“What do you see?” said Drinkwater suddenly, in a voice that made them start. “Tell us what you see.”
The medium moaned and wrung her hands hysterically, her breath coming in quick gasps.
“No, no, I can’t; I can’t tell that.”
“Tell it,madame, tell it—I command you!”
It was the baron, who, quite beside himself, had broken out into a shrill command.
“Hewishes it!Hedoes!”
“Yes, yes.”
“I see—I see—blood,” said Madame Probasco, shuddering.
Drinkwater started back against the wall, though Mr. Cornelius seemed, if anything, relieved, whatever it may have been he was afraid to hear, for he said rather indifferently:
“Now, or in ze future?”
“In the future; but near, very near. Not your blood—no; it’s not on you, the blood—and yet, why it’s—”
Whatever she might have said was destined to remain a closed secret, for, at this moment, the outer door was flung open with a crash that shook the room and Inga’s voice was heard calling:
“O’Leary! Wilder! Quick—quick! They’re kidnaping him! For God’s sake, help!”
Instantly the room broke up into a seething mass. Madame Probasco was screaming and rolling on the floor, but no one noticed her. Drinkwater sprang to the lights, but O’Leary was too quick for him, and, with a sudden clutch at his shoulder, sent him rolling across the floor. The door was locked, and Inga’s voice still screaming from the other side, as O’Leary flung his body against the frail supports and went crashing into the hall. Flick, Schneibel, the baron, Tootles came piling after him and up the stairs on the heels of the fleeing girl. In the corner studio, Dangerfield was struggling in the hands of four men, who had him wrapped around with cords and were trying to pass him out of the window over the roof.
At the moment when the rescuing party broke tumultuously through the door, the kidnapers had so far succeeded in their attempt that the helpless body of Dangerfield had been borne to the window for the route over the roofs. Two of the assailants were in the room; the rest had passed outside. The sudden interruption changed everything. The two within the room turned hastily to make front to the unexpected attack. The body of Dangerfield, thus released, fell heavily near the window-sill, while the assailants on the roof, alarmed at the hue and cry, hesitated but a second before breaking for safety. Inside, the struggle was of short duration. One man, the shorter of the two, succeeded in breaking through the crowd and escaping down the halls; the other, of more aggressive stuff, fought furiously against the odds until a grip of King O’Leary’s flung him to the ground, where he lay stunned by a blow on the head.
“Tie him up!” shouted O’Leary to Flick. “Never mind his head. Watch out he isn’t faking! Here—take this!” He flung them an end of the rope trailing on the floor, and hurried over anxiously to where, by the sofa, Dangerfield was lying, surrounded by a gaping crowd.
“Here, air—give the man air!” he cried, pushing them back. “What is it, Inga?”
“Chloroform,” she said, looking up.
“Nothing else—no black-jacking?”
“No; I’m sure.”
“How the devil did they get him?” he said, kneelingand running his fingers over Dangerfield’s head to assure himself that there were no contusions.
Inga shook her head.
“Some came through the door, and some over the roofs, I think,” she said. “When I saw them struggling, I didn’t wait.”
The room was in a fearful state. One tapestry had been half torn from the walls; a picture-frame lay smashed across the floor; a chair had been shattered, while the great Florentine table lay on its side with candlesticks, books, and platters showered over the rugs.
O’Leary cleared the room of all but Flick, Tootles, and Belle Shaler, who stayed to help Inga.
“Suppose we ought to notify the police,” he said, after Tootles had returned with the information that the party had driven away in an ambulance which had been waiting below.
“Perhaps—though I am not sure,” she said doubtfully, gazing at Dangerfield, who had not come out of his stupor.
“It’s a plain case—”
“I think I’d wait a while, if I were you,” said a voice that startled them.
They peered at the sound, and found their captive looking at them maliciously, a hard smile over the strong lines of his mouth under the close-cropped mustache.
O’Leary went up to him and examined carefully the sturdy figure, neatly dressed, though, in the struggle, a rent had been torn in the coat where a pocket had been wrenched.
“I think I’d find out what the person you call ‘Dangerfield’ has to say about that,” he said coolly.
Inga joined O’Leary, and together they stood, undecided, gazing down at the man who lay on the floor propped up against a great armchair.
“Nice business for a man like you to be in!” said O’Leary scornfully. “Well, you’ll get time enough to think it over—up the river.”
“Perhaps,” he said, with a shrug. “Have you any objection to my sitting in a chair while you make up your mind?”
“What’ll we do?” said O’Leary, turning to Inga in perplexity.
“Wait,” she said, after a moment.
“You know best,” said O’Leary, and, leaning down, he caught the man by the shoulders and lifted him to a chair. A splotch of blood showed on his head just back of the ear, where he had crashed against a corner of the chest.
“You might as well tie up my head,” he said surlily, “for the sake of the carpet, if nothing else.”
Inga took a basin, sponged the wound, which was slight, and placed a bandage. The man watched her intently, and at the end said gruffly:
“Thanks. You did that well enough. Suppose I have to thank you, young lady, for breaking up this little party?”
She paid no attention to his remarks, and, her work being finished, went back to Dangerfield, saying to O’Leary:
“Better make sure he’s tied fast.”
The man laughed outright, and, suddenly extending his hands, which he had somehow managed to slip from their fastenings, said:
“Do it better this time.”
His feet being bound would have sufficed to hold him; nevertheless O’Leary took several hitches so vigorously that the prisoner protested.
At this moment Dangerfield, on the sofa, groaned.
“He’s coming out of it!” said Inga.
“Well, if I’ve got to wait,” said the man suddenly, in a sharp, professional manner, “might as well tell you what to do. He’s had a good dose of it, that’s certain. Lay him flat on his back and work the stuff out of his lungs. Raise up the arms and press down on the diaphragm regularly and slowly. Open up the skylight and get some cold air in here. He’ll come around in no time.”
“Oh, a doctor!” said O’Leary.
“Perhaps.”
Under these directions, Dangerfield began to gasp and mutter, and finally, as they waited, opened his eyes and glared out of them with his characteristic stare of a frightened animal. Presently he rose to a sitting position, clutching the arm of Inga, who was supporting him, his glance set directly on the man with the cropped mustache, who faced him with a confident, indifferent smile.
“Who’s that?” he cried, almost in terror, and the grip on her arm sunk painfully into her flesh.
“It’s I, Dan—Jim Fortier,” said the prisoner, with a sudden rough authority in his voice, as though he were indeed the master of the scene.
Whether the fumes of the chloroform had not yet left his faculties free, or whether he did not perceive the true position of Fortier, to their amazement Dangerfield seemed suddenly shaken with an unreasoning fear. He cried out: “Doctor Jim! Doctor Jim!” and covered his face with his hands.
Inga took him hurriedly in her arms, crying:
“Mr. Dangerfield, nothing’s happened—you’re here. It’s Inga—O’Leary’s here—we’re all here!”
“Inga,” he said slowly, and, already half returned to the land of confused dreams, he dropped his hands and turned his face toward her voice, a clouded, perplexedlook in his eyes. She dropped on one knee and met his glance, smiling.
“It’s all right; nothing’s happened. You’re in your studio, safe,” she said, as though she were talking to a child.
“Safe enough for the time being,” said Doctor Fortier, breaking in in quick, staccato tones.
Dangerfield shot around, gazed in the direction of his enemy, and putting out his hands as though to ward him off, collapsed.
Every one was impressed by the effect Doctor Fortier’s voice had produced.
“Take him away, quick—to your room; keep him there!” said Inga, hastily.
“Come along, you!” said O’Leary, with a sudden tightening hold on the other man’s throat, for he had begun to divine his maneuver. “And no tricks, or I might get to squeezing. Loosen up his feet—that’s it! Come on!”
Tootles was stationed in the hall to watch the passage over the roofs, to guard against the possibility of a return attack, and only Belle Shaler remained, at Inga’s direction seating herself in a further corner to give an instant alarm.
The fumes of the chloroform seemed to have closed over Dangerfield’s consciousness once more. He moved and stretched out his fingers, seeking the glass of water she held to them to ease the heat of his throat. The cool draft seemed momentarily to bring pleasant intervals in his dream, for he began to laugh and to hum to himself, calling out names unfamiliar to her—brother artists, perhaps, of youthful days—the whole intermixed with snatches of French.
“Give me the brush—Violet socks with white polka dots.A toi, mon coco! En charrette!Quinny, get to work.A nous, les anciens!What a float, eh? Where do we rendezvous? Café Procopé? Every one there—Café Procopé, eight sharp! Du Bois and De Monvel, go first.Parfaitement!Gogo,tu es épatant.” He began to rock with laughter. “Look at Gogo! Isn’t he a wonder!Garçon, des bocks!All together, now—
“C’est les quatz’ arts,C’est les quatz’ arts,C’est les quatz’ arts qui passent,C’est les quatz’ arts passés.”
“C’est les quatz’ arts,C’est les quatz’ arts,C’est les quatz’ arts qui passent,C’est les quatz’ arts passés.”
In his excitement he rose to a sitting position and began to beat time, listening to the volume of an indistinguishable orchestra in crowded halls. Then the air seemed to be shaken with frantic applause, for he began to bow to gay, whirling throngs, and all at once called out triumphantly, “L’atelier Julian—premier prix!” After which, reason seemed to flow back into his eyes, and he turned to her and said quite rationally:
“Water—more water.”
“Lie down—rest quietly, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, serving him. “It will pass in a moment.”
His eyes dwelt on her fixedly, seeming to grow larger and deeper as the consciousness faded. He smiled contentedly.
“Always you,” he said quietly. In a moment he added: “I know everything that is passing; I hear everything.” But already he was back in the delirium, in a jumble of painful, rapid reflections of the past, crying:
“Every one in the house dines with me to-night! Valentin, give me the bank. I take the bank for a thousand louis. Who plays? Baccarat!” And again. “Louise, Louise Fortier! Thank you—yes, it’s my hat. Fortier? I know that name—from the south. That’s my route—if you will allow me.... Once more; abank of a thousand louis! Gentlemen, your turn’s come. No, no; win or lose to the end! Well, a clean sweep. I take one card—as usual, baccarat! What color—Italy—see Italy and die....Bon jour, les copins!I am back again—cleaned out!” He stopped suddenly and lifted his hand to his head, saying with a ceremonious bow to the glittering room of frantic gamblers which rose in his vision: “Gentlemen, I thank you. You have restored me to my art!Cocher, Rue Bonaparte!” Immediately a frown succeeded, and he said rapidly, in a hard voice: “No, no, andno! I permit you to love another—that is your right. I do not admit of vulgar deception. You will do as I say. You will do it, or I—”
“Mr. Dangerfield,” cried Inga, laying her hand over his, which was whipping back and forth in uncontrolled excitement, “hush!”
There was a slight noise in the back of the room and the door clicked. Belle Shaler, fearing to overhear too much, had slipped away.
“Click!” said Dangerfield, snatching his hand away from the clutch of her fingers and shuddering. “Got me! No, no; it’s not true! I know what you’re trying to make me believe! But it’s not true—not true!” he shouted vehemently. Then, as the echoes seemed to return to him on the silences of the night, he repeated in a whisper, “not true!”
“Water,” Inga said.
He frowned, took the glass eagerly, and stared at her.
“Who’s that?”
“Inga.”
“You’re sure?” His hand came creeping toward her and up over her hair, groping for her features. “The eyes—the eyes—strange eyes! Inga—Inga Sonderson—sounds like the sea rolling in. Only, you mustn’t—mustn’t get to caring what becomes of me—it’s no use.”
“But I do care,” she said, in her deep voice.
The mist that was wavering in his brain seemed to vanish at the sound of her words.
“What’s happened?” he said slowly, frowning as though to bring back all his faculties. “Where am I?”
“You’re here, in your studio,” she said quickly, “quite safe.”
“What’s the matter with me, then?” he said helplessly.
“They tried to chloroform you—but that’s passing away now.”
“Tell me all.”
“Do you think I had better?”
“Yes, yes; don’t let me go back to sleep,” he said desperately. “I remember something over my head, stifling me—the room full of people—darkness——”
“That’s true; they were trying to get you out of the window and over the roof when we broke in.”
“They? Who? Doctor—” He hesitated, watching her sharply.
“Yes; Doctor Fortier.”
“He’s here!” he said, sitting up and staring about the room.
“Not now; there’s no one here.”
“Jim Fortier!” he repeated angrily. “Then it was what I thought. Who saved me—you?”
“No, no, I only got the others—O’Leary and the rest.”
“They almost had me,” he said slowly. A great weakness seemed to overcome him, for an unusual gentleness came into his voice, the quiet tone of weak convalescence.“You can tell me the rest—I can stand it. What happened?”
“Don’t you think you had better be quiet?” she said anxiously. “It has been a shock.”
“Yes,” he said with a shudder, and his hand clutched her shoulder as though clinging desperately to it, while in the subdued torment on his face there was a sudden flickering passage of absolute terror that caused her to cry:
“Mr. Dangerfield, Mr. Dangerfield, don’t look that way! I can’t bear it.”
Her face was so close to his, flushed with compassion and tenderness, that this imminence of youth and affection brought back into his eyes a touch of quiet and gratitude.
“Why do you care so much?” he said greedily.
“I do; I do,” she said, gazing at him earnestly. “When you suffer, it just tears my heart.”
He closed his eyes and smiled, and she was afraid that the tyranny of the chloroform was asserting itself again; but suddenly he opened his eyes and said, raising one finger as though in warning:
“You don’t know what I am afraid of?”
Again there came into the intensity of his gaze the characteristic touch of the startled animal seeking to comprehend. It was a mood which she had learned to fear and avoid. She took his hands in hers, pressing them firmly, as though by the act transferring to him some of her abundant strength and courage.
“Some time you can tell me—not now. I want you to rest.”
“Fortier was here, in this room, wasn’t he?” he said at length.
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“I had O’Leary take him into the studio until you could decide——”
“Decide what?”
“Whether to let him go or to send for the police,” she said, after some hesitation.
“They’ve got him—Doctor Fortier—a prisoner?” he said slowly.
“O’Leary was going to have the police in and turn him over to them, but I thought it was better to let you decide.”
He turned and looked at her gratefully.
“It’s queer; you always seem to know instinctively the right thing to do. No; not the police—never that. Whatever happens to me—never that.”
“I am glad I was right,” she said, smiling. “Will you follow my advice?”
“What would you advise?”
“Don’t see him at all—let him go.”
To her surprise, he acquiesced immediately. In fact, the night’s experience seemed to have shaken him profoundly. He seemed mentally as well as physically exhausted, as though prostrated by the shock. He looked up at her as a patient at the attending nurse and said:
“Do what you think best.”
The reply was scarcely more than a whisper, and immediately his glance wandered, as though the decision had passed from his mind. She watched him a moment as he stared past her, indecision, trouble, and perplexity written on his clouded look; and then, making up her mind, stepped to the door and beckoned Belle Shaler.
“Tell O’Leary to keep him until daylight, and then let him go,” she said in a whisper.
The day was struggling through the curtains of the night as she came back. Dangerfield was waiting, his hand running nervously over the shawl she had thrown over him. When she came to his side he seized her hand instantly with a sigh of content and turned and looked at her with distraught eyes.
“Keep me quiet,” he said, and his hand closed over hers in a tighter dependence. “Try to keep me quiet.”
She looked down at him with her slow-breaking smile and, though the strain of the night had left her worn with fatigue, never had she felt such a complete sensation of happiness.
At daybreak, King O’Leary loosened the ropes which held Doctor Fortier and signed to him to follow.
“Not to the police-station, I presume,” said the other, smiling.
“If I had my way you would,” said O’Leary, with bad grace, for the doctor’s cool assurance had not ceased to irritate him.
“Doubtless; but you see there are certain cases which have to be settled in the family. You’ll know more of this later.”
“Next time, look out,” said O’Leary grimly.
“There’ll be no next time,” said Doctor Fortier, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You may not believe me, but it is so. You can have that satisfaction. You can tell that to my precious brother-in-law.”
With which he went off surlily enough under all his assumption of indifference. The knowledge of Fortier’s relationship to Dangerfield was but small surprise to King O’Leary. In his own mind he had long arrived at a shrewd suspicion of the crisis through which his neighbor was passing. He called up Sassafras and put him on watch for any new attempt, improbable though it might be. Upstairs he held a consultation with Inga, who slipped into the hall for a brief moment, at the end of which it was decided to secure the aid of Flick’s two friends in the pugilistic profession.
“The fellow claimed to be his brother-in-law,” said O’Leary. “Do you think that’s true?”
She nodded.
“I’m quite sure.”
“Then thatwashis wife who was here, and she’s at the bottom of it all,” he said thoughtfully. “But why should they try to carry him off like this? What the deuce was their object? Have you any idea?”
He had been speaking his thoughts aloud. Now, as he looked at her, each saw in the other’s eyes that the same supposition dominated them.
“You think so, too,” he said, surprised.
“But there is no truth in it,” she said, frowning, angry to have had her thoughts divined. “Whatever you do, O’Leary, don’t say to any one what—what you believe. That mustn’t be talked about.”
“I sometimes wonder—” he said slowly, looking toward the corner studio.
“You are wrong,” she said impatiently, “absolutely wrong.”
He shrugged his shoulders unconvinced, influenced a little, too, by his jealousy. “I’m not so sure—anyhow, Inga, what’s to come of it? We can’t go on forever like this. If he won’t turn it over to the police, sooner or later they’ll get him—that’s certain.”
“It’s not going to last,” she said decidedly. “He keeps talking about the twentieth all the time. I have an idea that something is bound to happen then. I think this was a last desperate attempt on her part.”
“The twentieth, that’s day after to-morrow,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess we can hold the fort for two nights.”
As he was going she stopped him.
“Mind,” she said anxiously; “be careful what you say. Think all you wish, but don’t get the others talking. It’s not their affair and—it might do harm.”
“Aren’t you sometimes a bit afraid?” he said abruptly.
She laughed.
“Never; what an idea!”
“I believe you can manage him,” he said, watching her as she stood lightly, her head thrown a little back, and her eyes softened by a touch of amusement. “Say, take an hour’s nap. Let me relieve you.”
“No, no,” she said; “I am the only one who can quiet him.” And, conscious of the understanding that now lay between them, she added solemnly: “O’Leary, he is in a bad way. That’s a fact.”
It was not until well into the afternoon, after Flick had returned with the pugilists, that the memory of Drinkwater suddenly returned to King O’Leary. He gave forth an exclamation with such suddenness that Tootles bounded across the rug, saying angrily:
“For the love of Mike, man, don’t do that—don’t do it! My nerves won’t stand it!”
“What the deuce are you going to do?” said Flick, observing him to rise, make for the door, and as abruptly return. The pugilists, who were being utilized as models for heroic bodies in the monumental decoration of Tootles, shifted and watched him hopefully as though scenting a call to arms.
O’Leary sat down and began to stare at the one-eyed bear on the floor with such impressive mental concentration that they watched him in silence.
“By George, I believe the whole thing was planned!” he said, striking his leg.
“Planned? Of course it was planned,” said Flick.
“No, no; I mean our being away—out of sight and hearing. The more I think about it—why, if Millie hadn’t got the creeps and run away, Inga never would have known where we were.”
“That’s right.”
“It was Millie who told Inga,” said Flick, with conviction.
“King, I do believe you’re right,” said Tootles. “Itwasplanned; the whole floor was cleared out on purpose.”
“But who did it?” said Flick. “Not Madame Probasco?”
“How about your friend, the lawyer!”
“Drinkwater!” said Tootles, rising in fury. “By Jove, of course—no doubt about it!”
“No; I don’t think there is much doubt,” said O’Leary. “Hold on there; you can’t go out and demolish him single-handed.”
“He had the door locked,” said Flick reflecting, “and he tried to throw the lights off—Why, the low-down little pup!”
“Yes; I guess that’s all true,” said O’Leary slowly. “That’s been his game for a long while. Well, suppose we find out a little more.” He started toward the door again and stopped. “No, no; that wouldn’t work. We must find some way to get him in here and try a little third-degree treatment. We might get him in to pose for Tootles—only he’d see through that. Best plan is to have Schneibel ask him into his place, and that won’t be easy either. The fellow’s no fool....”
But as they were studying over ways and means, Myrtle Popper came in with fresh information by way of Sassafras. The lawyer had decamped during the night, for a messenger-boy had been sent up with a note calling for a valise which was in his room. This last bit of evidence was conclusive to their minds, already strongly prejudiced. Likewise, it made them fear a new attack, and, with this in mind, they prepared anxiously for the coming of the night.
When Inga had told O’Leary of her anxiety, she had not overstated the situation. Dangerfield had found afew hours’ rest in the morning, a rest broken by scurrying, baneful dreams. When he awoke, though he seemed physically refreshed, the mind remained in a lethargy. Instead of the rapid change of moods with sudden outbursts of irritation to which she had grown accustomed, she found him all at once pensive, subdued, and given to long, staring silences.
“To-day is the eighteenth?” he said to her, without turning his head.
“Yes, the eighteenth,” she answered cheerily.
“That’s what I thought.”
An hour later, he repeated the question without noticing the repetition. Later in the afternoon, he took up his interminable solitaire; but the movements of the cards were made mechanically, and he made many mistakes without noticing them.
“They’re running very badly,” he said querulously.
“Try again,” she said, ensconcing herself on the arm of the great chair. “Here, I’ll cut for luck.”
He allowed her to take the pack and to spread it in deft lines. When the layout was completed, she clapped her hands.
“There you see—the six on the seven, and you have a space the first thing! Let’s see the next card.”
They began to play, and, leaning against him, she drew her arm over his shoulder, bending forward alertly to watch the shifting of the cards. But the luck which had been favorable suddenly changed, and after a moment, impatiently, he put out his hand and brushed the cards away, saying:
“No use.” He stared blankly at the table and then brought his knuckles up against his teeth with a deep breath. “Wish I could get out—out of this—anywhere!”
“You will soon—in two days.”
“Two days—yes, of course,” he said, nodding. “I must hold on until then.”
The hand which lay on the table opened and closed and opened again in helpless indecision. In all his brooding, the effort seemed directed against some internal danger, some struggle of the soul. She felt this, as she felt the trembling of the balance of fate, and all her reserve vanished before the needs of the man who, on his part, sought nothing from her.
“Mr. Dan,” she said, passing her cool hand over the furrowed brow and bending over him, “Mr. Dan, can’t I help? Won’t you let me?”
“You can’t—no one can,” he said, shaking his head.
“I must tell you one thing: There’s nothing to fear. We’ll watch for you to-night—O’Leary’s arranged that,” she said rapidly, misunderstanding him. “He’s got two men to spend the night—the men who were here that night.”
“You did that,” he said, and he patted her hand gently, while a smile came to his face for the first time.
“Would you like them in to-night? Wouldn’t it be easier to have a party?” she said, looking at him anxiously, longing to stir him out of himself. “Wouldn’t that occupy you?”
“No, no,” he said, shrinking at the thought; “to-morrow, not to-night. You don’t understand—it’s quiet I want now, to stop this thing beating in here.” His hand went to his forehead and his fingers strained there as though in the effort to seize some throbbing torment underneath and crush it. Instinctively her arm drew tight about his body, pressing him close to her, and she said impressively, tears rising to her eyes:
“Oh, Mr. Dan, why can’t I help you? I would give anything—anything to be of some good.”
“What’s that?” he said, suddenly sitting up, his headon one side, listening. “On the roof—just now—didn’t you hear?”
She went swiftly to the window and looked out.
“Nothing at all,” she said, smiling at him as at a startled child. “What a crazy idea!”
The moment she had said the careless words, she regretted it.
“Crazy? You think I’m crazy?” he said, jerking around.
“Why, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, distressed, “don’t look at me that way.”
“You think I’m crazy—you do?” He repeated his question, seizing her wrists, watching her closely with his sharp, short glances.
“No; you’re not crazy,” she said vehemently.
He continued to watch her, plainly unconvinced.
“I’m not crazy—no,” he said, at length, wearily, “but—I could be driven to it. Yes, yes; lots of times that’s happened. That’s what they counted on, and if they had got me—if I had waked up in a cell—a padded cell—” He shrank back, recoiling at the picture which rose before him, his fingers twisting in his hair. “God, what might not have happened! Now you know.”
“Yes; I’ve known that.”
“You have?” he said, surprised.
“I mean, I’ve known what you were afraid of,” she said solemnly.
“I am afraid, dreadfully afraid,” he said, in a whisper, “but that—that’s one thing will never happen,” he added in a tone of deep conviction; “no, never.”
“No; for I won’t let you,” she said firmly. “You shan’t lose your grasp. When things are straightened out, you’re going to begin a new life—a life of work.”
He looked at her nervously, doubting, but longing to be convinced.
“I mean it,” she said, and, as her eyes met his, the slow smile spread on her face, as she looked down upon him with deep compassion. He half yielded and then brusquely withdrew.
“Too late! Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago?” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. He rose, turned, and faced her, with a return of the old authority. “Inga, don’t—what I’ve made up my mind to do—you can’t change. It’s got to be done—it shall be done!”
And in the tone with which he said this there was something so desperately resolved and hopeless that, for the first time, she felt a sinking sense of defeat.
Before she could rally, and while still Dangerfield’s glassy stare was fixed on her, there came a cautious knock at the door—a scraping, sliding tattoo.
“Who’s that?” he said hastily.
The knock was repeated.
“Better let me go,” she said, with a warning gesture. She went to the window first, for a survey of the roofs, and then to the bolted door. Suddenly she drew back with an exclamation. Outside, the tall, thin form of Drinkwater was standing.
She shut the door and locked it with a hasty movement and came back.
“Who was it?” he said, with rising excitement.
“Only Mr. Drinkwater.”
“Drinkwater! What can he want here?”
Neither had the slightest suspicion of the lawyer’s complicity in the events of the night before. The scraping knock began again.
“We’ll see him,” he said, all at once, his curiosity whetted, and, in obedience to his signal, she went to the door and opened it cautiously—far enough to permit Drinkwater’s slipping into the room. Dangerfield was at the further end, standing by the head of the table, where the light of two candlesticks lit up his round, shaggy head and deep eyes.
Drinkwater glided across the room until only the table separated them, before jerking his head backward to where Inga in the shadow stood guard at the door.
“Mr. Dangerfield,” he said, “I have come here with a message from some one—” he stopped, blew nervously through his nose, and continued—“some one you may guess—some one close to you. The message is strictly private.”
“Go on. I’ll hear it,” said Dangerfield, bending his brows down and playing with a paper-weight that happened to be near by. The whole attitude held so much threat that the lawyer’s eyes calculated the proportions of the table that served him as a barricade.
“But”—he glanced a second time toward Inga with a raising of his eyebrows—“do you wish any one to be a third to our conversation? It is, of course——”
“Inga, wait! I wish you to stay,” said Dangerfield, as he heard in the shadows the slight rustle of her dress. “There is nothing to show that he has anything of importance.”
“It is from your wife,” said Drinkwater, with a smile, and his glance went down to his fingers, which were pressed on the black, glossy surface of the table as though in the act of striking some resounding chord.
“Perhaps I had better—I can wait just outside,” she said hurriedly.
“No—no—if what he says is true,” said Dangerfield peremptorily, “all the more reason. I want you to hear what passes between this man and myself.”
“Very well.” She left the door and, seeing the excitement which had begun to work in him at the lawyer’s announcement, came to his side to control him.
Drinkwater’s glance rose from the table and rested on them with a certain malicious enjoyment.
“First, I have a surprise, an agreeable surprise, for you,” he said, with a flicker of a smile, and his manner of accenting his phrase made them feel that he had referred to them both. “Mr. Dangerfield, you are a free man; your divorce was granted this afternoon.”
Of the two, Inga showed the more emotion. She started and drew away from Dangerfield as though suddenly conscious of the intimacy of their attitude, while her companion received the announcement with a shrug.
“That can’t be true. And it is impossible for you to know it.”
“It is true,” said Drinkwater.“And to show that I have ways of knowing that may surprise you, the action was held in Rhode Island under a referee appointed by Judge Chough, of the——”
“You know this!” exclaimed Dangerfield, in amazement.
“Don’t worry—no one else will know,” said Drinkwater suavely. “I know, because I made it my business to know.”
“So you have been spying on me all this while,” said Dangerfield, with a sudden contraction of the eyes that brought the brows down into a lowering, menacing line.
“I have been fulfilling my duties,” said Drinkwater coolly enough, though he stopped to puff through his thin, hooked nose; “duties as an attorney retained by the interests of your wife—Mrs. Daniel Garford.”
At this mention of his real name, Dangerfield’s anger, curiously enough, seemed to subside. Indeed, in the succeeding quiet and the mildness of his voice, there was almost a premeditated cunning.
“Well, it is quite evident that you are well-informed,” he said. “You say that the divorce was pronounced this afternoon—may I ask how you should be the one to inform me, instead of my own lawyer?”
“Because I received the news by telephone twenty minutes ago.”
“And you have communicated the news to my—to Mrs. Garford?”
“I have not.”
“You said you had a message to me from her,” said Dangerfield slowly. “What is it?”
“That is not quite correct,” said Drinkwater, and, for the first time, he displayed a touch of nervousness, for he did not answer directly. “First, I believe I have rendered you a service in giving this information.”
“How so?”
“You have now, of course, nothing further to fear from any attempt on your wife’s part to shut you up under plea of medical necessity,” said Drinkwater rapidly, “an attempt that had a certain legal plausibility under order of a court for your committal for examination.”
“What, there was such an order?” said Dangerfield, trembling with excitement “They went that far?”
“I have reason to believe so,” said Drinkwater, smiling. “Nothing more easy to obtain. You, of course, realize that the object was to prevent the granting of the divorce. As I say, much as Mrs. Garford orothers”—he paused and glanced at them significantly—“or others might desire to have you out of the way, any attempt now would be a most serious offense. It will not be made. Therefore, you may be assured that you can now circulate without danger.”
“Very probably,” said Dangerfield, with a contemptuous smile, “it would please Doctor Fortier to have me make the attempt—to-night?”
“You do not believe me?” said Drinkwater, shrugging his shoulders. “You will be convinced to-morrow.”
“What is your message from Mrs. Garford?” said Inga suddenly. She had been watching the lawyer with a growing apprehension, which had showed itself in her frequent strained listenings to sounds from the hall.
Drinkwater pursed his lips, studied solemnly the Winged Victory in the dark corner, frowned, and looked point-blank at Dangerfield.
“Mr. Garford, haven’t I said enough to convince you of my familiarity with your affairs? I really must ask you to hear what I have to say without the presence of witnesses.”
To his surprise, it was Inga herself who opposed him.
“I don’t trust him,” she said emphatically. “Don’t see him alone.”
“Quite right,” said Dangerfield. “If you have anything to say to me, say it now.”
This was plainly not to the other’s liking, for he drewback and jerked nervously at his cuff, with an evil glance at the girl who, alert and watchful, kept her deep eyes on his every movement.
“The agreement was,” he said slowly, “that your wife should marry—” He paused and looked at Dangerfield. “Shall I go on?”
“Go on!” said Dangerfield roughly, though he was plainly startled at the extent of the lawyer’s knowledge.
“Should marry a certain party—a certain Mr. Bowden—you see I am informed—within forty-eight hours after the granting of the decree.”
Dangerfield gazed at him in astonishment. Twice he started to speak and twice he stopped; finally he managed to say:
“You have come from my wife, that’s evident. It must be some dirty work or she would not have sent you. What is it?”
Drinkwater, as though fairly in, took this remark without offense and said, in a businesslike voice quite different from the affectation of his former manner.
“Your wife does not desire this marriage. That is not news to you; but if you will relinquish your purpose, she agrees to forego all the settlements you have made on her and in addition——”
“What! She sent you here to bribe me!” exclaimed Dangerfield, in such a voice that the other drew back instinctively.
“Mr. Garford, I haven’t told you the truth,” he said hastily. “I represent Mr. David Macklin.”
“Who?” said Dangerfield, drawing back in turn.
“Mr. David Macklin!”
“Not a word—not a word!” said Dangerfield, in whom the name roused a sudden fury. “Don’t you dare——”
“My client offers you one hundred thousand dollars if you will not insist on this marriage to Mr. Bowden.”
Dangerfield’s anger, which for a moment had threatened to burst into a rage, turned all at once into something cold and ominously calm.
“My answer to your client—not Mr. David Macklin, but Mrs. Garford, is No! Mrs. Garford will marry Mr. Bowden within the limit I have set, or——”
“Listen, Mr. Garford,” said Drinkwater desperately, his eyes flashing greedily with the thought of escaping commissions. “Take my advice—refuse!”
“What do you mean?” said Dangerfield sharply. “You tell me to refuse?”
“Refuse! Refuse!” said the lawyer excitedly. “You have stripped yourself; you have made yourself a beggar for a ridiculous point of honor—refuse all offers, put yourself in my hands. I’ll show you how to get revenge and mulct them, too. Then Mr. Macklin will pay not one hundred but three—four times that much—half a mill——”
“Ah, you vermin!”
Dangerfield, with a cry, had taken a frame from the table and brought it down on the greedy head, and as the lawyer struggled back, he caught him by the throat in a frenzy of rage and disgust.
Inga, terrified at what he might do, clung to him, striving to drag him from his grip. At the noise of the scuffle, O’Leary and the others came precipitately in from the studio, believing that another assault was on.
“Tear him away—oh, get him away—he’ll kill him,” Inga shouted, as they burst in.
“Hands off!” said Dangerfield, in a voice like a thunder-clap. “I know what I’m doing! Killing’s too good for this scum. Make way there!” Still with his hand on the other’s throat, he dragged him down the hall to thetop of the stairs. “Go back to your clients and let them know what I’ll do if they fail me by one hour!”
With which, as though the man had been an old shoe, he flung him down the stairs and returned like a stalking fury through the group which watched him breathlessly.
Despite the probability that the lawyer had told the truth, the night passed in vigilant waiting. The two pugilists curled upon the sofa; O’Leary dozed in the big chair, while Dangerfield, at the great Florentine table, his chin sunk in his palms, stared ahead of him, the long periods of immobility broken only by brief nervous resorting to the cards. Inga, by his side, sought to occupy her mind with a novel. From the moment she had learned from the lawyer of the divorce, her attitude toward Dangerfield had taken on an unwonted reserve. It was long after midnight when he turned and looked at her. She raised her eyes—she had not been reading for some time—and met his.
“What is it?” she said, smiling.
“You had better go to bed.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“But you are not reading.”
“No; I was thinking.”
He started to question her further and then stopped.
“You knew all along who I was,” he said at last.
“Yes—from the first.”
“And that made no difference?”
She shook her head, smiling a little, but not looking at him.
“A precious fine reputation I’ve got,” he said bitterly. “Wait till you see what the papers will make of Dan Garford’s latest escapade!”
She shrugged her shoulder impatiently, and checked a reply with a quick frown and a glance at the others, as though conscious of their sleeping intrusion.
“I think he told the truth,” he said disjointedly, after a moment.
“Who? Drinkwater?”
“Yes; I’m sure of it.” He pressed his knuckles against his lips and said, frowning, “Well, that leaves only one more thing to do.” He said it quietly, but with an accent of deep finality. When she thought him quite lost in this mood, he surprised her by saying, “Why does it make a difference to you?” He turned, caught the look of astonishment on her face, and added: “Why would you rather that I should be married?”
“Why do you say that?” she said, genuinely amazed at his intuition.
“You are different—you are not the same—I feel it.”
She waited a moment, and then said hurriedly, in a low voice:
“If I told you, you wouldn’t understand!”
At this moment, O’Leary, probably disturbed at the sound of voices, moved heavily in his chair. Dangerfield waited a moment to assure himself that the sleep was still profound, before saying:
“I am not so sure I don’t understand now.” He looked at her keenly, albeit with gentleness, for there was a softness in his eyes and the smile that came to his lips was one of comprehension. He laid his hand over hers and said: “Isn’t it because—before nothing bound you—you were free to go any moment. There’s something wild in you—untamed.”
“I don’t know—I really don’t know,” she said, looking away.
“I’ve never misunderstood you, child,” he said, nodding as though satisfied. “Don’t worry. Men like me don’t bruise—” he hesitated a moment, patted her hand, and said softly, “guardian angels.”
“Oh, I never was afraid of that!” she said swiftly, turning impulsively toward him.
“I’m not going to put a cloud over your life,” he said doggedly.
He rose, left her, and went to the window. She extinguished the light and came softly over to his side until her hand slipped through his arm.
“Why did you do that?” he said, feeling the sudden drop of darkness about them and then, answering his question, he added, “There is nothing to fear now—I feel that.”
She stood silently beside him looking out, and the touch on his arm seemed gradually to grow heavier until her body drew close to his side. In the black night, one window flamed out, feverishly alive against a distant tenement.
“Wonder what’s going on there, too?” he said moodily. “I wonder what poor devil’s fighting out his fight there?”
She did not answer, and then all at once her hands closed about his arm, and she said,
“Mr. Dan, don’t go away.”
“What makes you say that?” he said, startled.
“Don’t go away from me,” she said, in her deep voice. “Promise me that.”
“No; I can’t promise that,” he said, between his teeth.
“But you’ll tell me first—just promise that,” she insisted. He shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know why I am like this to-night,” she said impulsively, “but I know if you went away—” She stopped and something caught in her throat.
He gave an exclamation and caught her in his arms in a close clasp.
“Inga, Inga, don’t; it’s more than I can bear.”
“Promise, promise,” she said incoherently, and herhands fastened to his coat as she hid her head against his shoulder.
“I promise not to—to go without telling you why,” he said, at last. “Will that satisfy you?”
She caught his hand swiftly and pressed it against her heart. Then she went back hastily to the table and lit the light. O’Leary suddenly aroused, started up. It was almost four o’clock.
The next morning came Dangerfield’s lawyer, Judge Brangman, with his clerk, to confirm the news that Drinkwater had brought. The interview was private, even the clerk presently reappearing in the hall and departing. Judge Brangman was closeted a full two hours, and that the meeting was not without dissension was obvious, not only from the prolongation of the discussion but by the frequent rise of angry voices. Finally, the door opened on an evidently complete disagreement, for Dangerfield’s voice was heard saying:
“Judge, this is not a question of law; it is something—permit me—that you don’t seem to understand.”
“I only understand,” said the voice of the visitor, in high-pitched exasperation, “that you are beggaring yourself for a quixotic idea, and that I, as your legal adviser, have a right to protest.”
“Possibly. But my mind’s set. I like tobuythe cur. See that the information is sent to me this afternoon—time and place.”
“Dan—a last time—won’t anything shake you?”
“Nothing.”
“But we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Men don’t do such things.”
“I do,” said Dangerfield, with cold harshness, “and they know it.”
“I give up,” said the judge, with something like a break in his voice.“Go on; do what you want.”
“Call me anything you want,” said Dangerfield, with the same ominous calm. “Probably I am a fool; possibly I always have been one, but that’s why I’m going to carry my point.”
The judge put up his hands in helpless rage and went stumbling down the hall, while those in O’Leary’s room heard him exclaim,
“Mad—perfectly mad!”
By this time, the Three Arts, so to speak, had come to the same conclusion.
“Wish the devil he’d get it over with,” said Flick wearily, “whatever he’s going to do. I’ve seen some sporting life, but, holy cats! this being on the jump all hours of the night and day is getting into my constitution.”
“I say, Music,” said Tootles, equally distressed, “why don’t you loosen up and tell what you know. We’ve stood enough, don’t you think?”
Thus confronted, O’Leary said cautiously:
“Well, what’s puzzling you?”
“Puzzling us! That’s good!” said Flick, with a loud laugh. “What we want to know is what’s all this mystery-game—and, most important, when do we settle down and sleep?”
“Why, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you what I know,” said O’Leary frankly, “specially as you must have guessed the same. From all I can figure, it’s a family affair; friend in corner has forced a divorce; leastwise it must be so, for, from all we can put together, that’s what brought the woman here that night to try and get him to give up the idea. Likewise, when that failed, looks as though they tried to get him jugged for a loony and put away.”
“But why should she care about preventing the divorce?” said Flick.
“Question of money, I suppose,” said O’Leary thoughtfully.
“But, then, Drinkwater?” said Tootles. “How was he in it? I know that he must have been spying around and carrying information and that he was in the plot to get us out the way—yes, yes—but this last business—what the deuce did he say that started Dangerfield off like a wild bull?”
O’Leary shook his head.
“Some dirty business—the fellow was double-crossing some one, perhaps.”
“Well, when is it going to stop?” said Flick querulously. “That’s the only thing interests me.”
“I imagine it’s over now,” said O’Leary, who knew of the granting of the divorce but was ignorant of any further complications; “in fact, I’m positive.”
“You are, eh?” said Flick incredulously.
“I’d take my oath on it.”
At this moment, there came a sharp, rattling knock; the door opened, and Dangerfield walked in.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No.”
There had come a change in the man which struck them at once; the indecision and groping weariness of the last days had lifted. He seemed alive with energy and action, and yet, as he stood there looking about the room, there was about him momentarily the same expression which had startled them on his first appearance.
“What can we do for you?” asked O’Leary naturally and heartily.
Dangerfield looked down abruptly, his face cleared, and he said in a matter-of-fact tone:
“O’Leary, will you do me one more service?”
“Sure.”
“Will you accompany me this afternoon for about anhour to a place I am going? I shall know in a short while.”
“Nothing easier,” said O’Leary; but, under the ease of his manner, he was watching Dangerfield closely.
“Thanks.” He started to go and stopped. “There’ll be no trouble—and yet you might as well be prepared.”
“I get you!” said O’Leary, with a nod.
Dangerfield returned to his room, leaving consternation behind. Tootles was so overcome that he upset a box of charcoal, while Flick gave vent to a prolonged whistle, adding sarcastically,
“Peace and calm descendeth!”
“What the deuce is up?” said O’Leary, scratching his ear. “I don’t get this at all!”
“Well, I know one thing,” said Flick vehemently; “I think you’re a bigger fool than I took you for if you start out on any gunman visit without knowing into what little pocket you’re walking.”
O’Leary evidently thought as much, for presently he wandered up the hall in search of Inga, but the girl was away, and before she had returned something else had happened. A messenger arrived with a letter for Dangerfield, which he read with evident satisfaction, for he came down to the studio and said briskly:
“O’Leary, can you be ready to start in an hour?”
“I don’t see why not,” said O’Leary.
“Four o’clock, then.”
A few minutes before that hour, O’Leary, ready for the street, made a last attempt to find Inga, in the hope that she could throw some light on the errand on which he was embarked. But the girl was not in her room, and as he was turning away, Dangerfield came out alone. King O’Leary could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. The man stood before him in top-hat, a cutaway revealed through the folds of his fur coat. By the slendergray-silk cravat, caught in an old-fashioned ring, and the light gloves in his hand, he might have been mistaken for a bridegroom.
“I say, are we going to a wedding?” said O’Leary facetiously.
“Yes,” said Dangerfield, rather taken back. “Just that, a wedding.”
“A wedding!” said O’Leary, in blank astonishment.
“Now you know,” said Dangerfield, who didn’t seem particularly pleased at the disclosure.
“I don’t know anything at all,” said O’Leary, who followed him, grumbling and shaking his head, his imagination filled with the eccentric possibilities this might portend. “Wonder if he’s going to be married himself!” he thought, gazing at him suspiciously. But the depression and moodiness on Dangerfield’s face belied the surmise. The elevator came up, and in it was Inga. The moment she saw the two standing there, an expression of great alarm came into her face.
“What—you are going out!” she stammered, looking from one to the other. “It is for this afternoon, then?”
Dangerfield nodded, and something like a triumphant sneer, brutal and vindictive, quite foreign to his usual moods, appeared about his mouth.
“This afternoon, as I said!”
“You’re not going alone?”
“No, no; O’Leary’s with me.”
The alarm which had seized her from the first seemed suddenly translated into another terror as she caught him by the arm, saying,
“One word—just one word first.”
While O’Leary and Sassafras stood waiting, ill at ease, she drew him over the hooded bridge which connected the two wings of the Arcade.
“Mr. Dan,” she said breathlessly, clasping her hands, “you’ll come back?”
“Why, of course, of course,” he said nervously, not meeting her eyes.
“You’ll come back—you promised,” she said, and as she put her head down and swayed against him, he felt her body trembling. They were hidden by the bend of the hooded passage, alone in the filtered light that struggled up the gloomy halls.
“Inga—Inga—don’t make it harder for me,” he said bitterly.
“You’ll come back,” she repeated, desperately clinging to him, her face upraised, her eyes searching his in terror. “Say it; promise it!”
“I—perhaps—” His hand closed over her fingers with the nervous tension that these last days of abstinence had brought him.
“Mr. Dan, you must not think you’re alone—you mustn’t say no one cares!” She slipped her arms about his neck, and he felt her breast shaken with the heave of agitated breaths. “If anything—anything—happened—” She shook her head and stopped, unable to finish.
“Happen—what do you think—why is that idea in your head?” he said, holding her from him.
She put her handkerchief hastily to her eyes and threw her head back suddenly, so that her look seemed to penetrate through his mask and search into his soul.
He repeated his question, but this time uneasily, conscious of the scrutiny under which she held him.
“Nothing,” she said abruptly. In a moment she was back into the restraint of her usual self. “Then you will come back here—to me,” she said slowly, “to-night. It makes no difference to me—understand that—in what condition you are. I’ll be waiting.”
He looked at her, rather startled by this, then profoundly touched, and his face showed the emotion she had aroused in him for he turned hastily away, saying:
“As you wish, then—and it’s a promise.”
They came back to the elevator hurriedly, each plainly upset, and separated with a brief nod. The mood into which Inga had thrown him possessed him long after they had taken a taxi and started across the park, for he leaned forward, seemingly oblivious to the presence of company, and frowned down on the strongly clasped hands which, from time to time, were pressed against his teeth in strained, convulsive gestures. O’Leary, who watched him in growing perplexity, decided to break the silence.
“If there’s anything you want of me particularly, Dangerfield, you’d better tell me.”
“What? Oh, yes!” Dangerfield came back to his seat with a start, ran his hand over his forehead, and said apologetically,
“O’Leary, I owe you my apologies!”
“Oh, that’s all right!”
“I owe you more than that,” he said, with one of his sudden smiles which had the effect of charming away all resentment. “I know it; I’m deeply grateful. If I don’t tell you all details won’t you understand that it’s because the subject is too painful?”
“Don’t say a word, then,” said O’Leary.
“Besides—to-morrow—when the papers get hold of it—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Will it suffice you to know that I have asked you to assist at a wedding, a wedding for which I am peculiarly responsible?” The tones became cold and implacable. “In fact, you have met the lady before—as you perhaps have guessed, she is my former wife. There are circumstances which make it desirable for all parties to avoid as much publicity aspossible. That’s why it’s being solemnized at the place we are going.” He leaned forward and rapped on the window, signaling the driver to stop. “We’ll get out here.”
The taxi drew up in a side street at his orders. Up the avenue in that thronged district of the slums of the upper city which lies on the beginnings of Harlem, O’Leary perceived the tower of a church.
Dangerfield’s moodiness had closed over him again. At a gesture of his, O’Leary followed him into the vestibule. Knowing what he had been able to patch together, he could faintly divine the storm of emotion which swept his companion as the door closed behind them and they entered the dimness of the chapel. There were a bare half-dozen persons—the minister, the couple standing before him by the pulpit, the whole far enough away to be unrecognizable; yet at the sudden letting-in of the noises of the street, each turned with a start. It was as though each had divined who the new arrival must be.
Dangerfield acknowledged the recognition with a short forward bending of his head, but, instead of taking a seat, he remained standing by a pillar, arms folded, immovable; nor in the obscurity was it possible for his companion to judge what emotion predominated. The sounds of the minister’s voice came to them in regular cadences until the decisive words, “I therefore pronounce you man and wife.”