"Stop!" she cried in a hard voice. "Don't you dare to leave this room with that money!"
Challoner blinked at her stupidly.
"What are you going to do?" he demanded.
Miriam laughed hysterically.
"What am I going to do? I know what you're going to do! You're going to bring that fifty dollars back here to me!"
"Indeed? Well I'm not!" reiterated Challoner.
Miriam tapped the pistol in her hand.
"Do you see this?"
He grunted fearlessly.
"Well, what of it?"
"Give me that money," she insisted, approaching him. As yet she had not levelled the weapon; and Challoner, seeing his opportunity, started once more.
"Stop!" It was a new voice that spoke now: the blow that had struck her face had suddenly transformed her into a desperate woman.
Challoner stopped; for he saw the weapon trained upon him. Again, without affecting her aim, she tapped it.
"Listen to me!" she cried, her voice growing hoarser as she went on, "this thing has been responsible for one murder, and now, Lawrence Challoner, I'm going to kill you with it. It's the last straw that breaks the camel's back. I hate you! I despise you!" she raged. "I loved you once, I have always loved you until now; you loved me once, too, I know—though other people thought that you had married me for my money. But I knew different—you couldn't fool me about that! And it was because of that love that I have lived for you and nothing else. You have been everything in the world to me—my god, almost. But it is all over now! I'm through with you, and I'm going to have you thrown like some soiled rag into the gutters of humanity—where you belong!"
She paused for breath, but not once did her weapon falter.
"There are two things," she resumed, "that stand out in my memory just now. The first is the night when you did not come home! Do you remember that night?—No—there were too many of them later on! But I have never forgotten that night I spent in the torture chamber! It was a white night for me."
Again she paused, and her voice deepened as she said:—
"Lawrence Challoner, the time will come when you will wail and whine and wonder why I don't come to you—why it is not my footsteps that you hear! But you will wait for me through a long, long night, and I shall never come....
"Oh, it does me good when I recall the day that Prosecutor Murgatroyd told those twelve men the kind of a man you were," she declared scornfully. "It does me good, too, to recall how you writhed under the lash and quivered when he cut you to the quick. But now I'm going to do more to you than you ever did to me—more than Murgatroyd did to you...."
She stopped, and then went on mercilessly:—
"I'm going to tear your soul out—yes, you've got a soul, or I would never have gone down into the depths with you! But now I'm through serving you without receiving so much as a smile," she continued fiercely, her body swaying, but her aim still true. "I don't ask for my rights or my just dues; a smile and a kind word now and then is all I ask. My pride is not all gone; I'd like to be proud of you just once. I lie about you to my friends—to my dearest friends—and you convict me with the miserable truth! I clung to you through all your vices, I clung to you even when you killed, I clung to you because I knew that somewhere within you there was something that clamoured for me, that clung to my affection. But feeble as it was, it is dead now. And you are the shell, the ugly hulk, a thing without the soul that I cared for! But I'm through with you—I'm going to kill you—don't you move—I'm through with you—through—" The next moment she dropped the weapon, and it fell clattering to the floor.
"No, no," she cried, apparently calm now. "I won't kill you—I wouldn't be guilty of such a thing. You're not worth it," she burst out into a wild laugh. "You're not worth it—no—no—no—" she cried, trailing off into hysteria.
At that instant Shirley Bloodgood once more entered the room. Some instinct had brought her back again.
"Miriam!" she exclaimed.
Miriam burst forth into another wild laugh, and then threw herself into the arms of the girl, where she lay unconscious for some moments.
"She's fainted," said Shirley, glancing at Challoner, accusingly.
Challoner stood stupidly where he was for an instant. Then he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill, saying in a new strange tone:—
"Shirley, I took this fifty dollar bill from the drawer over there—you'd better take it—it belongs to you."
The girl took it wonderingly.
"I'll take care of her," Challoner went on, gently taking the form of his young wife from Shirley and holding her in his arms.
It was thus that Shirley Bloodgood left them; and as the door closed on her, Challoner leaned over Miriam and stroked her face and kissed her affectionately while the tears rolled down his cheeks. That same night she was taken to a hospital with a raging fever.
The following morning, James Lawrence Challoner did that which he had never done since his marriage: he started out to look for a job. Something, which he could not explain, was forcing him to try to get work; but had he been given to self-analysis, he would have known that it was Miriam's wrath in her adversity that had kindled into flame the flickering, dying spark of his manhood.
Until now, Challoner had assumed that work was to be had by any man for the mere asking of it; but he was surprised, startled, shocked, to find that it was not; that is to say, the clerkships and such work as he thought would be to his liking; and each night he returned to his cheerless, lonely room in the tenement, sore, leg-weary, after a long unsuccessful quest. Work? Little by little he was learning that there was no work "lying round loose" for the James Lawrence Challoners of this world! And yet he persevered.
"I must find something to do," he kept saying over and over again to himself.
And then one day at the end of two weeks he found himself at the end of a long line of Italian labourers who were seeking employment.
When the foreman came to Challoner, he called out in surprise:—
"What do you want?"
"Work!" replied the man inside the shell of Challoner.
"With the 'ginneys'?"
"With the 'ginneys,'" assented Challoner.
The foreman stared.
"All right," he said, after thinking a bit, "let's have your name."
For a brief second Challoner hesitated; there was a new light in his eyes when he said:—
"Challoner—J. L."
And all that day he worked—worked with his hands, and with his feet—worked with the gang tamping concrete. It is a simple enough process when one stands aside and looks at it; but after two hours of it, Challoner thought he would drop in his tracks.
It so happened that his work was on a new department store going up in town. Concrete suddenly had come into prominence as a building material. Challoner and the gang stood inside a wooden mould some two or three feet wide and as long as the wall which they were building; another gang poured in about them a mixture of sand, cement, and stone. Sand, cement, and stone meant nothing to Challoner, except that when those three things were mixed with water and dumped down into his trench, he had to lift up his tamper and pound, pound, pound the mixture into solidity, in order to fill the crevices, and to make the wall hard and smooth. Meanwhile, his feet were soaked; his boots were caked with cement; his hands were blistered frightfully; and his face was burned by the sun. Nevertheless, Challoner sweated, toiled on.
For days after this first day of labour he was stiff, lame, and sore all over. In his soul he wanted to die; but he lived on. And then, much to his amazement, he found that the harder he worked, the better he felt: the poison of his dissolute living was working toward the surface.
At last the day came when the doctors allowed him to visit Miriam in the hospital.
"I've got a job, dear," he whispered to her. That was all he told her then; but those five words were a history to Miriam.
Another day when again visiting her at the hospital, he told her how they mixed the stuff, how they made the wooden moulds, and about the crowds that gathered around them, for the process was a new one.
"People don't believe in it, don't think it will stand," he said, watching her closely.
On her face came the interested look that he so desired, and she asked:—
"Will it, Laurie?"
"Like a rock," he assured her.
But Challoner was ignorant of the danger then, for he had not reckoned with the human element in the character of construction. All he knew was that he worked from morning until night at the cheapest of all cheap, unskilled labour.
After a little while Miriam put out a thin hand and let it rest in his, saying:—
"How much do they give you, dear?"
Not without a suggestion of pride in his voice, the man answered:—
"A dollar and a half a day."
A dollar and a half a day! Surely a mere pittance; and yet the woman's face was radiant with joy.
It was not long before Challoner found that his arms and back and shoulders were perceptibly enlarging. At first it was merely at his physical strength that he rejoiced; but this, in turn, soon made way for a greater joy: he realised that his soul was surging back into his body; he had driven it out, but it would not stay away.
From time to time, Challoner noted that the tamping was developing him too much on one side. With the long broom handle, the weight down at the end, his downward stroke had been a right-handed one. So now he tried using force from the left side. And with that Challoner made a discovery!
After many experiments it had been gradually borne in upon him that light but incessant and vigorous tamping in one spot was more effective than the heavy, battering strokes employed by the Italians. The stuff was smooth and slippery when it first came in, and, consequently, all that was necessary was something to induce the stones to slip gently into solidity.
"If the tampers were only light enough," he argued to himself, "a fellow could almost use two of them, one in each hand."
And so he tried it with the two tampers that were on the work; but they proved to be too heavy. Then, one night, he made a pair of lighter ones and experimented with them. It was too much of a strain; he could not handle them satisfactorily. Somehow, the work needed the concentrated effort of two arms.
All one night he sat up trying to figure it out. "And yet," he assured himself repeatedly, "I'm on the right track." And so it proved. For at four o'clock in the morning the idea came.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "A pump handle!"
A week later, Challoner rigged up a simple contrivance depending upon strong leverage—one that would do the work of a man much more easily.
"It will do the work oftwo," he told himself.
But when Challoner had taken it to the works, the authorities refused him permission to use it.
"This here is a real job. We haven't time to monkey with things like that!" they told him with a sneer.
But Challoner was not to be turned aside so easily; and still he persisted:—
"It will do the work of two."
Now it must not be supposed that Challoner was of a particularly inventive nature; not a bit of it. Simply, he was a man of average intelligence, working at a dollar and a half a day. His intelligence, however, was superior to that of the men about him. Moreover, his brain was independently busy, while his hands worked.
So now he rigged himself up a small trial mould, bought some sand and cement and rock, and demonstrated the superiority of his pump-handle contrivance with its strong leverage, its regularity and its strong, steady beat, beat, beat, with two light tampers upon adjacent spots. When they knocked off the mould, these same authorities found that Challoner was right: this bit of concrete wall was as solid as if it had been cut out of smooth azoic rock. So they called out:—
"All right, Challoner—try it on!"
Challoner tried it on the big wall. It worked like a charm.
At the pay-window, at the end of the week Challoner said:—
"I want two dollars and a half—two dollars and a half a day, now."
"What for?" came from the voice inside.
Challoner replied firmly:—
"Because I've done the work of more than two men." The next day he was paid at the rate of two dollars a day.
Now he was allowed to have one of the corners all to himself for his contrivance. The week after that they laid off two men: Challoner now was doing the work of three men. In fact, from that time he and his machine were made the pace-makers for the entire line of workmen.
The boss was jubilant.
"Gee! I guess we'll get this job done on time after all!" he was heard to say. "I thought for a while the old man was in for a few fines sure."
Nobody else tried Challoner's device; nobody else knew how to use it. In a way, that was a satisfaction to him. It was a toy, something that he had created to lighten his labours. On the other hand, he found that in his eagerness he laboured three times as hard as before; besides, he was even better at the work than the Italians who knew it, had become accustomed to it, and who were better fitted for it. And yet, there was nothing wonderful in this contrivance of his. But Challoner was convinced that if, sometime, he could induce the boss to put it into constant operation, it would save that gentleman a great deal of money. Nor did it ever enter Challoner's head to have it patented. Its principle was that of the lever, and, of course, even if he had tried, he could not have obtained a patent. In no way was there a dollar in it.
"But," he told himself, "if ever I go into this concrete business, I shall insist upon its use. As a business," he went on, "what can be more profitable than concrete? It produces a wall as solid as a rock and as indestructible as brick. Bricklayers receive five and six dollars a day,—and brick costs money. But this sand, cement, stone andunskilledlabour...." Challoner could see millions in it!
Meanwhile, he was useful at two and a half dollars a day. As we have seen, they had made him a pacemaker; now, they determined to put his brain to work for them: it became his duty to direct the mixing-gang at his end of the new store.
"Don't forget, now, watch out," said the superintendent, taking him aside. "So many barrels of cement, so many barrels of sand, and so much stone. Now say it as I told you."
And Challoner repeated for him: so many barrels of cement, so many barrels of sand, and so much stone. But when he was again alone, he said half aloud:—
"So, that's all there is to the concrete business!"
Challoner little knew.
The very first day that he watched the mixing process, he discovered that the mixer had put in too much rock and too much sand—and too little cement.
"Look here!" cried Challoner, "you've made a mistake! Two more barrels of cement go in there—do you understand?"
But the mixer merely grinned.
"Two more barrels of cement, I told you," persisted Challoner. The head-superintendent had given him his instructions, and Challoner meant to see that they were properly carried out.
Another grin from the mixer was all the satisfaction that he received. Instantly, Challoner leaped up on the platform and stood over the mixer. At that, the man waved his arm; his signal brought not the head-superintendent, but the general foreman of the work, who demanded gruffly:—
"What's the trouble here?"
Challoner explained in a few words.
"You blamed idiot!" burst out the raging foreman. "You leave the man alone! Do you think that he don't know how to mix concrete? Leave him alone, I say!"
But Challoner, now, was not a man to be so easily turned from his orders; and again he insisted:—
"Two more barrels of cement, I told you!"
And he kept on insisting so strenuously, that a little knot of labourers gathered around them to await the result. Finally, the foreman saw that the head-superintendent was coming toward them from far down the street.
"All right, then," he conceded reluctantly, "make it two more barrels of cement."
But that same afternoon, the foreman singled Challoner out and paid him. Then he lunged out, and striking Challoner on the shoulder lightly, he exclaimed:—
"There, you infernal jackass! You're discharged!"
"Discharged!" The exclamation fell from his lips before Challoner could check it; and notwithstanding his great disappointment, he made no further comment, but turned on his heel and left. The next day, however, he brought his case before the head-superintendent, who said:—
"If Perkins discharged you, I can't help it. I won't interfere."
"But what was I discharged for?"
"Oh, come now!" cried the superintendent; "you must know that you were discharged for stealing cement!"
Stunned for a moment, Challoner said not a word. Then slowly he began to understand. Graft! Yes, that was the solution of the matter. Cement was worth money in any market; and in the concrete business, nobody could tell,—until it was too late,—just how many barrels went into the mixture. Withbricks—there was no doubt about bricks. A brick was good or bad; you could tell that by a trowel. But concrete was bound to be a problem henceforth to the end of time.
So it turned out that Challoner was discharged for doing the thing the foreman was guilty of doing. At the time he had little thought of resentment. It is true that he might have "peached" on the foreman, complained to the head-superintendent, and got them to test the walls with a testing-hammer. But it was too late, besides, he knew now that the head-superintendent was tarred with the same stick.
After this incident, Challoner cultivated a habit of strolling into the offices of the various dealers in the city.
"What are the proper concrete proportions?" was his request in all of them.
Charts were taken out and consulted. There was no difference of opinion: all agreed that the head-superintendent's figures were out of the way, and by one barrel of cement.
Graft! There was no doubt about it in his mind; and he proceeded to figure out just where the trouble lay. On that department-store job there were several mixers. On every mixing the head-superintendent made one barrel of cement. There were several foremen. On every individual mixing, the foremen, severally, made two barrels of cement. In every mixing three barrels of cement were left out.
"But what about thewall?" Challoner asked himself when once more alone.
And so it came about that he found that in this business, of all businesses, there was a chance for an honest man. After a little while, he found another job—still at two dollars a day. It was beginning once more at the bottom, and working up, yet he did it. But the instant he had worked up, he was again confronted with a similar situation. It was a question of "shut up or get out!" Gradually, it is true, the burden of the song of these men shifted slightly, and became, "Come in with us, or keep silent."
A few more experiences of this sort, and it was given to Challoner to perceive that he had knowledge of these things in advance of the general public. People looked upon concrete as something marvellous. The agitation among the construction men, the newspaper accounts about its cheapness, together with the wonderful results obtained by its use in other cities, all combined to dazzle owners about to build.
From day to day, Challoner could see the demand for concrete increasing. He saw, too, that the price of brick was falling off, because concrete had awakened a new interest in the minds of the people, had aroused their enthusiasm. Plainly, Challoner was excited. He could see, could talk of nothing else. While Miriam was in the hospital he had begun to talk concrete with her; when she was convalescing and had returned to their rooms,—they had three now,—figuratively speaking, they had cement for breakfast and for supper. But it was his business now, and his whole mind was concentrated upon it.
And in all this there was a singular and valuable fact: Challoner was the only man in town,—literally the only man, because of the circumstances of the case,—outside of the contractors, who knew the business, and yet who had intelligence enough to understand the danger in concrete. Naturally, the contractors did not tell owners about graft. They did not warn their customers; they took chances; and needless to say, the owners themselves did not know.
Challoner was quick to seize his opportunity; besides, he was conscious that a duty rested upon him. Day and night he scanned the papers, and when he found a concrete contract recorded, he looked up the owner, saw him personally and told him facts. Of course, most of this was done at night and on holidays.
"You don't say so," the owner would respond, opening wide his eyes.
But Challoner mentioned no names; he merely outlined conditions. Some contractors, he acknowledged, were honest, perhaps most of them, but many were careless. And then the foremen on these jobs unquestionably were poorly paid. Surely the temptations were great.
"You don't say so," the owner would repeat.
And when the job started, this owner would put a competent man on to oversee it. Frequently it happened that this man was J. L. Challoner. The time came when he made five dollars a day. Moreover, the time came when many of the good concrete walls in town owed their strength to him.
But even though his time was full, and money was plentiful, it did not interfere with Challoner's interest in the evolution of concrete and concrete graft; nor was he slow to recognise its value to politicians; and so when the "ring"—for there was still a "ring" in spite of the efforts of Murgatroyd—sprang its little surprise, Challoner knew what was coming.
"A new concrete hospital," said the "ring," and saw in it the thin edge of the wedge, for they foresaw a new concrete jail. Possibly they could go still further: if they could educate the people up to it, they might have more new concrete city buildings.
However, the new concrete hospital came first. It was one-third finished when J. L. Challoner applied for, and secured a job as foreman of the mixing-gang on the east wing. The men who employed him did not know him; if they had, they would have dismissed him at once.
"Great Scott! The graft in cement is appalling!" Challoner exclaimed before he had been on the work twenty minutes. He voiced his protest; he would not stop voicing it: for he found that the hospital was being built chiefly of sand and broken stone.
And so it was that the superintendent said:—
"I'll have toseehim, boys. We must have him in with us on this."
But Challoner could not be "seen."
The superintendent shook his head, and later to the contractors he remarked:—
"Challoner is a dangerous man, I'm afraid."
The contractors laughed.
"Oh, he'll come around, all right!" they assured him. "They all do, after a bit."
But in this case, the superintendent happened to be right. And the "ring,"—the inner circle of the political organisation,—descended upon Challoner like a thousand of brick.
"Come, come," they said, "what's your game? What's your price? Name it and shut up. How many barrels of cement a day? Come, come now——"
Challoner still shook his head.
"Hang it!" they exclaimed; "he's too noisy."
Then they reasoned with him; but it did no good.
"It's a case of using force," they told each other. "To-morrow night——"
But to-morrow night never came for Challoner. The game of graft had sickened him.
"I have got to tell somebody about this," he assured himself. And then an inspiration came to him. "I know, I'll go to Murgatroyd!"
"Murgatroyd!" He shuddered as he repeated the name, for the prosecutor had been connected with the thing that had become to Challoner and his wife a subject forbidden and unmentioned.
But, nevertheless, he went to Murgatroyd.
It is, of course, not given us to know what dreams of fame were in Murgatroyd's heart when he determined to throw down the gage at the feet of Cradlebaugh's; but, at all events, it took the best kind of courage and mettle; and certainly from the hour that he had sent for Pemmican and placed him on the rack in a vain attempt to get evidence, not to speak of the time when Mrs. Challoner exposed him in the court-room, he had never ceased his investigations of the secrets of the big gambling-house. But no sooner had he come to the conclusion that he had penetrated the mystery than he found himself in the centre of a vast maelstrom of his own creation: Cradlebaugh's was but a patch in a wilderness of riot and corruption, an incident in a series of big events; and Murgatroyd discovered that he was battling not only with a single institution, but with a huge political principle—he was at war with a big city.
Another man might have been discouraged, for millionaires, large property owners, reputable tax-payers, statesmen of the highest order, and even his best friends came to him and begged him to call off his crusade; but he only shook his head. As he proceeded, he made the discovery that a political organisation is not an organisation—it is a man; that crime is personified; and that corruption is concrete. And as the battle waged, he found himself constantly seeking his old stamping-ground—Cradlebaugh's. That, somehow, seemed to be the keystone of the edifice that he assaulted.
Then, one day, agitated, breathless but triumphant, Mixley and McGrath burst into the prosecutor's office.
"Chief," spoke out Mixley joyously, "we followed your instructions to the letter." And beckoning to his partner, "McGrath and me has got the goods!" McGrath pulled from his pocket a bulky document made up of depositions, and said:—
"This here is the report, sir."
While Murgatroyd read the document, his subordinates stood watching him with anxious eyes. Long before he had concluded they saw in his face the expression that they had waited for.
"By George, you don't mean it!" exclaimed Murgatroyd, suddenly rising to his feet and smiting his desk with terrific force.
"You can bet your bottom dollar that we do!" returned Mixley.
Murgatroyd clenched his teeth with inward satisfaction. Presently he said:—
"I've waited for this for many months."
After re-reading the report he ordered his men to go to Broderick and Thorne with the request that they come to him immediately.
An hour later Graham Thorne made his appearance, Broderick waddling in after him. Murgatroyd passed over a box of cigars.
Broderick lighted, and after puffing contentedly for a time, commented:—
"Good cigars, these. Strikes me that they're your first contribution to the campaign fund, eh?" And helping himself to three more out of the box, he tucked them away in his pocket with a wink at Murgatroyd, and asked:—
"Any Challoner money in these?"
Murgatroyd smiled grimly.
"You seem ready enough to burn it, anyhow," he answered. And puffing also on his cigar he said, "I wanted to have a little confidential talk with you gentlemen."
Broderick nudged Thorne and remarked:—
"Perhaps the prosecutor's goin' to divvy with us, Thorne!"
Murgatroyd smiled and laughed; but somehow the smile and laugh did not include Thorne.
"I'm not going to divvy up, as you call it, just yet—notjustyet," he replied, pointedly.
Broderick shut his eyes and digested the glance and the reply. Both seemed to satisfy him, for he nodded genially.
Rising now, and sitting lazily across one corner of his desk, Murgatroyd turned his attention to Thorne.
"I wanted to have a talk," he said casually, "with the man who owns Cradlebaugh's."
Thorne looked about the room, then he inquired innocently:—
"He doesn't seem to have arrived as yet—where is he?"
Murgatroyd blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and answered:—
"Oh, yes he has—his name is Graham Thorne." Murgatroyd could see the pallor of Thorne's face turn to a deeper white; he could feel that the ruddiness upon the countenance of Broderick had deepened into scarlet.
There was a pause. After a moment, Thorne rose and said indignantly:—
"Say that again!"
"With pleasure," returned Murgatroyd, "I say that you are the hitherto unknown owner of the most notorious gambling-house within the State."
There was another pause in which Thorne looked at Broderick and Broderick looked at Thorne.
"This is preposterous!" exclaimed Thorne.
Murgatroyd made no answer. Then he proceeded with assertions.
"And with the earnings of that gambling-house," he said evenly, "you have stopped the mouths, closed the eyes and ears, and paralysed the hands of the authorities. With the earnings of that gambling-house, you have bought the influence of Chairman Peter Broderick, who lives upon those earnings—grows fat upon them."
Broderick's eyes bulged; he, too, rose and started toward the prosecutor.
"Say," he yelled, "I'll open up my anatomy to you! Pick out any ounce o' fat and tell me Cradlebaugh's put it there! Come on—my fat is my own—I earned it by the sweat of my brow!"
With perfect coolness, Murgatroyd continued:—
"Thorne, ever since you sprang into prominence here, you have posed in this community as a self-made man—boasted of carving your success by industry, integrity and brains. And yet—" pointing a finger of accusation toward him—"you have bought every item of your reputation, every iota of your respectability!" He stopped for an instant, and then: "Every inch of your political progress, you've bought with this tainted money, and with the same kind of money you'd buy the United States Senatorship—if you could."
"Lies—all deliberate lies!" Thorne ejaculated.
"Worse than slanderin' my fat!" added Peter Broderick.
Before Murgatroyd could speak again, Thorne took another tack.
"What evidence have you, I should like to know?" he said; "you can't prove these things, Murgatroyd."
"That," returned Murgatroyd, "is for me to worry about—not you. I'm going on, and when I'm through, you can stake your last dollar that I'll know all about this rotten system that you call your organisation—from the most insignificant ward politician up to Peter Broderick!"
The accusing forefinger shifted from Thorne to the County Chairman; under it the avoirdupois of that gentleman seemed to shrivel and grow less. In all his career no man had ever honoured Broderick with this kind of talk, and he wasn't used to it. All at once, he felt that his courage was slipping from him.
"I've got to see a man—" he began, looking nervously at his watch; then hunching his shoulders, he stole softly and almost on tiptoe to the door.
"Broderick!" sung out the prosecutor sharply.
Broderick stopped, but did not look back.
"Broderick!" thundered Murgatroyd, "I want you in this office to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock—I want to have a talk with you—alone. If you don't come, I'll—send for you. Do you understand?"
Broderick did not answer; he opened the door, and slipping through it, disappeared.
Murgatroyd laughed, and turning to Thorne, he went on:—
"Thorne, I sent for you to tell you to close up Cradlebaugh's—to close it up at once. If you don't——"
But Thorne's self-possession had come back, and he demanded fearlessly:—
"And what about you, Murgatroyd? Are your hands clean?"
The tiger leaped into Murgatroyd's face; his eyes flashed fire; the accuser became the fighter.
"I can take care of myself!" he answered quickly. "I'm talking about you, now. You are sworn as a counsellor to uphold the law; you have lined your pockets and built up your career with the coin of suicides, profligates, drunkards, like Challoner, for instance.
"Yes," he went on, "and there is something more between you and me than this, Thorne." His voice now dropped almost to a whisper: "You have the effrontery to pay attentions to——"
Thorne interrupted him, his tone, his glance, his manner leaping at once into insolence.
"So that's how the land lies, is it? Well, let me tell you something that possibly you already know. All my life I have had the things I wanted—all my desires have been fulfilled. I wanted money—I got it. I wanted power, social and political—I got it. I have never stopped; I have always progressed. You have already said that I would be Senator of the United States—if I could. I tell you that I shall! Again, you have hinted at a woman who is worth while.... Well, I'm going on and on and on, in spite of you——"
"You are going on to your finish," returned Murgatroyd. "I have only just begun with you. Before I go further, it may be just as well for you to relinquish the last two of your desires. I don't demand it—I advise it."
Thorne glanced uncertainly at the prosecutor, who had spoken with complete assurance. Thorne recognised the danger. Murgatroyd had been getting indictments lately, and for every indictment, a conviction. Thorne did not know what proof Murgatroyd had in his possession, and he knew of no way that he could find out. Besides, the people liked Murgatroyd. Thorne believed in compromise, therefore he extended his hand.
"Look here, Murgatroyd," he said, "you know neither of us can afford to have things like these talked about. Don't let us sling mud—let's fight in the open. A fair fight and no favour—let's be decent."
"Why don't you get your ammunition in the open, then?" asked the prosecutor.
Thorne flared up.
"Why didn't you?"
Murgatroyd smiled and said:—
"You'll find my ammunition in the open, Thorne, the next time the legislature meets to choose a Senator!"
Thorne's insolence had returned as he demanded:—
"Do you mean to tell me that your name will be presented in the caucus?"
"That's precisely what I mean."
"Of course you'll try to buy votes with the Challoner money you have."
"I'll get the votes—never fear."
"Try it, then—I'll match you dollar for dollar."
"Not with dollars coined from Cradlebaugh's, nor from corruptions," declared Murgatroyd.
Thorne's eyes narrowed.
"Murgatroyd," said he, "you reckon without your host—no matter who owns Cradlebaugh's—or runs it. The organisation has its finger on every Grand Jury, every petit jury, every judge. You can't accomplish the impossible until you've beaten Peter Broderick and the organisation, and until you do this you can't beat me—you can't prove your assertions—your hands are tied. The organisation backs me up."
"If your name," retorted Murgatroyd deliberately, "is presented for Senator, it will be withdrawn; and mine will be presented in its place."
"Who'll present it?" sneered Thorne.
"That," smiled Murgatroyd, mysteriously, "is my business and not yours. But inasmuch as you told me your story, Thorne," he went on, "let me tell you mine now. All my life I've struggled like the devil to get the things I wanted; and I failed. But a big change is about to take place—here and now. You stop right here; and where you stop, I begin. It's my turn! The things you want—I want. Your surest and your best desires are my desires. If you've got them in your hand, as you think you have, why then—" he clenched his hands—"I'll take them away from you. The time has come, Thorne, when you are going to get the things that you don't want,—and you are going to get them hard. I'm going to get the things you want, yes, and by George, I'll get you too! That's all I've——"
Murgatroyd did not finish; Thorne had departed.
The next day at four o'clock there was a resounding rap on the prosecutor's private office door.
"Come in!" said Murgatroyd.
The door opened, and Peter Broderick came puffing into the room with perfect nonchalance. He had had a day to think things over, and he had made up his mind that the outburst of the prosecutor had been all bluster. Seizing a chair, he drew it up to the desk and sat down, saying:—
"I never refuse an invitation to see a man alone; and now that we are alone, I don't mind telling you that I'm ready for another one of them good cigars."
The prosecutor passed a box, from which Broderick helped himself to a cigar, lit it, and after sending a few clouds of smoke in the air, went on:—
"Do you know, Murgatroyd, that I haven't had a good chance to talk to you since the Challoner case—you've been so blamed offish all the time. But now, here I am sittin' here with you,—you, the only mugwump in the town that I ever used to be afraid of,—and you know I can say any blamed thing I please to you, and you got to take it and say nothin'. Do you know that I'm one of the few that believe the truth about that bribe?"
Murgatroyd smiled.
"In other words, you think we're both in the same boat—is that it?"
"Not a bit of it!" returned Broderick. "I'm in a coal barge; you're in a motor boat. Why, Murgatroyd, there's many a man been in honest politics all his life, like me, for instance, and who's never pulled out three quarters of a million! Not much! And out of one deal, too! Why, look at me?" he went on glibly, "I've been in a lot of deals; but that gets me! Three quarters of a million and more on just one deal! Confound it, man, do you know the most I ever made out of any one deal?"
Murgatroyd lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair and inquired in an offhand manner:—
"How much?"
Broderick shook his finger at him.
"Foxy, foxy boy! Do you think I'd give up to you so easy? This particular deal I'm tellin' you about, is away back outside the statute of limitations. You couldn't get me on it if you would. It was the Terwilliger tract—I was chairman of the common council, finance committee, you remember? Bought the tract for twenty-five hundred and sold it to the city for two hundred and eighty thousand. That's me!"
"Good work!" said Murgatroyd, with genuine admiration. "I didn't know that you were in on that."
"In on it?" snorted Broderick. "I was the whole show! That's where I'm coy, my dear boy; it takes Broderick to do these things; but it takes a bigger man than Broderick to find 'em out."
Murgatroyd shook his head.
"They foundmeout, all right," he said.
Broderick waved his hand, and answered:—
"Not a bit of it! It's all blown over, and if it hasn't, it will. All they'll remember, after a while, is that you've got a wad of money. They'll forget how you got it, and they won't care." He puffed away and purred contentedly.
"You're a giant," he went on, "an intellectual giant to bag six figures." Then he waved his hand about the room and said: "You take this old court-house, for instance; I was on the buildin' committee, but to save my life—hold on a minute—" he pulled himself up with a round turn, "that was outside the statute, of course it was. Well, to save my life I couldn't pull more 'n a hundred and twenty-three thousand out of it. I came near gettin' caught, too," he admitted, laughing.
"But you weren't," commented Murgatroyd.
"No, sir!" said Broderick. "I don't do jobs that way. You could have gone through the thing with a microscope, and you wouldn't have found hair nor hide of Broderick."
Murgatroyd lazily closed his eyes, and murmured:—
"Tell me about the new hospital—that little concrete job."
Broderick leaned forward, his face growing crimson as he did so, and peered into the face of Murgatroyd.
"What are you gettin' at?"
Murgatroyd opened a drawer within his desk and took out a bulky batch of papers.
"Broderick," he said severely, "do you know that I've got you implicated in more than thirty different violations of the law right here in town?"
"Me?" Broderick looked incredulous.
"Yes, you!" answered Murgatroyd, evenly.
Broderick held out his hand, and asked with a show of interest:—
"What are they, anyway?"
"See for yourself," returned Murgatroyd; and leaning back in his chair comfortably, he gave himself up to watching the changes in the countenance of the other, who proceeded to scan the batch of papers with marked interest. And, although Broderick made no comments, he did a lot of thinking. Finally eyeing Murgatroyd with suspicion, he asked:—
"Without prejudice to anybody's rights, I'd like to know how you got all this?"
"It's easy when you know how," returned Murgatroyd, smiling; "and I've learned how."
Broderick's face broke into a confused, distorted smile.
"Now, without making any damaging admissions," he conceded, "do you know it would be blamed uncomfortable for me if I were dealing with any other prosecutor than you?"
The prosecutor smiled again.
"How do you know it won't be uncomfortable for you as it is?"
Broderick burst into a laugh.
"You an' me is two of a kind—grafters together, tarred with the same stick. That's why."
Murgatroyd nodded, took back the list and laid it down.
"That's all right, Broderick," he assented, "I didn't send for you about these things. I've got a little job for you to do."
"Out with it!" said Broderick.
Murgatroyd leaned forward and told him in a low voice:—
"Broderick, I want to sit in the Senate of the United States."
Broderick jumped to his feet, exclaiming:—
"What!"
"Yes, I want to sit in the Senate," repeated Murgatroyd.
Broderick burst into a peal of laughter that well-nigh shook the building.
"And you want me to help you?" roared Broderick.
"Yes, of course," persisted Murgatroyd.
Once more Broderick laughed immoderately.
"You'll be the death of me," he said, sinking into his chair.
"You laugh too soon," remarked Murgatroyd.
"Is there more comin'?" questioned Broderick, with a howl. "You know the valvular workin's of my heart ain't over strong. You're crazy, man!" he added; "the whole organisation is against you!"
"The whole organisation," repeated Murgatroyd, "exceptyou."
"You blamed idiot!" roared Broderick. "The organisation's against you because I am."
"I've got to be the next Senator," persisted Murgatroyd; "and you've got to put me there."
"I can't put you there."
Murgatroyd cast an appealing glance at the other.
"But—you want to, don't you?"
"Indeed I do not!" returned Broderick, indignantly.
Murgatroyd rose to his feet, saying, as though speaking to a spoiled child:—
"I don't like to see that spirit; it looks as though you were opposed to me."
"Have I ever been anythin' else?" returned Broderick. "Will I ever be anythin' else?"
Murgatroyd continued to reprove him.
"I prefer to see a man do with a good grace that which he has to do."
"And who has got to do?" queried Broderick, also rising.
"I have just told you," went on Murgatroyd, looking him full in the face, "that you've got to put me in the Senate."
Instantly Broderick became doggedly belligerent.
"I'll spend my last dollar to keep you out of it—I'll work against you till I drop in my tracks!"
Murgatroyd seized a small thick book and leafed it over.
"You'll do both," he remarked, "and when you drop in your tracks, Broderick, it will be with hard labour. Sit down, and take that pencil and piece of paper—I want you to do some figuring."
Broderick, wondering, seated himself; Murgatroyd peered over the little book.
"Seven and seven are fourteen," he mused, "and six are twenty, and eleven——"
"What have you got there?" Broderick asked with mild interest.
"The Penal Code," answered Murgatroyd, lightly.
"Look under B. for Bribe," suggested Broderick, with an accusing glance.
Murgatroyd shook his head.
"I'm just figuring up the number of years you'd have to serve——"
"But I'm not goin' to the Senate," protested the politician.
"No, but I am," retorted the prosecutor. "Four times six are twenty-four; besides the amount of fines you'll have to pay. Take the first on the list, Broderick. You'll get seven years on that, and seven thousand dollars fine. Put that down."
"I'll put nothin' down—I never was a hand at figures."
"Then I'll do it. Twenty indictments for corrupting voters—I've got the goods on that; twenty years and twenty thousand dollars fines. Hold on a minute, we won't add up just yet. There's your interest in Cradlebaugh's; there's the hospital; there's your pool-rooms; log-rolling with police-headquarters—Why, say, Broderick," he exclaimed suddenly, gasping with surprise, "it will cost you in the neighbourhood of one hundred thousand cash in fines!"
"You don't say!" sarcastically returned the chairman.
"And," continued Murgatroyd, suavely, "about one hundred and thirty-five years to serve in sentences."
"I'm booked for a ripe old age," returned Broderick, still with sarcasm in his voice.
"So that eliminates you from the Senate," facetiously continued the prosecutor; "you'll go up for the rest of your unnatural life." He paused and shot at Broderick a glance that went home—one that meant business.
Broderick squirmed.
"You don't mean to tell me, prosecutor," he exclaimed, "that you're going to prosecute me for these things?"
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"How can I help it?"
"You don't dare prosecute me! You blamed idiot!" screamed Broderick. "If you do, I'll send you up myself—you with three-quarters of a million dirty money in your clothes."
Murgatroyd thought over his words and weighed them. Presently, he said:—
"I would get out in five years; you would be there for a hundred and thirty more."
Broderick snorted with rage.
"What are you driving at, anyway?"
The prosecutor was silent for a moment, then he said:—
"Broderick, since I've been prosecutor, I have achieved a reputation for just three things: first, whenever I have tried to induce the Grand Jury to indict, I've succeeded; second, whenever they indicted, I have secured a verdict of conviction; third, my verdicts of conviction are always affirmed upon appeal." He stood over Broderick, threateningly, and finally declared:—
"Now, you put me in the United States Senate, or I'll put you where the penal code provides! What are you going to do about it?"
Broderick swelled with anger.
"I'm going to call your bluff, Murgatroyd!" he yelled. "You can't work me! And you don't dare touch me, either! Why, there ain't a man in this whole State who dares to lay a hand on me! By George, I call your bluff!"
Murgatroyd sat at his desk and pressed a button; the door opened and two men entered.
"Mixley, McGrath," said Murgatroyd, picking up some rectangular slips of paper from his desk and passing them over to them, "Chairman Peter Broderick is going to leave this room inside of thirty seconds——"
"You bet I am!" Broderick interposed.
"There are ten warrants for his arrest," went on the prosecutor; "take him into custody the instant he leaves this room."
"'Right, Chief!" the men replied in chorus, and, facing about, left the room.
"Now, Broderick," said Murgatroyd, "you called my bluff—you may go."
The politician strode to the door angrily, blustering, but with his hand on the knob, he paused. A new situation was confronting him—a thing imminent, concrete. To cross the threshold meant a blow; Broderick crept back to Murgatroyd.
"Do you mean this, Murgatroyd?" he queried.
Murgatroyd was busy at his desk and did not look up as he remarked:—
"This interview is over."
Rebuffed once more, Broderick crept to the door, but again he came back, and whispered uncertainly:—
"So you want to be United States Senator, eh? The best job that we've got?" He hesitated for an instant before asking:—
"Can I be of any help?"
Murgatroyd laid down his pen and looked up, smiling.
"Now you are talking sense, Broderick. Yes, you and Thorne can help me."
"Thorne! Great Scott! I never thought of him! Why, he's the organisation nominee, and I'm tied up with him! Say, honest, Murgatroyd, I can't go back on him—Murgatroyd, you can't make it—for even I can't undo all that's been done. Thorne has been slated for that job for months."
"You've got to sponge him off the slate, then," returned the prosecutor.
"I'll be everlastingly confounded if I do!" returned Broderick.
Murgatroyd pressed a button; Mixley came in on the jump.
"Mixley," began Murgatroyd.
"Hold on!" said Broderick, "I'll help you——"
Murgatroyd nodded.
"Warmly, energetically, enthusiastically——"
"Oh, all that," interrupted Broderick.
"Mixley," said the chief, "you can hold those warrants—until after the next Senatorial election."
Broderick gasped; Mixley's nod as he left the room spoke volumes.
"Broderick," said Murgatroyd, looking him in the eye, "you mean business—you're going to back me straight?"
"Not because I want to, but because I've got to," returned the politician. "It seems I must...."
He paused and returned Murgatroyd's glance significantly. After a moment, he said:—
"Well, fork over, then...."
Murgatroyd smiled.
"How much?..."
"Thorne will spend and has spent a lot of money," answered Broderick; "and you've got to——"
"How much will it take?" asked Murgatroyd.
"How much have you got left?" responded Broderick.
One afternoon, many, many months after the interview just described, a few keen observers among the passengers on an incoming Southwestern Express—pulling with final, smooth, exhaustive effort into its eastern terminal—noted with considerable amusement that the pulses of one of their number had quickened to such a degree, that evidently their owner found it quite impossible to resist the temptation to leave her seat and politely push forward to the vestibule of the car, where she waited until the train came to a full stop. And so it happened that Shirley Bloodgood led the first flight of men who were hurrying up the long lanes of the station toward a roped-off space where groups of people waited expectantly for relatives and friends. Not that Shirley looked forward to seeing a familiar face among them; on the contrary she was fully aware,—since she had neglected to telegraph to any one the time of her arrival,—that there was not one chance in a thousand of any of her acquaintances being there; it was merely that she had fallen under the spell of that subtle spirit of unrest and haste, which all travellers, however phlegmatic, recognise the moment they breathe the air of the metropolis. One quick, scrutinising glance, it is true, the girl threw around and about her, as she passed through the crowd, but there was no disappointment on her face as now, looking neither to the right nor to the left, she brushed past what seemed to her a hundred cabbies each intent on making her their legitimate human prey.
Once clear of the exit she turned to the porter who was carrying her bag, tipped him, and directing his attention to an urchin in the centre of a howling mob of youthful street Arabs ready to pounce upon her bag the instant the porter dropped it, she cried:—
"Give it to him—him!"
It was a chubby, little, Russian Jew with red cheeks and glistening eyes whom she selected, and, with a howl of disappointment, the other ragamuffins opened up a lane to let the victor get his spoils, stood while Shirley and her escort marched off, and then swooped down upon another victim.
"Come with me," said Shirley to the boy; and suiting her pace to his running stride, she turned her face toward the west.
As Shirley walked rapidly along, the even pavement felt resilient to her well-shod feet. The keen air brought new vigour into her face, into her body, and in it—partial stranger as she was—she detected that which the metropolitan never scents: the salt vapour of the sea. Thousands of men and women passed her, and to one and all, figuratively speaking, she opened wide her arms. The glitter of a thousand lights found an answering sparkle in her eyes.
"There is nothing in the world like it! It will ever be home—the real home to me!" cried Shirley, half-aloud. "The noise, the bustle, the crowds, the life—Oh, how I do love it all!"
For a considerable time Shirley had been living on the heights of Arizona—a wilderness crowded with space, dotted here and there with human beings. Leaving her mother out there until, under new and altered circumstances, she could arrange their home in the big city that belonged to her,—and to-day, more than ever, she knew that she belonged to the big city, that in truth she was one of its people,—she had come all the way through without stopping, reasoning that in that way just so much less time would elapse before she could return and fetch her. In the West—a land where men stood out in bold relief, because they were few, they had pointed out to her rugged specimens noted for their physical prowess, their dare-devil recklessness of life. And viewing these swaggering heroes, with the sense of personal achievement, however remote, strong upon them, a vague longing had crept into her inner consciousness.
"Oh, if I were only a man!" she had said to herself.
But now, as she swept along on the right side of the sidewalk, facing the crowd that passed her on the left, she knew and felt that here was the place of the real struggle, the battle-ground, the fiery furnace that men were tested in. Out in Arizona, it had been man to man; but here in New York, it was one man against a million. And yet, woman-like, she thought that were she unsexed, she could meet this struggle with tireless energy, could strike where men had failed, could crowd her way up, inch by inch, to the top. And thus communing with herself, Shirley walked on and on, feeling that she could walk on forever through this rush of home-going-folk—people who had done something that day with their hands—people who had unconsciously pushed the earth another twenty-four hours upon his journey.
All of a sudden there came a strong tug at her skirts followed by a youthful voice that called:—
"Say, lady,"—setting down Shirley's bag in mild protest—"youse don't belong so far away! Ain't we got too far?"
After an instant of confusion, Shirley conceded the fact with a frank laugh.
"What am I thinking of!" she cried, "I want to go to the Bellerophon."
"This way then, lady," returned her small guide; and picking up her bag he turned southwards.
At sight of the unpretentious hostelry, which rejoiced in the distinction of possessing such a resounding name, Shirley was conscious of a variety of emotions. For a time, in the old days, it had been the fashion to patronise the Bellerophon, and Murgatroyd had been the first to take her there. On more than one occasion she had lunched with him and he had always been most enthusiastic over the respectful service, the wonderful cuisine and the quiet of the place. It was infinitely nicer, he had said, to have their luncheon there than to go to any of the huge, noisy caravansaries like the skyscraping, five-acre, concrete Monolith on the avenue. And she had agreed with him. Another time, he had explained to her that he was a one-club man; a man with few friends; and that, when tired out after a long, hard day's work, he greatly preferred a corner, all to himself, in the Bellerophon to dining with half-formed acquaintances at the club. In this, likewise, she had sympathised thoroughly with his point of view. And so, not unnaturally, it came about that Shirley had had little difficulty, on her long journey east, in convincing herself that it was merely her liking for the Bellerophon, and not at all anything more subtle that had caused her to decide upon this quaint, old hotel for her lonely stay in the metropolis. Besides, Miriam and she had often been there together, and for that matter, had grown to regard it as their own especial discovery. But, now, when she had crossed the portal, when the boy had dropped her bag at the feet of the Bellerophon porter,—charging her quite double, as the price of her unpardonable absentmindedness,—a flood of memories swept over her, and her face flushed and she laughed in an irritated sort of way on realising that all the time she had been thinking solely of Murgatroyd.
Murgatroyd! Would the man's name never be out of her thoughts! For a time, out west, it is true, she had been so engrossed in the cares and griefs of her almost hermit-like existence, that she had been able to look back upon the old scenes as chapters in some pathetic story book; but now, the odd, little prints on the walls all about her, the slender old gentlemen—aristocrats—who strolled to and fro, everything about the place recalled vividly the man who, not so very long ago, had been a part and parcel of her existence.
They showed her to her room—a wonderfully old-fashioned room without a particle of brass or glitter in it. Even the bedstead was of wood—a good, solid invitation to home-like rest and slumber.
"Get me an evening paper, please," she said to the bell-boy.
"Which one?" he asked.
"All of them," she replied with a beaming smile; after that the boy was not long in bringing them.
In Arizona Shirley had been reading news which was, generally, three, four days—frequently a week old. Out there her home papers had straggled in, stale and unprofitable. But these—of even date; why, they were damp from the press. Indeed, it was good to have them!
"Home, home," she whispered to herself as she sank into a chair. She decided that she would not dine until much later, for she wanted to think, wanted to classify the emotions which had rushed in upon her so suddenly. The easy chair responded to her mood; and with a sigh, and placing her hands behind her head, she leaned back contentedly, little knowing that she looked wonderfully pretty in that old room—a goddess in a travelling gown. All the care and sorrow that she had passed through in these last months had made a woman of the girl, had deepened her beauty. Time had rounded her gently. Travel-stained and feverish with the glow of a new experience upon her, she was more inviting, more human, more beautiful than she could possibly be in the latest Paris creation. And yet one of the fittest mates in a great metropolis was alone. East and west, everywhere she had wandered, men, great men, wonderful men had held out their hands to her beseechingly—drawn by a certain undefinable magnetism and attractiveness which she possessed—a charm of manner which few could resist. And Shirley had passed on, and had given no sign.
But now in the silence of her room, her loneliness appalled her. The insistent memories closed in around her. And suddenly she knew that she wanted to live as other women lived—with a man of her own choosing. But where could she find the man in whom she could put her faith?
After a while, Shirley picked up one of the papers lying on the table. At the first glance she started and laughed guiltily. There at the head of the third column, a word, a name had caught her eye: Murgatroyd! Paper after paper she now scanned, and all mentioned his name: some on the first page, others on the second; and with it invariably was coupled another name: Thorne! Finally, she rejected all but one, thePillar,—the most conservative evening paper in the city,—and concentrated her attention upon it. At a glance, Shirley could see that with all its conservatism, thePillarwas holding up its hands in reverential hero-worship. In a two-column article it reviewed Murgatroyd's record from its invariably impartial viewpoint. "Murgatroyd had been clean," it said, "his reputation was unsullied." It even referred to the Challoner incident as a pitiful piece of falsehood which had strengthened Murgatroyd in his position. Shirley laid down the paper with a cry:—
"Oh, what a hypocrite he is!"
So Murgatroyd was still playing a game! The root of his record was dishonesty! Shirley was thoroughly sincere in her indignation. And yet after a little while she began to wonder whether his conscience troubled him—whether it had cost him anything? Oh, if only she could be sure of that! For she well knew, and a little sigh of shame escaped her, that if only he had abandoned all pose, shown himself in true colours, even become a machine politician, she could have forgiven him everything. Not a little distressed, therefore, she read on and on, marvelling at thePillar'sdevotion, but soon it became apparent to her that its editor was picturing Murgatroyd more in the light of a losing martyr than as a successful saint. For the article pointed out the strength of the railroads, of Wall Street, of the brewers, of the machine, and predicted mournfully that Murgatroyd was bound to fall before all his powerful enemies, concluding with: "More the pity, more the pity."
Presently she read the other papers; all contained more or less adverse criticism of him. One thing, however, stood out: fanatic though some of them called him, they were unanimous as to his honesty of purpose—a man who could not be bought, who could not be swerved from the straight and narrow path. Moreover, in none of them was there any reference to the existence of Challoner. The Challoners had been forgotten—had dropped completely out of sight.
It was after eight o'clock when Shirley was reminded of a sudden that she was desperately hungry. Once in the dining-room, she directed her steps to the small alcove—the corner which Miriam and she had always occupied, after the first of those memorable occasions when she had lunched there with Murgatroyd. Taking her place at the table with a sigh of satisfaction, Shirley threw a glance around the room. Palms screened her table, making it impossible for her to be seen, although it was perfectly easy for her to see every one in the room. There were few dining at that hour, and so after ordering her meal, she was thrown back once more on her reflections—reflections of Murgatroyd; and she fell to wondering in what way had the possession of almost a million dollars changed him. Had he grown stout? Was he full-faced, or possibly a bit insolent, overbearing and aggressively genial with a wide laugh? In any event, she was quite positive that he was prosperous-looking—too prosperous-looking; and, all in all, it was anything but a pleasant picture which she mentally drew of him.
The waiter brought the chosen viands and withdrew. Shirley ate eagerly. The air of the city was full of life and body; it gave her an appetite. Being quite a material personage, she enjoyed her dinner thoroughly. Things tasted deliciously to her, and yet her thoughts wandered.
"If only Billy had been different ..." she kept saying to herself.
Suddenly the palms were parted, and a fat man approached her table. On seeing it occupied, he mumbled his surprise and backed out again. But while pushing his way through the palms he extended a short arm and said:—
"That table over there, then."
The remark was made to a companion, whom as yet Shirley could not see. An answer, however, came in a man's voice; both men seemed disappointed: evidently, this corner was a favourite with others as well as herself. And the fat man—his face was strangely familiar. Who might he be? Shirley was sure....
Broderick. That was the man: the funny, vulgar politician who had been pointed out to her at the Challoner trial. Shirley wondered what a man of his stamp was doing in the quietude of the Bellerophon. Somehow, he did not seem to belong there; she laughed silently to herself as through the palms she watched him settle himself laboriously at a table in another corner. The seat he had taken faced away from her, and she noted how broad, how terribly broad was his back.
"But a power in politics—the real thing!" she cried half-aloud. It was not surprising, she told herself, that men of refinement hesitated a long time before going into politics, if this were a type of the men they had to compete with. Her thoughts running on in this strain, she determined out of curiosity to get a glimpse of Broderick's companion. It was not difficult to get a good look at him, as the man sat facing her.
At the first glance, Shirley had a faint suspicion that likewise she knew that face; then she looked again and for a moment she was startled. "No, it can't be possible that—" At that instant the stranger looked up and dispelled her doubts. She was face to face with the man who had filled her thoughts for the last two hours.