding."</p>
<p>Kirkwood agreed—"Yes?" affably.</p>
<p>"I purpose being perfectly straightforward. To begin with, I
don't place you, Mr. Kirkwood. You are an unknown quantity, a
new factor. Won't you please tell me what you are and.... Are
you a friend of Mr. Calendar's?"</p>
<p>"I think I may lay claim to that honor, though"—to
Kirkwood's way of seeing things some little frankness on his
own part would be essential if they were to get on—"I hardly
know him, Mrs. Hallam. I had the pleasure of meeting him only
this afternoon."</p>
<p>She knitted her brows over this statement.</p>
<p>"That, I assure you, is the truth," he laughed.</p>
<p>"But ... I really don't understand."</p>
<p>"Nor I, Mrs. Hallam. Calendar aside, I am Philip Kirkwood,
American, resident abroad for some years, a native of San
Francisco, of a certain age, unmarried, by profession a poor
painter."</p>
<p>"And—?"</p>
<p>"Beyond that? I presume I must tell you, though I confess
I'm in doubt...." He hesitated, weighing candor in the balance
with discretion.</p>
<p>"But who are you for? Are you in George Calendar's pay?"</p>
<p>"Heaven forfend!"—piously. "My sole interest at the present
moment is to unravel a most entrancing mystery—"</p>
<p>"Entitled 'Dorothy Calendar'! Of course. You've known her
long?"</p>
<p>"Eight hours, I believe," he admitted gravely; "less than
that, in fact."</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar's interests will not suffer through anything
you may tell me."</p>
<p>"Whether they will or no, I see I must swing a looser
tongue, or you'll be showing me the door."</p>
<p>The woman shook her head, amused, "Not until," she told him
significantly.</p>
<p>"Very well, then." And he launched into an abridged
narrative of the night's events, as he understood them,
touching lightly on his own circumstances, the real poverty
which had brought him back to Craven Street by way of Frognall.
"And there you have it all, Mrs. Hallam."</p>
<p>She sat in silent musing. Now and again he caught the glint
of her eyes and knew that he was being appraised with such
trained acumen as only long knowledge of men can give to women.
He wondered if he were found wanting.... Her dark head bended,
elbow on knee, chin resting lightly in the cradle of her
slender, parted fingers, the woman thought profoundly, her
reverie ending with a brief, curt laugh, musical and mirthless
as the sound of breaking glass.</p>
<p>"It is so like Calendar!" she exclaimed: "so like him that
one sees how foolish it was to trust—no, not to trust, but to
believe that he could ever be thrown off the scent, once he got
nose to ground. So, if we suffer, my son and I, I shall have
only myself to thank!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood waited in patient attention till she chose to
continue. When she did "Now for my side of the case!" cried
Mrs. Hallam; and rising, began to pace the room, her slender
and rounded figure swaying gracefully, the while she
talked.</p>
<p>"George Calendar is a scoundrel," she said: "a swindler,
gambler,—what I believe you Americans call a confidence-man.
He is also my late husband's first cousin. Some years since he
found it convenient to leave England, likewise his wife and
daughter. Mrs. Calendar, a country-woman of yours, by the bye,
died shortly afterwards. Dorothy, by the merest accident,
obtained a situation as private secretary in the household of
the late Colonel Burgoyne, of The Cliffs, Cornwall. You follow
me?"</p>
<p>"Yes, perfectly."</p>
<p>"Colonel Burgoyne died, leaving his estates to my son, some
time ago. Shortly afterwards Dorothy Calendar disappeared. We
know now that her father took her away, but then the
disappearance seemed inexplicable, especially since with her
vanished a great deal of valuable information. She alone knew
of the location of certain of the old colonel's personal
effects."</p>
<p>"He was an eccentric. One of his peculiarities involved the
secreting of valuables in odd places; he had no faith in banks.
Among these valuables were the Burgoyne family jewels—quite a
treasure, believe me, Mr. Kirkwood. We found no note of them
among the colonel's papers, and without Dorothy were powerless
to pursue a search for them. We advertised and employed
detectives, with no result. It seems that father and daughter
were at Monte Carlo at the time."</p>
<p>"Beautifully circumstantial, my dear lady," commented
Kirkwood—to his inner consciousness. Outwardly he maintained
consistently a pose of impassive gullibility.</p>
<p>"This afternoon, for the first time, we received news of the
Calendars. Calendar himself called upon me, to beg a loan. I
explained our difficulty and he promised that Dorothy should
send us the information by the morning's post. When I insisted,
he agreed to bring it himself, after dinner, this evening.... I
make it quite clear?" she interrupted, a little anxious.</p>
<p>"Quite clear, I assure you," he assented encouragingly.</p>
<p>"Strangely enough, he had not been gone ten minutes when my
son came in from a conference with our solicitors, informing me
that at last a memorandum had turned up, indicating that the
heirlooms would be found in a safe secreted behind a dresser in
Colonel Burgoyne's bedroom."</p>
<p>"At Number 9, Frognall Street."</p>
<p>"Yes.... I proposed going there at once, but it was late and
we were dining at the Pless with an acquaintance, a Mr.
Mulready, whom I now recall as a former intimate of George
Calendar. To our surprise we saw Calendar and his daughter at a
table not far from ours. Mr. Mulready betrayed some agitation
at the sight of Calendar, and told me that Scotland Yard had a
man out with a warrant for Calendar's arrest, on old charges.
For old sake's sake, Mr. Mulready begged me to give Calendar a
word of warning. I did so—foolishly, it seems: Calendar was at
that moment planning to rob us, Mulready aiding and abetting
him."</p>
<p>The woman paused before Kirkwood, looking down upon him.
"And so," she concluded, "we have been tricked and swindled. I
can scarcely believe it of Dorothy Calendar."</p>
<p>"I, for one, don't believe it." Kirkwood spoke quietly,
rising. "Whatever the culpability of Calendar and Mulready,
Dorothy was only their hoodwinked tool."</p>
<p>"But, Mr. Kirkwood, she must have known the jewels were not
hers."</p>
<p>"Yes," he assented passively, but wholly unconvinced.</p>
<p>"And what," she demanded with a gesture of exasperation,
"what would you advise?"</p>
<p>"Scotland Yard," he told her bluntly.</p>
<p>"But it's a family secret! It must not appear in the papers.
Don't you understand—George Calendar is my husband's
cousin!"</p>
<p>"I can think of nothing else, unless you pursue them in
person."</p>
<p>"But—whither?"</p>
<p>"That remains to be discovered; I can tell you nothing more
than I have.... May I thank you for your hospitality, express
my regrets that I should unwittingly have been made the agent
of this disaster, and wish you good night—or, rather, good
morning, Mrs. Hallam?"</p>
<p>For a moment she held him under a calculating glance which
he withstood with graceless fortitude. Then, realizing that he
was determined not by any means to be won to her cause, she
gave him her hand, with a commonplace wish that he might find
his affairs in better order than seemed probable; and rang for
Eccles.</p>
<p>The butler showed him out.</p>
<p>He took away with him two strong impressions; the one
visual, of a strikingly handsome woman in a wonderful gown,
standing under the red glow of a reading-lamp, in an attitude
of intense mental concentration, her expression plainly
indicative of a train of thought not guiltless of
vindictiveness; the other, more mental but as real, he
presently voiced to the huge bronze lions brooding over
desolate Trafalgar Square.</p>
<p>"Well," appreciated Mr. Kirkwood with gusto, "<i>she's</i>
got Ananias and Sapphira talked to a standstill, all right!" He
ruminated over this for a moment. "Calendar can lie some, too;
but hardly with her picturesque touch.... Uncommon ingenious,
<i>I</i> call it. All the same, there were only about a dozen
bits of tiling that didn't fit into her mosaic a little bit....
I think they're all tarred with the same stick—all but the
girl. And there's something afoot a long sight more devilish
and crafty than that shilling-shocker of madam's.... Dorothy
Calendar's got about as much active part in it as I have. I'm
only from California, but they've got to show me, before I'll
believe a word against her. Those infernal
scoundrels!...Somebody's got to be on the girl's side and I
seem to have drawn the lucky straw.... Good Heavens! is it
possible for a grown man to fall heels over head in love in two
short hours? I don't believe it. It's just interest—nothing
more.... And I'll have to have a change of clothes before I can
do anything further."</p>
<p>He bowed gratefully to the lions, in view of their tolerant
interest in his soliloquy, and set off very suddenly round the
square and up St. Martin's Lane, striking across town as
directly as might be for St. Pancras Station. It would
undoubtedly be a long walk, but cabs were prohibited by his
straitened means, and the busses were all abed and wouldn't be
astir for hours.</p>
<p>He strode along rapidly, finding his way more through
intuition than by observation or familiarity with London's
geography—indeed, was scarce aware of his surroundings; for
his brain was big with fine imagery, rapt in a glowing dream of
knighterrantry and chivalric deeds.</p>
<p>Thus is it ever and alway with those who in the purity of
young hearts rush in where angels fear to tread; if these,
Kirkwood and his ilk, be fools, thank God for them, for with
such foolishness is life savored and made sweet and sound! To
Kirkwood the warp of the world and the woof of it was Romance,
and it wrapped him round, a magic mantle to set him apart from
all things mean and sordid and render him impregnable and
invisible to the haunting Shade of Care.</p>
<p>Which, by the same token, presently lost track of him
entirely, and wandered off to find and bedevil some other poor
devil. And Kirkwood, his eyes like his spirit elevated, saw
that the clouds of night were breaking, the skies clearing,
that the East pulsed ever more strongly with the dim golden
promise of the day to come. And this he chose to take for an
omen—prematurely, it may be.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="IX">IX</a></h2>
<h3>AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE"; AND BEYOND</h3>
</center>
<p>Kirkwood wasted little time, who had not much to waste, were
he to do that upon whose doing he had set his heart. It irked
him sore to have to lose the invaluable moments demanded by
certain imperative arrangements, but his haste was such that
all was consummated within an hour.</p>
<p>Within the period of a single hour, then, he had ransomed
his luggage at St. Pancras, caused it to be loaded upon a
four-wheeler and transferred to a neighboring hotel of evil
flavor but moderate tariff, where he engaged a room for a week,
ordered an immediate breakfast, and retired with his belongings
to his room; he had shaved and changed his clothes, selecting a
serviceable suit of heavy tweeds, stout shoes, a fore-and-aft
cap and a negligée shirt of a deep shade calculated at
least to seem clean for a long time; finally, he had devoured
his bacon and eggs, gulped down his coffee and burned his
mouth, and, armed with a stout stick, set off hotfoot in the
still dim glimmering of early day.</p>
<p>By this time his cash capital had dwindled to the sum of two
pounds, ten shillings, eight-pence, and would have been much
less had he paid for his lodging in advance. But he considered
his trunks ample security for the bill, and dared not wait the
hour when shopkeepers begin to take down shutters and it
becomes possible to realize upon one's jewelry. Besides which,
he had never before been called upon to consider the
advisability of raising money by pledging personal property,
and was in considerable doubt as to the right course of
procedure in such emergency.</p>
<p>At King's Cross Station on the Underground an acute
disappointment awaited him; there, likewise, he learned
something about London. A sympathetic bobby informed him that
no trains would be running until after five-thirty, and that,
furthermore, no busses would begin to ply until half after
seven.</p>
<p>"It's tramp it or cab it, then," mused the young man
mournfully, his longing gaze seeking a nearby cab-rank—just
then occupied by a solitary hansom, driver somnolent on the
box. "Officer," he again addressed the policeman, mindful of
the English axiom: "When in doubt, ask a bobby."—"Officer,
when's high-tide this morning?"</p>
<p>The bobby produced a well-worn pocket-almanac, moistened a
massive thumb, and rippled the pages.</p>
<p>"London Bridge, 'igh tide twenty minutes arfter six, sir,"
he announced with a glow of satisfaction wholly pardonable in
one who combines the functions of perambulating almanac,
guide-book, encyclopedia, and conserver of the peace.</p>
<p>Kirkwood said something beneath his breath—a word in itself
a comfortable mouthful and wholesome and emphatic. He glanced
again at the cab and groaned: "O Lord, I just dassent!" With
which, thanking the bureau of information, he set off at a
quick step down Grey's Inn Road.</p>
<p>The day had closed down in brilliance upon the city—and the
voice of the milkman was to be heard in the land—when he
trudged, still briskly if a trifle wearily, into Holborn, and
held on eastward across the Viaduct and down Newgate Street;
the while addling his weary wits with heart-sickening
computations of minutes, all going hopelessly to prove that he
would be late, far too late even presupposing the unlikely. The
unlikely, be it known, was that the <i>Alethea</i> would not
attempt to sail before the turn of the tide.</p>
<p>For this was his mission, to find the <i>Alethea</i> before
she sailed. Incredible as it may appear, at five o'clock, or
maybe earlier, on the morning of the twenty-second of April,
1906, A.D., Philip Kirkwood, normally a commonplace but likable
young American in full possession of his senses, might have
been seen (and by some was seen) plodding manfully through
Cheapside, London, England, engaged upon a quest as mad,
forlorn, and gallant as any whose chronicle ever inspired the
pen of a Malory or a Froissart. In brief he proposed to lend
his arm and courage to be the shield and buckler of one who
might or might not be a damsel in distress; according as to
whether Mrs. Hallam had spoken soothly of Dorothy Calendar, or
Kirkwood's own admirable faith in the girl were justified of
itself.</p>
<p>Proceeding upon the working hypothesis that Mrs. Hallam was
a polished liar in most respects, but had told the truth, so
far as concerned her statement to the effect that the gladstone
bag contained valuable real property (whose ownership remained
a moot question, though Kirkwood was definitely committed to
the belief that it was none of Mrs. Hallam's or her son's): he
reasoned that the two adventurers, with Dorothy and their
booty, would attempt to leave London by a water route, in the
ship, <i>Alethea</i>, whose name had fallen from their lips at
Bermondsey Old Stairs.</p>
<p>Kirkwood's initial task, then, would be to find the needle
in the haystack—the metaphor is poor: more properly, to sort
out from the hundreds of vessels, of all descriptions, at
anchor in midstream, moored to the wharves of 'long-shore
warehouses, or in the gigantic docks that line the Thames, that
one called <i>Alethea</i>; of which he was so deeply mired in
ignorance that he could not say whether she were tramp-steamer,
coastwise passenger boat, one of the liners that ply between
Tilbury and all the world, Channel ferry-boat, private yacht
(steam or sail), schooner, four-master, square-rigger, barque
or brigantine.</p>
<p>A task to stagger the optimism of any but one equipped with
the sublime impudence of Youth! Even Kirkwood was disturbed by
some little awe when he contemplated the vast proportions of
his undertaking. None the less doggedly he plugged ahead, and
tried to keep his mind from vain surmises as to what would be
his portion when eventually he should find himself a passenger,
uninvited and unwelcome, upon the <i>Alethea</i>....</p>
<p>London had turned over once or twice, and was pulling the
bedclothes over its head and grumbling about getting up, but
the city was still sound asleep when at length he paused for a
minute's rest in front of the Mansion House, and realized with
a pang of despair that he was completely tuckered out. There
was a dull, vague throbbing in his head; weights pressed upon
his eyeballs until they ached; his mouth was hot and tasted of
yesterday's tobacco; his feet were numb and heavy; his joints
were stiff; he yawned frequently.</p>
<p>With a sigh he surrendered to the flesh's frailty. An early
cabby, cruising up from Cannon Street station on the off-chance
of finding some one astir in the city, aside from the doves and
sparrows, suffered the surprise of his life when Kirkwood
hailed him. His face was blank with amazement when he reined
in, and his eyes bulged when the prospective fare, on impulse,
explained his urgent needs. Happily he turned out a fair
representative of his class, an intelligent and unfuddled
cabby.</p>
<p>"Jump in, sir," he told Kirkwood cheerfully, as soon as he
had assimilated the latter's demands. "I knows precisely
wotcher wants. Leave it all to me."</p>
<p>The admonition was all but superfluous; Kirkwood was unable,
for the time being, to do aught else than resign his fate into
another's guidance. Once in the cab he slipped insensibly into
a nap, and slept soundly on, as reckless of the cab's swift
pace and continuous jouncing as of the sunlight glaring full in
his tired young face.</p>
<p>He may have slept twenty minutes; he awoke faint with
drowsiness, tingling from head to toe from fatigue, and in
distress of a queer qualm in the pit of his stomach, to find
the hansom at rest and the driver on the step, shaking his fare
with kindly determination. "Oh, a' right," he assented surlily,
and by sheer force of will made himself climb out to the
sidewalk; where, having rubbed his eyes, stretched enormously
and yawned discourteously in the face of the East End, he was
once more himself and a hundred times refreshed into the
bargain. Contentedly he counted three shillings into the
cabby's palm—the fare named being one-and-six.</p>
<p>"The shilling over and above the tip's for finding me the
waterman and boat," he stipulated.</p>
<p>"Right-o. You'll mind the 'orse a minute, sir?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded. The man touched his hat and disappeared
inexplicably. Kirkwood, needlessly attaching himself to the
reins near the animal's head, pried his sense of observation
open and became alive to the fact that he stood in a quarter of
London as strange to him as had been Bermondsey Wall.</p>
<p>To this day he can not put a name to it; he surmises that it
was Wapping.</p>
<p>Ramshackle tenements with sharp gable roofs lined either
side of the way. Frowsy women draped themselves over the
window-sills. Pallid and wasted parodies on childhood contested
the middle of the street with great, slow drays, drawn by
enormous horses. On the sidewalks twin streams of masculine
humanity flowed without rest, both bound in the same direction:
dock laborers going to their day's work. Men of every
nationality known to the world (he thought) passed him in his
short five-minute wait by the horse's head; Britons, brown East
Indians, blacks from Jamaica, swart Italians, Polaks, Russian
Jews, wire-drawn Yankees, Spaniards, Portuguese, Greeks, even a
Nubian or two: uniform in these things only, that their backs
were bent with toil, bowed beyond mending, and their faces
stamped with the blurred type-stamp of the dumb laboring brute.
A strangely hideous procession, they shambled on, for the most
part silent, all uncouth and unreal in the clear morning
glow.</p>
<p>The outlander was sensible of some relief when his cabby
popped hurriedly out of the entrance to a tenement, a
dull-visaged, broad-shouldered waterman ambling more slowly
after.</p>
<p>"Nevvy of mine, sir," announced the cabby; "and a fust-ryte
waterman; knows the river like a book, he do."</p>
<p>The nephew touched his forelock sheepishly.</p>
<p>"Thank you," said Kirkwood; and, turning to the man, "Your
boat?" he asked with the brevity of weariness.</p>
<p>"This wye, sir."</p>
<p>At his guide's heels Kirkwood threaded the crowd and,
entering the tenement, stumbled through a gloomy and unsavory
passage, to come out at last upon a scanty, unrailed veranda
overlooking the river. Ten feet below, perhaps, foul waters
purred and eddied round the piles supporting the rear of the
building. On one hand a ladder-like flight of rickety steps
descended to a floating stage to which a heavy rowboat lay
moored. In the latter a second waterman was seated bailing out
bilge with a rusty can.</p>
<p>"'Ere we are, sir," said the cabman's nephew, pausing at the
head of the steps. "Now, where's it to be?"</p>
<p>The American explained tersely that he had a message to
deliver a friend, who had shipped aboard a vessel known as the
<i>Alethea</i>, scheduled to sail at floodtide; further than
which deponent averred naught.</p>
<p>The waterman scratched his head. "A 'ard job, sir; not
knowin' wot kind of a boat she are mykes it 'arder." He waited
hopefully.</p>
<p>"Ten shillings," volunteered Kirkwood promptly; "ten
shillings if you get me aboard her before she weighs anchor;
fifteen if I keep you out more than an hour, and still you put
me aboard. After that we'll make other terms."</p>
<p>The man promptly turned his back to hail his mate. "'Arf a
quid, Bob, if we puts this gent aboard a wessel name o'
<i>Allytheer</i> afore she syles at turn o' tide."</p>
<p>In the boat the man with the bailing can turned up an
impassive countenance. "Coom down," he clenched the bargain;
and set about shipping the sweeps.</p>
<p>Kirkwood crept down the shaky ladder and deposited himself
in the stern of the boat; the younger boatman settled himself
on the midship thwart.</p>
<p>"Ready?"</p>
<p>"Ready," assented old Bob from the bows. He cast off the
painter, placed one sweep against the edge of the stage, and
with a vigorous thrust pushed off; then took his seat.</p>
<p>Bows swinging down-stream, the boat shot out from the
shore.</p>
<p>"How's the tide?" demanded Kirkwood, his impatience
growing.</p>
<p>"On th' turn, sir," he was told.</p>
<p>For a long moment broadside to the current, the boat
responded to the sturdy pulling of the port sweeps. Another
moment, and it was in full swing, the watermen bending lustily
to their task. Under their unceasing urge, the broad-beamed,
heavy craft, aided by the ebbing tide, surged more and more
rapidly through the water; the banks, grim and unsightly with
their towering, impassive warehouses broken by toppling wooden
tenements, slipped swiftly up-stream. Ship after ship was
passed, sailing vessels in the majority, swinging sluggishly at
anchor, drifting slowly with the river, or made fast to the
goods-stages of the shore; and in keen anxiety lest he should
overlook the right one, Kirkwood searched their bows and sterns
for names, which in more than one case proved hardly
legible.</p>
<p>The <i>Alethea</i> was not of their number.</p>
<p>In the course of some ten minutes, the watermen drove the
boat sharply inshore, bringing her up alongside another
floating stage, in the shadow of another tenement.—both so
like those from which they had embarked that Kirkwood would
have been unable to distinguish one from another.</p>
<p>In the bows old Bob lifted up a stentorian voice, summoning
one William.</p>
<p>Recognizing that there was some design in this, the
passenger subdued his disapproval of the delay, and sat
quiet.</p>
<p>In answer to the third ear-racking hail, a man, clothed
simply in dirty shirt and disreputable trousers, showed himself
in the doorway above, rubbing the sleep out of a red, bloated
countenance with a mighty and grimy fist.</p>
<p>"'Ello," he said surlily. "Wot's th' row?"</p>
<p>"'Oo," interrogated old Bob, holding the boat steady by
grasping the stage, "was th' party wot engyged yer larst night,
Bill?"</p>
<p>"Party name o' <i>Allytheer</i>," growled the drowsy one.
"W'y?"</p>
<p>"Party 'ere's lookin' for 'im. Where'll I find this
<i>Allytheer?</i>"</p>
<p>"Best look sharp 'r yer won't find 'im," retorted the one
above. "'E <i>was</i> at anchor off Bow Creek larst night."</p>
<p>Kirkwood's heart leaped in hope. "What sort of a vessel was
she?" he asked, half rising in his eagerness.</p>
<p>"Brigantine, sir."</p>
<p>"<i>Thank—you!</i>" replied Kirkwood explosively, resuming
his seat with uncalculated haste as old Bob, deaf to the
amenities of social intercourse in an emergency involving as
much as ten-bob, shoved off again.</p>
<p>And again the boat was flying down in midstream, the leaden
waters, shot with gold of the morning sun, parting sullenly
beneath its bows.</p>
<p>The air was still, heavy and tepid; the least exertion
brought out beaded moisture on face and hands. In the east hung
a turgid sky, dull with haze, through which the mounting sun
swam like a plaque of brass; overhead it was clear and
cloudless, but besmirched as if the polished mirror of the
heavens had been fouled by the breath of departing night.</p>
<p>On the right, ahead, Greenwich Naval College loomed up, the
great gray-stone buildings beyond the embankment impressively
dominating the scene, in happy relief against the wearisome
monotony of the river-banks; it came abreast; and ebbed into
the backwards of the scene.</p>
<p>The watermen straining at the sweeps, the boat sped into
Blackwall Reach, Bugsby Marshes a splash of lurid green to
port, dreary Cubitt Town and the West India Docks to starboard.
Here the river ran thick with shipping.</p>
<p>"Are we near?" Kirkwood would know; and by way of reply had
a grunt of the younger waterman.</p>
<p>Again, "Will we make it?" he asked.</p>
<p>The identical grunt answered him; he was free to interpret
it as he would; young William—as old Bob named him—had no
breath for idle words. Kirkwood subsided, controlling his
impatience to the best of his ability; the men, he told himself
again and again, were earning their pay, whether or not they
gained the goal of his desire.... Their labors were titanic; on
their temples and foreheads the knotted veins stood out like
discolored whip-cord; their faces were the shade of raw beef,
steaming with sweat; their eyes protruded with the strain that
set their jaws like vises; their chests heaved and shrank like
bellows; their backs curved, straightened, and bent again in
rhythmic unison as tiring to the eye as the swinging of a
pendulum.</p>
<p>Hugging the marshy shore, they rounded the Blackwall Point.
Young William looked to Kirkwood, caught his eye, and
nodded.</p>
<p>"Here?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood rose, balancing himself against the leap and sway
of the boat.</p>
<p>"Sumwhere's ... 'long ... o' 'ere."</p>
<p>From right to left his eager glance swept the river's
widening reach. Vessels were there in abundance, odd, unwieldy,
blunt-bowed craft with huge, rakish, tawny sails; long strings
of flat barges, pyramidal mounds of coal on each, lashed to
another and convoyed by panting tugs; steam cargo boats,
battered, worn, rusted sore through their age-old paint; a
steel leviathan of the deep seas, half cargo, half passenger
boat, warping reluctantly into the mouth of the Victoria Dock
tidal basin,—but no brigantine, no sailing vessel of any
type.</p>
<p>The young man's lips checked a cry that was half a sob of
bitter disappointment. He had entered into the spirit of the
chase heart and soul, with an enthusiasm that was strange to
him, when he came to look back upon the time; and to fail, even
though failure had been discounted a hundredfold since the
inception of his mad adventure, seemed hard, very hard.</p>
<p>He sat down suddenly. "She's gone!" he cried in a hollow
gasp.</p>
<p>The boatmen eased upon their oars, and old Bob stood up in
the bows, scanning the river-scape with keen eyes shielded by a
level palm. Young William drooped forward suddenly, head upon
knees, and breathed convulsively. The boat drifted listlessly
with the current.</p>
<p>Old Bob panted: "'Dawn't—see—nawthin'—o' 'er." He resumed
his seat.</p>
<p>"There's no hope, I suppose?"</p>
<p>The elder waterman shook his head. "'Carn't sye.... Might be
round—nex' bend—might be—passin' Purfleet.... 'Point is—me
an' young Wilyum 'ere—carn't do no more—'n we 'as. We be wore
out."</p>
<p>"Yes," Kirkwood assented, disconsolate, "You've certainly
earned your pay." Then hope revived; he was very young in
heart, you know. "Can't you suggest something? I've <i>got</i>
to catch that ship!"</p>
<p>Old Bob wagged his head in slow negation; young William
lifted his.</p>
<p>"There's a rylewye runs by Woolwich," he ventured. "Yer
might tyke tryne an' go to Sheerness, sir. Yer'd be positive o'
passin' 'er if she didn't syle afore 'igh-tide. 'Ire a boat at
Sheerness an' put out an' look for 'er."</p>
<p>"How far's Woolwich?" Kirkwood demanded instantly.</p>
<p>"Mile," said the elder man. "Tyke yer for five-bob
extry."</p>
<p>"Done!"</p>
<p>Young William dashed the sweat from his eyes, wiped his
palms on his hips, and fitted the sweeps again to the wooden
tholes. Old Bob was as ready. With an inarticulate cry they
gave way.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="X">X</a></h2>
<h3>DESPERATE MEASURES</h3>
</center>
<p>Old Bob seemed something inclined toward optimism, when the
boat lay alongside a landing-stage at Woolwich, and Kirkwood
had clambered ashore.</p>
<p>"Yer'll mebbe myke it," the waterman told him with a
weatherwise survey of the skies. "Wind's freshenin' from the
east'rds, an' that'll 'old 'er back a bit, sir."</p>
<p>"Arsk th' wye to th' Dorkyard Styshun," young William
volunteered. "'Tis th' shortest walk, sir. I 'opes yer catches
'er.... Thanky, sir."</p>
<p>He caught dextrously the sovereign which Kirkwood, in
ungrudging liberality, spared them of his store of two. The
American nodded acknowledgments and adieux, with a faded smile
deprecating his chances of winning the race, sorely handicapped
as he was. He was very, very tired, and in his heart suspected
that he would fail. But, if he did, he would at least be able
to comfort himself that it was not for lack of trying. He set
his teeth on that covenant, in grim determination; either there
was a strain of the bulldog latent in the Kirkwood breed or
else his infatuation gripped him more strongly than he
guessed.</p>
<p>Yet he suspected something of its power; he knew that this
was altogether an insane proceeding, and that the lure that led
him on was Dorothy Calendar. A strange dull light glowed in his
weary eyes, on the thought of her. He'd go through fire and
water in her service. She was costing him dear, perhaps was to
cost him dearer still; and perhaps there'd be for his guerdon
no more than a "Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood!" at the end of the
passage. But that would be no less than his deserts; he was not
to forget that he was interfering unwarrantably; the girl was
in her father's hands, surely safe enough there—to the casual
mind. If her partnership in her parent's fortunes were
distasteful, she endured it passively, without complaint.</p>
<p>He decided that it was his duty to remind himself, from time
to time, that his main interest must be in the game itself, in
the solution of the riddle; whatever should befall, he must
look for no reward for his gratuitous and self-appointed part.
Indeed he was all but successful in persuading himself that it
was the fascination of adventure alone that drew him on.</p>
<p>Whatever the lure, it was inexorable; instead of doing as a
sensible person would have done—returning to London for a long
rest in his hotel room, ere striving to retrieve his shattered
fortunes—Philip Kirkwood turned up the village street, intent
only to find the railway station and catch the first available
train for Sheerness, were that an early one or a late.</p>
<p>A hapchance native whom he presently encountered, furnished
minute directions for reaching the Dockyard Station of the
Southeastern and Chatham Rail-way, adding comfortable
information to the effect that the next east-bound train would
pass through in ten minutes; if Kirkwood would mend his pace he
could make it easily, with time to spare.</p>
<p>Kirkwood mended his pace accordingly, but, contrary to the
prediction, had no time to spare at all. Even as he stormed the
ticket-grating, the train was thundering in at the platform.
Therefore a nervous ticket agent passed him out a first-class
ticket instead of the third-class he had asked for; and there
was no time wherein to have the mistake rectified. Kirkwood
planked down the fare, swore, and sprinted for the
carriages.</p>
<p>The first compartment whose door he jerked violently open,
proved to be occupied, and was, moreover, not a smoking-car. He
received a fleeting impression of a woman's startled eyes,
staring into his own through a thin mesh of veiling, fell off
the running-board, slammed the door, and hurled himself
to-wards the next compartment. Here happier fortune attended
upon his desire; the box-like section was untenanted, and a
notice blown upon the window-glass announced that it was "2nd
Class Smoking." Kirkwood promptly tumbled in; and when he
turned to shut the door the coaches were moving.</p>
<p>A pipe helped him to bear up while the train was making its
two other stops in the Borough of Woolwich: a circumstance so
maddening to a man in a hurry, that it set Kirkwood's teeth on
edge with sheer impatience, and made him long fervently for the
land of his birth, where they do things differently—where the
Board of Directors of a railway company doesn't erect three
substantial passenger depôts in the course of a mile and a
half of overgrown village. It consoled him little that none
disputed with him his lonely possession of the compartment,
that he <i>had</i> caught the Sheerness train, or that he was
really losing no time; a sense of deep dejection had settled
down upon his consciousness, with a realization of how
completely a fool's errand was this of his. He felt foredoomed
to failure; he was never to see Dorothy Calendar again; and his
brain seemed numb with disappointment.</p>
<p>Rattling and swaying, the train left the town behind.</p>
<p>Presently he put aside his pipe and stared blankly out at a
reeling landscape, the pleasant, homely, smiling countryside of
Kent. A deeper melancholy tinted his mind: Dorothy Calendar was
for ever lost to him.</p>
<p>The trucks drummed it out persistently—he thought,
vindictively: "<i>Lost!... Lost!... For ever lost!...</i>"</p>
<p>And he had made—was then making—a damned fool of himself.
The trucks had no need to din <i>that</i> into his thick skull
by their ceaseless iteration; he knew it, would not deny
it....</p>
<p>And it was all his own fault. He'd had his chance, Calendar
had offered him it. If only he had closed with the fat
adventurer!...</p>
<p>Before his eyes field and coppice, hedge and homestead,
stream and flowing highway, all blurred and ran streakily into
one another, like a highly impressionistic water-color. He
could make neither head nor tail of the flying views, and so
far as coherent thought was concerned, he could not put two
ideas together. Without understanding distinctly, he presently
did a more wise and wholesome thing: which was to topple limply
over on the cushions and fall fast asleep.</p>
<HR width="50%" align="center">
<p>After a long time he seemed to realize rather hazily that
the carriage-door had been opened to admit somebody. Its smart
closing <i>bang</i> shocked him awake. He sat up, blinking in
confusion, hardly conscious of more, to begin with, than that
the train had paused and was again in full flight. Then, his
senses clearing, he became aware that his solitary companion,
just entered, was a woman. She was seated over across from him,
her back to the engine, in an attitude which somehow suggested
a highly nonchalant frame of mind. She laughed, and immediately
her speaking voice was high and sweet in his hearing.</p>
<p>"Really, you know, Mr. Kirkwood, I simply couldn't contain
my impatience another instant."</p>
<p>Kirkwood gasped and tried to re-collect his wits.</p>
<p>"Beg pardon—I've been asleep," he said stupidly.</p>
<p>"Yes. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but, you know, you
must make allowances for a woman's nerves."</p>
<p>Beneath his breath the bewildered man said: "The deuce!" and
above it, in a stupefied tone: "Mrs. Hallam!"</p>
<p>She nodded in a not unfriendly fashion, smiling brightly.
"Myself, Mr. Kirkwood! Really, our predestined paths are badly
tangled, just now; aren't they? Were you surprised to find me
in here, with you? Come now, confess you were!"</p>
<p>He remarked the smooth, girlish freshness of her cheeks, the
sense and humor of her mouth, the veiled gleam of excitement in
her eyes of the changing sea; and saw, as well, that she was
dressed for traveling, sensibly but with an air, and had
brought a small hand-bag with her.</p>
<p>"Surprised and delighted," he replied, recovering, with
mendacity so intentional and obvious that the woman laughed
aloud.</p>
<p>"I knew you'd be!... You see, I had the carriage ahead, the
one you didn't take. I was so disappointed when you flung up to
the door and away again! You didn't see me hanging half out the
window, to watch where you went, did you? That's how I
discovered that your discourtesy was unintentional, that you
hadn't recognized me,—by the fact that you took this
compartment, right behind my own."</p>
<p>She paused invitingly, but Kirkwood, grown wary, contented
himself with picking up his pipe and carefully knocking out the
dottle on the window-ledge.</p>
<p>"I was glad to see <i>you</i>," she affirmed; "but only
partly because you were you, Mr. Kirkwood. The other and major
part was because sight of you confirmed my own secret
intuition. You see, I'm quite old enough and wise enough to
question even my own intuitions."</p>
<p>"A woman wise enough for that is an adult prodigy," he
ventured cautiously.</p>
<p>"It's experience and age. I insist upon the age; I the
mother of a grown-up boy! So I deliberately ran after you,
changing when we stopped at Newington. You might've escaped me
if I had waited until We got to Queensborough."</p>
<p>Again she paused in open expectancy. Kirkwood, perplexed,
put the pipe in his pocket, and assumed a factitious look of
resignation, regarding her askance with that whimsical twist of
his eyebrows.</p>
<p>"For you are going to Queensborough, aren't you, Mr.
Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"Queensborough?" he echoed blankly; and, in fact, he was at
a loss to follow her drift. "No, Mrs. Hallam; I'm not bound
there."</p>
<p>Her surprise was apparent; she made no effort to conceal it.
"But," she faltered, "if not there—"</p>
<p>"'Give you my word, Mrs. Hallam, I have no intention
whatever of going to Queensborough," Kirkwood protested.</p>
<p>"I don't understand." The nervous drumming of a
patent-leather covered toe, visible beneath the hem of her
dress, alone betrayed a rising tide of impatience. "Then my
intuition <i>was</i> at fault!"</p>
<p>"In this instance, if it was at all concerned with my
insignificant affairs, yes—most decidedly at fault."</p>
<p>She shook her head, regarding him with grave suspicion. "I
hardly know: whether to believe you. I think...."</p>
<p>Kirkwood's countenance displayed an added shade of red.
After a moment, "I mean no discourtesy," he began stiffly,
"but—"</p>
<p>"But you don't care a farthing whether I believe you or
not?"</p>
<p>He caught her laughing eye, and smiled, the flush
subsiding.</p>
<p>"Very well, then! Now let us see: Where <i>are</i> you
bound?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood looked out of the window.</p>
<p>"I'm convinced it's a rendezvous...?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood smiled patiently at the landscape.</p>
<p>"Is Dorothy Calendar so very, very beautiful, Mr.
Kirkwood?"—with a trace of malice.</p>
<p>Ostentatiously Kirkwood read the South Eastern and Chatham's
framed card of warning, posted just above Mrs. Hallam's head,
to all such incurable lunatics as are possessed of a desire to
travel on the running-boards of railway carriages.</p>
<p>"You are going to meet her, aren't you?"</p>
<p>He gracefully concealed a yawn.</p>
<p>The woman's plan of attack took another form. "Last night,
when you told me your story, I believed you."</p>
<p>He devoted himself to suppressing the temptingly obvious
retort, and succeeded; but though he left it unspoken, the
humor of it twitched the corners of his mouth; and Mrs. Hallam
was observant. So that her next attempt to draw him out was
edged with temper.</p>
<p>"I believed you an American but a gentleman; it appears
that, if you ever were the latter, you've fallen so low that
you willingly cast your lot with thieves."</p>
<p>Having exhausted his repertoire of rudenesses, Kirkwood took
to twiddling his thumbs.</p>
<p>"I want to ask you if you think it fair to me or my son, to
leave us in ignorance of the place where you are to meet the
thieves who stole our—my son's jewels?"</p>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam," he said soberly, "if I am going to meet Mr.
Calendar or Mr. Mulready, I have no assurance of that
fact."</p>
<p>There was only the briefest of pauses, during which she
analyzed this; then, quickly, "But you hope to?" she
snapped.</p>
<p>He felt that the only adequate retort to this would be a
shrug of his shoulders; doubted his ability to carry one off;
and again took refuge in silence.</p>
<p>The woman abandoned a second plan of siege, with a readiness
that did credit to her knowledge of mankind. She thought out
the next very carefully, before opening with a masked
battery.</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood, can't we be friends—this aside?"</p>
<p>"Nothing could please me more, Mrs. Hallam!"</p>
<p>"I'm sorry if I've annoyed you—"</p>
<p>"And I, too, have been rude."</p>
<p>"Last night, when you cut away so suddenly, you prevented my
making you a proposal, a sort of a business
proposition...."</p>
<p>"Yes—?"</p>
<p>"To come over to our side—"</p>
<p>"I thought so. That was why I went."</p>
<p>"Yes; I understood. But this morning, when you've had time
to think it over—?"</p>
<p>"I have no choice in the matter, Mrs. Hallam." The green
eyes darkened ominously. "You mean—I am to understand, then,
that you're against us, that you prefer to side with swindlers
and scoundrels, all because of a—"</p>
<p>She discovered him eying her with a smile of such
inscrutable and sardonic intelligence, that the words died on
her lips, and she crimsoned, treasonably to herself. For he saw
it; and the belief he had conceived while attending to her
tissue of fabrication, earlier that morning, was strengthened
to the point of conviction that, if anything had been stolen by
anybody, Mrs. Hallam and her son owned it as little as
Calendar.</p>
<p>As for the woman, she felt she had steadily lost, rather
than gained, ground; and the flash of anger that had colored
her cheeks, lit twin beacons in her eyes, which she resolutely
fought down until they faded to mere gleams of resentment and
determination. But she forgot to control her lips; and they are
the truest indices to a woman's character and temperament; and
Kirkwood did not overlook the circumstance that their specious
sweetness had vanished, leaving them straight, set and hard,
quite the reverse of attractive.</p>
<p>"So," she said slowly, after a silent time, "you are not for
Queensborough! The corollary of that <i>admission</i>, Mr.
Kirkwood, is that you are for Sheerness."</p>
<p>"I believe," he replied wearily, "that there are no other
stations on this line, after Newington."</p>
<p>"It follows, then, that—that I follow." And in answer to
his perturbed glance, she added: "Oh, I'll grant that intuition
is sometimes a poor guide. But if you meet George Calendar, so
shall I. Nothing can prevent that. You can't hinder me."</p>
<p>Considerably amused, he chuckled. "Let us talk of other
things, Mrs. Hallam," he suggested pleasantly. "How is your
son?"</p>
<p>At this juncture the brakes began to shriek and grind upon
the wheels. The train slowed; it stopped; and the voice of a
guard could be heard admonishing passengers for Queensborough
Pier to alight and take the branch line. In the noise the
woman's response was drowned, and Kirkwood was hardly enough
concerned for poor Freddie to repeat his question.</p>
<p>When, after a little, the train pulled out of the junction,
neither found reason to resume the conversation. During the
brief balance of the journey Mrs. Hallam presumably had food
for thought; she frowned, pursed her lips, and with one
daintily gloved forefinger followed a seam of her tailored
skirt; while Kirkwood sat watching and wondering how to rid
himself of her, if she proved really as troublesome as she
threatened to be.</p>
<p>Also, he wondered continually what it was all about. Why did
Mrs. Hallam suspect him of designing to meet Calendar at
Queensborough? Had she any tangible ground for believing that
Calendar could be found in Queensborough? Presumably she had,
since she was avowedly in pursuit of that gentleman, and,
Kirkwood inferred, had booked for Queensborough. Was he, then,
running away from Calendar and his daughter to chase a
will-o'-the-wisp of his credulous fancy, off Sheerness
shore?</p>
<p>Disturbing reflection. He scowled over it, then considered
the other side of the face. Presuming Mrs. Hallam to have had
reasonably dependable assurance that Calendar would stop in
Queensborough, would she so readily have abandoned her design
to catch him there, on the mere supposition that Kirkwood might
be looking for him in Sheerness? That did not seem likely to
one who esteemed Mrs. Hallam's acumen as highly as Kirkwood
did. He brightened up, forgot that his was a fool's errand, and
began again to project strategic plans into a problematic
future.</p>
<p>A sudden jolt interrupted this pastime, and the warning
screech of the brakes informed that he had no time to scheme,
but had best continue on the plan of action that had brought
him thus far—that is, trust to his star and accept what should
befall without repining.</p>
<p>He rose, opened the door, and holding it so, turned.</p>
<p>"I regret, Mrs. Hallam," he announced, smiling his crooked
smile, "that a pressing engagement is about to prohibit my
'squiring you through the ticket-gates. You understand, I'm
sure."</p>
<p>His irrepressible humor proved infectious; and Mrs. Hallam's
spirit ran as high as his own. She was smiling cheerfully when
she, too, rose.</p>
<p>"I also am in some haste," she averred demurely, gathering
up her hand-bag and umbrella.</p>
<p>A raised platform shot in beside the carriage, and the speed
was so sensibly moderated that the train seemed to be creeping
rather than running. Kirkwood flung the door wide open and
lowered himself to the running-board. The end of the track was
in sight and—a man who has been trained to board San Francisco
cable-cars fears to alight from no moving vehicle. He swung
off, got his balance, and ran swiftly down the platform.</p>
<p>A cry from a bystander caused him to glance over his
shoulder; Mrs. Hallam was then in the act of alighting. As he
looked the flurry of skirts subsided and she fell into stride,
pursuing.</p>
<p>Sleepy Sheerness must have been scandalized, that day, and
its gossips have acquired ground for many, an uncharitable
surmise.</p>
<p>Kirkwood, however, was so fortunate as to gain the wicket
before the employee there awoke to the situation. Otherwise,
such is the temper of British petty officialdom, he might have
detained the fugitive. As it was, Kirkwood surrendered his
ticket and ran out into the street with his luck still a
dominant factor in the race. For, looking back, he saw that
Mrs. Hallam had been held up at the gate, another victim of
British red-tape; her ticket read for Queensborough, she was
attempting to alight one station farther down the line, and
while undoubtedly she was anxious to pay the excess fare,
Heaven alone knew when she would succeed in allaying the
suspicions and resentment of the ticket-taker.</p>
<p>"That's good for ten minutes' start!" Kirkwood crowed. "And
it never occurred to me—!"</p>
<p>Before the station he found two hacks in waiting, with
little to choose between them; neither was of a type that did
not seem to advertise its pre-Victorian fashioning, and to
neither was harnessed an animal that deserved anything but the
epithet of screw. Kirkwood took the nearest for no other reason
than because it was the nearest, and all but startled the
driver off his box by offering double-fare for a brisk pace and
a simple service at the end of the ride. Succinctly he set
forth his wants, jumped into the antiquated four-wheeler, and
threw himself down upon musty, dusty cushions to hug himself
over the joke and bless whatever English board of railway,
directors it was that first ordained that tickets should be
taken up at the end instead of the outset of a journey.</p>
<p>It was promptly made manifest that he had further cause for
gratulation. The cabby, recovering from his amazement, was
plying an indefatigable whip and thereby eliciting a degree of
speed from his superannuated nag, that his fare had by no means
hoped for, much less anticipated. The cab rocked and racketed
through Sheerness' streets at a pace which is believed to be
unprecedented and unrivaled; its passenger, dashed from side to
side, had all he could do to keep from battering the vehicle to
pieces with his head; while it was entirely out of the question
to attempt to determine whether or not he was being pursued. He
enjoyed it all hugely.</p>
<p>In a period of time surprisingly short, he saw, from
fleeting glimpses of the scenery to be obtained through the
reeling windows, that they were threading the outskirts of the
town; synchronously, whether by design or through actual
inability to maintain it, the speed was moderated. And in the
course of a few more minutes the cab stopped definitely.</p>
<p>Kirkwood clambered painfully out, shook himself together and
the bruises out of his bones, and looked fearfully back.</p>
<p>Aside from a slowly settling cloud of dust, the road ran
clear as far as he could see—to the point, in fact, where the
town closed in about it.</p>
<p>He had won; at all events in so much as to win meant eluding
the persevering Mrs. Hallam. But to what end?</p>
<p>Abstractedly he tendered his lonely sovereign to the driver,
and without even looking at it, crammed the heavy weight of
change into his pocket; an oversight which not only won him the
awe-struck admiration of the cabby, but entailed consequences
(it may be) he little apprehended. It was with an absentminded
nod that he acquiesced in the man's announcement that he might
arrange about the boat for him. Accordingly the cabby
disappeared; and Kirkwood continued to stare about him,
eagerly, hopefully.</p>
<p>He stood on the brink of the Thames estuary, there a
possible five miles from shore to shore; from his feet, almost,
a broad shingle beach sloped gently to the water.</p>
<p>On one hand a dilapidated picket-fence enclosed the
door-yard of a fisherman's cottage, or, better, hovel,—if it
need be accurately described—at the door of which the cabby
was knocking.</p>
<p>The morning was now well-advanced. The sun rode high, a
sphere of tarnished flame in a void of silver-gray, its thin
cold radiance striking pallid sparks from the leaping crests of
wind-whipped waves. In the east a wall of vapor, dull and
lusterless, had taken body since the dawn, masking the skies
and shutting down upon the sea like some vast curtain; and out
of the heart of this a bitter and vicious wind played like a
sword.</p>
<p>To the north, Shoeburyness loomed vaguely, like a
low-drifted bank of cloud. Off to the right the Nore Lightship
danced, a tiny fleck of warm crimson in a wilderness of
slatey-blue waters, plumed with a myriad of vanishing
white-caps.</p>
<p>Up the shelving shore, small, puny wavelets dashed in
impotent fury, and the shingle sang unceasingly its dreary,
syncopated monotone. High and dry, a few dingy boats lay canted
wearily upon their broad, swelling sides,—a couple of dories,
apparently in daily use; a small sloop yacht, dismantled and
plainly beyond repair; and an oyster-smack also out of
commission. About them the beach was strewn with a litter of
miscellany,—nets, oars, cork buoys, bits of wreckage and
driftwood, a few fish too long forgotten and (one assumed)
responsible in part for the foreign wealth of the
atmosphere.</p>
<p>Some little distance offshore a fishing-boat, catrigged and
not more than twenty-feet over all, swung bobbing at her
mooring, keen nose searching into the wind; at sight of which
Kirkwood gave thanks, for his adventitious guide had served him
well, if that boat were to be hired by any manner of
persuasion.</p>
<p>But it was to the farther reaches of the estuary that he
gave more prolonged and most anxious heed, scanning narrowly
what shipping was there to be seen. Far beyond the lightship a
liner was riding the waves with serene contempt, making for the
river's mouth and Tilbury Dock. Nearer in, a cargo boat was
standing out upon the long trail, the white of riven waters
showing clearly against her unclean freeboard. Out to east a
little covey of fishing-smacks, red sails well reefed, were
scudding before the wind like strange affrighted water-fowl,
and bearing down past a heavy-laden river barge. The latter,
with tarpaulin battened snugly down over the cockpit and the
seas dashing over her wash-board until she seemed under water
half the time, was forging stodgily Londonwards, her bargee at
the tiller smoking a placid pipe.</p>
<p>But a single sailing vessel of any notable tonnage was in
sight; and when he saw her Kirkwood's heart became buoyant with
hope, and he began to tremble with nervous eagerness. For he
believed her to be the <i>Alethea</i>.</p>
<p>There's no mistaking a ship brigantine-rigged for any other
style of craft that sails the seas.</p>
<p>From her position when first he saw her, Kirkwood could have
fancied she was tacking out of the mouth of the Medway; but he
judged that, leaving the Thames' mouth, she had tacked to
starboard until well-nigh within hail of Sheerness. Now, having
presumably, gone about, she was standing out toward the Nore,
boring doggedly into the wind. He would have given a deal for
glasses wherewith to read the name upon her bows, but was
sensible of no hampering doubts; nor, had he harbored any,
would they have deterred him. He had set his heart upon the
winning of his venture, had come too far, risked far too much,
to suffer anything now to stay his hand and stand between him
and Dorothy Calendar. Whatever the further risks and hazards,
though he should take his life in his hands to win to her side,
he would struggle on. He recked nothing of personal danger; a
less selfish passion ran molten in his veins, moving him to
madness.</p>
<p>Fascinated, he fixed his gaze upon the reeling brigantine,
and for a space it was as if by longing he had projected his
spirit to her slanting deck, and were there, pleading his case
with the mistress of his heart....</p>
<p>Voices approaching brought him back to shore. He turned,
resuming his mask of sanity, the better to confer with the
owner of the cottage and boats—a heavy, keen-eyed fellow,
ungracious and truculent of habit, and chary of his words; as
he promptly demonstrated.</p>
<p>"I'll hire your boat," Kirkwood told him, "to put me aboard
that brigantine, off to leeward. We ought to start at
once."</p>
<p>The fisherman shifted his quid of tobacco from cheek to
cheek, grunted inarticulately, and swung deliberately on his
heel, displaying a bull neck above a pair of heavy
shoulders.</p>
<p>"Dirty weather," he croaked, facing back from his survey of
the eastern skies before the American found out whether or not
he should resent his insolence.</p>
<p>"How much?" Kirkwood demanded curtly, annoyed.</p>
<p>The man hesitated, scowling blackly at the heeling vessel,
momentarily increasing her distance from shore. Then with a
crafty smile, "Two pound'," he declared.</p>
<p>The American nodded. "Very well," he agreed simply. "Get out
your boat."</p>
<p>The fisherman turned away to shamble noisily over the
shingle, huge booted heels crunching, toward one of the dories.
To this he set his shoulder, shoving it steadily down the beach
until only the stern was dry.</p>
<p>Kirkwood looked back, for the last time, up the road to
Sheerness. Nothing moved upon it. He was rid of Mrs. Hallam, if
face to face with a sterner problem. He had a few pence over
ten shillings in his pocket, and had promised to pay the man
four times as much. He would have agreed to ten times the sum
demanded; for the boat he must and would have. But he had
neglected to conclude his bargain, to come to an understanding
as to the method of payment; and he felt more than a little
dubious as to the reception the fisherman would give his
proposition, sound as he, Kirkwood, knew it to be.</p>
<p>In the background the cabby loitered, gnawed by insatiable
curiosity.</p>
<p>The fisherman turned, calling over his shoulder: "If ye'd
catch yon vessel, come!"</p>
<p>With one final twinge of doubt—the task of placating this
surly dog was anything but inviting—the American strode to the
boat and climbed in, taking the stern seat. The fisherman
shoved off, wading out thigh-deep in the spiteful waves, then
threw himself in over the gunwales and shipped the oars. Bows
swinging offshore, rocking and dancing, the dory began to forge
slowly toward the anchored boat. In their faces the wind beat
gustily, and small, slapping waves, breaking against the sides,
showered them with fine spray....</p>
<p>In time the dory lay alongside the cat-boat, the fisherman
with a gnarled hand grasping the latter's gunwale to hold the
two together. With some difficulty Kirkwood transhipped
himself, landing asprawl in the cockpit, amid a tangle of
cordage slippery with scales. The skipper followed, with clumsy
expertness bringing the dory's painter with him and hitching it
to a ring-bolt abaft the rudder-head. Then, pausing an instant
to stare into the East with somber eyes, he shipped the tiller
and bent to the halyards. As the sail rattled up, flapping
wildly, Kirkwood marked with relief—for it meant so much time
saved—that it was already close reefed.</p>
<p>But when at least the boom was thrashing overhead and the
halyards had been made fast to their cleats, the fisherman
again stood erect, peering distrustfully at the distant wall of
cloud.</p>
<p>Then, in two breaths: "Can't do it," he decided; "not at the
price."</p>
<p>"Why?" Kirkwood stared despairingly after the brigantine,
that was already drawn far ahead.</p>
<p>"Danger," growled the fellow, "—wind."</p>
<p>At a loss completely, Kirkwood found no words. He dropped
his head, considering.</p>
<p>"Not at the price," the sullen voice iterated; and he looked
up to find the cunning gaze upon him.</p>
<p>"How much, then?"</p>
<p>"Five poun' I'll have—no less, for riskin' my life this
day."</p>
<p>"Impossible. I haven't got it."</p>
<p>In silence the man unshipped the tiller and moved toward the
cleats.</p>
<p>"Hold on a minute."</p>
<p>Kirkwood unbuttoned his coat and, freeing the chain from his
waistcoat buttonholes, removed his watch.... As well abandon
them altogether; he had designed to leave them as security for
the two pounds, and had delayed stating the terms only for fear
lest they be refused. Now, too late as ever, he recognized his
error. But surely, he thought, it should be apparent even to
that low intelligence that the timepiece alone was worth more
than the boat itself.</p>
<p>"Will you take these?" he offered. "Take and keep them—only
set me aboard that ship!"</p>
<p>Deliberately the fisherman weighed the watch and chain in
his broad, hard palm, eyes narrowing to mere slits in his
bronzed mask.</p>
<p>"How much?" he asked slowly.</p>
<p>"Eighty pounds, together; the chain alone cost me
twenty."</p>
<p>The shifty, covetous eyes ranged from the treasure in his
hand to the threatening east. A puff of wind caught the sail
and sent the boom athwartships, like a mighty flail. Both men
ducked instinctively, to escape a braining.</p>
<p>"How do I know?" objected the skipper.</p>
<p>"I'm telling you. If you've got eyes, you can see," retorted
Kirkwood savagely, seeing that he had erred in telling the
truth; the amount he had named was too great to be grasped at
once by this crude, cupidous brain.</p>
<p>"How do I know?" the man repeated. Nevertheless he dropped
watch and chain into his pocket, then with a meaning grimace
extended again his horny, greedy palm.</p>
<p>"What...?"</p>
<p>"Hand over th' two pound' and we'll go."</p>
<p>"I'll see you damned first!"</p>
<p>A flush of rage blinded the young man. The knowledge that
the <i>Alethea</i> was minute by minute slipping beyond his
reach seemed to madden him. White-lipped and ominously quiet he
rose from his seat on the combing, as, without answer, the
fisherman, crawling out on the overhand, began to haul in the
dory.</p>
<p>"Ashore ye go," he pronounced his ultimatum, motioning
Kirkwood to enter the boat.</p>
<p>The American turned, looking for the <i>Alethea</i>, or for
the vessel that he believed bore that name. She was nearing the
light-ship when he found her, and as he looked a squall blurred
the air between them, blotting the brigantine out with a smudge
of rain. The effect was as if she had vanished, as if she were
for ever snatched from his grasp; and with Dorothy aboard
her—Heaven alone knew in what need of him!</p>
<p>Mute and blind with despair and wrath, he turned upon the
man and caught him by the collar, forcing him out over the lip
of the overhang. They were unevenly matched, Kirkwood far the
slighter, but strength came to him in the crisis, physical
strength and address such as he had not dreamed was at his
command. And the surprise of his onslaught proved an ally of
unguessed potency. Before he himself knew it he was standing on
the overhang and had shifted his hold to seize the fellow about
the waist; then, lifting him clear of the deck, and aided by a
lurch of the cat-boat, he cast him bodily into the dory. The
man, falling, struck his head against one of the thwarts, a
glancing blow that stunned him temporarily. Kirkwood himself
dropped as if shot, a trailing reef-point slapping his cheek
until it stung as the boom thrashed overhead. It was as close a
call as he had known; the knowledge sickened him a little.</p>
<p>Without rising he worked the painter loose and cast the dory
adrift; then crawled back into the cockpit. No pang of
compassion disturbed him as he abandoned the fisherman to the
mercy of the sea; though the fellow lay still, uncouthly
distorted, in the bottom of the dory, he was in no danger; the
wind and waves together would carry the boat ashore.... For
that matter, the man was even then recovering, struggling to
sit up.</p>
<p>Crouching to avoid the boom, Kirkwood went forward to the
bows, and, grasping the mooring cable, drew it in, slipping
back into the cockpit to get a stronger purchase with his feet.
It was a struggle; the boat pulled sluggishly against the wind,
the cable inching in jealously. And behind him he could hear a
voice bellowing inarticulate menaces, and knew that in another
moment the fisherman would be at his oars. Frantically he
tugged and tore at the slimy rope, hauling with a will and a
prayer. It gave more readily, towards the end, but he seemed to
have fought with it for ages when at last the anchor tripped
and he got it in.</p>
<p>Immediately he leaped back to the stern, fitted in the
tiller, and seizing the mainsheet, drew the boom in till the
wind should catch in the canvas. In the dory the skipper,
bending at his oars, was not two yards astern.</p>
<p>He was hard aboard when, the sail filling with a bang,
Kirkwood pulled the tiller up; and the cat-boat slid away, a
dozen feet separating them in a breath.</p>
<p>A yell of rage boomed down the wind, but he paid no heed.
Careless alike of the dangers he had passed and those that
yawned before him, he trimmed the sheet and stood away on the
port tack, heading directly for the Nore Lightship.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XI">XI</a></h2>
<h3>OFF THE NORE</h3>
</center>
<p>Kirkwood's anger cooled apace; at worst it had been a flare
of passion—incandescent. It was seldom more. His brain
clearing, the temperature of his judgment quickly regained its
mean, and he saw his chances without distortion, weighed them
without exaggeration.</p>
<p>Leaning against the combing, feet braced upon the slippery
and treacherous deck, he clung to tiller and mainsheet and
peered ahead with anxious eyes, a pucker of daring graven deep
between his brows.</p>
<p>A mile to westward, three or more ahead, he could see the
brigantine standing close in under the Essex shore. At times
she was invisible; again he could catch merely the glint of her
canvas, white against the dark loom of the littoral, toned by a
mist of flying spindrift. He strained his eyes, watching for
the chance which would take place in the rake of her masts and
sails, when she should come about.</p>
<p>For the longer that manoeuver was deferred, the better was
his chance of attaining his object. It was a forlorn hope. But
in time the brigantine, to escape Maplin Sands, would be forced
to tack and stand out past the lightship, the wind off her port
bows. Then their courses would intersect. It remained to be
demonstrated whether the cat-boat was speedy enough to arrive
at this point of contact in advance of, or simultaneously with,
the larger vessel. Every minute that the putative
<i>Alethea</i> put off coming about brought the cat-boat nearer
that goal, but Kirkwood could do no more than hope and try to
trust in the fisherman's implied admission that it could be
done. It was all in the boat and the way she handled.</p>
<p>He watched her anxiously, quick to approve her merits as she
displayed them. He had sailed small craft before—frail
center-board cat-boats, handy and swift, built to serve in
summer winds and protected waters: never such an one as this.
Yet he liked her.</p>
<p>Deep bosomed she was, with no center-board, dependent on her
draught and heavy keel to hold her on the wind; stanch and
seaworthy, sheathed with stout plank and ribbed with seasoned
timber, designed to keep afloat in the wickedest weather brewed
by the foul-tempered German Ocean. Withal her lines were fine
and clean; for all her beam she was calculated to nose narrowly
into the wind and make a pretty pace as well. A good boat: he
had the grace to give the credit to his luck.</p>
<p>Her disposition was more fully disclosed as they drew away
from the beach. Inshore with shoaling water, the waves had been
choppy and spiteful but lacking force of weight. Farther out,
as the bottom fell away, the rollers became more uniform and
powerful; heavy sweeping seas met the cat-boat, from their
hollows looming mountainous to the man in the tiny cockpit; who
was nevertheless aware that to a steamer they would be
negligible.</p>
<p>His boat breasted them gallantly, toiling sturdily up the
steep acclivities, poising breathlessly on foam-crested summits
for dizzy instants, then plunging headlong down the deep green
swales; and left a boiling wake behind her,—urging ever
onward, hugging the wind in her wisp of blood-red sail, and
boring into it, pulling at the tiller with the mettle of a
race-horse slugging at the bit.</p>
<p>Offshore, too, the wind stormed with added strength, or,
possibly, had freshened. For minutes on end the leeward
gunwales would run green, and now and again the screaming,
pelting squalls that scoured the estuary would heel her over
until the water cascaded in over the lee combing, and the
rudder, lifted clear, would hang idle until, smitten by some
racing billow, the tiller would be all but torn from Kirkwood's
hands. Again and again this happened; and those were times of
trembling. But always the cat-boat righted, shaking the
clinging waters from her and swinging her stem into the wind
again; and there would follow an abbreviated breathing spell,
during which Kirkwood was at liberty to dash the salt spray
from his eyes and search the wind-harried waste for the
brigantine. Sometimes he found her, sometimes not.</p>
<p>Long after he had expected her to, she went about and they
began to close in upon each other. He could see that even with
shortened canvas she was staggering drunkenly under the fierce
impacts of the wind. For himself, it was nip-and-tuck, now, and
no man in his normal sense would have risked a sixpence on the
boat's chance to live until she crossed the brigantine's
bows.</p>
<p>Time out of reckoning he was forced to kneel in the swimming
cockpit, steering with one hand, using the bailing-dish with
the other, and keeping his eyes religiously turned to the
bellying patch of sail. It was heartbreaking toil; he began
reluctantly to concede that it could not last much longer. And
if he missed the brigantine he would be lost; mortal strength
was not enough to stand the unending strain upon every bone,
muscle and sinew, required to keep the boat upon her course;
though for a time it might cope with and solve the problems
presented by each new, malignant billow and each furious,
howling squall, the end inevitably must be failure. To struggle
on would be but to postpone the certain end ... save and except
the possibility of his gaining the brigantine within the period
of time strictly and briefly limited by his powers of
endurance.</p>
<p>Long since he had become numb with cold from incessant
drenchings of icy spray, that piled in over the windward
counter, keeping the bottom ankle-deep regardless of his
laborious but intermittent efforts with the bailing dish. And
the two, brigantine and cockle-shell, were drawing together
with appalling deliberation.</p>
<p>A dozen times he was on the point of surrender, as often
plucked up hope; as the minutes wore on and he kept above
water, he began to believe that if he could stick it out his
judgment and seamanship would be justified ... though human
ingenuity backed by generosity could by no means contrive
adequate excuse for his foolhardiness.</p>
<p>But that was aside, something irreparable. Wan and grim, he
fought it out.</p>
<p>But that his voice stuck in his parched throat, he could
have shouted in his elation, when eventually he gained the
point of intersection an eighth of a mile ahead of the
brigantine and got sight of her windward freeboard as, most
slowly, the cat-boat forged across her course.</p>
<p>For all that, the moment of his actual triumph was not yet;
he had still to carry off successfully a scheme that for sheer
audacity of conception and contempt for danger, transcended all
that had gone before.</p>
<p>Holding the cat-boat on for a time, he brought her about
handsomely a little way beyond the brigantine's course, and
hung in the eye of the wind, the leach flapping and tightening
with reports like rifle-shots, and the water sloshing about his
calves—bailing-dish now altogether out of mind—while he
watched the oncoming vessel, his eyes glistening with
anticipation.</p>
<p>She was footing it smartly, the brigantine—lying down to it
and snoring into the wind. Beneath her stem waves broke in
snow-white showers, whiter than the canvas of her bulging
jib—broke and, gnashing their teeth in impotent fury, swirled
and eddied down her sleek dark flanks. Bobbing, courtesying,
she plunged onward, shortening the interval with mighty,
leaping bounds. On her bows, with each instant, the golden
letters of her name grew larger and more legible
until—<i>Alethea</i>!—he could read it plain beyond
dispute.</p>
<p>Joy welled in his heart. He forgot all that he had undergone
in the prospect of what he proposed still to do in the name of
the only woman the world held for him. Unquestioning he had
come thus far in her service; unquestioning, by her side, he
was prepared to go still farther, though all humanity should
single her out with accusing fingers....</p>
<p>They were watching him, aboard the brigantine; he could see
a line of heads above her windward rail. Perhaps <i>she</i> was
of their number. He waved an audacious hand. Some one replied,
a great shout shattering itself unintelligibly against the
gale. He neither understood nor attempted to reply; his every
faculty was concentrated on the supreme moment now at hand.</p>
<p>Calculating the instant to a nicety, he paid off the sheet
and pulled up the tiller. The cat-boat pivoted on her heel;
with a crack her sail flapped full and rigid; then, with the
untempered might of the wind behind her, she shot like an arrow
under the brigantine's bows, so close that the bowsprit of the
latter first threatened to impale the sail, next, the bows
plunging, crashed down a bare two feet behind the cat-boat's
stern.</p>
<p>Working in a frenzy of haste, Kirkwood jammed the tiller
hard alee, bringing the cat about, and, trimming the mainsheet
as best he might, found himself racing under the brigantine's
leeward quarter,—water pouring in generously over the
cat's.</p>
<p>Luffing, he edged nearer, handling his craft as though
intending to ram the larger vessel, foot by foot shortening the
little interval. When it was four feet, he would risk the jump;
he crawled out on the overhang, crouching on his toes, one hand
light upon the tiller, the other touching the deck, ready ...
ready....</p>
<p>Abruptly the <i>Alethea</i> shut off the wind; the sail
flattened and the cat dropped back. In a second the distance
had doubled. In anguish Kirkwood uttered an exceeding bitter
cry. Already he was falling far off her counter....</p>
<p>A shout reached him. He was dimly conscious of a dark object
hurtling through the air. Into the cockpit, splashing,
something dropped—a coil of rope. He fell forward upon it,
into water eighteen inches deep; and for the first time
realized that, but for that line, he had gone to his drowning
in another minute. The cat was sinking.</p>
<p>As he scrambled to his feet, clutching the life-line, a
heavy wave washed over the water-logged craft and left it all
but submerged; and a smart tug on the rope added point to the
advice which, reaching his ears in a bellow like a bull's,
penetrated the panic of his wits.</p>
<p>"Jump! <i>Jump, you fool</i>!"</p>
<p>In an instant of coherence he saw that the brigantine was
luffing; none the less much of the line had already been paid
out, and there was no reckoning when the end would be reached.
Without time to make it fast, he hitched it twice round his
waist and chest, once round an arm, and, grasping it above his
head to ease its constriction when the tug should come, leaped
on the combing and overboard. A green roaring avalanche swept
down upon him and the luckless cat-boat, overwhelming both
simultaneously.</p>
<p>The agony that was his during the next few minutes can by no
means be exaggerated. With such crises the human mind is not
fitted adequately to cope; it retains no record of the supreme
moment beyond a vague and incoherent impression of poignant,
soul-racking suffering. Kirkwood underwent a prolonged interval
of semi-sentience, his mind dominated and oppressed by a
deathly fear of drowning and a deadening sense of suffocation,
with attendant tortures as of being broken on the wheel—limb
rending from limb; of compression of his ribs that threatened
momentarily to crush in his chest; of a world a-welter with dim
swirling green half-lights alternating with flashes of blinding
white; of thunderings in his ears like salvoes from a thousand
cannon....</p>
<p>And his senses were blotted out in blackness....</p>
<p>Then he was breathing once more, the keen clean air stabbing
his lungs, the while he swam unsupported in an ethereal void of
brilliance. His mouth was full of something that burned, a
liquid hot, acrid, and stinging. He gulped, swallowed,
slobbered, choked, coughed, attempted to sit up, was aware that
he was the focal center of a ring of glaring, burning eyes,
like eyes of ravening beasts; and fainted.</p>
<p>His next conscious impression was of standing up, supported
by friendly arms on either side, while somebody was asking him
if he could walk a step or two.</p>
<p>He lifted his head and let it fall in token of assent,
mumbling a yes; and looked round him with eyes wherein the
light of intelligence burned more clear with every second. By
degrees he catalogued and comprehended his weirdly altered
circumstances and surroundings.</p>
<p>He was partly seated, partly held up, on the edge of the
cabin sky-light, an object of interest to some half-dozen men,
seafaring fellows all, by their habit, clustered round between
him and the windward rail. Of their number one stood directly
before him, dwarfing his companions as much by his air of
command as by his uncommon height: tall, thin-faced and sallow,
with hollow weather-worn cheeks, a mouth like a crooked gash
from ear to ear, and eyes like dying coals, with which he
looked the rescued up and down in one grim, semi-humorous,
semi-speculative glance. In hands both huge and red he fondled
tenderly a squat brandy flask whose contents had apparently
been employed as a first aid to the drowning.</p>
<p>As Kirkwood's gaze encountered his, the man smiled sourly,
jerking his head to one side with a singularly derisive
air.</p>
<p>"Hi, matey!" he blustered. "'Ow goes it now? Feelin'
'appier, eigh?"</p>
<p><img src="illp222s.jpg"
width="600"
height="725"
border="0"
alt="'Hi, matey!' he blustered. ''Ow goes it now?'">
<p>"Some, thank you ... more like a drowned rat." Kirkwood eyed him
sheepishly. "I suppose you're the man who threw me that line? I'll have to
wait till my head clears up before I can thank you properly."</p>
<p>"Don't mention it." He of the lantern jaws stowed the bottle
away with jealous care in one of his immense coat pockets, and
seized Kirkwood's hand in a grasp that made the young man
wince. "You're syfe enough now. My nyme's Stryker, Capt'n
Wilyum Stryker.... Wot's the row? Lookin' for a friend?" he
demanded suddenly, as Kirkwood's attention wandered.</p>
<p>For the memory of the errand that had brought him into the
hands of Captain William Stryker had come to the young man very
suddenly; and his eager eyes were swiftly roving not along the
decks but the wide world besides, for sight or sign of his
heart's desire.</p>
<p>After luffing to pick him up, the brigantine had been again
pulled off on the port tack. The fury of the gale seemed rather
to have waxed than waned, and the <i>Alethea</i> was bending
low under the relentless fury of its blasts, driving hard, with
leeward channels awash. Under her port counter, a mile away,
the crimson light-ship wallowed in a riot of breaking combers.
Sheerness lay abeam, five miles or more. Ahead the northeast
headland of the Isle of Sheppey was bulking large and near. The
cat-boat had vanished....</p>
<p>More important still, no one aboard the brigantine resembled
in the remotest degree either of the Calendars, father or
daughter, or even Mulready, the black-avised.</p>
<p>"I sye, 're you lookin' for some one you know?"</p>
<p>"Yes—your passengers. I presume they're below—?"</p>
<p>"Passengers!"</p>
<p>A hush fell upon the group, during which Kirkwood sought
Stryker's eye in pitiful pleading; and Stryker looked round him
blankly.</p>
<p>"Where's Miss Calendar?" the young man demanded sharply. "I
must see her at once!"</p>
<p>The keen and deep-set eyes of the skipper clouded as they
returned to Kirkwood's perturbed countenance. "Wot're you
talking about?" he demanded brusquely.</p>
<p>"I must see Miss Calendar, or Calendar himself, or
Mulready." Kirkwood paused, and, getting no reply, grew restive
under Stryker's inscrutable regard.</p>
<p>"That's why I came aboard," he amended, blind to the
absurdity of the statement; "to see—er—Calendar."</p>
<p>"Well ... I'm damned!"</p>
<p>Stryker managed to infuse into his tone a deal of suspicious
contempt.</p>
<p>"Why?" insisted Kirkwood, nettled but still
uncomprehending.</p>
<p>"D'you mean to tell me you came off from—wherever in 'ell
you did come from—intendin' to board this wessel and find a
party nymed Calendar?"</p>
<p>"Certainly I did. Why—?"</p>
<p>"Well!" cried Mr. Stryker, rubbing his hands together with
an air oppressively obsequious, "I'm sorry to <i>hin</i>-form
you you've come to the wrong shop, sir; we don't stock no
Calendars. We're in the 'ardware line, we are. You might try
next door, or I dessay you'll find what you want at the
stytioner's, round the corner."</p>
<p>A giggle from his audience stimulated him. "If," he
continued acidly, "I'd a-guessed you was such a damn' fool,
blimmy if I wouldn't've let you drownd!"</p>
<p>Staggered, Kirkwood bore his sarcastic truculence without
resentment.</p>
<p>"Calendar," he stammered, trying to explain, "Calendar
<i>said</i>—"</p>
<p>"I carn't 'elp wot Calendar said. Mebbe 'e <i>did</i> myke
an engygement with you, an' you've gone and went an' forgot the
dyte. Mebbe it's larst year's calendar you're thinkin' of. You
Johnny" (to a lout of a boy in the group of seamen), "you run
an' fetch this gentleman Whitaker's for Nineteen-six. Look
sharp, now!"</p>
<p>"But—!" With an effort Kirkwood mustered up a show of
dignity. "Am I to understand," he said, as calmly as he could,
"that you deny knowing George B. Calendar and his daughter
Dorothy and—"</p>
<p>"I don't 'ave to. Listen to me, young man." For the time the
fellow discarded his clumsy facetiousness. "I'm Wilyum Stryker,
Capt'n Stryker, marster and 'arf-owner of this wessel, and wot
I says 'ere is law. We don't carry no passengers. D'ye
understand me?"—aggressively. "There ain't no pusson nymed
Calendar aboard the <i>Allytheer</i>, an' never was, an' never
will be!"</p>
<p>"What name did you say?" Kirkwood inquired.</p>
<p>"This ship? The <i>Allytheer</i>; registered from Liverpool;
bound from London to Hantwerp, in cargo. Anythink else?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood shook his head, turning to scan the seascape with a
gloomy gaze. As he did so, and remarked how close upon the
Sheppey headland the brigantine had drawn, the order was given
to go about. For the moment he was left alone, wretchedly wet,
shivering, wan and shrunken visibly with the knowledge that he
had dared greatly for nothing. But for the necessity of keeping
up before Stryker and his crew, the young man felt that he
could gladly have broken down and wept for sheer vexation and
disappointment.</p>
<p>Smartly the brigantine luffed and wore about, heeling deep
as she spun away on the starboard tack.</p>
<p>Kirkwood staggered round the skylight to the windward rail.
From this position, looking forward, he could see that they
were heading for the open sea, Foulness low over the port
quarter, naught before them but a brawling waste of
leaden-green and dirty white. Far out one of the sidewheel
boats of the Queensborough-Antwerp line was heading directly
into the wind and making heavy weather of it.</p>
<p>Some little while later, Stryker again approached him,
perhaps swayed by an unaccustomed impulse of compassion; which,
however, he artfully concealed. Blandly ironic, returning to
his impersonation of the shopkeeper, "Nothink else we can show
you, sir?" he inquired.</p>
<p>"I presume you couldn't put me ashore?" Kirkwood replied
ingenuously.</p>
<p>In supreme disgust the captain showed him his back. "'Ere,
you!" he called to one of the crew. "Tyke this awye—tyke 'im
below and put 'im to bed; give 'im a drink and dry 'is clo's.
Mebbe 'e'll be better when 'e wykes up. 'E don't talk sense
now, that's sure. If you arsk me, I sye 'e's balmy and no 'ope
for 'im."</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XII">XII</a></h2>
<h3>PICARESQUE PASSAGES</h3>
</center>
<p>Contradictory to the hopeful prognosis of Captain Stryker,
his unaccredited passenger was not "better" when, after a
period of oblivious rest indefinite in duration, he awoke. His
subsequent assumption of listless resignation, of pacific
acquiescence in the dictates of his destiny, was purely
deceptive—thin ice of despair over profound depths of
exasperated rebellion.</p>
<p>Blank darkness enveloped him when first he opened eyes to
wonder. Then gradually as he stared, piecing together
unassorted memories and striving to quicken drowsy wits, he
became aware of a glimmer that waxed and waned, a bar of pale
bluish light striking across the gloom above his couch; and by
dint of puzzling divined that this had access by a port.
Turning his head upon a stiff and unyielding pillow, he could
discern a streak of saffron light lining the sill of a doorway,
near by his side. The one phenomenon taken with the other
confirmed a theretofore somewhat hazy impression that his
dreams were dignified by a foundation of fact; that, in brief,
he was occupying a cabin-bunk aboard the good ship
<i>Alethea</i>.</p>
<p>Overhead, on the deck, a heavy thumping of hurrying feet
awoke him to keener perceptiveness.</p>
<p>Judging from the incessant rolling and pitching of the
brigantine, the crashing thunder of seas upon her sides, the
eldrich shrieking of the gale, as well as from the chorused
groans and plaints of each individual bolt and timber in the
frail fabric that housed his fortunes, the wind had
strengthened materially during his hours of
forgetfulness—however many the latter might have been.</p>
<p>He believed, however, that he had slept long, deeply and
exhaustively. He felt now a little emaciated mentally and
somewhat absent-bodied—so he put it to himself. A numb
languor, not unpleasant, held him passively supine, the while
he gave himself over to speculative thought.</p>
<p>A wild night, certainly; probably, by that time, the little
vessel was in the middle of the North Sea ... <i>bound for
Antwerp</i>!</p>
<p>"Oh-h," said Kirkwood vindictively, "<i>hell</i>!"</p>
<p>So he was bound for Antwerp! The first color of resentment
ebbing from his thoughts left him rather interested than
excited by the prospect. He found that he was neither pleased
nor displeased. He presumed that it would be no more difficult
to raise money on personal belongings in Antwerp than anywhere
else; it has been observed that the first flower of
civilization is the rum-blossom, the next, the conventionalized
fleur-de-lis of the money-lender. There would be pawnshops,
then, in Antwerp; and Kirkwood was confident that the sale or
pledge of his signet-ring, scarf-pin, match-box and cigar-case,
would provide him with money enough for a return to London, by
third-class, at the worst. There ... well, all events were on
the knees of the gods; he'd squirm out of his troubles,
somehow. As for the other matter, the Calendar affair, he
presumed he was well rid of it,—with a sigh of regret. It had
been a most enticing mystery, you know; and the woman in the
case was extraordinary, to say the least.</p>
<p>The memory of Dorothy Calendar made him sigh again, this
time more violently: a sigh that was own brother to (or at any
rate descended in a direct line from) the furnace sigh of the
lover described by, the melancholy Jaques. And he sat up,
bumped his head, groped round until his hand fell upon a
doorknob, opened the door, and looked out into the blowsy
emptiness of the ship's cabin proper, whose gloomy confines
were made visible only by the rays of a dingy and smoky lamp
swinging violently in gimbals from a deck-beam.</p>
<p>Kirkwood's clothing, now rough-dried and warped wretchedly
out of shape, had been thrown carelessly on a transom near the
door. He got up, collected them, and returning to his berth,
dressed at leisure, thinking heavily, disgruntled—in a humor
as evil as the after-taste of bad brandy in his mouth.</p>
<p>When dressed he went out into the cabin, closing the door
upon his berth, and for lack of anything better to do, seated
himself on the thwartships transom, against the forward
bulkhead, behind the table. Above his head a chronometer ticked
steadily and loudly, and, being consulted, told him that the
time of day was twenty minutes to four; which meant that he had
slept away some eighteen or twenty hours. That was a solid
spell of a rest, when he came to think of it, even allowing
that he had been unusually and pardonably fatigued when
conducted to his berth. He felt stronger now, and bright
enough—and enormously hungry into the bargain.</p>
<p>Abstractedly, heedless of the fact that his tobacco would be
water-soaked and ruined, he fumbled in his pockets for pipe and
pouch, thinking to soothe the pangs of hunger against
breakfast-time; which was probably two hours and a quarter
ahead. But his pockets were empty—every one of them. He
assimilated this discovery in patience and cast an eye about
the room, to locate, if possible, the missing property. But
naught of his was visible. So he rose and began a more
painstaking search.</p>
<p>The cabin was at once tiny, low-ceiled, and depressingly
gloomy. Its furniture consisted entirely in a chair or two,
supplementing the transoms and lockers as resting-places, and a
center-table covered with a cloth of turkey-red, whose original
aggressiveness had been darkly moderated by libations of
liquids, principally black coffee, and burnt offerings of
grease and tobacco-ash. Aside from the companion-way to the
deck, four doors opened into the room, two probably giving upon
the captain's and the mate's quarters, the others on pseudo
state-rooms—one of which he had just vacated—closets large
enough to contain a small bunk and naught beside. The bulkheads
and partitions were badly broken out with a rash of pictures
from illustrated papers, mostly offensive. Kirkwood was
interested to read a half-column clipping from a New York
yellow journal, descriptive of the antics of a drunken British
sailor who had somehow found his way to the bar-room of the
Fifth Avenue Hotel; the paragraph exploiting the fact that it
had required four policemen in addition to the corps of porters
to subdue him, was strongly underscored in red ink; and the
news-story wound up with the information that in police court
the man had given his name as William Stranger and cheerfully
had paid a fine of ten dollars, alleging his entertainment to
have been cheap at the price.</p>
<p>While Kirkwood was employed in perusing this illuminating
anecdote, eight bells sounded, and, from the commotion
overhead, the watch changed. A little later the companion-way
door slammed open and shut, and Captain Stryker—or Stranger;
whichever you please—fell down, rather than descended, the
steps.</p>
<p>Without attention to the American he rolled into the mate's
room and roused that personage. Kirkwood heard that the name of
the second-in-command was 'Obbs, as well as that he occupied
the starboard state-room aft. After a brief exchange of comment
and instruction, Mr. 'Obbs appeared in the shape of a walking
pillar of oil-skins capped by a sou'wester, and went on deck;
Stryker, following him out of the state-room, shed his own
oilers in a clammy heap upon the floor, opened a locker from
which he brought forth a bottle and a dirty glass, and, turning
toward the table, for the first time became sensible of
Kirkwood's presence.</p>
<p>"Ow, there you are, eigh, little bright-eyes!" he exclaimed
with surprised animation.</p>
<p>"Good morning, Captain Stryker," said Kirkwood, rising. "I
want to tell you—"</p>
<p>But Stryker waved one great red paw impatiently, with the
effect of sweeping aside and casting into the discard
Kirkwood's intended speech of thanks; nor would he hear him
further.</p>
<p>"Did you 'ave a nice little nap?" he interrupted. "Come up
bright and smilin', eigh? Now I guess"—the emphasis made it
clear that the captain believed himself to be employing an
Americanism; and so successful was he in his own esteem that he
could not resist the temptation to improve upon the
imitation—"Na-ow I guess yeou're abaout right ready, ben't ye,
to hev a drink, sonny?"</p>
<p>"No, thank you," said Kirkwood, smiling tolerantly. "I've
got any amount of appetite..."</p>
<p>"'Ave you, now?" Stryker dropped his mimicry and glanced at
the clock. "Breakfast," he announced, "will be served in the
myne dinin' saloon at eyght a. m. Passingers is requested not
to be lyte at tyble."</p>
<p>Depositing the bottle on the said table, the captain
searched until he found another glass for Kirkwood, and sat
down.</p>
<p>"Do you good," he insinuated, pushing the bottle gently
over.</p>
<p>"No, thank you," reiterated Kirkwood shortly, a little
annoyed.</p>
<p>Stryker seized his own glass, poured out a strong man's dose
of the fiery concoction, gulped it down, and sighed. Then, with
a glance at the American's woebegone countenance (Kirkwood was
contemplating a four-hour wait for breakfast, and,
consequently, looking as if he had lost his last friend), the
captain bent over, placing both hands palm down before him and
wagging his head earnestly.</p>
<p>"Please," he implored,—"Please don't let me hinterrupt;"
and filled his pipe, pretending a pensive detachment from his
company.</p>
<p>The fumes of burning shag sharpened the tooth of desire.
Kirkwood stood it as long as he could, then surrendered with
an: "If you've got any more of that tobacco, Captain, I'd be
glad of a pipe."</p>
<p>An intensely contemplative expression crept into the
captain's small blue eyes.</p>
<p>"I only got one other pyper of this 'ere 'baccy," he
announced at length, "and I carn't get no more till I gets
'ome. I simply couldn't part with it hunder 'arf a quid."</p>
<p>Kirkwood settled back with a hopeless lift of his shoulders.
Abstractedly Stryker puffed the smoke his way until he could
endure the deprivation no longer.</p>
<p>"I had about ten shillings in my pocket when I came aboard,
captain, and ... a few other articles."</p>
<p>"Ow, yes; so you 'ad, now you mention it."</p>
<p>Stryker rose, ambled into his room, and returned with
Kirkwood's possessions and a fresh paper of shag. While the
young man was hastily filling, lighting, and inhaling the first
strangling but delectable whiff, the captain solemnly counted
into his own palm all the loose change except three large
pennies. The latter he shoved over to Kirkwood in company with
a miscellaneous assortment of articles, which the American
picked up piece by piece and began to bestow about his
clothing. When through, he sat back, troubled and disgusted.
Stryker met his regard blandly.</p>
<p>"Anything I can do?" he inquired, in suave concern.</p>
<p>"Why ... there <i>was</i> a black pearl scarfpin—"</p>
<p>"W'y, don't you remember? You gave that to me, 'count of me
'avin syved yer life. 'Twas me throwed you that line, you
know."</p>
<p>"Oh," commented Kirkwood briefly. The pin had been among the
most valuable and cherished of his belongings.</p>
<p>"Yes," nodded the captain in reminiscence. "You don't
remember? Likely 'twas the brandy singing in yer 'ead. You
pushes it into my 'ands,—almost weepin', you was,—and sez,
sez you, 'Stryker,' you sez, 'tyke this in triflin' toking of
my gratichood; I wouldn't hinsult you,' you sez, 'by hofferin'
you money, but this I can insist on yer acceptin', and no
refusal,' says you."</p>
<p>"Oh," repeated Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"If I for a ninstant thought you wasn't sober when you done
it.... But no; you're a gent if there ever was one, and I'm not
the man to offend you."</p>
<p>"Oh, indeed."</p>
<p>The captain let the implication pass, perhaps on the
consideration that he could afford to ignore it; and said no
more. The pause held for several minutes, Kirkwood having
fallen into a mood of grave distraction. Finally Captain
Stryker thoughtfully measured out a second drink, limited only
by the capacity of the tumbler, engulfed it noisily, and got
up.</p>
<p>"Guess I'll be turnin' in," he volunteered affably, yawning
and stretching.</p>
<p>"I was about to ask you to do me a service...." began
Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"Yes?"—with the rising inflection of mockery.</p>
<p>Kirkwood quietly produced his cigar-case, a gold match-box,
gold card-case, and slipped a signet ring from his finger.
"Will you buy these?" he asked. "Or will you lend me five
pounds and hold them as security?"</p>
<p>Stryker examined the collection with exaggerated interest
strongly tinctured with mistrust. "I'll buy 'em," he offered
eventually, looking up.</p>
<p>"That's kind of you—"</p>
<p>"Ow, they ain't much use to me, but Bill Stryker's allus
willin' to accommodate a friend.... Four quid, you said?"</p>
<p>"Five...."</p>
<p>"They ain't wuth over four to me."</p>
<p>"Very well; make it four," Kirkwood assented
contemptuously.</p>
<p>The captain swept the articles into one capacious fist,
pivoted on one heel at the peril of his neck, and lumbered
unsteadily off to his room. Pausing at the door he turned back
in inquiry.</p>
<p>"I sye, 'ow did you come to get the impression there was a
party named Almanack aboard this wessel?"</p>
<p>"Calendar—"</p>
<p>"'Ave it yer own wye," Stryker conceded gracefully.</p>
<p>"There isn't, is there?"</p>
<p>"You 'eard me."</p>
<p>"Then," said Kirkwood sweetly, "I'm sure you wouldn't be
interested."</p>
<p>The captain pondered this at leisure. "You seemed pretty
keen abaht seein' 'im," he remarked conclusively.</p>
<p>"I was."</p>
<p>"Seems to me I did 'ear the nyme sumw'eres afore." The
captain appeared to wrestle with an obdurate memory. "Ow!" he
triumphed. "I know. 'E was a chap up Manchester wye. Keeper in
a loonatic asylum, 'e was. 'That yer party?"</p>
<p>"No," said Kirkwood wearily.</p>
<p>"I didn't know but mebbe 'twas. Excuse me. 'Thought as 'ow
mebbe you'd escyped from 'is tender care, but, findin' the
world cold, chynged yer mind and wanted to gow back."</p>
<p>Without waiting for a reply he lurched into his room and
banged the door to. Kirkwood, divided between amusement and
irritation, heard him stumbling about for some time; and then a
hush fell, grateful enough while it lasted; which was not long.
For no sooner did the captain sleep than a penetrating snore
added itself unto the cacophony of waves and wind and tortured
ship.</p>
<p>Kirkwood, comforted at first by the blessed tobacco, lapsed
insensibly into dreary meditations. Coming after the swift
movement and sustained excitement of the eighteen hours
preceding his long sleep, the monotony of shipboard confinement
seemed irksome to a maddening degree. There was absolutely
nothing he could discover to occupy his mind. If there were
books aboard, none was in evidence; beyond the report of Mr.
Stranger's Manhattan night's entertainment the walls were
devoid of reading matter; and a round of the picture gallery
proved a diversion weariful enough when not purely
revolting.</p>
<p>Wherefore Mr. Kirkwood stretched himself out on the transom
and smoked and reviewed his adventures in detail and seriatim,
and was by turns indignant, sore, anxious on his own account as
well as on Dorothy's, and out of all patience with himself.
Mystified he remained throughout, and the edge of his curiosity
held as keen as ever, you may believe.</p>
<p>Consistently the affair presented itself to his fancy in the
guise of a puzzle-picture, which, though you study it never so
diligently, remains incomprehensible, until by chance you view
it from an unexpected angle, when it reveals itself
intelligibly. It had not yet been his good fortune to see it
from the right viewpoint. To hold the metaphor, he walked
endless circles round it, patiently seeking, but ever failing
to find the proper perspective.... Each incident, however
insignificant, in connection with it, he handled over and over,
examining its every facet, bright or dull, as an expert might
inspect a clever imitation of a diamond; and like a perfect
imitation it defied analysis.</p>
<p>Of one or two things he was convinced; for one, that Stryker
was a liar worthy of classification with Calendar and Mrs.
Hallam. Kirkwood had not only the testimony of his sense to
assure him that the ship's name, <i>Alethea</i> (not a common
one, by the bye), had been mentioned by both Calendar and
Mulready during their altercation on Bermondsey Old Stairs, but
he had the confirmatory testimony of the sleepy waterman,
William, who had directed Old Bob and Young William to the
anchorage off Bow Creek. That there should have been two
vessels of the same unusual name at one and the same time in
the Port of London, was a coincidence too preposterous
altogether to find place in his calculations.</p>
<p>His second impregnable conclusion was that those whom he
sought had boarded the <i>Alethea</i>, but had left her before
she tripped her anchor. That they were not stowed away aboard
her seemed unquestionable. The brigantine was hardly large
enough for the presence of three persons aboard her to be long
kept a secret from an inquisitive fourth,—unless, indeed, they
lay in hiding in the hold; for which, once the ship got under
way, there could be scant excuse. And Kirkwood did not believe
himself a person of sufficient importance in Calendar's eyes,
to make that worthy endure the discomforts of a'tween-decks
imprisonment throughout the voyage, even to escape
recognition.</p>
<p>With every second, then, he was traveling farther from her
to whose aid he had rushed, impelled by motives so hot-headed,
so innately, chivalric, so unthinkingly gallant, so
exceptionally idiotic!</p>
<p>Idiot! Kirkwood groaned with despair of his inability to
fathom the abyss of his self-contempt. There seemed to be
positively no excuse for <i>him</i>. Stryker had befriended him
indeed, had he permitted him to drown. Yet he had acted for the
best, as he saw it. The fault lay in himself: an admirable
fault, that of harboring and nurturing generous and
compassionate instincts. But, of course, Kirkwood couldn't see
it that way.</p>
<p>"What else could I do?" he defended himself against the
indictment of common sense. "I couldn't leave her to the
mercies of that set of rogues!... And Heaven knows I was given
every reason to believe she would be aboard this ship! Why, she
herself told me that she was sailing ...!"</p>
<p>Heaven knew, too, that this folly of his had cost him a
pretty penny, first and last. His watch was gone beyond
recovery, his homeward passage forfeited; he no longer harbored
illusions as to the steamship company presenting him with
another berth in lieu of that called for by that water-soaked
slip of paper then in his pocket—courtesy of Stryker. He had
sold for a pittance, a tithe of its value, his personal
jewelry, and had spent every penny he could call his own. With
the money Stryker was to give him he would be able to get back
to London and his third-rate hostelry, but not with enough over
to pay that one week's room-rent, or ...</p>
<p>"Oh, the devil!" he groaned, head in hands.</p>
<p>The future loomed wrapped in unspeakable darkness, lightened
by no least ray of hope. It had been bad enough to lose a
comfortable living through a gigantic convulsion of Nature; but
to think that he had lost all else through his own egregious
folly, to find himself reduced to the kennels—!</p>
<p>So Care found him again in those weary hours,—came and sat
by his side, slipping a grisly hand in his and tightening its
grip until he could have cried out with the torment of it; the
while whispering insidiously subtile, evil things in his ear.
And he had not even Hope to comfort him; at any previous stage
he had been able to distil a sort of bitter-sweet satisfaction
from the thought that he was suffering for the love of his
life. But now—now Dorothy was lost, gone like the glamour of
Romance in the searching light of day.</p>
<p>Stryker, emerging from his room for breakfast, found the
passenger with a hostile look in his eye and a jaw set in ugly
fashion. His eyes, too, were the abiding-place of smoldering
devils; and the captain, recognizing them, considerately
forbore to stir them up with any untimely pleasantries. To be
sure, he was autocrat in his own ship, and Kirkwood's standing
aboard was <i>nil</i>; but then there was just enough yellow in
the complexion of Stryker's soul to incline him to sidestep
trouble whenever feasible. And besides, he entertained dark
suspicions of his guest—suspicions he scarce dared voice even
to his inmost heart.</p>
<p>The morning meal, therefore, passed off in constrained
silence. The captain ate voraciously and vociferously, pushed
back his chair, and went on deck to relieve the mate. The
latter, a stunted little Cockney with a wizened countenance and
a mind as foul as his tongue, got small change of his attempts
to engage the passenger in conversation on topics that he
considered fit for discussion. After the sixth or eighth
snubbing he rose in dudgeon, discharged a poisonous bit of
insolence, and retired to his berth, leaving Kirkwood to finish
his breakfast in peace; which the latter did literally, to the
last visible scrap of food and the ultimate drop of coffee,
poor as both were in quality.</p>
<p>To the tune of a moderating wind, the morning wearied away.
Kirkwood went on deck once, for distraction from the
intolerable monotony of it all, got a sound drenching of spray,
with a glimpse of a dark line on the eastern horizon, which he
understood to be the low littoral of Holland, and was glad to
dodge below once more and dry himself.</p>
<p>He had the pleasure of the mate's company at dinner, the
captain remaining on deck until Hobbs had finished and gone up
to relieve him; and by that time Kirkwood likewise was
through.</p>
<p>Stryker blew down with a blustery show of cheer. "Well,
well, my little man!" (It happened that he topped Kirkwood's
stature by at least five inches.) "Enj'yin' yer sea trip?"</p>
<p>"About as much as you'd expect," snapped Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"Ow?" The captain began to shovel food into his face. (The
author regrets he has at his command no more delicate
expression that is literal and illustrative.) Kirkwood watched
him, fascinated with suspense; it seemed impossible that the
man could continue so to employ his knife without cutting his
throat from the inside. But years of such manipulation had made
him expert, and his guest, keenly disappointed, at length
ceased to hope.</p>
<p>Between gobbles Stryker eyed him furtively.</p>
<p>"'Treat you all right?" he demanded abruptly.</p>
<p>Kirkwood started out of a brown study. "What? Who? Why, I
suppose I ought to be—indeed, I <i>am</i> grateful," he
asserted. "Certainly you saved my life, and—"</p>
<p>"Ow, I don't mean that." Stryker gathered the imputation
into his paw and flung it disdainfully to the four winds of
Heaven. "Bless yer 'art, you're welcome; I wouldn't let no dorg
drownd, 'f I could 'elp it. No," he declared, "nor a loonatic,
neither."</p>
<p>He thrust his plate away and shifted sidewise in his chair.
"I 'uz just wonderin'," he pursued, picking his teeth
meditatively with a pen-knife, "'ow they feeds you in them
<i>as</i>-ylums. 'Avin' never been inside one, myself, it's
on'y natural I'd be cur'us.... There was one of them
institootions near where I was borned—Birming'am, that is. I
used to see the loonies playin' in the grounds. I remember
<i>just</i> as well!... One of 'em and me struck up quite an
acquaintance—"</p>
<p>"Naturally he'd take to you on sight."</p>
<p>"Ow? Strynge 'ow <i>we</i> 'it it off, eigh?... You myke me
think of 'im. Young chap, 'e was, the livin' spi't-'n-himage of
you. It don't happen, does it, you're the same man?"</p>
<p>"Oh, go to the devil!"</p>
<p>"Naughty!" said the captain serenely, wagging a reproving
forefinger. "Bad, naughty word. You'll be sorry when you find
out wot it means.... Only 'e was allus plannin' to run awye and
drownd 'is-self."...</p>
<p>He wore the joke threadbare, even to his own taste, and in
the end got heavily to his feet, starting for the companionway.
"Land you this arternoon," he remarked casually, "come three
o'clock or thereabahts. Per'aps later. I don't know, though, as
I 'ad ought to let you loose."</p>
<p>Kirkwood made no answer. Chuckling, Stryker went on
deck.</p>
<p>In the course of an hour the American followed him.</p>
<p>Wind and sea alike had gone down wonderfully since
daybreak—a circumstance undoubtedly in great part due to the
fact that they had won in under the lee of the mainland and
were traversing shallower waters. On either hand, like mist
upon the horizon, lay a streak of gray, a shade darker than the
gray of the waters. The <i>Alethea</i> was within the wide jaws
of the Western Scheldt. As for the wind, it had shifted several
points to the northwards; the brigantine had it abeam and was
lying down to it and racing to port with slanting deck and
singing cordage.</p>
<p>Kirkwood approached the captain, who, acting as his own
pilot, was standing by the wheel and barking sharp orders to
the helmsman.</p>
<p>"Have you a Bradshaw on board?" asked the young man.</p>
<p>"Steady!" This to the man at the wheel; then to Kirkwood:
"Wot's that, me lud?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood repeated his question. Stryker eyed him
suspiciously for a thought.</p>
<p>"Wot d'you want it for?"</p>
<p>"I want to see when I can get a boat back to England."</p>
<p>"Hmm.... Yes, you'll find a Bradshaw in the port-locker,
near the for'ard bulk'ead. Run along now and pl'y—and mind you
don't go tearin' out the pyges to myke pyper boatses to go
sylin' in."</p>
<p>Kirkwood went below. Like its adjacent rooms, the cabin was
untenanted; the watch was the mate's, and Stryker a martinet.
Kirkwood found the designated locker and, opening it, saw first
to his hand the familiar bulky red volume with its red garter.
Taking it out he carried it to a chair near the companionway,
for a better reading light: the skylight being still battened
down.</p>
<p>The strap removed, the book opened easily, as if by force of
habit, at the precise table he had wished to consult; some
previous client had left a marker between the pages,—and not
an ordinary book-mark, by any manner of means. Kirkwood gave
utterance to a little gasp of amazement, and instinctively
glanced up at the companionway, to see if he were observed.</p>
<p>He was not, but for safety's sake he moved farther back into
the cabin and out of the range of vision of any one on deck; a
precaution which was almost immediately justified by the
clumping of heavy feet upon the steps as Stryker descended in
pursuit of the ever-essential drink.</p>
<p>"'Find it?" he demanded, staring blindly—with eyes not yet
focused to the change from light to gloom—at the young man,
who was sitting with the guide open on his knees, a tightly
clenched fist resting on the transom at either side of him.</p>
<p>In reply he received a monosyllabic affirmative; Kirkwood
did not look up.</p>
<p>"You must be a howl," commented the captain, making for the
seductive locker.</p>
<p>"A—what?"</p>
<p>"A howl, readin' that fine print there in the dark. W'y
don't you go over to the light?... I'll 'ave to 'ave them
shutters tyken off the winders." This was Stryker's amiable
figure of speech, frequently employed to indicate the coverings
of the skylight.</p>
<p>"I'm all right." Kirkwood went on studying the book.</p>
<p>Stryker swigged off his rum and wiped his lips with the back
of a red paw, hesitating a moment to watch his guest.</p>
<p>"Mykes it seem more 'ome-like for you, I expect," he
observed.</p>
<p>"What do you mean?"</p>
<p>"W'y, Bradshaw's first-cousin to a halmanack, ain't 'e?
Can't get one, take t'other—next best thing. Sorry I didn't
think of it sooner; like my passengers to feel comfy.... Now
don't you go trapsein' off to gay Paree and squanderin' wot
money you got left. You 'ear?"</p>
<p>"By the way, Captain!" Kirkwood looked up at this, but
Stryker was already half-way up the companion.</p>
<p>Cautiously the American opened his right fist and held to
the light that which had been concealed, close wadded in his
grasp,—a square of sheer linen edged with lace, crumpled but
spotless, and diffusing in the unwholesome den a faint,
intangible fragrance, the veriest wraith of that elusive
perfume which he would never again inhale without instantly
recalling that night ride through London in the intimacy of a
cab.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes and saw her again, as clearly as though
she stood before him,—hair of gold massed above the forehead
of snow, curling in adorable tendrils at the nape of her neck,
lips like scarlet splashed upon the immaculate whiteness of her
skin, head poised audaciously in its spirited, youthful allure,
dark eyes smiling the least trace sadly beneath the level
brows.</p>
<p>Unquestionably the handkerchief was hers; if proof other
than the assurance of his heart were requisite, he had it in
the initial delicately embroidered in one corner: a D, for
Dorothy!... He looked again, to make sure; then hastily folded
up the treasure-trove and slipped it into a breast pocket of
his coat.</p>
<p>No; I am not sure that it was not the left-hand pocket.</p>
<p>Quivering with excitement he bent again over the book and
studied it intently. After all, he had not been wrong! He could
assert now, without fear of refutation, that Stryker had
lied.</p>
<p>Some one had wielded an industrious pencil on the page. It
was, taken as a whole, fruitful of clues. Its very heading was
illuminating:</p>
<p>LONDON to VLISSINGEN (FLUSHING) AND BREDA;</p>
<p>which happened to be the quickest and most direct route
between London and Antwerp. Beneath it, in the second column
from the right, the pencil had put a check-mark against:</p>
<p>QUEENSBOROUGH ... DEP ... 11a10.</p>
<p>And now he saw it clearly—dolt that he had been not to have
divined it ere this! The <i>Alethea</i> had run in to
Queensborough, landing her passengers there, that they might
make connection with the eleven-ten morning boat for
Flushing,—the very side-wheel steamer, doubtless, which he had
noticed beating out in the teeth of the gale just after the
brigantine had picked him up. Had he not received the passing
impression that the <i>Alethea</i>, when first he caught sight
of her, might have been coming out of the Medway, on whose
eastern shore is situate Queensborough Pier? Had not Mrs.
Hallam, going upon he knew not what information or belief, been
bound for Queensborough, with design there to intercept the
fugitives?</p>
<p>Kirkwood chuckled to recall how, all unwittingly, he had
been the means of diverting from her chosen course that acute
and resourceful lady; then again turned his attention to the
tables.</p>
<p>A third check had been placed against the train for
Amsterdam scheduled to leave Antwerp at 6:32 p. m. Momentarily
his heart misgave him, when he saw this, in fear lest Calendar
and Dorothy should have gone on from Antwerp the previous
evening; but then he rallied, discovering that the boat-train
from Flushing did not arrive at Antwerp till after ten at
night; and there was no later train thence for Amsterdam. Were
the latter truly their purposed destination, they would have
stayed overnight and be leaving that very evening on the 6:32.
On the other hand, why should they wait for the latest train,
rather than proceed by the first available in the morning? Why
but because Calendar and Mulready were to wait for Stryker to
join them on the <i>Alethea</i>?</p>
<p>Very well, then; if the wind held and Stryker knew his
business, there would be another passenger on that train, in
addition to the Calendar party.</p>
<p>Making mental note of the fact that the boat-train for
Flushing and London was scheduled to leave Antwerp daily at
8:21 p. m., Kirkwood rustled the leaves to find out whether or
not other tours had been planned, found evidences of none, and
carefully restored the guide to the locker, lest inadvertently
the captain should pick it up and see what Kirkwood had
seen.</p>
<p>An hour later he went on deck. The skies had blown clear and
the brigantine was well in land-bound waters and still footing
a rattling pace. The river-banks had narrowed until, beyond the
dikes to right and left, the country-side stretched wide and
flat, a plain of living green embroidered with winding roads
and quaint Old-World hamlets whose red roofs shone like dull
fire between the dark green foliage of dwarfed firs.</p>
<p>Down with the Scheldt's gray shimmering flood were drifting
little companies of barges, sturdy and snug both fore and aft,
tough tanned sails burning in the afternoon sunlight. A long
string of canal-boats, potted plants flowering saucily in their
neatly curtained windows, proprietors expansively smoking on
deck, in the bosoms of their very large families, was being
mothered up-stream by two funny, clucking tugs. Behind the
brigantine a travel-worn Atlantic liner was scolding itself
hoarse about the right of way. Outward bound, empty cattle
boats, rough and rusty, were swaggering down to the sea, with
the careless, independent thumbs-in-armholes air of so many
navvies off the job.</p>
<p>And then lifting suddenly above the level far-off sky-line,
there appeared a very miracle of beauty; the delicate tracery
of the great Cathedral's spire of frozen lace, glowing like a
thing of spun gold, set against the sapphire velvet of the
horizon.</p>
<p>Antwerp was in sight.</p>
<p>A troublesome care stirring in his mind, Kirkwood looked
round the deck; but Stryker was very busy, entirely too
preoccupied with the handling of his ship to be interrupted
with impunity. Besides, there was plenty of time.</p>
<p>More slowly now, the wind falling, the brigantine crept up
the river, her crew alert with sheets and halyards as the
devious windings of the stream rendered it necessary to trim
the canvas at varying angles to catch the wind.</p>
<p>Slowly, too, in the shadow of that Mechlin spire, the
horizon grew rough and elevated, taking shape in the serrated
profile of a thousand gables and a hundred towers and
cross-crowned steeples.</p>
<p>Once or twice, more and more annoyed as the time of their
association seemed to grow more brief, Kirkwood approached the
captain; but Stryker continued to be exhaustively absorbed in
the performance of his duties.</p>
<p>Up past the dockyards, where spidery masts stood in dense
groves about painted funnels, and men swarmed over huge wharves
like ants over a crust of bread; up and round the final, great
sweeping bend of the river, the <i>Alethea</i> made her sober
way, ever with greater slowness; until at length, in the rose
glow of a flawless evening, her windlass began to clank like a
mad thing and her anchor bit the riverbed, near the left bank,
between old Forts Isabelle and Tête de Flandre, frowned
upon from the right by the grim pile of the age-old Steen
castle.</p>
<p>And again Kirkwood sought Stryker, his carking query ready
on his lips. But the captain impatiently waved him aside.</p>
<p>"Don't you bother me now, me lud juke! Wyte until I gets
done with the custom hofficer."</p>
<p>Kirkwood acceded, perforce; and bided his time with what
tolerance he could muster.</p>
<p>A pluttering customs launch bustled up to the
<i>Alethea's</i> side, discharged a fussy inspector on the
brigantine's deck, and panted impatiently until he, the
examination concluded without delay, was again aboard.</p>
<p>Stryker, smirking benignly and massaging his lips with the
back of his hand, followed the official on deck, nodded to
Kirkwood an intimation that he was prepared to accord him an
audience, and strolled forward to the waist. The American,
mastering his resentment, meekly followed; one can not well
afford to be haughty when one is asking favors.</p>
<p>Advancing to the rail, the captain whistled in one of the
river-boats; then, while the waterman waited, faced his
passenger.</p>
<p>"Now, yer r'yal 'ighness, wot can I do for you afore you
goes ashore?"</p>
<p>"I think you must have forgotten," said Kirkwood quietly. "I
hate to trouble you, but—there's that matter of four
pounds."</p>
<p>Stryker's face was expressive only of mystified vacuity.
"Four quid? I dunno <i>as</i> I know just wot you means."</p>
<p>"You agreed to advance me four pounds on those things of
mine...."</p>
<p>"Ow-w!" Illumination overspread the hollow-jowled
countenance. Stryker smiled cheerfully. "Garn with you!" he
chuckled. "You will 'ave yer little joke, won't you now? I
declare I never see a loony with such affecsh'nit, pl'yful
wyes!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood's eyes narrowed. "Stryker," he said steadily, "give
me the four pounds and let's have no more nonsense; or else
hand over my things at once."</p>
<p>"Daffy," Stryker told vacancy, with conviction. "Lor' luv me
if I sees 'ow he ever 'ad sense enough to escype. W'y, yer
majesty!" and he bowed, ironic. "I '<i>ave</i> given you yer
quid."</p>
<p>"Just about as much as I gave you that pearl pin," retorted
Kirkwood hotly. "What the devil do you mean—"</p>
<p>"W'y, yer ludship, four pounds jus pyes yer passyge; I
thought you understood."</p>
<p>"My passage! But I can come across by steamer for thirty
shillings, first-class—"</p>
<p>"Aw, but them steamers! Tricky, they is, and unsyfe ... No,
yer gryce, the W. Stryker Packet Line Lim'ted, London to
Antwerp, charges four pounds per passyge and no reduction for
return fare."</p>
<p>Stunned by his effrontery, Kirkwood stared in silence.</p>
<p>"Any complynts," continued the captain, looking over
Kirkwood's head, "must be lyde afore the Board of Directors in
writin' not more'n thirty dyes arfter—"</p>
<p>"You damned scoundrel!" interpolated Kirkwood
thoughtfully.</p>
<p>Stryker's mouth closed with a snap; his features froze in a
cast of wrath; cold rage glinted in his small blue eyes. "W'y,"
he bellowed, "you bloomin' loonatic, d'ye think you can sye
that to Bill Stryker on 'is own wessel!"</p>
<p>He hesitated a moment, then launched a heavy fist at
Kirkwood's face. Unsurprised, the young man side-stepped,
caught the hard, bony wrist as the captain lurched by,
following his wasted blow, and with a dexterous twist laid him
flat on his back, with a sounding thump upon the deck. And as
the infuriated scamp rose—which he did with a bound that
placed him on his feet and in defensive posture; as though the
deck had been a spring-board—Kirkwood leaped back, seized a
capstan-bar, and faced him with a challenge.</p>
<p>"Stand clear, Stryker!" he warned the man tensely, himself
livid with rage. "If you move a step closer I swear I'll knock
the head off your shoulders! Not another inch, you contemptible
whelp, or I'll brain you!... That's better," he continued as
the captain, caving, dropped his fists and moved uneasily back.
"Now give that boatman money for taking me ashore. Yes, I'm
going—and if we ever meet again, take the other side of the
way, Stryker!"</p>
<p>Without response, a grim smile wreathing his thin, hard
lips, Stryker thrust one hand into his pocket, and withdrawing
a coin, tossed it to the waiting waterman. Whereupon Kirkwood
backed warily to the rail, abandoned the capstan-bar and
dropped over the side.</p>
<p>Nodding to the boatman, "The Steen landing—quickly," he
said in French.</p>
<p>Stryker, recovering, advanced to the rail and waved him a
derisive <i>bon voyage</i>.</p>
<p>"By-by, yer hexcellency. I 'opes it may soon be my pleasure
to meet you again. You've been a real privilege to know; I've
henjoyed yer comp'ny somethin' immense. Don't know as I ever
met such a rippin', Ay Number One, all-round, entertynin' ass,
afore!"</p>
<p>He fumbled nervously about his clothing, brought to light a
rag of cotton, much the worse for service, and ostentatiously
wiped from the corner of each eye tears of grief at parting.
Then, as the boat swung toward the farther shore, Kirkwood's
back was to the brigantine, and he was little tempted to turn
and invite fresh shafts of ridicule.</p>
<p>Rapidly, as he was ferried across the busy Scheldt, the
white blaze of his passion cooled; but the biting irony of his
estate ate, corrosive, into his soul. Hollow-eyed he glared
vacantly into space, pale lips unmoving, his features wasted
with despair.</p>
<p>They came to the landing-stage and swung broad-side on.
Mechanically the American got up and disembarked. As heedless
of time and place he moved up the Quai to the gangway and so
gained the esplanade; where pausing he thrust a trembling hand
into his trouser pocket.</p>
<p>The hand reappeared, displaying in its outspread palm three
big, round, brown, British pennies. Staring down at them,
Kirkwood's lips moved.</p>
<p>"Bed rock!" he whispered huskily.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XIII">XIII</a></h2>
<h3>A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME</h3>
</center>
<p>Without warning or presage the still evening air was smitten
and made softly musical by the pealing of a distant chime,
calling vespers to its brothers in Antwerp's hundred belfries;
and one by one, far and near, the responses broke out, until it
seemed as if the world must be vibrant with silver and brazen
melody; until at the last the great bells in the Cathedral
spire stirred and grumbled drowsily, then woke to such ringing
resonance as dwarfed all the rest and made it seem as
nothing.</p>
<p>Like the beating of a mighty heart heard through the rushing
clamor of the pulses, a single deep-throated bell boomed
solemnly six heavy, rumbling strokes.</p>
<p>Six o'clock! Kirkwood roused out of his dour brooding. The
Amsterdam express would leave at 6:32, and he knew not from
what station.</p>
<p>Striding swiftly across the promenade, he entered a small
tobacco shop and made inquiry of the proprietress. His command
of French was tolerable; he experienced no difficulty in
comprehending the good woman's instructions.</p>
<p>Trains for Amsterdam, she said, left from the Gare Centrale,
a mile or so across the city. M'sieur had plenty of time, and
to spare. There was the tram line, if m'sieur did not care to
take a fiacre. If he would go by way of the Vielle Bourse he
would discover the tram cars of the Rue Kipdorp. M'sieur was
most welcome....</p>
<p>Monsieur departed with the more haste since he was unable to
repay this courtesy with the most trifling purchase; such
slight matters annoyed Kirkwood intensely. Perhaps it was well
for him that he had the long walk to help him work off the fit
of nervous exasperation into which he was plunged every time
his thoughts harked back to that jovial black-guard,
Stryker.... He was quite calm when, after a brisk walk of some
fifteen minutes, he reached the station.</p>
<p>A public clock reassured him with the information that he
had the quarter of an hour's leeway; it was only seventeen
minutes past eighteen o'clock (Belgian railway time, always
confusing). Inquiring his way to the Amsterdam train, which was
already waiting at the platform, he paced its length, peering
brazenly in at the coach windows, now warm with hope, now
shivering with disappointment, realizing as he could not but
realize that, all else aside, his only chance of rehabilitation
lay in meeting Calendar. But in none of the coaches or
carriages did he discover any one even remotely resembling the
fat adventurer, his daughter, or Mulready.</p>
<p>Satisfied that they had not yet boarded the train, he stood
aside, tortured with forebodings, while anxiously scrutinizing
each individual of the throng of intending travelers....
Perhaps they had been delayed—by the <i>Alethea's</i> lateness
in making port very likely; perhaps they purposed taking not
this but a later train; perhaps they had already left the city
by an earlier, or had returned to England.</p>
<p>On time, the bell clanged its warning; the guards bawled
theirs; doors were hastily opened and slammed; the trucks began
to groan, couplings jolting as the engine chafed in constraint.
The train and Kirkwood moved simultaneously out of opposite
ends of the station, the one to rattle and hammer round the
eastern boundaries of the city and straighten out at top speed
on the northern route for the Belgian line, the other to stroll
moodily away, idle hands in empty pockets, bound aimlessly
anywhere—it didn't matter!</p>
<p>Nothing whatever mattered in the smallest degree. Ere now
the outlook had been dark; but this he felt to be the absolute
nadir of his misfortunes. Presently—after a while—as soon as
he could bring himself to it—he would ask the way and go to
the American Consulate. But just now, low as the tide of chance
had ebbed, leaving him stranded on the flats of vagabondage,
low as showed the measure of his self-esteem, he could not
tolerate the prospect of begging for assistance—help which
would in all likelihood be refused, since his story was quite
too preposterous to gain credence in official ears that daily
are filled with the lamentations of those whose motives do not
bear investigation. And if he chose to eliminate the strange
chain of events which had landed him in Antwerp, to base his
plea solely on the fact that he was a victim of the San
Francisco disaster ... he himself was able to smile, if sourly,
anticipating the incredulous consular smile with which he would
be shown the door.</p>
<p>No; that he would reserve as a last resort. True, he had
already come to the Jumping-off Place; to the Court of the Last
Resort alone could he now appeal. But ... not yet; after a
while he could make his petition, after he had made a familiar
of the thought that he must armor himself with callous
indifference to rebuff, to say naught of the waves of burning
shame that would overwhelm him when he came to the point of
asking charity.</p>
<p>He found himself, neither knowing nor caring how he had won
thither, in the Place Verte, the vast venerable pile of the
Cathedral rising on his right, hotels and quaint Old-World
dwellings with peaked roofs and gables and dormer windows,
inclosing the other sides of the square. The chimes (he could
hear none but those of the Cathedral) were heralding the hour
of seven. Listless and preoccupied in contemplation of his
wretched case he wandered purposelessly half round the square,
then dropped into a bench on its outskirts.</p>
<p>It was some time later that he noticed, with a casual,
indifferent eye, a porter running out of the Hôtel de
Flandre, directly opposite, and calling a fiacre in to the
carriage block.</p>
<p>As languidly he watched a woman, very becomingly dressed,
follow the porter down to the curb.</p>
<p>The fiacre swung in, and the woman dismissed the porter
before entering the vehicle; a proceeding so unusual that it
fixed the onlooker's interest. He sat rigid with attention; the
woman seemed to be giving explicit and lengthy directions to
the driver, who nodded and gesticulated his comprehension.</p>
<p>The woman was Mrs. Hallam.</p>
<p>The first blush of recognition passed, leaving Kirkwood
without any amazement. It was an easy matter to account for her
being where she was. Thrown off the scent by Kirkwood at
Sheerness, the previous morning, she had missed the day boat,
the same which had ferried over those whom she pursued.
Returning from Sheerness to Queensborough, however, she had
taken the night boat for Flushing and Antwerp,—and not without
her plan, who was not a woman to waste her strength aimlessly;
Kirkwood believed that she had had from the first a very
definite campaign in view. In that campaign Queensborough Pier
had been the first strategic move; the journey to Antwerp,
apparently, the second; and the American was impressed that he
was witnessing the inception of the third decided step.... The
conclusion of this process of reasoning was inevitable: Madam
would bear watching.</p>
<p>Thus was a magical transformation brought about.
Instantaneously lassitude and vain repinings were replaced by
hopefulness and energy. In a twinkling the young man was on his
feet, every nerve a-thrill with excitement.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hallam, blissfully ignorant of this surveillance over
her movements, took her place in the fiacre. The driver clucked
to his horse, cracked his whip, and started off at a slow trot:
a pace which Kirkwood imitated, keeping himself at a discreet
distance to the rear of the cab, but prepared to break into a
run whenever it should prove necessary.</p>
<p>Such exertion, however, was not required of him. Evidently
Mrs. Hallam was in no great haste to reach her destination; the
speed of the fiacre remained extremely moderate; Kirkwood found
a long, brisk stride fast enough to keep it well in sight.</p>
<p>Round the green square, under the beautiful walls of Notre
Dame d'Anvers, through Grande Place and past the Hôtel de
Ville, the cab proceeded, dogged by what might plausibly be
asserted the most persistent and infatuated soul that ever
crossed the water; and so on into the Quai Van Dyck, turning to
the left at the old Steen dungeon and, slowing to a walk,
moving soberly up the drive.</p>
<p>Beyond the lip of the embankment, the Scheldt flowed, its
broad shining surface oily, smooth and dark, a mirror for the
incandescent glory of the skies. Over on the western bank old
Tête de Flandre lifted up its grim curtains and bastions,
sable against the crimson, rampart and parapet edged with fire.
Busy little side-wheeled ferry steamers spanked the waters
noisily and smudged the sunset with dark drifting trails of
smoke; and ever and anon a rowboat would slip out of shadow to
glide languidly with the current. Otherwise the life of the
river was gone; and at their moorings the ships swung in great
quietness, riding lights glimmering like low wan stars.</p>
<p>In the company of the latter the young man marked down the
<i>Alethea</i>; a sight which made him unconsciously clench
both fists and teeth, reminding him of that rare wag,
Stryker....</p>
<p>To his way of thinking the behavior of the fiacre was quite
unaccountable. Hardly had the horse paced off the length of two
blocks on the Quai ere it was guided to the edge of the
promenade and brought to a stop. And the driver twisted the
reins round his whip, thrust the latter in its socket, turned
sidewise on the box, and began to smoke and swing his heels,
surveying the panorama of river and sunset with complacency—a
cabby, one would venture, without a care in the world and
serene in the assurance of a generous <i>pour-boire</i> when he
lost his fare. But as for the latter, she made no move; the
door of the cab remained closed,—like its occupant's mind, a
mystery to the watcher.</p>
<p>Twilight shadows lengthened, darkling, over the land;
street-lights flashed up in long, radiant ranks. Across the
promenade hotels and shops were lighted up; people began to
gather round the tables beneath the awnings of an open-air
café. In the distance, somewhere, a band swung into the
dreamy rhythm of a haunting waltz. Scattered couples moved
slowly, arm in arm, along the riverside walk, drinking in the
fragrance of the night. Overhead stars popped out in brilliance
and dropped their reflections to swim lazily on spellbound
waters.... And still the fiacre lingered in inaction, still the
driver lorded it aloft, in care-free abandon.</p>
<p>In the course of time this inertia, where he had looked for
action, this dull suspense when he had forecast interesting
developments, wore upon the watcher's nerves and made him at
once impatient and suspicious. Now that he had begun to doubt,
he conceived it as quite possible that Mrs. Hallam (who was
capable of anything) should have stolen out of the cab by the
other and, to him, invisible door. To resolve the matter,
finally, he took advantage of the darkness, turned up his coat
collar, hunched up his shoulders, hid his hands in pockets,
pulled the visor of his cap well forward over his eyes, and
slouched past the fiacre.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hallam sat within. He could see her profile clearly
silhouetted against the light; she was bending forward and
staring fixedly out of the window, across the driveway.
Mentally he calculated the direction of her gaze, then, moved
away and followed it with his own eyes; and found himself
staring at the façade of a third-rate hotel. Above its
roof the gilded letters of a sign, catching the illumination
from below, spelled out the title of "Hôtel du
Commerce."</p>
<p>Mrs. Hallam was interested in the Hôtel du
Commerce?</p>
<p>Thoughtfully Kirkwood fell back to his former point of
observation, now the richer by another object of suspicion, the
hostelry. Mrs. Hallam was waiting and watching for some one to
enter or to leave that establishment. It seemed a reasonable
inference to draw. Well, then, so was Kirkwood, no less than
the lady; he deemed it quite conceivable that their objects
were identical.</p>
<p>He started to beguile the time by wondering what she would
do, if...</p>
<p>Of a sudden he abandoned this line of speculation, and
catching his breath, held it, almost afraid to credit the truth
that for once his anticipations were being realized under his
very eyes.</p>
<p>Against the lighted doorway of the Hôtel du Commerce,
the figures of two men were momentarily sketched, as they came
hurriedly forth; and of the two, one was short and stout, and
even at a distance seemed to bear himself with an accent of
assertiveness, while the other was tall and heavy of
shoulder.</p>
<p>Side by side they marched in step across the embankment to
the head of the Quai gangway, descending without pause to the
landing-stage. Kirkwood, hanging breathlessly over the
guard-rail, could hear their footfalls ringing in hollow rhythm
on the planks of the inclined way,—could even discern
Calendar's unlovely profile in dim relief beneath one of the
waterside lights; and he recognized unmistakably Mulready's
deep voice, grumbling inarticulately.</p>
<p>At the outset he had set after them, with intent to accost
Calendar; but their pace had been swift and his irresolute. He
hung fire on the issue, dreading to reveal himself, unable to
decide which were the better course, to pursue the men, or to
wait and discover what Mrs. Hallam was about. In the end he
waited; and had his disappointment for recompense.</p>
<p>For Mrs. Hallam did nothing intelligible. Had she driven
over to the hotel, hard upon the departure of the men, he would
have believed that she was seeking Dorothy, and would,
furthermore, have elected to crowd their interview, if she
succeeded in obtaining one with the girl. But she did nothing
of the sort. For a time the fiacre remained as it had been ever
since stopping; then, evidently admonished by his fare, the
driver straightened up, knocked out his pipe, disentangled
reins and whip, and wheeled the equipage back on the way it had
come, disappearing in a dark side street leading eastward from
the embankment.</p>
<p>Kirkwood was, then, to believe that Mrs. Hallam, having
taken all that trouble and having waited for the two
adventurers to appear, had been content with sight of them? He
could hardly believe that of the woman; it wasn't like her.</p>
<p>He started across the driveway, after the fiacre, but it was
lost in a tangle of side streets before he could make up his
mind whether it was worth while chasing or not; and, pondering
the woman's singular action, he retraced his steps to the
promenade rail.</p>
<p>Presently he told himself he understood. Dorothy was no
longer of her father's party; he had a suspicion that
Mulready's attitude had made it seem advisable to Calendar
either to leave the girl behind, in England, or to segregate
her from his associates in Antwerp. If not lodged in another
quarter of the city, or left behind, she was probably traveling
on ahead, to a destination which he could by no means guess.
And Mrs. Hallam was looking for the girl; if there were really
jewels in that gladstone bag, Calendar would naturally have had
no hesitation about intrusting them to his daughter's care; and
Mrs. Hallam avowedly sought nothing else. How the woman had
found out that such was the case, Kirkwood did not stop to
reckon; unless he explained it on the proposition that she was
a person of remarkable address. It made no matter, one way or
the other; he had lost Mrs. Hallam; but Calendar and Mulready
he could put his finger on; they had undoubtedly gone off to
the <i>Alethea</i> to confer again with Stryker,—that was,
unless they proposed sailing on the brigantine, possibly at
turn of tide that night.</p>
<p>Panic gripped his soul and shook it, as a terrier shakes a
rat, when he conceived this frightful proposition.</p>
<p>In his confusion of mind he evolved spontaneously an
entirely new hypothesis: Dorothy had already been spirited
aboard the vessel; Calendar and his confederate, delaying to
join her from enigmatic motives, were now aboard; and presently
the word would be, Up-anchor and away!</p>
<p>Were they again to elude him? Not, he swore, if he had to
swim for it. And he had no wish to swim. The clothes he stood
in, with what was left of his self-respect, were all that he
could call his own on that side of the North Sea. Not a boatman
on the Scheldt would so much as consider accepting three
English pennies in exchange for boat-hire. In brief, it began
to look as if he were either to swim or ... to steal a
boat.</p>
<p>Upon such slender threads of circumstance depends our
boasted moral health. In one fleeting minute Kirkwood's
conception of the law of <i>meum et tuum</i>, its foundations
already insidiously undermined by a series of cumulative
misfortunes, toppled crashing to its fall; and was not.</p>
<p>He was wholly unconscious of the change. Beneath him, in a
space between the quays bridged by the gangway, a number of
rowboats, a putative score, lay moored for the night and gently
rubbing against each other with the soundless lift and fall of
the river. For all that Kirkwood could determine to the
contrary, the lot lay at the mercy of the public; nowhere about
was he able to discern a figure in anything resembling a
watchman.</p>
<p>Without a quiver of hesitation—moments were invaluable, if
what he feared were true—he strode to the gangway, passed
down, and with absolute nonchalance dropped into the nearest
boat, stepping from one to another until he had gained the
outermost. To his joy he found a pair of oars stowed beneath
the thwarts.</p>
<p>If he had paused to moralize—which he didn't—upon the
discovery, he would have laid it all at the door of his lucky
star; and would have been wrong. We who have never stooped to
petty larceny know that the oars had been placed there at the
direction of his evil genius bent upon facilitating his descent
into the avernus of crime. Let us, then, pity the poor young
man without condoning his offense.</p>
<p>Unhitching the painter he set one oar against the gunwale of
the next boat, and with a powerful thrust sent his own (let us
so call it for convenience) stern-first out upon the river;
then sat him composedly down, fitted the oars to their locks,
and began to pull straight across-stream, trusting to the
current to carry him down to the <i>Alethea</i>. He had already
marked down that vessel's riding-light; and that not without a
glow of gratitude to see it still aloft and in proper
juxtaposition to the river-bank; proof that it had not
moved.</p>
<p>He pulled a good oar, reckoned his distance prettily, and
shipping the blades at just the right moment, brought the
little boat in under the brigantine's counter with scarce a
jar. An element of surprise he held essential to the success of
his plan, whatever that might turn out to be.</p>
<p>Standing up, he caught the brigantine's after-rail with both
hands, one of which held the painter of the purloined boat, and
lifted his head above the deck line. A short survey of the
deserted after-deck gave him further assurance. The
anchor-watch was not in sight; he may have been keeping well
forward by Stryker's instructions, or he may have crept off for
forty winks. Whatever the reason for his absence from the post
of duty, Kirkwood was relieved not to have him to deal with;
and drawing himself gently in over the rail, made the painter
fast, and stepped noiselessly over toward the lighted oblong of
the companionway. A murmur of voices from below comforted him
with the knowledge that he had not miscalculated, this time; at
last he stood within striking distance of his quarry.</p>
<p>The syllables of his surname ringing clearly in his ears and
followed by Stryker's fleeting laugh, brought him to a pause.
He flushed hotly in the darkness; the captain was retailing
with relish some of his most successful witticisms at
Kirkwood's expense.... "You'd ought to've seed the wye'e looked
at me!" concluded the <i>raconteur</i> in a gale of mirth.</p>
<p>Mulready laughed with him, if a little uncertainly.
Calendar's chuckle was not audible, but he broke the pause that
followed.</p>
<p>"I don't know," he said with doubting emphasis. "You say you
landed him without a penny in his pocket? I don't call that a
good plan at all. Of course, he ain't a factor, but ... Well,
it might've been as well to give him his fare home. He might
make trouble for us, somehow.... I don't mind telling you,
Cap'n, that you're an ass."</p>
<p>The tensity of certain situations numbs the sensibilities.
Kirkwood had never in his weirdest dreams thought of himself as
an eavesdropper; he did not think of himself as such in the
present instance; he merely listened, edging nearer the
skylight, of which the wings were slightly raised, and keeping
as far as possible in shadow.</p>
<p>"Ow, I sye!" the captain was remonstrating, aggrieved. "'Ow
was I to know 'e didn't 'ave it in for you? First off, when 'e
comes on board (I'll sye this for 'im, 'e's as plucky as they
myke 'em), I thought 'e was from the Yard. Then, when I see wot
a bally hinnocent 'e was, I mykes up my mind 'e's just some one
you've been ply in' one of your little gymes on, and 'oo was
lookin' to square 'is account. So I did 'im proper."</p>
<p>"Evidently," assented Calendar dryly. "You're a bit of a
heavy-handed brute, Stryker. Personally I'm kind of sorry for
the boy; he wasn't a bad sort, as his kind runs, and he was no
fool, from what little I saw of him.... I wonder what he
wanted."</p>
<p>"Possibly," Mulready chimed in suavely, "you can explain
what you wanted of him, in the first place. How did you come to
drag him into <i>this</i> business?"</p>
<p>"Oh, that!" Calendar laughed shortly. "That was partly
accident, partly inspiration. I happened to see his name on the
Pless register; he'd put himself down as from 'Frisco. I
figured it out that he would be next door to broke and getting
desperate, ready to do anything to get home; and thought we
might utilize him; to smuggle some of the stuff into the
States. Once before, if you'll remember—no; that was before we
got together, Mulready—I picked up a fellow-countryman on the
Strand. He was down and out, jumped at the job, and we made a
neat little wad on it."</p>
<p>"The more fool you, to take outsiders into your confidence,"
grumbled Mulready.</p>
<p>"Ow?" interrogated Calendar, mimicking Stryker's accent
inimitably. "Well, you've got a heap to learn about this game,
Mul; about the first thing is that you must trust Old Man
Know-it-all, which is me. I've run more diamonds into the
States, in one way or another, in my time, than you ever
pinched out of the shirt-front of a toff on the Empire Prom.,
before they made the graft too hot for you and you came to take
lessons from me in the gentle art of living easy."</p>
<p>"Oh, cut that, cawn't you?"</p>
<p>"Delighted, dear boy.... One of the first principles, next
to profiting by the admirable example I set you, is to make the
fellows in your own line trust you. Now, if this boy had taken
on with me, I could have got a bunch of the sparklers on my
mere say-so, from old Morganthau up on Finsbury Pavement. He
does a steady business hoodwinking the Customs for the benefit
of his American clients—and himself. And I'd've made a neat
little profit besides: something to fall back on, if this fell
through. I don't mind having two strings to my bow."</p>
<p>"Yes," argued Mulready; "but suppose this Kirkwood had taken
on with you and then peached?"</p>
<p>"That's another secret; you've got to know your man, be able
to size him up. I called on this chap for that very purpose;
but I saw at a glance he wasn't our man. He smelt a nigger in
the woodpile and most politely told me to go to the devil. But
if he <i>had</i> come in, he'd've died before he squealed. I
know the breed; there's honor among gentlemen that knocks the
honor of thieves higher'n a kite, the old saw to the
contrary—nothing doing.... You understand me, I'm sure,
Mulready?" he concluded with envenomed sweetness.</p>
<p>"I don't see yet how Kirkwood got anything to do with
Dorothy."</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar to you, <i>Mister</i> Mulready!" snapped
Calendar. "There, there, now! Don't get excited.... It was when
the Hallam passed me word that a man from the Yard was waiting
on the altar steps for me, that Kirkwood came in. He was dining
close by; I went over and worked on his feelings until he
agreed to take Dorothy off my hands. If I had attempted to
leave the place with her, they'd've spotted me for sure.... My
compliments to you, Dick Mulready."</p>
<p>There came the noise of chair legs scraped harshly on the
cabin deck. Apparently Mulready had leaped to his feet in a
rage.</p>
<p>"I've told you—" he began in a voice thick with
passion.</p>
<p>"Oh, sit down!" Calendar cut in contemptuously. "Sit down,
d'you hear? That's all over and done with. We understand each
other now, and you won't try any more monkey-shines. It's a
square deal and a square divide, so far's I'm concerned; if we
stick together there'll be profit enough for all concerned. Sit
down, Mul, and have another slug of the captain's bum rum."</p>
<p>Although Mulready consented to be pacified, Kirkwood got the
impression that the man was far gone in drink. A moment later
he heard him growl "Chin-chin!" antiphonal to the captain's
"Cheer-o!"</p>
<p>"Now, then," Calendar proposed, "Mr. Kirkwood aside—peace
be with him!—let's get down to cases."</p>
<p>"Wot's the row?" asked the captain.</p>
<p>"The row, Cap'n, is the Hallam female, who has unexpectedly
shown up in Antwerp, we have reason to believe with malicious
intent and a private detective to add to the gaiety of
nations."</p>
<p>"Wot's the odds? She carn't 'urt us without lyin' up trouble
for 'erself."</p>
<p>"Damn little consolation to us when we're working it out in
Dartmoor."</p>
<p>"Speak for yourself," grunted Mulready surlily.</p>
<p>"I do," returned Calendar easily; "we're both in the shadow
of Dartmoor, Mul, my boy; since you choose to take the
reference as personal. Sing Sing, however, yawns for me alone;
it's going to keep on yawning, too, unless I miss my guess. I
love my native land most to death, <i>but</i> ..."</p>
<p>"Ow, blow that!" interrupted the captain irritably. "Let's
'ear about the 'Allam. Wot're you afryd of?"</p>
<p>"'Fraid she'll set up a yell when she finds out we're
planting the loot, Cap'n. She's just that vindictive; you'd
think she'd be satisfied with her end of the stick, but you
don't know the Hallam. That milk-and-water offspring of hers is
the apple of her eye, and Freddie's going to collar the whole
shooting-match or madam will kick over the traces."</p>
<p>"Well?"</p>
<p>"Well, she's queered us here. We can't do anything if my
lady is going to camp on our trail and tell everybody we're
shady customers, can we? The question now before the board is:
Where now,—and how?"</p>
<p>"Amsterdam," Mulready chimed in. "I told you that in the
beginning."</p>
<p>"But how?" argued Calendar. "The Lord knows I'm willing but
... we can't go by rail, thanks to the Hallam. We've got to
lose her first of all."</p>
<p>"But wot I'm arskin' is, wot's the matter with—"</p>
<p>"The <i>Alethea</i>, Cap'n? Nothing, so far as Dick and I
are concerned. But my dutiful daughter is prejudiced; she's
been so long without proper paternal discipline," Calendar
laughed, "that she's rather high-spirited. Of course I might
overcome her objections, but the girl's no fool, and every
ounce of pressure I bring to bear just now only helps make her
more restless and suspicious."</p>
<p>"You leave her to me," Mulready interposed, with a brutal
laugh. "I'll guarantee to get her aboard, or..."</p>
<p>"Drop it, Dick!" Calendar advised quietly. "And go a bit
easy with that bottle for five minutes, can't you?"</p>
<p>"Well, then," Stryker resumed, apparently concurring in
Calendar's attitude, "w'y don't one of you tyke the stuff, go
off quiet and dispose of it to a proper fence, and come back to
divide. I don't see w'y that—"</p>
<p>"Naturally you wouldn't," chuckled Calendar. "Few people
besides the two of us understand the depth of affection
existing between Dick, here, and me. We just can't bear to get
out of sight of each other. We're sure inseparable—since night
before last. Odd, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"You drop it!" snarled Mulready, in accents so ugly that the
listener was startled. "Enough's enough and—"</p>
<p>"There, there, Dick! All right; I'll behave," Calendar
soothed him. "We'll forget and say no more about it."</p>
<p>"Well, see you don't."</p>
<p>"But 'as either of you a plan?" persisted Stryker.</p>
<p>"I have," replied Mulready; "and it's the simplest and best,
if you could only make this long-lost parent here see it."</p>
<p>"Wot is it?"</p>
<p>Mulready seemed to ignore Calendar and address himself to
the captain. He articulated with some difficulty, slurring his
words to the point of indistinctness at times.</p>
<p>"Simple enough," he propounded solemnly. "We've got the
gladstone bag here; Miss Dolly's at the hotel—that's her
papa's bright notion; he thinks she's to be trusted ... Now
then, what's the matter with weighing anchor and slipping
quietly out to sea?"</p>
<p>"Leavin' the dootiful darter?"</p>
<p>"Cert'n'y. She's only a drag any way. 'Better off without
her.... Then we can wait our time and get highest market
prices—"</p>
<p>"You forget, Dick," Calendar put it, "that there's a
thousand in it for each of us if she's kept out of England for
six weeks. A thousand's five thousand in the land I hail from;
I can use five thousand in my business."</p>
<p>"Why can't you be content with what you've got?" demanded
Mulready wrathfully.</p>
<p>"Because I'm a seventh son of a seventh son; I can see an
inch or two beyond my nose. If Dorothy ever finds her way back
to England she'll spoil one of the finest fields of legitimate
graft I ever licked my lips to look at. The trouble with you,
Mul, is you're too high-toned. You want to play the swell
mobs-man from post to finish. A quick touch and a clean getaway
for yours. Now, that's all right; that has its good points, but
you don't want to underestimate the advantages of a good
blackmailing connection.... If I can keep Dorothy quiet long
enough, I look to the Hallam and precious Freddie to be a great
comfort to me in my old age."</p>
<p>"Then, for God's sake," cried Mulready, "go to the hotel,
get your brat by the scruif of her pretty neck and drag her
aboard. Let's get out of this."</p>
<p>"I won't," returned Calendar inflexibly.</p>
<p>The dispute continued, but the listener had heard enough. He
had to get away and think, could no longer listen; indeed, the
voices of the three blackguards below came but indistinctly to
his ears, as if from a distance. He was sick at heart and
ablaze with indignation by turns. Unconsciously he was
trembling violently in every limb; swept by alternate waves of
heat and cold, feverish one minute, shivering the next. All of
which phenomena were due solely to the rage that welled inside
his heart.</p>
<p>Stealthily he crept away to the rail, to stand grasping it
and staring across the water with unseeing eyes at the gay old
city twinkling back with her thousand eyes of light. The cool
night breeze, sweeping down unhindered over the level
Netherlands from the bleak North Sea, was comforting to his
throbbing temples. By degrees his head cleared, his rioting
pulses subsided, he could think; and he did.</p>
<p>Over there, across the water, in the dingy and disreputable
Hôtel du Commerce, Dorothy waited in her room, doubtless
the prey of unnumbered nameless terrors, while aboard the
brigantine her fate was being decided by a council of three
unspeakable scoundrels, one of whom, professing himself her
father, openly declared his intention of using her to further
his selfish and criminal ends.</p>
<p>His first and natural thought, to steal away to her and
induce her to accompany him back to England, Kirkwood perforce
discarded. He could have wept over the realization of his
unqualified impotency. He had no money,—not even cab-fare from
the hotel to the railway station. Something subtler, more
crafty, had to be contrived to meet the emergency. And there
was one way, one only; he could see none other. Temporarily he
must make himself one of the company of her enemies, force
himself upon them, ingratiate himself into their good graces,
gain their confidence, then, when opportunity offered, betray
them. And the power to make them tolerate him, if not receive
him as a fellow, the knowledge of them and their plans that
they had unwittingly given him, was his.</p>
<p>And Dorothy, was waiting....</p>
<p>He swung round and without attempting to muffle his
footfalls strode toward the companionway. He must pretend he
had just come aboard.</p>
<p>Subconsciously he had been aware, during his time of
pondering, that the voices in the cabin had been steadily
gaining in volume, rising louder and yet more loud, Mulready's
ominous, drink-blurred accents dominating the others. There was
a quarrel afoot; as soon as he gave it heed, Kirkwood
understood that Mulready, in the madness of his inflamed brain,
was forcing the issue while Calendar sought vainly to calm and
soothe him.</p>
<p>The American arrived at the head of the companionway at a
critical juncture. As he moved to descend some low, cool-toned
retort of Calendar's seemed to enrage his confederate beyond
reason. He yelped aloud with wrath, sprang to his feet,
knocking over a chair, and leaping back toward the foot of the
steps, flashed an adroit hand behind him and found his
revolver.</p>
<p>"I've stood enough from you!" he screamed, his voice oddly
clear in that moment of insanity. "You've played with me as
long as you will, you hulking American hog! And now I'm going
to show—"</p>
<p>As he held his fire to permit his denunciation to bite home,
Kirkwood, appalled to find himself standing on the threshold of
a tragedy, gathered himself together and launched through the
air, straight for the madman's shoulders.</p>
<p>As they went down together, sprawling, Mulready's head
struck against a transom and the revolver fell from his limp
fingers.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XIV">XIV</a></h2>
<h3>STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS</h3>
</center>
<p>Prepared as he had been for the shock, Kirkwood was able to
pick himself up quickly, uninjured, Mulready's revolver in his
grasp.</p>
<p>On his feet, straddling Mulready's insentient body, he
confronted Calendar and Stryker. The face of the latter was a
sickly green, the gift of his fright. The former seemed coldly
composed, already recovering from his surprise and bringing his
wits to bear upon the new factor which had been so
unceremoniously injected into the situation.</p>
<p><img src="illp285s.jpg"
width="600"
height="716"
border="0"
alt=
"Straddling Mulready's body, he confronted Calendar and Stryker.">
</p>
<p>Standing, but leaning heavily upon a hand that rested flat
on the table, in the other he likewise held a revolver, which
he had apparently drawn in self-defense, at the crisis of
Mulready's frenzy. Its muzzle was deflected. He looked Kirkwood
over with a cool gray eye, the color gradually returning to his
fat, clean-shaven cheeks, replacing the pardonable pallor which
had momentarily rested thereon.</p>
<p>As for Kirkwood, he had covered the fat adventurer before he
knew it. Stryker, who had been standing immediately in the rear
of Calendar, immediately cowered and cringed to find himself in
the line of fire.</p>
<p>Of the three conscious men in the brigantine's cabin,
Calendar was probably the least confused or excited. Stryker
was palpably unmanned. Kirkwood was tingling with a sense of
mastery, but collected and rapidly revolving the combinations
for the reversed conditions which had been brought about by
Mulready's drunken folly. His elation was apparent in his
shining, boyish eyes, as well as in the bright color that
glowed in his cheeks. When he decided to speak it was with
rapid enunciation, but clearly and concisely.</p>
<p>"Calendar," he began, "if a single shot is fired about this
vessel the river police will be buzzing round your ears in a
brace of shakes."</p>
<p>The fat adventurer nodded assent, his eyes contracting.</p>
<p>"Very well!" continued Kirkwood brusquely. "You must know
that I have personally nothing to fear from the police; if
arrested, I wouldn't be detained a day. On the other hand, you
... Hand me that pistol, Calendar, butt first, please. Look
sharp, my man! If you don't..."</p>
<p>He left the ellipsis to be filled in by the corpulent
blackguard's intelligence. The latter, gray eyes still intent
on the younger man's face, wavered, plainly impressed, but
still wondering.</p>
<p>"Quick! I'm not patient to-night..."</p>
<p>No longer was Calendar of two minds. In the face of
Kirkwood's attitude there was but one course to be followed:
that of obedience. Calendar surrendered an untenable position
as gracefully as could be wished.</p>
<p>"I guess you know what you mean by this," he said, tendering
the weapon as per instructions; "I'm doggoned if I do....
You'll allow a certain latitude in consideration of my relief;
I can't say we were anticipating this—ah—Heaven-sent
visitation."</p>
<p>Accepting the revolver with his left hand and settling his
forefinger on the trigger, Kirkwood beamed with pure enjoyment.
He found the deference of the older man, tempered though it was
by his indomitable swagger, refreshing in the extreme.</p>
<p>"A little appreciation isn't exactly out of place, come to
think of it," he commented, adding, with an eye for the
captain: "Stryker, you bold, bad butterfly, have you got a gun
concealed about your unclean person?"</p>
<p>The captain shook visibly with contrition. "No, Mr.
Kirkwood," he managed to reply in a voice singularly lacking in
his wonted bluster.</p>
<p>"Say 'sir'!" suggested Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"No, Mr. Kirkwood, sir," amended Stryker eagerly.</p>
<p>"Now come round here and let's have a look at you. Please
stay where you are, Calendar.... Why, Captain, you're shivering
from head to foot! Not ill are you, you wag? Step over to the
table there, Stryker, and turn out your pockets; turn 'em
inside out and let's see what you carry in the way of offensive
artillery. And, Stryker, don't be rash; don't do anything you'd
be sorry for afterwards."</p>
<p>"No fear of that," mumbled the captain, meekly shambling
toward the table, and, in his anxiety to give no cause for
unpleasantness, beginning to empty his pockets on the way.</p>
<p>"Don't forget the 'sir,' Stryker. And, Stryker, if you
happen to think of anything in the line of one of your merry
quips or jests, don't strain yourself holding in; get it right
off your chest, and you'll feel better."</p>
<p>Kirkwood chuckled, in high conceit with himself, watching
Calendar out of the corner of his eye, but with his attention
centered on the infinitely diverting spectacle afforded by
Stryker, whose predacious hands were trembling violently as,
one by one, they brought to light the articles of which he had
despoiled his erstwhile victim.</p>
<p>"Come, come, Stryker! Surely you can think of something
witty, surely you haven't exhausted the possibilities of that
almanac joke! Couldn't you ring another variation on the
lunatic wheeze? Don't hesitate out of consideration for me,
Captain; I'm joke proof—perhaps you've noticed?"</p>
<p>Stryker turned upon him an expression at once ludicrous,
piteous and hateful. "That's all, sir," he snarled, displaying
his empty palms in token of his absolute tractability.</p>
<p>"Good enough. Now right about face—quick! Your back's
prettier than your face, and besides, I want to know whether
your hip-pockets are empty. I've heard it's the habit of you
gentry to pack guns in your clothes.... None? That's all right,
then. Now roost on the transom, over there in the corner,
Stryker, and don't move. Don't let me hear a word from you.
Understand?"</p>
<p>Submissively the captain retired to the indicated spot.
Kirkwood turned to Calendar; of whose attitude, however, he had
not been for an instant unmindful.</p>
<p>"Won't you sit down, Mr. Calendar?" he suggested pleasantly.
"Forgive me for keeping you waiting."</p>
<p>For his own part, as the adventurer dropped passively into
his chair, Kirkwood stepped over Mulready and advanced to the
middle of the cabin, at the same time thrusting Calendar's
revolver into his own coat pocket. The other, Mulready's, he
nursed significantly with both hands, while he stood
temporarily quiet, surveying the fleshy face of the prime
factor in the intrigue.</p>
<p>A quaint, grim smile played about the American's lips, a
smile a little contemptuous, more than a little inscrutable. In
its light Calendar grew restive and lost something of his
assurance. His feet shifted uneasily beneath the table and his
dark eyes wavered, evading Kirkwood's. At length he seemed to
find the suspense unendurable.</p>
<p>"Well?" he demanded testily. "What d'you want of me?"</p>
<p>"I was just wondering at you, Calendar. In the last few days
you've given me enough cause to wonder, as you'll admit."</p>
<p>The adventurer plucked up spirit, deluded by Kirkwood's
pacific tone. "I wonder at you, Mr. Kirkwood," he retorted. "It
was good of you to save my life and—"</p>
<p>"I'm not so sure of that! Perhaps it had been more
humane—"</p>
<p>Calendar owned the touch with a wry grimace. "But I'm damned
if I understand this high-handed attitude of yours!" he
concluded heatedly.</p>
<p>"Don't you?" Kirkwood's humor became less apparent, the
smile sobering. "You will," he told the man, adding abruptly:
"Calendar, where's your daughter?"</p>
<p>The restless eyes sought the companionway.</p>
<p>"Dorothy," the man lied spontaneously, without a tremor, "is
with friends in England. Why? Did you want to see her?"</p>
<p>"I rather expected to."</p>
<p>"Well, I thought it best to leave her home, after all."</p>
<p>"I'm glad to hear she's in safe hands," commented
Kirkwood.</p>
<p>The adventurer's glance analyzed his face. "Ah," he said
slowly, "I see. You followed me on Dorothy's account, Mr.
Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"Partly; partly on my own. Let me put it to you fairly. When
you forced yourself upon me, back there in London, you offered
me some sort of employment; when I rejected it, you used me to
your advantage for the furtherance of your purposes (which I
confess I don't understand), and made me miss my steamer.
Naturally, when I found myself penniless and friendless in a
strange country, I thought again of your offer; and tried to
find you, to accept it."</p>
<p>"Despite the fact that you're an honest man, Kirkwood?" The
fat lips twitched with premature enjoyment.</p>
<p>"I'm a desperate man to-night, whatever I may have been
yesterday." The young man's tone was both earnest and
convincing. "I think I've shown that by my pertinacity in
hunting you down."</p>
<p>"Well—yes." Calendar's thick fingers caressed his lips,
trying to hide the dawning smile.</p>
<p>"Is that offer still open?"</p>
<p>His nonchalance completely restored by the very
naïveté of the proposition, Calendar laughed openly
and with a trace of irony. The episode seemed to be turning out
better than he had anticipated. Gently his mottled fat fingers
played about his mouth and chins as he looked Kirkwood up and
down.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," he replied, "that it isn't—now. You're too
late, Kirkwood; I've made other arrangements."</p>
<p>"Too bad." Kirkwood's eyes narrowed. "You force me to
harsher measures, Calendar."</p>
<p>Genuinely diverted, the adventurer laughed a second time,
tipping back in his chair, his huge frame shaking with
ponderous enjoyment. "Don't do anything you'd be sorry for," he
parroted, sarcastical, the young man's recent admonition to the
captain.</p>
<p>"No fear, Calendar. I'm just going to use my advantage,
which you won't dispute,"—the pistol described an eloquent
circle, gleaming in the lamplight—"to levy on you a little
legitimate blackmail. Don't be alarmed; I shan't hit you any
harder than I have to."</p>
<p>"What?" stammered Calendar, astonished. "What in hell
<i>are</i> you driving at?"</p>
<p>"Recompense for my time and trouble. You've cost me a pretty
penny, first and last, with your nasty little
conspiracy—whatever it's all about. Now, needing the money, I
purpose getting some of it back. I shan't precisely rob you,
but this is a hold-up, all right.... Stryker," reproachfully,
"I don't see my pearl pin."</p>
<p>"I got it 'ere," responded the sailor hastily, fumbling with
his tie.</p>
<p>"Give it me, then." Kirkwood held out his hand and received
the trinket. Then, moving over to the table, the young man,
while abating nothing of his watchfulness, sorted out his
belongings from the mass of odds and ends Stryker had
disgorged. The tale of them was complete; the captain had
obeyed him faithfully. Kirkwood looked up, pleased.</p>
<p>"Now see here, Calendar; this collection of truck that I was
robbed of by this resurrected Joe Miller here, cost me upwards
of a hundred and fifty. I'm going to sell it to you at a
bargain—say fifty dollars, two hundred and fifty francs."</p>
<p>"The juice you are!" Calendar's eyes opened wide, partly in
admiration. "D'you realize that this is next door to highway
robbery, my young friend?"</p>
<p>"High-seas piracy, if you prefer," assented Kirkwood with
entire equanimity. "I'm going to have the money, and you're
going to give it up. The transaction by any name would smell no
sweeter, Calendar. Come—fork over!"</p>
<p>"And if I refuse?"</p>
<p>"I wouldn't refuse, if I were you."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"The consequences would be too painful."</p>
<p>"You mean you'd puncture me with that gun?"</p>
<p>"Not unless you attack or attempt to follow me. I mean to
say that the Belgian police are notoriously a most efficient
body, and that I'll make it my duty and pleasure to introduce
'em to you, if you refuse. But you won't," Kirkwood added
soothingly, "will you, Calendar?"</p>
<p>"No." The adventurer had become suddenly thoughtful. "No, I
won't. 'Glad to oblige you."</p>
<p>He tilted his chair still farther back, straightening out
his elephantine legs, inserted one fat hand into his trouser
pocket and with some difficulty extracted a combined bill-fold
and coin-purse, at once heavy with gold and bulky with notes.
Moistening thumb and forefinger, "How'll you have it?" he
inquired with a lift of his cunning eyes; and when Kirkwood had
advised him, slowly counted out four fifty-franc notes, placed
them near the edge of the table, and weighted them with five
ten-franc pieces. And, "'That all?" he asked, replacing the
pocket-book.</p>
<p>"That will be about all. I leave you presently to your
unholy devices, you and that gay dog, over there." The captain
squirmed, reddening. "Just by way of precaution, however, I'll
ask you to wait in here till I'm off." Kirkwood stepped
backwards to the door of the captain's room, opened it and
removed the key from the inside. "Please take Mulready in with
you," he continued. "By the time you get out, I'll be clear of
Antwerp. Please don't think of refusing me,—I really mean
it!"</p>
<p>The latter clause came sharply as Calendar seemed to
hesitate, his weary, wary eyes glimmering with doubt. Kirkwood,
watching him as a cat her prey, intercepted a lightning-swift
sidelong glance that shifted from his face to the port lockers,
forward. But the fat adventurer was evidently to a considerable
degree deluded by the very child-like simplicity of Kirkwood's
attitude. If the possibility that his altercation with Mulready
had been overheard, crossed his mind, Calendar had little
choice other than to accept the chance. Either way he moved,
the risk was great; if he refused to be locked in the captain's
room, there was the danger of the police, to which Kirkwood had
convincingly drawn attention; if he accepted the temporary
imprisonment, he took a risk with the gladstone bag. On the
other hand, he had estimated Kirkwood's honesty as
thorough-going, from their first interview; he had appraised
him as a gentleman and a man of honor. And he did not believe
the young man knew, after all ... Perplexed, at length he chose
the smoother way, and with an indulgent lifting of eyebrows and
fat shoulders, rose and waddled over to Mulready.</p>
<p>"Oh, all right," he conceded with deep toleration in his
tone for the idiosyncrasies of youth. "It's all the same to me,
beau." He laughed a nervous laugh. "Come along and lend us a
hand, Stryker."</p>
<p>The latter glanced timidly at Kirkwood, his eyes pleading
for leave to move; which Kirkwood accorded with an imperative
nod and a fine flourish of the revolver. Promptly the captain,
sprang to Calendar's assistance; and between the two of them,
the one taking Mulready's head, the other his feet, they lugged
him quickly into the stuffy little state-room. Kirkwood,
watching and following to the threshold, inserted the key.</p>
<p>"One word more," he counseled, a hand on the knob. "Don't
forget I've warned you what'll happen if you try to break even
with me."</p>
<p>"Never fear, little one!" Calendar's laugh was nervously
cheerful. "The Lord knows you're welcome."</p>
<p>"Thank you 'most to death," responded Kirkwood politely.
"Good-by—and good-by to you, Stryker. 'Glad to have humored
your desire to meet me soon again."</p>
<p>Kirkwood, turning the key in the lock, withdrew it and
dropped it on the cabin table; at the same time he swept into
his pocket the money he had extorted of Calendar. Then he
paused an instant, listening; from the captain's room came a
sound of murmurs and scuffling. He debated what they were about
in there—but time pressed. Not improbably they, were crowding
for place at the keyhole, he reflected, as he crossed to the
port locker forward.</p>
<p>He had its lid up in a twinkling, and in another had lifted
out the well-remembered black gladstone bag.</p>
<p>This seems to have been his first compound larceny.</p>
<p>As if stimulated by some such reflection he sprang for the
companionway, dropping the lid of the locker with a bang which
must have been excruciatingly edifying to the men in the
captain's room. Whatever their emotions, the bang was mocked by
a mighty kick, shaking the door; which, Kirkwood reflected,
opened outward and was held only by the frailest kind of a
lock: it would not hold long.</p>
<p>Spurred onward by a storm of curses, Stryker's voice
chanting infuriated cacophony with Calendar's, Kirkwood leapt
up the companionway even as the second tremendous kick
threatened to shatter the panels. Heart in mouth, a chill
shiver of guilt running up and down his spine, he gained the
deck, cast loose the painter, drew in his rowboat, and dropped
over the side; then, the gladstone bag nestling between his
feet, sat down and bent to the oars.</p>
<p>And doubts assailed him, pressing close upon the ebb of his
excitement—doubts and fears innumerable.</p>
<p>There was no longer a distinction to be drawn between
himself and Calendar; no more could he esteem himself a better
and more honest man than that accomplished swindler. He was not
advised as to the Belgian code, but English law, he understood,
made no allowance for the good intent of those caught in
possession of stolen property; though he was acting with the
most honorable motives in the world, the law, if he came within
its cognizance, would undoubtedly place him on Calendar's plane
and judge him by the same standard. To all intents and purposes
he was a thief, and thief he would remain until the gladstone
bag with its contents should be restored to its rightful
owner.</p>
<p>Voluntarily, then, he had stepped from the ranks of the
hunters to those of the hunted. He now feared police
interference as abjectly as did Calendar and his set of rogues;
and Kirkwood felt wholly warranted in assuming that the
adventurer, with his keen intelligence, would not handicap
himself by ignoring this point. Indeed, if he were to be judged
by what Kirkwood had inferred of his character, Calendar would
let nothing whatever hinder him, neither fear of bodily hurt
nor danger of apprehension at the hands of the police, from
making a determined and savage play to regain possession of his
booty.</p>
<p>Well! (Kirkwood set his mouth savagely) Calendar should have
a run for his money!</p>
<p>For the present he could compliment himself with the
knowledge that he had outwitted the rogues, had lifted the
jewels and probably two-thirds of their armament; he had also
the start, the knowledge of their criminal guilt and intent,
and his own plans, to comfort him. As for the latter, he did
not believe that Calendar would immediately fathom them; so he
took heart of grace and tugged at the oars with a will, pulling
directly for the city and permitting the current to drift him
down-stream at its pleasure. There could be no more inexcusable
folly than to return to the <i>Quai Steen</i> landing and
(possibly) the arms of the despoiled boat-owner.</p>
<p>At first he could hear crash after splintering crash
sounding dully muffled from the cabin of the <i>Alethea</i>: a
veritable devil's tattoo beaten out by the feet of the
prisoners. Evidently the fastening was serving him better than
he had dared hope. But as the black rushing waters widened
between boat and brigantine, the clamor aboard the latter
subsided, indicating that Calendar and Stryker had broken out
or been released by the crew. In ignorance as to whether he
were seen or being pursued, Kirkwood pulled on, winning in
under the shadow of the quais and permitting the boat to drift
down to a lonely landing on the edge of the dockyard quarter of
Antwerp.</p>
<p>Here alighting, he made the boat fast and, soothing his
conscience with a surmise that its owner would find it there in
the morning, strode swiftly over to the train line that runs
along the embankment, swung aboard an adventitious car and
broke his first ten-franc piece in order to pay his fare.</p>
<p>The car made a leisurely progress up past the old Steen
castle and the Quai landing, Kirkwood sitting quietly, the
gladstone bag under his hand, a searching gaze sweeping the
waterside. No sign of the adventurers rewarded him, but it was
now all chance, all hazard. He had no more heart for
confidence.</p>
<p>They passed the Hôtel du Commerce. Kirkwood stared up
at its windows, wondering....</p>
<p>A little farther on, a disengaged fiacre, its driver alert
for possible fares, turned a corner into the esplanade. At
sight of it Kirkwood, inspired, hopped nimbly off the tram-car
and signaled the cabby. The latter pulled up and Kirkwood
started to charge him with instructions; something which he did
haltingly, hampered by a slight haziness of purpose. While thus
engaged, and at rest in the stark glare of the street-lamps,
with no chance of concealing himself, he was aware of a rising
tumult in the direction of the landing, and glancing round,
discovered a number of people running toward him. With no time
to wonder whether or no he was really the object of the
hue-and-cry, he tossed the driver three silver francs.</p>
<p>"Gare Centrale!" he cried. "And drive like the devil!"</p>
<p>Diving into the fiacre he shut the door and stuck his head
out of the window, taking observations. A ragged fringe of
silly rabble was bearing down upon them, with one or two
gendarmes in the forefront, and a giant, who might or might not
be Stryker, a close second. Furthermore, another cab seemed to
have been requisitioned for the chase. His heart misgave him
momentarily; but his driver had taken him at his word and
generosity, and in a breath the fiacre had turned the corner on
two wheels, and the glittering reaches of the embankment, drive
and promenade, were blotted out, as if smudged with lamp-black,
by the obscurity of a narrow and tortuous side street.</p>
<p>He drew in his head the better to preserve his brains
against further emergencies.</p>
<p>After a block or two Kirkwood picked up the gladstone bag,
gently opened the door, and put a foot on the step, pausing to
look back. The other cab was pelting after him with all the
enthusiasm of a hound on a fresh trail. He reflected that this
mad progress through the thoroughfares of a civilized city
would not long endure without police intervention. So he
waited, watching his opportunity. The fiacre hurtled onward,
the driver leaning forward from his box to urge the horse with
lash of whip and tongue, entirely unconscious of his fare's
intentions.</p>
<p>Between two streets the mouth of a narrow and darksome byway
flashed into view. Kirkwood threw wide the door, and leaped,
trusting to the night to hide his stratagem, to luck to save
his limbs. Neither failed him; in a twinkling he was on all
fours in the mouth of the alley, and as he picked himself up,
the second fiacre passed, Calendar himself poking a round bald
poll out of the window to incite his driver's cupidity with
promises of redoubled fare.</p>
<p>Kirkwood mopped his dripping forehead and whistled low with
dismay; it seemed that from that instant on it was to be a
vendetta with a vengeance. Calendar, as he had foreseen, was
stopping at nothing.</p>
<p>At a dog trot he sped down the alley to the next street, on
which he turned back—more sedately—toward the river,
debouching on the esplanade just one block from the Hôtel
du Commerce. As he swung past the serried tables of a
café, whatever fears he had harbored were banished by the
discovery that the excitement occasioned by the chase had
already subsided. Beneath the garish awnings the crowd was
laughing and chattering, eating and sipping its bock with
complete unconcern, heedless altogether of the haggard and
shabby young man carrying a black hand-bag, with the black
Shade of Care for company and a blacker threat of disaster
dogging his footsteps. Without attracting any attention
whatever, indeed, he mingled with the strolling crowds, making
his way toward the Hôtel du Commerce. Yet he was not at
all at ease; his uneasy conscience invested the gladstone bag
with a magnetic attraction for the public eye. To carry it
unconcealed in his hand furnished him with a sensation as
disturbing as though its worn black sides had been stenciled
STOLEN! in letters of flame. He felt it rendered him a cynosure
of public interest, an object of suspicion to the wide cold
world, that the gaze which lit upon the bag traveled to his
face only to espy thereon the brand of guilt.</p>
<p>For ease of mind, presently, he turned into a convenient
shop and spent ten invaluable francs for a hand satchel big
enough to hold the gladstone bag.</p>
<p>With more courage, now that he had the hateful thing under
cover, he found and entered the Hôtel du Commerce.</p>
<p>In the little closet which served for an office, over a desk
visibly groaning with the weight of an enormous and grimy
registry book, a sleepy, fat, bland and good-natured woman of
the Belgian <i>bourgeoisie</i> presided, a benign and drowsy
divinity of even-tempered courtesy. To his misleading inquiry
for Monsieur Calendar she returned a cheerful permission to
seek that gentleman for himself.</p>
<p>"Three flights, M'sieu', in the front; suite seventeen it
is. M'sieu' does not mind walking up?" she inquired.</p>
<p>M'sieu' did not in the least, though by no strain of the
imagination could it, be truthfully said that he walked up
those steep and redolent stairways of the Hôtel du
Commerce d'Anvers. More literally, he flew with winged feet,
spurning each third padded step with a force that raised a tiny
cloud of fine white dust from the carpeting.</p>
<p>Breathless, at last he paused at the top of the third
flight. His heart was hammering, his pulses drumming like wild
things; there was a queer constriction in his throat, a fire of
hope in his heart alternating with the ice of doubt. Suppose
she were not there! What if he were mistaken, what if he had
misunderstood, what if Mulready and Calendar had referred to
another lodging-house?</p>
<p>Pausing, he gripped the balustrade fiercely, forcing his
self-control, forcing himself to reflect that the girl
(presuming, for the sake of argument, he were presently to find
her) could not be expected to understand how ardently he had
discounted this moment of meeting, or how strangely it affected
him. Indeed, he himself was more than a little disturbed by the
latter phenomenon, though he was no longer blind to its cause.
But he was not to let her see the evidences of his agitation,
lest she be frightened.</p>
<p>Slowly schooling himself to assume a masque of illuding
self-possession and composure, he passed down the corridor to
the door whose panels wore the painted legend, 17; and there
knocked.</p>
<p>Believing that he overheard from within a sudden startled
exclamation, he smiled patiently, tolerant of her surprise.</p>
<p>Burning with impatience as with a fever, he endured a long
minute's wait.</p>
<p>Misgivings were prompting him to knock again and summon her
by name, when he heard footfalls on the other side of the door,
followed by a click of the lock. The door was opened
grudgingly, a bare six inches.</p>
<p>Of the alarmed expression in the eyes that stared into his,
he took no account. His face lengthened a little as he stood
there, dumb, panting, staring; and his heart sank, down, deep
down into a gulf of disappointment, weighted sorely with
chagrin.</p>
<p>Then, of the two the first to recover countenance, he doffed
his cap and bowed.</p>
<p>"Good evening, Mrs. Hallam," he said with a rueful
smile.</p>
<h2 align="center"><a name="XV">XV</a></h2>
<h3 align="center">REFUGEES</h3>
<p>Now, if Kirkwood's emotion was poignant, Mrs. Hallam's
astonishment paralleled, and her relief transcended it. In
order to understand this it must be remembered that while Mr.
Kirkwood was aware of the lady's presence in Antwerp, on her
part she had known nothing of him since he had so ungallantly
fled her company in Sheerness. She seemed to anticipate that
either Calendar or one of his fellows would be discovered at
the door,—to have surmised it without any excessive degree of
pleasure.</p>
<p>Only briefly she hesitated, while her surprise swayed her;
then with a hardening of the eyes and a curt little nod, "I'm
sorry," she said with decision, "but I am busy and can't see
you now, Mr. Kirkwood"; and attempted to shut the door in his
face.</p>
<p>Deftly Kirkwood forestalled her intention by inserting both
a foot and a corner of the newly purchased hand-bag between the
door and the jamb. He had dared too greatly to be thus
dismissed. "Pardon me," he countered, unabashed, "but I wish to
speak with Miss Calendar."</p>
<p>"Dorothy," returned the lady with spirit, "is
engaged...."</p>
<p>She compressed her lips, knitted her brows, and with
disconcerting suddenness thrust one knee against the
obstructing hand-bag; Kirkwood, happily, anticipated the
movement just in time to reinforce the bag with his own knee;
it remained in place, the door standing open.</p>
<p>The woman flushed angrily; their glances crossed, her eyes
flashing with indignation; but Kirkwood's held them with a
level and unyielding stare.</p>
<p>"I intend," he told her quietly, "to see Miss Calendar. It's
useless your trying to hinder me. We may as well understand
each other, Madam, and I'll tell you now that if you wish to
avoid a scene—"</p>
<p>"Dorothy!" the woman called over her shoulder; "ring for the
porter."</p>
<p>"By all means," assented Kirkwood agreeably. "I'll send him
for a gendarme."</p>
<p>"You insolent puppy!"</p>
<p>"Madam, your wit disarms me—"</p>
<p>"What is the matter, Mrs. Hallam?" interrupted a voice from
the other side of the door. "Who is it?" v"Miss Calendar!"
cried Kirkwood hastily, raising his voice. v"Mr. Kirkwood!" the
reply came on the instant. She knew his voice! "Please, Mrs.
Hallam, I will see Mr. Kirkwood."</p>
<p>"You have no time to waste with him, Dorothy," said the
woman coldly. "I must insist—"</p>
<p>"But you don't seem to understand; it is Mr. Kirkwood!"
argued the girl,—as if he were ample excuse for any
imprudence!</p>
<p>Kirkwood's scant store of patience was by this time rapidly
becoming exhausted. "I should advise you not to interfere any
further, Mrs. Hallam," he told her in a tone low, but charged
with meaning.</p>
<p>How much did he know? She eyed him an instant longer, in
sullen suspicion, then swung open the door, yielding with what
grace she could. "Won't you come in, Mr. Kirkwood?" she
inquired with acidulated courtesy. v"If you press me," he
returned winningly, "how can I refuse? You are too good!"</p>
<p>His impertinence disconcerted even himself; he wondered that
she did not slap him as he passed her, entering the room; and
felt that he deserved it, despite her attitude. But such
thoughts could not long trouble one whose eyes were enchanted
by the sight of Dorothy, confronting him in the middle of the
dingy room, her hands, bristling dangerously with hat pins,
busy with the adjustment of a small gray toque atop the wonder
that was her hair. So vivacious and charming she seemed, so
spirited and bright her welcoming smile, so foreign was she
altogether to the picture of her, worn and distraught, that he
had mentally conjured up, that he stopped in an extreme of
disconcertion; and dropped the hand-bag, smiling sheepishly
enough under her ready laugh—mirth irresistibly incited by the
plainly-read play of expression on his mobile countenance.</p>
<p>"You must forgive the unconventionally, Mr. Kirkwood," she
apologized, needlessly enough, but to cover his embarrassment.
"I am on the point of going out with Mrs. Hallam—and of course
you are the last person on earth I expected to meet here!"</p>
<p>"It's good to see you, Miss Calendar," he said simply,
remarking with much satisfaction that her trim walking costume
bore witness to her statement that she was prepared for the
street.</p>
<p>The girl glanced into a mirror, patted the small, bewitching
hat an infinitesimal fraction of an inch to one side, and
turned to him again, her hands free. One of them, small but
cordial, rested in his grasp for an instant all too brief, the
while he gazed earnestly into her face, noting with concern
what the first glance had not shown him,—the almost
imperceptible shadows beneath her eyes and cheek-bones,
pathetic records of the hours the girl had spent, since last he
had seen her, in company with his own grim familiar, Care.</p>
<p>Not a little of care and distress of mind had seasoned her
portion in those two weary days. He saw and knew it; and his
throat tightened inexplicably, again, as it had out there in
the corridor. Possibly the change in her had passed
unchallenged by any eyes other than his, but even in the little
time that he had spent in her society, the image of her had
become fixed so indelibly on his memory, that he could not now
be deceived. She was changed—a little, but changed; she had
suffered, and was suffering and, forced by suffering, her
nascent womanhood was stirring in the bud. The child that he
had met in London, in Antwerp he found grown to woman's stature
and slowly coming to comprehension of the nature of the change
in herself,—the wonder of it glowing softly in her
eyes....</p>
<p>The clear understanding of mankind that is an appanage of
woman's estate, was now added to the intuitions of a girl's
untroubled heart. She could not be blind to the mute adoration
of his gaze; nor could she resent it. Beneath it she colored
and lowered her lashes.</p>
<p>"I was about to go out," she repeated in confusion. "I—it's
pleasant to see you, too."</p>
<p>"Thank you," he stammered ineptly; "I—I—"</p>
<p>"If Mr. Kirkwood will excuse us, Dorothy," Mrs. Hallam's
sharp tones struck in discordantly, "we shall be glad to see
him when we return to London."</p>
<p>"I am infinitely complimented, Mrs. Hallam," Kirkwood
assured her; and of the girl quickly: "You're going back home?"
he asked.</p>
<p>She nodded, with a faint, puzzled smile that included the
woman. "After a little—not immediately. Mrs. Hallam is so
kind—"</p>
<p>"Pardon me," he interrupted; "but tell me one thing, please:
have you any one in England to whom you can go without
invitation and be welcomed and cared for—any friends or
relations?"</p>
<p>"Dorothy will be with me," Mrs. Hallam answered for her,
with cold defiance.</p>
<p>Deliberately insolent, Kirkwood turned his back to the
woman. "Miss Calendar, will you answer my question for
yourself?" he asked the girl pointedly.</p>
<p>"Why—yes; several friends; none in London, but—"</p>
<p>"Dorothy—"</p>
<p>"One moment, Mrs. Hallam," Kirkwood flung crisply over his
shoulder. "I'm going to ask you something rather odd, Miss
Calendar," he continued, seeking the girl's eyes. "I
hope—"</p>
<p>"Dorothy, I—"</p>
<p>"If you please, Mrs. Hallam," suggested the girl, with just
the right shade of independence. "I wish to listen to Mr.
Kirkwood. He has been very kind to me and has every right...."
She turned to him again, leaving the woman breathless and
speechless with anger.</p>
<p>"You told me once," Kirkwood continued quickly, and, he
felt, brazenly, "that you considered me kind, thoughtful and
considerate. You know me no better to-day than you did then,
but I want to beg you to trust me a little. Can you trust
yourself to my protection until we reach your friends in
England?"</p>
<p>"Why, I—" the girl faltered, taken by surprise.</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood!" cried Mrs. Hallam angrily, finding her
voice.</p>
<p>Kirkwood turned to meet her onslaught with a mien grave,
determined, unflinching. "Please do not interfere, Madam," he
said quietly.</p>
<p>"You are impertinent, sir! Dorothy, I forbid you to listen
to this person!"</p>
<p>The girl flushed, lifting her chin a trifle. "Forbid?" she
repeated wonderingly.</p>
<p>Kirkwood was quick to take advantage of her resentment.
"Mrs. Hallam is not fitted to advise you," he insisted, "nor
can she control your actions. It must already have occurred to
you that you're rather out of place in the present
circumstances. The men who have brought you hither, I believe
you already see through, to some extent. Forgive my speaking
plainly ... But that is why you have accepted Mrs. Hallam's
offer of protection. Will you take my word for it, when I tell
you she has not your right interests at heart, but the reverse?
I happen to know, Miss Calendar, and I—"</p>
<p>"How dare you, sir?"</p>
<p>Flaming with rage, Mrs. Hallam put herself bodily between
them, confronting Kirkwood in white-lipped desperation, her
small, gloved hands clenched and quivering at her sides, her
green eyes dangerous.</p>
<p>But Kirkwood could silence her; and he did. "Do you wish me
to speak frankly, Madam? Do you wish me to tell what I
know—and all I know—," with rising emphasis,—"of your social
status and your relations with Calendar and Mulready? I promise
you that if you wish it, or force me to it...."</p>
<p>But he had need to say nothing further; the woman's eyes
wavered before his and a little sob of terror forced itself
between her shut teeth. Kirkwood smiled grimly, with a face of
brass, impenetrable, inflexible. And suddenly she turned from
him with indifferent bravado. v"As Mr. Kirkwood says, Dorothy,"
she said in her high, metallic voice, "I have no authority over
you. But if you're silly enough to consider for a moment this
fellow's insulting suggestion, if you're fool enough to go with
him, unchaperoned through Europe and imperil your—"</p>
<p>"Mrs. Hallam!" Kirkwood cut her short with a menacing
tone.</p>
<p>"Why, then, I wash my hands of you," concluded the woman
defiantly. "Make your choice, my child," she added with a
meaning laugh and moved away, humming a snatch from a French
<i>chanson</i> which brought the hot blood to Kirkwood's
face.</p>
<p>But the girl did not understand; and he was glad of that.
"You may judge between us," he appealed to her directly, once
more. "I can only offer you my word of honor as an American
gentleman that you shall be landed in England, safe and sound,
by the first available steamer—"</p>
<p>"There's no need to say more, Mr. Kirkwood," Dorothy
informed him quietly. "I have already decided. I think I begin
to understand some things clearly, now.... If you're ready, we
will go."</p>
<p>From the window, where she stood, holding the curtains back
and staring out, Mrs. Hallam turned with a curling lip.</p>
<p> <img src="illp314s.jpg"
width="528"
height="800"
border="0"
alt=
"From the window, Mrs. Hallam turned with a curling lip."></p>
<p>"'The honor of an American gentleman,'" she quoted with a
stinging sneer; "I'm sure I wish you comfort of it, child!"</p>
<p>"We must make haste, Miss Calendar," said Kirkwood, ignoring
the implication. "Have you a traveling-bag?"</p>
<p>She silently indicated a small valise, closed and strapped,
on a table by the bed, and immediately passed out into the
hall. Kirkwood took the case containing the gladstone bag in
one hand, the girl's valise in the other, and followed.</p>
<p>As he turned the head of the stairs he looked back. Mrs.
Hallam was still at the window, her back turned. From her very
passiveness he received an impression of something ominous and
forbidding; if she had lost a trick or two of the game she
played, she still held cards, was not at the end of her
resources. She stuck in his imagination for many an hour as a
force to be reckoned with.</p>
<p>For the present he understood that she was waiting to
apprise Calendar and Mulready of their flight. With the more
haste, then, he followed Dorothy down the three flights,
through the tiny office, where Madam sat sound asleep at her
over-burdened desk, and out.</p>
<p>Opposite the door they were fortunate enough to find a
fiacre drawn up in waiting at the curb. Kirkwood opened the
door for the girl to enter.</p>
<p>"Gare du Sud," he directed the driver. "Drive your
fastest—double fare for quick time!"</p>
<p>The driver awoke with a start from profound reverie, looked
Kirkwood over, and bowed with gesticulative palms.</p>
<p>"M'sieu', I am desolated, but engaged!" he protested.</p>
<p>"Precisely." Kirkwood deposited the two bags on the forward
seat of the conveyance, and stood back to convince the man.
"Precisely," said he, undismayed. "The lady who engaged you is
remaining for a time; I will settle her bill."</p>
<p>"Very well, M'sieu'!" The driver disclaimed responsibility
and accepted the favor of the gods with a speaking shrug.
"M'sieu' said the Gare du Sud? <i>En voiture</i>!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood jumped in and shut the door; the vehicle drew
slowly away from the curb, then with gratifying speed hammered
up-stream on the embankment. Bending forward, elbows on knees,
Kirkwood watched the sidewalks narrowly, partly to cover the
girl's constraint, due to Mrs. Hallam's attitude, partly on the
lookout for Calendar and his confederates. In a few moments
they passed a public clock.</p>
<p>"We've missed the Flushing boat," he announced. "I'm making
a try for the Hoek van Holland line. We may possibly make it. I
know that it leaves by the Sud Quai, and that's all I do know,"
he concluded with an apologetic laugh.</p>
<p>"And if we miss that?" asked the girl, breaking silence for
the first time since they had left the hotel.</p>
<p>"We'll take the first train out of Antwerp."</p>
<p>"Where to?"</p>
<p>"Wherever the first train goes, Miss Calendar.... The main
point is to get away to-night. That we must do, no matter where
we land, or how we get there. To-morrow we can plan with more
certainty."</p>
<p>"Yes..." Her assent was more a sigh than a word.</p>
<p>The cab, dashing down the Rue Leopold de Wael, swung into
the Place du Sud, before the station. Kirkwood, acutely
watchful, suddenly thrust head and shoulders out of his window
(fortunately it was the one away from the depot), and called up
to the driver.</p>
<p>"Don't stop! Gare Centrale now—and treble fare!"</p>
<p>"<i>Oui, M'sieu'! Allons!</i>"</p>
<p>The whip cracked and the horse swerved sharply round the
corner into the Avenue du Sud. The young man, with a hushed
exclamation, turned in his seat, lifting the flap over the
little peephole in the back of the carriage.</p>
<p>He had not been mistaken. Calendar was standing in front of
the station; and it was plain to be seen, from his pose, that
the madly careering fiacre interested him more than slightly.
Irresolute, perturbed, the man took a step or two after it,
changed his mind, and returned to his post of observation.</p>
<p>Kirkwood dropped the flap and turned back to find the girl's
wide eyes searching his face. He said nothing.</p>
<p>"What was that?" she asked after a patient moment.</p>
<p>"Your father, Miss Calendar," he returned uncomfortably.</p>
<p>There fell a short pause; then: "Why—will you tell me—is
it necessary to run away from my father, Mr. Kirkwood?" she
demanded, with a moving little break in her voice.</p>
<p>Kirkwood hesitated. It were unfeeling to tell her why; yet
it was essential that she should know, however painful the
knowledge might prove to her.</p>
<p>And she was insistent; he might not dodge the issue. "Why?"
she repeated as he paused.</p>
<p>"I wish you wouldn't press me for an answer just now, Miss
Calendar."</p>
<p>"Don't you think I had better know?"</p>
<p>Instinctively he inclined his head in assent.</p>
<p>"Then why—?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood bent forward and patted the flank of the satchel
that held the gladstone bag.</p>
<p>"What does that mean, Mr. Kirkwood?"</p>
<p>"That I have the jewels," he told her tersely, looking
straight ahead.</p>
<p>At his shoulder he heard a low gasp of amazement and
incredulity commingled.</p>
<p>"But—! How did you get them? My father deposited them in
bank this morning?"</p>
<p>"He must have taken them out again.... I got them on board
the Alethea, where your father was conferring with Mulready and
Captain Stryker."</p>
<p>"The Alethea!"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"You took them from those men?—you!... But didn't my
father—?"</p>
<p>"I had to persuade him," said Kirkwood simply.</p>
<p>"But there were three of them against you!"</p>
<p>"Mulready wasn't—ah—feeling very well, and Stryker's a
coward. They gave me no trouble. I locked them in Stryker's
room, lifted the bag of jewels, and came away.... I ought to
tell you that they were discussing the advisability of sailing
away without you—leaving you here, friendless and without
means. That's why I considered it my duty to take a hand.... I
don't like to tell you this so brutally, but you ought to know,
and I can't see how to tone it down," he concluded
awkwardly.</p>
<p>"I understand...."</p>
<p>But for some moments she did not speak. He avoided looking
at her.</p>
<p>The fiacre, rolling at top speed but smoothly on the broad
avenues that encircle the ancient city, turned into the Avenue
de Keyser, bringing into sight the Gare Centrale.</p>
<p>"You don't—k-know—" began the girl without warning, in a
voice gusty with sobs.</p>
<p>"Steady on!" said Kirkwood gently. "I do know, but don't
let's talk about it now. We'll be at the station in a minute,
and I'll get out and see what's to be done about a train, if
neither Mulready or Stryker are about. You stay in the
carriage.... No!" He changed his mind suddenly. "I'll not risk
losing you again. It's a risk we'll have to run in
company."</p>
<p>"Please!" she agreed brokenly.</p>
<p>The fiacre slowed up and stopped.</p>
<p>"Are you all right, Miss Calendar?" Kirkwood asked.</p>
<p>The girl sat up, lifting her head proudly. "I am quite
ready," she said, steadying her voice.</p>
<p>Kirkwood reconnoitered through the window, while the driver
was descending.</p>
<p>"Gare Centrale, M'sieu'," he said, opening the door.</p>
<p>"No one in sight," Kirkwood told the girl. "Come,
please."</p>
<p>He got out and gave her his hand, then paid the driver,
picked up the two bags, and hurried with Dorothy into the
station, to find in waiting a string of cars into which people
were moving at leisurely rate. His inquiries at the
ticket-window developed the fact that it was the 22:26 for
Brussels, the last train leaving the Gare Centrale that night,
and due to start in ten minutes.</p>
<p>The information settled their plans for once and all;
Kirkwood promptly secured through tickets, also purchasing
"Reserve" supplementary tickets which entitled them to the use
of those modern corridor coaches which take the place of
first-class compartments on the Belgian state railways.</p>
<p>"It's a pleasure," said Kirkwood lightly, as he followed the
girl into one of these, "to find one's self in a common-sense
sort of a train again. 'Feels like home." He put their luggage
in one of the racks and sat down beside her, chattering with
simulated cheerfulness in a vain endeavor to lighten her
evident depression of spirit. "I always feel like a traveling
anachronism in one of your English trains," he said. "You can't
appreciate—"</p>
<p>The girl smiled bravely.... "And after Brussels?" she
inquired.</p>
<p>"First train for the coast," he said promptly. "Dover,
Ostend, Boulogne,—whichever proves handiest, no matter which,
so long as it gets us on English soil without undue delay."</p>
<p>She said "Yes" abstractedly, resting an elbow on the
window-sill and her chin in her palm, to stare with serious,
sweet brown eyes out into the arc-smitten night that hung
beneath the echoing roof.</p>
<p>Kirkwood fidgeted in despite of the constraint he placed
himself under, to be still and not disturb her needlessly.
Impatience and apprehension of misfortune obsessed his mental
processes in equal degree. The ten minutes seemed interminable
that elapsed ere the grinding couplings advertised the
imminence of their start.</p>
<p>The guards began to bawl, the doors to slam, belated
travelers to dash madly for the coaches. The train gave a
preliminary lurch ere settling down to its league-long inland
dash.</p>
<p>Kirkwood, in a fever of hope and an ague of fear, saw a man
sprint furiously across the platform and throw himself on the
forward steps of their coach, on the very instant of the
start.</p>
<p>Presently he entered by the forward door and walked slowly
through, narrowly inspecting the various passengers. As he
approached the seats occupied by Kirkwood and Dorothy Calendar,
his eyes encountered the young man's, and he leered evilly.
Kirkwood met the look with one that was like a kick, and the
fellow passed with some haste into the car behind.</p>
<p>"Who was that?" demanded the girl, without moving her
head.</p>
<p>"How did you know?" he asked, astonished. "You didn't
look—"</p>
<p>"I saw your knuckles whiten beneath the skin.... Who was
it?"</p>
<p>"Hobbs," he acknowledged bitterly; "the mate of the
<i>Alethea</i>."</p>
<p>"I know.... And you think—?"</p>
<p>"Yes. He must have been ashore when I was on board the
brigantine; he certainly wasn't in the cabin. Evidently they
hunted him up, or ran across him, and pressed him into
service.... You see, they're watching every outlet.... But
we'll win through, never fear!"</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XVI">XVI</a></h2>
<h3>TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON</h3>
</center>
<p>The train, escaping the outskirts of the city, remarked the
event with an exultant shriek, then settled down, droning
steadily, to night-devouring flight. In the corridor-car the
few passengers disposed themselves to drowse away the coming
hour—the short hour's ride that, in these piping days of
frantic traveling, separates Antwerp from the capital city of
Belgium.</p>
<p>A guard, slamming gustily in through the front door, reeled
unsteadily down the aisle. Kirkwood, rousing from a profound
reverie, detained him with a gesture and began to interrogate
him in French. When he departed presently it transpired that
the girl was unaquainted with that tongue.</p>
<p>"I didn't understand, you know," she told him with a slow,
shy smile.</p>
<p>"I was merely questioning him about the trains from Brussels
to-night. We daren't stop, you see; we must go on,—keep Hobbs
on the jump and lose him, if possible. There's where our
advantage lies—in having only Hobbs to deal with. He's not
particularly intellectual; and we've two heads to his one,
besides. If we can prevent him from guessing our destination
and wiring back to Antwerp, we may win away. You
understand?"</p>
<p>"Perfectly," she said, brightening. "And what do you purpose
doing now?"</p>
<p>"I can't tell yet. The guard's gone to get me some
information about the night trains on other lines. In the
meantime, don't fret about Hobbs; I'll answer for Hobbs."</p>
<p>"I shan't be worried," she said simply, "with you
here...."</p>
<p>Whatever answer he would have made he was obliged to
postpone because of the return of the guard, with a handful of
time-tables; and when, rewarded with a modest gratuity, the man
had gone his way, and Kirkwood turned again to the girl, she
had withdrawn her attention for the time.</p>
<p>Unconscious of his bold regard, she was dreaming, her
thoughts at loose-ends, her eyes studying the incalculable
depths of blue-black night that swirled and eddied beyond the
window-glass. The most shadowy of smiles touched her lips, the
faintest shade of deepened color rested on her cheeks.... She
was thinking of—him? As long as he dared, the young man, his
heart in his own eyes, watched her greedily, taking a miser's
joy of her youthful beauty, striving with all his soul to
analyze the enigma of that most inscrutable smile.</p>
<p>It baffled him. He could not say of what she thought; and
told himself bitterly that it was not for him, a pauper, to
presume a place in her meditations. He must not forget his
circumstances, nor let her tolerance render him oblivious to
his place, which must be a servant's, not a lover's.</p>
<p>The better to convince himself of this, he plunged
desperately into a forlorn attempt to make head or tail of
Belgian railway schedule, complicated as these of necessity are
by the alternation from normal time notation to the abnormal
system sanctioned by the government, and <i>vice-versa</i>,
with every train that crosses a boundary line of the state.</p>
<p>So preoccupied did he become in this pursuit that he was
subconsciously impressed that the girl had spoken twice, ere he
could detach his interest from the exasperatingly inconclusive
and incoherent cohorts of ranked figures.</p>
<p>"Can't you find out anything?" Dorothy was asking.</p>
<p>"Precious little," he grumbled. "I'd give my head for a
Bradshaw! Only it wouldn't be a fair exchange.... There seems
to be an express for Bruges leaving the Gare du Nord, Brussels,
at fifty-five minutes after twenty-three o'clock; and if I'm
not mistaken, that's the latest train out of Brussels and the
earliest we can catch,... if we <i>can</i> catch it. I've never
been in Brussels, and Heaven only knows how long it would take
us to cab it from the Gare du Midi to the Nord."</p>
<p>In this statement, however, Mr. Kirkwood was fortunately
mistaken; not only Heaven, it appeared, had cognizance of the
distance between the two stations. While Kirkwood was still
debating the question, with pessimistic tendencies, the
friendly guard had occasion to pass through the coach; and,
being tapped, yielded the desired information with entire
tractability.</p>
<p>It would be a cab-ride of perhaps ten minutes. Monsieur,
however, would serve himself well if he offered the driver an
advance tip as an incentive to speedy driving. Why? Why because
(here the guard consulted his watch; and Kirkwood very keenly
regretted the loss of his own)—because this train, announced
to arrive in Brussels some twenty minutes prior to the
departure of that other, was already late. But yes—a matter of
some ten minutes. Could that not be made up? Ah, Monsieur, but
who should say?</p>
<p>The guard departed, doubtless with private views as to the
madness of all English-speaking travelers.</p>
<p>"And there we are!" commented Kirkwood in factitious
resignation. "If we're obliged to stop overnight in Brussels,
our friends will be on our back before we can get out in the
morning, if they have to come by motor-car." He reflected
bitterly on the fact that with but a little more money at his
disposal, he too could hire a motor-car and cry defiance to
their persecutors. "However," he amended, with rising spirits,
"so much the better our chance of losing Mr. Hobbs. We must be
ready to drop off the instant the train stops."</p>
<p>He began to unfold another time-table, threatening again to
lose himself completely; and was thrown into the utmost
confusion by the touch of the girl's hand, in appeal placed
lightly on his own. And had she been observant, she might have
seen a second time his knuckles whiten beneath the skin as he
asserted his self-control—though this time not over his
temper.</p>
<p>His eyes, dumbly eloquent, turned to meet hers. She was
smiling.</p>
<p>"Please!" she iterated, with the least imperative pressure
on his hand, pushing the folder aside.</p>
<p>"I beg pardon?" he muttered blankly.</p>
<p>"Is it quite necessary, now, to study those schedules?
Haven't you decided to try for the Bruges express?"</p>
<p>"Why yes, but—"</p>
<p>"Then please don't leave me to my thoughts all the time, Mr.
Kirkwood." There was a tremor of laughter in her voice, but her
eyes were grave and earnest. "I'm very weary of thinking round
in a circle—and that," she concluded, with a nervous little
laugh, "is all I've had to do for days!"</p>
<p>"I'm afraid I'm very stupid," he humored her. "This is the
second time, you know, in the course of a very brief
acquaintance, that you have found it necessary to remind me to
talk to you."</p>
<p>"Oh-h!" She brightened. "That night, at the Pless? But that
was <i>ages</i> ago!"</p>
<p>"It seems so," he admitted.</p>
<p>"So much has happened!"</p>
<p>"Yes," he assented vaguely.</p>
<p>She watched him, a little piqued by his absent-minded mood,
for a moment; then, and not without a trace of malice: "Must I
tell you again what to talk about?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Forgive me. I was thinking about, if not talking to,
you.... I've been wondering just why it was that you left the
<i>Alethea</i> at Queensborough, to go on by steamer."</p>
<p>And immediately he was sorry that his tactless query had
swung the conversation to bear upon her father, the thought of
whom could not but prove painful to her. But it was too late to
mend matters; already her evanescent flush of amusement had
given place to remembrance.</p>
<p>"It was on my father's account," she told him in a steady
voice, but with averted eyes; "he is a very poor sailor, and
the promise of a rough passage terrified him. I believe there
was a difference of opinion about it, he disputing with Mr.
Mulready and Captain Stryker. That was just after we had left
the anchorage. They both insisted that it was safer to continue
by the <i>Alethea</i>, but he wouldn't listen to them, and in
the end had his way. Captain Stryker ran the brigantine into
the mouth of the Medway and put us ashore just in time to catch
the steamer."</p>
<p>"Were you sorry for the change?"</p>
<p>"I?" She shuddered slightly. "Hardly! I think I hated the
ship from the moment I set foot on board her. It was a dreadful
place; it was all night-marish, that night, but it seemed most
terrible on the <i>Alethea</i> with Captain Stryker and that
abominable Mr. Hobbs. I think that my unhappiness had as much
to do with my father's insistence on the change, as anything.
He ... he was very thoughtful, most of the time."</p>
<p>Kirkwood shut his teeth on what he knew of the
blackguard.</p>
<p>"I don't know why," she continued, wholly without
affectation, "but I was wretched from the moment you left me in
the cab, to wait while you went in to see Mrs. Hallam. And when
we left you, at Bermondsey Old Stairs, after what you had said
to me, I felt—I hardly know what to say—abandoned, in a
way."</p>
<p>"But you were with your father, in his care—"</p>
<p>"I know, but I was getting confused. Until then the
excitement had kept me from thinking. But you made me think. I
began to wonder, to question ... But what could I do?" She
signified her helplessness with a quick and dainty movement of
her hands. "He is my father; and I'm not yet of age, you
know."</p>
<p>"I thought so," he confessed, troubled. "It's very
inconsiderate of you, you must admit."</p>
<p>"I don't understand..."</p>
<p>"Because of the legal complication. I've no doubt your
father can 'have the law on me'"—Kirkwood laughed
uneasily—"for taking you from his protection."</p>
<p>"Protection!" she echoed warmly. "If you call it that!"</p>
<p>"Kidnapping," he said thoughtfully: "I presume that'd be the
charge."</p>
<p>"Oh!" She laughed the notion to scorn. "Besides, they must
catch us first, mustn't they?"</p>
<p>"Of course; and"—with a simulation of confidence sadly
deceitful—"they shan't, Mr. Hobbs to the contrary
notwithstanding."</p>
<p>"You make me share your confidence, against my better
judgment."</p>
<p>"I wish your better judgment would counsel you to share your
confidence with me," he caught her up. "If you would only tell
me what it's all about, as far as you know, I'd be better able
to figure out what we ought to do."</p>
<p>Briefly the girl sat silent, staring before her with sweet
somber eyes. Then, "In the very beginning," she told him with a
conscious laugh,—"this sounds very story-bookish, I know—in
the very beginning, George Burgoyne Calendar, an American,
married his cousin a dozen times removed, and an Englishwoman,
Alice Burgoyne Hallam."</p>
<p>"Hallam!"</p>
<p>"Wait, please." She sat up, bending forward and frowning
down upon her interlacing, gloved fingers; she was finding it
difficult to say what she must. Kirkwood, watching hungrily the
fair drooping head, the flawless profile clear and radiant
against the night-blackened window, saw hot signals of shame
burning on her cheek and throat and forehead.</p>
<p>"But never mind," he began awkwardly.</p>
<p>"No," she told him with decision. "Please let me go on...."
She continued, stumbling, trusting to his sympathy to bridge
the gaps in her narrative. "My father ... There was trouble of
some sort.... At all events, he disappeared when I was a baby.
My mother ... died. I was brought up in the home of my
great-uncle, Colonel George Burgoyne, of the Indian
Army—retired. My mother had been his favorite niece, they say;
I presume that was why he cared for me. I grew up in his home
in Cornwall; it was my home, just as he was my father in
everything but fact.</p>
<p>"A year ago he died, leaving me everything,—the town house
in Frognall Street, his estate in Cornwall: everything was
willed to me on condition that I must never live with my
father, nor in any way contribute to his support. If I
disobeyed, the entire estate without reserve was to go to his
nearest of kin.... Colonel Burgoyne was unmarried and had no
children."</p>
<p>The girl paused, lifting to Kirkwood's face her eyes, clear,
fearless, truthful. "I never was given to understand that there
was anybody who might have inherited, other than myself," she
declared.</p>
<p>"I see..." v"Last week I received a letter, signed with my
father's name, begging me to appoint an interview with him in
London. I did so,—guess how gladly! I was alone in the world,
and he, my father, whom I had never thought to see.... We met
at his hotel, the Pless. He wanted me to come and live with
him,—said that he was growing old and lonely and needed a
daughter's love and care. He told me that he had made a fortune
in America and was amply able to provide for us both. As for my
inheritance, he persuaded me that it was by rights the property
of Frederick Hallam, Mrs. Hallam's son."</p>
<p>"I have met the young gentleman," interpolated Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"His name was new to me, but my father assured me that he
was the next of kin mentioned in Colonel Burgoyne's will, and
convinced me that I had no real right to the property.... After
all, he was my father; I agreed; I could not bear the thought
of wronging anybody. I was to give up everything but my
mother's jewels. It seems,—my father said,—I don't—I can't
believe it now—"</p>
<p>She choked on a little, dry sob. It was some time before she
seemed able to continue.</p>
<p>"I was told that my great-uncle's collection of jewels had
been my mother's property. He had in life a passion for
collecting jewels, and it had been his whim to carry them with
him, wherever he went. When he died in Frognall Street, they
were in the safe by the head of his bed. I, in my grief, at
first forgot them, and then afterwards carelessly put off
removing them.</p>
<p>"To come back to my father: Night before last we were to
call on Mrs. Hallam. It was to be our last night in England; we
were to sail for the Continent on the private yacht of a friend
of my father's, the next morning.... This is what I was
told—and believed, you understand.</p>
<p>"That night Mrs. Hallam was dining at another table at the
Pless, it seems. I did not then know her. When leaving, she put
a note on our table, by my father's elbow. I was astonished
beyond words.... He seemed much agitated, told me that he was
called away on urgent business, a matter of life and death, and
begged me to go alone to Frognall Street, get the jewels and
meet him at Mrs. Hallam's later.... I wasn't altogether a fool,
for I began dimly to suspect, then, that something was wrong;
but I was a fool, for I consented to do as he desired. You
understand—you know—?"</p>
<p>"I do, indeed," replied Kirkwood grimly. "I understand a lot
of things now that I didn't five minutes ago. Please let me
think..."</p>
<p>But the time he took for deliberation was short. He had
hoped to find a way to spare her, by sparing Calendar; but
momentarily he was becoming more impressed with the futility of
dealing with her save in terms of candor, merciful though they
might seem harsh.</p>
<p>"I must tell you," he said, "that you have been outrageously
misled, swindled and deceived. I have heard from your father's
own lips that Mrs. Hallam was to pay him two thousand pounds
for keeping you out of England and losing you your inheritance.
I'm inclined to question, furthermore, the assertion that these
jewels were your mother's. Frederick Hallam was the man who
followed you into the Frognall Street house and attacked me on
the stairs; Mrs. Hallam admits that he went there to get the
jewels. But he didn't want anybody to know it."</p>
<p>"But that doesn't prove—"</p>
<p>"Just a minute." Rapidly and concisely Kirkwood recounted
the events wherein he had played a part, subsequent to the
adventure of Bermondsey Old Stairs. He was guilty of but one
evasion; on one point only did he slur the truth: he conceived
it his honorable duty to keep the girl in ignorance of his
straitened circumstances; she was not to be distressed by
knowledge of his distress, nor could he tolerate the suggestion
of seeming to play for her sympathy. It was necessary, then, to
invent a motive to excuse his return to 9, Frognall Street. I
believe he chose to exaggerate the inquisitiveness of his
nature and threw in for good measure a desire to recover a
prized trinket of no particular moment, esteemed for its
associations, and so forth. But whatever the fabrication, it
passed muster; to the girl his motives seemed less important
than the discoveries that resulted from them.</p>
<p>"I am afraid," he concluded the summary of the confabulation
he had overheard at the skylight of the Alethea's cabin, "you'd
best make up your mind that your father—"</p>
<p>"Yes," whispered the girl huskily; and turned her face to
the window, a quivering muscle in the firm young throat alone
betraying her emotion.</p>
<p>"It's a bad business," he pursued relentlessly: "bad all
round. Mulready, in your father's pay, tries to have him
arrested, the better to rob him. Mrs. Hallam, to secure your
property for that precious pet, Freddie, connives at, if she
doesn't instigate, a kidnapping. Your father takes her money to
deprive you of yours,—which could profit him nothing so long
as you remained in lawful possession of it; and at the same
time he conspires to rob, through you, the rightful owners—if
they are rightful owners. And if they are, why does Freddie
Hallam go like a thief in the night to secure property that's
his beyond dispute?... I don't really think you owe your father
any further consideration."</p>
<p>He waited patiently. Eventually, "No-o," the girl sobbed
assent.</p>
<p>"It's this way: Calendar, counting on your sparing him in
the end, is going to hound us. He's doing it now: there's Hobbs
in the next car, for proof. Until these jewels are returned,
whether to Frognall Street or to young Hallam, we're both in
danger, both thieves in the sight of the law. And your father
knows that, too. There's no profit to be had by discounting the
temper of these people; they're as desperate a gang of
swindlers as ever lived. They'll have those jewels if they have
to go as far as murder—"</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood!" she deprecated, in horror.</p>
<p>He wagged his head stubbornly, ominously. "I've seen them in
the raw. They're hot on our trail now; ten to one, they'll be
on our backs before we can get across the Channel. Once in
England we will be comparatively safe. Until then ... But I'm a
brute—I'm frightening you!"</p>
<p>"You are, dreadfully," she confessed in a tremulous
voice.</p>
<p>"Forgive me. If you look at the dark side first, the other
seems all the brighter. Please don't worry; we'll pull through
with flying colors, or my name's not Philip Kirkwood!"</p>
<p>"I have every faith in you," she informed him, flawlessly
sincere. "When I think of all you've done and dared for me, on
the mere suspicion that I needed your help—"</p>
<p>"We'd best be getting ready," he interrupted hastily.
"Here's Brussels."</p>
<p>It was so. Lights, in little clusters and long, wheeling
lines, were leaping out of the darkness and flashing back as
the train rumbled through the suburbs of the little Paris of
the North. Already the other passengers were bestirring
themselves, gathering together wraps and hand luggage, and
preparing for the journey's end.</p>
<p>Rising, Kirkwood took down their two satchels from the
overhead rack, and waited, in grim abstraction planning and
counterplanning against the machinations in whose wiles they
two had become so perilously entangled.</p>
<p>Primarily, there was Hobbs to be dealt with; no easy task,
for Kirkwood dared not resort to violence nor in any way invite
the attention of the authorities; and threats would be an idle
waste of breath, in the case of that corrupt and malignant,
little cockney, himself as keen as any needle, adept in all the
artful resources of the underworld whence he had sprung, and
further primed for action by that master rogue, Calendar.</p>
<p>The train was pulling slowly into the station when he
reluctantly abandoned his latest unfeasible scheme for shaking
off the little Englishman, and concluded that their salvation
was only to be worked out through everlasting vigilance,
incessant movement, and the favor of the blind goddess,
Fortune. There was comfort of a sort in the reflection that the
divinity of chance is at least blind; her favors are
impartially distributed; the swing of the wheel of the world is
not always to the advantage of the wrongdoer and the scamp.</p>
<p>He saw nothing of Hobbs as they alighted and hastened from
the station, and hardly had time to waste looking for him,
since their train had failed to make up the precious ten
minutes. Consequently he dismissed the fellow from his thoughts
until—with Brussels lingering in their memories a garish
vision of brilliant streets and glowing cafés, glimpsed
furtively from their cab windows during its wild dash over the
broad mid-city, boulevards—at midnight they settled themselves
in a carriage of the Bruges express. They were speeding along
through the open country with a noisy clatter; then a minute's
investigation sufficed to discover the mate of the
<i>Alethea</i> serenely ensconced in the coach behind.</p>
<p>The little man seemed rarely complacent, and impudently
greeted Kirkwood's scowling visage, as the latter peered
through the window in the coach-door, with a smirk and a
waggish wave of his hand. The American by main strength of
will-power mastered an impulse to enter and wring his neck, and
returned to the girl, more disturbed than he cared to let her
know.</p>
<p>There resulted from his review of the case but one plan for
outwitting Mr. Hobbs, and that lay in trusting to his
confidence that Kirkwood and Dorothy Calendar would proceed as
far toward Ostend as the train would take them—namely, to the
limit of the run, Bruges.</p>
<p>Thus inspired, Kirkwood took counsel with the girl, and when
the train paused at Ghent, they made an unostentatious exit
from their coach, finding themselves, when the express had
rolled on into the west, upon a station platform in a foreign
city at nine minutes past one o'clock in the morning—but at
length without their shadow. Mr. Hobbs had gone on to
Bruges.</p>
<p>Kirkwood sped his journeyings with an unspoken malediction,
and collected himself to cope with a situation which was to
prove hardly more happy for them than the espionage they had
just eluded. The primal flush of triumph which had saturated
the American's humor on this signal success, proved but fictive
and transitory when inquiry of the station attendants educed
the information that the two earliest trains to be obtained
were the 5:09 for Dunkerque and the 5:37 for Ostend. A minimum
delay of four hours was to be endured in the face of many
contingent features singularly unpleasant to contemplate. The
station waiting-room was on the point of closing for the night,
and Kirkwood, already alarmed by the rapid ebb of the money he
had had of Calendar, dared not subject his finances to the
strain of a night's lodging at one of Ghent's hotels. He found
himself forced to be cruel to be kind to the girl, and
Dorothy's cheerful acquiescence to their sole alternative of
tramping the street until daybreak did nothing to alleviate
Kirkwood's exasperation.</p>
<p>It was permitted them to occupy a bench outside the station.
There the girl, her head pillowed on the treasure bag, napped
uneasily, while Kirkwood plodded restlessly to and fro, up and
down the platform, communing with the Shade of Care and addling
his poor, weary wits with the problem of the future,—not so
much his own as the future of the unhappy child for whose
welfare he had assumed responsibility. Dark for both of them,
in his understanding To-morrow loomed darkest for her.</p>
<p>Not until the gray, formless light of the dawn-dusk was
wavering over the land, did he cease his perambulations. Then a
gradual stir of life in the city streets, together with the
appearance of a station porter or two, opening the
waiting-rooms and preparing them against the traffic of the
day, warned him that he must rouse his charge. He paused and
stood over her, reluctant to disturb her rest, such as it was,
his heart torn with compassion for her, his soul embittered by
the cruel irony of their estate.</p>
<p>If what he understood were true, a king's ransom was
secreted within the cheap, imitation-leather satchel which
served her for a pillow. But it availed her nothing for her
comfort. If what he believed were true, she was absolute
mistress of that treasure of jewels; yet that night she had
been forced to sleep on a hard, uncushioned bench, in the open
air, and this morning he must waken her to the life of a hunted
thing. A week ago she had had at her command every luxury known
to the civilized world; to-day she was friendless, but for his
inefficient, worthless self, and in a strange land. A week
ago,—had he known her then,—he had been free to tell her of
his love, to offer her the protection of his name as well as
his devotion; to-day he was an all but penniless vagabond, and
there could be no dishonor deeper than to let her know the
nature of his heart's desire.</p>
<p>Was ever lover hedged from a declaration to his mistress by
circumstances so hateful, so untoward! He could have raged and
railed against his fate like any madman. For he desired her
greatly, and she was very lovely in his sight. If her night's
rest had been broken and but a mockery, she showed few signs of
it; the faint, wan complexion of fatigue seemed only to enhance
the beauty of her maidenhood; her lips were as fresh and
desirous as the dewy petals of a crimson rose; beneath her eyes
soft shadows lurked where her lashes lay tremulous upon her
cheeks of satin.... She was to him of all created things the
most wonderful, the most desirable.</p>
<p>The temptation of his longing seemed more than he could long
withstand. But resist he must, or part for ever with any title
to her consideration—or his own. He shut his teeth and knotted
his brows in a transport of desire to touch, if only with his
finger-tips, the woven wonder of her hair.</p>
<p>And thus she saw him, when, without warning, she awoke.</p>
<p>Bewilderment at first informed the wide brown eyes; then, as
their drowsiness vanished, a little laughter, a little tender
mirth.</p>
<p>"Good morning, Sir Knight of the Somber Countenance!" she
cried, standing up. "Am I so utterly disreputable that you find
it necessary to frown on me so darkly?"</p>
<p>He shook his head, smiling.</p>
<p>"I know I'm a fright," she asserted vigorously, shaking out
the folds of her pleated skirt. "And as for my hat, it will
never be on straight—but then <i>you</i> wouldn't know."</p>
<p>"It seems all right," he replied vacantly.</p>
<p>"Then please to try to look a little happier, since you find
me quite presentable."</p>
<p>"I do..."</p>
<p>Without lifting her bended head, she looked up, laughing,
not ill-pleased. "<i>You'd</i> say so... really?"</p>
<p>Commonplace enough, this banter, this pitiful endeavor to be
oblivious of their common misery; but like the look she gave
him, her words rang in his head like potent fumes of wine. He
turned away, utterly disconcerted for the time, knowing only
that he must overcome his weakness.</p>
<p>Far down the railway tracks there rose a murmuring, that
waxed to a rumbling roar. A passing porter answered Kirkwood's
inquiry: it was the night boat-train from Ostend. He picked up
their bags and drew the girl into the waiting-room, troubled by
a sickening foreboding.</p>
<p>Through the window they watched the train roll in and
stop.</p>
<p>Among others, alighted, smirking, the unspeakable Hobbs.</p>
<p>He lifted his hat and bowed jauntily to the waiting-room
window, making it plain that his keen eyes had discovered them
instantly.</p>
<p>Kirkwood's heart sank with the hopelessness of it all. If
the railway directorates of Europe conspired against them, what
chance had they? If the night boat-train from Ostend had only
had the decency to be twenty-five minutes late, instead of
arriving promptly on the minute of 4:45 they two might have
escaped by the 5:09 for Dunkerque and Calais.</p>
<p>There remained but a single untried ruse in his bag of
tricks; mercifully it might suffice.</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar," said Kirkwood from his heart, "just as soon
as I get you home, safe and sound, I am going to take a day
off, hunt up that little villain, and flay him alive. In the
meantime, I forgot to dine last night, and am reminded that we
had better forage for breakfast."</p>
<p>Hobbs dogged them at a safe distance while they sallied
forth and in a neighboring street discovered an early-bird
bakery. Here they were able to purchase rolls steaming from the
oven, fresh pats of golden butter wrapped in clean lettuce
leaves, and milk in twin bottles; all of which they prosaically
carried with them back to the station, lacking leisure as they
did to partake of the food before train-time.</p>
<p>Without attempting concealment (Hobbs, he knew, was
eavesdropping round the corner of the door) Kirkwood purchased
at the ticket-window passages on the Dunkerque train. Mr. Hobbs
promptly flattered him by imitation; and so jealous of his luck
was Kirkwood by this time grown, through continual
disappointment, that he did not even let the girl into his
plans until they were aboard the 5:09, in a compartment all to
themselves. Then, having with his own eyes seen Mr. Hobbs dodge
into the third compartment in the rear of the same carriage,
Kirkwood astonished the girl by requesting her to follow him;
and together they left by the door opposite that by which they
had entered.</p>
<p>The engine was running up and down a scale of staccato
snorts, in preparation for the race, and the cars were on the
edge of moving, couplings clanking, wheels a-groan, ere Mr.
Hobbs condescended to join them between the tracks.</p>
<p>Wearily, disheartened, Kirkwood reopened the door, flung the
bags in, and helped the girl back into their despised
compartment; the quicker route to England via Ostend was now
out of the question. As for himself, he waited for a brace of
seconds, eying wickedly the ubiquitous Hobbs, who had popped
back into his compartment, but stood ready to pop out again on
the least encouragement. In the meantime he was pleased to
shake a friendly foot at Mr. Kirkwood, thrusting that member
out through the half-open door.</p>
<p>Only the timely departure of the train, compelling him to
rejoin Dorothy at once, if at all, prevented the American from
adding murder to the already noteworthy catalogue of his high
crimes and misdemeanors.</p>
<p>Their simple meal, consumed to the ultimate drop and crumb
while the Dunkerque train meandered serenely through a sunny,
smiling Flemish countryside, somewhat revived their jaded
spirits. After all, they were young, enviably dowered with
youth's exuberant elasticity of mood; the world was bright in
the dawning, the night had fled leaving naught but an evil
memory; best of all things, they were together: tacitly they
were agreed that somehow the future would take care of itself
and all be well with them.</p>
<p>For a time they laughed and chattered, pretending that the
present held no cares or troubles; but soon the girl, nestling
her head in a corner of the dingy cushions, was smiling ever
more drowsily on Kirkwood; and presently she slept in good
earnest, the warm blood ebbing and flowing beneath the
exquisite texture of her cheeks, the ghost of an unconscious
smile quivering about the sensitive scarlet mouth, the breeze
through the open window at her side wantoning at will in the
sunlit witchery of her hair. And Kirkwood, worn with sleepless
watching, dwelt in longing upon the dear innocent allure of her
until the ache in his heart had grown well-nigh insupportable;
then instinctively turned his gaze upwards, searching his
heart, reading the faith and desire of it, so that at length
knowledge and understanding came to him, of his weakness and
strength and the clean love that he bore for her, and gladdened
he sat dreaming in waking the same clear dreams that modeled
her unconscious lips secretly for laughter and the joy of
living.</p>
<p>When Dunkerque halted their progress, they were obliged to
alight and change cars,—Hobbs a discreetly sinister shadow at
the end of the platform.</p>
<p>By schedule they were to arrive in Calais about the middle
of the forenoon, with a wait of three hours to be bridged
before the departure of the Dover packet. That would be an
anxious time; the prospect of it rendered both Dorothy and
Kirkwood doubly anxious throughout this final stage of their
flight. In three hours anything could happen, or be brought
about. Neither could forget that it was quite within the bounds
of possibilities for Calendar to be awaiting them in Calais.
Presuming that Hobbs had been acute enough to guess their plans
and advise his employer by telegraph, the latter could readily
have anticipated their arrival, whether by sea in the
brigantine, or by land, taking the direct route via Brussels
and Lille. If such proved to be the case, it were scarcely
sensible to count upon the arch-adventurer contenting himself
with a waiting rôle like Hobbs'.</p>
<p>With such unhappy apprehensions for a stimulant, between
them the man and the girl contrived a make-shift
counter-stratagem; or it were more accurate to say that
Kirkwood proposed it, while Dorothy rejected, disputed, and at
length accepted it, albeit with sad misgivings. For it involved
a separation that might not prove temporary.</p>
<p>Together they could never escape the surveillance of Mr.
Hobbs; parted, he would be obliged to follow one or the other.
The task of misleading the <i>Alethea's</i> mate, Kirkwood
undertook, delegating to the girl the duty of escaping when he
could provide her the opportunity, of keeping under cover until
the hour of sailing, and then proceeding to England, with the
gladstone bag, alone if Kirkwood was unable, or thought it
inadvisable, to join her on the boat.</p>
<p>In furtherance of this design, a majority of the girl's
belongings were transferred from her traveling bag to
Kirkwood's, the gladstone taking their place; and the young man
provided her with voluminous instructions, a revolver which she
did not know how to handle and declared she would never use for
any consideration, and enough money to pay for her
accommodation at the Terminus Hôtel, near the pier, and
for two passages to London. It was agreed that she should
secure the steamer booking, lest Kirkwood be delayed until the
last moment.</p>
<p>These arrangements concluded, the pair of blessed idiots sat
steeped in melancholy silence, avoiding each other's eyes,
until the train drew in at the Gare Centrale, Calais.</p>
<p>In profound silence, too, they left their compartment and
passed through the station, into the quiet, sun-drenched
streets of the seaport,—Hobbs hovering solicitously in the
offing.</p>
<p>Without comment or visible relief of mind they were aware
that their fears had been without apparent foundation; they saw
no sign of Calendar, Stryker or Mulready. The circumstance,
however, counted for nothing; one or all of the adventurers
might arrive in Calais at any minute.</p>
<p>Momentarily more miserable as the time of parting drew
nearer, dumb with unhappiness, they turned aside from the main
thoroughfares of the city, leaving the business section, and
gained the sleepier side streets, bordered by the residences of
the proletariat, where for blocks none but children were to be
seen, and of them but few—quaint, sober little bodies playing
almost noiselessly in their dooryards.</p>
<p>At length Kirkwood spoke.</p>
<p>"Let's make it the corner," he said, without looking at the
girl. "It's a short block to the next street. You hurry to the
Terminus and lock yourself in your room. Have the management
book both passages; don't run the risk of going to the pier
yourself. I'll make things interesting for Mr. Hobbs, and join
you as soon as I can, <i>if</i> I can."</p>
<p>"You must," replied the girl. "I shan't go without you."</p>
<p>"But, Dor—Miss Calendar!" he exclaimed, aghast.</p>
<p>"I don't care—I know I agreed," she declared mutinously.
"But I won't—I can't. Remember I shall wait for you."</p>
<p>"But—but perhaps—"</p>
<p>"If you have to stay, it will be because there's
danger—won't it? And what would you think of me if I deserted
you then, af-after all y-you've done?... Please don't waste
time arguing. Whether you come at one to-day, to-morrow, or a
week from to-morrow, I shall be waiting.... You may be sure.
Good-by."</p>
<p>They had turned the corner, walking slowly, side by side;
Hobbs, for the first time caught off his guard, had dropped
behind more than half a long block. But now Kirkwood's quick
sidelong glance discovered the mate in the act of taking alarm
and quickening his pace. None the less the American was at the
time barely conscious of anything other than a wholly
unexpected furtive pressure of the girl's gloved fingers on his
own.</p>
<p>"Good-by," she whispered.</p>
<p>He caught at her hand, protesting. "Dorothy—!"</p>
<p>"Good-by," she repeated breathlessly, with a queer little
catch in her voice. "God be with you, Philip, and—and send you
safely back to me...."</p>
<p>And she was running away.</p>
<p>Dumfounded with dismay, seeing in a flash how all his plans
might be set at naught by this her unforeseen insubordination,
he took a step or two after her; but she was fleet of foot,
and, remembering Hobbs, he halted.</p>
<p>By this time the mate, too, was running; Kirkwood could hear
the heavy pounding of his clumsy feet. Already Dorothy had
almost gained the farther corner; as she whisked round it with
a flutter of skirts, Kirkwood dodged hastily behind a
gate-post. A thought later, Hobbs appeared, head down, chest
out, eyes straining for sight of his quarry, pelting along for
dear life.</p>
<p>As, rounding the corner, he stretched out in swifter stride,
Kirkwood was inspired to put a spoke in his wheel; and a foot
thrust suddenly out from behind the gate-post accomplished his
purpose with more success than he had dared anticipate.
Stumbling, the mate plunged headlong, arms and legs a-sprawl;
and the momentum of his pace, though checked, carried him along
the sidewalk, face downwards, a full yard ere he could stay
himself.</p>
<p>Kirkwood stepped out of the gateway and sheered off as Hobbs
picked himself up; something which he did rather slowly, as if
in a daze, without comprehension of the cause of his
misfortune. And for a moment he stood pulling his wits together
and swaying as though on the point of resuming his rudely
interrupted chase; when the noise of Kirkwood's heels brought
him about face in a twinkling.</p>
<p>"Ow, it's you, eh!" he snarled in a temper as vicious as his
countenance; and both of these were much the worse for wear and
tear.</p>
<p>"Myself," admitted Kirkwood fairly; and then, in a gleam of
humor: "Weren't you looking for me?"</p>
<p>His rage seemed to take the little Cockney and shake him by
the throat; he trembled from head to foot, his face shockingly
congested, and spat out dust and fragments of lurid blasphemy
like an infuriated cat.</p>
<p>Of a sudden, "W'ere's the gel?" he sputtered thickly as his
quick shifting eyes for the first time noted Dorothy's
absence.</p>
<p>"Miss Calendar has other business—none with you. I've taken
the liberty of stopping you because I have a word or two—"</p>
<p>"Ow, you 'ave, 'ave you? Gawd strike me blind, but I've a
word for you, too!... 'And over that bag—and look nippy, or
I'll myke you pye for w'at you've done to me ... I'll myke you
pye!" he iterated hoarsely, edging closer. "'And it over
or—"</p>
<p>"You've got another guess—" Kirkwood began, but saved his
breath in deference to an imperative demand on him for instant
defensive action.</p>
<p>To some extent he had underestimated the brute courage of
the fellow, the violent, desperate courage that is distilled of
anger in men of his kind. Despising him, deeming him incapable
of any overt act of villainy, Kirkwood had been a little less
wary than he would have been with Calendar or Mulready. Hobbs
had seemed more of the craven type which Stryker graced so
conspicuously. But now the American was to be taught
discrimination, to learn that if Stryker's nature was like a
snake's for low cunning and deviousness, Hobbs' soul was the
soul of a viper.</p>
<p>Almost imperceptibly he had advanced upon Kirkwood; almost
insensibly his right hand had moved toward his chest; now, with
a movement marvelously deft, it had slipped in and out of his
breast pocket. And a six-inch blade of tarnished steel was
winging toward Kirkwood's throat with the speed of light.</p>
<p>Instinctively he stepped back; as instinctively he guarded
with his right forearm, lifting the hand that held the satchel.
The knife, catching in his sleeve, scratched the arm beneath
painfully, and simultaneously was twisted from the mate's
grasp, while in his surprise Kirkwood's grip on the bag-handle
relaxed. It was torn forcibly from his fingers just as he
received a heavy blow on his chest from the mate's fist. He
staggered back.</p>
<p>By the time he had recovered from the shock, Hobbs was a
score of feet away, the satchel tucked under his arm, his body
bent almost double, running like a jack-rabbit. Ere Kirkwood
could get under way, in pursuit, the mate had dodged out of
sight round the corner. When the American caught sight of him
again, he was far down the block, and bettering his pace with
every jump.</p>
<p>He was approaching, also, some six or eight good citizens of
Calais, men of the laboring class, at a guess. Their attention
attracted by his frantic flight, they stopped to wonder. One or
two moved as though to intercept him, and he doubled out into
the middle of the street with the quickness of thought; an
instant later he shot round another corner and disappeared, the
natives streaming after in hot chase, electrified by the
inspiring strains of "Stop, thief!"—or its French
equivalent.</p>
<p>Kirkwood, cheering them on with the same wild cry, followed
to the farther street; and there paused, so winded and weak
with laughter that he was fain to catch at a fence picket for
support. Standing thus he saw other denizens of Calais spring
as if from the ground miraculously to swell the hue and cry;
and a dumpling of a gendarme materialized from nowhere at all,
to fall in behind the rabble, waving his sword above his head
and screaming at the top of his lungs, the while his fat legs
twinkled for all the world like thick sausage links marvelously
animated.</p>
<p>The mob straggled round yet another corner and was gone; its
clamor diminished on the still Spring air; and Kirkwood,
recovering, abandoned Mr. Hobbs to the justice of the high gods
and the French system of jurisprudence (at least, he hoped the
latter would take an interest in the case, if haply Hobbs were
laid by the heels), and went his way rejoicing.</p>
<p>As for the scratch on his arm, it was nothing, as he
presently demonstrated to his complete satisfaction in the
seclusion of a chance-sent fiacre. Kirkwood, commissioning it
to drive him to the American Consulate, made his diagnosis
<i>en route</i>; wound a handkerchief round the negligible
wound, rolled down his sleeve, and forgot it altogether in the
joys of picturing to himself Hobbs in the act of opening the
satchel in expectation of finding therein the gladstone
bag.</p>
<p>At the consulate door he paid off the driver and dismissed
him; the fiacre had served his purpose, and he could find his
way to the Terminus Hôtel at infinitely less expense. He
had a considerably harder task before him as he ascended the
steps to the consular doorway, knocked and made known the
nature of his errand.</p>
<p>No malicious destiny could have timed the hour of his call
more appositely; the consul was at home and at the disposal of
his fellow-citizens—within bounds.</p>
<p>In the course of thirty minutes or so Kirkwood emerged with
dignity from the consulate, his face crimson to the hair, his
soul smarting with shame and humiliation; and left an amused
official representative of his country's government with the
impression of having been entertained to the point of ennui by
an exceptionally clumsy but pertinacious liar.</p>
<p>For the better part of the succeeding hour Kirkwood
circumnavigated the neighborhood of the steamer pier and the
Terminus Hôtel, striving to render himself as
inconspicuous as he felt insignificant, and keenly on the alert
for any sign or news of Hobbs. In this pursuit he was
pleasantly disappointed.</p>
<p>At noon precisely, his suspense grown too onerous for his
strength of will, throwing caution and their understanding to
the winds, he walked boldly into the Terminus, and inquired for
Miss Calendar.</p>
<p>The assurance he received that she was in safety under its
roof did not deter him from sending up his name and asking her
to receive him in the public lounge; he required the testimony
of his senses to convince him that no harm had come to her in
the long hour and a half that had elapsed since their
separation.</p>
<p>Woman-like, she kept him waiting. Alone in the public rooms
of the hotel, he suffered excruciating torments. How was he to
know that Calendar had not arrived and found his way to
her?</p>
<p>When at length she appeared on the threshold of the
apartment, bringing with her the traveling bag and looking
wonderfully the better for her ninety minutes of complete
repose and privacy, the relief he experienced was so intense
that he remained transfixed in the middle of the floor,
momentarily able neither to speak nor to move.</p>
<p>On her part, so fagged and distraught did he seem, that at
sight of his care-worn countenance she hurried to him with
outstretched, compassionate hands and a low pitiful cry of
concern, forgetful entirely of that which he himself had
forgotten—the emotion she had betrayed on parting.</p>
<p>"Oh, nothing wrong," he hastened to reassure her, with a
sorry ghost of his familiar grin; "only I have lost Hobbs and
the satchel with your things; and there's no sign yet of Mr.
Calendar. We can feel pretty comfortable now, and—and I
thought it time we had something like a meal."</p>
<p>The narrative of his adventure which he delivered over their
<i>déjeuner à la fourchette</i> contained no mention
either of his rebuff at the American Consulate or the scratch
he had sustained during Hobbs' murderous assault; the one could
not concern her, the other would seem but a bid for her
sympathy. He counted it a fortunate thing that the mate's knife
had been keen enough to penetrate the cloth of his sleeve
without tearing it; the slit it had left was barely noticeable.
And he purposely diverted the girl with flashes of humorous
description, so that they discussed both meal and episode in a
mood of wholesome merriment.</p>
<p>It was concluded, all too soon for the taste of either, by
the waiter's announcement that the steamer was on the point of
sailing.</p>
<p>Outwardly composed, inwardly quaking, they boarded the
packet, meeting with no misadventure whatever—if we are to
except the circumstance that, when the restaurant bill was
settled and the girl had punctiliously surrendered his change
with the tickets, Kirkwood found himself in possession of
precisely one franc and twenty centimes.</p>
<p>He groaned in spirit to think how differently he might have
been fixed, had he not in his infatuated spirit of honesty been
so anxious to give Calendar more than ample value for his
money!</p>
<p>An inexorable anxiety held them both near the gangway until
it was cast off and the boat began to draw away from the pier.
Then, and not till then, did an unimpressive, small figure of a
man detach itself from the shield of a pile of luggage and
advance to the pier-head. No second glance was needed to
identify Mr. Hobbs; and until the perspective dwarfed him
indistinguishably, he was to be seen, alternately waving
Kirkwood ironic farewell and blowing violent kisses to Miss
Calendar from the tips of his soiled fingers.</p>
<p>So he had escaped arrest....</p>
<p>At first by turns indignant and relieved to realize that
thereafter they were to move in scenes in which his hateful
shadow would not form an essentially component part,
subsequently Kirkwood fell a prey to prophetic terrors. It was
not alone fear of retribution that had induced Hobbs to
relinquish his persecution—or so Kirkwood became convinced; if
the mate's calculation had allowed for them the least fraction
of a chance to escape apprehension on the farther shores of the
Channel, nor fears nor threats would have prevented him from
sailing with the fugitives.... Far from having left danger
behind them on the Continent, Kirkwood believed in his secret
heart that they were but flying to encounter it beneath the
smoky pall of London.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XVII">XVII</a></h2>
<h3>ROGUES AND VAGABONDS</h3>
</center>
<p>A westering sun striking down through the drab exhalations
of ten-thousand sooty chimney-pots, tinted the atmosphere with
the hue of copper. The glance that wandered purposelessly out
through the carriage windows, recoiled, repelled by the endless
dreary vista of the Surrey Side's unnumbered roofs; or, probing
instantaneously the hopeless depths of some grim narrow
thoroughfare fleetingly disclosed, as the evening boat-train
from Dover swung on toward Charing Cross, its trucks level with
the eaves of Southwark's dwellings, was saddened by the thought
that in all the world squalor such as this should obtain and
flourish unrelieved.</p>
<p>For perhaps the tenth time in the course of the journey
Kirkwood withdrew his gaze from the window and turned to the
girl, a question ready framed upon his lips.</p>
<p>"Are you quite sure—" he began; and then, alive to the
clear and penetrating perception in the brown eyes that smiled
into his from under their level brows, he stammered and left
the query uncompleted.</p>
<p>Continuing to regard him steadily and smilingly, Dorothy
shook her head in playful denial and protest. "Do you know,"
she commented, "that this is about the fifth repetition of that
identical question within the last quarter-hour?"</p>
<p>"How do you know what I meant to say?" he demanded,
staring.</p>
<p>"I can see it in your eyes. Besides, you've talked and
thought of nothing else since we left the boat. Won't you
believe me, please, when I say there's absolutely not a soul in
London to whom I could go and ask for shelter? I don't think
it's very nice of you to be so openly anxious to get rid of
me."</p>
<p>This latter was so essentially undeserved and so artlessly
insincere, that he must needs, of course, treat it with all
seriousness.</p>
<p>"That isn't fair, Miss Calendar. Really it's not."</p>
<p>"What am I to think? I've told you any number of times that
it's only an hour's ride on to Chiltern, where the Pyrfords
will be glad to take me in. You may depend upon it,—by eight
to-night, at the latest, you'll have me off your hands,—the
drag and worry that I've been ever since—"</p>
<p>"Don't!" he pleaded vehemently. "Please!... You <i>know</i>
it isn't that. I <i>don't</i> want you off my hands, ever....
That is to say, I—ah—" Here he was smitten with a dumbness,
and sat, aghast at the enormity of his blunder, entreating her
forgiveness with eyes that, very likely, pleaded his cause more
eloquently than he guessed.</p>
<p>"I mean," he floundered on presently, in the fatuous belief
that he would this time be able to control both mind and
tongue, "<i>what</i> I mean is I'd be glad to go on serving you
in any way I might, to the end of time, if you'd give
me...."</p>
<p>He left the declaration inconclusive—a stroke of diplomacy
that would have graced an infinitely more adept wooer. But he
used it all unconsciously. "O Lord!" he groaned in spirit.
"Worse and more of it! Why in thunder can't I say the right
thing <i>right</i>?"</p>
<p>Egotistically absorbed by the problem thus formulated, he
was heedless of her failure to respond, and remained pensively
preoccupied until roused by the grinding and jolting of the
train, as it slowed to a halt preparatory to crossing the
bridge.</p>
<p>Then he sought to read his answer in the eyes of Dorothy.
But she was looking away, staring thoughtfully out over the
billowing sea of roofs that merged illusively into the haze
long ere it reached the horizon; and Kirkwood could see the
pulsing of the warm blood in her throat and cheeks; and the
glamorous light that leaped and waned in her eyes, as the ruddy
evening sunlight warmed them, was something any man might be
glad to live for and die for.... And he saw that she had
understood, had grasped the thread of meaning that ran through
the clumsy fabric of his halting speech and his sudden
silences.</p>
<p>She had understood without resentment!</p>
<p>While, incredulous, he wrestled with the wonder of this fond
discovery, she grew conscious of his gaze, and turned her head
to meet it with one fearless and sweet, if troubled.</p>
<p>"Dear Mr. Kirkwood," she said gently, bending forward as if
to read between the lines anxiety had graven on his
countenance, "won't you tell me, please, what it can be that so
worries you? Is it possible that you still have a fear of my
father? But don't you know that he can do nothing now—now that
we're safe? We have only to take a cab to Paddington Station,
and then—"</p>
<p>"You mustn't underestimate the resource and ability of Mr.
Calendar," he told her gloomily; "we've got a chance—no more.
It wasn't...." He shut his teeth on his unruly tongue—too
late.</p>
<p>Woman-quick she caught him up. "It wasn't that? Then what
was it that worried you? If it's something that affects me, is
it kind and right of you not to tell me?"</p>
<p>"It—it affects us both," he conceded drearily. "I—I
don't—"</p>
<p>The wretched embarrassment of the confession befogged his
wits; he felt unable to frame the words. He appealed
speechlessly for tolerance, with a face utterly woebegone and
eyes piteous.</p>
<p>The train began to move slowly across the Thames to Charing
Cross.</p>
<p>Mercilessly the girl persisted. "We've only a minute more.
Surely you can trust me...."</p>
<p>In exasperation he interrupted almost rudely. "It's only
this: I—I'm strapped."</p>
<p>"Strapped?" She knitted her brows over this fresh specimen
of American slang.</p>
<p>"Flat strapped—busted—broke—on my uppers—down and out,"
he reeled off synonyms without a smile. "I haven't enough money
to pay cab-fare across the town—"</p>
<p>"Oh!" she interpolated, enlightened.</p>
<p>"—to say nothing of taking us to Chiltern. I couldn't buy
you a glass of water if you were thirsty. There isn't a soul on
earth, within hail, who would trust me with a quarter—I mean a
shilling—across London Bridge. I'm the original Luckless
Wonder and the only genuine Jonah extant."</p>
<p>With a face the hue of fire, he cocked his eyebrows askew
and attempted to laugh unconcernedly to hide his bitter shame.
"I've led you out of the fryingpan into the fire, and I don't
know what to do! Please call me names."</p>
<p>And in a single instant all that he had consistently tried
to avoid doing, had been irretrievably done; if, with dawning
comprehension, dismay flickered in her eyes—such dismay as
such a confession can rouse only in one who, like Dorothy
Calendar, has never known the want of a penny—it was swiftly
driven out to make place for the truest and most gracious and
unselfish solicitude.</p>
<p>"Oh, poor Mr. Kirkwood! And it's all because of me! You've
beggared yourself—"</p>
<p>"Not precisely; I was beggared to begin with." He hastened
to disclaim the extravagant generosity of which she accused
him. "I had only three or four pounds to my name that night we
met.... I haven't told you—I—"</p>
<p>"You've told me nothing, nothing whatever about yourself,"
she said reproachfully.</p>
<p>"I didn't want to bother you with my troubles; I tried not
to talk about myself.... You knew I was an American, but I'm
worse than that; I'm a Californian—from San Francisco." He
tried unsuccessfully to make light of it. "I told you I was the
Luckless Wonder; if I'd ever had any luck I would have stored a
little money away. As it was, I lived on my income, left my
principal in 'Frisco; and when the earthquake came, it wiped me
out completely."</p>
<p>"And you were going home that night we made you miss your
steamer!"</p>
<p>"It was my own fault, and I'm glad this blessed minute that
I did miss it. Nice sort I'd have been, to go off and leave you
at the mercy—"</p>
<p>"Please! I want to think, I'm trying to remember how much
you've gone through—"</p>
<p>"Precisely what I don't want you to do. Anyway, I did
nothing more than any other fellow would've! Please don't give
me credit that I don't deserve."</p>
<p>But she was not listening; and a pause fell, while the train
crawled warily over the trestle, as if in fear of the foul,
muddy flood below.</p>
<p>"And there's no way I can repay you...."</p>
<p>"There's nothing to be repaid," he contended stoutly.</p>
<p>She clasped her hands and let them fall gently in her lap.
"I've not a farthing in the world!... I never dreamed.... I'm
so sorry, Mr. Kirkwood—terribly, terribly sorry!... But what
can we do? I can't consent to be a burden—"</p>
<p>"But you're not! You're the one thing that ..." He swerved
sharply, at an abrupt tangent. "There's one thing we can do, of
course."</p>
<p>She looked up inquiringly.</p>
<p>"Craven Street is just round the corner."</p>
<p>"Yes?"—wonderingly.</p>
<p>"I mean we must go to Mrs. Hallam's house, first off....
It's too late now,—after five, else we could deposit the
jewels in some bank. Since—since they are no longer yours, the
only thing, and the proper thing to do is to place them in
safety or in the hands of their owner. If you take them
directly to young Hallam, your hands will be clear.... And—I
never did such a thing in my life, Miss Calendar; but if he's
got a spark of gratitude in his make-up, I ought to be able
to—er—to borrow a pound or so of him."</p>
<p>"Do you think so?" She shook her head in doubt. "I don't
know; I know so little of such things.... You are right; we
must take him the jewels, but..." Her voice trailed off into a
sigh of profound perturbation.</p>
<p>He dared not meet her look.</p>
<p>Beneath his wandering gaze a County Council steam-boat
darted swiftly down-stream from Charing Cross pier, in the
shadow of the railway bridge. It seemed curious to reflect that
from that very floating pier he had started first upon his
quest of the girl beside him, only—he had to count—three
nights ago! Three days and three nights! Altogether incredible
seemed the transformation they had wrought in the complexion of
the world. Yet nothing material was changed.... He lifted his
eyes.</p>
<p>Beyond the river rose the Embankment, crawling with traffic,
backed by the green of the gardens and the shimmering walls of
glass and stone of the great hotels, their windows glowing
weirdly golden in the late sunlight. A little down-stream
Cleopatra's Needle rose, sadly the worse for London smoke,
flanked by its couchant sphinxes, wearing a nimbus of circling,
sweeping, swooping, wheeling gulls. Farther down, from the foot
of that magnificent pile, Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge
sprang over-stream in its graceful arch.... All as of
yesterday; yet all changed. Why? Because a woman had entered
into his life; because he had learned the lesson of love and
had looked into the bright face of Romance....</p>
<p>With a jar the train started and began to move more
swiftly.</p>
<p>Kirkwood lifted the traveling bag to his knees.</p>
<p>"Don't forget," he said with some difficulty, "you're to
stick by me, whatever happens. You mustn't desert me."</p>
<p>"You <i>know</i>," the girl reproved him.</p>
<p>"I know; but there must be no misunderstanding.... Don't
worry; we'll win out yet, I've a plan."</p>
<p><i>Splendide mendax</i>! He had not the glimmering of a
plan.</p>
<p>The engine panting, the train drew in beneath the vast
sounding dome of the station, to an accompaniment of dull
thunderings; and stopped finally.</p>
<p>Kirkwood got out, not without a qualm of regret at leaving
the compartment; therein, at least, they had some title to
consideration, by virtue of their tickets; now they were
utterly vagabondish, penniless adventurers.</p>
<p>The girl joined him. Slowly, elbow to elbow, the treasure
bag between them, they made their way down toward the gates,
atoms in a tide-rip of humanity,—two streams of passengers
meeting on the narrow strip of platform, the one making for the
streets, the other for the suburbs.</p>
<p>Hurried and jostled, the girl clinging tightly to his arm
lest they be separated in the crush, they came to the
ticket-wicket; beyond the barrier surged a sea of hats—shining
"toppers," dignified and upstanding, the outward and visible
manifestation of the sturdy, stodgy British spirit of
respectability; "bowlers" round and sleek and humble; shapeless
caps with cloth visors, manufactured of outrageous plaids;
flower-like miracles of millinery from Bond Street; strangely
plumed monstrosities from Petticoat Lane and Mile End Road.
Beneath any one of these might lurk the maleficent brain, the
spying eyes of Calendar or one of his creatures; beneath all of
them that he encountered, Kirkwood peered in fearful
inquiry.</p>
<p>Yet, when they had passed unhindered the ordeal of the
wickets, had run the gantlet of those thousand eyes without
lighting in any pair a spark of recognition, he began to bear
himself with more assurance, to be sensible to a grateful glow
of hope. Perhaps Hobbs' telegram had not reached its
destination, for unquestionably the mate would have wired his
chief; perhaps some accident had befallen the conspirators;
perhaps the police had apprehended them.... No matter how, one
hoped against hope that they had been thrown off the trail.</p>
<p>And indeed it seemed as if they must have been misguided in
some providential manner. On the other hand, it would be the
crassest of indiscretions to linger about the place an instant
longer than absolutely necessary.</p>
<p>Outside the building, however, they paused perforce,
undergoing the cross-fire of the congregated cabbies. It being
the first time that he had ever felt called upon to leave the
station afoot, Kirkwood cast about irresolutely, seeking the
sidewalk leading to the Strand.</p>
<p>Abruptly he caught the girl by the arm and unceremoniously
hurried her toward a waiting hansom.</p>
<p>"Quick!" he begged her. "Jump right in—not an instant to
spare.—"</p>
<p>She nodded brightly, lips firm with courage, eyes
shining.</p>
<p>"My father?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Kirkwood glanced back over his shoulder. "He hasn't
seen us yet. They've just driven up. Stryker's with him.
They're getting down." And to himself, "Oh, the devil!" cried
the panic-stricken young man.</p>
<p>He drew back to let the girl precede him into the cab; at
the same time he kept an eye on Calendar, whose conveyance
stood half the length of the station-front away.</p>
<p>The fat adventurer had finished paying off the driver,
standing on the deck of the hansom. Stryker was already out,
towering above the mass of people, and glaring about him with
his hawk-keen vision. Calendar had started to alight, his foot
was leaving the step when Stryker's glance singled out their
quarry. Instantly he turned and spoke to his confederate.
Calendar wheeled like a flash, peering eagerly in the direction
indicated by the captain's index finger, then, snapping
instructions to his driver, threw himself heavily back on the
seat. Stryker, awkward on his land-legs, stumbled and fell in
an ill-calculated attempt to hoist himself hastily back into
the vehicle.</p>
<p>To the delay thus occasioned alone Kirkwood and Dorothy owed
a respite of freedom. Their hansom was already swinging down
toward the great gates of the yard, the American standing to
make the driver comprehend the necessity for using the utmost
speed in reaching the Craven Street address. The man proved
both intelligent and obliging; Kirkwood had barely time to drop
down beside the girl, ere the cab was swinging out into the
Strand, to the peril of the toes belonging to a number of
righteously indignant pedestrians.</p>
<p>"Good boy!" commented Kirkwood cheerfully. "That's the
greatest comfort of all London, the surprising intellectual
strength the average cabby displays when you promise him a
tip.... Great Heavens!" he cried, reading the girl's dismayed
expression. "A tip! I never thought—!" His face lengthened
dismally, his eyebrows working awry. "Now we are in for
it!"</p>
<p>Dorothy said nothing.</p>
<p>He turned in the seat, twisting his neck to peep through the
small rear window. "I don't see their cab," he announced. "But
of course they're after us. However, Craven Street's just round
the corner; if we get there first, I don't fancy Freddie Hallam
will have a cordial reception for our pursuers. They must've
been on watch at Cannon Street, and finding we were not coming
in that way—of course they were expecting us because of Hobbs'
wire—they took cab for Charing Cross. Lucky for us.... Or is
it lucky?" he added doubtfully, to himself.</p>
<p>The hansom whipped round the corner into Craven Street.
Kirkwood sprang up, grasping the treasure bag, ready to jump
the instant they pulled in toward Mrs. Hallam's dwelling. But
as they drew near upon the address he drew back with an
exclamation of amazement.</p>
<p>The house was closed, showing a blank face to the
street—blinds drawn close down in the windows, area gate
padlocked, an estate-agent's board projecting from above the
doorway, advertising the property "To be let, furnished."</p>
<p>Kirkwood looked back, craning his neck round the side of the
cab. At the moment another hansom was breaking through the rank
of humanity on the Strand crossing. He saw one or two figures
leap desperately from beneath the horse's hoofs. Then the cab
shot out swiftly down the street.</p>
<p>The American stood up again, catching the cabby's eye.</p>
<p>"Drive on!" he cried excitedly. "Don't stop—drive as fast
as you dare!"</p>
<p>"W'ere to, sir?"</p>
<p>"See that cab behind? Don't let it catch us—shake it off,
lose it somehow, but for the love of Heaven don't let it catch
us! I'll make it worth your while. Do you understand?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir!" The driver looked briefly over his shoulder and
lifted his whip. "Don't worry, sir," he cried, entering into
the spirit of the game with gratifying zest. "Shan't let 'em
over'aul you, sir. Mind your 'ead!"</p>
<p>And as Kirkwood ducked, the whip-lash shot out over the roof
with a crack like the report of a pistol. Startled, the horse
leaped indignantly forward. Momentarily the cab seemed to leave
the ground, then settled down to a pace that carried them round
the Avenue Theatre and across Northumberland Avenue into
Whitehall Place apparently on a single wheel.</p>
<p>A glance behind showed Kirkwood that already they had
gained, the pursuing hansom having lost ground through greater
caution in crossing the main-traveled thoroughfare.</p>
<p>"Good little horse!" he applauded.</p>
<p>A moment later he was indorsing without reserve the
generalship of their cabby; the quick westward turn that took
them into Whitehall, over across from the Horse Guards,
likewise placed them in a pocket of traffic; a practically
impregnable press of vehicles closed in behind them ere
Calendar's conveyance could follow out of the side street.</p>
<p>That the same conditions, but slightly modified, hemmed them
in ahead, went for nothing in Kirkwood's estimation.</p>
<p>"Good driver!" he approved heartily. "He's got a head on his
shoulders!"</p>
<p>The girl found her voice. "How," she demanded in a breath,
face blank with consternation, "how did you dare?"</p>
<p>"Dare?" he echoed exultantly; and in his veins excitement
was running like liquid fire. "What wouldn't I dare for you,
Dorothy?"</p>
<p>"What have you not?" she amended softly, adding with a shade
of timidity: "Philip..."</p>
<p>The long lashes swept up from her cheeks, like clouds
revealing stars, unmasking eyes radiant and brave to meet his
own; then they fell, even as her lips drooped with
disappointment. And she sighed.... For he was not looking.
Man-like, hot with the ardor of the chase, he was deaf and
blind to all else.</p>
<p>She saw that he had not even heard. Twice within the day she
had forgotten herself, had overstepped the rigid bounds of her
breeding in using his Christian name. And twice he had been
oblivious to that token of their maturing understanding. So she
sighed, and sighing, smiled again; resting an elbow on the
window-sill and flattening one small gloved hand against the
frame for a brace against the jouncing of the hansom. It swept
on with unabated speed, up-stream beside the tawny reaches of
the river; and for a time there was no speech between them, the
while the girl lost consciousness of self and her most imminent
peril, surrendering her being to the lingering sweetness of her
long, dear thoughts....</p>
<p>"I've got a scheme!" Kirkwood declared so explosively that
she caught her breath with the surprise of it. "There's the
Pless; they know me there, and my credit's good. When we shake
them off, we can have the cabby take us to the hotel. I'll
register and borrow from the management enough to pay our way
to Chiltern and the tolls for a cable to New York. I've a
friend or two over home who wouldn't let me want for a few
miserable pounds.... So you see," he explained boyishly, "we're
at the end of our troubles already!"</p>
<p>She said something inaudible, holding her face averted. He
bent nearer to her, wondering. "I didn't understand," he
suggested.</p>
<p>Still looking from him, "I said you were very good to me,"
she said in a quavering whisper.</p>
<p>"Dorothy!" Without his knowledge or intention before the
fact, as instinctively as he made use of her given name,
intimately, his strong fingers dropped and closed upon the
little hand that lay beside him. "What <i>is</i> the matter,
dear?" He leaned still farther forward to peer into her face,
till glance met glance in the ending and his racing pulses
tightened with sheer delight of the humid happiness in her
glistening eyes. "Dorothy, child, don't worry so. No harm shall
come to you. It's all working out—all working out
<i>right</i>. Only have a little faith in me, and I'll
<i>make</i> everything work out right, Dorothy."</p>
<p>Gently she freed her fingers. "I wasn't," she told him in a
voice that quivered between laughter and tears, "I wasn't
worrying. I was ... You wouldn't understand. Don't be afraid I
shall break down or—or anything."</p>
<p>"I shan't," he reassured her; "I know you're not that sort.
Besides, you'd have no excuse. We're moving along famously.
That cabby knows his business."</p>
<p>In fact that gentleman was minute by minute demonstrating
his peculiar fitness for the task he had so cheerfully
undertaken. The superior horsemanship of the London hackney
cabman needs no exploitation, and he in whose hands rested the
fate of the Calendar treasure was peer of his compeers. He was
instant to advantage himself of every opening to forward his
pliant craft, quick to foresee the fortunes of the way and
govern himself accordingly.</p>
<p>Estimating with practised eye the precise moment when the
police supervisor of traffic at the junction of Parliament and
Bridge Streets, would see fit to declare a temporary blockade,
he so managed that his was the last vehicle to pass ere the
official wand, to ignore which involves a forfeited license,
was lifted; and indeed, so close was his calculation that he
escaped only with a scowl and word of warning from the bobby. A
matter of no importance whatever, since his end was gained and
the pursuing cab had been shut off by the blockade.</p>
<p>In Calendar's driver, however, he had an adversary of
abilities by no means to be despised. Precisely how the man
contrived it, is a question; that he made a detour by way of
Derby Street is not improbable, unpleasant as it may have been
for Stryker and Calendar to find themselves in such close
proximity to "the Yard." At all events, he evaded the block,
and hardly had the chase swung across Bridge Street, than the
pursuer was nimbly clattering in its wake.</p>
<p>Past the Houses of Parliament, through Old Palace Yard, with
the Abbey on their left, they swung away into Abingdon Street,
whence suddenly they dived into the maze of backways, great and
mean, which lies to the south of Victoria. Doubling and
twisting, now this way, now that, the driver tooled them
through the intricate heart of this labyrinth, leading the
pursuers a dance that Kirkwood thought calculated to dishearten
and shake off the pursuit in the first five minutes. Yet
always, peering back through the little peephole, he saw
Calendar's cab pelting doggedly in their rear—a hundred yards
behind, no more, no less, hanging on with indomitable grit and
determination.</p>
<p>By degrees they drew westwards, threading Pimlico, into
Chelsea—once dashing briefly down the Grosvenor Road, the
Thames a tawny flood beyond the river wall.</p>
<p>Children cheered them on, and policemen turned to stare,
doubting whether they should interfere. Minutes rolled into
tens, measuring out an hour; and still they hammered on, hunted
and hunters, playing their game of hare-and-hounds through the
highways and byways of those staid and aged quarters.</p>
<p>In the leading cab there were few words spoken. Kirkwood and
Dorothy alike sat spellbound with the fascination of the game;
if it is conceivable that the fox enjoys his part in the day's
sport, then they were enjoying themselves. Now one spoke, now
another—chiefly in the clipped phraseology, of excitement.
As—</p>
<p>"We're gaining?"</p>
<p>"Yes—think so."</p>
<p>Or, "We'll tire them out?"</p>
<p>"Sure-ly."</p>
<p>"They can't catch us, can they, Philip?"</p>
<p>"Never in the world."</p>
<p>But he spoke with a confidence that he himself did not feel,
for hope as he would he could never see that the distance
between the two had been materially lessened or increased.
Their horses seemed most evenly matched.</p>
<p>The sun was very low behind the houses of the Surrey Side
when Kirkwood became aware that their horse was flagging,
though (as comparison determined) no more so than the one
behind.</p>
<p>In grave concern the young man raised his hand, thrusting
open the trap in the roof. Immediately the square of darkling
sky was eclipsed by the cabby's face.</p>
<p>"Yessir?"</p>
<p>"You had better drive as directly as you can to the Hotel
Pless," Kirkwood called up. "I'm afraid it's no use pushing
your horse like this."</p>
<p>"I'm sure of it, sir. 'E's a good 'oss, 'e is, but 'e carn't
keep goin' for hever, you know, sir."</p>
<p>"I know. You've done very well; you've done your best."</p>
<p>"Very good, sir. The Pless, you said, sir? Right."</p>
<p>The trap closed.</p>
<p>Two blocks farther, and their pace had so sensibly moderated
that Kirkwood was genuinely alarmed. The pursuing cabby was
lashing his animal without mercy, while, "It aren't no use my
w'ippin' 'im, sir," dropped through the trap. "'E's doing orl
'e can."</p>
<p>"I understand."</p>
<p>Despondent recklessness tightened Kirkwood's lips and
kindled an unpleasant light in his eyes. He touched his side
pocket; Calendar's revolver was still there.... Dorothy should
win away clear, if—if he swung for it.</p>
<p>He bent forward with the traveling bag in his hands.</p>
<p>"What are you going to do?" The girl's voice was very
tremulous.</p>
<p>"Stand a chance, take a losing hazard. Can you run? You're
not too tired?"</p>
<p>"I can run—perhaps not far—a little way, at least."</p>
<p>"And will you do as I say?"</p>
<p>Her eyes met his, unwavering, bespeaking her implicit
faith.</p>
<p>"Promise!"</p>
<p>"I promise."</p>
<p>"We'll have to drop off in a minute. The horse won't
last.... They're in the same box. Well, I undertake to stand
'em off for a bit; you take the bag and run for it. Just as
soon as I can convince them, I'll follow, but if there's any
delay, you call the first cab you see and drive to the Pless.
I'll join you there."</p>
<p>He stood up, surveying the neighborhood. Behind him the girl
lifted her voice in protest.</p>
<p>"No, Philip, no!"</p>
<p>"You've promised," he said sternly, eyes ranging the
street.</p>
<p>"I don't care; I won't leave you."</p>
<p>He shook his head in silent contradiction, frowning; but not
frowning because of the girl's mutiny. He was a little puzzled
by a vague impression, and was striving to pin it down for
recognition; but was so thoroughly bemused with fatigue and
despair that only with great difficulty could he force his
faculties to logical reasoning, his memory to respond to his
call upon it.</p>
<p>The hansom was traversing a street in Old Brompton—a
quaint, prim by-way lined with dwellings singularly
Old-Worldish, even for London. He seemed to know it
subjectively, to have retained a memory of it from another
existence: as the stage setting of a vivid dream, all
forgotten, will sometimes recur with peculiar and exasperating
intensity, in broad daylight. The houses, with their sloping,
red-tiled roofs, unexpected gables, spontaneous dormer windows,
glass panes set in leaded frames, red brick façades
trimmed with green shutters and doorsteps of white stone, each
sitting back, sedate and self-sufficient, in its trim dooryard
fenced off from the public thoroughfare: all wore an aspect
hauntingly familiar, and yet strange.</p>
<p>A corner sign, remarked in passing, had named the spot
"Aspen Villas"; though he felt he knew the sound of those
syllables as well as he did the name of the Pless, strive as he
might he failed to make them convey anything tangible to his
intelligence. When had he heard of it? At what time had his
errant footsteps taken him through this curious survival of
Eighteenth Century London?</p>
<p>Not that it mattered when. It could have no possible bearing
on the emergency. He really gave it little thought; the mental
processes recounted were mostly subconscious, if none the less
real. His objective attention was wholly preoccupied with the
knowledge that Calendar's cab was drawing perilously near. And
he was debating whether or not they should alight at once and
try to make a better pace afoot, when the decision was taken
wholly out of his hands.</p>
<p>Blindly staggering on, wilted with weariness, the horse
stumbled in the shafts and plunged forward on its knees. Quick
as the driver was to pull it up, with a cruel jerk of the bits,
Kirkwood was caught unprepared; lurching against the dashboard,
he lost his footing, grasped frantically at the unstable air,
and went over, bringing up in a sitting position in the gutter,
with a solid shock that jarred his very teeth.</p>
<p>For a moment dazed he sat there blinking; by the time he got
to his feet, the girl stood beside him, questioning him with
keen solicitude.</p>
<p>"No," he gasped; "not hurt—only surprised. Wait...."</p>
<p>Their cab had come to a complete standstill; Calendar's was
no more than twenty yards behind, and as Kirkwood caught sight
of him the fat adventurer was in the act of lifting himself
ponderously out of the seat.</p>
<p>Incontinently the young man turned to the girl and forced
the traveling-bag into her hands.</p>
<p>"Run for it!" he begged her. "Don't stop to argue. You
promised—run! I'll come...."</p>
<p>"Philip!" she pleaded.</p>
<p>"Dorothy!" he cried in torment.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was his unquestionable distress that weakened
her. Suddenly she yielded—with whatever reason. He was only
hazily aware of the swish of her skirts behind him; he had no
time to look round and see that she got away safely. He had
only eyes and thoughts for Calendar and Stryker.</p>
<p>They were both afoot, now, and running toward him, the one
as awkward as the other, but neither yielding a jot of their
malignant purpose. He held the picture of it oddly graphic in
his memory for many a day thereafter: Calendar making directly,
for him, his heavy-featured face a dull red with the exertion,
his fat head dropped forward as if too heavy for his neck of a
bull, his small eyes bright with anger; Stryker shying off at a
discreet angle, evidently with the intention of devoting
himself to the capture of the girl; the two cabs with their
dejected screws, at rest in the middle of the quiet, twilit
street. He seemed even to see himself, standing stockily
prepared, hands in his coat pockets, his own head inclined with
a suggestion of pugnacity.</p>
<p>To this mental photograph another succeeds, of the same
scene an instant later; all as it had been before, their
relative positions unchanged, save that Stryker and Calendar
had come to a dead stop, and that Kirkwood's right arm was
lifted and extended, pointing at the captain.</p>
<p>So forgetful of self was he, that it required a moment's
thought to convince him that he was really responsible for the
abrupt transformation. Incredulously he realized that he had
drawn Calendar's revolver and pulled Stryker up short, in
mid-stride, by the mute menace of it, as much as by his hoarse
cry of warning:</p>
<p>"Stryker—not another foot—"</p>
<p>With this there chimed in Dorothy's voice, ringing
bell-clear from a little distance:</p>
<p>"Philip!"</p>
<p>Like a flash he wheeled, to add yet another picture to his
mental gallery.</p>
<p>Perhaps two-score feet up the sidewalk a gate stood open;
just outside it a man of tall and slender figure, rigged out in
a bizarre costume consisting mainly of a flowered dressing-gown
and slippers, was waiting in an attitude of singular
impassivity; within it, pausing with a foot lifted to the
doorstep, bag in hand, her head turned as she looked back, was
Dorothy.</p>
<p><img src="illp385s.jpg"
width="516"
height="800"
border="0"
alt=
"A costume consisting mainly of a flowered dressing-gown and slippers.">
</p>
<p>As he comprehended these essential details of the
composition, the man in the flowered dressing-gown raised a
hand, beckoning to him in a manner as imperative as his
accompanying words.</p>
<p>"Kirkwood!" he saluted the young man in a clear and vibrant
voice, "put up that revolver and stop this foolishness." And,
with a jerk of his head towards the doorway, in which Dorothy
now waited, hesitant: "Come, sir—quickly!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood choked on a laugh that was half a sob. "Brentwick!"
he cried, restoring the weapon to his pocket and running toward
his friend. "Of all happy accidents!"</p>
<p>"You may call it that," retorted the elder man with a
fleeting smile as Kirkwood slipped inside the dooryard. "Come,"
he said; "let's get into the house."</p>
<p>"But you said—I thought you went to Munich," stammered
Kirkwood; and so thoroughly impregnated was his mind with this
understanding that it was hard for him to adjust his
perceptions to the truth.</p>
<p>"I was detained—by business," responded Brentwick briefly.
His gaze, weary and wistful behind his glasses, rested on the
face of the girl on the threshold of his home; and the faint,
sensitive flush of her face deepened. He stopped and honored
her with a bow that, for all his fantastical attire, would have
graced a beau of an earlier decade. "Will you be pleased to
enter?" he suggested punctiliously. "My house, such as it is,
is quite at your disposal. And," he added, with a glance over
his shoulder, "I fancy that a word or two may presently be
passed which you would hardly care to hear."</p>
<p>Dorothy's hesitation was but transitory; Kirkwood was
reassuring her with a smile more like his wonted boyish grin
than anything he had succeeded in conjuring up throughout the
day. Her own smile answered it, and with a murmured word of
gratitude and a little, half timid, half distant bow for
Brentwick, she passed on into the hallway.</p>
<p>Kirkwood lingered with his friend upon the door-stoop.
Calendar, recovered from his temporary consternation, was
already at the gate, bending over it, fat fingers fumbling with
the latch, his round red face, lifted to the house, darkly
working with chagrin.</p>
<p>From his threshold, watching him with a slight contraction
of the eyes, Brentwick hailed him in tones of cloying
courtesy.</p>
<p>"Do you wish to see me, sir?"</p>
<p>The fat adventurer faltered just within the gateway; then,
with a truculent swagger, "I want my daughter," he declared
vociferously.</p>
<p>Brentwick peered mildly over his glasses, first at Calendar,
then at Kirkwood. His glance lingered a moment on the young
man's honest eyes, and swung back to Calendar.</p>
<p>"My good man," he said with sublime tolerance, "will you be
pleased to take yourself off—to the devil if you like? Or
shall I take the trouble to interest the police?"</p>
<p>He removed one fine and fragile hand from a pocket of the
flowered dressing-gown, long enough to jerk it significantly
toward the nearer street-corner.</p>
<p>Thunderstruck, Calendar glanced hastily in the indicated
direction. A blue-coated bobby was to be seen approaching with
measured stride, diffusing upon the still evening air an
impression of ineffably capable self-contentment.</p>
<p>Calendar's fleshy lips parted and closed without a sound.
They quivered. Beneath them quivered his assortment of
graduated chins. His heavy and pendulous cheeks quivered,
slowly empurpling with the dark tide of his apoplectic wrath.
The close-clipped thatch of his iron gray mustache, even,
seemed to bristle like hairs upon the neck of a maddened dog.
Beneath him his fat legs trembled, and indeed his whole huge
carcass shook visibly, in the stress of his restrained
wrath.</p>
<p>Suddenly, overwhelmed, he banged the gate behind him and
waddled off to join the captain; who already, with praiseworthy
native prudence, had fallen back upon their cab.</p>
<p>From his coign of strategic advantage, the comfortable
elevation of his box, Kirkwood's cabby, whose huge enjoyment of
the adventurers' discomfiture had throughout been noisily
demonstrative, entreated Calendar with lifted forefinger, bland
affability, and expressions of heartfelt sympathy.</p>
<p>"Kebsir? 'Ave a kebsir, do! Try a ride be'ind a real 'orse,
sir; don't you go on wastin' time on 'im." A jerk of a derisive
thumb singled out the other cabman. "'E aren't pl'yin' you
fair, sir; I knows 'im,—'e's a hartful g'y deceiver, 'e is.
Look at 'is 'orse,—w'ich it aren't; it's a snyle, that's w'at
it is. Tyke a father's hadvice, sir, and next time yer fairest
darter runs awye with the dook in disguise, chyse 'em in a real
kebsir, not a cheap imitashin.... Kebsir?... Garn, you
'ard-'arted—"</p>
<p>Here he swooped upwards in a dizzy flight of vituperation
best unrecorded. Calendar, beyond an absent-minded flirt of one
hand by his ear, as who should shoo away a buzzing insect,
ignored him utterly.</p>
<p>Sullenly extracting money from his pocket, he paid off his
driver, and in company with Stryker, trudged in morose silence
down the street.</p>
<p>Brentwick touched Kirkwood's arm and drew him into the
house.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XVIII">XVIII</a></h2>
<h3>ADVENTURES' LUCK</h3>
</center>
<p>As the door closed, Kirkwood swung impulsively to Brentwick,
with the brief, uneven laugh of fine-drawn nerves.</p>
<p>"Good God, sir!" he cried. "You don't know—"</p>
<p>"I can surmise," interrupted the elder man shrewdly.</p>
<p>"You turned up in the nick of time, for all the world
like—"</p>
<p>"Harlequin popping through a stage trap?"</p>
<p>"No!—an incarnation of the Providence that watches over
children and fools."</p>
<p>Brentwick dropped a calming hand upon his shoulder. "Your
simile seems singularly happy, Philip. Permit me to suggest
that you join the child in my study." He laughed quietly, with
a slight nod toward an open door at the end of the hallway.
"For myself, I'll be with you in one moment."</p>
<p>A faint, indulgent smile lurking in the shadow of his white
mustache, he watched the young man wheel and dart through the
doorway. "Young hearts!" he commented inaudibly—and a trace
sadly. "Youth!..."</p>
<p>Beyond the threshold of the study, Kirkwood paused, eager
eyes searching its somber shadows for a sign of Dorothy.</p>
<p>A long room and deep, it was lighted only by the
circumscribed disk of illumination thrown on the central desk
by a shaded reading-lamp, and the flickering glow of a
grate-fire set beneath the mantel of a side-wall. At the back,
heavy velvet portières cloaked the recesses of two long
windows, closed jealously even against the twilight. Aside from
the windows, doors and chimney-piece, every foot of wall space
was occupied by towering bookcases or by shelves crowded to the
limit of their capacity with an amazing miscellany of objects
of art, the fruit of years of patient and discriminating
collecting. An exotic and heady atmosphere, compounded of the
faint and intangible exhalations of these insentient things,
fragrance of sandalwood, myrrh and musk, reminiscent whiffs of
half-forgotten incense, seemed to intensify the impression of
gloomy richness and repose...</p>
<p>By the fireplace, a little to one side, stood Dorothy, one
small foot resting on the brass fender, her figure merging into
the dusky background, her delicate beauty gaining an effect of
elusive and ethereal mystery in the waning and waxing ruddy
glow upflung from the bedded coals.</p>
<p>"Oh, Philip!" She turned swiftly to Kirkwood with extended
hands and a low, broken cry. "I'm <i>so</i> glad...."</p>
<p>A trace of hysteria in her manner warned him, and he checked
himself upon the verge of a too dangerous tenderness. "There!"
he said soothingly, letting her hands rest gently in his palms
while he led her to a chair. "We can make ourselves easy now."
She sat down and he released her hands with a reluctance less
evident than actual. "If ever I say another word against my
luck—"</p>
<p>"Who," inquired the girl, lowering her voice, "who is the
gentleman in the flowered dressing-gown?"</p>
<p>"Brentwick—George Silvester Brentwick: an old friend. I've
known him for years,—ever since I came abroad. Curiously
enough, however, this is the first time I've ever been here. I
called once, but he wasn't in,—a few days ago,—the day we
met. I thought the place looked familiar. Stupid of me!"</p>
<p>"Philip," said the girl with a grave face but a shaking
voice, "it was." She laughed provokingly.... "It was so funny,
Philip. I don't know why I ran, when you told me to, but I did;
and while I ran, I was conscious of the front door, here,
opening, and this tall man in the flowered dressing-gown coming
down to the gate as if it were the most ordinary thing in the
world for him to stroll out, dressed that way, in the evening.
And he opened the gate, and bowed, and said, ever so
pleasantly, 'Won't you come in, Miss Calendar?'—"</p>
<p>"He did!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "But how—?"</p>
<p>"How can I say?" she expostulated. "At all events, he seemed
to know me; and when he added something about calling you in,
too—he said 'Mr. Kirkwood '—I didn't hesitate."</p>
<p>"It's strange enough, surely—and fortunate. Bless his
heart!" said Kirkwood.</p>
<p>And, "Hum!" said Mr. Brentwick considerately, entering the
study. He had discarded the dressing-gown and was now in
evening dress.</p>
<p>The girl rose. Kirkwood turned. "Mr. Brentwick—" he
began.</p>
<p>But Brentwick begged his patience with an eloquent gesture.
"Sir," he said, somewhat austerely, "permit me to put a single
question: Have you by any chance paid your cabby?"</p>
<p>"Why—" faltered the younger man, with a flaming face.
"I—why, no—that is—"</p>
<p>The other quietly put his hand upon a bell-pull. A faint
jingling sound was at once audible, emanating from the
basement.</p>
<p>"How much should you say you owe him?"</p>
<p>"I—I haven't a penny in the world!"</p>
<p>The shrewd eyes flashed their amusement into Kirkwood's.
"Tut, tut!" Brentwick chuckled. "Between gentlemen, my dear
boy! Dear me! you are slow to learn."</p>
<p>"I'll never be contented to sponge on my friends," explained
Kirkwood in deepest misery. "I can't tell when—"</p>
<p>"Tut, tut! How much did you say?"</p>
<p>"Ten shillings—or say twelve, would be about right,"
stammered the American, swayed by conflicting emotions of
gratitude and profound embarrassment.</p>
<p>A soft-footed butler, impassive as Fate, materialized
mysteriously in the doorway.</p>
<p>"You rang, sir?" he interrupted frigidly.</p>
<p>"I rang, Wotton." His master selected a sovereign from his
purse and handed it to the servant. "For the cabby,
Wotton."</p>
<p>"Yes sir." The butler swung automatically, on one heel.</p>
<p>"And Wotton!"</p>
<p>"Sir?"</p>
<p>"If any one should ask for me, I'm not at home."</p>
<p>"Very good, sir."</p>
<p>"And if you should see a pair of disreputable scoundrels
skulking, in the neighborhood, one short and stout, the other
tall and evidently a seafaring man, let me know."</p>
<p>"Thank you, sir." A moment later the front door was heard to
close.</p>
<p>Brentwick turned with a little bow to the girl. "My dear
Miss Calendar," he said, rubbing his thin, fine hands,—"I am
old enough, I trust, to call you such without offense,—please
be seated."</p>
<p>Complying, the girl rewarded him with a radiant smile.
Whereupon, striding to the fireplace, their host turned his
back to it, clasped his hands behind him, and glowered benignly
upon the two. "Ah!" he observed in accents of extreme personal
satisfaction. "Romance! Romance!"</p>
<p>"Would you mind telling us how you knew—" began Kirkwood
anxiously.</p>
<p>"Not in the least, my dear Philip. It is simple enough: I
possess an imagination. From my bedroom window, on the floor
above, I happen to behold two cabs racing down the street, the
one doggedly pursuing the other. The foremost stops, perforce
of a fagged horse. There alights a young gentleman looking, if
you'll pardon me, uncommonly seedy; he is followed by a young
lady, if she will pardon me," with another little bow,
"uncommonly pretty. With these two old eyes I observe that the
gentleman does not pay his cabby. Ergo—I intelligently
deduce—he is short of money. Eh?"</p>
<p>"You were right," affirmed Kirkwood, with a rueful and
crooked smile. "But—"</p>
<p>"So! so!" pursued Brentwick, rising on his toes and dropping
back again; "so this world of ours wags on to the old, old
tune!... And I, who in my younger days pursued adventure
without success, in dotage find myself dragged into a romance
by my two ears, whether I will or no! Eh? And now you are going
to tell me all about it, Philip. There is a chair.... Well,
Wotton?"</p>
<p>The butler had again appeared noiselessly in the
doorway.</p>
<p>"Beg pardon, sir; they're waiting, sir."</p>
<p>"The caitiffs, Wotton?"</p>
<p>"Yessir."</p>
<p>"Where waiting?"</p>
<p>"One at each end of the street, sir."</p>
<p>"Thank you. You may bring us sherry and biscuit,
Wotton."</p>
<p>"Thank you, sir."</p>
<p>The servant vanished.</p>
<p>Brentwick removed his glasses, rubbed them, and blinked
thoughtfully at the girl. "My dear," he said suddenly, with a
peculiar tremor in his voice, "you resemble your mother
remarkably. Tut—I should know! Time was when I was one of her
most ardent admirers."</p>
<p>"You—y-you knew my mother?" cried Dorothy, profoundly
moved.</p>
<p>"Did I not know you at sight? My dear, you are your mother
reincarnate, for the good of an unworthy world. She was a very
beautiful woman, my dear."</p>
<p>Wotton entered with a silver serving tray, offering it in
turn to Dorothy, Kirkwood and his employer. While he was
present the three held silent—the girl trembling slightly, but
with her face aglow; Kirkwood half stupefied between his ease
from care and his growing astonishment, as Brentwick continued
to reveal unexpected phases of his personality; Brentwick
himself outwardly imperturbable and complacent, for all that
his hand shook as he lifted his wine glass.</p>
<p>"You may go, Wotton—or, wait. Don't you feel the need of a
breath of fresh air, Wotton?"</p>
<p>"Yessir, thank you, sir."</p>
<p>"Then change your coat, Wotton, light your pipe, and stroll
out for half an hour. You need not leave the street, but if
either the tall thin blackguard with the seafaring habit, or
the short stout rascal with the air of mystery should accost
you, treat them with all courtesy, Wotton. You will be careful
not to tell either of them anything in particular, although I
don't mind your telling them that Mr. Brentwick lives here, if
they ask. I am mostly concerned to discover if they purpose
becoming fixtures on the street-corners, Wotton."</p>
<p>"Quite so, sir."</p>
<p>"Now you may go.... Wotton," continued his employer as the
butler took himself off as softly as a cat, "grows daily a more
valuable mechanism. He is by no means human in any respect, but
I find him extremely handy to have round the house.... And now,
my dear," turning to Dorothy, "with your permission I desire to
drink to the memory of your beautiful mother and to the
happiness of her beautiful daughter."</p>
<p>"But you will tell me—"</p>
<p>"A number of interesting things, Miss Calendar, if you'll be
good enough to let me choose the time. I beg you to be patient
with the idiosyncrasies of an old man, who means no harm, who
has a reputation as an eccentric to sustain before his
servants.... And now," said Brentwick, setting aside his glass,
"now, my dear boy, for the adventure."</p>
<p>Kirkwood chuckled, infected by his host's genial humor. "How
do you know—"</p>
<p>"How can it be otherwise?" countered Brentwick with a trace
of asperity. "Am I to be denied my adventure? Sir, I refuse
without equivocation. Your very bearing breathes of Romance.
There must be an adventure forthcoming, Philip; otherwise my
disappointment will be so acute that I shall be regretfully
obliged seriously to consider my right, as a householder, to
show you the door."</p>
<p>"But Mr. Brentwick—!"</p>
<p>"Sit down, sir!" commanded Brentwick with such a peremptory
note that the young man, who had risen, obeyed out of sheer
surprise. Upon which his host advanced, indicting him with a
long white forefinger. "Would you, sir," he demanded, "again
expose this little lady to the machinations of that corpulent
scoundrel, whom I have just had the pleasure of shooing off my
premises, because you choose to resent an old man's
raillery?"</p>
<p>"I apologize," Kirkwood humored him.</p>
<p>"I accept the apology in the spirit in which it is
offered.... I repeat, now for the adventure, Philip. If the
story's long, epitomize. We can consider details more at our
leisure."</p>
<p>Kirkwood's eyes consulted the girl's face; almost
imperceptibly she nodded him permission to proceed.</p>
<p>"Briefly, then," he began haltingly, "the man who followed
us to the door here, is Miss Calendar's father."</p>
<p>"Oh? His name, please?"</p>
<p>"George Burgoyne Calendar."</p>
<p>"Ah! An American; I remember, now. Continue, please."</p>
<p>"He is hounding us, sir, with the intention of stealing some
property, which he caused to be stolen, which we—to put it
bluntly—stole from him, to which he has no shadow of a title,
and which, finally, we're endeavoring to return to its
owners."</p>
<p>"My dear!" interpolated Brentwick gently, looking down at
the girl's flushed face and drooping head.</p>
<p>"He ran us to the last ditch," Kirkwood continued; "I've
spent my last farthing trying to lose him."</p>
<p>"But why have you not caused his arrest?" Brentwick
inquired.</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded meaningly toward the girl. Brentwick made a
sound indicating comprehension, a click of the tongue behind
closed teeth.</p>
<p>"We came to your door by the merest accident—it might as
well have been another. I understood you were in Munich, and it
never entered my head that we'd find you home."</p>
<p>"A communication from my solicitors detained me," explained
Brentwick. "And now, what do you intend to do?"</p>
<p>"Trespass as far on your kindness as you'll permit. In the
first place, I—I want the use of a few pounds with which to
cable some friends in New York, for money; on receipt of which
I can repay you."</p>
<p>"Philip," observed Brentwood, "you are a most irritating
child. But I forgive you the faults of youth. You may proceed,
bearing in mind, if you please, that I am your friend equally
with any you may own in America."</p>
<p>"You're one of the best men in the world," said
Kirkwood.</p>
<p>"Tut, tut! Will you get on?"</p>
<p>"Secondly, I want you to help us to escape Calendar
to-night. It is necessary that Miss Calendar should go to
Chiltern this evening, where she has friends who will receive
and protect her."</p>
<p>"Mm-mm," grumbled their host, meditative. "My faith!" he
commented, with brightening eyes. "It sounds almost too good to
be true! And I've been growing afraid that the world was
getting to be a most humdrum and uninteresting planet!... Miss
Calendar, I am a widower of so many years standing that I had
almost forgotten I had ever been anything but a bachelor. I
fear my house contains little that will be of service to a
young lady. Yet a room is at your disposal; the parlor-maid
shall show you the way. And Philip, between you and me, I
venture to remark that hot water and cold steel would add to
the attractiveness of your personal appearance; my valet will
attend you in my room. Dinner," concluded Brentwick with
anticipative relish, "will be served in precisely thirty
minutes. I shall expect you to entertain me with a full and
itemized account of every phase of your astonishing adventure.
Later, we will find a way to Chiltern."</p>
<p>Again he put a hand upon the bell-pull. Simultaneously
Dorothy and Kirkwood rose.</p>
<p>"Mr. Brentwick," said the girl, her eyes starred with tears
of gratitude, "I don't, I really don't know how—"</p>
<p>"My dear," said the old gentleman, "you will thank me most
appropriately by continuing, to the best of your ability, to
resemble your mother more remarkably every minute."</p>
<p>"But I," began Kirkwood——.</p>
<p>"You, my dear Philip, can thank me best by permitting me to
enjoy myself; which I am doing thoroughly at the present
moment. My pleasure in being invited to interfere in your young
affairs is more keen than you can well surmise. Moreover," said
Mr. Brentwick, "so long have I been an amateur adventurer that
I esteem it the rarest privilege to find myself thus on the
point of graduating into professional ranks." He rubbed his
hands, beaming upon them. "And," he added, as a maid appeared
at the door, "I have already schemed me a scheme for the
discomfiture of our friends the enemy: a scheme which we will
discuss with our dinner, while the heathen rage and imagine a
vain thing, in the outer darkness."</p>
<p>Kirkwood would have lingered, but of such inflexible temper
was his host that he bowed him into the hands of a man servant
without permitting him another word.</p>
<p>"Not a syllable," he insisted. "I protest I am devoured with
curiosity, my dear boy, but I have also bowels of compassion.
When we are well on with our meal, when you are strengthened
with food and drink, then you may begin. But now—Dickie," to
the valet, "do your duty!"</p>
<p>Kirkwood, laughing with exasperation, retired at discretion,
leaving Brentwick the master of the situation: a charming
gentleman with a will of his own and a way that went with
it.</p>
<p>He heard the young man's footsteps diminish on the stairway;
and again he smiled the indulgent, melancholy smile of mellow
years. "Youth!" he whispered softly. "Romance!... And now,"
with a brisk change of tone as he closed the study door, "now
we are ready for this interesting Mr. Calendar."</p>
<p>Sitting down at his desk, he found and consulted a telephone
directory; but its leaves, at first rustling briskly at the
touch of the slender and delicate fingers, were presently
permitted to lie unturned,—the book resting open on his knees
the while he stared wistfully into the fire.</p>
<p>A suspicion of moisture glimmered in his eyes. "Dorothy!" he
whispered huskily. And a little later, rising, he proceeded to
the telephone....</p>
<p>An hour and a half later Kirkwood, his self-respect
something restored by a bath, a shave, and a resumption of
clothes which had been hastily but thoroughly cleansed and
pressed by Brentwick's valet; his confidence and courage
mounting high under the combined influence of generous wine,
substantial food, the presence of his heart's mistress and the
admiration—which was unconcealed—of his friend, concluded at
the dinner-table, his narration.</p>
<p>"And that," he said, looking up from his savory, "is about
all."</p>
<p>"Bravo!" applauded Brentwick; eyes shining with delight.</p>
<p>"All," interposed Dorothy in warm reproach, "but what he
hasn't told—"</p>
<p>"Which, my dear, is to be accounted for wholly by a very
creditable modesty, rarely encountered in the young men of the
present day. It was, of course, altogether different with those
of my younger years. Yes, Wotton?"</p>
<p>Brentwick sat back in his chair, inclining an attentive ear
to a communication murmured by the butler.</p>
<p>Kirkwood's gaze met Dorothy's across the expanse of shining
cloth; he deprecated her interruption with a whimsical twist of
his eyebrows. "Really, you shouldn't," he assured her in an
undertone. "I've done nothing to deserve..." But under the
spell of her serious sweet eyes, he fell silent, and presently
looked down, strangely abashed; and contemplated the vast
enormity of his unworthiness.</p>
<p>Coffee was set before them by Wotton, the impassive,
Brentwick refusing it with a little sigh. "It is one of the
things, as Philip knows," he explained to the girl, "denied me
by the physician who makes his life happy by making mine a
waste. I am allowed but three luxuries; cigars, travel in
moderation, and the privilege of imposing on my friends. The
first I propose presently, to enjoy, by your indulgence; and
the second I shall this evening undertake by virtue of the
third, of which I have just availed myself."</p>
<p>Smiling at the involution, he rested his head against the
back of the chair, eyes roving from the girl's face to
Kirkwood's. "Inspiration to do which," he proceeded gravely,
"came to me from the seafaring picaroon (Stryker did you name
him?) via the excellent Wotton. While you were preparing for
dinner, Wotton returned from his constitutional with the news
that, leaving the corpulent person on watch at the corner,
Captain Stryker had temporarily, made himself scarce. However,
we need feel no anxiety concerning his whereabouts, for he
reappeared in good time and a motor-car. From which it becomes
evident that you have not overrated their pertinacity; the
fiasco of the cab-chase is not to be reënacted."</p>
<p>Resolutely the girl repressed a gasp of dismay. Kirkwood
stared moodily into his cup.</p>
<p>"These men bore me fearfully," he commented at last.</p>
<p>"And so," continued Brentwick, "I bethought me of a
counter-stroke. It is my good fortune to have a friend whose
whim it is to support a touring-car, chiefly in innocuous
idleness. Accordingly I have telephoned him and commandeered
the use of this machine—mechanician, too.... Though not a
betting man, I am willing to risk recklessly a few pence in
support of my contention, that of the two, Captain Stryker's
car and ours, the latter will prove considerably the most
speedy....</p>
<p>"In short, I suggest," he concluded, thoughtfully lacing his
long white fingers, "that, avoiding the hazards of cab and
railway carriage, we motor to Chiltern: the night being fine
and the road, I am told, exceptionally good. Miss Dorothy, what
do you think?"</p>
<p>Instinctively the girl looked to Kirkwood; then shifted her
glance to their host. "I think you are wonderfully thoughtful
and kind," she said simply.</p>
<p>"And you, Philip?"</p>
<p>"It's an inspiration," the younger man declared. "I can't
think of anything better calculated to throw them off, than to
distance them by motor-car. It would be always possible to
trace our journey by rail."</p>
<p>"Then," announced Brentwick, making as if to rise, "we had
best go. If neither my hearing nor Captain Stryker's car
deceives me, our fiery chariot is panting at the door."</p>
<p>A little sobered from the confident spirit of quiet gaiety
in which they had dined, they left the table. Not that, in
their hearts, either greatly questioned their ultimate triumph;
but they were allowing for the element of error so apt to set
at naught human calculations. Calendar himself had already been
proved fallible. Within the bounds of possibility, their turn
to stumble might now be imminent.</p>
<p>When he let himself dwell upon it, their utter helplessness
to give Calendar pause by commonplace methods, maddened
Kirkwood. With another scoundrel it had been so simple a matter
to put a period to his activities by a word to the police. But
he was her father; for that reason he must continually be
spared ... Even though, in desperate extremity, she should give
consent to the arrest of the adventurers, retaliation would
follow, swift and sure. For they might not overlook nor gloze
the fact that hers had been the hands responsible for the theft
of the jewels; innocent though she had been in committing that
larceny, a cat's-paw guided by an intelligence unscrupulous and
malign, the law would not hold her guiltless were she once
brought within its cognizance. Nor, possibly, would the
Hallams, mother and son.</p>
<p>Upon their knowledge and their fear of this, undoubtedly
Calendar was reckoning: witness the barefaced effrontery with
which he operated against them. His fear of the police might be
genuine enough, but he was never for an instant disturbed by
any doubt lest his daughter should turn against him. She would
never dare that.</p>
<p>Before they left the house, while Dorothy was above stairs
resuming her hat and coat, Kirkwood and Brentwick reconnoitered
from the drawing-room windows, themselves screened from
observation by the absence of light in the room behind.</p>
<p>Before the door a motor-car waited, engines humming
impatiently, mechanician ready in his seat, an uncouth shape in
goggles and leather garments that shone like oilskins under the
street lights.</p>
<p>At one corner another and a smaller car stood in waiting,
its lamps like baleful eyes glaring through the night.</p>
<p>In the shadows across the way, a lengthy shadow lurked:
Stryker, beyond reasonable question. Otherwise the street was
deserted. Not even that adventitous bobby of the early evening
was now in evidence.</p>
<p>Dorothy presently joining them, Brentwick led the way to the
door.</p>
<p>Wotton, apparently nerveless beneath his absolute
immobility, let them out—and slammed the door behind them with
such promptitude as to give cause for the suspicion that he was
a fraud, a sham, beneath his icy exterior desperately afraid
lest the house be stormed by the adventurers.</p>
<p>Kirkwood to the right, Brentwick to the left of Dorothy, the
former carrying the treasure bag, they hastened down the walk
and through the gate to the car.</p>
<p>The watcher across the way was moved to whistle shrilly; the
other car lunged forward nervously.</p>
<p>Brentwick taking the front seat, beside the mechanician,
left the tonneau to Kirkwood and Dorothy. As the American
slammed the door, the car swept smoothly out into the middle of
the way, while the pursuing car swerved in to the other curb,
slowing down to let Stryker jump aboard.</p>
<p>Kirkwood put himself in the seat by the girl's side and for
a few moments was occupied with the arrangement of the robes.
Then, sitting back, he found her eyes fixed upon him, pools of
inscrutable night in the shadow of her hat.</p>
<p>"You aren't afraid, Dorothy?"</p>
<p>She answered quietly: "I am with you, Philip."</p>
<p>Beneath the robe their hands met...</p>
<p>Exalted, excited, he turned and looked back. A hundred yards
to the rear four unwinking eyes trailed them, like some modern
Nemesis in monstrous guise.</p>
<center>
<h2><a name="XIX">XIX</a></h2>
<h4>I——THE UXBRIDGE ROAD</h4>
</center>
<p>At a steady gait, now and again checked in deference to the
street traffic, Brentwick's motor-car rolled, with resonant
humming of the engine, down the Cromwell Road, swerved into
Warwick Road and swung northward through Kensington to
Shepherd's Bush. Behind it Calendar's car clung as if towed by
an invisible cable, never gaining, never losing, mutely
testifying to the adventurer's unrelenting, grim determination
to leave them no instant's freedom from surveillance, to keep
for ever at their shoulders, watching his chance, biding his
time with sinister patience until the moment when, wearied,
their vigilance should relax....</p>
<p>To some extent he reckoned without his motor-car. As long as
they traveled within the metropolitan limits, constrained to
observe a decorous pace in view of the prejudices of the County
Council, it was a matter of no difficulty whatever to maintain
his distance. But once they had won through Shepherd's Bush
and, paced by huge doubledeck trolley trams, were flying
through Hammersmith on the Uxbridge Road; once they had run
through Acton, and knew beyond dispute that now they were
without the city boundaries, then the complexion of the
business was suddenly changed.</p>
<p>Not too soon for honest sport; Calendar was to have
(Kirkwood would have said in lurid American idiom) a run for
his money. The scattered lights of Southall were winking out
behind them before Brentwick chose to give the word to the
mechanician.</p>
<p>Quietly the latter threw in the clutch for the third
speed—and the fourth. The car leaped forward like a startled
race-horse. The motor lilted merrily into its deep-throated
song of the open road, its contented, silken humming passing
into a sonorous and sustained purr.</p>
<p>Kirkwood and the girl were first jarred violently forward,
then thrown together. She caught his arm to steady herself; it
seemed the most natural thing imaginable that he should take
her hand and pass it beneath his arm, holding her so, his
fingers closed above her own. Before they had recovered, or had
time to catch their breath, a mile of Middlesex had dropped to
the rear.</p>
<p>Not quite so far had they distanced Calendar's trailing
Nemesis of the four glaring eyes; the pursuers put forth a
gallant effort to hold their place. At intervals during the
first few minutes a heavy roaring and crashing could be heard
behind them; gradually it subsided, dying on the wings of the
free rushing wind that buffeted their faces as mile after mile
was reeled off and the wide, darkling English countryside
opened out before them, sweet and wonderful.</p>
<p>Once Kirkwood looked back; in the winking of an eye he saw
four faded disks of light, pallid with despair, top a distant
rise and glide down into darkness. When he turned, Dorothy was
interrogating him with eyes whose melting, shadowed loveliness,
revealed to him in the light of the far, still stars, seemed to
incite him to that madness which he had bade himself resist
with all his strength.</p>
<p>He shook his head, as if to say: They can not catch us.</p>
<p>His hour was not yet; time enough to think of love and
marriage (as if he were capable of consecutive thought on any
other subject!)—time enough to think of them when he had gene
back to his place, or rather when he should have found it, in
the ranks of bread-winners, and so have proved his right to
mortal happiness; time enough then to lay whatever he might
have to offer at her feet. Now he could conceive of no baser
treachery to his soul's-desire than to advantage himself of her
gratitude.</p>
<p>Resolutely he turned his face forward, striving with all his
will and might to forget the temptation of her lips, weary as
they were and petulant with waiting; and so sat rigid in his
time of trial, clinging with what strength he could to the
standards of his honor, and trying to lose his dream in
dreaming of the bitter struggle that seemed likely to be his
future portion.</p>
<p>Perhaps she guessed a little of the fortunes of the battle
that was being waged within him. Perhaps not. Whatever the
trend of her thoughts, she did not draw away from him....
Perhaps the breath of night, fresh and clean and fragrant with
the odor of the fields and hedges, sweeping into her face with
velvety caress, rendered her drowsy. Presently the silken
lashes drooped, fluttering upon her cheeks, the tired and happy
smile hovered about her lips....</p>
<p>In something less than half an hour of this wild driving,
Kirkwood roused out of his reverie sufficiently to become
sensible that the speed was slackening. Incoherent snatches of
sentences, fragments of words and phrases spoken by Brentwick
and the mechanician, were flung back past his ears by the
rushing wind. Shielding his eyes he could see dimly that the
mechanician was tinkering (apparently) with the driving gear.
Then, their pace continuing steadily to abate, he heard
Brentwick fling at the man a sharp-toned and querulously
impatient question: What was the trouble? His reply came in a
single word, not distinguishable.</p>
<p>The girl sat up, opening her eyes, disengaging her arm.</p>
<p>Kirkwood bent forward and touched Brentwick on the shoulder;
the latter turned to him a face lined with deep concern.</p>
<p>"Trouble," he announced superfluously. "I fear we have
blundered."</p>
<p>"What is it?" asked Dorothy in a troubled voice.</p>
<p>"Petrol seems to be running low. Charles here" (he referred
to the mechanician) "says the tank must be leaking. We'll go on
as best we can and try to find an inn. Fortunately, most of the
inns nowadays keep supplies of petrol for just such
emergencies."</p>
<p>"Are we—? Do you think—?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no; not a bit of danger of that," returned Brentwick
hastily. "They'll not catch up with us this night. That is a
very inferior car they have,—so Charles says, at least;
nothing to compare with this. If I'm not in error, there's the
Crown and Mitre just ahead; we'll make it, fill our tanks, and
be off again before they can make up half their loss."</p>
<p>Dorothy looked anxiously to Kirkwood, her lips forming an
unuttered query: What did he think?</p>
<p>"Don't worry; we'll have no trouble," he assured her
stoutly; "the chauffeur knows, undoubtedly."</p>
<p>None the less he was moved to stand up in the tonneau,
conscious of the presence of the traveling bag, snug between
his feet, as well as of the weight of Calendar's revolver in
his pocket, while he stared back along the road.</p>
<p>There was nothing to be seen of their persecutors.</p>
<p>The car continued to crawl. Five minutes dragged out
tediously. Gradually they, drew abreast a tavern standing back
a distance from the road, embowered in a grove of trees between
whose ancient boles the tap-room windows shone enticingly,
aglow with comfortable light. A creaking sign-board, much worn
by weather and age, swinging from a roadside post, confirmed
the accuracy of Brentwick's surmise, announcing that here stood
the Crown and Mitre, house of entertainment for man and
beast.</p>
<p>Sluggishly the car rolled up before it and came to a dead
and silent halt. Charles, the mechanician, jumping out, ran
hastily up the path towards the inn. In the car Brentwick
turned again, his eyes curiously bright in the starlight, his
forehead quaintly furrowed, his voice apologetic.</p>
<p>"It may take a few minutes," he said undecidedly, plainly
endeavoring to cover up his own dark doubts. "My dear," to the
girl, "if I have brought trouble upon you in this wise, I shall
never earn my own forgiveness."</p>
<p>Kirkwood stood up again, watchful, attentive to the sounds
of night; but the voice of the pursuing motor-car was not of
their company. "I hear nothing," he announced.</p>
<p>"You will forgive me,—won't you, my dear?—for causing you
these few moments of needless anxiety?" pleaded the old
gentleman, his tone tremulous.</p>
<p>"As if you could be blamed!" protested the girl. "You
mustn't think of it that way. Fancy, what should we have done
without you!"</p>
<p>"I'm afraid I have been very clumsy," sighed Brentwick,
"clumsy and impulsive ... Kirkwood, do you hear anything?"</p>
<p>"Not yet, sir."</p>
<p>"Perhaps," suggested Brentwick a little later, "perhaps we
had better alight and go up to the inn. It would be more cosy
there, especially if the petrol proves hard to obtain, and we
have long to wait."</p>
<p>"I should like that," assented the girl decidedly.</p>
<p>Kirkwood nodded his approval, opened the door and jumped out
to assist her; then picked up the bag and followed the
pair,—Brentwick leading the way with Dorothy on his arm.</p>
<p>At the doorway of the Crown and Mitre, Charles met them
evidently seriously disturbed. "No petrol to be had here, sir,"
he announced reluctantly; "but the landlord will send to the
next inn, a mile up the road, for some. You will have to be
patient, I'm afraid, sir."</p>
<p>"Very well. Get some one to help you push the car in from
the road," ordered Brentwick; "we will be waiting in one of the
private parlors."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir; thank you, sir." The mechanician touched the
visor of his cap and hurried off.</p>
<p>"Come, Kirkwood." Gently Brentwick drew the girl in with
him.</p>
<p>Kirkwood lingered momentarily on the doorstep, to listen
acutely. But the wind was blowing into that quarter whence they
had come, and he could hear naught save the soughing in the
trees, together with an occasional burst of rude rustic
laughter from the tap-room. Lifting his shoulders in dumb
dismay, and endeavoring to compose his features, he entered the
tavern.</p>
<h4 align="center"><a name=
"II——THE%20CROWN%20AND%20MITRE">II——THE CROWN AND MITRE</a></h4>
<p>A rosy-cheeked and beaming landlady met him in the corridor
and, all bows and smiles, ushered him into a private parlor
reserved for the party, immediately bustling off in a desperate
flurry, to secure refreshments desired by Brentwick.</p>
<p>The girl had seated herself on one end of an extremely
comfortless lounge and was making a palpable effort to seem at
ease. Brentwick stood at one of the windows, shoulders rounded
and head bent, hands clasped behind his back as he peered out
into the night. Kirkwood dropped the traveling bag beneath a
chair the farthest removed from the doorway, and took to pacing
the floor.</p>
<p>In a corner of the room a tall grandfather's clock ticked
off ten interminable minutes. For some reason unconscionably
delaying, the landlady did not reappear. Brentwick, abruptly
turning from the window, remarked the fact querulously, then
drew a chair up to a marble-topped table in the middle of the
floor.</p>
<p>"My dear," he requested the girl, "will you oblige me by
sitting over here? And Philip, bring up a chair, if you will.
We must not permit ourselves to worry, and I have something
here which may, perhaps, engage your interest for a while."</p>
<p>To humor him and alleviate his evident distress of mind,
they acceded. Kirkwood found himself seated opposite Dorothy,
Brentwick between them. After some hesitation, made the more
notable by an air of uneasiness which sat oddly on his
shoulders, whose composure and confident mien had theretofore
been so complete and so reassuring, the elder gentleman fumbled
in an inner coat-pocket and brought to light a small black
leather wallet. He seemed to be on the point of opening it when
hurried footfalls sounded in the hallway. Brentwick placed the
wallet, still with its secret intact, on the table before him,
as Charles burst unceremoniously in, leaving the door wide
open.</p>
<p>"Mr. Brentwick, sir!" he cried gustily. "That other
car—"</p>
<p>With a smothered ejaculation Kirkwood leaped to his feet,
tugging at the weapon in his pocket. In another instant he had
the revolver exposed. The girl's cry of alarm, interrupting the
machinist, fixed Brentwick's attention on the young man. He,
too, stood up, reaching over very quickly, to clamp strong
supple fingers round Kirkwood's wrist, while with the other
hand he laid hold of the revolver and by a single twist
wrenched it away.</p>
<p>Kirkwood turned upon him in fury. "So!" he cried, shaking
with passion. "This is what your hospitality meant! You're
going to—"</p>
<p>"My dear young friend," interrupted Brentwick with a flash
of impatience, "remember that if I had designed to betray you,
I could have asked no better opportunity than when you were my
guest under my own roof."</p>
<p>"But—hang it all, Brentwick!" expostulated Kirkwood,
ashamed and contrite, but worked upon by desperate
apprehension; "I didn't mean that, but—"</p>
<p>"Would you have bullets flying when she is near?" demanded
Brentwick scathingly. Hastily he slipped the revolver upon a
little shelf beneath the table-top. "Sir!" he informed Kirkwood
with some heat, "I love you as my own son, but you're a young
fool!... as I have been, in my time ... and as I would to
Heaven I might be again! Be advised, Philip,—be calm. Can't
you see it's the only way to save your treasure?"</p>
<p>"Hang the jewels!" retorted Kirkwood warmly. "What—"</p>
<p>"Sir, who said anything about the jewels?"</p>
<p>As Brentwick spoke, Calendar's corpulent figure filled the
doorway; Stryker's weather-worn features loomed over his
shoulder, distorted in a cheerful leer.</p>
<p>"As to the jewels," announced the fat adventurer, "I've got
a word to say, if you put it to me that way."</p>
<p>He paused on the threshold, partly for dramatic effect,
partly for his own satisfaction, his quick eyes darting from
face to face of the four people whom he had caught so
unexpectedly. A shade of complacency colored his expression,
and he smiled evilly beneath the coarse short thatch of his
gray mustache. In his hand a revolver appeared, poised for
immediate use if there were need.</p>
<p>There was none. Brentwick, at his primal appearance, had
dropped a peremptory hand on Kirkwood's shoulder, forcing the
young man back to his seat; at the same time he resumed his
own. The girl had not stirred from hers since the first alarm;
she sat as if transfixed with terror, leaning forward with her
elbows on the table, her hands tightly clasped, her face, a
little blanched, turned to the door. But her scarlet lips were
set and firm with inflexible purpose, and her brown eyes met
Calendar's with a look level and unflinching. Beyond this she
gave no sign of recognition.</p>
<p>Nearest of the four to the adventurers was Charles, the
mechanician, paused in affrighted astonishment at sight of the
revolver. Calendar, choosing to advance suddenly, poked the
muzzle of the weapon jocularly in the man's ribs. "Beat it,
Four-eyes!" he snapped. "This is your cue to duck! Get out of
my way."</p>
<p>The mechanician jumped as if shot, then hastily, retreated
to the table, his sallow features working beneath the
goggle-mask which had excited the fat adventurer's scorn.</p>
<p>"Come right in, Cap'n," Calendar threw over one shoulder;
"come in, shut the door and lock it. Let's all be sociable, and
have a nice quiet time." vStryker obeyed, with a derisive
grimace for Kirkwood.</p>
<p>Calendar, advancing jauntily to a point within a yard of the
table, stopped, smiling affably down upon his prospective
victims, and airily twirling his revolver.</p>
<p>"<i>Good</i> evening, all!" he saluted them blandly.
"Dorothy, my child," with assumed concern, "you're looking a
trifle upset; I'm afraid you've been keeping late hours. Little
girls must be careful, you know, or they lose the bloom of
roses in their cheeks.... Mr. Kirkwood, it's a pleasure to meet
you again! Permit me to paraphrase your most sound advice, and
remind you that pistol-shots are apt to attract undesirable
attention. It wouldn't be wise for <i>you</i> to bring the
police about our ears. I believe that in substance such was
your sapient counsel to me in the cabin of the <i>Alethea</i>;
was it not?... And you, sir!"—fixing Brentwick with a cold
unfriendly eye. "You animated fossil, what d'you mean by
telling me to go to the devil?... But let that pass; I hold no
grudge. What might your name be?"</p>
<p align="center"><img src="illp421s.jpg"
width="600"
height="808"
border="1"
alt="'<i>Good</i> evening, all!' he saluted them blandly"></p>
<p>"It might be Brentwick," said that gentleman placidly.</p>
<p>"Brentwick, eh? Well, I like a man of spirit. But permit me
to advise you—"</p>
<p>"Gladly," nodded Brentwick.</p>
<p>"Eh?... Don't come a second time between father and
daughter; another man might not be as patient as I, Mister
Brentwick. There's a law in the land, if you don't happen to
know it."</p>
<p>"I congratulate you on your success in evading it," observed
Brentwick, undisturbed. "And it was considerate of you not to
employ it in this instance." Then, with a sharp change of tone,
"Come, sir!" he demanded. "You have unwarrantably intruded in
this room, which I have engaged for my private use. Get through
with your business and be off with you."</p>
<p>"All in my good time, my antediluvian friend. When I've
wound up my business here I'll go—not before. But, just to
oblige you, we'll get down to it.... Kirkwood, you have a
revolver of mine. Be good enough to return it."</p>
<p>"I have it here,—under the table," interrupted Brentwick
suavely. "Shall I hand it to you?"</p>
<p>"By the muzzle, if you please. Be very careful; this one's
loaded, too—apt to explode any minute."</p>
<p>To Kirkwood's intense disgust Brentwick quietly slipped one
hand beneath the table and, placing the revolver on its top,
delicately with his finger-tips shoved it toward the farther
edge. With a grunt of approval, Calendar swept the weapon up
and into his pocket.</p>
<p>"Any more ordnance?" he inquired briskly, eyes moving
alertly from face to face. "No matter; you wouldn't dare use
'em anyway. And I'm about done. Dorothy, my dear, it's high
time you returned to your father's protection. Where's that
gladstone bag?"</p>
<p>"In my traveling bag," the girl told him in a toneless
voice.</p>
<p>"Then you may bring it along. You may also say good night to
the kind gentlemen."</p>
<p>Dorothy did not move; her pallor grew more intense and
Kirkwood saw her knuckles tighten beneath the gloves. Otherwise
her mouth seemed to grow more straight and hard.</p>
<p>"Dorothy!" cried the adventurer with a touch of displeasure.
"You heard me?"</p>
<p>"I heard you," she replied a little wearily, more than a
little contemptuously. "Don't mind him, please, Mr.
Kirkwood!"—with an appealing gesture, as Kirkwood, unable to
contain himself, moved restlessly in his chair, threatening to
rise. "Don't say anything. I have no intention whatever of
going with this man."</p>
<p>Calendar's features twitched nervously; he chewed a corner
of his mustache, fixing the girl with a black stare. "I
presume," he remarked after a moment, with slow deliberation,
"you're aware that, as your father, I am in a position to
compel you to accompany me."</p>
<p>"I shall not go with you," iterated Dorothy in a level tone.
"You may threaten me, but—I shall not go. Mr. Brentwick and
Mr. Kirkwood are taking me to—friends, who will give me a home
until I can find a way to take care of myself. That is all I
have to say to you."</p>
<p>"Bravo, my dear!" cried Brentwick encouragingly.</p>
<p>"Mind your business, sir!" thundered Calendar, his face
darkening. Then, to Dorothy, "You understand, I trust, what
this means?" he demanded. "I offer you a home—and a good one.
Refuse, and you work for your living, my girl! You've forfeited
your legacy—"</p>
<p>"I know, I know," she told him in cold disdain. "I am
content. Won't you be kind enough to leave me alone?"</p>
<p>For a breath, Calendar glowered over her; then, "I presume,"
he observed, "that all these heroics are inspired by that
whipper-snapper, Kirkwood. Do you know that he hasn't a brass
farthing to bless himself with?"</p>
<p>"What has that—?" cried the girl indignantly.</p>
<p>"Why, it has everything to do with me, my child. As your
doting parent, I can't consent to your marrying
nothing-a-year.... For I surmise you intend to marry this Mr.
Kirkwood, don't you?"</p>
<p>There followed a little interval of silence, while the warm
blood flamed in the girl's face and the red lips trembled as
she faced her tormentor. Then, with a quaver that escaped her
control, "If Mr. Kirkwood asks me, I shall," she stated very
simply.</p>
<p>"That," interposed Kirkwood, "is completely understood." His
gaze sought her eyes, but she looked away.</p>
<p>"You forget that I am your father," sneered Calendar; "and
that you are a minor. I can refuse my consent."</p>
<p>"But you won't," Kirkwood told him with assurance.</p>
<p>The adventurer stared. "No," he agreed, after slight
hesitation; "no, I shan't interfere. Take her, my boy, if you
want her—and a father's blessing into the bargain. The Lord
knows I've troubles enough; a parent's lot is not what it's
cracked up to be." He paused, leering, ironic.
"But,"—deliberately, "there's still this other matter of the
gladstone bag. I don't mind abandoning my parental authority,
when my child's happiness is concerned, but as for my
property—"</p>
<p>"It is not your property," interrupted the girl.</p>
<p>"It was your mother's, dear child. It's now mine."</p>
<p>"I dispute that assertion," Kirkwood put in.</p>
<p>"You may dispute it till the cows come home, my boy: the
fact will remain that I intend to take my property with me when
I leave this room, whether you like it or not. Now are you
disposed to continue the argument, or may I count on your being
sensible?"</p>
<p>"You may put away your revolver, if that's what you mean,"
said Kirkwood. "We certainly shan't oppose you with violence,
but I warn you that Scotland Yard—"</p>
<p>"Oh, that be blowed!" the adventurer snorted in disgust. "I
can sail circles round any tec. that ever blew out of Scotland
Yard! Give me an hour's start, and you're free to do all the
funny business you've a mind to, with—Scotland Yard!"</p>
<p>"Then you admit," queried Brentwick civilly, "that you've no
legal title to the jewels in dispute?"</p>
<p>"Look here, my friend," chuckled Calendar, "when you catch
me admitting anything, you write it down in your little book
and tell the bobby on the corner. Just at present I've got
other business than to stand round admitting anything about
anything.... Cap'n, let's have that bag of my dutiful
daughter's."</p>
<p>"'Ere you are." Stryker spoke for the first time since
entering the room, taking the valise from beneath the chair and
depositing it on the table.</p>
<p>"Well, we shan't take anything that doesn't belong to us,"
laughed Calendar, fumbling with the catch; "not even so small a
matter as my own child's traveling bag. A
small—heavy—gladstone bag," he grunted, opening the valise
and plunging in one greedy hand, "will—just—about—do for
mine!" With which he produced the article mentioned. "This for
the discard, Cap'n," he laughed contentedly, pushing the girl's
valise aside; and, rumbling with stentorian mirth, stood
beaming benignantly over the assembled company.</p>
<p>"Why," he exclaimed, "this moment is worth all it cost me!
My children, I forgive you freely. Mr. Kirkwood, I felicitate
you cordially on having secured a most expensive wife.
Really—d'you know?—I feel as if I ought to do a little
something for you both." Gurgling with delight he smote his fat
palms together. "I just tell you what," he resumed, "no one yet
ever called Georgie Calendar a tight-wad. I just believe I'm
going to make you kids a handsome wedding present.... The good
Lord knows there's enough of this for a fellow to be a little
generous and never miss it!"</p>
<p>The thick mottled fingers tore nervously at the catch;
eventually he got the bag open. Those about the table bent
forward, all quickened by the prospect of for the first time
beholding the treasure over which they had fought, for which
they had suffered, so long....</p>
<p>A heady and luscious fragrance pervaded the atmosphere,
exhaling from the open mouth of the bag. A silence,
indefinitely sustained, impressed itself upon the little
audience,—a breathless pause ended eventually by a sharp snap
of Calendar's teeth. "<i>Mmm</i>!" grunted the adventurer in
bewilderment. He began to pant.</p>
<p>Abruptly his heavy hands delved into the contents of the
bag, like the paws of a terrier digging in earth. To Kirkwood
the air seemed temporarily thick with flying objects. Beneath
his astonished eyes a towel fell upon the table—a crumpled,
soiled towel, bearing on its dingy hem the inscription in
indelible ink: "<i>Hôtel du Commerce, Anvers</i>." A
tooth-mug of substantial earthenware dropped to the floor with
a crash. A slimy soap-dish of the same manufacture slid across
the table and into Brentwick's lap. A battered alarm clock with
never a tick left in its abused carcass rang vacuously as it
fell by the open bag.... The remainder was—oranges: a dozen or
more small, round, golden globes of ripe fruit, perhaps a shade
overripe, therefore the more aromatic.</p>
<p>The adventurer ripped out an oath. "Mulready, by the living
God!" he raged in fury. "Done up, I swear! Done by that
infernal sneak—me, blind as a bat!"</p>
<p>He fell suddenly silent, the blood congesting in his face;
as suddenly broke forth again, haranguing the company.</p>
<p>"That's why he went out and bought those damned oranges, is
it? Think of it—me sitting in the hotel in Antwerp and him
lugging in oranges by the bagful because he was fond of fruit!
When did he do it? How do I know? If I knew, would I be here
and him the devil knows where, this minute? When my back was
turned, of course, the damned snake! That's why he was so hot
about picking a fight on the boat, hey? Wanted to get thrown
off and take to the woods—leaving me with <i>this</i>! And
that's why he felt so awful done up he wouldn't take a hand at
hunting you two down, hey? Well—by—the—Eternal! I'll camp on
his trail for the rest of his natural-born days! I'll have his
eye-teeth for this, I'll—"</p>
<p>He swayed, gibbering with rage, his countenance frightfully
contorted, his fat hands shaking as he struggled for
expression.</p>
<p>And then, while yet their own astonishment held Dorothy,
Kirkwood, Brentwick and Stryker speechless, Charles, the
mechanician, moved suddenly upon the adventurer.</p>
<p>There followed two metallic clicks. Calendar's ravings were
abrupted as if his tongue had been paralyzed. He fell back a
pace, flabby jowls pale and shaking, ponderous jaw dropping on
his breast, mouth wide and eyes crazed as he shook violently
before him his thick fleshy wrists—securely handcuffed.</p>
<p>Simultaneously the mechanician whirled about, bounded
eagerly across the floor, and caught Stryker at the door, his
dexterous fingers twisting in the captain's collar as he jerked
him back and tripped him.</p>
<p>"Mr. Kirkwood!" he cried. "Here, please—one moment. Take
this man's gun, from him, will you?"</p>
<p>Kirkwood sprang to his assistance, and without encountering
much trouble, succeeded in wresting a Webley from Stryker's
limp, flaccid fingers.</p>
<p>Roughly the mechanician shook the man, dragging him to his
feet. "Now," he ordered sternly, "you march to that corner,
stick your nose in it, and be good! You can't get away if you
try. I've got other men outside, waiting for you to come out.
Understand?"</p>
<p>Trembling like a whipped cur, Stryker meekly obeyed his
instructions to the letter.</p>
<p>The mechanician, with a contemptuous laugh leaving him,
strode back to Calendar, meanwhile whipping off his goggles;
and clapped a hearty hand upon the adventurer's quaking
shoulders.</p>
<p>"Well!" he cried. "And are you still sailing circles round
the men from Scotland Yard, Simmons, or Bellows, or Sanderson,
or Calendar, or Crumbstone, or whatever name you prefer to sail
under?"</p>
<p>Calendar glared at him aghast; then heaved a profound sigh,
shrugged his fat shoulders, and bent his head in thought. An
instant later he looked up. "You can't do it," he informed the
detective vehemently; "you haven't got a shred of evidence
against me! What's there? A pile of oranges and a peck of
trash! What of it?... Besides," he threatened, "if you pinch
me, you'll have to take the girl in, too. I swear that whatever
stealing was done, she did it. I'll not be trapped this way by
her and let her off without a squeal. Take me—take her; d'you
hear?"</p>
<p>"I think," put in the clear, bland accents of Brentwick, "we
can consider that matter settled. I have here, my
man,"—nodding to the adventurer as he took up the black
leather wallet,—"I have here a little matter which may clear
up any lingering doubts as to your standing, which you may be
disposed at present to entertain."</p>
<p>He extracted a slip of cardboard and, at arm's length, laid
it on the table-edge beneath the adventurer's eyes. The latter,
bewildered, bent over it for a moment, breathing heavily; then
straightened back, shook himself, laughed shortly with a
mirthless note, and faced the detective.</p>
<p>"It's come with you now, I guess?" he suggested very
quietly.</p>
<p>"The Bannister warrant is still out for you," returned the
man. "That'll be enough to hold you on till extradition papers
arrive from the States."</p>
<p>"Oh, I'll waive those; and I won't give you any trouble,
either.... I reckon," mused the adventurer, jingling his
manacles thoughtfully, "I'm a back-number, anyway. When a
half-grown girl, a half-baked boy, a flub like Mulready—damn
his eyes!—and a club-footed snipe from Scotland Yard can put
it all over me this way,... why, I guess it's up to me to go
home and retire to my country-place up the Hudson." He sighed
wearily.</p>
<p>"Yep; time to cut it out. But I would like to be free long
enough to get in one good lick at that mutt, Mulready. My
friend, you get your hands on him, and I'll squeal on him till
I'm blue in the face. That's a promise."</p>
<p>"You'll have the chance before long," replied the detective.
"We received a telegram from the Amsterdam police late this
afternoon, saying they'd picked up Mr. Mulready with a woman
named Hallam, and were holding them on suspicion. It
seems,"—turning to Brentwick,—"they were opening negotiations
for the sale of a lot of stones, and seemed in such a precious
hurry that the diamond merchant's suspicions were roused. We're
sending over for them, Miss Calendar, so you can make your mind
easy about your jewels; you'll have them back in a few
days."</p>
<p>"Thank you," said the girl with an effort.</p>
<p>"Well," the adventurer delivered his peroration, "I
certainly am blame' glad to hear it. 'Twouldn't 've been a
square deal, any other way."</p>
<p>He paused, looking his erstwhile dupes over with a
melancholy eye; then, with an uncertain nod comprehending the
girl, Kirkwood and Brentwick, "So long!" he said thickly; and
turned, with the detective's hand under his arm and,
accompanied by the thoroughly cowed Stryker, waddled out of the
room.</p>
<center>
<h4><a name="III——THE%20JOURNEY'S%20END">III——THE JOURNEY'S
END</a></h4>
</center>
<p>Kirkwood, following the exodus, closed the door with
elaborate care and slowly, deep in thought, returned to the
table.</p>
<p>Dorothy seemed not to have moved, save to place her elbows
on the marble slab, and rest her cheeks between hands that
remained clenched, as they had been in the greatest stress of
her emotion. The color had returned to her face, with a
slightly enhanced depth of hue to the credit of her excitement.
Her cheeks were hot, her eyes starlike beneath the woven, massy
sunlight of her hair. Temporarily unconscious of her
surroundings she stared steadfastly before her, thoughts astray
in the irridescent glamour of the dreams that were to
come....</p>
<p>Brentwick had slipped down in his chair, resting his
silvered head upon its back, and was smiling serenely up at the
low yellow ceiling. Before him on the table his long white
fingers were drumming an inaudible tune. Presently rousing, he
caught Kirkwood's eye and smiled sheepishly, like a child
caught in innocent mischief.</p>
<p>The younger man grinned broadly. "And you were responsible
for all that!" he commented, infinitely amused.</p>
<p>Brentwick nodded, twinkling self-satisfaction. "I contrived
it all," he said; "neat, I call it, too." His old eyes
brightened with reminiscent enjoyment. "Inspiration!" he crowed
softly. "Inspiration, pure and simple. I'd been worrying my
wits for fully five minutes before Wotton settled the matter by
telling me about the captain's hiring of the motor-car. Then,
in a flash, I had it.... I talked with Charles by
telephone,—his name is really Charles, by, the bye,—overcame
his conscientious scruples about playing his fish when they
were already all but landed, and settled the artistic
details."</p>
<p>He chuckled delightedly. "It's the instinct," he declared
emphatically, "the instinct for adventure. I knew it was in me,
latent somewhere, but never till this day did it get the
opportunity to assert itself. A born adventurer—that's what I
am!... You see, it was essential that they should believe we
were frightened and running from them; that way, they would be
sure to run after us. Why, we might have baited a dozen traps
and failed to lure them into my house, after that stout
scoundrel knew you'd had the chance to tell me the whole
yarn... Odd!"</p>
<p>"Weren't you taking chances, you and Charles?" asked
Kirkwood curiously.</p>
<p>"Precious few. There was another motor from Scotland Yard
trailing Captain Stryker's. If they had run past, or turned
aside, they would have been overhauled in short order."</p>
<p>He relapsed into his whimsical reverie; the wistful look
returned to his eyes, replacing the glow of triumph and
pleasure. And he sighed a little regretfully.</p>
<p>"What I don't understand," contended Kirkwood, "is how you
convinced Calendar that he couldn't get revenge by pressing his
charge against Miss Calendar—Dorothy."</p>
<p>"Oh-h?" Mr. Brentwick elevated his fine white eyebrows and
sat up briskly. "My dear boy, that was the most delectable dish
on the entire menu. I have been reserving it, I don't mind
owning, that I might better enjoy the full relish of it.... I
may answer you best, perhaps, by asking you to scan what I
offered to the fat scoundrel's respectful consideration, my
dear sir."</p>
<p>He leveled a forefinger at the card.</p>
<p>At first glance it conveyed nothing to the younger man's
benighted intelligence. He puzzled over it, twisting his brows
out of alignment. An ordinary oblong slip of thin white
cardboard, it was engraved in fine script as follows:</p>
<table border="1"
width="39%">
<tr>
<td width="100%">
<p align="left">MR. GEORGE BURGOYNE CALENDAR<br>
<br>
81, ASPEN VILLAS, S. W.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>"Oh!" exclaimed Kirkwood at length, standing up, his face
bright with understanding. "<i>You</i>—!"</p>
<p>"I," laconically assented the elder man.</p>
<p>Impulsively Kirkwood leaned across the table. "Dorothy," he
said tenderly; and when the girl's happy eyes met his, quietly
drew her attention to the card.</p>
<p>Then he rose hastily, and went over to stand by the window,
staring mistily into the blank face of night beyond its unseen
panes.</p>
<p>Behind him there was a confusion of little noises; the sound
of a chair pushed hurriedly aside, a rustle of skirts, a happy
sob or two, low voices intermingling; sighs.... Out of it
finally came the father's accents.</p>
<p>"There, there, my dear! My dearest dear!" protested the old
gentleman. "Positively I don't deserve a tithe of this. I—"
The young old voice quavered and broke, in a happy laugh....
"You must understand," he continued more soberly, "that no
consideration of any sort is due me. When we married, I was too
old for your mother, child; we both knew it, both believed it
would never matter. But it did. By her wish, I went back to
America; we were to see what separation would do to heal the
wounds dissension had caused. It was a very foolish experiment.
Your mother died before I could return...."</p>
<p>There fell a silence, again broken by the father. "After
that I was in no haste to return. But some years ago, I came to
London to live. I communicated with the old colonel, asking
permission to see you. It was refused in a manner which
precluded the subject being reopened by me: I was informed that
if I persisted in attempting to see you, you would be
disinherited.... He was very angry with me—justly, I admit....
One must grow old before one can see how unforgivably one was
wrong in youth.... So I settled down to a quiet old age,
determined not to disturb you in your happiness....
Ah—Kirkwood!"</p>
<p>The old gentleman was standing, his arm around his
daughter's shoulders, when Kirkwood turned.</p>
<p>"Come here, Philip; I'm explaining to Dorothy, but you
should hear.... The evening I called on you, dear boy, at the
Pless, returning home I received a message from my solicitors,
whom I had instructed to keep an eye on Dorothy's welfare. They
informed me that she had disappeared. Naturally I canceled my
plans to go to Munich, and stayed, employing detectives. One of
the first things they discovered was that Dorothy had run off
with an elderly person calling himself George Burgoyne
Calendar—the name I had discarded when I found that to
acknowledge me would imperil my daughter's fortune.... The
investigations went deeper; Charles—let us continue to call
him—had been to see me only this afternoon, to inform me of
the plot they had discovered. This Hallam woman and her son—it
seems that they were legitimately in the line of inheritance,
Dorothy out of the way. But the woman was—ah—a bad lot.
Somehow she got into communication with this fat rogue and
together they plotted it out. Charles doesn't believe that the
Hallam woman expected to enjoy the Burgoyne estates for very
many days. Her plan was to step in when Dorothy stepped out,
gather up what she could, realize on it, and decamp. That is
why there was so much excitement about the jewels: naturally
the most valuable item on her list, the most easy to convert
into cash.... The man Mulready we do not place; he seems to
have been a shady character the fat rogue picked up somewhere.
The latter's ordinary line of business was diamond smuggling,
though he would condescend to almost anything in order to turn
a dishonest penny....</p>
<p>"That seems to exhaust the subject. But one word more....
Dorothy, I am old enough and have suffered enough to know the
wisdom of seizing one's happiness when one may. My dear, a
little while ago, you did a very brave deed. Under fire you
said a most courageous, womanly, creditable thing. And Philip's
rejoinder was only second in nobility to yours.... I do hope to
goodness that you two blessed youngsters won't let any
addlepated scruples stand between yourselves and—the prize of
Romance, your inalienable inheritance!"</p>
<p>Abruptly Brentwick, who was no longer Brentwick, but the
actual Calendar, released the girl from his embrace and hopped
nimbly toward the door. "Really, I must see about that petrol!"
he cried. "While it's perfectly true that Charles lied about
it's running out, we must be getting on. I'll call you when
we're ready to start."</p>
<p>And the door crashed to behind him....</p>
<p>Between them was the table. Beyond it the girl stood with
head erect, dim tears glimmering on the lashes of those eyes
with which she met Philip's steady gaze so fearlessly.</p>
<p>Singing about them, the silence deepened. Fascinated, though
his heart was faint with longing, Kirkwood faltered on the
threshold of his kingdom.</p>
<p>"Dorothy!... You did mean it, dear?"</p>
<p>She laughed, a little, low, sobbing laugh that had its
source deep in the hidden sanctuary of her heart of a
child.</p>
<p>"I meant it, my dearest.... If you'll have a girl so bold
and forward, who can't wait till she's asked but throws herself
into the arms of the man she loves—Philip, I meant it, every
word!..."</p>
<p>And as he went to her swiftly, round the table, she turned
to meet him, arms uplifted, her scarlet lips a-tremble, the
brown and bewitching lashes drooping over her wondrously
lighted eyes....</p>
<p>After a time Philip Kirkwood laughed aloud.</p>
<p>And there was that quality in the ring of his laughter that
caused the Shade of Care, which had for the past ten minutes
been uneasily luffing and filling in the offing and, on the
whole, steadily diminishing and becoming more pale and wan and
emaciated and indistinct—there was that in the laughter of
Philip Kirkwood, I say, which caused the Shade of Care to utter
a hollow croak of despair as, incontinently, it vanished out of
his life.</p>
<p><a href="#THE%20BLACK%20BAG">Top of Page</a></p>
<pre>
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