Sally sat by her window in the office of John Hazen, Inc., looking absently out of it. Doctor Beatty was talking to her earnestly, in low tones, and she was serious and sober, listening intently.
"Mrs. Upjohn," he was saying,—"thrifty soul!—came out to Sanderson's this morning with the grocer's boy"—Sally chuckled suddenly, in spite of her seriousness, but stopped as suddenly—"and went up to see Patty. I'd like," he interrupted himself to say emphatically, "to see every visitor of suspicious character required to show cause for seeing the patients. Yes," he nodded in reply to a questioning look of Sally's, "Patty is a patient. There's no doubt about that, I'm afraid. And Mrs. Upjohn is a suspicious character. There is no doubt about that either. Oh, yes, well-meaning, perhaps; even probably. But she should not have been allowed to see Patty. I consider Patty's condition—er—ticklish. Distinctly ticklish."
Sally was surprised. "What do you mean? How is her condition ticklish?"
"Mentally," he replied.
Sally turned to Doctor Beatty with a start and looked him straight in the eyes. She wanted to see just what he meant. Then she shuddered.
"I hope not," she said.
"Well, we won't think of it. We are doing our best. But Mrs. Upjohn succeeded in upsetting her completely in a very few minutes. I was afraid, at first, that the mischief was done. Oh, it wasn't. She came back all right. I couldn't make her tell me what Mrs. Upjohn had said, but, picking up a thread here and there, I judged that Charlie had been misbehaving himself somehow. I couldn't find out justhow. I am sorry to add another log to your load, Sally, but I thought that you would be glad to be told of what seems to be common report. I know that I would."
"I am," she said. "I'm glad and sorry, too. But I'm greatly obliged to you." She was silent for some little time, looking out and thinking hard. "Do you know what kind of misbehavior it is?" she asked. "I'm pretty familiar with several kinds," she added, with a hard little laugh. "Don't be afraid to tell me the truth if you know it."
Doctor Beatty shook his head. "I don't know it. It seems to be connected with Patty's money."
"I have been afraid of it, but it has been impossible to get hold of anything definite," replied Sally gravely. "Even you aren't telling me anything definite, although I believe you would if you knew it."
He nodded. "You may be sure I would, Sally."
"It is really curious how hard it is for people to find out what concerns them most nearly," she continued. "Everybody is most considerate of one's feelings." She gave another hard little laugh. "I've not much doubt that almost everybody in town, excepting Charlie's relatives and near friends,—if he has any,—has known of this for a long time. It would have been the part of kindness to tell me."
"If it had been more than mere rumor," Doctor Beatty agreed, "it would have been. I understand," he went on with a quiet smile, "that that was Mrs. Upjohn's idea in telling Patty. She considered the rumor verified. Her motive seems to have been good, but the method adopted was bad; very bad. It's difficult, at best."
Sally was silent again for some time. "Poor Patty!" she murmured. "It's hard on her. If she has lost money in that way I must pay her back."
Doctor Beatty made no reply. Sally had not said it to him.
"I believe," she said, turning to him, "that I know how I can find out all about it—from a trustworthy source," she added, smiling gravely, "as Miss Lambkin would put it."
The doctor muttered impatiently under his breath. Letty Lambkin! But he had done his errand, for which service Sally thanked him again.
Doctor Beatty had been gone but a few minutes when Horry Carling came in. He nodded pleasantly to Sally and was taking off his overcoat.
"Horry," said Sally suddenly, "what has Charlie been doing?"
Horry stopped, his coat hanging by the arms and his mouth open, and looked at her. He was very much startled.
"Wh—wh—what?" he asked at last.
"I asked you what Charlie has been doing. What mischief has he been up to? I am pretty sure he has been misbehaving himself since he has been in college. How? Has he been in bad company?"
"W—w—well, y—y—yes," Horry stammered, getting rather red, "I th—th—think h—he h—h—has."
"Do you mean women, Horry?"
Horry's face went furiously red at that question. "N—n—n—no,"—he was in such a hurry to say it that he was longer than usual about it,—"n—n—n—noth—th—thing of th—th—that k—k—kind, th—th—that I kn—n—now of. G—g—g—gam—m—"
"Gambling, Horry?" Sally asked the question calmly, as if she merely wanted to know. She did want to know, very much, but not merely. Knowing was the first step.
"Y—y—yes," Horry answered. He seemed very much relieved. "H—h—he has g—g—gam—m—mbled almost ev—v—ver s—s—since h—he's b—b—been th—th—there," he added. And he went on in as much haste as he could manage, which was not so very much. Neither he nor Harry had been in Charlie's confidence. Most of the fellows didn't care a rap, of course, and didn't pay attention; but—but Harry and he had cared and—and—they had—and Horry got very red again and stopped in confusion.
Sally smiled upon him. "Thank you for caring, Horry,"she said gently. "Was that what you seemed to have on your mind all last summer? I thought you wanted to tell me something."
He nodded.
"I wonder why you didn't. I should have been grateful."
"C—c—couldn't b—bear to. We d—d—did t—tell D—D—Dick. C—c—came d—d—down on p—p—purpose. J—j—just b—bef—f—fore he g—g—got m—married. I s—s—s'pose he f—f—forg—got a—ab—b—bout it."
"He must have," sighed Sally. "It isn't like Dick. Now, if you will tell me all you know, I will promise not to forget about it."
Accordingly, Horry unburdened his soul of the whole story, so far as he knew it, and Sally listened in silence, only nodding now and then. What was there to be said? Horry was grateful for her listening and for her silence and he stuttered less as he went on.
"There!" he concluded. "N—now you kn—n—now all I d—do. I'm p—p—pumped dry, Sally, and I'm g—glad to g—g—get it off my m—mind."
"Thank you," said she; and she relapsed into silence and fell to looking out again.
Horry sat still, waiting for her to say something more; but she did not and he got up, at last.
"If y—you h—have n—noth—th—thing more t—to ask me, S—Sally—"
Sally turned toward him quickly. "Horry," she said, interrupting him, "do you know where Charlie goes—to gamble?" It was an effort for her to say it.
"Y—yes," he replied, blushing furiously again, but not avoiding her eyes. "I've b—b—been th—there."
"Oh, Horry! And aren't you ashamed?"
"N—n—not es—s—specially. O—only w—w—went once, t—to l—l—look on, you know. Th—thought I'd l—like to s—see the p—p—place once. I didn't p—play." Horry shook his head. "I h—haven't g—g—got the b—bug. Kn—n—new I w—was safe."
Sally seemed to be puzzled. "The bug? Do you mean—"
"The f—f—fever, Sally," he answered, laughing at her bewilderment; "the sickness—disease of ga—ga—gambling. It's j—j—just as much a dis—s—ease as the small-pox. Or c—con—sumption. Th—that's b—b—better, bec—c—cause it lasts l—l—onger and it g—gets w—w—worse and w—worse."
Sally sighed. "I suppose it is like that. It must be." She looked at him thoughtfully for so long a time that Horry began to get red once more and to fidget on his chair. "There must be a cure for it if we could only find it," she murmured. "Horry," she said suddenly, "do you suppose Harry would be willing to keep track of Charlie's movements—without Charlie's knowing, I mean? For a while?"
"Kn—n—now he w—would."
"And would he telegraph me when Charlie goes into that place again—and just as soon as he can find out? I ought to know as early in the evening as possible—by six or seven o'clock."
"H—he w—will if he c—c—can f—f—find out in t—t—time. W—w—wouldn't always b—be s—so easy. I'll t—take c—care of that, Sally."
"Thank you. I shall be very grateful to you both."
Sally went out to Doctor Sanderson's the next afternoon. Fox saw her coming and went to meet her.
"How is Patty, Fox?" she asked. She jumped lightly out of the carriage and stood beside him.
He seemed distinctly disappointed at the question. "So that is what you came for," he replied. "I hoped it might have had something to do with me." He sighed. "Patty's all right, I think. Are you going up to see her?"
Sally shook her head. "I came to see you, Fox. I want to ask your advice."
"That changes the face of nature," he returned cheerfully. "Will you come into the office—or anywhere else that you like."
They went into Fox's office and he got her settled in achair. "That's the most generally comfortable chair. It's my consultation chair. I want my patients to be as comfortable as possible before they begin."
Sally laughed a little. "Now, you sit down and put on your professional expression."
"It is not difficult to look sympathetic with you, in advance, Sally."
"It is really a serious matter." She was silent for a moment. "Fox," she said then abruptly, "Charlie has been gambling."
"Yes."
"You aren't surprised?"
"No."
"And he has used Patty's money, I don't doubt."
"Yes."
"Fox!" she cried impatiently. "Did you know all this before? If you did, I think you might have told me."
"No," he replied gently, "I did not know it. I only suspected it. You had as much reason to suspect it as I had."
Sally shook her head. "I didn't know all the circumstances—about Patty's money, for instance. I'm afraid she gave it to him. I don't know how much."
"Neither do I."
"I must find out and pay her." She was silent again, leaning her chin on her hand and gazing at Fox. "How can I find out, Fox?"
"I hardly know, Sally." He was silent, in his turn. "It's no use to ask her, I suppose. You might ask Dick how much was—er—unaccounted for."
"I might." She nodded with satisfaction. "I will. I shall pay it back. And I must stop Charlie's gambling. I've got to. I've thought and thought—for a whole day." She laughed shortly. "I'm no nearer than I was in half an hour. Oh, Fox, tell me how."
He was looking at her with a great pity in his eyes. He should have known better. Sally did not like to be pitied."It's a problem, Sally. I'm afraid you may not be able to stop it altogether—or permanently."
"I thought it might do if—but, perhaps I'd better not tell anybody about it until it's done."
"I commend that idea, in general," Fox replied, smiling, "although a person should be perfectly frank with her lawyer and her physician. If I can be of any assistance to you, please remember that nothing would please me better. Those places are—wouldn't be easy for you to get into. And, Sally, I should hate to think of your trying it. Can't I do it?"
Sally smiled at him in a way that he liked very much. "I have no idea of trying to get in. And, Fox, how much do you know of those places, as you call them?"
"Not much, but I think I could probably get in."
"Thank you, Fox. There is one thing that you can do and that is to explain to me why Charlie does it. Or, I suppose I know why he does, but explain this if you can. Why haven't I the same desire? I am my father's daughter. Why shouldn't I want to gamble, too, instead of the very idea of it filling me with disgust?"
He sat for some time with a half smile on his lips, gazing at Sally and saying nothing. Sally looked up and caught his eye and looked away again.
"Please tell me, Fox," she said.
"A question of heredity, Sally! Heredity is a subject which I know very little about. Nobody really knows much about it, for that matter. A few experiments with peas and guinea-pigs, and, on the other hand, a great deal of theorizing—which means a man's ideas of what ought to happen, made to fit; or rather, the cases chosen to fit the ideas. And neither helps us much when we come to apply them to such a case as Charlie's. But do you really want me to tell you what I think? I'm no authority and the whole thing is a matter of guesswork. You might guess as well as I—or better."
She nodded. "I should like, very much, to know."
"Ah, so should I," he said. "If I onlyknew! I don't. But I will do my best. Well, then, your father had rather a strong character—"
"Oh, Fox!" she protested.
"He did," he insisted. "Even you had to give in to him sometimes, and you are the only one in your family who ever stood up against him—who ever could have. He was lacking in the sense of right, and he had depraved tastes, perhaps, but his tastes grew by indulgence. Your mother—forgive me, Sally—has not as strong a character, in a way, but her sense of right is strong. Perhaps her traditions are as strong." There were some things which Fox did not know. If he had known all that had passed in Mrs. Ladue's heart he might not have spoken so confidently. "You have your mother's tastes,—irreproachable,—her sense of right and your father's strength; a very excellent combination." He laughed gently. "And both strengthened by your early experience. A fiery furnace," he murmured, "to consume the dross."
Sally got red and did not seem pleased. "Go on," she said.
"Charlie got your father's tastes and your mother's lack of strength. He seems to have no sense of right. He was most unfortunate. He didn't get a square deal. But his very weakness gives me hope. He will have to be watched, for he may break away at any time. There was no leading your father, even in the way he wanted to go. He had to be under strong compulsion—driven."
"Did you ever drive him, Fox?"
"Once," he answered briefly. "It was no fun."
"I remember the time." She sighed and rose slowly. "Well—"
Fox rose also. "Had enough of my preaching, Sally? I don't do it often and I don't wonder you don't like it."
She smiled at him gravely and gave him her hand. "I'm greatly obliged to you, Fox. If you can help me I will ask you to. I promise you that."
He held her hand much longer than was at all necessaryand he gazed down at her with a longing which he could not hide. Not that he tried; but she was not looking at him.
"Promise me something else, Sally."
Sally glanced up at him in surprise at his voice. "Anything that I can do, of course," she said.
The look in his eyes was very tender—and pitying, Sally thought. "Marry me, Sally. Promise me that."
It was sudden and unexpected, to be sure, but was there any reason why the quick tears should have rushed to Sally's eyes and why she should have looked so reproachfully at him? Ah, Doctor Sanderson, you have made a mess of it now! Sally withdrew her hand quickly.
"Oh, Fox!" she cried low, her eyes brimming. "How could you? How could you?"
He had hurt her somehow. God knew that he had not meant to. "Why, Sally," he began, "I only wanted—"
"That's just it," she said quickly; and she could say no more and she bit her lip and turned and hurried out, leaving Fox utterly bewildered and gazing after her as if he were paralyzed.
Sally almost ran down the walk and, as she ran, she gave one sob. "He was only sorry for me," she said to herself; "he only pitied me, and I won't be pitied. He only wanted—to help me bear my burdens. Dear Fox!" she thought, with a revulsion of feeling. "He is always so—wanting to help me bear my burdens. Dear Fox! But heshallbe true—to her," she added fiercely. "Does he think I will help him to be untrue? Oh, Fox, dear!"
And, biting her lip again, cruelly, she got into the waiting carriage.
Mr. Gilfeather's saloon was not on Avenue C, in spite of the fact that the Licensing Board tried to confine all institutions of the kind to that historic boulevard. Mr. Gilfeather's saloon, to use his own words, was a "high-toned and classy place." In consequence of that fact and perhaps on the condition implied in the term, Mr. Gilfeather was permitted to conduct his high-toned and classy place on a street where he would have no competition. It was a little side street, hardly more than a court, and there was no church within several hundred feet and no school within several thousand. The little street was called Gilfeather's Court, and not by its own name, which I have forgotten; the narrow sidewalk from Main Street to Mr. Gilfeather's door was well trodden; and that door was marked by day by a pair of scraggy and ill-conditioned bay trees and by night by a modest light, in addition.
Mr. Gilfeather may have been grieved by the condition of the bay trees, which were real trees, if trees which have their roots in shallow tubs can be called real. At all events, he had resolved to add to the classy appearance of his place, and to that end he had concluded arrangements with the Everlasting Decorating Company for certain palms and ferns, duly set in tubs of earth,—the earth was not important except as it helped in the illusion,—which ferns and palms were warranted not to be affected by heat, dryness, or the fumes of alcohol, and to require no care except an occasional dusting. The men of the Everlasting Decorating Company had just finished the artistic disposal of these palms and ferns—as ordered—about the little mahogany tables, giving to each table a spurious air of seclusion, and had gone away, smiling and happy, having been treated by Mr. Gilfeather, very properly, to whatever they liked. Mr.Gilfeather wandered now among his new possessions, changing this palm by a few inches and that fern by the least fraction of an inch and, altogether, lost in admiring contemplation.
What if the glossy green leaves were nothing but varnished green paper? What if the stems were nothing but fibre with a covering of the varnished paper here and there? What else were the real stems made of anyway? And the light in the interior of Mr. Gilfeather's was rather dim, having to filter in through his small front windows after passing the tall blank wall of the building opposite, and—well—his admiration was not undeserved, on the whole. He came back and leaned against the bar. The bar was by no means the feature of the room. It was small and modest, but of solid San Domingo mahogany. Mr. Gilfeather did not want his customers to drink at the bar. He preferred that they should sit at the tables.
"How is it, Joe?" he asked, turning to the white-coated barkeeper. "Pretty good, eh?"
The silent barkeeper nodded.
"Switch on the lights over in that corner," Mr. Gilfeather ordered, "and let's see how she looks." Joe stopped wiping his glasses long enough to turn to a row of buttons. "That's good. Put 'em all on." Joe put 'em all on. "That's better. Now," turning to wave his hand upward over the bar, "light her up."
At his command there appeared on the wall over the bar, a large painting of a lady clad chiefly in a leopard skin and luxuriant golden hair and a charming smile. The lady was made visible by electric lights, screened and carefully disposed, and seemed to diffuse her presence impartially over the room. Unfortunately, there was nobody to admire but Mr. Gilfeather and Joe, the barkeeper, and there is some doubt about Joe's admiration; but she did not seem to mind and she continued to smile. As they looked, the outer door opened silently and closed again. Mr. Gilfeather and Joe, warned by the sudden draught, turned.
"Hello, Ev," said Mr. Gilfeather. "What do you think of it?" He waved his hand inclusively. "Just got 'em."
Everett inspected the palms and ferns solemnly. "Very pretty. Very good. It seems to be good, strong paper and well varnished. I don't see any imitation rubber plants. Where are your rubber plants?"
"Eh?" asked Mr. Gilfeather, puzzled. "Don't you like it? They could have furnished rubber plants, I s'pose. Think I ought to have 'em?"
"Nothing of the kind is complete without rubber plants," Everett replied seriously.
Mr. Gilfeather looked at him doubtfully. "Don't you like 'em, Ev?" he asked. It was almost a challenge. Mr. Gilfeather was nettled and inclined to be hostile. If Everett was making fun of him—well, he had better look out.
"It's hardly up to your standard, Tom," he answered. He indicated the lady in the leopard skin—and in her own—who still smiled sweetly down at them. "After I have gone to the trouble of selecting paintings for you, it—er—would be natural to expect that you would consult me before adding a lot of cheap paper flowers to your decorations. I should have been happy to advise you."
"Nothing cheap about 'em," growled Mr. Gilfeather. "Had to have something in here."
"What's the matter with real palms and ferns?"
"What would they cost, I should like to know? And how would I keep 'em looking decent? Look at them bay trees out there."
"Those bay trees do look a little dejected," Everett agreed, smiling. "I should employ a good gardener to care for them and for your real palms and ferns. Our gardener, I am sure, could—"
"I don't s'pose your gardener'd do it for me now, would he?"
Everett smiled again. "Hardly. But he's not the only one in town. It might cost more, Tom, but it would pay,believe me. Your bar, now, is the real thing and in good taste. You ought to have things in keeping."
Mr. Gilfeather emitted a growl and looked almost as dejected as his bay trees. Everett laughed and moved toward a door beside the bar.
"Anybody up there yet, Tom?" he asked.
Mr. Gilfeather shook his head. "I'll send 'em up." Everett opened the door and they heard his steps going up the stairs. "Hell!" said Mr. Gilfeather.
Joe smiled sympathetically, but said nothing.
It was getting towards noon and customers began to straggle in singly or by twos and threes. Certain of these customers were warned by Mr. Gilfeather's thumb, pointing directly upward, and vanished. The others had chosen their favorite tables and had been waited upon by two white-aproned and silent youths, who had appeared mysteriously from nowhere. The room gradually filled and gradually emptied again, but there was no sign of Everett and his friends. Mr. Gilfeather went to his dinner and came back a little after two o'clock. The high-toned and classy place showed few customers present. It was a slack time. Two men, at a table behind a mammoth paper fern, were drinking whiskey and water and talking earnestly; another, hidden by a friendly palm, was consuming, in a leisurely manner, a hot Tom and Jerry; another, tilting his chair back in the far corner, read the early afternoon paper and sipped his ale; and one of our white-aproned friends vanished through the door beside the bar with a tray containing five different mixtures of the most modern varieties, of which I do not know the names. Mr. Gilfeather looked about on his despised decorations and sighed; and the outer door opened again and admitted Miss Sally Ladue.
Mr. Gilfeather half turned, in response to a smothered exclamation from Joe, turned again, and cast a startled glance up at the smiling lady over the bar.
"Switch 'em off, Joe, quick!" and Joe switched 'em off, leaving the lady with her leopard skin in murky darkness,which, under the circumstances, was the best place for her. But he had not been quick enough.
Sally's color was rather high as she stood just inside the door. Nothing but palms and ferns—very lifelike—met her eyes; nothing, that is, except a very chaste bar of San Domingo mahogany and the persons of Joe and Mr. Gilfeather. The lady in the leopard skin no longer met her eyes, for that lady had been plunged in gloom, as we are aware. Sally, too, was aware of it. Mr. Gilfeather had a guilty consciousness of it as he advanced.
"Good afternoon, Miss Ladue," he said, somewhat apprehensively. "I hope nothing is going wrong with my daughter?"
"No, Mr. Gilfeather," replied Sally, hastening to reassure him. "She is doing very well, and I expect that she will graduate well up in her class."
Mr. Gilfeather was evidently relieved to hear it.
"I came to consult you," continued Sally; "to ask your advice." She looked about her. The room was very quiet, much quieter than her own room at school, for the two men drinking whiskey and water had stopped their talking, upon Sally's entrance. It had been no more than a low hum of voices, at most, and the man with his Tom and Jerry made no more noise than did the man sipping his ale and reading his paper. Sally thought that she would like to have Patty glance in there for a minute.
"Well," said Mr. Gilfeather slowly, "perhaps I can find a place where we can talk without interruption. Will you—"
"Why can't we sit down behind some of these lovely palms?" asked Sally hastily.
Mr. Gilfeather looked at her quickly. He was sensitive on the subject of palms and ferns—everlasting ones, furnished by the Everlasting Decorating Company. But Sally seemed unconscious. His suspicions were unfounded. He nodded and led the way, and Sally followed, penetrating the seclusion of three of the customers, to a table in another corner. Sally sat down and Mr. Gilfeather sat opposite.
He hesitated. "I suppose you wouldn't do me the honor to take something with me, now?" he asked. Sally smiled and shook her head. "A glass of lemonade or a cup of tea? I can have tea in a minute—good tea, too, Miss Ladue."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Gilfeather. I can't see any reason why I shouldn't take a cup of tea with you. I should like it very much."
He leaned back, crooked his finger at a white-aproned youth, and gave his order. One would not imagine, from any sign that the youth gave, that it was not quite the usual order. As Mr. Gilfeather had promised, in less than a minute it was on the table: tea and sugar and sliced lemon and cream.
"We have a good many orders for tea," remarked Mr. Gilfeather, in answer to Sally's look of surprise. "I try to have the best of every kind."
Sally helped herself to a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon. "I must confess that I didn't suppose you ever had an order for tea."
"Yes," he replied thoughtfully. "But we don't often have customers like you, Miss Ladue. It is an honor which I appreciate."
"But," Sally interposed, "you don't know, yet, what my errand is."
"It don't make no difference what your errand is," said Mr. Gilfeather; "your visit honors me. Whatever you ask my advice about, I'll give you my best and thank you for coming to me."
Sally looked at him with a smile in her eyes. "What I wanted to see you about, Mr. Gilfeather, was gambling. Do—"
"What?" asked the astonished Mr. Gilfeather, with a penetrating look at Sally. "You ain't going to—"
Sally laughed outright, attracting to herself the attention of the two whiskey-and-waters. Tom and Jerry was consumed and had just gone out.
"No," she said merrily, "I'm not going to. I only meantthat I wanted to see—to know whether you knew about it."
"Whether I knew about it!" exclaimed Mr. Gilfeather, more puzzled than ever. He glanced up fearfully as a slight noise came down to them from above. "I never play, if you mean that. Of course, I know something about it. Any man in my business can't help knowing something about it."
"Well," Sally resumed, "I wonder whether it would be possible for—for me, for instance, to get in; to see the inside of a place where it is going on. I don't know anything about it and I didn't know anybody to ask but you."
Mr. Gilfeather cast another apprehensive glance at the ceiling. Then he looked down again and gazed thoughtfully at Sally out of half-shut eyes.
"I should think," he observed slowly, "that it would be difficult; very difficult, indeed. I should say that it might be impossible. What particular place did you have in mind? That is, if it's a proper question."
"That's just the trouble," Sally replied, frowning. "I don't know, although I can find out. I didn't think of that. It's a place where college boys go, sometimes," she added, flushing slowly.
"In Boston, eh?" Mr. Gilfeather's brow cleared and his eyes opened again. The color in Sally's face had not escaped him. "It's my advice, Miss Ladue, that you give it up. I don't know anything about them Boston places—I would say those places—or I'd offer to go for you. Perhaps I can guess—"
"It's my brother," said Sally simply.
Mr. Gilfeather nodded. "I'd heard it or I shouldn't have spoken of it," he said gently. "I'm very sorry, Miss Ladue. Nobody else shall hear of it from me."
"I'm afraid that will make very little difference," she remarked, "but I thank you."
Mr. Gilfeather was silent for some moments while Sally sipped her tea.
"Haven't you got any gentleman friend," he asked at last, "who would do your errand for you?"
"I don't know who would be the most likely to—to know the way about," she returned. "I can't very well ask for bids." She smiled quickly. "If I knew the best person to ask I would ask him."
"That you would," Mr. Gilfeather murmured admiringly. "You ain't afraid. Do you want me to suggest?" he asked.
"I hoped you would be willing to."
"Well, how would Everett Morton do? I guess he knows his way about. I always understood that he did." Mr. Gilfeather smiled furtively. The matter of the palms rankled.
Sally looked reflective. "If he is the best man to do it I'll ask him." She sighed. She felt a strange repugnance to asking him—for that service. She had finished her tea and Mr. Gilfeather had finished his. "Well," she said, rising slowly, "I thank you for your advice, Mr. Gilfeather,—and for your tea," she added, "which I have enjoyed."
"The honor is mine," returned Mr. Gilfeather gallantly.
Sally smiled and bowed and was on her way to the door. "Miss Ladue," called Mr. Gilfeather. She stopped and turned. "I wish you would be kind enough to favor me with a bit of advice, too."
"Gladly," said Sally. "What about?"
Mr. Gilfeather came close and spoke low. "It's these palms and ferns. I got 'em this morning. Might I ask your opinion of 'em?"
"Surely, they're very nice and attractive," said Sally doubtfully.
He remarked the doubt. "You don't really think that. Now, do you? Wouldn't real ones be more—more high-toned, as you might say? I was advised that—paper flowers, he called 'em—weren't in keeping. Would you advise me to take 'em out and put in real ones?"
"Oh," Sally answered quickly, "I can't advise you about that. Real ones would be more expensive to keep in order,but they would be better. Don't you think so yourself?"
Mr. Gilfeather sighed. "These'll have to come out," he said sadly. "They'll have to come out, I guess. It's hard luck that I didn't think of asking before I got 'em. But I'm much obliged to you, Miss Ladue."
Sally nodded again and went out. The door had hardly shut behind her when the man who had been sipping his ale and reading his paper emerged from his corner hastily and put out after her. It was Eugene Spencer.
It was almost time for the theatres to be out. Indeed, the first few men were coming out of one, hurriedly putting on their coats as they came. As the doors swung open the beginnings of the subdued roar of a slowly moving crowd came out. A man and a girl who were walking briskly past heard it.
"Hurry, Jane!" exclaimed the girl anxiously. "I didn't know it was so late."
Jane muttered something about crowds, but it was nothing very articulate. To tell the truth, Jane was nervous and he did not know just what he was saying. Neither did Sally. She did not listen, for that matter, for she was wholly occupied with her errand. They quickened their pace until they were almost running, and the noise was gradually left behind. Neither of them spoke; and when they had turned the first corner they both sighed and the pace slackened to that brisk walk again.
Sally had not had to overcome her repugnance to asking Everett, and Mr. Gilfeather's feeling of triumph was a little premature. When Jane had overtaken her, a few steps from Mr. Gilfeather's door and had asked whether he could not help her, she had yielded to her impulse and had answered that he probably could if he would. And Jane had confessed, getting a little red,—who would not have got a little red, having to make such a confession to the girl he was in love with, even yet?—he had confessed that he was qualified sufficiently for the expedition, for he had been in number seven on two occasions, on the first of which he had played. But, he added, he had not lost much—fortunately for him, perhaps, he had not won—and he had had no desire to play again, although he had felt some curiosity to see others do it.It was worth while, for once, to see that side of human nature. Sally began to tell him why she wanted to go, but he stopped her.
"I know, Sally," he said gently. "You don't have to tell me. I am glad to be of any assistance at all." And Sally had thanked him and had liked him better at that moment than she ever had before. It was a pity that Jane could not know that.
Two days later Harry Carling had telegraphed; and here they were, just turning the last corner and finding themselves in the Street. I don't give the name of the street for reasons which must be obvious enough, but, irrespective of the name, Sally's heart beat a little faster when they turned into it. Jane's heart would have beat faster if it had not already accelerated its beat quite as much as it could with safety. He was finding it in his mouth most of the time and had to swallow frequently and hard to keep it down where it belonged. As for speaking calmly and naturally, that was out of the question. That was enough to account for his prolonged silence. When he did make the attempt his voice was high and shrill and he hesitated and could not say what he wanted to.
It was a quiet street, entirely deserted at that end, and it was lined with dignified old houses which echoed the sound of their footfalls until their coming seemed the invasion of an army.
"Mercy!" Sally cried nervously, under her breath. "What a racket we're making!" And the sound of her voice reverberated from side to side. The army had begun to talk. That would never do. "Silence in the ranks!" thought Sally; and was surprised that her thought was not echoed, too. Jane began to laugh excitedly, but stopped at once.
The street was very respectable, anybody would have said; eminently respectable. It even seemed dignified. There is no doubt that there had been a time when it had been both respectable and dignified and had not contented itself with seeming so. The houses had been built at that time andpresented their rather severe brick fronts to the street, giving an effect that was almost austere. They were absolutely without ornament, excepting, perhaps, in their inconspicuous but generous entrances. Altogether, Sally thought the effect was distinctly pleasing. She would have been glad to live in one of these houses; for example, in that one with the wide recessed doorway with the fan over it. It was dark now; dark as a pocket. Not a light showed at any of the windows, although a dim one—a very dim one—burned over the door. The people must be all in bed at this seasonable hour, like good custom-abiding people. There might have been a special curfew at nine o'clock for this special street.
"That is the house," whispered Jane, pointing with a hand which was not very steady to the very house that Sally had been contemplating with admiration. It was not light enough for Sally to note the shaking of his hand.
The announcement was a shock to Sally. "What?" she asked incredulously. "You don't mean the house with the dim light over the door—the one with the fan!" Jane nodded assent. "Why," Sally continued, "there isn't a light in the house, so far as I can see."
Jane laughed. His laugh echoed strangely and he stopped suddenly. "There are plenty of lights, just the same. What did you expect? A general illumination—with a band?"
"Something more than a dark house," she replied, smiling a little. "It looks as if they had all gone to bed."
He shook his head. "They haven't gone to bed." Their pace had slackened and had become no more than an aimless saunter. Now they stopped entirely, almost opposite the house.
"Well," said Sally inquiringly, "what now?"
Jane breathed a long sigh. "I—I suppose i—it's up to me," he replied hesitatingly, "to go in." He spoke with very evident regret; then he laughed shortly.
"Don't you want to?" asked Sally curiously.
"No, I don't, Sally," he rejoined decidedly. "I certainlydon't. But I want to help you, and therefore I do. It would be hard to make you understand, perhaps, and—"
"I think I understand, Eugene," she interrupted gently, "and you needn't think that I'm not grateful."
"I don't feel as confident as I ought," he said apologetically, "that I shall be successful. What if Charlie won't come?"
"You can tell him," she replied firmly, "that I shall wait here until he does come. It isn't likely that I shall be put off the street."
Spencer did not feel so sure of that as he would have liked to feel, but he did not say so to Sally. "That brings up another question," he said. "Where shall you wait? And what will you do—in case I am longer than you expect? I confess that I am uneasy about you—waiting around the streets—alone."
"You needn't be," she returned. "Of course," she admitted, "it won't be pleasant. I don't expect it to be. But I shall be all right, I'm sure."
He sighed once more and looked at her. "I wish I felt as sure of it as you do. But I'll go in—or try to." He looked the street up and down. "You'd better get in the shadow, somewhere; well in the shadow. Their doorman has sharp eyes. That's what he's there for," he added in response to her questioning look. "Perhaps you'd better not be within view when I go in. We'll walk back a bit and I'll leave you there."
She assented and they walked back until they were out of sight from the door with the dim light burning over it. Then Spencer left her and walked rapidly toward the house. He looked back two or three times. She was standing just where he had left her: close beside a woebegone tree with an iron tree-guard around it. It was a forgotten relic of other days. Her motionless figure could hardly be distinguished from the tree as she leaned against the guard. He opened the outer door of the vestibule. A second dim light was burning here, just enabling him to see the push-button.With a heart palpitating somewhat and with that horrible, gone feeling in the region of his diaphragm, he rang the bell. The outer door closed noiselessly behind him and two electric lights flashed out brilliantly before him. The inner door, which gave entrance to the house, was a massive thing, studded with iron bolts, like the gate of a castle; and at the level of his face was a little grated window or door of solid wood within the larger, iron-studded door. In response to his ring the inner door did not open, but the little grated window did, framing, behind iron bars, the impassive face of a gigantic negro, who scrutinized Spencer with the eye of experience and, having completed his inspection, nodded solemnly. The little grated window closed and the electric lights went out suddenly; and the door opened before him and closed again behind him, leaving everything in readiness for the next comer; and leaving Sally standing alone beside that woebegone tree without.
There was nothing unusual about the appearance of the house if we except the iron-studded door and its guardian. The negro, who was very large and very black, had resumed his seat upon a stool by the door. He glanced at Eugene without interest and immediately looked away again and seemed to resume his thoughts about nothing at all. Eugene glanced hastily about. The house might have served as a type of the modest dwellings of the older school. The doors from the lower hall were all shut and the rooms to which they led were empty, so far as he knew, or were used as storerooms, perhaps. Everything was very quiet and he and the gigantic negro might have been the only occupants of the house. Before him was the staircase and he roused himself and mounted to the floor above, walked a few steps along a hall exactly similar to the first, parted the heavy double hangings over a doorway, and entered.
He found himself in the front room of two which were connected by folding doors, which were now rolled back. The room in the rear was but dimly lighted, as no one seemed to be interested in the roulette table which stood there,although several men stood about the sideboard or were coming or going. The top of that sideboard held a large variety of bottles and anybody present was at liberty to help himself to whatever he preferred; but, although there was a good deal of drinking, there was no drunkenness. Drinking to excess was not conducive to success in play; and the men, most of them, seemed to be regular patrons of the place. Eugene's gaze wandered back toward the front of the house.
To his right, as he entered, was the centre of interest. Indeed, it seemed to be the only point of interest. The windows had heavy double hangings before them, which accounted for Sally's impression of the house. Directly before these windows and taking up almost the whole width of the room stood a large table. About this table were seated a dozen men or more, old, middle-aged, and young, every one of them so intent on the play that they noticed nothing else. About the seated men, in turn, were other men, two or three deep, equally intent, standing and carefully noting upon large cards which they held every card that the dealer exposed from the box before him. I regret that I am unable to explain more fully the mysteries of this system of scoring. In some way, which I do not understand, this method of keeping score was supposed to give some clue to the way in which the cards were running on that particular night and to aid each scorer in the development of his "system," which, as the merest tyro knows, will inevitably break the bank sooner or later;—usually later. The house supplied the score cards. They found the method a very satisfactory one.
By this time Eugene's heart had almost ceased its palpitation and he could look about with some approach to calmness at the group around the table. Curiously, he scanned the faces of the players. At the turn of the table, to the right of the dealer, sat an elderly man, perhaps nearing sixty, with a singularly peaceful countenance. He won or lost with the same indifference, only putting up a hand, now and then, to stroke his white mustache and glancing, sympathetically, Spencer thought, at the only really young menplaying. There were two of them who were hardly more than boys, and this man seemed to be more interested in their play than in his own. At the dealer's left sat a man who might be anywhere from thirty-five to fifty, with a clean-shaven and handsome clean cut face. He looked as distinguished in his way as the elderly man of the white mustache and the peaceful countenance did in his. He smiled as quietly when he lost as when he won. Both men were very attractive and not the type of man you would expect to find in such a place. The other men there were not attractive. They were of no particular age and of no distinction whatever; the type of man that you pass on the street a hundred times a day without a second glance—if you have given the first. There was a perennial frown upon their foreheads and their lips were tightly closed and they were intent on nothing but their play. Altogether, the less said about those men, the better.
The first of the two young men mentioned was sitting at the turn of the table diagonally opposite the elderly man and nearest Eugene, so that his face was not visible. But his shoulders were expressive and he was beginning to fidget in his chair; and when, once or twice, he half turned his head Eugene could see the growing expression of disgust upon his face. As the young fellow looked more and more disgusted, the elderly man smiled the more and stroked his white mustache and gazed at him, to the neglect of his cards, and once in a while he glanced at the other young fellow.
That other young fellow, as we know, was Charlie Ladue. He sat directly opposite the dealer. His face was flushed with the excitement of play, to which he was giving all his attention. Eugene could not see his eyes, which never wandered from the straight line in front of him, from his cards to the dealer; but he could imagine the feverish brightness that shone from them. He wondered how the dealer liked the constant contemplation of that sight; how it pleased him that he could not look up without encountering those eyes of Charlie Ladue fixed upon him.
The dealer seemed to like it well enough; he seemed to like it uncommonly well. Spencer transferred his gaze from Charlie to the dealer. There was nothing interesting about Charlie—to him, at least; nothing sad in his present situation except as it concerned Sally. The dealer was different, and Eugene found himself fascinated in watching him.
It was impossible to guess his age. He might have been anywhere from forty to sixty and must have been a handsome man when he was young—whenever that was. He was a good-looking man yet, but there was something sinister about him. His face was deeply lined, but not with the lines of age or pain or of contentment or good nature. The lines in a man's face will tell their story of his life to him who can read them. Insensibly, they tell their story to him who cannot read them. Eugene could not; but he felt the story and was at once fascinated and repelled. He could not take his eyes off that dealer's face; and the longer he looked the more strongly he was impressed with a vague recollection. It might be only of a dream, or of a dim resemblance to some one that he knew. He had the curious sense, which comes to all of us on occasion, of having lived that very moment in some previous incarnation, perhaps of knowing exactly what was going to happen next. Not that anything in particular did happen. I would not willingly raise expectations which must be disappointed.
The dealer had always seemed to look at Charlie Ladue with interest; with as much interest as he ever showed in anything—much more, indeed, than he showed in anything or in anybody else. Charlie himself had noted that, and although he never spoke,—at least, Charlie had never heard him utter a word beyond what were absolutely necessary to his duties,—there was something compelling in his eye which always met Charlie's look as it was raised slowly from his cards, as if there were some mysterious bond of fellowship between them. Rarely he had smiled. But that was a mistake. It always made Charlie wish that he hadn't. Charlie had not noticed, perhaps, that it was always on therare occasions when he won that the dealer had ventured upon that faint smile which was so disagreeable. When he lost, which happened more frequently,—very much more frequently,—the dealer expressed no emotion whatever, unless a slight compression of his thin lips could be called an expression of emotion.
There was a stir among the persons about the table; among those sitting and among those standing. The disgusted young fellow got up quickly and one of the scorers as quickly took the chair he had left. The boy breathed a deep sigh of relief as he passed close to Eugene.
"Hell!" he exclaimed under his breath. It was more to himself than to anybody else, although, catching Eugene's eye, he smiled. "They call that sport!"
The elderly man with the white mustache smiled peacefully and got up, too, and joined the boy.
"Had enough, Harry?"
Harry turned a face filled with disgust. "Enough!" he said. "I should think I had. It will last me all my life." He repressed his feelings with an effort. "Did you win, Uncle Don?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Uncle Don replied quietly. "I didn't keep track. Did you?"
"No, thank God!" he answered fervently. "I lost. And I feel as though I had nearly lost my self-respect, too. I want a Turkish bath."
"All right," returned his uncle quickly. "So do I. And I've no doubt that Frank does." He turned and beckoned to the man who had been sitting at the dealer's left. He had already risen and was standing behind his chair, idly watching the readjustment, and he came at once. "We're going to Ben's, Frank. Harry wants a bath."
"Good!" said Frank with his ready smile. "Something that will get right into your soul, eh, Harry? Come on, Don."
Uncle Don had turned for a last look at the players. "It was a somewhat dangerous experiment," he remarked, "andone that I should never dare to try with that other boy there. He ought to be hauled out of the game by the collar and spanked and sent to bed without his dinner—to say nothing of baths. Well, we can't meddle. Come on." And Uncle Don took one of Harry's arms and Frank took the other and they went out.
Eugene was reminded of his duty. If he was to haul Charlie out of the game by the collar he must be quick about it. He wormed his way among the scorers and touched Charlie on the shoulder. Charlie started and looked up somewhat fearfully.
Spencer bent over him. "Come, Charlie," he said.
If either of them had noticed, they would have seen a faint flicker of interest in the eyes of the dealer. But they were not looking at the dealer. Charlie was relieved to see who it was. He had been afraid that it was some one else—the police, perhaps.
"Let me alone, Spencer," he replied disdainfully. "If you think that I'm coming now, you're greatly mistaken. In a couple of hours, perhaps."
Eugene bent farther over. "Sally's waiting for you outside." He spoke very low; it was scarcely more than a whisper. But the dealer must have heard, for the interest in his eyes was more than a flicker now.
In Charlie's eyes there was a momentary fear. It was but momentary.
He laughed nervously. "I hope she won't get tired of waiting." He shook his head. "I won't come now."
Eugene bent lower yet. "She told me to tell you that she should wait until you did."
The dealer was waiting for them. There was a flash of irritation in Charlie's eyes and he turned to the table. "Go to the devil!" he said.
There was a snicker from some of those seated about the table. Eugene reddened and drew back and the game went on.