XVII
ROGUES AND VAGABONDS
A westering sun striking down through the drab exhalations of ten-thousandsooty chimney-pots, tinted the atmosphere with the hue of copper. Theglance that wandered purposelessly out through the carriage windows,recoiled, repelled by the endless dreary vista of the Surrey Side'sunnumbered roofs; or, probing instantaneously the hopeless depths of somegrim narrow thoroughfare fleetingly disclosed, as the evening boat-trainfrom Dover swung on toward Charing Cross, its trucks level with the eavesof Southwark's dwellings, was saddened by the thought that in all the worldsqualor such as this should obtain and flourish unrelieved.
For perhaps the tenth time in the course of the journey Kirkwood withdrewhis gaze from the window and turned to the girl, a question ready framedupon his lips.
"Are you quite sure--" he began; and then, alive to the clear andpenetrating perception in the brown eyes that smiled into his from undertheir level brows, he stammered and left the query uncompleted.
Continuing to regard him steadily and smilingly, Dorothy shook her head inplayful denial and protest. "Do you know," she commented, "that this isabout the fifth repetition of that identical question within the lastquarter-hour?"
"How do you know what I meant to say?" he demanded, staring.
"I can see it in your eyes. Besides, you've talked and thought of nothingelse since we left the boat. Won't you believe me, please, when I saythere's absolutely not a soul in London to whom I could go and ask forshelter? I don't think it's very nice of you to be so openly anxious to getrid of me."
This latter was so essentially undeserved and so artlessly insincere, thathe must needs, of course, treat it with all seriousness.
"That isn't fair, Miss Calendar. Really it's not."
"What am I to think? I've told you any number of times that it's only anhour's ride on to Chiltern, where the Pyrfords will be glad to take me in.You may depend upon it,--by eight to-night, at the latest, you'll have meoff your hands,--the drag and worry that I've been ever since--"
"Don't!" he pleaded vehemently. "Please!... You _know_ it isn't that. I_don't_ want you off my hands, ever.... That is to say, I--ah--" Herehe was smitten with a dumbness, and sat, aghast at the enormity of hisblunder, entreating her forgiveness with eyes that, very likely, pleadedhis cause more eloquently than he guessed.
"I mean," he floundered on presently, in the fatuous belief that he wouldthis time be able to control both mind and tongue, "_what_ I mean is I'd beglad to go on serving you in any way I might, to the end of time, if you'dgive me...."
He left the declaration inconclusive--a stroke of diplomacy that would havegraced an infinitely more adept wooer. But he used it all unconsciously. "OLord!" he groaned in spirit. "Worse and more of it! Why in thunder can't Isay the right thing _right_?"
Egotistically absorbed by the problem thus formulated, he was heedless ofher failure to respond, and remained pensively preoccupied until roused bythe grinding and jolting of the train, as it slowed to a halt preparatoryto crossing the bridge.
Then he sought to read his answer in the eyes of Dorothy. But she waslooking away, staring thoughtfully out over the billowing sea of roofsthat merged illusively into the haze long ere it reached the horizon; andKirkwood could see the pulsing of the warm blood in her throat and cheeks;and the glamorous light that leaped and waned in her eyes, as the ruddyevening sunlight warmed them, was something any man might be glad to livefor and die for.... And he saw that she had understood, had grasped thethread of meaning that ran through the clumsy fabric of his halting speechand his sudden silences.
She had understood without resentment!
While, incredulous, he wrestled with the wonder of this fond discovery,she grew conscious of his gaze, and turned her head to meet it with onefearless and sweet, if troubled.
"Dear Mr. Kirkwood," she said gently, bending forward as if to read betweenthe lines anxiety had graven on his countenance, "won't you tell me,please, what it can be that so worries you? Is it possible that you stillhave a fear of my father? But don't you know that he can do nothingnow--now that we're safe? We have only to take a cab to Paddington Station,and then--"
"You mustn't underestimate the resource and ability of Mr. Calendar," hetold her gloomily; "we've got a chance--no more. It wasn't...." He shut histeeth on his unruly tongue--too late.
Woman-quick she caught him up. "It wasn't that? Then what was it thatworried you? If it's something that affects me, is it kind and right of younot to tell me?"
"It--it affects us both," he conceded drearily. "I--I don't--"
The wretched embarrassment of the confession befogged his wits; he feltunable to frame the words. He appealed speechlessly for tolerance, with aface utterly woebegone and eyes piteous.
The train began to move slowly across the Thames to Charing Cross.
Mercilessly the girl persisted. "We've only a minute more. Surely you cantrust me...."
In exasperation he interrupted almost rudely. "It's only this: I--I'mstrapped."
"Strapped?" She knitted her brows over this fresh specimen of Americanslang.
"Flat strapped--busted--broke--on my uppers--down and out," he reeled offsynonyms without a smile. "I haven't enough money to pay cab-fare acrossthe town--"
"Oh!" she interpolated, enlightened.
"--to say nothing of taking us to Chiltern. I couldn't buy you a glass ofwater if you were thirsty. There isn't a soul on earth, within hail, whowould trust me with a quarter--I mean a shilling--across London Bridge. I'mthe original Luckless Wonder and the only genuine Jonah extant."
With a face the hue of fire, he cocked his eyebrows askew and attemptedto laugh unconcernedly to hide his bitter shame. "I've led you out ofthe fryingpan into the fire, and I don't know what to do! Please call menames."
And in a single instant all that he had consistently tried to avoid doing,had been irretrievably done; if, with dawning comprehension, dismayflickered in her eyes--such dismay as such a confession can rouse only inone who, like Dorothy Calendar, has never known the want of a penny--itwas swiftly driven out to make place for the truest and most gracious andunselfish solicitude.
"Oh, poor Mr. Kirkwood! And it's all because of me! You've beggaredyourself--"
"Not precisely; I was beggared to begin with." He hastened to disclaim theextravagant generosity of which she accused him. "I had only three or fourpounds to my name that night we met.... I haven't told you--I--"
"You've told me nothing, nothing whatever about yourself," she saidreproachfully.
"I didn't want to bother you with my troubles; I tried not to talk aboutmyself.... You knew I was an American, but I'm worse than that; I'm aCalifornian--from San Francisco." He tried unsuccessfully to make light ofit. "I told you I was the Luckless Wonder; if I'd ever had any luck I wouldhave stored a little money away. As it was, I lived on my income, leftmy principal in 'Frisco; and when the earthquake came, it wiped me outcompletely."
"And you were going home that night we made you miss your steamer!"
"It was my own fault, and I'm glad this blessed minute that I did miss it.Nice sort I'd have been, to go off and leave you at the mercy--"
"Please! I want to think, I'm trying to remember how much you've gonethrough--"
"Precisely what I don't want you to do. Anyway, I did nothing more than anyother fellow would've! Please don't give me credit that I don't deserve."
But she was not listening; and a pause fell, while the train crawled warilyover the trestle, as if in fear of the foul, muddy flood below.
"And there's no way I can repay you...."
"There's nothing to be repaid," he contended stoutly.
She clasped her hands and let them fall gently in her lap. "I've nota farthing in the world!... I never dreamed.... I'm so sorry, Mr.Kirkwood--terribly, terribly sorry!... But what can we do? I can't consentto be a burden--"
"But you're not! You're the one thing that ..." He swerved sharply, at anabrupt tangent. "There's one thing we can do, of course."
/>
She looked up inquiringly.
"Craven Street is just round the corner."
"Yes?"--wonderingly.
"I mean we must go to Mrs. Hallam's house, first off.... It's toolate now,--after five, else we could deposit the jewels in some bank.Since--since they are no longer yours, the only thing, and the proper thingto do is to place them in safety or in the hands of their owner. If youtake them directly to young Hallam, your hands will be clear.... And--Inever did such a thing in my life, Miss Calendar; but if he's got a sparkof gratitude in his make-up, I ought to be able to--er--to borrow a poundor so of him."
"Do you think so?" She shook her head in doubt. "I don't know; I know solittle of such things.... You are right; we must take him the jewels,but..." Her voice trailed off into a sigh of profound perturbation.
He dared not meet her look.
Beneath his wandering gaze a County Council steam-boat darted swiftlydown-stream from Charing Cross pier, in the shadow of the railway bridge.It seemed curious to reflect that from that very floating pier he hadstarted first upon his quest of the girl beside him, only--he had tocount--three nights ago! Three days and three nights! Altogether incredibleseemed the transformation they had wrought in the complexion of the world.Yet nothing material was changed.... He lifted his eyes.
Beyond the river rose the Embankment, crawling with traffic, backed by thegreen of the gardens and the shimmering walls of glass and stone of thegreat hotels, their windows glowing weirdly golden in the late sunlight.A little down-stream Cleopatra's Needle rose, sadly the worse for Londonsmoke, flanked by its couchant sphinxes, wearing a nimbus of circling,sweeping, swooping, wheeling gulls. Farther down, from the foot of thatmagnificent pile, Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge sprang over-stream inits graceful arch.... All as of yesterday; yet all changed. Why? Because awoman had entered into his life; because he had learned the lesson of loveand had looked into the bright face of Romance....
With a jar the train started and began to move more swiftly.
Kirkwood lifted the traveling bag to his knees.
"Don't forget," he said with some difficulty, "you're to stick by me,whatever happens. You mustn't desert me."
"You _know_," the girl reproved him.
"I know; but there must be no misunderstanding.... Don't worry; we'll winout yet, I've a plan."
_Splendide mendax_! He had not the glimmering of a plan.
The engine panting, the train drew in beneath the vast sounding dome of thestation, to an accompaniment of dull thunderings; and stopped finally.
Kirkwood got out, not without a qualm of regret at leaving the compartment;therein, at least, they had some title to consideration, by virtue of theirtickets; now they were utterly vagabondish, penniless adventurers.
The girl joined him. Slowly, elbow to elbow, the treasure bag betweenthem, they made their way down toward the gates, atoms in a tide-ripof humanity,--two streams of passengers meeting on the narrow strip ofplatform, the one making for the streets, the other for the suburbs.
Hurried and jostled, the girl clinging tightly to his arm lest they beseparated in the crush, they came to the ticket-wicket; beyond the barriersurged a sea of hats--shining "toppers," dignified and upstanding, theoutward and visible manifestation of the sturdy, stodgy British spirit ofrespectability; "bowlers" round and sleek and humble; shapeless caps withcloth visors, manufactured of outrageous plaids; flower-like miracles ofmillinery from Bond Street; strangely plumed monstrosities from PetticoatLane and Mile End Road. Beneath any one of these might lurk the maleficentbrain, the spying eyes of Calendar or one of his creatures; beneath all ofthem that he encountered, Kirkwood peered in fearful inquiry.
Yet, when they had passed unhindered the ordeal of the wickets, had runthe gantlet of those thousand eyes without lighting in any pair a spark ofrecognition, he began to bear himself with more assurance, to be sensibleto a grateful glow of hope. Perhaps Hobbs' telegram had not reached itsdestination, for unquestionably the mate would have wired his chief;perhaps some accident had befallen the conspirators; perhaps the police hadapprehended them.... No matter how, one hoped against hope that they hadbeen thrown off the trail.
And indeed it seemed as if they must have been misguided in someprovidential manner. On the other hand, it would be the crassest ofindiscretions to linger about the place an instant longer than absolutelynecessary.
Outside the building, however, they paused perforce, undergoing thecross-fire of the congregated cabbies. It being the first time that hehad ever felt called upon to leave the station afoot, Kirkwood cast aboutirresolutely, seeking the sidewalk leading to the Strand.
Abruptly he caught the girl by the arm and unceremoniously hurried hertoward a waiting hansom.
"Quick!" he begged her. "Jump right in--not an instant to spare.--"
She nodded brightly, lips firm with courage, eyes shining.
"My father?"
"Yes." Kirkwood glanced back over his shoulder. "He hasn't seen us yet.They've just driven up. Stryker's with him. They're getting down." And tohimself, "Oh, the devil!" cried the panic-stricken young man.
He drew back to let the girl precede him into the cab; at the same timehe kept an eye on Calendar, whose conveyance stood half the length of thestation-front away.
The fat adventurer had finished paying off the driver, standing on the deckof the hansom. Stryker was already out, towering above the mass of people,and glaring about him with his hawk-keen vision. Calendar had started toalight, his foot was leaving the step when Stryker's glance singled outtheir quarry. Instantly he turned and spoke to his confederate. Calendarwheeled like a flash, peering eagerly in the direction indicated by thecaptain's index finger, then, snapping instructions to his driver, threwhimself heavily back on the seat. Stryker, awkward on his land-legs,stumbled and fell in an ill-calculated attempt to hoist himself hastilyback into the vehicle.
To the delay thus occasioned alone Kirkwood and Dorothy owed a respite offreedom. Their hansom was already swinging down toward the great gates ofthe yard, the American standing to make the driver comprehend the necessityfor using the utmost speed in reaching the Craven Street address. The manproved both intelligent and obliging; Kirkwood had barely time to drop downbeside the girl, ere the cab was swinging out into the Strand, to the perilof the toes belonging to a number of righteously indignant pedestrians.
"Good boy!" commented Kirkwood cheerfully. "That's the greatest comfort ofall London, the surprising intellectual strength the average cabby displayswhen you promise him a tip.... Great Heavens!" he cried, reading the girl'sdismayed expression. "A tip! I never thought--!" His face lengtheneddismally, his eyebrows working awry. "Now we are in for it!"
Dorothy said nothing.
He turned in the seat, twisting his neck to peep through the small rearwindow. "I don't see their cab," he announced. "But of course they're afterus. However, Craven Street's just round the corner; if we get therefirst, I don't fancy Freddie Hallam will have a cordial reception for ourpursuers. They must've been on watch at Cannon Street, and finding we werenot coming in that way--of course they were expecting us because of Hobbs'wire--they took cab for Charing Cross. Lucky for us.... Or is it lucky?" headded doubtfully, to himself.
The hansom whipped round the corner into Craven Street. Kirkwood sprang up,grasping the treasure bag, ready to jump the instant they pulled in towardMrs. Hallam's dwelling. But as they drew near upon the address he drew backwith an exclamation of amazement.
The house was closed, showing a blank face to the street--blinds drawnclose down in the windows, area gate padlocked, an estate-agent's boardprojecting from above the doorway, advertising the property "To be let,furnished."
Kirkwood looked back, craning his neck round the side of the cab. At themoment another hansom was breaking through the rank of humanity on theStrand crossing. He saw one or two figures leap desperately from beneaththe horse's hoofs. Then the cab shot out swiftly down the street.
The American stood up again, catching the cabby's
eye.
"Drive on!" he cried excitedly. "Don't stop--drive as fast as you dare!"
"W'ere to, sir?"
"See that cab behind? Don't let it catch us--shake it off, lose it somehow,but for the love of Heaven don't let it catch us! I'll make it worth yourwhile. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!" The driver looked briefly over his shoulder and lifted hiswhip. "Don't worry, sir," he cried, entering into the spirit of the gamewith gratifying zest. "Shan't let 'em over'aul you, sir. Mind your 'ead!"
And as Kirkwood ducked, the whip-lash shot out over the roof with a cracklike the report of a pistol. Startled, the horse leaped indignantlyforward. Momentarily the cab seemed to leave the ground, then settleddown to a pace that carried them round the Avenue Theatre and acrossNorthumberland Avenue into Whitehall Place apparently on a single wheel.
A glance behind showed Kirkwood that already they had gained, the pursuinghansom having lost ground through greater caution in crossing themain-traveled thoroughfare.
"Good little horse!" he applauded.
A moment later he was indorsing without reserve the generalship of theircabby; the quick westward turn that took them into Whitehall, over acrossfrom the Horse Guards, likewise placed them in a pocket of traffic; apractically impregnable press of vehicles closed in behind them ereCalendar's conveyance could follow out of the side street.
That the same conditions, but slightly modified, hemmed them in ahead, wentfor nothing in Kirkwood's estimation.
"Good driver!" he approved heartily. "He's got a head on his shoulders!"
The girl found her voice. "How," she demanded in a breath, face blank withconsternation, "how did you dare?"
"Dare?" he echoed exultantly; and in his veins excitement was running likeliquid fire. "What wouldn't I dare for you, Dorothy?"
"What have you not?" she amended softly, adding with a shade of timidity:"Philip..."
The long lashes swept up from her cheeks, like clouds revealing stars,unmasking eyes radiant and brave to meet his own; then they fell, even asher lips drooped with disappointment. And she sighed.... For he was notlooking. Man-like, hot with the ardor of the chase, he was deaf and blindto all else.
She saw that he had not even heard. Twice within the day she had forgottenherself, had overstepped the rigid bounds of her breeding in using hisChristian name. And twice he had been oblivious to that token of theirmaturing understanding. So she sighed, and sighing, smiled again; restingan elbow on the window-sill and flattening one small gloved hand againstthe frame for a brace against the jouncing of the hansom. It swept on withunabated speed, up-stream beside the tawny reaches of the river; and fora time there was no speech between them, the while the girl lostconsciousness of self and her most imminent peril, surrendering her beingto the lingering sweetness of her long, dear thoughts....
"I've got a scheme!" Kirkwood declared so explosively that she caught herbreath with the surprise of it. "There's the Pless; they know me there, andmy credit's good. When we shake them off, we can have the cabby take us tothe hotel. I'll register and borrow from the management enough to pay ourway to Chiltern and the tolls for a cable to New York. I've a friend or twoover home who wouldn't let me want for a few miserable pounds.... So yousee," he explained boyishly, "we're at the end of our troubles already!"
She said something inaudible, holding her face averted. He bent nearer toher, wondering. "I didn't understand," he suggested.
Still looking from him, "I said you were very good to me," she said in aquavering whisper.
"Dorothy!" Without his knowledge or intention before the fact, asinstinctively as he made use of her given name, intimately, his strongfingers dropped and closed upon the little hand that lay beside him. "What_is_ the matter, dear?" He leaned still farther forward to peer into herface, till glance met glance in the ending and his racing pulses tightenedwith sheer delight of the humid happiness in her glistening eyes. "Dorothy,child, don't worry so. No harm shall come to you. It's all working out--allworking out _right_. Only have a little faith in me, and I'll _make_everything work out right, Dorothy."
Gently she freed her fingers. "I wasn't," she told him in a voice thatquivered between laughter and tears, "I wasn't worrying. I was ... Youwouldn't understand. Don't be afraid I shall break down or--or anything."
"I shan't," he reassured her; "I know you're not that sort. Besides,you'd have no excuse. We're moving along famously. That cabby knows hisbusiness."
In fact that gentleman was minute by minute demonstrating his peculiarfitness for the task he had so cheerfully undertaken. The superiorhorsemanship of the London hackney cabman needs no exploitation, and hein whose hands rested the fate of the Calendar treasure was peer of hiscompeers. He was instant to advantage himself of every opening to forwardhis pliant craft, quick to foresee the fortunes of the way and governhimself accordingly.
Estimating with practised eye the precise moment when the police supervisorof traffic at the junction of Parliament and Bridge Streets, would seefit to declare a temporary blockade, he so managed that his was the lastvehicle to pass ere the official wand, to ignore which involves a forfeitedlicense, was lifted; and indeed, so close was his calculation that heescaped only with a scowl and word of warning from the bobby. A matter ofno importance whatever, since his end was gained and the pursuing cab hadbeen shut off by the blockade.
In Calendar's driver, however, he had an adversary of abilities by no meansto be despised. Precisely how the man contrived it, is a question; that hemade a detour by way of Derby Street is not improbable, unpleasant as itmay have been for Stryker and Calendar to find themselves in such closeproximity to "the Yard." At all events, he evaded the block, and hardlyhad the chase swung across Bridge Street, than the pursuer was nimblyclattering in its wake.
Past the Houses of Parliament, through Old Palace Yard, with the Abbey ontheir left, they swung away into Abingdon Street, whence suddenly theydived into the maze of backways, great and mean, which lies to the south ofVictoria. Doubling and twisting, now this way, now that, the driver tooledthem through the intricate heart of this labyrinth, leading the pursuersa dance that Kirkwood thought calculated to dishearten and shake off thepursuit in the first five minutes. Yet always, peering back through thelittle peephole, he saw Calendar's cab pelting doggedly in their rear--ahundred yards behind, no more, no less, hanging on with indomitable gritand determination.
By degrees they drew westwards, threading Pimlico, into Chelsea--oncedashing briefly down the Grosvenor Road, the Thames a tawny flood beyondthe river wall.
Children cheered them on, and policemen turned to stare, doubting whetherthey should interfere. Minutes rolled into tens, measuring out an hour;and still they hammered on, hunted and hunters, playing their game ofhare-and-hounds through the highways and byways of those staid and agedquarters.
In the leading cab there were few words spoken. Kirkwood and Dorothy alikesat spellbound with the fascination of the game; if it is conceivablethat the fox enjoys his part in the day's sport, then they were enjoyingthemselves. Now one spoke, now another--chiefly in the clipped phraseology,of excitement. As--
"We're gaining?"
"Yes--think so."
Or, "We'll tire them out?"
"Sure-ly."
"They can't catch us, can they, Philip?"
"Never in the world."
But he spoke with a confidence that he himself did not feel, for hope ashe would he could never see that the distance between the two had beenmaterially lessened or increased. Their horses seemed most evenly matched.
The sun was very low behind the houses of the Surrey Side when Kirkwoodbecame aware that their horse was flagging, though (as comparisondetermined) no more so than the one behind.
In grave concern the young man raised his hand, thrusting open the trapin the roof. Immediately the square of darkling sky was eclipsed by thecabby's face.
"Yessir?"
"You had better drive as directly as you can to the Hotel Pless," Kirkwoodcalled up. "I'm afraid it's n
o use pushing your horse like this."
"I'm sure of it, sir. 'E's a good 'oss, 'e is, but 'e carn't keep goin' forhever, you know, sir."
"I know. You've done very well; you've done your best."
"Very good, sir. The Pless, you said, sir? Right."
The trap closed.
Two blocks farther, and their pace had so sensibly moderated that Kirkwoodwas genuinely alarmed. The pursuing cabby was lashing his animal withoutmercy, while, "It aren't no use my w'ippin' 'im, sir," dropped through thetrap. "'E's doing orl 'e can."
"I understand."
Despondent recklessness tightened Kirkwood's lips and kindled an unpleasantlight in his eyes. He touched his side pocket; Calendar's revolver wasstill there.... Dorothy should win away clear, if--if he swung for it.
He bent forward with the traveling bag in his hands.
"What are you going to do?" The girl's voice was very tremulous.
"Stand a chance, take a losing hazard. Can you run? You're not too tired?"
"I can run--perhaps not far--a little way, at least."
"And will you do as I say?"
Her eyes met his, unwavering, bespeaking her implicit faith.
"Promise!"
"I promise."
"We'll have to drop off in a minute. The horse won't last.... They're inthe same box. Well, I undertake to stand 'em off for a bit; you take thebag and run for it. Just as soon as I can convince them, I'll follow, butif there's any delay, you call the first cab you see and drive to thePless. I'll join you there."
He stood up, surveying the neighborhood. Behind him the girl lifted hervoice in protest.
"No, Philip, no!"
"You've promised," he said sternly, eyes ranging the street.
"I don't care; I won't leave you."
He shook his head in silent contradiction, frowning; but not frowningbecause of the girl's mutiny. He was a little puzzled by a vagueimpression, and was striving to pin it down for recognition; but was sothoroughly bemused with fatigue and despair that only with great difficultycould he force his faculties to logical reasoning, his memory to respond tohis call upon it.
The hansom was traversing a street in Old Brompton--a quaint, prim by-waylined with dwellings singularly Old-Worldish, even for London. He seemedto know it subjectively, to have retained a memory of it from anotherexistence: as the stage setting of a vivid dream, all forgotten, willsometimes recur with peculiar and exasperating intensity, in broaddaylight. The houses, with their sloping, red-tiled roofs, unexpectedgables, spontaneous dormer windows, glass panes set in leaded frames, redbrick facades trimmed with green shutters and doorsteps of white stone,each sitting back, sedate and self-sufficient, in its trim dooryard fencedoff from the public thoroughfare: all wore an aspect hauntingly familiar,and yet strange.
A corner sign, remarked in passing, had named the spot "Aspen Villas";though he felt he knew the sound of those syllables as well as he didthe name of the Pless, strive as he might he failed to make them conveyanything tangible to his intelligence. When had he heard of it? At whattime had his errant footsteps taken him through this curious survival ofEighteenth Century London?
Not that it mattered when. It could have no possible bearing on theemergency. He really gave it little thought; the mental processes recountedwere mostly subconscious, if none the less real. His objective attentionwas wholly preoccupied with the knowledge that Calendar's cab was drawingperilously near. And he was debating whether or not they should alightat once and try to make a better pace afoot, when the decision was takenwholly out of his hands.
Blindly staggering on, wilted with weariness, the horse stumbled in theshafts and plunged forward on its knees. Quick as the driver was to pull itup, with a cruel jerk of the bits, Kirkwood was caught unprepared; lurchingagainst the dashboard, he lost his footing, grasped frantically at theunstable air, and went over, bringing up in a sitting position in thegutter, with a solid shock that jarred his very teeth.
For a moment dazed he sat there blinking; by the time he got to his feet,the girl stood beside him, questioning him with keen solicitude.
"No," he gasped; "not hurt--only surprised. Wait...."
Their cab had come to a complete standstill; Calendar's was no more thantwenty yards behind, and as Kirkwood caught sight of him the fat adventurerwas in the act of lifting himself ponderously out of the seat.
Incontinently the young man turned to the girl and forced the traveling-baginto her hands.
"Run for it!" he begged her. "Don't stop to argue. You promised--run! I'llcome...."
"Philip!" she pleaded.
"Dorothy!" he cried in torment.
Perhaps it was his unquestionable distress that weakened her. Suddenly sheyielded--with whatever reason. He was only hazily aware of the swish of herskirts behind him; he had no time to look round and see that she got awaysafely. He had only eyes and thoughts for Calendar and Stryker.
They were both afoot, now, and running toward him, the one as awkward asthe other, but neither yielding a jot of their malignant purpose. He heldthe picture of it oddly graphic in his memory for many a day thereafter:Calendar making directly, for him, his heavy-featured face a dull red withthe exertion, his fat head dropped forward as if too heavy for his neck ofa bull, his small eyes bright with anger; Stryker shying off at a discreetangle, evidently with the intention of devoting himself to the capture ofthe girl; the two cabs with their dejected screws, at rest in the middle ofthe quiet, twilit street. He seemed even to see himself, standing stockilyprepared, hands in his coat pockets, his own head inclined with asuggestion of pugnacity.
To this mental photograph another succeeds, of the same scene an instantlater; all as it had been before, their relative positions unchanged, savethat Stryker and Calendar had come to a dead stop, and that Kirkwood'sright arm was lifted and extended, pointing at the captain.
So forgetful of self was he, that it required a moment's thought toconvince him that he was really responsible for the abrupt transformation.Incredulously he realized that he had drawn Calendar's revolver and pulledStryker up short, in mid-stride, by the mute menace of it, as much as byhis hoarse cry of warning:
"Stryker--not another foot--"
With this there chimed in Dorothy's voice, ringing bell-clear from a littledistance:
"Philip!"
Like a flash he wheeled, to add yet another picture to his mental gallery.
Perhaps two-score feet up the sidewalk a gate stood open; just outside it aman of tall and slender figure, rigged out in a bizarre costume consistingmainly of a flowered dressing-gown and slippers, was waiting in an attitudeof singular impassivity; within it, pausing with a foot lifted to thedoorstep, bag in hand, her head turned as she looked back, was Dorothy.
A costume consisting mainly of a flowered dressing-gown andslippers.]
As he comprehended these essential details of the composition, the man inthe flowered dressing-gown raised a hand, beckoning to him in a manner asimperative as his accompanying words.
"Kirkwood!" he saluted the young man in a clear and vibrant voice, "putup that revolver and stop this foolishness." And, with a jerk of hishead towards the doorway, in which Dorothy now waited, hesitant: "Come,sir--quickly!"
Kirkwood choked on a laugh that was half a sob. "Brentwick!" he cried,restoring the weapon to his pocket and running toward his friend. "Of allhappy accidents!"
"You may call it that," retorted the elder man with a fleeting smile asKirkwood slipped inside the dooryard. "Come," he said; "let's get into thehouse."
"But you said--I thought you went to Munich," stammered Kirkwood; and sothoroughly impregnated was his mind with this understanding that it washard for him to adjust his perceptions to the truth.
"I was detained--by business," responded Brentwick briefly. His gaze, wearyand wistful behind his glasses, rested on the face of the girl on thethreshold of his home; and the faint, sensitive flush of her face deepened.He stopped and honored her with a bow that, for all his fantastical attire,would have gr
aced a beau of an earlier decade. "Will you be pleased toenter?" he suggested punctiliously. "My house, such as it is, is quite atyour disposal. And," he added, with a glance over his shoulder, "I fancythat a word or two may presently be passed which you would hardly care tohear."
Dorothy's hesitation was but transitory; Kirkwood was reassuring her witha smile more like his wonted boyish grin than anything he had succeededin conjuring up throughout the day. Her own smile answered it, and with amurmured word of gratitude and a little, half timid, half distant bow forBrentwick, she passed on into the hallway.
Kirkwood lingered with his friend upon the door-stoop. Calendar, recoveredfrom his temporary consternation, was already at the gate, bending overit, fat fingers fumbling with the latch, his round red face, lifted to thehouse, darkly working with chagrin.
From his threshold, watching him with a slight contraction of the eyes,Brentwick hailed him in tones of cloying courtesy.
"Do you wish to see me, sir?"
The fat adventurer faltered just within the gateway; then, with a truculentswagger, "I want my daughter," he declared vociferously.
Brentwick peered mildly over his glasses, first at Calendar, then atKirkwood. His glance lingered a moment on the young man's honest eyes, andswung back to Calendar.
"My good man," he said with sublime tolerance, "will you be pleased to takeyourself off--to the devil if you like? Or shall I take the trouble tointerest the police?"
He removed one fine and fragile hand from a pocket of the flowereddressing-gown, long enough to jerk it significantly toward the nearerstreet-corner.
Thunderstruck, Calendar glanced hastily in the indicated direction.A blue-coated bobby was to be seen approaching with measured stride,diffusing upon the still evening air an impression of ineffably capableself-contentment.
Calendar's fleshy lips parted and closed without a sound. They quivered.Beneath them quivered his assortment of graduated chins. His heavy andpendulous cheeks quivered, slowly empurpling with the dark tide of hisapoplectic wrath. The close-clipped thatch of his iron gray mustache, even,seemed to bristle like hairs upon the neck of a maddened dog. Beneath himhis fat legs trembled, and indeed his whole huge carcass shook visibly, inthe stress of his restrained wrath.
Suddenly, overwhelmed, he banged the gate behind him and waddled off tojoin the captain; who already, with praiseworthy native prudence, hadfallen back upon their cab.
From his coign of strategic advantage, the comfortable elevation ofhis box, Kirkwood's cabby, whose huge enjoyment of the adventurers'discomfiture had throughout been noisily demonstrative, entreated Calendarwith lifted forefinger, bland affability, and expressions of heartfeltsympathy.
"Kebsir? 'Ave a kebsir, do! Try a ride be'ind a real 'orse, sir; don't yougo on wastin' time on 'im." A jerk of a derisive thumb singled out theother cabman. "'E aren't pl'yin' you fair, sir; I knows 'im,--'e's ahartful g'y deceiver, 'e is. Look at 'is 'orse,--w'ich it aren't; it's asnyle, that's w'at it is. Tyke a father's hadvice, sir, and next time yerfairest darter runs awye with the dook in disguise, chyse 'em in a realkebsir, not a cheap imitashin.... Kebsir?... Garn, you 'ard-'arted--"
Here he swooped upwards in a dizzy flight of vituperation best unrecorded.Calendar, beyond an absent-minded flirt of one hand by his ear, as whoshould shoo away a buzzing insect, ignored him utterly.
Sullenly extracting money from his pocket, he paid off his driver, and incompany with Stryker, trudged in morose silence down the street.
Brentwick touched Kirkwood's arm and drew him into the house.