"My business is with her father," he said. "It is a private matter, a transaction between us two, and has to do with a bit of commercial paper."
"Quite so," said Weir. "Have the goodness to permit me to see that paper."
"Eh?" Nevens seemed straining to hear. "What do you say?"
"Show me the bill."
"You must speak louder," said Nevens. "My hearing is not good. Once it was excellent; I heard everything; but it has grown quite bad. In dealing with me you must speak plainly; even then, sometimes," and he shook his head, "I scarce hear a word."
"And this, I take it, is one of the times," said Weir dryly. "Nevertheless," and he looked fixedly into the little ferret's face and spoke slowly, "I think you'll understand what I'm going to say. First, it's very well known that you are a mere instrument of the Bulfinches; the bills they place in your hands under the pretense that you have bought them they know to be desperate ones and not easily realized."
"I will speak with her father," said Nevens, hopping about. "I cannot hear you. And I do not know you. It's her father who must pay, and it's he who must present himself."
"Second," said Weir composedly, "this bill names no definite time for payment; it states no rate of interest; it bears no indorser's name."
"Must I be robbed!" cried Nevens. "Am I to be dragooned and my money mishandled because it was loaned generously."
"It may have been generosity," said Weir, "but it was old Amos Bulfinch who loaned it, and, having known him, I'm tempted to believe it was something else."
"My money!" chattered Nevens, on tiptoe with excitement. "I'll have it. Is there no law to touch such cases? Is there no honesty in the world?"
But Weir motioned Anthony to open the door for Mademoiselle Lafargue; and they went out, leaving the little broker still hopping and shrilling his protests. On the sidewalk Weir gravely lifted his tall beaver hat.
"Pay no attention to any further communication from this man," he said to the girl. "The note, from Nathaniel Bulfinch's own word, is as I've stated. It need be paid only when your father feels perfectly able to pay it, and it bears no interest whatsoever."
He bowed to her and, with a nod to Anthony, went on his way toward Fourth Street. And as Anthony and the girl walked in the opposite direction there was a silence between them. Then the girl said:
"That was thoughtful and kind."
"Weir is both," said Anthony. "He is a reticent man, with little warmth in his look; but more than once he has shown himself to me as a friend worth having."
"I have been holding him wrongly in my mind," said the girl. "I had thought him my enemy."
"You once thought I was your enemy," said Anthony, and he smiled.
"I've been very foolish," she said. "I've misjudged you all. I thought you selfish, and I thought Captain Weir cold and cruel. Some time since," and she lifted her fine eyes to him with an honesty that thrilled him, "I saw I was wrong in my thoughts of you; and now I see that I have also been unjust to Captain Weir. For that man must be very kindly, indeed, who will go out of his way to serve one who he knows detests him."
And Weir's lips, as he went his way down the street, were twisted into a wry smile; and his eyes were also smiling the cunning, purposeful smile of the cat.
The autumn came in ruggedly—an autumn of storms, of flurries of snow, of bleak winds and driving rains. Under its breath the last trace of the plague vanished; the fugitives returned; normal life and trade were resumed; and in the hurry and bustle the terrors of the late summer were forgotten. The winter followed—a raging, boisterous, blowing winter, with deep snow in the wagon-ways, and ice in the river, the chimneys smoking, and the carts piled high with cord-wood.
At Rufus Stevens' Sons there had been no great briskness after the season of pestilence. There was a movement of trade through its warehouses and counting-rooms; but it was a dull movement, without rush or volume, with no ring of money in it, and no whetting of ideas. Anthony had a feeling that things were crumbling under him; the stout old walls were buckling. A ship of the firm's owning was held at Rio by the Portuguese because of the house's failure to pay certain moneys long due; another, lately repaired and cleaned at Barbados, was not permitted to sail until all debts were cleared; each ship that entered port from the East and South carried letters to the house from merchants and traders, shippers and agents, asking that settlements be made; and local merchants grew insistent that their accounts be dealt with forthwith. There was a steady crowding in, a pressing, a squeezing, and the wide-lunged old concern had no room to breathe; its slow methods, its calm reliance upon its own integrity, its ponderous insistence upon its own power had much the look of impotence. People who had inherited their belief in the house now observed it keenly; and what they saw made them shake their heads.
Charles came and went and planned for the future; of the succession of days that broke and waxed and waned he said nothing, except in that they served as things upon which to base calculations of what the shipRufus Stevenswas likely to be doing on the other side of the world.
"She must have made her port in three months," said Charles. "With that hull and spread of sail, and mastered as she is, she couldn't help it, unless the winds blew contrary every day. She'll surprise them in the East, I think. The Yankees have sent nothing like her, and the British are out-hulled and out-stowed, two to one."
He'd sit for hours, silent, still, a smile upon his face, his look many and many a league away in the track of the trades, across the warm, long waves of the Indian Ocean, past far lands and strange ships. There the very stars were new and had alien names; the horned moon swung downward like a yellow sword-blade; the sea and air were filled with grotesque life. What ports he came to! how they shrieked and strove and teemed and smelled! the stones were worn by generations of bare feet; the narrow ways roared with traffic, set toward the rivers; the deep warehouses were like rich mines; the merchants were grave of face and wore silken robes.
TheRufus Stevens, as he'd see her, was anchored in mid-stream, empty and standing high out of the water; she was a giant among ships, and she was waiting for her cargo. Her sails were furled neatly, as only skilful hands could furl them; her deck was as ordered as a parlor; the masts reared straight, like slim towers; after a three months' battering by the sea, her paint looked clean. And as she waited her merchandise was gathering! Charles would sit tighter in the corner of his sofa as he'd think of this; and he'd nurse his lame foot and smile; and his eyes would glow.
Busy brown hands were gathering that cargo; others were setting the items down in strange-seeming characters upon leaves of yellow paper; trains of asses were filing through mountain passes with packs of rich goods, with fabrics and shawls which would bear down the balance against red minted gold; camels plodded sullenly across hot, wind-swept plains, bearing rich carpets and soft rugs of rare design; flooding rivers bore craft moved by tides and poles and sweeps, or by the pressing wind in their worn brown sails. Silks were in these vessels, as delicate as though spider-spun, and as softly hued as a young morning.
And, then, there were the craftsmen of the cities; they were not without words in the matter. They offered things fashioned of gold and silver and ivory, richly and cunningly fashioned, of fine grace and beauty, the like of which was seldom seen out of the East. And, then, there were certain Jews, dark men, and said to have a strain of Moorish blood; they had gems in a strong room, guarded by men with hard, unbelieving eyes. But the mind of Charles barely touched these traffickers and their treasure; for when one thinks one talks, and it was not good to have it known that such items were in the ship's cargo; for there was no part of the world's waters where pirates were thicker than in the Indian Ocean.
"The kites," Charles would say. "The robbers! I wish I had mounted a few guns in her, and given her a few cases of muskets. These great, rich ships are as helpless as bustards."
His mind was seldom off the vessel. Item by item, the cargo would pile up before him: casks, bales, chests, rich silks, rare dyes, spices, fabrics of amazing texture, drugs, soft leather, gold vessels. There were days when he'd talk of nothing else; he would be drunk with the prospect of it. But Anthony frowned and doggedly worked with the affairs of the house; for they, at least, were things one could put one's hand on; a ship away at the other side of the world, as any man who knew the ways of ships would tell, was a chance, only. There were delays to be considered, and falling markets; there were gales and sinister currents and coasts dreaded of mariners; there were the springing of timbers, mutiny, and the Moorish corsairs; a drunken third mate had ruined the hopes of many a merchant; a helmsman whose mind was not on his work had smashed the ribs of hundreds of sound ships on easy headlands.
But the work of the counting-room was never-ending; the young man would no sooner, and sometimes with deadening labor, surmount a difficulty or avoid a peril than another of a greater growth would show itself at the door. He met them steadily and fought them as was his nature; but they came swiftly, one upon another, like the waves of the sea; they came so unexpectedly and with such crushing viciousness that he was gradually being borne down by them; the horizons of the house were clouded by mists and spray, and breakers seemed roaring all around it.
"It's no use," said Weir; "you cannot fight these things back; they lie too deep; they must take their course."
"And then?" asked Anthony, pale, harassed, but still stubborn.
Weir shrugged his shoulders.
"I have seen unexpected strokes," said he. "Fortune is peculiar." There was a cold smile in his eyes. "It may be your uncle's thoughts will come true."
Of a night, after the work of the day, Anthony would sometimes spend an hour with Christopher Dent; and he'd sit and smoke while the little apothecary watched him with troubled eyes.
"You are breaking down," said Christopher. "Your mind is killing your body. The vital elements have gone out of your blood. What does it serve to work as you are doing? When the house of Stevens falls, as seems likely now, I'm told, will there be any purpose in finding your body in the ruins?"
"I shall, at least, have striven to prevent the fall," said Anthony.
Christopher made no answer to this, for there was no answer for such a saying. It was a man's nature speaking, and a man's nature does not change, as the little apothecary well knew, except by fierce rendings and great drifts of emotion.
One day news came, by an English ship out of the East, and carrying a great freight of woven cotton goods: theRufus Stevenshad reached her port after a swift and uneventful voyage, and, when the letter was written, was discharging her cargo. Charles was vastly excited; he limped to and fro and his face shone.
"She sails like a hawk, and is as safe as a city," said he. "She'll make a high mark, as I've told you; she'll outrun and out-stow them all."
Three weeks later, more news; this time from the ship's supercargo; Winslow, the master, was sick of an injury and was being taken care of. The ship was now discharged and ready for the merchandise she was to bring back. Charles's face clouded when he read of his captain's disability; but it cleared up at once.
"Winslow is a hale man," said he, "and he'll throw off a hurt quickly enough. Never fear for Winslow."
There was a long wait—well into February, when the next word came. Winslow was completely disabled; the ship had taken her cargo aboard and waited at anchor in the river; but his condition showed no sign of a turn. Also, and the supercargo was gravely concerned about this, those who were accustomed to issue insurances at Calcutta had refused to do so in the case of theRufus Stevens. Pressed for a reason, they were vague; there had been strange mishaps; the house of Stevens had been oddly unfortunate. Others had been appealed to; but the result was the same.
At this spot in the letter, Charles suddenly lost control of himself; with the veins of his neck swollen and purple, he began swearing futilely and bitterly. Weir finished reading the message. Because there was not like to be storms, because the ship was sound and new, because the American States were at peace with the world, it had been agreed, despite the failure of the insurance, that theRufus Stevenssail for home with her store of goods. The vessel had waited three weeks for Winslow; but he was still in the hospital, and so another master was procured and they were making ready to put to sea.
Charles stopped cursing and listened; and Anthony, his eyes narrowing, asked:
"What is the new master's name?"
"He is Captain Gorman," read Weir, "out of New York, and, by good fortune, in Calcutta without employment."
"A good man," said Charles. "A very good man. Not the sort I would choose if there were many to select from; but an excellent man for all that." He turned to Anthony. "Eh?"
But Anthony's brows were heavy, and his eyes were burning under them.
"I've only heard of Captain Gorman once," said he, his mind going back to the ravings of old Bulfinch that night at Bush Hill; "and my impression then was not good."
"There is evil to be said of every man who has sailed the seas," said Charles. "Gorman has a heavy hand; crews are not apt to like him, and he cares more for the brandy bottle than is good for either him or his employers. But he is a good sailor, an excellent navigator, and brings his ships home, and quickly. These are the qualities, after all, that make the shipmaster. Gorman will do very well; I'm glad of him in the emergency."
Anthony looked at his uncle; it was in his mind to tell him what old Bulfinch had said. But he frowned, listened, and held his tongue; for what purpose would the telling serve? The vessel was thousands of miles away, and her prow would be turned homeward months before any word could reach Calcutta. Also, he knew Charles's bounding, sanguine spirit would at once cry the thing down. What? give credit to the maunderings of an old wretch like Bulfinch? If one had given ear, and he could fancy Charles saying this, to the ravings of every one stricken with the plague, God knows what would have become of matters! For they had been made mad by it; and the words of people in that condition should not be listened to, much less remembered! So Anthony held his peace—and waited.
And now the ship was on the sea; the wonderous freight she carried was blowing nearer and nearer each day. The mind of Charles mounted into thin air; his spirits sang; his sayings were like things printed in old books. He laughed at the dull routine of the counting-room, and the bent shoulders and moody brows he saw there; and he put a good-humored curse on their doings and bade Anthony take his mind from worrying.
"But," said the young man, "the claims made against us must be understood and met. They are real; they are heaping up; I can only hope they'll not fall in on us."
"They are nothing. When theRufus Stevenscomes into the river we'll be able to pay every claim made upon us, three times over."
"But," said Anthony, "suppose she does not come?"
Charles laughed at this.
"Take your mind from provoking things," he insisted. "The world is full of such, but they were never made to think about. To-day is shabby and has nothing to give you; keep your thoughts on to-morrow."
But the gaunt present had its spell on Anthony; and he could not take his mind from its grim approach. Later he spoke bitterly to Captain Weir.
"There is enough come to us already to give us our deaths, once the weight of it falls together; and whatisto come, in his expectations, rests upon no better foundation than a tale told to children. But, nevertheless, the stroke of fortune you spoke of some time since seems the only thing that promises. If the house is to go on at all,—and I see the thing plainer each day,—my uncle's dream must come true."
"His visionings of the past had a way of doing so," said Weir. "And, who knows? fortune may repeat itself. This I know: let the ship once come to port, and there will be enough money to enrich a prince."
Two days later the sky, in the morning, was leaden; a bitter wind blew out of the northeast; the river was sealed, but there was a broad channel through the bay from New Castle to the sea, and ships attempting to beat out, so the news came up to the city, were driven back. For a week the wind continued, and the sky lowered like a dismal casque upon the world. The news of what was happening trickled in slowly, from down the river, from across the Jerseys, from New York. The gale was the heaviest known in years; the hardiest mariners, the stoutest ships had ridden in the bays, content to tug at their anchors and with no thought to face it. It had torn and yelled along the coast; the ocean had risen until spent waves were sweeping between the huts in some of the fishing hamlets.
Charles and Anthony had gone out early of an afternoon to get a bite at the City Tavern, and had paused to read a bulletin posted at the door; as they were turning from it they met old Martin Dacy, mate of many a deep-water ship and master of more than one coastwise brig.
"Eh?" said old Dacy. "Wild winds! And no fresh news? Leave it alone, Mr. Stevens; leave it alone. The news'll come fast enough. What the winds have done inside the capes and along the coast is all you've heard of yet. You'll hear more than that as the days go on; and when the thing's blown itself out you'll hear the worst. This has been none of your gusty blows, none of your mad things that don't know their own minds. There's been a devil behind this one, a bitter, wicked devil, and he's pressed steadily for days and days in the one direction, and he's piled seas before him so that out there it must look as though the whole world were a-churning. The news'll come later; and that merchant is lucky, sir, who has no ships at sea; and that sailor is lucky that has a fire to sit at, ashore, and a chimney for the wind to roar in."
Charles and Anthony went into the tavern.
"Old seamen are fond of mumbling such prophecies," smiled Charles, as they sat down at a table in the public room. "As they grow weaker themselves, the danger and power of the ocean magnifies in their minds. What would have been the day's work in their youth or their prime comes to be looked upon as vast peril in their old age. God help them," said Charles, "it may be a sort of compensation; they, like enough, think themselves fortunate in having grown well away from such dangerous days."
But, though there was a smile in Charles's eyes as he said this, Anthony saw a look of strained wistfulness; and, for all the laugh, there was something fixed and frightened in his face.
"What are ships for," said Charles, "if it is not to weather storms? With honest planks and plenty of deep water, a good sailor can outlive the roughest wind that ever came out of the north. And theRufus Stevensis an honest ship, I'll take oath to that; and what deeper water do you want, than the Atlantic? And, again, while a storm may blow here or there, there may be calm weather enough in another place. I doubt if our ship has come far enough to feel even the edge of this."
With each day while the storm lasted Charles grew more and more buoyant in his talk. Before it broke, his calculations had been how very near theRufus Stevensmust be to port, how quickly she must have taken in her merchandise, how she had run out and set herself before the trades, and how she had blown with them across the leagues of water. But now he conjured up all sorts of things that must have held her back; she could not, he found, have left Calcutta for days after the time his first figures had given him; and then at this season of the year the trade-winds were not as brisk as might be; then, too, Gorman was no fellow for pushing matters. He had that reputation. He was one of the sort who was willing to take things fair and easy. And, this being so, taking all likely things together, the vessel must still be far away; she must be in a region of the seas where the weather was very calm, indeed.
But when the storm ceased, when the sun shone out brightly and the wind fell away to only a joyous romping, Charles was still. He went about quietly; his face was white; and in his eyes was the look one sees in the eyes of a boy who is afraid. And the time for news was at hand, news of deep water, and barren stretches of coast; ships came creeping in, broken in hull and rigging, with crews whose eyes stared and whose minds were stunned. Fearful tales were told of the deadly wind and the hill-like seas; vessels had gone down in the whirl of waters; the coast was piled with oaken bones; a thousand lives could be reckoned as lost even then; millions of money was scattered and sunk.
Then one of Girard's ships worked her way into the river; only one of her masts was standing; half her company had been swept away. Her master was a Chester man of the name of Frisbee, a plain sailor who said little but whose sparse sentences meant much. In Lat. 35° 30' N., Lon. 63° 10' W., before the storm was at its worst they had sighted a ship with her masts gone, pitching before the gale. He had stood by to see if he could give aid; and once venturing close to her he saw the name upon her bow. There was no mistake. She was theRufus Stevens. Her decks were deserted; her crew had abandoned her during a lull, or had been washed away. Captain Frisbee had held his ship in position to help any who might still be on board, if the chance came, but was finally forced by the growing strength of the wind to give up the effort and look to himself.
Charles Stevens was told this by Frisbee himself, in the London Coffee-House. Anthony and Weir stood by—Anthony close to his uncle's elbow, for he feared the result. But Charles took it quietly.
"How unfriendly the sea can be," he said. "It takes men's lives, and it takes their goods. Merchants and shipmen have suffered much from it."
Frisbee stared, for the mild face was not that of a man who had lost a fortune; and Charles, his odd, impersonal look going about the public room, finally looked at Anthony, and he smiled as though gratified and surprised.
"Ah, you're there, are you, Anthony?" said he. "I knew you would be." He put his arm across his nephew's shoulders. "You are a fine fellow." Anthony, a sudden shock at his heart, studied him with fearful eyes. "You see it, do you, Anthony?" said Charles, forlornly. "I knew you would at last. I should have told you when it first came. But I knew it would hurt you, and so I did not. It's a strange thing, is it not?" and he spoke very quietly, seemingly unaware of the ring of wondering faces about him. "It's a very strange thing. I've always thought it would be the dark I'd be afraid of. But it's the light."
"Well," said Frisbee, startled. "A good day to you." And off he went; but Charles did not see him go.
"Yes, it's the light," said he, nodding his head; "the long nights when I'd sit by the fire alone taught me that. I knew the darkness would come in the end, and I dreaded it. But I do not fear it now; one can sit undisturbed in the darkness; one can be quiet and peaceful. It's the light that brings unrest; it's the light that's always seeking to force its way through—a pale, bitter thing, and it always brings despair."
"Come home," said Anthony; and to Weir he added, "See if Dr. King can be found; and, if so, fetch him at once."
Ships had gone down a-plenty, and merchants had lost their goods, and drowned sailormen were numbered in hundreds. New tidings came in with each up-river sloop, and with each coach that crossed Jersey. But there was no news that traveled so fast as that of the sinking of theRufus Stevens; for with her had gone down the house of that name, and there had perished the fine mind of its master.
The exchanges roared with the intelligence; merchants wagged their heads and said they were sorry; agents said there had never been such a house and never would again; brokers regretfully put the concern out of their reckoning; bankers looked closely to their accounts and their securities.
"A new ship," said a portly trader, from his favorite vantage-place behind a measure of ale. "A new ship, and gone down. It's a pity; it's a great pity. I looked to see that vessel do rare things in the trade."
"And why?" asked a blunt-nosed man, who was drinking Cuban rum with hot water and brown sugar. "Because she was built like a whale's belly, and had masts that raked the sky? For me," and he stirred his drink with much positiveness, "I like a ship with reasonable stowage, and a spread of sail that's within the activities of human men. Give more than that and you court peril; your great vessels will always be floating coffins; they will be beyond management in any sort of stiff weather."
"Well," said the trader, "she's gone down, whatever the reason for it; and I'm told a fine cargo has gone with her."
"Stevens set much store by that cargo," said Mr. Stroude, who was one of the group. "He counted upon it to set matters aright with his creditors."
The snub-nosed man tossed off an equal half of his rum and hot water and regarded the remainder with appreciative eyes.
"Stevens was always the sort to build upon things to come. He never gave his mind to the day at hand," said he. "For me, I like a man that stands with his feet on the ground and with his eyes on things within common view. I can understand a merchant like that. And with one I can't understand," and the snub-nosed man shook his head, "I'll have no dealings whatever."
"Ah, well," said Mr. Stroude sadly, "you'll have no need to worry about Charles Stevens hereafter, if you've ever done so before."
"What's the news of him now?" asked the portly trader. "What do the doctors say?"
Mr. Stroude inhaled the fumes of his apple-toddy; then he tasted it; finding it to his satisfaction, he set it down.
"King is his physician," he said. "A very able, learned, and ready man. They tell me he has made a study of men's brains and what they are like to do in times when they are much bothered. I've heard it said by those who should know that he had expected what's come about, that he'd been awaiting it these months past. Ah!" shaking his head in vast admiration, "science is a wonderful thing. The rest of us could go our ways days without end and never expect the half of that."
The snub-nosed man seemed not convinced.
"I've heard men say years ago that they thought Charles Stevens mad," he said. "And, for my part, I never gain-said them; for his ways of looking at things, or doing them, were not customary."
The portly trader cleared his throat, and the sound was plainly one of dissent.
"You may say what you like," spoke he, "but you'll never get public sanction for clapping a man into a madhouse because he's different from his neighbors. For," and he shook a thick forefinger, "if the world were filled with only people who thought in the customary way, and went their ways as others do, how should we go forward, I'd like to know?"
"I have heard it reasoned that way before," said the snub-nosed man stubbornly. "Nevertheless, I am for ways that I understand. There's the nephew, now; he's the kind of man for my liking, a straight-forward, open-dealing young chap. A body can make something of him."
"Well," said the trader, "I'll say nothing against him, for I've seen no doings of his that I'd protest. An upstanding, candid dealer, and I'm sorry things have gone as they have, if only for his sake."
"Have you heard the news of him?" asked Stroude, who had been sipping his apple-toddy. He shook his head forebodingly. "He's taken to his bed."
"No," said the trader.
"He'd seen what was coming to the firm before the ship was lost, and worked day and night to waste the blow," said Mr. Stroude. "No one, so I'm told, will know how hard he worked."
"I wouldn't have thought a little extra labor would do hurt to a tough-built one like him," said the snub-nosed man.
"Nor I," agreed Stroude. "But 'tis the strain on the feelings and the nerves that does it. Thews are not much help against such things. Also, he had a hurt, a year ago, a knock on the head; and then he didn't spare himself during the plague. These things come home to us when we are not expecting them."
The trader finished his ale.
"There never was a time," said he, "when he'd be of more service if he were up and about. The rats from Harmony Court and other holes and corners are gathered to loot what's left of the house; and, given their ways, they'll not leave a pick on its bones."
Anthony would have stood upon his feet if this dark thing had not come to Charles; he would have stood toughly on his feet despite everything else and would have dourly demanded the right of every man who sought to put hand on what remained of the business. But this unlooked-for turn of matters had sapped his reserve; he tottered; there was no ground to fight upon. And Dr. King sternly told him to go to bed and to stay there.
Captain Weir, calm, set of face, stood beside the young man, in his lodgings in Sassafras Street and told him of some of the things that were going forward.
"The Bulfinch bills fall due directly," he said, "and no doubt our misfortunes will double the clamoring from the others."
"You will do what can be done, I know," said Anthony gratefully, as Weir was leaving. "For the honor of the house, for its credit, and for its survival, do your utmost."
"You may depend upon me," said Weir. "You may depend upon me in every way. The temper of the creditors is yet to be seen; much may be possible, or little. But I will do all that may be done, so compose yourself to that."
Mr. Sparhawk visited Anthony later in the same day to ask how he did. The perky little man talked pleasantly and rightly; the good spring weather was all out on them; it would be a time of freshening and renewing.
"You will mend," said he, to Anthony, "and begin to flourish with it."
Mr. Sparhawk was full of hope and cheer; but when the young man spoke of the affairs of Rufus Stevens' Sons he said as little as possible in answer.
"Take your mind from it," he advised. "What you could do you have done. Nothing more is possible. Banish it straight, and set yourself to getting well. The affairs of the house will be seen to."
"Of course," said Anthony. "Weir is still able. He will look to matters."
Mr. Sparhawk cocked his head sidewise and regarded Anthony with a mild look, curiously mixed with unbelief.
"Yes, of course," said he. "Weir. An excellent man of business; he has a keen mind and an adaptable way."
Mr. Sparhawk went to Dr. King's, but the physician was not in; and then he dropped in at Christopher Dent's and found the little apothecary very pleased to see him, indeed. Was Anthony progressing? Yes! Well, that was excellent news, indeed. But, of course, he would be. He needed rest, that was all,—a rest of both body and mind,—and then he'd be in wonderful health. And wasn't it quite amazing the way things turned out? Matters might not be so bad, after all, with Rufus Stevens' Sons. There was a chance for the house to recover. A good chance. He had been present during a conversation between Monsieur and Mademoiselle Lafargue. There were papers, it seems,—a deal of papers,—with which much might be done. And mademoiselle was going to take them to Captain Weir that very day.
"To Captain Weir!" said Mr. Sparhawk, and he compressed his lips and raised his brows.
"Ah!" said Christopher, "you knew, then, that she had not regarded the captain favorably?" He smiled and rubbed his bald crown. "But she has safely recovered from that state of mind. Oh, yes, some time since. Indeed, there's more than one of late concerning whom she's altered her mind. It must be she was confused at first; she could not have looked at things clearly. When we are in a strange place and feel friendless, we are apt to be like that. But things are better with her now," with great satisfaction. "And she has a deal more confidence."
Of course that would be so! Time and usage, said Mr. Sparhawk, work many things out for us. The perky little man exchanged nods with Christopher over this, and smiled and took snuff. But that he was astonished he carefully put by; gently, then, he shaped the talk and delicately he pressed his questions. No, to be sure, she had not favored the captain. Quite the reverse, indeed. She had—could one go so far?—detested him. Christopher was of the opinion that it was not going too far. For some reason shehaddetested him; more than that, she had feared him. He had come to know that from her father, poor man, who'd occasionally step in for a chat of an afternoon.
"In coming across the sea, her father must have had an unrequited journey," said Mr. Sparhawk; "there have been little returns, I should say, in profits or ease." He shook his head sadly; and then he said: "It is fortunate that he had you for an occasional gossip. He came in often, I have no doubt?"
Oh, yes; quite often. And it seemed to ease his mind. He regarded Christopher, so it seemed, as a scholar and a scientist, which pleased the herbalist much; and they discussed many problems which had long vexed the world. Christopher was on the point of enumerating these questions; but Mr. Sparhawk gently diverted him to a more immediate thing. It was odd how the daughter had so suddenly reversed her opinion of Captain Weir. Of course there were no reasons for it, and Mr. Sparhawk smiled as he said this. When women changed their minds, there seldom were.
Mademoiselle was not like that! Christopher was up at once in her defense. No, no! She always had reasons, and good ones, too. You could be assured of that. And it happened that he knew of what had changed her toward Captain Weir. Her father had spoken of it. And then the little apothecary told the tale of the visit to Nevens, the money-broker, as it had filtered through Monsieur Lafargue's mind to his own. Mr. Sparhawk listened appreciatively.
"Very good," said he. "Very good. That was like Captain Weir; it's quite like him. Each time I hear one of these little things told of him I am more convinced than ever that he is a clever man. An able man."
"And kind-hearted," said Christopher.
"Oh, no doubt," said Mr. Sparhawk; "there's no doubt of that in the world."
When Mr. Sparhawk left the apothecary shop he did not go home directly. First he paused at the side door, knocked circumspectly, and then inquired of the maid if mademoiselle was at home; she was, so it chanced, and he went up and in a few minutes was engaged in talk with her.
"I trust," said he, "that your father is quite well."
"Not altogether so," replied Mademoiselle Lafargue. "There have been so many disquieting things of late; he is cast down, and so his health suffers."
Mr. Sparhawk clicked his tongue pityingly. It was too bad, indeed. So many were incapacitated just then. Let the mind become fatigued by over-anxiety and harm was sure to result. Of course the Rufus Stevens' Sons affair must have added a deal to her father's disquiet. A most regrettable state of affairs, it was, too; to have a fine commercial house in such a state was deplorable.
"But," said mademoiselle, "all hope for it is not lost."
No, he felt that, too. He agreed with her; all hope was not lost. The house was in a bad way, to be sure, but actual practice showed it was most difficult to destroy a concern built up as solidly as this one had been.
"Only the most barbarous mercantile methods will do it," said Mr. Sparhawk; "for, you see, the place it has made for itself is so well settled and so customary that all usual processes favor it. Even now, confused as this house is," said Mr. Sparhawk, nodding with much vehemence, "there is fixed in my mind a sense of its potential strength. With considerate usage it will lift its head; it will resume and flourish."
The fine eyes of Mademoiselle Lafargue glowed. She went to a cabinet and, opening a drawer, took out some papers.
"But," said Mr. Sparhawk, "what chance is there for decent usage? Consider the cormorants gathered to stuff themselves; how can their greed be controlled?"
"I had thought of a way," said the girl. She sat down on the sofa beside Mr. Sparhawk, the papers in her hand. The perky little manner of that gentleman became much magnified; he put his finger-tips together, cocked his head sidewise, and pursed up his mouth. "My father," she said, "is a creditor of Rufus Stevens' Sons,—in a large way, I'm afraid,—representing his own name and those of other people in Brest. There are also certain bankers and citizens of that city who also possess credits."
"Am I to understand," asked Mr. Sparhawk carefully, "that these are the instruments of their claims?" and he nodded toward the documents.
"Yes," she said, and gave the papers into his hand. He examined each of them minutely, and when he had finished there was a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. But he merely said:
"Well?"
"Is it not a commercial usage in this country, when one has credits with a firm that has fallen into disorder, to strive to bring regularity into its affairs?"
Mr. Sparhawk nodded.
"If one hopes to save any fair share of one's due, yes," said he. "It is the method of honest and sensible men. But, in this matter, I'm sorry to say, you have to deal with many who are neither; there are some who always hope to come by greater gain if permitted to pillage."
"But not all are of that kind," said the girl.
"No," Mr. Sparhawk agreed to this, but cautiously. "Not all."
"Some honest men, also, hold claims against the house," she said; "could not these," and she pointed to the papers, "be joined with them? And would not such a combining be able to hold much ground against dishonesty? Could it not," and her eyes flashed, "make the looting of this old house such a thing of open shame that even the hardiest of them would not dare attempt it?"
Mr. Sparhawk was regarding her steadfastly.
"How," he asked, "would you lay your plans to procure such a result?"
"I had thought," said she, "to put the matter in the hands of Captain Weir."
"An excellent man," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Respected by all in the port; a person of known principle, proven integrity, and marked ability."
"I am glad you agree with me," she said, and there was relief in her face. "I have had no one with whom to consult but my father."
"You could not have selected a better man than Weir," said Mr. Sparhawk. "A fine choice, indeed." The little gentleman's finger-tips were most carefully joined, his silk-stockinged legs were crossed, and he dandled one foot before him. "For most matters, that is. But, for the one you have in mind, I'm afraid he would not do at all."
Her eyes opened wide; distress came plainly into them.
"A little reflection along the line of commercial usage will make my meaning plain to you," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Weir has been with Rufus Stevens' Sons for many years; he is deeply imbedded in the firm's affairs; and that is against him here. For those who have claims upon the firm should be approached by one who is a creditor himself. Or, failing that," said Mr. Sparhawk, "by one who is quite disinterested."
"What, then, shall I do?" said Mademoiselle Lafargue. "To whom shall I apply?"
"Do not distress yourself," said Mr. Sparhawk. "There is no need to do so. Your plan," and he nodded encouragingly, "is a very serviceable one. Indeed, to speak the truth, some such thing came to my own thoughts in the last few days. But, I had no claim upon the house, and so it was not for me to come forward. With these, however," and he rustled the papers which she had given him, "any person with the proper authority could make a beginning which might lead to a creditable ending."
She looked at him, and there was a new hope in her face.
"I have heard it said," and her voice had a slight quaver in it, "that you have a feeling of friendliness toward Mr. Anthony Stevens."
Mr. Sparhawk bent forward a little.
"There is no young man in the city," said he, "indeed, there is no man of any age anywhere, for whom I have a larger respect, or whom I would strive more to please."
"I, too, have a—a great respect for him," said the French girl. "It is because of that, and because I once did him an injustice in my thoughts, that I want so to help him now. He is ill; he is unable to face the things hewouldface so well; are you strong enough in your friendship for him to take these papers and make all the good use you can of them?"
"Mademoiselle," and the little gentleman regarded her, his head to one side, and a thing like victory in his eye, "my friendship is strong enough for that, and for more than that."
He talked with her earnestly for some time; then, at his bidding, she made herself ready for the street. He took his hat when she returned, and they went out together, he with the papers buttoned up in his pocket and stepping briskly along at her side.
Christopher Dent spoke to Anthony at his lodgings in Sassafras Street a few days later; the young man was hollow-faced and his eyes were hot and tired. But he listened to the little apothecary gratefully.
"So," said Christopher, "from what I hear, away he went with her, and with the papers in his pocket."
"Where did he take her?" asked Anthony.
"Where but Crousillat's? There they had a long conversation with the old gentleman himself; and then they went to Girard's."
Anthony stirred on his bed.
"With what result?" he asked.
"Both the Frenchmen listened carefully. Was not mademoiselle a countrywoman of theirs? Ah, but this Sparhawk is a crafty little whip. He knows what to do. And after he had their favor,—and the favor of two such as they is of a deal of value when one means to approach others,—he went to Wilcock's, at the India Stores, and afterwards to some others. In the space of one day's going about he had the matter well in hand; he had spoken to banks and legal people, and a conference was had with such creditors as were within call. Matters were arranged, it seems, as easily as you'd turn your hand; everything was made comfortable and snug, and with nothing unpleasant in the whole of it."
"Good news, Christopher," said Anthony. "Fine news, indeed."
"I felt you'd think so, though I was in a fright at fetching it," said Christopher. He sat regarding Anthony for a space and then said: "There have been many hulks broken up in Harmony Court, but the house of Stevens is not to be one of them—at least, not yet. For Mr. Sparhawk, together with Mr. Crousillat—a most excellent pair for such a task,—have been agreed upon to receive what is left of the business and to conduct it until such times as matters begin to clear up."
"Good news again," said Anthony. "I feel as though I had a heart in my body once again, and there's a stir in my blood. And who but you, Christopher, would have thought to bring me such good word?"
But the apothecary shook his head.
"The truth is that is was not I who thought of it," said he. "It was mademoiselle."
"Ah!" said Anthony.
"'There he lies, ill,' she said. 'There he lies in his bed with never a one to carry a word to him of what's being done.' With that," said Christopher, "I spoke of the doctor's directions, and how you must be kept from care. But she would not hear to it. 'News like this,' she says, 'will do good; certain worries have leagued to trouble his mind; and this will put an end to them. He'll get ease by it.'"
"She is kind," said Anthony. "Please carry her my thanks. She is very kind."
"Did I not say you'd hold her in a deal of esteem when you came to know her better?" said Christopher, gratified. "She has a fine spirit and is well instructed; and things like those make excellent women. The matter that rose up between you had no real place in either of your minds; I always felt that. And, now that you see each other in a proper light, I'm much pleased."
The news brought by Christopher Dent so heartened Anthony that in less than a week he was out of his bed; and in a day or two more he was taking slow-paced walks in the street, trying his strength and steadiness. On one of these he stopped at Dr. King's; and in the hall he met Mademoiselle Lafargue, just on the point of leaving. She held out her hand to him and smiled; and, as he took the hand and held it closely, she said:
"It is so good to see you out once more. From what I'd been told, I had not expected it so soon."
"God knows how long I'd have been upon my back, grieving for strength," said Anthony. "But your good offices saved me a deal of it."
"Your thanks should go to Mr. Sparhawk more than to me," said the girl. "Without his shrewd wit and ready realization, I'm afraid little would have been done."
They talked for a space; their voices were level, their manners still; but there was a something about each of them which glowed like an aura; the edges of these sought to meet and lap but the dregs of a bitter wind still blew between them, and it was not yet to be. Then Dr. King appeared and took Anthony away into his study.
"There is a space yet to bridge before his health is fully recovered," said Mrs. King to mademoiselle. "He is not yet strong."
"His eyes are tired," said mademoiselle. "His spirit looks through them and tells of the sufferings of the past months."
"The doctor is concerned about him," said Mrs. King, as the girl was going. "He recommends a simple, natural life, in a place where he can rebuild his body while his mind rests. He is of an outdoor breed, and you cannot keep such housed up when their vitality is lowered without grave risk."
Mademoiselle carried this away with her, and that night, as Christopher Dent and Tom Horn sat in the room back of the shop, the little apothecary grinding some healing agent into a proper fineness, and Tom sitting silent, his eyes fixed upon the wall before him, the girl came in. At once Christopher brought forward a chair, dusted it carefully, and offered it to her. She sat down and looked at them both.
"You are always so comfortable here, and so contented," she said. "You have your work and your books and your thoughts. I can envy one who has such quiet interests."
The little apothecary looked gratified and rubbed his bald crown.
"But," he said, "your own affairs will quiet down before long. Oh, yes, you may be sure of that. You have gone through a deal; but a calm comes finally, and then we are less stirred by those affairs of which others have control. We grow content within ourselves; and that, Mademoiselle, is as it should be."
He turned once more to the mortar and began grinding at the substance in it, nodding in the wise way he had; and she sat smiling at a fancy that came into her mind, that he was really an ancient nature sprite who had gathered great stores of peace in the woodlands and fields, along with the barks and roots and flowers of his trade. And then the thought of woodlands and fields caused her mind to go to Anthony and to what Mrs. King had said earlier in the day. So she repeated the saying to Christopher, and he listened with concern.
"The doctor spoke of that, here, only a few days ago, when I urged certain curative things as being desirable in our young friend's case. 'There is no remedy like air and quiet and work with one's hands,' he said. And who knows but he spoke truth?"
"It may be," she said, "that in your going about in unfrequented places in search of simples you have come upon a place with the qualities Dr. King has in mind."
Christopher ceased bruising the bark and put the pestle carefully down.
"Dr. King spoke of the sea," said he. "He believes greatly in the winds that blow from it, and the salts and other substances that are in it. But the spot I have in mind on the coast of the Jerseys is lonely and desolate."
Tom Horn stirred.
"It is a lonely place that is needed," said he; "a place of sun and open spaces, where a man can live close to the eternal facts."
The girl looked at him with sudden attention.
"Why," she said, "that sounds like the truth."
"There is one strip of coast that I know well," said the apothecary; "but it is too wild and too far from help for a man as lowered in health as Anthony Stevens."
"He needs no help," said Tom Horn. "His body is tough and strong. It's his spirit that's been trampled down; and there is healing for that in the stillness of the sea and the vast sky. I have felt the touch of these things, and I know. Each is a potent good, and has been to the advantage of many a man."
"I'll not gainsay you," said Christopher hopefully. "And there is a hut," to the girl, "tight against the weather when I slept there last; this would serve him if he'd care to venture to those parts, which I doubt."
Tom Horn looked at Christopher, his pale, luminous face wistful and oddly intent. But he spoke to mademoiselle.
"He comes here sometimes of a night," said he, "to smoke and to talk for an hour before bed. It might be well," to the apothecary, "if you spoke to him of this, should he chance in to-night."
Anthony did chance in; but it was after mademoiselle had gone; and while he kindled the tobacco in his long-stemmed clay, and made himself comfortable, the little apothecary pounded and ground away at the bark in the mortar and took on a look of enormous guile.
"Do you mark how thick the city's air is, in spite of the bright days?" he asked.
Anthony looked surprised.
"Why," said he, "I've thought it quick and pleasant enough."
But Christopher shook his head forebodingly.
"It will be many a long day before the lees of the plague are driven entirely away," he said. "It clings to those things and places it has touched for a long time after. There is no health here," and he shook his head again; "it's a sickly place just now. And, in your weakened state, you'd do well if you'd leave it for a space."
"Sea air is driven clean," said Tom Horn. "Sea air would enrich you."
"I've thought of that once or twice," said Anthony. "A short voyage might go well with me."
"To be sure," said Christopher readily. "Of course. Why hadn't that occurred to me? A steady ship might be best after all. Let us say, a coastwise brig, with a sober master, and carrying cargo that's in no haste."
"A ship is no place for you," said Tom Horn to Anthony. "You need a quiet mind; and aboard ship there will be bellowing mates, and foremast hands who swear sour oaths. And at sea you'd be beyond call if needed in any matter of business."
"Why, yes," said Christopher. "That is true. Perhaps the hut I spoke of on the shore is best for you, after all." And then, as the young man looked at him inquiringly, he told of what had passed between mademoiselle and Tom Horn and himself. And Anthony listened with favor.
"There you'd be quite alone," said Tom Horn. "It cleanses the soul to be alone after a time of great stress; and things resolve themselves as they would not otherwise."
Anthony asked many questions of Christopher, and the answers seemed greatly to his liking. There were fish to snare and wild fowl to shoot; the hut was snug and faced the sea; the wind swept the beach and the dunes and the bay. The young man drew the air into his lungs in anticipation.
"In such a place," said he, "a man might grow as well as he had a mind to."
"You'll go, then," said the little apothecary, pleased.
"I will," said Anthony. "It's a good thought, and I thank you for it."
Tom Horn said nothing but sat and watched Anthony in the same odd way he had formerly done when the young man first came to Rufus Stevens' Sons. And when, at last, Anthony arose to go Tom went with him.
"I'll take you a step or two on your way," he said.
They paced along, side by side; Anthony was silent; now and again Tom Horn would look at him; more than once the odd clerk seemed about to speak, but paused on the verge of it. At last he said, his head nodding:
"There is a shoal there, and the white ghosts move through the night when the winds blow."
"Eh?" Anthony looked at him.
"They reach miles out to sea, and shipmen avoid them as they would death," said Tom Horn.
"Oh!" said Anthony, understanding, "you mean at the place Christopher spoke of? Yes, I've heard the coast in that region is counted dangerous."
They fell silent and walked on; as they passed under the dim street-lamps, Tom Horn would again look at Anthony with some of the old, strange speculation in his eyes. Once, when the young man caught his glance, he said:
"You are not strong; your life's circle is too narrow. But," and he nodded assuringly, "it will grow wider; and then we shall see."
Anthony made his preparations quietly; none knew he was leaving the city except those already acquainted with his purpose. He would have told Captain Weir, but when he asked for him at the counting-house Tom Horn shook his head.
"He has been gone these four days," said the clerk. "And he left no word."
"Ah, well, it's no matter." Anthony stood, cutting at his boot-leg with a riding-whip, and gazing about the silent counting-room. He thought of what this house once had been, and of what it now had come to; he thought of Charles as he had seen him that morning, smiling, childlike, engaged in meaningless pastimes. His breath grew tight in his chest, and he turned, about to go.
"The wagon, I suppose," said Tom Horn, "is already beyond the river, laden with your goods?"
"Yes," said Anthony, "and will start across the Jerseys as soon as I reach it. Good-by."
"Good-by," said Tom Horn. He reached into his high desk and produced a long pistol, carefully oiled and polished. "Take this and keep it by you," said he. "The place you are going to is an unfrequented one; and in such places unexpected things are sometimes met."
Anthony took the weapon and stood regarding the man for a moment.
"Thank you," said he. And again, "Good-by."
He went out, mounted his waiting horse, and rode away toward the ferry at the foot of High Street; and Tom Horn stood in the counting-house door, gazing after him until he had disappeared.
To one who did not know Tom Horn very well, his manner and his occupations, after Anthony left the city, did not change. He still arose and was abroad while the dawn was touching the river and took his breakfast standing at the bar of the Boatswain-and-Call. Then through Water Street, freshly awakened; with a great copper key he'd open the counting-room door at Rufus Stevens' Sons; it was dusty and silent, for but a trickle of trade ran through it now; but Tom would gravely take off his coat and hang it away; then he'd put on a worn jacket, mount his high stool, and the day had begun.
But what was this scrawling of figures on bits of paper? What was this endless computing and calculating and balancing of facts? As the day wore on he would be surrounded by these fragments, each bearing a mysterious statement; and his mind seemed laboring with some dimly seen thing. He descended into vast pits of speculation and emerged with fresh figures to be worked into new results. But that was not all; in the midst of these calculations he'd be seized with fits of bodily activity; he'd get down from his stool, put on his coat and his tall, shabby hat, and hurry out, locking the door behind him. And these errands always had to do with wind and weather; ships and shipmen also took their places in his interests, as did tides and changes of the moon, and wrecks and loss, and bitter news. Steeped in these he'd hurry back to the silent counting-room; then more figures, more descents into the pit, more reveries, more striving toward the thing sensed so clearly but so dimly seen.
Of a night, after he had taken his supper and read the "Gazette" at the tavern, he'd make his way to Christopher Dent's; the two would sit with the window open and the evening air stirring in the room, and they'd talk.
"There is no thing so natural as a circle," said Tom Horn. "The world is shaped like one; it moves in one. Every finished movement is a circle. The tides of the sea move in a vast one."
"To the eye, at least, the sun and moon are round," agreed Christopher. "Though the stars, indeed, seem to depart from the rule, and have points."
"There are as many tides in the sea," said Tom Horn, "as there are winds. And the winds are countless." He drew his chair nearer the little apothecary, and his voice lowered. "There are waters," said he, with the strange, luminous look in his face, "that crawl through the sea like great serpents; they bend themselves across the world, and ring in hopeless things."
"I have beard tales of such," said Christopher, "but I have not been able to credit them. For how can one body of water move through another and keep its integrity?"
"They are like great serpents," maintained Tom Horn, "miles broad, and with the movements of the earth and moon behind them. Storms blow across these currents, but a storm's authority is only for a moment, and the current goes on; meeting others like it, they join, and so the sea is encircled. And in the center of this circle," said Tom Horn, "is a dead spot, like an ulcer, where all helpless things drift and stay—broken ships and broken men; there they lie, bleaching in the strange lights, and with silent death coming toward them out of the mist and darkness."
"That," said the little apothecary, "would be the Grassy Sea—the Sargasso, as the Spanish shipmen called it. I've heard it spoken of more than once. A strange place," and Christopher shook his head; "a queer, still place, I have no doubt; and they say few men who have seen it have lived to tell of it."
"The currents drag all things about with them which have not the service of the winds," said Tom Horn. "Around they go in the circle, around and around, all the time getting nearer and nearer to its inner edge; and then they drift into the dead spot, and the Sargasso has them for evermore."
"An unhappy fate," said Christopher. "A most unhappy one."
There was a silence; then Tom Horn put out his hand and touched the little apothecary on the knee.
"In mid-Atlantic," said he, "there are no reefs or bars; if a ship is stout and honest she does not readily sink in deep water."
"No," said Christopher, "she should not. There is reason in that."
"If a ship, known to be the work of steady, good artificers, is seen in great distress in mid-ocean," said Tom Horn, "in great distress, but most likely whole of hull, what warrant have we in afterwards thinking her at the bottom of the sea?"
"Why," said the apothecary, his eyes growing round, "I do not know. I have given such possibilities but little thought."
"As there were no rocks to dash her on, and no sands to trap her, reason says she might still be afloat," said Tom Horn. He seemed suddenly excited and got to his feet.
"An honest, good ship, mind you—and in mid-ocean! Who can be sure she'd foundered? With her timbers tight and her hatches down, who can be sure her cargo has been injured?" He took up his hat, and Christopher saw that his hand trembled as he did so. "I will be going," said Tom Horn; "it is past my bedtime, and there is a deal for me to do to-morrow. I have many figures to set down and much study to give them. Good night."
"Good night," said Christopher, rounder-eyed than ever. He followed Tom to the door, and watched him down Water Street. "Good night."
Christopher, after he'd seen the odd clerk out of sight, shut the door, and sat down. But he did not sit long; in a few moments he was up and pacing the floor in much agitation; then he busied himself with some formulas, ground many powders and weighed them in a tiny scale. But he could not take his mind from the surprising thought Tom Horn had planted there; and afterward, when he had gone to bed, he lay and counted the hours each time the clock struck them; at three he fell asleep, and dreamed of wondrous events, and happenings that made him marvel.
It was the middle of the morning when he left off his work, brushed his coat, went to the side door, and asked to see mademoiselle. And while he sat upon the edge of a chair, she upon a sofa before him, he told her, word for word, as well as he could remember, of what Tom Horn had said the night before.
"Too much heed can be given to such things," said Christopher; "for we all have our desires, and so may be led astray by speculations which have no substance. And, again, poor Tom, while a person of many rare qualities is—so it's thought—odd in his manner and in his thinking. So this may be a mad thing only. But it's kept with me all night long and has been at the elbow of my mind so far in the morning; and I thought it as well to speak to some one who I knew had interest in the matter."
There was a spot of color in each of the cheeks of mademoiselle; her eyes sparkled with eager excitement. She asked Christopher many questions; he answered as fully as he could; all the things the clerk had said, he repeated, but further than that he could not go.
"It may be his fancy, as I've said," he told mademoiselle. "I'd pin no faith to it that it carried any value."
"And why not?" asked the girl. "Why should you not? For me, I'd credit him with a deal of knowledge, a deal deeper than most. His mind is quite clear, for all his manner is odd, as the matters I've heard he's said to Anthony Stevens and the things he's pointed out have shown. He is the one among them all in the counting-room who had the keenness to see and the purpose to remember."
"It is so," said the little apothecary. "It is so, indeed. I had something of that in my mind, and it troubled me."
"I should like to speak with him," said mademoiselle. "It may be that with questioning he would say more."
"That's a thing that's easily put to the test," said Christopher. "He lives in Pump Court, but a step or so from this; and we shall go see him any time you wish."
"Thank you," said the girl. "If he returns to your shop in a night or two, send me word; if not, we shall go see him, as you say."
And so Christopher Dent went at once back to his apothecary shop, and in a much more peaceful state of mind.