Max had rallied well, and things looked bright for him. His patient did not need him, but K. was anxious to find Joe; so he telephoned the gas office and got a day off. The sordid little tragedy was easy to reconstruct, except that, like Joe, K. did not believe in the innocence of the excursion to Schwitter's. His spirit was heavy with the conviction that he had saved Wilson to make Sidney ultimately wretched.
For the present, at least, K.'s revealed identity was safe. Hospitals keep their secrets well. And it is doubtful if the Street would have been greatly concerned even had it known. It had never heard of Edwardes, of the Edwardes clinic or the Edwardes operation. Its medical knowledge comprised the two Wilsons and the osteopath around the corner. When, as would happen soon, it learned of Max Wilson's injury, it would be more concerned with his chances of recovery than with the manner of it. That was as it should be.
But Joe's affair with Sidney had been the talk of the neighborhood. If the boy disappeared, a scandal would be inevitable. Twenty people had seen him at Schwitter's and would know him again.
To save Joe, then, was K.'s first care.
At first it seemed as if the boy had frustrated him. He had not been home all night. Christine, waylaying K. in the little hall, told him that. “Mrs. Drummond was here,” she said. “She is almost frantic. She says Joe has not been home all night. She says he looks up to you, and she thought if you could find him and would talk to him—”
“Joe was with me last night. We had supper at the White Springs Hotel. Tell Mrs. Drummond he was in good spirits, and that she's not to worry. I feel sure she will hear from him to-day. Something went wrong with his car, perhaps, after he left me.”
He bathed and shaved hurriedly. Katie brought his coffee to his room, and he drank it standing. He was working out a theory about the boy. Beyond Schwitter's the highroad stretched, broad and inviting, across the State. Either he would have gone that way, his little car eating up the miles all that night, or—K. would not formulate his fear of what might have happened, even to himself.
As he went down the Street, he saw Mrs. McKee in her doorway, with a little knot of people around her. The Street was getting the night's news.
He rented a car at a local garage, and drove himself out into the country. He was not minded to have any eyes on him that day. He went to Schwitter's first. Schwitter himself was not in sight. Bill was scrubbing the porch, and a farmhand was gathering bottles from the grass into a box. The dead lanterns swung in the morning air, and from back on the hill came the staccato sounds of a reaping-machine.
“Where's Schwitter?”
“At the barn with the missus. Got a boy back there.”
Bill grinned. He recognized K., and, mopping dry a part of the porch, shoved a chair on it.
“Sit down. Well, how's the man who got his last night? Dead?”
“No.”
“County detectives were here bright and early. After the lady's husband. I guess we lose our license over this.”
“What does Schwitter say?”
“Oh, him!” Bill's tone was full of disgust. “He hopes we do. He hates the place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That's what this house is—money.”
“Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night?”
A sort of haze came over Bill's face, as if he had dropped a curtain before his eyes. But his reply came promptly:
“Surest thing in the world. Close to him as you are to me. Dark man, about thirty, small mustache—”
“Bill, you're lying, and I know it. Where is he?”
The barkeeper kept his head, but his color changed.
“I don't know anything about him.” He thrust his mop into the pail. K. rose.
“Does Schwitter know?”
“He doesn't know nothing. He's been out at the barn all night.”
The farmhand had filled his box and disappeared around the corner of the house. K. put his hand on Bill's shirt-sleeved arm.
“We've got to get him away from here, Bill.”
“Get who away?”
“You know. The county men may come back to search the premises.”
“How do I know you aren't one of them?”
“I guess you know I'm not. He's a friend of mine. As a matter of fact, I followed him here; but I was too late. Did he take the revolver away with him?”
“I took it from him. It's under the bar.”
“Get it for me.”
In sheer relief, K.'s spirits rose. After all, it was a good world: Tillie with her baby in her arms; Wilson conscious and rallying; Joe safe, and, without the revolver, secure from his own remorse. Other things there were, too—the feel of Sidney's inert body in his arms, the way she had turned to him in trouble. It was not what he wanted, this last, but it was worth while. The reaping-machine was in sight now; it had stopped on the hillside. The men were drinking out of a bucket that flashed in the sun.
There was one thing wrong. What had come over Wilson, to do so reckless a thing? K., who was a one-woman man, could not explain it.
From inside the bar Bill took a careful survey of Le Moyne. He noted his tall figure and shabby suit, the slight stoop, the hair graying over his ears. Barkeepers know men: that's a part of the job. After his survey he went behind the bar and got the revolver from under an overturned pail.
K. thrust it into his pocket.
“Now,” he said quietly, “where is he?”
“In my room—top of the house.”
K. followed Bill up the stairs. He remembered the day when he had sat waiting in the parlor, and had heard Tillie's slow step coming down. And last night he himself had carried down Wilson's unconscious figure. Surely the wages of sin were wretchedness and misery. None of it paid. No one got away with it.
The room under the eaves was stifling. An unmade bed stood in a corner. From nails in the rafters hung Bill's holiday wardrobe. A tin cup and a cracked pitcher of spring water stood on the window-sill.
Joe was sitting in the corner farthest from the window. When the door swung open, he looked up. He showed no interest on seeing K., who had to stoop to enter the low room.
“Hello, Joe.”
“I thought you were the police.”
“Not much. Open that window, Bill. This place is stifling.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, indeed.”
“I wish I'd killed him!”
“Oh, no, you don't. You're damned glad you didn't, and so am I.”
“What will they do with me?”
“Nothing until they find you. I came to talk about that. They'd better not find you.”
“Huh!”
“It's easier than it sounds.”
K. sat down on the bed.
“If I only had some money!” he said. “But never mind about that, Joe; I'll get some.”
Loud calls from below took Bill out of the room. As he closed the door behind him, K.'s voice took on a new tone: “Joe, why did you do it?”
“You know.”
“You saw him with somebody at the White Springs, and followed them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who was with him?”
“Yes, and so do you. Don't go into that. I did it, and I'll stand by it.”
“Has it occurred to you that you made a mistake?”
“Go and tell that to somebody who'll believe you!” he sneered. “They came here and took a room. I met him coming out of it. I'd do it again if I had a chance, and do it better.”
“It was not Sidney.”
“Aw, chuck it!”
“It's a fact. I got here not two minutes after you left. The girl was still there. It was some one else. Sidney was not out of the hospital last night. She attended a lecture, and then an operation.”
Joe listened. It was undoubtedly a relief to him to know that it had not been Sidney; but if K. expected any remorse, he did not get it.
“If he is that sort, he deserves what he got,” said the boy grimly.
And K. had no reply. But Joe was glad to talk. The hours he had spent alone in the little room had been very bitter, and preceded by a time that he shuddered to remember. K. got it by degrees—his descent of the staircase, leaving Wilson lying on the landing above; his resolve to walk back and surrender himself at Schwitter's, so that there could be no mistake as to who had committed the crime.
“I intended to write a confession and then shoot myself,” he told K. “But the barkeeper got my gun out of my pocket. And—”
After a pause: “Does she know who did it?”
“Sidney? No.”
“Then, if he gets better, she'll marry him anyhow.”
“Possibly. That's not up to us, Joe. The thing we've got to do is to hush the thing up, and get you away.”
“I'd go to Cuba, but I haven't the money.”
K. rose. “I think I can get it.”
He turned in the doorway.
“Sidney need never know who did it.”
“I'm not ashamed of it.” But his face showed relief.
There are times when some cataclysm tears down the walls of reserve between men. That time had come for Joe, and to a lesser extent for K. The boy rose and followed him to the door.
“Why don't you tell her the whole thing?—the whole filthy story?” he asked. “She'd never look at him again. You're crazy about her. I haven't got a chance. It would give you one.”
“I want her, God knows!” said K. “But not that way, boy.”
Schwitter had taken in five hundred dollars the previous day.
“Five hundred gross,” the little man hastened to explain. “But you're right, Mr. Le Moyne. And I guess it would please HER. It's going hard with her, just now, that she hasn't any women friends about. It's in the safe, in cash; I haven't had time to take it to the bank.” He seemed to apologize to himself for the unbusinesslike proceeding of lending an entire day's gross receipts on no security. “It's better to get him away, of course. It's good business. I have tried to have an orderly place. If they arrest him here—”
His voice trailed off. He had come a far way from the day he had walked down the Street, and eyed its poplars with appraising eyes—a far way. Now he had a son, and the child's mother looked at him with tragic eyes. It was arranged that K. should go back to town, returning late that night to pick up Joe at a lonely point on the road, and to drive him to a railroad station. But, as it happened, he went back that afternoon.
He had told Schwitter he would be at the hospital, and the message found him there. Wilson was holding his own, conscious now and making a hard fight. The message from Schwitter was very brief:—
“Something has happened, and Tillie wants you. I don't like to trouble you again, but she—wants you.”
K. was rather gray of face by that time, having had no sleep and little food since the day before. But he got into the rented machine again—its rental was running up; he tried to forget it—and turned it toward Hillfoot. But first of all he drove back to the Street, and walked without ringing into Mrs. McKee's.
Neither a year's time nor Mrs. McKee's approaching change of state had altered the “mealing” house. The ticket-punch still lay on the hat-rack in the hall. Through the rusty screen of the back parlor window one viewed the spiraea, still in need of spraying. Mrs. McKee herself was in the pantry, placing one slice of tomato and three small lettuce leaves on each of an interminable succession of plates.
K., who was privileged, walked back.
“I've got a car at the door,” he announced, “and there's nothing so extravagant as an empty seat in an automobile. Will you take a ride?”
Mrs. McKee agreed. Being of the class who believe a boudoir cap the ideal headdress for a motor-car, she apologized for having none.
“If I'd known you were coming I would have borrowed a cap,” she said. “Miss Tripp, third floor front, has a nice one. If you'll take me in my toque—”
K. said he'd take her in her toque, and waited with some anxiety, having not the faintest idea what a toque was. He was not without other anxieties. What if the sight of Tillie's baby did not do all that he expected? Good women could be most cruel. And Schwitter had been very vague. But here K. was more sure of himself: the little man's voice had expressed as exactly as words the sense of a bereavement that was not a grief.
He was counting on Mrs. McKee's old fondness for the girl to bring them together. But, as they neared the house with its lanterns and tables, its whitewashed stones outlining the drive, its small upper window behind which Joe was waiting for night, his heart failed him, rather. He had a masculine dislike for meddling, and yet—Mrs. McKee had suddenly seen the name in the wooden arch over the gate: “Schwitter's.”
“I'm not going in there, Mr. Le Moyne.”
“Tillie's not in the house. She's back in the barn.”
“In the barn!”
“She didn't approve of all that went on there, so she moved out. It's very comfortable and clean; it smells of hay. You'd be surprised how nice it is.”
“The like of her!” snorted Mrs. McKee. “She's late with her conscience, I'm thinking.”
“Last night,” K. remarked, hands on the wheel, but car stopped, “she had a child there. It—it's rather like very old times, isn't it? A man-child, Mrs. McKee, not in a manger, of course.”
“What do you want me to do?” Mrs. McKee's tone, which had been fierce at the beginning, ended feebly.
“I want you to go in and visit her, as you would any woman who'd had a new baby and needed a friend. Lie a little—” Mrs. McKee gasped. “Tell her the baby's pretty. Tell her you've been wanting to see her.” His tone was suddenly stern. “Lie a little, for your soul's sake.”
She wavered, and while she wavered he drove her in under the arch with the shameful name, and back to the barn. But there he had the tact to remain in the car, and Mrs. McKee's peace with Tillie was made alone. When, five minutes later, she beckoned him from the door of the barn, her eyes were red.
“Come in, Mr. K.,” she said. “The wife's dead, poor thing. They're going to be married right away.”
The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. K. entered the barn. At the door to Tillie's room he uncovered his head. The child was asleep at her breast.
The five thousand dollar check from Mr. Lorenz had saved Palmer Howe's credit. On the strength of the deposit, he borrowed a thousand at the bank with which he meant to pay his bills, arrears at the University and Country Clubs, a hundred dollars lost throwing aces with poker dice, and various small obligations of Christine's.
The immediate result of the money was good. He drank nothing for a week, went into the details of the new venture with Christine's father, sat at home with Christine on her balcony in the evenings. With the knowledge that he could pay his debts, he postponed the day. He liked the feeling of a bank account in four figures.
The first evening or two Christine's pleasure in having him there gratified him. He felt kind, magnanimous, almost virtuous. On the third evening he was restless. It occurred to him that his wife was beginning to take his presence as a matter of course. He wanted cold bottled beer. When he found that the ice was out and the beer warm and flat, he was furious.
Christine had been making a fight, although her heart was only half in it. She was resolutely good-humored, ignored the past, dressed for Palmer in the things he liked. They still took their dinners at the Lorenz house up the street. When she saw that the haphazard table service there irritated him, she coaxed her mother into getting a butler.
The Street sniffed at the butler behind his stately back. Secretly and in its heart, it was proud of him. With a half-dozen automobiles, and Christine Howe putting on low neck in the evenings, and now a butler, not to mention Harriet Kennedy's Mimi, it ceased to pride itself on its commonplaceness, ignorant of the fact that in its very lack of affectation had lain its charm.
On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He had seen Grace Irving that day for the first time but once since the motor accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past few months had not included women.
The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified the care-free days before his marriage; perhaps the attraction was deeper, fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson was shot. The sight of her walking sedately along in her shop-girl's black dress had been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that she meant to pass him, he fell into step beside her.
“I believe you were going to cut me!”
“I was in a hurry.”
“Still in the store?”
“Yes.” And, after a second's hesitation: “I'm keeping straight, too.”
“How are you getting along?”
“Pretty well. I've had my salary raised.”
“Do you have to walk as fast as this?”
“I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I—”
He eyed her suspiciously.
“Early! What for?”
“I go to the hospital. The Rosenfeld boy is still there, you know.”
“Oh!”
But a moment later he burst out irritably:—
“That was an accident, Grace. The boy took the chance when he engaged to drive the car. I'm sorry, of course. I dream of the little devil sometimes, lying there. I'll tell you what I'll do,” he added magnanimously. “I'll stop in and talk to Wilson. He ought to have done something before this.”
“The boy's not strong enough yet. I don't think you can do anything for him, unless—”
The monstrous injustice of the thing overcame her. Palmer and she walking about, and the boy lying on his hot bed! She choked.
“Well?”
“He worries about his mother. If you could give her some money, it would help.”
“Money! Good Heavens—I owe everybody.”
“You owe him too, don't you? He'll never walk again.”
“I can't give them ten dollars. I don't see that I'm under any obligation, anyhow. I paid his board for two months in the hospital.”
When she did not acknowledge this generosity,—amounting to forty-eight dollars,—his irritation grew. Her silence was an accusation. Her manner galled him, into the bargain. She was too calm in his presence, too cold. Where she had once palpitated visibly under his warm gaze, she was now self-possessed and quiet. Where it had pleased his pride to think that he had given her up, he found that the shoe was on the other foot.
At the entrance to a side street she stopped.
“I turn off here.”
“May I come and see you sometime?”
“No, please.”
“That's flat, is it?”
“It is, Palmer.”
He swung around savagely and left her.
The next day he drew the thousand dollars from the bank. A good many of his debts he wanted to pay in cash; there was no use putting checks through, with incriminating indorsements. Also, he liked the idea of carrying a roll of money around. The big fellows at the clubs always had a wad and peeled off bills like skin off an onion. He took a couple of drinks to celebrate his approaching immunity from debt.
He played auction bridge that afternoon in a private room at one of the hotels with the three men he had lunched with. Luck seemed to be with him. He won eighty dollars, and thrust it loose in his trousers pocket. Money seemed to bring money! If he could carry the thousand around for a day or so, something pretty good might come of it.
He had been drinking a little all afternoon. When the game was over, he bought drinks to celebrate his victory. The losers treated, too, to show they were no pikers. Palmer was in high spirits. He offered to put up the eighty and throw for it. The losers mentioned dinner and various engagements.
Palmer did not want to go home. Christine would greet him with raised eyebrows. They would eat a stuffy Lorenz dinner, and in the evening Christine would sit in the lamplight and drive him mad with soft music. He wanted lights, noise, the smiles of women. Luck was with him, and he wanted to be happy.
At nine o'clock that night he found Grace. She had moved to a cheap apartment which she shared with two other girls from the store. The others were out. It was his lucky day, surely.
His drunkenness was of the mind, mostly. His muscles were well controlled. The lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth were slightly accentuated, his eyes open a trifle wider than usual. That and a slight paleness of the nostrils were the only evidences of his condition. But Grace knew the signs.
“You can't come in.”
“Of course I'm coming in.”
She retreated before him, her eyes watchful. Men in his condition were apt to be as quick with a blow as with a caress. But, having gained his point, he was amiable.
“Get your things on and come out. We can take in a roof-garden.”
“I've told you I'm not doing that sort of thing.”
He was ugly in a flash.
“You've got somebody else on the string.”
“Honestly, no. There—there has never been anybody else, Palmer.”
He caught her suddenly and jerked her toward him.
“You let me hear of anybody else, and I'll cut the guts out of him!”
He held her for a second, his face black and fierce. Then, slowly and inevitably, he drew her into his arms. He was drunk, and she knew it. But, in the queer loyalty of her class, he was the only man she had cared for. She cared now. She took him for that moment, felt his hot kisses on her mouth, her throat, submitted while his rather brutal hands bruised her arms in fierce caresses. Then she put him from her resolutely.
“Now you're going.”
“The hell I'm going!”
But he was less steady than he had been. The heat of the little flat brought more blood to his head. He wavered as he stood just inside the door.
“You must go back to your wife.”
“She doesn't want me. She's in love with a fellow at the house.”
“Palmer, hush!”
“Lemme come in and sit down, won't you?”
She let him pass her into the sitting-room. He dropped into a chair.
“You've turned me down, and now Christine—she thinks I don't know. I'm no fool; I see a lot of things. I'm no good. I know that I've made her miserable. But I made a merry little hell for you too, and you don't kick about it.”
“You know that.”
She was watching him gravely. She had never seen him just like this. Nothing else, perhaps, could have shown her so well what a broken reed he was.
“I got you in wrong. You were a good girl before I knew you. You're a good girl now. I'm not going to do you any harm, I swear it. I only wanted to take you out for a good time. I've got money. Look here!” He drew out the roll of bills and showed it to her. Her eyes opened wide. She had never known him to have much money.
“Lots more where that comes from.”
A new look flashed into her eyes, not cupidity, but purpose.
She was instantly cunning.
“Aren't you going to give me some of that?”
“What for?”
“I—I want some clothes.”
The very drunk have the intuition sometimes of savages or brute beasts.
“You lie.”
“I want it for Johnny Rosenfeld.”
He thrust it back into his pocket, but his hand retained its grasp of it.
“That's it,” he complained. “Don't lemme be happy for a minute! Throw it all up to me!”
“You give me that for the Rosenfeld boy, and I'll go out with you.”
“If I give you all that, I won't have any money to go out with!”
But his eyes were wavering. She could see victory.
“Take off enough for the evening.”
But he drew himself up.
“I'm no piker,” he said largely. “Whole hog or nothing. Take it.”
He held it out to her, and from another pocket produced the eighty dollars, in crushed and wrinkled notes.
“It's my lucky day,” he said thickly. “Plenty more where this came from. Do anything for you. Give it to the little devil. I—” He yawned. “God, this place is hot!”
His head dropped back on his chair; he propped his sagging legs on a stool. She knew him—knew that he would sleep almost all night. She would have to make up something to tell the other girls; but no matter—she could attend to that later.
She had never had a thousand dollars in her hands before. It seemed smaller than that amount. Perhaps he had lied to her. She paused, in pinning on her hat, to count the bills. It was all there.
K. spent all of the evening of that day with Wilson. He was not to go for Joe until eleven o'clock. The injured man's vitality was standing him in good stead. He had asked for Sidney and she was at his bedside. Dr. Ed had gone.
“I'm going, Max. The office is full, they tell me,” he said, bending over the bed. “I'll come in later, and if they'll make me a shakedown, I'll stay with you to-night.”
The answer was faint, broken but distinct. “Get some sleep...I've been a poor stick...try to do better—” His roving eyes fell on the dog collar on the stand. He smiled, “Good old Bob!” he said, and put his hand over Dr. Ed's, as it lay on the bed.
K. found Sidney in the room, not sitting, but standing by the window. The sick man was dozing. One shaded light burned in a far corner. She turned slowly and met his eyes. It seemed to K. that she looked at him as if she had never really seen him before, and he was right. Readjustments are always difficult.
Sidney was trying to reconcile the K. she had known so well with this new K., no longer obscure, although still shabby, whose height had suddenly become presence, whose quiet was the quiet of infinite power.
She was suddenly shy of him, as he stood looking down at her. He saw the gleam of her engagement ring on her finger. It seemed almost defiant. As though she had meant by wearing it to emphasize her belief in her lover.
They did not speak beyond their greeting, until he had gone over the record. Then:—
“We can't talk here. I want to talk to you, K.”
He led the way into the corridor. It was very dim. Far away was the night nurse's desk, with its lamp, its annunciator, its pile of records. The passage floor reflected the light on glistening boards.
“I have been thinking until I am almost crazy, K. And now I know how it happened. It was Joe.”
“The principal thing is, not how it happened, but that he is going to get well, Sidney.”
She stood looking down, twisting her ring around her finger.
“Is Joe in any danger?”
“We are going to get him away to-night. He wants to go to Cuba. He'll get off safely, I think.”
“WE are going to get him away! YOU are, you mean. You shoulder all our troubles, K., as if they were your own.”
“I?” He was genuinely surprised. “Oh, I see. You mean—but my part in getting Joe off is practically nothing. As a matter of fact, Schwitter has put up the money. My total capital in the world, after paying the taxicab to-day, is seven dollars.”
“The taxicab?”
“By Jove, I was forgetting! Best news you ever heard of! Tillie married and has a baby—all in twenty-four hours! Boy—they named it Le Moyne. Squalled like a maniac when the water went on its head. I—I took Mrs. McKee out in a hired machine. That's what happened to my capital.” He grinned sheepishly. “She said she would have to go in her toque. I had awful qualms. I thought it was a wrapper.”
“You, of course,” she said. “You find Max and save him—don't look like that! You did, didn't you? And you get Joe away, borrowing money to send him. And as if that isn't enough, when you ought to have been getting some sleep, you are out taking a friend to Tillie, and being godfather to the baby.”
He looked uncomfortable, almost guilty.
“I had a day off. I—”
“When I look back and remember how all these months I've been talking about service, and you said nothing at all, and all the time you were living what I preached—I'm so ashamed, K.”
He would not allow that. It distressed him. She saw that, and tried to smile.
“When does Joe go?”
“To-night. I'm to take him across the country to the railroad. I was wondering—”
“Yes?”
“I'd better explain first what happened, and why it happened. Then if you are willing to send him a line, I think it would help. He saw a girl in white in the car and followed in his own machine. He thought it was you, of course. He didn't like the idea of your going to Schwitter's. Carlotta was taken ill. And Schwitter and—and Wilson took her upstairs to a room.”
“Do you believe that, K.?”
“I do. He saw Max coming out and misunderstood. He fired at him then.”
“He did it for me. I feel very guilty, K., as if it all comes back to me. I'll write to him, of course. Poor Joe!”
He watched her go down the hall toward the night nurse's desk. He would have given everything just then for the right to call her back, to take her in his arms and comfort her. She seemed so alone. He himself had gone through loneliness and heartache, and the shadow was still on him. He waited until he saw her sit down at the desk and take up a pen. Then he went back into the quiet room.
He stood by the bedside, looking down. Wilson was breathing quietly: his color was coming up, as he rallied from the shock. In K.'s mind now was just one thought—to bring him through for Sidney, and then to go away. He might follow Joe to Cuba. There were chances there. He could do sanitation work, or he might try the Canal.
The Street would go on working out its own salvation. He would have to think of something for the Rosenfelds. And he was worried about Christine. But there again, perhaps it would be better if he went away. Christine's story would have to work itself out. His hands were tied.
He was glad in a way that Sidney had asked no questions about him, had accepted his new identity so calmly. It had been overshadowed by the night tragedy. It would have pleased him if she had shown more interest, of course. But he understood. It was enough, he told himself, that he had helped her, that she counted on him. But more and more he knew in his heart that it was not enough. “I'd better get away from here,” he told himself savagely.
And having taken the first step toward flight, as happens in such cases, he was suddenly panicky with fear, fear that he would get out of hand, and take her in his arms, whether or no; a temptation to run from temptation, to cut everything and go with Joe that night. But there his sense of humor saved him. That would be a sight for the gods, two defeated lovers flying together under the soft September moon.
Some one entered the room. He thought it was Sidney and turned with the light in his eyes that was only for her. It was Carlotta.
She was not in uniform. She wore a dark skirt and white waist and her high heels tapped as she crossed the room. She came directly to him.
“He is better, isn't he?”
“He is rallying. Of course it will be a day or two before we are quite sure.”
She stood looking down at Wilson's quiet figure.
“I guess you know I've been crazy about him,” she said quietly. “Well, that's all over. He never really cared for me. I played his game and I—lost. I've been expelled from the school.”
Quite suddenly she dropped on her knees beside the bed, and put her cheek close to the sleeping man's hand. When after a moment she rose, she was controlled again, calm, very white.
“Will you tell him, Dr. Edwardes, when he is conscious, that I came in and said good-bye?”
“I will, of course. Do you want to leave any other message?”
She hesitated, as if the thought tempted her. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
“What would be the use? He doesn't want any message from me.”
She turned toward the door. But K. could not let her go like that. Her face frightened him. It was too calm, too controlled. He followed her across the room.
“What are your plans?”
“I haven't any. I'm about through with my training, but I've lost my diploma.”
“I don't like to see you going away like this.”
She avoided his eyes, but his kindly tone did what neither the Head nor the Executive Committee had done that day. It shook her control.
“What does it matter to you? You don't owe me anything.”
“Perhaps not. One way and another I've known you a long time.”
“You never knew anything very good.”
“I'll tell you where I live, and—”
“I know where you live.”
“Will you come to see me there? We may be able to think of something.”
“What is there to think of? This story will follow me wherever I go! I've tried twice for a diploma and failed. What's the use?”
But in the end he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the city until she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone, a straight figure with haunted eyes, that he reflected whimsically that once again he had defeated his own plans for flight.
In the corridor outside the door Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back? Why not tell him? He was kind; he was going to do something for her. But the old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to her room.
Sidney brought her letter to Joe back to K. She was flushed with the effort and with a new excitement.
“This is the letter, K., and—I haven't been able to say what I wanted, exactly. You'll let him know, won't you, how I feel, and how I blame myself?”
K. promised gravely.
“And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been! Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wants you to come back.”
The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytime were chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot and an electric fan hummed in a far corner. Under its sporadic breezes, as it turned, the ward was trying to sleep.
Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened to him. A fortune lay under his pillow. He was sure it was there, for ever since it came his hot hand had clutched it.
He was quite sure that somehow or other K. had had a hand in it. When he disclaimed it, the boy was bewildered.
“It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow,” he said. “But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no charity.”
“Maybe Mr. Howe sent it.”
“You can bet your last match he didn't.”
In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully.
“He works in the gas office,” he said, “I've seen him there. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?”
But the story had seized on his imagination.
“Say, Mr. Le Moyne.”
“Yes, Jack.”
He called him “Jack.” The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. After all, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a state license?
“They've got a queer story about you here in the ward.”
“Not scandal, I trust, Jack!”
“They say that you're a surgeon; that you operated on Dr. Wilson and saved his life. They say that you're the king pin where you came from.” He eyed K. wistfully. “I know it's a damn lie, but if it's true—”
“I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact I operated on Dr. Wilson to-day. I—I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn't explain to you sooner. For—various reasons—I gave up that—that line of business. To-day they rather forced my hand.”
“Don't you think you could do something for me, sir?”
When K. did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation.
“I've been lying here a good while. I didn't say much because I knew I'd have to take a chance. Either I'd pull through or I wouldn't, and the odds were—well, I didn't say much. The old lady's had a lot of trouble. But now, with THIS under my pillow for her, I've got a right to ask. I'll take a chance, if you will.”
“It's only a chance, Jack.”
“I know that. But lie here and watch these soaks off the street. Old, a lot of them, and gettin' well to go out and starve, and—My God! Mr. Le Moyne, they can walk, and I can't.”
K. drew a long breath. He had started, and now he must go on. Faith in himself or no faith, he must go on. Life, that had loosed its hold on him for a time, had found him again.
“I'll go over you carefully to-morrow, Jack. I'll tell you your chances honestly.”
“I have a thousand dollars. Whatever you charge—”
“I'll take it out of my board bill in the new house!”
At four o'clock that morning K. got back from seeing Joe off. The trip had been without accident.
Over Sidney's letter Joe had shed a shamefaced tear or two. And during the night ride, with K. pushing the car to the utmost, he had felt that the boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray-white line into the night, he tried to talk a little courage into the boy's sick heart.
“You'll see new people, new life,” he said. “In a month from now you'll wonder why you ever hung around the Street. I have a feeling that you're going to make good down there.”
And once, when the time for parting was very near,—“No matter what happens, keep on believing in yourself. I lost my faith in myself once. It was pretty close to hell.”
Joe's response showed his entire self-engrossment.
“If he dies, I'm a murderer.”
“He's not going to die,” said K. stoutly.
At four o'clock in the morning he left the car at the garage and walked around to the little house. He had had no sleep for forty-five hours; his eyes were sunken in his head; the skin over his temples looked drawn and white. His clothes were wrinkled; the soft hat he habitually wore was white with the dust of the road.
As he opened the hall door, Christine stirred in the room beyond. She came out fully dressed.
“K., are you sick?”
“Rather tired. Why in the world aren't you in bed?”
“Palmer has just come home in a terrible rage. He says he's been robbed of a thousand dollars.”
“Where?”
Christine shrugged her shoulders.
“He doesn't know, or says he doesn't. I'm glad of it. He seems thoroughly frightened. It may be a lesson.”
In the dim hall light he realized that her face was strained and set. She looked on the verge of hysteria.
“Poor little woman,” he said. “I'm sorry, Christine.”
The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control.
“Oh, K.! Take me away. Take me away! I can't stand it any longer.”
She held her arms out to him, and because he was very tired and lonely, and because more than anything else in the world just then he needed a woman's arms, he drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to her hair.
“Poor girl!” he said. “Poor Christine! Surely there must be some happiness for us somewhere.”
But the next moment he let her go and stepped back.
“I'm sorry.” Characteristically he took the blame. “I shouldn't have done that—You know how it is with me.”
“Will it always be Sidney?”
“I'm afraid it will always be Sidney.”